The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel (16 page)

A
GAINST THE NIGHT
sky the narrow Flemish buildings around the town square were an uneven rupture of confusion, most of the upper stories shelled and gone. The pillared archway that covered the sidewalk, there since Roman times, remained. At the
estaminet
on the square, officers stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar. Publicover staked out a table by the far wall and paced menacingly until it was free. Angus grabbed extra chairs. Conlon brought over shots of whisky. When they’d thrown them back, Publicover opened his greatcoat and withdrew the scotch. “For you,” he said. “For us.” He poured it into the empty glasses. Conlon smiled and took a long swallow.

They were on their second round when Conlon’s friend, Chris Code, a second lieutenant with the
91
st, made his way to them through the crowd. Introductions were made. Code raised his eyebrows at Angus and said, “I hear you’re looking for someone in the
12
th D Company. It’s a strange story, not one I really want to tell, but I can’t refuse Jim Conlon . . . and I can be bought.” He downed the scotch Conlon slid toward him. The sheen on the bones of his face and his sunken eyes gave him a skeletal appearance. No one spoke. He poured himself another. Then he began. “Got there end of August. Courcelette. Not the village, but Mouquet Farm, our side of the village.” He spun his glass, eyes down, voice weary and without inflection.

Conlon hunched over his scotch, waiting. Angus fixed his eyes on Code, who continued: “The Aussies had been holding it for God knows how long. Bodies everywhere. Some naked. No idea why. Just one officer and ten or twelve men left. Communications had been cut. They’d sent a runner. Runner ran the wrong way. Can you believe it?”

“Absolutely,” Publicover said.

“Right. Exactly. So, he never makes it back, and so no reinforcements. Aussies left to die, or be killed, which they’d gone ahead and done.” He sighed heavily and took another swallow. “We set up in a place called Sausage Valley. You remember that, Jim,” he said to Conlon. “In the old Kraut trenches. Back before the September push.”

“We went up Munster Alley,” Publicover added.

“Yeah. Our group went up Peg Trench. Hand-to-hand, mostly. None of it worth talking about. Give me one of those, would you?” Angus pushed his tin of Players toward Code and offered a light. His hand shook. He regretted the third scotch. Everything seemed simultaneously heightened and fogged.

“Damn, these are good,” Code said, blowing out a stream of smoke and almost stopping there. “Scotch. Smokes. Got a woman handy? Okay, okay, so up Candy Trench and Taffy Trench and—”

“Dandy Trench?” Angus asked.

“Yeah. No.
Candy
Trench. German position south of the Sugar Factory.”

“Sweet, eh?” Publicover couldn’t help but add.

“Heaps of rubble by the time we got there. Sugar factory or refinery or whatever. Used to process beets, I know that,” Code went on. “The Krauts had been using it to pump water. So, that’s where I met up with Conlon and Publicover, here, of the twenty kills.” Code nodded appreciatively at Publicover.

“Didn’t have but five prior to that. Got another eleven there,” Publicover said.

“All at once?” Angus asked.

“No,” Publicover said evenly. “One by one. Too easy, really, so I don’t count them. See, we’d taken a lot of prisoners in Candy Trench. Lined them up. Then one threw a stick bomb. Killed the major while he was taking their surrender. We searched the others. Almost to a man, they were hiding bombs. Orders went out after that. Any others you find, shoot to kill. And then there was the matter of the Aussies.”

“The Aussies? They weren’t there,” Code said.

“No, I know. But that bunch found—lined up and shot in the head. Executed. Not exactly given prisoner’s rights, were they?” Publicover narrowed his eyes.

“That was later, Sam,” Conlon corrected him. “We didn’t find that out ’til
later
.”

“Well, yeah, but it happened
before,
even if we heard about it later.”

“We didn’t know it at the time so it doesn’t figure in.” Conlon rolled his eyes and nodded at Code. “Go on.”

Code gestured at Publicover with his cigarette. “So, shoot to kill. Publicover only too happy to oblige. Didn’t kill the prisoners, but got over to the back of the trench, marched along the parados, and shot every German coming up from a dugout.”

“Not just me. Kehoe was on the parapet, doing his bit. And, like I said, I don’t count those as kills.”

“Anyway, D Company of the
12
th was behind us that day. Just telling you this part to bring you up to speed.” Code glanced at Angus. “So . . .” He cleared his throat. “Some days later, around the middle of September, we’re lined up to the right of the Princess Pats, moving on Fabeck Graben and into Courcelette itself.”

“Okay, yeah,” Angus said. “A fella back home says he saw my brother-in-law with D Company,
after
Courcelette, and now I’m thinking he meant after the town was taken, not the end of the battle.”

“Maybe so. No guarantees because I didn’t know the man personally. But we mopped up the town with the Pats. And the Van Doos doing more than their part, going house to house. They were magnificent. Anyway, Krauts opened fire about six hundred yards beyond the village. Carnage. But some of us made it through and on to Zollern Graben and Regina Trench . . . and Thiepval.”

Here he stopped. He looked beyond Angus. Minutes seemed to pass. Conlon had his head in his hands.

Publicover jumped in. “So, D Company? The
12
th. Courcelette.”

“Right.” Code poured another drink. “This was days after the town had been taken. We were moving in on Regina Trench. There were so many shell holes that the boys to the east of us were connecting them for a temporary trench. My boys got pinned down behind a burned shed. A couple of platoons from the
12
th were up ahead, flanking west. There was a slight ridge and then a ravine beyond it. No action there, and a platoon from the
12
th was told to go for it. I saw about ten, maybe fifteen go over the ridge, led by their officer. It was quiet. Two minutes later, all hell breaks loose. Shells everywhere. We took a hit from a
3
.
9
. Things went blank. Crawled out from under the debris. Medics came running. We redirected toward some advancing Germans to the right of us. That’s the last I saw of them. The last anyone saw of them. They simply disappeared over that low ridge into the ravine.”

“What the hell? How does an entire platoon disappear?” Angus said.

“We couldn’t get back to that sector to find out what happened. We were told to move on,” Code said.

“What are the chances they were taken prisoner?” Angus asked.

“Doubtful, but anything’s possible,” Code replied.

“Strange things happen,” Publicover added in an unusually thoughtful tone.

“Men appear as well as disappear.”

“How do you mean?” Angus asked.

“In Ypres we’d pick up some soldier who’d lost his group. Maybe they were dead. Or he was sent on some mission with another couple of men and left hanging and joined up with us. In the heat of it, men turn up with a group they weren’t attached to and tend to stay.”

Code nodded in agreement. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Gotta go, gentlemen.” He stood, thin and spectral. “Hope you find him,” he said to Angus. Angus stood and shook his hand as he thanked him. Code disappeared in the crowd.

Angus was desperate for air. Conlon pulled at his arm. “Si’down, MacGrath,” he said. “Sort it out tomorrow. Let’s find ourselves another topic.” But Angus was too agitated, too on-the-brink. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “You boys carry on,” he said.

“See you at
700
hours.” Conlon stood and put an arm around Angus. “Answers tomorrow. I’m off, too.” He swayed slightly. “Sam?”

“On that note? Not hardly. I see Tommy and Reese. And there’s Andy!” Publicover waved them over. “Catch you up later. Keep the bed warm, MacGrath. Revolver under your pillow. Couple more nights and we’ll be in huts with our boys.”

F
ORTIFIED WITH STRONG
coffee and more eggs, Angus was on the steps of Conlon’s billet at
6
:
45
the next morning. Conlon, unshaven and buttoning his tunic, opened the door before Angus knocked. Thirty minutes later, they were in front of a fat little corporal who pouted over the lists in his hands. More lists. This one, a list of the dead.

“H-A-N-T,” Angus spelled the name out again and was just short of grabbing the papers from his stubby fingers.

“Yes sir,” said the corporal, stifling a yawn. “These just came in. They’re by battalion and company and platoon, but not all in alphabetical order yet. Some are, but these . . . wait. Here it is. Found it. Hant, Ebbin—”

Found it?
Angus tore the list from his hand because Ebbin’s name could not be on it. “Hant, Ebbin, Pvt. First Class,
12
th Battalion” stared up at him. In all those lists—lists of the injured, those taken prisoner, the dead—Ebbin’s name had never shown up. And now, here it was, in black print on yellow paper.

“So
that’s
what happened,” Conlon said. “Code was right. Look at the numbers. Must have been shelled. Code didn’t see it because his group was shelled at the same time.”

“Sir? I have his disc—discs, actually. Both of them.” The corporal dangled the final proof of Ebbin’s death from his thumb and forefinger. The cord swung back and forth. “Oh, and this.” He held up a brightly polished gold cross on a chain of its own. Angus grabbed them.

“Why both
tags?” he demanded. “This one’s supposed to be left in the mouth for later ID.
Why two tags
?” He shook the tags, towering over the corporal, who arched back, round eyes bugging from tight corners of pink flesh.

The corporal stepped away and said, “No bodies to speak of. Mass grave. There’ll be a proper grave site later.”

“Right. Thank you, Corporal,” Conlon said. “Now, look over your papers and see if there is anything else you can tell us.”

“I . . . yes. I see, here.” The corporal shot a nervous glance at Conlon, avoided Angus. “A note at the bottom says the tags for Private Hant were found by themselves. Quite some distance from the others.”

“How far away?
How far from the others
? Does it say?” Angus closed his fist over the tags.

“Yes sir. Approximately twenty yards south of the ridge.”

“Twenty yards? South? What’s that mean?”

The corporal looked pleadingly at Conlon. Conlon snapped the papers away from him and read aloud, “Private Ebbin Hant’s tags found approximately twenty yards south of the ridge. Body not found.” He set the paper down. “The explosion must have flung him back. Or . . . what was left of him.”

“Or he didn’t go over,” the corporal said.

Angus snapped the leather cord taut.

“Thank you, Corporal. That’ll be all,” Conlon said.

“Sir, I need those back to send to his family, and the cross,” the corporal said.

Angus opened his hand and looked at the tags. These had been around Ebbin’s neck. Had he been
decapitated
?
But the cord was perfectly pliable, not stiff with blood. Cleaned up. Of course. But could blood be so thoroughly washed away? And since when had Ebbin owned a cross?
Didn’t go over
. . . He couldn’t get the words out of his head.

Angus returned the tags, but kept the cross. “I’ll sign for it,” he said.

“Regulations,” the corporal sputtered.

Conlon cut him off. “He’ll keep it. He’s family. Anything else?”

“No sir . . . I guess not.” The corporal deflated like a leaking balloon.

“You guessed right,” Conlon snapped. To Angus he said, “C’mon. We’re done here.” He steered him roughly toward the door. Outside, he shook his head and muttered a word of sympathy.

“What I want to know,” Angus said, “is why he was so far from the others? Was he blown back . . . or did he stay back? Refuse to go forward? And this cross.” Angus turned it over. The initials
ELH
were inscribed on it. “Never knew him to wear one. Something doesn’t feel right.”

“You know what they say—found God at the bottom of a trench. Happens all the time,” Conlon sighed. “The tags—strange, I’ll grant you, but you’ve seen what shelling can do. He did his part, and I’d trust that report. Dead, every man jack of them.” When Angus didn’t reply, he clamped a hand on his shoulder and said, “Look, take an hour or two. Collect yourself. I’ll get someone to cover your duties.”

Angus stood on the street, staring dumbly after Conlon, then, dodging lorries and carts and limbers rumbling over the cobblestones, he began walking. A team of mules plodded toward him, straining against a bulky, tarp-covered load. One of the mules jerked his head up and stared at Angus. Tails hung down from the tarp—mules carting their dead away. The mule lowered his head after he passed Angus, and the cart moved on.

Eventually, Angus found himself seated at a table, staring into a small cup of something he didn’t feel like drinking and didn’t remember ordering. He unbuttoned his coat. The scarf Hettie had knit fell away. Ebbin’s dead, he said to himself. Ebbin’s dead. Ebbinsdead. Ebbinsdead. The words refused to register.