by Pat Kelleher
One of the gearsmen was looking out of a loophole at the rear of the tank, attempting to guide it. The landship lurched as it begin to climb up the side of the sinkhole; the engine labouring to propel its twentyeight ton bulk up the steep sides, the tracks squealing in protest as they struggled to maintain purchase. At one point it looked as if wasn’t going to make it but then it reared over the lip and, with a heavy crash, it slammed down onto level ground.
They emerged from the ground not thirty yards from the great earthen edifice that now towered above them, black smoke roiling up from a break in the wall high above. Further down the edifice, a familiar sickly green gas vented lazily from holes and sank down along the walls. Atkins was astounded at how much damage they had caused. And they hadn’t stopped yet.
As Chatt soldiers poured out of the edifice, the air filled with the chatter of machine guns as interlocking fields of fire from the flanks mowed them down. The Ivanhoe fired shells at the entrances to the edifice, bringing rubble crashing down to block them, slowing any further pursuit. The hollow plomps of trench mortars sent shells arcing over the clearing to drop down among the remaining Chatts now trapped outside the edifice, while rifle fire and the odd grenade mopped up the rest. Plumes of smoke drifted slowly across the increasingly pock-marked clearing. It was all beginning to take on a familiar feel to the men of the Pennines. As Atkins took in the commotion, he caught a movement on the side of one of the midden piles buttressing the edifice. It was a soldier. Had they left someone behind? Atkins squinted and recognised him at once. Jeffries. The man stopped on the crest of the heap and turned to watch the carnage briefly.
“Atkins! Do you want to get yourself killed?”
Atkins looked towards the cry. Hobson was ushering the last stragglers into the undergrowth where Hepton was cranking the handle on his kine camera, filming the battle of a lifetime. Atkins dashed for the cover of the encircling woodland and the rest of the support sections. When he looked back in Jeffries’ direction, he had gone.
INTERLUDE FIVE
Letter from Flora Mullins
to Private Thomas Atkins
22nd October 1916
My Dearest Tom,
I write, praying this finds you safe for I do not know what else to do. You are the only friend I have left in this world who will understand. I could not bear to lose you as well.
Although we vowed that we would never speak of the passion that overcame our prudence that night, I fear we must. I have got myself into such a mess. Oh Tom, I am with child and the child is yours. Of that, there can be no doubt.
At first I denied the possibility even to myself, but my condition has begun to show and can be hidden no longer. I cannot continue to work at the Munitions Factory for the shame of it. There was a frightful row and my father is in a terrible rage for they know the child cannot be William’s. He demands to know who the father is, but I have not told them. William was always a hero in their eyes but since he has been missing, he has become a saint and they will have nothing gainsay it. They told me that to do such a deed behind my fiancé’s back I must be a wicked girl and he was all for throwing me out on the street there and then, but my mother, God bless her soul, calmed him down. They are to send me to board with my Aunt Peggy in Ulverston. Tom, I am afraid they mean to take the baby from me once it is born and give it up to an orphanage. I do not know what is to become of me. Alive or dead, I fear William will never forgive us and that is anguish enough, but to lose my child, Tom, that would be more than I could bear.
Oh, Tom, I know you are a good man. You have to come home to me and make this right. I do not know what I would do if I lost you, too. I need you, Tom—we need you. I pray ardently for your safe return. Write by return of post if you are able. Each day I do not hear from you weighs heavily on me.
Your loving
Flora
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Glorious, Victorious...”
ATKINS READ FLORA’S letter several times on the long journey back to the entrenchments. The tear-stained paper in his hands left him reeling with a vertiginous sense of guilt. He was so self-absorbed he barely noticed as Gazette fell in beside him.
“Want to talk about it, mate?”
“No. Not really.”
“Fair enough. Fag?” he said, offering a crushed Woodbine. Atkins shook his head.
“So, Dwyer the devil worshipper, eh?” said Gazette. “Bloody hell, that was a turn up for the books and no mistake. The most notorious man in England. Think of the reward money we’d get if we could turn him in, eh? Pity he scarpered. If there’s any justice in this world he’ll be a bag o’ bones by now.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
Porgy trotted up and was about to speak when Gazette shook his head, so Porgy just matched his stride with theirs and they walked along in uneasy silence.
“Wait, something’s wrong,” said Pot Shot behind them, holding up a hand. “Half Pint’s stopped grousing.”
Eyes turned to look at the curmudgeonly private being carried along on a makeshift stretcher. Behind him, Napoo was being carried on another, Poilus now constantly at his clansman’s side. Around them walking wounded limped along in ones and twos or helping those blinded by Chatt acid, all of them constantly herded along by the nurses, like sheep.
“Half Pint, what’s the matter?” called Gutsy, over the ever-present rumble of the tank up ahead.
“Shhh!” warned Sister Fenton. “Poilus has given him crushed berries of some sort. It seems to have numbed his pain.”
“And his ability to complain, too, by the sound of it,” said Pot Shot. “No it hasn’t,” said Half Pint drowsily, “I just don’t know where to bloody start.”
“Off on the wrong foot, knowing you, probably!”
“No thanks to you, you bugger,” said Half Pint, sticking up a pair of fingers in Gutsy’s direction. Gutsy puffed out his cheeks with relief.
EVERSON DROVE THE men on. They had made longer marches than this in France and in worse conditions and he knew they wouldn’t be safe until they reached their entrenchment. But would it still be there? That was the question that went through the mind of every man in the column, the thought that made every one of them sick at heart.
WEARY, FOOTSORE AND hungry the bedraggled column marched on, although the two day trek back was not without incident. Along the way, a small group of Chatt soldiers harried them, although they mostly kept their distance, still awed by the sight of the ironclad.
When they reached the open veldt the trail they had followed days ago was still there, cutting across the vast expanse of tube grass, but to what would it lead them?
The answer to their prayers came on the wind in the form of a faint insect drone. A dot in the sky resolved itself into the flimsy shape of Tulliver’s Sopwith as it circled them. Seeing the biplane raised their spirits and sent their hearts soaring. A rousing cheer went up as it passed low overhead. They waved their rifles and hats jubilantly above their heads and were delighted to receive a waggle of the wings in return. Knowing that that the muddy field they called home had not disappeared in their absence, their mood became more ebullient. The aeroplane wheeled above them once more, then flew on ahead, leading them home.
JEFFRIES STAGGERED UP the hill, away from the crashing sounds in the forest below. Whatever it was, it had been following him for some time now.
Escaping from the edifice in the confusion, he’d managed to pick up his dropped weapons and equipment, although the barrel of one Enfield was broken beyond use and he’d had to discard it.
Panting, he reached the crown of the hill and dropped his equipment. Paled into grey by the distance he could make out the Khungarrii edifice behind him, still smoking. He took the map out of his pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out on a rock. His eyes flicked from the parchment to the landscape and back again as he orientated himself, matching landmarks to symbols. He turned the map. Satisfied, he studied it more closely. He tapped a Croatoan sigil thoughtfu
lly and looked out over the forest towards a line of hills some twenty miles away before folding the parchment away again. He checked his rifle, picked up his load and set off down the far side of the hill.
He was on the final road to meet his god and when he did, The Great Snake would rise again.
EVERSON HARDLY RECOGNISED the trench system when they saw it. In four days, Company Quartermaster Sergeant Slacke had begun to turn the field of Somme mud into something resembling a defensible stronghold, a corner of a foreign field that was to them, for now, all that was England. A fire trench now ran all the way around the perimeter with saps and OPs projecting out into the scorched earth cordon.
Everson went to the hospital tents, where Napoo and Half Pint were made comfortable. They were gravely ill, but stable. All they could hope for was that infection didn’t set in. Padre Rand, who had been melancholic all the way back from the edifice, insisted on discharging himself from the MO’s care. Everson was keen to hear about his experience.
“I don’t know what to say, Lieutenant,” he told Everson. “What I experienced there severely tested my faith to the point where I rejected my God, but then,” he said with a self-effacing smile, “even St. Peter failed that particular test as I recall. Jeffries had me fooled. He had everyone fooled. I’m sure he had some machinations of his own. What they were I don’t know, but I do know he was willing to sell us all into slavery to get what he wanted. And these Khungarrii, although they look hideous to our eyes and their culture is like none I have encountered before, would we have reacted any differently in their shoes? Even so, I have a horrible feeling that we may have started a war where none was looked for.”
Everson rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, briefly wishing the entire world away, before dragging his hands down his face to confront it again with a sigh of resignation. “Could we have avoided it? Did we do the right thing?”
“‘When I was a child I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child,’” quoted the padre. “We’re warriors, Lieutenant. We understand as warriors, we think as warriors. Was it the right thing to do? Only God can judge, although in mitigation, I must say, we are British.”
“Well, you’re back on form, then,” said Everson.
The padre patted his Bible “I shall pray for us.”
THAT EVENING THE elation of the men, while temporary, was a pleasant and much needed diversion. The nurses danced gamely with as many men as they could until, exhausted by the constant demand for their attention, they retired for the night.
The noises of revelry and the slurred sound of a battered, handcranked gramophone warbling at varying speeds drifted down the steps into Everson’s dugout. “Take me back to dear old Blighty; Put me on a train for London Town. Take me over there, drop me anywhere; Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham, well I don’t care...”
Everson sat looking dolefully at the light of the hurricane lamp through a glass of whisky. He was now the highest-ranking officer left in the 13th. Like it or not, these men were now his responsibility and it was a heavy load to bear. It was everything he never wanted.
On the table before him, the Battalion’s salvaged war diary lay open on blank pages. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to write this one up. Beside it, under a now empty bottle of whisky from his father’s own cellar, lay several maps and orders from Jeffries’ chest. On the edge of the table sat the man’s journal with its incomprehensible ciphers and sigils. Everson had spent the last hour or so examining them, looking for any clues that there might be a hint of truth in what Jeffries had said, looking for a shred of hope.
“I don’t know what to think. Is he pulling the wool over our eyes?
Are we chasing him up a blind alley, Hobson?”
“Not my place to say sir,” said Hobson.
“This is the last of it,” he said, swilling the malt around the dirty glass.
“I was fully expecting to get another case when we went back into the reserves. Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen any time soon.”
“S’not true sir. It could happen tomorrow.”
“And if it doesn’t, Sergeant, what then?”
“With the help of Napoo and his people we can always find more food.”
“And ammunition? The only reason we survived that attack on the Khungarrii edifice was firepower. They hadn’t seen anything like it. And that’s another thing. I didn’t see anything there that would remotely suggest they had the ability to bring us here in the first place. No great scientific or technological advances. They were little more than savages. Mind you, once our ammunition runs out, we’ll be reduced to fighting on their level. And they have the superiority of numbers. They know where we are. They’ve come for us once. They’ll do it again. That’s a certainty. If nothing else, we’ve proved we’re a threat to them now and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Slacke has done sterling work the past few days. We’ve got the beginning of a stronghold we can defend until we can go home, but how long will that take?”
“Can we get home, sir?”
“Jeffries—Dwyer said he had a way, a map, information.”
“He could have been lying. Slippery bastard like that, you can’t trust a word that comes out of that man’s mouth.”
“He could have been lying to save his own skin, yes, but what if he wasn’t? I have to believe he’s telling the truth. Who knows what information he garnered from the Khungarrii? He was willing to sell us all into bondage over it, so it must have been important. No, we have to find him, Hobson.”
ATKINS FOUND HIMSELF summoned to Everson’s dugout. His stomach turned. You never knew what to expect when sent for by an officer.
“Atkins!” said Everson as the private entered and snapped to attention in front of the desk. “At ease, Atkins. At ease.”
Atkins relaxed his stance. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your section’s lost two NCOs in almost as many weeks. Sergeant Jessop was a good man. He had family, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. A wife and three children. Last were born a month ago. He hadn’t even seen him.”
“I’d write to his wife, but—” Everson gave a dismissive wave towards the curtained doorway at the world outside and shrugged. “Even if I could I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“No, sir.”
“Which brings me to you and your recent behaviour, Atkins. Ketch didn’t have a good word to say about you, apparently.”
“Sir?” said Atkins. He was not sure where this was heading, but an awful suspicion formed in his mind.
“It’s all right, Atkins. Relax. I knew Ketch of old. A cantankerous old sod and one hell of a toady. Was when he was working at my father’s brewery, was in France by all accounts.”
“Sir.”
“On the other hand, I’ve been impressed by your courage and actions. You’ve certainly proved your worth on all our recent Black Hand Gang stuff. I’ve spoken to Hobson, here. He tells me you’re popular and a good man to have in a tight spot. Your section needs a new NCO. I can’t promote you, but I need NCOs, so I’m giving you a field appointment to Lance Corporal.”
“Sir, I can’t. You don’t want me.” Atkins forgot himself and started forwards. A warning cough from Sergeant Hobson made him catch himself and stand fast.
“Nonsense, Atkins. You’ve earned it. If there’s one thing I need, it’s people I can trust. You’ve proved yourself worthy.” Everson stood up, stepped round his makeshift desk and grasped Atkins’ hand in a firm handshake he barely had the enthusiasm to return. If only Everson knew. If only his dugout mates knew his true colours.
“Is that all, sir?”
“Not yet, Lance Corporal. You and I are the only ones who have any idea what Jeffries—Dwyer—was talking about back at the edifice. I’ve just been looking through the papers you found in his dugout. From the bits I can make out it’s quite a sordid tale.”
“Sir, did he bring us here with some diabolic pact?”
“I’m sure he thinks so,
but look—” Everson lifted the empty whisky bottle out of the way and turned the uppermost map around. It was an artillery map, showing British gun positions and barrage targets across the Harcourt Sector. Marked in red were five locations, two beyond the German lines, two behind the British, one in No Man’s Land, all joined by pencil lines to form a perfect pentacle.
“He must have been planning this for weeks, typing up his own orders on blank order sheets, impersonating artillery officers—Tulliver thought he recognised him.”
“Is that what he was saying about a geographic whatsit?” said Atkins, looking at the five-pointed star.
“I’d say so, yes. Don’t believe in the mumbo jumbo lark myself. It looks like a magic circle or something, but see here...” Everson took a pencil and a piece of string. Holding one end of the string on a mark in the centre of the pentacle, he drew a circle. Atkins watched with mounting apprehension and dismay as the pencil intersected each point of the five-pointed star on the map.
“So it’s true, then. He did conjure some spell and transport us here?”
“He certainly thinks so,” said Everson, now planting the fingertips of his hand on the map and moving it aside, only to pull another map out from underneath. It was a similar map, only this one had a much cruder circle drawn over it encompassing the Harcourt sector, enclosing the British trenches currently held by the 13th Pennine Fusiliers. “This one was taken from observations made by Lieutenant Tulliver after we arrived here and surveyed by CQS Slacke in our absence.”
“So?”
“Whatever happened, whatever brought us here, I don’t think it was the result of Jeffries’ occult practices. Look.” He took the one map, laid it on top of the other, and held both up in front of the hurricane lamp for Atkins to see. He adjusted them slightly with his thumbs so the trench positions matched up. The two circles however, did not. Oh, there was an overlap, but they didn’t cover the same ground.
