Mole in the mud L u c a s D u r a n D Mole in the Mud The French trenches were, even in the still hours before dawn, alive with the cease- less murmurs of a beleaguered army. Lucas Durand Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com 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 permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Mole in the mud Mole in the mud Lucas Durand Lucas Durand An Ovi eBooks Publication 2024 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Mole in the mud T he French trenches were , even in the still hours before dawn, alive with the ceaseless murmurs of a beleaguered army. Through the damp, cloying air of early spring, the faint echoes of distant artillery lingered like the rumblings of a restless giant. Lantern light flickered upon the mud- streaked faces of soldiers clustered in weary compan- ionship, their voices subdued, as if mindful that even conversation could attract calamity. Among them, Sgt. Lucien Moreau, in truth, the German spy Kurt Steiner, moved with deliberate ease. He carried himself with the calm authority of a man who understood the intricate dance of survival in the trenches, offering gruff words of encouragement and casting a sharp eye over the men’s positions. It was an artful performance, honed to perfection, and it en- sured that few questioned his presence or authority. Lucas Durand “Moreau,” came a plaintive voice from the corner of the trench, “the men in Sector B report low rations again. We’ll have to improvise tonight.” It was Corporal Henri Delacroix, his thin frame perched precariously against the trench wall. Mud streaked his cheek, and his pale eyes darted toward Steiner with the uncertainty of a man nursing private doubts. “I’ll see to it,” Steiner replied, his tone clipped but steady. His gaze lingered on Delacroix for the barest fraction of a moment longer than necessary. The corporal flinched, masking his unease with a quick nod, and retreated into the shadows. Steiner turned away, his fingers brushing against the small, metallic signalling device concealed within his jack- et. He knew he had to act swiftly; suspicion was the enemy of all men who walked in lies. Beneath the cover of moonlight and mist, Stein- er descended into an abandoned communications dugout, a forgotten corner of the trenches where the shrapnel-ravaged walls whispered of death and de- cay. He worked with practiced precision, assembling his device and transmitting a sequence of flickering lights toward the horizon, each pulse of brightness Mole in the mud carrying invaluable intelligence on artillery positions and troop movements to German forces. But this time, fate did not offer him her favour unconditionally. From the edge of the dugout, there came the unmistakable crunch of boots on brittle wood. Steiner froze. “Moreau? Are you in there?” It was Delacroix. His voice, though hoarse and un- certain, carried the weight of suspicion. Steiner stepped forward, his movements slow and measured, like a hunter wary of startling prey. “Yes, Corporal,” he said lightly, forcing warmth into his voice. “I thought I might inspect the condition of this post. The walls are crumbling, dangerous for anyone venturing inside.” Delacroix squinted through the dim light, his gaze flickering toward Steiner’s hand. The faint glow of the signalling device, hastily concealed, reflected briefly against the fabric of his coat. “You have a flashlight?” Delacroix asked, his tone deceptively casual. “I thought you hated carrying those.” Lucas Durand Steiner smiled thinly, slipping the device further into his pocket. “Necessity changes minds, Corporal. You’d do well to remember that.” Delacroix gave a curt nod but said nothing more, stepping back into the trench’s labyrinthine dark- ness. Steiner exhaled softly, a predator assessing the narrow escape of a moment before the kill. Yet, as he resumed his work, a seed of unease had been planted. Delacroix, lying awake later in the safety of his cot, whispered to his companion, Pri- vate Jules Bernier, a cautious man with a penchant for silence. “Jules,” Delacroix murmured, his voice trembling, “I think Moreau isn’t who he claims to be.” Bernier’s brow furrowed, though he did not look up from the rifle he was cleaning. “You’re imagining things. War makes men see ghosts where there are none.” “I know what I saw,” Delacroix insisted, gripping the edge of his blanket. “He was signalling. To whom, I cannot say, but I know it wasn’t for our benefit.” Bernier regarded him coolly. “You’d accuse a man like Moreau of treachery? Be certain, Henri. In these trenches, rumours are as deadly as bullets.” Mole in the mud The prologue ends as Delacroix closes his eyes, the image of Steiner’s calm, calculating smile haunting him. Unseen by the others, Steiner, now sleepless, watches the trench from his shadowed post, already plotting his next move to stay one step ahead of the suspicion taking root in their ranks. Lucas Durand I. The trenches were a labyrinth of mud, misery, and menacing whispers. The spring rains had turned the ground into a treacherous mire, but it did little to de- ter the relentless business of war. Among the cacoph- ony of shouted orders and clanging tools, Sgt. Lucien Moreau strode purposefully, his boots squelching in the muck. His face was a mask of resolve, but behind his sharp blue eyes was a constant calculation: every step, every word, every interaction weighed and measured for potential risk. He passed a group of soldiers huddled around a fire, their laughter forced and brittle. Steiner offered a curt nod, his expression one of stern approval, be- fore moving on. His objective lay ahead, a section of the trench overlooking a valley. If his intelligence was correct, the French artillery reserves were hid- den there. The German assault depended on Stein- er’s confirmation, and his handler’s words rang omi- nously in his ears: Failure is not an option. Mole in the mud “Lieutenant Renaud,” Corporal Delacroix began hesitantly, standing at rigid attention outside the of- ficer’s dugout. His voice carried the uneasy cadence of a man uncertain of how to frame his thoughts without seeming mad. “May I speak freely?” Lieutenant Pierre Renaud looked up from his field map, his face lined with exhaustion. The oil lamp above him cast flickering shadows across the damp earthen walls. He waved a hand dismissively. “Speak, Delacroix, but make it quick. I’ve no time for trivial- ities tonight.” “It’s about Sergeant Moreau, sir,” Delacroix said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “I believe he may not be who he claims to be.” Renaud arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Not who he claims to be? A bold accusation, Corporal. On what basis?” Delacroix hesitated, his hands fidgeting with his cap. “He was in the abandoned communications dugout earlier. I saw him signalling, flashes of light, like Morse code. He said it was a flashlight, but I...” Renaud cut him off with a weary sigh. “Delac- roix, this war has turned all of us into shadows of Lucas Durand ourselves. We’re paranoid, twitching at every sound. Moreau is a trusted man, a veteran. Do you think the Germans planted a spy in our trenches? Ludicrous.” “But, sir...” “Enough,” Renaud snapped, his tone hardening. “Focus on your duties. Leave the suspicions to the intelligence officers.” Delacroix stiffened, saluted, and left, his face dark with frustration. As he walked back toward his post, he muttered under his breath, “I’ll prove it. I’ll show them what I saw.” Later that evening, Steiner approached Captain Armand Vallier’s command post with measured confidence. Vallier, a shrewd and sceptical officer, had summoned him for a “routine review” of trench logistics, a thinly veiled interrogation. “Sergeant Moreau,” Vallier greeted, his sharp eyes studying Steiner like a hawk. “Sit.” Steiner complied, his face unreadable. “What can I do for you, Captain?” “I’ve been reviewing the reports from your sec- tion,” Vallier began, his tone casual but probing. “Re- Mole in the mud markable detail. Your estimates on enemy artillery movements are precise, too precise, perhaps.” “I observe carefully,” Steiner replied smoothly. “War rewards vigilance.” “Indeed.” Vallier leaned forward, his elbows resting on the wooden table. “But vigilance can sometimes border on clairvoyance. Tell me, Sergeant, where were you before joining this regiment?” Steiner’s mind raced, though his face betrayed no sign of hesitation. “Transferred from the 22nd Infan- try near Verdun. I was reassigned here after the shell- ing last winter decimated our lines.” “And your commanding officer’s name?” “Colonel Bisset,” Steiner replied, his tone even. He locked eyes with Vallier, willing himself to appear in- sulted by the implication. Vallier leaned back, stroking his chin. “Strange. I don’t recall a Colonel Bisset listed in the latest staff directory.” Steiner’s jaw tightened, a deliberate move to pro- ject offense. “Forgive me, Captain, but is this an in- terrogation or an attempt to undermine morale? If Lucas Durand my loyalty is in question, I suggest you take it up with Lieutenant Renaud. I have nothing to hide.” The boldness of the reply caught Vallier off guard. He waved a hand dismissively. “Enough, Sergeant. You’re dismissed.” Steiner stood, saluted crisply, and exited, his com- posure intact. But as he walked away, Vallier’s voice reached him. “Sergeant, one last thing, what is your opinion on the German strategy in this sector?” Steiner paused, glancing over his shoulder. “They’re predictable. Arrogant. That will be their undoing.” With that, he disappeared into the trench’s winding pathways, his heart pounding. Vallier was no fool, and Steiner knew he had narrowly escaped exposure. The captain’s doubts might not be voiced openly, but they would linger. Delacroix had spent the evening discreetly shad- owing Steiner, his suspicions hardened into resolve. From his concealed position near the eastern trench, he watched as Steiner once again descended into the abandoned dugout. This time, Delacroix was ready. He crept closer, his breath shallow, his rifle slung over his shoulder. From the faint gap between the Mole in the mud planks, he saw Steiner crouched over a small device, its blinking light a clear signal. Delacroix’s heart raced. He pulled back, weighing his options. He couldn’t confront Steiner alone, if the man truly was a spy, he would be dangerous. In- stead, Delacroix turned and ran, his boots splashing through the mud as he headed for Vallier’s post. Inside the dugout, Steiner completed his transmis- sion and dismantled the device with practiced effi- ciency. He knew the walls were closing in. Delacroix had followed him once, and the man’s distrust would not vanish easily. Steiner would have to act decisive- ly, silencing the corporal before the morning brought him new enemies. As he stepped out into the night, the distant rum- ble of artillery signalled the coming storm. Steiner pulled his coat tighter and melted into the shadows, a ghost among the living. Lucas Durand II. The night was thick with tension, the low rumble of distant artillery punctuated by the occasional crack of a sniper’s shot. In the trench’s labyrinthine depths, Corporal Delacroix’s boots sloshed through mud as he trailed Sergeant Moreau. A cold resolve burned in Delacroix’s chest, even as his mind grappled with doubt. Could he truly be risking his life to expose a traitor? Or was paranoia twisting his perception? Moreau moved with practiced ease, his silhouette barely discernible in the dim light of flickering oil lamps. He ducked into an alcove in a rarely patrolled section of the trenches, his movements deliberate. Delacroix crouched behind a splintered barricade, his breath misting in the cool air. Mole in the mud Through a gap in the wooden planks, Delacroix caught sight of Moreau unfolding a map. He watched as the sergeant made subtle marks with a pencil, pausing now and then to glance around. A flick of his wrist sent a scrap of paper disappearing into his pocket, a French communiqué. Delacroix’s hands clenched into fists. Got you, you bastard. When Moreau climbed out of the trench under the pretext of retrieving supplies, Delacroix seized his chance. He hurried through the trenches toward Lieutenant Renaud’s dugout, his pulse hammering in his ears. Renaud, bent over a map, looked up as Delacroix burst in. “Corporal, I trust this interruption is worth the ag- gravation.” “It is, sir,” Delacroix said, saluting sharply. “I’ve seen Sergeant Moreau, he’s been marking maps, stealing communiqués. He left the trench just now. Sir, I’m certain he’s signalling the enemy.” Renaud leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Delac- roix, I told you before, these accusations could cost a man his life. Do you have proof?” Lucas Durand “Not yet,” Delacroix admitted, his voice rising. “But if we wait, he’ll slip through our fingers. Sir, he’s care- ful ...too careful but I swear he’s hiding something.” Renaud studied him for a long moment, then stood, his expression unreadable. “Very well. If what you say is true, we cannot risk panic among the men. We’ll investigate quietly. But if you’re wrong, Cor- poral, the consequences will fall squarely on your shoulders. Understood?” “Yes, sir.” Moreau returned to the trench with a small crate of supplies, his face a mask of calm. But inwardly, his nerves were frayed. He had noticed Delacroix trail- ing him earlier, the man’s clumsy attempts at stealth impossible to miss. Moreau knew he was being watched, and the noose was tightening. At roll call that evening, Moreau’s paranoia nearly betrayed him. “22nd Infantry, Verdun,” Lieutenant Renaud called, reading from the roster. “Sergeant Moreau, what was your commanding officer’s name there?” The question was casual, but Renaud’s eyes gleamed with suspicion. Moreau’s mind raced. He had given a false name earlier but couldn’t recall it. Mole in the mud “Colonel... Bernard,” he said, the hesitation slight but noticeable. Renaud’s lips thinned. “Colonel Bernard? Strange, I don’t recall hearing of him.” “He was reassigned shortly before I transferred here,” Moreau replied smoothly, recovering. “A fine officer, though his health was failing.” Renaud nodded, letting the matter drop, but the doubt lingered like a fog over the group. Late that night, Delacroix, still watching Moreau from the shadows, saw him disappear into a storage dugout. Creeping closer, Delacroix positioned him- self to peek through a crack in the door. Inside, Moreau crouched over a small device, a transmitter. The dim light illuminated his intense ex- pression as he adjusted dials and tapped out a coded message. Delacroix’s heart thundered in his chest. He pulled back, debating whether to burst in or run for help. Just as he decided to confront the sergeant, the door creaked open, and Moreau stepped out, holding the device in plain view. Lucas Durand “Corporal,” Moreau said, his tone sharp as he spot- ted Delacroix. “What are you doing skulking about?” “I might ask you the same, Sergeant,” Delacroix shot back, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “What’s that in your hands?” “This?” Moreau held up the transmitter, his expres- sion unreadable. “A German artefact. I recovered it from the field earlier. Thought it might be of interest to intelligence.” Delacroix’s eyes narrowed. “An artefact? Conven- ient.” Moreau’s smile was tight. “If you doubt me, Cor- poral, you’re welcome to bring it to the lieutenant yourself. But I’d advise against making baseless accu- sations without evidence. This war has enough chaos without soldiers turning on each other.” Delacroix stared him down, his hands itching to grab the transmitter. But Moreau’s calm confidence gave him pause. He knew he needed irrefutable proof. “You’re right,” Delacroix said finally. “This war doesn’t need chaos. But it does need vigilance.” As Moreau walked away, Delacroix’s resolve hard-