When Shadows Fall

by Paul Reid

  Suddenly Timmy howled. Müller ripped open the belt buckle on his khakis and yanked them below his knees. Timmy tried to struggle free but the trooper placed a brawny paw on his neck to hold him secure. He picked up the bayonet again.

  “Lieutenant, you spoke of spitted hogs,” Schmitz said calmly. “Perhaps I can show you a British variety of that dish?”

  Timmy’s pale white buttocks were clenched in terror. Müller lowered the bayonet, aiming it into the dark line between his fleshy cheeks. The bayonet’s intense heat shrivelled the hairs on his backside before it even touched, and he screamed.

  “Enough!” Adam yelled in panic. “Enough, you Kraut fucker! I said I’ll talk, I’ll talk.”

  “Too late, Lieutenant,” Schmitz barked. “You had your chance. Müller! Spit him!”

  Müller bent his knees, drew back his elbow, and prepared to drive it home.

  He was abruptly thwarted as the house shook under a violent impact and the last surviving window in the kitchen exploded, spewing glass across the room. The bayonet slipped from Müller’s hands as he clasped his eyes and cried out, “Kommandant, meine Augen!”

  The shell had struck the front yard. Now came the rumble of distant guns, and Schmitz clambered to his feet, shrieking and cursing. “Was ist das? Sie sind zu früh!”

  “Kommandant, meine Augen!” Müller cried again, staggering blindly about.

  Schmitz ignored the maimed soldier and kicked through the outer door. A cacophonous bombardment had unleashed itself in the night sky, much to the German commander’s fury. “Nein! Sie sind zu früh!”

  Adam was dumped on his side, wrists still bound fast. From the direction of the sound he knew it was German artillery. The German advance had been expected at any day, but evidently had begun a little early for Schmitz’s liking. He tried to wriggle onto his knees. The blind Müller tripped and landed on top of him, the heated bayonet nearby, sizzling through the floorboards.

  “Hannigan, get up!” Adam yelled. “Get the hell up and free me.”

  The German private’s hands were pressed to his glass-shredded eyes, but even through the impossible pain he reacted to Adam’s voice, trying to clamber up. Adam’s legs were still free, and he moved quickly, clamping one boot on the soldier’s throat and the other behind his neck, choking off his air. “Hannigan, damn you. Cut me free!”

  Timmy heaved himself out from under the German’s kicking legs and pulled his trousers up. With a quick glance he took in the situation, and finally instinct took hold. He pulled a knife from the soldier’s belt while Adam held him, and with a couple of swift sawings he separated the rope on Adam’s wrists.

  “Thank Christ.” Adam shook off the bounds and stood up. “We’re going to have to run like bedamned, Private. Those are German guns. This must be the big push we’ve been warned about.”

  On the floor, Müller was cawing for air. He snatched at them both, and Adam kicked him hard in the side of the head.

  “Come on, Timmy.” Adam grabbed the youngster’s arm, and they ran outside. There was no sign of Schmitz or the remaining troops, but the sky was aglow with flares of light. While a stray shell had dug a crater in the yard of the farmhouse, the main assault was being directed over the fields to the British command posts. “Where’s the track? Private—”

  “This way, sir. Follow me!”

  Another shell fell short and erupted nearby. Adam and Timmy ducked the burst of mud and debris. A cry rang out.

  “Wait,” Adam put his hand on Timmy’s shoulder. “Give me a moment.”

  “Lieutenant, we can’t!”

  Several feet away, close to the shell’s landing, Kommandant Schmitz was lying on his side, moaning in agony. His uniform was burnt and bloody, and he had dropped his pistol. Adam picked it up. Using his boot, he forced Schmitz onto his back then cocked the gun and took aim at the German’s face.

  “Nein,” Schmitz croaked, “nein . . . ”

  “Yes.” Adam nodded. “Smile for my camera, fucker.”

  The single shot rang out over the farmhouse. High overhead, artillery shells painted long, beautiful lights and then blasted mercilessly into the British lines.

  In the early morning hours of 21 March 1918, Germany commenced the Spring Offensive, her last unholy assault upon the Allied lines, with a stunning, blazing bombardment nearly forty miles in length. Adam Bowen’s battalion, the Second Battalion of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, had been lying in icy trenches for forty days without relief. Rumours had abounded, grim rumours of the Germans’ impending attack, and now with the sky lit up by artillery, all hope of relief was gone. The communication trench connecting the posts of the First and Second Royal Dublin Fusiliers, known as “St. Patrick’s Avenue,” had already been buried as the earthen walls collapsed and men scrambled through the mud for cover.

  Timmy Hannigan still hadn’t recovered from their mad dash under the shelling back to the trenches at Zebra Post. He was sitting on the duckboards, white-faced and wheezing, his fingers clutched desperately round his knees. Adam had acquired a fresh Lee-Enfield rifle—a soundless instrument under the rain of shells. He crawled along the soggy floor of the trench towards his platoon and found Timmy first.

  “All right, Hannigan?”

  Timmy gaped at him, his eyes bulging. “I-I can’t, Lieutenant,” he pleaded. “Please God, sir, get me out of here. I can’t stay.”

  The youngster was showing all the signs of falling apart. Adam had seen men crumble in the madness of battle before, minds disintegrating amidst the horror. He’d known Timmy since the outset of the war, four years ago, and early on had developed a brotherly urge to protect him, for Timmy was in many ways just a boy, six years younger than Adam.

  “Listen to me, Private,” he said, grabbing Timmy’s arm, “you did well today. Bloody well indeed, and you saved my life. We’ll get out of this scrap yet and go home. Understand? You’ll be back in Tipperary before you know it.”

  “We had a fight,” he whimpered.

  “What?” Adam couldn’t hear him above the clamour of the battle.

  “We had a fight! Me and me mam. She’s a widow, sir, and I have five sisters. I was sick of looking after ’em all and the farm and tending the cows. I thought . . . I thought it would be glory to go and fight the Hun. So I ran away, to Dublin, and lied about my age, and . . . ”

  Adam heard only snatches of the blubbered confession, but he nodded. “You’ll be all right, lad. You’ll be—”

  Another shell exploded nearby, showering muck into the trench. Timmy cried out and buried his face in his palms.

  The German cannonade intensified; shells soared and dipped, and the duckboards became slicked with an oily, bloody paste. It was another desperate attempt to win a few acres of territory—more bellowing of artillery in the night, more men storming across blasted plains to be eaten up by mounted guns, more limbs entangled upon barbed wire, and craters of stagnant water swallowing slithery piles of humanity. Adam had seen it all before.

  Then the German assault abruptly ceased. Adam looked for the rest of his platoon. In the eerie silence, he suddenly heard several short whizzing sounds followed by the pop of more shells.

  “Gas, gas, gas!” yelled a voice. “Masks, get ’em on, get ’em on!”

  Undetectable in the gloom and roiling smoke, the German shells’ potency was released. Invisible and silent, it slid towards the British trenches in a wave.

  “Get your damn mask on, Private,” Adam snapped.

  Timmy grabbed at a half-rotted trench ladder for support and pulled his mask round his head. Adam quickly snatched at his own, clumsy now with the dirt inside his eyes and ears. The gas was acrid, stabbing, as unceremonious as the angel of death.

  Less than thirty feet away, another shell landed neatly into the trench. The blast of wood and muck knocked Adam off his feet. He dropped his mask. In the dark he dug his fingers around frantically, scrabbling through the oozing mud.

  “Masks, get ’em on!” someone was shrieking.


  A dozen shells within a mile line had unleashed a wave of toxic mustard gas, and many couldn’t react fast enough. It entered their unprotected airways, stripping their throats raw and scorching their lungs. Adam could hear the desperate hacking and spluttering as men fumbled with masks and tried to purge their innards of the poison. Each desperate inhalation merely prolonged the most horrible of deaths.

  Gratefully retrieving his mask out of the ground, he pulled it on and took deep gasps, the noise of his own breath like some snarling cave troll. With the rifle strapped to his back he crawled forward ten feet, then twenty, passing bodies along the way, their arms akimbo in the throes of death. Through the miasma of smoke and raining debris he saw the door outside the command shelter and he made for it.

  A shape lying across his path made him stop. A young private from the platoon, Adam thought him dead at first, the shrapnel rents in his uniform disgorging black blood. But his eyes were open, his throat trying to find voice. Adam leaned down and clasped his hand. The right side of his chest was opened up, torn red flesh and bones gaping through the khaki. His grip in Adam’s was limp, yet his jaws worked furiously as he mouthed indecipherable words.

  “Stretcher bearers!” Adam lifted his mask and pressed it on the other’s mouth. Up and down the trench, there was nothing but chaos and nightmare. The man squeezed his hand; Adam looked back at him and blinked at the violence of that terrible wound.

  Another shell struck.

  It was too close this time.

  Something ricocheted off the side of his skull, spinning his helmet clear. He fell against the crushed walls of a dugout and blood flooded his eyes. He lifted a shaking hand to his head and felt a strip of bared bone at the side of his temple. He tried to rise but his legs went and he collapsed again.

  “Lieutenant!” Timmy’s voice howled from somewhere.

  Mercifully the darkness took him.

  The grey morning horizon was smeared with ugly tendrils of smoke. Adam sat up on his bed in the Advanced Dressing Station and gazed through the window at the pastureland surrounding Hamel, a small village in the Somme valley. Carts groaning on their axles, laden with ammunitions and engine parts, boxes of biscuits and tinned spam, coils of telegraph wire, and caged hens, cluttered the main road. Beside a small chateau a goat picked at the stubbly grass, tied to a wooden stake by a limp brown rope. Adam grimaced at the stoic application of the animal to its endless routine. The blithe ignorance that a beast possessed—perhaps it was an advantage that it had over man. To the east artillery spewed flames and death. The window shook slightly.

  There was a knock on the door. A woman peered inside.

  “Nurse?” Adam enquired.

  “Lieutenant, there’s a young man who wants to come in.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A private, sir. Apologies, I know this is an officer’s ward. He said his name’s Timmy Hannigan and that he’s one of your men.”

  Adam cleared his throat with some difficulty. “Yes. Send him in.”

  “I’ll fetch you water first, Lieutenant.” The nurse opened a cupboard and retrieved a mug from the mismatch of ointments, field dressings, gauze sponges, and brandy bottles. She filled the mug from a flask and placed it by Adam’s bed. “You know, there’s something I hadn’t mentioned, Lieutenant. When you were brought here the other night, after the shelling, it wasn’t a stretcher that carried you. Hannigan did. By himself.”

  Adam turned his eyes up to her. “Carried me? Little Timmy carried me?”

  She smiled. “I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

  “Well, that beats all.” Adam yawned and stretched. “So young Hannigan’s after saving my life yet again. Go on, then. Let the boy inside.”

  Timmy came in, peeking around the long tent, helmet clutched between his hands. The nurse directed him with a nod, and he approached Adam’s bed.

  “Lieutenant,” he said shyly, “how are you feeling?”

  “Excellent,” Adam lied. “So I hear gratitude is in order. Again. The nurse says you carried me back here.”

  “’Twas nothing, Lieutenant. I saw you fall under that shell. You would have been an age waiting for the stretcher.”

  “That’s a good mile walk, by Christ. And I’m somewhat bigger than you, to say the least. How did you manage it?”

  Timmy grinned. “’Twas nothing, Lieutenant.”

  “Well, how are you? How are things back at the line?”

  Timmy fidgeted with the helmet in his hands. “Bad enough. The German guns are still going, and word says we’re going to have to pull back west to Amiens before the day’s out. Jerry’s blood is up, and he’s coming after us.”

  “Is he now?” Adam sat up and glanced round the ward. “Then I’d better be about my feet again. Can’t spend the rest of the war lying amongst these complainers.” Though his body protested, he already yearned to be back at the front. The ward was the last place a soldier wanted to be.

  “You should rest, Lieutenant.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Private, but I’m fine. I’m getting bored, in fact. Nurse!”

  She turned to him from where she was cutting bandages at a nearby table. “Yes?”

  “When can I be back out?”

  She pursed her lips dubiously. The object, indeed the instruction, was to get wounded men patched up and returned to action as quickly as possible. Even when it went against better medical judgement.

  “Not today, I’d imagine. That’s a nasty gash on the side of your head. Tomorrow . . . maybe.”

  “Good.” Adam winked at Timmy. “Don’t look so worried, Private. You’ll not have to take on Jerry without me.”

  There was a muffled thump and the window shook again. Timmy flinched.

  “Calm down, Private,” Adam chuckled. “That artillery is a good three miles down the line.”

  “Sir,” Timmy began, “I have a favour to ask of you.”

  “Of course. I can hardly say no after you saved my life twice in one night.”

  “I-I have something, sir. A diary. I’ve been keeping a record of my time here.” From the folds of his jacket he produced a small, tattered book. “Silly, really. I just wanted to show me mam when I got home. They censor all the letters, as you know, sir. At least they can’t censor my diary.”

  Adam looked at the work in question. “Not silly at all, Private. I’ve seen you scribbling away on it many the night. Lots of fellows do.”

  Timmy took a deep breath. “I’d like you to give it to my mother, Lieutenant. Promise me you will.”

  “Me?” Adam frowned. “Why would I give it to her? Give it yourself.”

  Timmy looked close to tears. “I’m worried I might not make it, Lieutenant. I’ve had some bad dreams of late.” His hands were trembling. “But if I give it to you, I know it will get there. Please, Lieutenant, you have to promise me.”

  Adam felt a prick of annoyance. He pushed himself higher on the bed and flicked a hand. “Nonsense talk, Private. We’ll both be going home—and soon, too. This war will finish up in a few months, one way or another.”

  “Please!” Timmy suddenly leaned towards him, and there was a frantic look in his eyes. “I beg you, Lieutenant. Please promise me you’ll give it to her.”

  Adam swallowed hard. Reluctantly, he reached for the diary. “All right, Private. If it will shut you up, I promise. But I can also tell you for certain, you’ll be able to deliver this diary home by yourself. You’ll see.” He placed the diary on top of the haversack by his bed.

  Timmy sat back, looking relieved. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

  The nurse gave a discreet cough in the corner. Timmy looked around.

  “Ah. I’d better be going, Lieutenant. They don’t normally allow the ranks in here.”

  Adam clapped his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Private. Tell the platoon to expect me. We’ve a bit of work to do yet, so let’s look sharp about it.”

  “Yes, sir.” Timmy stood up, saluted
Adam with a smile, then turned and left the ward.

  Adam glanced towards the diary. He sighed and kicked the blanket off his legs. “Tomorrow I’m out of here,” he told the nurse. “No ifs, no buts. My lads need me.”

  As it happened, the nurse had little choice.

  The following day, every single man and youngster was retreating westwards as fast as he could manage. After Russia’s surrender, the German army was able to move a large number of its divisions from the eastern to the western front. The overwhelming might of America’s war machine was imminent in Europe, but Germany was determined to wipe out the Allied resistance before it ever arrived.

  The bombardment that began on 21 March, launched from the Hindenburg Line, inflicted over a thousand casualties upon the First and Second Dublin Fusiliers in the space of just ten hours. The bodies of men and horses lay scattered about the trenches, their collective stench overpowering even the best applications of chloride of lime disinfectant. By the following afternoon, taking advantage of the fog and the general disarray, German stormtroopers advanced deep into British positions and the British front line quickly collapsed.

  With his concussion settled and his head bandaged, Adam joined the retreat westwards to Amiens, mingling in with a steady stream of bruised, beleaguered soldiers and creaking gun wagons. A stubborn mist still cloaked the landscape, obscuring visibility, but the distant crump of artillery fire was enough to remind them of who was following their trail.

  Amiens lay in the basin of the River Somme, its canal running all the way to the English Channel. Parts of the old town still wallowed amongst swampland, but the centre was dominated by broad boulevards, cathedrals, and shops. Amiens was also a vital railway junction, crucial to whichever army controlled it.

  The streets were now flooded with British, Australian, and Canadian troops. Adam made enquiries about his superior officers and was shown to a hastily formed command post at the edge of the town. It looked to be a granary of some sort, dark and dank and illuminated only by a few oil lanterns on a long teak table. The private at the door gazed blearily at him as he peered inside.