The Silver Hand

by Terry Deary

  ‘He said we’d be safe. That Silver Hand wouldn’t be able to get us in here.’

  Aimee shook her head. ‘No. He used the word Grimm.’

  Marius blew out his cheeks. ‘All right, he said Sergeant Grimm wouldn’t be able to get us in here.’

  Aimee spoke slowly. ‘When I spoke to Father Gaulle I didn’t use Grimm’s name – I called him Silver Hand. Did you tell the priest?’

  ‘No,’ Marius said in a hoarse whisper. His eyes met Aimee’s. They spoke together. ‘So how did he know Silver Hand’s real name?’

  Marius finished, ‘He must know him.’

  ‘And if he’s spoken to him recently, Father Gaulle will know about us.’

  ‘Father Gaulle must be Benedict,’ Marius groaned.

  Aimee looked at the door. ‘And this isn’t a safe place. It’s a prison. We’re trapped.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘The dead live on in the memory of the living’

  30 August 1918: Cléry

  Father Gaulle stepped over the puddled cobbles of Cléry and hurried up the slight hill to the farmlands to the north. His black priest’s robes flapped around his ankles and his face was set hard as one of his statues. The row of cottages were like a gap-toothed mouth where German shells had landed as the British escaped to the west five months earlier.

  The wrecked road up to the ridge had been roughly mended. Smashed gun-carriages, lorries, wagons and cart wheels had not been cleared from the ditches and the fields. They lay twisted and rotting where they had been abandoned.

  The priest stopped for breath and looked back. The bridges over the Somme had been blown apart then patched every time one of the armies had fled and the other had followed. Graves with simple wooden crosses were clumped in corners of common land. German and British shared the cold, wet clay.

  The farm that Father Gaulle was making for was about the same size as the Fletcher farm back in Bray and the barn was being used as a hospital. This one was full of British soldiers wounded in the fight for Peronne.

  There were nurses and doctors hurrying around the men – some groaning, some chatting, some snoring and some too far gone to make any sound. The smell was as bad as any cattle byre and the disinfectant made it all worse.

  The nurses didn’t seem to notice but Father Gaulle’s nose curled up. One of them smiled at him brightly. ‘Have you come to give the last rites to the dying?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’ve come to find a Sergeant Grimm... I brought him in three days ago to have his ankle treated?’

  ‘Ah, the walking wounded are in the tents in the field.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the priest said with a small bow.

  ‘Aren’t you going to pray for the dying?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘Not today, Fraulein,’ the priest said and his eyes looked sad. As he turned away those eyes became stone hard again. ‘If they are British dying they can go straight to hell without my help,’ he muttered.

  Sergeant Grimm was sitting on a cot bed playing cards with a young soldier, gambling for matchsticks. He looked up and nodded to Father Gaulle.

  ‘Good morning, Sergeant,’ the priest said in English.

  ‘Good morning, Father. I hope you are well?’ Silver Hand replied.

  The priest didn’t have time for polite chat. He said, ‘Sergeant, can you take a walk with me?’

  ‘I can take a limp with you,’ Grimm replied with a sour smile.

  ‘Thank you. Something has come to my church that only you can deal with.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  The priest shook his dandelion head as if to send a silent message for Silver Hand to talk about this outside. ‘Two pigeons have arrived from Bray. They need to be dealt with.’

  Grimm’s eyes flew wide open and he struggled to his feet. He gripped a walking stick, handed his pack to the priest so he could carry it and hobbled out of the tent. ‘The boy and the girl? They’re here?’

  ‘I’ve locked them in the bell tower of my church,’ the priest said. He had switched to speaking in German now they were alone.

  ‘I have spent every day watching the road from Bray. How did they get past me?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter now. They are here. They need to be destroyed before they betray us.’

  Silver Hand tapped the pistol on his belt with his stick. ‘It will be a pleasure to shoot them.’

  ‘Not in my church,’ Father Gaulle said quickly.

  Grimm shrugged. ‘Just get your gravedigger to dig two plots. We’ll take them into the churchyard after dark and shoot them at the gravesides. With any luck they’ll fall straight into the holes and save us a lot of trouble moving them,’ the sergeant said savagely.

  The two men passed slowly down the road back to the church. Sergeant Grimm talked quickly in a low voice though there were no living creatures but weary cattle and soaked sheep to hear them. ‘If we dispose of these two young nuisances we can sell the plans for the Whippet tank. I may even be able to do a bit more damage to the British and French before I cross over to the German side.’

  Father Gaulle looked at him from under his heavy eyebrows. ‘Are you sure you want to? Germany will be a defeated nation if the war goes on this way.’

  Silver Hand laughed. ‘No, Germany is setting a trap. They will go back and back till they reach the strongest defences ever built.’

  Father Gaulle nodded. ‘The Hindenburg Line.’

  ‘Yes, the Hindenburg Line. There will be forts and trenches and tank-traps that the British and their American friends will never break. The only thing they’ll break will be themselves. When they are exhausted we will go back on the attack and drive them into the sea for the fishes to eat. It will be a great day for us, my friend.’

  They walked slowly along the damp streets where Grimm’s stick slipped and he had to lean on the priest’s arm. Slowly, slowly they neared the church. A gravedigger was already at work. Father Grimm said, ‘We are expecting two new bodies tonight. Not too tall. No need to dig anything too deep either.’

  The gravedigger grumbled but said, ‘I’ll have them ready for you within the hour.’

  The priest turned towards the church door where Grimm was waiting. The gravedigger called after him. ‘By the way, the slates on the steeple...’

  Father Gaulle called over his shoulder, ‘Yes I know, a few were cracked when the British advanced through Cléry. I’ll deal with it another time.’ And he was gone.

  The old man stuck his spade into the ground. ‘I never did like the Germans,’ he spat. ‘Priest or not, he’ll be sorry when he sees what I saw. Pah.’ He pulled out his spade and found a fresh patch of earth to dig two new, small graves.

  Silver Hand and the priest walked quietly into the church. Grimm dropped his backpack outside the door and made sure the pistol was loose in its holster.

  Father Gaulle took the key from the deep pocket of his robe. He slipped it into the lock, turned the key then twisted the handle. He stepped back quickly in case Marius or the girl was waiting for this moment to attack – perhaps they had worked out his identity by now. Nothing. The priest nodded to the man with the silver hand, who raised his pistol and limped forward.

  Grimm entered the gloom of the tower and swept the ground floor with his eyes and his pistol. He looked up to the bell platforms high above. There was nothing but a glimmer of daylight. He backed out of the tower and swung his gun angrily towards the priest. ‘They’re not there.’

  ‘They have to be. There is no way out.’

  ‘You had them in your hands and you let them slip away.’

  ‘They are hiding somewhere,’ Father Gaulle shouted. A woman was lighting a candle near the altar. She looked round in fear when she heard the German voices raised in anger. She hurried out of a side door. ‘They will be hiding up in the belfry at the top.’

  ‘I can’t climb up there. Not with this ankle. But I am telling you I should be able to see them. There’s no hiding place. The tower is empty.’

  ‘It’s impossible
.’

  ‘Then you find them,’ Silver Hand said. He held the butt of his weapon towards the priest. ‘Go on in. Take my pistol. You find them, Benedict.’

  But Benedict Gaulle – German spy – found nothing.

  30 August 1918: Cléry

  Marius and Aimee had been trapped in a tower with ancient stone walls as thick as a castle dungeon and a door of oak almost as solid. The lock was dull brass and covered in dust but unbreakable as a jail.

  Aimee sank to the floor. Angry at being trapped. Angry that she’d led Marius into danger. She began to sing to keep up her spirits. She sang a bitter British song she’d heard the soldiers sing. It made fun of dying.

  ‘The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

  For you but not for me:

  For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,

  They’ve got the goods for me.

  Oh! Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?

  Oh! Grave, thy victory?

  The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

  For you but not for me.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Marius asked.

  ‘It means hell is waiting for you, my enemy, but not for me. When you hear the bells they are the bells of hell. When I hear them they’re for heaven.’

  ‘There are no bells ringing,’ Marius said.

  Aimee pulled a face. ‘It’s only a song, Marius.’

  The boy sat down beside Aimee and his eyes glowed in the gloom. ‘The bells call me to hell and you to heaven...’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘No. Listen, Aimee. On Earth – here and now – the bells call the people to church,’ Marius said.

  Aimee grinned. She understood. ‘We are in a bell tower. Pull the bell and the church will fill with people.’

  ‘Yes. If the priest and Silver Hand come back they won’t dare shoot us in a church full of people.’

  Aimee jumped to her feet and dragged Marius up after her. ‘You pull the left rope and I’ll pull the right.’

  They wrapped their hands around the ropes and with a silent nod pulled together.

  The ropes stretched down to the ground. There was a small creak. Then nothing. Only silence.

  Aimee peered up to the roof. ‘There are no bells. There are bell ropes but no bells. Why?’

  ‘One of the armies – yours or mine – took the bells for scrap metal to turn them into guns or bayonets.’

  Aimee looked sour. ‘Or they took them to make belt buckles that say God is on the side of Germany. The German army have been here for four years. The British just passed through a week ago. It has to be your fault. God won’t be very pleased if you stole his bells.’

  ‘Then I will be punished if Silver Hand comes back and shoots me,’ Marius muttered.

  ‘That’s fine,’ Aimee said. ‘But I don’t think it’s fair if he shoots me too. I’m getting out of here,’ she snapped and walked to the wall where the wooden stairs climbed upwards.

  The staircase climbed up the side of the wall in three stages with a landing at the top of each one. Marius panted up after Aimee and had to rest on each landing. When they reached the top, a platform ran around the tower under the roof. ‘We can’t get out,’ Marius gasped.

  ‘Of course we can,’ Aimee said. She was growing angrier with every minute that passed.

  ‘The walls are too thick,’ Marius argued.

  ‘But the roof isn’t,’ Aimee said. She pointed upwards. ‘Look, the lead has been stripped away.’

  ‘To make bullets.’ Marius nodded.

  ‘There are just tiles nailed on... and some of them are already cracked. If I stand on the rail I can push them out. Look...’

  Aimee climbed up and stood on the heavy guard rail. She gripped the wooden frame above her head, the frame that had held the bells. If she slipped she’d fall twenty metres to the stone floor below. She swayed. ‘If I fall then we’ll save Silver Hand a bullet,’ she murmured. ‘If I fall, make sure you escape.’

  As the girl pushed at the tiles they gave way easily and soon there was a hole large enough for her to see the grey clouds scudding across a stormy sky. One tile gave way too easily and she swayed forward. She pushed herself backwards and whirled her arms as she felt herself toppling.

  Aimee fell.

  As she waited to plummet she wondered if it would hurt or if her world would turn dark in an instant. The song drifted into her mind, ‘For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling,’ and she knew she’d be seeing those angels soon.

  Then Marius grabbed her ankles. She hung off the rail like a trapeze artist she’d seen at a circus in the years before the war. Her pigtail hung down like a little bell rope. When she opened her eyes the world was upside down.

  Aimee’s legs ached where they were pressed against the rail. The German boy steadied himself. He began to haul her up. Now he was able to grip her knees. The rough rails burned the back of her legs as he hauled her over and at last she fell on to the safe floor.

  Marius wheezed like a rusted hinge. After a few minutes he was able to rise to his knees. ‘Thank you,’ Aimee said quietly. ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘So that Silver Hand can shoot you,’ Marius said quietly.

  ‘He won’t. We’re going to escape.’

  Marius shook his head. ‘We can climb on to the spire but we can’t get down to the ground. We can’t fly and we don’t have a ladder.’

  Aimee gave a sly smile. ‘And next you’ll tell me we don’t even have a rope.’

  ‘We don’t even have a rope,’ he echoed.

  Aimee’s smile became a wide grin. ‘No, Marius. What is your German word for a simpleton? Dummkopf? Because we have two ropes. The ones they used to ring the bells. They reach all the way to the ground. We put one out of the hole in the roof and climb down it.’

  Marius turned red. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Dummkopf,’ Aimee teased, and reached out into the void to grab the rope. First she clung on to it as she made the hole in the steeple wider. Then she told Marius to pass their packs, which she threw into the graveyard far below. She gripped the edge of the gap in the roof and pulled herself up. ‘Pass me the rope,’ she ordered.

  The boy hauled the dusty rope up from the tower. It was thick and almost too heavy to lift. It took him five minutes before the bottom end slipped over the rail. He passed it up to Aimee. She pushed the end through the hole and between them they managed to thread it through the gap. At last there was enough heavy rope outside to pull the last ten metres through and it slid through with a rush. Aimee almost fell off the rain-slicked steeple.

  She reached a hand inside and Marius climbed up to join her. ‘The worst is over,’ she said. ‘You first.’

  The boy stretched his aching shoulders and gripped the rope between his hands and feet. He had climbed ropes in some long-ago time when he had trained in the school gym. That had been a dry, six-metre rope with a soft mat below to break his fall. This wasn’t.

  He didn’t look down. He took a deep breath and slid down carefully.

  Aimee climbed out after him. As she rested on the edge of the hole they’d made she heard a sound from beneath them. The door to the tower was being unlocked. If the priest and Silver Hand heard her they would walk out of the church and catch her as she reached the ground.

  The rope grated softly against the wood. She held her breath.

  The voice of Sergeant Grimm rose up the tower. ‘They’re not there.’ He seemed to be arguing with the priest on the other side of the door. The girl lowered herself carefully and began to slide down.

  Marius dropped the last two metres to the soft soil of a grave and moments later Aimee tumbled on top of him.

  They hadn’t time to lie gasping as they wanted to. They picked up their packs and crept around the tower towards the gate. If Silver Hand stepped out of the church door now he would shoot them.

  Yet Aimee lingered on the path. She ran back to the church door as Marius watched on in horror.

  She snatched the British army pack that lay
there and dropped her own. Then she sprinted down to the graveyard gate and pulled Marius through after her.

  ‘It’s Silver Hand’s backpack. He has the special pass from General Bruce that we were meant to have. And he’ll have food in there too.’

  Marius grinned. ‘Food. Then the bells of hell won’t ring for me just yet.’

  They turned east and ran down the road to Peronne.

  The old gravedigger watched them go. He looked at the rope and the broken tiles. ‘Father Gaulle won’t be very happy when he sees that damage,’ he said.

  He didn’t know how unhappy the priest would be.

  30 August 1918: Cléry

  When Silver Hand and Father Benedict Gaulle stepped out of the church door they saw Marius and Aimee running through the gate and heading east. ‘Go after them,’ the traitor roared.

  ‘Are you mad? Go after them yourself.’

  ‘I can’t run with this damaged ankle.’

  ‘And I can’t run down the streets, chasing two peasants, while I’m dressed in my robes. I’d look like a madman. I have to stay here and report on British troop movements. I can’t keep spying if the bishop sacks me.’

  ‘We need to stop them,’ Grimm hissed.

  ‘Why? We have the plans the Fatherland wants. You can cross the lines and go over to Germany. They will pay you well. When we have won the war you will be a hero.’

  Grimm glared. ‘Maybe,’ he said.

  He bent to pick up his backpack. He looked inside and his face turned pale. ‘Have you moved my bag?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t.’

  Sergeant Grimm called across to the gravedigger. ‘This isn’t mine. Have you seen the pack I left here five minutes ago?’

  The old man nodded. ‘Those kids took it.’

  Silver Hand gave a roar like a wounded bull. ‘Our fortune’s in that pack,’ he groaned.

  ‘Calm down,’ the priest said and gripped the traitor by the shoulders. ‘Remember what the Bible says... Be strong and brave. Do not be frightened, and do not be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go.’