Chapter 1: 1912
Chapter Text
Saturday, April 9th. 1912
Allright, fine. If getting enlisted is what is necessary for my father to finally leave me alone, so be it. But I'm not gonna go through this and not have any stories to tell my friends when I get out, so I'm starting this diary.
My name is Henry Arnaud. I'm 25 years old. Today is my first day in the army, and I'm currently stationed in Quebec.
I would have preferred joining the navy, but my father says that our navy is just a sham kept up by the British government so they can sell outdated ships, and that what I really want is just a way to do military service without putting in too much work. He's right, of course, but the army is already underfunded to begin with, so to me it only really comes down to whether I waste time working on a boat, or on land.
For my first day in the army, it was a pretty uneventful one. I was expecting a lot more shouting and work for the new recruits, but I suppose they are saving it for the coming days. Good thing they are in need of telegram operators, because then I get to put my years on McGill to use and hopefully skip some of the work they save for the other cadets.
Tuesday, 15th June. 1912
Things are still dull here for the most part, I don't really know what I was expecting. We still go through routine exercises and take turns deciding who gets to do what. It was supposed to be my turn to clean the restrooms this Friday, but Greg drew the short straw, so instead I'm on rifle polishing duty with Allard. Tedious as it may be, it's better than nothing.
Wednesday, 16th June. 1912
I should probably talk a bit about Allard.
He's not Canadian, as far as I know. He says he comes from the state of Kent, in Ohio, which is pretty funny considering his name is Kent Allard. Guess that's just how Americans name their kids.
Allard is weird. I didn't see him on the first day I arrived, but he is in my unit and nobody got transferred in recently, so he's gotta have enlisted at the same time as me. I don't often see him in group gatherings either, but he's gotta be there. He is a young-looking guy, probably about 3 to 5 years younger than me, but he definitely passes for older. He keeps to himself, but he isn't really shy. He always seems embroiled in one conversation or another, even to liutenants and majors way above his station.
Every now and then someone brings up an "Allard story" at poker night on Sunday. Something he did on training that impressed the instructors, some favor he did for someone, one time a lieutenant tried to hit a junior personnel who showed up late for target practice, and Allard snapped the man's finger before he could lay a hand on the poor bastard, and somehow didn't get in trouble with the higher ups over it.
Or maybe he did. He definitely would have, you don't get to do that to your superiors, but you never know what's real and what's fiction when they start passing around Allard stories on Sunday. He never shows up for cards himself, although one time Jim tried doing a card trick he claimed Allard showed him, and ended up spilling his deck all over the table, which was great for me since I ended up winning that night.
I've never really talked to the man myself, but I heard a couple of conversations about him. One time, me and three other guys were talking at lunch over the universities we attended, and one of the guys, I forget his name, think it was Denny, he said Allard told him he had majored his B.A at Princeton. But then the other day, I was teaching Otto how to use the telegram, and we got talking about our schools, and Otto said he graduated at Stanford, just like Kent Allard.
Well, what is it? Either everyone is getting their stories mixed up, or Allard is a dirty liar, or both. Probably both. Either way, I'm gonna find out more.
Friday, 18th June. 1912
Well, today I got stuck on cleaning duty with Allard. It was supposed to just be rifle cleaning, but Major Weston figured that they could have us clean a whole lot of other tools they had gathering dust. Frankly I'd be surprised if any of these besides the rifles we use daily were still functional. Still, Allard was there.
I imagined this whole scenario yesterday where I would confront Allard with the contradictions of his stories regarding where he used to study. Don't know why, I got nothing against the man, but I just figured he had to be up to something. But that didn't happen.
It was pretty quiet for the most part, just me sitting there wiping the rifles while I watched Allard work on the other weapons. I tried getting through it fast at first, and he said that if I did so, the rifles wouldn't pass inspection and that I had to do it slowly. The nerve of this guy, telling me how to work like he's my senior! But I didn't say anything. Because he was right, damn him. So I took my time, as he took his.
We sat there for about 2 hours just cleaning, until he chuckled.
It was weird, and I asked him what it was. Allard was currently cleaning a mortar that probably hadn't been fired since the Civil War, and was definitely not something we were supposed to be touching, let alone using. He showed me a grenade he'd found stashed inside the mortar, and pointed to the lack of dust and dirt on it as proof that someone had placed it in there recently.
He seemed almost cavalier about a situation that could have killed the two of us had that grenade gone off, but I'd heard before about how he laughed often at odd moments. I figured he enjoyed morbid humor, so I cracked a joke about how we should pull the pin to get out of work faster, since there'd be no more guns to clean and they'd have to send someone else to clean us off the walls. I don't think he found it that funny, but he laughed, and we talked a bit more, mostly about my job as telegram operator.
I never got to confirm my story on where he graduated.
Sunday, 20th June. 1912
I should have just gone on poker night.
But I didn't, because of Allard. Late at night, he asked me to follow him on something he was going to do, and I did. I hadn't seen him since Friday, not even at training, and here he was, telling me to follow him. He didn't even ask, although he probably knew I would not have turned it down.
We made our way through the camp at night, quietly not to alert anybody. I had a bit of a hard time following Allard through the darkness, but then again I wasn't supposed to be sneaking anywhere at night, not when I still needed to change my prescription. Still, eventually we reached a barrack that belonged to Major Quinton.
Allard led me to a window, exposing a room where Major Quinton was sleeping, and he pointed to the side of his pillow. There was a piece of paper with words on it I couldn't read, and on top of it, there was a grenade, just like the one Allard pulled out of the mortar. Allard shushed me, and with far too much playfulness for this situation, he held up the pin of the grenade between his fingers.
If I had common sense, I would have immediately tackled Allard into the ground to stop whatever it is that he was doing, whatever it is he had planned. I would have screamed for my superiors to detain Allard, to get the major out of there before the grenade exploded. But I didn't, doing so could risk the Major waking up and knocking the grenade over. I didn't understand what was Allard intending to accomplish, until he knocked on the window, gripped my shoulders to stop me (how can a guy that skinny be so strong?) and said to me: "Be ready to run."
The Major woke up, and when he looked to his side, and saw the grenade, immediately jumped away from it in panic, knocking it, and the paper below it, off the bed. Allard stopped me from running, with his grip on my shoulder, and for a split second I saw the grenade exploding and blowing us all up. But that didn't happen.
Instead, the grenade bounced harmlessly off the floor. It was a dud, only used to scare the Major. And briefly, I could read what was written in the message Allard had laid the grenade onto: "Looking for this?".
The Major slammed his hand on top of his mouth, trying to muffle his screams desperately, and then gradually made his way to the fallen grenade as he realized it didn't explode. Just then, Allard released my shoulders, and pushed me away, signaling for me to run.
I dashed back to my barrack as if gunfire was following me, not intending to be caught in the fallout of Allard's stupid prank. As I ran, I heard him laugh, loudly, as if specifically for Major Quinton to notice.
I'm currently writing this on my bed, afraid that any moment now, someone is gonna barge in and start looking for me specifically. I can't sleep, I don't know if Allard escaped, and I cannot will myself to get out of bed and find out. Why did I trust that madman? What could he possibly be trying to achieve?
I just want to get out of here.
Monday, 21st June. 1912.
A couple of hours after I dashed into the covers, our superiors started barging into all the rooms and waking up all the cadets. I imagined this would be the part where I would be interrogated, likely shot, but that isn't what happened.
They weren't interrogating the cadets at first, instead they had the entire staff searching on every corner of every barrack, and every personal belonging, for any additional hidden weapons.
Turns out that Major Quinton had some explaining to do himself. He had used the facility we were in to stash hidden weapons of his that weren't supposed to be there.
Our station was not supposed to have any grenades in it whatsoever, as they were too dangerous to be handled by rookies and useless for the daily drills we had to go through. They were only supposed to arrive in October, by insistence of our higher ups at the British Army, when the proper clearance was provided. I was interrogated eventually, but that was because I had the orders for October's supply on standby to be sent via telegram on August, and I needed to confirm the dates.
It was suspected that the reason Quinton had hidden grenades around the facility was for the purpose of staging an accident, and then framing a junior officer for it. His target may have been Weston, as they were heated rivals. And since everyone hated Weston, it would be easy to pin the blame on anyone.
It explains why he tried to not scream for help at the sight of the grenade, because he knew it wasn't supposed to be there. The commotion caused by the Major's awakening, and the bizarre laughing that woke up others nearby, was enough for it to be discovered.
Did Allard know about this? Was this what he meant by "Looking for this"? Is this why he went missing? None of the cadets but me and Otto were supposed to be aware of the schedule regarding the arrival of the new supply.
Did he just know?
Tuesday, 22nd June, 1912
The commotion didn't last long. They managed to find all of the leftover grenades and other weapons hidden by Major Quinton, and he was transferred to another facility. We expected him to go to prison, but I suppose they wanted to avoid the story growing in proportion.
Allard is getting transferred today. They did eventually figure out he was involved in exposing Quinton's scheme, and although he saved Weston's life, as well as the lives of several others that may have been caught in an errant blast, he was still expected to be charged with insubordination. He was either going to be transferred, or expelled from the army and sent back to the United States, but instead what happened is that, apparently, one of our higher ups from the British Army caught rumors of Allard's prowess, and once the story of how he single-handedly engineered the downfall of a treacherous Major got passed, an official arranged with General Gunner to have Allard transferred into the British Secret Service, which means Allard is getting stationed outside the US. Apparently they have big plans for him.
I only know of this because he told me tonight, prior to his departure. I hesitate to say we were friends, I suspect he might have even used me to gather information, but Allard definitely made these days more interesting, which is really all I could ask for, and he did save our lives. I don't know if I'll ever see him again, but whatever God's got planned for him can't be boring. Even if he isn't a fraud, he damn well knows how to be a showman.
The last thing he told me before he left was "I did graduate from Princeton. I just didn't go by Kent Allard back then."
Chapter 2: 1916
Chapter Text
Monday, 28th June. 1916
Today I received a letter with a name I never expected to see again. Kent Allard is going to be stationed in Guillemont, in the same base I'm currently in.
The letter was not written by Allard, but instead by an official of the british army named Major Richmond, stating that our Guillemont base was to receive Colonel Kent Allard, as he was recalled from the frontlines in order to aid and help instruct the British troops in securing the right flank in Delville Wood.
That Allard was still alive, and had even managed to become Colonel, was surprising. But more surprising still was that Allard himself had specifically requested to be transferred into Guillemont, instead of Longueval or Somme.
Our base isn't worth much in the conflict, since it's mostly used for radio messages. Counting myself, there's only about 8 men in this unit, and Colonel Judeau hasn't visited us in over 10 days. None of us are really worth much in combat to begin with.
Maybe they are sending Allard to replace him? I guess this place has some strategic value, otherwise we'd have gotten transferred and butchered in the front lines by now. But if the upper brass values Allard that much, why send him here instead of away from where most of the troops are?
He's an American, and the Americans haven't even joined the war, he could go back home and leave this war behind. Why did he apparently insist on coming here?
I don't claim to know his purpose, and this might be a silly suggestion, but could it be that he somehow knew I was stationed here? Is he trying to find me?
Tuesday, 29th June. 1916
It has been 4 years since the last time I saw the man who I knew as Kent Allard. I expected him to arrive with a squadron of his own, or perhaps accompanied by newly transferred recruits. When we were cadets in training together, Allard had a taste for theatrics and a proclivity for exceeding expectations, for all I knew he was going to arrive riding an elephant with Field Marshal Haig dancing on top of it.
Instead, he showed up early in the morning, on his own airplane. I alone went to welcome him to the base and show him around. I thought of waking up Rettigue since he's good at making friends, but of course I knew better than to expect him to wake up this early, and I wanted to greet Allard alone.
I had to know what was coming. Who was coming.
He was dressed for the cold, as I was, with a black sheepskin jacket and a red scarf covering his mouth. He was still limber, and more pale than I remembered, but he seemed far less bothered by the morning cold than I was. Maybe being up on the sky at high speeds makes you less affected by it.
I introduced myself formally to him, as he was currently going to be our Colonel, and opened the door, and he showed no sign of recognizing me. Didn't take off his helmet and goggles at first either.
The base was empty as usual. If Allard had been pulled out of his mission to help the British Army, to act as Colonel, it would seem more logical for him to be stationed where the troops were, down at the Somme. It was strange that Allard had chosen to stay here. Perhaps he preferred the quiet.
He moved by my side as I walked, looking at every corner, quiet and intimidating and moving far more silently than any man stepping on creaky floors should be able to move.
I showed him to the room he was going to be sleeping in, completely empty. He entered, and placed his backpack on the table, and immediately went to stare out the window.
Was he being followed? There was hardly a living soul within our vicinity, and the combat tomorrow was going to start miles from where we were stationed. Who could be following him?
I didn't ask.
I waited a couple of seconds, and then I asked if that would be all.
He turned from the window, and took off his goggles, and then replied, staring right at me.
"No, that's enough. Thank you, Henry Arnaud. It is good to see you again."
I replied back, and that's when I left him.
I've been trying to go about the rest of my day, I still have a lot of letters to get through, but there's something gnawing at the back of my head. It was Allard's eyes.
Did I just not notice it, back then, how weird they were? How they glow. Just...glow, from a certain angle, like I'd never seen a person's eyes do. Cat's eyes maybe, but never a person's.
I'd been to the battlefield myself before I was able to settle in this station, I'd seen men who came back with weird stares that went through you. Allard seemed well-humored enough, even a bit of a prankster when we were cadets. Did his eyes look like that when he left? That look he gave me was like having an icepick at the back of my spine. He seemed so angry and full of sorrow.
I don't think I ever got a good look at his eyes back then. Even now, my memory's a bit fuzzy trying to recall them.
But he seemed to remember me just fine.
Wednesday, 21st July. 1916.
The assaults on Delville Wood are still ongoing as they've shifted from ground assaults into focusing on aerial bombings. Allard has been leaving the base every day since the bombardments have begun, and he's been going alone for most of them. On Monday, he took Pelle and Hugo with him again for back-up, and when he returned on Tuesday, they weren't with him. On the 14th, he had left to join the conflict, with McDonald piloting our sole airplane behind him, and he also didn't return. He's said nothing of it, but when he departed today, he strictly forbade any of us except Jesper from following him.
Right now, it's just me, Rettigue, Clarendon, and Jesper, and Jesper has to constantly leave since he's a field medic. Not that I really mind Jesper leaving. I mean, I don't want him to die, he's a nice kid, but he still gives me the creeps, plus he's a medic and his dad's a general so he's probably gonna be fine out there, he's probably the only one who's gonna live through this.
I'm not exactly upset about not being sent to die, and it's not like there's no work to be done here, although the mail seems to come less frequently and in smaller piles, which gives me the suspicion that we are being forgotten here, which is not a good sign if the Germans ever come poking around and find an empty base.
I have to wonder if Allard is planning something. What kind of commander doesn't send his soldiers to follow him in battle? Does he even have permission to go alone?
Tuesday, 27th July. 1916
So far, our routine of staying in the base attending to it and doing our respective duties has not yet changed.
I still tend to the letters, although they come less and less frequently. It seems that, whatever methods the divisions are using to communicate between themselves, we haven't been included in it yet.
Jesper used to do the cooking and cleaning, and in his absence, Rettigue has taken it up. Not by choice, he just drew the short straw on that one. Rettigue's fingers tremble too badly when he has to hold a gun, but thankfully he doesn't shake that badly when preparing soup. Clarendon insists on continuing to patrol and stay on lookout and keep writing the reports I keep sending to the base at Longueval, where Colonel Judeau last said he was in. Clarendon's tough and can take care of himself, but his bad leg means it takes him longer to get around than most of us.
But then, it's not like we have anywhere to go now, do we?
Colonel Judeau is most likely dead, or abandoned us for good. I want to believe the former, even if the latter is the most likely. Even if we could just leave this place and run away without being declared traitors, we have nowhere to go in this blasted hell landscape. It's all barren soil, decrepit trees, dead forests and blinding fog as far as the eye can see, to mention nothing of the corpses that no one has come to collect, and we have all but increasingly given up our hopes of going home.
For all we know, this is our home now.
Did we get sent here to die? Is this what they are doing to the soldiers they can't put on the battlefield any longer? Clarendon's tough but he has a bum leg, Jesper works as a medic but he's got protection from his old man, and he's got that...weird brain of his. Rettigue, as much as I like him, is kinda weird in the head too, except he's also soft, sleeps too often and can't hold a gun to save his life. I've been to the frontlines, though I didn't exactly pass the physical tests with flying colors, but I'm just a radio operator. They got a billion guys like me out there. We're all expendable to them.
I see Allard less and less these days. I barely ever see him leave or arrive, and he locks the door in his room tight. Barely makes a noise. I worry about him.
He was the only one who chose to be here. He may very well have chosen to die.
Thursday, 5th August. 1916
Allard arrived earlier today.
Reports via telegram tell that today was a big day on Delville Wood. Hurricane bombardments managed to secure enough room for the British to establish further territory, and the brief radio shortages were but a minor setback. I suspect that he may have been a great helping hand in said bombardments, and by the reports I had received via telegram, this was considered a victory by most divisions. V ictories don't come easy these days, and I figured this could perhaps improve our morale. Maybe Allard would have some stories to tell. But that's not what happened.
I had heard the noise his plane made as it was returning to our base, and so did Rettigue and Clarendon. His airplane was crumbling at the seams when he landed a couple dozen meters away from our base. He was just able to make a landing, although black smoke rose from his engine as he did, and he all but jumped out of it. As we arrived closer to him, I could see his clothes were torn, one of the lenses in his goggles was broken, and his only visible eye glowed with white hot rage I'd never seen in the man, or any man. He held a wrench in his hands, presumably something he carried inside of the cockpit.
The second he stepped off the airplane, he immediately started tearing apart in fury what little remained of his airplane. He struck at the wings like a madman possessed until they fell, and kept denting the outer shell until it fell as well. Didn't scream or make a sound the whole time, didn't hear any of us when we asked him what the hell happened. None of us dared to approach him. It was a burst of violence none of us had expected, especially from Colonel Allard.
After he could no longer destroy his plane anymore than it had already been destroyed, Allard made his way inside the base.
We expected him to be inside his room, but he was nowhere to be found. We didn't dare to go look for him.
Friday, 6th August. 1916.
Colonel Allard has not reappeared yet, and none of us can find him. Our sole remaining vehicles, now that his plane is destroyed, are two repair trucks in the garage, and none of them have been taken, which means Allard did not go to the fields today. The remains of his airplane are still in the front of the base.
We've noticed that Jesper didn't come back with Allard, and we fear for the worst. Allard wouldn't have come back without Jesper if something hadn't happened to him.
We still have ammunition, but the odds are not in our favor. If even a couple of well-armed Germans find this base, we don't stand a chance.
I don't know what we are going to do if we don't find Allard.
Saturday, 7th August. 1916.
Just now, I went downstairs to the break room in order to drink some of the whiskey I'd stashed away in a kitchen cabinet. I looked at the window outside, and although the night was foggy as usual, there was just enough clarity brought by the moonlight that I could see a strange shape standing in front of Allard's plane.
It didn't look like a man, it looked like...like a blot of darkness, standing up. I could make out the outline of a black cloak blending in with the fog, and no movements at all from it.
Was it Allard? It looked like the Grim Reaper waiting at our doorstep. When Allard arrived here, and seemed as if he was expecting to be followed, is this what was following him?
I dared not shout for it, for I could not have sworn I was looking at a human being. I merely returned to bed and prayed God would find me before that thing did, whatever it was.
Sunday, 8th August. 1916
Today, Colonel Allard came back to us at night. Or, well, I suppose he was always here, I didn't know what is it that weird man had been doing since that outburst. We were settling into our beds after another uneventful day, none of us even really talked to each other throughout the day, when we heard something from outside. Laughter. Loud, frightening laughter.
Rettigue and Clarendon were gathered on the break room, expecting it to be an assault from the Germans. Clarendon had a rifle, and Rettigue clutched a Luger with two hands, keeping his fingers away from the trigger so he didn't shoot us by accident. It didn't take long for me to realize what it was, and for the other two to figure out soon. I knew of Allard's habit, the weird laughs that he did sometimes at the base we used to be stationed in. And standing outside, there he was.
The moon was full tonight, and the fog had cleared up significantly, giving us a much clearer view of where he was standing. On the ground nearby what used to be his plane, he was standing, looking at us. He wore a dark cloak that covered most of his body, but his face was uncovered. There was a fire in front of him, and surrounding it, he had placed three stools in a circle. Once he saw we had spotted him, he motioned us for to join him.
There was a time I used to call Kent Allard's antics mere theatrics, the tricks of a wannabe showman. I was annoyed at Allard, more so than ever now, for pulling this on us, but I went first, and motioned the others to follow. I knew there was a point to this, and now, tt feels wrong to call them just theatrics.
Far too many weird things tend to happen when Allard is around for me to dismiss them as just tricks.
We made our way to him, and immediately I expected Clarendon to start angrily demanding an explanation. He was the one most worried about not being able to return home, and he was the one who had already taken to plotting an escape route when he assumed Allard wasn't coming back. Rettigue followed at his own leisure, as usual. I suspect he may have thought of it as a weird dream, he regarded Allard with his usual childlike curiosity.
Allard motioned us to sit, and began talking.
He first had us explain if anything had changed in our daily work over the past days. I explained that, as of late, no new messages had even arrived to us, and though our radio still worked, it seemed like we had been completely forgotten by the other divisions. Rettigue often received letters from his rich family, he only really answered those since he wished to retain a trust fund upon his return, but they had not arrived in weeks, which I could confirm. Clarendon confirmed that he was still expecting a reply from Somme on his reports, although being outside the frontlines meant he hadn't had much to report recently.
Allard explained that all of this was by his design.
Over the past days, around the middle of July, he had been systematically cutting off our Guillemont base off the other divisions. Records of our base and personal lives had been eliminated by him, and the few personnel in Longueval or Somme that were expected to drop by had been transferred far away from this conflict, or made to forget with methods he would soon reveal to us. The Germans would likely not find us either, as he explained having gone through painstaking efforts to redirect them away from this region, destroy maps and whatever he could. For all intents and purposes, none of us existed anymore, before the British or German armies, and if we wanted, all of us could go home under false identities and leave the war behind.
Allard gave us that option first and foremost. Me and Rettigue mentioned nothing. We had little to return to anyway, and were more interested in what else he had to say. Clarendon was conflicted, but he was interested in learning more. And so Allard continued.
He told some stories to us. Stories of things he'd done overseas, since he left North America. Things he'd done for the British, for the French, for the Soviets. Things he'd seen, done, and had done onto him in his travels before arriving here. He'd been within the closest circle of the Tsar, he'd traveled to places uncharted, he'd learned things no ordinary soldier was supposed to know, he had seen and learned and done things beyond our imagination.
Acting under a number of aliases, including impersonating an old urban legend known as The Dark Eagle, that he had gathered many enemies with. Holy cities in Tibet, magic tricks picked among Indian fakirs, and an entire month of grisly torture inflicted onto him when he'd been caught in France, that he barely escaped out of alive before he arrived on our base, and a lurking suspicion that he had been betrayed by his superiors.
And during that story, he showed to us something he'd kept hidden in his breast pocket. A peculiar ring, that blazed red. Rettigue, ever the gem enthusiast, identified it as a fire opal, and he was correct. Allard stated that this ring was at the center of the Tsar's personal collection, that it had travelled across the world, and that it functioned in ways beyond comprehension, even his own. He had sacrificed much to attain it, and intended to use it as part of his purpose.
Allard saw no purpose, no honor, in war. He forbade us all from departing with him on missions because he quickly realized the frontlines were nothing but a meatgrinder, a display of senseless butchery, and we would simply be corpses in a pile had we ventured to it. He was betrayed by the nations he'd served. He regretted the things, the people, he'd sacrificed for the sake of his employers. He was sick of killing men whose only crimes were being German men of enlistment age or enemies of people in power, of killing merely to grease the wheels of nations profitting from calamity, and though he could not change the flow of said calamity, he could turn his skills into something he considered more productive.
He could rescue men, prevent more from being killed, as McDonald, Pelle and Hugo had been, as others he'd met before had. If the purpose he'd been given by his nations, his former masters, was dark and twisted, he would carve a new one, and master the darkness to his own ends.
Jesper Zorn had been separated from him, and taken into a camp in Burg Steinfurt, circa Münsterland. Presumably, he hadn't been killed because the Germans needed as many medics as they could acquire, as too many of their own were getting killed, and Allard was unable to rescue him and had to make a hasty departure in the crumbling remains of his plane.
He had called us here in order to tell us that he planned to mount a rescue mission on Burg Steinfurt, and afterwards, on as many camps as he could manage, but in order to do so, he could not rely on the British, or Canadian, or French governments, or any government. He had his own contacts, people on standby awaiting his orders, because he could not do it alone. He talked about how he valued us, and our skills, and he saw great potential in us as with other men he had recruited to his aid.
He reaffirmed that all 3 of us were free to leave this place and go home, go back to our lives, and he would help us much the same. Allard could have forced us to follow him to the ends of the world, but he didn't. He asked us to make that choice. And for a moment, I was reminded that, for all of his impressive accomplishments, his commanding tone and wisdom beyond his years, he was still a 25 year old fighting a war practically alone. Against what, exactly, I couldn't be sure, but he needed all the help he could get out there.
He gave us a day to think on it. I'm writing this as I ready myself to go sleep.
I'm still thinking on it. I don't know if I should trust Allard. He promised me I could go home, that we all could, and I believe him. He made it very clear to us.
I don't know what is it that he sees in me, or the others. He seems to have had such important allies, and being capable of so much already, why does he want me to join his knights at the round table? What can I do that he would consider valuable?
If he sees it, it has to be something important, right?
Aw, hell. I trust him already. I know I'm gonna end up going with him.
I just hope he knows what he's doing.
Chapter 3: 1917
Chapter Text
Sunday, 8th August. 1916
We have about a week before we set out to rescue Jesper, which is the time it will take Colonel Allard to make the proper arrangements for our rescue mission, including acquiring a new airplane.
Ever since that meeting, Allard has been having me and Rettigue run through exercise drills. He claims that we have sat out for too long, and although our work will not take us to the frontlines of war, it will be taxing on our bodies still, and we've spent too long staying still. He's right, damn him, but even when we were cadets, they never had us run this many laps, and we were far younger back then!
...No, that's silly, I'm only 29. I'm not old yet. Why am I acting like some old fool? I have been picking cobwebs out of my teeth ever since I got in this base. I have energy, I have resolve, I can do this.
Monday, 9th August. 1916
I can't do this.
Tuesday, 10th August. 1916
I CAN DO THIS
Wednesday, 11th August. 1916
Clarendon doesn't join me and Rettigue in our exercises, due to his bad leg, but Colonel Allard puts him to work much the same. He spends much more time exercising his upper body inside the base, and he only does a couple of laps at night when on patrol.
Allard stops by every hour to check our progress and see if we are running through our exercises. He spends most of his time where I used to work, operating the telegram.
He is confident that the Germans won't kill Jesper in this meantime, as field medics are a necessity. I'm a little less confident, as I expect Jesper to try to escape or kill the guards on his own. The man's always had an attitude problem, despite his profession.
One of the strangest things that's happened recently is Rettigue's humor. Rettigue didn't join me for target practice ever since we started out drills, but he did today, and he actually managed to fire a couple of shots! He didn't shake or stutter or drop his gun or scream at the loudness of gunfire, he took deep breaths and fired 5 shots in almost mechanical precision. Only landed 3, but that's already a personal record for him. He says Allard's been giving him private lessons to overcome his trauma.
Plus, he can actually serve decent rabbit roast now! I mean, good for him on overcoming his fears and all, I'm very happy for him, but honestly that's the real win as far as I'm concerned, because good lord his cooking is amazing, and you would not believe what a decent meal does to improve morale.
I assume Allard's the one who brought the rabbits, because I seriously doubt James's aim improved to that point. Frankly I didn't even think he had it in him to prepare rabbit, Jesper usually handled that.
Our supplies have begun running out, but Allard claims we won't be in this base for much longer. We will depart for somewhere else as soon as we rescue Jesper.
Tuesday, 11th August. 1916
Today was the day we ran through our plans of entry. Allard intended to disguise himself as a German, and enter the base with me as his prisoner. I was expected to locate Jesper and, with him, enlist help from the prisoners in escaping while avoiding detection by the guards, while Allard would go around and lay the groundwork for our escape, from the morning all the way to the night.
He intended to free as many prisoners as he could, and in order to do so he would need to spend the day preparing our eventual escape at night. Clarendon would have filed false reports to the commander in charge of Burg Steinfurt, in order to trick them into thinking they were expected to attend a nightly raid on the French camps at Warendorf. Of course, there were no French camps at Warendorf anymore, but by the time they realized this, we would have been long gone.
I asked if he intended to load the prisoners into our repair trucks, which could only hold about two dozen men at best, and weren't exactly in great condition. He intended to bring over someone who could repair the trucks and outfit them with better loading capacity, as well as aerial assistance from allies he'd acquired, in order to help transport the prisoners into our base, where they would be then transported into Cappy, a village a couple of miles away that had stayed off the war, where they could settle and then either return to their respective units, or go home, or somewhere else.
We planned on sneaking out all 50 prisoners, if possible. Not all of them could be rescued, not all would be willing to come with us, and we could not risk setting the Germans on our trail. Allard intended this to be merely the beginning, of bigger and bigger rescue operations, after we had gathered more allies. He seemed somewhat distraught over being unable to rescue more, which is about the only time I've ever seen any hint of uncertainty in that man's voice.
Allard intended to avoid bloodshed by merely disabling the guards, and only killing if necessary.
I only hope his plan works.
Friday, 12th August. 1916
Allard and Rettigue have been talking quite a bit recently, ever since Allard started helping Rettigue on target practice. Since Allard is a French name, and Rettigue comes from Paris, one could even assume they might have known each other prior to the war. They definitely seem to talk like old chums, although Rettigue talks like that with just about anyone. There's hardly any malice or distrust in that man. Despite being still our Colonel, Allard doesn't seem to mind Rettigue's friendliness.
Of course, Allard comes from America, and he even told me once Kent Allard wasn't his real name, just the one he used to enlist. I don't know what else to call him, so Allard it stays for now.
They do seem to have a mutual acquaintance they mention on occasion. Some rich man from America named Cranston. I assume Allard might have went to Princeton with him.
Saturday, 13th August. 1916
Today, Allard's new airplane arrived, and with it, two of his acquaintances.
The plane itself seemed perfectly ordinary, albeit a bit sleeker and more aerodynamic than the last one. I assumed Allard might have gotten some extravagant death machine with an eagle's head on it, since he has a reputation as the Dark Eagle to maintain, but perhaps he might not have wanted to invest too much in an airplane, given he often liked to fake his death by crashing his planes.
Two men arrived with his plane. The first was an ordinary American man. I couldn't quite make out his age, as he never took his headgear and goggles then and I didn't see him again today, but his face was impassive. I guess the best way to describe him would be as quiet-faced. Allard mentioned his codename was Burbank, and that he was going to operate our radio from now on. He just immediately settled in the radio room and only really went downstairs to pick his plate of food. Weird guy, but, eh, Allard trusts him well enough.
The second man was an African, dressed in uniform, and he was the one piloting the plane. I assumed he came from America and I was right, even though he spoke perfect French with Allard. He said he belonged to the 369th Infantry Regiment and had briefly taken a leave of absence to help an old friend, and his name was Jerome Druke. I assumed he was the one who was going to get the trucks in working condition.
I had heard of African Americans currently on service, in segregated units. I had never really fought with or spend any amount of time with a negro myself, so having Allard address the man as Lieutenant and welcome him to our table as a friend was strange. He made it very clear Druke was going to join us and seemed to disregard any suspicions I and the others may have felt. Rettigue made fast friends with him, although I don't really understand enough of French to know what they are talking about.
I know better than to question Allard's orders.
Sunday, 14th August. 1916
Today is the last day before we set off on our mission tomorrow, to rescue Jesper and the other men from Burg Steinfurt. For all we trusted Allard, we all knew the feeling of having dinner one day knowing it could be your last, and so we all made it a point to enjoy it. Allard knew as much, and he gave us no exercises today, although he himself kept busy in his room. I only really saw him at dinner.
Druke was there. There was an initial discomfort at first, as with the first day, but it dissolved much more quickly than I expected. I guess war has a way of connecting men beyond boundaries.
Well, no, not war, war is hell I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, but moreso the surviving of war. We were soldiers, still alive, fighting on behalf of someone we believed in. We had that much in common at least.
Druke had a lot of stories to share of his family back home and his unit, and that got some of us talking about our own families. He'd received a letter recently with a picture of his newborn daughter, along with his wife and son. Jericho, he said was his son's name, and he tried holding back tears at first, but he did start crying over how much he missed his family.
We'd seen this before. You never get used to seeing grown men cry in front of you because they can no longer hold back how miserable the war's been making them. You think you do, but you don't, and eventually, you get to that point yourself if you have any humanity left in you.
Getting rid of said humanity is why they send us to these shitholes in the first place.
And so we talked. I took the initiative to make him feel less vulnerable.
I mentioned I never had gotten along with my family, and it was because of my dad that I had enlisted in the first place. That I really just wanted to graduate from McGill and pick a job in my father's company and not really have to worry about money again. But despite all of this, I did miss him. I did get the chance to go home after I completed training, and I didn't take it. I wanted to be useful to someone, to my country, to him. I didn't want to go back to whom I was.
I spend the years since then regretting that, although, I guess I am useful now. Or, at least, I feel useful. Isn't that kinda the same?
Clarendon had a sister who he kept in touch with, and he'd stayed in the army primarily because he wanted to start a newspaper business, and he thought that he could do it from within the service and have customers both within the military as well as outside of it. He feels pretty damn stupid about it now, but he shouldn't. How was George Clarendon supposed to know the Great War was coming and he'd have no choice but to join it? How was anyone expected to plan for that?
Rettigue only really missed his mom. His family was rich, even more so than mine, but she died shortly before he turned 18, and James ran off to the Army. He claims he just wanted to occupy his mind enough to forget it. I know there's obviously stuff he isn't telling, and I think he really just wanted to die and didn't have the courage to pull the trigger on himself, but I didn't say it. He'd never mentioned much of his family before, and it clearly took a lot out of him to say it. He broke down as soon as he mentioned he had a mom and he missed her.
None of us had the courage to ask Allard, even though he sat at the table with us. We knew he had a lot of private secrets he hadn't told us, even the day where he revealed some of what he's done and the ring, there was much unsaid and we left it at that. A man's secrets are the only thing he can take to the grave.
He offered words of encouragement to us and reached down to help James off the floor. He didn't say much, but he did mention some things. He did talk a little about his old folks.
His mom was an actress who used "Darlla" as a stage name. He told us humorously that she had a cruel sneer and a pointy nose and that's where Allard got them from, and he said she played villain roles in theatre. Witches, mean stepmothers and all that. I asked if Allard was her last name. He seemed to find that funny, and I dropped the question.
He didn't know who his father was, or whether he had one, since he claimed not to remember where he was born, and he never bothered asking. For most of his childhood, apparently he never stuck around in one place long enough for it to matter. He and his mom used to live on the streets until they began working at a fancy opera house, and Darlla began having an affair with the owner and manager, who helped raise Allard.
His stepdad used to be a detective before he retired. "Old Tiger", he said was what they called him. Passed away a couple of months before Allard enlisted, although Allard didn't seem angry about it. I assume, if he'd been killed, he would have sworn vengeance on someone. Maybe he did, and just moved past it.
He never told us their real names. His mom is still alive by the looks of it, so I assume it was deliberate. But then again, names never seemed to mean much to Allard, he goes through them by the dozen each day.
I worked up the nerve to ask him if he missed her. Stupid question, obviously a man at war, if nothing else, is gonna miss his mom. He didn't look at me, but he replied.
"I do. But she no longer remembers me, and it is better this way. It means she will be safe."
He stood up, bid us good night, and left. We all knew better than to dwell on it any further.
It's too late for me to be writing this since tomorrow is a busy day, but who knows, maybe this will be all that's left of me someday. Maybe all that's left of him, too
Wait.
Wait a minute.
...Of course his mother used Darlla as a fake name. Darlla. Allard. He probably took the habit from her. Is that what he found funny?
I guess he still has a sense of humor after all.
Tuesday, 16th August. 1916
WE DID IT
By God, we did it! I ended up skipping an entry yesterday because I left the diary at the base, and I spent the night on the camp, but we did it! The guards at Steinfurt all fell for it, and it was almost too easy to just tear a hole in the wall and get the prisoners to follow me and Jesper. We ended up sneaking out all 45 prisoners that had been in said facility (I assume 5 didn't make it, ever since Allard got that intel), using our trucks and two spare ones piloted by what had to be men from Druke's division.
Allard didn't join us. Instead, he'd been busy working his magic across the camp. Tearing out communications, destroying records, getting guards to follow his orders under his disguise as Major Richter, disabling a few that noticed too much. I thought he was just gonna use that hypnotic magic he'd mentioned, but I guess it doesn't work that easily. Not that he needed it.
Whenever he wasn't looking like a German major, or another prisoner, he was dressed in that dark cloak of his, but there was also something covering his face along with the cloak's hood. It looked like some bandages concealing all of his features, minus his eyes and mouth. Real creepy, although I guess scaring was half the point.
Currently, we are back at our base at Guillemont, although it's a lot more crowded here than it used to be, and we don't have enough supplies to get these men through more than 3 days. But that's why everyone's getting transported to Cappy gradually, while we tend to their wounds, sort out their destinations and send out messages to whoever it is they wish to contact. Commanding officers, family members, and so on.
Rettigue stayed behind to get the base ready for visitors, and frankly I think the prisoners were less thrilled to be rescued than they were to eat his cooking. Rettigue is probably the biggest reason why they didn't start fighting or run away. Jesper didn't say much, ever since he got back. He just got busy tending to some of the wounded. He seems unharmed, although I definitely expected to find him in better condition when we got to the camp. I guess him being the son of a general didn't stop them from roughing him up a bit. He doesn't tell what happened and I don't press the issue. I never really know what he's thinking.
Among the men, there were French, Italians, Canadians, British, and even Germans who had been imprisoned and left with us. We kept them in separate rooms, and Clarendon and Druke are personally keeping watch of the Germans, to make sure they don't try anything and nobody tries to do anything to them in turn.
We didn't want to rescue them, I just can't bring myself to trust the Krauts, but Allard's made it very clear that his protection extended to Germans victimized by their own country.
And, as usual, we don't question The Dark Eagle's orders. So far, no one's tried anything yet.
It was grueling, and difficult, but we did it. I can't believe we actually managed to rescue all these men, and Jesper, even if he doesn't seem very grateful for it.
I can't believe I actually want to do it again.
Monday, 6th September. 1916
In the coming week, we'll be preparing to enact a rescue mission on camp Borken. It's our third mission ever since we rescued Jesper at camp Guillemont. We won't be able to rely on friends of Druke for this one, as they can't abandon their post again without causing suspicion, but we have other allies to help us.
So far, our group still consists of The Dark Eagle, me, James Rettigue, George Clarendon, Jerome Druke, Jesper Zorn, and another Frenchman who joined us at Camp Ayre named Blanton H. Balliol, who worked together with the Eagle to distract the guards while me and Rettigue helped hush the prisoners away. Blanton's a funny guy, almost seems like he could be a stage performer. I guess that's one thing he and the Eagle have in common.
Actually, come to think of it, since when did I start calling him Eagle so often? I guess it's because that's how we tend to call him on field, when he puts that outfit of his, or pretends to be someone else. He doesn't spend much time as Colonel Allard these days, and seems strangely more at peace this way.
The Dark Eagle. The Eagle's Squad.
I guess we did become his knights after all.
Wednesday, 14th October. 1916
We are still trying to transport everyone safely into Easternay, although there's been a conflict between the French and the Germans that the Eagle and Clarendon had to personally step in for.
I find myself wondering for how long is this war going to last. I haven't forgiven the Germans, but I get no satisfaction of watching them fight. Why do they have to spill blood over decisions made by people who will never know their names? I want these men to go home. I want the men on the fields to go home, to their families.
...Why don't I want to go home?
Wednesday, 23rd December. 1916
It's been over 6 months ever since Kent Allard came into our base, and so far, aside from the expected difficulties, our rescue missions have still been successful. We are currently taking a break, as a truce has been called on the war in order to celebrate Christmas, and the Eagle has decided to give us a break as well. We are currently spending Christmas at Easternay, and we'll resume our operations on January.
We had dinner all together for the first time in quite a while, as these days we tend to often stay separate, running the errands necessary for the Eagle's plans. But today, Rettigue and Druke cooked a nice feast at Blanton's home in Fougères. Blanton insisted on having us try his famous "turtle soup", which tasted pretty terrible. Oh well, his home, his rules.
Jesper hasn't joined us, although he said he was going to arrive on the 25th. He's been getting more and more distant from us. It's strange, worrying about the one who's your field medic, but Jesper is the second youngest on our team after Rettigue, and for all his laziness and the weird things he said and did sometimes, he always did try to help, and lately he hasn't really done that. I really think Camp Steinfurt may have done a number on the poor kid and we just didn't notice it before, and the Eagle seems to think so too. I think he's considering removing him from the team and sending him back to his father. He knows of a doctor in Venice that may help Jesper get some help and has enough prestige in the army to not raise suspicion.
But that's for another day. Today, we take a rest.
Thursday, 24rd December. 1916.
I don't really have much to write. Merry Christmas. Good will and peace on Earth to all.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Friday, 26th December. 1916
It was Jesper! The rotten son of a bitch, he ratted us! That's why he didn't come for Christmas!
The Kaiser's soldiers found us here in Vermont. They came for all of us while we were sleeping.
Oh God, they are all gone.
What have we done?
George, Blanton, Druke, they are all gone, and James. Oh God, James!
Why couldn't you have let me get you out the window first? Why did you have to fire at them to cover for me?
I wanted you to be the first to get away from this all!
Me and the Eagle are currently hiding in Fougères still, although the Kaiser's men are looking for us. The Eagle had a contact here, an American whom he had rescued and sheltered here named Clifford, who is hiding us for now.
I can't bear to look at the Eagle. I know he blames himself, and right now, I'm finding it difficult not to blame him, even if it's Jesper's fault, even if he couldn't have known his compassion for Jesper would lead to the murder of his team.
I don't want to feel the terrible stare of the Eagle on me, that hatred and sorrow I know must be coursing through him like hellfire. But I can guess what he's thinking, if only because I'm thinking it too.
Someone must pay.
Someone is going to die.
Monday, 25th January. 1917
Today was the day we've planned for every day since 26th December. A day I tearfully regret having ever anticipated.
Today, Jesper Zorn died, and the Eagle made sure that General Johann Zorn, his father, the one truly responsible for the deaths of our teammates, our friends, understood what the Eagle was capable of. Understood what he had unleashed.
Today, I also realized that I did not understand what the Eagle was truly capable of. And I still don't.
I was in the room with him and the General, when he did it.
I couldn't bear to look at what he did.
I couldn't bear to look at what he became in front of the General's eyes.
Whatever it was, it wasn't my colonel, my teacher Kent Allard, that was there.
It wasn't my hero, my friend the Dark Eagle, that walked out of that room.
It was something else.
Chapter 4: 1933
Notes:
This chapter is told from a dual perspective. It regales the final excerpts from the diary of Henry Arnaud, as well as interview sessions conducted by psychologist Slade Farrow.
The excerpts here are property of writer Maxwell Grant and the records of his employer (name currently unknown).
Chapter Text
Week 0. 1933
Although it was not visiting hours at Seraphim State Hospital, the old man staring at the bleak, rainy afternoon outside of his cell knew that the middle-aged man currently waiting at the gates of the hospital was coming to see him. These visits had somewhat replaced his own demise as the only thing he had to look for.
Two weeks ago, the criminal psychologist Slade Farrow had come to his cell, wanting to conduct a private interview with him. The old man wasn't interested, at first. He'd imagined Farrow was little more than akin to a priest visiting a convict on death bed, just looking for another sob story. But Farrow had brought him news of the outside world and treated him with decency, which was more than anyone had done for him in the 16 years he's been locked in his cell, and more importantly, he claimed that they had a common enemy. And that was enough to secure the old man's interest, enough for them to arrange future meetings.
Enough for him to talk.
Names, faces, things his old acquaintances did back then. The old man realized his usefulness depended on how many he could rat out, and so he did.
There isn't much voice left in the old man. Where he once commanded respect from terrified cadets with ear-shattering bellows, now he could produce little more than a whisper. A cracked, dry, hoarse and broken whisper, muffled by the contraption he wears around his neck to feed him oxygen. Hate and bitterness was as much emotion as that voice could muster, and still a mere shadow of what it had been. Lung cancer and old age had eaten away his innards, and inner hemorraghes weren't unusual. But his rotten, fetid lungs hadn't been able to kill him yet.
The finest doctors at Seraphim State Hospital were incredibly good at ensuring Johann Zorn stayed alive, no matter how painfully so, or how much he wished to die.
Tuesday, 5th January. 1917.
Me and The Eagle have been in the city of Münster since January 2nd. We've located the base where Johann Zorn is located on Kinderhaus. I'm still keeping watch on the outside of it, and in the meanwhile, the Eagle seems to have a place set up just outside of here to conduct his plans.
We don't meet up except to discuss our intel, and the Eagle has stated that we must keep our distance if this is to work. He claims that getting too close, too acquainted, with his soldiers, was a mistake he won't repeat, and that for our vengeance on the Zorns to work, we must take our time.
Today, he showed to me a chemical formula he claims to have been working on for over a month. I didn't know he had skills in chemistry, but perhaps he might have some help, from others I don't know. He already had one that could act as a muscle relaxant if injected, that we had used to drug men who needed to be put to sleep.
He drank a small vial of it and placed his hand over the fireplace, and showed little to no reaction even as his fingers began to burn. He quickly withdrew his hands and used a glass of water to put out the lingering fires. He told me it was intended to numb pain without numbing the consciousness, but it still needed work.
If he felt any pain from the fire harming his fingertips, he didn't show it, but if he says it needs work, then he's right.
Of course he's right.
I don't dispute what he says. I don't think much about it, or much of anything these days. I just want to get our terrible mission done.
We owe our comrades that much.
Week 1. 1933
Zorn quickly learned that Farrow was a criminal operating under the visage of a kind criminal psychologist, and that he'd been using this cover as a way to recruit men to his operations. To those of his mysterious employer. Despite his American name, Farrow was a German immigrant, although he hadn't betrayed his country like Zorn. He'd confided as much to Zorn as a form of honesty, that he had no interest in having Zorn face judgment for betraying the Kaiser, but he needed to know what Zorn knew.
Zorn no longer had any contacts to rely on, he'd severed them all when he fled to America, but he still knew names and faces that could be of service. At present, Farrow was sent here in order to gather information relating to a mysterious figure who's been haunting the criminal underworld for a couple of years now, who could pose a threat to Farrow's own employers.
On the first meeting, Farrow said:
"I want you to tell me about Kent Allard"
Zorn hadn't heard of that name in over 16 years, and yet, anger surged on hearing it.
"What do you want with Allard? He's dead. Died over a decade ago."
"Indeed, but we have reason to believe that my employer's current enemy might have known Allard at some point, and we have no access to his records. If you don't want to tell, I'm afraid I'll have to leave."
Zorn paused. Remembering Allard stirred something in his brain, even perhaps a familiar sense that he knew where this conversation would end. And with nothing left to lose, he proceeded to talk.
"I was working with the British under the name Richmond circa 1912. I was meant to spy on them, report on their weaknesses, rat out as many names and weaknesses as I could. But I was handing over information from the Germans to some of my superiors at England.
Even in 1912, they knew there was going to be a war unlike anything that we'd ever seen. And it probably wasn't going to be the last. They had enough fingers in enough pulses to know the tides of culture were about to crash, and they knew of ways to stay on top. I had no stake other than survival, for me and my son, and so I played as many sides as I could. The British had agents within the Soviets meant to keep watch of the Tsar's decisions, and secretly stoke the flames of social conflict, so that it would be at the center of the war. The Soviets had agents of their own within England, they would eventually form what we called the NKVD, and so the British figured they had to be ready."
"I don't remember who started spying on each other first, and it didn't really matter. I had my orders and so did everyone else.
I suspect Kent Allard was sent to Russia under similar orders, to keep watch over the Tsar, report on whatever he learned within the court, and so on. A hotshot American soldier who had a deft ear for languages, excelled in every physical exam, and wasn't weak on the knees in regards to combat, was completely irresistible to them. He spied on and killed whoever we told him to and whoever posed an immediate threat to the Czar. He wasn't informed of the war, or the plans to manipulate the soviets into being at the center of it, but he eventually learned when the war broke out. His reports came with some questions that a soldier wasn't supposed to be asking. That's when we assigned him to India."
"When the war broke out, my employers had no interest in ending the war, not when the Americans could make a fortune selling to the combatants on both sides. And, of course, what's good for the Americans would eventually be good for the British, as they figured, and the same would go for all those who were on the winning side of the war.
Allard got into trouble with the Soviets over something, we never knew what exactly. We figured it was better to let him sort it out on his own. If he was killed, well, he was a fine agent, but a tamed tiger who bites back is useless. If he survived, we'd string him around a bit more, and dispose of him if he tried anything idiotic."
"I did, eventually, learn that Allard had survived, had cut off most contacts with the British or French military, and he'd started this underground campaign of liberating prisoners from German camps, like some kind of terrorist. My son was in the base he had stationed in, and they went to the battlefields on the same plane. He was there when my son got captured, and he let Major Richter take my boy. Richter was aiming for my station, so when he got his hands on my son, well, he figured he could declare him a traitor, a British soldier with a secret German name, and use him as bait to draw me out. That if they tortured him enough without killing, I'd have either stepped down or showed up to rescue him."
"I planned on doing neither, instead I was merely going to have him shot for treason and get my son out of the war. But someone else stepped up to rescue my son before I got there."
Sunday, 10th January. 1917
When I was summoned to the Eagle's hideout today to show my notes, there was a pile of faces on a nearby desk that looked as if they had been taken out clean out of still living humans.
They were masks, I learned on closer inspection. But the way the Eagle's been lately, the way our plans have taken such a vengeful, murderous route recently, and how I barely get to see him anymore out of that cloak, how he barely talks anymore, I wouldn't have been that surprised had he just carved a couple of dozen faces out of living people to use in his disguises.
It distresses me to note that I probably would have still followed him through on this plan, even if he'd done that.
One of the faces on that table looked young. It was attached to a short, shaggy blond wig, had baggy circles around the eyelids, and a small scar on the lower lip. I recognized it as someone we knew.
I don't know what he plans to use it for.
I'm afraid to ask.
Week 4. 1933
On the second meeting, Farrow said:
"Tell me about your son"
A sentiment passed over Johann Zorn's grimace, too quick for Farrow to understand what it was. Regret? Hatred? Sorrow? Something along those lines to be sure. A man with a happy relationship with his son would likely not have ended where Johann Zorn was.
"I had written the boy off as a lost cause long before the war. I'd let him do as he wanted, and frankly I'd have gotten him off the war alltogether, but he wanted to join. Said he wanted to be a man, said he needed to prove his worth, needed to help. Sick little monster probably enlisted to war just so he could play doctor with people that had no way to refuse his help. He was one of those kids, you know, the kind of kids you don't let play around with the neighbors for too long, the kind you have to keep paying new maids for when the old ones quit. Whatever he wanted, I got it so long as he'd leave me alone. I spent a fortune on buying pets for him to play around with, and most didn't last two months, and I stopped replacing wooden spoons by the time he became a teenager. Little monster was born with his brain screwed on the wrong way, and no matter how many times I tried beating it out of him, I ultimately had to pay the price for it."
"Did you hate your son?"
He took a deep breath, and thought for a beat before replying.
"I didn't. He was my son. Still my blood, still the only thing worth a damn I had. When he wrote back to me and told me what happened, about how he got out of the camp and his new teammates, I learned Allard was still alive. And I was angry at him for letting my son fall into the Krauts. I would have gone after him regardless, but that made it personal. I didn't notify anyone else. I wanted to handle him myself."
"Is your son still alive?"
Johann looked away from Farrow and snarled his answer.
"I don't know. I didn't get to see him before... before the Dark Eagle came for him"
Wednesday, 20th January. 1917.
I stood watching the Kinderhaus Base as the Eagle sneaked his way inside, to report it's layout from within. I thought he'd have used one of his disguises, but instead he used that cloak of his to blend into the night.
I saw him only briefly, when he entered, and when he left.
Was he always this fast? He moved much faster than I'd ever seen him before. He moved like, like an insect. No, not an insect, smoother than that. He sorta just slithered past the guards and flowed over the wall in one movement. Like a twisted piece of newspaper blowing in the night wind, you know what I mean?
No. No, of course you don’t. You couldn't be there. I barely believe it myself.
I wonder if I'll ever see Kent Allard again. He hasn't taken off that damn costume ever since that accursed day.
Week 7. 1933
On the fourth meeting, Farrow said:
"Can you tell me more about the Dark Eagle?"
And a cold chill ran across Zorn's fragile, fractured spine. He knew this is where the conversation was heading. But he trusted Farrow enough, by this point. It's been two months they'd began talking, and Farrow had listened to everything Zorn had to confess, every horrible crime he perpetrated for himself, for his country, for those he'd served and pretended to serve. He'd been like a priest, listening to the dying words of a horrible old buzzard who'd lived on for too long with no one to share his monstrousness with but himself.
And so, he talked.
"I didn't take it seriously at first, because whatever it was, it was just an urban myth. German records claim he first appeared in the late 1700s, as a bandit who plundered Southern Italy. There was a bandit in Moscow who used that codename in the 1800s, and got unmasked and killed. Right around the start of the century there were French terrorists going by the name. And early in the war, even before the war actually, the Soviets were passing around rumors that there was a new Black Eagle, who seemed to be at once striking at the Tsar's power, and yet also fighting off the Tsar's enemies. It only really became a problem years later when this Dark Eagle was becoming a hero to soldiers, even at German fields, for rescuing prisoners. And I know that was Allard, because Jesper told me he was the one behind the rescues."
Farrow inquired
"So, Kent Allard was the Dark Eagle?"
Johann furrowed his brow.
"I...I don't know. He used that name, yes, but so did other men, plenty of spies began using the Dark Eagle codename, before and during this period, and I know the real Dark Eagle's activities didn't stop until the end of the war. Allard died in 1917, he couldn't have been the Eagle full time."
"How do you know Kent Allard died?"
Johann paused, and wheezed in a feeble attempt to take a deep breath. And then responded.
"Because either my son, or the Dark Eagle, killed him."
Tuesday, 26th January. 1917
The contents of this page could have me killed if ever discovered, by just about any government or military on Earth that find it. I worry how the Eagle would respond too, if he'd known I had so much written on record.
But then, I suppose he already knows. He's always known. And I don't know if he's even the Eagle anymore. I haven't seen him since Burbank took him away, after we left the base. I don't know when I'll see him again. I'm staying with Clifford Marsland for now, here in Easternay.
When we arrived at Kinderhaus Base, it was relatively empty. The Eagle was dressed in that cloak of his, and we sneaked inside, me following in his footsteps. Just like before. Just like so long ago.
At the entrance, I glimpsed at two fallen soldiers, propped against the doors at the end of the hallway. I had supposed the Eagle had already entered this place and, well, done some of the groundwork. He could have, but he hadn't done it.
We pressed on through the hallway, and upon passing through the door, we found Jesper in a room.
He was sitting on the floor, his knees held up to his head, dark stains surrounding the floor around him. His hands fiercely dug into his scalp, his blond hair bleached with blood and sweat, even pus. There was a bloodstain on his stomach that seemed to grow bigger, where he'd been wounded. He didn't look at us, he just sat there, mumbling to himself, and all of my desire for vengeance was flushed. I was worried he'd kill himself before we ever got near him, and he was well on his way there. I all but forgot that it was because of him that none of our friends would get to see their families again.
There was a Luger in his lap, and at other points of the room, there were three other fallen soldiers. There was a scalpel plunged in the neck of one of them, the other two I suppose must have died by gunfire. Apparently, Jesper had been the cause of it. We had diverted the soldiers away from this base with messages, as we'd done previously, and the remaining ones seem to have been unable to restrain Jesper before he killed them. They obviously would have faced grave consequences for harming the General's son. I assume one of them must have gotten a lucky shot before Jesper got to him.
I was completely at a loss, staring at this broken, lost man, who hardly seemed much older than a boy, in front of me, and then I looked at the Eagle. What would he do? We were here to kill Jesper, I admit with no small measure of shame. We were here to take our vengeance against the traitor who got our friends brutally murdered even after everything we'd done for him. But what kind of vengeance could we even take against such a miserable being? What kind of honor would there be in that? Did we even have any left?
The Eagle glided his way to Jesper, and stood behind him. Jesper didn't seem to notice. I was briefly concerned that the Eagle would simply kill Jesper on the spot to stop his suffering and get it over with. I supposed that's what I may have done, in his situation. But instead, he approached very slowly.
The Eagle pulled his ring out of his pocket, and held it before Jesper, the ring glowing an unnatural red glow, shining so much brighter in the darkness of the bloodstained room. And then, the Eagle did something I'd never seen him do. Something I'd never seen any man do.
He spoke, in the soft, gentle and quiet voice of James Rettigue.
"Hey, hey friend it's okay, it's okay. Everything is gonna be fine, Jespie, we got you..."
And Jesper stopped his fidgeting, instead immediately picking the Luger in front of him. I was incredibly confused at what the Eagle's goal was, but I was ready to leap at the Eagle, to get him out of harm's way.
And then, the Eagle spoke, in the harsh and stern voice of George Clarendon.
"We know you did what you felt you had to do, Doc. We should have known sooner."
And then, Jesper turned, dropping the dagger, still holding the gun, and he stared at the ring's light, eyes as big as I'd ever seen on a human face, utterly entranced as if our friends, our team, had all returned from death and were standing in front of him this second.
I struggle to convince myself that it wasn't what actually happened.
The Eagle spoke, in the charismatic bravado of Blanton H.Balliol
"At ease, mon ami. You got the best of us then, I'll admit. But the dead have nothing left to do but to rest."
And Jesper replied, so softly he might as well have been talking to himself.
"I want to rest, too....I'm dead, aren't I? If I'm seeing you guys, I must be dead. I got so tired of the soldiers pushing me around...I'm so tired...I need to rest..."
The Eagle spoke, in the deep and steel-edged voice of Jerome Druke.
"What about us, little man? We all wanted to rest with our families too. You took that away from us. You were our medic, we trusted you."
And Jesper replied
"But...But you were traitors...Traitors deserved to die..."
And the Eagle held up his other hand, to stop me from advancing on the dying man with a newfound rage. And this time, he let me do the talking. I realized he wanted to give Jesper a chance to confess, to explain himself, to give the dying man a chance to think his friends had come back for him.
"Did your old man make you do this? Why did you betray us? Why did James and George and the others have to die? We wanted to help you.
And Jesper, entranced by the ring's light, replied:
"He...I was always telling him everything...About everyone...And he always let me do whatever I wanted...He was a traitor...And I was a traitor too...I just followed my orders...I was useful...I killed all of you...I did what he would have wanted...He wanted to kill Kent Allard...I had to kill Kent Allard...I killed Kent Allard..."
And the Eagle spoke. It was a weird, sibilant whisper I'd never heard him use before, that seemed as if it was coming from everywhere, and nowhere at once.
"And you did. I am not Kent Allard. And despite what you have done, I can still help you, Jesper Zorn. Your crimes are not your fault alone. You were useful. You were valued. I ...Kent Allard could not save you from Camp Steinfurt. But had he known prior, he could have taken you away from your father, given you the help you need. You must answer for your crime, but I don't wish to murder you, Jesper. Please, let me help you."
And in that moment, the Eagle dropped his hand holding the ring, only to extend it towards Jesper.
I clutched my gun underneath my jacket, expecting any sudden movements from Jesper. He still had that Luger in his hand. But when he did move, I was too late to stop him.
In the brief moment he snapped out of his trance, he said:
"Tell them I'm sorry."
And he shot himself, before the Eagle could stop him.
I couldn't see the Eagle's face afterwards. He made no sound as it happened.
We still haven't talked about it. I don't think we are ever going to talk about it.
We had no time for mourning. We had done enough of it in the last month. Burbank was going to arrive within the hour.
We still had work to do.
Week 4. 1933.
"How did your son kill the Dark Eagle?", asked Farrow on the fourth meeting.
Johann fidgeted in his wheelchair. He could no longer stand to look at Farrow while he spoke.
"I arrived at base Kinderhaus earlier than all the others. I figured out quickly enough that it was a trick, a diversion, and I imagined this would be where Allard would strike. I was informed he had escaped, and he probably would have connected the dots to learn I had sent the soldiers to their hideout in Fougères after Jesper told me about it. I went ahead, and my soldiers were instructed to stay outside of the base, to intercept Allard should he escape."
"When I arrived, the base was empty. Far too empty. The first sign of life I saw was two dead soldiers propped against the door of the hallway, and there were five in that base total with all the others gone, plus Jesper, but I knew I couldn't count on him for much of anything. He had been losing his mind ever since the raid on Fougères. The other three soldiers had been instructed to stay in Jesper's room, to protect him. The door was open when I arrived, and the minute I did, I was captured by two men. They placed a bag over my head and injected my neck with something that gradually paralyzed my body. "
Johann gestured at his wheelchair-bound legs.
"Well, not permanently, this was on that accident after I arrived in America, as you know, but back then, I was helpless. They dragged me to my office room and placed me on a chair, and then unveiled my bag. I could only make out the outline of one man, dressed in a sheepskin jacket, with a helmet and goggles. I didn't see the other one who was currently holding the door. The man in front took a drink out of something he had in his breast pocket, and didn't say anything, he just stared at me through those goggles. I lost my patience."
"I yelled, damn you Allard, why won't you just stay down. You knew you were signing up for dirty work when the British took you. If you had just shut up and done what you were ordered, you could have settled just like we all would have, once the war was over."
"What the hell were you intending to accomplish, wanting to live out some hero fantasy, thinking you were any better than the men you killed, than the men who sent you and the others to kill, better than me or my son. I yelled, and threatened, and demanded, and when that didn't work, when he didn't move a single muscle, I begged, told him I'd give him anything he wanted, that I had names, faces, anything."
"I knew to swallow my pride, if it meant me buying enough time to live."
"But it wasn't Allard who responded to me. The man in front of me said:
"I killed them all for you, father."
"And that was my son Jesper. That was his voice, just like it used to be before he started losing it. He took off his helmet and goggles, and the face that stared at me was that of my son."
"I killed them all. Allard. Arnaud. Clarendon. Rettigue. Druke. Blanton. They are all gone. All of Allard's men, all of the Dark Eagle's faces, they are all gone. But that's not enough for you, is it Father?"
Terror bloomed in Johann's eyes as he began to recount the story.
"There is just one more member of Allard's squadron that needs to go. You want Allard gone? Truly gone? You can have all that's left of him."
"I was powerless to stop him as he drove that surgeon's knife into his own face."
"He..He drove this big, circular gash, from his chin to his cheek and his forehead and back again. He cut off his nose, his flesh just kept falling by the chunks as he dug, and just kept digging, I begged him to stop but he just kept going, until he just peeled off his face by hand. He...He just kept defiling and peeling off his face in front of me. My son's face. How was he not screaming in pain? Why was he quiet the whole time? Why couldn't I look away?"
"Why couldn't I look away?"
"I-I, I refuse to believe that was my son. That thing couldn't have been my son. My son was a, a wretched little monster, but he wasn't this."
"And the whole time, he kept staring at me. With those weird eyes that burned right through me. They weren't my son's eyes. They had his color, but they weren't his eyes. It kept staring at me, even when those eyes were all that was left of it's face, when it finished peeling off the skin and I couldn't see what was behind them. I, I couldn't even see flesh, just eyes in the dark. And then, and then it started laughing at me-"
Johann stopped, to clutch his head between his hands, breathing as hard as his rotten lungs would allow. Eventually, he regained enough strength to continue.
"I still wake up thinking I'm gonna see those eyes staring at me again at night."
Farrow encouraged him to continue, displaying as little emotion as he could.
"I passed out. I was woken up by soldiers an hour after I'd arrived on base, they said there was a problem with their cars that made them unable to get here in time. They'd found all soldiers dead, and Jesper had dissappeared."
"I didn't go looking for him. I was afraid he'd find me. That it would find me. Because that, that thing...that wasn't my son. That wasn't Allard either, I'd met the man before, and that wasn't him. It had to have killed both of them. Whatever that thing was...it only kept me alive because it wasn't done torturing me."
Farrow asked:
"And what happened afterwards?"
"When I heard news that, 5 days later, Kent Allard had somehow made a miraculous return in France, I was already packing my bags. I knew that this, the thing that shed Allard's skin only to slip into my son's, and carved it's own face off to make me watch...I wasn't safe as long as it was around. Trying to kill Allard is what set it on my trail. It wanted me to think I was safe before it came back."
"A week later, I heard from junior officers that they had intercepted and killed a man named Henry Arnaud in Easternay, the last of Allard's men still alive. I fled the very same day. Stole a car and passports and fled Münster as fast as I could. When I arrived in America, I got into a car accident, crashed into a police vehicle. I used the opportunity to get an insanity plea and locked myself in here, where I've stayed for 16 years."
Johann Zorn again stopped to take a breath.
"I know that...that thing can still find me. It probably has. But here, I'm no threat to anyone, and I'm already dying anyway. So far, I haven't seen or heard a trace of it."
Farrow finished writing down the details. Johann looked spent, tired, and finally looked at Farrow again.
"Well? So what do you intend to do with my story? I gave you as much as I could, and I still don't know a thing about your employers."
"Oh, don't worry about him, Mr Johann Zorn. You can be assured he's put the information you've given us to good use."
"Wait, who do you mean?"
"Sadly, I have other prisons to visit today, and I'm afraid I must depart, for good I'm afraid. Guard, I'd like to leave please, I think I've heard enough from this man."
Footsteps echoed throughout the empty hall as a guard came to open the cell and lead Farrow out, while Johann sat there, watching Farrow leave, led away by whom he assumed would be Eric Wiseman, the usual patrolman of the facility.
He had begun turning around when he'd heard the guard speak in a voice that did not belong to Eric Wiseman.
"Sie haben sich sicherlich Zeit genommen. Ich bezweifle, jemand wird den alten mann bald besuchen"
And when Johann looked at the guard, he recognized a familiar face. With shaggy blond hair, baggy circles around the eyelids, and a scar on the lower lip. And eyes that glowed blue beneath the brim of his cap.
"Obwohl, wird der tod sein, ihn eines tages sicherlich zu besuchen."
What little was left of Johann Zorn's voice broke out into screams of terror that no one could hear.
Friday, 20th November. 1918
It has been about 6 months since the date where my army records officially state that I died.
Although, that's the British records. The German records state I was killed in February 1917. I'm sure the French might have different records if they poke around the old Guillemont base.
The war has been declared for over a week, and that's the time it took for me to be able to contact him again. He wasn't an easy man to find.
But then, I assume he wanted me to find him.
The man I knew as Allard and Dark Eagle has done a lot of different things ever since that day in January 1917. I have played only a very small role in them. He has other allies now, in different corners of the world, and I assume he will only continue to build more. He is becoming something new, and I'm afraid I won't be around for it. I want to start a new life, and I presume he wants that too for me. At least one of us has to make it. One of us has to survive.
The war is over across the world, but I fear it may never be over for him. He chooses his own wars, in the end, and perhaps that's the only thing that really defines him. He makes a choice to help others and be who he is, whatever he is.
He still scares me, more so than ever each time I meet him again. Destroying his face seems to have only made him more effective at disguising himself. If he misses his face, he doesn't show it, and he's liable to be just about anyone near me. The most terrifying man I ever met is the one I'd consider my friend.
It's a thought that's more reassuring than it sounds, and I can't really explain why. But you get used to the unexplainable when you hang out with him for a couple of years.
We've arranged a meeting today, to celebrate the end of the war. The wars we thought, and to take a break before the next ones. To meet as strangers, who one afternoon decided to share a drink together, and went their separate ways to never again meet.
As he buried his past, I've buried mine. I'm giving this diary to him to do as he pleases with, and that's the last time I'll ever use the name Henry Arnaud.
Where I'm going, what am I doing, I don't know.
I'm not him, I can't know everything.
I only know I prefer it that way.
NervousAsexual on Chapter 1 Wed 24 Feb 2021 04:38PM UTC
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NervousAsexual on Chapter 2 Thu 25 Feb 2021 01:28PM UTC
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NervousAsexual on Chapter 3 Fri 26 Feb 2021 12:59PM UTC
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