Page 65 of Circle of Death
“Upper East Side.”
The private grins nervously, exposing crooked teeth. “You a rich kid, sir?”
“Black sheep,” says the lieutenant. He plucks the cigarette back.
“So that’s why you’re here, sir? Instead of at some debutante ball?”
“Never cared for debutantes,” says the lieutenant. “No sense of adventure.”
For a few moments, the trench is quiet, except for the echo of gunfire crackling in the distance.
The private clears his throat and pipes up again. “Hey, Lieutenant. If you get back, you should look up my big brother. Moe Shrevnitz. From Brooklyn. He drives a cab.”
The lieutenant sucks down one last drag and flicks the butt away. “It’s a big city, Private,” he says. “And I don’t take many cabs.” He cocks his ear toward the top of the trench, then yanks the kid back tight against the dirt wall.
The sounds are coming from the field above. Jangling metal and heavy boots. Men muttering in German. Getting closer. The lieutenant unshoulders his rifle and turns to tighten his bayonet.
When he looks back, the private is halfway up a wooden ladder, climbing toward the lip of the trench.
“Get down!” the lieutenant mutters, his jaw clenched.
“I’ll see how many there are, sir,” the private whispers back, moving up another rung. The lieutenant grabs for the private’s belt just as he pokes his chin over the edge. A sharp crack. The private falls back off the ladder, arms wide, helmet flying. He lands hard in the bottom of the trench. The right half of his head is gone.
The lieutenant turns. He hears the slosh of boots from the north side of the trench. Reinforcements? No. Enemy. He raises his rifle and shoots the first attacker in line. He hears movement from behind him. He whips around. More gray uniforms. He fires again. The trigger just clicks. The Germans move in slowly from both sides, rifles pointed at his chest.
It’s over. There’s nothing more he can do here.
The lieutenant drops his gun, takes off his helmet—and disappears.
CHAPTER 78
“LAMONT. WHAT ARE we doing here?”
The cemetery is smaller than I expected—just a few hundred white crosses on a neat lawn surrounded by green hedges. I realize that a graveyard is a strange place to visit when you’re running for your life, but it’s on our way, and I probably won’t get this chance again.
We haven’t slept for twenty-four hours. Margo and I hid out in the park overnight and picked up some secondhand clothes this morning. We hopped the train from Paris to Ypres, then another from Ypres to Kortrijk, then rented bikes for the final leg to the pickup point. I insisted on this one extra stop. It’s important to me.
Margo doesn’t get it. Not yet. “What is this place? Where’s the airstrip?”
I can hear the frustration in her voice. She thinks I’ve gone nuts.
“Hold on,” I tell her. “I’m looking for something.”
I move down the line of crosses, checking each one as I go. My vision is blurry from lack of sleep. It’s hard to focus. And I know we’re short on time.
There! Last man in the row. The lettering is etched deep into the marble:Leo Shrevnitz / Pvt / 106 Inf / 27 Div / Sept 25, 1918
Margo comes up alongside me. “Who’s this? Did you know him?”
“I did. A long time ago. For about twelve hours.”
I run my hand over the name. Margo leans forward and squints for a better look. “Wait.Shrevnitz?” She steps back. “Is that a coincidence?”
“Coincidence?” I hold on to the top of the cross for a few moments. “No. I’d call it fate.”
There’s a low whistle and a rumble from overhead. We both look up. It’s Tapper’s jet, swooping in low on its approach. We hop on our bikes and start pedaling like crazy toward a place I remember from over a hundred years ago.
It only takes a few minutes to find it, off a dirt lane past an old windmill. There’s no tower. Not even a proper runway. Just a bare grassy strip in the middle of the Belgian countryside.
