No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  He threaded his way through the plants and hid by standing upright next to a mature specimen. Nestled among its leaves, Henry was very, very still. His flaxen hair blended in with the yellowing leaves. The only giveaway was the set of eyes. Most of the tobacco plants did not have eyes, but Henry’s plant did.

  Not more than fifty yards away, a man with a rifle came running down the fence-line within the camp. Henry could not tell whether the man was German or French, or whatever other nationality was floating around in there.

  The man with the gun stopped and turned. He looked, searching for the motorbike that was audible in the distance. He started off again, then stopped. This time he seemed to stare right at the spot where Henry stood, and Henry was quite certain he was staring into the eyes of his killer-to-be.

  The man shook his head and continued. Henry breathed relief, but he knew he had to find a better situation. He considered running for the woods, except there was too much open ground. He dropped to his knees, but there were fewer leaves down low. He crawled further into the crop, and that is when he saw his salvation.

  Henry dragged boards away from what looked like a well. Two feet from the top of the uncovered hole he found the upper rung of a ladder. He wasted no time easing himself over the lip. He found his footing and descended four steps so that just his head and shoulders were above ground. He looked around, thought better of it and descended one more rung. Now it was just his eyes above ground. He thought better of that, too, and descended one more rung. He was hidden.

  The ladder started creaking. Henry dropped another wrung, but it too made sounds, so he descended further and further in search of the perfect, silent wrung. He was halfway down the ladder when the sound of wood straining became the dramatic sound of wood snapping. Like a man stepping from jetty to lake, Henry plunged down, his body remaining vertical as his feet crashed through eight more rungs then finally dug into mud.

  His ass was wet and sore, and he was a few feet buried, but Henry was in one piece. All up, he considered his situation infinitely better than it had been moments earlier when a German with a gun had clearly been thinking about whether or not he should shoot him.

  He heard another rifle shot. He would see about the ladder later, when things quietened down. He figured he could probably shimmy up the poles. Or he might just wait for Michel to find him. Or maybe he would not wait for Michel at all. Maybe he would find his own way back to Commercy where there were neither holes nor motorbikes nor prison camps.

  Henry licked his lips. For no good reason, the black of the dirt walls and the heavy scent of peat—or something like peat—made him think of stout. Better, a nice malty porter. And chips. With gravy. And a publican’s wife, with big boobs to serve it.

  It made him think of home.

  14

  The fleeing prisoner had disappeared by the time Michel was on the move. He gunned the engine and soon the man came into sight.

  The prisoner ran with a limp. When he only had twenty yards on him, Michel slowed. Still the man lurched on. He could hardly hope to outrun a motorbike—but Michel supposed that if he was in the escapee’s shoes, he would forge on, too.

  The prisoner made a beeline for a massive upended tree with dirt still attached to the roots and a trace of green lingering in the leaves. He scrambled over the trunk. Michel braked and went to the left around the base of the giant. It meant he lost sight of the man for a few seconds, but a burst of power slid the bike around and brought Michel to the other side. He veered ahead of the tree, where he figured he would intercept the prisoner.

  He was not there.

  Michel slowed then stopped. He kept the bike idling as he stood on the foot pegs and checked to the east. He did not see the man, nor did he expect to. A limping gimp could not be that quick—inhuman quick. Michel sat down, then accelerated to the fallen tree. He skidded to a stop and hopped off.

  He carefully leaned over the trunk to make sure the prisoner had not been clever and just climbed back over to hide. There was no sign of him. The thought occurred to Michel that the man might have scaled a tree. Unlikely, but Michel cast a quick look, turning a full circle with head craned skyward. He only saw branches and sky.

  Michel dropped the bike into first gear and gunned the throttle. He figured the escapee had turned south—and must have somehow picked up the pace. He gained speed and clicked into second. He raised himself off the bike, half-standing to gain a better view, his legs absorbing the shocks as he rumbled across undulations.

  He was roaring past a big fir when the periphery of his vision caught movement. He barely had time to register it. His head started to turn a little, enough to see a length of wood attached to a set of arms, both moving at pace. At fifteen miles an hour, Michel’s chest met the branch. If he had not been half-standing, it would have been his head.

  The branch snapped in two places. The bike shot forward as Michel levitated in the air, almost balletic in the way he seemed to float.

  He hit the dirt hard. The force of the blow was bad, but now Michel had no air in his lungs thanks to the one–two of wood and earth to chest and back. His body reacted instinctively, pumping the diaphragm, opening the mouth and gasping, but with lungs momentarily depressed Michel just gulped like a stranded fish then wheezed like an old asthmatic.

  Kranz had the shiv in his left hand, the stain of Alder still marking the blade. It was no more than the tip of a steel spoon flattened and sharpened against granite. The throat was the spot the humble stabbing implement was intended for—the soft flesh of the neck, the carotid artery just beneath the surface of the skin. Kranz launched himself with the shiv wedged firm between thumb and index finger, his arm outstretched. He let his whole body drop toward Michel for speed and force.

  If Michel had regained his senses quicker, he could have thrust a boot toward Kranz’s gut, but his assailant was too quick. Michel could only redirect momentum. He thrust his left arm up and across, his open palm slapping into Kranz’s forearm—a quick, neat blow that deflected the shiv.

  The crude blade sheared through Michel’s jumper, cut the flesh of his shoulder and drove into the ground. Michel thrust his right knee up, collecting Kranz’s side. Michel hoped the man’s face would plant into the soil so he could drive at it with his fists. But, having lost control, Kranz simply followed his momentum into a body roll. He was up and on his feet, shiv in hand, while Michel flailed on his back.

  If he intended to make a fight of it, Michel had to get to his feet. His old instructor, Gaston Chevalier, would have been mocking Michel by now. Jabbing at his ribs with a staff, asking him why he was taking a nap when his throat was about to be cut. If he dallied to rise and defend with Monsieur Chevalier, the staff would come down on the back of his neck. A boot in the kidneys might follow and he would be sent sprawling to the ground. Then they would start the “conversation” all over again.

  It never mattered to Monsieur Chevalier how badly Michel or his other charges were hurt. He did not hear cries and he did not notice tears. To spar with him was to submit to a life and death battle. Slow to get up meant you were dead—represented by a blow from the staff to any part of the body that brought misery. Unwilling to attack or finish an attack—dead, another blow. Giving up because your opponent was bigger or stronger—dead. The tears of pain and frustration meant nothing to Monsieur Chevalier, until they meant nothing to Michel.

  So why do you nap now, when a man is about to cut your throat?

  Michel punched down into the ground. His body pushed up and he scrambled upright. He reeled around, arms raised into the defensive position: left elbow tucked into his body and fist resting on his cheek, right fist floating free, half a foot from his face.

  Michel’s eyes bulged from the strain of trying to breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed in an effort to expand his mass and draw in some air. Only a little got through. Michel had to fight the urge to buckle. He knew that if he did it was not a wooden staff that would find his neck.

  Kranz
came at him. His center of gravity was low, his knees bent. He brought the shiv up like he was delivering an uppercut, striking without any great force, yet blinding quick.

  If Michel had reacted to the strike—to the trigger of the fist in motion—it would have been too late. He would have already been bleeding out. But he reacted to posture, not even looking at the man’s arms, watching only his chest. He saw the fighter’s shoulder draw back and drop, an eternity before the arm began moving.

  Michel pushed with the tip of his right foot, raised his left heel and skipped back. The devious little shiv stabbed at air. Kranz was retrieving his hand when Michel’s left arm ripped down, his body jerked almost horizontal backward and his left boot columned into Kranz’s gut. The kick knocked Kranz from his legs and sent him to the ground. His upper body whiplashed back, but rather than stop cold Kranz twisted his torso and flicked his legs, using the force to roll over his shoulder and back to his feet.

  Michel meant to carry his newfound advantage. He skipped forward, right leg cocked like the hammer on a six-shooter with his knee tucked toward his chest, then unleashed. His leg shot forward with all the power of his near-horizontal body behind, a devastating piston-kick directed at Kranz’s head.

  Kranz was still rising from his roll and sprang up just enough to save his head and let the force transfer into his shoulder. He did not brace and stiffen, instead letting the power of the kick throw his body into a spin. Kranz hit the ground and again used momentum to roll into a defensive posture, gaining his feet.

  Michel took his first proper breath of air and considered the fact that the German escapee kept getting up, which is not how he had imagined their dalliance unfolding. The way the German used his body and his opponent’s power was unlike anything Michel had seen. Twenty fists to the face would cure his fancy acrobatics, but the man was obviously trained and would be no easy mark. Michel wondered if it was wrestling or judo or something oriental, something he had never even heard of. Whatever his fighting art, he was good.

  At least the shiv had knocked clear from his hands. Michel thought better of pressing the attack. He stopped, breathed, let the lingering pain where the branch had broken across his chest subside, let the pain from his gashed shoulder enter his consciousness as a reminder that this man was dangerous.

  They had come to rest fifteen feet apart, surrounded by a grove of mighty cedars. Midday sun broke through the foliage, shards of light splintering across the soil. Neither man cast a shadow. The motorbike was thirty yards away, overturned. The wheel on the suspended sidecar was still spinning.

  Michel’s gaze stayed firm on the German’s chest, waiting for the telegraph of movement. Slow seconds passed without either man advancing or retreating. Michel leveled on the German and looked at his face, expecting to see fear, doubt, some kind of weakness. There was none. The German met his gaze and smiled.

  The arrogant buck always bridled just beneath the surface with Michel—fighting the thinking mind to get out, take over, pummel and punish the world for all its cruelty and lies. And it was the buck that rose to the German’s insult, to seeing a limping old prisoner smile and sneer at him. He wanted to destroy the man.

  Michel reached into his pocket and retrieved his folding knife. He snapped the blade into place. He raised the knife in an attacking posture. He wanted the German to see he had it. Now Michel smiled.

  With a subtle flick of his wrist the knife turned over in the air and the blade landed in his grasp. With a sudden rush of movement, Michel sent the knife spinning toward Kranz. The blade passed a few inches above his head. Ten yards beyond, where Michel had aimed, the knife embedded deep in the bark of a cedar.

  Kranz had barely flinched during Michel’s little performance. The whole time his eyes remained locked on Michel. His body held the sort of still that was either maniacal or masterful.

  A flash of humiliation burned through Michel. Anger swelled and overtook everything. He lunged forward, light on his feet. His body angled back, his leg coiled and he lashed out with a boot carrying all the force he could muster.

  Kranz rotated his midriff to the left and his left hand slapped down, fast but not hard. Michel’s boot deflected just a little, enough that it carried into clear day next to Kranz’s chest.

  The way of the savateur was to strike quickly and repetitively, always maintaining balance, always retaining the capacity to recover and launch another attack. So much for that—for everything Monsieur Chevalier had taught him. Michel had anticipated only one eventuality: full, devastating contact. When it did not come he found himself over-committed, body dragged forth by the chassé. It was arrogant and it was dangerous. It was the exact thing his teacher had tried to beat out of him, and now he would learn his lesson.

  Michel’s head followed his body, exposing him to attack. His left arm was still retrieving and his right fist had dropped. He and Kranz were unbearably close, and Michel was out of stance. He had no defense to the snapping fist that tapped his jaw, sharp and quick and dizzying; no rejoinder to the open hand that jabbed into the soft target that was his throat. A fist found his solar plexus and the air in his chest was gone again. He keeled over and Kranz planted a fist on the side of his brow.

  Michel’s legs wanted to give out. He raised his arms to protect himself and staggered backward. His feet tangled. He tripped and spun. Kranz swept Michel’s legs with a short kick. Michel dropped to the ground, immediately pushing himself back up with his arms. Kranz brought his leg up past Michel’s rising face, then plunged the thick of his heel into the back of Michel’s head. The sound was heavy and full.

  Michel’s arms crumpled. His face met the earth first, followed by his body. He did not move.

  15

  One eye was smothered in the dirt, but the other cracked open and saw light. The wooziness and throbbing rushed in with the sun’s rays. The distinctive squeak of wood releasing steel funneled into Michel’s brain, cutting through the nothing-noise that filled his head.

  His knife. Startled and not knowing if his own steel would be his undoing, Michel rolled over and scrambled to his feet. He got halfway up when blood rushed to his head and he crumpled back to the ground.

  “Calm yourself,” called Kranz in perfect French. “Stay down. The fight is over. I shall not kill you. Of course, I could. You know that, don’t you?”

  Michel flipped over onto his haunches. He watched Kranz stroll toward him.

  “Yes, you know it. You know I don’t need this knife to do it.”

  Kranz stopped a few yards away.

  “But thank you for the knife. A fine piece of craftsmanship. I lost mine, so this will make a nice replacement.”

  Kranz held the base of the knife with its wood and steel paneling close to his face.

  “Ahh, an engraving. ‘Michel Poincaré, with love from your father.’ Touching.”

  He snapped the knife shut and pocketed it. Kranz looked down at Michel. His expression was no longer a sneer. His was a genuine smile.

  “I am going to take your motorcycle, too. But it’s not really your motorcycle, is it? The rightful owner is dead, no doubt.”

  Kranz squatted, lowering himself to Michel’s level.

  “Before I go, tell me one thing. Where did you learn to fight?”

  Michel wanted to tell the German to go to hell. He wanted to get up and pummel him. But he did not. Michel’s glowering countenance was a transparent mask to his unbearable humiliation. He answered the question.

  “Gaston Chevalier. He was my instructor.”

  Kranz nodded.

  “I have heard this name. And you would be the knife’s Michel Poincaré?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your President is named Poincaré, is he not? Of course, there must be many Poincarés in France. But not so many with such a knife. Which Poincaré family are you from?”

  “A different one.”

  Kranz smiled. “Yes, I thought so. Are you enlisted, Michel Poincaré?”

  Michel responded in Ger
man. “Of course I am. You think I would let scum invade my country and not fight?”

  “Ah, he speaks the language of Saxon scum!” said Kranz in French and laughed, unperturbed by Michel’s insult. “Aren’t you clever? And what unit are you with? What do you do in this war? You are obviously no cook.”

  Michel switched back to his native tongue. “I … I am with the British Army. Infantry.” He did not know why he was telling him the truth.

  “Interesting. And why is a Frenchman with the British Army?”

  “I …” Michel tried to remember his story, the one he always gave, something about wrong place, wrong time, but it had been knocked clean out of his head. “I …”

  “It is all right, Michel Poincaré. We all have our secrets. You can tell me another day. For now, I must go. I am an escaped prisoner, after all.” Kranz pushed off his knees and stood tall. “It has been a pleasure to meet on the field in an honest, old-fashioned fight. So much better than this war with its grandiose weapons. So impersonal. It takes the meaning out of it, and the fun. It was an honor to fight with you, Michel Poincaré. Chevalier taught you well. Not well enough, but well.”

  Michel could not bear to look at Kranz. The humiliation and dishonor were all-consuming.

  “Come on, get up,” said Kranz.

  It was delivered without rancor, but there was no mistaking the order. Michel did as told. His vision was a little blurry and his head felt like it was being squeezed into a thimble. Nevertheless, he started to feel some of his strength return. His hands balled into fists. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to continue the fight.

  But he did nothing. To lash out now was weak. It would be akin to fighting a man with his back turned. The German had accepted Michel’s defeat, had granted him clemency, and now Michel had to deal with it. So they pretended like neither man had just tried to kill the other.