No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

Michel shook his head.

  “I had lots of stupid ideas. Africa rid me of those. Changed me, for the better.”

  “We heard you left your job there. That you quit and ran away to be with the natives,” said Maddy.

  “Is that how our glorious leader is describing it? No, I did not run away. My head was high when I left. It was high when I told them exactly what I thought of our colonial project for mighty French West Africa.”

  “Then why? Why leave like that?”

  Michel scratched his head then trailed his hand along the prickly stubble of his chin. “Many reasons. If I had to give just one, I suppose it was because—and I know you will laugh at me for this, Maddy—but I had to find my own way.”

  Maddy said nothing, she just looked at Michel.

  “When father arranged for my job in Africa, I thought it was the start of him bringing me into his life. The unwanted bastard getting his apprenticeship in diplomacy, in the Poincaré business. I thought I was becoming part of the family. But one day I woke up and—no, that is a lie. It was gradual. I realized it bit by bit, and then it was all I could think about until I knew it sure as I knew anything.

  “It was a banishment. He sent me to Africa in public service because it was so far away. Father does not hate me. He doesn’t give enough of a damn to love or hate me. A bastard is just an inconvenience. He wanted me to disappear. He sent me to a perfectly meaningless life among the colonial petit bourgeoisie to do that. And so I did—I disappeared. But on my own terms.”

  Michel laughed. “Africa, Maddy, Africa! They have different ways of seeing, thinking. Ways that are impossible to understand for the sort of men who never leave the comfort of preordained, silly little lives.”

  Maddy turned. “And women. Don’t forget the women and their silly little preordained lives,” she said, finally cutting in. She looked at Michel squarely and folded her arms. “So at long last the great and wise adventurer returns, having finally found himself. At least it makes sense to me now, why you had no time for us, the little people, the ones who were holding you back.”

  “What? No. You haven’t understood a thing I’ve said. You and Émile and Percy—you were the good in my life, but I wouldn’t have been any good to you. I had to be more … or maybe not more, just something different to the things that were expected of me.”

  “And so what did you become?”

  Michel stepped forward and took Maddy’s hands in his own. “I told you. I am still Michel. Still that boy who stole a kiss from a sweet girl. There is just more of me now. Perhaps not better, but more.”

  Maddy looked Michel up and down. “Yes, a lot more of you. And don’t be so sure the girl is still so sweet and innocent.”

  “No, I am sure she is not innocent at all. I think she is probably wise and strong, and not to be argued with.”

  Maddy let her hands drop from Michel’s. “Certainly not to be argued with when it comes to lunch. Here, carry this,” said Maddy, and placed a tray of cold hogget in Michel’s hands.

  “Maddy, what I’m trying to say—”

  “No, enough. I have been ungracious. You are here. I’m glad you are here, even if much has changed. And so a more important question. You are a soldier?”

  “I am. But in the British Army.”

  “With the British!”

  Maddy was momentarily speechless. Michel smiled.

  “My God, does he know? Your father? No, of course he doesn’t. If he did he’d pull all the strings in the world till you were out. And we would have heard about it. A soldier in the British Army … You never cease to amaze,” said Maddy.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. As for dear father, for all I know he thinks I’m still in Africa somewhere. Probably has his spies looking for me.”

  “And here you are, hiding in plain sight.”

  Michel placed the tray on the bench. He stepped forward. “Not hiding. I’m done hiding. Maddy, when this war is over—”

  “Please, stop. I hear this all the time, ‘when the war is over’. Everything, ‘when the war is over’. But you know what I learned while you were away in Africa, Michel? That there is no ‘when’ and no life for people who live based on the fantasy of ‘when’. There is now. Good or bad or otherwise, only now.”

  Maddy sighed. She forced a smile onto her face. “And right now, we should eat. You and your friends can tell me what you are doing in the mountains, and why you look like you’ve just come from a brawl.”

  “Me? Surely you mistake me for your delinquent brother.”

  “Émile grew up, Michel. I strongly doubt the same can be said of you.”

  22

  Having eaten well, Ernie would have liked nothing more than to recline in the shade and drink a few more glasses of red, but he was already behind schedule. A case of wine and bag of oranges sat next to him in the truck.

  “Ernie, if ever Henry and I get the chance, we will come say hello to you up at Amiens,” said Michel, looking up to where Ernie’s head hung out the truck window.

  “That’d be good, Mick, do that.”

  “And Ernie, when the war is over—”

  “Let’s not jump to any rash conclusions, Mick,” said Ernie.

  “No, one day it will be over, and it will all be normal again. Perhaps I will come visit you in Australia. I have long thought about traveling there. Now I have you as my Australian friend, I am sure I will,” said Michel.

  “Mate, anytime you’re in my neck of the woods, there’ll be a bed waiting for you, and a beer. Same goes for you, Hen.”

  “Cheers, Ernie,” said Henry. He was a little tipsy from the wine and thoroughly sated from the food. He was pleased to have made a new friend, for he had never been one to make friends easily. “You’ll keep in touch, then?”

  “Course I will, Hen. All right, enough of this sentimental rubbish. I’m off. Cheerio, Maddy,” hollered Ernie and waved. “Do us a favor and give her a crank, Mick? Normally fires on the third.”

  Michel ran around to the front of the truck and cranked the starter lever. It roared to life on the third pull.

  “Thanks, mate. Seeya boys,” said Ernie. He put the truck into gear and began his long drive.

  Back inside, Michel helped Maddy clean up, while Henry relaxed in the garden with another glass of wine. Maddy had been avoiding the topic, but now seemed as good a time as any.

  “Michel, do you know of Émile?”

  “A little. I have been asking about him every chance I get. I finally found out that he is in the twenty-first. Did you know that the twenty-first is one of France’s best units? Oh, their reputation is fierce, Maddy. I’m glad I’m not one of those Krauts fighting against them. I wish I could have signed up with him. We would have raised hell like we used to.”

  Maddy took a deep breath. “Michel, two weeks ago we had a letter.”

  Michel’s eyes widened.

  “He was stationed in Nancy, for rest. He said they’d been fighting non-stop for months, and that was the first break they’d had for as long as he could remember. He sounded like the old Émile, but I don’t know. I think maybe it was a brave face. I felt he was sad. I don’t know why I think that—his words said he was fine. But at the end of his letter he said they were being sent out again.”

  “Where?”

  “He is back at the front,” said Maddy, matter-of-factly. “The Verdun front. Papa says he will get through it. He says over and over, ‘If anyone can get through, it is Émile. I trained him to survive.’ But every time we go into Oraon, every time, Michel, I find out there are more of our men who have died at Verdun. The Abney boy. The Pettigrew boy. Mrs. Sauvage’s son and husband—killed a day apart. Monsieur Vincent, you knew him, he is gone. Malaine Labelle’s husband. The Joubert …”

  “Enough,” said Michel, but Maddy did not stop.

  “… the Joubert boy was Isabelle’s only. He is dead.”

  “Enough!” said Michel.

  “They are all dead,” said Maddy. Her desperate eyes seem
ed to be seeking something she could not find.

  “What do you want me to say, Maddy?” said Michel. “It’s a war. People die. I can’t fix that. I can’t do anything about it. I am one man. I will probably be dead too, before long.”

  “He is not dead!”

  Maddy stood there, silent, looking at Michel. Her face remained hard, but her eyes reddened as she fought back tears.

  “No. You are right. I do not believe he is dead,” said Michel. He went to Maddy, and she let him.

  23

  One hundred miles away, a reconnaissance plane flew over the Verdun battleground. As the aircraft passed behind the German lines, the pilot reached down to the tiny space next to his legs, opened the pull cord on a bag and retrieved a docile carrier pigeon. He held the pigeon over the side of the plane, then let go.

  The bird’s wings worked furiously before it eventually straightened out from a helter-skelter descent. The pigeon circled in the air for a few seconds, then instinct and training took over and it began to make its way south, headed for a coop ten miles from the Verdun battlefields.

  The bird’s internal magnetic compass was all it required to know what direction to fly, but it still surveyed all before it, constantly watching for landmarks and tell-tale changes in geography that could help perfect its homeward course. It took in the scenes of destruction that stretched to the horizon. It meant nothing to this creature that the fields and forests had been obliterated. It meant nothing that for long stretches there was movement from neither man nor animal. It lived.

  As the pigeon flew, a mini-camera attached to its chest clicked. Every twenty seconds the shutter snapped open then shut, taking a staggered series of aerial photographs of the lines.

  Click.

  To the people who would see those images, they told a horrific story. The pigeon was over the German heavy artillery entrenchment a few hundred yards behind the front. To the left of the photo a huge cannon was buried under dirt, rubble, timber and twisted metal. A shell had exploded feet from its concrete foundations, destroying everything. To the right of the frame a mobile cannon on massive wheels had survived the barrage. Smoke hazed from its muzzle, two soldiers working a new shell into its chamber.

  Click.

  The German frontline. No signs of movement. Trenches were visible to the fore, probably where the soldiers waited for the next surge. Directly beneath were mounds of dirt, soft and powdery, mixed with bigger clods. Fractured logs, woodchips and splinters littered the ground. A shattered stump, its bark still intact, was to the bottom left. One body lay face down in the rubble. The head was not visible. Perhaps it was buried in the dirt. Perhaps there was no head. There was another body to the left—mangled—and maybe another to the right. Impossible to tell.

  Click.

  No-man’s-land. The ground was mostly unbroken—one of the few places that had not been destroyed by artillery. There were trails visible, thin lines of bare ground wending their way across a grassed field, probably the paths of sheep that had made their way through the paddocks in single-file hundreds and thousands of times. There was a cluster of thirty-six bodies, fallen in a rough line, indicative of an attacking wave cut down by a single machinegun. The bodies were whole, not mangled. Some looked restful in the way they had fallen.

  Click.

  A desolate, deserted road with no life, but no death—no bodies. Its verge was lined by the relics of trees. One stood straight, a vertical spire, its top ripped off at twenty feet. It had no branches. Another curved skyward, limbs stripped of all leaves and twigs, the barren skeleton of a tree. There were others splintered into oblivion, and all were charred black by the fires that swept through after the artillery. The road itself was clear. A river of ash cut a swathe of white through the landscape.

  Click.

  The same road. In the center of the photo was a man with a large mustache. He was on his back, with his arms resting by his sides. His eyes were closed. He had no legs.

  Click.

  The Allied lines. A trench, widening out where a little tin shanty had been built. A nearby explosion had caved in the roof with mounds of dirt. The structure was a crumpled mess of tin, planks, wires and crates. What looked like a pet magpie sat on the tin, one wing twisted away from its body. In front was a cluster of six bodies in a circle no bigger than three yards. Their limbs were contorted into unreal positions, like dolls. Playing cards littered the ground. A solitary man stood before them, his head and shoulders low.

  Click.

  Another trench. In the middle, a huge sleeper spanned the gap between the two banks. A surprisingly uncluttered path ran its length, neat, clean and well-trod. Bodies of living men littered the banks. Most were slumped in awkward positions, dirty rugs providing warmth as they stole sleep while they could. One man, clearly awake, knelt on the side of the trench. His hand was around the stock of his rifle; a bayonet was fixed to its end. His head looked toward the distant German lines, his line of sight just creeping over the embankment. He waited at the ready, though for what was unclear.

  24

  “Goddamned son of a bitch!”

  The obscenity bellowed through the lower valleys and bounced back to Ernie. It was two o’clock, he was no more than two miles from base, and Mary had finally had enough. Her front axle was broken, if not her will.

  Ernie was frustrated and annoyed, but not entirely surprised. He had been barreling back at a stupid speed—bull at a gate, as his father often said—and had only himself to blame. He had noticed something start to grind a mile back, but he had not stopped. He had hoped he could just make it to town and deal with it then. His stubbornness had turned a fixable problem into an unfixable problem. He would probably have to replace the axle.

  There was nothing else for it, but shanks pony. Ernie, not the fittest nor the most eager of walkers, set off on foot.

  25

  Michel wanted to be useful, to try to ease at least a little of Maddy’s burden. Later that afternoon, he roused Henry from a nap and insisted they earn their keep.

  They took the mule and cart to source dry limbs of firewood. Using a two-man hand-saw to cut the wood into lengths was hard work, especially for Henry, who had over-indulged at lunch. When they returned to the homestead, the sun was not long from dipping behind the mountains and sending the valley into shadow.

  Maddy bucketed steaming hot water into a cast iron tub that stood on four legs. After he had cleaned himself up and Henry was soaking, Michel sought Maddy out. She had noticed the cut on his shoulder and was adamant he let her take a look to see if it was healing and to change the dressing. With the loss of the motorcycle and their few belongings, Michel had no clean clothes of his own, so Maddy laid out some of her brother’s.

  Michel found Maddy in the kitchen preparing vegetables. He strolled over to the bench, one of Émile’s shirts dangling from his hand.

  Maddy’s eyes took in his broad and strong physique. Michel was fit, but not hungry-looking like some men who were muscle and skin and nothing else. He had grown since she had last seen him. His body had filled out, and his face had become stronger, perhaps a little squarer. She caught herself before a lingering glance turned into a stare.

  “I knew there was a civilized man somewhere underneath. Come, sit,” Maddy said, gesturing to a stool.

  Before she looked at his shoulder, Maddy’s attention was caught by the sight of three long parallel scars running along Michel’s side and around his back.

  “My goodness, Michel, what is this? What did you do? This looks terrible.”

  She ran her fingers along the scars. Maddy’s touch sent a charge rushing through Michel’s body.

  “You would not believe me if I told you, Maddy.”

  “With you, I would believe just about anything. Humor me.”

  “You’re right. You might believe me, but then you might scold me …”

  “I might do so just the same, whether you tell me or not,” she said.

  Maddy turned Michel’s bod
y a little so she could look at the cut on his shoulder.

  “Well, before I went to Africa I passed through the Pyrenees. Did you know there are still bears there? Not many, but still a few in the wilder parts of the mountains,” Michel said, as Maddy dabbed iodine onto his shoulder wound. Michel straightened a little at the sting.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “There was a small town. We stopped the night on the way to a mountain I planned to climb with some new friends. A strange little man agreed to give us beds for the night. He had strange drink, too, something local, some sort of cloudy spirit. Horrible. Disgusting. But he was our host and so we drank.”

  “I’m guessing the taste didn’t slow you,” said Maddy.

  “I held my own. But it did catch up to me, and after that it’s a little hazy. I do remember waking up, though. It was pitch black and I had no idea where I was. I was lying on a bench in the town’s little plaza. I didn’t know how I got there, and I didn’t know where our quarters were. I wandered the streets, house to house, hoping to recognize something. Eventually I came to the edge of the town and a little stone building. I thought I’d found it, but the door was locked. I went around the back, but that door was locked, too. I saw a barn. It was summer, not too cold, so I thought I could just sleep there. I went inside and found a spot in some hay and it was the nicest, softest hay I had ever laid upon.”

  “Oh no,” said Maddy. “It wasn’t …”

  “Oh, but it was. That pile of hay came to life, squealing and roaring. It only took one good swipe and it had knocked me ten feet. I’d sat upon a sleeping bear, chained up in that farmer’s shed. I was lucky. It was only a little one.”

  Maddy was aghast. “You could have been killed!”

  “I could. If it wasn’t on a chain I probably would have been, because after its fright I think it wanted to eat me. Not a happy animal. God knows what it was doing there—what a farmer wants with a bear. But I still climbed the mountain the next day.”

  “Naturally. Why rest after being attacked by a bear?”