Michel was a little lopsided as he walked a focused amble to the bar, his head watching the ground.
Henry called out, “Michel, I don’t need one! Mine’s still going!”
“I’ll get ya one Henry. Don’t worry.”
Ernie watched Michel. “You boys have been putting the hard yards in. Why the hell not, hey?”
“Yep,” said Henry, leaning back in his chair, “hard yards, hard yards. Someone’s got to do it. So what are you doing here, Ernie?”
“I told you fellas I had a pick up here in O-ray-on.”
“Oh, right,” Henry nodded, though he didn’t have any recollection of a conversation where such a fact had been divulged.
“More to the point, Hen, what are you doing here? I thought you lot were headed straight into the mountains? If I’d known you were only coming here, I could have given you a lift.”
Henry lit up at Ernie’s comment. “Well, that’s a right old story!”
Henry gulped his beer, suddenly thirsty. “See, there’s this P.O.W. camp about an hour west. And so—”
“You mean Vitrimont,” said Ernie.
“Yeah, yeah that’s it.”
“Big outbreak there today. It’s all over town. Stuffed me right up, too. All outbound trucks closed off till they get it under control. Anyhow, sorry mate, go on.”
“Well, we were riding along, not a worry in the world, when we saw this fire. We decided we better take a look, see if we can put it out. So Michel just about killed us getting there, because there was no road. We’re going over these rocks and trees and at one stage we completely tipped it up. I got back up and saw this prisoner escaping, right? And there’s bloomin’ buildings burning and people shooting, so we agree that Michel should take the bike and get him, and I’ll see what can be done inside.”
Henry paused to wet his lips. Michel returned and put three beers down on the table, spilling some from each.
“Off to take horse to trough. Horse to trough …” said Michel, walking away.
Henry started again. “So Michel motored off and I’ve run to get inside and see about them prisoners and the fire. And there’s this plantation, and I’m going through it and then I see this hole and I started down it to take a look. And—”
A commotion raised at the other side of the tavern. Henry and Ernie turned and looked. Michel had careened into a man and was taking a dim view of his failure to give way.
“Come on, then! Take a shot. Gutless. Gutless!” yelled Michel in French.
He may have been staggering drunk, but that did not strip Michel of his strength. He thrust his hand out, palm open, and hit the man’s chest with the considerable force of a trained savateur. Ernie and Henry heard the sound from the other side of the room. The man slammed into the ground, and instantly two others came to his defense.
“Come on!” yelled Michel, beckoning them on, staggering into his fighting stance.
“Crap,” muttered Ernie. He sprang from his chair and was by Michel’s side in a few bounds. The two men abused Michel in French—Ernie did not understand a word of it, nor a word of Michel’s slurred entreaties to a fist-fight.
The presence of the massive Australian was enough to make the men think twice, though Michel was not to be dissuaded.
“Come on, Mick. Reckon that’ll do. I like a blue as much as the next bloke, but this is ridiculous, two nights in a row,” said Ernie.
“Hell with them! Off with their heads!” called Michel.
“Sorry fellas, don’t mind him, just a bit excited. Come on, Mick.”
Ernie began manhandling Michel out the door. Michel was a well-made and strong man, but his efforts were feeble against Ernie. He leaned against the Australian’s bulk and called out to the French soldiers: “Gutless rat fuckers!”
“Ease up, Mick, Jesus. Ease up. She’ll be right. That’s it, come on, out we go.”
Henry downed his beer and set to work on Michel’s. He had every intention of leaving with Michel and Ernie, but he hated the idea of wasting good beer when it was such a precious war-time commodity.
“Henry!” called Ernie. He had Michel halfway out the entrance.
Henry ran over with the half-full beer that had been Michel’s, and Ernie’s full one. Ernie looked at Henry a little disapprovingly.
“Well, I can’t leave ’em. They’re full!” said Henry.
Ernie reached out and grabbed his beer. His other hand kept Michel from re-entering the pub. “Fair point, Hen. Good work, mate.”
Ernie handed the empty glass back to Henry, then reached into his pocket and came up with a few notes.
“Here, go get us a bottle of plonk. Whiskey, or whatever they’ve got. Meet us outside.”
“Right,” Henry nodded. He charged the last of Michel’s beer and skipped to the bar.
♦
Ernie took them to a flat piece of turf on the outskirts of Oraon to set up camp. He could have been snug in a bed, billeted by the Oraon reserve garrison, but Ernie was not a man for whom walls made much sense. He had grown up in the wide open, and it was where he was most comfortable.
The night air that seeped down from the near mountains carried a crisp chill. Henry was one to feel the cold more than some, but a little campfire sufficed to warm his outsides while the brandy did for his insides. He and Ernie drank from Ernie’s grubby canteen cups. Michel had been drinking, too—straight from the bottle—till he collapsed.
Henry looked up at the mountains. In the moonlight, they reminded him of the mountains illustrating fairy-tales. Places of magic. With the moon and mountains and fire and brandy, Henry came over all wistful.
“Perfect bloody night,” he declared. “Perfect.”
Ernie gave the comment some breathing space, then said, “Yeah, not bad, Hen. Not bad at all.”
19
The cold of the night could not dim the fire that now burned inside Kranz. First exiled, then imprisoned, now free and returned to the fold. No man knew how that precise combination of liberty and vindication felt. It was his, and his alone, to savor.
He had been walking for the last three hours, having abandoned the motorbike about five miles back to make sure he was not detected. He now stood just within the treeline separating Vitrimont forest from cleared farmland. From his vantage on the crest of a hill, he could see the lights of Oraon.
He had not expected to make the thirty miles to Oraon in one day. It allowed more time to prepare. Tonight, as the town slept, he would scout somewhere to set up camp. Thanks to the Frenchman who had returned his countryman’s motorcycle, he had blankets to keep him warm.
He had two nights to surveil the munitions factory. He needed to establish how many guards and workers were on-site and determine all possible entrance and exit points. If the opportunity presented, he would infiltrate the factory and establish his options for detonating the explosives, perhaps even recover some ingredients that he could use for that purpose.
But he would not destroy the factory, not yet, for his instructions had been clear. It must be destroyed on the last night of March. It gave him two nights to plan. Two nights of freedom and purpose. He knew they might be his last.
20
Ernie was gone by daybreak, but back not long after. Michel and Henry were up when he returned. They had kindled the fire.
“He’s alive, then,” said Ernie, getting out of his truck.
“Of course. The day is wasting. There is no point sleeping through life,” said Michel.
“You were doing a pretty good job of it last night. Snore! At one stage I thought a wombat was raping your face,” said Ernie. “I turned over and saw it was just Henry.”
“What! No, I bloody well—”
“Henry, he jokes. Where did you leave that famous English sense of humor?” said Michel.
“I like a laugh as much as the next chap. Just because it’s not about men doing other things to men doesn’t make me queer.”
“One must laugh when he can, Henry,” said Michel.
<
br /> “Christ, Mick, you’ve changed your tune. I thought we were in for the Maze-on-Carts all over again,” said Ernie. He eased his frame down onto the ground near the fire and put on a billy of water.
“If you cannot drink away grievances during a war, Ernie, one may as well be German!”
“Fair enough, mate. From what Henry tells me, yesterday was quite the day.”
“Yes, but that was yesterday. Gone. Forget yesterday. Today is fresh and new and good. I feel the joie de vivre—you say the same thing, no? It’s going to be a good day.”
“Not even hungover, by the looks of you,” said Ernie.
“I do not do hangovers. A stomach of steel.”
“Cast iron gut. Think that’s what you’re looking for,” said Ernie. “Anyway fellas, I checked in with the Frenchies. No chance of getting my load before noon. So how far away, driving-wise, is this joint you’re going to in the mountains?”
Michel thought a second. “I have never traveled the trail by vehicle, only by horse. A vehicle would be faster, but not much. I would say two hours. The road is not so easy as down here.”
“So if we shoot off now, I could have you blokes up there and be back about one. Right on time to pick the load up and get going.”
“Are you sure? It is very generous, Ernie,” said Michel. “Besides, the army might not appreciate you using their precious fuel in such a way.”
“I say screw the army. They can put it on my tab. Truth is, mate, I’ve been up here maybe a dozen times now, and still haven’t managed to see the mountains up close. Be good to go for a drive, tell the old man when I get back home. Not that he’ll have a clue what I’m on about. Wouldn’t know a mountain if it poked him in the ass.”
“Ah, it is flat in Australia,” said Michel.
“What? You don’t have mountains in Australia?” said Henry.
“Not in Western Australia, mate. Hills, got some of them. Here and there we call the odd hill a mountain, but our mountains would be embarrassed when they saw the big bastards in Europe,” Ernie said.
“Ernie, can you spend a few days? It is really beautiful up there. You would like it. And there is lots of wine to be drunk where we are headed, and good home-cooked food,” said Michel.
Ernie contemplated a moment. “Tempting, mate, and I appreciate the offer. But I can’t. I need to be at Metz this afternoon, and Amiens the day after.”
Ernie stood up and brushed himself off. “Righto, then, if we’re going, we’re going. Get your stuff together.”
Michel smiled. “Ernie, we have no stuff. I lost everything yesterday in the accident. We are ready.”
21
Rabinaud Valley appeared flat and wide, hemmed to the east and north by white-tipped mountains and to the west by a long range. It formed a basin of rock broken only by the narrow valley running to the south-west, from where the men had come, and a second valley cutting east.
The lower reaches were forested, not so densely as to block the light, allowing green and light-brown grasses to form an unbroken patchwork across the valley’s breadth. Grading up to the mountainsides the trees gave way to shrubs, and shrubs and grasses gave way to lichens and weathered rock. Dozens of tiny streams and brooks trickled with snowmelt and water that was slowly released by sodden ground during the drier months. The streams weaved down the slopes, feeding clear pools that consolidated into ever larger waterways which eventually joined the River Meuse in Oraon.
Central to everything in the valley—which in geomorphic terms was more of a bowl—was Rabinaud homestead. Smoke billowed from the chimney. Built of big rough blocks of hewn stone and settled amid an undulation, it looked like it had always been there and always would. There were a few acres of vines to its west, carefully tied and manicured, with two large buildings nearby where grapes were turned into much-sought-after wine. Sheep and goats grazed paddocks and open pasture to the east. Though horses had been part of the estate’s business before the war, the stock had been requisitioned and now a single prancing horse and her mule companion occupied a field near a stable and barn.
Maddy first heard the truck while it was almost a mile away. Eventually she caught sight of it. Since the war began, only two jalopies made their way to Amer Ami each year to drop off equipment and transport wine to Oraon, and neither of them wore the green of army canvas. Other visitors oftentimes showed unannounced, but they always came by horseback.
All manner of thoughts passed through Maddy’s mind.
The army cannot want to take more of our horses. We have nothing left. There must have been some sort of catastrophe …
Could Oraon be under siege? What about Paris? Never, they would never let that happen.
But what other explanation is there?
Unless … Émile …
But Maddy would rather hear Paris had fallen. She would rather any news than news of her brother, for the army only knew how to bring bad tidings.
She was standing outside the front door, in the shade of the house, when the truck finally pulled into the yard. The sun reflected from the windscreen and Maddy could not see the men. A thought struck her.
Leroy from the Cubal farm down the valley is in the reserve …
A man exited the truck and Maddy gasped. She stared as her mind struggled to make sense of what she was seeing—an apparition, surely a trick of her mind. Almost involuntarily, Maddy stepped backward into the darkness of the hallway. Her chest pounded.
It cannot be. Not possible.
And yet the way the man stood, sure and poised and limber, as if waiting for the start of a race he did not intend to run; the way his neck arched and head tilted as he roared in laughter; the way his shoulders carried high and proud …
Maddy felt relief to know it was not someone come to deliver news of Émile, but the realization it was Michel brought upon a storm of confused feelings, shock and joy competing with anger and disbelief.
She put on a countenance of composure and stepped forward. She intended to remain dignified and cool, but as her eyes met with Michel she momentarily forgot her reserve of anger. She walked then skipped forward and threw her arms around his neck.
“Michel,” she whispered into his ear.
“Maddy,” Michel said, and gripped her tight.
After a long moment, Maddy pushed herself away, though Michel kept hold of one of her hands. They spoke in French.
“I can’t tell you how good it is to lay eyes on you again,” Michel said.
Maddy stared at him. “I just cannot believe this is real, Michel. Is it truly you?”
“That same stupid boy you used to scald? No. I ate him and got fat off him,” said Michel, patting his belly and smiling. “I suppose he’s in here somewhere, hopefully not so stupid as last time. But no promises.”
“It’s just that … I did not think I would ever see you again, Michel. I stopped hoping and wishing. And especially not now that …”
“I promised you I would come back, didn’t I? Not as soon as I thought, but I am here.”
With that comment, the composure Maddy had been seeking fully returned. She was not a weak damsel. She would not forget Michel’s promise and his failure to fulfill it. But that would have to wait, for they had company.
Henry, always awkward with women, made to introduce himself, but he stopped before a single fully formed word could leave his mouth, managing to merely offer a strange grunting sound. Michel turned and adopted English for the sake of all.
“Maddy, I would like to introduce you to my good friends, Henry Biggelow and Ernie Lindsay. Gentlemen, this is Madeleine Rabinaud, daughter of the great Percival Rabinaud.”
Maddy lent in and, somewhat tentatively given their stubbled mugs and general unkempt states, kissed each man on both cheeks, a greeting entirely foreign to Australians and Englishmen. Whereas Ernie seemed amused, Henry’s fine complexion went an even deeper shade of red.
“You do speak French?” asked Maddy in a heavy accent.
“I’m afraid no
t, love. Some would say I barely speak English,” replied Ernie.
“Me neither,” said Henry.
“D’accord. Then we forgive bad English of me?” said Maddy.
“Absolutely. Though it sounds pretty good to me,” said Ernie.
“All must have hunger, thirst. We go inside. And you, Michel,” said Maddy, switching to French, “you can tell me how you have come to be here. It is almost too fantastic to believe.”
The men followed Maddy. She led them through a house full of rustic chattels. Michel’s head buzzed as the familiar sights brought recollections of happier times. Maddy seated Ernie and Henry at a shaded table in the rear garden.
“I come, little moment, for food and drink,” said Maddy. She looked at Michel and said, “Help me?”
While Ernie and Henry chatted and soaked in the views, enjoying the doing of absolutely nothing, Michel followed Maddy into the kitchen.
“This place is just as beautiful as I remember,” said Michel.
Maddy moved quickly, gathering items for their lunch, but her eyes kept returning to Michel in stolen glances.
“And you, Maddy, you are even more beautiful than I remember. My God, I cannot believe what a woman you are!”
“I grew up, Michel. Girls do that,” she said. “And it has been … a very long time.”
“Yes. Too long. Far too long. I cannot wait to see the old man. Where is he?”
“Hunting. As sick of eating sheep as me. He should have been back. I’m sure he’ll be through the door soon.”
“Is he still climbing?”
“Of course. Till the day he dies, or so he says.” Maddy stopped what she was doing. “Papa has missed you very much. He still talks about you. He … We all thought you would come back sooner. And not during such a time as this, such a terrible time.”
“I thought the same thing. Then I was sent to Africa to be a good little servant of the empire. It wasn’t … Well, you know how hard it is to say no to a man like my father. I thought it was only going to be for a short while. Just enough to show, prove …”
No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1) Page 11