The Iron Shadow

by Stefano Siggia

  Melbourne heard the shouts of a woman. He turned around to look at where the motorcycles had been parked. A few had been trampled over and crushed as they stood in the cannon’s destructive path. Three more seemed in decent conditions.

  Danielle was astride one, kicked it to life, and sped off in the direction of the forest.

  Melbourne picked up a rifle lying on the grass and ran towards one of the remaining motorcycles. It lay on the ground, slightly battered but still well enough to function.

  Henry ran after him. “Mel, what do you think you are doing?”

  “She can’t get out of this.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “After everything she has done to us I can’t just let her go.”

  He jumped on, hit the ignition switch, set the choke, and stomped on the starter. It sputtered to life.

  “Melbourne, rethink what you are doing, immediately,” his brother said.

  “Listen, get out of here and head to the nearby village. You should be safe there. I’ll see you soon.”

  He twisted the throttle and the motorcycle roared. He found the clutch, shifted into gear, and set off after her.

  LII

  Melbourne could see her speeding down the grassy plains at a dizzying velocity.

  He pushed his motorbike up through the gears, reaching top speed in less than a minute. The sounds of the continuing battle behind him were drowned out by the loud chatter of the motorcycle’s engine. He could still hear explosions as the airplanes flew above his head, yet, he did not need to look back. The Kaiser’s Warhammer was defeated. But there was still one more battle to fight.

  Danielle slowed down a little as soon as she entered the forest. Melbourne understood why a little too late. The woods were a labyrinth of pine trees and vegetation, scattered at random by nature, and not meant to be disturbed by modern machines. He made his way through the maze but stood on the brake as soon as a tree materialised before him. His heart skipped a beat as he nearly missed it, brushing his jacket on one if its branches.

  They zigzagged their way around the woods, the rumble of their engines keeping them together.

  He was so close.

  She turned around to look at him. Her icy eyes locked with his and she took a sudden turn while increasing her speed. Melbourne hit the brakes and turned in the spot where she had, suddenly finding himself on a small dirt path. He sped up until she was just a few arm’s lengths away from him.

  He looked down at a tricky turn, and when he looked up, Danielle had her gun pointed at him, popping a few bullets in her chaser’s direction. He didn’t even bother to duck – he knew what aiming was like on a jolting, shuddering platform.

  Unless you had experience, say, firing on an enemy plane during turbulence. Melbourne slipped the rifle from his shoulder and placed it in the middle of the handlebars, on the fork, aiming from his hip. He waited for a slightly smooth patch and pulled the trigger. The shot hit the seat of her machine.

  She turned back around and let out one more wild shot.

  She turned back around and suddenly hit the brakes. She hadn’t noticed the road curved and a large fir tree loomed before her. Melbourne did not slow down, hoping to simply plow into her motorcycle, but he barely missed her as she turned the corner. He was almost jolted off his motorbike as he hit the brakes hard once more, his front wheel touching the tree.

  He backed away, threw the bolt on his rifle, hit the gas, and turned the corner.

  It didn’t take him long to catch up – he must have the more powerful machine. Once again, he wrapped his hand around the grip of the rifle and aimed at her rear wheel. She suddenly moved off to one side, and the shot went wide.

  She turned around, aimed her gun at his head and pulled the trigger.

  The gun clicked. She pressed the trigger a few times, rage building up in her every movement. She was out of bullets.

  Melbourne aimed his rifle once more and fired.

  While he had one hand on the rifle, Danielle hit the brakes. She skidded to a stop, and he shot past her. As he did, she slammed the butt of her gun into his face.

  Melbourne lost his grip on his rifle – he could hear it hanging from his wrist by its strap, banging against the ground, striking him in the leg – but kept his motorcycle upright. But she accelerated up to him again and he took another hit. The pain was strong enough that he almost lost control of his speeding vehicle. He moved his motorbike further off to one side, separating himself from her.

  She flashed him a wicked smile.

  He smiled back. Then swerved his bike into hers.

  Her smile faded as she struggled to keep her bike under control.

  He pulled back, then hit her again.

  As she struggled to take back control Melbourne caught the swinging rifle. The barrel was full of dirt and possibly bent. It would be suicide to fire it again.

  So he reached over and shoved it into the spokes of her rear wheel.

  She let out a scream as she was catapulted off her seat, slamming hard on the dirt road. Melbourne hit the brakes and got off his bike.

  Danielle lay on the ground, her forehead scratched and her lower lip bleeding. He walked up to her. “Danielle, it’s over — ”

  She suddenly kicked him hard in the face, right where she had hit him earlier with her gun.

  Melbourne let out a scream and held his hands to his face.

  When he could see again, she was just shoving a clip home into her gun. He jumped on top of her and grabbed the hand with the gun in it. They struggled for some time, tugging and pulling, before she kneed him in the stomach and punched him in the face.

  Melbourne rolled off her. She struggled to get to her feet and cocked the gun. At the sound of the slide, he was back up on his feet. She let a shot, then two, then three.

  Melbourne ducked each time as the bullets whizzed past his head, smashing into the tree behind him.

  “Stop!”

  A shot rang out, barely missing his left ear.

  He raised his arms. “Danielle, enough!”

  Fräulein Doktor stood a few metres from him; her cold, blue eyes had never shown so much rage. With her hair a wreck, her clothes torn, an earring missing, her face dirty from the struggles and explosions she had witnessed during the Allied assault, she looked much different from the Danielle he had met at that godforsaken club not too long ago. She held her ground, the gun levelled at Melbourne.

  “Danielle, just stop,” he said. “You don’t need to do this.”

  She did not flinch.

  “Look.” He lowered his arms. “The Danielle I met was different from Fräulein Doktor, someone sweet, and caring. I know she’s there somewhere, hidden inside of you. I don’t know what they’ve done to you, but you can turn this around. I know the pain you feel for your loss.”

  “You have no idea what you are talking about,” she said, slowly.

  “I know you lost him, and you cared for him, your future husband. But what you’ve done, and what you’re doing, won’t bring him back.”

  “No, Melbourne, you really have no idea what you’re talking about. After all I went through growing up, after all the pain I had to endure, he was a light in a world of darkness.” Her hand began shaking. “And you bastards took him away from me. You don’t know pain, Melbourne. You don’t know real loss. You!” she screamed, “don’t know suffering!”

  “Danielle, I’ve lost friends in this war. We all have. But killing me, killing every Englishman you come across, isn’t going to bring him back.” He walked toward her slowly, his hand extended.

  “I wish I could find my Heinrich still alive just as you have found your brother.”

  “Now, come on, put that gun down, please I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Come on, put it down.”

  He placed a few fingers on her gun that was still aimed at him. Carefully, he placed his entire hand over it and gently pushed it down. She let him do it, until the gun was pointed to the ground. A tear rolled down one cheek as
she dropped the weapon on the dirt.

  “Come now.” Melbourne placed his arms around her.

  She buried her face in his shoulder as more tears streamed down. Melbourne held her tight as the two of them stood still.

  “You’ll be all right, Danielle. I promise. It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “No.”

  A loud, sudden gunshot rang out, echoing amongst the trees that surrounded them.

  She looked up at this face. “No, it won’t,” she said. “But revenge sure as hell makes me feel better.”

  Melbourne let go of her and took a few steps back. She held a small pistol in her hand, the one she had tucked behind her in her belt. It was smoking.

  He looked down at the left side of his stomach. A patch of blood began spreading on his shirt. He placed a hand over it and felt the warm liquid on his fingers.

  Time stood still.

  Danielle placed the gun back in its place and picked up the other pistol lying on the ground. He looked up at her expecting to see her icy cold eyes staring back. But it wasn’t like that. She seemed upset.

  The pain was unbearable. He fell to his knees, pressing his wound with both hands. He felt his heart almost beat out of his chest as a feeling of wooziness began settling in. Stars began appearing before his eyes and a loud ringing formed in his ears.

  Danielle moved back towards her motorcycle and picked it up from the ground. Jumping in the seat, she turned the motor back on and looked back at Melbourne, letting out a sigh.

  “So long, darling,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She hesitated a moment, then sped off down the dirt road looking back only once.

  Melbourne fought hard to breathe. He fell down on his back as his vision began to slow turn hazy. He could hear the sound of his breath loud and clear in his head, the movement of his chest moving up and down, struggling to keep its rhythm.

  He moved his hand in front of his face and saw that it was completely covered in blood. He shifted his gaze towards the tall trees, their leaves, bright green. The sky was just beyond them, patches of blue shyly making way through the foliage, the solitary specks of white clouds floating freely in its vastness. It was a gentle distraction knowing he was going to be dead in the next thirty seconds.

  The scenery before him began getting blurry, confused.

  He shifted his focus to the sound of nature surrounding him, the birds, the insects, the moving leaves. He closed his eyes and let out one long final breath.

  Slowly, he let go.

  LIII

  Count Wolfgang von Krommel made his way alone through the thick woods, stumbling and limping. The barrage of enemy fire from the airplane squadron had left him in tatters. His uniform ripped in various places showed wounds and rashes from shrapnel and bullets as blood stains gave some colour to his monochromatic clothes. The black leather eye patch, safely secured to his head, had been lost somewhere during his escape; his milky white eye, now exposed for the first time to weather, hurt under the sunlight.

  But none of it really mattered. He could be tortured, bruised, mutilated, but none of that would touch his true pain.

  They had destroyed his creation, his dream.

  The anger inside him made him numb to his wounds. Years of experiments, trial and errors, plans and calculations, all to bring to life a marvel of technology, were now all gone. All gone. He had victory in his hands, but now everything was back to the state that it had been when he first thought of the idea, a dream, just a simple dream. He could have shown the world what his mighty nation was capable of. He could have ended the doubts, the show of force from the other puny countries and empires. He could have excelled where no other man had. Now it was going to take time to rebuild another wonder, years of sweat and blood. What was the Kaiser going to think?

  He thought of the officers who had run away from the battle scene. Imbeciles. He would take care of them when he got back to Berlin. Those stupid soldiers should have fought harder but he didn’t care, they were dead anyway. They got what they deserved.

  And those two spies? It was their fault this happened. Somehow, they managed to give off the exact time and location of the train at Cap Gris-Nez. It was that despicable Melbourne, that vile cockroach of the lowest kind who must have sounded the alarm to his friends. If that pile of manure was still alive he was going to have his head on a silver platter.

  They might have destroyed his dream, but they were not going to destroy his will to succeed. He had other plans stored away. More weapons. More wonders of technology that mankind had never witnessed before. The war was not over. He would return and finish what he had started.

  He walked for what seemed like hours. He was out of breath, thirsty, and tired but he kept going. Traversing labyrinths of bushes while staggering over twisted roots that lay on the ground like traps, he finally came upon a dirt road. There were fresh hoof prints on it. He stopped and listened. Voices.

  He made his way down the road until he saw the tower of a church not too far in the distance, poking out of from the surrounding trees. He quickly ripped off all his insignias and threw them away, including his ceremonial sabre. He would be safe at last.

  Coming out of the woods he walked into a quiet, picturesque little French town with only a few streets, a church, and some houses. He began limping through the lonely, desolate streets, with only dogs barking at him, until he found the town’s tavern.

  He stepped inside and scanned the surroundings. It was small but comfortable with maybe ten tables, three of which were filled at the moment. The day was too young for drinking, and the men sitting with tall glasses of beer were the kind you would find sitting there all day.

  The Count walked towards the bar and sat himself in one of the stools – slowly. Now that he was able to relax, he realised just how battered he had been. The barman, a large, rough man with a bushy moustache curled upwards at the end, was startled at the site of his new customer.

  “Rum, please, the stronger you’ve got,” said the Count in perfect French. All those years studying in the best schools in Paris while being beaten by those wretched nuns somehow paid off.

  “Sir… are you all right?”

  Von Krommel noticed he was staring at his dead eye. “I will be slightly better after my rum.”

  The barman poured a hearty glass of the brown liquid and passed it to the Count. “What happened to you?”

  Von Krommel took a big sip from his drink and flinched at how strong it was. He needed that.

  “My name is Gustav Moreau,” he said. “I am a colonel in the Fifth Army Corps. My regiment was attacked by German forces just north of here, close to Calais. We were decimated but I managed to escape. I need your help.” He took another long sip. “Where am I?”

  “This is the town of Audinghen, Sir.”

  “He’s wearing a German uniform!” said a drunken man behind him.

  He was prepared for the question. “Yes, yes, this is a German uniform. I stole it from a dead German soldier in the battlefield. It was the only way I was able to survive and make it here.”

  “Mon Dieu! They are in our home!” the barman said. “How can we help you, Sir? You seem wounded, you need a doctor. Bad luck though, he comes once a week. You should wait here for his arrival. It will be in just three days.”

  The Count tried to smile. “Excellent. Do you have rooms?”

  “I can find you one.”

  “That is most wonderful. You are so very kind, Sir. I will need some fresh clothes as well. These German uniforms stink.”

  The door to the tavern opened and a man in his seventies with a rifle strapped across his back walked in. He made his way to the bar and slapped the ripped insignias on the table.

  “Do these belong to you, Sir?” he asked.

  “Jerome,” the barman said, “this is Colonel Gustav Moreau of the Fifth Army Corps. His regiment was attacked by the Boche. A big battle, they are all dead. He made it out alive dressing as a German officer.”

&n
bsp; “The Boche?” Jerome asked.

  “At Calais,” the barman said.

  “I just came down from the north and heard airplanes from our allies downing a small contingent of Boche at Cap Gris-Nez. Something to do with a train. There was no big battle, no decimation. Actually, from what I heard, there were no French airplanes at all, and no ground troops, except for the Boche.”

  “Sir,” von Krommel said. “I know what I have seen. You must be talking about something else.”

  “My sources are quite good, Sir. They saw it all and I know what I’m talking about.”

  An awkward silence fell in the tavern.

  “If I may ask, where are you from?” Jerome asked.

  “Paris,” von Krommel answered.

  “Your accent doesn’t sound very Parisian.”

  The men sitting at the tables began standing up.

  “I was born in Paris, but I lived elsewhere.” Von Krommel took a hearty sip of his drink. Goddamn this Jerome bastard.

  “And where would that be?”

  Von Krommel slammed his glass on the counter. “What in the world are you insinuating, Sir? Do you know who you — ”

  “Sing us La Marseillaise,” Jerome said.

  Von Krommel stayed silent. The nuns had once tried to teach it to him, but he refused to learn.

  “Come on,” Jerome said. “Don’t be shy.”

  The Count looked around at the men before him. They stared at him, their gazes fixed intently on his face. He began humming the tune.

  “The words Colonel, the words,” Jerome said.

  Von Krommel began sweating. “Forgive me. I don’t feel too well. I have just stared death in the face and I would like — ”

  “Just the first few verses.”

  Count von Krommel stared at Jerome, the anger building up once more.

  The men sitting at the tables had moved closer to the scene. The barman, from under the counter, pulled out a pistol and laid it next to von Krommel’s drink.