Chapter 10
The specter of Owens’s dead runner haunted Ash as she wound her way down the next avenue, past the support line, past the reserve line, past the kennel and the aviary, up the steps and out into the fresh night air where she could finally breathe despite a heavy fog.
For a moment she knelt there, touching the little bit of grass that poked out of the muddy earth. What had she gotten herself into coming here? She feared it had all been a very grave mistake.
Then she thought of Charles, pictured his face on that West Kent runner before he fell right down in the muck while he bled.
Well, she was here now, not Charles, and there was nothing for it but to keep her chin up and do the job.
Except she wasn’t quite ready to go back into the dank, busy labyrinth where to move a hundred feet you had to go a mile.
With the fog as cover, Ash ran low just inside the tree line, stopping to kneel at the edge of a water-filled crater to wash off some of the mud that weighed her down. She was so exhausted she could almost collapse right there and sleep despite the eerie sounds and the reek of putrid water.
But as she sat back on her haunches to drink from her canteen, the icy steel of a rifle grazed her ear. In that moment, Ashley knew what her own heart tasted like, and it was the bitter bile of pear preserves and potted meat.
There wasn’t time to chide herself for being so cocksure stupid, as the rifle rested on her shoulder, digging into the fleshy part of her throat and settling beneath her jaw. She squatted, stock still, afraid to even swallow.
A rough, meaty hand yanked her upper arm back, and thick fingers traced her muddy runner’s band before dragging her up and spinning her around to face her captor.
He had a wicked-looking dog at his side, but it wasn’t a German shepherd. His uniform and insignia were that of a British corporal, and Ash gasped with relief while the dog sniffed her muddy boots and the patrolman scowled in rank disapproval.
From somewhere close by, a sniper fired off a quick burst and was answered in full by an even closer one. Ash dropped to her knees, as though ducking would protect her with her arm still held aloft by the patrolman—her band a mud-red target.
Both dog and master tilted their heads, listening, and then the patrolman jerked her to her feet, one finger to his lips demanding silence as he guided her through the trees and into the safety of the trench.
“Thank you,” she whispered once they were safely surrounded by sandbag walls. He didn’t answer or slacken his pace, leaving her no choice but to jog along beside him. “I’ve a message for Major Mayweather,” she said.
He merely snorted.
“This is Maricourt Trench?” she asked.
“And ’ow do I know you’re no’ a spy?” he asked, stopping long enough to turn and jab her in the chest.
“A spy?” she repeated, her stomach dropping again, threatening to throw up all the water she’d just consumed. “No, I swear. I’m just a runner. From Whitechapel.”
“Oughta cut you open, peel off your skin. Make sure you’re really Bri’ish inside.”
“Do the British look different inside?” she whispered with a shudder.
He laughed and resumed his stride along the trench, finally turning down the support line and making his way to a rather large dugout.
“S’cuse me, Major Mayweather, but I found this’n here skulking round the craters. Could be a spy.”
A very tired-looking middle-aged officer stepped out into the trench holding a book with his finger tucked inside to keep his place. “A spy?” he asked.
“No, sir, I’m not,” Ash replied.
“On’y said you could be,” the patrolman argued, squeezing her arm again.
Ash wrenched away from him, and the corporal cuffed her up the side of the head, until the major held up a hand to stop him.
“What’s your business here, soldier?” he asked in a smooth, educated accent much like her captain’s.
“I’m a runner, sir.”
“I can see that.”
“Private Ashley of the East Surrey Regiment. Did you say your name is Mayweather? This is Maricourt Trench?”
“I am and it is.”
Ash sagged with relief. “I’ve a message from Captain Owens of the West Kents,” she said, handing him the letter.
“Thought you said you were Surrey,” the patrolman murmured, eyeing her suspiciously.
Ash shrugged. “Needs must.”
Mayweather scanned the letter. “Does Owens want a reply?”
Her heart sank at the prospect. “He only said to deliver it and get back to my unit.”
“Better do it then. The shelling will start soon.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice.
Afraid to go back out into the open, she set off down the trench once more, making for the reserve line.
An hour later she was only halfway back to Cherrydale Lane when she began to recognize familiar faces among the dozing men she passed.
But how could she know anyone there, in a trench in northern France?
Were they men from Whitechapel who she recognized from the streets back home? And would they recognize her, thinking she was Charles?
Glancing back over her shoulder at one familiar face, she ran smack into another.
“Watch it,” the red-haired soldier growled, and then recognition struck him the same moment it did Ashley, and his lip curled up in a sneer. It was Lance Corporal Reid of the Buffs, and he looked as though he still had a score to settle.
“Surrey…” he said.
Unwilling to show even an ounce of fear, Ash forced a sneer of her own as she channeled Robin Blake and said, “You lost fair and square, Lance Corporal.”
Grabbing her by the front of her coat, he slammed her up against the muddy trench wall.
“Best take this one on the chin,” she gasped with her last shred of nerve.
His nostrils flared, but in that second the whole earth shook as a shell landed somewhere in the front line, showering them with mud and flaming grit.
It was enough to startle Reid into loosening his grip on Ashley’s collar so she could wrench herself out of his grasp and run off down the trench as hard and fast as her legs would carry her.
That first shell was only the beginning of a barrage that followed her all the way down the reserve line, growing louder as she turned up the communication avenue to the front line.
It felt wrong, running towards the shelling, and yet Ash was driven onward by the urgent need to put space between herself and Lance Corporal Reid and the even more urgent desire to find her friends.
By the time she reached Cherrydale Lane Trench, the opening salvo had begun to peter out.
The Surreys were lined up after Reveille, standing silently on the fire step for the morning watch, and though she was so weary she could almost drop down dead, she had no choice but to join her comrades on the step.
She peered into the darkness and waited for dawn to come, on guard against a raid from the other side.
“Gentlemen,” the captain said when they were finally ordered to stand down. “It has been quite a welcome. But are we downhearted?”
“No, sir!” they chorused all as one, the only acceptable answer no matter how dejected, no matter how much Ash longed to crumple in a heap.
“No indeed. And though today be not St. Crispin’s Day, from this day to the ending of the world, we in it shall be remembered—we few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.
And gentlemen in England now a-bed shall think themselves acurs’d they were not here to fight with us today and every day. ”
“Some kind of poetry, is it?” TomTom whispered.
“Shakespeare,” Rook and Ash both replied and when she glanced at the sniper he allowed a tiny smirk to grace his lips.
Blake snorted. “More or less.”
“Our goal this day will be to take sector six of the German trench. Take and hold, whatever comes. His Majesty has implicit confidence in you,” the captain went on. “As have I. Now go and have your rum ration and your breakfast. We’ve a long few days ahead.”
Perhaps the modified speech didn’t stir all the men as he intended, but Ashley’s soul stoked hot and burning, even as she slid down to her haunches shivering when her adrenaline ran dry.
The mess sergeant moved down the line, doling out a drink for each soldier in turn.
Following the lead of her newfound brothers, Ashley gulped her ration down, but the sweet rum barely had time to scorch her empty stomach before she heaved it back up on her boots to a round of hoots and applause and a few groans as the others jumped away.
“Oh, now, don’t waste it,” Sergeant Major Chapman mourned as he strolled past.
“Are we downhearted?” Lieutenant Napier called.
“Maybe just a bit,” she choked.
Cooper slapped her on the back, making her cough harder. “S’alright. Ash the Flash didn’t get fast being no sot.”
“Ash the Splash, more like,” Blake said, his voice dripping with disdain.
Rook passed her his own canteen. “You’ll be glad for a tot of rum come winter,” he said, and she nodded before sipping his cool clean water and wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
“And come battle,” Stewart said, swigging his own ration with practiced ease. “I prefer whisky, but a little Dutch courage goes a long way.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Rook agreed, chasing his rum with a drink of water from his canteen before offering it to Ashley once again. Now, instead of shame, she burned with the notion of pressing her lips to the same place his had been, and she took another grateful sip.
A steady enfilade resumed over the next hour, christening them with mud as they waited for the order to go.
Each blast made Ashley jump until she didn’t have the energy to flinch.
Her run the night before had been terrifying, but at least she’d been moving, which kept the fear somewhat at bay. This standing and waiting was a special form of torture, and she was beginning to crawl out of her skin.
Rook didn’t even seem to notice as he sat and calmly inked a football with the words no referee.
“Blimey, that one sounded like a locomotive,” Tom whispered.