The Beekeeper's Bullet

by Lance Hawvermale

  Karl clapped and whooped as only a boy could do. His younger sister also seemed pleased, staring at the machines as if they were pages torn from a book and coming to life in front of her. Men had been flying for only a few years. Truda hoped that one day girls could fly, too.

  Josef stepped up beside Ellenor. They watched the planes slow down in the field and form a line facing west, their motors eventually rattling to a stop. One by one the pilots climbed from the cockpits, stepped onto the lower of the wing decks, and leapt to the ground. Incredibly, one of them had a dog.

  Josef said softly, “A gast iz vi regen az er doi’ert tsu lang, vert er a last.”

  Ellenor kept her eyes on the man in the lead, a figure in a white coat. “I’m waiting.”

  “‘A guest is like rain. When he lingers too long, he becomes a nuisance.’”

  Father passed by, a happy child holding either hand, on their way to welcome the new arrivals.

  “I suppose we’ll see,” Ellenor said.

  Josef nodded. “Indeed.”

  ****

  Alec got up from his cot in a windowless shed that smelled of wax and stepped outside.

  Even as he steadied himself in the morning sun, aware of every tiny joint in his body, he admitted the loveliness of this foreign landscape before him. The grasses sweeping down the hillside were deeper green than any he’d seen in Derbyshire. Towering beech trees, generations old, stood like thick sentinels, watching him without judgment. Even the track cut into the hill was lovely, a lazy brown lane leading down from his hiding place to the lustrous valley below.

  War seemed so far away.

  Yet if one mounted a swift motorbike and headed west, in a matter of hours the trees were broken in half by the constant shelling and no grass grew. The zone between the spirals of razor wire—No Man’s Land—was a gray hell of body parts and holes. The men who lived in those rat tunnels were something Alec never wanted to be: the PBI, the Poor Bloody Infantry. They ate shitty stew and slept in mud up to their shins. When their commanding officers forced them to go over the top and charge enemy gun emplacements, half of them were chewed up by incoming fire. The lucky ones got hit by artillery and died instantly. The unluckiest got carried back as a basket case—a living torso and head without arms or legs.

  Alec shivered. He was a flyer, and in comparison to the PBI, he lived the life of a god.

  Yet even gods fell to earth.

  And now, fallen, he had to find his wings. Last night he’d considered venturing to the nearest town and locating the telegraph office. He’d discarded this plan seconds later. Any word to Sarah would alert the Germans of the pending attack, as the telegraph operators at either end would reveal any message that sounded even slightly suspicious. Dozens of French flyers would be met with anti-aircraft fire—the dreaded ack-ack—and never return to their beds. Alec had to get his sister beyond the city of Metz and preferably out of Germany entirely without revealing the raid. And all of this had to happen in the next four days.

  When the planes appeared overhead, Alec wasn’t surprised. Miss Jantz had foretold their arrival. He watched them until they sank too low to be seen, their engines fading. They’d landed somewhere near the chateau where Miss Jantz worked as governess or tutor or whatever the devil she was. His left hand still felt on fire. At least she’d not delivered him to the Huns.

  For lack of a proper plan, Alec started walking.

  Two miles separated him from the house. On a normal day, on level ground, a man on foot could make two miles in only an hour, maybe even less. But Alec was battered; his knee complained with every step, and his spine was akin to an unoiled accordion. So he allotted himself two hours for this slow hike in the German countryside. At least he was moving downhill.

  Mourning doves sounded their soft calls from the nearby trees as if nothing was wrong.

  Alec’s clothing would not reveal him for what he was. He’d left his uniform at the aerodrome in France, not wanting to risk his comrades if he were captured and interrogated. So as he made his way along the wheel-rutted path, he looked precisely like what he was: a man with a bandaged hand, limping slightly, bearing no ill will toward anyone.

  He made it in less than two hours. Keeping to the tree line, he drew as near to the grounds as he dared. Had some observant onlooker seen him skulking about, he wouldn’t have had an excuse for his actions. He looked like a spy. He crouched low in a thicket of wild blueberry bushes and looked upon the future of air conflict.

  The newly introduced Fokker Dr.I had three decks of wings, a triplane capable of flying at least a hundred and eighty miles without refueling. The craft possessed equal parts range and agility. Even the propeller was beautiful, eight and a half feet of layered walnut and birch, polished to a deep shine. Mounted in front of the pilot’s seat was a pair of 7.92-millimeter guns, synchronized to fire through the spinning prop. The plane was menacing and honorable and savage, like a waiting wolf.

  And there were eleven of them.

  “Son of a bitch.” Alec had seen photographs. He’d read the briefs. But only now did he understand why supremacy in the sky was being won by Germany and the Central Powers. In April alone, the Allies had lost two hundred and fifty aircraft compared to the Luftstreitkräfte’s casualties of a mere sixty-six.

  As much as Alec would have loved to fly one of those stunning crates, his mission necessitated the two-seat reconnaissance plane parked between the Fokkers—the Rumpler C.IV. The name was not romantic, but that was Fritz for you; the Germans made every word sound like a fist hitting meat. With a wingspan of over forty feet but an overall length of less than thirty, the bird looked dreadfully front-heavy, but Alec knew otherwise. He’d studied enough German planes to know that the Rumpler’s water-cooled Mercedes engine could lift it to an elevation of over twenty thousand feet. It featured two machine guns, one facing forward and the other ring-mounted for the gunner in the back.

  It also carried two hundred pounds of bombs.

  Alec intended to steal it.

  Chapter Seven

  Men in hiding needed to eat. Ellenor packed an oilskin bag with rye bread and sausages, sauerkraut, and of course a jar of honey. Part of her said, Let him starve up there. Another part said, He is not in need of saving. And a third, more reckless part said, Could be worse: at least he’s not ugly.

  With a slight smirk, she filled a canteen with well water.

  “Am I interrupting?”

  She turned too quickly, sending the bread knife flying. It struck the kitchen floor and slid under the heavy butcher’s block.

  “I apologize for startling you, madam,” Captain Voss said, hurrying in to retrieve the knife. “Please forgive my intrusion.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. Of course. It’s fine.”

  “I’m an ogre.”

  “Not at all.”

  He held out the knife, handle first. “All the same, I’m sorry.”

  She assured him with a nod. Gustov Voss was not yet thirty years old but was known as the Grizzled by the men who served him, though he was smoothly shaven and without a single strand of gray in his close-cropped hair. He wore a light woolen sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, revealing pronounced forearms and a wristwatch; Ellenor had read about the recent trend of wearing small clocks on bracelets, but other than a photograph in the newspaper, she’d never seen one in use.

  “My name is Voss,” he said. “Would you…like your knife back?”

  “Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She accepted the silly thing and felt a fool.

  “Headed out for a picnic?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  He smiled. “Let me start over. This never happened. I never spooked you. You never lost your knife.” He spun a complete circle on the heel of his black riding boots. “Hello, my name is Gustov Voss, fine kitchen you have here, and you are…?” He extended his hand.

  Ellenor allowed a bit of the tension to leave her body. There was no peril here. “I am Ellenor Jantz. A pleasure to meet you
, Mr. Voss.”

  They shook. “The pleasure is mine. Now then, I do hate to trespass, but I was wondering where a fellow could get his hands on a bottle of spirits.”

  “Alcohol?”

  “Yes, it’s a matter of preserving the supply, really, because if my men find it before I do, they’ll deplete the inventory entirely. Believe me. I’ve seen them soak up the stain from a bar with a rag just to wring the last drip onto their tongues.”

  Ellenor permitted herself a partial smile. “Then for all our sakes, I should show you to the wine cellar.”

  “Does this wine cellar have a lock and key?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the better. Lead on.”

  Nine limestone steps descended into the catacombs below the house, where the world smelled of roots and rain. Jars of preserved vegetables sat heavily on bent pine shelves that were no longer reliably capable of supporting the load. Another cave-like room held oaken barrels of ale—most of it brewed by Father—and a modest wine collection that had dwindled since 1914 when hostilities cut off the supply of all French vintages.

  “These are Italian and Spanish wines, mostly,” Ellenor explained as Voss tilted his head to examine the bottles with an oil lamp. “Corvina, Vermentino, an Amontillado—”

  “Like the story?”

  “Story?”

  “By that writer Poe, the American.”

  The American. Ellenor’s German was nearly flawless, and she only now realized that Captain Gustov Voss had no idea she wasn’t a native-born Fräulein herself. “I’m not familiar with that story. He wrote the poem about the raven?”

  Voss inspected the next shelf. “He did. I won’t embarrass myself by reciting it to you.”

  Ellenor watched him as he prowled the inventory. Even out of uniform, he looked like a military officer. He moved like one.

  “Ah, the true treasures, at last.” He’d located the crates of vodka. “I hear the Russian flyers are not particularly talented, but I do share their love of drink. May I?”

  “It’s not mine to give.”

  “I’ll pay for it. You will not find us to be ungrateful boarders.”

  “I’m sure Father wouldn’t accept any payment for his hospitality.”

  “Yes, he strikes me as one of the last of the true patriots.” Voss hefted a bottle of the clear liquid. “And you?”

  “You’re asking if I’m a patriot, or if I drink vodka?”

  A new thought seemed to occur to him. “Are you his daughter?”

  “I’m his employee. I teach his children.”

  “And everyone calls him Father?”

  “We do.”

  “I see. Then I will do the same.” He smiled and motioned upstairs. “Shall we?”

  Once back in the kitchen, Voss plied her with more questions, asking about the crops, the horseflesh, the frequency of news from Berlin. In a matter of minutes she learned much about him in return. His father had taught him chess but he hated it. His mother had taught him Mozart but he preferred American ragtime. He knew how to hunt and how to box but also how to mend his own socks. “Perhaps I was a tailor in a past life,” he mused.

  “A past life?”

  “The Buddhists believe one is reincarnated upon death. Would you agree?”

  “I was told that heaven waits, after we die.”

  “The tone of your voice tells me you have your doubts.”

  She crossed her arms. “Mr. Voss, have you questioned everyone in the house in this manner? Or have I been selected because I know the location of the wine cellar key?”

  He held up a hand in apology. “Forgive me, madam. I’ve spent the last two weeks cloistered with the same dozen men, listening to the same conversations and playing in the same endless card games. Frankly, the jokes were getting a bit old. I’m quite happy to be here.”

  “We’re happy to host you.”

  Voss bid her farewell and took his leave, tossing the vodka bottle from one hand to the other without apparent concern for dropping it. He whistled “The Entertainer” as he went.

  Ellenor looked down and realized she was still holding the knife.

  ****

  Alec removed his shirt and examined himself in the summer sun.

  Upon hiking back up the hill to the shed, he’d slept without dreaming. When he woke, he felt better but didn’t trust the feeling; only a physical inspection would finally convince him that he’d been driven to the ground by enemy fire and had managed to survive. There was talk among the leadership in the Royal Flying Corps that certain flyers should begin experimenting with the safety devices sometimes employed by dirigible operators—parachutes. But those billowing sheets with their ropes and strings were just as likely to strangle you as save your life.

  “Hello there,” he said to a nebula of bruises along his side. His ribs weren’t cracked, and over the course of the last few hours, the pain had subsided to a governable level. Alec had always been fit, his torso tight with muscle, but that muscle had done him no favors. A fat man had more padding against a fall.

  That made him grin. He needed more porridge and cream, to be sure.

  He tested his arms by making big arcs in the air. His shoulders moved in their sockets without complaint. His left hand remained mostly unusable. How long would it take a hole like that to heal? He rolled his neck deliberately, enjoying the crackling sensation; it was the sound of still being alive.

  The truck chugged up the hill.

  Alec located his shirt. He’d rinsed it out in a ceramic basin after giving it a few passes with a cake of lye. He’d brought along a spare set of clothing from his footlocker at the aerodrome, along with a few other small items, but all of that was in his rucksack, which had likely burned in the crash.

  He pulled on his shirt and buttoned it one-handed.

  He intended to wait until nightfall, advance quietly down the hill, and attempt to reach the Rumpler unseen. He would seize the Germans’ plane from them while they slept only a few yards away, then fly that fat bird to Metz, land outside the city, and locate Sarah before the French filled the sky with their Breguet bombers and lethal Spad fighter escorts. Together he and his sister would get back safely across the line. Sarah was as obstinate a woman as God had ever made, but she always listened to her twin brother when there was serious business about. She trusted him as she trusted no other. Had Jesus Christ appeared before them and asked her to stand beside Him, she would have first asked Alec if she should, just to make sure. She might protest when Alec explained what was happening, but she’d damn sure get in that stolen plane if the alternative was being caught in the flames. Nowhere in Metz would be safe that night.

  Miss Jantz’s truck drew closer.

  Alec faced only one problem with his plan: aircraft required two personnel to fire the engine, one to work the ignition process in the cockpit and the other to give the prop a spin. Usually that task fell to the officer’s mechanic or personal valet, commonly known as his batman, named after the pack-saddles or bats of the old cavalry days. Working as a team, pilot and batman put the crate into the air.

  He might be able to button his shirt with one hand, but he could not start that plane alone.

  The truck stopped noisily, barking out one last snort before quieting. He watched Miss Jantz open her door and climb out, her hair in a single braid down her back, her beekeeper’s trousers tucked into her boots. She fetched a pith helmet from the seat and slammed the door.

  “Desperate times, old chap,” he said to himself.

  She approached him, stopped, stared, and then said, “You owe me, Mr. Corbin-Dawes.”

  It wasn’t what he’d expected from her. He nodded twice. “True enough. I might have died if not for you. I’ll give you a pardon for the gunshot wound if you promise to please stop calling me mister.”

  “What should I call you, then?”

  “My mother named me Alec.”

  “I don’t believe I know you well enough.”

  “I’m easy to get to kno
w. Even Americans like me.” He tried a smile; he had to keep her on his side if he were to convince her of what needed to be done. “Granted, I’ve met only a few Colonials in my time, but I’ve heard nothing but good things about New York.”

  “I’ve never been to New York. I’m from New Mexico. We’re not very fond of easterners.” She held out the helmet, around which was wrapped a light fabric veil. “Come on. You can help me find the queen.”

  Alec wasn’t entirely sure what she meant by either easterners or the queen, but he fell into line half a pace behind her, obedient and curious and biding his time.

  “I brought food,” she said.

  “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s not much. How long are you planning on staying?”

  “Ah. Well. There’s the rub, as Shakespeare would say.”

  “Meaning what?” She glanced back at him. “Are your friends out looking for you?”

  “Hardly. As it turns out, I’m rather alone.”

  “How will you make it back across the Front?”

  He shrugged. His plan was outrageous. “I’ll think of something.”

  She opened the shed where he’d slept and brought out a collection of tools. She arrayed these items on the ground. “The hives are just over that rise, between those pines. There are two colonies left. We’re going to open the brood chambers and inspect the queen’s progress.”

  “You’re talking about the queen bee.”

  “Of course. I lost two colonies. I need to ensure that these two are still healthy. They’re all I’ve got left, and I want to check inside, see what’s going on, make sure the queen is laying properly. But the boxes can be quite heavy.”

  “So I’m you’re hired muscle.”

  “Not hired. I don’t pay.”

  “Excellent. I’ve a long history of working miserable hours for inadequate pay. I’m in the military, after all.”

  That almost made her smile, but not quite. “We’ll need to light the smoker first. Do you have matches?”

  “I’m afraid they burned up with my cigarettes and the rest of my kit, back at the crash. I had food there, spare clothing, and a Webley revolver my captain gave to me the day I left for France.”