The Winter Soldiers Read online

  ‘So far as I recall from my military studies,’ he said, ‘the Battle of the Alamo was a defeat for the American defenders.’

  ‘That’s true,’ replied Gwilliams, waving a stick he was about to consign to the flames of the fire, ‘but a great one. A few good men up against vastly superior forces. They all died – Davy Crockett, Colonel Travis, Jim Bowie himself – which was a shame ’cause I shaved him real good, real close. He said he hadn’t had a chin so shiny since he last drunk milk. They was heroes, every one.’

  ‘You survived, though?’

  ‘Me? I weren’t in the battle. I was on my way north. Just happened to be passing, is all. I shaved both sides, you could say, ’cause there was an American who fought for the Mexicans, man by the name of Johnson from Illinois way. He was a sharpshooter, just like Peterson here. Shaved him too, on my way through. Edgy fellah. Nicked his chin. Wouldn’t keep still, not for one minute.’

  Wynter was disparaging. ‘An American fought for the Mexicans?’

  Pirce-Smith said, ‘You should not be so caustic, Wynter. There were Europeans on the side of the Mexican general, Santa Ana, as well as other Americans. Mercenaries. Some of the best troops in the world have fought as mercenaries. I myself think that patriotism and honour are by far the most noble motivations for a soldier, but you must not dismiss the mercenary soldier with such contempt. Look at the Swiss! They provide many foreign armies with well-disciplined troops.’

  Gwilliams said, ‘I myself don’t much like mercenaries.’

  ‘Damn it man,’ said Pirce-Smith, ‘you’re one yourself.’

  Gwilliams looked up from poking the fire with astonishment on his face, then he roared with laughter. ‘Ain’t that a fact, though. I am.’

  Crossman broke camp just after eight o’clock. With the severely wounded on the horses, they slowly made their way south-west, back down to the frozen trenches of the Sebastopol siege. After a few more nights in the open, they eventually reached their lines, having circumnavigated the place where they had run into the three Russian deserters. Crossman was taking no chances with the Cossacks, who had marked him out for special attention since he had killed several of their number.

  Lieutenant Pirce-Smith had reaffirmed his decision to seek a court martial for Crossman. Unfortunately, it was the officer who was ordered to Colonel Hawke’s presence first, which put the sergeant at a huge disadvantage. Lovelace was away on one of his own missions. Were he there Crossman could have expected support from him. As it was, he was on his own. He did not know the colonel well. Hawke took over from General Buller some while ago, but Crossman had not had the same contact with his new commander as with the old. Buller was a more open, affable man than Hawke, who tended to be sharp, sometimes abrasive, and whose cold clear thinking organ was a superior mechanism to Buller’s old brain. He had been appointed by some dark department of the government back in Britain. He reported to them only, leaving Lord Raglan, that despiser of spies and saboteurs, completely unaware of these undercover activities. Raglan knew of the colonel’s presence of course, and that he had something to do with ‘gathering information for the purposes of improving the position of the Army of the East and other British armies on campaign abroad’ but the commander-in-chief believed Hawke was some kind of administrative engineer, collecting statistics and general facts for the furtherance of technical progress.

  Hawke, who in turn despised the general staff, many of them close friends or relatives of Lord Raglan, fostered this view of himself by dropping such snippets as, ‘Did you know that if we increased the diameter of the wheels of our 6-pounder guns by a mere two inches they would travel through this thick Crimean mud with a great deal more ease than they manage at present?’ Lord Raglan thought him a bore and had only twice invited him to dine, though the peer was always civil and apparently willing to listen to Hawke’s enthusiastic utterings. There were generals who were aware of Hawke’s real work and status, but they were not inclined to give him up to Raglan, since they realized that the lives of their men, and perhaps themselves, not to mention the outcome of the war, depended upon the intelligence gathered by Hawke’s clandestine methods.

  Hawke listened patiently to Lieutenant Pirce-Smith’s account of the fox hunt, pursed his lips when told that the main object of the exercise – to capture Corporal Reece – had failed, but brightened his countenance on learning that the gang had been broken, with a number dead and others in chains.

  ‘The main thing is, lieutenant, did you learn anything? Were you able to take advantage of Sergeant Crossman’s experience in the field? I hope we can make something of you in this department.’

  ‘I – I learned a great deal,’ replied Pirce-Smith, with some hesitation in his voice. ‘Although . . .’

  Hawke’s face, clean-shaven, his hair cropped short and standing in tight clumps on his narrow head, was like granite.

  ‘Although?’

  ‘Well, I have to request a court martial for the sergeant,’ replied the lieutenant, coming rigidly to attention. ‘I’m afraid he not only disobeyed an order – several orders – was insolent and insubordinate, but he incited his men to mutiny. I was ordered by him to be disarmed and this illegal order was carried out.’ Now that he had said it, it sounded right and proper, and he felt entirely justified in what he was doing. This was nothing to do with personalities. It was to do with the rule of law in the army.

  Hawke stroked his chin with a strong, lean hand. ‘I see. These are serious charges. I feel, lieutenant, that before we proceed any further we ought to send for the sergeant. I wish to enquire more deeply into this affair before making any sort of judgement. Do you agree?’

  ‘You are going to arrest him, sir?’

  ‘No, when I say “send for him” I mean exactly that.’

  Crossman was duly sent for and arrived to find the two officers still in an awkward silence. Hawke began by questioning Crossman, who gave his version of the events which took place when the peloton came across the three Russian prisoners. Hawke was left nodding, holding his nose between prayer-straight hands.

  ‘So,’ said the colonel, ‘you did not execute the Russian deserters.’

  ‘Of course we didn’t . . .’ began Pirce-Smith, but Hawke interrupted him with a sharp, ‘Not you, sir, the sergeant.’

  ‘No,’ replied Crossman, ‘we did not. We – I waited too long, sir. I realize that by leaving them alive we were jeopardizing our mission.’

  ‘But you are human, too, and they were beginning to grow on you as fellow human beings, is that it, sergeant?’ finished the colonel in a rather disapproving tone which sent a warning tingle up the spine of Pirce-Smith, who began to wonder about his senior officer’s point of view. ‘This humane streak you have in you has always been rather worrying to Major Lovelace and myself, sergeant, as well as to your former commander. General Buller felt it could be exorcised by more experience in the field, but it seems to me it still lurks within you, ready to betray you sometimes. Well, you know I’m not at all happy with you, over this, but since you had the sense to avoid the area on your return we’ll let it pass.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Hawke now turned his grim attention to the lieutenant, whose eyes had been opened just a little wider in the past few moments.

  ‘Lieutenant, are you a locksmith, perhaps? Are you familiar with the cryptic workings of locks? I mean, we all have a little knowledge of locks, and imagine we know what goes on inside them when we turn the key, but when it comes to repairing them, taking them apart, putting them back together again – could you do such work?’

  Pirce-Smith was naturally bemused by this sudden change of direction and shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think I could, sir.’

  ‘If you wished to gain knowledge of levers and ratchets, and whatever other mysteries locks held, who would you go to?’

  The lieutenant shrugged. ‘A master locksmith?’

  ‘Even though you, as a gentleman, would consider yourself in all other ways to be the
superior of a tradesman like a master locksmith?’

  Again that warning tingle up the spine. ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘I would say so too,’ acknowledged the colonel. ‘Yes, a master locksmith. Now, when it comes to espionage and sabotage, there are those of us equivalent to master locksmiths, while others are merely apprentices, not even, I fear, journeymen. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘In a roundabout way, sir.’

  The colonel’s voice was still calm while his face darkened. ‘I think I make myself damned clear, sir. As clear as bloody crystal. If this fox hunt had failed because of any mistaken idea that my orders were to be loosely interpreted, I should be extremely sorry. Now, lieutenant, I should like to enquire whether you think it advisable to proceed? It’s entirely in your hands of course.’ The colonel leaned back in his chair, making it perfectly clear that he was offering the junior officer a gate through which he could run and dance in a flower-covered meadow, while if he stayed where he was, he would surely sink slowly in the mire of a sucking marsh and drown himself.

  ‘Sir,’ protested the uncomfortable lieutenant, ‘there is an NCO present!’

  ‘Do you or do you not wish to proceed with this court martial?’

  Pirce-Smith hesitated only a second. ‘No, sir, I do not wish to proceed.’

  ‘Good. Have you any other complaints?’

  ‘No, no sir, I do not.’

  ‘And you, sergeant? What about the lieutenant?’

  ‘The lieutenant was new to the work, sir. He made one or two errors of judgement, which I’m sure he’s aware of now. I might add that he fought bravely when things came to a head and at that point was wholly a part of the team.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Now, overall I think the hunt was a success. You performed well, both of you, and I’m happy that this motley band of deserters has been, in the main, brought to justice. They will be executed of course, after a trial. I should think no more about it, if I were you. As for this Corporal Reece, if he continues to operate as he has done, he too will eventually end up before a firing squad or the hangman. You may both go to your quarters now. Sergeant, I want to hear about our friend, General Enticknap. Get your barber chap onto it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And sergeant – thank the men.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Crossman left the room first. Pirce-Smith lingered on a flimsy excuse, not wishing to walk with Crossman, either in terrible silence or having to exchange very awkward conversation. Once he was sure the sergeant had gone, the lieutenant too made his way. He felt utterly devastated. It was as if chaos ruled the world at last and the forces of evil had been unleashed on the homelands. Not only had a gross piece of malfeasance been supported, the colonel had actually asked a sergeant to use his name in thanking common soldiers for doing what was their duty and their privilege, to fight for their country. One did not express gratitude to ordinary soldiers for doing what was expected of them. You could praise them for their courage in battle, you could reward them for acts of valour, but to thank them? Why, that was extraordinary!

  In spite of his depression and anger at the colonel’s decision, in one small corner of himself Pirce-Smith was relieved. Courts martial were grisly, messy affairs, as solemn as a hanging, and one did not always come through without stains on one’s character, even as the innocent accuser. One was in the limelight for a while, with the eyes of brother officers on one, while counter accusations were offered by the defence, and outsiders were left wondering whether there could ever be smoke without fire. It would not have been a pleasant business. It could never be a pleasant business. And now that he thought about it, how could Colonel Hawke conduct such a trial in secret? It was impossible. The work of the spies and saboteurs would have to emerge and Lord Raglan would be asking what in blue blazes a group of 88th Connaught Rangers was doing gadding about the Crimean steppe – except that the commander-in-chief never used such language. How foolish that he had not seen the impossibility of such a trial before now. But then his recent experiences had left his thinking rather ragged. What was he to do now? It was bitterly cold, but he felt he ought to go to his tent and write a letter to his father. Yes, it was his duty as a son to keep his father informed, to let his mother know he was still alive, and to be remembered to his cousins and friends. He would light one of his precious candles, warm his hands and the ink in the flame, and lose himself in words. Despite the freezing weather he began to look forward to the exercise. He would wear the kid gloves his father had sent him as a birthday present: useless for outdoor wear in the Crimea of course, but he had cut away the fingers and now they served him for just such activities as this.

  While Pirce-Smith was considering his words to his father, Crossman was on his way to visit his regiment at the front. This was his penance for living in relatively comfortable conditions in the hovel in Kadikoi. He had to remind himself how badly his fellow soldiers were faring, before resting from his labours out in the field. It was not pleasant in the trenches. Those of the bedraggled, wet figures who recognized him and felt like greeting him, did so, but with hollow enthusiasm. For the most part those still on their feet were exhausted beyond caring. One of the reasons Reece had given Crossman for deserting was the conditions at the front. ‘I’d spent twelve hours on duty in wet clothes and was done in. I couldn’t have kept my eyes open a minute longer if my life depended on it. Then I was given more duty . . .’ The shortage of manpower in all regiments was a prime cause for overwork and fatigue in the men, and though new recruits were arriving in dribs and drabs, they were not enough to fill the gaps, and in any case they fell sick and succumbed to the freezing, damp conditions in the same way as the veterans of the war were doing.

  Crossman might have had some sympathy for Morgan Reece if it had not been for the Tartar farmer hanging from the beam in the barn. It was true that Crossman did not know whether Reece had been directly responsible – perhaps some of his gang had run wild without his knowledge – but now that he was known as the leader no leniency was possible. There was also the story Reece told him, of shooting his crippled friend, but Crossman had no way of knowing whether it was true. It was possible the corporal had invented or altered the truth to impress Crossman with his ruthlessness. However the sergeant looked at it, Morgan Reece was a doomed man.

  Passing an artillery post, Crossman watched a corporal lay an 18-pounder gun. Ordnance had always fascinated him, not because of its power to kill, or even its destructive force, but because of its engineering and the skills involved in a safe firing of the piece. This gun had just been fired and the spongeman was swabbing out the piece while the ventsman was stopping the vent with a leather-coated thumb to prevent an explosion from smouldering residue. Many a spongeman’s arm had been lost through air escaping from the vent and residue in the bore going up. Now the loader placed the charge and the round shot into the bore, while the spongeman had reversed his spongestaff to ram both home. After the ventsman had pricked the charge bag and inserted the tube, the firer put the smouldering portfire to the tube. Crossman put his hands over his ears. Nevertheless an ear-splitting bang made his head sing. Not for the first time he was thankful he had never followed through with his idea of joining artillery. To have to suffer that thump in the head every few minutes! It was unthinkable. Addled brains did not come into it.

  After visiting the lines, Crossman went back to Kadikoi where he found that Gwilliams had already taken it on himself to visit a house frequented by certain senior British officers, where they drank coffee, had their nails and hair cut, and where they were shaved. Crossman was pleased he could leave this distasteful duty to the American.

  The following day Crossman was visited by another American, his friend Rupert Jarrard, who first peered round the doorway and seemed to satisfy himself on some count, before entering.

  ‘What was all that about?’ asked Crossman, the room being empty. Ali was with one of his ‘wives’ and the others were at a Greek shack which sold kebabs
and retsina. Since Crossman could not face meat or alcohol this early in the day, he remained alone.

  ‘Just making sure that dolt Gwilliams wasn’t around.’

  Crossman shook his head. ‘What is it with you two? I would have thought two North Americans . . .’

  ‘I don’t like the man,’ said Jarrard. ‘Plain and simple. Him and his tall stories! Who has he shaved recently?’

  ‘A fellow called Bowie?’ said Crossman, smiling.

  ‘Jim Bowie? He died at the Alamo twenty years ago.’

  ‘So Gwilliams said. It seems John Gwilliams gave him – and another American fighting on the other side – their last shaves on earth, just before the battle, then went on his merry way northwards, the Mexican army not willing to pay out for shaves or haircuts prior to a battle in which many of them would lose their lives.’

  ‘Can you believe such hogwash?’ growled Jarrard. ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t shave Santa Ana himself. I doubt Gwilliams is thirty-five years old. That would have made him a kid at the time of the Alamo. Kit Carson. Jim Bowie. The man is incorrigible. I’m not even sure he’s an American. His accent has a Canadian twang to my ear. Some say he is from the other side of the border.’

  ‘Well, that’s hogwash too, Rupert, and you know it. Your countrymen have a variety of accents. You’re a nation of immigrants.’

  Jarrard grudgingly conceded this fact. ‘Anyway, enough of this character Gwilliams, how are you, my friend? Anything new for me on the invention front?’

  ‘Not seriously,’ but Crossman’s voice raised a little in excitement, as it always did when speaking of matters mechanical, ‘Have you met the photographer Mr Roger Fenton? I’ve seen some of his photographs. They’re excellent. Mark my words, Rupert, the painter is dead. Photographs. They are the art form of the future. Why, think of the military uses for a start. Army officers would no longer be required to sketch and paint as they are now. I imagine there’ll be a unit – like an artillery unit – specifically to take pictures of battle grounds and defences.’