

NO TRENCH TO REST

Book 1 of The French Bastard

Previously published as Michel And Henry Go To War

Avan Judd Stallard

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places and events are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Text copyright © 2017 Avan Judd Stallard  
All rights reserved.

Previously published as Michel and Henry Go to War.

Published by Baby Blue Goat.  
Cover by Ebook Launch, https://ebooklaunch.com.

ISBN-10: 0-6481408-0-6  
ISBN-13: 978-0-6481408-0-1

NOTE TO READER

This novel was previously published as Michel and Henry Go to War. It contains strong language and violence, and adult situations.

All characters are fictional or used fictitiously. Some events and locations diverge from history and geography. Spellings follow American English. All other conventions follow British or Australian customs.

You can find more information about Avan's books, blog and other writing at www.avanstallard.com.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NOTE TO READER iii

EPILOGUE 136

#

27 MARCH 1917: THE LORRAINE, FRANCE

Amid the din of battle, Michel and Henry heard the whine of an incoming mortar at the last moment. Both men dropped with the abandon of falling toddlers and covered their heads as an ordnance exploded barely fifteen yards from their prone bodies. It was far enough for them not to be shredded to pieces, but close enough to serve as a reminder that a soldier's luck only lasted so long and any day now their numbers would be up.

With arms at the ready, his muscles tense and quivering, Michel waited for a break in the barrage so that he might push to his feet and make another dash toward enemy lines. Henry would do the same, though he would not be the first—never the first, but nor the last.

During battle, time stretched like Yankee gum, and so the eternity that the two British Army soldiers lay there praying the mortars would stop or at least not score a direct hit and rip their bodies in half counted, in reality, for a few seconds. They exchanged a worried glance.

"Christ, Michel. I think we're done for this time. The lads are getting cut to pieces up there," said Henry, yelling to be heard above explosions and gunfire and the distant sounds of men screaming in bloodlust and others crying at the sight of their own mangled forms.

The Germans had three machineguns set up on the hill, two trained on the bottleneck and one strafing the line. Michel looked up to see the lattice of death drawn by the red of tracer bullets chasing ever-so-slight arcs above their heads. Mortars fell without pause, their explosions raining a hellish shower of earth, shrapnel and dismembered flesh. Dead were strewn the field over.

"You're right. This is madness," said Michel.

He reached out and grabbed Henry by the shoulder. He pulled him close. The mortars momentarily let up and the line advanced without them.

"Henry, if we go, we die. No one gets beyond that bottleneck. And the next wave. Not beyond those guns. Impossible. Suicide."

"I know. But what can we do? We can't abandon the line. We'll be shot for desertion!"

"Not abandon, Henry. The German position is on the hill, but this wire is impassable. And the flank through Rinay, too many guns. The eastern flank, Henry. The Germans think it is safe because the Meuse River bridge is blown and the cliffs protect them. They won't have any guard there. We can climb the cliffs, flank their position, take out the guns."

"What? Those cliffs are forty feet! There's no way we can climb them."

Michel smiled wryly. "I can climb them easily."

Before Henry could offer another objection, Michel hauled him upright.

"This is the only way. Follow!"

Whether he like it or not, Henry was in this with Michel. They sprinted for the trenches. Dirt exploded to Michel's left and there were hollow thuds in front of him as he scrambled through a crater, up its side and dropped into a trench filled with a mix of mud, blood and human waste, all of it the unrecognizable filth of war.

Henry was a few seconds behind when he tripped, his limbs splaying at every angle. He wallowed in the mud, trying to wriggle his way forward the last few feet. Michel turned to see a puddle hiss mere inches from Henry's face. Michel scrambled out of the trench far enough to grab Henry by the scruff of the neck, then proceeded to drag the little Englishman headlong. Henry's entry was undignified and violent, but he was in the trench and safe.

"Come," said Michel.

They moved quickly through the narrow lanes cut from dark soil, east toward the Meuse. As they scuttled through debris and chaos, Michel found a good length of rope and, from the nearly empty forward armory, a box of Number 5 Mills grenades—the good ones, the ones that did not blow up in your hand or, worse, not at all. Michel jammed eight in a hessian sack and kept moving.

♦

"Can't climb, can't swim," said Michel, shaking his head. "Well, Henry, I do not care. I may need you. Get in the water."

"I can't. It's too—"

And with that Henry was hurtling through the air, landing with an unceremonious belly-flop five feet from the bank. In an instant, Michel was beside him.

"It's only chest deep. Now quick."

Chest deep for Michel was almost neck-deep for Henry, but wading was better than being dragged. They made quick progress up the river and within a few minutes were surrounded by steep cliffs. It was a foreboding place to be, the seething sky of a thousand explosions pressing down over the turbid water, hemmed by black and red walls of jagged rock. In different circumstances it could be a place of great beauty. Right then it was just a different ugliness—ugly because it promised pain or misery or death, like most everything on the front.

After a short while, Michel was satisfied they had gone far enough north to outflank the immediate German position. He waded to the far shore and pulled himself onto a perch of rock jutting from the cliff-face. As he took a moment to crane his head skyward and see how he might find a way to the top, he heard a sharp splash, followed by silence.

A few yards from Michel's perch, a circle of ripples pulsed toward the shore. More exasperated than worried, Michel leaned out as far as he could and thrust his powerful arm into the murky depths. He fished around till he felt a flailing Englishman and, for the second time that day, dragged Henry to safety.

Michel paid no heed to Henry's choking and coughing. He bundled the hessian sack containing the grenades into Henry's hands.

"Hold that."

With the rope slung around his torso, Michel began the ascent of the rock face.

Henry clung desperately to his few inches of dry rock and took deep gulps of air. He gripped the sack of grenades to his chest like a little boy holding a beloved teddy bear. He watched Michel climb—climb like an animal born to rock, his fluid movements exacting a minimum of effort.

A few minutes later, Michel stood at the top of the cliff, looking down at the little Englishman. He fixed the rope to a stump and wound a length around his body. He dropped it to Henry, who tied the rope around his waist and held on for dear life.

Henry tried in vain to help but could only flail while Michel simply hauled the smaller man straight up the face of rock without pause. After forty hellish feet, Henry scratched frantically for a hand-hold. Once his knees and hands found terra firma, he scrambled in the manner of an excited suckling that has just seen mother pig's teat, stopping only when he could no longer imagine the hideous drop dragging him down.

Henry gasped for air as if there had been enormous exertion in scaling the cliff. And of course there had, but all of it had been done by his mind, willing Michel not to let him fall to his death or an even worse maiming.

"You know, Henry, for a small man you weigh much. About halfway I think, maybe one man is enough ..." said Michel. His face had colored a ruddy red, in stark contrast to Henry's ashen complexion.

The sound of machineguns and explosions echoed relentlessly in the distance, and Michel knew that every retort meant another fallen comrade.

"Ok, Henry, let's move. I hope those grenades still work," he said, nodding to the sack Henry held tight. Until Michel's comment, Henry had clearly not given any thought to what effect submersion in water could have on the grenades.

"Not work ..." spat Henry, "Christ, we'll be mince! What are we going to do?"

"Cross our fingers and say our prayers. What can we do?"

"No way. I'm not jumping into a bunker of machinegun-wielding killers with ... a handful of stones for protection. No way," said Henry, still on his haunches.

"Henry, listen to the guns. The explosions. They're being torn apart down there. Those in command don't care. Our boys will be wiped out, then they'll push the second wave through. Only when there are too many bodies to climb over will they stop, say it isn't working and come up with something else, just as impossible. Is that what you want? Every man we have fought beside these last months will lay dead in that field. We— _we_ —have these," Michel said, pointing to the grenades.

"We could test them, give our position away. Or, we can take our chances. Go throw these big rocks at some Germans. If they go bang, good. If they don't, we still get to look our killers in the eyes before our last. That, or we go back and die useless in a potato field with hundreds of other men."

Michel looked at Henry. Fire and indignation lit the green of his eyes. Henry averted his gaze.

"Well, which is it? And if you choose to die useless in a field, I swear, _putain_ , I will throw you off this cliff myself."

♦

Barely thirty yards from where Henry and Michel lay prone on their stomachs, the embattlement pounded away, reaping untold carnage. Owl-like _whoomps_ were the deceptive sound of mortars being fired, while the machinegun that spat pieces of lead bigger than Henry's fingers sounded every bit as savage as it was, a series of staccato explosions followed by the hiss of water cooling the hot turbine.

From their vantage of height the Germans had clear sight south for almost two miles. Any significant movements the Allied troops made were telegraphed well in advance. The position itself comprised little more than two trenches separated by a barricade, fortified by a few layers of sandbags. The German lines proper were one hundred yards below. Small arms fire rang out from two hundred, maybe three hundred soldiers. It was not much, but with two mortars and three machineguns dug in, the Allied assault through the bottleneck—a barbed-wire bottleneck supposedly smashed by last night's heavy artillery—was utterly hopeless, like a mob of serfs rushing Camelot.

Michel and Henry assessed the situation. In the far trench: two guns, one mortar and a total of eight men. In the near trench: one gun, one mortar and six men.

"Could be worse," whispered Michel, though the look on Henry's face suggested not.

Michel relieved Henry of the sack of grenades and whispered, "This is what we do. You get close to the first trench while I push down to the second. I'll attack, and as soon as I have their attention you lob two grenades in and duck for cover. If there's anyone left after that, I've got a few more that should take care of things."

"And if the grenades don't work?"

"Christ, Henry, I don't know. Yell 'Hallelujah' and go with glory. Or maybe you want to offer to fiddle their balls. Just figure it out."

And with that, Michel bundled two grenades into Henry's hands and took off, belly-crawling west through the mud and grass.

Henry wriggled his way forward till he was a bit over thirty feet from the nearest gun, so close he could smell the Germans. He just hoped they could not smell him—either the stink from weeks without a bath, or the musky reek of fear.

Henry's knuckles were white. He had to make a conscious effort to loosen his grip on the grenades that looked like tiny pineapples. Henry had never eaten a pineapple, but he had seen one. He had never eaten a grenade, either, though plenty of other soldiers had, especially the old Battye models that reminded him—for no good reason—of a butter churn. The Battye bombs probably maimed as many Allied as German soldiers. Only took command a year and a half to decide they were a bad idea.

Henry shifted the grenades to a single hand. Their bulk barely fit his grip. He fumbled and dropped one, then both.

"Henry!" he muttered to himself.

He picked them up and dusted them off. Again he took the two grenades in one hand and lined up the pins so he could yank both in one go. The quicker they were thrown and gone from his hands, the better his chances of still having two hands come the end of day. Whether he would be alive at that point was another question entirely.

A long time seemed to pass with Henry just listening to the sound of the machineguns and mortars, the sounds those of great violence being done to the good men below. He wished Michel would hurry up, at the same time as he wished he had nothing to do with the whole suicidal plan.

Without warning, Michel bolted from the grass twenty feet from the second trench. He let out a war cry that rose above the thunder of the cannons, then one grenade flew, followed by a muffled explosion. Michel threw a second grenade and this time the explosion was much bigger. With a third grenade in hand, Michel bounded over the threshold of the trench and into the fray, and seconds later there was a third massive explosion that jolted Henry to his senses, then he was on his feet and surging forward.

Henry ripped the grenade pins from their recesses and pumped his arms and legs. As the first gun came into sight he loosed a grenade, hard and low, not at all like he had been trained. Before it had traveled its full measure, it exploded smoke and shrapnel, the shockwave knocking six Germans to their asses. Henry was still on his feet. With a final surge he launched himself into the trench and sent his last grenade into the nest of soldiers.

The grenade rolled along the ground, then made a wet sizzling sound and spewed dark smoke. There was no explosion. The Germans now looked at Henry, who stood there slack-jawed, looking right back.

The soldiers clamored for their small arms. By the time Henry blinked, the first had a fully automatic modified Luger in his hands. The man yanked hard on the trigger and lead started pumping, but his was the aim of a scared and angry soldier suffering shell-shock. The nearest of his comrades was torn to pieces in a hail of collateral fury and he kept spraying, oblivious, desperate to kill the killer who as yet had not killed a damn thing.

Henry dove for a depression already home to three German corpses. Two of the other soldiers had their rifles, and Henry's cover was barely cover at all. There was nowhere else. It was over.

Henry knew it was to be the miserable instant when he died, and even though it had taken longer than he expected, even though he had been expecting it day after day after day, still in that moment it seemed desperately unfair. Maybe it would have seemed less unfair if he had done something, achieved something, saved a few of the boys—but he had not. He was just dying like everyone else and only his dear Mom would care and that was not fair either, not even a wife or girlfriend to shed a tear, not even a father to give a nice eulogy because he had run off with that whore from Hartlip and had never been very fond of him, anyway.

But then came a mighty war cry from beyond the barricade: "Yahhhh!"

German heads pitched to the heavens and all attention focused on the blaze tearing its way through the sky. Michel's legs kept pumping as he sailed over the turbines and over the soldiers, then with languid flicks of his wrists two grenades burst from his balled fists.

With guns hard on his tail Michel landed and dove into a roll that hurtled him across the trench. He barreled through one soldier and past a second. The embankment brought him to a violent stop and in an instant lead was pounding into the parapet, the crackle of fire echoed by the thud of bullets landing _thoomp_ _thoomp_ _thoomp_ in the hard dirt wall _thoomp_ _thoomp_ _thoomp_ all around Michel and then _boom! boom!_ as two huge explosions tore through everything standing.

Time seemed to stop altogether. No soldiers moved or yelled, and no guns fired, except for those in the distance—always guns firing in the distance. A blanket of blue-black smoke started to descend over the snarl of wrought bodies. Eventually, against all odds, one figure and then a second began to stir.

#

The Vitrimont internment camp was originally built to house civilians. From the outbreak of war in 1914, it had been home to some six hundred dangerous enemy aliens. Yet for the most part, their only transgression—the only thing that made them dangerous—was possession of German heritage. That, and the balls between their legs. Women, it had been decided, could not possibly be dangerous, even if they were German, and so they remained at large.

The truth was, most of the interned civilians were average sorts—cobblers, stonemasons, chefs, physicians, butchers and bankers, just normal people—and most of them could not fight their way out of a wet paper bag. But not all.

Through the window of his barracks, Hinrich Vlass watched as hundreds of new P.O.W.s disembarked. For months now, the French had been depositing captured soldiers there, with the other P.O.W. camps filled to overflowing.

Vlass saw Lieutenant Colonel Gehrig—a prisoner of some two months—stride out to meet and address the arrivals. It was well known that Gehrig's swift rise through the ranks had been due to the influence of his rich industrialist father, and was in spite of his glaring deficiencies as a leader and soldier. The fact he had been captured was proof enough of that.

After Gehrig said his piece, Alder Brahms could be seen scurrying around, grasping the hands of sullen-faced men and personally greeting as many individuals as he could. Alder did this with all new arrivals.

One day Vlass had asked him about the little ritual. Alder responded that it was a small gesture, something that he thought could help ward off the malaise before it set in. He recognized how alienating it must be to be dumped on a population that has nothing, yet is expected to share everything. Whenever those gates were opened to yet another convoy, resentment and imposition weighed heavy in the air. Alder was about as good an antidote to that as could be hoped for, under the circumstances.

Vlass could see Alder was right. To a point, he even respected Alder for the way he helped lead the men of the camp, the way he tended them like a chaplain might tend his flock. They were all German, and that meant a great deal to Alder, just as it did to Vlass. But Vlass also saw weakness in Alder's compassion, and thought ill of it.

If Alder had been strong enough to let those who were weak suffer, then some would grow hard and perhaps, eventually, find a strength in themselves they did not know existed. It was the coward who ran from pain, and the coward who sheltered others from pain.

No one at Vitrimont knew more about pain than Vlass. But his fellow prisoners were oblivious to that. Here, Vlass was just another prisoner, and his appearance made it especially easy to underestimate him.

His body was thin and wiry. A pair of eyeglasses suggested bookishness, and a pronounced limp could have been from a minor case of polio or some other childhood infirmity. Vlass wore a suit, each night going through the ritual of cleaning and hanging the trousers, jacket and vest, and that added to it. He was, for all intents and purposes, Vlass the Meek.

And so he was forgotten, until the arrival of Major Hirsch.

♦

Major Hirsch was surprised by the lax security. The difference between thrall and liberty was just a single hinged gate manned by a few bored French guards. There were watchtowers in each corner of the camp, three of them stationed by guards armed with a rifle, a fourth housing a mounted machinegun. That was the real worry: a machinegun could cut through every surging man before a single body breached the outer gates. It would have to be dealt with.

There were other guards, all of them armed, but in Major Hirsch's opinion not one of them was fit to be a soldier. Too old. Too young. Too fat, arthritic or infirm. Hirsch had taken all this in within minutes of disembarking. He noticed something else, too. The internees moved with freedom throughout the compound. His captors just did not seem to care. It was like a summer camp.

There were three vegetable gardens, two on the east side of the camp, one on the west. There was a coop on the west side for the hens and guinea fowl Hirsch could see roaming the grounds. Hirsch hated guinea fowl, for they were noisy, uncooperative and unpleasant in appearance. He noticed one such creature perched atop an outer fence. It tilted over, looked at the ground, then pushed off in a graceless flurry of wing-flapping.

On the eastern side, beyond the outer fence, there was another clearing carved out of the forest. Though Hirsch was no farmer, it looked to him like the yellowing leaves of tobacco plants. _What next_ , he silently scorned, _a smoking parlor?_

The prisoners ran the wood-fired kitchen, which was the largest of the buildings apart from the administrative block and guards' quarters. A work detail of volunteers collected firewood each day under a light guard. Wood dominated the compound: the buildings were wood, they were everywhere surrounded by trees and they burned inordinate volumes of firewood to cook their food, boil their water and stave off the cold.

The only bricks and mortar were in the walls of the water well, located in front of the guard's tower on the south-western side. With the camp expanding, a second well had been sunk outside the fences on the eastern side, but it had been abandoned when an old mine shaft was struck. It was covered with planks, just tempting some idiot to fall in. A new well was being dug outside the western fence. If they struck good water in stable ground, they would just move the fence, which they would have to do eventually if the camp continued to swell and the war refused to end.

All up, Major Hirsch saw half a dozen viable prospects for escape. The way the French ran the place, he could probably just walk out the front gate. But, of course, Hirsch was not going anywhere. Hinrich Vlass was.

♦

"Major, if there is anything I can do for you and your men, please let me know. I've been here three years now—a lifetime it seems—so when it comes to what is possible and what is not possible, I have a fairly good grasp. And you would be surprised what is!"

"Thank you, Mr. Brahms. And am I correct in thinking the men here look to you as their mayor, if you will?"

"You flatter me, major. No, Colonel Gehrig is the leader of this camp. I just help where I can."

"I know who Colonel Gehrig is, Mr. Brahms. I have seen him in the field. He leads no one. Perhaps men to their deaths, that is all."

"Oh, ah ... I don't know about any of that, major."

"No, of course you don't."

"No."

"And?"

"Well, I should keep moving, major." Alder extended his hand for the second time and the major met his grip. "I know no one wants to be here, but welcome to Vitrimont."

Alder made to move on, but as he relaxed his grip Hirsch tightened his, stopping him from moving.

"You never answered my question, Mr. Brahms. Do you lead these men, or not?"

"I ..." Alder faltered. False humility was his standard response to compliments, but the major was not the man for false anything. "Well, in a way, yes. Yes, I suppose you could say I do."

Major Hirsch released Alder's hand and smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Brahms. I'm pleased to know that. Well, you had best continue."

"Yes." Alder turned, relieved.

"Oh, Mr. Brahms, I almost forgot."

"Yes?"

"I think an old family friend might be among the population. Hinrich Vlass. Do you know him?"

"Yes, Mr. Vlass, of course. I can take you to him right now if you like."

"That won't be necessary. Just tell me where I might find him."

"I expect he is in the barracks. It's building twelve. You can see it down there, further along from the mess hall. They're all numbered above the doorway. Mr. Vlass writes of a morning, so you should find him there."

"Thank you, Mr. Brahms. I'll be sure to call on you if there is anything else."

"Yes. Please do," Alder said, and finally moved on, visibly relieved that his little ordeal was over.

With the guards seemingly uninterested in what was going on, and with fellow prisoners delegated the task of showing the new arrivals to their quarters, the major was free to move as he pleased.

♦

Major Hirsch opened the door to building twelve and stepped in. A stove burned, even though it was not particularly cold outside. Warm air smothered his face and Hirsch's lip twitched in disgust. His countrymen were as soft as the dumb French guards.

The building housed three bunks to the left, three to the right, a stove in the middle and another six bunks beyond that. Hirsch moved forward, his footfalls sharp retorts on the wooden floor.

Click–click.

Click–click.

Hirsch stopped just before the stove. The middle-aged man with a pronounced bald patch—the man who had to be Vlass—sat a mere five yards from him, ensconced in his writing. He was ostensibly oblivious to the major.

_But this man is feeble_ , thought Hirsch. He was barely bigger than the chair in which he sat. The frame of his glasses was visible. Fine, almost delicate, fingers held a pencil that scribbled furiously across a page, even while his arm stayed quite still.

It was certainly not the man Hirsch had expected. But what had he expected? An old soldier rather than an old librarian would have been a start. A man perhaps thick and gnarled, or at least weathered in some way that suggested he could endure, could get difficult things done, for many difficult things would be required. Yet the man at the desk who occasionally raised his gaze from the paper to face the wall in seemingly absent thought appeared to be trying his best to have no presence at all. Trying—and failing. What else could be said of someone so comfortable in ignorance of others?

Major Hirsch took a further step forward and announced himself with a heavy footfall. "Colonel Kranz," said Hirsch.

The man's hand faltered ever so slightly, but then he continued without lifting lead from page. He finished writing and put his pencil down, collected together three pages covered with dense scribblings, aligned their edges and tore the sheets in half. He made a single pile of the torn pages, then tore them in half a second and third time. He stood, went to the stove, opened the iron door and threw his words into the fire.

He turned. The movement was so swift and efficient that Major Hirsch's arms still dangled by his side by the time Kranz's blade, seemingly materialized from nowhere, pressed against the weathered flesh of his throat.

The feeble scrivener had vanished. In his place stood a killer. How was it possible? This man was taller, broader. And his eyes—there was so much hatred and fury in them. When Kranz spoke, he spoke slow and hard, like he was stopping fire erupting from his throat.

"So—" the razor-sharp shiv did not move from the major's throat while Kranz turned his head and glanced at the rank insignia on his shoulder "—major. You are the man they send for me. I have been waiting. All these years, just waiting. What a surprise today brings."

Hirsch swallowed. The movement of his Adam's apple rubbed against the blade, but there was no blood. Not yet.

"The question is, did they send you to finally kill me, or have they realized they need me? Because I'm afraid, major, if you have come to kill me, I am very much inclined to stay alive. And as you may appreciate, your life is not worth nearly so much to me as my own."

"Colonel. I am Major Werner Hirsch. With all respect, if I was intending to kill you, I would not be standing to your attention. I am here to serve, colonel. I am here to deliver instructions, and help you escape."

"Escape! You flatter yourself. I'm locked in this camp because I let them lock me in. I choose to stay. Just like I will choose whether you live or die. What do you think, Major Hirsch, should I kill you?"

"No, colonel. It would be a mistake. I am willing to give my life for our country, but I cannot serve it, or you, if I am dead."

"Such a good soldier, major. So brave. And what if your real mission is to make sure I never leave this camp? Perhaps I have an unfortunate accident. Perhaps I die in my sleep. Or perhaps one of your men takes offense at something I do and a fight ends badly for me. Who sent you? Oursler? I suggest you only speak the truth now. I will know if you are lying to me."

Hirsch believed it. The blade pressed a little harder against his throat.

"General Oursler is retired, colonel. He is unwell. He may already be dead. I was sent by General von Eisman."

Kranz's forehead raised a little. His eyes, still furious, flickered.

"Perhaps now you can lower the knife, colonel. This would be very difficult to explain if someone walked in."

Kranz thought for a second.

"You are right, major. We wouldn't want our countrymen to suspect there is a war being fought."

He whipped the blade from Hirsch's neck and returned it to his pocket. Major Hirsch, who had been involuntarily holding his chest full of air, exhaled a long breath of relief.

Kranz's entire countenance changed. Whereas a moment earlier he had been ready to kill, he now transformed into the insignificant persona of Hinrich Vlass: his size reduced with his posture, his face mellowed into a modest smile and a veil fell across the eyes that had been brimming with energy and violence. Once again, he was a middle-aged nobody who might comfortably pass for an accountant.

"So, major, you have instructions for me? You know, of course, that I am no longer an officer of the Imperial German Army, so I am under no obligation to follow these ..." Kranz paused, adding a baleful tone, "orders."

"My information is that you were retired, colonel."

"Retired? An interesting way of putting it. There's no need to be coy, major, seeing as we both know better." Kranz stood facing the stove, casually warming his hands. "Court-martialed."

He let the words hang in the air.

"Court-martialed in absentia, and sentenced to death by firing squad," Kranz said impassively, his earlier anger replaced by a note of irony. "But I'm not dead, major, am I?"

"No, colonel."

"And did they tell you the grisly details of my court martial, major?"

"Colonel, I was told that you were retired, and that is all."

Kranz turned. "Then you don't know much, major, do you? You're just a messenger boy."

"Yes, colonel, perhaps I am. Nevertheless," said the major, pausing, his even tone fraying at the insult, "the message was important enough for one hundred and eighty of my men to surrender their freedom. So would you like to hear the message?"

"One hundred and eighty men, major? Interesting. I will give you a number. Eighteen. That's the number of men last under my command. Eighteen, a denominator of one hundred and eighty, though I suppose that thought had already occurred to you."

"As I have told you, colonel, I know nothing of your circumstances."

"Still, an interesting coincidence. And do you know what happened to my eighteen, major? To my denomination?"

"No, colonel."

"Would you like to know?"

"If you think it is important."

"General Oursler thought it was important." Kranz paused for effect, before continuing: "Dead. That's what happened to my men. They are all dead. What do you think of that? Important?"

"War is war, colonel."

"But major," began Kranz, turning to fully face Hirsch, "they did not die during war. They died in peace-time. There was no war, not for my men."

"Pardon me, colonel, but I disagree."

"Oh? Then tell me, major."

"Well, peace is an illusion. Such a thing has never existed. Not in modern times. Somedays there's fighting, somedays there's waiting. The committed soldier, though, he understands. Every day is part of the war, one way or another."

Kranz looked at Hirsch. They were more alike than either cared to admit: two old soldiers committed to the cause at any cost.

"You'd best tell me everything you know, major. It will be lunch soon. We have twenty minutes, at most half an hour, before men start coming back. Everything. Leave out no detail."

"Colonel, the British were shelling St Mihiel. All our squads had been ordered into retreat. I received a telegram issuing me with secret orders. My unit was to return to St Mihiel to intercept the advancing British before they reached our defensive perimeter on the outskirts of town. We were to surrender ourselves without engaging the enemy. That led to my unit being transported here. At Vitrimont, my instructions were to find Colonel Wolfgang Kranz, a retired specialist with the civilian identity of Hinrich Vlass.

"Colonel, my unit is to be placed at your disposal to affect an escape. Loss of life is not a factor. You are to reach the city of Oraon, located on the River Meuse, forty-five miles east from here. On the south side of the river, around three miles east of the central township, you will find a large multi-purpose compound. It produces explosives and assembles munitions on-site. It is distinguished by the three smoke-stacks of the on-site smelter. You will have to be careful, colonel, as there is estimated to be up to five hundred reservists stationed in and around Oraon.

"The armaments factory itself is fenced. It is patrolled. You are to locate the factory and, using any means suitable, destroy it on the night of March thirty-one. That is just four days away, colonel, and the date is firm."

Kranz mulled the information before speaking.

"Why this date, major? Why this particular night? And why just a few days of notice, when an operation like this would have been months in the planning?"

"I do not know the answers to those questions, colonel."

Both men knew there had to be more at play than divulged in the telegram. The short notice and the sheer ambition of the plot suggested some other plan may have been compromised. It did not matter now.

"And what of me, Major Hirsch? What happens to me?"

"Colonel, there was one more message for you in the telegram. I believe I can quote the exact words: 'Kranz's discharge is rescinded and he is reinstated to the rank of full colonel.' "

♦

Colonel Kranz stood there for a moment. There was a lot to take in, starting with the final message.

Officially reinstated. Discharge rescinded. That was von Eisman telling him the court martial had been wiped from the record; that they wanted him back, that they knew they had made a mistake.

He had tried to tell them. He knew they would need him eventually, that he was valuable. But General Oursler—that weak Jew bastard, a peace-loving coward—had thought him barbaric. Had contrived to have him court-martialed. Had disbanded his chemical weapons research laboratory and stopped his ground-breaking development of sulfur mustard gas. He had been just weeks from perfecting it when they shut him down, all because of a few necessary deaths. If only other men had shared his understanding of the greater good.

That they did not came as no surprise to Kranz. His own army and country had disowned him. For eight long years he had been forced to live as a refugee in anonymous exile, ever since General von Eisman had warned him he was about to be indicted—warned him that he must leave the country that night, lest he be tried and executed within the week. He had fled Germany and sold his services to someone who valued them.

For eight years he produced armaments for a private French weapons manufacturer. Four years ago he had been on the verge of producing a new type of smokeless fast-burning powder that could outperform cordite. But he had also seen the war coming, and he knew that whatever breakthroughs he made would ultimately be used to kill his countrymen. So he slowed his work, stalled, took his research in tangential directions. And he still had it all in his head, plus a dozen other directions for research that he knew would yield results.

Now, finally, the German army realized it needed him. He could probably have the mustard gas ready for mass production in a matter of weeks, at most months. It had taken three years of war for the fools in command to finally realize his value.

Except—and Kranz smiled at the irony—it was not in the laboratory that they needed him. It was in the field. It was not as the scientist but as the soldier, as the man who had begun his career as a special forces commando. A man with specialized knowledge and the ability to get things done.

The only real question was what Colonel Kranz would do. Could he swallow his pride and resentments and go willingly into battle for the same establishment that had disowned him?

The decision was easy. He had given up his citizenship and been stripped of his rights, but he had never lost his patriotism or sense of duty.

"Major, I will find you later this evening. I will tell you what we are going to do and what I need from your men."

"Do you have a plan, colonel?"

"I have always had a plan, major."

#

Michel and Henry spent the night under guard in what passed for military jail—really just another muddy hole, little different to all the other muddy holes they had spent months of the war inhabiting—having been lucky not to be shot on the spot by Sergeant Mendelson for desertion in the field. Mendelson was a stickler for rules and structure, and had no interest in whether or not their actions had turned the battle. It was a matter of procedure. Of decorum. Of following your fucking orders, as he had succinctly put it, a mere inch separating his face from Michel's.

The two soldiers were now doing their best to stand to attention while they waited to be called into the tent of the major-general the men referred to as Fitz. For exactly what purpose, neither Michel nor Henry was sure. Perhaps for a mere dressing down. Or maybe to be informed of some sort of miserable punishment at the hands of Mendelson. It even seemed conceivable that they would walk into a hastily convened court martial, to be followed by a date with a full firing squad. Both men were so tired and weary that they just wanted it done with, their fate decided so they could finally rest.

A corporal had taken pity and offered Michel and Henry a cigarette each. Henry sucked his through in a few hasty draws; he was not a habitual smoker and was prone to fits of coughing. He only bothered with cigarettes when at the breaking point of boredom. Meanwhile, Michel made his last, relishing every breath of smoke as might a man destined not to see another ounce of tobacco for a very long time.

Henry compulsively flicked a pale finger against a wrinkled thumb, making an almost indiscernible sound that still managed to irritate. Michel brusquely slapped Henry's hands as a parent might slap a child's. Henry's lip curled and he was about to give Michel a piece of his mind, but the middle-aged corporal poked his head from the canvas tent in front of them.

"Right, come on, then. The major-general is waiting." He gestured to Michel's cigarette and in a hushed voice said, "Best duff that, mate."

Michel took a last drag on the cigarette and let the glowing butt drop to the ground where a slick of brown water sucked it into the Lorraine never-ever. Henry fought to retrieve his left boot from the pull of the bog and then stomped his way into the tent, with Michel following.

Michel immediately noticed a collection of maps laid out on a long and wide table. The handsome colors and neat lines—lies, all of it—reminded him of the last decent map he had seen up close. Its owner, Crazy Kilborn, had stabbed a finger down on the African continent's dead Saharan heart. "And THAT is where we are going," he had declared. It was a gradual thing, the craziness, a thing that always seemed a few paces behind their party as they struggled forth, till the day it overtook Kilborn and neither man nor madness ever looked back.

Michel had gone with Kilborn because he had been searching. At the time he had not known quite for what, only that it would be far from the life his absent father had expected him to live, a life of relative comfort and meaningless niceties befitting the French President's son—even if he was illegitimate, no more than a bastard.

Michel did not discover it there in the strangeness of Africa, and so he had gone to the last virgin territory for humans to explore: a geography of total war and absolute destruction forged by man's own sick need to destroy all he had created. Of course, his father would never have allowed him to fight as a common soldier—or fight at all—so Michel adopted a new identity and signed up with the British Army. They asked few questions. They needed men.

The moment he set foot in the bloodied mud of the Western Front, Michel knew he had found what he was looking for. It was here, this—the nothingness of absolute destruction wrought by total war—that he had been seeking. It was towns, fields and forests stripped of nature's green and the textures of human ingenuity, replaced by acre after acre of blood-soaked browns, all of it devoid of life, except for the corpse-eating rats that swooned in under the cover of dark, and even they retreated to some better place during the day.

Yet if he had found what he sought, and he had sought this, what sort of man was he? Who wanted this—who but the mad? He wondered if perhaps he had been pulled down with Crazy Kilborn, after all.

Michel gazed at Fitzgerald's maps. Their cartographic magic made the shredded fields and razed towns of France whole again. The Western Front looked positively inviting, laid out in reds and blues and oranges and greens, and nary a touch of brown.

Michel stirred from his reverie upon hearing the exaggerated sigh of Major-General Fitzgerald. He sat behind the table, eyeing the two soldiers. He was short, pudgy and balding. He chomped on a huge unlit cigar, and though he had a reputation for losing his temper, the major-general did not look so much angry as weary and fed-up.

"It's been a long day, lads. Long bloody war. And then I get this."

Fitz held up a piece of paper in his left hand.

"This is a recommendation, accompanied by two additional reports that more or less confirm all the relevant details, for the award of the Victoria Cross medal to two recklessly brave soldiers who turned a poorly planned battle into an unlikely victory. The men in this report did something remarkable. They saved lives in a war that only takes them."

Fitz put the paper down. "Absolutely remarkable, I say. To the men in this report, I'm going to pour a drink."

Three glasses were already laid out on Fitz's table. He opened a drawer and retrieved a bottle of Talisker whiskey. He uncorked the neck and poured. "Go ahead, boys, take one."

Michel and Henry glanced at each other, then stepped forward and took a glass each.

Fitz held his up. "To staying alive long enough to see it through. Cheers," said Fitz, and drank.

Michel and Henry drank, too, Michel doing like Fitz and downing the whiskey in one long gulp, whereas Henry savored it, licking his lips after each quick sip. Fitz poured himself another.

"Resume your positions," Fitz said.

Henry gulped down the last of his whiskey. He and Michel placed their glasses on the table and stepped back.

Fitz held up a different piece of paper in his right hand. "Now, then. This is a report from your senior officer on the field, a Sergeant Mendelson. It does not recommend the award of the Victoria Cross. It cites gross insubordination of direct orders and recommends a court martial. As a matter of fact, it appears that he would have you shot."

Fitz sighed and drank from his glass. He shook his head.

"I suppose both reports might be true. Probably are. Insubordinate soldiers are not always cowards. Oftentimes the opposite. And cowards are not always insubordinate. Many dead cowards on the front. Good and decent sorts who just don't want to fight and so they don't. They die instead."

Fitz shook his head again. He drank.

"Right. Do either of you deny this insubordination? I take it the report is more or less accurate, that you both ignored Sergeant Mendelson's orders to wage your own campaign. Is that right?"

"Yes, sir," said Michel. Henry nodded.

"Good. That's good. Honesty. But they weren't Sergeant Mendelson's orders you disobeyed. They were mine. I suppose you never thought of it that way, did you?"

Henry looked petrified, his eyes wide and his pupils tiny, whereas Michel remained calm, almost defiantly so.

"Absolute balls-up, those orders. You were both there, you know better than me. We thought the artillery had smashed through the bloody wire, but it didn't even come close. By the time updated reports filtered back and we realized there was a bottleneck, too late. Like a game of Chinese whispers. Hopeless," said Fitz.

He leaned back and gazed at the roof of the tent as if lost in thought.

"Some days I wonder if I'm not the one who ... No, I suppose the only one who'll be court-martialing me is God. That's what the priests say, isn't it? Judgment not in this life but the next. I've no doubt His justice will be fair, and it will be eternal. One gets what one deserves. We all do, eventually. I believe that."

Fitz poured more whiskey. He focused on the glass and drank. He looked up with tired eyes that seemed at once angry and sad. He smiled now, but without happiness. He glanced at Michel and Henry in turn.

"You've done enough. Both of you, for a while, at least. Here. Take the rest of this bottle. I don't need it. Get rid of it down your throats. For what it's worth, I'm granting each of you a week's leave. It wouldn't be right sending men who saved lives straight back into the fray. Not to play the shameful odds out there. A week's leave, then all of us will get on with it, finish this thing.

"And next time, try to follow Sergeant Mendelson's orders. They're my bloody orders, after all. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones. Go on, take it," said Fitz, holding out the bottle, "and make yourselves scarce."

#

The two soldiers burst from the tent. Henry slapped Michel on the back.

"Can you believe it? Can you believe it?" said Henry.

"Truly, I cannot. I think Fitz is on the verge of cracking up. Have you ever heard a commanding officer admit a mistake? And did you see him? Jesus, his eyes. His face ..."

"Michel, who bloomin' cares? A week! A week's leave! And this whiskey—the good stuff. Blimey, what'll we do? Gotta get away from this rathole, at any rate."

"Henry, I know just the thing. A week. Yes, a week is perfect. Just the place."

"Anywhere sounds good to me, Michel. Anywhere but the front."

The camp buzzed with activity as the entire division readied to ship out and advance north, minus Michel and Henry. They were an odd couple: the strapping Frenchman, proud and arrogant and ready to try anything once, and the little Englishman, never so happy as when he had a cup of tea and biscuit and a pair of warm slippers on his feet. But war generated the strangest of friendships that endured through everything but death.

It had not taken much. When Michel enlisted, Henry had been the only private in the barracks with an empty bed in his bunk. He said hello, offered it to the new chap who, being French, had no place being in the English army, and split a ration pack with him. The rest was shared suffering and bloody-minded loyalty.

Now, after collecting a few things, Michel and Henry wove between lorries, soldiers, craters and potholes with the insouciance of men whose minds were already elsewhere. They each carried a small rucksack containing a blanket, change of clothes, a few rations, the usual odds and ends, and two half bottles of alcohol.

"So, Henry, we get a lift to Commercy, thirty miles south. I have it on good authority the _Maison des Cartes_ tavern has plenty of fine ale in their cellar. We drink, then we find some amorous peasant girls, a nice big fat one for you, a whore if need be, and a virginal maiden for _moi_."

"You want a virgin?"

"No, no. Virginal, Henry. Not a virgin. Very different. But in truth, I prefer a more experienced woman. A woman who knows how to do things. Who has explored the world of love-making and knows what it is she wants and how to get it. Oh yes, the experienced ones are the best. And let us not forget your fat whore. She certainly won't be a virgin. With luck, she is at least a woman, but I make no promises."

Henry knew Michel was mocking him, but he could not help think that a nice big fat whore sounded just fine.

"So, we drink, we get you laid, we drink some more, then tomorrow we find a ride and head for the Vosges Mountains. I know the area. I spent much time there when I was younger. I promise you, Henry, you'll like it. A week up there, and you forget all this. What do you say?"

"You're the one screwing this horse. I'm just holding the tail," said Henry.

A lorry slowly rumbled past. Michel ran up to the driver's side and gave the door a thump.

"Ahoy!"

The lorry rolled to a stop.

"Where you headed, friend?" said Michel.

The driver poked his fat head out the side window and replied in an unmistakable Australian drawl: "O-ray-on."

Michel assumed the Australian was referring to Oraon, a hub of armaments production a few hours east, located at the foot of the mountains where they were ultimately headed.

"How about you lot?"

"Commercy," said Michel.

"Time's wasting. Hop in if you want a lift."

Michel and Henry loped around to the passenger side. Before they could argue the point, Michel bundled Henry inside, sandwiching him between the six-foot-four pudgy bloke and Michel's own considerable bulk. The lorry roared into gear, bumping and grinding its way across what may have once been a road.

"We appreciate the lift. I'm Michel."

"No worries. I'm Ernie."

"Henry," announced Henry.

"Well, how about a drop of the good stuff, digger?" asked Michel, adopting the lingua franca and pulling a bottle from his bag.

"That's a rare sight! Don't mind if I do, mate."

Michel dug an enamel cup from his bag and poured whiskey. "For _monsieur_."

"Lovely, mate." The big Australian took a gulp. "Ooh, yes. Keep plying me with this stuff and you're welcome to hitch however far you like."

"Thank you, Ernie. But first stop, the tavern in Commercy!"

"Yes, the pub!" said Henry.

"That old pub in Commercy, hey boys? Know it well. There day before last. Turned out to be more trouble than it was worth."

"How's that?" asked Henry.

"It's a story of injustice. Of the Englishman lording it over his colonial brother. No offense," said Ernie.

"None taken," said Henry.

"See, I stopped off at the pub to wet the whistle—have a few quieties with the boys—then showed up in good time in this mud- and roach-infested hole, and the prick at the depot cracked it. Reckons I'm pissed. Pissed!

"Well, maybe I was pissed because I got out of the truck and put the sod in a headlock and ahh, well, anyhow, he didn't take real kindly. Waylaid my shipment for two days. So now I've got to get this load over to Metz, then I've got the real treat. Special shipment in O-ray-on. Explosives. Dynamite.

"Well, I know all about dynamite. See, if it sweats, it's all over. Boom goes Ernie. Or if there's a shell or something explodes nearby, it's liable to go up in sympathy. Ernie goes boom. That's why it doesn't go on the rail—a train's not expendable, but old Ernie is. Bloody unbelievable. A man has a beer in a French pub and the next thing you know his poor family in Australia gets a telegram saying he's been blown to four million pieces while sitting in his truck a hundred miles from the front."

Michel sucked straight from a bottle of red he retrieved from his bag. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "An injustice, Ernie. A grave injustice."

"Too right." Ernie noticed Henry staring at his fingers. He held them up as he let the truck drive itself. "Count 'em if you like."

Henry did, tallying eight fingers. Ernie placed his hands back on the steering wheel.

"Yeah, that's why I drive ol' Mary here, 'cause they don't trust me to shoot straight. Which is a joke. I could shoot the shit out of a blowfly's mouth."

"How'd it happen? The fingers, I mean. Where'd they go?"

"Where'd they go?" Ernie repeated, laughing at Henry's question. "To finger heaven, I reckon. Nah, I blew 'em off with ... yep, you guessed it, bloody dynamite. Did it when I was a young fella on the farm. But I used to tell people the old man cut a chunk of finger off each time he caught me choking the chicken. But soon as people get to know me, they realize that couldn't be true. If it was, I'd have no fingers at all!"

#

The swerving lorry jolted to a halt. The door opened and laughter rolled out the door, along with two mirthful dolts. A couple of empty bottles clanked after them.

"Ernie, are you sure you cannot join us for a drink? My shout," offered Michel.

"Fellas, if I have one, I'll have twenty, and I'm meant to be in Metz tonight and O-ray-on tomorrow."

"Come on, Ernie, it's a war. Might be over tomorrow. Gotta have fun along the way. Besides, he said he's buying," said Henry, pointing at Michel.

Ernie let out the deep sigh of a man willing to be convinced.

"I heard you Ozzies like a beer, Ernie. No?" said Michel.

"Come on, Ernie. More the merrier."

"Ahhh ... Hell with it. What's the worst they can do, shoot me?"

"Well, yes," conceded Michel.

"That a fella, Ernie," cheered Henry.

"Wouldn't want us diggers to get a bad reputation for turning down a grog. Right, who said he was buying?"

Ernie hefted his considerable frame from the vehicle. "Stay, Mary," he called to the lorry partially parked on the road.

In front of them was the _Maison des Cartes_ , a long stone tavern with narrow windows. It looked more barn than pub. The three jostled their way through the entrance and spilled into the chilled hall, blinking and ogling, knocking into something, then someone—"Sorry mate"—as their eyes strained to adjust. The gentle illumination made the space seem smaller than it was, lending the hall a cozy, almost romantic feel.

Uniformed men were hunkered over old wine barrels, downing beer with the sort of gusto that suggested they might never drink again—surely true for some. Seven tables filled the rest of the space, and it was around these that the most raucous hoots and hollers rang out. Naturally, it was where the women were, only a handful, but enough to turn the soldiers into hot-headed idiots jesting and joking and puffing their chests out, all in competition for fluff that most the men did not really expect they could win. All except Michel, that is.

He strode confidently through the mob, casting a casual glance left then right. One table in particular drew his attention. He noticed a woman, moderately plump with a big bust. Her complexion was as pure as milk, though a blush of red graced her cheeks. Beside her sat a little red-head with a narrow waist and fine long legs, and a glint of something in her eyes.

Michel made for the long bar made from dark red cedar. " _Bonjour, monsieur,_ " Michel said to the old publican, and continued in French. "I like your tavern. It is very comfortable."

"Thank you," replied the old man, nodding.

"Two ales, please."

Michel turned and slapped his friend's back. "And you, Henry—a goat's milk for you?"

Henry gave his best version of a withering look.

"Better make that three ales, I think."

A few pulls of the pump later and three ales were placed before the men.

"Well, comrades," said Michel, lifting his glass, "here's to dead Germans and French beer."

"Too right," muttered Ernie, before his entire beer disappeared in one languorous gulp while the clink from Henry and Michel's toast hung in the air.

Ernie belched then said, "Come on, fellas, how is it fair that you've both got full beers, and I'm empty? I thought you were buying, Mick."

Michel peeled two francs from a roll of bills and placed them on the bar. " _Monsieur_ , make sure this man's glass is never empty."

"Too bloody right," said Ernie. "In for a penny, in for a pound."

And so Ernie took to his drinking with gusto, and Henry too, not quite pegging the bigger man, but certainly holding his own given one of them weighed sixteen stone, the other just over ten. Michel came a sorry third in the drinking stakes.

As the ales disappeared, it only took the slightest prompting from Michel to launch Henry into an exhaustive and first-rate telling of their recent adventure. With cliffs one hundred feet high, Germans numbering in the dozens, explosions shaking the very foundations of Rinay and old Major-General Fitz cowering in the immensity of their presence, it was a rollicking good yarn.

Sometime later, Ernie, who had gone out especially hard, was starting to look worse for wear. One eye focused on his half-full beer while the other independently scanned the room. Michel, however, was just getting warmed up. Propped with his back against the bar, he leaned over to Henry and, slurring only slightly, asked, "So, you like?" as he jabbed a not-so-gentle elbow into Henry's midriff, eyes pointing like a blood-hound to the blonde with the milky complexion.

Henry turned and looked.

"See that one, Henry?"

"Oh yes, very nice. Nice nice nice," drawled Henry, before craning his neck and letting out a muffled howl.

Michel smiled the way a fox smiles before raiding a chicken coop. He leaned in close.

"Henry, how much do you want to make love to this woman?"

"Well, I don't rightly know how you'd measure that. I mean, how long is a piece of string?" Henry replied, then added, "But I tell you what. I'd do the string, too."

"Then it is much," said Michel.

"Oh, I'd say so. Much."

Michel nodded conspiratorially. "Then it must happen. I know you thought it was mad yesterday. You were right. It was mad. And I know you didn't want to die. That is good. Smart. Why should you die? But still you came with me, Henry. You came up the cliffs. And into that bunker. Yes, this one is for you. You deserve it. And maybe a little for me, too."

"What is?"

"Don't worry, my friend. It will come to pass," said Michel.

"What are you on about? What will 'come to pass'?"

"You stay here, Henry. Drink with Ernie. Just be ready."

"For what?"

"I'm not sure yet," said Michel. He was already off his stool and sauntering away.

Henry rolled his eyes. He turned to his beer and to Ernie, who, sitting silently and looking in three different directions all at once, made a whole lot more sense than Michel.

#

There was one small space at the table and it was the farthest away from the svelte red-head and her blonde companion. It was a way in, though, the only problem being there was not a spare seat in the whole tavern.

Michel glanced around until he spotted a man in the act of getting up. The soldier set off, staggering toward the bar, at which point Michel swiftly pilfered his chair. The other soldiers around the table made to object, but Michel slapped a franc down on the table and winked, and not another word was said.

Michel now positioned the chair at the ladies' table and sat down. A smaller and less confident type might have been told to take a hike there and then, but there was a look to Michel, a confidence and a strength, that made even the keenest brawlers take stock. A half-dozen annoyed Canadians sent cross-eyed glances his way, while from the other end of the table there might have been a sly smile from the red-head, though it could have been she was just amused with the attention.

Michel had considered his situation as carefully as a man with a belly of beer could consider anything. He knew Henry would be useless with the girls, but he wanted to help his friend. He had to contrive a situation where he could rustle the fillies away from the protective herd of young stallions. Then Henry would at least have a chance—one he would no doubt make a shambles of, but sometimes the pursuit alone was almost as good as the desired result.

Michel needed to be next to the girls. To be close enough that he could whisper and joke and cajole, then he would casually touch an arm or a leg of the red-head, and once he had her confidence he would have the envy of the blonde and she would be so much the riper for picking—even if the picker was an inept Englishman liable to lose his nerve when it counted. But at a table of feisty soldiers, getting close to the girls would be some mean feat. Michel had an idea.

"Gentlemen, ladies," Michel began, yelling above the chatter, "I would like to buy you all a drink."

With the eyes of the curious mob drilling into him, Michel turned to the chap nearest him, a man whose ugliness was considerable, certainly enough to ensure he had no realistic designs on the women.

" _Monsieur_ ," Michel said, addressing the man and extending a hand, "my name is Michel."

"Charlie," reciprocated the Canadian as he met Michel's grip, "but everyone calls me Chuck."

"Chuck, it is good to meet you. Now, if I may, as you are here fighting my war, for which my countrymen and I thank you more than words can express, here is one franc. If you would be so kind, a beer for you and your friends, and something for the ladies."

Michel was not about to play fetch for the rest of the table—hardly a good look in front of the ladies—but, as expected, the man named Chuck jumped at the opportunity.

"Absolutely. Thanks, Mich," replied Chuck, and in an instant he had jostled his way to the bar.

Try as they might, the rest of the men at the table could not quite manage to ignore the conspicuous presence of the Frenchman in their midst. Michel sat there, not saying a word. He swung casually back on two legs of his pilfered chair, projecting the air of a man supremely confident in his right to be anywhere, doing anything. Soon the hoots and hollers died down, and then the chatter, too, till there was little more than awkward mumbling among the group. The tension at the table was palpable.

The man who seemed to find Michel's presence most offensive was the soldier with slicked-back hair seated next to the red-head. He was a good-looking fellow, though perhaps a bit too coiffed to project the sort of raw sexual energy that radiated from Michel's end of the table. The Canadian's jokes dried up, and his easy-going manner hardened with his posture.

The stalemate broke with the clumsy arrival of Chuck. He put four beers down on the table, and the publican's wife followed with another three, plus two gin and tonics for the ladies.

"There we go fellas," Chuck said to the table, forgetting the women in his lust for the drink. He then turned to Michel and added: "And thanks, Mich." He raised his glass and declared, "To France! Cheers."

Michel reciprocated with a hearty, "Cheers," while the rest of the soldiers muttered a mixture of salutations and profanities under their breaths, "screw France" among them.

For the slick Canadian up the other end of the table, the audacity of it all was too much to bear any longer. The buying of a round to impress the girls. The imperious way the French poser sat there like a king. And now the warm welcome given to him by Chuck, happy-ugly-always-drunk-Chuck. He broke his smoldering silence.

"So, Michael, or whatever your name is, haven't you got any of your own friends?"

Leaning into the table, Michel looked at his interrogator squarely. "It is Michel, actually, but it is hard for some people to say. Michael or Mick or whatever you prefer is fine. And yours—what is your name?"

"Harp."

"Well, Harp, it is good to meet you. I'm here with my friends at the bar," Michel said, gesturing to the two figures hunkered over beers. Henry shot a well-timed glance Michel's way.

"But my friends, they do not like cards. The truth is, I came over to see if you gentlemen—and you too, ladies—might be interested in a game. Poker, perhaps. Or blackjack?"

A few of the boys' heads now perked up, Leo and Riggs especially, as Michel retrieved a surprisingly crisp pack from his pocket. "So, what do you say," he said, placing the cards on the table, "interested?"

Before anyone could reply, Chuck had whisked Michel's cards from the table and had them inches from his mug.

"Good God," Chuck hollered, "get a load of these!"

He proceeded to pass cards along the table after he had given each one a good eyeballing. Every card he looked at was greeted with a hoot of joy that echoed down the table. With the soldiers abuzz, Michel now played the fool.

"Ahh, yes, I had forgotten about that. You will pardon me, ladies, if I have offended you. I'm afraid the only decent pack I could get my hands on was this. They are perfectly good playing cards, but, well, a little _risqué_."

The cards now littered the table, the best of them feverishly passed between the salivating men. The pictures on the front varied, but each had in common the fact they featured a beautiful woman scantily clad in lingerie. The four jokers went so far as to show unclad breasts and nipples. It was erotica, but of an artful French kind.

While the boys were lapping it up—woman-hungry, all of them—their female companions had taken an interest, too. The red-head furtively giggled, her face flushing with a softer red than her hair. The more cards she looked at—casually, without seeming too eager—the more she fidgeted in her seat, her legs crossing and uncrossing.

Michel sat back, as if utterly disinterested in either the provocative cards or the excitement they caused. He was playing the magnanimous gentleman, even though it was he who had brought this hot, sexy, delicious filth to the table.

As the commotion began to die down it was Chuck who put in muddled words what the others were thinking. "Mich, buddy, these are ... these are ... I like these cards a lot. I gotta have 'em, eh. How much? You just name the price."

"Well, Chuck, if you like the cards so much I'd be happy to give them to you for nothing. Except," added Michel, and Chuck's grin deflated, "then I would have no cards. But I'll make you a deal. It was a game of cards I was looking for when I came to your table, so what say we play a round of blackjack? If you win, you get to keep the cards."

In an instant Chuck's infectious grin returned to his face.

"But if I win, then for the rest of the evening I get to take a seat next to the beautiful lady, whose name, I'm sorry to say, _mademoiselle_ , I do not know ..."

"It's Catherine," offered the red-head in an endearing lilt.

"Catherine ... a beautiful name. So, Chuck," Michel said, turning, "if you win a simple hand of cards, then they are yours. But if I win, our friend Harp offers up his seat next to the beautiful Catherine. Is it a deal?"

Before the words of eager agreement could tumble from Chuck's mouth, Harp exclaimed his unequivocal rejection: "Whoa, Frenchy. I don't know who you think you are, but there's no way in high hell I'm giving you this seat."

But Harp had been backed into a corner. Right then, he looked like a self-absorbed pretty-boy to his friends, none of whom had much luck with the ladies—least of all Chuck—whereas each of them could relish the exquisite images on those cards for as long as they were stuck in the miserable French war that was nothing like the adventure they had signed up for.

"Hey, Harp, come on."

"Harp ..."

"Are you kidding?"

"Harp!"

"If you don't ..."

"Ahh, fine, fine, damn it," said Harp. "Just make sure you give him a lickin'."

And with that, Harp was one of the fella's again. Yet he had been made to look a fool in front of the ladies, whom he had spent the better part of two hours buttering up. Michel could barely suppress a crafty smile. Yet being the cocksure fellow he was, he was not done.

"Good for you, Harp, it is a most generous gesture. But the odds of me winning ... well, they are not good. And, no doubt you would agree, this is a very fine pack of cards," Michel said, the table—minus one—nodding their agreement.

"So then, gentlemen, what do you say: is it too much to ask that for the duration of the game—which will be over in a heartbeat, I fear—I get to swap seats with Harp?"

"You bet."

"Sure thing."

"That sounds fair enough."

And Harp was right back in that corner. He casually nodded his agreement. "That's fine by me, Michel," he said, pronouncing the name correctly but spitting it out like a swear word. "With just one condition. I'm the one who plays the round of cards, and I choose what game we play."

_Poker, blackjack, canasta, five hundred, bridge—no way he can win a single one of them_ , thought Michel. A croupier had taught him the tricks and odds of a dozen different games. It would not be the first time Michel had swindled a sucker.

"My friend, that sounds only too reasonable. Well, gentlemen, we have a deal," said Michel.

Michel and Harp got up from their chairs and strode around the table in opposite directions. They circled like prizefighters. Harp sat heavily in Michel's chair, whereas Michel played out the moment. He touched a hand gently to the narrow shoulder of Catherine.

" _Mademoiselle_ —Catherine—may I?" said Michel, gesturing to the empty seat.

"You may," she replied. Michel's fingers gently brushed the nape of her neck, generating a ripple of fine goosebumps across her flesh.

Michel seated himself at the packed table. His leg rubbed gently against Catherine's warm thigh. They exchanged glances.

At the other end of the table, Harp had gathered the cards, separating out the jokers with their tell-tale naked models. He shuffled the pack roughly. His lack of finesse suggested to Michel that, whatever it was, it would be a quick game.

"So, what's it to be?" asked Michel with genuine curiosity. "Poker is the soldier's favorite, no? Or perhaps rummy?"

"Snap."

"Pardon?" replied Michel.

"Snap."

"Snap?"

"Snap."

"Harp, I ... do not know this game."

"Oh really," smirked Harp, finally enjoying the upper hand. "Well, it's simple. We get half the deck each, and then we deal 'em into a pile: you, me, you, me, like that. Soon as two cards match, first to get his hand down on 'em wins. Simple, yeah? First to three."

For a moment, Michel paused, all eyes on him. He could hardly believe it: his opponent had settled on some sort of child's game, a game of no higher ability, a game any fool could win. Perhaps the Canadian was not so stupid after all.

"Just a simple game of skill, friend," goaded Harp. "You don't mean to back out now, do you? You've already taken my seat."

Simple. Backed into the very corner Harp had just been in.

"I do have your seat, next to the beautiful Catherine. So if 'snap' is your game of choice, 'snap' it is. Good luck."

"Good luck to you," Harp said.

He gave the pack a few more shuffles and then cut the deck roughly in half, slapping one share in front of Michel and taking the other for himself.

"Mugs away," said Harp.

_Yes_ , Michel thought, _I guess I am a goddamned mug now, playing this ridiculous_ _paesano_ _game_ , and he placed his first card on the table. Harp followed, then Michel, then Harp. Michel stopped.

"Harp, perhaps you can clarify for me. When two cards match—say a jack followed by a jack—I 'snap' the same hand down as I played the card with?"

"Come on, stop trying to hose us," said Riggs. "You see two of the same cards and wham, get your hand down fast and hard."

"Fast and hard," repeated Michel under his breath, as he laid out an eight of spades. Harp followed with a nine of clubs. Then there was a seven, queen, two, seven, one, six, ace, jack, four, four ... and just as Michel's eyes lit up in register of the pair there was a flash of movement from the other side of the table. Michel's hand was caught fully holstered.

"Too slow, Frenchy," chuckled Harp as he dragged the cards in. "Mugs away."

Michel began, placing a ten of diamonds, then came a three, king, five, ten, ten and Harp's hand shot out, the noise of the slap met with "oohs" from around the table as it became apparent a whitewash was in the offing.

For his part, Michel kept his cool, but a fire kindled in his gut. His shoulders straightened and his brow betrayed a glint of menace. Perhaps he would still manage to impress the girls, and perhaps not. He intended to have some fun either way.

"Harp, you have quite the skill there. You must have been training those hairy palms since you were a teenager," said Michel.

The two women giggled coyly and the men sniggered at Harp's expense.

Harp seethed while trying not to show it. "Them sour grapes, Michel? The thought of losing mommy's cards getting to you, eh?"

His buddies roared with laughter as the ladies descended into worried but transfixed silence. Michel flashed a forced smile as the adrenaline started coursing. It worked fast. He recognized the vital sensation of potency that washed over him.

So this is how it is. Win, or tear the whole house down.

"Tell me, Harp, what is the trick?" said Michel.

"You don't listen, Frenchy," interjected Riggs, pepped up on Harp's victory. "It's simple, yeah? See two of the same cards and whammo—el hando go whacko on cardo, fasto and hardo," he drawled as if speaking to a Spanish simpleton.

"Fast and hard," repeated Michel, eyes fixed on Harp. "Mugs away?"

"He's learning," said Harp to no one in particular.

Michel carefully laid his first card: the one of hearts. Harp frivolously slapped down his: the queen of hearts. Slowly, his chest and shoulders high, his abdomen coiled tight, Michel placed his next card.

Five of spades.

Eight of diamonds.

Two of clubs.

Jack of hearts.

Six of clubs.

Ace of spades.

Ace of diamonds.

In the blink of an eye Harp's hand shot out to claim victory. But rather than quietly losing the draw like a dumb chump, the moment Michel saw the pair he thrust to his feet, sending his chair hurtling backward. His shoulder shot back and then Michel's palm catapulted down. First Harp's hand and then the wooden table crumpled beneath the immense force of the blow, the table splitting in two and buckling into a "v". Glasses and cards flew in every direction.

Snap. Fast and hard, it was on.

#

Henry had lost track of his precise tally of beers—not that he was keeping count, more that he could remember and then there came a point when he could not.

He had been holding up his end of animated silence with his good buddy Ernie. Now and then he shot a glance toward Michel, that weird continental bastard.

"Just look at the slippery sod, sweet-talking them girls," Henry mumbled to himself. He turned back to his beer and took a long draft.

There was a sudden loud noise and then a chair bounced off Ernie's back and grazed Henry. The Australian bear stumbled to his feet and turned and leered at the group of men directly in front. They were jumping around a broken table like idiots, and one of them was in the process of lifting a chair above his head.

The staggering giant said nothing. He started moving, taking a shaky first step, then used his momentum to keep upright and worked his way to a good head of steam in four or five strides. Head down, arms out, Ernie hit the man with the raised chair head-on and kept going, eventually coming to a stop in the middle of a mob of soldiers the next table over.

Henry watched the scene unfold, his jaw agape. Ernie was now in the middle of it, bodies flying around him. Michel was a few yards away.

_Is he dancing? No, just_ _fighting_ , thought Henry.

Then Henry noticed the girls caught up in it all. Damsels in a bar brawl, and clearly in distress. They needed to be saved by an Englishman, by a Henry, and he was all those things and more.

"I'll save ya, girls," he called.

A rushed mouthful of ale and then Henry was ducking chairs and men and an assortment of debris. "Come on," he hollered, grabbing the waist of the blonde and the arm of the red-head, "I'll have you out of this in a jiffy."

Dragging and pushing, Henry shepherded the two women to the far corner of the bar where the publican had taken cover, armed with a mattock sans mattock-head.

"You're right, me darlings. You're safe with Henry," said Henry, directing his chivalrous comments to the blonde around whose waist his arm remained wrapped. Her chest heaved as she nuzzled into Henry's body for protection.

♦

Across the room, Michel was on the move. One quick step saw his left foot planted on the back of the prostrate mess that had been Harp, now no more than a convenient launching pad. In a single fluid motion, Michel's right leg shot out, his torso swung back and all his bodily force channeled into a size eleven standard army issue. His boot rammed flat and square into the chest of Riggs. A puff of air was all that remained as he hurtled rag-doll across the room.

Michel sensed movement to his side and pivoted in time to see a freight train that looked like his new friend Ernie careen through a man. Another table took the full force of the collision, with three of four legs snapping. Ernie got back to his feet and back-handed one man then sent a wrecking-ball fist through another who saw it coming but just stood there and took it—like the Beefeater he was.

Happy-ugly-always-drunk Chuck had jumped to the defense of his buddies. With his head down, he cannonballed himself at Michel, who redirected the Canadian's momentum with a simple parry from his open left hand. Chuck sped by and sprawled into men and barrels. Half-full glasses of beer went flying and in a flash one of the disenfranchised drunks had hauled Chuck to his feet and sent a blow across his jaw. Chuck was either too drunk, too tough or just too plain dumb and ugly to leave it there.

He shook off the blow and let rip with a flurry of wild punches, meant for nobody and everybody. That fight became an all-in and spilled into the next table so that a melee started there, too, and within thirty seconds of Michel's opening sortie the whole tavern had erupted into one indiscriminate rolling brawl, friends belting friends, strangers wrestling strangers. The _Maison des Cartes_ had turned into a Wild West saloon.

Away from the worst of it, in the corner of the saloon, Henry remained valiantly by his charges, throwing the odd shadow jab as a rival hound came too close, though none posed any real danger. For the most part, Henry, the women and the publican just hunkered down, watching the scene unfold with a mixture of horror and fascination.

One smart punter tried to make the most of the situation by getting a belly of free booze. He extracted himself from the fighting and jumped onto the bar. His eyes lit up with the sight of all that whiskey and brandy. He reached out for the top-shelf where they always kept the good stuff. Just as his fingers were about to close on a bottle, _crack!_ A blow took his legs out from under him. As he groped about on his knees there was a rush of movement and the thick end of a mattock-handle bunted into his face.

"Pirate!" raged the old publican, as he holstered his mace and spat in the general direction of the semi-conscious man who landed ass-first on the stone floor.

Back in the fray, the real fighting had coalesced around a central nucleus. At the middle of it was Michel, dancing about and having a fine old time like only he knew how. Behind Michel, Leo finished off one of the chumps who had planted a decent blow in his guts, before turning his attention to the mean French bastard who had started it all. He wound up a fierce right hook.

Michel did not see the blow coming till the last second. He reacted quickly, bobbing under the swinging arm, but he caught it late and Leo's fist ricocheted off the back of his head, shaking but not felling him. Leo was still recovering his swing when Michel bobbed up and moved in close, delivering a withering flurry of hard, fast, controlled piston-punches to Leo's face. The Canadian's head recoiled backward and toward the floor. Michel's punches followed him down—just as he had been trained to do.

As a _savateur_ , Michel had no qualms about going in hard. A fight is a fight. You fight to win, to annihilate, or you do not fight at all. Do less, and you end up with a knife in your back. It was the philosophy he had acquired as a teenager when learning the centuries-old French martial art of _savate_ , a style of street-fighting perfectly suited to close and chaotic action. It had developed from the rabble-rousing of hardened French sailors scrapping at port and sea and anywhere trouble found them—or they found it. In, hard and fast, close and controlled.

Michel let instinct take over. He followed his fists and feet as they sunk into man after man. Every now and then someone landed a blow from behind, the best effort coming from a soldier who had wised up and instead of blunting a fist on the dancing fighter, broke a chair across his broad back.

The blindside felled Michel. He quickly got back to his feet—a little groggier, to be sure—and sent his assailant slumping to the floor with a jab-hook combination.

On the other side of the tavern, Ernie had just about exhausted his stock of victims. Some of the patrons had disappeared at the first sign of trouble. A dozen or so of the broken but conscious ones had managed to crawl from the melee to lick their wounds in the dying afternoon sun. There were even a few keen drinkers who had actually gone back to their beers as they dodged flying glass and limbs and timber.

With no great urgency, Ernie now occupied himself in attempting to defenestrate a fellow who had really done nothing wrong other than look sideways at the big Australian. The windows were too narrow to throw a man through, so Ernie pushed and heaved and kicked and thrust, wedging him in head-first till he was stuck solid as Excalibur.

By the time Chuck and Michel had come to round on each other, they were two of the last fighters standing—though there was not much scrap left in either one. Still, neither was the sort to back down from a fight.

They sized each other up. Though drunk, Chuck had enough sense to know he was up against a bigger man and a better fighter. For his part, Michel had little desire to fight Chuck, who struck him as a decent enough sort.

Fate intervened when the publican's wife shuffled from the opening behind the bar at her quickest pace, a rifle cradled in her arms. She cast a glance to her right and met eyes with her husband.

"Where have you been? Look at this," the publican cried in French, his arms flapping. "They have destroyed my tavern!"

"I searched for the shotgun but could not find it. It is gone. I look and look and look, but it is nowhere! So this is all I can find ..." she offered, holding up a rifle.

"The arquebus? You stupid woman! The gun is two hundred years old!"

"Then you find the shotgun."

"Mother of Mercy ... I just hope it is still packed. Give me the gun," he said.

"I will shoot the gun," she replied firmly.

"What? Give me the gun, you crazy old goat!"

"Drink your milk, old man!" she replied, raising the ancient carbine to her shoulder. She aimed at the ceiling and pulled the trigger.

_Poooof!_ went the rifle in a fantastic flash of smoke and fire. It was not the threatening boom of a shotgun, but it certainly won the attention of Ernie, Chuck and Michel.

" _Fini!_ " screamed the publican's wife. " _Fini!_ " she repeated, leveling the empty gun at the brawlers circling one another.

Michel stopped and looked at the woman brandishing an old Spanish arquebus. A grin started to break out on his face, and he looked back to Chuck.

A chortle now rolled from Michel's throat. As Chuck's smile started creeping back onto his own bloodied face, Michel, still tittering, extended a hand to his foe. "What do you say, friend. _Fini_?"

He was no French speaker, but Chuck clearly understood. " _Fini_ ," he replied, as his posture finally relaxed. He let out a deep breath of relief.

"So, Chuck, my friend, what say I buy you a beer?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I need it."

♦

Later that night in an old barn made of stone and wood, the familiar sounds of livestock rustling and crickets chirping were disturbed by sounds of a different kind.

On an improvised bed of straw, the heaving body of a buxom and slightly plump blonde woman ground up and down over Henry's quivering frame. His hands groped wildly at her luscious milky breasts, at her soft round ass, at her ample womanly hips and again at her heaving chest. As he did, she planted her hands firm on Henry's boyish chest and ground down and up, left and right.

She paused in pleasure, craning her neck and letting out a sigh, then continued rolling her hips, her full weight pressing hard on Henry's pelvis, grinding, grinding.

"Ohh, Henry ..." she whimpered.

"Henry," gasped Henry.

"Henry!" cheered Ernie, slumped in the corner, enjoying the show.

"Ohh Hennry, Hennnnry ..."

#

The tip of Leroy's cigarette glowed red as he drew down hard, filling his lungs with smoke. He held the warmth till it burned a little, then slowly exhaled a snaking gray vapor and watched it disperse.

He drew down again and again until left with just a hot nib. He inspected the butt, saw it was done and with a simple movement flicked it from his fingers. He followed its path through the air with his eyes. It fell within the no-man's-land of the two perimeter fences. A prisoner was onto it straight away, poking a stick through the fence, trying to drag the butt closer.

"Piss off, you dumb seagulls!" yelled Leroy in French. " _Achtung! Schnell!_ "

The man dropped his stick. He and a group of prisoners wandered off a little, but they did not leave. Leroy was sick of them, looking up with their big sad eyes like a pack of hungry dogs pleading for food, scraps, attention, help—looking at him like he should give a damn about their welfare.

Surely they knew he did not care whether they lived or died, let alone whether they should enjoy the luxury of smoking a scavenged cigarette. In fact, his feelings went beyond indifference and verged on hate—not exactly of them, more of the fact he was fated to be their overseer.

As far as Leroy was concerned, he should have been rushing the German trenches of the Somme or Lorraine, killing the men who had invaded his country, not babysitting civilians and a handful of soldiers so pathetic they chose capture rather than fighting their way out of it. He would happily die for his country, if they only gave him the chance.

Three of them from the mountain valleys above Oraon whose birthdays fell within two months of one another had agreed to wait till they were of age, then enlist together. In the meantime, older friends and many others from the close-knit towns of the Vosges region returned in caskets. Some would never return, having become pieces of flesh and bone scattered throughout a field, or an anonymous corpse in a mass grave.

It was not that Leroy had been ignorant to that fact. It was that he knew he had to go to war with his friends and countrymen. He simply had to fight, even if that meant he might die. How else was he supposed to live with himself after the war?

Walking into that recruiting office he had been a supremely fit young man. He had been running the farm with his younger brother for two years, ever since his father became an invalid after losing both legs in a plowing accident. They had coped just fine. Yet by the time Leroy walked out of that office, he was labeled for life: unfit.

It was true that he did not hear as well as some. But so what? He could run. And shoot. And wrestle and fight and swim and climb a tree and damn near anything. Being deaf in one ear had not made a difference to any of that, and surely would make no difference to his ability to spring from a trench and dash across a field and pull a trigger and stab a bayonet through a Kraut's chest. He had said all that when they told him the news—plead his case—but the recruiter did not care.

Leroy was shattered, then and still now, for they had forbidden him from going to war, from following his friends, from doing the right thing and being part of something. What followed was even worse. He had already signed the papers and so the army could do with him what they pleased—and they did.

While he was unfit to fight as a soldier he was, apparently, perfectly fit to babysit German cowards. And so he felt a kind of hate toward the prisoners, as if they were the reason he was there and their lack of guts to fight in the field was the root of all his misery.

If only they would try something. He imagined ten of them springing him. Then he would show them how good a soldier he was. Leroy slapped the butt of the Hotchkiss machinegun. It spun on its mounting and he let the barrel come to a stop by stabbing into his arm. He swung it back around and got behind the weapon, gripping the steel ring-hold on the stock. He leaned over, following the line of the sights. He steered the barrel across the exercise area, sweeping over a group of prisoners kicking a leather ball.

" _K–k–k–k–k–k_ , and France wipes out the entire German football team! Too bad they were useless anyway. _Ffffffff_ —and there goes the ball, no air left. Oh, hold on, that's right, the ball's made of rags, must have been dead German farting. Dead German Farting also name of famous German football player."

Leroy liked playing this game. It took his mind off things, occupied his thoughts. He brought his aim up. In the distance he saw what he was after.

"Spots Target. Unsuspecting. Target casually going about Target's business, doesn't seem to know there's any danger. Unbelievable. Right in the middle of the vegetable garden. The audacity. The daring. Oh, no, no, Target suddenly makes for escape. Now Target flying through air, sniper Danger D Danger equal to challenge, opens up— _k–k–k–k–k–k_ —misses, sniper throws grenade and _poof!_ Got him! Another brilliant effort from the sniper who is made into a two-star general."

Releasing his aim from the guinea fowl, Leroy swung the barrel all the way around to the left, stopping at the base of the watchtower in the opposite north-east wing. He moved his sights up the tower to the platform.

"General checks on subordinates and ... finds old man Yves sleeping. Or is he dead? Can't tell. In fact, may just be an Yves scarecrow in tower. Scarecrow a fine soldier, never flags, doesn't gossip like woman, eats little, sworn enemy of German birds. General Danger D Danger promotes scarecrow to lieutenant."

The barrel of the machinegun followed the watchtower ladder back down to the ground and started across to the right. Leroy stopped at a stationary figure. The man seemed to be looking straight at him.

Leroy stood up and looked back at the German, who continued to stare. Leroy let go of the machinegun. The barrel slumped toward the ground.

"Freak," muttered Leroy and looked away.

He did not feel like playing his game anymore. He did not feel like anything. He just wanted to go home and sulk and pretend the war did not even exist. The war that was only one hundred miles to the north in the Lorraine where sporadic bursts of activity left tens of thousands dead, all for the benefit of a few miles gained. The same war that was barely thirty miles to the east where the front had been at a stalemate for years.

But Leroy could not forget. Maybe if he had never enlisted and abandoned the farm to be run by his Mom and kid brother—then he could forget. But he had and now he was stuck babysitting Germans, so that every day became a reminder that there was an appalling, magnificent war that would be remembered forever.

And he was not in it, because he was not a soldier, because he was unfit. His enlistment forms said as much, stamped with the dreaded 2-R for restricted service.

#

Michel looked out across the canopy of a small orchard and tried to take every bit of it in: how the morning sun shattered into tiny prisms of light where it collided with water vapor, how little eddies rumpled some leaves and not others as fine trails of air rose and cooled and fell in a never-ending cycle, how tiny insects appeared for the briefest moments when their wings and bodies were caught just so by the rays of sunshine.

He plucked a Lady William from one of the many apple trees, though most were fallow before coming into their summer crop. The apple's waxy skin felt cold to the touch. He sunk his teeth into the flesh. The tang of cider cut through the chalkiness in his mouth that lingered from the night's drinking. A dribble of juice ran down his stubbled chin. He wiped it away with the back of his fist, then sucked his hand clean.

_What a superb day to be alive_ , thought Michel.

He walked across a narrow road, gravel and white rock crunching underfoot. He passed into the shade of the barn and felt the temperature drop sharply. Michel looked across at the crumpled figure of Henry, at his body twisted in a heap like an orange squeezed dry. The thick blanket he had draped over him during the night was pulled up at the side, exposing a cold white English ass.

Michel smiled. He was pleased for Henry and amused by his antics from the night before. But the day would soon be away from them. Michel was eager to get going. He strolled across to where Henry snored contentedly and nudged him with his foot.

"Henry." He waited. "Henry," Michel repeated, and gave a few more nudges.

The snoring skipped a beat and continued. Not one to coddle where intemperance would suffice, Michel bent down and in one jerk ripped the blanket from Henry's body. "Wakey wakey," Michel said.

Henry woke in apparent confusion. A single eye opened and his face contorted into a typically hideous morning greeting. "Ngahh," he slopped, clumsily licking his lips and swallowing.

"You live?"

"What ... yeah," he mumbled, turning onto his back.

"Come on. Day is upon us. There is much to do and far to go."

As if a light had gone off in his head, Henry pushed himself up on his arms and looked around—left, right—before noticing his nakedness. He cupped one hand over his manhood as a look of uncertainty swept his face.

Michel laughed. He had wondered how long it would take Henry to realize his mistress had fled during the night.

"You have lost something, Henry?" Michel chuckled.

"Th ... wh ... Where did she go?" Henry asked, as he started retrieving his strewn clothes.

"Oh, you mean the girl. You don't know, Henry? She woke sober in the middle of the night and realized what she had done, and who she had done it with. Oh, the screaming! Ran naked into the hills. That's right, isn't it Ernie?" Michel said in the direction of the slumbering giant in the corner. He did not move. "See, Ernie saw it too."

It took Henry a moment to realize Michel was jesting.

"Very bloody funny. You ... you're just jealous because I'm the only one who got a bird last night," Henry said. The sound of his own voice sent dull waves of pain through his head.

"Perhaps, Henry. Perhaps."

"Why don't you wake that maniac up if you're so bloomin' chipper?" Henry said, gesturing toward Ernie as he finally kicked his legs through his strides and dragged himself upright.

Michel chuckled. "Are you mad? Didn't you see what that man did to the _Maison des Cartes_ yesterday? No, thank you. Sleep, gentle giant, sleep."

Another light seemed to go off in Henry's head. "Bloody hell ... The pub. We just about demolished that place. You. You just about demolished that place," he said accusingly.

"Henry, do not worry. While you were chatting with the girls, I took care of everything with the owner. He's the one who invited us to sleep in his barn, so we are good friends."

"Oh. Well, good."

Henry reached for his shirt. The cold morning air bit at his itchy skin, speckled with red from sleeping on hay. He pulled the shirt on and managed to lodge his head halfway up a sleeve.

Michel tended a small fire. He had retrieved their bags from Ernie's lorry, parked just a few yards past the barn. His army-issue mess tin, filled with water, was on the heat. The water hit the boil and Michel placed the tin on the damp grass, to a watery hiss. He threw in a small handful of tea leaves and let them steep.

By the time Henry returned from pilfering some apples, a cup of tea was waiting. Ernie, too, had finally come to life and happily received a steaming brew that Michel took to him.

"Good on you mate, thanks," said Ernie, carefully taking the hot cup.

"No worries, mate," replied Michel in imitation of the Australian accent.

Ernie looked at him stony-eyed before taking a chary slurp from his hot tea. Then he gingerly hoisted himself to his feet with the help of the wall. He put his cup on a ledge, stretched his arms wide, opened his big chest and let out a roaring yawn of greeting to the world. It hit Henry like a forty pounder as he sat by the little fire. A wave of pain washed over his pickled brain.

"Well, fellas, that was a bit of fun last night, wasn't it? Good night, good night ..." Ernie trailed off.

"I'm not sure that fellow stuck in the window would agree, Ernie, but for my part, certainly. A memorable night. It is good to drink with a man who takes to life, and his lorry, with gusto," said Michel, chuckling, his head flooding with memories of Ernie retrieving his beloved lorry in the middle of the night, then dry-humping her to cries of, "Look, boys, I got a sheila, too! I got one, too!"

"You are a good sport, Ernie," said Michel.

"How about this fella," Ernie said, bending a thumb Henry's way. "The racehorse! Up that bird like a goanna up a tree. Top show, though," he said, shaking his head in hearty approval.

Henry just sat there. The throbbing in his head could not erase the satisfaction he felt, writ large as a dopey smile on his face. He had spent the night with a fine lass, and what made it even better was that she was a girl from Kent who had promised to look him up after the war.

Moments passed with no more noise than the crackle of fire and the sweet chatter of birds in the apple trees. It did not last. The men heard a convoy of throaty diesel engines jarring and crunching their way along the main road, fifty yards yonder. One of the trucks turned into the access-way beside the _Maison des Cartes_. It weaved along the track as branches from the apple trees dragged along its canvas sides. It ground to a halt and the door opened.

"Chuck!" said Michel, at sight of the driver.

"Morning boys," said Chuck, a broad smile crossing his ugly mug.

Michel stepped forward and thrust his hand out. "It's good to see you made it back to camp alive, my friend."

"I'm like a homing pigeon, Mich, never fail."

"Good, good. But Chuck, you must call me Michel. 'Mich' is too strange for my ear. It is very like the word for ass in French. 'Mick' like Ernie says is ok, too. Or just plain 'asshole', if you want," said Michel, smiling.

Chuck laughed. "Sure thing. Michel it is. So how'd you dogs end up last night, eh? Old Henry here looked like he was in with at least one of those birds when I stumbled off. So how'd you go, Henry?"

Patently embarrassed by the attention, Henry took a breath to supply his response. He was beaten to the punch by Ernie.

"Mate, he didn't just give that big-titted sheila one. She swallowed him whole, then spit 'im out, then swallowed 'im whole again."

Chuck laughed.

"And how about your lads, Chuck?" said Michel. "No hard feelings, I hope."

"What's a few bruised ribs and cut lips between allies, Michel? No, we're good. Though Harp's hand is pretty red and swollen. He's feeling right sorry for himself this morning."

"No more pruning the filth tree?" chuckled Ernie.

Chuck smiled. "Exactly. But it was a great night. Boys 'll be talking about it for weeks."

"A Frog, an Aussie, a Canuck and a Pom walk into a bar ..." said Michel.

Chuck laughed. "Right. But by the time you hear the story again, it'll be about the lashing our boys gave yours."

"Of course. Ah, by the way, it seems I cheated you," Michel said and started rummaging through his knapsack. "Here. Harp won these fair and square."

Michel handed over the pack of cards with which all the trouble had begun.

"You're a good man!"

"Bye, ladies," said Henry to the cards.

"Jesus Christ, let's have a look at them," said Ernie, relieving Chuck of the pack.

"They're a bit worse off. I think the deck's missing a joker. Not so bad, considering," said Michel.

Chuck reached into his jacket pocket. "You mean this one?"

" _Putain!_ " Michel laughed. "Should I check to see if my wallet is still here?"

"Couldn't help myself, Michel. You know how it is out here."

"Of course. And I have something else." Michel dipped back into his bag and retrieved a bottle of whiskey purchased from the tavern the night before. "Here, tell your friends no hard feelings, ok?"

"You're a champion, Michel. Trust me, all is forgiven." Chuck unscrewed the lid on the whiskey and took a sip. "That's the stuff. Well, boys, I can't stay to screw the dog. We're rolling out this morning. Whole squadron. I gotta get back on the tail end of that convoy before I'm missed. But I could hardly leave without my own parting gift."

Chuck retrieved his cards from Ernie then walked around the side of his truck. Michel and Ernie followed, and eventually Henry, too—curiosity besting his hangover. Chuck unhooked the straps holding the tarp over the truck's frame, lowered the back tray and flung the canopy open, revealing a motorbike and sidecar.

"Whaddya think?"

" _Magnifique_ ," said Michel in a hushed voice. "Ours?"

"Yep. Sure is."

Chuck jumped up and started wheeling the machine back.

"I greased some palms in Supply, so it won't be missed. It's no Indian, but it hasn't had the biscuit yet. Should get you up the mountains. Just been sitting idle after we took it off a Kraut who made a wrong turn. Better someone gets some joy."

"Chuck, I had not the slightest doubt in you! It is superb."

"Here," said Chuck to Ernie, "slide the gantry so we can wheel her out."

When the machine was on the ground, Chuck said, "She's got a full tank, and I managed to scrounge up a spare jerrycan." He dragged the canvas back over the truck's frame. "You'd want to be careful if you're heading to the mountains, though. Word is it's almost impossible to get any gas now, especially away from the front. Rationing of oil and gas is really kicking in." Chuck shook his head. "Way things are going, I reckon I might have been more use staying home. I used to work the oil rigs. Besides, I'm a shithouse shot with a rifle."

"The rationing is that bad? Or your shooting is that bad?" said Michel with a smile.

"Yep, that bad. Both of 'em."

"Well, we will find a way to get there. And if we can't get back, maybe we will just have to stay."

"I like the sound of that, Michel," said Chuck. "Right, sorry to cut it short, but I've got to roll."

"Of course. Thank you, Chuck, you are a good friend. And as promised," said Michel, retrieving a wad of notes from his pocket and slapping them in Chuck's hand.

Michel always seemed to have more cash on hand than other soldiers, certainly more than the paltry wages they earned. And where many of his British comrades were thrifty, Michel was always generous, seemingly unconcerned by the trivial detail of what something cost. He never did say where he got the extra money from.

Chuck looked at the notes, a fair wad. Michel shot him a nod and wink, and Chuck took it for what it was.

"Been a pleasure," said Chuck.

He shook hands with each man then jumped into his truck and wound the window down.

"Good luck to you and the boys in Rinay," said Michel. "Perhaps we'll see you in camp when we get back."

"Thanks, Michel. But we're not joining you at Rinay. Now that St Mihiel's opened up, they're throwing us into a new front west of the Lorraine. I forget the name, but apparently the fighting's been bogged down for months. Maybe longer. With any luck, we'll be able to break the deadlock."

A moment ticked by as they all thought through the geography.

"You mean a new front in Verdun?" asked Ernie.

"Yeah, that's it. Our boys 'll be givin' it what for, see if we can't make some headway."

The name of Verdun held special significance for Ernie. In a single day, six thousand Australians had been slaughtered there, fighting over a tiny patch of ground that, as best as any soldier could tell, was no different to all the other dirt across the Western Front. The Australian Second Division had very nearly been wiped out. Ernie's two younger brothers had been part of it. They were killed on the same day.

Now, soldiers held to a simple axiom when it came to Verdun: no one comes back whole. Already nearly a quarter of a million dead, and twice that number carried out on stretchers.

Ernie said nothing, just stared at the ground and shook his head. Michel walked over to where Chuck leaned from the window. He spoke quietly.

"We've lost enough good men, my friend. You come back, all right?"

"Thanks, Michel. I hope so."

With that, the truck roared to life and Chuck was gone.

#

Michel and Henry cruised on the motorbike at a leisurely speed through the countryside south-east of Commercy, taking in the sort of existence soldiers fantasized about in letters to home. It seemed that despite the madness that was so close—just a handful of miles to the north—life in rural France carried on much as it had throughout many centuries and many wars.

They passed mile after mile of hedgerows and stone dikes, behind which farmers toiled in rich black soils in preparation for their summer crops. Orchardists flashed in and out of the color of the spring harvest. Surrounded by the beauty of the landscape and the old traditions of husbandry, the horror of the front seemed impossibly remote. A war-weary man was wont to imbibe the heady fantasy of a simple life lived on the land and get stupid drunk on the promise of normalcy.

Then he would wake up on the front and know he was just a damned fool and everything was mud and mayhem, and always had been. Michel drank in the illusion like anyone, but the taste was bitter-sweet. He understood that no place or thing went untouched. War was everywhere. In everything.

The old man with his buggy-whip keeping the horses on a straight course while driving a furrow blade into hard soil. The women and young boys in the orchards harvesting apples, oranges, mandarins and lemons, the young ones jumping about and playing as they helped. The old vintner stooped over his trusses, tending the vines that would yield the next year's vintage, a vintage preceded by countless generations of knowledge and craft. It was a beautiful veneer.

But the truth was only a question away, for where was the son to whom the vintner would pass his knowledge? Where were the young boys' older brothers to help with the harvest? What of the proud young husbands and wives ready to strike out, leave the family farm and till their own soil, plant their own crops?

The sun was shining, there was a bounty being harvested, but Michel sensed it was not right. He sensed the loss that mothers and wives and fathers and sons silently carried.

He realized something else, too. Something he could not reconcile. The war had made him feel truly alive. He felt vital and strong and like he had purpose, even if that purpose was hideous: to fight men whose names he would never know, till he died in a barren field with thousands of others who fought because they had been told to do so.

Michel wondered if something so stupid could really be what life was about. To live—indeed, to thrive if one could—in the face of pointless death and suffering, no different to a wild animal. They were strange thoughts, and Michel put them from his head.

He concentrated on the wind in his face, the bike, the road. For now, he did not need anything more.

♦

A few hours into the journey, the thundering machine beneath his ass began to exact a toll. Michel shifted his weight from side to side, kicked his legs out, stood upright on the motorcycle's foot pegs and finally resorted to squeezing his butt cheeks together as hard as he could in a sort of self-massage to relieve the saddle pain.

They rolled into the small village of Bettanöux. Both men were desperate for a break. Michel parked outside a little café built of faded orange stone. He killed the engine and dragged himself from the saddle.

Henry found it more complicated. After hours curled up, his legs did not respond to his commands. He tried to flick a foot over the edge of the sidecar, but the toe of his boot caught the lip, then his other leg tangled around its opposite and Henry tumbled onto the cobblestones.

Michel laughed. Henry seemed not to care. He lay on the ground, grinning. Blood returned to his extremities in a rush of pins and needles. After a while, when his legs were good and ready, Henry got to his feet.

The two seated themselves at one of the café's tables in the sunshine. A middle-aged woman with long blonde hair and hints of the handsomeness of her youth brought them water and left with Michel's instructions for food.

"It is a beautiful area. What do you think, Henry?"

"Oh it is, I agree. Reminds me of back home. We used to take these holidays in Yorkshire up at Uncle Reg's farm. Farmed ducks. It's a sad story, actually. He was a bit tight-fisted, you see. Some chap was selling cheap feed, meant to be fish made into pellets. Uncle Reg was a wheeler and dealer, so he bought a mountain of the stuff. Ducks loved it. Well, next morning, three hundred dead ducks!

"He tried to find a buyer, but you can't sell ducks that might be poisoned. Ended up he burned them. Like they had the plague or something. Can you imagine all that wasted duck? And with the fish they were eating ..."

"Remarkable," said Michel. "Perhaps this uncle should have made his ducks into pellets and fed them to more ducks."

"You mean like ... duck-fed duck?"

"Yes, but it would be fish-fed duck-fed duck, no?"

"Blimey," said Henry. All the talk of food had his mouth salivating. "So what are we eating? You ordered something, didn't you?"

"Patience, Henry. It is coming."

The woman returned and placed sourdough bread, cheese, oil and a jug of local red wine on their table.

" _Merci,_ _madame_ ," said Michel. "So, Henry, we eat. A peasant lunch for two peasants."

"What, this is it?"

"Yes. Simple fare. But good, Henry, I promise."

"Right, but, well ..." Henry was no longer licking his lips. He swallowed hard. "How about some kippers then? They'd have some kippers, wouldn't they?"

"No. No kippers," Michel said.

"You haven't even asked."

"Just try the food, Henry," said Michel, his mouth half full. "Or not. I will eat it."

"But I like kippers with bread."

"Eat, Englishman," Michel said as he turned his attention to the red.

He poured two glasses and took a sip. "This is good." He used his Gallic-sized nose to smell the wine. "Mm, peach."

"Peaches? What's peaches doing in wine?" Henry looked at his glass of red suspiciously.

"Henry, do you know nothing?"

"I know wine. Had to drink it every Sunday for Church. In fact, that's what this meal reminds me of. Being in Church. Here's Jesus's blood," he said, holding the glass of red aloft, "and this, this ..." he stammered, comprehensively failing to rip a hunk of bread from the hard loaf with his one free hand, opting instead to give it a few taps with a knuckle, " ... and this stale old bloody thing is, well, that's Jesus, too, his body, the bread's his body and the oil ... that's ... no, we didn't have any oil ..."

"Hardly a proper Eucharist without the oil."

"Well ..."

"Shut up and just try it!"

Out of sheer hunger, Henry finally did, taking a swig of wine, tearing a hunk of bread and—following Michel—dipping it in the oil then jamming it in his mouth. He took a second hunk, dipped, ripped a chunk of cheese, ate.

"See?"

"I suppose it's all right," said Henry.

"Perhaps there is a bit of French peasant in you, after all, oh mighty King of Fuck All and Nothing."

Henry ignored the jibe. He finished his mouthful then leaned in and said, "I tell you what, I wouldn't mind getting a bit of me in a French peasant, if you know what I mean."

Henry made a strange face. Michel stared at him like he was a fool who had said something foolish.

"You know ..." Henry added, nodding his head toward the café.

"Oh. Oh ... You mean the waitress?"

"I'd have a roll in the hay with her, if she insisted."

"She is old enough to be your mother, Henry."

"Yeah, but she's not."

"Henry, when did you become such a hound? You only lost your virginity last night."

"I did bloody not. I've been with women before."

"Henry, cousins do not count. I thought you knew that."

"I wish I'd never told you that! You're a miserable sod."

Michel could not help but laugh. Before Henry could say anything else, Michel hit the Englishman in the head with a hunk of bread.

"Enough. Eat and drink your Jesus in silence, and let us just enjoy what we have."

#

As the last grains of sand fell from Major Hirsch's fist, Sergeant Mauer turned and walked at a brisk pace toward the mess hall. Once there, he stopped, drew a cigarette—purely an officer's luxury in the camp—lit it and smoked.

His gaze remained fixed on the lane formed by the buildings that ran toward the western perimeter fence. He had smoked the cigarette halfway down when he saw the guard turn the corner and pass the farthermost building. Casually, Sergeant Mauer stepped into the mess hall. It was a large building, with a separate kitchen annexed to the rear. Mauer met the gaze of Lieutenant Ulrich, who was waiting at the opposite end. Mauer nodded, then walked out and sat on the step. Lieutenant Ulrich ran into the kitchen and gave the order.

Two men lifted a massive pot of boiling oil from the furnace-like stove, placed it on the ground and tipped the scalding liquid onto the wood floor. With half the oil gone, they picked the pot up, moved to the wooden workbench attached to the wall and emptied the rest of the oil.

One of the men opened the door to the stove, retrieved a shovel-full of blazing red embers and with a flick of the wrist cast the glowing beads across the floor. They hissed and popped at first, then each ember started to spew smoke as the oil around them super-heated. The three men were nervous. If the oil did not ignite, they would have to set a fire beneath the shelving with kindling and embers.

Smoke from the oil filled the room. Almost simultaneously half a dozen spots licked into flame. A rippling sheet of dull red fire sheeted back and forth, consuming the fuel and spewing black. The three men retreated toward the hall.

The guard was two buildings away and Sergeant Mauer was doing a poor job of playing a casual bystander, rapidly switching glances between the burning kitchen and the approaching guard. When he was ten yards away, Mauer leapt to his feet with considerable drama. He rushed into the mess hall, then straight back out.

"Fire! Fire!"

Perceiving a calamity, the arthritic guard moved his aching limbs into a trot. Sergeant Mauer darted into the mess hall and back out again like a poor, confused prisoner who needed help. This time the guard followed. As he passed the threshold of the door a lump of wood swung into the back of his head. Second and third blows came in quick succession.

Mauer retrieved a handful of bullets from the guard's jacket and then the two men from the kitchen took the unconscious man by his arms and started dragging him toward the fire. The distinctive crackle and pop of oxygen escaping its wooden prison told the men it would not be long before the whole building was aflame. The heat was close to unbearable as they forged through the pantry and discarded the guard in the cellar as if he was already dead, his body buckling and rolling down the stairs.

Dozens of prisoners had converged outside, some of them alert to elements of the plan they needed to know about, the others just wanting to help. Mauer's men threw a bundle of hessian sacks out the front of the mess hall; other men fetched buckets of water. Two more guards arrived on the scene. Flames licked from underneath the building's roof, and soon the entire compound realized the mess hall was burning.

The guards in the watchtowers had the perfect vantage to survey the unfolding spectacle. Under no circumstances were they permitted to leave a tower unattended, and so they had to limit themselves to watching from afar. The two guards patrolling the perimeter safety zone heeded no such restraint. They rushed through the secondary gates and back into the yards. The guards in the administration block started stumbling out, many of them in half-dress, clearly disturbed from sleep or repose.

It was every man's natural inclination to do the same—to be among the turmoil and danger, whether it was to try to bring order to the chaos or to feel the rush of something momentous unfolding in front of them, or simply to be part of the multitude. Men were predictable, and the men in the camp responded exactly as Kranz had said they would.

It was clear that the building would burn to a cinder, yet men continued to labor, throwing water, swatting flames, singing eyebrows and scorching skin—futile acts that made people feel important and, crucially, kept them occupied as Sergeant Mauer exited the mess hall with a bundle of hessian sacks.

He sped his bundle six buildings to the west. Without speaking, he removed a rifle and gave it to the only other man not drawn in by the commotion. He passed on the rest of the bullets then positioned himself beside the open door, back against the wall, where he could not be seen. He carried a shiv in his hand.

Colonel Kranz looked the Lebel rifle over. He opened the bolt and found the chamber empty. He worked the bolt back and forth, chambering a round from the rifle's internal magazine. He checked the sights; they were resting to the back, in their default position. He flipped the adjustable sight ladder up and over into its battle sight mounting. Six feet from the open door Kranz had set up a desk with a mound of sheets and blankets piled on top. He kneeled, placing the rifle on the improvised cradle. He nudged his glasses and focused his eyes.

One hundred and twenty yards away he could see the silhouette of a guard in the north-west watchtower where the Hotchkiss machinegun was mounted. The entire operation hinged on their taking that gun out, for while their numbers could eventually overwhelm the other guards armed with bolt-action rifles, the machinegun could rip through the lot of them. Before all else, it had to be neutralized. If they could capture the position it would save dozens of lives.

But the guard in the watchtower was frantic. He was a dog tugging at the leash, pulling left then right, doing everything but standing still. When he finally stopped for a second, his body leaning over the rail as he strained to see, Kranz centered his sights on the man's chest. His finger came down to gently rest on the trigger. The guard jerked away. Kranz followed his movement.

The mess hall was an inferno. Hidden inside a wooden crate, stacked among a dozen other crates, a densely packed canister of black powder heated. It alone had taken a minor miracle of planning.

The previous day, it just so happened that the compound's septic system overflowed. Naturally, it was left to the prisoners to fix, and it was Hirsch's men who volunteered for the odious task. The guards stayed well away—everyone did—which allowed Hirsch's men to scrape the upper walls of the septic tanks and collect a modest volume of potassium nitrate that had crystallized from the men's own waste.

It was smuggled to Colonel Kranz, whose expertise was in killing and in chemistry, and how to combine the two. He mixed the half pound of nitrate with a smaller portion of wood charcoal. The final ingredient, added in even lesser quantity, was ground pyrite—otherwise known as fool's gold—a poor but adequate substitute for sulfur. Kranz had long ago noticed its presence in the new water well being dug. A few small rocks were acquired, which he ground to a powder. Combing the three ingredients, he produced just under a pound of crude gunpowder.

Flame finally reached the canister. It exploded. The percussion was heard above the sounds of fire and men, though the explosion had little destructive force. At that instant, Kranz squeezed down on the rifle's trigger. The powerful crackle of gunfire issued almost simultaneously with the explosion. A small flash from the muzzle of the rifle was the only sure sign of activity in building twelve, but there was nobody left to notice.

The guard in the watchtower had been moving, then he dropped. Kranz knew he hit his target. He chambered a second round. The guard remained slumped out of sight behind the railings.

"Is he dead, colonel?" said Sergeant Mauer.

Kranz held his response. His eyes remained fixed on the watchtower. He saw no movement. Finally, Kranz said, "I think so."

"Stay here, colonel. I will return shortly."

As soon as he exited the building, Sergeant Mauer signaled to his men fifty yards away. Six of them made for building twelve. The sergeant turned in the opposite direction. He ran between two buildings where he had a clear line of sight to the north-east watchtower. He signaled to two more men who were one hundred yards away.

One of them ran to the fence, where he yanked hard at strands of barbed wire. The u-nails they had worked loose over the past two days came free. The man held the wires wide open as the second man climbed through and ran to the watchtower. He started up the ladder. His comrade's jumper caught on the barbed wire. He tried to wriggle free but failed, so he ripped through, leaving strips of gray fabric fluttering on the rusted barbs.

The other man reached the top of the ladder, which terminated in a small trapdoor. He pushed at it, expecting to gain immediate entry to the watchtower, but while the door moved it did not open.

"It's stuck," he yelled to his comrade on the ground below.

He climbed two rungs higher on the ladder so that he was hunched under the trapdoor. He applied his head and shoulder, and pushed with his legs, driving with all his power. The door raised half an inch. He drove at it even harder and it gradually started to lift, then the door flung ajar and the German's upper body sprung into the watchtower like a jack-in-the-box.

The man had no time to react before the heel of a boot smashed square into his face, his nose crumpling like a popped paper bag. His head jerked back and cracked against the sharp wooden edge of the trapdoor opening. He knocked instantly unconscious, and his body collapsed like a dropped doll. He fell backward through the trapdoor and sailed clear of the ladder. He landed in a pile with a puff of noise.

The second German looked at his fallen comrade and then up at the trapdoor, which slammed shut. He flung himself at the ladder and was at the closed hatch in seconds. He paused to draw a shiv from his pocket. Suspecting he was in for the same as his comrade, he thrust the door open with a punch of his arm. He used his legs for power and launched himself into the watchtower, but barely half his body was through when the machinegun opened fire at point-blank range.

Each round unleashed a thunderous retort and a burst of fire from the nozzle of the barrel. The eruptions of flame were enough to burn the man's face to a crisp, except after the first three bullets there was no face, only bloody meat and jagged shards of white and beige mush, all of it instantly swamped by thick red crude that gushed like an oil strike from the cadaver's neck. The German's legs and hips crumpled, and the body fell away.

♦

Leroy kicked the trapdoor shut and ducked down beneath the railing. He panted from the exuberance, from the sheer excitement.

What now?

His shoulder was all right—it did not even hurt that much, not with the taste of fight in him. It had not shattered anything that mattered. In fact, he felt strong and exhilarated. He had been shot, he had just killed a man, two men, and it was horrible and it was magnificent.

Leroy's mind steadied.

Where did the bullet come from?

I'm facing south, I think it went through one side to the other, so a shooter in the west wing of the compound.

And still firing—but Leroy did not know that, not at first, for he was completely deaf thanks to the burst of machinegun fire next to his one good ear. His head was filled with white noise: a droning high-pitched whinny that blocked out everything.

Leroy did not hear the next two rifle shots, nor did he register the splinters of wood in the air. But he felt the third, the prick of a snake bite followed by an explosion of pain inside his gut. He listed, curling onto the ground, and his blood started tipping out.

Another piece of the wooden paneling splintered off, and Leroy understood. They were still trying to kill him. They were killing him.

From prone on the floor, Leroy righted himself and pushed to his knees. Another panel of wood shattered. His face that moments before had spoken of vindication and strength now spoke of bewilderment and fear. He defied the daggers twisting in his gut to again push his torso upright, his back propped against the railings. He looked at his side. He touched the blood, warm and smooth. It seemed not so deep a red as the German's. His breathing tightened. Leroy did not know what death felt like, but figured it might be something like this.

Another bullet showered wooden splinters. Leroy's hands reached for the top of the rail. His arms shook as he used all his resolve to haul to his feet, but he remained bent at the hips from pain and the instinct for self-preservation.

With his left hand he gripped the steel ring-hold of the machinegun. With his right he grabbed the trigger handle. He expected the pain, so when it shredded through him in convulsions he did not buckle.

"One, two ..." and on "three" Leroy stood upright. Four men were sprinting toward the tower. He yanked hard on the trigger and the machinegun burst into life. He sprayed bullets wildly, strafing left and right, up and down. The sheer volume of lead meant it did not matter that Leroy could not aim steady. All four Germans were torn to shreds.

Leroy did not stop—would not, could not—for that would mean death. Bullets spewed from the gun in an unbroken stream, now seeking the hidden shooter. His aim veered and wheeled. Lead ripped through buildings. He saw a flash inside a distant barracks.

Has to be the shooter.

Slugs tore through rooves until he found the wooden façade of building twelve. Leroy strafed back and forth. Buildings eleven and thirteen were littered with holes in the process, but twelve was obliterated, obliterated, and the man inside, obliterated too.

♦

That man was not Kranz.

Sergeant Mauer and five of his best were now huddled around Kranz, running the colonel through the melee. Things were not going to plan. With bullets flying indiscriminately, Sergeant Mauer made a snap decision and bundled Kranz into building nineteen.

They were not the only ones seeking refuge, for Alder Brahms sheltered in a corner. At the sight of Kranz, he got to his feet. He shook violently.

"You," Alder said, his arm outstretched, finger pointed at Kranz. "I knew, yesterday, you were planning something. You and the major. You did this!" The accusation carried every ounce of Alder's formidable moral authority. He advanced on Kranz: "I should have stopped you, you ... fool! You murderer!"

Two of Mauer's men motioned to restrain the advancing man, but Kranz was quicker. Light on his feet, almost skipping, he met Alder in what looked to be an embrace, like they were meeting each other's bodies and entwining arms to begin a slow waltz. The blade slid up under Alder's jaw, the severed artery releasing Alder's life in a short few seconds. Kranz held the body upright as he whispered in the dying man's ear.

"Yes, Alder, I did this. I did this, because men like you could not."

Kranz released Alder and his body fell to the floor, yet Alder's eyes stayed with Kranz. The accusation was ferocious even as he died.

Outside, Major Hirsch rallied his men. The guard in the machinegun tower had not been killed. Hirsch gave the order to attack.

Had the French guards any sort of organization or training, they would have retreated to a position of strength to consolidate. They had the guns. But most of them scattered, in doing so becoming lambs to the slaughter. Hirsch's men, armed with shivs, clubs and fists, sought out the guards. Rifles cracked and prisoners fell, but the superior numbers surged.

It began with one guard overwhelmed by numbers—beaten, clubbed and killed, and his gun captured. That became two, then three, then four. With only a handful of Hirsch's men dead or wounded, the Germans captured nine guns in just a few minutes.

Four of the guards saved themselves by forming a group and backing against building twenty-two as they fired. There was no longevity in their position, so together they made a sprint for it, pushing through a crowd of confused civilian prisoners, with Hirsch's men in pursuit. The administration block was in sight when one of the guards fell, shot through the leg. His comrades did not stop. He was taken by the mob.

The other guards ran for their lives. One of them discarded his rifle and lunged at a door, both hands wrenching at the handle. It did not budge.

"Open! Open! Let us in!"

The other two guards turned and fired into the crowd, but the Germans surged. Then the door flung open and a volley of fire issued from inside, just enough to hold the Germans off and to let the three guards join four of their comrades who had entered the rear of the administration building. They were seven.

Throughout the compound there were two more guards at the gates, and four more in the watchtowers, firing wildly. After a consolidated volley from the prisoners, four in the watchtowers became three as the guard in the south-east corner took a bullet to the chest. The rest of the guards were already dead and dying, all of it the work of Hirsch's men. The remaining population of Vitrimont—the better part of five hundred German prisoners—did not know where to run. Not Colonel Gehrig's soldiers, not the civilians.

Many retreated toward the exercise yard, clear of the buildings. There they sought open ground, away from the fighting, away from the flames, which had spread to engulf buildings five and seven. Colonel Gehrig stood among the masses.

"What is happening? Someone tell me what is going on!"

He made his demands to the fouled air, for he had no juniors—no one at all who was listening or waiting for orders. Gehrig grabbed a young German officer by the jacket.

"What are they doing? What are they doing?"

"I don't know, sir. Breaking out ... I don't know."

"No. This is not right! No!"

He discarded the officer.

"Stop! Stop!" he screamed to the gray wind.

Like a man suffering shell-shock, Gehrig walked toward the buildings and the flames and the German shooters armed with French rifles.

"Stop this! Stop this! Put your guns down!" he screamed, then a bullet from old man Yves passed through Gehrig's head and exploded his face. Gehrig fell down dead.

A wave of men charged for the watchtower housing the machinegun and were immediately cut down. Major Hirsch watched the massacre from behind building nineteen. It was just like all the other massacres he had seen, swift and easy and pointless.

They had to take out the machinegun, but the men with rifles were firing on the watchtowers to the north-east and south-west. They were being conservative, not giving away their positions to the enemy in the stronghold. It was short-sighted. If they did not stop that machinegun, their positions would not matter. The entire plan would fail.

Major Hirsch gave orders to Lieutenant Trommler: "Tell all shooters to focus on the machinegun. Go!"

Lieutenant Trommler ran in one direction, Major Hirsch in the other. Hirsch passed open ground, then dove behind building two where three of his soldiers were firing on the north-east tower.

"Fire on the machine-gun tower. Now!"

Hirsch ran to a group of unarmed soldiers, sheltering from bullets. His presence commanded their attention.

"If these men are hit, take their place. Fire on the machinegun until he is dead!"

The soldiers opened fire, then from behind buildings fifteen and sixteen more rifles joined the volley.

♦

Leroy was not sure how many different positions were firing on him.

His vision was going and so too his ability to aim, so he wildly strafed hot dark lead left and right, building after building, man after man, innocent or otherwise. Return fire hit the watchtower roof and the railing, but not Leroy. He had lost so much blood he was giddy. A rush of wellbeing and apparent clarity swept his mind.

He was invincible. He would slay the Germans and survive. He was euphoric with the knowledge. He kept hold of the trigger with all his remaining strength—feeble now.

Leroy's knees finally buckled. His body slumped, but his hands remained tight around the grip of the machinegun, dragging a trail of lead through the watchtower roof. Leroy's grasp slipped away and the gun fell silent. He sprawled, blood pooling on the wooden floor.

Every rifle in German hands fired on his position. Bullet after bullet smashed through the timber barriers. Bullet after bullet thudded into the body of Leroy. It did not matter. He was dead.

Beneath the tower, trails of blood drained from a dozen spots. At first the ground repelled the liquid, or perhaps it was the liquid that repelled from the ground, the blood pooling on top of the dust, holding its shape, a shimmering red cushion, flat and silky—before the sheer weight of all that liquid forced into the earth and became dark mud.

The mud was Leroy's blood. All of it. And now there was nothing stopping Hirsch and his men.

♦

"Charge the gates! Charge the gates!"

Thirty bodies stampeded, headed straight through the throng of men standing idle in confusion and terror. Hirsch's soldiers piled into one enormous human battering ram. Major Hirsch, Sergeant Mauer and six of their best brought up the rear, their bodies ensuring no stray bullet could reach Colonel Kranz.

Men dropped as the two remaining guards on the perimeter gate kept firing, then their rifles fell silent. Both had decided it was futile, the fight lost, and so they scurried down their respective ladders and disappeared into the forest.

Hirsch's men crashed into the gates. The momentum of the mob was far greater than the strength of mere steel. The chain and lock snapped and men spewed out, including a thin gentleman in a neatly pressed suit that carried an uncharacteristic dark stain on the sleeve.

Colonel Kranz was free.

#

They had not yet reached the foothills, but already the tips of a mountain range could be seen peeking above the horizon. Michel had spent countless hours in those mountains, and in others even more formidable. Countless hours amid rock and altitude, where mindfulness was as much a means of survival as the ability to traverse a pass, climb a bluff or build a quick shelter in a blizzard.

Michel glanced down at the Englishman in the sidecar. He knew that if one let a man like Henry free in the mountains, the sort of man who just throbbed and reacted and did not think ahead, he was likely to disappear, never to be seen again—at least, not until a desiccated pile of bones was found at the bottom of a ravine twenty years later, or a frozen mummy stuck to the side of an ice cliff was one day seen smiling stupidly in the sunshine.

It happened often enough, and Michel figured it was all about understanding, or lack thereof. It was not that caricatured Daniel Boone sort of understanding, the sort of thing where a man is all reflexes and in your bones knowing. If you wanted to prosper in the high country, in any place truly hostile to the presence of humans, you needed understanding of both environment and self.

It was about knowing who you were, how you fit into the place, how the place changed you, influenced you, made you strong or weak. That essential need for self-knowledge had been forever instilled in him by a man named Percy Rabinaud; it was the very stuff that tended to make even the dumbest, foulest, nastiest mountain folk into philosophers of a kind.

Tourists and city people did not understand. They thought mountain folk were strange, probably inbred. They did not understand that the considered and quieted mind is a tool, as important to survival as the axe or fur coat. But then, many a tourist ventures out with neither axe nor fur coat. They are the first to disappear.

Michel added a burst of speed to the bike as it climbed a little rise. His attention was caught by movement. He glanced to the north and saw smoke rising over the trees. More smoke than a campfire. Michel wondered if it was a farmer or forester burning off, but then he thought he saw the reflection of a roof amid the trees.

He slowed the bike till they were just crawling, then came to a complete stop. As the engine idled at a rough chug, Michel strained his neck to get the right angle through the canopy.

"Henry, do you see that roof?"

"What?" Henry swiveled his head and raised his body by pushing up with his arms. "No. Where? I can't see a roof. You sure?"

" _S'il te plait_. Shiny thing. Reflecting the sun. Use your eyes!"

Henry stood upright in the seat, wobbling on his perch, trying to peer through the trees.

"Oh, yes, I see it now."

"Do you know what it belongs to?"

Henry looked at Michel then back at the barely visible panels of tin in the distance. "Well, it's obviously a house. Probably some farmer."

"See how it is small and high?"

"Oh ... I think you're right. Could be a pigeon coop."

"A pigeon coop?" Michel eyed Henry with disdain.

"Well, I don't know ... Could be for bird watching, I suppose," said Henry and he sat back down.

"Truly, Henry, what is wrong with you?"

Henry made to say something, but Michel cut him off.

"It is not a pigeon coop or goddamned bird tower. It's a watchtower. It must be Vitrimont prison camp. And it's on fire."

"Could be. Could be it's under control."

"It is not."

"Let's just keep going. I'm hungry."

"You just ate."

"Yeah, but—"

"More to the point, Henry, there is a P.O.W. camp on fire!"

"They'll be all right."

Michel looked at Henry like he was the queerest man he had ever seen.

"I just don't feel like it, Michel. I'm hungover! And I'm tired. Can't we just relax or something?"

"They might need our help. If it was your P.O.W. camp on fire—"

"If it was my camp I'd let all the prisoners out and say righto chaps, the war's over, we don't need this stupid camp anymore! And then I'd go home and have afternoon tea!"

"They might not need any help, but we should at least see."

"Nup. I'm getting out. I'll bloomin' hitch back."

Henry motioned to get out of the sidecar, but Michel's big boot planted in his lap, pinning him.

"We go."

"Oi! Move your clown-foot or ... I'll rip it off!"

"Where's your spirit of adventure, Henry?"

"I left it in the pub in Commercy. I'll just pop back and grab it."

"Huh! We go."

"You go!"

"It may be fun, Henry."

"Fun? There isn't even a road! Get your sodding boot off me or I'll rip it off," said Henry, chopping at Michel's leg with his hand.

Michel looked down with disdain.

"I tell you, I'll bite the bloody thing!" said Henry.

"Go on."

Just as Henry readied to sink his teeth in, the sound of a hollow, cavernous explosion reached their ears. The two men exchanged glances.

Michel threw his leg back on the foot-peg, kicked the bike into gear. He yanked hard on the throttle. The bike lurched into the gutter, almost bucking Henry out as they jolted up the other side. Henry held on for dear life.

#

More speed. That was Michel's resolve with each machinegun burst that echoed through the trees. He had the motorbike in second gear, engine screaming, clutch and accelerator working in unison as he fish-tailed through undergrowth and bucked over ruts and smashed through branches and detritus.

Henry's body bounced like a doll with no vertebrae. The entirety of his upper body was a turn behind the direction of the bike, so as his head thrashed this way his body twisted that way and his arms spindled like pasta flung at a wall.

Michel weaved the bike through the line of trees at a speed beyond what a reasonable man might consider safe. He locked the brakes and the bike coasted out of control. Henry's body convulsed forward, slingshotting his head into the metal paneling of the sidecar. It bounced right back up. Michel managed a quick glance to see what the thud was, but he only saw Henry sitting upright with unimpeachable posture, a look of transcendental serenity upon his face.

The bike came to a full stop just short of a fallen tree. Michel jammed his foot on the gear lever, brought up the revs and dropped the clutch. The engine screamed and the back wheel sprayed soil.

The compound came into sight—a long fence, buildings, smoke and flames. Michel saw no entrance, so he slowed a little, dropped a gear and dug the front wheel into the mat of pine-needles, bringing the bike round to the left. The sidecar was airborne for a moment, then crashed back to earth. Michel clicked a gear and floored it.

They followed a wide arc all the way to the eastern side of the compound. Beyond the fences, Michel could see men trying to douse flames. Apart from an occasional shot, the firefight seemed to be over. Michel figured either the uprising had been quelled, or all the prisoners who intended to had already escaped.

They were speeding past a small crop of tobacco when Michel saw a prisoner making for freedom, two hundred yards in the distance. He reacted instinctively by hitting the brakes and squaring the steering. The front wheel dug in, the sidecar was again airborne and then Henry was airborne independent of the sidecar. The sudden loss of ballast sent the bike all the way over. Michel tumbled off, so that both Henry and Michel were sprawled in the dirt.

Michel jumped straight back to his feet. He lunged at the bike with a boot, his heel collecting with the top edge of the suspended sidecar. " _Putain!_ "

He levered himself under the tank and handlebars, drove with his legs and brought the machine upright. Michel was straight back on, working the starter. It took four kicks before it sputtered to life.

"Henry, you stay here. See if you can help. I'll get the escaped prisoner!"

Michel punched into first and fish-tailed away.

♦

Dirt and needles showered Henry, who looked sullied and beaten up, but serene. The sound of a rifle shot changed that. The echo through the trees made it difficult to know where it came from, or where the bullet was aimed. It could have been aimed at Henry—he did not know one way or the other. When another shot sounded, Henry scrambled for the tobacco crop.

He threaded his way through the plants and hid by standing upright next to a mature specimen. Nestled among its leaves, Henry was very, very still. His flaxen hair blended in with the yellowing leaves. The only giveaway was the set of eyes. Most of the tobacco plants did not have eyes, but Henry's plant did.

Not more than fifty yards away, a man with a rifle came running down the fence-line within the camp. Henry could not tell whether the man was German or French, or whatever other nationality was floating around in there.

The man with the gun stopped and turned. He looked, searching for the motorbike that was audible in the distance. He started off again, then stopped. This time he seemed to stare right at the spot where Henry stood, and Henry was quite certain he was staring into the eyes of his killer-to-be.

The man shook his head and continued. Henry breathed relief, but he knew he had to find a better situation. He considered running for the woods, except there was too much open ground. He dropped to his knees, but there were fewer leaves down low. He crawled further into the crop, and that is when he saw his salvation.

Henry dragged boards away from what looked like a well. Two feet from the top of the uncovered hole he found the upper rung of a ladder. He wasted no time easing himself over the lip. He found his footing and descended four steps so that just his head and shoulders were above ground. He looked around, thought better of it and descended one more rung. Now it was just his eyes above ground. He thought better of that, too, and descended one more rung. He was hidden.

The ladder started creaking. Henry dropped another wrung, but it too made sounds, so he descended further and further in search of the perfect, silent wrung. He was halfway down the ladder when the sound of wood straining became the dramatic sound of wood snapping. Like a man stepping from jetty to lake, Henry plunged down, his body remaining vertical as his feet crashed through eight more rungs then finally dug into mud.

His ass was wet and sore, and he was a few feet buried, but Henry was in one piece. All up, he considered his situation infinitely better than it had been moments earlier when a German with a gun had clearly been thinking about whether or not he should shoot him.

He heard another rifle shot. He would see about the ladder later, when things quietened down. He figured he could probably shimmy up the poles. Or he might just wait for Michel to find him. Or maybe he would not wait for Michel at all. Maybe he would find his own way back to Commercy where there were neither holes nor motorbikes nor prison camps.

Henry licked his lips. For no good reason, the black of the dirt walls and the heavy scent of peat—or something like peat—made him think of stout. Better, a nice malty porter. And chips. With gravy. And a publican's wife, with big boobs to serve it.

It made him think of home.

#

The fleeing prisoner had disappeared by the time Michel was on the move. He gunned the engine and soon the man came into sight.

The prisoner ran with a limp. When he only had twenty yards on him, Michel slowed. Still the man lurched on. He could hardly hope to outrun a motorbike—but Michel supposed that if he was in the escapee's shoes, he would forge on, too.

The prisoner made a beeline for a massive upended tree with dirt still attached to the roots and a trace of green lingering in the leaves. He scrambled over the trunk. Michel braked and went to the left around the base of the giant. It meant he lost sight of the man for a few seconds, but a burst of power slid the bike around and brought Michel to the other side. He veered ahead of the tree, where he figured he would intercept the prisoner.

He was not there.

Michel slowed then stopped. He kept the bike idling as he stood on the foot pegs and checked to the east. He did not see the man, nor did he expect to. A limping gimp could not be that quick—inhuman quick. Michel sat down, then accelerated to the fallen tree. He skidded to a stop and hopped off.

He carefully leaned over the trunk to make sure the prisoner had not been clever and just climbed back over to hide. There was no sign of him. The thought occurred to Michel that the man might have scaled a tree. Unlikely, but Michel cast a quick look, turning a full circle with head craned skyward. He only saw branches and sky.

Michel dropped the bike into first gear and gunned the throttle. He figured the escapee had turned south—and must have somehow picked up the pace. He gained speed and clicked into second. He raised himself off the bike, half-standing to gain a better view, his legs absorbing the shocks as he rumbled across undulations.

He was roaring past a big fir when the periphery of his vision caught movement. He barely had time to register it. His head started to turn a little, enough to see a length of wood attached to a set of arms, both moving at pace. At fifteen miles an hour, Michel's chest met the branch. If he had not been half-standing, it would have been his head.

The branch snapped in two places. The bike shot forward as Michel levitated in the air, almost balletic in the way he seemed to float.

He hit the dirt hard. The force of the blow was bad, but now Michel had no air in his lungs thanks to the one–two of wood and earth to chest and back. His body reacted instinctively, pumping the diaphragm, opening the mouth and gasping, but with lungs momentarily depressed Michel just gulped like a stranded fish then wheezed like an old asthmatic.

Kranz had the shiv in his left hand, the stain of Alder still marking the blade. It was no more than the tip of a steel spoon flattened and sharpened against granite. The throat was the spot the humble stabbing implement was intended for—the soft flesh of the neck, the carotid artery just beneath the surface of the skin. Kranz launched himself with the shiv wedged firm between thumb and index finger, his arm outstretched. He let his whole body drop toward Michel for speed and force.

If Michel had regained his senses quicker, he could have thrust a boot toward Kranz's gut, but his assailant was too quick. Michel could only redirect momentum. He thrust his left arm up and across, his open palm slapping into Kranz's forearm—a quick, neat blow that deflected the shiv.

The crude blade sheared through Michel's jumper, cut the flesh of his shoulder and drove into the ground. Michel thrust his right knee up, collecting Kranz's side. Michel hoped the man's face would plant into the soil so he could drive at it with his fists. But, having lost control, Kranz simply followed his momentum into a body roll. He was up and on his feet, shiv in hand, while Michel flailed on his back.

If he intended to make a fight of it, Michel had to get to his feet. His old instructor, Gaston Chevalier, would have been mocking Michel by now. Jabbing at his ribs with a staff, asking him why he was taking a nap when his throat was about to be cut. If he dallied to rise and defend with Monsieur Chevalier, the staff would come down on the back of his neck. A boot in the kidneys might follow and he would be sent sprawling to the ground. Then they would start the "conversation" all over again.

It never mattered to Monsieur Chevalier how badly Michel or his other charges were hurt. He did not hear cries and he did not notice tears. To spar with him was to submit to a life and death battle. Slow to get up meant you were dead—represented by a blow from the staff to any part of the body that brought misery. Unwilling to attack or finish an attack—dead, another blow. Giving up because your opponent was bigger or stronger—dead. The tears of pain and frustration meant nothing to Monsieur Chevalier, until they meant nothing to Michel.

So why do you nap now, when a man is about to cut your throat?

Michel punched down into the ground. His body pushed up and he scrambled upright. He reeled around, arms raised into the defensive position: left elbow tucked into his body and fist resting on his cheek, right fist floating free, half a foot from his face.

Michel's eyes bulged from the strain of trying to breathe. Every muscle in his body tensed in an effort to expand his mass and draw in some air. Only a little got through. Michel had to fight the urge to buckle. He knew that if he did it was not a wooden staff that would find his neck.

Kranz came at him. His center of gravity was low, his knees bent. He brought the shiv up like he was delivering an uppercut, striking without any great force, yet blinding quick.

If Michel had reacted to the strike—to the trigger of the fist in motion—it would have been too late. He would have already been bleeding out. But he reacted to posture, not even looking at the man's arms, watching only his chest. He saw the fighter's shoulder draw back and drop, an eternity before the arm began moving.

Michel pushed with the tip of his right foot, raised his left heel and skipped back. The devious little shiv stabbed at air. Kranz was retrieving his hand when Michel's left arm ripped down, his body jerked almost horizontal backward and his left boot columned into Kranz's gut. The kick knocked Kranz from his legs and sent him to the ground. His upper body whiplashed back, but rather than stop cold Kranz twisted his torso and flicked his legs, using the force to roll over his shoulder and back to his feet.

Michel meant to carry his newfound advantage. He skipped forward, right leg cocked like the hammer on a six-shooter with his knee tucked toward his chest, then unleashed. His leg shot forward with all the power of his near-horizontal body behind, a devastating piston-kick directed at Kranz's head.

Kranz was still rising from his roll and sprang up just enough to save his head and let the force transfer into his shoulder. He did not brace and stiffen, instead letting the power of the kick throw his body into a spin. Kranz hit the ground and again used momentum to roll into a defensive posture, gaining his feet.

Michel took his first proper breath of air and considered the fact that the German escapee kept getting up, which is not how he had imagined their dalliance unfolding. The way the German used his body and his opponent's power was unlike anything Michel had seen. Twenty fists to the face would cure his fancy acrobatics, but the man was obviously trained and would be no easy mark. Michel wondered if it was wrestling or judo or something oriental, something he had never even heard of. Whatever his fighting art, he was good.

At least the shiv had knocked clear from his hands. Michel thought better of pressing the attack. He stopped, breathed, let the lingering pain where the branch had broken across his chest subside, let the pain from his gashed shoulder enter his consciousness as a reminder that this man was dangerous.

They had come to rest fifteen feet apart, surrounded by a grove of mighty cedars. Midday sun broke through the foliage, shards of light splintering across the soil. Neither man cast a shadow. The motorbike was thirty yards away, overturned. The wheel on the suspended sidecar was still spinning.

Michel's gaze stayed firm on the German's chest, waiting for the telegraph of movement. Slow seconds passed without either man advancing or retreating. Michel leveled on the German and looked at his face, expecting to see fear, doubt, some kind of weakness. There was none. The German met his gaze and smiled.

The arrogant buck always bridled just beneath the surface with Michel—fighting the thinking mind to get out, take over, pummel and punish the world for all its cruelty and lies. And it was the buck that rose to the German's insult, to seeing a limping old prisoner smile and sneer at him. He wanted to destroy the man.

Michel reached into his pocket and retrieved his folding knife. He snapped the blade into place. He raised the knife in an attacking posture. He wanted the German to see he had it. Now Michel smiled.

With a subtle flick of his wrist the knife turned over in the air and the blade landed in his grasp. With a sudden rush of movement, Michel sent the knife spinning toward Kranz. The blade passed a few inches above his head. Ten yards beyond, where Michel had aimed, the knife embedded deep in the bark of a cedar.

Kranz had barely flinched during Michel's little performance. The whole time his eyes remained locked on Michel. His body held the sort of still that was either maniacal or masterful.

A flash of humiliation burned through Michel. Anger swelled and overtook everything. He lunged forward, light on his feet. His body angled back, his leg coiled and he lashed out with a boot carrying all the force he could muster.

Kranz rotated his midriff to the left and his left hand slapped down, fast but not hard. Michel's boot deflected just a little, enough that it carried into clear day next to Kranz's chest.

The way of the _savateur_ was to strike quickly and repetitively, always maintaining balance, always retaining the capacity to recover and launch another attack. So much for that—for everything Monsieur Chevalier had taught him. Michel had anticipated only one eventuality: full, devastating contact. When it did not come he found himself over-committed, body dragged forth by the _chassé_. It was arrogant and it was dangerous. It was the exact thing his teacher had tried to beat out of him, and now he would learn his lesson.

Michel's head followed his body, exposing him to attack. His left arm was still retrieving and his right fist had dropped. He and Kranz were unbearably close, and Michel was out of stance. He had no defense to the snapping fist that tapped his jaw, sharp and quick and dizzying; no rejoinder to the open hand that jabbed into the soft target that was his throat. A fist found his solar plexus and the air in his chest was gone again. He keeled over and Kranz planted a fist on the side of his brow.

Michel's legs wanted to give out. He raised his arms to protect himself and staggered backward. His feet tangled. He tripped and spun. Kranz swept Michel's legs with a short kick. Michel dropped to the ground, immediately pushing himself back up with his arms. Kranz brought his leg up past Michel's rising face, then plunged the thick of his heel into the back of Michel's head. The sound was heavy and full.

Michel's arms crumpled. His face met the earth first, followed by his body. He did not move.

#

One eye was smothered in the dirt, but the other cracked open and saw light. The wooziness and throbbing rushed in with the sun's rays. The distinctive squeak of wood releasing steel funneled into Michel's brain, cutting through the nothing-noise that filled his head.

His knife. Startled and not knowing if his own steel would be his undoing, Michel rolled over and scrambled to his feet. He got halfway up when blood rushed to his head and he crumpled back to the ground.

"Calm yourself," called Kranz in perfect French. "Stay down. The fight is over. I shall not kill you. Of course, I could. You know that, don't you?"

Michel flipped over onto his haunches. He watched Kranz stroll toward him.

"Yes, you know it. You know I don't need this knife to do it."

Kranz stopped a few yards away.

"But thank you for the knife. A fine piece of craftsmanship. I lost mine, so this will make a nice replacement."

Kranz held the base of the knife with its wood and steel paneling close to his face.

"Ahh, an engraving. 'Michel Poincaré, with love from your father.' Touching."

He snapped the knife shut and pocketed it. Kranz looked down at Michel. His expression was no longer a sneer. His was a genuine smile.

"I am going to take your motorcycle, too. But it's not really your motorcycle, is it? The rightful owner is dead, no doubt."

Kranz squatted, lowering himself to Michel's level.

"Before I go, tell me one thing. Where did you learn to fight?"

Michel wanted to tell the German to go to hell. He wanted to get up and pummel him. But he did not. Michel's glowering countenance was a transparent mask to his unbearable humiliation. He answered the question.

"Gaston Chevalier. He was my instructor."

Kranz nodded.

"I have heard this name. And you would be the knife's Michel Poincaré?"

"Yes."

"Your President is named Poincaré, is he not? Of course, there must be many Poincarés in France. But not so many with such a knife. Which Poincaré family are you from?"

"A different one."

Kranz smiled. "Yes, I thought so. Are you enlisted, Michel Poincaré?"

Michel responded in German. "Of course I am. You think I would let scum invade my country and not fight?"

"Ah, he speaks the language of Saxon scum!" said Kranz in French and laughed, unperturbed by Michel's insult. "Aren't you clever? And what unit are you with? What do you do in this war? You are obviously no cook."

Michel switched back to his native tongue. "I ... I am with the British Army. Infantry." He did not know why he was telling him the truth.

"Interesting. And why is a Frenchman with the British Army?"

"I ..." Michel tried to remember his story, the one he always gave, something about wrong place, wrong time, but it had been knocked clean out of his head. "I ..."

"It is all right, Michel Poincaré. We all have our secrets. You can tell me another day. For now, I must go. I am an escaped prisoner, after all." Kranz pushed off his knees and stood tall. "It has been a pleasure to meet on the field in an honest, old-fashioned fight. So much better than this war with its grandiose weapons. So impersonal. It takes the meaning out of it, and the fun. It was an honor to fight with you, Michel Poincaré. Chevalier taught you well. Not well enough, but well."

Michel could not bear to look at Kranz. The humiliation and dishonor were all-consuming.

"Come on, get up," said Kranz.

It was delivered without rancor, but there was no mistaking the order. Michel did as told. His vision was a little blurry and his head felt like it was being squeezed into a thimble. Nevertheless, he started to feel some of his strength return. His hands balled into fists. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to continue the fight.

But he did nothing. To lash out now was weak. It would be akin to fighting a man with his back turned. The German had accepted Michel's defeat, had granted him clemency, and now Michel had to deal with it. So they pretended like neither man had just tried to kill the other.

Kranz plunged a hand into his pocket. He retrieved Michel's knife.

"It would be wrong of me to take the knife a father gave a son. Here."

Michel took the knife without saying anything.

"I hope we meet again someday, Michel. Perhaps you will have learned to control your _chassé_ kick by then."

Kranz offered his hand. Michel looked at it like it was putrescent meat. He felt nothing but disgust, and shook Kranz's hand anyway. Kranz turned and walked away. He was beside the motorbike when Michel called out. "Wait."

Kranz turned.

"Your name. So I know," said Michel, spitting the words like a mouthful of venom. "For when we meet again."

Kranz seemed to think for a second. He smiled a grim smile.

"Kranz. Colonel Wolfgang Kranz."

#

"Henry, where are you? Goddammit!" Michel could hear him, but not see him.

"Michel! In the hole! I'm in the hole!" called the voice.

_Of_ _course_ _Henry is in a sodding hole_ , thought Michel. He threaded his way through the leaves, following Henry's voice, which felt like a ball-bearing knocking around his head. He reached the hole and peered down. He could see the faint white of Henry's face looking up.

"Michel!"

"For Christ's sake, Henry. How?"

"I climbed in. The ladder broke. But look!"

Henry punched his hand in the air, showing a dark nugget.

"I found gold! There's tons of it. Throw me a rope. Did you get the man?"

"No."

Michel kneeled over the hole. He used both hands to pull up the ladder.

"What are you doing?"

Michel ignored Henry. The ladder looked fine till about halfway down. From there every wrung was snapped. Michel's solution was a simple one. He turned the ladder over and sent the good half down first.

"Listen to me, Henry. I want you to climb up the ladder, but make sure you put your feet as close to the poles as possible. I should be able to reach you from the top."

Henry started up straight away. The ladder creaked as it had before, but it held. When he got to the last intact wrung, he reached his arm out. Michel lay belly down on the ground, elongated his body to get as much reach as he could and in that way he managed to fish Henry's hand out. With a little effort and a rush of wooziness, Michel dragged Henry to the surface.

Henry got to his feet and started flicking mud off his wet and dirty clothes. "I thought I might be stuck in there forever—like the moles in _Wind in the Willows_."

"What are you talking about? The moles in that story live in houses, like humans," said Michel.

"Really? That's a bit funny. In houses? I just thought, they're moles, so they'd live in holes."

"Have you even read the story?"

"Not really. I've looked at the book."

"You mean, you looked at the pictures?"

"Maybe I'm thinking of another book. Look at this!"

Henry thrust his hand into his pocket and retrieved a nugget. He beamed with pride. "Gold!"

Michel glanced down at the piece of rock covered with shiny metallic flecks. He looked back up at Henry's excited face.

"Pyrite," Michel said, matter-of-factly.

"Eh?"

"Not gold. Pyrite."

"But it's gold."

"It's golden," Michel said, with emphasis. "Like gold. And like pyrite."

"Not gold?" Henry said, incredulous.

"Fool's gold, Henry," said Michel, emphasizing the word _fool_.

Henry was crestfallen.

"Let us go. Come," said Michel.

They made their way from the crop.

"Where's the bike?" asked Henry, looking around, then back to Michel.

Before Michel could respond, Henry noticed Michel's arm. "Jesus! That's a big cut."

Only now did Henry start to really look at Michel, taking in the welts and the dirt smeared across his face, the ragged look in his eyes—not to mention the bloody jumper and gash to his shoulder. It looked like Michel had received a terrible flogging.

"We should get that patched up. Does it hurt?" said Henry.

"It's nothing. It's a scratch. Listen, I crashed the bike, ok?"

"What?"

"I'm fine. It was nothing," said Michel.

"Crashed the bike ..." muttered Henry. He made a _tsking_ sound and shook his head. "Serves you right, though, doesn't it? Playing the giddy goat on that death machine. Lucky either of us is alive."

Michel glowered. He considered his riding skills to be impeccable, but he could hardly hold to that now.

"I didn't see a boulder. I swerved late, ran the bike into a tree."

"Can it be fixed? Should we go get it?"

"No. It's wrecked. Come on. Let's go see what the fuss inside was about."

"Did that fellow get away?"

"I already told you. Yes."

"The bastard ... But you're fine, apart from that cut?"

"Great," Michel said through gritted teeth.

"What about our bags, where's our bags?"

"They're ... lost."

"What? How do you mean, lost? Lost where? Aren't they with the bike?"

"No. They ... fell out. Gone."

"Fell out ... But me cup was in there. And a jumper. And me blanket!"

"Jesus. If you get cold, you can cuddle up to me. Don't worry about it, Henry. We can do without that rubbish."

"Well, if I get court-martialed for losing me cup you'd better be taking the blame."

"Yes, fine. If you get court-martialed for losing a stupid goddamned cup, I take the blame. Come on, let's go."

♦

Entering Vitrimont compound was like walking the front during a cease-fire.

The gates to the camp were open and untended. If prisoners wanted to escape, they could, but most the men had chosen to stay put. There was nothing for them outside—only fear and desperation. One man trailed Michel and Henry into the compound. He had been swept up in the frenzy of the moment and escaped, but, once outside, he wilted. The camp was his refuge.

Most of the remaining men were civilian. They wandered about aimlessly, dazed and in shock. The cries of the wounded could be heard from one of the buildings where two German prisoners who had been doctors tended seared flesh and bullet wounds. Some of the prisoners had started to collect the dead, laying out bodies in the exercise yard. Michel counted twenty-three corpses, with more coming.

Smoke lingered in the air, though the fires had burned themselves out. Cinder and rubble still glowed red where three buildings had been reduced to piles of ash. Some men threw buckets of water, steam hissing off the embers. It was largely pointless, but it gave them purpose.

Perhaps the strangest thing was the chooks and guinea fowl roaming the grounds, indifferent to all that had happened, only concerned with scratching the dirt for grubs. It was surreal.

No one paid Henry and Michel any notice. Five guards milled in front of a building. They seemed lost and anxious. They had rifles, but made no effort to direct the Germans.

Michel gently grabbed the arm of a prisoner walking past.

"What happened here?" he said in German, a language he knew even better than English.

Stony-faced, the man glanced at Michel, then kept walking.

Michel asked another man: "What happened here?" He did not stop, so Henry and Michel approached the guards.

For all the guards knew, Henry and Michel were just two more prisoners. One of them raised his rifle and pointed it at Michel.

"Don't come any closer," he said.

Michel raised his hands and Henry did likewise.

"I'm French—a French soldier in the British Army. This man is a British soldier, too. We heard the gunfire. We came to help."

The guard lowered his rifle.

"Help who? They're already dead. All of them are dead!"

Michel did not know what to say to the man whose voice was as hysterical as his words. He would have liked to slap some sense into him.

"I see a telegraph wire. Has anyone got through to the reserve in Oraon?" said Michel.

A different man answered: "Yes. Reinforcements are on the way."

"And who is in charge till then?"

"Don't you get it?" said the guard, pacing back and forth. "No one is! No, the prisoners, there you go. The prisoners are in charge! Here." The guard thrust his rifle into Michel's hands. "You're the soldier. You be a hero. You be in charge."

The man leant back against the building and let himself slide to the ground. "What could we do? There were so many," he said.

He looked to his comrades for reassurance and received none. He looked to Michel. "They would have killed us. They would have killed us all ..."

#

Three lorries and fifty French reservist soldiers arrived at the compound half an hour later.

There was nothing more for Michel and Henry to do, so they took the first opportunity to get out of there in the back of a lorry. They shared the space with the bodies of fifteen dead French guards.

Henry had been willing to wait for a better ride, but not Michel. He wanted to be gone. And he needed to drink. That desire only grew as he looked at the bodies.

A few of the guards had been felled with a single bullet, but most of them were riddled with holes, flesh and bone showing through. Dribbles of thick dark blood still spilled from the cold corpses and red rivulets collected on the wooden decking of the lorry. Every time they went up a hill, blood washed down and stopped at the side of Michel's boot. Then when they started to descend it washed back and disappeared under the pile of bodies.

Henry seemed utterly indifferent to it all. Even the bumpy ride did not stop him from nodding off. He dozed most the way to Oraon.

Not Michel. His head was filled with pain and humiliation and anger. His solace was thoughts of the mountains. He so badly wanted to be among them now, for they were a place of sanctuary in a real and physical sense, but also, far more importantly, spiritually.

Michel began to think about his reading of history, insisted upon by an estranged yet conscientious father as part of a decent education, the sort of education that would stand him in good stead for a career in the public service. He thought of how it had always been true of Europe's many wars that the mountains became pockets of sanctuary.

Even in the eastern stretches of the Vosges where France and Germany had quibbled over a border for centuries, their respective armies had mostly given up on actual fighting after a few months of sorties, and a static front had abided for over two years now. If it was a truism that mountains were for sanctuary, that meant the plains and low hills where farmers tilled fields and grazed herds were for the real fighting. Michel thought about why it should be so; it seemed blindingly obvious now that he bothered to turn his mind to it.

Head-on.

That was all there was to it. The places where it was easier to plow, sow seed and sweep a scythe were the same places it was easier to confront the enemy head-on, as if armies were going to meet like he and the German had in the forest, with blade and with fist, not with rotary gunfire and artillery that could destroy thousand-year-old cathedrals in a single blast.

The machinery of war has changed, and yet we men have not. Not the ones who plan it and not the ones who fight it. We dumb, blunt tools.

They were out of the woods, traveling a network of roads flanked by farms. Blood had started to seep through the leather of Michel's boot and wet his sock. It felt cold. Michel knew that some of the butchered bodies at his feet probably belonged to the fields they passed.

Michel thought about the men of his own brigade, thinking they were fighting to protect territory or capture strategic targets or break through enemy lines and rout the Krauts all the way back to Germany. They were thoughts that made war palatable; naive thoughts thought by ... well, perhaps not fools, but by men who existed in a state of willful ignorance. He had known better and still he wanted to be involved, perhaps making him the only real fool he knew.

_What if I had just kept_ _riding,_ _like Henry wanted ..._

We might have already been at Amer Ami. And Maddy ...

Just the thought of her was enough to make Michel's eyes redden. Right then she was the only thing he could think of that was not mean and ugly and sullied by war. And yet thinking of her while surrounded by the bodies and blood and dark thoughts did not seem right.

Michel touched his hand to his jaw. It did not hurt so bad. But he needed a drink. He needed a whole lot of them.

#

"More whiskey. Double."

Michel took the glass back to their table. It was late afternoon and Michel was on his fifth. Henry was only on his second beer, his attention focused on the stew he was wolfing down.

"I can't really tell what's in this, Michel, but it's bloody good. Beats bread and oil, that's for sure."

"Fantastic. I'm very happy for you."

"You should have some. Aren't you hungry?"

"Henry, if I want a wife, I'll marry one. Can't you see I'm drinking?"

Michel swooshed some liquor around his mouth.

"Besides, not everyone is like yourself. Jesus, is there no end to your gut?"

"What do you mean? I ain't fat," said Henry.

"You should be. Come on, finish that and drink. Drink!"

Michel gulped down the last of his whiskey. He had drunk the other four so fast the alcohol had not fully caught him up. His head still would not shut up. He just wanted to bludgeon it into submission.

"I'm going to get two beers. When I get back, that one had better be gone. Then we drink," said Michel.

Henry finished the last mouthful of stew. He wanted to lick the bowl, but a residue of good manners prevented him from doing so. He ran two fingers along the rim, then licked the gravy from them. He raised his beer to drink and said, "This'll be finished by the time you're done wind-bagging."

It was not often Henry got to wind Michel up. He enjoyed it when he did. While Michel went to the bar, Henry relaxed into his seat. He surveyed the room. Not a single woman. Not even an ugly or fat or fat ugly woman. A pub full of men.

Henry did not mind. His luck had held the night before, and now he felt utterly sated from food and drink and sex and the knowledge that for an entire week he would not become scattered bits of Englishman fertilizing what, sooner or later, would again be some French—or possibly German—potato field.

Henry retrieved from his pocket the nugget he had souvenired at Vitrimont. He held it close to his face.

"Looks like bloomin' gold to me," he mumbled to himself. "I'm keeping you, little fellow. See what Mom says when I get home. I think you're gold. A big handsome gold nugget. Most handsome bloomin' nugget I ever set me eyes on."

Henry gave the nugget a polish on his shirt then a little kiss before putting it to bed in his pocket. Michel walked over and put the beers down on the table.

"What is wrong with you, Henry?"

"What?"

"I saw you talking to that hunk of worthless rock. And kiss it. You're not going to fuck it, are you?"

Henry gulped down the last of his beer and reached for the fresh one.

"I might. Might take it home and melt it down and make it into a golden bride. And then make sweet love to her. And then she'll have me some gold babies and I'll sell them and become rich. And live in a gold house."

Michel did not want to, but he laughed.

"So you will melt your gold babies down? And this wife—she is a goose? You are sticking it in a golden goose?"

Now Henry laughed. He raised his glass.

"To shagging golden gooses and getting out of holes!"

They clinked glasses and drank. Moments later it seemed to hit Michel all at once. He took on a list and started moving as if his personal gravity had doubled.

"Yah yah yah ..." Michel said, a little gibberish of approval. He took another sup.

♦

A set of fingers wrapped around Michel's shoulder and squeezed softly—the way an eagle's talons squeeze softly and still leave four punctures in a man's arm.

Michel reeled around in his chair, ready for action.

"Bloody hell. It's Ernie!" said Henry.

Michel's crooked head and crooked eyes gazed up, a look of ill intent becoming one of recognition.

"Ernie. Ernie!" said Michel, and used both hands to get up.

"G'day boys," said Ernie. "Didn't expect to see you fellas here."

Michel reached for the big Aussie's hand.

"We're making a habit of this, lads."

"What you doin' here, Ernie? Hey, hey, siddown. Here, here, take mine. Hey Ernie, no worries, cobber. All right, mate," said Michel, trying for an Australian accent.

"Generous bastard, isn't he?" said Ernie and sat himself down in Michel's chair. Michel staggered off to find another.

"So how are ya, Hen?"

"Ernie, I'm bloody great. I could get used to the French way of life."

Henry was a thimble or two away from drunk, and so, of course, he was happy. Michel was already drunk—rotten drunk—and it had done nothing to improve his disposition. He returned with a chair, crashing into the table in the process of seating himself. Beer sloshed and empty glasses toppled.

"Had a few, have we boys?"

"Hey. Hey! Beer, Ernie?" said Michel.

"Well, I reckon it might be my time to buy you one, mate."

"No, don't geddup. I'll getcha a beer, Ernie. Henry? Henry wants one." Michel swayed in his seat. "Is'a ... is'a good to see you, Ernie."

"Thanks, mate. You too."

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."

#

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.

#

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.

"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."

#

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 not, 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 ..."

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."

#

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 seemed 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.

#

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.

#

"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.

#

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 body 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?"

"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."

#

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 ..."

#

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.

#

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.

"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."

"What! How?"

"Yesterday I was in this very valley, Michel, and I thought I heard the sound of an engine. Once or twice I have seen a French plane flying up here, but you never know these days what is going on. So I watched the skies. All I saw was cloud, then two planes emerged from the white. Not just planes, Michel—these were flying monstrosities. I would not have believed such huge things could fly.

"And then I saw men dropping from the planes! Big half-balloons opened above them, and I swear to you, you know I have never told a lie in my life, they floated. I counted thirteen men like this, floating to the ground, higher in the valley.

"While these Germans were floating down, the planes headed for the valley beneath Lindarsen Peak. I scrambled higher and I watched them fly closer and closer to Lindarsen, till I could no longer see them. I heard two explosions. For about ten seconds, nothing, then the smoke rose up.

"You understand, don't you? The big German planes crashed into the base of Lindarsen. And they meant to, there was no mistake. Both of them went to the same spot. There is no pass they could have been aiming for."

A dozen questions buzzed Michel's head, but Percy kept talking.

"All the floating men landed. I made higher ground and I saw them. Definitely soldiers. Germans. Twelve of them. There was a thirteenth, but he died in the fall. I watched them work their way north-east toward the pass. When they camped, I camped.

"This morning they started for the pass. I asked myself, what do these Germans want in my valley? There's no war here. I went and found the dead German, the thirteenth. He was dangling from a tree, as dead as a strangled cat, so I cut him from his balloon—like a big round bed sheet, made of silk, I think—and I took this," Percy said, patting a pistol tucked into his pocket. "Do you know what else I found?"

Michel had no idea. None of it made sense. He shook his head.

"Wait here," Percy said. He walked off into the scrub.

Henry took the opportunity to ask Michel what was going on. He had figured out the old man was Percy, but there was clearly something afoot. Michel explained the best he could, for none of it made sense. The planes Percy described, so big that multiple men had fit inside, had to be the formidable Zeppelin bombers. A squad of German soldiers had parachuted into the valley. As for what it all meant, neither Michel nor Henry had any idea.

After a minute Percy returned with his horse. He dismounted and unhooked a pannier. He laid it out in front of Michel and opened the bag.

"You know what this is?" said Percy.

"Jesus," muttered Michel.

"Dynamite. Now, what's a stinking squad of Krauts doing in the mountains with a sack of dynamite? God knows how much the others have if they were willing to leave all this behind. Probably a hundred sticks! Well, what do you make of it? Hmm?"

Michel just stared and shook his head.

"They are going to blow up Pierre Dam!" said Percy.

"What? What dam? Why would they want to blow up a dam?"

"The dam! The big Pierre Dam!"

Michel tried to think, but it did not register.

Then Percy's eyes opened wide and he said, "You don't know what I'm talking about. Of course you don't! The dam did not exist last you were here. Perhaps that says you've been gone too long. But that's another matter. There is a stream that joins the River Meuse at Oraon; it is named after an old pioneer from many years ago, Henri Alcher."

Michel nodded. He knew of the stream from having swum in its cool and clear waters near Oraon with Émile. He had never explored its source in the mountains, but he knew it was on the other side of the range, to the west.

"Four years ago, just before the war, they started building a dam to stop the waters of the Alcher up in the mountains. They said it was to ensure Oraon and the lower towns would never flood the way they did in '11. And they said they would be able to make power out of the water, though that sounded like bullshit to me. Émile and I climbed Pieter's Pass while the dam was under construction. We wanted to see if it was real.

"It was real, all right. Too real. A huge wall of rock and concrete that completely sealed the valley! They finished it two years ago, then at the end of last winter there was talk that the dam is almost full. I went to the pass again. Oh, it has to be seen to be believed. Its waters have swallowed everything. Hundreds of acres, gone, drowned. They must have enough water for all of France behind that dam. A travesty. And you know why they did it?"

"Oraon ..." said Michel. It all made sense.

"Yes, Oraon! I don't know how, but what they said was true. All day and night they make the water into electricity and send it to Oraon. And you should see Oraon now. It used to be a nice town. Not anymore. There are factories as far as the eye can see. Appeared overnight, like toadstools. Factories and railways and soldiers and everything. Because of that dam.

"I should have blown the worthless thing up myself. I should go give this godforsaken bag of bombs to the Germans so I make sure they do a good job!" said Percy, his saliva flecking the air. "But I will not, because you know what they make in Oraon? Bullets. And the big cannon shells, and lots of other things. Everything for the war. Do you see, Michel?

"That much water, if it comes down now, no one would survive. It wouldn't be a matter of losing electricity. All the factories and homes would go! A wall of water one hundred yards high. It would be a thousand times worse than the last flood. It is why it is madness to build such a monstrosity. It is lucky you are here, Michel. We will go. We will stop them."

Percy finally paused and Michel tried to take it all in. His mind throbbed with information; with the discovery that the war had followed him into the mountains. He tried to countenance what could be done—how Percy figured on stopping the Germans.

"You look dismayed, Michel. I thought you were a soldier. Come on, let us go," said Percy. He put a foot in a stirrup.

"Wait, wait," said Michel. "How do you mean to stop them? It's too late. They have a half day start. Whichever way we go, it's too late."

"Rubbish! We go straight over the range. Right here. That way we beat them there. And I have the 45-70," Percy said, patting the rifle that was powerful enough to bring down a bear.

"But Percy, there is no pass here. This escarpment is hell."

Michel looked past the pines to the mass of gray beyond, where rock pushed from the earth.

"I know that face of rock can be climbed. I have done it before."

"You climbed it?"

"Yes, many years ago, just after Émile was born. Back then I'd been like you boys. Young, free. But suddenly I had a child to look after. I panicked. Said I had to go hunt, get meat, but really I just came to the hut and felt sorry for myself and drank until I was numb. And then I did the stupidest, most reckless thing I could. I climbed the escarpment. Right here, no ropes, nothing. It was the most terrified I'd ever been in my life. And, God-willing, I should have fallen to my death with all that drink in me. But I made the crest. Maybe I was the first person to ever do so.

"But when I made it, I did not feel peaceful or happy. I felt stupid. Ashamed of myself. If I had died climbing those cliffs, where would my wife have been? God rest her soul. Where would my child have been? It was the most important moment in my life. A defining moment, when I finally became a man. Do you understand, Michel?"

Michel thought over Percy's words, and he understood. In his own way, Percy was accusing him of being immature, perhaps even cowardly, in having run away from commitment and obligation. He had abandoned Maddy and what would have been a loving family in the Rabinauds because he was scared and confused with his place in the world, and never thought beyond himself. Now, with so much at stake, he had to become the man the war needed him to be.

"Fine. But I lead, Percy. I lead! I brought a length of rope with me. I will climb, then we set up a belay and you follow."

Percy stared at him with a look Michel had seen before and he wondered if the old man was too stubborn to yield.

"Enough talk," said Percy, and it was decided.

Michel figured that they would not be up against any common soldiers. The Germans must have sent an elite unit—specially trained, disciplined and experienced. Twelve of them.

Against two, it was impossible. Against three was better, and perhaps still impossible. Michel began to explain the situation to Henry, who was coming whether he wanted to or not.

"This high-row-electricity dam, what is it?" said Henry, interrupting Michel.

"What are you asking?"

"The dam. High-row electric, the electricity. What's that? Some sort of wall? A fence?"

"Jesus, Henry, you don't know what hydro-electricity is?"

"No," Henry said plainly.

"Hydro! Your country is a pioneer! One of the first! Have you never read a newspaper? The water flows from a dam and pushes turbines that make electricity. You've heard of that?"

"Rings a bell ... So this making electricity, how exactly does it do that? What does it burn?"

"Jesus! It doesn't matter how. What matters is that if they blow this dam many people will die, and the French war effort will be set back months. We must beat the Germans to the dam. That means climbing this range."

"What?"

"Yes, we go over," said Michel.

"Over that? No. Nooo, not over that. Let's go the way they went. On our horses and that sodding mule. We'll ride quicker."

"This is the only way that is faster. We go," said Michel.

"No bloody way! This was meant to be a week off from the war, and you've already nearly killed me once. No, I'm not going Michel. I don't care what you say. And to hell with you, old man! Tell him to stop looking at me like that or ... or I'll pop him one on the chin. Tell him, Michel, bloody tell him. Yeah, you heard me, you old frog. You and your dumb mule both!"

Henry had said something similar two days ago, right before being thrown into the deep end of a violent P.O.W. outbreak. A look crossed his face. Michel smiled.

#

In the days when he was an elite soldier, before a bullet through the hip ended that career, it was the sense of anticipation that Kranz enjoyed the most. Whereas some men crumbled under the pressure or lost their stomachs or jabbered like idiots trying to calm their nerves, Kranz liked to quietly relish the feeling that was like a faint electrical charge running back and forth through his body.

It was the realization that despite even the best-laid plans, anything could happen. The prospect of something going wrong did not unsettle Kranz. It energized him.

In his makeshift camp in the Vitrimont forest, Kranz made his final preparation. It was a simple, seemingly banal act for such an important mission, but nevertheless essential. Lubricated with a little spit, Kranz rubbed the blade of the folding knife he had stolen the night before against the flat surface of a granite stone. He dragged it in neat little circles; one side, then the other.

To stab a man, a blade need not be particularly sharp. But to shave three days of stubble, a rusted steel edge simply would not do. Once he was in that munitions compound, Kranz knew his perfect French and ability to imitate accents was adequate to get him through unforeseen conversations. And his new set of clothes were those of an ordinary worker; he would blend in. But stubble? Some Frenchmen sported a trimmed beard or mustache. Unkempt facial hair, however, was out of the question.

As the afternoon sun dipped toward the western horizon, Kranz worked patiently at the blade till its length revealed shining steel. He scraped the fine edge along a fingernail. A filing of keratin started to spiral off, then the blade skipped. Not sharp enough.

Kranz added a little spit to the stone and went back to work.

#

Their first obstacle proved an unexpectedly taxing one, mainly because of Henry. They merely had to cross a bed of sheared rock: thousands of jagged blocks, some small, some enormous, that had crumbled from the surrounding rock-faces, forming what looked like a giant bed of dry rapids.

Henry did not possess any climbing technique or natural ability and required a hand up with even these simple climbs. It did little to convince Percy they had made the right decision bringing him. As Henry became slower and slower, his strength sapped by inept attempts at rock scrambling, Michel became less and less patient, till he bodily dragged Henry up some of the bigger blocks.

Percy forged further and further ahead. By the time he reached the base of the first cliffs, Henry and Michel lagged almost thirty yards behind. When they negotiated the final few boulders, Percy said, "So slow! You understand we must make that saddle before dusk, yes? So we must move. If you cannot keep up, I will go alone."

Michel did not reply to Percy with words. He looked at him with brooding intensity, then he turned to Henry, who was a quivering mess of slender muscle.

"Henry, I climb first, then Percy, then you. At the top of each section, I'll find footing then drop the rope down. You fasten it to your body like this."

Michel showed Henry a simple way of looping the rope around his legs and waist and tying it off. In this, at least, Henry was competent.

Michel made it clear that the cliffs were too tall and many for him to pull Henry up. He simply had to climb, or they would not make it. Michel would be on the other end of the rope taking some of his weight—but only some.

Henry said nothing. He did not need to. His face expressed all his horror and hatred for what he was being put through.

Michel set off with the rope draped around his chest and the shotgun slung across his back, neither of which made the climb any easier. The first section was long and mostly straightforward. It went straight up over about thirty yards, with one long fissure running diagonally across three-quarters of the height of the rock face, then it went vertical to the top of the cliff. The good thing about the cliff was that it was ragged, offering little knobs of rock that Michel could use for handholds.

To Henry watching below, it seemed like Michel glided up the cliff with next to no effort, though that was simply the illusion of technique being applied with steely concentration.

Michel wedged one boot and both his hands in a deep fissure as his other boot smeared over the rock face, trying to gain enough friction so he could take the next lunge upwards. Rock climbing was about using the lower body for power and upper body for balance, but Michel had no choice other than to use his arms to help haul himself up. By the time he reached the first ledge, his shoulders were fatigued and his forearms burned to the point of pain. He immediately sent the rope down.

Percy fixed it to his waist and started up the same route. Climbing had always been a young man's game, but Percy attacked the cliff with youthful vigor. By Michel's reckoning, Percy's assent was intemperate bluster. Was the old man trying to better him? Was he trying to prove time had not cowed him? Though there was no denying Percy's ability, he moved too quickly to be properly assessing each individual grip.

"Slow down, Percy!" yelled Michel.

Percy reached the vertical section of the fissure. Whereas till that point Percy had climbed without assistance, with the rope around his waist merely there as a precaution, Michel now applied tension, taking at least thirty pounds of pressure from the old man. Again, he moved up the cliff-face with speed. When he hauled himself over the precipice onto the ledge, Michel was fuming.

"Damn it, Percy, are you trying—"

Michel stopped. He realized the old man was in a bad way. His face was bright red and he was covered in sweat. He gasped a mix of short and long breaths. Michel took a second to compose himself.

"Percy, we must be more careful, and we must go slower. It is dangerous to push yourself like this."

Percy got to his feet. "You just worry about that Englishman. I was climbing before you were born."

Percy untied the rope from his waist and threw it down to Henry. Henry secured himself, then stood looking skyward, a small man looking up to his temporary gods.

"Just follow the same way we came, Henry. Keep your foot in the crack, and you'll be ok," yelled Michel.

Henry did not whine. His will was utterly broken, and he followed orders. This time Michel kept tension on from the beginning. By taking about fifty pounds of pressure—no easy feat—Henry had less than one hundred pounds of his own weight to pull up the cliff.

He started. With constant instruction and reassurance yelled from Michel, Henry slowly progressed up the rock wall. Unlike Percy, Henry was very careful. Each foot tested its placement, each hand felt for a firm grip. Slowly but surely, he made it to the vertical section of the fissure without so much as slipping—but that was the easy part.

Henry tried copying the technique Michel and Percy had used. Two hands and one foot in the crack, one foot spread across the rock face, push up.

He did not move. He simply did not have the strength. Three times, four times, five times Henry tried, but he was stuck. He started to panic, his head twisting left and right, as if he might find another way out, perhaps a convenient stairway down.

"It's all right Henry, just wait. It's all right. We're going to pull you up. Percy, I need your help. Percy!"

Michel turned his head to where Percy had been resting. He was not there. He could not crane his neck while holding onto Henry, but Michel knew that if he looked to the skies he would see Percy, already making his way up the next cliff. Michel was furious.

"Hold on and climb when you can, Henry! I'm pulling you up!"

Michel gritted his teeth and panted like a beast as, one hand after another, he dragged Henry up the cliff. It took everything he had left, to the point that his head was shaking with the strain by the time two small hands grabbed at the ledge. Henry pulled himself to safety.

Both men were spent, Michel physically and Henry physically and mentally. But there was still another section of cliff and a bluff to negotiate. Michel looked up. He did not see Percy. Could he have made the top already?

He scanned the cliff. Forty yards to the right, twenty yards up the cliff, he saw Percy clinging to the rock face. He did not move laterally. He did not move up or down. Percy was stuck, frozen to the spot.

Michel scanned higher and perceived a slight overhang, a layer of rock that had eroded fractionally slower than the layer beneath it. For the most part, it was only a couple of degrees beyond vertical, yet enough to be a major problem. Percy had traversed laterally, no doubt looking for a fissure with decent holds or a section where the cliff had no overhang. Now he could go no further and the longer he hung there, the weaker he became.

Yet the proud old bastard still would not call for help. Michel figured it was an act of unmatched stupidity, though at the same time he found something admirable in Percy's grit and pride.

Michel examined the possible routes, then took off while his arms were still on fire, moving swiftly but not taking unnecessary risks. He would be no help to Percy crumpled in a broken heap at the foot of the rock face. He proceeded straight up, traversed two yards, then straight up, traversed three yards, then straight up. As he neared the overhang, he started moving laterally toward Percy. He stopped a few yards from him and gulped air. Percy—gripped to the rock like a gecko—looked at him and said nothing, the shame all too apparent.

Michel could have said many cruel or sanctimonious things, but when he had his breath he chose to offer an olive branch. "I think I am stuck, Percy. Where do I try to get up?"

Percy looked at Michel hard, then grinned and nodded.

"Yes. Yes, I have looked at the entire overhang. The section ten, fifteen yards back, there are two good handgrips beyond the lip. Maybe we can take it there," said Percy.

"Let's do it," said Michel.

When they reached the section Percy had selected, each man took one hand from their precarious perch of rock and together they tied the rope into a harness around Percy's waist. The rest of the rope was still slung around Michel's chest; a length of slack hung between them.

Michel reached up and out, his right hand sliding along the overhang until his fingers curled the top and bunted up against a nub of rock. It was jagged and without smoothed edges—hard on the hands—but it would be a firm hold. He wrapped fingers and palm around it, then with his left hand repeated the action, sliding across the overhang then blindly feeling for the second hold they had seen earlier. He felt out a slight depression in the rock, but it was no hold. Michel kept searching. Nothing. He looked to Percy.

"Where is it?"

Percy had a firm footing and his right hand was wedged in an uneven crack. He leant his body out as far as he could and looked up. He scanned left and right. He shook his head.

"That chip. The shadow on it made it look bigger from over there. That is your hold."

Michel felt it out again. His fingers pressed into the cut that offered less than an inch of horizontal surface to grip. A minuscule and precarious fingerhold.

"This?" said Michel, incredulous.

"The same."

" _Putain_!" bellowed Michel, his voice echoing from the rock to spread east and west. He grunted. "Not you, Percy. Not you. Jesus, this is what you climbed those years ago?"

"Who knows? I was drunk. I might have flown up on a pig with wings. Can you do it?"

Michel pushed his jaw forward as he ground his teeth.

"Can you do it?" repeated Percy.

Michel raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. "We shall see."

Michel dug in, found a foothold higher on the wall and pushed up so that his body began to leave the vertical and tilt backward. He thrust his left foot up and kicked the wall. The toe of his boot found a nib; he pressed down and it slipped. He brought it up again and it slipped, so he scraped left and found a better perch. He rose higher and tilted further beyond the vertical.

It was not complicated now. Lunge, and either he made the next hold or he did not. He lived or he died.

Michel thrust with his legs and at the same time launched his left hand higher, reaching for a crack that was a yard beyond his precarious hold. He had to fling his body outwards to do so, a slingshotting motion with no room for error. His left hand slapped onto the rock. A single finger, his pinky, slipped into a crack. He dropped and he held—by his pinky. He did not readjust. He knew now where the crack was.

Again blind, he pushed out beyond the overhang and flung his right hand at the crack. It stabbed into the cold fissure of shadow and his grip instantly caught. Michel dangled by his arms as his feet kicked and slid and then found a hold, kicked and slid and found another hold. Then he was up, past the overhang.

Twenty more yards and he had solid ground. After a few more minutes and the help of the belay, Percy sat beside him. Another hour and with a lot of swearing and threats, a scared-witless Henry clung to the rock beside him.

With all three past the worst of it and nothing but pedestrian obstacles left to tackle, a wave of jubilation struck Michel. He had come as close to death as ever a climber might, and survived.

Just one more bluff remained. Now walking on firm ground, Michel was the first to notice the black line running through the rock. As they drew closer, the visual illusion revealed itself as a rift where the rock plate had split in two. It was uniformly about three yards wide. Michel looked at Percy and said, "You think ..."

"I think we jump it," said Percy.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Michel had no doubt he could make the distance. He was less sure about Percy and Henry, but he considered it a risk worth taking given the time it would take to find an alternative route. Michel backed up, readying to launch himself across the gap. Henry held a hand out and stopped him.

"What are you doing? We're not jumping that."

"Henry, it's nothing. I can spit to the other side. Your courage has not let you down so far. We jump this, and the worst is over."

"Worst is over ... How many times am I going to hear that? Worst won't be over till I'm back on the front!"

Michel pushed off, hit top speed in six paces and glided across. He made it look so easy. Percy took a longer run up and needed it to hit his stride. He cleared the gorge with a foot to spare and rolled to a stop.

Michel threw one end of the rope across the gap. Henry tied it to his waist as a precaution. With Michel's urging, Henry took off. He was three feet from the edge when his knees buckled and his upper body flung backward, his hands instinctively groping for the ground as he slid toward the edge, closer and closer and then almost gently he slipped over the precipice.

Henry screamed as he fell. Michel and Percy put tension on the rope and Henry swung down and across, careening into the opposite wall of rock. It did not take much to drag his flailing body up and over the lip of the fissure. His face was a mess, his gashed top lip already red and engorged. Blood streamed from his mouth.

Michel loped over to Henry and put a comforting hand on his shoulder as he bent low to get a good look. Henry swatted Michel's arm away and tried to tell him exactly what he thought of him, but it came out as a shower of blood and indecipherable syllables. Michel took a few steps back.

Henry's hand went to his face. He carefully felt the tender massiveness of his lip. He prodded his tongue along the raw underside and grimaced. He wore a confused look, and then cried out, "Oh no. No no no. My tooth!"

#

When they reached the final rock face, Michel took a few strides that launched into a rapid scrambling up the bluff on all fours. He gained the top and let the rope down. In a handful of minutes, all three crested.

From that point, the saddle of rock slowly graded to soil that had been pushed up by the motion of an ancient glacier. It had torn through the valley, grinding away parts of the haggard cliffs and bluffs and depositing them inches, feet and miles away. It meant that their descent would be immeasurably easier, mostly just walking, with only a few dashes of rock scrambling.

Having crossed the threshold of the range, the dam also came into view. A broad body of water lapped beaches and moraines and snaked its way along the contours of the valley for what must have been three miles. To Percy, it was this very scale that made the dam an inexcusable travesty. Another monument to the way the values of old—tradition, simplicity, virtue, beauty—were being lost to modern society's lust for change.

To Michel, however, the scale of the hydro-electric project was awe-inspiring: a testament to human industry and genius. And though the risen waters had swallowed the beauty of the ancient glacial valley, they replaced it with a different kind of grandeur. For a moment, Michel felt like a younger man who had climbed mountains for no better reason than to see if he could. He forgot that he was gazing upon an artificial lake because a squad of Germans was intent on sending every last drop of it rushing down the valley in a flood that would obliterate Oraon.

They had just begun the descent when Henry said, "Look, there," and pointed to the dam wall.

A distant figure could clearly be seen moving along the concrete walkway. Percy unslung his rifle and raised it to his shoulder. They were almost half a mile away, but Percy was one to take his chances. Michel put his hand over Percy's rifle, forcing him to lower his aim.

"Look how they are walking. And only one. It can't be the Germans. An important dam like this, maybe there is a garrison of reservists down there. More men for our 'army'."

The three of them hurried down the slopes. The closer they came to the shore of the lake, the thicker the tree cover. They stopped at a trail.

"Ok. We proceed slow, just to be safe," said Michel in English, then in French. "And Percy, ask questions first, shoot second, yes?"

"If there is a Kraut, I shoot him. No questions asked," said Percy.

As they moved, Michel took in the terrain and cover. It occurred to him that when darkness hit in an hour or two they would have no chance of seeing Germans who did not wish to be seen.

They closed on the wall, each step bringing an increase in the volume of the low whine that filled the air—the sound of the hydro-electric turbines. It was matched by the sound of water rushing from the gates in the dam wall. The path branched, one route heading straight to the wall where a steel ladder was fastened to the concrete, the other meandering up and around the foundations, eventually becoming a road that continued along the wall's crest. Michel went straight for the ladder. He put a hand on a rung.

"Stop!"

A woman jumped into view at the top of the wall and leveled a revolver at Michel's head. Percy snapped his rifle to his shoulder, but in that same moment two other figures dashed from behind the higher rock embankment, rifles raised. One of them—short and fat, face squinted into a ball of rage—screamed in French, "Don't you dare!"

For a second Michel did not do anything. His hand stayed on the ladder rung and he looked up at the woman. He saw long legs, thin hips, a full bosom and a face framed by a coppice of wild brunette hair, plus the revolver pointed at his face. Michel met the woman's hard gaze and smiled.

The woman did not smile back. She glanced across to Henry and Percy. Her gaze lingered on Percy, and she gasped.

"Mr. Rabinaud? It is. Girls, girls, it's all right. Lower your rifle, Damia," she said, directing the last comment to the young woman with the maniacal look on her face, then turned back to Percy. "Mr. Rabinaud, I'm Ariane Herôn, Jean Colbert's daughter. You remember me, don't you?"

#

Maudette Robert, Damia Winoc and Ariane Herôn. Rotating with a group of six other women, they spent every third week manning a 75mm artillery cannon in readiness for the unlikely event of an attack. The powers that be refused to garrison an infantry or artillery unit at the dam. A single big gun, three untrained women—that was considered security enough.

Once Michel gave them a basic brief of what he knew, they offered up their own telling article of information. Each morning it was standard procedure to report to the garrison in Oraon over a telephonic wire that followed the same route as the power cables beside the River Meuse. That morning the phone was dead.

Almost as an afterthought, Ariane told Michel that there was a fourth as yet unseen person who helped man the structure. They eventually found Noam Becquerel, an aging engineer who spent most of his time in the bowels of the concrete arch. His main tasks were to maintain the right level of peak energy output and to determine the rate of water outflow through the seasons. He had assistants to help with maintenance and other works when needed, but none were due to come for days.

Michel looked over the engineer with his hunched shoulders, swollen red nose and sad eyes. He seemed, paradoxically, both shrunken and fat, like an anemic with a sweet tooth. He was certainly no killer—when all they needed were killers, cold and committed, to match like for like. But every extra body was better than nothing.

Becquerel showed Michel the internal workings of the dam. The structure contained three levels, plus innumerable shafts built into the concrete that allowed access to a matrix of stress-points. The topmost level housed the control room. An abutting chamber, with barely room enough for a dozen brooms, had been converted into Becquerel's quarters. The engineer had ceded the master's hut to the women.

The level below contained secondary generators, along with a bank of batteries that stored power when production exceeded demand. The third level contained the turbines and was unbelievably loud, a testament to the effectiveness of concrete as a sound insulator given the relative quiet above.

Seeing the internal structure of the arch convinced Michel of one thing: if the Germans were intent on blowing the wall, they would do so from inside. If they achieved that, there was only one possible outcome. A huge hole would be ripped in the outer membrane and the entire structure had to fail.

On the surface, the women gathered together their arsenal: three 8mm rifles, two cases of 8mm bullets, three cases of 75mm artillery shells and one 11mm revolver. The six-shooter, its silvers polished to a high sheen, was tucked into Ariane's pants.

The 75mm artillery cannon was an early model of the big guns the French army had rolled out across the front. It could fire up to fifteen shells every minute, with a special recoil mechanism that meant the targeter did not need to reset aim. Ariane explained that all three women were proficient on the 75mm, pointing to the crater halfway up a wall of low cliffs about two hundred yards away—target practice.

To the northern side of the arch stood a watchtower with a powerful spotlight. One thing they did not have to worry about was power. Cabled wiring hooked up to the generators ran along the base of the guide rail that stretched the length of the wall. Seeing it, Michel had an idea.

He crossed to the edge where the ladder was attached, examined it quickly, then made his way back to the master's hut where everyone but Percy was gathered.

"Noam, what would happen if we connected a live cable to the railing?"

"Well," started the engineer, speaking very slowly, "that cable is linked to the main line. That line takes three-phase direct current at very high voltage, twenty thousand volts, for efficiency in transmission. But—"

"Forget all that. Just tell me: if we connect the current to the rail, will it make an electric fence?" said Michel.

"Well ..."

"Yes or no?"

"Well, yes."

"And what voltage?"

"As I was saying ..."

"For Christ's sake, will it kill a man?" said Michel, his patience exhausted.

"Many times over."

"Good, then do it."

As the engineer set to work re-rigging the cables, Michel called Percy in. He addressed his motley army in French. He would have to give separate instructions to Henry.

"Ok, we don't have much time. The Germans can't be far, and they already have one advantage over us. They know where we are and where we will be, but we don't know what direction they're coming from. It could be either side of the valley, and in a few minutes it will be dark. But I have a plan.

"We force their hand. Henry will man the spotlight. He'll set it to the base of those cliffs you use for target practice. If the Germans are coming that way, it gives them two choices. They can backtrack and climb. At night that would be very dangerous, so I don't think they'll try it. I think they'll run the gauntlet. I want you ladies to man the 75mm. Aim it at the base of those cliffs. Anything that moves, you blow it to high hell."

The women nodded.

"If they backtrack all the way to where the lake ends, narrow enough to cross, that will take time. I make it about seven miles around, at least three hours, and that is moving fast. If they are smart, their party is already split. One half coming down the south shore, the other half down the north shore. Percy and I will man the north wall. Percy, I want you to take up a position fifty yards above the dam wall with your rifle. If you want to kill some Germans, this is your chance.

"Whatever happens on the north side, the 75mm must stay targeted on the cliffs. They might try to divert attention and make a break for it. All right, which of you is the best shot?"

The women looked at each other. "Ariane, probably," replied Maudette.

"Fine. Ariane, you take a rifle and stay with me at the wall. Once Percy draws the fire, I go in with the 12-gauge. That means you are the last defense. No questions or warnings. If it is moving, you shoot it until it stops moving."

"But what if it is you?" she said.

"Then I should move faster. Can the 75mm be run by just two people?"

"Yes, of course. If necessary with just one of us," said Maudette.

"And it may come to that," said Michel. "Whatever happens, we must not let the Germans reach the wall. If the dam blows, thousands drown in a night flood, and not a moment's warning. When you come face to face with these Germans, remember that. Remember that they are just men—men who want to kill you and the people you love. There is no more to be said, other than good luck."

Michel kissed each of the women on the cheeks. He gripped Percy's hand and embraced him roughly.

"Good luck, Percy. There is much to talk about after this. And maybe a few bottles of your wine to share."

"Much. Now, let us go kill these pig fuckers. They are probably looking for this," he said, patting the German pistol in his pocket, "and I intend on returning it."

Percy turned and made for the northern shore. Michel set about explaining to Henry his role. The Englishman listened attentively, periodically shaking his head and muttering, "Jesus, Jesus," slightly lisping the "s" due to the gap in his teeth.

"Henry, I know you can do this. You have to do this, because they will not stop till they have either blown this dam or all of them are dead. Think about it. Where is their escape? Back through the mountains into Switzerland or Germany? They would never make it. Into France, blend in, make their way to the front? Their swine stench would be sniffed out in seconds. No, there is no escape for these Germans. It is as good as a suicide mission, which means they are not afraid to die. And so we must be ready to kill, Henry. Kill without hesitation. Are you with me?"

There was something about Henry that Michel knew, something that had always been left unsaid. Henry had never killed a man. When they were on the frontline, Henry almost never fired his Lee–Enfield. When he did, he was a cannily bad shot. Germans would have to jump ten feet in the air to be sniped by Henry. Even when he was in that bunker in Rinay with Michel, fighting for his life, the stain of killing somehow escaped his hands. But there would be no escape from it today.

"You can rely on me," said Henry.

"Good, good." Michel extended a hand. "I wish you luck, my friend. I will see you on the other side. And Henry, whatever you do, do not touch the steel rail below."

Henry climbed the ladder and toggled a switch. The spotlight came to life, the filament glowing a warm orange. After a few seconds, a fierce white luminescence took over, equivalent to twenty thousand candles. He swung the spotlight around so that it was aimed at the base of the cliffs, two hundred yards away. The beam broadened out to illuminate an area five yards wide. With refraction off the rock face, the entire beachhead was visible. Any German running the gauntlet would be lit up like a rabbit in headlights. Then, with a little luck, Maudette and Damia would send him to the big Reich in the sky.

#

Verdun: no-man's-land.

All afternoon, as he waited for darkness, Émile had lain perfectly still and silent, so much so that the German sniper picking off survivors could not distinguish him from the corpses. But he lived—Émile was sure of that much, for the pain in his shoulder was brutal.

He was one of the lucky ones. The unlucky were the bloated corpses strewn across the field. The unlucky were those better off dead than living—jaw blown away from a single bullet, legs mangled in a hail of machinegun fire. Even if they survived, they might wish they had not.

The unluckiest of them all was the soldier given his salvation only to be stripped of it a short while later. A few corpses beyond Émile, there lay a boy who had become a man to fight for his country. He had survived the machinegun fire that cut the assault to pieces before they were within fifty yards of the German trenches. Whether he tripped and had the good sense not to get up or had simply tried to save himself when all was lost, the boy lay with the dead without so much as a scratch on him. He was blessed.

Blessed and tired. The 21st had been on the front for a rotation of eight days before being dropped behind the lines for rest. The first day of rest saw bursts of sleep punctuated by artillery bombardments and the nightly swarming of rats that gnawed through hessian and canvas to steal a soldier's rations, and once they had done with rations went on to molest rigid corpses and sleeping men alike.

There had been no time, let alone any facility, to clean up, shave, wash clothes, pick the mud from one's socks and boots—anything that made a soldier feel human again. There was fitful sleep, then on the second day of scheduled rest they had been thrust back into the trenches. There were not enough new recruits to take the place of the dead. The army's schedule had not figured on an entire brigade being wiped out in a single day.

So the men of the 21st were tired and depleted of ranks, but that was the way of things. They rejoined the front where the decimated regiment reformed with soldiers from other similarly depleted units. A devastated company of the Canadian 3rd infantry division temporarily came under command of the French, helping complete the 21st beside soldiers from the 112th and 42nd regiments of the French infantry. An assortment of war-weary men rejoined the frontline, tired and beat and disabused of their thirst for war, but war's thirst for men demanded their presence.

When the 21st was sent over the top in the mid-afternoon, there was every hope the artillery had destroyed the German embattlements. But if they had, the delay between the bombardment and the subsequent assault was enough for the Germans to re-establish their lines and set up half a dozen machineguns. When the call came, the Germans let them reach within one hundred yards of their trenches before they opened up. That way there was no escape, even if they tried to retreat. The last of the 21st had been obliterated, and no-man's-land was a field of death.

But the boy had survived, unscathed. Like Émile, he had lain as still as he could through the afternoon, waiting for the cover of darkness. But he was tired and, with stinking corpses all around him, the boy slipped into sleep.

For a few precious moments there was no artillery and no rats and only the occasional gunshot, and so he slept well. He had been on his back all afternoon. He came out of his slumber just enough to readjust his body, bringing his legs up. He was as comfortable as could be hoped for and again started to drift off. That is when a German sniper sent a bullet from a high-powered rifle through both his raised knees.

For a long time, the boy screamed. It took all Émile's self-control not to risk crawling over. Eventually his screams reduced to cries. If the boy survived there was no facility for reconstructive surgery in the field hospitals. He would surely lose the first leg the bullet went through, and maybe both.

Would he still be one of the lucky ones?

It made Émile sick to the gut to think that in a war where death was served up on an industrial scale, where a single battle could produce tens of thousands of dead, there was nevertheless a German sniper compelled to stalk a solitary French boy all afternoon, just so he could maim him.

As darkness settled over the battlefield, Émile waited for his chance.

#

Per instructions, Kranz waited till the onset of night. It was dark and gloomy in Oraon, but the compound was well lit and there were still many workers on-site. Kranz reasoned that his best chance was not to go unnoticed, but to go unchallenged. Just another anonymous old man headed to or from the factory line.

He waited for a lull in the movement of people, then for a patrolling guard to pass. He ran for the fence, knowing that this was the most dangerous part. If he got through, everything else would fall into place. He pulled out a pair of stolen wire cutters and quickly cut the strands, _snip_ _,_ _snip_ _,_ _snip_. The guard was one hundred yards away. Kranz knew he would turn soon.

For the sake of speed and in the hope the hole might go unnoticed, Kranz only cut a small section. He squeezed his thin body through the gap, but as he tried to stand a wire caught the back of his shirt. He wriggled to try and pry it free, but it remained caught. There was no time to mess around. He forced up, ripping away a small piece of fabric. He strode from the fence without looking back.

After four or five steps, Kranz slowed his gait to a comparative crawl. The guard turned and Kranz fell within his line of vision. He moved casually, posture completely at ease. The guard watched him. Kranz was closer to the fence than to any building.

The guard drew on a cigarette. Its tip blazed a pretty glow. It was down to the nub, so he let it drop and ground it out with the heel of his boot. The guard reached for another and lit up. Kranz continued on his way.

He walked past a truck parked in the loading bay of a building filled with thousands of shells. Two men were manhandling crates, talking noisily. He thought he caught one of the men watching him. Kranz turned his head and met the look.

" _Bonjour_ ," called Kranz.

"G'day," replied the man.

Kranz added a smile and a nod to his greeting. He kept walking as he took a mental snapshot of the warehouse. Apart from the two men, the building seemed deserted. Various apparatus hung from the scaffolding and rafters. Crates lined the floor, and toward the rear of the building there were batches of drums. He could see an open door at the rear and another large set of sliding doors ajar, opposite the explosives factory. The explosives factory was still busy manufacturing, as smoke and steam billowed from the chimneys.

Kranz decided to keep walking and double around the back of the warehouse, to enter the back door. There was a good chance he could set a long fuse to a crate of dynamite, then evacuate without being detected. But he had the feeling he was being watched by the men he had passed. He held his pace and kept his calm. He thought he was safe.

"Hey, mate!"

Kranz kept walking.

"Oi!"

Kranz stopped and slowly turned. There were thirty yards between them.

"You speak English?" the man called.

He smiled. "A little."

"Where you off to?"

"I have to ... speak to the boss," said Kranz.

"Any chance it can wait a few minutes?"

It appeared the man was not challenging him. Kranz decided to play friendly. "I suppose."

"Listen, would you mind giving us a hand loading the truck? I'm already overdue, and it's just the two of us. Be quicker with three. Can you lend a hand?"

Kranz smiled a faux-friendly smile. "Of course." Perhaps there would be an opportunity in this.

"Thanks, mate. I'm Ernie," said the unusually large anglophone.

"I'm ..." and Kranz was about to give his fake identity, to say Hinrich Vlass, but he suddenly realized he could not give the name of an escaped German prisoner, and then his mind went momentarily blank. Of all the things that might catch him off guard, a stupid name had done it. A half-second passed, an eternity of silence, and Kranz's hand was already in his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the steel of his switchblade. A name, a name, just any French name ...

"... Michel," he finally said, for that was the only name that came to him.

The big man smiled. "Don't say? Got a mate called Michel. Be a funny bloody name in Australia. I suppose there's a million of you in France. Mick back home. Or Mike, Michael, Micky if you're a bit of a dickhead. You get the picture."

The two shook hands. Another man on the back of the truck arranging crates poked his head from behind the canvas.

"Hi. Thanks for the help. I'm Vicq," the man said in French.

"Evening," replied Kranz. "I'm Michel."

"So listen, Mick. We'll haul the crates up to Vicq, but they're dynamite, so be careful. Don't want the whole bloody place to go up in smoke. You see the ones with the blue markings?" said Ernie.

Kranz nodded.

"They're the ones we're loading. Right, let's get stuck in, and maybe I'll finally get out of this place."

Ernie and Kranz set to work.

#

Michel waited behind the concrete at the edge of the northern wall, scanning the shores of the lake. He could barely see thirty feet. If the Germans came—and Michel considered it a certainty they would—he was hoping instinct would alert him to their presence, otherwise he might be dead before he knew the fight was on.

Ariane hunched beside him. She sucked on a strand of long curling hair. There was something childish and endearing about it, but it made Michel uneasy. Could this woman with the nervous tic of a child take a man's life if she had to?

Ariane gently touched his arm. "Michel," she whispered. She had the revolver in her hand. "I want you to take this. If you go out there and fight them, you will need it more than me."

Michel nodded and took the revolver. He flicked open the cylinder, saw there were six bullets loaded, then flicked it back into place and tucked it into his belt.

"Officer issue," he said, his voice mostly air. "Where did you get it?"

Ariane's eyes cast down. "My husband's."

Michel nodded. He did not need to ask anything more. Ariane's husband had fought—and died.

"A cuirassier. His father, too, a long time ago. The war with Prussia," said Ariane.

"Cuirassiers ... hmm, different then. Men on horses could turn the tide. Fighting was old-fashioned. Simpler," said Michel.

"Yes. And little boys idolize fathers. Timoleon and his brother joined the same regiment. He was so graceful on a horse. They both were," said Ariane, and smiled. "Then when the war broke out ... Can you imagine, two brothers following in their father's footsteps? Of course I worried, but not so much as I felt proud. I did not know. No one knew."

"It's not the thing we thought. Maybe it never was," said Michel.

Ariane swallowed. "He was one of the first from our town to die in battle. Everyone told me how noble Timoleon's sacrifice was. Why do they say noble? I am proud of what he did, fighting for us, but what happened was not noble. It was cruel. Cruel and pointless. I wrote a letter every week, telling him silly little things. Plans for life when the war was over. About the changing season. Stories of home. For two months I wrote with no reply before they returned all my letters. Three years ago, Michel. He was dead and the war had only just begun. For nothing. He died for nothing."

Ariane stared intently at Michel. "The gun is what was left. His brother brought it back. And I hate it. I hate that gun. But until today, I carried it everywhere. I could not stand to part with it."

Michel placed his hand on her shoulder. "Then I will use it well. Thank you."

And if those bastards try to hurt you, I shall slaughter every last one of them.

Ariane's intense eyes were bloody and hot and accusing and needful. Michel had to turn away. He had to keep his focus.

He looked out along the bank. Percy was there, somewhere, ready and waiting. So too the Germans, of that he was certain. It was only a matter of time.

#

An hour passed with Percy nestled behind a rocky outcrop. His grizzled mug was pure concentration. The fore of his 45-70 rested in the groove of one of the rocks. The rifle butt tucked snug into his shoulder. His cheek pressed up against the worn stock and his finger floated next to the trigger. He was ready. He had been ready all his life.

A sound.

Percy's finger wrapped around the trigger. He waited, his eyes bearing into the darkness.

Nothing. Moments ticked by.

He heard it again. Still nothing showed.

Percy made the snap decision that he needed to move. Yes—he would take the fight to them. He did not care how many there were. He would always be better stalking than being stalked.

Ever since his father took him on that first hunting trip into Rabinaud Valley fifty years ago, Percy had practiced the art of hunting. All those days creeping through snow, watching for tiny signs, disappearing into the breeze—it had all been leading to this. His life as a hunter was one long preparation, and now Percy was ready to hunt the ultimate game. He very slowly inched away from his cover, imperceptible to Michel below.

A water vole munching on clumps of grass near the lakeshore made just enough noise to sound like a man skulking through the undergrowth. Percy pressed on, taking a line up the slope, away from the water. There were about fifty yards of good tree cover from the lakeshore before the foliage thinned out to bushes, grass and rock. He proceeded slowly and watchfully. He controlled his breathing to a regular and even rhythm. He gave away nothing and took in everything.

He had been on the move for fifteen minutes, creeping inch by inch. Calculating distance at night was nigh impossible, but Percy knew he had not gone far. He figured one hundred and fifty yards, given he was not yet in line with the cliffs lit up on the distant side of the lake. He stopped and listened.

He heard nothing. Too much nothing. The crickets had gone quiet.

A whooping owl called, then pushed into flight, soaring across the surface of the lake. Percy moved stealthily to a position where a gray fur stood next to an outcrop of stone. He eased himself into a crouching stance, raised his rifle and waited.

Somewhere ahead, a dry twig snapped. Percy had to suppress a sharp intake of breath as the adrenaline tore through his body. He did not let his mind stray from the simple focus on outside stimulus. He trusted what it was his senses were telling him—and they were telling him they were coming.

And close. Percy's finger wrapped around the rifle trigger. He had one in the chamber, four in the magazine. With the German pistol he had souvenired, that made thirteen bullets.

A shape. Percy blinked rapidly to wash away the haze of an old man's weakening focus, but it was still there. A phantom tempted the edges of darkness forty-five yards away. Percy breathed and turned his head to the side to use his peripheral vision. Still there.

The indistinct mass very slowly formed into the shape of a man. The green camouflage of the German tunic gave off almost no reflection, but at forty yards Percy saw the unmistakable outline of a face. Two yards beneath the first, a second phantom filtered from the night. Percy thought he heard others. Two, maybe three.

Thirty-eight feet and Percy could see the dark hollows of eyes. Now was the moment to fire, but he waited.

Thirty-six yards. He watched the eyes.

Thirty-four yards. Eyes of an ordinary man, a small man. Percy would kill him just the same, for they were German eyes.

The man stopped. His hand rose slowly, signaling the others. All was still. He scanned the darkness, passing over Percy's position without recognition and up the ridge, but then his head stopped and turned, his gaze moving back toward Percy.

When their eyes met there was a split second of terrible knowing, man seeing man, and it was the eyes that screamed before the mouth.

" _Hin_ —" began the German's cry, like the wail of an air-raid siren on its first wind.

Percy squeezed the final millimeter on the trigger.

Boom!

A slug exploded from the barrel and within milliseconds was ripping through the German's chest. Percy did not move from his position. He worked the bolt on the 45-70 and another round slid into the chamber. He moved his aim ten degrees. It all took less than a second, enough time for another German to scream " _Hinterhalt!_ " and for his Mauser to pull into his shoulder, level—

Boom!

A second German careened backward from the force of all that lead smashing through his sternum. His Mauser fired harmlessly into the sky, the last act of a dead man. The muzzle flash was enough light to give Percy an impression of two more men. They threw their bodies to the ground. Percy was yet to move an inch from his position. As he worked another round into his rifle, the Germans opened up.

Crack. Crack.

One slug whistled by, a yard from Percy's head, and the other thumped into the rock in front of him, showering splinters of granite. It was the aim of haste.

There was no time to waste—Percy had to make his move before the Germans' training kicked in and they established a defensive formation. Percy stood tall and used the extra height to isolate his next target.

Crack.

Another slug whistled by, this time just inches from his chest, but it gave him all the light he needed to settle his aim.

Boom!

Lead ripped through the German's shoulder and he instantly flipped over, writhing, screaming from the shock of being hit. Percy worked the bolt furiously.

Crack.

Boom!

Percy's slug tore through the top of the wounded and now dead man's skull, down the neck and through the torso to stop inside his gut, while a smaller bullet came in the opposite direction and slammed into Percy's side just beneath his rib cage. It was like a strongman hit him with a tiny hammer of incredible mass. He staggered backward.

A fifth German, unseen, blasted from the distance then started running, crashing through the undergrowth in the direction of the shoreline. Percy slumped to his knee. Warm blood trickled down his side. He raised his rifle and aimed at the darkness where he had seen a muzzle flash before being hit.

Crack.

The bullet whizzed past Percy's cheek, but now he had him. He squeezed down. The explosion of the rifle felt huge in his hands and he realized he had missed, for he was unsteady with the adrenaline and the pain and the blood pumping from his gut. He cranked the bolt, sure there were more bullets and intent upon using them, but his grip was weak and his hand jittery, and he knew there was no more to be done with the 45-70.

He threw the rifle to the ground and pulled the pistol from his belt. It was slippery, coated with a thin film of blood. He launched to his feet and ran with all the fury his old legs could muster, willing himself to forget the bullet in his side and he did, because there was a man ahead and it was kill or be killed.

He raised the pistol and the German fired and Percy thought he had missed but did not know. Percy closed to fifteen feet, whites of eyes, and _pop_ , _pop pop_ , such quaint little sounds, yet the German slumped unto himself and Percy immediately turned for the shoreline.

The fifth man had made a desperate run, breaking from the cover of trees onto the thin wedge of shore along the lake and was now sprinting toward the dam wall. A leather strap tugged at his chest as a bag bounced up and down on his back to the fevered rhythm of his stride.

Percy ran from the trees. He was slow, so much slower than the German and getting slower, for his strength ebbed rapidly with the tide of blood rushing from his wound. Percy realized he was at least thirty yards behind and there was no chance of closing. But he could not let the man make the dam.

Percy stopped in the muddy soil and crouched. He tried to incorporate the pain into his breathing, each sharp intake of breath followed by a sharp lance of agony in his side and gut, and somehow he found a rhythm. He raised the pistol. The sound of the German sprinting over the soft ground seemed so loud in the quiet of the night. Percy focused and hoped. He squeezed down and kept squeezing, _pop, pop pop pop._

The fourth slug smashed into the sachet on the German's back. The explosion was instant, an invisible wall of air that threw Percy from his feet and into the shallows, followed by a wall of smoke and flame—a monstrous hemisphere that spread outwards then suddenly sucked back in and upward, hunting the moon.

As the echoes of the blast chased shadows north into the mountains and south along the valley toward Oraon, a brief and surreal silence descended.

#

The truck was almost loaded, but Kranz could not let his guard down. One miscalculated comment like the stupid gaffe with his name and the whole charade would unravel.

The problem was that the man named Ernie would not shut up. Kranz would have happily loaded the crates in steely silence—customary for Germans—but such a thing was impossible with Ernie who, of all things, wanted to talk about the recent Vitrimont outbreak.

"That's what messed everything up in the first place," said Ernie. "If they hadn't shut the roads down on account of the outbreak, I would have been hundreds of miles away by now. You know, I was only there a week ago. Not even that. Part of a convoy transporting a few hundred prisoners from Saint Mel.

"Our armed guard was one lad with a rifle. On a motorbike! Three hundred Krauts fresh off the front and one scared-shitless kid with a gun, but not a single prisoner tried to escape. Then soon as they get inside the bloody camp with all its guards, that's when they tried it on. It's madness, mate." Ernie paused for a second and wiped a light sheen of sweat from his forehead. "At least if they'd had a go on the way, I wouldn't be stuck here now. Then again, I might be dead."

Ernie had the bad habit of stopping work as he spoke. He walked over and grabbed another crate; Kranz dared to venture a question: "Is there news of the outbreak? Did they capture all the prisoners?"

"I think on the first day they rounded up most of them. Not sure if they've mopped up all the stragglers yet. Hey, Vicq!" yelled Ernie.

Vicq poked his head from the back of the truck.

"What happened with those escaped prisoners? Catch 'em all?" said Ernie.

Vicq spoke some English, but not as fluently as Kranz. "No. Reserve looking. Got one all way at Belfort!"

"Bloody hell, that's not bad going," said Ernie.

"Maybe five, ten still outside," said Vicq.

"And what are they doing with them? The ones they recapture," said Kranz.

"They shoot. Bang," said Vicq, as he pretended to fire a gun. "No. Put back in camp. Then shoot!"

Ernie laughed and Kranz smiled, but it was not much of a smile.

"Ernie, you in big hurry or no? Poor Michel sweat more than you. And he is old. No offense," said Vicq.

"You only speak the truth," said Kranz.

"Listen, someone's gotta supervise unskilled workers such as yourselves. I'm the overseer. Make sure the job gets done right," said Ernie.

As Kranz placed a crate on the tray of the truck, Vicq said in French, "Michel, where are you from? I cannot place your accent."

"Oh? Well, obviously I'm not from here. Yes, not from here. Actually, I'm from ... Andorra. I grew up there, but that was quite a while ago."

"Ah, ok," said Vicq and nodded, as if the explanation made perfect sense.

Ernie dumped a crate onto the truck's tray. "Fair go, fellas. If you're gonna swear at me, you can at least do it in English so I can enjoy the 'repartee'," said Ernie with a theatrical shake of his head.

"Yes. We say what ugly man you are," said Vicq. "No, we talk about Michel. He is Andorran. Not many Andorrans. Rare. Like dodo."

"Andorra," said Ernie. "Where the hell's that? I thought Andorrans were a breed of goat."

♦

The guard lent his rifle against the wire mesh. He thought he had seen something, and he was right. He squatted, looking over the cut strands of wire. He plucked a piece of fabric from the end of a sheared strand. The fence had been cut.

He knew it could not have been from earlier in the afternoon or the previous day, for someone would surely have noticed already. It had to be recent. It had to have been that evening.

The guard stood up and swung the strap of his rifle around his shoulder. It was not long since he had seen a man near the fence. A man with a slight limp. He had looked like a normal worker. But if that man had broken in, the real question was why.

With the Vitrimont outbreak at the back of his mind and the knowledge that they lived in increasingly strange times, the guard resolved to make a quick search for the man before leaving the area and reporting the breach. He walked away at a brisk pace, eyes scanning yards and buildings. He headed west, the same direction the man had walked.

♦

They were almost done. Kranz slid a crate onto the deck of the truck. As Kranz turned and started back for the last crate, his attention was caught by a guard briskly approaching. He was still a hundred yards away, but Kranz could see the rifle slung over his shoulder.

Kranz kept moving. There was no way to know if the guard was coming for him or not. The last crate was out of the guard's line of sight. Kranz took his time. He slowly picked it up, as if fatigued.

He looked ahead, focusing on the truck. The guard had closed and was again in his line of sight. If he had been made, there was no point messing around, so he turned his head and met the guard's gaze. Something like recognition—at the least, suspicion—flashed across the guard's face, and his pace quickened. Kranz continued to the truck and slid the crate onto the boards. Vicq jumped down as Ernie pushed the crate into place.

"Ok, I must go," Kranz said in a brusque manner.

"Well, thanks mate," said Ernie, extending his hand. "It's much appreciated. I'd buy you a beer, but—"

"Look!" exclaimed Vicq, interrupting Ernie and pointing to the east. "Did you see that?"

For a brief moment, the eastern sky had been illuminated with a brilliant orange glow above the mountains. The men kept watching, Kranz included, well after the light had disappeared to once again leave the night sky dark.

"What the hell was that?" said Ernie.

And then the thunder rolled in. While the light had traveled almost instantaneously from its source to where the men stood, the sonic freight train had taken time. A wall of sound hurtling forward, gouging through valleys, ricocheting off faces of rock, spilling across ridges. Finally the wave of thunder reached the foothills of Oraon and swept over the men. It passed as quickly as it came, leaving stunned silence in its wake.

Ernie, Vicq, Kranz, even the guard, immobile fifty yards away, stood gazing into the night in expectant silence. It was Vicq who eventually spoke and answered Ernie's question.

"The dam ... Maybe they attack hydro dam."

A multitude of thoughts hit Kranz at once. Finally it all made sense. He had heard of the hydro-electric dam, the source of the huge volumes of power needed for the Oraon war industries. A dam that would destroy the town and destroy the factories. That was the real plan and had been all along. He was just the insurance—the contingency for failure.

It did not matter. He had a mission, and he intended to complete it whether or not there was a wall of water on its way to devour everything that lay in its path. Besides, it would take time to get there. Maybe just enough time to complete his mission and escape.

Kranz and the guard turned at the same time. They met each other's gaze. The guard ran forward and brought the rifle from his shoulder. Kranz reached into his pocket. The guard worked the rifle's bolt and a round slammed into the chamber. Kranz drew open the blade of his stolen knife. The guard raised the rifle to his shoulder. Kranz placed the blade between the thumb and index finger of his forehand.

"Stop! Stop!" screamed the guard.

He was only twenty yards away. Ernie and Vicq stared in shock, struggling to understand both what they had seen over the mountains and what was unfolding before their very eyes. Kranz's arm flicked back and forth in an effortless motion, not unlike the sling-shot action of a laconic baseball pitcher.

The guard tried to bring his rifle up and aim but instead he fell forward, a shining blade dug into his chest. He was still dropping when Vicq launched himself at Kranz. Vicq was small and he moved quick—quick enough that Ernie was standing dumbfounded and Kranz was just coming out of his throwing stance.

But Kranz had already figured he would have to deal with his two workmates. That was the difference between Kranz and other men who knew how to fight—the composure to see beyond the immediate.

Vicq lowered his body into a charge and cannonballed himself at Kranz's chest, throwing his arms out and readying for impact.

Kranz responded with simple efficiency. He planted his feet and turned his hips just a little. His upper body swung around and all he did was help Vicq on his way, lifting him with his own momentum so that he flipped in the air. His body carried past Kranz and he landed heavy and awkward on his back.

Vicq scrambled to get back on his feet but he was too slow. With a one–two skip, Kranz's leg was raised and cocked by the time Vicq was half-risen. The heel of his shoe caught Vicq flush in the face as his leg snapped out then back. The blow was devastating. Vicq's head slapped into the concrete. Consciousness had left him before he even came to rest.

Kranz turned. The big man would be harder.

Ernie had finally wrenched himself from his stupor. He picked up a piece of timber, two yards of four-by-two. "Come on, then," said Ernie.

There was a commotion in the distance. A woman from the adjacent building had seen the guard slumped on the ground and raised the alarm.

None of this mattered to Kranz. He could only work methodically and calmly at one problem at a time. The big Australian seemed to want him to approach and attack, but Kranz would not. He would make Ernie attack, for there lay his weakness.

It took no encouragement for Ernie to do just that. He approached with great strides, surprisingly nimble for such a big man. Kranz readied himself by staying relaxed and light on his feet. Ernie raised the length of timber aloft like a man wielding a bastard sword. It was an exaggerated movement that told of fury, not composure, and that was the moment when Kranz rushed forward in a blur.

He opened his hand and, with thumb and index finger separated, Kranz landed a fast jab on Ernie's fleshy throat, then snapped his wrist back and brought the palm of his hand up hard into the jaw. Kranz rolled his hand over Ernie's face, his fingers seeking the eyes. Ernie's head tipped back so he was looking at the ceiling of the warehouse.

Kranz could not outmuscle Ernie and did not need to. He slammed a leg backward into the rear of Ernie's knee. The bigger man was now unbalanced on two measures, his head tilting his body backward and his body balanced on a single leg. Ernie dropped the length of wood as he crashed to the ground. The moment he landed, a flurry of fists pounded his face, each blow quick and sharp.

Ernie jerked his head to the left then, wild and uncoordinated, swung his right arm with all the strength he had. It only hit Kranz's chest, but it carried enough force to knock him from his crouching stance and send him to the concrete.

Kranz regained his feet immediately. Ernie was still scrambling on hands and knees, trying to coordinate his groggy mind and push his bulk upright. Kranz focused his strength into a driving kick that was meant to be a swift end to a fight that had already gone on too long. Ernie presented his face just as Kranz wanted, but then he dropped his head at the last second and Kranz's foot drove into the top of Ernie's hard skull.

Thin skin cut between the anvil of Ernie's skull and the hammer of Kranz's boot, and blood immediately spilled from the wound—but Ernie was not knocked out or even knocked back. Indeed, he now had an opening. The force of the blow left Kranz within striking range.

Ernie, still on his hands and knees, used one arm to sweep up Kranz's legs, who slammed into the ground. Ernie's fist followed, brought down like a hammer, flat edge first. It landed on Kranz's shoulder and something crunched. Kranz's right arm fell limp.

Ernie was still on his knees. He raised his body up and stood tall, all six feet and four inches of him. His hand balled into a fist half the size of the head he intended to crush, but Kranz's leg shot out and columned into Ernie's crotch. The big man slumped.

Kranz had already spun his body around and twisted onto his feet. For that brief moment, Ernie and Kranz faced one another, Ernie on his knees, Kranz standing tall. Ernie raised his head so that their eyes met briefly, then Kranz smashed his knee into Ernie's jaw and followed it with a left elbow to the temple.

Ernie finally toppled and did not get up. He lay prone on the ground, blood pooling beside his head.

#

The farmer's field was dark, but not pitch black. The moon penetrated just enough to show towers of black and ominous purple overhead. A spattering of thick drops started to fall, then a blanket of water seemed to crash down at once across the entire front. Visibility instantly reduced to a few meters.

It was now or never.

Émile rolled to his side. Blood rushed to his injured shoulder and a blade of pain cleaved his back. He had to ignore it. He gritted his teeth and hoped to dear God he could not be seen. He got to his feet. He staggered across to the boy who had not stopped crying for hours.

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."

#

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 bastards 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.

He sprinted past the wounded German who was straight back on his feet, clasping his weapon. Michel flip-cocked the shotgun with one hand, the action fluid. He was a few yards past the German when Michel draped the shotgun behind him and without casting a backward glance he squeezed down on the trigger— _kaboom!_ —finishing the man. He rolled the lever over.

Crack.

A soldier thirty yards ahead had lined Michel up, the bullet whizzing by with a high-pitched sound. He veered toward the German's position and smashed through a low branch without flinching, then let rip.

_Kaboom!_ The man dropped.

Two more rifles opened up, their position behind Michel and just on the border of darkness. The bullets ripped through the scrub either side of his body, but before he could turn to them there was still the soldier in front who had regained his feet in the wake of a body peppered with shot. Michel cranked the lever and aimed rough and ready.

Kaboom!

The blast of fire lit the scene for a fraction of a second and Michel caught sight of a man rushing from cover, Mauser at his shoulder.

Crack.

The German missed but he was already working the bolt. Michel cranked the shotgun's lever, aimed fast and yanked down on the trigger. The hammer made a little _tap_ sound; there was no explosion and no flame and no hot lead. He had run out of bullets.

Michel hurled himself to the ground just as the soldier squeezed off a well-aimed shot. The bullet hit the rubber heel of Michel's boot as he rolled and came up with Ariane's six-shooter. The German was thirty feet away. The other two behind him let off a volley, then German words rang out in the night and they began crashing through foliage.

They were making for the dam.

There was no time. The German in front of him fired and Michel threw himself into another roll. As he came up he triggered the six-shooter as his left palm cranked the hammer once, twice, three times, _boom boom boom._

One of the rounds smashed into the German's rifle, spraying his face with splinters of wood. He went down screaming, his eyes a mess. He was not dead, but it would do.

Two strides and Michel was sprinting toward the dam wall, variously dodging trees and crashing through low branches and bushes, his legs carrying him in huge bounds. He was gaining and could see the hazy shapes of two Germans weaving between the trees. He was no chance of hitting them with the six-shooter. Michel ran hard and closed to thirty yards, then twenty. He skidded to a stop, raised the revolver and lined up the closest.

But another was barreling through the undergrowth to his left. Michel swung around too late. The German hurtled headlong into Michel. He cartwheeled from his feet. The revolver knocked from his hand as he spun sideways into a tree where he stopped cold, his ribs taking the full brunt of the impact. The German sprawled on the ground, but he was back on his feet in an instant, scrambling for his rifle.

It felt like hot irons stabbing through his chest as Michel got to his feet and pushed off with all the power he had, his body screaming pain, bloody pain. One, two, three strides, but the German had his rifle and so Michel drove under, his shoulder plunging into the man's solar plexus. The force lifted him off his feet and Michel tilted and pile-drove him into the ground.

Air puffed from the German's lungs and the impact jolted the rifle from his hands. Michel wasted no time in scrambling forward to position himself over the German. He rained down punches, every one sending a stab of pain through his rib cage and into his chest.

The German fought back hard. He swung his arms and legs in wild arcs and his whole body writhed like a cut worm. Michel's fists kept pounding, then an errant knee smashed into his side. It hit him like a bullet, a bolt of agony that momentarily took his senses and left his muscles a quivering mess.

The German knocked Michel onto his back and it was all the chance he needed. He went for his rifle. He had it in his hands and he was getting to his feet as Michel met him, one hand locking onto the barrel and the other onto the stock.

Neither could let go. Control of the weapon was life and death. Michel used his strength to raise the rifle above their heads, forcing the German to buckle. But the German, having seen what a blow to his opponent's ribs had done, sacrificed the last of his balance to land a strike with his knee, just above Michel's kidney.

Pain flared through Michel's body, running from his shoulder through his chest and ending in his crotch. The German delivered the same again and again, and Michel buckled. A fourth and fifth time and Michel dropped to his knees, his hands still stubbornly holding onto the rifle, but all his strength had gone.

The German kicked him hard in the chest and Michel's grip slipped. He fell backward onto the ground. The soldier whipped the gun up and aimed at Michel's face, but then he reeled around with the rifle, for there was somebody else coming fast.

"Leave him alone!" screamed Henry, as he swung his one good arm with all the force he could muster, cracking the German's skull with a jagged lump of rock. The rifle dropped with the soldier's body. He lay on the ground and did not get up. The blow had dented his skull and instantly turned the man into a dribbling mess of limbs and orifices.

Henry stood over him with his rock raised high. His arm trembled. He swallowed and closed his eyes and gritted what was left of his teeth as he prepared to deliver the death blow, but then there was the sound of bone splitting and Henry looked down.

It was done. Michel's fingers uncoiled from the handle of his knife. He had plunged six inches of cold steel into the German's fiery heart.

Henry dropped the rock. "Jesus, did he get you? Are you all right?"

"Quack," replied Michel through clenched teeth. He pushed himself to his feet and Henry gave a steadying hand.

"But two more, Henry, making for the dam. Must hurry."

Michel picked up the German's rifle and started off. He tried to run, but he could not. A coil of agony was wrapped around his lungs, squeezing mercilessly with every movement he made. He could only walk and hardly that. Henry jumped to his side and draped Michel's arm around his shoulder, taking some of his weight.

It did not matter. Michel knew he would be too late. It was up to the women now. To Maudette and Damia and Ariane. They were brave. They were resolute. But were they whites-of-eyes killers?

#

As the battle raged in the forest of the southern shore, a different kind of battle flared between Maudette and Damia.

Damia was a pragmatist. She wanted to open up the 75mm on the Germans based on where they saw the muzzle flashes. She accepted there was a chance of hitting Michel and Henry, but it was a matter of sacrificing the few for the many.

Maudette had fought her, refused to allow it, for she said it was not humane and not right. If they chanced to kill their own, they would be no better than the Germans with whom they were at war. She did not know for a fact that Germans would be more ruthless, but she felt it must be true.

And then the window of opportunity passed. After the last gunshot rang out, they had no idea if Michel and Henry were still alive. Nor did they know how many Germans were headed their way.

A sudden flash of bright blue light lit the shore near the southern side of the dam wall. A few seconds later a warm glow flickered to life, casting a faint red hue on the trees. The women could not see the source and were at a loss. Maudette wondered if it was a fuse burning down. She waited, impotent in the face of whatever course of action had been set in motion.

♦

Seventy yards away, beneath the concrete wall, a German was latched onto the steel ladder. Twenty thousand volts of electricity coursed through his body.

He had died almost instantly, but the current forced his muscles to contract, and thus his corpse held onto the ladder in grim death as his organs started to boil and then his hair and clothes crackled with flame, casting that pleasant red hue.

For the last German standing, and the last man with a leather pouch filled with dynamite slung across his chest, it was the grisliest of deaths to witness. He had been inches from following. Now he scrambled up the rock embankment.

He looked for any other obvious traps. He saw none. He stepped onto the gravel road and slung the Mauser from his shoulder. He checked there was a round chambered then raised the weapon, aimed carefully and placed pressure on the trigger till it was a hair away from firing. He started to slowly exhale and squeezed the last millimeter. The bullet left the muzzle at thirty-two-hundred feet per second.

♦

In the time it took Damia to realize the flash was gunfire, the bullet had entered Maudette's breast and exited through her back. Maudette's head jerked and her body followed. She crashed backward to the ground, where she did not move, except for the almost imperceptible subsidence of her chest as the last air of an incomplete breath escaped.

Damia stared at her dead friend. She needed to work the cannon, but her brain had stopped thinking and her body had stopped moving. She was in shock. She was frozen. She sucked in little gasps of air without exhaling. A strained sound came from her throat, a cry stifled by fear.

Crack.

Another bullet sizzled through the air, but this time it came from the rifle of Ariane. She ran, calling: "Damia! Damia!"

Ariane worked the bolt and pulled the rifle to her shoulder. She fired blind.

"Damia!" she called again, now just yards away.

Another shot cracked and Damia shuddered a little where she stood, but nothing else happened. Ariane stopped next to her.

"Fire, Damia! Fire at him!"

Ariane propped on a knee and raised her rifle to her shoulder. She aimed at the gut of the German who had his own rifle pointed at the women. Ariane did not settle or steady, knowing there was no time, but she was sure the German was in her sights. She fired, yet the bullet missed by a yard, ricocheting from boulders. It threw out splinters of rock and the German flinched. He dropped a hand and his aim, but he wasted no time bringing the rifle back to his shoulder.

Ariane worked the bolt on her rifle, but now the German fired. As he did, the frozen figure of Damia fell rigid and slow, like a grand statue yanked from its moorings by rope and chain attached to a team of horses. She crashed directly onto Ariane and her rifle, and if she was not dead when she fell from the earlier bullet that had entered just beneath her armpit, she was dead when the German's second bullet tore open half her spinal column and fragments of lead shredded the cavity of her chest.

Ariane's rifle discharged into the ground and was now pinned beneath Damia. Ariane was knocked back. She wriggled forward, keeping a low profile.

"Damia? Damia?" she called.

Though she was not familiar with the face of death, when Ariane saw Damia's open mouth, unmoving eyes and slack face, she instinctively knew she was dead. But there was no time to think about it.

Ariane tried to push Damia's heavy body up and over to free her rifle. She struggled, raising the corpse a few inches. Then she heard the German's rifle crack and felt Damia's body shudder. It was accompanied by a toneless thud. Damia had become a sandbag protecting Ariane's position.

Ariane was horrified and angered. She fought harder to roll Damia away, but dead weight was awkward and her own strength was slight. Another bullet thumped into Damia's body.

Ariane knew that as the German reloaded she had a brief window of opportunity. She jumped up and ran to the cannon. She hastily adjusted the 75mm's aim to a few yards beside the German, not trying for a direct hit given an explosion could set off the dynamite. A rifle cracked and a bullet _zinged_ from the cast iron guard of the cannon. Ariane reflexively ducked, then she yanked the firing pin.

Fire and smoke exploded from the barrel of the cannon. A fraction of a second later, the earth erupted beside the German, sending him sprawling. His rifle went flying.

After a few seconds, he got up. He was groggy. He wobbled. It took him two attempts to snatch his rifle from the ground. Then he started loping forward. He nearly fell several times, but his pace quickened and momentum kept him upright. He continued to gain speed until he was running.

Ariane slammed another shell into the chamber, then adjusted the cannon's aim. She hesitated, unsure of what to do. The German was now on the wall. She had to fire to save the dam and the people of Oraon, but if she did it might send them all to their deaths anyway. It was impossible.

The German stopped when level with the master's hut. He raised his rifle. Ariane ducked behind the cannon, trying to protect herself. But before the German could fire, a body lunged from the stairwell and a huge iron wrench slammed into his neck. The glancing blow slid down and knocked the raised rifle, causing the German to fire harmlessly into the concrete. The recoil and surprise sent the Mauser flying from his unsteady hands.

Ariane realized that it was Becquerel, the dam engineer. Before he could deliver a second blow, the German tackled him to the ground. The sight of Becquerel jolted Ariane to action. She ran to where Damia's body lay. This time she positioned herself on Damia's other side. She grabbed her limp arm and lent back and used her legs to heave, and with the extra leverage she managed to roll Damia away from the rifle.

Ariane brought the 8mm to shoulder and cheek. She waited for a clear target, for the figures were intertwined and wrestling—but not for long. Even in his groggy, half-beat state, the German was much stronger than Becquerel. He gained the upper hand and positioned himself over the engineer.

Ariane had her target. She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

She had not reloaded. She worked the bolt, but the spent round was jammed. She rammed the bolt forward so the little steel claws could get another grip on the cartridge, then pulled back. Still it did not come. She repeated the action again and again, looking up as she did to see the German raining heavy blows upon Becquerel.

The engineer tried to shield himself with his hands. He turned his face toward Ariane and called: "The cannon! Fire the cannon!" The German kept pounding at his head. "It will hold! Tr—" and a heavy blow knocked him unconscious. The German kept punching, his fists making dull thudding sounds on Becquerel's face.

Ariane dropped her rifle and dashed to the 75mm as the soldier got to his feet. She aimed the cannon low, directly at the dam wall where the German was. It would kill Becquerel, but there was no saving him now. No saving any of them.

The German got to his feet. He did not pick up his rifle. Instead, he unbuckled a holster and drew his pistol. He stepped forward and took aim.

Ariane ducked. A _pop_ was followed by the _zing_ of a bullet against the plate metal of the 75mm. Another _pop_ , another _zing_.

Ariane peeked above her cover. The German was getting closer, walking steadily.

Pop, zing!

Her heart was pounding so hard and quick that her hand shook as she gripped the firing chain. She had to trust Becquerel knew what he was talking about. What option was there? She closed her eyes and pulled.

#

Slumped on the banks of the northern shore, his face red and burned, Percy had the perfect view of the dam wall and the subsequent explosion that engulfed it.

There had been two blasts, almost impossible to differentiate, the smaller shell-burst setting off the German's pouch of high explosives. Percy closed his eyes, for he knew now they had failed and he did not want his last sight to be of a wall of water rushing down the valley to consume the friends he had known all his life.

The aging vintner let his weak body fall. His thoughts went back to his dear Maddy, to Émile, to his father and mother, to his beautiful wife Olivie who had been taken too soon. It all coalesced around Amer Ami: the place where his life had been conceived, the place where he had raised his own family. It had always been home.

At no moment in his life had Percy ever doubted that one day it would also be the place where he took his final breaths. Now he knew that was wrong. He would die on the shores of a dam he hated, emptied of every last drop of its cursed charge. Yet if death beckoned now, he would not fight it. He might resent the terms, but he was ready.

As the last pieces of debris splashed into the water and the final echo of the explosion bounced back from the mountains, the valley fell into silence.

Silence?

Percy opened his eyes. He struggled to push his body upright. Above, the clouds had cleared a gap that revealed a sliver of moon, which in turn cast a patina of silver upon the lake. Yes, the lake.

Percy strained, wondering if his mind deceived him. It seemed that not a drop of water gushed from the reservoir. That the dam wall stood, holding back a flood. That the concrete arch remained whole—terrible and magnificent and whole.

Then he saw them. Two figures, huddled together, slowly making their way onto the edge of the wall. Percy knew it had to be Michel.

It was an enormous comfort to know he was alive—that Michel had returned and would be there to look after his Maddy. As for Émile, he would look after himself. He may well be at Verdun, but Percy knew, somehow, his only son would make it through.

Percy lay back and closed his eyes. There was no more fight in him. His last thought was that he had lived a good life and he would leave behind a good son and good daughter. A man could ask for no more.

There was a smile on his face as he slipped away.

#

Kranz retrieved his knife from the chest of the guard and dragged his body behind the truck. He grabbed a jimmy bar he saw hanging on the wall and ran past crates till he was in the middle of the warehouse. He jammed the sharp edge of the bar under a lid and worked the nails loose, just enough to push the bar further under. With his good hand, Kranz used brute force to lever the lid off, revealing hundreds of sticks of dynamite. He took a single stick and leant it against the side of the crate.

He dug into his pocket and retrieved a length of fuse and a box of matches, stolen the previous night. He could hear the commotion nearby. It sounded like female voices, but the guards would not be far off.

The fuse would give about sixty seconds of burn time. With the hell that had been raised, it was too much. Kranz cut off a little less than half the length. He figured on thirty seconds. Maybe it would leave enough time to escape, and maybe not. That outcome only mattered to him. The important thing was that the dynamite detonate before the guards got to it.

Kranz worked the fuse into the pliant material. With one hand he opened the box of matches. Though his dislocated right arm hung limp, he could still grip a little with his hand. He held the matchbox and drew a match along the coarse strip. A flame sputtered and fizzed to life. He touched the match to the end of the fuse. It hissed and immediately started to burn down.

_One_ , counted Kranz.

He dropped the matches and fled. He ran past the prostrate body of Vicq and straight to the front of the truck.

Fourteen.

He grabbed the truck's hand crank and rolled it clockwise with all his might. Nothing. Barely a sound.

Eighteen.

He rolled back and cranked right. Nothing.

Twenty.

One more go, and then he would just have to sprint for it. He rolled the crank counter-clockwise, put his weight on it till he felt it resist, then thrust down with everything he had.

_Cug_ _, cha–chug–a–chug._

The truck was alive.

Twenty-two.

Kranz ran. He jumped inside, when something dawned on him. He had only passed one body, that of the smaller man.

Where is the big Australian?

Did I pass his body?

Kranz went through a mental snapshot of the warehouse and realized that he had not been there. He looked in the truck's side mirrors and saw nobody behind.

Where is he?

Twenty-seven.

Too late to matter.

Kranz jammed the truck into gear and flattened his foot on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward as a shot rang out from somewhere unseen. The truck picked up speed and Kranz used his good hand to change into second gear. The steering wheel turned of its own accord and the truck veered left.

Kranz yanked it back. He figured his best chance was to hit the fence at the same spot where he had already cut the wires.

Thirty.

In his side vision he saw men running. Now a volley of shots rang out. Kranz looked to his left and saw four guards. Two had stopped and propped and were firing. Two were still running. They had no idea it was already too late, that they were already dead.

Thirty-three.

Come on! Why hasn't it gone up yet?

He only cared about completing the mission. Then he saw the same vision for the second time that evening: the clouds above the distant mountains suddenly lit, glowing a brilliant red for a brief moment.

Thirty-six.

He hit the fence at speed. The wires snapped clean away. The truck bucked down and then lurched up, out of a shallow drain.

Thirty-nine.

He swerved out onto the road and flattened the accelerator.

Forty-one.

Shots rang out in the night.

Forty-two.

He was at least one hundred yards clear. Maybe it would be enough.

Come on! Now! Now!

Forty—

#

Michel and Henry hobbled along the dam wall. Michel was shocked to see Ariane on the opposite side, slumped to the ground and gasping. Her clothes had burned to her skin from the scorching heatwave emitted by the dynamite—but she was alive. The bodies of Damia and Maudette lay lifeless in front of her.

The walkway had come through the explosion with remarkably little damage. There was shredded tin and steel and broken concrete where the master's hut had once stood, but the damage was on the surface and did not run down the face of the concrete arch.

"A miracle, Michel. A miracle. God, He ... He made a miracle," said Henry.

The air stank of burned chemicals and charred carbon and concrete dust. Michel's nostrils flared.

"Perhaps," said Michel weakly. "Perhaps."

They were negotiating the rubble to reach Ariane when a flash lit the sky. Michel and Henry flinched and turned, seeking out more hidden Germans. The south-western firmament came alive, a bright white light fulminating into a rich amber glow. Soon the entire horizon burned red, the radiance against the clouds so fierce that it reflected all the way to their own valley, where it lit the dam wall. Before long sound followed—the random percussive slaps of explosion after explosion tearing through atmosphere.

Michel watched and listened, first in amazement, then in horror. From the earth, an enormous cloud of red and orange seemed to rise and blossom, but it was no cloud. It was fire, a great and terrible fire that threatened to consume the sky.

As he stared at the inferno, Michel finally understood. He understood it all. Vitrimont, Kranz, the German commandos. He was suddenly weak, dizzy. He dropped to his knees.

"Oh Jesus, no. No ..."

A much darker cloud of smoke and dust now slowly rose in the shape of a mushroom, replacing the lake of fire and growing to fill the vastitude of the horizon.

Michel wanted to look away, but he did not. He would bear witness to this destruction. The shame and the anger he had tasted two days ago came shunting back into his mind, and Michel knew one thing for certain. Oraon was gone.

He forced himself to his feet.

Have to help Ariane. Promised. Have to ...

He looked across. He saw she had moved. Saw she had crawled to the precipice, where the concrete arch gave way to empty space before it met the boulder-strewn foot of the dam wall. Beneath the electrified railing, she perched half on the concrete and half beyond the threshold, her head high, facing the burning horizon. At first, Michel did not understand. Then he did.

"No! Ariane! No—"

She used her burned hands to give a final push. She disappeared over the side.

Michel closed his eyes and did not see, but he heard. Even within the soundscape of never-ending explosions, there was no mistaking the petite _thud_ of a tortured widow's body breaking on giant boulders of rock.

#

Like a Wagner symphony. Every note building, building, building toward a crescendo that never came.

So went the explosions. The heavy and deep, the sharp and urgent, the long and trembling—an unending series of earth-shattering blasts that issued from bombs ranging from the big to the absurd, bigger even than some of the women who had assembled them. As the firestorm inside one warehouse waned, there was always another to catch fire, and the greatest percussion orchestra ever assembled played on with no sign of an ending.

For Kranz, the thunderous sound of explosions was welcome and so very sweet, for it meant his mission had been a success and the French war effort would suffer. Single-handedly he had set off an unstoppable chain reaction inside the huge Oraon munitions compound. He knew that every explosion was one less artillery shell to take a German soldier's life.

With music in his ears, he drove west. One of the truck's headlights was broken, but it did not matter. Red and yellow lit the underbelly of the clouds above, the same way the sun did in the morning when it crested the east. The glow cast the road in a pinkish hue, and Kranz drove with all the light he needed.

He turned north, toward the stalemated front that stretched from the Lorraine down to the northern Vosges Mountains. It was hours until the last traces of artificial light disappeared in his rearview mirror.

Mile after mile, Kranz continued unmolested, passing many a checkpoint. They were either unmanned or manned by soldiers unwilling to stop and check a military vehicle. The French were lax—famously, perhaps by now infamously—and it meant he was able to get within a few miles of the front separating French and German-held territory.

He was nearly upon the town of Luneville when he saw the signs of intensified military activity. He pulled onto a thin dirt lane and drove toward a forest that was maybe a mile away, spread across a low line of hills. He had no map and could not be certain, but he believed that somewhere on the other side were his people.

He steered the truck off the road and parked in a ditch. He set off across a farmer's field that had been recently plowed and sewn with seed in neat lines. Green sugar beet shoots thrust their heads above the floor of brown in search of life-giving sun. Kranz's boots indiscriminately snapped their necks and pressed their broken bodies back into the dirt. He made no effort to preserve the farmer's work, for the most direct route to the forest was across the lanes, and Kranz was animal now in his focus.

He climbed a stone fence and was walking through a field of pasture when he saw five men emerge from a path that led from the forest. They wore uniforms and carried rifles. There was no doubt they were soldiers, and on this side of the forest they had to be Allied.

His pace did not break or slacken. Only the fearful act fearful, or at least that is what Kranz figured the soldiers would believe. He was on the right side of the front, so why should it not be his field? He was too old to be a fighter anyway.

Kranz lifted his good arm and waved. He called out in French, "Evening. Have you seen my pig? It's escaped!"

His French was good, but he had already learned that his accent was a giveaway to the trained ear. The uniforms did not look French and Kranz felt immediate relief. English or Canadian, he guessed, though there were dozens of different nationalities populating the Western Front. The soldiers turned and looked at him. Their rifles stayed put, slung around their shoulders.

"Good evening. Speak English?" called one of the men in French. "That's about all the frog I know," he said in a quieter voice meant for his comrades.

"What?" said Kranz, closing on the men.

"Mr. Gaddsbury, you speak some French, don't you?" said the lead soldier to one of the others.

"Studied it at school. Bit generous to say I speak it."

"My pig is black and white. Have any of you seen it?" called Kranz, still using his French.

"I think ... He's looking for a pig from his farm, maybe."

"Poor sod's lost his porker, has he?"

"Can't say I've seen too many pigs roaming the front lately. Might find a fat Hun if he keeps walking this way, though."

"Unless you count Bevan here," said another of the soldiers. "You think he's looking for Bevan, chaps?"

Four of the men laughed. The fifth said, "Are you lot ever going to give it up? How bloody long can one joke last?"

"When's the war due to end?" said the joker, and they laughed again.

They waited for Kranz to finish crossing the field.

" _Bonsoir_ ," said Kranz as he stepped onto the trail. He followed with a very poor rendering of "Hello!", said with inordinate gusto, and then he smiled the broad and unctuous smile of a man pleased to know but a single word of another language. The soldiers replied with a chorus of "hellos" and " _bonsoirs_ ", which was one of a handful of French words every soldier soon learned.

"Well, then, my pig?" said Kranz in French. He wore an exaggeratedly quizzical look, eyes high and forehead creased, as he looked from soldier to soldier. Just a simple farmer seeking a valuable pig escaped into the forest.

"No, mister," said the French-speaking soldier. "No pig. Sorry."

Kranz threw a dismissive hand in the air and emitted a grunt of exasperation. He started to thread his way through the men. He would walk into that forest and toward German territory in plain sight, and they would let him.

But then there was a noise, loud and at first inarticulate. Someone yelling.

"Oi! Ay!"

In the moonlight it was not hard to make out the large man in front of the truck parked two fields over. Kranz instantly knew who it was. The Australian. He must have hidden in the truck behind crates of explosives.

The soldiers were drawn by the commotion. The distant figure began to scream, over and over.

"German! He's a German! _Allemand!_ German! _Allemand!_ "

One man turned and looked at the small pig farmer in their midst. Then another, then another, the faces of the soldiers now creased with doubt. Kranz did not let it grow into anything more.

The knife was already in his good hand and now it slid up through the throat of the nearest. It was lightning quick, the blade up and out within the second, chased by a fount of blood that poured from the gash like dirty milk from a broken bucket.

"Hey—" was all the next man said, not quite certain of what he had witnessed. Kranz lunged, his arm fully extended. The extra few inches added by the blade were the extra inches Kranz needed to close the gap between them. For a split second they were one, man and steel and his murderer, frozen as some terrible memorial to the madness of war, and then Kranz was moving.

A soldier had managed to bring his rifle to his shoulder, but Kranz was almost upon him. He fired in haste while the rifle was in motion. Kranz kept coming as the soldier behind fell and screamed. Then the rifle was on the ground and the shooter's throat was slit from front to back, fully half of his neck rent open. The knife hit the bone of vertebrae and caught. It fell with the man.

_Click_ —it came from behind. Kranz spun to see a soldier fumbling with his rifle.

It was just a matter of time before every rifle that was dragged through mud and dust and was treated like a piece of farm equipment refused to take any more punishment and jammed. And even when the pin fired, there was the hazard of a dud cartridge in which the primer failed to go off. Such things were inevitabilities. Soldiers merely hoped they happened when the enemy was one hundred yards away and struggling with their own faulty equipment, not ten feet away. And not a killer like Kranz.

The soldier ejected the cartridge and rammed another into place but his finger was already on the trigger and he instantly fired into the ground. He tried to reload. Kranz leapt forward and landed on one leg. His body moved in one fluid motion that harvested every iota of available force as he spun and kicked. His boot hit the soldier's chest, causing the man's torso and head to whiplash into the ground. The rifle knocked clear.

The stunned soldier flipped his body over, scrambled to his feet and tried to get away. He tried to flee, to find a different weapon or air to breathe or more wits, help, courage—it shall never be known what, for a little ankle tap from Kranz and the man fell back on the ground then Kranz's knee pressed hard into the spine of his neck as his good hand applied pressure to the soldier's forehead and now Kranz thrust, thrust, thrust with all his weight and force until he heard a _snap_ and the man struggled no more.

Kranz turned his attention to the final soldier who lay on his side, screaming and writhing. A dark wet stain and a little patch of torn uniform at the man's hip told Kranz where the bullet had entered. He knew what that felt like—the agony of a bullet to the hip—and he knew in the right circumstances it was not fatal, but for this soldier it would be. Kranz walked across and picked up the man's own rifle. He placed the barrel against his back, exactly where the heart was. He pulled the trigger. The man lurched face first into the grass.

With five corpses surrounding him, only the Australian continued to scream. Kranz turned and found him midway across the first field of plowed earth, tripping as he frantically lurched forward. Kranz awkwardly held the rifle with his bad arm, which was very nearly limp, while he worked the rifle's bolt and chambered another round. He brought the wooden stock to his shoulder with just the one hand. Though he wavered a little, the target was so big that it made no difference. Kranz's finger rested on the trigger.

He held as he thought. The Australian was big and slow and too far behind to catch him. He had shown great bravery, first at the armaments warehouse and now here, though whether it was bravery or fury, perhaps some other form of mania, Kranz did not know.

Despite what his detractors believed, Kranz only killed with purpose. He did not loathe or hate his fellow fighters—indeed, he respected them deeply. Under the right circumstances, taking their lives was a truly honorable act. But in the wrong circumstances, it was not just pointless, it was cowardly.

He considered the situation and concluded that there was no need for the Australian to die. Not there. Not then. Had there been more time and less at stake, Kranz would have waited for him, let him fight and die for his honor and country—or whoever's country he was really fighting for, despite what he thought—in a meaningful way.

Kranz lowered his aim and slung the rifle over his shoulder, then turned and jogged along the path that disappeared into the forest. Once again, he headed north. He would not stop till he was in Germany and, once there, he would not stop till the war he had waited all his life for was won.

# EPILOGUE

He returned on a horse, a sole rider on a long and winding trail.

Every prancing step was a jolt and every jolt was a stab of pain through Michel's ribs, probably fractured but he would keep that from the army doctors so that he could get back to the front as soon as possible. Besides, it was only physical pain. It was dwarfed by the psychic burden he carried of knowing he was the one who let Kranz escape. The one who let Kranz murder hundreds of innocents. Of knowing he had promised to protect Ariane, only to watch her die as he stood witness to his own failure. Stood impotent and useless before whatever wretched higher power let it all happen without care to intervene.

And of knowing that he had led Percy to his death. Now, he had to tell his daughter. Now, he had to find the words to explain to Maddy that her father was gone. Words that were not hideous and not intolerable and yet were true, for nothing had mattered more to Percy than truth, however hard, however brutal.

He would tell Maddy that he died making a difference. That he died while fighting and gloriously furious, in the way only Percy was and ever would be. He died in the mountains that he loved. Died for his country and his friends. Died proud of his son and his daughter.

But that was only part of it, and Percy demanded more. He demanded complete truth.

_And what is the complete truth?_ Michel asked himself.

That he died alone.

_On the shore of a_ _lake_ _he detested._

To save a town that was obliterated anyway, along with hundreds of lives.

Because of what I asked him to do ...

What true words are the right ones to explain that?

Michel passed the stables and brought the horse to the household. He dismounted and tied her off on a thick and gnarled vine. Michel looked at the vine and remembered Percy telling him that it had been planted when he was just a boy, from a time when he followed his father around like an obedient dog, keen to be involved in everything.

Percy liked old things, gnarled things, because it helped one remember and understand that the sweep of time was so much greater than a single generation. He had taught Michel that people were just a moment, when a place like Amer Ami would be there forever. Soon the vine would be older than Percy had been. It would outlast them all.

Michel looked at the house. The door was shut and Maddy was not there to meet him, though he knew she must have heard the echo of hooves on the stone of the road. Rabinaud Valley hid nothing.

He heard the blow of an axe splintering wood from behind the homestead. That had been Percy's job. He insisted on splitting the logs just so; he told Michel and Émile that they did not have the touch, the finesse. Now his daughter was doing his work.

So she knew. He had returned alone, and she surely knew.

Michel walked through the garden until he saw her. She was surrounded by chips of wood. Maddy did not turn and Michel did not go to her. Eventually she dropped the axe. Her shoulders rounded as she grabbed at her own body and bit her fist.

Michel stared at her back in silence. He heard her sobbing. Maddy slowly turned and looked up. Her face was a plea—that it not be true, that he might tell her a lie that let Percy still be alive.

Michel shook his head. He walked forward and Maddy thrust her hand out.

"Don't," she said. Maddy brought her hand to her face and rubbed the back of her palm across her eyes. She breathed deep and heavy.

Michel took another step forward. "Maddy—"

"Don't come near me!"

Michel stopped. "All right. I'll ... wait for you inside. When you are ready to talk. I'm so sorry, Maddy."

Michel walked away. He went inside and sat alone at a table as he listened to the hollow sound of a dead man's axe striking wood.

THE END

