Cold Comfort by Charles Todd

 
    Cold Comfort
    France, Early 1915, at the Front
    I T WAS HOT this far down in the tunnel. Here, at the very end, there was only room for the three of them—Lieutenant Rutledge, the officer in charge; a private by the name of Williams at the left wall already passing over his bayonet in favor of a small knife as he scraped quietly at the chalk surface to enlarge the space; and Corporal MacLeod listening for sounds from the enemy burrowing their way toward the British lines in a counter tunnel, the stethoscope in his hand moving gently over the walls and ceiling. He glanced at Rutledge from time to time with a shake of his head.
    Nothing.
    It was an ominous silence.
    A runner had just brought Rutledge the news that a German prisoner had been interrogated and there was the very real possibility that the enemy was working on its own tunnel, and that it could in fact parallel their own. If he was farther ahead, if he’d already packed his charges in his forward chamber, similar to the one that Rutledge and his men were still enlarging at their end, then chances were that the enemy’s would go off first, burying the three of them alive.
    The Germans had already used tunneling to fearful advantage. It was very simple: dig a tunnel that burrowed deep below No Man’s Land to reach a spot beneath the British or French trenches opposite, then pack the final chamber with high explosives, set off the charges, and wreak shockingly effective havoc in the lines. And then launch an attack while one’s opponent was still reeling. It was a variation of one of the favorite ways of breaching castle walls, something medieval armies had excelled at. Only instead of blowing up a trench, it weakened and brought down enough of the massive fortifications to allow the attacking army to rush inside. Dangerous work then, dangerous work now.
    The Allies had had no choice but to use the same strategy as the Germans—and they were still learning. A team of miners from South Wales had been brought in because they were experienced men, capable of digging as well as shoring up the tunnel as they went.
    The problem was, once the Welshmen were close enough to the German lines to be heard, picks and shovels had to be replaced by tedious, nearly silent scraping, inch by inch. Otherwise the enemy would hear them and take deadly countermeasures.
    Rutledge had been sent down to relieve the officer in charge of the chamber, standing his eight-hour watch with his own corporal, Hamish MacLeod, whose hearing was particularly keen. And in place of the Welsh coal miners, Private Williams had been given the task of carrying on as quickly as he could without making a sound. He was a slate miner from North Wales, and it was clear several of the Welshmen from the South had resented the choice. He had been what was called a rock man, who drilled and set the explosives to bring down the great slabs of slate, and his touch was delicate. Fair for a Welshman, nearly as tall as Rutledge and MacLeod, he was a quiet man who kept to himself.
    The knife picked away gently at the surface, filling the pail with surprising speed without a sound. The larger the chamber at the end of the tunnel, the more explosives that could be packed into it.
    Two feet still to go, before the Royal Engineer overseeing the work would be satisfied.
    All at once Hamish MacLeod held up a hand. Rutledge touched Williams’ shoulder in the same instant. The Welsh private stopped, knife in midair, hardly breathing. Rutledge waited.
    MacLeod took out a bit of paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Rutledge.
    Not digging , it read. Packing .
    The Germans must be worried that the prisoner had talked, and taking no chances, they were preparing to blow up their own tunnel as soon as possible, which meant they were already under the British lines. What MacLeod had heard was the soft footfalls of men carrying charges forward to stow in the already completed chamber.
    Rutledge signaled to Williams and