A Soldier's Place Page 17

  “I am a private, sir,” said Renforth.

  “Schwein!” roared the German. “Do you think to deceive by uniform? I can read faces. Your rank, at once!”

  Renforth remembered the old adage: always humour an insane person. “I am an acting captain, sir,” he said.

  “So! The next time speak the truth first. I may not ask again.” The vitriolic tones of the German did not belie his statement. “Tell your man to dig by the wall, yes. And you will keep the rats from the body. Treat it with respect. That man was a veteran of the Fusiliers, and I am Major Von Sprechtler!”

  “You are to dig a grave by the wall, Bull,” said Renforth hurriedly. “My job is to keep the rats away. Be as quick as you can.”

  A dark flush had spread from Bull’s tunic collar to the roots of his hair. “What th’ hell!” he blustered. “Me—your man? Me an’ old timer in th’—an’ you callin’ yerself a captain? Tell the Heinie I’m as good as—”

  “For Pete’s sake don’t be wooden,” hissed Renforth. The major was fingering his Luger suggestively. “Use your bean—if you want a chance.”

  Bull still muttered under his breath but he went to the pile of picks and shovels. Cr-ack! Renforth jumped at the sound of the shot, his heart in his throat, but the target had been another rat. Like the other, its head was severed from its body. The German’s aim was very accurate.

  The report startled Bull to quick movements. The floor of the place was chalky and digging difficult, but the giant swung his tools with skill born of long practice.

  Renforth had to keep busy to defeat the rats. In the wall was the mouth of a wooden ventilator shaft. It had been sunk through the looser soil and all about it were rat runways and tunnels. The seam of soft earth was literally honeycombed. A black-stained plank ran along the wall to hold back the loose soil, and it was lined with beady-eyed rats, each staring unwinking at the corpse. Renforth shivered as he watched them and noticed that one grey veteran had only one ear. This brute had fiendish, ghoulishly gleaming red eyes and seemed to centre its malevolent stare on the mad major.

  At length the grave was dug to a satisfactory depth. The major motioned Bull from the cavity. “It is unfit that schwein should assist in the burial of a German,” he said haughtily, “but one of my rank cannot stoop to menial labour. You, Captain, shall carefully wrap Hoffmann in his blanket.”

  Renforth concealed his repulsion as he wrapped the corpse and fastened the coverings with wire. “Let that big pig take the feet so you may lower the body.” The major’s commands were as sharp as knife blades.

  The Canadians lowered their burden with care.

  “Ten paces—vowarts—march!” came a command.

  They stood at attention while the major very solemnly recited some ritual in his own language, then clicked his heels and gave a smart salute. He snapped more orders. “Fill this grave in respectfully. It is a privilege you do not deserve.”

  They filled the cavity and rounded the grave with chalky lumps. “Go to the cage.” The officer pointed to the box-like affair with the wire netting on the opening. They went to it. “Open the door, stupid!” roared the major.

  Renforth turned the bar that fastened the door, a heavy affair in iron clasps. “In, schwein,” and they were entombed in the box.

  They could not stand in their prison. It was not six feet square and had no vent save the door hole covered with wire. Probably it had served to punish delinquents in the trench garrison. The major walked away.

  It was five minutes before either spoke, then Bull whispered. “We’re in bad, Kiddo. What’s our best move?”

  “I don’t know,” breathed Renforth. “We must humour him. Do as he says and don’t talk back.”

  “You bet!” Bull’s whisper was very subdued. “I didn’t tumble that th’ guy was cuckoo until it was nearly too late. I’ll watch me step.”

  “We’ll get him first chance we have,” said Renforth. “I see that the rifles are all stacked back of those shell cases, so we’ll have to get a club. Don’t make a move till I do, though.”

  “If I ever git me hands on his neck I’ll show him where his Cockchafers git off at,” said Bull. “I’ll….”

  His voice trailed off. They had heard no sound, yet a flashlight sent its rays into their prison and the major peered in, his eyes blazing hate. “Schwein!” he snorted. “Fools! Gun fodder!”

  He vanished and Renforth gripped Bull’s hand in the dark. They waited an hour but heard no further sound save a rat scampering by their door. Then the sharp crack of the Luger startled them; a rat squealed and all was still again.

  Renforth sat until he could not contain himself longer. The situation was unreal, hideous. Rising noiselessly he looked out. Candles burned around the grave and near it, seated on a box, was the major. He was smoking cigarettes and watching the rats on the black plank. Now and then he would point his pistol at them. Some would frisk back into their tunnels, but the one-eared veteran faced him with the unwavering stare that had disturbed Renforth.

  Bull got up and looked but sat down quickly. “I can’t watch that,” he whispered. “It would set my nutty. Ugh! I can smell the rats.”

  It was so. Renforth slumped back to the floor nauseated by the offensive odour. His wrist watch was broken and they could only guess at the time. Bull’s snoring proclaimed that he was asleep again and Renforth had another survey of the chamber. The major sat like a statue, facing the rats. For a long time the Canadian gazed, studying every detail of the dugout, trying to fathom a way of escape. Then he lay down beside Bull and slept.

  ***

  The voice that wakened them was as harsh as a smith’s rasp. “Stupid pigs, sleepers!” it snapped. “Outside at once!”

  Renforth shook Bull and stumbled out. He was desperately hungry and stiff from sleeping on the bare planks. They were marched to the concrete vault at the end of the chamber and Renforth was ordered to unfasten its barred door. The vault was a larder with supplies enough for a regiment. Sacks, containers, cases, all with German labels, bundles of candles, and strings of sausage; food in abundance. Under the major’s orders a loaf of bread was halved, a jar of meat shared, and a slice of cheese divided. “Eat it here, schwein,” said the major harshly. “The rats are to be discouraged.”

  Renforth glanced outside. Scores of the vermin had crept near and were only kept back by the menace of the stick the major wielded. Bull finished eating, wiped his mouth and made an awkward salute. “Can we have a drop of water, sir?” he asked.

  The major made no reply but motioned them outside. Renforth barred the door and the German pointed to a pipeline that ran along the wall and ended in a dripping tap. By twisting under it each man slacked his thirst. “Now,” barked the major, “we will a smart drill have, yes. The goose-step, as the pig English say. Vorwarts.”

  Renforth had heard of the queer step but had never seen it imitated. Bull began a queer hopping progress.

  “Halt! To make fun you would—bah! Schwein—I teach you! Once I will show you—once!”

  Both men watched as the major, stiff and precise, goose-stepped across the dugout, but never relaxed his guard. Then they received the command to march. Renforth felt that no Boche recruit, burning with patriotism for the Fatherland, ever tried more faithfully to goose-step than he and Bull. Their knees came up in perfect time, each step was measured, and their backs were hollowed in true Prussian style.

  Three times they paraded, then the major shouted angrily: “Halt! Soldiers you would never make. You are old women!”

  With harsh invective he drove them back near the grave and kicked shovels toward them. “There are bags.” He pointed to a heap of sacks, “take them and fill. You will build a wall here from which I will defend when you have cleared the entrance.”

  They dared not ask questions and his directions were not very detailed, but Renforth guessed that the crazed man wante
d a defence of sacks built behind the grave, across the dugout. Bull did the shovelling and he held the bags. After filling a dozen they carried them from the entrance to the spot the major marked, and commenced a wall very near the ventilator side of the dugout. Rats scuttled everywhere as the workers went back and forth. Once the major’s pistol cracked and a big black brute that had ventured near the grave tumbled over—headless. On the black plank the one-eared rat remained as steadfast as a sentry. Renforth wished that the major would shoot the creature. Its gaze was diabolical, uncanny.

  As the wall took shape the German strode up and down and talked to himself. Renforth, placing bags near the dugout wall, dislodged an unnoticed section of pipe that had rested on a ledge below the long plank. The noisy clattering startled the rats, and the major shouted: “Fool! Pig! Leave it lie. You will more noise make!”

  So fierce was the command that Renforth, who was picking the pipe up, dropped it again. One end rested on the bags and the other just reached the grave.

  The German grew more feverish as they worked. He drove them until even Bull was weary, then gave them rations. They dare not ask for water. “Stick it, Kiddo,” whispered Bull. “I’ll git th’ brute next time we’re out or go under tryin’.”

  Renforth was too tired to reply. Crouched miserably in their cramped quarters, he fell asleep. When he awoke, stiff and aching, he heard soft footsteps outside. He closed his eyes as he heard the whistled breathing of the German at the door. As softly as he had come the crazed man went away. Renforth got up and peered out. The major was at his box, toying with his Luger. On the black plank sat the one-eared rat, watching. There seemed to be hundreds in the rat army that peered from holes and tunnels.

  The scene was fascinating in its weirdness. As Renforth watched, shivering with horror, an idea flashed into his mind, a chance of escape. He saw that the pipe rested as he had left it. Soon the major should have trouble with the rats.

  Bull coughed and roused. The major rushed over and unbarred the door. “The captain only,” he snarled. “One at a time shall work.”

  Renforth felt that their fate rested on his nerve. To his surprise he was marched to the vault and allowed to get rations for Bull as well as himself. The major was so occupied that Renforth managed to slip a slice of cheese in his pocket without being detected. Bull asked for water as he received his supply. “Shortly you will not need it,” was the German’s snarling response. “The food is also wasted.”

  As he filled bags Renforth watched the major. Back and forth the officer strode, halting now and then in a listening attitude. Then it came. Crr-ash! The jarring explosion was directly above. Cr-rump! The second report was not so near. A third was still farther away.

  For five minutes the major stood rigid, his pistol ready, then he whirled. “Over to the wall, schwein!” he yelled. “Make it higher at once. The fight is on.”

  As he worked Renforth managed to get his hand in his pocket and broke off a piece of cheese. Watching his opportunity, he rolled the fragment into little pellets. Then came the crucial test. He manoeuvered to get near the pipe and luck favoured him.

  The major began to walk about, chanting some tirade regarding the Guard Fusiliers. Twice he shot rats. As he turned the last time to kick the victim aside Renforth shot a handful of pellets into the open end of the pipe. The major paused by the grave and began to sing “Deutschland Uber Alles.”

  Renforth rolled a second handful of tiny yellow cheese balls into the pipe. He saw the bits jump from the lower end of the section and disappear into crevices on the guarded grave. Presently a rat darted forth and caught at a pellet that rolled to one side. The taste was enough. In a moment he and a score of his fellows were digging furiously to get at pellets among the chalk. Cr-rump! Another heavy explosion overhead, echoed by the fainter ones.

  The major’s song died on his lips. As he saw what was happening at his feet he screamed like a wild thing. A perfect fusillade of shots rang out and a dozen rats lay kicking. But others swarmed from their tunnels and with a horrible cry the German flung his pistol at them and snatched a shovel.

  His blow killed one or two but a score took their place, regardless of the frantic human. Renforth cast caution aside and tossed a fistful of cheese on the grave. Rats poured from their places—black ones, grey ones, lean ones, and bony ones. The major struck wildly, but they bit at his feet, lacerated his hands, jumped on his legs. Yelling like a fiend, he slashed and struck. The huge, one-eared veteran left his post on the plank. Running swiftly he leaped—at the major’s neck. His long, grey body flashed over the pack. Renforth saw the blood spurt as the rat bit the German’s chin, saw the madman drop his shovel and claw his assailant loose, saw other rats swarming up his limbs. There came an awful cry, then on the grave writhed a mass indescribable.

  Renforth ran to the box and released Bull. He explained his trick, then spoke of the explosions overhead. “Them’s salvos,” blurted Bull. “An’ it’s out artillery, too. We’re Jake if we can git outa this mess without them rats gittin’ us as well. Kiddo, you’re th’ white-topped boy of this brigade.”

  They could not bear to look at the happening by the grave but Renforth saw a quick end to it all. The wall they had built was not substantial as it had no supports or braces. “Put your shoulder to the other side, Bull,” he cried. “We’ll get back of it and surge a few times.”

  The giant planted his feet firmly and placed his back to the bags. Renforth added his strength and they surged in unison. At the third sway the structured toppled, falling almost intact, and smothering completely the milling mass over the grave. A few rat survivors hustled into their holes.

  Cr-rump! Again the explosions overhead.

  “Th’ battery is right in th’ trench,” said Bull with conviction. “Let’s git busy and dig out.”

  There was a tremor in the big man’s voice and his bombastic arrogance had vanished. “This place is full of rats,” he exclaimed. “Look over there.”

  A score of the creatures were ranged on the black plank. More were squeaking in the walls. “Where’s that door in the wall?” asked Renforth, his own nerves taut. “What’s the quickest way out?”

  Bull found the door and forced it open. In the first chamber they felt calmer and selected the first entrance for digging. “Let’s send smoke up the ventilator.” Renforth assumed charge and his authority was not questioned.

  Bull tore up some magazines, placed them in a pan, and lighted them with candle ends. The paper was damp enough to smoke properly and he held the pan below the big pipe vent. One lot had burned out before Renforth felt a jar on the pipe. In an instant he had snatched an entrenching tool from some German equipment and was tapping on the iron tube. Tap-tap—a pause—tap. He was using Morse code. Bull stared stupidly. Again and again Renforth rapped his message: “Canadian—trapped—in dugout—help.”

  “Say, Kiddo, what’s th’ idea? Th’ smoke’s goin’ up all right.” Bull was perplexed and the gentleness of his tone implied that he thought Renforth was losing his nerve. “Come and lay down a bit,” he pleaded.

  Tap-tap. Renforth continued his efforts, and at last got an answer. “Who is it?” came the tapped inquiry. “Two Pats,” he telegraphed back. “We are digging now,” came a moment later.

  Renforth relaxed and explained his signalling. Bull was amazed. Suddenly he thrust out his hand. “Kiddo,” he blurted. “I’m a plain damn fool and I knows it. Fergit them things I said about white-collar guys. Gosh, we’d never got outa here if you hadn’t had th’ old bean workin.’”

  Renforth could not expect a more handsome apology. He gripped the proffered hand. “I knew you were just kidding,” he answered. “White collars are all right, but you’re a whole platoon yourself.”

  Bull was content. A flash of his old self came back. “Gee, Kiddo,” he boomed. “We’ll sure make some team for th’ old section.”

  The men who finally c
rowded down a hastily dug shaft listened with awe to Bull’s account of what had happened. He led them to the false section of wall and pushed it inwards. A few candles still burned and they saw scores of eyes peering out from shadows, heard the pattering of many feet. “Let’s get out of here, quick,” said the leader of the rescuers. “You’re lucky guys to be alive.”

  “You bet,” Bull responded. “But when one guy’s a hundred percent brains and—”

  “The other one is one hundred percent guts,” Renforth cut in.

  “They take some stoppin’,” Bull finished, grinning delightedly. Then he added, “And listen. We belong to th’ white collar section of th’ Pats, th’ dude college guys. Git me?”

  Perhaps it was his size that drew their respect—perhaps they were sobered by what they had seen. At any rate, there was no sarcasm on the faces of the rescue party as they all emerged into the sunlight and brushed from their uniforms all traces of the tomb of Major von Sprechtler, late of the Berlin Guards.

  Eyes! Eyes! Eyes!

  It was when the “Prairie Squirrels” were at Parvillers that Pete Mullins was sent down the line as a shell-shocked case, with every man in the platoon knowing that he had not been near a shell explosion. Yet none of them derided him, or said he was swinging the lead, for he was, for the time at least, as pitiful a physical wreck as one would care to see.