August 21 1914
When he left Paris, Leon struck out across the French countryside on a motorized dispatcher cycle gifted to him by the French military. Louder than a horse, certainly, but faster. The lush countryside blurred past Leon in a swift tide of green and golden shimmering light as the azure sky stretched endlessly above him.
Past the smooth roads of Paris and onto the dirt highways that wound like blood veins across the countryside. Past the clustered buildings and town houses and into the wide open fields and verdant farmland. The bike carried him far from the crowds and bustling nature of the city that was about to be embroiled in conflict that would soon rage across the entire continent.
It was strangely peaceful, watching the sun rise over the fields and trees of the French-Belgium boarder. Leon lamented never spending more time out here amid the quiet and serenity. He cursed the fate that would soon bring hellfire to this serenity.
Leon checked his watched as the hills rolled past, empty save for the chirp of birds and likely a few field rodents. The sun was rising later. It was already late summer. Maybe the approaching winter would hold back any out breaks of hostilities for another year.
Maybe.
A man could hope for such things. A soldier tho? And a young one at that? It would be hard to say. Leon did not relish the thought of prolonged bloodshed and conflict as so many of his fellow soldiers did. He wanted the peace in this valley to stay. Maybe that’s why he was out here. Maybe the brass wanted a someone who loathed war to try and bring in the man who could end it quickly.
Maybe.
It was almost noon by the time Leon had crossed the boarder proper and found himself leaving the Belgian wilderness. He found Alice’s absence encroaching on him like a tooth ache. First ignored. Then over taking him altogether until she was all he found himself thinking of. He prayed for her safety and one last chance to see her again. Not that he understood why. He was a pauper and she might as well be a princess. Maybe she didn’t matter all that much after all. Maybe she mattered more than he realized.
Maybe.
It took several more days hard ride across the Belgium countryside to reach the first major city along Leon’s route. Namur. The city was very quiet, the atmosphere heavy. This wasn’t the carefree streets of Paris. Germany felt closer than ever to these people, and the furtive glances toward Leon as he rolled up to the Namur military fort bellied the thoughts of the people. They were anxious. They were scared. And they knew the Germans were coming.
The sergeant on staff told Leon as much, urging him to rest and refuel quickly. Leon needed no further motivation. The stillness of the air was not as peaceful as he had initially thought. It was not peace. It was oppression.
Leon grimaced under it, feeling a strong and strange tasted of tarnished metal in his mouth. He went to sleep, uneasy and eager to get on with his mission and be as far away from this place as soon as possible.
It was barely dawn when Leon heard the first explosion. His body acting before his mind fully understood what was happening. It was a deafening cacophony of explosions, gun fire and screams of pain and agony.
The idyllic and sleeping city was no where to be seen. In its place was fire and blood. Leon’s mind raced as he recalled reports from intelligence of German weaponry. One report told of a new type of artillery cannon. A howitzer with a short barrel designed for powerful shots made at steep angles. Dicke Bertha… Big Bertha.
Another round of thunder and within moments the earth erupted in a shower of mud and stone spraying in every direction.
The military command where pale faced and sweating. Leon watched them shout their commands but when the staff sergeant told him that there was nothing that could be done, Leon cursed audibly. He turned on his heel and cast about for someone, anyone, that could tell him there was a plan, that people weren’t dying for no reason.
A lone, solitary finger tapped him on the shoulder. It belonged to a man but at first Leon thought he was a ghost. He motioned Leon to be silent and beckoned him to follow him. The man made barely any noise, not a difficult feet given the circumstances, but there was something unnatural about him. Something unnerving. Almost macabre.
“You are Leon Plisskin from the French Military Intelligence Division. Yes. We know of you.”
Leon spat out dust that had worked its way into his mouth. “And who is ‘we?’ And why should I care? The city is being levelled!”
“You should care because we know your mission and we can help you find The Jack.”
At first, Leon fought the urge to strike the man. Whatever intel he had, Leon needed. That much was clear. But to hide it in the middle of an avalanche into hell? That was almost beyond the pale. “Alright, jackass. What am I going to have to do to get the information from your pale ass?”
There was the faintest trace of a smile that flickered for but a moment then the ghost pointed out to the fields where the shelling was coming from. “The Germans have taken Namur. Liege fell but hours ago. Any Belgian counter offence is going to be improvised, disorganized and successful only by the grace of God. We don’t have the men, guns or knowledge to fight this war.”
“We are evacuating Namur. But that won’t mean anything with those shells biting at our heels. Stop the shelling from there and I will get you the information you seek.”
Leon spat but hoisted his rifle. The mission was clear. Suicidal but clear.
His bike had, miraculously, survived the shelling. It was fuelled and ready making Leon wonder if that ghost didn’t have a more tangible connection to the Kingdom of Heaven than he let on. He gritted his teeth and took off into the crumbling city, weaving his way through crowds of people running and shouting and dying.
He made but one stop. Big Bertha would not go down after some wine and cheese like some common French harlot. She needed to be gifted something truly special. She would need to feel like she was the only woman in the world. So Leon made a quick stop off at a hotel bar that had somehow remained relatively intact. The year of the vintage would not matter too much, no. But the proof would be very important. Leon almost laughed when he saw them. Behind the counter that was littered with glass and would splinters and bits of the ceiling. Two bottles of Balkan Vodka that had somehow made their way here.
“Like members of the Foreign Legion,” Leon whispered to them. He found the nicest cloths he could and with the rags soaked and the stoppers set, his gift for Mademoiselle Bertha was complete.
The thunder was growing louder. Bertha was singing and Leon was close. He revved the engine to straining, it’s own screams drowned out by Bertha’s operatic chorus of destruction. He had left the city behind and was drawing closer to the newest lady in his life. He tempered his expectations knowing full well German women had a reputation for being larger than life.
He rounded into the hillside, watching the skies for trails of smoke and following their path down, deep into the valley. He stashed his bike in a small grove of underbrush. From here he would find her on foot, on the dance floor of grass and broken branches.
Creeping through the brush and foliage, it wasn’t long before Leon found her. Flanked on all sides by German infantry. Leon chuckled. “Tu es trop femme pour ces garçons.”
Truth be told, Bertha was smaller than Leon thought. Her back and long tail and wheels digging into the earth, her nose and face pointed to the skies as she let out loud shrieks with every moment as the boys shoved their shells in her again and again. “Regardez-les, tous prenant leur tour avec vous. Je parie qu’aucun d’entre eux ne vous a meme acheta le diner.”
This close, Bertha’s voice was loud enough to drown out Leon’s approach. He unslung his rifle and drew close his breath. Bertha was still singing and the boys where too infatuated with her song to noticed and Leon drew a bead on the one towering atop her in triumph and ecstasy. The French warrior grinned. “Pour la France.”
Bertha screamed, silencing Leon’s shot as it obliterated the German’s skull. He toppled into puddle of blood and brain matter, forever lost amid Bertha’s charms. Another joined him, dropping the shell in his arms like a dead turkey. The others took notice and scrambled for cover, their own pistols ringing out.
Bullets whipped over Leon’s head as he rolled away. Two dead Germans and Bertha was silent but still eagerly waiting. He lifted his gift for her, lighting the wick of this particular candle to mark the most important day in Bertha’s life. He threw it over head into and onto the backs of the German boys who screamed and panicked as the glass exploded over them, showering them in glass and flames, the Balkan vodka toasting them with flame and heat.
Leon ran to Bertha, his gift for her ready. He knew exactly where it belonged. He leaped into her steel arms, wrapping his fingers around her face. “Avec amour, mon cher,” he whispered as he shoved the bottle down Bertha’s throat like the red headed whore she was.
He leaped away and rolled down the hill just as Bertha exploded from his efforts. She fell silent, her German boys screaming amid the flames. Elsewhere, Leon could see shells being sent up to the sky, but this gap in their lines would give the Belgians a window to make their escape from Namur.
As he collected his bike, an arrow shot from the sky and embedded itself in the earth at his feet. A note was tied to the shaft. Leon rolled his eyes. It didn’t have to be addressed but it would have been nice.
The writing was tiny and neat, written by someone used to lettering missives and messages. It was writ clear and concise. He could almost hear the ghost’s voice as his eyes traced over the deliberate lines.
Meet me in Ypres and I will arrange a meeting with Mr. Lamont.
Try not to die.
