Robert gives me a curious look. ‘He has got a point, sir. It’ll probably only take a few minutes and then we can be on our way. We all know how good a shot Danny is.’
Percy shakes his head. He suddenly looks troubled. ‘Maybe Lieutenant Wraxall is right. It’s getting late, we should be making tracks for camp.’
‘Ah, I see what’s going on here,’ George grins, his gaze flicking between us. ‘It’s the boy’s first time, right? Virgin jitters? Well, it’s not everyone that can take to killing right off. But let me tell you something, laddie.’ His grin falls and in the dark expression that now slips across his features, I see some of the genuine grief and anger he feels at the loss of his friend Peachie. He points a grubby finger at each of us. ‘The first time you see one of these mates of yours caught by a sniper’s bullet, or blown to bits by a mortar, or choking to death because they can’t get their fucking gas mask on in time? And then you use that trenching shovel hanging off your kitbag to scrape out some poxy grave for them? Well, then you might not be so squeamish. Then you might relish the chance of getting even with these Hun bastards.’
Danny doesn’t respond. He simply lowers his eye to the rifle sight and adjusts the stock against his shoulder. I watch as his tongue slips between his teeth, and think of that moment on the beach at Étaples, a boy carelessly firing off stones at some old tin sign.
Don’t, Danny.I know it’s an absurd thought. The mystery sniper has probably killed hundreds of British soldiers. If he isn’t stopped, he will kill hundreds more. Our men. Our boys. Wishing Danny to do anything other than end his life is unpatriotic, probably even treasonous in Gallagher’s book. But killing in cold blood does something to your soul. It murders you, in a way. Hollows you out, twists you up, leaves behind a different kind of person. I don’t want that for Danny. If he is to survive, he may well have to kill some day, and soon, but this is a different kind of killing. Detached, considered, calculating – everything that Danny isn’t.
We all watch, breathless. The magazine is already loaded with ten rounds of bullets in the charger bridge. The rifle is cocked and ready to go. Danny thumbs off the safety catch. His finger tenses in the trigger guard. He waits. And waits. From somewhere in the forest behind us a night creature stirs the bracken, an owl hoots, a fresh breeze tugs at the long grass.
Don’t. Danny, please d—
The sniper’s bullet cracks the night again. A split second later, Danny’s rifle answers. He retracts the bolt and the empty cartridge leaps from the magazine. Then, lightning fast, he slams the bolt back home and fires again:Crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack, crack. All ten rounds exhausted in less than twenty seconds. I’ve never seen anything like it. His magazine empty, Danny props the gun against the bank and turns to face us.
I close my eyes. My hands are shaking. I have to clench my fists to make them stop. Oh, Danny...
And then a familiar sound rips the air above our heads.
Danny looks at us and shrugs. ‘Sorry, lads. Guess I must have missed.’
The last half-mile to Authuille is hell. On and on, head down, one foot in front of the other, until it feels like the muscles in my neck are being pulled out by pincers. God only knows how Danny is managing it. He hasn’t spoken at all since we left George and his monosyllabic friend Benny at the raised road. Although he seems to have shaken off a lot of the pain from the crucifixion post, Percy and Robert have offered to share his kitbag between them. But Danny only shakes his head and marches on. He can probably see that, like himself, his comrades are ready to drop.
I glance his way and wonder what’s going on inside that head of his. Did he miss the German sniper by accident or was it a subconscious unwillingness to kill that sent his bullets wide of the target? And if I truly want him to survive this war, should both possibilities worry me? Because as much as killing changes a man, often out here it is necessary.
At last, Authuille comes into view. Bruised and battered, the village sits in the shadow of a hill just behind the Front line. Lights burn in the windows of several of the tinyestaminetcafes that populate what remain of its streets, glittering at us like candles in the dark. Even from this distance we can hear the sound of men singing, their voices echoing from out of those shining doorways. It strikes me like the sound of brothers calling us home.
‘Pack up your troubles in your old kitbag
And smile, smile, smile.
While you’ve a lucifer to light your fag
Smile, boys, that’s the style!’
I turn to Danny. His chest thrust out, he’s picked up the pace and is singing along to the voices that sail out of the darkness. It’s as if the singing has reenergised him. His eyes, bright again, glance in my direction.
‘What’s the use in worrying, Lieutenant Wraxall?’ he speak-sings. ‘It never was worthwhile.’
I exchange a weary smile with Percy and Robert before we all join in:
‘So pack up your troubles in your old kitbag
And smile, smile, smi—’
We come to a sudden halt, the last word catching in our throats. We have reached the outskirts of the village where the horses are stabled and the ration carts parked up for the night. All around us, the white tents of our column stretch into the hillside. Men dizzy with fatigue sit around campfires, cleaning and oiling their rifles or else at work with their ‘housewife’, mending threadbare socks. For no real reason, that old slang name for the standard-issue sewing kit comes to me as I suddenly remember Danny passing me a needle from his own ‘housewife’ so that I might treat Ollie Murray’s injured feet.
‘What is it, Private?’ I ask the man who has appeared in front of us.
But I know what it is. I think we all knew, as soon as we saw Private Arthur Morse step out from the shadows, that hopeless look on his face. A bank clerk from Sheffield, sensitive and softly spoken, Morse glances at each of us then dips his gaze to his boots. ‘It’s Murray, sir.’
I hear Percy heave out a heavy sigh and Robert spit an oath. Then I feel Danny’s hand grip my forearm just above the wrist and squeeze. I take some comfort from that.
‘Don’t look so frightened, Private Morse,’ I say. ‘Just tell us where he is.’
Morse runs fingers through his mop of curly brown hair. ‘The barn over yonder, down by the new graveyard. The doctor’s long gone but we stayed with him right till the end. I only came away to keep an eye out for you, sir, as I knew you’d want to know right away.’
‘Thank you,’ I nod. ‘You did well.’
