AUGUST 1925
AL-MAZRAA, SYRIA—ROUGHLY 100 KM SOUTH OF DAMASCUS
Horrific, gut-wrenching wails brought Jean-Michel Langelier awake. Face-first in the hot sand, he tried to push up from his prostrate position but couldn’t lift his head. Where was he?
Syria.
He took a few deep breaths. He’d been stationed in Syria to serve out the rest of his term in the French Army.
The army.
Blinking away grit and sand, he worked to remember his surroundings and all that had happened. He’d offered to serve his country in hopes of helping stabilize Europe after the Great War, the war that had devastated them all. But who was he kidding—in all honesty, he’d run off after the love of his life left France without a good-bye. Not that he’d expected one. Once her father had forbade them to marry, all communication was cut off.
So he found himself in the army. And it brought him to Syria.
Until a rebellion of Druze tribes and Syrian nationalists rose up against French rule little more than a month ago. No one expected it. In fact, the French had been pulling out troops.
But now the rebellion was fighting against the French troops that were left. Jean-Michel shook his head again to clear the fog. Hadn’t he heard screaming?
Turning to take in his surroundings, he realized that their ammunition convoy had been attacked as they’d approached the village. Some sort of blast must have rendered him unconscious, which accounted for the pain in his head. He wiped his eyes, hoping to clear them of the grit and smoke. Every muscle in his body protested as he pushed to all fours, and the ringing in his ears grew louder. Blinking against the bright light, he forced himself to focus. But sounds were indistinct—almost muted against the drumming and rushing of his own blood pumping as he pushed himself to stand and move.
Jean-Michel looked down at his torn uniform. There were splotches of blood here and there, but upon inspection he found it was nothing serious. Just small lacerations, no doubt from the explosion.
The explosion. What had caused it? Where was George? And Luc? The two younger men had become dear to him. As their commander, Jean-Michel had earned their respect. However, over time something more had developed—a deep, abiding friendship.
Rapid gunfire and explosions erupted around him. The ringing in his ears gradually subsided, but the pounding pain in his head increased. He staggered to the right, still trying to assess the situation. He was in command, but he couldn’t even focus on what should be done.
Desperate screams brought his attention around. Flames engulfed a building several hundred meters north. A bullet ripped past him, bringing Jean-Michel’s attention back to his own precarious situation. He staggered toward the small structure that was a gathering place for the women of the area. The desperate cries and screams of those inside made his stomach roil.
Someone had chained the only door in and out. They were trapped!
Jean-Michel tried to pull away the heavy chains, but they had been secured with a lock. He struggled to think amidst the conflict and noise. He had to get help. He needed something to cut the chain. He started off across the compound toward the supply depot.
Just then another explosion sent him to his knees. Looking back, he saw that now the back of the building was on fire. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. He’d spent a lot of time around the Syrian people. Earning their trust.
And for what?
He struggled once again to his feet and turned in a circle to survey the world around him. It was as if everyone had gone mad and time stood still. Were those French soldiers igniting other buildings around him? His soldiers? No. It couldn’t be. Not when there were innocents inside.
Jean-Michel didn’t understand what was happening and why they were fighting. So far, all he’d had to do was follow orders and pass them on to his soldiers. But as he watched the flames grow, he couldn’t fathom who would order such outright evil.
A figure Jean-Michel recognized all too well strode around the building, a torch in his hand and a sneer on his face. Phillippe.
Phillippe hated the Syrian people. Hated being posted here. Hated being under Jean-Michel’s command when he was fifteen years Jean-Michel’s senior. The motivation behind the abhorrence was clear, but his actions were so barbaric Jean-Michel found it difficult to believe. What had made the man snap like this?
This new “war” obviously fueled the man’s hate. Phillippe lit another small building and moved on.
“Non!!” The guttural cry exploded from Jean-Michel’s lips amidst the raging sounds of war around him and he forced his legs to run faster. He had to free the women and children.
George and Luc emerged from a cloud of gunfire after his shout. Off to the west about a hundred meters, they looked toward his destination and came on the double. Whether they saw Phillippe or the innocent people inside the buildings that were burning, Jean-Michel wasn’t sure, but at least they would help stop the madness.
The heat from the fires intensified the heat of the desert and sweat poured from Jean-Michel’s body as he ran. There weren’t any orders to kill villagers and innocent people. The rebellion hadn’t even reached their area yet—at least not until their convoy was attacked. What had happened?
A small face appeared in the tiny window high up the building wall. Mouth open in cries. A small hand beat the glass pane. Someone had to be holding him up to gain that height. Their only hope of escape—a window they couldn’t reach.
The face was familiar—the same little boy who’d watched him try a magic trick and giggled when Jean-Michel failed.
They didn’t have much time left.
Oomph!
Jean-Michel’s right leg buckled underneath him and he crumpled into the sand as his body ignited in pain. Glancing down at his leg, he watched the bloodstain grow on his uniform. He’d never been shot before, and as the agony grew, he ground his teeth. He couldn’t think about his own pain right now.
But there was no cover. The rebels had him. Probably thought he wanted to see all those people burn to their deaths, since it was his own troops lighting the fires.
“Jean-Michel!” George’s voice cut through the gunfire. “Ne bougez pas!”
Don’t move? He didn’t think he could even if he tried. Jean-Michel attempted to wave him off—to convince them to stay put. He couldn’t risk anyone else’s lives. It was his own fault for taking off into the open. Maybe he could still crawl to the building. But how could he save those people?
Spots danced in his eyes. He shook his head.
Sound began to dim. He heard George’s voice again. Then Luc’s. But Jean-Michel’s gaze was fixed on the building.
A haze filled the outline of his sight as familiar faces entered his vision. George and Luc dragged him backward.
“Non! Non!” They were dragging him away from the building. Didn’t they hear him screaming? Didn’t they know about those people inside?
Jean-Michel squirmed in his buddies’ arms. “Help me save them! Please!”
“We’ll get them, but we can’t risk you being shot again. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Luc’s calm voice did nothing but grate on Jean-Michel’s nerves.
“I don’t care about me”—a cough choked him—“save . . . them!”
Did they hear him? They were speaking to him, but the words made no sense.
Were his eyes open anymore? He commanded his eyelids to lift, but he couldn’t see anything. Only black.
Muffled sounds were the only evidence that he was still somewhat conscious. That and the throbbing pain.
A sudden jerk from side to side released his arms and he plummeted.
Where were George and Luc?
Maybe this was death. And he deserved it.