Blood, Mud and Corpses (Royal Zombie Corps Book 1)

by C. M. Harald

  'Dearest son,' His mother had written the letter, 'It is with great sadness that I write to inform you of the death of your brother James.'

  Alfie's eyes welled up, the worst had clearly happened. As he read on, the familiarity of his mother's handwriting no comfort, he found that his brother had died a hero, not at the Somme, but during an attack in Belgium at the start of July. His mother wrote about a letter received from his commanding officer. James had been part of an attack shortly after his unit moved into the line. He had bravely gone back out into no-man's-land to rescue a friend. There he had been killed by enemy snipers, cleanly and without suffering. His CO had recommended him for a medal.

  Alfie could not comprehend the news. He read the letter through several times, the words struggling to penetrate his reality. His big brother, the one whom he had idolised as a child, who was always there, was dead. No more would he be able to play football with him, fight over the slightest thing or receive his good council.

  'What's up Alfie?' Taff Morgan asked, having noticed that Marsh had been quietly pouring over the letter for a long time.

  'My brother. He's dead. Belgium.' Alfie spat out the sparse words, words which instantly meant something tangible, now he had said them out loud.

  'Bugger!' Taff spat, leaving his own letters and sitting at the end of Marsh's bunk.

  'Putting him forward for a medal, sniper got him.'

  'Damn.'

  Alfie crumpled and the tears started, he did not say that his mother had reminded him that all the family hopes were now pinned on him. That they expected him to go out and get revenge against the evil Fritz.

  It was not the done thing, but Taff still knew how to respond as he broke down and held him through the worst of it.

  The next morning was a grey one for Alfie. The weather was sunny, but all his thoughts were of his deceased brother. As the platoon practiced their morning drill, Alfie let his mind wander over the example his brother had set him. James had been good at everything, not in a way that Alfie was jealous of, but a quietly competent and efficient way. Alfie knew James had been a successful soldier, passing through training in his 'Pals' battalion, quickly and effectively. Every step, the model soldier, nothing like the misfit Alfie was.

  Even months into training, Alfie still did not fit the mould of the regimented soldier, neatly presented, competent in all his tasks. How could he live up to the expectations of his family when he could not even meet the basic expectations of his country? He was far from a competent soldier. How would he achieve revenge on an enemy that was resisting the best that the British Empire could throw at it? He worried that he would let his mates down, he would put them at risk and would struggle to survive the maelstrom himself. He would not be able to achieve revenge for his brother, thereby failing his family.

  These worries had been building for some time as he struggled through training. However, it was the letter from home that had brought them to the fore.

  'Marsh! You're out of step.' Yelled Corporal Simpson.

  Alfie checked his step, falling back in time with the rest of the squad. His mind restarted the loop that it had been playing all morning.

  After the routine of drill, a dull routine that had allowed Alfie too much time to think, Alfie sat with Joshua Wells. The canteen had put on some kind of stew with spotted dick pudding. One good thing about training was that the food was always generous and you could go up for more if you were still hungry. You did not really care what meat was in the stew either as exercise was always the best sauce. For some recruits, this was the first time their bellies had been full in their lives. This was despite the successful health reforms of David Lloyd George and the Liberal Governments in the lead up to the war, a response to the scandals of the Boer War. In the midst of that brutal war, it had become apparent that nearly two in every five British recruits were unfit for service due to illnesses caused by poverty, such as rickets. The Liberals had set about a program of health insurance for workers, free healthcare for children, and a massive program of the replacement of unsanitary housing.

  'You see, I never had any kind of expectations from my family. Sure, there was an expectation that I would fit in.' Wells said thinking about his own upbringing in the poorer areas of East London, 'My parents had escaped the pogroms in Russia and come to England, so they wanted me to grow up to become a good Englishman, but other than that, there was no expectations. I suppose it was because anything that happened to me was going to be better than what happened to them as Russian Jews.'

  'My family didn't really have any expectations for me.' Being a middle child, it was the older, James, who had all the family expectations such as taking on the family trade, continuing the family name and striking out into the world. Alfie had been expected to do well, but was not the focus of the family attentions, receiving the cast-off clothes, coming second in attention and support from his parents.

  'I got into trading this and that, finding things that were hard to find. You know what I mean? A bit of a fixer of issues.' Joshua explained, 'You have to be about your wits to survive in the East End.'

  'Well you always seem to have a stash of chocolate and cigarettes.'

  'It pays to get to know, and help out, the quartermaster. You wouldn't believe how easy it is for things to disappear from the stores.' Wells boasted, 'Even the quartermaster is at it.'

  'He is probably at it. So things quite easily disappear from the stores when you're around? Only way you can manage the roaring trade you do.' Alfie replied good-naturedly.

  'Well, if you ever need anything, you know who to ask. Besides, my career path is why I didn't volunteer for this war, I had a good scam going with this well-off widow. Between the two of us, we was comfortably off.'

  'So do you have anything that's going to help us survive this war then?' Alfie asked, 'What do you have that can help us with that? I'm a useless solider, but I want to do my family proud.'

  'We just keep working at it. Doing the best we can.' Wells replied, 'Not got any magic tricks up my sleeve.'

  'But I've been doing the best I can and I'm still useless.' Alfie complained, the despair again threatening to overwhelm him.

  'I'll help you with what I can. After all I've been helping you with your kit for ages. Besides, the others will help out, especially Taff and Davies. If we all stick together, we'll increase our chances of surviving this war.'

  'I suppose so.' Alfie replied, 'Watch each other's backs and look out for each other.'

  'Oh, and one other excellent piece of advice, never volunteer for anything. That's the sort of behaviour that'll get you killed.' Wells grinned.

  'I thought that would be the best chance for me to prove myself though.' Alfie said.

  'No, best way for you to end up as worm food. There are no brave soldiers who get to grow old, you know.' Wells explained, knowing that the way the war was going, there would be no soldiers of any kind who would survive long enough to grow old.

  That night, Alfie lay in bed trying to sleep, mulling over his worries. His body was hardening in response to all the exercise and he was no longer instantly falling asleep with exhaustion, as he had at the start of his training. His consciousness ran over the expectations that were now being thrust upon him by his family. In their patriotic fervour, they expected him to go and make the family proud by his brave exploits on the battlefield. In their bereavement, his parents expected him to go and get revenge. They probably had in mind some patriotic and heroic endeavour such as those printed in the London Illustrated News in which the chiselled hero would overwhelm the inferior Hun, rescuing helpless Belgian civilians. Pure jingoistic propaganda. However, Alfie knew his new responsibilities were far deeper than a simplistic vendetta against the enemy. It was not just the good name of the family that mattered. He would now be expected to continue the family line, something that Alfie had not thought of. He would be expected to marry and have children. This was something he had never even considered, children of his own and the respon
sibility that such fragile young lives would bring. Marriage had been a consideration at times, especially with some of the girls he had spent time with before being conscripted, but starting a family during a war, when he was going to be away at the front for months on end, was just not possible. The whole idea of family was something that he would have to file away until the end of the war, assuming he survived, something he truly doubted with his inferior soldiering abilities.

  What was worse for Alfie was that he would no longer see his brother James. They had been great friends, James always looking out for his brother, frequently rescuing him from fist-fights that had gone wrong. Alfie may not the best soldier in the world, but he was certainly very good in a scrap, while being on the receiving end of a few beatings had certainly toughened him up. Alfie had been so proud of his brother when he had volunteered for the army with the first wave of recruits who had responded to the patriotic call of General Kitchener. James had joined with many from the community, enough, as it turned out to create a Pals battalion exclusively recruited from their neighbours. Although Alfie had been old enough to join at the time, he had held back, feeling that putting one son at risk was more than enough for the family pride. Besides, Alfie was not taken in by the patriotic fervour that had washed over the country in August 1914. He was certain there was more to things than a simple clash of heroic allies against the militaristic Prussians who had invaded defenceless Belgium. He also knew about the traditional tactics that were employed by the armies of all nations and had wondered how they would stand up to the vicious new weapons of the twentieth century. It was an experiment in which he had no desire to participate. The advent of the machine gun was sure to cause havoc with the neat rows of soldiers all the nations insisted in fielding. The French were still not even using camouflaged colours. At least Britain had dealt with that issue in the Khaki Election and the response to the failures of the Boer War. There was also the matter of artillery that had put him off volunteering. Finally, the War Office had issued large numbers of tin helmets, and Alfie knew his may be a lifesaver. At the start of the war, the troops had routinely entered battle with cloth caps. This was a particular disadvantage when the warfare descended into the trenches with head wounds readily received from shell sprinters hitting heads. The vast casualties of 1914 and early 1915 had therefore come as no surprise to Alfie, and he had felt justified in his avoidance of the army. The recent casualties that were being reported from the Somme were also of no great surprise. At this rate, the nation would burn through the available manpower, chewed up by modern industrialised warfare.

  Despite his disapproval of an ill-planned war, Alfie had still completed work that was beneficial for the war effort, working the land, ensuring that there was enough food for the population. However, as only a mere farm labourer, he was not in a protected occupation when conscription was introduced and therefore had no option but service. At least the army gave him a chance to be in the open, even if that was going to mean trenches. He could not conceive what it would be like, locked up in one of those sardine cans the navy called warships. Also, being in the army, he was more likely to find action compared to the 'stay at home' navy. The navy that was supposed to be the pride of the Empire, each dreadnaught costing over a million pounds, but yet to engage in any decisive combat with the enemy.

  While Alfie had worked on the farm, he had grown strong and built up his physical stamina, yet this had not been enough for the army, but it had meant that he had struggled less than his urban counterparts. He also missed the excellent food fed to a farmworker. However, this was an opportunity for him, one that he knew he needed to make the best of. He decided that he was not just simply going to survive combat, but to do his family proud in the process. These goals did not mean he would throw himself at the enemy or volunteer, as Wells had cautioned, but he would do his best to dish out to Fritz more than he received. Alfie would also throw himself into his training with renewed vigour. Surely the Army knew what they were doing in some respects. He would stick to his friends so that they would all stand the best chance of surviving and taking the battle to the enemy.

  Alfie picked up his boots and for the first time put his heart and soul into polishing them to the highly reflective surface his instructors demanded.

  France

  Q "As one of the founders of the Experimental Battalions, the ethics of your form of warfare have been questioned in some quarters? I ask you, did you really experiment with live volunteers?"

  A "The morality of using the reanimate dead was something that was discussed in quite some detail. A number of experiments were undertaken, including volunteers as a means of creating new Tigers under our command."

  Q "So, in the language of the popular Press, you allowed living soldiers to volunteer to become 'zombies'?"

  A "Yes, although this was a minor source of Tigers and only allowed during our initial research. However, unlike the popular Press, it is essential to recall that there was no end to the war in sight. We had stumbled upon a new war winning weapon and were exploring how to use it. Considering the contribution of the Tigers to the final outcome of the war, the 'sensationalist' stories of Fleet Street, are little more than base rabble-rousing."

  Q "You have been compared to Dr Frankenstein by some sections of the Press. Do you consider this description apt?"

  A "Dr Frankenstein, and his creation, were works of fiction. As a doctor of medicine, I can confirm that the Tigers are not like the monsters of Frankenstein, and do not solely inhabit the pages of books in libraries. Not only that, the Tigers shortened the war with a substantial reduction in the number of casualties on both sides."

  Questioning of Brigadier Oliver Hudson, Commanding Officer, Royal Zombie Corps. Transcript committee of closed session On the Conduct of the War Committee, House of Lords Select Committee, 21st August 1919.

  It was late in the summer of 1916 that the recruits were shipped out to their new units. Few went into specialised training, that having been reserved for the soldiers who were too young for overseas service. Due to the significant numbers of new soldiers that conscription had made available, the traditional deployment of troops was changing. Previously a solider completed basic training with the home battalion of regiment that they had joined up with, before deploying to the overseas battalions. However, the vast number of casualties caused by the industrialised warfare in Western Europe and the Dardanelles, especially with the ongoing Somme offensive, this old system was no longer adequate for the sheer number of replacements the front lines demanded. Some soldiers joined newly created formations following the completion of their basic training and the unit would continue to work up for some time in Britain before deployment overseas. Other soldiers were sent to units that had been pulled out of the frontline for replacement of loses, with these units expected to recover in reserve, or the quiet sectors of the front. In these cases, replacements were sent to infantry depots while they awaited the summons to their new unit.

  It was to the latter type that the majority of the members of Marsh's training platoon were sent together to. Having escaped the rigid training camp, they found themselves on a troop train to Richborough, travelling across the Kent countryside to a wartime harbour, under construction by the Royal Engineers, for the shipment of heavy goods and equipment overseas.

  'Where do you think they're sending us?' Taff asked as the train clattered over some points.

  'If it's away from this overcrowded carriage, I'll be happy.' Ted Simmonds replied. It was hot in the third class carriage, the sun beating through the windows into the overcrowded train.

  'You'll be out soon enough.' Alfie said, 'We'll be on a boat soon and I doubt it'll be a train ferry. I heard they'd not built the docks for them yet at Richborough.'

  'Thought the place was supposed to be secret?' Simmonds questioned, 'You some master spy now?'

  'Me?' Alfie snorted indignantly, 'Josh is our spy. He overheard some officers talking about it. Apparently they're using barges at
the moment and we'll be catching one of those, not a ferry. All the other ports are jam packed and they can't fit us in.'

  As if summoned, Wells entered the far end of the carriage, a smile on his face.

  'Just shifted a whole carton of cigarettes to some Scots at the other end of the carriage and look what they gave me.' He revealed a bottle of whiskey, which he promptly opened. After a quick swig, he passed it around his friends.

  'What if we get caught?' Taff asked about the whiskey.

  'Just 'cause your family are teetotallers, doesn't mean you need to jump at your own shadow. Do you see anyone who cares around here?' Wells replied. Taff took an extra long swig as the bottle came to him, his friends loudly approving of his lack of concern for family traditions.

  'So we're all going to the same depot in the very north of France.' Marsh said.

  'Aye, bet that means Belgium then.' Davies suggested.

  'At least we get to stay away from the bloody Somme.' Simmonds muttered, as if he was not wishing to tempt fate with the idea.

  'Peace and quiet then, unless we end up at Wipers.' Morgan replied. Ypres, a key area of the front in Belgium was only marginally better than the vast battle at Somme, a situation that would change when the autumn rains turned Flanders into mud.

  'That's no way to think of it.' Wells said, 'We'll have plenty of opportunities to live well and comfortably wherever we go, as long as I'm with you.'

  'Even if we're up to our necks in the mud?' Morgan asked, 'We ain't the navy you know.'

  'We're not the navy, that's right. But wherever we go, we're going to sock it to the Germans.' Marsh's proposal raised cheers from his friends. The bottle continued to pass among them, increasing their merriment. Along the train, they were not the only group of soldiers responding in this way. Far from it, most were enjoying the camaraderie, finding it covered up their nerves. Few were completely sober when the train arrived at their destination.