Murder At Zero Hour

by Paul Westwood

  Chapter 4

  The Past

  We arrived at Liverpool in the morning. It was with some regret that I left the HMS Adriatic. I had grown to like the sea and the solitary feeling one gets hundreds of miles from land. I said my goodbyes to the men I had worked with and agreed to come back to visit when I had the chance. After I had washed off what grime I could and changed into my last good set of clothes, Isaac led me down the crew’s gangplank.

  “It was good to meet you,” I said and clapped him heartily on the shoulder.

  “The boys and I had a whip-around for you,” he said shyly. “I thought you would need some traveling money to see you to London.” He dropped some loose change into my hands. “This should be enough to get you there.”

  I tried to refuse the money, but the old sailor pushed it back my hands. With some resignation, I slipped the coins into my pockets and said, “I’ll make sure to write and let you know how it works out.”

  “I’ve heard that the 61st Regiment is recruiting,” he said. “Some new thing that the government thought of - it seems they are putting together a regiment of malcontents and beggars who weren’t accepted elsewhere. They might even take an American if they’re desperate enough.”

  “I would hardly consider myself a malcontent.”

  “It is just something to consider if some other regiment doesn’t take you on. At my age, the only reason that I’ve still been able to sail on the Adriatic is because the shortage of men. On the last voyage, a few of the older chaps decided they wanted to have a go at the Hun and signed up. These were old sailors who were turned down by other recruiting agents, but the 61st found a place for them with no questions asked.”

  “Well, I’ll look into it when I get to London,” I said gratefully as I left. I just assumed anyone would take a fit man like me, but only now did I consider the issue of my nationality. Perhaps they weren’t desperate enough to take Americans into the army yet. There was only one way to find out.

  Following the directions I was given, I walked to the train station and bought a third class ticket. I handed over the requested amount and received some change back. I wasn’t quite sure if it was even the right amount, for the British currency is certainly archaic by any stretch of the imagination.

  Soon enough I was on the packed train, trundling towards London. I spent the time looking out the window and thinking that the plan I had in Chicago had grown more complicated than expected. I'd been planning for everything to turn out perfectly – the trip over, arrival at a recruitment station, and getting a uniform on my back - all seemed so easy to me back then. Now my money was gone, and I was now left wondering if they would let an American join up. I had little prospects if I was not accepted into the army. Well, there was nothing to do now but to give it a try. The worse thing that could happen would be telegraphing my uncle and then waiting for some money to be wired to me. I would certainly hate to go that route and, as frustrating as the change in my plans had been, I tried to remain hopeful for the future.

  Pushing those thoughts out of my head, I instead turned my attention to the landscape rushing by the train. When one lives in America you forget how small the European countries are. In the cities, people and houses were crammed ever so closely together. It was some surprise that it was only going to be a few hours to get to London, much like travelling from Chicago to Detroit. But still, outside Liverpool, the rolling countryside was beautiful. The small farms were busy and the green hedges and freshly dug field zipped by. In my youthful fancy, I was proud with the idea of fighting for my mother’s home country. Here was a tiny country being attacked by the great powers of Germany.

  As the train stopped at various stations, it suddenly occurred to me that there was a shortage of men about. Oh sure, there were men – but the majority of them were middle aged or older. My own youth was drawing uncomfortable attention from the women sitting around me. I realized that the great call for soldiers had been answered, but little did I guess on the impact on society. My fellow passengers must have been kept busy guessing why I hadn’t joined up yet. Well, if they gave me the chance, I surely would.

  After I had a light lunch from the passing trolley, the train arrived in London that afternoon. I really had no clear idea where to go at this time, so I spent some of my remaining funds on an issue of the London Times. Skimming past the front page news, I found a large ad with the local recruiting stations listed. I took special notice of the Royal Fusiliers and the London Rifle Brigade. I knew little of them, but the names piqued my interest.

  After flagging down a fellow pedestrian, I was able to get directions to the nearest recruiter of note – the Royal Fusiliers. In a few minutes, I was standing in front of the brick recruiting building, feeling quite accomplished that I had made it this far on my wits alone. However, as soon as I saw the officers inside, I was rejected as soon as I spoke. They knew I was an American and didn’t want to have anything to do with me. An hour later, and I had made my way to see the London Rifles. The results were the same. At this point I was feeling disheartened until I remembered Isaac’s recommendation of the 61st Regiment. I dug out the newspaper and found their advertisement inside. A few directions from a passerby, and I was on my way.

  It was getting on in the day. I needed to get in to see them before they closed. I didn’t have enough money left over to spend the night anywhere decent or even buy a good meal. So I brushed off my wrinkled coat and walked into the tiny building only to find only one civilian waiting before a scarred oak table. Sitting on the other side was a man in army uniform with a pile of papers in front of him. Behind him were four desks with clerks toiling away at mountains of paperwork. I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation he was having with the would-be soldier in front of me.

  “Name?” the uniformed clerk barked.

  “Timothy Cooper,” the man mumbled in front of me. He was shabbily dressed, very short, and played nervously with the dirty brown cap held in his hand.

  “Age?”

  “Twenty-two, sir”.

  “Occupation?”

  “Street sweeper,” Cooper answered as if ashamed of his job.

  “Any health problems?”

  “No, sir.”

  The clerk nodded and pointed to the table to the left. “Go to the clerk over there and welcome to the army, Private Cooper.”

  The man shuffled away. I steeled myself for failure since it was now my turn to stand before the desk. I stood straight as the clerk looked me up and down. I must have looked like a giant compared to the previous applicant. Standing closer to the clerk, I saw that he was older than I thought. There were touches of white in his hair, and he had deep wrinkles about his mouth. Obviously not cut out for the battlefield, he had been shuttled back to handle recruiting. I almost felt sorry for him.

  “Name?” he barked out in the same manner he had used on poor Timothy Cooper.

  “William Samuel Grant,” I replied quickly and with as much confidence as I could muster.

  Instead of asking my age, he paused and looked up at me in surprise. My Midwestern accent must have thrown him off. After a moment that set my heart racing, he asked, “Are you English?”

  “My mother is,” I replied.

  “And where was she from?”

  “Cambridge. That's where she married my father.”

  “But were you born in England?” he asked, watching me closely.

  “Not exactly,” I muttered. I got a sinking feeling deep in my stomach.

  There was a sudden commotion behind the clerk that caused him to quickly turn his head. Some type of officer walked in the room and everyone jumped up to attention. This officer was followed by another man who stayed at his elbow. The clerk I was with saluted.

  “Once you're done there, Rogers,” the man said, “We can pack it in for the night.”

  “Very well, Colonel,” the clerk said and saluted again. I noted that the British
had an odd looking salute with an open palm, faced forward.

  The colonel stood and watched me with interest as the clerk sat down and continued to query me.

  “Now where were we? Oh yes, your mother. Were you born in England or not?”

  “I'm afraid I was born in America,” I admitted. “Does it really make a difference?” I started to get that empty pit feeling in my stomach again. That telegram to my uncle was beginning to look like a sure thing.

  “I'm afraid it does. Unless you can prove otherwise, I'm afraid we can't accept you into the regiment.”

  My face must have looked crestfallen, for the clerk said with pity, “I’m really sorry.”

  The colonel strode up. He was a short, balding man who had a neatly trimmed set of whiskers and an immaculate uniform. He eyed me up and down for a moment before he finally asked, “You say you're from America?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “How did you get here?”

  I told him the short version of my travels to England and I was often interrupted by him saying, “Extraordinary” or “I say.” On the other hand, the other officer standing next to him merely scowled.

  “I must say that this is all very interesting,” the colonel finally said when I had finished. He began stroking his mustache as if he was deep in thought. His toady follower whispered something in his ear, but he waved him away. “You said you came all the way over here to fight the Hun?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered again.

  He spoke to the man next to him, “You know, Captain, I have an idea for this young gentleman here.”

  “What is it?” the captain asked stiffly as if he really didn’t care to hear any idea that the colonel offered. He was a skinny runt, with a shock of brown hair covering one eye. But his uniform was neatly pressed, and he looked as if he was working hard at being respected.

  “Perhaps we should let this man join up with us,” the colonel said.

  “Why, sir?” his companion asked coldly.

  “Think of the news stories, my man. Young man leaves the safety of America to fight against the evil of the advancing German Army. It would be a good bit of propaganda and get some other recruits over here to join our regiment. I mean what could be a better reason than that?”

  My heart began to swell as I heard the colonel say those words. This man here was willing to give me a chance. Those thoughts were dashed as the captain spoke.

  “I can't recommend it, sir. Think of the bad press the Americans would generate if he was to be killed.” He paused and then added acidly, ”And I hardly think one man in one regiment will open a floodgate of recruits to the 61st.”

  The colonel looked deep in thought and then asked me, “Tell me, you look fairly well- off. What was your occupation in America?”

  “I was a mechanical engineer for a firm in Chicago where we made train parts.”

  “So you are an educated man. Well, that does make a difference. I'm short of officers at the moment, and I need intelligent men to lead my troops in the face of the enemy.”

  “An officer?” the captain asked incredulously. “What will the other officers think if this American here is given a commission? It's hardly fair to them.” He looked at me and asked, “Do you have any military training at all?”

  “I'm afraid not,” I admitted. “I however am a good shot with the rifle and I've done a bit of boxing in my time.”

  “He does look rather fit,” the colonel said. “He’s just the type of man who can look after himself in a scrap. I think we should give him a commission and send him off to officer's school.”

  His companion merely shrugged and said, “If you say so, sir, but I do think it is a mistake.”

  His face red with anger, the colonel said, “Yes, I do say so. I don't mind hearing your opinion, even if I didn't ask for it. You’re my secretary and don’t you forget it.” He then turned to me and said, “By the way, I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

  “William,” I grinned. “William Grant.” I felt happy as I could possibly be. Me, an officer? I could hardly believe it. I had expected to be an enlisted man, but now I was going to lead troops into battle.

  “Mr. Grant, welcome to the 1st Division of the 61st Battalion. I’m Colonel Smythe, your commanding officer as of now. I must say you are lucky that I came back here to check on the status of our recruiting efforts, otherwise no one else may have taken you. It's a pleasure to have you with us.” He reached out his hand, a warm smile spreading across his face.

  I gratefully pumped his hand and said, “I promise I won't let you down, sir.”

  “I shall hope not. Just report here in the morning and we'll get you all sorted out. It will take a bit of paperwork, but I think I can get you into the Wrexham with some of the other newly commissioned officers.”

  I had no idea where that was but I asked, “If it is possible, I am in need of a place to sleep for the night. As I told you, my money was stolen when I was in New York. I'm afraid I'm practically penniless.”

  Smythe said, “Captain Wodenhill, see that he has a place to stay. I’ll cover his costs until we can get him sent him off for his training.”

  “Yes, sir,” Wodenhill replied woodenly.

  “Thank you, sir,” I added gratefully.

  Wodenhill then took me outside and quickly hailed a taxi. He handed me a few pound notes and then stuffed me inside the cab. “Cabbie, take him to the Strand Hotel.” After paying the cabbie, he then turned to me and said through the window, “Remember, we shall expect to see you here in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain, I will be here.”

  He merely stared at me as the cab drew away. This Wodenhill character certainly wasn’t a likable fellow, but any thought of him faded away as I thought of my unexpected triumph. I was going to be an officer. That colonel seemed like a fine soldier indeed. For him to offer me this chance was simply amazing.

  I arrived at the hotel, took my room, and had all of my clothes sent off to be cleaned. In the meanwhile, I took a hot bath, ordered room service and thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of finally being alone. A week out to sea certainly had offered little in that regard. I went to bed early. I was keyed up enough that it took me quite a long time to fall asleep. Tomorrow was going to be the beginning of a new life.

  I woke up that morning with the bellhop knocking at my door. He had my newly cleaned and pressed suit, so I quickly dressed and went down to pay for my room. After that, I caught a cab and was brought to the recruiting station where Captain Wodenhill was waiting for me. Mind you, he looked none too pleased to see me. Perhaps he had expected me to be a common criminal and take the money without coming back.

  He snarled, “I’m afraid the colonel is indisposed at the moment. He is rather a busy at this time and is too important of a man to take care of you like a wet-nurse. I’ll also add that you are extremely lucky that he saw you yesterday and has taken such an interest in your plight.”

  “Yes, I am lucky,” I agreed.

  “Colonel Smythe went against my wishes on this matter, but still, he is the commanding officer. He also agreed to pay for your uniform and initial mess fees until you receive your first pay. Personally, I don’t think you will make a good officer,” he said bluntly.

  I could only give him an icy smile as I said, “I think you will be proven wrong, Captain.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he said haughtily.

  We went in, and I signed a mountain of paperwork. I was given a letter of introduction, and before I knew it, I was off to the train station to make my journey to Wrexham. Traveling on Smythe’s expense, I was, of course, booked third class.

  Perhaps the less I speak of my time at Wrexham, the better. The instructors were crass and didn’t care much for the new recruits coming into their school. They were used to the proper public-school gentleman and didn’t care for these clerks, tradesmen and bankers becoming officers in Kitchener’s s
o-called 'New Army'. As an American, I was treated with even more scorn than usual, and on countless times I was used as an example of being a poor officer. It seemed unfair, but I had the good sense of keeping my mouth shut since I did not want to prove Captain Wodenhill right in any regard. I wanted to give in to my temper more than a few times, so I suppose I should have been grateful to him for giving me something to live up to.

  I will admit I knew nothing of soldiering and initially found the whole thing rather confusing. I often saluted the wrong people, found the heavy wool uniform tiresome to march in, and asked far too many questions to the instructors. But I was good at marksmanship, and I was in better shape than the others there. I could march for hours without rest and hustled through the courses faster than anyone else.

  One would think the staff would have preferred to throw me out of that school, but as I kept on, I detected the not so subtle hand of Colonel Smythe in the background. The London Times even ran a story about me, and it was widely read at Wrexham. I was treated with a little more respect after that article, but at the same time I also started to excel in my classes. We learned all sorts of things that were worthless to the civilian – marching, military law, bugle calls, signals, and infantry tactics that would ultimately prove to be useless in the trenches. But nonetheless, instead of being used as the poor class example, I began to thrive in this new foreign career.

  Thankfully, it was all over soon enough. Afterward, I was given the rank of second lieutenant. I was to command a company over in France and was ordered to join them on the front lines.

  The ship we took over was called HMS Fortitude, and it had little to do with its given name. The ship was a rusting hulk and was crammed to the gills with troops and war material. There was a constant lookout for submarines, and so we were escorted by several destroyers of dubious age. I was more worried about the state of the ship than any submarine, for it creaked unceasingly as we passed over the choppy waves of the English Channel.

  We landed without incident at a small port and I was quickly ordered onto a third-class rail carriage with some other officers. It was better than the common soldier, who was forced into cramped forty-and-eight boxcars – good for forty men or eight horses. I felt sorry for them, but they accepted their condition without complaint – or at least as far as I could tell. At that time, I still had plenty to learn about what makes a soldier tick.

  The train started to chug along and I watched the French landscape with wondering eyes. It was June now, and it had turned out to be a beautiful summer. I could see the peasants working the fields of the ancient farms, looking as if they didn't have a care in the world. It looked quite peaceful. I wondered how it could be that thousands were dying just a few miles away.

  “You’re the American,” a lieutenant across from me said. He looked rather young, and his foot was busy tapping the floor in a nervous manner.

  “Yes,” I said cautiously.

  “I hate to interrupt, but I wanted your opinion on something. My name is David. I read that article about you in the Times. I just wanted to shake your hand and thank you for coming over.”

  He reached over and we shook hands.

  “My name is William. I’m just glad to help out,” I said.

  He pursed his lips and asked quietly, “Tell me, are you afraid of doing this?”

  I’ve often noticed that complete strangers will open up to each other in ways that even family or friends never do. “Doing what?” I asked.

  He hesitated a moment before continuing. “You see, my brother Robert came home some five months ago. He's a lieutenant with the 1st Hertfordshire. It took some time, but I managed to coax out of him what was really happening out in the trenches. You know the sort of things that the censors won’t let anyone write in a letter or publish in the papers.”

  “Like what?” I asked, filled with interest.

  “I can’t describe it well, but it sounds bloody awful. How the shells come screaming down from nowhere, and how bad the conditions really are. He told me about the high casualty numbers and the awful food.” He looked about, as if he was afraid of being overheard. “I went through officer school hoping I wouldn’t be on the front lines. But it turns out I’m headed towards a bad sector. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t offer you much advice.”

  He lapsed into silence and turned to watch the landscape. The reflection on the window showed a grim, frightened face. I began to wonder what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into.

  The towns we passed through were beautiful, and when we stopped to coal the train, the cars were mobbed by the villagers. They sold tea, coffee and pastries to us through the open windows. Many of the townspeople spoke atrocious English, if at all. I could hear the soldiers in the cars whistling and cat-calling at the prettier girls. What else can you expect from a soldier?

  “Bloody fools,” David said to no one in particular.

  “They’re just soldiers,” I said.

  “They’re all going to be dead,” he said darkly and went back to his own thoughts. He did not say anything further, and I was glad when he kept his mouth shut. I didn’t need his gloominess intruding on my thoughts, so I moved to another seat across the way.

  After sleeping through the most of night uncomfortably on the hard bench, the train steamed into the village of Deveaux. The town was near the valley of the River Somme. Checking my watch, I saw it was nearly four in the morning. After saying a hearty farewell to David, I was dropped off with a handful of other soldiers and we watched as the train pulled away. I saw David staring at me through his window, his sad eyes staring at me. I never heard of him again, and I still wonder how he made out.

  After the train was gone, I was suddenly conscious of rumbling thunder in the distance. I looked in the direction of the sound and saw flashes off in the horizon. I thought it was odd since we hadn't seen a cloud all day.

  “It is artillery, sir,” a gruff voice said at my elbow.

  I turned, and in the dim light of the station lamps, saw a man of medium height with three bars on his sleeve. That would make him a sergeant - one with a shabby uniform and mud-splattered boots. He gave me a sloppy salute and said, “Sergeant Owens, sir. I was ordered to take you lot to the Battalion Headquarters to be sorted out with the other men.”

  “How do you know you have the right man?” I smiled.

  “That's easy enough, sir, you're the only lieutenant here.”

  “True enough, Sergeant, I'm Lieutenant Grant.”

  “Very good, sir.” He suppressed a quick grin. “I'm with your company, and I was told to look after you while you are here.”

  “I see,” I said. I certainly wasn't used to having anyone look after me. “Is there any reason why they have decided to give you that task?”

  “Just normal procedure, sir - too many officers getting killed right away. There's a right shortage of them right now, so they're all very precious to the colonel.”

  Now it was my turn to smile. I shrugged and asked, “How far away do we have to go?”

  “Nine kilometers, sir.”

  I did the conversion to miles in my head and said, “That's an awfully long way to walk from here.”

  “Well, sir, the Hun's artillery can strike pretty deep into our territory. I'm thinking they want to keep this rail line open. It is our only link with the outside world.”

  “I can see I have a lot to learn, Sergeant. I suggest you get these soldiers together and lead the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied without haste. He barked out a few commands and the men quickly got sorted out in marching order. They did look a bit nervous as they picked up their packs and stepped in line behind Owens. I carried my own heavy pack, walking with him and listening to him prattle on.

  “This is a pretty quiet sector, sir. The Germans don't bother us too much. You just have to make sure you keep your head down when you're
in the trenches. Lots of artillery and shrapnel about, so be careful there. Of course the errant whiz-bang can come along and take you out in a flash. But most of their shells go too far over or else they're busy trading fire with our own artillery batteries.”

  I nodded if I understood what he was talking about. In the distance, I could see that we were approaching the dark shadows of buildings. They looked deserted since I did not see a single light shining from the windows. “Is that the village of Deveaux?” I ventured.

  “Yes, sir,” Owens replied.

  “But where are all the people?”

  “Most of them are gone, sir, but some still remain living in what remains. The Germans had possession of this town, and then we captured it a few months ago. We used to be up there on that ridge.” He pointed vaguely in the dark behind us. “We shelled them out of the town and took it for ourselves. I guess the Frenchies don't care to be around in case the Huns take it over again. There will be plenty of time to look it over since we're billeted there when we're not on the front. A few shells come this way, but it's mostly safe.”

  He stopped talking as the sound of artillery grew louder. The guns were our own, and they were firing salvos towards the east. The flash of the muzzles was becoming blinding. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach with nerves. We trudged on. After a bit of marching, we passed the village, and came to the first line of artillery guns. They were pointed at the sky and really going at it. The gunners were busy loading and firing, hunched over the great metal monsters that belched out smoke and noise. The ground shook underneath our feet.

  The Sergeant tugged on my sleeve and then pushed me hard down to the ground. A salvo from what I presumed was from the German side, struck not thirty yards away. The sound was deafening. I felt the ground shake as dirt was thrown high into the air. There was a curious whistling in the air, and I heard a man behind us give a sudden shriek. It was piece of shrapnel that must have gone by me and into one of the soldiers.

  “German coal boxes, sir.” Owens grunted. “You'll get used to the sound of the five-nine shells.” He went over to the wounded man to make sure he did not require medical care.

  The man just had a small wound in his arm. He said nervously, “I'll be alright, sir. I wasn't expecting to get hurt without shooting a Hun first.”

  The rest of the men laughed at this, and at my urging we moved at a quick double-time march.

  The next salvo of what the sergeant had called five-nines, landed eighty yards behind us in a crash. Except for Owens, we all reflexively threw ourselves to the ground. He remained standing and helped me up.

  “Don’t worry, sir, soon enough you'll get to know where the shells are dropping by the sound. It doesn't take that much practice to know the difference.”

  My knees were shaking, and I could barely stand as the adrenaline left my body in a sickening wave. “Is it always like this?” I asked him as calmly as I could.

  In the pale morning light, I could see a hint of a smile. “No, sir, some nights are even worse.”

  “I can't imagine,” I admitted.

  Owens dropped into a lower voice and said, “Don’t worry, you'll get through this just fine. Just use your wits and be careful. I've heard you Americans are clever with this sort of thing.”

  “How did you know that I'm from the States?”

  “To be honest, I've never met a Yank before. But your accent is a dead giveaway, sir. And the fact I was ordered to look for an American officer named Grant at the station.”

  “So Colonel Smythe told everyone of my coming?”

  “Yes. And I can tell you it caused some stir among the men. They're not sure what to expect from you. But you seem like an alright chap.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” was all I could say. “I can assure you that I'm here to do the best job I can.”

  “You just worry about staying alive right now,” he said. “Then you can worry about the heroics later.”

  We stepped off the main road and began following a rut leading off into the weeds. If it wasn't for the booming of the guns in the distance, we could be out on a Boy Scout outing. The sun was just beginning to peek out from the eastern horizon. I looked behind me and saw the men straggling behind. They had a worn, shocked look on their faces, and I assumed I must look the same way. This wasn't quite the introduction to war that I expected.

  As the dawn light grew, in the distance I saw a ragged scar across the landscape. This was the front line – part of the battle line that stretched across Europe and divided France into two. I stood on my tip-toes to look at the cratered surface. Some three hundred yards away, I saw this line as nothing but churned up dirt and mud.

  Owens pulled down on my sleeve and said, “Beg my pardon, sir, but you have to be careful how high you put your head, or you might get a bit of a haircut. Though the Huns are far away, bullets can still find their way - even here. Best you keep your head down until I get you safely into the reserve trench. If you had looked quickly enough, you would have seen our front lines behind the first bunch of barbed wire. If that front line is broken, then we have the reserve lines as a place to fall back to.”

  “Heads down everyone,” I snapped to the men behind me. They nodded and walked in the funny pose that was soon to be familiar to me. It was the hunkered look of a wary man afraid his head was about to be shot off.

  We entered the trenches. It was amazing there were any trees or wooden buildings left in France – it seemed as though they'd all been used to make the walls. My engineer-trained eyes roamed over the construction. Some of the walls were built well with planks sawn from wide tree trunks, while other sections looked hastily constructed with twigs and small branches not much bigger than my thumb. I wondered how much time I'd be spending fixing these walls.

  “Tell me, Owens,” I said as we dropped down into a trench running away at ninety degrees from the reserve trench, “What did you do for a living before you came here?”

  He very nearly blushed and said, “I was what you call a hunter, sir. Of course the magistrate didn't quite see it that way. He called it poaching and gave me a choice – prison or joining up. Well, I'm a fair shot so I thought why not? But to be honest, prison might have been a better choice.”

  “A poacher, eh? Well, a good shot will come in handy in this business, Sergeant. I've done a bit of hunting myself, though I think I would prefer my Winchester right about now. Maybe we can get some hunting in someday. “

  “As you say, sir.”

  The trench wall here was nothing but packed dirt, held in place by weather-stained wooden slats. A layer of sandbags ran along the top. The muddy bottom was wet, but our feet were kept dry by a wooden duckboard that ran the length of all the trenches. Underneath, I could hear the scurrying of what I assumed were rats or mice. We passed some tired-looking soldiers who were even dirtier than Owens. They looked at us with some interest, for what reason I could only guess. Perhaps because we were still clean, or they wanted to check out the new cannon fodder. Well, new men get rough treatment the world over. Only when you earn the veterans’ trust will they accept you.

  A crack rang over our head. I looked around in surprise, wondering what new terror was about to strike.

  “Bullet, sir,” Owens replied calmly and went on guiding us forward.

  “Are the Germans shooting at us?”

  “They can't see us back here even at this time of the day, but bullets often come this way. Plenty of head injuries to go about. During the day, we both mark out places to shoot at during the night. Sometimes they get lucky and kill someone.”

  I grunted in answer. It was one thing to be shelled and another thing to be shot at. Bullets seemed that much more personal than the seemingly random fall of a shell.

  Ahead of us was a squat dugout buried at level to the trench walls. On top it was covered with a layer of sandbags and a wan light came out of the doorway bottom.

&
nbsp; “Here we are,” Owens said. “Colonel Smythe should be breakfasting at headquarters by now.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” I said. “You will see that the men make it to their appropriate companies?”

  “Yes, sir,” he said and gave me a smart-looking salute this time. But before leaving, I saw him hesitate. “I know it isn’t my place to tell you how to do your job.”

  “Go ahead, Owens. I’m new here and will take any advice that I can.”

  “It’s like this, sir. The boys don’t like it when the officers are too friendly with them. I can see that you are a rather friendly chap yourself. Perhaps you may want to stay a bit above the enlisted men and act like a proper officer. They like the father-like figure more than anything else. Don’t get me wrong, sir, us Welsh will do anything you ask of us, if you're willing to pitch in and help.”

  “Thank you for your words of advice. I will keep it in mind.”

  “Very well, sir. I look forward to working under your command. I will be seeing you soon enough.”

  I gave him a salute and sent him on his way. I didn’t know what to make of this business. Sergeant Owens seemed like a right fellow, so I thought it best if I heeded his advice until I grew accustomed to my new surroundings.

  Entering the dugout, I was surprised to see a linen-covered table with the scraps of breakfast resting on fine china. By the newspaper accounts one expected rats and mud, not a breakfast table. Off to the side, an electric light stood, along with a low desk with papers scattered about. Captain Wodenhill was sitting there, and he looked at me grimly. Smythe was in his shirttails and was busy shaving in front of a mirror. He caught me out of the corner of his eye and turned as I came in. Shaving cream was still stuck to his jaw.

  “Lieutenant Grant reporting for duty, sir,” I snapped and saluted as well as I could. I was proud to have made it through officer training and wanted to impress the colonel.

  “Yes. Very good, Lieutenant.” His face was friendly enough but his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. “Sit down for a moment, Grant, and I'll fill you in on what we are doing here.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said and sat at the desk across from Wodenhill who read the papers in front of him. He was doing his best to ignore me.

  Smythe faced the mirror again and continued shaving. As he slid the razor down his chin, he said, “It's good to have you here. I was told you did rather well at Wrexham. We're still rather short of officers, and I need all the help I can get. We will soon be part of some upcoming attacks, and you're the kind of officer the men need.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” I said.

  “Any chance more of you Yanks will be coming over to help?” he asked as he washed the remaining shaving cream off of his face.

  “It's only a matter of time,” I assured him.

  “I should hope so,” he said. Pulling his jacket off of a chair, he began putting it on. “What did you think of that Sergeant Owens?”

  “He seems like a good man, sir,” I replied honestly.

  “Well, he’s a bit of a scoundrel, but he’s the best damn shot in the regiment. Hard to keep a man like that down, eh? I told him to look after you while you had a chance to learn the ropes. I'm putting you into B Company. You will be reporting to Captain Meadowes. He's a good enough officer if not a little zealous.”

  “Good, sir.”

  He frowned at me and said, “I don't want you to do anything foolish, so make sure you listen closely to Meadowes. The Germans are a crafty lot and have a few tricks up their sleeves. If you do as ordered, you will have chance to get out of this war alive.”

  “I shall do my best,” I said.

  “Give me one more moment here, and I will find my servant Reese to bring you to your company.”