Blackstone and the Great War Read Online Free PDF Page A

that,’ Carstairs said.
    â€˜What!’ Huxton exploded.
    â€˜Believe me, I can quite see your point, and if I were in your position, I’m sure I would feel exactly as you do,’ Carstairs said. ‘But the War Office communiqué leaves us very little room for manoeuvre. In fact, it states quite explicitly that we are to extend to Inspector Blackstone any assistance that he sees fit to request.’
    Carstairs was enjoying this, Blackstone suddenly realized – and there was probably good reason for that.
    Even in his soldiering days in India, the regular army had never regarded the military police as proper soldiers, and had resented the way their powers cut across the command structure. And the police, for their part, had felt aggrieved that regular soldiers failed to acknowledge the vital role they felt they played in holding a rabble army together.
    But there was more to it than that, Blackstone told himself. Carstairs disliked Huxton on a purely personal level – and in that way, at least, he and the company commander had something in common.
    â€˜But  . . . but the man’s nothing but a retired sergeant!’ Huxton protested.
    â€˜Oh no, he’s much more than that,’ Carstairs said, and once again, he was making little effort to disguise his pleasure at Huxton’s discomfort. ‘He’s an inspector from Scotland Yard – as he’s been at pains to point out himself – and the personal representative of General Fortesque, and while I can’t insist that you cooperate with him—’
    â€˜Damn right, you can’t insist!’
    â€˜â€”there are those who outrank both of us who will insist, and I would strongly advise you to cooperate willingly, rather than under compulsion.’
    He could have phrased it more tactfully – and in private – Blackstone thought. But tact was not part of Carstairs’ battle plan – though what that plan actually was had yet to emerge.
    â€˜I  . . . I  . . . don’t suppose there’s any harm in answering a few of the man’s questions,’ Huxton blustered. ‘Do you have any questions, Blackstone?’
    â€˜As a matter of fact, I have,’ Blackstone replied.
    â€˜Well, let’s hear them, then.’
    â€˜I assume you’ve taken statements from all the men who were in the trench that night, Captain Huxton.’
    â€˜I might have done – if half of them hadn’t been bloody well dead,’ Huxton snarled.
    â€˜In purely military terms, Lieutenant Fortesque’s death came at a rather inconvenient time,’ Captain Carstairs explained.
    The aim of the planned offensive is to capture the small village – scarcely more than a hamlet, but of strategic importance – which lies beyond the German lines. The young staff officers, and – of course – the enlisted men, have not been informed of this, though, if they have any sense at all, they will know it is coming.
    For days, new artillery batteries have been arriving, and night trains have rumbled into St Denis station, packed with shells.
    New trenches – saps – are being dug, at right angles to the front line, and heading towards the German trenches. Not only that, but some of the sap heads are being joined up to make what, in effect, is a new front line.
    Fresh consignments of ladders – which will make climbing out of the trenches a much quicker process – are delivered.
    The artillery has begun a heavier-than-usual bombardment of the German trenches, and – more importantly – of the coils and coils of wicked barbed wire which separate the two armies.
    And the Royal Engineers are digging new pits in front of the trenches, which everybody knows – though nobody says – can have no purpose other than to accommodate gas cylinders.
    So the soldiers understand perfectly what is about to happen – and so do the French villagers and