Isle Royale Part 4

The next day we were relieved and sent to a support trench farther back. But later, we discovered that the Germans had retaken their trench at Hill 56, so that night we went over the top again. This time, it was like a scene from h.e.l.l, as flames and explosions lit up the black night. The rains began, and of course this made it all the more difficult. Finally, we took back our precious trench. Of the fifty men I knew from training camp, only three were left alive.

The artillery quieted momentarily. All around us, through the pitter-patter of the rain, we could hear the sounds of the wounded on the battlefield. Voices cried out to us in the darkness. "I can't swim!" one man kept shouting. With a chill running up my spine, I realized the wounded men had crawled into fresh bomb craters, which were now filling with rainwater. There was nothing we could do, except listen, as our comrades slowly drowned.

But there were more horrors to bear. The trench we occupied was filled with b.l.o.o.d.y carnage, the bodies of Canadian and German soldiers stacked one on top of another. We set off to bury them immediately, shoving them to one side of the trench and shoveling dirt over the corpses. Now, as we walk down the lines, the earth is mushy and soft from the bodies buried just underneath. Limbs often get uncovered and stick out of the mud. Hands always unnerve me the most. There was one hand that each soldier shook, saying a hearty "Morning," as he pa.s.sed by. Even I did this. Gallows humor is one way we keep from going mad here. That, and the whiskey.

The stench is truly overpowering. We tie cloths over our mouths, but it does no good. The rats and mice are terrible, but the flies are the pests I hate the worst. They come into the trenches in mult.i.tudes. Sometimes, their buzzing drowns out even the artillery. At night they settle on the walls of the trenches. When the moon shines, the trench walls look like a living ma.s.s of black carpet. We go through the trenches with shovels, smashing the flies dead by the millions. But by the next morning, they're back in full force.

The lice make it impossible for me to sleep; I feel as if I'm slowly being eaten alive. None of us can stop s.h.i.tting because of the dysentery. I'm tired and weak. My thoughts are filled with impending doom. There is a rumor that we will go over the top again soon. I hope we are relieved before then. Let some other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d go over the top. What more does my country want from me?

Is there a G.o.d? I no longer think so.

JL.

April 22, 1918, Dunkirk, France Collene, I write this from an army hospital. I think I will be shipped home soon, if I don't die first.

Do you remember my last letter, when I told you my fears of going over the top yet again? The rumor proved untrue. Instead, I volunteered for something far worse: night patrol. Why I put myself in harm's way, I do not know. Perhaps insanity had finally gripped my mind. I know one part of me wanted to strike back at the unseen enemy that was inflicting so much pain. Night patrol was my chance to sneak out in inky blackness and make my mark upon the war. A vision kept dancing in my head, that of the German on Hill 56, holding his guts in his hands. The vision was not altogether unpleasant. My courage bolstered by a bottle of whiskey, I leapt at the chance to show Fritz what we Canadians are made of.

There were two of us that night, myself and Private Campion, from Montreal. Campion was a rough sort of fellow, with blazing eyes that I swear burned yellow. He was the kind of man who would stab quick and hard even if he met the devil in no-man's land. I was happy to have him by my side. We stood there preparing ourselves in the trench that night, blackening each other's faces with burnt cork, putting socks over our bayonets so the gleaming steel would not give us away to enemy snipers. We equipped ourselves with knives and clubs, and a few grenades, in case of emergency. (The noise that grenades produce would surely bring a h.e.l.l-storm of machine gun fire down upon us.) As we prepared, Campion let loose a horrendous series of belches. This worried me, but Campion just smiled sheepishly and told me he was getting it out of his system. Our diet is very poor here in the trenches. In addition to making us thin as rails, it also produces a nasty variety of ga.s.ses, adding to our misery. More than a few patrols have had their positions given away by an untimely fart. I did not wish to die because of another man's gastric distress.

The purpose of night patrol is to skulk about in no-man's land, checking for gaps in the wire and sniffing out enemy patrols. In the darkness, when the artillery is silenced, an eerie stillness comes over the trenches. One can actually hear the Germans on the other side, their voices lowered to harsh whispers, feet shuffling about on duckboard, hacking coughs occasionally exploding. But mostly, on that clear moonless night, I heard the pounding of my own heart as we lifted ourselves over the parapet and onto the killing grounds.

Campion and I made for a gap in the wire, which we had noted earlier while peering through a periscope. We crawled ever so slowly, slithering through the muck like two deadly vipers. We made it through the gap, then crawled onward through an obstacle course of barbed wire beyond, each roll containing thousands of tiny daggers that bit into our flesh unless treated gingerly. First came trip wire, lined with tin cans to alert us of the enemy crossing over. Then, a high ap.r.o.n of barbed wire. More trip wire. Another high ap.r.o.n. Through this mora.s.s we crept and crawled, checking our compa.s.ses often, making all of thirty yards in half an hour.

Eventually, we made it to the German side, having encountered no enemy patrols. A large sh.e.l.l crater lay before us, heavily ringed with more barbed wire. It was a German sentry post, probably manned by only one or two soldiers. Campion and I quietly dragged ourselves forward, separating so as to take opposite ends of the crater. Death was all around us. I could hear more Germans whispering in trenches not far from our position. To be discovered now meant instant death by machine gun fire.

When I reached my destination, I carefully lifted the trip wire and slid underneath. Then I slowly, ever so slowly, poked my head over the lip of the crater, fully expecting my face to be blown off by some expectant German. To my surprise, I did not die then. Instead, I was presented with an opportunity: a single German sat in the crater. Though his back was turned to me, I could tell he was a small man, weakened from the cold, and probably only half awake after manning the sentry post most of the night. He sat there shivering, his breath coming out in clouds of steam, as he tried to warm his hands over a tin cup filled with some sort of hot liquid. His rifle lay at his side.

Slowly, inch by inch, I slid on my belly down the steep side of the crater. Holding my knife between clenched teeth, I kept my eyes trained on the back of the unsuspecting German. Finally, I reached the bottom of the crater. Still no sign of movement from my target. I got into a low crouch, then gripped my knife in my hand, ready to strike.

Just then Campion popped his head up over the lip of the crater opposite me, right in front of my prey. The startled German gave a shout and reached for his rifle. Campion, rather than retreat, raised his knife to hurl it at the man. But the German was too quick. He swung his weapon up and fired from the hip, striking his mark. My eyes went wide as I saw Campion, his head shattered and brains flying in every direction, pitch forward and slide into the pit. His arms and legs writhed as he refused to die, his knife still gripped in one white-knuckled hand. Finally, Campion lay still in the muck, prostrate before his executioner. The German stood there impa.s.sively, head down, his muzzle still smoking.

Enraged, I gave a shout and leapt forward, so quick the German never had a chance to react. I wrapped one arm around him from behind, then drew my knife across his throat. I felt the blade slice through tissue and arteries, then sc.r.a.pe across his spine. I jerked the knife free and stepped back. The German made an inhuman gurgling noise as he brought both hands up, clutching at his throat. He turned towards me, and as he did, great spurts of crimson sailed through the air, splashing my face and uniform.

I stood there in shock, not from the blood, but from the round, blue-eyed face staring back at me. The "soldier" whose throat I'd just slit couldn't have been more than fourteen years old. The Germans were sending children to the trenches! I staggered and fell backwards into the mud.

The boy stood there, looking down on me, his eyes wide with fear, his hands still clutching at the mortal wound. Dark red liquid gushed from between his fingers. He mouthed something I couldn't make out, then finally collapsed, jerked over onto his back, and lay still.

Up above, outside the bomb crater, I could hear the German trench line waking in response to the racket we'd made. Voices shouted amidst sporadic rifle fire as the Germans tried to determine the source of the disturbance. Somewhere, a machine gunner with a hair trigger began firing blindly into no-man's land, creating a noise like angry metallic hornets whizzing above the crater. Star sh.e.l.ls went off, casting a harsh flat light against the wasteland. I was good as dead once the Germans discovered I'd occupied their sentry post. But that's not what was on my mind at that moment.

I crawled over to the boy, still reeling from the realization I'd just slashed a child's throat. I cupped his head in my hands, wincing at the sight of the ugly gash below the chin, which still oozed blood. The boy's eyes fluttered, then he looked up at me. Under the grime and dirt caking his skin, I saw the face of a boy who should be home playing in a schoolyard, climbing trees, or kissing his first girl, not thrown into the living h.e.l.l of the trenches. His eyes were like pools of blue light, flickering and waning, extinguished before their time. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

The boy croaked something. I leaned closer, trying to make out his words from what little German I understood. As I came within inches of his face, once more I froze in shock. The blue eyes, which moments ago seemed such a bastion of innocence and purity, now blazed with hate. It seemed that they should burst then, and all the fury of h.e.l.l come shrieking out to consume me.

With his remaining strength, the boy raised his head and spat in my face. The mix of saliva and foaming crimson burned against my cheek. I knelt there, unmoving and tight-lipped, letting the liquid drip off me. The boy dropped his head back and lay still, ready to receive death as the last of his blood flowed into the mud.

From my pocket I produced a hand grenade. I pulled the pin and held the grenade in front of me for the boy to see. He stared at it a moment, then looked back up into my eyes. A faint, bitter smile crept onto his lips. Death took him then.

I honestly meant to blow us both up then, Collene. How could I live with myself, now that I was a child murderer? I could no longer exist in the h.e.l.l of the trenches. At that moment, I would have done anything to escape. I was the sc.u.m of humanity. Surely, G.o.d had already cast me aside. I gripped the bomb in my hand and shut my eyes tight.

Once again, though, army training took over. At the last moment I hurled the grenade over the lip of the crater toward the German trench line. It went off with a boom, mingled with the screams of enemy soldiers. More blood on my hands, all because I lacked the courage to put an end to my miserable existence. Add another t.i.tle to my name: Coward.

I lobbed two more grenades at the German trenches, hoping to create enough mayhem to enable me to make a dash for my own side. It was a futile hope, I knew, for as soon as I raised my head over the crater's lip, the machine guns would tear me to ribbons. Still, what other choice did I have? It was either make a run for it or sit there, waiting for the Huns to come over and put a bayonet in my stomach.

Then I heard a noise, a wondrous yet, at the same time, terrifying sound that made my heart leap to my throat. It started as a low rumble, then crescendoed to a fever pitch of shouting and screaming, guns firing and bullets whizzing overhead. Our side was going over the top!

I hunched down and waited. If the Canadians could make it through the barbed wire obstacle course in the dark, not get mowed down by snipers and machine-gun fire, avoid the traps and bombs and unexploded artillery sh.e.l.ls littering the field, then shoot their way into the enemy trenches, then I was saved. I crouched down further, trying to make myself into a little ball.

All I could see of the battle was the round piece of sky above the sh.e.l.l hole. Stars twinkled up above me in the clear, cool night. Occasional bomb bursts, or the harsh light of star sh.e.l.ls, lit up the crater now and then, making me wince and duck. The two corpses with which I shared the crater unnerved me. The German, whose eyes were still open, stared up at me, accusingly. I kicked his head to one side with my boot. I noticed a rat beginning to gnaw on Campion's dead hand. I stabbed the vermin with my bayonet, then flung it over the edge onto the battlefield.

The noise up above the crater was terrifying. All around me men screamed, fell to earth, and died. I heard the sound of boots running past. Twice, I heard loud voices approaching, shouting in German. I readied my rifle, aiming at the lip of the crater, but the only targets presented to me were twinkling stars.

The battle subsided. There was no way to tell who had won, or even if it was safe for me to leave the awful confines of the crater. Just when I was determined to poke my head over the lip to have a look, I heard a thunk in the dirt behind me. I turned and to my horror saw a grenade lying there, still rolling in the dirt, pin out, about to explode.

I knew I'd never have enough time to scramble out of the crater. Worse, I'd be exposing myself to enemy fire. My only hope was to get rid of the thing before it went off. I had mere seconds. I flung myself toward the grenade and in one fluid motion scooped it up and hurled it skyward.

The lethal bomb pa.s.sed just a few feet from my outstretched hand when it exploded. I saw a bright flash and felt a pressure in my head, like someone pounding my temples with sledgehammers. There was a terrible tugging and ripping sensation in my hand as I was blown backward against the far slope of the bomb crater.

I lay there a moment, dazed and smoking. Part of my uniform was on fire. I tried patting it out with my hand, but there was no hand there, just a tangled, b.l.o.o.d.y mess of muscles and tendons and bones jutting out. Even though I felt no pain, I began screaming. I struggled to raise myself up.

Just then, a dark figure swooped in from above. I saw a man's face, teeth gritted in hate and determination. A silver blade slashed through the air, and I felt a terrible burning near my heart. I looked down and saw a bayonet sticking out of my chest, a dark patch of red quickly spreading over my uniform. I glanced up and saw the man standing over me, struggling to pull the blade out. He was one of ours, a Canadian.

"Wait," I croaked out. "It's me. It's me."

The soldier froze. The last thing I remember was the horrible look of stunned comprehension on his face. "It's me," I whispered once more, and then a black curtain fell before my eyes.

JL.

April 28, 1918, Dunkirk, France Collene, The men in my ward are given up as dead, but of course they don't know it yet. The doctors and nurses hover around us, talking in hushed tones, afraid even to make eye contact with the condemned, as if death itself might rub off on them. The smell of death here is overpowering-antiseptic mixed with vomit and pus and the metallic scent of blood.

My left hand is a stump now, wrapped tight in padded bandages. Strange that I can still feel my fingers, though when I raise my hand to scratch my nose, there's nothing there but air. My entire chest and most of my face are also swathed in cloth, most of which is soaked in sweat and blood.

The doctors say I'll be fitted with an artificial hand soon. They're waiting to see if I die first, I think. I won't give them the pleasure. I know this is not my time, though in the middle of the night, when the medication wears off and the pain is at its worst, I dearly wish for a gun to place against my head.

The moans of the dying fill me with loathing. Why can't they all just shut up? I've obtained a secret stash of morphia I keep under the mattress. (Even in my wounded state, I still have good connections to the smugglers' world. It's a skill for which I seem well suited.) I give the most vocal of the wounded extra doses of the medicine. That usually quiets them for the night.

One man, his face half blown off, defied all medical science and refused to die. Instead, he emitted a constant wheezing, moaning noise with each labored breath. This went on for quite some time until, late one night, I gave the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d an overdose of the morphia and sent him quietly on his way.

JL.

May 16, 1918, Dunkirk, France Collene, The doctors say I'll be shipped home next week. They tried to fit me with an artificial hand. I refuse this grotesque masquerade. Instead I have had fitted upon my stump a hook, a sharp hand of gleaming steel to remind me of the war and what it did to me, and what I have done to other men.

I do not wish to go home now. I think instead I will stay in France for a time. They say the war will be over soon. I want to see for myself this new Europe for which we have all spilled so much blood. So many men here prepare to return home, convinced their country owes them for their sacrifice. They're fools to think they'll receive anything other than heartache.

I cannot go back to the domestic routine you people are so comfortable with. It is unthinkable for me board my little fishing boat and go about a day-to-day existence catching herring and lake trout. Not because I'm above such work. (G.o.d, what I would give to be content again!) No, Collene, I loath myself and what the war has created within me. Something has snapped inside. I find myself afflicted with moods and foul tempers. I'm restless. I cannot go home. Not now. You will hate me for this, but it is for the best.

I loved you once, Collene. Perhaps I still do. But we will never wed, for who would marry a man like me, who is lower than the mud upon which you walk? Forget about me, Collene. Live your life and be happy.

I'm sorry.

Jean

Chapter Eight.

Ian wiped wet hair from his eyes. He sat at the bow of the little dinghy, happy to feel the fresh lake breeze blowing past. It was warm for late autumn-sunlight beat down from partly cloudy skies, shimmering off the lake and reflecting into Ian's face. Off to their right, to starboard, the sh.o.r.eline and steep hills beyond shone like melted gold as a stand of aspen and birch swayed in the breeze. Yellow leaves fluttered off the branches. They tossed and turned in midair, like fairies dancing in ether, until settling to earth for the winter.

Ian glanced back and smiled at Sally, who was perched at the stern, expertly guiding the sailboat across the water. She wrinkled her brow, deep in concentration, trying to keep the dinghy parallel to sh.o.r.e, which was difficult in the constantly shifting winds. The sun hid briefly behind a cloud, and without its warming rays the two teenagers began shivering as their wet clothes clung to their skin.

Ian took the spygla.s.s from his pocket and expanded it. He examined the exterior, then the front lens element, trying to see if his fall from the cliffs had damaged it. He frowned as he heard a sloshing noise come from inside and saw water dripping from the eyepiece. Ian held the telescope over the side of the boat and shook out what seemed like a pint of lake water. He examined it again, shrugged, and placed it to his eye.

The dinghy rounded the point to Stone Harbor. The granite cliffs of Wolf Point towered overhead, the lighthouse perched on top. The sun emerged, lighting up the sh.o.r.eline. Ian trained the gla.s.s toward the dock at the base of the cliffs. Moored next to the family rowboat was a fishing vessel he didn't recognize. Several burly men were busy unloading wooden barrels from the boat onto the dock. Ian's muscles tensed. He gripped the telescope harder, his fingertips putting dents in the cheap metal tube.

"Uh oh," he muttered, lowering the spygla.s.s.

Sally squinted and held her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun and glare. "I think I see your dad. I thought you said he was asleep."

Ian raised the telescope again. He saw his father and Jean LeBeck on sh.o.r.e, apparently in some sort of heated argument.

Ian lowered the gla.s.s, his face twisted with worry. "He's back," he said.

"Who?"

"His name's LeBeck. He was at the lighthouse last night."

"In the storm? For real?"

"Yeah."

"What does he want?"

Ian shrugged his shoulders. "Trouble, I guess."

As the dinghy made its way farther around the point, they saw an enormous black yacht lying at anchor in the middle of the protected waters of Stone Harbor. Men with Tommy guns were plainly visible patrolling the deck.

"That must be his yacht," Ian said. "Jeez, it's huge."

"Looks like your dad could use some help," said Sally. "Prepare to come about!" She trimmed the sail, then yelled, "Hard alee!" Ian ducked as the boom swung across the boat. The sail filled with wind, sending the dinghy skidding across the waves toward sh.o.r.e.

"You cannae stay," stammered Clarence. He faced LeBeck on the beach. The Scotsman's face was growing redder by the minute. If only he'd stood his ground the night before and thrown the money back in LeBeck's face. Now, as LeBeck's men swarmed over the beach unloading cargo, the situation had grown totally out of control. Clarence needed the money, but what Pandora's box had he opened this time? And how could he keep it from Collene?

LeBeck appeared disinterested in Clarence's protests. He reached up with his hook hand and absentmindedly scratched the dark stubble on his chin. Clarence sighed and tried again.

"You and your crew can't stay here," the lightkeeper repeated, trying to keep his voice even. "It's strictly against regulations."

"The cargo is my concern," said LeBeck, his eyes narrowing to slits. "It makes no difference to you. Turn a blind eye, Clarence-that's what you're paid for."

"But I don't want your..." Clarence was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Ian and Sally, emerging from the woods farther down the beach. How the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l had those two snuck down here?

The teenagers drew close. Clarence winced as he saw Ian get a good look at the barrels being stacked on the dock. The boy's eyes grew wide. "Bootleggers!" Ian blurted out, then clamped his hand over his mouth.

LeBeck whirled around like a surprised wolf. Everyone froze. After a brief pause, LeBeck relaxed when he saw the pair. His eyes wandered over Sally. He grinned and gave her a salute with his hook hand.

"Morning," he said curtly. "Jean LeBeck's the name. Who might you be?"

Clarence could practically see Sally's skin crawling. "Leave the girl alone, LeBeck," he said. Clarence glanced at Ian and scowled. "How'd you get drenched, boy?" Ian tried to speak, but Clarence abruptly cut him off. "Later."

LeBeck would have none of it. He draped an arm over Ian's shoulder. "I was just telling your old dad that some of my boys are camping on your beach tonight, guarding my cargo. But only until my customers arrive."

To his astonishment, Clarence felt his face turn a shade of red he didn't think existed in nature. He was sure he'd burst a blood vessel at any moment. "I told you it's against regulations," the lightkeeper sputtered. "You never said a thing about using my lighthouse as a base to run your hooch. I'll lose my job, for G.o.d's sake."

LeBeck released Ian and took a step toward Clarence. He raised a clenched fist in front of him. "You can't back out now, MacDougal. You've got my money."

Ian stepped next to Clarence and stood shoulder to shoulder with his father. "We don't want your money anymore," the teenager said. "You should leave."

LeBeck snarled at Ian. "Stand down, boy. This is man's business." He turned to Clarence, his voice laced with menace. "The deal's made, MacDougal. There's no backing out. I've got people meeting me here tonight."

A faint, involuntary smile curled up on Clarence's lips, and he was shocked to hear himself say, as he stared LeBeck directly in the eye, "Then you'll disappoint them. That's what you do best, isn't it?" Clarence held the stare a moment longer, then winced and cast his gaze to the ground.

When he finally looked up again, he saw LeBeck standing there motionless, staring at the lightkeeper, as if he couldn't believe the words he had just heard. Finally, LeBeck said, "I must not have made myself clear." He pulled back the right side of his coat, revealing a black metal .45-caliber Colt tucked into his belt. A huge thug stepped up next to LeBeck, scowling down on Clarence and the two teenagers.

"Understand now?" LeBeck growled.

Clarence paused a moment, sizing up the situation. He slowly, deliberately, pulled out his gold watch and opened it with slightly trembling hands, then checked the time. "I understand perfectly, LeBeck," Clarence said, keeping his gaze on the watch. "I always knew you were the kind of sc.u.m to use a man's family as blackmail."

With a quick, cat-like movement, LeBeck grappled the watch chain with his hook, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from the lightkeeper's grasp. He held the watch high in the air. The sun glinted off its gold surface.

"Fine watch," LeBeck said, examining the timepiece with reptilian eyes. "Not very affordable on a lightkeeper's salary."

Ian took a step forward, his hands bunched into fists. "Give that back!" the boy demanded.

"Ian!" Clarence grabbed his son by the arm and yanked him back.

LeBeck flicked the watch into his good hand, the gold chain dangling from his closed fist. "If your father cooperates, he'll be able to afford a lot more of these, little boy."

Behind the group, a small rowboat came around the point unnoticed, heading straight for the dock. Navigating the small craft was a grizzled-haired old fisherman. He rowed steadily, quietly, until his ancient boat b.u.mped gently against the wooden dock.

Clarence, having finally gotten Ian under control, took a step forward. "All right. Do your work. But after tonight, you leave this island for good."

LeBeck smiled. "Our deal is long term, Clarence."

Clarence took another step toward LeBeck, bl.u.s.tering. "The h.e.l.l it is!"

LeBeck shoved hard against Clarence's chest. The lightkeeper tumbled to the ground. Ian, his face flushed, rushed forward. He kicked LeBeck hard in the shin, then grabbed the watch.