He was lucky indeed to get his morning ration, a sodden biscuit and a tin of bully beef tossed from an adjoining foxhole in a greasy paper, with a twist of tobacco bundled in for his pipe.
Lucky, yes, to have survived the final month of winter in this hellhole—to have made it from knife-hard frozen mud to soft, yielding, reeking mud.
And lucky, most of all, to have a buddy.
“Breakfast time, my friend,” he said to the one below. “Wish I could split it with you, but all I can spare is a few crumbs.” He began working on the tin with his trench knife…a difficult task with numb, chilled hands. But it was still a familiar, purposeful activity that promised a reward. All he lacked was a third hand to wave away the flies. A pity that his buddy was otherwise occupied.
“We’ve done it, friend. We’ve lived to see the spring.” These wretched flies were a sure sign of spring. They swarmed around his face and the half-cut can in a dizzy haze, an aerial frenzy of buzzing greed. When he reached into his trenchcoat pocket to take out the bun, they immediately covered the greasy bread, in a seething mosaic of beautiful blue-green bodies and shiny lace wings. He had to practically scrape the blighters off with one cupped hand to wolf down a mouthful. When done, he put away the biscuit and brushed the crumbs, with their pursuant flies, onto the body beneath him.
“There you are, friend. A token of thanks for keeping me out of the mud.”
The corpse, all but buried, was a Boche, he felt sure from the gray patches of coat still visible. An imposition to squat on a fellow, true, and one that might be taken as a sign of disrespect. He was the enemy, after all—but even so, a faithful buddy. Without someone, anyone, to stand on, you would sink right in and stick. By night you could be frozen into the mud, with no way to move unless some patrol risked their lives to chip and pry you out. The mud clung and crept, sapping your strength and making you heavy and damp. One could find himself rotten with trench foot, too, like most blokes out here—but for the blessing of a stout friend.
Now something new was coming…a mist, drifting down the trench line on the morning breeze. This wind, like most, brought only the smell of death from more unburied bodies—unburied because, early in the deployment, they had retrieved and respectfully interred the fallen, friend and foe alike, for sanitation and out of simple human decency. But then the shelling came and unburied them, resurrecting each one horribly and blowing some apart in the process. They would then re-bury the pieces. But again when the smoke cleared, the bodies would be unburied again in tinier fragments, so what was the point? Death permeated land and air, with the flies and stench, and the only thing that would cover it was tobacco smoke, a good pipe-bowl of the precious stuff. That killed death itself, the smells of it at least.
Or else, as sometimes happened, a fresh gust wafted in fragrance from the spring pastures just a few hundred meters away, a warm blast redolent of trees and flowers. Almost worse, that, a reminder of the living world one might not survive to see again.
But this breeze was neither stench nor spring. The mist had a greenish tinge as it moved toward Trevor and his friend across the blasted ruin of landscape. The air that bore it had a tang, a sharp antiseptic scent that made the eyes water.
Then Trevor noticed something: The flies, the maddening swarms that filled his vision, were dissipating—no, dying, he could see as the little bodies dropped to the mud bank in front of him. They lay there twitching, quivering their tiny legs in the air.
The mist was over him now, a rolling green curtain, and he flinched in agony. His eyes burned and watered, and when the tears streamed down his cheeks, they burned too. As he tried to draw breath his lungs were instantly afire, spasming in his chest. He pulled a filthy handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth, without reducing the pain. So this was it, gas warfare, the rumor that had spread down the line in recent days.
Then troopers appeared through the mist, monsters in his blurred blinking vision, with bulging eyes and canister-shaped snouts jutting forth. The most recognizable things about them as he struggled to breathe were the points sticking straight up from their heads, the German pickelhaube spiked helmets.
One of them turned its snouted gaze on him, its weapon raised high. Choking on poisonous air, he groped for his rifle and tried to aim it; but the bright bayonet came lancing down. Remorseless it stabbed home in a wave of cleansing pain, and Trevor’s vision exploded into whiteness. As consciousness faded, he felt himself sliding down to join his buddy in the bottom of the hole.
Chapter 28
Saboteurs
The two men met along the starboard Shelter Deck. Matt slowed his pace on recognizing the other, as did Dirk Kroger heading straight for him. The ersatz Dutchman was, after all, the one that he and Flash had identified, in their photograph taken deep in the hold the other night. Matt wondered if he wanted his picture back.
Now, though watchful, the spy seemed unwilling to turn away and avoid this chance encounter. Matt glanced around at the other passengers taking the promenade, or else lingering at the rail in the late afternoon sun. It wasn’t too lonely here, he decided; not dangerously so if they didn’t stay past dark. This stretch of covered deck might be perfect after all for a safe, private meeting. Here they were out of sight of the bridge and beyond anyone’s earshot, but well within view of the nearest idlers.
“Guten Tag, Herr Kroger.”
“Hello, Matt.”
The two halted, facing one another but reluctant even to shake hands. After a moment, by unspoken agreement, they stepped aside to the rail to converse as innocent friends. The roll of the ship and the slight outward cant of the deck made it inconvenient to loiter anywhere else on the promenade.
“Pleasant enough afternoon,” Matthew Vane said. He braced an elbow on the wood-topped rail, rather than leaning out over it and turning his head aside.
“Yes, it is restful,” Dirk Kroger said, similarly placing himself against the rail. “We’re not in the war zone yet.”
“Some of us aren’t even in this war,” Matt said. “But others already seem to be conducting military operations.”
Kroger laughed, ending in a wise smirk that tweaked his dueling scar. “You criticize me for doing exactly what you yourself do, sneaking after dark.”
Matt shrugged. “I’m not the one who’s traveling under a false identity.”
Kroger affected a hurt look. “You will not believe, then, that I, a poor trader, was just checking on my consignment of furs? You think I would creep below decks and spy in the dead of night, like some others?”
Vane ignored the bad acting. “My spying is for the public, not for one side or the other in an inhuman war. It’s my job as a newsman to see and hear all I can and get it into print, if it fits.”
Kroger laughed again, reverting at last to the arrogant Prussian. “Try getting what you saw the other night into print in New York, my good friend! Even your socialist scandal sheet will never touch it. As for false identities…this ship itself, a war transport, masquerades as a commercial liner, using you and your lady friends as decoys to hide behind.” His laugh softened, seeming cynical and knowing in the arrogant Junker way. “Your own home country flies the false flag of a neutral, when all the while they aid the combatants in England and France.”
“So what are you going to do, sink the ship and fight the Americans? Send a thousand innocents to the bottom, and add a few million more to the ranks of your enemies?” Vane tried to keep his tone of speech casual so as to avoid drawing attention. “That won’t help your cause. If I were you, I’d be talking peace.”
Kroger maintained a similar relaxed tone. “I have no desire to sink this ship, though I could do so easily enough. Like you, I’m only interested in finding the truth.”
Vane smiled bitterly. “No, I don’t suppose you’d want her torpedoed while you’re on board yourself. You’d better tell your U-boats to hold off.”
“At night, they’re telling us that even a lit cigar is enough to reveal the whereabouts of a ship at sea.” Vane nodded at the wrapped stogie sticking out of the Dutchman’s vest pocket. “I’m sure you know what to do.”
“Yes, but first it would require a rendezvous, even if one wished to use a light or a semaphore. A U-boat would need to know our exact position well in advance. Unless you think we are being stalked by submarines in the open ocean, or watched through a periscope right now, at full speed.” He waved a hand dismissively at the vacant waves surging past. ‘No, that’s nonsense, and there’s no need for it. If I wished, I could stop the Lusitania in mid-ocean, or even turn her back to New York.”
“Well, why don’t you, then?” Vane asked, half-hopefully calling the sable-hatted spy’s bluff.
Kroger shrugged. “It might be too dangerous. Wait,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as a lone deck-stroller ambled past.
“See here,” he said once the man was gone. Taking the jumbo-sized cigar out of his vest pocket, he stripped off the band and wrapper, letting the breeze carry them overboard. Holding the cigar in two hands, he twisted the ends first one way, then another, and placed it down sidewise on the deck between them.
“What is it, an exploder?”
“Just wait,” the spy said.
After a long, nervous interval the cigar sputtered. From both ends, green flares shot out a foot long, singeing the wooden deck and blistering the varnish. Matt first stepped back in alarm, then kicked out and swept the device overboard with the side of his shoe. It fell to the water and was immediately carried astern in the wake, still flaring and bubbling as it sank out of sight.
Matt looked nervously around, but the idlers far down the rail didn’t seem to have noticed anything. He turned back to the spy, composing himself. “A fire could stop us,” he admitted.
“In the forward hold, it could sink us,” Kroger corrected him. “You were down there. The shells, the fuses–did you see the gun cotton? Tons of it, and not packaged safely.” The German spat overboard in disgust.
“I saw enough,” Matt said. “Time was short, and it’s a hard place to get to, tough getting past the guard. What’s inside those two huge crates?”
Kroger laughed bitterly. “What, indeed? When you find out, tell me. I have my suspicions, but we both were interrupted the other night. You and your friend must have taken the difficult way in. Just go down through the crew quarters and the barracks; the whole port-side corridor is unoccupied. In wartime it’s, what do you call it?…a skeleton crew, with no hands left to watch the cargo.”
“You’re not here to sabotage the ship, then? I suppose not, or you would have done it by now. It’s easy to start a fire.”
“If I were a saboteur, as you say, my mission would be secret,” Kroger said. “I would not be chatting with you about it, would I?”
“No,” Matt reflected. “We’d be too busy trying to shove each other overboard.”
“No need for brutality,” the spy said, smiling. “This isn’t the battle front. There can still be a gentleman’s agreement between us.”
“No need even for that,” Matt replied. “My mission is to get at the truth, and I’ll do my best to see it reported. But I won’t report on you, not unless I think you’re a danger to this ship or the people on it, or to my country.” He reached out, took Kroger’s extended hand and shook it. “I’m still a neutral in this war.”
Chapter 29
Lace Curtains
Mounting the stoop of the brownstone, Iggy kept his head low. The idlers outside gave him the once-over, gave him the nod. On the corner was Mikey, who knew him from the old block. Studs at the door recognized him, too, and let him in without a word.
Inside was nice…the bay window, with the little chips of colored glass reflecting at the top, letting the spring sunlight in through pretty curtains. In the parlor was all the nice stuff that you saw through the window—Tiffany lamps, crystal jugs, the shiny gas mantelpiece all tiled and mirrored. So it all looked real nice, like a shrine in a church.
“What’s it?” Studs asked, reaching for the flat packet in Ig’s hand.
“For him, the boss only.” Iggy pulled the envelope behind his back. “He here?”
“He is all right, if you’re up to it.” Bending forward, Studs casually frisked him. “In there,” he said, stepping back and pointing to a dark-paneled double door, just opposite the ornate carved rail on the curving stairway. “But go easy. It was a long night.”
Going in alone was creepy—a thrill to be sent straight to the man, but who knew how he’d take it? The heavy brown door, the shadows in the room, the broad dark shape against the lacy white window.
There was Big Jim Hogan, the East Side ward boss. His curly red hair was fading to gray, the red mustache drooping over heavy stubbled jowls, eyes all puffy with drink. There on the desk before him stood a crystal carafe of fine Irish whiskey, brown as bog water and half empty. Lots of dead soldiers gleamed out of the elephant’s-foot waste basket, bottles emptied the night before. That explained it all.
On seeing it, Iggy felt his stomach pleasantly flip. He could use some of that.
“What is it? Who sent you?” The gruff voice grated hung-over, as the heavy body leaned forward in the swivel chair. The eyes looked bleary and watery.
“Patsy from uptown sends me. I’m Iggy.” He pushed the envelope across the desk, his hand almost touching the decanter and the upturned glasses. “This was in the Boston paper on Sunday. Patsy thought you’d want to see it.”
“Good ol’ Patsy.” Hogan’s thick paws drew in the envelope and tore it open. “What is it, bad news?”
Iggy said nothing, not wanting to admit he’d seen the picture, but not wanting to lie either. Bunch of women on a boat, so what? He waited while Big Jim smoothed the newsprint and held it up to the light. Then the big fist came crashing down, rattling the glasses on the desk.
“That’s her, by damn! The little tart!” Jim peered closer, growing agitated as he read the caption aloud. “‘Nurses Departing for Europe on the SS Lusitania.’ Nurses, my ass! She’ll need nursin’ after I catch up with her!”
“What is it, boss?” Studs came in to check on the noise. “Is it Maisie again? You OK?”
“I’m OK,” Hogan raged, waving the flimsy newsprint, “but she won’t be! It’s her, all right, I couldn’t miss her.”
He heaved himself up from his chair. “That stubborn chin of hers, that little pug nose…I’ll puggle-ize her good, if I ever get my hands on her!” He slapped down the picture and thrashed his ham-fists in the air before him, crazy-drunk.
“That’s her all right, you bet,” Studs said, glancing down at the photo as he moved around the desk. “Take it easy, boss.” He shot a look at Iggy. “You, messenger boy, scram outta here.”
“The Lusitania, I knew it! That’s her style! That’s why I sent Knucks down there. Didn’t I tell you I knew it?”
He grabbed Studs, mauling the shoulders of his coat. “She was lace-curtain Irish all the way, not shanty Irish like me! Why’d she run out? I tried to make it nice for her.”
He waved a ham-hand around the snazzy furnished room. With his violent motions, the smell of his alcoholic sweat mingled with stale cigar smoke in the place.
“Yeah, you did, real nice. Calm down, boss, who knows why they run? Let Knucks worry about it.”
Grappling with Hogan, Studs didn’t bother with Iggy who still waited, hoping against hope to be offered a drink.
“Knucks’ll take care of it,” Hogan raved. “He’ll settle that thieving dame. Then I won’t have to bring her back here and beat her to death myself.”
“Yeah,
you watch it, boss,” Studs said, wrestling the big man back down into his chair. “Just have another drink and keep it quiet.” He looked over his shoulder furiously at Iggy. “You, pour him one, and then get lost!”
Iggy reached for the decanter and a glass, poured a stiff one, and slid it across the desk. He thought of pouring a second glassful for himself, but he didn’t dare. His hand trembled a little as he set the crystal down.
“Knucks’ll finish her.” Hogan was raving into the air, held down by Studs. “But first, he’ll get me back that muster list, or just toss it overboard, no one the wiser. The money, I don’t care. He can use it to weigh down that little tramp’s body for all I care!” His drunken babbling stopped momentarily as he sucked down the drink.
“You, wait there!” Studs turned murderously on Iggy, who was already sneaking out of the room. “Come back here.” But the bodyguard was still occupied with Hogan, who gripped his sleeve.
“I don’t ever want to see her again,” Big Jim was moaning. “I don’t care, not a bit!”
Meanwhile Iggy was out the door, down the front stoop and up the street. He walked smooth but fast, head down, nodding to Mikey without pausing to chat. Once around the corner he took off running, gaining a block before a whistle went up and shouts of pursuit came from behind him.
He had an earful. The muster list gone, that was some big deal. He knew Patsy would want the information, and wouldn’t be too stingy neither to offer him a drink.
That poor dame Maisie, if she was found floating, it could be trouble, he thought as he ran. But this muster list business, that could spell the end of somebody…even somebody as big as Big Jim.
Chapter 30
War Zone
Captain Turner gazed astern at the lifeboats being swung out from the ship’s rail. From the starboard wing of the officers’ bridge, he looked down on his men toiling in the morning damp. The teams worked their way astern along the Boat Deck, cranking out the curving steel davits and removing the canvas covers from the boats, so that they hung ready for lowering in time of need.
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