Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  That was all she had told him. Everything leading up to his being on her farm was a mystery to Axe, and a blank in his own mind.

  Michel’s last memory was from the morning before. He had been in camp at Kemmel in Belgian Flanders, cleaning his equipment in preparation to move to the front with the rest of the boys, when he and Henry received orders to report to Major-General Fitzgerald in an hour’s time. The corporal—a decent bloke who offered a cigarette—had not said what it was about, and it was a private’s lot to never expect a reason or explanation for anything.

  Michel had smoked the cigarette for no better reason than it was offered and he was bored, then the absolute last thing he remembered was saying something to Henry about the state of his boots … how a soldier who did not care for his boots did not care for his feet, and a soldier who did not care for his feet soon ended up with trench foot. That was it—he had joked that Henry’s swollen feet would eventually become one giant foot. He would become a sciapod!

  Henry had grown used to Michel ribbing him, but he seemed to find it especially annoying when Michel did it with words and ideas that Henry did not understand, showing off a fancy French education of which Michel had never given a full accounting. For his part, Michel was content to let Henry and the rest of the world besides think as little of him as possible. To take him as being supremely and sublimely common—just a destitute orphan sent to a boarding house—and not the bastard son of someone important.

  So Henry had said what the bloody hell is that, you pompous tit? Making rubbish up again from that dictionary you carry around up your bum?

  Michel told him that sciapods were single-footed monsters. A type of deformed not-quite-human, similar to Englishmen, that the ancient Greeks wrote about. The sciapods hopped around on one leg like yahoos, and when it got sunny they used their enormous foot for shade. If ever there was a clear day on the front again, might Henry lend him his foot?

  That was the last thing Michel remembered. It seemed obvious enough what happened after. Their advance to the front had been expedited, like it so often was.

  Don’t worry, chaps, you’ll get a day’s extra leave in the future, just as soon as we take this very important patch of swamp. Tally-ho, Jerry’s waiting. It’s been hours since he cut down the last company and you know how irritable he gets when he hasn’t done any killing for a while.

  So they had no doubt been hastily sent into the fray in some poorly planned and executed battle that obviously went to pieces, and Michel had been trapped behind enemy lines. That itself was not so hard to fathom. There were thousands of Allied soldiers in German P.O.W. camps and many more in unmarked graves for no better reason than they had become lost while wading through what looked like and smelled like an ocean of shit.

  Thanks to unrelenting rains, poor drainage, destroyed canals, millions of boot-falls, millions of horse hooves and almost as many artillery shells, the Belgian front had become an unbroken black swamp comprising thousands of acres of mud. Veterans of the war thought it had been bad in the Lorraine and the Somme, but at least in those theaters a soldier’s main worry was getting his head blown off. In Belgium it was an all too common occurrence for a wounded man to take a wrong step off a duckboard and disappear in the black cream cheese that was apparently land. When there was no mate there to haul him out, he was swallowed up for good.

  Michel wondered what the officers told families when they knew that a son or husband had not died in battle, but had drowned in the mud. What mother deserved to hear that? What mother could bear it? Percy had taught Michel the value of hard truths, but surely in that circumstance it would be better to lie. To tell the family their son, brother or husband died defeating those murderous German bastards.

  Stomped through the mud, marched right up to Jerry’s face and popped him one. Eventually cut down in full, magnificent flight. Bloody hero.

  Bloody fool, more like it.

  Michel thought highly of his navigational skills, so it hurt his pride to know he was no better than anyone else when it came to finding his way on a featureless front. He must have become disoriented. There were a dozen ways for it to happen. A dense fog, a German barrage, an Allied artillery shower that hit too early or too late, another misguided and bloody-headed order from Sergeant Mendelson or his superiors, or just the ever-present confusion of battle.

  Whatever canals, trenches and craters he had crawled along and swum through were no doubt lined with dead bodies of all nationalities. Then he must have met Jerry and his mate and they fought for their lives. They beat the shit out of him—nearly killed him—but he had gone one better and finished the job. Then he curled up for a nap in the mud, and that is where he was found, miles from the front.

  Objectively, Michel knew it was a miserable and ruddy situation. He was a badly wounded soldier trapped behind enemy lines in territory saturated with Germans. Another series of major battles was scheduled to begin any day now, and there was every chance that he and Axe would find themselves caught in the middle.

  But there was an upside, too. The Grim Reaper had paid another visit—he and Michel were old friends. And like all the other times, he had been content with Michel’s offering, taking some other soul with him on the journey back to hell. There was no doubt at all in Michel’s mind that, purely as a matter of odds, he should have been dead and burning in hellfire at that very moment.

  So, depending on how one looked at it, he was either one of the unluckiest or luckiest men alive.

  After all, how many soldiers could say that they would be dead if not for a three-legged dog? If not for the pluck and bravery of a little Belgian woman? If not for an old veterinarian whose brand of medicine was to drill a hole in a man’s head?

  If his face was not so blue and swollen, Michel might have smiled.

  14

  Yetzel was precise, punctual and reliable. The sort of person to follow through on his word. They were good qualities in the right man, but in an enemy officer, especially one who could turn cold and malicious in a second, they were things to be wary of.

  Axe had sequestered Michel away in a corner of the barn in anticipation of Yetzel’s promised visit. Well hidden behind a pile of hay, an old cart and other junk, he would only be found if someone went looking for him. There was no way they could know, so there was nothing to worry about.

  Yet Axe did worry. One slip-up, one nervous feign, and they would both be hung.

  About ten in the morning she heard him. When he was in a good mood Yetzel whistled. He was an excellent whistler, producing a powerful and mellifluous sound, and sometimes Axe found herself humming along, remembering the tunes from the music halls of Rotterdam. Then she would catch herself and remember:

  He and his kind killed my family. I will enjoy nothing associated with this man.

  Monster barked and ran off; the whistling stopped. Axe demanded of herself calm. She went to the pen filled with laying hens Godewyn and Esmee had selflessly donated from their own coop, and began checking the nests for eggs. She collected a mix of eight brown and white shells. She would just as soon offer Yetzel all of them and be rid of him for the better part of a week, but by taking three or four at a time he always had reason to pay another visit a few days later.

  He rounded the corner of the barn. She was waiting.

  “Ahh, there she is! Good morning, Axelle. How are you feeling? You look much better today.”

  “Good morning, Yetzel. I am well, thank you. Yesterday was silly. I am fine now. Thank you for asking.”

  Yetzel strolled forward and closed the space between them. He reached out and placed a concerned hand on her forearm. “You are all right? Good, good. I was concerned you might catch pneumonia.”

  “Not at all. I was warm and dry and slept very well. Thank you.”

  Yetzel looked to the outdoor stove sending smoke into the sky. “Your fire is burning. Excellent. Do you have water on the boil?”

  “I think so.”

  “Perfect, because I brough
t you a gift,” said Yetzel, reaching into a satchel strung around his body to retrieve a small paper bag. “Here, ground coffee. From my own ration. I thought you would need it after yesterday. What do you say, should we have a cup?”

  “That is most kind of you, Yetzel. Thank you. Really, you shouldn’t, but thank you.”

  “The best way to thank me is to make a pot and sit down, enjoy it. You work too hard, Axelle.”

  “Of course. Of course I will share a pot of coffee with you. Please, come and sit. There is always time, as you say.”

  “That is not all. I brought something for your nice doggy.”

  Yetzel reached into his satchel and retrieved a package of butcher’s paper. He unwrapped a large bone with patches of red meat still attached.

  “Ah, yes, look, he knows. Monster want the bone? Does Monster want the bone?”

  Monster looked at the bone and then at Yetzel. Coffee could not buy Axe’s loyalty, but a bone or game or even a simple pat might buy Monster’s. The dog made a whimpering sound and licked her chops. Yetzel held the bone out and Monster took it gently.

  “Good doggy. Such a nice doggy!”

  “You are too kind, Yetzel,” said Axe.

  “It would only have gone to waste. And you must stop thanking me. We may be under straightened circumstances, but we are in this together. Belgium, Germany, Lorraine, it’s all part of the greater German Reich now. A community. And a community helps one another.”

  “Yes. Yes, a community helps one another,” parroted Axe, as she thought to herself how Yetzel would never be part of her community. He was no more than a barbarian, an invader. One destined to be either cast out or killed along with the rest of his countrymen when the Allies finally finished off the war. Then she would have her community, one without any Germans.

  Axe made the coffee and sat and drank a cup with Yetzel, while passing polite conversation. She nodded and made mmm and ahh sounds as he held forth about his favorite topic: factory mechanization and reform. He had been in the process of taking over the family dye business before the war, but his father had resisted efforts to modernize, preferring to rely on “the individual touch” and the importance of “art over cold science”.

  “I showed him the sums, you see, because I was very good with sums. I still am. I suppose that is why they made me kommandanturen of the district,” said Yetzel, and smiled unctuously.

  Both he and Axe knew that the real reason he had been made kommandanturen was because he was a war hero. It made for bad propaganda when war heroes were ignominiously killed in the mud like common soldiers.

  “I told father, there is a clear benefit to be gained within three years. A recouping of outlay and after that, with ongoing production costs reduced by a third and output increased by twenty percent, which could become thirty percent with other refinements, it would change everything.”

  “Mmm,” intoned Axe.

  “Our competitors were as slow as us in adopting the new methods and what I realized was that we could snap up every major contract by lowering our prices in line with projected costs of modernization. We would take a loss at first, substantial, not to be dismissed, but we had cash reserves and a line of credit, and without those contracts our competitors would be bankrupted.”

  “Ah-huh.”

  “Then as the new efficiencies started to factor into—”

  “Did you hear that?” said Axe, suddenly cutting Yetzel off.

  He looked up. “Did I hear what?”

  Axe put her cup on the dirt and stood. She turned her head left then right. She looked at Monster, normally such a fine guard dog who alerted her to any unusual presence on the farm. Monster appeared completely absorbed in chewing her bone. Axe heard a distant noise.

  “Damn! It’s that goat. Elmo’s goat is in my vegetable garden again!”

  Axe ran. She rounded the barn and sprinted into the field where she had recently finished laying out a vegetable garden with beans, sprouts, lettuce, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, cauliflower and broccoli. It was fenced, but a fence was no barrier to a wily goat intent on chewing the freshest sprouts in Mesen.

  The grey and brown animal glanced at Axe and went back to ripping green from the ground. Axe threw the gate open and hurtled forward, a stick in her hand. The goat sidestepped, dodging Axe’s blow with the light and deft footwork of a creature used to balancing on precipices and tree limbs, before taking another mouthful of baby green leaves and dodging the next swing.

  “Get out! You rotten, horrible beast! Out!” screamed Axe. She tripped and fell to her knees. The goat looked at her and bleated.

  Meh!

  It moved on to the sprouting runner beans as Yetzel ran to Axe’s side.

  “Are you all right?” said Yetzel.

  “It’s destroying my work! My food for the summer!”

  “Here,” said Yetzel, and took the stick from Axe’s hand. He went for the goat, swinging with big, heavy strokes. He moved quicker than Axe and managed to land a glancing blow on the goat’s rump. It skipped forward and still would not leave the garden.

  “Wretch! I’ll have your hide!” said Yetzel.

  He swung again but the goat was wary, keeping its distance. It ran about the garden with quick hops, always finding enough time to put its head down and take another mouthful. It treated his screamed threats with contempt.

  As he yelled—“Fiend! I’ll thrash you!”—Yetzel’s face flushed an ugly red and a little vein on his forehead throbbed rapidly. He dropped the stick and stampeded through lanes of juvenile plants. He made a mad lunge for the goat and managed to catch its tail. The goat jumped forward, dragging Yetzel. His grip slipped. He sprawled face first into the dirt and mud.

  Yetzel slowly stood. He looked down at himself. His pristine officer’s uniform was unrecognizable. His hand felt for the black leather holster that sat on his belt. He unclipped the flap, drew his Luger pistol and aimed at the goat.

  The animal stood quite still, a look of serene contentment on its face. It was grinding a mouthful of tender young potato plant leaves into pulp, positively staring into Yetzel’s eyes, when the German pulled the trigger.

  The pistol made a neat, sharp pop, followed by an almost simultaneous thud as the bullet hit the goat’s cheek. The animal leapt in the air then sprinted forward, head down, as a fount of blood spurted from the side of its bleating face.

  Meh! Meh!

  Yetzel followed with his aim, firing at the goat’s body, pop pop pop pop. The goat fell, kicking and jerking on the ground. Yetzel stomped across until he was just beyond the kick of the legs. He pulled the trigger twice more, pop pop. The animal’s legs kicked out intermittently as nerves fired, reducing to an occasional shudder.

  The goat was dead. Yetzel turned to Axe. She stood in the corner of the garden, frozen to the spot. She did not know what was coming. She knew he might blame her for this.

  She saw his eyes. The cold fury in them. It was not beyond him to shoot her, too.

  “Whose goat is this?” said Yetzel.

  “The … the goat?” she stammered.

  “Whose goat is this?” he yelled.

  “Elmo’s. It is Elmo’s goat. My neighbor.”

  “Elmo Uffe?”

  “Yes.”

  Yetzel holstered his pistol. He reached down and took one of the goat’s hind legs. He started dragging.

  “Bring that stick,” he said to Axe through gritted teeth.

  15

  Yetzel’s chest was heaving by the time they arrived at the tiny hut next to the collapsed shell of a much larger burned-out house. It was no easy work dragging the dead weight of a mature goat. Yetzel let go of the leg and took a step back so that the pile of mud, fur and horn lay directly in front of him.

  “Uffe! Elmo Uffe!”

  A slow, agonized moment passed.

  “Ja?” came a distant voice.

  “Uffe!” yelled Yetzel, a man not used to waiting. He stood to rigid attention in his muddied uniform.

  Axe
lingered a few yards behind, watching Yetzel’s shoulders move up and down with the rhythm of breath and a controlled Germanic fervor.

  Not a word had passed between them, and not a word did. Axe tried to convince herself the situation was not all bad. Elmo had been conspiring to steal her family’s farm, and seeing as the Germans had assumed authority over the region it would undoubtedly help to have the area’s kommandanturen on her side.

  But till this point she had merely hoped for Yetzel to exercise his discretion in her favor if it ever came to that—coolly, calmly, the way of a disciplined officer. Elmo was a scoundrel and deserved many things, but he was still Belgian and of her own town and community. She would never wish him so much ill as she wished upon the invaders.

  Such thoughts were irrelevant. It was too late to stop whatever had been set in motion. A middle-aged man with a short, quick gait and slightly hunched posture came along a dirt path. He was balding and what little hair he had fell almost to his shoulders. He had clearly not indulged a haircut in a long time. His scalp was dark and spotted from a lifetime in the sun. His clothes were little more than quilted rags. Small eye glasses hanging from a string draped his neck; one of the lenses was cracked through a corner.

  “What is the emergency?” Elmo said in Dutch, his tone one of weary annoyance.

  “Uffe. Yes, I recognize you. You sell those small potatoes in the market.”

  Elmo grabbed for his eyeglasses and rested them on the bridge of his nose.

  “Oh. Captain Dudendorff. I … I did not realize it was you. My apologies, Captain,” said Elmo, switching to German.

  “I trust you see me now?”