by Pat Kelleher
"Fuck's sake, Ginger, everything we've come across so far has tried to kill us or eat us or both. You've got no idea what this thing is!" said Gutsy.
Mercy did. He knew what it was straight away. It was an opportunity.
"No, no," he said. "Steady on, lads. I think Ginger is onto something. Look."
They looked. Then they looked puzzled.
"All I see is some blonde rodent with a furry trunk," said Porgy.
"At what it's doin', smart-arse!"
Atkins looked again. It seemed to be excitedly running its snout along the seams of the jacket. A small long red tongue flickered out. "It's chatting," he said. "Bloody 'ell. It's eating the lice!"
As they watched, the otherworldly rodent pushed its snout into and along the seams, sucking up eggs and lice alike with great relish.
"We could clean up with this, fellas. This is the proverbial golden goose. No more feeling hitchy-koo. They'll pay through the nose to have their regulations cleaned of chatts. Gawd love us, any of us would! Gordon, here, is what you might call a Hitchy-kootioner."
There was a chorus of nods.
"Me next!" said Porgy hopping to pull off his boot before carefully pulling off his woollen sock and dangling it in front of Gordon. "Here, boy. Here," Gordon lifted its head and sniffed tentatively at the warm, damp, writhing sock. Porgy dropped the stinking sock into the coat. Immediately Gordon thrust its snout into it.
"And what good is all that money going to do out here?" said Pot Shot. "Where can you spend it?"
"Jeez, steady on, Pot Shot, can't a man have a dream? I'll save it and spend it when I get back."
Gordon was now totally enclosed by the sock, although from the snuffling and snorts that were issuing from it, it didn't seem to mind.
Already Atkins and the others were thinking of the booming business ahead; five hundred lice ridden, lousy men at thruppence a head? Gordon was going to make a killing for them.
Grantham had taken to pacing about his new HQ, trying to avoid the vista outside, as if by ignoring it it would go away. He couldn't cope with it. There was no section about this in the Field Manual or the Standing Orders. Without them he didn't know what to do.
The man was fast becoming a liability. He commissioned innumerable reports, seeking to bury the stark horror of their situation under a mountain of minutiae, so Everson found himself mired in endless company meetings.
"Trench repairs are well under way," Everson reported. "The backfilling, blocking and fortification of the open trench ends will be complete soon. Nothing should be able to enfilade or flank us then. Second Lieutenant Baxter of the Machine Gun section is constructing new emplacements for his guns. We've also set up a trench mortar in the old farmhouse. However if we want to repair the trenches properly then we're going to need more wood. At the moment we're down to cannibalising duckboards for revetments."
Grantham's face was drawn, his eyes red-rimmed.
"This is a nightmare," he muttered.
"At some point we're going to have to send out working parties to cut down trees from that forest over there."
Slacke nodded emphatically.
"Sir," he said. "We have potable water for three more days. We have food rations enough for perhaps twice that. Rum ration won't last. If we're here much longer we'll have to start looking for supplies locally."
"No," said Grantham, hoarsely.
"But, sir..."
"I said no. We will return home."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but we can't just sit here and wait for that to happen." He paused. "It may never happen."
Grantham exploded. "That is defeatist talk, man, and I won't have it, d'you hear?"
Everson took this as a further sign of Grantham's growing instability. The man needed to believe they would be returned home. If it became apparent that their fate was otherwise he feared that Grantham would really funk it.
"Sir?" It was Jeffries. "With all due respect we may have to face the possibility that we are here for an indefinite period. While I am sure you are correct in your assumption that we shall be returned I feel it prudent that we should prepare for the worst. At the very least it will keep the men occupied. An army with nothing to do will soon become a mutinous rabble."
Everson was surprised by what he heard. "I have to say I agree with Jeffries, sir. It should be understood by all that we shall be returned home in order to keep up morale. However we should consider sending out scout patrols. We need to know what we might face in the short term and if we can find water."
"I could make a short reconnaissance flight, Lieutenant," offered Tulliver. "That would at least give your men some possible directions in which to explore. I should have enough fuel, but with my observer dead, I'd need someone to spot and map-make for me."
"Jeffries can go," said Grantham. A smile bloomed briefly on Jeffries' lips before fading.
"Very well," said Tulliver. "I suggest we go straight away. There's enough light left for a short flight."
"You need to look for rivers, streams, lakes; sources of water. Look for cultivated fields or others signs of civilisation," suggested Lippett.
Civilisation. It wasn't a thought that had even entered Everson's head until now. He had been too preoccupied with simple, brutal survival and thoughts of home. But yes, civilisation. The existence of a civilisation that might have achieved dominion over this wild and untamed country had never really occurred to him. What cities might they have constructed, what wonders might they have achieved? What marvels might they work? Surely they would recognise a fellow creature of equal intellect and extend a hand in aid? Unless they were responsible for their sudden journey and arrival here. In which case one would have to try and divine the motives for such an act.
There was a confused chatter as everyone suddenly attempted to talk over each other, each speculating on what it was they expected to find; certainly nothing to which the British Empire was not an equal.
"Gentlemen, please," said Jeffries. "This is all idle speculation. There is no point in raising false hopes at the moment though, as Captain Lippett so rightly states, it is something we should keep an eye out for. And when I'm up in Lieutenant Tulliver's machine I shall certainly endeavour to seek such signs as will assuage your doubts."
Under the covering watch of a Lewis machine gun section, 1 Section had pulled the Sopwith out onto the plain and had spent an hour trying to beat some kind of take-off strip from the tubular undergrowth there. They'd managed to clear about a hundred yards or so and hoped it would be enough. Tulliver walked the strip wincing and sucking in breath through his teeth. The ground was bumpier than he'd wished. Ideally he'd have the AM's fill the pot holes, but here that wasn't going to be possible, at least not this time. Maybe he'd have a word with the infantry captain.
Tulliver and Jeffries climbed aboard the Sopwith. Tulliver had checked it out earlier. There was about half a tank of fuel left. Quite what he'd do then, he didn't know.
"We won't be going too high today," said Tulliver. "But you'll have to be prepared to use the machine gun. We don't know what kind of flying creatures are up there."
"Oh don't worry about me," said Jeffries. "I'm sure I can handle myself."
"Well, bear in mind you're going to have to stand to fire and there's no safety harness. Contact!"
A private swung the propeller around. It juddered to a halt. He seized the blade in his hands and swung down again. The engine caught. "Chocks!" Two more soldiers pulled the makeshift blocks away from the wheels and the aeroplane began to inch forward as if impatient to get into the air and be free of the heavy, lumpen earth. It began to bounce clumsily across the uneven plain. The jarring stopped as the wheels left the ground. Tulliver pulled back on the stick and angled the nose up as the ground dropped away. He peeled to the right and flew over the pat of Somme mud as he climbed. He was excited to be in the air again. Only here did he feel he could be himself. Over on the horizon he could make out a line of thick black clouds as he reached a thousand
feet and the world below began to take on a familiar map-like feel. Far from feeling alienated by this wondrous new landscape, up here he felt as if he were in the company of an old friend. He began looking for conspicuous landmarks; the flashes of sunlight off water caught his eyes. He looked down and saw a ribbon of silver a mile or so from the brown stain of the Somme. He turned to Jeffries behind him and pointed down. "A river!" he bawled over the sound of the wind and the engine.
Jeffries formed his finger and forefinger into an 'O'. Tulliver thought that a little odd. He'd only met a couple of other people that had used that specific gesture. Most just used thumbs up. One was an American flying with the Escadrille Lafayette, the other, more recently, was that Artillery officer, what was his name?
"Are you sure we haven't met?" he yelled over the engine's roar. "You seem familiar! Do you know a chap named Hibbert?"
Jeffries shook his head and Tulliver shrugged, but couldn't dismiss entirely the feeling he knew the man from somewhere. He turned the machine and from their vantage point, the circle of Somme was sat near the head of a wide valley, enclosed by hills on three sides. On one side of the valley stretched a large forest. Beyond it lay a large plain bounded by a range of hills. The silver ribbon of water ran down from the hills and threaded itself through the forest before reappearing on the plain. If it was coming down from the hills maybe it led to some sort of -
There was a tap on his shoulder. He wiped away the oil spray that was beginning to mist his goggles and glanced back over his shoulder, Jeffries pointed down. Tulliver tilted the wings so he could see a herd of tall, three-legged creatures moving across the plain. That's when he noticed the shadow ripple over the ground and pass over his machine. He immediately pulled up and banked so he could look around. He pointed up, indicating that Jeffries, who was sat behind the wings and had a better view, should look around. Then he saw it. A great shape above them like a flying manta ray, but it had hind legs with large talons and a long neck that ended in a small head with a wide mouth, displaying sharp teeth. It was easily bigger than the Sopwith and with claws and teeth like those could rip the aeroplane to shreds if it got close. It had obviously been following the herd of whatever-they-were and saw the Sopwith as a territorial intruder. It came at them from the side. Tulliver hoped Jeffries was on the ball. He was. Standing up in his seat he swung the Hotchkiss machine gun round and opened fire. The creature closed its wings momentarily and dropped out of sight below them.
Damn. He couldn't afford to let it get beneath them.
"Hang on!" he yelled to Jeffries. Tulliver banked sharply and spun down in a wide spiral looking for the creature. It reared up almost immediately in front of them.
"Hellfire!"
He pressed the fire buttons on his machine gun, spitting lead and tracer bullets at the beast. It let out a long, pained cry and vanished over the top of the machine as Tulliver pushed the stick forwards sending the aeroplane into a shallow dive. As the creature passed overhead Jeffries fired, raking its body with a line of bullets that left it spurting a bluish viscous liquid.
"Go round!" yelled Jeffries. Tulliver banked, keeping the wounded creature within the circle of his turn. Jeffries kept it in his sights and let off another couple of bursts, one ripping through the membranous wings, another shot hitting it in its head, exploding the skull. The lifeless beast plummeted from the air, the drag from its wings sending it careening into a drunken tumble.
"Calloo Callay!" Jeffries yelled triumphantly as he leaned over the lip of the cockpit to watch the dead beast crash into the plain with an explosion of blood and offal.
Tulliver, wary of any more of the creatures, was eager to get down.
"Have you got enough?" he shouted.
"Yes, it's dead!"
"No, have you got enough information for the map?"
Jeffries turned, sat back down in his seat and pulled out the clipboard. He marked the stream and the forest. He'd seen no sign of cultivation or farming, no patchwork of fields, no smoke, which was vaguely disappointing. He nodded emphatically and gave his ringed okay sign to Tulliver, who turned the aeroplane about and headed back up the valley towards the muddy charnel field they had to call home for the present.
As he did so, Jeffries caught a glimpse of something gleaming in the far distance across the plain, as if it had caught the light from this world's sun. He struggled to turn around and see. He could have sworn he saw some sort of huge spire far off, almost smeared into obscurity by the intervening aerial perspective of the atmosphere. The machine bucked on a pocket of air as it descended and dropped heavily, leaving Jeffries' stomach briefly somewhere above his head. When he looked again the fortuitous angle was lost and the spire had vanished. But it had nevertheless ignited a gleam of hope in his heart. He smiled to himself. This was one thing he wouldn't mark on his crude, despairingly blank map. He well knew the value of information as currency. This would only strengthen his position in the long-term and, until he knew its true value, he would sit on it and let his investment accrue.
Tulliver circled the field of mud as he came down and brought the machine about so that the hastily cleared green strip was ahead of him. He pulled back on the stick, opened the flaps, slowing the aeroplane down to just above stall speed, and cut the engine before they hit the ground. He saw the waiting soldiers run towards them as the Sopwith bounced and trundled to a halt.
He tore off his flying helmet and goggles before clambering out of the cockpit. The Tommies gathered round the machine like excited schoolboys, barking questions at him and Tulliver took the opportunity to bask in the moment.
Jeffries was left abandoned by the machine as Tulliver and the adulating scrum around him moved off. The airman had almost recognised him. Of all the damned luck to get stuck with the same pilot that took him up when he was using Hibbert as an alias. He didn't need anyone putting the pieces together yet, he needed more time. He would have to do something. He was reaching over to put the helmet goggles and gloves back in the cockpit when he noticed the tool box in the bottom of the craft. His usual methods might attract too much attention now, but an accident? He looked back toward the mud flat. No one was about. He leant over and dragged the box towards him. Something to make sure that Tulliver didn't come back from his next flight? Flicking the little hooked catch he opened the wooden box to reveal a jumble of tools; spanners, wrenches, screwdrivers, wire cutters. He smiled...
INTERLUDE 2
Letter from Private Thomas Atkins
to Flora Mullins
4th November 1916
My Dearest Flora,
Things haven't gone quite the way the top brass expected here so I don't know when I'll get a chance to post this.
I know you must be sitting at home thinking me among the missing, too. Although we're not so much missing, as lost. It's the rest of the world that's missing. What will my mother do? Both her sons among the missing. She must be heartbroken. I wish I could tell her I'm alive and well, although I'm not sure I like it here. The wildlife seems none too friendly. I thought rats and lice were bad, but they've got things here that put them to shame.
I've been picked as part of a foraging patrol, going out into the countryside to pick fruit and berries and the like. Mercy says it sounds like a bit if a lark. It'll make a pleasant change from digging trenches though and no mistake. With no Hun to fight, that's all they've had us doing the past few days, and on rations too. I tell you, we're all getting fed up of Maconochie and Plum and Apple here. Half Pint says we'll end up looking like jam tins at this rate. So here's hoping we find something edible.
Ever yours,
Thomas
CHAPTER NINE
"Death, Where is Thy Sting-a-Ling-a-Ling..."
"God damn it!" said Captain Lippett. It had been a bad couple of days for the surgeon. Apart from the usual round of battlefield wounds and infections there was a new rash of cases as the perils of the world about them began to make themselves known. The carcass of one of the worms was hacked up
and roasted on the open ground between the supervision and support trenches, by some men who hadn't had fresh meat in weeks. Those who ate the meat died agonising deaths in the night. It seemed from what Lippett was able to determine that the flesh was poisonous, containing some kind of toxin to which man had no immunity.
A Lewis gun team broke out in bloody pustules after eating a variety of knobbly yellow fruit that hung full and ripe, weighing down the rust-coloured boughs in the small grove of trees near the mud perimeter. The boils proceeded to swell at an alarming rate and to a grotesque size, disfiguring the face and body until the skin became taut like a drum, causing immense pain, before bursting so that those infected were left with terrible open wounds and died of blood loss or septicaemia.
After that the order was not to taste anything but to bring it back for the Medical Officer to conduct tests on to determine whether it was fit to eat or not.
2 Platoon had been ordered to scout out the wood that lay maybe a mile away. It was the farthest any party had yet been. Although they didn't say it Everson could tell the men were nervous. A platoon had gone out on a search for water the previous day, following the directions garnered from Tulliver and Jeffries' reconnaissance flight. They had lost four men to animal attacks.
After Stand To, breakfast and parade the forty-two strong 2 Platoon headed out across the plain in Indian file. Every man had one in the spout. They all remembered the attack of the hell hounds and knew they were out here somewhere. Behind Atkins came Hepton, carrying his camera and tripod and several canisters of film in haversacks. He had asked for permission to join them, eager to record the wonders of this new world, if not the horrors, for he knew such vivid sights would sell seats. Then came Ginger, cooing happily into his gas helmet haversack in which he had stowed his new pet. Gordon's flaccid whiskery snout poked out of the flap. Pot Shot, Gazette, Gutsy, Porgy, Half Pint and Lucky brought up the rear of the section, carrying a couple of rolled up stretchers to help carry whatever they managed to harvest. Sergeant Hobson and the other three sections of 2 Platoon followed on behind.