Lovely War(38)

Hazel’s face appeared. Gone was the neat young man who’d caught her eye. In his place, a filthy brute caked with dirt. Chapped hands, blackened nails, a grimy face, a scraggly beard.

His comrades had changed. Billy Nutley was leaner, more brawn than bulk. His rifle lay in his huge arms like a toy. Chad Browning, the skinny ginger, was still wiry but with a commanding stance. He knew what his gun was for. Mick Webber, bricklayer, had been strong, but now he was quick and agile, the first to finish each obstacle course.

Frank Mason was still Frank Mason. That was reassuring.

It was nothing now to throw the bolt, clear the chamber, shove the bolt back to load the new bullet and cock the hammer, take aim, and shoot. The bolt-action maneuver that had been so stiff and clumsy at first was now effortless, automatic. Less than a second on the clock. It turned British soldiers into ruthless killing machines. Lethal weapons in Field Marshal Haig’s hands.

It’s them or you.

“Load!”

He pulled strippers from his pocket and loaded them into the chamber.

“Take your sights!”

He peered through the aperture at his target. Some clever Tommy had painted “Wee Willie Winkie” on the rough wooden human cutout. One of many names for Kaiser Wilhelm.

“Take aim, fire, and note where the bullet goes. The difference between where you aimed and where it went is how much you adjust, each time. There’s no wind today, so the distance and direction gives you the tolerance you’ll need in the future, at this range.”

Soldiers looked to see if it was okay to reveal that they had no idea what he meant.

“Look. It’s simple. If you aim for the middle of the chest, but the bullet goes through his brain, your rifle shoots a foot higher than you think. It’s twenty-five yards. It’d be different farther out. So if you want to hit his heart, aim for his crotch. If you plug him in the crotch, that’s fine too! Rifles up! Cock position!”

James deflated his lungs and cocked the rifle.

“Aim!”

He centered the finder in the view hole, and steadied it on the two Ls in “Willie.” His finger brushed the curved steel trigger.

“Fire!”

Whump went the rifle butt against his shoulder. The bullet punched the wooden heart.

Webber, to his left, whistled. “Lookit you, Alderidge! Willie Winkie’s a dead man.”

James couldn’t believe his eyes. “Dumb luck.”

“Nah,” said Webber. “Good eye.”

Frank Mason shaded his face against the wintry sun. “Good gun.”

“Now, calculate what your tolerance should be,” the trainer cried. “Ready? Clear!”

Ka-chunk. Dozens of soldiers, in mechanized, deadly symmetry, threw back their bolts and shoved them in. Chambers spat out the last bullets’ empty casings. They fell into the slush.

“Calculate . . . aim . . . fire!”

Another perfect shot.

“Clear!” Ka-chunk. “Take this new margin into consideration. Average the two. Aim!”

James emptied himself of air. Straight at the heart.

“Fire!”

Two inches off. Still fatal.

“Clear!”

Ka-chunk.

“Aim!”

Out went the air.

“Fire!”

“Clear!”

“Aim!”

“Fire!”

“That’ll do. Rifles down!”

Spent casings lay scattered like birdseed at his feet. It felt like a horse had kicked his shoulder. But his pulse thrummed. He liked shooting.

Too bad, he thought, Germans couldn’t be made of wood.

“Off to dinner with you now,” the trainer said. He beckoned another officer and pulled him toward James’s target. They pointed to his results. A little flush of pride didn’t hurt on a cold day. Could he tell Hazel about it without sounding like a braggart?

He gathered his stuff and started to head for the mess hall with the others, when a call from the trainer stopped him.

“Hold up there, Private . . .”

“Alderidge,” said James. He stood at attention.

The trainer reached his side, along with the other officer. “You a hunter, Alderidge?”

James shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Shoot clay pigeons?”

“No, sir.”

“Really.” The trainer stroked his chin and glanced significantly at the other officer. “Impressive shooting, there. We’ll note that on your file.” He nodded to James. “At ease, Private. Off to mess with you.”





APHRODITE


     Girl Singer—January 12, 1918





ANOTHER EVENING, a few days later, found Hazel and Colette at the piano, rehearsing.

Colette’s gravelly voice, sultry and low, was mesmerizing. Hazel couldn’t believe her talent. Her voice crackled with longing. Maybe, Hazel thought, one must suffer much to sing like that. She felt the power tingling down her spine.

Aubrey heard the siren’s song, even before he chucked a handful of pebbles against the windows. Who sang like that? He had to know. Singing foreign, but with that voice, so what?

He tossed the pebbles, then waited. Nothing. He chucked another handful.

Hazel unbolted the door and peeked around the corner of the building. “Who’s there?”