Elmo looked up at Esmee. “Will I be able to come back and finish my grave?”
“Yes, Elmo, if that is what you want.”
“Then I will come,” he said.
Michel reached down and helped Elmo from the hole, though the difference between helping and dragging were lost on Michel. There was no time. Not only did he have to get Esmee and Elmo back to Godewyn, he had promised Axe—promised her even though she had asked in a morphine stupor and he had said yes without thinking—that he would retrieve the one possession that mattered to her.
Her father’s final words. His incomplete letter, written the day before he died. It was at the farm in the steel box Michel had dug from the rubble.
68
His hands were on fire.
After hours of digging with bare hands, broken planks and pieces of rubbish, it felt to Henry like he had scraped past skin and flesh until bone and raw nerve endings were exposed. In the pitch black tunnel he could not tell how much of the wet on his hands was his blood and how much was mud.
He just had to keep going. If he stopped, he would be dying again. And Rat Dick was in a bad way. Every time he slowed down, paused, thought about quitting, Henry repeated his mantra.
Waiting is dying.
He broke through the shattered boards sectioning off the old tunnel. His tunneling was parsimonious. He dug out only enough dirt and mud to keep slithering forward. If he could fit, then Rat Dick certainly would.
Henry called out, “Hey, Rat Dick!”
He did that every once in a while, just to know he was all right. It made him feel better—less alone, less like he had been lost and forgotten.
Henry waited, then called out again, “Rat Dick!”
Sound travelled well in the gap of tunnel, but there was nothing to hear.
“Come on, Rat Dick, don’t play games!”
No reply. Henry started back, variously slithering, duck-walking and crawling. He eventually recognized a now familiar mound of earth and scooted down. He felt for Rat Dick with his hands.
“Rat Dick. Rat Dick, come on, wake up.”
At first Henry’s abused hands settled on Rat Dick’s belly. It was so round and distended that Henry thought it was his head. He jerked his hands away when he realized it was not.
Henry felt out Rat Dick’s pocket and found the tin that carried matches, papers and tobacco. It took some doing with the pain and partial numbness, but Henry managed to light a match. The chamber revealed itself. Rat Dick’s face was serene.
“Rat Dick?” said Henry. He slapped him gently. “Rat Dick?”
His eyes opened.
“There you are! Got me bloody worried, you did. Don’t worry, mate, almost there. Almost there,” said Henry.
Rat Dick’s lips moved slowly, like a fish blowing tiny bubbles. No sound. He shut his eyes.
“Rat Dick? Rat Dick?”
The flame extinguished. Henry lit another. He stared at his friend.
“Nup, nup,” said Henry, and shook his head. “All right, you’re coming with me. I’m getting you out, Rat. Don’t worry. Almost there.”
He poked the tobacco tin back into Rat Dick’s pocket. He grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged. Rat Dick neither spoke nor moved. He was limp.
It was the hardest work Henry had ever done. He stopped and rested every handful of yards, so many times that he lost track of how far he dragged him. Henry was spent, but he knew there was always more to give. Until a man was dead, always more to give—or more to be taken.
He propped on his knees and stretched his aching body forward, arms elongated like a yawning cat. He could go on—would go on—but how much further? To what? Where was he taking him?
Henry closed his eyes, a symbolic act, for inside the belly of the earth the black was immaculate. No shades of light and shadow permitting of possibility, nothing to remind of the cycles of life above that always eventually brought light and warmth. Below, there was only a soul-crushing black that may as well have been death.
Maybe that’s it. We’re not dying. We’re dead. Me and Rat, dead, and this is the way to hell. Never knew a fella had to dig his own way to hell, but sounds right. Typical of the army. Lousy cheap bastards.
Then Henry heard something and knew he could not be dead. A rumbling. A chugging and a rumbling.
An engine. Which meant he was hearing the surface—which meant he was close.
Henry left Rat Dick and slid forward. He frantically scraped and dug, just enough to squeeze his body through the gaps. He heard the engine reach a crescendo, then stop.
Henry kept going. He forgot the pain in his hands as he stabbed fingers into mud and dirt like they were the steel wedge of a shovel—stabbed and dug and bled, over and over—until he saw the light.
To a surface dweller, it was no light at all. To Henry, it was a blazing beacon of hope. He did not care who or what was up there. He could be taken prisoner. Thrown in a camp. Be beaten and interrogated. Whatever it was, he would be alive. So would Rat Dick.
Henry turned and scrambled back to where he had left his friend.
“We did it, Rat Dick. We did it,” he gasped.
Henry knew, though, that his friend could not hear him. Once again, Henry grabbed Rat Dick under the shoulders and dragged him backwards, jerk by jerk, the way a lion drags a carcass too heavy to carry.
At one point, Rat Dick became stuck. Henry had not taken into account the distended gut. He pulled harder and imagined his swollen stomach squishing down—the thick, rank, clotted blood pushing through the rest of Rat Dick’s insides. Henry gagged as he pulled, but he got him through.
“There, made it,” gasped Henry.
He dragged Rat Dick into the jagged circle of faint moonlight. It was muddy, but Henry could stand now, so he stood on weak legs and looked up. He saw angled walls of mud and dirt and the night sky beyond. It was beautiful.
But he knew there was no way he could climb out. Certainly not with Rat Dick in tow. He listened carefully and heard footsteps. He thought about calling out. A door opened, then slammed shut. Henry knew it was probably a German. That meant capture.
But if he did not call out they would remain stuck at the bottom of a hole until the whole front went up with thousands of pounds of ammonal explosive. It could not be long now.
An engine cranked over. It did not fire. It cranked again.
Waiting is dying.
“Hey!” screamed Henry at the top of his lungs. “Help! Help! Oi! Down here! Help!”
The engine fired and idled, but the car did not leave. Henry continued to scream. The engine cut. Henry kept screaming. He stopped when he heard the slow footsteps.
First the barrel of a gun, then the silhouetted head of a man appeared at the lip of the crater, high above.
“Hello! Don’t shoot me! Help me. Please, ah, ah, achtung! Shnell! Just, help me. Please. My friend is … my friend …”
“You’re British?” called the incredulous voice in English.
“Yes! Yes, British. I’m a soldier. You can take me prisoner. Take us both prisoner. Just help us out. And get us away from here. Back to your prison camp. And a hospital. I surrender.”
“Surrender? I’m not German. I’m a soldier, like you. Wait there.”
“All right,” called Henry. And then under his breathe: “Where the bloody hell am I going to go?”
The man returned. This time he did not point a rifle. He threw the end of a rope down.
“Tie this on. I’ll pull you up.”
“There’s two of us. My friend first,” said Henry.
“Fine. But hurry!”
Henry looped the rope around Rat Dick’s chest and under his shoulders. He tied it off.
“Go! Pull him up!”
Rat Dick was so light, not even the weight of a teenage boy, that he zipped up the crater wall and disappeared over the lip. Henry felt enormous relief.
“Jesus …” said the voice at the top of the crater.
“What?” called Henry.
“What’s happening?”
The rope dropped down. The man peered over. “Tie on.”
“Is Rat Dick all right? Is my friend all right?”
“No,” said the man.
“What do you mean?” said Henry.
“He’s dead. Now tie on!”
Henry stood in shock. He had wondered, suspected, but he had refused to believe it true. Now all of it was for nothing.
And that voice. Why—how—was that voice so familiar? That accent, probably French. The words, harsh and blunt.
He tied on. The man pulled him up fast, arm over arm. Henry spilled from the lip onto grass. Every inch of Henry was covered in dirt, making him completely unrecognizable.
Henry untied himself. He stood up. The man reached a hand out.
“I’m sorry about your friend. My name is Michel. We must go.”
“I know,” said Henry, and with all his might punched him in the face.
69
The last thing Michel expected was a cheap shot from an ally he had just saved. The blow clipped his cheek and he fell onto his ass.
The dirty, stinky, shirtless man did not press his advantage, and did not go for the rifle next to Michel. He stood there, stiff-armed, hands on his knees, panting. Not even looking at him.
Michel was confused even more than he was angry. It made no sense. They were on the same side. Maybe the man was irrationally upset his friend was dead. Or maybe he was yet another soldier who had lost the plot and was bound for a sanitarium—if he survived.
Michel got up slowly. He picked up his rifle. He did not point it at the man. Not yet. He felt his cheek. No blood. It would mark, but that was all. It was nothing compared to what he had become used to.
“Why did you do that?” he said, enunciating his words clearly, slowly.
The man said nothing, and for some reason that pissed Michel off even more than the punch.
“I could fucking shoot you and dump you back in that crater! Tell me why you did that.”
The man stood tall and looked at Michel straight on.
“Because you had it coming. Because … you’re a bastard. A bastard who doesn’t care about anyone other than himself! You ran away. And we thought you were dead!”
Michel looked at him sideways, as if he might somehow see behind the mud and dirt. “No. It cannot be …”
“It bloody well is!”
“Henry?” said Michel.
“Yes, Henry! And you’re …” but Henry could not find any more words, certainly not the right words to express his anger, so he held up his fist and scrunched the face hidden by dirt into a contortion of raw, blithering emotion.
Michel dropped the rifle. He lunged forward and before Henry could react Michel had him wrapped in his arms and was bear hugging him. “My friend!”
“Bloody … get off me!”
Michel let him go and stepped back.
“A fucking miracle. How—” but Michel stopped. He looked across at the crater. “Of course. You did not come through the canals. You didn’t fall. I remember … sort of … not clearly. Were you transferred? Are you a sapper now?”
Henry nodded.
Michel pointed down. “Then there is a tunnel beneath the crater. You did, didn’t you? You came through a tunnel.”
“A mine,” said Henry. “A mine stacked with ammonal. The whole front. We’ve got dozens of mines under here. And more ammonal than you could fit in Westminster Abbey.”
Michel nodded as he thought through the significance of what Henry was telling him.
“Where are we?” said Henry.
“This is a farm between Mesen and the frontline. The woman, Axe, she helped me. I was almost dead when she found me. Now … we must go.”
“Go where?”
“She is hurt. They’re waiting. At the neighboring farm.”
“That’d be right,” said Henry. “Running off. Running off for a woman.”
“What are you talking about? Henry, I don’t have time for this. Come.”
Michel stepped forward and reached for Henry’s arm.
He slapped Michel’s hand away. “Don’t you bloody touch me! I’m not going nowhere! Just tell me where I can find a shovel, and then you can go to your woman. Good riddance to you.”
“What?”
“I’m not like you. I don’t abandon my mates. Rat Dick’s my mate. I’m going to bury him. Before this whole place goes up.”
“Goes up? What are you saying?” said Michel.
“A few hours, we’ll all be buried.”
“Tonight?”
Henry spoke quietly. “The mines. We’re setting them off. It’s been planned forever. Any moment now, they’re due to go up.”
“Jesus …” said Michel. He hobbled quickly to the car. “Shovel’s in the barn,” he called to Henry. “Start digging. I’ll be back soon. Don’t go anywhere!”
“Where the bloody hell am I going to go?” said Henry.
The car started and lurched away. Henry watched him go.
“That’s it, run off,” said Henry. He shook his head and walked for the barn.
70
Axe lay in the buggy with her head propped on blankets. Elmo sat next to her, gazing at the stars. He appeared at peace. They were joined by a length of rubber tubing that ran dark red, with some sort of contraption made of a glass jar and valves between them. Sven was on Axe’s other side, holding her hand. Monster sat at her feet, chin resting across an ankle.
Godewyn adjusted the straps that girded the horse. He climbed up and sat on the buggy seat, next to Esmee. Michel limped toward him.
“Is she all right?” said Michel.
“She needs a doctor, urgently. With Elmo, I think she will make it. I must say, your timing is exquisite. We were not going to wait. We leave, now. Are you …”
Michel proffered his hand. Response enough.
Godewyn smiled. “No, I thought not. You are a fellow of the manly virtues. Beowulf going back to slay Grendel.”
Michel looked perplexed.
Godewyn squinted and smiled. “You are going back. To keep fighting.” He took Michel’s hand. “An honor. Truly.”
“Thank you, Godewyn. You have done more for me than … than my own father. You are a good man. And you, Esmee. I owe you everything. My life. God speed to you.”
Michel did not linger. He hobbled to the tray of the buggy, climbed the wheel and lent over. Axe blinked slowly, then stopped blinking as recognition came.
“I got it, Axe,” said Michel and held up the steel box with her father’s letter. He placed it on the floor of the wagon.
“Michel Poincaré,” said Axe. She smiled as she articulated one word at a time. “I’m going on a voyage.”
“I know, Axe.”
“Will you come?”
“I cannot.”
“It’s all right. Visitors aren’t meant to stay long.”
“Yes, just long enough,” said Michel, emotion choking his throat. He swallowed and continued, “Enough to know you.”
And enough for Florence to teach him how to truly love someone … and how he brought chaos into people’s lives … and, finally, how to let those he loved go—how they were better off without him.
“Monster knew you were special,” said Axe. “She’s coming.”
Monster’s ears perked up at the sound of her name. She looked at Axe and then at Michel.
“Best three-legged dog I’ve ever known,” said Michel.
Axe closed her eyes. A smile graced her face. “Mmm,” she mumbled.
Michel looked across at Sven. He reached out and gripped his shoulder. Gripped him tight, to the point of pain.
“You will—” said Michel, but his voice caught in his throat. Though he could not say what he wanted, his eyes—intense, dangerous, desperate—said everything.
Sven, normally easily cowed, did not look away. “I love her. I will take care of her.”
Michel nodded. He whispered, “She loves you. I know it.”
He stepped from the wheel.
“When she wakes, and is safe, tell her I … that I …” Michel gulped and shook his head.
Let her go, Michel. And let Axe let go of you, for her sake …
“Tell her she was right. That I’m just a soldier. That I went back to where I belong. Go now!” he yelled to Godewyn. “Go quickly!”
Godewyn slapped the reins and hissed, “Yah, pick it up, pick it up, yah!”
Michel watched the buggy pull away. He did not see the figure walk from darkness, and did not notice him till he was standing by his shoulder. Michel eventually turned and looked at the man armed with bow and a single arrow.
“But why? Why did you stay, Ken?” said Michel.
Ken thought for a moment, cocking his head and looking at the stars.
“Godewyn, he said, ‘Michel will go back, it is certain.’ He knows you should go, return to fight with the army, because it is in your spirit, in here,” Ken said, tapping his chest. “He is right. A man cannot deny his spirit. And Ken, his spirit knows where he belongs. It is not with Axe. She is good, but she has Sven. She does not need Ken. I go back to my men. My people. They do not want me, but here,” he said, again tapping his chest, “I know, my spirit knows. They need me.”
Michel nodded.
“Well I for one am glad you’re here, Ken. With me. My friend. But now we have to move.”
71
Henry broke dirt under a pretty little elm tree to the side of the barn. If there had been a way to get Rat Dick to a British war cemetery, Henry would have done it. There was not. He would bury him in occupied Belgium and come back for him after the war. He swore it.
A cold had begun to settle upon Henry’s bare upper body, but that was soon replaced by heat. Henry dug with focus and vigor in an effort to push a barrage of thoughts away. After some time, there was one thought he could ignore no longer. He dropped the shovel and stepped across. He knelt beside Rat Dick’s body and reached into his pocket.
He noticed how cold the body had become, and how quickly. He felt out the tobacco tin, but where was Saint Rasha? Is that why Rat Dick died—because they left Saint Rasha behind?
Henry jumped up and went to Rat Dick’s other side. He plunged his hand into the pocket. Henry pulled out a little figurine of a pig-faced man leaning on an umbrella.
Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2) Page 27