“Sir!” said Everson, rather more sharply than he had intended. Grantham started. “Whatever you’re going to tell the men, tell them quickly. The sun is setting and we’ll need them to Stand To. God alone knows what else is out there.”
Grantham looked up and nodded wearily. “Of course,” he said. “Order the men on parade.”
“MEN!” BEGAN CAPTAIN Grantham. He was stood on an old ammo box, Everson Jeffries, Lippett and the Padre standing in the mud behind him as a show of unity. “As you know from our current troubles we face a predicament the like of which the Pennines have never faced before. There is a rumour that this is some kind of hallucination or afterlife and that your fighting days are over. I am here to tell you that they are not. You took the King’s shilling, made the oath and signed up for the duration, the duration, gentlemen, and as such you are still soldiers in the King’s Army. We are still at war. Any insubordination under the present circumstances will be dealt with severely. Standing Orders are still in effect and all men are confined to the trenches. If we are to get through this we must all pull together. I am informed that the world around us may not even be Earth, but we have faced adversity in foreign climes before and triumphed and we shall do so again. We do anticipate an eventual return to Blighty but, as the Pennines, we know that there’s always a long hard climb before we reach the top. But reach it we will, so we must bear our current troubles with fortitude. Onward and Upwards, the Pennines!”
The men cheered and waved their helmets in the air. It was half-hearted, but, nevertheless, Grantham seemed pleased with the response. It wasn’t the most rousing speech Everson had heard, but nobody expected much of Grantham. It would be left to the subalterns and NCOs to pick up the pieces. Oblivious, Grantham smiled magnanimously. Enjoying the brief moment, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his poker-faced staff. “Come on, smile boys, that’s the style.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SUN BEGAN to set. The fact that perhaps it wasn’t their sun was only just beginning to dawn on the soldiers. 2 Platoon were stood to on the fire-steps of their trench as they had stood dozens of times before; rifles, bayonets fixed, resting on the parapets, one in the spout, ready to repel any attack. Though from what, they had no idea. If the hell hounds earlier were a taste of what this place had to offer, it was going to be a long night.
Atkins stood in his bay with Gazette and Ginger. Porgy, Gutsy and Mercy manned the bay to their left. Beyond them were Captain Grantham, 1 Platoon and a flanking Vickers machine gun post. To their right was a second machine gun emplacement and the remains of 3 and 4 Platoons, under Lieutenant Jeffries. Atkins didn’t envy Pot Shot, Lucky and Half Pint. They’d drawn the short straw and were twenty yards further out in the forward observation post in No Man’s Land.
“Psst!” It was Ginger. Atkins tried to ignore him. “Psst!”
“What?” Atkins flicked his eyes from his rifle barrel. Ginger grinned at him and lowered his eyes towards his own tunic. Atkins followed the glance. There, peeking out the top of Ginger’s shirt, was Haig, his pet rat. Ginger looked absurdly pleased with himself and started making chtching noises into his chest.
“Bloody hell, Ginger,” Atkins rolled his eyes, a smile flickering at the edge of his lips as he returned to his vigil. Hunkered in the distance the nearby forest seemed as impenetrable as the old Hun line. The noises emanating from it changed as the sun sank, becoming wilder and more guttural as if the night signalled the onset of some feral reverie. He shivered involuntarily. The howls and chatterings played on his nerves more keenly than the never-ending drum roll of artillery barrages ever had. By comparison the abrupt ferocity of Whizz-Bangs, Jack Johnsons and Woolly Bears were as comforting as a home-fire.
More unsettling though was the evening breeze. He was so used to the smell of gangrene and feet, of shell hole mud and corpse liquor, of cordite and overflowing latrines, that the eddies of warm, damp wind caught him by surprise, bringing with them, as they did, brief intoxicating respites to his deadened senses. Tied as he was to his post, fleeting siren zephyrs of air laden with captivating scents danced lightly around him, allowing him snatches of exotic perfumes or heady animal musks; the ephemeral aromas tempting and teasing, offering a world beyond imagination.
There, that note. He closed his eyes and inhaled gently, afraid the scent would evaporate before he could savour it, it was like… like Lily of the Valley — Flora, that last night. They’d been to see the latest Charlie Chaplin at the Broughtonthwaite Alhambra. She was laughing. The cobbles — the cobbles were slick with rain, the faint smell of hops from Everson’s Brewery hung in the night air. Her foot slipped on the greasy sets as they crossed the road and she’d linked her arm through his to steady herself. She chattered on about Old Mother Murphy, young Jessie in the end terrace and Mr Wethering at Mafeking Street School but he didn’t hear her.
He’d known Flora forever. They’d sparked clogs and scabbed knees together as nippers in the same back alleys. They’d lived two streets apart their whole lives but she’d never really looked at him that way until he’d got the khaki on.
“You look ever so handsome in your uniform, Thomas.”
“Get away!” he said, dismissively, then: “Really? Well, it’s a bit on the large side and these trousers don’t half itch, but if you ask the Company Quart—”
“Sssh.” She put a finger to his lips.
She was so close he could smell her hair, the scent of her perfume — Lily of the Valley — the brief scent vanished and the familiar fug of war and corruption closed about him once more.
Raucous cries rang overhead as furred creatures with long necks, leathery wings and hooked beaks flocked into the sky from somewhere in the hills, congregating over the muddy sea of the battlefield. They dived and banked with rasping calls, like gulls in the wake of a fishing trawler, tempted by the human harvest of No Man’s Land.
From somewhere down the line a couple of shots went off into the flock followed by the sharp, scolding bark of an NCO. The shooting ceased.
Atkins shifted his body uneasily against the wooden planking of the revetment and wiped his sweat-slick hands on his thighs before repositioning the stock of his rifle more snugly against his shoulder. He looked out again across the landscape of mud and wire towards the forest. He hated this time of day; as the light failed, shifting shadows played tricks on the eyes. It seemed to him that whatever gloom slunk sullenly in the forest was now flowing sinuously from it.
“What else is out there, d’y reckon?” he wondered. “I’m hoping for wild women myself.”
“Don’t know, but a target’s a target,” replied Gazette, his eye never leaving his rifle’s sight. It was clear he had his ‘business’ head on. “It’s either alive or dead.”
“Yeah, either way, Porgy’d probably make a pass at it, eh?”
Gazette didn’t reply.
“Never thought I’d miss Fritz,” said Atkins. “At least with ’im you knew what to expect; the odd Minniewerfer or Five Nine. You knew where you were.”
“Reckon you’ll have cause to be even more nostalgic by the time the night’s out,” said Gazette. That was Gazette — a real barrel of laughs, but you didn’t have him round for his sparkling repartee. He was the sharpest shooter in the platoon, so you forgave him the odd lapse in manners.