Lovely War(78)

Chad Browning was all James could think about. Flopping along on his back. He must be in agony. Feisty, funny Chad. Who wouldn’t be a soldier, eh? Oh, it’s a shame to take the pay!

They reached a Red Cross team and handed Chad over. His body burned through the trench coat as though the Flammenwerfer still had him alight. He was alive. Nothing more they could do.

“Third Section. Is that you?”

Clive Mooradian and stocky Benji Packer swam into view.

“Come on, me darlings,” said Clive. “German infantry are following the storm troopers, following the barrage. They’ve taken a section of the firing line, and we’re going to take it back.”

“Firing line?” said Mick. “Storm troops just kicked us out of the support line!”

Private Mooradian shrugged. “Storm troops don’t stick around,” he said. “Let’s get back there before Fritz gets too comfortable and starts rearranging the furniture.”

“Do you chaps know what happened to Sergeant McKendrick?” asked James.

“Wounded, this morning, somebody said,” said Benji Packer. “Badly concussed by a shell blast to the officers’ quarters. He may pull through.”

They followed 2nd Section back toward the front line, through the choking maze of the crowded communication lines. Another grenade dropped into the line, just behind where they’d been.

“That’s it,” Mason declared. “You lads go on. I’m going up top to take out the bastard shooting those grenades. Gimme a boost, Alderidge.”

James froze. “You’ll be a sitting duck up there, Frank.”

“Come on,” cried Benji. “You’re gumming up the line.”

“Let me,” said James. “I’m a better shot, and I don’t have a wife and kid at home.”

“Quit bragging, Jimmy,” snapped Clive. “Who’s it gonna be?”

“We’ll both go,” said Mason. “Jesse James here can take out the Jerries. I’ll cover him.”

“Catch up to us, then, “said Mooradian. “Got ammo? Right. Up you go.”

Billy laced his fingers together and heaved James over the parapet. He landed and flattened himself. He still had fog for cover, but without trench walls beside him, he felt naked and exposed. Once he’d hated the trenches. Now he was lost without them.

Frank Mason sailed up over the top and landed smack on James’s rump.

“Sorry, chappie,” said Frank. “Nothing personal.”

They peered through their rifle sights into the swirling fog.





ARES


     Sniper in the Snow—March 21, 1918





WHAT’S IT LIKE, being a sniper in the snow?

The fog was a wall of snow. Such pure whiteness. Like a terrible joke. It blanketed the sounds of death and destruction.

James had fought against being a sniper. But he was one now, like it or not. Snipers need their blinds. Their covers. Their protective plates to shield them while they quietly watch, wait, kill. But now battle engulfed him.

James and Frank inched forward, crawling on their bellies.

“Come on, Fritz, where are you?” whispered Mason.

James held up a hand to silence him. There was so much noise and commotion from heavy guns and swarming soldiers that he couldn’t pick out a footstep or a cracked twig like he could on a midnight watch. But, maybe . . .

There. In the distance. A gray form, creeping. Taking aim with an enormous gun. A rifle grenade launcher.

James aimed for the heart. Down went the shooter.

“Move move move,” hissed Mason. “Now they know we’re here.”

They clutched their rifles and rolled sideways a few yards.

Sure enough, a storm trooper crept through where they’d just been, searching.

Crack went Mason’s pistol. The German’s head snapped sideways. Blood sprouted from his temples.

“Great shot,” murmured James.

“You’re not the only one who knows what to do with a gun.”

They rolled and waited. “They know there’s a trap, now,” Mason whispered.

Nothing moved. But someone was out there. James felt it.

In pantomime, he told Mason: You stay here. Watch. I’ll go this way. You cover me.

Mason nodded.

Inch by inch, James slid to the right until he was three yards from Mason. The fog thinned as the morning sun burned it away. He could see Mason, watching him.

Then he saw what Mason couldn’t see. Looming up behind him. A storm trooper with a rifle trained right on his friend.

No time to swing his own rifle around. With his free left hand, he pulled the German pistol from his belt. Could he shoot with his left?

In one fluid movement, he cocked the pistol and blasted it into the German’s chest.

The fog reclaimed the falling Jerry. But Mason, startled, jumped up on hands and knees, and stood upright.

An incoming whine.

A silver flash.

An explosion, up. A column of dirt and smoke. A bang of percussive air shoving James back, blasting dirt in his face.

When the smoke lifted, and James scrubbed the grit from his eyes, Frank Mason wasn’t there anymore. Just a fire, a helmet, a torn pair of boots, and a little charred prayer book.