Mark

“Two clubs.”

Mark studied Johnson’s scarred face, looking for some clue about the cards in his hand. “Pretty weak bid,” he ventured, watching for a reaction. Johnson’s lips quirked up in a smile that told Mark absolutely nothing.

Mark squinted at him, hunting for some clue in the man’s scarred face. “Three diamonds,” he said, testing the strength of the man’s hand. Johnson offered no reaction to Mark’s bid, damn him. At least MacDougal wasn’t playing this round: ever since their confrontation on the roof, Mark hadn’t been able to meet the Sergeant’s eye. It made playing against him hard, and playing with him as a partner even worse.

Rogers looked across the table to Johnson, his partner, and pursed his lips, his spectacles perched precipitously on the tip of his nose. “Four clubs.” That got a nod from Johnson. Okay, clubs it would be, most likely. Mark grimaced at his own hand; there wasn’t so much as a single club in it.

“Pass,” Wight said, laying his hand down on the table. Mark glared at him, and got a frown back for his trouble, the Wight’s mustache bristling unhappily. “What? You want me to lie to you?”

“No, I just want you to draw a decent hand.”

“Then you should deal a decent hand,” Wight retorted. That was, unfortunately, true. Mark fell silent with a grumble.

Johnson grinned, the scars on his face stretching horribly. “Easy, gents. In that case, I’ll bid a slam.”

Mark groaned and flopped backwards in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s play chess.” Heaven knew they’d done enough of both over the last week, and chess was growing on him, even if he’d won exactly zero games so far. “Rogers, I’m pretty sure I might beat you if we play another hundred games or so.”

Rogers gave a full-throated laugh. “Not a chance! But if I give you a rook and knight to start, you might have a shot. In two hundred games. Now bid or yield!”

MacDougal’s clomping boots interrupted the men’s chuckles as he came stomping down the stairs. “On your feet, men. Save that hand for later, we’ve got work to do.”

Mark tossed his hand down gratefully, deliberately letting it mix with his companions’ cards to spoil the draw. The others let him get away with it, stretching and grinning. Finally! Freedom. Eight days of confinement, finally coming to an end.

MacDougal pointed to Johnson and Wight. “Johnson, you take Wight and work your way through the neighborhoods north and west of here. Count patrols, listen for gossip about the power station. If you notice anyone paying extra attention to you, take the long route through Le Marais to come home.” Le Merais was a dense and poorly patrolled slum neighborhood, perfect for skulking. “Rogers,” he went on, “you’re with me today. We’ll go south and east, see what we can see. We won’t be stopping by the power station; I asked Francois to take a look at that. I’d rather not be seen near there, if possible. Mark, you have the radio. Listen only, we’re not sending anything out.”

Mark gaped, dumbstruck. “You’re going to leave me here?” He protested. The radio was Rogers’ job, not his! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Johnson and the others exchanging quick glances, and he felt a prickle of desperation. Only the presence of his squad had made this squalid basement bearable over the last few days.

MacDougal turned slowly to Mark. “Is that a problem, soldier? You’re trained on it, aren’t you?” His tone was friendly, but his eyes glinted like chips of ice.

The memory of their…talk…on the rooftop stopped Mark from saying anything more, and the remembered scent of cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. He ducked his head. “No problem, sir.” He winced: his voice sounded sullen even to him, but MacDougal let it go with a nod.

Turning away from him again, the grizzled Sergeant went on. “Write down anything that comes over our frequency; you know the drill. We’ll be back before dusk. If Francois returns before we do, ask if he had any luck getting us a meeting with Fleur-de-Lis.

Mark’s eyebrows drew together. “The who now? The lily flower?”

MacDougal waved a hand impatiently. “You know that flower symbol the French plaster over everything? That’s a fleur-de-lis. One of the key resistance leaders in the city is using it as his nom-de-guerre. He’s been particularly consistent with information about troop movements, and the home office would like better contact with him. I’ve asked Francois to try to contact him, but he’s been…strange about it. He promised me before he left yesterday that he would try and set up a meeting.” His gaze sharpened on Mark again. “That man is about as biddable as a cat. I’m counting on you to keep him from wandering off again as soon as he gets back.”

Mark nodded his head, reluctant. MacDougal closed the distance between them and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t lower his voice, but it did take on a gentler tone. Almost fatherly, in a way. “You can be a good soldier, Mark.” Mark looked back up, his face reddening. Johnson, Rogers, and Wight had all moved towards the door and were pretending not to watch, but there was no way they could avoid hearing. “You can be one of the best; but you have to decide that it’s what you want to be.” He clapped Mark once on the back and then turned and strode out the door without another word.

The others followed him. Mark forced himself to meet their eyes, even though it made his cheeks flush even hotter. Wight tapped two fingers to his brow by way of salute as he passed, and then they were gone, leaving Mark very, very alone.

After so many days of crowding, the living room felt huge with no one in it. He was half-tempted to follow them out the door, and go visit one of the bars for a few hours. Odds were the radio would be silent all day, but he discarded the idea immediately. MacDougal would skin him alive if he found out.

Fine. He could be a good soldier. He could be the very best soldier they’d ever seen. He pulled a chair in front of the radio set and leaned back, folding his arms and considering the equipment. The system showed its age, worn and battered. He’d seen sleeker models, small enough to fit in a briefcase, but they needed the extra transmitting range this larger set offered. The headset sat to one side, connected by a trailing wire to the receiver. He stared at it.

"Go on then, do something."

The machine ignored his command, the dials still and quiet under his gaze. Resigning himself to boredom, he cast about for something else to do.

There was no shortage of work. Their weapons, stacked in a box against the far wall, needed to be cleaned and oiled. Other pieces of equipment lay scattered about that he could work on. A bag of metal filings slumped next to the weapons, meant for sneaking into motor oil so that the engines would grind themselves to pieces. Alongside that, they kept a box of pamphlets, full of tidbits that a rebel might find interesting, like “how to remotely trigger a detonation” and “construction of explosive devices using common materials.” Good read, that. There was plenty of work for him to do, but that was part of the problem; nothing that he was supposed to do sounded the least bit appealing. His eyes roved around the room until they lit on a box in the corner. He sat up a little straighter in the chair, his eyes coming alight.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Grenades. They’d brought a few with them, no more than a dozen, and hadn’t really found a use for them. It occurred to Mark that he’d never had the chance to open one up.

A few hours later, he’d figured out how to unscrew the fuse cap. With the fuse out and the explosive reservoir dumped out in the bowl from Wight’s mess kit, it left him with a shell that was safe to handle. It was about that time that he heard the door from the alley swing open. Too soon to be his companions; he knew it had to be their host. A moment later, Francois poked his head cautiously around the corner, peering around the room.

“You forgot to lock the door,” he complained. Coming fully into the room as he saw Mark hunched over the table that held the radio. “What, it is just you here? Where are the others?” He asked as he pulled the door shut behind himself. There was a rattling scrape as he threw the huge bolt home again, locking it shut.

“They went out to do some scouting, and to figure out our next move.” Mark kept his voice light. “I’m keeping an eye on the radio so that poor Rogers can get out and about. He needs to see sunlight every now and then.”

The faintest smile touched the Frenchman’s eyes. “Certainly. He was looking a touch pale.”

Mark flushed under his collar. That heavy accent grated, even in small doses, and the man’s tone held too much knowing, too much sarcasm. He kept his head forward and set to tearing apart the fuse mechanism. It came apart in his hand at a tug, the striker and fuse spilling onto the desk.

Francois shuffled across the room behind Mark, boots traipsing raggedly on the ill-cut floorboards. He crossed into the small kitchen and called back from there, voice dampened by the brick walls. “What time do they intend to return?”

“Not soon enough…” Mark muttered, pulling out his knife. He cut the detonator free and tossed it well away from the bowl full of gunpowder at his elbow. Just to be safe.

“What was that?”

“Sometime this evening!” He called back, louder. He considered the fuse, wondering if he could shorten it up somehow, turning it from a three-count to a two or a one. The trick would be reattaching it; he’d kind of just ripped it apart, and he wasn’t sure how he could put the whole mechanism back together again. “MacDougal said you were trying to make contact with Fleur-de-lis. You have any luck?”

Francois hesitated, clattering around the kitchen for a moment before responding. “No.”

Mark frowned to himself. In a way, it was all Francois’ fault that he was stuck here. If the Frenchman had just done what he’d initially promised and connected them with the Resistance, they’d actually be doing something worthwhile, instead of just waiting around…come to think of it, why was he taking so long? Caution was one thing, but the team had already proved themselves, so what was the hold up? Mark set the striker assembly aside and picked up the shell of the grenade to peer inside. It looked like a pineapple; that was supposed to help them fragment, but they didn’t always shatter that way. More often, the force of the blast just folded the metal over at the indentations. “Couldn’t track him down huh? Well, that’s alright. Tomorrow, maybe eh?” He probed, leaning his chair back on two legs to look at the other man.

Francois reappeared in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a small cup of Johnson’s leftover coffee. He sipped, staring at Mark, eyes slitted over the rim of his mug. “Yes. Maybe tomorrow,” he said, his tone as flat and bland as army issue paint. “And maybe tomorrow you will go out as well.”

Mark let his chair drop back to all four legs and turned to face Francois. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

The Frenchman did not move, and his unblinking gaze did not waver. “Only that perhaps tomorrow you will be called upon for some task besides the radio.” He took a slow, deliberate sip. “Perhaps MacDougal will decide that it is safe to conduct another operation, and you will have work to do.”

Mark narrowed his eyes. Everything the man had just said had been true…but somehow it felt insulting. “Yah, maybe. Guess we’ll see,” Mark said. He turned back to the grenade and realized he had no good way to get the gunpowder back inside. To his side, he heard Francois take up his customary place in his armchair, still nursing his mug of coffee. Mark could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back. “You know that’s some of the last of Johnson’s coffee?”

Francois made a non-commital noise, ignoring Mark’s efforts to shame him. “Mmm…Yes, I thought it might be. It is not very good.”

Shaking his head, Mark ran his thumb down the ridges of the grenade. Of course it didn’t shatter the way they wanted; The scoring was opposite the side of the blast. If you were to reverse it though, put the scoring on the inside, that might do the trick. Is it even possible to do that efficiently? He figured it must be, but he wasn’t sure how you’d manage the machines for it. Building things wasn’t really his strong suit; more the opposite. “Don’t you have some kind of work you should be doing?” He said.

“I have done it;” The Frenchman answered him cooly. “I spoke with several contacts until late last night and stayed with them, and now I’m going to rest.”

“What did you find out?” Mark probed, putting the striker assembly and fuse back into place. He left the powder where it was, in the bowl.

“Two men were executed yesterday for brawling with German soldiers. Some kind of protest up at the university.” He snorted. “Children. What good do they think protests will do? Violence is the only answer to violence.”

Mark wrinkled his nose. Francois spoke of the deaths with the same casual disgust his father might use to chastise Mark for tracking mud into the house. “Anything else interesting?”

Francois shrugged. “They’re working on fixing the power station, but it’s expected to be weeks before they have it running again. Oh, and the bastards are showing Schiller’s Intrigue and Love at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées.” He spat the last part, and Mark turned to look at him, surprised. Francois’ face twisted with barely contained disgust.

“Two men dead and you’re upset over a play?” Mark asked, incredulous. “What is wrong with you?” Mark couldn’t decide if the man was serious.

“You do not understand,” Francois insisted. “They think to woo us, that we will be tempted into bed with them by a few plays and a little music. That we would forget what they have done…It’s an insult!”

“Okay.” Mark said, nodding. “Want to blow it up? I’ll bet there might be some important Nazis there on opening night.”

Francois’ eyes widened in shock and horror. “Destroy the Champs-Élysées? Are you mad? You don’t murder your lover because another man forces himself on her!”

Mark rolled his eyes. The man’s outrage had to be an affectation. “It’s a building Francois, not a woman.”

Francois shook his head and made to take another sip of coffee, then jerked the cup from his lips, noticing for the first time what was in Mark’s hands. “Why are you playing with a grenade?”

“Oh, you know.” Mark held the weapon up for inspection. It was lighter, without the powder, but it looked perfectly functional. “Just have to keep busy somehow.”

“This is my home, you know.” Francois’ voice was heavy with disapproval. “I would appreciate it if you did not toy with explosives here.”

Mark shrugged, pulling the pin on the grenade. Francois’ eyes widened in a gratifying way, and he scrambled up out of the chair. “Catch!” Mark called, tossing the grenade, underhanded, towards Francois. It bounced off the floor and rolled under the armchair, sending the Frenchman scrambling for cover with a yell. His book flew to one side in his haste as he threw himself around the wall of the kitchen and down to the floor, his feet poking out around the bricks.

The fuse sizzled in the grenade, and then went silent. After several long moments, Francois clambered to his feet and peeked around the edge of the kitchen wall.

“Are you completely insane?” He said, hissing like an affronted cat.

“Nope.” Mark laughed as he bent to retrieve the grenade from under the chair. “It’s completely safe, see?” He tossed the grenade to Francois, who caught it with a look of trepidation.

“You removed the powder,” he guessed, hefting it. When Mark nodded, he went on. “That,” the word came out with a strong ‘Z’ sound, “was not amusing.” He threw the grenade back overhand to Mark, a little harder than was strictly necessary.

“Oh, I dunno.” Mark caught it and waggled the dud at Francois, twanging the safety lever. “I’ll bet it’ll be really amusing when I do it to Rogers. Hand me the pin so I can reset it.”