by Pat Kelleher
"Where..."
"You're safe. You're in the Casualty Clearing Station. Your friends brought you in. They found you wandering about - out there."
"Mercy," asked Atkins.
"Pardon?"
"My mate, Mercy."
"Is he the one who brewed the liquor?"
"Yes," he rasped.
"Hmm," said Fenton with a note of disapproval. "Well he'll get what's coming to him. He's in custody on a charge. There's to be a Court Martial."
Captain Grantham, Second Lieutenant Everson and Lieutenant Jeffries sat behind the table. Everson hated this part of the job. Already that morning they had heard several cases. The penalties for even minor infractions were often excessive and out of proportion for the supposed crime. And as the accused this time was one of his own he felt a little ashamed too. Evans had always been one to run close to the wire. He looked along the table. Captain Grantham was playing nervously with his fountain pen, clearing his throat every minute or so. The only person who seemed relaxed with the situation was Jeffries. Since most of the men who tried the liquor were in 4 Platoon, Lieutenant Jeffries had a personal stake in the case. One of his men had died, another had been temporarily blinded and another had been relegated to the stockade with the shell-shocked. Everson heard Hobson's bark outside. He shifted position, sitting upright.
"Prisoner and escort, halt! Right turn!"
Evans entered the dugout flanked by two soldiers.
"Prisoner and escort, halt! 'tenshun!"
Evans stood to attention, his thumbs extending down along his trouser seams, looking straight ahead at the wall over the officers' heads, his face emotionless but for his eyes betraying a flicker of fear.
"What's this one?" asked Grantham.
Everson read from the charge sheet regretfully, "The accused, 98765 Private Wilfred Joseph Evans, 13th Pennine Fusiliers, a soldier of the regular forces, is charged with, when on active service, wilfully destroying Army property without orders from a superior officer and with brewing and distributing alcohol."
"Which frankly doesn't cover the half of it," said Jeffries. "Several of my men are in hospital and one is dead because of this man's actions. Brewing and distributing alcohol in the trenches. In fact, worse than alcohol. The report from the MO says here that the liquor, while being extremely alcoholic, also contained some form of noxious opiate, causing hallucinations. This man's expertise with the still equipment suggests to me that this isn't the first time he's done this."
"With respect, Lieutenant," said Everson. "There is no evidence he knew the ingredients to be harmful."
"Nevertheless," pressed Jeffries in clipped and measured tones. "I would ask for the maximum sentence."
"Has the accused anything to say in his defence?"
Even if he had, thought Everson, it wouldn't do him any good.
"With respect -" began Evans.
"Respect?" barked Jeffries, shouting him down. "You know nothing of respect, Private!" He turned and whispered to Grantham.
The Captain had a glazed look in his eyes, almost as if he had given up. He nodded, and then spoke up. "The unauthorised use of Army property will not be tolerated. I will be issuing a general order expressly banning the fermenting of alcohol for consumption forthwith. Sergeant, make sure his equipment is put beyond use. As for you, Private, penal servitude not being practical at this point, I hereby sentence you to Field Punishment Number One. I trust you will learn from this. Dismissed."
"Sah!" barked Hobson. "Prisoner and Escort left turn. Quick march."
Hobson marched Evans and his men away.
Grantham sighed, pushed his chair back and began shuffling his papers together in preparation to leave when Lieutenant Tulliver and Lieutenant Mathers entered.
"Excuse me, sir," said Mathers. "Tulliver and I have a request. If I might?"
"Eh?"
Jeffries leaned forward and looked past Grantham at Everson, his eyes narrowing. Everson shrugged.
"It's about the still your private constructed, sir. I understand you've given orders for it to be dismantled."
"Yes, dashed bad show. Showed the fella what for, though, eh, Jeffries?"
"Sir," said Jeffries darkly.
"Damned right."
"Well as you know, my tank and Mr Tulliver's plane only have limited supplies of petrol. Without it, our machines will be useless. Although unfit for human consumption we might be able to use this liquor as a petrol substitute."
"Of course!" said Everson, "that's a capital idea!"
"You agree with this, do you, Mr Everson?" asked Grantham.
"Resources are scarce, sir, and petrol supply is very limited," said Everson. "I believe Quartermaster Slacke only managed to find forty gallons. With Napoo's help, we've managed to find food and water and started to build up our stores. If we can solve the fuel problem as well, then that will increase our chances of survival. Without petrol those machines are just, well, so much junk, if you'll excuse me gentlemen."
Mathers shrugged indifferently.
Tulliver nodded in agreement. "No, you're right. If we can gather more of these fruits that your man found then we can distill as much fuel as we need. You know what they look like, where to find them?"
"Napoo does," answered Everson.
"Ah, yes, Napoo," said Jeffries quietly. "And just what exactly are this Napoo's motives?" He had been sat quietly listening, thinking. Jeffries seemed to do a lot of thinking, to Everson's mind. Which wasn't a bad thing in general. Too many officers didn't think at all. Jeffries, though, seemed to think altogether too much. Now, he uncoiled from his nest like a snake. "Who is he? What do we know of him?"
"He offered us help and knowledge when we needed it in exchange for aid with his kinsman," said Everson.
"Oh, and he has been helpful," admitted Jeffries. "To a point. He has warned about these... Khungarrii, yes. But the question is what else does he know? Is there anything he isn't telling us? You know virtually nothing about this world including, I might add, how we got here."
"I'm sure he'd tell us if he knew," said Everson.
"Your faith in human nature is heart-warming," said Jeffries, condescendingly. "But is he human? If this is a different world how can he be?"
"He seems to be an honest soul," said Everson.
"And again," said Jeffries. "Does he even have a soul at all? I'm sure Padre Rand could dispute your claim."
"What's your point Mr Jeffries?" asked Grantham.
"My point, sir, is that we know nothing about this native, his loyalties, his people. How do we know they aren't hiding anything from us?"
"They have no reason to lie," said Everson.
"Speak plainly, Mister Jeffries," pleaded Grantham, rubbing his temples as if the very concepts Jeffries iterated pained him.
"Aren't we rather getting off the point here?" said Mathers. Jeffries shot him a glance as he continued. "Captain, have we your permission to commence distilling fuel for our machines?"
Grantham sat down heavily in his chair with a sigh and waved them away with his hand. "Yes, yes, of course. Take whatever you need. We must keep them going, I suppose."
Tulliver grinned and patted Mathers on the shoulder as they left, eagerly talking about plans to construct a bigger still.
Jeffries watched them go, like a cat watching another, warily, as it skirted its territory.
"Captain, if I may?" said Everson, rising.
Grantham, looking tired and worn, glanced up at him and nodded mutely.
"Sir," said Everson, putting his cap upon his head and adjusting it. "Mr Jeffries."
"So you have no objection then, sir?" asked Jeffries, in Everson's hearing.
Grantham looked up. "To what?"
"To my questioning this Napoo character, of course?"
"No, none at all."
"Good," said Jeffries under his breath, "good."
Everson realised that Jeffries was playing a dangerous game over this Evans incident. Since the repeal of flogging, the
British Army had to resort to other imaginative forms of corporal punishment. Field Punishment Number One consisted of the convicted man being lashed to a fixed post or gun wheel for two to three hours a day without food or water, often deliberately in range of enemy fire. Asserting authority and discipline was one thing, but there was no telling how the men might respond to the brutal and public punishment out here. Separated from their home, their loved ones and now their planet, the trenches were a powder keg right now. The men were discontented, fractious. The last thing they needed was a reason to riot.
Everson entered the small dugout that was being used as a guardroom. "That was a damn foolish thing you did, Evans, bloody irresponsible!" he said, sitting down on the bunk bedside him. He pulled a hip flask from inside his tunic.
"A drop of the real stuff?" asked Mercy, meekly.
"You should know," said Everson as he unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Evans. Evans took a slug.
"Aaah." He wiped his lips on his sleeve and passed it back. "Gilbert the Filbert's really got in for me hasn't he, sir?"
"Oh, believe you me; he's like that with everyone. No quarter given, but you bloody well asked for it. I warned you. What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"I didn't know the damn stuff made you see things and worse, sir, I swear! I didn't mean any harm. Those poor lads. It was only meant to warm the cockles and raise morale a bit."
"Damn it, Evans, There's a whole world out that that's trying to kill us. I don't need to worry about my own men doing it as well!"
Mercy lowered his eyes.
"This has got to be done, Evans. Discipline is important. Sometimes I think it's all that's keeping us together at the moment. If things go too far, I fear the men might mutiny and there are precious few officers to maintain order. If the men took it into their heads there's nothing we could do to stop them."
"Won't come to that, sir."
"How can you be so sure? No officer has the answers. I don't know where we are, or how. But I have to believe we'll get back. I have to. Because without that, without hope, then it all falls apart."
"The men know that too sir. Right now, they can grouse about the officers all they want but they know that if they usurp them, they'll have to fend for themselves. To put it bluntly sir, they don't want the responsibility. That and the fact, with the exception of Captain Grantham, you're all front line officers. If you weren't it might be a different story. But the men know you sir. They trust you."
"Well that's something I suppose," sighed Everson. "Can you take it, Evans?"
"Sir?"
"The punishment?"
"Had worse, sir," Evans said stoically.
Everson let a smile play briefly on his lips as he stood up, before scowling. "I can believe it. But I've already lost half my best men. I can't afford to lose any more. Straight and narrow after this Evans, or you'll answer to me."
"I don't suppose you'd care to leave that with me, sir?" he asked, nodding at the flask.
Everson looked down at the engraved silver hip flask and, after a moment's thought, tossed it over to Mercy. "It won't be enough, you know."
"Every little helps sir," Evans caught it cleanly. "Every little helps."
The next morning Grantham summoned all able-bodied men to witness Mercy's punishment. Discharged by the MO, Atkins still felt a little delicate when he joined the rest of his Section on parade. Ketch gave him a self-satisfied smirk as their eyes met.
"Bloody 'ell, Only, you look pale, you sure you're all right?" whispered Pot Shot.
"A little light-headed," Atkins replied. Spots still burst in his vision like Very lights and he had to keep moving his head to prevent Pot Shot being lost in drifting after-images. "What the hell happened?"
"We thought you were just foolin' around at first," muttered Gutsy, "but after you went doolally Ketch happened, that's what. The moment them blokes from 4 Platoon began screaming and blundering about in a blind panic, it didn't take him long to follow the trail back to Mercy. Hobson confiscated the booze and the still, but it were Gilbert the Filbert that pressed for a Court Martial."
"Parade! Parade 'shun!" bellowed Sergeant Hobson.
The guards brought Mercy out, stripped to the waist. He looked in a bad way; he'd been beaten black and blue. Jeffries' men had obviously given him a seeing to during the night, revenge for the men they lost. Jeffries stepped forward from the rest of the officers and addressed the men.
"98765 Private Evans, 2 Platoon 13th Pennine Fusiliers has been found guilty of wilfully destroying property without orders from a superior officer and endangering the lives of fellow soldiers while on duty. The penalty: 14 days Field Punishment Number One."
Mercy was led out into No Man's Land, beyond the barbed wire entanglement, to where a T-shaped post had been set into the ground. He was tied to the post in a crucifixion position, facing the trenches, so the men could see him, abandoned to the torment and torture of the alien sun, and whatever creeping, flying pests and predators might happen by.
A restless mutter arose from the watching troops.
"Silence!" bellowed Sergeant Hobson. "Parade! Parade fall out into working parties. Dismiss!" cried Sergeant Hobson.
Section NCOs began barking their orders and groups fell out, smartly marching off to their work details while Tulliver and Mathers' crew set off in the tank in search of more of the 'petrol fruit' for their newly acquired fuel still.
2 Platoon was due out on another Forage Patrol. They set off over No Man's Land, past Mercy who, despite bruised ribs, black eye and split lip, gave them an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. With uneasy glances back towards their pal they set out across the burnt clearing and across the veldt toward the forest.
Everson was uneasy that Napoo wasn't coming with them. Jeffries wanted to question him and Grantham had given him permission. Jeffries seemed to have Grantham eating out of his hand recently. He had been taking advantage of Grantham's weakened state; the man was obviously susceptible to whatever suggestions Jeffries was making. Of course, it was perfectly possible that Jeffries was just trying to bolster the old man's nerve...
As the Urman entered the dugout, escorted by Sergeant Dixon, Jeffries studied him with some disdain. He didn't see the Noble Savage Everson claimed he saw but a wily indigent. From his occult researches he knew primitive peoples had caches of sacred knowledge forbidden to outsiders.
"Thank you, Dixon, that will be all."
Dixon saluted and left.
"So, you're the barbarian, the one they call Napoo?" said Jeffries as he watched the Urman pick up objects and study them briefly before putting them down and moving onto the next thing that caught his eye. He was like a child. Simple things delighted him greatly. Britannia was a Mother to many such peoples and Jeffries held none of them in any great regard. This man, though, was different. This man was wiry, but it all seemed to be muscle and he had survived to live to an age where his hair had greyed. Obviously he had a survivor's instinct that shouldn't be underestimated. Jeffries reached down to the holster on his Sam Browne belt and slowly undid the revolver cover. He grinned at Napoo as the man looked up at the sound of his new nickname, smiled, and went back to gazing with wonder at the things he saw.
"Everson has not such things," he said. "You are mightier than he is?"
Jeffries allowed himself a smile. The man amused him.
"Oh yes. Mightier than he knows, old chap."
"You are king here, then?"
"No, but I do like the sound of it. Are you not king of your own people?"
"No, only the Ones have kings," said Napoo as he picked up a pen from the small wooden crate that served as a writing desk. He sniffed the instrument then put it down.
"You're not one of the Ones, then?"
"No. Urman."
"The Ones," said Jeffries, "I wanted to ask you about them."
"This is Khungarrii territory. You should not be here. Not safe."
"Yes. So you said. And where are these Kungry
-"
"Khungarrii," corrected Napoo, now sniffing, now licking a sealed tin of Tickler's Plum and Apple jam.
Jeffries took it off him and, using a tin opener, scythed it open before handing it back. He couldn't stand the stuff himself. It was just his luck that one of the foods they had did have in large supply was damned Plum and Apple jam.
Napoo stuck his fingers into the tin, scooped out the runny jelly and shoved his fingers into his mouth with great delight. "Mmm hmm," He smacked his lips.
"I saw a gleam over against those hills in a forest out beyond the veldt. A high spire. Is that them? Is that where these Khungarrii of yours live?"
"Aye, that's the Khungarrii Edifice," said Napoo. "Croatoan curse them!"
Jeffries froze.
"What?" he said. That the name of his chosen god should be uttered by one such as this who should not know of him at all stunned Jeffries. This was more than mere coincidence. Within the Great Working there was no coincidence. It was another sign. Of that he was sure. He rounded on the savage. "What did you say?"
Napoo was startled. He offered the half eaten tin of jam back to Jeffries. "Forgive me, I didn't not mean to -"
"What did you say?" he asked again, urgency in his voice.
"I - I said Croatoan curse them! Forgive me."
"What do you know of Croatoan?" said Jeffries, advancing on Napoo. "Tell me!"
"Nothing," he answered, puzzled at his host's sudden change in bearing. "It is an old curse that once had meaning to my forebears."
"You don't... worship him?"
"No, it is forbidden.
"By whom?"
"The Ones. There is only one god, GarSuleth, Weaver of the World," said Napoo reverently bowing his head.
Jeffries picked up his journal and leafed impatiently through the pages until he reached one on which was scrawled a symbol. He thrust the page under Napoo's nose. "This symbol. This sign. Do you recognise it, the Sigil of Croatoan?"
"No," said Napoo, shaking his head.
"Are you sure?"
"I have never seen its like."
"Never?"
"No, Only the Ones make such marks."
