by Pat Kelleher
Atkins felt his stomach tighten. If the entrenchments disappeared back to Blighty while they were away they would be stranded. He, and every other man in the platoon, kept glancing back anxiously until the small escarpment of the mud field was lost from sight amid the thick tube-like grass. After that, their only comfort was the distant bark of NCOs heard through the man-high fronds that now surrounded them.
"At least if they stop we can tell that they've disappeared back to Blighty," said Pot Shot.
"Yeah, I never thought I'd be grateful for an NCO," said Mercy, throwing a glance behind him at a sullen Corporal Ketch.
Atkins watched as the edge of the forest grew closer. The fronds began to thin out and become shorter until the platoon found themselves merely wading though them, hip deep, as they approached the edge of the woods. The trees, if that was what they were, seemed to be similar to those in the odd copses they had observed growing in the vale about the entrenchment; great thick trunks that split into boughs protruding radially from the trunks and ending in large, flatish leaves. Those facing the sun were open. Those that faced away had closed, like inverted gentleman's umbrellas. Some were already beginning to open in anticipation of the sun's movement. A number of the trees vied for supremacy, some growing taller than their fellows in order to best deploy their umbrella leaves and absorb the maximum amount of sunshine.
At the edge of the wood Everson called a halt. "We're here to find food. Don't try anything yourselves. You saw what happened to 1 Platoon. We're just here to bring back samples of anything we find that might be edible. Captain Lippett has ways and means of testing them, so let's leave it to him, shall we? We need to be careful in there. We don't know what kind of wildlife we'll find. The damned beasts we've found so far have been none too friendly so watch your back. Don't take any chances. We've got two hours, and frankly that's longer than I want to spend away from the trenches under the present conditions and I'm sure you all have similar concerns."
There were noises of agreement among the platoon.
"Right. 4 Section will hold this position in reserve with the Lewis gun. We'll meet back here in two hours. If you get into any danger, your NCOs have whistles. I'll go in with 1 Section. Good hunting!"
As they moved deeper into the wood, the trees they saw on the perimeter, unable to obtain enough sunlight, soon gave way to stranger vegetation. Some of this had great green tubers running down its sides, embedded in its huge thick trunks, like great veins. The trunks rose straight up, without interruption from bough or branch, into the canopy where they seemed to explode with foliage, each competing with its neighbours for the nourishing rays of the sun.
Further in, they came across a tree, an entanglement of thorny weed wrapped around its base. Here and there the mass supported large dark red blooms. Strands of the weed climbed up the trunk, wrapping itself so tightly about it that its barbed thorns drove deep into the bark, a clear thick liquid oozing from the puncture wounds.
"It's like living barbed wire," said Lucky, scuttling sideward to avoid a tendril as it moved weakly towards him.
"What kind of hell world is this?" said Porgy, shaking his head.
Even as they watched it Atkins could see this wire weed grow, spreading out feelers across the ground under some vegetable imperative he couldn't fathom. The men skirted the slowly spreading carpet and pressed on.
The clatter of their weapons and gear was smothered by the surrounding vegetation and, every now and again, sharp cries and calls from the canopy or rustles and snaps from the undergrowth startled them, but they saw nothing.
As they advanced cautiously through the wood Everson heard something ahead. He put his hand up to hush the rest of the section. They stopped and cocked their heads, listening intently, fingers poised on the magazine cut-off catch on their rifles. The Lieutenant beckoned them forward, a warning finger on his lip. They pushed slowly through the undergrowth until it parted to reveal a large sunlit glade.
There, hopping about, feeding on close cropped grass, were a pack of Gordons. They squeaked as their furry snouts probed the ground, no doubt looking for some sort of insect or ground dwelling creature upon which they depended. In the middle of the clearing, towering over them all like some beneficent totem was a tall plant. It consisted of several stems, each as thick as an average man, entwined about each other and rising to a height of around eighteen feet. At its tip was a large bulbous yellow head and around the underside, hanging from the nodule, were small pods of varying sizes, like ripening fruits. A sweet smell hung around the glade. Atkins' mouth began to water.
"Fascinating," said Hepton, as he fixed his camera box to the tripod and began cranking away.
"Sir," said Pot Shot, addressing the Lieutenant. "Do you think we should try picking one of those fruits for the MO, sir?"
"My thoughts exactly, Jellicoe," said Everson, "once we make sure those damn creatures aren't harmful."
As if in answer, Ginger's haversack began to writhe impatiently. Closer to its own kind again, Gordon became excited and sought a way out of the bag.
"Fuck's sake, here we go again!" said Gazette as he saw Ginger struggle to control his haversack.
"No, Gordon!" cried Ginger as the creature wriggled its way out from the under the flap and jumped down to the ground, scampering across the glade to be with its fellows, squeaking gleefully. The others stopped and stood on their hind legs, squeaking in answer.
"What the deuce!" Everson exclaimed.
"Gordon, come back!" hissed Ginger, striding into the glade. Startled, the creatures scattered and Ginger clumsily switched this way and that, raising sniggers from his mates as he tried to catch his pet, or the one he thought was his pet, for they all looked the same. The creatures panicked and squealed and ran around bolting into holes in the ground. Others poked their noses shyly out of their holes all except, presumably, Gordon, who sat calmly by the plant in the middle of the glade, preening itself.
"This is better than Charlie Chaplin," said Hepton, as he followed the slapstick antics in the glade.
"Mottram, get back here!" hissed Everson.
Ginger, a look of grim determination on his face, advanced on his pet. There was a soft pfffft and a giant red thorn exploded from the ground where he stood, ripping up through his groin, the tip exiting through his shoulder. The force of the thrust hefted him off his feet and he hung suspended on the thorn. He screamed, struggling to free himself, but barbs protruding from the spine held him fast. At the bottom of the thorn, large leaf like structures fell open, forming a cup at the base.
Hepton stopped cranking in horror.
"Ginger!" cried Atkins as he Porgy, Mercy and Lucky dashed into the grove.
Atkins saw now, as he ran across the ground, that it seemed soft and springy, yielding under his weight, like boggy earth. It undulated with shallow tussocks. Lucky's foot came down on one and another thorn sprang up from the earth. He squealed as the point tore up though his gut, ripping out through his back, jerking him off his feet. Lucky's helmet rolled across the glade and came to a halt near Atkins.
Porgy, Mercy and Atkins stopped dead still.
"It's burning me! Burning!" screamed Ginger. His pleas degenerated into a meaningless, agonised wailing. He twisted his head and fixed his bloodshot, watery gaze on Atkins. "Help me!"
"God help us," croaked Gutsy hoarsely. "That thing in the middle -- it's some kind of carnivorous plant. This must be how it feeds."
"Don't move," said Everson. "You may trigger off more of those things."
Lucky was screaming too, thrashing about in a frenzy as he tried to work himself free, but only succeeding in driving himself further down the thorn. As he slipped down he revealed little sacs that pulsed at the base of small barbs, pumping out some vile secretion. Atkins realised that similar sacs, caught within Ginger and Lucky's bodies, were even now pumping this stuff into them; some sort of poison or digestive juice. The whole glade was a honey trap. Gordon and its little friends had been safe, being too ligh
t to trigger the plant's mechanism.
Pot Shot had his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the anguished screaming. "Somebody do something!"
Everson cocked his pistol and aimed at Ginger's head. It was the only thing to do to save him from a slow, agonising death by internal liquefaction. He pulled the trigger and the back of Ginger's head exploded across the glade. He turned and re-cocked his pistol, this time aiming at Lucky who looked straight back at him.
"Thank -"
Everson met his gaze as he fired again and Lucky slumped lifelessly down on the thorn. Everson sagged visibly as he holstered his pistol. Atkins didn't envy him. But they were still stuck. One wrong move and their fate could be that of their companions.
"Right," said Everson eventually. "These things are obviously set off by weight. Otterthwaite, can you shoot the tussock things and trigger the remaining thorns?"
"Begging your pardon, sir," said Hobson. "But there's a quicker way. Jellicoe, give me your Mills bombs."
Atkins, Mercy and Porgy exchanged glances. Atkins watched as the Sergeant got down on his hands and knees to sight along the floor of the glade, looking for the tell-tale tussocks of untriggered thorns.
"Right-o, watch yourself, lads, sir," said Hobson, pulling the pin from a Mills bomb. Hobson counted to three and tossed it towards the edge of the clearing, away from the trapped men, who crouched down where they were. The grenade exploded and Atkins felt himself showered with dirt as one, two, three huge thorns, triggered by the concussion wave, sprang up around him. The engorged sacs on the barbs pulsing and ejaculating their venom impotently.
Hobson threw a second grenade and it landed in the cup of the furthest thorn before it exploded, shredding the plant. "There's your way out," said Hobson, indicating the path of triggered thorns. "Watch where you step."
Mercy and Porgy edged their way carefully past the thorns, now oozing with digestive acids.
"We can't leave them here, sir," said Atkins, looking back at the impaled bodies.
"I'm sorry, Atkins, it's too dangerous."
"Then just their pay books, sir?" he pleaded, William foremost in his mind. If someone had taken his brother's disc and pay book they might now have known his fate.
"Very well, but be careful."
Atkins stepped as gingerly as he could in his hobnails towards Ginger's slack body. Standing on his tiptoes and leaning over the shiny red collecting cup at the thorn's base, he tentatively opened up what was left of Ginger's tunic and pulled the cloth-covered pay book from his inside pocket. God, this was never a pleasant job at the best of times. A wet splash made him jump as half-liquified organs and viscera slipped out of Ginger's torso and fell into the waiting plant cup. The stench drove Atkins back a step. Used to the charnel stench of the trenches as he was, this was a foul odour that turned his stomach. A squeak startled him. He whirled round almost losing his balance, his foot coming down inches from another tuft. It was Gordon. He'd almost trodden on the creature. It looked up at him, squeaking. He felt a hot flush of anger burst across his face.
"Piss off. This is your fault, you little shit!" he took a swing at it with his boot but it hopped back. It looked up at him from the safety of a tussock.
"Atkins, come on!" called Everson from the edge of the glade.
As he moved round to Lucky's body Atkins blatantly ignored the creature even though he was aware of it turning to watch him. He tottered precariously on his toes as he stretched to reach Lucky's torso. Carefully retrieving his now bloodstained pay book, he made his way back across the glade slowly, step by step.
Atkins leapt thankfully to the edge of the glade only to hear a wistful squeak behind him. Gordon had followed him. He tried shooing the creature away as Everson ordered them away from the glade one by one, but it hopped mournfully after him. With a huff of exasperation, Atkins picked up the creature and put him into his gas helmet haversack as Hepton packed up his camera and tripod.
They moved off sombrely through the undergrowth, knowing now to avoid the large airy sunlit glades, which they saw were dotted everywhere.
"Watch it, more of them damn Sting-a-lings," said Mercy. The name seemed morbidly appropriate and, for want of anything better, it stuck, adding a new level of poignancy to the old soldier's song.
Hobson took the lead followed by Ketch, with Everson bringing up the rear. As they progressed through the wood, each man glanced nervously about; every rustle, every breeze that stirred fronds or leaves or tendrils, every crack, every snap was now potentially something lethal. From elsewhere came the sound of muted rifle fire, screams and a whistle. One of the other sections was in trouble. There was nothing they could do about it but it didn't help the tension any.
Out of the corner of his eye Atkins caught a flash of something. Before he could shout a warning, something man-sized and mottled green detached itself from a trunk and sprang at Lieutenant Everson. Large, saw-toothed mandibles clicked lustfully on empty air as the Lieutenant dived out the way.
Even as the men ran to their commander's aid there was a husky cry and a figure hurled itself out of the undergrowth onto their assailant, deftly working a blade between the chitinous plates on the creature's neck and, with a twist of his arm, severing the head.
There were three bayonetted rifles aimed at him as the man looked up, while the soldiers lifted the partially decapitated body of the man-beetle from their struggling, spluttering commander. Everson, red faced, kicked it away angrily and sat up, struggling to contain the wracking sobs of relief. With their rifles and a jerk of the head, Gazette, Mercy and Gutsy herded the wild man against a trunk and disarmed him. Sergeant Hobson examined the curved blade he carried.
"Bloody hell, he looks human," said Gutsy, peering at the wild man.
The Lieutenant's saviour was a wiry, well-muscled middle-aged man with wild greying hair and a scrubby grey beard. His face and arms were tanned and weathered. He was dressed in clothing that looked as if it had been assembled from various animal hides and vegetable barks. Across his chest and tied to his upper arms were chitinous plates, worn like armour, that looked as if they'd been acquired from creatures similar to the one in front of them.
"Here, Kameraden, you speak English?" asked Mercy.
"Don't be so bloody silly!" said Gutsy. "Does he look like he can?"
The man's eyes flicked from one to the other as they talked.
"I am Urman," said the man, standing erect and thrusting out his chest proudly.
Gutsy's mouth dropped open. When it came down to it, though, the Tommies were not too shocked that the man spoke English. As soldiers of the great and glorious British Empire, they were used to the idea that Johnny Foreigner would speak at least some English, even if it was in an odd accent. It was only right and proper, after all.
Everson was too shaken up by his near miss to question it.
"Where'd you come from, eh? Eh?" challenged Gazette, jabbing the air with his bayonet, causing the man to flinch.
"Leave him, Otterthwaite," said Everson, who had just about recovered his composure. "He's not a Bosche prisoner. He saved my life. He might just be the first friendly face we've seen here." He stepped between his men and held out his hand towards the man.
The man looked at it blankly then tilted his head to examine the back of the Lieutenant's hand as if there might be some concealed offering or weapon. Everson grasped the man's hand gently and shook it.
"Well, I never!" said Pot Shot.
"Hands across the sea!" declared Gutsy, dumbstruck.
"Hands across my bloody arse!" muttered Ketch.
"We," said Everson, "are Human. My name is Lieutenant James Everson, 2 Platoon, C Company, 13th Battalion Pennine Fusiliers of His Britannic Majesty's Army. And yours..." he looked expectantly at the man, "is...?"
"Naparandwe," he said, pointing at himself, then, eyes narrowing, "to what colony do you belong?"
"Colony?" said Everson frowning. "None."
"You are Free Urmen?"
&n
bsp; "Free? Well, yes."
The man grinned again as if this was the right answer. "Yrredetti almost had you. Killed two of my clan," he said, pointing at the lifeless bulk of the humanoid beetle creature. It seemed as if it had evolved to walk upright, and it was evidently able to blend in with its surroundings to almost devastating effect. He spat. Mercy spat, too and the man clapped his hands and grinned. "You are lucky they are solitary hunters."
"Yes, thank you for that," said Everson, running a finger underneath his collar, relieved that his neck was still there.
"Free Urman!" he said offering his hand to Mercy as Everson had done to him. As he repeated this with every man in the section his stomach gurgled obscenely.
"Are you hungry?" asked Atkins, rubbing his own stomach with pantomime gestures. The man nodded eagerly. Atkins opened his pack and took out his iron rations.
The action caught Ketch's wary eye. "You touch that without permission, that's a punishable offence," he snapped. "Emergencies only."
Atkins knew all too well. Two men in his last platoon were court-martialled for eating their iron rations while trapped in a shell hole in No Man's Land for four days. Apparently that wasn't emergency enough.
"He has my permission," said Everson. "Go on, Atkins."
Ketch grunted but backed off.
Atkins opened the tin of bully beef, prised a piece out with his fingers and ate it. He proffered the tin to the man who sniffed it cautiously before devouring the contents within moments, never taking his eyes off Atkins. The act of gouging and prising out the meat was something he seemed to be accustomed with, though probably not from tins, thought Atkins with a quick glance at the green mottled body of the dead Yrredetti. Pot Shot and Porgy offered him their tins and that all went the same way, followed by a large and satisfied belch. He looked hopefully around for his next offering.