Sean stood frozen and disbelieving his mind not yet accepting the fact that Nick was hit, but, as a soldier and a hunter, judging that single shot with awe.
What kind of shooting was that? Five hundred yards in this murky light; one fleeting glimpse of a helmeted head above the parapet; three seconds to set the range and line UP, then another instant of time to sight and fire as the head bobbed up again. The Hun that fired that shot was either a superb marksman with reflexes like a leopard, or the flukiest sniper on the western front.
The thought was fleeting and Sean started forward heavily and knelt beside his officer. He turned him with a hand upon the shoulder and felt the sickening slide in his guts and the cold grip on his chest.
The bullet had entered at the temple and exited behind the opposite ear.
Sean lifted the shattered head into his lap, removed his own helmet and began to unwind the silk scarf from around his head. He felt a desolation of loss.
Slowly he wrapped the boy's head into the scarf, and immediately the blood soaked through the thin material.
It was a futile gesture, but it served to keep -his hands occupied and detract from his sense of helplessness.
He sat on the muddy floorboards, holding the boy's body, his heavy shoulders bowed forward. The size of Sean's bared head was accentuated by the thick curls of dark wiry hair shot through with splashes and strands of grey that sparkled frostily in the fading light. The short thick beard was laced with grey as well, and the big beaked nose was twisted and battered-looking.
Only the black curved eyebrows were sleek and unmarked, and the eyes were clear and dark cobalt blue, the eyes of a much younger man, steady and alert.
Sean Courtney sat for a long time holding the boy, and then he sighed once, deeply, and laid the broken head aside.
He stood up, hefted the kitbag on to his own shoulder, and set off along the communications trench once again.
At five minutes before midnight, the Colonel commanding the 2nd Battalion stooped through the blackout curtains that screened the entrance to the mess, and beat the snow from his shoulders with a gloved hand as he straightened.
The mess had been a German dugout six months before, and was the envy of the brigade. Thirty feet below ground level, it was impregnable, even to the heaviest artillery barrage. The floor was of heavy timber boarding and even the walls were panelled against the damp and the cold.
A pot-bellied stove stood against the far wall, glowing cheerfully.
Gathered about it in a half circle of looted armchairs sat the off -duty officers.
However, the Colonel had eyes only for the burly figure of his General, seated in the largest and most comfortable chair closest to the stove, and he shed his great-coat as he hurried across the dugout. General, my apologies. If I'd known you were coming I was making my rounds. Sean Courtney chuckled and rose ponderously from the chair to shake his hand. It's what I would expect of you, Charles, but your officers have made me very welcome and we have kept a little of the goose for you The Colonel glanced quickly about the circle and frowned as he saw the hectic cheeks and sparkling eyes of some of his younger subalterns. He must warn them of the folly of trying to drink level with the General. The old man was steady as a rock, of course, and those eyes were like bayonets under the dark brows, but the Colonel knew him well enough to guess that he had a full quart of Dimple Haig in his belly, and that something was troubling him deeply. Then it came to him. Of course I'm terribly sorry to hear about young van der Heever sir. Sergeant-Major told me what happened. I Sean made a gesture of dismissal, but for a moment the shadows darkened about his eyes. If I'd only known you were coming up into the line this evening, I would have warned you, sir. We have had the devil of trouble with that sniper ever since we moved up.
It's the same fellow, of course, absolutely deadly. I've never heard of anything like it. Dreadful nuisance when everything else is so quiet. Only casualties we've had all week. What are you doing about him? Sean asked harshly.
They all saw the flush of anger darken his face, and the Adjutant intervened swiftly. I've been on to Colonel Caithness at 3rd Battalion, and we did a deal, sir. He has agreed to send us Anders and f MacDonald You got them! The Colonel looked delighted. Oh I say, that's excellent. I didn't think Caithness would part with hisprizepair. 1They came in this morning, and the two of them have been studying the ground all day. I gave them a free hand, but I understand they are setting up the shoot for tomorrow. The Young Captain who commanded A Company pulled out his watch and studied it a moment. They are going out from my section, sir. As a matter of fact, I was going to go down and give them a send-off, they will be moving into position at half past twelve. If you'll excuse me, sir! Yes, of course, off with you, Dicky, wish them good luck from me. Everybody in the brigade had heard of Anders and MacDonald.
I'd like to meet that pair. Sean Courtney spoke suddenly, and dutifully the Colonel agreed. Of course, I'll come out with you, sir. No, no, Charles, you've been out in the cold all night as it is. I'll just go along with Dicky here. The snow came down thickly out of the utter darkness of the midnight sky. It damped down the night sounds in its thick muffling cloak, muting the regular bursts of a Vickers firing at a hole in the wire on the battalion's left.
Mark Anders sat wrapped in his borrowed blankets and he bowed his head to the book in his lap, adjusting his eyes to the yellow wavering light of the candle-stump.
The rise in temperature that accompanied the first fall of snow and the changed quality of sound entering the small dug-out awakened the man who slept beside him. He coughed, and rolled over to open a chink in the canvas curtain beside his head. Damn, he said, and coughed again, the harsh hammering sound of a heavy smoker. Damn it to hell. It's snowing. Then he rolled back to Mark.
You still reading? he demanded roughly. Always with your nose in a bloody book. You'll ruin your shooting eyes. Mark lifted his head. It's been snowing for an hour already. What you want all that learning for? Fergus MacDonald was not so easily distracted. It won't do you no good. I don't like the snow, said Mark. We didn't reckon on the snow. The snow complicated the task ahead of them. It would cover the ground out there with a sensitive mantle of white. Anybody moving out from the trench into noman's-land would leave tracks that the dawn light would instantly betray to an observant enemy.
A match flared and Fergus lit two Woodbines and passed one to Mark. They sat shoulder to shoulder, huddled in their blankets.
