Hello everyone. Contracts and this new novel have been keeping me busy lately. Here's a morsel of my work. You can follow my progress by clicking here
France 1916
The smell of rotting flesh wafted over No Man’s Land seemed to settle into every nook and cranny of the British Trench. Captain Sebastian Collins was crouched down low smoking a cigarette. It was still light so he was not so worried about snipers quite yet. It had been unusually quiet. That unnerved him immensely. At least, when the shelling started Collins knew something was up. But as yet, no word from Division HQ.
Corporal David Jones, known as Daffy, kept watch on the periscope. A rat scuttled across Collins’ feet. They were not uncommon in the Trenches of this war. The war to end war, they were calling it. The endless war, the lads on the front joked.
It had been some months after the Somme Offensive. Collins couldn’t quite remember how long; days seemed to just blur into each other. Collins remembered that it was a slaughterhouse. Collins swore that some officers must have told their men it was be like walking in the park. Soldiers played tag and kicked footballs across the grass…at least until the German started shooting at them. The screaming and crying started; then it was a struggle just to stay alive. Collins barely made it through those hellish days. His uniform was torn from the near misses. Collins watched young men going "over the top", the term invented to describe going over the parapet of the trench, to attack the enemy trench line, into a maelstrom of fire leading to certain death.
Collins read in an old newspaper that Field Marshall Douglas Haig considered the situation ‘Generally favorable’. That bastard should come down here and say that, thought Collins. In his long experience Collins had noted there was even more than the usual incompetent and narrow-minded commanders who failed to adapt to the new conditions of trench warfare: class-ridden and backward-looking generals who put their faith in the attack, believing superior morale and dash would overcome the mechanical weapons but moral inferiority of the defender. Had they learned nothing from Sevastopol or South Africa, thought Collins, shuddering at the thought of the cold Crimea and The Charge of the Light Brigade…but that was years ago.
Collins finished his cigarette and headed to his dugout. The earthen hut was dug into the earth. There was space for a few men. This was an officer’s dugout. In the corner near the door was a telephone to Division HQ. There was a desk and dark lantern. There was a bunk beds for the more junior officers and a cots for himself and Lieutenant Miles Hodgkiss. Hodgkiss was a new boy. His former bunk mate, Lieutenant Michael Graves bought the farm when an errant shell landed in a trench. He was helping a injured comrade to the medical area. There was not much left of either of them to fill one casket, let alone two. Collins wondered if the shell came from the Germans or from their own boys.
There were two younger junior lieutenants and a staff sergeant playing cards at the table. All look like they could do with a wash. Collins sniffed himself. So could he for that matter.
All this madness because one unkempt Slavic terrorist shot the inbred heir to the Austro-Hungarian Throne; everyone knew the Balkans was a powder keg but children just love to play with fire, didn’t they?
Just then the telephone rang. Collins answered it on the second ring.
“Kaiser-Wilhelm-Privathaus, das Fritz ist der Butler, ist mein Herr aus Absaugen eine junge Ziege, kann ich eine Nachricht, Britisher Schwein? Ja,” said Collins, into the phone.
“Not very funny, Captain Collins,” said the man on the other end, Major Thomas Milligan. Collins found Milligan completely without humor or taste.
“Sorry, sir, must be shellshock, sir,” said Collins.
“Again, not funny, Captain Collins. There is no such thing as shellshock and you know it,” said Milligan.
“You know it. I know it but tell that to the soldiers stand it two feet of shit and rotting flesh and think they are in Skegness, sir,” said Collins.
“All right, all right, that quite enough Captain Collins. You have an assignment,” said Milligan, taking every opportunity to remind Collins of his inferiority. If only you knew who I am, thought Collins, Milligan would be shitting himself.
“I thought you called to say you loved me, sir,” said Collins. The men at the table were listening to the conversation and snickered.
“Collins,” Milligan snapped.
“Sorry, sir, what’s the job as the boys here say,” said Collins.
“You’re going on a raid,” said Milligan.
Collins’ command would temporarily be given to Hodgkiss. Milligan was told that he was to meet his team at a certain map coordinates. Collins grabbed a pencil and wrote down the place. It was a few miles from his position. He could slowly make his way via a serpentine route through a myriad of trenches. Collins knew some of them already, Rangers Walk, Black Watch Run, Borders Barricade. Collins had some friends through all of them. Collins took his watch from his tunic pocket. He had few hours before his got going. He looked at his watched and wondered how much easier it would be if he could strap it to his wrist. Collins wrote a letter to Lt. Hodgkiss and joined the younger officers at the table.
It was black as pitch when Collins arrived at his destination. The star burst shells fired from both sides of No Man’s land often made him flinch. If they were caught under that light, his raid would be done for. Collins knew the trick was to get from shell crater to shell crater between bursts.
Collins wore a dark knit cap instead of his usual soft peaked trench cap. Collins used burned cork and mud to cover his face. He had a leather jerkin over his tunic which also obscured his rank pips. He had taken to wearing the pips on his shoulder rather than his sleeve. He was well back from the main trenches. He sat by the side of the road and light up another cigarette. Collins light up using a device a young private had made using different sized shell casings. It was a lighter and worked very well. Collins was a staunch briar pipe smoker but the war forced him to smoke quickly. War was no place to truly enjoy the pleasures of good tobacco. Collins dearly wished to be fanning himself in a hammock somewhere in India. Being fed Tiffin by a comely Indian rajah’s daughter; Collins fondly remember those glory days.
A truck could be heard coming closer. Collins stood up and tossed away the cigarette. He stepped back from the road a little. Small slits of light could be seen coming toward him. He held up a hand. The truck slowed down and stopped next to him. Collins heard a loud crash of the tailgate opening.
“Move, move, move you apes,” Collins heard a voice whisper loudly. There was distinct lack of accent in the voice. Canadians, Collins knew the accent well. They were good people in his opinion. They mixed the liberties of the United States but kept the common sense of Europe. Very interesting, he thought, I wonder if I am being tested.
Collins walked behind the truck as a squad of six men. All were dressed as similarly as he was. Collins noticed the flashes on their shoulders, definitely Canadians.
“Whose in charge here,” asked Collins.
“Who wants to know,” barked a beefy man with three khaki chevrons on his sleeve.
“I’m Captain Sebastian Collins, 15th Infantry Division,” said Collins. “Who the devil are you?”
“Sergeant Major Leonard Shipley, 3rd Canadian Infantry Battalion,” said Shipley.
“Toronto, huh,” said Collins.
“Yessir,” said Shipley.
“Great town,” said Collins.
“The best,” said Shipley, proudly.
“I think Sergeant Major, we’ll get along just fine,” said Collins.
“May I ask what our assignment is, sir,” asked Shipley.
“You may but I don’t have an answer,” said Collins.
“I do, gentlemen,” spoke a man behind Collins. He was a thin man in peaked cap. He had the gorget tabs of a staff officer. On his sleeve was the rank of major. Collins wheeled around to stand alongside Shipley. It was here that Collins realized it was Major Milligan.
“You could have warned me that he was there,” whispered Collins to Shipley.
“You didn’t ask politely,” Shipley whispered back.
“You two, quite finished,” said Major Milligan, twitching his mustache.
“Yessir,” said Collins and Shipley in unison.
“Good,” said Milligan, holding a swagger stick in one leather gloved hand. As he talked down, pulled a pocket watch out of his tunic pocket. “Here is your assignment. We expect to meet to meet you back here by 1030, is that clear. You should have plenty of time.”
Collins looked at his own watch. It was 14 hours for a raid. By 1030, the sun would be well up in the sky. They would have to be back well before then. That left them with a mere seven hours in which to complete their mission, whatever the assignment was. Milligan handed Collins a sealed envelope. The major turned and walked back to the truck.
“What, no good bye kiss, sweetie,” said Collins after Milligan. The major paused then continued to the truck. The squad laughed.
“Yes, I do think that we will get along fine, sir,” said Shipley.
Shipley introduced Collins to the other members of the squad. They were all young volunteers from Toronto fresh of school and ready to perform their duty in the service of the Empire. Another star burst shell flashed overhead in the distance. Collins opened his sealed orders:
Division HQ - 3rd Company BEF
Col. Horace Cuthbert-Saxon, commanding
To: Capt. Sebastian Collins
RE: Gas Attack
Intelligence reports that the Imperial German Army has been working on a new secret gas formula and are planning on testing the weapon on our lines. The complete effects of this new weapon are not yet completely known but initial reports suggest that any mask and countermeasure would be useless.
Your task is to infiltrate behind the German lines and try to retrieve a cylinder of this new weapon or barring that destroy all known quantities. This weapon must not be used in the field at any cost.
You have given a Canadian squad who all have some training in German to help get behind the lines. Any information you receive behind the lines will also be used in our efforts to win the war.
God Speed and Good Save the King.
-Message end-
Great, a fucking suicide mission, thought Collins. Collins looked at his squad; all able-bodied men. Guess he’ll have to show those bastards what he was really made of. Collins had decided that he was immediately choosing the latter option of demolition, his orders be damned. He’s was not going to have his men lug cylinders of poison over No Man’s Land. Then the boffins would create their own version to lob back at the Boche. But we’ll fuck up the wind and have it blown back at our own troops. Like Ypres all over again, the fucking idiots. No way was Collins letting more death happen on his watch. The truck started away. Shipley looked at Collins.
“Looks like we’re playing with an empty net,” said Collins.
“That bad, eh, sir,” said Collins. Collins circled the men informed them of their mission excluding the bit about retrieval.
“Das ist gut,” said Collins.
“Jawohl,” they all replied.
Collins led the men toward the lines. When they got to the forward trench, Collins inspected them all in the dim half-light of the lantern light. He dirtied up the men who looked too clean. Before going over the top, he shook the skeleton hand that hung above him over the parapet.
“See you later, Charlie,” said Collins, to the hand.
Collins quickly climbed over the top and lay flat on the ground slowly crawling toward the enemy lines. Collins heard the slight ‘plop’ sound each man make behind him. The lines were a mere 75 yards away but that would seem like miles at the rate they had to move to be undetectable. Collins worried that a star burst shell would burn and they would be spotted. Bullets from both sides would surely get them. Collins did not like the sensation of being shot, it was unpleasant but it happens in wartime. It had happened to him more than he would liked to have counted but he was thankfully to whatever higher being was looking out for him that he had never been hit with any sort of artillery fire. That was one of the messiest ways to buy the farm, thought Collins. At least, for all their worth in the grand scheme of dying, bullets were small and quick.
Slowly, achingly, Collins and the squad of Canadian made their way toward the lines. The fetid stink was clinging to their nostrils. The cold night kept down the stink but they were keeping close to the ground. A crater lay before Collins. He crawled to its gaping maw and dropped in not a moment later, a star shell lit out the night. Shipley and two others dropped in after Collins.
“Get down,” hissed Collins.
Collins waited a moment. There was nothing. No ‘pop-pop’s coming from the barrels of Mauser rifles. No sewing machine noises from machine guns. Nothing. That made Collins even more nervous. By this point in the war, the star bursts were colored and this one signaled Bombardment. Collins could hear no firing; no whistling signaling incoming or outgoing hate mail. Collins and the others waited until the shell burned out and climbed out of the crater. He looked around. The other three raised their heads. Everyone was accounted for.
“Forward,” he hissed.
The men made it to the barbed wire fence. Two of the squad started cutting. Collins tensed waiting for the sound of gunfire. Again, no came. This was very serious, thought Collins. The soldiers continued on to the next set of wires. Collins and the others followed. They reached the edge of the German trench. They were all quiet. There was no sound from the down below. No banter, no chit chat, no sounds of any kind. Now Collins was just baffled but one had to err on the side of caution or all their work would be for naught. Collins looked over the parapet. No one was there. He slipped down into the German trench and motioned for the others to do the same but keep quiet. Collins unholstered his Webley Mark IV revolver. He had had this pistol since the days before the Boer uprising in the south of Africa. It’s weight was a physical reassurance for him.
He slowly made his way down the dugout. After a few feet his felt his feet catch something. Booby trap! He stopped and motioned the others brace themselves. He tensed up. Nothing. Collins looked around. There was nothing. Collins looked down. He boots were wrapped around in a dark green-gray uniform of a German officer.
“Clear,” hissed Collins. The men sighed with relief.
As they made their way down, the men noticed there were other empty uniforms just lying around. There was light grayish powder coming out of the arm and neck holes. Collins noted this. What had happened here? They were coming to the entrance of a dug out. Collins heard a noise. He directed two of the squad to flush out the room.
The men could hear a struggle. A glass was broken and tins tinkered. They could hear a German man crying in terror.
“My God, My God, no, no, not me, please, not me. Not like that,” said the German. Collins heard a trace of Bavarian accent.
The Canadians brought out the prisoner. A young German private. He was dirty. His field cap missing. He had dirt caked in his hair and his eyes betrayed that he had been crying for some time. Looking at the men, the private looked relieved. Collins spoke to him in German.
“Relax. Calm down, private,” said Collins. The man stopped struggling.
“We’re friends. Uhlan commandos back from a raid. We had to avoid a British patrol, got lost and only just arrived. What has been going on here,” asked Collins.
“Horrible, horrible. The thing. It just takes you. Horrible. All dead,” said the Private, who fell to his knees sobbing again.
Collins felt sorry for the poor boy. He was a mere youth who had seen a lot of death. All of them had. Collins got down on one knee and offered the man a cigarette, being careful not to show the package. The private took one.
“What is your name,” asked Collins.
“Schultz, Hans Schultz, Private, 14th Infantry,” said Schultz, calming down puffing on the cigarette nervously.
“I’m Major Maximillian Klein, 2nd Uhlans. These are my men. Schultz tell us what’s being happening,” asked Collins.
“It began earlier. Sergeant Tjaden said the artillery had some new weapon to drive the British back to their island. We heard a clanging then a shout then nothing. That’s when it began. The thing. It gets us without warning. It is silence, death incarnate,” said Schultz, looked away, down the dark trench the squad had come from.
“What thing? What does it look like,” said Collins.
“Like that,” said Schultz, trembling as he pointed down the trench.
All was dark that way but there was a faint wisp of what looked like vapor. One of the squad walked down the trench. He walked a few yards ahead. The men saw as he walked into a bit of the mist. The Canadian soldier turned around to the other men.
“There is nothing here,” he said.
No sooner had he uttered these words then the mist grew thick around the solider. They saw a vague outline of his arms rising up. Collins felt Schultz grip his trouser leg tightly. The young German was whimpering. Poor fellow, Collins thought.
The mist cleared. The men saw only the soldier’s clothes. On the ground, there was more of the whitish-gray dust.
“Davis,” cried one of the other troopers.
Schultz was startled. He backed away from the squad.
“You’re not Uhlans. You’re British,” said Schultz, backing further.
“Schultz, come back,” said Collins, in German.
“No, no, you are the enemy,” said Schultz.
“Schultz,” said Collins, pointing his revolver at the German soldier.
“Shoot him, sir,” said Shipley.
Schultz took a deep breath to yell for help as he did. The squad saw him inhale some of the mist which had crept up behind him. Schultz’s eyes bulged in horror as he realized what had happened. His mouth opened to scream by no noise came out. He reached up to the sky as he fell to his knees. The squad watched helplessly as his skin began gray then white, his vein bulged black against the skin. Empty blisters formed on the skin. The pustules would grow, opened and spew out whitish-gray dust. His short hair fell out. Then Schultz’s eyes rolled back far into his head melting, his sockets empty and he faced the sky. Slowly, his body began evaporating in front of them. The German’s uniform slowly sinking onto the ground. Collins noted there was no liquid anywhere.
“Move,” shouted Collins, directing them away from the area. Collins was now completely certain that they were going to blow up those new canisters, even if it meant the death of the entire squad. Collins worried that if this is what one of them unleashed, then more could consume all of creation. Perhaps this was the war to end all wars. If the Central Powers were willing to launch devastating weapons like this; they were mad to fire weapons that would ultimately lead to their own destruction. Collins wondered what the key to neutralizing this mist was.
Collins, Shipley and the remaining Canadian zigged and zagged through a network of trench work until they came to a large pit with an artillery piece covered in camouflage netting. The Canadians pulled off tarpaulin from the shells. They found a couple of groups marked with red skull and crossbones. One shell cylinder was knocked over and open. Collins assumed this is where everything started. He holstered his gun.
“This must be the place. Get to work,” said Collins.
“Hold,” came a new voice. It was in perfect English with an accent Collins recognized.
“De Klerk,” Collins gritted.
“Collins,” hissed De Klerk.
The South African was dressed in an officer’s uniform with peaked cap. The cap had a dark green ring on it and cockades that Collins was not familiar with quite yet. He was impeccably clean, Collins was certain the man never visits the front that often. He was holding them all at gun point. A sparkling Luger pistol.
“Who the fuck are you,” said Shipley.
“Silence, insolent cur,” said De Klerk. “Tell them, Sebastian.”
“Sir,” said Shipley, inquisitively.
“He is Major Piter Wilhelm De Klerk, formerly of Her Britannic Majesty’s South African Rifles and Chrisitaan De Wet’s Kommando,” said Collins. “Be careful, he’s a dangerous fellow.”
De Klerk smiled smugly. He reached out and tore open Collins’ jerkin and looked at the shoulder.
“A captain, that’s a come down for you isn’t it,” said De Klerk.
“Stop it, De Klerk,” said Collins, who spotted a shovel standing up near near his feet.
“Damn Boer traitor,” said one of the Canadians.
“I’m a mercenary. Tell them, Sebastian. My country was dissolved by the British. I’ve never had a real country. So there was nothing to betray. My skills are for the highest bidder. His Imperial Majesty, The Kaiser, Wilhelm II and the German Military High Command felt my services could be of some used to him and the Reich. My latest project seems to have exceeded my expectations, I must say,” said De Klerk.
“You made that thing,” said Collins, who moved his body to hide the shovel behind him. His hand slowly reached for it.
“Oh yes, beautiful don’t you think,” said De Klerk.
“It’s killing your own men,” said Shipley.
“Ha. With this slaughterhouse called a war, no one will miss them, they are nothing but sheep. Your General thinks the same of your own troops, why else would they send out the infantry to be mowed down like a field of wheat. Everyone has to die sometime,” said De Klerk who looked away from Collins.
That’s when the British captain struck. He swung the shovel as hard as he could. He didn’t bother to control it and the flat side struck De Klerk across the face. De Klerk fired wildly. Collins felt a searing pain in his shoulder but he could feel the hand attached to it and could move it. He looked down and saw it was a mere flesh wound.
The other soldiers fell on him; hitting them with the butt of their rifles until he was quite still. They found some barbed wire and tied him with it to a wooden post holding up the netting. Then they set about connecting the shells to explode. All were wiry that the mist might come and stop them permanently. De Klerk became conscious again.
“Barbed wire, how spiteful,” he said smugly and spit blood out of his mouth.
“The Mist, how do you stop it,” said Collins.
De Klerk laughed. Collins punched him on the face.
“How do you stop it,” said Collins.
“Stop what,” said De Klerk, who then giggled.
Collins punched him again.
“The Mist,” Collins shouted.
“Oh that,” said De Klerk, who smiled again. “It burns itself out in the daylight. The radiation from sunlight is too much for it.”
“What,” said Collins. De Klerk laughed.
“How much of this stuff is there,” asked Collins.
“I think you can see that for yourself. It’s not exactly easy to produce and now these mindless peasants broke a canister and unleashed hell,” said De Klerk.
“As you said, who would notice in all this,” said Collins.
Collins took his pocket watch out his tunic again. It was after one in the morning. He found it curious that no one had sent patrols to check this part of the line. Collins guessed that the mist must have taken care of that.
The men had placed Mills bombs inside a formation of munitions. The pins were tied to a thin cord. When they were far enough, they would pull the cord and run. They hoped to get to their lines, with luck they might not be shot by their own men.
“Is that the watch Elizabeth gave you,” asked De Klerk, Collins thought he sounded even smugger. Collins ignored him. De Klerk spoke again.
“She never screamed for help. Never begged. She fought hard, that was certainly unexpected. I always did respect her for that.”
Collins unholstered his pistol cocked it and pointed at his Boer nemesis. De Klerk looked at him with mock innocence. The men stopped and watched. Collins stood a moment before uncocking his weapon.
“Is everything ready,” Collins asked Shipley.
“Yes, sir,” said Sgt. Shipley.
“Right. Let’s get back,” said Collins.
“MIST,” shouted a trooper, falling back to the trench with his comrades.
During their work, the mist had crept up behind the entrenched artillery pit. It moved almost like a single cell organism that Collins had once seen in a microscope. It moved slowly, circling inward toward them. It stopped at where De Klerk was wired up. The mad German officer laughed.
“Shipley, fall back,” said Collins.
“You heard him, you apes, fall back, move, move, move,” barked Shipley.
The five men ran back down the trench only Shipley and Collins remained. Collins still faced De Klerk and the mist. He called over his shoulder.
“Shipley, fall back, make sure they get back safe. Understand. When you’ve fallen back to the right distance, pull the cord. I’ll be right behind you,” said Collins.
“Sir,” questioned Shipley.
“Do it, Sergeant,” ordered Collins.
“Sir,” snapped Shipley, who saluted turned and fell back down the trench.
“I see your pet recognizes its master,” said Collins.
“Of course, I used my own blood as a primer,” said De Klerk. “It’s almost a physical extension of my wrath.”
“Most ingenious, The Peers won’t be pleased when they learn about your little escapade here,” said Collins.
De Klerk laughed defiantly.
“You and your Knight of the Round Table. White hat cowboys, ha. I have defied you for the last few decades and until this brand new century and I will continue to do so until you are all wiped away from the whole of creation,” spat De Klerk.
“Many have tried and I am still waiting for someone to do it,” said Collins.
“Tonight may be your lucky night. Release me,” said De Klerk.
The mist formed thickly behind the pole De Klerk was tired to. Within second the wire fell from his chest in one piece. Collins could see the wire was cut cleanly.
“Position,” ordered De Klerk. The mist formed thickly into a large pillar slightly taller than its master.
Come on, Shipley, thought Collins. He then notice that the wire fluttered then dropped. Time for Plan B. Collins started backing toward the trench as De Klerk brushed himself off. De Klerk looked at him.
“Where do you think you are going,” said De Klerk.
“For a little cricket practice,” said Collins, grabbing a bomb from his belt. He pulled the pin and threw a googly at De Klerk. The man fumbled the bomb and lost it in some munitions. Collins ran as fast as he could down the trench. He faintly heard a shriek saying ‘Protect me.’ And then the world became all whiteness and silence.
Collins felt numb as if he were lifted by angels, he was light on his feet then he noticed he was floating above the trench, sailing above it. He looked ahead and saw the edge of No Man’s Land rise up in front of him. Collins felt the wind leave his body and he left numb and the world went black.
Shipley, the squad and both lines heard the explosion. The sequence of munitions going off gave the battlefield an unearthly dim glow. The Canadian moved quietly and slowly back to their line. Shipley hoped none them would be shot by some trigger happy idiot conscript.
The sun rose up in the sky as it is want to do when it is morning. Shipley and the squad lay on the grass field by the rendezvous point by the road. It was now bright morning. Shipley check his watch. It was 1025. Five minutes until the truck was to meet them. The men were dirty and dead tired. They had seen some horror that night. It took them a few minutes before they believed the earlier morning haze was just harmless water vapor. Shipley reminded them what that mad German officer had said. The Deadly Mist would burn off in the sunlight.
The men passed around a canteen of water and tinned meat. It tasted like salty clay paste but it was better than roasted rat carcass or eating nothing at all. Shipley heard a few birds chirp. It had been a while since he had noticed that. Funny how this war deafened you and yet made you appreciate the tiny, most beautiful details in life. Shipley heard a motor in the distance then saw a truck approaching. It was the same from earlier.
“Mount up, you apes, we have company,” barked Shipley.
The men cleaned up their food, slung their bags and rifles over their shoulder. They formed a single line parallel line facing the road. Shipley saw the Major, Milligan was what Collins had said his name was, who brought them on their mission sitting in the passenger seat of the truck. The truck pulled up next to their position and stopped. Major Milligan got out. The men saluted. Milligan returned their salute.
“Welcome back, men,” said Milligan, looking over the survivors of the raid. “Ah, where is Captain Collins?”
“Sir,” started Shipley, “Sir, I regret to inform you that Captain Collins has unfortunately been…uh…unfortunately been…”
“Unfortunately, Captain Sebastian Collins had been unavoidably been detained,” said a familiar voice shouted from a few yards away.
All present looked over and saw a man wearing a uniform filthy with blood and dirt and torn in various places. He was limping his way toward them. The officer, as could be seen from his one epaulette, had a few burns on his dirt caked face but was grinning. Milligan stood agape at the sight. Shipley recognized him immediately. The Canadian sergeant and another soldier, Private Harper, ran toward him each taking Collins under and arm. Collins winced when Shipley moved the shoulder injured by the flesh wound.
“Sorry, sir,” said Shipley.
“No worries, sergeant, but do be gentle. I seem to be quite fragile at the moment,” said Collins.
“As gingerly as an ice sculpture, sir,” said Shipley.
The squad cheered as Collins was brought into the fold. Collins saluted Major Milligan, who reluctantly returned the honor.
“Sir, Mission accomplished but I regret to report that we had one casualty during our mission. Private Davis. I recommend full honors be sent to his family,” said Collins.
Major Milligan twitched his neatly clipped mustache. “Due to the nature of this mission, gentlemen, there must be no word of this to anyone. You are under strict orders not to breathe a word of this mission to anyone. No honors will be handed out,” said the Major.
“Pardon me, Sir,” said Collins, stiffening.
Major Milligan raised his hand. “Gentlemen, I agree that it is a ridiculous reward for your efforts but I am authorized to grant you certain requests; pay bonuses, extra leave time, etc. All in addition on top of your convalescent rest after this little incident, no doubt grueling enterprise. But we shall discuss these matters back at the chateau for debriefing.”
A motor could be heard faintly in the distance. The men looked down the road for another truck before their eyes looked up. In the sky flying low above them as a Sopwith Pup; the wings were painted with the Blue, White and Red bull’s-eye of the Royal Flying Corps. The pilot buzzed his aeroplane overheard as he passed toward the battlefield beyond, the plane dipped its wings back and forth in greeting and climbed into the sky.
“I have a request, sir,” said Collins.
“Yes, what would that be, Capt. Collins,” asked the Major, obviously annoyed.
“I want to transfer to the Flying Corps, sir,” said Collins, smiling.
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