Chapter 24

Schubert and his band arrive in Carcross. Genevieve reviews the battle plan. Schubert tries to instill courage in his men, but the real inspiration is Genevieve. At first light, they leave for the abandoned village.

Chapter 24

They left three hours past midnight. Schubert, sitting in the front of the half-track, stared into the night sky—the paradox of beauty above and killing cold below remained irreconcilable, like two separated lovers, damned to never meet. Geneviève sat next to him, quiet. Perhaps she was sleeping. Regardless, she was in a place he’d not been invited to. Simpson, sitting behind them, snored loudly. Schubert had no idea how the bear of a man did it, since the ruckus from the motor filled the cab, preventing any conversation. Tournamille sat quietly, humming a folk-song. Power sat slumped over the suitcase on his lap, nodding off.

Peters drove the half-track to Carcross. The journey was long and the suspension on the vehicle, non-existent. It seemed to Schubert that with each mile gained, his spine compressed a little bit more. Thankfully, the heater kept the cab barely above freezing. Each of them sat alone with their thoughts. They were heading into battle, completely unprepared. They hoped to survive because Geneviève gave them hope. 

They made good time and arrived in Carcross in four hours. Carcross was little more than an outpost. A few residents held on, but the village seemed to exist somewhere between neglect and abandonment. Without the railroad, it most probably would have died.

Peters shifted down as they entered the village, and the big diesel whined as the half-track slowed. 

Schubert said: “Find a place out of sight, Peters. No sense in sending a warning if we’re lucky enough to find Müller and von Sonnenfeld in town.”

Peters turned down a side-street and nudged the half-track between a blacksmith’s and a hardware store.

“Wait here. It’s time to spy out the land. Hopefully there are no giants about,” Schubert said. 

He crossed the street, the cold matching him step for step. Walking onto the boardwalk, his boots echoed with a hollow thud. In the still air, his footfall thundered across the street, like (he could only guess) far-off canon shot. Ahead, the Caribou Hotel had just opened. Someone was lighting the few gas lamps outside the main entrance, sending a warm glow across the weathered boards. Schubert entered the hotel lobby.

“Here a little early, aren’t we mister?” the desk clerk said, organizing himself for the day. It was the same man who had lit the lamps.

Schubert pulled out his identification. The man shoved his glasses to the bridge of his nose and leaned in. 

“RCMP, eh? Hell, you in from Whitehorse? That’s a long drive, this time of night. I heard your rig rumblin’ in—couldn’t miss it. Gotta be something important to get you here this early. If you’re lookin’ for your men, none of ‘em bed here. They stay at the station.”

“I’m not here to discuss the detachment’s sleeping arrangements. Who’s been on the front desk this past week?”

“You’re lookin’ at him. What’s this about?”

“I’m here with members of my detachment. We’re on a manhunt. I couldn’t alert my people here until we arrived, so I’m starting with you. Have you had two men check in, either single or together; foreign accents, maybe using European passports. They were both Swiss, the last time we checked. One dresses well—wreaks of privilege and money. The other is shorter, thin, athletic build.”

The man chuckled. “Sounds about right. Not a lot of guests arrive here these days, not since the gold dried up. The guy in the fancy clothes? He lost a load of money at poker—with your boys, as a matter of fact. Went through a couple a’ bottles of whiskey, too. Took the losses in stride, like it was no big deal. The other guy stayed in his room. Didn’t talk much. Both left a generous tip.”

“Were there any others?”

“Some tough lookin’ Irishmen were here, too. Weren’t very friendly, that’s for sure.”

“How many?”

“There were four.”

“And they’re all gone? When?”

“Last night. Said they was moving on. Like hell, I said. Ain’t no place to move on to.”

“Right. Don’t touch their rooms. We’ll want to examine them. I’m heading over to the detachment. I’ll be back soon.”

Schubert returned to the half-track, following the big, throaty rumble that pulsed off the surrounding buildings. 

“They’ve been and gone,” he said, climbing into the cab. “At least six men in total.”

Peters glanced over at Geneviève. 

Schubert added: “Let’s get to the detachment. Apparently our men were playing poker with von Sonnenfeld last night. Something feels wrong.”

They made the station house in less than a minute. 

“Tournamille, driver’s seat,” Schubert said. “Keep it running. Power, for now, wait here. Peters, you’re with me. Geneviève, grab one of those 9mms our government has so willingly loaned you. You and Simpson take the back door.”

As Simpson and Geneviève ran around the building, Schubert bounded up the front step and pulled on the station’s the door. 

“Locked,” he said, mostly to himself. “Since when do police lock their doors?” 

He pounded on the door. “Lads! Wake up. It’s Schubert here—from Whitehorse.” 

Peters stepped back, checking the chimney. “There’s still a fire in the stove, judging by the smoke.” 

Schubert called again. There was still no response. 

“OK, Bart, kick in the door.”

Peters kicked the door handle and the wood easily splintered. Schubert went to the rear door and opened it. 

“Upstairs,” he commanded.

The four climbed the stairs, sounding like a herd of caribou running over tundra. Peters opened the first door, Schubert the second.

“Goddamn them!” Schubert yelled. 

The officer lay on his bed, a single bullet to the forehead. 

“Peters!”

“He’s dead. Shot in the head.”

“Von Sonnenfeld plied them with whiskey and probably shot them as soon as they turned out the light. We’re on our own.” Schubert fumed, unable to fathom what kind of criminal he was up against.

Geneviève said: “There’s nothing we can do now but prepare. Our enemy has travelled through the night. Unless they have a half-track, which I seriously doubt, they’ll have snowshoed. They’ll be tired and will have to rest before they set up their operation.” 

Geneviève—so cool under pressure, Schubert thought, almost calculatingly cold.

“We’ll lose our advantage if we don’t rest,” she continued. “I’ll sight-in the rifle. We’ll eat and sleep. If we leave at zero three-hundred, that should get us to the village near zero four-hundred, well before dawn. When the train arrives, we’ll be ready.”

The undertakers were called (the blacksmith and the hotel desk clerk) and Schubert sent a telegraph to head office in Vancouver, informing them of the deaths. Other than that, there was nothing to be done for the slain officers.

By nine o’clock the sun had crested the horizon—it was time to sight-in the rifle. Peters and Geneviève drove to a large meadow. She lay on the roof of the half-track for an unimpeded view out to three hundred yards. Peters tied a cast iron pan he’d taken from the officers’ mess to the branch of a scrawny birch.

“OK, Miss Geneviève. Do your thing.”

“Bart,” she said, settling into position. “Why do you call me ‘miss?’ It sounds antiquated, like we’re from the antebellum south.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I don’t know how to address you, what with you and the boss.” He shrugged. “What do I call you?”

“How about ‘Jenny?’ James used to call me that when we were children. I’d like that.”

“Then ‘Jenny’ it is,” Peters replied. He hoisted the rifle from the crate and passed it to Geneviève. 

She racked the slide back and got a feel for the weapon in the prone position. It was heavy, but well balanced.

“Pass me three shells,” she said, unlocking the bipod.

Peters handed them up, one at a time. Geneviève slowly and deliberately set each shell into the magazine, feeling the action of the springs. Then, with equal care, she chambered a round memorizing the feel as the spring pushed the cartridge into the chamber. The scope, a four-power Hasselblad, was polished to perfection; the crosshairs were thin enough not to distract and included a four slashes in each direction. She checked the windage dial as well as the elevation. 

“Peters, you ready with your binoculars?”

“Anytime, Jenny.” 

She squeezed the trigger. The big rifle bucked in her arms but she held it steady on target.

“Holy Mother of God!” Peters shouted, deafened from the blast, still focused on the target. “To the left, I think. Saw a whisper of snow fly up.”

Geneviève ignored his exclamation and instead slowed her breathing. She slid back the bolt. The shell ejected, clattering on the roof of the half-track. She chambered the second round. Time slowed for Geneviève: she listened for her heart-beat, feeling the space lengthen between each beat. She heard her father’s voice instructing her. The rifle began to feel a part of her. She timed her heart-beat and shot.

“Mercy!” Peters yelled, as the pan spun away into the snow.

Geneviève chambered the third round, aiming for the branch above the pan. She squeezed the trigger and the branch disintegrated.

“Goddamn, if I could shoot like that! You’ll have to teach me come this summer.”

Geneviève ejected the spent shell and shouldered the rifle. 

“You were in the Great War, weren’t you Peters?” she said, handing him the rifle.

“Yeah, I was an infantry medic. There was no glory in that war. Why it’s called the ‘Great War’ is beyond me.

“You’re leadership material,” he said, not wanting to dwell on his time in the trenches. “You know that, right?” Peters helped her to the ground. “We had some complete arses who thought they could lead. You’ve proven that you’re a tactical thinker. And you’re a damn fine leader.” 

“I imagine I learned to think that way from hunting with my father. When you spend nearly twenty years trapping and hunting in the bush, some things become second nature.”

“Then how about you tell me: when did you find the time to bake? Seems the two sides are at odds—hunting and pastry.”

Hunting men, he thought. There was a side to this red-headed beauty that he was glad to remain ignorant of. Her job with a rifle had been personal: you looked a man in the face before you pulled the trigger.

She appreciated his attempt to keep conversation casual. They were both feeling the stress of the mission. Peters, she reckoned, would have been an excellent second-in-command.

“I loved my father and what he taught me but black flies, mosquitos and months along a trapline gradually lost its appeal. James never had an interest—he was always engrossed in another book on the ancient somewhere-in-the-Middle-East. When father died, so did my life outdoors. Without Dad, it felt incomplete. I thought I would try something different, something that kept me indoors.”

They climbed into the cab and Peters fired up the big diesel engine. 

“I’m worried about the Inspector—Simpson and Tournamille, too,” Peters said, shifting into first gear. “None of them have experienced how quickly a plan goes to shit when bullets start flying. You can’t prepare for combat unless you’ve been in it. This could all go sideways very quickly.”

She nodded. “It’s a weakness to be acknowledged but nothing at this point can be done. Power is the dead weight in this equation—he would be useless on the ground.”

Peters nodded. “You’re taking a risk there but I get it. He would be the first to take a bullet with anyone else.” He motioned to the case behind the seat. “That little suitcase of yours…there’s one block of C-3 in it. Any ideas?”

“We’ll find the most likely place to access the tracks and set up a trip-wire. The explosion should kill however many hone in on my position.”

Peters reckoned their odds of surviving this gambit were better than two to one. Not great, but better than facing a machine-gun raining hell as you ran from a trench. 

They returned to the hotel. Simpson and Tournamille sat at the bar, drinking whiskey. Geneviève understood—it might be their last. Schubert lounged by the fire, eyes closed. Power was absent.

Geneviève slipped in behind Schubert. He inhaled the musk of her body, opening his eyes. 

“Back so soon? I trust the hardware is functioning?”

“Perfectly—it’s a fine weapon. The recoil is heavy without a muzzle brake. My shoulder is a little sore but with the layers of clothing, I should be OK. I also don’t plan on shooting an entire battalion. Two shots, maybe four, that’s all I’ll need.”

Schubert didn’t know whether it was bravado or simply the truth. Most likely, a bit of both, he thought. Whichever it was, he hoped the latter would help them live to see another day. 

Power entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He sat at the bar, next to Tournamille. He said, “Are we all here? Let’s review the plan.”

Power was nervous—that much was obvious to the others. Playing judge, jury and possible executioner with Quinn had been one thing but this was no longer a game: his next rôle had deadly consequences for the loser.

They gathered around the fireplace. 

Geneviève said: “We move in groups of two. One of you will be ‘dark.’ We have only two Handy-Talkies. I propose both ground units take one.”

“This is no time to start making mistakes, Geneviève. One of the teams must be able to communicate with you,” Schubert countered. “You need one of the sets.”

“He’s right, Jenny,” Peters said. “We can’t have you blind. The ‘dark team’ stays within sight of your position.” That is, until it all goes to shit, he thought.

She nodded, having probably read his mind. 

“When we move into the village, the rear team, ‘Alpha,’” she said, pointing Schubert and Peters, “must cover the left and right flank of the point. You must stay focused under fire or you’ll shoot your point. Simpson and Tournamille, you’ll be point. You are ‘Charlie.’ Be alert for tripwires—we must anticipate countermeasures. These soldiers are not amateurs. Maybe I’m overcautious but that is what kept me alive. Power and I are ‘Bravo.’ If the village is a dilapidated as Peters remembers, the houses may not offer much by way of cover. Once we lose the element of surprise, all bets are off. There are at least six of them, including the Irish, as far as we know. Only Peters has combat experience. These Germans will stay calm under fire whereas you may not. But you can count on me to provide cover, unless you leave my field of view. Power here will provide ‘aerial support’ through the Handy-Talkie and field glasses. Before you enter the field of battle, turn the squelch to ‘off,’ or your first message may be your last.”

“Our biggest gamble,” Schubert continued, “is knowing where they’ll set the charges. Peters. Can you approximate where the lake drops to its greatest depth in relation to the village?”

“A little irony at play here sir, but it’s directly across from the old Catholic church. Something to do with ‘burying your sins’ in baptism, if I remember correctly. If that’s where the Krauts plan to set the charges, Jenny here will have a prime view—that is, if the way up the steeple hasn’t rotted.”

“Jenny? You’ve said that twice, man. Care to elaborate?” Schubert asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“She thought my ‘Miss Geneviève’ made her out to be some grand dame of a southern belle. She asked me to call her Jenny instead.”

“You,” she addressed Schubert, “will still call me Geneviève. Understood?”

The men laughed at her suggestion. Schubert was glad for a relief from the tension that hung over his small band.

Schubert said: “Mr. Morris has offered us an early dinner. He refuses payment.”

Morris stepped forward. “All I ask is justice for our dead boys, both here and overseas.” 

He brought an unopened bottle of whisky to the table and passed out glasses.

Schubert examined the bottle. “Laphroaig! Where in the hell did you get this?”

“I’ve been saving it for nearly twenty-five years. Bought it in Scotland, after Armistice.”

Peters said: “You served overseas? Which unit? I was at Passchendaele.”

“Volunteered with the Seaforth Highlanders out of Vancouver. Damn fool I was. Too young. Thought it would be all romance and dames. Survived the Somme only to be sent to Vimy. God knows, I still fight that bloody war everyday.” 

Morris became still. Peters knew what he was remembering. 

“Ach, just pour the damn drink!” Morris commanded.

By seven, each man was bedded down, praying for sleep. Schubert met each man individually, making small talk, doing what he thought a commander would do—inspire confidence. But the real leader was Geneviève.

He knocked on her door. 

“Come in,” she said. She was still dressed, lying on the bed. 

“Any luck sleeping, Geneviève?”

“I doubt any of us will. You?”

“I’ve spoken to the men, tried to inspire confidence. But the true inspiration is sitting in front of me. The men believe they’ll be able to do this because you’ll have their backs. I can’t blame them.”

“Enough talk of tomorrow. Come, sit next to me. Sing me a song.”

He sat on her bed. “I’ve never met anyone like you. From war to song. I confess, I have a hard time keeping up with you.”

“Please. Sing for me.”

He couldn’t remember if ever there had been a more determined audience or committed listener. He thought of Robby Burns and his love of red roses. He closed his eyes and began.

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, that’s newly sprung in June:

O my Luve’s like the melodie, that’s sweetly play’d in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, so deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear, till a’ the seas gang dry. 

She leaned into him and draped her arms around his chest. The sound of his voice coursed through his bones and muscles. She felt each consonant and vowel and their marriage to the tune, the way he caressed some words and lovingly spun others. She willed the words to become part of her.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, and the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, while the sands o’ life shall run. 

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve! And fare-thee-weel, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve, tho’ ‘twere ten thousand mile!

Geneviève said: “Robby Burns. Thank you.”

“If I lose you…” Schubert began, not knowing what to say.

She touched his lips. “No, Karl, there will be no talk of loss tonight. We will take this memory of love with us to sleep. We will hope for more—that is all we can do.”

He kissed her forehead and stood. 

“Goodnight Geneviève.” 

He closed the door. He had never felt so alone in his entire life.