Kill by Cure

By Candy Rae

‘Kill by Cure’ is a gripping story about a deadly and nefarious plot set in the past, present and future, a time hopping mystery adventure packed with war, conspiracy, betrayal, friendship, danger, excitement, rhymes, riddles and clues. Can you work out who’s behind it all before the characters do? Can you tell who the villains are before they are exposed?

What happens if a rich, corrupt, unethical, wicked, unscrupulous and powerful individual wants more? A deadly and nefarious plot involving a disease with the potential to wipe out mankind.

A story about double cross, war, mystery and adventure, featuring conspiracy theories, rhymes, and riddles.
Where? Scotland, France, Russia, Denmark and Switzerland.
When? The past, the present, and the future.

‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,
'Catch a tiger by the toe.
'If he screams, let him go,
'Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.’

PLANET WOLF
(1) Wolves and War - (2) Conflict and Courage - (3) Homage and Honour - (4) Dragons and Destiny - (5) Valour and Victory - (6) Ambition and Alavidha - (7) Paws and Planets - (8) Tales and Tails

DRAGON WULF
(1) Journey and Jeopardy - (2) Gossamer and Grass - (3) Flames and Freedom

FLYING COLOURS
(1) Rascals and Renegades - (2) Outlaws and Overlords - (3) Sparkles and Sphinxes (forthcoming)

T’QUEL MAGIC
(1) Ephemeral Boundary - (2) Enduring Barrier - (3) Eternal Bulwark

MULTIVERSE MUDDLE (forthcoming)
(1) Vampyre Crypt - (2) Faie Castle - (3) Shadow Cave - (4) Demon Citadel

SAMMY THE CAT
(1) Cat in Charge - (2) Cat at Christmas - (3) Dog not in Charge

KILL BY CURE

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candy Rae
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370016280

Candy Rae

Candy Rae has been an avid reader since childhood, with fantasy and science fiction appearing on her bookshelf in her first year of university when a friend introduced her to talking dragons. All her life, she has wanted to write, but it wasn’t until Christmas Day in 2003 that she sat down and started planning the book that, after many revisions, became the first book in the Planet Wolf series: Wolves and War.As a former accountant, Candy was notorious among her family for elongating her commute home by parking in a safe space and starting to write, having got into the habit of carrying a notebook with her wherever she went, a habit she continues to this day. When she’s not writing, her hobbies include knitting, tapestry, and trying to figure out ‘whodunnit’ in murder mysteries.Candy lives in Ayrshire, Scotland, with her large black cat, Sammy, and her Labrador-Corgi cross, Alex. She writes her books in British English with a Scottish flavour.

Book preview

KILL BY CURE

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Candy Rae

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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Kill by Cure

Copyright © 2016 Candy Rae

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead; is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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BOOKS BY CANDY RAE

PLANET WOLF SERIES

(1) Wolves and War - (2) Conflict and Courage - (3) Homage and Honour - (4) Dragons and Destiny - (5) Valour and Victory - (6) Paws and Planets - (7) Tales and Tales - (8) Ambition and Alavidha

DRAGON WULF TRILOGY

(1) Journey and Jeopardy - (2) Gossamer and Grass - (3) Flames and Freedom

T’QUEL MAGIC TRILOGY

(1) Ephemeral Boundary - (2) Enduring Barrier - (3) Eternal Bulwark

INSURGENCY TRILOGY

(Publication date: 2017)

(1) Rascals and Renegades - (2) Outlaws and Overlords - (3) Soldiers and Songsters

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DEDICATION

The year 2016 is the hundred-year anniversary of the Battle of the Somme.

Kill by Cure is dedicated to my grandfather, Robert Crawford, who fought in many battles throughout the Great War, including the Somme.

One hundred years after the battle and the people of our world are still fighting. The soldiers of the Great War, my grandfather included, believed they were fighting the war to end all wars. They were, unfortunately, wrong.

The first four chapters, in recognition of the sacrifices of the men who fought and died in France, are based round two soldiers who served with the Royal Scots Fusiliers in 1915 and 1916 although my two characters are of necessity, fictitious.

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Cover Artwork by ebook-designs.co.uk

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AUTHOR’S NOTES

1. Kill by Cure is written using British English with a Scottish bias. There are spelling differences between British English and the English as written in other parts of our wonderful, diverse world.

2. The accents and the words used by the Scots, Welsh, Irish and English soldiers who fought in the First World War were far more diverse than those of today. Between 1916 and 1918 a German linguist, Wilhelm Doegen, toured prisoner of war camps and recorded voices of ordinary soldiers. I have attempted to incorporate these into the conversations of 1916 without affecting reading enjoyment.

3. Grammar notations used. (a) Hello. - Direct speech. (b) ‘Hello.’ - Direct thoughts. (c) < Hello. > - Direct communication through a radio or intercom.

4. There are a number of contemporary songs included in the text. These have been incorporated, as well as being part of the story, in recognition of my Grandfather. He enjoyed listening to them on the radio and would sometimes burst into song during my visits because I liked to hear him sing.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

THE PLOT

CHAPTER ONE - THE YEAR 1915

CHAPTER TWO - THE YEAR 1915

CHAPTER THREE - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER FOUR - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER FIVE - THE YEAR 2516

CHAPTER SIX - THE YEAR 2516

CHAPTER SEVEN - THE YEAR 2516

CHAPTER EIGHT - THE YEAR 2516

CHAPTER NINE - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER TEN - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER TWELVE - THE YEAR 1916

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - THE YEARS 1916 & 1917

CHAPTER FOURTEEN - THE YEARS 1918 & 1919

CHAPTER FIFTEEN - THE YEARS 81 B.C. & 19 A.D.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN - THE YEARS 119 & 219

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - THE YEARS 319 & 419

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN- THE YEARS 519 & 619

CHAPTER NINETEEN - THE YEAR 1719

CHAPTER TWENTY - THE YEAR 1919

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - THE YEAR 2019

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - THE YEAR 2020

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - THE YEARS 120 & 620 & 920

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - THE YEAR 1920 & 2020

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - THE YEAR 2520

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - THE YEAR 2520

THE EPILOGUE

CATRIONA’S RESEARCH CHAPTER SEVEN

THE DAGON STONE

A LITTLE FOOTBALL, TENNIS AND HORSERACING

THE ROYAL SCOTS FUSILIERS

CHARACTERS

RHYMES

GLOSSARY

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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THE PLOT

‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,

Catch a tiger by the toe.

If he screams, let him go,

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.’

THE YEAR 1896

The man picked up the shovel and started to dig.

Once the hole was filled in he wiped the blood from his hands in a nearby stream, washed the blood spatter from his clothes and hefted his packs up on to his back.

After a last look round to make sure everything was in place, he headed downstream in the direction of the town.

When he reached an old stone bridge, two men emerged from the shadows. One was about the first man’s age and build while the other was of slighter build and a few years younger.

You got the gold? the first man asked.

Calm yourself sir, answered the man on the left. I think I’ve managed to get most of it. We won’t starve.

Better hurry up, advised the man on the right. It will be dawn soon.

The three men headed towards the smoking chimneys.

* * * * *

My head can’t get itself round what just happened, complained the youngest man to the other two as they bumped along the road. They could have used the local train service but had decided that a ride in the back of a cart would attract less attention.

They had realised as soon as they arrived in the town that they couldn’t stay. Their clothes weren’t right, their jackets and trousers being of too fine a cut and the material fashionably bright.

The men, women and children they had watched going to their shifts in the mills, the railway (the new station building was being finished, the line having opened a few months before) and other workplaces were dressed in sombre, shabby, mended work clothes. Many had made a clattering noise as they walked. Inspection had proved that they were wearing clogs.

As the three men were in possession of a map, they had worked out that their best plan would be to travel to the town of Kilmarnock about ten miles west. There they would be able, without attracting undue attention, to obtain a place to stay while they made plans for the future.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 1914

Tipps! Put a bit more muscle into it, ordered the commander.

It’s the middle of the night, ‘Tipps’ complained, nevertheless speeding up in an effort to finish.

I still don’t see why we had to move it, grumbled a man with blond, curly hair.

It’s only for a little while, until this war is over and that’ll be by Christmas, then we can move it again, answered the commander. He continued to cajole the man with the nickname ‘Tipps’ to hurry up.

You sure it’ll be safe? asked the blond man.

Why not? It’s only for a few months and the fighting won’t get this far.

I think …

You’re not paid to think, snapped the commander. You forget yourself. I was put in command. Now, let’s get back to the beacon. She’s waiting for us there. Hurry now.

After gathering together his tools, ‘Tipps’ followed the others out of the graveyard.

The lady the mission commander had been referring to was keeping watch from inside the gate, making sure neither priest nor villager got too interested in what they were doing.

Let’s get in and out before Curé Bernard wakes up, she said in a snippy voice. And before he sees a light and comes to ask us what we’re doing here in the middle of the night.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 1915

Come on Tipps! Count them out, ordered the commander.

Shut up! Blast it! Now you’ve made me lose count.

‘Tipps’ completed his counting.

Forty-seven, he informed the commander.

Good. Funny that we found one with a name so like his, observed the man with the blond hair in a low voice.

The commander wrote forty-seven down in a little black notebook after the letters and numbers, ‘One Zero Three Zero Five. R. Three. N.’

At least we won’t forget his name in a hurry, he whispered to the blond man, not wanting ‘Tipps’ to hear what he was saying. ‘Tipps’ was not noted for his sense of humour, or for that matter, for his intelligence. Now let’s get out of here. There are too many nosy sergeants around for my liking.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 2019

Maeve, is that you?

Cathy. What’s wrong? What time is it? Goodness, it’s five o’clock in the morning! What’s wrong? Has something happened to Alex? No, I can hear him barking. What’s happened? Is there a burglar about?

There are men outside.

Men? What men? Are they trying to break into the house?

No, they’re outside in the square poking around the war memorial and the stone. Alex! Stop barking! I can’t hear myself think! Maeve, what should I do?

Call the police.

* * * * *

The police report noted that in response to a call from a worried resident about strange, threatening looking men climbing about the war memorial and the monolith known as the Dagon Stone, a police car visited Hastings Square, Darvel, East Ayrshire. However, when the officers reached the site, they found the area bare of anyone, threatening or otherwise.

After speaking to the resident and calming her nerves, the officers left the area in response to another call.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 2486

A sixty-one year old man stood staring at the exhibit.

He nodded three times and bent down to look at the information card attached to the glass. It was unusual for a museum exhibit not to have a digital information link but not many people made it as far as this particular exhibit room down an out of the way corridor on the ninth floor. The museum authorities were on a tight budget and had decided that the old-fashioned method would be sufficient.

He read the words aloud.

"The Dagon Stone.’ Prehistoric Standing Stone. Precise date of origin unknown. Antecedents uncertain, probably Mesolithic. Rescued from Hastings Square, Darvel, in the area once known as Ayrshire, by the National Museum of Antiquities in the year twenty-four oh three."

The exhibit was absolutely perfect in every way.

Fit for purpose, he said to his assistant who was standing to his right. Is this Hastings Square still there?

The assistant checked the location on his handheld.

Yes Maighstir, it is.

Good. Once they have left we shall need a discreet watch over this Hastings Square. Arrange it.

Immediately, Maighstir, the assistant answered, making a note on his handheld.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 2490

Is it that new disease we’ve been warned about? asked the paramedic-in-training.

The emergency vehicle had been called to one of the accommodation complexes inhabited by unmarried farm workers.

The grey haired Emergency Medical Technician looked at the eager face of the trainee and shook his head.

If you’ve been doing this job as long as I have you’d know the difference between a local influenza contagion and something serious.

But I didn’t think there was foaming at the mouth with simple influenza, said the trainee in a stubborn voice, pointing at the man lying in a bed in the corner.

It’ll be an individual reaction to the virus shot. It affects some people like that. Don’t panic. It’s all in a day’s work.

The trainee walked over to the man. Shaking his head, the grey haired man followed him as he prepared to utter the words to let the trainee down gently. They were always fired up during their first week out.

Is this all in a day’s work? the trainee asked, pulling back the cover and pointing to the man’s upper torso.

The torso was covered in angry red spots.

Activate your breather at once, ordered the technician, grabbing his mask and slamming it over his face.

The frightened trainee complied as his superior made contact with Emergency Control.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 2494

There has to be an easier way.

Head bowed, the research scientist was shaking his head.

Maighstir, I am sorry. There is no easier way. I left the dissection laboratory half an hour ago after checking the results for the third time.

Check it a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, ordered his employer.

It will make not an iota of difference. This was the ninth test run in as many months. Every one has resulted in the same answer. Every one substantiates my initial prognosis that we cannot speed up the maturation process. It will take as long as the original estimate.

The Maighstir looked as if he was about to explode in incandescent frustration.

The research scientist was dismissed and exited the room as fast as he possibly could.

* * * * *

THE YEAR 2516

Latest report from the Medical Superintendent, announced the secretary. He has received information that four more incidences of Pphess have been reported in Condominium Four hundred and one, Block fifty seven, District ten.

"Get me Jacob Zdroik at the Institute immediately. Scramble the connection."

I’ll do that. Are you remembering that the Director wants all the monthly pollution reports signed and lodged by eighteen hundred hours today?

I am. Now go get me the connection to the Institute, the man growled.

In response to this show of rudeness, the secretary flounced out.

* * * * *

CHAPTER ONE

THE YEAR 1915

Two soldiers were standing at the rail of the paddle steamer, Empress Queen.

Ye see thon nurse over thare? asked Company Sergeant Major Tavish Wilson of his friend Sergeant Kenneth Bennett.

Whit yin? queried Kenneth, taking a quick glance over.

The bonnie yin standing at the rail, Tavish answered. He was known in the Sergeant’s Mess for being a bit of a ladies man.

Kenneth laughed. My friend, she’s way oot of your league.

Oh, Ah dinnae ken.

Nurses aren’t supposed to go oot wi’ the likes o’ us.

Tavish grinned. "Whit the officers don’t know won’t hurt them. Yon lassie aside her is bonnie, her face is interesting, the Queen Alexandra sister. Ah think she’s looking at you."

The nursing sister was looking in their direction although he couldn’t say he was in her line of sight. Confused, Kenneth turned away and insisted that Tavish go with him below deck. Wind’s getting’ up, he said by way of explanation.

The two women seemed to find their confusion amusing.

Tavish waved.

The pretty one laughed and waved back.

The paddle steamer Empress Queen continued to trundle through the water half way through her laborious journey across the choppy channel to France.

* * * * *

Tavish Wilson and Kenneth Bennett were regulars, soldiers of the pre-war army.

C.S.M. Tavish Wilson had joined the Royal Scots Fusiliers as a boy soldier way back in eighteen eighty-three at the tender age of twelve. He had served in Madras, India; Burma then back to India until eighteen ninety-six when the regiment returned home. He was now the Company Sergeant Major of the battalion’s ‘A’ Company.

Kenneth had taken the queen’s shilling in eighteen ninety-eight.

Despite their differences in age and rank, their friendship had begun almost immediately.

On August the fourth, nineteen fourteen, the day Britain declared war on Germany; the battalion had been stationed in Gibraltar but had returned home, arriving in France two months later. As Tavish said when he had a drink in him, the last three months of the year had been miserable and bloody.

Look over there, said Tavish as they passed by what had once been the second-class saloon on the little pleasure steamer. Kenneth followed his gaze with a polite indifference that soon changed to envy.

The men were from a regiment called the Gordon Highlanders.

As with the rest of the pre-war soldiers serving with the Royal Scots Fusiliers, Kenneth and Tavish remembered the day when the regiment had adopted the tartan trews of the Government Black Watch sett. By then Kenneth had served with the colours for three years and Tavish eighteen. Kenneth had been a newly promoted corporal. The two had strutted into the nearby town, resplendent in their bright, smart uniforms of red tunics and tartan trews, their boots burnished to a high gleam that glinted in the sun … but that was in the days before the present day of modern warfare.

In the trenches many Scottish soldiers considered the kilts worn by the Highland regiments more practical than the trews worn by the Lowland regiments. They kept their legs drier and the lice settled within the kilt pleats and not in direct contact with the skin. There was nothing worse than soaking wet trousers chaffing the skin in addition to the irritating lice.

Tavish and Kenneth spent what remained of their ferry journey planning how they were going to go about purloining two kilts.

When they disembarked they learned from their company commander that the battalion would be going up the line the next day. They were heading for a place called Aubers Ridge where they would be taking part in the offensive that would win the war.

* * * * *

The next day, before the bloodbath that would become the Battle of Aubers Ridge the officers told them all about the glorious offensive to come.

However, Tavish and Kenneth had learned enough about the reality that was the front line to read the lies between the sentences. They had heard it all before.

They suspected the attack was doomed to failure. They watched from the support trench as thousands went over the top and hundreds returned. Although their company was not ordered over the top and into the attack in the killing field of no-mans land, they suffered casualties. The enemy artillery was busy and the German gunners had the ranges down to accurate perfection.

As Kenneth said to Tavish two weeks later when the order arrived that the battalion was to withdraw, that didn’t go too well.

As well as being a bit of a ladies man, Kenneth was the master of the laconic understatement.

The Royal Scots Fusiliers returned to their temporary base behind the front lines for a week of rest and recuperation, weary, bloody and disheartened but not badly mauled.

* * * * *

It was now the seventeenth of May and they were marching back into the trenches, back into the mud.

Tavish and Kenneth had still not managed to get their hands on a kilt apiece. They continued to shrug in a philosophical manner about the lack. There would be opportunities later on.

During the infrequent rest breaks the two men complained about the march, the food, the quality of the officers and the problems presented by the replacements for those killed in previous actions. Replacement soldiers could pose a danger to the experienced, precisely because of their lack of the latter.

Since the regiment had arrived in France last October Tavish and Kenneth had coped with the arrival of hundreds of replacements, especially after the First Battle of Ypres. The Seventh Division (in which their battalion had been placed) had taken what remained of nineteen fourteen to rebuild numbers, equipment and training.

This year they had already fought at the Battle of Neuve Chapelle and the Battle of Aubers Ridge. Up until now neither Kenneth nor Tavish had suffered more than scratches and bruises but were very conscious of the fact that their luck could not last forever. So many of their comrades who had arrived in France in nineteen fourteen were maimed or dead.

Now, after some weeks in the transit camp, they were marching into the trenches once again.

The men were singing and the officers were happy to allow it. The song they were singing was a Scottish version of an old favourite, ‘Three German Officers crossed the line’. Singing helped to maintain morale. By the end of the first verse almost everyone was joining in.

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez vous?

Hadn’t been kissed for twenty years, parlez vous?

Who was it pinched the barber’s pole, and used it for fuel to save the coal?

Inky pinky parlez vous?"

There was an explosion and an enormous ball of smoke rose into the sky ahead of them. Most of the men didn’t falter but the replacements nearly jumped out of their muddy boots.

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez vous?

Hadn’t been kissed for twenty years, parlez vous?

Who was it tied his kilts with string, to stop them from doing the Highland Fling?

Inky pinky parlez vous?"

They marched past a line of walking wounded. These men managed a small cheer as the battalion marched past singing the third verse.

"Mademoiselle from Armentieres, parlez vous?

Hadn’t been kissed for twenty years, parlez vous?

Who was it met him out next morn, takin' his troosers oot o’ the pawn?

Inky pinky parlez vous?"

Six days were not enough time for a full recovery after that last stint in the front lines. The men were jittery. They sang to calm their nerves and to keep up their courage. Both Kenneth and Tavish smiled when, after some more marching, another song was belted out.

"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,

Catch the sergeant by the toe.

If he screams, let him go,

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe."

They marched on in silence for a while then filed past a company of Black Watch resting at the side of the muddy road. There was some banter between the men then the Fusiliers broke out into another song, this one specifically aimed at the highlanders.

"Wha’ saw the 42nd? Wha’ saw them gaun awa?

Wha’ saw the 42nd merchin doon the Broomielaw?

Some o’ them had boots an stockins, some o’ them had nane at aa.

Some o’ them had green umbrellas for tae keep the rain awa."

The Black Watch replied with another ditty, this one making fun of the lowland regiment regiments.

"The Lawland Lads think they are fine,

But oh they're vain and idle gaudy,

How much unlike the graceful mein,

And manly looks o' my Highland Laddie."

Everyone took it in good part and there was a lot of banter from both sides.

Tavish and Kenneth looked enviously at the Black Watch kilts as they marched past.

At base camp their officers had told them that the French Artois Offensive was not failing, that Aubers Ridge had been a setback but only a temporary one. They were going to attack again and this time they would succeed.

The battle at Aubers Ridge had been fought as a part of a plan designed by the French General Joffre. The men had gone over the top in support of the French attack across the Artois plateau. The entire offensive so far had been a resounding failure.

Today was the third day of the second phase of the second attack and they were marching into the trenches once again, into the mud and the excrement.

They had known they would be taking the long, long trail back up the line when they had been woken by the noise of the allied bombardment of howitzer shells. Today the loud bangs of the eighteen-pounder field guns had joined in.

Tavish commented to the lieutenant in command of the second platoon that the field gun shells did not sound like they were high explosive. The worried lieutenant agreed. They were not to know that there was a shortage of H.E. shells and shrapnel shells were being used instead. Shrapnel shells were known to be ineffective against wire.

The men of the Royal Scots Fusiliers had waited fourteen miles behind the front lines for a day, knowing that the dying would begin when the additional allied bombardment stopped.

Now they were marching into the trenches once again, into the mud, the excrement and the rats.

Last night no one had got much sleep. The second bombardment had started not long after midnight. That told Tavish and Kenneth that the men who had already gone into the attack had not reached their objective. Now that they had been briefed they knew this objective had been the German front trenches.

Today’s objectives were the German front trenches and the support trenches.

The officers said that despite these setbacks the attack had been a success. Their faces said otherwise. Only the most gullible believed them. One or two soldiers expressed their doubt aloud. No, they were told, the South Staffordshire’s have reached the German lines and are using grenades on the defenders who are refusing to surrender.

A young replacement raised a cheer but a corporal told him to shut up. A muted cheer was raised later when at dawn word came that the Royal Welsh Fusiliers were doing well and had secured the area round Stafford Corner, one of the minor attack objectives. The cheering stopped when at around nine o’clock news came that the attack had stalled. The soldiers who had so recently taken the minor objective were pinned down under intensive German shellfire.

Now they were marching into the trenches once again, into the mud, the excrement, the rats and the lice. As they marched they passed the wounded going the other way.

They found out from the wounded that the badly mauled Royal Welsh Fusiliers had withdrawn to La Quinque Rue, forced to retreat because of lack of support and heavy German shelling.

The Royal Scots Fusiliers waited about a mile south of the rearmost trenches not far from a Casualty Clearing Station and watched more wounded passing by. The lads who hadn’t been to the front before looked sick and frightened.

The clouds began to replace the blue sky with white.

Orders came from the officers that they should get some rest. They would be joining the attack not today but tomorrow. A gap had formed between the Second and Seventh Divisions. Tomorrow, they would help plug this gap.

They continued marching up the line, passing more walking wounded and some carts packed with men who could not walk. Carts would carry ammunition and supplies to the trenches and would transport the wounded back. One or two of the replacement men peeked inside the carts but Tavish knew they wouldn’t be able to see the wounds under the bandages and blankets so he didn’t call them back. Their youthful inquisitiveness would be replaced with the answers soon enough.

The clouds turned from white to grey.

The order came to halt and rest.

It started to rain. The rain developed from light to heavy in a matter of minutes.

The men tried to keep dry, sharing their oilskins but to no avail.

An officer appeared. He called the company sergeants over to give them more instructions. Unfortunately these instructions did not include a hot drink and a meal. Tavish ordered his men to eat their dry rations.

At two o’clock in the morning they set out, marching into the trenches once again, into the mud, the excrement, the rats, the lice and the stench of decomposing bodies.

As they marched the sounds of shellfire grew louder. They could hear the crack and whistle of small arms fire.

The smell of cordite impregnated the smoke and made them cough and sputter.

Walking became difficult, the rain turning the mud into gloopy sludge. The darkness made the men stumble and many fell to their knees and had to be hauled upright by their file mates.

They were all wondering if today would be the day they would die. It might well be. In this war death was unexpected, sudden and swift.

* * * * *

Sergeant Kenneth Bennett gritted his teeth and kept on marching. He could see the khaki backs of the soldiers marching in line ahead of him. Each soldier was burdened with the regulation heavy kit. Some of the men were struggling to keep upright in the slushy mud and he was hoping the order to rest would come soon.

He lifted his head, listening to the shouted words.

No. They wouldn’t be able to rest.

Instead, the officers were urging them all on.

The battalion must be falling behind the schedule set out in the battle plan.

Sergeant, one of the second lieutenants shouted over. We’re falling behind. Get them to step it up a gait.

Confirmation.

Yes sir, Kenneth shouted back. Nothing he could say would make any difference. The men were marching as fast as they could. He often found it difficult to take the second lieutenants seriously. Almost a year into the war, they were so young and inexperienced. In the good old days the young officer, really little more than a boy would have been known as a subaltern rather than a lieutenant. Kenneth much preferred the old word for the rank. In his mind the word subaltern was similar to subordinate and that was exactly what they were, in experience.

Now what was the subaltern’s name again? Fullerson, Fullersworth or something like it, yes, that was it, Fullerton. It was sometimes hard to remember, especially when you were tired. Many young lieutenants died during their first six weeks in the trenches, the killing time, the men called it. Fullerton was a replacement. He didn’t look any older than seventeen. Kenneth felt old, really old, beside him.

At dawn they reached the reserve trench.

‘It isn’t too bad,’ thought Kenneth, looking along it with an experienced eye. At least it was dry enough and wide enough so that the men could have a decent, albeit improvised, seat and a rest. He knew that in this section of the front the reserve trench was a long way back and in this war, ‘a long way back’ was relatively safe. He began walking along it, speaking a few words, telling some jokes to the men he knew and uttering some steadying words to the new boys.

The activity didn’t stop Kenneth being aware of the artillery bombardment. The noise was much louder up here than when they had been marching. He could smell the cordite. It was catching at his throat and making him want to cough.

He reached the place where Tavish Wilson had found somewhere to take the weight off his legs. Tavish had news.

Seems the Second Yorkshires hae been held up, Tavish told his junior in a laconic voice. Ah overheerd the officers say we winna be goin' ‘til aifter nine. We’re headed for a place called Festubert.

This wasn’t good news. It was always better to attack immediately before dawn even though the Germans expected an attack then. Kenneth was of the private (sometimes not so private) opinion that if they had to go over the top it was better sooner than later. At least it got it over with for better or worse.

Perhaps the rain will have stopped by then, Tavish continued, but he didn’t sound too hopeful.

That’s worse, Kenneth replied. He knew all there was to know about attempting an advance through knee-deep mud. A soldier could drown in the slimy gloop. However, at least rain provided a modicum of cover. There were advantages and disadvantages to every situation. Problem was, out here, there were far more of the latter than the former.

And word is the Canadians have taken a bad bashing, added Tavish.

* * * * *

Kenneth felt the familiar sinking knot in the pit of his stomach the second the order came that they would be moving up to the support trench in half an hour. As if on cue, their meal arrived. He didn’t feel like eating, he never did before an attack. However, at least food had appeared.

The contents of the straw lined boxes that arrived in the support trench were, as usual, cold. The contents were also as predictable as the fact that the barrage would cease sometime soon and that he and his comrades would be going into battle.

The cold stew, made from the tinned staple called Maconochie (pork, vegetables and beans) also smelt faintly of petrol, which was not unusual. When Kenneth peeked inside the dixie all he could see was congealed fat. He poked at it in an experimental fashion with his index finger and swallowed, considering disobeying the standing order that all men must eat breakfast. The soldier with the ladle took pity on him and plonked a very small amount into his mess tin.

The tea was lukewarm, strong, milky and super-sweet.

Kenneth drank the tea then refilled his water bottle after he had swilled out his mess tin. He heard Tavish’s voice shouting at the company to hurry up and to not to waste clean drinking water for washing.

Kenneth grinned. Someone must have tried it but nothing ever got past Tavish’s eagle eye. He could see a soldier taking a punch at the man in question. No one wanted to drink dirty water but Kenneth surmised that the cause of this show of anger was likely nerves. The forthcoming attack was getting to them all.

As Kenneth was reluctantly wondering if he should reprimand the punching soldier along came the Major Henderson, closely followed by the company commander, Captain Hubert.

Kenneth didn’t like Hubert. He considered him to be a cowardly toady. He watched as the two officers beckoned Tavish over and warned the boys in his platoon to start getting their kit together.

He wondered if they might get a rum ration before they went into action. It helped steady the nerves, although, as he looked at the white face of one of the youngest in the platoon, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. The youngster looked as if rum might knock him out flat.

The youngster to his right however, looked as if rum, or more likely gin, had been a daily fact of life in the dilapidated house he had been raised in. Kenneth didn’t know what slum the lad had come from but knew he was as tough as they came. He was of the type who made a good soldier.

In order to foster a fighting mood, soldiers often received a double dose of government rum. The jars were marked with the letters ‘S. R. D.’, but Kenneth had no idea what this stood for. He mentally named the rum ‘Soon Runs Dry’. Others called it ‘Service Rum Diluted’ and others still ‘Seldom Reaches Destination’.

It looked as if this was one of those times. Kenneth had not seen a sign of any rum.

He watched as Tavish left the officers. The Second Yorkshires must have reached the reserve trench.

It was time.

Fall in!

Right, said Kenneth, getting to his feet. Let’s be having you.

Without a word, the old timers got ready. Hands were shaking. Other hands were steady. The replacements looked excited but scared. Kenneth hoped the advice that he had tried to give them had sunk home.

Kenneth left the reserve trench with reluctance. Compared to where they were going it resembled a top class hotel. Leading his platoon up along the communications trench the smells of the front line grew more intense. Whilst the cordite made him want to cough, these smells made him want to retch. He knew that for as long as he lived, which might not be very long, he would remember the stench of war.

He managed to keep his innards under control for the length of the communications trench then caught a whiff of chloride of lime that had been introduced to the trenches to try and ward off disease and infection and did retch. Once his stomach was empty, he stepped into the support trench.

This trench was deeper and narrower than the reserve trenches. It was also wetter. The boards laid along the bottom provided only a partial barrier from the cold, stagnant liquid. Within minutes the feet of every member of the battalion were soaking wet. This was one of the non-lethal hazards of life in the trenches. The condition known as trench foot was caused by immersion in cold water or mud over a long period of time. It was rarely fatal but was very uncomfortable. Hopefully this time the battalion wouldn’t be here long enough for it to become a problem.

Most support trenches ‘supported’ a number of designated areas and this one possessed a number of dugouts and a first aid station. Although they had seen many wounded on their way up the line, nothing had prepared the replacements for what they saw there. Outside the post was a funk hole and piled up inside was a mound of bodies. On the top of the pile, at about face height was the body of a badly mutilated soldier. He had no legs and half of his face was missing. His torso was in tatters. Kenneth had seen it before. The soldier would have been a member of a regiment’s bombing party and one of his hand grenades had exploded. It was likely he had been carrying one of the percussion grenades. They could explode if they were bumped. Bits of shredded material and skin were hanging from his ammunition pouch.

He could hear a lot of retching behind him as he walked past.

The next unpleasantness to hit the replacements was the stench from the latrine at the corner of the next zigzag. It was truly awful and even Kenneth, who had thought his stomach empty and therefore inured, gagged. Urine and liquid excrement covered the trench. Kenneth slopped through it. Some wit had nailed a sign on to the parados opposite the stinking latrine entrance. The sign said ‘gentleman’s ablutions. Please keep clean and tidy at all times’.

Kenneth grinned wryly and began to lead his platoon up the next communications trench towards the front line trench. He wondered where Lieutenant Fullerton was then decided it didn’t really matter. He knew more about what was about to happen than the young lieutenant did.

The forward trenches were all knee deep in the disgusting mud. The communications trenches were like sluggish brown streams.

All of a sudden, the guns fell silent.

Cussed Pillocks, Kenneth grunted, referring to the idiots who had ordered the artillery to stop firing now. Jerry knew they were coming, the bombardment had seen to that but hadn’t known exactly when. Now he did know, and would be scrambling out of his dugouts and setting up his machine guns. Then the barrage started up again. Someone must have told the artillery the attack was running late.

However, no sane commanding officer would want to send his out into no mans land with his own artillery still firing, at least Kenneth hoped not but it had happened. Then, as he mentally debated about the advantages and disadvantages he decided it probably didn’t make a lot of difference. Friendly fire killed just as efficiently as enemy machine guns.

The barrage petered out.

Kenneth could hear the litany from his fellow non-commissioned officers.

Keep your head doon.

You stupid beggar. Do you want yer heid blown aff?

They’re deid … Corporal.

Told ye not to look didn’t ah?

Another voice, more refined, an officer, so different from the gruff corporals. Keep your head down you silly fellow.

One of the corporals spoke. If you’re going tae be sick dain’t do it over ma boots.

Sorry.

Keep your big heid lower than these sandbags here. See?

Kenneth splashed through the floating evidence of another latrine.

As the battalion reached the front line trench the men began spreading along it.

Kenneth took up position at the end of the line and Lieutenant Fullerton (Kenneth had been correct about his name) took up his in the middle. Corporal Lambie was standing at the other end. The lieutenant gave Kenneth a tremulous thumbs up to which the latter responded in the same way (without the trembling - no point the men seeing how afraid he really was).

The replacement standing beside Kenneth was taller than average and was cowering down as if his life depended on it. It might not have occurred to him yet that it definitely did.

A series of whizz-bangs skimmed over the trench and landed between the front trench and the support trench.

Kenneth heard a man screaming.

The man standing beside him paled and an agonised expression appeared on his face. Kenneth thought he was wounded and opened his mouth to ask then realised that scared half to death; he had wet his pants. Kenneth couldn’t smell the urine, the whole trench smelt so bad that it masked everything but he recognised the agonised embarrassment on his face.

Another set of whizz-bangs came over and one came down about three yards in front of them. A mass of hot mud flew into their faces and made them all cough.

The soldier on the other side of the tall replacement with the wet underwear collapsed with a scream that turned into a gurgle. The blood from what had been his face splattered over the men to his left and right. He slid down the trench into the mud.

The tall recruit looked as if he was going to be sick.

Keep yer head doun. You’ll see worse afore all this is over, Kenneth hissed at him.

Lieutenant Fullerton looked at his watch then placed his whistle between his lips.

The tension fanned through the men on either side of him like waves.

The whistles blew a single note and they all stepped up on to the fire step.

Kenneth hoped the sappers had managed to clear a path through their own barbed wire entanglements. He turned to the tall soldier.

McCord isn’t it?

McCord nodded.

The waiting’s the worst, Kenneth lied.

They were standing holding their rifles with bayonets already fixed. Some men were talking to the men beside them, some were praying. The majority were silent. The tension was mounting. Some men felt their bowels emptying. McCord would not be the only one going into the attack with dirty underwear.