“Aye, I reckon it might just work. They can’t come out in a rush because the roof is too low. Aye, we can shoot at will, let’s give it a go.”
“Best use the knives and not the firearms. We don’t want to arouse their suspicion and let them think there’s a wolf down here that is a crack shot with a rifle, do we?” John Burke grinned.
“It was just an idea,” Thomas snapped, feeling foolish. “We’ll have to go further back along the tunnel. I remember passing trolleys we can use for cover.”
Minutes later each man waited ready in position behind the trolleys. Harry cupped his hands to his mouth and gave out a howl so mournful that Atlas felt the hairs on his neck rise.
“Bloody hellfire,” he said, crossing himself. “It’s enough to make a band of angels piss themselves with fright.”
Thomas strained his ears. The scraping and muffled thumps of falling clay ceased, followed by the lights dimming and the harsh grunts of German voices trailed off into silence. Harry sent out another heart-chilling howl. Atlas fidgeted and tightened his grip on his bayonets then wiped away the cold sweat running down his face. A big man came first, with a large florid face. Between his teeth he gripped the biggest pipe Atlas had ever seen. It would have taken a bushel of tobacco to fill it and a match the size of a burning log to light it. He came stooped to avoid scraping his head on the low-lying roof, and behind him, with their rifles pointed ready to fire, came two more, their movements hesitant and uncertain. Atlas felt Thomas’s hand grip his arm. Not yet, wait until they are closer. Then, the time was right. Thomas watched as his three companions rose as one, and clamping their hands over gaping mouths they slid the razor-sharp blades across the soft unyielding windpipes.
“Three down, six to go,” John Burke grunted. “Quick, hide the bodies.”
With the bodies hidden in the trolleys and covered with tarpaulin they waited. Once again Harry sent the bloodcurdling howl streaming and slithering through the tunnel. The response came immediately, as though impatience had pushed aside courage and valour.
“Hans, Eric, are you there, where are you? Answer me, Hermann, what is happening?” a reedy thin voice quavered.
Thomas lifted his head and watched Harry slip from behind the nearest trolley and move towards the two Germans. Executing a scissors movement, Harry slashed the two blades simultaneously across the unprotected throats. Thomas smiled, he felt nothing, no remorse, vengeance was his, and the taste sweetened the juices running into his mouth. Harry sent out another howl, louder and more pronounced than before. The dimmed lights plunged into darkness and the men at the mine face sank into a frantic despair.
“They must be crapping in their pants by now. Let’s finish them off and get out of here. Bloody place gives me the creeps,” Atlas grumbled.
“Aye, I’m all for that,” Harry nodded.
Thomas went first, crawling on his hands and knees, and sensed the damp clay penetrate his trousers and freeze his hands. Through the gloom he could just about make out the four remaining Germans huddled round a single paraffin lamp.
“Right, give them your best roar, lad, then I’ll fire off a few shots to confuse them and we’ll charge and finish the sods off,” he said, drawing his pistol.
Harry sucked in his breath and gave full vent. Atlas blinked and thought every muscle in his body had frozen, leaving him paralysed.
Thomas loosed two wild volleys, sending out spurts of orange flame. A German screamed in pain and fell kicking and writhing into the wet clinging clay. Atlas Blunder led the charge and, synonymous with his name, his innate clumsiness became the mother of disaster. His arms flailed like a drunk on a windswept New Year’s Eve, and he smashed into Burke and Harry. Thomas stood alone to face the three grim-faced miners armed with pickaxes. Bending at the waist he ducked and avoided the metal prong seeking his neck and slashed out with his knife, ignoring the scream when the blade slit open the German’s arm. Then he felt a strong arm clamp around his neck like a vice, squeezing and tightening, cutting off his oxygen supply. He relaxed. I’m coming, Archie, I’m coming. Blackness swirled like a thick mist. He thought of Dilly with a swollen belly. He thought of the daisy pressed between the pages of the stiff covered note-book, and still he felt the firm grip of his father’s hand.
“Well done, men, first class,” Lieutenant Reddy said, rubbing his hands together jubilantly. “A day without a dead German is like a day without sunshine. We’ll show them blighters. Now, Wordsworth, show these men out and make them a brew.”
“Right, boys,” Wordsworth drawled, “you all follow me now and you can have a nice cup of tea like the officer says.”
Atlas leant over, picked Thomas up and hefted him onto his shoulder like a sack of carrots.
“Put me down, I’ll be all right in a minute,” Thomas moaned.
“Best you stay where you are until we’re out of here. It’s quicker this way than waiting for you to flounder around like a cod in a sandstorm.”
Outside in the fresh air, away from the clamminess of the tunnels, the dimness of dawn retreated into the purple-streaked sky and Atlas dropped Thomas to the ground.
“Why didn’t you use your bloody revolver?” he said.
“I never had time.”
“You never had time, my arse! Bloody demented, you are. Like an octopus born with seven tentacles.”
Thomas looked up – he’d never grow used to Atlas’s strange method of describing events.
“What happened?”
“It was Harry who saved you. One of them was hell bent on strangling the life out of you and the other two were about to bury their axes in your head, but he got there in the nick of time he did, lucky for you.”
Thomas squeezed his eyes tight shut to block out the pain and ran his hand over his head. It felt tender, like an open wound, and he couldn’t remember what had caused it. Then darkness slowly closed in around him like falling night and he pictured himself lying in a coffin with Ruby staring down at him. Archie sat astride her back and in his hands was the ever-present noose. He tried to rise and leave the coffin, but he couldn’t because he was dead.
Chapter Eighteen
Their arms felt as though at any moment they might wrench from their sockets, John Burke swore beneath his breath and gripped the stretcher tighter. Sweat ran into his eyes and he shook his head from side-to-side. At last the welcome sight of the farmhouse came into view.
“Bloody great heavy lump, that’s what he is,” Harry grumbled, looking down at Thomas lying on the stretcher. “Concussion, that’s what the medic said. Looks to me like he’s having a snooze, the lazy get.”
“Stop your mithering, you miserable sod,” Atlas snapped. “I don’t know how he gets away with it, though – he must lead a bloody charmed life, anybody else would be dead by now.”
John Burke pushed open the farmhouse door and smiled as the rush of heat struck his face. “Christ, it’s hotter than me dad’s arse after a night on the black stuff,” he choked.
“Welcome back, chaps,” Moses beamed. “Thought I’d make it comfortable for your return. Tea will be served in minutes. Oh dear, whatever has happened to him this time?”
“He’s had a knock on the head. He’ll be fine in a couple of days, but I reckon its best we put him to rest,” Harry answered, pulling off Thomas’s wet clothes and heaving him onto the bed.
“There’s something big going on, I can smell it in the air,” Atlas said, gazing from the window at the activity outside – thousands of troops were on the move accompanied by hundreds of field guns.
“Jesus, lad, with a nose like that you’re sure to know what’s going on in Australia,” John Burke said, picking his teeth with his fingernail and spitting on the floor.
“I’m telling you, something’s going to happen soon,” Atlas answered, ignoring the reference to the size of his nose. “They’re even laying extra railway tracks. I reckon Fritz is in for a good kicking. And look at that,” he said pointing out of the window. “A bloody useless staff
officer riding around on his horse, the daft bugger. They only show up when something big is about to happen, and when it starts they bugger off again.”
Sergeant Bull informed the section leaders the next day that all activities in the mines were to cease immediately, the men were ordered to stand down. Over the next few days rest periods were extended with a greater emphasis placed on battle training. Even the food improved. The battle-hardened veterans glanced around nervously when the order went out to pay special attention to the cleaning of rifles and ammunition. Atlas’s assumption proved correct. Another big push was being prepared.
With nothing better to do Thomas leaned against the doorway of the farmhouse and tenderly touched the bandages around his head. The incessant throb refused to abate and he found it easier not to think. Through the sheeting rain, accompanied by his three section leaders, he watched column after column of soldiers carrying fifty-pound backpacks containing an explosive called ammonal into the mines under the Messines Ridge. When he’d asked Moses for a remedy for his headache, he had looked at him like he was a piece of cat shit on a new carpet and told him the wisest thing to do would be to cut it off.
“They’ve been carting that stuff in for months,” Harry said.
“A million pounds of the stuff I’ve been told,” said Leslie Hill, shaking the rain from his helmet. “And there must be over twenty tunnels in there by now. Been digging for ages they have, Australians, Canadians, British, the whole bloody lot. Even brought in civilian workers from the Manchester sewers. By the way, did I tell you I saw Stan Banks the other day? He hasn’t changed. He’s running the money pool now.”
“Money pool, what’s that?” Harry asked.
“Before they go over the top or on raiding parties, the men pool their money and those who survive share what’s left between them,” Moses said, looking across at Thomas. “Stops the scavengers rifling through dead men’s pockets, and those who survive the war could end up very wealthy men.”
Thomas stiffened. “Where did you see him?” he asked easily, in an effort to conceal his sudden interest, and casually pushing the toe of his boot into the mud he watched the indent fill with dirty brown water.
“By the small copse behind the medical station,” smiled Hill. “He’s chasing one of the nurses. Apparently he spends a lot of his off duty time with the wounded. Always manages to find them treats to keep their morale up. You know Stan, never a dull moment when he’s around.”
“Who’s out tonight?” Thomas asked glancing at his pocket watch and bringing the conversation to an abrupt end.
“We are,” Harry answered.
“Make sure their rifles are clean and they keep Fritz’s head down,” Thomas said gruffly.
“My men keep their rifles clean and do their job without any bloody mention from you, son,” Harry snapped angrily. “Just remember that in future. And they can stand on their own two bloody feet, unlike you.” Drawing his lips back in a snarl he walked away leaving Thomas burning with anger.
“I want to you to pay particular attention to hill sixty tonight, Private Hardiker,” Sergeant Bull said. “We need to keep Fritz busy. Off you go, lad, and keep your head down.”
“Right, Sergeant, we’ll do our best. Is something big in the air?”
“You’ll know all in good time.”
Harry Hardiker knew the exact point where to cross the lines. All the section leaders knew the wooden building the German officers used as a mess was always lightly guarded. It offered good cover in the moonlight and for this reason the snipers always left it untouched. Hill sixty was a hummock on top of the salient offering a perfect vantage point overlooking the allies’ lines. Manned by machine-gunners inside concrete bunkers, raiding parties avoided the area as potentially too dangerous to assail without a heavy loss of men. Sergeant Bull wouldn’t ask for it to be attacked for no good reason. Already Harry felt he’d lost all earthly connection with hope and the random grey hairs at his temples seemed a reminder that nothing would ever change.
He sat level with the German lines, tempted to disobey the order to attack. No one had ventured past this point before, and he needed time to think. He had the lives of nine men to consider and more than anything else wanted to keep them alive. Finally, he made his decision. He would take three men and work his way up the salient towards the hummock. Three men would keep the Germans in the trenches pinned down and the remaining three would attack and set fire to the German officer’s wooden mess as an extra diversion.
“Use grenades on the officer’s mess,” he said. “And kick up a bloody good racket. That should give the bastards something to think about. When we hear the explosions we’ll start making our way up the hill to the hummock. Good luck, boys, and keep your heads down. Off you go.”
At the sound of the exploding grenades, Harry and his party of skirmishers began silently crawling up the gradient towards the hummock. He smiled thinly at the sound of rifle fire as the snipers picked off the unsuspecting enemy troops in the trenches. By a small hump offering only sparse cover he stopped and focused his field glasses. He could see movement in the machine-gun emplacement. Eighty yards away he heard the cold threatening metallic rasp of machine-guns being cocked and made ready. He swallowed and ran his tongue over his dry lips. The sound of puffing and wheezing coming from his men panicked him, and he felt the sweat gluing his trousers to his legs. He wanted to tell them to keep the noise down, to stop breathing for the next ten minutes. Don’t be so bloody stupid, he silently cursed himself. When the first flare went up and burst overhead, his eyes opened in sheer terror. White-faced he laid belly down feeling like a naked man in the Vatican. Within seconds the whole of the salient lit up.
“Come on, lads, no time to wait for the porridge to cool, let’s get them!” he roared.
The fear of death pounded in his ears like a wild storm and he scrambled to his feet and ran crouching up the hill waiting for the hot messengers of death to embed themselves in his tender flesh. On and on, he waited and waited, his legs pumping and his lungs gasping for air, but the messengers never came. Behind he heard a groan as one of his men fell. Mother of God, Mother of God, Mother of God, he cried. Then, despite what had seemed a cessation in time, he was there. And with sweat blurring his vision he withdrew his bayonet he slashed the first German across the throat, who fell back gurgling and screaming, clutching his neck, the blood gurgling through his fingers. Why do Germans scream in this way, he thought, loud and piercing, like a woman? The second man recoiled and, raising his hands in futile protection, stared with wide panic-stricken eyes. Naked fear distorted his features. He looked like a man who’d just licked vinegar from a nettle. Harry plunged the bayonet into his neck and twisted, ignoring the jet of blood streaming into his face and blinding him. “Die, you German bastard,” he growled.
Overhead more enemy flares drifted lazily into the sky and he remembered the day his father took him to a firework display to celebrate the coronation of Edward VII, in 1901. That was a good day: candy floss and toffee apples were handed out for free and he had made sure he had more than his fair share.
Beneath the shower of flares snaking into the sky the vista of flat country and low ridges surrounded by shabby hills and bare woods nestling sullenly in the rain suddenly flickered to a murky banana-yellow. Then the earth came alive, moving, pulsating as the Germans came to extract revenge. Like grey worms, they crawled their way towards Harry and his two companions. Harry shook his head in despair and swallowed.
“Right, lads, we’re going to kill some Germans today,” he said quietly.
They shook hands like friends do, firm and meaningful. Len Turland pressed a photograph of his wife and child onto the damp wall then lying in position checked the machine-gun. Dougie Glass knelt with the belt of ammunition held loosely in the palm of his hand ready to feed the machine-gun. Harry snapped the bayonet to his rifle and smiled grimly. Their blood would not be spilled cheaply.
Sergeant Bull sat on an empty ammunition box in
the trench with his head in his hands listening to the distant incessant chatter of the machine-gun for twenty long minutes. As each minute passed, the sound became louder until he thought his ear drums might burst. By the time the British trench mortars homed in on the salient, a great ball of orange flame erupted from the hummock and it was over. His ice-blue eyes melted, and with a shuddering sigh he got to his feet, removed his helmet and walked out into the rain where no one would see his tears. Losses were heavy that night, of the ten men that left, only two returned.
Thomas approached the casualty clearing station three long, wet and miserable miles from the warm farmhouse. The strong smell of disinfectant barely cloaked the nauseating stench of rotting flesh and gangrened wounds. Through the darkness of the evening he saw rows of horse-drawn ambulances lined up outside waiting to bring in the wounded from the trenches, or soldiers convalescing from injuries after receiving treatment at base hospitals. It didn’t seem strange to hear Stan Banks before he saw him. The shrill laughter with the Liverpool nasal twang revived recent memories. The smell of undiluted disinfectant increased, stung his eyes and stuck in his gut when he stepped inside the dimly-lit tent. Instinctively he squeezed his shoulders to avoid making contact with the remains of men sitting or lying with confused eyes. One man, wearing a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, lay looking like he’d fought and lost a twenty-round bout with the world heavyweight boxing champion. He sat shaking and trembling. Where his left arm should be a bloodstained bandage hung limp and dripping blood. His face slowly creased and he gave Thomas a weak smile. It seemed almost apologetic. Further down the row of beds he saw Stan sitting with his back to him, propping up a man in his arms.
“Come on, lad, down it goes. With a name like Horace I’m surprised you’re not a greedy bugger,” he said. The remark immediately conjured up a rare smile onto Thomas’s lips.
Coming Home Page 29
