25

The Catholic

It was deemed by generals far away from the fighting that passage by their ships and their allies up through the Dardanelle Strait and into the Black Sea was not attainable. Sheiks and khans, emperors and caliphs, pontiffs, kings, and lovers had all been defeated by this waterway that separated continents. One of the most coveted waterways on earth had once again claimed victory over a fierce skirmish. Still running dark, free, and fallow, it would wait for the next one.

The British would never admit defeat. Stalemated, they would lick their many wounds and evacuate all troops and equipment from the Gallipolian peninsula. The fighting went on. It would go on for weeks. It would go on till the last soldier had climbed or was carried aboard the last ship in Suvla Bay.

Michael’s duties as runner increased. Redoubts, platoons, and fortifications all along the lines had to be kept in constant communication. Orders changed by the hour. Between the beach and the trenches, over which the retreat must traverse to gain the beach and the waiting boats, were miles of rough terrain. Directions had to be reported from commanders to troop leaders.

Michael made dozens of runs between the dugout headquarters and trench fortifications, almost always under the cover of darkness, bearing messages—messages on paper to be handed to officers unsure what was happening, and messages in his head, to be repeated word for word to weary officers tired of watching their men die carrying out those orders. The days and nights went by. Men carried, pushed, and pulled weapons and the battered accoutrements of war back down the long hills to the confusion of supplies gathering on the shore.

Ill-fed mules and horses, their ribs showing, drew cannons and hundreds of tents and wounded men away from the blazing hills of Suvla. Their planned stealth was betrayed by the clatter of moving metal, the movement of troops, the braying of gut-shot animals. And standing guard over that withdrawal from hell were the men still fighting and dying in the trenches. These men and the snipers who peered over the ramparts were the last bitter line of defence.

Under the lip of one such rampart, its sandbags riven with bullet holes, crouched Jake the sniper. By now everyone in the regiment was calling him the Crackie. Every time Jake heard the term, he shuddered. His father frequently called him a goddamn redhead. Told him repeatedly he was as useless as a crackie. But over here, few paid much attention to his red hair, for as one old soldier told him one day, “Aww, me son, sure, your ’ead is after turnin’ a bit rusty, is all.” Jake laughed. And he had well-earned the moniker Crackie. Jake was a deadly sniper. The name didn’t bother him anymore—much.

It was dark, and a low, drizzly fog, barely chest high, had come creeping over the land and through the lines, making the night colder. The fog distorted the land and created false images. It was possible for a soldier to crawl like a shadow under that veil. Shadows that moved were fair game on both sides. Jake’s attention was focused on a shadow that had moved when Michael came up behind him.

“Mauzy ol’ night, Jake. Just like home, eh?”

Jake didn’t answer him, and Michael nodded, seeing his friend’s body all tensed, his rifle at full cock and pointing toward no man’s land. He rested between two sandbags and waited for what he knew was to come. Michael watched as the Crackie lived up to his name. Jake’s eyes were wide open, both of them. The butt of the rifle was firm against his right shoulder, its fore stock resting gently upon his left hand.

As Michael looked on, Jake’s right hand curled around the action, his forefinger on the trigger taking up the slack. Then the Crackie’s right fingers all squeezed as one. Jake’s rifle exploded and a tongue of orange flame spat into the fog. Jake rapidly reversed the action and shoved another round into the chamber without taking the weapon from his shoulder. He waited for a long minute. Then, turning around, he said to Michael, “Got ’im.” His voice wasn’t proud, just factual. Michael knew how Jake felt about killing.

“’Tis a necessary evil, Jake.”

“I know it, Mike b’y. But I still don’t like it.”

“Yeah, I know. The way I got it figured, war makes murderers of us all. We can kill with impunity. ’Tis the way of it.”

Jake changed the subject. “Got a run tonight?”

“I do,” Michael replied. “All the way to the east sector. Not to be delivered till 2200 hours, fer some reason.” He looked at his watch. “Six o’clock, 1800 hours. Four hours to go. Bloody military time. Never get it right.”

“Bad night fer runnin’, Mike. This fog is deceivin’. It hides things and makes things look altogether different. ’Tis a fine night fer crawlin’, though. They’ll be out after trinkets and boots this night, fer sure, crawlin’ under the fog like bloody crabs. On both side of the trenches. Damn graverobbers. Scavengers, I calls ’em.”

“Scavengers is a good name for ’em. Human vultures is a better one. Stealing a dead man’s coat or boots to keep warm is one thing. Robbing gold from a soldier’s fingers or mouth is something deplorable. We are all soldiers, no matter the colour of our tunic. All fighting a war we will never understand or give a tinker’s damn about. It has always been so, I believe.”

Michael pulled a pack of British cigarettes from his pocket, offered one to Jake, bent over, and lit his own in the cup of his hand. Jake lit his from the tip of Michael’s. They sat in silence for a moment as the smoke from their mouths blended with the fog. No fear of smoke betraying a soldier this night. Jake had killed snipers who failed to notice that telltale sign on a clear night.

“I’ll never get to see the Hellespont now that we are retreating.” Michael seemed wistful.

“Hellespont?” asked Jake.

“The Dardanelles. The Turkish strait. The Bosphorus. Lovers’ tears.”

“Oh! You mean the tickle?”

“Yes, my clever young friend, indeed it is. You have named it best. The Hellespont—call it what you will—is nothing more than a tickle. The world is full of tickles. Between us and the Turks is a tickle stained with blood. The most powerful nations on earth are battling over something as simple as a bloody tickle of water. And once again, the tickle has won.”

“Why is it important to you to see this tickle, Michael?”

“I’m not sure if I can give a quick answer, Jake b’y. I’ve told you about the old priest, my friend and mentor. From him I learned about this strait of water and the part it has played in history, our history, everyone’s history, whether we know it or not. Suleiman the Magnificent of the Ottoman Empire, upon whose land we fight, was dominant here. Saladin, first sultan of Egypt and Syria, led the Muslims against the English crusaders, who needed to cross it to reach the Holy Lands. The Templars, defenders of the faith, all fought and traversed the Dardanelles.

“I would have been a Templar, I think. Would have defended the scrolls based on the teachings of the Christ, the Grail of my belief. Christ, the emblem of peace, walked this land. And long after He died at the hands of his own, the Knights Templar kept his moat. Always loved the name Templar and what it represented. So much so that if I had a son I would have named him Templar.”

“Well! How you do talk, Michael Kelly.”

Jake, who always marvelled at the knowledge Michael possessed, didn’t see his friend’s face as he spoke these words. Michael felt the hairs rise on his neck. They were the same words Ruth would often say to him. He sighed.

“Only when I am in good company, Jake. Only when I am in good company.”

Jake saw the sad look on his face then and was about to ask him the reason for it, when a shell screamed overhead and exploded farther along their trench. It shook the ground and more sand leaked out of the sandbags, trickling like falling water down over them. Several screams erupted, and the cry for a medic pierced the air.

“The war has found us again, Jake.”

“Aye, Mike. That shot must’ve been a fluke in this muck.” Jake nodded toward the fog.

“Maybe they’re getting better at it, Jake. God knows they’ve had lots of practice. Both sides have honed their shooting skills. We’ve just heard the thrust from the Turks now. I expect we’ll hear the parry from the Brits.”

Both men waited for the answering volley, but there came no reciprocating whine of shells. Most of the artillery in their sector had evacuated down the hill. Only rifles in the trenches remained to retaliate against bombs. Last defence.