The field marshal’s voice held an utter weariness to match that of his civilian chief. “No, Herr Kanzler, there is nothing I can afford to send to reinforce the east. Even with what I have here, I am unlikely to hold. Herr Kanzler… the demolition on the bridge between Mainz and Wiesbaden failed. And the enemy has established several dozen lodgments on this bank besides. They pulled the same trick they used in the east, only crossing under a shield of children here. Most of the men could not shoot… would not anyway.”
“Then alles ist verloren?” asked the chancellor. All is lost?
“There are still tens of millions of our people, and those of our allies, to save to the north and south, Herr Kanzler. And the Army will pay whatever price we must to give you the time to evacuate them to the mountains and the snows. So no, Herr Kanzler, all is not lost, not while we can save our people.”
“I will give the orders, Field Marshal Mühlenkampf. Cover the evacuation as best you can.”
While his staff worked on the plans for delaying the Posleen advance and moving the headquarters back, Mühlenkampf thought it a good time to visit the front here in the city. Accompanied by his aide, Rolf, and half a dozen guards he set off in a Mercedes staff car.
People were fleeing afoot, by vehicle, and by bus.
Yet not everyone was fleeing. Mühlenkampf noticed a young soldier, sitting in apparent shock on a set of stairs leading from the sidewalk to a house. The boy’s eyes seemed fixed on some spot below the surface of the Earth.
“Stop the car,” he ordered.
Once the Mercedes had come to a halt by the side of the street the field marshal exited and then walked the few short steps to stand in front of the boy. He saw the boy could not be more than fifteen, at most, though grime and exhaustion would have made him look older to a less experienced officer. The cuff band on the soldier’s winter uniform coat said “Charlemagne.”
“What is your name, son?” Mühlenkampf asked in quite good French.
Without looking up from whatever private hell he contemplated, the boy answered, “Thomas De Gaullejac.”
“Where is your unit?”
“Dead? Fled? I don’t know.” Still Thomas did not look up. “I just know my sergeant died. And then I was the only one left. And that I was supposed to blow the bridge and… didn’t.” Low as it was already, with those words Thomas’ head hung lower still.”
“Aha,” said Mühlenkampf. That is one mystery cleared up. “Why didn’t you detonate the bridge, young man?”
Thomas closed his eyes tightly. “There were people on it… men… women… some children. They could have included my mother and brother. And so I just couldn’t. I tried. But my hand wouldn’t move. I can fight. I did fight. But I couldn’t kill all those people. Even though I tried.”
The boy began quietly to cry then.
“Damned if I can blame you for that, son,” sighed Mühlenkampf. And what you need right now is a chaplain or a psychiatrist. Possibly both. “Come with me.”
Thomas went along, even though some part of his mind wondered if it was only to attend a quick court-martial and slow hanging.
Nothing in Mühlenkampf’s demeanor, though, seemed threatening. The field marshal helped Thomas to his feet and led him to the car. “Rolf, take the car and two guards and see this boy to the nearest field hospital for the Charlemagne Division. Can you find that?”
Rolf consulted a laptop that he never left behind. He answered, “Yes, sir. No problem. There’s one about six miles from here. Though traffic may be a little tight.”
“That will be fine,” said Mühlenkampf. “Meet me back here in… say… two hours. The guards have a radio for me to communicate with Headquarters. They and I are going to have a little tour of the front lines.”
Wounded were still pouring in from the front. Many were fixed, to the extent they could be fixed, on the spot, before being sent back to the slaughter. Others were marked for evacuation or for being left behind.
To these, as to the others she had previously helped, Isabelle brought syringes filled with a powerful morphiate, a guaranteed overdose. For those who were awake she simply left a syringe. For the unconscious ones with an awake comrade nearby she asked if the comrade would assist.
And then she came to a ward tent holding one lone soldier with no comrades… and no arms. The soldier was conscious though faint, pale from shock and pain and loss of blood. Even so, he understood instinctively what the woman was offering and understood he could not accept it as offered.
“Can you help me?” he asked, weakly.
Her first instinct was to turn around, pretend she was there on some other business. But that would have been cowardly and she knew it. She walked and stood next to the armless soldier’s cot.
He was awake enough, if only just, to read her face and the moral confusion drawn upon it. It was a grave and terrible responsibility she had taken upon herself, a responsibility the soldier did not envy her. He tried to help her as best he could. “Madame, I am in great pain. Could you give me something… ?”
She knew as well as did he the game he was playing, but, since it made her task easier, she played along. “Certainly, young man. I have something for pain right here.”
Her finger flicked the needle as the thumb of the opposite hand forced out any air that the syringe might have contained. Then she stopped as she realized she had never given anyone an injection anywhere but in the arm.
He twisted his head slightly in the opposite direction. “They have been using my neck,” he advised.
Isabelle searched for a vein, found it, and forced the hair-thin needle into it. A slight withdrawal of the plunger confirmed she had pierced the vein well, as blood from the vein was drawn into the syringe. She pushed some of the syringe’s content into the vein.
And then she stopped pressing. You cannot do this, Isabelle. This is murder.
The soldier helped her again. “That feels a little better, madame, but I am still in great pain. Could I have some more?”
Again, Isabelle pressed another quarter of the syringe’s drug into the vein. But again, she stopped before reaching a fatal dosage.
“I think, madame, that I will still be in unbearable pain until you give me all of it.”
Isabelle looked deeply into the soldier’s eyes. She was not sure if she were looking for confirmation that the soldier wished to die then and there, or confirmation that he did not. The eyes gave no answer; between his injuries and the amount of drug she had already given him, they were simply too dull and blank.
“… all of it, madame, please? The pain…”
Shutting her own eyes then, Isabelle slowly forced the rest of the syringe’s contents into the young man’s neck. She waited there, eyes closed and unmoving, for several minutes as the horror of what she had done washed over her. When she opened them again and withdrew the needle, she saw that the soldier’s eyes had closed, that his breathing had gone shallow. In a few minutes, under Isabelle’s gaze, the breathing stopped entirely.
Then, eyes full of tears and heart full of sorrow, she fled, leaving behind the now empty ward tent.
Thomas was not alone in the reception tent of the field hospital, but he was ignored by the people bustling to and fro.