No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  “K–k–k–k–k–k, and France wipes out the entire German football team! Too bad they were useless anyway. Ffffffff—and there goes the ball, no air left. Oh, hold on, that’s right, the ball’s made of rags, must have been dead German farting. Dead German Farting also name of famous German football player.”

  Leroy liked playing this game. It took his mind off things, occupied his thoughts. He brought his aim up. In the distance he saw what he was after.

  “Spots Target. Unsuspecting. Target casually going about Target’s business, doesn’t seem to know there’s any danger. Unbelievable. Right in the middle of the vegetable garden. The audacity. The daring. Oh, no, no, Target suddenly makes for escape. Now Target flying through air, sniper Danger D Danger equal to challenge, opens up—k–k–k–k–k–k—misses, sniper throws grenade and poof! Got him! Another brilliant effort from the sniper who is made into a two-star general.”

  Releasing his aim from the guinea fowl, Leroy swung the barrel all the way around to the left, stopping at the base of the watchtower in the opposite north-east wing. He moved his sights up the tower to the platform.

  “General checks on subordinates and … finds old man Yves sleeping. Or is he dead? Can’t tell. In fact, may just be an Yves scarecrow in tower. Scarecrow a fine soldier, never flags, doesn’t gossip like woman, eats little, sworn enemy of German birds. General Danger D Danger promotes scarecrow to lieutenant.”

  The barrel of the machinegun followed the watchtower ladder back down to the ground and started across to the right. Leroy stopped at a stationary figure. The man seemed to be looking straight at him.

  Leroy stood up and looked back at the German, who continued to stare. Leroy let go of the machinegun. The barrel slumped toward the ground.

  “Freak,” muttered Leroy and looked away.

  He did not feel like playing his game anymore. He did not feel like anything. He just wanted to go home and sulk and pretend the war did not even exist. The war that was only one hundred miles to the north in the Lorraine where sporadic bursts of activity left tens of thousands dead, all for the benefit of a few miles gained. The same war that was barely thirty miles to the east where the front had been at a stalemate for years.

  But Leroy could not forget. Maybe if he had never enlisted and abandoned the farm to be run by his Mom and kid brother—then he could forget. But he had and now he was stuck babysitting Germans, so that every day became a reminder that there was an appalling, magnificent war that would be remembered forever.

  And he was not in it, because he was not a soldier, because he was unfit. His enlistment forms said as much, stamped with the dreaded 2-R for restricted service.

  9

  Michel looked out across the canopy of a small orchard and tried to take every bit of it in: how the morning sun shattered into tiny prisms of light where it collided with water vapor, how little eddies rumpled some leaves and not others as fine trails of air rose and cooled and fell in a never-ending cycle, how tiny insects appeared for the briefest moments when their wings and bodies were caught just so by the rays of sunshine.

  He plucked a Lady William from one of the many apple trees, though most were fallow before coming into their summer crop. The apple’s waxy skin felt cold to the touch. He sunk his teeth into the flesh. The tang of cider cut through the chalkiness in his mouth that lingered from the night’s drinking. A dribble of juice ran down his stubbled chin. He wiped it away with the back of his fist, then sucked his hand clean.

  What a superb day to be alive, thought Michel.

  He walked across a narrow road, gravel and white rock crunching underfoot. He passed into the shade of the barn and felt the temperature drop sharply. Michel looked across at the crumpled figure of Henry, at his body twisted in a heap like an orange squeezed dry. The thick blanket he had draped over him during the night was pulled up at the side, exposing a cold white English ass.

  Michel smiled. He was pleased for Henry and amused by his antics from the night before. But the day would soon be away from them. Michel was eager to get going. He strolled across to where Henry snored contentedly and nudged him with his foot.

  “Henry.” He waited. “Henry,” Michel repeated, and gave a few more nudges.

  The snoring skipped a beat and continued. Not one to coddle where intemperance would suffice, Michel bent down and in one jerk ripped the blanket from Henry’s body. “Wakey wakey,” Michel said.

  Henry woke in apparent confusion. A single eye opened and his face contorted into a typically hideous morning greeting. “Ngahh,” he slopped, clumsily licking his lips and swallowing.

  “You live?”

  “What … yeah,” he mumbled, turning onto his back.

  “Come on. Day is upon us. There is much to do and far to go.”

  As if a light had gone off in his head, Henry pushed himself up on his arms and looked around—left, right—before noticing his nakedness. He cupped one hand over his manhood as a look of uncertainty swept his face.

  Michel laughed. He had wondered how long it would take Henry to realize his mistress had fled during the night.

  “You have lost something, Henry?” Michel chuckled.

  “Th … wh … Where did she go?” Henry asked, as he started retrieving his strewn clothes.

  “Oh, you mean the girl. You don’t know, Henry? She woke sober in the middle of the night and realized what she had done, and who she had done it with. Oh, the screaming! Ran naked into the hills. That’s right, isn’t it Ernie?” Michel said in the direction of the slumbering giant in the corner. He did not move. “See, Ernie saw it too.”

  It took Henry a moment to realize Michel was jesting.

  “Very bloody funny. You … you’re just jealous because I’m the only one who got a bird last night,” Henry said. The sound of his own voice sent dull waves of pain through his head.

  “Perhaps, Henry. Perhaps.”

  “Why don’t you wake that maniac up if you’re so bloomin’ chipper?” Henry said, gesturing toward Ernie as he finally kicked his legs through his strides and dragged himself upright.

  Michel chuckled. “Are you mad? Didn’t you see what that man did to the Maison des Cartes yesterday? No, thank you. Sleep, gentle giant, sleep.”

  Another light seemed to go off in Henry’s head. “Bloody hell … The pub. We just about demolished that place. You. You just about demolished that place,” he said accusingly.

  “Henry, do not worry. While you were chatting with the girls, I took care of everything with the owner. He’s the one who invited us to sleep in his barn, so we are good friends.”

  “Oh. Well, good.”

  Henry reached for his shirt. The cold morning air bit at his itchy skin, speckled with red from sleeping on hay. He pulled the shirt on and managed to lodge his head halfway up a sleeve.

  Michel tended a small fire. He had retrieved their bags from Ernie’s lorry, parked just a few yards past the barn. His army-issue mess tin, filled with water, was on the heat. The water hit the boil and Michel placed the tin on the damp grass, to a watery hiss. He threw in a small handful of tea leaves and let them steep.

  By the time Henry returned from pilfering some apples, a cup of tea was waiting. Ernie, too, had finally come to life and happily received a steaming brew that Michel took to him.

  “Good on you mate, thanks,” said Ernie, carefully taking the hot cup.

  “No worries, mate,” replied Michel in imitation of the Australian accent.

  Ernie looked at him stony-eyed before taking a chary slurp from his hot tea. Then he gingerly hoisted himself to his feet with the help of the wall. He put his cup on a ledge, stretched his arms wide, opened his big chest and let out a roaring yawn of greeting to the world. It hit Henry like a forty pounder as he sat by the little fire. A wave of pain washed over his pickled brain.

  “Well, fellas, that was a bit of fun last night, wasn’t it? Good night, good night …” Ernie trailed off.

  “I’m not sure that fellow stuck in the window
would agree, Ernie, but for my part, certainly. A memorable night. It is good to drink with a man who takes to life, and his lorry, with gusto,” said Michel, chuckling, his head flooding with memories of Ernie retrieving his beloved lorry in the middle of the night, then dry-humping her to cries of, “Look, boys, I got a sheila, too! I got one, too!”

  “You are a good sport, Ernie,” said Michel.

  “How about this fella,” Ernie said, bending a thumb Henry’s way. “The racehorse! Up that bird like a goanna up a tree. Top show, though,” he said, shaking his head in hearty approval.

  Henry just sat there. The throbbing in his head could not erase the satisfaction he felt, writ large as a dopey smile on his face. He had spent the night with a fine lass, and what made it even better was that she was a girl from Kent who had promised to look him up after the war.

  Moments passed with no more noise than the crackle of fire and the sweet chatter of birds in the apple trees. It did not last. The men heard a convoy of throaty diesel engines jarring and crunching their way along the main road, fifty yards yonder. One of the trucks turned into the access-way beside the Maison des Cartes. It weaved along the track as branches from the apple trees dragged along its canvas sides. It ground to a halt and the door opened.

  “Chuck!” said Michel, at sight of the driver.

  “Morning boys,” said Chuck, a broad smile crossing his ugly mug.

  Michel stepped forward and thrust his hand out. “It’s good to see you made it back to camp alive, my friend.”

  “I’m like a homing pigeon, Mich, never fail.”

  “Good, good. But Chuck, you must call me Michel. ‘Mich’ is too strange for my ear. It is very like the word for ass in French. ‘Mick’ like Ernie says is ok, too. Or just plain ‘asshole’, if you want,” said Michel, smiling.

  Chuck laughed. “Sure thing. Michel it is. So how’d you dogs end up last night, eh? Old Henry here looked like he was in with at least one of those birds when I stumbled off. So how’d you go, Henry?”

  Patently embarrassed by the attention, Henry took a breath to supply his response. He was beaten to the punch by Ernie.

  “Mate, he didn’t just give that big-titted sheila one. She swallowed him whole, then spit ’im out, then swallowed ’im whole again.”

  Chuck laughed.

  “And how about your lads, Chuck?” said Michel. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

  “What’s a few bruised ribs and cut lips between allies, Michel? No, we’re good. Though Harp’s hand is pretty red and swollen. He’s feeling right sorry for himself this morning.”

  “No more pruning the filth tree?” chuckled Ernie.

  Chuck smiled. “Exactly. But it was a great night. Boys ’ll be talking about it for weeks.”

  “A Frog, an Aussie, a Canuck and a Pom walk into a bar …” said Michel.

  Chuck laughed. “Right. But by the time you hear the story again, it’ll be about the lashing our boys gave yours.”

  “Of course. Ah, by the way, it seems I cheated you,” Michel said and started rummaging through his knapsack. “Here. Harp won these fair and square.”

  Michel handed over the pack of cards with which all the trouble had begun.

  “You’re a good man!”

  “Bye, ladies,” said Henry to the cards.

  “Jesus Christ, let’s have a look at them,” said Ernie, relieving Chuck of the pack.

  “They’re a bit worse off. I think the deck’s missing a joker. Not so bad, considering,” said Michel.

  Chuck reached into his jacket pocket. “You mean this one?”

  “Putain!” Michel laughed. “Should I check to see if my wallet is still here?”

  “Couldn’t help myself, Michel. You know how it is out here.”

  “Of course. And I have something else.” Michel dipped back into his bag and retrieved a bottle of whiskey purchased from the tavern the night before. “Here, tell your friends no hard feelings, ok?”

  “You’re a champion, Michel. Trust me, all is forgiven.” Chuck unscrewed the lid on the whiskey and took a sip. “That’s the stuff. Well, boys, I can’t stay to screw the dog. We’re rolling out this morning. Whole squadron. I gotta get back on the tail end of that convoy before I’m missed. But I could hardly leave without my own parting gift.”

  Chuck retrieved his cards from Ernie then walked around the side of his truck. Michel and Ernie followed, and eventually Henry, too—curiosity besting his hangover. Chuck unhooked the straps holding the tarp over the truck’s frame, lowered the back tray and flung the canopy open, revealing a motorbike and sidecar.

  “Whaddya think?”

  “Magnifique,” said Michel in a hushed voice. “Ours?”

  “Yep. Sure is.”

  Chuck jumped up and started wheeling the machine back.

  “I greased some palms in Supply, so it won’t be missed. It’s no Indian, but it hasn’t had the biscuit yet. Should get you up the mountains. Just been sitting idle after we took it off a Kraut who made a wrong turn. Better someone gets some joy.”

  “Chuck, I had not the slightest doubt in you! It is superb.”

  “Here,” said Chuck to Ernie, “slide the gantry so we can wheel her out.”

  When the machine was on the ground, Chuck said, “She’s got a full tank, and I managed to scrounge up a spare jerrycan.” He dragged the canvas back over the truck’s frame. “You’d want to be careful if you’re heading to the mountains, though. Word is it’s almost impossible to get any gas now, especially away from the front. Rationing of oil and gas is really kicking in.” Chuck shook his head. “Way things are going, I reckon I might have been more use staying home. I used to work the oil rigs. Besides, I’m a shithouse shot with a rifle.”

  “The rationing is that bad? Or your shooting is that bad?” said Michel with a smile.

  “Yep, that bad. Both of ’em.”

  “Well, we will find a way to get there. And if we can’t get back, maybe we will just have to stay.”

  “I like the sound of that, Michel,” said Chuck. “Right, sorry to cut it short, but I’ve got to roll.”

  “Of course. Thank you, Chuck, you are a good friend. And as promised,” said Michel, retrieving a wad of notes from his pocket and slapping them in Chuck’s hand.

  Michel always seemed to have more cash on hand than other soldiers, certainly more than the paltry wages they earned. And where many of his British comrades were thrifty, Michel was always generous, seemingly unconcerned by the trivial detail of what something cost. He never did say where he got the extra money from.

  Chuck looked at the notes, a fair wad. Michel shot him a nod and wink, and Chuck took it for what it was.

  “Been a pleasure,” said Chuck.

  He shook hands with each man then jumped into his truck and wound the window down.

  “Good luck to you and the boys in Rinay,” said Michel. “Perhaps we’ll see you in camp when we get back.”

  “Thanks, Michel. But we’re not joining you at Rinay. Now that St Mihiel’s opened up, they’re throwing us into a new front west of the Lorraine. I forget the name, but apparently the fighting’s been bogged down for months. Maybe longer. With any luck, we’ll be able to break the deadlock.”

  A moment ticked by as they all thought through the geography.

  “You mean a new front in Verdun?” asked Ernie.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Our boys ’ll be givin’ it what for, see if we can’t make some headway.”

  The name of Verdun held special significance for Ernie. In a single day, six thousand Australians had been slaughtered there, fighting over a tiny patch of ground that, as best as any soldier could tell, was no different to all the other dirt across the Western Front. The Australian Second Division had very nearly been wiped out. Ernie’s two younger brothers had been part of it. They were killed on the same day.

  Now, 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 c
arried 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 dikes, 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 mayhem, 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.