I’ve been picked as part of a foraging patrol, going out into the countryside to pick fruit and berries and the like. Mercy says it sounds like a bit if a lark. It’ll make a pleasant change from digging trenches though and no mistake. With no Hun to fight, that’s all they’ve had us doing the past few days, and on rations too. I tell you, we’re all getting fed up of Maconochie and Plum and Apple here. Half Pint says we’ll end up looking like jam tins at this rate. So here’s hoping we find something edible.
CHAPTER NINE
“GOD DAMN IT!” said Captain Lippett. It had been a bad couple of days for the surgeon. Apart from the usual round of battlefield wounds and infections there was a new rash of cases as the perils of the world about them began to make themselves known. The carcass of one of the worms was hacked up and roasted on the open ground between the supervision and support trenches, by some men who hadn’t had fresh meat in weeks. Those who ate the meat died agonising deaths in the night. It seemed from what Lippett was able to determine that the flesh was poisonous, containing some kind of toxin to which man had no immunity.
A Lewis gun team broke out in bloody pustules after eating a variety of knobbly yellow fruit that hung full and ripe, weighing down the rust-coloured boughs in the small grove of trees near the mud perimeter. The boils proceeded to swell at an alarming rate and to a grotesque size, disfiguring the face and body until the skin became taut like a drum, causing immense pain, before bursting so that those infected were left with terrible open wounds and died of blood loss or septicaemia.
After that the order was not to taste anything but to bring it back for the Medical Officer to conduct tests on to determine whether it was fit to eat or not.
2 PLATOON HAD been ordered to scout out the wood that lay maybe a mile away. It was the farthest any party had yet been. Although they didn’t say it Everson could tell the men were nervous. A platoon had gone out on a search for water the previous day, following the directions garnered from Tulliver and Jeffries’ reconnaissance flight. They had lost four men to animal attacks.
After Stand To, breakfast and parade the forty-two strong 2 Platoon headed out across the plain in Indian file. Every man had one in the spout. They all remembered the attack of the hell hounds and knew they were out here somewhere. Behind Atkins came Hepton, carrying his camera and tripod and several canisters of film in haversacks. He had asked for permission to join them, eager to record the wonders of this new world, if not the horrors, for he knew such vivid sights would sell seats. Then came Ginger, cooing happily into his gas helmet haversack in which he had stowed his new pet. Gordon’s flaccid whiskery snout poked out of the flap. Pot Shot, Gazette, Gutsy, Porgy, Half Pint and Lucky brought up the rear of the section, carrying a couple of rolled up stretchers to help carry whatever they managed to harvest. Sergeant Hobson and the other three sections of 2 Platoon followed on behind.
Atkins felt his stomach tighten. If the entrenchments disappeared back to Blighty while they were away they would be stranded. He, and every other man in the platoon, kept glancing back anxiously until the small escarpment of the mud field was lost from sight amid the thick tube-like grass. After that, their only comfort was the distant bark of NCOs heard through the man-high fronds that now surrounded them.
“At least if they stop we can tell that they’ve disappeared back to Blighty,” said Pot Shot.
“Yeah, I never thought I’d be grateful for an NCO,” said Mercy, throwing a glance behind him at a sullen Corporal Ketch.
Atkins watched as the edge of the forest grew closer. The fronds began to thin out and become shorter until the platoon found themselves merely wading though them, hip deep, as they approached the edge of the woods. The trees, if that was what they were, seemed to be similar to those in the odd copses they had observed growing in the vale about the entrenchment; great thick trunks that split into boughs protruding radially from the trunks and ending in large, flatish leaves. Those facing the sun were open. Those that faced away had closed, like inverted gentleman’s umbrellas. Some were already beginning to open in anticipation of the sun’s movement. A number of the trees vied for supremacy, some growing taller than their fellows in order to best deploy their umbrella leaves and absorb the maximum amount of sunshine.
At the edge of the wood Everson called a halt. “We’re here to find food. Don’t try anything yourselves. You saw what happened to 1 Platoon. We’re just here to bring back samples of anything we find that might be edible. Captain Lippett has ways and means of testing them, so let’s leave it to him, shall we? We need to be careful in there. We don’t know what kind of wildlife we’ll find. The damned beasts we’ve found so far have been none too friendly so watch your back. Don’t take any chances. We’ve got two hours, and frankly that’s longer than I want to spend away from the trenches under the present conditions and I’m sure you all have similar concerns.”
There were noises of agreement among the platoon.
“Right. 4 Section will hold this position in reserve with the Lewis gun. We’ll meet back here in two hours. If you get into any danger, your NCOs have whistles. I’ll go in with 1 Section. Good hunting!”
As they moved deeper into the wood, the trees they saw on the perimeter, unable to obtain enough sunlight, soon gave way to stranger vegetation. Some of this had great green tubers running down its sides, embedded in its huge thick trunks, like great veins. The trunks rose straight up, without interruption from bough or branch, into the canopy where they seemed to explode with foliage, each competing with its neighbours for the nourishing rays of the sun.
Further in, they came across a tree, an entanglement of thorny weed wrapped around its base. Here and there the mass supported large dark red blooms. Strands of the weed climbed up the trunk, wrapping itself so tightly about it that its barbed thorns drove deep into the bark, a clear thick liquid oozing from the puncture wounds.
“It’s like living barbed wire,” said Lucky, scuttling sideward to avoid a tendril as it moved weakly towards him.
“What kind of hell world is this?” said Porgy, shaking his head.
Even as they watched it Atkins could see this wire weed grow, spreading out feelers across the ground under some vegetable imperative he couldn’t fathom. The men skirted the slowly spreading carpet and pressed on.
The clatter of their weapons and gear was smothered by the surrounding vegetation and, every now and again, sharp cries and calls from the canopy or rustles and snaps from the undergrowth startled them, but they saw nothing.
As they advanced cautiously through the wood Everson heard something ahead. He put his hand up to hush the rest of the section. They stopped and cocked their heads, listening intently, fingers poised on the magazine cut-off catch on their rifles. The Lieutenant beckoned them forward, a warning finger on his lip. They pushed slowly through the undergrowth until it parted to reveal a large sunlit glade.
There, hopping about, feeding on close cropped grass, were a pack of Gordons. They squeaked as their furry snouts probed the ground, no doubt looking for some sort of insect or ground dwelling creature upon which they depended. In the middle of the clearing, towering over them all like some beneficent totem was a tall plant. It consisted of several stems, each as thick as an average man, entwined about each other and rising to a height of around eighteen feet. At its tip was a large bulbous yellow head and around the underside, hanging from the nodule, were small pods of varying sizes, like ripening fruits. A sweet smell hung around the glade. Atkins’ mouth began to water.