The End of Innocence (19 page)

Tomkins's posture was parade-ground perfect, his feet shoulder width apart. They saluted him.

“Lieutenants Norton and Spencer, it's time to earn your lieutenant's badge. We've spotted a party of Boche setting up a signal trench. Only four men right now, but if we let it linger, there will be a hundred come tomorrow. I need it dismantled posthaste and I want their transmitter. You'll capture it and meet up with the rest of the battalion three miles due east of this road for the night's billets. There's a barn up this road tended by a Belgian farmer.”

Riley brightened. Not an open field covered by machine guns. This was progress.

“Spencer, what day were you commissioned?”

“October seventeenth, sir.”

“Norton?”

“October nineteenth, sir.”

“Then Spencer, you're the ranking officer.”

“Yes, sir!” said Riley, brightening.

“But, sir!” protested Norton. “He's part German.”

Riley looked sharply at Norton. He'd not liked him in training camp and he didn't like him any more now.

“So is the king,” said Tomkins. “Cotting, I'll ask—”

“Spencer nearly shot a man at rifle practice, sir,” interrupted Norton. Riley saw young Cotting blanch. Tompkins glared at Norton, then turned to him.

“Spencer, is this true? Have you shot one of your own men?”

“Not since training camp, sir,” said Riley, frosted at Norton's protest.

“Do you plan to shoot any more of the king's subjects?”

“Just Norton, sir.”

Tomkins frowned. “I'd urge you not to. I'm told he's the best shot in the company.” The captain turned to Norton. “Spencer will command this mission. He is both an officer and a son of a member of Parliament and I do not doubt his patriotism. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” said Norton, his face reddening to the color of his hair. Riley glanced sideways at him, thinking what a joy it would be to order Norton to step lively through the mud.

“Private Cotting, your age,” demanded the captain.

“Eighteen, sir,” said the slight boy, his voice nearly cracking to soprano. His face was white and thin; his rifle might weigh as much as he.

“I'm your captain, not the recruiting office. Your age.”

The boy puffed his chest and held his head high. “Fourteen, sir.” The captain's lips tightened. He leaned down, his hands on his knees. As Riley stared ahead, he heard the captain's voice soften.

“Paul, this is not a test of your courage. I know you have the heart of an Englishman and not one of my men would say different. But this is a test of your head and I expect you to keep yours. I'm counting on it because I've good use for a smart lad like you.”

Cotting brightened. “Yes, sir!” Tomkins stepped back.

“I'd send out a party of seven if I had the men, but we don't. So it's to be the three of you.” He turned to face the south and pointed to the horizon. “The orderly who brought us this information has run the mud between here and there. It's molasses. You'll slip, you'll get dirtied. But as hard as it is, you mustn't dawdle. If their snipers are out you'll be sitting ducks until you reach the wood. I want you to hand your packs, shovels, canteens, coats, everything except your ammunition, grenades, and rifles to the quartermaster. You need to be light on your feet and running should keep you warm.”

Tomkins waved his hand and the quartermaster, all grizzled in khaki, with his gut bulging over his belt, huffed over to take the packs. As Riley took off his coat a fresh blast of wind took his breath away. He quickly unbuckled his heavy tool belt and handed it over. From his pocket he pulled out a flask.

“Permission for a bracing drink, sir?” he asked.

“Dear Lord, yes,” said Tomkins. Riley took a pull of scotch and offered the flask to Norton.

“I drink beer,” said Norton. Cotting, looking up at Norton, also refused. Riley shrugged, replaced the cap, and handed it to the quartermaster half-full. He brushed some falling snowflakes from his eyelashes, feeling inexplicably chastened. Beer, nothing. He probably preferred grog.

“One more thing, men,” said Tomkins. “There was a fight in that wood a couple months ago and you won't like what you find there. But the dead can only hurt you if you decide to let them into your mind.” He looked back at Spencer. “March directly into the trees and when you get to a stream follow it east to a clearing. There you will find your Germans. If you hurry you should come out all right.”

“Sir?” asked Riley.

“Speak.”

“Do we take prisoners?”

“Prisoners or casualties, either one,” said Tompkins matter-of-factly. “We don't want them back in the German army. If you can, get the signal corps member alive. He might know German intelligence codes. But don't stop for burial. If you do, you could join them. Others will come looking for them. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the three said.

“And when you fight, Cotting, you will fight hammer and tongs.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy.

“Lieutenants, your men are watching you. They want to have confidence in their lieutenants, and this is your chance to show them why they should. I am counting on you to come back and inspire them with tales of bravery, but not of heroics. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” they said. Riley wished he could get moving. He was cold.

“Then to king and country.”

“King and country!” replied the men.

“Dismissed.” Tomkins jogged back up the wet ditch to the front of the line. Riley turned to Norton and nodded as the north wind began to pick up again. Norton pretended not to notice.

“Due south,” Norton pointed, and then began to march.

“South,” echoed Riley, who had to pick up a bright pace to catch up with his subordinates as they headed toward the blackened wood.

Near Ypres, Belgium

Monday, December 14, 1914

Seven Hours Earlier

Lieutenant Wils Brandl sat in the dank shambles of his crowded billet in a corner of Belgium he cared never to see again. He used a makeshift stool, wrote by candlelight, and shivered in his soaked boots, mud-spattered trousers, and wet wool overcoat. Water pooled at his feet and dripped through the slats above him. The wind gusted through the cracks of the old barn's plastered walls. He needed rest after three straight days of signal duty in the trenches but refused to sleep until he'd written to Helen.

His breath came in steady puffs, visible in the candlelight. His cracked, sore hands were still caked in clay, although he'd washed them twice. They stuck to the thin pages as he wrote, forcing him to rewrite constantly. But he hurried along with his letter: he was exhausted and a dawn raid was always a risk. A Victoria Cross by breakfast, the khaki soldiers were fond of saying. The only thing that seemed to stop them was the fact that British shell manufacturers were a fat and poor lot, something for which the German army often gave fervent thanks. Their list of blessings typically stopped there.

Second Army, VII Corps

13th Division, 25th Brigade

16th Uhlans

Dearest Helen,

I have just left three days of duty and am writing before I fall asleep. Writing you is the only joy out here, and I'll not delay it further.

There isn't much more to tell about the war. We've no cover from the cold or wet. Water fills the ruts we've dug, and we're forced to crouch along the edges of the trenches on sandbags or in the cold mud. If you stand up straight, you're likely to get your head blown off or cause someone else to get theirs hit. We fix our wires, listen, and wait until we're allowed to leave.

I call to you in whispers from the fields. I reach out again and again, grasping for anything that will bring me close to you. I listen in the lunatic winds and in the aftermath of shells. I must believe that you listen for me too.

There is little else to listen for. The music of symphonies, cathedrals, drawing rooms, your voice, is all fading. I now listen for the difference between a shell (sounds like a freight train and if you hear one you had better run in a different direction) and a rifle bullet (if you hear it, it's already hit someone, so no need to move). My skills at shooting are seldom used, but when I do shoot, I hit. I hate that it's so, but if I didn't, I'd not be writing you now.

The news this week is that the regiment has been assigned a Roman Catholic priest—the one who swam in the mud! Our Lutheran pastor died in the melee that killed Lieutenant Heinsel, although heaven knows it wasn't because they were at the front of the line. The British had just lobbed a random shell behind our lines.

I like the new fellow, although he is the pope's man. I have written to assure my mother that I won't take to worshipping the pope unless the pope calls off the war. In fact, I've decided I will worship just about anyone or anything who can accomplish this.

This priest seems to be able to shoot better than any of us (if pressed), crawls along the trench lines to minister to those who fall, and gives mercifully short sermons. He is quick to grant absolution both in town and in the trench, except in cases of severe drunkenness, where the chastisement tends to be more about sharing than abstention. Father Rupert is his name, and I hope he will be around for a while, though there has been some grumbling from the Lutherans—

Wils was interrupted by a splash outside. Three men in the crowded room looked up at the open doorway. He glanced quickly through the cracks in the wall's plaster out into the half-light. Nothing else.

It is lighting, and I must go. Dawn is a dangerous time out here, even for those who are off-duty.

All my love,

Wils

He picked the letter up and kissed it, saying a silent prayer that it would reach her. Last week's mail orderly had been shelled along with his mail pouch, destroying their letters. Wils put it in his pocket to drop in the mail basket after he woke.

His hands shook with fatigue as he reached for the candle to blow it out. He would sleep first, clean up, and then he'd write his mother. He needed a new set of boots. The soles had started to rot off this pair after only two days of trench duty, and he'd be damned if he'd be invalided for failure to take care of his feet.

Straw was scattered along the floor of the barn, soaking up the mud. Several soldiers had left for duty and a space beckoned, so he put down a blanket, anxious to close his eyes, which were scratchy and burning with fatigue.

“Brandl!” He heard the bark of Captain Grimber. “New posting for you today.”

Wils turned with a blank expression. His head was in a fog. The gaunt captain, his face unshaven, towered in the doorway. “Sir, I just returned.”

“We've no more men who can help at present. A truck is ready to take you to a wood due northwest by five miles. There you will establish radio contact in a new position. If we wait, there's a risk that the British will find it.”

“Sir, I've just come back from three days' duty.”

“We've no other men available. The truck leaves in five minutes,” said Grimber.

“Sir, twenty minutes. Please,” Wils pleaded.

“Sorry, Brandl. Five.”

I'll sleep on the truck
, Wils thought. Perhaps it would get stuck in the mud, and he could catch up on his rest.

As the captain turned to go, an orderly ran up to the door, a servant of Major Beumel assigned to the Second Army. He was broad-shouldered and clean, a member of Saxony's aristocracy. But so was everyone else, thought Wils. They handed out titles to every child they'd produced.

“Lieutenant Brandl!” he barked.

Wils saw Captain Grimber stop suddenly. The men around him did not waken. “What is the meaning of this?” the captain asked.

“Major Beumel would like the lieutenant to restring the telegraph wire at the front. A row of sandbags fell backward, breaking the lines we just established. The major says it's urgent.”

Grimber frowned, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “I need him to go north.”

“The major needs him for trench duty.”

“What would the major, then, recommend regarding the wires at Ypres?”

The orderly looked haughtily at Grimber. “Someone else. Possibly yourself,” he said with the arrogance of one assuming the manners of his own superior officer.

Grimber crossed his arms in front of himself, the gray tunic drawn across his wiry frame. “You can't have Brandl. He's had no sleep.” Wils felt he might smile, but that would have required energy. Only a few seconds ago Grimber cared nothing for his fatigue.

“Brandl,” said Grimber, “back to the front lines. I'll wake Schmitt and put him on the truck. He can barely tie his own shoes, let alone string the wire.” A shadow passed across his face. “When you return we're marching to Fromelles, just south of here. You'll need to be ready to leave.”

“Fromelles? To fight the Indian regiments?” asked Wils, his stomach giving a lurch. Colonials were often overeager to prove they were better than their British overlords.

“No. The Indians moved farther south. We'll face more British. Seems the French told the British to punch through just south of Ypres.”

And with that, Grimber turned on his heel. Wils wearily shuffled out into the cold, wet gray of dawn. The rain was turning to snow as the temperature fell. His head throbbed in pain.

As they marched toward the first set of trenches, Wils saw a mail basket and dropped his letter to Helen in it.

“Will the mail run today?” asked Wils.

“No. A shell got the last boy and buried him along with three sacks of mail. Headquarters should send another mail transport next week.”

“You didn't dig out the letters?”

The boy shrugged as they moved past men unloading a massive flat of shells. “You wouldn't wish to touch those parcels even if they were from the king of England calling off the war.”