The Eternal War

CHAPTER 63

2001, New York



Private Sutter stared across the rubble from his guard position: a short section of trench leading down four steps to the entrance to Defence Structure 76 – the official name for the communications bunker. He and the other lads on garrison duty were not meant to officially know it was a radio-signals hub for this section of the front line. Which was stupid, seeing as how the dish and antennae array were quite visible far above them, perched on the partially caved-in roof of the tall building beside the bunker. A twisted trunk of wires snaked down the open front of the building, from exposed floor to exposed floor, all the way down to the ground and into the bunker.

No, they weren’t meant to know what this place was, and it was drilled into them to refer to it only as Defence Structure 76. Should he ever be captured and interrogated by the enemy for intelligence, Defence Structure 76 could mean anything: a turret, a machine-gun emplacement, an artillery station.

Sutter shook his head. Not that those useless peasants in blue across the river were ever going to do much more than quiver in their boots and hunker down in their entrenched positions like cockroaches hiding in a dirty kitchen.

And perhaps they were right to quiver, Private Sutter mused. He’d heard from Lance-Corporal Davies, who’d heard whispers from someone working in regimental equipment procurement, that ‘something big’ was most certainly afoot. An offensive of some kind? Had to be.

All sorts of rumours were beginning to surface and the men in his platoon were itching for a scrap to get themselves stuck into. Playing at being security guards for a small concrete box that did little more than broadcast propaganda messages across this part of the line … well, that wasn’t the kind of soldiering Sutter had signed up for.

He leaned against the sandbags, bored, gazing down a track of cleared rubble. A track just about wide enough for a single vehicle and flanked on either side by banks of brick and debris and dust.

It had been an important road once. On the corner of the building beside him, he could make out a faded sign spotted with rust.



7TH AVENUE





Used to be one of New York’s main streets, he recalled someone telling him.

Doesn’t look like much now.

Through the open door to the bunker he could hear the muted clank of a kettle going on the stove, the click and clatter of dominoes being dealt, the dirty laugh of someone telling a joke they’d probably all heard a dozen times or more.

He sighed. Bored witless and missing afternoon tea as well. Marvellous. He was halfway through wondering whether one of the lads might actually think to bring him a mug of tea when he saw someone walking down the cleared track ahead.

A lone figure, it seemed. Yes. Just one … and, a little closer now, he could see it was a woman.

A woman? Private Sutter hadn’t seen a woman since he and the lads had replaced the last poor bunch of bored-witless guards three months ago. She was walking quite purposefully towards him.

Sutter grinned … A little female company. That’d be rather nice for a change.

He picked his white helmet up and put it on, tightened the strap beneath his chin and then took a step up the ladder and out of the trench so that he could be seen more clearly.

‘Halt!’ he called out to the woman, his carbine in his hands but aimed at the ground. She was hardly a threat, after all.

The woman kept walking purposefully towards him, oblivious to his challenge. Closer now, he could see she was wearing a Confederate-grey officer’s cape. More than that … he could see she was quite beautiful – the face of an angel, pale and smooth, long dark hair cascading down her shoulders.

‘Miss!’ he called out again, then almost apologetically: ‘I’m going to have to ask you to stop where you are!’

Her stride remained unbroken and now she was off the track and clambering up the bank of rubble towards him.

‘Miss! Please!’ He found himself reluctantly raising his carbine. ‘I need you to stop right where you are, love!’

Closer now, just a dozen yards, climbing steadily up skittering rubble towards him. She was smiling.

Sutter wondered whether this was a wind-up. Or perhaps a test. He knew this area of the line was being inspected for battle-readiness. If so, he’d already let this young lady get far too close. He was going to get a sharp rebuke if this was a test.

‘Halt or I shall fire!’ he challenged, angry with himself.

This time she did finally stop. Another six yards uphill, four or five more strides, and she’d have been right beside him.

‘Identify yourself!’ Sutter barked.

Her smile widened. ‘My name is Becks.’

Her cape flapped. He thought a breeze had caught it, lifted it. It was only as something glinted in the air between them that he understood it was the movement of her arms that had stirred the cape.

Sutter felt a punch in his throat that left him winded, gasping for air. He dropped the carbine, his hands reaching up to work out why his open mouth didn’t seem to be letting in a breath. Then he felt something odd sticking out. He looked down to see the hilt of a bayonet protruding from beneath his chin.

Right, I see … His foggy mind understood that he had a bayonet lodged in his throat.

He found himself sliding forward, dizzy-headed, slumped on to the sandbag in front of him. He looked up at the woman as she stepped carefully over him … She really was quite beautiful. She dropped down into the trench beside him and yanked the protruding blade from his throat.

Sutter gushed dark blood on to the sandbag.

Beautiful. She really is. Like an angel. His mouth flapped open, blood spilling over his lips and down his chin as he tried to ask her if that’s what she was.

She smiled at him. ‘Please die quietly now,’ she said in an almost motherly way as she covered his mouth with her hand.