Black Hand Gang

by Pat Kelleher

  He stepped over Seeston, cleared papers and ink pots from the writing desk before dumping them on the bed. Next he took out the dagger, the candles and a bag of salt from the niche and set them down on the table.

  Seeston watched with mounting incomprehension.

  Around the table and the prone soldier, Jeffries drew a circle on the floor of his dugout with salt. Seeston roused himself and began to cry, tears running down his cheeks and mixing with dirt and crusted blood. "Whatever you're thinking of doing, sir, please don't."

  "Shh, don't worry. Your life's ebbing away anyway, but thanks to your sacrifice, mine is guaranteed to last much longer." Jeffries picked up the ornamental dagger and began intoning the words he knew by heart.

  "By Raziel and Enrahagh, Hear me oh, Croatoan. Protect your servant. Take this life in his stead."

  He stood over Seeston and cupped his chin, extending and exposing his neck. "I told you I never forget," he whispered. Then, with a single, practiced movement, he drew the blade across the man's throat.

  CHAPTER TWO

  "All the Wonders of No Man's Land..."

  Once the NCOs turned up at the bombsite Everson found himself being thanked politely and gently sent on his way, dismissed like a hapless schoolboy. Feeling frustrated and vaguely empty he wandered along High Street towards the support trenches.

  Back at his dugout, Everson found his Platoon Sergeant making a cup of tea. Hobson was a career soldier in his forties though his attachment to his waxed moustache made him look older than he was. His once imposing barrel chest had given way to an expanding waistline that he nevertheless insisted was "all muscle". Hobson was a godsend; an Old Contemptible and veteran of the Boer War, a man of infinite common sense. He had been assigned to Everson from the beginning and had stopped him making a fool of himself on more than one occasion.

  "Well, sir?" said Hobson as he took a tin mug off a nail and poured another brew.

  "Tomorrow. 7.20. Tell the men. They're getting restless."

  "They've known summat were going on, sir. They're up for it. It's just the waiting that gets 'em."

  "Yes, that does for us all. We've to send out a patrol, too, Sergeant. Dirty work to be done. Orders to cut wire for tomorrow's assault and spy out the German positions, check they've got no new surprises for us. Know of any likely volunteers for a hazardous mission like that?"

  "For a Black Hand Gang, sir? Leave it to me. 1 Section are up tonight. Best lot I know. Some handy men there."

  "Hmm." Everson knew it. Several of them had worked in his father's brewery -- 'Everson's Ales: They're Everson Good!' He remembered them all signing up together at the outbreak of war, eager for adventure; after all it would be over by Christmas, where was the harm? The factories and mills seemed to empty that week as workers joined the raucous, ebullient crowds of men in flat caps and straw boaters jostling outside the town hall recruitment office. Then there were the months of drilling and training in the camp on the moors above the town. Months more before they got their uniforms and guns. But the pride they felt as the 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers, the 'Broughtonthwaite Mates', paraded in full kit through the town, down the cobbled streets lined with family, relatives and friends, to cheers and tears under hastily appropriated Wakes Week bunting and Union Jack flags was an almost tangible thing. Your heart swelled, your blood sang and you grinned with so much pride your cheeks ached. There was even a brass band to see them off at the railway station for the start of their Grand Adventure.

  Not so grand as it turned out.

  They'd come out to France in March 1916, spent some time at the training camps before being shunted up the line in Hom Forties for the Big Push. Since then they'd been up to their necks in mud and blood and bullshit, their sense of pride and patriotism long since tarnished by cynicism.

  Hobson handed Everson a steaming mug of tea.

  "Ah, just the job," said Everson wearily. "Whisky, Sergeant?" he added, pulling the small bottle from his tunic.

  "Don't mind if I do, sir," said Hobson, offering his mug. "But just the one."

  Everson poured a shot into Hobson's tea and one into his own. Hobson savoured the aroma and knocked the milkless tea back in one before slapping the enamel mug down on the table with a dull metallic clunk.

  "Best go tell the men, then, sir," he said, before putting on his steel hat and venturing out into the night.

  The men of 1 Section, No 2 Platoon, were passing the night as best they could in their dugout. It was a crude affair, with little to recommend it but six wooden frame and chicken wire bunks and several upturned tea-chests for tables.

  Private Thomas 'Only' Atkins sat on his bunk reading a letter by the light of a candle stub. It was one he'd read a dozen times before. It was from Flora Mullins. The letter was full of the usual daily doings of a small terraced street but one sentence stuck out. One sentence that sent the bottom of his stomach plunging sickeningly.

  "There is still no news of William. Every day your mam reads the casualty lists hoping not to see his name, then despairing when she doesn't. The not knowing is killing her, Tom..."

  He read the words again and again, as if by doing so he'd wear them out, erase them somehow. Was it wrong to hope William didn't turn up?

  He and his older brother had signed up together, even though, technically, Thomas was too young by eleven months, having only just turned seventeen.

  "Go around the block until you've had another birthday, sonny," the Recruiting Sergeant had told him with a wink. So he did. But in those twelve minutes the queue had grown and it was another three hours before he was back before the Sergeant. Those hours had made the difference, not in years, but between serving in the 12th Battalion with his brother and the 13th.

  His mother hadn't half torn a strip off William later that day when she found out he signed up. He'd never seen her so furious until ten minutes later when Thomas had told her he'd joined up, too. She was all for marching him down to the recruiting office and telling that sergeant there and then that her son was too young and what did he mean by signing up helpless little kiddies? Thomas had been mortified and begged and pleaded before appealing to his dad. Half an hour later, when she found out they weren't even in the same battalion and wouldn't be serving together so William couldn't keep an eye on him, it all blew up again.

  And now William was missing. He'd been missing since the Big Push. Atkins had traipsed round all the field hospitals and questioned old mates, but there was no news and it was tearing him apart.

  He watched 'Mercy' Evans stowing the contents of his latest 'trip to the canteen' into a haversack hanging from the ceiling, out of reach of the ever-present rats. Scrounging he called it, although looting would be the official charge. However, in a war where supplies were short, the Platoon Commander turned a blind eye, so long as he occasionally plied his skills on behalf of his comrades.

  'Porgy' Hopkiss was shuffling though his pack of photographs, each a portrait. He had twenty-seven of them so far, every one presented by a sweetheart he'd met or so he claimed, although at least one was of Mary Pickford and several were of dubious taste and also in the possession of more than one man in the battalion. It was his avowed intent to collect enough to turn them into a deck of cards after the war.

  'Gutsy' Blood, a butcher by trade before he took the shilling, was sharpening and polishing his best meat cleaver, because, quite frankly, it was his pride and joy and he didn't trust his wife or brother-in-law to look after it proper back home, so he'd brought it to France with him, When he charged towards the German lines brandishing it, it scared the crap out of Jerry, not to mention half of his own platoon.

  'Lucky' Livesey had his trousers off and turned inside out across his bony white knees as he ran a lighted candle stub along the seams. "Nothing more satisfying than Chatting," he said, grinning gleefully at the small cracks as the ubiquitous lice popped under the heat.

  "Maybe, but you'll still be hitchy-coo tomorrow, Lucky. Can't never get rid of the bloo
dy things," said 'Half Pint' Nicholls, scratching his ribs fiercely. Half Pint was the greatest grouser in the regiment. You want to hear it true and unvarnished, then he was willing to give his opinion forth to all and sundry and, among a certain kind of man, he found a willing audience.

  Lance Corporal Ketch, 1 Section's second in charge, entered, bringing in the post. He was a small man with a pock-marked face; just a shade too tall for the Bantams, worse luck, so they were stuck with him. His gimlet eyes glowered with resentment as he began handing out the brown paper and string packages and ivory envelopes. It seemed to be against his nature for anyone to have any measure of happiness.

  Atkins leaned forwards eagerly, poised for his name. His heart began to pound in his chest, waiting for news, but dreading it at the same time.

  "Porgy one for you, Package for Mercy. Half Pint. Gazette, two! Pot Shot, Lucky..."

  The men snatched them up eagerly and were momentarily lost in their own private worlds as they proceeded to open them.

  "Gazette and Pot Shot are on sentry duty, " said Gutsy, taking theirs.

  "And lastly Juh Juh-Ginger," sneered Ketch, holding out a package towards a nervy, curly-haired blonde lad who was feeding a rat he'd tamed, taken for a pet and named Haig.

  'Ginger' Mottram had made it through the entire summer without a scratch, but he was a wreck. Shell-shock, they called it. Malingering, Ketch said, but then he would. Ketch deliberately waved the package just out of his reach, taunting him. Ginger went bright red. The lad blushed so often they joked that one day his hair would turn red, hence his nickname.

  "Guh-guh-give it here!" stammered Ginger.

  "Leave it out, Ketch," warned Mercy. Ketch thrust the package into the lad's hand, his fun spoiled.

  "Corp?" said Atkins leaning forward hopefully.

  "Atkins," said Ketch gleefully. "Expecting something were you?"

  "Yes."

  Ketch made a show of patting himself down. "No, Sorry. Nothing."

  "Ketch!" snapped Mercy, looking up from his own letter. "Only's brother is missing f'fuck's sake. He was hoping for news."

  "Fuck you, Evans," muttered Ketch as he retired to his bunk.

  Sergeant Hobson's ample frame filled the dugout door. "It's getting late, ladies. Time to get your beauty sleep. Waiting's over. Word has come down. We'll be up early and going over the top first wave tomorrow. Check your weapons. Where's Lance Sergeant Jessop?"

  "NCO of the watch, Sarn't," said Mercy.

  "Sarn't?"

  "Yes, Hopkiss?"

  "It's just that there's not much of a bombardment from our lot," he said jerking his chin in the direction of the Front. It was true. The night's artillery fire was sporadic at best.

  "Don't you worry your pretty little head about it, Hopkiss. You just turn up in your Sunday Best for tomorrow's little promenade and we'll go for a nice stroll in No Man's Land. I'm sure wiser heads than yours have got it sorted," he said, turning to go.

  "That's what we're worried about, Sarn't," said Mercy.

  Hobson's eyes narrowed as he strode across the dugout.

  "You think too much, Evans, do you hear me?" he said sternly, rapping Mercy sharply on the head. "And you do it out loud. If that ain't a bad habit I don't know what is. Don't let me hear you do it again!"

  Evans winced and rubbed his scalp.

  "Yes, Sarn't. Sorry, Sarn't."

  "I'm watching you laddie," said Hobson as he left. "Ketch, I need a Black Hand Gang for a bit of business tonight. I want three volunteers to meet me in F8 at two Ack Emma. See to it."

  "Right," said Ketch, gleefully. Hopkiss and Blood? You've just volunteered."

  Ketch took his time, letting his eyes roam over the rest of the men, making sure to meet each of their eyes as if daring them to challenge him. His gaze settled on Atkins. Atkins, suddenly aware of the silence, glanced up. "Something better to do Atkins? Not now you haven't."

  Atkins was woken by Gutsy shaking him. The last vestiges of warmth and wellbeing slipped away as realisation of where he was rushed in.

  "Only? Come on lad, it's time. Let's get this over and done with."

  Wearing leather jerkins, carrying their bayonets in sheaths, their faces blackened with burnt cork, the Black Hand Gang, Atkins, Gutsy and Porgy, made their way past scurrying rats up to the fire bay, where Hobson and Ketch were waiting for them.

  There was a faint fwoosh as an enemy flare went up. It burnt a stark white, casting deep shadows on the wall of the trench that wobbled and tilted as the flare drifted down, until at last they ate up the last of the light and filled the trench again.

  'Gazette' Otterthwaite and 'Pot Shot' Jellicoe were on sentry duty. Even in the dim light it was hard to miss Pot Shot. He was a large man, a shade over six foot, tallest man in the Battalion; the only man who had to crouch when stood on the firestep lest his head present a tempting target for German snipers.

  Gazette was up on the firestep on sentry duty, Pot Shot sat on the step beside him, slumped against the side of the bay and snoring gently, his rifle clasped to his chest like a loved one. Gazette glanced down at them and kicked Pot Shot awake.

  "All right, lads?" he yawned.

  That helped ease the queasy feeling in Atkins' stomach. Gazette was the best sharp shooter in the platoon. If anyone was going to have your back on a Black Hand job you'd want it to be him.

  There was a pile of equipment on the firestep by his feet.

  "Right," said Hobson, "take these." He handed out pistols; Webley revolvers, usually reserved for officers but more practical in situations, such as this, that called for stealth. They each had their own bayonet and there were two sets of long-armed wirecutters. Atkins and Porgy got those. Hobson also gave them each a grey military issue blanket that he instructed them to wear across their backs in the manner of a cloak.

  "It'll help disguise your outline against German flares. If a flare goes up, don't move. You'll want to throw yourself on the ground but don't, they'll spot the movement and you're a goner. If you freeze you could be tree stump, a shadow or a body on the wire," he told them. "We're goin'out to cut the German wire in preparation for tomorrow. So we make sure we do the job properly or it'll be us and our mates paying the price if we don't. We also want to take a shufti and make sure Fritz isn't planning any nasty surprises. Don't worry, I'll have you all back in time for the big show."

  "Thanks, Sar'nt. You're a real pal," said Gutsy.

  "Time for a fag, Sar'nt?" asked Hopkiss, trying to delay the inevitable.

  "No. Follow me. Stick to me like glue. No one talks but me. Make sure you stay within an arm's length of the next fellow. If you get lost make your way back here. And make sure you dozy ha'porths don't forget the password: Hampstead."

  Atkins checked his bayonet in its sheath. He checked the chambers of the Webley revolver. They were full. The pistol had a loop fastened to the handle, which he slipped round his wrist.

  There being no sally port available, Hobson put a ladder up against the revetment and was about to step on the bottom rung when another flare went up. He stopped, waited for the flare to die out, before rolling over the sandbag parapet with practised ease. His arm appeared back over the bags signalling the next man up. Porgy was already on the ladder and climbing. Gutsy stepped on below him and began his climb. It was Atkins' turn next. As he stepped on the bottom rung, he felt a hand pat his thigh.

  "Good luck, mate," said Gazette. Aktins smiled weakly. He could feel his heart lifting him fractionally from the ladder with every beat as he lay against the rungs. He hadn't felt a funk like this since that last night with Flora.

  "Cheers. I'll be back for breakfast."

  Another flare.

  Above him, Gutsy froze, waiting for the light to die. Atkins looked up. All he could see was Gutsy's big khaki-covered arse eclipsing everything. Blood let one rip and looked down between his legs, grinning.

  "Fuck's sakes, Gutsy!" hissed Gazette. "At least with the yellow cross we get a warning. Where's me bloody gas he
lmet?"

  A hiss rasped from over the parapet. "Get a move on, you two!"

  Puffing, Gutsy rolled over the sandbags with as much grace as a carcass in his old butcher's shop.

  Atkins reached the top of the ladder. The nightscape before him never failed to chill him to the core. No Man's Land. It was a contradiction in terms. You were never alone in No Man's Land. During the day it was quiet, with generally nothing but the odd buzz of a sniper's bullet cutting low over the ground or the crump of a Minniewerfer to disturb it. At night, though, it became a hive of activity; parties out repairing wire, laying new wire, digging saps, running reconnaissance, conducting trench raids. Both sides knew it. It was the most dangerous of times to be out and never dark for long, as flares burst in the air, momentarily illuminating bleak Futurist landscapes that left hellish after-images in the mind's eye.

  He saw Hobson and Porgy about four or five yards ahead, crawling along on their bellies. Gutsy was to his left. Atkins crawled forward using his elbows and knees. The mud was cold and slimy and within a minute his entire front, from chin to toes, was soaked. He and Gutsy made their way to where Sergeant Hobson and Porgy were waiting. About twenty yards ahead, they could make out the vague unearthly shapes of their own wire entanglements. Sergeant Hobson indicated a piece of soiled, white tape in the mud that led them to the gap in their own wire.

  Now they truly were in No Man's Land.

  They crawled on, their progress achingly slow. Every time a flare bloomed in the sky, they would press themselves into the mud. It took them nearly an hour to crawl through the blasted landscape -- peppered as it was with shell holes - up the gently inclining slope towards Harcourt Wood. About them Atkins could hear the foraging corpse rats feasting on the bodies of the fallen. They reached the German wire, some thirty yards short of a low stone wall that bordered the wood. There was a muffled shout, some distance over to the left and a brief spatter of machine gun fire, then nothing.