Beyond Revanche, page 24
Three sous on the table and they were off without a goodbye.
“Rue Richelieu, National Library. It’s got every conceivable map.”
“Saves any awkward questions from the war ministry, too.”
Mathieu flashed his identity badge at the entrance and asked for the most up-to-date map of France.
“The Lieutenant will understand that the very latest maps are military and severely restricted.” A pompous sneer was predicated on the librarian’s belief that they were mere policemen.
“Deuxième Bureau,” Jacques reminded the official, whose waxed moustache melted from the heat of his burning cheeks.
“Ah, yes indeed, Sir. Follow me please.”
A general map of the country would have served their purpose, but the assistant was so intent on redeeming himself that he flustered and flitted between several drawers in the map room as if there was a special one, for their eyes only.
“This is the most recent we have in our possession. I have no doubt that the Ministry of War will have a more detailed map, but will this do?”
“Many thanks, Monsieur.”
He bowed and waited.
“Leave us, please.”
“Any man so obsequious must have a bad conscience,” Mathieu mused as they unrolled the paper and placed it carefully on the central table. “Where would you start from? We need a railway line or junction which serves Paris directly. A main route to a town or city with a sizeable river.”
“Or canal,” Jacques reminded him.
“Find a railway timetable from l’Est. Even if it’s pre-war, the destinations will give us some ideas.”
Jacques returned almost immediately with the information. They studied both map and timetable, talking non-stop.
“Troyes? Too far south.”
“Nancy? Perhaps.”
What about Toul?”
“Toul?”
“Toul. Small city, but look at the river and canal interlink. The railway line is extensive. Direct to Paris.”
They pushed the map and railway timetable around the desk.
“Look at the Meuse, it can take riverboats and barges. It’s linked to the canal which goes all the way to Namur and into Belgium.”
“As far as Verdun, I imagine.”
That might be a serious obstacle given the battleground it crossed. Mathieu hadn’t appreciated the extent of the northern canal system. There were thousands of kilometers of waterways in the north and northeast of the country; nearly 300 kilometers in the Canal de la Meuse alone.
“I have to start somewhere and Toul is as good as any. Roux wants me to go alone to cut the chance of leakages. But I need you to be my link to the Deuxième, Jacques. Be in the office at eight in the morning and six at night every day for the next seven. If I have anything urgent to report I’ll phone you under the name of your cousin Henri.”
“I don’t have a cousin Henri.”
He was joking of course, but Mathieu smacked his head for good form.
“You do now.”
* * *
His journey west was somber. If Paris had withered in the cold realism of an all-demanding war, the countryside bore the scars of ever deepening exhaustion with the resignation of despair. The train from Paris strained to share the weight of twenty-one coaches, mostly built to carry goods and livestock, filled with soldiers, provisions, water-pipes, electric cables, small canons, baled cloth, wooden pallets, and bedding which was surely once fresh. Two passenger coaches had been commandeered for officers, and Mathieu took advantage of rank to squeeze into a corner close to an open window. It was cold but bearable; dark with unlit lamps. Conversation which started chirpily in the Gare de l’Est lost the pretense of cheerful banter, kilometer by kilometer, until, by the time a crude gun-thunder could be heard somewhere ahead, it had dwindled to a whispered acknowledgement that the destination was close by. As the train snaked into Toul’s crowded marshaling yard, a new-age nightmare loomed into view. Engineers were repairing water-supply piping in a far siding under makeshift lamps while work parties loaded pumping sets carefully into reinforced wagons. Horses and mules were lined up behind carts and wagons, willing the moment that their burden would be lifted from their shoulders onto the waiting rolling-stock. On an adjoining track, a damaged engine listed awkwardly to the left, its massive rear wheel ruined beyond repair. It would have to wait patiently for a replacement.
Mounds of freshly filled sandbags had been stored on Platform Four, according to the sign which hung tenuously from the station canopy, ready for service either in a mangled trench or, more optimistically, to protect newly won territory in the forthcoming advance. Important business was afoot. Transport officials, both military and civilian, walked purposefully along the track, checking wagons, inspecting the content to ensure that numbers, volume, weight, and loading instructions bore the correct stamp of officialdom gone mad.
Troops newly released from the front began to arrive on Platform Two as their train was signaled into the station, the engine wheezing like an asthmatic in the cold air. For the moment, their tour of duty had been placed on pause. Young lads leapt from the carriages before the engine had time to come to a standstill. Officers in the better quality coaches tried in vain to assert their authority, but to no purpose. They, too, wanted to bring on the wine and the dancing girls, but would probably have to make do with local ale and think themselves lucky. Toul was not the Pigalle of old, though neither was the Pigalle if truth be told.
The basic science of modern warfare challenged the historic rights of nature. At the far side of the marshaling yard lorries stood to attention awaiting tons of gravel and loose stone which would be used further up the line to create a temporary road to the front. Dirt tracks and country lanes were useless in a climate of relentless rain. Though the Romans would have shuddered at the prehistoric nature of these new highways, they served their purpose well. A stream of such routes supported by metaled reinforcement lead across torn fields and advanced on the trench system to enable tens of thousands of lorries and trucks, military hardware and ambulances to support the unfortunates at the front. Experienced engineers made daily checks on their condition because building the network across devastation required constant repair. Preparation for the next advance was essential, though no one yet knew when, and most had forgotten why.
The surreal nature of a world so far removed from previous experience shocked Mathieu. He’d considered himself immune to fresh horror. The human debris floating in Paris sewers, the flotsam and jetsam fished from the canals, the gruesome horror left behind by a child murderer or a vicious assault in a back street robbery ought to have hardened him. But this horror was shameful. The platform, so recently the scene of joyous release, was quickly emptied of high spirits. Expectation had been followed by resignation; anticipation, by dumb fear. A small group of shattered soldiers shuffled from the train, helped by nurses who shepherded them together for their own safety. They lived and breathed, but inside they were dead and gone, ghosts in broken husks masquerading as men. They looked with eyes that did not see. Some shook uncontrollably, others tried to communicate but could only grunt. They bore no visible wound, but their presence filled Mathieu with dread. These were once whole men. What hell did they carry now in their heads?
Under other circumstances Toul would have been an attractive city, with historic battlements and heavily fortified ramparts. Sitting by the river Moselle with canals and waterworks aplenty, its narrow streets and old cellars promised a respite from the misery further north. The ancient cathedral towers would serve as a perfect rangefinder if the Germans burst through the front lines but that was not his immediate concern. Such was the pressure for space in a town on the edge of insanity that Toul’s main police station was housed on the ground floor of the Mairie. Mathieu’s unheralded arrival raised interest. No one had met an officer from the Deuxième and the superintendent greeted him as a long-lost brother. His concerns about black market business were answered with shrugs of disinterest and replaced with questions about life in Paris. Adapt and survive had become Toul’s new motto. Civil matters had to be given their appropriate place, but the military had such an iron grip on the community, that matters like the black market ranked low in the order of priorities.
“You must appreciate that everything changes on a daily basis. The constant flow of a population that is here today and may be dead tomorrow only adds to the confusion. You ask about the black market. I don’t. If you want to know about drunken soldiers fighting outside our café-bars, I don’t, as long as the fight is outside and the military police have been called. We survive by keeping the roads and railway open, the canals around us clear, and the troops moving. You inquire about trains between here and Paris. I don’t. Our railway system is so overcrowded that no one knows for sure what is scheduled to go north, south, or west, no matter what a signature says on a bill of transfer. This is chaos unfettered. Unscripted. Beyond is the abyss. The seventh circle of Dante’s Inferno. Take it from me.” Stress weighed on the superintendent’s shoulders till he could hardly lift his head.
“Look, if you get caught hoarding food, the law will stand on you. If you steal food from your neighbor and get caught, all hell will be let loose. If you can afford to buy extra food from a farmer, is that the black market? There is no black market, unless you are caught. And if someone has a source, do you imagine that they will share it? Quite honestly, I have neither the time nor resources to keep the black market under control.” He paused, knowing that his remarks, though honestly given, reflected badly on his command.
“I do the best I can. If I was ordered to, I’d begin my inquiries at the canal.” The superintendent’s reticence made Mathieu suspect a shard of collusion. “
On the riverbank three battered old coal barges were berthed in formation beside the Bar du Port, an estaminet which had also known grander days. Their connecting ropes had possibly been spun in Napoleon’s day, and like his famous Old Guard, blackened and bruised by sturdy service. Whether they were still watertight was a moot point. From midship to stern the empty black holds reeked of slag and dross with rot and red rust in attendance. Mounds of broken brick and stone sat on patchy decks which had been repaired so often that the original planks struggled to make themselves known. A washing line had been strung across the outer barge with two thin stained towels hanging grimly by their pegs like faded bunting from some long-forgotten celebration.
The tired drinking parlor was crowned by a buckled slate roof which defied physics, but the ivy wrapped around the adjoining beech tree served to hold it fast. Inside, standing against what appeared to be a series of coffins crafted into a serving bar, half a dozen cloth-capped bargemen sipped their beers slowly, talking privately, as if by excluding an outsider they could avoid the conflict around them. This was their private haunt. It smelled of their sweat mingled with a bitter tobacco and the low wooden ceiling had either been painted brown or permanently stained by smoke. Both perhaps. A selection of shovels were stacked close to the only door where, in more affluent quarters, parasols might have stood. They ignored Mathieu. He did not belong.
“Anyone going north in the morning? Got to get as close as I can to the front. Anyone able to help?” His question merited a slow turn of heads in his direction by two of the ancients but their eyes did not linger long.
Silence. No one appeared to have heard but Mathieu understood the process. His presence in the less-than-delicate Parisian underbelly was frequently greeted with similar disinterest, for if an informer was willing to sell information, he was unlikely to respond in public. The key was patience. It would be similar here. He emptied a glass of decent beer and strode briskly towards the first of the barges, prepared for a lengthy wait. From the field to his left, the sound of chomping betrayed the presence of barge horses. They ignored him too, their heads buried in fodder, but they offered a distraction as the evening darkened into twilight.
“You got money? You able to pay to go north?” It was the youngest bargeman, the one who had not even graced Mathieu’s presence with a glance inside the alehouse. His approach belied his awkward stance. Mathieu placed him in his early sixties, legs and arms still strong. He had once been tall but his body was bent from a lifetime’s toil lifting coal bags and emptying filthy barge holds. His enormous hands hung by his side ready for action as if he was a wrestling champion about to squeeze the life from an unwary opponent.
“Yes, I want to get as near as you dare go to the front. What’s your price?”
“You French or Belgian”
“Cheeky bastard.”
“As long as you’re not German…or a spy…ten francs.”
“I don’t want to buy the fucking barge.”
“Five then.”
“Fuck’s sake. If you thought I carried that much money you’d bend over backwards to take me north then smack me over the head with a spade when we’re in the middle of nowhere and dump me into the canal.”
A smile crackled across the big man’s face and fought the dusty grief lines from his frown. “Great idea…why didn’t I think of that?”
“I’ll give you three francs. One now and the rest when we get there.”
“Three francs and risk a firing squad if I’m caught? Do I look dumb?”
“What time do you leave?” The bargeman was offered a single franc and took it.
“Five in the morning. Be here. I won’t wait.”
Mathieu walked smartly back into town. Its lanes appeared empty, but shadows cast by the dimmed lamplight flattened across the cobbles to suggest another world open for business. A drunken soldier sat on the cathedral steps singing a plaintive song, slurred and choked with emotion. He had transformed it from ballad to dirge, though to his ears, it was so beautiful that the saints above him joined in the chorus. Life had slipped from the streets into the cellars, where drink and company were to be had, provided you had a couple of sous. No man wanted the space or time to think. Drinking to oblivion was warmer and more hopeful than another cold bitter night under the stars, frozen to a core so brittle it would willingly snap at the least tremor of gunfire.
He bought another beer and found a seat close to the door. Was this the civilization for which the world claimed to be fighting? Mothers would weep. Fathers would feign pride. Those who were about to die saluted their wine and drank deeply to dispel any thought other than survival. Simmering egos bubbled close to an unstable surface. Every instinct warned Mathieu to leave before the pressure gauge exploded, but having no home to go to, he stayed. Some locals pushed their way through the drunken horde, assuming territorial rights which made little sense under such conditions. Voices were raised. One push, a slip on the sodden floor, and mayhem ensued. Fists were flung at anyone stupid enough to invite, “Come on then.”
“Out, outside. Get yourselves outside. Go on now. No fighting in here. The bar is closed.”
The man and woman behind the counter removed all breakables as quickly as they could, refusing service and demanding order. The natural flow of disorderly violence emptied from the cellar into the narrow lane outside. Unfortunately, army units boasted champions whose duty was to prove themselves the most outrageous of alpha males, and within seconds, serious blows were thrown in all directions. Heads were split but whether that was caused by drunken attacks or the slippery cobbled surface, no one could tell. A full bottle of wine, lobbed blindly over the brawling mob, crashed into the butcher shop wall, wasting its dark red liquid over body and stone. The local lads were cornered, but had the wit to keep their backs to the shop fronts so the enemy lay ahead.
Though he had no intention of being drawn into the general melee, Mathieu recognized the bargeman. Fuck. He had to get him out of there. Shouting grew louder, sharp whistles rent the night. Angry guttural barks joined the free-for all.
“MPs” a voice sounded alarm.
“The dogs!” someone yelled.
At least one of the brawlers understood the merciless power of unleashed canine hoodlums. Whoever shouted, the warning was wasted. No one heard, or if they did, no one cared. Mathieu’s bargeman slipped and landed on his shoulder, winded but not hurt. Two military Rottweilers snarled in his direction, forcing him hard against the wall. He lunged at the first and kicked it in the ribs and dragged the bargeman back into the fray. He was punched in the ear for his generosity but held onto his catch.
“Come on, we have to get out of here. You’re my ticket north…”
He left the sentence unfinished in the expectation that the bargeman would recognize him, but instead found himself rolling on the cold cobbles. The older man was in a blind rage, fists clenched, face set in determined revenge, unaware that Mathieu rescued him from the dogs. One twist of his stronger torso and the bargeman was forced back so that they sat for a second, face to face.
“You.”
“Yes, me. Trying to help. You oaf.”
Explanations had to wait. Neither of them wanted to be arrested. They ran down a narrow lane, the bargeman first. Mathieu could see that his new companion had a curious limp, as if his foot had been broken and reset at the wrong angle. He panted, “Non,” to two shadowy figures, while a third received a kinder, “Not now, Mirelle,” before they slowed to walking pace. Only then did he realize that these had been ladies of the night. No one followed. Dark unlit lanes invited not the unsuspecting. Military policemen were no strangers to the boundaries of law enforcement.
“I’m Mathieu.”
“Bistrot,” came the panting response. “Christ, I hate dogs. They freak me out. Sense my fear, but what can you do?” He drew breath and spat phlegm so black you could have set it on fire and lit a room for a night. Mathieu felt him wince more than saw his grimace. Bistrot bore inner scars from fifty years of coal dust. That stood to reason.
“Will you be ready to leave at five?”
“I’m ready to leave right now, but we have to wait until the lock system opens. Strict rules.”
