There—that was the real irony. The war would be won based not on strategy, not on might, not on sacrifice, but on logistics.
Kranz’s attention shifted from the guns to the concrete slab upon which they stood. The stalemate along the Ypres salient had lasted so long that the Germans had cemented the ground. The guns could not sink into the mud. It was smart.
“Not these, Colonel Kranz,” said Captain Yetzel Dudendorff. “The gas shells are fired by the seventy-seven-millimeter guns, ahead. We have arranged the barrage tonight in your honor. So you can see the guns and shells in action, sir.”
Kranz looked at his junior, the man who had been designated sufficiently unimportant that his principal task as an officer in the German Army was to be on his, Kranz’s, beck and call. If he needed something, Captain Dudendorff would get it. If he wished to see something, Captain Dudendorff would show him. If he wanted to know something, Captain Dudendorff would find out and advise him.
Thus far, he had performed his task with acceptable efficiency, and yet Kranz did not like the man. It was no single thing. Perhaps it was everything. His manner, which went beyond respectful to unctuous. His choice of words, at times affected. His position, a kommandanturen responsible for governance of a district, when what the war really needed was soldiers and men who could lead soldiers. And his legend, which stank to Kranz of propaganda.
Three years ago, Captain Dudendorff, then a lieutenant, had been involved in the Battle of Liège against the Belgians. The outer Belgian garrisons had been overrun, when in an act of incredible bravery Dudendorff drove with just one other man to the center of the old city, right to the gates of the ancient fortress. The medieval walls made of mud, brick and stone had been built to protect the people of Liège from raiding parties of barbarians on horseback. To keep out spears, arrows, primitive cannon balls and men on ladders.
The fortress and the men inside were scheduled for obliteration by the Germans’ big guns. Dudendorff, such was his daring and genius, walked up to the city doors, knocked and said, “Let me in.” They did, surrendering without a shot fired.
Kranz did not believe it. The basic details, certainly; but that such a self-serving man was extraordinarily heroic and clever? No. It smacked to Kranz of stupidity. Of miscommunication.
He figured Yetzel had mistakenly thought the whole city fallen. He had gone to those gates thinking it had been cleared of soldiers, with any men who remained waiting to be escorted to prisoner of war camps.
As for the Belgians, with communication lines cut they probably assumed that if a German officer had come, alone, to accept a surrender and escort prisoners, with not a gun blazing, all was lost among the city’s other defenses and there was no point fighting on.
Ever since then, a fool had been lionized as a hero and protected from anything that looked like real war. Heroes could not be allowed to die, not even heroically. So Yetzel had been made a kommandanturen. An administrator, not a real soldier.
“The shells for the gas are quite small, sir. The chlorine shells are marked with a blue cross. You will see them ahead,” said Captain Dudendorff.
Kranz looked at him. “Do you think me ignorant, captain? That I don’t know which guns fire which shells?”
“No, sir. Of course not. I was just—”
“Being helpful?”
“Yes, sir, exactly,” said Captain Dudendorff.
“I see. Because you know so much of what happens here. Is that right?” said Kranz, continuing to walk.
“Why, yes, Colonel Kranz. I have a great deal of experience and am at your disposal to help in any way I can.”
“Tell me, captain, you worked in a dye factory before the war, did you not?”
“That is correct, sir. My father’s. After the war I will take the business over and we will become the largest dye factory in Germany. One of the largest in the world.”
“I see. The war hero returned to run the dye empire. Rousing. Were you heavily involved in the business?” said Kranz.
“Oh yes, heavily. Every part. I could run it single-handed if I had to,” said Yetzel.
“And with the dyes themselves? With the chemistry?”
“The chemistry? We use pigments. The mixers select them based on requirements.”
“I’m talking about the chemistry, Captain Dudendorff.”
Kranz stopped at a row of knee-high shells about the thickness of a woman’s forearm, with blue crosses painted on their noses.
“Take the blue here. It is bright, so it shows in dim light. That way a soldier is not likely, in battlefield conditions, to load the wrong shell. What makes it so, captain? What makes the blue this shade, with this luminescence? Tell me.”
“The pigment makes it bright, sir. They have put a bright blue pigment in the paint,” said Captain Dudendorff.
Kranz smiled. “And the pigment? What makes the pigment a bright blue?”
“The color that they chose. They chose a bright—”
“Stop,” said Kranz, interrupting him. “You obviously know nothing about chemistry. Chromophores and wavelengths and auxochromes, none of it means anything to you, because you were an administrator. You are an administrator now. Is that not true, Captain Dudendorff?”
“I did a lot more than—”
Kranz took a step closer. “Do not presume to tell me anything, captain. If I want to know something, I will ask. If I want you to know something, I will tell you. Now, answer my question.”
Captain Dudendorff maintained Kranz’ gaze, but he said nothing.
“Last time, captain. What are you?”
“An … administrator, sir.”
“That’s right. An administrator. And a junior officer. I arranged this barrage, captain. And these men you see are the ones who will execute it, on my command. You? You are here as my driver. Do not presume to tell me anything. Now, go wait by the car.”
“Yes, sir,” said Yetzel sternly. His face blushed red and the vein in his temple throbbed, but he said nothing more. He saluted, then turned and walked briskly away.
Kranz crouched by the shells with the blue noses and gently stroked their tips as he might have patted a purring cat’s head. He stood and called across to the soldier manning the nearest seventy-seven-millimeter gun. They were barely a quarter of the size of the heavy guns.
“How are you, soldier?”
“Very well, sir!”
“Have you fired these shells before, soldier?”
“Yes, sir! At least five times before, sir!”
“Any problems?”
“No, sir! Some problems have been reported in the trenches, wind changing and gas blowing back on our lines, sir!”
“Wind. Yes, wind has no respect for the best laid plans,” said Kranz. “Let us hope our meteorologists have it correct tonight.”
“Yes, sir!”
Kranz pulled a watch from his tunic and glanced down. “Five minutes till commencement of firing,” he said to himself. He looked up. “At ease, soldier.”
“Yes, sir!”
Kranz walked to the lip of concrete that kept dirt and mud at bay. He looked out into the night.
He saw nothing at all—precisely what he hoped the British would see.
29
“You are a deadset cocksucker, mate,” said Ernie.
“In that case, how about I have you cleaning those latrines instead? Maybe for the rest of the war!”
“Who the fuck do you think you are? I don’t care if you’re a corporal. I shit out corporals—and lance corporals—each morning in those latrines you want me to clean. You’re a turd. An insignificant little turd.”
“Absolutely not. You will not speak to me that way! Warmington, Jones,” said Lance Corporal Bennison, turning and addressing the two men who had come to watch the argument. “I want you to escort Private Lindsay from the trenches and hand him over to the MPs. Now!”
The men did not move. In fact, Jones dropped to his rump and made himself comfortable.
“
I said now, or I can have you lot in the stockade, too!”
“Sorry, Jim, but Ernie does have a point. You are a bit of a turd,” said Warmington.
“Yeah,” said Jones, nodding and relaxing further in repose. “Reckon that’s right. Can’t asshole a bloke for telling the truth.”
“Like hell I can’t!” said the lance corporal.
“So, you do admit it—that you’re a turd?” said Warmington.
“What?” said Lance Corporal Bennison.
“Hear that, Ern? Sounded like an apology, almost. Be a nice fella and accept it and shake his hand,” said Jones.
“Yeah, go easy on him, Ern. He’s just a turd, doesn’t know any better. One of them nuggety ones you gotta really squeeze to get out. They’re the worst. I hate those turds. Rip you up from the inside. They’re coward turds. Too scared to have at it in the open. I say show yourself, turd! Get out here and face me like a man! What are ya, a man or a turd?” said Warmington.
“Be a turd, wouldn’t it?” said Jones.
The privates laughed, including Ernie, the purple flushing from his face to leave a streaked red. Some of the color seeped from Corporal Bennison’s face, too.
“Are you calling me a coward?”
“Here we go. I tell ya, this bloke, he’s all over the shop,” said Warmington and bent a thumb at the lance corporal. “Reckons he’s a turd one moment, a coward the next.”
“Yeah, what are ya, Jim, a coward or a turd?” said Jones.
Lance Corporal Bennison’s posture had dropped little by little till he was standing sag-shouldered. His complexion had completed its transformation to the color of bone and every facet of his countenance screamed defeat. He shook his head and went to say something, then decided against it and turned and walked away without anything more.
Warmington inclined his head and looked square at Ernie. “Right, go on, then, give us the rundown. What the hell was all that about?”
“He was pulling me off the trenches. Wanted me to clean the latrines. Like hell,” said Ernie.
Jones got up. “Really? Ya sure?”
“Bloody oath I am,” said Ernie.
Jones and Warmington exchanged a glance.
“Be the first time either of us has heard of a trench rat getting pulled from the line to shovel shit. They got blokes back in camp for that,” said Warmington.
“Reckon so,” said Jones, stroking his stubbled chin. “Any chance he was asking if you wanted a latrine break?”
“Hey?” said Ernie. He put his hands on his hips, a strangely effeminate gesture for such a big and burly man.
“Oh, bugger me,” said Warmington.
“You’re a daft sod, Ern,” said Jones, and exchanged another glance with Warmington and tipped his head.
Private Warmington lent his rifle against the trench wall and skipped off, calling, “Oi, Jim, you dickhead.” He soon caught up to the lance corporal who was slowly walking the line of the trench. He slapped him on the back and put an arm around his shoulder, and spoke softly into his ear. They were soon sharing a laugh. The lance corporal looked back and waved.
Ernie returned the gesture, waving as if he had just learned the motion: shift hand left, shift hand right, repeat. He turned to Jones and said, “So, you think …”
“Yeah, I reckon so. You’re a fine one, Ern. Christ. Wound a bit tight, you are. You and Jim both. Make a fine bloody pair.”
Ernie began to laugh, a little chuckle growing into the booming thunder of hilarity. When he pulled himself together he said, “Guess I’m a bit of a prick, then, eh?”
“Yeah, bit,” said Jones. “Still, gotta get one’s jollies somehow. Thanks for that, mate. Just what I needed. Was starting to get bored waiting for these blighters to attack.”
“I thought we were meant to go over the top come morning. What’s this about them attacking?”
“Where were you when the word passed down? Rush is cancelled, mate. Good news for once. Too soggy. But Jerry might have a crack yet, so don’t go getting too comfy.”
“I hope he does,” said Ernie, once again grim, his jaw slowly grinding teeth and words. “Hope he fucking does.”
“All right, mate. All right,” said Jones and slapped Ernie on the shoulder. He tilted his head and sighed, rolling his eyes as he walked away.
Ernie spent the rest of the evening periodically peering from the lip of the trench, raising his head just high enough to glimpse the barren field of mud ahead. The wind that hit his face brought clean air blown from empty skies; it was quickly sullied with the rank stench of the frontline.
Ernie saw different shapes every time he looked, but from his weeks in the trenches he had worked out it was his mind conjuring men and movement from the play of moonlight on uneven terrain. When they came, it would be clear enough.
First, there would be artillery. Then, machine guns. Then, the men. Hundreds and thousands of men screaming murder from mouth and rifle.
It was almost midnight when Ernie heard the big guns firing, the sound breaking through the silence from somewhere far behind German lines. He waited for the huge explosions that should have followed, but the explosions that came were smaller, muted somehow, and though he did not understand, other men did.
“Gas! Masks on!” came the call, and each man repeated the same down the line.
Ernie pulled his own mask from atop his pack and fitted it around his head. The straps were too tight, not made for a skull the size of his. He forced it down and the ventilator pressed over his mouth and nose. He breathed heavily, forcing air in and out past whatever filters were meant to save his life long enough for him to be killed a better way.
There was no hint of gas in the trench when Sergeant Weller came loping along the line, tapping each man on the shoulder. “Retreat west of Marne Trench. Quick smart boys. Retreat west of Marne Trench.”
“Fuck,” said Ernie.
He climbed up and looked over the dirt parapet toward no-man’s-land. He saw more shapes, none of them charging. Just mud and shadow. Other soldiers were now filing past.
“Oi, big fella, let’s go,” said Warmington and kept moving.
Ernie waited, not wanting to miss his opportunity. Maybe the gas presaged an attack. Maybe this was it.
But it could not be, for he had to do it right—do what they needed from him. Right then, they needed him to retreat and reform, so as to wait for the call when they would advance together and cut the bastards down until they cut him down.
“Fuck,” he muttered again, and hopped down.
There were no more men filing past. He crouched a little and began loping toward the point where the trench intersected with the relief trench. He appeared to be the last.
He rounded the corner, but heard a noise from behind. He stopped and turned, poking his head around the wall. A man was sprinting. He skidded to a stop and began rifling through a pack. It was Lance Corporal Bennison.
“Corp!” called Ernie. His voice was muffled by the mask, but it carried. “Where’s your mask?”
Lance Corporal Bennison looked up and shook his head. Ernie saw panic.
“Fuck,” muttered Ernie. He ran across to him. “You lost your mask?”
Lance Corporal Bennison’s expression was stricken like a child’s. Confused and unsure and needy.
“It was … I …”
“Fuck it, mate. Too late. Just get out before—”
Ernie did not finish. The wind changed. He felt it—the easterly swirling, threatening to push the gas back on them.
“Gotta find it, corp! Gotta fucking find it!”
The lance corporal kept digging in the pack. Ernie rushed in the direction the lance corporal had come from. He kicked through all sorts of military detritus as he went. He saw a pack.
Ernie tipped the contents out and swatted items away. No mask.
The wind had fully switched. It was no longer swirling. It settled into a westerly.
Ernie ran on to another abandoned pack and began searching. An
impression of movement made him look up.
“Oh God,” said Ernie and fear stabbed into him like a company of bayonets in the belly of a sandbag, for a thin white cloud, pretty and graceful, flowed over the side of the trench.
Ernie fell down and pushed back with his hands. Of all the hideous deaths on the front, death by gas was the worst. It turned insides raw and bloody, and melted things till they were the consistency of marshmallow, till a man was just so much more slime and pus in the mud, except it all happened inside your body, and took you slow.
Ernie pressed harder against the wall, as if there was any getting away from it. The gas surrounded him, washed over him. He imagined he felt its cold and then its heat against his skin. In his state of horror and dread, he imagined it as a sort of creature. A vaporous beast whose belly was acid, hungry for soldiers.
He was being eaten by a python, a dragon, an ancient sea monster unleashed from the mud and its long snaking body kept flowing over the lip of the trench and settling around and over him, and he saw now that the entire thing was a giant mouth dripping poison that had distended to swallow him whole.
Ernie’s heart was relentless artillery firing in his chest. He could barely breathe. He wanted to rip the mask from his face and get air, just a little real air, but there was a relic of sense calling from somewhere distant, telling him it was certain, there was no air now, only gas, only death. So he labored at the air and breathed, and closed his eyes and breathed some more.
And it was—air. Not much different to before. It stank of the filters, but it was air. A full head of sense came rushing into him along with the belief that he could get out.
Still survive to … to … to survive the gas.
He saw nothing beyond that. Ernie scrambled to his feet and saw what he had been looking for, providential, right there in front of him where he had tipped out the pack. A gas mask. And he remembered Lance Corporal Bennison—old stick-in-the-mud-Jim, the cobbler.
The panic returned, but not for himself. Ernie picked up the mask and ran. Snot dribbled from his nose and his throat felt hot. He reached the point where Jim had been searching for his mask. He was gone.
Michel And Axe Bury The Hatchet (The French Bastard Book 2) Page 12
