Chapter Twelve
Steiner waited until everyone was gathered around. The first squad, the second, and the third, or what remained of them were rallied in the middle of no man's land. They were all tired, dirty, and some of them had wounds and were binding them up. They all had that hollow look that Deckard had come to associate with hopelessness. It seemed dangerous to be grouped up in the middle of No Man's land, but for reasons that Deckard just did not get, they were not being fired on or attacked.
"Okay, listen up," He looked at each of them in the eye. "We failed to take the first trench, so that means bombardment."
Groans from the squads.
"Yes, I understand, but I don't hesitate to remind you that if our attack had been more coordinated, we would be resting in comfort right now."
Some members looked down at this, but Deckard spoke up.
"Sergeant, three members of first squad entered that trench and secured three machine guns. With those, we could've held it until the rest got there." He took a step closer to Steiner. "That's when you sounded retreat." Deckard was sure that this would evoke anger and a fight would ensue. Then he could make his move.
"Look, Muller, I'm aware of what you, Kropp and Adler there accomplished, and I'm going to mention this to the Lt." He had a careworn and exasperated look on his face. "But we've got rules to follow, and that means bombardment." He shouldered a pack that was sitting on the ground.
"So take up good positions, all the old hands show the newer ones what I mean." He walked off to his own position. Deckard turned to Kropp.
Kropp was staring at the ground in frustration.
"What he means, Muller, is that no we have to lie in No Mans all night and let the Tommies drop shells on us." He looked up and looked about.
"Find some cover and wait until the shell hits, then crawl into the hole. The odds of two shells hitting the same place twice is high, so shell holes make good cover." Kropp began to wander around the field. "Remember that."
Deckard and Sharon Adler followed him. He was searching for a good spot. "Easier than digging your own grave, too." He flopped into crease in the ground and got out his shovel.
"Dig in, kinder, we've got a long night ahead of us." He told them. Deckard looked around and found that Adler was digging a hole next to Kropp, so he did the same on the other side.
Kropp had picked well, the soil was soft and churned up and he only had to dig out a little. Deckard dug his deep and wide. Kitka sat at the top of the hole, watching him.
"Tommy will have job bringing out his artillery; they never begin the bombardment on time." He lounged in his hole, certain of his opinion. "I'd say that we have 'til about noon for the rain to begin, so in the meantime," He shed his helmet and donned his cap, pulling it over his eyes.
Shannon was a tough looking girl with dark hair, a long braid hung down her back. She had taken off her tunic to resume the labor. She wore a white sleeveless shirt underneath. She had an ample frame under that thick uniform, and Deckard admired it out of the corner of his eye as he dug.
Her smudged face was narrow, while not beautiful, it did have charm. Her eyes were deep set and dark blue. She was crying silently as dug. Deckard recalled that she had been one of the two that had been looking at Kitka last night. The other was a man, her man maybe. Where was he now, Deckard wondered. Dead maybe.
.
Kropp had been wrong about the bombardment. They lay in their holes all day without incidence. Around one o'clock, Kropp stirred from his sluggish pose. Looking at the sun with one hand up, he judged the time.
"You two wait here." He ambled off towards their own lines.
Deckard had been wiling away the time looking at the sky. It was a deep gray, with a quilt of cloud cover. It was a snow sky. The air smelled of frost. If it went all day without snow, they would certainly get some tonight. Shannon was content to remain in her hole, hunched over. At Kropp's leaving, she leaned over the top of her hole, and placed her rifle where she could reach it quickly. She also set two stock grenades upright where they could be grabbed quickly. A veteran obviously.
"Been here long?" Deckard asked.
Shannon looked over at him, still sad looking.
"Just over three years now."
"What got you here?"
"I volunteered," Her voice was full of forfeiture. "With my boyfriend, Conrad Falkenhorst." At saying his name, she pulled a Luger out of a holster on her belt. For a lingering moment, Deckard thought she might shoot herself right then and there. The moment ebbed away. She just looked at it.
"This was his, his father had given it to him a long time ago." Shannon offered it over to him.
"Nice." Deckard said, looking it over. It was a regal looking weapon, built for a different time. The steel was polished and blue, the wooden checkered grips shone with oil. It was lacking all the basics that Deckard had come to expect in a handgun. It's magazine held only nine rounds, there was no intergrated laser or holographic sights, no comp ports or silencer attachments. It was from a time, he guessed, when men were supposed to kill each other with grace and dignity, face to face. He handed it back.
"Conrad was in one of the first attacks on the French." She holstered it. "He came back from the army after the beams hit him.' Shannon was barely keeping the tears in. "They said they'd cured him," Sobbing into her sleeve, she hid her anguish. After a minute, she composed herself and went on.
"He heard about Von Garcia and his plan and joined up. I asked him why, but he could not tell me. I joined up too, at least we were together. Then this morning..." Kropp walked up then, with a tin bucket full of the day's rations. Shannon quickly wiped her face of sorrow and grief. She and Deckard fetched their mess kits.
"Beans again, you two, but at least it's hot. Eat up." He sat on the edge of his hole to eat. He spotted the array of Shannon's weaponry.
"God, Adler, ready for some action? Don't be that worried. Tommy won't come over the top until Malkhart has his precious bombardment." He resumed eating. Channelle rolled around in the dirt for a bit, and then ate some of meat bits from the beans, but Deckard knew she was not hungry.
She had killed quite a few rats the night before. They were incredibly brazen, climbing over people as they slept, getting on the tables, and poking into covers. Kitka let three or four of them get in before she nailed them. Deckard could hear her pouncing on them, breaking their necks or grabbing them by the tail. Some of them made a lot of noise when she caught them. The rest of the squads didn't seem to notice. They didn't stop coming until she had greased quite a few. He made the score at least twenty, but saw no evidence of them that morning. She might've eaten all of them, but that was doubtful.
Shannon ate her beans quietly. She did not move any of her lethal implements. Deckard ate his and used his bread from yesterday to mop up the grease. Locking the tin away, he turned to Kropp.
"So what the word down the line?"
Kropp was smoking and at ease.
"There's talk that the bombardment won't go at all. There's also talk that it might begin any moment. The Brits are a meticulous lot. They like to have clear weather before they start shooting. Like they can hit anything on a sunny day anyhow." He was facing the British lines, watching them closely. "It looks like it might snow, and that doesn't suit them at all, at all." He turned to Deckard with a grin on his face.
"That was some good work this morning, Hans! Sgt. Steiner's putting you in for a decoration, and maybe a promotion. Surprised those Tommys, I can tell you." He leaned in closer. "One of those you got killed Falkenhorst," He whispered. "Shannon will thank you for that later I'm sure." Kropp winked. He resumed his parade ground volume.
"That's probably why the delay. The machine gun crews are supposed to suppress our attack before the shelling. We're supposed to be digging in while little .303 birds fly over our heads. When they failed to report, I'm sure that Tommy got totally in a bind."
Deckard considered all this.
"You ever been captured before, Kropp?"
"Sure, yeah."
"What happens?"
"Well, they take away your rifle, grenades, and pistol if you have one, and sell 'em back to the other side's quartermasters. Same thing we do. Some of this stuff is hard to come by."
"But what happens to you personally?"
"Well, they put you in a prison camp until there's an exchange. Sometimes, you have to wait in the camp for a while, couple of months maybe. Why?"
"Just wondering."
Kropp grunted and returned to his vigil. The day wore on, and still no bombardment. It was near sundown, when Kropp stuck his head up, then dove into his hole.
"Here it comes!" He shouted. Sharp howls screeched through the air and crashed on the ground, spraying the three holes with dirt. It went on for about ten minutes. Deckard poked his head up and saw a large crater in front of him and to the right. He edged out of his hole, crawled towards it, and fell down into it. Kropp and Adler were already there. It was a large hole and they made room for him. None of them spoke during the shelling. The noise was shattering the air and corrupting the earth with each impact. Deckard held his position, but he wanted to run. Shannon kept her face covered as she hunkered down. Kitka squirmed under Deck's arms and lay under his neck. She opened her mouth and panted. Kitka was afraid and trying to create a larger scent picture. She was trying to understand what was happening.
"No one understands, girl, no one." He murmured. She responded by burying her head under his elbow.
Deckard looked over at Kropp. He was lying there chewing on something, calmly surveying the destruction. The shells seemed to getting closer, they would be on top of them soon. Then they thinned out. Eighteen became seven, then two, then zero. A smoky haze clung to the ground. The sun had set by now. Deckard began to feel bites of ice on his arms and face.
"It's snowing." Kropp said, taking off his helmet and looking up. "That's why they stopped." He exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath the whole time. "Lucky us, now we get to freeze to death, rather than getting blown to bits."
Deckard put on his wool cap. He grew angry at what was happening to him. He shed his belt and braces and all his equipment.
"You two wait here, I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Where are you going? Sightseeing?" Kropp demanded.
"I'm just going to get some stuff so we can enjoy our little camping trip." He crawled out and then, sniffing the air, stood up.
"Well, take this, you seem to handle it well enough," Kropp tossed his trench shovel at him.
Deckard caught it, said thanks and disappeared into the night. Kitka raced ahead, and they went back their bunker. They saw others holed up, but no one said anything. The trench was deserted of men, only the rats remained. Kitka routed them and while she was at work, Deckard scavenged through. He paid no mind about what belonged to whom, but just took what looked useful. Kitka was meowling and spitting as she pursued the arrogant rodents.
She was taking her fear out on them. They deserved it, Deckard thought. The little bastards would feast on the dead in No Man's Land after the shelling. The snow had postponed their feast. He whistled and she broke off her fight and trotted up to him. Deckard bent and scratched the top of her head, praising her for her work on the rodents. They made their way back to the shell hole. His booty consisted of four mess tins of beef and beans, two flasks of brandy, and three blankets. Kropp and Adler cried out his praise between mouthfuls of food and drink. The blankets were gathered about them. The sky gave them quite a bit of light and the snow began to accumulate.
When they were finished, full and slightly drunk, Deckard told them his plan.
"What would you two think about taking that Tommy trench?
They just gaped at him.
"Before you reply, I want to make my case." Deckard looked at both of them. They were listening at least.
"This morning, we three had that trench in our hands." He held out his hands and clenched them to illustrate his point. "We had the guns and we had the Tommys on the run. Then just because we didn't make it according to some rule, we have to come out here and spend the night getting shelled. Another rule working against us. In fact, there was probably another rule against my going to get this stuff," He gestured at his stolen goods. "Right?"
Kropp nodded. Adler just stared at him as though he were from Mars.
"Well, I say that I've had enough of these rules. There are no rules in love and war! Haven't you heard that before?" They nodded slowly. "I say that we get up, stroll over there and take that trench. If it's against the rules of war to win it, then the hell with those rules." Deckard stopped to take a breath. He felt like he was making a speech for political office. "It'll be easy. Those Tommies are just sitting in their bunkers smoking, joking, and listening to the wireless. While we lay here in the mud, waiting for them to get comfortable enough to kill us again. Kropp, you have anymore cigarettes?" Kropp didn't bother to look. He'd smoked his last one hours before.
"I'll bet you the Tommys got cigarettes. I say we go. We go for honor. For Glory. For the honor and glory of Company B!"
Neither one of them said a word. They just kept starring incredulously at him.
"Well?" He stood up. "What do you say?"
Kropp stood up too. "Okay, you've sold me. I'll go."
Adler stood as well. "Yes, let's go."
Deckard was stunned. He thought that that was going to be harder. He thought he might have to argue, threaten and cajole them into it. Well, if they wanted to go that easily, fine.
"Good," He said, trying to cover up his surprise. "This way, then," Deckard hissed out the signal to Kitka and slipped his watch out of his haversack.
They seemed to be the only ones so far forward in No Man's Land. They reached a section of barbed wire. Deckard was about to jump it, but Adler and Kropp hustled up and cut the wire like the pros that they were. They had gathered all of their gear. Deckard realized that he had left all of his behind, except for his trusty spade.
This realization made him roll up his sleeves to his elbows to expose the barrels of his wrist guns. The trench opening ahead was devoid of life. Deckard knelt and gestured for the others to do the same. Flipping over to DV on his watch, he saw that Kitka was looking up and down the trench. No one. The machineguns that he had taken earlier in the day were now set up and waiting for them. They were covered with a tarp.
There was a light from the nearest bunker, laughter and music too. Kitka crept up to it and went inside. Inside, a group of British soldiers were sitting or lying on cots about a large cook pot on a fire. One of them had a mandolin and was picking out a lively tune. Some of the others kept time by clapping their hands. They were sitting ducks playing war by the rules.
Waving the Kropp and Adler in, he surged forward and slipped into the trench. Deckard got to the opening of the bunker. He checked his dart thrower.
"Set 'em up." He whispered into his audio relay.
Eyes on his watch, he saw Kitka take up a place on a high shelf above the other bunker door. She unshrouded and let out a loud sound. All the soldiers looked up. Deckard burst in and shot the two nearest him in the neck.
"Hold it!" He yelled out. Covering the rest of them. "Don't move." Kropp and Adler rushed in, rifles up.
"Cover them." Deckard went around the room and took away all their pistols, knives and rifles. He dumped them on a bunk near Kropp. He even took the mandolin away, but after examining it returned it.
"Whoosh, thas better," One of them exclaimed. "I thought he was a music hater for minute." The others all laughed harshly. Deckard silenced them.
"Now, you all are now prisoners, got it?" Quiet defiance. Angry looks. "Look, your friends are okay, they'll come to." Deckard picked one of the ones he shot off the ground where he'd fallen. After some shaking, the man groaned and smacked his lips. Deckard set him on another bunk.
"See? Not dead." The Tommys looked somewhat relieved, but still silent. As soon as he let down his guard, they would jump on him, Kropp
and Adler. Then he would have to kill some of them. He had enough of this senselessness.
"Look, all we want is to sit out of the cold and snow, and be comfortable. Technically, we have captured you, but we can start the hostilities in the morning. Can you handle that at least?"
There were mumbles of agreement.
One of them rose. "Kropp, is that you?"
Kropp looked at the man. "Smythe, is that you?"
Deckard looked at Kropp. "You know this guy?"
"Sure, played soccer with him last Christmas. It's sort of a tradition." Kropp set his rifle down and took off his helmet and coat. Adler, seeing this, did the same. Kropp took a seat near the fire and removed one of the flasks that Deckard had brought.
"Here's brandy, what have you boys got?" The company then became more relaxed. Adler sat down, nearest the door and the guns. The mandolin playing Tommy began a new song, a card game started up, and a barrel of porter was drug out from under one of the cots. Foaming mugs were soon distributed and everyone was soon chatting like old friends. Even Shannon nudged a little closer to watch the card game. The snow fell steadily outside.
.
All attempts to reach reason with the Tommys failed. They couldn't see what he was talking about any more than Kropp was able to. It would take more than just one man talking sense to reach them. They were fascinated with Kitka, as she cleaned out their rats. Bets were made on how fast she could kill one, how many she would get. Deckard had to admit she was lightening quick in the eradication of her prey. She gave out warning growls to everyone and flexed out here claws to let anyone near know that she meant business. Despite her attitude, she got quite a bit of their milk, which they seemed to have plenty.
Ironically, no one knew what had actually happened at Verdun, only that it was full of rules to follow and that it lasted a long time. The soccer game that Kropp had mentioned was indeed a tradition. It seemed that the respective commanders grew sentimental around Christmas time. If he remembered, and if he lived, he would have to look up Verdun and see what really happened later. Somehow, this didn't seem right. Perhaps this is what it had turned into after the years of reenactment. Making another attempt to make sense of the whole thing, Deckard turned his curiosity on the guns they used. The Enfield rifles seemed to be no big deal, but they were particularly proud of the Vickers and the Lewis guns. They were odd-looking guns with drum clips mounted on the top. They kept them well oiled and well cared for. They mentioned a rumor that a few old Sopwith Camels and Folkers might be obtained or built, then they could wage an air war.
For the German side, it seemed to be all about desperation. The Tommys seemed to think of nothing but how accurate they could be with their equipment.
"We've only got about a dozen Lewis guns working altogether. The Vickers guns we've got outside, which you saw this morning,"
One of the Tommys, name of Jones, commented. "The Vickers are tough, but the Lewis gun," He made a noise of appreciation.
"Jerry's call it the Belgium Rattlesnake, they do." Another Tommy, named Baker, said. Then realizing whom he was addressing, apologized. Deckard rolled his eyes. It was clear that none of them had even been to England by the sound of their affected accents.
"Why so few Lewis guns if you like them so well?" Deckard asked.
"The parts, mate, the parts." Jones took a drink of beer. "We got a shipment of 300 with the firing pins gone among other things. Then our connection found a batch for us."
Deckard pondered this and talk turned over to other matters. They called it the 'rattlesnake'. Perfect, a machinegun named after a snake. Inspiration struck. With a swift movement, Deckard placed a photo of Mallos on the table in front of him. He had printed it out a few days ago.
"Any of you ever see this man before?"
"That's him," Jones said. "That our connection."
"Are you sure?"
"I meet with him now and again. I'm the armory chief. I get the parts and put them in."
"When do you meet with him again?"
"Tomorrow or day after. He'll let us know. Supposed to have some 105mm casings for us. 'Course, we'll have to pack them ourselves."
Deckard replaced the photo and leaned back in his seat. The trail picked up at last. His curiosity hadn't led him wrong! Deckard needed to get the rest of his stuff back and he needed to get in touch with Bowden.
"What his name?"
"Mark Essex.' Jones reached into his breast pocket and drew out a card. He showed it to Deckard. It had a net address on it. Deckard made careful note of it.
On the pretext of going to the outhouse, Deckard slipped away into No Man's Land. Kitka followed, tail high. The weather suited her. The snow was falling steadily and it was very quiet. He sat down in shell hole and turned on his MIL. There was a strong signal and the Infranet came on line. He hated to use his own MIL, but the question now was one of speed. If anyone tracked his signal, he would hopefully be long gone before they showed up. He MILed Bowden about his findings and then put in the address for 'Mark Essex'. His web site was elaborate, with graphics and sound. Vintage goods for all needs. There was a full color graphic of marching armies from all nations. It gave no actual location of the site. He would have to get himself invited along for the ride when the Tommys went for the parts if Bowden didn't come through. His luck was in now, though, he had a feeling. Before dawn, Bowden would have the location for him, and he would fade like Kitka after an arrogant rat. He slipped back to the impromptu party. Everyone seemed to be having a little break from the carnage. The Jerrys that he passed in their shell holes had lit fires. They were huddled together over them, cooking food or warming body parts. Inside the bunker, Adler was asleep with her great coat over her. Someone had put a blanket over that. A few others were sleeping as well. Most of them were involved in a poker game. Kropp, seeing him, folded his hand and came up to him.
"Hey, Muller." He handed over a silver flask full of a warming alcoholic liquid. Deckard took a drink and handed it back.
"I've been talking with the Tommys here, and well," he looked uncomfortable. "I'm thinking about joining up with them."
Deckard closed his eyes for a while and opened one. Kropp still stood there.
"I mean, I'm sorry that this ruins your plans, but I won't join up yet. I've got to surrender and wait out a month in the clink before I can switch." Kropp looked sad, but eager to please. "They have better rations and quarters and their officers don't grind them down they way ours do."
Deckard wanted to laugh. Kropp thought no more of switching sides than changing his socks. All he knew now was fighting and it didn't matter for whom. It only mattered that he would be well treated and comfortable between bouts. His speech to them splattered with honor and glory now seemed bumbling and foolish. Nevertheless, there was Adler to consider.
"What about Shannon?" Deckard wouldn't have her captured if she didn't wish to be.
"She's with me on this. The Tommys don't let women fight in the front lines. They serve as nurses, doctors, or other jobs in the rear. After one year's service, they can leave. I'm sure you know she's had a rough time." He looked over at the sleeping girl.
"But, hey, you can go back when dawn comes. I know that you're looking forward to that promotion, you might get a squad."
Deckard felt real affection for the old vet. He decided to take him up on the offer. It would be easier this way. He had no way of knowing what these people would do if he revealed his true intentions.
"Okay, Kropp. In the morning, I'll beat it back to the line and tell Steiner that the two of you got blown to bits during the first few minutes. No hard feelings, eh? We at least spent the night out of the cold, huh?"
Kropp's face split with a huge grin. "Okay, then, let's get back to party." He hung an arm around Deckard and steered him over to the keg.
.
In the small hours of the night, his MIL finally beeped out. Deckard, the last one awake in the darkened outpost, seized it. The message was in. Bowden had dealt with
Essex on a few occasions. Talk about coincidence! His message included a map where Deckard could find Essex's warehouse. Rising, Deckard shed himself of all his equipment, taking only his haversack. Kitka, alert to his movements, stole out of the bunker ahead of him. They went out onto the snow packed landscape and ran across no mans land and reached the German lines. Deckard was heading towards the quartermaster's hut to retrieve the rest of his belongings. After that, there was a lesson to teach.
His own clothes felt good back on his body again. The heavy iron bottomed boots went into a corner along with the heavy, itchy, uniform. Prudence required that he keep his ID disc on for a little while longer. It was a couple of hours to sun up, and the snow had kept everyone inside. The rules of this war had been adhered to quite well. Commandant Garcia was going to see what it was like to have those rules broken. Shooting all those he came across, Kitka picked out his path well, making good time. The Commandant's bunker was right before them. Two guards outside. One fell to the ground with a dart, the other keeled over, as he bent to inspect his fallen comrade. Deckard and Kitka walked in with stealthy quiet and went right up to his bed. His riding crop was right on his nightstand. Deckard picked it up, pressed the red button, broke it in half, and tossed the pieces away. The Commandant's snore changed its note and he turned over. Deckard clasped his hand over Von Garcia's mouth and wrestled him onto his back. Kitka, above his head, dug her claws into his scalp, and blood began to seep through his diminishing hairline.
"Don't move, Garcia, don't breathe." The Commandant's eyes popped open, but he quieted. Deckard bent over him.
"I'm here to ruin your little war, Garcia. I'm here to ruin your illusion." At a nod from him, Kitka dug her claws in deeper. Garcia wimpered. Blood began to flow into Garcia's eyes. He blinked rapidly.
"This is no war and you're not in charge. This is a fool's game. If I were a British commando, with ten others with me, you'd be dead and this whole camp would be ours now." Fear settled over Garcia's countenance as Deckard spoke. "As it is, I am only one man, but I've got your future in mind. I have activated the lasers in here. They'll fire on any man that does not have on one of these."
Deckard held up Garcia's ID disc, which he'd just jerked off. Showing it to Garcia, he snapped it in half and threw it to the corners of the bunker.
"Now if you don't move, don't speak, you might live until your senior private comes in to monitor the wireless. Until then, you have a lot to think about." Deckard twitched his head, and Kitka withdrew her claws and leapt off the bed.
"Among the things you consider, think about this little talk we had the next time you begin conscription. Others might not be as forgiving." With that, Deckard balled up his fist and smashed Garcia right in the face. His head lolled over to the side. He was out. The two then stole out of the bunker as quietly as they entered. Dawn was just beginning to break over the horizon as they left the two lines and No Mans Land behind them.
Kropp and Adler had switched sides, but were they any better off? Deckard didn't know and didn't care. If they wanted to go on butchering each other in their cruel demonstration, let them. They had warped history to suit their own gruesome purposes. It had nothing to do with him anymore. To underline this to himself, he reached up and pulled his ID disc off the thin chain around his neck. The flat black oval was dropped onto the road. With any luck, a truck would run over before the day was out.
Kitka and Deckard were now bound for the port area of Port Arthur. There, near the dock area, they wound find Mark Essex, or Yurgei Mallos, or whatever he was calling himself. He would provide them the answers. Wouk had stolen the plans, of that much he was convinced. He was now laid up somewhere, trying to build his brainchild or tying to convince someone else to build it. Wouk had been in charge of the Ultra project before the failure of Mallos and Goramund. A contrived failure to throw the track off himself. As he walked on, watching Kitka dart back and forth into the rush that was one both sides of the gravel road. Mallos had perhaps brought him the key research for both the pulse engine and the genetic splicing. Stolen from his homeland and offered up to his new friends for a price. The price was being spliced with a snake.