Malcolm released a long, pent-up breath. It seemed no matter how far he ran or how much he accomplished, his past clung to him with the stubbornness—he scratched his head again—of lice.
COLONEL JAMES STEWART scowled as Malcolm entered the room. He was not angry. To the contrary, the young sergeant, whose arrogance had once led him to challenge a superior officer to a game of cards, had demonstrated unusual promise over the past year. His anger stemmed from the fact that this promising young man was about to die like so many others before him. What a waste of a life.
“Colonel Stewart, sir!” Malcolm snapped his forearm stiffly to his temple and clicked both heels together.
“Stand down, Sergeant.”
The muscles of Malcom’s shoulders relaxed and Stewart rapped on the map that lay spread on the table. “Cast your eyes here a moment, laddie.”
Malcolm came forward, his eyes flickering from two other officers who flanked Stewart to the paper covered with a swirling mass of black, blue, and green lines.
Stewart’s raspy brogue filled the subterranean shelter. “As you know, our boys have been bombardin’ the enemy for nigh on six days.”
Malcolm nodded.
“You’ve no doubt guessed that this has been in preparation for a big push on our end.”
Again, the stoic nod.
“Well tomorrow, in the wee hours of the mornin’, the big push begins.” Stewart grunted and tapped the thick black line. “Here are the Germans. General Haig, commander of our army, wants them wiped out. Our 18-pounders have lobbed a million shells at them over the past week. Now, our orders are to clean up what’s left.”
Stewart eyed the man’s face, seeking a reaction. There was none. He rested his forearms on the table and leaned forward. “But I want a head start.”
“Sir?” Malcolm cocked his head to one side.
“Truth be told, laddie, we’ve precious little intelligence that confirms that the Germans have been hit hard. Our aerial reconnaissance can’t detect what’s actually happened on the ground. For all we know, the Huns could be sittin’ on their backsides underground drinking coffee and munchin’ haggis while we’ve been pounding empty trenches!”
Stewart rapped the map with his knuckles. “We need to know what’s out there waitin’ for us. Now I know you’re a chancer and a lucky one at that. You’ve got a bit o’ pluck about you that’ll do you some good in this sort of situation.”
“You want me to lead a trench raid?” Malcom’s eyes widened.
Stewart nodded. “The bombardment will stop at sundown.” His thick finger slid across the map from the blue line to the black. “It’s about half-a-mile to the first enemy trench. Take a few men from your platoon and infiltrate the German lines. Find out what the Huns have been up to and try to bring back a prisoner.”
Stewart straightened, sadness mingled with resolution making his voice tight. “You’re a good man, Steele. I would not risk your life if I did not feel this was of vital importance.”
Malcolm folded his arms across his chest and the older man could easily anticipate the thoughts that flooded his mind. Conducting a trench raid was an excellent way to be killed.
Germans, as much as he hated to admit it, were a resourceful people. In addition to posting alert sentries, he knew that many hooked tin cans onto the barbed wire that lined the miles of trenches. If a sentry fell asleep or was killed, the rattle of the nearly invisible cans made infiltration difficult at best. Then there was the problem of retracing one’s steps across no-man’s land with a non-compliant prisoner. Finally, returning soldiers had to hope that the men on duty would hold their fire until the password was given.
Malcolm’s gaze met his own. “I understand, sir.” He saluted and turned to leave.
“Malcolm.” Stewart stepped from around the table and laid a hand upon the sergeant’s shoulder. “I checked your record and noticed that you have no family listed. If you do not return, is there anyone that you’d like us to inform?”
Stewart’s probing gaze searched the young man’s face. The emptiness in Malcolm’s eyes reflected the desolation that was swallowing the world.
After a long moment, the soldier shook his head. “No sir.”
Stewart considered this, knowing well that Malcolm lied. While processing a recommendation for the young man’s promotion, he had noted his last name. Steele. Stewart had served closely for five years under a Thomas Steele in India over two decades before. While the name was not uncommon, once the connection had been made in his mind, other observations had confirmed his suspicions.
“No one at all?” He slipped his arms behind his back, rocking on his heels, noting Malcom’s dark hair and snapping eyes that were much like that of his own former battalion commander. After a year in the squalor of trenches, the soldier still carried himself like a member of the gentry.
Now that he thought about it, Malcolm’s supposed arrogance in challenging a superior officer for a game of cards made sense. As the son of an Earl, Malcolm outranked him in terms of social status. Had he enlisted as the son of Thomas Steele, he would have automatically received an officer’s commission, a captaincy at the least.
Now, as he stared into the eyes of his commander’s son, the realization that the boy would probably not return brought a tightness to Stewart’s chest. Were the situation not so dire he would never order such a suicidal mission. But every one of his military instincts testified that, if there was one man under his command who could carry out the mission, it was the son of Thomas Steele.
Stewart cleared his throat. “Perhaps there is a sweetheart... or a father?”
Malcolm stiffened.
The reaction gave Stewart pause. Something had caused a rift between father and son, that much was obvious. He glanced at the other officers that flanked him. “Dismissed!”
Murmuring words of encouragement, the two men clapped Malcolm on the back then filed out of the bunker. The lieutenant-colonel waited until the door closed behind them before he spoke again.
“Look here, laddie.” Stewart sighed as he came closer. “I know your father is Sir Thomas Steele.”
Malcolm’s eyes darkened. “Who told you that?”
The corners of Stewart’s mouth turned upward. “I served under your father in India for over five years. He was more like a friend to me than a superior officer.” He chuckled. “Who else but his bairn would have the guts to challenge an entire division of Germans with a machine gun and a handful of men? Who else would have the arrogance to challenge a superior officer to a game of whist?”
He sobered and, pulling the cap from his head, folded it between his palms. “I don’t know what’s amiss between you both and I’m not going to involve myself. Just know that when you’re dead... you’re dead. Whatever is left unsaid will die with you on that battlefield.” He held up a warning finger. “Now I urge you to think carefully as I ask this one more time. Is there anything you’d like your father to know?”
Malcolm tugged at the slight beard that shadowed his chin and began to pace. Stewart waited, letting the words soak into his mind. After several long moments, the young man turned toward him.
“You’re right, Colonel. Whatever is left unsaid between my father and I will die with me.” A faraway look filled his eyes and the older man sensed that he was lost in a distant, painful memory. “But perhaps...perhaps it is better that way. Some words should be left to die alone.”
He saluted and stepped to the door but paused at its opening. “But thank you.”
Stewart sighed and tossed his cap onto the table.
“As you wish.”
The door closed with a soft thud. “If you don’t come back, laddie,” the colonel whispered the words, “your father will know the truth behind your death. That I swear.”
DARKNESS CLOAKED THE land, swathing everything in its nocturnal embrace. Malcolm squinted up at the inky skies. Neither moon nor stars shone down upon the six men he had selected from his platoon of eighteen to accompany him on t
his mission of suicide.
Dim light illuminated the interior of the trench and Malcolm’s eyes rolled over the small battlegroup. Each man carried a rifle over his shoulder, a pair of grenades at his belted waist and a long trench knife tucked into his boot.
A young sniper also carried a Vickers K machine gun. A pair of wire cutters had been stuffed into each man’s pocket. Eyeballs shone white from faces that had been coated with a mixture of soot and dark pigment.
“Remember,” Malcolm slung his Enfield over his shoulder. “Tonight’s watchword is cottonwood. Sing it out when you get near our line or else.” Heads bobbed in understanding. There was no worse way to die than at the hands of one’s friends.
“Right, now, the plan’s pretty straightforward.” Malcolm’s gaze swept over them. “Cut through the wire, send a few Huns to hell with our compliments and don’t get killed. Any questions?”
Silence claimed the moment.
Malcolm shifted toward Will. “Will, you and I will focus on acquiring a prisoner.”
Will answered with a terse grunt and Malcolm took a small step backward. He had hesitated about bringing Will on so delicate a mission but knew that there was no better fighter in his platoon. If things went wrong, Will would never turn and run. He needed a man like that.
After his meeting with Colonel Stewart, he had decided that it was better to leave Will in ignorance as to his wife’s whereabouts than to divide his attention between enemy Germans and the enemy in his own platoon. He had no intention of dying—at least, not at Will’s hand.
Angling his wrist, Malcom shone a small flashlight on the face of his watch.
“It’s time.” His voice was barely a hoarse whisper, but he knew there was no need to repeat himself. Without another look behind him, Malcolm climbed onto the parapet, picked his way over the barbed wire, and led his small team of scouts into the windswept void of no-man’s land.
Chapter 27
Bray-sur-Somme, France. July 1916
Will inched forward, using his elbows to propel his lean body over the rock-strewn mud. His eyes were glued on the vague shape of Malcolm’s sinuous form as it slithered across the ground. His face twisted into a sneer. So, rich boy still takes me for a fool, does he?
His stomach wadded into a ball of iron. After a year in the trenches, he had assumed that the social divide between them had been crossed. But it appeared that Malcolm’s highborn airs still blinded him to the truth that the conniving rich could not always deceive the poor.
Malcolm had lied when he denied knowing anything more about Eleanor. His bumbling efforts to cover his slipshod deception with the sergeant’s untimely interruption only underscored his guilt. The only plausible reason for denying his knowledge was because he saw Will as a lower species than himself.
Will sensed rather than saw Malcolm freeze and he did likewise, instinctively pressing his face against the dirt. His mind rolled back to their unusual previous conversation.
Malcolm had been on the verge of telling him something about his wife, he would stake his life on it! His fingers curled around the hilt of his trench knife. The snake knew something. He had known about her whereabouts all along but had chosen to lie time and time again.
The quiet scrape of Malcolm’s boot against a loose rock told him that it was time to move. Will resumed crawling. He had questioned Malcom twice after he returned from his meeting with Colonel Stewart but had only been put off by evasive denials.
He felt a vein throb in his neck. What does the Judas know? The prospect of being on a mission with Malcolm tonight filled him with a sense of elation others might find obscene. True, the danger of the raid was real but one thought pulsed in his mind.
Only a handful of men were between him and Malcolm. God, if he’s guilty, let him survive the raid. Let us both survive.
His logic was simple. If Malcolm died tonight, he was innocent and Will’s suspicions were unfounded. But surviving the raid would be the final proof of his guilt. And Will would be his judge and executioner. A grin cracked his lips. He would have the truth tonight. Even if he had to cut it out of Malcolm’s black heart with the edge of his trench knife.
GEFREITER Otto Schneider crawled out of the stollen, or underground bunker, and peeped up at the night sky then stared to his left, down the long, narrow trench. The trenches sprawled across Europe from France to the Swiss border. This particular hole in the ground ran on for several miles.
A few of his comrades had been assigned to act as watchmen tonight, but the majority were hidden in the cement reinforced bunkers where they had remained relatively safe from the furious Allied bombardment that had lasted several days.
Holding his groin, Schneider hurried to the latrine—a large square pit to his right. His eyes darted around all sides as he scuttled across the ground. The stench of quick-lime, used to help decompose solid waste, assaulted his nostrils but of greater concern was the reality that the enemy targeted latrines, knowing that they always saw heavy traffic. Going to the bathroom was hazardous business in times such as these.
A few moments later, the German heaved a relieved sigh and turned around, ready to retreat to the stollen. He simply refused to die while—
His body turned to stone. Grinning at him from across the barrel of a wicked-looking rifle, was an Englishman, a Tommy!
Schneider forgot to breathe.
The Englishman spat on the ground then bit off a terse order which the German did not understand. Schneider quickly raised trembling hands upward and the soldier stepped around him. Keeping his gun pressed against Schneider’s back, the Tommy shoved him to his knees, slung the gun over his shoulder and retrieved a pistol that he pressed against Schneider’s temple.
The German gaped at the sight before him. The sentries that had been on duty only moments before lay spread-eagled on the ground, limbs sprawled at grotesque angles. Gashes in their throats explained why they had not cried out an alarm.
A trickle of sweat dripped between his shoulder blades. Panting, he swung his head left and right. The demon behind him couldn’t have done all this! There had to be more of them.
Then he saw the killers. They skulked toward the stollen like wolves, shadows that detached themselves from the darkness. They’re going to murder everyone inside!
He opened his mouth but, before he could scream a warning, the soldier behind him jerked his head backward and slammed his pistol between Schneider’s lips, breaking several teeth. He gagged and twisted sideways, choking on his own blood.
The Englishman pulled the gun out and let him spit bloodied fragments of teeth on the ground then spoke again in a low voice. Pain numbed Schneider’s mind. He didn’t understand the words but there was no mistaking the hatred that smoldered in the man’s eyes. Wrapping his hands around his bleeding mouth, he tried not to moan in terror as the Tommies ripped open the door to the stollen and shattered the stillness of the night.
MALCOLM, FOLLOWED BY one of his men, leapt into the room and immediately swung to his left firing as he moved. Their rifles pumped lead into the unsuspecting Germans. To his right, the sniper dropped to one knee and peppered the enemy with bullets from the machine gun while the two remaining British attackers rushed in to the right.
Panting, Malcolm’s eyes darted around the room. His men were badly outnumbered. Already, at least six Germans lay dead on the ground, but the element of surprise was gone. Reacting quickly, the enemy had thrown themselves under tables and furniture as they scrambled for their weapons. His heart crashed wildly against his ribcage as he squeezed the trigger yet again.
Stewart’s intelligence had been wrong. The British believed that their six-day artillery bombardment had blown most of the Germans to pieces, but nothing could be further from the truth. Tomorrow, the day they launched the Battle of the Somme, the unwary Allies would walk into a deathtrap!
With a furious yell, he squeezed the trigger again. The gun jammed. Malcolm heard the chatter of the machine gun die and he sneaked a glanced to his
right. His sniper lay sprawled on the ground, blood spilling from a neat circle in his forehead.
A bullet smashed into the concrete walls near his face and ricocheted into the neck of the soldier next to him. The man slumped to the ground with a choking gurgle.
“Withdraw!” Malcolm tossed his rifle to one side and tore the machine gun from Jerry’s lifeless fingers. He sprayed the advancing line with bullets, sending the advancing Germans staggering back. One of his two surviving men leaped for the door, but a bullet caught him in the back.
Malcolm inched backward. “Go on, get out of here!” He screamed to the last of his men.
There was no response. Malcolm didn’t need to look to know that the last British soldier was dead. He was alone.
Tossing the heavy gun into the face of the closest German, he threw his body to the ground as a fusillade of bullets ripped into the wall where he had stood seconds before.
“Will!” Rolling out the door, he tore the grenades off his belt as he came up in a half-crouch. “Take the prisoner and get out of here.”
Malcolm pulled the two pins with his teeth and tossed both grenades into the bunker then hurled his body to one side as he covered both ears. The detonation rocked the ground beneath him and a wall of fire roiled out through the splintered doorway. Choking, Malcolm pushed himself upright and staggered after Will and the prisoner.
Stewart had to know the truth. If the army followed through with its plans, they were all dead men.
WILL PEEKED OVER HIS shoulder and saw Malcolm scurrying behind him. A wide grin split his blackened face. So, God had heard his prayer. The snake still lived. It was the final proof that his own assumption was correct. Against overwhelming odds, Malcolm was still alive—for the moment.
He rammed his pistol into the prisoner’s back. “Move!”
In the Shadow of Your Wings Page 27