Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  Caleb, demanding a check of their remaining ammunition, was appalled to find Walsh with a mere handful of 30-06 shells left for his Enfield. Among Will, Caferro, Blackhorse and Caleb, they had eight clips, each clip holding five bullets, to fit the Springfields.

  “Hold your fire,” he told the men, worried they wouldn’t be able to hold off a rush. The German troops, evidently with a more plentiful supply, kept up a monotonous racket designed to stymie the Americans.

  Fifteen minutes went by. They didn’t talk, each man concentrating on staying ahead of the Germans. Caleb, driven by his anxiety about Boothenay, jumped at every breath of wind, every crackle of dry straw, every cry from the wounded men of both sides stranded on the battlefield. The stench of cordite and eviscerated horse pervaded the foxhole.

  At last Caleb swore and rose to a crouching position. “Anybody ready for a change of scenery? God knows we’re not doing any good here, especially without ammo. Next push the Huns make, we’ll go down. We’ve got to catch up with battalion and regroup.”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  “Blackhorse, how much ammo you got left for the Browning? Enough to scare the Huns into keeping their heads down?”

  The Indian’s white teeth gleamed in his dark face. “Keep them down or lose them,” he said.

  “Good enough. The rest of you boys ready?” Caleb took the way the men tightened the grip they had on their rifles to be an affirmative answer.

  “All right,” he said. “Quick as Ernie starts shooting, I want you, one at a time, to crawl on over the top. On your bellies until we drop behind the hill, then run for it. Will, you lead out. Walsh is next, Caferro third, me fourth. Ernie, sorry, but you have drag. Quick as you get off that last shot, jump and run like hell. We should be in position to give you cover by then.”

  The men’s breath was already coming faster as a mixture of fear and anticipation stirred their blood. One thing about foxholes or trenches; they provided an illusion of safety—and the men knew it was illusion—so that, while part of them wanted to get moving, another part urged them to stay. Only Ernie Blackhorse, busy with his belts of.30- caliber ammunition, had steady hands.

  “Get ready,” Caleb whispered. “Quiet, now. No need to announce we’re moving house. Will . . . go.”

  But Will hesitated. “I didn’t tell you, Ned, because I could see you were miserable every time you thought about her—about Boothenay.”

  Caleb drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Forget it, Will. This isn’t the place for a long discussion. Let’s go.”

  So Will Mueller crawled over the edge of the foxhole and, before he had a chance to take more than three steps, was cut down by the Hun rifleman who’d been expecting just such a move.

  But as fast as this happened, Corporal Walsh, who had followed Will, was already in motion, up and over and into a crouch. His rifle blazed, and off in the dark they heard the threshing of a body in mortal pain.

  Walsh paused beside Mueller, feeling for a pulse. “Dead,” he said. The word was barely out of his mouth before a stitching of bullets sewed a black line across his chest. He fell back into the foxhole, taking Caferro down with him.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Caferro yelled, rolling out from under Walsh’s carcass. The whites of his eyes glared in the dark.

  Ernie Blackhorse, squatting behind his machine-gun, traversed the field with a spray of bullets.

  Caleb was blowing like he’d already been running. The dogs pressed against him, whining low in their throats. “Goddamn,” he said. “Caferro, get up. It’s now or never. Ernie, you, too. Pour enough lead into that section where the shots came from to keep their heads down. Then run like you’ve never run before.”

  Blackhorse didn’t reply. The machine gun bucked and spat fury. The belt emptied and was replaced. Caleb, dragging Caferro by the shoulder, boosted the man over side of the hole, then came up running, himself. The two black dogs, like something out of the Hound of the Baskervilles, swarmed up, too, and keeping pace with the man, ran also.

  Random shots popped, shooting blind. Lead whistled past Caleb’s head. He felt the wind of its passing. Another bullet tugged at his jacket; there was a sudden, searing pain as one creased his forearm. Hot blood gushed, splashing onto the ground as he ran.

  Somehow he lost track of Caferro. The man had been right beside him a minute ago. Now he was gone, either following his own path, or—Caleb hated the thought—he, too, had fallen.

  Behind him, back at the foxhole, Ernie Blackhorse stayed with his gun, but the return fire was heavier now, the damn Boche knowing they had this skirmish won. As Caleb finally made the cover of the next hill, the Browning went silent. A smattering of shots came from German rifles. Then nothing.

  CHAPTER 25

  I guess I got what I asked for. I did get to speak with the messenger. And look at it this way, I told myself a little later. Eight hours ago you wouldn’t have known how to do this, much less been able to keep from blowing chunks at the mere sight.

  The aforementioned this I’m talking about was the cleansing, stitching and bandaging of a bayonet wound. If the victim . . . make that patient . . . who bore my ministrations with truly remarkable fortitude had by chance guessed at my inexperience, he’d probably have wept out loud. Nobody likes being a guinea pig after all, except maybe a guinea pig.

  “I’m sorry,” I said for about the sixth time. I wiped fresh beads of blood from the line of stitching I’d just inserted in his side. Did I mention I’m not much of a seamstress either? I think I’d been too heavy-handed with the needle and gone too deep, though at least the slash no longer had gaping, open lips. A heavy pad and about ten yards of gauze hid the results nicely.

  Lordy! If there’s anything in this world I hate, it’s having to act as a kind of medical practitioner. I’ve got absolutely no aptitude and I can’t bear to know I’m hurting people already in pain. This boy was no exception.

  “That’s much better, ma’am,” the kid fibbed gamely.

  At least he hadn’t passed out. “Good.” I gathered the needle and thread, sulfa powder and whatnot that made up the first-aid supplies. The items were collected in a basin to be sanitized and re-used. No disposables in 1918, by gosh. “Now, tell me what’s happening at the front.”

  “Like I said before, ma’am,” he said, buttoning the rags of his shirt over the bandage. “The Huns have us on the run. I’ve got to get back to my unit. They’ll be needing me, what with the radio being out.”

  “You need a hot drink first. I wish you could go to bed for about twenty-four hours. You’d sure be better off.” I found the coffee pot an orderly had abandoned and poured him some with lots of sugar in it.

  “Drink this down,” I ordered and waited until he had his first gulp. “Is there going to be a counterattack?”

  “I told you, I don’t know. I’m only the messenger. Whatever my officers tell me to do, that’s what I do.”

  I had to agree it was unlikely anyone would discuss strategy with him.

  “I was at 2nd Battalion’s quarters earlier today,” I said. “I saw you there. Do you know the guys in C Company?”

  “Some of them,” he said cautiously, sipping the hot brew as though it hurt his mouth.

  “Caferro? Will Mueller?” At every name I mentioned, he nodded. “Sergeant Ned Smith?

  “Yes, ma’am.

  “Have you seen him? Ned, I mean? Is he all right?” I tried to keep the

  anxiety out of my voice. I thought there was a better chance of getting the truth if he didn’t think he needed to protect my delicate sensibilities and clean things up

  “The whole camp has been vacated,” he said. “Won’t be anything left of it when the Huns get done.”

  “Where are they now?” I asked.

  “Who?” He gazed at me in bewilderment. “The Huns?”

  “No! Who cares about the Germans? C Company.” What was this kid anyway? Certainly not the sharpest knife in the drawer

  Sensing my anno
yance, he stammered a reply. I hoped he wasn’t making up any of the details just to get rid of me, but the gist of it seemed to be that Caleb and C Company were only about three miles from the hospital, or had been at last sight. This little town was the rallying point for the troops, the boy told me, and although the wounded were being evacuated as quickly as transport could be found, the army would regroup here. Heavy fighting was taking place a few miles down the road.

  Good, I thought. And then the Americans will run those wretched Germans back to wherever they came from. I wanted to be there to watch. It was then I decided I’d go see if I could meet Caleb on his way in.

  I knew, really, that finding one man lost in the turmoil and fighting might not be all that easy. Easy? Maybe impossible. But I had to try. I had the feeling the forty-eight-hour time limit I’d imposed back in our own world had about run its course.

  A power able to send me to a place like this should also be capable of fulfilling the needs of history after all. What else is it good for, unless some cosmic prankster just wants to see me squirm? Somehow, I can’t bring myself to accept such an idea. I have faith that, obscure as it may be, there is a reason—a need—for the magic. And that if I don’t fail the magic, the magic won’t fail me. Boothenay Irons—the eternal optimist.

  But that was the thing. Action, I mean. An effort on my part seemed called for.

  The kid finished his coffee—oh, he was in a hurry all right—and edged toward the door. “Thank you for sewing me up, ma’am,” he said. “I’ve got to be getting back.”

  “Be careful of those stitches. You don’t want to bust them loose.”

  “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’ll be careful.” He slipped through the infirmary door and disappeared into the mayhem of the night. The heavy guns, both theirs and ours, started with a constant volley of chest-rattling sound.

  Anonymous Patient. Stitches required. Minor chest wound . . . bayonet. Patient returned to duty. I wrote in Dr. Bloom’s notebook, realizing I’d forgotten to ask the kid his name for the hospital records, I’d been so shaken by the job at hand. He could kiss his Purple Heart goodbye, if they even had the award in 1918.

  I’d been keeping a pretty sharp eye on the goings-on outside, leaving the door open and glancing up every few seconds. If Caleb were to appear out of the dark about now, my greatest desire would be gratified. He didn’t, and mine wasn’t, but something did happen which caused my heart to leap into my throat with excitement.

  At first, the area of inky black looked like nothing more than a deepening of the shadows under one of the ambulance’s wheels. Until I saw it move although the truck was standing still. Then the shadow crept across the road, using an odd hopping gait, while dodging the tooting trucks and horse-drawn wagons of supplies and guns the army was bringing into position.

  It wasn’t until one of the trucks swerved and caught the shadow in its headlights that I saw the black spot was a dog. One like the big critter I’d seen in Caleb’s quarters today, or yesterday or whenever that had been. Same breed, same color, same size.

  Same dog, proven by the canvas wrapping around its broken leg.

  A coincidence of two animals in that condition didn’t seem feasible. Elation rushed up, then ebbed. The dog was alone, probably forced out the barracks by the enemy like everyone else. But Caferro had said the dog was Caleb’s, so I whistled the animal to me. He veered my way, almost as if he’d been looking for me.

  I like to think of myself as a humanitarian—or would that make me a dogitarian?—so I brought the animal a bowl of water first thing. Anyway, he lapped and lapped, as if his throat was parched and his stomach dried out. When he was through he didn’t fawn all over me— thank goodness, since he was almost as big as I—but accepted the pats and praise with dignity.

  And then, as one the shells from the German barrage exploded within the little French village, I found Caleb’s message. My heart lifted and sang. I swear, I saw colored lights.

  I’d written Caleb Deane several times on the dog’s cast. Well, the scribbling hadn’t been erased. No, indeedy. In fact, there’d been an addition. ON MY WAY was printed in Caleb’s precise capital letters. Twice. Little chills broke my skin out in goose bumps.

  “Where is he?” I asked the dog. Oh, I know. The adventures I am drawn into are a product of strange powers to be sure, but not even they can actually imbue a dog with the ability to speak. Imagine my surprise when this dog seemed to understand, moving off a few yards, stopping to turn back and watch me, then moving forward again.

  He was very persuasive. I ripped off the telltale white smock to let my clothing, well splotched with blood, provide a gruesome kind of camouflage. Retrieving my bag, I followed him. The mutt must be one of those war dogs I remembered reading about when I’d been researching. I wondered if this particular creature was as tired as I. In my opinion, he moved more slowly than a dog of his size would warrant, but I suppose traveling for any distance on three legs didn’t help.

  I was flagging. Given the differences in time, I didn’t know exactly how long I’d been without sleep. Too long, that’s for sure. I knew I’d been on the move for the last twenty-four hours.

  Flagging? Make that dragging, yet with the appearance of the dog and those three, little words from Caleb, I felt a rush of energy.

  Unfortunately, the bombs crashing all around scared me witless. Once I cowered in the questionable shelter of a small grove of trees, until the dog came and gently took one of my hands in his mouth and got me going again. At that, I made an effort to stir up a modicum of courage.

  “All right, all right,” I told the dog as he waited for me to move out. “Lead on, McDuff. I’m right behind you. I promise.”

  I swear to God, the sky looked to be raining bombs. There’d be a screech from overhead, then a sensation as if all the air had been sucked away, and finally the resulting explosion, shooting blue, gold and red sparks all around. Almost pretty, from a distance. Unerringly, the dog—McDuff, the name stuck in my mind—led us around the blast each time. He seemed able to sense where the next one would fall and take a wide berth.

  As a consequence, we moved only slowly away from the barrage. Not fast enough for my taste, I assure you, but then we ran into a few problems.

  At first we met quite a few Americans, beating their way back to the village where the ranks would be reinforced and they would regroup for a counterattack. I’m sorry to say the disorderly retreat looked like a rout to me, and I was thankful McDuff avoided them all. The packs on their backs made them look like stampeding camels, humps bobbling erratically as they ran.

  They carried their rifles at the ready—too ready—because at one point I witnessed a murder. I saw one fearful man throw down another whom he’d been helping and suddenly shoot him dead. As badly as I wanted to meet Caleb, I knew he’d hate being a part of this unruly bunch. In all honesty, I was glad when the dog ignored everyone and led me farther into the dark. Soon we left the lights of the village and the hospital behind.

  Next came a period where we didn’t meet a living soul. McDuff was almost invisible beside me. The only way I could keep track of him was by having one hand on his collar. A separation of three feet and I would never have found him again.

  I said we didn’t meet a living soul. That doesn’t mean the living weren’t at that place, most of them in a purgatory of suffering. We had arrived at a killing ground, where either a heavy artillery barrage or a hand-to-hand battle had taken place. Those able had all moved on, either forward or backward. The ones left were either dead or unable to walk from that place. They made indistinct mounds in the dirt. Some twitched and jerked, their movements mindless with pain; others lay in the stillness of death. Cries carried to us, pleading for succor when there was none to be found.

  McDuff led me around those, too, never letting me get too near. But then we came to the third wave.

  Same as last night, a fog drawn from the wet ground had gathered in the dips and hollows of no-man’s land. I was hav
ing a hard enough time trying to see the dog, let alone follow him, when abruptly he planted his three legs and went still as a rock. Naturally, I stumbled right into him.

  “Hey⏤” I stifled the next words before they made sound. Something in the way McDuff stood, hair roaching up the center of his back, warned me to keep still. I froze and waited. My eyes strained to pierce the mist and darkness.

  First to show was the peaked helmet of a German infantryman. He appeared as a silhouette against the sky. Cannon fire blazed forth now and again, and against this backdrop, one . . . two . . . for a moment some were obscured by fog, then a whole squad of soldiers materialized. There must have been a dozen. They glided forward with their rifles carried at about waist level, clearly ready for action.

  My hand knotted in the dog’s hair, terrified that at any instant one of them would turn ever so slightly and see me. They’d shoot me down—I knew they would—and here was I without any means of protecting myself. The only thing saving me now, I felt sure, was the lucky happenstance of them being on higher ground than I. Consequently, in such slow motion as to make me invisible—or so I hoped—I sank to my knees, huddling next to the dog. My heart pounded like a bass drum. How could they not hear the reverberation?

  Still they came closer, silently, and almost as though they could smell me and were tracking my scent. They didn’t speak to one another. Their gear barely clanked. The realization struck that we’d been following an established route through these fields. All of us, German, American, and now me. Not McDuff’s fault, I knew. But here we’d met the enemy—and I had no place to hide.

  I cowered, waiting for discovery. My head ached with fatigue. I hated to give up. Hated to lose. A string of curses, a chain of prayers, repeated over and over silently within my mind.

  Then I felt a tug on the hem of my jacket. To say I was startled doesn’t cut it. I have to confess. I almost had a heart attack on the spot, undecided on whether to jump and run or to faint dead away. Visions of zombies and denizens of the underworld arising from their graves passed before me. From somewhere, I finally summoned the courage to look down, just as the tug repeated.