The Winter Soldiers

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Bloody bastard!’ yelled Wynter at Gwilliams. ‘That hurt, that did.’

  ‘You think yours didn’t!’ Gwilliams shouted back.

  ‘All right, all right, let it rest,’ said Crossman. ‘Calm yourselves, both of you.’

  He knew the fear and excitement of a bayonet charge, possibly into a hail of bullets from hidden weapons behind a belt of rocks, had raised the blood-heat of his men to a dangerous level. In such a charge a soldier’s emotions spiral out of control and into a state of frenzy. Crossman’s own emotions had been running high too, but the realization that these were not British or French deserters had penetrated and he had been able to stop the charge. Stop it all but for Wynter of course, but fortunately Gwilliams had gathered his wits quickly enough to intervene. He would have to thank Gwilliams later for that, as now was not the time, with heated feelings still simmering in overwrought breasts.

  ‘The important thing is these men are not British or French deserters. Gwilliams was only trying to stop you from killing an innocent man by mistake, Wynter.’

  Wynter typically responded with, ‘How do we know they’re innocent, then, eh? Answer me that, sergeant.’

  ‘Shut up. The point is, they’re not Reece’s deserters. We’re lucky we didn’t kill both of them.’

  ‘They’re lucky, you mean,’ replied Peterson, quietly. She was just glad to be on dry land again. Her head was still swimming and the ground still felt as if it were rolling under her feet, but she was feeling a great deal more like the Peterson she knew and cared for.

  Yorwarth added his own two-penn’orth now, with a few choice words about bayonet charges and their worth.

  The two prisoners stared up with open mouths at this man who was speaking in this evil-sounding language. What was wrong with the speaker’s face? Was it falling into two pieces? One part of it went one way, one the other. What a strange experience they were having on this beach, almost as if it were all a horrible dream, a nightmare. First to be attacked by demons out of the waves. Then for those demons to fight amongst themselves. Now having to witness the surreal vision of the Devil’s harbinger, delivering his message in the dark tones of the Underworld’s creatures. Had the pair of them entered some forbidden zone?

  Ali made a pad for the wounded man’s shoulder and bandaged it tightly. He advised the man to get it seen to quickly, before gangrene set in. Should he keep it clean, Ali said, there was no reason why the young Tartar should not live a long and happy life. The two victims themselves asked Ali why he was running with rakshasas and jinn? He seemed an ordinary man, they said. He was not wild-eyed and wild-haired like those cacodemons pacing up and down the sands, screaming at one another in voices from Hell. Why would a good and normal man want to keep such company? Ali shrugged and shook his great head sadly. It was his lot in life, he told the two Tartars. He had been bewitched and beguiled by the tall demon with the black hair and now must serve as his slave for the rest of his life, the Turk explained. Would they pray for his soul? We will, we will, came the reply, and God have mercy on your mother’s son.

  ‘Well, that was a fine set-to,’ said Yorwarth, as they boarded the sailing barge again. ‘Did you see the way they looked at me? If looks could kill I’d be deader than a redback stuck to the sole of a boot. What had I done to them? It was Wynter who stuck him, not me.’

  ‘I was first there, that’s the only reason,’ argued Wynter. ‘I can’t help it if I run faster than you lot.’

  They went back down into the hold, grumbling like mad. Peterson was particularly upset at having to continue the fox hunt. Freir then took the boat on patrol again, sailing up and down the long stretch of bleak coastline, his unwilling passengers hoping against hope that they would eventually attract the attention of Reece and his gang. Crossman went back to musing on life, studying the star patterns and wondering about Cousin Jane’s sudden appearance in the Crimea.

  Four muskets appeared over the gunwales of the rowing boat and a fierce volley took the deserters by surprise. One man fell with a smoking hole in his chest. Another spun backwards, his arm shattered. There was a shout amongst them for reinforcements from the cliffs behind. By the time this cry for help was even registering amongst those already hurrying down the cliff paths, a second round of shots ripped into them, this time a ragged fusillade. Pistols were taking their toll too in the competent hands of a sergeant and his Turkish aide. When the reinforcements, some fourteen men, began running across the sands towards the scene of the fighting, bodies were scattered over the area and blood was flowing into the shingle.

  If they thought their superior numbers were enough to rescue their fallen comrades, they were wrong, for any fool could tell they were running into the same trap. They were completely exposed, no matter how many of them came to the aid of the fallen. The attackers in the boat had all the advantages, even to the point where if they themselves were put in danger all they had to do was put to sea and row back out to the sailing barge.

  The barge itself had miraculously ceased dragging itself like a wounded butterfly across the bay and now had its bows pointed towards the beach. A round shot landed amongst the deserters, sending pebbles and dirt flying into their faces. This was followed by a puff of smoke and finally the sound of the shot which echoed across the bay. Someone in that barge was using a gun to put their already beleaguered lives in even greater peril. Three of them turned back immediately, running for the cliff path which they had descended. One of these was shot in the back by Morgan Reece, but the other two escaped his wrath.

  Those in the boat jumped out now and dragged their vessel a few yards up onto the sea strand. They were using it as a shield and remained behind it, firing steadily at the exposed deserters. There was nowhere for the latter to hide. They were on a deep wide beach with no rocks or any kind of cover. Some were firing from the prone position. Others had gone down on one knee. But the relentless fire from behind the thick, clinker-built rowing boat was thinning their numbers by the minute. They were caught in a blistering storm of bullets from the six soldiers safely ensconced behind their barrier. Finally, the ketch-rigged sailing barge moved in closer to the shore and Freir began to use grapeshot to spray the enemy. Eventually the deserters began to raise their hands, seeing their position as hopeless and helpless.

  ‘Move away from your weapons,’ cried Crossman. ‘Any man who moves to touch his weapon will be shot.’

  One man had refused to drop his carbine. Crossman recognized him instantly. Morgan Reece was not going to be taken alive. ‘You’re coming with me, you treacherous bastard!’ he yelled at Crossman, at the same time raising his weapon. Crossman pointed his Tranter at the big man, but the revolver merely clicked on an empty chamber. At that same moment there was a deafening blast in Crossman’s ear, which made him stagger to the side. He cupped his ringing ear in his hand and watched as Morgan Reece crumpled to the sand, a furious look on his face. The renegade remained where he was, clearly dead with a hole in his chest, though by his expression he still seemed about to remonstrate with Crossman.

  ‘Thank you, Ali,’ said Crossman, his head still ringing. ‘Appreciated.’

  ‘No trouble, sergeant.’ It was the Turk who had taken Reece’s life. One of his several single-shot pistols was still smoking in his hand.

  ‘The rest of you men, don’t get any ideas,’ cried a jumpy Wynter. ‘I’ll kill any man who looks at his musket!’

  There were six deserters left unwounded. Two of them, Crossman discovered, were French soldiers. The rest were from the Army of the East. They were led away to the barge and chained together. A more miserable-looking set of individuals you would not find, now that their anger had gone and had been replaced by despair. Besides these there were two more seriously wounded and one walking wounded.

  Crossman was secretly glad that Reece had died in the fight. He would not have liked to see him hang, despite the fact that Reece was a murderer. There was something about Reece’s posture and defiant attitude that went against the
indignity of hanging. The rest would certainly hang or, if they were lucky, go before a firing squad. For this reason Crossman and his men could not look them in the eye, and did not wish to speak to them except to ask if they wanted food and drink. In a way there was shame involved. They were dragging a group of their own towards the certainty of the gallows. It left a bad taste in the mouth and filled the captors with guilt. Yes, thieves and killers were being brought to justice, but now that they had been stripped of their status as warriors, they looked pathetically young and sorry. They looked like the boys and men you might see in a tavern back in England, drinking ale, smiling a greeting and winking at the serving girl. It felt very bad to be taking such men back to dangle on the end of a hemp rope. It was pointless telling them they might have a chance, that their defence might bring up mitigating circumstances to excuse them of their behaviour. They were going to be executed, and that was certain.

  After the prisoners had been made to carry their own dead to the barge and lay them in the hold, one of them asked Crossman if he would write to his brother.

  ‘What will I say?’

  ‘Tell him it wasn’t my intent, to become what I am. Things seemed to conspire to make it so. I am guilty and I shall hang, but tell him there was remorse in me for what I did. Tell him I’m sorry for it and that when he sees my name posted up in the parish church as a coward and a murderer, please to take it down before my mother comes to it.’

  ‘Do you live in a village.’

  ‘Aye, a small place in Devon.’

  ‘Then won’t that be difficult? People will talk. She will hear of it, anyway. You can’t hide anything in small villages.’

  ‘So long as she don’t see my name up there,’ said the youth, with moist eyes. ‘It would kill her. No one will tell her out of respect for my father and her grief. My father was liked very well, before he got caught in the threshing machine and was killed in his prime.’ The young man hung his head. ‘He would have been so shameful of his son and what I’ve come to. It’s a bad day, for my bad name will be on the family forever. My brother will be feared to go to market, in case someone gives him a look. He has a bad temper on him and does things rash, like me. There’ll be anger in him against me, but he’ll fight any man who thinks wrong of me. Now I think what a terrible thing I’ve done to them all. Brother, cousins and parents.’

  Yorwarth said, harshly, ‘You should’ve thought of that, before you went against queen and country.’

  The soldier shook his head. ‘A man don’t always think before he does. Sometimes it comes of instinct. With me it was a raid at night. The Russ was waiting for us and cut us to bits. There was only me left, running this way and that, in the dark, trying to dodge them bullets. Then, when I run in a straight line, I found myself out in the hills and just kept going . . .’

  ‘It sounds an easy thing to do,’ said Peterson, her own eyes moist.

  ‘Pah, you knew what you was doing,’ cried Wynter, who was secretly appalled by all this emotion and how it was making him feel. ‘You could’ve gone back straight away and no one would’ve thought the worse. All of you, you’ve all got stories, ain’t you? You could all blame somethin’ else, or someone else. Fact is, you did wrong and you’ve got to pay for it.’

  Out of all the soldiers of the peloton, Wynter was the most likely candidate for desertion. He had the right temperament. He had the same attitude as many of the men in chains: a hatred of authority. Deep down he knew this and it scared him silly. There but for the grace of God went Wynter. When he dwelt on the image of hanging, his throat felt as if it were stuffed with sheep’s wool and his heart raced off into the unknown. It was a death which he feared more than any other. This atmosphere of black gloom which preceded a hanging, several hangings, made him feel sick to the point of giddiness.

  They reached Balaclava and delivered their prisoners into the hands of the authorities. It was a relief to be rid of them. Crossman went to see Colonel Hawke, but found he was away on business. Lovelace was there instead, behind the desk. He looked bored.

  ‘Oh, hello, sergeant. Successful fox hunt?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we got them, at last. It took days and weeks of searching up and down that coast, but we found them in the end. Half of them died in the battle. The others we brought back. Reece was killed.’

  ‘Well done! Hawke will be pleased.’

  ‘I hope so. It’s a dirty business.’

  Major Lovelace leaned back in his chair. ‘It’s all a dirty business, sergeant, but it’s got to be done. Have you heard about Enticknap?’

  ‘No – what?’

  ‘Shot himself.’

  Crossman went cold. ‘No, I didn’t know.’

  Lovelace came forward, over the desk, and knitted the fingers of both hands together.

  ‘Yes, funny turn of events. It seems he locked himself in the room of a Tartar’s farm and fired two rounds into his own chest. Didn’t die straight away. Must have spent all night there, bleeding to death. Horrible business.’

  ‘Shot himself in the chest?’ Crossman felt a soft blow of incredulity hit him. ‘Surely, if a man is going to shoot himself he puts the bullet where he knows it will kill him instantly – in the brain. A man shoots himself in the head, not in the chest.’

  ‘Well, I must admit it sounds peculiar. However, it seems he was found slumped in a chair, the pistol in his hand, and two rounds in his chest. One went through the right lung, the other grazed the heart.’

  ‘The right lung,’ repeated Crossman. ‘Was he that bad a shot?’

  ‘He might have been shaking badly. One never knows the state of mind of a suicide, does one? Perhaps he was toying with it for a while and the pistol went off unexpectedly. I’ve known that happen. Who was that famous general in India, who tried to shoot himself in the head and missed? Was it Clive? I’ll wager he was not serious when he raised the pistol to his temple. Men think about it, toy with the idea, even to the point of putting a loaded firearm to their heads, not really intending to go through with it. Sometimes the weapon goes off accidentally, and they find themselves victim of their own melancholy.’

  ‘But the chest.’

  ‘Yes, I grant you that. It is a strange business. What other explanation is there?’

  ‘Somebody else shot him and tried to make it look like suicide.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the locked door. The key was inside the room.’

  Crossman said, ‘Was it actually in the lock, or on the floor?’

  ‘Ah, I see your drift. Lock the door from the outside and slide the key under it.’

  ‘Or toss it through a crack in the shutters.’

  Lovelace shrugged. ‘I don’t know where they found the key. It was my understanding that there was nothing suspicious or unusual, at least concerning the whereabouts of the key.’ He stared hard at Crossman. ‘Is there some definite purpose behind these questions, or are you following an idle train of thought?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure where I’m going either, sir.’ Crossman sat down in the spare chair without being invited. He ran his hands over his face and then stared at his senior officer. ‘I find this work very harrowing. When we started out it was just blowing up this magazine or spiking that set of guns, but it seems to have become more – more unsavoury.’

  ‘You’re worried about the ethics?’

  ‘Not so much that. I know dirty things have to be done in a war. War is a sordid business in itself. Today I returned with a set of prisoners, deserters and murderers. It’s fair to say, isn’t it, that they’ll all be executed? I don’t find that very palatable, I’m afraid. I would rather have not had anything to do with it.’

  ‘I seem to remember that Reece and his men hanged a perfectly innocent farmer in his own barn. You are merely acting as policeman here. The court martial bears the responsibility for the punishment, not you. And after the sentence is carried out, which I grant will be death in most cases, any further responsibility will fall into God’s hands. You are not th
e main agent of justice here. You have a small piece of the work: to produce the accused men. It is the court who will decide whether they are guilty and the judges who will sentence them. Finally, God will carry out a more thorough investigation of the whole affair, take into account any remorse or recognition of sins, and decide whether any further punitive measures are required. Yours is the only part in the affair which does not require you to judge your fellow men. You have got off lightly, my friend. You may shrug your shoulders and pass the blame for any harsh or unwarranted sentence on to others. You are merely the delivery boy, the messenger.’

  Crossman smiled. ‘When you put it that way . . .’

  ‘I merely state the facts.’

  They were both silent for a few moments, then Lovelace said, ‘Did you ever make that raid for the coats? For your regiment?’

  Crossman shook his head. ‘Never found the time.’

  ‘No need now, eh? Warmer weather’s come.’

  ‘I suppose so. I know I’d rather have been stealing coats than capturing deserters or spying on generals, but then I don’t have a great deal to say about what I do. Ah well, I’ll bid you good night, sir.’

  ‘No sweet dreams?’

  ‘We should be so lucky.’

  Having made his report, Crossman went to see Jane. He learned she was at Enticknap’s cottage. He was not pleased to find Jarrard there. The American greeted him heartily and asked after his health. Crossman said tartly that he did very well, thank you.