‘Me neither. But he does seem hellfire anxious to go. Maybe he thinks the boss can command the weather, eh?’
Stephen clapped him on the shoulder and moved on to post sentries and detail listening parties for the saps that lay a few yards out in no man’s land. On his way back he passed the details to Gardner, who had the watch. When he returned to the dugout he found Wilson sitting alone, a mug of tea on the table in front of him. He was staring into the steam, and Stephen silently edged around the table and stretched out on the plank bunk that filled the back wall. As he lay there, a large brown rat ran out on the shelf over the table, raised his snout to sniff the air and looked at both of them with his shiny black eyes before running on into the shadows.
‘I’ve half a mind to send him out anyway, the impudent shite,’ Wilson growled a few moments later.
‘You know very well you won’t.’
‘Oh aye? And why wouldn’t I? He as near as dammit called me shy – and in front of his men, too. I should send him out and be rid of the bugger.’
‘But then you’d lose three good men as well. And if he was wounded it would be your fault for sending him, no matter how badly he wants to go. Best to wait. It’s bound to cloud over soon. He’ll have his chance tomorrow night.’
‘I hope to God you’re right, Stephen. He’ll not talk to his superior officer like that again. I don’t care who his uncle is. I’ll not stand for it – and to hell with the consequences.’
‘This clear spell can’t last forever. Tomorrow night or the night after. I guarantee it.’
Wilson wrapped his bony hands around the enamel mug and blew on his tea. In the flickering light of the candles his eyes were sunk in deep black sockets and he looked tired and strained. Home leave would do him a power of good.
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ he said again, but Stephen had already nodded off.
He snapped awake, still in his greatcoat. The dugout was pitch dark and somebody had thrown a blanket over him. For a moment he couldn’t think what had woken him, but then he heard the screech and pop of a rocket, followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire. He heard Wilson cursing in the dark as he flew up from the table, knocking his chair backwards, and rolled off the bunk and up the steps after him. They stumbled out to find the trench bathed in the stark white light of flares and SOS rockets, and the sentries shouting and firing in quick succession.
‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ Wilson roared as Kinsella came running up.
‘Mr Gardner reports heavy machine-gun fire from near the house, sir, and they’re letting off rockets to beat the band—’
‘Get into the house sap and see if it’s a raid, Mr Ryan,’ Wilson shouted, and then, ‘Corporal Kinsella, make contact with the company on our left. Tell Captain Clarke we may need their support. Where the hell is Mr Devereux?’
Stephen left them behind, running to the little curtained burrow that led into the house sap. He started to scramble in, but collided with somebody crawling out. It was Breen of the black feet.
‘Beg parding, sir,’ he touched his forehead as he tried to extricate himself from the narrow hole, ‘Mr Gardner is after sending me for more ammunition. He’s putting down covering fire for the patrol to get back in.’
‘Patrol? What patrol?’
‘Mr Devereux’s patrol, sir. Sure aren’t they after getting pinned down at the house.’
‘Christ Almighty,’ Stephen swore, ‘Go and tell Captain Wilson, then hurry back with the ammunition.’
He flung himself into the tunnel through the trench parapet and scrambled along the shallow gully that led to the saphead. He found Gardner lying in the shallow saucer of earth, firing the Lewis gun in short bursts at the flashes blazing in the dark beyond the ruined house.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded.
‘Devereux’s lot went out about half an hour ago, but I lost track of them until all hell broke loose and they came haring back to the house. I think they’re pinned down now. Don’t seem to be moving – see for yourself.’
Another flare screeched up into the night as Stephen stuck his head above the edge of the sap. There were three dark figures huddled on this side of the ruined house, about thirty yards away, but only one of them was returning fire with his revolver. Gardner fired off another burst that ended suddenly with the flat click of an empty ammunition drum.
‘Wilson didn’t authorize the raid,’ Stephen said, and Gardner looked as if he had been kicked.
‘But he told me—’
He was cut off by the ear-splitting shriek of an artillery shell, then the hard percussive crack of the detonation. Whiz-bangs. The two men pressed themselves flat as frozen earth and stones rattled down on their helmets, then Stephen glanced out to the house again. It was a German SOS marker. The moment they saw those distress flares going up, the German artillery would hit it with everything they had. Breen came crawling up with drum magazines in the crook of his arms, grinning wickedly.
‘Pardon for the delay, sirs. Captain Wilson’s compliments and he says you’re to shoot Mr Devereux if the opportunity presents itself.’
Now that their artillery was firing, the German machine guns grew quieter. Another ear-splitting shriek as two more whiz-bangs fell on the German side of the house, silhouetting the jagged walls in white incandescent light. They had the range all right.
‘If they don’t get a bloody move on they’ll be flattened!’ Gardner shouted, hammering the drum onto the Lewis gun with the heel of his hand and loosing off another burst. ‘They must be wounded.’
Wounded, or just terrified, thought Stephen. It would take a more resolute man than Devereux to run for cover through an artillery barrage.
‘Keep firing at those machine guns!’ he ordered, and before Gardner could answer he had pulled himself over the rim of the sap and was running for the house. Instantly, the German machine guns came to life again, throwing a glowing line of tracer through the air in front of him, but he didn’t flinch; his only thought was to reach the cover of the low wall ahead. A shell landed behind him and something hit him hard in the small of the back, punching him forward, sending him sprawling on his face. But he was there and, using every ounce of his forward momentum, he scrambled into the shelter of the wall.
It didn’t take long to see why they weren’t moving. Devereux was stretched on his back, his head and face a bloody mess. At first glance Stephen thought he was dead, but when he laid his hand on him he groaned and moved, his arm coming up feebly. He crawled over him to where Sergeant Dwan was sitting against the wall, trying to reload a revolver with one hand while his other clutched the wound in his thigh. Another man was lying beside him, twitching, his bloody hands held over his scorched face and smoke coming from his hair.
‘Where’s Tanner?’ Stephen shouted, his lips almost brushing Dwan’s ear. There was the crash and bang of another salvo, the earth shook, and a piece of the wall blew outwards in a cloud of dust.
‘That’s Tanner.’ Dwan jerked his chin at the twitching man, ‘Byrne’s dead in the German sap.’
‘What about you? Can you walk?’
Dwan shook his head and the ground heaved under them as another shell landed over the wall. A brick flew from the top and smashed into Stephen’s helmet, knocking it half off his head and stunning him. But he already knew what he had to do, and he didn’t have long.
‘I’ll come back for you,’ he shouted, and dragged Tanner into a sitting position, paying no heed to his screams. Kneeling first, he managed to stand up in a wobbling crouch with Tanner draped across his back. Bullets barked and spat angrily off the top of the wall, but he turned around and grabbed Devereux by the collar of his greatcoat, dragging him along as he staggered back to the saphead. He’d only taken half a dozen steps before he thought it was too much. Tanner was doing his feeble best to help him by holding onto his waist, but the dead weight of Devereux felt like it would pull his arm off. Doggedly, he kept going; step by painful step. His knees buckled but held
, and he felt dreadfully exposed as he went back to the sap, like walking through a tunnel with walls of fire and earth. It seemed to go on forever, but then there was Gardner’s grave face as he came running out to help.
He dumped Tanner into his arms, dropped Devereux within reach of the sap and turned back to fetch Dwan. That was quicker; a dozen long strides and he was there. The Germans must have realized that there was no attack and their fire was slackening. Nevertheless, as he staggered back to the sap with Dwan’s arm about his shoulders, a shell smashed into the chimneystack, bringing it down with a dull crash. He felt the hot wind of the detonations blasting past him, something knocking into his shoulder, but then he was safe, slithering into the sap, scrambling, crawling forward after Gardner and Breen, dragging the other two to safety.
By the time he slid into the trench, the tumult was starting to die down. The machine guns were still firing, flares screeching up from the bays, but order was being restored as Stephen hurried along to find Wilson. Cease firing! Cease firing! He rounded a traverse and stumbled into a great mound of earth half-filling the trench. A shell had blown in the parapet, and by the light of a storm lantern men were digging at the fresh earth with shovels, plates, their bare hands.
Wilson was there, digging with the men. He saw Stephen and scrambled over the mound.
‘Corporal Power is under that,’ he said grimly, then took him by the arm and led him back the way he had come. ‘What about Devereux’s patrol? Is he still alive?’
‘I believe so, sir. Only Byrne was killed. All the others are wounded. Mr Gardner has sent for the doctor.’
‘By God, Stephen, I’ll make him wish he was dead.’
But he said nothing when he saw the three survivors stretched out on the firing step, Gardner helping the whimpering Tanner onto a stretcher while the battalion’s doctor crouched over Devereux. A shell splinter had opened his skull, cleaving through scalp and bone. There was a gaping slit where he had parted his hair and the brain was visible inside, a white mass oozing blood. And yet he was still alive, his breath coming in long, loud gasps.
Stephen suddenly felt his knees go weak and he slumped against the wall. Wilson was saying something to him but he could barely hear him – his voice sounded so very far away. His hands were shaking; he was shivering uncontrollably, his head spinning. Then, in a heaving rush, he felt himself being sick into the bottom of the trench.
It was nearly dawn by the time he got back to the front trench. Wilson had insisted that he go with the doctor, and Stephen had been too dazed and nauseous to disagree. He stumbled after the stretchers and found a quiet corner in the regimental aid post. An orderly brought him a mug of tea but he let it go cold, instead trying to squeeze the tremors out of his hands by making fists. He couldn’t take his eyes off the doctor standing in the lantern light, soothing the wounded in a rough and ready tone and working with his bandages, needles and swabs. Devereux was the worst. As the doctor examined his head, he twitched and writhed as if somebody was applying electric shocks. Finally, he threw off his blanket and brayed wetly with the pain, and Stephen was relieved when they took him away at last and the aid post fell silent. The doctor wiped his hands on a bloody rag and sank tiredly into a canvas chair.
‘How are you feeling, Ryan?’
‘Fine – better now,’ he nodded to the spot where Devereux’s stretcher had been. ‘What about him? Will he survive?’
‘I really couldn’t say,’ the doctor shrugged as he pulled out a silver cigarette case. ‘I’ve given up trying to second-guess the Almighty on that score. He’s young, he’s fit; he may pull through. It’s all a question of will power.’ He opened the cigarette case, ‘Smoke?’
Stephen shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I’d best be getting back.’
He’d already seen the first carrying parties going past, bringing up food and ammunition for the day. It would be light soon, and the morning stand-to would be ordered. He stood up and walked along the communication trench, suddenly feeling stiff with the cold. Everything seemed eerily quiet; there was no firing now, and not a soul moved except the sentries, who turned and nodded to him as he passed.
‘All right, sir?’ Kinsella asked, rising up out of the shadows like a wraith.
‘Yes, I’m fine now, thank you, sergeant.’ Stephen answered with a weary smile. ‘All quiet, I see.’
‘All quiet, sir. Captain Wilson’s in the dugout.’
Stephen passed through the gas curtain and breathed in the familiar fuggy reek of paraffin and sweat and earth. Wilson was sitting at the table with pen and paper, and the contents of Devereux’s haversack emptied out in front of him. His face was grim as he looked up, but then he smiled.
‘Come in, Stephen, sit down. How are you now? Feeling better?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, thank you,’ Stephen took the other chair and set his helmet down on the table. ‘Is everything all right here? What about Corporal Power?’
Wilson shook his head, ‘Dead, I’m afraid. Blast killed him, most likely. But, however, it could have been worse. I’ve already drafted my official report,’ he gestured at the page in front of him, ‘needless to say, you feature prominently. Mr Gardner told me what you did. Quite a feat, if you ask me.’
‘Well . . .’ Stephen felt himself blushing, not sure how to reply, ‘it all happened so fast, I hardly had time to think.’
‘Aye, well these things often happen that way.’ Wilson nodded, sensing that Stephen wasn’t of a mind to talk about it just then. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve also got to explain Mr Devereux’s actions in my report, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to that. I was just, well . . .’ He gestured at the pile of belongings on the table, plainly embarrassed. ‘Well, I don’t know. I thought I should write to his next of kin anyway. I’m not even sure who to write to. I’d rather not write to his uncle, who’ll get the official report anyway. I don’t suppose you know any of his family?’
It came as a shock to Stephen to realize that he knew almost nothing about Devereux. Three months living together and they’d probably had ten minutes of conversation.
‘I knew his fiancée, after a fashion,’ he admitted. ‘But I never met his family. They were in the newspaper business, and I believe they had an estate in County Wexford.’
‘He was writing a letter,’ Wilson held up an open envelope, ‘There’s no address on it, but it begins “Dear Father”, and it goes on about the raid he was going to lead. He had high hopes about it, you know. He talks about “restoring the honour of our family” – what do you make of that?’
Stephen shrugged. He sensed a conflict in Wilson’s emotions despite his earlier harsh words. Devereux had disobeyed a direct order and got two men killed and three more seriously wounded. Wilson was perfectly within his rights to tell the truth – to blame everything on Devereux – and yet Stephen felt he wouldn’t. Devereux had paid for his folly. There was no point in heaping ignominy on top.
Not waiting for an answer, Wilson shook his head and started stuffing Devereux’s things back in his haversack.
‘What honour will he bring them now?’ he asked in a tone of disgust, ‘Even if he lives he’ll be a cripple. It’ll eat him up for the rest of his life, Stephen – him and those who love him. He’ll not thank you for what you’ve done, lad. You mark my words, he’ll not thank you for it at all.’
From the London Gazette
His Majesty the KING has been graciously pleased to confer the Military Cross on the undermentioned Officers and Warrant Officers in recognition of their gallantry and devotion to duty in the field:–
T./ LT. STEPHEN JAMES RYAN, R.D.F.
For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty. He shewed the greatest courage and disregard for danger while rescuing wounded men in full view of the enemy positions. Unable to bring all the wounded to safety on his first attempt, he returned to their position while under very heavy enemy fire and completed the evacuation without further casualties. His gallantry and determination set a fine example to hi
s men.
IX
20 January 1917
My first day in command and our first turn in new trenches. I lost my first man just hours after we got here. I hope that isn’t the shape of things to come.
A sniper got him early this morning just after stand-to. The weather is bloody freezing (as usual) and after making my rounds I was looking forward to a nice hot mug of tea when I heard the shot. I knew it was close by and when I ran around a traverse to investigate I cannoned into Kinsella running to fetch me. His face doesn’t lend itself to showing emotion, but he looked shocked.
He brought me to young McCarthy – a boy from Carlow who came up with the last draft of replacements. He had been shot in the face; there was a neat little hole just beside his nose, and the back of his head was a mess. It’s hard to find good things to say at these times, but at least it was quick – he literally didn’t know what hit him. But that was no consolation to his friend, who was crying his eyes out a few feet away. His name was Dalton and they had grown up together, joined the army together and trained together. They did everything together until this morning, when curiosity got the better of McCarthy and he looked over the parapet into no man’s land. The low sun must have shone on his face like a mirror.
It’s my own rotten fault. The warning was right there in the divisional intelligence summary, but I didn’t see it until it was too late. Wilson must be even more efficient than I thought, because I don’t know how he finds the time for all the paperwork. There are returns to be filled in for everything, maps to study, and the divisional intelligence summaries (known as the comic cuts) to read. Most of it isn’t too bad, but the comic cuts are hard-going. They are written in the most stuffy, impenetrable language, and usually contain dire statements about the political situation in Russia. Right at the end of the current one is a warning about a German sniper operating ‘with great effectiveness’ in this area. Unfortunately, by the time I was able to read that far, it was too late for poor McCarthy.
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