by Pat Kelleher
Snorting like an obdurate old bull, the Ivanhoe inched forwards away from the precipice. The men cheered the ironclad on. It seemed beyond all belief that the intrepid machine could take on the weight of the vast creature above. Slowly, however, its little gain was lost and it lurched back towards the edge of the crater, its back end sliding perilously close to the rim. Then, with a lurch, the rear steering tail toppled over the edge.
The track wheels clanked and squealed, trying to gain traction, but as they churned, they ate away at the very ground supporting the ironclad. Its nose rising up off the ground, the tank began to tilt over the edge.
Mathers smiled though the pain. “You’ve made your choice after all, Perkins. You could have left with the others, been reunited with your sweetheart.”
Alfie ignored him. “We’ve got one chance, sir. We’re tipping. We just need a few more degrees to get the gun elevation we need to hit that thing. I need you to be ready.”
The tank lurched, tilting sharply. The sponson door swung open, banging against the bulkhead. Alfie reached out to grab it, catching a vertiginous glimpse of a steep rocky cliff below them, bevelling out to a shrub-covered slope descending into a canopy of thick jungle below.
A spanner skittered down the gangplank, hit the rim of the hatch with a clang and pinwheeled out into the void.
Blanching, he reached out, pulled the hatch shut, and secured it. He didn’t want to lose his balance and topple out.
“This is it, sir!” He lurched unsteadily towards the loaded gun. Grunting with effort, he gripped the shoulder stock under his armpit and heaved the gun barrel up as far as it would go and fired.
The Ivanhoe’s gun pounded. Above it, the shell exploded against the Kreothe. The concussion wave sent ripples round the gas sac, before tearing out of the upper side. The blast shrivelled the smaller tendrils beneath it and, with raucous shrieks of alarm, the flock of scavengers that swarmed beneath it scattered. The harvesting tendrils holding the tank whipped back up, like cords cut under tension, and the Ivanhoe’s front track horns crashed back down onto solid ground.
FROM THE SHELTER of the trees, Jack and Cecil burst out in a jubilant chorus and Reggie, Norman and Wally joined in.
“The Sub did it! He bloody did it!”
“The Sub and Alfie,” Jack reminded them.
Atkins puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Jesus, that was close. A slow, burning anger overwhelmed his relief. From now on, he was bloody well in charge. He had orders to get the tank back to camp and, now, that was exactly what he was going to do. It helped matters that the tank would have to return with them to refuel. All of a sudden, he was eager to start back.
INSIDE THE IVANHOE, Alfie, dazed, picked himself up from the gangway and saw Mathers slumped in the commander’s seat. The visor plates had slammed shut with the impact and nothing but a flickering festoon light lit his plaque-ridden face. Alfie clambered forwards into the driver’s seat to check on him.
Mathers’ chin rested on his chest. Alfie gently lifted the officer’s head to check for injuries. His eyes snapped open. “I can feel it, Perkins, a pressure inside my head, in my belly.”
“We need to get out, sir.”
“No.”
“Sir, we’re on the edge of the cliff.”
“You go, Perkins.”
“Come with me, sir.”
“If I go out now, I’ll die. Whatever’s inside me, they’re making me want to go out there. They need me to go out there. They want me to offer myself to those things. But I won’t. I refuse. I absolutely bloody well refuse. I am clothed in iron and armed with cordite. I will not go like this!”
Alfie’s eyes met Mathers’, but the iridescent swirls that looped and whorled within them disconcerted him. “Then just drive forward, sir. Away from the cliff edge.”
Mathers shook his head. “The track gears are jammed.” Jammed? Perkins frowned and glanced back down the compartment, over the top of the engine. “Then I’ll go back and see if I can free them. You hang on, sir.” The gearsman stepped down onto the gangway and edged his way to the back of the compartment.
Mathers continued talking, raising his voice over the engine. “It’s a bloody good machine, Perkins. How you’ve kept it running these past few months is beyond me. A bloody miracle. I was... wrong about you.”
Alfie shrugged it off. Now wasn’t the time for recriminations, least of all against an officer. “You weren’t yourself, sir.”
“Did you know I had shell-shock, Perkins, before I joined the Heavy Section?”
Alfie didn’t know what to say, but felt that the moment called for honesty. “There... there were rumours, sir,” he called back.
The tank groaned and creaked under him as he edged his way past the gun and Hotchkiss towards the starboard gear panel.
“I was buried in a dugout for four hours, couldn’t move a muscle. Dead man lying of top of me. Bugger probably saved my life. Funny how fate catches up with you.” He waved his hand, indicating the interior of the tank. “Here I am, entombed again. No matter how far you run, there you are. It’s a rum old world.”
Something in the tone of Mathers’ voice made Alfie glance back. Mathers was raising his revolver to his temple. “I wonder if Skarra will be waiting...”
Alfie lunged up the gangway. “Sir, no!”
There was a grinding crunch and sudden lurch. The tank tilted, slipping backwards, sending Alfie reeling back down against his gear station. The weight of the hydraulic steering tail, ironically designed to be used as a counterbalance when crossing wide trenches, was now having the opposite effect and was dragging them over the edge to destruction. He felt the tank pitch steeply as it slipped backwards.
Alfie could almost imagine the scene outside, as if he were back at Elveden, watching one of the tank trials. In his mind’s eye, he saw the rim of the crater, weakened by the grinding of the tracks and the weight of the ironclad, begin to splinter and crumble. Boulders tumbled away, drawing with them steady streams of soil.
He tried to reach for the manhole above him, but lost his footing as the Ivanhoe tilted further and he fell back against the gear station.
The ground beneath the tank slipped away like sand through an hourglass, crumbling under its weight in a gentle but inevitable landslide of rock, soil and roots. The Ivanhoe’s front track horns reared into the air, like a startled stallion, its angle becoming more unstable until, like a sinking ship, it slipped from sight.
A gunshot reverberated loudly inside the iron hull.
Stores broke free and tools tumbled loose, ammo boxes crashed out of their slots. A Pyrene fire extinguisher slipped from its fixings and span toward Alfie. He screamed.
The ironclad went over the edge.
SHOCKED, THE FUSILIERS and surviving tank crew watched as the tank toppled over the rim. From the crater came the sound of tortured metal and rock. Seconds later, there was a loud crashing, an eruption of animal calls and flocks of green-skinned bird-like raptors took to the air in panic from the crater jungle below.
Atkins ran to the edge, Gutsy, Mercy and Porgy hard on his heels. Nellie came running up, in time to see the tank go over the edge. She screamed. Gazette wrapped his arms around her, not so much for comfort as restraint.
Atkins stopped, feet from the lip, and cautiously stuck his head out over the edge. A few loose rocks broke away and tumbled down. “Oh, bloody Nora!”
“Jesus!”
“Buggerin’ hell!”
The drop wasn’t sheer but it was a very steep camber. They could see the twin furrows gouged down the escarpment as if the Ivanhoe had been dragged down into hell, fighting all the way. It was possible to track its path down the crater-side, where it had torn trees and plants from their roots before it crashed down through the canopy hundreds of feet below, to be swallowed by the jungle beneath.
Atkins felt sick and lighted-headed. His whole body sagged. The tank was gone.
Above, the last of the Kreothe drifted sedately over the crater, and t
he sun began to peer out from behind them, a gleam of sunlight reflecting off the edge of its translucent gas sac.
INTERLUDE SIX
Letter from Private Thomas Atkins
to Flora Mullins
21st March 1917
Dearest Flora,
For a while today, I thought I had lost you forever, but the great big world keeps turning and showed me there is always hope. Sometimes in our darkest moments, that is hard to remember. It’s funny how the smallest and most insignificant of things can give you hope. Today I found it in a lost button.
And for the rest of the day, we tried to winkle something from its shell, had our fortunes told and were stung by some jellyfish. It sounds like a day at the seaside and I wish it had been. I bet I’d look pretty dapper in a blazer, straw boater and you on my arm as we stroll along the pier.
Having said we’d found the tank, we lost it again. I don’t think Lieutenant Everson is going to be very pleased. Nothing to do now but go and face the music, if there’s any music left to face.
I don’t even know what I’ll find when I get back to camp. I have never been so far from it. The thought that it might have vanished and left me here tortures me.
All of us live in daily fear of that, whether we speak about it or not. But then, I suppose that’s selfish. Folks back home live in fear of their worlds vanishing, too. In many cases, theirs have. Too many good men have not returned from the trenches. I vow to you now, Flora, I will not be one of them.
Ever yours,
Thomas
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Each Night, After a Fight...”
ATKINS FELT NUMB.
He stared down into the crater, not sure what to do next, hardly able to believe that the tank had gone at all. Cecil, Norman and Nellie all tried calling out, for Mathers, for Alfie, hoping for some reply, some sign of life. They shouted until their voices were hoarse. There was no reply but the sound of the jungle.
The tank crew had an urgent whispered discussion, and finally pushed a reticent Reggie towards the Fusiliers. He straightened himself up, cleared his throat and marched over to Atkins. “We’ve had a talk and we’ve agreed, we have to get down there,” he informed him.
“How?” said Atkins, with a shrug. “We have little rope, certainly not enough to reach the bottom. And even if you do get to the bottom, what are you going to do? You can’t get the tank back up here again. There nothing we can do.”
Nellie strode up to him. “It’s not just a tank, there are people down there who might be alive, or had you forgotten?”
“No. Have you forgotten we’ve lost three of our mates for this bloody mob? Have you? Because I haven’t.”
Her face clouded over. “But you know yours are dead, Corporal. You saw them. We haven’t. Have you any idea what it’s like to have someone listed as ‘missing’?”
Her rebuke stung. Atkins thought of his brother, William, lost since the Big Push back in June. He thought of his mam and Flora and how they felt and his cheeks briefly flushed for shame. He tried again, in a more conciliatory tone. “I’m sorry, but it doesn’t change anything. We were sent to bring the tank back for a reason. I have my orders. I have to report back to Lieutenant Everson, if he’s still there to report to.” He cast a meaningful glance at Chandar, who hung well back from the crater’s edge, chittering to itself, and fiddling with its damn tassels.
“Oh well, orders!” Nellie gave up, threw her arms up in disgust and walked away.
Reggie coughed. “We’re staying here. There must be some way to help the Sub and Alfie. We were wrong about him. Stayed trying to save the Sub and the tank. More than any of us did.”
Atkins placed a hand on Reggie’s upper arm, an awkward gesture of comfort. “We’ll return with help. We’ll bring teams of sappers. If we can salvage the Ivanhoe, we will.”
“Then I’m staying here, too.” said Nellie belligerently. “Alfie could still be alive. They could be injured.”
Atkins was torn. He would do the same if it were his pals. Still, he had to get back to the trenches if he were to return with help. “Napoo, stay here with her. We’ll go back to the encampment, if it’s still there, and get what help we can. We can leave you a couple of rifles and a little ammo. Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone.”
Hesitantly, Jack came over to Atkins. “Before you go, the Sub asked me to give you a message.”
Atkins looked at him blankly. “Message?”
“He saw Jeffries’ trail. Said it led to the crater. Said something about a place that doesn’t exist, that Chatts is feared of? It didn’t make much sense to me, but he said you’d know what he meant.”
Atkins looked at the Chatt again. This whole journey the damn thing had been talking in riddles. He went over to Chandar. “What is that place?” he demanded, waving an arm airily in the direction of the crater.
Chandar looked at him, its mouth parts knitting the words. “It is forbidden. It does not exist.”
He rounded on the Chatt. “Yes, so you keep bloody saying, but why do you keep saying it? What is it you’re not telling me? Why is it forbidden? Answer me!”
Chandar hissed, torn between postures of threat and submission. “It... it is Nazhkadarr, the Scentless Place. The place that should not be. The Burri of the Fallen...”
Atkins shook his head slowly, his anger now a slow burning fuse. “Talk sense! For God’s sake, talk sense, just for once!” The discussion was attracting attention now; Gutsy moved in.
“It is the Crater of... Croatoan,” it hissed quietly. “That is why. That is why it is forbidden to us. It is heresy, a blasphemous stain on the world GarSuleth wove for his children. It should not exist.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”
Chandar reared up on its legs, its mandibles scissoring. “Because the last time an Urmen of the Tohmii asked about the fallen one, half of Khungarr was laid waste.” It noticed Gazette pointing his rifle at it and sank back down again. “Your capture of me was no accident. I was sent to seek out the intentions of the Tohmii.” Stung by the revelation, Atkins listened as Chandar carried on. “Your acts of Kurda have cast an anchor line of fate. Between this One and you something is being woven. The question remains, what?”
Atkins looked out across the vast jungle-choked depression. “The Croatoan Crater?” No wonder Jeffries had come this way. “What’s down there?”
Chandar became meek and evasive again. “Nothing must enter the crater, nothing must leave. That is the will of GarSuleth.”
Atkins could feel the short fuse of his anger burning down. He balled his fists. “Gutsy, get this... thing away from me until it decides to talk some bloody sense!”
Chandar turned as Gutsy escorted it away. “Nothing must enter, nothing must leave!”
“Yes, well it’s a bit bloody late for that!” snapped Atkins as he looked at the crumbled lip and the track marks left by the tank.
Mercy steered Atkins away. “We’re all a little tense, mate. I think we should just go. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can come back with help.”
Atkins’ eyes never left the Chatt while Mercy spoke, but he nodded in agreement.
1 SECTION WAS ready to depart. They had made a litter and were carrying all the jars and amphorae of sacred scents they had managed to salvage from Nazarr before its collapse. There were more than they thought and less than Chandar would have liked. He fussed over them, adding torn crushed leaves to the roughly woven wattle frame that Napoo had constructed, as packing to prevent them from breaking on the long journey back. Atkins, still angry, avoided Chandar, although the Chatt was coming back with them. Everson ought to hear what it had to say.
Atkins went over to where Jack and the other tank crew, Reggie, Cecil, Norman and Wally, waited with Napoo and Nellie. Atkins held out his hand. Jack took it. “We’ll be back as soon as we can. Napoo’s a good man. Look after Nellie.”
Jack nodded. “We’ll be here.”
He stepped over to Nellie.
“Look, I’m sorry. But we have to do this.
We’ll be back in four or five days.”
Nellie nodded. “Tell Edith I’m fine.”
Atkins and the remains of his section set off. Pot Shot, his head swathed in bandages under his now-lucky battle bowler, insisted on making the journey with them, even though Nellie was just as adamant he should stay and rest. “I’m hard-headed,” he said, tapping his bandaged skull. “My place is with these reprobates. You don’t know the trouble they’d get into without me.”
They followed the paths through the jungle, bypassing the Gilderra enclave.
“Shouldn’t think they’d be too pleased to see us,” said Mercy.
“We got rid of the evil spirit, didn’t we?” said Porgy.
“And the tankers cost ’em one shaman and got their replacement killed. I expect Napoo would have something to say about that,” Pot Shot informed them.
“Oh, aye,” said Porgy. “No doubt.”
Atkins had plenty of time to mull over all that had happened in the past few days, and figure out how he was going to tell Lieutenant Everson.
He worried about the awful truth behind the Bleeker Party. It was a terrible secret he was asking his men to keep and he wondered what kind of price it would exact, not just on 1 Section, but also on the rest of the Battalion. That burden would soon belong to Lieutenant Everson.
But there was hope, too. Well, hope of a kind. He felt the button in his pocket, rubbed his thumb over the raised casting. Atkins had to believe there was a way back to Flora—and his child. He had to put that right, even though it might cost him everything else.
Right now, though, the fear of not knowing what he’d find back at camp drove Atkins on, and he kept the pace up. They had done forced marches before and nobody complained this time. They all wanted to get back, even though none of them knew what was waiting for them.
EDITH BELL WAS in the Bird Cage with Stanton, the orderly. They were gathering up the personal possessions of all those killed by the parasitic infection, the patients she had nursed for the past three months. The place was vacant, depressing and forlorn now. Blankets and discarded mess kits littered the ground. The emptiness was heartbreaking.
