by Robert Ryan
Watson sighed. ‘It is not your decision.’
‘No, it is the decision of the blunderers and the . . .’ Levass lapsed into rapid French, not all of which Watson could follow.
‘Levass. It’s over. I—’
The tank bucked like an angry stallion. The ground shook beneath their feet and the metal walls began to resonate. The Allied barrage had started. The noise of the guns was amplified by the vibrating steel hull into a continuous, oppressive thundering. The air thickened and it seemed as if someone was trying to crush Watson’s chest.
‘Levass. I don’t know how’ – he struggled for support as the tank slid into the crater a little more – ‘how accurate the guns are. We could be blown to pieces where we stand.’
Levass was thrown backwards as a shockwave punched into G for Glory. The petrol can overturned and gurgled away its contents, pooling at the lower side of the stricken machine. Now the air was thick with its vapour.
‘Look, you can convince them to call off the tanks when you get out.’ Watson knew this was a desperate invention, but he was sweating now and not from the residual heat of the engine. The shells were falling so thick and fast there were no individual explosions.
‘They won’t listen.’
‘They won’t be able to hear you at all if you are dead. You might still make a difference. What you say isn’t entirely nonsense. Your method of saying it, however . . .’
Levass holstered the pistol. ‘Perhaps you are right.’ The machine-gun fusillade hit the exposed front of G for Glory like a furious drum roll. The rounds could not penetrate the armour, but the hot metal and sparks they sent buzzing around the interior like manic fireflies ignited the spilled petrol. Watson looked on in horror as the fuel at Levass’s feet made a whoosing sound and a wall of flame engulfed him. Soon the rest of the petrol caught, almost masking the burning man’s screams, as the inside of the tank crackled into a lethal inferno.
FIFTY
Sherlock Holmes was sleeping. He looked, in repose, like any other patient, his face relaxed, freed from the struggle of his day-to-day existence and some of the ravages of time. He was in a private room at St Bart’s, the place where, many, many years before, he had met a lath-thin and nut-brown ex-army officer, and they had decided to share rooms. The start of a great adventure that, Mrs Gregson suspected, only the death of one or the other would curtail for good.
She reached over and dabbed at a line of spittle that had formed at the corner of his mouth, and the former detective stirred slightly. It was almost dawn on Friday 15 September 1916, and she had been there all night, snoozing in the chair. It was a way of keeping the faith for Watson. She had not been able to go with him to France – there had been no room in the aeroplane, for a start – so she had set about making sure his old friend received the best possible care.
She was worried about Watson, of course, but knew better than to try to stop him going. He had wanted this finished off. After requisitioning the motor cycle with a wave of the pistol, the pair had driven to London, contacting MI5 en route to make sure that Langdale Pike – a gossip columnist and skilled double agent – rolled up all the known German contacts and agents in London. If Ilse Brandt had made it to the capital, she would find the channels to Germany had been closed down.
That still left her at large, of course, and dangerous, but apparently her knowledge of Thetford and its machines would soon be redundant.
‘How is he?’
Mrs Gregson jumped to her feet, startled by the voice. It was Winston Churchill.
‘Thought I’d pop in. Just on my way to a sitting. Bloody Orpen wants to adjust my portrait. I look too glum, he said. No wonder, I said. And I’m not going to be smiling today. Did you hear the news?’
She shook her head.
‘They have squandered my landships by launching them in tiny numbers. Tiny.’
She wondered if this was Winston distancing himself from their deployment. He had gone to some lengths to make sure the tanks had got to France, after all. ‘So the secret is out?’
‘To the Germans? I suspect so, my dear. But thank you for all your work these months. I know it hasn’t been easy. I haven’t been easy.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Have you news of Major Watson?’
‘No.’
‘Early days yet,’ Churchill grunted, and then pointed at the slumbering Holmes. ‘So how is he?’
‘On the mend, sir. There was a chance of pneumonia after the crossing of the Broomway.’ Watson had briefed Churchill about their ‘escape’ from the island and the reasons why it had been imperative they get off Foulness, before the MP had sent him to Kent and an RNAS aeroplane bound for Yvranch and the tank HQ. ‘And Major Watson is adamant that he can reverse the effects of the anaemia that befuddled him.’
‘Yes. Feel a bit bad about that.’ Churchill said it as if regret was a new emotion to him. ‘Incarcerating him, I mean.’
‘So they’ll close Foulness? Now that the secret of the tanks is out?’
Winston squinted at her, as if smoke from his customary cigar were in his eyes. ‘I think it might still have its uses, Mrs Gregson. This damned war isn’t over yet. There’ll be other secrets to keep.’
‘I remembered something during the night. Something the woman said to me when she was pointing a gun at my head.’
‘Hhmm?’
‘She said I wouldn’t be the first woman the Sie Wölfe had killed.’
‘Sie Wölfe?’ Churchill thought for a moment. ‘She Wolves?’
‘I think so. It suggests some sort of organization. It suggests—’
‘So there is more than one of her?’
Mrs Gregson suppressed a shudder at the thought.
‘Leave that with me,’ said Churchill. ‘I’ll put the word out with the intelligence people, see if it raises any flags. Right. I’d best be going. If there is anything I can do—’
‘There is one thing,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘Get Major Watson back as quickly as you got him out there. He’s not a young man any more and . . .’
Churchill put his hat on. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll get him back for you.’
‘For both of us,’ she said, glancing at Holmes.
‘For both of you.’
FIFTY-ONE
The pain was intense. It was as if the flames were still licking at his back, singeing his hair and blistering his skin. Watson was lying on his front on the bed, naked, arms dangling either side of the mattress, his modestly protected by a sheet draped over his buttocks. His back and thighs were slathered in an unguent of some description. From the smell of phenol, he was fairly sure it was a tannic acid-based ointment. Personally, he would have prescribed Dakin’s hypochlorite, but he had been in no position to dictate the course of his own treatment.
His last memory before he woke up, many yards from the burned-out and eviscerated hulk of G for Glory was opening the heavy, heavy door as the fire engulfed him. His best guess was that a shell had ignited and hurled him free. At least some of the munitions had certainly detonated at some time, judging by the holed hull of the tank. It looked as if steel-eating maggots had bored through it. G for Glory wouldn’t be giving up her secrets. Levass would have been pleased with that, at least.
How had the attack gone? It was now getting towards dusk, which meant the day’s pattern of gain and loss should have emerged. Once night fell, the opposing armies had a habit of staying put. It was like a savage game of musical chairs and when the music stopped, the players dug in and counted their dead and the feet and yards of ground captured or given.
He remembered the two men crouched over him, the jab of the needle, the warm flood of morphia, and that, a few blurred images apart, was all he had to go on regarding his situation.
He shifted his head. This was an advanced makeshift hospital of the kind he recognized from his time at Plug Street the previous year. A former industrial building, most likely a few miles from the front, still blessed with a roof, filled wi
th steel beds and staffed by male orderlies and the odd nurse. It reeked of disinfectant and suppuration. Emergency operations would be performed here, but its main role was to stabilize the wounded and move them along. Once his back had healed a little, that would no doubt happen to him. Except in his case the evacuation line would keep moving – ambulance, train, boat, train – until he was back in London.
He wondered if anyone knew exactly where he was. The chaos of war meant there was no paperwork to say where he had been taken. His situation might not emerge for several days or weeks. No doubt Mrs Gregson would be worried. And Holmes. Poor Holmes. He hoped they were giving him blood and beef tea as he had instructed. It would be good to have the old Holmes back. They could discuss the cases that had still to see the light of day – ‘The Illustrious Client’, ‘The Sussex Vampire’, ‘Shoscombe Old Place’ – at least a dozen more adventures, the rough drafts and notes of which were all safely stored in the vaults of Cox & Co. Bank at Charing Cross.
A locus of pain opened up at the top of his spine, and soon his neck was burning and itching. But he knew he mustn’t scratch the skin. The exposed parts of his flesh had suffered the most. He would need some more morphia soon. Enough to numb the worst of it. And maybe to take him back into a world where the only light was gas, the only transport was a hansom cab, the air was thick with the sulphurous odour of the London particulars and two men in the prime of life ran rings around Scotland Yard. ‘Am dining at Goldini’s Restaurant, Gloucester Road, Kensington. Please come at once and join me there. Bring with you a jemmy, a dark lantern, a chisel and a revolver. S. H.’
Ah, how that cheered him. But that world was gone for ever, and not just physically. Nothing would ever be the same, even if they miraculously recovered their youth. There was a darkness over the world now, and it was difficult to see how it could ever glow bright again. The thought squeezed a tear out of the corner of his eye. Self-pity, Watson, said the voice in his head, has there ever been such a wasted emotion? Whatever is to come won’t be like the old times. But if our maker spares us, we shall owe it to him to make sure we embrace the days he has gifted us. No, it won’t be like it was before. But it’ll do us, Watson, it will do us handsomely.
He had decided the voice was bogus, but at that moment it was as welcome as spring sunshine across a wintery land.
In the corner of his vision he saw the elaborate headdress of a nurse. He raised an arm and began, haltingly, to speak. ‘Nurse . . .?’
She spun towards him. ‘Ja, wie kann ich helfen?’
For a moment he thought his brain had failed him. ‘Nurse?’
‘Ja? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
German? For the first time he looked around with eyes unglazed by drugs, at the uniforms hanging next to the beds, the newspaper the lad opposite was reading. German. He was in a German hospital.
‘Sind Sie alles in Ordnung? Is everything all right? I’m sorry, I do speak English,’ she said, crouching down so he could see her face. It was pretty, moon-like, smooth save for dimpled cheeks. When she smiled, he could see she was in the habit of snapping thread with her teeth. She had stitched a lot of wounds. ‘Just not too good, I am afraid. How can I help?’ She put a hand on his forehead. ‘You have gone quite pale.’
‘This is a German hospital?’ he asked.
‘Ja, of course.’
‘Where?’
‘A town called Bapaume.’
He had seen it on maps. It was well behind the lines. German lines. ‘And I’m a prisoner?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose you are. But first, you are a patient. Now, what is wrong? You called me over.’
His throat had lost all moisture and in a scratchy voice he asked for some water. She fetched him an enamel mug full to the brim and he swallowed the entire contents. ‘Thank you, Nurse. My neck is hurting somewhat. I don’t think the rest is far behind. I might need some morphia.’
The man in the next bed said something and she hissed a torrent of words back, silencing him. He was no doubt complaining about her talking in a foreign tongue to an enemy.
She flashed Watson a smile that was almost apologetic. She was a Frontschwester, one the Germans’ front-line nurses, the equivalent of the British QAs. And no doubt she broke as many young men’s hearts as they did. ‘You’re a doctor now, are you?’
He laughed and regretted it. When the spasm had gone, he said, ‘Actually I am, Nurse. Royal Army Medical Corps.’ He supposed all the insignia had been burned off his uniform.
‘Oh. Well, Doctor, then welcome.’ He did not correct her regarding his title, it was probably best she thought of him as a medical man than as a combatant. ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, aren’t you a little . . .’
‘Old?’
‘Mature. A little mature to be at the front?’
He would have nodded his agreement if he could have, but the pain in his neck was like a steel band that had been heated in a forge. ‘It’s a long story. I hope I never see no man’s land and the trenches again.’
She registered the expression on his face as the area over his shoulders began to prickle unpleasantly. ‘I’ll fetch some morphia. And, don’t worry, you won’t be seeing the front again soon. We’re being evacuated back tomorrow. Your side managed some gains. We are within range of your bigger guns now.’
‘Where are we being moved to?’
She looked surprised. ‘Well, I don’t know where we’ll end up, but once your back has healed sufficiently, you are going to Germany.’
The pain faded, to be replaced by a rushing sound in his ears as blood thumped through narrow vessels and the truth dawned on him. The steel band now gripped his temples. He had to face the reality of his situation. He was heading east. For Major John H. Watson, MD, the war to end all wars was about to take a very unexpected turn indeed.
EPILOGUE
OPENED BY INSPECTOR 3743
KRIEGSGEFANGENEN SENDUNG
GEÖFFNET – ZENSIEREN No. AP 2121
7 January 1917
To: Major John H. Watson
Inmate: Krefeld Offizierlager
Dear Major Watson,
What a thrill it was to receive the news that you were alive and well. The best (belated) Christmas present I have ever had. Mr Holmes has said he will also write to you now we have some vague address. And I shall send parcels through the Red Cross. But I have news.
And you remember the old friend we crossed the Broomway with? Well, we have made contact with her again. It was Mr Holmes’s idea. When he was well enough he ‘debriefed me’, as he put it, until my head spun. Then he placed an advertisement in the newspapers in one port after another – Dover, Plymouth, Portsmouth, Liverpool. He said she so loves the sea, she’ll be near it. It was to say that there was a particular mechanical doll for sale – an autoperipatetikos like the one she had broken – in mint condition. He felt sure she would be looking for a replacement. And it was for a bargain price. And yes, she came to meet the buyer in Liverpool and Mr Holmes, myself and two nice gentlemen from Mr Coyle’s company were there to greet her. So we were all reunited. She is staying with friends at the moment in London, not far from the Tower of London. We aren’t certain what will happen to her in the future, but she is in good hands – so all is well that ends well.
I hope that cheers you.
And I want you to know that you are sorely missed. I have been knitting. It does not come naturally, but I can manage socks and mittens. I am sure the winters are cold over there.
Let us hope the war is over soon and we can all be together. Dinner at The Connaught (as they call the Coburg now), says Mr Holmes. Doesn’t that sound grand?
I will write again soon, but in the meantime look for my parcels.
With all my best wishes
With all my love,
Georgina
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Although many of the characters in this novel existed, and tanks were developed at Thetford in Suffolk in circumstances roughly analogous to those depicted her
e, I have taken many liberties with history. There was no G Company of the Heavy Branch, Machine Gun Corps, although a G Battalion of the new Tank Corps was formed in December 1916. Similarly, I have not replicated the exact geography of the area, although Elveden Hall exists (albeit currently unoccupied) and the story of the maharajah and the Koh-I-Noor is true. You can find out more in Peter Bance’s book Maharajah Duleep Singh: Sovereign, Squire, Rebel (Coronet), which contains photographs of the hall. It is available at the Elveden shops (see www.elveden.com).
For details of the tank’s inception, development and deployment, David Fletcher and Tony Bryan’s monograph on the British Mark 1 Tank 1916 (Osprey) was invaluable in describing the layout of the first machines. I also drew on Patrick Wright’s Tank (Viking). I am particularly indebted to Band of Brigands: The Extraordinary Story of the First Men in Tanks by Christy Campbell, which put me on the trail of the Notes for Tank Commanders, the original of which is in the wonderful Bovington Tank Museum (www.tankmuseum.org) in Dorset. I also used Tanks and Trenches, edited by David Fletcher (The History Press). Reading many of the accounts of the early tanks, it will come as no surprise to discover that men really did lose their sanity in these metal beasts – carbon monoxide disoriented them and, in some cases, the combination of noise, heat and fumes sent them over the edge completely. One tank commander really did use his revolver to shoot the engine of his tormentor. The bravery of the men who drove those first tanks into battle, with little experience of war or the machines, is wholly admirable. The tank, though, was not the super-weapon the Allies had hoped for, mainly because the element of surprise was squandered in the mud of the Somme and because the early versions were so primitive and unreliable (although some tanks did make it across no man’s land on 15 September and helped liberate a village or two).