by Pat Kelleher
He turned and followed their gaze “Blood and sand!” The shellravaged vista of No Man’s Land was as familiar as it ever was. Atkins turned round. He could see their trenches and the barbed wire. For around a quarter of a mile in every direction there was the pummelled and churned ground of the Somme. But beyond… It was as if some pocket of Hades had been deposited in the vale of Elysium. Beyond the muddy battlefield of No Man’s Land, lush green vegetation sprang up, a green so deep and bright after untold weeks of drab khaki and grey, chalky mud that it almost hurt the eyes to look upon it. Great curling fronds, taller than a man, waved in the breeze.
Where there should have been only blasted hell-torn rolling farmland, now, on either side of them, deep green thickly wooded hills rose up as if cradling them, their peaks marked by glittering becks and scumbles of scree. Atkins was reminded of the hills and mountains of his Pennine home and felt a pang of homesickness. The air around them was no longer chill and damp, but warm and moist. In the distance, along the valley floor, was a forest of sorts and, above them all, arced an achingly blue summer sky.
But of Harcourt Wood and its splintered, shredded trees, there was no sign.
Men, stunned by the same sight, were taking off their gas hoods and shucking off their backpacks and webbing to stand dumbstruck.
Some fell to their knees weeping openly with relief. In the distance, the sounds of a hymn, Nearer My God to Thee, rose up from the trenches.
Soldiers slowly, cautiously clambered over the parapets, laying down their weapons to stand in the sunlight.
“Lay down your arms, brothers, for we are at peace in the fields of the Lord!”
Groups knelt in prayer amidst the mud, their hands clasped together, heads bowed. Others just sat, exhausted from the constant tension of the front lines or wandered dazed amid the trammelled corpse-ridden fields. Warmed by the sun, steam began to drift gently up, rising like the ghosts of the slain from the desolate earth.
“It’s paradise!” said Ginger, his steel helmet held loosely in his hand, a beatific smile adorning his face. He wasn’t shaking or jerking, he wasn’t stuttering. It seemed as if a load had been lifted from him.
Atkins had never known Ginger without his shell-shock.
“Paradise? You mean—”
“We’re dead. Yes. Look. The guns have stopped. This isn’t the Somme. This isn’t France. It’s heaven,” Ginger sighed. “It’s heaven…”
“Valhalla,” said Pot Shot, nodding in agreement.
“You what?” said Jessop.
“Valhalla. Norse heaven of Viking warriors.”
“Well, that’s us, though, ain’t it, warriors? That’s us,” said Lucky. “Blimey you’re a regular fount of knowledge, Pot Shot. I’m surprised you can get your head inside that battle bowler of yours,” Gutsy said. Atkins felt the great weariness that he had been holding at bay descend on him. It was as if the weight of his mortality was slowly crushing him, as if the mere thought of an end had robbed him of the tenacious will to cling on at all costs. Was this it then? If it was over, if it really was over, if he really could just stop and give in— “There’s just one thing bothers me,” said Half Pint, scratching his head after a few seconds thought.
“Oh aye, what’s that then?” said Jessop. “You found a problem with heaven, have you?”
“Well, there’s no way they’d be lettin’ Porgy through the pearly gates for a start.”
Me, neither, thought Atkins.
It was all very well the chaplains preaching for victory and devoutly citing that the murder of a Hun was a good thing, but they were hollow words if your conscience was pricked by other matters.
Porgy inclined his head, pursing his lips as he nodded. “Man’s got a point,” he said.
“I’ll say,” said Gutsy, “All those saintly, virtuous young ladies and Porgy? Might be his idea of heaven, but it’d be their idea of hell.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” said Ginger. “Look at it. How can it be anything else? Where did you ever see such beauty on earth?”
“Where’s the padre? He’d know,” said Lucky.
“Well, if this is heaven he ain’t going to be too happy about it,” said Half Pint.
“Why?”
“He’ll be out of a job, won’t he?”
SEEING THAT THE gas was now blowing away, Jeffries eagerly pulled the stifling hood from his head as he stood ready to receive his god with expectations of the glory and power due to him. So he was perplexed at his deity’s absence and the idyllic sights surrounding them confused him. But beyond that that there was a growing anger. What had gone wrong? He had said the words perfectly, hadn’t he? Yes, he must have. He was sure he had. He ran through his preparations in his head. He had been painstaking in their groundwork. It had taken months to put this plan together based on years of meticulous research. There was only one conclusion he could come to; he’d been cheated. At the moment of his greatest triumph, somehow he’d been cheated. He shook his head slowly, uncomprehensive as anger burned deeply within him until he was consumed in a wave of rage and vitriol.
“No!” he roared, throwing his helmet to the ground. “No!”
SERGEANT HOBSON STORMED over to 1 Section. “You lot! Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing, Sar’nt. We’re dead,” called Porgy.
“You’re not bloody well dead until I tell you you’re dead!” snapped Hobson. “Now pick your kit up and follow me.”
Atkins smirked at Porgy, who shrugged. “Well, it’s something to do until Saint Peter shows up and demobs us,” he said.
“Don’t believe in heaven, anyway,” said Pot Shot casually. “Opiate of the masses an’ all that.”
“Opiate of the masses, that you readin’ again, is it?” retorted Gutsy.
“Opiate?” said Jessop thoughtfully. “No, wait lads, he could be onto something. That would explain it. What if ol’ Fritzy-boy, is using some sort of experimental opium gas what got through our respirators? This, this could all be a giant illusination. You know like them Chinky opium dens they have in that fancy London?”
EVERSON FELT DISCONSOLATE. Since the gas cloud cleared and the astounding change to the landscape had revealed itself he began to feel power dripping away from him. It was all he’d wished for, for months, yet now he was not yet ready to relinquish it so easily. Not until he was sure that it was over, that they were all safe.
“You men!” he called, brandishing his Webley in their direction. “Pick up your weapons!” They ignored him. “Pick up your weapons!”
It was as if, in the absence of an enemy, he’d lost all authority. Isn’t that what he wanted all along? To shed the burden? It was the same along the entire front. Men had cast their rifles aside, sat down and were breaking out their iron rations and singing sentimental songs, sharing out the smokes, waiting… waiting for something. Nobody seemed sure what, but whatever it was, it wasn’t a subaltern with a pistol.
“It’s a higher authority we answer to now, mate,” one brazen private told him, jerking his chin towards the distant hills. “If we’re dead then the only route march I’m doing is through the pearly gates. Fag?”
Perplexed, Everson shook his head. Seemingly bereft of purpose, he wandered out along the wire entanglements that marked the British Line. Men lay where they had fallen, sobbing and crying in pain. Some were being tended to, some being ferried away on stretchers. If this was heaven, why were there still the wounded and suffering? Would heaven allow men to suffer with their guts hanging out? What kind of god was that?
He caught sight of 1 Section being herded towards him like wayward sheep by Sergeant Hobson, before he went to round up the rest of the scattered platoon. Everson addressed one of the men.
“Jellicoe?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but the last I heard we were attacking the German positions in Harcourt Wood.”
“Wood seems to have gone now, sir,” chimed in Hopkiss.
An unearthly howl cut through the valley, echoing off the hillsides. As one, the Section raised their rifles, eyes surveying the landscape. Around them men started and turned to listen, uncertainty clouding their faces. Some began gathering their discarded equipment, looking expectantly towards the officer.
“What the bloody hell was that?” said Everson.
“It came from that forest, sir,” said Jellicoe.
“Right. Yes,” said Everson, feeling a resurgence of purpose and responsibility, “Jessop, stay here with your section, I’ll tell Hobson to rally the Platoon and pass on any orders.” He turned to address the other men. “The rest of you men get back to your platoon’s trenches and stand to! Until we know what’s going on I think we must remain on our guard.”
AS PLATOONS OF men slunk back to the trenches, overhead, Atkins heard a faint, familiar drone. High above he spotted two aeroplanes, each vying for an advantageous position from which to attack. One succeeded in manoeuvring above the other for a split second before it began descending in a slow smoky spiral. Atkins watched it drift down like a leaf until it was lost from sight behind the peaks of the newly risen hills. A high gust of wind had caught the untethered and slowly deflating German kite balloon, carrying it further and further away over the hills, buoyed aloft by swift currents of air.
A spatter of machine gun fire jerked him back to reality, if anything they were experiencing could be said to be reality. Another burst. And another. The field of fire swept across No Man’s Land. Tommies fell. Men scurried for cover and dived into shell holes with shouts of alarm and dismay.
“There!” said Gazette, spotting the muzzle flash of the machine gun as it fired off another burst. “It’s a Hun sap.”
They barely had time to follow Gazette’s stare towards a fortified shell-hole before the Maxim fire swept towards them. The Section scrambled for the cover of a shell hole, bullets spitting into the mud at their heels as they ran. As they threw themselves into the mud-filled pit a roar filled the air as the great ironclad bulk of HMLS Ivanhoe reared up out of a dip in front of them, like some great blind creature emerging from the primordial slime. It crashed down heavily, placing its metal carcass between them and the raking German machine gun. Atkins heard the bullets raining against the hide of the motorised beast.
Slowly its great six-pounder gun turned toward the emplacement. There was a brief pause before the gun fired. The machine gun emplacement erupted in a geyser of dirt and sandbags; smoke and screams filled the air as munitions went up in a series of secondary explosions. A ball of flame bloomed briefly within the remnants of the emplacement and mud and hot metal rained down, clinking dully against the armoured hulk.
Mercy banged on the side of the boojum. “Ere, conductor! Any room inside, it’s ruddy raining out here!”
The Tank gave no indication of human occupancy although, in reply, its motorised growl rose in pitch as if in recognition. Gears ground as the left hand track remained still and the right hand track spun slowly, swinging the tank away from them as it continued its halting, lethargic advance.
“Christ that was close. Bloody boojums, though, eh, Only?” said Mercy cracking a grin and slapping Atkins on the back.
“Right, you lot!” bellowed Sergeant Hobson herding the rest of the scattered platoon towards them. “Take a dekko and see how far this mud pie of ours goes. We also need to make sure Fritz hasn’t got anything else up his sleeve. One other thing. Nobody steps off this mud until further orders. Got it?”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
“Right. Move out.”
Atkins fell in with Mercy and Gazette with Jessop taking the lead. The initial eerie tranquillity had now been shattered, spurring the growing sense of unease he felt at their surroundings. Along the line several other platoons were being ordered to move forward through the shell holes towards where the German lines should have been.
They came across the remains of an aeroplane lying on its back, its wheels splayed in the air. It was one of theirs, the Royal Flying Corps roundel clearly visible on the fuselage. The front was covered with mud, the remains of the propeller splintered as though it had ploughed head first into the mud before flipping and coming to rest. Oil leaked onto the ground from the engine, turning the mud beneath it to a thick black viscous puddle.
“Only, check the pilot blokes,” Jessop said, looking around warily.
Atkins passed his rifle to Porgy and got down on his hands and knees to crawl under the upturned machine. The observer was upside down in his cockpit, his head tilted back and his face planted in the mud. Atkins tried to push him up to relieve the pressure, but realised his efforts were futile. He was dead. Atkins moved towards the pilot. He crawled over the plane and let out a startled cry when his knee went through the doped cotton with a pop.
“Sorry, nothing! My fault,” he called out to reassure his startled fellows. “Hang on chum, we’ll get you out.”
Once Atkins had wriggled through the snapped spars and wire he found that the pilot had fallen out of his cockpit and lay in the small crushed space between machine and the upper wing, his neck broken. Awkwardly, Atkins shuffled out from under the shattered plane. As he did so he spotted a line of bullet holes stitched across the fuselage.
Atkins shook his head at Jessop.
“Both dead. Pilot’s got a broken neck. Looks like the other one was drowned in the mud.”
“Nothing we can do here, then,” said Jessop. “Ginger, Mercy, get those bodies out then salvage the guns and collect whatever ammunition you can from the plane. The rest of you spread out and move on.”
Porgy had been looking at the rear of the aeroplane. “Look at this, lads. What do you make of that?”
The tail had vanished, not ripped off or shot through, but simply amputated by a clean cut. Atkins looked around but could see no sign of the missing section.
There was a dull snap as Ginger and Mercy tugged at the body of the observer and dragged him from the rear cockpit.
“Careful, you clumsy buggers,” cried Jessop.
“It was the plane!” said Mercy defensively.
Jessop shook his head and moved on. The rest followed his lead.
In minutes they had reached the end of the mud. The German wire should have been twenty or thirty yards further on but, where once there had been fortifications, entrenchments, emplacements and entanglements there was now an abrupt drop of seven or eight feet. Beyond, they were surrounded by a thick green meadow, the grass maybe three or four feet high, the stalks flattened outwards as if by violent impact. Beyond the veldt, looking towards the head of the valley, was what could be termed a forest, perhaps a mile or so or away. Scattered across the meadow were what looked like trees, spaced singly or in small groves.
“Jessop?” said Pot Shot, standing at the very edge of what they knew as the Somme.
“What is it?” said the lance sergeant, striding over.
Pot Shot was stood over a body of a dead Hun. Or to be more precise, half a body. The torso was hanging on the wire. It was cut clean through and the legs were missing. Hobson pushed his tin hat back on his head, raised his eyebrows and let out a long, slow exhalation.
“Christ,” he said.
“What do you reckon did that?”
“Nothing I know of,” he said. There wasn’t the usual mess they were accustomed to, just a clean, surgical cut.
All eyes turned to Gutsy.
“What? Just because I use to be a butcher? Bloody hell!” Gutsy, despite his protests, set about studying the body with an almost professional interest. There was no blood. It was as if the entire wound had been cauterised. “I don’t know of any blade sharp enough or quick enough to leave such a clean cut.”
Pot Shot had been examining a strand of the wire.
“Same here,” he declared.
“How can you tell?” asked Gazette.
“You see here? Normally when you use wire cutters the wire is pinched thin before it breaks, resulting in a pointed ‘v’ cross section. This is flat.”
Atkins stood at the edge of the lip and looked slowly left, then right along the fault line as it curved gently back away from him on either side. “Y’ know,” he said slowly. “It’s almost as if something has severed cleanly through everything—ground and air. I’ll bet if we follow this around we’ll find the same.”
“What are you saying, Only?” asked Jessop.
Atkins never got the chance to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of fangs as Jessop disappeared, propelled backwards by the weight of a large mound of greasy fur and muscle, leaving only a scream in his wake as foot long teeth ripped out his throat.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Some Corner of a Foreign Field…”
GAZETTE WAS THE first to get off a shot, firing a full clip at the great beast as it tore ravenously into Jessop’s stomach, all in the time it took Atkins to bring up his rifle.
“Holy Mary Mother of God!” wailed Ginger.
“What the bleedin’ hell is it?” shouted Mercy.
“Bloody ugly!” replied Gutsy, as the rest of the section brought their rifles to bear.
Atkins had never seen such a creature. None of them had. It was like some kind of monstrous hyena. Easily as high as a man, it had powerful shoulders, like that of an American bison; a mass of knotted, corded muscle rippling under its coarse fur. Its neck was short, its long snout was filled with sharp teeth and it possessed powerful muscled legs ending in long claws.
“Don’t just stand there,” bellowed Hobson. “Five rounds rapid!”
The great predator roared as the bullets bit, but would not be denied its kill. It turned its blood-drenched snout towards them, snarling in pain and anger. Driven away from the body, it let out a howl of such fury that some of the men nearby dropped their guns and began running for the trenches.
From out of the undergrowth, a pack of the same creatures answered, bounding towards the mud, howling and baying, the scent of fresh blood now on the wind, driving them into a frenzy.
