In Line of Fire (Secret Soldiers of World War 1 Book 2)

by David Hough

  “Lady?” MacRapper laughed, a loud belligerent sound. He thrust out his chin defiantly. “Yew don’t call a French whore a lady! And don’t threaten me, Dee-boys. I know what sort of a weakling yew are. I’m not afraid of yew!”

  DeBoise felt his senses cloud over. Anger and confusion seemed to take control of him. He was never sure what happened next. Was it the punch he instinctively threw at MacRapper? Or was it the Scotsman’s heavy fist that smashed into his face and sent him flying?

  *

  Wendel clasped his pistol firmly as he scanned left and right for any sign of the German army. It could have been a whole brigade, a small platoon, or just one man. He couldn’t be sure which. Pray God it was just one man.

  A loud report, a single pistol shot, drew his attention towards a small, half-ruined building just ten yards away. He caught a quick glimpse of the gunman’s head, wearing a dunkelblau hat, before he ducked out of sight. The shot had been aimed towards Donohoe and the Belgian soldier, a sure sign that Wendel was, as yet, undetected.

  He took his time studying the other buildings nearby. There was no obvious indication of other Germans nearby. Why would this man be here alone? Where were his fellow soldiers? A sudden gasp caught his chest. There! There was the answer to his question: a despatch rider’s NSU motorcycle. It was leant against a wall, ten yards behind the sniper. This single soldier was no more than a despatch rider armed with a pistol.

  Wendel smiled to himself. The sniper was just one German soldier, but he was a part of the military machine that had wreaked such cruel havoc in Termonde. No matter that he was one of his father’s countrymen, the Hun would have to die. He would die for the sake of the appalling destruction, for the sake of the displaced townspeople and for the sake of those violated nuns.

  Wendel glanced back to where Donohoe and the Belgian soldier were hiding. Between them they had the sniper trapped in a pincer arrangement. Good. All they needed now was to get the German to show his head again. Wendel took a moment to check his Webley revolver. It was fully loaded and ready to shoot, but he had no intention of getting himself into a duel with the enemy. Instead, he picked up a brick with his free hand, took a deep breath and threw it over the wall towards the soldier. It clattered onto the ground half way between them.

  “Have a shot at that,” he hissed.

  The crack of the German’s pistol came a second later, followed almost instantly by the bark of Donohoe’s rifle. A sharp cry rang out, and then silence for two seconds.

  “Got him, sir!” It was Donohoe. “I got the bastard!”

  Wendel raised his head. The sniper had fallen to the ground with his head and shoulders exposed to view. He was clearly dead.

  “Good shooting, Private.” Wendel stood up slowly and scanned around, certain there were no other enemy soldiers nearby, but checking anyway.

  “The stupid bastard raised his head when ye threw the brick.” Donohoe came running forward, still clutching his rifle.

  “He’s a despatch rider,” Wendel said as he strode forward. “Check his pouch to see if he has any useful signals.”

  “Aye, sir.” The young Irishman dropped to his knees beside the dead German, set down his weapon, and opened the soldier’s despatch pouch.

  “Silly fool should have kept his head down,” Wendel mused, but he was pleased with the simple way they had been able to kill him.

  A youngish man, the sniper had a wide moustache and short-cropped fair hair. Someone’s son for certain. Maybe someone’s husband and father, but he wouldn’t be going home to his family now. Another man’s soul upon Kaiser Wilhelm’s conscience.

  Donohoe raised his head excitedly and reached out a hand clutching a bundle of papers. “The Hun’s got a whole load of messages here, Captain. D’ye think they might be important?”

  “Some of them might be valuable to us.” Wendel took the messages and glanced through them, quickly flicking from page to page. Most were coded, but one hand-written message stood out because it was in plain language. It caught his attention and he was able to translate it quickly.

  “Listen to this, Private.” In his excitement, Wendel felt an urge to share his discovery. “This message is from Crown Prince Rupprecht. It seems to be addressed to his senior commanders in the field.”

  “And what does it say, Captain?”

  Wendel translated as he read it aloud:

  Important you make no direct contact with Wood Wine at Gheluvelt. My agent must remain undetected.

  The message was written in German but the name, Wood Wine, was in English.

  How odd, he thought.

  Donohoe laughed. “Wood Wine? You mean they’re getting short of drink?”

  “I doubt it.” Wendel folded up the messages and put it into a pocket. “Wood Wine doesn’t sound like the sort of code name a German might use. Maybe we’ll learn more when we get to Ghent.” He patted his pocket. “This is one German message that won’t get through.”

  “So we walk on to Ghent now?”

  “No, Private. We ride on to Ghent.” Wendel pointed to the despatch rider’s motorcycle. “Nice of the poor sod to give us his machine.”

  Donohoe eyed it warily. “It’s only got one saddle.”

  Wendel laughed. “You want luxury? At least we’ll get there before the day is out.”

  *

  DeBoise felt groggy as he stood in front of Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks. His face ached all over and his vision was still hazy. An armed guard of the military foot police stood to attention at each side of him. Neither made any effort to support him when his legs began to buckle. He made a determined effort to stand upright, but the ache in his face seemed to affect his balance.

  Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks of the King’s Own Highland Dragoons had commandeered a room at the Hôtel du Nord. He sat at a table with a scattering of papers in front of him. A captain of the same regiment stood beside him. Both Scotsman bore grim, angry faces.

  Cruikshanks leaned his elbows on the table and growled at DeBoise. His Scottish accent held just enough of an educated tone to give him authority, and just enough anger to make him dangerous. “You punched my RSM, DeBoise? A serious matter. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

  DeBoise shook his head in an effort to bring back some reasoning ability. “He called Miss Duval a prostitute, sir. You can check it with the lady.”

  “I already have.” Cruikshanks sniffed loudly, as if giving vent to his own opinion. “French whore, is she?”

  DeBoise struggled to find some convincing response. He ought not to divulge Marie’s role as a secret agent, not even to a Lieutenant Colonel, but he could not allow anyone to treat her with disdain.

  “No, sir, nothing like that.” He paused long enough to brush at the ache in his jaw. “And she deserves to be treated with the same respect as any other lady in the company of a British officer.”

  “Spare me the indignation, DeBoise. I’ve no time for it.” He leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands together across his stomach. A sour expression flashed across his face.

  “In that case, sir, I must tell you that she has friends at a high level in the British military.”

  Cruikshanks raised his bushy eyebrows. “A senior officer’s night time comfort, you mean?” He glanced to one side at the captain and smirked. “Why should we care two hoots about an officer’s trollop?”

  DeBoise felt the blood drain from his face. “Because she has one particular contact – an official military contact – at a very high level. He would not like to know that she has been verbally abused.”

  “Are you threatening me, DeBoise?” Cruikshanks drew himself upright in his chair and threw back his shoulders.

  “No, sir. Just explaining why I had to take the lady’s side when RSM MacRapper called her a prostitute.”

  Cruikshanks stared back with a venomous expression. Acid and reptilian. Before he could reply, the Highland captain leaned towards him and whispered in his ear.

  Cruikshanks paused,
as if in thought. Then he spoke with more cautious words. “This high ranking contact you speak of… Cumming is it?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  “Will not say, you mean. You work for Cumming, so the trollop has to be one of his spies, I suppose.”

  “I am still unable to say, sir.”

  Cruikshanks took a few seconds to compose his thoughts. He threw his weight back in his seat and jabbed a finger at DeBoise. “All right, you bastard. I’ll let you off this time. But if you ever cause me any trouble again, I’ll have you court-martialled. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” DeBoise rubbed again at his jaw. “And RSM MacRapper, sir? Will he be punished for his behaviour? He hit a senior officer.”

  The reply was instant. “No he didn’t, DeBoise. You tripped and fell and my RSM tried to help you. Captain McWhirter saw it all.” He turned in his chair. “You did, didn’t you, Hamish?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Cruikshanks was grimacing when he faced DeBoise again. “Whatever you and the trollop say, it’s your word against me and my men. So let that be an end to it. You hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” DeBoise felt his shoulders slump. What was the point of arguing?

  Chapter Eleven

  Wendel enjoyed the feel of power behind the NSU motorcycle as it roared along the country lanes. It wasn’t designed for two people travelling in comfort, and it wasn’t easy to drive with Private Donohoe riding pillion on the carrier, but it was far preferable to walking.

  The engine ran noisily but reliably, encouraging Wendel to let his thoughts drift. He had owned a Douglas motorcycle when he was an undergraduate at Oxford, and he had used it to take pretty girls for rides in the green Oxfordshire countryside. They invariably repaid him by sharing their pleasure in physical ways. He felt Private Donohoe’s arms about his waist and recalled again the feel of a young popsie clutching hold of him tightly. But that was the past, a past filled with desires he might never experience again if this war continued to go badly. He revved the engine as they sped along a straight section of road, and then slowed as they turned into an unusually twisted lane overhung with poplar trees.

  His reverie was broken when they rounded a sharp bend and the young Irish soldier tapped on his shoulder. “There’s a car coming towards us, sir, and this road’s none too wide.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” he bellowed back against the slipstream.

  “Just thought I’d warn ye, sir. What’s that thing on the bonnet?”

  The youngster was right, the road was too narrow for speed. Wendel slowed down and coasted in towards the trees. “It’s an American flag. They’ll be American war correspondents.”

  That could be useful, he thought. As neutral observers, the Americans might have some valuable information about the route ahead. Wendel brought the motorcycle to a halt and waved to the oncoming vehicle. It pulled up alongside him and a rugged face peered out from the driver’s window.

  “How’s it goin’, buddy?” The voice was American Midwest and laconic.

  “Nice to see a friendly face. Have you come from Ghent?” Wendel asked.

  “Sure thing. Wouldn’t advise you to continue along this road, though. There’s a whole bunch o’ Germans about half a mile behind us.”

  Wendel frowned. “Germans? They shouldn’t be in this area.”

  “This bunch are lost.” The American laughed, a deep throaty sound. “About thirty of them led by an officer and an NCO. Hadn’t a clue where they were going. I had to show them on my map. Now they’re heading this way.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “My pleasure, buddy. You all take care now.” The American drew back into the vehicle as it pulled away.

  “Damn. You heard what the man said, Donohoe.” Wendel toed the motorcycle back into gear. “Hold tight. We’re going to take to the fields.”

  “Not too fast, sir.”

  “You want to meet a bunch of armed Huns, Donohoe?”

  “Guess not, sir.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Wendel turned off the paved road, eased the vehicle between two trees and set off across a wide field. A thick copse one hundred yards ahead looked like a good place to hide until the Germans had passed by. His fears were heightened by the discovery of how close to Ghent the enemy had come.

  *

  DeBoise drove most of the way to Ghent in silence. At first his thoughts lingered over his encounter with the King’s Own Highland Dragoons in general, and Regimental Sergeant Major MacRapper in particular. Marie made no effort to engage him in conversation and, when he glanced at her, he saw only a bland expression across her face. Then his thoughts began to focus upon her. He wondered what she thought of him now. He had handled the encounter with MacRapper badly. Would she be ashamed to sleep with him again?

  It had been such a pleasure, the time they had spent together. Of course, he was not her first lover – far from it – and that troubled him. His thoughts were divided between reliving that experience, and accepting that other men had spent nights with her. Some had been German officers. At least one had died in her arms when she stabbed him in the back. Those thoughts were painful and he tried to push them aside, tried to concentrate on what he had enjoyed. But it was becoming more and more difficult to separate the memory of the pleasure from the knowledge of Marie’s past. Both MacRapper and Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks had called her a prostitute. Worst of all, was the realisation that, technically, they were right. That pained him more than anything.

  The afternoon was well advanced and they were within sight of the outskirts of Ghent when he finally spoke. “I know I made a mess of things back there in Dunkerque. I’m sorry about the way it turned out.”

  Marie glanced across the car at him and replied in solemn tones. “Did the Lieutenant Colonel chew your balls off?”

  “Figuratively speaking, yes.” He was surprised by the way she expressed herself, but accepted it in good grace. “He took MacRapper’s side, which is no less that I would expect from him. I’m convinced the RSM has some sort of hold over Cruikshanks.”

  “Cruikshanks knew that you work for C?”

  “He was the one who sent me for interview with C. That must be how he guessed you also work for the SIS. I suppose our association with Commander Cumming must be the reason I got away with my nether regions intact.”

  He heard her chuckle and when he glanced at her he saw that a burst of humour was lighting up her eyes. Relief flooded through him: she was not angry with him.

  “That’s good,” she said.” Because I intend to make use of your… nether regions… again some time.”

  “Captain Wendel might not approve.”

  She averted her gaze and replied in short, hesitant sentences. “Captain Wendel doesn’t need to know. If he did, he’d probably be envious. I’ve never slept with him. I know he’d like me to, but I won’t do it. I’ve no special need to sleep with him. And I don’t really want to. I’m not a–” She turned towards him as her words ended abruptly, her eyes moist and downcast.

  “I’m sorry about what MacRapper called you,” he said, anxious to show his disapproval.

  “There are many genuine prostitutes in Dunkerque, especially since the British came,” she said uneasily. “I’ve seen long queues at their doors. The army is quite complacent about it, you know. It keeps the men happy. The girls charge ten francs a time and some of them have served a whole battalion in one week. Can you believe that? After three weeks, many of them have earned enough to pack up and go away. But I’m not like them. I never took money. Whatever I did, I did for France, not for money.”

  “I know that, Marie,” he said, and he wished they could change the subject because it upset him.

  He was forced to slow the car to a crawl when they came to the town. Refugees and soldiers fleeing from Antwerp clogged the streets. Their faces displayed varying degrees of despair as they crammed into Ghent and found no hope or refuge waiting there. There was no military bombardment,
but DeBoise recognised the air of a city under psychological siege.

  Marie directed him to a narrow backstreet of run-down apartment buildings. She indicated him to stop half way along the street, close behind a parked NSU motorcycle.

  “This is where Madame Beaumier lives, along with her daughter. Captain Wendel knows Madame, and I assume he’ll be making his way here, now that C is out of the picture. Unless he’s here already.”

  “Madame is an important agent here?” DeBoise queried.

  “She runs a network of spies who ferret around the local area, gathering information. She has many contacts and she sometimes passes on useful information to me. I pass it on to C.”

  “She lives here alone?”

  “No. Her daughter, Danielle, is part of the network. A pretty girl. Captain Wendel has met her more than once.”

  “Does he…” DeBoise cut the engine and leaned back in the driving seat. “Does the Captain have close contact with Danielle?”

  “Close contact?” Was that a chuckle in her voice? “What do you mean, Charles?”

  “Does he sleep with her?” He forced the words from his mouth. He had no illusions as to the extent of Wendel’s female conquests. It wasn’t jealousy he felt. It bordered on distaste because he knew his senior officer used women for pleasure, not love.

  Marie laughed. “He’d be dead if he tried it! If Danielle’s father didn’t kill him, Madame would.” She opened the car door and stepped out into the street. It was less crowded here than in the town centre, but she had to navigate her way through a line of Belgian soldiers as she led the way to a staircase leading up to a bare corridor. She stopped outside the Beaumier apartment while DeBoise hurried along behind her.

  “Come along, Charles.” Marie knocked on the apartment door.

  Almost straightaway, a dour-faced, middle-aged woman opened it. She wore a shapeless floral dress that did little to hide her bulging figure. “Ah, it is you, Marie. We wondered if you would come with the Commander. Is he with you?” The woman glanced back along the corridor.

  “No, he’s not with us. I’ll explain in a moment,” Marie replied.