Tempting Fate (17 page)

Then, five long steps away from her, Ragoczy turned, staring back over the brackish water. “Laisha?”

She had a panic-filled moment when she feared he would not see her, that she would be another mound in a multitude of mounds; he would pass her by. Desperately, illogically, she dug her fingers into the sausage she held. It was impossible for her to make a sound.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, mild apprehension sharpening his question. He had come directly to her and stood beside her on the uneven footing of the hummock.

“I was lost,” she said when she dared to look at him, expecting ire.

“No.” He reached down and lifted her to his back again. “Just hold on, Laisha,” he said as he pulled her legs around his waist and caught her knees in the crooks of his arms. “Don’t strangle me this time.” He was startled to discover how worried he had been about her when he had not heard the scamper of her feet behind him; and then the relief when he had seen her, frightened, silent, and defiant among the reeds, had put his irritation to flight. He walked more slowly, picking his way over the marsh. The place was discomforting to him, as water always was. Once he caught the shine of a reflection and saw, to his amusement, a sleeping child apparently suspended in the air, arms and legs around empty space. He was secretly glad that Laisha did not see it, and began to go more quickly; he wanted to be away from the water before the sun rose and sapped his strength even more.

Text of a letter from Roger, manservant to Franchot Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, to Sir William Graddiston,

Christiania, Norway

August 20, 1918

Sir William Graddiston

92 Cadogan Square

London, England

Sir William:

While I fully understand your apprehension about my employer, I can assure you that there is no reason to fear for his safety. Current difficulties in Eastern Europe make contact with him sporadic, but I have no reason to believe that he has suffered any injury or other mishap.

At the time I left St. Petersburg, or if you prefer, Petrograd, he was making plans for his own departure. As you may be aware, my employer has an aversion to traveling by water and does it only when no other option is open to him. At that time he had secured passage by train, and from what I have been told, that was one of the last trains to leave for Warsaw. There were several members of his household who accompanied me on my journey, as my employer is not the sort of master who leaves others to fend for themselves.

If I have had no word from him by the first of next year, then I will follow his instructions and begin investigating records for his present location.

Your concern for his safety is appreciated and he will doubtless be most gratified to learn of it. You specifically state that you are apprehensive about the various out-of-hand executions and imprisonments that have occurred in Russia of late. I share your sentiments, but not in regard to my employer’s fate.

It is my assumption that when this tragic war is ended my employer may well establish himself in Switzerland, Austria, or Germany. Recent work done in those countries in the area of organic chemistry has most profoundly intrigued my employer, who has a long-abiding interest in such studies. For you, so deeply committed to this war and so obdurate an opponent of the current German government, such a decision may appear inexcusable, but let me give you my word that my employer has no sympathy with aggression of the sort that Germany has visited upon the world these last four years. Therefore, I trust you will not delay your transfer of funds, as requested, to the bank and account indicated in the enclosed authorization.

As soon as I have word from my employer, I will contact you, and request that my employer do the same. I have been in Saint-Germain’s service for some considerable time and it has been my experience that he lands on his feet more often than not. In his time he has been in positions more precarious than this one and has won through.

On behalf of my employer, Franchot Ragoczy, Count of Saint-Germain, believe me, Sir William, to be

Most sincerely yours,

Roger

8

At the other end of the trench there was stagnant water; two corpses lay in It, one of them already turning slightly green. A rifle barrel protruded from under the nearer body: possibly the weapon was still clutched in the dead hand in the water.

This first day of September it was hazy, and at another time the men in the trench might have spared a moment to look about them and enjoy the morning, but none of them did.

“It’s going to be like Montdidier,” one of the men said, too resigned to complain. He patted his pocket automatically, forgetting he had run out of cigarettes two days before. He cursed without much feeling, and expected no reaction from the other men with him.

“What do you suppose they’re thinking now? Ludendorff’s going to order another retreat, they say.” The speaker was the youngest man of the eight of them, a fair-haired, blue-eyed boy of seventeen.

“Paul,” one of the older men said, “the Canadians and the Australians have broken through north of here, and there are British divisions from Arras to Lassigny. They’re using those new tanks, too…”

“Whippets,” one of the others supplied. “Christ.”

“And air support. Ludendorff must fall back. What else can he do?”

The youngest soldier looked at his companions as if he did not speak their language. “He can fight.”

“Oh, there’ll be fighting, don’t doubt that.” The speaker had been silent until now, nursing his right arm that hung in a hastily-made sling.

“There hasn’t been much use for artillery,” Paul protested unconsciously touching the black braid on his dark blue sleeve. “Three months ago we were blasting them to bits.”

“We’re low on ammunition,” the oldest of the men reminded him, adding, “We’re low on everything else.”

“Supply has said as soon as we have an established line, then…” The man with his arm in a sling did not continue as the other seven stared at him.

“When do we move out?” one of the others asked. All of them avoided looking at the far end of the trench.

“No word yet,” the oldest said. “No word on anything.”

It was impossible to be comfortable in the trench. It was clammy, crumbling, and vile, more like an open sewer than a defense. The men did not touch the earthen walls unless they absolutely had to, and it was not the mud that revolted them.

“It’s like standing in a grave,” the man with the sling said a bit later, voicing the opinion of the rest. An uneasy silence fell over the men.

“Does anyone know what happened to Colonel Stark?” one of the men asked impartially of the others.

“He died,” the oldest said. “Yesterday afternoon sometime.”

“He was a good man,” the man with his hand in the sling said, which was all the eulogy anyone could give him. “Do you know who’s going to replace him?”

“No,” the oldest answered. “They’ve sent word to his family. He has … had a wife and three children. Both his brothers were killed last year.”

“Julius, that can be said of half the men in this brigade,” the man with his arm in a sling pointed out.

“That makes it no better, Edmund,” Julius Quelle shot back.

“No,” Edmund Falls said quietly, looking covertly at the other men. There was no one here who had not lost a brother, father, cousin, or friend to the war.

Again no one spoke. In the distance there was the snap of rifle fire and all eight men turned automatically to listen, each tense as they waited, then drooping with relief when it was certain that the shots were distant.

“They haven’t brought up the big guns yet,” the tallest man remarked for what little comfort they could take from that.

“They won’t have the chance, not if we move tonight,” Julius said.

Paul was least pleased, and he flushed. “We should fight,” he demanded.

“Don’t be a fool,” the tallest man, Lukas, admonished him. “You want to prove your bravery? Hunt a wild boar unarmed. It’s safer than this is.”

The flush deepened but Paul did not challenge the other soldier. Soon his restlessness got the best of him again. He nudged the man beside him. “What’s wrong with Wildenloch?” he asked, pointing to one of their number who stood a little apart from the rest.

“His Lisa died a week ago, from the influenza. He only learned of it today.” It was plain that none of the others wanted to discuss Gilbert Wildenloch’s grief, but Paul could not contain himself.

“Influenza! Here we are,” he went on rather loudly, “being killed by the thousands for the protection of our loved ones, and at home they are dying from this influenza. It’s all wrong, Christian,” he insisted to the man beside him.

“Naturally,” Christian murmured, then turned to Edmund Falls. “When you were getting your arm dressed, did they tell you when we were going to be fed? Did you talk to Mantel?”

He shook his head. “No. Mantel wasn’t around. Since Colonel Stark died … I was only told that we would be given rations sometime today.”

Christian scoffed and clapped his mud-crusted hands together. “They said that yesterday and all I got was a crust of bread and watery soup that hadn’t seen meat for a week. They promised pork but we never got any.”

“Well,” Arnold said, trying to be philosophical, “it’s not as if we’re being singled out. All the rest of the battalion has the same problem. The officers say they’re helpless.”

“What they mean,” Gilbert Wildenloch put in, “is that they do not want to be held accountable. Colonel Stark did his best for us, but there are incompetents in charge.”

“Now, wait,” Paul objected. “You don’t know what they’re up against at headquarters. With the situation changing every hour, they’re being kept very busy. We’re not the only men in the field. I heard that there’s a critical shortage of Wagons and horses, and that means moving any distance at all—”

“Stop it,” Julius told them flatly. “It doesn’t matter one way or the other. We’re here, there’s no food and no ammunition, so whether the officers understand the situation, it makes no difference to us.”

Gilbert and Paul both choked on retorts. They had gone too far, but neither knew how to take back his words.

“Did you get a chance to find out about the new officers?” Arnold asked Edmund, in a deliberate effort to keep Paul from bickering with another one of them.

“No. There are supposed to be two new Majors, but I wasn’t told who. The first-aid station was too busy for idle chatter.” His dark eyes were sunken in his face, and the injection he had been given for pain was fading. He hoped he would not have to fight until he had been given another injection. In his current condition he doubted he could aim at anything smaller than a château.

“Who might we talk to? I don’t like not knowing the officers,” Julius said. “We had that happen at the beginning, and it was deadly for us.”

His words stilled the questions the others were going to ask. Each man retreated into his own thoughts.

A large shell exploded some little distance away and for several minutes the faint mists were lurid as they caught the light of burning, but the fire died quickly and there were no more shells.

“They’re as low on ammunition as we are,” Christian remarked without expecting an answer.

“Then we should attack now,” Paul insisted at once.

“With what?” Edmund stared at the young man until the blue eyes slid away from his.

Arnold pulled out a pocketknife and began to whittle at a piece of root he had found. Christian let his head drop forward in the vain hope that he might be able to rest for a bit.

Ten minutes later there came another short volley of rifle fire, nearer but not close enough to cause any concern. The eighth man, who had a long, fresh scar on his face, gripped convulsively at his rifle, then with a visible effort relaxed his hold on the weapon.

“It’s going to be a long day, I think,” Arnold said with the appearance of unconcern.

Not far away there came the sound of horses; they were moving at a steady trot, and for that reason the eight men straightened up and looked toward the sound. Most of the horses available could hardly walk. Sound animals meant someone of importance.

A Lieutenant none of the men could remember seeing before approached on a well-bred mare. He stopped near the edge of the trench and leaned over. “Artillery?”

Paul held up his sleeve, which was the cleanest of any of the men’s. “Artillery.”

“Under Colonel Stark?” It was an unnecessary question, for all the units along this stretch of trenches were under the late Colonel Ferdinand Stark.

“Of course.” Julius had given the Lieutenant a lackadaisical salute and without being actually insubordinate, made it apparent that he was not impressed with the Lieutenant. He and his companions sagged.

“I’m bringing you a new officer. He’s with me. Stand to attention, you men.” This announcement brought the men in the trench to their feet, at which the Lieutenant’s mouth twitched.

“New officer,” Arnold said softly as he reached over to prod Christian. “Stand up.”

“Very well.” Christian grumbled, and pulled at his tunic in a futile effort to look a bit more presentable.

“Soldiers,” the Lieutenant announced, “this is Major Helmut Rauch. Stand to attention.”

There was a firm tread, and a figure, colossal to the men in the trench, loomed over them. His uniform, if not immaculate, was clean, his boots had been recently polished and his face was free of stubble. He returned the salute of his men. “Name and rank,” he ordered at once.

“Private Paul Reinald,” he said, proud to be the first.

“Private Christian Zuflucht.”

“Corporal Gilbert Wildenloch.”

“Private Bernhard Ulmedach.”

“Private Arnold Teichfrost.”

“Private Lukas Jetzt.”

“Corporal Julius Quelle.”

“Corporal Edmund Falls. The two men there”—he pointed to the corpses at the far end of the trench—“are Privates Wilhelm Fuchspfote and Udolph König. Their names haven’t been recorded yet.”