“Die!” Malcolm tried to shout but his winded lungs could only muster a hoarse grunt. “Just die!”
The German’s eyes widened in sudden terror, but it was too late. His mouth worked wordlessly as his arms lost their hold on Malcolm, then he collapsed into a twitching heap.
Sucking in rasping breaths, Malcolm wrenched his knife out of the man’s skull, wiped the blood and brains on the fallen man’s pants and then crawled away through the gore-spattered ground. He was overwhelmed by a sick feeling in his gut. What he had considered heroic was, in fact, despicable. War was ugly. War was inhuman. There was no glory to be found here.
He pushed himself upright, dimly noting that the rain of gunfire had stopped. The Germans had withdrawn from the field. Those who had been attacked by his small entourage lay in twisted heaps. Everywhere both German and Allied corpses littered the barren earth, scattered like toys from a child’s hand. But no child had done this. Only minds trained to lust after power could conceive something so overpoweringly evil. Nausea struck him, and Malcolm slid to his knees, weeping.
The magnitude of the horror of what had happened shook the very core of his being. He slumped forward and retched, heaving up the contents of his stomach until there was nothing left. Still he remained prostrate, his muscles contracting as salty tears slid down his blood-spattered face, although there was nothing left within him. It was as though his body wanted to cleanse itself of the evil within—the very evil that lurked in every human heart. For only evil could have spawned this Armageddon.
Finally, wiping his mouth, he lurched upright. Will stood to his left, surveying the battlefield with a detached coolness. Malcolm moved as quickly as his aching ribs would permit toward the first man he had killed. He wrenched his rifle free then looked away, panting.
The battlefield was eerily quiet. The shelling had stopped and there were no living Germans left in sight.
“What’s happening?” His throat ached, parched and raw.
Will shook his head. “They’ve pulled back.” He fumbled in his belt for a pair of binoculars and pressed them to his eyes. “Looks like the French are advancing toward the German line. Wait! There’s something on the ground. Some kind of a mist. The French have stopped. They’re—”
“What?” Malcolm covered his forehead with his palm, straining to see. “What is it?”
Horror chilled Will’s voice. “They’re retreating.”
“What?” Malcolm grabbed the binoculars and pressed them to his eyes. The ground was covered with a sort of eerie pale fog. The French army was closest to the vapor. Hordes of men retreated, gesturing at something that could only be—
“Gas!” His stomach rolled. A greenish-yellow cloud unfolded itself like a living wall over the retreating French troops. Within seconds, the fleeing soldiers were swallowed up in the cloud’s open maw. He saw their bodies fall writhing like earthworms on the barren ground. Death choked the life from their lungs.
The thought made his jaw slack with horror. Paralyzed, he gaped as the first wave of German infantry appeared in the mist.
They were demons, riding carelessly through the hazy cloud. The spiked helmets that adorned their heads identified them as the Kaiser’s children and their faces—Malcolm shuddered—were covered by a sort of mask that stripped away whatever humanity remained to them.
Flashes of light spouted from their rifles, glinting off the steel of their bayonets as they slaughtered the fallen Allied soldiers whose poisoned bodies had turned a grisly shade of black. Malcolm lowered the binoculars. The cloud had tripled in size and was clearly visible to his eyes as well as those around him.
He sniffed. “You smell that?”
“The wind’s shifting.” Will licked his finger and held it up.
Malcolm lifted the glasses to his eyes again. What he saw made him shiver. A wave of allied French and Algerian soldiers fled in their direction, melting away before their pursuers like wax before a flame. They staggered like drunks as they scrambled to escape up the ridge.
“They’re comin’ right for us!” A gaping soldier croaked out the obvious. “Run. The gas is comin’!”
Pandemonium ripped through the soldiers nearest him; deforming them into a stampeding mob. Some dropped weapons while others shoved their slower comrades out of the way.
Malcolm’s hands carved through his hair as his gaze darted from the retreating Allied forces to the soldiers around him—men who were now willing to abandon the very ground that they had fought so hard to gain. Pulse hammering in his throat, he glanced around. The regiment’s leader was nowhere to be found. Either he was dead, or he too had already fled the battlefield. They were leaderless.
Malcolm spun back toward the advancing enemy. He stood on hilly terrain, surrounded by a few hundred survivors of the initial assault. About half-a-mile behind him were the trenches of his regiment and beyond that, lay the heart of the twenty-eight division. It didn’t take an expert to realize that if Gravenstafel ridge was lost, the enemy would be able to pour fire onto an entire section of the Allied army. The division commanders would surely have seen the devastation that was being wreaked on their allies below and were no doubt sending reinforcements to hold Gravenstafel ridge at this moment. If he could stop the men from running, they might be able to hold the Germans off long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
“Will,” adrenaline turned his blood to fire, “we have to hold them here.”
Will spat on the rocky soil. “I have no intention of running.”
“Stop as many others as you can.” Malcolm whirled around, ignoring the pain in his ribs, and grabbed a fleeing soldier. “Stay!” Then, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and waving his arms like a madman, he dashed down the line. “We must hold them here. Don’t run!” Slowly, a semblance of order reclaimed some and soon, a ragged line formed up around him.
Pacing back and forth, Malcolm’s mind ripped through a set of possible scenarios. What he planned to do was nothing short of madness. There was no guarantee that reinforcements were coming; he only presumed as such. Doubts flew through his mind like the bullets he had dodged a few minutes earlier. What if reinforcements never came? Or, just as possible, they might come but too late.
“Here’s the plan, men.” The confidence in his voice surprised even him. “Pull together to let the French through. Then, when they get closer, send the Bosch back to their holes!”
The first stream of retreating French soldiers crested the hill only moments after Malcolm’s troops were in position. Working the bolts on their rifles and muttering imprecations, his men pulled to one side, allowing hundreds to swarm past.
“Steady.” Malcolm craned his neck to see over his shoulder. Some of his men had joined the fleeing Allies. He couldn’t blame them. It was obvious that there was little chance of survival now. The few that had chosen to remain were nothing compared to the coming storm of Germans. Even if, by some miracle, the Germans didn’t overrun them, the gas would claim their lives.
Why don’t I join them? He scratched his clean-shaven jawline. This is where I belong.
All the turmoil of his profligate life had pointed to this moment. Some part of him hoped that his death would devastate Leila, haunting her each day. Another part of him hoped he could somehow atone for his wrongs. Whether that was possible or not he didn’t know, but everything within him affirmed that this place, Gravenstafel Ridge, this day, the twenty-second of April, was a defining moment in his life. Everything had been pointing to—
“Now!”
The cry ripped from Malcolm’s throat as the first wave of masked Germans crested the hill. A fusillade of bullets sent most of the advance line crashing down on those who followed but there were simply too many.
The German survivors formed their own front line, peppering the soldiers around him with small arms fire while another wave of German infantry ascended to the top of Gravenstafel Ridge.
Malcolm fired round after round even as the noxious fumes made his throat tigh
ten.
The men around him had taken the brunt of the German salvo. Only a few were still alive and, as he chanced a look over his shoulder, he saw that they too dropped their guns and ran. His lungs burned, and he willed himself to defy his own instinct to survive. The very air had become his mortal enemy.
Crawling backward, he propped a machine gun against a rock and aimed down the sight then pressed down on the trigger. Bratatat! Bratatat! The steady crackle of the gun punched a few more holes in the advancing line.
“Hold!” Malcolm tried to shout but he could barely breathe. Get away. Must... get away. He pulled the trigger once more and realized that the rattle of gunfire around him had faded away. He glanced over his shoulder. He was alone. Everyone around him was either dead or had vanished. No reinforcements had arrived. The fight was over.
Malcolm scrambled to his feet. Only about three hundred yards separated him from the cautiously advancing German line. They had not seen him yet, in part due to the gaseous fog that preceded them up the mountain.
“Will!” He racked out a cough. There was no answer. His eyes burned, and he felt as though someone had rammed a Billy club down his throat.
“Will!” Malcolm staggered forward then tripped over a prostrate form. His heart sank as he recognized Will’s upturned face. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted. Dead? He dropped to his knees, pressing his head against the man’s chest. He couldn’t hear any sound but felt it rise and fall. If he didn’t get him out now, Will would be just another corpse. A memory of his parting words to Eleanor flared up in his mind, stinging his conscience. Your husband is dead.
“Not... yet.” He slipped his arms under Will’s body. “Not... dead yet.”
Groaning, he heaved him onto his shoulder and staggered out of the greenish cloud. Germans poured over the ridge like an unending tidal wave. Sweat beaded his brow. He had only a few seconds before he was discovered. He pushed forward toward the British line, dragging Will alongside him.
The sudden smack of marching boots in the mud made him freeze. He craned his neck upward. The sound had come from the Allied trenches. Wild hope flared up in his chest.
“Come on boys! Remember you’re Canadians!” An enthusiastic roar followed the wild whoop.
Malcolm stood immobile, knees weak with relief as fresh soldiers, wearing Canadian colors, streamed past him toward the advancing German line.
He lurched forward, staggering under Will’s weight and his own wounds. The evening shadows had begun to gather when at last he dropped into the trenches of his regiment.
Will coughed violently, rolling onto his side, as Malcolm stretched him out on the ground. Grabbing a discarded canteen, he poured some water down Will’s throat. The man swallowed, coughed, retched, then swallowed some more. His eyes flickered open and, when he saw Malcolm squatting next to him, his lips curled in a faint smile.
“Who would’ve believed it?” He sucked in a lungful of air. “Rich boy... saved my... life.”
“Just paying my debts.” Malcolm pressed the canteen to his own lips and downed its contents. “Don’t make it to be more than it is.”
A shadow fell over them, and Malcolm glanced up, squinting against the sun’s dying rays.
Lieutenant-Colonel James Stewart stood, chest thrust out and eyes glowing. “I saw what you did out there, lads. Both of you.”
His voice was tight with emotion. “That was braw lad. That was real class.”
His bushy eyebrows hiked together as he focused on Malcolm. “Some of the lads said you prevented a full-scale retreat. And I see you saved one of our own at risk to yourself.” He raised his hand in a slow salute. “Good man.”
Stewart nodded briskly at Will. “Right. We’ve no medics to spare but you’ll be alright. Get some rest, both of you. We’ll be back at it before daybreak.” Then, turning on his heel he stalked away.
Malcolm slumped against the wall, weariness seeping into his bones.
Will struggled to sit up next to him.
“Thanks,” he rasped, “for saving my life out there.”
“You did the same,” Malcolm said dully.
Will extended a bloody hand. “Truce?”
Malcolm considered for a moment then took it. “I guess we should make it official.”
He sighed. In less than a day, his world had once again flipped on its axis. “Funny how things change. This morning, I scorned the muck that squelched beneath my boots. “Now,” he let his hands fall into the mire below him, “I’m just glad to be alive.”
But that had not been the only change. He had thought battle was synonymous with glory. Now he knew the truth. He had feared to leave the trenches yet, in a moment of crisis, he had bought his division precious time by organizing an impromptu resistance.
He could just make out the profile of Will’s face in the fading light. That was perhaps the greatest mystery. Against all reason, he had risked his own life to save a man that he had once despised. Why? Perhaps his action had been spurred by the guilt that continued to plague his mind. He had deceived Eleanor and wanted to atone, albeit vicariously. Or perhaps I wanted to do something right, just once in my life.
Darkness swallowed the horizon as fatigue swallowed his mind. Unable to think anymore, Malcolm closed his eyes and drifted off into the sleep of the dead.
Chapter 20
London, Great Britain. April 1915
Leila slid onto her bed and folded her legs beneath her. The room was immersed in darkness, the sole exception being a pinpoint of light cast by a small flashlight which rested on a rickety wooden table near her bed.
In her mouth she held the stub of a brown pencil while, in her left hand, she clutched a slip of paper. To the casual observer, the paper would appear to be covered with random dots and dashes but, to Leila’s trained eye, it was a direct message. She jotted the letters that corresponded to the assortment of shapes and squiggles onto a separate sheet of paper that rested on her lap and let her mind analyze the day’s events.
She had stepped out of Thomas’s car when they arrived at Whitehall court in London. He had made it clear that she was welcome at Northshire, however she refused to take advantage of his hospitality despite the persistent voice in her skull that called her a traitor.
Later that night she had transformed herself into Annabelle Durand and returned to work. Hughes was typically not at work when she arrived for her night shift but, as she approached his office, she could not mistake his voice—a voice that oozed frustration.
“59,000 dead!” A newspaper had smacked onto a desk. Slipping off her shoes, Leila had sidled closer, pressing her thin body close against the wall.
Another voice spoke up then, one that carried a somber ring of authority coupled with a note of resignation. “There was nothing more we could do, Hughes.” The man sighed. “I might be the Prime Minister, but even I must bow to protocol every now and then. The Department of Ministry was simply not willing to put any faith in the word of a German mole—especially one so close to Haber. And can you blame them? Think, old chap, about the consequences if we had ordered an assault based on the word of a German only to realize that it was all some nefarious plot. Think of the press!”
As she jotted down another letter, Leila’s pulse quickened just as it had at that moment outside Hughes’s door. Then, she had been thrilled to learn that she was eavesdropping on a conversation between two of the most powerful men in Great Britain. Now, adrenaline surged in her veins at the realization that she had successfully deciphered the first line of the short message.
What’s next? Leila squinted at the second line, shifting the paper so the beam of yellow light could better illuminate it. A vertical line separated from two equal dots by a quarter inch. She tapped the pencil stub against her chin, then retrieved a thin, grey pamphlet containing a compilation of British communication codes that she had received just before leaving Antwerp. Flipping toward the back of the thin pamphlet, Leila ran her finger down the page until she saw the sym
bol that matched the one on the note. Then, she hurriedly scribbled the letter D. Satisfied, she let her mind return to its previous thoughts.
Hughes had slammed his fist on the desk in an uncharacteristic display of anger—an anger which Leila understood. She should be thrilled that 59,000 British soldiers had perished at Ypres, but the thought of so many dead sickened her. Earlier, she had frantically combed through the newspaper lists of casualties, praying that somehow Malcolm Steele would not be among them.
“There was something.” Hughes’s voice was hard. “We received warning from our contact in Berlin. He said that this would happen and what did we do with it? Nothing!”
Leila straightened, furrowing a brow. In that moment, Hughes had revealed that the elusive German turncoat in Berlin was a man—priceless information that she should report.
She slowly tilted her head from side to side. If she helped Werner capture the mole, the flow of information that Great Britain desperately needed would stop. True, London had not listened to the last warning but surely the Ministry would learn from the atrocity of Ypres.
Why do I care? Heat rose along the back of her neck. Her role was simple: gather vital intelligence from the enemy—the British. And Malcolm? It was a quiet voice that whispered but one she could never ignore. The possibility existed that, in supplying information that could identify the mole, she might stifle some form of intelligence that might save Malcolm’s life. It was remote but definitely a possibility as Ypres had proven. Perhaps Hughes had other agents, other sources of information. But could they be as reliable?
The discussion between Hughes and the Prime Minister had continued but she had retreated to the kitchens, thinking it wiser to wait until the building was empty before starting her work. After both men had finally left, she had slipped into the spymaster’s office and picked the lock to his top drawer. Inside, lay an encrypted message.
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 19
