by Adam Roberts
She had been about to come in, to greet him, to embrace him, to tell him something, some message from the other side of death. But the sound of the assault outside had scared her away. It was ridiculous, of course, he told himself, to think in these terms. Clearly, the stress of the situation had overburdened his mind. And yet, he thought, and yet even if she were nothing more than a figment of his heated imagination, it would be good to hear what that figment had to say. What might it have been? I’m sorry.
He turned in his bed again, facing the wall.
I’m sorry.
He turned again.
There was a massive explosion, outside in the night air. His heart thumping, Polystom leapt from the bed and rushed to the door. At the threshold there was another violent noise, and heat washed over him. Fires were burning, red and yellow, on the ground at the top of the trench, throwing a sinuous light over everything. Polystom stumbled over a supine body, and tripped, falling onto his knees. As he was getting up he heard the sound of his own big guns returning fire, bashing the night air, crash crash, crash, and then only the voices of his men calling out in the dark.
He took the stairs one step at a time, emerging cautiously from the trench. The fires were still burning, illuminating the scene garishly. ‘What’s happening?’ he called out, querulously. ‘You.’ A soldier, flat on his belly, was aiming his rifle down the side of the ridge. Polystom, feeling vulnerable in the light, bending over, hurried to him. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’ But he had mistaken a corpse for a live man, mistaken the hunch of its shoulders for the missing head.
He picked up his pace, and ran to the nearer of the two guns. Sof was there, looking through binoculars.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Sir,’ said Sof, not removing the binoculars from his face. ‘You should be back in the dugout, you know.’
‘I want to know what’s happening.’
‘Petroleum bombs. They explode and throw burning petroleum sludge over everything. There!’ he called out, pointing. ‘That’s the little pig! Down, seventeen, eighteen at the most.’
The gun crew hauled the gun through five degrees, and lowered the barrel an inch. There was a breathy sound high in the air, like a sigh, and then the sound slid down the scale and collided with the mud in a fireworks splatter twenty yards from the gun. Red brightness. Everybody flinched. When Polystom looked up, the ground between him and the detonation was sown with fire, and gobbets of a snot-like burning substance adhered to the metal guard at the front of the gun.
‘Take the pig!’ shouted Sof. ‘Now!’
The gunner hauled on something, and the gun uttered its enormous shout. Polystom put his hands to his ears and shut his eyes, curling up like a child. He felt the heat of the opened chamber as a new shell was inserted, and heard the dialogue between Sof and the gun crew. He had no place here. He should be back in his dugout, safe. ‘I think I’ll go down again,’ he said, but only the first two syllables sounded, the rest of the sentence battered into nothingness by the second eruption of the gun. He turned his back on it all and started scurrying back to the edge of the trench. Back to the safety of his dugout.
There was a great force of heat and pressure behind him, accompanied by the sound of the air and the land being chewed and crunched up. Polystom was on his knees. He had been pushed down. The back of his head stung, as if bitten by an insect. He got unsteadily to his feet, and turned to see the gun covered in fire, snakelike wriggles of flame leaping off every surface. A person-shaped shadow, also wreathed about with fire, danced and kicked in the midst of it all. This burning shadow-figure danced away from the gun, and dived, describing a perfect arc through the air and into the mud. There he wriggled and wriggled, turning over and over, until all the flames were done.
Another sighing sound in the air, over Polystom’s head, and away behind him, halfway down the far side of the ridge, there was another great bang. Polystom’s own shadow leapt away from him, spotlit by firelight, and wriggling over the ground.
Stom made his way over to the burnt man. By the time he got there the figure wasn’t moving. People were shouting. ‘The gun!’ ‘Watch for them from below.’ ‘Sir! Sir!’ Polystom leant over the figure on the ground. He couldn’t tell, in the uncertain firelight, whether he was breathing or not.
A soldier was at his side, and then another. ‘Where’s the medic?’ Stom demanded. ‘Who’s acting doctor?’
‘He caught one yesterday, sir,’ said one of the soldiers.
‘Are you mine? Or the other fellow’s?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘Are you Polystom’s company or Parocles?’
‘I’m yours, sir. I’m Lamba, sir. I worked in your orchards.’
‘Our medic is dead?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And what about the medic in Parocles’ troop?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I think he died yesterday too, sir.’
‘Is there nobody in this body of men with medical knowledge?’
Another petroleum bomb exploded on the far side of the wrecked gun. Red and white light blossomed. ‘Get this man,’ Polystom shouted, ‘into the trench. Do that now.’
He didn’t wait to see his orders followed. Instead he lurched towards the steps, and slid ungainly down them, back into the safety of the trench. ‘You,’ he said, grabbing the first soldier he could see. ‘Fetch me Stet.’
‘Sir?’ Startled, wide-eyed, in the red light.
‘Lieutenant Stetrus – go get him, bring him to me.’
The man scurried off. The burnt body was being brought down the steps. At the base of the trench they laid him in the mud. ‘Is he alright?’ Polystom demanded.
‘Alright, sir?’
‘Is he alive?’
‘Think so, sir.’
Polystom bent over the figure. It was impossible to tell if he was alive or dead. The soldier he had sent off came panting back.
‘The lieutenant sends his apologies, sir,’ he said. ‘But his time is currently—’
His words were broken off by the sound of the one remaining cannon firing. Second later came the sound of its shell detonating, and after that the distant watery sound of men cheering.
Polystom pushed his way along the trench, and up the steps at the far side. ‘Stet?’ he called, as he made his way over to the gun.
‘Sir?’ replied Stet. ‘We got them sir. That was a direct hit.’
‘Really?’ Polystom said. ‘Well done, Stet, well done. Only – Sof, you know . . . dead . . .’
‘Here they come again!’ bellowed somebody.
At once the popcorn snaps of rifle-fire started up. Stet was very near, his face close up, his hand on Polystom’s shoulder. ‘You really ought to be in your dugout sir. We wouldn‘t want you to take any unnecessary risks.’
Polystom made his way back to the trench and down the steps, but instead of going along it he took up a position beside a couple of his men. They were leaning over the lip of the thing, firing their rifles. He peered over. The firelight was still burning from the debris of the petroleum bombs, giving intermittent glimpses of the approaching enemy soldiers. One fact cut through Polystom’s dreamy dull-headedness: if those figures got all the way up here, they would kill him.
Kill him.
There were three more attacks that night, and each time Polystom’s men beat back the advances. The enemy were attacking up both flanks of the ridge now, Stom’s men swapping sides to fire down through the dark. Eventually the burning petroleum sludge died away, but as it did so the dawn lit the eastern horizon, and the indistinct figures of mud-coloured enemy soldiers started to acquire solidity. The big gun could only be swung around with great effort and difficulty, so Stet decided to keep it aimed at the complex of trenches and dugouts at the foot of the feature – the same trenches and dig-outs that Polystom’s own men had excavated days before, now occupied by the enemy.
As the night wore on, Polystom became more and more tired. For the first few attacks he
leaned over the lip of the trench with the rest of his men, firing his pistol. Later he slipped away, and lay down in his dugout. He fell into and flipped out of sleep intermittently: drowsing until some loud shot or explosion woke him, drifting away again. Finally the attacks died down, and he was able to sleep more deeply.
He dreamed of the flayed man: dancing out of flame, with all his skin burnt away, but the same horrid knots of naked muscles, the same moist-eyed grin. As with his earlier nightmares, the figure stretched his arm out and out and laid hold of Polystom’s ankle. Usually he awoke at this point, but for once – fatigued as he was – he didn’t. He looked down at the gristle-glistening hand that gripped his ankle, and then looked up at the face of the creature who held him. It had skin again. It had Beeswing’s face.
‘Hello,’ she said.
He awoke, lurching to the left, toppling from the narrow bunk onto the floor. His breath stuttered. He was lying on the floor.
Light was pouring in through the door of his dugout.
He got to his feet, and adjusted his dress as well as he could in his mirror. Then he stepped out, rubbing his eyes in the light.
Bodies lay neatly along the side at the bottom of the trench where they had been placed. Stom stopped to examine one sooty corpse. Was this the one he had carried from the burning gun in the phantasmagoric night? The uniform was charred and blackened, revealing various layers like the pages of an unequally burnt book. The braiding at his left shoulder was still intact, marking him as a common soldier. But here the jacket had peeled away to reveal smoke-blackened shirt, and here peeled further to reveal vest, to reveal skin, to reveal bone turned charcoal.
Polystom stood again. ‘Stet?’ he called.
Several of the men stirred, leaning over the lip of the trench.
‘You men,’ he called. ‘Where’s the lieutenant?’
‘He caught one about an hour ago, sir,’ somebody replied.
Polystom’s stomach chilled. ‘Dead?’ he asked.
A man took him along the trench to the lieutenant’s dugout. The air inside smelt foul; a burnt, foetid, spicyodour. Inside Polystom saw another charred corpse, laid on the floor on its front. No, on its back; the face burnt smooth, the hands and feet unrecognisable. It might have been on its front or its back, it was impossible to tell – except, there was the line of white mosaic tiles that were its teeth. Was this Sof?
On the bed was Stet. He was sitting up, still alive, but looking terrible.
‘What happened?’ said Polystom, pulling the chair over to sit beside him. It was a foolish question, he realised, as he asked it: foolish because the answer was obvious, and foolish because Stet could certainly not say anything by way of answer.
Stet waved vaguely with his hand, gestured towards his throat. A bullet, shot from below, had passed up through his throat and come out through his cheekbone. Two wattles of blood and torn skin hung from the mess of his adam’s apple, like exterior tonsils. The right side of his face was as smashed as if somebody had stamped on it with a heavy boot. Tiny rice-grain splinters of bone poked out, edging the wet red cut. The whole of that side of his head was blackened with bruising, and his eye had vanished in the pleats of puffiness. A cravat of bandage hung loose around his neck, where Stet’s finger twitched restlessly at it.
‘Do you need anything?’
A half-shake of the head.
‘A drink? I have some brandy in my dugout.’
A half-shake of the head.
Silence. Polystom sat as the implications of this thing started to sink in. It meant he was in sole command. This was no good. This would not do. He couldn’t command the men by himself. He would have to get in touch with Command, have them send out some more lieutenants – or at least, a sergeant, or somebody. Or better still, relieve them altogether. Send in some new troops. Or at least let him go. Send in another commanding officer to take over and let him go home.
Stet’s forefinger twitched and tugged at his neckerchief of bandage.
Polystom cleared his throat. ‘You heard about Sof?’
Stet could barely manage a nod.
‘Terrible,’ said Polystom. ‘Terrible.’
He sat with the injured man for several minutes, before excusing himself and going outside again into the sunlight. He made his way up to the gun, and found the gun crew dozing. ‘You men!’ he called. As one they leapt to life. ‘Men! Attention!’
‘Sir,’ they replied.
‘Do I have a sergeant? A corporal?’
Nothing but sullen, exhausted faces.
Polystom, feeling more and more despairing, less and less in control, made his way along the trench. ‘How many men are left?’
‘Not sure, sir,’ from one figure.
‘A dozen, perhaps, sir,’ from another.
‘Shouldn’t stand upright, like that, sir,’ said a third. ‘Make a nice target, I’d say.’
Polystom looked nervously over his shoulder, and dropped into the trench again.
Flies, fat as raisins, droned through the fresh sunlight, drawn to the bodies at the bottom of the trench. Polystom waved them away from his own face. At the far end of the trench he crept up the steps, and hurried as fast as he could over exposed ground to the ruined gun. Its barrel looked serviceable, sticking straight up into the sky, smoke conjured from its end by the heat of the new day. Like an enormous metal cigarette. But the loading mechanism was melted, the tangle of levers bent and waxy, and several blackened corpses appeared to be actually stuck to the metal. It was a mess.
Polystom turned back. Squinting, he counted the figures lining each side of the trench. Add three for the far gun. Best not count Stet: he was in no position to fight. Thirteen men.
Not many.
His head was starting to buzz with the preliminaries to panic. What should he do? Was there any way they could make their way off this ridge and to safety? They needed to contact Command. They needed somebody from Command to come to them, give them new orders. He scanned the lower ground, trying to spy out enemy soldiers, placements, but he could see nothing. Perhaps they had pulled out. If so, he could lead his dozen men down off the peak and away. Where to? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know which direction was the safe direction.
Back at the trench, he tapped the nearest man. ‘You.’
‘Sir?’ He pulled his rifle in at his side, stood straight.
‘Name?’
‘My name, sir?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Mero, sir.’
‘Are you one of mine? Or were you Parocles’?’
‘Captain Parocles,’ said the man. ‘But the captain’s dead, sir, so now I’m yours.’
‘You’re my sergeant,’ said Polystom.
‘Sir,’ said the man.
‘I want a corporal too. Who shall we have as corporal?’
The new sergeant looked left and right with unease. ‘Don’t know sir.’
‘Come on, man. Give me the name of one of your friends.’
‘They’re dead, sir.’
‘All of them?’
‘Sir.’
‘Anybody – you!’ Polystom tapped the next man along.
‘Me sir?’
‘You’re corporal.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Yes. Battlefield promotion. What’s your name?’
‘Rai, sir.’
‘Were you one of Parocles’ as well?’
‘No, sir. I was a fisherman on your estate, sir.’
‘Oh, you were a fisherman, were you? Now you’re a corporal. You and the sergeant here – you, what did you say your name was again?’
‘Mero, sir.’
‘Yes, you and Sergeant Mero.’
They both looked at him.
‘We have to work out what to do, you see,’ said Polystom.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Yes sir.’
There was a silence. Polystom became aware of an emptiness in his belly. He had not eaten since the night before, and it would soon be time for breakfa
st. Maybe he should retrieve some rations from his dugout.
From the other end of the trench, somebody’s voice rang out. ‘Here they come again! West flank!’
Everybody still capable of movement hurried to the west side of the trench. Polystom had left his pistol in his dugout. He ran through to the door, skidding on the threshold and tumbling through. He located the pistol, loaded the slot with bullets, and turned back to the door. The first snapping sounds of gunfire were sounding in the air outside.
[fifth leaf]
The attack was beaten off easily enough. The enemy deployed no heavy ordnance, and no more than a dozen individual enemy soldiers made a rush up the west flank. They retreated under fire.
After the attack, Polystom told the men to break out their breakfast rations, having no idea what those rations might be or even whether the men possessed them. Then he told his new sergeant and corporal to come into his dugout.
‘Now,’ he said to them, attempting to act with a proper authority. ‘You know that Lieutenant Stetrus is too injured to be able to command properly. This means that the burden of command falls to us. You – sergeant – I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name again.’
‘Mero, sir.’
‘And you?’
‘Rai, sir.’
‘Good. We need a plan. Our numbers are dwindling. Now, we were ordered by Command to hold this ridge, but I suppose that there . . . eh . . . you know. That there’s a level of manpower, you know, below which it’s not practicable to follow such an order.’
The two men looked blankly at him. With a swallowing sensation in the base of his stomach, Polystom realised that neither of these men had the vaguest clue about the principles of command.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want your opinion. Does the enemy . . .’ He paused, thinking how best to frame the question so that it didn’t appear he was advocating ignominious retreat. ‘Does the enemy control both the west and east flanks of the ridge? Is there any way we could slip away from here?’
‘In the night,’ said the sergeant, ‘they attacked from both sides. I think they’re all around us.’