Soldier of the Horse (20 page)

“You look fit and healthy, Sergeant. I have followed your progress. I am happy you haven't been injured or killed. I want you to survive. You are no use to me dead. I intend to somehow get the truth out of you and clear my brother's name.”

“I told you before I can't help you.”

“We shall see, Sergeant. In the meantime, stay well. We do have a common enemy, after all. Over there,” Inkmann said, and jerked his head in the direction of the German lines.

Inkmann dismissed him, and Tom hurried back toward his men. Cedric Inkmann's behaviour was stranger than ever.

♦  ♦  ♦

The hands on Tom's pocket watch seemed to have slowed almost to a stop. Two minutes to go. He could see Lance-Corporal Gus Dunnett going from man to man; if he's as nervous as I am, he's hiding it well, Tom thought. Dunnett had a word for each of them, ensuring their bayonets were properly fixed, safeties on, and they had no metal gear that would clank or rattle in the coming raid.

His second hand showed five ticks to go. “Ready, Gus?”

“Ready, Sergeant.”

There was a half moon in the sky with a skim of cloud that all but obscured it. As Tom climbed out of the trench on the dot of 2200 hours and crawled forward, he could see nothing of the enemy lines a mile away. The horizon showed clearly against the lighter sky, but only the general shape of the intervening land was discernible. Strangely absent was any growl or roar of artillery, but behind him came the muffled sounds of the men of his section as they too crept forward. Dunnett would bring up the rear and ensure nobody got left behind or lost.

Tom's immediate task was to link up with other sections in the proper order. Flowerdew and many of the officers were out front, farther into No-Man's-Land, coordinating the multipronged attack. Tom caught glimpses of a group of soldiers advancing on his left. Their orders were to attack the front-line German trench; Tom's section would be part of the attack on the reserve trench behind it.

Once they were well away from the lip of their own trench, Tom waited for his men to gather around him. “So far so good, boys,” he whispered. “Now, up on your feet. Watch where you step. Stay in close touch.”

The ground here was lower than both front lines, which meant they could get off their bellies and move faster. The enemy would have artillery and machine guns zeroed in on the Canadian front-line trench, ready to hammer men who might pour out during an attack. Their current position was already past that killing zone, and it was a common belief that at night, machine gun fire tended to be high.

But the Canadians also knew there would be other German guns sighted in on the area just in front of their own trench system, ready to rake attackers in a vicious crossfire. A silent approach and a shocking, overpowering attack from close in were keys to a successful raid.

Tom's section formed part of a large group that went to ground where the land started to rise. They had reached their first objective, and Tom forced himself to slow his breathing. He looked to the right where a large wood dominated the dark skyline. The plan included an advance group that had infiltrated the wood the day before and with luck were still there, protecting the attackers' flank.

Tom waited, every stifled sound reverberating in his mind; surely the Germans must be forewarned. Staying still was torture.

A party of nine men led by a lieutenant crawled forward, past him, pushing along in front of them a three-inch metal pipe crammed with explosive. Known as a Bangalore torpedo, the device would be thrust under the twenty feet of tangled barbed wire that was strung parallel to the German trenches to stop attackers from rushing the trench. After the torpedo was properly placed and detonated, the Canadians would charge through the resulting gap in the wire and throw themselves on the Germans.

Tom's grip on his Lee Enfield tightened. Surely something would happen soon. He forced himself to ease his hands, and at that moment there was a deafening roar as the torpedo exploded. Flares shot up from his right, a signal sent into the sky from one of the officers to the waiting Canadian artillery. Almost instantly came the crashing reports of the howitzers and the whistle of shells headed for the German lines.

The roar of artillery was drowned out by the shouts and screams of the Canadians as they surged toward the opening in the wire. Tom swung to the left behind an officer who led the way. Flares now shot up from behind the German lines, and enemy howitzers joined the crescendo of shells that hurtled overhead. Near-constant flashes from exploding munitions lit up the sky in a staccato imitation of daylight.

“Stop!” yelled the lieutenant Tom was following, wheeling toward the men behind him and flinging himself to the ground. “Get down! Send for another torpedo!”

A runner dashed back. Tom, now face down, peered ahead and saw why—there was another row of wire. That hadn't been in Inkmann's briefing, damn him. We're done, now. All hell was breaking loose and the Canadians were pinned to the ground by enemy machine gun fire. He hugged the ground, trying desperately to stay below the deadly fusillade. Men cursed with frustration as they held their fire, saving their two rounds until they had firm targets.

A group of men charged up past Tom's section, carrying another torpedo, two of them cut down by German fire before they got to the wire. The lieutenant grasped the front of the torpedo, guided it under the wire, then hurled himself back and down to the ground. Again the crack of an exploding Bangalore rang out. The lieutenant stood and ran forward, limping, to throw himself on the loose strands of wire that waved in the air like severed blackberry tendrils in a windstorm.

“Let's go, boys,” Tom bellowed and leapt to his feet, rushing past the lieutenant where he lay on the barbed wire, clearing their path. Dunnett was right beside him, yelling like a banshee as the two of them charged, their section right on their heels. Tom heard rifle and machine gun rounds zinging around him, and a man next to him went down. Canadian ordinance added to the din, as long-range artillery pounded the area behind the German line.

Suddenly a dark slot in the earth opened up in front. A forty-yard section of the enemy trench was filled with frantic, indistinct figures spewing fire at the Canadians. “Bombs, bombs,” someone yelled, and hand grenades arced over Tom's head into the trench. One came sailing right back out, to land somewhere behind. The trench was filled with rapid explosions, and grenade fragments whistled around Tom's head. He was flung back, knocked off his feet by the concussive force. He struggled to his hands and knees as a wave of Canadians jumped into the trench, stabbing and clubbing, screaming at the Germans to surrender. He was helped up by Private Reg Simpson, the trooper who had done good work in the listening post.

Tom shook off the private and took stock. The Germans still standing in the trench were flinging down their weapons, hands raised in the air. Six of his section were still with him, and he waved them on to jump into the trench and climb out the other side. Their target was the reserve trench, fifty yards farther on. Another section had already started in that direction. From the corner of his eye Tom thought he saw Inkmann, down in the captured trench, rooting through German packs and boxes.

Lieutenant Black, one of the regimental officers, was in charge of the attack on the reserve trench where they hoped to bag more prisoners. Tom saw him a few yards ahead, revolver in hand, as they ran. There was a flash from the lip of the trench; Tom fired at it from the hip and immediately worked his bolt. One round left. Black had fallen, still pointing his revolver.

Dunnett shouted “Bombs away!” and hurled a grenade into the trench as they ran toward it. There was a muffled explosion and a wall of Germans went swarming out of the far side of the trench and ran. A machine gun to the right of the trench was abruptly silenced as a Canadian lobbed a grenade into its bunker and ducked back out of the way.

Tom got as far as the front parapet of the trench. A knot of Germans stood in it, hands raised. One of them stepped forward, a revolver in his hand. A shot rang out and he fell, stumbling backward. The Germans were yelling something that Tom couldn't make out.

“Hold your fire, hold your fire.” Lieutenant Black, grimacing with pain, had rejoined the attack, his shout barely audible above the racket of the heavy calibre Canadian shells landing only yards past their position.

Tom slid feet first into the trench and aimed his rifle at the Germans. He waved it, pointing in the direction of the Canadian lines. “Out, out!” The prisoners started up a ladder toward the waiting members of Tom's section, who had their rifles levelled, fixed bayonets glittering in the brightening moonlight.

As he watched the Germans climbing out, Tom checked his watch by the flickering light of artillery blasts. Only five minutes to get clear of the German trenches. Then the artillery curtain would start to march backward toward the Canadian lines, and a German counterattack would be right behind it. Not to mention the German artillery, which would be hitting their own trenches as soon as they realized they had been overrun. Already the roar of exploding heavy shells seemed closer.

All but a few of the prisoners were clear of the trench, so Tom stepped up onto a ledge to clamber out. Private Simpson held his hand out to help him up, then suddenly jerked it back, aimed his rifle at Tom, and fired.

UNDER ATTACK

♦   ♦   ♦

Tom momentarily wondered if he was dead or alive. He lay on his right side, aware of a droning noise that grew louder and louder. He pulled his knees up, lifted his head an inch, then fell back as pain ricocheted through his skull. Blinking, he managed to focus on a bed two feet away, where a man was lying on his back, breathing deeply, apparently asleep.

Hell, he thought. A hospital. He rolled his eyes so he could see more. Canvas walls and canvas ceiling. An aid station, then.

The droning noise reached a rattling roar and he realized it was an aircraft. It sounded as though it were on top of him until the engine noise was suddenly obliterated by a loud explosion. The walls and roof buckled and billowed. The drone died away, and a minute later white-clothed figures he recognized as nursing sisters moved along the aisle between beds.

One of them approached and took his wrist. “Awake, are we? Did Fritz wake you up, Sergeant?” She glanced down at a watch pinned to her breast.

Tom had trouble talking. His mouth was dry. “Awake already,” he croaked. “Where are we? What day is it?”

“Casualty Clearing Station Forty-seven,” said the nurse. “You arrived last night. And this is the twentieth of the month. Can you tell me the month and year?”

“March, of course. Nineteen eighteen. Did I pass?”

“Just checking. Now, let's have a look.”

She helped Tom roll onto his stomach, making the room spin around him, and touched the back of his head. A wound just below the occiput, she explained. A concussion, but no infection by the looks of it.

“Do you often get bombed? I thought hospitals and casualty stations were out of bounds.”

“The Germans are pulling out all stops, we hear. When they come over, Matron makes the staff get into a shelter. Afterward, we come out to see if any of our patients have been hit. She's thinking of taking down the red cross so they can't target us.”

The nurse gave Tom painkillers and water to wash them down, and she was followed by an orderly who provided lukewarm soup. Tom wolfed it down, then dozed most of the day.

Just at dusk Bruce Johanson came to see him. “Some guys will do anything to get attention.”

Tom sat up. The room tilted, although the pounding in his head had eased somewhat since morning. “What the hell happened, anyway? Last thing I remember is Simpson shooting at me.”

“He wasn't shooting at you, Tommy. One of the prisoners still in the trench pulled the pin on a grenade. Simpson shot him over your shoulder and the German fell across the grenade before it exploded. Lucky for you. Guess you caught a fragment though.”

“Glad you told me—I was going to go looking for young Private Simpson.” Tom managed a grin, or tried to. “Guess I'll have to anyway. Look for him, that is. To thank him.”

“Funny thing though, Tom. You went down in a heap and Captain Inkmann was into the trench in a flash. I never saw anyone move so fast. Slapped a hand over your wound and organized a stretcher real quick. The barrage was moving in our direction so we headed back as fast as we could. What's the story with him? I thought he hated your guts.”

“He does. All I know for sure is he acts stranger every time I see him.”

Bruce left to return to the regiment, and Tom thought things over. Inkmann was a constant worry: he never changed his insistence that Tom somehow help out his brother, one minute badgering him and the next rescuing him. In the meantime, Tom hoped for a few days of recuperation. He didn't have a serious enough injury to warrant a trip to England for hospitalization, but maybe time off would help get rid of the vertigo and the pain in his head.

Next morning the usual artillery heralded dawn, but it slowly intensified during the day instead of fading away as it normally did. In mid-afternoon Tom stood to walk up and down the narrow aisle between the beds for a few minutes. For the first time in thirty-six hours, his head felt clear, but he was still having dizzy spells. He sat on the edge of his bed and waited for the walls to stop swaying.

There was a burst of activity at the far end of the tent as nurses hurried in, followed by orderlies and uniformed soldiers with stretchers. They began transferring patients to the stretchers and carting them out.

“What's happening? What's going on?” shouted the man in the next bed.

“We've been ordered to move back. The Germans have broken through,” said a nurse. “We'll get to everyone as quickly as we can.”

Tom heard the rumble of a familiar voice. Quartermain. The broad-shouldered sergeant marched into view.“How is Sergeant Macrae?” he asked a nurse who ran along behind him.