by Kit Sergeant
The sound of horse hooves caused Marthe to look up. She froze as she saw the men atop were soldiers in unfamiliar khaki uniforms.
“Hallo,” called a man with a thin mustache and a flat red cap. He stopped his horse short of Mevrouw Visser. “Met her maker, has she?” The way he ended the sentence with a question that didn’t expect an answer made Marthe realize the British had arrived. The men paused at similarly lying bodies, giving food and water to those who still clung to life, but after an hour or so, they rode off.
Marthe went home, her robe now tattered and soiled, her feet sweaty in her boots. “What now?” she asked her father, who was seated at the kitchen table, also covered in perspiration, dirt, and blood.
“Now we wait for Max.”
A knock sounded on the front door and Marthe went to answer it, fearing that she would greet a Hun in a spiked helmet. But the soldier outside was in a blue uniform. “The bloody Boches are on their way,” he stated in a French accent. “You must flee the village, mademoiselle.”
She glanced at Father, who was still sitting at the kitchen table. “I cannot.”
The French soldier took a few steps backward to peer at the second floor before returning his gaze back to her. “Our guns will arrive soon, but we are only a small portion of our squadron, and cannot possibly hope to hold them for long. We are asking the villagers to allow us access to their homes in order to take aim.”
She nodded and opened the door. He marched into the kitchen and spoke to her father.
Marthe went outside, and looked up and down the street, which was now dotted with soldiers in the blue uniforms of the French. The sound of hammering permeated the air. The soldier she had spoken to went upstairs to pound small viewing holes into the wood of the rooms facing the street. She helped Father barricade the windows and front door with furniture.
Marthe and her parents sequestered themselves in her bedroom, which faced the back of the house. Although half of her was frightened, the other was intensely curious as to what would happen. She used her father’s telescope to peer through a loophole in the wood-barricaded window.
“I see them!” she shouted as a gray mass came into view.
“Marthe, get down!” her father returned.
She reluctantly retired the telescope, but not before she peered outside again. The masses had become individual men topped by repulsive-looking spiked helmets. There were hundreds of them and they were headed straight for the Grand Place.
The windows rattled as the hooves of an army of horses came closer. Marthe knew that many of those carts were filled with the Boches’ giant guns.
The French machine guns, known as mitrailleuse, began an incessant rattling. Rat-a-tat-tat: ad infinitum. Marthe couldn’t help herself and peeped through the hole again, watching as the gray mob started running, men falling from the fire of the mitrailleuse.
Mother’s face was stricken as a bullet tore through the wood inches above her daughter’s head. Wordlessly Father grabbed both of their hands to bring them downstairs. At the foot of the stairs was a French soldier rocking back and forth, clutching his stomach. Father tried to pull Marthe toward the cellar, but she paused when she saw the blood spurting from the soldier’s stomach. All of her university training thus far had not prepared her for this horrific sight, his entrails beginning to spill out of the wound, but she reached out with trembling fingers to prop him against the wall. “You must keep still.”
His distraught eyes met hers as he managed to croak out one word. “Water.”
Marthe knew that water would only add to his suffering. The sound of gunfire grew closer, and Father yanked her away.
They had just reached the cellar when a shell sounded and a piece of plaster from the wall landed near Father. He struck a match and lit his pipe. “Courage,” he said. “The French will beat them back,” but the defeated tone of his voice told Marthe that he did not believe it to be so. Nothing could stay that rushing deluge of gray regiments she had spotted from the window.
When the mitrailleuse finally ceased its firing, Marthe crept upstairs to retrieve water. The man at the stairs had succumbed to death, and there seemed no sign of any live blue-clad soldiers anywhere in the house. The hallway glistened with blood and there were a few spots where bullets had broken through the exterior wall. An occasional shot could still be heard outside, but it sounded much more distant now. Marthe glanced at her watch. It was only two o’clock in the afternoon.
The front door burst open and she turned to see a bedraggled young man standing in the doorway with his eyes narrowed. Something in the distance caught the sunlight and she glimpsed many men on the lawn, their bayonets gleaming. Marthe marveled that the sun had the audacity to shine on such a day.
The soldier before her holstered his revolver and spoke in broken French. “Qui d'autre est dans cette maison avec vous?” He marched into the room, a band of his comrades behind him. Marthe assumed he was the captain, or hauptmann. The men outside sat down and lit cigarettes.
She felt no fear at the arrival of the disheveled German and his troops, only an unfamiliar numbness. She replied in German that her parents were downstairs.
“There are loopholes in the walls of this house,” the captain stated. “Your father is a franc-tireur.”
Marthe recalled what Nicholas had said about the Hun’s irrational fear of civilian sharpshooters. “My father is an old man and has never fired a shot at anyone, and especially not today. The French soldiers who were here were the ones shooting but they have gone.”
“I have heard that story many times before. Yours is not the first village we have entered.”
You mean demolished, Marthe corrected him silently.
“Fourteen of my men were shot, and the gunfire from this house was responsible. If those men who were with him have run, then your father alone will suffer.”
“No, please, Hauptmann.” But the captain was already on his way to the cellar. Two other burly men stalked after him. Marthe was about to pursue them when the first man appeared on the steps, dragging her mother. The other soldier, a sergeant judging by the gold braid on his uniform, followed with her father, who held his still smoldering pipe.
The soldiers shoved her parents against the wall of the hallway. Marthe bit her lip to keep herself from crying out in indignation, knowing that it couldn’t possibly help the situation they were in. She cursed herself for her earlier curiosity and then cursed fate for the circumstances of having these enemy men standing in her kitchen, wishing to do harm to her family. If only they had left when Nicholas gave her that warning!
“Take that damned pipe out of your mouth,” the sergeant commanded Father.
The soldier who had manhandled Mother grabbed it from him, knocking the ash out on Father’s boot before he pocketed the pipe with a chuckle.
“Old man, you are a franc-tireur,” the captain declared.
Father shook his head while Mother sobbed quietly.
“Be merciful,” Marthe begged the captain. “You have no proof.”
“You dare to argue with me, fräulein? This place has been a hornet’s nest of sharpshooters.” He turned to one of the men. “Feldwebel, see that this house is burned down immediately.”
The sergeant left out the door, motioning to some of the smoking men to follow him to the storage shelter in the back of the house, where the household oil was kept.
“Hauptmann—” Father began, but the captain silenced him by holding up his hand. “As for you, old man, you can bake in your own oven!” He dropped his arm. “Gefreiter, lock him in the cellar.”
The corporal seized Father and kicked him down the steps, sending a load of spit after him.
“Filthy franc-tireur, he will get what he deserves,” the corporal stated as he slammed the door to the cellar.
Mother collapsed and Marthe rushed to her. “You infernal butchers,” she hissed at the men.
“Quiet, fräulein,” the captain responded, taking out a packet of cigarettes. �
�Our job is to end this war quickly, and rid the countryside of any threats to our army, especially from civilians who take it upon themselves to shoot our soldiers.”
The feldwebel and two other men entered the house carrying drums of oil. Mother gave a strangled cry as they marched into the living room and began to pour oil over the fine furniture.
The captain nodded approvingly before casting his eyes back to Marthe and her mother. “You women are free to go. I will grant you five minutes to collect any personal belongings, but you are not permitted to enter the cellar. Do not leave the village or there will be trouble.” He lit his cigarette before dropping the match on the dry kitchen floor. It went out, but Marthe knew it was only a matter of time before he did the same in the living room where the oil had been spilled.
Marthe ran upstairs, casting her eyes helplessly around when she reached the landing. What should she take? She threw together a bundle of clothes for her and Mother, and, at the last second, took her father’s best suit off the hanger. She shouldered the bundle and then went back downstairs, grabbing Mother’s hand. They went outside to the street to gaze dazedly at their home where Father lay prisoner in the cellar.
The German soldiers walked quickly out of the house, carrying some of the Cnockaert’s food. Gray smoke started coming from the living room. Soon reddish-orange flames rose up, the tongues easily destroying the barricaded windows. Marthe put her hands on the collar of her jacket and began to shed it.
“What are you doing?” Mother asked, her voice unnaturally shrill.
“Father’s in there. I have to try to save him.”
Mother tugged Marthe’s jacket back over her shoulders. “No,” was all she said. Marthe lowered her shoulders in defeat. As she stared at the conflagration, trying not to picture her poor father’s body burning alive, she made a vow to herself that she wouldn’t let the Germans get the best of her, no matter what other horrors they tried to commit.
Eventually Mother led Marthe away from the sight of their burning home and down the street to the Grand Place. The café adjacent to the square was filled with gray-uniformed men who sang obscene songs in coarse voices. A hiccupping private staggered in the direction of Marthe and Mother as the men in the café jeered at him. Marthe pulled her mother into the square to avoid the drunken soldier.
The abandoned Kermis booths had now become makeshift hospital beds for wounded Germans. The paving stones were soaked in blood and perspiring doctors rushed around, pausing to bend over men writhing in pain. In the corner was a crowd of soldiers in bloodied French uniforms. Marthe headed over, noticing another, smaller group of women and children she recognized as fellow villagers. She had just put her hand on a girl’s forehead when a German barked at her to move on.
“Where should we go?” Mother asked in a small voice.
Marthe shook her head helplessly, catching her eye on Meneer Hoot’s large home on the other side of the square. They walked quickly toward it, noting the absence of smoke in the vicinity. Marthe reached her fist out to knock when the door was swung open.
Marthe’s heart rose at seeing the man behind the door. “Father!”
“Shh,” he said, ushering them into the house.
“How on earth—” Marthe began when they were safely ensconced in the entryway of the Hoot home.
“I took apart the bricks from the air vent. Luckily the hauptmann and his men were watching the inferno on the other side of the house.”
Mother hugged him tightly, looking for all the world like she would never let him go. Father brought them into the kitchen, where Meneer and Mevrouw Hoot greeted them. Several other neighbors, including Valerie, were also gathered in the kitchen, and they waited in a bewildered silence until darkness fell.
Meneer Hoot finally rose out of his chair. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he stated, “We have had no food this morning, and I’m sure it is the same for you all. Unfortunately,” he swung his arms around, “the bloody Boches ransacked our house and there is nothing to eat here.” He put the pipe in his mouth and gave it a puff before continuing, “I am going to get food somehow.”
Mevrouw Hoot clutched his arm. “No, David, you cannot go out there.”
Father also rose. “I will join you.”
Meneer Hoot shook his head. “No, it is safer for me to go alone.”
Mother gave a sigh of relief while Mevrouw Hoot appeared as though she would burst into tears. Meneer Hoot slipped a dark overcoat on and left through the back door.
An eternity seemed to pass as they sat in the dark kitchen, illuminated only by the sliver of moon that had replaced the sun. The silence was occasionally broken by Mevrouw Hoot’s sobbing.
Marthe was nodding off when she heard the back door slam. Someone lit a candle, and Marthe saw the normally composed Meneer Hoot hold up a bulky object wrapped in blood-stained newspaper. His rumpled trousers were covered in burrs and his eyes were wild-eyed. He tossed the bulk and it landed on the kitchen table with a thud.
Mevrouw Hoot unwrapped the package to reveal a grayish sort of meat from an unfamiliar animal.
“I cut it from one of the Boches’ dead horses,” Meneer Hoot told them in a triumphant whisper. He lit a fire and put the horsemeat on a spit. Marthe wasn’t sure if she could eat a dead horse but soon changed her mind as the room filled with the smell of cooking meat. Her stomach grumbled in anticipation.
Just then the kitchen window shattered. Marthe looked up to see a rifle butt nudging the curtain aside. The spikes of German helmets shone in the moonlight beyond the window. The Hoots’ entire backyard teemed with them.
“We must get downstairs, now!” Meneer Hoot shouted. He grabbed his wife and rushed her into the hallway. Father did the same with Mother, and Marthe followed, stumbling down the steps to the Hoots’ cellar.
To Marthe’s amazement, she saw the large room was already nearly filled with other refugees—men, women, and children of all ages—with dirty, tear-stained faces.
The sound of many boots thundered overhead and it wasn’t long before the Germans once again stood among them. One of them pointed his rifle at the opposite wall and shot off a clip, the bullets ricocheting around the room, followed by wild screaming. Somebody had been hit, a child Marthe guessed sorrowfully by the tone of its wail.
She wanted to go aid the poor creature, but she felt the sharp point of a bayonet at her chest. “Get upstairs,” the bayonet wielder sneered.
The soldiers lined up the cellar’s occupants outside, and separated out the men. Without allowing a word of parting, the Germans led the men of the village down the hill, and Marthe watched Father’s lank form until she could no longer see him. The remaining soldiers shepherded the women and children back down into the Hoot’s now blood-covered cellar.
L’Agent Double Chapter 3
Alouette
August 1914
The smell of gasoline and the wind in Alouette’s hair was as intoxicating as ever. She eased back on the stick of her Caudron, enjoying the adrenaline rush that always ensued when the plane rose higher. The French countryside below appeared just like the maps in her husband’s office: the rivers, railroads, even the villages seemingly unchanged from her vantage point. The world beneath her might soon be engaged in combat, but, a few thousand meters above the ground, she was alone in the sky, the universe at her beck and call. She flew along the Somme Bay at the edge of the English Channel, marveling at the beautiful beaches and marshes that must be thronging with wildlife.
After half an hour, she began heading back to the Le Crotoy aerodrome to land, using the coastline as a navigation guide. She held the tail of the Caudron low and glided downward.
Alouette found the aerodrome in a state of commotion, with men running all about on the ground. As she turned the engine off, Gaston Caudron, the inventor of the plane, climbed up the ladder to stare into the cockpit.
“What’s going on?” Alouette shouted over the noise. It sounded as though every plane in the aerodrome was running.
“Okay.” Alouette refastened her seatbelt and tilted her head, indicating she was ready for Caudron to spin the prop to start the plane up again.
His eyes, already jaundiced, bugged out even more. “You can’t possibly think you can go to war.”
“This is my plane.”
He held up a hand to his mouth and coughed. “As I recall, I designed it for your husband.”
“You know that Henri lets me fly it any time I want to.” She tapped the ignition switch with impatience.
“Still, civilians can’t fly planes during wartime.” His voice softened. “You wouldn’t want to hurt the war effort, would you Madame Richer?”
Alouette’s hand dropped to her side. “No. No I would not.”
Caudron stepped as close as he could to the edge of the ladder as she climbed out of the plane. “I guess I’ll see about my motor-car in the garage at Rue,” she said, navigating down the ladder as Caudron arranged himself in the cockpit.
“You’ll find it a challenge to get back to Paris—all the petrol supplies have been requisitioned for the army.”
“I’ll be able to get as far as Amiens,” she said, jumping down to the ground. “After that I shall find a way to manage, somehow.”
“Good luck,” Caudron replied ominously as he started the engine.
She saluted as he pulled her plane out of the aerodrome.
Alouette estimated that her car had enough petrol to carry her 30 miles, figuring she could stop at the aerodrome in Amiens, or at least a garage somewhere along the route to Paris. But near Picquigny, the car began to sputter and soon stopped completely. Alouette walked a few miles and was relieved to find a garage, albeit looking abandoned. She knocked on the closed shutters of the attached house.
A woman’s hand opened the window a sliver. “Yes?”