.
.
The flower of England face down in the mud
And stained in the blood of a whole generation
- from "Children's Crusade" by Sting
.
.
The man with the gun is named Dieter Hesse.
He arrives at the train station late – later than he would have liked, damn this leg of his – only to discover two things: the Paris Metropolitan Police have closed it to the public, and there's a crowd of people completely blocking the street.
Hesse finds a place on the fringes of the crowd, just within view of the station entrance, but his efforts to move closer are frustrated.
Everyone in Paris, it seems, has turned out to witness the imminent arrival of the Austrian prince's train, clutching small flags gone limp in the heat. A festival atmosphere hangs over the street, despite the stifling press of so many human bodies. The prince is famous: he fled the hated Germans, traveling across Austria-Hungary and Switzerland all but on foot, and is now traveling on to England in triumph.
Everyone in Paris, it seems, wants to say that they saw him.
Hesse is not there to see the prince. He's there to put a bullet in the boy's head.
And he's not happy about it, either. He's perfectly capable of shooting a child in the head, of course – has done it before – but this is not the sort of work he was promised when he came to Paris. He received the telegraph ordering him to kill the prince last night, too late to arrange for one of the disaffected Parisian youths, of which there are so many, to do it instead. Just as well; the anarchists won't work with him, and the Marxists would rather complain.
Such short notice. He has to be the one. He'll almost certainly be captured, and executed. Perhaps the kaiser will intervene. Or perhaps he'll escape.
Or, perhaps, he won't have a chance to shoot.
The crowd situation is only worsened when the police began clearing the street. They're joined by soldiers, some mounted on those godless fabricated beasts. Hesse manages to stay within sight of the entrance, but he has no shot from this position.
He looks up at the buildings. If only there had been time to arrange for a proper sniper's nest.
A black carriage, drawn by a tigeresque, pulls up to the station's entrance. Two policemen detach from the others and have a short, intense conversation with the driver. It involves hand gestures and pointing along the streets.
Hesse understands. They're talking about the route the prince will be taking to the airfield.
A shout goes up farther down the street. The train is approaching. Everyone stretches and cranes to see it as the elephantines trudge into the station and out of sight. There is a long wait in which the sun beats down on everyone's heads and the waiting tigeresque coughs and paws at the ground, restless. Others in the crowd might be wondering why the beast is there, instead of a more docile monstrosity; Hesse knows. It's another line of protection against people like him.
Then, just as it seems the waiting will never end, people begin to emerge from the station: French soldiers first, boots polished, buttons gleaming. To their credit, they look alert and suspicious. A girl appears next. She too is smartly dressed, though her blonde hair is scandalously short, and she looks about her with surprise and uncertainty, one hand on her stylish hat.
Then she laughs, takes off the hat and waves it like a victory flag. Calls out "Bonjour!" The crowd erupts in wild greetings.
Still laughing, she turns back to the station entrance. The soldiers have been joined by policemen and they all stand to attention. The girl snaps off a crisp salute of her own as a boy steps out to thunderous acclaim. He's wearing a French army officer's uniform, an affectation which the crowd loves, and he takes the girl's arm with a wide smile directed only at her.
There are no photographs of the prince; a precaution against exactly this sort of thing, presumably, but Hesse has a written description wired from Berlin. He compares the memory of that description to the boy before him, being thorough out of habit. The height is right, the hair color – the boy seems the proper age – and the girl cannot be anyone other than the one reported as the prince's companion in Zurich and Bern.
Dieter Hesse is certain. Now he only needs a clear shot.
The prince, his companion, and his escort descend the station steps to the waiting carriage. The prince chivalrously hands the girl up first and climbs in after. More waves to the crowd, more cheers. It's an open carriage – good for would-be assassins. Soldiers and police hop on the running boards, effectively blocking the passengers.
Not so good.
Mounted soldiers force the crowds back further. Hesse is caught up in the mass. He struggles to stay near the street and is rewarded with Parisian shoves and oaths. Something cracks into his bad leg and he staggers and is almost pulled down under the blind force that is several hundred people moving at once.
Hesse recovers his balance. Learns his lesson. Limps and stumbles along with the crowd until it deposits him along a street perpendicular to the one the prince's vehicle will be taking.
He manages to edge outward to the curb until there is no one in front of him – a clear sightline at last. Perhaps he can step out into the middle of the street and fire at the prince.
But even as he thinks this, and thinks also of the excuses he will have to make to Berlin when he misses (his pistol is not reliable at that distance), he sees that the black carriage is turning. Coming up the street toward him.
Hesse feels a sharp prickle at the back of his neck. He hardly dares to breathe.
Shouts of "Pas comme ça!" and "L'autre rue!" from the soldiers. The driver pulls hard on the reins and the tigeresque comes to a snarling stop. Clearly unhappy, and pushed to the limits of its tolerance by the activity of the crowd, it bats one massive paw at the people around it; there's a collective gasp and scramble.
The soldiers jump down from the car to protect the bystanders, bring the beast under control, and convince it to turn around.
Hesse's heart skips. The prince is almost directly in front of him, scanning the crowd, one hand on the girl's arm. She's taken off her hat and is tensed as if for a fight.
But they're looking in the wrong direction.
Hesse takes a step forward, raises the pistol, and aims.
At this distance, he can't miss.
Everything slows down.
He sees with perfect clarity when the girl, by chance, turns her head in his direction. She sees him and the weapon as his finger applies pressure to the trigger.
Her eyes widen.
He realizes that if she moves, she'll block his shot. If she moves he will have to hope he drops her and fire again. He might not have time.
In this infinite moment before he fires, the girl's eyes meet his, and he knows she's going to move.
The pistol kicks in his hand. The girl moves. The muzzle flashes. In all the noise and confusion, the sharp crack is audible only to the people immediately around Hesse, who recoil – in annoyance, at first.
The bullet that should have struck the prince in the head catches the girl in the shoulder, almost the neck. She jerks. Clutches at the prince, trying to pull him down. Trying to put herself, again, between the prince and Hesse. Shouts something.
The people around Hesse, and the soldiers around the prince, are realizing what's going on now. He's about to lose his chance.
The prince stands to cover the girl's wound with his hands, turns his head to call for help. The bullet has nicked an artery. She's bleeding. Profusely.
Still trying to pull him down.
Coolly, Hesse aims again. Fires.
This round hits the prince high in the chest, on the left, over the heart. It's a perfect shot. A fatal shot.
Blood. The prince collapses.
Time speeds up again.
Police and soldiers and angry members of the crowd swarm Hesse. Drag him down. For a moment he thinks they'll kill him right there, too, but then the soldiers pull him free and haul him away. The crowd is screaming; the tigeresque is roaring.
"God is on our side!" he shouts in German. But no one can hear him.
.
.
.
In the carriage soldiers swarm over the prince. He waves off help, trying to get to the girl, but they're having none of it. They hold him back, hold him still, and he's too weak to resist.
"Es ist nichts," he says, over and over, as blood slowly turns the front of his borrowed uniform black. Someone presses a wad of cloth to the wound. It's soaked through instantly.
The soldiers tending to the girl stand back and cross themselves.
The prince closes his eyes, squeezes them tightly. Gasps for breath. It's obvious there's some pain; tears escape from the corners of his eyes and slide down in clean tracks. His voice fades to a mumble.
"Your Highness!" someone yells, slapping his face, trying to keep him awake and talking.
He opens his eyes - dark green and unfocused. Dimming. He grips the hand offered him. "Es ist nichts," he repeats, fainter. A whisper amidst screams. Overhead, the sky is blue and clear, with white clouds scudding; a lovely day for flying.
"Your Highness!"
He doesn't answer.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Note: Well. Ahem.
I had a little too much fun writing this one, I think.
Originally I was going to have them both make a clean escape. Then I was going to have only Deryn die. Then I decided to just go All Quiet On the Western Front with it – this did begin as a "worst case scenario" ficlet, after all. Anyway. I'm done with this horrible, horrible, depressing idea now, in case you were wondering. :)
I've deliberately echoed some circumstances of the actual Sarajevo assassination in several places, most notably the wrong turn and the final words. "Es ist nichts" means "It is nothing." (In real life Franz Ferdinand also said, "Don't die, Sophie! Live for our children!" which is, I think, absolutely heartbreaking.)
