by Pat Kelleher
Gazette and the others turned their rifles on the creatures and fired. The beasts staggered under the fusillade. Some yelped and fell, others skidded to a halt, uncertain. The volley hadn’t entirely stopped their advance, but it had slowed it. Twenty, maybe thirty of the creatures were now bounding towards them, guttural snarls drawing back lips to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Others, more cautious, began edging round, trying to flank them, bellies low to the ground.
“Fall back!”
Atkins didn’t need to be told twice. He began running with the others, which only served to excite the creatures more. He sprinted past the downed aeroplane, where Mercy was wrestling with the ammunition magazine on the Lewis gun.
“Run!” cried Atkins as he sprinted past. Gazette and Gutsy skidded to a halt by the wreck and, using it for cover, loosed off another clip each.
“Take Ginger!” yelled Mercy, stacking up the six circular ammo magazines by him and setting the Lewis gun on the wing. “I’ll cover you!”
Gutsy and Lucky hauled Ginger to his feet and began herding him back towards the trenches.
Atkins dashed back towards the crashed biplane, firing off another clip as he ran before he slumped down by Mercy.
“You’ll need a loader,” he said. Mercy nodded grimly.
Mercy took aim and pulled the trigger, loosing the entire magazine in one burst. Atkins pulled it off, threw it aside and clipped on the second, but too slowly; the first wave of the creatures was nearly upon them. Mercy let off another quick stammer.
On their blind side, hidden by the fuselage of the aeroplane, they could hear the cries of other, less fortunate men as they fell to the pack.
Atkins loaded up the final magazine. A quick burst from the Lewis gun brought down a couple more of the creatures. Mercy was now getting the measure of the MG, alas with all too few rounds left. Another beast approached cautiously, its head down, a low growl emanating from its throat. It glared at them warily as it began tugging at the body of one of the dead aviators, seeking to drag it away. Mercy screamed and let fly another burst, bullets tearing into the beast, until the canister spun on empty. He shoved the gun aside, unshouldered his rifle, loaded another clip and waited.
Atkins heard a clatter above them. A creature had leapt onto the upturned belly of the machine. He could hear it sniffing. He lay still, not daring to move.
There was the rapid fire of five rounds and a roar of pain from the unseen creature, which seemed to stagger unsteadily on top of the machine and, in doing so, missed its footing, putting its full weight on the doped covering of the wing. Its claws tore through the flimsy cotton as the wing folded under it, the spars snapping under its weight and sending the wounded creature crashing towards Atkins.
Atkins rolled onto his back and braced the butt of his rifle against his shoulder. Unable to stop itself, the beast tumbled onto the blade of his bayonet. Atkins pulled the trigger, emptying his clip into the creature. It slumped heavily towards him. Inches from his face, its teeth snapped weakly; hot, thick saliva dripping onto him with the creature’s last fetid exhalation.
Mercy dragged him out from beneath the carcass. “Come on, Only, we’ve got to get back to the trenches.”
“No argument from me,” said Atkins, kicking himself free.
Stooped over, they ran for the shell hole from where Gazette was providing covering fire and jumped over the lip to find the rest of the section sheltering within.
By now the machine gun emplacements back behind the firing trench were opening fire on the animals. Bullets zinged overhead, causing them to flinch back into the shell hole.
“We’re on your side, you daft beggars!” called Porgy, clutching his steel helmet to his head.
Cautiously, Atkins peered above the rim. It appeared that competing packs of the creatures were now fighting among themselves and, now that he had a better view, he could see why.
It wasn’t just the living that they were feeding off. Several beasts were tugging at the exposed limbs of corpses and attempting to draw the corrupt bodies from the mud’s clammy embrace. They fought over rotting bodies, worrying the fragile cadavers until they fell apart, or else bursting gas-filled bellies and snuffling greedily at the contents. The scale of their predicament, the full horror of their situation, hit Atkins. They were sitting on a charnel field consisting of layer upon layer of decomposing dead, thousands of corpses of rotten Hun, French and British soldiers. They’d attract every predator, scavenger and carrion eater for miles around. This was just the start.
“It’s now or never. Make for the trenches, lads, and don’t spare the horses,” said Hobson.
As one, they leapt from the shell holes and made for the lines. Distracted by the prospect of a live kill, some of the creatures turned from fighting over scraps to give chase. Ketch fell headlong into the mud, his rifle flung out beyond his reach. He cried out as he spotted the creatures bearing down on him, each trying to warn the other off their potential prize.
Sod him, thought Atkins, but he couldn’t. “Damn!” He ran back.
“Get the hell away from me, Atkins. I’m not going to be party to your showboating heroics.”
“Now ain’t the time, Ketch. F’Pete’s sake, take my hand.”
Ketch’s hand clasped his and Atkins hauled him up. The beasts, sensing that their prey was about to bolt, put on a burst of speed. They weren’t going to make it.
The air filled with a high pitched drone, punctuated by the spatter of machine gun fire. Atkins dropped as a biplane swooped low over them, picking off the creatures as it came. He cheered as he caught sight of a gauntleted hand giving him a cheery wave from the cockpit before the plane began to climb steeply away again, waggling its wings briefly.
Atkins attempted to haul Ketch to his feet again but the corporal swatted his hand away. “I don’t want your damn help, Atkins,” he snapped and, after a false start, slipping in the mud, he struggled to his feet and they raced for the trenches. As they ran Atkins could hear the machine circling round again, diving towards the packs of creatures and spitting lead.
As those on the firestep covered them, Atkins flung himself over the parapet into the safety of the trenches, almost knocking over Hepton who was feverishly cranking the handle of his camera, mesmerised by the scene before him. There, from the relative safety of the fire bay, Atkins saw the tank turning its Hotchkiss machine guns on knots of the feeding creatures. Some of the more cunning ones slunk in under the gun’s field of fire and leapt onto the tank’s back, growling and slashing impotently at its armoured hide. They started ripping at the anti-grenade gable on its roof, tearing at the chicken wire. Fore and aft of the gun sponsons, small round loopholes, no more than a couple of inches across, flicked open and the barrels of revolvers poked out and began to fire. Muzzle flashes buried themselves in the greasy hides of the beasts straddling the tank. They dropped to the ground with yelps and squeals, slinking into the undergrowth with howls of frustration to cheers of victory from the men.
LIEUTENANT JAMES TULLIVER peered back over the trailing edge of his wing down at the bewildering scene. Huge wolf-like creatures prowled over No Man’s Land, which seemed to have shrunk to a circle barely half a mile across, surrounded by a halo of bright cinnamon earth. It sat in the wide green valley, looking as if it had been dropped there from a height by a careless giant. Well, to be quite frank, thought Tulliver, it looked like nothing so much as a freshly dropped cow pat in a field.
Normally he would return to the airfield, but from what he could see, there was no airfield left to which he could return. There were several hundred yards of No Man’s Land but the persistent shelling meant that wasn’t even an option. He could make out the fire and cover trenches and even a long section of support trench along with a bombed farmhouse near the edge of the grey-brown mud flat. Beyond that, some sort of long grass was flattened outwards as if by a shockwave. It wasn’t ideal, but right now he didn’t seem to have much choice. He selected his approach and cut the engine, gliding
down towards the ground.
He felt the wheels of the Sopwith 1½ Strutter hit with a bump and the machine bounced along. He adjusted the flaps and the biplane came down heavily again, this time trundling along to a stop, the thing juddering and shaking so much Tulliver feared it would fall apart before it stopped, but stop it did. He pushed up his goggles revealing piercing blue eyes amid the oil-splattered face. He climbed out of his cockpit and checked Hodgeson his observer. He was dead, sat slumped forward in the rear cockpit, blood filling his goggles. Damn shame. He’d only been out two weeks. He clambered down to the ground, took off his fur-lined gloves and boots, then walked round to inspect his machine, noting the holes across the fuselage that the Hun had given him. They could be repaired. All in all she was still in admirable condition.
“Good show, old girl,” he said gently. He looked round. About fifty yards away was the beginning of the mud patch. He strolled towards it with his usual insouciance, intending to report to the nearest officer, when he heard a scream. A female scream. It came from the bombedout farmhouse teetering near the edge of the muddy escarpment. He ran towards it, pulling out his revolver, barely noticing the change of ground underfoot as he raced up the incline. The scream was suddenly drowned out by a frustrated growl.
Nearing the house, he slowed down and edged forward cautiously. He could hear some animal, probably one of those beasts he saw earlier, padding around inside.
From a boarded up window he heard the sound of sobbing, the murmur of prayer and an insistent, urgent whisper.
“Well, we can’t just sit here. There must be something we can do.”
“What on earth is it?”
“It must have escaped from a zoo!”
There was another roar from the beast, which could clearly hear and smell its prey but couldn’t reach it.
Tulliver edged along the wall until he came to a faded wooden doorjamb, its paint peeling and the door long since carted off for firewood. Cocking his pistol, he peered round the door. The huge beast was stood in the passage sniffing at the closed door within. Its great claws had slashed through the plaster to the side to reveal the fragile wooden slats beneath. It wouldn’t be long before it got through that way.
Tulliver withdrew. As quietly as possible he checked the chambers of his revolver. They were all full. He only hoped they’d be enough.
He took several deep breaths. He wished whoever was screaming would shut up. It was really getting on his nerves. Apart from which he wanted to make sure the animal could hear him. As the screamer stopped to take a breath, he stepped round the doorway and whistled. The beast looked up and growled before bounding at him, claws skittering over the debris on the floor. Tulliver got off two shots then stepped aside, back against the wall beside the door as the beast came through, bringing half the doorjamb with it. He got off another two shots before the beast realised where he was and could turn. Its back legs skidded out from under it.
It pounced. Tulliver let off the last two shots. One passed straight through its skull scattering its brains out through the exit wound. As he dropped and rolled aside, the beast crashed into the wall and collapsed to the ground, sending loose bricks tumbling down, prompting another round of screaming from inside.
“Edith! Do be quiet. I shan’t have to slap you again, shall I?”
“Sister, please, no more violence!” said a man’s voice.
“Well, if she don’t, I will,” came a third female voice.
“Hello?” called Tulliver as he walked slowly down the short passage and tried the door. It wouldn’t budge. He tried knocking and was encouraged by the sound of scraping as if someone were moving large objects.
“Well for goodness sake, Edith, give the gel a hand.”
“Thanks awfully,” came the reply, dripping with sarcasm as the door scraped open and jammed halfway. Tulliver was just wondering whether he should do the gentlemanly thing and put his shoulder to it when a final wrench from a pair of grubby hands freed it. The door crashed open sending a woman dressed in a khaki jacket and long ankle length khaki skirt reeling back into the arms of a middle-aged chap in an army uniform, under which Tulliver could see the black cloth and white collar of a Devil Dodger. Two nurses looked on.
“Careful there, Padre, this is more my area of expertise than yours I think,” said Tulliver, stepping into the room and setting the poor woman on her feet again.
“Gor blimey, a… pilot!” said the khaki-clad FANY. She blushed furiously against her better judgement but recovered admirably. “Nellie Abbott,” she said with a little bob of a curtsey. “Where’s your machine, then? Can I see it? What sort is it?”
“Driver Abbot! A little decorum, please!” said the sister brusquely. “You are a pilot, then?”
“Lieutenant James Tulliver, RFC,” he said, clicking his heels and giving a little mock bow of the head.
“Sister Fenton,” said the nurse curtly, thrusting out a hand. “Red Cross. This is Nurse Bell,” she said, nodding at a similarly dressed young woman.
“Yes,” said Tulliver, shaking her hand. “The red crosses on your uniform did rather give it away.”
“I don’t think this is the time for flippancy, do you, Mr Tulliver?” interjected the padre.
The young woman in the nurse’s uniform, her once carefully pinned hair now a-tumble, let out a sigh and crumpled to the floor.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” said Fenton, stamping her foot. “Edith!”
“I say, I don’t usually have that kind of effect,” said Tulliver. “Is she all right?”
“It’s not you, you great oaf,” snapped the other nurse. “We’ve just been though a lot, a motor crash, a freezing cold night in a cellar, the shelling and now to have that slavering great creature…”
“It’s dead now,” said Tulliver. “But this place isn’t safe. There are more of them. We’ll have to get you into the trenches.”
“The trenches? Are you mad?” said the padre. “There are hundreds of men there.”
“Padre, believe me,” said Sister Fenton, “The likes of that lot hold no fear for me.”
“An’ I’ve got four brothers so I’ve seen the worst of ’em!” said Abbott jovially.
“There, that’s settled then,” said Tulliver.
“It’s totally out of the question. It’s… improper,” said the padre. “We’re waiting on a motor ambulance to take them back to the Hospital in St. Germaine.”
“Ah,” said Tulliver, awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling the short bristles there.
“What do you mean, ‘ah’?” said Sister Fenton.
“I mean, I don’t think it’s going to be possible, I’m afraid,” he said. “At least for a while. Can she walk?” he asked, indicating Nurse Bell.
“Oh she’ll be fine. Abbott, give me a hand,” said Sister Fenton.
The khaki-clad girl hurried to put herself under the blonde nurse’s arm in order to take her weight. The woman groaned softly.
“Come on, Edi,” she said. “Time for a little promenade.”
“Where to?” asked the dazed nurse weakly.
“Padre, I need to report to, well, to somebody. Can you take me to an officer? Whose Company Front is this?”
“13th Battalion Pennine Fusiliers. I can take you to C Company HQ. It’s not far from here.”
“It may be further than you think,” Tulliver said cryptically. “Wait here.” He slipped out of the door and peered outside. He held his revolver for appearance’s sake. The nurses needn’t know it was empty. He had some spare ammunition, but it was in the aeroplane.
“It’s clear. Padre, you bring up the rear.”
“Right you are.”
They stepped over the rubble and out of the back of the ruined farmhouse facing the front line, to avoid the creature’s corpse out the front. It took the women a moment or two to catch their breath at the sight of the lush green vista now surrounding them.
“Blimey!”
“Oh. My…”
&
nbsp; “Hold fast, Abbott, Edith’s going to faint again,” said Sister Fenton. “Mr Tulliver, where exactly are we? These mountains weren’t here yesterday. I should have been sure to spot them. How is this possible?”
“That,” said Tulliver, “is the very question. Well, Padre, any answers?”
The padre opened and closed his mouth several times before giving up and reluctantly shaking his head.
A strange cry startled them. Above, flocks of things that were not birds were beginning to swirl and wheel above the mud. Up ahead, they could hear the marshalling shouts and barks of NCOs giving orders.
“We’d best hurry. Watch your step, ladies,” cautioned Tulliver as he led them across the mud and down into the nearest communication trench. He’d only ever once before had a trip up to the front lines, when visiting an artillery battery.
“That smell!” said Edith, faltering as she looked round for the source while Sister Fenton dragged her on like a tardy child.
“I know,” said Tulliver, shaking his head. “Sweaty feet, unwashed men, cordite, army stew. If nothing else they should act as effective smelling salts, eh, Abbott?”
As they worked their way up the trench the party attracted cat calls and whistles from weary, mud-soaked and bewildered men. Tulliver turned back to check on his charges. Sister Fenton strode purposefully on, doing her best to ignore them, while Edith seemed to have recovered enough to smile coquettishly as she was pulled along in her wake. Abbott strode confidently behind. She looked longingly at a private drawing on a fag. “Aw, go on, duck, give us a Wood, I’m gasping!” she said as she passed.
The soldier leered at her. “Come ’ere, and I’ll give you—” he began, before catching the eye of the padre bringing up the rear. Flustered, he fished around in his tunic pocket producing two battered but serviceable Woodbines and offered them to her. “—I’ll give you a couple,” he stuttered apologetically, smiling awkwardly as his mates jeered and jostled him.
Abbott took them from his hand. “Ta, ever so, ducks,” she called gaily as the padre impatiently herded her away.