Читать книгу The Sons of Adam - Harry Bingham - Страница 22

It was nine weeks later.

Tom and Alan were novices no longer. They knew how to protect their men, how to harass the enemy, how to lead a patrol out in the dangerous silence of no man’s land. They had experienced rats, discomfort, shelling, gunfire, and the loss of men they knew. But one thing was still unknown to them. They hadn’t faced serious action and all that does to a man. Not yet.

But that was about to change.

Tom drew back the sacking that curtained the men’s dugout. The smell of unwashed bodies and burnt cork raced out, followed by the quieter odours of kerosene and tobacco smoke. Half the men already had their faces blackened, the other half were fighting over a single shaving mirror or letting their mates do it for them. One man had his face marked with love-hearts and messages to his girlfriend. Another had his face covered with obscenities.

‘Widdecombe,’ snapped Tom, ‘get this man’s face properly blacked. And you, Tinsey, get away from that chalk unless you want to make Fritz think you’re a blasted ghost.’

The men fell quickly into order, under Tom’s eye. He counted them. There were eight.

‘Corporal, how many men d’you make it?’

‘Eight, sir.’

‘Where the hell is the last man?’

‘Last man, sir? Eight’s what Major Fletcher –’

‘Private Headley? Where is he?’

The dugout filled with laughter at Tom’s joke, but he wasn’t done yet.

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he added. ‘As a matter of fact, I believe I told him to go on a-head.’

Shrieks and howls of laughter followed this witticism, which was already being repeated to the dullards of the platoon. Tom’s rapport with his men had been more or less instant from the start, and though they were thoroughly nervous now, they were high-spirited as well.

And yet, for all his joking, Tom was acutely worried, not for himself but for Alan. Earlier that day, at company mess, Fletcher had asked for volunteers.

‘We need a chap to lead a recce party. Purpose of the recce is to find the gaps in the bloody wire – assuming there are any bloody gaps, that is – then come home. On the way back you’ll drop a trail of lime for the other lads to follow later on. If you can avoid making a bloody hullabaloo while you’re at it, we would appreciate it. The raiders will follow the trail, skip lightly through the holes in the wire, and give Fritz a faceful of bayonet before he’s woken up. Got it? Who’s game?’

Alan and Tom were, of course, both game.

‘New boys, can’t wait to get at it, eh?’

Neither man answered.

‘Anything to get Colonel Jimmy his DSO, what? Jolly good. That’s what we all want.’ Colonel James ‘Jimmy’ McIntosh was the battalion commander – and a man who, according to rumour, was desperate for a medal. There were faint smiles around the table as Fletcher continued. ‘Montague, you take charge of the recce. I’m in command of the raid. Creeley, you’ll be my second. Any problems, you take over. All clear?’

It had been perfectly clear. Both men nodded, grave and subdued at the thought of what was coming.

Then Fletcher had paused, his expression torn between the desire to say something and the feeling that he shouldn’t. The mess waited breathlessly for the outcome.

‘Hmm – Montague – I don’t suppose your brother Guy will be out hunting Fritz tonight – might find the shock was too much for him, eh? Face some bullets, for a change – any case, better things to do, I expect – the King’s rifles to keep clean – don’t mean that – does a good job, I’m sure – anyway, that’s what I mean, he’ll be proud of you, what? First mission and all that.’

Fletcher stumbled to a close. Everyone listened in astonishment. Fletcher had come very close to insulting Guy, almost accusing him of shirking danger. Of course, it was common enough for soldiers in the field to complain about those stuck away behind the lines, but Guy was Alan’s brother and Fletcher’s comments had gone beyond acceptable barrack-room humour.

Alan could see Tom’s smile grow wider and wider, and it was with a frosty voice that he said, ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, I hope he will be proud.’

‘Yes, yes, quite, quite,’ said Fletcher, quickly moving away from dangerous territory. His attention fastened with relief on a pair of rats copulating on his own private store of marmalade. ‘Rat ahoy!’ he cried, drawing his revolver. ‘On three, please, gentlemen. One … two … three.’ He led the others in a volley of gunfire, which left both rats dead in a glue of marmalade. ‘No lovemaking in company mess. Leave that sort of thing to the Frenchies.’

That had been eight hours ago.

Alan, having been chosen to go out first, would be the first to know real mortal danger. Tom would follow only after Alan was home.

Tom’s body hummed with a double nervousness. Once for himself and the danger he was about to face. A second time for Alan and the danger he was in right now.

Alan’s job was find gaps in the wire. Would there be any? Tom doubted it. Alan had strict instructions not to spend time cutting the wire, but Tom knew Alan. His twin would never let a troop of soldiers march up to an obstacle they couldn’t cross. Tom guessed that, even now, Alan would be on his belly, wirecutters raised, snip-snip-snipping at the deadly coils. A single noise or glimmer of moonlight could give away his position and his life.

Tom smoked cigarette after cigarette, extinguishing each one against the silvery sandbags in the parapet. The glowing tobacco charred its way through the sackcloth and released a tiny hiss of falling soil. ‘For God’s sake, look after yourself, brother. For God’s sake.’

A voice behind him made him jump.

‘What’s that? Eh?’ It was Fletcher.

‘Nothing, sir. Wondering where Montague is.’

Fletcher harrumphed. ‘Your men are ready?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we leave in fifteen minutes. Tell your men.’

‘And Montague, sir?’

Fletcher shrugged, sinister in the moonlight. ‘Montague, Mr Creeley, will have to take his chances.’