The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  The Iron Shadow

  Stefano Siggia

  © Stefano Siggia 2019

  Stefano Siggia has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Brussels, Belgium

  April, 1915

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  XLV

  XLVI

  XLVII

  XLVIII

  XLIX

  L

  LI

  LII

  LIII

  LIV

  Antwerp, Belgium

  Historical Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  To my parents,

  Thanks for everything

  Brussels, Belgium

  April, 1915

  He found it peculiar to think that a common umbrella could conceal within its body the fate of Europe.

  Yet there he was, gripping its handle, trying to brush off the weight of the thought and look normal. He turned his head for a quick glimpse behind him. The street scarcely lit by sickly gas lamps was devoid of life. Even the windows around him were dark. But they had turned his house upside down, destroyed his network, killed poor Luc.

  Turning back around, he quickened his pace, his shoes clattering on the cobblestones accompanied by the regular tap of the umbrella. He pulled out his pocket watch, mostly to distract himself. Seven forty-five, German time. He was going to be late.

  He suddenly tensed. A sound behind him.

  Quietly, he slid into the shadows of a nearby building. Shouts and screams echoed throughout the quiet street as a Renault touring car materialised around the bend, driving at full speed. It was stuffed with German soldiers, sitting high on the open roof, one or two perched on the running boards, all hollering and barking. Each one had a bottle of wine in one hand, if not both. He could hear one of them shout to the driver to go faster. The soldier in the driver’s seat let out a howl and stepped hard on the gas pedal, jerking the car to a faster speed. One of the men hurled an empty bottle against the façade of a nearby building. Then the car was gone, disappearing behind another bend as the shouts faded into echoes.

  He let out a sigh and stepped back out, his leather shoes crushing pieces of broken glass.

  The pain held him up. He opened his jacket. Even in the poor light, he could see the darkness of fresh blood seeping through his white shirt. It was barely a cut, a gash that wouldn’t cause too much trouble, small enough to go undetected underneath his suit. No, he could easily make it to the Berkendael Institute, where they would patch him up and get him out of that godforsaken country.

  But first he had to deliver the umbrella. He kept walking, the spiral of the Town Hall of the Grand Place, just ahead of him.

  What had started as a drizzle was turning into rain, the drops tapping eighth notes on his top hat before turning into full drum rolls. He opened his umbrella and heard it, the soft sound of something sliding down the inside of its shaft. It would be barely audible to someone who didn’t know it was there.

  He covered another couple of blocks lined with the classic close fitting three-storied houses. Only a handful had lights shining through their windows. Finally, the claustrophobic street opened on the Place de la Monnaie, the square that housed one of the city’s most famous opera houses, the Theatre de la Monnaie. A variety of cars were parked around the square, neatly placed one next to the other, all guarded by German soldiers in gleaming, golden-spiked helmets. Darn, he was late.

  He passed by the soldiers without looking at them and climbed the few steps that led to the entrance hall. It was perfect. No one would imagine the exchange would take place in plain sight, in a heavily guarded theatre. He couldn’t wait for it to be over. He was already imagining what he would do once it was done. He missed his countryside, his books, his brother.

  He passed between the long columns supporting the Greek temple façade with its bas-reliefs depicting mythological characters. They looked down at him; their faces twisted in dramatic expressions. Behind the columns lay the more modern, brass and glass doors. He pulled his ticket from the inside pocket of his jacket, showed it to a young man, then removed his top hat and jacket and gave them to another young gentleman at the foyer. He took one last look at the umbrella before placing it in an umbrella holder. Taking a deep breath, he proceeded down a small hallway that led to the theatre. He could already hear Mozart’s The Magic Flute playing, one of the operas authorised by the Prussian dictatorship in Belgium.

  “Professor?”

  He froze in his tracks. How could it be?

  “You thought we were stupid,” the voice behind him said.

  He slowly turned around. Just a few paces away was that man, that gigantic brute with the crooked nose. The bearded man was standing next to him, and they were shortly joined by the other one, the one with the deadest eyes he had ever seen.

  The brute held up a ripped piece of paper, one corner of the flyer depicting that night’s event at the theatre. They must have found it in his trash.

  “Now professor,” he said, “tell us where you hid it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You know very well. Where are the documents to the Iron Shadow?”

  “Gone.”

  He had to think of something fast. His partner was seated inside the theatre. The umbrella needed to find its way to him.

  “I will ask you one more time,” the brute said, “and you better answer me truthfully.”

  The bearded man removed his knife from his belt, the very same blade that had caused the open wound on his side. He was unlikely to get out of this alive. Perhaps a firing squad would do the dirty job, after he had been tried for espionage against the Imperial German Empire. Perhaps they would simply do the job tonight. Quick and dirty.

  “Where are the documents?” the brute asked slowly.

  Sweat began to form on his brow as he slowly reached inside his suit and removed a handful of random letters, together with a box of matches, which he hid behind the folded sheets of paper in his hand.

  “You want them?” He quickly removed a match from the box, lit it, and held the flame to the letters. “Here they are.”

  He tossed the flaming papers towards the Prussian spies, then bolted down the corridor as he heard agitated shouts behind him. Loud, echoing footsteps were in pursuit. He reached a staircase and took the steps two at a time. His side ached, and the cut probably bled at every stride he took, but he kept going.

  A hand grabbed his right ankle. He looked down and saw the bearded man just a flight below him, his hand holding onto his pants through the wooden shafts of the railing. He tried to kick himself free. Then he felt a cold metallic touch follow
ed by stinging pain.

  The bearded man had cut his ankle.

  He let out a scream and jerked harder, finally freeing himself. The Prussian spy ran up to catch up with him but was met with a furious kick in the face that drove him back down.

  He kept limping up the steps, trying to forget about the pain in his ankle.

  A door ahead was left wide open, and he entered it as the music suddenly rushed at him loud and clear. He found himself in one of the balconies of the theatre. A long crimson curtain divided the corridor from the seats. He imagined it was the middle balcony, which looked down at the stage straight ahead.

  He limped his way down the wide corridor, every step increasing his pain. His ears were filled with the sound of dramatic violins and melodic flutes underpinning the tenor’s soaring voice.

  “Professor!” called out a voice from behind him, almost inaudible at a sudden crescendo in the music.

  He turned around and saw the bearded man standing at the door, knife in hand. There had to be a way out of there. He needed to get away.

  Limping onwards, he tried to find an escape route. The balcony was a terrible idea. The theatre was filled with Prussian authorities, and exposing himself would be suicide. He kept on going until a hand grabbed his collar and spun him around.

  “The documents,” the bearded man said, his voice almost lost through the flurry of vibrating chords and quailing notes. “Where are they?”

  He head-butted the man in the face.

  The man fell back, and he continued, trying to find an exit, trying to free himself. A scream of pain burst out of his mouth as he felt a sudden stinging sensation to one arm. Placing a hand over the pain he saw that blood flowed freely.

  He turned around and dropped to one knee.

  “The Iron Shadow,” the bearded man said. “Where are the damn documents to the Iron Shadow?”

  This couldn’t go on any longer. He couldn’t flee. He had to fight back.

  Pushing hard on his good foot, he threw himself on the spy. He grabbed the hand with the knife and held it away from him. They struggled, locked in an embrace, neither able to get the advantage over the other. He found that he had an incredible strength despite his wounds. The will to survive, to succeed overcame any damage to his body.

  The music swelled. His assailant pulled his other hand free and punched him in the side where his wound was. He gasped but wouldn’t let go. The bearded man kept at it, swinging punch after punch. Tears of pain rolling down his face, he let go and fell back; his side bleeding freely.

  It wasn’t going to end like this.

  He scrambled to his feet and threw himself at the bearded spy once more, aiming for his throat when he felt something cold penetrate him. He stopped abruptly. It was as if time suddenly came to a halt. The music faded. He wouldn’t dare look down to see what he didn’t want to believe. His eyes locked with the bearded man’s.

  His eyes slowly moved down towards his stomach.

  The entire blade was inside him, through his shirt, through his skin, to the hilt.

  He slowly backed away and felt the alien object slide out of his body. He clutched his stomach with one hand and felt warm liquid run in between his fingers. He took a few steps back.

  Everything felt so confusing.

  He grabbed onto the curtain and slipped through an opening. The music was louder now, as were the lights around him. He slowly began walking, as if he couldn’t control his legs. He heard astonished murmurs spreading around him. The music was loud, now, too loud. The scream of a woman pierced his ears.

  He kept going. The theatre was so beautiful, with its crimson carpeting and chairs, and golden walls wonderfully carved and painted. He looked up at the ceiling. A large chandelier of exquisite beauty, hung from it, images of clouds against a blue sky painted around it.

  They went away as his vision blurred.

  Something abruptly bumped into him. It was the parapet that divided him from the floor below. The people down in the parterre were looking up. Whispers and shouts filled the theatre.

  He suddenly felt light, as if he was being pushed down by unseen hands. The people below him got bigger, the balcony above smaller.

  He crashed down into the aisle as screams and shouts suddenly stopped the music. A huddle of women in gowns and gentlemen in tails clustered around him. He couldn’t see their expressions. His vision got blurrier by the second.

  He whispered his last words. Then all went black.

  I

  The solitary specks of clouds floating in the clear blue sky, and the crisp breezy spring air, were gentle distraction for Melbourne Summers, knowing he could be dead within the next half-hour.

  He tried to relax and admire the view passing 1,800 metres below him. He kept the Farman 11’s rudder stick steady, adjusted his goggles a little, and let the wind caress his face. It reminded him of why he loved flying so much at the beginning.

  At the outbreak of the war, joining the Royal Flying Corps seemed like the adventure of a lifetime. He, like many others, imagined thrills, perils, and victories. It took him barely a month into the action for his enthusiasm to dissipate. The war was going to be over by Christmas they said. But it wasn’t. At only twenty-five, Melbourne was already considered old for a pilot. Most of his companions never made it to the quarter century mark. Mortar fire, cannons, enemy airplanes, explosions, he had heard or witnessed them all. There was no escape from a wooden box flying kilometres away from the ground. He was glad that he was part of the reconnaissance team and not of the fighters. His chances of survival improved slightly.

  Still…

  The ground below him was a patchwork of green and yellow fields, already showing the results of farmers’ hard work. He could make out the green of the new leaves on the trees and the strong violet of newborn iris and lilacs. The French countryside was beautiful at that time of the year. He was glad the war had not reached this place yet, the scorches that broke the earth into horrific scars, just like the first time he saw Neuve Chapelle.

  He slowly drew the Farman’s stick closer to him to gain more altitude, hoping to be less detectable from the ground. The Farman began to rise without too many complaints. It was a miracle his airplane could still fly given what they’d been through. The plane’s main body – the nacelle – seemed to float between the two, unequal-length wings, suspended by struts and wires. The outer two metres of the right upper wing had been replaced, thanks to a tree he’d clipped on his way in to an emergency landing. The left rudder had been shot off at one point. A fence post he hadn’t noticed had torn the middle out of the right lower wing on another landing. And the body had been patched up so many times it’s skin looked like a quilt.

  Of course, it was certainly an improvement over the fate of his past airplanes which were destroyed beyond any repair. And having the engine behind them meant that his observer, seated in the very nose of the plane, had an unobstructed view. And – at his insistence – a machine gun, so they could at least fire back. He blessed every day. Not that it helped much, but it certainly made Douglas, the observer, feel a little safer. Bullet holes still embellished part of his flying machine.

  It took close to ten minutes before he levelled his plane, having reached 2,200 metres, high enough to be safe. Well, safer.

  “I think we’re close by.” Melbourne looked up to see Douglas.

  “Close by,” he repeated, as to make himself clearer over the buzzing of the engine.

  Melbourne nodded. Douglas was nervous, but that was understandable. They had barely made it out alive a few times. He had lost count of how many missions they had done together, but in the midst of all the flying he had developed a fondness for Douglas and his 19th century mannerism. Like most photographers in his squadron, he became an observer because of his passion for the gentlemanly hobby of photography.

  Douglas carefully checked his Type A camera for what Melbourne felt must have been the hundredth time. He was in love with the newly designed photographic mach
ine. A conical box as long as his arm, the hand-held camera was no easy feat to operate. Eleven separate steps were required for the first exposure, with another ten for each successive one. Douglas made it look like a single, smooth operation.

  He carefully checked the shutter and opened the top hatch to analyse its interior workings and the glass plate that he’d already inserted. He placed his hands in the two straps on the side of the camera and tested his grip until he was satisfied. Next, he checked the box containing the 18 glass plates that needed to be swapped out for each photograph and placed it firmly between his feet. He turned around to Melbourne and gave him a wink.

  Their task that day, as almost every day, was fairly straight forward. Fly in. Snap. Fly out.

  They still had a couple of hours of good daylight left, and they would have to make the best of them. The conditions seemed perfect. The low sun threw shadows that would add contrast to the developed plates. The flight was to be as gentle as the French countryside beneath them.

  Douglas turned to Melbourne and pointed down to the landscape underneath them. Melbourne looked over to see the designated landmark he was supposed to fly over – a small village made up of around five-hundred brick and wooden houses. He banked a little to the left to line them up. The reports had been right, the village seemed abandoned, with the roofs of some of the houses collapsed, and debris from other houses clustered in the empty streets. The enemy was pushing itself through the border of Belgium and into France.

  Douglas, camera held firmly in his gloved hands, leaned over the side of the plane as far as the leather strap attached to his seat allowed. He aimed the camera to the ground below him and took the first picture. Then he got back up on his seat and ran through the ten steps that changed the exposed plate for a brand new one, placing the old one with great care in its wooden box. Melbourne held the Farman as level as possible allowing Douglas to take the steadiest photographs he could. Douglas leaned over to the side once more and began the job again.

  “We need to move a little farther down,” Douglas said as he finished with the second plate.