The Eternal War

by Alex Scarrow

  No … it was the way it sapped the fighting spirit of the men that the bombardment’s damage was done. Left them feeling helpless, impotent, as the enemy pounded them from afar.

  Down the trench he could see Sergeant Freeman bellowing encouragement to the men around him, a mixture of men from his own regiment and Wainwright’s Virginians. Devereau grinned; it was NCOs like Freeman that were the backbone of a regiment. Grim-faced veterans with a lifetime of scars and battlefield voices that carried over even the percussive thump of artillery shells landing. Men followed their generals and colonels, but it was their sergeants and corporals they turned to for a reassuring nod in the heat of battle.

  He was about to glance over to the horseshoe to check whether the tank was still running when he suddenly found himself lying on his back at the bottom of the trench, watching a small avalanche of dark soil rain down on him. Instinctively he covered his face and closed his mouth as dirt began to cover him. Devereau tried to flail to get himself up, but his arms and legs felt leaden.

  And it was all of a sudden so silent. The only noise was his heart thudding rhythmically. The rumble of the artillery bombardment sounded like it was going on a thousand miles away. A summer thunderstorm in another county.

  He felt hands on him, digging him out of the dirt, pulling him up out of his temporary shallow grave. A face right above him – one of Wainwright’s Confederates – all beard and dirt-smeared skin beneath the brim of his helmet. The man was shouting something, but Devereau couldn’t hear what he was saying. All he could hear was his pumping heart and that distant rumble.

  ‘I am all right!’ he shouted back at the man. Not that he could hear himself. Not sure if he’d shouted it or whispered it. The man helped him on to his feet, and Devereau quickly patted himself down to make sure he hadn’t been nicked by shrapnel.

  The arterial thumping in his ears had become a shrill ringing that he imagined would drive him very quickly insane if it was a permanent condition. He picked his forage cap out of the dark soil between his boots and put it back on. Straightening the peak, he saw a dozen faces down the trench looking warily at him.

  They’re watching you … Show them some bravado.

  He pulled his sabre – more a ceremonial addition than a practical one – from its scabbard and held the blade close to his face, using the polished surface as a mirror as he adjusted his cap and straightened his collar. He gave himself an approving nod before tucking the sabre back, knowing there’d be a ripple of grins among the men either side.

  The ringing in his ears was beginning to diminish and this time he could just about hear the Confederate soldier’s voice.

  ‘… ir, the … arrage … opped!’

  ‘What?’ He cupped his ear.

  The man nodded over the lip of the trench. ‘Stopped, sir! Barrage has stopped!’

  Devereau took a step up on to an ammo box to give him a good clear view ahead.

  Stopped … yes, they have! He could feel the sporadic vibrations of impact and shockwave had ceased. And now the cratered slope in front of them was bathed in a swirling mist of white smoke.

  ‘Smoke,’ he whispered. The last volley of artillery fire had been establishing a smokescreen. He turned to the Confederate beside him. ‘They’re coming!’

  After the relentless noise of the bombardment the sudden calm was unsettling. His ears, the ringing diminished now to background hiss, struggled to pick out the noise of the approaching British. In that cloud of smoke, somewhere, they’d be crossing the East River now – God knows how many landing boats, sputtering across the water.

  ‘Ready yourselves, men!’ he shouted across the silence. ‘Check your weapons, check you have ammo supplies to hand! It goes far too quickly, gentlemen!’

  He looked out again at the featureless wall of white drifting on the breeze. He cursed that today of all days the weather was so still. Any other time, a stiff Atlantic breeze would have already whisked away much of the smokescreen.

  ‘Sergeant Freeman!’

  ‘Sir!’ his voice returned from further up the trench.

  ‘Are you ready for a scrap?’

  ‘Ready, sir? Been ready all mornin’, Colonel. Now ah’m just gettin’ downright annoyed they takin’ so long.’

  He heard a ripple of nervous battlefield laughter make its way along the men.

  Devereau smiled. Good man, that Freeman.

  Then he heard it … the faint droning put-put-put of a chorus of engines coming from somewhere out there on the river. He reached for his revolver, unclipping the holster and wrapping his gloved hand round its grip. He pulled it out a little too quickly. It caught and he nearly dropped it on the ground. But he didn’t.

  The Confederate next to him made a face. He’d spotted the fumble and offered Devereau an understanding nod. Luckily none of the other lads had seen.

  He sighed. Last thing his men needed to witness was just how scared their colonel felt.

  He could hear the engines more clearly, and make out now, amid the swirling smokescreen, the faintest outline of a dozen flat-topped landing rafts approaching. He’d seen the South use these before: huge rafts with raised side-panels that dropped down as it beached. Each of these landing rafts was capable of transporting an entire company of men.

  Good God … twelve hundred men, two whole regiments, in the very first wave?

  He found himself momentarily robbed of breath.

  Steady yourself, Colonel.

  He filled his lungs. ‘Wait until they drop the ramps, men!’ he bellowed. ‘Then we’ll give ’em hell!’

  A defiant cheer rippled down the trench.

  Much closer now he could make out detail on the landing rafts, the fluttering of company colours above, the outline of an officer standing beside the helmsman at the back of each craft. He heard the pitch of the engines drop and then, finally, a clatter and hiss as one after the other the dozen large landing rafts rode up the shingle and out of the water, grinding to a halt.

  He could hear the muffled voices of British officers barking orders behind their raised metal panels. Readying their men for the disembarking. Several nervous shots were fired from the trench, sending sparks flying off the panels.

  ‘Hold your goddamned fire!’ roared Sergeant Freeman.

  Devereau’s mouth was dry.

  Any second now.

  He could hear the chorused voices of men down the slope. They huzzahed at something being said to them, a roar of confidence. The roar of veterans certain that this little skirmish was going to be over before the last of the swirling smokescreen had blown away.

  Then he heard a bugle blowing.

  Simultaneously all twelve landing rafts dropped their panels. They swung down heavily and crunched on to the shingle, forming ramps. Devereau found himself transfixed at the sight of so many of them – swarms of blood-red tunics and white helmets – surging down off their rafts.

  ‘FIRE!!!!’

  CHAPTER 77

  2001, en route to New Chelmsford

  They passed through a small town – East Farnham, another rural town: one main street lined with shops selling farmer’s supplies, hardware and tools. One town hall and a church, and clapboard homes and picket fences.

  They were getting used to the occasional sideways glances from beneath the brims of felt hats and lace bonnets, curious glances at their grubby and unfamiliar clothes and at Bob in particular. Liam wondered whether they thought he was some prototype design of eugenic.

  Speaking of which – he spotted a couple more of the lobotomized leviathans, hefting bales of animal fodder off the back of a delivery wagon. Their lumbering movement was almost robotic, like poorly operated machinery. Again he marvelled at their size: ten … eleven foot tall, and perhaps eight foot from one rounded mass of shoulder across to the other.

  ‘Could we not stop for the night in this town?’ grumbled Lincoln. ‘My feet feel like they’ve been pulled through a knothole backwards!’

  Liam nodded sympathetically.
He felt every bit as exhausted. Fifteen miles on firm hard tarmac was enough of a hike, but across ploughed fields of thick, freshly turned soil, meadows of tall knotted grass, through woods deep with spongy leaves hiding gnarly roots ready to trip you up, he was just as spent.

  They had about another sixteen miles to go. That’s what Bob had said the last time he’d pestered the support unit for an estimate.

  ‘Aye, I suppose we could do that. We’ve got another whole day and a bit to get us there. And that’s not so far for us to do tomorrow.’

  They had no money on them to pay for lodgings, not that he could see anywhere that looked like an inn or a hotel. But a barn, a shed, an outhouse would be more appealing for a night’s sleep than some open field.

  He turned round to tell Bob they were going to find somewhere on the edge of this town to stop for the day. Even though it was still only mid-afternoon, they all needed a rest and there was more than enough time for one.

  But Bob had stopped in his tracks. He was a dozen yards behind them, frozen like a statue and staring listlessly up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘Uh … Bob? You all right?’

  ‘I think he’s receiving,’ said Sal.

  Liam looked around. Could have picked a better bleedin’ place. His odd behaviour was attracting yet more curious stares from the townsfolk crossing the narrow main street. He sauntered casually back and tugged on Bob’s sleeve.

  ‘Hey, big fella … you’re spookin’ the locals, so you are.’

  Bob ignored him, busy catching and collating the tachyon particles winking invisibly into sub-atomic existence in the air around them.

  ‘Your friend all right there, young man?’ asked a lady, clutching a basket. She stopped mid-stride and peered out from her bonnet, shading her eyes from the afternoon sun.

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ said Liam. ‘Just a little tired, ma’am.’

  She nodded and passed by, casting one more curious glance back at them before crossing the high street.

  ‘Uh, Bob …? How about we just walk a little while you’re doing the message thing? You’re attracting attention.’

  Bob remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘Bob?’

  Finally he blinked awareness back into his glazed eyes and looked down at Liam.

  ‘Liam,’ he said. ‘I have just received a message from Madelaine.’

  Liam’s eyes widened. ‘Well?’

  Bob frowned at his flippancy. ‘Negative. The message does not indicate she is well.’

  The other two joined them now. ‘Was it Maddy?’ asked Sal.

  ‘Affirmative. A partial message. The signal has been corrupted slightly. Message content is as follows: archway is un … tack … roceed to coordinates as fast as … freakin’ well can. Will watch for … with p … hole probe. Will ope … oon as … ee you.’

  Liam looked at the others. ‘She sounds stressed. That’s never a good sign.’

  ‘Un … Tack …?’ Sal frowned. ‘Well, that’s under attack, clearly.’ She looked around at the others. ‘Right?’

  Liam cursed.

  ‘Recommendation: we should –’

  ‘I know, I know,’ cut in Liam. ‘We can forget about a rest!’ He looked around, up and down the main street. He could see a couple of horses tethered to a rail outside one of the stores. Further along, a flatbed wagon pulled by a pair of huffaloes was slowly rolling up along dusty tracks carved in the street.

  Too slow.

  They were not following any road map to get to the rendezvous point; they were merely going as the crow flies, a straight beeline over fields, over hedges, through woods, streams. They needed something that didn’t require a road. He looked the other way up the street.

  He saw the delivery vehicle still laden with bales of cattle feed: a long flatbed hooked up to a motorized tractor. Above a small driver’s cabin a chimney pot was impatiently puffing clouds of exhaust into the sky.

  ‘You, sir … are thinking of stealing that vehicle?’ asked Lincoln.

  Liam nodded. ‘It may not be the fastest thing on the road … but faster than walking, right?’

  Sal and Lincoln nodded.

  ‘All right, then,’ said Liam, ‘I suppose we better go and, uh, borrow it.’

  CHAPTER 78

  2001, New York

  Devereau counted thirty seconds of almost continuous volley fire from his men before the crackle of gunshots began to wane as empty ammo clips were expelled with the telltale ping of their carbine’s ejector springs.

  A new bank of gunpowder smoke was slowly drifting down the slope from their trench. As it thinned and cleared, he could see that the shingle and the shallow water around the ramps were littered with the bodies of the dead and wounded. A devastating opening salvo that at first appeared to have decimated the British. But they were now starting to return fire and he could see that a lot of the crimson tunics lying half in and out of the lapping water were men who had instinctively ducked to the ground and were now picking themselves up and levelling their carbines.

  Divots of soil began to erupt along the top of the trench. Devereau found himself ducking down like his men as the British organized their covering fire.

  His men were now firing independently as they replaced their clips, firing opportunistic shots, in singles and doubles over the sandbags.

  Devereau chanced another long glance, his head foolishly above the line of sandbags for another half a minute. He speed-counted forty – maybe fifty – British casualties. Not bad for their opening salvo. But that was the best chance they were ever going to get to even the numbers. Now the British were dispersed across the shingle, making use of the new craters and the grooves and dents of old building foundations and exposed basements, of the small ruined humps of corner walls, little more than resilient piles of old masonry still managing to hold together after so many decades of punishment.

  A shot whistled past his left ear. He cursed and ducked back down again. Devereau reloaded his revolver, struggling with shaking hands to slide each bullet successfully into its chamber.

  Their best, their only tactic would be to hold the British there on the slope, keep them from organizing a cohesive advance on the trench. And try to whittle them down one lucky shot at a time.

  Pick out the officers first. He knew the British soldiers would be doing exactly the same – targeting the sergeants, corporal, captains, lieutenants – in an attempt to leave their opponents leaderless.

  He chanced his head above the sandbags again and quickly aimed his revolver, firing all six rounds at the bull-shouldered figure of a bearded sergeant gesturing frantically at his men. The ground spat six clouds of dust and the sergeant ducked lower in the dirt, most probably thanking his lucky stars for Devereau’s poor aim.

  He stepped back down again into the trench and reloaded his revolver, this time with a steadier hand.

  ‘Sir!’

  Freeman’s voice.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’

  ‘They’re groupin’ up for a push! Thirty yards left of the stack, sir!’

  There was an oven smokestack midway along the landing area, the last remnant of a brick factory that had been here half a century ago, little more than a ring of bricks shoulder-high. Devereau peeked over the top. Freeman was quite right. He could see the tops of white pith helmets coalescing behind the stack, waiting for the command.

  And the command would be answered by an eager roar from the men getting to their feet, and the percussive rattle of covering fire from further along the shingle.

  With one hasty assessment he could see this first go at storming the borderline was probably going to be successful. Some of them were likely to make it into the trench, and then it was going to be down to hand-to-hand fighting.

  ‘Fix bayonets!’ he shouted. The Confederate soldier standing next to him nodded and passed the order on as he fumbled his bayonet out of its scabbard.

  ‘Aim your fire at the officers as they come up!’ he added. ‘Pass it on!’


  He tucked his revolver back in its holster and pulled out his ceremonial sabre.

  This is how this war was fought in the beginning, he told himself. Muskets and sabres and nerves of steel.

  ‘Ready for it, sir?’ asked the Confederate.

  Devereau stroked his chin and nodded. ‘How about you?’

  The man slotted the bayonet home beneath the muzzle-lock of his carbine. ‘Reckon I see ’em like you do, now we on the same side now, sir.’

  He heard a chorus of voices from downhill: the British troops hyping up their adrenaline. The chanting of three huzzahs, each louder than the last, the third ending with a roar that peeled along the entire length of the landing area.

  Here they come.

  ‘Fire at will!’ screamed Devereau.

  Southern and Northern soldiers stepped up together as one, their carbines thudding down on the sandbags – a ragged line of several hundred wavering muzzles tipped with glinting bayonets. A wall of muzzle flash and smoke erupted as they lay down a withering barrage of fire at the British as they sprinted up the slope.

  CHAPTER 79

  2001, en route to New Chelmsford

  ‘What in the name of the Lord are you doing, sir?’ cried Lincoln.

  ‘I’m trying to flippin’ steer the bleedin’ thing!’

  Liam had two control sticks to work with. After zigzagging back and forth across the narrow main street, spilling giant bales of feed from the trailer behind them, Liam had the gist of how the control sticks worked – nearly. The left stick controlled the large tractor wheel on the left, and the right stick, the right wheel. To turn right, for example, he realized he had to pull back on the right and forward on the left. To go straight forward – both sticks forward.

  By the time he’d finally figured this out, the small town of East Farnham was behind them, littered with the chaos, damage and debris of Liam’s learning curve. The tractor rolled down the dirt road out of the town, flanked on either side by orchards of plum trees.