Deception in the Name of War...and Love
Author's Note: Dedicated to the memory of JT, a victim of mustard gas in the First World War.
****************
Setting: Paris; August 1914; POV/Florian de Rochefort
“What part of no does the boy fail to comprehend?” Ray did not even lift his
gaze from his ledger. His question was posed casually. No..idly.
I felt my
temper flare. I walked forward to the edge of Ray’s desk and slammed his ledger
shut.
“What part of Noel, the young man whom I’ve loved as a son is leaving to
go to war, don’t you understand, Ray? Is there an entry in the ledger for Noel?
Will his death in that damn trench count as a loss or a plus?”
I should not have said that last part but I needed to get through to Ray. It
worked.
Ray pushed back from his desk and stood up. Before I could move away, his arm
whipped out and grabbed my waistcoat; that quickly I found myself sprawled
across the desk, shoulders pinned by Ray’s strong hands, lips parted by his
demanding tongue.
I tried fighting back, telling myself that I didn’t want this, but I was lying.
This was exactly what I wanted, what I needed. Some primal part of myself always
responded to Ray’s domination. As soon as I became compliant, relaxing beneath
him, my mouth responding to his taste, my body to his touch, he gentled both. As
soon as I could, I wrapped my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist
and clung to him, urging him to take me. Noel was forgotten...for the moment.
Afterward, Ray held me close. We’d been together a long time. We still fought.
We made up. We really enjoyed the making up – but I realized long ago that we
probably fought because we loved making up so much. If we went too long without
fighting, one of us found a reason to start an argument.
Thinking about what was going on in the world, all desire to fight with Ray left
me.
“What if he gets killed, Ray?”
“It is highly likely that he will if he goes now. He’s a child, but a child of
luxury. Not one used to the deprivations of war.”
Ray didn’t say it, he didn’t have to, I understood what he meant. Noel was like
I used to be. A pampered son of the upper class, he’d known ease most of his
life. If it had not been for Ray taking me in, my life would have been quite...harsh...after my family fortune had been lost and my mother put me up for
sale to the highest bidder. Wealthy men with...diverse...tastes in the bedroom
did not often care for the pretty toys they purchased.
Ray did. Once he and I came to an understanding about who was boss. We both
learned, but in the beginning, our bed was a battlefield. In Ray’s case, he’d
known far harsher battlefields, in the streets of Morocco, where he’d lived as a
street urchin, doing anything and everything to survive. Born to nobility, he’d
been orphaned very young, and had to make his own way, except for the protection
of an older boy, Azura, who’d given him protection. The skills Ray learned then
stood him in good stead in his life as his alter ego, Noir, master thief.
It was that part of his past that probably made Ray agree to our keeping Noel,
as the years went by and the “temporary” arrangement became more and more
permanent. Our odd household, Ray, me, Laila, with Solomon Sugar as the quirky
uncle, we became a family with the addition of Noel. He gave us a reason to
celebrate holidays, and to take vacations at the seaside.
Noel reminded us to have fun. Outside of sex, that is. He couldn’t go to war. He
was too damn young. I didn’t think he’d even had a chance to discover girls yet,
how could he be expected to kill men?
“You have to do something, Ray! If you forbid it....”
“If I tell him he cannot go, he will want to go more than ever. I met a clever
Englishman, oh, years ago, who had it right. He said that, ‘as soon as war is
looked upon as wicked, it will always have its fascination. When it is looked
upon as vulgar, it will cease to be popular.’”
“So this means it is hopeless?”
“No. It means that we must trick him.”
It was Noir who was speaking now.
“I’ll need to speak with Sugar. Call Laila, she’ll take a message to him. I
don’t trust anyone else.”
“Is it safe for her? The streets are chaos, all the people fleeing, afraid the
Germans are coming.”
Noir’s green eyes flashed. “The Germans are coming, Florian. They won’t get
through. But it won’t be for lack of trying. The will of the French people is
strong, and it is raised in defense of their capital. It is a good thing to
defend your homeland. If Noel were not still so young.....”
I felt a flash of fear...had Ray changed his mind? He smiled faintly at the look
of panic on my face.
“Don’t worry. I happen to agree with you. Noel may have his chance to play
soldier before this mess is over, but it isn’t now. With so many of his
friends running off to the front, it’s only natural that he wants to go too. He
sees war as glamorous. All we need to do is give him something to do that lets
him take part in that glamor – but hopefully won’t cost him an arm or a leg.”
“Is that not dishonest?”
“All warfare is based on deception.”
****************
Late in the evening of the same day; POV/ Ray Courland,
aka Noir
“Ah, Sun Tzu. ‘The Art of War.’ I never cease to be amazed by the variety of
your scholarship, my black cat.”
Sugar sat in my study, the real black feline that we’d picked up several years
ago in England, purring contentedly in his lap. He looked from the cat to me.
“This black cat has slowed down quite a bit in recent years, but that other
black cat. Not as much, I believe. Does Florian know?”
“Know what?” I stalled for time.
Sugar smiled.
“That you’ve been working as an intelligence officer for the French and British
armies. Running back and forth across enemy lines.”
“Florian is not to find out about that, Sugar. Understand?”
“Understood.”
“If something happens to me....”
“No need to say it.”
“I find that I must....if something happens to me, Solomon, I rely on you to
take care of all of them. Florian...he needs someone.”
“And Ray does not?” The blue eyes were watching me carefully. Sometimes I felt
like Solomon saw through all my defenses. Yet, it was all right. I leaned
forward. I was sitting on one of the chairs on his side of the desk instead of
my usual chair.
“I do what I need to do. Paris will survive. The world will come to the defense
of Paris. But Belgium...atrocities are taking place there. And the losses
already being felt. France will never recover even if Paris is saved as there is
no sense of reason on either side, Solomon. I may be in intelligence, but I feel
like it is an ironic title. There is no intelligence in war.”
“So, what are your plans for young Noel?”
“We let him think he is in military intelligence. I will arrange for dispatches
to be diverted to him...once they are safe and not too time sensitive...and he
can have the pleasure of being a cog in this great machine called war.”
“He would be quite angry if he found out.”
“No, because he will be doing a necessary job. And as this war drags on, as I
fear it will, his duties will become more necessary and less...contrived.”
“Then I suppose it will be my job to deceive Florian as to the true nature of
his work, whereas at this point, I am to help you deceive Noel.”
“Your quickness is always a delight to me, Solomon.”
****************
Setting: Paris; late 1918; POV/Solomon Sugar
We were a house in mourning. Noel had been so good in his role of fake courier
that it wasn’t long before Ray had started using him as a real courier – which he
had anticipated. What he hadn’t expected was that others would co-op Noel’s
services. Or maybe he had. At least, by the time that had happened, Noel was as
canny and clever as Noir could make the boy. Most importantly, Noir made the boy
feel brave and shrewd, fearless in the face of unimaginable horrors.
Noir was brave. The bravest man I knew. But even a black cat runs out of lives
eventually. No word had been received from Noir for several months, most of this
year in fact.
“It’s not fair!” Noel slammed the study door as he left. Laila got up to follow
him.
“I hope she doesn’t offer to feed him as consolation,” I said to Florian. He
smiled faintly. We had gathered to welcome Noel home from the war. His duties
over the last year had taken him far and wide but I’d always been able to keep
an eye on him through my contacts in the various war offices. I’d been working
as a war correspondent, not the safest of jobs either, but I had my own share of
cat-like luck. The welcome home party had been marred by the absence of Ray.
None of us had known how to soften that blow.
The war had aged all of us, but Florian most of all, I thought, though it was
typical that it was not in any way that showed on his face. He still had the
same fragile beauty that had bewitched Ray a dozen years earlier. And me. But
his lovely amethyst eyes looked as though they’d seen a thousand years of pain
in the past four. He’d tried to enlist, more than once, but his health made him
ineligible, even when the army was taking practically anyone. I believe Ray had
engaged in a bit of string pulling to ensure that the Duke de Rochefort did not
end up on the front line. There was many a socialist who would have been
thrilled to spill such noble blood – vicariously – by sending Florian to the
trenches.
Florian did his part by working in the hospitals, translating for the soldiers
who ended up there who were from other lands, Canada, Ireland, America,
Australia. And even a few from Russia, surprising me with his knowledge.
“Live with Ray long enough, you learn a great deal,” was all he’d said at the
time.
One of the things you learned was to wait. And to worry without going too crazy.
So for the first couple of months of 1918, we’d kept up our spirits, did our
parts for the war, and tried not to worry too much.
But as winter turned to spring, and then summer, and now autumn’s final leaves
were dropping to the ground, and still there was no word, we were beginning to
accept that this time, Noir wasn’t coming home. Laila became strident and harsh
in her grief, except to Florian. She finally treated him with the gentleness and
kindness that Ray would have wanted her to show toward his love. But Florian
lived in a world of his own pain. He went about his work, and he accepted
Laila’s small kindnesses with his gentle smile, he even talked over war news
with me. But his heart was somewhere with Ray – lost until his love came home.
“I fought with him too much. I always thought...I always thought we’d be able to
make up.” Florian looked at me and smiled, though it never reached his eyes.
“Ray loved to make up.”
“I suspected as much,” I told him dryly, though in truth, I was happy to have
him talking. “You’ll be sure to have a fight like no other when he drags his
sorry carc,” I quickly amended my word, “his self home. Don’t be too rough on
him though. I’ve heard that conditions are really very bad in....”
“Don’t Solomon.”
“What?”
“Just...don’t. I couldn’t bear it if you lied to me anymore. Don’t pretend to
believe there is still a chance Ray is alive if you don’t think it.”
Florian put his head into his hands and began to cry. I watched – helpless – as he
sobbed his heart out.
A hoarse voice spoke from the door. Neither of us had
heard it open.
“Is this what you consider comfort, Sugar?”
I whirled as Florian started to get up. He fell to his knees. He didn’t take the
time to get up, he just started crawling toward the door.
To Noir.
I stayed put in my chair but I couldn’t leave, nor could I take my eyes away
from their reunion.
Ray looked thin, painfully thin, and one arm was in a sling. But as he fell to
his knees and wrapped his good arm around Florian, I thanked God for bringing
our black cat safely home one more time. When the final count is made, I
suspected that it would show that France will have lost over ten percent of its
young male population. In the face of such catastrophic numbers, what was the
worth of one man, more or less?
Looking at Florian’s tears of joy as he clung to Ray, I knew the answer – more than
all the jewels that the infamous Noir had ever collected.
[Author’s note: Before its end, World War I claimed the lives of some 8 million
of the 60 million young men mobilized in Europe’s armies alone. Canada, the
United States, Australia – truly the entire world was drawn into this terrible
conflict. Along with the millions who died, many millions more were rendered
permanently disabled. Out of approximately 625,000 Canadians who served, about
60,000 were killed and another 173,000 were wounded. This war saw the first
widespread use of chemical warfare – mustard gas, a chemical whose effect was so
terrible it led to the widespread condemnation of such actions and helped
Woodrow Wilson win support for the League of Nations. No one wanted another
world war. As Gandhi said,
What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless,
whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism
or the holy name of liberty or democracy?
Edwin Starr put it even more succinctly in the song “War” (written by Norman
Whitfield and Barrett Strong):
"War, huh, yeah,
What is it good for?
Absolutely nothing."
It is past time that we find a better way. ]