The Alsatians

By Leo Kearley

With their destinies intertwined inside a web of intrigue, the Alsatians seek revenge on the Wiltshire regiment. Driven by extremes of coincidence, the few remaining Wiltshire men are unaware of their enemy’s intentions as they are assigned to security details. One group protects a Royal Navy inspection party who unwittingly uncover a dece

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: May 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643455389

Leo Kearley

Leo Kearley grew up in Christchurch England, where his summers were spent exploring old airfields and World War II installations along the coast. He eventually moved to New Zealand where he pursued a career in Systems Architecture. He now lives in Australia, but travels to Europe with his partner each year, to be with family and friends.

Book preview

Information for the Reader

For many, army ranks are confusing (who is the most senior and junior). The table below lists officers (in rank order) and notes the size of their command units.

Officers have overall command, but the control of the soldiers falls to the NCOs. The below table lists their influence.

Characters

Introduction

The horrors of the Great War supposedly ceased on November 11, 1918, but consider the reality of the moment. In WWI, millions of troops remained under arms at the cessation of hostilities. In addition, millions more were detained in prison camps across Europe.

The military command chain was the only discipline keeping these men under control as they moved along roads often choked with refugees. Food was scarce for all, water was short, and with no effective police force, looters stole with near impunity. On top of these issues, an influenza pandemic was sweeping Europe. It struck down infants, the elderly, and the able-bodied indiscriminately, leaving scant few to uphold the law.

Part One

Prologue

Northern Spain, Bilbao Central Hospital

July 1918

Sergio Castiloga stared out through the window as he tried to come to grips with what he had seen. This can’t be. He checked his previous samples. Why? It makes no sense. Inserting sample after sample from the latest batch under his microscope, Sergio compared, verified, and confirmed.

He turned to his fellow doctor. This strain is a man-made weapon! Exasperated, he hammered his fist on the table. Someone has made this influenza into a killer, and we have to find a way to stop it!

Carlos Ramos peered through the lens at each of the samples. Gripping the bench, he shook his head ruefully. Yes, we must stop it, but first we need to tell the world what we have found.

Tell them? Sergio rolled his eyes. So those who created this monster can damn us! They will try to invalidate our research, but when this thing can no longer be denied, we will be blamed.

Carlos put an arm around his friend. Yes, history will remember this as the Spanish flu.

Chapter 1

The concussion of high explosives deafened. Swathes of smoke blinded, and his throat burned as his outstretched fingers inched across the muddy trench walls. Searching for the parapet ladder, its rickety steps were the only access to the ravaged landscape.

Avoid the splinters and get among the craters.

Someway beyond the ladder, a shell hole was littered with bodies, and the stench of death assaulted his nostrils. Crimson streaks from the corpses ran down the dirt slopes, coalescing into spiralled patterns on the murky water gathered in the crater. Near the crater lip lay a body, its arms and legs shredded by shrapnel, the eyes pecked clean by crows. The remaining hollows, ghastly and streaked with dried blood. The captain’s pips on the epaulettes swept waves of nausea through him. He reeled away, lost his balance in the soft dirt, and slipped headlong towards the turbid waters. Only a desperate jab of his rifle butt in the dirt saved him from immersion in the filth. Beyond the shell crater, he crawled over sodden ground made wet by rain or by the putrefied remains of men and animals buried beneath. Farther on, a stand of rusted wire blocked his way. Draped on the barbs, he saw a black-uniformed body, and not wanting to disturb the dead, he slithered under the wire. Waves of agony surged through his back. Repeatedly he was struck by something hard. A baton. Rolling over, he saw the uniformed body detach itself from the wire and rise. The dark cloud of smoke blackened and engulfed him as a hideous laugh screamed.

Machine guns rattled, and a myriad of bullets flew. The smoke cloud was shredded, and in an instant, the laughter ceased. The guns fell silent.

They’re reloading.

He scuttled forward over broken ground, but in the clearing smoke, a solitary machine gun fired again. White-hot tracer scorched the air, and he dived away. Hugging the dirt, he crawled to a shallow depression. His stomach seared with pain, and a redness glistened on his sniper’s cloak.

A gut wound…slow death—the rats will come. Can’t die…need to stop the guns.

Forcing on through the pain, he closed on enemy lines, and his boot struck an empty wooden ammunition caisson. A hollow thud resonated. So close to the German wire there were shouts of alarm. Achtung! Achtung! Grenades were thrown.

In desperation, he dived headlong into a ditch to avoid the canisters of death. Inside the ditch, poisonous fumes lay thick. They choked off his air, burned his throat and eyes. Frantic, he scrambled out of the worst of the smoke and emerged into clearer air. Wiping the tears, he saw his brother’s squad appear to his right. I’m in time to stop the guns. A metallic clatter made him look left. Above the German trenches, an officer sat behind a machine gun.

Regaled in a bright blue dress uniform and a spiked helmet, a huge moustache dominated his face. A monocle for his left eye twisted his features into a grizzled smirk. Alongside the officer, the gunner’s mate crouched ready. He wore a brown suit, completed by a white duck feather slid into the blue ribbon of his brown hat. They swung the machine gun towards the squad.

Must stop them!

Targeting the gunner, he squeezed the trigger. Click. He worked the bolt. A hollow dunk came from his magazine. Instinctively he reached for his battledress pockets. It was empty.

No bullets!

The gunner’s mate sniggered as he watched his fevered attempts to reload. The man’s face broke into an evil leer as the machine gun spat lead, ripping the squad to shreds.

The Sarge, Harry, Colin…all of them, dead.

Sick to his stomach, he ran at the gunners. His hands, like claws, grabbed at their throats. A bayonet flashed, impaling him. He felt the twist of the cold steel blade then numbness. Falling to his knees, he was unable to move as the man in the brown suit stood over him, leering. A cackling of laughter wrent the air, and a torrent of blows rained down from a guard’s baton.

No more, he pleaded. No more! Oh god, Cathy! No—

The beating didn’t stop. The hideous laughter grew to a fever pitch.

A hand gripped his shoulder, rocked him, and the laughter faded to a whisper.

Wake up, Joe. You’re safe.

Joe opened his eyes to see a stark bright light bulb hanging from a ceiling chain. Instead of the stench of sulphur, there was the smell of disinfectant. White walls replaced the palls of artillery smoke, and brown curtains with blue stripes covered the window. There were no bullets, no bayonets, no blood, nor holes. He was in a hospital bed.

Sounds like you were back in Blue Sector again, said Malcolm Greaves.

Joe gazed at his platoon sergeant. It’s always so real, twisted together night after night.

Aye, and it’ll keep at you for a while, lad. Walking around the bed, Malcolm drew back the curtains and peered at the darkness. I’ve been meaning to ask, who’s Cathy?

Joe hesitated, not knowing what he’d said. She’s Colin’s wife. Why?

You’ve called her name on a fair few nights, that’s why.

Joe lay back, embarrassed. Aye, well, she’s my friend too, he finally muttered.

Malcolm didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he continued to stare out through the window and saw a brightness through the mist. First light, Joe.

Aye, they’ll be no more sleep for me. Best I hope for some tonight, but you can’t keep coming here, Sarge. Getting up early and keeping an eye on me.

You’re right on that score. The general’s asked me to take a patrol to the Belgian border today, and I’m not looking forward to it. The mist’s thin up here, but it’s thick fog in the valley.

When Joe heard what was happening, he scrambled out of bed. Before pulling on his uniform trousers, he vigorously stretched his left arm and leg. The twisted flesh from bullet wounds served as a continual reminder of his last brush with death. That’ll be dangerous in the fog, Sarge. You won’t be able to see, so you’ll need me with you to keep an ear out.

Aye, but not this time, Joe. The colonel’s made it clear, you ain’t signed off for duty.

Over six feet tall and powerfully built, Joe felt sure he was in top condition; he didn’t need signing off. Come on, Sarge. The paperwork can wait. It’ll be best I go with you.

I’d like that, Joe. You’re sharp as a tack, but it ain’t going to happen. You need time for your mind to heal. Wait here with Colin and Harry for the captain, and I’ll see you all tonight.

Joe followed Malcolm to the door to make his case for going on patrol.

Come on, Sarge. If you and the lads are out there, you need me with you!

When the door opened, they saw Corporal Harry Jenkins in the corridor. With an imperceptible nod, Harry let Malcolm Greaves go by and deliberately stood in Joe’s path.

Joe! I just heard you say you’d prefer to go with the Sarge rather than stay here with me and Colin. That’s a bit rough on the pair of us, don’t you think?

Corp! It’s not like that. There’s fog… and I should be with them.

And I’m sure the Sarge would like nothing better, but there’s a ceasefire in place, he feels safe enough. What’s more, Danny and Simon will be with him, so they’ll be fine.

What if they’re not? All sorts of things can happen out there in the fog.

Harry knew Malcolm had strict orders not to take him. How’s your fitness, Joe? Colin said he works you hard when he has a bad day.

Aye, ten miles extra, and it hurts me in the doing, but he’s determined to prove the doctors were wrong about me never walking proper again.

Brotherly love, Harry chuckled. Anyway, I’m off to pack.

You do that, but I’m already packed, so I can leave my bag here and sneak after them?

Standing a couple of inches taller than Joe, Harry was a big man and made sure he stayed in the youngster’s way. C’mon, Joe. You need to understand what will happen if you try to follow that patrol. The Sarge will be tempted to keep you there, but he’ll be disobeying the colonel’s orders. So, he’ll have to choose between shooting you or losing his stripes. He’s right proud of his stripes, and I’ll give odds he’ll shoot you in the foot and put you back in the hospital.

The Sarge wouldn’t! And I thought the colonel had come good with Colin and me.

He has, Joe, so let it go.

Joe stayed in the doorway. What if I said I was feeling funny about that German I saw in civvies? Him and his brown suit, I see his face in my nightmares. It’s got to mean something.

Come on, Joe, I ain’t no doctor. Who knows what it means?

I’d say it means he’s still after us, and the Sarge said a German artillery unit was gunning for us all through the war. Them same blokes damned near beat our lads to death. I may have killed their officers, but who says the rest of them are dead?

The Americans said they wiped out the rest of that artillery unit.

We can’t be certain, because we saw a father and three sons in the Coucy Valley. I did for the father and his huge moustache, and you questioned one who shouted out he was an Alsatian before he died? So, there’s two more of ’em, and General Dujon said we’d stumbled into a blood feud. Well, believe me, we’re still in it right up to our necks.

That’s too far-fetched, Joe.

Far-fetched or not, I need to be out there with the Sarge and the lads!

Harry didn’t move. Joe, put some faith in Danny and Simon. You need to get a good night’s sleep to ease your fretting before you go out there with a gun.

I’m not just fretting, but I don’t suppose there’s any point in arguing with you bossy two stripers. You ain’t going to believe what I’m saying.

That’s unfair, Joe. All of us are trying to look out for you in the only ways we know how.

Joe regretted his words in an instant. I’m sorry, Corp. I shouldn’t have said that.

I know it’s hard to let go after the horror you went through, but them Germans in your nightmares, they’re long gone. It’s their images that make you a bit crazy at night, that’s all.

Harry turned and walked away along the corridor.

I’m not crazy! Joe called after him. They ain’t gone! I can feel ’em!

Chapter 2

Vienna, Austria

Monday, 12 November 1918

In the boardroom of Steinman Engineering, Heinrich leant against the fireplace and sipped on his brandy. His calm façade covered the tempest of anger held inside. He touched the wood surround of the fireplace. Its polished ebony, smooth and cold to the touch, was an expression of the blackness held in his heart. His father, Manfred Steinman masterminded the destruction of the British 5 th Army. This should have been enough to force a French surrender, but somehow, a meagre combination of British and French troops held up a critical German advance.

The Prussian leadership faltered, and in desperation, Manfred conceived a final attack in the Moselle Valley. Using a deadly gas, he promised on his life that the attack would lead to victory before the Americans could intervene. Inexplicably, that attack also failed, and his father shot himself. Within days, Heinrich’s uncles were killed when they tried to exact revenge on the Wiltshire Regiment who caused the downfall of the Moselle Valley attack. The combined shock of losing these three men had shaken the Alsatian spy network to its very core.

Military disasters followed as the Allies broke through, and the German armies retreated. Naval crews went on strike, riots broke out in the cities, and the Kaiser abdicated. Heinrich was powerless to stop the defeat of his beloved Empire and now had to save Steinman Engineering. Without payment from their governments, their debts were mounting, and most of the money was owed to a criminal syndicate in Vienna. A significant repayment instalment was due, and they had no way to pay. Worse still, their most valuable asset was trapped in the port of Kiel and would be handed over to the Royal Navy as part of Germany’s surrender.

Heinrich slammed his fist into the surround of the fireplace. We must stop them!

Such a task would be the ultimate challenge for his Alsatians.

Bang! The front door slammed shut, and his cousins entered the boardroom. Gert, Pierre, and Alois Uberberg were powerfully built men. They weren’t particularly tall, but they were heavyset, with dark features that hid their emotions. Heinrich studied their faces, trying to gauge their emotions from the depth of furrow in their brow. As brothers, their features were so alike, it was hard to tell them apart, and yet they were so different in their attitudes.

Having grown up alongside the brothers, Heinrich could see Gert’s mood was the darkest he’d ever seen as he sat in silence staring at a mark on the table. His need for revenge will be eating at him. Alois, the youngest, gazed at the paintings of their ancestors around the room. Heinrich could see his face was impassive. He will take Gert’s side in an argument. Pierre, the middle brother, was a fence sitter. He will join with the loudest argument.

For Heinrich, things were clear. Without Gert’s support, there could be no way forward, and it would take all his diplomatic skills to bring him down from his peak of anger. First, he would speak with Pierre as he seemed agitated, flicking through his papers and tutting.

What is wrong, Pierre? You seem to have lost something?

Yes! I lost my way and failed you all. I truly believed the gas or virus would end the war in our favour. I don’t know what to say. We should have swept our enemies away, but instead, my own influenza has struck down our troops in greater number.

Gert slammed his fist on the table. You didn’t fail us. The burden of defeat is on the Prussians, not the weapons we provided. They are the reason we grieve for our fathers and uncles.

Gert is right! shouted Alois. We are here to support each other, not blame ourselves.

Heinrich moved opposite Gert. The Prussians were wrong, we all know this, but now I hear the Reichstag will be forced to accept a total surrender, and we will lose everything!

Gert fixed Heinrich with a withering stare. The war may be over, but our fight continues!

Heinrich walked around the table. Yes, our fight continues, but the purpose has changed. These are dark days, and for us to recover, we must put our hate aside. The very soul of the Alsatian movement depends on us making the right decision here and now.

Gert grasped Heinrich’s arm. We must resolve to never again serve fools like the Prussians! Promise me, Heinrich!? Swear on your son’s life!

I will swear on my son’s life and on my father’s grave. We’ll never serve idiots again, and I promise you, in time, we’ll have revenge on all who have wronged us, especially the bograt. He will die soon enough, but I implore you, hold back your thirst for revenge until the right time.

No! We must dictate their fate! No one else!

Please, Gert, we will dictate their fate. When the time comes, we will find them and strike them down, but there are far more important things needing to be done first.

More important?! I was there! The bograt gutted Klaus! He shot our father as if he were a dog! I need revenge on this man! He managed to escape me once, but never again!

I agree with you, Gert, said Alois, but now is not the time to chase this man.

Grateful for the interruption, Heinrich followed Alois’s lead. Gert, when the time is right, they will all be put down like the dogs they are.

Gert hammered his fist on the table. No, Heinrich! To wait is unacceptable!

Heinrich tried again. Please, Gert. There are other priorities!

These are not my priorities! This man must die. Now!

Gert, please? There are things we need to do for our families first! Remember when we were teenagers? On the mountains, in the worst conditions, others said we did the impossible.

We climbed those mountains because we never gave up! You want me to abandon the climb to find another mountain. I say no! We must finish what we’ve started.

No, that’s not it. I want us to climb the same mountain, but the way you want to go is fraught with danger. All I’m suggesting is that we go a different way. Our money is almost gone, and our stores are near empty. To stave off financial ruin, we must recover as much weaponry as we can from the battlefields so we can keep supplying our customers. If not, the mountain we desire to conquer will forever be out of our reach. If we don’t find a way to appease the Vienna syndicate, there is no future for us, and our path will end at a precipice.

Pah, you run from shadows! All I need is their names, and I will end their lives!

That is easier said than done, and until I have their names, it is our families who are at risk from their hired killers. We must not turn away from those who rely on us, and if we are ever going to have our revenge, we have to be in a position of strength. I beg you. Put the family first. Once we secure our future, we will bury the bograt along with the rest of his regiment.

Gert’s hands formed into fists. He wanted to lash out as his body trembled with anger, but Heinrich held Gert’s shoulders and locked eyes with him. At the peak of the tension, it was Gert who broke eye contact and gazed around the boardroom at the family portraits as Alois had done. The interbred families of Steinman and Uberberg were bonded by blood across a dozen generations. His need for revenge wasn’t what their family needed.

Gert stared back at Heinrich. I should kill you for stopping me!

Yes, I know, but I’d insist you wait for the right time.

Of that, I have no doubt! You have not one bone of spontaneity in your body. The redness in Gert’s face lessened. Alright, Heinrich. I will dedicate the Alsatians to recover weapons and clear out our caches. After all, the British and Americans are on their way home, and the French continue to succumb to our sickness. We will rob the Allies blind.

Pierre interrupted, What Gert says is true. It is now the French who are losing many men to our influenza virus. They will be unable to maintain guards at their storage depots.

Heinrich needed to know more. What about the docks? Can we plunder them as well?

Gert smiled. Of course, the lack of guards will be the same at the ports, but it would be best to let British and American troops leave France before we raid the larger ports. Be assured, their heavy armaments will remain on the docks long after their soldiers have gone.

Heinrich poured brandy and handed out lists of munitions he wanted for resale.

Gert gazed at the list with disdain. Are these the trinkets you want me to recover?

No, Gert, not you. I need you to go to Malmo and speak to our Uncle Sven.

Why Malmo? That is nowhere near the front lines.

I know, but I need you to steal a battleship and make it disappear!

Gert stared back at Heinrich.

Chapter 3

Marne Region, France,

A Deserted Woodland

Gunter Travers é e watched the French soldiers move around in the mist and wondered if he, or any of his men, would survive this day. Forced to discard their greatcoats, the walk up the hill to the copse of trees had been a trudge. At the top, he was sweating and breathed deep to recover. Through the fog, he saw two French soldiers struggle to pull a gun trolley up the slope. On board was a Vickers machine gun, complete with connected water tank and ammunition boxes neatly stacked and tied down. The water jacket around the weapon’s barrel was shiny black, a total contrast to the surrounding pale winter grass. The gun was new, unblemished, and matched their dress uniforms, but soon the weapon would be in position for its gruesome work.

Behind the gun crew strode the French officer who had arrested them. Gunter knew he was no field officer. Everything about him was far too clean. His bright clothing, his neat haircut, and manicured moustache were out of place with the surrounds. The way he chopped his stride to avoid the puddles showed this man hadn’t served outside his Paris headquarters, and neither had most of his men. Everything they did was clumsy and laboured. Most likely, they were reservists, men who’d never been near the front lines, but there were two exceptions.

At the back of the squad were two scruffy soldiers. Gunter could see they carried rifles with telescopic sights. Both stared at the German prisoners with an unwavering gaze. They were veterans, snipers, killers, with their cold eyes set in stone-like features. There were no signs of emotion on show. These men wouldn’t baulk when the time came to shoot.

Rene, his squad leader, whispered to him, Gunter, we will not live beyond this day.

Gunter gave nothing more than a simple nod of agreement. Both he and Rene could guess the outcome of meeting this group of French soldiers. The haughty demeanour of the lieutenant reminded Gunter of the German officers who beat Allied prisoners to death. He’d always tried to protect his troops from such acts of barbarity, but this day, he could protect no one.

Having walked away from the front line, they’d left their weapons behind as a sign of good faith, expecting to meet up with the rest of their battalion. However, that decision had turned sour. In the fog and mist, they had lost their bearings, and no matter how hard they searched, they couldn’t find their troops. The runners Gunter sent out could only deviate so far from the main road without being lost in the grey murk, and the fog deadened their shouts. By mid-afternoon, they came across a small French village and asked for the road to Belgium. They were given directions, but when Gunter asked if they had any food, the few inhabitants shook their heads.

To ease their plight, Gunter had his men share their rations and build shelters for the villagers. In the evening, his soldiers removed the chunks of stone and mangled steel from the water well to ensure a fresh supply was available. When Gunter and his men departed the next morning, they waved a friendly goodbye and disappeared into the mist. Unfortunately, their generosity was soon to catch up with them as their search for food and shelter were fruitless and the right road to the south-east eluded them.

With no amount of food in the past three days, they were starving. When a group of French soldiers emerged from the mist, they were elated, until it became clear there would be no help or fair treatment. The officer in charge was arrogant, and an air of foreboding fell upon their meeting. Instead of food, water, or clothing, they’d been ordered to march up the hill to an enclave in the woods. As a war veteran, Gunter knew what would happen when they had moved far enough away from the road. Soon they would be dead.

Gunter called to the nearest Frenchman, Cigarette, s’il vous plaît?

The man stared back at him and ignored the request.

Gunter called to one of the snipers, Cigarette, s’il vous plaît?

The man threw him a packet of British Craven A and some matches.

Tommy cigarettes. Merci. Gunter withdrew a cigarette from the pack and handed the remainder to Rene. Surprisingly, the sniper ignored them and was content for the Germans to take as many cigarettes as they wanted. Striking a match, Gunter lit the cigarette and drew deeply on the smoke, allowing the nicotine to stimulate him. He cast his gaze back to the machine gun that sat on its tripod. A full belt of ammunition had been loaded. Taking another drag, Gunter struggled to swallow as his anxiety for the well-being of his men rose inside him. The fighting had stopped, the war was over, and yet they were about to be executed. Gunter hadn’t eaten, but his stomach churned. It was an unmistakable sensation of sheer terror. He felt it so many times before attacks on the Western Front as he waited alongside his men to go over the top.

Such abject fear should have been dispatched to the past.

Gunter thought of his daughter Isabelle. She would never know how much he loved her. He should have said sorry, but pride had made him walk away into an uncertain future. He had admonished Isabelle for leaving Paris and giving up her dreams of being an artist. Even when she’d explained Paris was under threat from the Germans, Gunter had remained angry with her. Why were my desires for her future more important than her safety? She’d come home to be with her family. That should have been enough for me… He remembered the venom of her argument, wanting to stop him from going. Even more, she wanted them to go to Marcel’s farm and be safe away from the war. Quite rightly, she was afraid the war would engulf their cottage near the Marne.

Gunter dismissed Isabelle’s arguments.

He believed he had to go home to the Lorraine to save his ageing mother.

He also wanted Isabelle to leave with them, but he’d upset her so much, she’d stubbornly refused to go. The next morning his anger resurfaced, and rather than stop the argument, Gunter and his wife left without so much as a backwards glance. When they arrived in his hometown of Remiremont, the German invasion had engulfed the region. He took up arms with the local militia, but his unit was overrun, and the Germans took the militia as prisoners. Beaten and with the threat of a firing squad, they were forced into the German Army. Instead of making his mother safe, Gunter had put her in danger. I wish I could tell Isabelle she was right and how much I love her…

The French officer brought Gunter out of his thoughts as he slapped his gloves against his thigh and stared at the men in German uniforms. Looking down his nose, it seemed this man saw them as animals to slaughter at will.

As the Frenchman came closer, the sickly stench of his cologne assaulted Gunter’s nostrils.

You and your men are spies!

The accusation was expected.

Gunter responded in fluent French, These men are not spies! They are soldiers trying to get home in the cease-fire.

No, you are spies sent to probe our defences.

And what would we say to a German officer who would listen? Would we not say we met French soldiers who were sick of this war? Men who want to go home to their families as we do? If you wish to execute someone, choose me. Let these men live and leave with a clear conscience.

The officer’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He’d not expected to be spoken to in French by a well-educated German so near to the Marne battlefields. The man quickly regained composure. So, you admit spying and offer yourself to save your men.

Gunter looked into the lieutenant’s eyes, searching for evidence of compassion.

The Frenchmen remained silent, his eyes moving from one man to the next. His passive expression twisted into a scowl as he growled, There will be no clemency given to any of you this day. He held his hand up to indicate his men to make ready the machine gun.

Gunter shivered as a sensation of cold ran through him. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the spray of lead that would end their lives and spread the veil of death over them.

Chapter 4

Command Centre, Bar-le-Duc, France

In the valley, the bare winter’s countryside looked eerie in the soft early morning light. Like ghosts, the men under François Dujon’s command went about their duties. The end of hostilities should have been a time of celebration, but François was troubled by the latest turn of events. Despite his thick greatcoat and heat from the fire in the room, there was a chill in the air. The war was supposedly over, but the struggles would continue. Allied governments had made the decision to hold on to German prisoners. Instead of being repatriated, they would remain in the camps over the winter, not for the sake of benevolence, no. The prisoners would be transported back to the Western Front so they could rebuild what they had destroyed.

Standing behind Francois was Marshal Petain, Chief of all the French Armies in France. Well, General? Will you carry out my orders? he demanded.

François remained silent. He wasn’t ready to speak. Up to this point, their meeting had been cordial, even pleasant due to his own promotion to lieutenant general. He looked back at Petain, unsure of this man’s politics. There is no honour among the social elite, only lip service to the republic. He continued to ruminate on the verbal order he’d received.

Through the mist, he could make out Malcolm Greaves on the far side of the compound. He and his men were about to leave on patrol. The burly sergeant was well respected, and while his men moaned about his booming voice, they wouldn’t be without him. He was an honest man who took no nonsense from anyone, senior officers included. François took a leaf out of his book.

Marshal Petain, are you sure this is the only way?

Lieutenant General Dujon, do you question the validity of my orders?

I don’t doubt your orders, sir, but I’m shocked at the repercussions such an order could bring to myself or officers under my command. I’m also very concerned it isn’t in writing.

Petain was unimpressed by François’s concerns. As I have said, General, I will have the order dispatched to you when I return to Paris. My other two divisional commanders have been given the same order, and they assured me of compliance. I need the same assurance from you.

I will carry out your orders, but renegade French officers? Out here, near the front lines? I will believe it when I see it. Regular soldiers have had enough of this war. However, this matter is of little importance compared to the influenza that continues to scythe through my officers and men. If I’m going to police this sector, I need replacements and a way to stop this sickness!

François watched the man’s pointed nose twitch. His ruddy features coloured up, making his bushy white moustache and sideburns stand out in contrast.

General Dujon! The president has made it clear. There is no influenza epidemic. It is the poor health of refugees affecting our soldiers. This matter is out of proportion. There shall be no more talk of an epidemic! With the lack of medical staff, things are a little out of hand.

François was shocked by Petain’s response. A little out of hand!? Sir! I have an increasing number of soldiers falling sick every day. If they survive the flu, these men are bedridden for weeks. Surely, the president has been ill-advised?

Our most senior doctors have given clear guidance to the president that these are isolated incidents, and that is good enough for me. This is a localised problem, so the sooner you move your men away from here, the better. I will leave this matter to you as I must return to Paris.

François saluted and dutifully followed Petain to his staff car. As the vehicle disappeared into the fog, he shook his head. How can he accept such nonsense from the president, and why have the medical men advised our government to deny the existence of this epidemic?

He looked across the compound and called out, Bonjour, Sergeant Major.

Malcolm smiled as he looked up and saw it was the general. As always, come winter or summer, he wore his greatcoat. The general’s only deference to the change of season was the number of buttons he chose to do up on a cold day.

Good morning, General, and it seems you know more about my rank than I do. No one’s confirmed any promotion for me, but if you don’t mind me saying, you look a mite concerned?

I am. This sickness continues to take a toll on my troops, and that is why I’ve asked for you and your men to patrol the road north, to Belgium. Our ability to maintain law and order in this region is getting harder each day.

Malcolm gave a quizzical look. How do you mean, sir?

We’re struggling to maintain sufficient patrols to find stragglers or root out looters, and now, Marshal Petain has said there are French officers who have shot German prisoners without reason. He’s ordered all field commanders to ensure the safety of enemy prisoners.

Safety, sir? We can barely look after ourselves. If you don’t mind me asking, how do we ensure their safety if we can’t even find them in this pea soup?

François chuckled at Malcolm’s description. He was right; the fog was thick and swirling more like a murky soup. I only ask you to do your best. I have been given orders to arrest any soldier who mistreats prisoners and execute anyone guilty of killing those who have surrendered.

Malcolm was shocked. It’s hard to believe front-line officers would do such a thing.

Agreed, Sergeant, but supposedly there are men of the Grande Bourgeoisie who have taken to wearing Army uniforms. They have never served on the front line and have no conscience. They may well see their actions as justified because of the destruction the Germans have caused.

Sounds like a bit of a worry for any Germans caught around here, sir.

It is a far greater problem. There are Allied soldiers in every prison camp across Germany. If we don’t stop these reprisal killings, our own men will be at the mercy of Germans seeking revenge. We are reliant on men of good conscience on both sides to ensure prisoners are kept safe.

Lummy, you paint a grim picture, General.

Because it is grim, that’s why I need NCOs like you and your corporals under my command. Men who will stop this nonsense.

Nice of you to say, sir, and we’ll keep our eyes skinned as we go north.

I know you will, and for that reason, I need you to be careful. You may run into these renegades, and they’ll not take kindly to your interference.

Thanks for the warning, sir.

Malcolm saluted and returned to his patrol, while the general returned to the Command Centre, where a messenger saluted.

Pardon, General. Here are the latest orders from Army Command.

François waited until he was at his desk before he read the dispatches, then scratched his head as the orders seemed out of step for a combat unit. Across the room, his son, Major Jerome Dujon, was busying himself with paperwork. Again, François read the dispatch, shook his head at the absurdity, checked his list of fit men and officers, and shrugged. There is no one else.

Jerome looked up from his paperwork as the sound of his father’s boots on the floorboards got closer. The look of strain on the general’s face was evident. You should be happy with your latest promotion, and yet, you are like a bull who has lost its herd of cows. Why?

It would seem our new masters would like us to take on yet another duty, and I need you to volunteer for the one in the north. Unless you feel it is too much of an imposition.

François handed Jerome the letter, and after reading, he looked up. Making me volunteer for something like this is too much of an imposition, but that’s never stopped you before.

No, I don’t suppose it has, said François as he took off his hat and lit a cigarette.

If I take the northern duty, said Jerome, which fool gets the south?

His father remained silent while he smoked.

Jerome stared at his father and then frowned. He won’t allow it. A patrol here and there maybe, but a duty of many months? He wouldn’t agree… And anyway, they’re not all signed off.

Stubbing out the dog end, François finally answered, All true, but still, I have to ask.

At the window, François stared across the compound to the perimeter fence in front of the woods. Two enormous oak trees stood tall, their massive heads of branches obscured by the fog. Their trunks like bulwarks seemed to support an impenetrable wall able to stop all who threatened.

Returning to his desk, François picked out two sets of corporal chevrons and placed them discretely in his folder. For John’s bulwarks.

***

Turning back to face his patrol, Malcolm passed on the warning the general had given.

Listen up! We need to keep our eyes peeled for enemy soldiers wandering around. We’ll take them under guard and escort them to the Belgian sector, and there will be no wrongdoing by anyone. The general has told me about Frenchies taking the law into their own hands and shooting prisoners, and he’s asked us to be on the lookout. So, c’mon, let’s get going.

With packs on back and rifles in hand, the patrol followed Malcolm north.

Three hundred yards up the road, Corporal Danny Sefton caught up to Malcolm. Danny was a tough soldier and also respected by the men. Six inches shorter than Malcolm, he never let his height get in the way of his questions.

Hey, Sarge, do you reckon his nibs is right? Are Frenchies still killing Germans?

Aye, Danny, the general believes it’s a bit more than that.

A bit more of what? How do you mean?

Well, he thinks it’s likely to be staff officers from Paris. Blokes who have never seen action but want payback. See to it that Simon has his Lewis gun loaded and at the ready.

Aye, Sarge, I will do, said Danny as he dropped back to speak with his fellow corporal.

Five miles north, the group passed the ruins of the old Divisional HQ. The shattered brickwork stirred memories of the destruction wrought by the German artillery. The enemy shelling had obliterated the British 5th Army and killed Brigadier Edward Weston.

Alright, boys, said Malcolm, we’ll stop for the moment and pay our respects.

By a wire fence, Malcolm flexed his fingers, easing the stiffness as he remembered being captured a few months ago. Back then, he’d been forced to carry artillery shells, was nearly beaten to death and was left to die in the mud. Dragged to his feet, he peered out through half-closed eyes to see Colonel John Weston clinging onto him. There was gunfire, and out of the artillery smoke, came General Dujon and Captain Plummer. They were leading a squad of French soldiers into the German lines and carried the beaten and wounded into no man’s land. At the time, it seemed to Malcolm like a brave but futile gesture. Everyone knew the German machine guns would be ready to wipe them out when they tried to reach the Allied lines.

Resigned to death that day, Malcolm had prayed for a quick end.

Crack! Joe Travis’s rifle had spat its defiance that day. The unique sound of the Ross would never leave Malcolm as long as he lived. Somehow, through the hell of an artillery barrage, machine gun strafing, and grenade attacks, their young sniper was alive and covering their escape.

Round after round he fired from the stinking mire of hell that was no man’s land. Systematically clearing out the enemy machine gun posts and gave them all the chance to live.

Malcolm wiped away a tear. Come on, you sentimental lot! If you want food, we’ve got our work cut out to catch up with the Northumbrians by lunchtime. Packs on and let’s get going.

Keeping his thoughts to himself,