“My husband couldn’t do that,” she blurted. “He died of gangrene despite all I and anyone else could do.”
Rossini’s expression softened a little. “I didn’t know, of course. Can you deal with this?”
“Now I can handle anything you want me to.”
Rossini laughed again, this time with a bit of humor. “Congratulations, you are now my assistant.”
CHAPTER 18
The earth erupted and debris fell down on Luke’s helmet, making a tinny, pattering sound that would have been amusing, even pleasant, under other circumstances. Today it reminded him that death was only inches away.
Luke turned to his companion in the muddy trench, the alleged British journalist, Reggie Carville. “Is this what you would call a barrage?” Luke asked.
Carville smiled tolerantly. The Englishman was about Luke’s age, lean, and had the look of a greyhound about him. Certainly, he was an aristocrat and Luke tried not to let that intimidate him.
“A barrage? No, not even a whiff of one. This, my dear Martel, is just probing fire, not a barrage.”
Several other shells went off in the area, but other than shaking the earth, they did no harm to anyone in the trenches. The trenches were narrow, which meant that only a direct hit would cause casualties, and the trenches zigged and zagged which, along with providing flanking and covering fire, would minimize casualties in the event of a direct hit. The shock wave would be funneled and then dissipated. Luke thought it would be minimal good news if he was directly hit.
The trenches were also dirty, muddy, and cold. Luke’s toes felt clammy and he wondered if he shouldn’t have worn different boots. He noticed that other soldiers didn’t have better boots and wondered if this was something that needed to be corrected. Certainly a long siege would result in serious foot problems.
Carville peered through a firing slit at the German lines. Much of the brush and small trees on the hill had been cleared away to provide clear lines of fire. Unfortunately, this had the negative effect of showing the Germans exactly where the American lines were. Areas around the growing German trench lines had likewise been cleared. Through his binoculars, Luke could see German soldiers moving around. They had no serious fear of American artillery. If and when they desired, the Germans could launch a barrage, but not so the Americans, who were starved of cannon.
Carville turned and sat down in the trench. His expensive-looking civilian suit was getting dirty but the man didn’t seem to care. He took a drink from his flask and from the way he grimaced, Luke deduced that it didn’t contain water.
“Ah, that was good. I’d offer you some, but it may be against the rules of being an international journalist to share alcohol with combatants. Drinking might also make you lose control and want to kill someone, like those damned Germans. No, this pitiful bombardment is far from serious. German gun theory is quite simple and based on everybody else’s. When the time comes, the Krauts will simply line up all the artillery they have, some hundreds of guns, and pack them wheel to wheel. Then they will fire them all at the same time and at roughly the same place; thus pulverizing it. They did it a few times in 1914 and later, and it was damnably effective. I understand it sometimes drove good men simply insane and unable to function, except their bladders and bowels which empty continuously.”
“Sounds terrible, Mr. Carville. Effective, but terrible.”
Carville took another swallow, changed his mind and offered the flask to Luke who took a small swallow. It was scotch. “Please call me Reggie and quit looking at me like that. A soldier might get the wrong impression.”
Luke savored his drink. “I think you are more than you say.”
“Nonsense, I’m a writer for the London Times.”
“And I’m the Pope. Benedict the Fifteenth to be precise.”
Carville grinned. “Then hear my confession, Benedict, for I have surely sinned in thought, word, and deed. You are right, of course, I am more than I seem, but aren’t we all? Even if I was, say, an English officer with experience fighting the Germans in France and with a background at Eton and Sandhurst, it would be veddy inappropriate for me to admit that. After all, England is neutral and cannot be seen by your enemies as giving advice and comfort to you. Therefore, please don’t speculate as to my background and I won’t ask how many Mexicans you killed under Pershing in 1916 in order to become an officer up from the ranks.”
Luke laughed, “Touché.”
“I will cheerfully admit to being a British officer in 1914 and to fighting the Huns in France. I will admit to being in trenches, wounded, and serving time as a prisoner before being returned to England and then becoming, ah, a reporter.”
Luke was impressed. “Now, from nothing more than a reporter’s perspective, what do you think of our fortifications?”
Carville took another swallow and again handed it to Luke. “Potentially excellent, but totally inadequate. I love the fact that you actually have three separate defensive lines mutually supporting each other. Someone paid attention during classes at West Point. Obviously, you hope that the Huns will destroy themselves trying to force their way through and, in a different world, you might be right.”
“But this is not that world, is it?”
“Not hardly, as you people so ungrammatically put it. You don’t have enough machine guns or artillery to hold the Germans at bay and you don’t have enough ammunition for the guns you do have. And you certainly don’t have enough planes to keep theirs from bombing and strafing your trenches. You can harm their planes, but you can’t stop them. Also, your men are, for the most part, enthusiastic amateurs, most of whom haven’t been in the army more than three months. To say their training has been inadequate would be a gross understatement. I have it from good sources that many of your men have never fired a rifle in their lives. Oh yes, and there aren’t enough men to compensate for their inadequacies. You can’t overwhelm the Germans by weight of numbers like the Russians tried. This can’t be news to you.”
“Not hardly,” Luke agreed sadly.
Carville went on to say that the trenches lacked proper drainage, although the bombproof bunkers were quite strong, and that much more barbed wire was needed.
Another shell landed reasonably nearby, causing both men to duck. “However, Luke, the Hun may be doing you a favor with this very sissified shelling. Most of your men have never been under fire, and now they will have been when the big German attack comes, and they will know that it is indeed possible to survive.”
The flask was empty. Luke handed it back. “Will they survive a real barrage when it comes?”
“You’re the intelligence man, so you tell me. You and Eisenhower have gotten information from clandestine observers at Los Angeles; therefore, you know that the Germans have landed some very large pieces of artillery, the type that broke up the Belgium fortifications and the kind that crushed us, I mean the British, south of Paris.”
My, my, Luke thought, the Brit was on the ball. Was someone in his office feeding him information? The Germans had just landed a number of 210mm howitzers and 170mm artillery pieces.
Carville read his mind. “General Liggett and Admiral Sims some time ago decided that, ah, my people and yours should share information. You should be congratulated, Luke. You, Ike, and the late General Logan have set up a first-class intelligence gathering apparatus in an astonishingly short period of time.”
“Two things astonish me, Carville.”
“And what might they be?”
“One is that we share such sensitive data with reporters who are known to blab, and, second, why you brought such a bloody small flask.”