Black Hand Gang Page 4

  More waiting.

  Hobson gestured to the left and rolled with a barely perceptible splash into a shallow shell hole just short of the wire. The others followed. Atkins slithered over the shallow lip to join them and found himself in a pool of water. Hobson beckoned them closer with a finger. They gathered their heads together while Hobson spoke in a low, slow voice.

  "Wirecutters get ahead. Blood and I will cover you. If it all goes off, get back here sharpish. Got it? Just don't take all night about it."

  Atkins nodded. As they crawled out of the shell hole toward the wire, Hobson and Gutsy took up their positions on the lip of the crater, pistols cocked and ready.

  Atkins looked at Porgy as they reached the entanglement. Porgy crawled forward with his cutters, slipped the blades around the wire and snipped. There was a sharp tink and a dull tinny twang recoiled along the wire. Atkins froze until long after the sound died away, expecting a burst of machine gun fire to cut them down at any moment. But nothing happened. Porgy cut again.

  Atkins gripped the wire between his own cutter blades and snipped, and snipped again. It took nearly an hour to cut though the entanglement, working his way along on his back under the thicket of Jerry wire until his arms ached and his muscles burned, but eventually it was done. A section of wire five or six yards across had been freed from its mooring.

  They made their way back to the shell hole.

  "All present and correct?" whispered Hobson. "Good. Let's be off home shall we?"

  As they began the slow crawl back towards their own lines, something gave way under Atkins' palm and his left arm sank up to his elbow in the thick mud. A bubble formed on the surface and popped, releasing a cloying, sickly stench. His hand had gone through a corpse's gas-distended stomach. Disturbed, several corpulent rats squeaked indignantly and darted off. He heaved, retching up several lumps of army stew and pulled his hand out of the mud. In an attempt to put some distance, any distance, between him and the corpse, he planted a knee down only to feel a crack of bones somewhere just below the surface of the slime. A red flare went up bathing everything in a hellish glow. Atkins looked down with horror to see the decomposing face of a French soldier lit by the lurid light, making shadows dance in the empty sockets of its eyes.

  A burst of machine gun fire zipped over their heads. Hobson quickly indicated to a large Minnie crater with a flick of his hand. They headed for it, rolling down into the relative shelter of its shadow.

  Unable to stop himself, Atkins slipped helplessly down the slick wet sides into the slurry-filled basin at the bottom, before coming up against wet muddy cloth. Fearing another corpse, he looked about wildly and met the gaze of a German soldier staring back with the same intensity of fear and surprise. They'd stumbled on a German patrol sheltering in the same shell-hole.

  Atkins knew he had seconds to act. He clamped a muddy hand over the German's mouth. The Hun clawed desperately at his wrist. Atkins adjusted his position so he was astride the man's chest and was able to use his knee to pin the man's upper arm to the ground, leaving a hand free to unsheath his bayonet. The German tried to bite Atkins' hand, desperate to stop him. Out the corner of his eyes Atkins made out the other members of his Black Hand Gang engaged in similar private struggles. It was desperate fighting, no rules. This was war at its most raw, most visceral, most base. The only sound was the slap of mud or splash of water as boots sought for purchase on soft tissue; grunts of exertion as the struggle turned first one way then the next, each opponent knowing it was killed or be killed.

  Gritted teeth. Little explosions of breath, spittle flecks bubbling up at the corners of the mouth, face red with effort, neck taut with strain as Atkins leant forward trying to use his bodyweight to press his bayonet home. The Hun kicked, trying to dislodge him. The point of his bayonet against the Hun's ribs. His eyes creasing, pleading, hands slick with mud losing their grip, the bayonet pushing into the thick serge of his uniform but not puncturing. It was all now dependant on who could last out the longest, but Atkins had gravity on his side.

  The blade sank suddenly, plunging Atkins' face unexpectedly towards his enemy's, whose eyes widened in shock. He tried to focus on Atkins as his hand clawed weakly at his face. Atkins turned away and raised himself to avoid the filthy, clammy hand. Then, hardly able to see for the stinging tears welling up in his eyes he muttered, "sorry," and used his bodyweight to push the bayonet further in. Blood bubbled and frothed at the corners of the Hun's mouth. Atkins could feel the warm exhalation of breath on his face waning. The man's eyes lost focus and beneath him Atkins felt his chest fall for the last time. He collapsed with effort and relief onto the body feeling his heart beating fit to burst, a pulse suddenly pounding painfully at the base of his skull behind his right ear. He rolled over onto his back, his chest heaving with sobs he tried to stifle. To his left he saw Porgy sitting with his head in his hands. Hobson was wiping his bayonet on a German's tunic. Three Huns lay about the shell hole in unnatural positions. A fourth lay face down in the water. Gutsy grabbed Atkins and pulled him into a sitting position, holding his head between his knees as he dry-retched.

  "Get it up, son, you'll feel better," Gutsy whispered. Atkins tried to make himself heave. It didn't take much before he vomited, spitting out the stringy mucus and half-digested bits that remained in his mouth. Gutsy pulled his bayonet from the dead Hun and handed it back to him. "You did well."

  They made their way back to their line but when they came to their wire, they couldn't find the gap. Following Hobson, they inched their way along the wire, careful not to touch any of the makeshift alarms of tin cans containing pebbles that hung from them before finding one. They edged through and towards their lines until they could see the sandbag parapets of their own trenches. From the dark ahead of them came an aggressive hiss.

  "Password."

  "Hampstead" Hobson hissed back and began crawling forwards, beckoning the others to follow. There was sudden rapid fire, and the whole world went to hell. Porgy screamed. A flare went up from the trench. Hobson shouted: "You're shooting your own bloody men, hold your fire!" There were far away shouts from the German line, a German flare and then the whine of bullets splashing into the mud around them.

  Shot at from behind, shot at from in front, Atkins scrambled for the sandbags and the trench. Hands reached up, grabbed him and pulled him over the parapet to safety. Hobson was already over and laying into the Jock sentry with a torrent of sergeantly abuse. Gutsy was sat on the firestep checking himself all over for wounds but there was no sign of Porgy. Atkins stood on the firestep and, against all his better instincts, he peered over the top. He saw something that could be Porgy some five or six yards away. Sporadic shots from the German line continued to bury themselves into the mud around him.

  "Only! Only, I'm hit," whimpered Porgy.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Atkins was scrambling over the parapet and wriggling forward on his elbows.

  "Come back you bloody fool!"

  Atkins slithered on, the odd bullet whining over his head. He reached Porgy who was lying on his side groaning. He gripped Porgy's hand and pulled, trying to drag him through the mud, but he was too heavy. There only one thing for it. As quickly as he could, Atkins picked him up under the armpits and hauled him backwards, step by muddy step, towards the trench amid the whine and splatter of German bullets. Reaching the sandbags, he tipped the barely conscious Porgy over the parapet and into the arms of his waiting mates, before leaping into the trench after him. Trembling, he sat down heavily on the firestep and watched as Gutsy looked Porgy over.

  "Hell's bells, Porgy you're a lucky one."

  Atkins could see a bloody groove on Porgy's left temple where a bullet had grazed him. "Head wound."

  "Good job it didn't hit anything important, eh?" croaked Porgy.

  "Barely a scratch, y'daft beggar. You'll live."

  Porgy looked up as that sank in and seemed to rally, turning on the sentry loitering off to his side. "All the way to the Hun w
ire, an ambush by Jerry, and I get shot by my own bloody side!" he growled, attempting to get up, but Gutsy held him down.

  "Och, sorry mate how wis ah tae know? This isnae your section o' the line. You could a been Kaiser Bill hisself fer all I knew!"

  Atkins looked up as a grubby mud-slathered Hobson stood over him. "That," he spat, "was a bloody stupid thing to do."

  "Couldn't leave him, Sar'nt."

  "Quite, right lad," said Hobson, gently patting him on the shoulder.

  As if that were all the permission he needed, Atkins felt great sobs well up within him and his shoulders started to shake.

  "You'll be all right son. You did well tonight. Take Porgy to have his scratch seen to. Don't want him missing out on the fun later, do we? Then go and get yourself cleaned up and get some kip. Big day tomorrow."

  "Sar'nt."

  Atkins and Gutsy made their way along the fire trench, carrying a dazed and bloody Porgy between them, his head now roughly bandaged with a field dressing. They turned down a communications trench and weaved their way to the Regimental Aid Post. The MO wasn't very happy about being woken up, but soon cleaned and stitched the wound before packing them off.

  Atkins went back to the water butts in the support trench to clean himself up.

  Ketch caught up with him.

  "I heard what you did, Atkins," he said.

  "Any one of us would have done the same."

  "But they didn't did they? It was you, weren't it? Bit of a glory hound are we? Your mates might think you're the bee's knees right now, but I know different. You're bad news, Atkins. I'm watching you."

  Atkins was too weary to argue. He crept back into the dugout, crawled under his ration blanket and dozed fitfully as the rats scurried across the floor beneath him.

  INTERLUDE 1

  Letter from Private Thomas Atkins

  to Flora Mullins

  31st October 1916

  My Dearest Flora,

  As I write to you tonight I have no further news of William. Last week, out of the trenches, I tramped around the field hospitals again. I showed his picture about and, though I feared what I might find, I visited the army cemeteries hereabout. I even buttonholed a relief column to ask if they'd seen him. I can bring you no peace, I'm afraid. But do not despair. He may still turn up. It might be that he is only lost and taken up with another regiment, or else been wounded and travelling between hospitals. It is too soon to give up. We must both hope that he will come home.

  Tomorrow we've a mind to go and bother the Kaiser for some sport. We're taking a stroll up to the woods to see what mischief we can make! My only fear is that I shall not see you again, but do not fret for I am determined that I shall. Tell my mam I'm well and will see her soon. I know she worries so. Tell her I got the socks she sent. If she can send some lice powder I would be very grateful.

  Ever yours,

  Thomas.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "This World's Verge..."

  He was safe. A million miles from the front line. He was home. Home on leave. In his uniform he waited anxiously outside the factory gates for her shift to end, afraid he'd miss her as the workers swept out. He saw her first, picked her out amongst the crowd of women surging towards the street, arms linked with her workmates, walking in step, laughing. He stood across the street, waving eagerly. "Flora! Flora!" She looked up and saw him. And smiled...

  "Wakey, wakey, ladies!"

  Atkins jerked awake and sat up in his bunk, cursing as he caught his hair in the wire of Ginger's bunk above him. Already the dream was slipping away. Sergeant Hobson, cleaned up and dressed for battle, his moustache as prim and proper as ever, stood in the dugout's doorway, his appearance sending the rats scurrying for cover.

  "Oh God, what time is it?" groaned Mercy.

  "Time you were in Jerry's face before I get into yours, Evans," hollered Hobson.

  "It's not even dawn, Sarn't!" said Pot Shot. "What about me beauty sleep?"

  "No amount of sleep is going to make you ugly bunch any better looking, and that's just the way I like it. I want Fritz to feel his balls shrivel when he sees you lot coming. Now get up and get yourselves sorted. Stand To in fifteen minutes."

  Bleary eyed, Atkins rolled out of his bunk, his mouth dry and his empty stomach churning as he jostled over cold water and tarnished shaving mirrors, braces hanging limply from his waist.

  They all clustered about Porgy with his new bandage, demanding all the details of the night's events, which Gutsy duly gave them, building up to Only's heroic dash and rescue.

  "It was nothing," said Atkins awkwardly. "Besides, I couldn't let him stay out there. He promised me he'd introduce me to Marie down at the estaminet in Sans German." Never ones to learn the local language if they could get away with mangling it, it was one of the Tommies' jokes. St. Germaine was the nearest town to Harcourt Wood, well behind the British lines and so long as it remained behind British lines it would bloody well remain 'Sans German' - without Germans, too.

  "Going to have quite a scar, the doc says," beamed Porgy. "The old 'war-wound', it'll have the girls flocking to me, it will."

  "Luh-looks like a Buh-blighty wound to me," said Ginger quietly. "Why you still 'ere?"

  "What, and desert me mates, today of all days? Bloody hell, Ginger, what's got into you?" said Porgy.

  Atkins felt the knot in his stomach tighten. His teeth were furred up and his mouth tasted rank after vomiting last night. He pulled his braces up onto his shoulders, slipped into his tunic and fastened it before shrugging on his webbing. It was an attack so it was Battle Order equipment; rifle, helmet, backpack with iron rations, water flask, bayonet and 150 rounds small arms ammunition. Then they'd have to pick up spare sand bags, entrenching tools, grenades, spare grenades, flares and wire cutters, smoke candles and picks from the QM.

  Atkins joined the queue with his dixie tin for his bit of bacon and fat. His mouth was so dry he could barely swallow. The tea was lukewarm and made with petrol-contaminated water, from using petrol cans as water carriers. It made him gag.

  Then Lieutenant Everson and the Quarterbloke made their way down the fire trench, issuing rum from a stone SRD jar. Atkins gratefully accepted the slug of liquor that Everson measured out into his greasy dixie tin and tipped the contents down his throat. He felt the rum burn all the way down.

  Afterwards Gutsy kissed his little rabbit's foot on its leather thong and tucked it into his shirt. Porgy shuffled his pack of pictures, hoping that the one he drew as his Queen of Hearts for the day was one he actually fancied. Gazette listened for the crump of an artillery shell and tried to count to twenty before the next one landed. Ginger quietly confessed his sins to the pet rat hidden in his tunic. Atkins took out of his tunic pocket a much-read letter, the last letter he'd received from Flora, and eased it, like a sacred relic, from its envelope. He raised the letter to his lips and kissed it softly, almost reverently, then parted the folded corners, held the paper to his nose and gently inhaled as if smelling a delicate flower; if he could still smell her scent on it, even here amid the malodorous mud of the trenches, then he was convinced that he would survive the day. Finally, everybody touched or kissed Lucky's steel helmet with the two Jerry bullet holes in it.

  They all had their little rituals.

  Jeffries was going through his own ritual, quite literally. It had served him well in the past and garnered him a reputation as a fearless soldier on the battlefield, taking life-threatening risks as if he had no care for his own life, when in fact the opposite was very much the case.

  He knelt in his dugout, within his salted circle, incense burning on the table next to him. He breathed deeply as, slowly, his mind centred on the Great Working at hand. Today, on the feast of Samhain, he would prove them all wrong. He had no need of fear. He had Seeston. Last night's ritual of protection should shield him from harm. And from this calm, centred place he offered up a prayer.

  "I bless Enrahagh, fallen from the light, I bless Croatoan dwelling in th
e night, I bless the sword of Raziel that all the heathen dread. I bless the dirt beneath my feet, the earth on which they'll tread."

  The clatter of rifles and shouts outside shattered the serenity of the moment as men scurried about the narrow culverts and alleys in readiness for the attack. Beyond the immediate shrill shouts, he heard the persistent dull bass thud of artillery shells. Dirt sifted down from the ceiling. He got up, put on his tunic and Sam Browne belt then searched for his hair brush and applied it in slow, considered strokes though his Brilliantined hair. Picking up his steel helmet, he placed it on his head and adjusted it just so before a shard of mirror. He admired his reflection for a moment and, irritated, turned to brush some slight dirt from his shoulder pips.

  There were times when he really missed having a batman, but he needed privacy and they only got in the way. It had been a shame about Cooper. Good at laundry but a little too inquisitive for his own good. He'd proved useful in the end though, just like Seeston. Luckily the disposal of bodies at the front was less problematic than it had been back in England.

  As he left, he turned and took one last look round his dugout for old times' sake.

  This was it. All his preparation had brought him here, to this place, to this hour. After today nothing would be the same again.

  Oliver Hepton chose his position and had set up his tripod in the cover trench by a loophole, the better to catch the costly advance of the Pennines as they went over the top. He began to crank the handle of his camera. He panned round the trench slowly, not an easy task when trying to maintain a steady camera speed.

  Don't want to make the people at home feel motion sick.

  He'd been filming for three days in the reserve lines, getting shots of soldiers coming up the line, waving their steel helmets, full of fun and bravado, posing for family back home. Plucky British Tommies waiting to give the Hun hell. But today was different. The men didn't care about the camera. They were tense, too preoccupied to give it anything more than a cursory glance and a weak smile. Hepton didn't mind. It was all good stuff and he began composing the accompanying caption cards in his head.