In Line of Fire (Secret Soldiers of World War 1 Book 2)

by David Hough

  “And what do you expect me to do, Lieutenant?”

  “There’s only one option open to you now. You must advance on Gheluvelt. As quickly as possible.”

  Cruikshanks gawped back at him. “Advance? Good God, man, don’t you know what’s happening here?” He swivelled his gaze around his few remaining company commanders. They stared back with blank looks.

  DeBoise stood his ground. “I’ll ride back and ask Major Hankey and the Worcesters to move forward with you. Together, you might be able to retake the Château and plug the hole in the line.”

  “And if we fail? Dammit, man! Two whole regiments will be wiped out.”

  DeBoise felt his anger rising. The KOHD and the Worcesters could not remain where they were and they could not retreat without covering fire. Surely Cruikshanks must understand that.

  He drew back his shoulders. “Unless that gap in the line is closed the whole BEF is doomed, sir. In all probability, Ypres will be lost. Isn’t it worth a try to stop that happening?”

  It was a stirring speech but DeBoise trembled at the thought of the responsibility he was taking. It was not his place to tell a Lieutenant Colonel how to manoeuvre his regiment, much less to countermand General Haig’s order to retreat. To cap it all, his plan was addressed to the same senior officer who had once thrown him out of the Highland regiment.

  Cruikshanks’ face showed signs of resentment when he replied. “Dammit all! I hate the thought of an English junior officer telling me what to do, but your words make sense. Assuming anything in this damned war can be said to make sense.”

  DeBoise watched with trepidation as Cruikshanks turned to address his juniors. “Things are bad here, damned bad, but we’re not giving up yet. The KOHD will advance on Gheluvelt with the Worcesters and we’ll attempt to stop the Huns in their tracks.”

  He swept his angry gaze back to DeBoise. “Well, get going, man. Go and tell the Worcesters to fire a signal when they’re ready to advance.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  DeBoise gritted his teeth as he dismounted and approached Major Hankey. His leg ached badly now and he hobbled the last few steps before saluting awkwardly.

  “Yes?” Hankey stared at him. “What did Cruikshanks have to say?”

  “I think we may have a solution to the problem, sir. The Highlanders are unable to move back to Hooge as long as they’re holed up over there.” He pointed to where the Highlanders were pinned down. “They haven’t enough back-up to allow them to make an orderly retreat. Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks thinks the best move will be for the KOHD and the Worcesters to jointly advance on Gheluvelt.”

  “Advance?” Hankey gave him a wry grimace. It clearly wasn’t something he had seriously considered.

  “Together, sir. Alone, neither regiment would have much hope, but together we could make a difference.”

  “That’s Cruikshanks’ plan?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s his plan.”

  It was a deliberate lie, but DeBoise had no qualms about it. Once, in what seemed a lifetime ago, he would have never considered deceiving a senior officer, but the ethics of lying no longer applied. He was at the heart of a battle that was going very badly for the BEF. The small breach in the line at Gheluvelt could so easily become a tidal flood. Positive action had to be taken to plug the gap, and the lie was his only way of ensuring it.

  Convinced of what he was doing, he added: “He wants you to send up a signal flare when you’re ready to go.”

  Hankey thought silently for a few seconds. Then he nodded. “Very well. And what will you do, Lieutenant?”

  “With your permission, sir. I’ll remain with you for your assault on Gheluvelt. I’d like to do my bit.” Once again, he was lying. His aim was not to ‘do his bit’ but to find Marie. Strange, he thought, that numerous lives would inevitably be lost in the assault, but his concern was for only one person. Was he losing all sense of morality?

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Major Hankey looked askance at him, flicking a finger towards the injured leg. “Seems like you’ve done your bit already.”

  “You’ll need every man you can get, sir.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked.”

  “It’s the only answer I feel able to give, sir.”

  The Major nodded. “Understood, Lieutenant. Your father would approve of your actions. This won’t be easy. Many of us won’t come back, but I suppose it has to be done.”

  “I’ll do my best not to let anyone down.” That, at least, was no lie. His determination to get to the Château was paramount now.

  Hankey gestured DeBoise to follow him and strode towards a group of junior officers. Just seven of them remained alive. He gathered them into a huddle and struck up a determined pose. “The line has been broken by the Huns at Gheluvelt, and that spells disaster for the whole campaign. The gap must be plugged. Gentlemen, we are going to advance on Gheluvelt Château.”

  “Alone, sir?” one officer ventured.

  “No. We will move forward at the same time as the KOHD. They will advance on our left flank.”

  “God help us all,” someone muttered.

  Hankey ignored the remark. “The Worcesters will retake Gheluvelt,” he said. He paused before adding, “We can and will do it. Good luck to you all.”

  DeBoise looked around at the pitifully small gathering. Hankey had only three companies to complete his task, around three hundred and fifty men. Not nearly enough to be absolutely sure of retaking Gheluvelt, but certainty in this war was long gone.

  In a short period of preparation, the men were ordered to off-load their packs and were issued with extra ammunition. They would need it. DeBoise watched them with a growing sense of guilt. What was about to happen was his idea and many lives would be lost in its execution. He closed his eyes and prayed for forgiveness. And for Marie’s safety.

  The German siege guns continued to boom from beyond Gheluvelt village. Flames and smoke continued to erupt into the air where the shells landed. The rattle of rifle and machine gun fire added to the constant noise.

  A small corporal crouched down beside DeBoise and stared at the scene in front of them. “D’you think we’re all gonna die, sir?” His hands, loosely held around his rifle, were shaking.

  “Not all of us.” DeBoise tried to sound complacent. “Have you been into battle many times?”

  “A few times, sir.”

  “So you know what to expect.”

  “Yeah. That’s the worst part of it, sir, knowing what to expect. My mate, Smithy, didn’t know what to expect when he caught a bullet in his head. Best that way, sir, not knowing what to expect. That’s the way I’d want to go.”

  “Come and tell me that again when we get to the Château.” DeBoise patted him on the shoulder. He couldn’t think of anything more positive to say. To hide his own insecurity, he made a play of studying his watch. It was two o’clock.

  A flare was fired to indicate they were about to advance. Away on the left flank, DeBoise saw the kilted Highlanders begin their move.

  He jumped to his feet and fell into step behind Major Hankey.

  They advanced in single file for the first six hundred yards until they came to a small belt of trees on the Polderhoek Ridge. A few men fell along the way, but the German firing was largely ineffective here. When they were in the shelter of the trees, the Worcesters halted while Hankey studied the situation.

  DeBoise crouched close behind him. Open country stretched out one hundred yards in front of them, a last killing ground they would have to cross before they reached the Château.

  And there was the Château at last, in plain sight. The place he had been trying so hard to reach. He crossed himself and wondered if he would get there alive. And would he find Marie waiting for him?

  “What do you think, DeBoise?” Hankey asked.

  “No turning back now, sir.”

  “Not for us. Do you see that?” Hankey pointed towards a distant field where other companies were retreating in disarray.
Only the Worcesters and KOHD were going forward. It was an ominous sign.

  The Major called his RSM to him. “Are the men all up and ready?”

  “All up, sir,” the man replied grimly.

  “Very well.” He grimaced at DeBoise and then signalled to the seven other officers. “To the front!” When they were in position, he shouted, “At the double! Advance!”

  On Hankey’s command, the Worcesters leapt to their feet and pounded across a stubbly field. They were spurred on by the Major’s lead and seemingly oblivious of the increased accuracy of the German gunfire now aimed directly at them. More than one hundred men fell in the face of a hail of enemy bullets, almost a third of their number, but the rest continued their advance until they reached a small wood bordering the grounds of the Château.

  “Halt and fix bayonets!” Hankey raised a hand to his remaining men. He grinned self-consciously at DeBoise. “You still with us, Lieutenant?”

  “You’ll not lose me easily, sir.” DeBoise slapped a hand against his injured leg. It hurt like hell, but he would not be hindered by it when he was so close to his goal.

  He scanned the ground ahead of them and made a hasty guess. Likely, there were more than one thousand German soldiers in control of the Château. The Worcesters and the KOHD were grossly outnumbered.

  Hankey raised his pistol and checked it was fully loaded. “They’re bloody reservists. They don’t have the training our men have behind them. Every last one of those Huns is an amateur, and no match for us.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir. But it looks like the Scots are meeting a bit of stiff resistance.” DeBoise pointed to the flanking boundary where the KOHD were engaged in a static fire fight. The German opposition seemed stronger there.

  “Nothing we can do to help them, DeBoise. You ready?”

  “Ready, sir.” He clenched his fist about his pistol grip. “I suppose it’s all up to us now, eh?”

  “Yes, all up to us, Lieutenant.” Hankey jumped to his feet. “Forward the Worcestors!”

  His remaining soldiers – little more than two hundred of them now – followed him out onto the Château’s green lawn. DeBoise was hindered by the pain in his leg, floundering behind the Major. He paused at intervals to aim his pistol and shoot with precision.

  Falling farther and farther behind, he kept casting his gaze from side to side, checking for targets. There were so many Germans here, and yet they were not able to halt the Worcesters. Major Hankey had been right in his assessment of the German reservists. They were fleeing in panic.

  Away to his left, DeBoise saw the KOHD finally breaking through the German resistance. Cruikshanks was leading his Highlanders into the Château grounds, and MacRapper was close behind him. At first, both men seemed to be invincible, charging fiercely into the routed German forces. Then a splash of red erupted on MacRapper’s chest. He dropped his weapon and fell. He wasn’t killed and managed to struggle to his knees, fumbling for his rifle.

  Ten yards away, a German officer raced towards him.

  DeBoise gave no thought to his reaction. He ran as fast as his injured leg would allow. The German was close to MacRapper now, his Mauser aimed at the Scotsman’s head.

  There was no time to get nearer. DeBoise stopped abruptly, took careful aim and fired. It was a single shot and it was a bad one. He missed. Only by a few inches, but still a miss. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing. The gun was empty.

  The German turned to face him, swinging his Mauser round in a wide arc.

  DeBoise didn’t hesitate. Despite the ache in his leg, despite the certainty he was going to die here, he charged at the man. The Mauser was almost level with his chest when he crashed into the German’s shoulder and sent him flying to the ground. The Mauser barked, but the bullet flew high.

  The German cried out, struggling to regain his feet.

  DeBoise dropped on top of him and grabbed at the gun, wresting it from the German’s hand. The man’s face betrayed a look of horror as DeBoise aimed the weapon at him.

  It wasn’t the first time he had been in a position to kill a man who was on the ground. Last time it had been a boy soldier who had slaughtered a young Belgian girl. This time it was a grown man, an officer. A man who knew the risks he took when he came onto this battlefield. A man who should have been aware he might die here.

  DeBoise pulled the trigger.

  The German died where he lay. A red stain on his tunic was centred exactly over his heart.

  DeBoise glanced across at MacRapper and grinned. In the middle of a battle, he grinned! He felt enormous satisfaction in that single shot, more than any other. It was a killing that would live with him for a long time to come. It was the moment in which he had earned the thanks of a man he hated, a man who had saved his life only days ago.

  He stood up and glanced around the Château grounds. The battle was still raging, but there was no doubt now that the Germans were in full retreat. Satisfied the Worcesters no longer needed him, DeBoise stood over the kneeling Scotsman and drew back his shoulders.

  “I think that evens the score, don’t you, Sergeant Major?” He was unable to hide a note of triumph in his voice.

  “Aye, it does that, Lieutenant Dee-Boys...” MacRapper looked up and a wry expression spread across his face. Through his obvious pain, he hissed, “It does that, sir.”

  *

  The Château had been damaged, windows were broken and masonry had fallen all along the front façade. As he hobbled towards it, DeBoise noted the destruction with the mind of one who had little concern for the place. His thoughts were focussed on the people who should be inside the building, especially Marie.

  He saw her as soon as he stepped through the front door. She was at the base of the grand stairway and she raced towards him, her arms held wide.

  “Charles! Oh, Charles. I’m so glad to see you.” She wrapped her arms about his neck and kissed him. When she drew back, he saw that her eyes were wet with tears. “I thought you were dead. Oh God, Charles, I thought the Boche had shot you down.”

  He drew a breath softly between pursed lips. “They did, and they killed the pilot, but I think God was saving me for some other purpose.”

  “I was praying for you. Maybe that helped.” She wiped at her eyes.

  “Maybe it did.”

  He turned at the sound of movement behind him. Captain Wendel had a curious look on his face as he approached.

  “Glad to see you, Lieutenant DeBoise.” He made no comment upon Marie’s closeness, her arms now wrapped about DeBoise’s waist, but his face continued to hold the expression of surprise.

  “Like the proverbial bad penny, sir.” He looked around. “The Countess?”

  “Should now be in Ypres. And her grandchildren should be cosying up with Prince Rupprecht. I’ll tell you all about that later.”

  “I’m glad you survived, sir.”

  Wendel held out a hand to him. “I’m also relieved to see you’re safe although you seem to have hurt your leg.”

  DeBoise gently disentangled Marie’s arms and took the Captain’s hand warmly. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, sir. I think our first concern should be to get ourselves back to Ypres. We should let C know what’s happened.”

  “I agree. There should be a car somewhere outside, the one I used to come here. Let’s hope it’s still there and still in working order.” He turned his gaze upon Marie. “I assume you’ll want to come with us.”

  She smiled, still wiping at her eyes. “Of course.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Wait here a few minutes. I won’t be long.” Wendel left Marie and Deboise sitting in the car while he strode into the Hôtel de Ville. The vehicle still had the American flag across the bonnet. It was torn and dirty, but he was determined to return it to Spitz with his profound thanks.

  The hotel foyer seemed so much quieter now, despite the distant boom and rattle of gunfire. Most of Haig’s immediate staff would be out there on or near the Menin Road. Wendel did not env
y them.

  “I wondered what had happened to you, Captain.”

  Wendel swung round to where Major General Reynolds was approaching him from a room behind the reception desk. He looked tired despite being well behind the front line.

  “Had a bit of a problem with the Huns, sir.” Wendel saluted, aware that his actions were weary and he was still wearing that ill-fitting borrowed uniform.

  Reynolds eyed him up and down, his face betraying a look of understanding. “And the Countess? You got her out, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. She was riding on air last time I saw her. Is she not here in Ypres?”

  The Major General shrugged, as if it was no concern of his. “Whisked off to somewhere more secure, so they tell me. What happens to her now is no business of ours.”

  “Good” Wendel relaxed marginally. “Can I get a message to London?”

  “Certainly. In fact…” Reynolds scratched at his cheek. “I rather believe there’s a message waiting for you somewhere. Hold on a moment.” He hurried back into the room behind the desk. When he returned, he held out a small buff envelope. “Here you are. It’s in plain language, so it’s obviously nothing secret.”

  Wendel took the envelope, removed a flimsy piece of paper and read:

  From Cumming

  To Wendel

  Understand your mission met most criteria. Return to London ASAP for further orders.

  He smiled to himself. Met most criteria. Why couldn’t C openly admit that they had successfully spirited the Countess away from the clutches of Prince Rupprecht? A word of praise would have been welcome. He tucked the paper back into the envelope and slipped it into a jacket pocket.

  He raised a weary smile for the Major General. “Return to London. That’s a pretty explicit instruction, and a welcome one. Is the Commander out of hospital?”

  “I don’t know.” Reynolds laughed.” There’s a story going round that he’s not been a very accommodating patient. If he’s not been discharged, the hospital will be anxious to get rid of him.”

  “Seems like he’s recovered, anyway.”