similar luck.
Moving with extreme care, he slowly placed his rifle to his shoulder and peered at the back of the last man in the line. He needed to wait a moment or two more. The further away they were, the less they would be able to tell where the shot came from. He also hoped there might be further shell fire from somewhere, to hide the sound of his rifle. He breathed deeply and slowly, keeping his eye on his target and his finger by the trigger. Not too close though. Like many snipers he had filed down the levers on the firing mechanism of his Mauser, to make the trigger more responsive. It was a mixed blessing. An unintended shot could easily give him away.
The path ahead of Jim’s patrol veered off to the north, but they could see it was close to another path heading in the direction they needed to go. Cowell took a short cut through the low undergrowth and all at once he disappeared in a white flash of earth and flame.
Seeing the flash and the flying debris, the sniper’s finger touched his trigger. He hit his target in the back of the neck. He could not have done a better job if he’d standing right behind him with a pistol.
Will, standing nearest to Cowell, was knocked off his feet. His head buzzed from the noise of the explosion, but he could not feel any other sort of injury. How he had escaped he did not really understand. When he looked at Cowell again, he was lying on his side with a tattered leg oozing blood and a horrible white stump of bone above where his left foot should be.
‘Hold back,’ said Jim urgently. He moved cautiously forward. ‘That were a mine, weren’t it?’ he asked his men. ‘I didn’t hear a shell coming in. Stick to the path. Keep your eyes ahead – and watch where you’re putting your feet.’
Will could see his brother talking but he couldn’t hear him. There was just a whistle in his head. It didn’t hurt or anything, but it made him feel trapped, not being able to hear anything.
The sniper cursed. The men in the patrol were now dispersed. His line of fire was no longer clear, but at least they hadn’t noticed another of their men was missing. He kept watching them flit between the trees.
Wait. That’s what snipers did. His moment would come again.
Sergeant Franklin edged over to Cowell. ‘He’s still breathing. Must have knocked him unconscious.’
Cowell stirred, then began to moan. Then he started to scream. He looked down at his injury. ‘My leg. The bastards, they’ve blown off my bloody leg.’
Jim propped him up. ‘It’s just your foot, Cowell. The rest of you is all right. Try not to make a noise.’ He took a flask from his backpack. ‘Drink some of this rum.’
Cowell gulped it down until he choked. ‘Jesus it hurts,’ he said, gritting his teeth. He was pale now, his eyes slipping in and out of focus.
Jim took some bandages from his pack and began to improvise a rough tourniquet. ‘Stay with us, Cowell,’ he said. Then he turned to the biggest man in the squad. ‘Bradshaw, will you run ahead with him, get him to a field station as quick as you can?’
It was a request rather than an order. But Bradshaw didn’t need a second bidding. Before the war he had worked down the mines and he could pick a man up as easily as he could heft a sack of coal. He put a hand on Cowell’s shoulder and said, ‘Don’t you worry, mate, I’ll get you back,’ then hauled him up. Cowell flinched as his injured leg brushed against his comrade.
Bradshaw hurried off ahead, Cowell’s body bent over his shoulder, and the others marvelled at his strength.
Will watched them go. He wanted to get out of this forest more than anything else he had done in his life. His hearing was coming back in little bursts. Sometimes clear, sometimes just a whistle.
There was a sudden crack, like a twig being snapped, and all of them turned to look at Bradshaw and Cowell. The big man stumbled and lurched forward, stopped in his tracks. He and Cowell fell to the ground in an instant. Neither of them moved. All of the patrol threw themselves down. Then Ogden stood up to get a better view. Jim immediately signalled for him to get down. Will could see a small bloody