by Pat Kelleher
Buckley grunted and heaved as he hauled the kit bag of equipment up the rocky slope to the base of the metal wall. Below, he heard the work party, building a defensive breastwork around the camp, break out into song in sympathy, relieved it wasn’t them. “Send out me muvver, me sister and me bruvver, but for gawd’s sake don’t send meeee!”
At the top, Buckley touched the metal tentatively. It was warm, but then it always had been. There was no sign of melting or burning. It looked just as it always had, despite the lightning that had erupted from it.
With a sense of relief, he began setting up the telegraph again. At least he knew now that he’d get a few seconds warning if anything were to happen again, and to be honest being up here it was no worse, or more dangerous, than being in a listening sap out beyond the front lines. At least Sergeant Dixon wouldn’t be looking over his shoulder every five minutes.
He put the earphones over his head and began listening. He had been up there a few hours when the clicking began. He hastily scrawled out the message on a scrap of paper with a stub of blunt pencil.
He stumbled down the scree side, calling for Sergeant Dixon as he went.
He found Sergeant Dixon waiting for him as he reached the bottom. The NCO waited impatiently while he took a moment to catch his breath.
“Message, Sarn’t,” said Buckley handing the scrap of paper over. “From Lieutenant Everson, Sarn’t.”
Dixon studied the paper and fixed Buckley with a steely glare. “Is this your idea of a joke, Buckley? ‘Go to hell’?”
Buckley looked alarmed. “What? No, Sarn’t. No. It reads, ‘Gone to hell.’”
ATKINS AND THE rest of his men got ready to move out. Atkins found himself both scared and elated. This was everything he’d been wanting for the past five months. At last, they were hard on Jeffries’ heels, and perhaps a way home. It was a desperate hope.
“Mathers said this would happen,” said Pot Shot, casually. “Are you bringing that up again?” said Mercy.
“He did, listen,” Pot Shot put on a solemn face, as if he were about to give a church reading. “‘Other Ones will travel with the breath of GarSuleth, the Kreothe, made, not tamed,’” he said. “Well that’s them Chatt balloons isn’t it? ‘Then shall Skarra with open mandibles welcome the dark scentirrii.’ Well, Werner said our Black Hand Gang were like dark scentirrii to them Chatts. And Skarra welcomes us. These Nazarrii knew we were going into the underworld centuries ago. Don’t you find that just a little bit spooky?”
“Blood and sand, Pot Shot. Will you shut up about that? Just for once, just once, I’d like to think that something I did on this hell of a world wasn’t ‘fated.’” Atkins threw down his knapsack and stormed off.
“I was joking!” protested Pot Shot. “Only! It’s just a bloody cave!”
If they really were going into Hell, or Tartarus, or whatever, then perhaps Nellie was right; he needed to talk to someone.
Padre Rand sat quietly by himself, reading from his bible.
Atkins felt awkward interrupting him. He seemed lost in some private contemplation. “Padre, have you got a moment?”
The chaplain looked up, smiled, and lifted the small book. “Trying to find a little guidance,” he said with a smile. “Atkins, isn’t it? What can I do for you?”
Atkins approached the padre, his hands wringing the bottom of his tunic. “I want to make a confession.”
And it all poured out of him: his big brother William, his brother’s fiancée Flora, and his own love for his brother’s sweetheart, and the strength and companionship they’d found in each other when William was declared missing during the Big Push on the Somme. He told of the last few tormented months, of his guilt and shame, and of Flora’s last letter and his hope for a return and reunion.
“Some men see this as a hell world, Padre,” he said, in a voice almost devoid of hope. “I see it more as a purgatory planet. Once I have paid for my sins, then maybe I can leave.”
Padre Rand listened quietly. “Do you truly love this woman?” he asked.
“With all my heart, Padre.”
“Then so long as you seek to make it right, it seems to me that you are truly penitent and wish to do the right thing. God could ask for nothing more. I could give you a few Hail Marys and a bunch of Our Fathers to say in penance, but I can see you’ve been a lot harder on yourself than that. I can forgive you, Atkins, but more importantly, you must learn to forgive yourself. Go, and sin no more,” the chaplain said in calm, measured tones.
Atkins didn’t know quite what he was expecting. A lifting of a great weight, perhaps, and a buoyant and happy heart. What he felt, however, was the relief of sharing his problem and having someone actually listen, and that was enough for now. As the padre said, the rest was up to him. At least now he could look forwards, knowing that he was doing the right thing, and not torment himself with the past.
On his way back to his mates, Atkins saw Nellie.
“I talked to someone,” he said. “It helped. Thank you.”
Nellie smiled. “I’m glad.”
THE PADRE WATCHED Atkins go and felt a little ashamed. He wanted to promise Atkins that he would get back, but he just didn’t want to make a promise that he might not be able to keep, and for that he was sorry. He felt a connection to Atkins. They were both, in some sense, lost; alone. They both carried a terrible private burden they felt they couldn’t share. At least he had been able to help there. As for himself, that was a different matter.
The vision he’d first had in Khungarr revisited him now in all its glory. He’d wanted a sign that out here on this alien world, so far from His creation, God could hear him, and God did hear him. He had prayed that he might save his flock, the battalion, and see them returned safely home, like any good shepherd. God had answered and the padre had accepted God’s beneficence with tears of joy. But the price God was asking for their salvation would cost him every ounce of faith he had, and he had blocked it from his mind, shut it away, but the still small voice would not be denied, and it tormented his sleep. Seeking his vision a second time, it was now clear to him, although there were times when he wished it was not, for God had told him that in order to save the souls of these Pennine Fusiliers, then he would have to trust in God, and die a martyr’s death. Only then would their souls be saved from this purgatorial world. It was a task worthy of any minister of God, but when that day came, would he have the strength, and the faith, to suffer the ordeal? That was the thought that haunted his quiet moments now.
EVERSON SAT, TRYING to appeal to the tank crew. “I really could do with the Ivanhoe,” he said. “It’s a scouting mission, nothing more.”
“I’d like to help sir,” said Jack. “But I’m sorry, we can’t go in there. It’s not practical. We don’t know what’s in there. I don’t want the tank getting stuck or driving into an abyss.”
“No. No, you’re right, of course,” said Everson. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“Well, if you ask me, you should just let us blast the thing and close the cavern entrance off for good,” said Wally.
“It may well come to that, but not today,” said Everson.
Wally hmphed his disapproval and went back to greasing some engine part.
Jack tried to be a little more conciliatory, “Look, if it’ll help, we’ll come in as far as we can. Just to make sure there are no more of those creatures, if nothing else,” he said, looking at the carcass of the giant beast. “But that’s it. We’ll wait for you.”
“The Ruanach enclave is stockaded. We can hole up there,” said Alfie.
“Fair enough,” said Everson, getting up. “Thank you.” He reached out and shook Jack’s hand, before turning his attention to Tulliver.
“I need you to fly back to the camp and let them know what’s going on. Tonkins is going to stay here with the tank crew at this Ruanach stockade. He can keep in contact with the canyon, and if there’s any chance that we can use these telluric paths to communicate, maybe we can send messag
es, too.”
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do, John?” asked Tulliver.
“No, but we’ve come this far. Do you want to come with us, Oberleutnant?” he asked the German.
Werner smiled politely. “What use is a pilot without a plane? No, I will stay here with Tulliver and soar with the angels, not consort with demons.”
Everson nodded. “Very well.”
He noticed Hepton skulking uncomfortably, like someone on the horns of a dilemma. The sight of the totem had put the wind up him. He knew the plan and wanted no part of it.
The kinematographer edged up to Everson. “I’m not a member of your battalion, Everson. You can’t make me go. This may be an officer’s uniform, but it carries no rank.”
“Got some demons you can’t face, Hepton?” Everson asked wryly.
“I don’t want to go,” repeated Hepton. “Tulliver can fly me back to the camp.”
“The aeroplane only seats two. Werner is flying with him. If you want to go back, you’ll have to walk.”
“Go to hell,” said Hepton, “Oh, I intend to,” said Everson.
THE PADRE WAS offering the Last Rites to all those who wanted it. Considering their destination, it seemed a sensible precaution. Pot Shot was first in the queue.
“But I thought you weren’t religious?” said Atkins.
“Look, if I’m really going to Hell, then I’m going to hedge my bets.
I want to enter in a state of grace, all right? All my sins forgiven. That way the devils have got nothing over me.”
In preparation, Tarak had gathered some of the same sort of bioluminescent lichen that the Chatts used, and he, Nellie and Alfie made torches for them, while the rest of the tank crew checked over the Ivanhoe.
When the hour came, the tank gunned its engines, belched smoke and lurched forward, slowly and implacably rumbling forwards to guard the entrance. If Skarra really existed, it was about to meet its mechanical match.
Everson drew his sword, took a deep breath, blew his whistle and began to walk past the slain beast towards the cavern entrance. The padre had joined the scouting party, arguing that he was uniquely qualified.
Atkins and the Black Hand Gang fell in behind him, Atkins and Mercy carrying the Lightningwerfers. Riley followed, pulling a makeshift litter loaded with equipment. He turned and waved at Tonkin, who stood watching some distance off, alongside the Ivanhoe, with Tulliver, Werner, Hepton and Napoo, the Urman guide refusing to have anything to do with the venture.
Tarak, however, would not be denied. He accompanied them, a look of grim determination on his face. He had a clan to avenge, and if he failed in that, he would join them in the Village of the Dead.
Close up, the size of the cavern entrance staggered Atkins; it was larger than he had thought. Staring into the vast starless space within, he felt gripped by a sudden wave of vertigo, but he carried on, one foot in front of the other. If in doubt, walk forwards was always the advice, and he clung to that now; that and the thought of Flora.
The padre clutched his bible to his chest and spoke the words of the twenty-third psalm under his breath, “Yea, though I walk in the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil...”
Everson took a deep breath as they stepped beyond the threshold into the Stygian blackness beyond.
“‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’” he muttered.
THE OTHERS WATCHED the cavern entrance until the figures of the Fusiliers were lost from sight, swallowed by the obsidian blackness beyond. As they began their vigil, Nellie wondered if they would ever return...
THE END?
GLOSSARY
Ack Emma: From the Signalese phonetic alphabet; AM, Morning.
Albatros: A single-seater German fighter biplane.
Alleyman: Mangled by the Tommies from the French, Allemand, meaning a German.
AM: Air Mechanic; ground crew in the RFC.
Archie: Slang term for anti-aircraft fire and for its aerial shell-bursts.
Battalion: Infantry Battalions at full strength might be around a thousand men. Generally consisted of four companies.
Battle Police: Military police assigned to the Front Line during an attack, armed with revolvers and charged with preventing unwounded men from leaving the danger area.
BEF: British Expeditionary Force. Usually used to refer to the regular standing army who were the first to be sent to Belgium in 1914. Kaiser Wilhelm called them a ‘contemptible little army’ so thereafter they called themselves ‘The Old Contemptibles.’
Black Hand Gang: Slang for a party put together for a dangerous and hazardous mission, like a raiding party. Such was the nature of the tasks it was chosen from volunteers, where possible.
Blighty: England, home. From the Hindustani Bilaiti meaning foreign land.
Blighty One: A wound bad enough to have you sent back to England.
Boojums: Nickname for tanks, also a Wibble Wobble, a Land Creeper, a Willie.
Bosche: Slang for German, generally used by officers.
Brassard: Armband.
Breastworks: Temporary, quickly-built fortifications, consisting of low earth walls usually about chest height.
British Army Warm: An army issue knee-length overcoat worn by officers.
Bus: RFC pilot’s slang term for their aeroplane.
Canteen: A water bottle.
Carpet Slipper Bastard: A heavy artillery shell passing high overhead, and thus with little noise.
Chatt: Parasitic lice that infested the clothing and were almost impossible to avoid while living in the trenches. Living in the warm moist clothing and laying eggs along the seams, they induced itching and skin complaints.
Chatting: De-lousing, either by running a fingernail along the seams and cracking the lice and eggs or else running a lighted candle along them to much the same effect.
Commotional Shock: Contemporary medical term referring to the physical short-term concussive effects or ‘shell-shock,’ from a shell blast and viewed as a physical injury, which qualified soldiers for ‘wound stripes,’ possible discharge from the army and a pension.
Comm Trench: Short for communications trench.
Communication Trench: Trench that ran perpendicularly to the fire trench, enabling movement of troops, supplies and messages to and from the Front Line, from the parallel support and reserve lines to the rear.
Company: One quarter of an infantry battalion, 227 men at full strength, divided into four platoons.
CQS: Company Quartermaster Sergeant.
CSM: Company Sergeant Major.
Emotional Shock: Suffering from ‘nerves.’ Unlike commotional shock, those suffering from mental stress were merely seen as sick and not entitled to a ‘wound stripe.’
Enfilade: Flanking fire along the length of a trench, as opposed to across it.
Estaminet: A French place of entertainment in villages and small towns frequented by soldiers; part bar, part café, part restaurant, generally run by women.
FANY: First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. The only service in which women could enlist and wear khaki, they drove ambulances, ran soup kitchens, mobile baths, etc. in forward areas.
Field Punishment No 1: Corporal punishment where men were tied or chained to stationary objects for several hours a day for up to 21 days. At other times during their punishment they were made to do hard labour.
Fire Bay: Part of a manned fire trench facing the enemy. Bays were usually separated by traverses.
Firestep: The floor of the trench was usually deep enough for soldiers to move about without being seen by the enemy. A firestep was a raised step that ran along the forward face of the fire trench, from which soldiers could fire or keep watch.
Fire Trench: Forward trench facing the enemy that formed part of the Front Line.
Five Nines: A type of German high-explosive shell.
Flammenwerfer: German fire projector or flame thrower.
Flechettes: From the French, meaning ‘little arrow.’ Used early on in th
e war, they were large pointed darts that were dropped from an aeroplane over trenches and were capable of piercing helmets.
Fritz: Slang term for a German.
Funk: State of nerves or depression, more harshly a slang word for cowardice.
Funk Hole: Generally, any dugout or shelter, but often referring to niches or holes big enough to shelter one or two men scraped into the front wall of a trench.
Gazetted: All military promotions and gallantry awards were officially announced in The London Gazette. To be the subject of such an announcement was to be gazetted.
Gone Dis: Short for ‘gone disconnected.’ Originally used by Signallers to mean a telephone line was down, usually from shelling, and that they were out of communication.
Greyback: A soldier’s regulation grey flannel shirt, with no collars and tin buttons.
Guncotton: A service explosive commonly used for demolition.
Hard Tack: British Army biscuit ration, infamously inedible.
Hate, the: Usually a regular bombardment by the enemy made at dawn or dusk to forestall any attacks; the Morning Hate and the Evening Hate.
Hitchy Coo: Itchiness caused by lice infestation and their bites.
Hom Forty: A French railway goods wagon, used for moving troops up to the front line. Very slow. Named after the sign on the side, Hommes 40, Chevaux 8.
Hush Hush Crowd: Nickname for the Machine Gun Corps Heavy Section, or Tank Section, owing to the secrecy that surrounded their training.
Iddy Umpty: slang for Morse Code and, by extension, the Signallers who used it.
Jack Johnsons: Shell burst of a 5.9 or bigger, know for its plume of black smoke and nicknamed after famed black boxer, Jack Johnson.
Jildi: From the Hindi; get a move on, quick, hurry.
Kite Balloon: A blimp-shaped observation balloon, carrying a basket for an observer but attached to the ground by a winch.
Land Ship: A tank.
Lewis Machine Gun: Air cooled, using a circular magazine cartridge holding 48 rounds each. Lighter and more portable than the Vickers.
