The Aeronaut

by Bryan Young

  Finding my way to the mirror and wash-basin, I understood the look of horror on the woman’s face. I’d wiped the sweat from my face with my soiled hands, smearing the soldier’s blood across my worried brow, letting it drip down my features.

  I plunged my arms into the water in the washing bowl and began to scrub.

  Intellectualizing what I’d done, what the blood was, and what it represented, forced a guilty feeling in my stomach that came out as vomit…

  24

  That night was sleepless, full of fits and ghastly images dancing through my brain. It was like the night before Christmas, but instead of the Sugarplum Fairy, my head was filled with the Kaiser and his men were the presents I’d open the next day.

  I couldn’t decide what I’d felt more disgusted by: my suspicions about Sara, or the lives I’d ended so brutally the night before and what that might mean for the mission.

  Maybe that was the most frustrating part: I couldn’t tell if I even cared about the mission any longer. I just wanted to get out of there before they killed me. I didn’t want to break my promise to her, but I’d killed two Germans and surely they’d answer that with my blood. I had to get back to Sara. And to the bottom of the business with LeBeau.

  I found I couldn’t get out of bed, paralyzed with depression and despair. The oppressive feeling in my chest had, prior to that point, never been worse. Even in the hospital I could latch on to hope. But they were sure to find the bodies of those soldiers, and in the dark I was positive I’d left a trail of bloody bootprints leading right to the inn, up the stairs, and ending right outside my door.

  Hopeless.

  The firm, pounding knock at my door only confirmed my suspicions and forced a gasping gag from my throat.

  The echo of the last knock seemed to hang in the room in the absence of any other sound being made. It reverberated back and forth and I knew I didn’t want to answer. Clutching my blankets up over my shoulders, I wished I could hide beneath them, and make the whole day just pass me by.

  I always wonder what it was about blankets that conferred such feelings of safety. More than likely there were a pair of men out there, most likely with guns drawn, ready to splinter open the door with swift kicks, but somehow the comfort of the blankets made it seem manageable while I dreamt up a plan.

  The knock came again, louder this time, with more purpose.

  “Nien!” I shouted, hoping that speaking in German would scare whoever was on the other side of the door. Germans were no one to be trifled with here on the wrong side of the lines. “Nien!”

  The knocking stopped, and I could hear a muffled sigh from the other side of the wood.

  A moment passed and relief only came when I could at last hear the shuffling of feet heading away from my door. For all the distress it caused, it must have only been the old woman from the office checking up on me. How she made it all the way up the stairs was a mystery best left for another day.

  Weighed down with despair, I fought through it enough to rise. I’m not sure how the depression and anxiety could act like gravity, attracting me back down to the bed. Fighting it, I readied myself.

  After talking myself into action, I snuck out as best I could without encountering anyone. The old woman might have seen me, but the threat she posed was nothing next to the threat of being found out and tagged as a murderer and a spy.

  Cautiously taking a roundabout route to the meeting spot, I settled in on the café chair, ordered my espresso, and tried to think about anything other than dying and the threat of infidelity.

  The coffee was as bitter as I was becoming, but it was hot and warmed something in me. It was two tiny cups of jitter-inducing espresso later that Professor Jamert arrived, carrying a small, polished metal box just large enough to hold hundreds of data cards in a neat stack. It was padlocked at the front and unlabeled from what I could see.

  That my life was on the line for so small a trinket doubled the hopeless feelings. I wiped a wetness from my eyes and clenched my jaw, putting on my best neutral face.

  Jamert sat at the table next to mine, facing me, and placed the box down, never moving his left hand from the top of it. His coffee arrived quickly and he sipped at it.

  We each waited for the other to speak first.

  The stodgy old man blinked and raised the china espresso cup to his lips and slurped some of the steaming shot.

  He wouldn’t have brought it if he hadn’t been interested in negotiating. I had nothing to lose besides the obvious. “I see you’ve brought it. That’s good news.”

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” I couldn’t gauge his countenance. Was that disgust on his lips? Or simply exhaustion from the chase? Guilt from the defection?

  “And what is it you want from us?”

  “What else would one expect?”

  “I suppose it comes down to what I’m willing to offer?”

  “I suppose.”

  “And you’re sure? You don’t want to back out now?”

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “It’s always difficult,” I said, a bile forming in my words, “finding out how easy it is to give up what you once held so dear, isn’t it?”

  His face mottled white, shocked. But maybe it wasn’t me that shocked him, his eyes darted between me and a distant spot beyond me.

  “Hey, excuse me,” from behind us came an interrupting voice. The accent was decidedly American. “I couldn’t help but overhear you two fellows speaking English, but do you happen to be Americans?”

  “Belgian,” Jamert said, suddenly twice as nervous, “but my acquaintance here is an American.”

  “What a coincidence,” he replied. “Me, too. You fine gentlemen mind if I sit down here wit’ya?” He turned a chair around and straddled it, confidently folding his arms over the back of it.

  My eyes darted from the box, held tightly by Jamert, and the American seated directly next to him. Loudly and with a pretentious smirk, he sucked on a wad of chewing tobacco. Dragged across the left side of his face was an ugly scar, a wide trench of pink flesh.

  I resisted the urge to touch my own scar.

  Making no effort to hide his American roots, he wore a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a leather jacket, khakis, and it was all punctuated by a red, white, and blue Dodgers cap with their trademark ‘B.’ Or Robins. Or whatever the hell they were calling themselves these days. “So, you’re an American, too? Where ya from, sport?”

  Nervously, I coughed before answering with a simple, generic, “New York City.”

  “New York? Me too. I’m from Brooklyn myself.” He took a moment to spit a black stream of saliva into the gutter beyond the café’s boundaries. “It’s odd, seein’ you here. You don’t see too many of our boys on this side o’ the lines.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “What brought ya to Cambrai? ‘Cause I was thinkin’ to myself, I was thinkin’ what would the odds be that there’d be two Americans in a German occupied city? If it’d been a horse, I’d a made a million, right? Am I right?”

  “I suppose, so.” I coughed. “It does seem pretty unlikely.”

  “Unlikely? Hell, it seems pretty impossible.”

  “Impossible or not, here we are.”

  “Here we are, indeed.” The other American licked his lips, then spit into the street once more.

  Jamert’s eyebrows arched in confusion, his lips pursed as if to say something, to ask some question that would shed light on what was going on, but the American interrupted him before he could even begin. “You two fellas hear about the two Prussian boys who bought it in the street last night? That was some nasty business, I tell you what.”

  Jamert turned to the brash young man with a look of genuine concern pulling his features back, softening them. “I didn’t hear about it, no. And what of it?”

  “Just seems odd, is all. Odd and heartbreaking. Two o’ Germany’s finest, gutted 'n shot in the streets of a friendly city? It’s unnatura
l. Wait till their mothers find out.” He turned to me, locking his ice-blue eyes with mine. “And then we get two Americans in a place where the odds o’ finding even one is through the roof. Just seems like there’s a high incidence of probability flyin’ around these parts.”

  Ignoring the alarms ringing in my head and the fear bubbling up through my middle, I forced a shrug. “Stranger things have happened.”

  The American spit into the street again and offered a haunting laugh. Even through his jacket I could see his muscles bulging with tension, his knuckles turned white, clutching the top of the chair he sat in. His body language belied his demeanor: he still wore a comforting smile like a wolf in a lambskin.

  “So, what brings you to Cambrai, then?” I said, coldly.

  Jamert looked from me to him like he was watching a bout of lawn tennis.

  “Oh, this ‘n that. You know how it is. Business mainly. I’m meetin’ a man.” The American’s eyes never moved, they remained locked with mine.

  He was clearly better at this than I was.

  “What were you meeting about? I mean, that is, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His grin was coy, but the unblinking hatred in his eyes assured me of his menace. His body tightened further, like a snake coiling for a strike.

  Taking in a breath, I smiled my most disarming smile, “Not a bit. I was just being polite.”

  The American’s eyes slid sideways, taking in the sight of the Belgian traitor. “What about you, doc? What business has got ya here?”

  I could see the gears turning in Jamert’s head. Like the ones in that great computational engine they brought me to. Massive cogs and wheels, clicking clockwise, chewing through the facts. When the information in that great machine of his mind had been processed, he opened his mouth and spit out what answer he’d come up with, as indecipherable as one of the cards he carried in his tidy, little box. “It’s a lovely day today...”

  The solid rock of the American’s face drooped into panic, then quickly collected itself, tightening into fury. Then, he said with a dissonant mix of confusion and understanding, “...but it might be nicer in Munich.”

  Doctor Jamert’s eyes widened and his jaw slacked. His suspicions were confirmed.

  His head snapped in my direction, but I’d already flown from my chair and sent my fist straight for the proper German agent’s face. With surprise on my side, I followed through like a home run slugger, slamming one to the back stands at Ebbets Field.

  His face was solid like a brick wall, but gave way nonetheless. There was a crack of breaking teeth beneath my knuckles and he launched backwards, spiraling his arms wildly to catch himself before he hit the pavement.

  While the American slammed to the ground, Jamert and I shared a look, his features as confused and disconcerted as I felt. His mouth was agape, his eyes were wide with fear and puzzlement, his posture slumped into a defeated slouch. In that instant, we both knew what was next and both sets of our eyes turned to the precious box.

  Jamert’s left hand clutched it tighter and his right hand flew up to help protect it. I swept it away and snatched at the box myself. Instead of grasping it, I found my hands blocked by the Doctor’s own grip. I grabbed his hand at the wrist, squeezing tightly, and twisted it until he let go. He yelped in pain as I forced his arm back and used it to shove him backwards, tipping him over the end of his flimsy, metal café chair.

  He flailed, kicking up, trying to knock the table and, with it, the box, but I caught the thing just before it was out of my reach.

  Without looking back to see how Jamert and the angry American were faring in getting back to their feet, I sprinted away with no regard to what might be the right direction.

  25

  Every step I took through the streets shook with anxiety. Not just from being lost, but followed. The American was there, behind me, somewhere. The small box of data cards weighed heavy in my arms and I was positive every passing pair of eyes regarded me with suspicion.

  The box was a black mark, a scarlet letter. Everyone knew what was inside, they all knew what secret the cards held, and any one of them could spring into action to take them.

  Nowhere was I safe.

  Every clicking boot behind me was the American until I spied over my shoulder to see otherwise. I was the subject of every passing whisper.

  Never at any moment had I ever felt more like the focused center of the universe.

  I could still feel the American’s face giving way beneath my fist. I’d knocked him right in his stupid scar; it gave me something to aim at. The look of surprise on his face had been satisfying, but putting myself into his place, I could sense the rage he’d felt. He wasn’t so different from me, of course he’d be upset. If the tables were turned and he was the first to land a punch and escape with the cards, I’d be absolutely bloodthirsty. Knowing what I was capable of–flashing memories of the zeppelin navigator’s battered face and the Prussian boy’s blood assaulted me–I knew this American was capable of so much more.

  If he caught me, he’d almost certainly kill me.

  And where would Sara be then?

  Falling into LeBeau’s arms...

  Growling at myself, I could feel the engine roaring in my chest, my heart revving up with adrenaline. I was not going to let that happen. I would not break my promise. And LeBeau… well… he would never get his chance.

  After making my way through a maze of alleys and side passages, I made it back to my lodgings. There was no guarantee I hadn’t been followed, but I wasn’t thinking straight.

  Every step I took up the stairs to my room doubled the feeling of a presence behind me, a phantom just over my shoulder, ready to reach out and grasp the back of my throat at any time and squeeze the life right from me.

  It wasn’t until I found myself back in the safety of my room that I could breathe again. I shut the door quickly behind me, bracing it closed with my back, taking in deep breaths of panic, trying my hardest to slow the prodigious beating of my heart.

  Looking down, I found part of the problem: the box. I’d held it too tightly, pressed up against my chest with my left arm. Letting loose my death grip, I hadn’t realized how much of the tension I felt was the pressure of the box, embedded into my skin. So driven by madness and fear of discovery, it had become a part of me, an extension of my body that I simply hadn’t thought about until then.

  Exhaling and slouching further against the door, I caught sight of the paper delivery on the bed.

  Putting my ear to the door, I made sure no sound could be heard from the hallway. Not a single sound echoed from the outside. No one seemed to be there, not a soul was ready to pounce into my room. I double-checked the lock and the chain. Confident I was as secure as I could possibly be, I leapt for the bed.

  I yearned to see the letter bearing Sara’s neat handwriting, but the penmanship on this envelope was terse, consisting of one simple letter.

  “P.”

  Tearing it open at the top, I yanked the contents from the envelope: a single half sheet of paper folded over itself. The message was simple, one sentence telling me to do nothing more than wait.

  It was easy for them to tell me to wait. They weren’t the ones hiding for their lives behind the lines. Or maybe they were. But they hadn’t just brained a German agent and stolen the most important technological advancement the enemy could ever conceive to change the course of the stalemate of the Great War.

  I had and I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence.

  Crumpling the joke of a note, I went back to the bed for the other note I was sure to find there: the letter from my dear Sara. She promised she’d write. She’d got one letter through, and another message besides. It stood to what little reason I had left that there would be some word from her. Rummaging across the bed, rifling through the sheets, blankets, and pillows with urgency, I couldn’t seem to find it.

  A terrible thought formed: perhaps there was no letter from her. />
  Searching again confirmed the doubts.

  Why would she have not written? She’d promised.

  It wasn’t as though whomever had been delivering her messages before had been delayed. They had arrived, safe, sound, and right on time.

  But where was my Sara?

  Tearing the mattress from its perch, revealing the bare metal skeleton that held it up, I continued my search.

  But there was nothing.

  As I rummaged through the room, so too did I rummage through my mind, wondering about any clue she may have left to explain the lack of my precious love letter. She knew how little I wanted to be here, and she was well aware how missing a day would affect my spirits.

  That’s when my old friend’s name, tapped out in block letters on the back of that message from home, floated through the green haze in my mind.

  LeBeau.

  My cheeks flushed as the blood of rage and hurt pumped up through my heart and into my head. My hands shook and my eyes grew blurry.

  I might have been crying when I finally comprehended the sentence my instincts told me was the truth: she didn’t write because she thought I was dead and was finding comfort with LeBeau.

  After all, I hadn’t been able to write her. It would have been easy to forget me. I was dropped behind enemy lines. It was a suicide mission. Of course I was dead.

  It was all there in the message from home the day before. He’d come to see her, why else would he? I’d never seen her show anything but love for anyone. How hard would it have been for LeBeau to comfort her in my death?

  It wasn’t difficult to imagine them together.

  LeBeau had an easy charm with women and a light touch. His grip around my Sara would be strong, his fingers clasped behind her, holding her close to him. He’d have wine on his breath, the same red vin he’d have plied her with. I could almost feel his breath on her neck and his hands pawing at her rear, pulling her bosom against his chest.

  Shutting them out of my mind, I did my best to worry about myself. That was all worrying about the closeness of a shave when the neck was to be cut from the head.