The Spider and the Sparrow Read online

  Cover image: Cutting out His Eyes—Aerial Combat in WWI, 1919 (colourlitho), Davis, George Horace

  (1881–1960) (after) / Private Collection / Peter Newark Military Pictures / Bridgeman Images

  Cover design copyright © 2016 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2016 by A. L. Sowards

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: February 2016

  ISBN 978-1-68047-993-5

  Praise for the Spider and the Sparrow

  A. L. Sowards has done it again! The Spider and the Sparrow is sure to keep you reading and guessing long into the night.

  —Rebecca Belliston, author of the Citizens of Logan Pond series

  You can almost smell the gunpowder, mustard gas, and mud. This is a captivating novel that takes the reader on a roller coaster of emotions, from despair and desperation to love and hope. A great read!

  —KR Machado, former A-10 pilot, U.S. Air Force

  More interesting than your high school history class (and probably more informative), this look into the Great War aptly shows the conflict from both sides of the trenches and the cost for soldiers and civilians.

  —M. Grant, MA in military history

  This story both begins and ends in the rain, so I thought it

  fitting to dedicate this novel to some of my cousins: Lela, Danielle, Shaina, and Vanessa.

  We grew up on opposite ends of the country, but I have fond memories of exploring

  Nauvoo, Patriot’s Point, and Washington, D.C., with them, all in the rain. These women are

  fearless in a rainstorm, and more importantly, they have met

  their lives’ battles with courage, faith, and kindness.

  Map copyright © 2016 by Briana Shawcroft

  Useful Terms

  Although I've tried to make all terms understandable through context, the following are terms or expressions modern readers may find unfamiliar.

  Archie: Short for Archibald, common slang for anti-aircraft artillery

  Boche: Derogatory term for German

  Chasseur: Infantry or cavalry soldier trained for rapid movement

  Deuxième Bureau: French Army Intelligence

  Hun: Derogatory term for German

  Jasta: Abbreviation of jagdstaffel, term for a German squadron of fighter planes

  Kepi: Round military cap with a visor

  Marraine de guerre: A godmother for a French soldier

  Poilu: Literally “hairy one,” term for a French infantryman

  Rationer: Soldier responsible for rations

  Chapter 1

  May 1915, Artois Province, France

  The sky rained water droplets and artillery shell fragments through the loud, misty morning. The water left puddles under the duckboards at the bottom of the French trenches and turned Julian Olivier’s horizon-blue uniform into a muddy mess. The artillery, most of it fired from French 75mm Soixante-Quinze guns, landed largely on the Germans and, thus, troubled Julian little.

  Amid the shrill whines and distant booms of the guns, Julian huddled under a rain block fashioned from broken rifles and a tattered greatcoat. Water dripped from the edges and leaked through in three spots along the center, but the shelter was sufficient to protect his paper from rain damage as he finished a letter to his parents.

  Spring has skipped the trenches. I don’t suppose it can compete with the artillery. Has spring come to Calais? I miss the blossoming trees and the new green grass filling the meadows. Is the Channel clear? When I picture home, I imagine the harbor full of shipping from England. We’ll take all the men, horses, and ammunition they can send.

  I wish I was home to help with the extra work this time of year always brings, yet I am also glad to sacrifice for France. Our existence here is rough, but Lieutenant Roux tells us we will be relieved within the week. I would do much for a bath and a real bed. Mother, you would be horrified by how filthy I look and smell, but since everyone else has been unwashed just as long, we grow used to it.

  Julian paused, his pen hovering above the paper. He decided to spare his mother the description of trench rats. She despised rodents, and he didn’t want her to worry. Maybe he’d already said too much in complaining about the smell, but the scent of unwashed men was minor compared to the stench of decomposing bodies. He scratched the hair on the back of his neck. When washed, it was chestnut brown, but for now it was like everything else: the color of mud. He decided to omit the mention of lice from his letter as well. Nor would he tell her about the German shells that frequently pounded his position, but his father would want to know about French weapons.

  Our current artillery barrage is strong, thus my friends predict we shall soon see action. I hope to make you proud when we drive the enemy from our soil.

  Today it rains, but I am well. Please pray for me, as I ever pray for you.

  Your loving son,

  Julian

  He added the date to the top of the sheet: May 6, 1915.

  After the ink dried, Julian folded the letter and stuck it in his breast pocket for safekeeping. He would post it tomorrow after he’d had time to reread it and make sure he hadn’t said anything he wasn’t allowed to discuss. During their last period away from the line, he’d written that the cramped barn they were stationed in was covered in more manure than straw. A censor had refused to mail the letter and had given Julian extra work duty as punishment for his complaint.

  He left the shelter and stepped into the rain, climbing onto the firing step next to his friend to peer through a hole in the sandbagged breastwork across no-man’s land. How long before they’d be asked to go over the top? And when they went, what would they find, other than more mud and bullets? “They’re awfully quiet over there.”

  Maximo Durand turned from his study of the German positions. He removed his kepi and wiped at his brow before replacing the visored cap. He gestured behind the line, where the artillery batteries were set. “At the rate our field guns are firing, there won’t be anyone left to attack.”

  “Someone will survive. And they’ll be expecting us.” Only a fool wouldn’t recognize that a major attack was coming, and for all their faults, the Germans were no fools. Julian checked his rifle for the fourth time that morning to ensure it was loaded and clean, but he didn’t think they’d attack in this weather. Soon, he thought. He hoped he would be ready.

  * * *

  The next day was too foggy for an assault. Nor did the battle come the day after. When dawn broke on May 9, Julian read for the fourth time the letter he’d received the day before, a report from his father about the family dairy outside Calais. Julian cared little about the status of the garden, the weather summary, and the detailed chronicle on each of the cows, but he studied each word closely, knowing who had penned each line. The phrases were simple and the spacing uneven, as if written by an unsteady hand. Was his father getting old, or had the table become more rickety during Julian’s absence?

  “Any news?” Maximo
asked.

  Julian fought back a yawn as he folded the letter. The artillery bombardment hadn’t entirely ceased for days, but its intensity had jumped early that morning. Even though the shells weren’t aimed at him, they’d disturbed his already uneasy sleep. “Nothing much.”

  “Three pages, and nothing much?” Maximo raised a dark eyebrow and twisted his mustached lips to the side.

  Julian scraped some of the mud off his left boot with his right one. He could barely remember the last time either of his feet had been dry, but he supposed everyone had their troubles. “My father still works from dawn to dusk, my mother is still ill, and my brother is still dead.”

  Maximo looked away. “Sorry.”

  Julian regretted his sharp reply. The strange mix of boredom with their tasks, danger from German snipers, and anxiety for the upcoming battle left him on edge, but he shouldn’t take it out on Maximo. Julian was lucky to have someone write to him so frequently. Maximo’s wife was barely literate. She usually found someone to write a letter for her once a month, but Julian suspected the stretch between letters was agony for his friend. “No, I’m sorry. Would you like to read it?”

  Julian passed the letter to Maximo. The two had known each other since beginning their compulsory military service at age twenty. A new law had stretched their two years’ active duty into three, and then the war had extended it indefinitely. When they were new enlistees, Maximo had tried to match his friend with his younger sister, but Mademoiselle Durand had married someone else after exchanging only two letters with Julian. She was lovely in her pictures but dull in her letters, so Julian had experienced only slight disappointment.

  Maximo handed the letter back when he finished. “I’m sorry about your mother. Send her my wishes when you write her again, will you?”

  Julian nodded, scratching his neck.

  “Fleas?”

  “I caught them from you, I’m sure.” The itching moved into his hair, and Julian took his brimmed cap off for a few seconds, letting the breeze cool his head as he searched for the irritation’s source.

  “Why bother? They’ll still be there no matter how hard you scratch. Unless a shell scratches it for you.”

  Julian slammed his kepi back on. He was sick of living in mud. Their unit was past due for a break, a trip behind the lines where they might have hot food and maybe even baths. “I miss the ocean. If I were home, I’d go swimming and drown the vermin.”

  “Remember the time I came to visit?” Maximo was the only member of the section who had met Julian’s German mother and French father.

  “How could I forget?” Before Julian could tease Maximo about his inability to milk a cow or the way his jaw had dropped when Julian had pointed out the White Cliffs of Dover, Lieutenant Roux squeezed along the narrow trench, gathering his soldiers.

  Roux was about Julian’s age, in his midtwenties. He walked with the discipline and precision of a chasseur officer. Even in the trenches, his uniform was pressed and his face clean-shaven. It was a contrast to most of the men, who were now called poilus—the hairy ones.

  Everyone was silent as Roux instructed them. “Today we drive the Boche invaders out of the Noyon salient and clear Vimy Ridge and Notre Dame de Lorette. Once we manage that, we’ll reach the Douai plains and cut off German rail lines. Tenth Army will attack along a broad front. Our section’s goal is to take the area between Souchez and Givenchy. The timing is perfect. The Germans are still busy up in Ypres, and the British have given them new problems over at Aubers Ridge. We’ll go as far as we can, then consolidate before the German counterattack. Follow the nearest NCO. Don’t bunch up, but work as a unit. Any questions?”

  No one spoke. Julian glanced around at his comrades. Some of them looked at Roux; some of them gazed toward the German lines. None of them smiled.

  “We go over the top at ten. Check your equipment and get ready.” Roux moved on to brief more of his men.

  “Souchez and Givenchy.” Maximo said the words as if describing something from the underworld. He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Well, I’ve long thought the Boches were a little too close to Paris.”

  “Our artillery has already killed most of them, remember?” Julian tried to lighten the mood, but they both knew it took only a few survivors to man the machine guns positioned to sweep all of no-man’s land. Maybe the barrage had at least taken out the Boche artillery. He would rather be killed by a bullet than a shell fragment. He’d seen his share of corpses in the past months. Those hit by bullets were usually still recognizable as human; the same couldn’t always be said of those struck by artillery. “Corporal Bernard said the Russians need a little help. Maybe this will take some of the pressure off them.”

  “Sure. Take the pressure off them by drawing more Boches to France. I hope the only thing we find alive over there is the rats,” Maximo said.

  “Don’t we have enough rats for you here? You want more?”

  Maximo’s face broke into a smile. “During the Hundred Years’ War, wasn’t Calais under siege and its inhabitants so desperate for food that rats became a common staple?”

  “And you country peasants turn to rats every time a crop fails. Several times a decade, right? I’ll wager your wife can cook up a fine rat stew.”

  Maximo laughed, but his grin faded as the whine of a falling artillery shell grew louder. “You remember our agreement?”

  Julian nodded. “If anything happens to you, I’ll visit your wife on my next leave. And if something happens to me . . .”

  “I shall visit your parents.”

  Julian peeked over the top of the trench. He could see Vimy Ridge in the distance, partially obscured by artillery smoke. It wasn’t very high, but the slight elevation gave the German gunners an edge. An edge we’ll take from them today or die trying.

  Corporal Bernard milled around the men, tugging on straps and looking along rifle sights. The lanky noncommissioned officer with a roman nose liked things orderly, but there was always reason behind his discipline, never a show of power. Unlike the commissioned officers, Bernard spent his time in the mud with the men, sharing their hardships equally, explaining rumors honestly.

  The time to advance came quickly. The guns fell silent for a few minutes, and when it was likely the Boches had emerged from their cover to man what was left of their positions, the French artillery showered them with sixteen-pound shells for another thunderous ten minutes. Julian almost felt sorry for his enemy. He’d lived through artillery barrages, and he hated them—the terror of being buried alive by a close hit, the fear of being decapitated by a closer hit, the noise, the uncertainty, and the way the whole earth shook as if hungry for fresh corpses. But no one had invited the Germans into Artois. It was their own fault.

  “Ready!” Lieutenant Roux’s voice carried along the trench as clear as a bugle.

  Julian held his breath as he waited for the order to advance.

  “Forward!”

  Julian crawled from the trench on a ladder, Maximo right behind him. On Roux’s orders, Corporal Bernard led their group through the gate in the French barbed wire and into no-man’s land. Julian took a few deep breaths and kept hunched over as he ran toward the Boche line. It felt like he’d left something in the trenches—his stomach, perhaps. Everyone did their best to ignore the hail of bullets flying all around them. Keep moving, Julian told himself. Going back was both cowardly and treacherous. The only temporary safety lay ahead of them; the only permanent safety lay in victory.

  Julian had studied no-man’s land before, but it looked different now that he was in the middle of it, exposed to enemy fire. The earth seemed more desolate, each crater forming a nearly impassable hurdle. They dashed across twenty meters of ground and followed Bernard into a group of shell holes. Most of the soil had dried from the week’s earlier rainstorms, but the bottom of Julian’s hole was marked with puddles, and he splashed into one a
s he tried to protect his head from a persistent German machine gun.

  He aimed his Lebel rifle toward the bullets’ source. He couldn’t see the soldiers shooting at them, but when Bernard gave the order, he would fire, along with everyone else. Ideally, they’d distract the gunners long enough for another group of Roux’s men to move forward.

  “Let’s get that Boche, eh?” Maximo said from Julian’s elbow.

  “I can’t see him.”

  Maximo fired, and the machine gun fell silent. “I could.”

  When the other half of their group arrived, Bernard called out to them. “Prepare to advance.”

  On Bernard’s instruction, they fired as a group, then rushed from their shelters. One of the other soldiers spun around and cried out in pain. “Keep moving,” Bernard ordered. Julian looked back. Bernard dragged the wounded man into a ditch, where he would be protected from German bullets, and then sprinted forward to lead his men again.

  The noise was incessant. High-explosive shells, shrapnel shells, machine gun bullets, rifle bullets. Julian kept moving despite the artillery bursting around him, staying next to Maximo. His friend was the faster runner, but there was strength in numbers, so Julian forced himself to keep up. Bernard’s section leapfrogged with a sergeant’s group all the way across no-man’s land. Julian heard the whine of a particularly noisy shell, and he didn’t like the way the sound accelerated as if coming directly toward him.

  “Get down!” Julian grabbed Maximo’s elbow and yanked him down to the naked soil. The shell hit only fifteen meters away. Plumes of dirt shot skyward, and the blast’s force barreled over him like a cavalry charge. German artillerymen must have sighted their guns to the area long ago because the salvo was devastatingly accurate. A dozen comrades surrounded Julian and Maximo on the ground, some of them wounded, some of them killed, and some of them obliterated.