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

by David Hough

  “How much food and drink have we left?” he asked.

  One of the soldiers shook his head. “Not much, sir. We’ve eaten the last of the food. There’s no more water and we’ve only a couple of bottles of wine to keep us going.”

  Two bottles of wine? Not enough to get the men rolling drunk, but he would have preferred them to be drinking water. Another loud explosion, even closer this time, shook the small attic window. A lump of plaster fell from the ceiling.

  Once again, Wendel silently cursed DeBoise and his failure to arrive at the Château. At the same time he felt a deep concern for what might have happened to him. It now seemed highly unlikely he had survived the flight and that saddened him. For all DeBoise’s bookish nature and his lack of military discipline with Private Donohoe, he liked the man. If he was pushed, and it would take a lot of pushing, he would admit that he admired the way the Lieutenant had acted on their previous mission to kill General Hahndorf. Yes, it was a pity to lose a man like that, even if he had caught the eye of Marie Duval.

  “One of us will have to go back downstairs and scout around,” he said, drawing together his determination to do something positive. “The Huns should have left something for us to eat.”

  “You want me to go, sir.” The same soldier slowly rose to his feet.

  “No. It had better be me.” Wendel pulled out his pistol and checked it was fully loaded. He hoped he would not need to use it.

  The soldier pushed is hands down into his pockets, his face betraying signs of relief that his offer had been refused. “They’ll spot that you’re not wearing your own uniform, sir. It don’t even begin to fit you. They’ll kill you, sir. Take you for a spy, they will, and kill you.”

  Wendel suppressed a wry laugh. He was a spy. “They’d kill any one of us if we got caught. Make sure you stay quiet while I’m gone and don’t come after me, whatever happens.”

  He gestured the others to be silent while he opened a small door which led directly onto a steep, narrow stairway. He hesitated before treading carefully onto the top step and closing the door behind him. The servants’ quarters were on the next floor down. Would the Germans have any reason to be on that floor?

  He held his pistol in a tight grip as he descended the stairs and crept along the servants’ corridor, pausing every few steps to listen. There seemed to be no one in hearing range. The gunfire was muted here, just a series of rumbles as the bigger shells exploded.

  Somewhat emboldened, he continued down a wider stairway to where the family bedrooms were arranged either side of an ornate corridor. Again, there was no sign of occupation. He peered into each room in turn, quietly opening and closing the doors.

  The last door, where the corridor met the top of an even grander staircase, was partly ajar. He eased it fully open and stopped abruptly. A German officer lay on top of a bed.

  “Was gibt’s?” The man stared back at him.

  Wendel froze.

  *

  DeBoise was hungry and thirsty. Yesterday, he had drunk from a small stream but he had found nothing to eat. Now he was overwhelmingly tired and a chill penetrated his damp clothes.

  A shiver ran through him as he crawled through the undergrowth, constantly watching and listening for enemy troops. He had spent much of the previous day and night hiding from the German army, lying for hours in damp grass, crouching in prickly thickets and risking only occasional snatches of sleep. Now he was certain he was near the front line, and he had a nasty feeling he was still on the German side of it. The rattle of nearby gunfire told of a firefight not far ahead. Mostly it was rifle fire, but odd bursts from machine guns filled in the gaps.

  He stopped suddenly when he spotted a solitary soldier, only yards away. The figure was partially hidden by the surrounding woodland, but there was no doubting that the uniform was German. What should he do next? Retreat or wait until the way was clear? He remained still and silent while his thoughts coalesced into a plan of action.

  Ten minutes or more passed and nothing moved. Neither did he detect any sounds from the soldier. Finally, puzzled by the little he could see, he inched forward, creeping low and taking care to remain as quiet as possible. He paused when he had a better view of the man. There was something odd about him. He was sitting against a tree with his head bent well forward and his arms loose at either side. Several more minutes elapsed before DeBoise spotted a small circle of blood on the man’s uniform jacket, directly over his heart.

  Was the soldier dead?

  DeBoise stood up slowly, his pistol aimed at the very spot where the German had seemingly been shot. He moved forward with slow, deliberate steps, never taking his gaze from the enemy.

  “Put your hands up.” He risked the command when he was barely two yards away, but the German remained slumped against the tree, head still collapsed down against his chest. The bullet hole was obvious now.

  He took another step forward and pushed sharply against the German’s shoulder. The body fell over. Now DeBoise saw his face more clearly, the pale grey skin, the gaping mouth and unfocussed eyes betraying his death.

  “You poor bugger.” DeBoise sat down beside him and picked up the man’s haversack. “Whatever you’ve got here, you won’t need it now.”

  He rifled inside the haversack and pulled out a leather-encased water bottle. He drank from it greedily. Searching deeper amongst the man’s few possessions, he found a slab of cheese and a chunk of bratwurst sausage. He gobbled both.

  Feeling partly refreshed by the food and water, he continued his journey through the forest. At first he heard nothing but the constant pounding of the guns.

  Then, beyond the noises of war, he heard other sounds. A steady murmur of voices slowly became apparent, but the speakers were not in front of him. He turned his head left and right. The voices were to his left. He continued walking towards them. If they were German, he wanted to know how to avoid them. If they were British, he desperately wanted to be amongst them.

  The voices grew louder and he made out individual words. His spirits suddenly rose. They were English voices! He began to run, pushing aside braches and bushes. He could see them now, uniformed men grouped close to a small copse. Thank God!

  The forest broke away from him suddenly and he was out in the open, running towards the men in British uniforms. They stared back at him in astonishment. He ran on, panting heavily, until he recognised the senior officers in front of him. Then he came to an abrupt halt.

  “Lieutenant DeBoise?” General Haig glowered at him. “Where the hell have you been, man? By God, man, you look a mess.”

  *

  The German officer sat up suddenly; Wendel’s reaction was quicker. He aimed his pistol at the German’s head and fired. The echo reverberated round the room as the officer slumped back onto the bed.

  “Damn!” Wendel cursed aloud and ran to the bedroom window.

  Down below there was no obvious indication anyone had heard his shot. A mortar shell exploded just beyond the trees at the far end of the gardens. The sound of rifle fire continued to rattle in the distance. What was one more shot to men who had endured a hard battle in the nearby trenches?

  Wendel allowed himself to momentarily relax. He had been lucky. A single German officer had been too slow to react, but he might not be so lucky next time. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled the dead body onto the floor and dragged the bed on top of it. He gathered up the bloodstained bedclothes and pushed them under the bed. Not a wholly satisfactory solution, but maybe it would buy him some time.

  What next?

  Would the dead officer be missed? Would other Germans come looking for him? Wendel went to the door and listened. At first no one else seemed to be moving within the vicinity. Then he heard footsteps and voices on the floor below. German voices.

  Reluctantly, Wendel hastened back towards the attic. Hunger was preferable to being caught.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  DeBoise sat in the shadow of a copse and watched the drama play out lik
e a Shakespearean tragedy. In the distance he could see the Menin Road. Occasional vehicles moved the few remaining fresh troops forward. Many more vehicles brought the wounded back towards Ypres. Half a mile up the road, two ambulances were destroyed by a shell which landed between them. The following vehicles skirted round the wreckage. No one tried to rescue the victims from the burning vehicles. There was no point.

  An old, weather-beaten soldier brought DeBoise a can of stew and a steaming mug of tea, but at first he only picked at the food despite his hunger. Having failed to reach Gheluvelt, he was in a quandary over his next move. He could make his way back to Ypres. It would be a dangerous journey along a heavily bombarded road, but he would be safer in Ypres than here. Only his conscience made him stay where he was. Captain Wendel was likely still at the Château and Marie would be with him. How could he retreat, take himself away to a place of safety when Marie was in grave danger?

  Dear Marie, pray God you’re safe.

  His hunger brought him abruptly back to reality and he jabbed his spoon into the stew. It was tepid and tasteless, but he ate it hungrily. At least the tea was hot. He drank from it with relish.

  Only a few yards away, General Haig stood in the open air, grappling with the growing crisis. The 1st Division had fallen back from Gheluvelt after suffering appalling casualties, but the General maintained the stoical aura of a man who didn’t want to accept that he and his army were finally beaten.

  The old soldier sidled up to DeBoise again and refilled his mug with more tea. “Fancy, the General himself out here in the thick of it. Looks like he’s back on the parade ground at Aldershot, don’t it, sir?”

  “Aldershot was nothing like this, soldier.”

  “No, sir. The food was better there.” He soldier sidled away, grinning to himself.

  Haig’s discussion with the junior officers grew heated and then abated as they seemed to come to some sort of consensus. Haig studied his map silently, his features stern and determined. He then turned away from the other officers and gestured to DeBoise.

  “Lieutenant! Come over here.”

  “Sir.” DeBoise put down his tea and stepped forward quickly.

  Haig stared at him and lowered his voice. “Things are bad here and getting worse by the hour. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Of course he did. He’d been in the thick of it.

  “The enemy troops have blown a gap in our line at Gheluvelt.” He paused to let the message sink in. “The town is in flames and a mass of rubble. The Queen’s and the Royal Scots Fusiliers have been decimated. The Welsh have been overwhelmed. The right flank of the South Wales Borderers has collapsed. In short, the situation is as serious as it can get.”

  DeBoise blinked. Serious? Things were clearly more serious than he had imagined. “What is your intention now, sir?”

  “We’ve one last chance.” Haig’s voice reflected his concern as he stabbed a finger at his map. “We’re going to retire to a line west of Hooge and make a stand there, but we must get messages to the regiments that are still cut off. I want you to get to Cruikshanks and his Highlanders. Tell him he must retreat now.”

  “Me, sir?”

  “I’ve no one else I can spare.”

  “I understand, sir.” It was a sobering thought. He was the only dispensable officer. “Where are the KOHD?”

  “They’re believed to be just here.” Again the General stabbed his finger at the map and waited while DeBoise studied it. “I want you to get to them, but go carefully, man. I don’t want any slip-ups.”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.” DeBoise felt a shiver run down his back. This was neither his rightful place nor his rightful task. He was one of C’s agents, not a battlefield soldier. And he had more than a suspicion that no stand, however heroic, was going to save Gheluvelt. The odds against them were too great.

  Haig turned back to his aide-de-camp. “Find this man a good horse, quickly now.” He pushed his map towards DeBoise. “Take this. It’s marked with the position I want Cruikshanks to fall back on.”

  A fresh mount was brought forward from the shelter of the trees. DeBoise wondered who had once owned it. A dead officer perhaps? Did it matter who had owned it as long as the animal was fit enough to ride? He stuffed the map into a pocket and saluted the General.

  “Don’t take any risks, DeBoise. It’s important you get to Cruikshanks and tell him to fall back.”

  “Yes, sir.” No risks? He was taking one almighty risk by simply being here, and an even greater one by riding off through the woods.

  Doubts and fears filled his head as he rode away. He had been an accomplished rider in his youth but there was a big difference between riding to hounds and riding in a battle zone.

  He crossed a small stream before he came unexpectedly upon three companies pegged down by sporadic rifle fire near Polygon Wood. He quickly identified them as the 2nd Worcester Regiment. No one had warned him the Worcesters were here. Perhaps, he thought, their location was not known to Haig and his officers. Could the situation be that bad?

  DeBoise dismounted and led the horse towards an officer who seemed to be in charge. He saluted hesitantly when he recognised Major Hankey, a man well known to his father, Major General Redvers DeBoise.

  “Lieutenant DeBoise, sir. I’ve just come from General Haig. I’m searching for the KOHD.”

  “Ah, yes. I remember you, DeBoise.” Hankey ducked as a shell exploded in an adjacent field. Grass and mud fell about them. “What news from Haig?”

  “Things are going very badly. The General sent me to find the Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks and his men, sir. They’ve to fall back on a line west of Hooge.”

  “And us? What does he want us to do?”

  “He didn’t say, sir. Maybe he didn’t know you were pegged out here. Do you know where the Highlanders are now?”

  Hankey pointed towards more woodland half a mile away. “They’re holed up over there. Like us, they can’t move forward and they can’t fall back without covering fire.”

  “But the General says they must retreat.”

  “Go and tell them that, but don’t expect them to shout with joy. You should know enough about military tactics to see the impossible situation we’re in.”

  DeBoise did see it, but it was not his right to criticise a General’s orders. The enormity of the problem was fixed in his mind as he rode on towards the Highlanders. Both the Worcesters and the KOHD were trapped, doomed to be slaughtered whatever they did next.

  He kept low in the saddle throughout the short ride, praying that no stray bullets would find him. When he arrived at the Scottish regiment’s line, he felt a sudden spasm of intense annoyance. It was McRapper who came forward and took the horse’s reins.

  The sturdy little Scotsman scowled at him. “Well, well. It’s you, Dee-Boys. So, you’re not dead yet?”

  Ignoring the insolence, DeBoise clambered down from the horse, wincing as his injured leg hit the ground. “I must speak with Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks. It’s a matter of the utmost urgency.”

  MacRapper spat on the ground before he replied. “He’s over by yon tree. No doubt pissing himself because he can’t figure out how to get us out of this mess. Yew know a way out, do yew?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell him.” DeBoise hurried towards Cruikshanks, taking in the resigned looks from the kilted soldiers. Theirs was a regiment that was cornered by German fire and they all knew it.

  “What are you doing here, man?” Cruikshanks shook his head sadly. “As if I haven’t enough problems, you turn up like a bad penny.”

  DeBoise gritted his teeth. “The Huns have broken through at Gheluvelt, sir. General Haig wants you to retire to a line west of Hooge.” He pulled the map from his pocket. “I have the position marked out for you.”

  “Retreat, you say?” Cruikshanks glanced at the map and wiped a hand across his muddy brow. “Dammit, man, we’re in a desperate position here. What Haig wants isn’t possible.” He stared at
DeBoise through weary eyes. “I’m already down to my last reserves. Nothing seems to stop the Huns coming on at us. No, what Haig wants just isn’t possible.”

  “Not even a retreat, sir?”

  “No, dammit! I don’t have enough men to cover a retreat.” Cruikshanks stopped to think for a few seconds. “We’d be decimated if we fell back without cover. Tell Haig I need back-up. As many men as he can spare. Until then, I’ll try to hold the line here.”

  “I don’t think the General has the men to spare, sir.”

  “Well, tell him to find them! He must get me more men from somewhere. I must have back-up if I’m to retreat. And do it now!”

  DeBoise walked back to his mount. He knew well enough that Haig had no reserves to help the KOHD. To ride back and confront the General now would serve no useful purpose.

  “Running away already, are ye?” MacRapper was crouched in the shelter of a tree, smoking.

  “Shut up, MacRapper.”

  “Oh, getting uppity now, aren’t we Dee-Boys? Why don’t yew stay and fight alongside us? Stay and fight like a man. Or are yew going to sit in the background while the rest of us attack the Huns?”

  Attack? Was that the best answer? Neither regiment could retreat without covering fire, and they could not stay where they were without the certainty of being overrun. The only other option was to attack.

  He stood and considered the idea. Maybe Regimental Sergeant Major MacRapper had the right idea. They would lose many men, for certain, but they just might regain some lost ground. And – the thought came to him seemingly from nowhere – he might be in time to help save Marie.

  He retraced his steps and spoke firmly to Cruikshanks, as firm as his inner apprehension would allow. “I have to tell you sir, that General Haig has no more reserves. There is no point in me going back to ask him, he just hasn’t got the men to cover your retreat.”