C–click.
“Achtung, you sack of shit,” said a voice from behind in French. Cold blunt steel stabbed into the back of Henry’s neck.
Henry froze, but his mule did not, the sudden sound provoking an instinctual reaction as the startled animal turned, facing the threat. To the man with the gun it was all the excuse he needed. His finger started to squeeze the trigger as Henry’s wide eyes stared down the barrel of death.
“Stop!” screamed Michel. “Percy, no!”
The man held, the rifle still leveled on Henry. Michel jumped from his horse and held both hands out.
“Percy, it’s me, Michel!”
For the first time, the man’s eyes went to Michel. Recognition was instant. He lowered the rifle and flashed a grim smile. He spoke in his native French.
“Michel. I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned. Of all people. Unbelievable.”
Percy went to Michel and they embraced. Michel stood back and looked at the old man, so much older than the last time he had seen him.
“I came to visit, Percy. I have a week’s leave from the front. I wanted to surprise you and Maddy. But it seems you are the one to surprise me. I should have known better.”
“Indeed you should, my boy.”
“Maddy is worried sick, Percy. She thought you must have had an accident.”
“Rubbish! Accidents are for fools. I am fine.”
“What is going on then? Are you hunting? Who did you think we were?”
“Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend first, then I can explain.”
“Of course. Percy, this is Henry Biggelow, a British soldier. We fight together, side by side in the trenches.”
Henry remained frozen astride his mule, a look of terror-cum-confusion writ across his face. He offered a quizzical expression at the sound of his name, the attempt at a smile making him look like a surprised idiot.
“A British soldier? Ah, then we are all saved,” said Percy, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Wait. Does that mean you …”
Michel nodded.
“My lord. You went to the other side, and of all sides!” said Percy and sighed forcefully. “We will talk about that later, when we have time. Now, this Englishman. Does he speak French?”
“Afraid not,” said Michel.
“Of course he does not. He is in France, but why would he learn French? Ever since that Trafalgar farce, his people have been insufferable,” said Percy.
“Good to see you have not mellowed with time, Percy.”
“There is no time to mellow, not even for wine. No time for anything that matters! Anyhow, you want to know what I am doing here. I will tell you.” Percy held a pregnant pause, then said, “Germans. Five miles north.”
“What! How?”
“Yesterday I was in this very valley, Michel, and I thought I heard the sound of an engine. Once or twice I have seen a French plane flying up here, but you never know these days what is going on. So I watched the skies. All I saw was cloud, then two planes emerged from the white. Not just planes, Michel—these were flying monstrosities. I would not have believed such huge things could fly.
“And then I saw men dropping from the planes! Big half-balloons opened above them, and I swear to you, you know I have never told a lie in my life, they floated. I counted thirteen men like this, floating to the ground, higher in the valley.
“While these Germans were floating down, the planes headed for the valley beneath Lindarsen Peak. I scrambled higher and I watched them fly closer and closer to Lindarsen, till I could no longer see them. I heard two explosions. For about ten seconds, nothing, then the smoke rose up.
“You understand, don’t you? The big German planes crashed into the base of Lindarsen. And they meant to, there was no mistake. Both of them went to the same spot. There is no pass they could have been aiming for.”
A dozen questions buzzed Michel’s head, but Percy kept talking.
“All the floating men landed. I made higher ground and I saw them. Definitely soldiers. Germans. Twelve of them. There was a thirteenth, but he died in the fall. I watched them work their way north-east toward the pass. When they camped, I camped.
“This morning they started for the pass. I asked myself, what do these Germans want in my valley? There’s no war here. I went and found the dead German, the thirteenth. He was dangling from a tree, as dead as a strangled cat, so I cut him from his balloon—like a big round bed sheet, made of silk, I think—and I took this,” Percy said, patting a pistol tucked into his pocket. “Do you know what else I found?”
Michel had no idea. None of it made sense. He shook his head.
“Wait here,” Percy said. He walked off into the scrub.
Henry took the opportunity to ask Michel what was going on. He had figured out the old man was Percy, but there was clearly something afoot. Michel explained the best he could, for none of it made sense. The planes Percy described, so big that multiple men had fit inside, had to be the formidable Zeppelin bombers. A squad of German soldiers had parachuted into the valley. As for what it all meant, neither Michel nor Henry had any idea.
After a minute Percy returned with his horse. He dismounted and unhooked a pannier. He laid it out in front of Michel and opened the bag.
“You know what this is?” said Percy.
“Jesus,” muttered Michel.
“Dynamite. Now, what’s a stinking squad of Krauts doing in the mountains with a sack of dynamite? God knows how much the others have if they were willing to leave all this behind. Probably a hundred sticks! Well, what do you make of it? Hmm?”
Michel just stared and shook his head.
“They are going to blow up Pierre Dam!” said Percy.
“What? What dam? Why would they want to blow up a dam?”
“The dam! The big Pierre Dam!”
Michel tried to think, but it did not register.
Then Percy’s eyes opened wide and he said, “You don’t know what I’m talking about. Of course you don’t! The dam did not exist last you were here. Perhaps that says you’ve been gone too long. But that’s another matter. There is a stream that joins the River Meuse at Oraon, it is named after an old pioneer from many years ago, after Henri Alcher.”
Michel nodded. He knew of the stream from having swum in its cool and clear waters near Oraon with Émile. He had never explored its source in the mountains, but he knew it was on the other side of the range, to the west.
“Four years ago, just before the war, they started building a dam to stop the waters of the Alcher up in the mountains. They said it was to ensure Oraon and the lower towns would never flood the way they did in 1911. And they said they would be able to make power out of the water, though that sounded like bullshit to me. Émile and I climbed Pieters Pass while the dam was under construction. We wanted to see if it was real.
“It was real, all right. Too real. A huge wall of rock and concrete that completely sealed the valley! They finished it two years ago, then at the end of last winter there was talk that the dam is almost full. I went to the pass again. Oh, it has to be seen to be believed. Its waters have swallowed everything. Hundreds of acres, gone, drowned. They must have enough water for all of France behind that dam. A travesty. And you know why they did it?”
“Oraon …” said Michel. It all made sense.
“Yes, Oraon! I don’t know how, but what they said was true. All day and night they make the water into electricity and send it to Oraon. And you should see Oraon now. It used to be a nice town. Not anymore. There are factories as far as the eye can see. Appeared overnight, like toadstools. Factories and railways and soldiers and everything. Because of that dam.
“I should have blown the worthless thing up myself. I should go give this godforsaken bag of bombs to the Germans so I make sure they do a good job!” said Percy, his saliva flecking the air. “But I will not, because you know what they make in Oraon? Bullets. And the big cannon shells, and lots of other things. Everything for the war. Do you see, Michel?
“That much water, if it comes down now, no one would survive. It wouldn’t be a matter of losing electricity. All the factories and homes would go! A wall of water one hundred yards high. It would be a thousand times worse than the last flood. It is why it is madness to build such a monstrosity. It is lucky you are here, Michel. We will go. We will stop them.”
Percy finally paused and Michel tried to take it all in. His mind throbbed with information; with the discovery that the war had followed him into the mountains. He tried to countenance what could be done—how Percy figured on stopping the Germans.
“You look dismayed, Michel. I thought you were a soldier. Come on, let us go,” said Percy. He put a foot in a stirrup.
“Wait, wait,” said Michel. “How do you mean to stop them? It’s too late. They have a half day start. Whichever way we go, it’s too late.”
“Rubbish! We go straight over the range. Right here. That way we beat them there. And I have the 45-70,” Percy said, patting the rifle that was powerful enough to bring down a bear.
“But Percy, there is no pass here. This escarpment is hell.”
Michel looked past the pines to the mass of gray beyond, where rock pushed from the earth.
“I know that face of rock can be climbed. I have done it before.”
“You climbed it?”
“Yes, many years ago, just after Émile was born. Back then I’d been like you boys. Young, free. But suddenly I had a child to look after. I panicked. Said I had to go hunt, get meat, but really I just came to the hut and felt sorry for myself and drank until I was numb. And then I did the stupidest, most reckless thing I could. I climbed the escarpment. Right here, no ropes, nothing. It was the most terrified I’d ever been in my life. And, God-willing, I should have fallen to my death with all that drink in me. But I made the crest. Maybe I was the first person to ever do so.
“But when I made it, I did not feel peaceful or happy. I felt stupid. Ashamed of myself. If I had died climbing those cliffs, where would my wife have been? God rest her soul. Where would my child have been? It was the most important moment in my life. A defining moment, when I finally became a man. Do you understand, Michel?”
Michel thought over Percy’s words, and he understood. In his own way, Percy was accusing him of being immature, perhaps even cowardly, in having run away from commitment and obligation. He had abandoned Maddy and what would have been a loving family in the Rabinauds because he was scared and confused with his place in the world, and never thought beyond himself. Now, with so much at stake, he had to become the man the war needed him to be.
“Fine. But I lead, Percy. I lead! I brought ninety feet of rope with me. I will climb, then we set up a belay and you follow.”
Percy stared at him with a look Michel had seen before and he wondered if the old man was too stubborn to yield.
“Enough talk,” said Percy, and it was decided.
Michel figured that they would not be up against any common soldiers. The Germans must have sent an elite unit—specially trained, disciplined and experienced. Twelve of them.
Against two, it was impossible. Against three was better, and perhaps still impossible. Michel began to explain the situation to Henry, who was coming whether he wanted to or not.
“This high-row-electricity dam, what is it?” said Henry, interrupting Michel.
“What are you asking?”
“The dam. High-row electric. What’s that? Some sort of wall?”
“Jesus, Henry, you don’t know what hydro-electricity is?”
“No,” Henry said plainly.
“Hydro! Your country is a pioneer! One of the first! Have you never read a newspaper? Hydro-fucking-electricity. The water flows from a dam and pushes turbines that make electricity. Like the famous Hoover Dam in America, yes? You’ve heard of that?”
“Rings a bell … So this making electricity, how exactly does it do that? What does it burn?”
“Jesus, it doesn’t matter how. What matters is that if they blow this dam many people will die, and the French war effort will be set back months. We must beat the Germans to the dam. That means climbing this range.”
“What?”
“Yes, we go over,” said Michel.
“Over that? No. Nooo, not over that. Let’s go the way they went. On our horses and that sodding mule. We’ll ride quicker.”
“This is the only way that is faster. We go,” said Michel.
“No bloody way! This was meant to be a week off from the war, and you’ve already nearly killed me once. No, I’m not going Michel. I don’t care what you say. And to hell with you, old man! Tell him to stop looking at me like that or … or I’ll pop him one on the chin. Tell him, Michel, bloody tell him. Yeah, you heard me, you old frog. You and your shitty mule!”
Henry had said something similar two days ago, right before being thrown in the deep end of a violent P.O.W. outbreak. A look crossed his face. Michel smiled.
29
In the days when he was an elite soldier, before a bullet through the hip ended that career, it was the sense of anticipation that Kranz enjoyed the most. Whereas some men crumbled under the pressure or lost their stomachs or jabbered like idiots trying to calm their nerves, Kranz liked to quietly relish the feeling that was like a faint electrical charge running back and forth through his body.
It was the realization that despite even the best laid plans, anything could happen. The prospect of something going wrong did not unsettle Kranz. It energized him.
In his makeshift camp in the Vitrimont forest, Kranz made his final preparation. It was a simple, seemingly banal act for such an important mission, but nevertheless essential. Lubricated with a little spit, Kranz rubbed the blade of the folding knife he had stolen the night before against the flat surface of a granite stone. He dragged it in neat little circles, one side, then the other.
To stab a man, a blade need not be particularly sharp. But to shave three days of stubble, a rusted steel edge simply would not do. Once he was in that munitions compound, Kranz knew his perfect French and ability to imitate accents was adequate to get him through unforeseen conversations. And his new set of clothes were those of an ordinary worker; he would blend in. But stubble? Some Frenchmen sported a trimmed beard or mustache. Unkempt facial hair, however, was out of the question.
As the afternoon sun dipped toward the western horizon, Kranz worked patiently at the blade till its length revealed shining steel. He scraped the fine edge along a fingernail. A filing of keratin started to spiral off, then the blade skipped. Not sharp enough.
Kranz added a little spit to the stone, and went back to work.
30
Their first obstacle proved an unexpectedly taxing one, mainly because of Henry. They merely had to cross a bed of sheared rock: thousands of jagged blocks, some small, some enormous, that had crumbled from the surrounding rock-faces, forming what looked like a giant bed of dry rapids.
Henry did not possess any climbing technique or natural ability and required a hand up with even these simple climbs. It did little to convince Percy they had made the right decision bringing him. As Henry became slower and slower, his strength sapped by febrile attempts at rock scrambling, Michel became less and less patient, till he bodily dragged Henry up some of the bigger blocks.
Percy forged further and further ahead. By the time he reached the base of the first cliffs, Henry and Michel lagged almost thirty yards behind. When they negotiated the final few boulders, Percy said, “So slow! You understand we must make that saddle before dusk, yes? So we must move. If you cannot keep up, I will go alone.”
Michel did not reply to Percy with words. He looked at him with brooding intensity, then he turned to Henry, who was a quivering mess of slender muscle.
“Henry, I climb first, then Percy, then you. At the top of each section I’ll find footing then drop the rope down. You fasten it to your body like this.”
Michel showed Henry a simple way of looping the rope around his legs and
waist and tying it off. In this, at least, Henry was competent.
Michel made it clear that the cliffs were too long and many for him to pull Henry up. He simply had to climb, or they would not make it. Michel would be on the other end of the rope taking some of his weight—but only some.
Henry said nothing. He did not need to. His face expressed all his horror and hatred for what he was being put through.
Michel set off with the rope draped around his chest and the shotgun slung across his back, neither of which made the climb any easier. The first section was long and mostly straightforward. It went straight up over about thirty yards, with one long fissure running diagonal across three quarters of the height of the rock face, then it went vertical to the top of the cliff. The good thing about the cliff was that it was ragged, offering little knobs of rock that Michel could use for handholds.
To Henry watching below it seemed like Michel glided up the cliff with next to no effort, though that was simply the illusion of technique being applied with steely concentration.
Michel wedged one boot and both his hands in a deep fissure as his other boot smeared over the rock face, trying to gain enough friction so he could take the next lunge upwards. Rock climbing was about using the lower body for power and upper body for balance, but Michel had no choice other than to use his arms to help haul himself up. By the time he reached the first ledge, his shoulders were fatigued and his forearms burned to the point of pain. He immediately sent the rope down.
Percy fixed it to his waist and started up the same route. Climbing had always been a young man’s game, but Percy attacked the cliff with youthful vigor. By Michel’s reckoning, Percy’s assent was intemperate bluster. Was the old man trying to better him? Was he trying to prove time had not cowed him? Though there was no denying Percy’s ability, he moved too quick to be properly assessing each individual grip.
“Slow down, Percy!” yelled Michel.
Percy reached the vertical section of the fissure. Whereas till that point Percy had climbed without assistance, with the rope around his waist merely there as a precaution, Michel now applied tension, taking at least thirty pounds of pressure from the old man. Again, he moved up the cliff-face with speed. When he hauled himself over the precipice onto the ledge, Michel was fuming.
Michel And Henry Go To War (The French Bastard Book 1) Page 14
