Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

I’ll tell you the truth, I never intended to go through the tunnel just to get some rest.” He looked steadily at Arthur. “I have to kill someone first.”

“You idiot,” Arthur said. “You’re sending yourself directly to hell.”

Shadrach nodded. “Maybe so, but I have to kill a man first, before he sacrifices hundreds more innocent soldiers.” He carefully donned his tunic and placed the three pistols in the deep pockets of his uniform. “I had a long talk with the General last night. We have a lot in common. We both feel guilty, although God knows what Scott could have done to stop the killing all those years ago. We both want to kill this man. Let’s go outside,” he said, “and while we’re waiting to move off I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Outside, for once, the rain had stopped and the afternoon sun cast a deep shadow on the guns piled up in the middle of the field. The watchtowers and fortifications that marked the edge of the camp were silent and empty. The tents were packed away, the field latrines buried, and the soldiers had left remarkably little debris. Momentarily at ease, they chatted with small clumps of Intermediates, and a couple of them even ventured to hug one of the ugly barmaids. A field-grey lorry, flanked by motorbikes stood quietly by the track to the tunnel. Inside it, Arthur could just make out the somber features of General Scott.

“Forty years ago,” Shadrach began, “I was a professional soldier, one of the most successful, the youngest colonel serving in Natal. I was ambitious; I was going to be the youngest General in the British army; I was going to bring civilization to a whole continent.” Shadrach paused for a while. “I knew that we weren’t perfect,” he said. “I was never naïve about the horrors of war, and what our own soldiers were capable of if pushed to extremes. The Zulus, they were savages, magnificent, brave savages. Their chief sent them against us, spears against rifles, and they died like flies. They died for a cause.” Shadrach stared ahead, re-living the past. “I know that their chief would have willingly died to save his country.”

He looked at Arthur. “What I didn’t know was that our General – my General – was also willing to sacrifice his men, to let them die by the hundreds and thousands. And his men, my men, died like flies while he sat, safe and well-fed behind the lines. His men, my men, died like flies, not to spread civilization, not for the glory of country, but for the personal advancement of one miserable ambitious little man who cared for no-one except himself.” Shadrach waved his hand. “I know, I know the man is dead, long gone. History calls him a great General because the winners write history, and my General knew how to create an image of bravery and self-sacrifice. It’s not him I’m going to kill, it’s his son.”

“His son,” Arthur exclaimed, shocked.

“His son was there too, behind the lines, aide to the father. Lieutenant Cross was even more of a cold-blooded killer than his father was. He took great pleasure in destroying the reputation of any potential rivals, or, with the help of the General, in killing them, sending them off on some impossible mission. And the son also, built a reputation on lies and ruthless exploitation.” Shadrach sighed. “I might have done something, but I kept making excuses. I saved a few lives here and there; small disobediences that I thought would not harm my career too much.” He looked at Arthur in anguish. “You see, I was the hero, the saviour of my civilization. I was going to be one of the great soldiers; schoolboys would read about my exploits in the history books. The General and his son had me in the palm of their hands. If anyone was going to get the blame for the bloodletting, they were going to ensure that I would be the scapegoat.”

“So, the son, now,” Arthur murmured.

“The son is General Cross. This new world war makes the Zulu wars look like a football match. General Cross has a far greater opportunity for mass murder that his father ever did. He can throw thousands of men into withering machinegun fire, to scream and die on the barbed wire. He can destroy a man and his family and his unborn children, and sit behind the lines and drink champagne and never feel a twinge. He was General Scott’s commander, and when General Scott did what I should have done forty years ago, and accused his commander of cold-blooded murder, Cross just laughed. A couple of weeks later, at Ypres, a retreat was called. That order mysteriously never reached General Scott and his battalion. They were cut to pieces.” Shadrach waved his hand at the dead battalion. “That’s when General Scott marched his men and any other stragglers that he could pick up through the tunnel, still doing his best to save them. That’s why he had so much difficulty letting go. He’s realized now that the only way his men will achieve peace is to go back through the tunnel.”

They stood looking out over the soldiers like two old friends. Arthur sought a few words of encouragement. “I think,” he said, “that you will be alright with the council. After all, your actions are unselfish; your target is an evil man who will undoubtedly go to Hell. That should please the Devils.”

“I didn’t tell you everything,” Shadrach said and Arthur groaned under his breath. “It’s personal with me. We’ll be leaving any minute now,” he added as the soldiers began forming up in ranks. “It’s personal because when I finally did get round to defying the pair of them it was too late. I went to see the son, and, can you imagine, I was uneasy. Me, the youngest, bravest colonel in Natal, and I was uneasy talking to a skinny lieutenant. I told him that I was going to expose him and his father for the murderous cowards that they were. I told him that I was not afraid, any more, of destroying my career, and that was true. I told him that I was not afraid of death, and that was true. He just smiled, unconcerned, and I went away and started to write about all the atrocities, about the naked, murderous ambition of these two. Then, a couple of days later, I got word that my brother was dead. I was his hero, and he joined the army and wangled a posting to Natal.” Shadrach took a deep breath. “His immediate superior was Lieutenant Cross. Ezra had written to me several times, but his notes never reached me, and the day after I made my threat, Ezra was ordered to take a platoon across a ridge, where, he was told, he could join up with my regiment. My brother set out on a cool, clear morning to travel the twenty miles to our camp. Neither he nor his men were heard from again.

Lieutenant Smith himself sent a runner with the news, expressing deep regret at my sad loss. I saddled up a horse and almost rode it to death getting to headquarters. Lookouts saw me well before I got to camp, so I thought that he would run, like the coward he was. But he was there, sitting on the verandah of his private bungalow, sipping gin. I jumped off the horse and ran towards him, drawing my sword. He just looked at me, and then a giant fist hit me between the shoulders, and I was looking at the sky, and he was standing over me, and the sky went black. I died, shot in the back, and there was never an investigation. I was a deserter, General Cross said, and my family never received a penny from the army.” Shadrach clasped Arthur’s leathery hand and started to move away. “So, you see, it’s personal,” he called over his shoulder.

Arthur watched as they moved in neat formation towards the tunnel, the General leading in his truck, flanked by six motorbikes, followed by the least damaged of the soldiers who, regardless of wounds marched smartly and strongly towards their destiny. In the rear shuffled the lame and the crippled, some legless soldiers wheeled on makeshift trolleys by their one-legged, one-armed compatriots. The last two figures to enter the tunnel were Shadrach and Corporal Williams, a company of two. Just before they reached the shadow cast by the stone archway, Shadrach turned and saluted. It was the last Arthur ever saw of him.


Chapter 7 - Shadrach in the Wilderness
Colonel Jones and Corporal Williams trudged wearily across a splintered field. Their waterproof capes gave them some protection from the downpour, but their boots were full of mud and their uniforms were damp with cold French rain. With each footfall, the red mud clung eagerly to their boots, and with each step great mounds of mud dragged down their tired feet. They had been together for four months and when not in company they relaxed the conventions of class and rank and treated each other almost as brothers. In the company of other soldiers, though, Corporal Williams observed the formalities, saluting when required and answering only when spoken to. He may not have needed to bother with these conventions because, quiet and small, he went mostly unnoticed in the shadow of the huge colonel.

“We should be close to the field hospital, Harry. They may have your records there.” The colonel stopped and wiped his face ineffectually. “I’d say we’re about ten miles behind the lines. This ground hasn’t been fought over in weeks.” As if to verify his statement, distant guns boomed to the north.

“I dunno, sir. We’ve been looking for months now, and not a trace. We’re getting further away from where I was wounded, and sooner or later we’re going to bump into someone who’s seen us before, even in this godforsaken cut-off corner of the war.” Harry glanced sideways at Shadrach. “Maybe we should try to locate the General, sir.”

“I promised myself that I would take care of you, first,” Shadrach said. “You aren’t involved with my problems.”

“No sir. I understand. But we’ve spent a lot of time in fields like this, and I feel that what I’m looking for, sir, is well behind the lines. Maybe even back in England. And I don’t think we’ll find General Cross anywhere near – damn.” The young corporal looked down. The ‘branch’ he had stumbled on was a human arm, pointing accusingly up at the leaden sky.

Shadrach squatted down and examined the blackening arm. “British captain,” he said. “It looks like the rest of him is down there, under the mud.” A flap on the sleeve was unraveling in the rain, revealing a flat rubber pouch sewn into the uniform. Shadrach unrolled it carefully, and shielding it from the rain, extracted two sheets of thick paper. He whistled. “Do you believe in omens, Harry? It seems like you were right. These are the captain’s orders. He was supposed to report to Headquarters, in the countryside around Verdun. He was supposed to report to General Cross.” He straightened up. “We’ve spent months trying to trace your whereabouts, talked to hundreds of people without one single bite, and now this falls into our lap.” He looked at the young corporal. “If you have no objections, then, our mission changes as of today.”

A day later, warmer and dryer, Captain Jones and Corporal Williams stood on the side of a dirt road smoking unfiltered cigarettes. By the expression on their faces, they had not smoked for a long time. Exhausted and relaxed,