Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  I’d seen this man before, only he hadn’t been wounded then. He’d been at Caleb’s camp, helping Will chase down animals.

  Dr. Bloom stood up.

  “Attention, please,” he called out. “Will everyone return immediately to your stations and prepare for a retreat? Word has come that the enemy has attacked in force and managed to break through our lines. You know the drill, people. Now get to it.”

  Most of the group jumped up and started for the door. A few people held back to ask questions.

  “Is there no hope our lines will hold?”

  “They’ve already broken,” Dr. Bloom repeated. He beckoned one of the food servers to him. “Get this man some food,” he said, gesturing to the messenger.

  “How long do we have?” This question came from one of the Red Cross nurses, the woman with hazel eyes who sat at my own table.

  Dr. Bloom deferred to the man who’d brought the news. “An hour,” he said. “Maybe more, maybe less.”

  “Doctor, we’ll never get everyone evacuated in that time,” the woman said. “Are we all to head for Nancy or Paris? Where are the men who are being wounded right now to go?”

  “I will, of course, be staying with those we’re unable to move,” said Dr. Bloom. “And for those brought in later. Anyone willing to volunteer will be welcome to stay as well.”

  The woman’s face lit from within. “I’ll stay with you, Dr. Bloom.”

  “Excellent,” he said, smiling his sweet smile. “I appreciate your dedication.”

  I figured her dedication was due to him.

  “Miss Irons,” he said, proving to at last have remembered my name. “I see you’re still in your smock. You should find some supplies in the pockets. Please stitch this man’s wound and bind it up. We don’t want him losing any more blood.”

  “Me, sir?” I ached to run from this place, and yet was vastly relieved to have been chosen to speak with the messenger. Perhaps he could tell me what was happening where Caleb was. Perhaps he knew where to find Caleb.

  “When you’re through, get directly into one of the ambulances,” he added. “I want you on the first truck out of here.”

  As I started forward, making my way to the man Dr. Bloom had asked me to attend, one of the women waiting her turn through the exit door plucked at my arm.

  “Jerry’s on the run, hey? Very funny. You should have mentioned which way it is they’re running.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Sometime in the late afternoon, Caleb pulled himself out of a heavy sleep. He opened his gummy eyelids wide enough to see both the dogs sitting on their haunches, staring intensely at him out of beady, black eyes. Their regard is what had awakened him.

  “Whatsit?” he muttered, sitting up.

  The inside of the tent was dark as the hubs of hell. He staggered to his feet, wobbling slightly as he went to the door and pushed the flap aside. There wasn’t a single soul left in camp, though, out on the road, a stream of trucks, packed with wounded men and supplies, crept toward the rear. The only horses left in the corral were injured ones. All the others had been taken forward while he slept.

  The camp had an atmosphere of abandonment, as though well on its way to becoming a ghost town. That was the thing that struck him first. The second was the silence. The guns had stopped. He had a feeling this boded no good; a sort of “lull before the storm” kind of reaction.

  Caleb set his hand on the male dog’ s head. “Something’ s happening, dog. Doesn’t this strike you as being a little weird?

  The dog whined softly, asking to go out. Caleb opened the door, thinking a trip to latrine was in order for himself as well, so he didn’t notice the change in the dog’s leg wrapping until they met again, outside in the lingering daylight

  “Hey, dog. What have you gotten into? What’s that stuff on your brace?” There were splodgey marks all over the canvas wrapping. Bending closer for a better look, Caleb thought at first someone had been drawing pictures. But no. The marks were too regular for a drawing. It was writing, and the writing said⏤

  Caleb straightened so fast his head went kind of wonky. Was he mistaken?

  He bent and looked again, letting the words sink in slowly. Two words, actually, written several times over in a decisive scrawl he recognized right off. Caleb Deane, they said. Caleb Deane, Caleb Deane. Just two simple words, but enough to give him back his world. Boothenay had come. She was here—somewhere.

  “When?” Caleb squatted in front of the dog, touching the animal’s forehead with his own, as if hopeful of a science fiction style memory transfer. “When was she here?”

  Excitement pulsed through him, though the dog made no answer. His heart raced.

  “Where is she?” He checked around all the tents within sight, hoping she’d be nearby, the writing no more than a teasing prologue to appearing herself. But she failed to materialize, which didn’t really surprise him much. Boothenay was too forthright to tantalize him so cruelly.

  Damn! It didn’t stand to reason she would come here, then leave without waiting to see him. Especially since she’d taken time to write on the dog’s brace. That in itself showed she’d heard at least part of his story; that she knew this was his base.

  Wait a minute. If she’d heard about the dogs, had she also heard about⏤ Jesus. His blood almost stopped in his veins. Irene? Had Boothenay heard about Irene? Had someone told her he’d been away seeing a Red Cross nurse at the field hospital?

  She wouldn’t leave without asking him, would she? Without being aware he was making a sound, Caleb groaned out loud, propping his aching head in his hands. The dog licked his face, sympathizing.

  The dog! The dog had been in the tent all day, coming out only for one—now two—relief runs. If Boothenay had been here, she must have come inside. Maybe she’d left him a letter. Maybe at least another clue. Dear God, where had she gone?

  He bounded back into the tent, attempting to turn on the electric bulb. When it fizzled as usual, he lit the kerosene lantern instead and began searching through the tent. Nothing on the workbench where his tools were a clutter in need of organization. Nothing at his cot, under his pillow or mixed with his bedroll. Nothing stuffed in the tops of his combat boots, sitting side-by-side at the top end of the cot. The dog bed was at the bottom; there was nothing there either—no chewed paper, no unchewed paper. Nothing.

  Where would she have put a note, if she’d left one?

  Inspiration struck. Of course. The pistol. She’d done something to the.45 Colt. He knew that now. What he’d sensed when he touched the pistol this afternoon must have been due to Boothenay. He went over to unhook the empty holster from the peg, taking it down to look inside, tipping and shaking it in desperation.

  “Damn,” he said again, aloud this time, only then noticing the female dog rooting under the plank wash bench. Her paw went out, scratched, reached again. She retrieved a crumpled piece of paper in her mouth. Caleb pounced upon her find.

  Hands shaking as he smoothed the paper, Caleb held the note under the light. He felt positively giddy with excitement.

  My darling, Boothenay had written, I am so awfully sorry for taking this long to get to you. You can’t imagine the problems along the way. I look forward to explaining all to you.

  Your friend Will has been telling me something of your adventures in this place. I refuse to believe everything I hear—unless I hear it from you.

  Caleb’s head ached worse than ever as he read this passage. No way around it. Will had blabbed to her about Irene. It was as well she had been rather ambiguous with the message. She must have expected eyes other than his own to read the note. Unsympathetic eyes, judging from the gist of things. And maybe she’d surmised he would never receive the note, and so left him another clue by writing on the dog’s cast. He hoped it wasn’t Boothenay who, in the end, crumpled the note, and tossed it under the bench.

  I’m told I must go on into the nearest village to the field hospital there, the note went on, because no one will let me
wait for you in this camp. I don’t know what they plan on doing with me from that point. Caferro is escorting me in a truck. I will wait there until you come. I don’t know how long our safety net can remain viable. Please don’t delay, even if you only mean to say goodbye. I love you and hope you’ll come home with me.

  Boothenay

  Caleb found it was all he could do to remain standing. He wanted to jump and shout; he also wanted to collapse somewhere and think about the note. In the spirit of compromise, he hung onto the bench with one hand and reread Boothenay’s message, slower this time.

  My darling, she had written. By this time, Will had obviously mentioned Irene, and yet she’d still begun the letter with an endearment. Sweat broke out on his brow, thinking how she must have felt. He skipped to the end, liking that part best. I love you, she’d said. She was usually a little shy about saying that.

  Taking heart from the passage, he skipped over the rest. She’d met Caferro. Had she liked him? The Italian was a good-looking S.O.B. Worse, he was a good guy.

  Hmm. Safety net. Did she mean Sam was at home, worrying his head off about them both? Caleb’s brow crinkled. What were they using as a locus if the Colt was here? Was it possible for an object to be in two places at once?

  Caleb’s fingers moved over the crumpled paper, smoothing the creases and wondering how it had come to be discarded. He had only one answer to that. Will Mueller. Trouble is, how could he blame Will when he, himself, had been the one to question Boothenay’s loyalty. He, who had complained aloud at her continued silence; he, who had involved himself with the first semi-available woman he met.

  Shame suffused him. With it came a rush of gratitude because Boothenay had had enough faith in him to make sure he got another chance. Looking back, it was hard to imagine why he’d gone off the rails the way he had. Well, he was back on track now, and more than ready to go find his girl.

  With this thought in mind, he stooped to tie his shoes, only to feel the whoosh of hot air as a bullet zoomed through the tent over his head. He froze. After a second, he rose and blew out the lantern, plunging the interior into darkness.

  Previously too much involved with the message from Boothenay and his own recriminations to be aware of his surroundings, his ears now awakened, practically shaping to a point as he listened. He heard the padding of many feet running past the tent. The squeal of one of the wounded horses and the reproachful bray of a mule sounded from the corral. Someone was trying to use the injured animals for transport. Rifle fire rose to a crescendo, receded, and rose again. Somewhere close, a machine gun set up a long crackle as a full belt of ammo ran through.

  Another spray of bullets struck the lower half of the barracks, the wooden part this time. None came through to reach him, but soon, he knew, there would be no refuge here.Caleb eased over to his cot, found his pack and jammed his arms through the shoulder straps. He made sure his gas mask was clipped to his Sam Browne belt. With no more preparation, he was ready to move out.

  “Come on, dogs,” he whispered, determined not to leave the animals behind. “Time to go.”

  Dropping to the floor, he pushed the door open with his rifle barrel and wiggled through the narrow opening on his belly. The dogs followed. Close, constant gunfire, along with the shouts of men, indistinguishable as to whether from German or American throats, sounded from over the ridge.

  Caleb rose to his feet and, as he did so, an American soldier plunged around the corner, his arms flung helplessly wide. The man was dead before he collapsed, face down, like a pile of old, abandoned clothes in the dirt of the barracks yard. The strange, seemingly boneless way he fell told Caleb that much. He was shaken—and angry. Being shot dead was not part of his plan. Not at this stage of the game.

  Caleb took off running after the rest of the Americans, heedless of the renewed pain in his leg. He wasn’t alone. Since he was at the left rear flank of the retreating AEF forces, he had a good view of the soldiers ahead of him. He also had a view of the German vanguard—a sight fit to chill anyone’s battle ardor. The only thing giving him the slightest bit of encouragement was that as long as the Boche hadn’t taken to slaughtering their own troops, poison gas should not be a factor. The forces were in too close proximity for that.

  The barrel of Caleb’s rifle grew warm to the touch. He felt as though his entire life had been spent in turning and firing, firing and running, turning and firing, a routine that went on and on. And yet, when he looked up, the sky still had a touch of dirty gray light around the edges. He prayed for dark, for the fighting to break off, if only for a little while.

  The dogs kept pace beside him, quick as coal-black shadows. He wasn’t aware of being herded, although later, thinking back, he decided this was exactly what happened. One moment he was shooting at the enemy, dodging through crop stubble churned by shelling, and the next minute, skating down the side of a foxhole. He came to rest at the bottom, lying spread-eagled, and gawking up at men from his own company. A machine gun spewed death from over the top of his head.

  The dogs had rejoined him with his unit.

  “Hey, Sarge!” Walsh said, as jovial as though he were at a New Year’s Eve party. “Glad you could drop in.”

  There were four of them, survivors of the 90th Division, 2nd Battalion, Company C. Ernie Blackhorse had charge of the machine gun. He’d left his sorry team of half-dead horses hitched to the limber, ready to pull out at a moment’s notice, and was feeding belt after belt of .30 millimeter bullets, four-hundred-and-fifty to six hundred per minute, through the Browning. Blackhorse made a two-fingered salute.

  “I can’t say as I’m glad to be here,” Caleb said, his lungs hungry for air that wasn’t filled with gunsmoke and dirt. “You fellas plan on making yourself comfy?”

  “Hell, no. Not in this dump.” Walsh grinned. “I figure on finding me one of them Poste de secours the Huns have got fixed up with electric lights and running water, and squat there until the war is over.”

  Caleb could barely bring himself to meet the other two men’s eyes, although when he did, Caferro grinned. Will looked away, aware of the words burning at the back of Sergeant Ned Smith’s tongue.

  Now there is a boy, Caleb thought, with about as guilty a conscience as I have, myself.

  “Met your lady today,” Caferro said. “That girl’s got more guts than a violin. We got strafed riding in on the supply truck, and bedamned if she didn’t save the driver’s life. Then she wanted to take my rifle away from me and try to shoot the bastard Boche out of the sky.”

  Something inside Caleb relaxed. “You should’ve let her, Caferro. She’s a better shot than you.”

  “Nooo.” Caferro made a face. “You think so?”

  Caleb started a grin, then changed it to a frown at a germane recollection. “Wait a minute! Strafed? Where was that? I saw a truck being strafed this morning about a mile outside of camp. Was that you? You and Boothenay?”

  Caferro groaned. “I expect so. Ahhh, Sarge. Don’t tell me. We came that close to meeting? I feel bad for your poor girl. Which reminds me, what the hell are you doing here? I’d of thought you’d beat it in to the hospital quick as could be. I’ll tell you, Boothenay—she told me to call her by name—didn’t much care for being stuck with the wounded. She was looking kind of sick, herself. Said she’d rather be with the soldiers.”

  A grin crept momentarily across Caleb’s face, then as quickly disappeared. “She’s not much on doctoring, for true. As to why I’m not with her, John, I didn’t know she was here until a few minutes ago.”

  Caferro started. “Didn’t you read her message? She left a note for you on the washstand. I know she did. I got the paper and pencil for her myself.”

  Caleb touched the note, sitting close to his heart. “Oh, I got it—later rather than sooner. Pure luck I found it at all. I’ve got the dog to thank actually. She discovered a piece of paper rolling around on the floor.”

  The female dog’s tail whapped the ground in a paroxysm of happiness when Caleb l
ooked at her. If possible, Will became quieter, his mouth twisted, and he refused to meet Caleb’s eyes. He looked as though, for two cents, he’d dig his own hole and pull the dirt down on top of him. For those same two cents, Caleb would’ve enjoyed being the one doing the shoveling.

  “Why didn’t you tell me Boothenay is here, Will?” he asked, hanging onto his temper by a thread.

  If Will had a reply, it was drowned by Walsh’s crude expletive and the report of the 30.06 Enfield he’d acquired. A line of German troops was zigzagging across the same field Caleb had recently traversed. As many as six of them survived the open land against Walsh’s volley and Blackhorse’s spitting machine gun. They plunged for cover into a shell hole barely a hundred yards from C Company. Return fire plowed into the lip of the foxhole, sprinkling dirt over the Americans.

  A part of Caleb noticed the change in Walsh’s armament from the Springfield to the Enfield, and he wondered briefly where Walsh had come by the rifle. Their own battalion had all been issued Springfields.

  The four men hunkered down to some careful shooting. “Pick your shots, boys,” Caleb said, knowing his own supply of ammunition was getting low, and suspecting the others were in like circumstance. Only Blackhorse continued nonstop with his machine gun, spraying lead like there was no tomorrow.

  Caleb turned with a warning he never uttered. Both the horses were down, one still threshing madly in his harness. There’d be no moving the gun, or saving it, if they didn’t best the enemy here.

  “Take care of that horse,” he snapped at Will, but it was Walsh who drew a.45—the.45?—from his belt and coolly destroyed the animal. He returned the Colt to his belt.

  The fighting stalemated; each side as pinned as the other with no way out for any of them. They traded sporadic shots as night blanketed the torn barley field.

  “Anybody got water?” asked Walsh. Only Caleb’s canteen gurgled a little when jiggled. He handed it to Walsh, who took a sip and passed the rest to Blackhorse.