by Pat Kelleher
Atkins steeled himself, reached out and pulled the cellar doors shut, jamming them closed with the handle of a broom that he found stood in the corner.
Above, he heard the machine gun stutter start up again.
“About bloody time!” he spat. He clapped Gazette on the shoulder. “Thanks.”
He staggered up the worn stone cellar steps and out of the house, following his men down the sap trench towards the front line.
Alarmed by the appearance of Chandar in the fire trench, several Tommies swung their Enfields in the Chatt’s direction as 1 Section emerged from the sap.
“It’s all right, he’s with us,” said Atkins. He looked around and saw a private with a runner’s brassard. “You. Tell Lieutenant Everson that we have someone he’ll want to meet.”
CHAPTER THREE
“For God’s Sake Don’t Send Me...”
THE HEAVILY SANDBAGGED command post looked out over the lines of trenches, breastworks and earthworks now crawling with Pennine Fusiliers as they dispatched straggling and retreating Chatts. Linseed lancers of the RAMC scuttled about with stretchers, collecting the wounded and carrying them back to the aid posts and hospital, while flocks of carrion creatures were already circling and descending on the bodies. Frustrated ‘hell hounds,’ smelling the blood, could be heard howling across the valley.
Lieutenant Everson looked out through a loophole with his binoculars, across the wire weed entanglements and the bodies that hung on them, already being ensnared and sapped of their life by the slow-moving thorny creepers tightening around them. His gaze didn’t rest there, but was drawn out across the veldt where he watched the Khungarrii retreat.
They had repulsed them, but only because of their guns, and their ammunition was rapidly running out. Of course, the Chatts didn’t know that, but at some point, the Khungarrii would attack again. No doubt they could hold off several such attacks. His counterpart was exceedingly clumsy, tactically. With their short-range weapons, the alien scentirrii seemed to be much more proficient in small police actions, defending their edifice and the like, but the growing confidence evident in recent raids on Urmen enclaves showed his nemesis was a fast learner and damned if he wasn’t learning it all from the Pennines.
The observation posts on the valley hilltops had reported no sign of a support column. They must have been foraging food along the way. Nor were there any signs of siege machines. So they didn’t see this action lasting very long. A short brutal engagement, then, to stamp out their enemies.
However, if the Chatts were to lay siege to the stronghold and this turned into another war of attrition, then God help them. They had barely held their own against the Hun on the Somme. This time, without reinforcements, without logistical support, they couldn’t hope to hold out against such a superior force. Everson gave them a fortnight at best, a month at the outside. The Pennines’ own foraging parties had to range further and further to find food and wood. Even with the help of the refugee Urmen, feeding this many men was becoming a nightmare without some degree of successful agriculture. He couldn’t allow a siege to happen. He needed to deliver a swift, decisive blow. Something that would have the Khungarrii give them a wide berth in future. To do that, he needed to know more about them, and he recognised that the captured Chatt represented a slim opportunity.
“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Padre Rand nervously, from the other side of the sandbagged room. He’d asked the padre here because he’d had dealings with them in Khungarr.
“Yes, Padre, I’m afraid it is. But don’t worry. You’re only here to observe. It won’t touch you. I’ve taken precautions.”
The padre, though, seemed little mollified by this.
Sergeant Hobson appeared in the doorway. “The prisoner is here, sir.”
Everson turned from the unsettling sight of the Chatt army regrouping out on the veldt. “Show him in, Hobson.”
Atkins, accompanied by a grim Napoo, escorted the captured Chatt into the dugout. It hobbled into the room with a lopsided gait that suggested old injuries and new pains. Everson felt a cold shock of recognition. Most Chatts looked the same to him, even now after all this time, but this one, even with its featureless white facial plate, was unmistakable. Its worn stumps of antennae moved with feeble jerks like a broken clockwork toy. This was no mere Chatt soldier. This was the Chatt that Jeffries had held hostage in Khungarr. Everson remembered that the damn thing had refused to help them when they were trying to find a way out of the labyrinthine tunnels. But there was so much information it might give them, not least about Jeffries’ last movements and intentions. If it would talk. But every moment it was here it could be gathering information about them; numbers, layout, weapons.
Atkins stood smartly to attention, by the prisoner. Sergeant Hobson brought up the rear of the escort party and stood, stiff and formal, behind the Chatt, his eyes never leaving it. In the far corner was Padre Rand, backed against the sandbagged wall, his hands clutching his bible to his chest as though it were a shield, his lips moving silently in prayer, his eyes following the Chatt warily as it looked around. Even captured, its curiosity seemed insatiable.
“Your herd is truly different from that of other Urmen,” it said, in its breathless, monotone way. “They build their flimsy dwellings on the ground. I had heard reports from raiding scentirrii that Tohmii dwellings and burrowings imitate those of the Ones. This structure is crude, but strange and wondrous nonetheless.”
Everson stepped toward the arthropod and held out a hand.
“I’m Lieutenant James Charles Everson, Acting Commanding Officer of the 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers. We’ve met,” he added pointedly.
The Chatt finished surveying the room before answering. “Yes. This One is Chandar, gon-dhuyumirrii, olfactotum to Sirigar, liyadhuyumirrii of the Khungarrii Shura.” It appeared to swallow air and force it out, as if having to shape words with organs not meant for human speech. “In gratitude this One offers you a blessing in the name of GarSuleth,” it said, opening its arms, tilting its head back and opening its mandibles.
There was a loud click as Sergeant Hobson cocked a Webley revolver and pointed it at the back of the Chatt’s head.
“I’ve read the reports,” said Everson. “Attempt to spray anything— acid, a soporific mist—and Sergeant Hobson here will shoot you. Is that understood?”
The creature lowered its head, relaxed its mouthparts and sank down on its legs in a submissive posture. “This One intended no threat.”
Everson offered it a seat. The Khungarrii looked at the wooden chair incomprehensibly. He shrugged, then sat down behind his desk. “I suppose a cup of tea is out of the question, then?” He gave a nod of dismissal in the lance corporal’s direction. “Thank you, Atkins.”
Atkins looked at the sergeant for confirmation.
“Off you go, lad.”
“Sir.” Atkins saluted and snapped his heels together.
There was a strangled gasp as the Chatt abandoned its half-hearted attempt to sit, and regurgitated air. Its mouth palps seemed to knit the human words laboriously. “This Urman stays.”
“I beg your pardon?” said Everson.
“The Urman stays,” insisted Chandar, rearing up.
Recognising the aggressive stance, Napoo drew his short sword and took a step towards the Chatt. Everson held up a palm to stop him. Napoo relented, but remained tensed, ready to spring.
“Why?” asked Everson of the creature. “Why him?”
“That Urman saved this One from the mandibles of Skarra when your Jeffries would have me wrapped in clay and rolled into the underworld. This spinning, this same Urman spared this One again. These acts are of significance to this One. They are acts of Kurda, a basic tenet of colonyhood.”
If it made the damn thing more predisposed to talk, then that was fine with him. “Very well,” said Everson. He waved his hand and indicated that Atkins should stay. “At ease, Lance Corporal.”
“Sir.” Atkins looked unc
omfortable as he stood at rest. He glanced at Hobson, who just shrugged.
Its request acceded to, Chandar relaxed its stance.
“Now, see here,” Everson began. “We will not surrender to you. You will not take us prisoners to be mesmerised as slaves in your colony. We will not bow to any tyrant’s yoke.”
“It is too late for that,” said Chandar. “Not since the days of Wuljungur has Khungarr been invaded. Now, in retribution, Sirigar has chemically decreed that you and any wild Urmen caught within our sovereign burri are to be expelled. Failing that, you are to be culled to preserve the sanctity and safety of Khungarr. Those are your choices.”
There was no choice at all and Everson knew it. They could not leave this stronghold, this circle of the Somme earth that came with them. It was all they had left of Earth. It seemed they had their backs against the wall.
“We forewarned your emissary Jeffries of these eventualities,” continued the Chatt.
Everson shifted forward in his chair. Atkins, too, stared at the Chatt. Only Hobson remained unperturbed.
“Jeffries?”
“He promised to deliver the Tohmii, your herd, to us. You would have been accepted into our colony, given food, shelter, purpose, treated as our own. It is Kurda.”
“He had no damn right to speak on our behalf,” replied Everson with measured fury. “No damn right at all. Man was a snake in our midst. He’s not one of us. He’s—” He searched for a word the arthropod might understand.
“Outcast,” offered Napoo gruffly.
“Outcast,” repeated Everson, with a degree of satisfaction at the sound of the word.
“Nonetheless, an agreement was made and breached,” said Chandar.
“But at what price? What was it that Jeffries wanted from you? What was worth so much to him that he was willing to sell the rest of us into slavery?”
The Chatt’s posture seemed to slump. “An old heresy thought long forgotten,” it wheezed.
“Croatoan,” suggested Everson.
“Yes.”
He put his elbows on his desk and leant forward, hands clasped. “Tell me about this Croatoan.”
The Chatt’s mandible parted as it hissed, its mouth palps flapping like windsocks in the brief rush of air. “The Urman Jeffries asked the same thing before committing the most unforgivable transgression in destroying our sacred repository. Therein lay the basis of our laws, our beliefs. Ancient aromas that bottled the wisdom of generations. Tunnels can be rebuilt, chambers repaired, but the Tohmii have left us dispossessed. Robbed. The Redolence of Spiras gone forever.”
The Chatt ran out of air, its human vocabulary tumbling into the incoherent chittering of its own tongue. It seemed to Everson that the thing was cursing.
“That’s right. Jeffries. Not us. Jeffries tried to kill us, too. You were there in that chamber. You saw.”
“Yes. The fact that this One owes its life to this Urman is one of the few mitigating circumstances in your favour.”
“Yes, Kurda. You said.” Everson looked to Atkins standing beside the creature. Their eyes met briefly. Atkins’ face flushed and he shuffled uncomfortably. Everson felt a glimmer of almost paternal pride. He had been right about Atkins. But to think that their salvation might hinge on that single act of altruism, well, that was a very slender thread indeed.
Chandar took another hoarse breath. “There is yet another reason Sirigar wants you wiped out. Khungarr is mired in tradition. The coming of the Tohmii has ignited an old debate, long feared and unsought by some. The Unguent of Huyurarr warns against the coming of a Great Corruption. When you made your camp on our burri, the Breath of GarSuleth heralded your arrival with the stench of death and putrescence. Sirigar feared that this was the fulfilment of the long-held prophecy. We sought to discover your intentions. You resisted the will of the Ones unlike any other Urman herd we had encountered. Then by your actions you declared yourself a threat to Khungarr and your fate was sealed. Now, through your own actions, we are compelled to seek your destruction. This is regrettable.”
“We won’t surrender, you know. This is our land and we will defend it to the last man.”
“You cannot hope to defeat the massed army of Khungarr,” said Chandar.
Scraping his chair back, Everson stood now. “You’re not up against savages here. You’re up against a battalion of His Majesty King George’s army. We’ve faced the worst that Kaiser Bill could throw at us and survived. And you forget,” he added, “we are protected by Skarra, your god of the dead.” That the Khungarrii had mistaken the appearance of His Majesty’s Land Ship Ivanhoe as their god of the underworld was a work of providence and one he had been quite willing to take advantage of at the time, but how long could they keep up the pretence?
“Then where is he?” said Chandar looking around and gesturing to the empty air. “Why does Skarra not come to your aid? The army of Khungarr has retreated. They are waiting to see if he appears. If he does not then they will attack again and carry out the will of GarSuleth as set forth by Sirigar.”
“Thank you, Chandar. You’ve been quite candid. Sergeant, take the prisoner to the guardhouse. Keep to the trenches. Make sure it doesn’t see more than it has to.”
He watched as Hobson, Atkins and Napoo marshalled the prisoner and escorted it from the dugout. He was surprised to see the padre shaking, as if the Chatt had stirred deep, unwelcome memories of his incarceration.
“Padre, go. We’ll talk later.”
The padre smiled thankfully with an anxious nod, not trusting himself to speak, and hurried from the post.
So it was war, then. And where was that bloody tank? It seemed to Everson that Chandar was not entirely convinced of their claim regarding the tank but was unwilling to question the sanctity of Skarra without further proof. If only he had it. The Ivanhoe should have been back days ago. He pulled out a packet of Woodbines from his pocket and was dismayed to see only two battered cigarettes left. Once they were gone, they were gone. He had no more left. He doubted the men did either, except the hoarders. Evans, his platoon’s best scrounger, could probably lay his hands on some. Maybe he should ask. He pulled one out, tamped it on the desk, lit it and took a long luxurious drag before exhaling, staring absently at the haze of blue smoke, momentarily lost in thought.
Their arrival had set off ripples across this world, and those ripples were still spreading with unforeseen consequences. The Pennines, it seemed, had spent a good deal of time on this world unwittingly digging a deeper and deeper hole for themselves. Everson hoped it didn’t turn out to be their grave.
AMID THE CHAOS of the Aid Post, Edith was trying to hold down and calm a wounded young soldier. He seemed about sixteen years old, barely older than her younger brother and almost certainly not old enough to join up. He lay writhing and whimpering on the mat before her. Nellie had just finished bathing and bandaging the eyes of a lad caught out by an acid spit, and Edith caught her attention. “Nellie!”
They unbuttoned his tunic and ripped open the blood-soaked shirt. The spear must have been barbed. It went in cleanly enough but ripped his guts out on the withdrawal. His belly was a mess. Nellie applied pressure to the wound with a field bandage, but he wouldn’t lie still. He thrashed about in pain, sobbing openly. Blood pulsed up and soaked the field bandage; in moments it was sopping. She discarded it in a tray and pressed another to the wound.
He needed surgery, but there were several other surgical cases backed up ahead of him and it was unlikely this boy would survive long enough to make it to the table.
“Mother!” he cried, through snivelling sobs. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”
“Shush now,” said Edith, taking hold of his hand and trying to look him in the eye, but he kept throwing his head from side to side. “Look at me,” she said firmly. “Look at me.” He turned his face to hers but he no longer saw her.
“Charlotte, is that you?” he said with relief, spluttering through the blood.
Edith clasped hi
s hand more firmly so that he would know someone was there.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m here.”
“I love you,” he muttered.
“I love you, too,” said Edith.
He started to smile but the life left him before he could complete it.
Edith felt the corners of her eyes begin to sting with tears. She blinked them away fiercely. It always got to her, the little white lie. The one nurses always told the dying. In her time she had been mothers, sisters, wives, sweethearts, anyone, so long as they eased the passing. Edith slipped his hand from hers and placed it across his chest. There were no words left to say. Just a job to do.
NELLIE CLEARED UP the blood-soaked bandages and left Edith to lay out the body, before summoning the orderlies to remove it to where the padre would give it the Last Rites as they cleared the space for the next poor soul. Nellie stepped outside to where a brazier burned, tipped the bloodied pads into the fire and returned to the aid tent.
Nellie was looking for her next patient when Half Pint hobbled into the hospital tent on his peg leg, clutching the thigh above it, his face ashen as he looked wildly around. His gaze latched on Nellie.
“Gawd help me, it’s my leg!” he cried, limping towards her. “Private Nicholls, you’ll have to wait. There are more urgent cases,” she said, only half listening as she glanced around, looking for assistance. Poilus, an Urman of Napoo’s clan, was helping to bring more wounded in, some walking, others carried in on blood-soaked stretchers.
“But the pain, Nurse. Shooting pains right up me thigh. Sharp they are, like bloody red hot needles,” he griped.
His forehead was beaded with sweat. He gritted his teeth and a grunt escaped his lips as his hand clutched his thigh. He lost his balance and collapsed into her.
“A little help here!” she called as she staggered under his weight.
Edi and Poilus came to her rescue. By now Half Pint’s breath was coming in ragged pants and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to keep them open, his head lolling back.
