by Ste Sharp
About the Author
Ste Sharp studied Evolutionary Biology at Sheffield University and is the lead singer/guitarist of indie-band Atlas, so considers himself a rock’n’roll scientist at heart. When he’s not writing fantastical adventures, Ste wrestles computers and lives in Suffolk with his wife and two sons.
Darwin's Soldiers
Book One of the Origin Trilogy
Ste Sharp
Unbound Digital
This edition first published in 2018
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All rights reserved
© Ste Sharp, 2018
The right of Ste Sharp to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912618-11-8
ISBN (Paperback): 978-1-912618-10-1
Design by Mecob
Cover images:
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A.
For Christine and David Knowles, for raising the most beautiful woman in the world.
And to Mum and Dad, for your endless support.
Dear Reader,
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Super Patrons
Joanne Aguilar-Millan
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Lynette Allison
Joe Bailey
Ian Baker
Martin Banham
Matthew Barnard
Samantha Blackwell-Heard
Colin Bottle
Peter Breeden
Kate Bulpitt
Andy Checker
Eddie Cook
Dave Cottrell
Anna Crickmore
Tanya Daniels
Simon Darnell
Steve Davis
Simon Deacon
James Dee
Sarab Dogra
Jason Edmonds
Matt & Em & Luc & Erin
Ian Farrell
Adam Ferjani
Martin Gay
William Goodey
Angus Gormley
Mike Griffiths
Steve Harris
Purdie N Harris
Mark Hendle
Matt Holmes
Stephen Hoppé
Michael Hunt
Deborah Hutchings
Jean-Michel Jack
Colin James
Kerensa Jennings
Mark Kemp
Dan Kieran
Chris Knowles
David & Chris Knowles
Kerry Leatherdale
Claire Longhurst
Wayne Longhurst
Eric Mason
Tim May
John Mitchinson
Chandra Mukherjee
Sonya O’Reilly
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shenaz Oreeawon
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Casey Pearce
Marnie & Phill
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Justin Pollard
Tracy Potter
Andrew Pound
Donald Proud
Claire Pulford
Darwin Rain O’Donnell
Paul Riley
Simon Roper
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Cath Sharp
Ste Sharp
Roger Sidwell
Smudge
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Richard Taylor
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Jay & Danny Ward
Trevor Warren
Paul Weekes
Maureen Weekes
Tom Weldon
James Wells
Carol Willis
Lee Wilson
Amanda Witham
Nick Wray
Drew Wright
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Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Dear Reader Letter
Super Patrons
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Extract from Survival
Acknowledgements
Bonus material Thirteen Sevens
The Rage Machine The Rage Machine
Follow the Light Follow the Light
Patrons
Chapter 1
Private John Greene of the Royal Fusiliers stumbled through the dim forest with the Lewis light machine gun held tight across his chest and his khaki bags strapped across both shoulders. He shifted his gun, wondering why it was called ‘light’ when it was three times the weight of his old Lee Enfield rifle.
The trees grew less dense the higher he got, giving him a view of the sky but little else, so he pushed on, determined to find a viewpoint to look for buildings or landmarks he recognised. This didn’t look like Flanders though, he thought. It smelt different too, like a wet dog’s blanket.
Last thing he could remember was defending his trench, manning his gun with its bipod propped on sand bags, spraying bullets at the line of Germans crossing no-man’s-land – then a blinding flash of light, and he was here. Was he behind enemy lines? Or maybe he’d been gassed? Gas would explain why the clouds were green, he thought.
He jumped on a rock to scout ahead.
Nothing.
As he turned to get down, he slipped.
‘Bugger it!’ His bags clattered against the rock and images flashed before his eyes: explosions ripping up the ground; bodies in the mud; a pile of bloody sheets. He tried to force the images out of his head by focusing on his son, Joe. Joe singing nursery rhymes.
Lying on the ground, John pulled a worn photo from his pocket – Rosie – wrinkled his nose and whispered, almost in prayer, ‘I must be strong.’ He pictured little Joe running up to greet him, let out a sigh, got back up. Come on, he told himself, you can walk back. Done it before, eh?
It had taken John weeks to get used to life on the front line. At first he’d welcomed the distraction of digging latrines and laying wire – it took his mind off Joe and the loss of Rosie. Every job drained him so when he rested, whether it was on a pallet or against a mud wall, he always found sleep.
Then the artillery had started. The attacks and counter-attacks. Men died, horses died. Charges were made over the top and whole platoons didn’t come back. When John saw the damage a sniper’s bullet or mortar shell could do, the fear set in. The charges, retreats and the switch from the front line to the reserve trenches became routine, but every time he rotated back to the front line, every explosion and rifle shot picked and gnawed at John’s nerves. He knew it was the fear that would kill him in the end, just like it had Johnson.
None of it compared to his night in the crater though.
He stopped walking. Was that someone shouting?
‘Miks?’ the voice shouted again, clearer this time.
John lowered his gun, checked the disc-like magazine was clipped in.
‘Miks nuud?’ the man called out.
After months in the Belgian trenches and villages, John had learnt a bit of French and German – even Flemish – but he didn’t recognise this language.
John backed away further then heard a new voice. He crouched and froze. Another voice rang out from further away… and another. They multiplied, coming from every direction: new languages; odd-sounding languages; some desperate; others angry. John shook his head and breathed in deeply to control his panic. He had to stay strong.
The shouts and calls were merging into one sound, reminding him of the noisy rookery next to the farm where he’d been stationed. Focus on Joe, he told himself. He pictured his son playing with a wooden train. Joe had just turned two when he’d left for the war. He remembered the day he caught the bus to East Ham to sign up for Kitchener’s army. Pictured his parents holding Joe, standing proudly outside their greengrocer’s shop in Whitechapel, alongside John’s grandfather. John flinched. He didn’t miss his grandfather: sitting in his fireside armchair, barking orders like he was still in the army.
John’s hand clasped the tin soldier on the cord around his neck, and he closed his eyes to picture the Greene’s Fruiterer and Grocer sign above the family shop, the pyramids of fruit and veg. The place had been a sight for sore eyes after a day of deliveries with the old horse, Jess, and her cart. What he wouldn’t give to see it now!
‘If you’re not sure what you need to do, lad,’ John’s father often said, ‘take the time to think it through. And if you’re going to do anything important, make sure you’ve been to the lavvy first.’
John laughed. Alright then. He put his gun on the floor, found a tree and unbuttoned his flies.
As he relieved himself, he tried to make sense of where he was. He hadn’t seen any other soldiers, just heard foreign shouting, so… had he somehow strayed behind enemy lines?
He stared up at the green-tinged sky and wondered if he would ever make it back home. What would happen to Joe if he never made it back? John’s parents would look after him, of course, but the boy needed his father, especially without a mother. And what about home? Would he ever see Woolwich Arsenal get back into the First Division? Or have another lock-in at the King’s Head?
John shook his head. He’d just been knocked out and left behind, that was all. I’ll get my bearings, he thought, be back with the lads in time for tea. He ignored the shouts echoing through the forest and made his way along a dry stream bed.
He shifted the position of his gun to give his arms a rest, but he’d never carried it this far before and soon had to stop for a rest. The Lewis gun wasn’t like the Vickers machine guns they had built into the trenches – this new American automatic rifle was just a few inches longer than the Lee Enfield rifle he’d been issued with during training but weighed a damn sight more. He stretched his back. If he wasn’t… wherever he was, he could unclip the magazine fixed to the top or strip off the barrel shroud – thick as the pipe on the back of his mother’s kitchen stove, he thought. Right now, that didn’t seem wise.
John picked his gun up but had only made a few steps when a noise in the branches above stopped him.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, spotting a shape in the tree and following it as it jumped down through the branches.
‘Name yourself!’ John shouted. He checked his magazine again and pulled the gun up to aim as a man dropped to the ground, half naked and covered in paint, yelling as he landed.
‘Prohiba!’
John stood his ground.
‘Prohiba homusionem!’ The man’s wild eyes widened as he jabbed a three-pronged spear at John.
John was too confused to be scared. Who was this nutter? He smiled.
‘Ego ridiculam?’ the man barked.
John thought he recognised some of the words… was that Italian the man was babbling in?
‘Sorry, mate, I don’t understand you.’ John lowered his machine gun and tried some French. ‘Je ne comprend pas.’
‘Quid agis homusionem?’ the man barked, hopping from foot to foot in his sandals.
‘Listen, I don’t understand you. I’m just trying to get back… home.’ John’s shoulders dropped: he’d had enough of this war.
The painted man stared at John and twisted his head in a manner that unnerved him. He’d seen it before: a lad in his battalion, Johnson, had lost all emotion: no smile; no fear. The next day he bayonetted his commanding officer, and was shot running across no-man’s-land in his underpants.
‘Tim-entes?’ the man growled and took a step forward.
‘Oi, don’t you try nothing!’ John said and took a step back.
He could see now it wasn’t paint the man was covered in but tattoos. Maybe he was lost as well, John thought.
The man growled and jabbed at John’s head with his trident.
‘Bollocks to this.’ John slipped the safety off and fired a burst of bullets into the dirt, showering the painted man with earth.
John was used to firing the gun on its built-in bipod, not holding it loose, so the power of the shots sent him stumbling backwards over a branch. The noise of the gun reverberated around the forest, silencing the nearest shouts, but John didn’t care, he’d heard it a thousand times before and by the time he was back on his feet, the man had gone.
‘Yeah, fuck off, you nutter!’ John shouted, feeling a surge of energy rush through him.
He took a second to calm his breathing and realised, now it was quiet again, that he could hear bells ringing in the distance. He resumed his walk, aiming for the bells, and soon spotted a black object on the grassy crown of the hill. John stood on the forest edge watching people coming out of the woods, heading for the hill’s crown. Who were they?
Tentatively, John stepped into the open to join what looked like other soldiers. They were all armed. Some carried guns, others held swords or spears and most wore armour. He recognised one man’s blue coat with red collars and cuffs from a book his grandfather kept by his armchair – a Russian infantryman from the Crimean war. He’s long dead, John thought. So did that mean he had died as well? Was this… some kind of soldier heaven?
John felt dizzy, leant on his gun. I have to get out of here, he thought. Somewhere safe. He was turning to go back into the forest when the thought came to him: but if I’m dead… maybe Rosie’s here too? But where w
ere his mates from the Thirty-second and the soldiers who had died at Transloy? Where were all the Huns he’d shot from the crater? John hadn’t seen one uniform from Flanders yet – friend or foe.
A bemused look crept across his face as new warriors came into view, some he recognised from his grandfather’s old books – a Roman centurion with a rectangular shield and a Mongol archer – and others he didn’t – a bronze-armoured spearman and a tall African warrior holding an incredibly long spear.
Has the gas sent me doolally? John wondered.
Scores of soldiers weighed up their nearest neighbours with scorn or derision. Some fought and some talked. The warriors from ancient times inspected their neighbour’s weapons with confusion, while modern soldiers eyed their ancestors with suspicion, fearing a practical joke. They were all heading to the summit, towards the black tip, which wasn’t a building after all, John realised, but an obelisk, like Cleopatra’s Needle back home by the Thames, only this one looked to be covered in white markings of some sort. Was that writing?
John stopped, turned his head like a deer sensing a predator. He’d heard someone speaking English.
‘Hello?’ He turned to locate the voice, staring at the people around him, but the voice came and went.
‘Station command… Delta… read me?’
John stepped through the crowd.
‘Can you read me?’ the American voice was clear now.
John saw movement inside a grove of blue-leaved trees and pulled the branches back to see a crouching man speaking to his wrist.
‘Do you copy?’ the man sounded anxious.
John studied him before venturing any nearer. He wore a skin-tight grey suit, a shiny helmet and a small backpack. No weapon? John relaxed: this man was the least dangerous person he’d seen yet – maybe he was a communication officer?
‘Station command, this is Delta-Six. I repeat: the enemy have transported me to an unknown location. Positioning systems down. No satellites or orbit stations located. I may be under sedation or captured in a virtual world. I will make contact on the hour, every hour. Delta-Six, out.’
‘I was starting to think I was the only English speaker around here!’ John’s throat felt dry.
