The Eyes of the Dead (3 page)

Chapter Six

Twilight came down as a depressing reverse of the day’s dawn. Light grey faded to dark grey and then to blackness. The shapes in the mist were the ruins of a church. It had no roof. The empty carcass was all that was left of it. Rubble was scattered everywhere. The walls were holed from countless bombardments. Looking up at it, Wilson frowned. He’d never seen or heard of it before.

Smithy kicked at a lump of fallen masonry.

“These walls won’t protect us any more than the trees in the wood,” Smithy said, “One good bang and this’ll all be down on top of us.”

“Yeah well, we can’t go any further tonight, Sarge. Brookes is knackered and so am I. We’ll have to doss down here and hope a stretcher party’ll find us.”

“Brookes won’t make it through the night, if we stay here. This place is too exposed,” there was that strain in Smithy’s voice again.

It set Wilson’s nerves on edge. Was the old man cracking up? About to get the horrors? That was the last thing they needed.

“Maybe he will die, maybe he won’t. There’s nothing you or I can do to change that now, is there? “

Smithy eyed Wilson, not wanting to believe him. The Private was right. They would have to stay here tonight. Breathing out hard, Smithy slumped down to the ground. Gravel and crumbling stone gave it some substance, stopping them from sinking down into the mire of no man’s land. Smithy looked over at Brookes. The boy looked dead already. Smithy could see him breathing though. His weak breaths were scarcely noticeable but they were there. You could easily tell the living from the dead, once you saw enough of the latter.

Wilson looked around their roofless shelter. He didn’t remember seeing it marked out when they were doing the dummy battles behind the lines at all. The officers had been very careful about the details, even using scale models, not wanting to leave anything out. Clumps of foliage were the trees. Lengths of wood were the trenches. Little stacks of brick were the buildings. Wilson remembered wondering if they all had toy train sets at home. Neatly laid out in the attics of their country mansions, with mocked-up villages, bridges and rivers.

This church had not been mentioned once. That bothered him. It nagged away at the back of his skull.

…scratching…

It was odd, considering how much of it was still standing. There were mills and villages out here that had been knocked flat. They were still marked out for the dummy battles. But not this place. Wilson shook his head. This was shelter. That was what was important. Brookes was dying. He was better off doing it here than being blown sky high as they struggled across no man’s land. Wilson stood up to stretch, aching lines of fire were racing through his shoulders and down through his back from all the walking and carrying done today.

A machine gun sang out.

Wilson threw himself down. Bullets rattled off stone. He rolled over, watching the light of a flare catch, briefly, on the crimson wings of an aeroplane swooping overhead.

Some bloody shelter, he thought.

The three lost soldiers shuddered as they huddled together for the night. Brookes tugged at his field dressing, pressing it tight against the wound in his side. A moment of unconsciousness swept through him. Smithy elected himself to be on night watch. Wilson didn’t argue. He settled down to sleep. He began to dream.

Fire everywhere.

Leaping through the air, weeping flaming droplets as it sprayed over men. There was nothing they could fight it with. Bullets and bayonets were no match for fire. No-one knew what to do. They were at the furthest tip of the salient.

This was Hooge Crater, a pit born of incessant mining, counter-mining, bombing and shelling. The trenches were lines of sandbags the men crouched behind, no more. The first waves of liquid fire swept through the sandbag barriers, setting men alight. They opened their mouths to scream. They ended up swallowing mouthfuls of boiling petrol that roasted their throats. Uniforms were burnt into flesh. Raw faces were raked with madly blistering fingers, tearing off chunks of cindery meat as they burned. Through the inferno came phantoms, bent forward from the weight of the sloshing black canisters on their backs, holding thick, gurgling hoses in their hands. One of them turned the glinting nozzle of its hose on Wilson. Wilson froze. He wanted to move, to run away. His limbs were unwilling. The nozzle was empty. Dead and empty.

Then, it burst into blinding life.

Wilson rolled over in his sleep, clenching his teeth, hissing through them.

It was gone midnight now.

Smithy could no longer ignore the aching in his bladder. Clouds covered the night sky, drowning the salient. The dull throbbing was hurting him too much. He didn’t fancy being caught with his trousers down by the Boche but he would have to risk it. Smithy staggered across to the far wall, fumbling with numb fingers. Wiping the bleariness from his face with one hand, he moved his feet apart. He didn’t fancy pissing on himself. The wall was a greyish blur in the solid darkness of the night. He reached out to it for support. The ground gave way underfoot. There was a crash of breaking stone. He jumped back, piss spraying onto his hands and puttees.

The Germans were a dab hand when it came to leaving nasty ‘presents’ for the unwary. He waited, freezing, not moving.

Nothing happened.

He squinted through the gloom at the hole that had opened up, right where he had been standing. Water trickled down into it. He could hear it dripping on stone, not far below. Smithy knelt down, clawing rubble away. He reached into the hole. He could feel a cool surface under his palm.

“Well now, will you look at this, eh?”

He cleared away the remainder of the rubble. His eyes adjusted. He could see low stone steps.

Smithy went down them.

The dark surrounded him. A thick dusty stew of buried blackness. The only sound down there was Smithy’s heart, beating a frantic tattoo inside his eardrums. Battered old stonework revealed itself. There was an opening visible in the far wall. A tunnel leading further in, perhaps. The air was musty and dry. It was quiet. No signs of life.

Smithy made his way back to the surface.

Stumbling back to his comrades, he shook Wilson awake.

“Wilson, I think I’ve found us some better shelter for the night.”

Wilson blinked at him, “You what, Sarge?”

“Some shelter. Underground.”

He led Wilson across to the hole in the ground. Smithy nodded towards it, “The old church crypt. We can kip down there until the morning.”

“What if someone’s down there? Jerries?”

“We’ll secure the position once we’re in. Brookes has a better chance if we can keep him in the dry than if he sleeps out here.”

Wilson didn’t voice more misgivings about the Sergeant’s idea. Smithy was on edge and he didn’t want to test his temper.

They collected Brookes and went down into the crypt.

“Give me your torch, Wilson.”

Wilson stripped off its waterproof sacking. He passed it to Smithy. Smithy turned it on. Pale light played over the walls and ceiling. The ceiling was low, stopping just above their heads. There was a dry mouldy odour in the air. A thick carpet of dust crunched under their boots. Torch light winked off of bone.

Wilson jumped back.

The grinning death’s head of a human skull was lying on the stone floor. He felt the empty eye sockets looking at him. The empty orifices studying him, looking into him, seeing what was buried there. Deep inside. Wilson looked away. Feeling queasy as something ugly went shifting about inside his head. His skin was creepy-crawling underneath his wet gear. There was something familiar about this place.

Wilson didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

Smithy took a step forward, casting the torch beam in an arc, passing it back and forth over the chamber. Hollows were cut into the walls all the way along. Each one filled with dried bones and brownish tatters of clothing. The beam alighted on the rough-edged hollow in the far wall. Smithy walked up to it and peered inside. He could make out walls leading away. It was a tunnel going deeper into the crypt. He would have to crouch when he went in. Not an ideal position to be in if there was anyone down there. I’ll have to risk it though, he decided. Death was the price a soldier paid for not securing a position.

“You stay here with Brookes. I’m going to go and see if we’ve got company down here.”

Wilson nodded his agreement. He didn’t fancy the twitchy Sergeant’s company right now.

Smithy headed off without another word.

Wilson watched the light from the torch bobbing away from him. It was soon swallowed up by the gloom of the tunnel. The only sound that came back to him was Smithy’s tuneless whistling.

Soon, that faded too.

Chapter Seven

The dusty ground scuffed loudly under Smithy’s feet. It was impressive, this place. So many bodies, all laid out in their own little holes. The bodies out in no man’s land would never get a burial as good as this. They were left where they fell to sink away, to be lost forever. He could see a faint light up ahead.

Oh well, so much for hoping.

No sound came from the light though. Maybe they were sleeping. That would make things much easier. They might have medical supplies, if he was lucky. Something to pep up young Brookes, long enough to get him back to the support trenches. Yes, that would be a stroke of luck. After a few minutes creeping along, he reached the light. It was a doorway carved into the left hand side of the tunnel. Smithy’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped towards it. He slowed his pace. Careful and quiet, he crept closer and closer. He swung into the doorway. His bayonet blade blinking bright, yellow lamp light reflecting off it.

Inside, a man was slumped over a table. He did not move at the sound of Smithy’s entrance. He was face down on the table, a tin plate covered in browning food beside him. The lamp casting the light hung from a wrought iron brace, set overhead in the ceiling. The chamber was a small cell and contained two dirty beds with straw mattresses, yellowed maps of the local area were hanging on the walls. Smithy recognised the dull grey of Jerry uniforms. There was one of their spiked helmets resting on the table too.

Smithy advanced on the prone man. No movement still. He noticed an empty bottle of wine beside the outstretched hand of the slumped figure.

Evil bugger’s blind drunk, he thought.

“Been toasting the Kaiser one too many times, eh?”

Smithy went up to the man. He took hold of a shoulder and pulled him upright. The head rocked back with a crackle of stiffened cartilage. He looked straight into a face with no eyes. White maggots were squirming in the rims of the empty sockets, disturbed by the sudden light cast upon them. Dried blood was crusted into the hollow of the corpse’s throat. The throat itself was torn open, little more than a ragged hole. The head lolled to one side as Smithy let it go. The tattered sallow remains of a tongue hung from the lipless mouth. He cupped a hand over his mouth, screwing his eyes up, he swallowed hard. Who or what the hell could’ve done such a thing to a man?

It was like nothing he had ever seen. No story about the Hun that he had heard. He could feel himself shaking violently. He backed away, thinking of running, running away very fast from the horror. The corpse was laughing at him. The light from the lamp overhead stretching and twisting the desiccated shadows of its face. Mocking the man who thought he could escape Death by hiding down here. Here was Death, before him. Death was not waiting for him above ground. It was here. This was its true home. Under the earth with the rats and the maggots.

Smithy caught his breath. No, that was all nonsense. The lateness of the hour was just stirring up his imagination. There was nothing to fear here. Everything was alright.

The flickering light glanced off something bright on the table. Smithy reached across and picked it up. It was a glossy sepia photograph. A little girl sitting on her mother’s knee. Both of them were smiling and calm. They were wearing very fancy dresses. Their hair was exquisitely curled. The kind of wife and daughter an officer would have, thought Smithy. Their unseeing eyes stared out from the photograph at a scene that they could never ever imagine. Smithy tucked the photograph into the front pocket of the dead man’s tunic, “There you go, mate, close by your heart where they should be. I’m not one to steal from the dead, even if you are a Jerry. I just hope they never find out you died here, like this.”

Despite himself, Smithy reached out and squeezed one of the emaciated hands. It did no good, he knew that, but it made him feel better. Smithy looked up at the glowing lamp.

“Now, who’s been keeping you alight then, eh?”

Something ancient rustled behind him and drew breath.

Chapter Eight

“He’s been gone too long. Go and look for him.”

Wilson looked up as Brookes spoke.

Well, spoke wasn’t the right word. It was more of a rasping, coming from lungs that were ready to give up. Brookes was forcing them to work, “Go and look for Smithy. I’m not going to last until dawn. I don’t want to die here but I don’t want you both dying too. You both tried to get me out alive. You did your best by me. Go find him,” Brookes was sweating as he talked. Wilson could see the shivers running through him, “I’ll be all right here. Leave me near the hole. I can shout up if any of our lot come past.”

“And what if it’s one of their lot?” Wilson asked.

“Then you won’t hear a thing, will you?”

Wilson averted his eyes from Brookes, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth, not knowing what to say.

Brave lad, he thought.

“Go on, Wilson. Find the Sarge. Go. It’s the right thing to do, that’s what’s important. I’m a goner. We both know that.”

Brookes gave Wilson a shove with his leg. Wilson got to his feet. Brookes was right in a way. The Sarge was not in good shape. Letting him wander off alone was just asking for trouble. The old man might have already lost his marbles for all he knew. He did not say this to Brookes though. The boy thought the world of the Sarge. All the same, Wilson didn’t relish the idea of going hunting for a madman in the dark. The tunnel yawned before him, a hungry mouth, waiting. He swallowed hard and walked in. He looked back over his shoulder at Brookes.

Was that a smile the boy was trying to force across his face?

It was too dark to be sure.

Brookes watched Wilson disappear. He felt light-headed as another coughing fit shook through him. A gush of blood ran out of his mouth, running down his tunic. The cold was everywhere. Spreading through him. He wanted to lift his hands so that he could rub them together. Blow on them. But his strength was gone. His muscles were heavy and useless. Was a little comfort before death too much to ask?

It was.

His tongue lay dead. A piece of raw meat buried in state, in the drying vault of his mouth. All the moisture was gone. Bitter blood coated his taste buds in an oily film. He shivered and shook. His teeth chattered. He shuddered and coughed. A hundred thousand winters were gathering in close, embracing him.

Brookes sighed once and let his eyes close.

******

“Christ, Wilson. You gave me the fright of my life. What’re you doin’ down here?”

Wilson had thumped straight into Smithy as he came around a corner. The old man bristled at the sight of him.

“I came to look for you, Sarge. Me and Brookes thought something’d happened to you.”

Smithy regarded him without saying a word. There was something wrong with the Sergeant’s eyes, “Yeah, I’ll bet. He’s in no fit state to speak. He told you to come down here after me, did he?”

“Yes, Sarge,” Wilson bristled himself at the accusation in Smithy’s tone.

“A likely story. You just ran off, didn’t you? What really happened? A shell explode outside and make you wet yourself?”

Wilson felt a sharp pain explode in his mid-section before he could answer. Smithy had smacked the butt of his rifle into Wilson’s stomach. Wilson crumpled to his knees. His eyes wide. Teeth grinding against the pain. Sergeant Smith stood over him. Blood was flushing the older man’s face. His teeth were set. His eyes were narrow, “You ran off and left him. You shit, Wilson! You coward! I’ll see you strapped to a gun carriage wheel for a month when we get back. We don’t need your sort out here. We need men with some fuckin’ backbone.”

The last word was punctuated by a kick to Wilson’s guts.

The Sarge had caught a full dose of the horrors.

Smithy hauled Wilson to his feet, “I want to see you get done, Wilson. I want everyone to see just what you are. A man who’d desert his own in the field. Brookes may’ve been scared but he’s a good lad. He’s got some guts in him. You’ve got nothing but fear in you. You’re a coward born and bred, if ever I saw one. I’m going to see you shot for it. Court-martialled, humiliated, shot! Now, move!” Smithy gave Wilson a punch in the spine. Wilson then felt the barrel of the Sergeant’s rifle digging in hard.

They started back towards the crypt’s entrance.

******

A beam of unclouded moonlight cut down into the crypt, colouring everything an icy blue. Smithy and Wilson stepped out from the tunnel. Brookes’ head was bowed in sleep. Smithy took cautious steps towards the slumped form, keeping his rifle aimed at Wilson. He shook Brookes gently by the shoulder, “Brookes. Wake up. Come on. Your Sarge’s back. I’m here for you.”

Brookes’s head rolled over to one side. His eyes were glazed, sightless white marbles. The wound in his throat opened up. It was a tattered, lipless mouth, blood running out from it in glistening rivulets.

Wilson’s breath snagged in his throat. The wall thumped into his back as he retreated straight into it. Smithy ran his fingers over Brookes’ face, pulling down the eyelids. He ran a cursory finger over the torn flaps of the neck wound. Brookes’ rifle was on the floor. Smithy could see the boy’s outstretched hand. He had been reaching for it when he died. Smithy bit his lip, his tear ducts prickling.

He turned his rifle on Wilson.

“You did this.”

Wilson blanched.

“You did this, you cowardly bastard. I should have known you would. I shouldn’t have left you alone with him. You done for him and then you were going to do for me too. That’s why you came after me, you cunt. Don’t you fuckin’ move, Wilson. I’m going to do to you what should’ve been done a long, long time ago.”

The rifle clicked as Smithy readied it. There was no time to run. Wilson closed his eyes. He waited for the bullet to strike home.

Nothing happened.

Wilson opened his eyes. Smithy was looking past Wilson. Something was behind him. He could feel the skin on the nape of his neck pebbling cold. The Private turned slowly around.

It was coming towards them.