by Pat Kelleher
It had been a week since they watched, horror-struck, as the tank tipped over the edge of the Croatoan Crater, the Sub and Alfie inside, to be lost in the jungle-filled depression below. There had been no sign of fire, no billowing smoke and no string of explosions from the dozens of shells the tank carried, so there was every hope that it was still in one piece.
Since then the remaining tank crew had been without the tank’s addictive petrol fruit fuel, whose vapours had heightened their senses, and they had begun to exhibit withdrawal symptoms. Some had suffered more than others had, although they all felt sorry for themselves. Tempers grew short, then the cramps came, and the cold sweats, then the shaking, and finally a fever took hold.
Jack, the brawny gunner, trembled but never groused, never uttered a sound, though his pain showed in his eyes.
Cecil, the youngest, whimpered and called out in his delirium. Although he was the one who had taken most against Nellie, it was him who sought her out for comfort now, glad, as he said in the midst of his fever, that they now had a lady to take care of them.
Norman rolled, groaned and complained, as if playing out the most prolonged and dramatic death scene of his far from distinguished stage career.
Reggie, polite as ever, apologised profusely throughout his withdrawal for every cross word and whimper and every request for succour.
Wally, the bantam driver, took himself off away from the others and suffered stoically, his pain private.
Through it all, Nellie dutifully took charge of them, bathed their brows, gave them water, hushed them and soothed them. She wondered if, down there, Alfie was going through the same terrors. The mechanic was not quite the beau that Edith took him to be, but she had to admit, to herself at least, he had potential. He had an easy smile, a shared enthusiasm for motorbikes and engines and a willingness to accept her for who she was. Although Edith thought she could do better, Nellie found that she did not want to. Now Alfie was down in the crater, and she didn’t know whether he was alive or dead. She would move heaven and earth, or at the very least a truculent tank crew, to find out.
They would have to go down there. To that end, she conceived a plan while the others were ill and set about putting it into practice. It would give them something to focus on while trying to deal with their petrol fruit addiction.
Atkins had charged Napoo, the Pennines’ Urman guide, with her wellbeing. He was a grizzled, weather-beaten man, his skin criss-crossed with scars. The clothing he wore was of animals’ skins and he was partially armoured with plates of hard-won Chatt carapace. He was older than any of them, and that spoke of a certain tenacity and wisdom, especially on this world where nothing seemed to survive for long.
He hunted and kept them fed, a task made easier by the destruction of the Nazarrii edifice not too far away. The collapse of its subterranean levels had disturbed the warrens of some burrowing animals Cecil called snarks. Napoo took great delight in catching them by the dozen.
He took a great many to the nearby Gilderra clan as gifts, as Nellie determined they would need their help. The Gilderra saw this as a turn in their fortunes, for which the Ivanhoe and its crew were responsible. The crew had killed the Dulgur for them that haunted the Nazarrii ruins, and now animal life returned to the area. However, so, too, had the patrols of Zohtakarrii Chatts, in whose territory the tank crew found themselves. Although the patrols did not venture too close to the crater, or the ruins of the Nazarrii edifice, Napoo had no doubt that the Chatts had scented them on the wind and knew they were there.
During their recovery, the tankers had meekly allowed Nellie to take charge while their senses returned to normal, only to find that, having been under her care, they now found themselves susceptible to her natural authority as a nurse. All except Norman. In his withdrawal, she had seen him exposed and vulnerable. She had seen beneath the actor’s mask that he chose to show the world. It embarrassed him, and he resented her for it.
“Why should we listen to you?” Norman asked petulantly. The tanker glared at her, his lip curled with bitterness, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of the dark blue coveralls the tank crew wore over their regulation khaki uniforms.
“Because she looked after us,” said Cecil. “Because those are our mates down there. And the Ivanhoe.”
“Oh, Nellie, lady, be our mother!” Norman retorted in a sing-song tone.
“Leave the lad alone, Norman,” said Jack.
“Cecil’s right,” said Nellie. “We’ve been sat up here for nearly a week. We’re not going to give up on them, or the Ivanhoe.”
“Says you, but how are we supposed to get down there?” said Norman.
Nellie sighed. “The Gilderra have vine rope. We have been trading snarks for rope while you have been... recovering.”
Realisation dawned. Wally stepped forward to hug Nellie, but caught sight of the look in her eye and thought better of it.
“We can really do this?” asked Cecil.
“Yes, we can,” said Nellie, with relief.
Napoo scowled his disapproval. His only words on the subject were the last warning Chandar gave them regarding the Croatoan Crater. “Nothing must enter, nothing must leave.”
THE NEXT MORNING Nellie looked out across the wide expanse of the crater. The morning sun was just beginning to light the lip of the far side. The alien sun steadily devoured the crater’s shadow, raising a curtain of vapour that swept towards them, like a creeping barrage of mist.
It took three of the crew to drag the thick vine rope to a sturdy tree. They hauled it round the trunk and struggled to tie it securely.
Jack braced his foot on the trunk and gave the rope several violent jerks. The knot tightened and held. He gave a satisfied grunt and followed the rope back to the coiled mound by the crater’s edge.
Despite his misgivings, Napoo had been charged with Nellie’s safety and had made rough sacks to carry food supplies, amongst which were dried snark meat, fruit and a little edible fungus. There were also several gourds of water. Napoo had his knife, Jack, Wally and Norman had their revolvers and Cecil and Reggie carried a couple of Enfields left by Atkins and his men.
“So,” said Reggie, looking round at the others. “This is it. Do or die.”
Wally took a deep breath. “Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that.” Napoo’s hand clasped Nellie’s shoulder. “You should not do this.”
“Napoo. Our friends are down there. And there are supplies in the tank, guns and food that we can use.”
She took hold of the vine rope, heaved a loop of it from its coiled bulk and dropped it over the edge. The rope unspooled under its own weight with a speed she didn’t expect. Seconds later, it snapped taut from the tree.
“Well, I was expecting to say a few words before we launched it,” said Norman with a sour face.
Nellie sighed with relief and brushed her hands against each other. “Well, it’s done now. I’m sorry.”
“No need to stand on ceremony, then,” said Jack brightly. “At least you saved us that. Norman’s speech would have turned into an oratory anyway.”
Norman gave him a petulant sneer.
“Well, I ain’t going first,” said Cecil.
“Manners dictate ladies first,” said Reggie, “but in this case I don’t think it wise.”
Jack stepped forward. He had been a boxer and was by far the heaviest of the crew, his brawny frame filling his coveralls. “I’ll go first,” he volunteered. “If it takes my weight, the rest of you’ll have no excuse.”
“At least we’ll have a soft landing if it doesn’t,” said Wally with a grin.
They clustered at the edge; Nellie looked along the crater lip to the place where the tank tracks ended and then dismissed them, focusing her eyes on the rope, almost aa thick as her wrist, that hung over the edge.
Jack took the rope in both hands and stood with his back to the lip.
“Cecil, you next; then Norman, Wally, then Reggie.”
“Why does Reggie get to go
last?” asked Cecil.
“Because he’s got manners,” said Jack.
“Manners?”
“Yes. He’s a gentleman. He won’t look.”
“Look where?”
“Up.”
“Up?” Cecil looked at Nellie. “Oh!” Jack clipped him round the back of the head before the growing leer could smear itself across his face.
Nellie, although quite used to the company of men, blushed and averted her eyes. So used to being treated with filial affection, she often forgot her feminine aspects. It was sometimes a shock to be reminded of them, and her brothers had the bruised arms to show for it.
“Nellie, you next and Napoo can come down last. We’ll secure a position below,” Jack told her.
He walked backwards, feeding the rope through his hands until he got to the edge. He leaned out slowly and began to walk down the steep camber of the rock face.
“It’s like Jack and the beanstalk, ain’t it?” said Cecil.
Nellie watched with dread. All of a sudden, she wasn’t sure she could do this. But she had committed them to this course of action. She couldn’t back out now, could she? For a brief moment, she thought of falling back on her womanhood for an excuse, and instantly despised herself for it. Of course she could do this. She could do anything they could do. And what’s more, she bloody well would.
One by one, the men disappeared over the edge. She fixed her eyes on the rope. It jerked spasmodically as if it had a life of its own.
Nellie wiped sweaty palms on her skirt.
“Do not look down,” Napoo said gravely.
She turned her back to the edge and grasped the rope as she had seen the others do. One foot after the other, she took hesitant steps backwards until the ground gave way beneath her heel.
From below, she heard Norman yell out “Rock” as something careened down the crater side, impacted with the scree slope and skittered down into the jungle.
Her face creasing into a frown, she stepped backwards. Her breath came in short, sharp pants. Inside she was screaming. She bit the inside of her mouth hard, to stop it from escaping.
Planting one foot below the other, she slowly fed the rope though her hands as she stared at the crimson rock in front of her. She could hear Napoo climbing onto the rope above her.
As she descended the near-vertical wall, the panic and terror within transmuted into exhilaration. She was doing it. Carried away with the audacity of her actions, she glanced down, and immediately wished she hadn’t. The ground seemed so very far away.
When she couldn’t move, she started to panic, only to realise that her skirt had caught on some thorny shrub clinging to the crater side. With every inch she descended, her skirt rode up. She tugged at it in an attempt to free it, and the thorns held it fast. She tugged it again. The skirt ripped, and the momentum sent her twirling round in a vertigoinducing spin, holding onto the rope by one hand. She managed to find the cliff face and braced her feet against the rock again to stop the spin and steady herself. It took a moment to recover her composure and, holding the rope tightly in both sweat-slicked hands, she continued her slow walk down the rock face. She had read of mountaineers doing this for fun. She couldn’t think why.
After what seemed like an age, she reached the top of the scree slope. There, she could take more of her weight on her legs; she realised how much her arms hurt, muscles burning with effort.
It wasn’t until she made her way down the slope, still holding the rope for balance, and found the others staring at her that she realised the extent of the torn skirt. It had ripped right up above the knee. Exposed as it left her, it did seem to allow her a good degree more movement.
“Lads,” said Reggie. “Lads! Turn your backs. We’re not brigands, you know.”
They turned round, some faster than others, earning Cecil another clip round the ear from Jack as his gaze lingered longer than it ought to.
Reggie climbed out of his coveralls, leaving him in his greyback shirtsleeves, regulation khaki trousers and puttees as he held them out behind him towards Nellie.
She reached out and took them with gratitude. “Thank you, Reggie, that’s very decent of you.”
By now, Napoo had reached them. “Napoo, could you?” Nellie indicated that she needed a screen from the men. The Urman grunted and stood in front of her, glaring at the backs of the tank crew.
Nellie quickly slipped off her ruined skirt, stepped into the coveralls and buttoned them up. The sleeves and legs were too long, but she just rolled them up.
“There,” she said, arms spread as she modelled her blue coveralls. “What do you think?”
Cecil whistled, and—sensing Jack behind him—flinched involuntarily.
Jack laughed. “You’ll do.”
AS THEY DESCENDED the scree slope, the cries of unseen creatures echoed through the canopy rising before them, underscored by arboreal creaks and groans in the undergrowth ahead.
It wasn’t hard to follow the tank’s trail. Churned earth, shattered rocks, broken boughs and the exploded smears of creatures not quick enough to escape from its headlong rush marked its path. Following the ironclad’s furrowing, they headed into the jungle, where everything seemed draped with large pallid creepers.
“Lieutenant!”
“Alfie!”
They called out at regular intervals, but there was no reply. Norman spotted the first piece of wreckage, tossed aside in the undergrowth like abandoned farm equipment.
Nellie let out a gasp.
“Don’t worry, said Reggie kindly. “It’s just the—”
“Steering tail. I know,” said Nellie. “I just wasn’t prepared.” Attached to the rear of the tank, the steering tail had broken loose.
Its great quarter-ton iron wheels lay on their sides, embedded in the ground. The boxes and packets of supplies it carried lay strewn back along its path, some lying pawed and torn open by curious scavengers. The steering tail’s hydraulic fluid had long since leaked from it, pooled, and sunk into the ground.
Norman inspected the wreckage. He shook his head. “No way can we save this. Always thought the thing was a waste of space. Only ever worked on solid ground. It’s good riddance, if you ask me.”
With all the caution that this world had taught them, they advanced slowly along the Ivanhoe’s path, feeling naked and vulnerable without the ironclad shell that they had taken so much for granted.
Nellie’s every step along the way was an agony of emotional turmoil; wanting to press on, but fearing what they might find.
“There!” cried Cecil.
In the arborous gloom of the forest floor, the huge bulk of His Majesty’s Land Ship Ivanhoe squatted half-hidden in the undergrowth, at the edge of a clearing of its own making. It had come to rest surrounded by the tangled vegetation it had dragged along with it. Facing the tank crew, its drivers’ visors down, it looked like some antediluvian beast asleep in its den.
Nellie felt a flood of relief. She wanted to rush towards it, but Napoo put out an arm to stop her.
Instead, Jack took a tentative step forward. “Lieutenant?” he called out. “Alfie!”
There was no answer.
Nellie found herself praying under her breath. “Oh, please, oh, please...”
A lingering aroma of petrol fruit vapour hung about the ditched ironclad. Nellie was quick to notice that Jack inhaled deeply once he recognised it.
“Is that the fuel?” she asked, her nostrils flaring as she sniffed the air.
Jack gave a guilty start and avoided her gaze.
With a wave of his arm, he gestured for Norman, Reggie and Wally to circle round to the starboard side. Nellie, Jack, Cecil and Napoo edged around the port side.
The tank’s two six-pounder guns hung, dejected but intact. Miraculously, the tracks were still in place, although they were gummed up with torn and shredded foliage. It seemed that the jungle undergrowth had absorbed most of the impact of its crash.
From round the far side, Nellie could hear
the soothing tones as Wally tutted and talked to the iron behemoth. “What have they done to you, eh?”
At the front of the port sponson, Jack peered in through the vertical slit of the gunner’s sight alongside the lifeless gun.
“Well?” asked Nellie.
Jack shrugged. “Can’t see a thing.”
They edged along the sponson, past the machine gun toward the rear. Jack held up his hand. They stopped as he peered round the back of the sponson to the entrance hatch, before swinging round out of sight, his revolver raised. A heartbeat later, his head reappeared back round the sponson and jerked them on.
There was a squeal from above. Startled, the soldiers glanced up, guns at the ready. Something small and furry fell out of the trees above, hitting branches as it fell, to crash limply into a small grove of black saplings at the edge of the clearing, where it lay still.
Distracted by the poor dead creature, fallen from some nest, it was a moment before Nellie recognised the saplings themselves. “Corpsewood! Be careful.”
They knew the plant well enough, having used it to kill the Dulgur’s young that ate Frank, their other gunner. It generally fed on dead animal matter, but would feed on the living where it could. They made sure to give it a wide berth.
Nellie heard a despairing groan from inside the tank. Up in the driver’s cab, Wally had found Mathers’ body slumped in the starboard gangway. The lieutenant’s revolver was still in his hand. There was a small entry wound in his right temple, but its exit had blown away half his skull. Blood, bone and brain matter splattered the white-painted interior and blood had pooled below him and dried on the wooden planking.
The lieutenant’s death shocked the crew; not so much the fact of it as the manner. They hadn’t expected suicide.
