Beyond the Horizon (13 page)

They were welcomed to the front with shelling by the dreaded German 4.2 and 5.9 artillery guns firing high explosives. The shelling commenced around midnight and Tom's platoon bunkered down in their newly dug trench as the heavy artillery rounds slammed into the earth, exploding with a force that made the ground tremble like a wounded animal. With clods of dirt showering down, Tom wondered if Wallarie was correct in saying the earth was alive, because the wounding by the German shells seemed to be proving him right.

Tom wondered how the young and inexperienced Americans were coping with their first exposure to the most feared aspect of trench warfare. Just waiting, praying that a shell did not explode close enough to do serious damage, stretched nerves beyond breaking. Not all artillery explosions resulted in mutilated bodies; Tom had seen bodies of soldiers without a mark on them – they had been killed by the concussive effect of the artillery blast. The massive force of compressed air produced by a shell going off could cause irreparable internal damage, although the main cause of death was mostly from the red-hot jagged fragments of metal cast off by the artillery round breaking up. Or the lead balls sprayed out from shells exploding overhead for maximum damage.

Tom had his eyes closed and could feel the terrible fear rise up in him. Each exploding round caused his whole body to twitch in expectation of agonising death. He forced himself to remain crouched and not to give in to the urge to jump up screaming and run away from an enemy he could not fight back against. Tom knew the terror he was experiencing was being felt right along the line of trenches.

For a moment he opened his eyes and could see Lieutenant Sullivan curled up with his arms around his head, trembling with each crash and thump of the earth. Time lost all meaning and Tom closed his eyes again in an attempt to bring Juliet's face and smile into his world of terror. But this did not work: all he could think of was not being killed or maimed by the explosions.

Suddenly he felt his whole body lifted a few inches off the bottom of the trench as a huge round impacted at the edge of the trench only yards away. Tom knew it was a German 5.9 centimetre shell because he recognised its incoming sound.

Men screamed and shouted, and when Tom opened his eyes he could see that the section of trench beside him had collapsed inwards, burying alive anyone who had been beneath the lip of the trenches. Without hesitation, Tom snatched an entrenching shovel and scrambled on his hands and knees to the freshly cut earth of the trench. He was joined by Lieutenant Sullivan and two other soldiers who used tin helmets and their hands to dig furiously into the pile of earth. The shelling continued but Tom no longer had time to reflect on his own fear. None of them said a word as they grunted and gasped, digging through dirt until a leg appeared.

‘Grab it and pull like buggery,' Tom yelled above the crashing noise. Mike Sullivan grabbed the booted ankle and he and Tom yanked with all their strength. The leg came out easily and Mike Sullivan fell back, gripping a man's leg cut off by shrapnel above the knee. For a brief moment he sat on his rear holding the leg and staring at it with glazed eyes.

‘Keep digging!' Tom screamed and the men went back to their desperate task. One of the great fears of all soldiers on both sides was being buried alive by cave-ins like this.

They dug until they found the rest of the body and dragged Private Dean from the earth. He was barely alive and rolled on his back to stare up at the summer stars. Then he started retching, bringing up his last meal along with dirt and bile.

‘Private Dean,' Tom yelled down at the badly wounded soldier. ‘Who was beside you?'

Private Dean blinked and mumbled something.

Tom leaned over and put his ear to Dean's mouth. ‘Who?'

‘Bluey,' Dean whispered and Tom turned away. ‘Stretcher-bearers,' he bellowed, hoping that his call would not be drowned out by the tremendous noise of the exploding shells.

They were now joined by men from the other side of the destroyed earthworks and the frantic digging continued until they found Bluey. They were too late. He had suffocated under the heavy pressure of the earth. Tom looked away, not feeling anything, and he noticed that the shelling had tapered away and the sun was casting its first pink light on the horizon.

The stretcher-bearers arrived to find that Private Dean's leg stump had been tied off with a tourniquet and he was still alive. Tom had completed his roll call of the platoon: they had suffered one KIA and one WIA. He reported to Sullivan, who had also moved up and down the platoon sections to check on the welfare of the men. He was a good officer and, despite his own terror of the bombardment, had been able to retain an outward appearance of calm, talking quietly to the men, all of whom had been badly shaken by the experience.

Tom had ensured that the men's minds were on maintaining equipment and preparing for any assault that might follow the bombardment, although he doubted this would happen. He had come to sense the difference between German harassment shelling meant to unnerve them, and preparatory shelling intended to soften a position before an attack. The early morning bombardment had been a routine harassment shelling.

When Tom reached Private Dean lying on a stretcher alone, he squatted to speak reassuringly with the man.

‘You got a Blighty there, son,' Tom said referring to a wound that would ensure the soldier was sent to England for treatment – and out of the trenches for good.

‘Sarge, there's something I have to tell you,' Dean said, reaching up and gripping Tom's sleeve. The morphine had kicked in and Dean had the dreamy look of a man not quite in the real world.

‘What's that?' Tom said.

‘Bluey, before he got it,' Dean said in a voice that seemed to come from a long way away. ‘He told me that Smithers told him that after we were on leave he went to your lady's cottage and had his way with her. I didn't want to say anything but now Bluey is gone I suppose you should know the truth. Smithers said she had a strawberry birthmark on her arse.'

Tom felt the blood drain from his whole body. Only someone with intimate knowledge of Juliet could have known of her small birthmark on the cheek of her well-rounded buttock. Raped! Tom now felt an overwhelming urge to leap from the trench and run as fast as he could until he reached Juliet's farm. Then he would hunt down Smithers and kill him.

‘I'm sorry, Sarge,' Dean said as the stretcher-bearers returned to take him on the first leg of his long journey back to England.

Tom barely noticed him go; all his thoughts were of murder and grief. Maybe Juliet had been badly hurt and could not write, Tom thought. There would be a reckoning, he vowed. But first he must go to Juliet, no matter what.

The cobbled street was crowded with troops mostly in the uniform of the French army. The pretty young girl stood hesitantly before the doors of the stone building. She gripped a small suitcase containing the few articles she had put together before fleeing her village in shame.

Juliet Joubert caught the attention of one or two soldiers ambling past the houses and the offers were blatant. Money for sex was the norm in this section of Paris known for its brothels catering to soldiers on leave. The French army had suffered terribly in the big battles and the year before had actually mutinied for better conditions. Fortunately the mutiny had not been known about by the German intelligence or they might have launched another attack and won the war.

Juliet had travelled a long way and her meagre savings were almost gone. She felt such shame that she had not been able to write to Tom, nor had she been able to tell her parents what had happened, although they had known there was something wrong with her. For over a month she had continued teaching in an almost trancelike state; then she had found herself suffering nausea and vomiting. She had understood that she was pregnant, and the terrible realisation came to her that she could not know whose child she was carrying.

It had been an agony for her, so one night she'd packed her small suitcase and left her parents' cottage without leaving a note. All that had been in her mind was that the man she loved would shun her, and without Tom life had no meaning. In her despair she thought she was not fit to be Tom's wife if the child she carried was not his.

Knowing that she had very little money to keep her going, Juliet had decided to take a cleaner's job in a relatively respectable brothel for gentlemen and officers. The thought of working in such a place sickened her but it was all she could find. She walked up the steps to the brothel's large double front and rang the bell. In a couple of minutes the door swung open to reveal the outline of a large man wearing a stylish suit and hat. Juliet and the man stared at each other and the young woman blinked in horror, while the man also appeared to be taken aback at the sight of her standing forlornly on the step.

‘Well, I'll be buggered,' Smithers said, a broad smile crossing his face. ‘So you couldn't keep away from me, eh? Of all the places you had to come to in Paris it had to be Madame Leclerc's. Come in, and I suppose you are wondering how I got here,' Smithers continued, opening the door wide. ‘Me and the army decided to have a parting and it just happened that when I got to town Madame Leclerc was looking for someone who spoke English and could handle rowdy customers. So here I am – and here you are.'

Juliet was frozen with fear and disbelief. She was in the presence of evil and the devil had come to fetch her soul.

12

T
he sun was at its blazing zenith as Saul Rosenblum and Joanne Barrington lay on their stomachs side by side, observing the Turkish patrol halting for a rest. From their viewpoint on the hill they calculated that the Turks were about a half-mile away. Joanne scanned the campsite with her binoculars in an attempt to locate Matthew. As her small rescue team had tracked the patrol over the last three weeks their supplies had dwindled, and she knew that if an attempt was not made in the next twenty-four hours they would be forced to withdraw.

‘I can see him!' Joanne exclaimed. ‘There, standing to the rear of the camel train.'

Saul swung his binoculars to the rear of the convoy and caught sight of his friend swigging from a leather water bottle. For days and weeks they had kept a course parallel with the patrol, always out of sight but close enough to carefully observe the military routine of the patrol. Saul had calculated that they had the task of reconnoitring for British units on the Ottoman flank. Had this not been the case, the patrol would most probably be back in its fortified base by now and any attempt to rescue Matthew would have been impossible.

The time observing the enemy unit had given Saul a good idea of numbers, weapons and tactics. He had noted that the patrol had grown slack in the last few days – maybe because they were comfortable in territory nominally held by them – and the sentries posted on the flanks were now being pulled in closer.

‘Twenty-three men armed with carbines and no sign of any machine-guns,' Saul had briefed that morning. ‘I think they are suffering a shortage of supplies like us, so that means they will be expecting to reach a depot very soon. If we are to make our move it will have to be tonight – or at first light tomorrow. I notice that they seem to be preoccupied with breakfast lately and not keeping a good lookout. I would prefer first light when we have a clear view of Matthew, so he does not get caught in any crossfire. Our Maxim will even the odds considerably.'

All four of them had agreed with the plan as they had the high ground and surprise on their side. Now they just needed a lot of luck.

As they lay on the bare hill top observing the patrol, Benjamin hissed at his father. ‘Do you hear that?'

Saul lowered the glasses and strained to hear any strange sound that stood out from the usual noises of the arid lands. And then he heard it. A low droning noise approaching from the south.

‘Aircraft!' he said and turned to locate the source of the droning that was growing louder by the second. They all spotted the little biplane flying low at around a thousand feet, and Saul brought up his binoculars to identify it.

‘British,' he said. ‘Bloody hell! It must be going after the Turks!'

Joanne glanced at Saul and they both registered their horror as the British aircraft was already lining up the Turks, now wisely scattering in all directions, leaving their camels to mill about in panic.

The chatter of the aircraft's twin machine-guns reached them across the plain, and they could see tiny puffs of dust as the bullets walked their way into the camp, felling a couple of the camels and three Turkish soldiers unable to get away in time.

‘Matthew could be killed,' Joanne said, rising to her feet. ‘We have to do something now.'

Saul took in the situation with the practised mind of a tactician. He could see that Matthew had sprinted away from the rear of the encampment and flung himself on the ground in a very shallow depression. The fighter biplane had made one strafing pass over the encampment and was climbing for a second run. Already some of the Turkish soldiers were standing their ground and firing their rifles at the aircraft.

‘Get the Maxim into action now!' Saul bellowed at his son. ‘Concentrate on placing your fire into the Turks towards the front of the caravan.'

Benjamin and Adar were already setting up the heavy water-cooled machine-gun on its stand and feeding a belt of ammunition into the breech. Benjamin jumped down behind the gun, pulled back the cocking lever, chambering the first round, and swivelled it to bring its fire to bear on the Turkish troops.

Saul ran to his horse and threw himself astride it. With a savage kick he spurred it into action and forced it over the edge of the hill onto the rocky slope that tapered away to the plain below. The horse was sure-footed and kept its balance as it went down the side of the hill, while Saul prayed that the British pilot would not concentrate his attack on him, mistaking him for an enemy soldier.

He glanced over his shoulder and swore in Hebrew. Joanne was following him down on her own mount. He had not had time to warn her off. There was not time for Saul to stop and order her back to the hilltop. He forced his mount into a gallop, and when he reached the bottom of the hill he calculated that he had around four hundred yards before he reached Matthew. Beside the noise of the horse's hooves hitting the ground, Saul was sure that he could also hear his own heart beat.

Initially, the Turks had not noticed him galloping in a line past the rear of their encampment, but now a couple of soldiers close by turned to see him heading for the depression. The Turkish soldiers snapped off shots at him and Saul who could hear the crack of bullets passing close by. He pressed himself against his horse's neck to make himself a smaller target. Three hundred yards, he thought, and when he turned to see where Joanne was he saw that she was only about twenty yards behind him, with her pistol in one hand and the reins in the other. Saul had to admire her skill in the saddle.

The fighter plane threw up spouts of dirt in front of Saul and he realised with chilling fear that he was the target now. The aircraft flew so low that Saul could actually see clearly the goggled face of the pilot looking back at him.

Two hundred yards, Saul calculated; Matthew was still wisely out of sight in the depression. Just then the Maxim opened up from atop the hill, catching the Turkish soldiers in a crossfire. Confused, they milled about, attempting to identify the second deadly threat as three or four were cut down. A Turkish officer was yelling and waving his pistol at his men.

Saul did not envy the Turkish officer's position: he was being attacked from the air, and now a machine-gun on the hill was pouring fire down into his ranks and some madman dressed as a Bedouin was galloping towards his prisoner.

One hundred yards, and overhead the British fighter plane was preparing to make a third low-level strafing run against what was left of the Ottoman patrol. By now Joanne had caught up to Saul and was galloping by his side.

Fifty yards and Matthew suddenly rose to his feet and began waving.

Saul and Joanne were off their horses in a flash, and Matthew flung his arms around Joanne.

‘Oh, God, is this a dream?' he gasped, hugging her to him. There were tears in his eyes, and hers too.

‘Let's go,' Saul growled, gripping the reins of his horse as it skittered nervously at the sound of the aircraft returning, and the chatter of its machine-gun.

‘Get on my horse,' Joanne said. ‘We'll ride back up the hill together.'

‘Bloody hell!' Saul swore. ‘The bloody pommy bastard is coming for us!'

Both Matthew and Joanne glanced up; the pilot had finished his strafing run and had turned his attention on them out in the open. It seemed impossible that he would miss them; death was only seconds away.

Suddenly Joanne scrambled from the safety of the low depression and, to the utter astonishment of Matthew and Saul, ripped open her blouse to reveal her breasts to the oncoming pilot, who was now flying at almost ground level. Both men gaped in shock, making easy targets of themselves.

‘Joanne! No!' Matthew screamed.

It was obvious that the pilot was not going to squander his remaining ammunition until he was close enough to ensure a kill, but the aircraft suddenly nosed up, and when both men swung to see the face of the pilot as he passed them by, they could have sworn that he was grinning. He waggled his wings and droned away, leaving the desert almost silent except for the pitiful grunting of wounded beasts and the cries of badly wounded men.

Joanne had closed her blouse and turned to the gawking men. ‘That seemed to work,' she said with a smile.

Neither man commented, and the almost comical situation was rudely interrupted by the sound of scattered rifle shots. The Maxim gun had fallen silent, and Saul guessed that something had gone wrong with it. The Turkish officer had also guessed the same thing and now rallied around seven survivors to concentrate their fire on the single remaining threat – the trio in the depression.

‘We have to get out of here now,' Saul said unnecessarily, and Matthew followed Joanne onto her mount, clinging to her waist with all the strength he had. The initial shooting proved to be well off as the traumatised men regained their composure, but as the two horses galloped across the plain towards the hill the shooting became more accurate.

A bullet clipped the back of Matthew's shirt and he felt the searing pain as it scored a burn across his back; still he managed to maintain his grip as Joanne leaned forward, encouraging her mount to even greater speed. Saul was off to their left and keeping pace with them.

The slope came closer and the welcome chatter of the Maxim gun once again opened up to spray death down on the Turkish patrol. Over his shoulder Saul could see that the Turks had scattered, taking cover behind felled camels, and were returning fire.

When Saul, Joanne and Matthew reached the bottom of the hill they dismounted and placed their horses between themselves and the Turks now trapped on the plain, leading the exhausted horses up the slope slippery with shards of loose rock. It was then that Matthew noticed Joanne half-doubled over, her face ashen with pain. A great red blot spread on her white blouse and before Matthew could react, she stumbled and collapsed, releasing the reins of her horse.

‘Joanne! No!' Matthew shouted.

Joanne lay on her side, clutching her stomach.

‘God, no!' Saul groaned.

Matthew knelt down beside Joanne and placed her head in his lap. He couldn't believe this was happening. Tears streamed down his dirty, unshaven face. ‘You'll be all right, my darling,' he choked. ‘Just got to get you up the hill and off to a hospital.'

Joanne had her eyes closed in agony but she opened them to stare up at Matthew. She reached up and touched his face. ‘I have found you, my darling Matthew,' she said weakly. ‘I will never let you go again.'

The pain and loss of blood brought merciful release to her and she slipped into unconsciousness. Matthew held her to him gently, lest he cause her any more grief. He felt Saul's hand on his shoulder.

‘We have to get her up to the others,' he said quietly.

Matthew turned to him with desperation written all over his face. ‘We can help her,' he pleaded. ‘We just need to get her to medical help.'

Saul felt a lump in his throat. With a wound like that, death was almost a certainty – even with the best hospital facilities. ‘Yes, old cobber, and first we have to get her out of the line of fire of the Ottomans over there.'

Saul turned his attention to the summit where he could see Adar, armed with a rifle, descending the slope. Within minutes Adar was beside them.

‘We have to get Miss Barrington up the hill,' Saul said in Hebrew and Adar knelt to take her legs, while Matthew gripped her under the arms. It was tortuous going, carrying Joanne's limp body up the slippery hillside, while all the time being careful not to cause her more distress. Still, Joanne groaned at the movement, slipping in and out of consciousness. Saul led the two horses and eventually they reached the top to see Benjamin manning the heavy machine-gun. A shimmer of heat lay over the hot barrel and a pile of shiny brass cartridges lay in scattered heaps where they had been ejected by the weapon.

Benjamin left the gun to go to Joanne as she was laid gently on the dry earth. The bloodstain now completely covered the front of her blouse. He glanced at his father's grim face, and Saul shook his head.

Matthew fell to his knees beside Joanne and used his torn and dirty scarf to scatter away the flies that settled on her face.

‘Get some cover over here,' Saul said to his son.

Benjamin retrieved a section of canvas wrapping from his horse's saddlebags and pitched it with two rifles to form a crude shelter from the blistering sun.

Matthew held Joanne's limp hand, crooning soothing words of forlorn hope.

‘We'll leave them alone,' Saul said quietly to his son. ‘The Turks down in the valley are still a threat, so we must prepare to ride out of here within an hour.'

‘What will happen to Miss Barrington?' Benjamin asked anxiously as he walked away with his father. He saw tears in the corners of Saul's eyes and knew not to ask any more questions.

Joanne gazed up at Matthew with pain-racked eyes. ‘I . . .' she winced, and could not go on. She gripped his hand.

‘We're going to get you to a hospital, my love. Everything's going to be all right,' Matthew said.

‘No hospital,' Joanne replied through gritted teeth. ‘Pain too bad.'

‘Saul will organise transport for you. Before you know it you will be on your feet again,' Matthew said with conviction. He would not let her die.

A crippled smile crept across her beautiful but ashen face. ‘Not going to live,' she said with great effort. ‘You must kill me . . . Right thing to do . . . No hope.'

The shock of her words hit Matthew like a bullet. ‘I will get you to a hospital,' he reiterated.

With effort Joanne shook her head. ‘So much to say,' she said as her body rippled with a spasm that choked off her words. She cried out and the sound of her pain tore through Matthew. He didn't want to confront the fact that she was dying, but he had no choice – she was in agony. He could let her linger in her suffering – or give her the peace she asked for.

Matthew heard Saul's footsteps behind him and turned to see the big bearded man looking down on them both with an expression of gentle sympathy and grief. He stretched out his hand to Matthew. ‘Here,' he said. ‘I have morphine for Joanne's pain.'