Darwin's Soldiers

by Ste Sharp

  John shrugged. ‘Safety in numbers?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Crossley tilted his head. ‘But I’m outta here the first chance I get.’

  ‘How will you get home?’ John asked and shook his head when Crossley offered him a cigarette. He’d tried a few with the lads in the trenches but they just made him cough.

  Crossley shrugged and lit his. ‘Who knows? The whole thing’s screwy if you ask me.’ He gestured at the men and women surrounding them. ‘They can’t be real, right?’

  John answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know.’ He’d accepted what was going on just like when Rosie died and when he’d been stationed in the trenches: he felt numb and just got on with it.

  ‘So, you got a home to get back to?’ Crossley asked.

  ‘Yes.’ John thought of Joe’s cheeky face and smiled. ‘I’ve got a son.’ He pictured Joe tearing about the family shop, weaving in and out of the piles of veg or jumping up for a cuddle when he came back from his deliveries.

  John pulled out the tin soldier around his neck. ‘I bought him this in a Calais market. When I get back to London I’ll give it to him.’

  ‘London? Jeez…’ Crossley exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘That place took a helluva pasting from the Luftwaffe. I met a Limey who told me his whole neighbourhood got flattened in one raid. One raid! Some ammunitions factory.’

  ‘Really?’ John frowned. ‘I didn’t hear about it. I heard some Zeppelins had gone over but–’

  ‘Zeppelins?’ Crossley laughed. ‘Hell, no! Bombers – you know, Junkers and Dorniers? Five-hundred-pound bombs – thousand-pound bombs.’ He stopped and looked John up and down. ‘I thought your kit was old but…’ he pointed to one of John’s bags, ‘…gas mask, right?’

  John pulled out the cloth head sack with two glass discs and mouthpiece. ‘Only used it twice.’

  Crossley nodded and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘So you’re fighting the Great War, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ John replied.

  ‘Well I’m fighting in the Great War’s bastard son. The Second World War we call it… for now anyways. About twenty years after your war, it all flared up again.’ Crossley raised his eyebrows. ‘Germans.’

  ‘But… our war was the war to end all wars.’ John’s voice trailed off and he took a sip from his canteen. ‘Did we lose?’

  ‘Oh no, we won alright – just didn’t do a good enough job of it.’ Crossley shook his head. ‘Plus this time the Italians joined in, and the Japanese.’

  John took a deep breath. It had all been for nothing then: his friends blown to pieces; the civilians killed in their homes; the men he’d killed from the crater.

  ‘So your wife’ll be waiting back in London with your son?’ Crossley asked.

  ‘Joe’s there, but Rosie… er, no.’ John felt the familiar chill run through his stomach as he pictured Rosie’s dead body. ‘She died.’ He pictured Rosie’s face, the way she smiled every time he took her back to the Chapel music hall where they first met; the white lace in her hair on their wedding day; the way she had rested her hand on her pregnant belly. He remembered Joe as a helpless newborn and the days and nights John had spent desperately trying to feed him with one of the new bottles with rubber teats his father had managed to get hold of.

  ‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ Crossley said and patted John on the shoulder.

  The affection nearly made John cry but he turned a sniff into a cough.

  ‘April the Fifteenth, 1912,’ John said.

  Saying the exact date made it feel less real for some reason, like it was part of history now.

  ‘Hey, I know that date – Titanic, right?’ Crossley said. ‘Shit. Must have been awful.’

  ‘No, I…’ John looked at Crossley to tell him the truth but the Chinese soldier was speaking again.

  ‘Quiet! Thank you. Now we need a spokesman to talk to these abstainers.’

  John and Crossley were in the minority: just twenty soldiers waited to choose their side.

  For those wanting to travel by night, the Red Arab stepped forward, while the handsome knight, who introduced himself as Sir William Lavalle, stepped forward for the day travellers.

  ‘Just like being at school waiting to be picked for footy,’ John joked.

  ‘Yeah, only this time we’re the ones choosing,’ Crossley whispered back.

  The Arab spoke first. ‘I am Mihran ibn al-Hassan.’ He paused and John wondered if he should know his name. ‘Under the cover of darkness, we will be hidden from our enemy’s eyes and we will travel faster when the temperature is coolest.’ He spoke calmly. ‘Travelling at night is the obvious choice.’

  Nods and jeers behind him showed his group’s approval.

  Next came Sir William. ‘We should not challenge the natural order of things – we work in the day and sleep at night. If we travel in daylight we will see our enemy and defend ourselves better.’ The day group chanted their support. ‘And it would be easier to lose our way when travelling at night.’

  John still didn’t know which group to choose.

  ‘Who do you choose?’ a tin-helmeted soldier asked the Chinese soldier.

  ‘I choose night.’ The future soldier jumped off the rock and walked to Mihran, the Red Arab.

  For some, that was enough.

  John looked at both sides, weighing them up: Night had Samas, the Chinese soldier and Mihran, while Day had Sir William, the huge Maori and Althorn in its ranks.

  A shudder ran through John as an image of the war he’d left behind appeared in his mind: explosions lighting up the night sky and screams in the dark. His worst times had come during the night. He caught a glimpse of Sakarbaal, the tattooed warrior, in the night group, who fixed his eyes on John and drew a line across his neck.

  ‘Day Watch, definitely Day Watch,’ John said and stepped over to Sir William’s side.

  ***

  ‘We need a leader.’ Sir William Lavalle towered over John and Crossley as he addressed the newly formed group of nearly ninety soldiers.

  ‘Althorn is the best choice,’ the tattooed Maori said.

  ‘He should have the final say in any decision,’ agreed a blue-turbaned fighter who cleaned a long curved sword.

  Althorn shook his head. ‘I’m not a leader – I can’t make decisions for us all.’

  ‘What about Sir William?’ the Amazon archer said. ‘He has shown the courage of a chief.’

  The handsome knight shook his head. ‘No, we are all equals here, in this unknown territory.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Crossley joined in. ‘We should all have our say.’

  Many in the group nodded.

  ‘So how do we decide?’ John asked.

  ‘We wait for the right leader to emerge,’ Sir William said. ‘The Lord will show us who should lead.’

  ‘Or we cast votes when we need a decision?’ the Maori suggested.

  ‘And we go with the most votes?’ Sir William asked.

  ‘That’s democracy…’ Crossley quipped.

  ‘I’m happy with that,’ Althorn said.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the Amazon shook her head.

  ‘It will work for now, sweetheart,’ Crossley said. ‘So shouldn’t we get a move on?’

  ‘Not before we have our rules.’ Sir William looked stern. ‘We need guidelines on how our group should behave in combat and how we vote to make our decisions…’

  As the conversation drifted off, so did John. He rubbed his palm, which still ached, and watched the Night Watch, who had set up camp and now talked in a huddle.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  John turned to see Althorn.

  ‘I burnt it,’ John said, and showed him the white blisters on his palm.

  Althorn studied it and said, ‘Keep it cool and it should heal itself.’

  ‘I can try,’ John said and placed his palm on the metal of his gun.

  Someone was shouting in their direction and John turned.

  ‘You! With the…’

  ‘Gun.’

  ‘Y
es, you with the gun!’ Sir William pointed at John. ‘How do you vote – quick march, steady or alternating?’

  John felt the weight of his gun and bags. ‘Steady,’ he answered.

  ‘Alternating,’ a blue-suited rifleman said.

  ‘Steady,’ Althorn said.

  ‘Steady march it is then,’ Sir William concluded. ‘Best to be wary at this stage, I agree.’

  ‘So, can we go now?’ Crossley asked with raised eyebrows. ‘Or do we have to vote on which foot we step with first?’ He laughed and walked down the hill into the forest.

  Chapter 2

  As the Day Watch left the obelisk hill, Mihran ibn al-Hassan studied his companions – the Night Watch – as they set up camp around the obelisk. It was clear there would be a power struggle here. Everyone would want power, or so he’d thought.

  ‘I am Field Officer Li, and I cannot assume the role of leader.’ The Eastern soldier had been a popular choice. ‘I have no experience of coordinating such a large group.’

  ‘But you are from an advanced age,’ a leather-clad archer said. ‘You have more knowledge than any of us here.’

  ‘That is true,’ Li replied. ‘I know how each of your empires flourished and died, I know the history of your nations and the battles your people won and lost – but I have never led soldiers.’ The shiny face shield remained down, which distorted Li’s voice. ‘Personally, I would never choose an inexperienced chief over a battle-hardened captain.’

  Several men nodded and Mihran held back the questions he longed to ask about the empire his army had been building.

  ‘How about the white-haired one?’ A warrior with an obsidian club pointed to the tallest man in the group.

  All eyes turned to the blond man, who puffed his chest out and tried to look serious.

  ‘Why?’ a man with an incredibly long bow asked. ‘He looks like a thug if you ask me.’

  ‘He is the only race here I recognise,’ he shrugged. ‘I trust him.’

  The big man looked confused and asked, ‘How does he recognise me?’

  ‘Vikings from the settlement of Vinland made contact with the late Mayan Empire,’ Li said, ‘and early Aztec culture – two rotted boat hulls and at least one gene can be traced through the –’ Li paused, then said, ‘Your ancestors may have met.’

  Mihran nodded. After the discussion he intended to have a long talk with Li to understand who these people were and what a gene was.

  ‘So who wants to be leader then?’ the bowman asked. ‘Surely it would be easier to sort things out that way?’

  Samas, the Babylonian, stepped forward in his shining bronze armour. ‘I am a captain – I can lead us.’

  Mihran sneered at the foot soldier but could tell by the faces around him this was a man they would follow.

  ‘I have led men into battle and fought side by side with them,’ Samas continued. ‘I would gladly assume the position of leader of this fine group of soldiers.’

  Applause broke out amongst the group and Mihran could bear it no longer.

  ‘What do you know of navigation?’ Mihran asked. ‘How will you lead us to the silver gates if you don’t know their location?’ He stepped forward. ‘What shall we eat and how shall we travel without horses?’

  Mihran held Samas’ stare and his cloak flapped open to reveal armour equally impressive as the Babylonian’s.

  ‘You wish to lead these men?’ Samas asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Mihran raised his head. ‘My people were chosen to lead and I, Mihran ibn al-Hassan, will be your leader.’

  A few warriors shook their heads, while others nodded in agreement. Maybe they had heard of his achievements on the battlefield?

  ‘And you have answers to your questions?’ Samas asked.

  ‘Not all,’ Mihran replied honestly. ‘But we will struggle without provisions.’ He pointed to the forest. ‘And we need to get clear of this woodland to maintain our direction.’

  ‘One man cannot be the expert on everything,’ Samas retorted.

  ‘Without one clear voice, nobody will listen and the army will fall apart,’ Mihran replied.

  A dark-skinned soldier with a short spear stepped forward to speak. ‘I vote for Mihran.’

  The bowman said, ‘Well, I vote for Samas, because if we have to fight we need him to direct us.’

  Mihran could see the problem here. Many of these soldiers were infantry who looked for a strong fighter to stand with them in battle – they despised the generals who made decisions for them – but Mihran knew an army was more than its muscles and weapons.

  Discussions were breaking out throughout the group.

  ‘Wait. Be quiet!’ Li took the floor once more. ‘We don’t need any more divisions – our group has already split in two.’ The soldiers quietened down. ‘Both Samas and Mihran can lead us. One to lead our journey,’ Li looked at Mihran, ‘and the other to lead in battle,’ with a nod to Samas.

  A rumble of agreements ran around the group and Mihran gave Li a nod of approval. It was good to find a soldier of a similar mind.

  ***

  The Day Watch developed a natural rhythm, walking in single file and alternating the lead and rear every ten minutes. They pounded a rhythm on the woodland floor, keeping their thoughts to themselves as they wound through a forest of golden-barked trees which formed a light canopy overhead. As the descent became less steep, larger trees became visible, along with clutches of giant bamboo. It was unsettling for Althorn not being in the mountain lakes and snowy peaks of his homeland and he felt something was wrong here: his hand instinctively felt for his bone-handled dagger and the touch brought back his memories from the previous night.

  Althorn had been waiting for hours tucked behind a hummock of wild grass a hundred paces from the village as the stubborn sun set. I’m getting too old for this, he’d thought, and resisted the urge to urinate, worried the smell would betray his position.

  He ran questions through his mind to pass the time and keep alert.

  What was that bird calling? A lapwing.

  What was his earliest memory? Shooting an arrow from his father’s bow.

  How many men had he killed? Fifty? No, it had to be more – there was the grassland tribe who wanted their rival clan’s sons murdered. Had it been a mistake to let those young boys live? Killing children was something he refused to have on his conscience. Either way, the grassland tribe had accepted the burnt bodies and paid him well. If they’d discovered the truth, it had been long after he’d made it back to the mountains.

  He preferred the mountains – more places to hide.

  Now he had one more king to slay. They were getting younger and he was getting older, he remembered thinking. In his youth, Althorn had stood in the front line of many great battles, slaying men in their prime. Fighting men. But that was long before the defeat at High Ridge when his clan had been destroyed and taken into slavery.

  Movement by one of the buildings signalled the change of guard. He had to move fast before the new man’s eyes acclimatised to the light.

  Through steady, workmanlike killing, Althorn had made it to the main hall of the enemy village, leaving a trail of dead bodies from his grassy hiding place to the hall’s door. His garrotte had dripped with maroon blood by the time he was done.

  Althorn tensed as he hid in the darkness of the great wooden building, to stay focused. The hall was only twenty paces long, but his vision was impeded by smoke from a fire. With the toes of a thief, he made his way across the earthen floor, creeping around sleeping dogs. The curtained door at the other end was his goal – the king’s chamber. Guards slept on either side of the doorway but their open mouths and empty beer horns suggested it would take thunder to wake them. Taking his time, Althorn parted the embroidered curtain and squinted to see two shapes in the straw bed and paused to listen. Two sets of breath. One deep and one shallow.

  This was the place.

  ‘Mother?’ a child called out.

  Althorn froze. He hadn’t seen the
children in the hall. Speed was vital, so Althorn stepped to the far side of the bed, took out his knife and aimed for the larger shape’s neck.

  All hell had broken loose. Vicious fists flew at Althorn, who stabbed again, aiming for the chest: his blade scraping against bone as it twisted between ribs. Screams from the woman beside the dying king were joined by barking from the hall. The king fought back in the dark, gurgling on blood, and the woman leapt at Althorn. A fist caught him in the eye, so Althorn swiped back with his knife hand. The curtain swept back and firelight was cast on the bloody scene.

  Everything fell silent.

  Beneath Althorn, the king had breathed his last in a twisted shape of agony. Beside him the woman swayed and fell back, clawing at a red line across her throat. She squinted, looking Althorn directly in the eye.

  ‘Althorn?’ she’d whispered, and breathed her last.

  A child’s screams were cut off as Althorn fell deaf, staring at the woman in horror. What was she doing here? And why was she bathed in silver light? He turned to the warriors in the doorway. Why hadn’t they attacked? They were shielding their eyes. Althorn looked down to see the light was coming from him.

  Then, in a flash, everything had disappeared.

  Now, Althorn took in the soldiers who walked with him: they were too well fed to be foragers or wanderers like him. They must have had every meal prepared for them while they spent their days training for war, he thought with a tang of jealousy.

  ‘We must find water.’ A spearman, wearing sparkling armour, broke the silence.

  ‘There must be a stream flowing down this hill,’ the tall female archer answered.

  A murmur flowed through the line and, listening in, Althorn could tell the group were realising what he already knew – they were totally unprepared for this journey.

  ‘We will come across a water source soon,’ Althorn reassured the group, wondering whether his age played a part in the father-like role he seemed to have acquired. ‘The land is levelling out.’

  Althorn was probably not much older than the Arab in the Night Watch – Mihran, wasn’t it? – but his years as an assassin, tracking targets across mountains and nights spent in the elements, had taken their toll. The thought of his last kill made him shudder. This was his penance – the gods had brought him here to pay.