Megiddo's Shadow (14 page)

“Hey, bring those nags up and help!” a corporal said to us. “This one's getting buried at sea.” We pulled our horses past the corpse, Buke's eyes wide with fear. I whispered calming words, and soon we'd hitched him and Neddie to the dead horse and dragged it to the loading door. A burly trooper gave the door a shove, and bright light made us all squint.

A wind swept in, carrying the smell of the sea. The corporal hooked the corpse to a pulley, and the big trooper began cranking until the body reached the edge.

“Any last words, Trooper Sloan?” the corporal asked.

Sloan was a small guy, with spectacles and light brown hair. He wiped his eyes. “See you, Andy. See you, pal.”

The horse was winched through the hatch and dropped into the water.

“Don't worry.” The corporal patted Sloan's back. “There'll be another for you when we arrive.”

“I want Andy. He was my horse.”

He sounded like a child, but I knew I'd feel the same way if something happened to Buke.

As I inched closer to the door the
Mercian
swayed, and I had a panicky feeling that I might slip out. I clutched a post and sniffed the fresh air. They forked the manure out these doors at night so it would sink in the dark and submarines couldn't track us.

“Nice day for fishing,” the corporal said. “Which squadron you boys from?”

“D Squadron, Corporal,” Cheevers said.

“Yellow-bellied devils, the lot of you.” He grinned, showing two buck teeth. “We're from A Squadron—the pride of the regiment. At least, that's what I tell me mum.”

“She must be proud as a peacock!” Cheevers said. “Look at you all, the finest fighters in the King's army.”

The corporal guffawed.

Cheevers could certainly make friends quickly, just like Hector. The two of them would probably have been great pals.

Seagulls flew low over the waves, which I guessed meant land was nearby. It reminded me of Noah waiting for the dove to return to the ark with an olive branch. I certainly was a long way from the dry prairie. I wanted to spot a dolphin, a shark, or a whale. The biggest fish I'd ever seen was a trout Dad had caught at Bone Creek.

A fin broke the surface. A whale! It was as if God were fulfilling my wish. The whale's blue body rose above the water; it was larger than Jonah's whale. Too large, I realized with a lurch of horror.

“A submarine,” I said hoarsely.

“What's that?” the corporal asked.

I pointed. A submarine floated in the water, its dark hull glistening.

“Ah, Christ! It's the Germans!” The corporal slapped the burly trooper's shoulder. “Run, tell the colonel! Run, you bastard!” The man sped off.

“Why's it just sitting there?” Cheevers asked.

A hatch opened on the submarine's conning tower, and sailors in black uniforms climbed out and sauntered over to their gun. “We're sitting ducks, boys,” the corporal said. “Close this hatch!” We slammed the door and latched it. “To the top deck, and don't forget your life belts!”

I reached to untie Buke. “Leave your horses!”

I gave Buke a pat. “Stay put, I'll be back for you.” Cheevers and I ran down the aisle, with Trooper Sloan one step behind.

The ship's steam whistle screamed three times before we reached the stairs. Troopers were struggling up to the top deck as Sergeant Applewhite stood there shouting, “Orderly
now, boys! Use the right side of the stairway because there're lads coming down, so give em room. Orderly, I said! Remember, you're Lincolnshire Yeomanry.”

I yanked a life vest out of the chest and fumbled with the knots as we climbed. A giant hammer struck the side of the ship, throwing me to my knees. Cheevers helped me up, saying, “That was damn close!”

We stumbled out of the hold into smoke and screaming men. A shell had struck amidships, blasting the wireless station apart; it'd be impossible to call for help now. A trooper was moaning in pain, and Dr. Purves bent over him.

We rushed to our boat stations and saw the submarine in the distance, a gray puff floating in front of its gun. The German sailors waved playfully at us.

“Did they fire a torpedo?” I asked.

“Why waste a torpedo?” Blackburn was looking paler than usual. “We can't even lob fruit at them.”

The
Mercian
had picked up speed and leaned as we turned, making us a zigzagging target. Another shell went howling over the ship, and several men sent up a cheer. I even shook my fist at the Huns.

“Here we are, you bastards!” a trooper shouted. “Come and get us! Here we are!”

At first whispering, then louder, I began to sing:

Cheevers joined me; Blackburn, too, followed by Pitts. Several seconds later most of the regiment was singing or shouting the words:

At least we were fighting back with our voices. Maybe the Germans had stopped to listen to us.

The gun roared, and a screeching shell struck only thirty feet away, smacking several troopers off their feet. The heat of the explosion burned us; metal splinters whistled by. We cowered but held our position.

Many of the singers were moaning now. Dr. Purves, his orderlies, and the chaplain sifted through the wreckage of metal and men.

The section next to us was already in their boat, ready to be lowered.

“Did someone order abandon ship?” I asked.

“We're going too fast,” Blackburn said. “They shouldn't be in the lifeboats.”

A shell hissed through the air and cut the davit rope, and the lifeboat tipped and dumped the men into the water.

“Oh, God,” I whispered. “Oh, God, save them. Save them.”

They were bobbing in the sea, waving their hands, mouths open, but their yelling was drowned out by the noise of the ship. “Cut the davits!” Sergeant Applewhite commanded. “Let the boat drop!” I yanked out my knife and Cheevers and I hung over the edge, Blackburn and Pitts holding our legs. We hacked at the thick ropes until they
snapped and the lifeboat fell. It smashed into the side of the ship and rolled in the air, miraculously landing upright. Who knew if the men could even reach it, let alone pull themselves aboard.

Captain Trollope walked by, his riding stick under his arm. “Hold your positions, and don't lower any more boats! Good lads! Look the Huns in the eye. Sing another song!”

Look and sing, that was all we could do.

Trollope carried on. “Hold the line! Hold—”

A flash filled my vision as something struck my temple and I collapsed. I struggled to open my eyes, but all I saw was blue sky and smoke. There was no sound and I couldn't feel my arms or legs. The sky shifted, and the deck of the ship and a face came into focus. I was being propped up by Blackburn. “Bathe! Bathe! Are you hurt?”

I could hear again, and see, so I still had eyes and ears. I sucked in a cloud of sooty smoke and coughed so hard I thought my chest would burst. “I'm all right.” I sat up and counted my fingers. Ten. Shrapnel had torn a hole through my uniform and sliced my shoulder. I poked at it and found a trickle of blood. “Just a scratch!” Blackburn nodded and moved on. I was able to stand again on shaky legs.

Several troopers were facedown on the deck. The tongue of one hung out like a dead calf, and he was missing his lower jaw. Then I noticed his stripes and recognized the top half of his face—Sergeant Applewhite. My sergeant was dead.

I took a wobbly step and stumbled over a leg, reached down and picked it up. It was light; the puttees fluttered like banners. Whose leg was it? Dr. Purves could sew it back on.

It could be mine! I looked down, relieved to see both of
my legs in their proper places. I searched for the rest of the man because he could be put together again, like Humpty-Dumpty, but soon the leg felt heavy and I dropped it.

The ship rocked and I nearly stumbled into a broken winch pipe that was hissing steam. I wiped my eyes. Captain Trollope was sleeping on the deck, his orderly kneeling beside him. “Wake up, sir!”

Trollope opened his eyes, his face black as burned steak. The slightest smile appeared. “It has been a short life ….” He shuddered, and the orderly clung to Trollope's hand. I watched them, waiting for Trollope to move again.

I was spun around to face Lieutenant Ranee. “Snap out of it, lad!” he shouted at me, spittle hitting my face. “Go give the machine gunners a hand. Now!”

I lurched my way over to three men unloading two Vick-ers machine guns from broken crates. “Bring those bullets!” a lance corporal commanded. I carried a belt box to the rear of the ship. This was work; something to keep my mind occupied.

Another blow rocked the deck and I nearly lost my footing.

“Quick, break it open!” the lance corporal said. Two troopers had set up the tripod and mounted the gun. I flipped the tin lid and pulled out a line of bullets.

“Let's give em hell!” the gunner said. He pulled the trigger, and then, about thirty yards from the submarine, water splashed up. The Germans shook their fists, but the submarine slowed until they were out of our range. Another shell screamed through the air overhead.

“We might as well be spitting wads of paper,” a trooper hissed.

“At least we threw their aim off,” the gunner said.

As I went back for another belt box I saw several of the ship's crew in a lifeboat, lowering themselves over the side. “Run for it, boys!” a seaman cried. “We're outgunned.” He jumped over the side.

“Stick to your posts, men,” Lieutenant Ranee shouted. “A thousand tons of British guns and horses are not going to be sitting on the bottom of the ocean. Let the civvies go.”

But who was running the ship? I hadn't seen the
Mercian's
captain among the crewmen, so he must still be on board, but who was down in the stokehold?

A shell hit the water tank, splashing a wave across the deck. Men were blown to the side by the explosion; one fell down, down into the sea.

I struggled back to the machine guns, the deck now a mess of mangled metal and bodies. A shell tore through the staircase behind me but didn't explode.

Chaplain Holmes charged forward, grabbed the smoking shell, and threw it overboard toward the sub, yelling, “Get thee hence, Satan!” Several men clapped. Holmes examined his burned hands, then returned to the wounded.

I lowered the box. “Here's your bullets.”

“You a Canuck?” the gunner asked.

“Yes!”

“Me too.” The man sounded British. His voice was calm, as though we were just sitting down for tea. “My name's Here—short for Hercules. I worked in the auto factories at
Oshawa. Good money. Okay, Pile, adjust the sights—let's give em another shot.”

The gun rattled, spewing fire, smoke, and hot lead. Bullets sprayed three or four hundred feet from the sub. “They're still too far,” Here said.

I blocked the sun with my hand. “There's something else out there!” I said.

A shadow had appeared on the far horizon that was large enough to be one of our destroyers. The Huns saw it, too. The men stood around the gun, staring toward the ship. Then a German officer shouted from the conning tower and the Huns ran to it and climbed in. A few moments later the submarine dove.

We were silent, counting each second, staring out at the open sea. The ship on the horizon was gone, but so was the submarine. Muttering soon turned to jeering, and after about five minutes we began to cheer as if we'd just won a football match.

T
he
Mercian
raced over the waves as we gathered around our dead pals. All twenty-three of them had been wrapped in sheets and laid across the deck, glowing white in the dawn. They rocked with the ship, and it was hard not to imagine one or two standing up and saying, “See, I'm not hurt at all.” But most of the sheets were stained red. It was just as well we couldn't see their faces.

Chaplain Holmes, his long robe snapping in the wind, said a few words about their bravery, their commitment to God and their country. Then several troopers carried the bodies one by one on stretchers and tipped the dead overboard as our bugler played “Last Post,” followed by “The Dead March in Saul.”

I shivered, wondering which bodies belonged to men I'd known. None of them would have dreamed they'd be buried
at sea. When the last man was gone, the chaplain began a hymn:

I sang along, the familiar words a small comfort. When the song was over, we scrubbed the deck and cleaned up the destruction as well as we could. It was a blessing to have such a huge task; otherwise, I might have collapsed thinking of what I'd just witnessed.

Men had died, right in front of me. Captain Trollope. Sergeant Applewhite. Dead. They were gone. It wasn't like at home, watching an animal die. These men had had wives, children, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers—and now their families would get letters telling them their boys had died bravely. There'd be no markers for their graves. No one would ever visit them.

Only one thought eased my grief, and I clung to it. Buke was safe in part because he'd been tied up alone. God had been kind enough to grant me that piece of luck. Nineteen horses had been crippled or killed just by falling onto one another. My injuries were scratches, a ringing in my ears, and an aching skull.

Cheevers leaned on his mop. “This is what happened down below. The crew had abandoned us, so good ol' Trooper Thompson grabbed the wheel and shouted to the ship's captain, ‘You just tell me when to pull it right and left.’ The Huns were aiming for him, but he stood tall.
Meanwhile, our boys in the boiler room kept up the steam!”