CHAPTER SIX
“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 apres 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 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?”