Thomas un-slung his rifle and shot the closest German dead.
“Take their greatcoats away from them and cut the buttons from their trousers. Let the bastards get wet holding their pants up, they might not be so keen for a smoke then. If any of them start arsing about, shoot the fucking lot of them,” he said, and walked away.
With an arched eyebrow he raised his head and sniffed. It was a good smell, the kind of smell soldiers were born for. Up ahead a mobile kitchen handed out egg and bacon sandwiches to a patient queue of hungry soldiers, and with a contented smile he thought to satisfy his own gnawing hunger. When he heard a shot ring out he crouched down and, turning, saw a second German prisoner drop to the floor. He grinned to himself – the simple things in life are always the best, he thought laughing out loud. The bastards wanted a war, so let’s give them one. Let the pigs have a taste of British steel. Life is just a city of crooked streets and sooner or later death comes to us all when we meet at the marketplace.
The incessant drizzle turned to a steady downpour, to express dissatisfaction was a waste of time – complaints never gave a rainstorm reason to cease. Like he’d always known them to be trenches turned into canals and men huddled together, buried in their own thoughts like statues frozen in time. He pulled out his watch and checked the time, and pursing his lips he thought of Sarah and felt the stirring in his groin. He looked down the line of soldiers in the trench. Some dug holes with long handled ladles and bailed out the water. With a short sigh his carnal thoughts drifted away into emptiness.
That afternoon he watched a never-ending stream of men begin picking their way along the trenches in single file. With heads bowed they moved silently, save for the sound of squeaking duckboards accompanied by the inevitable mandatory bouts of cursing.
“Bloody hell, the bloody Canadians are on the move, stroppy bunch of sods they are,” someone grumbled, stepping aside to make way for the steady flow of heaving bodies filing by.
“Yeah, maybe they are, but I’m glad they’re on our side. They hate Fritz ever since the bastards crucified that Canadian sergeant,” another voice drifted through the rain.
Heads with enquiring eyes turned and waited.
“Canadian sergeant, what are you talking about?”
“Place called St Julian, not far from here. Fritz crucified him to a barn door, used eight bayonets by all accounts through his legs, shoulders, throat and balls. Left the poor bastard eighteen inches off the ground, covered in blood. I wouldn’t want to be a bloody German with them around.”
“With a bit of bloody luck there won’t be any left after this cock-up. Hello, I reckon the bloody rain’s started to ease.”
“Christ Almighty, we might be going over the top later.”
“Doubt it, someone’s pinched his lordship’s tin whistle. Can’t go over the top without a whistle can we? On account we’ve all gone bloody deaf listening to the big guns day and night.”
A wave of laughter ran down the trench, easing away the tension from anxious faces, men stretched stiffened muscles and pulled their feet from the clinging mud. Thomas slumped down on the firing ledge and smiled. The Tommies had the best weapon of all – black humour. No matter how bad the situation, someone would always see the funny side and pop up with a joke.
Thomas fought against the weight of the pack that hurt his back. The straps chafed into his shoulder leaving painful red weals. He’d never understood the need for all the equipment they humped around from place to place. The sixty-six-pound weight felt cumbersome. Waterlogged, it weighed an extra ten pounds and offered small comfort that at least it could be discarded when the men prepared to go into battle. Then they carried only a small haversack and a rolled groundsheet with a bandolier of extra rifle ammunition over the right shoulder. He shrugged – orders are orders. Tonight it was his turn in the mines and he thought of Stan Banks. He’d miss his good-natured banter. Harry Hardiker, from a small village outside Barnsley, had taken his place. A one-time gamekeeper on a big estate of a wealthy industrialist, he had refused point-blank to join the Barnsley Pals Battalion.
“I’m not running round wet-nursing some city clodhopper,” he told the pie-eyed recruiting officer with a lisp at the Town Hall. So he joined the Rifles.
Several nights ago, alone on patrol, he returned with a brace of pigeons and four rabbits and frightened the life out of the Germans with his animal impressions. The soldiers in the trenches roared with laughter at the sound of small arms fire as the Germans ran up and down looking for the wolf stalking their trenches. The following day, they searched for a pack of marauding bears.
“Hey, Archie, take a look at this silly bugger,” a large man with a nose the shape of a bricklayer’s elbow called quietly. “There, look, see him, by the firelight?”
Thomas raised the Mauser and squinted down the telescopic sight. Some Germans, in their crass stupidity, had lit a fire, and every few seconds a man with a bald head bobbed up and down. With his finger curled around the trigger, Thomas watched the German less than a thousand yards away and wondered how the big man managed to pick him out in the gloom.
“Here, you take him,” he said, handing the man the rifle.
The big man stepped onto the firing ledge, raised the rifle and waited. Seconds later, he squeezed the trigger and, under a red splash of blood, the dead German slipped out of sight. Within seconds, the fire was extinguished.
“Good shot; you must have damn good eyesight to see that far in this light,” Thomas said. “Ever thought about joining the snipers?”
“Thought about it I did, once. I’m too bloody clumsy though. I trip over moonbeams I do. Nay, lad, like as much I’d just get in the way.”
Thomas looked at him with a critical eye. He stood over six feet tall with strong broad shoulders, a clumsy looking fellow with dark bushy eyebrows and a short flat aggressive nose. Tattooed on his beefy arm was a fierce looking bulldog with the words Strength and Honour underneath. He offered no hint of a soldierly bearing, yet Thomas immediately judged he might prove useful in the enemy trenches and the mines, especially at close quarters.
“Go and see Moses, he needs men like you in his team. Tell him I sent you, then come back here. Tonight. I want you with me in the mines,” he said. “Oh, it might be useful to know your name.”
“Blunder, Atlas Blunder,” he said, staring Thomas straight in the face. Thomas didn’t reply.
Eight o’clock in the morning at last – the miserable mind-sapping twelve-hour shift was over and just to walk and stretch the legs seemed like a luxury. Better still, to look at eye level and not see wet muddy walls or the dejected faces of men who’d forgotten why they were here. Those who spent time in the trenches often sat and wondered if there really was a place on earth that wasn’t surrounded by swirling mud and scurrying rats. With numb minds they searched their memories trying to conjure up a picture portraying a life before all of this, or was it all a dream? The only people who talked of understanding the war and its horrors were those who’d never fought in one.
Apple crouched and dropped a pinch of salt into the boiling water followed by strips of fatty bacon and sucked noisily on his pipe.
“There you go, lad, get it down you. It won’t take long to cook,” he said.
The remark sounded double-Dutch to Thomas and he raked his fingers through his hair and smiled, then tugged off his wet socks and gave his feet a brief inspection. Thankful to see his toes still attached to the end of his feet, he dried them with the cuff of his shirt then doused them in whale oil. Thanks to his penchant for stealing clean socks from the Germans, he had been fortunate enough to accumulate three full sandbags. Yet each time he pulled on a pair, it was always the same, a vision of Stan Banks loomed into his mind and he felt ashamed. He shrugged – what was done was done, best he spent his time concentrating on the job in hand rather than dwelling on a situation he couldn’t change. Just the same, with no tilt of conscience he ate the boiled bacon with a hunk of black bread and three pickled cu
cumbers from a jar Moses produced, and as usual refused to divulge the source.
“There you go, lad, coffee,” Apple said, with a grin on his face.
“I reckon you’ve got the best bloody job in the army – you don’t do bugger all except count bullets and shells twice a week,” Thomas laughed.
“Compensation for being blown up, lad, it is. Compensation.”
After he drank the hot coffee he felt better. Then the wondrous gift of sleep gently probed his body and he closed his eyes and sank into the luxury of undisturbed oblivion until nine-fifteen that evening. His internal alarm woke him and he pushed the blanket away. With a laboured groan he slowly swung his legs over the bed, stood with clasped hands and stretched his arms above his head to release the stiffness. The others waited; not in the trenches where they should be but in the farmhouse. They liked the heat from the fire and he didn’t begrudge them that small luxury.
That night they entered a different mine and instead of descending the ladder they walked on a downhill gradient for the first forty yards before the tunnel levelled out flat. Further in, Thomas noticed other tunnels snaking off left and right. He didn’t count them but guessed there may be twenty, perhaps even more. He also noticed more men than ever before and sensed a feeling of urgency in the air, like people rushing on a tight schedule to finish a project on time. From out of the gloom they saw a small, heavily built man with a ghostly white face carrying a pickaxe in one hand.
“If you would like to come this way when you are ready, boy,” he said in a slow, laborious tone.
The four men looked at each other, shrugged, struggled to their feet and followed him.
“He’s from the east coast, I reckon,” Harry Hardiker said. “They speak so slow it takes them three days to get their name, rank and number out. If Fritz captured twenty of the buggers, the war would be over by the time they found out who they were.”
The small man carrying the pickaxe stopped and turned around. “Keep the noise down, boy.”
The faint sound of scraping and men panting for breath signalled they were nearing the face and nimbly stepping to one side they allowed a man heaving on a trolley full of sacks filled with clay to pass. Thomas turned at the sound of muffled footsteps and raised an eyebrow at the sight of a tall, slim man walking towards him wearing an officer’s cap back to front and sporting muddy trousers with a dirty white singlet.
“Lieutenant Reddy, old chap, Royal Engineers. Glad to have you aboard. It’s going to be a busy show tonight. We’re breaking into Fritz’s tunnels to scare him off in readiness for a big surprise we have planned for him. Wordsworth here will show you what to do and where to go. You’ll be in good hands with him. Good luck,” he said, nodding towards the small man.
“Follow me, boys, and I’ll show you your first port of call,” Wordsworth drawled. “Acclimatise your eyes to the darkness. Can’t be using lights down here, Mr Fritz might see us coming, and that won’t make him happy.”
“Right, before we go any further check your weapons. We don’t want to be fumbling around in the dark,” Thomas said, making sure each man carried out his orders. “And keep your rifles at the ready.”
Thomas led the way in single file, aware the further they went the thinner the air became. Soon their bodies glistened in a film of cold sweat, and accompanied by a feeling of uneasy fear their breath came in short gasps. Wordsworth stopped, turned his head and raised his finger to his lips, signalling for silence, then moved closer to the wall.
“I can hear them, regular as clockwork they are, stupid bastards – in ten minutes they’ll change shifts. If you go in now you’ll be behind them and they’ll be trapped against the face. Finish them off and wait for the incoming shift, kill two sparrows with one stone, you will. When you’ve finished, wait for me and I’ll tell you where to go next.”
The men stood motionless and watched Wordsworth place his hands on the wall and push. To everyone’s astonishment part of the wall collapsed inwards. Thomas and his men made their way inside the German tunnel. Caught off-guard and completely by surprise the Germans stood rooted to the spot with their mouths open in shock at the sudden appearance of the Englanders. Before they could respond Atlas was on them and grabbing the closest two smashed their heads together so hard that he split their skulls. The others finished off the remaining three with knives.
“Drag the bodies into our tunnel, then lie down on the floor and wait for the next shift – they’ll think you’re taking a rest,” Wordsworth said.
Hardly daring to breathe they waited until eventually they heard the harsh guttural sound of the German shift coming to relieve them. Tense and ready, Atlas rubbed his hands together to calm himself and smiled. Burke and Hardiker pulled back their lips and sneered, working up the adrenaline for the next round of blood-letting. Hate always kills the easiest.
Then without warning a vision of Archie’s mocking face sprung into Thomas’s mind clear as a spring day. His mind reeled and the feeling of impending disaster slammed into his brain. He swallowed and felt as though his flesh was on fire. Once again Archie had come for him, unrelenting and insistent on revenge. He should have known he would never allow him his freedom and the time spent away from the trenches merely a brief respite, a cruel hoax. The vision grew closer, so close that he thought he could smell his foul breath. The sound of his hollow laughter drummed into his head and threatened to drive away his sanity. He bit down hard and his teeth penetrated the inside of his cheek, the salty blood trickled into his mouth.
Up ahead the six approaching Germans laughed at the sight of their comrades resting and hurled guttural insults. Thomas pushed his thoughts of Archie to one side and sneered at the sound of the German voices. He remembered the ill-treatment handed out in the prisoner-of-war camp as though it happened only yesterday. He recalled vividly the beatings, the kickings, and his imagination played tricks with his mind. He felt the pain searing though his unprotected body and remembered the manner in which they had laughed when the little Australian gave up the ghost and dropped dead from fatigue.
“Fuck you, Archie!” he whispered. “Fuck you.”
Now was the time for payback. The first German went down stiff-legged with a bullet embedded in his temple, his eyes shrouded in bewilderment. Thomas went forward crouching with the cut-down bayonet ready in his hand. Pictured in his mind was the German who had tried to drown him in the mud with his boot on the back of his neck. In the pale light of the flickering candles he ignored the villainous shadows dancing on the glistening mud walls. Revenge was about to be metered out to the perpetrators of his past miseries. He jabbed out and blood spurted accompanied by a fearful howl of agony and fear when the cold steel blade entered the German’s eye. With all his might he pushed until the hilt prevented further entry. The sound of heavy breathing mingled with shrill curses and hideous screams sounded like a sweet symphony soothing his ears. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his back, soaking the waistband of his trousers while he hacked and cut at the Germans like a butcher suffering insanity.
“Bloody hell, boy, what did you have for breakfast this morning?” Wordsworth said, staring wide-eyed and watching Thomas wipe away the wet blood clinging to his face. “Only two more to go and we’re finished. Straight down the tunnel you go, boy. The first on the left and the last on the right. Give me a shout when you’ve done, and I’ll set the charges.”
In single file they moved cautiously further down the tunnel, ears cocked for the telltale sound of scraping from the German miners. By the entrance to the first face on the left they halted and watched the unsuspecting Germans going busily about their business.
“Wait here, these are mine,” Harry said.
Harry, his back hugged close to the wall and implementing his guile learned during his time as a gamekeeper, measured each step and drew closer. With the minimum commotion he fell upon them, and grasping a cut-down bayonet in each hand he ripped open their throats and left them choking and drowning in their own blood.
For a moment Thomas waited, his eyes bulging as he fought to control a peculiar stillness tinged with apprehension inside his body. He shuddered and felt his skin tense. The cold damp air chilled the sweat that oozed from every pore of his body. He didn’t want the killing to finish, not yet. Cautiously they made their way further along the tunnel until they reached their final goal. Overhead the roof inclined downwards, forcing them to walk hunched like old women and swing their arms from side-to-side. Eventually Thomas slowed and peered round the corner.
“Bloody hell,” he grunted and stepped back, “there are nine of the buggers, and the face is forty yards away with no cover. This isn’t going to be easy.”
“Perhaps if we charged them we might take them by surprise,” Atlas said.
Thomas hesitated, he needed to think, and for the first time that day he screwed his nose up at the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste.
“No, if we were caught in the open we wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“We need to entice them out, a few at a time, but only the devil knows how,” John Burke said, unable to rid his mind of the consequences of a cave-in. He felt his nerves flutter and pined for the danger of the trenches and open air.
“Aye, I know how to get the bastards out. Well, I think I do,” Harry said thoughtfully.
Three pairs of hopeful eyes swivelled and looked into his face.
“The way I see it is like this,” Harry began. “We need to give them an excuse to leave the face, something that might give them a reason to investigate, if you know what I mean.”
Thomas hunched his shoulders and waited expectantly for a few seconds, then shook his head. “And?” he said simply.
“I’ll do my wolf call, that’ll frighten the buggers half to death and have them out in seconds, what do you reckon?”
Atlas’s grin split his face in two. “Bloody great idea that, lad, bloody great. What do you reckon, Archie? Frighten a herd of nightmares that bloody noise would.”
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