SEVENTY-FOUR
Ernst Bloch knew the flare would bring out Tommies to try to rescue the stricken soldier. Although he was certain that it had been his headshot that killed the unfortunate man who had been bathed in its glare, he magnanimously ceded the kill to Lothar. It would have taken him to that magic thirty, but now he was leaving this strange life, it didn’t seem to matter.
The flare had damaged his night vision and, even with the new scope, he couldn’t actually make out the exact position of the man who had launched it. There were several possibilities he could see, humps and lumps in the night, but none moved and it wasn’t worth wasting a bullet on an inanimate object. Whoever it was would probably expire out there anyway. Only the desperate launched a red flare.
Minutes passed, the slow beat of life out there.
‘I have movement.’ It was Schaeffer. ‘Dead ahead.’
‘On my instruction,’ said Bloch to Lothar.
‘Yes.’
Bloch used the night sight to scan the area just ahead of the enemy wire. Some of the smoke from the bombardment had cleared and the moon was strengthening. Yes, there was something there. Gone now. Wait. He needed a starburst, but there was no way of communicating that back to his lines. Perhaps that was something they ought to experiment with.
There it was again. A very unusual outline.
‘Target acquired,’ Lothar said.
God, his eyes must be good. ‘On my instruction,’ Bloch repeated. ‘It is my call.’
Now he could see the shape clearly. He looked for any sign of an officer. No, not a cap . . . that was . . . out here? How could it be?
‘I’m taking the shot.’
‘No,’ he said, louder than intended, and pushed Lothar’s shoulder.
The rifle gave a crack and the bullet whined off uselessly into the sky.
‘What the hell . . . ?’
‘It’s a woman.’
‘A what?’ Lothar asked.
‘I would recognize that headgear anywhere.’
‘Ssh,’ warned Schaeffer.
‘Well, if it’s a woman, it’s a f*cking British bitch, isn’t it?’
‘We agreed not to shoot them. They are the Women of Pervyse. It’s a gentleman’s agreement.’
That made the boy laugh. There were no gentlemen out in no man’s land. ‘What the bloody hell is a woman doing out there?’
‘I saw one near here the other day.’ She had helped patch him up, in fact, along with the elderly doctor.
Lothar lay back down and resighted. ‘That’s your agreement. This is my patch now.’
‘Stop, that’s an order.’
‘A woman? Out there? You’re mad.’ He adjusted the focus and took a deep breath. ‘Target acquired.’
‘Let him, Ernst,’ said Schaeffer softly. ‘You could be mistaken. And he’s right. This is ours now.’
A few moments passed while the boy’s rifle barrel tracked a few centimetres to the right. He had her. ‘I am taking the shot.’
Bloch knew he was going to have to stop him, somehow. He turned to extract his knife from its sheath. That is when he caught a movement of black ghosts in the corner of his eye.
The hardwood club rang off Lothar’s skull and, before he could react, something equally heavy struck Bloch. His vision exploded into spinning galaxies and his limbs turned to lead. He was unable to react as his arms were rapidly bound together and a rag of some description pushed into his mouth.
He shook his head to clear it, trying to make sense of what was happening. Five, perhaps six men, dressed head to toe in black, were circling around the three Germans. Schaeffer and Lothar still lay sprawled on the ground close by, totally out of it. One of the raiders picked up the two sniping rifles and slung them over his shoulder.
They’ll have the new night sight, he thought. Lux will kill me.
‘Right, back the way we came,’ said a low, growling voice. ‘But we just need the one, I’m afraid. And if we leave them be, these two will be back out here again tomorrow.’
The scream from Bloch’s throat dashed itself against the gag filling his mouth as one of the wraiths stepped forward and drove a bayonet through his two prostrate comrades, one after the other, like sticking pigs. He squeezed his eyes shut as he was hauled to his feet and half-dragged, half-carried west, towards the British lines.
Bloch didn’t know it yet, but Churchill’s new team of trench raiders had just grabbed their first prisoner.