No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  “That is what I said.”

  Maddy had finished cleaning the wound, and now applied a pad of cotton-wool and some adhesive tape.

  “This will scar, Michel. Soon you will just be one big walking scar. I don’t think your future wife will be too excited by that.”

  “Huh! I wouldn’t trade away those scars for the whole world,” said Michel.

  “Of course you wouldn’t. What macho tomfool would?”

  Michel smiled at the gentle effrontery. “It is good to be back, Maddy. I’ve missed you.”

  “Don’t think for a second I’ve missed you,” she said. But neither of them believed that.

  Henry walked into the room. “That smells great!”

  “Hello, Henry. You have much hunger?” said Maddy, switching to English.

  Michel laughed. He knew the answer to that.

  “Oh, dare say I could eat. At your leisure, of course,” said Henry.

  After dinner, the three of them retired to the open hearth in the lounge where Émile, Michel, Percy and Maddy had shared many a good night of warm and oftentimes raucous conversation. This night the fire was burning and the wine was flowing. Maddy brought Henry a jumper to warm him through the night.

  “Thanks for all the clothes, Maddy. Much appreciated, being in something clean. Say, where’s Mr. Rab … ah, your father? You said he was out hunting, didn’t you? Bit late for that, now.”

  “I think he sleep Durst Hut,” said Maddy. “He do this for bad weather. For the morning, he come. Papa like breakfast.”

  The answer satisfied Henry, and Maddy seemed fine as she excused herself to take an empty bottle to the kitchen. Michel watched her go. He guessed that she was not as unworried as she made out. Indeed, Michel had been pondering the answer to Henry’s question, too.

  He knew the weather had not turned, so that ruled out being stuck by snow or water. Perhaps Percy’s mare had gone lame and he was nursing her back. He supposed it was even possible he had fallen. He was getting on in years—even if Percy would never admit it.

  Michel went to find Maddy. He found her leaning against the sink, staring out the window into the night. Maddy brushed herself off.

  “Funny, isn’t it?” she said. “The day I lose one, I get back another.”

  “You haven’t lost anyone, Maddy. Listen, first thing in the morning I will ride out. I know all his hunting spots, so I will find him. I promise. More than likely, he’ll be the one to find me.”

  Maddy nodded. “If you weren’t here, Michel …”

  He walked across and embraced her.

  “But I am. And everything is going to be fine.”

  26

  Two hours of walking, including one misbegotten shortcut that ended in boulders and brambles, another hour to find someone willing to help him tow Mary and another hour and a half to drive back out, jury-rig the axle and tow her slowly back to base. It was now eight in the evening and Ernie was tired, hungry and fast losing his sense of humor.

  He had been lucky in at least one regard: when he got Mary into base there was a French mechanic, Jeremie, who had stayed late working on another vehicle. He agreed to take a look there and then, and tell Ernie what the likelihood was of getting his truck back on the road in the morning.

  Jeremie poked his head from under Mary’s blouse and said, “You break truck bad. What do, Ernie? Axle no bend. Snap. Break axle. Big problem for me.”

  “Yeah, I know mate. It’s a big problem for me, too. So how long?”

  “No quick! And other truck for fix first. I want go home, yes?”

  “Can you get her done tomorrow or not?” said Ernie.

  “Big job! Do next week.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” muttered Ernie, anger rising. He spoke slowly, enunciating each word: “I … need … this … sodding … truck … tomorrow!”

  “Then Ernie fix truck!” said Jeremie.

  Ernie was ready to blow his top, but he knew that if he did he would really be in trouble. No truck tomorrow, maybe no truck ever. He tried to swallow his frustration. He decided on another tact.

  “I tell you what, mate. If you can get this truck fixed and out of here tomorrow, there’s a fiver in it for you,” said Ernie.

  Jeremie perked up at this. “Five … pounds? Francs? US dollar? What money you have?”

  “Francs. Five francs. More than I earn in a week. Now, can you get it done?”

  “Five francs? Ok. Pay now, you go front de registere … ah … workbook,” said Jeremie.

  “I pay tomorrow when truck is fixed.”

  “Yes yes. You pay now.”

  “Mate, I told you,” said Ernie, struggling to contain his temper. “Tomorrow. Five francs when she’s back on the road.”

  “Ok. Five francs. Now.”

  “Are you weak in the head, man? Tomorrow! Fix truck first!”

  “Ok. Ernie fix truck,” said Jeremie, throwing a wrench onto the ground.

  Ernie knew he was over a barrel. He shook his head and bit his lip as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a thin wallet. He pulled out three scrunched notes and handed them to Jeremie.

  “Three francs. That’s called a compromise, you filthy bastard. You get me back on the road tomorrow, and I’ll give you the other two,” said Ernie.

  Jeremie took the notes and looked at them for a while. “Ok,” he said, then turned and walked off.

  “Where are you going?” called Ernie.

  “Home. Fix morning. Good night Ernie,” called Jeremie without stopping or turning around.

  Ernie turned to the recalcitrant truck. “Mary, when we get home …”

  27

  Colonel Kranz lay flat on the roof of a water tower. From his vantage, he had an unencumbered view of the entire munitions compound. The collection of buildings, factories and yards was enormous, stretching for almost a mile along the alluvial plain of the River Meuse.

  On the far eastern side, nearest the mountains, there was a terminus for the railway and two separate loading docks, along with associated train yards and workshops. In the first dock, munitions and other materiel were loaded. In the second dock, raw materials brought from across France and beyond were unloaded. Mountains of ore and other resources were piled throughout the yards.

  There was a steel smelting factory next to the yards. Three chimneys spewed smoke and steam non-stop through the night. It would be too inefficient to slow production of the smelter while people slept. The next series of buildings were a buffer—administration buildings, on-site barracks, secondary warehouses. It was common sense to keep the smelter and the munitions separated.

  The munitions manufacturing plants followed. Throughout the evening, ammunition crates were ferried to the railyard via a hand-powered shunt that ran between all buildings. Kranz had no doubt that he had located the explosives factory when he spotted another building with two chimneys. It had to be where the propellants, fuses and, most importantly, primary explosives were produced. He would find nitroglycerine there, the catalyst for something truly special.

  Two batteries fortified with 75mm cannons book-ended the compound. They were lightly manned, present as a precautionary measure. Aircraft were not a realistic threat and would not be anytime soon, not unless the Germans launched an enormous offensive and gained over a hundred miles of territory south of Alsace-Lorraine. Otherwise, their planes simply did not have the fuel capacity to reach so far south and make it back home.

  As Kranz surveyed the panorama of buildings and the toiling of all those men and women, he began to appreciate the genius of the compound. By consolidating the various processes of munitions production into the one integrated system—ore refined to steel, steel cast as shells and magazines, materials mixed and refined into explosives and propellants, shells filled with propellants and explosives then capped—it saved an enormous amount of resources that would otherwise be wasted on logistics. It was a magnificent achievement, and it had turned Oraon into an industrial powerhouse. It was an integral part of the
French war machine.

  But as Kranz and his old friend, General von Eisman, all too readily apprehended, the genius of the compound was also its greatest weakness. If the stock of high explosives was detonated, there would be no stopping the chain reaction. There would be nothing left of the compound. Very possibly, there would be nothing left of Oraon.

  Sometime after midnight, when small skeleton crews took over, Kranz climbed down from the water tower. He had seen all he needed to see. His course of action was decided.

  Once the dark of a new night had descended, he would return. Given the sheer size of the compound, he figured he would not be challenged if he acted like he was meant to be there. With so many workers, nobody could know everybody.

  Though he limped a little, Kranz now walked quickly. He had one more small but essential task before his night was over: steal some less conspicuous clothes, a set of wire cutters, a length of fuse and a good knife.

  He slipped into the night, unnoticed as always.

  28

  Michel woke to dark. Maddy was already up, preparing a hamper.

  Michel found Henry sleeping with his mouth open, his face the repose of perfect boyish contentment till Michel brusquely shook him awake.

  “Come on. Percy’s not back. We have to ride out. Find him.”

  Henry turned over, so Michel kicked him. Henry jerked upright and slurred and swore—a groggy barrage of “bloomin’ ” and “bloody” and “torture”, then of “unfair” and “ridiculous” and “cruel” and “why, why, why”—words that were together nonsense and yet thoroughly conveyed his opinion of the prospect of riding into the mountains at the crack of dawn on a premature and likely pointless manhunt when they were meant to be on leave, recuperating and enjoying themselves.

  “Mad. Bloody mad,” said Henry with finality, putting his clothes on, now fully awake.

  They said their goodbyes in the light of early morn. Michel promised Maddy that he would not come back without Percy. Maddy kissed Michel in parting—a soft, gentle kiss on the lips that lingered just a little—and they set off.

  Henry rode the stroppy mule, while Michel took the larger mare. A single horse-trail connected Rabinaud Valley with those further to the north. Michel felt certain Percy had ventured that way. Recent hoof-prints of a shod mare were visible every now and again on fallow ground.

  As the full glare of morning came to bear, they closed in on Durst Hut, having passed the best land for deer and chamois. Michel checked numerous side-tracks, finding nothing. It struck him as odd. Why would Percy press on toward Durst Hut when he could take a deer among the lower reaches of Rabinaud Valley? Even if he had been chasing the larger chamois, he could have found a few animals nearer Amer Ami. It seemed Percy was not hunting, after all.

  What is the tough old bastard up to?

  After about two hours in the saddle, they reached the hut. It had been built in 1860 by Percy’s father, Jacque Rabinaud, and his friend and partner, Pierre Durst. It remained largely unchanged, except for a new roof put on fifteen years ago.

  Originally, it had been used as a base for traveling into the valleys and mountains deep in the Vosges wilderness, where Jacque and Pierre had tried running sheep and a few cattle. Now the hut was used as a refuge when bad weather set in and the Rabinauds or whoever happened to be exploring the mountains needed shelter. Michel had stayed there on a few occasions, once when he and Émile tackled Lindarsen Peak to the east, and other times when the two had been hunting—and drinking—and figured on doing it away from censorious eyes.

  Neither Percy nor his horse were at the hut. Michel dismounted and went inside. Nothing had changed from how he remembered it. A rock and mud fireplace dominated the small room. The only furnishings were a table and chairs, a bench and a couple of canvas beds. A dozen cans of food sat on a lone shelf—emergency rations in the event of being snowed in. A layer of dust covered everything.

  Michel saw a set of footprints that led straight to the shelf, then back out the door. Dustless imprints were stamped where three cans had been removed.

  So Percy has been here.

  Michel was surprised by the haste of his visit. He counted exactly thirteen footprints in the hut. Something had sent Percy higher into the mountains in a great hurry.

  Michel and Henry remounted and continued along the trail, gaining altitude. There was still good tree coverage, but the deer preferred the lower valleys where it was warmer and the fleshier grasses grew. Ten miles in the distance loomed Lindarsen Peak, part of a ridgeline running east–west.

  It was the end of the line for most travelers, marking the limit to the easy valley passes like the one Michel and Henry followed. Broaching those mountains meant serious mountain climbing, something few people had either the will or ability to attempt.

  Michel pulled on his reins, bringing his horse to a still, then brought her around so he could get a better look at the ground.

  “What is it?” asked Henry.

  “It’s strange. The marks continue up the trail, but then there,” Michel said, pointing, “they are the same marks coming back down the trail, and here—where they are mixed—they go north.”

  “The old fella’s gone up, come back down and then headed that way?” repeated Henry, pointing for clarification.

  “It doesn’t make much sense, but yes.”

  That way was toward the western escarpment flanking the valley they had crossed. It was much lower than the range of mountains further north, but the moraines were vicious, at almost every point rising into sections of sheer cliff. There were a few spots where buttresses provided a less than vertical path up the escarpment, yet even those were fraught with danger. The loose rock scree held to the mountainsides with only the most precarious grip. More sheer sections were interspersed with arêtes and razorback spurs.

  Maybe seven miles further north was Pieter’s Pass, a gully that sheared through the escarpment. It was still a challenge to cross, but achievable for a normal person with a little nous and big lungs. It was the only practical way through, unless one traveled south-west many miles where the escarpment and foothills flattened out and eventually came to Oraon.

  “Well, I wish he’d just stay in the one bloody spot so we can hurry up and find him and go home. Did we pack any food?” said Henry.

  “Food later. This trail looks fresh. He cannot be far. Let’s go.”

  Michel took off into the woods at a canter, anxious he not miss Percy, wherever he was, whatever he was up to. Behind, Henry’s mule gave a few petulant jerks on the reins before Henry managed to kick the animal into a brisk trot.

  Much of the ground was relatively open, but after a few minutes Michel came into a thick pocket of firs. He was still following Percy’s trail when he heaved back on the reins. His horse stopped and without looking back Michel put his hand up.

  Henry yanked hard on the reins. The mule slowed, but continued at an amble till it was just behind Michel. Henry shifted about in the saddle, waiting to be told what was happening, while Michel remained perfectly still and quiet.

  Hairs bristled on the back of Michel’s neck. His gut tensed. The tendons in his wrist reflexively pulsed, a quivering middle finger the only sign of tension.

  Someone … watching.

  Every sensory fiber told Michel of a presence to the rear, within the foliage. He kept his body still as his hand slipped from the reins and almost imperceptibly moved down the side of his saddle, toward a holstered 12-gauge lever action shotgun. He gripped the butt and started to gently slide the rifle from its leather pouch.

  C–click.

  “Achtung, you sack of shit,” said a voice from behind in French. Cold blunt steel stabbed into the back of Henry’s neck.

  Henry froze, but his mule did not, the sudden sound provoking an instinctual reaction as the startled animal turned, facing the threat. To the man with the gun it was all the excuse he needed. His finger started to squeeze the trigger as Henry’s wide eyes stared down the barrel of death.
r />   “Stop!” screamed Michel. “Percy, no!”

  The man held his fire. Michel jumped from his horse and held both hands out.

  “Percy, it’s me, Michel!”

  For the first time, the man’s eyes went to Michel. Recognition was instant. He lowered the rifle and flashed a grim smile. He spoke in his native French.

  “Michel. I’ll be damned. I’ll be damned. Of all people. Unbelievable.”

  Percy went to Michel and they embraced. Michel stood back and looked at the old man, so much older than the last time he had seen him.

  “I came to visit, Percy. I have a week’s leave from the front. I wanted to surprise you and Maddy. But it seems you are the one to surprise me. I should have known better.”

  “Indeed you should, my boy.”

  “Maddy is worried sick, Percy. She thought you must have had an accident.”

  “Rubbish! Accidents are for fools. I am fine.”

  “What is going on then? Are you hunting? Who did you think we were?”

  “Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend first, then I can explain.”

  “Of course. Percy, this is Henry Biggelow, a British soldier. We fight together, side by side in the trenches.”

  Henry remained frozen astride his mule. He offered a quizzical expression at the sound of his name, the attempt at a smile making him look like a surprised idiot.

  “A British soldier? Ah, then we are all saved,” said Percy, sarcasm dripping from his words. “Wait. Does that mean you …”

  Michel nodded.

  “My lord. You went to the other side, and of all sides!” said Percy, then sighed forcefully. “We will talk about that later, when we have time. Now, this Englishman. Does he speak French?”

  “Afraid not,” said Michel.

  “Of course he does not. He is in France, but why would he learn French? Ever since that Trafalgar farce, his people have been insufferable,” said Percy.

  “Good to see you have not mellowed with time, Percy.”

  “There is no time to mellow, not even for wine. No time for anything that matters! Anyhow, you want to know what I am doing here. I will tell you.” Percy held a heavy pause, then said, “Germans. Five miles north.”