White War

by Charlie Carter

  First published 2010 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Text copyright © Charlie Carter 2010

  Illustration copyright © Russell Jeffery 2010

  The moral rights of the creators have been asserted

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Carter, Charlie.

  White war / Charlie Carter.

  9780330403870 (pbk.)

  Carter, Charlie Battle boy ; 9.

  For children.

  A823.4

  Designed by Russell Jeffery, Emigraph

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral rights of the creators have been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Battle Boy 9: White War

  Charlie Carter

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  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

  Napoleon’s Battle Watch flashed on and off in the darkness as the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight on Christmas Eve.

  Napoleon sprang out of bed, dressed quickly and tip-toed from his bedroom.

  He sneaked down the hall, past portraits of the family’s military men, like his uncles Trajan and Hadrian, and great-uncles Nelson and Wellington. Grandfather Belisarius stared grimly from his frame, and there was a faded photograph of Great-grandfather Ulysses Augustus Smythe as a proud old man in full military regalia.

  Napoleon sped through the still streets on his bike. Christmas lights flickered in the windows he passed.

  Ten minutes later, he was in the Special Reading Room.

  ‘This should be a brief mission,’ Professor Perdu said over the intercom as he slipped into his skin-coloured body armour and fitted the HoverVest over his shoulders.

  ‘Good morning, BB005,’ said Skin. ‘And I believe the greeting “Merry Christmas” is also appropriate.’

  ‘Same to you, Skin,’ Napoleon replied, putting on a pair of trousers and buckling his NukeBelt to hold them up. He pulled on a thick army overcoat as well. ‘I guess it’s cold where I’m going.’

  ‘Affirmative,’ Skin replied. ‘It is the middle of a northern winter.’

  ‘And the winter of 1914 was particularly harsh,’ Professor Perdu added. ‘You’ll be in rain, sleet and snow.’

  Napoleon strapped on a helmet. ‘Am I going as a soldier?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said the professor. ‘You’re a despatch boy with the British army in War orld One. World One. ‘Your official job is running messages for the officers. That will allow you to move around and record as much as possible.’

  ‘And my mission?’

  The professor leaned into him and spoke quietly. ‘This mission is so Top Secret that I am unable to reveal details until you are actually in the Battle Book. It’s a Security Level 5. Even Skin is unaware of the mission parameters.’

  Napoleon wrinkled his brow. ‘I’ve never had a Security Level 5 mission before, have I?’

  ‘No, it is highly unusual,’ said the professor. ‘But you will understand eventually why we have had to take these precautions.’

  ‘OK,’ Napoleon said, puzzled. ‘I guess you’re the boss.’

  As he laced up his army boots, he noticed that their soles were much thicker than usual. ‘Are these special boots?’

  ‘They’re fitted with heavy-duty MudManagers,’ said the professor. ‘You’ll need them, believe me. You’ll also have the Landing Ball, plus HoverVest and Boot Boosters, as well as an upgraded Helping Hand, Version 5.4. Skin will explain the new HH feature should you need it.’

  The professor activated the hatch into the Tome Tower. It hummed open. Napoleon pulled on the special skin coloured glove, and stepped through.

  Battle Book 72 was shaking and rattling.

  He lifted the titanium-iridium casket down and placed it on the floor. The sides were bulging and yellow smoke seeped out. In the next instant its heavy metal lid burst open and a column of rich red light shot up into the tower.

  ‘1914, here I come,’

  Napoleon shouted and leaped into the bright light.

  ‘Amazing,’ Napoleon said as he flew back through time and space. He was wrapped in a warm mix of reds, oranges and yellows, as if cocooned inside a flame.

  But then . . .

  KATHUMP!

  A loud thudding explosion almost shattered his ear drums, and Napoleon was blinded momentarily by a flash of fierce white light.

  ‘What was that?’ he shouted, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘That was a Big Bertha,’ said Skin. ‘The Germans are pounding the British lines.’

  Another explosion followed.

  ‘And that was a British gun. One of their biggest howitzers, I suspect, possibly a 9.2-inch Mark 1.’

  And then the noise was non-stop. Cannons, guns, howitzers and mortars blasted away, shattering the sky with flashes of searing light while all around was the snap and rattle of machine guns and rifles, and the deadly bark of bombs and grenades.

  Napoleon was buffeted and tossed about in the time-sky like a rag doll. It took Skin several minutes to stabilise. ‘Be prepared for possible malfunctions due to unexpected turbulence.’

  ‘Are we where we need to be?’

  ‘GeoChron Locator locked in. Target destination one hundred metres below – the Western Front near the town of Ypres. Date: 25 December 1914. Battle Book Time: 5.22 am.’

  The countryside beneath Napoleon was an eerie white, covered by a blanket of snow. Long black lines snaked through the snow into the distance.

  ‘They are the trenches,’ Skin reported. In between the trenches was a wide grey area, half-snow, half-mud. ‘And that is no-man’s-land – the ground between the British and German trenches.’

  ‘You will be landing there.’ Professor Perdu’s voice crackled over the Battle Watch.

  Soldiers were firing at each other across no-man’s-land with rifles, machine guns and flamethrowers.

  ‘You want me to land slap-bang in the middle of gun fire?’ said Napoleon.

  ‘Relax, BB005,’ the professor replied. ‘I will manually activate Epsilon Phase for as long as I can.’

  ‘Please hurry. We’re coming in fast.’

  Napoleon could clearly see the soldiers no
w blasting away at each other. ‘I don’t like the idea of being target practice.’

  ‘Epsilon Phase starting in 3. . .’ the professor said.‘

  2

  1 . . . ’

  As if a switch had been flicked, all noise and movement instantly stopped. Soldiers were caught in mid-action, aiming rifles, hurling hand grenades, mouths opened wide in silent shouts.

  Napoleon stared down at the narrow strip of muddy ground where he was meant to land. It was strewn with junk and rubbish, discarded helmets and rifles, unexploded bombs and coils of barbed wire.

  A warning beep came from Skin. ‘Landing Ball and ShieldField software corrupted. Revert to HoverVest and Boot Boosters for touchdown.’

  ‘We need to slow down, Skin!’ Napoleon shouted.

  ‘Correct,’ Skin replied, and then beeped again. ‘Unfortunately the HoverVest gyroscopes have also been damaged by the earlier explosions. So too have the reverse Boot Boosters. Please prepare for a difficult —’

  Napoleon didn’t hear the rest. He hit the ground, trying to break the impact with a roll. But the mud was as slippery as grease. He slid across the surface, spinning like a rap dancer, only coming to a stop when he ploughed into a thick sticky sludge.

  ‘Difficult landing?’ he said, spitting mud from his mouth and wiping it from his face. ‘Is that what you were trying to tell me, Skin?’

  ‘Affirmative,’ Skin replied ‘In fact, all movement will now be difficult.’

  Napoleon stood up and tried to walk. But the mud stuck like glue. ‘You can say that again. What about those MudManagers in my boots?’

  ‘They are not responding. Earlier turbulence has caused a series of equipment malfunctions.’

  ‘And your problems don’t end there,’ said Professor Perdu.

  ‘What else?’ Napoleon groaned.

  ‘I can’t hold Epsilon Phase much longer. You need to get out of no-man’s-land as quickly as possible, before the firing starts again. I repeat, AQAP!’

  Napoleon struggled through the mud, heading for the British lines. But each step took all his strength. In places the mud reached up to his knees, a deep, thick quagmire that clung to him like invisible hands, pulling him down.

  His face and hands ached in the bitter winter wind.

  ‘Keep moving, Battle Boy,’ Professor Perdu yelled.

  ‘I can’t,’ Napoleon shouted back, exhausted.

  He was only a few metres from the British trenches. If he could just inch a little closer …

  And then he heard Skin’s warning.

  ‘Kappa Phase kicking in – NOW!’

  The roar of war was back. It pounced upon Napoleon like a huge beast. Bullets whizzed past, bombs exploded, men shouted. He lunged forward with his last bit of energy, grabbing at the edge of the trench, trying to drag himself to safety.

  But then a hand grenade landed right next to him.

  ‘It’s a miracle.’

  Napoleon could hear a voice. But the buzzing and ringing in his head was so loud – so painful.

  He was lying on his back in a trench, the battle banging and booming all about him.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ the voice continued. ‘He’s alive.’

  Napoleon opened his eyes. Faces were peering down at him.

  ‘You’ll be all right, lad,’ said a young officer with a kind face.

  There was something familiar about the face. ‘Hello,’ said Napoleon. ‘I know you, I think.’

  The officer smiled. ‘I don’t think so. We just dragged you in from no-man’s-land.’

  Napoleon tried to focus, but he was far too sore and confused. His head felt like a train had driven through it and his body ached as if the same train had then driven over him.

  ‘Are you a despatch boy?’ the officer said.

  Napoleon nodded.

  ‘Where have you come from? Which division?’

  ‘Back there, er, somewhere. I . . .’ Napoleon winced. ‘Sorry, my head still hurts.’

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive. That explosion threw you a good thirty yards, and not even a broken bone. Dashed lucky! What on earth were you doing out there, anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know. I must have got lost or something.’

  ‘Well, you nearly lost your life, that’s for you under my wing for the time being. I think you might bring me luck.’ He hauled Napoleon to his feet.

  Napoleon stared about, dazed and shaky. He wondered if what he saw around him was real, or some kind of nightmare.

  Mud! Everywhere, mud. Cold, wet, sticky mud. And in that mud were mudcoloured men, squatting, standing or squelching about. Others were coughing or scratching or groaning.

  He saw rats, too, hundreds of them slinking around, black and brown, some almost the size of cats. And huge cockroaches. Napoleon felt as if he were in a kind of hell.

  And above it all was the deafening roar of war.

  ‘Does it ever stop?’ he shouted.

  ‘The noise? You’ll get used to it.’ The officer slapped Napoleon on the back. ‘Come along. You need warming up. Hot soup and bully beef should do the trick.’

  The young man trudged off and Napoleon followed. They slipped and slopped through a network of trenches, ducking down with their hands over their heads whenever a bomb exploded uncomfortably close.

  Eventually they came to an underground bunker. A small wood stove smouldered away in one corner. Napoleon huddled close to it, thankful for its meagre warmth. There was hardly any mud here, and the war noises had become dull thuds that shook the walls.

  ‘Here we are.’ The officer handed Napoleon a mug of steaming hot soup. ‘That’ll put hairs on your chest.’ He then sat down at a small desk and began reading a letter that was lying there.

  As Napoleon sipped his soup, he examined the man’s face again. It was definitely familiar, hauntingly so.

  The officer felt him watching. ‘It’s from my wife,’ he said, looking up and nodding at the letter. ‘The most wonderful news. She’s pregnant.’ His face beamed with a smile.

  ‘You must miss her,’ said Napoleon, thinking of his family, so far away on Christmas day.

  ‘Oh yes, I certainly do.’ The officer raised his eyes to the bombing above. ‘But we’re here to do a job. I come from a long line of military men, you see.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Napoleon. He thought of his father and his grandfather and great- grandfather. Military men – all of them. His brothers Monty and Caesar were planning to go into the army as well.

  ‘Good lad,’ said the officer. ‘You understand then. War – it’s in our blood.’

  Napoleon looked at the officer again. What was so familiar about him?

  Skin, he said, via the thought channel. Can you please run a background check on —

  ‘Battle Boy,’ interrupted the professor, her voice almost a whisper in his earpiece. ‘Skin’s resources are to be used only for the current mission objective.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Napoleon, ‘but I don’t even know what my mission objective is! What’s going on, Professor?’

  With all the questions swirling in his head, he hadn’t noticed that the sounds of war had stopped. No more bombs, no cannons, no explosions at all, no shooting or shouting. Just silence.

  A moment later a soldier burst into the bunker.

  ‘Colonel,’ he said, saluting the officer. ‘You’d better come at once. There’s something very strange going on.’

  It was still dark when Napoleon and the colonel climbed out of the bunker into the trench.

  Heavy clouds hung in the sky, and sunrise was at least an hour away.

  Everything was wrapped in silence. Soldiers were lined up at the trench face, rifles at the ready, bayonets fixed. Some peeped cautiously over the top.

  ‘What’s going on, Jones?’ the colonel said.

  ‘Not sure, sir,’ replied a young lieutenant. ‘But we think the Germans are playing some kind of trick.’

  Napoleon and the colonel climbed onto a ledge and peered across no-man’s-land
. Tiny lights were beginning to appear along the top of the German trench line. The colonel pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the scene.

  ‘Good heavens,’ he said after a while. ‘I don’t believe it. Candles. Fritz is putting up candles.’

  At the same time, Napoleon received a message from Skin. ‘Activating Night Eyes with Zoom Factor Three.’

  Almost at once he had a clear, close-up view of the Germans. It was exactly as the colonel had said: the Germans were decorating their trenches with candles. But that wasn’t all. They were stringing up tiny pine trees as well.

  ‘Those are mini-Christmas trees called Tannenbaums,’ Skin explained. ‘It is a German tradition.’

  In no time at all, the entire German line was covered in the little trees and blazing with candlelight.

  ‘What a marvellous sight,’ the colonel said.

  He had barely spoken when a voice called out from behind the German lines.

  ‘A happy Christmas to you, Englishmen!’

  The colonel replied at once. ‘And a very Merry Christmas to you chaps, as well.’

  Others called out, and soon soldiers were shouting Christmas greetings back and forth across no-man’s-land. A few stood up above the trench line and waved to the enemy.

  This went on for several minutes, but then died down. Soldiers on both sides sank back behind their parapets, and an uneasy silence crept over the battlefield once again.

  ‘Be careful, Colonel,’ Lieutenant Jones said. ‘There are snipers!’

  Napoleon suddenly realised how dangerous it was for the colonel standing up there in full view of the enemy. He was an easy target.

  ‘I don’t think we need to worry about snipers, Jones. Not today. I have a feeling that today is different.’ He smiled at Napoleon.

  His men mumbled and nodded among themselves, but most stayed safely below the trench line, staring across no-man’s-land, watching and waiting.

  And then a beautiful sound wafted from the German camp.