The Soldier's Song (23 page)

But he said nothing when he saw the three survivors stretched out on the firing step, Gardner helping the whimpering Tanner onto a stretcher while the battalion’s doctor crouched over Devereux. A shell splinter had opened his skull, cleaving through scalp and bone. There was a gaping slit where he had parted his hair and the brain was visible inside, a white mass oozing blood. And yet he was still alive, his breath coming in long, loud gasps.

Stephen suddenly felt his knees go weak and he slumped against the wall. Wilson was saying something to him but he could barely hear him – his voice sounded so very far away. His hands were shaking; he was shivering uncontrollably, his head spinning. Then, in a heaving rush, he felt himself being sick into the bottom of the trench.

It was nearly dawn by the time he got back to the front trench. Wilson had insisted that he go with the doctor, and Stephen had been too dazed and nauseous to disagree. He stumbled after the stretchers and found a quiet corner in the regimental aid post. An orderly brought him a mug of tea but he let it go cold, instead trying to squeeze the tremors out of his hands by making fists. He couldn’t take his eyes off the doctor standing in the lantern light, soothing the wounded in a rough and ready tone and working with his bandages, needles and swabs. Devereux was the worst. As the doctor examined his head, he twitched and writhed as if somebody was applying electric shocks. Finally, he threw off his blanket and brayed wetly with the pain, and Stephen was relieved when they took him away at last and the aid post fell silent. The doctor wiped his hands on a bloody rag and sank tiredly into a canvas chair.

‘How are you feeling, Ryan?’

‘Fine – better now,’ he nodded to the spot where Devereux’s stretcher had been. ‘What about him? Will he survive?’

‘I really couldn’t say,’ the doctor shrugged as he pulled out a silver cigarette case. ‘I’ve given up trying to second-guess the Almighty on that score. He’s young, he’s fit; he may pull through. It’s all a question of will power.’ He opened the cigarette case, ‘Smoke?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’d best be getting back.’

He’d already seen the first carrying parties going past, bringing up food and ammunition for the day. It would be light soon, and the morning stand-to would be ordered. He stood up and walked along the communication trench, suddenly feeling stiff with the cold. Everything seemed eerily quiet; there was no firing now, and not a soul moved except the sentries, who turned and nodded to him as he passed.

‘All right, sir?’ Kinsella asked, rising up out of the shadows like a wraith.

‘Yes, I’m fine now, thank you, sergeant.’ Stephen answered with a weary smile. ‘All quiet, I see.’

‘All quiet, sir. Captain Wilson’s in the dugout.’

Stephen passed through the gas curtain and breathed in the familiar fuggy reek of paraffin and sweat and earth. Wilson was sitting at the table with pen and paper, and the contents of Devereux’s haversack emptied out in front of him. His face was grim as he looked up, but then he smiled.

‘Come in, Stephen, sit down. How are you now? Feeling better?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ Stephen took the other chair and set his helmet down on the table. ‘Is everything all right here? What about Corporal Power?’

Wilson shook his head, ‘Dead, I’m afraid. Blast killed him, most likely. But, however, it could have been worse. I’ve already drafted my official report,’ he gestured at the page in front of him, ‘needless to say, you feature prominently. Mr Gardner told me what you did. Quite a feat, if you ask me.’

‘Well . . .’ Stephen felt himself blushing, not sure how to reply, ‘it all happened so fast, I hardly had time to think.’

‘Aye, well these things often happen that way.’ Wilson nodded, sensing that Stephen wasn’t of a mind to talk about it just then. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve also got to explain Mr Devereux’s actions in my report, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. I was just, well . . .’ He gestured at the pile of belongings on the table, plainly embarrassed. ‘Well, I don’t know. I thought I should write to his next of kin anyway. I’m not even sure who to write to. I’d rather not write to his uncle, who’ll get the official report anyway. I don’t suppose you know any of his family?’

It came as a shock to Stephen to realize that he knew almost nothing about Devereux. Three months living together and they’d probably had ten minutes of conversation.

‘I knew his fiancée, after a fashion,’ he admitted. ‘But I never met his family. They were in the newspaper business, and I believe they had an estate in County Wexford.’

‘He was writing a letter,’ Wilson held up an open envelope, ‘There’s no address on it, but it begins “Dear Father”, and it goes on about the raid he was going to lead. He had high hopes about it, you know. He talks about “restoring the honour of our family” – what do you make of that?’

Stephen shrugged. He sensed a conflict in Wilson’s emotions despite his earlier harsh words. Devereux had disobeyed a direct order and got two men killed and three more seriously wounded. Wilson was perfectly within his rights to tell the truth – to blame everything on Devereux – and yet Stephen felt he wouldn’t. Devereux had paid for his folly. There was no point in heaping ignominy on top.

Not waiting for an answer, Wilson shook his head and started stuffing Devereux’s things back in his haversack.

‘What honour will he bring them now?’ he asked in a tone of disgust, ‘Even if he lives he’ll be a cripple. It’ll eat him up for the rest of his life, Stephen – him and those who love him. He’ll not thank you for what you’ve done, lad. You mark my words, he’ll not thank you for it at all.’

From the
London Gazette

His Majesty the KING has been graciously pleased to confer the Military Cross on the undermentioned Officers and Warrant Officers in recognition of their gallantry and devotion to duty in the field:–

T./ LT. STEPHEN JAMES RYAN, R.D.F.

For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty. He shewed the greatest courage and disregard for danger while rescuing wounded men in full view of the enemy positions. Unable to bring all the wounded to safety on his first attempt, he returned to their position while under very heavy enemy fire and completed the evacuation without further casualties. His gallantry and determination set a fine example to his men.

20 January 1917

My first day in command and our first turn in new trenches. I lost my first man just hours after we got here. I hope that isn’t the shape of things to come.

A sniper got him early this morning just after stand-to. The weather is bloody freezing (as usual) and after making my rounds I was looking forward to a nice hot mug of tea when I heard the shot. I knew it was close by and when I ran around a traverse to investigate I cannoned into Kinsella running to fetch me. His face doesn’t lend itself to showing emotion, but he looked shocked.

He brought me to young McCarthy – a boy from Carlow who came up with the last draft of replacements. He had been shot in the face; there was a neat little hole just beside his nose, and the back of his head was a mess. It’s hard to find good things to say at these times, but at least it was quick – he literally didn’t know what hit him. But that was no consolation to his friend, who was crying his eyes out a few feet away. His name was Dalton and they had grown up together, joined the army together and trained together. They did everything together until this morning, when curiosity got the better of McCarthy and he looked over the parapet into no man’s land. The low sun must have shone on his face like a mirror.

It’s my own rotten fault. The warning was right there in the divisional intelligence summary, but I didn’t see it until it was too late. Wilson must be even more efficient than I thought, because I don’t know how he finds the time for all the paperwork. There are returns to be filled in for everything, maps to study, and the divisional intelligence summaries (known as the comic cuts) to read. Most of it isn’t too bad, but the comic cuts are hard-going. They are written in the most stuffy, impenetrable language, and usually contain dire statements about the political situation in Russia. Right at the end of the current one is a warning about a German sniper operating ‘with great effectiveness’ in this area. Unfortunately, by the time I was able to read that far, it was too late for poor McCarthy.

Of course, even if I’d known, there was little I could have done to stop McCarthy exposing himself like that. Over the course of the day, I’ve managed to glean a bit of local knowledge about this German sniper. He’s been working in this sector for months and he’s killed upwards of a hundred men. He’s got such a grisly reputation that he even has a nickname – the ‘Phantom’. It seems our taste for melodrama knows no bounds.

But I have quite a reputation myself. I am the Assassin! I’m deadly at a mile! Day or night makes no difference to me, apparently. I left my Ross rifle back in our billet (the Canadian was right – they are too unreliable for everyday use) but another one has miraculously appeared and stands on the firing step outside the dugout even as I write.

I can take a hint as well as the next man but I’m not sure how to break it to them that it just won’t do. Range isn’t the problem here. This chap isn’t shooting at more than four or five hundred yards, but he’s well concealed and he’s probably working from a specially built hideout with an armoured steel loophole. The Germans are very scientific about sniping. We have some gifted amateurs, but theirs are trained at a special sniping school and they are very hard to find and kill. I’ve heard of chaps having success against them with big-game rifles, but it would take days to track down this Phantom and by then we’ll probably have moved to a different sector. I think our best bet is just to keep our heads down until we move on.

21 January 1917

Bloody awful night last night. All the men were on edge after the business with the sniper. The tension should have relaxed after dark, but it just got worse. I can’t really describe the sinister fear that snipers instil. They don’t kill half as many men as shells or machine guns, but their effect is almost supernatural. I suppose it’s because the other things are more or less random. They are directed, up to a point, but whether or not they kill you is a matter of luck. On the other hand, a sniper picks out his target, takes aim, and coldly reaches out to snuff out a life. It’s rather chilling by comparison. And who knows that better than I do?

Anyhow, last night this Phantom got another notch on his rifle without even having to pull the trigger. It was young Dalton, the friend of McCarthy, who was shot that morning. He was badly shocked after seeing his friend killed right beside him, and I had Gardner put him in a shelter and give him a hot drink. I even told Sergeant Curtis to excuse him from duty for the day, but he kept getting out of the shelter and going back to the spot where McCarthy was killed. Three times I was called to talk to him and the third time, with him weeping and sobbing and shaking, I almost sent him to the doctor.

In hindsight, that’s what I should have done. But when he turned out for the evening stand-to he was dry-eyed and in better form. I was sure he’d got over it.

Then, just after midnight, I heard a shot and I knew straight away what it was. A shot in the dark isn’t unusual – there is always a fixed rifle or two working the night shift, to make sure we keep our heads down – but there was something about this one that gave me a terrible feeling in my gut. I hurried along the trench, and sure enough there he was, right at the spot where McCarthy was killed. He was hunched in a corner like a rag doll, almost out of sight, but there was no mystery about what had happened. It was plain from the way the rifle lay against his chest and the bare foot sticking out, one toe still hooked in the trigger guard.

How can I describe the feeling I had when I saw him? It wasn’t anger or pity – I have been here too long for that. And it wasn’t quite fear either, but something closer to despair, as if there can be no end to this. I thought I had seen the worst there was, I thought I was hardened to it, but I was wrong. I didn’t sleep a wink for seeing his poor bloody miserable face every time I closed my eyes.

* * *

Vengeance is mine saith the Lord.
That phrase kept running through Stephen’s head. It was the first thing Wilson had said after Stephen explained his plan. They were in reserve and he needed his permission to go back up to the front. He’d listened silently, looked at the map with the carefully pencilled lines all over it, then nodded slowly as he muttered the words under his breath.

‘You think you can do it with this gun?’

The gun was the most solid part of his plan. It was a massive thing, a Holland and Holland double rifle, a .444 nitro express.

It would stop a charging elephant in its tracks. Kinsella had managed to borrow it from the Munster Fusiliers, who had been in India when the war broke out. Usually when Kinsella said he’d borrowed something you could rest assured it was stolen, but in this case he was telling the truth. The gun came with a polite note from the owner, wishing him luck and apologizing for the fact that he only had three of the enormous sausage-sized shells to go with it.

‘If I can get close enough, yes. I believe I can.’

‘What if he sees you first?’

‘Then he’ll kill me.’

That went without saying. He wouldn’t be the first one to try to beat the Phantom at his own game. He knew two men had already gone out to get him and had never been seen again.