Author's note: Can you believe I wrote this in a couple of days? I hardly can, considering I'm still working on a one-shot that should have been finished a couple of years ago! But apparently deadlines are a good motivation :o)
Disclaimer: Louis LeBeau was created by Albert Ruddy; the rest of the characters by yours truly. Hope I can use them again some time, they were fun to create and play with.
Iron Harvest
July 1922
The forest was quiet, cool, and perfect for exploring.
The mid-July sun had to be hitting the pavement and the cobblestones in Paris like a hammer on an anvil. Here, though, in the heart of the country, it only caressed the tree leaves and made pools of bright light on the ground. The forest seemed to sleep, to rest, breathing slowly and deeply and waiting for the sunset to come alive again properly.
The seven children were surrounded by a discreet symphony of chirping, tweeting, crackling and rustling; for a moment they forgot that the adults were just a stone's throw away and entertained the notion of being the only human beings on earth.
And then Émile tripped and muttered a profanity he would never have dared to utter in front of Aunt Jeanne, and the spell was broken.
Louis had been in the woods near Épernay before, in the summer just before the war. He had dim memories of a family picnic, like today, only he had been only six, Adèle just a baby, and Jeannot a toddler. Adventuring had been only for the eldest: Martin, Louis, Marguerite, and their cousins Émile and Marie.
And there they were again, eight years later, taking advantage of Bastille Day to gather the family again for the first time since July 1914. Maman and Papa, along with Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Baptiste, were enjoying a rare country outing by sitting on the patched-up covers thrown on the ground, after a good and hearty – if unconventional, by their standards – lunch, and the children had set off after swearing they wouldn't go too far.
"Shh," said Émile when he was steady on his feet again, as if Louis and the others had been the ones to make noises. "We don't want to scare the beasts."
"Right," said Marguerite with a snort, "because you're hunting for… Remind me what you wanted to go hunting for again?"
"Bears. Maybe tigers." It was Louis' turn to snicker at Émile's gleeful answer. Émile flicked a glance to Adèle, who stomped through the undergrowth with all the determination of an eight-year-old bent on following her elders. "We can always give them little Adèle as bait."
He had probably aimed for a nasty joke rather than scaring her. Louis moved to her side to take her hand in case he had. But she raised her chin stubbornly and piped up, "Teacher said there are no bears here. And tigers live in Africa."
"Asia," whispered Martin with a chuckle in his voice. "And honestly, I think we're the most dangerous animals around here."
Of all the cousins, Martin was the oldest, the biggest, and the tallest. He was eighteen and worked at the Halles, selling flowers at the crack of dawn; as such, he had authority, by way of being Older and Responsible, but it was his sweet disposition and even temper that made him the natural anchor of their little group. Marie, who had looked nervous at her brother's remark – even though she was one year older than Louis and really should know better, having to deal with Émile on a daily basis – relaxed, and Jeannot suppressed a giggle.
"So what are we looking for, really?" asked Louis, who only liked the wild for the novelty factor, which was fading fast in the absence of actual adventures. He preferred the city by far. And by 'city', he meant Paris – Épernay, where his aunt, uncle, and cousins lived, was merely a town in his eyes.
Jeannot beamed. "Raoul from my class said that he found cases and stuff in a clearing not far from here. He has a marble that's actually a bullet. No, wait – I mean, the stuff they put in cannons."
"A cannon ball?" asked Marguerite quizzically.
"No! I said it's like a marble. It doesn't really roll right but it's the best to play eagle's eye."
"A shrapnel grain," Martin supplied, always helpful.
"I don't want to play marbles," said Émile with what looked like a pout. "The terrain isn't right."
"We could play soldiers," Jeannot pointed out, but Adèle crossed her arms.
"I don't want to play soldiers. I always end up being the nurse."
"Marguerite can be the nurse," said Marie, ever the peacemaker. "You can be a soldier's sweetheart."
Louis knew his sisters well, and he burst out laughing at the suggestion while the two girls exclaimed at the same time:
"I'm not the nurse, I'm the war reporter!"
"I don't want to be the sweetheart, all they ever do is write to soldiers and wait!"
"You can't be a war reporter, Marguerite," said Émile, frowning. "That's for boys."
"There are journalists who are women!" retorted Marguerite, all of twelve years old and already stubborn about the things that mattered.
"No there aren't!"
"Yes there are!"
"No they're not!"
"There are so, you little –"
"We're here!" crowed Jeannot.
The woods opened up into a clearing, and they were greeted by the open sky and a hot summer sun. The grass was scant and on the yellow side of green where the trees' shade didn't touch the ground. They could even see a completely bare patch of earth in the near distance.
The forest had been quiet, but the silence here was all-encompassing. The small hairs on the back of Louis' neck were suddenly raised, and it took him a few moments to figure out why.
"Shh," he whispered. "Do you hear that?"
Everyone looked at him with various degrees of puzzlement, and pricked up their ears.
Then Martin frowned. "Where did all the birds go?"
Nature hadn't been silent till now. Even through their bickering and lively conversations, Louis hadn't failed to notice that the forest, though quiet, was in no way silent. It wasn't the noises of the city, the horse carriages, the tram and the cars, the bicycle bells and the passers-by, but rather the wind in the leaves, birds singing, warbling and squawking, insects adding their own funny little sounds to the canvas.
None of that was audible now. There wasn't even a cricket to be heard.
"Right," said Émile in a low voice, "let's split up and search. First one who finds Jeannot's marbles gets to keep them."
Louis was fourteen and too old for marbles, but the mystery of the silent clearing was intriguing. The bare patch of soil looked ugly and smelled funny, so he stayed clear of it and ventured into the higher bushes some ways towards the left, still grinning at the exchange between Émile, Adèle and Marguerite.
The actual war had ended just three and a half years ago, but the neighbourhood children still enjoyed the occasional game of soldiers. Louis generally wasn't much for pretend-fighting, however, and didn't participate much in the actual mock-combats. When he did fight – and, to be fair, it had happened more often than his parents had liked – it wasn't for a game, but because someone had insulted him or tried to bully his friends or younger sisters. Then, and only then, did he launch into battle with his fists raised. Since he was small and a little on the scrawny side, he often walked away rather worse for wear, but figured – like Marguerite, like Adèle, like Martin, all in their own ways – that the things that mattered were worth fighting for.
Besides, he generally preferred to play pirates or musketeers anyway.
Martin's voice came from somewhere near him, announcing that he had found a shrapnel grain, and he resumed his search.
The next moment, he caught a glimpse of faded blue on the ground and stopped, puzzled.
After a closer look he scrambled back, feeling like someone had dropped him into icy water. Blood drained from his face so fast he saw stars for a second.
Opening his mouth felt like a really bad idea, but he managed to turn to his big brother and call weakly, "Martin. I… Something. Look."
The look on his face must have filled in the blanks. Martin only glanced at him and hurried to his side.
"What's the matter, L—oh." The last word was breathed more than it was spoken. It left Martin's throat like it was ripped from his chest.
The blue had been cloth, once. The rags of it were wrapped around something that had been a man, once. Time, animals, and the elements had reduced him to a thing, not even a body, something sad and twisted and impossible to reconcile with the image of a human being. The more Louis stared at it, the more some treacherous part of his brain whispered, 'that is a nose', 'that was an arm', 'that used to be an ear', in a little voice that seemed to be coming from far, far away. Unless Louis was the one who was far, far away, and the voice was the only thing that remained aware of the world around them.
The words of Rimbaud's poem rose, unbidden, in his mind, until it was all he could think about.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut…
The corpse had been a soldier. Maybe, like the sleeper from the poem, he had been lying in the grass once, his mouth open, his head bare, looking for all the world like he was sleeping. Somehow, Louis doubted it. If what lay at his feet was indeed what the war had looked like, the nameless soldier had not been granted the dignity to die looking like a human being.
Louis started violently when he felt Martin's arm around him, drawing him close. His breathing gradually went back to normal as he leaned into the touch.
When he looked up, his brother's face was ashen.
Martin drew a ragged breath, and turned to the rest of their little troop.
"Adèle, Jeannot, Marie, go get Papa and Uncle Baptiste, please."
Marguerite looked at him sharply, and Émile glanced up at him, surprised. The other three stood there, looking uncertain and probably wondering if they had heard right.
"But I haven't found anything yet!" protested Jeannot, while Marie made a face and said:
"Does it really have to be us three? It just takes one of us to –"
"Please," Martin interrupted softly. "Now."
His voice was low, he sounded tired. Maybe he was just breathless. Louis had downright forgotten how to speak loudly.
It appeared to convince the three youngest that the day had gone from an adventure to something a little more serious. They scarpered.
Marguerite took a step closer, followed by Émile. "What's wrong? What did you find?"
"A body," Martin answered frankly. "From the war. I don't want you to look at it. It's not… Just don't look. Trust me."
Marguerite paled. Émile took a step back, looking grim.
Marie returned a moment later with Uncle Baptiste while Adèle and Émile talked animatedly to Papa about what they had harvested, slowing him down. When Louis heard his uncle limping closer, a thought sneaked into his mind and froze him all over again.
Jules LeBeau had returned from the war largely unchanged, physically speaking. Life in the LeBeau home was as normal as could be, apart from the gaping four-year hole in his children's memories where their father should have been – it had taken a long time for Adèle to even call him 'Papa' – and the fact that he sometimes went silent and still, or occasionally jumped at loud noises. His brother-in-law had left half his right leg in the trenches, and everything from the knee down was artificial. The word 'prosthesis' was a new enough addition to his children's vocabulary that Jeannot still had trouble pronouncing it correctly.
It could have been Papa down here. Or Uncle Baptiste.
It could be Papa's cousin Auguste – no, they had found his body. But it could be Mme Rénier's husband from the bakery. Or his neighbour Lucie's dad. Or his former classmate Ernest's big brother.
Suddenly Louis was very glad to be away from Paris, from his block, from his street, where his family was one of the rare households who didn't wear the mourning black. Being surrounded by so much darkness got stifling fast if you stopped to acknowledge it.
Uncle Baptiste looked down, and flinched. Then he sighed.
"I'll tell the police when we get back home. They might be able to identify him and notify his family. At least they'll have a body to prove he did die."
"Is there…" Louis only realised that his jaw had unclenched when he heard his own voice. "There's a lot of soldiers like him, hein?" Martin wordlessly drew him tighter.
Uncle Baptiste nodded solemnly. "Yes. A lot. But at least you found him, whoever he is. He'll be able to rest in holy ground, hopefully with his family."
There was a familiar quick, energetic footstep behind them. Papa wasn't a tall man, but he often seemed to radiate such energy that it made him look bigger than he was.
"I sent the other children back, it's not – oh, merde."
The word shook both Louis and Martin out of their stupor. Papa never swore. Not in front of them, at least.
Louis bit down a giggle that would have been utterly inappropriate. In some ways he was grateful for the unexpected warmth, though.
"I'll notify the right people," said Uncle Baptiste. "What were you saying about the kids?"
"They were hanging around the bare earth over there. I'm not sure, but I think there used to be a munition depot or something during the war. They must have stored bombs or gas shells that leaked." He stopped in front of his sons and looked them over. Martin was taller than him, but he still had to bend a little to catch Louis' eye. "You all right, boys?" he asked kindly, if a little forcefully.
They nodded, and let themselves be towed away by their father and uncle.
"Don't worry," said Uncle Baptiste. "If that damn war was good for something, it's having knocked sense into the world. We'll never see another war like that. Lesson learned."
Uncle Baptiste was tall, broad, and his voice always seemed to rumble down like pebbles from a mountain. He was very easy to believe and to trust. But Louis noticed that his father didn't smile and nod his approval, but shook his head with a sigh.
Louis thought about the patch of poisoned earth in the clearing, and the man lying behind the bushes, mangled and broken and alone, and for the first time in his life hoped that his father was wrong.
June 1940
The ground around LeBeau erupted in sprays of dirt and soil like so many brown fireworks. He threw himself down and rolled into a ball, trying to make himself as small as possible.
Above him, the Stukas howled as they spit down fire and death, their sirens shrieking in his ears despite the hands he had clamped, tight as he could, around his head. Surely the earth was shaking, the sky was falling, and the world was ending, chattered the shrill voice of panic in his head, drenching him in ice.
His eyes were screwed shut so tightly he could see colours, like a kaleidoscope, abruptly replaced by a flash of memory – the image, sharp even after almost two decades, of the unnamed soldier's remains in the clearing.
The thought went through him like a bolt of fire.
This is going to be me, I'm going to die here – and unlike that poor guy in the bushes nobody will even find my body, because my uniform is brown, brown like the earth, not blue, and nobody will ever catch a glimpse of sky blue in this bloody soil – I'll never see the sky again – I'm going to die alone and no-one will ever know –
The world kept crashing around him in a storm of iron and earth. He clenched his jaw around the oncoming whimper and shut his brain down on a train of thought that threatened to turn hysterical.
It lasted a few seconds more, and it lasted an eternity.
When the silence and the pretence of serenity came back, LeBeau shifted faintly under a blanket of dirt and shredded roots and grass. The realisation that he was unhurt, when it finally hit, was a muted surprise, as though it had happened to somebody else. He slowly sat up and ran a shaking hand over his face to wipe it clear of mingled earth and tears, trying to get his ragged breathing under control. In the meantime, he let his mind wander, mainly because he still had trouble stitching two coherent thoughts together.
He had not thought of the unnamed soldier in the clearing in years. Uncle Baptiste had been as good as his word; he had knocked on many doors and moved heaven and earth to have the man identified. Thankfully, his remains still bore his identity tag, which had stayed legible. He had been sent to his eternal rest in the family plot of the cemetery somewhere in the south, his name had been engraved on his village's monument aux morts, and his widow and children had finally received compensation from the state.
And now, just over twenty years later, war was cutting down people again on the same land as it had, tainting the same ground with corpses, lead, and chemicals which killed plants and drove birds and insects away.
There would probably still be plenty of occasions for LeBeau to end up like that one soldier, like many other soldiers, alone, forgotten, robbed of their humanity and their name. Soldiers and civilians, his brain unhelpfully pointed out. War extended that same courtesy to anyone. It turned people into things.
His breath hitched. For a second, he regretted the recent past, just a few months ago, when his uniform was white and the only "brigade" he worked in was his kitchen staff. The memory of how things had been, and should still be, was an almost physical ache.
The sensation was gone in a moment as soon as he heard gunfire in the distance. The sound ripped through the ever-present birdsong and little noises of nature LeBeau only realised now had resumed right after the planes had gone.
He took a deep breath and picked himself up carefully, brushing the worst of the dirt off his uniform. Some remained, brown on brown, and he decided there were more important things to deal with.
Maybe the war hadn't really stopped in 1918, only continued in other ways. From what LeBeau remembered from newspapers and cinema news, Germany had been waging war on itself well before looking to export it to Austria, Czechoslovakia, and Poland. Maybe the war wouldn't stop if France lost (and they were not winning, this LeBeau knew for sure, though he always tempered it by adding as an afterthought "Not yet"), and would continue in other countries, poisoning the ground and burying people whose loved ones would never hear of again unless children stumbled upon their corpses on a sunny summer afternoon.
In the meantime, however, the sun was shining, he still hadn't lost, and he hadn't died. He had misplaced his squadron just before the German air attack, but surely they couldn't have gone too far.
LeBeau staggered towards the sounds of battle, his identity tags pressed against his chest under his heavy jacket.
As soon as he was out of sight, birds flocked down to forage for food in the earth the bullets had ploughed.
Translations/notes:
Monument aux morts: "monument to the dead", war memorial. Pretty much every single city, town, and village in France has one with the names of its WW1 dead engraved on it.
The titular "iron harvest" is what Belgian and North-Eastern French farmers find in their fields every year, even now: shrapnel, bullets, unexploded bombs, and leakage from stocked ammunition (including lethal gases) from World War 1. There are still places, in forests and fields, where nothing grows because the heavy metals, arsenic, and everything needed to make bombs have poisoned the soil. I had never heard of the term before I did my research for this story, and it doesn't seem to be used a lot in French; then again, I live in the South West, where you're more liable to find leftovers from World War 2 and the Atlantic Wall on the sand dunes and the beaches along the ocean. Everything you bury in sand, no matter how deeply, ultimately rises to the surface. That's why building a fire on the beach is really, really not recommended: not only the forest behind the dunes is usually very dry, but there's always the risk of lighting a fire right above an unexploded shell or an old stock of ammo. (The bunkers have been disappearing into the ocean for the past 70 years. They leave blocks of concrete and rebars on the shore.)
The poem quoted is Arthur Rimbaud's "Le Dormeur du val" ("The Sleeper in the Valley"). It's a short poem often learned in school (like I did); it was written in 1895 and Rimbaud was long considered somewhat scandalous, so odds are Louis didn't learn it in school, though. It goes like this:
C'est un trou de verdure où chante une rivière
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent ; où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit : c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue,
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort ; il est étendu dans l'herbe sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumière pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme :
Nature, berce-le chaudement : il a froid.
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine ;
Il dort dans le soleil, la main sur sa poitrine
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
Translated into English (couldn't find the translator's name, unfortunately):
It's a green hollow where a river sings
Madly catching white tatters in the grass.
Where the sun on the proud mountain rings:
It's a little valley, foaming like light in a glass.
A conscript, open-mouthed, his bare head
And bare neck bathed in the cool blue cress,
Sleeps: stretched out, under the sky, on grass,
Pale where the light rains down on his green bed.
Feet in the yellow flags, he sleeps. Smiling
As a sick child might smile, he's dozing.
Nature, rock him warmly: he is cold.
The scents no longer make his nostrils twitch:
He sleeps in the sunlight, one hand on his chest,
Tranquil. In his right side, there are two red holes.
French soldiers' uniforms changed in 1915, from the infamous dark blue coat/bright red trousers to a sky blue (the poetically-named "bleu horizon") that was supposed to better camouflage the men by having them blend into the sky during sorties. (Also, we severely lacked khaki tincture, which might have been a factor.) Note that the other corps (Navy, Air Force, "Indigenous" (colonial) battalions, Foreign Legion, etc.) all had different uniforms – this particular shade of blue was for the land army, the "poilus" ("hairy ones", because it was tough to maintain personal hygiene in the trenches).
Fun – so to speak – fact: my amatxi (Basque grandmother) was born in 1914, like Adèle in the story. By the time she was five years old, so many people (mostly women) around her were wearing mourning clothes that she one day told her mother, "Maman, I love you, but when you die I won't wear black." To which my great-grandmother replied, "You'll do what you want, love. Besides, I'll be dead. I won't care." Amatxi kept her word, because she lived to be almost 99 years old and I don't remember her ever wearing black.
Over 670,000 soldiers, all nationalities combined, including about 300,000 French soldiers from mainland and colonies of the time, are still missing and/or buried anonymously along the Western front.
(oops – sorry about the lengthy history lesson :S)