by Pat Kelleher
She saw Captain Lippett making his way across the parade ground towards the compound. He was the last person she wanted to see right now. She put another blanket on the pile and pretended not to notice him.
He approached and looked at her in that brusque surgeon’s matterof-fact manner. “I thought you ought to know, Nurse, Miller died less than an hour ago.”
Edith replied in a similarly sterile manner. “Thank you, Doctor.” Edith had steeled herself for the news since she had brought him in, but you always hoped. Thinking that was it, she returned to her task.
However, Lippett had more to say. “I couldn’t have operated without killing him. We have no anaesthetic. I’m reduced to the level of a Crimean butcher here, which is a wholly unsatisfactory state of affairs, as I’m sure you’ll admit. And even if I could have removed those parasites from his bowels, I doubt whether I could have done the same to those attached to his nervous system without inflicting great damage and pain.”
“I understand that, Doctor.”
Lippett opened his arms. “I’m not an ogre, Nurse. Being stranded here, trying to be everything to everyone... I wanted to be a surgeon, not an army butcher. I can’t do everything and I realise I need staff who can think for themselves, who see things I can’t. Fenton tells me I have such a woman in you, should I but care to listen.”
His openness took Edith aback. Her reaction must have shown on her face.
He coughed to cover his discomfort. “This is a new situation for all of us, Nurse Bell, and something we’re going to have to learn to cope with.”
She wasn’t sure whether he was talking about their general circumstances, here on the planet, or more specifically, his having to listen to a nurse for once. Either way, she gracefully accepted the compliment.
“On another note, Nurse, if you’re right, and this neurasthenia is the result of emotional shock, then we shall doubtless have more of these cases as men fail to cope. The war may no longer affect them, but this hell of a world may, and we can’t send them down the line for convalescence so there is no relief from it. If you want more responsibility, I’d like you to set up a special ward for them. None of this barbed wire, eh? At least that way they won’t come back to you more injured than when they left if they escape.” Lippett smiled stiffly. He was clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and report my findings to Lieutenant Everson.”
Edith curtseyed. “Yes, Doctor.”
Despite her grief, she walked away taller and straighter, with a renewed vitality she hadn’t felt in a long time. She took a deep breath and smiled. She already had ideas.
WALKING ACROSS THE fractured plain, back towards the canyon, Atkins and 1 Section saw the unmistakable shape of Tulliver’s aeroplane above, no doubt searching for them. Atkins frowned. Everson must be anxious if he allowed Tulliver up in the air. The pilot waggled his wings in response to their frantic hat waving and headed home. It was a cheering sight. If nothing else, it meant the encampment was still there. It hadn’t vanished back to Earth without them.
On the other hand, it dismayed Atkins. Everson would know now that they didn’t have the tank with them and that failure ate away at him.
Atkins and the others were shocked when they came over the valley head and looked down into the encampment. He had to be honest, he wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but to see the churned and trampled ground below them was quite a blow. Even Chandar let out long low hiss at the sight of the devastated trenches.
At first, Atkins thought it was the result of the battle with the Khungarrii, and then he saw the burning pyres of animal corpses and the body of the dead Kreothe, splayed along the valley like a washed up jellyfish at low tide. The veldt beyond, what they could see of it, had fared little better. However, there was no sign of the Chatt army that had occupied it scant days ago. He shook his head in disbelief. Myriad questions tumbled through his mind and he was eager for answers.
As they made their way down the hillside and along the valley towards the encampment, Atkins saw fatigue parties at work, repairing trenches and wire.
“Eh, up. It’s King Arthur returned from his latest quest,” jeered one working party NCO. “Found the Holy Grail then, have you lad?”
“One of your admirers?” asked Porgy.
SERGEANT HOBSON MET Atkins and escorted him straight to Battalion HQ. “Good to have you back, lad.”
“Glad to be back, Sarn’t. What happened here?”
“What hasn’t happened, more like. I’m sure the lieutenant will tell you all about it. He’s anxious to hear your report.”
Atkins avoided Hobson’s eyes. “I expect Tulliver has told him.”
“Maybe, but he’s waiting to hear it from you.”
Atkins knocked on the doorjamb to the battalion HQ dugout. “Come!”
He stepped inside and stood to attention before the lieutenant’s desk.
Everson was writing in the Battalion War Journal; he’d have a lot more to write once Atkins had given his report. “At ease, Corporal.” He finished writing, and then looked up. “Where’s my tank, Atkins?” Everson could tell from the corporal’s face that it wasn’t good news. He sighed. “You’d better tell me everything.”
Atkins did. He told him about the canyon and the mysterious metal wall. He explained about the Gilderra enclave and the evil spirit, but kept back Mathers’ worst excesses.
Everson nodded and waved them away. “It’s all right. I can’t say I’m surprised. Mathers always struck me as a bit windy. Hid it well, though.”
Atkins frowned. “Sir?”
“We had an infection here. Some sort of parasite, the MO says. It affected the shell-shocked; their weakened minds were apparently more suggestible to the parasites. The infected act as if they’re possessed. I suppose they were. They’re all dead, now, the shell-shocked. Seems this parasite needs its hosts to be eaten by the those Kreothe things in order to ‘continue its life cycle’ or some such.” Everson paused and let out a sigh. “Lippett thinks the parasites’ main host is probably the Chatts and they wouldn’t have been infected if they hadn’t marched here to fight us, foraging for food on the way.
Atkins felt he was in some bizarre estaminet bad news contest. He told Everson about the ruined edifice of the Nazarrii and the tentacled creature, and their Kreothe. They both assumed it must have been the same shoal. Everson countered with the stampede.
Then Atkins produced the Bleeker Party’s bible and the journal from his haversack. Everson flicked through them with a wonder that transmuted to fear as the ramifications set in.
“Dear God,” he said. “We weren’t the first?”
“It doesn’t look like it, sir.”
“And they all died here?”
“As far as I can tell, yes, sir. They didn’t find a way back.”
Everson looked at him in alarm. “You’ve told your men to keep this a secret?”
“Yes, sir. And Miss Abbott. I thought you’d best know what to do with the information, sir.”
Everson ran his fingers across the battered journal, as if to make sure it was real. He was silent for a while, and then he looked up. “You did the right thing, Atkins. Leave this with me. At the moment, things round here are a powder keg. I’m not sure how the men might take the news. I’d prefer to have something positive to say to them. Anything positive, really.”
Finally, Atkins told him about the Ivanhoe.
“So it’s lost, then,” said Everson.
“No, sir. We know exactly where it is, we just can’t reach it. I believe the technical word is ditched, sir.”
“And where is it?” asked Everson. “Exactly.”
Atkins took a deep breath and dealt his trump card. “The Croatoan Crater, sir.”
Everson felt as if he had physically had the wind knocked from him. He sat back in his chair. “The Croatoan Crater?” He hardly dared voice his next thought. In the end, he didn’t have to.
Atkins fished about in his tuni
c top pocket and pulled out a bloodstained scrap of khaki. He tossed it onto the desk. Everson looked down at the button attached to it, and then up at Atkins, for an explanation. “We believe it belonged to Jeffries, sir. I believe he was at the Nazarrii edifice on his way to the crater. For what reason, we can only guess. But to my mind the name is a big clue. Along with this.” He produced the tattered paper with the Croatoan symbol and placed it face down, revealing the hastily copied symbols from the edifice.
“I’ve seen this before, or something like it,” said Everson, leafing through Jeffries’ coded journal. “Aha.” He stabbed a finger on a page and placed the book down next to the paper. The arrangement of symbols was identical.
“What do they mean?” asked Atkins.
Everson’s shoulders sagged. “I have no idea.” He looked up at Atkins in earnest. “But the Chatt, Corporal, this Chandar. Did you find out anything more from that?”
Atkins exhaled heavily. Where to start? “Half truths, prophecies and riddles, sir, but it seems there are factions who don’t agree with Sirigar’s Urman culling policy, Chandar among them. Factions that might look on us favourably, especially since we’ve come back with some holy scent texts from Nazarr. Chandar seems very keen to return with them to Khungarr. Thinks they might start a revolution, sir.”
“In the meantime they’re ours, are they?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Right, well, let’s get them somewhere safe; keep them under guard until I find out what best to do with them.” Everson got up from his chair and began to escort Atkins to the dugout door. “Thank you, Atkins. It can’t have been easy, especially losing the tank. It wasn’t your fault.”
“About the tank, sir. We’ve left the tank crew, Miss Abbott and Napoo out there, trying to do what they can.”
“We’ll organise a salvage party and, while we’re at it, we’ll take a patrol to check out this mystery wall.”
“But how are we going to raise the tank, sir, even it is in one piece?”
Everson smiled. “Don’t worry about that, Atkins. We’ve got something that’ll do the job, believe me. Now go and get yourself some food and a rest. You and your men have earned it.”
Everson sat back in his chair, feeling strangely pleased with their new situation. Since they’d been here, they had done nothing but react to things. Now he had enough information to act, to do something here. The question was, what?
IN THE JUNGLE of the Croatoan Crater, half-buried by the torn and shredded undergrowth that caught and halted its headlong rush to destruction, the great ironclad ticked and creaked, like a wounded beast gone to ground, its monstrous roar, for the moment, silenced.
THE END
THE ALLEYMAN
“When ants unite, they can skin a lion.”
—Iranian proverb
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WOULD LIKE to thank all those people who have helped bring the true story of ‘The Broughtonthwaite Mates’ to light. As ever, I am indebted to the members of the Broughtonthwaite Historical Society for their tireless efforts in collating the new information that has come to light since the publication of the first book. I would also like to thank Robert Scotton of the Media Museum North, for an insight into the work and career of the kinematographer Oliver Hepton, including his early pre-World War One erotica. I am grateful to Elizabeth Thompson of the National Archives for helping to trace the RFC service record of Lieutenant James Tulliver. I must also thank Jon, Jenni, David, Ben, Simon and Michael at Abaddon Books. Without their enthusiasm and unstinting support for this project, it wouldn’t have happened. Once again, I must thank my wife, Penny, for her continuing love and support. Finally, I would like to thank all those descendents of the men of the 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers who spoke to me, still hoping that the truth about the fate of their loved ones will come to light.
Pat Kelleher
13th BATTALLION
PENNINE FUSILIERS
COMPANY PERSONEL
Battalion HQ
CO: 2nd Lieutenant J. C. Everson
2CO: Company Sergeant Major Ernest Nelson
Company Quartermaster Sergeant Archibald Slacke
Pte. Henry ‘Half Pint’ Nicholls (batman)
Pte. Charlie Garside (batman)
Royal Army Chaplain: Father Arthur Rand (CF4, ‘Captain’)
War Office Kinematographer, Oliver Hepton
Signals
Corporal Arthur Riley
Pte. Peter Buckley
Pte. Richard Tonkins
‘C’ Company
No 1 Platoon
CO: Lieutenant Morgan
No. 2 Platoon
CO: 2nd Lieutenant Palmer
1 Section
IC: Lance Corporal Thomas ‘Only’ Atkins
Pte. Harold ‘Gutsy’ Blood
Pte. Wilfred Joseph ‘Mercy’ Evans
Pte. George ‘Porgy’ Hopkiss
Pte. Leonard ‘Pot Shot’ Jellicoe
Pte. David Samuel ‘Gazette’ Otterthwaite
RAMC
Regimental Aid Post
RMO: Captain Grenville Lippett
Red Cross Nurses
Sister Betty Fenton
Sister Edith Bell
Driver Nellie Abbot (First Aid Nursing Yeomanry)
Orderlies
Pte. Edgar Statnton
Pte. Edward Thompkins
Stretcher Bearer
Pte. Jenkins
Machine Gun Corps (Heavy Section) ‘I’ Company
I-5 HMLS Ivanhoe
CO: 2nd Lieutenant Arthur Alexander Mathers
Pte. Wally Clegg (Driver)
Pte. Alfred Perkins (Gearsman)
Pte. Norman Bainbridge (Gunner)
Pte. Jack Tanner (Gunner)
Pte. Reginald Lloyd (Loader/Machine Gunner)
Pte. Cecil Nesbit (Loader/Machine Gunner)
D Flight 70 Squadron: Sopwith 1½ Strutter
Lieutenant James Robert Tulliver (Pilot)
Corporal Jack Maddocks (Observer)
For Elliott and Miles
PREFACE
“Keep the Home Fires Burning...”
THE BRITISH OFFICIAL History of the Great War, Military Operations: France and Belgium, 1916 Volume II (1938) simply states that on the 1st November 1916, the nine hundred men of 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers went over the top at dawn to attack a German position in Harcourt Wood on the Somme. They advanced into a gas cloud and vanished, leaving a crater nearly half a mile wide and eighty feet deep. The official explanation was a mass explosion of German mines dug under the British positions using an experimental high explosive. This is still the official position.
And it would have remained that way, had not a chance find in a French field by a farmer, ten years later, sparked a controversy that exists to this day and led to the one of the greatest mysteries of the First World War.
Known as the Lefeuvre Find, it contained several rusted film canisters of undeveloped silver nitrate film, along with, amongst other things, journals, letters, keepsakes, notes and what purported to be the Battalion War Diary. When developed, the black and white silent film—believed to have been shot by Oliver Hepton, a War Office kinematographer who had been assigned to film the attack—showed the Pennines apparently alive and well and on an alien world.
The film was dismissed by the Government as a hoax, playing on the hopes of the relatives and loved ones of those missing. However, there were those who believed its provenance and campaigned for the truth. Some of their descendants still do.
It became clear from the items recovered in the Lefeuvre Find that there were other casualties of the Harcourt Event, and that the phenomenon even extended up into the atmosphere. The Hepton footage (HF232) shows a member of the Royal Flying Corps, who has since been identified as Lieutenant James Tulliver, who was presumed to have been shot down and killed and whose body and plane wreckage were never found.
The First World War was one of the first truly technological wars, wher
e industrialisation changed the nature of warfare. Manned flight was barely ten years old at the outbreak of the war, and within months, it was being used to kill. The war in the air developed into an arms race, with technological advances rendering machines and engine designs obsolete within months, as the push for advantages in speed, height and manoeuvrability drove huge leaps in innovation.
To those at home, the war in the air was a romantic notion that the RFC fostered. It seemed like an echo of a previous age, of chivalrous knights duelling in single combat. The mixture of romance, adventure and technology caught the public imagination, and many adventure story magazines of the time featured tales of derring-do in the air. None more so than Great War Science Stories, which featured a series of highly colourful pulp tales about Tulliver, Ace of the Alien Skies as he battled everything from flying dinosaurs to robotic sky pirates until the magazine ceased publication in 1932.
This third volume of the No Man’s World series continues the account of the Pennine Fusiliers’ true fate. It is based on the accounts of those who were there, where possible, although some events are inferred. All major events have been drawn from primary sources, including the papers of Arthur Cooke, author of The Harcourt Crater: Hoax or Horror, personal letters, and entries from the Battalion War Diary, as well as from the Flight Log of Lieutenant James Tulliver. This is now in the hands of a private collector in Australia, who wishes to remain anonymous but for the truth to be known.
1st November 2016 will see the one-hundredth anniversary of the disappearance of the Pennines. Renewed interest in the fate of the Broughtonthwaite Mates is constantly bringing new evidence and facts to light and so, while their hometown of Broughtonthwaite prepares to commemorate the centenary of the Heroes of Harcourt, we may yet finally discover the true fate of the Pennine Fusiliers.
