“And what sort of damage do you expect the mines to do, sir?” said Higgins.
Fitz looked at the journalist with the full force of his infamous gaze, the gaze of a bulldog about to eat a kitten.
“What do you think? It will rip them to pieces, the ones there’s something left of. How long have you been doing this—reporting from the front?”
“Eighteen months, sir.”
“Then you ought to know that men disappear all the time. And by disappear, I do not mean abscond, deserting their posts. I mean a shell lands in their lap or a mine goes up and they’re dirt. Nothing left of them to put in a grave or send home. Those mines out there, under the German trenches, they’re bigger than anything we’ve ever detonated. Men are going to disappear. Become dirt. Is that what you want to know? What a damned question to ask.”
“All right, Fitz, very good.” Haig turned to the journalists. “I think what he meant to say, is that … well, gentlemen, we may not make history tomorrow, but we shall certainly change the geography.”
The journalists furiously scribbled down Haig’s words, undoubtedly a much finer quote—and much more printable—than Fitz’s declaration that men disappear and become dirt.
“As I say, Major-General Fitzgerald doesn’t have time to dally. That’ll be all from him,” said General Haig. He led Fitz away.
When out of hearing of the journalists, Haig said, “What the Christ was that, Fitz? It’s not just a war of bullets, man, it’s a war of words. We must keep morale high at home. It’s utterly essential.”
“I know. I’m sorry, sir. Feeling the pinch a little. Should I have a word with them?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“Right. Anyhow, sir, seems you’ve got it under control. Those journalists are eating out of the palm of your hand.”
General Haig looked across the room. “They bloody well are, aren’t they?”
Haig glanced back at Fitz. “Regardless of what I said to them, it is, you know. At 3:10 in the morning, one way or another, it’s going down in history. A year digging these tunnels—it’s unheard of. What battle has ever been planned with such precision? Let’s just hope it does go to plan and for the sake of the boys doesn’t become another historic cock-up.”
“Not this one, sir. Not this time. You have my word.”
“All right, Fitz, you’d best get to your cot and catch an hour or two of sleep. Long night tonight; long day tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that, sir. Evening.”
“Evening, Fitz. And good luck.”
“Good luck to you too, sir.”
The two soldiers, one decidedly more grizzled than the other, shook hands. Fitz strode out of the room and into the night, headed for his tent at the rear of the front.
But he would not seek out his cot. There was no sleeping with all that he carried, all that he knew. In a few hours, Belgium would wake to a thunder worthy of the gods. They would indeed make history, and maybe—finally—break the back of the war.
When Fitz got to his tent he sat at his desk. He rested his hands on the surface and felt out the familiar scratches and dents. He slumped back in his seat.
Corporal Padgett opened the tent flap and looked in. “Anything I can do, sir?”
Fitz seemed lost in thought. When he finally looked across, he said, “Yes.”
He opened the drawer of his desk and retrieved two glasses and a bottle of Talisker single malt Scotch whisky.
“Have a drink with me,” said Fitz.
“Oh, that’s very generous of you, sir. I couldn’t.”
“You could. Especially if it’s an order.”
“Yes, sir. Very well,” said Corporal Padgett.
In the two years the corporal had served as Fitz’s aide-de-campe, they had shared many words, but not a drop of whisky. Fitz poured till the glasses were a fifth full.
“Sit down,” he said, and pushed the glass across the desk.
“Thank you, sir,” said the corporal, a middle-aged man. His appearance evinced a softness that suggested he was both well fed and rarely marched. He looked at the glass and frowned.
“Don’t worry, corporal. Just the one. For courage. I know it’s not me who needs it, but … I bloody well do.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Do you? Because I’m not even sure I do. I’m not sure any of us do. You used to be a school teacher, didn’t you?”
“That’s right, sir. Eighteen years at Bedford School before I signed up.”
“You taught history?” said Fitz.
“I did, sir. Among other things.”
“Then tell me, Padgett, will you teach what we do on the morrow when you go back?”
“I hadn’t thought about that, sir. We’ll teach the war. Of course we’ll teach the war. Have to. There’s been no war like it.”
Fitz took a drink. “What will you tell them?”
“Lots of things, I should think. That it was the war to end all wars. That—”
“Do you believe that, Padgett?”
“I do, sir. I believe we will win, and when we do there will be … a reckoning, sir. An awakening. Nobody expected it to be like this. We’ll teach the young ones what war means these days. They’ll know, anyway. Most of them have lost a father or brother, someone in the family, men from their town. It’ll be the same in Germany and France. No one will choose war again after this, sir.”
“Not after what we’re going to do tonight,” said Fitz.
“No, sir. I believe not.”
“I hope you’re right, Padgett. A lot of men are going to die tomorrow. I don’t know if it will be too many, or not enough. It seems to always be one or the other.” Fitz sighed. “3:10 on the morning of 7 June 1917. One of the bloodiest days of the bloodiest war ever waged. And we’ve got the journalists here to make sure everybody knows about it.”
“Your name will be amongst it, sir. Part of history now.”
Fitz looked at Corporal Padgett in surprise. His look turned to disgust.
“My God, I hope not. Once this is done, I want to be forgotten. Forget, and be forgotten. Drink enough of this …” he said, tapping his finger on his glass.
Corporal Padgett swallowed and suppressed a frown that crept across his chin despite his best efforts.
“Very good, Padgett. I suggest you get a few winks.”
The corporal stood. “Thank you, sir, but no. I sleep when you sleep.”
“Then we’ve both got some sleepless nights ahead.”
56
Ernie sat, and stared, and waited for the earth to boil. He was meant to be catching shut-eye. It was the most impossible order he had ever been given.
Ernie had plead and connived and wrangled and argued to be transferred to the infantry. Now he was there. Now everything was set for the big offensive. Only, now, he was not so sure—of what he wanted, or what was in store for him beyond the sheer act of killing and being killed.
A few weeks earlier, when the gas attack hit and he fought for his life and the life of Lance Corporal Bennison, something changed. He did not know what. The trenches muddied boots and muddied rifles and muddied thoughts. Nothing was clear and clean. Maybe he did not want to go over anymore. Maybe he wanted to go home.
He would, though—he would go over the top, because the war was bigger than any one man. It did not matter what he wanted or thought he wanted, or even if he did not know.
And so Ernie sat.
And stared.
And waited for the earth to boil.
57
It had been hours since the cave-in. Henry had managed to dig Rat Dick out, enough to pull his body from under the beam. He was free, but he still could not move. He was broken, the sort of broken that could not be fixed. Henry knew it and Rat Dick knew it.
Henry had proceeded to tentatively explore the tunnel—what was left of it. There was a stretch of maybe one hundred yards where he had been able to variously crawl, crouch and walk, with dirt completely blocking both ends. Another branch off the main tu
nnel led to the boarded-up section that had caved in weeks before. It was a tunnel to nowhere.
Henry was all too aware that options were limited, and the time of detonation was closing in.
“Do you think anyone else survived, Rat Dick? You think Sergeant Lynch and the boys in the ammonal chamber survived?”
“Sure. Why not? We did.”
“Yeah. We did, didn’t we?” said Henry.
He pulled something from his pocket. He found Rat Dick’s hand in the dark and placed a little figurine in his weak grip.
“But they didn’t have Saint Rasha,” said Henry. “You’d better keep hold of this. It’s good luck.”
“Shit, Henry, you kept it.”
“Course I did. We survived the last cave-in, didn’t we? And this one. If he isn’t good luck, I don’t know what is.”
“All right, mate. Saint Rasha. Thanks. I’ll give him back later.”
“When we’re out.”
“That’s right. When we’re out.”
Henry listened to Rat Dick’s breathing. He seemed on the verge of sleep. Henry rolled a cigarette in the dark then lit a match.
“There you go, thought you might want one,” said Henry and poked the cigarette between Rat Dick’s lips.
“Thanks,” mumbled Rat Dick.
What Henry really wanted was the light from the match. He saw Rat Dick’s eyes slowly blink open. Henry glanced down at his friend’s bare belly and chest. Rat Dick was a little man—maybe the littlest in the whole army—yet his belly had somehow grown huge and distended, like he was pregnant. The skin was a splotchy blue-red, like a fresh bruise. A bloody big bruise.
“Ahh!” exclaimed Henry as he dropped the shriveled match that singed his fingers. It landed on Rat Dick’s belly. Henry slapped it away, not even thinking about the pain his light blow might cause. But as the semi-darkness returned—relieved only by the lit cigarette’s tip—Rat Dick did not flinch nor grunt. He did not seem to notice at all.
Henry looked at the glow of the cigarette and the very faint impression of a man behind. “You didn’t feel that, Rat?”
“Feel what?”
“Nothing. Sorry.”
Henry realized that Rat Dick could not feel from his gut down. No pain, no sensation. Perhaps that was for the best. It did not take a doctor to know there was something badly wrong inside Rat Dick’s stomach. And the way he was getting drowsy … he was dying.
They both were. Henry could not deny it any longer. They were waiting for a rescue that was not coming. Dying, waiting to die—what was the difference?
“Rat Dick.”
“Mm?”
“What’s behind that boarded-up section of tunnel. It’s not far from here. I can get to it.”
“Mud.”
“Didn’t someone see daylight?” said Henry.
“Did they?”
“Yeah. From the other end. They did. Maybe it’s a way out.”
“Unstable,” said Rat Dick.
“So’s here.”
“Got a point. What about the mud?”
“I’ll dig it out.”
Rat Dick did not say anything. He smoked the cigarette, taking gentle draws. Henry scooted onto his knees.
“Hey, Henry.”
“Yeah?”
“Take Saint Rasha. You’ll need luck,” said Rat Dick.
“It’s ok. You keep him for me. He can work for both of us. I’ll just be down the way. Point him in my direction.”
“Sure thing, Henry.”
58
If his recuperation at Axe’s farm had taught Michel anything, it was patience. Hidden deep within the cover of the forest, he waited until nightfall. He continued to wait until the majority of the soldiers and workers at the compound had left. It was a gamble; Kranz might leave with them, and his only opportunity would be lost, for he could not remain another day. It was tonight or never.
But he had a hunch that Kranz would be there. No doubt the sick fuck considered his test a wonderful success. He would be sitting in an office masturbating to the idea of dying dogs. Or making his poison even more poisonous. Or something—something for which he deserved to die.
Michel patted Monster on the head. He brushed his hand down her face and lifted her under the jaw so her eyes had to meet his.
“Stay, Monster. Stay,” he said quietly, but in a stern voice and with no smile. He shook his finger. “Stay.”
If he had a rope, he would have used it. Monster remained on her rump as Michel made his way through the foliage. The noise of his approach was no different to the noise of wind in the trees; his form was no different to the branches and bushes that swayed in the night.
With knife drawn, Michel approached a guard who had been slumped in a chair on the edge of a lawn for well over an hour. His head was tilted and his jaw was open, resting on his chest. He snored gently. Michel figured he was in a deep sleep, and so took a small chance by approaching directly—moving from the shadows of forest across the lawn until he stood directly in front of the man.
He did not rouse. Michel took a breath, then lunged. His left hand was high and cupped the man’s mouth as his right arm fell lower. The knife stabbed through flesh and cartilage just to the side of the sternum. The blade entered the man’s heart and his eyes blazed open; his body spasmed for the briefest moment, and that was all. His eyes closed and his body slumped. Michel kept his hand over the mouth, muffling noise, until satisfied not only that the man was dead, but that his corpse had empty lungs. No surprises.
Michel picked up the body and dragged it backwards. He laid it under the moon shadow of a tree on the edge of the lawn. He put his foot on the chest and pulled his knife free. He set to work undressing the dead man, who was a little smaller than he, but the Germans wore their uniform in a loose fit. Michel donned the clothes and the guard’s cap, then retrieved his rifle and moved on.
He poked his head around the dark side of a building, just enough to see a German leaning against a wall, smoking. Michel had observed him smoke cigarette after cigarette all afternoon and evening. He never sat down. Always on his feet. He would be difficult to sneak up on. But Michel had an idea.
He slipped into a building and scouted till he found a length of pipe. He resumed his position. The man strolled the thoroughfare. Michel took a step out then bent in half, head down, and began coughing. It was the cough of the sick or choking, a cough that could not be ignored. The guard reeled around. Michel was completely visible.
“Hans?” called the guard. “Hans?”
Michel kept coughing, waving a single hand, while his other hand rested on the length of pipe that could have been his rifle.
The guard took quick steps forward. “Are you all right, Hans? Hans?”
Michel watched him approach from the upper periphery of his vision. When he was two yards away and had started to lean forward—a concerned friend come to lend aid—Michel stood tall and brought the pipe up in a thrusting motion. It drove into the man’s mouth and extinguished the cigarette’s glow against teeth that shattered and knocked free. The man grunted an insignificant grunt, desperate but tiny, like the sound of a man drowning, and then Michel had both hands on the pipe and he swung.
The threaded end of the pipe collected flush on the ear. The force was so great that the man left his feet. Shoulders and chest followed his head west, while gravity dragged his mass down. Together, both forces felled the German the way the woodsman’s axe fells an old pine, still tall, only now sideways. He hit the ground without any defense, no semblance of consciousness or life, but Michel took no chances and was into him with third and fourth blows.
He raised the pipe for a fifth, but stamped into the man’s skull was a semi-cylindrical hollow running from temple to ear, and Michel realized the job was done. He held his breathe and listened, unsure exactly how much noise his frenzy of skull bashing had generated, for a frenzy requires one’s complete and utter attention.
He heard nothing to suggest the final two guards had be
en roused. These Germans—they were complacent. They did not think the war could touch them so far behind the frontline. They still thought they were in an old-fashioned war where everybody always knew where the enemy was. A mistake the French had made. One he had made. But their enemy was now skulking past a building, and they knew and expected nothing.
The third guard, positioned near the road that comprised the only way in and out of the compound, was almost too easy. He kept stealing sips from a flask hidden in his jacket. He was half drunk and fully bored and indifferent. Now he needed to piss.
The man walked directly toward Michel, hidden behind a tree. It took an effort of heart-thumping will for Michel to retain his composure as he told himself that the man did not see him and would not see him. To just wait it out, let him get closer, let him bring himself to his own end.
It turned out he was one of those men who pissed with pants at ankles, like a toddler. The German held his average German dick with two hands—or two fingers from each hand—as if he were wielding a firehose.
Those details should have made no difference, a man should be free to piss however he liked, but they did. It made it easier for Michel to condemn and loathe and scorn the man, and then to filter from the night like a drunk’s hallucinated nightmare and stare him in the eyes and slide a blade into his throat and pull back and plunge it in and pull back so that one of the man’s hands held his dick as he pissed on Michel’s leg and his other hand held his throat as he pissed blood on Michel’s chest. He stood there like that so long—just dying, standing and pissing and dying—that Michel stabbed him a third time, and he finally dropped.
Michel was bloody now, and the killing was … it was a worse sort of killing than he was used to. More personal, and yet easier. He did not want it to be easy. It should not be easy.
He stank of it. His sweat did—that sweat of a man on heat with killing, combined with the rank smell of discharged blood and piss that covered every dead body in the battlefield and now covered Michel. It seemed murder enveloped him. Was all around him and through him. In his nose, throat, mind, eyes, fist and gut and heart, and so he hurried to the building where the kitchen was.
Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2) Page 23