Mark

Lance Corporal Mark Lateen kept his eyes on the cobblestones as he trudged down the wide Parisian street. With the shovel balanced on his shoulder, and the cap pulled low over his hair, he hoped he looked just like the crew of conscripted French workers surrounding him. Beaten men, wearing beaten down expressions and beaten up clothing. A pair of German soldiers with rifles slung over their shoulders gave the group a cursory glance as they passed, but paid them no special attention. That was good–if they had looked closely, they would have noticed that Mark was young and healthy, and better fed than the men around him. He’d have stood out, had he not taken pains to slouch as he walked. Between that and the dirt rubbed into his clothes, a passing glance wouldn’t show them anything out of the ordinary. It helped that he had something like the typical French countryman’s features, courtesy of his mother’s side of the family–curly dark hair, aquiline nose, large eyes and a hint of olive to his skin.

Just a Frenchman trying to earn some extra ration chits. That’s all I am. Mark rubbed a hand across his mouth, wiping a smile away. Sergeant MacDougal would have smacked him if he’d seen, but he was walking ahead of Mark, head bowed and shoulders slumped theatrically beneath the rusted pickaxe he carried. Personally, Mark thought that he was overselling it, but trying to tell the Sergeant that would earn him no favors. MacDougal had a harder time blending in to begin with, of course. He was pure Scottsman, from his head to his toes; burly, grouchy, and with flaming red hair. Still, with his hair cut short, the right hat and the right clothes, he passed well enough, so long as he didn’t have to talk much. It was just the two of them at the moment; the other members of their team, Corporal Johnson and Corporal Wight, were taking up positions several blocks away.

In a mass, the group of men plodded down the middle of the street. With the price of fuel so dear, men, horses, and bicycles had reconquered the roads of Paris. It changed the character of the city’s byways; it made them slower, quieter…Mark wrinkled his nose. Smellier, too. The group passed a manure cart hitched to a sorry looking nag, pungent and overflowing with horse apples. Not that it was a smell Mark was unfamiliar with; he’d grown up on a farm. There was a certain irony to the fact that he’d run away from the farm to enlist, only to end up surrounded by barnyard smells. Whichever unlucky soul the Germans had tasked with filling that cart hadn’t cleared everything, and Mark had to dance around a pile of manure still steaming in the chill morning air. It required an awkward, shuffling step that made the explosive charges strapped around his midriff dig into his ribs.

Rounding the corner, the group came to a shambling halt in an area that was more rubble than road. A deep pit cratered the ground, and cobblestones lay scattered everywhere, shattered by the force of an airstrike that had just missed the electrical substation next to it. The towers and power lines stood behind a tall, locked gate, casting thin shadows over the men and the crater. Today, the little band of workers would work to clear away the wreckage and level the hole in the road. Don’t worry chaps, Mark thought, fingering the explosives through his shirt, you’re about to get the day off. So would the men working at the tire factory, and the auto plant that relied on this relay for power. Really, if you thought about it in that light, they were doing all of these folks a favor.

A pair of German soldiers wandered up the street towards them, accompanied by a mousy man in a rumpled suit. The soldier’s eyes probed the gathered workers as the man in the suit fussed at them in thickly accented French over the state of the road, gesturing at the workers as the last of them trickled in. Mark considered the man for a moment. He wore no uniform or insignia, and his mannerisms were hesitant. He had a whiny cast to his face. Some kind of pencil-pushing administrator, he supposed, here to oversee the work.

The two soldiers took their orders from the mouse of a man with poor grace, spreading out and setting to shoving the Frenchman where they wanted them to go. One of them grabbed Mark by the shoulder and towed him around the crater.

“You there.” He growled in broken French, pointing. “Shovel dirt in hole.” Mark let the man bully him around the edge of the rubble to the indicated spot and applied his shovel with the appropriate lack of enthusiasm. As he worked, he watched the faces of the men around him. Some drooped, with unfocused eyes and slack expressions. On others he found barely concealed anger, frustration, and resentment. One man chanced a rude gesture when the soldiers had their backs to him.

Beaten, but not crushed. Good. Across the crater, he tried to catch MacDougal’s eye. Sweat beaded on the sergeant’s heavy brow as he knocked broken stones loose from the edge of the pit. Mark shook his head; the Sergeant would work at this like it was his actual job. Even so, Mark caught him stealing glances at the clock tower beyond the factory. Mark paused in shuffling the dirt around, and leaned on his own shovel, squinting at it the clock through the glare of the rising sun. The bell in the tower began to toll, marking the hour. Any minute now…

A great roaring boom ripped through the air. The noise crashed over the men, long habit sending some of them to the ground with hands over the backs of their heads. Others stood with their mouths open, or cried out in fear, dropping their tools. The German soldiers cursed, unslinging their rifles and putting their backs to the closest building for cover. Another explosion shook the air, and one of the two soldiers pointed, shouting in German.

“That way! It can’t be more than a few blocks, go!” He suited action to words, taking off at a run up the street, his companion close on his heels.

“Wait!” Squeaked the man in the suit, wringing his hands. “You two are supposed to be my escorts!” If the soldiers heard him, they didn’t bother to answer. They rounded the corner and disappeared, dashing towards the source of the explosions and leaving the flustered administrator behind.

Mark gripped the shovel by the handle, took two quick steps up behind the mousy man, and swung hard. The flat of the blade crunched into the man's head with a metal clank, the impact shivering up Mark's arms. The fellow dropped bonelessly to the ground with a soft "Oh!" of surprise, crumpling in the dirt. Someone behind him sucked in a shocked breath.

Mark jammed the shovel into the dirt alongside the fallen man with a flourish and a smirk. Across the shattered street, MacDougal watched him with a frown. “You’re showing off,” he growled in passable French. The accent would never fool a Parisian, but it had proved sufficient for the occupying troops. “Come on.” Matching word to action, he started for the gate.

Hopping over the crumpled figure, Mark worked his way across the rough ground of the crater, following MacDougal’s lead. The Frenchmen gave way before him, wary, as he clambered up the other side to meet MacDougal at the gate to the electrical substation. It loomed overhead, and thick coils of barbed wire perched on top of it, stretching all the way around it. On the gate itself hung a heavy steel lock hung. Sergeant MacDougal produced a small bolt cutter from the folds of his own clothes and set to worrying at the lock, twisting the blades of the cutter back and forth. The short handles of the tool lacked leverage, but MacDougal’s arms were thick and corded with heavy muscle. He squeezed hard, the veins in his forearms bulging under wiry hair. The lock resisted him stubbornly, rattling against the gate as he wrenched at it. MacDougal reset himself and heaved at the cutter with a sharp grunt. With a final screech of tortured metal, the blades tore through the shackle of the lock, knocking it down into the dirt.

Mark pushed past MacDougal through the now-open gate, fumbling at the explosives under his shirt. He got them loose and tossed one strap's worth to the Captain in a careless arc. MacDougal snagged them out of the air by the trailing edge, following Mark into the power station. Mark rolled the stuff in his hands as he walked, surveying the structures around him. It felt like clay in his fingers, and he could mold it the same way. Nobel's 808 explosive, they called it. The stuff had the faded green color of drying hay, and smelled distinctly of almonds. The wires overhead buzzed with power, and he could swear that he felt his hair standing on end.

Captain MacDougal split to the right, and Mark to the left. Mark hummed to himself as he worked, slapping a generous dose of the plastic explosive to the areas that looked most expensive: the main transformer, the tower legs, and the wall of the control room, among others. He added a fuse to each one as he went. They were thin copper tubes the size of a pencil, and each held a vial of acid. He crushed the end of each fuse under his boot before pushing them into their lumps of explosive. That freed the acid, which ate through a wire holding the striker in place. A thicker wire gave you more time, but these would only last a few minutes. When the wire broke, the striker would spring forward, triggering the detonator.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The fuses should give them plenty of time to get clear…still, they worked fast. Better to be quick. It was, Mark mused, much like blowing a stump out of the ground back on the farm. He smoothed another batch of the explosive onto the underside of a tower leg, giving the lump a fond pat before he placed the fuse. He could feel where the explosives should go, where they would be most effective. Here, deep in a corner, where all the force would blast back into the structure. There, where all those neat welds met. He stuck a second lump onto the wall of the control building for good measure, and saw MacDougal waving at him from the gate.

"Time to go." He grated when Mark drew near him. He pulled out a final copper timing fuse and crushed the end of it between a meaty finger and thumb, then jammed it into a plastic explosive he'd placed on the side of a squat voltage regulator. It looked to Mark for all the world like a pencil, jammed in a very large piece of gum.

MacDougal did not pause to consider his handiwork, but instead turned on his heel and made for the gate. Down in the street, the Frenchmen day laborers looked up at them, wide eyed. Some of those faces held approval, others showed shock and fear. Glancing around, Mark pocketed his last explosive as he hurried after the Captain. He’d ended up with an extra somehow.

One of the men below broke ahead of his fellows as they ducked out of the gate, running a tongue nervously over dry, chapped lips. “Are you…with the resistance?” He asked, his eyes searching their faces.

“No,” MacDougal answered in gruff French. “But if you know any of them, tell them we’d like to meet.” They’d been trying to get in touch with the local resistance, without much success, since they’d arrived. For all the promises they’d sent about providing aid, all the local cell had offered so far was a single, grumpy man and his home as a safe house. For one reason or another, they were reluctant to commit to more than that. But this…this should get their attention, and earn their respect.

Mark stepped up beside MacDougal and gestured to the substation behind them with a broad smile. “Speaking of…it looks like they’ve gone and rigged this power station to blow!” MacDougal rolled his eyes, but let Mark continue. “Absolutely horrible! It would probably be best if someone ran and warned a patrol. I’m sure they’d appreciate it.” A few scattered grins showed in the crowd below at that. The patrols would not appreciate it, but it would keep these innocent men safe from suspicion. “If they hurry, perhaps they can disarm the explosives…if they can find them all in time.” Any German soldier fool enough to try was as likely to get blown up as do any good.

There were nods at that, and even a few more smiles as the men scattered away. Mark and the Sergeant followed them, grabbing their tools as they went, leaving only the unconscious man in the dirt to mark that they’d been there at all. He’d be alright. Probably. With the tools over their shoulders again, they hurried away down the street they’d first come down. Mark had a hard time putting the appropriate defeated slump into his shoulders. The whole thing had gone perfectly, and he’d even come away with some extra explosive. As they came abreast of the manure cart, he slowed and felt at the final chunk of Nobel’s 808 in his pocket. Would it be better to get rid of it? Yes, he thought, grinning wickedly. Yes, it would. He stopped and pulled the last of his fuses out of his other pocket.

MacDougal turned, realizing that Mark had stopped. “What are you doing?” He hissed. Mark gave the captain a wink, then bit down hard on the fuse, crushing the thin tube between his molars. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the street was still clear, he jammed the fuse into the explosive before sticking the whole thing to the bottom of the cart. He straightened, chuckling, just as MacDougal reached him and snagged him by the arm.

“Why,” the sergeant rumbled threateningly, “on God’s green earth are you blowing up a manure cart?”

“I didn’t want to still be carrying it if we’re searched,” Mark whispered back. That had the advantage of being both true and sounding very reasonable, but all it earned him was a long hard look.

“Then you should have used it on the target. Grab it and throw the fuse away quick, we need to get out of—damn.”

The same two soldiers from before came striding around the corner towards them, moving fast. One raised a hand to point at them, shouting in French "You two, halt! Stay right there! Hands where we can see them!"

They halted. "Still want me to grab it?" Mark mumbled, his lips barely moving. From the corner of his eye he saw MacDougal's jaw tighten.

"Not one word," He growled, raising his hands as the soldiers approached. "Not a one."

Mark eyed the German soldiers. They had the look of tough veterans, their faces prematurely lined and their eyes hard. Men on rotation back from the front lines, sent to Paris for easy work and a little rest and recuperation. That made them more dangerous, in Mark’s estimation. The taller one stepped forward, while the other covered him, scanning the street.

"Papers." The first said in thickly accented French, holding his hand out. Mark and MacDougal both produced forged documents from their coat pockets and handed them over. Mark wasn't worried; they passed inspections like this every day. The false identities the home office had supplied them with had never failed them yet.

The patrol soldier looked them over carefully, fingering the pictures to check for a seam. His companion didn't even so much as glance at them, scanning the street around them. Mark felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up; the papers would check out, but he did not like the way the man fingered the trigger of his rifle. And there was the explosive he had set, not more than three paces away, the fuse steadily burning down as the acid ate through the wire…

“Why aren’t you two at your work detail?” The soldier asked, handing back their papers. His voice was heavy with suspicion. “And where are the rest of the crew?”

“We were running to find you.” Mark replied, in his best French. He cast the words in the strongest rural accent he could manage, to obscure any trace of England in his voice. “The Resistance did something to the transformer substation!”

The soldier swore in German, loud and angry enough to earn a raised eyebrow from his companion. Mark tucked the words away for future use. They were particularly florid, and not a combination he’d heard before. The soldier turned to his companion, speaking in rapid fire German.

“The other bomb was a distraction. Sound the alarm and call for help; I’m going to the substation.” He switched back to French, grabbing at Mark’s arm, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise. “Don’t go anywhere. I want to know what you saw.”

“Of course, sir,” MacDougal lied, affecting a lisp to cover his own accent. “We’ll stay right here.” The soldier grunted at that, and then they split off in opposite directions, leaving Mark and MacDougal waiting by the manure cart. The second the Germans rounded a corner, Mark and MacDougal scurried away, leaving the cart behind. At the end of the street was a small alley. The entrance lay hidden between dilapidated barrels and crates, and the two men slipped into it and out of sight in moments.

Johnson and Wight were just inside, slouched in the shadows against the walls. They straightened when the sergeant and Mark hurried in, looking concerned.

“You’re late,” Johnson said, his soft voice at odds with his badly scarred face. “Did you run into any problems?”

“We may have been made,” MacDougal growled, glaring at Mark.

Wight frowned at that. The expression looked at home on the man’s face, stretching his bristling mustache like an unhappy caterpillar. “What happened?”

MacDougal’s face twisted in a grim expression. “Got stopped by the guards leaving the target. We’ll see if they put two and two together-”

A series of muted booms cut him off, echoing up the street. Screams followed, and from their vantage point, they could see a plume of smoke mushrooming into the sky over the former electrical station.

"Well, that's done. Come on," Johnson said, turning deeper into the alley. "Let's be well clear of this place."

"Wait, wait," Mark said, waving at them. He turned back towards the rising pillar of smoke. "There's one more..."

Wight's frown deepened. "Why would there be one more...?"

The final explosion sounded, and a moment later, a faint pattering followed. It sounded like a fresh spring cloudburst hitting the cobblestones. In the distance, a faint, drawn out curse echoed.

“Scheisse!”

A grin split Mark’s face from ear to ear, while his companions gaped at the brown deluge. It was everything he’d hoped for, until MacDougal cuffed him alongside the head.