A Wee Story In Progress

[Hanrahan 2983]

As the title says. I /LOVE/ constructive criticism!

 

July 23^rd, 1914, France.

 

“Come on now, brighten up! You’ve done a marvelous bit of work over the year, take a break, you’ll burn yourself out if you don’t relax at some point, Major.”

 

 

“That’s Major Sir to you, Mr. Chaillon.” I couldn’t help but smirk; he was entirely right. I had given it my all, a full year of dedicated studies, essays, books, and most importantly to the staff, field training. Being one of the older fellows about, most of my little mayhem patrol being made of up teenagers and a few twenty year olds, they had adopted me as a sort of communal father sort; myself being the ripe old age of thirty seven.

 

“Oh, you’re hardly any fun, Roseau. We’ve been on leave since the start of summer; you can hardly expect any of us to really be so formal. There’s wine to drink, women to woo, countryside to roam!”

 

“Mmhm.” I looked up from my book. “Very important things for a young Ami, non?” “There’s more to life then wine and wooing, Chaillon.”

 

“Pfah. Maybe for you, Ami. But I intend to make the most of my leave.” 

 

“I certainly hope you do, Ami.” I shut my book, sitting up from the soft barstool, placing my Kepi neatly on my head, perfectly I must say. “Mr. Chaillon, let us remove ourselves from this establishment, and take a little stroll about, Oui?” Letting out an audible sigh, the young private did as I neatly suggested, downing his drink, getting up and walking to the door, holding it open for  me.

 

“Merci, mon Ami.”

 

 “As always, Papa.”

 

 I chuckled. “Again with that, my goodness; you’d think I raised this entire platoon from teething age. Come on now, Chaillon. If you must be so informal, call me Roseau, you know that.”

 

 “Oui, I know that. But, it seems…disrespectful.”

 

I let out a small sigh. “Very well, you insubordinate. I don’t suppose I can change it at all?”

 

 “Non.” He smirked, tipping his hat.

 

“Shut up.”

 

“You know, we should have a… little to-do down at the mess hall to celebrate the seasons end, Oui?”

 

We wandered past one of the Air forces new planes, a three seat biplane, an absolutely beautiful little piece of engineering where my second little hooligan was stationed.

 

“Mister Leon!” The young fool was standing on the wing of the damned thing, prancing about like it was the ground itself. “Remove yourself from that this instant, it’s made of canvas, not cement!”

 

“Oh?” He tipped his hat to the side, and jumped off the top wing, grabbing the propeller to slide down.

 

“You are an absolute menace, Mister Leon. That being said, congratulations I certainly couldn’t do anything like that.” I walked over to pat him on the shoulder. It would be a titch unfair of me to lecture him off duty, and on the first day free of the school. “But don’t you ever treat a plane like that again, those are valuable.”

 

Grumbling a weak little apology, he sprung back with gusto, already going to walk the opposite way to the bar. I caught him by the arm, twisting him a 180. “Non Non Non, Ami. You’re coming with us.” I grinned devishly.

 

-----

 

We reached the stables in fair time, the hand having already prepared my horse. “Thank you.” I nodded to him in thanks as I mounted the white steed, taking care not to ruffle my coat or tip my hat. “And to you, Chaillon – don’t go wild while I’m gone!” Kicking her gently into action and leaving the base, I waved my hat to the small group that watched me depart, and then spurned her to a nicely paced trot. Heading back home, I was. St. Michel, a beautiful little border town with ripe fields and green trees all about. Most of the village would be out harvesting, and most of the children would be out gobbling up the harvest greedily.

 

Fortunately for me, farming duty was not on my list of scheduled jobs. My duty lay in doing one simple task – relaxing over the summer, and not stressing about much of anything. Easy enough, one would think…

A week’s ride from Reims to St. Michel, but a pleasant one, and not too taxing, thank goodness. Many of the farmers and villages on route were quite happy to see me, no doubt due to my uniform. Bit unfair on that part, but it’s always nice to be respected in this line of work. Goodness knows the regular infantryman isn’t respected as much as he should be. I hardly lift a finger; it’s them who shoot, bleed and die out there.

 

I decided to stop by in roadside tavern for the night; however the family running the establishment was rather quiet and moody much to my worry. When I inquired as to why, they grimly handed me the newspaper. Headlines, the Arch-Duke had been killed by some upstart Balkan peasant, Serbian it read; Sarajevo, of all places. The old fool most likely should have seen it coming; it’s unwise to parade through a territory you only just annexed. The Austro-Hungarians paid dearly for their greed for land, let it serve as a reminder to them. Well, Cest’domage.

 

After eating a nice meal, settling into bed, and having a proper good nights sleep, as a civilian none the less. I still wore my uniform – it felt too strange to be out of it after almost an entire year in the thing. As an added plus, Officers kit was trimmed to perfection, far better then most civilian clothes I could have found. My breakfast was passable, and the company fair. Farmers and farmhands, the usual sort of folk who are more interested in how the crops will turn out then which duke where was shot. How incredibly fortunate of them to be in such a mindset, it certainly worries me.

 

I still couldn’t get it out of my head; the Arch-Duke had been shot. Not the most pleasant man, or powerful, but he certainly was part of Europe’s elite, and when a man such as that ‘leaves the field’, it doesn’t bode well for anyone else. I picked up another paper on route speaking of ‘heated’ talks between Austro-Hungarian and Serbian authorities, and it doesn’t seem the Austrians wish for the matter to clear up cleanly. Thankfully, half of the monarchies are closely related, and the rest are cousins anyway. Though, I do worry about the Czar, he’s been awfully keen on the Slavs of late.

 

Of course, it won’t come to war, and even if it does, that’s for Eastern Europe, not the west. A silly trifle in a far-away land of little consequence, the powers in the east can fight their little wars. The King and the Kaiser are calm enough sorts to keep the west out of it, thank goodness. It’s about time Germany’s had a good head on her shoulders. A little extravagant and flairish the old Kaiser is, but as a Frenchman I can hardly critique the man, we’re not one for drab and gray ourselves.

 

Another day, come and gone, on the road yet still. Only one day away from home, and my god, that will be quite pleasant. There’s a soft bed, and a soft and sweet girl waiting for me in my – well, not truly mine yet, but my family’s villa. My father is the mayor, and my mother; well… the Mayors wife, anyway. Passing through the countryside reminded me of how beautiful my own country was – a year in a grey fortress tends to separate you from the masses, and even the country, to a degree. Ornate, but not beautiful, the Military fort was.

 

Ah, the military. I had studied military history in University, and as such, was eligible for instant promotion to Major if I ever joined the Grand Armeé. I did, and it has certainly done me well. Ten years of the business, and thank god, me or my men haven’t seen a minute of action. Of course, I don’t exactly field an army, mind you. Just ten men, if I count myself. Trained in a new concept, my little patrol specializes in almost every aspect of modern combat from demolitions to sniping to even flying.

 

Chaillon was the fellow I was speaking about earlier; he was one of the smartest, and most talented of the troop, but also the youngest, and that means…unwise. He was the pilot, and had built himself quite the interesting little plane; it could audaciously fit four people. So, three trips and our little mayhem patrol is where it needs to be, and in utterly superb time. But, that’s a story for later. All of my patrol would be out in Paris, drinking and dancing, and I don’t really blame the chaps. They’re young, excitable and must do it now, if not later. Myself on the other hand, I’ve got duties, good and bad.

 

I arrived extremely late at night, hitching up my horse at the post, and stumbling groggily, and attempting my best to not wake anyone up in the Villa. In through the back door, slip off my hobnail boots, turn left, up the stairs – stairs always seem to creak only at night, when you’re attempting to be stealthy, I digress. Up the stairs, to the left down the hallway and the third door would be my room. A year away from home unfortunately tends to dampen your memory of a place, and I stumbled and fumbled, apparently loud and early enough to wake a certain someone.

 

Slipping into my room, and thinking for all the world I’m alone, I do as most people do – let down my guard, relax, and shake it out a bit. A day of riding makes one very stiff. I hung up my coat and Kepi, and sat on the bed, still in the dark, when some certain mischievous rat decides to wrap their arms around my neck, not making a sound. I froze – my revolver and knife were in their respective places – my boots and my holster, frighteningly far away from me.

 

“You look tired.” Said a slightly familiar and most certainly feminine voice.

 

“…Not wrong, Ami.” I un-tensed, melting in her arms.

 

“You are not tired. You will be, after this.” A soft giggle in the dark.

 

The Next morning I was slightly refreshed, but far more comfortable then when I walked in the door. My girl was nowhere to be seen, but I could certainly smell what she had done in the kitchen – the girl spoils me, I really must say. The finest country breakfast, all laid out in an elegant manner, all beautiful colours and fair aromas.

 

 

France, Russia and Serbia were at war with Germany and Austria-Hungary. I… was not too worried, yet reading deeper into it and knowing just a little about our military, I was confident about the entire affair. We would be fine, and it, even if it went poorly… would be over in a few months. Modernity and reason has unbloodied the field of battle; civilians don’t bear the brunt of war anymore. Armies clash and troops fight, but civilian raids? Massacres? Looting and raping? It is a thing long of the past, and not something a well disciplined army does. Even our enemies are behaved, and would not do such an act.

 

Feeling a little more awkward then usual in my uniform, I had a small stroll about my village, aiming to wander to the farms where my parents were. It didn’t take very long; I had grown up here, and knew their daily routine by heart. They were in the Apricot orchards, filling the baskets and reaping the harvest of their labor, good, honest work. Giving them a quick hug, I wished them well, and they send a letter to my sister in England. They wished me well, and I quickly departed my home on the second day I had arrived. Cest’domage.

 

 

Mounting up once more, I would take the next few days to re-trace my steps back to Paris, with each day’s newspaper getting grimmer and grimmer. The German advance was akin to the once seven years before my birth, lightning fast and brutal. They swept through northern France with fervor, and also through Belgium – Britain had joined the war as well, thank goodness. My fear lay in the proximity to St. Michel to the border, and if the Germans would simply pass by.

 

They did not. The war map shown to me in Paris activated my deepest fears; for the enemy was at our very doorstep. Reims, Verdun, all of it was behind the ever pushing line of the German. Included in that, was my home, what I had left only a month before in fine comfort and confidence. My specialty squad had not seen battle yet, thank goodness, but I fear it was inevitable.

 

October 13^th, 1915, Paris.

 

I knew little of what occurred in the trenches, what true suffering and anguish those men went through. Six of our squad had been moved to the trenches into Arras, leaving us with four. With myself serving as Captain, Jacque as demolitions, Petit Chaillon as our pilot, and Monsier Leon as our sniper, making a beautifully effective crack-squad. We’d had a few various small internal missions, subtly roust a spy here, capture a few soldiers there, but it was all within France. Our next task would take us to a place I could not have predicted in a thousand years.

 

[Knox213 10]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.