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  Wavering Warrior

  Trench Raiders Book 2

  Thomas Wood

  BoleynBennett Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Thomas Wood

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Thomas Wood

  Visit my website at www.ThomasWoodBooks.com

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  First Printing: February 2019

  by

  BoleynBennett Publishing

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  ‘Enemy Held Territory’ follows Special Operations Executive Agent, Maurice Dumont as he inspects the defences at the bridges at Ranville and Benouville.

  Fast paced and exciting, this Second World War thriller is one you won’t want to miss!

  Details can be found at the back of this book.

  1

  The party of six men had snuck into the enemy trench completely undetected, a slight scuffle with one of the sentries the only resistance to their entry so far. By the time he had seen the flying silhouette, it was already half a second too late, a knife protruding from his neck, embedded so far into it, that it looked more like a dislocated bone.

  The men, blackened faces and stripped of anything that could make an utterance of noise, moved in a perfect silence, as one body, each one knowing perfectly what their task entailed.

  For Private Reg Dornan, this was the first sense of a trench raid that he had ever experienced, the only other time he had been able to glean a look inside an enemy trench was a few weeks previous, when he had been part of an advance that had ultimately faltered.

  The Germans’ trench was high. Sandbagged walls giving off the impression of a well concealed and well protected dugout. Reg knew full well though, the dugouts were anything but well-concealed; his company’s sharpshooters had managed to slot twelve enemy soldiers in the space of two weeks. With only one hundred yards between the two frontline trenches, it was a risky business poking your head above the parapet in this sector.

  Reg watched his commanding officer, Captain Arnold, intensely, awaiting the moment when he was called forward for action. Reg had his 1907 pattern rifle bayonet in his right hand, his other gripping tightly onto a Mark V Webley revolver, with six .455 calibre rounds sitting expectantly in the cylinder. The revolver was a more than satisfactory fall back plan if the bayonet failed.

  Captain Arnold stood over the body of the deceased sentry, as he started to rummage around nearby looking for anything that might be useful to them; a map, a letter with a giveaway in it, maybe even evidence of an advance. None of this was found on the first body, and so, along with Private Earnshaw, he moved on to the other bodies that were now dotted around the place, heads lolled at various angles and arms flailing in all sorts of directions.

  Reg was tasked with watching over the Captain and Earnshaw, as they searched the bay for anything that had the faintest whiff of intelligence. Sergeant Hughes was standing over on the far side of the trench, similarly searching what appeared to be a German officer.

  Towering above him, in the dim light offered by the cloudy early springtime night, was Lance Corporal McKay, who was meant to be keeping an eye down the next section of trench, but instead was engrossed in what the Sergeant was doing. Reg tried to catch his eye, to purse his lips and flick his head at him to stay focused, but McKay offered him no such chance.

  There was something off with him today, thought Reg suddenly, as he realised that McKay hadn’t been his normal self the last few days. He was a good soldier, in fact, he was one of the best that Reg had ever come across, but something had changed within him recently.

  His father had been a gamekeeper in Scotland, and Christopher McKay had spent hours on the estate helping and learning the trade. He had come into contact with many members of the British aristocracy, and had even met one or two royals, though he was neither proud of the fact nor complimentary about them.

  He was quite short, but he was built like a pillar of concrete, with muscles that seemed to bulge even when he was asleep. It was unusual to see a man of his stature shaking from fear, but that’s how Reg found him, while he watched over the Sergeant as he finished his search.

  The Sergeant looked up sharply at McKay, with a look that said “Buck your ideas up, son.” Accompanied with a slight shove towards the end of the bay, McKay seemed to get the message, hauling his revolver up to hip height and twiddling his bayonet in between his fingers.

  As he repositioned himself to the end of the zig-zagging trench, the look on his face told Reg that he knew he had messed up. He knew he had seen the German far too late.

  For some reason, the Boche didn’t stop to think that there might be more of us around the corner, so instead of popping McKay, then lobbing a spherical shaped grenade round the corner, he lunged at the British soldier in front of him.

  McKay staggered for a moment, until the second, expert punch caught him square on the nose, and even in the dim light, Reg could see the blood that sprayed from a gaping wound that had opened up on the bridge.

  No one moved for half a second, apart from McKay, who slumped backwards, unconscious, into a pile of sandbags that had been half-prepared and were waiting to be deployed.

  The German stopped and stared, as if he had been expecting just the one intruder, but quickly burst into action as he produced a Luger pistol. He began waving it wildly for a moment as if to warn all of the raiders that he wasn’t afraid to use it.

  He enjoyed about a second of pure confidence, standing in his own trench, glaring at his uninvited guests. After which Sergeant Hughes cannoned into the German, trying to knock him off balance and dispose of him quietly. As they had already done with the four or so other bodies that littered the trench.

  No sound seemed to emanate from the dugout, except a few thumps and scrapes as the two bodies smashed into the floor of the trench. Hughes managed to land a perfect punch straight to the man’s head, which seemed to have no effect on him, for he soon managed to roll over, until he had Hughes pinned to the ground.

  McKay groggily awoke, but was quickly pulled to his senses by the sight of his Sergeant scrabbling around in the dirt with a German. Lifting his revolver up to the German’s head, he lined up the shot. It was perfect. He couldn’t miss.

  That was until, the quiver in his arm began to take hold, flicking the revolver in all manner of directions until he tried to steady himself with his other hand. Something was wrong with him; he wasn’t going to be able to take the shot.

  Reg wondered what was racing through his mind as he stood there. Was it out of fear that he couldn’t kill the German? Or was it out of a new-found respect for their enemy that he wouldn’t squeeze the trigger, or sink his bayonet into him?

  Reg could feel everyone screaming at McKay to kill the German; he was in the best position to do so, and to maintain the quietness that would be preferable for a withdrawal. Reg sensed it most from his Captain, who was now burning so much with fury, that he could tell his skin would be a bright red. That was even under all the dirt and charred cork that they had pasted over their faces before the raid.

  Eventually, McKay lowered his revolver, his shoulders sinking forwards in defeat. He was done. He wanted no more part of it.
br />   What had happened to him?

  He had been the hardest man of all in the party, the one who had shocked Reg with the fear and reality of what it was like to go over in the middle of the night. He was the one that had all the stories floating around him, the rumours that he would kill even those who had surrendered themselves to him.

  And now, here he was, on the verge of tears, unable to kill an enemy soldier, even though he was trying earnestly to butcher his Sergeant.

  In a flash, Captain Arnold took the initiative, picking up his solid wood, police style baton and striding over to the tussling bodies, not caring how much noise he made along the gradually rotting duckboards.

  He waited for a moment, until the German teed his own head up nicely for him. Arnold instantly took his chance and raised his arm up, high above his head.

  Clump.

  There was a soft thud as the baton made contact with the German’s skull, but there seemed to be a delay before the German registered what had happened and his body slumping over unconscious into the sandbag-walled parapet.

  Reg was filled with an overwhelming sense of relief and triumph, which was experienced by all in the trench, not least Sergeant Hughes, who was immediately gasping for breath and recovering from the fracas.

  The relief was short lived. As the German’s body continued to fall to the ground, his pistol suddenly erupted, a flash momentarily lighting up the entire trench in the increased darkness that seemed to descend immediately after.

  The crash of the pistol lasted no longer than the flash, but it burrowed itself into the soul of every British soldier in the trench, and undoubtedly into the conscious minds of every German soldier within a few hundred yards of the place. Before too long, the whole bay would be infested with Germans, eager to discover who had fired a shot in the middle of the night. For, on the Western Front, it was rarely done without good reason.

  Reg practically watched the bullet eject itself from the muzzle of the pistol, tearing its way along the narrow trench and whizzing past his ear. He was thankful that it passed him, but heard a thud and a clatter as it struck flesh just a short way behind him.

  He turned just in time, to see Peterson spin to the floor in agony, as the round glanced through the side of his neck, blood immediately spraying itself in every direction, as if the pressure inside had just been waiting to burst.

  “I’m okay,” he managed to gasp, almost as soon as he hit the ground, “it’s just nicked me.”

  He began fumbling around inside his tunic, trying to withdraw a dressing from the inside to press tightly against his neck to stop the streaming scarlet.

  As if his speech had acted as some sort of approval, every British soldier sprang into action, each one doing something to try and protect themselves as much as possible.

  The Captain began stuffing papers down the front of his trousers indiscriminately, picking up anything and everything that would mean he had something to show for his latest excursion. Hughes began to ready himself at the end of the bay, bringing his revolver up to his eye line, ready to pop anything that moved in front of him. Reg did the same, standing just in front of the grimacing Peterson as he sorted himself out.

  McKay had clearly needed the shot of adrenaline, as he immediately brought his bayonet up and sank it straight into the German’s chest, just glancing off the breastbone as he drove it home. The German groaned and gasped, before letting out a low howl, more like a desperate plea to anyone that could hear him to help get him out.

  McKay reacted instantly, cupping his hand to the German’s mouth to subdue anymore noise, but it was already too late for that, the party had already begun.

  Streaks of light suddenly puffed their way into the night sky, like some sort of firework display, as three flares began to sizzle away above the German frontline, blinding everyone in its vicinity for half a second.

  Reg presumed it was to alert everyone to the raid, and to watch out over No Man’s Land as they retreated, which was going to make their chances of survival even slimmer than they already were.

  Reg realised that Peterson had fallen silent. There was no point in being quiet now, everyone knew they were there.

  “Sir, Peterson, he’s passed out.”

  The Captain barely looked up as he spoke, his strong, aristocratic tones carrying his authority even amongst disaster.

  “Leave him. He’s already lost a lot of blood. He’ll have more of a chance if he stays here…Right everyone, we’ve outstayed our welcome here. Grab what you can. Let’s go.”

  It was a testament to these young men that they didn’t immediately start fighting each other for the privilege of being the first one out of the trench. Instead, they slowly made their way to the trench ladder that adorned the parapet, each one of them weapons raised and walking methodically backwards.

  Earnshaw was the first up, whispering urgently to the next man to get up. Within seconds, all of them, except Peterson, had vacated the trench. Now, it was just No Man’s Land that stood between them, and safety.

  2

  Captain Arnold was immeasurably infuriated. He hadn’t got half of what he had gone for. Now, he was lying face down in the dirt, drinking in large amounts of muddy water, trying his absolute utmost not to get his head ripped from his shoulders by a German machinegun.

  The rest of his raiding party were lying about nearby, similarly keeping their skulls as far away from the sporadic gunfire that was hindering their withdrawal. Each one of them dragged their chins through the mud, trying to find a depression in the ground or maybe even the luxury of a waterlogged shell hole that they might be able to scurry to.

  Arnold began to feel the dampness of the ground slowly seep through the layers of his trousers, beginning to just kiss his skin.

  That’s not good. He was desperately hoping that he somehow might avoid the sodden trousers routine that he knew was inevitable. Especially as he had more pieces of paper stuffed down the front of his trousers than The Times had in Fleet Street.

  He tried his hardest to shuffle the papers around as best as he could, but he could already feel them sticking to his skin and tearing as he pulled them, knowing full well that within seconds, the ink would seep into his skin too.

  Captain Arnold had no idea what it was exactly that he had picked up, as he had found nothing of any real significance in the few short, uninterrupted minutes that they had had in the enemy’s trench. For all he knew, Peterson had died to recover a bunch of poems and sonnets, written for a loved one back in Cologne.

  It wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought.

  The Captain looked so uncomfortable as he shuffled around in the mud, that Reg’s first thought was that he had been hit.

  “You okay, Sir?” he gasped into the darkness, immediately forcing the others into a premature halt at the sound.

  “All okay, Dornan. Keep moving,” he growled, through gritted teeth.

  Arnold came over as far more aggressive than he intended, and he thought for a moment that he caught the beginnings of a shocked tear forming up in Dornan’s eye. As he went to apologise, he noticed something within himself.

  He was angry.

  He was angry that he had risked his life to collect up a bundle of papers that was now doing its utmost to form a pseudo-skin around his upper leg. He was angry that Peterson had stood in the way of the stray bullet that had resulted in his abandonment. But, most of all, he was completely incensed with Lance Corporal McKay.

  Arnold couldn’t for the life of him understand why he hadn’t killed the German when he had the chance. In fact, he was an experienced enough soldier to have never let the German make it that close to them in the first place.

  What had happened to him?

  In the last few days, McKay had gone completely into himself, taking every opportunity that he could to be away from everybody else. It was a far cry to how he had been just a week before.

  McKay was a well-liked member of the team, in fact he was probably the most popular. It wa
sn’t because he was friendly or kind to everyone that he met, but more because of his straight-talking, to the point nature.

  You always knew where you stood with McKay. For Captain Arnold, that was lower down the pecking order than the Kaiser, but for the Captain, that was just fine. He wasn’t there to be liked, he was there to get a job done, to see the war through, before moving on to the next part of the world in need of the British Expeditionary Force. He had been in the Army before the war started and, he hoped, he would still be in the Army after the war had ended.

  McKay took a dislike to the Captain for a number of reasons, the first being the fact that he was from a privileged background. McKay automatically assumed that made the Captain pompous and only interested in his own career progression, the latter having an element of truth within it.

  But the remorse and sadness that Arnold was feeling over the death of Private Peterson, was something that was surprising even the Captain.

  In the first thirty seconds since leaving the German trench, the Captain swayed from mourning for Peterson, to a downright anger towards McKay no less than four times, as his confused mind tried to process everything that had happened.

  McKay was a fantastic soldier and, until tonight, a ruthless killer, so he couldn’t quite understand what had caused his stage fright.

  Captain Arnold didn’t quite get to the end of his thought process, as his meandering mind was cut short but the solid thumps of trench mortars as they opened up, presumably a prelude to the artillery, that would take a little longer to communicate with.

  The new-found urgency with which the raiding party was now required to move with, made them all begin to pull themselves up, so they could crouch and run rather than drag themselves back to the frontline.