The Ethereal Squadron: A Wartime Fantasy (The Sorcerers of Verdun)

by Shami Stovall

  She moved closer to Victory and whispered, “Have you used Battery’s sorcery before? To help you see the future?”

  “I have,” Victory intoned. “It was a nightmare.”

  Geist recalled what Cross had said about Victory’s magic, how he’d seen his brothers’ deaths and his own in more than a few visions. With the ability to see further in the future—to see more possibilities—it only stood to reason he would see more terrible fates.

  “We’re comin’ into port,” Captain Madison stated, pointing off the starboard side. “You fellas will stay here on the deck while they do their inspecting.”

  Vergess glowered at the city, his gaze lingering on the German flag. When the Evening Rose got deeper into the port itself, Geist watched him stare down at the German soldiers waiting on the docks. They stood in lines, some still wearing trench coats from their time on the front lines.

  The docking process was entirely too long. Even with Victory’s assurances, Geist hated every second she had to stand and wait. The staring German soldiers brought back painful memories of No Man’s Land. Their dark green uniforms rang alarms in her skull. They would not hesitate to kill them on sight if the squadron’s true identities were discovered.

  The Evening Rose slowed. Crewmen scrambled to prep the ship and throw down the gangplank. The crew lined up along the far railing; Geist and the others followed suit, taking places among them. Dockhands from Antwerp attached the gangplank and tied down the Evening Rose, securing it in place.

  The enemy soldiers didn’t waste time boarding. They came up in an organized line, ten men, fully armored, along with one officer. Captain Madison walked forward with Shell at his side. The German officer, Max Krause stitched above his lapel, stepped up to the captain with a hard-set expression. His face reminded Geist of Vergess—Officer Krause didn’t look like a man who smiled much.

  The officer walked across the deck and stared at the damaged wheelhouse, his gaze intense and his scrutiny apparent. He wore a cape over his left arm—a habit for some Abomination Soldiers—and Geist wondered what his sorcery might be. His belt buckle, larger than most, read: GOTT MIT UNS.

  God with us.

  “You have a small crew and your helm is damaged,” Krause said. “Tell me what’s happened here.”

  Captain Madison snorted. “I don’t speak that gut-cough you call a language.”

  Krause turned on his heel to face the captain, his expression never changing, though his eyes lit with interest. “American arrogance,” he said in equally perfect English. “You’re the only people in the world so proud of your own ignorance.”

  “If that’s all you’ve got to say, you can switch back to German.”

  “Tell me what happened to your ship.”

  “There was a storm,” Captain Madison said with a shrug. “It happens.”

  Krause snapped his fingers and four men jumped to his side. He spoke under his breath, issuing fast commands and pointing to the hold and wheelhouse. The German soldiers broke away and went to searching.

  With a purposeful gait, Krause walked among the Evening Rose’s crewmen. He glanced between each man, taking note of the rucksacks and personal belongings. When he came to Vergess he stopped and met his gaze dead on. Though she tried not to stare, Geist couldn’t help but fear that Vergess might be recognized.

  Krause never said a word. He moved on to Battery, gave him a quick once-over, and went to Blick, obviously dismissing the smaller man without a second thought.

  Blick and Dreamer both allowed their sacks to be inspected, but the contents remained hidden under illusion. Krause stepped up to Geist and stared down at her with expressive ice-blue eyes. Geist refused to speak as he inspected her. Once finished, he moved on without a second wasted.

  Victory, on the other hand, caused Krause to pause.

  “Your bandage,” the officer said. “Are you injured?”

  Victory shook his head. “A souvenir from the storm.”

  “The English Channel can be treacherous.”

  “Especially these days,” Victory drawled, glancing around to the German fortifications.

  Krause refused to reply and instead turned his attention to the first mate. With a sneer he motioned to Shell’s reddish hair.

  “Irish?” he asked.

  Shell nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Another immigrant fleeing the war, I assume? Too yellow to fight for your homeland?”

  “Hey,” Captain Madison cut in, “I didn’t go around flirting with your subordinates. Check my boat and be done with this. I don’t have all damn day.”

  Krause pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “You tramp steamers—sailing into every port you can, jumping whenever someone waves money under your nose. Just like your country.”

  “I didn’t see you complaining. Your port is spread wide, just askin’ for as many tramps as can fit.”

  The two men glowered at each other. One crewman snorted. No one else made a noise.

  Krause waved to the remainder of his men. “Search the rest of the ship. Confiscate all ammo and shells. And take your time.”

  He said this in English, making sure everyone on board understood.

  His men got to work, but not too fast, and Captain Madison pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it up.

  “You can stay in port for the next two days,” Krause stated. “Your men can go anywhere they want in town, but they cannot leave Antwerp.” His tone made it abundantly clear this was not a suggestion—and with that, Krause left the ship in a few quick steps, his shiny black boots clicking the entire way down the gangplank.

  Captain Madison shifted his attention to Geist. “You heard the man. You’ve got run of the place.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  OCCUPATION

  GEIST STEPPED ONTO ANTWERP’S SHORE with a heavy heart. The once-thriving city felt somehow deadened, desolation reflected in the charred trees, empty streets, and frigid wind. The buildings lining the main road had sealed shutters and locked doors. Parks and outdoors cafés sat forgotten and empty. German propaganda covered every wall and lay soaking in rain-filled gutters. Even the colors of spring felt muted under an invisible, stifling umbrella.

  Most horrible of all were the small shrines on windowsills and street corners. Some had been trampled, the pictures of the deceased stomped into the mud. The longer Geist stared, the more she saw. No building was free of tributes to those who had died during the war. No doubt the Germans forbade such shrines—but the citizens kept them up regardless.

  Victory shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. “We should get off the streets.”

  Geist lifted an eyebrow. He pointed to one of the many posters. It was an ordinance, written in Dutch, French, and German that read: No more than four people may gather on the streets at a time.

  It wasn’t the only one.

  Posters with artwork depicting hardworking Belgians included demands such as fixing the price of beer, giving the streets new German names, and requiring that each household post the ages and occupations of all inhabitants. Other posters depicted men in chains with demands to “keep the peace, or else”—and to follow all orders by German soldiers.

  Geist wondered how the Germans dealt with rule-breakers.

  “Belgium was neutral in the war,” Battery said, propping the collar of his coat up past his chin. “What have they done to deserve all this?”

  “They were between France and Germany,” Vergess huffed.

  Geist bit her tongue. She had traveled to Belgium many times in the past and had fond memories of romping in the lush countryside. This all felt wrong to her—like a piece of her childhood was being turned over a spit.

  They veered off the road and into one of the pubs that serviced the docks.

  The two-story pub had a small entrance room and a long hall of tables in the back past the bar counter. Dark wood tables lined the walls under the windows, though no light shone through the thick curtains drawn over the glass. A combina
tion of oil lamps and electric lights provided visibility, but the lack of airflow created a thick atmosphere of muggy musk. The lit fireplace in the back room didn’t help matters.

  No decorations adorned the walls or corners. The only bit of character came from the framed photograph of a man hanging above establishment’s front door. He had smiled as he posed for the picture—but the candles and flowers draping the frame belied the unpleasant end he’d met.

  A young woman at the bar, a week over eighteen at the oldest, glanced up as Geist and her team walked into the tiny front room. She frowned and observed them with a reserved stance.

  “Good day, ma’am,” Blick said, pushing his way past Geist and walking up to the bar counter. “We just got in from sea, and we’re looking for refreshments.” Blick spoke his French with the refinement of an upper-class education, nothing like a sailor.

  I need to speak with him. He can’t go flirting with every girl we run across.

  Geist did find it funny how the man went from the blackest moods to exuberance within an hour. Or perhaps he’s just burying his feelings. I should have Victory deal with this. They’re brothers. He’ll know what Blick needs to stay sane.

  “We have bread and soup,” the young woman said with a forced smile. “Potatoes cost a bit extra.”

  Geist put down a handful of notes, Belgian francs, and nodded. “For all of us.”

  The woman took the paper money and counted it with trembling hands. Once finished, she motioned to the back room. “You will sit in there, sirs.”

  Blick patted the counter. “Call me Blick.”

  “A-all right.”

  “And what should I call you?”

  She held her breath, hesitating, and Geist couldn’t help but feel her reluctance. The woman didn’t want to speak to Blick, but she visibly steeled herself with a shallow exhale and answered regardless.

  “My name is Sofie.”

  Blick, moving away from the bar, gave her a slight nod. “Nice to meet you. Thank you for your hospitality.”

  Walking past the bar and into the back room, Geist took note of the surroundings. Only two sailors sat in the pub, and they kept to themselves, quiet and wary. They gave Geist a quick glance before focusing on their food as though it required every ounce of their attention to consume.

  Geist sat at the far table, but the tiny chairs made seating cramped and awkward, especially when everyone threw their bags underfoot. Blick hung over his seat, his body well beyond the recommended size for the piece of furniture. The wood creaked under his muscled weight. Vergess sat with stiff posture, his discomfort plain in his rigid back and balled fists, hidden just beneath the lip of the table.

  Keeping his voice low, Victory addressed the rest of the group with a stern expression. “You’ve all read the mission packet. We need to scout the city, find a way out, learn how the Germans are controlling travel, and get transportation to Spa.”

  “The Germans will be checking each individual’s Ausweis,” Vergess stated. “Or they’ll be issuing travel passes.”

  “What’s an Ausweis?” Blick asked.

  “An ID card. It’s standard procedure.”

  His information got the others nodding. Geist knew she made the right decision to bring him along. Traveling through Germany won’t be easy, but it’ll be far easier with him along than without.

  “Then we need to find out what these ID cards look like,” Victory murmured. “It’s imperative we don’t alert Abomination Soldiers to our presence. If they suspect we’re here to infiltrate Spa, they might move their research or send assassins after us.”

  Geist leaned forward and cleared her throat. The others gave her their full attention. “I’ve played recon plenty of times,” she said. “I’ll scout the city. Blick, can I trust that you’ll ferret out Abomination Soldiers? You said you can see their magic.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “I’ll let you know when they’re around, but my sorcery is rather… blatant. I can’t go using it unless we’re somewhere secluded.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  Geist stared at Dreamer, and he returned her gaze. He had illusions. How could she put them to the best use? She wanted to suggest he disguise himself as a German officer and lead them through the checkpoints. But his accent was too thick—he’d give them all away the moment he spoke, no matter how convincing a mask he conjured.

  Geist glanced over to Vergess, but his attention was drawn by the bell that rang at the front door. Three German soldiers stepped into the establishment.

  Tension rippled through the pub. The two sailors finished their sad meal and stood to leave. The girl at the bar took a step back and hovered near the kitchen door. Her long hazelnut hair, loose and flowing, covered most of her face when she hunched forward and bunched her shoulders close to her thin neck.

  “We’re here to collect requisitions,” the lead soldier stated as he sauntered up to the counter. “Are the goods ready for pickup?”

  Sofie banged on the kitchen door with a loose fist. An older woman emerged with a box of brown potatoes and hefted them up onto the counter, straining to hold the weight the entire time. The soldiers took the box and placed it on the floor, but they didn’t leave.

  “Where’s the rest?” the soldier asked. “This isn’t enough.”

  The older woman went back into the kitchen and returned with a container of white eggs and crooked carrots. The soldiers stacked the new container on top the potatoes and examined the offerings with deep frowns.

  “You know the rules. Sixty pounds of food. This is barely thirty-five. We know you have more.”

  “We need food for ourselves,” the older woman said, wiping her blistered hands across her dirty apron. She had the haggard look of a hard worker coming off their second shift in one day. Women didn’t typically run pubs or restaurants, but war forced everyone in new roles.

  The soldier snorted and leaned heavily on the bar counter. He pulled his sidearm, a Luger P08, and held it loosely in his hands, tapping the narrow barrel on the hardwood.

  “Hunger is all in the mind,” he drawled. “You can stand it for a short while. Ships come in every day.”

  “Ah… I never thought of it that way.” The woman heaved a sigh and turned for the kitchen. “I’ll pack another box of potatoes.” She shuffled into the back with a nervous energy.

  Geist watched the scene with clenched teeth. Interfering would jeopardize their presence. She wanted the interaction to end before anything terrible happened, and a small piece of her hoped the German soldiers would be satisfied once the last box was brought.

  The soldier motioned to Sofie. “It doesn’t have to be this way, you know. We offer reprieve to… cooperative young women.”

  Sofie didn’t answer.

  “You wouldn’t have to work too much. Maybe dry some apples between entertaining a few soldiers. The other girls don’t complain. We’ll treat you well.”

  Still she said nothing.

  “What’s wrong? Not even a no, thank you? Do you think you’re too good to speak to me?”

  Sofie shook her head. “I’m sorry. No, thank you.”

  “Come here. Talk to us like a hostess should talk to her customers. We’ve had a long day and don’t deserve this kind of disrespect.”

  With an exhale and small step, the girl moved a few inches closer, though her body kept the same stiff, unreceptive posture. The German soldier stood straight and glared. Sofie shuffled closer a second time.

  The man grabbed Sofie’s forearm and yanked her half onto the counter as his two comrades leered. “I thought you Belgian girls were known for your courtesy.”

  “This one’s always been stubborn, Keller,” the second soldier commented. “I don’t think she knows how to act.”

  “Leave me alone,” Sofie said through shallow, shaky breaths, her language slipping to Dutch.

  “Speak to me in German,” Keller snapped. “And don’t go making a scene. We just want some attention.” He held his Luger cl
ose and Sofie stiffened like a board. She closed her eyes, unwilling to meet the man’s leering gaze.

  “Let me go,” she said in forced German. “Please, no more.”

  “Calm down. No one likes loud women.” He leaned in close to her, smiling wide. “Why don’t you give me a little kiss and I’ll let you go?”

  Geist had been so disgusted by the unfolding scene that she hadn’t even seen Vergess get out of his chair. By the time Vergess was on top of the soldiers, it was too late.

  He grabbed Keller’s Luger and smashed it up into the man’s face with enough force to send him stumbling backward. Blood gushed from Keller’s nose and mouth as he fell over, dazed.

  The other two soldiers, taken aback, took too long reaching for their sidearms. Vergess punched one square in the jaw, his knuckles busting a gash across the man’s chin. The soldier hit the bar counter and then collided with a stool on his way to the floor, unconscious. The last soldier took a step back, but Vergess shoved him against the wall and punched into his gut. The man gasped and whimpered, unable to form words.

  Geist leapt from her seat and grabbed Vergess by the back of his tunic. “Vergess,” she hissed. “Enough. This isn’t worth it.”

  Vergess held the man by the shoulder, pinning him to the wall. He said nothing.

  “Let him go,” Geist commanded.

  Everyone in the pub stood motionless for a moment. Even the other soldier looked too stunned to move. Finally, Vergess sneered and released the man he had pinned.

  Keller rolled to his side and ran an unsteady hand over his bloodied face. He staggered into the upright position, bracing himself with the counter.

  The one man on the floor shook his head and staggered to his feet, befuddled and wobbling.

  “Take your supplies and leave,” Vergess commanded, his German clear and forceful.

  Sofie watched, wide-eyed, never moving from her position right behind the bar. A small smile crept onto her face as one frightened soldier half-tripped in his haste to comply with Vergess’s demand.

  Keller lifted his handgun, but Geist was too quick. She ripped the weapon from his hand. Keller flinched back, shielding his face with an arm. Geist unclipped the magazine, allowed the bullets to fall to the floor, and threw the lightweight Luger back at its owner. It struck Keller in the face, busting open a gash across the eyebrow.