The Bluebells of 1918 Ch. 01

I wake with a start.

Everything hurts. I'm freezing and I'm hungry, too.

At least it's getting dark outside. Good. I must've managed a few hour's sleep.

Sleep is crucial. Too little, day after day, and your judgment erodes. You trip up. You take idiotic risks then--bam!--the Krauts get you.

I crawl to the opening of the storm drain and spread the map on top of my backpack. I'm sure I'm somewhere north of Aachen. That means the Netherlands can't be farther than a dozen miles due west.

A dozen miles. I can cover that tonight. With luck I'll be sitting down to dinner in Amsterdam this time tomorrow. Roast beef and potatoes. A tall bock.

I do an inventory of what's left of my provisions. Tinned mutton, two chocolates, canned apricots. A gulp of wine.

I eat the mutton and a chocolate, washed down with the last of the wine. Should I eat the apricots? If I'm this close to the border, I've plenty of food left.

But what if I'm not? What if there's still fifty miles, or more? Then I'm doomed no matter what, so eat them and they're a king's repaste.

I sling my backpack on and head out. A dozen miles. I can do this.

My feet hurt like hell, but I ignore them. Hunger, exhaustion, and pain mean nothing. Getting across the border is all that matters.

I can't get hauled back to Holzminden and Kommandant Neimeyer. He'd make sure the entire camp is standing at attention to witness my failure. Like those British officers captured last month after a week on the run.

To hell with that.

When I get to England I'll send Neimeyer a telegram. "Enjoying London. See you after the war. McQuay." Yeah, he'll love that.

I keep off the roads and avoid anything and anywhere people might be. That makes for slow progress.

Hours pass. The moon rises. I do my best to keep Polaris on my right. Have to make sure I'm heading west.

I cross a road and a field. There's a farmhouse a few hundred yards to my left. I bet there's Germans inside enjoying dinner. Digging into sausages and fresh baked bread. Green beans and dumplings.

A man calls out, a woman answering. I crouch down, remaining still.

When was the last time I even saw a woman? A week? I haven't had a single sexual thought in all that time, either.

Unlike at Holzminden. Sex was always on my mind. Especially when the frauleins walked past the fence on their way to their jobs in the village. Or following any glimpse of Neimeyer's secretary Frau Weiss.

Frau Weiss. Most every prisoner at Holzminden lusted after her. She's no idea how many of us were jacking off to thoughts of her every night, myself included. Or maybe she does.

I move on, reconstructing every detail of Frau Weiss in my mind to pass the time. Her blonde hair in its tight bun and her dark blue eyes. Her sizable bosom and ample ass. I love a nice, fat ass on a woman.

Or the way she purses her lips and frowns at us whenever we ask to speak to Neimeyer. God, what a woman. Too bad she's the enemy.

I skirt a bog then climb a wooded hill. I reach the edge of a wide field and stop on my tracks.

Lights. A line of them atop tall posts on the far side of the field, every fifty yards. The border? Could it be?

I walk parallel to them, keeping out of sight. With every step hope grows. I travel at least a mile but the lights remain. This isn't some German base, is it? It's the border. The border!

I inch forward, towards the lights. Halfway through the field is a sign fixed to a pole. The most I can make out in the dark is "ACHTUNG!" in bold letters at the top.

I creep closer. There's a barbed wire fence and two more beyond it. That's odd. Why three fences? No matter.

I glance left and right. No one's out there. What luck.

I crouch down, searching for the pliers in my pack. This is too easy. Snip, snip, snip to freedom!

A voice to my left shouts out in German. Damn.

I pivot and sprint towards the trees. I reach the edge of the woods as a shot rings out. I'm not hit.

Another shot rings out. Another miss.

I'm well into the woods, zig-zagging in the dark. Hitting me is a thousand to one chance. Why bother?

A third shot. That thousand to one chance gets me in the shoulder. I go down hard and taste leaves and dirt. Fuck.

I pull myself to my feet. Somehow I'm off and running, beyond conscious thought. More shouts and gunshots are behind me.

I run faster than I'd have believed possible under the circumstances. Over a hill and across a field.

I stumble, catching myself against a tree. I catch my breath, expecting voices crying out but the woods behind me are silent.

I stagger forward. There's a cluster of cottages ahead. A dog barks. Lights turn on.

I stumble onto the road. My legs give out. Darkness follows.

***

I'm being carried. Voices whisper. A man, a woman.

They're not speaking German. French? Maybe. But how?

A woman's face looks down at me. She's as beautiful as anyone I've ever seen. Perfect features and clear white skin. Bright, nearly violet blue eyes.

I try to speak but can't.

Who is she? An angel?

I black out again.

When I wake I'm laying on a bed with my shoulder bandaged tight and my arm in a sling.

I start to move. A soft hand touches my shoulder.

"Be still. You are safe," says a woman's voice with a French accent.

It's the angel. Whoever she is, she's so stunning it's difficult to absorb. Midnight black hair, matching eyebrows. Porcelain features and dimpled chin. A narrow nose and finely-shaped mouth. Full, expressive lips.

She's older than me. In her forties, perhaps, but I don't care. She's mesmerizing.

I notice her eyes once more. They hold me fast, like a witch's spell. Where am I? Who is this vision?

She looks away, speaking to someone. The spell is interrupted.

A man appears, a little fellow with a bald head, long nose, and trim gray beard. His accent is also French. "You are the Américain, I presume. The one the Germans seek."

I try to speak but my mouth is parched. "Water."

"Of course." He glances at the woman.

She leaves, returning with a cup. She holds it to my lips, leaning over me. Her aroma fills my nostrils. It's vaguely citrus, but I can't identify it.

She focuses on her task, eyebrows scrunched together in concentration.

I slosh the water around my mouth.

"Is that better?" she asks.

"Yes. Thank you."

She smiles. "You are welcome."

I look back at the man. "You're not Germans."

He chuckles. "No, we are not. Did you think you were in Germany?"

"Then where am I?"

"Belgium," he says.

I shake my head. "That's impossible."

"Nevertheless, here you are."

"Who are you?"

"Call me Doctor Quénu. As for you, you are a lucky man."

"I don't feel so lucky."

"I had to do a transfusion. A few years ago you would have died, but this war has taught surgeons a few things."

"What is this place?"

"Somewhere the Germans will not find you. Now I must go. You will be in good hands with Emeline."

Emeline. I like it. It sounds like a flower. Something bright blooming in Alpine meadows in spring.

Emeline sees the doctor out. I hear footsteps descend stairs. I'm on an upper floor wherever I am.

When Emeline returns I'm nodding off.

She leans over me. "Rest now."

She brushes my cheek with the back of her fingers. A tingle runs down my spine as I drift off.

***

I wake disoriented. Where am I? Re-captured?

Memories come flooding back. The border. Getting shot. Emeline. Emeline.

I glance around. Wherever I am, it's old. A circular room with massive wooden beams overhead. Rough stone walls. A trio of narrow windows set in recesses. The deep musty scent of centuries-old European buildings.

I sit up. My shoulder is sore but I've dealt with worse.

I'm wearing a clean nightshirt. Someone must've stripped me naked then dressed me. Doctor Quénu? Emeline?

Footsteps climbing stairs again. Emeline enters carrying a serving tray. She wears a gray blouse with a dark blue skirt, fitting her frame as though tailored.

There's no hiding her figure, either. Even in my injured state it's impossible to miss. Full breasts. Hips that fill out her skirt. Soft, feminine curves. Not unlike Frau Weiss.

She smiles. "Good, you are awake. I hope you are hungry."

"Starving."

"Très bien. We will get you up and walking in a minute."

She props pillows behind me and places the tray on my lap.

"Potato soup," she says. "I added wild mushrooms and a splash of cream."

Emeline waits as I try a spoonful. It's the first hot food I've had since Holzminden. Her face lights up when she sees my reaction.

"It's delicious," I say.

Emeline goes to the trio of windows and opens one. "Fresh air will do you good. But it may be some time before you will be able to leave. The Boche are desperate to find you."

"Me?"

She opens another window. "They scour the countryside. You must remain indoors, especially given how much you--how do you say?--stick out like a thumb that is sore. A tall Américain with bright red hair."

"I see your point. How far is the border?"

She shrugs. "Five or six kilometers."

An hour's walk. "That's close."

"The problem isn't getting you there. It's getting across."

I eat more soup, nodding. "The guards."

"The wire."

"The fences? What about them? I just cut my way through."

She stops opening the third window, turning towards me. "You cannot just cut your way through. You would die."

"What? Why?"

"The wire is electrified."

"An electric fence? How far does it go?"

"The entire border."

"That's impossible. That would be hundreds of kilometers."

She nods. "And so it is."

"You're telling me the Germans have built an electric fence along the entire Belgian-Dutch border?"

"Oui. Too many young men were sneaking across to join the Belgian Army at Ypres."

"And I almost bungled into that."

"Perhaps it was lucky the Germans spotted you."

"I'm starting to wonder," I say. "What else do you know about the fence?"

"Not much. They call it le fils de la mort."

"The wire of death?"

"A silly name, no? It reminds me of a circus trapeze act. Except hundreds have died trying to cross it."

I let this latest intelligence sink in as I finish my soup, scraping the last morsels off the bottom of the bowl.

Emeline moves the tray aside. "Now we need to get you moving. Stand."

I swing my legs off the bed. Emeline grabs my elbow. Her grip is strong. "Ready?"

"Yes."

I stand, Emeline supporting me. She has a hand on my hip and another on my shoulder. I sense her hidden strength. I can trust her. She won't let me fall.

We walk around the room. I can manage on my own but don't say so. I enjoy her closeness, breathing in her aroma. Orange blossoms? Yes. Hints of lemon, too.

What a sight we must be. Me in a nightshirt with one arm in a sling and the other around Emeline's shoulder.

She guides me to a chair and I sit.

"One last thing," she says. "But most important."

Emeline twists a wall sconce, turning it all the way until it's parallel with the floor. The wall pops out, revealing a narrow space. There's a bed within along with a small set of drawers, an oil lamp, and a safe.

"We do not know why it is here. Whoever built it was clever, though. Look."

She shows me the inside of the door. There's a handle attached to a bar parallel to the floor.

"You twist it back up when inside," she says. "The bolt slides into place and the sconce returns to its original position. Use the pin to lock it."

She pushes a metal pin attached to the wall via a chain through two rings and the bolt. "Even if someone twists on the sconce while it is locked, nothing will move."

"That's amazing."

"The Boche will come. It is only a matter of time. When they do, you will hide in here. You should sleep in there, too, for if they find your warm bed they will know you are near."

I nod. Wherever this safe house is, it was chosen well.

***

I sit in bed in the hiding place.

The door is open as I read a smuggled British paper dated 11 April 1918. Three weeks old.

In the lead headline, the British have extended the age of conscription to fifty. Fifty? They must be desperate.

Emeline enters the main room bearing a tray. "Time for dinner."

I venture out into the main room and sit at the small table there.

Emeline places a hand on my shoulder. "Read your papers and eat. I will leave you alone."

Our eyes meet for a passing moment and I detect a sparkle. She smiles, turning away. I admire the ample curve of her derrière. Yup. Starting to feel like my old self.

She returns with a cup of medicinal tea as I'm finishing my meal.

I try a sip. "This is awful."

"Drink all of it. It will help with the pain and you will sleep."

I finish the tea and return to the bed in the hiding place. Emeline sits on the edge as I lay back. We chat about the headlines, my eyes drawn to her lips. How'd she react if I sat up and kissed her? Recoil at my impudence, maybe. Or kiss me back.

Even if she did, I'm in no condition to do anything more than kiss her. Not even that. Weakness overtakes me. That's some strong medicine.

"Sleep now," she says.

Emeline gives me a gentle kiss on the cheek. Or did I dream that?

***

Morning again.

I sit up. My shoulder still hurts, but better than before. I climb out of bed. I'm weaker than usual, but stronger than I'd have expected.

I walk to the windows and peek out. Wherever this place is, it's perched on the edge of a lake with woods on the far shore. Birds sing.

There's a small water closet opposite the stairs. Emeline has left out a toothbrush and a tin of tooth powder. I manage to take care of the usual morning rituals without the use of one arm.

I hear footsteps ascending the stairs. Emeline emerges bearing a tray with another woman in tow.

"Bonjour," Emeline says. "Look at you, up and about already. This is Madame Laurent."

Madame Laurent is short and round with black hair turning gray. She has plump cheeks and wary dark eyes.

"Bonjour, Madame," I say with studied formality.

Madame Laurent turns to Emeline and rattles off something in what sounds similar to French but isn't. It's sure not the French they speak in Paris.

Madame Laurent steps towards me. She studies my face and mutters something I can't follow. Shaking her head, she stomps out.

"She seems friendly," I say.

"She has three sons in the Belgian army," Emeline says. "You can trust her."

"What language was that?"

"Walloon."

"Of course. What'd she say?"

"That you are a handsome man but you look like a Viking with your scraggly red beard. And that you smell awful."

"I haven't bathed in weeks."

"We will remedy that later. Now, you eat."

Breakfast is a pair of eggs, a strip of thick bacon, and a piece of buttered bread.

"It couldn't have been easy to get meat or butter," I say.

"You can get what you need if you're prepared to pay extra. I am lucky to have more than most. Besides, you need your strength to heal."

Emeline leaves. I polish off breakfast and read the paper again. She returns with Madame Laurent. They're carrying a bucket of water, a large metal tub, towels, and a set of men's clothes.

"It is time to bathe you," Emeline says.

I stare at them. "I, uh--"

"What?" Emeline says. "You wish to bathe yourself?"

"Well..."

"What does it matter if Madame Laurent and I bathe you? What do you have that she hasn't seen before? As for me, who do you think stripped you down when you first arrived?"

I stare at her.

Emeline rolls her eyes. "Fine. Stand in the tub, use the washcloth to bathe. Be sure not to get your bandages wet."

They leave. I strip down and manage well enough with one arm. The warm water feels good. So does feeling clean again.

Getting dressed is more difficult. The shirt has one arm cut off for me and I get it over my shoulders easy enough. I try to button it with one hand, and fail. Same with the trousers. I pull them up but can't close them.

I sigh. I'm standing with my shirt open holding the front of my pants when Emeline walks in.

She's nonplussed at my predicament. At least Madame Laurent isn't with her.

"How are you managing?" Emeline says.

"I'm having a little trouble buttoning everything. You know, one arm and all."

"You poor thing. Allow me."

She draws close enough that I could kiss her. She looks up at me, the corners of her lips forming the beginnings of a smile.

"Don't be nervous," she says. "I won't hurt you."

She fastens the button below my collar. Her fingertips brush against my chest. I can't breathe.

She does the next button down. I still can't breathe. God, she's so close.

Emeline buttons the rest of my shirt but it remains untucked. She reaches around my waist and tucks my shirt in the back of my pants.

She moves my hands aside and takes hold of the front of my pants. I'm paralyzed.

"Relax," she says softly. "Breathe. It is alright. I have worked as a nurse."

Emeline tucks the front of my shirt in. If she notices my arousal she gives no sign. She buttons my trousers. My pulse races. I might pass out.

"Thank you," I say.

She helps me clip on my suspenders. She backs off, nodding approval. "Well, you no longer smell. Much better. How do you feel?"

"Human again."

"And your shoulder?"

"It's not so bad."

She gathers up the towels. "You may come downstairs if you wish. It is safe."

"It is?"

"We always have a few minutes' warning before the Boche arrive. The only road runs along the far side of the lake and we hear them. Then they must stop to open the gate."

"It'll be nice to get out of this room."

"Come, then. Mind your step,"

I follow Emeline down the twisting stone steps. It's steep and narrow, the only light coming in through narrow slits. "Are we in a Medieval castle?"

Emeline laughs. "No, though a local historian thinks this tower dates back to the Normans. I am not so convinced."

There's a landing for the second floor but we keep going down until we reach the kitchen. Madame Laurent is there, scrubbing a pot. She stops and studies me, saying something to Emeline in Walloon.

"What'd she say?"

"That you no longer smell terrible, but you still need a shave. Come, let me show you the rest of the ground floor."

Emeline shows me around. There's an impressive dining room, a parlor, and a study. The layout is long and narrow.

"This home has had many owners," Emeline says. "Many lives. It has been expanded at least four times."

"I can tell."

"I had electricity installed and put in plumbing before the war."

"That must've cost a fortune," I say.

She shrugs. "The electric line from town was not expensive, nor was the pump for the well. I couldn't do without either, though."

Emeline touches the stone wall of the parlor. "I did not mind the investment. I wanted this place the moment I saw it. It is the Maison de la Jacinthe de Bois."

"Jacinthe de Bois? I don't know that one."

"It means 'bluebell'. You know, the flower."

She points to a painting over the fireplace. It depicts a long stone chateau. The house is a hodgepodge of styles, as if four homes were smashed together. A stone turret rises from near the center with three windows near the top. Blue-violet flowers cover the ground out front.

"This is where we are?" I say. "It's beautiful."

"Oui. In a few weeks, the bluebells will cover the forest all around us."

"A bluebell wood? I've heard of those, but I've never seen one."

"It must be seen for oneself. It is impossible to describe its beauty. That is the way with some things, no? They defy words."