TWENTY-SEVEN
The blade slid smoothly into the skin, parting the fat, cartilage and the walls of blood vessels. He twisted it, moving it in a circular motion back and forth to make sure that maximum damage was done to the tissues. The man’s eyes looked up at him, imploring, and Bloch found himself shaking his head, in sorrow and regret. If only you hadn’t woken up, it was meant to convey. If only you hadn’t seen me going through your pockets, prior to me slipping into your uniform. If only you had not made to cry out in alarm. I wouldn’t be here now, digging into your neck with your own clasp knife, my hand clamped firmly over your mouth. You probably thought I was some kind of common thief. I am a very uncommon thief.
The sergeant stopped struggling after a while, although blood continued to squirt out over Bloch’s hand and onto the blankets and sheets. Eventually he felt the geyser slow and he risked letting go of the man’s mouth. Fate had put this man in the same room as he, the same capricious fate that had decided there were no more transports available that night and the opinion, voiced by a medic, that a decent sleep might see a change of fortune for the pair. Well, this night had certainly seen that for the sergeant.
Bloch rinsed the knife and his hands in the enamel bowl that stood on the makeshift nightstand. He dried them on the sheets of his cot and then set about completing his dressing in the sergeant’s uniform, which fitted him reasonably well. A little short in the sleeves perhaps, but an ill-fitting uniform was no novelty in any army, and would not arouse suspicion.
It was raining outside again, and he knew this would suit his purpose admirably. He would stride out of the headquarters and make his way to where he had stolen the identity of the Tommy. He would grab one of the rolls of barbed wire and, exuding as much confidence as possible, head towards the trenches. Everyone would be alert for a German coming towards them. Few would expect one from behind. Especially one who looked intent on repairing the coils of wire that had been blasted apart by the German guns. If he could make the Warnave Brook, to the south of where he was now, a watercourse that pierced no man’s land, he could follow that to safety.
Of course, he would need a hefty dose of luck to get into no man’s land in the first place, and an even bigger issue of it if he were to avoid being shot by his own side as he approached the German lines. The drumming rain he could hear would help; the men on both sides would be dreaming of the warm and the dry, and taking advantage of any opportunity to avail themselves of it.
He finished buttoning up the tunic, put on the sergeant’s steel helmet and shouldered the man’s Lee Enfield. He practised a salute. Something told him, looking down at the man’s throat, the wound raw in the guttering candlelight, that luck was on Ernst Bloch’s side that night.