called themselves comrades. Irrelevantly he noticed for the first time that MacDonald had ginger hair, and big golden freckles on the backs of his hands. He turned back to Mark Anders. He taught you to shoot? Yes, sir. The lad grinned for the first time, warmed by the memory. He gave me my first rifle, a Martini Hendry that blew a cloud of gunsmoke like a bush fire but would throw dead true at a hundred and fifty yards. I've hunted elephant with it. A great rifle, Sean agreed, and suddenly across an age difference of forty years they were friends.
Perhaps, for Sean, the recent death of that other bright young man, Nick van der Heever, had left an aching gap in his life, for now he felt a flood of paternal protection for the youngster. Fergus MacDonald seemed to sense it also, for he cut in like a jealous woman. You'd best be getting ready now, lad The smile was gone from Mark's lips, the eyes were too calm, and he nodded his thin neck stiffly.
Fergus MacDonald fussed over the lad, and once again Sean was reminded of a trainer preparing his fighter in the dressing-room. He stripped off the heavy, voluminous great-coat and the battle-dress jacket. Over the long woollen full-length underwear went a woollen shirt and two knitted jerseys. A woollen scarf around the throat.
Then a mechanic's boiler-suit which covered the layers of clothing in a single neat skin that would not snag, or flutter in a breeze to draw an enemy eye. A woollen balaclava over the head, and a leather airman's helmet, and Sean saw the reason. The British steel helmet had a distinctive brim, and anyway was no protection from a Mauser bullet. Keep your nut down, Mark, me boy. Knitted mittens with fingers cut out, and then thick loose gloves over them. Keep the old fingers working, lad. Don't let them stiffen up on you. A small leather shoulder bag that slung comfortably under the left armpit. Ham sandwiches with plenty of mustard, chocolate and barley sugar, just the way you like it. Don't forget to eat, keep you warm. Four full clips Of . 303 cartridges, three slipped into the thigh pockets of the boiler-suit, and one into the special pocket sewn into the forearm of the left sleeve. I waxed each round myself, Fergus announced mainly for the benefit of the listening General. They'll slide in like,- and the simile was crude and obscene, meant to show Fergus scorn of rank and class. But Sean let it pass easily, he was too interested in the preparations for the hunt.
I won't show Cuthbert until the sun is right. Cuthbert? Sean asked, and Fergus chuckled and indicated a third figure that lay quietly at the back of the dugout. It was the first time Sean had noticed him and Fergus chuckled again at his puzzled expression reached out to the reclining figure.
Only then Sean realized it was a dummy, but in the light of the brazier the features were realistic and the helmeted head rode at a natural angle on the shoulders. The model ended abruptly at the hips and below it there was only a broom handle. I'd like to know how you are going to do it? Sean addressed the question to young Mark Anders, but Fergus replied importantly. Yesterday the Hun was shooting from low on the northern slope of the hill. Mark and me worked out the angles of the two shots he made and we've got him pegged to within fifty yards. He may change position, Sean pointed out. He'll not leave the north slope. It's in shadow all day, even if the sun comes out. He will want to shoot from shade into light. Sean nodded at the logic of it. Yes, he agreed, but be may shoot from a stand in the German line. And Mark answered quietly, I don't think so, sir. The lines are too far apart here', the German line ran across the crest of the hill, he'd want a shorter range. No, sir, he's shooting from close in. He makes a stand in no-man's land, probably changes it every day, but each time he comes close as he can get to our lines while still staying in the shadow. The boy had not tripped on a single word now that his mind had locked on to the problem. His voice was low and intense. I picked out a good stand for the lad, just beyond the farm house. He can cover the whole of the northern slope at less than two hundred yards. He'll move out now and settle in while it's still dark. I'm sending him out early. I want him to make his move before the Hun. I don't want the lad walking on top of the bastard in the dark. Fergus MacDonald took over from Mark with an air of authority. Then we both wait until the light is good and clean, then I start working with Cuthbert here, he patted the dummy and chuckled again. It's damned difficult to give him a nice natural look, like some stupid rooky sticking his head -up to take a first look at France. If you let the Hun get too long a look at him, then he'll tumble to the trick, but if you make it too quick, he won't get a chance for a shot.
No, it's not easy. Yes, I should imagine, Sean murmured wryly, that it's the most dangerous and difficult part of the whole thing.
And he saw the deadly expression flit across Fergus MacDonald's face before he turned to Mark Anders. Another mug of coffee, lad, and then it's time to be getting on. I want you in place before the snow stops. Sean reached into the breast of his great-coat and brought out the silver flask that Ruth had given him on the day the regiment sailed. Put some fangs in the coffee. He offered the flask to Mark.
The boy shook his head shyly. No thank you, sir. Makes me see squill. Don't mind if I do, sir. Fergus MacDonald reached swiftly across the brazier. The clear brown liquid glugged freely into his own mug.
The Sergeant-Major had sent out a patrol before midnight to cut a lane through the wire in front of A Company.
Mark stood at the foot of the trench ladder and changed his rifle from the right hand; another flare burst overhead and in its light Sean saw how intent the boy was on his task. He pulled back the bolt of the rifle, and Sean noted that he was not using the standard No. 1 short Lee-Enfield, which was the work-horse of the British army, but that he favoured the American P-4 which also fired the . 303
calibre but had the longer barrel and finer balance.
Mark stripped two clips of ammunition into the magazine and closed the bolt, levering a round of carefully selected and waxed ammunition into the breach.
In the last light of the flare he looked across at Sean, and nodded slightly. The flare died and in the darkness that followed Sean heard the quick light steps on the wooden ladder. He wanted to call good luck after the boy, but suppressed the whim and instead patted his pockets for his cheroot case.
, Sir Shall we get on back, sir? the Captain asked quietly. Off with you, growled Sean, his voice gruff with the premonition of coming tragedy. I'll stay on a while. Though he could give no help, somehow it seemed like deserting the boy to leave now.
Mark moved quickly along the line that the patrol had laid to guide him through the wire. He stooped to keep contact with the line in his left hand, and he carried the PJ4 in his right. He lifted his feet carefully, and stepped lightly, trying not to scuff the snow, trying to spread his weight evenly on each foot so as not to break the crust.
Yet every time, a flare went up, he had to fall face forward and lie still and huddled, a dark blot in the electric glare of light against the sheet of white, screened only by the persistently falling veils of snow. When he scrambled up in the darkness and moved on, he knew he left a disturbed area of snow. Ordinarily it would not have mattered, for in the barren, shell-churned wilderness of no-man's-land, such light scrabble marks passed unnoticed. But Mark knew that in the first cold light of dawn an unusual pair of eyes would be scrutinizing every inch of the ground, hunting for just this kind of sign.
Suddenly, colder than the icy snow-laden air against his cheeks, was the deep chill of loneliness. The sense of vulnerability, of being pitted against a skilled and implacable enemy, an invisible, terrifying, efficient adversary who would deliver instant death at the slightest error.
