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

by David Hough

  Have learned that situation at Ypres is now critical. Intelligence on Rupprecht’s plans badly needed. Sophia von Birkensaft must get back to Rupprecht’s HQ. Her life more important than yours. Stay with her until she finds a safe route back.

  Her life more important than yours! DeBoise shuddered. The implication was clear. The intelligence she could gain from Rupprecht might affect the final outcome of this battle. At all costs, he had to ensure the girl stayed alive. But how could he do that unless he was able to reach the Château?

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  DeBoise shivered as he sat hunched beneath a tall chestnut tree. The Highland regiment was halted close to the front line. German shrapnel burst in black puffs of smoke above the tree tops of Polygon Wood.

  Although the morning had begun cold, the clear sky promised some warmth later. But no amount of warmth would ease the fear inside him. It had troubled his sleep and now it worried his conscious thoughts.

  “Is this gonna be your first pitch battle, Lieutenant?” Private Donohoe approached, holding two mugs of steaming tea. He pushed one towards DeBoise.

  “The first real one, Billy.” DeBoise took the mug thoughtfully. He had been woken early by the crash of gunfire. It had been sporadic to start with, but now the German assault was a continuous noisy backdrop, disquieting his mental preparation for the fight ahead.

  “Me own first battle was at Mons.” Donohoe dropped to the hard ground beside the lieutenant and sipped at his mug. “I was piss-awful scared, so I was, but then I tried to tell meself it was no more than a barroom hooley back home. It was a lie, of course, but ye have to lie to yerself at times like that.”

  “I wish I had your courage,” DeBoise admitted. He would never have confessed that to Captain Wendel, but Private Billy Donohoe was different. They had shared a greater danger than this behind the enemy lines and had come through the ordeal physically unscathed. An unlikely bond had been forged between the private from the slums of Sligo and the Anglo-Irish officer from Dublin. DeBoise was glad to make use of that connection.

  A few yards away, the cooks from the King’s Own Highland Dragoons were preparing breakfasts over open fires. The rest of the men were cleaning their rifles and chattering in low voices.

  Beyond them, the 2nd Worcestershire Regiment was making preparations for the battle that was to come. Hard days of fighting had left the ranks of both regiments looking haggard, unshaven and unwashed, but they were still a credible force. Their uniforms were filthy, soaked in the mud of the Langemarck trenches and torn to shreds by the brambles of Polygon Wood, but they were not demoralised. Many had lost their puttees or their caps, but they made up for the losses by diligently cleaning their weapons. They still had enough ammunition to fight and they were not going to let their appearances hold them back.

  The noise of the German bombardment grew with each passing minute. A few miles away, on the front line, men were dying, shot or blown apart by exploding shells. Soon, maybe later this afternoon or, more likely, early tomorrow morning, DeBoise would have to lead a platoon of Highlanders forward to take the place of the dead. Could he hold himself together when the time came, or would he fail, just as he had failed to take firm command on the parade ground at Edinburgh?

  As his thoughts grew bleaker, he sank into silence. He was under no illusions about the importance of the battle he faced. The men were ready for it, but was he? A lot would depend upon how the Highland Dragoons behaved under fire. They and the Worcesters were the last available British reserves for the defence of the Menin Road. Every other unit had been drawn into the battle line or had been broken beyond recovery. Behind them, the town of Ypres held its breath, waiting on the outcome of the conflict, praying and hoping these few soldiers would stay firm. Either they would succeed or the British front line would be breached and Ypres would fall.

  DeBoise set down his mug on the ground and suddenly stood up. He waited for his thumping heart to calm before he spoke. “I think it’s time for me to inspect the men, Billy. It’s what an officer has to do.”

  “They’ll do ye proud if ye keep calm, sir.” The private rose to his feet slowly before draining his mug of tea. “And once we get to the Château we’ll both be under Captain Wendel’s command again. That’ll be a relief.”

  “I echo your sentiments, Billy.”

  “Here comes trouble, sir.” Donohoe lowered his gaze suddenly.

  Regimental Sergeant Major MacRapper strode forcefully across the uneven ground, a look of thunder across his face. DeBoise ignored him until the RSM stopped just two yards away.

  “Lieutenant Dee-boys, you’re to report to Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks immediately.”

  DeBoise glanced up. “Immediately, sir, if you please.” He wasn’t sure from where he drew the courage to face up to MacRapper, only that he no longer harboured any great fear of the man. Was that what the prospect of imminent battle did to an officer?

  The Scotsman’s face reddened as he barked back. “I said immediately, yew silly little Englishman!”

  “Irishman,” he responded calmly. “An Irish officer, MacRapper.”

  “Yew act and talk like an Englishman, Dee-boys. As far as I’m concerned that makes yew’re English. Now, get over there and report to Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks! D’yew hear me?”

  DeBoise drew back his shoulders. “Yes, I heard you, MacRapper. But I didn’t hear the ‘sir’ that should have followed.” Strangely, he felt nothing but contempt for the little Scotsman, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. Was that because he had tasted real fear in his actions well behind the lines? Was it because he had gone where the RSM would probably fear to go? He couldn’t be sure of a reason, only that he felt on top of the situation. He tightened his belt while waiting for a response. “Until I hear the word ‘sir’ I shall assume you were talking to someone else. A junior rank.”

  “Get yer arse over there immediately…” The Scotsman lowered his voice to a whisper. “Sir.” Seemingly furious at having to acknowledge DeBoise’s seniority, MacRapper immediately turned on his heels and stormed away.

  “Well done, Lieutenant. That showed him.” Donohoe grinned mischievously.

  DeBoise straightened his jacket and strode across the hard ground to where the senior officer was waiting. Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks barely glanced at him as he joined the few remaining officers awaiting their final briefing. The meeting was short and contained nothing of value to the juniors, not even a morale boost.

  Cruikshanks waited until his officers were dispersing before he bellowed, “Lieutenant DeBoise! Come here!” The sudden barked order drew dark looks from the others.

  DeBoise held his breath as he stood to attention. The word ‘Sir’ eventually slipped out from between his barely parted lips.

  “I asked for more officers, DeBoise, and I was given you. You of all people!” Cruikshanks’ brow trailed lines of sweat despite the cold air. He wiped at his cheek and drew a dirty mark across it.

  “General Haig’s orders, sir,” DeBoise replied. It surprised him that he felt more composed than his senior officer looked.

  “Haig? Whatever was the man thinking of! Personal interference from your father, was it?”

  “No, sir. Nothing like that.”

  Cruikshanks jabbed a bent finger. His voice bore a fractured note, as if he was having trouble curtailing his anger. “Shut up and listen to me! The first sign of trouble from you, DeBoise, and I shall shoot you myself.”

  “I’ll not give you cause for complaint, sir.”

  “You’ll not live if you do!”

  DeBoise noticed RSM MacRapper sniggering in the background.

  *

  Wendel’s frustration increased with the passage of time. The noise from the front line guns was there throughout the day like the constant roar of a malevolent ogre. At night, the noise was broken and uneven, allowing him to fall asleep when it tailed off and instantly waking him each time it resumed. He wondered what the Countess and her granddaughter made of it. B
oth seemed to be avoiding him as much as possible. Maybe that was best for all of them because he had no clear idea of how he was going to get either of them away from Gheluvelt without putting their lives at risk. His only option seemed to be one of waiting for an unplanned opportunity to arise.

  He was at the bedroom window when he saw a line of British soldiers advancing through the Château grounds. A dozen or so at first, they were soon followed by another forty or fifty. They spread out as they approached the building, clearly ready for any enemy opposition. Two days ago he had seen German soldiers retreating through those same grounds. None had approached the Château. Why? Were they warned away because of the Countess? He could only guess.

  He raced downstairs to meet the British troops. At the front entrance, a hollow-eyed sergeant came towards him. The man hadn’t shaved for several days. He glanced up and down at Wendel’s civilian clothes as he came to a halt.

  “Who are you?” he asked in halting French.

  “English.” Wendel raised a wry grin. “And am I glad to see you, Sergeant.”

  “You’re English?” The sergeant glanced around as his men closed in on him. Wendel took note of their insignia: First Battalion, Northumberland Hussars.

  “As English as you, soldier.”

  “In that case, ’oo’s in charge ’ere, guv? Not you, I take it?”

  Wendel decided to conceal his rank for the moment. “Technically, I’m a visitor here, but you’d better deal directly with me. The only other occupants are an elderly lady and her granddaughter. They won’t be much help to you.”

  The sergeant eyed him warily. “If you say so, guv. Any chance you can find the men some food and drink? We’ve got an ’ole battalion moving up behind us and most of them ain’t eaten properly since we left Wipers.”

  “Trouble bringing supplies forward?” Wendel stepped aside to let the soldier enter the Château.

  “You can say that again.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to feed a battalion with what’s in the kitchen. Call a few of your men inside and have a look down in the cellars. You might find something down there.”

  “Thanks, guv.”

  The soldier went back to his men just as Sophia came hurrying down the stairs. “Who are these people?” she demanded in an impetuous tone.

  Wendel gave her a dismissive look. He was still unsure how far he could trust her. “They’re British soldiers, and they’re hungry. I’ve given them permission to search the cellars for food.”

  She sighed. “That was a big mistake. That is where the wine is kept. There are some particularly valuable cases of champagne down there.”

  “In that case, they won’t remain there for long.” Wendel drew back his shoulders. “Will they?”

  Sophia gave him a contemptuous look. “You are over-reaching yourself, Captain Wendel. None of you are safe here, not with the German army about to push you all the way back into Ypres.” She turned and stalked away.

  “Make sure your grandmother knows what’s happening!” he called after her.

  The Sergeant sidled back towards him. “The men will be glad of the food, guv. In the meantime you’d better tell me who you are, and what you’re doing here.”

  It was time to come clean, Wendel decided. “I am Captain Wendel, a British army officer. I’m not at liberty to tell you any more than that.”

  The sergeant nodded in understanding. “Oh, I get it. Spying in civvy clothes? The Fritzies would shoot you on the spot.”

  “In which case, it would be best if they don’t find me. Eh, Sergeant?”

  A small group of soldiers was busily carrying wine and food up from the cellar when a Captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers walked into the Château. He looked dishevelled and tired. The Sergeant marched up to him, saluted and spoke too quietly for Wendel to hear.

  The Captain nodded and then strode up to Wendel. “My Sergeant says you’re a British officer. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. I’m Captain Wendel.” He decided on a whim to reveal more. “Tenth Battalion Royal Fusiliers. Intelligence section. And I have an important task here. I can’t tell you any more about it.”

  “Some of that damned secret stuff, is it? Well, watch your back, Captain Wendel. You’re in dangerous territory while you’re wearing civvy clothes. Who else is here with you?”

  “An elderly Belgian lady, the Countess of Birkensaft, and her granddaughter. They need to be evacuated as soon as it’s safe to do so.”

  “Safe? Nothing’s safe around here. The Huns will retake this place soon unless we can hold them between here and Menin.”

  “Seems to me the Château is at a critical position for both sides. It needs to be guarded. Can you do that?”

  The Captain shook his head fiercely. “No. My orders are to push forward. I’ll let the men eat here and then we’ll be gone.”

  Wendel put on a vaguely pleading expression. “My orders are to protect the Countess. I need your help.”

  “Help? You mean you want some of my men?”

  “Not many. Enough to hold out if the Huns break through to here.”

  “Very well. I’ll give you four men.”

  “Four?” Wendel shook his head. “That’s not nearly enough.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s more than I can spare.”

  “I have orders to get the old lady and the girl back to Ypres for their safety.”

  The officer laughed coldly. “Forget it, old chap. You’d all be dead long before you reached Ypres.”

  “Quite. That’s why I need your men here. More of them.”

  “Four men, Captain. Four, and no more!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mist obscured the first light of dawn. It had been raining overnight and the ground was muddy, pulling at their boots as the regiment entered the forest. DeBoise winced as they approached the line of trenches. The images of his vivid nightmare came back to him, along with the fear they engendered. Was this where he was destined to die? He tried to brush the thought from his head, but it persisted.

  The din of battle was constant, filling his head until it ached. The smell was worse than the noise. The air was heavy with the stench of death, the sickly odour of decomposing human flesh. The remains of men killed earlier in the battle had swollen, burst open and disgorged their slimy insides. With their webbing holding them together, the soldiers’ bodies had erupted above and below the belt. Civilian bodies burst open without hindrance. The rats made no distinction between them. They nosed into the foul-smelling mess and gorged themselves.

  DeBoise was certain the King’s Own Highland Dragoons were on the verge of a particularly nasty pitched battle. He could feel it in his bones. How ironic, he thought, that he was likely to die here along with the very regiment that had turned him away. It would be just as he saw in the nightmare: death for himself and Private Donohoe. The images came back to haunt him, convincing him he could not expect to return from this encounter.

  He tried to focus on what would happen next. He saw no immediate opportunity to abandon the regiment and join Captain Wendel in Gheluvelt. To make an attempt from here would be suicidal. Maybe, when they got closer to the village a chance might arise. If he was still alive.

  The last official briefing before they moved forward had been pessimistic. There were serious ammunition shortages, but Field Marshall Sir John French had approved a further advance. Already, it was clear that German resistance was stronger than had been expected. In Polygon Wood, barely two miles due east of Ypres, the 2nd Wiltshire regiment had been overwhelmed by three German battalions. From a regiment of four hundred and fifty men, fewer than two hundred Wiltshires had escaped death or capture. It was in the light of this disaster that the King’s Own Highland Dragoons were ordered forward to face the enemy onslaught.

  DeBoise and Donohoe were amongst the first to take refuge in a shallow trench close to an English regiment which had orders to fall back. The Highlanders were an advance platoon under DeBoise’s command, sent forw
ard to prepare the way for the rest of the KOHD to take over the line here. They did not have long to wait before the first shots were fired directly at them.

  “Get down, Billy!”

  DeBoise thrust a hand on top of Donohoe’s cap and pushed his head below the rim of the trench. Seconds later a bullet hit the soil close to where the young Irishman’s head had been, blowing up a puff of dark earth.

  “Jaysus! Did ye see that one coming, Lieutenant?” Donohoe stared up at him, an ashen hue creeping across his cheeks.

  DeBoise hunched lower in the trench beside him. “No. But I had a bad gut feeling,” he said, remembering the nightmare image of Billy Donohoe being killed at the lip of the trench.

  He shivered.

  Bad gut feeling? In truth, he had a bad gut feeling about the whole damned enterprise. The battlefield in the woods looked like a death-trap and the British troops were clearly outnumbered. In his last briefing to his junior officers, Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks had reckoned the ratio was about seven to one.

  It felt like far more than that.

  Gradually, the smell of cordite and smoke began to overcome the stench of decaying bodies. The artillery barrage remained deafening. DeBoise shook his head fiercely as the noise briefly increased, not in volume but in continuity. Individual blasts of sound quickly merged into one heavy roar. Just then, when the very constancy of the sound threatened to shatter his brain, it changed. In that moment, when it seemed it could get no worse, it suddenly broke up once more into separate explosions. Immediately, other sounds came into their own: the dry rattle of a German machine gun hidden somewhere amidst the trees, the uneven splutter of rifle fire.

  Daylight was beginning to lighten the sky when the rest of the Highland Regiment took up its position. Neither the guns nor the onset of a new day had any effect upon a grey mist that hung near the ground. The horizon burned red and, from out of it, balls of light rose up through the mist before showering down upon the distant landscape.

  Ten yards away, Cruikshanks seemed to show little outward signs of fear as he led his men into the far end of the trench, where it was being vacated by the English regiment. There was no haste in the Lieutenant Colonel’s actions, no sign of fear, just a steady determination to get his men into position as quickly as possible. Maybe, DeBoise thought, he had been wrong about the regimental commander all along. Maybe he was the right man to lead these fierce Highlanders. Or maybe he was just good at hiding his emotions.