by David Hough
“You were brought in by a Highland NCO.”
“Oh, yes. I remember now.”
“Him over there brought you in.” The orderly pointed to where a short, sturdy figure was trotting towards them.
MacRapper was grinning broadly as he carried Donohoe into the Regimental Aid Post. He delivered the boy into an orderly’s care and then walked over to DeBoise. “Still alive are yew, Dee-boys?”
“Yes, I’m still alive.” He tried to sit up but couldn’t. “I want to thank you, Sergeant Major. You probably saved my life back there.”
“Aye, of course I saved yer life. What did yew expect me tae do? See yew killed?”
“I thought you hated me.”
“Of course I hate yew. Yew’re just a silly wee Englishman.”
“And…”
“And I’m a soldier, Dee-boys. A real soldier.” He jerked a thumb against his chest. “No self-respecting soldier would stand back and watch a man die just because he canna defend his-self properly. I saved yer life for me own sense of honour. Got that?”
“Yes, I’ve got that, MacRapper. But thank you, anyway. You’re truly a brave man.”
The Highlander looked away and sniffed. “Don’t thank me, yew silly little Englishman.”
“You’ll never get round to calling me sir, will you?”
“Not in a million years.” He laughed as he turned and walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Wendel was woken at dawn by the dull thud of field guns and the ragged rattle of rifle fire. At first the gunfire was muted and Wendel was content to rest a little longer on his hard, uneven bed. But his intent didn’t last long. He sat up suddenly at the sound of a loud whistling noise and, moments later, a shell exploded in the Château grounds, shaking the building to its foundations. The floor shuddered and the window glass broke with a sharp crack. In the aftermath of the loud blast, the continuing distant shooting seemed almost benign. He barely heard it.
Was it a German or British shell? There was no way of telling. It was almost certainly a single stray shot, he decided as he jumped up from the bed, but even strays could kill. He ran to the window where the smell of burning penetrated the broken glass. The shell had missed the building. A plume of smoke rose up from beyond the orchard trees. Thank God he didn’t have the corpse of a foolish old lady on his hands.
The attic bedroom was small, cold and damp. He had slept uneasily without undressing and his eyes felt tired. He rubbed at them with the back of one hand, pulled on his jacket and then made his way down the grand stairway to the ground floor.
“’Morning, Captain.” A cheery voice greeted him. Far too cheery in the circumstances. It came from a young soldier hurrying up from the Château kitchen.
“What have you got there, Private?” Wendel became suddenly aware of a bad taste souring his mouth and the soldier was carrying a tin mug. It steamed temptingly into the cool morning air.
“Cuppa char, sir. Have this one if you like. Plenty more down below.” The young man held out the mug.
“Thank you.” Wendel nodded gratefully as he took it. “Was anyone hurt by the shell that landed in the grounds?”
“Dunno, sir. Don’t think so. You want me to find out?”
“No.” What was the point when there was nothing he could do about it? “Is the Countess still in her room?” It seemed unlikely she would be still asleep. Even old ladies didn’t sleep through a near miss from a high explosive shell.
“Dunno that either, sir. I’ll find out for you.”
“Yes. Do that, please.” Wendel walked on down the hallway towards the front door.
The sound of German field guns was louder now. Angry flashes lit up the horizon. Occasional single spikes of light were followed by long ripples that ran across the tree line. After being pushed back over the past few days, the Germans were now regaining lost ground, inching towards Gheluvelt. If their latest assault was successful, enemy troops could soon be at the Château once more. By then there would be no other option open to Haig than to draw back his forces towards Ypres. For the moment, there was still enough time for Wendel and the two women to get away if only a safe route was open to them.
He stopped on the doorstep and glanced along the drive towards the car he had driven from Ypres. The American flag was still draped across the bonnet. He was tempted to use it, if only he could be sure they would not be killed on the Menin Road.
Clasping his mug of hot tea, he continued down to the gravel drive where a smell of damp earth filled the still air, along with the lingering tang of smoke from the stray shell. Grey fog eerily embraced everything beyond the far side of the lawn. In the distance, he picked out the hazy silhouettes of British troops manoeuvring to defend the building. Maybe they would be able to hold back an onslaught from the advancing Bavarian Regiments. Or maybe not. Wendel had little concern for whether ground was won or lost. That was Haig’s problem. Wendel’s worry lay with the matter of forcing an elderly lady to evade capture.
He glanced around. Where was that damn Private? Hadn’t he managed to locate the Countess yet? With a sudden angry curse, he tipped the remains of the tea onto the ground and hurried back into the building. More anger welled up inside him. What the hell was he supposed to be doing, playing nursemaid to an old lady?
A Major of the South Wales Borderers stood awkwardly outside the dining room, an older man with an air of apprehension about him. Wendel had not seen him before.
“Ah, Captain Wendel, I presume.” The officer took a halting step forward. “Major Llewellyn. Came in through the servants’ quarters. I’ve just brought another platoon up to the front. We’ve orders to try to hold the Château against a counter attack.”
“About time too, sir.”
“It’s going to be a tricky defence.” He stared at Wendel’s civilian clothes. “You don’t have a uniform?”
“No.”
“I’ll see if one can be found for you.” He coughed lightly. “It might have to be taken from a dead man, but it would protect you in the event of capture.”
“I’d prefer not to be captured.”
“Yes, quite.” He coughed again. “I was told you have a duty to evacuate the Countess von Birkensaft.”
“That’s right.”
“Haig himself briefed me about her. Well, you’ll find her in there.” He gestured towards the dining room door and lowered his voice. “She arrived downstairs a few minutes ago. Tried to speak to her but she ignored me.”
“She’s alone?” Wendel asked.
“For the moment.”
“Good.” If the Germans were counter-attacking, it was time to get this bloody stupid matter sorted. One way or another.
He jerked open the door and went inside.
He took a few seconds to scan the room. Some of the windows had been shattered, and broken glass littered the floor beneath them. Curtains dangled from dislodged rails. A piece of ceiling plaster had fallen into the fire grate. Superficial damage, he decided. There would be worse to come if the Hun artillery commanders took it into their minds to deliberately shell the building.
He returned his attention to the old lady.
Wendel sighed, forcing himself to keep his anger under check. “Did you not hear the shell explode in the Château grounds, Countess? Have you not noticed the damage here in this very room?”
“I heard the bomb, young man, and I am still alive and unharmed. I expect to remain alive whatever happens to your English army out there.” She cast a frail arm towards a window.
“Out there is a Welsh regiment,” Wendel snapped. “And General Haig insists–”
“Stop this nonsense! I will not go from here simply because your English General Haig says I must.”
Wendel held his hands behind his back, clenching them into tight fists. The woman’s attitude was ridiculous. The Keniglaert family had left, so why should this obstinate old lady insist on staying? Unless she held a desire to be taken into German hands.
The poundi
ng of guns continued in the background, further stirring up Wendel’s annoyance. He gritted his teeth before continuing. “General Haig has other, more important things on his mind at present, but King Albert would want you to leave here. In fact, I am certain he would insist that you leave.”
“Then let him come and tell me so.” The Countess stood up slowly and wiped a napkin about her thin mouth. “May I remind you that I was born in Heidelberg and I have nothing to fear from my own people. Before I married into the Belgian royal family, I was known to Kaiser Frederick himself. Kaiser Wilhelm knows that. Do you really think he would allow any German soldier to harm me?”
At the sound of a light tinkle, Wendel looked away and saw a shard of loose glass fall from a broken window frame. He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed. “Countess, we have been lucky so far. At the moment German field guns are targeting the village, not this building. The shell that landed in the Château grounds was probably a mistake. But that situation won’t last. When more shells begin to hit the Château, as they surely will, no one will think to ask who might be inside it.” He let out a long, expressive breath. “And there is also the matter of your granddaughter.”
“What about her?” the voice came from behind Wendel. He swung round to confront Sophia standing in the doorway. She stood with her chin raised in defiance of him, just like her grandmother. Unlike the old lady, she wore more suitable attire: a green blouse, a calf-length green skirt and leather boots. Her deep blue eyes were unwavering as they focussed upon him, and her long golden hair sat lazily about her shoulders with no pretention of formality.
“Please help me, Sophia,” he pleaded. “I’m trying to persuade your grandmother that we must leave here soon. The German army is getting closer by the hour and they will be intent on retaking Gheluvelt.”
“You know this for sure?”
“Of course I’m sure of it. And so are you.”
“What I know is my business.” Sophia walked on into the room with an air of composure that Wendel was reluctantly forced to admire. Her demeanour never wavered as she crossed the room. “If you are so certain we are going to be attacked, you should be outside with the rest of those British soldiers. Should you not?”
“I can’t leave the Château as long as you and your grandmother remain here. You must know that.”
“I know nothing of the sort.” She moved closer to Wendel, a knowing look playing about her lips, a glint in her eyes. He became suddenly aware of a freshness about her that was at odds with the smells of battle outside the Château. Dammit, she was toying with his senses yet again. And her ploy was working.
“You sound very adamant, Sophia.”
“I am adamant in choosing to remain here for the time being. I shall leave when I decide, not you. That is the end of the matter.” She stared at him defiantly as she recited the final sentence.
“King Albert will be furious if you’re killed.” His voice was hesitant because she was now only an arm’s length away from him and, close up, her beauty overwhelmed him just as it had that night they spent together. Her penetrating eyes were focussed on him so firmly he was unable to tear his gaze from her. In one brief moment, he recalled his father’s warning that pretty girls were his biggest weakness, and they would be his ultimate downfall. But Sophia von Birkensaft’s sensual attraction went beyond mere prettiness. He took a deep breath before adding, “Your safety is important.”
“Then you must make sure that I am not killed. Can you do that?” She fluttered her eyelids and the first hint of a smile caressed her lips, a smile filled with temptation. She lowered her voice. “Can you make sure an innocent woman stays alive?”
Innocent?
The young woman was far from innocent. In different circumstances he would play her at her own game, draw her into his own snare, but this was no time for such tactics. If they didn’t get away soon they might all be killed. And yet, beneath all his good intentions, behind all his steely determination, he wanted her again.
Chapter Thirty
The bullet had been removed and the wound bandaged, but the pain remained. It was only a flesh wound, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. And his head still ached, a residual effect of his concussion.
DeBoise leaned heavily on a stick as he hobbled away from the tent where he had been sleeping with other injured officers. The field hospital was busy, noisy and smelly. Some men cried out in agony, others sobbed in spasms of mental confusion. DeBoise wanted a moment of peace and quiet to work out what to do next. He found a tall poplar tree at one side of the hospital field, sat down on the damp grass and leant against the trunk.
His mind was in turmoil. He had to make another attempt to get to the Château, he was determined on that. There was, however, no question of Private Donohoe accompanying him. The young Irishman had a shattered right shoulder, an injury too serious to allow him straight back into the conflict. The boy would need weeks of recuperation before he was fit to return to this bloody war. But a simple flesh wound in his leg was not going to stop Charles DeBoise.
He sighed and pulled out an old newspaper brought over from England by a newly-arrived nurse. The news was incomplete. Descriptions of what was happening at Ypres and other battle fronts were too vague to give a real impression of what it was like. Maybe that was deliberate. Maybe the public were not allowed to know the real horror. Or maybe the journalists who wrote the accounts had not been to the front.
It was almost mid-day when Marie arrived at the hospital in the back of an open lorry. DeBoise was still sitting beneath the same tree, still quietly reading the newspaper. He jerked upright when he saw Marie climb down from the vehicle’s tailgate. He grabbed at his stick and slowly levered himself to his feet.
When she saw him, she rushed towards him, flung her arms about his neck and kissed him. He dropped his stick and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Someone will see us,” he protested when their lips parted.
“Bugger them,” she replied and kissed him again.
“Let’s sit down,” he said when the second kiss was ended. “My leg is giving me gyp.”
“Your injury? It was…?”
“A bullet in the leg. Only a flesh wound. Nothing to bother about except when I move around too much.” In truth, it was causing him a lot of bother, but he couldn’t admit to that. Not to her. He sat down against the tree and drew her down beside him. “Private Donohoe caught a bullet in the shoulder. Smashed the bones, but he’ll live. They’ll have to give him a Blighty ticket.”
“I’m glad he’ll survive. I like him.” She grinned and then blushed. “But not as much as I like you.”
He was surprised at that coy blush. After all she had done in order to gather information for Cumming, he did not expect it of her. He made no comment upon it because he did not want to embarrass her, but he wondered just how deep her feelings for him extended. Could it be more than just affection? Could it be that she genuinely loved him?
“How did you find me?” he asked as a way of changing the subject.
“Determination, Charles. Sheer determination. Major General Reynolds was able to tell me you’d been injured, but no one was able to say where you were. I was so worried about you. I’ve been frantically searching everywhere for you. Finally, I came across an injured officer who was being sent back to England. He said he’d seen you here.” She ran a hand lightly across his injured leg. “Thank God you weren’t killed. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Maybe I’m not fated to die here,” he offered. He didn’t believe it, but he wanted to console her.
“I hope to God, you’re right.” She drew back her hand from his leg and clasped his arm. “Did you get to Captain Wendel? Did you warn him about Wood Wine?”
“No. He must still think there’s a double agent out there. I need your help now, Marie.” He gritted his teeth as another spasm of pain shot through him. “I’m not too firm on my feet at the moment.”
“T
ell me what I must do.”
“I want you to get to Dunkerque as quickly as you can. Find Lieutenant Commander Polmassick and tell him I need his help as soon as possible. Tell him that I am ready now to fly out to Gheluvelt and collect the Countess. You needn’t tell him anything about Pierre von Birkensaft, but I must warn Captain Wendel about the danger.”
“But, Charles, you’re in no fit condition to fly.”
“Fit condition or not. I must get to Gheluvelt. Before you go, can you get Major General Reynolds to send a telegram to the aerodrome at Dunkerque?”
“A Major General? How can I speak to a Major General?”
“Use your feminine wiles, Marie. Not too much, just enough. You can do it.”
“I can try, I suppose.”
“Good. Send a telegram asking Lieutenant Commander Polmassick to meet you. The Hôtel du Nord would be a good place for it.”
*
Wendel felt uncomfortable in the borrowed uniform. It had been taken from a dead Captain of the Northumberland Hussars, a man who was somewhat taller than him. He had turned back the ends of the sleeves to stop them covering his hands, but it still felt wrong. At least it was an officer’s uniform and that gave him some visual authority over the four Northumberland soldiers who remained at the Château.
One of the men stood guard in the main hallway. He grinned laconically at Wendel, probably glad to be detached from the rest of his regiment now fighting at the front.
“Morning, sir.” He nodded towards the door to the library. “Got a visitor in there with the old lady.”
“Visitor?”
“A civvy. Young man, well-dressed, by the look of ’im. Turned up at the front door a few minutes ago. The old lady said it was okay for ’im to come in.”
“Really?” Wendel strode into the drawing room. He drew to a sudden stop when he saw the Countess deep in conversation with her grandson, Pierre.
“So, you’ve come back.” Wendel gritted his teeth and continued into the room, closing the door behind him.
“And you, Captain Wendel, should not be here. If I had my way, you would be under lock and key.” The boy stood up abruptly. “Where is Herr Doktor Schatzenberger? And why do we have English soldiers here in our Château,”