No Trench To Rest (The French Bastard Book 1)

by Avan Judd Stallard

  Émile bent down so the boy could see his face. Wide eyes stared back, desperate and pleading. The boy said nothing, but his hand grabbed.

  “You are going to be all right. I’ll get you back to the trenches,” said Émile in French.

  With his one good arm, Émile grabbed the back of the boy’s tunic and started dragging. The jolt of movement set the boy screaming again. Émile hoped it was drowned out by the storm. He kept dragging. It was that or leave him.

  A figure suddenly appeared in the syrup of night. Émile dropped the boy and jerked his head left and right in search of a weapon. He saw a rifle underneath a corpse. With his good hand, Émile tried to pry it from beneath the rigid mass.

  “Wait!” the figure called to him, yelling in a whisper. “Friend! Friend! Canadian.”

  The figure loped over and did not waste time with niceties. “We gotta shut that man up. He’ll get us killed.”

  Émile understood the English word “us”. It was good to be in this with someone else. “Shot,” Émile said, pointing at the boy. “Bad … no walk.”

  The boy’s screams settled into whimpers as the soldier pulled a flask from his pocket. “Whiskey,” he said, by way of explanation.

  He pulled the boy’s head up and let it rest on his knee. He poured the whiskey into the boy’s mouth. He coughed and spat, but the man kept pouring anyway until the flask was empty. Some of the whiskey made it down the boy’s throat.

  “Gotta be quiet now, ok?”

  He laid the boy’s head on the ground and stood up, and that is when Émile realized the man was injured, too. His ear was mangled and part of his scalp had been flayed from his skull. It was hard to tell how much damage had been done.

  “Your arm busted?” asked the man, pointing.

  “Arm. Ok.”

  “Let me drag this guy. Should be a bit quieter now. You lead the way back.”

  Émile nodded. The man grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and started dragging him through the mud. The wet was good lubricant, so the boy slid. He had stopped screaming and only cried.

  In the distant fields a bolt of lightning cut a path across the night sky. For the briefest moment, the horror of no-man’s-land was lit. But Émile did not see the death that lay all around, only the promise of salvation. It was another hundred yards or so till they were in safety.

  Nevertheless, the lightning was more curse than blessing. The rain had already started to back off, so they would be silhouettes on the horizon. Easy targets, and not just for the Germans. There was no way the men in the Allied trenches could know if they were friend or foe. Émile prayed that his comrades held their fire till they were close enough to make themselves known.

  Two more bolts of lightning arced down from the clouds. Émile grabbed a handful of the boy’s tunic and did his best to help the Canadian drag him. They had to get to the trenches, but now there was water pooling on the surface of the ground, unable to penetrate the plate of impermeable bedrock beneath. It was like oil on wood. Every few labored steps their feet slipped and legs splayed and both men kept dropping and getting up and scrambling forward.

  There was more lightning and so more light. They were crazed men now, jerking violently at the boy’s body, constantly slipping and falling, desperate to escape. Another barrel of thunder, then another series of lightning bolts.

  Émile thought he saw the mud in front of him explode. Another lightning strike, another spray of mud. He heard a whizzing sound beside his head, and he understood that they were under fire.

  ♦

  The Canadian felt warmth on his hand and knew that was not right. He wondered if he had been shot by the sniper and was yet to register the injury. Sometimes men went hours during battle unaware they were badly wounded, unaware that the annoying itch in their leg was a three-inch piece of pig iron. Maybe the warmth was a bullet wound in his arm that he would only feel once they stopped and were safe, and then it would hurt like hell. He felt nothing now, so it was unimportant. They had to keep going.

  They had fought their way through the slime and were nearing the trenches, having laboriously dragged the weeping boy every miserable inch of the way. But they were not safe yet. Plenty of men had been shot returning to their own lines.

  If there was anyone alert in the trenches, the Canadian figured they had to have seen them scrambling back. He started calling out, “French! French!”

  Émile copied him in his native tongue, calling, “Français! Français!” and kept calling until a challenge issued from the night.

  “Stop! What company?”

  “Twenty-first!”

  Émile ran forward, speaking in a constant stream, as the Canadian continued to drag the boy. Émile slipped into the trench where a solitary two soldiers were on guard, then helped the Canadian drag the boy over the embankment. They sloshed into the trench, which was filled with knee-deep water. Mud was caving in all around. It was hellish—but safe.

  The relief was immense. The Canadian dragged the boy up out of the water as much as he could.

  “It’s all right, kid. Field hospital’s not far. You’ll be in a warm bed in minutes. Good doctors there. Put you back together. Good as new in no time.”

  He held the boy, looking into his face, speaking words the way a mother talks to an infant—nothings that were just the comfort of a voice—when a series of lightning strikes lit the trench. Only then did the Canadian see the hole in the boy’s neck and the glazed eyes staring back at him, blank and lifeless.

  During the year he had been in France, the Canadian had seen everything. He had seen dismembered corpses. He had seen mutilated limbs attached to damaged men who would live in pain. He had seen soldiers gone mad, women manic with grief, children lost and confused. He had seen his friends blown to pieces in the trenches when an artillery shell landed in their laps.

  And he had always managed to keep those images from haunting him, to keep them from the fore of his mind—enough to keep functioning, keep moving, keep surviving. Now, he looked down at the dead boy in his lap. It was one more time he had managed to survive when others had not.

  Too many times. He could not pretend anymore that it would be all right. It would not. It was not. He thought to himself that maybe he would have been better off among the others, dead in the field. He had no rationalization for that, no conviction, just a heavy gut feeling that was the weight of the war making a man think endlessly about death and survival till eventually one’s own death just seemed natural, inevitable, and when it did not come it seemed wrong.

  An ingrained sense of decency brought him back to the present, for he had been taught that Christians must not think about giving up on living. Worse, he was feeling sorry for himself when the sacrifice was not even his. It was the boy’s. And the boy’s family.

  He reached into the boy’s tunic and searched for anything that might identify him. He found a letter in his pocket, still in its envelope, a wax-paper sheath protecting it from the wet and grime. The Canadian turned to Émile, who was slumped in the mud, wrecked by exhaustion and the pain of his shattered shoulder. He grabbed his tunic and tugged a little to get his attention. Émile looked at him.

  “The boy, someone’s got to write his people and tell them. You tell them he didn’t die alone. Ok?” He held out the letter. “Ok? You’ll do that, right?”

  Émile took the letter with his one good hand. “Yes. Letter. For family.”

  The Canadian let the boy slide from his lap into the mud. He fell back against the trench and closed his eyes. He had nothing left.

  Émile stood. He took a few steps in the water, then turned back. “Come. Go together.”

  The Canadian opened his eyes. He saw Émile’s outstretched hand.

  “I am Émile. Come.”

  Slowly, the Canadian reached out, met his hand and stood amid the morass. “Name’s Chuck.”

  39

  The false silence broke with the gentle patter of dirt spitting into the water, spsh spsh spsh, mud and
soil raining the breadth of the lake. At the dam wall, the first splashes were followed by clods of earth spraying the tin roof of the master’s hut, tatt–a–tatt–tat.

  Henry ducked out of instinct. A bigger clod landed with a mighty thud and relief filled him as he realized it was just the debris from the explosion. A last hail of small fragments landed, but then there were more sounds, crack–ptshew, crack–ptshew, and without thinking Henry knew from months on the front that there were bullets ringing from the darkness, aimed at him.

  Maudette and Damia opened up with the 75mm cannon. A huge retort was followed by an even grander explosion where the round hit the base of the distant cliffs. A moment of silence, then the rifles started again.

  This time zzzt sounds were bullets inches from putting an apple-sized hole in the back of Henry’s head. He sucked his gut in and tried to make himself disappear. The spotlight shook as his body and arms quivered. It was like being on the frontline, except worse, for he was not just a sitting duck, he was the only sitting duck.

  The women readjusted their aim based on the muzzle flashes coming from within the tree cover. They fired another round of the 75mm. The explosion precipitated a volley of small arms fire.

  There were sounds all around Henry, bullets peppering the air beside him and smashing into the woodwork and tin and then there was a small explosion as a bullet smashed the spotlight to pieces, showering glass through the tower. The remains of the bullet deflected down, searching for something else to shatter.

  Henry dropped and screamed. He was hit. It was now dark but still the Germans peppered the tower with bullets. Henry lay still for a second, in a state of shock, until he began to notice the damp of his own blood.

  Below, Maudette and Damia pumped shell after shell into the distance, firing almost blind without the spotlight to guide them. Henry crawled across to the portal and threw himself headlong down the drop to the concrete walkway.

  The women were reloading and the firing from the treeline stopped. Maudette and Damia waited for a muzzle flash to direct their aim, but none came, so they fired blindly. A shell exploded on the edge of the treeline with a burst of light, enough to illuminate the sight of a group of men sprinting across the narrow beach beneath the cliffs.

  “Enough, girls. Enough.” Michel had come from the other side of the dam. His voice was calm. “Save the shells.”

  He turned his attention to Henry, who was writhing on the ground, wide-eyed and panting like a dog. Michel laid his shotgun down and crouched next to him.

  “Be still, Henry,” said Michel. His voice was plain, neither frustrated nor sympathetic.

  He briefly looked Henry over. He found his skin peppered with little cuts from the glass, but nothing so severe that it could not wait. There was only one patch where the blood was really streaming, at the upper arm. It looked to Michel like a bullet had entered through Henry’s little bicep. Michel rolled the arm over and found an exit wound. It seemed clean, no bone fragments.

  “I think you’ll be fine, Henry. I’m going to bandage this and stop the bleeding. Understand?”

  Michel did not bother with the buttons as he ripped his own shirt off. He flicked his knife out and made a perforation, then used his strength to tear the shirt in two. He made a second incision and tore a long strip of rag. Henry winced and squirmed as Michel wrapped it tightly around his arm.

  “All right, that’s as good as can be done. Quickly, on your feet. I need you.”

  Henry said, “Wh … what?” and remained on the ground, his fat top lip pouting and his forehead filled with furrows that pointed to wide eyes.

  Michel had already turned away. He ran across to Maudette and Damia and said, “We’ve got to head the Germans off before they make the wall. Henry and I are going to flush them out. But listen to me: once Henry and I are gone, the only thing stopping them wiping out Oraon is Ariane and you two. You do whatever you have to, but you make sure they don’t get inside the dam wall. If they do, the whole thing goes.”

  Michel went to Henry. He was sitting on his rump, looking at his arm. Michel extended a hand. Henry grabbed hold and Michel yanked him to his feet.

  “Henry, I need your help. I wish there was another way, but there isn’t.”

  Henry’s head started shaking side to side. He was not cut out for this—he had not been cut out for a single second of the whole war.

  “I need you to draw the Krauts’ fire. I want you to sprint—sprint like the wind—along the south shore of the lake. They are going to fire at you, Henry. You need to know that; they’re going to fire. But you’re going to be the wind, yes? And so they’ll fire and they’ll miss. When they miss, I will be right there. I won’t miss. You’ve just got to run. That’s all. Can you do this, Henry?”

  “You … you want me to be a target?” he said.

  “I won’t lie, Henry. Yes.”

  “I’ll be a sitting duck!”

  “No, Henry, you’ll be a flying duck. A target they can’t possibly hit.”

  “You’re mad. Fellas shoot flying ducks all the time.”

  “But you are a big man-duck, Henry! A fast duck. An English duck! Quack. Quack quack! Come on, Henry, quack with me. Quack! Quack!”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Yes. Now quack with me. Quack quack. Come on, Henry. Quack!”

  “Quack,” said Henry, without conviction.

  Michel grabbed him by the shirt. “Like hell. Quack! Quack!”

  “Quack!” yelled Henry.

  “Yes!”

  “Quack! Sodding quack! Quack!” screamed the Englishman.

  Michel nodded and smiled. “Good man. Now, we do this?”

  Henry bit down hard. With gritted teeth and bloody lips, he nodded his answer.

  “Let’s go,” said Michel.

  When they reached the end of the dam wall, Henry veered toward the ladder, his hand shooting out to steady himself on the railing.

  “No!” said Michel. His arm smashed into Henry’s body, the back-hander sending the smaller man tumbling to the ground. Henry landed with a rough thump.

  “It is electrified! Goddammit, Henry!”

  Henry got to his feet. His bulbous lip started to quiver and he hyperventilated through flaring nostrils.

  Michel grabbed him by the shirt with both hands. “Snap out of it! We can feel sorry for ourselves when we’re dead.”

  “Hbbb … ” moaned Henry, and lightning quick Michel sent two sharp slaps across his face. Henry reeled, still in Michel’s grasp, his one good arm hacking at Michel’s grip.

  “F-f-fuck you!” said Henry.

  “Yes. Yes! Fuck me,” growled Michel. “And fuck them. Fuck them! Come on, Henry. You and me. Same as always. Let’s finish this.”

  Henry nodded, his bloody face twisted with pain and panic but mostly with a sudden rush of steely conviction. Michel ran along the embankment then scrambled down the rocks. He slung the lever action 12-gauge from his shoulder. Henry followed close behind.

  “Henry, this is it. All you do is run. I’ll be right behind you. Ok?”

  “Michel.” Through red eyes, Henry looked his tormentor firm in the face. “I hate you.”

  Michel smiled. “Good luck, my friend.”

  Henry got to his feet, gulped in deep breaths, suppressed the rising of his stomach and took off. It started as a wild gallop that was all flailing legs and arms, and it stayed that way. Though he had no rhythm or grace, what Henry did have was a whole lot of fear—and fear could make an Englishman fly.

  He was well within the cover of the trees when, at the twenty-yard mark, Michel pushed off behind him, paced to Henry’s gallop. A frantic thought struck Michel.

  What if they do not see him? Or hear him? What if they do not know he is there …

  Michel need not have worried.

  ♦

  As Henry crashed through the undergrowth, the fear was driven out by the even stronger emotion of anger—hot and maddening and stupefying anger that those German bast
ards should be skulking in the shadows, waiting to take his life and the lives of hundreds of others when all anyone wanted was a hot meal, a warm bed and to be left alone to live his piddling little life.

  There was anger that they had shot him and anger that no matter where he went he could not escape the godawful war that dragged on and on and on, and it all bubbled up into a primal scream.

  “Ragghhhh!” Henry roared. “You Kraut bastaaaards!”

  His legs and arms pumped and he ran.

  “Sons of bitches! Sons of whores!” he screamed.

  Henry was almost breathless from the combination of running and screaming, but there was no shutting him up. “Piss on you! Your king! Piss on—”

  Crack, the first flash of gunfire spat at Henry from not fifteen yards above. Crack–crack, and two more rifles opened up, both shots wide of the mark, but not by much.

  Henry knew he was no flying duck. He was a slow Englishman. He ran and ran, certain he was going to die.

  ♦

  Behind, Michel closed to ten yards of the first German. It did not matter that there was no time to steady and aim, for he had the 12-gauge, a weapon designed for wanton annihilation.

  Kaboom!

  Michel pumped shrapnel into the man, the burst of flame from the barrel enough to light the vision of the German spinning sideways, the air filled with the red mist that had been his face. Two more paces and Michel had cranked the lever, an empty shell ejected from the chamber and a live replacement rammed into place.

  Ahead, Henry was still running, his screaming quelled by the gunfire. Michel was practically on top of the next soldier, close enough to see him in the moonlight, and now the vision of an additional man appeared just a few feet by his side. The first reeled toward Michel, furiously working the bolt on his Mauser. Too late.

  Kaboom!

  Michel blasted from the hip at almost point-blank range, where he could not miss. The German took it in the chest and flew from his feet. A handful of shot sprayed his partner, enough to fell him out of shock more than injury. That brief window was all Michel needed.