by Paul Watkins
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
PART III
ELEVEN
WE STOOD BEFORE THE ruins of the customs house.
It was evening.
We had been marching all day.
My eyes stung with sweat. My shirt was soaked. I felt the slippery burn of blisters on my heels.
Stanley and I leaned against the coffin, gasping like fish until our hearts stopped hammering so hard against our chests. We passed a canteen back and forth, wiping the top on our sleeves.
“We’ll make camp here,” I said, screwing the metal cap back on the canteen.
“Thank God for that,” grunted Stanley.
Wind off the glacier sliced into our faces, molding our clothes to our bodies and tugging at the straps which held our gear inside the cargo area on top of the coffin. The water of the Lago Dragone was dark and ruffled, glowing sapphire blue. Beyond it, the ice of the glacier hunched up to the sky and sank beneath the water, spouting little streams from cracks in its sheer wall.
Barbed-wire entanglements still blocked the road before the customs house. The rusted strands fell away as we stepped through them. The windows of the house were all smashed, the door gone. Wind moaned through the empty structure.
I had not known how it would feel to reach this place again. At first glance, however, the old building seemed to be nothing more than a collection of rotted wood and stone and broken glass. No nightmares clung to the shadows.
In any case, we were too tired to go on, the ground was too hard for pitching a tent, and the customs house provided the only available shelter from the wind. Not trusting its dilapidated floors, however, we unrolled our sleeping bags just outside the front door.
While Stanley unpacked the food, I went inside to scrounge up some wood for a fire. Stepping carefully over the creaky boards, I shined a torch over the mildewed walls. The impact marks of bullets were still clear to see, as well as places where the woodwork appeared to have caught fire. In a room at the back, I found two broken chairs piled in the corner. I dragged them outside and smashed them for kindling.
A short while later, with the fire crackling by our feet, Stanley and I sat on the coffin and watched the stars emerge from the periwinkle sky.
I kept waiting for this peaceful scene to come unraveled, for the past to bulldoze its way into the present. Of all the terrible things that had happened on that mission, the worst of them had happened here. But as the minutes passed, I began to relax. I felt like a prisoner who had escaped a punishment that had once seemed certain.
I glanced across and smiled at Stanley, who had gathered up a handful of old bullet cartridges. He set them in a row, clasped between his fingers and his thumb, and began to blow into them as if playing a panpipe. He gave a halting rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and then looked up, smiling.
I was relieved beyond words that those cartridges in his hand, some of which might have taken the lives of our friends or which I myself had used to kill, were only empty shells to me. I applauded and asked for an encore.
After dinner, we sat with arms folded, cigarettes dangling from our mouths, puffing away contentedly and looking at the night sky like spectators watching a movie.
It was not long before we saw a shooting star slice across the dark.
“Did you see that?” asked Stanley.
“I did,” I replied. I stared at the place where the star had scratched across the sky.
“Now we get to make a wish,” said Stanley.
But I was not thinking about that. The image of that falling star had jolted me out of my peace. It began slowly, but came on, gathering speed. I could not stop it. Riding the tail of that meteor, the demons flew hissing towards me.
THE FLARE ARCED UP into the black and then burst, casting a bony light upon the ground as it drifted on its tiny parachute. Shadows stretched through the rain-sieved night, swaying with the motion of the flare. Rain pecked at my face. The spit and crackle of the flare filled my ears, and the smell of its smoke was bitter in my lungs.
I thought of the enemy, peering through the darkness, eyes dried out, searching for movement. I asked myself how they could have heard anything or seen anything on this miserable night. I wondered how many there were.
Finally the flare touched the ground in front of us and sputtered out. The world returned to black.
I began crawling forward again. The other men were already moving. Mud clung to my elbows and my knees. The gray paste found its way into the corners of my eyes, splashed between my teeth, and packed itself beneath my fingernails.
I had not gone more than a few feet when another flare went up. Jamming my face down in the mud, I tried not to breathe. After an eternity of drifting through the air, it hit the ground in front of us and lay crackling for a few more seconds before finally going out with a sigh.
We crawled forward again, moving in a ragged line. Whatever sound we made was drowned by the rain, which thrashed against a thousand shallow puddles.
Thirty yards from the wire, a third flare went up.
They must know we are here, I thought. But not one shot had been fired. Perhaps they were just a patrol, lost and nervous because of the storm and the gunfire earlier in the day, from which one of their men had not returned.
Ten yards farther on, the wire towered over us like the crest of a wave in the moment of its breaking.
Now I heard low voices coming from behind the wire. One sounded frightened. Then another voice cut him off.
I couldn’t understand where they were. I knew they must be just behind the wire, but everything beyond the massive tangle was obscured by darkness.
The voices stopped.
The three of us reached the wire. Wind moaned through its coils. Raindrops gathered on each loop and curve, strangely beautiful in this ugly thicket. The plan had been to drag aside one of the individual frameworks and rush through the gap, but I now realized that the X-shaped frames were made of metal and not wood.
To my horror, I understood that we were completely stuck. We would not be able to climb over the wire. Nor would we be able to cut through in time.
I felt panic rising through my blood and filling the whites of my eyes, like the ancient monster of Loch Amon climbing through the black water, thrashing the darkness with its long tail, its mouth wide and claws outstretched. It took all the strength I had not to get up and run away.
At that moment, I saw Forbes pointing at the wire. He crawled across and whispered from so close that his lips brushed against my ear.
“There is a gap. There are two layers of wire. We can zigzag through it. The opening is ten feet to the right.” Again he pointed.
We both looked across to where Sugden lay.
He nodded, to show he understood.
When I raised my head, the wire seemed to scratch into my eyes.
Choking down the fear, I rose slowly to my feet. My mud-clogged clothes hung heavily from my shivering body. My knees complained as they straightened. My grip tightened on the trench club.
I was standing. I could see nothing on the other side of the wire except the road, which trailed off into the darkness.
Where the hell were they?
I turned to look at Forbes and Sugden.
They were rising, as if the mud itself were taking shape.
No sound. Only the rain. Gray clouds tumbled by above.
That was when I saw the outline of a gun raised behind the wire and felt as much as heard the bang of the flare going off. It blazed into the air and suddenly the white light was all around me, and there in that river of ink I saw two men behind the wire, buried up to their chests in the earth. Each one had a rifle with fixed bayonet raised to his shoulder. The rain was shining on their helmets.
A great weight fell away inside me then, as if my heart had become detached from whatever held it in place and was tumbling down the ladder of my ribs.
A voice called out from the trench, ordering us to halt.
&nbs
p; None of us spoke.
There was the rotten-lung gasping of the flare above our heads.
In that bleached glare, I understood I was about to die.
Then there was an explosion in the trench, a cough of red fire and black smoke even darker than the night. The concussion blew past my face.
Sugden had thrown a grenade.
I heard people crying out.
Then came the flash of rifle fire. Blue sparks flicked through the blackness as bullets struck the wire. The tangled metal seemed to writhe and shift before my eyes.
I don’t know how long I stood there, waiting for the bullets to shatter my bones. They snapped the air around me, like bullwhips cracking the sky.
But I was still on my feet.
I lunged for the gap in the wire, not stopping to hear if the others were following. The weight of my soaked clothes was almost too much to bear. I skidded in the mud. Rain thrashed against my face. I tumbled into the blackness of the trench. The ground rose up to meet me and I crashed against some wooden boards. A voice. Someone was moving towards me. I made out the hard-angled silhouette of a German helmet. I raised my arm, jammed the barrel of the gun against the thick wool of his tunic, and pulled the trigger.
Sparks flew out of the cylinder. The smell of gun smoke mixed with the burning wool of his clothes
He fell as if the ground had swallowed him up. He landed on his knees and his head slumped forward against me. I stepped aside and his face slammed down against the muddy boards.
Sugden and Forbes had made it through the wire. They crashed down into the trench open on either side of me, clods of dirt spraying from their boots. Water splashed up from the duckboards.
Gunfire was everywhere. I turned towards the customs house and my foot caught on one of the boards. As I sprawled, my hands tore on the splintery boards. Back on my feet again, I could barely move, my clothes felt so heavy. My heart felt like it was going to burst.
I stumbled forward.
Ahead of me, someone cried out, shrill and hideous. Then came a rapid, rhythmic pounding and the bestial roaring of Sugden beating a man to death.
Forbes moved past me. I saw his arm snap back and forward. We ducked down in the trench as the grenade he had thrown bounced against the wall of the customs house, then hit the ground behind the wall of sandbags.
The coughing roar of the explosion was followed by the sound of windows shattering. The door flew open. Smoke spilled out over the tops of the sandbags.
Now more explosions crashed about us. My ears were ringing.
Footsteps sounded on the wooden boards.
Forbes and I climbed out of the trench and took cover by the sandbags.
After putting the Webley back in its holster, I dropped the club and fished a grenade from my pocket. I pulled the pin, let the lever go, and threw it at the open doorway. Instead of landing deep inside the building, the grenade struck something just inside the doorway. Someone called out, and I realized it had hit a person standing in the dark. Red sparks filled the blackness, and a burning gasp of air washed over me. This time, I did not hear the sound of the explosion. My legs gave way in the concussion. Forbes and I lay there, stunned. My finger was still hooked around the grenade pin.
Taking up the club again, I clambered over the torn sandbags with Forbes following behind me. On the other side, a figure lay on his back. His chest was smoldering.
Now a man tumbled out of the customs house, rifle in hand, putting on his helmet. He almost crashed right into us. His face was ghostly white. I swung the club at him and felt a jolt in my wrist as the lead ball connected with his head. I swung my arm back, ready to hit him again, but he staggered back into a broken window frame, pitched into the shards of broken glass, and then lay still.
Taking out another grenade, my fingers fumbled for the ring. The other ring was still on my finger. I dropped the club as my mud-slippery hands tugged out the pin. Then I let the lever go and it sprang away. I pitched the grenade through one of the broken windows and threw myself down on the ground, my hands pressed to my ears.
With a stunning crash, the bomb went off. Glass and chips of wood showered down on top of me. Smoke retched out of the door and through the broken windowpanes.
I was lying there dazed when I heard the splintery wooden crack of a gun going off practically in my face.
A man was standing over me, holding out a long-barreled pistol. He had walked out of the smoke inside the customs house. Half of his left arm was missing. The sleeve of his tunic hung in shreds.
I could not see his face.
Am I hit? I thought. Oh Christ, am I hit?
But then I realized he was not pointing the gun at me.
He fired again. The spent cartridge fell and bounced off my chest.
I moved my hand slowly to my side and drew the Webley from its holster. Then, in one movement, I raised my arm and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. There wasn’t even a click. The trigger seemed to have jammed.
The man looked down. He said something.
Bloody saliva splashed on my face.
He swung the gun down and pointed it at me.
I pulled the trigger again, and this time the Webley fired.
His head jolted back, but then he fell forward, collapsing on top of me.
I cried out and pushed him off. His body rolled away. I scrabbled back across the ground. Then I climbed shakily to my feet, my head still numb from the explosions. I looked around for Forbes, but he wasn’t there, so I went into the building by myself.
At first, there was too much smoke to see. Then I made out scraps of paper burning on the floor. As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could discern a staircase leading up the right-hand wall of the room. At the bottom of these stairs lay a man. He was bald, with a thick roll of skin between the top of his neck and the base of his skull. He lay facedown against the bottom step. He wore no helmet or tunic, only a dirty gray shirt tucked into his trousers. A pair of braces stretched across his shoulders.
I pointed the gun at him, but he didn’t move.
Outside, the gunfire had slackened.
Sugden was shouting, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying.
Over the sound of his yelling, I heard a noise in the next room. Pressing my ear to the wall, I made out a muffled voice on the other side.
In a quiet, urgent tone, the man was repeating the same words over and over.
Standing back, I broke open the Webley, tipped out the empty cases, and reloaded the cylinder as best I could with my shaking fingers. Then I snapped the Webley shut, cocked the hammer, and fired into the wall at the place where I’d heard the voice. The darkness blinked with fire, and in the confines of the room, the noise was deafening. I kept firing until the cylinder clicked empty. Then I dashed through the doorway, down a short corridor, and into the room where I’d heard the voice. The door had been blown off its hinges by one of the earlier explosions. I couldn’t see anything in there. Cordite smoke whirled around me.
Groping in my pocket, I took out my torch and turned it on.
Through the burning gray mist, I saw the heavy beams which supported the roof. In the middle stood a table, the legs of which were made of sawn-off branches with the bark still attached. On the table lay pieces of equipment—a gas-mask canister, canteens and a bread bag, binoculars.
As I played the beam around, hunting for the man whose voice I’d heard, the light caught on bunks with chicken-wire netting instead of mattresses.
The smell of gunpowder clogged my lungs. I could taste it in my spit, like a coin in my mouth.
When the torch beam reached the corner of the room, I noticed a man sitting at a field desk, half hidden in the smoke as if behind a veil of dirty lace. Set up on a desk in front of him was a radio in a leather case. Wires snaked up from the radio, through the wall, and out of the customs house. Pale gouges, like splashes of paint, showed where my bullets had come through the wall.
The man was leaning forw
ard, facing away from me. From the silver on his shoulder boards, I could tell he was an officer. He breathed heavily, still holding the black telephone receiver and whispering the same words over and over. He did not seem to notice the light of the torch.
I took one step forward and my feet crunched on broken glass.
He straightened up as he heard the noise, but still without turning around.
I aimed the gun at him but realized I had forgotten to reload it.
Slowly, he set down the receiver and turned to face me, squinting into the light.
At first it looked exactly as if he were wearing a red shirt beneath his unbuttoned tunic, but then I saw that he had been wounded in his chest.
In his hand, he clutched a small pistol.
“Drop that,” I told him.
The man’s pale eyes were shallow-set, his nose long and straight. He had a small, rounded chin. He spoke and his lips became flecked with blood.
I couldn’t understand him. “Get up,” I said, and jerked the barrel of the Webley away from the desk, hoping he could not see that my gun was empty.
The officer gently touched his hand to his neck and noticed the blood that came away on his fingers. He sighed and clicked his teeth together.
Outside the gunfire had stopped.
“For Christ’s sake,” I told him. “Get—” But I never finished the sentence.
The officer turned the pistol in his hand, his thumb inside the trigger guard, as if he meant to hand it to me. But instead of doing that, he set the barrel of the pistol against his forehead and pulled the trigger. His body jumped back in the chair, which fell against the wall but did not tip over. The man’s feet dangled off the floor and his hands fell to his sides. His eyes were closed. The pistol dropped. Smoke slithered from the hole in his head. Behind him, blood ran down the wall.
I kept the Webley pointed at him for a long time, before finally lowering it.
My heart was beating too fast.
Sugden called my name.
I stumbled down the corridor and out into the night. The rain had stopped. Stars clustered in the sky.
