“Christ that was close. Bloody boojums, though, eh, Only?” said Mercy cracking a grin and slapping Atkins on the back.
“Right, you lot!” bellowed Sergeant Hobson herding the rest of the scattered platoon towards them. “Take a dekko and see how far this mud pie of ours goes. We also need to make sure Fritz hasn’t got anything else up his sleeve. One other thing. Nobody steps off this mud until further orders. Got it?”
“Yes Sergeant!”
“Right. Move out.”
Atkins fell in with Mercy and Gazette with Jessop taking the lead. The initial eerie tranquillity had now been shattered, spurring the growing sense of unease he felt at their surroundings. Along the line several other platoons were being ordered to move forward through the shell holes towards where the German lines should have been.
They came across the remains of an aeroplane lying on its back, its wheels splayed in the air. It was one of theirs, the Royal Flying Corps roundel clearly visible on the fuselage. The front was covered with mud, the remains of the propeller splintered as though it had ploughed head first into the mud before flipping and coming to rest. Oil leaked onto the ground from the engine, turning the mud beneath it to a thick black viscous puddle.
“Only, check the pilot blokes,” Jessop said, looking around warily.
Atkins passed his rifle to Porgy and got down on his hands and knees to crawl under the upturned machine. The observer was upside down in his cockpit, his head tilted back and his face planted in the mud. Atkins tried to push him up to relieve the pressure, but realised his efforts were futile. He was dead. Atkins moved towards the pilot. He crawled over the plane and let out a startled cry when his knee went through the doped cotton with a pop.
“Sorry, nothing! My fault,” he called out to reassure his startled fellows. “Hang on chum, we’ll get you out.”
Once Atkins had wriggled through the snapped spars and wire he found that the pilot had fallen out of his cockpit and lay in the small crushed space between machine and the upper wing, his neck broken. Awkwardly, Atkins shuffled out from under the shattered plane. As he did so he spotted a line of bullet holes stitched across the fuselage.
Atkins shook his head at Jessop.
“Both dead. Pilot’s got a broken neck. Looks like the other one was drowned in the mud.”
“Nothing we can do here, then,” said Jessop. “Ginger, Mercy, get those bodies out then salvage the guns and collect whatever ammunition you can from the plane. The rest of you spread out and move on.”
Porgy had been looking at the rear of the aeroplane. “Look at this, lads. What do you make of that?”
The tail had vanished, not ripped off or shot through, but simply amputated by a clean cut. Atkins looked around but could see no sign of the missing section.
There was a dull snap as Ginger and Mercy tugged at the body of the observer and dragged him from the rear cockpit.
“Careful, you clumsy buggers,” cried Jessop.
“It was the plane!” said Mercy defensively.
Jessop shook his head and moved on. The rest followed his lead.
In minutes they had reached the end of the mud. The German wire should have been twenty or thirty yards further on but, where once there had been fortifications, entrenchments, emplacements and entanglements there was now an abrupt drop of seven or eight feet. Beyond, they were surrounded by a thick green meadow, the grass maybe three or four feet high, the stalks flattened outwards as if by violent impact. Beyond the veldt, looking towards the head of the valley, was what could be termed a forest, perhaps a mile or so or away. Scattered across the meadow were what looked like trees, spaced singly or in small groves.
“Jessop?” said Pot Shot, standing at the very edge of what they knew as the Somme.
“What is it?” said the Lance Sergeant, striding over.
Pot Shot was stood over a body of a dead Hun. Or to be more precise, half a body. The torso was hanging on the wire. It was cut clean through and the legs were missing. Hobson pushed his tin hat back on his head, raised his eyebrows and let out a long, slow exhalation.
“Christ,” he said.
“What do you reckon did that?”
“Nothing I know of,” he said. There wasn’t the usual mess they were accustomed to, just a clean, surgical cut.
All eyes turned to Gutsy.
“What? Just because I use to be a butcher? Bloody hell!” Gutsy, despite his protests, set about studying the body with an almost professional interest. There was no blood. It was as if the entire wound had been cauterised. “I don’t know of any blade sharp enough or quick enough to leave such a clean cut.”
Pot Shot had been examining a strand of the wire.
“Same here,” he declared.
“How can you tell?” asked Gazette.
“You see here? Normally when you use wire cutters the wire is pinched thin before it breaks, resulting in a pointed ‘v’ cross section. This is flat.”
Atkins stood at the edge of the lip and looked slowly left, then right along the fault line as it curved gently back away from him on either side. “Y’ know,” he said slowly. “It’s almost as if something has severed cleanly through everything — ground and air. I’ll bet if we follow this around we’ll find the same.”
“What are you saying, Only?” asked Jessop.
Atkins never got the chance to reply. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a flash of fangs as Jessop disappeared, propelled backwards by the weight of a large mound of greasy fur and muscle, leaving only a scream in his wake as foot long teeth ripped out his throat.
CHAPTER FIVE
GAZETTE WAS THE first to get off a shot, firing a full clip at the great beast as it tore ravenously into Jessop’s stomach, all in the time it took Atkins to bring up his rifle.
“Holy Mary Mother of God!” wailed Ginger.
“What the bleedin’ hell is it?” shouted Mercy.
“Bloody ugly!” replied Gutsy, as the rest of the section brought their rifles to bear.
Atkins had never seen such a creature. None of them had. It was like some kind of monstrous hyena. Easily as high as a man, it had powerful shoulders, like that of an American bison; a mass of knotted, corded muscle rippling under its coarse fur. Its neck was short, its long snout was filled with sharp teeth and it possessed powerful muscled legs ending in long claws.
“Don’t just stand there,” bellowed Hobson. “Five rounds rapid!”
The great predator roared as the bullets bit, but would not be denied its kill. It turned its blood-drenched snout towards them, snarling in pain and anger. Driven away from the body, it let out a howl of such fury that some of the men nearby dropped their guns and began running for the trenches.
From out of the undergrowth, a pack of the same creatures answered, bounding towards the mud, howling and baying, the scent of fresh blood now on the wind, driving them into a frenzy.
Gazette and the others turned their rifles on the creatures and fired. The beasts staggered under the fusillade. Some yelped and fell, others skidded to a halt, uncertain. The volley hadn’t entirely stopped their advance, but it had slowed it. Twenty, maybe thirty of the creatures were now bounding towards them, guttural snarls drawing back lips to reveal rows of sharp teeth. Others, more cautious, began edging round, trying to flank them, bellies low to the ground.
“Fall back!”
Atkins didn’t need to be told twice. He began running with the others, which only served to excite the creatures more. He sprinted past the downed aeroplane, where Mercy was wrestling with the ammunition magazine on the Lewis gun.