The Devil in No Man's Land: 1917 Read Online Free Page A

lines left by a knife or a bayonet.
    “That's a bite,” said Kavanagh, in a low voice. “Pa's wolfhound took one of the lambs spring before last. Ripped its throat right out. Looked like that.”
    Harker glanced up at Kavanagh. The Private was visibly trembling.
    “Check them,” the Captain said. “Check them all.”
    His men moved quickly through the church, examining the Germans for any signs of life. Harker stood up, stepped carefully over the corpse in the aisle, and walked towards the altar.
    The boy was as pale as the rest of them, his skin almost translucent. His head was lowered, his elbows on his knees, his feet dangling eight inches above the floor. As Quincey approached him, he could see that the bullet wounds covered his arms and neck as well as his torso.
    So many bullets for one man. Why so many?
    Then the boy raised his head and Quincey Harker bit his lip so he didn't scream.
    Blood, dried to a crumbling powder, coated the lower half of his face. His eyes were a deep crimson, centred with malevolent spots of shiny black. His mouth was curled into a terrible grimace of agony and as the rest of Harker's squad appeared at his shoulder, their rifles trained on the boy, shouting and gasping and crossing themselves in the oily, yellow-lit church, it twisted open.
    “ Komm zu dir . Komm zu dir. Komm zu dir. Komm zu dir. Komm zu dir .”
    The boy repeated this over and over, his terrible red eyes never leaving Harker's. Quincey returned the stare.
    “What's he saying, Ellis? What in God's name is he saying?”
    “He's saying wake up, sir,” answered the Private. “Over and over. Wake up.”
    “Wake up?” said Thorpe. “Wake up who? What happened to these men? Dammit, what happened here?” He stepped towards the boy, his rifle set against his shoulder. “Boy,” he said. “Look at me—”
    Harker felt ice race up his spine; he opened his mouth to tell his friend to keep back, but was too late.
    With a screech that sounded more anguished than angry, the boy launched himself off the altar and crashed into Thorpe, wrapping his legs round him and sending him sprawling on to the first row of pews. The movement was so fast, so impossibly fast, that none of the squad fired a single shot before the boy dipped his face to Thorpe's neck and tore his throat out in a shimmering eruption of blood.
    “No!” bellowed Harker, firing his rifle into the side of the boy's head, hurling him sideways with a gout of crimson trailing from the hole above his temple. The boy slammed into the tiled floor, but lurched round immediately to face the men, his eyes wide, his teeth bared. He tensed his body to spring again, as Harker yelled, “Fire!” The squad unloaded their rifles into the boy, driving him back against the wall of the church, where he slumped in a bloody heap beneath one of the empty, staring windows.
    Quincey ran to Thorpe and cradled his friend's head. Blood was pouring out of the hole in his neck, and his face was already pale. He looked up at Harker disbelievingly.
    Not like this. After everything we've been through. Not like this. Harker wiped blood from Thorpe's cheeks and forehead and told his friend he was going to be fine, it was just a scratch, he was fine, he was fine. Thorpe opened his mouth, but dark blood poured down his chin, and he made no sound other than a high-pitched whistle as his breath escaped through the hole in his neck.
    The rest of the squad stood helplessly behind their Captain, looking down at Thorpe. Tears stood in the corners of Ellis's eyes, and Potts looked like he was struggling not to be sick. McDonald and Kavanagh just stared, blank looks of incomprehension on their faces.
    Thorpe swivelled his eyes and looked at Harker. Then the spark in them flickered and died, and they rolled back white as he breathed his last. Quincey lowered his face against his friend's, and squeezed his own eyes tightly shut, as though there was some way he could undo what had happened, that he might