by David Wake
The unconscious man wore a strange mask, black with huge bug eyes and a snout of strange and deliberate construction. It seemed logical that any new weapon, like the yellow smoke, would have a counter device. So Earnestine leant over, undid the clasps and ripped the rubbery object off. It felt clammy, unpleasant and the idea of it enveloping her face did not appeal. She steeled herself and put it on.
It was claustrophobic: her breathing rasped and echoed, amplified in the enclosing chamber, the world took on an eerie hue, warped at the sides, but the stinging subsided.
The man’s coat and boots came off with some difficulty, because when she bent over, she felt sick and wrong footed. The lens in the bug–eye made objects move in waves contradicting her sense of balance. The coat, she realised just before putting it on, would look ludicrous with her bustle sticking out behind her. Earnestine decided to go the whole hog. It was disconcerting to take his trousers off though, wrong, and to leave him in his long johns was undignified. When she removed her dress, she felt a hard object hidden in a pocket: her ring, which she slipped onto her finger. Then she wrenched her dress off and flung it aside, the wind snatched it away and it danced by the side of the train. The bustle she just dropped. Speed was of the essence, other Bug Eyes would be coming. Through the window, with the lens distortion and the yellow smoke, it was hard to see along the corridor, but there seemed to be dark evil shapes moving towards her and–
The glass became the floor, or seemed to, as it came up and hit her forcefully. Hands grabbed around her throat grasping her. She hit out and her assailant stumbled back. The man had come round.
Stupid girl, she thought.
They fought, her camisole ripped under his grip as he held her with one hand, the other drawn back to punch.
She wrenched her neck as she dodged and the man’s hand went through the glass panel. Earnestine slipped and fell beneath the man as he roared with pain. He loomed above her, both terrifying and ludicrous with his shirt tails, but Earnestine was at his mercy. A thick enveloping morass of yellow vapour streamed from the broken glass: the man swatted it aside like a bothersome insect and then spluttered and coughed. His eyes bulged wide as he recognised the danger. He focused on Earnestine and came down to grasp the bug–eye with both hands, to tear it from her and to put it on himself.
Earnestine threw her arms around the head and tried to twist into a foetal position to stop him unfastening the mask. They struggled, tearing and fighting and clawing. The man’s face was right up against her, his breath casting a mist on her alien spectacles, and all the while he coughed, spat and choked, his spittle flecking her vision as if he was dragging her beneath the waves.
A cough: her vision was splattered with red blood, globules of it, thick and vile. The man became desperate, overpowering her, but it was a last fling. Earnestine pushed him off, but the man’s fight was directed towards himself now as he clawed at his face in agony. His skin blistered before her artificially wide eyes and the surface of his face broke as pustules formed and burst. He died, convulsing to his last wheezing gasp.
Hurrying, almost panicking, Earnestine scrabbled for the clothes, the trousers were baggy, the belt didn’t have enough holes, so she tied it, the boots were loose and went on easily and finally, with utter revulsion, she rolled the man’s body to the edge. It hesitated on the metal lip, the man jerked, brought to a parody of life by the wind, before he tumbled into the air, hit the rails racing below and then disappeared, a splattering cracking as the carriage thundered on inexorably.
Earnestine entered the train, wading through the pea–souper that had invaded every nook and cranny of the carriages. A dark shadow at the far end raised its arm and Earnestine responded in kind. The thing tilted, bowing towards her, and she did the same: it was a nod, exaggerated because the bug–eye prevented the neck from moving properly. She squeezed past him and moved on, wanting to be as far away as possible from the scene of her crime. A fleeting thought of his remains staining the underside of the carriage made her shudder. The vile breath of her victim still reeked inside the bug–eye making her retch. She needed fresh air and fought the desire to pluck the black mask off.
The Bug Eyes had gathered in the restaurant car.
The chief amongst them, his black leather coat open slightly to reveal a spangle of medals, shouted and berated his underlings: his German words sharp, guttural and distorted by the snout of his mask.
The rat–a–tat–tat, rat–a–tat–tat of the wheels on the track had become a chuck–chunk–chunk…. chunk. Just when Earnestine thought it was over, there was another, and then an agonising wait for the next, until the wait stretched forever. The carriage had stopped.
When the Bug Eyes filed towards the back of the train, Earnestine joined them. They moved from carriage to carriage passing the corpses of the innocent passengers frozen in their death throes. Earnestine couldn’t look and focused on the black shape in front, falling into the marching step when space allowed.
There wasn’t another carriage, and the line of soldiers turned to clamber down to the ground. All around a pall of yellow smoke drifted out and settled on the surrounding fields, a stain of death and desolation indelibly infecting the countryside.
The men marched off, down a long winding path through the woods and out into an open space. Tethered to a tree, the massive airship strained at the cables as a ground crew struggled to keep the beast down. The men formed an orderly queue and Earnestine found herself in their midst. The front man went forward under the airship and waved his arms above him, and then he climbed the air upwards towards the gondola.
A second man ascended.
When Earnestine was closer, she saw that they were really climbing a rope ladder, a thin fragile set of rungs strung between black wires. Instinctively, she backed away and the man behind her swore when they collided. Left and right there were fields, open and offering no protection from rifle fire.
She did not want to climb into the belly of that whale above, but she realised she’d have no choice in four… now, three climbers’ time.
Her assignment was to reach London and warn them, not join the Aerial Corps of the enemy.
She was under the airship now.
She’d have to risk it.
She was at the front.
A Hauptmann signalled her forward and she ran across the uneven grass and grasped the flailing rungs.
The men ahead climbed the ladder at the end rather than straight on, so Earnestine copied them. It can’t be that difficult, she thought, just a case of one leg, then the other. The ruby ring felt solid in her palm as she grasped the metal tube that formed the rung. Luckily, the bug–eyed mask prevented her from really seeing down. In fact to look down, she had to turn her head to one side and stare sideways–
She stumbled.
One leg after the other meant that she was now very high.
She found her footing and concentrated on each hand and leg movement until she was grabbed from above and hauled into the gondola. She wasn’t sure where to go as the man ahead of her had climbed with far more expertise and speed, but the next man barged past her, ripping off his rubber mask as he went. Earnestine followed him and he went to a stairway which led up above the gondola. This made no sense to Earnestine, but then she found herself coming up into a huge metal structure. It was like she was in the depths of a ship walking along the keel with struts sweeping up and around. This was the inside of the airship’s main body. She’d assumed that this was filled with hydrogen to lift the vehicle, but now she saw that there were balloons inside the airship hanging from above… no, these balloons were lifting the whole airship aloft: it was the metal frame that dangled from the balloons.
Air sailors were quartered here in a strange reversal of normal naval tradition: the officers were below in the luxurious cabins, whereas the crew were above living in the mechanisms of the Zeppelin itself, sleeping in hammocks slung between the metal gantries.
The floor shifted and the air sailors
grabbed handholds and leant into the slope. Earnestine tumbled over to much hilarity before edging her way to an unoccupied area. There were a few empty berths, those Bug Eyes that Earnestine herself had seen off perhaps, and she hunkered down in one and removed the smothering mask.
The other airmen were also removing their garments – the stale smell of sweat… no, perspiration – horses sweat, men perspire and women glow. Earnestine didn’t feel much glow: she felt cold and rancid. She couldn’t stay here, she knew that, so she slipped the mask back on and eased her way back along the walkways.
As she went a few choice remarks in German were thrown her way. She waved and smiled, realised that any facial expression under the mask was pointless, and hurried on.
Down the steps and into the gondola was easy enough and the rope was still dangling from the exit. No–one was around, so all she had to do was shimmy down and disappear into the dark French countryside until they took off and–
“Achtung! Passen Sie auf!”
“Ja!” Earnestine replied, muffled somewhat by her mask.
Earnestine jerked in shock when she heard the Graf speaking.
“So, mein Liebchen, let us have some schnapps.”
Earnestine turned away, keeping her back to him as he moved past. Charlotte, dressed in some ridiculous military uniform, followed in his wake: silly girl – silly, silly girl.
Below Earnestine, where the rope dangled, the ground rippled in the distortion of the bug eyes, magnified, closer, then suddenly plummeting down. Giddy, Earnestine grasped a handrail and the ground resolved into a strange model–like landscape moving gently underneath.
They were airborne already.
“That would be lovely,” said Charlotte, using that giddy, silly voice that she reserved for times when chocolates and sweets were on offer. Thankfully the Graf and Charlotte went past and into one of the cabins further back along the gondola.
Going down the rope was suicide: she was trapped.
She was going to have to find somewhere to hide.
Upstairs were the quarters for the Aerial Ratings. Sooner or later someone would ask why she was wearing a bug–eye, or they’d ask her to join them in a hand of cards, or for a meal, or almost anything, and it would be in German.
Towards the bow was the control room.
This left only the cabins.
She listened at the door and was relieved to hear silence.
She went in.
“Dummkopf! Schnell, schnell.”
Earnestine rushed through, understanding the Graf’s yells only too well.
She caught a glimpse of a luxurious room, plush, with four round dining tables big enough to accommodate four chairs easily. It took up the entire width of the gondola section. Charlotte was sitting looking wide eyed and expectantly as the Graf poured some vile concoction from an overly elaborate bottle.
“Ach, Dieses ist untragbar!”
Earnestine raced through the room as quickly as she could. In the brief moment and the narrowing gap as she closed the door, she saw the Graf storming towards her.
“Graf, Graf,” Charlotte called after him.
Why hadn’t Earnestine heard him speaking?
All she could hear was her own breathing, loud and clear.
She took off the bug–eye mask.
That feeling of claustrophobia and heat left her immediately. The rubber mask was slick with… horses, men… the residue of her glow.
Earnestine found the cabins numbered ‘1/2’ to ‘19/20’, in pairs, and the two at the bow end were larger. One had clearly been used recently, but the others appeared empty. She picked one: her age 20. It had bunks and the white linen looked so inviting. She almost sat down, but realised that she’d mark the sheets.
However, Earnestine realised that she couldn’t hide here. Whatever her personal feelings, she was responsible for her sisters. Back along the corridor, she looked around in the next cabin and it showed signs of occupation. She knew she couldn’t just sit there either; she’d have to hide as Charlotte might come in at any moment with someone else. There was a gap under the bunks, so Earnestine lay on the floor, shuffled underneath and squeezed herself against the wall as tight as she could.
Plan: she’d stay awake and wait. Charlotte would come to bed and that would give her a chance to have words – sharp words – with the silly girl. Sooner or later they’d have to land and she’d nip down the ladder when the Aerial Ratings disembarked. Good plan, she thought, although she had a terrible feeling they were simply going back to the castle.
She touched the ruby ring.
Perhaps she could close her eyes for a brief moment…
No, she mustn’t.
Perhaps just until the stinging stopped completely.
Miss Georgina
There had been a moment when the Zeppelin had been upon her and then, with a plunging roar, the train had fallen into the depths of a seemingly endless tunnel shuddering in a cacophony of steam and sparks. Georgina had been born again, screaming, on the other side. The engine hurtled on.
Georgina fell to her knees and the dawn light split across the sky. Her energies were spent, the shovel fell from her hands and coal tumbled across the juddering metal floor to skitter and dance in time to the clattering.
She was alone now: father was gone, mother too, uncle, Charlotte lost and Earnestine dead.
“Arthur,” she murmured.
No–one replied.
Presently, the steam subsided, the screaming fell silent and the stations sliding by slowed. Soon the speed dropped to walking pace and below. Georgina lifted herself up and flopped over the edge, hanging briefly and choosing a grassy bank to drop onto. She hit it and rolled down coming to a blissful rest below.
The engine, pockmarked with bullet holes, went on without her, past signals that were up or down, and meant nothing to Georgina. It rained, she raised her head and drank the water as it stung her face. Onwards, away from the train line, or sideways: Amazon, Amazo… Am as lost…
There was a French village not far off, guarded by a farmer moving cows from one field to another. They were spooked by a shadow moving across the sun and coming under the arch of a magnificent rainbow, the dark shape of an airship circled.
“S’il vous please, please…” she begged.
Dumped on a cart, she bounced along with an old Frenchman guiding an old horse to a town. Her money was no good, they had no Queen here in their Republic, but he was a kind man.
There were troops from the Gendarmerie gathered on a street corner. Georgina was half–way across and she would reached them had not the direction of the horses and other traffic being on the wrong side of the road confused her, when she heard them speaking German. There were other men in their midst. She backed away, a tram nearly struck her, and every face she saw seemed to be watching her, chasing her, informing on her – there were spies everywhere.
She ran down a side street and into an alleyway, dodging past the piles of litter and mess. The next street was full of shops, patisseries and cafés. Georgina was hungry, but every face hid a glance and every corner had a person to ambush her. She moved with the crowd, then against the flow, working around the town until she came to the main road leading north. There was a road sign: Paris was included, and at a hump backed bridge a four horse carriage was stalled waiting for the bridge to clear.
She ran up to it: “Paris?”
“Oui.”
“Will you take me to Paris?”
“Non. Plus de place.”
“Please, s’il vous please… for pity’s sake.”
“Non.”
They wouldn’t take her. It was so unfair.
She felt utterly lost, am–as–lost, and ineffectual, as–an–ant.
To have got as far and to have failed: Earnestine would be cross – no worse, Earnestine would be disappointed. She’d let the side down, badly, and added to the bad name of Deering–Dolittle (Kent). The worst part of many worst parts was that Earnestine would have known w
hat to do.
“Excuse me! I’m British. Take me to Paris!”
The carriage stopped and Georgina, raising her head imperiously, marched up to the door, waited for someone to open it, and for the other passengers to shift across, before she climbed the steps and sat down.
With a jerk, she was off towards what she hoped was the French capital. The other passengers looked at her suspiciously, full of resentment as if she had been personally responsible for Agincourt, Trafalgar and Waterloo. She decided that she would simply sit there, aloof, and not close her eyes at all once.
Maybe…
A man attacked her, prodding her with a small whip.
She fought back: “What?”
“Paris, vous êtes à Paris.”
The coach was empty and stationary, and it was dark outside.
She struggled out, her neck seemed permanently twisted.
“Thank you, oh merci, merci, thank you.”
Paris seemed huge, quite on the scale of London, and the strangeness of the signs was enough to thoroughly disorient her. She needed to eat and drink, she knew that: adventures required one to keep one’s strength up. She wanted to sleep, a proper sleep in a bed with clean sheets and–
She stumbled.
A man came up to her.
“British Consulate?” Georgina said.
He shook his head.
Georgina tried the next person and the next, and was finally rewarded with a pointing gesture and a lot of French. So, street by street, corner by corner, French or accented English, she was guided to an imposing building. She went up the stairs and banged on the door. Inside, a porter waved her away.
“I’m British.”
“Passport?”
“No, I… please.”
“Go away!”
“I’m Georgina Deering–Dolittle.”
“From Surrey?”
“No, Kent.”
“Pah.”
“Please.”
“Passport?”
“Please, please…”
“Go away.”
“Please…”
“I will get men to throw you out.”
She slipped down the glass; the Paris cold bit into her and the warmth of technically British soil felt forever from her reach. Below, skulking in the shadows were dark shapes wrapped in scarves and black woollen hats. They spoke German and edged up the steps towards the light to carry Georgina off into the night. Other men arrived from inside, strong well–dressed men to throw her back like a small fish that didn’t come up to the mark.