A Soldier's Place

by Thomas Hodd

  Every man in Sunshine’s party bemoaned the trickery of fate that had placed Sunshine in charge on this particular night. They were certain that he would bungle the job, as he had rarely left the horse lines and dreaded shell fire. Nearest to the RSM was a soldier whose bitterness was so great that he could scarce restrain from murder. It was Izzard, staggering through the gloom with two petrol tins of water. During his confinement he had had ample time to reflect on his wrongs, and to centre his venom on the portly brasso king who had brought him his punishment. To an unsympathetic escort he had announced his willingness to give his life for his country, if necessary, in fair battle, but it was the blackest injustice to send him, unarmed, into danger under such a brainless bungler as Sunshine. And with every step nearer the trenches his resentment increased.

  Only an occasional Very Light soared aloft. They made little impression on the murk of the night and the Avion front was very quiet. Each side was depending on its listening posts. The clammy blackness and the unusual quiet produced an eerie atmosphere. Izzard felt his scalp tighten as the guide, just ahead of Sunshine, gave warning that they were almost to their destination, the support line.

  The party had come overland, following a path despite the darkness, but the uneven ground had proved a sore trial to Izzard. He had caught his toes on slight rises and had plunged heavily in the depressions. He stumbled for the hundredth time and weariness had its effect; the petrol tins came together with a resounding clang. Low comments from the rear were drowned by a bellow that shattered every precedent of the trenches. Sunshine’s nerves were evidently very frayed.

  “Stop that racket,” he yelled at the top of voice. “Take that man’s number.”

  Whiz-z-z ba-aang! Cra-a-ash! Ba-a-ang! Three rapid explosions. A clanging of other tins. Mingled voices and cursing. A thudding of feet as the party scattered. Sunshine yelling hysterical commands. Whiz-z-z ba-a-ang! Cra-a-ash! Ba-a-ang! Vivid flashes that split the dark. Fumes of high explosives and dislodged earth. Far-away voices. The rattle of machine guns, warming up. A few scattered rifle shots. Whiz-z-z ba-a-ang! Cra-a-ash! Ba-a-ang! The chance strafing of the Hun ceased as abruptly as it had begun, but pandemonium reigned in part of the Canadian line.

  Izzard had been knocked off his feet by a collision with Sunshine at the first salvo. As he scrambled up a hand gripped his belt and the RSM’s voice was in his ears. Came the second salvo and he was downed rudely as the brasso king dived for cover without releasing him. Then he was jerked to his feet again as Sunshine rushed after the sounds of running feet.

  “Let me go,” Izzard hissed, “or I’ll crown you.” His words had no effect.

  Number three salvo arrived. This time Izzard ducked in unison with his captor and by a clever surge freed himself. Simultaneously a machine gun clattered in their rear. Izzard’s brief tour in the line had not taught him that brigade machine guns were sometimes posted some distance back, and he was vastly bewildered. Instinctively he reached for Sunshine and fastened his fingers on a much-polished Sam Browne. In turn a hand reached him.

  “Stay with me,” gasped the cock of many parade grounds. “We are surrounded.”

  Amid the clattering fire it was easy to believe. Apparently guns were shooting at them from every side. Keeping hold of each other the pair ran as fast as the nature of the ground would permit—and fell headlong into a trench. When Izzard ceased seeing sparks he disentangled himself from Sunshine, who groaned feebly.

  “Where are we?” The RSM’s voice was very weak.

  “We fell in a trench,” said Izzard. “Stop making that noise.”

  After much whispered persuasion he got Sunshine to his feet. They must travel; the firing had slackened, but the suspense was horrible. Sunshine was hesitant, but Izzard dare not leave him. The company of this man he so hated was preferred to being alone, and at length they commenced a cautious advance along the trench. After what seemed a mile they brought up suddenly against a cross trench and some person unseen growled, “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Joyfully Izzard elbowed Sunshine to one side. “It’s me, Calico,” he called in a low voice. “Whow! Pull in your bayonet. How did you get here and where are we?”

  “Is that you, Izzard?” The voice held immeasurable wonder.

  “Sure, it’s me. We go lost on a ration party. Sunshine’s here with me—I mean the RSM. He’s in charge.”

  “I am,” rasped a nervous voice beside Izzard, “and you are disrespectful. What is your number?”

  “Nine million and ninety-nine.” Izzard slipped forward and got Calico by the arm. “Let’s beat it somewhere,” he whispered, “and somebody’ll crown him in the dark.”

  His suggestion was useless. As he spoke there was a hot breath on his cheek and a hand gripped his belt. “You men take me to a sergeant at once,” came the shrill order. “You are liable to a court-martial for such talk.”

  Izzard felt Calico turn and he grasped his chum’s equipment. He must not lose him in the utter darkness and by some hook or crook they must give Sunshine the slip. “You’ll have to crawl here,” came Calico’s warning. “The trench was all blown in here this afternoon, and there’s an old CT heads into it. The wire’s down, so maybe we can crawl around in front.”

  Izzard was compelled to release his hold on his friend in order to scramble over the debris they encountered. The earth seemed upheaved in every direction. Three times they encountered tangled wire and stakes and circled the obstruction. Sunshine puffed like a porpoise. The night was still again, but the darkness was impenetrable. After an endless crawling Calico halted.

  “There’s something wrong,” he whispered. “We’ll have to go back, for I’ve missed the next post altogether, and we haven’t crossed the CT.”

  “Where are we—I mean what trench did we leave?” Sunshine’s sibilant whisper came like compressed air.

  “The front line,” said Calico. “It’s D Company’s right, and I was trying to get to the next post. We’ll have to go back.”

  Izzard’s knees relaxed and his breathing was difficult. The front line! He unarmed and an attack due at twelve o’clock. Cold sweat broke over him. “Any idea of the time, Calico?” he managed to ask.

  “Must be after eleven,” came the answer. “The show starts at twelve and you want to get out of this.”

  “But how?” The query was a plea.

  “You two wait till I circle a bit. It can’t be far to wire or something.”

  “No, you don’t.” Sunshine’s voice was raised in instant alarm. “We’ll go with you, and if you get me out before twelve I’ll recommend you to the colonel.” He was almost whining at the finish.

  More fumbling and crawling. They went to the right, they crawled to the left. There were solitary rifle shots, there were gun flashes in the distance, but they had lost all sense of direction.

  “There’s an awful lot of shell holes,” Izzard panted during a pause. “Can you tell anything by that?”

  “I would say that some shells had exploded here sometime,” the rejoinder was very calm.

  “Shut up and keep moving.” Sunshine’s contribution was unnecessarily loud, and his voice trembled. Plainly he was losing control.

  The next instant rough hands seized Izzard, and there were violent struggles in the dark. Grunts were mixed with guttural exclamations. Izzard was quickly subdued and then hustled through the night by ungentle hands and thrown into a trench. As he regained his feet he was knocked aside by another person assisted by rough helpers. Bruised in every part, he hadn’t time to collect his thoughts before a third prisoner was tumbled down beside him. Then husky voices gave orders and a fine-pointed bayonet enabled him to understand that they were to follow a surly-toned guide along the trench. Izzard tried to squeeze by Sunshine, who had been third to arrive, so as to avoid the steel tickler, but the RSM blocked him. “Hustle, then, you granny,” he squealed.

  “Th
is guy is pushing with his bayonet. Move up.”

  A brutal blow with a rifle butt knocked him dizzy, but the bayonet revived him. Dimly he understood that he must not talk. He stumbled along and then flinched mightily as Sunshine halted without warning. A trickle of light shone into the trench from beneath a lifted blanket and, in turn, he saw his fellow unfortunates descend a stairway that the light revealed. He followed them smartly, his guard still prodding from the rear. The dugout into which they descended was evidently a company headquarters. Three German officers sat by a table strewn with maps and papers. A telephone was at the elbow of the most important-looking of the three, a big man with a bristled mustache. A few orderlies occupied the background. Beyond was a table piled with junk, and several bunks.

  There was a stir among the orderlies as the prisoners came into the light, and suppressed murmurs of “Englanders—swine.” Izzard trembled in every limb. The man with the bristle mustache was glaring at them, and the others were equally hostile. The soldier who had followed the prisoners down saluted and grunted a rough jargon. Izzard stole a glance at his companions. Calico had a black eye and had lost his steel hat, but bore himself with his usual calm. Sunshine had transformed marvellously. He seemed to have shrunken in size, his uniform was dirty and torn, his features were haggard, and a deep scratch across his bald head still bled. The lord of inspections expressed misery in every line.

  “To what regiment do you belong?” The question was asked in perfect English by him of the bristles.

  Izzard looked at Sunshine. “Speak up,” he whispered, “or they’ll kill us sure.”

  Thwack! Izzard groaned as he straightened from a blow that almost felled him. “Be still, little swine,” snarled Bristles.

  “We—ah—belong to the Royal Canadians,” gasped Sunshine.

  “In the trenches how long has been the regiment?” Cold and merciless was the voice that questioned.

  “Ah—three days—I think,” came the answer.

  “Think! You do not know?” The threat predominated.

  “Ah—yes, I do. It is three days, I’m sure.” Sunshine’s voice trembled.

  “To be relieved you are when?”

  “Ah—tonight—I think.”

  “Think you are not to say, and for the last time I tell you,” came the awful voice. “Who to relieve you was?”

  “Ah—I think—that is, I do not know. It—ah—had not been arranged.”

  “So!” Tiny veins stood out on the forehead of the Prussian and he struck the table with his fist. “You to me would lie—listen….”

  Every man did, but not to him. A crashing, ear-splitting roar drowned every other noise. The very earth trembled and the candles sputtered from the jarring. The roar increased and down the entrance came whiffs of high explosive gases. The officers at the table sprang up, hate livid in their faces, and from their facial contortions Izzard knew they were shouting orders. The soldier that had followed them down comprehended, for he saluted and departed swiftly, followed by all but two of the orderlies. Then Bristles seized the phone, listened, shook it vigorously, and cast it from him. Apparently the line had been severed. Turning to the other officers he jabbed at places on one of the maps on the table and bellowed until he was heard above the din outside. The two officers withdrew. Izzard ventured to turn his head to look at the others. A heavy cuff swung him about. Bristles motioned the remaining orderlies to guard the prisoners and his glance at Izzard was vitriolic as he yanked a Luger from its holster and laid it on the table. Izzard forgot the sting of the blow that had spun him around and his legs could scarce support him. He was shivering with fear.

  Cr-r-rump! A smashing shock directly overhead sent showers of dirt from the partly timbered ceiling. Two of the four candles on the table went out. A choking, noxious gas poured into the dugout. Bristles seized one of the candles and holding it high peered into a wooden, box-like arrangement in one corner. He seemed to sniff at it and then jumped back to his maps. Cr-r-rump! A second shock, doubly violent, piled a confusion of broken timbers and chalky earth down the dugout steps, and instantly the crashing roar outside died to a deep rumble. They were shut off from the trench—buried alive!

  The table rocked with the explosion and each man swayed on his feet. One of the orderlies sprang to save the candles from being extinguished. Bristles started to his feet and the next few heartbeats were packed with action. Izzard was just aware of a low moaning sound when he saw Calico shift forward with cat-like agility and drive his fist like a piston rod. The blow landed squarely on the blocky jaw of Bristles and the German went down like a falling chimney. In the fraction of time that he was falling the pale ex-clerk snatched the Luger from his fingers. One of the orderlies had not failed in his vigilance and Izzard saw fire spurt from his revolver. He missed his man, however, and Calico shot in return. The orderly toppled and crumpled. The second guard seemed paralyzed by the rapidity of events and made no move until Calico shouted, “Hands up—surrender!”

  “Kamarad! Kamarad!” came the answer, and both candles were pushed toward the ceiling.

  “Hey—save them lights.” Izzard had come alive to the situation. He secured the candles, picked up the revolver the live orderly had dropped, and wrenched another from the hand of the dead one. Just as Bristles began to stir Izzard detected the maker of the moaning sound. It was Sunshine, who had slumped against the wall of the dugout and was staring about him in perfect terror. Bristles came to life gradually, but when he became aware of the change in authority leaped up like a wounded tiger, and died fighting. Calico called for him to surrender and then shot with steady aim. The moans of Sunshine increased.

  “Look here, you, stop that yowling.” There was undeniable command in Izzard’s words.

  His mind had cleared rapidly from its paralysis of fear. He realized that their situation was hopeless, but was also impressed by the fact that he was armed and was allied with Calico. The fact that they were shut off from escape sunk into the short man’s mind with startling result. In one flashing survey of circumstances he recognized the factor that had placed him in this predicament, and all his animosity and thirst for revenge welled to the fore. The ever-present fears that had burdened his existence, fears of consequences if he did not obey orders, were wiped out in a breath, and his face was lighted with unholy joy. Probably an hour would elapse before they began to smother. That hour should wipe out former humiliations.

  “Any chance of getting out?” he asked Calico.

  “Mighty little by the looks of that doorway,” was the response, “but we’ll make a try for it. Come on, Henie, and get busy at this mess.”

  Under Calico’s directions and the persuasion of the automatic the German worked lustily at clearing the debris that blocked the exit.

  Izzard watched proceedings a moment and then walked back to the littered table. Its load consisted of Canadian equipment, probably obtained on some raid, and the contents of a haversack were in view. Grimly he selected the principal asset of an RCR private—his shining gear. A button stick, a can of polish, a rag, and a brush were extracted. Then Izzard confronted Sunshine. The lessening of the tumult overhead and the defeat of his captors had restored the RSM somewhat, but his hands still trembled and fear lived in his eyes.

  “Come over to the table,” ordered Izzard. “I’ve got a job for you, Mister Sunshine, and you are going to do it.”

  A trace of Sunshine’s customary arrogance returned.

  “Are you insane?” he demanded. “You have been the chief cause of our being in this place. Be calm, man, be calm. What is your number?”

  “Thirteen to you,” flashed Izzard, his features a fiery red beneath their coat of dirt and chalk.

  “Thirteen, you blasted turkey cock, the unluckiest number in the alphabet. Get busy, you hollow-backed shino freak. Grab that brush and button stick if you want to live another half hour. I’ll give you polishing, blast you.�
��

  “Hello, over there—help!” shouted Sunshine as he backed away from the automatics Izzard held. Calico glanced at them.

  “I’m going to make this lousy old safety-first do some shining if it’s his last job on earth,” Izzard called in tense tones.

  The gravity of the hour could not be mistaken, but there was an unmistakable grin on Calico’s placid countenance and unmistakable assent to Izzard’s plan.

  “Will you get busy, or do I have to shoot?” Determination rang in the words.

  Sunshine started to reply, but his words were cut short by the bark of one of the revolvers that Izzard held. The shot was purely accidental. Izzard, in his excitement, had pressed too hard on the trigger, and it was fortunate for the RSM that the weapon was not well-aimed. The bullet sped close to Sunshine’s bald head and buried itself in the wall. There was no further delay. The brasso king leaped for the tools Izzard indicated and brushed furiously at the first buckles within reach. His overseer was startled by the shot, but recovered quickly when he noted its effect. And then burst forth all the rancor in his bosom. In a scorching tirade he vented with all his hatred of the RCR in general, and of this tyrant especially, and in lurid adjectives described the utter folly of shining brass at the front.

  Sunshine was plainly inexperienced at the shining game, but gained remarkable speed when Izzard purposely fired another shot over his head. Evidently convinced that he was trapped by a maniac the man who had bullied thousands polished like wildfire, and assented mechanical to Izzard’s caustic remarks.