The Emma Harte 7-Book Collection: A Woman of Substance, Hold the Dream, To Be the Best, Emma’s Secret, Unexpected Blessings, Just Rewards, Breaking the Rules

‘Don’t tempt providence,’ Blackie protested, his Celtic hackles rising. And then he laughed, grimly amused by his ridiculous comment. Here they were, engaged in violent warfare, their lives on the line, and he was being superstitious.

Harry gave him a lopsided grin. ‘Got a fag-end, mate?’

‘Sure an’ I do, Harry.’ Blackie fumbled for his cigarettes and they each lit one.

‘It’s no bloody wonder our lads call this Hell Hole Wood. It was a sodding inferno out there. We’ve had a lucky escape, Irish. Aye, we have that.’ Harry pushed back his helmet and rubbed his muddy face with his equally muddy hands. ‘I’ll tell you this, Blackie, I never thought I’d be hankering to get back to Huddersfield to me nagging old woman, but by bleeding hell I wish I was there right at this minute, listening to her nag. And supping a nice warm pint of bitter. I do that. She suddenly seems like Lady Godiva to me – and with bells on!’

Blackie grinned but said nothing. He was thinking of his own sweet Laura. He closed his eyes, drawing on the soothing memory of her loveliness, of her shining immaculate face, to obliterate the visions of death and bloodshed that engulfed his mind.

‘Here, mate, don’t start copping forty winks!’ Harry nudged Blackie in the ribs. ‘Got to keep our bleeding wits about us, you knows, at a time like this. We ain’t on a flaming day trip to Blackpool, lad.’

Blackie blinked, straightened up to his full height and drew on his cigarette. He and Harry exchanged full and knowing glances and hunched further together, settling in to wait. They did not know what was in store for them or what their inevitable fate would be, and neither of them dwelt on it. For the moment they were relieved to have this small respite from the horrendous fighting. Splattered with slime and blood, their faces ringed with fatigue, their bodies exhausted from the raging battle they had endured, they looked like a couple of defeated, battle-scarred veterans with no fighting spirit left. But this was not the case. Their courage was boundless and their stamina illimitable.

Suddenly Harry grabbed Blackie’s arm. ‘Do you notice summat right bleeding queer, Irish?’

‘No. What do you mean?’

‘The sodding guns have stopped, Blackie.’

‘Christ, you’re right, Harry.’

They stared at each other, and to Blackie and Harry the overwhelming silence was so stunning it seemed more sinister and deadly than the tumult.

‘The lull before the next storm?’ Blackie suggested, his eyebrows puckering together in a jagged line.

‘No,’ Harry muttered, shaking his head. ‘It’ll be dark soon. The Jerries won’t waste shells trying to hit what they can’t see. You knows what I mean, mate?’

‘Sure an’ I do.’

Darkness was beginning to fall quickly. Blackie turned and peered over the top of the trench, scanning the landscape. In the dim twilight he saw a half-bent figure running towards their trench. He reacted instantly, reached for his rifle. ‘Stand to!’ he bellowed. All of the men in the trench scrambled for their guns, immediately alert and ready to defend themselves.

‘That you, O’Neill?’

Blackie’s tensed muscles relaxed as he recognized the voice. ‘Yes, lieutenant, it’s me,’ he said, staring out into the greying dusk.

‘Good lad.’ The lieutenant leaned into the trench, his eyes swiftly scanning the men, his face grave. ‘Now listen, boys. A piece of bad news. We’ve been cut off from the rest of our chaps. We’re alone up here. About a hundred of us. The captain’s orders are simple. We’re to bloody well hold this bit of forest, come hell or high water. So dig in, lads. Keep your eyes and ears open, and set up a watch. At once.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Blackie said. ‘Do you think they’ll attack in the dark?’

‘No way of knowing, laddie. But we’ve got some Lewis guns and plenty of grenades. We’ll have to manage the best way we can.’

‘Lieutenant, I’d like to join me mate, Joe Lowther. Metcalfe here says he saw him make it into one of the rear trenches,’ Blackie said.

‘Right, O’Neill. But make it snappy. And pass the news on to the lads holed up back there.’ The lieutenant disappeared into the gloom.

‘Mind if I come with you, Irish?’

‘No, I don’t, Harry. But let’s skedaddle,’ Blackie replied, clambering up and out over the sandbags.

Blackie and Harry made it to the far trench without incident. ‘It’s O’Neill, Seaforth Highlanders,’ Blackie cried in a low voice as rifles appeared menacingly over the edge.

‘Jump in, lads, before you get your friggin’ heads blown off by one of me trigger-happy mates,’ a gruff voice called back.

Blackie and Harry leaped simultaneously, mud flying as they landed with some force. They struggled up to be greeted by a chorus of highly-descriptive but friendly-voiced curses from the men they had just covered in mire. Cigarettes glowed in the darkness, and Blackie squinted at those tired, drawn and grimy faces, hoping to find Joe’s amongst them. ‘Anybody seen Joe Lowther?’ he asked.

‘Aye, he’s down at the other end,’ a voice responded.

Blackie came across Joe sitting smoking nonchalantly, his helmet pushed back, his rifle across his knee, a photograph of Emma in his hand.

‘All the comforts of home, I see,’ Blackie exclaimed, grabbing Joe’s shoulder and punching it with affection.

A look of relief spread across Joe’s face. He slipped the photograph back into his tunic pocket, then his hand encircled Blackie’s arm tightly. ‘Christ, Blackie, have I been worried about you! No damage done, I hope.’

‘No. And I can see you’re in bloomin’ bloody health. And what the hell are you sitting on?’

Joe grinned. ‘Cases of corned beef!’ He began to laugh at the expression on Blackie’s face. ‘We found a dugout over there, filled with supplies. The Lancashires were holed up there for a week or so, and they left a load of stuff behind when they retreated. We’re lucky it wasn’t blown to bits. We don’t have time to eat the flaming stuff, but at least we can sit on it. Keep our arses dry, courtesy of Fray Bentos.’ Joe edged over to make room for Blackie.

Harry ploughed up to them. ‘By bloody hell, some of us have it right cushy,’ he remarked, staring at the cases. Another soldier laughed and offered to share his makeshift seat with Harry.

Blackie passed the word down that they were cut off, and repeated the captain’s orders. The dozen men in the trench drew around him and Blackie said, ‘We’ll set up a watch now. One man at each end and two on the look-out on both sides. We’ll keep relieving each other every hour. I’ll take this end for a start. The rest of you relax while you can. And you lads on guard better keep your bleeding eyes peeled,’ he ordered in a firm voice. The men scattered to their posts.

Blackie had only been on watch duty for half an hour when he thought he discerned movement at the edge of a clump of saplings not felled in the onslaught. He narrowed his eyes, straining to see in the gloom, instinctively raising his rifle, every one of his reflexes coming into play. A formation of dark clouds obscuring the moon drifted away from its silvery surface and the dark sky was instantly filled with brilliant light.

‘Holy Mother of Jesus!’ Blackie exclaimed quietly.

Joe heard him. ‘What’s wrong?’ he demanded, jumping up.

‘Look! Over there! Do you see what I see?’

Joe stiffened. ‘Holy Christ.’

‘Over the top, boys!’ Blackie screamed. ‘The bleeding German infantry’s right up our backsides!’

Men were scrambling out of the other trenches and milling around on the muddy ground which had been levelled by the shelling. And all eyes were riveted on the grey column advancing. Each man fixed his bayonet automatically. The captain was hastily drawing up formations, and even orderlies and signallers were instructed to arm themselves with rifles and grenades.

Again, it was hand-to-hand fighting of the most bloody kind. Rushing forward into the fray, Blackie prayed silently: Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. His face was harshly set and frightening in its terrible ferocity. He killed and killed and went on killing, his rifle spewing forth bullets, his bayonet slashing until it dripped with the blood of the enemy as though it were some horrible living organ. He did not know how many men he killed and he no longer cared. All he knew was that it was his life or a German’s, and he was going to live. And in the end he simply stopped thinking and charged.

After two hours, the enemy unexpectedly fell back, retreating for cover in the lower part of the wood, and the Seaforths crawled into the trenches, weary but unvanquished. Blackie had lost sight of Joe and Harry during the horrifying slaughter and there was no way of finding them now. He prayed, with all the fervency of his heart and soul, that his friends were safe.

For the next twenty-four hours the Germans attacked this little band of brave men – heroes all. They tried to rush the Lewis gun positions by bombings delivered under the fire of massed machine-guns; they attempted to creep from shell-hole to shell-hole in the darkness, hoping to wear out the Seaforth Highlanders by lobbing grenades at them. But the captain had arranged such lines of fire with his Lewis guns and rifles that each attack was repulsed.

The Seaforth Highlanders went through indescribable strain during these skirmishes, which lasted all night and were in full force when dawn broke. And worse was yet to come. By noon of the next day, Sir Henry Rawlinson was pouring every ounce of power he had on Trônes Wood, believing it had been totally lost and that the British troops holding it had all been struck down. His bombardment was one of unparalleled intensity, for the general was planning to storm the enemy’s Bazentin line.

Although much of this heavy bombardment fell on the Seaforth Highlanders, they grimly endured the pounding they were taking, realizing that it was an absolute necessity. It also had its useful side, since it served to interfere with the enemy’s movements and crippled their infantry attacks.

At one point, the Germans parleyed and asked the British to surrender to avoid total annihilation. But those fearless Seaforth Highlanders refused, and dug in with relentless determination to hold this part of the wood. The Germans, recognizing their stubbornness and indomitability, began to place more field guns in position, readying themselves for another raid.

At the same time, Rawlinson’s guns thundered on without cease, and Trônes Wood was slowly but decisively conquered in a brilliant infantry operation, conducted under the double crashing of shell from British and German artillery. It was a pulverizing action stupendous in its magnitude.