Black August

by Dennis Wheatley

  That’s it, we’ve only got one idea between us, and that’s your safety.’

  ‘Silas, it’s dear of you, but I think I prefer to stay and see it through.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘All sorts of silly reasons.’ She took his large brown hand in hers. ‘There are Gregory and Kenyon, not to mention that divine idiot Rudd—we’ve all been in this thing from the beginning so I don’t think it’s quite fair to scuttle now. Then if we go I shall be depriving them of at least one good fighting man—hush, now, don’t interrupt—and on top of that wherever could we go? So let’s all stick together—understand!’

  ‘Yes; it’s like you to say that.’

  ‘No dearest; it’s just laziness really. I loathe walking, and the prospect of being raped by starving farmers attracts me not at all.’

  ‘Just as you say, Veronica.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we will do though. If we do have to clear out you shall be my special defender, and I’ll stick to you like a limpet.’

  That’s fine—we’d better leave it at that then.’ With a nod Silas left her and went out to join Kenyon.

  Gregory was pacing slowly up and down the parapet seeking to give confidence to the fishermen, labour colonists, and troops while keeping a wary eye upon the bombardment which continued with horrible regularity. Rudd sat opposite, perched on the parados. As Gregory passed he turned his back and a faint glow showed him applying a match to his pipe.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ asked Gregory curiously.

  ‘Saved it for a rainy day, sir.’

  Gregory moved on, a faint smile twitching his thin lips. He would gladly have given any chances of the survival of his immortal soul for a packet of cigarettes, but he had smoked his last three days before.

  The searchlight shifted. Gregory flung himself flat and Rudd slipped off the parados. With a roar that reverberated and echoed in the hills a mile away the eighty-pound shell burst upon the earthworks. Every sort of filth with pieces of wood and corrugated iron revetments sailed high in the air, and then descended with a series of dull thuds upon the trenches.

  Kenyon, half-dazed, staggered in the direction of a dugout from which came cries and groans. He knew that a score of women must be entombed there by a ton of earth. A kneeling figure rose before him—it was Rudd. ‘Blarst them swine,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘I bin an’ lorst me bleedin’ pipe.’

  Gregory forced his way past them towards the crater, ‘They’ve found us,’ he shouted above the din. ‘We must clear out now—and quick. Get the men together.’

  He came on Silas round the corner of the traverse frantically digging at the entrance of the collapsed dugout with his mighty hands. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he thundered.

  ‘She wouldn’t go—bless her.’

  ‘Oh, hell! Why didn’t you make her? Never mind, leave this to me—get hold of her quick as you can and stick to her. We’ll strike up the North beach; tell Kenyon.

  A fisherman and a soldier arrived with spades, and under Gregory’s directions attacked the buried entrance with fierce determination. Rudd came hurrying up to help and was the first into the hole when it had been uncovered. He reappeared a moment later and a white-faced woman peered from the opening.

  ‘Come on, Missis,’ he called; ‘give us yer ‘and and don’t be frightened, Ma—it’s only like going through the roly-poly at the circus. Ever bin ter Sarthend?’

  She extended her arms and they pulled her through, the others followed weeping, or with terror in their faces. One poor creature just before the last had to be forced through the hole. She bit Rudd’s hand as he tried to help her and staggering to her feet, clawed at the fisherman; the shock of the explosion had cost the unfortunate woman her reason.

  ‘Christ! That’s torn it!’ Rudd slipped to his knees. He knew enough of shell-fire to judge where a projectile would pitch and, by the short sharp scream low overhead, he knew that within a fraction of time another would burst just beyond the trench where Kenyon was endeavouring to get the crowd into some sort of order.

  As the falling debris rattled down he popped his head over the parapet. ‘Mr. Fane’s copped it, sir,’ he gasped, ‘an’ there ain’t a ninepin in the bunch lef standin’.’

  ‘All right—you carry on,’ Gregory’s voice was quiet but there was a note of sadness in it—a grim acceptance of fatality.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Rudd scrambled obediently out of the trench. ‘Na then, chaps—no shell falls in the same place twice—take an old soldier’s word fer that an’ show yerselves—some of yer. We’re abart to start on a ‘iking tour.’

  Almost at once shadows began to stir and creep hesitatingly towards him. ‘That’s ther spirit,’ he sang out lustily: ‘Coorage mons onfongs as they sez in the French—old soldiers never die. ‘Oo wants to see sunny Suffolk in the rain!’

  Many forms remained still or groaning on the ground, but the rest came forward in increasing numbers, and when Gregory arrived Rudd had mastered the remainder.

  ‘Armed men to the front,’ ordered the General sharply, and eight or ten stepped from the uneven ranks, but he noticed sorrowfully that Kenyon was not amongst them.

  ‘Now, follow me. Quick march!’

  As they set off towards the shore Silas hauled Veronica out of the trench. He had kept her there until the last possible moment now that the destroyer was actually shelling the Redoubt, but no sooner were they standing together on the parapet than he flung himself flat, pulling her down beside him. Another shell screeched like the grinding brakes of a tramcar, and burst, causing the ground to shudder beneath them. They struggled to their feet again and, choking from the fumes, ran side by side after the straggling column of survivors.

  When they were within twenty yards of its tail he caught her arm. No hurry now,’ he urged. ‘Till they get into open country we’ll be safer here behind them.’

  Once the main party reached the beach Gregory turned north. The gun continued to fling its high explosives into the Redoubt at intervals, but otherwise there was no sound except the scrunching of the pebbles beneath their moving feet for several minutes. Then without warning a single shot rang out ahead.

  ‘On the ground all of you!’ came the swift command. ‘Ready with your rifles there!’ and instantly the party flattened themselves upon the shingle, scuttling for any dip or runnel which might afford them greater protection.

  Silas and Veronica dropped together and as the unknown enemy to their front opened a rapid fire, he clutched her to him, burying her head beneath his chest in an effort to shield her more effectually.

  Gregory’s order came clear and strong: ‘Aim for their flashes. Fire!’

  ‘Silas, what is it?’ Veronica’s muffled voice was hardly audible above the crackling of the musketry. ‘Have we run into the farmers after all?’

  ‘No, they’ve got no arms. This must be a landing-party from the ship.’ As he spoke that staccato note that they had grown to know and dread, the horrid rat-tat—tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of a machine-gun, struck upon their ear-drums.

  Veronica gasped as a flying pebble struck her on the leg and shrank closer to him.

  ‘It’s them all right,’ he added. ‘I wish to God I could get you out of this,’ but even as he glanced over his shoulder seeking a way of escape, final calamity swept upon them. The beam of the searchlight shifted, slowly, relentlessly, from the wrecked village, across the now blasted Redoubt, and came to rest upon them as they lay in little crouching groups half-buried in the shingle; its fierce blinding light throwing every man and every movement into sharp relief before the enemy.

  The machine-guns were silent for a second, and then burst out anew trained now upon the writhing figures, their bullets clicking sharply on the stones or thudding dully as they found a human mark.

  ‘Oh, hell!’ groaned Silas, ‘this is sheer bloody massacre.’

  A man in front leapt up with a sudden scream and then dropped down again; another sprang up to run and fell with half a doze
n bullets in his back. A small boy, with a seemingly charmed life, jumped to his feet and, head down, fists doubled, pelted up the slope into the safety of the darkness. A woman followed but fell before she had gone five yards, shot through both legs.

  Suddenly the firing ceased. For a moment Silas waited, then cautiously he lifted his head from the cold stones. Clear in the relentless light beyond the rows of bodies Gregory was standing upon a mound waving a large white handkerchief above his head.

  Silently but profanely Silas cursed himself. By following Gregory’s party on to the North Beach at a little distance he had thought to use them as cover until he and his precious charge were free of danger from the farmers. Now they had been caught by the landing party from the Shark.

  Bitterly he regretted that he had not stuck to his former plan of heading south, but to suggest running for it now was to risk instant annihilation.

  As he watched, Gregory walked slowly towards the enemy.

  ‘Had enough?’ asked the leader of the mutineers sternly as he came forward to meet the defeated General.

  ‘Yes,’ Gregory’s voice was even, but the scar above his eyebrow showed a livid white; ‘don’t think you’ve beaten me though, we haven’t fired a dozen shots the whole evening, and I would have fought you for a year if you hadn’t had that blasted gun.’

  ‘Fortune o’ war,’ said the sailor grimly.

  ‘Yes, and I want the honours of war.’

  ‘Not likely,’ came the quick reply. ‘You should ha’ surrendered when you were asked this afternoon; now you bin an’ killed four of my men your crowd are for it, an’ make no mistake!’

  ‘Not for myself,’ said Gregory grufly, ‘you can do what the hell you like with me, but leave these poor fishermen out of it, and the handful of soldiers whose only crime has been to obey my orders!’

  ‘Officers excepted?’

  ‘Yes—one’s dead, and the other is a couple of miles away by this time.’

  ‘All supplies an’ livestock must be handed over to us, I’ll shoot anyone who hides so much as a rabbit.’

  ‘Yes, you’re entitled to the spoils of victory.’

  ‘All right, it’s the officers an’ cattle I come to get, so I’ll accept your surrender.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m grateful.’ Gregory extended his automatic, holding it by the barrel, and the sailor’s hand closed over the butt.

  So, with the searchlight playing on the scarred and weary survivors, the burning village in the background, and the defences, which they had worked so hard to perfect, lying in ruins about them, ended the uneven battle of Shingle Street.

  23

  The Terrible Journey

  After her sharp tussle Ann stumbled through the heather and bracken, terrified each moment that a restraining hand would fall upon her shoulder, but Kenyon’s desperate resistance held their assailants until she was well away and, once assured of her escape, she threw herself panting into a ditch near the coppice.

  For a little while she feared that they might search for her with torches, but the sounds of fighting ceased and, peering cautiously from her hiding-place, she could see no moving forms between her and the camp fire that lit the dell, so she crawled out and gave a low whistle.

  No answering note came from the surrounding moor and after repeating the experiment once or twice she decided that Kenyon must have been captured. For a moment the idea of trying to fetch help from Shingle Street occurred to her but, even if she could reach it, would Gregory be willing to send a force sufficiently large to cope with this big gathering, and was Kenyon still alive?

  Her fingers plucked feverishly at the strands of coarse grass as she thought that he might be already dead, and she realised at once the necessity of finding out what had happened to him before endeavouring to reach Shingle Street by herself.

  She began to creep forward slowly and carefully, fearful that the snapping of every twig might mean discovery, and after ten minutes of cautious manoeuvring managed to reach a position some ten yards from the backs of the nearest men, where she could see the hollow.

  Kenyon was nowhere to be seen, and for a little she was filled with new hope that he might have escaped in a different direction to herself, but the bonfire interfered with a large section of her view so that she could not be certain.

  A little man with lank fair hair and eyes that glittered fanatically in the firelight was haranguing the crowd. Ann could not catch all he said but snatches of his discourse came to her borne on the night air: ‘Our brothers black, white and brown—An era of new Freedom—Already the towns are organising’

  The man nearest her spoke in a gruff voice to his companion, a frail-looking woman. ‘They ain’t organisen’ Communist though.’

  ‘Ain’t they, Jim?’

  ‘No; too sensible be half.’

  ‘What be ’em a-doen’ then?’

  ‘Blow me if I know, but the chap I spoke to on the road today say as how the Mayor were back an’ the Greyshirts a handen’ out vittals from the Town Hall.’

  ‘Think o’ that now; in Ipswich do ‘ee mean?’

  ‘Yer—and other places too!’

  ‘Don’t ’ee believe that,’ cut in another labourer, ‘’tis a Soviet what’s been set up—it be true about the vittals, though only for the townsfolk—they ‘on’t part with any for the likes o’ we!’

  ‘Well, if it do be the Communists that be a wonderful pity!’

  ‘What the ’ell’s it matter ’oo it be so long as they stop a-murdering o’ each other; seein’ as the old lot let us down so bad, I’m all for given’ the others a chance.’

  ‘England won’t never go Bolshie; happens us’ll be all dead afore then.’

  ‘If you fared as hungry as what I do, you’d go Bolshie all right; aint you a comen’ on this party tonight?’

  That be different thing; they stole my horse and tumbril, not to mention the hins and eggs. It be only human nature to want your own back.’

  ‘You be right,’ said the woman. ‘Fair’s fair, as I allus do say.’

  The agitator sat down and Cattermole took his place. With feverish impatience Ann listened to his speech, for until they made some move she had no means of ascertaining if Kenyon was still among them and every now and then she shuddered at the thought that he might be lying murdered in a nearby ditch.

  At last in a storm of applause Cattermole ceased speaking and then Kenyon was dragged down the bank. Her intense relief at finding him still alive was soon submerged in shuddering dismay as she saw them press the burning branch against his chest. Unable to bear it any longer she closed her eyes and rocked with misery, but when she opened them again the whole crowd were on their feet and struggling away up the far slope.

  She had followed enough of Cattermole’s speech to gather their intention, but she had little thought to spare for Shingle Street; Gregory would deal with an attack by such a rabble with horrible efficiency. Kenyon was all that mattered and she must keep as near to him as possible. With that one central fact dominating her distraught mind she crept after the farm people and, seeking all the cover she could from the sides of the road, followed them down to the coast.

  At the turn of the road where it debouched from the trees and curved across the marsh, she remembered an old concrete pillbox and, finding it without difficulty, slipped inside. The long slit in the front of the musty little circular chamber commanded the village and its approach, so, from it, although the whole scene was shrouded in darkness, she was able to watch for the crisis which she felt was imminent.

  The Redoubt was a quarter of a mile away but she heard Kenyon’s shout that gave warning of the attack, and next moment the rapid tattoo that heralded the butchery. Stray bullets ripped through the branches overhead and a couple thudded on the little concrete fort, then the firing ceased abruptly. The stricken field was mercifully covered by night, but the dark curls clung damp about her temples at the thought that Kenyon must be somewhere among those panic-stricken, shouting people. Then there was
a dull boom to seaward and in the flash of the following explosion she caught a glimpse of the Martello Tower.

  For what seemed an interminable time she watched the shelling and then the silhouette of the village, black and sharp against the revealing searchlight, while little running figures gesticulated to one another. One by one the houses seemed to leap into a blinding sheet of flame as the projectiles struck them, and then disappear, so that the remnant of the burning hamlet began to take on the appearance of a row of black and jagged teeth which were being steadily extracted.

  The gun took a new angle, and the shells fell nearer to the fields ahead where Ann believed Kenyon to be dead or wounded. She wrung her hands helplessly together, and at every fresh detonation a shudder shook her from head to toe. For hours it seemed she had been crouching there, sending up little muttered prayers that the holocaust should cease, but there was no indication of its speedy termination. The searchlight shifted to the north but, owing to the shelving beach, she was spared the sight of that last desperate attempt of the survivors to seek safety; she only heard the renewed rattle of rifle and machine-gun fire and then a sudden silence.

  For another quarter of an hour she watched, fearful that at any moment the fighting might break out again, then by the dancing light of the flames she saw figures moving freely about the wreck of the village and crawled from her shelter.

  If Kenyon was dead she felt that it mattered little what happened any more, but if he was still alive she might yet be able to aid him so, taking a deep breath of the fresh night air, she set off towards the Redoubt.

  The going was not easy in the darkness; deep ditches half-filled with water and stinking mud intersected the fields of long coarse grass and, having fallen once, cutting her hand badly on a rusty nail, she did the last hundred yards on hands and knees until she was among the victims of the righting.

  Someone stumbled near her and she realised that others were seeking friends among the more seriously wounded who had been unable to crawl away. Then lights appeared a little distance to her left and she saw that a group of men were carrying those still living in rough stretchers towards the village. She stood up suddenly with fresh hope, feeling how senseless it was to stay there listening to those pathetic voices calling for the missing. In the darkness she would stand little chance of finding Kenyon, but if he was still alive he would be carried down to the beach with the others.