book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data is available
ISBN Trade paperback 978-1-64286-012-2
ISBN E-book 978-1-64286-031-3
First published as Meester Mitraillette in the Netherlands in 2014 by Atlas Contact
This project has been funded with support from the European Commission. This publication reflects the views only of the author, and the Commission cannot be held responsible for any use which may be made of the information contained herein.
The translation of this book is funded by the Flemish Literature Fund (Vlaams Fonds voor de Letteren - www.flemishliterature.be)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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For my father and mother †
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I LEAVE THIS downtrodden life a young man: strong in body, clear in mind. It is not what I want, but I haven’t been asked. They’ve tied me to a post. A few metres behind me is a beech tree, massive on the verge of bloom. Looking through the frost-covered branches, I see blue sky, a trail of cloud slicing across it unhindered. The ground is cold. I feel a sense of timelessness I’ve never experienced before, as the morning dew slowly seeping into the fabric of my trousers grows tepid. By noon, I’ll be as cold as the earth, as the frost on the branches of the beech. As the air.
I lose control of my bladder, staining myself with the comforting warmth of my own body. I shall undoubtedly be forgiven the disgrace.
Spring is near. The days are lengthening already. Soon, the sun will mercilessly smother winter. Then man and beast will bow down expectantly, and new life bloom: butterflies emerging from cocoons, buds bursting into blossom. They will mate fluttering over my soldier’s grave, the butterflies.
The men in front of me are tossing crumbs to the squabbling magpies and jackdaws. In the field lies the carcass of a cow, one of its legs pointing stiffly at the sun. Then I see him. Galloping straight toward me, he jerks at the reins just metres away from the men. The stallion rears up, forelegs flailing in the air, spraying flecks of froth around. Clods of earth fly from its hooves. A soldier rushes up, grabs the reins and calms the horse with loving strokes over its muzzle. The officer dismounts, nods at his freezing men and turns to look at me. He is my executioner. I hope he’s a good man. A righteous human being. Not a monument to a murderous war. Looking up at him hurts my neck.
‘Is there anything you want to say, David? A last confession, perhaps? I can arrange it for you,’ he says.
He’s nice. He knows my name. Two frost-blue eyes in a weary face. I could say that I don’t believe in life after death, that I’ve never yearned for a god who is dead and buried, that my father taught me faith is a weakness of mankind, and that a confession, to me, would make as little sense as it would bring me salvation. I could also say that, though I honestly tried to make something of life, my mother’s forgiveness is the only thing I want from it now. Looking at him, I know my words would touch him. His hair looks like a wilted dandelion. He would make an effort to listen to me, to understand, and perhaps make a few meaningful remarks. Will his face be the last thing I see as the bullets cut through the tissue of my heart? I don’t know his name.
Or should I close my eyes when the rifles are shouldered and the black barrels aimed at me? Look to the inside? At my little brother, crawling through the garden on his knees; at my parents, standing in the small, sunlit kitchen together? Or at the class I used to teach, the boys of Year Six? Marcus in front. They would undoubtedly come to my rescue. Brandishing their wooden sabres and bows. Their hands, which must have grown even larger and coarser by now, unfastening the ropes around my wrists, cutting the strands with the pocket knives they aren’t allowed to carry.
I’d better not think about the two loves of my life.
A command rings out. The soldiers take up position behind a line. Standing closer now. I look at each of them in turn. They are strangers. I turn my face to the side, pitying the soldiers of my platoon who are forced to watch from a distance, and shake my head at the officer, who is still bent over to talk to me, asking if there is anything he can do. Then he suddenly falls silent. He has understood. He realises that at this stage, words would be nothing but a hindrance.
Am I afraid? They’re about to kill me, after all. Aiming at the white ribbon pinned to my uniform, on the spot behind which my heart is hammering away. So loud, I hear it thudding in my throat, in my temples. The heartbeat of the life they want to take from me.
I’m not afraid. I did my best.
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WHEN THE TIME is ripe, the fledgling chicks clamber to the edge of their nest and jump. Occasionally, one ends up floundering in a puddle, others are plucked out of the air by a bird of prey before having felt the power of their wings. The majority, however, flap away into the distance, their tiny bird hearts driven by a primeval power. Just like I did, on the day I closed my parents’ front door behind me and soared to Ghent railway station like a young seagull, taming the turbulent wind beneath my feathers. Despite the suitcase I lugged with me, my feet hardly seemed to touch the ground as I walked to the station, heart pounding in my chest. I had taken my leap and no one around me had the faintest idea: the man in the three-piece suit crossing my path with his walking stick stared straight ahead, the costermonger didn’t even notice me walk by. Not even the railway official who pushed my train tickets over the counter toward me with stubby fingers knew I was flying the coop that day, to a corner of the country I’d never been before; though he might have recognized the hope in my eyes, the restlessness in my limbs.
I pulled myself up by the metal pole, gripping my suitcase tightly, and looked for a window seat. My destination was Ypres. From there, I would take the tram to Elverdinge. It was early in the morning; I expected to arrive shortly after noon. I’d never heard of the village of Elverdinge until that particular morning about a week ago, when Father uttered the name at the table. I did know a little about Ypres, the city of cats. In the Middle Ages, cats were thrown from the roof of the Cloth Hall for good luck.
The smoke of a cigar curled upward. I watched the plume of smoke as it dragged itself over the back of the seat like a ghost, drifting toward me. That morning, my father explained to me that the name of Elverdinge was a male first name, derived from the names Athal and Fritho by a list of phonetic laws (which he also recited to me). He had read up on it, had even discussed it with a professor. I was drowsy and hungry. Besides, I’d become used to his reeling off long lists of the most trivial facts. Ever since my little
