Cavalcade of the Iniquitous

Agitational Mystery

Sunday, 1247 hours, 11th of July, 1915

Between the training sessions and mealtimes, it wasn't unusual to find Oliver in the library, pouring studiously over a pile of books or else working on his latest report for the commander. Today was no different.

As I stepped into the room, I found myself enveloped by the musty smell of old paper. I had searched these shelves several times already, but my attempts to find information I could pass on to Valter had so far proven fruitless. I didn't know where to look, didn't know where to begin, but perhaps Oliver would be able to offer some insight and put me on the right track.

I found him standing in front of a shelf, examining the titles in front of him, golden letters glittering from the leather-bound spines. Reaching out, he selected a book from the middle of the shelf and inspected the cover.

"Madame Bovary," he mused, opening the book and flicking through the pages. "A masterpiece of literature penned by the great realist, Gustave Flaubert." He looked over at me, smiling that familiar, warm smile. "I leant this book to Yakov a few months ago. It's a delightful little story and I thought he'd appreciate it, particularly the rather amusing fate of"—he stopped, his grin taking on a sheepish quality—"ah, but I won't give away the ending. Doris tells me that spoils the story for others. Anyway, I thought Yakov would enjoy this one, and he did seem to be enjoying it." His smile faltered. "Up until the point he attempted to light the book on fire."

My eyes fell to cover, noticing for the first time what appeared to be scorch marks across the leather binding.

Oliver sighed and turned the book around, revealing the jagged remnants of torn out pages. "Unfortunately, I was too late to prevent him from doing that. A whole chapter, gone." He snapped the book shut, looking thoughtfully at the cover. "I guess he didn't like it that much after all. Perhaps he's not a fan of literary realism." With a shrug, he put the desecrated book back on the shelf.

"Did you write about his vandalism in your report to the commander?" I asked, unable to stop myself.

Oliver beamed. "Naturally."

I let my eyes wander across the shelf. "I'm looking for some reading material of my own," I said. "Maybe you could help me."

"Certainly!" Oliver cried, clapping his hands together. "What topic do you have in mind?"

Anything that might aid our forces in taking yours down. Pushing the guilty thought away, I did my best to look vague, at a loss. "Anything that might help me better understand the war. This squad. What we're doing here. What my part is in all of it."

Oliver stroked his multiple chins. "We have plenty of books about warfare here. Military tactics, biographies, wartime fiction, a few outdated history texts."

None of his suggestions sounded as though they'd contain the type of information I was after. "Anything else?"

"There are the archives, I suppose. Just over there, through that door. Of course, it's a restricted area. Lots of confidential files in there."

I eyed the small, unremarkable door tucked in between the shelves, a potential treasure trove of intelligence. "How do I go about gaining access?"

"You'll need to talk to the commander about that."

And so, a few minutes later, I approached the door to Wagner's office. He was sitting at his desk, reading through some no-doubt important documents. Hesitantly, I raised my hand and knocked on the doorframe.