Black Hand Gang

by Pat Kelleher

  Atkins stood in the fire bay as dawn grazed the sky; Ginger and Porgy closest to him, Gutsy, Pot Shot, Mercy and Lieutenant Everson to their left, Lucky, Half Pint, Gazette, Ketch and Jessop to their right. C Company's other three platoons on either side of them. Behind them in the communication and cover trenches, A and B companies readied themselves for the second wave of the attack. In front of him on the firestep the scaling ladder stood up against the brushwood revetment and sandbagged parapet. Atkins stared at it with deep resentment. How could something so mundane hold such sway over his life? He hated it. Every rung left him more exposed, lessened his chances. It might as well have been a ladder to the gallows.

  From along the trench Corporal Ketch glowered at them. Atkins knew he wanted them to funk it and he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction, but to Atkins' left Ginger was fidgeting uneasily, like a child on the verge of tears.

  "I heard they got summat new lined up for Fritz today; them watchercallems, Boojums they used up Flers," said Pot Shot.

  "What, here? Oh, what I wouldn't give to see one of them," said Gutsy.

  "Boojums?" said Ginger.

  "Like prehistoric monsters they is," said Porgy. "They knock down trees and eat houses. Bullets and bombs just bounce off 'em, I've heard,"

  "Jerry up!" said Half Pint, pointing up into the sky. Glad of the diversion, Atkins looked up with the rest into the calm autumn dawn. Above, he saw a great long train of tall white clouds stretching almost from horizon to horizon moving in a slow stately procession across the sky. There, beneath their great white bellies but high above the scattered smudges of black air burst, were two small dots flying toward the British lines.

  "Albatrosses, I'll be bound," said Porgy, shielding his eyes.

  "There!" called Lucky. Atkins turned. Three small black dots were making for them slowly, almost casually, flying out across the British lines to meet them. The Royal Flying Corps. Atkins willed them on as if wishing could give them speed enough to smash into the enemy like jousting steeds of the air, dashing their foes from the sky and sending them plummeting to earth. Instead they drifted slowly toward each other, almost lackadaisically, then seemed to weave in and around each other, dancing like mayflies on a summer evening. Atkins watched the dumb show, spellbound. One of them left a dark soft streak across the sky as it began a slow balletic tumble towards the earth. Atkins held his breath.

  "One of ours or one of theirs?" he asked nobody in particular as he craned his head.

  "Dunno," said Jessop.

  "Wait," said Mercy squinting his eyes. "It's one of theirs. I think."

  Grasping for a sign, any sign, and fanning a small flame of hope for the day ahead, a ragged cheer went up along the line. They joined in.

  Ketch growled and took a step towards them. "Quieten down. How can you listen out for the enemy, making a racket like that?"

  "Well it's not like they're going to attack at the same time we are, is it?" said Mercy.

  But the mood was successfully punctured and the cheer subsided. Satisfied, Ketch returned to his position with a smirk.

  Indistinct barks came down the line.

  "Fix bayonets!" bellowed Hobson.

  Atkins slotted the handle of the seventeen inch blade onto the end of his rifle. He'd done it so often he could do it in his sleep.

  Then they waited.

  Everson looked at his wristwatch. The second hand swung its way inexorably round to zero hour. Ten minutes to go. He licked his lips to moisten them for the pea-whistle that waited in his hand. Everything that could be done had been done. He could feel the weight of the revolver in his hand but his world had shrunk to that small disc on his wrist, to that needle-fine finger rotating, as if winding up the thread of his life onto some celestial spool.

  Once more he had to lead his men into battle. Except that this was never battle; no glorious charge, no smashing of shields or clash of swords. There was little honour or glory here; only death, despair, pain and guilt. You never saw the enemy. Death strode the field, no longer cutting men down with a scythe, but with a threshing machine, gathering in its harvest in commercial quantities. Death had been industrialised.

  Everson had never wanted responsibility. When he joined up he'd just wanted to be one of the men, a small cog in a big machine, but when your father was twice mayor of Broughtonthwaite and owner of the largest brewery in town there were bigger wheels turning against yours. So he'd been given a commission. Men he'd known before the war, men whose families had been intertwined with his for generations, now depended on him for their lives and he didn't want the responsibility. But now that it was his he wasn't going to shirk it. He'd done his damnedest to keep them alive through the bloodshed of the preceding summer, and by God, he'd do the same today.

  He ran a finger around the inside of his collar and unconsciously began chewing his lower lip.

  The artillery bombardment began. It started in No-Man's Land and, every minute, crept forwards another hundred yards towards the German lines - a barrage designed to shield the advancing soldiers from enemy fire. They would then move behind the line of smoke and shells, with the huge armoured hulks of the ironclad landships crushing paths through the German wire. At least that was the theory.

  The ground began to shake. A loud rumbling filled the air. Atkins felt himself flinch involuntarily, expecting a shell burst or trench mortar, but the sound went on and on, increasing in volume. Dirt started dancing off the sandbags on the parapet.

  "What the hell is it?" said Porgy, looking round. Down in the trench it was difficult to tell where the sound was coming from.

  Along with the deep bass roar came another noise now, a squeaking and whining, a repetitive metallic clank.

  "Blood and sand!" said Atkins as, several bays down, a fearsome metal monster belching white smoke from its back rolled across the reinforced bridge over the trenches into No Man's Land.

  It was an ironclad landship; armour-plated, its side-mounted sponsons seemingly bristling with guns. He'd never seen anything like it, not even in the adventure stories he read. On the side he could make out a painted identity number, I-5, and then underneath, painted in a scruffier hand, the legend, HMLS Ivanhoe.

  "Boojums!" yelled Pot Shot ecstatically.

  "Tanks! Read about 'em on leave," said Mercy. "The papers were full of 'em. Oh, we're going take that wood now. Fritz'll shit himself when he sees these coming at him, eh Ginger?"

  Ginger managed to crack a weak smile but then, as soon as the huge great armoured rhomboid rolled over the firing trench, he began flinching and jerking.

  Not now, thought Atkins. Not now.

  If Ginger fled the Battle Police would get him. If they didn't, Ketch certainly would. This close to a show, he wouldn't get the courtesy of a court martial before they marched him out to a stake and his mates had to shoot him.

  "Ginger, quiet!" But before he could say anything more to calm the boy there came the dull repetitive clang of a cracked warning bell and the cry of: "Gas! Gas! Gas!"

  The Germans, now aware that something was going off and having the prevailing wind in their favour, had opened their gas canisters and, heavier than air, the sluggish green cloud had begun to slue down the incline toward the British trenches.

  At once, Atkins put his rifle down, took off his helmet and began to fumble at the canvas bag on his chest, undoing the buckle to get at the P. H. gas helmet inside. Well, the Quarterblokes called it a helmet. The men called it "the goggle-eyed bugger with the tit". What he pulled out was a cloth hood. He flapped it to open it out and pulled it on over his head, tucking its neck down into his shirt collar to form a rudimentary seal. He bit on the rubber clamp inside and took a couple of breaths, in through the nose and out through the tube in his mouth with its distinctive red rubber valve. Peering out through the greenish eye-pieces, he picked up his battle bowler and placed it back on his head before feeling around for his rifle.

  He felt himself jostled from the side. He had to turn his whole body ro
und to see. Ginger was sobbing and sniffling, unwilling or unable to open his respirator bag. Atkins hurriedly did it for him then thrust the gas hood over Ginger's head. If the gas got to him while he was snivelling like that it would be the worse for him. Immediately Ginger started to panic and claw at the hood, trying to rip it from his head.

  Atkins heard a muffled shout. Ketch, looking for trouble, had caught sight of the commotion and was coming towards him.

  Atkins elbowed Porgy.

  "Give us a hand with Ginger!"

  Porgy stood one side of Ginger and grabbed his arm, Atkins stood the other side. They held him tight so he couldn't struggle.

  Atkins felt a tap on his shoulder; he swivelled round as much as he could.

  "Whaff gun eer?"

  "Sorry, Corporal. Can't tell what you're sayin'," said Porgy.

  He didn't have to. Ketch poked him in the shoulder in a manner that said 'I'm watching you.' "Pick up your gun!" he enunciated carefully though the chemically-impregnated flannel, before returning to his position.

  "Thirty seconds!" called Lieutenant Everson.

  Atkins picked up his rifle and held it at the ready. Ginger had been a useful diversion. There was nothing worse than waiting for the whistle. He stared again at the scaling ladder before him, noting its shabby construction. There was not even a basic joint. The rungs had been hastily nailed to two longer pieces. Whoever expected them to climb it obviously didn't expect them to have to climb it more than once. That about said it all.

  "Ten seconds..."

  Everson lifted his gas hood and blew his whistle before clumsily shoving the cloth back into his collar. Waving with his pistol, he watched his men scale the ladders. To his left, one fell back into the trench, immediately cut down. From beyond the parapet came cries and screams. He grabbed a rung and hauled himself up, cleared the sandbags, stepped out onto the mud and began to run, slogging through terrain the consistency of caramel, seeking to lead his men forward. He'd seen them all over the top with none left for the Battle Police to round up, which was no more than he'd expect of them. Another man fell in front of him. Everson stepped reluctantly over the body. It was not his job to stop and see if he were wounded or dead. The stretcher bearers would follow. Over to his left, he saw one of the tank machines as it nosed down into a shell hole and then reared up to clear it and rumble onwards along its terrible trajectory as spumes of earth exploded around it.

  Atkins heard the whistle from far away, as if underwater, then another and another; some fainter, some louder. Up and down the line, dozens of subalterns blew their whistles or shouted their men forwards.

  This was it. Under the tidal pull of fear he felt the swell of vomit and bile rise, and felt a growing urge to piss. He didn't want to go over the top. You'd be mad to.

  Someone hit him on the shoulder. Twice.

  Shitohshitohshitohsh -

  Atkins screamed in rage and terror, which wasn't clever because it fogged up his eye pieces. He could barely see where he was going as it was. He scrambled up the ladder and over the parapet, and looked around. There to his left he saw sergeant's stripes. Hobson was walking resolutely forward. Somewhere amid the explosions he caught the rolling tinny snap of the marching snares and the harmonious wail of the bagpipes playing as the Jocks advanced over on their left flank.

  Standing in the trench with his men was like standing by a pen of cattle waiting to be herded into the abattoir and meant just about as much to him. Jeffries felt no pity for them as he lifted his gas hood to blow his whistle. He caught sight of a man, his shoulders heaving as if with sobs, a dark wet patch spreading down his trouser legs. He wouldn't move. Others clambered over the top to meet their fate. This one wouldn't.

  "I'm not going to have you ruin things, Bristow. Get over!" said Jeffries in cold measured tones. Bristow snivelled but didn't stir. Jeffries sniffed derisively then shot him. "A death is a death Bristow, out there or down here, it's all the same to me. You'll have done your part either way."

  He climbed the ladder and stepped from the still security of the trenches into a maelstrom of noise and fury. Shots, cries, bullets and bombs raged about him but he felt no fear. Anticipation, excitement, even, but fear? No. What had he to fear, today of all days?

  In front of him, Appleton fell. And Harlow. Burton just vanished in a plume of wet offal and dirt. Still Jeffries strode on, unencumbered by the pack, webbing and bandoliers that weighed down his men. Every step a step closer to his destiny. When the day's bloodletting accrued to a critical mass, charging the landscape with a talisman of binding, he would speak the words he had long practised. The air screamed as shrapnel burst overhead, tearing down through flesh and mud alike. But none of it touched Jeffries.

  Tendrils of chlorine lapped at his feet. Beneath his gas hood he wore a contented smile as he waded into the choking cloud with a surety that took the place of heroism. To be a hero you needed to feel fear. Jeffries didn't feel fear. He didn't need to. The sigil that he had drawn on his chest with Seeston's blood, now beginning to crust and pull uncomfortably at the hairs there, saw to that.

  Around Atkins, men were marching forward into the clouds of gas; a rising tide of asphyxiating death. The ground was soft and treacherous underfoot. Muffled by his gas hood, the crump and boom of shells assumed a continuous roar that made his ear drums crackle. He glanced to his left. Pot Shot and Mercy were striding forward. He could make out the weak sunlight glinting off the tin triangles on their backpacks.

  It was nearly a quarter of a mile to the forward German lines. Running with full pack through this mud would tire you out before you got there and you'd have no puff left for the fight. Already he could feel the muscles of his legs begin to ache from pulling against the mud. It was better, so they said, to walk and conserve your strength. Fair enough. But that bollocks about carrying on and not seeking cover? Stuff that.

  Following the tape he reached the British wire. He could hear the insistent stuttering of the British machine guns, while above them shells burst, leaving lazy black woolly clouds hanging in the air as shards of hot metal ripped down through bodies below. Ahead of him now, men began to drop, some hanging on the wire as if they were puppets whose strings had been cut. He walked on past the fallen, some dead, some wounded, crying and begging for help. Most still wore their gas hoods and Atkins was grateful that he could not see their faces. You weren't supposed to stop for them. You weren't allowed to. Carry on. Forward. Always forward. He walked on aware that every step could be his last. Was it this one? This one? This?

  The great bank of greenish grey fog, a mixture of chlorine, cordite and smoke rolled over them, enveloping the soldiers like a shroud. Atkins lost sight of his Section. He stepped aside to avoid a shell hole that loomed up out of the ground before him and found his leg caught. He looked down; a hand had grabbed his mud-encrusted puttee. A man, maskless, green froth oozing slowly from his mouth, gagged and struggled, tearing at his own throat with a bloodied hand, drowning on dry land as the chlorine reacted in his lungs. Atkins tugged his ankle free and marched on. Shell holes were death traps now. The gas was sinking to the lowest point it could find, settling in pockets like ghostly green rock pools, where the weary and wounded had sought shelter.

  As he walked on, he began to experience a light-headed feeling. Around him the gas cloud seemed to glow with a diffuse phosphorescence. The noise of battle, the rattle of machine guns and the constant crumpcrumpcrump of artillery, the zing of bullets seemed somehow muffled and distant. He stumbled as he missed his footing. He looked down. His body seemed to be longer than it should have been, stretching and undulating until a wave of vertigo overwhelmed him. Letting go of his rifle, he dropped to his hands and knees. The small area of ground before him seemed to swim and ripple gently and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't bring it into focus. Sweat began to prickle his face, he felt a pressure in his head, something trickled from his ear and he could taste the iron tang of blood running from his nose. The whole world seemed to til
t and from the periphery of his vision an oozing darkness spilled inwards until he could see no more than a few square inches of the Somme mud before his face. What remained of his vision filled with bursting spots of light as the world began to slip away...

  Private Garside's feet skittered under him on the chalky mud as he ran through the communication trench. A German shell had brought down the telephone lines between Harcourt and Sans German. He'd been ordered to collect information from the Front. Battalion needed to know how the advance was progressing. He had to get to the Observation Post and run the latest reports back to Battalion HQ. That alone could take about an hour or two. If he survived. Already two others had failed to get through.

  The first walking wounded were beginning to filter back in ones and twos down the trenches, helping each other where they could. Yells of "Stretcher bearer!" filled the air. A shell exploded nearby. Garside flinched, but ran on, pushing past a couple of RAMC sent up from the reserve trenches, carrying their as yet unused stretchers wrapped around their carrying poles as they headed towards the Aid Post.

  "There's no hurry, mate. I'm sure Fritz'll 'ave a bullet or two left for you!" they called after him.

  Garside ignored them. By the time he'd thought of a witty retort he was several traverses ahead of them. He turned into High Street. The OP wasn't far now. The trickle of wounded he'd noticed before was fast becoming a steady stream.

  Two Battle Police were confronting a young soldier, tears running down his face. He's lost his steel helmet and had no gun.