No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  That they did not came as no surprise to Kranz. His own army and country had disowned him. For eight long years he had been forced to live as a refugee in anonymous exile, ever since General von Eisman had warned him he was about to be indicted—warned him that he must leave the country that night, lest he be tried and executed within the week. He had fled Germany and sold his services to someone who valued them.

  For eight years he produced armaments for a private French weapons manufacturer. Four years ago he had been on the verge of producing a new type of smokeless fast-burning powder that could outperform cordite. But he had also seen the war coming, and he knew that whatever breakthroughs he made would ultimately be used to kill his countrymen. So he slowed his work, stalled, took his research in tangential directions. And he still had it all in his head, plus a dozen other directions for research that he knew would yield results.

  Now, finally, the German army realized it needed him. He could probably have the mustard gas ready for mass production in a matter of weeks, at most months. It had taken three years of war for the fools in command to finally realize his value.

  Except—and Kranz smiled at the irony—it was not in the laboratory that they needed him. It was in the field. It was not as the scientist but as the soldier, as the man who had begun his career as a special forces commando. A man with specialized knowledge and the ability to get things done.

  The only real question was what Colonel Kranz would do. Could he swallow his pride and resentments and go willingly into battle for the same establishment that had disowned him?

  The decision was easy. He had given up his citizenship and been stripped of his rights, but he had never lost his patriotism or sense of duty.

  “Major, I will find you later this evening. I will tell you what we are going to do and what I need from your men.”

  “Do you have a plan, colonel?”

  “I have always had a plan, major.”

  3

  Michel and Henry spent the night under guard in what passed for military jail—really just another muddy hole, little different to all the other muddy holes they had spent months of the war inhabiting—having been lucky not to be shot on the spot by Sergeant Mendelson for desertion in the field. Mendelson was a stickler for rules and structure, and had no interest in whether or not their actions had turned the battle. It was a matter of procedure. Of decorum. Of following your fucking orders, as he had succinctly put it, a mere inch separating his face from Michel’s.

  The two soldiers were now doing their best to stand to attention while they waited to be called into the tent of the major-general the men referred to as Fitz. For exactly what purpose, neither Michel nor Henry was sure. Perhaps for a mere dressing down. Or maybe to be informed of some sort of miserable punishment at the hands of Mendelson. It even seemed conceivable that they would walk into a hastily convened court martial, to be followed by a date with a full firing squad. Both men were so tired and weary that they just wanted it done with, their fate decided so they could finally rest.

  A corporal had taken pity and offered Michel and Henry a cigarette each. Henry sucked his through in a few hasty draws; he was not a habitual smoker and was prone to fits of coughing. He only bothered with cigarettes when at the breaking point of boredom. Meanwhile, Michel made his last, relishing every breath of smoke as might a man destined not to see another ounce of tobacco for a very long time.

  Henry compulsively flicked a pale finger against a wrinkled thumb, making an almost indiscernible sound that still managed to irritate. Michel brusquely slapped Henry’s hands as a parent might slap a child’s. Henry’s lip curled and he was about to give Michel a piece of his mind, but the middle-aged corporal poked his head from the canvas tent in front of them.

  “Right, come on, then. The major-general is waiting.” He gestured to Michel’s cigarette and in a hushed voice said, “Best duff that, mate.”

  Michel took a last drag on the cigarette and let the glowing butt drop to the ground where a slick of brown water sucked it into the Lorraine never-ever. Henry fought to retrieve his left boot from the pull of the bog and then stomped his way into the tent, with Michel following.

  Michel immediately noticed a collection of maps laid out on a long and wide table. The handsome colors and neat lines—lies, all of it—reminded him of the last decent map he had seen up close. Its owner, Crazy Kilborn, had stabbed a finger down on the African continent’s dead Saharan heart. “And THAT is where we are going,” he had declared. It was a gradual thing, the craziness, a thing that always seemed a few paces behind their party as they struggled forth, till the day it overtook Kilborn and neither man nor madness ever looked back.

  Michel had gone with Kilborn because he had been searching. At the time he had not known quite for what, only that it would be far from the life his absent father had expected him to live, a life of relative comfort and meaningless niceties befitting the French President’s son—even if he was illegitimate, no more than a bastard.

  Michel did not discover it there in the strangeness of Africa, and so he had gone to the last virgin territory for humans to explore: a geography of total war and absolute destruction forged by man’s own sick need to destroy all he had created. Of course, his father would never have allowed him to fight as a common soldier—or fight at all—so Michel adopted a new identity and signed up with the British Army. They asked few questions. They needed men.

  The moment he set foot in the bloodied mud of the Western Front, Michel knew he had found what he was looking for. It was here, this—the nothingness of absolute destruction wrought by total war—that he had been seeking. It was towns, fields and forests stripped of nature’s green and the textures of human ingenuity, replaced by acre after acre of blood-soaked browns, all of it devoid of life, except for the corpse-eating rats that swooned in under the cover of dark, and even they retreated to some better place during the day.

  Yet if he had found what he sought, and he had sought this, what sort of man was he? Who wanted this—who but the mad? He wondered if perhaps he had been pulled down with Crazy Kilborn, after all.

  Michel gazed at Fitzgerald’s maps. Their cartographic magic made the shredded fields and razed towns of France whole again. The Western Front looked positively inviting, laid out in reds and blues and oranges and greens, and nary a touch of brown.

  Michel stirred from his reverie upon hearing the exaggerated sigh of Major-General Fitzgerald. He sat behind the table, eyeing the two soldiers. He was short, pudgy and balding. He chomped on a huge unlit cigar, and though he had a reputation for losing his temper, the major-general did not look so much angry as weary and fed-up.

  “It’s been a long day, lads. Long bloody war. And then I get this.”

  Fitz held up a piece of paper in his left hand.

  “This is a recommendation, accompanied by two additional reports that more or less confirm all the relevant details, for the award of the Victoria Cross medal to two recklessly brave soldiers who turned a poorly planned battle into an unlikely victory. The men in this report did something remarkable. They saved lives in a war that only takes them.”

  Fitz put the paper down. “Absolutely remarkable, I say. To the men in this report, I’m going to pour a drink.”

  Three glasses were already laid out on Fitz’s table. He opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of Talisker whiskey. He uncorked the neck and poured. “Go ahead, boys, take one.”

  Michel and Henry glanced at each other, then stepped forward and took a glass each.

  Fitz held his up. “To staying alive long enough to see it through. Cheers,” said Fitz, and drank.

  Michel and Henry drank, too, Michel doing like Fitz and downing the whiskey in one long gulp, whereas Henry savored it, licking his lips after each quick sip. Fitz poured himself another.

  “Resume your positions,” Fitz said.

  Henry gulped down the last of his whiskey. He and Michel placed their glasses on the table and stepped back.

  F
itz held up a different piece of paper in his right hand. “Now, then. This is a report from your senior officer on the field, a Sergeant Mendelson. It does not recommend the award of the Victoria Cross. It cites gross insubordination of direct orders and recommends a court martial. As a matter of fact, it appears that he would have you shot.”

  Fitz sighed and drank from his glass. He shook his head.

  “I suppose both reports might be true. Probably are. Insubordinate soldiers are not always cowards. Oftentimes the opposite. And cowards are not always insubordinate. Many dead cowards on the front. Good and decent sorts who just don’t want to fight and so they don’t. They die instead.”

  Fitz shook his head again. He drank.

  “Right. Do either of you deny this insubordination? I take it the report is more or less accurate, that you both ignored Sergeant Mendelson’s orders to wage your own campaign. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Michel. Henry nodded.

  “Good. That’s good. Honesty. But they weren’t Sergeant Mendelson’s orders you disobeyed. They were mine. I suppose you never thought of it that way, did you?”

  Henry looked petrified, his eyes wide and his pupils tiny, whereas Michel remained calm, almost defiantly so.

  “Absolute balls-up, those orders. You were both there, you know better than me. We thought the artillery had smashed through the bloody wire, but it didn’t even come close. By the time updated reports filtered back and we realized there was a bottleneck, too late. Like a game of Chinese whispers. Hopeless,” said Fitz.

  He leaned back and gazed at the roof of the tent as if lost in thought.

  “Some days I wonder if I’m not the one who … No, I suppose the only one who’ll be court-martialing me is God. That’s what the priests say, isn’t it? Judgment not in this life but the next. I’ve no doubt His justice will be fair, and it will be eternal. One gets what one deserves. We all do, eventually. I believe that.”

  Fitz poured more whiskey. He focused on the glass and drank. He looked up with tired eyes that seemed at once angry and sad. He smiled now, but without happiness. He glanced at Michel and Henry in turn.

  “You’ve done enough. Both of you, for a while, at least. Here. Take the rest of this bottle. I don’t need it. Get rid of it down your throats. For what it’s worth, I’m granting each of you a week’s leave. It wouldn’t be right sending men who saved lives straight back into the fray. Not to play the shameful odds out there. A week’s leave, then all of us will get on with it, finish this thing.

  “And next time, try to follow Sergeant Mendelson’s orders. They’re my bloody orders, after all. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. Go on, take it,” said Fitz, holding out the bottle, “and make yourselves scarce.”

  4

  The two soldiers burst from the tent. Henry slapped Michel on the back.

  “Can you believe it? Can you believe it?” said Henry.

  “Truly, I cannot. I think Fitz is on the verge of cracking up. Have you ever heard a commanding officer admit a mistake? And did you see him? Jesus, his eyes. His face …”

  “Michel, who bloomin’ cares? A week! A week’s leave! And this whiskey—the good stuff. Blimey, what’ll we do? Gotta get away from this rathole, at any rate.”

  “Henry, I know just the thing. A week. Yes, a week is perfect. Just the place.”

  “Anywhere sounds good to me, Michel. Anywhere but the front.”

  The camp buzzed with activity as the entire division readied to ship out and advance north, minus Michel and Henry. They were an odd couple: the strapping Frenchman, proud and arrogant and ready to try anything once, and the little Englishman, never so happy as when he had a cup of tea and biscuit and a pair of warm slippers on his feet. But war generated the strangest of friendships that endured through everything but death.

  It had not taken much. When Michel enlisted, Henry had been the only private in the barracks with an empty bed in his bunk. He said hello, offered it to the new chap who, being French, had no place being in the English army, and split a ration pack with him. The rest was shared suffering and bloody-minded loyalty.

  Now, after collecting a few things, Michel and Henry wove between lorries, soldiers, craters and potholes with the insouciance of men whose minds were already elsewhere. They each carried a small rucksack containing a blanket, change of clothes, a few rations, the usual odds and ends, and two half bottles of alcohol.

  “So, Henry, we get a lift to Commercy, thirty miles south. I have it on good authority the Maison des Cartes tavern has plenty of fine ale in their cellar. We drink, then we find some amorous peasant girls, a nice big fat one for you, a whore if need be, and a virginal maiden for moi.”

  “You want a virgin?”

  “No, no. Virginal, Henry. Not a virgin. Very different. But in truth, I prefer a more experienced woman. A woman who knows how to do things. Who has explored the world of love-making and knows what it is she wants and how to get it. Oh yes, the experienced ones are the best. And let us not forget your fat whore. She certainly won’t be a virgin. With luck, she is at least a woman, but I make no promises.”

  Henry knew Michel was mocking him, but he could not help think that a nice big fat whore sounded just fine.

  “So, we drink, we get you laid, we drink some more, then tomorrow we find a ride and head for the Vosges Mountains. I know the area. I spent much time there when I was younger. I promise you, Henry, you’ll like it. A week up there, and you forget all this. What do you say?”

  “You’re the one screwing this horse. I’m just holding the tail,” said Henry.

  A lorry slowly rumbled past. Michel ran up to the driver’s side and gave the door a thump.

  “Ahoy!”

  The lorry rolled to a stop.

  “Where you headed, friend?” said Michel.

  The driver poked his fat head out the side window and replied in an unmistakable Australian drawl: “O-ray-on.”

  Michel assumed the Australian was referring to Oraon, a hub of armaments production a few hours east, located at the foot of the mountains where they were ultimately headed.

  “How about you lot?”

  “Commercy,” said Michel.

  “Time’s wasting. Hop in if you want a lift.”

  Michel and Henry loped around to the passenger side. Before they could argue the point, Michel bundled Henry inside, sandwiching him between the six-foot-four pudgy bloke and Michel’s own considerable bulk. The lorry roared into gear, bumping and grinding its way across what may have once been a road.

  “We appreciate the lift. I’m Michel.”

  “No worries. I’m Ernie.”

  “Henry,” announced Henry.

  “Well, how about a drop of the good stuff, digger?” asked Michel, adopting the lingua franca and pulling a bottle from his bag.

  “That’s a rare sight! Don’t mind if I do, mate.”

  Michel dug an enamel cup from his bag and poured whiskey. “For monsieur.”

  “Lovely, mate.” The big Australian took a gulp. “Ooh, yes. Keep plying me with this stuff and you’re welcome to hitch however far you like.”

  “Thank you, Ernie. But first stop, the tavern in Commercy!”

  “Yes, the pub!” said Henry.

  “That old pub in Commercy, hey boys? Know it well. There day before last. Turned out to be more trouble than it was worth.”

  “How’s that?” asked Henry.

  “It’s a story of injustice. Of the Englishman lording it over his colonial brother. No offense,” said Ernie.

  “None taken,” said Henry.

  “See, I stopped off at the pub to wet the whistle—have a few quieties with the boys—then showed up in good time in this mud- and roach-infested hole, and the prick at the depot cracked it. Reckons I’m pissed. Pissed!

  “Well, maybe I was pissed because I got out of the truck and put the sod in a headlock and ahh, well, anyhow, he didn’t take real kindly. Waylaid my shipment for two days. So now I’ve got to get this lo
ad over to Metz, then I’ve got the real treat. Special shipment in O-ray-on. Explosives. Dynamite.

  “Well, I know all about dynamite. See, if it sweats, it’s all over. Boom goes Ernie. Or if there’s a shell or something explodes nearby, it’s liable to go up in sympathy. Ernie goes boom. That’s why it doesn’t go on the rail—a train’s not expendable, but old Ernie is. Bloody unbelievable. A man has a beer in a French pub and the next thing you know his poor family in Australia gets a telegram saying he’s been blown to four million pieces while sitting in his truck a hundred miles from the front.”

  Michel sucked straight from a bottle of red he retrieved from his bag. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “An injustice, Ernie. A grave injustice.”

  “Too right.” Ernie noticed Henry staring at his fingers. He held them up as he let the truck drive itself. “Count ’em if you like.”

  Henry did, tallying eight fingers. Ernie placed his hands back on the steering wheel.

  “Yeah, that’s why I drive ol’ Mary here, ’cause they don’t trust me to shoot straight. Which is a joke. I could shoot the shit out of a blowfly’s mouth.”

  “How’d it happen? The fingers, I mean. Where’d they go?”

  “Where’d they go?” Ernie repeated, laughing at Henry’s question. “To finger heaven, I reckon. Nah, I blew ’em off with … yep, you guessed it, bloody dynamite. Did it when I was a young fella on the farm. But I used to tell people the old man cut a chunk of finger off each time he caught me choking the chicken. But soon as people get to know me, they realize that couldn’t be true. If it was, I’d have no fingers at all!”

  5

  The swerving lorry jolted to a halt. The door opened and laughter rolled out the door, along with two mirthful dolts. A couple of empty bottles clanked after them.