FIFTEEN
Bloch looked at the photograph of the man he had travelled across no man’s land and through enemy lines to kill. He did it dispassionately. To Bloch, he was already dead, an inanimate object. A ‘target’, pure and simple. It was one of the first things he had taught himself. Don’t think of them as people. They are walking bull’s-eyes. Don’t wonder if they had families, friends, lovers. Just do the job and get out.
He shifted position slightly, as quietly as he could manage. He had come alarmingly close to being discovered several times. As the hours of darkness drew to a close, men, machines and animals were on the move, making one final hasty journey before the creeping light from the east betrayed them to the enemy. The munitions drays, the food and fresh water convoys, the tumbrils, the medical supply ambulances and the columns of reinforcements, and those being relieved, all took up their daylight positions, for, thanks to men like Bloch and his close contemporary, the artillery spotter, this was a war of armies and services that moved primarily at night.
He had lain in the nave while British soldiers stepped in for a quick cigarette, coming inside in the hope that the glowing tip would not attract the attention of a sniper. If only they knew. Others had relieved themselves against the walls, grunting with pleasure as they splashed noisily, whistling softly as they buttoned themselves up. Once, he heard someone enter and cry to himself, the sobs stifled and then quickly squashed altogether when the weeping man heard a voice.
‘Sir? You in there, sir?’
A sniff. ‘Just coming.’
He picked up other conversations from nearby trenches, meaningless apart from a few clearly enunciated words, often ‘f*ck’ or ‘shit’ or ‘bugger’. The smell of tobacco that came from these soldiers made his nose twitch and his lungs ache for some. That was for later, he promised himself, when he was back behind his own lines, writing home to tell them to restock the larder and to alert lovely Hilde that he was on his way back to her.
In between all the dawn activity in and around the tower, he had worked as quickly and as quietly as he could at solving his problem. He had found four fragments of bell rope that, when securely knotted together, he had managed to toss up and loop over one of the exposed beams just below the belfry. That was when the sobbing officer had entered the space, and Bloch had been forced to crouch in the corner, hoping the man was emotionally distracted enough not to notice the twin filaments freshly sprouted from above, swaying like jungle creepers. His hand was on his bayonet, and he was ready to spring forward and open the man’s neck should he show any curiosity. But he hadn’t; nor did any of the other transient visitors.
Eventually, with his rifle strapped across his back, he had grasped the bell ropes and hauled himself up, using the wall for leverage as sparingly as possible in case he dislodged a stonefall, until he was able to drag himself up onto the platform. Then, once the burning in his hands had subsided and his shoulders stopped complaining, he had pulled up the bell ropes and coiled them on the floor of the belfry. He had taken off and smoothed out the greatcoat next to the coils, unpacked his rifle, water bottle and rations and lain down on the coat in front of the westerly opening in the belfry’s stonework – once delicately louvered but now a gaping hole – gradually making himself comfortable.
He was still lying there when dawn aimed its first gun-grey rays of light at Somerset House, and, through the telescopic sights, he could clearly make out all the features of the sentry standing at the front entrance.
He smiled to himself. Half a chance, that was all he needed, and Lux’s special target was a dead man.