by Chris Yeoh
Neven rounded. “Church, whatever did you want with the army in the first place? Or were you press-ganged in for petty thievery?”
“How dare you,” Church retorted.
“You've questioned every authority figure every step of the way,” Neven continued, unabated. “You don't fit the uniform and it sure as hell doesn't fit you.”
“You're a prissy stiff-collared noble prig who would be happier inside with those upper-class cavalry types in there than getting any real work done.”
“Oh, and what real work are you doing? Have some faith man, life during war is tough, it... it has to be, I suppose. But it gets better. It... must do. The British army will provide.”
“Did you learn that at the academy during a buggary session?”
“Stuff off,” Neven said.
“I've seen what people really are – give them a fucking hat or some stripes and they're still animals, deep down. No man is better than any other, and you shouldn't give the time of day to people that think they are,” Church scowled into the distance now, his aim became philosophical. “I'm more worried about the state of being inside these walls, rather than outside of them.”
“Well, you're welcome to leave any time. And good riddance, no doubt.”
Church said nothing.
Neven took a step back to his post. "The alternative is - and I needn't remind you of this, far - far worse."
With half of his brain still on Phillipa, he slumped back to his guard post and kept a drowsy watch until he was relieved as some time later, as twilight glistened.
Chapter 11
The things that come crashing down
In the morning, shouting replaced a cockerel. Neven's bleary eyes opened in an unfamiliar room, on an uncomfortable cot. The shouting, whooping and hollering would not stop. He crossed out of his bed to the grimy window, passing by a sleeping Church and a snoozing Swinton.
"Oh God!" he managed to make out from the cacophony of yells. It was all too familiar, staring bleakly out of a window watching a terrible scene unfold.
"Make way! Make way!"
"Get him some room! Medic!"
The sounds of a war had followed him to the estate. A bugle erupted noisily from the roof, scaring away the roosting birds and bringing everyone in the house to their feet.
"Company, assemble!" A noise, louder than anything going on outside, bellowed through the corridors.
By the time he had looked around from the window, Church and Swinton had disappeared from their beds. He followed the sound of receding footsteps to the courtyard outside. A group of soldiers and cavalrymen alike were gathered just outside the porch. Church pushed his way into the throng.
"Fuck."
"What happened, what happened, what happened?" Gifford methodically asked, as he rounded the landing staircase. He pulled on his gloves and sporadically tucked in his shirt.
"It's Tavistock, sir," the familiar and still lanky Corporal Garden said before all others.
"And Private North!" Brunswick poked his head up. Neven couldn't get into the feeding frenzy, so circled around the group attempting to get a better look.
"My God, what happened?" Gifford asked. He parted the group and Neven followed upon his coattails.
He gasped in shock at the sight. Lying bloody on the stretchers on which they were being carried, North and the cavalry man Tavistock were motionless. Tavistock's face had been torn to shreds in an animal fashion, so much so Neven supposed darkly that he would not have recognised him even if he had known him.
"Bring them inside!" Gifford shrieked.
"They're dead, sir," Garden replied. It was not an excuse; it was barely a response, more of an observation.
Suddenly, North spluttered. His eyes opened. His cheek was ragged, and his chest was bleeding profusely, but he was in considerably better condition than his fellow guard.
"Get the medic!" Gifford yelled, still at a higher pitch than Neven thought comfortable.
"He is the medic," Church responded gloomily, pointing to North.
"We were... attacked," North said finally, slowly. His eyes rolled up his head, and Neven thought that he was about to die, but instead he was looking up at the wall he had been guarding, some distance across the grounds.
"Lieutenant!" Southampton was at the wall now, and poking around in a nearby rose bush, which appeared to be wriggling on its own.
The group hurried over to the scene, leaving Brunswick, Thornhough, and the cavalryman Hillmarton with the two casualties. Neven arrived first, and witnessed Southampton raking at what appeared to be a pile of leaves with a stick. The bushel wriggled and kicked out once more and everyone backed away a step. Southampton levelled his gun.
"Wait, wait!" Gifford commanded.
Slowly, a form unfolded. Neven would have rubbed his eyes had he been able to avert his gaze for even a second. The shape in front of him was so incomprehensible that all words and thoughts fell away in a chasm of ignorance.
"What the fuck is that?" Church asked for everyone.
In a way though, they all knew: the enemy.
Neven's body cooled as he realised throughout the entire war, this was the first he had seen of those in opposition to him; those who had caused all the problems, those who had turned the world upon its axis.
But, looking at the creature now, it was hard to imagine how. It was in pain, writhing silently, no sound emitted save from the parts of its broken body clicking together, and the scraping of mud and leaves dragging around, stuck to its body, now slick with blood-like liquid. It was big, and stark black, with a shiny carapace that covered everything save its antennae. Its legs flailed like a fly dying on a windowsill in the hot sun. If it had eyes, or some sort of optic capacity, they could not see through the filth it was caked in.
"It's an... ant?"
"A beetle?"
No one could agree, voices rose and fell inside their circle. Eventually, their noise was once again replaced with silence. They watched it die.
Southampton leaned in, Neven winced in anticipation. The Sergeant reached under the corpse, and pulled out a knife.
"So they're not that invincible," Neven commented. Gifford did not look happy.
"That's Private North's knife,” Church said.
"That man's a hero," Swinton said, a tear in his eye.
Garden picked up North's rifle and tucked it possessively under his arm.
"Gun didn't fire. It must have jammed, sir."
Neven and Church shared a look that fortunately no others saw. Gifford held out his hand, Swinton took the cue to give the knife to him and the Lieutenant walked away, flanked by Garden, carrying the disposed-of weapons.
"Jesus, look at this fucking thing," Southampton said.
"Look at it," Swinton offered.
"Fuck," Church said.
Neven began to feel incredibly uncomfortable. "Are there more, do you think?"
"A scout?"
"Must have climbed the walls. God, and got two of us!" Swinton remarked.
Their proffering of ideas was suddenly distracted by a single gunshot. They looked around and saw Gifford under the porch, holstering his pistol, having shot North in the head. Neven's heart dropped into icy waters. Before they knew it, they were running towards the house again, having the creature dead in the thorns. Southampton followed closely at their heels, seemingly chasing them rather than rushing towards the situation.
"What?" Church yelled.
Gifford looked at him coolly, clipped his side-arm back into its leather holster about his waist.
"He was dying. I put him out of his misery."
Neven's eyes fell to North's now-still body; he didn't look particularly at peace, there was just a hole where his face used to be. Had Neven not already seen the chaotic mess that followed the Lamb and Lion incident, he would have vomited then and there.
"You don't get to make that decision!" Church continued.
"Entirely utilitarian," Gifford said, averting his eyes from th
e scene as though it did not exist. "Who was to tend to him? You said yourselves he was the medic. He was going to be drain on our new situation. I won't have people who can't produce, and don't have quality of life, of course."
"You fucker!" Church swung towards Gifford, he had no hope of achieving anything but making a futile point. He was caught by a blow on the cheek by Southampton before he took another step.
Church fell to his knees with a grunt. Southampton fell upon him, dragged him bodily up by his feet and held him from behind in an arm lock. Garden clutched his rifle menacingly, falling short of pointing it at Neven and the fellow soldiers from the farmhouse. The army was divided.
"Leave it lads," Swinton put a hand on Neven's shoulder.
Neven saw from his expression that the big man had just as heavy a heart as the rest.
"You are discharged, private!" Gifford barked with surprising clarity through the spittle that erupted foaming from his mouth. "You are nothing but a nuisance, a bother, and a belligerent little shit. I will not have men who live to question my every command! You are discharged from my orders, from my command, and from my sight. Leave the confines of this new commune and go somewhere else."
"That's tantamount to the death penalty, Lieutenant!" Brunswick pleaded.
"Fuck off. All of you soldiers fuck off," Gifford levelled his gaze at Southampton. "Sergeant, if you would please escort this whelp off of the premises."
"With pleasure," the gruff Southampton replied.
With maximum effort, and the greatest amount of kicking and struggling on Church's part, the burly Private was ejected from the property. As the gate was padlocked behind him he kicked once more against it.
"Fuck you!" His voice so loud the surrounding countryside echoed in response. "Fuck you! You're all fucking crazy." He burned out, with a final look at first Gifford, then Southampton and Garden. Then his and Neven's eyes met. Church held his gaze, and then walked away.
"Shall I slot him sir?" The guard, another Calvary man, asked as he perched upon the wall just above the gate. He peered greedily into his sights and smiled.
"No," Gifford said. "Only if he comes back. There has been far too much bloodshed today. I will not have any more interaction with this outside world." He turned from the whole ordeal. "You," he looked at Thornhough, who almost burst with nerves. "Take over guard duty. Be wary of any more scouts. Sergeant Southampton, please retrieve the body of the... creature, and bring it to my office."
Church had barely disappeared from sight before the cavalry officers had forgotten him. In a way, Neven was grateful for that.
*
"Hey, did you hear?"
"Hear what, you stupid ingrate?"
"You'll never guess who came in with the civvies yesterday!"
"Your mother?"
"Ha-ha, no. The Baton of Britain!"
"Who? The bloke from the bloody posters?"
Neven's bed rest was short-lived. He opened his eyes, having been trying to rid himself of an awful migraine. His legs hung off the cot, boots still planted on the ground. He righted himself, sat up; the cavalry men by the door ignored him.
"Yes the one from the bloody posters! He's outside picking bloody fruit right now!"
"Shit! This I have to see!"
Not half an hour had passed since Neven had been outside seeing Church off and now, he realised, he might be called to mediate again. Once again, he followed the sounds of disappearing footsteps.
He emerged back into the grove of fruit trees and came upon a sight he had not seen since his days in the playground. A circle of cavalrymen, together with Brunswick and Thornhough, grew tighter and tighter around the Baton of Britain.
"Fuck, it's him alright!"
"Nuh... nuh... no," a whimper came from the epicentre.
"Shit!"
"Where's your suit, Mr Hero?" Garden snarled. Someone tittered.
"STAND PROUD Britain," Hillmarton mocked. The group laughed.
Brunswick caught the eye of Neven and detached himself from the group. At first Neven thought that he was ashamed, but then realised that the private was not approaching in shame, but in excitement.
"Corporal! Come look! It's the Baton of Britain! I didn't believe it at first. But it's him alright! The others said it was..." Brunswick was babbling. Neven was somewhat disappointed in his fellow soldiers.
He pushed past the excitable Brunswick and into the throng of cavalrymen, who had made quite a habit of grouping around events and circumstances. On his knees, at the centre of the group, clutching a wicker basket in lieu of his regular suitcase - which had likely been snatched from him upon arrival - the Baton of Britain was tearing up. His eyes welled, not like a child's but like an overflowing dark pool.
"Oh shit he's crying!"
More laughter.
Neven tried to find his voice. He wanted desperately to stand up for the poor man, who could not rise on his own. Also, he began to fear for his own security within the group, given the fate of Church. Thankfully, he did not have time for the Baton's eyes to meet his and call him out a coward.
"Leave that boy alone!"
"Oh here we go," Garden said into his other friends. "Father-bloody-Time."
Frank was striding towards the group from out of the back door.
"What do you want, grandpa?"
"What I want," Frank began. "Is for you boys to grow up and act your age and rank."
His eyes were red with a malice that Neven had never seen before.
"You're a pack of bloody feral animals."
"Yeah, and what are you going to do about it?"
This was the only point at which the old man hesitated. He still held his ground, but it became decidedly shaky. The group was reforming, consolidating its position after the initial outburst and rounding upon Frank. Neven decided this was his chance. He slipped in between Frank and his would-be assailants and found himself face to face with the disagreeable Corporal Hillmarton.
"Out of my way," he barked, despite being less than a foot away from Neven's face.
Neven couldn't help but flinch, which he imagined did not help his case or at least his pretence at resolve, but he still held ground. He became acutely aware not for the first time in his life that he was unarmed.
"No," was all he said, after his internal struggle.
Hillmarton was positively fuming. His spittle was rising as bile, and his cheeks grew red.
"Deck him, Pew!" Garden shouted to his disagreeable friend.
Neven waited for the punch, with only the hope that Frank, unseen behind him, had found sense and had decided to run away. He glanced behind Hillmarton's shoulder and saw that the Baton had crawled away - luckily unnoticed - to the cover of a nearby grouping of apple trees. From between a yawning branch and the muddy grass he poked his sad face out at the scene.
"Stop!"
A voice in command. A familiar one. Comforting, this time. Neven dared not turn around, but he believed it to be Major Vernon. Still he stared unblinkingly at Hillmarton. The cavalryman lacked the same steely resolve, and instead looked up at the approaching officer.
"What is going on out here?" He roared.
The group dispersed. To Neven, their extraction seemed not to be one of deference and respect to the Major, but that of an animal that realises its quarry is not quite weak enough for the kill. Yet.
"Frank! Get inside the house!"
"Major Vernon, stand down!" Gifford came out of nowhere.
"I think you're finding out what you're made of, Neven," Frank whispered, patting Neven's shoulder. He left for the house again.
Gifford crossed past Neven. "Back in trouble, I see."
Neven didn't respond, Hillmarton was eyeing him up again and whispering to his cohorts.
"Let's have a look at you, then!" the Lieutenant barked at the trees. "Come on, we won't hurt you anymore!"
Like a beaten and sick dog, the Baton of Britain climbed unceremoniously from his terrible hiding place. It was an ignominious sig
ht: a man used to the comfort of posters and a clean-cut image, bruised and battered, slick with mud.
"Come on lad," Gifford said in perhaps the most reassuring voice Neven had heard him put on.
The Baton came out, head hanging. Some of the cavalrymen tittered to themselves still, but Major Vernon hushed them. Had they sharp enough canines they would have snapped at him.
"Major Vernon, thank you for taking control of the situation," Gifford straightened up, inspiring the Baton to puff out his chest too. "This, lads, is a bonified piece of British history and you should think twice before you batter him and call him names."
The cavalrymen made their confusion evident upon their faces.
"We've all lost people today, cavalry and army alike," Gifford looked about the group until he was quite satisfied that all eyes were upon him. "In that respect, I would like to extend an invitation to the Baton of Britain..."
"Peter," the Baton mumbled, inaudible to all.
"... to this evening's officers dinner as the guest of honour. The time has come for strategy. In a time like this, we need heroes. We need people like this institution of a man to join us in our new order, to help us forge it from steel out of the hot fires of chaos! Will the Baton do us the honour of, from this moment, ceasing his duties as a civilian and joining us at the table tonight?"
The Baton looked at Neven, who nodded enthusiastically and mouthed 'yes' to prompt him. The Baton nodded as though he were compelled by a tight string around his jaw.
"Excellent! Plumsworthy, and Major Vernon, your attendance is required as well. Always good to have new faces at the table. Tell that Sergeant of yours..."
"Swinton," Vernon chimed in.
"Yes, tell him."
"I will, thank you sir."
Gifford intoned to the rest of the group. "Dress shirts, Gentlemen."
With that, it was finished, and the group filed away, some with a fleeting look at the Baton of Britain, who stood rock still as a statue. Neven looked down at his muddy paws, and began considering the shirt he would wear.
"What do you think of it, sir?" Private Thornhough asked, wide-eyed.
Neven wasn't sure how to respond. "I think you should prepare for something very bad to happen."
Chapter 12
Radio Interlude II
“From auxiliary British broadcasting station number 3, broadcasting live to homes across the nation at the top of the hour, the hour itself being three in the afternoon, this is the news. My name is Doctor Frederick Copenhagen and I thank you kindly for joining me and your countrymen all over this pleasant nation for these important messages at this crucial time. What follows now are the headlines.
