Gas! Gas! Gas! (Royal Zombie Corps Book 3)

by C. M. Harald

  The revealing of the machine-gun seemed to be the signal for a renewed German defence, with several rifles firing from windows in the farmhouse while mortar rounds started to drop among the advancing British. Clearly the Germans had organised a hasty, but effective defence. In the distance, on his flank, Marsh could see a large formation of German infantry moving out of the cover provided by a small wood. Screams from behind indicated to him that it was not just the Tigers that were being targeted, but the advancing infantry as well. If he could get his Tigers moving, perhaps the farmhouse could be taken quickly so that the British infantry would have a building to base their efforts to fight off the German counter-attack from.

  'Keep them steady Marsh.' Simpson had guessed that Marsh was about to rush his Tigers forward at the farmhouse, 'We'll close the ground and then follow up with a quick charge. I want both the machine-guns and the farmhouse taken. Don't attack them too soon.'

  The British continued their steady advance under fire, Mullen following Marsh's lead. The defenders where clearly targeting the Tiger's heads, with a steady stream of the creatures falling and not getting up again. Marsh was beginning to panic, they could not sustain this tremendous bloodshed. Several of the protection squad had also been hit as it appeared that the enemy were beginning to target them as well, having identified their function in controlling the Tigers. Shortly after this realisation Wells was hit, a bullet smashing into his machine-gun before travelling through his right upper arm. Wells shouted at Marsh to keep advancing as he lay on the ground receiving aid from one of the follow-up infantry. Another soldier in the protection squad, Francis, disappeared when hit by a mortar round, just body parts left lying where he had previously been stood. Marsh was not overly certain of Francis' first name, the man having been a recent replacement whom he had not yet got to know. Through it all, Simpson strode erect, invincible to the bullets and shrapnel.

  'Charge!' Simpson shouted when he finally deemed them close enough to launch the assault. Marsh would rather have charged much earlier, after carefully approaching the position. At least now he could unleash his forces rather than stay in the open as slowly moving targets.

  The Tigers rushed the machine-gun post, several of them falling, and staying down, as the stuttering chatter of the machine-gun became a constant and desperate rattle. A zombie rushing in from the flank finally managed to evade the gunfire, the gun finally falling quiet, replaced by the screams of the defenders and the groans of the wounded attackers.

  The farmhouse was quickly surrounded by scrabbling zombies, the defenders firing as rapidly as possible through the windows and doors, trying to keep the attackers at bay. Marsh had never seen the zombies swarm a building like this and had been considering using a mortar zombie to demolish a side of the building. He quickly saw that this would not be necessary as first one Tiger, then another, leapt through open windows. The firing retreated into the ground floor of the building, before falling silent. A moment later, the firing from upstairs turned inward, screams tracking the progress of the Tigers through the building. It ended when the final enemy defender fell from an upstairs window, Tiger attached to his neck. Both landed with a thud on the hard ground outside but only one of them continuing to move, feeding itself on the fresh flesh.

  The mortar fire increased in volume and were joined by heavier artillery as the rest of the combat group took shelter in and around the farmhouse. Only a few hundred yards away, the German infantry were now hurriedly digging in, no longer prepared to advance having seen the brutal attack by the Tigers. Several hastily set up machine-gun posts opened fire on the advancing British infantry, causing them to find any cover they could.

  'The attack's stalled!' Marsh shouted to Mullen, who had joined him along a wall behind the farmhouse, 'We went to slow, it's given them time to organise.'

  'We've got to get out of here,' Mullen ducked as a shell flew overhead, 'The artillery is zeroed in on this building. Where's Simpson?'

  'In the farmhouse. He was with me, but went into the farmhouse to see if he could spot what the enemy are doing.' Marsh explained

  'He better get out of there soon, because it's not going to be standing for much longer.' Mullen replied.

  'Look, the infantry are digging in.' Someone called. The riflemen one hundred yards behind. They were desperately digging shallow scrapes and expanding the odd crater that they found themselves in

  'They're pinned down by those machine-guns and the artillery.' Marsh realised.

  A loud whistling grew in volume, Marsh felt a sudden hot blast of air and a thud that travelled through his entire body. The vibration of the ground threw him into the air. He was showered by chunks of the stone wall he had been sheltering behind and as he hit the ground, he was winded, ears ringing and body not responding. Everything went dark.

  The next thing Marsh realised was that he was being dragged by his arms through the mud. Mullen was there, muttering as he pulled. Darkness descended again.

  'Blighty'

  ‘A Blighty wound was a popular term for a wound that would put a soldier out of action, requiring him to return to England for recuperation. The word Blighty had come into common use among British soldiers during the Boer War, as a term for home, probably introduced by those who had served in India. During the Great War, the usage expanded to refer to injuries. Wounds that were of a short term nature were considered in a far more favourable light, however, this varied according to the degree of fatigue of the soldier. Wounds to extremities of the body, notably the hands or the feet, were treated with increasing suspicion as the war progressed. This was especially the case when the circumstances of the injury were less than clear.’

  Historymain.com ‘The experience of the trenches’ (2014)

  The days after the attack had been brought into focus around points of pain and boredom, during which Marsh moved through the medical system. Early in his ordeal, he had recovered consciousness a few times, at least that was what the medical orderlies and nurses had later told him. His first memory, of the time after the attack, had been waking up in a canvas tent. He later recalled that there were over a dozen beds full of injured soldiers in the tent. Joshua Wells had been sitting on the bed next to him, grinning from ear to ear as Alfie had woken. Marsh recalled not being able to make sense of anything that was said, the words were just noises without meaning, and he had soon gone back to sleep.

  'Alfie, Alfie.' This time the voice was insistent and Marsh reluctantly opened his eyes, comfortable in the warm bed, 'You're awake, good. Have some more water.' It was Wells again and he was offering a mug of water. Marsh realised that he was able to understand the words his friend spoke.

  'What happened?' Marsh asked, his throat was sore and his left side ached as he tried to push himself upright.

  'You caught a Blighty.' Wells handed him the mug, 'Congratulations.'

  'What do you mean?' Marsh asked, his mind still confused, 'I hurt.'

  'Not surprising, you stopped a stone with that hard head of yours and got yourself peppered with shrapnel.' Wells said.

  'Stopped a stone?' Marsh was struggling to remember what had happened.

  'At the farmhouse. Shell landed by your wall. Mullen says the wall saved you from the blast, but a chunk of it smashed into your helmet and knocked you out. Apparently the rock came off far worse than you did from the encounter. Then you took a bunch of splinters from another near miss.' Wells grinned, 'Bloody unlucky from what Mullen says. He was next to you both times and was completely untouched, the luck of the Irish. He got you out of there. Surgeons operated on you and pulled out all the shell splinters using some new-fangled thing called a Death-Ray, or X-Ray, or something.'

  'So that's why my head hurts then.' Marsh looked down at his left arm and left side of his chest, seeing clean bandages covering significant amounts of flesh, 'That's why my left side hurts like hell.'

  'The MO wants you shipped back to Blighty for recovery, so looks like we'll be getting out of here soon.' Wells was happy
at the idea.

  'We? That's why you're here then? Didn't you get hit as well?' Marsh asked.

  'That's right. Bullet smashed my gun.' Wells looked rather unhappy. Despite the appalling reputation the Chauchat was developing in the hands of other soldiers, Wells loved his gun, 'Then it punched right through my arm, clean through missing everything important. I spotted you at the casualty station and I've stayed with you since.' He indicated his upper right arm, but Marsh could see nothing unusual other than the sling, as Wells was wearing a shirt.

  'Blighty as well?' Marsh managed a grin.

  'Well you're not going home without me.' Wells grinned, 'You wouldn't know how to enjoy yourself without me about to show you.'

  Marsh look at his friend. Despite his good mood, he looked awful, the grime of the battlefield still engrained around the edges of his face, even though he had clearly washed several times since being injured. He looked pale and his free hand held an unlit cigarette. Marsh mentally checked his own wounds. The back of his head was a dull ache, like some of the hangovers he had suffered when he had drunk too much cider on the farm. There was constant pain down his left side, especially his leg, but it was not too overwhelming. Clearly he had been dosed up with effective painkillers.

  'What about everyone else? What about the attack?' Marsh asked, suddenly concerned for his friends.

  'Mullen was ok. He went back and pulled back as many Tigers as he could after getting you back, but lots were lost around the farmhouse. He'd been worried that the Tigers were going to go out of control, but they seemed locked into your last command until he somehow overrode it. He found me in the clearing station later on that morning and filled me in. Mullen said he'd seen Davies and Morgan and they were as fine as can be expect for those two. He'd not heard about Matthews at that point, but I've since heard that he got pinned down at the farmhouse and snuck back much later. Bloody Simpson was perfectly fine and claiming that it all as a great victory, despite most of our casualties being from when he pushed us on to the farmhouse.' His face showed what he thought about the officer's claim, 'Jones and Flannery were killed and Francis is missing.'

  'Francis is dead.' Marsh said quietly, 'I saw him hit by a shell. There was nothing left.'

  'It was the attack on the farmhouse that did it. Everything before went smoothly.' Wells repeated his opinion.

  'What happened in the end? Did we keep the ground?' Marsh asked.

  'We had to pull back from the farmhouse. Went back to the last trench we captured. The Germans dug in really quickly and got organised to such a degree that our lads couldn't stay, even though they were digging in as quickly as they could.'

  'Useless, we should have just stuck to the plan. We weren't meant to follow through on any breakthroughs, we didn't have the support for that.' Marsh said, 'Heard anything from the Colonel yet?'

  'No, not yet, although I shouldn't think he'll be too happy with Simpson for screwing up at the farmhouse.' Wells answered, 'The fool should have just let you advance the Tigers the way you wanted rather than falling back on his bloody textbook approach again.'

  'Well we know what it takes, but Simpson hasn't moved on since General Gordon and Khartoum.' Marsh joked.

  'More like Harold at Hastings if you ask me.' Wells replied, 'But it's not going to be our problem for a while as we'll be off home to recover. Just think of the women, the pubs, the peace and quiet, oh, and the women. It's not like we've had much leave, unlike other units.'

  'The joys of being in such demand.' Marsh complained, 'It'll be nice to be away from Simpson for a while, although I don't envy Mullen, or the other handlers, for having to deal with him.'

  'They're not going to let the other handlers do anything more than herd the Tigers, they don't have your skill, or Mullen's.' Wells explained, 'You two are in a different league, not limited by voice or small numbers. There'll not be any more action until you're ready for it.'

  'Well, we'll be out of it for a while.' Marsh was happy at the thought, 'It's not like I'm much of a soldier, and without the Tigers, I'd just be useless.'

  'Polishing your boots in the trenches is not what good soldiering is about, whatever Simpson thinks. You're a damn good soldier as far as I'm concerned and wasted as a mere corporal.' Wells disagreed, 'I'd say you've proved that time and again with your work on the Tigers.'

  'Now,' Wells had a great big smile on his face, 'Let me tell you about the nurses we've got here looking after us.'

  'Sit down gentlemen. There is no need for you to stand in the condition you're both in.' Colonel Hudson indicated the two unused chairs in the wooden hut and waited for them to take a seat. Marsh was particularly slow, uncomfortable as a result of the amount of exercise he had undertaken already during the day. He was working hard to get his fitness back. While his injuries were not serious, they did pull and ache whenever he exerted himself.

  'You may be wondering why I'm here,' Hudson began, 'Well, it seems that you two chaps are pretty indispensable and I've had to intervene to stop your trip back to good old Blighty.' Their faces dropped at the news, 'I can see you're both disappointed, so I will be arranging some leave for you both in Paris. You have more than earned it and I'd say you deserve a trip back home, however, you are indispensable to the war effort. The needs of the war are that you continue your work with the Tigers, even if that means you will be desk-bound for some time. We simply do not have the capacity, or the skills, on hand to lose either of you, despite that fool Simpson doing his best to further thin out our numbers.' It was highly unusual for an officer to criticise another officer in front of enlisted men, but Hudson was clearly unimpressed with Simpson's intervention in the last combat. He needed Marsh and Wells to clearly understand that they were not being held responsible for the near disaster at the end of the demonstration attack. Their tactics had been sound.

  'Now Marsh, your new tactics worked brilliantly and it was pure foolishness on the part of the Major in charge of the infantry, and Lieutenant Simpson, to advance beyond the agreed objectives. The General Staff were particularly impressed with the pace of your advance and have instructed us to prepare to lead a future offensive.' He paused while Marsh and Wells grinned at each other, 'I even overheard comments to the effect of how Field Marshal Haig was correct to put great store in our work.'

  'Now you Marsh, along with Mullen, clearly have an unique understanding of the zombies and will be the centrepiece of anything we do. We also have quite a few handlers who could be made greater use of, even though they are far more limited in their abilities. Once you have returned from your leave, we will get to work readying ourselves for the next "Big Push". How does that sound Marsh?'

  'Ideal, Sir.' Marsh could think of nothing else to say in response to the praise that had washed away his disappointment at not going home.

  'Now Sergeant Wells, we need to talk about changing your role a little, especially if Marsh agrees to this. So far you have been providing close protection for the handlers and have been available to step in should they lose control of the Tigers. This has frequently brought you into contact with the enemy as the Tigers have stormed the trenches. Therefore, the General Staff would like to expand your number and equip you with more trench fighting weapons so that you will become assault troops alongside the Tigers. They were so impressed with the pace of the attacks, that they want to ensure that we don't outrun our support. Therefore we will attack with a greater number of live, and specially trained, soldiers. The follow on troops will also be under our command during attacks. So Wells, your challenge will be finding a way to make this work. Of course, your resourcefulness will be a great asset in achieving this, but I must ask you to not liberate any more of my personal effects and supplies.' The Colonel winked, and Wells wondered which of the many liberated supplies were being referred to.

  'Like the Royal Flying Corps we will be formed into our own corps, as will the Heavy Branch of the Machine Gun Corps. The Heavy Branch will become the Tank Corps and we will become the Tiger Corps on t
he basis that we have proved ourselves an effective offensive weapon. I would have much preferred Zombie Corps, but some wag at General Headquarters decided that the civilians back home would struggle too much with the pronunciation of corps and corpse, leading to obvious jokes.' Hudson beamed as he finished delivering the good news.

  'Sir, that calls for a drink.' Wells said, extracting a bottle of late 19th Century cognac from his kit and three enamelled mugs, 'Sorry about the mugs, Sir, but I'm sure the quality of the cognac will make up for that.' Wells said pouring the amber spirit.

  'I hope that's not one of mine?' Hudson asked.

  'Of course not, Sir.' Wells passed around the mugs, 'It came from a French officer.'

  'To the Royal Tiger Corps.' Hudson said, raising his mug.

  'No, to the Royal Zombie Corps, Sir.' Marsh said, 'The civilians might not cope, but to us out here in the field, that's who we really are.'

  'Royal Zombie Corps' The men toasted, Marsh coughing after the drink burnt his throat.

  'I'll see what I can do to persuade the Brass to change the name.' Hudson thought aloud.

  'Sorry Sir, not used to this kind of medicine at the moment.' Marsh said after his coughing fit finished.

  'Well you'll have to get used to it as you've a little more celebrating ahead.' Hudson was delighted to reveal further good news, 'As we're expanding, I'll need to make you up to a Sergeant. Can't have a mere Corporal strutting around giving the orders any more. Congratulations, you'll still be running our tactics and leading us on the field.' The Colonel extended his hand.

  Grasping the proffered hand, Marsh was stunned by the news. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought he would end up as a Sergeant. He was too often the butt of complaints about his ineffectiveness as a soldier, especially from Simpson, and would have been content to stay as a Corporal for the rest of the war. Yet now, he would have a far greater responsibility than before as the Battalion, no Corps, expanded and became one of the spearheads of the British Army as it sought to break the deadlock of the trenches. He would have to be a good soldier, but not the traditional variety that Simpson seemed to favour. Instead he would be the one who got things done in the real world, the reality of the trenches.