The Sons of Adam. Harry Bingham

124

       125

       126

       127

       128

       129

       130

       131

       132

       133

       134

       135

       136

       137

       138

       139

       140

       141

       142

       143

       144

       145

       146

       147

       Part Seven

       148

       149

       150

       151

       152

       153

       154

       155

       156

       157

       158

       159

       160

       161

       162

       163

       164

       Historical Note

       By the Same Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

       PROLOGUE

       The Somme Battlefield, France, 23 August 1916

      A man crawls forward on his belly. He’s covered with mud. It’s night-time.

      The man is young, a British lieutenant. Although he moves carefully, there’s urgency in his movements, something breathless, something desperate. It’s a dangerous attitude at the best of times. Out here in no man’s land, just three dozen yards from German lines, the attitude seems almost suicidal.

      For almost three minutes, the lieutenant moves in silence. Every now and then there is the crack of a rifle or the whine of bullets. He appears to ignore them. Eventually, he comes to a shallow shellhole and rolls down into it. He catches his breath a moment, then shouts.

      ‘Tom! Tommy! Tom Creeley!’

      For a moment, the night is silent. A scrappy moon plays hide-and-seek. Earth and flint scrape beneath the lieutenant’s boots. In the distance, big guns thump the horizon.

      Then a voice answers. It’s no more than a groan, but the lieutenant is instantly alert.

      ‘Tom? Tommy? Is that you?’

      His hope is painfully evident. He climbs quickly out of the shellhole in the direction of the voice. He wriggles forwards, hardly concerned to keep his head and body low.

      Within forty seconds, he has covered almost thirty yards. The voice belongs to a young boy, a British infantryman, horribly wounded in legs and belly. The boy is obviously dying.

      A look passes across the lieutenant’s face. It’s one of painful disappointment. Whoever this boy is, it isn’t Tom Creeley. But the look passes.

      ‘All right, sonny,’ says the lieutenant. ‘I’ve come to get you home.’

      The boy’s face is shockingly white in the moonlight. ‘I’m hurt pretty bad, sir.’ His voice is a whimper. He is afraid of death.

      ‘Hurt? Nothing too bad, son. We’ll get you patched up in no time and on a train back to England. How’s that?’

      ‘Oh, yes, sir! Oh, yes!’

      The lieutenant nods. In one hand, he holds a canteen of water to the boy’s mouth. ‘Drink this.’ The boy drinks. As he does so, the lieutenant’s other hand snakes round in the mud, holding a revolver. The boy lowers the canteen. His eyes are grateful.

      ‘Good lad,’ says the lieutenant. He holds his gun to within an inch of the boy’s head and fires. The boy drops back, dead.

      The lieutenant lies low for a minute or so, then briskly searches the boy’s pockets for any personal papers. He takes whatever there is, then, once again, flattens himself against the earth. He lifts his head and shouts.

      ‘Tom? Tommy? Tom Cree-leeeeeee?’

      And this time there’s no answer. No answer at all.