by Greg James
This was Hooge Crater, a pit born of incessant mining, counter-mining, bombing and shelling. The trenches were lines of sandbags the men crouched behind, no more. The first waves of liquid fire swept through the sandbag barriers, setting men alight. They opened their mouths to scream. They ended up swallowing mouthfuls of boiling petrol that roasted their throats. Uniforms were burnt into flesh. Raw faces were raked with madly blistering fingers, tearing off chunks of cindery meat as they burned. Through the inferno came phantoms, bent forward from the weight of the sloshing black canisters on their backs, holding thick, gurgling hoses in their hands. One of them turned the glinting nozzle of its hose on Wilson. Wilson froze. He wanted to move, to run away. His limbs were unwilling. The nozzle was empty. Dead and empty.
Then, it burst into blinding life.
*
Wilson rolled over in his sleep, clenching his teeth, hissing through them.
It was gone midnight and Smithy could no longer ignore the aching in his bladder. Clouds covered the night sky, drowning the salient. The dull throbbing was hurting him too much. He didn't fancy being caught with his trousers down by the Boche but he would have to risk it. Smithy staggered across to the far wall, fumbling with numb fingers. Wiping the bleariness from his face with one hand, he moved his feet apart. He didn't fancy pissing on himself. The wall was a greyish blur in the solid darkness of the night. He reached out to it for support. The ground gave way underfoot. There was a crash of breaking stone. He jumped back, piss spraying onto his hands and puttees.
The Germans were a dab hand when it came to leaving nasty 'presents' for the unwary. He waited, freezing, not moving.
Nothing happened.
He squinted through the gloom at the hole that had opened up, right where he had been standing. Water trickled down into it. He could hear it dripping on stone, not far below. Smithy knelt down, clawing rubble away. He reached into the hole. He could feel a cool surface under his palm.
“Well now, will you look at this, eh?”
He cleared away the remainder of the rubble. His eyes adjusted. He could see low stone steps. Smithy went down them into an absolute darkness that utterly surrounded him. A thick dusty stew of buried blackness. The only sound down there was Smithy’s heart, beating a frantic tattoo inside his eardrums. Battered old stonework revealed itself. There was an opening visible in the far wall. A tunnel leading further in, perhaps. The air was musty and dry. It was quiet. No signs of life.
Smithy made his way back to the surface.
He shook Wilson awake. “Wilson, I think I've found us some better shelter for the night.”
Wilson blinked at him, “You what, Sarge?”
“Some shelter. Underground.”
He led Wilson across to the hole in the ground. Smithy nodded towards it, “The old church crypt. We can kip down there until the morning.”
“What if someone’s down there? Jerries?”
“We'll secure the position once we're in. Brookes has a better chance if we can keep him in the dry than if he sleeps out here.”
Wilson didn't voice more misgivings about the Sergeant's idea. Smithy was on edge and he didn't want to test his temper.
They collected Brookes and went down into the crypt.
“Give me your torch, Wilson.”
Wilson stripped off its waterproof sacking. He passed it to Smithy. Smithy turned it on. Pale light played over the walls and ceiling. The ceiling was low, stopping just above their heads. There was a dry mouldy odour in the air. A thick carpet of dust crunched under their boots. Torch light winked off of bone.
Wilson jumped back.
The grinning death's head of a human skull was lying on the stone floor. He felt the empty eye sockets looking at him. The empty orifices studying him, looking into him, seeing what was buried there. Deep inside. Wilson looked away. Feeling queasy as something ugly went shifting about inside his head. His skin was creepy-crawling underneath his wet gear. There was something familiar about this place.
Wilson didn't like it.
Not one bit.
Smithy took a step forward, casting the torch beam in an arc, passing it back and forth over the chamber. Hollows were cut into the walls all the way along. Each one filled with dried bones and brownish tatters of clothing. The beam alighted on the rough-edged hollow in the far wall. Smithy walked up to it and peered inside. He could make out walls leading away. It was a tunnel going deeper into the crypt. He would have to crouch when he went in. Not an ideal position to be in if there was anyone down there. I'll have to risk it though, he decided. Death was the price a soldier paid for not securing a position.
“You stay here with Brookes. I'm going to go and see if we've got company down here.”
Wilson nodded his agreement. He didn't fancy the twitchy Sergeant's company right now. Smithy headed off without another word.
Wilson watched the light from the torch bobbing away from him. It was soon swallowed up by the gloom of the tunnel. The only sound that came back to him was Smithy's tuneless whistling.
Soon, that faded too.
Chapter Seven
The ground scuffed loudly under Smithy's feet. It was impressive, this place. So many bodies, all laid out in their own little holes. The bodies out in no man's land would never get a burial as good as this. They were left where they fell to sink away, to be lost forever. He could see a faint light up ahead.
Oh well, so much for hoping.
No sound came from the light though. Maybe they were sleeping. That would make things much easier. They might have medical supplies, if he was lucky. Something to pep up young Brookes, long enough to get him back to the support trenches. Yes, that would be a stroke of luck. After a few minutes creeping along, he reached the light. It was a doorway carved into the left hand side of the tunnel. Smithy's breath caught in his throat as he stepped towards it. He slowed his pace. Careful and quiet, he crept closer and closer. He swung into the doorway. His bayonet blade blinking bright, yellow lamp light reflecting off it.
Inside, a man was slumped over a table. He did not move at the sound of Smithy's entrance. He was face down on the table, a tin plate covered in browning food beside him. The lamp casting the light hung from a wrought iron brace, set overhead in the ceiling. The chamber was a small cell and contained two dirty beds with straw mattresses, yellowed maps of the local area were hanging on the walls. Smithy recognised the dull grey of Jerry uniforms. There was one of their spiked helmets resting on the table too.
Smithy advanced on the prone man. No movement still. He noticed an empty bottle of wine beside the outstretched hand of the slumped figure.
Evil bugger's blind drunk, he thought.
“Been toasting the Kaiser one too many times, eh?”
Smithy went up to the man. He took hold of a shoulder and pulled him upright. The head rocked back with a crackle of stiffened cartilage. He looked straight into a face with no eyes. White maggots were squirming in the rims of the empty sockets, disturbed by the sudden light cast upon them. Dried blood was crusted into the hollow of the corpse's throat. The throat itself was torn open, little more than a ragged hole. The head lolled to one side as Smithy let it go. The tattered sallow remains of a tongue hung from the lipless mouth. He cupped a hand over his mouth, screwing his eyes up, he swallowed hard. Who or what the hell could've done such a thing to a man?
It was like nothing he had ever seen. No story about the Hun that he had heard. He could feel himself shaking violently. He backed away, thinking of running, running away very fast from the horror. The corpse was laughing at him. The light from the lamp overhead stretching and twisting the desiccated shadows of its face. Mocking the man who thought he could escape Death by hiding down here. Here was Death, before him. Death was not waiting for him above ground. It was here. This was its true home. Under the earth with the rats and the maggots.
Smithy caught his breath. No, that was all nonsense. The lateness of the hour was just stirring up his imagination. There was nothing
to fear here. Everything was alright.
The flickering light glanced off something bright on the table. Smithy reached across and picked it up. It was a glossy sepia photograph. A little girl sitting on her mother's knee. Both of them were smiling and calm. They were wearing very fancy dresses. Their hair was exquisitely curled. The kind of wife and daughter an officer would have, thought Smithy. Their unseeing eyes stared out from the photograph at a scene that they could never ever imagine. Smithy tucked the photograph into the front pocket of the dead man's tunic, “There you go, mate, close by your heart where they should be. I'm not one to steal from the dead, even if you are a Jerry. I just hope they never find out you died here, like this.”
Despite himself, Smithy reached out and squeezed one of the emaciated hands. It did no good, he knew that, but it made him feel better. Smithy looked up at the glowing lamp.
“Now, who's been keeping you alight then, eh?”
Something ancient rustled behind him and drew breath.
Chapter Eight
“He's been gone too long. Go and look for him.”
Wilson looked up as Brookes spoke.
Well, spoke wasn't the right word. It was more of a rasping, coming from lungs that were ready to give up. Brookes was forcing them to work, “Go and look for Smithy. I'm not going to last until dawn. I don't want to die here but I don't want you both dying too. You both tried to get me out alive. You did your best by me. Go find him,” Brookes was sweating as he talked. Wilson could see the shivers running through him, “I'll be all right here. Leave me near the hole. I can shout up if any of our lot come past.”
“And what if it's one of their lot?” Wilson asked.
“Then you won't hear a thing, will you?”
Wilson averted his eyes from Brookes, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth, not knowing what to say.
Brave lad, he thought.
“Go on, Wilson. Find the Sarge. Go. It's the right thing to do, that's what's important. I'm a goner. We both know that.”
Brookes gave Wilson a shove with his leg. Wilson got to his feet. Brookes was right in a way. The Sarge was not in good shape. Letting him wander off alone was just asking for trouble. The old man might have already lost his marbles for all he knew. He did not say this to Brookes though. The boy thought the world of the Sarge. All the same, Wilson didn't relish the idea of going hunting for a madman in the dark. The tunnel yawned before him, a hungry mouth, waiting. He swallowed hard and walked in. He looked back over his shoulder at Brookes.
Was that a smile the boy was trying to force across his face?
It was too dark to be sure.
*
Brookes watched Wilson disappear. He felt light-headed as another coughing fit shook through him. A gush of blood ran out of his mouth, running down his tunic. The cold was everywhere. Spreading through him. He wanted to lift his hands so that he could rub them together. Blow on them. But his strength was gone. His muscles were heavy and useless. Was a little comfort before death too much to ask?
It was.
His tongue lay dead. A piece of raw meat buried in state, in the drying vault of his mouth. All the moisture was gone. Bitter blood coated his taste buds in an oily film. He shivered and shook. His teeth chattered. He shuddered and coughed. A hundred thousand winters were gathering in close, embracing him.
Brookes sighed once and let his eyes close.
*
“Christ, Wilson. You gave me the fright of my life. What're you doin' down here?”
Wilson had thumped straight into Smithy as he came around a corner. The old man bristled at the sight of him.
“I came to look for you, Sarge. Me and Brookes thought something'd happened to you.”
Smithy regarded him without saying a word. There was something wrong with the Sergeant's eyes, “Yeah, I'll bet. He's in no fit state to speak. He told you to come down here after me, did he?”
“Yes, Sarge,” Wilson bristled himself at the accusation in Smithy's tone.
“A likely story. You just ran off, didn't you? What really happened? A shell explode outside and make you wet yourself?”
Wilson felt a sharp pain explode in his mid-section before he could answer. Smithy had smacked the butt of his rifle into Wilson's stomach. Wilson crumpled to his knees. His eyes wide. Teeth grinding against the pain. Sergeant Smith stood over him. Blood was flushing the older man's face. His teeth were set. His eyes were narrow, “You ran off and left him. You shit, Wilson! You coward! I'll see you strapped to a gun carriage wheel for a month when we get back. We don't need your sort out here. We need men with some fuckin' backbone.”
The last word was punctuated by a kick to Wilson's guts.
The Sarge had caught a full dose of the horrors.
Smithy hauled Wilson to his feet, “I want to see you get done, Wilson. I want everyone to see just what you are. A man who'd desert his own in the field. Brookes may've been scared but he's a good lad. He's got some guts in him. You've got nothing but fear in you. You're a coward born and bred, if ever I saw one. I'm going to see you shot for it. Court-martialled, humiliated, shot! Now, move!” Smithy gave Wilson a punch in the spine. Wilson then felt the barrel of the Sergeant's rifle digging in hard.
They went back towards the crypt’s entrance and reached it as a beam of unclouded moonlight cut down the steps, colouring everything an icy blue. Smithy and Wilson stepped out from the tunnel. Brookes' head was bowed in sleep. Smithy took cautious steps towards the slumped form, keeping his rifle aimed at Wilson. He shook Brookes gently by the shoulder, “Brookes. Wake up. Come on. Your Sarge's back. I'm here for you.”
Brookes's head rolled over to one side. His eyes were glazed, sightless white marbles. The wound in his throat opened up. It was a tattered, lipless mouth, blood running out from it, glistening.
Wilson's breath snagged in his throat. The wall thumped into his back as he retreated straight into it. Smithy ran his fingers over Brookes' face, pulling down the eyelids. He ran a cursory finger over the torn flaps of the neck wound. Smithy bit his lip, his tear ducts prickling. He turned his rifle on Wilson.
“You did this.”
Wilson blanched.
“You did this, you cowardly bastard. I should have known you would. I shouldn't have left you alone with him. You done for him and then you were going to do for me too. That's why you came after me, you cunt. Don't you fuckin’ move, Wilson. I'm going to do to you what should've been done a long, long time ago.”
The rifle clicked as Smithy readied it. There was no time to run. Wilson closed his eyes. He waited for the bullet to strike home.
Nothing happened.
Wilson opened his eyes. Smithy was looking past Wilson. Something was behind him. He could feel the skin on the nape of his neck pebbling cold. The Private turned slowly around.
It was coming towards them.
Chapter Nine
Its eyes were pools of absolute obsidian. Black howling portals of hell. Black as an ocean under a moonless night sky. The eyes froze the two soldiers where they stood. The scrawny naked thing cocked its head on one side, looking at them. A curving smile sliced across its thin, scabrous face. It showed them teeth that were cracked with decay. Splinters and needles, dark yellow and deep brown. Its fingernails were long and torn, clicking like hollow beetle shells.
It stepped forwards.
Then it fell.
It fell apart.
Wilson could not believe what he was seeing. The figure hit the ground in pieces. Hairy moving pieces. Squirming, shrieking pieces. A milling, verminous mass that came surging towards the two soldiers.
The paralysing gaze was broken. They turned to run. The rats were already under their feet. Writhing forms clustering, tripping them. They kicked and stumbled their way towards the steps. Tiny bones crunched underfoot. The vermin shrieked in unholy chorus. Wilson scrambled up the steps of the crypt, ahead of Smithy. The moon bobbing in crazy eights above him. He lunged towards the opening.
A
scream pierced the air. Hands grabbed onto Wilson's legs. He was pulled back down the steps. Smithy had fallen. He was dragging Wilson down with him. The moon bobbed away. Abandoning him to the rats and the shadows. Wilson's front teeth cracked down on stone. Breaking, then slicing into his bottom lip. He spat out pieces of bloodied enamel. Turning his head, he saw what was making Smithy scream.
“Brookes! You let me go! That's an order!”
His torn throat flapping away, Brookes stared up at Wilson with glassy eyes. There was no life there. An emotionless grin cut its way across the dead boy's face. Brookes had Smithy by the legs. The old man was thrashing about, tugging at Wilson, trying to use him as leverage to pull himself free.
Smithy's voice broke, “Brookes, for pity's sake, let me go.”
Rats swarmed over Brookes. Shredding his flesh as they passed. The corpse didn't flinch. The timbre of Smithy's screaming changed, rising high.
The rats had reached him.
Wilson's eyes swelled as he realised the rats would soon be upon him too. His stomach began binding itself into strangling knots at the thought. Feeling Smithy's fingers slackening, Wilson kicked himself free. Smithy pawed the air, grasping at Wilson, reaching out to him for help. Wilson shook him off. Smithy grasped again and Wilson booted hard him in the face. Cartilage gave way and Smithy let out a thick nasal yell. His broken nostrils spat out thick streams of blood as Wilson clambered backwards up the steps, away from his comrades.
One, dead. The other, soon to be.
Wilson felt sick, watching Smithy flounder, drowning under the grim, ferocious tide. His uniform hanging in shreds, as was his skin, Wilson could barely tell one from the other. Twitching scabby forms, slick with gore, wriggled over Smithy, chewing on him. As Wilson watched, Smithy's skin began undulating, rising and falling, bubbling.
There were rats under his skin.
