Soldier of the Horse (19 page)

The moon went behind a cloud, and they took advantage of it to run, doubled over, along a shallow depression that angled in an easterly direction toward the Germans and past the ridge occupied by the dragoons. They hugged their rifles to their chests, making as little noise as possible. After covering several hundred yards they could make out a small wood. Skeletons of beeches were stark against the sky, but lower down was a tangle of branches, undergrowth, and the splintered trunks of shell-shattered trees.

Again they hugged the earth, rifles cradled in forearms, with elbows, knees, and feet pushing them, snakelike, over the churned-up ground. Tom's straining ears detected scrapes and clinks as René led the way to within a hundred yards of the wood. Still sheltered by the dissipating cloud, they came to a halt in a shell hole.

“You reckon the sniper's still there?” asked Tom in a whisper.

“Guess we'll find out,” said René. “You boys stay here. I'm going to circle to the right and try to get behind him. If you wave a helmet around he'll fire. Maybe. Then we'll see.”

Soundlessly, René was gone into the night. Tom was glad Bruce was still in the shell hole with him. What the hell was he doing here? They were between the lines, and their own troops could fire at them by mistake. Somewhere ahead a German sharpshooter with a hair trigger was waiting and watching, as seconds, minutes, half an hour dragged by.

“Long enough,” said Bruce.

It was a whisper, but Tom jumped. He watched, mesmerized, in the breathless way an audience will watch a circus tightrope walker climb onto his partner's shoulders, as Bruce eased his helmet off and raised it six inches over the lip of the shell hole on his rifle barrel.

Nothing happened.

Bruce lowered his helmet and fumbled in his tunic pocket, producing a match and thumbing it with his nail. Tom squeezed his eyes shut to preserve his night vision as the light from the match flared and died. Bruce again put his helmet on the end of his rifle. He looked at Tom and shrugged, then slowly waved the helmet once again. Silence, and Tom breathed more easily.

Suddenly a rifle cracked, and there was an instantaneous, resounding bang as sparks flew from the helmet, which spun to the ground. Bruce dropped his rifle and fell to the bottom of the hole, covering his face.

Tom had a death-grip on his Lee Enfield, his eyes and ears straining. He reached for his friend but kept his eyes in the direction of the trees. Seeing nothing, he crouched down beside Bruce. In the moonlight he could see black liquid oozing between Bruce's fingers.

There was a thrashing sound and a muffled moan from the direction of the wood, followed by the rattle of a distant machine gun. Bullets sprayed the earth at the top of the shell hole, then moved away. Blind fire from the direction of the German front.

Tom listened but heard nothing more. He put his rifle down to help his friend into a sitting position. Pulling a dressing out of his pocket and easing Bruce's hands away from his face, he applied the fabric over a wound above his left eye. Bruce's other eye blinked in the faint light.

“How bad is it? My head is killing me,” said Bruce. “What the hell happened, anyway?”

“Shut up,” hissed Tom. “Hold this in place.”

While Bruce put his hand on the dressing, Tom got out a bandage and wrapped it around his head. Risking a quick visual sweep from the lip of their shelter, he could make out nothing significant. Feeling around, he located Bruce's helmet and rifle. The helmet had taken a round right on the rim, which was bent downward as if it had been pounded with a blacksmith's hammer.

“A chunk of the bullet must have ricocheted and hit you, you bloody fool.”

For once Bruce had nothing to say. He lay back with a groan.

Tom didn't know what to do. René might have taken out the sniper—or vice versa. How long should they wait? He would eventually have to lead Bruce back, hoping to get out of No-Man's-Land before daylight. He heard a low whistle from the direction Carbonnier had gone and peered cautiously, rifle at the ready. René crawled into view and slid over the lip into the hole. He looked battered. His tunic was stained with blood, and he was protecting one arm, holding it across his body.

“You wounded? Did you get him?”

“Got slammed with a rifle butt, I think,” said the Metis. “Two of the bastards. When the sniper shot at you boys, I jumped on him and slit his throat. But he had a spotter, and he clubbed me on the arm and shoulder before I could get clear of the first guy. He should have shot me. I'd dropped my bayonet but I snatched it back up and got him, too.”

No wonder he was drenched in blood. René had killed two men, in near-total darkness, hand to hand. Tom didn't want to think about it. “You okay to travel?” he asked.

“I'm okay. Bruce hit?”

“Ricochet.”

“You boys sure attracted their attention. Have to hand it to you.”

“Glad to help,” Bruce muttered, his hand still pressed against the dressing.

Bruce's helmet wouldn't fit on his head with the bandage there, so Tom slung it on his own haversack. He shouldered Bruce's Lee Enfield, carried his own in one hand, and with the other supported his friend, who was wobbly on his feet. René was able to manage by himself. They crawled and walked, bent low, for what seemed like hours before they reached the sunken road where they had been when they heard about the colonel's death. They rested, then moved again. The sky was lightening when they were challenged as they rejoined their troop.

Bruce was still groggy and complained of a severe headache, so the troop sergeant sent him away to an aid station. René took off his bloody tunic, sweat-stained shirt, and underwear, despite the cold winter air. His left arm was swollen above the elbow, already showing vivid shades of black, blue, and yellow. He had full movement but his face was pinched with pain.

Tom sat in the wet trench, forearms on his raised knees, helmet pushed back. He was so tired he could have slept for a week. The troop sergeant came and glared down at him.

“I don't know what you sons of bitches got up to, but I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. I reckon the Germans came out of this little escapade worse than you did. But I'm warning you, Macrae. I covered for you this time, but the next time you take your pals on an unauthorized absence, I'll make you wish you had never been born. And you can pass that on. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Sergeant.”

The sergeant stomped away. Tom saw René hunkered down, sitting on an ammunition box, carefully easing his shirt back on. Tom thought he smiled, but maybe it was only a grimace.

♦  ♦  ♦

Three months later, in the spring of 1918, part of the regiment was away with the horses, taking a break from the action, while Tom's squadron did their regular rotation in the trenches. Tom's troop sergeant took him aside and told him to be at regimental headquarters at 1000 hours. Now what, Tom wondered. For days, rumours had swirled that there was to be a major raid on the German trenches.

He'd know soon. The triple chevrons of a sergeant on Tom's arms had only been there for a week. They spoke of the constant loss of noncommissioned officers to promotion, death, and wounds, and to Tom's assumption of an understated leadership style. He wouldn't have any more control over his own life, but he would perhaps be privy to more of what was going on than he had been as a private or corporal.

The troops were nearing the end of another miserable winter, the Strathconas' third year of fighting. For once it was not raining. Tom made sure his section was accounted for and usefully employed under the watchful eye of Lance-Corporal Gus Dunnett. Dunnett was a methodical, dependable man from a farm outside Regina, and he was putting three men who had recently joined the regiment through their paces with rifle and bayonet drill, while making sure they became familiar with their section of the trenches.

Tom knocked out his pipe, ground the ash with his heel, and headed toward regimental headquarters. He joined a group of junior officers and sergeants as Lieutenant-Colonel Macdonald, who now commanded the regiment, emerged from the headquarters hut.

“We've been ordered to conduct a large-scale raid, along with the Dragoons. Those of you who were with the regiment a year ago will remember our last successful show in the same area.”

Tom remembered that night: a night of sheer terror, when the Straths had overpowered a company of Germans. As a private, he had no idea of the big picture, and had considered himself lucky to be assigned to a rear group that covered the withdrawal of the raiders. This time he would be leading his section, but the chevrons on his arm didn't make him feel any less vulnerable. He glanced at the clearing sky, wondering pensively if he'd be back here, looking at the sky, after the raid.

The colonel was still speaking. “The officers have been briefed on the latest intelligence. It is our job to make sure all of you have a clear idea of the objectives and the terrain, and what to do when or if things go wrong. You are to brief your men this afternoon. No one is to leave camp from now until the raid has been completed. Start time is 2200 hours.”

Twelve hours from now, Tom thought. So that's why reveille was late this morning: resting up the troops.

“British intelligence has done a mock-up for our purposes. Follow me.” The colonel turned and led the way to a second hut, in front of which was a table with maps spread across it. A tall captain in a British uniform stood behind the display.

Tom glanced at the captain. It was Cedric Inkmann.

“Right, men.” Inkmann paused and looked at the assembled officers and noncoms. Tom saw no flicker of recognition, but the man's eyes were red-rimmed, his face thinner than Tom remembered it.

Inkmann pointed at a map with his swagger stick. “Here, we have our trenches. And here, the German front line. Distance between is almost two thousand yards. Your task will be to go in under quiet conditions, get as close as possible, then isolate and neutralize this area,” outlining a length of German front line and reserve trenches, “and capture as many of the enemy as you can. We especially want officers. Now, come this way, and we'll look at the mock-up.” He directed the men over to a thirty-yard-square area of soil and sand that had been raked and formed to recreate in miniature the Canadian and German trenches with No-Man's-Land in between.

Inkmann described the probable formation of the enemy troops they would encounter, the location of machine guns, listening posts, and artillery, and the topographical features. The attackers were to overrun the German fighting trench, the first one they'd encounter, then swarm past it to take prisoners in the reserve trench behind it. It all sounded very impressive to Tom. When Inkmann finished, Tom's squadron leader, Lieutenant Gordon Flowerdew, asked a couple of questions about challenges and passwords.

The colonel spoke again. “Artillery. When the signal goes up, our artillery will set up a protective curtain of fire to cut off German reinforcements. The curtain will be only one hundred yards beyond the first German reserve trench. We should have an overpowering number of troops against the Germans, who have been isolated by the artillery, but we have to rely on stealth to get close to their lines before the signal flare goes up. The barrage will last ten minutes, then it will retreat toward us so as to do as much damage to the Boche front-line trenches as possible, as well as protect your rear as you make your way back.” He added dryly, “You won't want to still be in the enemy trenches when that happens. Questions?”

There were none.

“One more thing before we move on. Each man is to load only two rounds. This raid relies on stealth, followed by an overwhelming attack from in close. Our primary aim is to obtain German prisoners, especially officers, as Captain Inkmann said. Bayonets will intimidate and deal with any resistance. Firearms to be used only as a last resort.”

The next stop was a full-size layout of the German trenches. White tapes staked to the ground represented the dimensions of the trench system to be attacked, while miscellaneous chunks of iron pipe indicated the likely location of heavy machine guns and artillery pieces.

“Questions at this point?” asked the colonel.

Tom waved his hand. He felt all eyes turn toward the most junior sergeant in the regiment. “How accurate is all this, sir?”

“Allow me, sir.” Inkmann glanced at Tom, then addressed the men. “We have reports gleaned from prisoners over the last few weeks. In addition we are able to use the latest in photography from balloons and aircraft. The enemy emplacements can be seen quite clearly.”

“Don't they try to hide things, same as we do?” Tom and his comrades had spent many hours cutting tree branches and rigging poles, canvas, and netting to obscure horses and equipment from enemy aircraft and ground spotters.

“Of course they do, Sergeant,” said the colonel. “No doubt the captain has taken that into consideration. It's our job to drive home the attack, no matter what.”

“Even in the face of possible inaccuracies,” added Inkmann. He smiled an indulgent smile, and some of the officers chuckled. Tom felt his face burn.

The colonel laid down the timing and precisely which sections of the regiment were to go where and what each was to do. Challenges and responses—passwords—were reviewed: nobody wanted to be shot by their comrades when they were dashing around No-Man's-Land.

The men were dismissed. Tom turned to go.

“Sergeant Macrae.”

It was Inkmann. “A word with you, Sergeant.”

Tom walked back. The colonel had disappeared, and the other officers and sergeants had dispersed. “Sir?”

“We have unfinished business.”

Tom had heard from his family that Cedric Inkmann's brother, Bernie, and Henry Zink were still in jail, but despite the passage of years, legal proceedings still weren't finished. He looked carefully at Inkmann, who appeared to have lost weight. His swagger stick betrayed a mild tremor.