No Man's World: Omnibus Page 9

  One man flung himself desperately at the Chaplain.

  “Padre? What’s happened. Where are we? We thought we was in heaven, like, but them devil dogs attacked so it can’t be, can it? Is God punishing us? Tell us Padre, tell us!”

  “I—I don’t know, my son” answered the padre as he pulled away from the distraught soldier.

  Further along, the revetments leaned drunkenly, their sandbags askew. In places they threatened to topple over completely. In others they had collapsed and they had to scramble over the mounds of spoil. When they reached C Company HQ they found a captain sat in the remains of the trench with his head in his hands. There was a bustle of activity around him as men worked stoically shifting sandbags and timbers, using shovels, picks and buckets to excavate the dirt where the C Company HQ sign lay half buried.

  “Captain Grantham!” said Padre Rand, kneeling down by him. “What happened? Is the major all right?”

  Grantham lifted his head from his hands. His face was streaked with dirt and tears.

  The padre took him aside. “For God’s sake, compose yourself, Captain. Not in front of the ranks. Remember you’re an officer! Pull yourself together.”

  Grantham made an effort to regain his composure as he stood. He brushed the drying mud and soil from his tunic, cleared his throat and straightened his collar and tie.

  “Can we help?” asked Sister Fenton, stepping forward.

  “Eh?” The Captain looked at the women nonplussed.

  “The nurses I reported on last night, Grantham,” said the padre.

  “Ah. Right. Yes, well there’s nothing they can do here,” said Grantham waving away Sister Fenton’s ministrations. “But I’m sure the MO can put them to work.” He gestured to the pile. “The major’s dead, buried under that lot. I barely got out myself. There was a sudden jolt and the whole place just collapsed around us. There’s the CSM, the orderlies and the signal chappie down there, too,” he said earnestly. “And reports of other dugout collapses. I sent a runner to Battalion but he says it’s gone. How can it not be there? And then there were those damn wolf things. I don’t know what’s happening.”

  “This man might be able to shed some light on it all,” said the padre, introducing the Flying Officer.

  “Lieutenant Tulliver,” said Tulliver, extending a hand.

  Grantham took it. “Well I certainly hope you can. This is a right bloody shambles. The men are getting windy. It felt like a bloody earth tremor.”

  “A bit more than that.”

  “A mine explosion?”

  “If it was it’s blown us to God knows where,” said Tulliver, looking up at the mountains on either side as he pulled his trench maps from inside his double-breasted tunic. He took a stub of pencil from his pocket and, after studying the map for a few moments, drew a rough circle on the paper around a section of trenches and No Man’s Land. “As far as I can tell, sir, this area is all I could see from the air. It’s as if someone had taken a giant pair of scissors, cut it out and dropped it down somewhere else entirely.”

  “Scissors? Talk sense man!” snapped Grantham.

  “From what I could see from the air, sir,” said Tulliver, “this circle of mud is all that is left of the Somme.”

  THE TANK RUMBLED and squealed its way implacably toward the trench and then stopped. Atkins could see where the beasts had clawed away at the trench paint—camouflage cover and the wire netting gable was torn and hanging off. By the time the engine had puttered and died Atkins and some of the others were out of the trenches and walking towards this new wonder machine. Its guns slowly lowered, as if bowing in obeisance or exhaustion. There were metallic clangs and bangs as a door, barely more than two feet tall, opened in the rear of the gun sponson and there clambered, from the pit of the armoured machine, one small man and then another. They were wearing oiledstained khaki overalls covered with small burn holes and tight fitting leather helmets with leather masks across the upper halves of their faces, their eyeholes merely thin slits. From the bottom of the masks hung chain mail drapes that covered the rest of their face. They looked as if they’d stepped from the Devil’s own chariot. Two more climbed out of a hatch on the top of the motorised mammoth and walked down the back of the now motionless track that encompassed the entire side of the tank.

  “Bloody gas! Now I’m going to have to strip everything down and clean it to stop the damn corrosion.”

  “Jesus my head’s banging!”

  Atkins had never seen a more otherworldly group of men. They would have looked fierce and impressive, almost like some primitive tribal warriors, if two of them hadn’t then fallen to their knees and started vomiting warm beige splatters into the mud, coughing and retching worse than a retired coal miner.

  “Bloody hell!” said Porgy.

  The little bantam bloke pulled off his helmet and mask to reveal a pale face covered with flaky, livid red patches. He took a swing with his foot, savagely kicking the body of a dead creature.

  “That’s for scratching Ivanhoe, you ugly mutt,” he said, punctuating his invective with further kicks.

  The lanky Tank Commander strode over and made a curt introduction. “Lieutenant Mathers. Who’s in charge here?”

  “That’ll be Captain Grantham, sir,” said Sergeant Hobson. “I’ll get someone to take you to Company HQ.”

  Atkins turned his attention back to the others who were talking to the tank crew.

  “Well if this ain’t the Somme it’s not my fault,” the bantam tank driver was saying. “My map reading were bloody perfect!”

  “Then where on earth are we?”

  “Earth?” spat the bantam figure scathingly. “This ain’t like no place on earth I’ve ever seen!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “What’s the Use of Worrying…”

  “I’M GOING TO need numbers, Sergeant; roll call and casualties,” Everson said as he inspected the fire trench along his Platoon Front. After the attack by what they were calling hell hounds, the men were stood to on the fire step, rifles at the ready. Any questions the men might have were silenced by Hobson’s stern glance, for which Everson was thankful. He had no idea what had happened. Right now he was as ignorant as his men, which was not a position he liked to be in and one he was even less likely to want to admit to. Latrine rumours were flying about. You couldn’t stop them. Those that thought they’d suddenly materialised in Paradise and the Just Reward they so richly deserved were quickly disabused by the attack of the creatures. Now they were convinced they were in Purgatory. Others thought it Hell, although that argument was soon sunk by the virtue of them having been on the Somme which was itself the very definition of hell. Best to nip such gossip in the bud, if you could. Having stalled after the initial confusion over the strange surroundings and the attack of the beasts, the great military machine was beginning to reassert itself.

  “I want you to keep the men busy,” Everson told Hobson. “Don’t want ’em getting windy. After they’re stood down, set them to repairing the trenches. Work will keep them occupied until we can sort out what the hell is going on here.”

  Cries and moans from the wounded drifted over from No Man’s Land, those wounded by Fritz in the initial attack and those poor souls left alive by the attacking hell hounds. That was the real morale sapper, he knew. In a Pals Battalion like the Broughtonthwaite Mates, those weren’t just any soldiers, those cries came from people you’d known all your lives. That’s what became unbearable; the knowledge that they weren’t just going to die. With gut-shots or shrap wounds they could lie out there for days, begging for help, crying for their mothers, calling for you to help them, and you knowing that if you tried to help them, you’d be joining them on the old barbed wire. That’s what broke men, that’s what ground insidiously away at morale. Oh, the bombs and the shells and the sniping got to some after a while, but this was the clincher.

  “Sergeant?”

  “Sir?”

  “Best, get a party together with stretcher bearers, too,
and start bringing in some of those woundeds while we’ve still got daylight. Those damned beasts are still out there somewhere. See to it, will you?”

  “Sir,” he said. Everson left him to it, turned down the comm trench and began to work his way back to where the temporary HQ had been set up and a Company meeting arranged.

  HOURS LATER, WITH only the occasional reappearance of a wily hell hound or two, the men were stood down with only sentries left on guard against further attack. Those not on duty retired to the support trenches.

  “Fuck, look lively here comes Hobson,” said Porgy, sucking the last dregs of smoke from his Woodbine before dropping it in the mud to sizzle and die.

  “Great. Ketch’ll be in charge of the Section. Bet he couldn’t wait,” muttered Mercy as they noticed the corporal skulking along behind the sergeant, “and Jessop barely cold.”

  “Right, you lot, finished sitting around on our arses have we?” said Hobson. “Then there’s work to do.”

  “Sarn’t,” said Porgy, putting a hand to his grubbily bandaged pate, “me head’s spinning. I think it’s that crack I got last night.” Atkins could almost hear the rest of the Section groan and suppressed a smirk. Bloody Porgy. He had an aversion to manual labour. Had to keep his hands soft for his long-haired chums, or so he said. “Right, Hopkiss,” said Hobson, almost wearily. “Let’s get you to the MO then and see what he has to say. If you’re malingering, I’ll have you. The rest of you fall in. Come on,” he barked when they were slow to get up, “put some jildi into it!”

  They got up and put themselves into lacklustre order.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re a sorry bunch. If your mothers could see you now they’d be ashamed!” he snapped. “You lot are on trench fatigue. I’ll leave it to Corporal Ketch to sort the details out. They’re all yours, Corporal.” And he set off, escorting Porgy to the MO. Porgy turned and gave Atkins a quick wink before Hobson shoved him down the comm trench.

  “Right,” said Ketch slowly once Hobson had gone, the sneer on his lips smearing itself across his face. “We’re going down Broughton Street for a bit of digging, so grab your entrenching tools.” There was a lot of muttering and sighing as they picked up the spades from their kits and began sloping off down the trench.

  “Not you, Atkins,” said Ketch. “I’ve got another job for you. Don’t think saving me from them hell hounds has won you any favours, cos it hasn’t. You suffer too much from cheerfulness you do. Well, I’ve got the cure. You’re a cocky little shit, d’y’know that?”

  “Here, steady on Corp!” said Mercy.

  Ketch shot him a look and carried on.

  “And shit should be in the latrine. Sanitation duty until I say so.”

  “Corp!” objected Atkins, but knowing it was an argument he was going to lose, Atkins bit his tongue. Mercy had no such reservations. “Quit riding the lad, Ketch. You may be an NCO but après le guerre

  I’ll have you cold, mate,” he said stepping between Ketch and Atkins and going to-to-toe with the corporal.

  “For that you can join him, Evans, you like getting yourself in the shit so much.”

  Once Ketch had dismissed them and they’d gone off to fetch their tools, Atkins turned to Mercy.

  “What up with him? Why’s he got it in for me?”

  “Ketch? Regular four-letter man he is. He was foreman over at Everson’s brewery before the war an’ he didn’t ’alf lord it over us.

  Thought he had it cushy ’til old man Everson decided to let the workers form a union, didn’t he? Aggravated Ketch no end that did, but there were nowt he could do about it, was there? War broke out, we joined up to get away from the bastard only to find that, as a foreman, he’d been made an NCO. He’s worse now than he ever was,” Mercy said with a sardonic grin. “He hates everyone and everything.”

  “Because?”

  “Because they are and he’s not.”

  “Not what?”

  “Tall, handsome, rich, popular, sergeant, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Take your pick. But don’t worry about him, It’s not worth it.

  Look on the bright side, Sanitation duty stinks but shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours,” said Mercy with a smile and a wink. “Gives us an easy ride while the others are breaking their backs, don’t it?”

  PADRE RAND, HAVING left Tulliver with Captain Grantham, escorted the VADs through the trenches drawing curious glances from some of the men as they passed.

  “Where are we going?” asked Nellie Abbott.

  “To see the Regimental Medical Officer. He’s trying to set up a Dressing Station here until we can find a way back to your hospital.”

  “Looks like you’re going to have to find the Somme first,” said Nellie chirpily.

  Edith bowed her head and smiled privately. She liked this young, tough woman.

  “Driver Abbott, you may not be under my direct supervision, but I’ll ask you to show some respect to your betters,” said Sister Fenton. Edith saw Nellie bite her lip and flick a dirty look to Sister Fenton and loved her all the more.

  “But she’s got a point, hasn’t she, Sister?” said Edith. “We don’t know where we are and that… that creature….”

  “It probably escaped from a zoo, or some such, Bell,” said Sister Fenton. “Or it’s a new kind of attack hound bred by the Hun. I’m sure they’re not above doing that sort of thing. Remember poor Belgium?”

  They followed a crudely painted sign and turned a corner to find a wide, bombed out shell hole appropriated as a sort of waiting room.

  Dozens and dozens of men sat about listlessly. Some bandaged, some staring vacantly ahead. Others lay on stretchers, still and lifeless.

  The group worked their way through the crowd of men, who parted quietly, politely, until the nurses came to a lean-to structure made from timber, corrugated iron and sandbags.

  “Captain Lippett?” enquired Padre Rand.

  A man, late thirties, with slickly oiled hair and a small pair of pince-nez sat on his nose, dressed in shirt sleeves and braces, wearing a blood-stained apron, looked up from a bare-chested, pale skinned man, whose arm wound he was cleaning. “Padre. If you’ve coming looking for work there’s plenty. Many of these men will die today. I haven’t the time or the facilities to deal with them here. I’ve got a large percentage bleeding from eyes, ears and nose. Never seen anything like it. Damned if I know what’s caused it. Been tellin’ ’em it was the gas.

  Seems to keep ’em quiet for a while. Tompkins,” he called to a nearby orderly, “dress this man’s wounds. Bloody lucky there, Private.”

  “Light duties, Doc?” the man asked weakly.

  “For you? Yes, I’d say so.”

  The man could barely disguise his smile as the orderly led him away. “Actually, I’ve brought you some help,” said the padre. Captain Lippett turned to look at the women over the top of his glasses. He obviously wasn’t pleased with what he saw. He hurriedly took the padre by the arm and dragged him away. There seemed to be a heated discussion going on between them. Edith made out the words “Women!” several times. It was clear that the MO didn’t approve of their being there, but here they were and there was nothing to be done about it. In the end the officer threw up his hands in submission and returned to the nurses.

  “Well, if you’re so put out, Captain, I’d be obliged if you could just arrange transport back to the hospital,” said Sister Fenton. “Sister, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. And it would seem motor ambulances, or indeed transport back to anywhere, is beyond us at the moment. In the meantime, however, we have many injured men here and, while I believe that this is no place for a woman, frankly I could use your help.”

  Which was about as much apology as they were going to get. Nellie was set to sterilising equipment and finding bandages, while Sister Fenton assisted the MO with the more serious cases. Edith was assigned the duty of helping MO orderlies assessing and treating the crowd of walking wounded. She cast her eyes around the crater. There were so many
of them waiting around stoically and the stretcher bearers were bringing more. There was a sudden rush as the more ambulatory felt they would rather be treated by a woman than the rough hands of Privates Tompkins and Stanton.

  A soldier with a bandaged head caught Edith’s attention, or rather, his grin did. She beckoned him over. He shuffled over humbly, steel helmet in hand, dirty bandages covering his head, and sat down on an ammunition crate.

  “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said. “We don’t ever get nurses this far up the line. I must have died and gone to heaven,” he said. “Any more talk like that and you’ll wish you had,” she said firmly as she began unwinding the bandage from around his head. She gently eased the dressing off his wound. He winced. Edith uncovered the now scabbing furrow on his temple. The wound, at least, seemed clean. “My name’s George. George Hopkiss, but my mates call me Porgy,” he said. “Guess why?”

  “I can’t imagine,” she said, keeping her business-like demeanour, working intently on his wound, feeling herself blush.

  “Kiss the girls and make ’em cry, don’t I?”

  “Well that’s not much of a recommendation, is it?”

  “Do you fancy walking out with me down Broughton Street tonight?”

  “Shhh. Or Sister will hear!”

  “She can come too, if she likes,” he grinned.

  “Now, now I’ll have none of that. I’ll have you know I’m a respectable lady.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

  “I was a debutante. I was presented at Court before the war.”

  “You don’t say! Cor, That’s as good as Royalty to me. Fancy!” said Porgy amazed, trying to turn round, but she took his head in her hands and gently, but firmly turned him back to face front.

  “Oh yes,” she said as she carried on cleaning the burned and torn flesh. “So don’t forget with whom you’re dealing! I have friends in high places.” She dabbed the iodine on and Porgy stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.