A Soldier's Place

by Thomas Hodd

  It was a mystery he could not solve, and he spoke to no one as he studied the problem. When the captain came at noon he accosted him. “I want to get out there in daylight, sir,” he said. “I think I can do it.”

  “But my officers tell me his snipers have a clear view of all our trench,” protested the captain. “How could you do it?”

  “I can tunnel under the parapet and outside there’s very soft soil, sir—mostly old leaves and moss. There’s two or three stubs lying out a distance, then an old stump. I can make it, and I’d like to get out there when they’re never suspecting it. I might find something, sir.”

  “All right, Rader. Go ahead. But be careful, and come in before dark.”

  Under the sergeant’s directions, sandbags were removed from the lower part of the trench wall. Improvised props held the upper bags in place and then three experts worked with their entrenching tools, tunneling. They filled pails and passed them back, making rapid progress through the loose soil. In two hours they had cut a narrow ditch out to the first brush beyond the wire, and so well had they worked that a watcher a hundred yards on either flank could not detect the little trench.

  Rader had donned special clothing for his venture. He was armed with a bomb, a knife and his pistol. He worked through the hole in the trench wall and into the ditch. For a few yards it was comparatively easy to wriggle along the trough-like cutting, then came the matter of getting into the brush. He had proved the enemy snipers were alert, and to draw their attention was ruin to his plans of surprise. Very slowly he raised his head, then drew himself forward a few feet. A long wait and he repeated his advance. Yard by yard, he ventured, and after an hour’s time he had wormed himself into a bushy tangle.

  To his right he could see a maze of fallen trees and dried underbrush, and he knew that it would be practically impossible for anyone to crawl there after dark and not make a noise. No human being could do so. Therefore the Bavarian must work on the left of the Wood.

  Ahead of him ran a wide roadway that angled, the one he had seen from the trench. Several trees had fallen across it near where he lay, and the wreckage of the charred lorry extended for yards on either side. Under it, over it, and tangled everywhere were twisted, broken wires. Beyond, the Wood was more open. It was floored with moss and rotting beech leaves, and an experienced man could move there with little noise. Here it must be that the Bavarian came.

  Rader saw that he could cross the road without being seen. He crawled slowly, watching and listening. Not a shot came his way. There was the usual amount of shelling and rifle fire, but in the Wood all was dark and still. No living thing save himself moved in it.

  Where he crossed, two or three trunks lay, bridging the wires on the road. They were close together and gave him excellent cover. On the other side he found tracks of heavy boots, deep markings in the soft soil. Men had used the road quite frequently and the imprints told of burdens carried. He puzzled a time, then understood. The killer’s victims had been carried to the German trench via the wide roadway. Then he was puzzled again. There were marks on the bark of the fallen trees, as if someone had occasionally crossed the road on them. Why had they done so?

  Once over the road, he kept on until he could peer through a last bushy covert and see plainly the German trench. His trained eye had no difficulty in detecting the exit the killer used in leaving the trench. It was a narrow lane in the wire. Then he looked long at the ground about him, scanning every exposed tree root, every stick and log, every foot of soil. Years with the blacks of the “out-back” regions of Australia had taught him many things. He could read a trail as if it were inscribed with information. Even a crushed twig could give him facts. Backing inches at a time, he maintained his scrutiny of the Wood, and was rewarded. He found the killer’s path.

  ***

  In the dark it would furnish an excellent guide. It ran in zig-zag style among the fallen trees, but all protruding branches had been carefully broken off, and there was nothing to hinder the prowler who was acquainted with its turnings. No stinging branches would sweep his face.

  After finding the path, Rader moved more quickly. He explored farther to his left, but the brush was not so plentiful, and the ground was bare in many places. Successive salvos of heavy shells had torn and plowed the earth, uprooting trees and scattering them like match-wood. He turned and worked back toward the road, then halted.

  Two soldiers and an officer were standing on the fire step of the German trench, exposed to their belts, gazing at the district back of their lines. It was a splendid chance. He could not miss the officer at such close range, but he did not shoot. There might be an opportunity later, and it would not do to let the enemy know that he had observed them. Such careless exposure drove home to him, however, the confidence the enemy had in his daylight domination of the Wood.

  He had almost reached the path again when he saw a length of tree trunk that had been neatly severed by a shell. It was six feet long and quite heavy. The ordinary scout would not have given it a second glance, but Rader was not an ordinary scout. He had seen the blacks construct deadfalls with just such lengths of tree trunks.

  He went on to the road, and there salvaged a loose wire, and then waited until it was dusk. As soon as he was sure he would not be seen by sentries or snipers, he carried the short log to the path. If anyone was to pass underneath and strike the trip with his foot, the log would strike him with a swinging blow as it fell on his head and shoulders.

  When he had it ranged to his satisfaction, he hurried toward the road, then crouched quickly. He was too late. There were guttural voices speaking in the dark, and he could distinguish the forms of two husky German soldiers coming along the roadway. They reached the tree trunks and scrambled over them, the last man slipping and stumbling, so that he almost trod on the crouching Australian.

  Rader, sure of discovery, struck like a rattler. His victim’s stifled cry disturbed the quiet. The knife had plunged deep, and the man slumped back on the road. His mate, some distance ahead, turned, and stared. He asked something in a hoarse whisper. Rader rose from where he crouched and hurried toward him. The German, partly satisfied, turned off the road, leading toward the four dead Australians. He asked some question over his shoulder as he went.

  The sergeant sprang like a panther. He struck, but his blade sank in the German’s shoulder. The fellow screamed with pain, and seized Rader’s arms. The sergeant tore loose from his grasp, tried to strike again, and they went to earth in a frenzied tangle, Rader keeping the man from yelling again. A moment later and it was over. The knife was driven home.

  The sergeant was not a second too soon with his victory. Machine guns suddenly crackled and spat, and Very lights soared over the Wood. Bullets hissed and snapped among the branches and for several minutes he was forced to hug the protection of a huge stump. Then there came a lull, and in a short time he was in his trench again.

  So nervous were the sentries and their non-coms that Rader was obliged to explain the cry in the dark before he could get back to report. The captain had been anxiously awaiting him, and they both went to the colonel’s dugout.

  “What did you find out?” asked the CO. He had been a keen scout himself.

  Rader explained all that he had seen, in his terse fashion. “The Heinies think they own that Wood,” he added at the finish. “I’ll bet that creeper will have an awful surprise tonight. He’ll have a couple of his own men to carry in. Can I take out a patrol, sir?”

  The officers looked at each other. “I think, sir, that he can risk it,” said Captain Hazlett. “Rader has been over the ground, and he knows where our chaps were killed last night. He can avoid that area.”

  “I just want to go out near that road and listen,” the sergeant explained. “We can look out for ourselves. There’s some game played here that’s different from anything we’ve been up against, or they’d never have caught men like Brogan and Woolard.”<
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  “All right, you may go,” said the colonel. “This part of the line has been held too long. The Germans have been there so long they’ve had time to fix up anything they fancied. There’s a French village just back of their lines, and it’s rumoured that the Germans have taken half the furniture of the French to fit up their dugouts. They’ve got stoves to heat them, and they’ve actually got them lighted with electricity. They use the power house in the village.”

  ***

  Another still, warm night, pregnant with mystery. It was so dark that Rader could not see the man beside him. He had installed himself under a heap of tree wreckage and had four men with him, spread in a little circle. They were husky lads, picked for their fighting qualities, not their scouting abilities. They knew the fate of the four adventurers of the previous night, and were determined to avenge them.

  They were in a black mud and utter darkness, and only slight sounds from their own trench came to them clearly. For an hour they waited, then there was a sudden shout, a cry in the darkness, and the thud of something falling. The deadfall had been sprung.

  Rader tingled from head to foot. He longed to glide under the brush and investigate, but this was a game of no mistakes. He heard shuffling noises, dragging sounds. Someone was trying to move another. There was a groaning muffled sound as though a hand was thrust over the sufferer’s mouth.

  Shortly afterward there were grunting comments in the dark of the road, then the snapping of a twig. Heavy feet trod on a dead branch. Some party of men were coming toward them. Rader grew uneasy. If they were discovered, if by some mysterious means, the killer had guessed the presence of the Australians, then they would be taken at a disadvantage in the brush heap. He whispered with his men, and they crept forth to a cleared space. Then it happened.

  There were two short gasps in the dark, as if a throat had been throttled suddenly by a giant hand, then the threshing of bodies. There were guttural grunts, the thud of blows, sounds of wrestling, struggling men—the groan and gasp of death. The thick silence had been torn to shreds. There was a crashing of brush as men fell into it.

  Rader had leaped back and crouched at the first sounds of fighting. He sensed, rather than heard, an enemy near him, and suddenly thought of capturing him. If a prisoner could be taken, one of the prowlers, surely valuable information could be obtained. An arm brushed his, and his grasp was desperate. He was fortunate. A sharp blade merely grazed his wrist; then he had twisted its wielder’s arm so that the weapon was dropped, and they locked in a tremendous struggle.

  His man twisted and wrenched to clear himself, and the fellow was very strong. Rader was surged back and forth, but he maintained his grip, and gradually shifted his hold. Another moment and he could throw his captive. There was a panting of hot breath near his face and the grinding of teeth; then the German swung himself with all his weight and at the same time drove his shoulder into the sergeant’s chest. Despite this sudden move, Rader did not lose his hold. He was thrown partly off balance, but he wrenched an arm so that the man shouted out in pain. In another moment, Rader would have conquered him. But an eager figure blundered into them.

  “That you, Sarge?” came a whisper.

  A hand caught his arm. There was a great surge, an upheaval of arms and legs, and before Rader could free himself his man had escaped.

  “What—who are you?” came a hiss in the sergeant’s ear.

  “I’m Rader. What the devil did you bump into us for?”

  The sergeant was angry, but Crump, the blunderer, was one of his best fighters.

  “Sorry I upset you, Sarge,” he whispered. “I got the chap who pitched against me at first. Hell, he didn’t amount to nothin’. Where’s your chap?”

  “You knocked him out of my hands,” said Rader. “He may be within ten feet of you, with his knife ready. Watch yourself.” They listened.

  “Who’s there?” The whisper was as sibilant as a snake’s challenge. “It’s Timmins. That you, Joe?”

  It was another of the Australians. “You chaps hurt?” he wheezed. “I just got a scratch. My man was awkward as a cow, but he hung on. Where’s Harvey? He smashed into the brush first shot.”

  ***

  They began to look for him, and found him entwined with a burly German, both dead. Then there were more worrying, snarling sounds in the dark, and the fall of a body. A crackling of branches. Quick feet. A low call. “Where you chaps at?”

  It was the fourth man of Rader’s patrol. He gulped for breath. “I got three of them,” he panted. “Two right off the bat, easy. They’d grabbed each other by mistake. Then I heard a guy sneakin’ by me and I jumped him.”

  There had not been any shooting. It was as dangerous for friends as foe, but the sergeant could not understand the reason of their easy victory. Six Germans for Harvey. Then he remembered.

  They had been a carrying party, going to bring in the dead. And the killer had come by his own path, and got hurt by the deadfall!

  Two hours went by and nothing happened, then Rader led his men in and reported. The moment he reached the trench he asked the Lewis gunners to spray the Wood with bullets, and to keep shooting regularly. Flares were sent up on both flanks. They were not taking any chance of the enemy coming on a reprisal raid. And at stand-to there had not been any of the mysterious noises of the previous night. The Bavarian must know that he had a different foe to deal with.

  At daylight Rader was back to his peep holes, peering into the grey gloom of the Wood. The first sun rays revealed field-grey uniforms under the trees. The victims of the night’s fighting lay as they had fallen—proof that no other prowlers had reached them. The Germans had had an unlucky night.

  The sergeant went to his dugout and slept till noon. Then he returned to the trench and wormed through the hole under the parapet. Captain Hazlett had given him permission.

  “Go it your own way,” he said. “But remember that the Bavarian knows now that you’ve been around the Wood. He’ll spring his best tricks.”

  The sergeant crawled as carefully as he had done the previous day and reached the brush without being spotted. He did not venture near the dead Germans, as he knew they could be seen from the enemy trench. He crossed the road and wormed over to see where his deadfall had sprung.

  The log was beside the path. Then he was startled. Three quick shots came from the German trench—signal shots.

  He looked through a thicket. A soldier climbed out of the enemy trench on the right of the Wood. He bore a white flag, and he walked half way across No Man’s Land. An Australian went to meet him, and was given a note. The pair returned to their respective trenches. Rader was eager to know the contents of the message. He spent a tedious hour making a safe return trip to his lines. Captain Hazlett met him with a note. It was written in English.

  “According to a letter in the pocket of one of your scouts, you have a Sergeant Rader who excels in patrols. I also excel in patrol work. I challenge him to come into the Wood alone, armed only with a knife, at ten o’clock tonight. The best man will win. Captain Fritz Hempel.”

  Rader read the note a second time, then discarded his pistol and bombs. “I’m going out now, while it’s light. I don’t believe he knows I was out there yesterday. It’s all the surprise I have for him.”

  Captain Hazlett was nervous. “There’ll be a trick somewheres,” he said. “This Bavarian is wild because you killed his men last night, and he has figured if he can get you out of the way, he can do as he likes.”

  “But he’s not planning on me being over there now, or being near his own trench to meet him. I’ll like it better, too, not having anyone else to look out for.”

  Rader went back and got a long rope from his dugout, a signal cord he and his men used at listening posts.

  “I’ll tie the end of this to a loose stick,” he said. “You’ll pull on it at about a quarter past ten, just enough to make a noise
in the brush, then pull it again every ten minutes or so.”

  The captain was still shaking his head as Rader crawled from view.

  ***

  It was as dark as pitch. Along both trenches that enclosed Mustard Wood there was little or no movement. Both sides were tense, waiting. The Australians knew that their champion was out in the dark, awaiting his challenger, and they guessed that the Germans were watching their famous Captain Hempel make his preparations.

  An hour dragged by like an eternity. Artillery on the left had burst into an uproar of hate, then subsided. Wheeled traffic, far back on some cobbled road, had rumbled out of hearing. Then he heard it—the slight twang of taut wire. Someone was passing through the lane in the German wire.

  He stared into the darkness, listening intently, so that his ears seemed to throb. His fingers were moist as he gripped the handle of his trench knife. At last he was meeting the creeper at his own game. The darkness was as thick as black syrup, and every flickering reflection of flares that rose and fell on either flank slid weird, wavering light fingers among the stubs. Every muscle seemed cramped and in an agony. Then he heard something.

  It was the sharp snapping of a twig, as if someone had stepped on it suddenly, a step off balance. Silence, a pulsing, sinister stillness, followed. The sergeant knew what the sound had been. It was far over the road, and had been the moving of the stick to which he had tied the rope. His mates in the trench were doing their part. Then he tensed anew. A voice had spoken, so low that he could hardly hear it. “I am ready,” it mocked. “Hurry, Rader.”

  Rader took the blade of his knife in his teeth and set to clearing the dry twigs from his path. He would make his way toward the mocker. Then he marvelled that the killer had called out. Ah, just so had he called and baited the other patrols who had been caught.

  But the Bavarian was in a hurry. He had not waited long. Captain Hazlett and the colonel had suggested that the man must be partly insane, and Rader realized that it was more than possible. A man with a fevered mind would be impatient.