The Devil in No Man's Land: 1917 (2 page)

Thirty yards before them, sunk into the swamp of no man's land, a German sentry post was just visible in the darkness. The faint orange glow of a cigarette flickered through the concrete slit in the front of the box, illuminating the square, heavy shape of a machine gun, pointed no more than five degrees to the right of their position. Captain Harker checked his watch and whispered an order to his men, who immediately dropped to the sodden ground behind a wide bank of earth. Private Potts gently rested the barrel of his Lee-Enfield rifle on the top of the ridge, and waited.

Far to the east, behind the Allied trenches they had emerged from, a series of deep booms shook the ground beneath them. The men of the squad lowered their faces to the ground and waited for the artillery shells to fall.

Giant explosions detonated all around them, throwing earth into the sky in volcanic bursts of mud and stagnant water. The sound was so loud it appeared to come from outside the world; it seemed inconceivable that anything built by human hands could create such a noise, a blinding, deafening roar that shook each man to his bones and spun his stomach. For more than a minute, the shells fell steadily around the squad, filling the air with such a quantity of dust and mud that it became difficult to know where the earth stopped and the air began. Harker and his men didn't flinch. They had been in the eye of an artillery storm many times before.

As the frequency of the explosions began to diminish, one shell dropped out of the sky directly on to the German sentry position, shattering the concrete roof of the post and obliterating the earth into which it was dug. Quincey raised his head and looked at Potts, who nodded at his Captain. He wore a look of grim determination on his face as he placed his right eye against the telescopic sight fixed to the top of his rifle.

Slowly, horribly slowly, three German soldiers emerged from the sentry box. In the pale light cast by the moon, Harker could see the blood running thickly from their ears; the direct hit had struck all three men deaf.

Another shell crashed to earth, maybe fifty yards to the left of the squad's position, and Potts squeezed his trigger. The explosion masked the crack of the rifle, as a plume of scarlet sprayed up from just below the helmet of one of the German soldiers, who crumpled to the ground. His compatriots did not appear to even notice. They staggered in an erratic circle, eyes wide, mouths hanging open. As the final shells of the barrage landed, Potts put them both out of their misery.

Harker waited until he was sure the assault was over, then ordered his men back into crouched positions and led them through the newly empty section of the German line.

Walking beyond the German trenches was like entering an alien world.

The relentless artillery barrage had contorted the ground into great undulating rises and troughs, and the going was slow. The men picked their way carefully over vicious outcrops of shattered stone and wood, between fallen tree trunks and round half-hidden pools of mud, lying in wait to pull a man down.

To their right, a searchlight swung in a wide, long arc, painting the blasted landscape a pale white. To the left, a low hill rose above them, thickly tangled with the exposed roots of broken trees. The men of the Special Reconnaissance Unit were funnelled between these two obstacles, down a narrow valley of sliding mud and shifting rock, Quincey Harker in the lead, followed by Lieutenant Thorpe and the four Privates.

“Have you ever seen worse?” muttered Private Kavanagh.

“No,” replied Ellis. “This is like nothing I've seen before.”

As the men reached the floor of the valley, the walls of earth now rising above their heads on both sides, the path widened, revealing a large pool of gently shifting mud. Water ran down the valley wall to their left, splashing into the pool from an outcrop of rock and causing the thick liquid to bubble and ripple. A narrow border of solid earth ran round the right-hand edge of the pool, along which the Germans had laid duckboards, end to end.

McDonald crouched down, picked a stone from the earth beside his feet, and flicked it out into the middle of the pool. It vanished into the brown ooze, leaving no trace. The Scottish Private swore under his breath.

“Careful men,” warned Harker. “Very careful.”

He led his squad on to the duckboards. There were four of them, laid end to end in a crooked semi-circle that skirted the edge of the pool. The wall of earth beside it ran with water and shifted constantly, in and out, as though breathing. Harker stepped on to the creaking wood, trying to watch the ground and the pool and the wall at the same time. Potts and McDonald followed him, Ellis and Kavanagh behind them. Thorpe brought up the rear, facing the way they had come, his rifle set against his shoulder in case they were being followed.

Harker was a third of the way across the boards, his back to the wall, moving in short, careful side steps, when the earth behind him let out a spluttering groan and a small torrent of icy water poured over his shoulder and down the front of his tunic. He froze, whispering for his men to do the same. The six members of the squad stopped and waited. The wall moved again, liquid mud oozing out of cracks and holes in the surface like blood from a slow wound, then settled with an unnervingly human groan that shook the ground beneath their feet.

Quincey waited as long as he dared, then shifted his shoulders away from the wall, very slowly, in case they were now all that was holding it in place. He jerked a thumb towards the far side of the pool and started to inch his way along the duckboards. Behind him, his men did the same.

Harker was about to step back on to solid ground when there was a deafening roar of water behind him. He turned in time to see a section of the wall give way completely, the clotted earth disintegrating into sludge, and a sheet of dark, freezing water sweeping Ellis off his feet and out into the thick brown pool.

“Stand where you are!” he roared at his squad, who immediately pressed themselves against the remains of the wall. He ran back across the duckboards, his feet slipping and sliding on the newly slick wood, and stood at the edge of the breach through which the water was pouring. He looked out across the dark surface of the pool, now churned and frothing, and could not see Ellis.

“Find him!” he shouted. “Quickly, find him.”

The rest of the squad turned on their torches and scanned the pool, the watery yellow lights illuminating foaming mud and swirling water.

Nothing.

Harker could hear his heart thumping in his chest.

I can't see him.

The water rushing through the collapsed wall of earth slowed to a steady trickle and the thick pool of mud started to settle.

I can't see him.

“There!” yelled Kavanagh, pointing at a spot about six feet from the duckboards. Five beams of light converged and picked out Ellis's pale white face. His eyes were closed; a thick stream of blood ran from his temple. The mud was up to his chin; his face, which looked strangely peaceful, was all that could be seen of him. As they looked at their friend, Harker saw the foul sludge creep up to his lower lip, and this awful sight broke his paralysis.

“Kavanagh! McDonald!” he yelled. “To me.”

He dragged his pistol out of his pocket and threw it to the ground, along with his helmet. From his pack he pulled a ten-foot length of rope, the end of which he handed to Kavanagh as the Private appeared at his side, his face white with panic.

“Run this through my shoulder harness,” he shouted. “Give McDonald the other end. Quickly now!”

Kavanagh did as he was ordered, running the thick rope through the loop at the top of his Captain's webbing and passing the end to McDonald.

“Pull it taut,” Harker said.

Nothing happened. McDonald was staring at Ellis, his eyes wide with terror.

“Private McDonald!” bellowed Harker. “Pull this rope tight, at once!”

McDonald's eyes seemed to focus and he looked at his Captain. A second later Quincey felt the rope tense at his back; he stepped forward and stood on the edge of the duckboard, looking out over the pool.

“Brace,” he yelled, then leant forward until he reached the edge of the rope's tension, hanging suspended over the murky liquid.

“Let the rope out!” he shouted, never taking his eyes from Ellis's face. The mud had reached his moustache. In a few more seconds, it would close over his nostrils and he would be lost. “Steady, boys, steady. Let her out.”

Grunting with the strain, the two Privates let the thick rope slide between their fingers. Captain Harker descended slowly towards the mud.

He stretched his arms out, the rope creaking with tension, his feet digging for purchase in the mud at the edge of the duckboard. Behind him, he heard Thorpe and Potts move to help their comrades with the rope, and the creaking lessened. He was almost within reach of Ellis.

Another ten inches. That's all, ten bloody inches.

He was almost horizontal now, the webbing on his front dangling dangerously close to the sucking mud. Ellis was right in front of him, the liquid earth cresting the neat brown hair of the schoolmaster's moustache.

“That's all the rope, sir!” yelled Kavanagh. “Can you reach him?”

Harker stretched his arms, straining muscle and sinew, and realised that he couldn't. His fingers grasped empty air.

“I need another six inches!” he shouted in reply.

“Sir, we don't have six inches.”

Thorpe's voice. Calm, steady as always, even as one of his friends sank before his eyes.

Harker looked at Ellis. The wound on the side of his head wasn't much more than a scratch. Perhaps he was dazed, rather than fully unconscious.

“Ellis!” Quincey bellowed, his voice dangerously loud in the quiet night air. “Ellis, give me your hand. That's an order, Private!”

He stared at his friend's face and saw his eyes flicker beneath their lids.

“Ellis!” he yelled again. “Look at me!”

Slowly, as though it was the most difficult thing any human being had ever been asked to do, Ellis opened his eyes and looked at his Captain. Then the creeping mud closed over his nose and his eyes widened in terror.

“Give me your hand!” Quincey shouted. “I can't reach you if you don't.”

The Private's eyes locked on to Harker's and, for a moment, nothing happened. Then slowly, horribly slowly, like a lazy volcanic eruption, the smooth surface of the mud breached beside Ellis's head and a hand emerged. It was coated in thick brown slime and reached out towards Harker, who gripped it with all his strength.

“Pull!” he yelled.

His squad didn't waste time answering. Instead, Harker felt the rope jerk and then he was being pulled up and back, Ellis rising from the mud beneath him like a golem. Behind him, he heard Thorpe exhorting the rest of the squad to pull harder, to haul for all they were worth. His arms flamed with agony as he squeezed Ellis's hand and dragged the scholarly, softly spoken teacher through the foul, grasping mud.

For a terrible moment, everything stopped.

Ellis hung half in and half out of the thick sludge at the end of his Captain's arms, until Kavanagh and McDonald gave one last giant heave. Harker was flung backwards into the collapsed remains of the wall of earth, as Ellis burst up out of the pool with an audible pop, like a cork from a champagne bottle. He crashed into Quincey, the two men tumbling to the ground, coated in thick, freezing mud.

There was silence.

Harker lay on the cold dirt, his chest heaving, his arms throbbing, his breath pluming in frozen clouds above him.

“Ellis,” he heard Thorpe say. “Ellis, are you all right?”

He craned his head to look at his friend. Ellis opened his mouth to answer, but was wracked by a fit of coughing and rolled over on to his back.

Kavanagh stepped forward and knelt beside Ellis. He whispered something into the schoolmaster's ear, and he laughed; it set off a second torrent of coughing, but he laughed nonetheless.

“How about you, sir?” Harker turned and saw Thorpe reaching a hand down towards him; he grasped it and hauled himself to his feet. Potts handed him his pistol and helmet, and he put them back in place.

“I'm fine,” he replied. “Thank you.”

The young Private nodded respectfully, then stepped back into line next to McDonald. Harker turned to see Kavanagh gently lifting Ellis to his feet.

“Can you go on?” he asked.

Ellis snapped a shaky salute. “I should take point, sir,” he said. “Nobody's going to see me coming.”

Harker looked at the schoolmaster: his uniform was coated in mud and his face was splattered brown. He started to laugh and, after a second or two, Ellis and the rest of the squad joined in.

It was the last joke any of them would make for some time.

The Special Reconnaissance Unit moved carefully round the pool, through the gently rising valley of fallen trees and artillery holes, and came up less than fifty yards from the roofless shell of Crest Farm barn. The farmhouse stood a further hundred yards to the east, its windows lit by the faint orange glow of gas lanterns.

Captain Harker ordered his men to the ground and led them past the barn on their elbows and knees. As they neared the house, a German voice rang through the empty windows, followed by the laughter of two, maybe three, men. The squad paused, listening for footsteps or the opening of a door, but all they could hear were the voices of the soldiers. They resumed their course, dead east, towards what was left of Passchendaele.

When they reached the village's main road, rolled dirt now heavily rutted by the tracks of tanks and churned by thousands of pairs of Wehrmacht-issue leather boots, Harker stood up. The rest of the squad did likewise. They took cover in a small copse of oak trees and Quincey asked Ellis what the Germans had been laughing about.

The Private smiled. “One of them was telling the others that it was their lucky day, because the Kaiser was on his way from his palace in Berlin to take watch, so they could all go to bed soon.”

The men of the squad grinned. They had told similar jokes many times, substituting the Kaiser's name for Gough's, or Haig's, or any of the myriad others who sent men to die from behind the comfort of a desk.