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

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Henry nodded, his bloody face twisted with pain and panic but mostly with a sudden rush of steely conviction. Michel ran along the embankment then scrambled down the rocks. He slung the lever action 12-gauge from his shoulder. Henry followed close behind.

  “Henry, this is it. All you do is run. I’ll be right behind you. Ok?”

  “Michel.” Through red eyes Henry looked his tormentor firm in the face. “I hate you.”

  Michel smiled. “Good luck, my friend.”

  Henry got to his feet, gulped in deep breaths, suppressed the rising of his stomach and took off. It started as a wild gallop that was all flailing legs and arms, and it stayed that way. Though he had no rhythm or grace, what Henry did have was a whole lot of fear—and fear could make an Englishman fly.

  He was well within the cover of the trees when, at the twenty-yard mark, Michel pushed off behind him, paced to Henry’s gallop. A frantic thought struck Michel.

  What if they do not see him? Or hear him? What if they do not know he is there …

  ♦

  Michel need not have worried. As Henry crashed through the undergrowth, the fear was driven out by the even stronger emotion of anger—hot and maddening and stupefying anger that those German bastards should be skulking in the shadows, waiting to take his life and the lives of hundreds of others when all anyone wanted was a hot meal, a warm bed and to be left alone to live his piddling little life.

  There was anger that they had shot him and anger that no matter where he went he could not escape the God-awful war that dragged on and on and on, and it all bubbled up into a primal scream.

  “Ragghhhh!” Henry roared. “You Kraut bastaaaards!”

  His legs and arms pumped and he ran.

  “Sons of whores! Mothers fuck gooooats!” he screamed.

  Henry was almost breathless from the combination of running and screaming, but there was no shutting him up. “Shit on you! Your king! Shit on—”

  Crack, the first flash of gunfire spat at Henry from not fifteen yards above. Crack–crack and two more rifles opened up, both shots wide of the mark, but not by much.

  Henry knew he was no flying duck. He was a slow Englishman. He ran and ran and ran, certain he was going to die.

  ♦

  Behind, Michel closed to ten yards of the first German. It did not matter that there was no time to steady and aim, for he had the 12-gauge, a weapon designed for wanton annihilation.

  Kaboom!

  Michel pumped shrapnel into the man, the burst of flame from the barrel enough to light the vision of the German spinning sideways, the air filled with the red mist that had been his face. Two more paces and Michel had cranked the lever, an empty shell ejected from the chamber and a live replacement rammed into place.

  Ahead, Henry was still running, his screaming quelled by the gunfire. Michel was practically on top of the next Kraut, close enough to see him in the moonlight, and now the vision of an additional man appeared just a few feet by his side. The first reeled toward Michel, furiously working the bolt on his Mauser. Too late.

  Kaboom!

  Michel blasted from the hip at almost point-blank range where he could not miss. The German took it in the chest and flew from his feet. A handful of shot sprayed his partner, enough to fell him out of shock more than injury. That brief window was all Michel needed.

  He sprinted past the wounded German who was straight back on his feet, clasping his weapon. Michel flip-cocked the shotgun with one hand, the action fluid and flawless. He was a few yards past the Kraut when, in a motion so efficient as to look laconic, Michel draped the shotgun behind him and without casting a backward glance he squeezed down on the trigger—kaboom!—finishing the man. He rolled the lever over.

  Crack.

  A soldier thirty yards ahead had lined Michel up, the bullet whizzing by with a high-pitched sound. He veered toward the German’s position and smashed through a low branch without flinching, then let rip.

  Kaboom! The man dropped.

  Two more rifles opened up, their position behind Michel and just on the cusp of darkness. The bullets ripped through the scrub either side of his body, but before he could turn to them there was still the Kraut in front who had regained his feet in the wake of a body peppered with shot. Michel cranked the lever and aimed rough and ready.

  Kaboom!

  The blast of fire lit the scene for a fraction of a second and Michel caught sight of a man rushing from cover, Mauser at his shoulder.

  Crack.

  The German missed but he was already working the bolt. Michel cranked the shotgun’s lever, aimed fast and yanked down on the trigger. The hammer made a little tap sound, steel on steel, and there was no explosion and no flame and no hot lead. He had run out of bullets.

  Michel hurled himself to the ground just as the Kraut squeezed off a well-aimed shot. The bullet hit the rubber heel of Michel’s boot as he rolled and came up with Ariane’s six-shooter in hand. The German was thirty feet away. The other two Krauts behind him let off a volley, then German words rang out in the night and they began crashing through foliage.

  They were making for the dam.

  There was no time. The Kraut in front of him fired and Michel threw himself into another roll. As he came up he triggered the six-shooter as his left palm cranked the hammer once, twice, three times, boom boom boom.

  One of the rounds smashed into the German’s rifle, spraying his face with splinters of wood. He went down screaming, his eyes a bloody mess. He was not dead, but it would do.

  Two strides and Michel was sprinting toward the dam wall, dodging trees and otherwise it was straight through branches and bushes, his legs carrying him in huge bounds.

  He was gaining and could see the hazy shapes of two Germans weaving between the trees. He was no chance of hitting them with the six-shooter. Michel ran hard and closed to thirty yards, then twenty. He skidded to a stop, raised the revolver and lined up the closest.

  But another was barreling through the undergrowth to his left. Michel swung around too late. The German hurtled headlong into Michel and he cartwheeled from his feet. The revolver knocked from his hand as he spun sideways into a tree where he stopped cold, his ribs taking the full brunt of impact. The Kraut sprawled to the ground, but he was back on his feet in an instant, scrambling for his rifle.

  It felt like hot irons stabbing through his chest as Michel got to his feet and pushed off with all the power he had, his body screaming pain–bloody–pain. One, two, three strides, but the German had his rifle and so Michel drove under, his shoulder plunging into the man’s solar plexus. The force lifted him from his feet and Michel tilted and pile-drove him into the ground.

  Air puffed from the German’s lungs and the impact jolted the rifle from his hands. Michel wasted no time in scrambling forward to position himself over the German. He rained down punches, every one sending a stab of pain through his rib cage and into his chest.

  The German fought back hard. He swung his arms and legs in wild arcs and his whole body writhed like a cut worm. Michel’s fists kept pounding, then an errant knee smashed into his side. It hit him like a bullet, a bolt of agony that momentarily took his senses and left his muscles a quivering mess.

  The German knocked Michel to his back and it was all the chance he needed. He went for his rifle. He had it in his hands and he was getting to his feet as Michel met him, one hand locking onto the barrel and the other the stock.

  Neither could let go. Control of the weapon was life and death. Michel used his strength to raise the rifle above their heads. The Kraut started to buckle, but he had seen what a blow to his opponent’s ribs had done and that is where he dug in, sacrificing balance to land a strike with his knee, just above the kidney.

  Pain flared through Michel’s body, running from his shoulder through his chest and ending in his balls. Jerry delivered the same again and again, and Michel buckled. A fourth and fifth time and Michel dropped to his knees, his hands still stubbornly holding onto the rifle, but all
his strength was gone.

  The German kicked him hard in the chest and Michel’s grip slipped. He fell backward onto the ground. Jerry whipped the gun up and aimed at Michel’s face, but then he reeled around with the rifle, for there was somebody else coming fast.

  “Leave him alone!” screamed Henry, as he swung his one good arm with all the force he could muster, fracturing the German’s skull with a jagged lump of rock. The rifle dropped with the Kraut’s body. He lay on the ground and did not get up. The blow had dented his skull and instantly turned the man into a dribbling mess of limbs and orifices.

  Henry stood over him with his rock raised high. His arm trembled. He swallowed and closed his eyes and gritted what was left of his teeth as he prepared to deliver the death blow, but then there was the sound of bone splitting and Henry looked down.

  It was done. Michel’s fingers uncoiled from the handle of his knife. He had plunged six inches of cold steel into the Kraut’s fiery heart.

  Henry dropped the rock. “Jesus, did he get you? Are you all right?”

  “Quack,” replied Michel through clenched teeth and strained eyes. He pushed himself to his feet and Henry gave a steadying hand.

  “But two more, Henry, making for the dam. Must hurry.”

  Michel picked up the German’s rifle and started off at a lope, doing his best to push his body into a run despite the coil of agony wrapped around his lungs, squeezing mercilessly with every movement he made. Yet Michel suspected it was to no avail—he would not catch the man.

  It was up to the women now. To Maudette and Damia and Ariane. They were brave. They were resolute. But were they whites-of-eyes killers?

  41

  As the battle raged in the forest of the southern shore, a different kind of battle flared between Maudette and Damia.

  Damia was a pragmatist. She wanted to open up the 75mm on the Germans based on where they saw the muzzle flashes. She accepted there was a chance of hitting Michel and Henry, but it was a matter of sacrificing the few for the many. Maudette had fought her, refused to allow it, for she said it was not humane and not right. If they chanced to kill their own, they would be no better than the Germans with whom they were at war, though she did not know for a fact that Germans would be any more or less ruthless, only that she felt it must be true.

  The window of opportunity passed. After the last gunshot rang out they had no idea if Michel and Henry were still alive. Nor did they know how many Germans were headed their way.

  A sudden flash of bright blue light lit the shore near the southern side of the dam wall. A few seconds later a warm glow flickered into life, casting a faint red hue unto the trees. The women could not see the source and were at a loss as to what was happening. Maudette wondered if it was a fuse to explosives burning down. She waited, impotent in the face of whatever course of action had been set in motion.

  Seventy yards away, beneath the concrete wall, a German was latched onto the steel ladder, twenty thousand volts of electricity coursing through his body. He had died almost instantly. The current forced his muscles to contract, and so his corpse held onto the ladder in grim death as organs started to boil and then hair and clothes crackled into flame, casting that pleasant red hue.

  For the last German standing, and the last man with a leather pouch filled with dynamite slung across his chest, it was the grisliest of deaths to witness. He had been inches from following, but now he scrambled up the rock embankment. He looked for any other obvious traps and saw none.

  He stepped onto the gravel road and saw on the dam wall two faint figures. He slung the Mauser from his shoulder. He checked there was a round chambered then raised the weapon, aimed carefully and placed pressure on the trigger till it was a hair away from firing. He started to slowly exhale and squeezed the last millimeter.

  The bullet left the muzzle at thirty-two-hundred feet per second. In the time it took Damia to register the flash of gunfire, the bullet had ripped through Maudette’s cheek. Her head whipped back from the force of impact and her body slumped straight to the ground. Death was instant.

  Damia froze.

  She needed to work the cannon, but her brain had stopped thinking and her body had stopped moving. She sucked in little gasps of air without exhaling. A strained sound came from her throat, a cry stifled by shock and fear.

  Crack.

  Another bullet sizzled through the air, but this time it came from the rifle of Ariane. She ran, calling: “Damia! Damia!” Ariane worked the bolt and pulled the rifle to her shoulder and fired blind.

  “Damia!” she called again, now just yards away.

  Lead ripped through Damia’s chest, spraying Ariane with blood. Damia fell backward, dead.

  Ariane stopped and brought the rifle to her shoulder. She could see the shape of the man who had killed Damia and Maudette. She fired and missed, but the spray of rocks where her bullet hit threw the German’s aim, giving Ariane time to drop her rifle, readjust the 75mm and yank down on the firing chain.

  Fire exploded from the barrel of the cannon and a fraction of a second later the earth erupted beside the German, sending him sprawling. The Mauser dropped from his grip and now Ariane had the advantage. She slammed another shell into the cannon’s chamber. It took four or five seconds, enough time for the German to snatch up his rifle and start running. He was on the dam wall and moving fast.

  Ariane did not know what to do. She had to fire to save the dam and the people of Oraon, but if she did it would surely set off his explosives and possibly send them all to their deaths anyway. It was impossible, and so she stood there, unsure, as good as paralyzed.

  The German slid to a stop when level with the master’s hut. He raised his Mauser but before he could fire a body lunged from the stairwell and a huge iron wrench slammed into his neck. The glancing blow slid down and knocked the raised rifle, causing the German to fire harmlessly into the concrete. The recoil and surprise sent the Mauser flying from his unsteady hands.

  It was Becquerel, the dam engineer. Before he could deliver a second blow, the German tackled him to the ground.

  The sight of Becquerel jolted Ariane to action. She retrieved the 8mm and brought it her shoulder. She waited for a clear target, but the men struggled.

  The German gained the upper hand. He started to rain heavy blows, which Becquerel shielded with his hands. He turned his face toward Ariane and called: “The cannon! Fire the cannon!”

  The German kept pounding at his head.

  “It will hold! Tr—” and a heavy blow knocked the old man unconscious. The German kept punching, his fists making dull thudding sounds on Becquerel’s face.

  Ariane dropped her rifle and dashed to the 75mm. She aimed the cannon low, directly at Becquerel’s prostrate body. At the dam wall. There was no saving him. No saving any of them. The Kraut was on his feet, a pistol in hand. Ariane pulled the firing pin.

  42

  Slumped on the banks of the northern shore, his face red and burned, Percy had the perfect view of the dam wall and the subsequent fireball that engulfed it.

  There had been two blasts, almost impossible to differentiate, the smaller shell burst setting off the German’s pouch of high explosives. Percy closed his eyes, for he knew now they had failed and he did not want his last sight to be off a wall of water rushing down the valley to consume the friends he had known all his life.

  The aging vintner let his weak body fall. His thoughts went back to his dear Maddy, to Émile, to his father and mother, to his beautiful wife Olivie. It all coalesced around Amer Ami: the place where his life had been conceived, the place where he had raised his own family. It had always been home.

  At no moment in his life had Percy ever doubted that one day it would also be the place where he took his final breaths. Now he knew that was wrong. He would die on the shores of a dam he hated, emptied of every last drop of its cursed charge. Yet if death beckoned now, he would not fight it. He might resent the terms, but he was ready.

  As the last pieces of
debris splashed into the water and the final echo of the explosion bounced back from the mountains, the valley fell into silence.

  Silence?

  Percy opened his eyes. He struggled to push his body upright. Above, the clouds had cleared a gap that revealed a sliver of moon, which in turn cast a patina of silver upon the lake. Yes, the lake.

  Percy strained, wondering if his mind deceived him. It seemed that not a drop of water gushed from the reservoir. That the dam wall stood, holding back a flood. That the concrete arch remained whole—terrible and magnificent and whole.

  Then he saw them. Two figures, huddled together, slowly making their way onto the edge of the wall. Percy knew it had to be Michel.

  It was an enormous comfort to know he was alive—that Michel had returned and would be there to look after his Maddy. As for Émile, he would look after himself. He may well be at Verdun, but Percy knew, somehow, his only son would make it through.

  Percy lay back and closed his eyes. There was no more fight in him. His last thought was that he had lived a good life, and that he would leave behind a good son and good daughter. A man could ask for no more.

  There was a smile on his face as he slipped away.

  43

  Kranz grabbed a jimmy bar he saw hanging on the wall and ran past crates till he was in the middle of the warehouse. He jammed the sharp edge of the bar under a lid and worked the nails loose, just enough to push the bar further under. With his good hand, Kranz used brute force to lever the lid off, revealing hundreds of sticks of dynamite. He took a single stick and leant it against the side of the crate.

  He dug into his pocket and retrieved a length of fuse and a box of matches. He could hear the commotion nearby. It sounded like female voices, but the guards would not be far off.

  The fuse would give about sixty seconds of burn time. With the hell that had been raised, it was too much. Kranz crimped off a little less than half the length with his teeth. He figured on thirty seconds. Maybe it would leave enough time to escape, and maybe not. That outcome only mattered to him. The important thing was that the dynamite detonate before the guards got to it.