The German's were huddled close to each other, for body heat Ben supposed. They turned in unison with expression of disbelief, as if perhaps they were still dreaming and didn't believe the shadows moving rapidly toward them.
Europe trudged ahead, bolo knife in hand and plunged the blade into one of the German soldier's belly, falling onto him.
Recalling that night in St. Nazarene, Ben unsheathed his bolo and sunk it into the throat of the second German. The soldier gazed with already glassy eyes, glaring into Ben's. His wound open, pouring and soaking into both uniforms in what looked like black ooze in the moonlight.
The third German responded for dutifully, springing from his position and sinking a bayonet into the gut of Sgt. Niblank.
Sissle aimed his rifle and shot the soldier point head, exploding the German's skull. He slumped down, unsure if he was dead or not, and fell face first into the gore painted mud.
Renfield held Niblank's stomach, that blackish blood seeping between his fingers. "He needs a medic," he nearly shouted.
Retrieving his bloodied bolo, Europe turned, that ravenous glare fading rapidly at the scene. "Okay," he said, calling to the two Frenchmen who were keeping watch. "Time to go."
The Frenchmen nodded silently and led the way back across No Man's Land. Sissle helping Renfield carry the injured Niblank. Ben looked the rear, glancing behind them every now and then, expecting to find a mob of angry German troops and was surprised each time to find nothing behind them but fog and mud and barbed wire and the random firing of some machinegun.
Not a moment later, as they climbed down that crooked wood ladder, distant flashes brightened the dark night. Whumps and whistles broken the quiet. The shrieking impacts landed in front of the trenches, flinging mud and dirt and rock. Ben was reminded of the storms onboard the Pocahontas, the terrible gale of the storm at sea. For a while, he thought the world itself was opening to swallow them whole as ten thousand mortar rounds rained down upon them
Chapter 15
Word of Europe's little raid spread rapidly. Niblank survived his wounds, but he would not return to the war. Ben had waited for the moment when Master Sergeant Barnes would descend upon them, he and Renfield, and perhaps even Sissle, though with Europe always nearby that happening was very doubtful. Even Barnes and his temper knew better than to come down on an officer, and especially that officer's friends. Instead, when Barnes did approach, he came with unexpected news. Captain Fish's company, their company, had orders to move northeast toward the Afrique Subsector—a stretch of land along the Aisne River, zigzagging through the Argonne Forest where the flashes and whumps of the heavy guns were the loudest. As it turned out, according to intelligence, Europe's little raid had pushed back the German line, deep into the Argonne Forest.
Overcome by the news, Ben rushed through the thin paths between the tents. He found Europe sitting beside a crate turned table with a nearly empty bottle of red wine. Sissle sat across from him, equally as stoic.
"Sir—Jim, have you heard? We're moving out against the Boche. We leave tonight."
Europe refilled his foggy looking glass, offering the bottle to Sissle who dismissed the invitation with a hand.
Ben stood, nearly dancing in his boots.
Europe didn't look up. He sipped and drank with a queer expression on his face.
"Did you hear me, sir? We're moving—"
"I heard you, Private Harker." Europe took a swig and slammed his empty glass back on to the makeshift table.
Ben stiffened. "Sorry, sir...I..." he was a lost for words. He'd never seen Jim like this. So obviously upset about something, angry even.
Europe rubbed his forehead and glanced at Ben apologetically. "I'm sorry...after last night..." he trailed off, looking back into his forlorn glass.
Ben frowned, uncertain where his once idol was going with this. "Sir?"
Europe shrugged. "I suppose after last night I saw about as much of the war as I care to see...and now we've got orders, on account of us and our little frolic with death, that we are to advance on the enemy." He laughed, more to himself Ben supposed. "Well, we found everything last night that we've heard existed out there. I'm no coward, but the next time I jump from that jumping off point, I swear it would be be under official orders and not my own juvenile dreams of warfare and glory—to hell with glory, I'd just rather play Sweet Emelina, My Gal. And here we are...with General Pershing's blessing to be reckless once again."
* * *
In the Spring of 1918, the Rattlers of New York marched toward a sea of shells. Great burning orange flames erupted throughout the night, casting strange shadows on the desolate landscape. The closer they got to the German line, or what was supposed to be the German line, shapes took form in the mud and mire. Articles of clothing, bits of uniform, and discarded lumps of bone and tissue, left to rot as the Boche continued to fall back—terrified, or so Ben assumed, of the Harlem Hellfighters slowly coming toward them. And worst of all were the rats. Large, black-furred, red-eyed rats scurried along the trenches, swarming in places. Almost as if driven by some unseen force.
Renfield kicked at one that got to close to his boots. "I'll be glad when this war is over, and we can be rid ourselves of this horrible pit and these hellish beasts."
Watching the rat scurry to join the horde of scavengers, Ben said, "At this rate, the war will be over soon. Any farther against the line and we'll be on the other side of the forest."
Renfield smiled at that. "Mina wrote me, did I tell you?"
"No." Ben shook his head, taking his gaze away from the swarming pests that clawed over the wall and disappeared into the night. One looked to have a piece of flesh between its yellow incisors and its brethren were giving chase.
Renfield pulled out the letter but did not give it to Ben. He gestured at it with his finger. "She wrote, said Harlem wasn't the same without us, but that they're hearing good news about what we're doing, the President has even made a stand against lynching—especially in the south, she says." He smelled the paper before tucking it away. "Can you imagine, what we're doing here is making an impact back home?"
Ben smiled and reached out, firmly patting Renfield's shoulder. "And we'll make it home soon enough—trust me, this war will be over soon."
"I hope you're right." Renfield felt for his pipe. He lit it and took a long lazy drag.
"Enjoy it while you can, my friend. Tonight, we're up on the listening post." Ben watched his friend's expression of joy melt away. Being on the front was bad enough, with the whistling shelling exploding around you nearly every day. Machinegun fire. Rats. Mud. And bouts of extreme boredom juxtaposed with quick moments of exhilaration. But at least they could endure all that from the relative safety of the trench. Out in the listening posts, there was no safety—relative or otherwise. You had to crawl in the dark and pray no one opened fire on you until you reached an impact hole dug up from those big guns. There you lay and watched the dark for signs of movement—of the Boche sneaking up on the line.
"Great," Renfield sighed, handing his corncob pipe to Ben.
Ben took it and chewed on the end, watching a group of shadows move quickly towards them along the trench channel. As their faces came into view, he beamed. "Jim, are you joining us tonight?" He stopped short as two other men appeared with him, one was obviously French, but the other man he had never seen before.
Europe did not reciprocate Ben's enthusiasm, in fact he looked poised between nausea and anger. "Looks that way. We'll be taking this fella with us as well," he said, gesturing with his head to stranger next to him, keeping his voice low.
Huddled next to Europe was an older man, white, with a large bushy beard. His cheeks were hollow as Sissle's or even Renfield's, but his eyes, his eyes had a gleam Ben had only seen once before in his life, a seriousness he'd only seen in his father's eyes. Instantly, he didn't like him. Maybe it was just the eyes, that likeness this stranger had with father, or perhaps it was more. Perhaps it was what was missing. There was no milit
arization, no uniform he could see. He knew the French were laxed on professionalism, but this was beyond even that. He wore a thick trench coat that was flayed around the collar. He had tall boots that reached all the way to his thighs. And on his head sat a bowler hat with a short plume stuck in the cuff.
"And who is he—" Renfield started to say, also taken back by the man's strange appearance.
"Professor Georg Van Helwing, I appreciate you allowing me to tag along," the older man thrust out his large withered hand.
Ben regarded the gesture, unsure what to think. One thing he knew for certain... "Not French?"
Helwing grinned. "Thankfully not."
"Is that accent..." Renfield started.
"Prussian," Helwing said curtly. "But I'm of no affiliation to the Central Powers, you have my assurances." He retrieved his hand, seemingly unoffended.
Ben looked to Europe, the words still glued behind his tongue.
Europe shrugged. "Orders from Captain Fish, all the way from Colonel Hayward and General Pershing from what Siss tells me."
"But why?" Finally, Ben's tongue began to sputter.
"Archaeological interest," Helwing interjected.
"Archaeological? Out here?"
Helwing beamed, though Ben couldn't detect any measure of amusement, more like madness. "Indeed," he said.
"Sir, are we really taking this Boche out for a stroll in No Man's Land?" Renfield quipped.
"I am no Boche." Helwing frowned, his brown eyes burned into Renfield. "My parents come from the Kingdom of Prussia, and before that my ancestors were but simple potato farmers from a humble village in Harsz. I left home as a young man to study abroad. I have degrees from Zurich, Oxford, and Göttingen. I currently hold professorship at Cambridge. I have no interest in politics nor of war. You have nothing to fear from me, young man. I'm no spy. I simply wish to tag along and observe."
Ben glanced at Renfield who looked more confused than anything else. He turned back to Helwing, curious more than ever of who this man really was. "Observe what?" he asked. "All we're doing is laying down in some pit and keeping an ear for trouble."
Helwing gazed at Ben for a moment, perhaps sizing Ben as much as Ben was sizing him. He gestured with his head over the wall of the trench. "Near your listening post is an old stone structure. I would like to get a look at it before...well, we all know what war does to things of antiquity."
"Before this structure is destroyed," Ben said thoughtfully, more or less to himself.
"Indeed," Helwing nodded, his thin lips curling into a crooked smile beneath his beard.
Renfield snickered. "Okay Professor Georg Van Helwing, it's your funeral."
* * *
From the jumping off point, the three soldiers and a non-combatant professor made their way across No Man's Land to the very edge of the Argonne Forest. Less than a few city-sized blocks lay between them and the seemingly endless flat earth, pitting and scarred from the decade of endless bombardment. For what felt like hours, they low-crawled toward the designated crater, freshly made by a German mortar no more than a day before. Ben took point with Europe in the rear rolling out as they went the wire for the radio. Several times they had to stop so that Ben could snap sections of barbed wire. Slowly. Quietly.
Reaching the crater, they slid into it, one by one until finally they each lay on their backs, panting as silently as possible.
Glancing over, Ben could see Helwing already inching on his elbows to the edge of the pit, glancing around, attempting no doubt to spot whatever structure he was looking for. Renfield and Europe stayed where they were, listening for signs of Boche movement perhaps, or maybe simply passing the time with their own internal thoughts. That was a bad habit to get into out here, to get lost in one's own head.
Rolling over, Ben inched toward Professor Helwing. The old man gazed unblinking out toward the forest with his tongue poking between his lips.
Helwing inhaled quickly in a low gasp. He reached into his bag and retrieved what looked like a spyglass. He put it to his eye, gazing in one single direction.
"How can you see anything out there with that?" Ben whispered.
Helwing kept watch silently, like a stone statue, he did not move.
Ben peered out into the endless black, only able to make out the tops of pine and a few tall trunks that were illuminated by the moon. He glanced behind him, both Renfield and Europe looked asleep. Turning back, he shook his head. "I can't see nothing."
"Here." Helwing handed Ben the spyglass.
Taking it, Ben marveled briefly over the craftsmanship, the ornate design, and what looked like religious symbols craved into the plating. He put the lens to his eyes and nearly yelped. He took it away, looking at Helwing with an expression of "how?"
Helwing nodded. He leaned closer to Ben, gesturing to the spyglass. "Specialty made, there are chemicals in the lens that are rhodopsin—they absorb photons and perceive light. My own design, of course."
Ben again mouthed his amazement.
Helwing pointed out to the area he was looking. "See?"
Holding the spyglass up, Ben peered out to the spot. Several yards away, between a band of pines and oaks, crumbling stones came into view. Looking harder, he could see more, a structure of sorts, almost as if it were...
"...is that a church?" Ben asked, whispering perhaps louder than he should.
Helwing nodded, "I believe so, according to my research the structure dates to the early 16th century. One of the first Lutheran churches."
Ben looked again, tracing what remained of the foundation. He shook his head, amazed still by the contraption he held in his hand. Handing the spyglass back, he asked, "Is that why you wanted to come out with us tonight, to get a look at an old church?"
Helwing took the spyglass and pressed it against his eye, squinting with the other as he peered back toward the dilapidated stone building. "More or less," he whispered.
Ben frowned, unsure what the professor meant by that.
He started to ask and stopped.
An oval canister rolled between them and Renfield and Europe resting at the bottom of the crater. All four men stared at the object.
Gas erupted.
Even in the dark, Ben could see the yellowish-orange plumes.
"Gas! Gas! Gas!" someone yelled, Renfield or Europe, Ben couldn't tell.
He grasped for his mask, clipped to his bandoleer. Holding his breath and shutting tight his eyes he fought to pull the straps over his head. Fixing it on, he pulled the cord, tightening the mask and closing off outside air. Daring, he slowly opened his eyes. The entire crater was fogged with mustard looking mist. Shadows danced and squirmed on the ground.
"Renfield!"
Ben rolled to the bottom of the pit, felt around for the metal canister, wishing he'd worn gloves, feeling his hands begin to blister and burn. About to pull away, he found it and heaved it away into the night.
Slowly, the fog began to clear.
Europe lay with his mask partially on.
"Jim?"
Nothing.
"Jim!" Ben shook him.
Groans croaked from the musician's lips.
Exhaling, Ben smiled within his mask. He turned around.
The yellowish smog was nearly thinned out now.
And both Helwing and Renfield were gone.
Chapter 16
Ben wasn't sure where he was going. With one last look at his friend Jim Europe, he was up and over the five-foot-deep crater. Through the pitch black he ran, towards the thick pines forest of the Argonne, he was sure of at least that much. Off in the distance, flashes brightened the night followed soon after but thick whump sounds. Another bombardment. From which side, he couldn't tell. Whatever was going on out there wasn't what was going right here. Right here Renfield was gone, his best friend. Was he taken? Had the Boche snuck up on them during the gassing? Not likely. If they had, how did they manage to take Professor Helwing? And without making a sound?
But if not that?
Maybe Renfield lost his nerve.
His thoughts had been on home a lot since they had left the mucky ports of St. Nazarene. Long hours imagining a life with Mina. Did the gas push him over the edge? Send him running off—scared he'd never see her again?
And of Professor Helwing...nothing made sense. Could the Professor have run after Renfield? Or vice versa? Whatever the case may be, Ben had to find them. Had to.
Through the trees he ran, ignoring the screams and whistling flying overhead. Ignoring the vibration underfoot as the earth rumbled and shook.
He ran.
And ran.
Stopping, he bent over, breathing hard and heavy, gulping mouthfuls of cold sulfuric air. Glancing around, he could hear another sound. Beneath the rumbling and thumping, there was something else, a scuttling and squeaking. He looked down. Pushing up on the dead pines and leaves, rats swarmed around him, past him, herding down a path between the foliage. Hundreds. Thousands of red eyed black furred vermin. Mesmerized by this strange sight, he followed, slowly at first, and then building into a paced trot unit finally he came upon the structure, the aged and worn stones half covered in moss and dirt, scarred with rain pits, and worn away by never ceasing time. The same place Helwing had shown him through his spyglass contraption. At the foundation, the rats poured into a borrowing.
Ben gazed at the ancient church. Most of the building had crumbled and fallen inside itself. But a good section looked to be intact. Through where a stain glass window would have been, a soft glowing light, like that of a torch, penetrated the night.
Curious—and still desperate to find his friend, Ben crept toward an archway that leant dangerously to one side still held together by a few stubborn stones.
Quietly he went in.
By reflex or otherwise, he wasn't quite sure, but he unsheathed his bolo knife and kept it close to his chest. Further in, he could hear a sound. Angry talk, Helwing perhaps. And another, a raspy voice.
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