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They had to save it. They had to, amongst the rust, and the ruin, and the rain of man, they had to save one thing from this terrible war, from the hawks’-roost of their Command.
And so they dared.
A Scottish Lance Corporal nabbed it in the dark of night. A French Soldat took it further, and carried it back into their lines. His Sergent then brought it forth to their Lieutenant. Their Lieutenant, his heart heavy with the task ahead, affixed a vest and a letter to it, a letter that should have long been sent.
The letter and its carrier were then sent onwards, over the still-frozen ground rent and flayed by resumed and past shell-fire. Over duckboards and dead it went, the frost scarcely crumpled beneath it, so long and yet so short it went, a distance unsurpassable conquered in less than one hour. Near and far and lost and found it went, went right into the arms of an expectant German Obergefreiter. The attention Unteroffizier was alerted, and thus alerted up their line, brining it past old and near-forsaken pine and further towards its destination.
Late in the night, late into the moonrise, it was brought to their Oberleutnant, who held it with care and sorrow. He checked its contents, had their Chaplain bless it, and then sent it forth in the arms and coat of an awaiting, nerve-unsteady Sergeant.
And it was a walk, it was a trek, out towards their parcel’s end destination. Past further trench and wire, past dead wood and earth, past the shredded remains of homes now lost, past it all the Sergeant went, onto road and into town and what might tenuously be called civilization. There, among the wind-fallen ash, he hid from his brothers, the matter in his car far too grave to be trusted with even by his own.
He crept among shadows and melted into the silence of mourning homes. He slinked moonlight sliver to moonlight sliver. He made not a peep and made but a peek as he snuck further, and further still, almost to the end of the small town until last he fell upon a house, a house with blue window shutters.
For some time he remained where he was, crouched, trying to summon the courage for his task. He had gone up and over, into wire and guns, many times. He had been rocked by shell-fire, thrown to the ground and shaken many more. He had even held a brother together as he bled, limbs askew and gone by the time the stretcher-barriers had arrived.
His task before him brought him more fear for himself and his soul than all the past months combined. And yet he must dare.
He tiptoed up to the door, watching near and far for his brothers. When the dark and the quiet reassured his solitude, he steeled himself to his task and knocked.
The sound seemed unfathomably loud in the night, louder than a gunshot fired next to the ear. He flinched as it echoed through the cold night air. And yet nothing stirred, no brothers fell upon him to call his treason. There was no response of the world at all, all besides the footsteps of a church mouse and the creak of an opening door.
He nearly fled at the sight, and the recipient of his mission nearly at the sight of him. She was a small, older woman, French and alone. She looked at him with wide eyes, frozen at the sight of Bosch at her door in the middle of the night. In truth, at hat moment it was likely in the earliest of morning, but that matter end not as she moved to slam the door in his face.
He caught it by and in hand, narrowly avoiding swearing, and had to half-wedge himself in the door to keep it open. The French woman was beyond terrified now, weeping openly as he tried to close her door. He couldn’t let that happen, nor could he fail, and so he did the one thing he could to save here situation.
He reached into his coat and pulled Felix from it, bundled and warm with his correspondence intact, and held him out to her.
“La mère de Ponchel? Pour toi.”
Terror melted into confusion, and then further into hope. He did nothing, he made no action, he said nothing further. He just held out Felix for her to take.
She took him with tentative care, also marveling at his relatively clean fur and his tiny vest. It was then she noticed and retrieved the letter.
Her tears returned unabated by the time she happened upon the French Oberleutnant’s addition.
He grimaced at the remembrance of the singular shot, how those bloodthirsty English would kill even their own allies if given the chance. But that was, and would be, of no help now, so he said all he could.
“Désole.”
She nodded tearfully, cradling Felix like her now-lost son. It was then the cat remembered his duties and took to purring, rubbing his little face into hers. His work proved well and her tears ceased.
She regarded how with amazement and sorrow in equal measure, either by providence or past paper knowing he was no ordinary cat. She asked the words for his name.
He pointed to his coat and tunic. “Felix.” He pointed to a fabric work of blue, white, and red. “Nestor.”
She nodded, then held Felix closer to her chest and thanked him.
He nodded turned on his heels and left.
The dawn would soon be coming and it would be for the best to leave the small expert to his task. But he time he had returned, so had the shell-fire.
It was cold, and it would be colder still when their replacements came and they were forced to fight the Tsar’s men in the East. But even then, even with their kindness and mercy thrown flaming back into their faces, they knew it all hadn’t been for nought. Even without their little messenger, they all knew -Scottish, French, German- that they had done something greater than this war would ever be. They dared, and even though they failed, they still brought a mother’s son home.