The World's Finest Mystery and Crime Stories First Annual Collection Page 2

  A couple of hours and the day would begin: endless, methodical duties of housekeeping, mindless routine, but it was better than doing nothing.

  There was still a sporadic crackle of machine-gun fire and the whine of sniper bullets.

  An hour till dawn.

  Joseph was sitting on an upturned ration case when Sergeant Renshaw came into the bunker, pulling the gas curtain aside to peer in.

  “Chaplain?”

  Joseph looked up. He could see bad news in the man’s face.

  “I’m afraid Mordaff got it tonight,” he said, coming in and letting the curtain fall again. “Sorry. Don’t really know what happened. Ashton’s death seems to have … well, he lost his nerve. More or less went over the top all by himself. Suppose he was determined to go and give Fritz a bloody nose, on Ashton’s account. Stupid bastard! Sorry, Chaplain.”

  He did not need to explain himself, or to apologize. Joseph knew exactly the fury and the grief he felt at such a futile waste. To this was added a sense of guilt that he had not stopped it. He should have realized Mordaff was so close to breaking. He should have seen it. That was his job.

  He stood up slowly. “Thanks for telling me, Sergeant. Where is he?”

  “He’s gone, Chaplain.” Renshaw remained near the doorway. “You can’t help’im now.”

  “I know that. I just want to … I don’t know … apologize to him. I let him down. I didn’t understand he was … so …”

  “You can’t be everybody’s keeper,” Renshaw said gently. “Too many of us. It’s not been a bad night otherwise. Got a trench raid coming off soon. Just wish we could get that damn sniper across the way there.” He scraped a match and lit his cigarette. “But morale’s good. That was a brave thing Captain Holt did out there. He wanted the chance to do something to hearten the men. He saw it and took it. Pity about Ashton, but that doesn’t alter Holt’s courage. Could see him, you know, by the star shells. Right out there beyond the last wire, bent double, carrying Ashton on his back. Poor devil went crazy. Running around like a fool. Have got the whole patrol killed if Holt hadn’t gone after him. Hell of a job getting him back. Fell a couple of times. Reckon that’s worth a mention in dispatches, at least. Heartens the men, knowing our officers have got that kind of spirit.”

  “Yes … I’m sure,” Joseph agreed. He could only think of Ashton’s white face, and Mordaff’s desperate denial, and how Ashton’s mother would feel, and the rest of his family. “I think I’ll go and see Mordaff just the same.”

  “Right you are,” Renshaw conceded reluctantly, standing aside for Joseph to pass.

  Mordaff lay in the support trench just outside the bunker two hundred yards to the west. He looked even younger than he had in life, as if he were asleep. His face was oddly calm, even though it was smeared with mud. Someone had tried to clean most of it off in a kind of dignity, so that at least he was recognizable. There was a large wound in the left side of his forehead. It was bigger than most sniper wounds. He must have been a lot closer.

  Joseph stood in the first paling of the darkness and looked at him by candlelight from the open bunker curtain. He had been so alive only a few hours ago, so full of anger and loyalty and dismay. What had made him throw his life away in a useless gesture? Joseph racked his mind for some sign that should have warned him Mordaff was so close to breaking, but he could not see it even now.

  There was a cough a few feet away, and the tramp of boots on duckboards. The men were stood down, just one sentry per platoon left. They had returned for breakfast. If he thought about it he could smell cooking.

  Now would be the time to ask around and find out what had happened to Mordaff.

  He made his way to the field kitchen. It was packed with men, some standing to be close to the stoves and catch a bit of their warmth, others choosing to sit, albeit further away. They had survived the night. They were laughing and telling stories, most of them unfit for delicate ears, but Joseph was too used to it to take any offense. Now and then someone new would apologize for such language in front of a chaplain, but most knew he understood too well.

  “Yeah,” one answered his question through a mouthful of bread and jam. “He came and asked me if I saw what happened to Ashton. Very cut up, he was.”

  “And what did you tell him?” Joseph asked.

  The man swallowed. “Told him Ashton seemed fine to me when he went over. Just like anyone else, nervous … but, then, only a fool isn’t scared to go over the top!”

  Joseph thanked him and moved on. He needed to know who else was on the patrol.

  “Captain Holt,” the next man told him, a ring of pride in his voice. Word had got around about Holt’s courage. Everyone stood a little taller because of it, felt a little braver, more confident. “We’ll pay Fritz back for that,” he added. “Next raid—you’ll see.”

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  “Who else?” Joseph pressed.

  “Seagrove, Noakes, Willis,” a thin man replied, standing up. “Want some breakfast, Chaplain? Anything you like, on the house—as long as it’s bread and jam and half a cup of tea. But you’re not particular, are you? Not one of those fussy eaters who’ll only take kippers and toast?”

  “What I wouldn’t give for a fresh Craster kipper,” another sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. “I can smell them in my dreams.”

  Someone told him good-naturedly to shut up.

  “Went over the top beside me,” Willis said when Joseph found him quarter of an hour later. “All blacked up like the rest of us. Seemed okay to me then. Lost him in no-man’s land. Had a hell of a job with the wire. As bloody usual, it wasn’t where we’d been told. Got through all right, then Fritz opened up to us. Star shells all over the sky.” He sniffed and then coughed violently. When he had control of himself again, he continued. “Then I saw someone outlined against the flares, arms high, like a wild man, running around. He was going toward the German lines, shouting something. Couldn’t hear what in the noise.”

  Joseph did not interrupt. It was now broad daylight and beginning to drizzle again. Around them men were starting the duties of the day: digging, filling sandbags, carrying ammunition, strengthening the wire, resetting duckboards. Men took an hour’s work, an hour’s sentry duty, and an hour’s rest.

  Near them somebody was expending his entire vocabulary of curses against lice. Two more were planning elaborate schemes to hold the water at bay.

  “Of course that lit us up like a target, didn’t it!” Willis went on. “Sniper fire and machine guns all over the place. Even a couple of shells. How none of us got hit I’ll never know. Perhaps the row woke God up, and He came back on duty!” He laughed hollowly. “Sorry, Chaplain. Didn’t mean it. I’m just so damn sorry poor Ashton got it. Holt just came out of nowhere and ran after him. Obsessed with being a hero, or he’d not even have tried. I can see him in my mind’s eye floundering through the mud. If Ashton hadn’t got caught in the wire he’d never have got him.”

  “Caught in the wire?” Joseph asked, memory pricking at him.

  “Yeah. Ashton must have run right into the wire, because he stopped sudden—teetering, like—and fell over. A hell of a barrage came over just after that. We all threw ourselves down.”

  “What happened then?” Joseph said urgently, a slow, sick thought taking shape in his mind.

  “When it died down I looked up again, and there was Holt staggering back with poor Ashton across his shoulders. Hell of a job he had carrying him, even though he’s bigger than Ashton—well, taller, anyway. Up to his knees in mud, he was, shot and shell all over, sky lit up like a Christmas tree. Of course we gave him what covering fire we could. Maybe it helped.” He coughed again. “Reckon he’ll be mentioned in dispatches, Chaplain? He deserves it.” There was admiration in his voice, a lift of hope.

  Joseph forced himself to answer. “I should think so.” The words were stiff.

  “Well, if he isn’t, the men’ll want to know why!” Willis said fiercely. “Bloody hero, h
e is.”

  Joseph thanked him and went to find Seagrove and Noakes. They told him pretty much the same story.

  “You going to have him recommended?” Noakes asked. “He earned it this time. Mordaff came and we said just the same to him. Reckon he wanted the Captain given a medal. He made us say it over and over again, exactly what happened.”

  “That’s right,” Seagrove nodded, leaning on a sandbag.

  “You told him the same?” Joseph asked. “About the wire, and Ashton getting caught in it?”

  “Yes, of course. If he hadn’t got caught by the legs he’d have gone straight on and landed up in Fritz’s lap, poor devil.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Welcome, Chaplain. You going to write up Captain Holt?”

  Joseph did not answer, but turned away, sick at heart.

  He did not need to look again, but he trudged all the way back to the field hospital anyway. It would be his job to say the services for both Ashton and Mordaff. The graves would be already dug.

  He looked at Ashton’s body again, looked carefully at his trousers. They were stained with mud, but there were no tears in them, no marks of wire. The fabric was perfect.

  He straightened up.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly to the dead man. “Rest in peace.” And he turned and walked away.

  He went back to where he had left Mordaff’s body, but it had been removed. Half an hour more took him to where it also was laid out. He touched the cold hand and looked at the brow. He would ask. He would be sure. But in his mind he already was. He needed time to know what he must do about it. The men would be going over the top on another trench raid soon. Today morale was high. They had a hero in their number, a man who would risk his own life to bring back a soldier who had lost his nerve and panicked. Led by someone like that, they were equal to Fritz any day. Was one pistol bullet, one family’s shame, worth all that?

  What were they fighting for anyway? The issues were so very big, and at the same time so very small and immediate.

  He found Captain Holt alone just after dusk, standing on the duckboards below the parapet, near one of the firing steps.

  “Oh, it’s you, Chaplain. Ready for another night?”

  “It’ll come, whether I am or not,” Joseph replied.

  Holt gave a short bark of laughter. “That doesn’t sound like you. Tired of the firing line, are you? You’ve been up here a couple of weeks; you should be in turn for a step back any day. Me too, thank God.”

  Joseph faced forward, peering through the gloom toward no-man’s-land and the German lines beyond. He was shaking. He must control himself. This must be done in the silence, before the shooting started up again. Then he might not get away with it.

  “Pity about that sniper over there,” he remarked. “He’s taken out a lot of our men.”

  “Damnable,” Holt agreed. “Can’t get a line on him, though. Keeps his own head well down.”

  “Oh, yes,” Joseph nodded. “We’d never get him from here. It needs a man to go over in the dark and find him.”

  “Not a good idea, Chaplain. He’d not come back. Not advocating suicide, are you?”

  Joseph chose his words very carefully and kept his voice as unemotional as he could.

  “I wouldn’t have put it like that,” he answered. “But he has cost us a lot of men. Mordaff today, you know?”

  “Yes … I heard. Pity.”

  “Except that wasn’t the sniper, of course. But the men think it was, so it comes to the same thing, as far as morale is concerned.”

  “Don’t know what you mean, Chaplain.” There was a slight hesitation in Holt’s voice in the darkness.

  “Wasn’t a rifle wound, it was a pistol,” Joseph replied. “You can tell the difference, if you’re actually looking for it.”

  “Then he was a fool to be that close to German lines,” Holt said, facing forward over the parapet and the mud. “Lost his nerve, I’m afraid.”

  “Like Ashton,” Joseph said. “Can understand that, up there in no-man’s-land, mud everywhere, wire catching hold of you, tearing at you, stopping you from moving. Terrible thing to be caught in the wire with the star shells lighting up the night. Makes you a sitting target. Takes an exceptional man not to panic, in those circumstances … a hero.”

  Holt did not answer.

  There was silence ahead of them, only the dull thump of feet and a squelch of duckboards in mud behind, and the trickle of water along the bottom of the trench.

  “I expect you know what it feels like,” Joseph went on. “I notice you have some pretty bad tears in your trousers, even one in your blouse. Haven’t had time to mend them yet.”

  “I daresay I got caught in a bit of wire out there last night,” Holt said stiffly. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I’m sure you did,” Joseph agreed with him. “Ashton didn’t. His clothes were muddy, but no wire tears.”

  There were several minutes of silence. A group of men passed by behind them, muttering words of greeting. When they were gone the darkness closed in again. Someone threw up a star shell and there was a crackle of machine-gun fire.

  “I wouldn’t repeat that, if I were you, Chaplain,” Holt said at last. “You might make people think unpleasant things, doubts. And right at the moment morale is high. We need that. We’ve had a hard time recently. We’re going over the top in a trench raid soon. Morale is important … trust. I’m sure you know that, maybe even better than I do. That’s your job, isn’t it? Morale, spiritual welfare of the men?”

  “Yes … spiritual welfare is a good way of putting it. Remember what it is we are fighting for, and that it is worth all that it costs … even this.” Joseph gestured in the dark to all that surrounded them.

  More star shells went up, illuminating the night for a few garish moments, then a greater darkness closed in.

  “We need our heroes,” Holt said very clearly. “You should know that. Any man who would tear them down would be very unpopular, even if he said he was doing it in the name of truth, or justice, or whatever it was he believed in. He would do a lot of harm, Chaplain. I expect you can see that …”

  “Oh, yes,” Joseph agreed. “To have their hero shown to be a coward who laid the blame for his panic on another man, and let him be buried in shame, and then committed murder to hide that, would devastate men who are already wretched and exhausted by war.”

  “You are perfectly right.” Holt sounded as if he were smiling. “A very wise man, Chaplain. Good of the regiment first. The right sort of loyalty.”

  “I could prove it,” Joseph said very carefully.

  “But you won’t. Think what it would do to the men.”

  Joseph turned a little to face the parapet. He stood up onto the fire step and looked forward over the dark expanse of mud and wire.

  “We should take that sniper out. That would be a very heroic thing to do. Good thing to try, even if you didn’t succeed. You’d deserve a mention in dispatches for that, possibly a medal.”

  “It would be posthumous!” Holt said bitterly.

  “Possibly. But you might succeed and come back. It would be so daring, Fritz would never expect it,” Joseph pointed out.

  “Then you do it, Chaplain!” Holt said sarcastically.

  “It wouldn’t help you, Captain. Even if I die, I have written a full account of what I have learned today, to be opened should anything happen to me. On the other hand, if you were to mount such a raid, whether you returned or not, I should destroy it.”

  There was silence again, except for the distant crack of sniper fire a thousand yards away and the drip of mud.

  “Do you understand me, Captain Holt?”

  Holt turned slowly. A star shell lit his face for an instant. His voice was hoarse.

  “You’re sending me to my death!”

  “I’m letting you be the hero you’re pretending to be and Ashton really was,” Joseph answered. “The hero the men need. Thousands of us have died out her
e, no one knows how many more there will be. Others will be maimed or blinded. It isn’t whether you die or not, it’s how well.”

  A shell exploded a dozen yards from them. Both men ducked, crouching automatically.

  Silence again.

  Slowly Joseph unbent.

  Holt lifted his head. “You’re a hard man, Chaplain. I misjudged you.”

  “Spiritual care, Captain,” Joseph said quietly. “You wanted the men to think you a hero, to admire you. Now you’re going to justify that and become one.”

  Holt stood still, looking toward him in the gloom, then slowly he turned and began to walk away, his feet sliding on the wet duckboards. Then he climbed up the next fire step and up over the parapet.

  Joseph stood still and prayed.

  David Morrell

  Rio Grande Gothic

  Adventure fiction of the serious kind has no better friend than DAVID MORRELL. In the tradition of the great John Buchan and Geoffrey Household, Morrell has restored well-written, intelligent, and moral adventure fiction to its proper place on the best-seller lists. He is equally adept at horror fiction, bringing to it the same skills of humanity and wisdom one finds in his adventure work. Here is a stunning story that ranks with the very best the author of First Blood, The Totem, and The Brotherhood of the Rose has to offer. This story first appeared in 999.

  Rio Grande Gothic

  David Morrell

  When Romero finally noticed the shoes on the road, he realized that he had actually been seeing them for several days. Driving into town along Old Pecos Trail, passing the adobe-walled Santa Fe Woman’s Club on the left, approaching the pueblo-style Baptist church on the right, he reached the crest of the hill, saw the jogging shoes on the yellow median line, and steered his police car onto the dirt shoulder of the road.

  Frowning, he got out and hitched his thumbs onto his heavy gun belt, oblivious to the roar of passing traffic, focusing on the jogging shoes. They were laced together, a Nike label on the back. One was on its side, showing how worn its tread was. But they hadn’t been in the middle of the road yesterday, Romero thought. No, yesterday, it had been a pair of leather sandals. He remembered having been vaguely aware of them. And the day before yesterday? Had it been a pair of women’s high heels? His recollection wasn’t clear, but there had been some kind of shoes—of that he was certain. What the … ?