their sergeants and corporals they turned to for a reassuring nod in the heat of battle.
He was about to glance over to the horseshoe to check whether the tank was still running when he suddenly found himself lying on his back at the bottom of the trench, watching a small avalanche of dark soil rain down on him. Instinctively he covered his face and closed his mouth as dirt began to cover him. Devereau tried to flail to get himself up, but his arms and legs felt leaden.
And it was all of a sudden so silent. The only noise was his heart thudding rhythmically. The rumble of the artillery bombardment sounded like it was going on a thousand miles away. A summer thunderstorm in another county.
He felt hands on him, digging him out of the dirt, pulling him up out of his temporary shallow grave. A face right above him – one of Wainwright’s Confederates – all beard and dirt-smeared skin beneath the brim of his helmet. The man was shouting something, but Devereau couldn’t hear what he was saying. All he could hear was his pumping heart and that distant rumble.
‘I am all right!’ he shouted back at the man. Not that he could hear himself. Not sure if he’d shouted it or whispered it. The man helped him on to his feet, and Devereau quickly patted himself down to make sure he hadn’t been nicked by shrapnel.
The arterial thumping in his ears had become a shrill ringing that he imagined would drive him very quickly insane if it was a permanent condition. He picked his forage cap out of the dark soil between his boots and put it back on. Straightening the peak, he saw a dozen faces down the trench looking warily at him.
They’re watching you … Show them some bravado.
He pulled his sabre – more a ceremonial addition than a practical one – from its scabbard and held the blade close to his face, using the polished surface as a mirror as he adjusted his cap and straightened his collar. He gave himself an approving nod before tucking the sabre back, knowing there’d be a ripple of grins among the men either side.
The ringing in his ears was beginning to diminish and this time he could just about hear the Confederate soldier’s voice.
‘… ir, the … arrage … opped!’
‘What?’ He cupped his ear.
The man nodded over the lip of the trench. ‘Stopped, sir! Barrage has stopped!’
Devereau took a step up on to an ammo box to give him a good clear view ahead.
Stopped … yes, they have! He could feel the sporadic vibrations of impact and shockwave had ceased. And now the cratered slope in front of them was bathed in a swirling mist of white smoke.
‘Smoke,’ he whispered. The last volley of artillery fire had been establishing a smokescreen. He turned to the Confederate beside him. ‘They’re coming!’
After the relentless noise of the bombardment the sudden calm was unsettling. His ears, the ringing diminished now to background hiss, struggled to pick out the noise of the approaching British. In that cloud of smoke, somewhere, they’d be crossing the East River now – God knows how many landing boats, sputtering across the water.
‘Ready yourselves, men!’ he shouted across the silence. ‘Check your weapons, check you have ammo supplies to hand! It goes far too quickly, gentlemen!’
He looked out again at the featureless wall of white drifting on the breeze. He cursed that today of all days the weather was so still. Any other time, a stiff Atlantic breeze would have already whisked away much of the smokescreen.
‘Sergeant Freeman!’
‘Sir!’ his voice returned from further up the trench.
‘Are you ready for a scrap?’
‘Ready, sir? Been ready all mornin’, Colonel. Now ah’m just gettin’ downright annoyed they takin’ so long.’
He heard a ripple of nervous battlefield laughter make its way along the men.
Devereau smiled. Good man, that Freeman.
Then he heard it … the faint droning put-put-put of a chorus of engines coming from somewhere out there on the river. He reached for his revolver, unclipping the holster and wrapping his gloved hand round its grip. He pulled it out a little too quickly. It caught and he nearly dropped it on the ground. But he didn’t.
The Confederate next to him made a face. He’d spotted the fumble and offered Devereau an understanding nod. Luckily none of the other lads had seen.
He sighed. Last thing his men needed to witness was just how scared their colonel felt.
He could hear the