Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2)

by C. K. Crigger

  Not all of the squad arrived. Two men fell that he knew of; their wounds too severe, their bodies too exhausted to keep up with the rest. There may have been more of the fallen. He didn’t look back to see.

  He threw himself down behind a farm wagon, overturned in the street with its bulk fortified by a supply dray with an intact load, a variety of junk and a stalled staff car, just as a machine gun from the other side started barking. The bullets thudded into the thick plank bottom of the wagon, bare inches above his head.

  Not more than thirty minutes ago, he’d come along this very street, sure he’d find Boothenay at the end of it. Granted, the German army had been pressing hard on his trail then—witness the bistro reduced to rubble. It still infuriated and astonished him to see how far they’d driven their offensive in so short of time. Not acceptable, he grumbled. This was not acceptable. Where the hell were the reinforcements?

  “You got any extra ammo?” he asked the soldier squeezed shoulder to shoulder beside him. His own ammo pack was empty.

  The other shook his head, wincing with pain and causing a red- stained bandage tied around his forehead to slip. “We haven’t been resupplied since noon,” he said and added bitterly, “We were pushing forward then.”

  “Choose your target and don’t waste a shot,” Caleb said, repeating his words louder for the men nearest him. He heard the order being passed along. This business, he concluded, had all the earmarks of a monumental fiasco.

  As if this weren’t enough, he had a clear visualization of Boothenay being pushed ahead of the German army, a target for either side, including himself. The lurid image was enough to give him a fine case of the horrors.

  The picture he carried in his mind of Boothenay, beaten and bloody, vanished as he snapped off a shot at a man kneeling in the rubble of a wrecked building. This soldier toppled, only to have two more rise up in his place. They swept the American position with fire from a machine gun, hidden amid the remains of a stone-lined basement.

  Caleb ducked, pressing his face to the ground, and trying not to breathe. Against his cheek, the ground quivered and shook, causing him to groan aloud in dismay as he realized what the rumble portended. He almost wished for an earthquake.

  “Garrett,” he called out, his voice tense, only to have the officer, as though cued by an invisible director, wiggle in alongside him.

  The German’s Maxim machine gun, its best target gone and the drum magazine emptied, ceased fire, the gunners jumping out of sight. A few well-placed shots by the Americans hustled them along. For the moment, the two sides were at a standoff.

  “Who’s up for filling these bottles with gasoline?” Garrett held up a handful of empty wine bottles. “That wrecked staff car is leaking fuel all over the place. I thought we might as well get some use out of it.”

  He sounded pretty chipper for a man handed the awesome responsibility of preventing a German breakthrough. Especially considering the flesh wound in his arm, dripping blood all the way to the ends of his fingers.

  “I’ll do it.” With a sense of horror, Caleb heard his own voice speaking aloud. “I suppose you think a few of these will take out that tank?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll do the trick,” Garrett allowed. “I’ve never tried myself. It’s an infantry stunt. I must say I’m surprised a horse-monkey feller such as yourself has heard of it.”

  Caleb didn’t bother enlightening the lieutenant on his military career. “I get around,” he said blandly. “What are you using for wicks?”

  “Don’t need a wick,” said Garrett. “That’s the beauty of a frangible grenade. It’ll explode on impact.”

  Caleb shook his head. “They’re more reliable if you light them first. Just don’t hang on to one for too long.”

  The other two men had a cloth handkerchief each, Lieutenant Garrett’s stiff with dry blood, which they proffered to use for wicks. Caleb, reluctant to touch the filthy object, turned both men down.

  “I’ve got just the thing.” He rummaged through his pack, then hesitated before coming up with a roll of cotton gauze. “Yep. Perfect.”

  His heartbeat accelerated, thinking of the other object his fingers had touched. Maybe he . . . they . . . Boothenay and he . . . maybe there was a chance for them after all. Stowing the bottles in his pack, Caleb left his rifle braced against the wagon and prepared to crawl over to the staff car. His eyes met the lieutenant’s briefly then, without a word, he took off.

  The first part was easy. It was just a matter of staying close to the pile of rubble where the uncertain light didn’t reach. The Huns must be short on ammo too, he surmised, because, although he knocked against a timber that fell noisily against a metal barrel filled with sand, the German gun crew held fire.

  The problem materialized in the only clear place between him and the car. This must also be why the German gunners had conserved their ammunition—so they could give him a warm welcome.

  They’d been watching for him—or someone like him. From the moment his first fingernail showed in the open, they were prepared. They started shooting as soon as his head followed the fingernail.

  But Caleb was ready, too. Like a hyperactive mountain lion, he levered his knees, catapulting his body into a roll. Over and over, the momentum of his powerful kick sent him hurtling painfully up against one of the car’s spoke wheels. Winded, he cowered under the car, thinking he was either the luckiest man alive, or he was dead and didn’t know it yet.

  Alive, he decided after a while. And lucky.

  A few seconds later the black dog, chased by a few bullets and zigzagging madly, hurtled into the shelter of the car with him. Garrett had strapped Caleb’s rifle to the dog’s back and sent her over with it, doubting Caleb would live to make a reverse trip.

  Caleb, still breathing hard, set to work, putting bottles under the filler spout to catch the leaking fuel. At the expense of a badly cut finger, he found nothing remained of one bottle but brown shards, the glass having broken to smithereens as he rolled.

  Just as well, he thought. He was precariously exposed, squatting in a puddle of gasoline and waiting for a random shot to send him up in flames. If he’d been the Hun commanding officer, he’d have been less than pleased with the gunners’ marksmanship.

  Still, one less bottle meant less time for him in the open. He was grateful for the dark, yet when he looked up, he saw the night was fading. He had a feeling in his bones that if he and Boothenay did not finish with this adventure tonight, they would never finish it. They would either be trapped here for the rest of their lives, or they would be dead.

  And judging from the way things were going, the length of their lives might be an iffy proposition. The clatter of the tank’s metal track on the cobblestone street forewarned its imminent arrival. Caleb glanced up briefly before unrolling a length of gauze and tearing it off, stuffing most of the cotton into the bottle to absorb the gasoline. He did another, and another, working like an automaton on overdrive until he had five. The gauze ran out on the sixth.

  “Hsst, Sergeant.” Garrett’s muted call barely carried over the noise of the tank engine to where Caleb was frantically working. “I’d appreciate one of those grenades now, if you don’t mind.”

  This was the tricky part. How to get them over to the other man. “Are you able to see me?” Caleb asked

  “I can see you,” Garrett said, sounding grim. “Unfortunately, the Boche will, too, the second you make a move. Think you can toss those bottles over, slow and easy, one by one?”

  “Are you crazy?” Caleb shook his head over the man’s unthinking heroism—or idiocy. “Impact grenades, remember? You know what’ll happen if you miss.”

  “I hadn’t forgotten,” Garrett replied. “If you can throw halfway straight, I can guarantee I’ll make every effort to catch them.”

  Caleb made an indeterminate sound in the back of his throat. He didn’t want to mention the alternative. “You’re the boss,” he said. There was no time to argue and he didn’t see another way
.

  He stood up. “You ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Taking a steadying breath, Caleb stepped into the open and, as though he had all the time in the world, lobbed the bottle in a slow, perfect arch.

  From the other end, Garrett reached long arms like he was plucking an egg out of the sky, and gathered in the bottle.

  The ploy didn’t work a second time. Caleb’s ribs burned where a bullet had grazed him; Garrett sank to the ground as though the bottle weighed more than he could support.

  “Garrett?” Caleb said sharply, worried when the man was slow to rise. But rise he did, though one of his hands dangled at the end of the arm like a punctured balloon. In the other, he held the grenade.

  “Good throw,” Garrett said, his voice faint.

  “Good catch,” replied Caleb, feeling a little ill. He could think of only one other way to transport the grenades . . . a way against which his spirit rebelled. Damn, damn!

  Heartsick, he slipped out of his jacket and wrapped three of the remaining bottles in its folds, stowing them in his pack. Then he cinched the pack on the dog’s back. He bent, whispering in her ear. She watched him with intelligent eyes, her tail beating against his legs in gentle sweeps and when he said, “Go,” she fair flew toward Garrett and safety.

  Caleb lifted his rifle, firing randomly into the German machine gun emplacement until he ran out of ammunition. He heard the dog yip once, but when his gun was empty and he had to stop and reload with the last few rounds he had, she had disappeared. Maybe she made it, he told himself. Maybe she did. If not, the dog had taken his last hope of tracking Boothenay from her scent on the note she’d written.

  But by then he hadn’t a moment to spare in worry over the dog’s fate because the German tank had found them and he had his own life to worry about.

  CHAPTER 28

  I followed McDuff, trusting him to find the way to the hospital. Where I should have stayed in the first place, I acknowledged, only I’d been so sure I could find Caleb. There didn’t seem to have been much reason for my presence where those men had died. I hadn’t found Caleb and I hadn’t changed a thing. Maybe I’d eased Johnny’s passing, but that’s all. And I’d discovered August had come by his bitterness in such a brutal fashion it made my own involvement seem more honest. Perhaps I hadn’t been wrong in my decision to help him—as though I’d had a choice after Caleb disappeared.

  My brain felt dead, too numb to actually think. Philosophy was too abstract at this moment. Instinct was all I had going for me. Instinct and blind faith.

  The poor dog limped. I stumbled over every rock in the path; snapped every stick; rustled every leaf; jumped at every shadow. I wanted to lie down and sleep for a week. And I wanted to do my sleeping at Caleb’s side with his arms wrapped around me. All I wanted, all I’d ever wanted, seemed out of reach at this moment. Slowly, because I was so awfully tired and barely able to make my mind work, the revelation came to me that I was acting like I’d lost the will to stand up for myself. Power had been freed, unleashed upon this world, when I ought to have harnessed it. Magic brought us all here, I reminded myself. Magic would take us all back.

  With new resolve, I strode forward, so close on McDuff’s heels that he, too, trotted faster. I heard music playing inside my head, a warrior’s march, to carry us into danger and out again. A ratta-tat-tat drum roll repeated. Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  In resonant clarity, I heard a bell suddenly begin tolling the hours. I didn’t know if the mellow tones were real at first or not, until McDuff and I broke over the hill and found the village spread before us. How clever of the council to backlight their town, I thought, oohing and aahing over the splendid colors and glorious special effects.

  I’m not sure what finally awakened me to the reality of what I was seeing and hearing. Of course there was no music, and neither were there any drums. The percussion instruments turned into staccato machine gun fire, punctuated by rifle and revolver. Heavier sounds also rocked the hill where I paused, with the bass of mortars and cannon. Of course the town council hadn’t authorized special lighting, and the pretty fireworks signaled the destruction of the village as building after building collapsed in the aftermath of the shelling.

  Only the bells were true, but instead of hours, they tolled for the dying. Most of all, they rang a warning. Flee, they sang. Flee.

  So naturally, I headed with all speed down the hill toward the town. McDuff wasn’t any too keen on getting close to the German soldiers ahead of us. We followed at a respectable distance for a while, although we’d soon have to break through the line in order to rejoin our people. I couldn’t help but speculate on August’s presence, here somewhere perhaps, and I wondered if he was thinking about me.

  I felt I could lock my focus, summon my power and walk through the whole German army and the fires of hell if I had to in order to find Caleb. I’d take the dog, too, by damn, whether he wanted to come or not. I began humming a mantra, as my mother’s grimoire advised; words grew large in my mind. They were words of power. A spell.

  McDuff hated this business, but tail between his legs or not, he was at my side when we hit the outskirts of town. I had only to reach out my hand in order to touch the back of the enemy soldier closest to me. Moving in a scattered formation, with the Germans walking crouched as though that stance would hide them from the AEF and the French, we came upon a cobblestone street.

  Boldly, I walked erect. No hiding for me. I felt sure no one could see me anyway, or if they did, I knew no bullet could harm either the dog or me. Power bathed us in a crystalline armor.

  Soon we closed upon a curious looking vehicle, like a box on tracks. A tank, I realized. It was spewing noxious diesel fumes everywhere, burning my sinuses and making McDuff sneeze. Soldiers shuffled along in its wake, seeking protection from American bullets. I still haven’t figured out why they weren’t asphyxiated, although they seemed to think the tank made them invincible, as if machinery would always prevail over mere humans.

  Well, I knew differently. There are ways of fighting tanks without the modern advantages of improved weaponry and armor-piercing munitions. Caleb was here and he knew as well. I was pretty sure this tank was about to become a target—a big, glowing target.

  Not wishing to be caught in the blast, I sashayed off to the side, well away from the tank. The moment my concentration was interrupted, the power would drop from me. I had neither the strength nor the knowledge to retain the barriers under duress.

  Ahead of the tank, at the intersection of a street and the road into town, someone had erected a barricade. Actually, it looked like a tall pile of junk, sadly insubstantial for the purpose, being made up of bits of this and that, with the main obstacles being a farm wagon and a wrecked car. With a sinking feeling, I feared it would not be strong enough to stop the tank. This would be the launching area for the AEF boys attack, though. This would be where I’d find Caleb.

  Instead of hearing bells, now my ears shuddered under the impact of gunfire, machinery and yelling men. Straight across from where I stood, a German machine gun rattled, stopped; rattled, stopped. Americans moved in the darkness beyond the barricade.

  The tank thundered on, crushing everything in its path. Reaching the barricade, it began to climb the mountainous obstacle, nose with its cannon pointed straight upwards.

  “Now,” I heard myself screaming. “Hit them now.”

  THE TANK ENGINE roared as it mounted the barricade. If Caleb had planned the German’s route himself, he couldn’t have done any better, for the tank hit at the juncture of heavy dray and leaking staff car.

  It stalled there momentarily with the gun turret making an obscene gesture at the sky.

  “Attack,” he yelled, excitement sweeping over him. They could do this. They really could. “Strike, strike.”

  The soldier who had stayed with Garrett leapt from behind the farm wagon, the wick in his grenade glowing like a firefly as he cast the bottle beneath the heavy machine. Spilled gasolin
e whooshed into flame.

  A second American appeared. His grenade slammed into the tank’s belly, but bounced off, exploding on the ground in front of him. He fell, a scream broke short, and he didn’t move.

  Unhampered by their efforts, the tank growled on.

  The machine gun hammered. The first soldier went down, and though he was trying to crawl away, one leg dragged uselessly. Caleb saw motion behind the lines as someone, probably Garrett himself, prepared to face exposure in another try.

  “Son-of-a-bitch!” Caleb yelled.

  Engine howling, tracks digging for purchase, the tank reached its apex.

  He’d be cut down like the others if he tried for the tank. Bound to be. The machine gunners were waiting for just such a move, but if he could get rid of the gun, Garrett might still have a chance at the tank. Everyone’s attention centered on the poised monstrosity. Everyone’s.

  In war, Caleb told himself, it doesn’t pay to figure the odds.

  Without quite knowing how it happened, Caleb was up and running. He dodged through an opening in the barrier over to the German side. One grenade he jammed in his shirt pocket, secured by his suspenders. The other swung loose in his hand. He raced toward the bombed-out cellar where the Maxim’s crew struggled frantically to raise the sights of their gun to bear on his approach. As from a distance, he was aware of rifles firing at him.

  Barely slowing as he came near, he hurled the gas grenade through the stone embrasure where the gun sat. Then he was past and diving for the darkness beyond the gun. Only at the very last moment did he remember to fall on his side and avoid smashing the grenade in his pocket.

  Behind him, a satisfying blast shook the ruined building’s foundation. Flame shot into the sky. The gun fell silent.

  I SUPPOSE the Americans hadn’t really needed my advice. All I accomplished by yelling was to draw the attention of one of the German soldiers. No boy, this one, but a veteran of many campaigns. I could see his experience in his eyes, in his worn uniform, in the way he held his gun. I think he must have been the only person there who wasn’t himself yelling.