For Your Eyes Only

Jean-Phillipe Moyenne

It’s been almost a week since you first heard the story about the ‘Restless Soldiers’. You were taking a few weeks off from compiling your findings – hey, everyone needs a holiday. But it’s strange how these things find you when you’re not looking for them. To be honest, things had been drying up a bit – and you still need something ‘big’. At least that’s what your publicist said. Something to make your published findings ‘walk off the shelf’. The advance given to you by the publishing company had almost run out. Still, there was enough for one last decent meal.

And that’s where you found him, in a small brasserie near Troyes. You thought it was strange, the way that the old man kept looking at you across the room, and just as you were finishing your garlic snails (delicious by the way – the chef must have made a special effort since you told him you were writing for a restaurant guide), he approached and sat down opposite you.

“I hear that you are writing a book…”

“That’s correct”, you reply

“On things that… should not be.”

“You must be mistaken Monsieur, I am writing a critique on the restaurants of the region.” You don’t want to blow your cover, especially as the chef has several large knives!

“Ah, I am sorry Monsieur, I must be thinking of someone else.”

He makes a move to get up and leave, but something has intrigued you. After all, it’s very rare that anyone approaches you with a story. Most of your travails have been rooted in a dusty library book, or an old journal.

“Nevertheless Monsieur, I would be interested to hear what you have to say. And I hear the dessert here is excellent” – you nod towards the chef. “Please join me.”

“Very well Monsieur - but I warn you, my tale is not for the faint hearted. My name is Henri LeMer, and during the war I served with the French 6^th Corps.”

“Weren’t they involved in the Battle of the Frontiers?” you interject.

“Yes. A terrible and bloody battle it was. I can still hear the sounds of the shelling and rifles in my head now, as if it were yesterday. But there is one thing that I remember that makes my blood run cold. Not the fighting, no. But something far worse – the work of the devil!”

The tension is broken by the chef, who brings a plate of sumptuous looking crepes suzette.

“Go on”, you say, anxious to hear what he has to say.

“We were fighting deep in the Ardennes forest. Suddenly, we were ambushed by a group of German soldiers. Before we knew it, they had gunned down half of my unit. Fortunately, myself and some of the others managed to find some cover behind a huge fallen tree, and were able to return fire. It was a long fire fight, but eventually, all went silent. I poked my head out from behind the log, and surveyed the scene. There were dead everywhere, both French and German. And then it happened…”

“What?” you ask - the hairs on the back of your neck standing up.

“The dead started to move.”

You look in the old man’s eyes. His gaze is transfixed, reliving events gone by. Normally, you would dismiss his tale out of hand, putting it down to a belly full of wine, or some over-ripe cheese. But the look of fear in his eyes is real. Could it be that these events actually happened?

“Please continue Monsieur”

“Well”, he continues “First of all, I just thought that it was the last traces of life leaving them. Quivering they were. Then I couldn’t believe my eyes, as one by one they started to get up. I told myself that I was just hallucinating – an after effect of the combat, some sort of mental trauma. But sure enough, the dead were walking.”

The hushed tones of his voice bring a shiver to your spine.

“Their eyes were so hollow. No life at all behind them. And they all staggered off in one direction. If I was a braver man, I would have thought to follow them – find out where they were going. But I have to say Monsieur, I was rooted to the spot, unable to move. And then they were gone.”

Now this definitely sounds like something ‘big’. You already have stories of pixies at the bottom of the garden and ghosts in the attic, but the dead rising again? This sounds perfect! You dig around in your bag, and find a map. “Can you tell me where you were at the time?”

The old man peers at the map, and brings his finger down on it “There.”

Hmmm, this could be difficult – the region he pointed to is still out of bounds after the war, the part of the country that is still contested by Germany. However, this is a chance too good to pass up. The roads may be monitored, but you can trek across country – it won’t take you more than a week.

You thank the old man and give him a few francs to pay for his meal. You only stop in town long enough to buy a few provisions, and then you head off.

You have been walking across country for a few days now. Your feet hurt and you have finished the food that you had. Your last meal consisted of some berries that you were able to find, but you are not so sure about those now – your head hurts and there is an ominous rumbling from your belly.

Ouch! You trip over a tree root – you are definitely not feeling so good. You rub your head and take a look around. The forest seems very still, very peaceful. Peaceful enough to grab 40 winks – maybe a bit of sleep is all you need to feel a bit better. You find a comfortable spot and drift off…

You are woken by the sounds of voices nearby. As you come to, you realise something – these voices are not French, they’re German! What are they doing here? You’re certain you haven’t reached Germany yet. Wherever you are, you can’t let them find you here. You can’t imagine what the consequences would be if they found you here, but it wouldn’t be good.

You duck down to avoid being seen. Fortunately, your hiding place affords you a view of your surroundings. You hear the voices again – this time closer, and two figures come into view – they’re German soldiers! Merde! You try to make yourself as small as possible. The sound of your heart beating in your ears makes it difficult to hear what’s being said, but you think that they are looking for someone – you just hope that it’s not you.

After what seems like an eternity, the voices fade into the distance, and you allow yourself to stand up and take a proper look around. All is quiet again, and suddenly it strikes you – your hiding place for the last half an hour has been a huge fallen tree! It couldn’t be the same one that the old man related in his story, could it? That would be a coincidence of huge proportions. One thing is for sure, you can’t stay here – the Germans may come back, and your hunting knife is no match for their rifles. You check that you have all of your belongings and make off in the opposite direction to the way the Germans went.

The forest starts to thin out a little, maybe you’re coming towards a stream. The anxiety of your close encounter has left your mouth parched and dry. You take a swig from your water can, draining the last drips from the almost empty container. If there is a stream, you can fill up with water again and decide what to do next.

After 5 more minutes of stumbling through the forest, you can make out a clearing up ahead. This must be it. But what is that? You walk a little closer, and you can make out what appears to be a small cottage up ahead. It looks deserted, but maybe there is food and water inside…

You hear a low hum above you. Sounds like an aircraft. Maybe the Germans are looking for you from the air. You decide to make a run for it. The cottage will provide cover as well as maybe provisions. You run full pelt towards the side of the cottage. Reaching the wall, you push yourself flat up towards it. You hear more voices – but this time they’re English. And they’re right around the other side of the cottage…