Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,5

that way.’

After another few minutes the cold overtook Will’s tiredness and he sat up. In the sky a parachute flare floated slowly down. It was too far away to cast any light over their own position but close enough to make him realise they could be in the thick of the fighting in less than an hour.

Another kind of noise reached him now. Far to the east he heard the metallic grind of wheels on tracks. He guessed they were troop trains – German reinforcements for their front line. Hearing the distant shunting and creaking brought back sudden memories of home. Sounds of trains in the night while he was tucked up snug in bed. He thought of his room back in Lancaster, in his family’s terraced house with its fine Minton tiles. He could almost taste the bread his mother baked every morning, and the comforting smell of the coal-fired range in the kitchen. What he’d give for a slice of that bread with butter and his mum’s home-made raspberry jam. His stomach lurched and gurgled.

He tried hard to steer his mind away from food, and thought instead of Alice. He carried a tatty photograph of her in his tunic pocket – wrapped in greaseproof paper to protect it from the damp. He was so familiar with it he did not often get it out to look at. She was staring stiffly into the camera, her face an enigma – neither smiling nor scowling. Will often wondered what she was thinking when that shot was taken.

He could picture her in Lancaster Royal Grammar School’s assembly hall, playing at the great black grand piano they had, after most of the boys had gone home. Will had been a pupil there, before all this. He often stayed late to work in the library. Alice was the headmaster’s daughter. He would listen to her play, lingering at the hall entrance so she wouldn’t notice him. She always stopped the minute she knew he was there.

A great thunderous explosion rent the night air – and a billowing flash lit up the sky. All of the men sat up at once. They reached for their rifles and anxiously scanned the surrounding area. ‘What’s Fritz up to?’ said Battersby.

A series of smaller explosions followed. Like lightning and thunder, they saw the flashes first; then the sound rolled over a few moments later.

Sergeant Franklin loomed out of the dark and told them all to stand down. ‘Nothing to worry about. Sounds like an ammunition dump or a supply train,’ he said. ‘Maybe Fritz got careless with a shell. Or maybe one of our pilot boys dropped a bomb on them.’ He gave a little chuckle. ‘That’ll keep ’em occupied for a while.’

After a while, Will heard the creaking and clanking of trains from the German lines start up again. There were men and boys over there, disembarking on to platforms or sidings. Maybe they were as frightened as he was. He hoped so.

CHAPTER 3

2.00 a.m. American Air Service airbase

Eddie Hertz slept in a plush feather bed in a farmhouse in Prouvy – close to the Belgian border. His squadron had moved forward from Doullens three weeks ago and he was settling in nicely.

His lodgings suited him well. It was right on the edge of his airbase and close enough for him to hear the empty shell case that hung by the operations room. When the duty officer hit that with an iron bar, they all had to rush over at once. The other flyboys in the American Air Service First Pursuit Group were having to make do with corrugated iron sheds or, even worse, tents, for their accommodation. Eddie had outbid his fellow flyers for the rent on this room. It was worth every franc. This was most definitely not the season for a tent, especially as the ground round here was so boggy.

Eddie had never been this close to the action before, but the war was moving at a rapid pace. The airbase at Doullens, which had been his home since he’d arrived in France in early 1918, was now too far away from the Front.

Despite the comfort of his lodgings, Eddie was having a restless night. His thoughts drifted to Céline – a dark-haired French girl he knew. Thinking about her made a pleasant change from the concerns that usually plagued his resting hours. Céline had been working at a field hospital close to Doullens and she and her fellow nurses were regular guests