Tales: Short Stories Featuring Ian Rutledge and Bess Crawford (5 page)

When the young Scot was out of hearing, Rutledge stopped and turned. Williams stopped as well.

“I think they were trying to kill me,” the man said quietly, glancing over his shoulder to be certain they were alone. “Lloyd and his half-brother Jones.”

That’s what he’d been trying to remember. The two Welshmen were half-brothers.

The officer had pointed this out, mentioning that they had insisted on serving together. It wasn’t uncommon for entire villages or men from large estates to insist on serving side by side. But in this case, it made a difference.

Whether the fuse was long or short, it was likely that Lloyd and Jones would stand up for each other in a crisis.

“Why?” Rutledge snapped. “Why did they intend to kill you?”

If Williams was right, he, Rutledge, was dealing with cold-blooded murder. Of the men in the trenches, and nearly of Williams and himself. What kind of hate, he wondered fleetingly, could account for so much killing?

For an instant, he felt himself back at the Yard, questioning a witness. Only there, he faced only his chief superintendent’s wrath, not German rifle fire. He smiled grimly to himself at the thought as shots stitched the trench wall just inside the barbed wire that protected it.

“They don’t believe I’m a slate man. Or that I come from the slate mines below Mount Snowdon. They think I was one of the clay kickers from Manchester. The men who were digging the sewers.”

“Why should it matter?”

“I don’t know.” Williams shrugged. “This isn’t the first time they’ve attacked me.”

“What do you mean?”

Shelling had commenced, now, first from the German lines, probing shots along the sector with the damaged trenches, and then answering bombardment from the British lines.

Rutledge sprinted for the safety of the trench wall, and Williams followed.

“It was on the train, coming up from Calais,” he said breathlessly, as earth from the shelling rained down on them. “I was tripped, and when I went down, I was hit hard and kicked. It was Lloyd, I’d swear to it. And Jones didn’t try to stop him. Someone else had to step in. Marching toward the Front, someone—I never saw who it was, but I can guess—shoved me into the path of a lorry. If the driver hadn’t swerved just in time, I’d have been run down. Add to that, this is the second time I’ve been faced with a long fuse.” He shrugged again, his face shadowed by his helmet.

“Are you sure it’s the same men?”

“Yes, two of the Cardiff miners. Taffy Jones and Aaron Lloyd had seen to the fuse that time too.”

“Then why did you go back down that tunnel with me? If you knew they’d done this before?”

“Because I wanted to see for myself what had happened. I never made it as far as the chalk face that other time. Captain Marsh had to dig me out. I had nothing to show for being half buried alive except suspicion.”

Rutledge nodded. “All right. I’ll see what I can discover.”

Later, as they kept watch in the middle of the night, Rutledge told Corporal Hamish MacLeod what he’d learned from Williams. The young Scot was steady, good with his men, and observant. Rutledge had come to trust him.

“Did they know each other before they came to France?” He passed the periscope to Rutledge, whose turn it was to look over the lip of the trench without attracting the attention of any waiting sniper. “The three Welshmen?”

“I don’t believe they did.” The night was quiet after the barrage.

“It’s a puzzle,” MacLeod said. “The question is, how could they be sure it would ha’ been Williams who went back down the tunnel?”

“Because he should have been the one to set the fuse. And because he was sent back the last time it was too long. His responsibility.” Rutledge considered the question. “And because Lloyd wasn’t there. He’d gone to the latrines.”

“Aye. Verra’ convenient, that. Ye ken, if it was on purpose, yon long fuse, they didna’ care if you’d died along with Williams.”

“Whatever their reason for wanting to kill Williams, it has to run deep.” He shook his head. “The problem is, there’s nothing we can do until there’s more solid evidence. I can only hope Williams survives that long.”

But nothing happened to Williams when the next tunnel was set off. Or the next. Rutledge was there, keeping an eye on what was being done.

It was nearly a week after that, toward midnight, when Private Williams was found lying in a pool of blood and half dead.

The soldier who discovered him, Private MacRae, a Scot from Stirling, reported to Rutledge after seeing Williams back to a forward aid station.

“Rumor says he was careless and a sniper got him. But we havna’ had a sniper this fortnight.”

“Rumor . . . was there a name attached to that rumor?”

“It was a Welshman. He was at yon aid station, suffering from a boil on his foot. He said Williams was too tall for a Welshman, and the sniper found an easy target.”

Rutledge considered what Private MacRae had said.
Too tall for a Welshman. . .

It was true, Williams could give Jones and the rest of the South Wales miners a good three inches. Sturdy men, compactly built, darker. Williams had a leaner, thinner build, and his hair was lighter. Was that why some of the miners thought he must be from Manchester? Or had Jones and Lloyd started that lie?

But coming from Manchester—or any other English town where industry thrived—was hardly a reason for murder.

“What was the name of the Welshman, do you know?”

MacRae shook his head. “I didna’ think to ask.”

On his next rotation a few days later, Rutledge went behind the British lines to look for Private Williams. He was still in hospital, the shot having missed his lung but damaged his shoulder. Bound up with his left arm braced in the air like the broken wing of an aircraft, Williams lay back against his pillows with the lined face of a man in pain.

“A very little bit lower, sir, and I’d have been done for,” he said, as Rutledge sat down in the chair by his bed and asked how he felt.

“I’ve just spoken to the doctor,” Rutledge replied. “He tells me the bullet entered from the back. Not the front. This wasn’t a sniper’s work.”

“I don’t know who it was. I didn’t see anyone. I was coming back from the shaft we’d been digging. It was dark, quiet. And I felt the shot before I heard it. It spun me around and still I didn’t see anyone.”

Rutledge found that part hard to believe. Williams must have glimpsed the man. And even if he weren’t positive, he must have had his suspicions.

“You aren’t planning on a little private revenge, are you? This is an Army matter. Let the Army deal with it.”

“I’m tired of being hunted, sir. That’s all.”

“The doctor has reported the wound as suspicious. It will be investigated.”

“Yes, well, that may be.” He turned his head away so that Rutledge couldn’t see his eyes. “He’ll claim—whoever he is—that he was cleaning his rifle. And he’ll have a witness, you can be sure of it.” His voice was bitter.

“All the same, I’ll have a word with Jones and his half-brother.”

Williams smiled without humor. “Good luck to you, then. Sir.”

Back in the line again, Rutledge found Captain Marsh during a lull in the fighting and asked permission to speak to the Welsh miners.

Marsh shook his head. “They’ve been sent back. We’ve got Griffiths’s clay kickers now. They know what they’re about. No fuse problems since they took over the task.”

“When were the miners sent back?” Rutledge asked sharply.

“Yesterday morning.” He shook his head. “Two had to be dropped off at the base hospital. A nuisance, that. One had a shell splinter that wouldn’t heal, he said, and the other had a broken toe. I don’t know where the other miners will be posted next. Where they’re needed, I expect.”

“Did you examine these wounds?”

“There was no time. The Sisters will sort them out.”

“Who were these wounded men?”

“Privates Jones and Lloyd.” Marsh frowned. “Look, Rutledge, what’s this about? What have you got against those two? They didn’t shoot themselves in the foot, you know. They had a legitimate reason for stopping by the base hospital.”

He had his answer.

The base hospital for this sector was where Private Williams was being treated. And if Jones and Lloyd intended to finish what they’d begun, this was very likely their last chance.

The Germans attacked five minutes later, and a vicious defense was all that kept the British line from folding. Rutledge, encouraging his own men, held his sector, and managed to rally men down the line as the Germans breached the barbed wire, firing down into the trenches and tossing grenades as soon as they’d come within range. When the British machine gun, which had jammed, had been cleared and opened up again, it turned the tide, and the German advance became a shambling retreat.

Relieved to find they had fewer dead than he’d expected, Corporal MacLeod, set about collecting the wounded.

He pointed to Rutledge’s roughly bandaged arm. “Ye’ll need that attended to as well.”

“I can’t leave. Not until I’ve been relieved.”

“Aye, and ye’ll be down with the gangrene, wait and see.”

Later, when the relief column came down the line, Rutledge went back to the nearest aid station to look in on his wounded men.

The doctor insisted on treating him as well. Examining Rutledge’s arm, the doctor looked up. “You’re lucky that shot didn’t sever the artery. You’re out of the line for three days.”

His men were in rotation, in the reserve trenches where they could lick their wounds and rest. They were safe enough. It was his chance. “I’d like to visit a soldier sent back to the base hospital. Can you arrange it?”

“You should be resting. Still—if you’ll ask one of the Sisters to see to clean bandages tomorrow, and you don’t exert yourself unduly and start with a fever, I see no harm in it.”

“I give you my word.”

There was room in one of the ambulances heading south with the next contingent of wounded. Rutledge took a seat next to the driver. The man smelled of wine, and glad to have an audience, he launched into a long monologue, never pausing as he rambled from one thought to the next. He was from Leeds, he said, a baker before the war, and he hated France.

Rutledge, left to his own thoughts, wondered if he was making too much of the danger to Williams. Now that he was on his way to the base hospital, nursing his aching arm as the ambulance bounced and slid through the ruts, he told himself that the orderlies and Sisters were the only protection Williams needed. Killing someone in full view of so many witnesses was different from shooting someone in the back. What’s more, Williams wouldn’t be leaving the hospital anytime soon. He wasn’t likely to encounter either Jones or Lloyd even when he did, for they would be reassigned elsewhere.

Then why, Rutledge asked himself, did he feel such a sense of urgency?

Just then the driver said something that brought his mind sharply back to the rambling soliloquy.

“I’m sorry—what was it you were saying?”

But the driver took exception to Rutledge’s sudden interest. He retorted gruffly, “I shouldn’t have told you—”

“But you did. You said you were given a choice between prison and enlisting. Since your lungs weren’t good enough, you had no choice but to drive an ambulance.”

“What if I did?” he asked sullenly.

“Before that. Why was it you were brought up on charges?”

“I told you.”

“Tell me again. Or I’ll report you for drinking and ignoring your patients back there.”

“All right, then, you needn’t cut up stiff over it. I tried to kill a man. But he lived.”

“Who was the man?”

“He was a trades union man. He caught my brother when he tried to cross the strike line and go back to work. Fred needed the pay, he couldn’t afford to be out on strike.”

“Where was this strike?”

Goaded the man said, “What are you, a copper? Why does it matter?”

“Was it in England—or was it a colliery in Wales?”

“Of course it wasn’t Wales, it was in Lancashire. The trades union men beat him nearly senseless. And the doctors said they couldn’t do anything for him. He died the next morning. He was a good man, and he left a wife and three little ’uns. Tell me that’s fair?”

“It isn’t fair. But neither is attempted murder. Were they brought up on charges? The men who did this to your brother?”

“There was no one who could identify them. No one saw anything,” the driver said bitterly and turned his attention to what passed for the road. They traveled in silence for the rest of the journey.

Rutledge found Williams sitting on the side of his cot this time, trying to manage to spoon up the dinner he’d been brought.

Taking the chair from the next bed and sitting down, Rutledge greeted him and then said, “Are you a trades union man?”

Williams stopped, the spoon half way to his mouth. “Am I
what
?”

Rutledge repeated the question.

Shaking his head vehemently, Williams said, “No, by God, I’m not. Sir.”

“I suspect Jones and his friends think you are.”

Williams stared at him. “I’ll be damned. But why?”

“I don’t know. It could be the reason they’ve tried to kill you. There’s bad blood on both sides of that fight. Men have been murdered. And
Williams
is a common-enough name in Wales and in England. You could have lied about your background at the slate mines.”

“I haven’t. But there’s no way to prove it, short of sending to the manager of the mine.”

“The coal miners have been moved back from the Front. Griffiths has brought in some of his clay kickers, men building the Manchester sewers. More to the point, at least two of the coal miners were on their way
here
, to the base hospital. Lloyd and Jones. It may be a coincidence, and it may not. Watch yourself. You’re in no condition to do battle with anyone.”

“There’s truth to that, God knows.” Williams realized he was still holding his spoon in midair, and he set it down carefully. “I don’t like this.”

“Then tell me what you saw that night, when you were shot. Let me charge whoever did this.” Rutledge gestured to the bound shoulder.

“My word against theirs? No, it won’t save me. Can I be moved to another hospital?”