by Pat Kelleher
Mercy banged on the side of the boojum. "Ere, conductor! Any room inside, it's ruddy raining out here!"
The Tank gave no indication of human occupancy although, in reply, its motorised growl rose in pitch as if in recognition. Gears ground as the left hand track remained still and the right hand track spun slowly, swinging the tank away from them as it continued it halting, lethargic advance.
"Christ that was close. Bloody boojums, though, eh, Only?" said Mercy cracking a grin and slapping Atkins on the back.
"Right, you lot!" bellowed Sergeant Hobson herding the rest of the scattered platoon towards them. "Take a dekko and see how far this mud pie of ours goes. We also need to make sure Fritz hasn't got anything else up his sleeve. One other thing. Nobody steps off this mud until further orders. Got it?"
"Yes Sergeant!"
"Right. Move out."
Atkins fell in with Mercy and Gazette with Jessop taking the lead. The initial eerie tranquillity had now been shattered, spurring the growing sense of unease he felt at their surroundings. Along the line several other platoons were being ordered to move forward through the shell holes towards where the German lines should have been.
They came across the remains of an aeroplane lying on its back, its wheels splayed in the air. It was one of theirs, the Royal Flying Corps roundel clearly visible on the fuselage. The front was covered with mud, the remains of the propeller splintered as though it had ploughed head first into the mud before flipping and coming to rest. Oil leaked onto the ground from the engine, turning the mud beneath it to a thick black viscous puddle.
"Only, check the pilot blokes," Jessop said, looking around warily.
Atkins passed his rifle to Porgy and got down on his hands and knees to crawl under the upturned machine. The observer was upside down in his cockpit, his head tilted back and his face planted in the mud. Atkins tried to push him up to relieve the pressure, but realised his efforts were futile. He was dead. Atkins moved towards the pilot. He crawled over the plane and let out a startled cry when his knee went through the doped cotton with a pop.
"Sorry, nothing! My fault," he called out to reassure his startled fellows. "Hang on chum, we'll get you out."
Once Atkins had wriggled through the snapped spars and wire he found that the pilot had fallen out of his cockpit and lay in the small crushed space between machine and the upper wing, his neck broken. Awkwardly, Atkins shuffled out from under the shattered plane. As he did so he spotted a line of bullet holes stitched across the fuselage.
Atkins shook his head at Jessop.
"Both dead. Pilot's got a broken neck. Looks like the other one was drowned in the mud."
"Nothing we can do here, then," said Jessop. "Ginger, Mercy, get those bodies out then salvage the guns and collect whatever ammunition you can from the plane. The rest of you spread out and move on."
Porgy had been looking at the rear of the aeroplane. "Look at this, lads. What do you make of that?"
The tail had vanished, not ripped off or shot through, but simply amputated by a clean cut. Atkins looked around but could see no sign of the missing section.
There was a dull snap as Ginger and Mercy tugged at the body of the observer and dragged him from the rear cockpit.
"Careful, you clumsy buggers," cried Jessop.
"It was the plane!" said Mercy defensively.
Jessop shook his head and moved on. The rest followed his lead.
In minutes they had reached the end of the mud. The German wire should have been twenty or thirty yards further on but, where once there had been fortifications, entrenchments, emplacements and entanglements there was now an abrupt drop of seven or eight feet. Beyond, they were surrounded by a thick green meadow, the grass maybe three or four feet high, the stalks flattened outwards as if by violent impact. Beyond the veldt, looking towards the head of the valley, was what could be termed a forest, perhaps a mile or so or away. Scattered across the meadow were what looked like trees, spaced singly or in small groves.
"Jessop?" said Pot Shot, standing at the very edge of what they knew as the Somme.
"What is it?" said the Lance Sergeant, striding over.
Pot Shot was stood over a body of a dead Hun. Or to be more precise, half a body. The torso was hanging on the wire. It was cut clean through and the legs were missing. Hobson pushed his tin hat back on his head, raised his eyebrows and let out a long, slow exhalation.
"Christ," he said.
"What do you reckon did that?"
"Nothing I know of," he said. There wasn't the usual mess they were accustomed to, just a clean, surgical cut.
All eyes turned to Gutsy.
"What? Just because I use to be a butcher? Bloody hell!" Gutsy, despite his protests, set about studying the body with an almost professional interest. There was no blood. It was as if the entire wound had been cauterised. "I don't know of any blade sharp enough or quick enough to leave such a clean cut."
Pot Shot had been examining a strand of the wire.
"Same here," he declared.
"How can you tell?" asked Gazette.
"You see here? Normally when you use wire cutters the wire is pinched thin before it breaks, resulting in a pointed 'v' cross section. This is flat."
Atkins stood at the edge of the lip and looked slowly left, then right along the fault line as it curved gently back away from him on either side. "Y' know," he said slowly. "It's almost as if something has severed cleanly through everything - ground and air. I'll bet if we follow this around we'll find the same."
"What are you saying, Only?" asked Jessop.
Atkins never got the chance to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of fangs as Jessop disappeared, propelled backwards by the weight of a large mound of greasy fur and muscle, leaving only a scream in his wake as foot long teeth ripped out his throat.
CHAPTER FIVE
"Some Corner of a Foreign Field..."
Gazette was the first to get off a shot, firing a full clip at the great beast as it tore ravenously into Jessop's stomach, all in the time it took Atkins to bring up his rifle.
"Holy Mary Mother of God!" wailed Ginger.
"What the bleedin' hell is it?" shouted Mercy.
"Bloody ugly!" replied Gutsy, as the rest of the section brought their rifles to bear.
Atkins had never seen such a creature. None of them had. It was like some kind of monstrous hyena. Easily as high as a man, it had powerful shoulders, like that of an American bison; a mass of knotted, corded muscle rippling under its coarse fur. Its neck was short, its long snout was filled with sharp teeth and it possessed powerful muscled legs ending in long claws.
"Don't just stand there," bellowed Hobson. "Five rounds rapid!"
The great predator roared as the bullets bit, but would not be denied its kill. It turned its blood-drenched snout towards them, snarling in pain and anger. Driven away from the body, it let out a howl of such fury that some of the men nearby dropped their guns and began running for the trenches.
From out of the undergrowth, a pack of the same creatures answered, bounding towards the mud, howling and baying, the scent of fresh blood now on the wind, driving them into a frenzy.
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 bombed-out 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.