Chapter 26 & 27

Schubert is badly wounded, unconscious. Genevieve and the others head back to Carcross. Chapter 27 may answer some of your questions....

Chapter 26

The engineer drove Peters as close to the blast-sight as he could. Before he had a chance to bring the big diesel to a stop, Peters jumped off through a cloud of steam and hit the ground running.

Schubert lay propped up against the boulder. Geneviève assessed his injuries: he’d been hit by falling debris. His leg was broken: a shard of bone poked through his trousers. His breathing came in short rasps. His eyes were open, but he was focused on nothing. 

“Missed the artery. He can’t walk. We need a stretcher.” Geneviève handed Peters her combat knife. “It’s no axe, but it might get us a few saplings we can string together. I need to keep him warm or the shock might kill him.”

Peters nodded, running towards the buckbrush. There were small pines growing throughout that would do the job.

“Peters! Where the hell are you?” 

It was Simpson.

“Across from the blast!”

Simpson broke free from the buckbrush and stumbled onto the tracks. 

“Peters! I’m on the tracks! Where are you?”

“See that boulder fifty yards northeast of you? Up the hill a ways? Geneviève’s there with Schubert—he’s hurt!”

“Shit! Tournamille’s unconscious. Took a piece of iron in his side. It’s bad!”

Peters stepped out of the brush. 

“Head up to that rock,” he pointed. “Tell Geneviève. Where’s Power?”

“Sitting with Tournamille. Power’s a mess.”

Just wait until the plan goes to shit, Peters heard the voice of his sergeant, a voice he had hoped to never hear again. 

“Move, ya big lummox!”

Simpson swayed back and forth through the buck-brush like a bull pierced by a matador. 

“Geneviève,” he shouted.

“Up here!” 

Simpson cleared the brush. Geneviève waved him over. 

“He’s in shock. Keep him warm—you must or he’ll die. The tourniquet has stopped the bleeding. Be careful when you move him.” 

“Tournamille’s north of the village, on the tracks. Power’s there. Tournamille’s hurt bad.”

She bolted through the brush, bursting onto the tracks. The engineer and fireman jumped from the engine. Burt hollered and shuffled ahead as quick as his old bones would allow. He stopped a few yards from Geneviève, wheezing

“Hey there! Hell of a mess…” he said, pointing to the tracks. There was no mistaking the concern on her face. “Can we help? Anyone hurt?”

“Up there.” She pointed up the hill. “A man is injured. We need a litter to carry him.”

Burt nodded. “OK, we’ve got a couple of axes.” He sent Grainger back to the engine while he caught his breath.

Geneviève ran further down the tracks. The first blast crater loomed ahead. She skirted the hole and found Power hunched over Tournamille.

“Don’t know what to do for him! Don’t know what to do…” Power ranted. “Oh God,” he said, pointing to the wound.

Geneviève slapped Power hard. He blinked, shaking his head. 

“Genev…”

At first she thought Tournamille was unconscious. She searched for a pulse but the cold temperature of his skin told her he was dead.

“Jonas! Listen to me. Stay with Tournamille. Do not leave him, do you understand? I’m going to get the half-track. Stay here!”

He nodded, but she was unsure whether he understood. 

She ran along the railroad towards the half-track. Stealth was no longer a concern. Saving Schubert was the only thing on her mind.

Geneviève hit the throttle and geared down. In the distance, she tracked Peters, Simpson and the two railway men coming over a rise, carrying Schubert on the makeshift stretcher. Power sat near the tracks, slumped over Tournamille. She dropped her speed to just above a crawl then came to a stop. The brakes squealed. She rolled the window down. 

“Jonas, into the cab. Go!” 

His motions were automatic, he looked lost or confused, but he stepped into the cab and closed the door. 

She slipped the half-track into first, then ground the gears until she found second. Up ahead, the four men were waiting for her. 

“You two,” she said, pointing to the railmen. “Back seat!” she yelled, jumping to the ground and opening the door. “Peters, I need you to drive. I’ll stay in the back with Schubert.”

“Do we gather the dead?”

“Leave them where they are. There’s nothing to be done. They can rot as far as I’m concerned.”

Schubert moaned. Geneviève touched his face. It was clammy and cold and gray as the sky above. 

Peters looked her way. “He won’t make it, not without morphine.”

“I don’t know…we’ve still a long way to go to Carcross.”

Peters began rummaging around under the seats, searching for something.

“What are you looking for?” Geneviève said.

“Found it! Knew there’d be one here somewhere.” Peters pulled out a box. The word “First Aid” was emblazoned on the lid. “Trust the Yanks to be prepared.” He flipped the latches open.

Geneviève said: “OK, maybe he’s got a chance now.” Peters looked worried. “Prepare twenty milligrams of Morphine.”

Peters sprinkled the sulfa powder on Schubert’s wound. Geneviève prepped Schubert’s arm for a shot.

“Twenty cc’s—that size of dose is risky, don’t you think?” said Peters.

“Yes, but he either dies of shock or we risk an overdose from morphine. Which do we choose?” 

They looked at each other, silently debating the best course of action while the seconds ticking by. 

“Do it!” Peters said.

Geneviève gave the injection: Schubert’s breathing calmed. They climbed into the half-track and set off for Carcross.

“Where’s Tournamille?” Simpson yelled, trying to be heard above the whine of the engine, almost as if he had finally realized his friend was missing.

Geneviève turned to him. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Simpson.”

Simpson fell back into the seat. There was nothing to say or to be done: his friend was dead. 

They arrived in Carcross after dark. There was no longer any need for stealth. Geneviève barreled down the street at full-speed, pulling on the big air-horn. She hit the brakes and slid to a stop in front of the hotel. Morris was already outside.

She shouted from the window, “Is there a doctor here? Medic, anything? Schubert’s hurt!”

“All we’ve got is a first-aid station. I’m afraid one of the murdered boys had that job.”

“Fuel? We don’t have enough to make it back.”

Morris shook his head. “Some gasoline, maybe, but no diesel.”

She slammed her fist onto the steering wheel. 

“Peters, you and Simpson take Schubert inside. Then, radio your dispatch and get the Americans to send an evac our way. Beg for a doctor to accompany them. I’ll do what I can with the aid kit.”

The railmen, familiar with Carcross, offered to inter Tournamille at the undertakers, which happened to be a shack behind the hotel. Peters and Simpson carried Schubert into the lobby. Morris cleared a couch and slid it closer to the stove. Then, he stood back, the sight of an injured man conjuring hidden memories: it was like twenty-five years of civilian life had disappeared and there he was, back in an aid station in France.

“He looks to have one foot in the grave already,” Peters whispered.

Geneviève’s troubled face was answer enough.

Peters said, “He’s gotta hold on,” and then left for the police station.

Geneviève measured another 10 cc’s of morphine and injected Schubert a second time. She pulled his eyelids back. The pupils were dilated—the morphine was doing its job.

“Geneviève.” It was Power. “Sit down. Rest. There’s nothing more we can  do.”

The suggestion was absurd—she nearly lashed out at him. But, the adrenalin had begun to lessen and for the first time in hours, or maybe it had been days, she fell back against the sofa. In seconds she was asleep, now that her body had been given permission.

Simpson slept on the floor; Power stared into the stove. The railmen sat at the bar, still unsure about what had happened these last hours.

Peters returned and pulled up a chair beside Geneviève. 

“Geneviève,” he said, shaking her shoulder. “I got through. We can expect the Yanks in four hours. Maybe less, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

She was fast asleep. Nothing, not even some good new would wake her.

The firelight played upon them, each cocooned within their own thoughts. Conversation ceased—words no longer brought comfort. For now, silence would speak to each of them what words alone could not.

Chapter 27

The next day, high above the skies of Whitehorse, three American Air-Force DC-3s circled the airport with what seemed like an armada of P51 Mustangs on either flank. It was the sound of a thousand angry hornets seeking a place to land. The DC-3s were rumored to carry dignitaries from England, America and Russia. The American Engineers sent an escort to the airport. Jeeps with .50 calibre guns and troop transports, loaded with men waited at the hangers. As the planes taxied, a phalanx of troops surrounded them. Those men who were there that day would later swear they saw The Big Three, along with other dignitaries, disembark for a top-secret meeting. Maybe it was a dress rehearsal before the official meet in Yalta. Maybe they were decoys. Nobody knew because none of the grunts could get close enough to really see. 

* * *

December 30. Washington, DC. Major General Ernst Neufeld sat at his desk, admiring the view from the East Wing. He was finally out of that hell-hole Istanbul. Washington needed him more than covert operations which suited him fine. Besides, the risks he took to convey information to the enemy were becoming too great: more than once he had the feeling someone was on to him. He stood to pour himself a drink, very pleased with himself and his position of influence, when he noticed a note had been shoved under his door. He left the drink on the counter and picked it up. There were no names or postmarks. He felt his gut sour and his throat tightened.

“Sanskrit failed,” was all the note read. He flipped it over. A small swastika was printed on the reverse.

He poured himself another drink. The Colt 1911 .45 sat in his desk drawer. The steel was perfectly blued and the ivory grips, polished to a high sheen. He chambered a round and leaned on his desk.