Murder At Zero Hour

by Paul Westwood

  Chapter 12

  The Past

  Two days later and we were finally on our way to Tremont. Our baggage had been packed and forwarded on by train. There wasn't enough room for all of us to ride, so only the staff officers and their lackeys were moved by rail. We, on the other hand, were to march for twenty agonizing miles to our new billets. The remnants of our company was grumbling the entire way down the road - of course, it is the soldier's lot to grumble - but they were still happy enough to get out of those filthy trenches. Who knew what was ahead of us, and how it would compare to what we'd left? At any rate, I knew there were going to be some sore feet tonight.

  Overall morale was low, especially when we found out that we were not the only regiment that had been badly mauled. Losses all down the line had been staggering, but still the brass hats wanted to press on with the offensive. They were damned fools, and the men knew it. We were glad to be out of the fight for now. It would take more blood than we had to crack those German lines.

  My men were marching down a muddy road, bringing up the rear of the regiment. A light rain was falling down, covering us with a miserable wetness. A number of trucks drove by, and the men cursed every time they saw a dry passenger give us the friendly wave. Because of the traffic, I had to keep them on the side of the road, marching in a scraggly line. Even though the bulk of the regimental goods had been shipped ahead, each man was still expected to carry his rifle and a full backpack.

  I was walking in the very back of our column, keeping an eye out for stragglers. My Sergeant Dobson was leading from the front. I heard a car coming up from behind and going slow. I was tired and ignored it until the driver blew the horn. I turned and gave them a blistering look. I was in no mood for idiots.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” a voice called out from the car.

  I gave a closer look and quickly saw the bars on the shoulder. It was a pudgy, butterball of a general with a red face and a spot on the end of his nose. He was quite dry and comfortable inside his buttoned-up Sunbeam staff car. They had stopped, and the driver left the car running. With the disapproving look on the officer’s face, I knew this was going to be trouble.

  “Yes, sir?” I asked innocently as I could. I really felt like slapping the little bastard.

  He leaned over the side of the car to talk to me, but was careful enough to stay out of the rain. “Your men aren’t marching in proper order, Lieutenant,” he said to me like he was addressing an idiot.

  “Excuse me, sir?” I asked, wondering if I was talking to an escaped mental patient.

  “Your men - they’re walking on the side of the road. It looks quite unprofessional. They should be marching on the road in proper order.”

  I replied acidly, “Well there are lorries going down this road. The men got tired of moving out of the way.”

  “That’s hardly the point is it,” the general said. “These men of yours need discipline if they ever expect to beat the Hun.”

  “Very good, sir,” I replied coldly. I saw no reason for further argument. If this prat wanted marching, I decided to very well give it to him. “Dobson,” I shouted out in my loudest parade voice, “The general here wants the men to march in proper order. “

  “Yes, sir,” I heard Dobson reply with a shout. He then moved into the lines of men and began pushing them into the road. They closed ranks well enough and soon were marching down the road in good order.

  “Is that better, sir?” I asked the general, sarcastically.

  He looked at me strangely. He then nodded and told his driver to move on.

  I called out, “They’ll have to move to the side of the road to let you through.”

  With those final words, he shot me a dirty look and his driver took off. He beeped the horn angrily at my boys, and they grudgingly moved to the side of the road to let him pass. The bloody fool. The common soldier loathes staff officers, and I understand why. The general went on ignoring the other platoons on the side of the road and sped ahead. Once he was out of sight, I had the men return to the side of the road. If that little bastard came back, I think I would have shot him. Not a man in my unit would have testified against me.

  As the afternoon wore on, the rain had disappeared, leaving only a foggy chill behind. After hours of grueling marching, we finally arrived at Tremont in the evening. It was a nothing of a village located on a muddy stream. As the sun began to set, I saw the shadowed ramshackle houses and a mill on the water. The mill wheel moved sluggishly, and I could hear a low, wood-on-wood groan. It sounded like an old man rattling out a slow death. As we marched into the village square, a few of the local peasants stared at us. To them the war was a far-off thing, and they apparently did not like the British troops reminding them that people were dying to keep them free of German tyranny. As far as I was concerned, they could go rot.

  I had Sergeant Dobson take the men to their billet while I went to find Lyons and Carter. They were in the village square outside a dirty little pub, both with cigarettes stuck in their mouths. Lyons waved me over to join them.

  “Hello, fellows,” I hailed them wearily.

  “Grant, how did your conversation with that blasted general go?” Lyons said with a smile.

  I could see he was taunting me. I merely said, “You know how staff officers are. I'm sure a few more of his type, and we would have a mutiny on our hand.”

  Carter chuckled. He seemed more at ease than I last saw him.

  “So how did it go?” I asked him.

  He blushed and said, “Everything went well.”

  “What are you two talking about?” Lyons asked. “Aren't you going to let old Lyons into the secret?”

  “Oh, there's no secret,” Carter replied with a grin. “It’s just that I'm married now.”

  “Well, I thought I knew everything that went on in our regiment,” my friend said in surprise. “You must have knocked up that pretty French girl Marie up, eh? We all wanted a go at her, let me tell you. Now whatever will your parents think?”

  “That was just the thing,” I added my bit in. “I hope you wrote your parents, Carter.”

  Carter stamped out his cigarette on the rough cobblestones. “I did at that. I have high hopes that they will answer my letter in the best possible way.”

  “I'm sure they will,” I said.

  He grew silent and said, “I trust you two won't tell anyone else about this. I had to spread quite a bit of the stuff around to get married in secret. The damned village priest needed a few francs to get him to give up that stuffy Catholicism for just a simple marriage.”

  “Mum's the word,” Lyons said and touched the side of his nose. “Now to celebrate, I suggest we find ourselves a good stiff drink. Though to tell you the truth, this village looks a mite short on entertainment. I bet the wine tastes like piss, and the girls all have the clap.”

  We then turned and walked into the local watering hole. It wasn't much of a place – a few low tables, some surly looking customers, and an old, scarred bar that had seen better days. I'm sure the locals found it a pleasant enough place, but it certainly was no Paris. The bartender was a big man with longish black hair and dark eyes. He didn't look too pleased to see us.

  “You speak English?” Lyons asked.

  “A little bit,” he said haltingly.

  “Give us a bottle of your best wine, if you please,” Lyons said slowly in that way some speak to foreigners as if they were deaf.

  The barman rummaged around the bar underneath and pulled out an old dusty bottle. It looked like it had been stored since the time of Napoleon.

  “Do you have something better?” Carter asked.

  The bartender shot him a scathing look and shook his head. “Twenty francs,” he demanded.

  “Twenty francs?” I asked incredulously for that was at least twice the amount we would have paid at Deveaux.

  “Twenty francs,” he grunted back and shoved the bottle our way. I
could hear a few of the locals behind us begin to laugh.

  Lyons picked up the bottle and hefted it in his hand. “Well, my fine friend, I'll give you five, and you’ll be glad to take it. He dropped a five franc coin on the bar and began turning away. The bartender grabbed him by the shoulder and spun my friend back towards the bar. Lyons gave the fiend a devilish grin and then smashed the bottle over the brute's head. The glass shattered like an explosion, drenching the man with vinegary-smelling wine. The bartender slumped down and disappeared behind the bar with a final groan.

  Ignoring the dumbfounded locals, we ran out of the tavern, laughing. It had served that poor bastard right to try to rip us off with that foul-smelling wine. I know that it sounds cruel, but after you've been in a fight for a country that showed so little gratitude, you feel the urge to get back somehow. Lyons always behaved like quite the gentleman, so I had to admit I was taken aback by his sudden burst of anger. Perhaps I was not that surprised – these were violent times we were living in.

  “I hope the military police don't come looking for us,” Carter blurted out after we were done laughing.

  “Oh, don't worry about that,” Lyons said. “There aren’t any here yet. Anyways, I left him five francs for his trouble. Trust me, he'll be in a more receptive mood for English money the next time around. Now let's go find our billet.”

  Our new quarters was an old house that had seen better days. But still, there was a nice low, wooden fence that went around the property and a small, well-tended garden in front. The owners were an old woman and her teenage daughter. Neither of them was too happy to see us. We were met with nothing but scowls. But they accepted our money easily enough. I had to share my bedroom with Carter while Lyons managed to take over the largest of the bedroom that had once been used by the old lady's son. Her son had been one of the first to die in the early part of the war. The bedroom was still setup exactly the same when the poor bastard had gone off to war. His favorite cigarettes were by the bedside, and his clothes were still hanging up in the closet. It was quite creepy.

  After a supper of cold ham and dark bread, we sat around and talked a bit. But it had been a long day, so we soon made our way to bed. Carter quickly dropped off, but for the life of me, I couldn't fall asleep. I guess I had too many recent unpleasant memories. After a brief, useless struggle, I got up, crept past my roommate’s bed and went out to the front garden to have a smoke. It was late, and the moon was high and full in the sky. Relaxed for a moment, I was enjoying the cigarette and thinking of what needed to be done tomorrow, when I saw someone walking along the road. It was a shock to see Corporal Childs.

  He was walking as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He didn't even notice me standing there. Luckily I still had my Webley on my hip, so I ditched my cigarette and began following him at a discreet distance.

  He only picked the darkest roads as we made our way out of the village. We snaked around lit windows, past happy voices coming from the soldier-filled village homes, and finally made our way down a deserted country lane. I had to keep my distance since Childs would stop every few minutes acting as if he suspected himself of being followed. Once we had left the village, his manner had become more suspicious. Thanks to my hunting days, I'm pretty good at being quiet. I swear he never caught sight of me.

  We went on that way for a mile or so when I saw a large country estate in the distance. It was a two-story tall, brick mansion made in some pre-revolution year. The windows were lit up. A high wall that was gated surrounded the grounds. Thick ivy clung to the sides of the old brick. Through the gates, I could see a number of parked military trucks and cars – this must be where Smythe and his staff had decided to set up shop.

  I had no reason to be there, so I watched carefully as the corporal approached the guarded gate. He was quickly waved through and went on his way. I dodged off to the side, through the woods and sneaked along the wall. There I found a thick tangle of vines suitable for climbing. I began going up as quietly as I could. To my ears, every scramble up the wall sounded as loud as breaking glass. Poking my head over the top, I saw a supply depot had been placed on this side of the grounds. There were crates of ammunition and rations stacked high in wooden boxes. A tent was there and several oil lamps had been placed on the ground to provide light. A team of soldiers was loading up a lorry, and I saw Childs entering the tent.

  Feeling obvious up on the wall, I pulled myself over and jumped down to the other side. I went flat on the damp ground and lifted my head to see if anyone had seen me. Not hearing anyone cry out, I began slithering through the long grass towards a stack of crates located in the back of the supply depot. I waited there for a moment in silence before moving on. So far I had managed to get the front of my uniform sodden, but it appeared I had gotten there undetected.

  I began crawling through the maze of crates towards the tent. Within a few minutes, I had gotten to the canvas wall of the tent and stopped to listen. I immediately recognized Captain Wodenhill's muffled voice.

  “You understand your orders?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” Childs answered.

  “This is going to be a dangerous trip, Corporal,” Wodenhill went on. “If anyone gives you any trouble, I had these papers worked up for you. Only use them if you have to – I would hate to have anyone else prying into our affairs.”

  “Yes, sir,” Childs said. “What are you going to do about Grant? I'm getting sick of sulking around trying to stay out of his way.”

  “You won't have any worries soon enough,” the captain replied smoothly. “There are steps being taken to make sure he is no longer a problem to our operations.”

  I felt my spine tingle with anxiety. My suspicions had been proven true. The only question was how high did this go, and what were they planning to do with me?

  “Very good, sir,” the corporal replied timidly. “You've always taken care of me.”

  “Do we have any choice? You've done your job perfectly until Captain Meadowes came along and found that ledger of yours. We should have had you killed for that – keeping a log behind our back. Were you expecting to do a bit of blackmail?”

  “No, sir,” Childs said anxiously. “Anyways we've already discussed this, so I have nothing else to say of the matter. It was sheer bad luck that Meadowes found it during inspection.”

  “The colonel may have believed you, but I certainly don't. If you ever pull such a stunt again, I'll see that you disappear from the face of the earth. Right now it is easy to dispose of a body.”

  My ears had pricked up when I heard the mention of the colonel. Smythe was the mastermind of their operation, alright. It only made sense – he had the ability to move the goods and create the paperwork to cover up any missing items. His poverty must have been enough to overcome any moral concerns.

  “Don't worry, I'll follow orders,” the corporal whimpered.

  “You better have,” Wodenhill said icily. “Now go ahead and get in that truck and make sure to follow the map carefully. I don't want you getting lost and messing everything up.

  This was my cue to leave. I crawled a distance into the packed boxes before getting up and sprinting towards the wall. I found a foothold in the brickwork and began scrambling up the side. I practically fell over the wall and into a bush on the other side. I picked myself up and took off running through the bramble towards the road. I heard the roar of the truck engine starting. I picked up the pace, hoping to beat the truck to a spot I had seen on my journey to the mansion. There was a steep curve on the road leading away from the gate of the estate. The truck would have to take this part of the road slowly. If I could make it there in time, I could swing myself on the back of the truck and find out where they were going.

  I was out of breath when I stopped at a copse of trees located near the curve. I leaned forward, holding my knees as I tried to regain my strength. My face felt raw from the countless branches I had g
one crashing through. I saw the headlights bounce down the road. The driver down-shifted and began slowing to make the turn. The headlights danced past me, and I ran out of my shelter of trees. The back of the truck was canvassed on top and with a leap on to the back, I managed to grab onto the edge of the tailgate. My knees buckled, and I almost lost my handhold as the truck accelerated. With a grunt, I barely pulled myself over and fell heavily into the wooden boxes stacked in back.

  My back slammed heavily into a corner of a crate and I gasped in pain. I rolled over on my stomach and hunched down on my knees near the tailgate. I hoped the noise of the truck covered the sounds I was making. The boxes bounced up and down as the truck went over the road. After a few miles of this, the truck slowed down and turned down a side road.

  The path we were on was rough, so the truck downshifted into a lower gear. We crept more slowly down this rutted path. I looked down on the ground and saw nothing but tall weeds. The truck downshifted again and began climbing up a steep hill. We soon reached the top and stopped. The headlights went off and then flashed back on a few times. Fearing discovery, I jumped out of the back, and my feet sank hard into the loose soil. Running for a few paces into the deep weeds, I dropped on my stomach and turned to watch the truck. It was now some thirty feet away.

  I saw the dark shadows of two men standing by the cab of the truck. A cigarette was lit. I could see the face of Childs in the sudden flare of the lighter.

  “Think they will come?” I heard the other man say.

  “Don't worry, Jones – they will.”

  I could barely hear their voices over the ripple of the wind. The long grass blew like waves on the ocean. I wondered where we were. I suddenly saw a light in the distance and it slowly dropped like a leaf falling from a tree. I recognized a flare when I saw one. A few thunderous artillery flashes confirmed my suspicions – we were somewhere close to the front lines. They were perhaps a mile off, and I wondered what we were doing out here.

  “I don't like being up here,” Jones said as he stamped his feet. It wasn't from the cold, but from nervousness.

  “Neither do I, my boy-o. But we do as we're ordered, and there's a nice fat wad of cash coming our way if we do.”

  “I still don't like it,” Jones said.

  Childs said, “Shh, here they come. Be quiet and let me do all the talking.”

  I heard a number of footsteps approach and a Germanic bark, “Hallo freunde.”

  I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I knew a little German from some engineering books I studied in my youth, but I certainly wasn't fluent enough to completely understand the conversation. But I understood enough to know this was the Boche behind our lines.

  “Sein nutzen, um sie zu sehen,” Childs replied back fluently.

  “Sie brachten das Essen und Gewehre?” the German said. He came closer to them, and I saw ten or so Germans standing further back. They were all looking a bit nervous, and I couldn't blame them. Neither side looked too favorably at enemy soldiers out of uniform. If they were caught, there was bound to be some quick executions.

  “Ja Kapitän und Sie brachten das Gold?” Childs asked.

  Gold? That word was clear enough, so my ears perked up as I tried to make sense of this new situation. Smythe had somehow managed to contact the Germans and began trading with them. But why would the Germans want our supplies? My mind reeled at the possibilities.

  “Ja,” the German answered back and handed some kind of leather case over to the corporal.

  “Laden Sie den Lastwagen aus,” Childs said.

  The German pointed to the truck and his ten or so men began to unload the truck with a number of grunts and what I supposed were curses. Soon enough the crates were unloaded and stacked on the side of the truck. Then the men began moving in teams and took the boxes down the hill. While this was happening, I lay very still with the fear of being discovered. Their boots came close to where I was hiding, but luckily they did not see me. I thanked my lucky stars that I was wearing my brown uniform and had my hat slid low over my face.

  Soon all the boxes had been cleared and the soldiers disappeared silently down the hill. I watched Childs through the waving grass, waiting for him to return to the truck. I wasn't quite sure where we were and wanted to try to hook a ride back to camp. The German was still there.

  “That's everything then,” Childs said.

  “Not quite,” the German replied in broken English.

  “Was tut, meinen Sie,” the corporal said nervously. I saw him spreading out his hand and Jones took a step back.

  “Wer ist diese Person da drüben?” I could see the German officer pointing my way.

  “Who is that person over there? What do you mean?” Childs said.

  I ducked my head down and went low to the ground, wondering how long the Germans knew I had been there.

  “Sie sind ein Verräter.”

  “I'm no traitor,” Child exclaimed. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

  The German turned with his pistol out and fired a shot in my direction. I decided it was time to go, and quickly. I got off the ground and began running down the track as fast as I could. Three more bullets tumbled past me and went into the grass. I heard another Germanic shout, and then a few rifle bullets came my way. There was a shouted order, and then the shooting immediately stopped. I guessed that they didn't want to draw any more attention to the fact that they were there on the wrong side of the front line. But that didn't stop me from running at full speed until I had to stop with my sides aching. I breathed in several ragged breaths and took stock of the situation.

  If Childs suspected who I was, then it was going to be dangerous going when I returned to camp: I knew Smythe was selling supplies to the Germans. These dark thoughts kept me busy as I tramped down the side of the road. I kept an eye and ear out for any coming trucks. I wouldn't be able to tell who it was, so I would have to hoof it into the ditch until I reached the safety of my billet. There I could tell Lyons and Carter what I had found out. They would protect me from Colonel Smythe until I could explain my story to the proper authorities. I didn't know if they could ever believe me, but I would have to try nonetheless. I had to do something about what I'd seen.

  These nagging worries were interrupted by the sound of an oncoming vehicle. The engine rumble became louder before it rounded the corner. I leapt into the ditch. The mud and water came up to my knees with a sickening squelch. I told myself I had been jumping into holes in the earth for far too long. The truck went by slowly. My heart pounded hard in my chest until it had disappeared around the corner. The flash of the headlights had briefly lit up the road, and luckily I recognized this stretch from our earlier march of the day. I guessed I was only three miles away from Tremont. So I got out of the ditch, my pants legs sticking to my skin, and got to walking.

  When I finally reached Tremont, there was a glimmer of dawn in the east. I was cold, hungry, and felt like I could have slept for a week. But I had gotten there without seeing any other truck along the road. The town looked sleepy enough since not a single lit window could be seen. It was quiet except for the rush of the stream and the creak of the town mill. Not one soul was out. It gave me a creepy feeling as if I was being watched.

  I took a little tree-lined lane to our billet and saw a trickle of smoke coming from the chimney. Someone was up. Unlocking the garden gate, I walked cautiously to back of the house looking for anyone ready to waylay me. I didn't see anyone, so I went to the back door and found it locked. I swore to myself. I traced my steps back to the front door. I reached for the door handle and suddenly felt uneasy. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow rush towards me. I turned, but it was too late. A heavy blow hit me on the side of the temple. I fell into darkness.