Black Hand Gang

by Pat Kelleher

  A ragged cheer rose from the trenches.

  "They're going!"

  The elation didn't last long. Thirty feet from the line one of the great worms broke out of the mud, ploughing toward the fire trench with a fluid peristaltic motion, through the troughs of shell holes and the crests of their craters, heedless of the twenty yard length of barbed wire entanglement it had ripped from the ground in its sinuous advance, and which was now hanging from its body.

  Men who had seen comrades blown to so much meat, who had stoically suffered days of continuous bombardment, who had risked death every day, found it hard not to flee in the face of such a monstrous vision.

  The command came again. "Fire!"

  As Gazette took aim, carefully squeezing the trigger and firing off five more rounds at the monstrous creature before them, Atkins felt the ground beneath him tremble and the revetment against his chest begin to creak and strain. Sandbags tumbled into the trench from the parados behind them. He and Gazette glanced at each other.

  "You don't think -"

  "Thinking's for officers. Run!"

  They slung their rifles over their shoulders and jumped back off the fire step as the revetment begin to splinter under a great wave of pressure building up from below. Ginger remained sobbing on the step, oblivious or incapable of reacting as plank after plank behind him burst free of its frame.

  "Shit!"

  A hand under each armpit Atkins and Gazette dragged him off the firestep and round the corner into the traverse. Barely had they vacated the fire bay before it erupted behind them in a shower of dirt, dust and splinters as another worm burst up through the trench.

  Probing tentacles appeared around the corner of the traverse. One caught hold of Ginger's ankle and pulled, tugging Atkins and Gazette off balance as the screaming man was dragged back towards the shattered fire bay. Atkins unslung his rifle and thrust his bayonet into the tentacle, pinning it to the ground, and fired, point blank range, severing the member. The other feelers let go of Ginger and retracted back round the corner, the lopped pseudopod trailing a dark viscous slime behind it.

  Gazette grabbed Ginger by the scruff of the neck as he and Atkins half-scrambled, half-stumbled with him into the next fire bay where Gutsy, Porgy and Mercy were laying down covering fire as the wounded worm reared up. They kept it up as Atkins and Gazette retreated round the far corner to the adjacent traverse and the next fire bay, held by Sergeant Hobson and Corporal Ketch.

  There they dropped Ginger to the duckboards and took aim at the mindless monster as it blindly sought for its attackers. Gutsy, Porgy and Mercy, abandoning their own position, fell back and joined them, as Gazette and Atkins in return gave them covering fire. Gazette had fired his five rounds and was reloading from a pouch on his webbing, while Atkins was still chambering and firing his third as the great worm, flinching under the hail of bullets, sought a way forward. It fell back from sight, retreating into the ground from which it had come.

  Atkins spied a bandolier of grenades on the firestep. "Gazette, cover me!" he yelled, snatching up the bandolier. He dashed forward to their ruined fire bay where he saw the tentacles of the beast vanish as it retreated back into the dark earth. He looked briefly into the darkness of the hole in the side of the trench as he opened the pouches on the bandoleer. He took out the string from his pocket and threaded through the ring pulls of about half a dozen grenades. Holding one end of the string in his hand he tossed the bandoleer into the hole. Left holding nothing but the piece of string and its collection of grenade pins he threw himself to one side. Seconds later the grenades went off with a muted roar. The ground heaved and the hole erupted with smoke and fire as torn and shredded flesh shot out of it.

  Atkins picked himself up from the mud, his ears ringing with the high pitch buzzing of the concussion. Helping hands pulled him to his feet as Porgy and Mercy dragged him clear. Smoke drifted from the collapsed tunnel. The ringing in his ears distanced him from the scene around him. He was thankful for the brief respite as he could no longer hear the screams of pain and the cries of terror. Only faintly, as if from a great depth, could he hear the tattoo of the guns as the Tommies drove the worms back into the ground.

  Jeffries was barely aware of the explosion. The sight of the creatures held him spellbound. He had read of such things in texts older than the regiment itself, but never expected to see them. "Shaitan," he murmured under his breath as he watched them harvest the dead and dying out in No Man's Land. "Messenger of Croatoan. It's a sign." He climbed the ladder and stood, exposed, on the sandbag parapet, arms flung wide in supplication.

  "Sir!" hissed Dixon, his Platoon Sergeant. "Sir, get down!"

  One of the giant worms burst up through the sodden ground half a dozen yards from the trench. It opened its maw, pseudopods flailing. Jeffries stood his ground and stared down the barbed throat.

  He was vaguely aware of Everson stumbling down the sap from the observation post, his arms around one man's shoulder as they helped each other along the narrow ginnel. Two others followed on behind, all four of them covered in mud and slime.

  "Jeffries, for God's sake, man! Are you mad?" he called, reaching for the Very pistol in his belt. There was a dull click and a whoof as something rushed past Jefferies' head. A Very flare ricocheted off a failing tentacle and skittered down the creature's length before whirling across the mud and into a shell hole. The great worm veered away from it and plunged back into the earth. However the encounter was enough to convince Jeffries. He turned jubilantly and jumped down onto the firestep.

  "Everson," he said, "you might have been right."

  "Right?" said Everson quizzically. "About what? What did I say? Jeffries!"

  But Jeffries was already strolling down the fire trench, elated.

  The great worms, it seemed, had retreated, beaten back by the firepower of the Battalion. The relief along the line was almost tangible. There were exultant, if weary, cheers as the last of the creatures retreated into the earth under the burning glare of another flare.

  Slowly the concussive ringing in Atkins' ears faded to be overwhelmed by the rising tide of groans and screams from those in No Man's Land.

  He plugged his ears with his fingers as if trying to restore the blissful distance granted to him by the explosion, wishing the cries would cease and hating himself for it. The screams continued all night, though none would venture from the trenches to lend aid or succour, the cries gnawing relentlessly at each man's conscience. Those that could survive out there until morning might have a chance.

  Atkins' guilt threatened to rise up and choke him. Had William died like that, slowly, alone in agony and fear with no one willing to help? If he was truthful even that wasn't what bothered him. What bothered Atkins was the unspoken thought that somewhere, deep down, he hoped his brother was dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "In Different Skies..."

  Over the next few days a broken telegraph pole was erected to serve as a makeshift flagpole. Hanging from it, not proudly and defiantly, but limply, fluttered a dirty and ragged Union Jack. It seemed to reflect the worn, exhausted mood of the men who wandered aimlessly about beneath it, devoid of any great purpose now the battlefield in which they toiled had ceased to exist. However, the veneer of normality was maintained, as it always was, in the most damning and ignominious of circumstances. Or perhaps because of it, because of the sheer scale of it.

  The battalion fell back on a comfortably familiar routine despite their unfamiliar surroundings. The physical labour and variety of the fatigues reassured the men, keeping them occupied and busy. In Kitchener's Army there was never any shortage of tasks.

  Captain Grantham had forbidden anyone to leave the sodden circle of Somme. It was all that now remained for them of the world they knew as home, blighting the fresh green landscape around them like a canker, an unutterably dark stain on their souls, made visible. For Jeffries that wasn't too far from the truth. Jeffries, who was technically now next in command being a full lieut
enant, feeling constrained for the moment by orders he had no compunction to obey, began seeking more signs and portents. The molten rage he felt at the ritual's failure was, thanks to the sight of the giant worms, even now being forged into cold, hard intent. And he was given to wandering to the far edge of the mud pack and peering out into the unknown land.

  It was something many of the other ranks did when not working. Egged on by pals a few daring or stupid ones had tried scrambling down the mud banks onto the verdant foreign plain, wading out into the green tubular fronds and turning to wave at their friends, only to be snatched away with a scream by the hell hounds that still loped about perilously near. That put a stop to such expeditions. Those that didn't get eaten alive were just as quickly chewed up and spat out by equally voracious NCOs.

  Not that many wanted to leave the confines of their claustrophobic muddy trenches, for there, at least, was a sense of familiarity and belonging. There, among the avenues, streets and homes they'd carved and burrowed for themselves they shared a commonality of purpose, of experience, of comradeship that no one back home could, would or should understand. The fear that it might suddenly vanish in an instant, returning to France without them, leaving them stranded, was more than incentive enough to keep most in line. Battle Police and Field Punishments did for the rest.

  With the aid of several privates Lieutenant Tulliver wheeled his aeroplane onto the drying mud flat in order to protect it from the indigenous life that seemed to be gaining in courage by the day.

  Swamped in his Aid Post, Captain Lippett, with the help of the nurses, began to set up a Casualty Clearing Station on the open ground above, behind the support trenches, using what they could to erect makeshift bivouacs. There they found themselves having to deal with a new kind of shell-shock victim, ones who could not deal with the new reality they now faced.

  The tank crew didn't really fraternise with the other soldiers, preferring to keep themselves to themselves, the secrecy of their training had been drilled into them and was not easily relinquished. They slept in bivvies alongside their machine, politely declining to mix with the others, happy in their own company and in allowing their commander, Mathers, to speak for them. This is not to say they were unfriendly, merely guarded. The landship created a great deal of interest among the infantry men and, when brief moments between work arose, whole platoons would gather round examining the great armoured war beast, circling it and expressing their approval with low whistles and amazed shakes of the head. While pleased with the attention lavished on it, the tank's crew guarded its secrets enviously, like priests at a shrine, and requests for a ride or a look inside were politely, if firmly, declined.

  The length of the day was timed. It came to twenty-two hours. The night sky offered up no clue to their whereabouts, other than it was no sky they recognised. Whatever myths might have drawn its constellations, they were none they knew, so some men began sketching their own; 'The Pickelhaub', 'Charlie Chaplin', 'Big Bertha', 'Little Willie.' The brightest star in the night sky was soon named 'Blighty.'

  By day the warm sun began to dry the Somme mud out until it developed a light dry crust that contracted in the heat until it cracked. The decomposing bodies beneath began to rot faster. Foul smelling steams and vapours rose from the flooded shell holes as the fetid liquor within evaporated.

  The hell hounds, still drawn by the smell of carcasses, unable to help themselves, slunk forward in ones and twos only to be driven back by sentries' rifle fire.

  2 Platoon were on trench fatigues again, working on the stretch of support trench behind the front line. Meant to house off-duty and support troops it needed to be turned around to work as a front line in order to protect their rear. It was a job they were familiar with. Captured German trenches needed such work doing to them in order to make them defensible; changing parados to parapet, cutting new fire steps and laying new wire. The idea here though was to turn the entrenchment into a circular defensible stronghold. It was still an unnatural feeling to stand in the open on the lip of the trench in the full glare of the sun with nothing to fear but sunburn, but the bright warm sunlight eased their brittle nerves a little.

  "Bloody rotten job!" said Mercy, sucking fiercely on the end of a fag as he shoved his entrenching spade into the dirt with his foot, seeking to prise loose another spit-worth of claggy mud.

  "I'm sure you'd rather be on burial duty," said Ketch, walking towards them as they slung the spoil over the top. "It can be arranged."

  Pot Shot put a warning hand on Mercy's shoulder. Mercy grunted and stubbed the butt of his woodbine out on the damp wall of the trench, grinding it purposefully into the grit, his eyes never leaving Ketch.

  "Now put your backs into it! This section of trench is to be finished before dark" he said, before wandering off.

  "One of these days," said Porgy, spitting on his palms and gripping his shovel before starting to fill another sandbag. "Burial party? I know it's a bad lot but -"

  "It's worse than you think," said Atkins. "Don't tell me you can't smell it?"

  "Thought that were Gutsy's feet," said Lucky.

  "Oi!" warned Gutsy from where he was leaning against the side of the trench taking a slug from his water canteen.

  Ginger, who was on watch, sat on an old ammo box, his eyes nervously darting around the unfamiliar landscape.

  "I hope you're keeping your eyes peeled, Ginger. I don't want to become a devil dog's dinner," griped Half Pint.

  "Uh huh!" he said, nodding his head.

  "He seems to have calmed down a bit in the last few days," said Atkins to Gazette.

  But Gazette wasn't listening. At least, not to him.

  "Shh!" he said, holding up a hand.

  "I wish you'd stop doing that!" said Atkins.

  Gazette silenced him with a scowl.

  There came a low soft roar like the roll of distant thunder.

  "Take cover!" yelled Ginger, leaping down into the trench. The roar continued building. It wasn't a shell or thunder, it was an earth tremor.

  The walls of the trenches began to vibrate, sandbags jittering over the edge.

  "Get out, get out!" Atkins yelled as Porgy thrust his hand down from the lip. Atkins shoved Ginger towards him. Porgy grabbed his hand and yanked him up. Atkins scrambled up using an old scaling ladder. The wall collapsed, sliding down into the trench and undoing several hours of hard work before the tremors subsided. Muted yells arose from all around as men scrambled out of the trenches onto the open ground above. A more plaintive and urgent, if unintelligible cry issued from nearby.

  "Someone's trapped," said Pot Shot. They slipped back down into the trench and worked their way along until they came to the junction that led to the latrines.

  Ketch had been doing his business, sat over the hole in the plank across the pit. When the tremors hit, the plank must have juddered loose because there was Ketch, khaki pants round his ankles, in the slurry pit of excrement below. Buckets of urine had also fallen over, drenching him in their pungent contents.

  "Get me out!" he screamed through the filth.

  The section looked at each other, smirks breaking out on their faces as their corporal struggled to right himself. No one was willing to go near the collapsed latrines and risk a similar ducking themselves.

  Atkins looked around the collapsed trench. Seeing Ketch's rifle, he picked it up and, checking that the lock was on, held the butt as he thrust the barrel towards Ketch.

  "Grab hold!

  But the corporal's hands were slick with sewage and, as he pulled himself out, he slipped back with a splash causing the section to double up in raucous laughter.

  Atkins persisted though and Ketch was able to loop his arm through the rifle's shoulder strap as he pulled him out, almost losing his own footing in the process.

  Ketch lay panting on the floor of the trench coughing and spluttering, his sodden trousers round his ankles. Atkins slit open a sandbag with his bayonet and passed it to Ketch who snatched it from his hand ungrateful
ly and began to wipe the excreta off his face.

  "You!" he spat. "You did this!"

  "Corporal?"

  "You were told to put this latrine right. You and Evans. Did you think it would be a big joke? A big laugh? Well you'll be laughing on the other side of your face one day, Atkins. You mark my words. You'll get what's coming to you." He got to his feet and advanced towards them. They backed off, unwilling to be smeared by the malodorous mud.

  "It was the earth tremor!" said Atkins. "You must have felt it, we all did."

  Ketch opened his mouth to say something, stopped, gagged and wretched. The section's delight turned to disgust. They backed away from him out of the trench, hearing another heave as vomit splattered wetly on the trench floor.

  Still snorting and guffawing over Ketch's misfortune they got back to the section of trench they had been rebuilding and found Ginger billing and cooing. In his arms he held his tunic inside out and crumpled like a nest. They could hear something snuffling about inside it.

  "Look, Only!" said Ginger thrusting his hands out towards Atkins, inviting him to examine the jacket's contents.

  "Oh god, don't say Haig's back!" muttered Gazette.

  Atkins peered over cautiously, not knowing what to expect, half anticipating something to leap out of the bundled cloth and bite him. He caught a flash of yellow fur and saw a long nose sniffling about in the makeshift khaki nest.

  "What the hell is that? Ginger, what on earth have you found this time?"

  "His name's Gordon," he replied beaming. He moved his hand under the tunic to open it out, revealing a small rat-sized creature with short yellowish fur, small black beady eyes and a long tubular snout. It didn't seem to have jaws or teeth. It snuffled eagerly around in the jacket, completely uninterested in the soldiers now gathering around it. "I found it," said Ginger. "He was just sort of wondering around, like he was lost... like us."