by Andy Remic
Lights twinkled above.
The woodland smelt good. Fresh. Alive. Real.
Now on his feet, Jones decided he would try and walk. With unsteady steps he trod the narrow woodland path, his mud-encrusted boots stuck with brown leaves and his rifle heavy on his back.
He took his time and walked with slow care, for his lungs burned and his breathing came in painful, ragged gasps. Occasionally, stars danced before his eyes and he had to rest, leaning against a tree for fear of falling down. He didn’t dare to sit, in case he could not get up again.
And all the time he gazed around in amazement, gazed around himself at the life which surrounded his senses. He wondered how it could exist in France when the rest of the land was given over to mud and battle. How could this be?
He moved on.
He cared not where he travelled, but hunger gnawed his belly and he stopped beside a broad oak and rooted through his pockets and belt pouches. He had salt, water in a canteen, fork, spoon and knife, a needle, a comb, a razor, soap and a facecloth, and a packet of dented cigarettes. He grinned a grin with little humour. None were edible.
He also discovered three Mills bombs, and rested his fingers against the smooth, cold casings with a shiver. These weapons terrified Jones because of their awesome, indiscriminate killing power.
He packed his kit away and took a long drink from his canteen. The water cooled his throat, but still the pain persisted. He spared a little water to cool the back of his hands and then set off again with steadier legs.
The day wore on.
A cool breeze caressed the trees, making the leaves whisper, and more leaves drifted down to carpet the woodland floor. The path Jones had been following ended, and he was forced to climb painfully over a fallen, moss-infested grey trunk, and head out across high bracken with boots crunching and his breath coming in short gasps.
Then he heard it.
A laugh—distant, childlike, and yet peculiarly alien to the woodland environment. It echoed from far to his left, and Jones was thankful he was heading in a different direction.
He continued to trudge, taking many rests, for he was bone-weary and filled with pain. The laugh came again, closer this time, and answered by another voice to Jones’s right.
The Tommy stopped, and with a growing sense of unease, he unshouldered his rifle. He moved forward with care, eyes narrowed, trying his hardest to control his painful breathing, eyes and ears alert for suspicious movement.
The trees sighed, and the world seemed to . . . deflate.
Laughter, mocking and high-pitched, erupted to his right.
Jones fired a shot into the trees, operated the bolt, and then began to run.
Behind him, the woodland exploded with noise. Howls rent the air and the soldier could hear the footfalls of many heavy boots.
Jones began to sprint, putting everything into this sudden flight and feeling violently, physically sick as his lungs wept in raw agony. Wounds that had congealed on his legs opened and blood flowed down into his boots, making each footfall squelch. He ran with head down and face grim, rifle gripped tight. The pain throughout his body was intense, but instead of dragging him down this time, it heightened his senses, strengthened his perceptions and determination.
His arms pumped, blood flowed down his legs, he gripped his SMLE as he ran, and the cackling, howling screeches filled the dark spaces behind him . . . and then it loomed ahead, a castle, rearing from the woodland, huge smooth grey walls, towering turrets with black slate sloping peaks, high tiny windows like eyes staring down with loathing at this, a hunted Tommy in a strange forest.
Veering right, Jones headed for a wooden drawbridge leading to an arched tunnel and thick iron gate, a mouth, black and foreboding. He pounded the hefty boards of the slippery wooden bridge, towards black gates, and suddenly he turned, slid to a halt, and brought up his SMLE.
The disjointed creature in overcoat with black iron helmet started, shocked at this sudden reversal, and Jones looked into the grey eyes as black clawed hands slammed up suddenly—but too late. Jones’s finger yanked the trigger and the bullet entered the creature’s cheek, smashed bone into shards beneath, and punched a hole through the brain, exiting and hissing off into the treetops from the creature’s drilled and blood-oozing skull.
The walrider stood for a moment, eyes wide with shock, deformed face frozen in an unreadable expression. Then limbs collapsed, and it knelt slowly on the bridge, blood dribbling from its broken face, one clawed hand trailing in the murky waters to gather floating yellow leaves.
Jones gazed down at the twisted corpse, fingers automatically operating the bolt, nose twitching at the cordite stench, and then looked up at more charging walriders . . . a wall of them, fangs snarling, grey eyes fixed on him, unfazed by their comrade’s demise. With a sudden yelp of fear, Jones fired another shot into their stumbling, cavorting ranks, turned, and sprinted for the castle gates.
He remembered slamming against thick ironwork, pain jarring him, making him cry out, and something shifted, gave way, and he fell forwards . . . fell forwards into an inky well of pain and suffering as he was suddenly absorbed by the welcoming blanket of unconsciousness.
Castle Shell. 20th. October 1917.
JONES OPENED HIS EYES. He was lying on his belly, on his face, his burning cheek pressed against cold, soothing stone. His head swam and nausea swamped him.
For long minutes he did not move. He could see his rifle lying amidst leaves on the cobbled floor in front of his nose, and slowly he pushed his hands beneath him and groaned as he got to his knees.
He felt sick, but fighting the nausea, he looked up and took a deep breath. He was in a courtyard, and the surrounding walls were high and dark, mottled grey, stained with invading moss and a few scatterings of ivy. Several trees grew near the walls and had lost their leaves, which littered the cobbles of the courtyard floor in an autumnal shower.
Jones reached forward, grabbed his rifle, and fought to stay upright. Nausea churned through him. He operated the bolt action with a metallic clack. He knew it would be wise to stay armed.
He glanced back at the black gates. There were no locks, no handles, no hinges. Just thick iron planks, with heavy support bars crossing horizontally. The gates had been built for strength, and beside them in a small recess built into the wall stood a hooded well, with several iron pails on the ground beside the circular wall. He could see no locks. Beyond the bars, he could hear growling sounds, low rumbles, snuffling noises like a dog at a gate. He shivered.
The wind sighed through the courtyard, and the trees rustled.
In the distance, a bird let out a musical cry, which faded into grey.
Why didn’t they follow me in?
How did the gate lock?
Why do I feel so . . . safe?
The evening was drawing on, so Jones moved slowly about the courtyard and gathered fallen twigs with which to build a fire. He came to a building with wooden walls and a sloping roof, and peering in, saw hay scattered across the flagstones. Stables. Bridles and saddles hung over primitive wooden racks, but there were no horses.
To one side of the earth floor stood a large supply of stacked logs, and moving to this, disturbing beetles which scuttled off in all directions, Jones felt for damp. The wood was bone dry and he smiled, glancing up at dark windows high above that looked down on him like magnified insect eyes.
He shivered. He did not want to venture inside. It felt too . . . ominous. No. Jones suddenly craved the open air. And he felt, instinctively, that the castle was deserted. After all, if he were an intruder, surely his hosts would have introduced themselves by now?
Moving back into the courtyard, Jones found a stack of large cobbles and built a fire-shield, then carefully piled twigs up against the stone. He had no paper, so he gathered armfuls of hay and lit a small fire under the twigs; with gritted teeth, he removed his coat, and laying it on the cobbles, he sat by the door of the stables and fed the fire until it was large enough to add t
hick chunks of hewn timber.
Once the blaze was going—and God, Jones needed the heat, for a chill had taken hold of his bones—he explored the stables on shaking legs. There were a few tools, an old, rusting anvil, and several horse blankets smelling of mould. He carried a heavy blanket outside and held it before the flames until all traces of damp had fled before the seething fire. And then, slowly and with great care, Jones removed his boots, his trousers, and his shirt. They were wet through, and he laid them on the ground beside the fire. He wrapped the fire-warmed blanket around his shoulders and walked over to the well, where he dropped in a small wooden bucket circled with iron bands and, with weary arms, drew up water.
As he carried the dripping bucket back to the fire, he looked up again at the black, motionless windows of the four towers brooding at the castle’s perimeter corners. The towers were moss-strewn and dark.
He sat down by the fire, shivering again, and with his facecloth he washed the blood from his legs, gritting his teeth as cool liquid bathed his many wounds.
Most of the gashes were shallow, but one on his calf was deep, where a walrider’s claw had almost cut to the bone. This was what had been filling his boots with blood.
Jones gave a nasty grimace and muttered, “That bastard. I hope I haven’t caught bloody tetanus.” He found his needle, heated it in the fire until the tip glowed and turned black, and with care plucked a thread from his heavy coat. With this and much cursing, he stitched up the calf wound, finally using his bayonet to cut the thread.
Beside the fire, his clothes were steaming on the cobbles, and getting to his feet—and gritting teeth as stitches pulled tight in his skin—he went to collect more wood. Sparks crackled in the makeshift hearth, and he settled down with the blanket around his shoulders and his rifle across his lap. His burns were throbbing and his lungs felt as if they had been driven across a cheese grater.
With the fire blazing, Jones was warm. Glorious and warm! He placed his canteen next to the flames, and once the water was hot enough, he took an experimental swig. He was desperately hungry.
Every now and again, he glanced at the black windows of the towers, half expecting to see a face there. But nothing disturbed his rest, and he sat in silence, listening to the wood crackle and thinking about his old friends, his lost comrades, Bainbridge and Webb . . . and happier times.
The sky darkened overhead, towering clouds tumbling across the heavens, and Jones dragged out more wood to see him through the night. He would have stayed in the stable, but there was an unhealthy smell that made him want to retch. So, he sat just beside the doorway, rifle at hand, its solidity a constant he could trust, pain calm and just about bearable, his thoughts now settled, his body warm. He realised he had become a man of simple pleasures.
I wonder where I am, he thought idly as stars glittered above the castle, between the copper bruises painted on the sky, and shafts of moonlight played across the walls, giving the castle an eerie feel. Is this France? What is happening in the war? Where the hell did I end up? What in God’s sweet name actually happened?
Finally, sleep came, and Jones stepped blindly into a welcome darkness.
Diary of Robert Jones. 3rd Battalion Royal Welsh Fusiliers. 22nd. October 1917.
I have been here for two days. This is my first entry since the gas attack at Passchendaele, hence my shaky hand-writing.
I have many things to write, mainly to set my own thoughts straight. My diary is back in the trenches, but I found this paper in one of the castle’s towers, along with quill and ink. I have dated the first of these pages 22nd. October. By my calculations this is correct, although I cannot be sure. Everything is so . . . strange. A little bit twisted. A touch skewed.
Just for the record, I know not where I am. I know not where my friends are. I know not where my sergeant is. I am sitting on a thick horse blanket beside a small fire. I have washed my clothes and dried them beside the fire; I am hungry but have eaten; I found potatoes growing at the bottom of one of the towers, near a cellar. They smelt odd, but they were the only food available. With these, and salt, I have made a thin, horrible soup—it tastes like piss, but is the best I can do in the circumstances and so I am thankful. At least it’s better than burgoo!
The castle is dark, brooding. At the moment the weather is fine. Cold and windswept, but at least no rain. The castle is large, with thick walls and black iron gates with no handles or bolts. There is no keep, but four towers, one positioned at each corner of the fortified castle walls. The central courtyard is overgrown; there are trees, and the stables have a good supply of firewood. I have somebody to thank there, for they have unwittingly saved my life. I have not the tools nor the strength to cut wood.
I explored the four towers today. There were many empty rooms, but some showed signs of life. There were beds, rotten with mould and smelling of damp. There was a wardrobe filled with strange, colourful gowns. These, also, were filled with fungi and scuttling beetles.
The kitchens yielded pans in which I can make more soup. There was a sack of grain which had rotted long ago. I found a tin of dry biscuits—hard as rocks, but I scraped off the mould with my knife and soaked them in warm water. Although tasteless, they at least offer an interesting alternative to piss soup.
There is other furniture inside the towers, but everything is damp, sodden, and stinking. There are beetles everywhere, living in the dripping tapestries and the saturated bedding. I think it would damage my health if I stayed in one of the towers. If the rain comes down, I’ll move inside the stable for protection.
I have counted out my bullets, for I feel uneasy, as if I am being watched. I do not know whether this is my earlier paranoia—and madness?—returning, but I counted my bullets in an attempt to find some security. I have three magazines, plus forty bullets in various pouches. I spent a while filling the mags so I will be ready if any of those creatures return. I have three Mills bombs, and though I despise them, I have to admit they can be useful in a fight.
There is not much else to write, although the act of writing itself is calming. I do not know where I am; I do not know if I am in Belgium, France, or Germany, nor how I came here. I could be surrounded by enemies for all I know, and still be ignorant. And then there are the creatures . . . I awake in the night shivering, my eyes watching the shadows, watching for the cavorting walriders. If they find me now, in my wounded state, I would not put up much of a fight. The ones from outside the castle disappeared back into the forest. They could not get past the iron gates, I think.
Worst of all, I am alone. Terribly alone.
Sometimes, at night, in those distant hours drifting between realms of consciousness, I fancy I can hear Bainbridge and Webb arguing. And sometimes they talk to me, voices distant, weak, questioning me, trying to give me hope and support. This is what gets me to sleep. I drift off in comfort, their arguments a sweet lullaby.
The sky has darkened. It has taken me two hours to write this short passage, because my hands are filled with pain. I feel numb. Exhausted. But at least writing has passed the time. With each passing day, I feel my strength returning, and now I no longer feel sick. I can breathe a little easier, but my lungs are still raw.
To whomever invented gas warfare—I most sincerely hope you burn in Hell.
Castle Shell. “Rescue.” 26th. October 1917.
THE DAWN CAME BRIGHT, spilling over the distant trees like liquid honey. Jones opened his eyes and yawned. The fire was low, so he placed several chunks of thick wood amongst the embers and lay there under his blanket, fully clothed, boots warm, his nostrils filled with old horse stink and his belly rumbling. But he was content. Nobody was shooting him. And his dreams were clear of monsters.
After a while, when he was fully awake, he gathered the blanket around his shoulders and moved to the corner of the courtyard he had designated as a latrine. He had a piss, which still burned, then fetched a bucket of water from the well.
He still found it painful to breathe and had to keep
his movements slow. The wounds in his lower legs had almost fully healed, except for the stitched one, which had at least scabbed over nicely. And on that cold, fresh morning under an iron sky, Jones felt stronger and fitter than he had for a long, long time.
He warmed a small iron pan over the fire, and when the water was hot to the touch, he broke up the last of the old biscuits and dropped them in. He added salt (which was now running low) and sliced a couple of potatoes and dropped them in as well. He sat there, his mind blank, stirring the thick mess in the pan, and ate it without thought.
It was whilst he knelt by the well, scrubbing the burnt pan, that he heard a distant scream.
It was high-pitched, feminine, sharp—maybe a scream of surprise?
Jones dropped the pan and, gathering his Lee-Enfield, stooped under the entrance of the nearest tower and climbed the uneven worn stone steps. Reaching one of the upper windows, he peered out over the castle walls at the woodland lying like a green carpet below.
The world was a blanket of trees for as far as the eye could see. Green, brown, and yellow were the dominant splashes of colour, with odd patches of dense evergreen scattered at random intervals by that greatest of artists, Nature. Jones squinted out over the woodland and let his breathing come in short, gentle bursts.
For a moment, it reminded him of Dolwyddelan. And the woodlands of his childhood . . .
His eyes narrowed.
There! Movement!
Jones squinted, but could make out no real detail. What he would give for some binos!
Wind howled a mournful song in through the window, making Jones blink. Placing his hands on the wide stone sill, he leant out further and focused on the movement in the woods. After a minute or two, the pieces of woodland puzzle suddenly fell into place.
Figures. One pursued, others giving chase.