Archangel Halley

A/N The Archangel Intervention occurred in Archangel Russia
1918-1919, beginning even as the armistice was signed in Europe ending World
War 1.  Additionally, the battle at Belleau Woods was one of the two major
offensives in which the United States Marines fought during WW1.  Some of
the people mentioned in this story are real, their role an historical truth,
while some are fabrications; any errors or changes to actual history are my own
doing and are not meant as a disrespect to the men and women of either side who
lived and died in the conflict.

Needless to say, I do not own Shadow Hearts; that privilege belongs to
Sacnoth/Nautilus.

This story is a one-time, adult entertainment piece centering on
Halley.   And this is dedicated to Rex, a true Halley fan, now an
Angel in Heaven. 

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Archangel Halley

I

            Chicago Illinois
on a hot summer afternoon, the clear yellow light of the sun shone down from
equally blue-white skies and the concrete sidewalkong ong Cleveland Avenue
shimmered in the heat.  Wave after wave of hot air rose like watery
illusion over the sidewalks and Halley, his English woolens a heavy burden in
this weather, had sweat pouring down his face and chest and dripping like rain
from his soaked hair. They had walked for two hours from the train station
alongth Uth Union and Koudelka Iasant and Halley Plunkett found the heat
oppressive.

            Halley
pulled the wool cap from his head and scratched; his head itched and the hair
needed not only cleaning but trimming.  He hadn’t had a bath in a week and
he stunk; not only that, his shoes had holes and his trousers were
thinning.  Catching sight of himself in a glass front building, Halley
started:  damn if he didn’t look like a stinking vagrant! 

            At
fifteen, Halley looked more like twelve, with boyish features, bright green
eyes and just a slight pout to his full lips, courtesy of his mother; his
father didn’t have a bright-eyed pout in his bony body.    In
the fall of 1914, he and his mother, Koudelka Iasant, had taken ship out of Southampton
to America, in search of his father.  It had never occurred to him that
his mother and father had never married.  His mother had merely shaken her
head when asked why Edward Plunkett had left her alone and pregnant.  Damn
him for being so stupid and naive at the time.  And damn his father
too. 

            Koudelka
told him that he looked somewhat like his father, and Halley had scrutinized
his reflection in the cabin mirror aboard the liner.  The slanting light
coming in from the porthole shaded him, making his upper half look grey while
illuming his feet.  He ran long, slender fingers through oddly cropped
mouse brown hair and squinted.  No, he still looked the same.  How
come he didn’t look different, more like his dad?  His dad was tall, well,
taller than his mother, and adventurous.  Halley was adventurous, brave
and, he thought, smart and powerful.  He had inherited his mother’s
magical abilities, more like psychic abilities really and, although he had yet
to master them, he was very good.  Looking at himself, Halley laughed;
what an idiot, standing and admiring the view in a mirror!  He pulled on
his handy hat, settling it just so, and then left the cabin at a jaunty pace
for a walk around the deck.

            A week
out of England the liner docked in New York and Halley got his first glimpse of
America.  His heart leapt into his throat and he was torn between
staying at his mother’s side and haring off to explore.  The city was enormous,
and full of people.  As they walked down the street from the quay, Halley
heard voices from every country he had ever heard of, and few he had not. 
Irish, French, and Italian voices mixed with the thicker accents of Eastern
Europe and the Baltic’s.  Halley felt he could stay here and learn just
by listening, but Koudelka urged him on, heading for a small, dingy hotel on
the corner of Henry and Catherine.  And that afternoon Koudelka left
Halley to make inquiries after Edward.  Halley wondered why she didn’t
know where he was.

            “Because
it’s been years since I saw him, Halley.  I do not know where he is
living.  And I am not sure where his parents reside.  Just be
patient.  You knew we could not simply come and knock on a door to find
him,” Koudelka told him and Halley watched as she walked purposefully up the
street toward a post office.

            Halley
sat down on the hotel steps, watching as a gaggle of local kids erupted from
houses down the street, their enthusiastic shouts, and the subsequent bounce of
a ball telling Halley they were out for fun.  Maybe they’d like another he
thought, and stepped into the street to join them.

            Sometime
after dark Koudelka returned, a net bag telling tales of food shopping. 
Halley, scuffed and dirty pla playing with the other kids, yelled his hello
and then turned toward his new friends.

            “I gotta
go.  That’s my mom; we’re gonna eat now, I guess,” he said and pulled his
hat from his back pocket.  He struck the hat against his leg a few times
to shake it out and sent dirt puffing into the evening air before putting it on
and running down the street toward the hotel.

            “Any luck
Mom,” he asked after they finished their supper of soup and sandwiches.

            Koudelka
shook her head before turning her eyes toward her son.  “No,” she
answered.  “But we’ll look again tomorrow.  I have a feeling we’ll
find his parents here, in New York.”

            “How
come?” Halley was leaning against the sill of the one window, his back to the
outside.  One shade-less lamp stood on the stand by the sagging double bed
and another on the table where they had just eaten.  A cockroach scurried
across the hardwood floor, disappearing into the shadows under the bed.

           
“Something he told me when we were … well, we were both quite drunk at the
time,” she answered, and her lips were parted, turned up into a brief smile of
remembrance.  “It was the night before we took on Elaine, and Patrick was
down in the lab making explosives while your father and I drank – well, too
much.”

            Halley
laughed, and Koudelka’s soft chuckle joined him, her eyes crinkling in
amusement.

            “Soundske yke you both got along so well,” Halley said, hinting at his desire to hear
more, but his mother turned into the shadows, the dim light hiding her features
from her son’s prying eyes.

            “Not
exactly,” she said softly.  “We argued too; but mostly about Patrick,” she
said.

            “The
priest,” Halley commented.

&;&nb;          
“Yes.  He gave his life for –” she shrugged, “I don’t know, justice I
suppose.  His love of Elaine drove him to the priesthood and his love of
her drove him to –” she looked down at her small hands, folded on her
lap.  “-to sacrifice everything to bring about her salvation.”

            Halley
watched, waiting for his mother to continue speaking but she didn’t, instead
she rose and walked like a wraith into the washroom and closed the door.

            Summer
turned to fall and war broke out in Europe.  Halley and Koudelka moved
from the small dingy hotel room to a boarding house in Brooklyn.  It meant
traveling by bus and that meant money.  Halley quickly revealed to his
mother just how good a roustabout he truly was, as well as a gambler, turning a
tidy sum into more than mere pocket change with his dice throwing. 
Koudelka frowned but said nothing, as it wasn’t much different for her. 
She turned a tarot card or two at the local eatery and that brought in enough
to pay for the room.

            Winter
saw them both wishing for better luck finding Edward and his parents.  By now
Koudelka worked odd jobs and searched for the Plunketts on the weekends. 
Finally, after considerable searching, they finally found Edward’s
parents.  Residing in a comfortable home ing Ing Island, they had taken a
bus as far as the faire would take them before continuing their trek on
foot.  Finally they approached the property; a palatial house at the end
of a long curved and graveled drive, lined with poplars and a fountain at the
foot of the stairs.  Those stairs were of white marble and glistening mica
caught the light of the sun as Halley and Koudelka approached.

            Hal sto stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the mansion, its pristine
white and red exterior an ele bac backdrop for trellises of climbing roses,
small pink, white, and yellow blooms exploding on the canes and a sweet
fragrance coming to their noses as they went closer.  Halley shook his
head, wondering what kind of wealth could live here.

            But well-heeled
or not, neither of the elder Plunkett’s seemed pleased to meet Koudelka Iasant
or her bastard son.  Halley stood, wide-eyed and shocked, to hear the
uncharitable words coming from the elder Plunkett’s mouth while Koudelka made
them understand she wanted none of their money but only searched for Edward for
her son’s sake; to meet and know his father.

            Mister
Plunkett had kept them to the vestibule, the sunlight playing on the fine
parquet floor and showing the silver-grey of the man’s thinning hair in the
bright yellow light.  “I know my son had dalliances; it’s to be expected
of a young man,” Mr. Plunkett was saying.  “But if you think you can come
here and demand…”

            “Mr.
Plunkett, I am not demanding anything,” Koudelka said, her voice soft in the
wide vestibule of the mansion.  “I merely brought my son to see his
father.”

            “He’ll
get nothing here,” Mrs. Plunkett said from the hallway, her steps light as she
joined them but her eyes fiercely possessive.

            Koudelka
sighed.  “Let me say this more clearly,” she began, and Halley could feel
the build-up of his mother’s power.  “I-do-not-want-your-filthy-money,”
Koudelka’s voice was like a gun, each word a bullet aimed at the two elders,
who stepped back with the force of her presence.  “I brought my son to see
his father; I don’t give a damn about your wealth.  You can keep it
in hell for all I care. I only want to find Edward.”

            There was
insulted silence from the pair before Mr. Plunkett grudgingly nodded.  He
produced an address book from the telephone table and quickly wrote an address
on a slip of paper.

            “It’s
been five years since we heard from him.  He may not be there,” he said.

            Koudelka
snatched the paper and, turning on her heels, strode from the house, Halley a
shadow behind her.  The whole way back to their boarding house Halley
thought about the Plunketts, their wealth, the opportunities they had that he
would never see, and he thought about his mother’s position, her power rising
up in his defense.

            ‘I may be
poor, but I’ve got mum,’ he thought.  ‘She’s doing all this for me. 
Dad never –’

            He
stopped those thoughts as the bus came to a noisy stop at their corner. 
And he held those thoughts in silence until after supper when he finally
confronted his mother.

            “Why
didn’t you tell me, mum.  Why keep it a big secret?  Dad left you!”
he accused, stomping back and forth on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

    &nbsbsp;bsp;      “No, he
did not,” Koudelka responded, and took his shoulder, directing him to sit on
the bed.  “He left to seek his fortune.  I remained, that is all.”

            “But you
were pregnant!  He should have stayed.”

            Koudelka
sighed.  “He did not know.  And by the time I realized, it was too
late.  I had no idea where to seek for him, and frankly Halley, I had no
desire.  Edward – Edward was a nice enough man, but I would not marry
him.  I didn’t want to marry him.  We… the night we spoke, before
fighting Elaine, I said some things to him I would not have said had I been
less drunk.  I told him – I told him I wanted to be loved.  To be
loved Halley, not married.  You are my son, my only true son; I love you. 
I know you love me.  You are all that I need.  You always have been
all that I need.”

            “But
mom!” Halley protested and Koudelka put a long fingered hand over his mouth.

            “No,
Halley.  It’s enough.  We will find your father; that’s what is
important now.  You need to meet him; he needs to know you exist. 
That is all.”  She remained silent afterward and Halley sighed, his
shoulders hunched as if to weather a storm, but by the morning it was
forgotten; the harsh words of the Plunketts were put behind him and he thought,
he believed, that his father would welcome him.

            By late
summer they found Edward Plunkett; in Chicago Illinois working as a shipping
clerk.  How the adventurous had fallen!  They had caught a train out
of New York, spending the last of their hard earned cash to get to Chicago. 
They had to walk up toward the lake and the summer sun was unremittingly
hot.  They stood on the street outside the shipping firm, Edward having
hustled them back outside once he saw who it was.  And Halley watched as
both surprise and shock played on h is still rugged features, for Edward was
not only surprised to see Koudelka, he was shocked to see he had a kid. 
His wife would never understand, he told them.  He had never told her of
his travels all over the world, or of his adventures in England.  He had
dalliances with many women, some of them quite beautiful, but none ever came
knocking at his door; until now.

            “Oh sure,
I remember we talked; both drunk as Croesus.  I told  you about my
exploits in school and later – and you told me about your father and what your
village did.  You curled up around your bottle and I passed out!  James
woke us up, remember?  Spouting his puerile shit about wicked whisky and
pagan indecency.” Edward said, one calloused hand rubbing absently at his
neck.  “And I remember what happened afterward, after we defeated Elaine …
but I never thought – I never dreamed we had a kid.  I mean, Christ
Koudelka!  I only slept with you that one time!”

            “Edward,”
Koudelka answered, her voice firm.  “Halley wanted to meet his father and,
under the circumstances, I agreed.  He’s gone through so much this past
four years,” Koudelka looked down at the simmering concrete and shrugged. 
“Edward, they took me from him; against my will they locked me up, leaving
Halley on his own.  How could I deny him?  Can you not at least speak
to him?” and she indicated Halley, standing by the curb.

            Halley,
back from him memories of crossing the Atlantic and struggling to find his
father, stood with his hat in his bony hands, and scuffed his shoes against the
curb outside the manufacturing plant and silently hated; hated how itchy and
dirty he was, standing here in the heat of thternternoon; hated how his father
seemed more interested in his reputation and what his wife would think than in
his own son; hated his father for having the balls to save his mother’s life
and then run away; hated his mother for letting this bastard do this to her;
and hated himself for being born all over again – just like before, when his
mother had been kidnapped and held prisoner in Calios Hospital.  He stood
there, listening to his mother’s kind and gentle voice as she explained things
to Edward Plunkett, and wished he could kill the man. 

            Edward’s
voice, high pitched and grating to Halley’s ears, made arguments against his
further involvement, refusing to take them to his home, refusing to get
involved, until finally Halley could stand it no longer and yelled, his voice
hate filled, “I wish you were dead, you fucking bastard!” and ran down the
street, eyes tear-blinded, ears deaf to the voices calling out for him to stop.

            That was
the last time Koudelka or Edward saw Halley Plunkett.

 

II

 

            The
weather, already freezing cold, had gone from bad to ungodly.  The daytime
highs had been cold enough in the teens and twenty’s, but then the first
night-time frost rolled in and the soldiers knew they were in deep
danger.  The soft, soggy ground that looked passable by day, quagmire that
it was, became frozen tundra at night in the sub-zero temperatures. At minus
twenty degrees the ground was so hard it couldn’t be pierced with a pickaxe and
the throbbing cold radiated up through boots and blankets.  And the little
medical hut in Lower Toulgas in northern Russia was no warmer inside than
out.  The snow and ice had built up to the sash of the small dingy windows
and the ice rimed on the grimy glass, let in little of the November
light.  November 11, 1918.

            Halley
Plunkett, found himself wondering at his own sanity even as he stuffed gauze
into the wound on the soldier’s belly.  It was a waste of good material,
he thou&nbs  The man had a wound to the gut and, despite the doctor’s
assurance, his life expectancy was only until sundown.  If the damn sun
would ever rise to go down in this God-forsaken country, Halley thought. 
As he worked, he thought back to his arrival here in Toulgas, in Northern
Russia, and thought that this had to be Yuri’s revenge!

            “Archangel,
the coldest place I’ve ever been too, including in space with Yuri!  What
the hell am I doing here?  Why did I volunteer for this?  I must be
nuts!”

            Halley
Plunkett, barely nineteen years old, was huddled in his bivouac, army coat
wrapping his spare frame; he wore the standard issue United States Army khaki
and brown and felt completely out of place in them, even though everyone else
wore the same.  Well, not the French or the British, but that was
different.  Shrugging in the cold, he warmed his hands over the open
brazier set up in the center of the barracks, rubbing his hands to spread the
warmth.   He looked around and noted the handful of off-duty
soldiers; some sleeping, some writing letters, one just reading, and all
wrapped in their coats.

            “Hey,
English, you gonna hog all the heat?” one American asked, his accents rich with
New Jersey sights and sounds.

            Halley
smiled, thinking how often he had heard that over the last year.   

            “How can
you stand this?” Halley asked and plunged his hands inside his coat before
moving back to his bunk. 

            The
American tossed a pair of gloves at Halley and laughed.  “You put those on
before you ruin those magic fingers of yours,” he said.

   p;&np;        “Louie,
you’re not supposed ...” Halley began but stopped when Louie waved him off.

            “Just me
an’ the boys here and we all know your tricks, kid.  ‘Sides, you saved our
bacon back in France.  We’re all grateful for that and don’t think
otherwise.”  In spite of his thick Jersey accents, Louie was tried and
true Italian with dark wavy hair, bushy brows, and deep brown eyes; he had been
a friend and neighbor before they shipped out with the American Expeditionary
Force to France in 1917.  That had been after Halley ran from his mom and
Edward and after he had hopped a train out of Chicago for New York and after
Guido Salvaggi.

            Winter
found Halley hanging with the street toughs of New Jersey.  He had fled Chicago
and headed east, his feet taking him as far as they would before hopping a
train.  He spent a few cool nights in the back of a freight car before
dropping off outside Jersey where he followed his nose to the local
eating-house.  There he begged scraps.  He paid for the next begged
meals with work sweeping up and taking out trash, cleaning dishes and other
assorted chores.  The eatery owner, a short, rotund man in his middle
forties, was of Italian ancestry and was proud of his grandparents making the
trip to America, but was just as proud of the old homeland.  Pictures of
northern Italy and its vineyards, farms and beautiful women, adorned the dingy
walls.  Guido Salvaggi was also proud of his son, who was serving with the
American Army. 

            “In trainin’
he is to go to war to protect all of us citizens,” Guido would always say and
point proudly at a picture of his boy, in army uniform, gracing the front
window.  “His momma woulda been proud too, I tell you,” and a warm smile
would briefly grace his aging features.

            Guido had
lost his wife two years before but often spoke as if she were still among the
living, showing off their wedding picture, which hung on one wall, with
pride.  Mrs. Salvaggi was a small woman, dark hair and eyes, but a broad
smile that showed an equal love of life and love of her man.  One night,
after closing, Halley asked about Guido’s son and his decision to go into the
army. 

            “What can
you do there?” he asked while washing up the last load of dishes.

            Guido put
away the last of the supplies into the walk-in box and wiped a proud hand down
the glistening counter.  He took off his stained and dirty apron, tossing
it into the box by the rear door, the one marked ‘wash’, and took a seat at the
counter. 

            “What can
you do in the army, you ask?” he began, his eyes naturally gravitating toward
the picture of his son, Frank.  “I tell you, Hal, you can meet beautiful
women in the army,” he said and when Halley looked back, startled, Guido laughed
heartily.  “Not that they’re in the army, boy.  Only perverted
women serve in the army; no I mean you can meet beautiful women wherever you
go, while IN the army.”

            Halley
shook his head and put away the drying towel before grabbing his hat and coat
from the hook. 

           
“Seriously, Guido, what’s with the military?  I mean, can anybody join?”
he asked.

            Guido
pinned Halley with his raven black eyes as the young man joined him at the
pristine counter.

            “You thinkin’
of enlisting, boy?  You’re old enough; but I think you’re not big enough
or strong enough maybe,” the older man said, as he looked his young helper up
and down like a prize heifer.  “You think twice before you go haring off
to war, kiddo.  Yer just a boy.  Now, let’s go home.”

            They
shared the same flat, Guido and Halley, Guido not wanting the company but not
wanting to deny the boy shelter.  That’s what he said anyway, the first
time he caught Halley bedding down in the back alley.  Halley was
grateful; he liked the older man, and he liked the bed, all lumps and
poking-out stuffing and missing-buttons and springs popping out that it was.

            The
summer came with news of the European war; the Russian offensive was successful
in knocking out the Austrians from the war, while the battle, known at the Somme
began.  The news was dire, but nobody seemed to mind or to care; it was Europe’s
war after all.  That summer Halley met Louie and the rest of the 5^th
Street gang, taking in his f bas baseball game with his new friends. 
The five of them, Halley, Louie and three friends, piled into the bus to Harrison
to watch the Newark Peppers take on the Buffalo Blues, Halley trying to
understand the importance of this game to his friends.  Once they arrived
they sat in the bleachers, and Halley hounded Louie with questions until
finally Louie, taking Halley’s cap from his head, swatted him with it.

            “Will you
shut the hell up, Hal? Geez you don’t need to know all that, just watch the damn
game!”

            Halley,
grinning affably, grabbed back his hat and stuffed it on his head.  “Silly
Americans and their games,” he muttered which earned him the hotdog and beer
run.  And after the Peppers beat the Blues, the bus ride home was punctuated
with punched shoulders, snapped suspenders and good-natured
rowdiness.   Halley felt at home with these other boys, especially
Louie, who lived in the neighboring brownstone.  Handsomely Italian, Louie
had all the girls on the block swooning and a few from across the water in New
York as well.  Halley and the other boys had to content themselves with
Louie’s castoffs. 

            The
summer months moved slowly, Halley worked for Guido, or took in an occasional
ball game with the guys, or discovered how to bat in a sandlot game in the park
down the street.  And after work, Halley listened to Guido’s stories of
his son and the tales he told with pride in his voice and a gleam in his eyes,
and made his own private wish, and that wish led him to hell.

            In late
fall, the paper on the ides of November 1915, brought tears to Halley’s usually
bright eyes.  He finished his nightly cleaning and picked up the paper,
reading the dire news from Europe.  The British Expeditionary Force had
concluded, finally, the Battle at the Somme, and the paper reported deaths
estimated at over 60,000 British soldiers and thousands more French. 
Halley could not believe it.  He turned to Guido and showed him the paper.

            “Frank’s
going to war against these bastards, isn’t he? The president of this country is
going to declare war, isn’t he?” Halley said, the paper shaking in his
trembling fists. Guido shrugged.

            “So the
rumors say, kid, what with the Lusitania and all.  But it ain’t happened
yet.  What do you want to do?”  Guido asked solemnly as he took the
paper from Halley and sat him down at the counter.  He poured a mug of
thick black coffee and shoved it into Halley’s fist. “Here, drink this.”

            “I want
to kill ‘em.  I want to kill the bastards that started this war,” Halley
said through gritted teeth.

            “Now,
that’s a mite tough to do, Hal.  There’s a lot of men fightin’ and dyin’
over there.  It’s their war.  What you wanna get involved in it for?”

            Halley
looked down at the dark liquid in the cup, his work roughened hands large,
large enough to circle round the thick ceramic mug.  ‘We fought to give
people a chance,’ he thought. ‘We fought to keep hope alive for the little
guys, right?’ he asked himself.  ‘Why else did Yuri and Alicsk
sk
everything to take down Simon and that alien god?  Why did I?  Not so
we can get killed fighting in some stupid damned war!’

            Halley’s
fists gripped the thick mug, his knuckles turning white and he felt his own
power awakening after months of sleep.  He felt the gut-grinding hatred
warming his blood, making his heart pound hard and the blood burn and course
through his veins like fire.  On the counter, small items began to
tremble, and across the room a table skittered across the floor.

            “What
the-?  Halley, that you?” Guido asked, suddenly aware that his once
peaceful café was now rattling as Halley trembled.

            A row of
stools, stacked neatly against one wall, shook and tumbled to the floor, their
legs pointing in all directions.  In the kitchen, the pot caddy began
swinging on its ceiling hook, the pots clanging and banging as if some
invisible child was smacking each one in turn.

            “Halley.”

            The
coffee pot on the kitchen stove rattled, traveling off its trivet and then
crashing down to the hard floor, shattering and sending steaming remnants of
coffee across the floor while the drawers with silverware and cutlery began to
rattle, edging their way out of the cabinets to suddenly crash to the floor.

            “Halley,
stop it.”

            The café
floor rumbled under Guido’s feet, and the chairs and tables in the center began
walking across the floor.  Suddenly the furniture rose into the air,
tables, chairs, stools, flying around the room on ghostly hands; cutlery and
utensils joined the gyrating dance, spinning dangerously before the entire
ensemble flung itself at the front window, crashing to the outside and sending
shards of glass pummeling into the street along with shattered furniture.

            “God damn
it, Halley,” Guido breathed.

            “I gotta
go, Guido.  I gotta go there,” Halley said softly, the remains of his now
shattered mug lying in his bleeding hands, coffee running down the counter and
dripping like black blood onto the floor.

            “Yeah,
kid.  I think you do,” Guido said, looking at the wreck of his once
pristine establishment.  “What a mess.”

 

III

            Packing
the wound, Halley placed tape across it and then flicked the blanket, a thin
grey army issue, over the wounded man.

            “Try to
get some rest, Harry,” he said.  The soldier, nearly unconscious from
pain, did not respond.  The room was far too cold for these men, and with
the drop in temperatures to the minus twenty’s last night, they had lost three
men; three men that would not go home to wives, children or lovers; a British
and two Americans.  Halley ground his teeth as he moved on to the next
man.

            The
machine gun fire had ceased half an hour ago, and Halley instinctively knew
that to be a precursor.  Captain Boyd and his men had withdrawn yesterday,
leaving the doctor and the wounded men in Lower Toulgas while he tried to rally
the troops in Upper Toulgas against the Bolshevik troops.  Boyd had no
idea there were this many soldiers at hand; he had no idea that he was cut off,
surrounded by enemies well familiar with the Russian winter and the terrain,
and no idea how to get his men home.  Halley wondered as well, wishing he
hadn’t volunteered for this little tea party.  Wishing he had stayed in America. 
Wishing … ah hell, what did wishing ever get me, he wondered.

   &n&nbs        Wishing
had gotten him on a boat to the States.  He and his mother Koudelka
boarded the steamship in Southampton that late fall in 1914 to waives and hugs
and furtive kisses of, not only the London Rats, but Yuri and Alice.  The
others had already left, heading who-knew-where, and he and his mom were
heading for adventure; heading for America and his father.  Edward J. Plunkett. 
Just the name gave him gooseflesh.  The man who had saved his mother;
strong and adventurous, the man whom his mother had fallen in love with, and
then the two of them, along with that crazy priest, had destroyed the monstrous
Elaine and cleared Nemeton Monastery of its evil.  Well, in his mind
anyway.  He knew that wasn’t the truth; he knew the evils of that horrid
place lived on, even today.  But he liked to think of his mother as a heroine,
and his father…  Why the hell hadn’t he stayed?  Why had he left his
mother behind in England?

            And then
had come the reality of meeting his damned father.  Halley should have
known he was illegitimate, but it had never occurred to him.  His mother
had lavished him with attention and affection when he was a baby; he never
thought of the lack of his father until he attended his first days in public
school.  Then he had known he was missing a vital part of his life, but he
accepted it since he could do nothing else and he also learned to take each day
as it came.  And then he learned not to trust anyone or anything when his
mother was kidnapped and taken to Calios Hospital and he learned he had to
stand on his own two feet.  That was when he brought Joshua, Chris, and
Sharon into his life.  They too had been abandoned, or left orphaned by
parents and uncaring society; oddly enough, the same society that had bred his
father, Edward, and had imprisoned his mother; or so said Koudelka.

            However,
when his mother had agreed to go to America, he had joyfully accepted that too
without thought for the consequences.  How had he missed the subtle
movements his mother had made?  How had he missed his own questions, left
unanswered?  He had no father now, nor mother, abandoning them in Chicago
that summer day three years ago.  So much had happened since then.  So
much tragedy, so many injured, and so much death.

            His own
powers, inherited from his mother, had blossomed while he fought along side
Yuri and the others.  The gifts that allowed him to fight and help defeat
both Albert Simon and then the alien god, were as nothing in this damned
war.  So many had died, and so many more would die before this was finally
over.  And what tore at his heart, what ripped through his anger and his own
hostility were the injured.  The ones he could help and sadly, the ones he
could not.

            What are
we fighting for, he wondered.  Freedom... life, love?  Who the hell
knew!  At least with Yuri we knew we were fighting a just cause.  But
here, in Lower Toulgas … what the fuck are we doing here!  His
thoughts rambled as he checked the next soldier, and then paused when he heard
the crunch of snow outside.

            “Doctor,
someone’s coming,” he said and turned just as gunshots flared into the room,
bullets spattering along tar war wall and leaving deep pockmarks to show their
passage.  The door burst open, crashing against the retaining wall and
Russian soldiers entered, their guns pointed at everyone and everything. 
A dozen men dressed in the Bolshevik army colors thundered into the small hut
and pressed guns and bayonets to the throats of injured and helpers
alike.  Halley found himself pressed back against a cold wall as a handful
of soldiers detached themselves and began ransacking the room.  Boxes of
medical supplies were torn open, their contents scattered along the floor; a
precious bottle of penicillin was smashed and he heard the doctor moan at the
waste.

            “Please,
please stop.  No, you don’t know what you’re doing,” the doctor cried and
offered slight resistance before a soldier gave him a blow with the butt of his
rifle and then shot him.

            “No!”
Halley yelled and another gun butt met his own head but he shook off the pain
and, landing on his knees, crawled over to the wounded doctor.  “John,
John!  Hang on. I’ll help you,” he said quickly, hands already pulling off
the bloody surgical coat.

            “No – no;
it’s too late.  Save the others; save your strength for them,” the doctor
said, clutching his gut.

            “I- we
need you, Doctor.  They need you.”

            Halley
ignored the doctor’s feeble protests, pulling off the coat and exposing the
blossom of blood beneath.  He placed his hand on the wound, covered it
with his palm and concentrated.  He had watched Alice do this very action
more than a dozen times when Yuri or one of the others had been severely
injured, and he pictured her in his mind now, remembering how she worked her
healing magicks.  She would place her small, delicately boned hand over
the wound, barely touching, and summon her healing power; a white energy would
gather in her palm and spread out over the wound, trickling down like
snowflakes.  This was followed by a burst of healing that would not only
totally heal the wound but give the recipient strength to continue. 

            Halley
felt it in his palm first; a tingling not unlike what he felt when Alice had
healed him.  His own healing skills were not dissimilar, only more
dramatic being airborne magicks; he closed his eyes a moment, centering his
will on the healing and the tingle became a burn, warming his hand.  It
felt like the skin was peeling back from his bones when a sudden burst of
energy left his fingers and moved to the recumbent doctor, bathing him in brilliant
green and yellow energies.  Halley could see it in his mind and when he
opened his eyes, he saw it.  A little smile curled the corner of his mouth
and he pushed a little harder, offering up more of his precious life-force for
the doctor’s recovery.  Beneath his hand the wound closed, the precious
blood drying up and the skin puckering into pink newness. 

            “You’ll
live now John, just rest please,” Halley said quietly, then turned toward the
watching Russian soldiers.  “No thanks to your stupid actions,” he growled
at them in his broken Russian.  The soldier standing close to him offered
the butt of his rifle to Halley’s chin, threatening but not delivering. 
They had all seen him heal the man; this one was a magic user; best leave him
to the commander.

            The
doctor struggled to sit up, pulling his bloody coat back on and turning both a
grateful and fearful gaze onto his young assistant.  He knew Halley had
abilities normal men did not; he had witnessed battlefield healings in France,
in the Battle of Belleau Wood, and he had seen other magicks as well. 
That was not what worried him.  Halley had a temper and the Russians did
as well.  If this escalated, they would all die horribly.  He needed
to establish a perimeter, a peace zone. 

            “Halley,
ask them to let you work on the other wounded.  Hell, ask if they have any
wounded that you can help.”

            Halley
looked startled.  Help the enemy, he thought?  But then a commotion
at the small entranceway stopped him from doing even that.

           
Melochofski, the Russian Commander, was a bear of a man, standing well over six
feet tall and broad at the shoulders; he was dressed in the standard uniform of
the Bolshevik army but with a black fur cap and black fur coat.  His voice
was deep and powerful and when he spoke, no one in the tiny room thought
anything but that HE was the man in charge.   He entered the little
field hospital, his openly angry and hostile gaze capturing each man in the
room, eyeing the shivering injured soldiers and immediately bellowed an order
in Russian.

            Halley grit
his teeth, listening carefully to the man’s orders.  He turned to the
doctor, and translated:

            “He’s
ordered us all killed,” he said quietly.

            “God have
mercy,” the doctor said.  He looked at his patients lying on thin pallets
and at the Russian soldiers and noted their fatigue.  Perhaps they were
just as tired as he and his men.  “Halley, break out the rations; get the
commander a meal; the best we’ve got.  Try to placate him.”

            Halley
nodded and, showing his empty hands to the Russian soldiers, approached the
stores and pulled open a case.  One soldier followed, his gun prodding
Halley in the ribs, but then pulled back when the young man handed him a box of
field rations, indicating he should take it and then placed a packet of cheese
and some tinned meat on a plate.  He grabbed a handful of the nearly stale
crackers they were using instead of bread and waived over to Francois to find the
bottle of rum the English Commander, Boyd, had left behind.  All this he
took to Melochofski and placed on a small surgical table.

            “You, eat
this, yes?” Halley asked in broken Russian, not for the first time kicking
himself for not listening closer when Yuri had spoken the god-forsaken
tongue.  The Bolshevik leader looked down at the offering and a little
smile cracked the bulldog face;  he sat on a small chair, his very bulk
creaking the wood of the seat, and began to eat.  He was just making head-way
into the first mug of rum when a disturbance at the cabin door brought Halley’s
attention.  A woman of striking appearance entered and surveyed the small
log hut; she was dressed much like the commander in a black fur coat, but she
had deeply beautiful brown eyes and a small twist of light brown hair sticking
out of her hat.  On a couple of torn up beds and a pallet lie the wounded
soldiers – six men covered in bandages and blood.  Next to them, was the
doctor, his white coat spattered with blood, and next to him …?

            “Who are
you?” she demanded of Halley.

            Halley
tilted his head and offered up his once boyish smile; it had no effect on the
woman.  “I am Private Halley; I help here,” he said slowly, his Russian
pronunciation less than adequate.

            “Ah, you
are the doctor’s helper, yes?” the woman asked further.  “Good,
continue.  And help our men who are injured as well,” she indicated a
small group of soldiers leaning against the doorjamb.

            Halley
realized she wanted him to help and sighed.  “We don’t have a lot of
supplies.  And your men destroyed so much,” he said in English without
thinking.

            “Ah,
English,” she said with a grin.  “I know English; small.  You fix
soldiers.  I keep from getting killed, yes?  You prisoners,” she
offered in broken and heavily accented English, the last with a gloved finger
pointing at Halley.

            “All
right,” Halley said and reached for the small bandage box.  “I’ll look them
over.”&nbWellWell the doctor got his wish, Halley thought, as he made his
rounds, offering up bandages and healing to the soldiers standing like
belligerent bears in the small cabin.  One of them had closed the door,
blocking the cold and snow from entering once more, but the inside temperature
was now frigid, their own breaths fogging before them.

            Halley
glanced aside once to check on the commander and saw the woman standing behind
him, her hands working at sore muscles as she bent closer, her mouth at his
ear.  He wore a pleased expression, and the hardness was momentarily
replaced in his brown eyes.  Halley wondered briefly at the power of women
before turning back to another injured soldier.

            Halley
continued ministering to the injured, both his and the Russians until the last
man had been succored.  He was turning back to the doctor when he noticed
that the Bolshevik commander was standing, staring at him.  With one
eyebrow cocked, Halley stared back, waiting for the Russian to say something. Instead
the big man gestured and growled something to his men before turning toward the
door.  Halley sighed and took the few remaining steps across the floor to
stand next to the doctor.  The Bolshevik woman watched as the commander
left, then turned toward Halley.

            “You stay
here,” she said thickly, pointing at the floor before bunching her fist. 
“You leave, you dead, understanding?”

            Halley
nodded.  “Yes.  But what --?”

            “You
minding here.  You men,” and she turned to the remaining Russian soldiers,
“You guard these men; if you kill them, I will kill you, understand?” she said,
switching to Russian.  There were nodded understandings then she strode
from the hut. 

            Halley
remained frozen for a moment before turning to the doctor. “I think something
must be up.  They left awfully fast,” he said tly.tly.  Doctor Wilson
nodded. 

            “You help
me, Hal, but you keep your ears and eyes open, understand?” the doctor ordered
quietly.  “You may be our only hope if something happens.”

            Halley
blinked but said nothing, instead turning his energies to picking up and moving
aside the debris from the ransacking.p; Bp; Barely an hour had gone by since
the arrival of the Russians into the small hut and Halley was suddenly getting
a tenselingling in his gut, as if something were moving outside.  He
finished sweeping up the broken medicine bottles and was just taking up the
remaining linens when he heard it:  a roar like a god descending to earth,
an explosion of sound so loud and so intense than he winced even before he fell
to the floor. Another explosion of sound followed immediately afterward as,
whatever had caused the noise in the first place, impacted the ground
nearby.  The small medical building shuddered and rocked, dust floating
down from the whitewashed ceiling; Halley and the doctor were on the floor,
their arms covering their heads as heavy caliber shells exploded into the
frozen earth less than a thousand yards away.

            “It must
be the Canadians,” Doctor Wilson yelled to Halley.  “They’ve managed to
move the big guns; they’ll be giving the Russkis what for now,” he said even as
another explosion deafened him.

            Halley
acknowledged the comment with a nod, turning his head slightly to evaluate the
remaining soldiers. Three wounded Russians were lying on pallets across the
room; he knew they would not interfere.  The other four were stationed two
at the door and two near the supply door.  One was walking toward a small
window across the room. Halley made his move, jumping up and sprinting across
the small space, he leapt onto the soldier’s back, grabbing him around the neck
and giving a quick twist.  The soldier was startled but turned with the
assault and Halley was unable to break his neck.  With a grunt the soldier
brushed off the smaller man.  Across the room the two by ther rar raised
their rifles, aiming at Halley, who was now rolling to his feet. 

            “I hate
you,” he growled, forcing his anger to rapidly focus his power.  “I hate
you, I hate you!” his growl became a shout and suddenly the room with filled
with howling wind; the soldier in front of him sailed up off his feet and into
the ceiling, hitting it with a satisfying thud and a bloody splat before falling
dead to the floor.  Halley turned on one knee and faced the remaining
soldiers, his concentration still on his power.

            “I hate
you, hate you!” he continued to scream at them, his power continuing to
manifest, growing and growling into a cyclone of wind that picked up the
soldiers and smashed them into the wall, the cracks as their skulls impacted
audible above the noise of Halley’s wind.  When the winds died, Halley was
kneeling, his head down.

            “Hal, you
all right?” the doctor asked.

            “Yeah,
I’m fine.  ‘Cept I just killed a bunch of men in cold blood.”  He
said nothing more, merely walking to the door and pulling it open.  He
stepped outside and retched into the frozen snow.

            The
bombardment continued whether Halley was ill or not, the sound leaving the
injured swooning and the uninjured numb.  The Canadian’s had indeed
managed to turn their big guns to face both north and south and were pounding
the Russian emplacements, showing the Russians that they were not to be
underestimated.  The Russians had surprised the allied forces with their
seemingly impossible crossing of the swampy forests and arriving early on the
morning of November 11, 1918.  They had subsequently cut the little town
of Toulgas in half, with the allies to the north and the Russians to the south
and, with little doubt from the repeated weapons fire, surrounding the entire
town.  Captain Boyd found himself out manned and out gunned to the north,
while Doctor Wilson and his few assistants had been left at the medical hut,
little knowing that the Bolshevik forces were on their doorstep. 

            Halley
wiped his mouth and looked up into the snowy mounds that was Lower Toulgas and
cringed as yet another volley pounded into the soldiers beyond the wrecked
homes to his left.  He was turning back in when he spotted the movement
out in the snow and saw the Russian woman returning, dragging something large
behind her.  Halley didn’t think, he merely ran at a crouch through the
snow to the struggling woman, lifting the nether half of her burden and
together they ran across the snow to the hut.

            Once
safely inside, the guns suddenly stopped, and the woman pulled the great coat
from her burden, revealing Commander Melochofski.  He had been wounded,
shrapnel the size of Halley’s fist was in his chest and with each beat of his
heart blood bubbled out, slicking the already blood-soaked uniform. 
Looking closer Halley poked a finger at the wound, testing it but the damage
was severe.  He looked up at the woman, a worried frown on his young face.

            “I can’t
save him,” he said.  “It’s too deep; too much damage.  And he’s lost
too much blood.”

            The woman
nodded once and pulled Melochofski onto her lap, settling him onto her,
touching his face with her fingers.

            “Leave
me,” she said and Halley stood and closed the exterior door before joining the
doctor.

            “He’s
hurt bad,” Halley told the doctor.

            “What
will happen now?” the doctor asked.

            Halley
shrugged.  “The big guns have stopped, obviously.  I think the
Canadians have sent a message; and I think the Commander got it.  But
whether the Russians will pull back...? I don’t know.  But I don’t think
we’re safe here.  I don’t know what to tell you, Doctor.”

   &;&nb;        “We can’t
move the wounded.  We don’t have weapons, or support.  We need
someone from Boyd or even Lieutenant Dennis; did you see the Americans when you
were out?”

            Halley
shook his head.  “No, but it’s white out there; and the guns were still
going off and I had other things on my mind.  Look, if you think I should,
I can go for support.  I might be able to reach Boyd in Upper Toulgas,
help him send back support.  But what about the woman?  She’s
Bolshevik – Soviet.  She saved our bacon, but I don’t know if we can trust
her.”

            Doctor
Wilson looked at the grieving woman, a corpse lying across her lap, her hands
holding the dead man’s hands, and sighed.

            “I don’t
know.  You talk to her.  Maybe she’ll back down.  Maybe you’ll
have to kill her.”

            “I won’t
kill a woman!” Halley growled.  “Damn, I’ve killed too many men in this
fucking war as it is!”  He shook his head to clear it of the sudden anger
he felt building up, threatening to burst his control.  “I’ll talk to
her.”

            Halley
approached the Russian woman and knelt in front of her; he reached across to
check Melochofski’s pulse but she shook her head. 

            “He is
gone,” she said quietly, a touch of sadness tingeing her voice.

            “I’m
sorry,” Halley offered but the woman waved it off with a flick of one
hand. 

            “Is not
you; he was my … um, lover,” she said and sighed.

            “Look…”
Halley sighed.  “I don’t even know your name,” he said.

            lang=ES-MX>“Petrovna.  Ileana Petrovna.”

    &nbsbsp;bsp;     
Halley nodded.  “Look Miss Petrovna, we need help here; if your men
come back, they’ll kill us.  The wounded, the ill, they need to be
evacuated.  I’ll need help for that and I’m going to get it.  But I
either have to trust you or kill you.”

            The young
woman looked around the small cabin, her russet brown eyes pausing at the dead
Russian soldiers piled along one wall, their corpses evincing a violent death.

            “Your
work?” she asked.  Halley nodded.  “You sol soldier; I am
soldier.  We work together maybe?”

            Halley
pursed his lips, wondering where she was going with this.

         &;&nb;  “To my
own lines I want to go,” she said.  “You want your lines.  We go
together, get there together.”  She paused and reaching down, closed Melochofski’s
eyes.  “We be ransom for each, our lines are mixed.  Understand?”

            Halley
nodded.  “All right.  But if you betray me, Petrovna,” and his green
eyes held a glint like steel, “I will kill you.”

            The woman
smiled slightly, and slid the lifeless body from her lap.

            “And I
will you.”

 

IV

            After
half an hour of preparation, the pair left the field hospital at a low
crouch.  Petrovna knew where her patrol was stationed and Halley knew that
Boyd had to be across the Dvina River, which cut Toulgas in half. 
 They set out at a fast run, skirting the field hospital and then skipping
quickly to the lea wall of a blown out building across the street.  Ahead,
lay a mile of streets and derelict and destroyed buildings leading to the
bridge and Upper Toulgas where Captain Boyd and his Infantrymen were
located.  To the right of the bridge and beyond the remains of the Lower
Toulgas lie the Russians.  And patrolling the river were the Russian
gunboats. 

            Slowly
they made their way from shelter to shelter, each pile of snow offering a
chance to wait and watch; each blown out building offering equally a chance to
be shot by patrols.  Voices were carrying in the silence of the snowbound
town, and even though they were not close, Halley knew they were Russian. 
He glanced back at Petrovna, but she made no move to iceptcept the speakers,
merely raising an eyebrow and indicating he should continue on.  Halley
nodded silently and gestured toward the river, his chosen direction.

            Just
before the river Halley and Petrovna stopped, stretching out along the snowy
debris and looking out across the river.  In the wan light of late
afternoon, Halley could see that the bridge had been blown, and only a few
girders were left to cross the span of the Dvina River.  Below he saw
patrol boats, dark hulled, heavily armed, and bristling with Russian
soldiers.  Halley snorted.

            “Just
great.”  He looked up at Petrovna but she was watching the patrol boat
maneuver under the bridge, making its way upriver.  She poked Halley’s arm
and pointed.

p;&np;           “Patrols,
and army,” she said in English.  “Over Dvina you go; your army.”

            Halley
nodded.  “You go first; I’ll wait for the patrol to move on.  And
Petrovna,” he reached out a gloved hand and offered it to the woman. 
“Thanks.”

            “We meet
again, yes?  Not with guns but Vodka,” she said, a smile breaking out and
bringing sunshine to her face.  Halley looked at this Russian woman and
suddenly understood what Commander Melochofski had seen in her. 

           
“Yes.  Good luck, Petrovna,” he said when their handclasp ended. 
Halley watched as Petrovna scuttled down the snowy embankment, moving at a half
crouch along the shoreline.  He continued to watch her until she vanished
into the shadows beneath the broken span, and waited.  A few minutes
later, he heard voices calling out in Russian and the sound of the boat’s
engine as it powered around.  A minute after that he heard the scrap of
the hull against the shore and knew that Petrovna was aboard the patrol boat
and headed for her lines.  Halley settled down into the snow bank,
watching and listening, and waiting for dark. 

            He didn’t
have long to wait as the overcast and snow filled sky darkened quickly in the
northern climes.  With one last look around, Halley rolled over the crest
of the embankment and slid down the side.  About half way down he pushed
his booted feet into the snow and ground his heelso tho the frozen soil beneath
to stop his descent.  Then, in a half crouch, he began the trek to the
bridge; if he could make the nearside girders, he thought he might be able to
climb up and use them to cross the river. It all depended on stealth and luck
as the patrol boats were still on the river.

            Both
British and Russian guns had pounded the Svina Bridge, reducing it to a
skeleton of its once expansive self.  By demolishing it, both sides
prevented the other from sending tanks or heavily armored vehicles across to
opposing lines.  And by demolishing it they prevented help from getting to
the injured in Lower Toulgas.  Halley silently counted each step up from
the embankment, each handhold he found in the first stone piles that hadn’t
been rendered to fractured dust became a litany, a silent prayer for safety and
luck.  By the time he reached the top, sweat was pouring from him in hot
rivulets, running down inside his coat and soaking his thermals.  He shook
his head to clear it, laid down flat along the top girder, and looked around.

            Behind him
lay Lower Toulgas in snow packed and frozen darkness, with the small medical
facility and the Russian patrols.  To his right along the bank were
patrols, their brief lights giving away their positions.  There were too
many of them for Halley’s comfort.  He scanned the dark beyond the river
but could not make out any movement on the British side; whatever movements
Boyd and his infantry were making they were invisible; or not there at
all.  That thought did not comfort Halley at all.  With a swallowed
prayer, he began to inch his way across the span to the first break in the
girder. He would have to stand and jump to the nexpporpport but it was little
more than eight feet distance, he could do that easily. 

            With a
steadying breath, Halley stood and, crouching low, scuttled to the end of the girder,
his eyes scanning the dark length ahead.  When he was six feet from the
end he stood and ran full out, his feet nearly lifting off from the metal
beneath him until he reached the break and leapt, his body flying across the
distance and landed lightly on the next girder.  His boots skidded
slightly on the icy metal but then dug in and he crouched low again to proceed
along the metal brace.  Below, in the river, he could hear the putter of
the patrol boat and he turned sharp eyes to try to catch it’s reflection in the
water.  A dark shadow moved over the surface two hundred yards up river
and Halley threw himself to his belly, hugging the girder. Long minutes ticked
by while toat oat chugged its way down river, slowly coming under the derelict
bridge and passing on to Halley’s left.  With breath held, Halley watched
it proceed, each chug of its engine taking it out of gun range.  Just as
the boat pulled out of range, the sound of shootingan.

            A spatter
of machine gun fire peppered along the bank and Halley heard the patrol boat’s
engine gun as it suddenly turned and headed back toward the bridge.  To
his rear, he heard more gunfire and the rumble of a tank as it crunched its
lumber-some way through the frozen snow.  Repeated gunfire echoed in the
dark behind him and then more weapons fire began ahead of him, across the river
in Upper Toulgas.  Halley gripped the girder with his knees and covered
his head with his arms and gloved hands as the Canadians once more opened fire,
their heavy artillery sweeping the darkness with deadly abandon.  Beneath
him, the patrol boat swung around and the soldiers aimed their 6-inch shells at
the darkness of Upper Toulgas; and their fire was quickly joined by louder and
larger artillery to Halley’s rear. 

            The night
sky was suddenly brightened by huge explosions as barrels of explosives were
suddenly ignited and the boom of the Canadian’s cannons and Boyd’s artillery
added to the cacophony of sound.  The sudden pop of more machine guns
joined the deafening bombardment and explosive shrapnel shells exploded into
the Russian forces across the river and those had had been approaching from the
north. Halley buried his head in the snow of the girder and cringed with the
noise.  It was just like before; just like last summer in France. 
Only then, he could do something.

            Halley’s
regiment, the 3^rd Division of the American Army, trundled into Chateau-Thierry
at three in the morning.  Behind the Allied lines, Halley’s division of
the American Expeditionary Force was looked to support and aid the British and
French forces.  Earlier in May, the 28^th Regiment of the First
Division of Marines, had been shipped to Cantigny and had already fought long
and hard against the Germans, finally pushing them back and taking the small
hamlet as a part of the British offensive of Aisne.  The 3^rd,
with Halley, had come up the dirt and mud crusted road from Paris, along the
way, battered and derelict vehicles were abandoned on the road out of Paris,
and streams of ragged soldiers were making their way south out of Ypres, but
Halley paid them no mind.  They wore the British uniform of the 36^th
Ulsters, and he felt pride for their service and sadness for their loss, but
his mind was set on Belleau Woods.  He had attended the briefing the night
before for the medical staff; his own commander, Captain Cassidy had spoken
highly of the young Englishman’s skills.  Halley would work with a dozen
men as front line soldiers and medical relief, and Halley looked forward to it;
he wanted to kill the Germans.

            That
first day was grinding routine with the only joy being word from Cantigny of
the American Marine’s victory that late May.  Word had yet to be
disseminated on the condition of the forces at Chateau-Thierry, whether the
Germans had moved forward or been pushed back by the fighting of the last two
days.  So Halley and his buddy Adam had unpacked the medical gear and
stowed it in the packs they would take into the front lines later that
day.  Adam was a bundle of nerves, his fingers fluttering from one latch
to another before Halley finally swatted him with his cap.

            “Knock it
off, will ya?  You’re givin’ me nerves,” he said and finished
tightening the cinch before looking up to check the other’s progress. 
“Hey, Bill.  Where’d yot tht the bottled stuff?”

            Private
Bill Stearns pointed at a red bag marked with a white cross.  “Standard
issue.”

            Halley
looked at the eyesore and grunted.  “Not with me it ain’t,” he said and,
grabbing a small brown bag, proceeded to remove the ampoules of medication and
put them into the sack.  “Red makes me nervous,” he said to his
group.  If I can see it, they can see it. Mom didn’t sew a target
on my back.”

            The men
nodded and finished their packing. 

            Later
that day, as the sun was setting once more, Halley and his men moved out,
threading their way through the trenches to join the French Tenth Colonial
Division at the far tip of the German lines, some fifty miles south west of Paris. 
The trenches were battered and muddy and many of the soldiers that Halley and
his men passed were in horrible condition, the deprivations of the trench
lines, the constant gunfire mixed with rainy nights followed by the punishing
heat of day, all was leading to cases of shell shock, dysentery, and the
dreaded influenza.  Halley felt a stitch in his chest when he saw so many
sick soldiers still manning their posts, but his job was ahead at the
front.  The nurses, those volunteers from the American Red Cross would be
coming through in the next couple of days; they would render help.  For
now, Halley simply turned his eyes away and walked on.

            On the 6^th
of June, the sun came up in a hazy sky, the early morning moisture rising like
a fog out of the trenches and masking the ground in mist.  As the sun rose
higher the summer warmth began to burn through the mist, wave after wave of
insects rising with the steam and the hell that was trench life
continued.  At a little after seven in the morning the French and American
forces moved out, the first wave of soldiers flooding over the trench lines and
across an open wheat field.  Unknown to them, the Germans were
waiting.  Immediately they opened fire with machine guns, sweeping the
field with their fire, mowing down the soldiers like grain and seeding the soil
with their blood. 

            Halley
and Adam found themselves in the middle of the troop, the sudden machine gun
fire putting both face to the dirt as they belly crawled across the
field.  Bodies blocked their path and they crawled over the corpses, or
used them for temporary shelter from the gunfire.  Finally, Halley looked
up to see the woods looming ahead and a handful of marines running into the
thin forest, machine guns rattling death as they did so.  Just to his
right Halley spotted Major Harbord, the Marine Corp’s commander as he was
directing the push to the south.  Ahead lie Belleau Wood and the rest of
the German army; Halley signed to Adam that they should run for it.

            The array
of corpses and blood that greeted Halley at the verge of the woods would
forever stain his memory.  A lake of blood was spilled out on the brown
earth, mixing with the soil and becoming sludge of red ooze.  Bruised and
shattered bodies lie like broken dolls, their arms flung out in surprise as
their strings were cut, and their faces set in various states of surprise, fear
and desolation.  Ultimately, they all had the same eyes: glassy orbs
frozen open.  Just beyond the verge Halley stopped for breath, his stomach
roiling and threatening to disgorge the minimal breakfast he’d eaten an hour
ago. Behind him, Adam was watering the trees, his face pale, his hands shaking
and Halley shook his head.

            “Come on,
Adam, no time for that,” he whispered and proceeded into the forest. Ahead he
heard the volley of fire from the Marine’s guns and the rapid chatter of
machine guns continuing to mow through the Americans and Halley pushed ahead to
offer aid to those who might still be alive.

            The morning
sun was now midway into a grey and white sky, clouds and smoke obscuring the
sun in a haze that made everything look blurry and fuzzy around the
edges.  Halley and Adam had caught up with their division and began
patching where they could, offering help where they could, and defending when
need be. Both were carrying standard rifles and one or the other would pick up
the gun and fire at approaching soldiers or at shadows in the woods. 
Whether they actually hit anything was dubious.   And by a little
after noon they were down to their last bullets and medications.  Halley
looked around and pointed toward a group of Marines that had settled in behind
a pile of grassy debris and were firing into the shadows beneath the
woods.  Beyond Halley could make out the stealthy movements of approaching
Germans. 

            “Come on
Adam, time to move ahead; try to get to those Marines.  We can help them
and maybe get some more ammo.”

            Adam
nodded and, at a low crouch, proceeded through the woods to the hidden
Marines.  Halley finished his ministrations and looked down at the young
lieutenant whose wound he had just stitched.

            “Try to
stay quiet.  Do you have your handgun?”  And when the soldier nodded. 
“Okay, if they come close you know what to do.  I’ll send word on along
that you’re here.”

            The young
man nodded.  “Who do I thank, English?” he said.

            Halley
grinned.  “Plunkett -  Private Plunkett.”

            “Nice to
meet you Plunkett.  I’m Louie.  New Jersey.”

            “Yeah, I
figured that was you,” Halley said.  “This pays you back for summer
baseball Louie.”

            The young
lieutenant squinted at Halley and grinned with recognition.  “Figures
you’d be here to save my hash, Hal.  I mean it; thanks.”

            Halley
nodded.  “You stay put; I gotta get up to the lines.”

            Halley
made his way up to the half dozen marines lying flat on the grass behind the
small mound.  He crawled on his belly the last few yards, coming in a roll
next to Adam.  The officer, Lieutenant Welker, nodded him in and flicked a
finger at the approaching enemy.

            “Got your
weapons? Could use some help.”

            Halley
shook his head.  “Got weapons, but no ammo.  We’re tapped out of meds
too.  You get shot …”

            “Yeah. 
Well there’s more of them comin’,” one solder said, his voice husky in the
grass.  The others looked and saw that the enemy had multiplied.

            “Damn,
where’s the captain?”

            Halley
shook his head.  “I didn’t see him.  Could be wounded; could be
dead.  Day one and we’re dying here,” he added.  “You thinking of
finding the Major?  Last I saw he was headed south-east.  Maybe he
made it.”

            The
lieutenant shook his head.  “Radio got busted.  But before it did I
heard regroup orders.  We need to find the captain or join the main group
to the south.”

            Halley
looked at the approaching Germans and sighed.  “No way in hell you’ll make
it.  And we can’t leave the wounded.”

            “Then
what do you suggest, Private,” Welker asked, a frown creasing his grimy
face even as he checked the German’s location.  “We don’t have time for
pussy-footing around.”

            Halley
looked at the six marines, Adam and the approaching troop of nearly twenty
Germans, then back at the sea of dead and the few wounded.  “Tell you
what, Lieutenant.  You get the wounded out, you get back to the trench
lines, and I’ll get your ass there in one piece, all right?”

            Welker
looked at the intense expression of the young private.  What could he
possibly do he wondered.  “You got a howitzer in your pants, private?” he
asked.

            “Not my
pants, lieutenant; my hands.  You leave it to me,” and Halley’s face broke
out into a feral grin.  “I’ve got a little surprise for those damn
Germans.  Trust me; you just get the wounded out of here.”

           
Lieutenant Welker counted the seconds as he considered the alternatives, and
then signaled the others to break and head back. 

            “Grab the
wounded, drag ‘em if ya hafta,” he said and then turned to Halley.  “You
give ‘em hell kid.  We’ll be watching.”

            Halley
waited until the marines had pulled back, one stopping to pick up Louis and the
ot gra grabbing a man here and there.  The Germans saw the retreat and
their voices raised as they were suddenly in pursuit of retreating
soldiers.  Halley waited in the grass, his hands in front of his face,
fingers curled around and touching, tip to tip.  He needed his strongest
magic, the attacks he had learned while fighting with Yuri and Alice. 
Earth Magic, strong magic, formed with the hands of god, he thought, filling
each crevice and crag with dirt and soil and rocks and boulders and living
breathing earth.  He pictured it fully, grabbing at the image as he felt
his power beginning to build, starting as a tingling in his gut before moving
upwards into his chest.  Wind magic, force magic, formed with the mind of
god, he thought, moving and scouring the land and sea with the very breath that
moved in the formation of the world; the noise of life crashing into and around
all things, screeching in the hollows, echoing down canyons and howling in the
night over the mountains.  He pictured this fully too, grasping it with
his mind as the power moved from his guts and into his chest, threatening to
tear him apart with the pressure.  Carefully he rose to his knees, still
huddling around his curved fingers, sill focusing on his hands as the force of
the wind and the earth began to spin and gyrate within his curled fingers and
Halley took one last breath before suddenly jumping up, shouting and opening
his hands to let loose the power.

            Behind
him the soldiers heard his shout and Welker turned in time to see the young
Private rise on a funnel of air, the wind appearing to rise from the very
ground itself.  Suddenly there was a howling, screaming sound followed by
a crashing and grinding that just as suddenly funneled down from the sky as
dirt, soil, rocks, and boulders suddenly plummeted downward and exploded with the
force of a hundred cannon shells onto the Germans.  The earth rose up
suddenly, spearing towards the heavens even as the rocks and soil spinning
above plummeted earthwaike ike a pile driver. The air was filled with the
scream of the wind, the crashing, grinding of stones and Welker quickly
shepherded his men back across the wheat-field with its harvest of dead and
dying.  When they were once again safe behind the trenches, and the
wounded with the hospital staff, Welker looked back toward the wheat-field and
the forest verge, and the utter devastation that it had become. Beyond the
dead, and just at the edge of the grey-green woods, everything was flattened
and pounded into powder, the field, and the near forest line were a blur of
grey from the dust of the rocks that had collided and powdered the area,
painting the ground in monochrome; and beneath the grey dust were the dead
Germans, their bodies reduced to splattered pulp on the already blood-soaked
soil.  But there was no sign of Private Plunkett.

            Halley’s
eyes opened gritty and gluey and totally out of focus.  For some reason he
could not make out his surroundings, whether he was lying on the ground looking
at the base of a tree or looking up at the sky.  He tried raising one hand
to wipe at his eyes and found pain; pain in his back, his neck, his shoulders
and … suddenly he was falling, his back scraping hard against something and he
plummeted to the ground, landing hard in the soil and forest detritus piled
beneath the shattered oak he had been lying in. 

            When he awoke
again it was to a face full of moist dirt and a realization that he had
survived yet again.  Puzzled but wary of causing more pain, he wiggled the
fingers of one hand, and then flexed the toes of his feet.  Yep, they
still moved, but what about the other hand? Shifting slightly brought intense
shooting agony to his right shoulder and he found his hand, bent and broken
beneath his body.  He had fallen from a shattered oak, and landed on his
hand and he wondered how the hell he had gotten there in the first place. 
With a sigh, he rolled off the injured hand, a sharp intake of breath making
him grit his teeth. 

            “Oh God
damn,” he swore softly.  His fingers were curled in on themselves and
stained purple and red with bruising and swelling.  One finger-bone was
poking out of his index finger and his wrist was cocked at an odd angle. 
“You stupid son-of-bitch,” he muttered.

            With a
grunt he sat up to better inspect not only his hand but his surroundings. 
A quick glance told him he was no longer anywhere near the forest edge. 
He was surrounded by old growth oaks and evergreens and the forest floor was
thick with moist green and rusty leaves blown from the trees.  He looked
up to see that the oak he had fallen from was broken as well, its limbs
shattered and scattered around him.

            ‘Musta
done that myself,’ he thought and shook his head.  He scanned the nearby
forest and listened for long seconds but could not hear any movement of soldiers.
‘Well I guess I blew myself away as well,’ his thought with a twisted smile,
then groaned with the movement caused his hand to throb more.  ‘I gotta
heal this mess before I go anywhere.’

            He gently
brushed the dirt from around his hand and inspected the fractured finger. 
He’d have to pull it straight to heal it and he really didn’t want to do that;
the injury was bad enough that he knew he might pass out from the pain and he
still had the wrist.

            ‘Damn I
wish I had paid attention when Alice was setting that broken bone of Yuri’s,’
he thought as he gritted his teeth in preparation to straightening the
finger.  He remembered Yuri being slammed into the stone wall of the
Nemeton Basement and hearing the loud crack as his arm was broken.  Alice
had run to him, throwing her Gospel spell around him for protection even as she
slid to the floor and worked on his arm.  Halley had been busy defending
them against the attack of Albert Simon, once he had merged with his demon
Amon, and so hadn’t paid as much attention as he wanted to.  Now he was
wishing he’d had eyes in the back of his head.

     &nbnbspnbsp;     “Leave it
to me to think of Yuri at a time like this,” he muttered to himself and then
pulled on the finger.  Even through grinding teeth his shout of pain was
loud, echoing in the woods.  His vision grew fuzzy and he slid down to the
ground, his forehead resting against the forest floor.

            After a
few minutes he blinked, his eyes back into focus and stared at the blue blur in
front of him.  He blinked again and turned, moving away from whatever was
hovering over him and cracked his head on something equally hard.

            “God
damn!” a woman’s voice said and Halley rubbed his eyes before they came into
focus on a blue-green French army uniform gracing a buxom female body. 
The jacket was open to show the green shirt half unbuttoned and tied in a knot
at the waist.  He followed the curving breasts up to the white neck and
the squinting blue eyes that stared at him.

            “M-Margarete?”
he asked, surprised.

            “Last
time I looked,” Margarete Zelle said and rubbed her chin.  “Your head is
almost as hard as Yuri’s, you know that?”

            Halley
grinned in spite of the pain.  “Woman, you are a sight for sore eyes,” he
said and then laughed.

            Margarete
knelt beside him and reached out for his injured hand.  “What did you do,
fall on it?”

            “As a
matter of fact,” Halley said and indicated the tree with his chin. 

            Margarete
spared the offending oak a glance before inspecting Halley’s fingers. “I won’t
ask how you got up there, especially as there are no German or French soldiers
within 5 miles of this spot.”

            Halley
chuckled softly and watched as Margarete used her very limited healing to clear
up the little injuries to the hand.  His own skills would be needed to
repair the breaks but this at least gave him a minute to rally his strength.

            “I kinda
blew them away,” he offered as the skin on his hand slowly pinked as the
bruises healed and the swelling receded.

            Margarete
looked at his fatigues and her eyes caught at the eagle emblem on the
shoulder.  “Americans?”

            Halley
nodded.  “You ready for me to do the hard stuff?”

            Margarete
looked back down at his hand, less bloody but no less injured.  The finger
was still bent at an odd angle and so too the wrist but Halley would be able to
heal them with a minutes concentrated effort.

            “Go for
it, Halley,” she said and Halley closed his eyes with a sigh, focusing his
concentration on his hand.  He visualized the bones, their intricate
functions beyond his own limited education, and the muscles and sinews that
bound them together and he sent his power into his hand, a trickle of green
energy flowing down his arm and over and through his hand and into his curved
fingers.  The bones of the finger straightened, the joints knitting
together with their proper sinews while his wrist popped into its normal
position; he wiggled the fingers and flexed them, making sure the healing was
complete before releasing his mind to relax and let the energies flow back into
his well-spring, that place in heart and mind that held his magic.

            “Not bad
Halley.  You always were good at that,” Margarete offered and then sat
down, pulling her knees up to her chin with her arms and resting her head for a
moment.

            “You all
right, Maggie?” Halley asked, even as he checked himself over for additional
bruises.

            “Yeah,
just tired, kiddo,” the blonde woman said.  “I’ve been working these past
weeks carrying intel for the Armies.  But I had no idea you were here.”

            “Oh,
you’ve been working for the French army.  You the one brought us the
information on the German placements?  You blew this one girlie,” Halley
said with a grin.  He lay down and closed his eyes, letting the silence
replenish his soul, then “We lost a lot of men today, Margarete.  Too damn
many.”

            “Sorry,
kid.  Not my doing.  I’ve been following the German advance, and
wondering where they’d make their move.  I had no idea they were going to
spring this one.  But I did meet the Americans about an hour ago, south of
here.  Let them know the fortifications.  Officer named Harbord was
in charge.  He one of yours?”

            “Yup,”
Halley said and sat up.  “My Captain.  Good to know he’s alive. 
We got shot to fucking shi- what?”  Halley looked at Margarete as she eyed
him intently.

            “You’ve
developed a dirty mouth,” she said.

            “Did
not,” Halley said.

            “Did too. 
Americans; leave it to them to corrupt a proper Englishman,” Margarete said
then broke into a smile.  “It is good to see a friendly face,
Halley.  Where do you need to go?”

            “Back to
my unit; 2^nd Division Marine Corps.  We were storming the woods
and met the enemy,” Halley said then chuckled.  “I need to get back.”

            “You a
soldier,” Margarete laughed as she stood, brushing the dirt from her
uniform.  “I never would have thought it.”

            “Well, it
seemed the right thing to do at the time,” Halley said standing as well. 
“But I’m more medic than soldier.”

            “Why’d
you come?” she asked and then indicated he should join her as she walked away
from the shattered oak and deeper into the woods.

            “To kill
Germans.”

            “That’s
simplistic.”

            “You got
a better idea?”

            “Saving
the world for humanity has a nice ring to it,” Margarete offered with a
chuckle.

            “Yeah,”
Halley responded with a grin.  “But that job’s been taken by Yuri.”

            “You seen
him at all, Hal?” she asked.

            “Nope. 
Where we going?”

            “I’ve got
a bike just around the bend here,” she said and pointed out a small grey and
brown cycle lying amongst the leaves of the forest.  “It’s small but will
hold both of us.  I can get you back to your lines okay?”

            Halley
nodded.  “Never thought I’d have you as my guardian angel,” he said.

            Margarete
laughed her voice more a throaty chuckle as she bent to lift the bike and climb
aboard.

            With a
kick the little bike, a British made Triumph, sputtered to life and Halley
climbed on behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist.

            “Hang on
Hal,” she said and throttled the little bike into high gear, taking off with a
fury of leaves and dirt spattering behind her.

            The ride
back was uneventful; Margarete maneuvering the cycle through breaks in the
trees and down and then back up small gullies.  She had ridden it into the
center of the wood and dropped it when she heard the crash as Halley had fallen
from the tree, never expecting to find anyone.  Now she kept the bike
upright with her legs on the side pegs, Halley’s weight leaning on her from
behind and silently offering up a prayer to her guardian angel that they could
get back through Belleau Woods to the waiting troops at Chateau Thierry.

            Halley
leaned into Margarete’s back, his arms tucked firmly beneath her ribcage and
his face turned to rest one cheek on her shoulder.  He closed his eyes to
the wind of their passing and felt the thrum of the cycle’s motor in
Margarete’s back, and in his legs.  He surprised himself with a sudden
realization that he hadn’t been this close to a woman since his mother, and she
didn’t count.  Beneath the army jacket she felt warm, and pleasingly soft
and Halley mentally kicked himself for even beginning to think such
thoughts.  This is Margarete, for crying out loud, he chided
himself. 

            ‘She’s
older than you!  She’s bigger than you, still ~’ and he pictured her
standing next to him even as the bike slanted into a turn and he tightened his
grip, one hand now pressed against her stomach.  ‘Hell even standing next
to each other she’d tower over me,’ he thought and built his mental image with
him standing, looking at Margarete in her blue skirt and coat.  He’d stood
next to her so often before he knew the outfit intimately.  A short blue
skirt, tight, very tight. Above that a bustier in black with lacings; above
that two firm round ~ ‘Hell I am not going there; I am NOT going there,’ and he
shook his head trying to dislodge the image of a very sexy Margarete even as
the bike thrummed between his legs.

            “You all
right back there, Hal?” Margarete asked as she maneuvered the motorcycle down
an embankment to the roadway and then slewing slightly, brought it around to
speed ahead toward the American lines.

            “Yeah,
Maggie, I’m fine.”

            “Okay,
kiddo.  Just hang on for a few more miles.”

            “Yeah
sure, a few more friggin’ miles,” he muttered.  ‘I am so dead if she finds
out what I’m thinking,’ he berated himself.  ‘I have no business thinkin’
these thoughts about Maggie.  Now Yuri might think these thoughts,’
and he remembered a time when Yuri had done more than think them to Miss Ma’am
and gotten a fist where it hurt the most.  Yuri hadn’t dato tto tell Alice
about it, she having made a quick trip to Rouen and Yuri deciding he needed to
be occupied while she was gone.  Halley hadn’t warned him he was gonna get
burned; he just sat back and watched the fireworks – Yuri never did understand
when to back off and as a consequence, he sat funny for a few hours. 
Halley didn’t want a repeat performance of Margarete’s stiff right arm.

            After
fifteen minutes of riding Margarete took a quick turn to the left and looped
down a dirt track leading to the west of Chateau Thierry; the little town had
seen better days, and the bombs and guns had done heavy damage to the homes and
businesses.  In the distance, on a hill above the forest the remains of
the chateau itself stared open-eyed onto the village and woods, the blown glass
from the blank-eyed windows and shattered eves testimony to the repeated
battles convened within the town’s borders.  Margarete pulled up next to
an army truck with a distinctive red cross painted on its side, showing that
the nurses had arrived. 

            “Here ya
go, Halley,” Margarete said even as she turned off the motor and slid off the
cycle.  Halley stretched and joined her, swatting at his filthy trousers
before looking up to see ice blue eyes staring directly at him. 

            ‘We’re
the same height?’ he wondered for a moment then smiled.  “Thanks for the
lift, Maggie.  Can I do anything for you before you head out?”

            “Nah, I
want to see the commander anyway, and getting you here was a bonus.  Take
care Halley, and watch out for those killer attack oaks next time.”

   sp;&sp;        Halley
grinned and watched with just a little smirk as the lovely spy walked away, his
mind reeling just a little at the womanly curves beneath the army uniform.

            ‘Either
she shrank or I got taller,’ Halley mentally chuckled at himself.  ‘I
never noticed.’  He blinked several times before turning for the hospital
and new orders.  He’d be going out again he knew; he, like the other
marines, was determined to push the German’s back beyond the woods and take
away their advantages. 

 

V

 

            The
thunder of explosions continued long into the night as Halley clutched the icy
girder with his knees and crammed his gloved hands over his ears.  The
chatter of machine guns, the detonations of munitions and gas canisters still
pounded into his head and Halley wanted nothing else but for it all to stop.
 The Canadian, British and American forces were hammering the Russian army
whose divisions occupied r Tor Toulgas and surrounded Upper Toulgas; any
Russian forces within gunshot, within cannon range, were a target and the
message was loud and deadly.  This was worse than France, this was hell
and he could do nothing to make it stop except scream in his own mind.  It
would be an hour before the bombardment ceased, an hour before Halley would
realize that the screams he was hearing were his own, his throat raw, his
muscles cramped from the grip he held on the girder.  He looked up into
the night and saw only darkness.  All lights were darkened and he could
not see any shadows moving. 

            Slowly he
climbed to his feet and inched his way across the girder, the next break in the
girder coming only a few feet in front of him.  In the dark he could not
see the break, could not see where to jump to.  He stood puzzled for a
moment then sighed.  He reached down within himself for the power of his
magic, the power that was his by blood and training.  He grasped his
element, the wind, and spun it from his gloved hands, wrapping it around him
like a ribbon and using it to carry him from the girder and out over the Dvina River
and to the northern shore lost in the darkness.

       &nbnbspnbsp;   He landed
with little grace, letting go the wind a foot above the ground, nearly falling
on his face on the uneven footing.  He clambered up the embankment and
rolled over the top, his eyes piercing the darkness, his ears listening. 
But there was only a deepening silence; where were the sounds of the soldiers,
their voices, and their machinery? Where were the shouts of victory? 
Halley took half a dozen steps forward and tripped, falling onto something soft
and moist and cooling in the night air.  He had found the soldiers.

            Halley
waited until dawn, lying next to the cooling shell of a corpse.  Once the
grey light began to pearl the sky he could make out the bodies in the streets;
uniforms in green, dark grey, brown; some with British or American emblems,
most with Russian.  Halley climbed to his feet, looking down at the corpse
he’d lain against; Russian red spattered with blood, the body’s head
missing.  He scanned the bodies nearby and saw more dismembered corpses,
their limbs broken, scattered and blood covering everything in a blanket of
red.  Halley bent over and retched, his stomach spewing forth its meager contents
as tears formed in his eyes. 

            Wiping
his mouth on his sleeve, Halley continued walking amongst the dead.  He
lifted a few, saw faces he didn’t know, some Russian, some American.  He
was approaching the Canadian line when he saw a face he knew.  Quickly he
ran to the body, pushing it over to get a better look.  Bullet holes
riddled the uniform, piercing the flesh beneath, the blood now soaked in and
nearly frozen in the cold.  The face was spattered with blood as well and
Halley rubbed it with his gloved hanleanleaning off the brows and lashes to reveal
deeply brown eyes, now unseeing.  The fur hat fell away, revealing her
familiar tresses and Halley choked back a cry, more tears sliding down unbidden
at the sight of Ileana Petrovna’s corpse.  He knelt beside her cold body
and let the tears flow, frustrated anger welling up inside on a level he’d
never experienced before.  His gut began churning with the power of his
magic.  He felt it growing rapidly, building on his anger, his
heart-sickness over all the killing, the death, and this senseless slaughter.

            ‘I hate
this,’ he thought, ‘There’s no reason for this.  They did nothing to
deserve this. What the fucking hell are we doing here?  What the fucking
hell …’ he felt his mind beginning to unravel and let it, not caring that he
was getting angrier and angrier with each breath.  In his hands he held
Ileana’s cold and lifeless body, her head lolling to the side and he could only
see that; only see her chilled body, the body of the man next to her, the
bodies of the Russians lying all around him, the bodies of the German’s he’d
blown up at Belleau Wood, and the platoon full of dead and dying he’d tried to
save and failed to at that same wood the next two days.  His glee at
joining the marines, his joy at killing German’s, his desire to kill and avenge
and hate suddenly blossomed into something else. 

            He could
hear Margarete’s distinctive voice, “Saving the world for humanity has a
nice ring to it.”  This was not saving the world.  This was
killing the world.  How could he think this was his path?  
Where had it gone wrong?  Anger burst in his gut like a fire bomb,
exploding up through his senses until he bur burning with its flame, his
conscience no longer in control, his mind and body both agreeing that this
killing would stop, that this death would be revenged.

            Suddenly
Halley screamed, his already raw throat shattering and shredding, raising like
an ululation before fading with the rise of his power.  Ileana Petrovna’s
cold corpse fell away from his hands, his body slowly rising, standing,
floating above the ground, his hands and legs splayed at the power within him,
the power he drew from his own wellspring and that of nature itself, rising
like a snake from the ground and through his body, rising and filling and
suddenly exploding out of him in a wave of darkness.  A focus point of
energy formed away from his floating body, a pinpoint of energy that turned and
twisted on itself and in the next instant everything on the street, every body
whether Russian or British or American, every gun, every spent shell, rose into
the air and floated toward the black spinning point.  Behind him gun
emplacements tore from their brackets, machine guns and incendiary canisters
plummeted into the spinning maelstrom.  And further behind him, voices shouted,
cries of panic rose on notes of terror as living soldiers, torn from their
hiding places, flew toward the energy point, their bodies shrinking and
compressing with the weapons, with the corpses with every living and dead thing
in Upper Toulgas until they and all they had done vanished into Halley’s Black
Hole.

           
Everything was white.  Halley opened his eyes to white and he blinked to
clear his vision.  His eyes were blurry and he raised one hand to try
wiping them only to find he was restrained.

            ‘What?’

            “Ah,
you’re awake; good,” a vaguely familiar voice said and he could hear the
approaching footsteps on a stone floor.  Gentle fingers removed a gauze
bandage from his eyes and his blurry vision resolved into a blurry nurse.

            “Where~?”
he started to ask but the nurse put a finger to his lips effectively shushing
him.  She then carefully pulled back the blanket covering him and checked
his wounds, probing a little too deeply on one sore that had Halley beginning
to sweat.

            “You
shouldn’t have done that, Private.  All that energy wasted.  You’ve
accomplished nothing with your abuse of power,” the nurse said softly and
Halley blinked a few times to clear his vision.  The nurse was tall, thin,
and beautiful with brown hair and blue eyes.  That was unusual and Halley
found himself watching the blue of her eyes as they focused and changed with
each glance or blink or motion.  Her eyes were sharp, inquisitive, amusing
and sensual. 

            “Who~?”
he began and again a long finger touched his lips.

            “No
speaking, Private.  Orders,” she said and her lips parted more in a smile
that revealed pearl white teeth.  Her lips were full, and the curve of
those lips reminded him of someone while her face, her face reminded him of
Ileana.  Halley blinked again and watched as the nurse inspected the rest
of his bandaging, pulling the blanket down past his feet and he realized as she
did so, that he was restrained by arm and leg straps and he was also naked as a
jaybird.  He felt a blush beginning in his crotch, climbing quickly over
his chest and up past his neck to blossomull ull redness in his face.

            The nurse
chuckled softly at Halley’s discomfort and shook her head, her soft brown hair
pulled back into a ponytail swinging beneath her nurse’s cap.

            “Nothing
to be embarrassed about, Private,” she said and then pulled on the straps
releasing his legs.  “Everything seems to be in working order, just don’t
move around too quickly, you might pull out stitches.”

            “How
did...” he started to ask, then cringed when the nurse turned sharp eyes onto
him; he sighed instead, waiting with patience he didn’t know he had. 
Finally, she was finished with her inspection of his bandages and moved up to
his arms, releasing both from the straps.  “Can I talk now?” Halley asked
quickly, before he could be shushed again.

            The nurse
smiled and flipped his blanket back up to cover his nakedness.

            “Thanks,”
he said and watched her leave the white hospital room. 

            He
remained quiet and unmoving for a long time, his heart beat counting the
seconds until someone else would come in.  The quiet of the room and the
coolness lulled him slowly to sleep.  When he awakened again, it was much
darker in the room and he could feel someone touching him.  He opened his
eyes to blurry vision again and realized thwhatwhatever was happening he was
uncovered and the nurse…

            “What…?”
he began and stopped when he felt something warm and moist touching him, gently
bathing his manhood.  He blinked again and with clearing vision, looked
down to see the nurse on her knees at the side of the bed, her head over his
genitals and she was…

            “What the
hell…”

            The nurse
stopped and looked up at Halley, her blue eyes glowing with an intensity that
reminded him of Margarete.  She smiled, licking her lips and then, with
one hand, raised his flaccid member, rubbing it with her hand before turning
backput put her mouth around him.

            Halley
moaned, his knees jerking up and he wanted to reach out and grab the nurse,
grab anything so instead he grabbed the sheets, twisting his hands into the
linen and curling his toes.  What she was doing he had never experienced before,
hell he’d never been with a woman before.  He knew from what the other
soldiers said, but this was still new to him.  He felt her mouth as it
slid up and down his member, the moisture of her mouth, the heat of her breath
all adding to the buildup he was feeling in his crotch.  He wanted to tell
her to stop, this wasn’t right, but his voice came out in a moan when he tried
to speak.

            The nurse
didn’t let up on her ministrations, but she paused for a moment and rising,
kicked off her shoes, quickly unbuttoning her lab-coat and tossing it
aside.  Halley was watching as she disrobed, realizing she was going to
strip completely.

            ‘I’ve
died and gone to heaven,’ he thought, ‘there’s no other explanation.’

            The
blouse came off one shoulder at a time, sliding down the long white arms to
land on the floor.  Next, was her belt and then the skirt, the long folds
of the white material sliding down her limbs and nestling around her feet like
a cloud.  Halley’s eyes watched hungrily as the clothing slowly came off,
and his eyes then roved up her legs until they got to …

            “You’re
naked,” he said stupidly when he realized she wore neither stockings nor small
clothes.

            The nurse
laughed huskily and removed her cap from her head, pulling free the ponytail
that released her long blonde hair to brush her shoulders.  Halley stared
wide-eyed at the nurse, his mouth open in confusion and awe as Margarete slid
onto the bed, covering him with her body.  She pressed her breasts onto
his chest and his hands instantly unwrapped from the sheets to enwrap her
instead, one hand touching the smooth white skin of her back while the other
ran fingers through her hair.  She opened her legs straddling him and he
could feel her own female warmth against him, his own erection growing as his
eyes inhaled the beauty that was Margarete, his nose breathing her scent, a
musky perfume that only made her feminine smells that much richer.

            “Maggie,”
he tried to say but she bent forward putting her mouth over his, her lips
inviting, her tongue teasing as it flicked out, licking his lips, and then
thrust between his teeth to battle his surprised tongue.  Halley could
feel his heart suddenly beat faster, and one of his hands made it down to her
round full bottom, squeezing the cheek in his hand before sending a finger
sliding between the cheeks to explore. 

            Margarete
took the initiative, pushing up from him and sliding down over his legs,
bringing his cock up to between her legs.  She massaged it with her hands,
firming and caressin. Th. Then with one hand, she began on herself, stroking
with her palm the area Halley was most curious about.  In a moment her
hand came away wet and she used it to lubricate him before she rose on her
knees and guided him in. 

            Halley’s
fists were once again bunched in the sheets, his hips bucking to meet Margarete
as she moved back and forth over him, her movements seductive and elevating.
She brought her hands up to caress her own breasts, pinching the nipples to
sharp little peaks before moving them down her body in sure swift strokes that
imitated her own body’s motions.  Halley felt a fire in his loins building
and the need to be in her, to push and thrust into the woman above him took
over his mind, his own hips rising and falling to meet Margarete. 

            In a
dance of motion, Halley and Margarete came together, and Halley felt not only
his power as a man, but as a magic user.  Slowly, ever so slowly, rising
with his own erection, his body rose above the bed, carrying Margarete with
him.  Together they blended their power and their passion and then, in a
final frenzied handful of minutes, it was over.  Halley felt the explosion
of his orgasm and his mind blanked, much like when he used his most powerful
magicks, and when he felt the last thrust disgorge his seed he watched as
Margarete shuddered, her own orgasm leaving them warm, wet and creamy.

            They
slowly descended to the bed, and Margarete bent down and offered her breasts to
his hands and lips, her own stroking his his forehead, kissing gently each
eyelid before meeting his lips with a warm and friendly tongue.

            “All
better?” she asked softly as she pulled away.

&

            “Uh-huh,”
Halley managed, a happy smile creeping over his face even as Margarete climbed
off him and pulled the blanket over his body.

            Halley
was cold, his body felt like ice and he couldn’t feel his feet.  He felt
tremendously tired and all all part of him wondered why he was so tired. 
Hadn’t he just been in bed with ...  He felt a sliver of warmth in his
pants and tried to smile with the memory, but his mouth hurt; his face hurt...
hell, his whole body hurt.  What the hell happened to him? 

            Slowly he
shifted and tried to raise one arm, but found he was held down; something heavy
was pressing down on him and he could not move.  One eyelid slid open,
trying to see where he was only to be covered by a curtain of cold blurry
white. 

            ‘Am I
buried alive?’ he thought.  ‘What exactly did I do?’

            The last
images of his angry rampage trickled into his mind, his anger and frustration
and pent up emotions bursting free as the lifeless body of the Russian woman,
Ileana Petrovna, slid from his cold hands.  The Russian soldiers who had
tried to move up on the American infantry and the British soldiers had met an
explosive and bloody end.  The efficiency of the British artillerymen,
with skills honed on the Western Front, scythed through the oncoming troops
like a hot knife through butter.  Death was the only answer; and the grim
reaper had his toll in blood that day.  And Halley, his own mind reeling
from the violence of the bombardment, and from the soldiers under his care
dying, and the soldiers who were only defending their country being slaughtered
- Halley coult ret remember ever being that angry.

            He
remembered the Black Hole of his magic, not the final but definitely the worst
of his magical achievements, used only when in dire need, being used to sweep
aside the dead, the nearly dead and the living, and he felt his gorge
rising.  Desperately he pushed at whatever was pinning him, shoving at the
cold and the weight until something broke above him and the white blur slid
down on him in a cascade of icy snow. 

            Painfully
Halley crawled from the mound of snow and debris that had buried him, his body
one giant ache, his head pounding and his ears ringing with the sound of his
own breathing.  He climbed onto ae gie girder then up to a tangle of wood
and metal before finally climbing out onto the mound that had once been Upper
Toulgas; all around him lay devastation.  The homes and businesses that
had once graced the Northern shore of the Dvina were now gone and in their
stead was a crater.  A deep, black, lifeless crater that culminated in a
pile of debris in its center, the very pile that buried the heart of town in a
pit and then had piled the remaining debris on top, the very pile that Halley
had just climbed out of.  Standing on top of the debris and looking up at
the rim of the crater, Halley felt his own heart sink to his feet.  His
head was swimming and he noticed he was covered in cuts, slashes, and rips
where the flying material had whirled past him, slicing him as it did so and he
felt faint.  Before he could decide his next move, his knees buckled under
him and he fell, his body skidding down the mountain of trto lto lie
unconscious at its base.

            Halley
didn’t remember much after he awoke.  He was lying on his back in a cot,
and he could feel the bunch of the springs beneath him and the scratchiness of
the blanket covering him.  He also felt warm, truly warm for the first
time in weeks.  There was a susurration of voices beyond him, soft and not
male, and he slowly pried open one eyelid to check his surroundings.  It
was dark, and only a faint yellow glow game from what was a doorway into a
corridor beyond.  He could see the floor and then the speakers stepped
into his vision; two nurses in their white uniforms.  He croaked out a
query, and one of them turned toward him, her look of sternness changed to
surprise.

            “You’re
awake,” she said softly as she oachoached.  One firm hand took his wrist
and checked his pulse, then brushed his forehead, checking for
temperature.  “How are you feeling, Private?”

           
“Confused,” Halley said and looked around the darkened ward.  “Where am
I?”

            “You are
in the field hospital in Murmansk.  Do you remember what happened? 
Wheou wou were?”

            Halley
frowned slightly.  “Why, do you think I would forget?”

            The nurse
moved aside and brought up a small stool.  After she sat and stared at him
in the dim light from the corridor, she smiled.  “Do you know your name?”
she asked.

            “Halley
Plunkett, Private, United States Marine Corps.”

            “Okay, do
you remember what happened to get you here?” she pursued.

            Halley
frowned.  “Yes.  I was in Toulgas, at the field hospital.  I
went for help; the Doctor and the patients were stranded and the Russians
surrounded us. as has headed for Upper Toulgas to get help from Captain
Boyd or …” he stopped as he realized he had better not mention his blown
temper.  “There was a big battle; the guns were firing and lots of
shooting; I was on the bridge, trying to get across.  Don’t know what
happened after that,” he said.

            The nurse
nodded.  “Neither does anyone else, so that just proves you were
there.  That’s good though. You’ll have to be debriefed, but for now, just
rest.”  She stood to go but Halley called her back.

            “How did I…”

  &n&nbs         “You were
found unconscious in the center of a crater.  Must have fallen and hit
your head; you’ve been in a coma for about a week.”

    &;&nb;       Halley
was silent as the nurse turned to go.  ‘They have no idea that was me,’ he
thought.  ‘I am God damned lucky.’  He turned onto his side and
stared at the cot next to him; another soldier was there, sleeping, the steady
rise and fall of his breathing a comfort to Halley.  He watched as the
soldier’s blanket rose and fell, rose and fell and with each breath Halley
offered a prayer for the soldiers he’d killed, and the ones who had already
died and wondered what kind of story he could tell the brass that wouldn’t get
him court-martialed and shot.

            Over the
next few months, Halley continued his medic work, going back out with the
troops and assisting wherever he was needed.  He had faced his Board of
Review and told them a bald faced lie and they believed him.  He felt
that, for his penance, he should take better care at not using his powers just
because he was angry.  He served the 8^th Infantry’s field
hospital, occasionally treating a veteran of Toulgas.  These he asked
regarding Doctor Wilson but none had word; this he added to his debt owed,
saying nothing, but treating wounds, sickness, and the misery of
disappointment.  None of the soldiers of the 8^th had any desire
to continue this wasted effort on behalf of a government that was effectively
dead.  With the murder of Tsar Nicholas and his family, there were few
Russian nobles willing or able to take the reigns of government and no one of
the soldiers, let alone their commanders, believed they should be there anymore. 
Disaffection grew.

            In mid
summer, Halley and his medical crew were in Yernetsk, serving the British and
American es wes when word came in of casualties coming from Topska.  The
British Naval forces had engaged the Bolsheviks and casualties and injuries,
despite the precautions, had been great.  Halley stood his post just past
triage and took those cases he could, leaving the surgery for the
doctors.  Halley could perform minor operations, but was better at simply
healing or repairing per per instructions from his superiors, was not to
perform any ‘magical miracles that modern medicine could not perform’. 
Toward the end of the day he got a bleeder, a soldier so shot up that there was
little anyone could do.  Halley was about to tell the triage team to put
him aside when he noticed the man’s face: it was Doctor Wilson. 

            Halley
looked up and spotted a nurse, signaled her to join him and pressed the
bandages into her hands.

            “Try to
pack the bleeding, it won’t stop but try to keep it from increasing,” he told
her.  The nurse complied and deftly placed gauze packing on several deep
wounds, pressing down with her hands. Halley watched her for a moment,
concentrating on her hands as he brought his own magicks into focus.  The
nurse’s sure hands were pressing on the major wound to the chest, blood seeping
out even as her sure fingers pressed down and Halley felt the wellspring of his
magic flow upward, racing down his arms to his hands and he cupped them over
Wilson’s chest, mere inches from the pale flesh.  Green and white energies
blossomed in his fingers, raining down onto the wounded man, penetrating the
scared and wounded flesh, pushing out the bullets, the metal shrapnel that was
deeply embedded in the muscles and tissues; flooding the flesh and weaving it
together, capillaries joining with strengthened nodes, new blood vessels
replacing those shredded by manmade weapons.  Deeper the healing energy
flowed, knitting bones and muscles, adding strength with the supple new tissues. 
Finally, the flow of energies ebbed, trickling to a mere sparkle before
stopping and Halley leaned wearily on the table.

            “You do
good work, Doctor Plunkett,” the nurse said and deftly removed the blood-soaked
bandaging. 

            “I’m not
a doctor,” Halley stated slowly, fatigue in his voice, but then the voice
registered in his tired mind and he looked up at the nurse, her blond hair
tucked neatly within a net, a prim white cap on top and, looking out at him
from a familiar face, two intensely blue eyes.  “Maggie?”

        &;&nb;   “Shhh,
that’s Nurse Margarete,” the spy said with a grin.

            Halley
stared at Margarete, his jaw dropping and he felt a distinctive stirring where
he least expected it.

            “What –
what are you doing here?” he asked.

            “Just
doing my bit for tar ear effort,” Margarete said and wiped blood from her
hands.  Looking around she saw that the hospital was well in hand. 
“Anything else, Doctor Halley?” she asked with the inevitable grin.

            Halley
shook his head, still trying to gather his thoughts, realizing that the woman
he’d dreamed about, the woman who had saved his neck once in France and again,
by wishful thinking in Upper Toulgas, was standing not three feet from him. He
was suddenly very glad the uniform trousers were baggy.

            “Um,
Maggie, when we’re done I’d like a chance to buy you dinner,” he said with a
nod toward the mess, “and maybe talk,” he added, trying not to look nervous.

            “Fine, Halley. 
I have a proposition for you as well,” she said and turned to leave the
operating room.  Halley watched as the white uniform swished and swayed
out of the hospital and he felt himself standing erect and wondered if he could
take a cold shower any time soon.

            ‘I have
got to get myself together,’ he thought and wondered when he had become like
Yuri.

        &;&nb;   Dinner
that night was with a hundred other men and woman, packed into the hospital
mess and trying to ingest the poor excuse for food that was the army
rations.  They were due to return to Murmansk by the end of summer, but
had yet to do so with the local fighting.  Halley sat swirling his soup
with the spoon, trying to think of something to say, anything to say, that
wouldn’t be heard above the noisy diners or misunderstood by Margarete.&nbsFinaFinally, the spy solved the problem for him by indicating they should go
outside.

            The
hospital was set up on the northern part of Yernetsk, barely a thousand yards
from the dock and the waiting hospital ship, Garth Castle. 
At anchor, the medical ship was vulnerable to attacks, and so heavily armed
marines patrolled the dock and gun ships were posted in the Dvina.  Halley
watched as the marines walked their post, waiting for inspiration to get him
out of trouble with his body, but nothing came to mind.  He kept seeing
Nurse Margarete, her warm and friendly smile as she took him into her mouth, as
she climbed onto him, and slid his firm and straining erection into her turgid
flesh and rode him…

            “Halley,
are you all right?  You’re awfully quiet,” Margarete said out of the
darkness and Halley jumped, his thoughts catching him out as surely as if his
mother had caught him with his hand in a cookie jar.

            “Um,
yeah, I’m fine, Margarete.  Just thinkin’ is all,” he said. Thinking too
much he thought and shrugged his shoulders, surreptitiously tugging on his belt
to adjust his trousers.  “You, ah, you said you had something for me?”

            “Ah-haha,
yes, a proposition,” Margarete said with a laugh and her eyes were dancing blue
stars in a beautiful face.  Halley shook himself, wishing he could stop
thinking of her that way.  She’s older than me for god’s sake he thought,
and realized that the age difference was only a difference if he wanted it that
way, or if she did.

            “Uh,
Maggie, you uh, you ever have a boyfriend?” he blurted out.  “I mean, did
you ever, uh…” Halley quickly realized he’d spoken without thinking, his mind
governed by what was in his pants for the first time in his life. 
Suddenly he understood how Yuri felt; and why Yuri often put his foot in his
mouth.  Yeah, it’s a real strong feeling down there, he thought. 

            Margarete
turned to stare at Halley as they walked toward the dock.  “Is something
on your mind, Hal?  You’re acting kind of strange, even for you,”
Margarete said and softened it with a smile.

            “Yeah,”
Halley responded with a grin, pulling on the back of his neck and shrugging at
the same time.  “I don’t know what the hell got into me, sorry.”

            “All
right then. What I wanted to know, is would you like to travel with me? 
I’ve got a job lined up and I could really use some expert magical help. 
I usually work alone you know, Ms. Spy Genius has never needed a partner, but
this time, I think magic might come in handy.”  Margarete was gazing out
at the medical ship as she spoke.

            “Where
you headed?” Halley asked. He touched her elbow and indicated they should turn
at the dock, walking up the quay and past the marines. 

            “Well I
can’t say right now, you understand Hal, not until I know if you’re in or
not.  But I can say, east.”

            “Russia? 
China?  Give me a clue?”

            Margarete
shook her head and the netting slid lower on her thick blond hair.  “Nope,
not until you give me your answer.”

            Halley
stopped, turning to face the beautiful spy in the starlit night.  “You
want an answer but I can’t know where I’m going?  That’s stupid,” he said
and reached up to take the netting from her hair, lingering just a moment to
feel the softness of her blond tresses.  “It’s not holding very well, is
it?” he said and handed her the fragile net.  “I know how it feels,” this
last said quickly and nearly under his breath.

            Margarete
looked surprised at the young man even as she took the net and stuffed it in
her pocket.  She watched him as best she could in the dim light of the
dock, his boyish features filling out and the peach fuzz on his face actually
starting to look more like a man’s beard. 

        &;&nb;   ‘My God,’
Margarete thought, ‘he’s grown up.’

            “Halley,
is there something you want to say; something you are having trouble saying?”
she ventured.

            Halley’s
blush showed even in the ship’s lights.

            ‘He’s
more like Yuri than I had ever thought,’ Margarete thought with a grin. 
She reached out and draped her arm over his broad shoulders, realizing that she
had to reach up somewhat to do so. ‘He’s grown up right in front of me.’ 

            “Come on
kiddo, let’s go someplace nice and quiet and,” she hesitated a moment, letting
him hear what she was saying, “private.”

            Halley
blushed even more and shook his head.  “N-no, that’s all right, Maggie.
I-I don’t think that would be a good idea right now.  But I’ll take a rain
check on it.”

            “You sure
you can last that long?”

            Halley
chuckled.  “I don’t know.  But we’ll be together for a while,
traveling and all.  Things happen.”

            Margarete
grinned and, removing her hand from his shoulders, swatted him on the
derriere.  “Good for you.  You pack your kit, we head out for China
in the morning.”

&;&nb;           “China?”

            “Yup. 
I’ll see you then,” and Margarete turned and strode back down the dock, her
white nurse’s uniform looking way too sexy to Halley. 

            ‘I have
got to get control of this,’ he thought and adjusted his trousers again. 

            Halley
sat at mess and wrote a letter. The majority of staff had gone back to barracks,
but he wanted some quiet time before facing the monsters of the 8^th
Infantry and their medical staff.  A rowdier bunch of hooligans he had not
seen since leaving France, and he liked these men; but peace and quiet was not
on their minds, usually.  Especially today.  Word had come down even
asretureturned to the hospital to gather his things, that the AEF and BEFname="_ftnref1">[1]
were withdrawing from Archangel; the British and American soldiers were going
home.  Celebrations could be heard even from the mess and Halley knew that
a few would be fighting hangovers in the morning.  But Halley was fighting
a different kind of battle, a battle of words.  He was writing a letter
home.

            He
pressed the crinkled yellow paper flat against the wooden table and rolled the
pencil in his fingers.  He was trying to write and he just didn’t know
how; how would he tell his family all he’d done? He couldn’t; the Army would
read it and know.  He wanted to tell them about his time in France too,
but didn’t know where to start.  Finally he put the pencil tper per and
began to put words down, whatever came to his mind.   

            Dear
Chris, Sharon and Joshua

            If
you’re wonderin’ what happened to me, well you can stop now. Mom and me went to
America, and I met my dad.  But it didn’t work out.  I
ran away from mom and dad in Chicago and went to New York
and then to France when the American’s joined the war.  From
there I got sent to Russia; yeah, Yuri’s old stompin’
grounds.  He’da hated it here.  Colder than fuckin’ shit!  But
anyway, I’m all done with that now and they’re shippin’ out the regulars to
their homes.  But I’m not American so I can go where I want; been thinking
of going on East.  I’d like to see what Yuri saw before he came to England,
ya know?  I’m okay, so you don’t need to worry. I’ll be traveling for a
while an’ I’ll be in good company, so don’t worry.  If you see mom, tell
her – tell her I love her and miss her and that I’m fine.

            Halley
stopped and read the missive then folded it up and stuffed it into an envelope,
scrawled Chris’s address on the front and took it to the mail tent.  No
sense holding onto it in case something else comes up, he thought. 
‘Besides I gotta get my gear.’  Halley’s mind was spinning as he sprinted
back to the barracks and his kit.

            Early
morning found Halley Plunkett and Margarete Zelle heading southeast toward Moscow;
wearing cast off Bolshevik uniforms, they blended in with the natives.

            “We’ll
rendezvous with Kolchak in the east, Hal.  And when that’s done, we move
on to China.  I’ve got a surprise in store for you there.”

            “Oh yeah? 
Like what?”

            “Oh,
nothing; you’ll just have to be patient.  But I guarantee it’ll be a
blast.”

            Walking
beside the blonde spy, Halley shook his head and grinned. 

            “I’ll
just bet,” he said.

 

 

---

class=MsoFootnoteReference>[1]  American Expeditionary Force
and British Expeditionary Force, respectively.