Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  At first, I couldn’t see a thing to account for what I’d felt, then I nearly strangled on a breath that snagged on my tonsils. I thought I saw an unattached appendage in the shape of a large and very dirty hand materializing from out of nowhere. Zombie indeed, arising from the grave! As I looked beyond the hand, too horrified really to comprehend it was just a human hand, I saw the whites of two eyes glimmering beacon-like through the dark. They blinked closed, then opened as I watched. Closed, then opened again.

  Air eased past the obstruction, refilling my lungs. This is a man, I told myself. A wounded American—and he’s trying to tell you something. I pretended I didn’t see he was missing some essential body parts. He made no sound

  He’s warning me of the German’s approach, I decided. As if I couldn’t see them all too well without him pointing them out. I waggled my head slowly to show I understood, and then, in case the dark hid me as well as it hid him, I reached out and pressed his hand. He recoiled. His hand wavered, then moved in an odd, searching gesture. He wanted something. What?

  Oddly enough, the dog understood first. He scooted forward on his belly with his bad leg sticking out behind, sniffing first at the man, then at a point about a foot away. With his nose, McDuff nudged an object toward me.

  A pistol. I pulled the mud-covered revolver out of the muck, marveling at such a boon. Blind chance? Was Lady Luck watching over this endeavor? Or was this a manifestation of the power? Perhaps I’ll never know, but I can tell you, I had a real surge of confidence when I had the gun in my hand. And though it was so filthy I couldn’t tell much, beyond knowing it was a .32 Smith and Wesson with birdhead grips, I dared feel restored hope. By touch, I counted bullets. Six. It would have to do.

  In a fervor of gratitude, I pressed the man’s hand again, and so I felt when he jerked, a faint spasm, barely noticeable. Then he went totally limp, and although I gripped him harder as if to force death to pass by, still he slipped away.

  He had given me such a gift.

  If I’d ever had time to move away from the trail and go beyond detection by the German advance, I lost the opportunity when the American distracted me. There was no choice but to hunker down and pray. And although there’d been moments this evening when I cursed the fog, I was grateful for it now.

  Moment-by-moment, banks of opaque mist rolled over the fields, filling the hollows with heavy, wet clouds. When I peered upward from where I crouched by the side of the trail, all I saw of the German soldiers was from the waist up, and then only in erratic spurts as they moved through the fog.

  Oh, baby, I thought. I do think we’re actually going to make it. If I can’ t see them, then they sure as hell can’ t see me. But I did my best to shrivel into a pea-sized ball. Incredibly, McDuff flattened alongside me, so still as to become nearly invisible to me, though he lay scant inches from my face.

  Twelve enemy soldiers, I had counted. The first three passed us. I turned my head, a fraction of an inch at a time, to watch as they disappeared beyond our hiding place. The next three went by also.

  I had thought them silent earlier. Now I heard the quick panting of their breath, the suck of their feet pulling from the mud, and the whisper of their clothing. Another man went by and another. Eight down, four to go. Then a man, not yet in my sight, called something to the one who was abreast of me.

  And McDuff growled.

  Not loudly. I’ll give him that. But loud enough the man stopped as still as though he’d run into a force field, and stood, listening intently. He was no more than ten feet from my position. He said something, which I’d be willing to bet translated as, “Did you hear that?” because the next man in line said, “Nein,” which I understood very well, and gave the first guy a shove.

  If the squad had been alert before, it was doubly so now, including the one who had said nein. The two stayed put, twisting this way and that, almost sniffing at the night air like hunting dogs. I’ve heard the scent of fear is strong. Well, I can certify to putting that premise to the test. My heart beat like a trip hammer. McDuff, sensing my distress, grew more anxious himself. Beneath my hand, which rested on his flank, he began to stir. I knew he was going to break and run. I didn’t know what I should do.

  Which brought me to the choice I must make, and make this instant. Should I wait on events or should I go for it

  Why wait? Take them by surprise.

  My fingers clenched in the dog’s hair and I felt his muscles tense. He was ready.

  Oh, God. I positively ached for a weapon like an old Japanese Nambu, or a heavier M16 with a thirty-round box magazine. Heck, I’d even take a Thompson, though they weighed a ton.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful for the dead man’s gift. But I knew by now it was old—a relic of the cowboy days—and I could only hope it wouldn’t puke on me.

  Uzi—an Uzi would be good. Oh, God!

  I leapt to my feet, the Smith & Wesson coming to bear on the nearest German soldier. The old.32 blazed like the trooper it was, the bullet catching the soldier in the upper chest. Utter shock flared across his face. He dropped like the proverbial rock.

  The other soldier didn’t know whether I was the threat, or if his greatest danger came from the body hurtling into him like a football linebacker. The heavy dog knocked him ass over teakettle into the fog bank on the other side of the trail, and I heard nothing more from him.

  He did get one shot off on his way down, much to my regret. I don’t know where the bullet went; hopefully, into one of his own kind. Not into McDuff, apparently, for I heard the dog running away. Unfortunately, the noise alerted the others and before I could move, they began converging on the spot.

  When in doubt, attack. I’d read that some place, or something like it, so I followed the military advice. I hoped the reference wasn’t Napoleon’s at the battle of Waterloo.

  But this was no time for self-doubt.

  I barreled down the path, screaming at the top of my lungs. Nothing to lose at this point in making a noise. I snapped off a couple shots as I went, and to my shock, the two remaining men hit the dirt. It was hard to fathom that I’d actually hit them. The gun one of them was carrying spat fire over my shoulder as I bore down on where they lay.

  The other was dead, I saw, absolutely astonished. Or at least out of commission, judging from the slack way in which he sprawled. I rolled out of the live man’s line of fire, the kick of the.32 jerking my wrist as I pulled the trigger. Once or twice, I didn’t know how many times I fired.

  Picking myself off the ground, my left hand automatically scooped up a weapon lying beside the man I’d killed. And then I was behind them, running as if pursued by Jack the Ripper. Sore feet? Exhaustion? Not me. I stuck the empty.32 in the waistband of my jodhpurs, and ran like Usain Bolt racing to the finish line.

  CHAPTER 26

  McDuff met me before I’d gone too far, which is what finally slowed my sprint. He was limping worse than ever, poor thing, and when I flung my arms around him in an excess of relief in finding him alive, he winced away from me. Something wet and sticky clung to his black coat.

  But he could walk, and I believe he was as glad to see me as I was to see him. Together, we trotted straight down the middle of the road, both of us feeling invincible, I think, though for what reason only God can say. Must be because, against all odds, we’d escaped the German trap.

  After a while, as McDuff bumped against my thigh for the third time in as many minutes, I finally figured out he was trying to herd me off the road. I decided he must know something I didn’t. When I went where he directed, he gave over pushing and simply led.

  My doggy guide took us up a rise. I had the most eerie feeling imaginable as we climbed. The hill was silent—too silent.

  Noise hammered from all around: cannon fire, machine gun fire, the rattle of small arms. The sky overhead lit with colored lights, like strobes almost, in the rocket’s red—and yellow, and orange, and violet—glare. Far off, men yelled what I knew to be battle cries, nearly lost in th
e muffling fog and the distance.

  And yet, right here on this hill, it was as if time stood still. We were in a dark pocket, a vacuum, separated from the rest of the world. I’d seen this place before, picked out of August’s memory.

  This is where Will Mueller had died—I knew it in every molecule of my being—and McDuff, Caleb’s dog, had led me here. Who else had died here? Who?

  I should have been used to the sight and smell of death by now. The Lord knows my time here had been marked by these twin agonies. And yet, it’s different somehow when the dead are people you know.

  The dog was affected also. He whined, lifting his nose to the night and taking in the scent. Shivering, he leaned against my leg, threatening to upset us both. He didn’t take much comfort from the hand I placed on his head, perhaps because I was trembling too much myself to be convincing.

  I held the carbine I’d taken from the ambush at the ready as we began our search of the dead.

  The first person we found was German. I left him where he lay, crumpled like a heap of dirty rags. The next person was a Native American, hanging limply over the barrel of a new Browning machine gun, a belt of .30 caliber ammo fed half through.

  I swallowed hard over this one, for I recognized him and remembered his name. Ernie Blackhorse. Another enemy soldier sprawled nearby, a throwing knife sunk deeply into his chest. Blackhorse’s work? Or Walsh’s, whom I found next, his expression frozen in a rictus of ferocity.

  Who would be next? Who?

  Johnny Caferro lay a couple of feet outside the shell hole, his head pointed toward that uncertain shelter, as though he’d been outside trying to get in. He lay on his back, and from the front he looked relatively unscathed. Until I noticed the spreading puddle of blood beneath his hips. Miraculously, he was still breathing and his eyes were open. He shook, his bones rattling like rocks in a beer can.

  I dropped onto my knees beside him, setting aside the gun and reaching for his cold, stiff hand. “Oh, Johnny. Oh, damn.”

  He knew me.

  “Boo’nay . . . doing here?” His voice was the threadiest of whispers. “Ned find . . . you?”

  My eyes felt glassy with suppressed tears. “Not yet. Don’t worry. We’ll be okay. First thing is to find a medic and get you some help.”

  He tried to shake his head, but couldn’t make it move. I suspected he’d been shot in the spine, partially paralyzing him. “Cold,” he said.

  “Yes. I know.” I bent over him, pressing my cheek to his. Since I’d been running and walking, I knew I must be warm.

  Somehow, he found the strength to speak again, though so faintly I felt only a brush of sound on my face. “Letter,” he said.

  “Letter?” I repeated.

  “Pocket. Mother.” Formed by his lips, the words were no more than a vibration.

  Because I could tell it was worrying him, I reached inside his jacket, feeling the crackle of an envelope. “Here it is, Johnny,” I said, slipping the letter into his hand. When I looked at him again, I saw he was gone, his eyes still open to the night.

  I choked on a desire to scream; saddened, seeing yet another good man die in this horrible place; enraged, for there was nothing I could do to change a thing. A hoarse sob broke in my throat about the same time as McDuff thrust his nose toward the sky and let out a howl.

  His noise nearly scared the bejesus out of me. “Hush,” I whispered. “Holy Moly, you stupid dog. You’ll have the whole Hun army down on us.”

  I was all too aware of the enemy force standing between me and the relative safety of the American field hospital. If the hospital was still there—and if it remained in American hands.

  More chilling than the howl itself was the way he suddenly broke off, and after a brief pause, turned the sound into another of those low, menacing growls McDuff was so good at.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned. “What now?” Nothing good I felt sure, since the dog began crawling on his belly toward another hump—one with light-colored hair, I saw. Light-colored, not dark and curly. My heart lifted.

  The man lay near Walsh, both of them close to the center of the shell hole. I retrieved the carbine and duck-walked after McDuff, afraid to show my head over the edge of the hole. Retreat would be good, I thought. Time to leave. Caleb wasn’t here, although the dog had expected to find him. But I was glad! More glad than words can say because his absence meant he was alive—or so I told myself. He’d moved on, probably working his way toward the hospital where he’d anticipate finding me, since Caferro would’ve told him I was there.

  More fool me, putting all of us through this. I should have stayed put and waited for him. Of course, that was an easy call to make in retrospect, and not so easy in the stress of the moment. I’d head back, I decided. Meet him at the hospital.

  “Hsst, McDuff,” I said

  A snarl of doggy rage swelled over the top of my words.

  The thud of booted feet rang in counterpoint.

  And over all that, the sharp report of a rifle at close—too close—range, the bullet biting at the mud no more than six inches in front of my face. An orange flash pinpointed the source of fire, showing a glimpse of enemy uniform.

  Rage, part of the manic wrath that had been building inside of me from the moment I found Caferro, flamed to life. Yelling, I leapt up and over the lumpy body McDuff had found, eager to meet the German.

  “Goddamned killer Krauts.” The trigger of the captured carbine jerked, and I just held it down and let fly. I felt a fierce satisfaction in knowing a German weapon was dealing with a German soldier. Served them right.

  “For Blackhorse!” I screamed. Under the sudden flare of a rocket, red spots like splashes of paint, appeared on the front of the man’s uniform with each name. “For Caferro! Here’s for Mueller, you damn murderer.”

  He fell almost at my feet, dead as a road-kill skunk. The carbine felt hot in my hands.

  I don’t know how long I stood there. If there had been another of the enemy behind this one, he’d have picked me off easy as pie. The dog, too, seemed stunned by my outburst.

  Over the peculiar roaring in my ears, I heard a gruff whisper. “Boothenay. Boothenay Irons. Hold up there. Don’t shoot. I’m coming in.”

  Caleb! The indistinct voice must belong to him. Who else could it be?

  Joy made me weak, sapping the strength of my legs. Abruptly, I sank to the ground next to the lump—yet another wounded man as I discovered when he moaned. McDuff was busy licking the side of his face, the only part visible. I ignored the sounds of pain.

  He’d come back. Caleb had come back. I’d found him at last.

  “Come on then,” I said, practically singing. “I won’t shoot. I promise.” My second promise of the hour.

  The night was very dark, especially when the intermittent light of distant shell bursts would die away. And while the fog was not as thick right here as it had been on the trail leading to this place, enough lingered that the man who swarmed over the edge of the foxhole and landed beside me was barely recognizable. But I did recognize him, field gray uniform, helmet and all. He carried a useless Gewehr 98 7.92mm rifle; useless because the barrel had an obvious bend. He must’ve been bashing people over the head with it

  “August,” I gasped

  “You have your ethnic cues all messed up, sis,” he said. “I’m the Hun, or the Boche, or Fritz. Kraut didn’t come until later with the Nazis.”

  I felt no need to apologize. “I should’ve expected you,” I said. “But I thought you’d have been here, done your deed and been long gone before now.”

  Gravely, he shook his head.

  When we’d parted at the train depot he’d been a young man, in looks, at least. I remember he called me “sis” then, too, and it had seemed incongruous coming from someone younger than I. It seemed more fitting now. I hadn’t looked in a mirror for a while, so I didn’t know what the days of 1918 had done to my own looks. Tired and bedraggled, to be sure, but I didn’t think I’d acquired any wrinkles or gray hair.


  August had. He may not have appeared anywhere near the one hundred and five years he claimed in the real world, but he was sure enough gaining the decades rapidly now. Making up for lost time in the truest sense.

  McDuff gave over nursing the wounded American soldier, whom logic dictated must be Will Mueller, and huddled nearer to me. He made no overt move toward August, but watched him with neutral attention.

  I gestured vaguely with my hand. “Is this . . .” I couldn’t bear to look. The earlier glimpse I’d taken from August’s memory remained vivid enough for me.

  August bent over the soldier who lay face down, grimaced, and with an expression of pained responsibility, grasped him firmly by the shoulders and rolled him over. Will, who if not unconscious must have been shocked numb, woke up screaming.

  “Oh, Christ!” My head swam. Everything went black for a few seconds. Not for long enough actually. After the first, inadvertent look at animal-like intestines spilling from a butchered belly, I kept my eyes desperately glued on August von Fassnacht’s face.

  I couldn’t miss, although it was dark and hard to see, the way he paled or the ghastly expression of pain and revulsion that washed the life in him away.

  “I’d hoped . . . I prayed it would be different this time,” he choked. “I thought maybe with what I know now, I could change things. All these years I thought if I could only do things over again it would be different. That’s why I had to come back.” His whole body trembled, a condition that only grew worse as Will continued to scream. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  The horrible sound went on and on, a mindless wailing like a warning siren gone mad.

  “Hush, Will,” August crooned, in an attempt to comfort his cousin. “Hush, man. I’m here. I’m with you.”

  Somehow, Will heard. “Help me.” The plea repeated, over and over, until it became the core of his screams. “Help me.”