‘This road is the one they call the Strand. Here, Oxford Circus. Have you ever been to London, Bloch?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It doesn’t match Berlin. It is far dirtier, more squalid, but it has a certain grimy charm. And they know how to throw a decent dance, I will grant them that. Perhaps you’ll be there one day soon, eh? When it belongs to us.’ He carried on when Bloch did not reply. ‘This area,’ he pointed to the east of Ploegsteert Wood, ‘is The Birdcage and this is Somerset House. Brigade HQ for the British here. This is where the new officers will be briefed about the sector. And here . . .’ another stab at the map, ‘. . . is the church steeple of Le Gheer. Now, Bloch, thanks to shelling of the woods and a subsequent fire, we believe there is a clear sight-line from this steeple to Somerset House. A good sniper could lie low up there and perhaps pick off half a dozen senior officers at one session. Including . . .’ he paused while he took out a newspaper cutting, which he unfurled for Bloch, ‘. . . this man.’
Bloch studied the grainy photograph of a portly Englishman, a major. Like all snipers he knew his Allied uniforms. The man was emerging from the doorway of an official-looking building, a terrible scowl across his face, as if he were about to bawl out some unfortunate subordinate.
‘You know who this is?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Really?’ Lux sounded impressed, but Bloch’s cousin Willi was in the navy, and had often talked about this man, as if he were engaged in a personal war with him.
Bloch read the caption, just to be certain. His English was poor, but a name was a name and he certainly knew this one. ‘Yes.’
‘And you could recognize him through a rifle scope?’
Bloch looked at the pugnacious face once more and nodded.
‘Good man. Put a bullet through him and it’ll be an Iron Cross First Class and two weeks’ leave, Bloch.’
But it wasn’t the target or the double points for shooting him that exercised Bloch. He looked back at the ‘X’ marking the steeple and the wiggling traces of the opposing trenches on the map. His real concern was, whatever remained of Le Gheer church, it was firmly on the British side of the lines.
EIGHT
Watson stumbled out of the transfusion unit into a glutinous, all-enveloping blackness and paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was as if his head had been wrapped in a thick velvet cloth and it wouldn’t do to break his neck stumbling over the taut guy ropes that played out from the tents in all directions.
He had no idea how many hours had passed since he first saw that jawless man – what was the name again? Lovell? Lovat? So many names, ranks and numbers, so many abbreviations that only hinted at God-awful wounds. The victims had come thick and fast, in such numbers he was initially forced to transfuse soldier-to-soldier, using syringes lined with paraffin wax to try to inhibit the clotting. It was preferable to the previous method, where the radial artery of one man was inserted directly into the median vein of another, and the flow controlled by sutures and thumb and forefinger, but very hit and miss compared to his new system.
Eventually, though, he had been able to collect donations of blood for citration from the lightly injured. Soldiers who agreed to be donors were rewarded with a weekend pass to be used before rejoining their battalion. Thus there had been no shortage of volunteers and he had created a small stockpile, which he had citrated, ‘typed’ and put on ice.
He wondered what that harpy of a sister-in-charge would say if she knew he had allowed the VADs to help draw the blood. And that all the soldiers had called them ‘nurse’. He shuddered to think what acid remarks she would draw up from her well of vitriol.
As his pupils dilated, Watson looked up at the sky and checked off a few of the familiar astronomical markers that were emerging: the Plough, Orion, and the iconic ‘W’ of the stars of
‘No, sir.’
‘It doesn’t match Berlin. It is far dirtier, more squalid, but it has a certain grimy charm. And they know how to throw a decent dance, I will grant them that. Perhaps you’ll be there one day soon, eh? When it belongs to us.’ He carried on when Bloch did not reply. ‘This area,’ he pointed to the east of Ploegsteert Wood, ‘is The Birdcage and this is Somerset House. Brigade HQ for the British here. This is where the new officers will be briefed about the sector. And here . . .’ another stab at the map, ‘. . . is the church steeple of Le Gheer. Now, Bloch, thanks to shelling of the woods and a subsequent fire, we believe there is a clear sight-line from this steeple to Somerset House. A good sniper could lie low up there and perhaps pick off half a dozen senior officers at one session. Including . . .’ he paused while he took out a newspaper cutting, which he unfurled for Bloch, ‘. . . this man.’
Bloch studied the grainy photograph of a portly Englishman, a major. Like all snipers he knew his Allied uniforms. The man was emerging from the doorway of an official-looking building, a terrible scowl across his face, as if he were about to bawl out some unfortunate subordinate.
‘You know who this is?’
‘I think so, sir.’
‘Really?’ Lux sounded impressed, but Bloch’s cousin Willi was in the navy, and had often talked about this man, as if he were engaged in a personal war with him.
Bloch read the caption, just to be certain. His English was poor, but a name was a name and he certainly knew this one. ‘Yes.’
‘And you could recognize him through a rifle scope?’
Bloch looked at the pugnacious face once more and nodded.
‘Good man. Put a bullet through him and it’ll be an Iron Cross First Class and two weeks’ leave, Bloch.’
But it wasn’t the target or the double points for shooting him that exercised Bloch. He looked back at the ‘X’ marking the steeple and the wiggling traces of the opposing trenches on the map. His real concern was, whatever remained of Le Gheer church, it was firmly on the British side of the lines.
EIGHT
Watson stumbled out of the transfusion unit into a glutinous, all-enveloping blackness and paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. It was as if his head had been wrapped in a thick velvet cloth and it wouldn’t do to break his neck stumbling over the taut guy ropes that played out from the tents in all directions.
He had no idea how many hours had passed since he first saw that jawless man – what was the name again? Lovell? Lovat? So many names, ranks and numbers, so many abbreviations that only hinted at God-awful wounds. The victims had come thick and fast, in such numbers he was initially forced to transfuse soldier-to-soldier, using syringes lined with paraffin wax to try to inhibit the clotting. It was preferable to the previous method, where the radial artery of one man was inserted directly into the median vein of another, and the flow controlled by sutures and thumb and forefinger, but very hit and miss compared to his new system.
Eventually, though, he had been able to collect donations of blood for citration from the lightly injured. Soldiers who agreed to be donors were rewarded with a weekend pass to be used before rejoining their battalion. Thus there had been no shortage of volunteers and he had created a small stockpile, which he had citrated, ‘typed’ and put on ice.
He wondered what that harpy of a sister-in-charge would say if she knew he had allowed the VADs to help draw the blood. And that all the soldiers had called them ‘nurse’. He shuddered to think what acid remarks she would draw up from her well of vitriol.
As his pupils dilated, Watson looked up at the sky and checked off a few of the familiar astronomical markers that were emerging: the Plough, Orion, and the iconic ‘W’ of the stars of
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