They moved off sombrely through the undergrowth, knowing now to avoid the large airy sunlit glades, which they saw were dotted everywhere.
“Watch it, more of them damn Sting-a-lings,” said Mercy. The name seemed morbidly appropriate and, for want of anything better, it stuck, adding a new level of poignancy to the old soldier’s song.
Hobson took the lead followed by Ketch, with Everson bringing up the rear. As they progressed through the wood, each man glanced nervously about; every rustle, every breeze that stirred fronds or leaves or tendrils, every crack, every snap was now potentially something lethal. From elsewhere came the sound of muted rifle fire, screams and a whistle. One of the other sections was in trouble. There was nothing they could do about it but it didn’t help the tension any.
Out of the corner of his eye Atkins caught a flash of something. Before he could shout a warning, something man-sized and mottled green detached itself from a trunk and sprang at Lieutenant Everson. Large, saw-toothed mandibles clicked lustfully on empty air as the Lieutenant dived out the way.
Even as the men ran to their commander’s aid there was a husky cry and a figure hurled itself out of the undergrowth onto their assailant, deftly working a blade between the chitinous plates on the creature’s neck and, with a twist of his arm, severing the head.
There were three bayonetted rifles aimed at him as the man looked up, while the soldiers lifted the partially decapitated body of the man-beetle from their struggling, spluttering commander. Everson, red faced, kicked it away angrily and sat up, struggling to contain the wracking sobs of relief. With their rifles and a jerk of the head, Gazette, Mercy and Gutsy herded the wild man against a trunk and disarmed him. Sergeant Hobson examined the curved blade he carried.
“Bloody hell, he looks human,” said Gutsy, peering at the wild man.
The Lieutenant’s saviour was a wiry, well-muscled middle-aged man with wild greying hair and a scrubby grey beard. His face and arms were tanned and weathered. He was dressed in clothing that looked as if it had been assembled from various animal hides and vegetable barks. Across his chest and tied to his upper arms were chitinous plates, worn like armour, that looked as if they’d been acquired from creatures similar to the one in front of them.
“Here, Kameraden, you speak English?” asked Mercy.
“Don’t be so bloody silly!” said Gutsy. “Does he look like he can?”
The man’s eyes flicked from one to the other as they talked.
“I am Urman,” said the man, standing erect and thrusting out his chest proudly.
Gutsy’s mouth dropped open. When it came down to it, though, the Tommies were not too shocked that the man spoke English. As soldiers of the great and glorious British Empire, they were used to the idea that Johnny Foreigner would speak at least some English, even if it was in an odd accent. It was only right and proper, after all.
Everson was too shaken up by his near miss to question it.
“Where’d you come from, eh? Eh?” challenged Gazette, jabbing the air with his bayonet, causing the man to flinch.
“Leave him, Otterthwaite,” said Everson, who had just about recovered his composure. “He’s not a Bosche prisoner. He saved my life. He might just be the first friendly face we’ve seen here.” He stepped between his men and held out his hand towards the man.
The man looked at it blankly then tilted his head to examine the back of the Lieutenant’s hand as if there might be some concealed offering or weapon. Everson grasped the man’s hand gently and shook it.
“Well, I never!” said Pot Shot.
“Hands across the sea!” declared Gutsy, dumbstruck.
“Hands across my bloody arse!” muttered Ketch.
“We,” said Everson, “are Human. My name is Lieutenant James Everson, 2 Platoon, C Company, 13th Battalion Pennine Fusiliers of His Britannic Majesty’s Army. And yours…” he looked expectantly at the man, “is…?”
“Naparandwe,” he said, pointing at himself, then, eyes narrowing, “to what colony do you belong?”
“Colony?” said Everson frowning. “None.”
“You are Free Urmen?”
“Free? Well, yes.”
The man grinned again as if this was the right answer. “Yrredetti almost had you. Killed two of my clan,” he said, pointing at the lifeless bulk of the humanoid beetle creature. It seemed as if it had evolved to walk upright, and it was evidently able to blend in with its surroundings to almost devastating effect. He spat. Mercy spat, too and the man clapped his hands and grinned. “You are lucky they are solitary hunters.”
“Yes, thank you for that,” said Everson, running a finger underneath his collar, relieved that his neck was still there.
“Free Urman!” he said offering his hand to Mercy as Everson had done to him. As he repeated this with every man in the section his stomach gurgled obscenely.
“Are you hungry?” asked Atkins, rubbing his own stomach with pantomime gestures. The man nodded eagerly. Atkins opened his pack and took out his iron rations.
The action caught Ketch’s wary eye. “You touch that without permission, that’s a punishable offence,” he snapped. “Emergencies only.”
Atkins knew all too well. Two men in his last platoon were court-martialled for eating their iron rations while trapped in a shell hole in No Man’s Land for four days. Apparently that wasn’t emergency enough.
“He has my permission,” said Everson. “Go on, Atkins.”
Ketch grunted but backed off.
Atkins opened the tin of bully beef, prised a piece out with his fingers and ate it. He proffered the tin to the man who sniffed it cautiously before devouring the contents within moments, never taking his eyes off Atkins. The act of gouging and prising out the meat was something he seemed to be accustomed with, though probably not from tins, thought Atkins with a quick glance at the green mottled body of the dead Yrredetti. Pot Shot and Porgy offered him their tins and that all went the same way, followed by a large and satisfied belch. He looked hopefully around for his next offering.
“No mate,” said Gutsy shaking his head. “Napoo left. Sorry. All gone.”
“Napoo?” the man repeated with a grin, his white teeth showing in his berry brown face.
“Yeah. Napoo. I guess that’s what we’ll call you, too. Napoo,” said Gutsy, raising his eyebrows and nodding at the others for agreement. Uncomfortable with a culture not their own and unwilling to show their ignorance, this was easier than trying to pronounce the native’s own name.
“Can’t say he hasn’t earned it,” said Porgy with a sigh, looking at the empty tins. He reached up idly and plucked a ripe-looking fruit from a low hanging bough, absent-mindedly shining it on his trousers before lifting it to his mouth to take a bite.
“No!” The man suddenly leapt up and hit him squarely on the back between the shoulder blades. The fruit flew from his hand and was sent rolling across the ground.
Porgy turned round angrily and started to rise.
“What the hell did you do that for you, you little—”
“Hopkiss, sit down,” barked Hobson. “The man was doing you a favour.”
He pointed to where the fruit had fallen. It had cracked open and juice oozed out from fresh ripe flesh onto the grass, burning it away with acidic sizzles and pops.
“That’s the second time he’s saved our lives,” said Everson. “He seems to know what’s what around here. Frankly we could use his kind of help.” He turned to Napoo. “Can you help us? We need to find food. And water.”
“Food and water,” repeated Napoo, nodding.
“You help us?” Everson asked.