This poem is published with permission of Thaddeus MacChuzzlewit, who wrote and owns the story on which it is based. It's a tribute to my favorite story of hers, Let's Play Fill in the Blanks, which I urge you to go off and read immediately! These events are recounted in chapter 4. A very special thank you goes to mrspencil for reviewing my work and offering many excellent suggestions.
UP IN SMOKE
Late night, the moon, and shifting clouds.
Wet burnt wood, the smell of ashes.
The air so heavy it enshrouds
A clearing and a crumbling barn.
What happened here?
A crusty voice says "Was ist das?"
Quick! Handkerchief and chloroform.
The soldier slumps on dry, burnt grass.
Carter drags him to the bushes.
He'll keep quiet.
Advance with Kinch.
We halt in shock.
Familiar place, razed to the ground,
Ruins and cinders where it stood.
Charred ceiling beams atop a mound
Of blackened wreckage, fouled by flames.
Where are my men?
Carter is back. I point; they go,
Split right and left. Surveillance time.
They scout for guards. We have to know
If anyone is watching us.
Where do I start?
Kick a chunk of
Burnt black shingle.
Look above me. Sky grows darker
As swirling clouds blot moonlight glow.
Crouch down. Spot tags. Numbered markers,
Tallies of death amid debris.
Did they survive?
Send up a prayer.
What have I done?
My heart jitters. Two of my best,
Newkirk, LeBeau—I sent them here.
Through missions, danger, and arrest
I've never lost a man. Not yet.
Why them, not me?
Their job: Retrieve a suspects list
Naming names of all our agents.
Dangerous mission, awful twist.
Protecting vital information.
Who interfered?
Pull myself together quickly.
Trusted agents, walking toward me.
Their eyebrows knitted, Wolfe and Vogt
Are mystified, as I am too.
Through gritted teeth and sooty throat
I tell them what I've figured out.
It isn't much.
"A confrontation went down here,
And our boys got caught up in it."
I spoke, and Carter blanched with fear.
Kinch tensely gripped his rucksack straps,
Comfort? No words.
His knuckles, taut.
His eyes, cast low.
Spent bullet shells strewn on the ground.
Tags mark where bodies must have lain.
Gone now. I know what he's thinking.
Who died here? The Krauts, or our men?
Can't I answer?
Kinch points and the night seems colder.
"Two bodies were right here," he says.
"We don't know whose; we don't know when…"
Desperate for an explanation,
I grasp at straws.
"We'd hear something
If they were caught."
Then Wolfe asks: "Did they leave the list
In the tunnel for safekeeping?"
Wolfe's hopeful question is dismissed
As Carter states the obvious:
"They're not back. Yet."
"Not your tunnel. The escape route.
The one that runs beneath the barn.
If they're watching, it's our way out.
A secret path in case of harm."
Wait. What tunnel?
Wolfe leads the way.
I dare to hope.
Tunnel exit, blocked by rubble
That chokes off a disguised trap door.
Pry it open. Take the trouble.
We've done it all and more before.
Could they be trapped?
Twenty minutes, sweat and toil,
Haul away a hunk of lumber.
Worry, fear… a tightening coil.
I drop from light into darkness
And call, "Hello?"
Silence, until a flash of light
Startles me and I stumble back.
"Maudit Boche!" That's my gut, all right…
Kicked by a man swearing in French.
LeBeau, he lives.
Eyes water at LeBeau's fierce grip.
I look around expectantly.
Newkirk's here, refining a quip.
Of course he is. Or isn't he?
"He's not with you? Mon Dieu!"
One safely home.
One still missing.
Trudge down dark road. I must be lost.
The smell of petrol hits the air.
At night, the flames lick round my feet.
I can't remember anywhere.
I wake up screaming: Where's my mate?
Am I too late? And what's my name?