FIFTY-SEVEN
Ernst Bloch heard the rasp of the Mercedes engines and looked up at the sky. A flight of Albatros two-seaters burst out from behind the trees, almost low enough to do some impromptu pollarding with their undercarriages. They had taken off from the airfield to the east of the sniper camp. As they wobbled overhead, wings dipping in the crosswind, he could see the racks of hand-bombs sitting on the fuselage next to the observer. They were on a combined spotting and bombing mission over enemy lines.
Once they had spiralled into a climb to gain altitude, he went back to the trestle table in front of him, on which was laid a captured British SMLE rifle attached to a peculiar contraption. It was known as a periscope rifle. Such was the accuracy of Bloch and his counterparts, it appeared the British had been forced to adopt this remote firing device.
The rifle was more or less standard. Not as accurate as the Mauser, but with a very good action that made for a rate of fire the German weapon could not match. However, it had been modified with a long brass tube housing the telescopic sights, which fed into a prismatic device. That formed into a box periscope, with, some 50 centimetres below the rifle, the eyepiece. It meant that a Tommy could poke the gun over the parapet and line up a target without showing himself. There was even a lever device for pulling the trigger remotely.
Lux had asked him to evaluate the weapon. He had seen similar devices from Kahles. This model, the inscription told him, was made by E. R. Watts and Son of Camberwell Road, London.
Well, he would tell Lux, he wouldn’t order any sights from Mr Watts. The system was ingenious, but calibrating it for accurate fire would be a nightmare. It was hard enough to make sure a standard telescopic sight was properly set up. This was too complex for anything other than random fire in the general direction of the enemy. Still, he thought, he could give it to young Lothar Breuchtal to try on the range. A whole day of tests. Don’t come back until you have hit six bulls in a row. That would keep him out of his hair.
Bloch lit a cigarette and stared up at the circling specks of the biplanes. They formed up into three separate wings and moved off to the west.
Lothar was getting under his skin. He was like a young puppy, or perhaps a cousin that idolizes his older relative. There was no escape from him. Bloch might even be on the latrine and Lothar would come and plonk himself down next to him and start with the questions. What sights did he prefer? Goerz or Kahles? And why? How important was crosswind? How often should you recalibrate a scope? What were the British trench loopholes made of? How did he rate the penetrating power of the Krupp ammunition versus the S.m.K.?
On and on it went. Much as he had enjoyed helping devise the school curriculum with Loewenhardt, he couldn’t wait for no man’s land, where the rule was enforced silence. Perhaps Lothar would explode like a landmine with the effort of staying quiet. They would find out soon enough.
He could see the lad coming towards him now, one hand held on his cap to stop it blowing away, the other holding a piece of paper, a smile on his face.
Bloch puffed on the cigarette and kept his features neutral.
‘Unteroffizier Bloch!’
He remained impassive in the face of the grinning ball of enthusiasm heading his way.
The boy stopped before him, breathless and flushed.
‘Orders from Lux. The British have just moved in an untried unit to the front line in our sector.’
‘Our’ sector. He liked that. Kid hadn’t even seen it yet.
‘What are they called?’
‘Part of . . .’ he looked at the paper, ‘. . . the Lancashire Fusiliers. The Leigh Friends.’
Bloch nodded, dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out. ‘Chums’ was a more accurate translation. Well, he thought, whatever they called themselves, they wouldn’t be chums for much longer. Not living ones, anyway.