of a shell filled the air, and then another. Angus gasped for a breath, just one breath to get his lungs going. Breath came when he saw a timber falling. He lunged for Publicover and yanked him out from under just in time.
“Hit the line!” Publicover coughed out as he got to his feet. “Something blew. Underground maybe. A mine or—”
T HE SHELLS HADN’T hit the line. They hit part of the communication trench just behind the line, wiping out eleven of the Kilties and wounding three of their officers. As for the explosion, Publicover was right. Mills bombs, stored in a tunnel, had gone off. God only knew how many dead there, Conlon said. He told them he and some handpicked officers would stay on an extra night to settle the Kilties while their own boys marched back. Publicover and Grafton, a lieutenant Angus had met only in passing, were to accompany them. Angus was to stay on the line with Conlon and help sort things out.
The Kilties straggled up. Shadowy forms on the way out cursed forms on the way up as rifles struck packs and picks struck helmets and men tripped over cables and missed their step on the duckboards. Eventually, their own boys formed up, Publicover in the lead, followed by Angus’s platoon—Hiller, in a trance, then Wertz, older than the rest, helping Boudrey get his footing, then Eisner and Bremner, both burly Lunenburgers, the ever-steady Hanson, and then Zwicker, a thick-set man with a high-pitched laugh. Then came McNeil and Katz, the scribbler. Ostler, shadowy and brooding, shoved Tanner onward. Then came the baby-faced LaPointe and the quick-tempered Kearns, a good man to have when the line was the Front and the Krauts the ones crossing it. Oxner must have been up ahead. Sergeant Keegan, a fast-moving troglodyte, brought up the rear. Ghost figures all of them. Then they were gone.
The Kilties were given a ration of rum. Mules coming up had been scattered to the winds when the shells hit, and with them went small-arms ammunition, adding to the light show behind the line. It was pretty clear the Germans knew the exact location of the communication trench.
As if in confirmation, another mortar sailed overhead directly toward it. A 5 . 9 by the roils of black smoke. Publicover. His men. Angus gripped the timbered wall for support. A white-faced Conlon pointed to two privates and told Angus to take them out to Vicar’s Crater. His hand was shaking, but his voice never wavered—routine patrol, he said, just like every other night at Vicar’s.
Vicar’s was a crater into which a padre was rumored to have van ished, a myth no stranger than any other in the trenches—the Angels of Mons, hovering ghost soldiers in the sky, witnessed by hundreds up and down the line in 1915 ; the Crucified Canadian, a soldier said to have been spread-eagled by the Germans on a tree with bayonets for nails. The Front was as rife with omens and visions as long voyages at sea. And who knew? Maybe in this bleak world of extremes, a padre could vanish and the dead could return. Angus felt himself nearly vanishing. He steadied himself as the privates stuffed extra flares, flare guns, and Mills bombs into their packs. There was a grenade launcher at the site. Conlon narrowed his eyes at Angus. “Focus on the Hun across that crater. Any movement, any sound, take the bastards out,” he said.
Angus took a deep breath and eased himself over the parapet. The privates followed. Archer was an “original”—in the war from the start, that much Angus knew. Another, Andrew Dickey, a fresh recruit who looked about twelve with eyes round as saucers, had stammered out that his sergeant was wounded in the explosion as they came up. That he was screaming and couldn’t move. Was he still out there? he asked Angus. Angus had considered replacing him, but with whom? He didn’t know the Kilties. Besides, there wasn’t time.
Now they were inching on their elbows along the shallow ditch that would take them up a slope to the
“Hit the line!” Publicover coughed out as he got to his feet. “Something blew. Underground maybe. A mine or—”
T HE SHELLS HADN’T hit the line. They hit part of the communication trench just behind the line, wiping out eleven of the Kilties and wounding three of their officers. As for the explosion, Publicover was right. Mills bombs, stored in a tunnel, had gone off. God only knew how many dead there, Conlon said. He told them he and some handpicked officers would stay on an extra night to settle the Kilties while their own boys marched back. Publicover and Grafton, a lieutenant Angus had met only in passing, were to accompany them. Angus was to stay on the line with Conlon and help sort things out.
The Kilties straggled up. Shadowy forms on the way out cursed forms on the way up as rifles struck packs and picks struck helmets and men tripped over cables and missed their step on the duckboards. Eventually, their own boys formed up, Publicover in the lead, followed by Angus’s platoon—Hiller, in a trance, then Wertz, older than the rest, helping Boudrey get his footing, then Eisner and Bremner, both burly Lunenburgers, the ever-steady Hanson, and then Zwicker, a thick-set man with a high-pitched laugh. Then came McNeil and Katz, the scribbler. Ostler, shadowy and brooding, shoved Tanner onward. Then came the baby-faced LaPointe and the quick-tempered Kearns, a good man to have when the line was the Front and the Krauts the ones crossing it. Oxner must have been up ahead. Sergeant Keegan, a fast-moving troglodyte, brought up the rear. Ghost figures all of them. Then they were gone.
The Kilties were given a ration of rum. Mules coming up had been scattered to the winds when the shells hit, and with them went small-arms ammunition, adding to the light show behind the line. It was pretty clear the Germans knew the exact location of the communication trench.
As if in confirmation, another mortar sailed overhead directly toward it. A 5 . 9 by the roils of black smoke. Publicover. His men. Angus gripped the timbered wall for support. A white-faced Conlon pointed to two privates and told Angus to take them out to Vicar’s Crater. His hand was shaking, but his voice never wavered—routine patrol, he said, just like every other night at Vicar’s.
Vicar’s was a crater into which a padre was rumored to have van ished, a myth no stranger than any other in the trenches—the Angels of Mons, hovering ghost soldiers in the sky, witnessed by hundreds up and down the line in 1915 ; the Crucified Canadian, a soldier said to have been spread-eagled by the Germans on a tree with bayonets for nails. The Front was as rife with omens and visions as long voyages at sea. And who knew? Maybe in this bleak world of extremes, a padre could vanish and the dead could return. Angus felt himself nearly vanishing. He steadied himself as the privates stuffed extra flares, flare guns, and Mills bombs into their packs. There was a grenade launcher at the site. Conlon narrowed his eyes at Angus. “Focus on the Hun across that crater. Any movement, any sound, take the bastards out,” he said.
Angus took a deep breath and eased himself over the parapet. The privates followed. Archer was an “original”—in the war from the start, that much Angus knew. Another, Andrew Dickey, a fresh recruit who looked about twelve with eyes round as saucers, had stammered out that his sergeant was wounded in the explosion as they came up. That he was screaming and couldn’t move. Was he still out there? he asked Angus. Angus had considered replacing him, but with whom? He didn’t know the Kilties. Besides, there wasn’t time.
Now they were inching on their elbows along the shallow ditch that would take them up a slope to the
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