Metal Birds

Chapter 24: Francis Wouldn't Know

The French Countryside, May 17, 1940

Arthur slept fitfully. He had perched himself in a tree above the small camp below. Seint Quentin was now the edge of the advance. A little over a week was what it took, and it was even busier than before. It was mostly wounded men and a stopping point for forces that were pulling back, but it felt like the apocalypse had overcome them. The camp was made up of French and English Expeditionary Forces that were currently on a heavy retreat from the advancing Germans. 

Arthur had taken to falling asleep in a tree a little ways away, and he could see the low and limited lights of the camp nearby. By now, most men were asleep or wondering about the tents anxiously.

He understood why they felt that way. He felt just as nervous, aware that every moment could be met with the chaos of an enemy attack. Seven days ago, Francis had gone into throws. He'd lost all feeling in his left arm, and the Maginot Line had been passed through the Ardennes Forest.

Francis was nearby, somewhere. Most likely on the other side of the camp. They decided it would be safer that way.

He did his best to fall asleep. But sleep was something that didn't want to come to him. He lay there, his mind slowly reminding him over and over again that he wasn't safe, and that he wasn't going to be safe until the whole thing was over. And he doubted it would be over quickly.

As he sat there, he soon saw the lights of the camp flicker off. Fires went out, torches and lamps were turned off. Darkness overcame the small thicket.

He sat there, lips pursed. He still had his knapsack over his back and his satchel over his shoulder and strapped to his waist. He sighed, shifting his wings against the trunk of the tree he was laying against. The place he had chosen to perch was rather high up in an old oak, looking down on the underbrush surrounding the camp. He had a small gun, which Francis had supplied to him. It fit snuggly in his satchel, and also burnt a nervous hole there.

As he shuffled again, he let out a heavy sigh, hugging himself as he leaned his head against his wings.

For two hours he lay there, silently, attempting to sleep as much as he could. But he simply couldn't. He found himself merely sitting there with his eyes closed, doing his best to get rest.

His eyes flickered open as he heard a soft movement. For a moment, all he saw was the pitch blackness and the cloudy sky far above, dark and illuminated with what might have been a searchlight or two in the far, far distance. He blinked slightly as he saw them, his chest tightening as he remembered them over London during the Great War. When the great Zeppelin had risen over the skies, he had watched in confusion, and then fear; before the attack had taken a toll on his body and caused him to fall to the floor in pain. The searchlights had stood as a beacon from that night onward, illuminating the skies in worry and an ebbing terror.

The movement sounded again.

He tensed, jolting into complete awareness as he realized that this movement was coming from the East, and that no one would have the need to circle around but the guards, and he hadn't heard anyone moving West.

In an instant, his skin was clammy and cold, and his feathers had puffed up so his wings appeared twice as thick as they usually did. Even then he froze, his head moving down towards where the movement was coming from. He bit his lip in an attempt to refrain from making a noise as he shifted forward, wincing at the slightest ruffle of his feathers against the branch he was sitting on.

They did not hear him.

He stayed still, making sure that the two men walking slowly below were not merely a pair from the troop who had decided a walk would be best to calm their nerves. They weren't smoking. And they weren't talking very loudly. But he heard them.