Charleville-Mézières, France – February 1944

  The streets of Charleville-Mézières were damp with the remnants of last night’s rain, the cobblestones slick underfoot as Emmett, Henri, and Luc shuffled along with the slow-moving stream of exhausted workers. The sky was still gray, the air thick with the scent of coal smoke and stale bread. Factory bells had rung not long ago, signaling the end of a shift, and the three men had merged seamlessly into the mass of tired laborers trudging home.

  Emmett rolled his aching shoulders, adjusting the frayed scarf around his neck. His clothes, purposefully grimy, carried the distinct stench of oil and sweat. Luc had made sure they all smelled the part before heading out. Their forged permits were tucked securely in their coat pockets, creased and worn just enough to appear well-used.

  Henri walked beside him, hands deep in his pockets, humming softly under his breath as they passed a bakery. He turned to Emmett with an easy grin, eyes alight with amusement.

  "You look the part, mon ami," he said in French, his tone teasing. "All you need now is to grumble about wages and complain about the factory boss."

  Emmett grunted, pulling his cap lower over his brow. "I grumble plenty."

  "Ah, but not in French." Henri’s grin widened. "Your accent… how do I put this delicately? It makes me want to strangle you."

  Emmett shot them both a glare. "I sound fine."

  Henri smirked and exchanged a look with the third man in their group, Luc. “Oui, you get by the way a goat gets by trying to do arithmetic.”

  Luc snorted but kept his head down, adjusting the cap on his head. He spoke in a quiet mutter, mindful of passing German troops. “It’s good enough. If someone asks, we tell them he’s from Alsace. Grew up around too many Germans, so his French is bad.”

  Henri rolled his eyes. “This is the best we could come up with?”

  Emmett muttered darkly, “Could’ve gone with the mute excuse.”

  Henri scoffed. “Then you’d be the worst kind of factory worker. One who can’t even swear properly.”

  They turned a corner, the church spire rising ahead of them, but before they reached the square, the tension in the air shifted. A sharp voice barked in German.

  Emmett’s stomach knotted.

  Ahead, near the steps of an administrative building, two Gestapo officers wrestled a man to the ground. His coat was torn, his hat knocked aside, revealing thinning brown hair. He was shouting, insisting on his innocence, his accent marking him as a local.

  "You are making a mistake!" the man stammered in French, his voice shaking. "I have done nothing… please, my papers… "

  A black-gloved hand struck him hard across the face. He crumpled, gasping.

  Emmett kept his eyes ahead, breathing evenly, his gaze locked on a point just past the scene. He’d seen worse. Hell, he’d done worse. He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t turn his head.

  Henri’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent. Luc, however, couldn’t help himself. He slowed, staring, his brow furrowing.

  "Luc," Emmett muttered under his breath.

  Luc didn’t move.

  Emmett clenched his teeth. "Walk, damn you."

  Luc inhaled sharply and tore his gaze away, quickening his pace. “Merde…” He swallowed hard, his jaw tight as he turned his focus back to the street ahead.

  The Gestapo officer’s voice echoed as they moved the poor man into the back of a waiting vehicle. "You should have been more careful, Monsieur Giraud."

  The Gestapo officers exchanged a few words, one of them lighting a cigarette before they climbed into the car. The engine revved, tires splashing through the street as it pulled away. The few workers who had paused to watch quickly resumed their paths, heads down, shoulders hunched against the weight of occupation.

  Henri exhaled slowly, rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “That one’s not coming back.”

  Emmett didn’t answer.

  The church was just ahead, its stone bell tower standing quiet against the afternoon sky. They quickened their pace, not wanting to linger in the shadow of the Gestapo’s work.

  As they neared the side entrance, Emmett adjusted his coat, shaking off the lingering tension from the street. Luc cast one last glance over his shoulder, ensuring they hadn’t been followed.

  Henri finally placed the cigarette between his lips. “Come, mon ami. Let us pray that your terrible French does not get us killed today.”

  Emmett huffed a dry, humorless chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be just our luck.”

  Luc kept glancing back, his eyes still fixed on the spot where the Gestapo had dragged the poor bastard off. His fingers clenched and unclenched at his side, jaw tight with frustration.

  Henri exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Luc, mon ami, I suggest you take a walk. Maybe enjoy the lovely air of occupied France while you still can.”

  Luc snapped his head around, irritation flashing in his eyes. “And do what, Henri? Stand out here with my thumb up my ass?”

  Emmett, arms crossed, jerked his head toward the tree near the courtyard. “I dunno. Look fucking casual. keep a lookout. And don’t stare at the Gestapo like you want to take a swing at ‘em.”

  Luc huffed but obeyed, stalking toward the tree. He pulled a small Bible from his coat pocket, slumped down against the trunk, and flipped it open with a muttered curse.

  Henri smirked. “See? Problem solved.”

  Emmett motioned to the church doors. “Let’s go find this priest. What’s his name again?”

  Henri was about to answer, but the moment they stepped inside, all thought of that priest vanished.

  The pews were filled with Wehrmacht soldiers.

  Both men froze mid-step, blood running cold. The murmur of German voices swelled in the high-vaulted chamber, mingling with the scent of incense and old wood.

  They had walked straight into a German service.

  Emmett’s breath hitched. He was already imagining the hail of gunfire.

  Henri, to his credit, recovered first, flashing a sheepish, disarming grin.

  “Henri,” Emmett muttered, his voice tight.

  Henri’s hands remained open at his sides, a universal gesture of harmlessness. “Don’t panic.”

  “I’m not panicking. I’m considering my odds if I dive through that stained-glass window.”

  Henri, took a half-step back toward the exit. Emmett followed suit, instinctively shifting his weight to retreat. They hadn’t even taken a full step when a voice called out.

  “Messieurs, can I help you?” A Wehrmacht officer had spotted them.

  The man strode toward them with a calm, almost welcoming expression, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. He was middle-aged, with sharply combed blond hair and intelligent, pale blue eyes. His gray uniform was immaculate, the insignia on his collar marking him as an Oberleutnant. A lieutenant.

  Henri turned, hands up in an exaggerated, friendly display. “Ah, pardonnez-nous, monsieur.” He slipped into perfect charm, his voice smooth. “We missed the earlier service and thought to come for confession. We did not realize there was a separate service.”

  The officer’s face softened with understanding. “Ah, oui. We arranged with the local parish to hold mass for our soldiers separately.”

  Henri acted like that was brand new information. “Ah, of course! That explains it. Again, we apologize. We didn’t mean to intrude. We can return later.”

  Emmett clenched his jaw. Damn, this Kraut speaks better French than Henri.

  The officer chuckled lightly, waving away the concern. “Nonsense! Please, sit with us. It would be an honor.”

  Emmett internally cursed every saint in the book.

  Henri’s smile didn’t falter for even a second. “Monsieur, we would not wish to intrude.”

  The officer waved off the concern. “Not at all. Please, join me.”

  Henri had no choice but to accept.

  With a graceful nod, he clasped the officer’s outstretched hand in a firm shake. “You are too kind, monsieur.” He then smoothly slid into the pew.

  Emmett had no option but to follow. He forced his legs to move, stepping carefully as if the floor might give way beneath him. He lowered himself onto the wooden seat beside Henri, his jaw clenched so tightly it could crack stone.

  The officer sat beside Henri, adjusting his coat with casual ease before offering his hand across Henri’s lap to Emmett.

  Emmett grasped it briefly, careful to keep his grip firm but not aggressive. The officer smiled warmly. “Oberleutnant Klaus Fischer.”

  Henri nodded, smoothly offering a fake name. “Jean Moreau. A pleasure, Herr Oberleutnant.”

  Fischer turned back to Emmett, expecting an introduction.

  Before Emmett could open his mouth, Henri interjected with a sorrowful shake of his head. “Pardon, monsieur.” He gestured to Emmett’s mouth. “My poor friend has been quite miserable today. He bit his tongue severely at the factory earlier. This is Monsieur Claude Lefèvre.” Henri said patting Emmett shoulder.

  Fischer raised his brows, interested.

  Henri pressed on, voice filled with false sympathy. “Tripped while chewing a particularly tough piece of bread. You know how it is.”

  Fischer let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Ah, yes. Tongue injuries are quite difficult. I have a cousin who nearly bit his tongue off, during a skiing accident in Switzerland. Poor man spoke as if he had marbles in his mouth for weeks.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Henri made a show of wincing sympathetically. “Terrible. Truly terrible.” He patted Emmett’s shoulder. “My friend truly understands, but speaking is quite painful for him.”

  Fischer turned to Emmett with a look of honest sympathy. “Ach, how unfortunate!” He inclined his head in greeting. “Welcome, monsieur.”

  Emmett nodded stiffly, offering a forced, grateful expression.

  Inside, he was sighing in relief.

  I owe you a drink, Henri. Emmett thought

  Henri leaned in slightly, his breath warm against Emmett’s ear as he murmured, “Bite your tongue, mon ami.”

  Emmett turned his head slightly, shooting Henri an incredulous glare.

  Henri simply gave him an expectant look before facing forward, folding his hands in reverence.

  Emmett let out a slow, careful breath through his nose. He thought on it for a moment.

  They were in the lion’s den. Surrounded by men who would shoot them both without hesitation if anything seemed amiss. Nothing could give them away. And they’d be damned if it was over a tongue.

  Emmett closed his eyes. Tucked his tongue between his teeth, and bit down.

  Hard.

  Pain exploded through his mouth, sharp and immediate. His whole body tensed, his fists gripping the pew. He stifled the urge to curse, but a pained groan still escaped his throat.

  Both Henri and Fischer turned to look at him.

  Henri, playing his part, gave him a concerned pat on the back. “Are you alright, mon ami?”

  Emmett nodded stiffly, his entire jaw aching. When he finally spoke, his French was now truly garbled.

  “My tongue ‘urts,” he mumbled, sounding half-drunk.

  Henri nodded solemnly, patting Emmett’s back in sympathy.

  Fischer sighed, looking genuinely sorry for him. “You have my sympathies, monsieur. That must be quite painful.”

  Emmett forced himself to nod again, his tongue throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He didn’t need a mirror to know his tongue was probably already swelling. Henri was barely suppressing his grin. Emmett clenched his fists.

  Fuck, this is the dumbest situation we have ever gotten ourselves into.

  The service began with solemnity, the echoing voice of the priest resonating clearly throughout the ornate church. Henri, calm and collected, confidently recited responses in unison with the assembled soldiers. Beside him, Emmett was struggling, painfully aware that he had never attended a Catholic service in his life. His Baptist upbringing had him utterly lost in a maze of unfamiliar rites and responses. Every murmur of "Amen" or crossing of oneself felt foreign and strange.

  He shot discreet glances toward Henri, trying desperately to mimic his friend’s movements without drawing attention. Each movement of his jaw sent sharp jolts of pain through his bitten tongue, a throbbing reminder of his impulsive decision. Henri noticed his slight hesitation and subtly slowed his movements, ensuring Emmett could keep pace.

  Oberleutnant Fischer, seated beside Henri, seemed fully engrossed in the sermon, nodding solemnly and occasionally whispering along with the liturgy. Thankfully, his attention was so fixed on the service that Emmett’s fumbling imitations went unnoticed.

  Emmett silently cursed himself again, inwardly groaning. How the hell do Catholics remember all of this?

  Just as Emmett finally found a rhythm in copying Henri’s movements, albeit clumsily. The heavy wooden doors at the back of the church creaked open, spilling harsh daylight into the dimly lit interior. Footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floor, and Emmett felt his muscles tense instinctively.

  A Gestapo officer had entered, his dark uniform immaculate and eyes sharp and probing. His gaze immediately settled on Henri and Emmett, narrowing suspiciously. The man strode confidently down the aisle and slid into the pew next to Fischer, greeting him quietly in German.

  Emmett strained his ears discreetly, easily picking up their hushed exchange.

  “Guten Morgen, Oberleutnant Fischer,” the Gestapo officer murmured, his German smooth but edged with suspicion. “Who might these two gentlemen be? I don’t recall seeing them before.”

  Fischer turned with a warm but respectful smile, clearly unfazed by the Gestapo’s presence. “Guten Morgen, Obersturmführer Keller. These two gentlemen joined us for the service after missing the local one earlier. They’re factory workers. Monsieur Jean Moreau here,” Fischer indicated Henri, who nodded politely, “and Monsieur Claude Lefèvre,” he gestured to Emmett, who forced a small smile but remained silent.

  Fischer leaned slightly closer to Keller, speaking in a lower tone, though still loud enough for Emmett to catch. “Poor Monsieur Lefèvre had quite a painful accident earlier today. Bit his tongue severely, I'm afraid. Has hardly spoken since.”

  “Ach, painful indeed,” Keller acknowledged, his gaze shifting from Fischer to Emmett with interest. “I hope you recover quickly, Monsieur Lefèvre.” He said, switching to crisp French.

  Henri interjected politely in, his demeanor composed, masking any tension. “We greatly appreciate your concern, Obersturmführer Keller. Monsieur Lefèvre is managing quite bravely, all things considered.”

  Keller’s eyes narrowed slightly, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a thin smile. “How very… admirable.”

  He turned, offering a firm handshake to Henri, who accepted it graciously, maintaining unwavering eye contact. “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Moreau,” Keller said cordially, his German accent softening the French name.

  “Likewise, Obersturmführer,” Henri replied smoothly.

  Keller then extended his hand toward Emmett. Forcing down a wave of anxiety, Emmett shook it firmly, nodding silently. The Gestapo officer’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Emmett’s face, a flicker of curiosity behind his gaze, before he turned back to Fischer.

  The service continued, but Emmett’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the priest’s words. His tongue pulsed painfully, reminding him with each throb of the absurdity of their situation. This keeps getting better and better, he thought bitterly, eyes fixed straight ahead.

  Beside him, Henri sat as though he attended Wehrmacht church services every Sunday, quietly murmuring responses and offering subtle smiles whenever Fischer glanced his way.

  Emmett silently counted down the minutes until they could make their escape, praying he wouldn’t need to open his mouth again before then. Each passing second stretched painfully, and his mind raced, frantically devising explanations, contingencies, and escape routes should Keller’s suspicion deepen.

  God help me, Emmett thought grimly.

  Emmett continued to struggle silently through the remainder of the Mass, attempting to mimic Henri’s fluid motions as smoothly as possible.

  At one point, Oberleutnant Fischer gave Emmett a curious glance, prompting Henri to lean over discreetly.

  “Forgive my friend,” Henri whispered apologetically, his voice low and earnest. “Monsieur Lefèvre here is, ah. How shall I say… a bit of a heathen. After his wife passed away, he's found little comfort in life. I've convinced him that perhaps Mass could offer some peace."

  Fischer’s expression softened immediately. “Ah, I see,” he whispered sympathetically, casting Emmett a kind, understanding look. “My deepest condolences, Monsieur Lefèvre.”

  Emmett, playing along, managed a solemn nod of gratitude, eyes downcast, grateful for Henri’s smooth improvisation. Obersturmführer Keller, sitting beside Fischer, quietly added his own sympathies, leaving Emmett feeling like a complete fraud. His tongue throbbed insistently, a sharp reminder of the absurdity of the entire situation.

  Eventually, the Mass drew to its conclusion. The congregation rose, the final blessings were bestowed, and the priest’s dismissal echoed through the stone walls. As the Wehrmacht soldiers began filing neatly out of the church, Henri stood, shaking hands warmly with Oberleutnant Fischer.

  “Merci beaucoup, Oberleutnant Fischer,” Henri said sincerely, his charm unwavering. “Thank you again for allowing us to attend. It truly means a great deal to us.”

  Fischer smiled warmly. “It was a pleasure, Monsieur Moreau. Perhaps we shall see each other again soon.”

  Henri turned politely to Keller. “And good to meet you as well, Obersturmführer Keller.”

  Keller shook Henri’s hand firmly, nodding in return. “Likewise, Monsieur Moreau.”

  Turning to Emmett, Fischer extended his hand again. Emmett clasped it briefly, offering another respectful nod.

  “I hope your tongue heals quickly, Monsieur Lefèvre,” Fischer said kindly in French.

  Emmett managed a muffled, garbled “Merci,” causing Henri to quickly intervene with a reassuring laugh.

  “Don’t worry, gentlemen,” Henri said lightly, placing a hand on Emmett’s shoulder. “Monsieur Lefèvre here is tougher than he looks.”

  Fischer chuckled good-naturedly before departing, joining the steady stream of soldiers moving toward the church doors.

  As soon as the men were out of earshot, Henri exhaled deeply, rubbing his temple. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered under his breath, turning to Emmett with a relieved yet mischievous grin. “I honestly thought I was about to soil myself.”

  Emmett gave him a flat, miserable glare, arms crossed tightly against his chest, tongue still throbbing painfully. Henri merely chuckled, motioning toward the priest who was standing near the altar, watching them both with a deeply exasperated expression.

  Henri moved toward the priest, Emmett following reluctantly behind.

  “Messieurs,” the priest greeted quietly in French, a tone of weariness underlying his words. Without further comment, he motioned subtly toward the confessional booth.

  Henri nodded respectfully, turning toward Emmett with a smirk. “I’ll go first. See what he has for us,” he said quietly, patting Emmett reassuringly on the shoulder. He stepped into the confessional, leaving Emmett standing awkwardly in the aisle, arms still folded, glancing warily toward the church doors.

  Emmett’s foot bounced impatiently as he waited, the silence amplifying the painful ache in his tongue. A few moments later, Henri emerged, nodding slightly with satisfaction.

  “Alright, mon ami,” Henri said, holding open the booth door for Emmett with an exaggerated, expectant gesture. “Your turn.”

  Emmett shot Henri another irritated glare, shaking his head slightly. Henri arched an eyebrow.

  “Appearances, Monsieur Lefèvre,” he reminded softly. “We’ve come this far.”

  With a heavy sigh, Emmett stepped grudgingly into the confessional, easing himself onto the wooden bench. The small window opened, revealing the shadowed profile of the priest behind the screen.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Emmett mumbled awkwardly in his further, butchered French.

  "How long has it been since your last confession, my son?" the priest responded calmly.

  Emmett paused briefly, frustration boiling. "Too damn long, Father. My sin right now is wrath… because I'm about to shoot someone."

  The priest chuckled softly, a hint of genuine amusement breaking through his exhaustion. "Peace, my son. Patience is a virtue."

  Emmett huffed quietly, leaning his aching head against the cool wood panel.

  Emmett and Henri stepped out of the church, the heavy wooden doors creaking shut behind them. The cool afternoon air hit Emmett’s face like a splash of water, and he exhaled sharply, rolling his aching jaw. He turned his head and spat onto the cobblestones, cursing under his breath when he saw the smear of blood in it.

  "Un-fucking-believable," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His tongue still throbbed, pulsing in time with his racing heart.

  Luc was exactly where they’d left him, leaning against the tree in the courtyard, flipping idly through his small Bible. When he spotted them, he straightened, his brows furrowing with confusion. He set the Bible aside and pushed off the tree, striding toward them with purpose. As he drew near, his voice dropped low, barely above a whisper.

  "Did I really just see what I thought I saw?" he asked, his expression shifting between bewilderment and barely contained amusement.

  Emmett shot him a sharp glare and mouthed a single, firm command. "Shut up."

  Luc blinked but obeyed, his mouth snapping shut. Around them, a handful of Wehrmacht soldiers still lingered on the church grounds, chatting idly, smoking cigarettes, their rifles slung over their shoulders. Now wasn’t the time for this conversation.

  Henri, ever the diplomat, patted Luc’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. "Later, mon ami," he promised, his voice calm but firm. "We’ll explain everything when we’re safe."

  Luc exhaled but nodded, though his eyes darted between them, still full of questions. Without another word, the three men set off, blending back into the foot traffic of Charleville-Mézières, their steps measured and unhurried.

  They walked in silence for several blocks, each man lighting up a cigarette, taking long drags as if trying to smoke away the absurdity of the last hour. The steady rhythm of their boots against the wet cobblestones was the only sound between them.

  Luc finally pulled a small hip flask from inside his coat, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swig. Without a word, he offered it to Henri, who gratefully accepted and took a drink. Henri smacked his lips, exhaling deeply before passing the flask to Emmett, who took a swig without hesitation. The burn was immediate, spreading warmth down his throat and into his still-throbbing tongue.

  "Hell of a day so far," Henri muttered, rolling his shoulders. His voice was almost casual, like he was remarking on the weather.

  Emmett huffed in agreement but said nothing.

  They turned down a quiet alleyway, stepping into the narrow passage between two brick buildings, the sound of the busy street fading behind them. The smell of damp stone and old piss filled the air, but it was secluded. Safe enough for a conversation. Henri leaned back against the wall, exhaling another long drag from his cigarette before looking toward Emmett with a small smirk.

  "So, mon ami, we have what we need. Fuel depot. And a lot of fuel. Should make for some wonderful fireworks, no?" Henri said with a grin.

  "Yeah," Emmett muttered. "We’ll talk details later with the others."

  Luc, still leaning near the alley’s entrance, crossed his arms, eyeing the both of them. "Alright," he said slowly. "So what the hell happened in there?"

  Emmett shot Henri a warning glance, but Henri merely held up a hand in mock surrender. "I will abridge the events, Emmett. Worry not."

  He turned to Luc, his grin widening. "We walked into a German Mass. And not just a few Germans… half the Wehrmacht in Charleville-Mézières was in attendance. Naturally, Emmett and I nearly had a heart attack."

  Luc’s eyes widened. "And why didn’t just turn and walk out?"

  "Ah, we tried, but a well-meaning Oberleutnant stopped us. The man was the picture of hospitality, really," Henri continued, gesturing grandly. "Insisted we join them. So we did. We sat through the entire service, right alongside our occupiers."

  Luc let out a stunned laugh, rubbing his face. "Merde…"

  Henri nodded, chuckling to himself. "And, might I add, I very nearly soiled myself."

  Luc snorted, shaking his head. "And Emmett?"

  Henri clapped Emmett on the back. "Ah, well, our dear Monsieur Lefèvre here almost bit his tongue off."

  Luc gave Emmett an incredulous look. "You bit your tongue?"

  Emmett practically snarled. "Mind your own damn business."

  Luc smirked but wisely held his own tongue. Henri only laughed again, taking another deep drag of his cigarette before flicking the spent butt into the alleyway.

  Emmett shook his head, rolling his aching jaw, and muttered under his breath, "Un-fucking-believable."