1-I Didn't Know the Enemy Soldiers Were All Women Now
French shouts behind me. I run as fast as my constricting uniform allows, old leaves crackling under my boots with every step. Sweat streams from beneath my shako. Two miles to the rendezvous point — just clear the woods and crest one small hill.
I clear the woods.
Thundering hoofbeats, coming from the left. A French hussar. I try to reload — no good, my hands are shaking, the musket ball drops into the grass. Then he’s upon me.
His saber slashes and I duck, but the blade catches my shako and sends it flying. My long hair spills out. The hussar pulls up his horse.
“I didn’t know the enemy soldiers were all women now,” he says in French. “Suddenly I’m glad I joined the army.” Then he laughs at his own joke. Who does that?
The blow threw me forward and I use the momentum to keep running. The hussar laughs again, wheels his horse, and comes at a gallop. This time there’s nowhere to go. His horse rears and kicks me squarely in the back — I’m flung onto the grass, the wind driven completely out of me.
“That’s not the last time you’re going to feel an animal’s third leg on your ass.”
I heard every word. Face down in the grass, I think: this is absolutely the kind of anim— no. The kind of thug the tyrant sends to do his bidding. He belongs in prison. I hear him dismount. I try to push myself up and he kicks me between the shoulder blades, planting my face back into the earth.
He’s getting my hair dirty. I don’t know why that’s what I’m thinking about. The long brown hair my father loved, before the tyrant sent him to die in Russia.
Tears come to my eyes. The hussar grabs my arms, wrenches them behind my back, and ties them with something rough and itchy.
Wait. What?
My breath finally returns and I wheeze in French: “Kill me, you bastard.”
He laughs. “How can such a pretty girl be such a downer? Pun intended.”
He grabs me, hoists me onto his shoulder while I kick and bite, tosses me onto the front of his horse, and vaults onto the back in one motion — like something out of myth. The horse begins to trot.
“Unhand me! You cretin!”
“No.”
I sputter. “France’s finest, reduced to babysitting girls. What would your emperor say?”
He considers this with mock gravity. “He would say: ‘Good catch, soldier.’” He slaps my backside.
“I have rights as a lawful combatant and prisoner of war!”
“You’re a prisoner, certainly. But lawful combatant?” He lets that sit. “Do you know who you shot?”
“Some stooge of the tyrant, same as any other.”
“The general commanding my division. I think you know what happens if I deliver you to them.”
I do know. A military tribunal. Unlawful combatant. A hasty execution.
“See? Smart girl.”
“German liberty will flower in the blood of her martyrs. My life is a small price.”
He laughs again. “Liberty? Martyrs? Are you American? I didn’t think a European could say something so ridiculous.”
“Is everything a joke to you?”
“Lady, lighten up. Sun’s shining, birds are singing, I’m going to do you a favor.” He pauses. “Listen.”
We’ve left the infantry column far behind. He’s right — I can hear birds. What does that matter when the future of Germany is at stake?
“Here’s my plan. You change into women’s clothes before we reach camp. I tell them you’re a local woman, my lover. Simple.”
“No.”
He laughs. He does nothing but laugh. I want to punch him in the face.
“Too bad. Your mistake was thinking you had a choice.”
Soon we reach a small village — the inhabitants hiding or fled. A tailor’s shop, sign still hanging. He dismounts and I drop ungracefully to my feet. He holds the door open.
“After you, my lady.”
I glare at him and walk through with my hands still tied behind my back.
The shop is empty, the owner gone. Men’s clothes folded neatly on shelves to the left, women’s to the right, a hallway between them leading deeper into the building. He comes up behind me and slaps my backside.
“Shall we get started, my lady?”
I turn to glare at him and finally get a proper look.
He’s an Adonis. Long black hair braided in two locks beside his ears. A face chiseled by years of war and still somehow young. His mustache is immaculate, the ends twirled upward. Brown eyes that fix on me with a possessive intensity that makes me shiver despite myself — the corners of his mouth permanently upturned, as if he finds life itself faintly amusing. Broad shoulders, a Pelisse hanging from one, his Dolman carefully braided. He towers over me. I look down at my own uniform, filthy with grass and earth, and feel even smaller.
I look back up. There’s a visible bulge in his breeches. My face shrivels.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Louis Beaufort, 4th Regiment of Hussars.” A dramatic bow, a flourish. “May I ask my lady’s name?”
“Sigrid von Trechtingshausen. Lützow Free Corps.”
“Sigrid. A very German name.” He smiles. “A beautiful one.”
Heat floods my face and I turn away. “How can you say that? You’ve captured me. I’m not a whore to woo.”
“I was just telling the truth,” he says. “Now — shall we get started? I’ll need to help you undress.”
I spin back around. “You can’t — you called me a lady — ladies don’t—”
“Clearly you don’t know the soul of women very well, my lady. Perhaps as an outsider I’ll be able to see what you can’t.” He reaches to his waist and produces a knife.
That’s it then. He was only ever toying with me. I close my eyes and wait.
Instead I feel my uniform being cut away. I open them to find Louis sawing through the fabric with his infuriating smile, perfectly at ease.
“As my newest lover, you won’t be needing these anymore.”
“Wha — you can’t — stop—”
“Slow down. You wouldn’t want an accident.”
I go still and glare at him with everything I have. Louis snorts, almost laughing hard enough to cut me.
The knife finds the cloth binding my chest and saws through it. Everything I’ve been hiding spills free.
“Don’t look!”
He laughs. I turn my face away so I don’t have to see his expression — that smirk on his per— on his monstrous face. The jacket comes away, then the shirt, then the last of the binding. Then his hands move to my trousers.
The cold air finds everywhere at once.
I quickly try to hide my flower between my thighs, yet before I can he sees some of the nectar my flower secreted. My face turns utterly red. He laughs and says nothing.
I scowl and turn away from him.
“Now. If I undo your hands, do you promise not to run until we reach camp?”
I hesitate. Then, slowly, a smile finds its way onto my face. He can’t see it — I’m turned away from him.
“I promise, Louis.”
“Swear it in God’s name?”
“I swear. So help me God.”
He undoes the rope. I flex my aching arms behind me while he pulls the remnants of my uniform away.
Then I spin around and punch him in the face as hard as I can.
