Michel And Henry Go To War (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Soldiers held to a simple axiom when it came to Verdun: no one comes back whole. Already nearly a quarter of a million dead, and twice that number carried out on stretchers.

  Ernie said nothing, just stared at the ground and shook his head. Michel walked over to where Chuck leaned from the window. He spoke quietly.

  “We’ve lost enough good men, my friend. You come back, all right?”

  “Thanks Michel. I hope so.”

  With that, the truck roared to life and Chuck was gone.

  10

  Michel and Henry cruised on the motorbike at a leisurely speed through the countryside south-east of Commercy, taking in the sort of existence soldiers fantasized about in letters to home. It seemed that despite the madness that was so close—just a handful of miles to the north—life in rural France carried on much as it had throughout many centuries and many wars.

  They passed mile after mile of hedgerows and stone dykes, behind which farmers toiled in rich black soils in preparation for their summer crops. Orchardists flashed in and out of the color of the spring harvest. Surrounded by the beauty of the landscape and the old traditions of husbandry, the horror of the front seemed impossibly remote. A war-weary man was wont to imbibe the heady fantasy of a simple life lived on the land and get stupid drunk on the promise of normalcy.

  Then he would wake up on the front and know he was just a damned fool and everything was mud and shit, and always had been. Michel drank in the illusion like anyone, but the taste was bitter-sweet. He understood that no place or thing went untouched. War was everywhere. In everything.

  The old man with his buggy-whip keeping the horses on a straight course while driving a furrow blade into hard soil. The women and young boys in the orchards harvesting apples, oranges, mandarins and lemons, the young ones jumping about and playing as they helped. The old vintner stooped over his trusses, tending the vines that would yield the next year’s vintage, a vintage preceded by countless generations of knowledge and craft. It was a beautiful veneer.

  But the truth was only a question away, for where was the son to whom the vintner would pass his knowledge? Where were the young boys’ older brothers to help with the harvest? What of the proud young husbands and wives ready to strike out, leave the family farm and till their own soil, plant their own crops?

  The sun was shining, there was a bounty being harvested, but Michel sensed it was not right. He sensed the loss that mothers and wives and fathers and sons silently carried.

  He realized something else, too. Something he could not reconcile. The war had made him feel truly alive for the first time.

  He felt vital and strong and like he had purpose, even if that purpose was hideous: to fight men whose names he would never know, till he died in a barren field with thousands of others who fought because they had been told to do so. Michel wondered if something so stupid could really be what life was about. To live—indeed, to thrive if one could—in the face of pointless death and suffering, no different to a wild animal.

  They were strange thoughts, and Michel put them from his head.

  He concentrated on the wind in his face, the bike, the road. For now, he did not need anything more.

  ♦

  A few hours into the journey, the thundering machine under his ass began to exact a toll. Michel shifted his weight from side to side, kicked his legs out, stood upright on the motorcycle’s foot pegs and finally resorted to squeezing his butt cheeks together as hard as he could in a sort of self-massage to relieve the saddle pain.

  They rolled into the small village of Bettanöux. Both men were desperate for a break. Michel parked outside a little café built of faded orange stone. He killed the engine and dragged himself from the saddle.

  Henry found it more complicated. After hours curled up, his legs did not respond to his commands. He tried to flick a foot over the edge of the sidecar, but the toe of his boot caught the lip, then his other leg tangled around its opposite and Henry tumbled onto the cobblestones.

  Michel laughed. Henry seemed not to care. He lay on the ground, grinning. Blood returned to his extremities in a rush of pins and needles. After a while, when his legs were good and ready, Henry got to his feet.

  The two seated themselves at one of the café’s tables in the sunshine. A middle-aged woman with long blonde hair and hints of the handsomeness of her youth brought them water and left with Michel’s instructions for food.

  “It is a beautiful area. What do you think, Henry?”

  “Oh it is, I agree. Reminds me of back home. We used to take these holidays in Yorkshire up at Uncle Reg’s farm. Farmed ducks. It’s a sad story, actually. He was a bit tight-fisted, you see. Some chap was selling cheap feed, meant to be fish made into pellets. Uncle Reg was a wheeler and dealer, so he bought a mountain of the stuff. Ducks loved it. Well, next morning, three hundred dead ducks!

  “He tried to find a buyer, but you can’t sell ducks that might be poisoned. Ended up he burned them. Like they had the plague or something. Can you imagine all that wasted duck? And with the fish they were eating …”

  “Remarkable,” said Michel. “Perhaps this uncle should have made his ducks into pellets and fed them to more ducks.”

  “You mean like … duck-fed duck?”

  “Yes, but it would be fish-fed duck-fed duck, no?”

  “Blimey,” said Henry. All the talk of food had his mouth salivating. “So what are we eating? You ordered something, didn’t you?”

  “Patience, Henry. It is coming.”

  The woman returned and placed sourdough bread, cheese, oil and a jug of local red wine on their table.

  “Merci, madame,” said Michel. “So, Henry, we eat. A peasant lunch for two peasants.”

  “What, this is it?”

  “Yes. Simple fare. But good, Henry, I promise.”

  “Right, but, well …” Henry was no longer licking his lips. He swallowed hard. “How about some kippers then? They’d have some kippers, wouldn’t they?”

  “No. No kippers,” Michel said.

  “You haven’t even asked.”

  “Just try the food, Henry,” said Michel, his mouth half full. “Or not. I will eat it.”

  “But I like kippers with bread.”

  “Eat, Englishman,” Michel said as he turned his attention to the red.

  He poured two glasses and took a sip. “This is good.” He used his Gallic-sized nose to smell the wine. “Mm, peach.”

  “Peaches? What’s peaches doing in wine?” Henry looked at his glass of red suspiciously.

  “Henry, do you know nothing?”

  “I know wine. Had to drink it every Sunday for Church. In fact, that’s what this meal reminds me of. Being in Church. Here’s Jesus’s blood,” he said, holding the glass of red aloft, “and this, this …” he stammered, comprehensively failing to rip a hunk of bread from the hard loaf with his one free hand, opting instead to give it a few taps with a knuckle, “ … and this stale old bloody thing is, well, that’s Jesus, too, his body, the bread’s his body and the oil … that’s … no, we didn’t have any oil …”

  “Hardly a proper Eucharist without the oil.”

  “Well …”

  “Shut up and just try it!”

  Out of sheer hunger Henry finally did, taking a swig of wine, tearing a hunk of bread and—following Michel—dipping it in the oil then jamming it in his mouth. He took a second hunk, dipped, ripped a chunk of cheese, ate.

  “See?”

  “I suppose it’s all right,” said Henry.

  “Perhaps there is a bit of French peasant in you, after all, oh mighty King of Fuck All and Nothing.”

  Henry ignored the jibe. He finished his mouthful then leaned in and said, “I tell you what, I wouldn’t mind getting a bit of me in a French peasant, if you know what I mean.”

  Henry made a strange face. Michel stared at him like he was a fool who had said something foolish.

  “You know …” Henry added, nodding his head toward the café.

/>   “Oh. Oh … you mean the waitress?”

  “I’d have a roll in the hay with her, if she insisted.”

  “She is old enough to be your mother, Henry.”

  “Yeah, but she’s not.”

  “Henry, when did you become such a hound? You only lost your virginity last night.”

  “I did bloody not. I’ve been with women before.”

  “Henry, cousins do not count. I thought you knew that.”

  “I wish I’d never told you that! You’re a miserable sod.”

  Michel could not help but laugh. Before Henry could say anything else, Michel hit the Englishman in the head with a hunk of bread.

  “Enough. Eat and drink your Jesus in silence, and let us just enjoy what we have.”

  11

  As the last grains of sand fell from Major Hirsch’s fist, Sergeant Mauer turned and walked at a brisk pace toward the mess hall. Once there, he stopped, drew a cigarette—purely an officer’s luxury in the camp—lit it and smoked.

  His gaze remained fixed on the lane formed by the buildings that ran toward the western perimeter fence. He had smoked the cigarette halfway down when he saw the guard turn the corner and pass the farthermost building. Casually, Sergeant Mauer stepped into the mess hall. It was a large building, with a separate kitchen annexed to the rear. Mauer met the gaze of Lieutenant Ulrich, who was waiting at the opposite end. Mauer nodded, then walked out and sat on the step. Lieutenant Ulrich ran into the kitchen and gave the order.

  Two men lifted a massive pot of boiling oil from the furnace-like stove, placed it on the ground and tipped the scalding liquid onto the wood floor. With half the oil gone, they picked the pot up, moved to the wooden work bench attached to the wall and emptied the rest of the oil.

  One of the men opened the door to the stove, retrieved a shovel-full of blazing red embers and with a flick of the wrist cast the glowing beads across the floor. They hissed and popped at first, then each ember started to spew smoke as the oil around them super-heated. The three men were nervous. If the oil did not ignite, they would have to set a fire beneath the shelving with kindling and embers.

  Smoke from the oil filled the room. Almost simultaneously half a dozen spots licked into flame. A rippling sheet of dull red fire sheeted back and forth, consuming the fuel and spewing black. The three men retreated toward the hall.

  The guard was two buildings away and Sergeant Mauer was doing a poor job of playing a casual bystander, rapidly switching glances between the burning kitchen and the approaching guard. When he was ten yards away, Mauer leapt to his feet with considerable drama. He rushed into the mess hall, then straight back out.

  “Fire! Fire!”

  Perceiving a calamity, the arthritic guard moved his aching limbs into a trot. Sergeant Mauer darted into the mess hall and back out again like a poor confused prisoner who needed help. This time the guard followed. As he passed the threshold of the door a lump of wood swung into the back of his head. Second and third blows came in quick succession.

  Mauer retrieved a handful of bullets from the guard’s jacket and then the two men from the kitchen took the unconscious man by his arms and started dragging him toward the fire. The distinctive crackle and pop of oxygen escaping its wooden prison told the men it would not be long before the whole building was aflame. The heat was close to unbearable as they forged through the pantry and discarded the guard in the cellar as if he was already dead, his body buckling and rolling down the stairs.

  Dozens of prisoners had converged outside, some of them alert to elements of the plan they needed to know about, the others just wanting to help. Mauer’s men threw a bundle of hessian sacks out the front of the mess hall; other men fetched buckets of water. Two more guards arrived on the scene. Flames licked from underneath the building’s roof, and soon the entire compound realized the mess hall was burning.

  The guards in the watchtowers had the perfect vantage to survey the unfolding spectacle. Under no circumstances were they permitted to leave a tower unattended, and so they had to limit themselves to watching from afar. The two guards patrolling the perimeter safety zone heeded no such restraint. They rushed through the secondary gates and back into the yards. The guards in the administration block started stumbling out, many of them in half-dress, clearly disturbed from sleep or repose.

  It was every man’s natural inclination to do the same—to be among the turmoil and danger, whether it was to try to bring order to the chaos or feel the rush of something momentous unfolding in front of them, or simply to be part of the multitude. Men were predictable, and the men in the camp responded exactly as Kranz had said they would.

  It was clear that the building would burn to a cinder, yet men continued to labor, throwing water, swatting flames, singing eyebrows and scorching skin—futile acts that made people feel important and, crucially, kept them occupied as Sergeant Mauer exited the mess hall with a bundle of hessian sacks.

  He sped his bundle six buildings to the west. Without speaking, he removed a rifle and gave it to the only other man not drawn in by the commotion. He passed on the rest of the bullets then positioned himself beside the open door, back against the wall, where he could not be seen. He carried a shiv in his hand.

  Colonel Kranz looked the rifle over. He opened the bolt and found a round chambered. He checked the sights for their distance setting; he adjusted by four clicks. Six feet from the open door Kranz had set up a desk with a mound of sheets and blankets piled on top. He kneeled, placing the rifle in the improvised cradle. He nudged his glasses and focused his eyes.

  One hundred and twenty yards away he could see the silhouette of a guard in the north-west watchtower where the Hotchkiss machine gun was mounted. The entire operation hinged on their taking that gun out, for while their numbers could eventually overwhelm the other guards armed with bolt-action rifles, the machine gun could rip through the lot of them. Before all else, it had to be neutralized. If they could capture the position it would save dozens of lives.

  But the guard in the watchtower was frantic. He was a dog straining at the leash, pulling left then right, doing everything but standing still. When he finally stopped for a second, his body leaning over the rail as he strained to see, Kranz centered his sights on the man’s chest. His finger came down to gently rest on the trigger. The guard jerked away. Kranz followed with his sights.

  The mess hall was an inferno. Hidden inside a wooden crate, stacked among a dozen other crates, a densely packed canister of black powder heated. It alone had taken a minor miracle of planning.

  The previous day, it just so happened that the compound’s septic system overflowed. Naturally, it was left to the prisoners to fix, and it was Hirsch’s men who volunteered for the odious task. The guards stayed well away—everyone did—which allowed Hirsch’s men to scrape the upper walls of the septic tanks and collect a modest volume of potassium nitrate that had crystallized from the men’s own waste.

  It was smuggled to Colonel Kranz, who combined the half pound of nitrate with a smaller portion of wood charcoal. The final ingredient, added in even lesser quantity, was ground pyrite—otherwise known as fool’s gold—a poor but adequate substitute for sulfur. Kranz had long ago noticed its presence in the new water well being dug. A few small rocks were acquired, which he ground to a powder. Combing the three ingredients, he produced just under a pound of crude gunpowder.

  Flame finally reached the canister and it exploded. The percussion was heard above the sounds of fire and men, though the explosion had little destructive force. At that instant, Kranz squeezed down on the rifle’s trigger. The powerful crackle of gunfire issued almost simultaneously with the explosion. A small flash from the muzzle of the rifle was the only sure sign of activity in building twelve, but there was nobody left to notice.

  The guard in the watchtower had been moving, then he dropped. Kranz knew he had hit his target. He chambered a second round. The guard remained slumped out of sight behind the railings.

  “Is he dead
, colonel?” said Sergeant Mauer.

  Kranz held his response. His eyes remained fixed on the watchtower. He saw no movement. Finally, Kranz said, “I think so.”

  “Stay here, colonel. I will return shortly.”

  As soon as he exited the building, Sergeant Mauer signaled to his men fifty yards away. Six of them made for building twelve. The sergeant turned in the opposite direction. He ran between two buildings where he had a clear line of sight to the north-east watchtower. He signaled to two more men who were one hundred yards away.

  One of them ran to the fence, where he yanked hard at strands of barbed wire. The u-nails they had worked loose over the past two days came free. The man held the wires wide open as the second man climbed through and ran to the watchtower. He started up the ladder. His comrade’s jumper caught on the barbed wire. He tried to wriggle free but failed, so he ripped through, leaving strips of gray fabric fluttering on the rusted barbs.

  The other man reached the top of the ladder, which terminated in a small trapdoor. He pushed at it, expecting to gain immediate entry to the watchtower, but while the door moved it did not open.

  “It’s stuck,” he yelled to his comrade on the ground below.

  He climbed two rungs higher on the ladder so that he was hunched under the trapdoor. He applied his head and shoulder, and pushed with his legs, driving with all his power. The door raised half an inch. He drove at it even harder and it gradually started to lift, then the door flung ajar and the German’s upper body sprung into the watchtower like a jack-in-the-box.

  The man had no time to react before the heel of a boot smashed square into his face, his nose crumpling like a popped paper bag. His head jerked back and cracked against the sharp wooden edge of the trapdoor opening. He knocked instantly unconscious, and his body collapsed like a dropped doll. He fell backward through the trapdoor and sailed clear of the ladder. He landed in a pile with a puff of noise.