The Soldier's Song (24 page)

Wilson leaned back and looked at him candidly. ‘This is about those two lads you lost when I was away, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It’s vengeance.’

‘No, I don’t—’ he began to disagree, but Wilson cut him off.

‘In fact, it smacks of pride, Stephen.’

‘But he’s still at it. He’s killing men every other day. They can only send carrying parties up there at night now, and the men are getting windy about going out on patrol. He’s destroying morale. Somebody has to stop him.’

‘Aye, but why does it have to be you? This is more than just some fancy shooting match – this is bloody dangerous, and it’s not your job! You’re a King’s officer, and your job is to lead your men as best you can. God knows, you won’t be any use to them dead.’

There was no denying that, so Stephen just stood there stiffly. Wilson shook his head and carried on in a more conciliatory voice: ‘They’re not your children, Stephen. They’re soldiers, they know the risks. You can only do what you can for them.’

‘This is what I can do.’

Wilson smiled bleakly. ‘I don’t doubt it, lieutenant. And if you want my permission, you can have it, but remember that we lose men every week. Don’t let it eat you up, and don’t let yourself be the next.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. You remember that, now.’

And revenge is a dish best served cold, thought Stephen, as another shiver racked his body. The sun would be up soon – maybe that would warm him. The sky was already turning grey, and he longed for daylight with every fibre. How many hours since he had last moved? Three? Four? He felt as if he had frozen into the icy earth and he had to clench his teeth to stop them from chattering. But it would be fatal to move now. The only thing he could do to keep warm was to tense the muscles in each limb until they ached; one leg at a time, then each arm, and finally his fingers, squeezing them against the walnut stock of the gun.

Vengeance is mine.
He repeated it to himself to take his mind off the cold. Anything but think about his situation. A shallow ditch in no man’s land with nothing but a mud-daubed bed sheet to cover him. It was getting light and he was lying about twenty yards in front of a German sniping post. Right in his line of sight. He couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. He had to breathe into the crook of his arm in case the steam of his breath gave him away.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
Why the bloody hell did Wilson have to say that? As if he hadn’t got enough to worry about.

But it was coming now. Five minutes more. His eyes darted to the right and there was a visible band of pink low on the horizon. He could see the stars starting to fade. Five more minutes and he would know if he was right.

At least he would know if it was really a sniping post. All he could see in front of him was a low mound with a splintered tree trunk lying on top. In this gloom it looked innocuous enough, but he was convinced it was the sniping post. He’d studied every inch of this ground, crawling out at night to check sightlines and wire thickets, and marking his map with a tiny cross for each of the Phantom’s victims. All this painstaking work had given him three definite positions, three clusters of crosses fanning out from three nondescript spots in no man’s land. But there was no way to tell which one the Phantom would use on any given day. He’d agonized over it for a day and a night, until the answer finally came to him with such a start that he sat bolt upright in his cot. The moon! It was the moon. The other two posts were used more or less at random around the full of the moon, but this one was only used at the dark. Why? Did he need the cover of darkness to get in, or did it offer a better shot in the first rays of the sun? It didn’t matter. Tonight was the dark of the moon. The Phantom was a creature of habit, and that would be his downfall.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

A finger of orange light slid across the snow directly in front of him. It crawled over the snowy hump of the sniping post and he knew then that he was right. In this most unnatural of places, with its fence posts and shell holes and wire, it was too natural. It was too smooth, too perfect. He knew he was right.

He’d better be. He’d worn every stitch of clothing he had, but still he was numb with the cold. The sun was warming his bed sheet and he thought he felt a tiny patch of heat on the back of his neck. He tried to focus on it and urge it through the rest of his body. This would be hard enough without being frozen half to death. A breath of breeze picked up a little flurry of snow that whispered across the bare ground in front of him. The air was beginning to move, it would have to be soon.

Patience, patience, he told himself, and thought of his grandfather. What would he have made of this kind of hunting? He would have approved of the gun, that was for sure. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship, smooth and heavy. Swirling acanthus leaves engraved all over the metal and a fine walnut stock the colour of good whiskey. Pity he didn’t have enough shells to test it. One in each barrel and one in his pocket, just in case. But it wouldn’t come to that. If the first one didn’t fire he would be dead. If . . .

His heart gave a leap when something moved on the mound. He stared at it, clear in the sunlight now, and held his breath. What was it? Something in the shadow, only half seen. Then he saw it again and relief flooded through him. There was a hollow under the tree trunk, a small pocket of shadow, and something was moving in there. Flapping in the fitful breeze. The gathering light penetrated the hollow and he saw it was a piece of cloth, a little curtain. Not natural in any case. He let out his breath in a long silent sigh and tightened his grip on the gun. Patience, patience.

He tried to picture what was going on inside the post. There wouldn’t be much room – just enough for two men – and it would be almost as cold as outside. They probably had a sap running back to the German trench, but they would have crawled up early in any case. They’d be waiting for the sun, just the same as he was. He’d been trying all night, but he couldn’t quite picture the Phantom in his mind. It was impossible to give him a face – all he could see was the monstrous glass eye of his scope. But he would be older, he reasoned. His sort of coolness doesn’t come easy in the young. Grey hair at his temples and solid, strong hands on the rifle as he settled himself to his work. His spotter would be younger, keen-eyed, working with a scope of his own. There wouldn’t be very much talk between them – just a few whispered numbers and directions. No jokes, no laughing. Death was a serious business.

He was staring so hard at the curtain that his eyes were watering in the cold. He blinked. Had it moved again? He willed it to move. He needed proof.

A gloved hand appeared, pulling the white cloth aside, and he suddenly felt his heart thumping against his ribs.
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.
He could see the flatness and the dull gleam of the steel plate they had planted below the tree trunk. Gently, gently, he eased the gun out of the crook of his arm. Christ, it was heavy! But the weight was reassuring. If it could stop an elephant dead in its tracks, it could do this – if only it would fire. But how long since it had last been used? How long had it been jumbled around with dusty baggage dragged all the way from India? Buried among tennis racquets and polo mallets and sun helmets, relics of a dead age.

The faint smell of Rangoon oil calmed him a little. The gun had been well cared for. It would fire. It was already loaded and cocked. All he had to do was slide it along his arm. Slowly, slowly. He was revealing himself too. If they thought to look this close they would see the barrel. But now he was ready. He settled his cheek against the walnut stock and watched the plate over the ‘V of the sights. He could see a small dark circle on the plate, and something started to grow out of it: a rifle barrel sliding out of the loophole. It had been wrapped in rags and dried grass, but there was no disguising the long, deadly shape. He peered into the back-sight and brought the bright dot of the foresight into line on the plate. Patience, patience. He felt his grandfather lying beside him now, patience incarnate.
Take your time, ease your breath. Don’t stare at your target. Hold it firm, squeeze the trigger.

Stephen let out a long sigh, felt the trigger give under the pressure of his finger, and kept gently squeezing. There was an enormous noise in his ear and the gun kicked his shoulder as hard as a horse. A half-second later the metallic clang like a fairground bell as the massive bullet smashed into the loophole with tons of force, driving it backwards like a hammer. He waited, not breathing, as the acrid fumes from the nitrous shell stung his eyes. Patience, patience. He gently slipped his finger to the second trigger. He could still see the rifle barrel under the tree trunk, but it had shrunk to just a few inches and stuck up like a broken limb. He let the words run through his head again.
Vengeance is mine.

But patience, patience. He drew a measured breath. His right ear was still ringing with the shock of the report, but he could hear something in the sniping post. Frightened cries and thumping, like a trapped animal. A hand waved momentarily at the back of the snowy hummock, then a human shape emerged, stumbling onto its knees. He was dressed in a white smock with a hood pushed back off his head, blood spattered all down one side. As he fell, Stephen saw the telescope jiggling on its cord around his neck, panic plain on his face. He was too young to be the Phantom: the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, then. Following him with the stubby barrels, Stephen took aim on his chest. The mighty gun boomed and kicked; the shot knocked him clean off his feet and flung him down in the snow.

Broken, just like Dalton, Stephen thought, slowly edging backwards into the ditch. Vengeance is mine, saith the lord.
But I am the avenging bloody angel.

It was dark by the time he got back to the billet. Another farmhouse, but this one was almost intact. Wilson was leaning out of an upstairs window, watching him as he trudged tiredly into the farmyard. The rifle felt like a field gun slung over his shoulder and his stomach was hollow and empty. Hot food, a hot bath and a dry place to sleep were all he wanted, but Wilson was grinning at him as he knocked out his pipe on the windowsill.

‘The hero returns,’ he cried. ‘Well, Ahab? I heard you got your whale. Is it true?’

So the news had travelled this far. The angry shouting from the German trench had started as soon as they realized what he’d done. Snatches of it carried to him as he inched his way back to safety. Once he caught the word ‘murder’ in a harsh accent, countered by ribald laughter and jeers from the British lines. Then the recrimination started. They knew he had to be close by and they vented their fury with mortars, machine guns and volleys and volleys of rifle fire. But all that did was show their impotence. They couldn’t see him, and they wouldn’t risk coming out after him in daylight. After half an hour the fire died down and Stephen continued creeping back, pressed into the snow, pushing the rifle in front of him as he slid from one crater to the next.

He stopped in the yard, swaying on his feet. No sleep last night, and even after half an hour’s brisk march he still hadn’t got the cold out of his bones.

‘It’s true.’

‘And are ye happy now?’

Happy? All the way back he’d been haunted by the sight of the spotter, picked up and flung down in the snow. Sometimes he could even feel him crawling after him, the freezing air spitting and bubbling through the hole in his shattered chest. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be stuck out there in broad daylight, with a whole division of bloody Germans dying to take a crack at him, he was menaced by ghosts. Well, it was his own fault. That’s all he was good for now: shooting boys as they ran away. No wonder he felt so wretched.

‘Not really, no.’

‘Aye, well, everybody else is. You’re the talk of the division. They’re calling you the Phantom Killer. General Hickie sent down a case of wine with your name on it. I dare say you’ll soon be doing theatrical engagements in the West End, shooting the pips out of playing cards.’

Stephen managed a weak smile. This was a change from Wilson’s sombre mood. Had he been at the wine already?

‘Come on up and have a drink, Stephen. We’ve got a new man just arrived, and you’ve got reason to celebrate. Something that’ll cheer you up. Here, catch . . .’

He threw down a little package no bigger than the palm of his hand and Stephen had to dart forward to catch it, turning it over in his hands, curious. A jewellery box? He was so jaded he couldn’t think what it was until he opened it and found a big silver cross gleaming on a bed of red velvet. He didn’t even have to see the purple and white ribbon to know what it was. Suddenly, his fatigue was gone, and he couldn’t stop the grin that spread across his face.

‘Thank you,’ he called up, childishly pleased.

‘Well, don’t just stand there, Ahab. We can’t open this case of wine without you and we’re dying with the thirst.’

The new man was Second Lieutenant Nightingale, a tall tubular boy with the nascent fluff of his regulation moustache barely showing on his upper lip. His shyness was palpable from the way he stood crouched under the low ceiling with his hands clasped behind his back. When Stephen introduced himself he shook hands and bowed very formally, all the while eyeing the heavy rifle as Stephen unslung it and stood it in the corner. Wilson was by the window, trying to push the cork into a bottle of wine with a round of rifle ammunition and the heel of his hand.