Among the missing were Captain Grantham, Padre Rand, Lieutenant Jeffries, Napoo, the three nurses and about twenty-five other ranks.
“Seems to have been a well-planned raid,” Sergeant Hobson said bitterly.
“We’ve got to go after them, sir,” said Porgy.
“We will, Hopkiss, we will,” said Everson. “But first things first. We have to secure the entrenchments. We have to wait for the other Forage Parties to come back. And we have to find out exactly what we’re up against. Then we have to put together a plan of attack and get a party together to go after them. Rushing into this won’t do us any favours.”
It seemed though, from Ration Dump rumour, that wasn’t good enough for a section of Jeffries’ Platoon, who had grabbed their guns and just gone after them; it was twenty minutes before anyone noticed that they were missing.
“Idiots!” said Everson. He was now the ranking infantry officer in the entrenchment. “Hobson, order the NCOs to take roll calls. Find out if anyone else is missing.”
TULLIVER AND THE tank crew returned in Ivanhoe from their petrol fruit forage trip, unaware of the raid until they were met with the organised chaos of mobilising infantry.
“Tulliver, how quickly can you get your machine in the air?” asked Everson.
“Give me ten minutes,” said Tulliver.
“They’ve got about three hours on us by now. Can you track them, see which way they’re headed?”
“Yes, I can do that but the state of the strip isn’t perfect. I don’t want to do too many take off and landings there without flattening the ground more.”
“Right, I understand, but for now?”
“I’ll chance it.”
Everson watched anxiously as Tulliver and a couple of soldiers pulled the aeroplane out of its makeshift tarpaulin and brushwood hangar. The pilot waved at him as he stood by his machine. Everson raised his hand in reply and watched the young lad climb into his cockpit and strap himself in. A soldier pulled the propeller. Contact. Tulliver ran up his engine, testing it. Finally, the Sopwith began to run forwards eagerly. Tulliver gave it its head, the tail left the ground before the end of the take-off strip, and it lifted up across the fronds of tube grass. The aeroplane wheeled around the entrenchment before climbing and veering off, following the path Everson told him the arthropod raiders had taken. Everson turned from the aeroplane and headed back towards the trenches and the Casualty tents.
IN THE DANK-SMELLING tent, Everson sat down next to Poilus. The young savage sat up in his cot, drinking a dixie of water. He looked disconcertingly out of place wearing striped pyjama bottoms. God knows where they’d come from. “Tell me about the Khungarrii,” he said.
“They are of the Ones,” said Poilus, as if that explained all.
“They’ve taken my men. Napoo, too. We intend to get them back but we need to know what they’re going to do with them.”
Poilus sighed. “Khungarrii always take Urmen. They make them work for them in Khungarr; building, mending, growing, cleaning…”
“But not you. They didn’t take you.”
“The sick and frail are no use to them,” said Poilus with a hint of disgust at his own weakened state.
“Because they can’t work them as slaves?”
“I don’t know this word.”
Everson didn’t feel like explaining. He pressed on with his questions. “How many Khungarrii in Khungarr?”
“I do not know. Many. A great number.”
“And Urmen?”
“Many.”
“Damn,” muttered Everson. For someone who resented the weight of responsibility, it looked like his load had just become a lot heavier.
TULLIVER BANKED HIS machine with a little left rudder and turned to follow the trail that was plainly visible from this height, cutting a swath through the tube grasses of the valley, but of the raiders and their prisoners there was no sign. The valley side’s fell away diminishing into foothills before a vast veldt opened up below him. He followed the trail across it for some twenty miles until he saw it vanish into a huge forest that seemed to extend for hundreds of square miles. Amid the forest, something glinted in the sun. A large tower-like structure rising above the tree canopy, twinkling as if—
The engine started to cough and splutter fearfully. That wasn’t good. Best head for home. He throttled up, pulled the stick back to gain more height, and turned the machine towards the khaki coloured smudge of drying mud in the distance.
“Just another ten minutes, old girl,” he urged. But he wasn’t going to get it. He grimaced, throttled back and put the nose down before shutting the engine off. Better not to risk the engine, not in this place; there was no machine-shop to repair it if it went. The choking cough of the engine silenced, the only sound now was the wind whistling through the struts and interplane wires as he glided in, making for the burnt strip ahead. He circled to make his landing, skimmed over the top of the tube grass and came down a little inelegantly for his tastes, but without any further mishap. He jumped out to examine the machine. The fault didn’t take too long to find. The petrol feed pipe had been crudely punctured. Since there was no corresponding hole in the fuselage, it could only indicate that someone had tampered with it from inside. Luckily, it shouldn’t be too hard to fix. The control lines were another matter. Someone had tried to file through those as well. If they had failed while he was in the air he would have lost complete control. Thankfully, whoever it was hadn’t done their job too well. Nevertheless, there was only one word for it. Sabotage.
IT HAD BEEN Porgy’s idea, but nobody was against it, if it took his mind off Edith for a while.
“Gilbert the Filbert’s had it coming,” said Porgy as they crept down the comm trench.
“We can do his dugout over and blame it on them Chatts. No one’ll ever be the wiser. I’ll bet there’ll be some good loot in there. Whisky. God, what I wouldn’t give for some good whisky.”
Mercy had insisted on coming with them, hissing, sucking and cursing with pain from his beating all the way.
It wasn’t long before they reached the switch where Jeffries’ dugout was located.
“We’ll be up for it an’ no mistake if we get caught, fellas,” said Pot Shot hesitantly.
“We’re here now. We’re only looking for a little payback, Pot Shot, that’s all,” said Mercy, wincing. “The least that bastard can give me is a decent malt.” He pushed back the gas curtain and stepped down into the dugout.
Atkins looked apologetically at Pot Shot and shrugged, “Look, stay here and keep watch. We won’t be long, I’ll stop him from doing anything too stupid.” He knew this was a bad idea, but then so was going over the top and that had never stopped them before. He dealt with it the same way: one step in front of another. It was dark in there and smelt of stale sweat, hair oil and damp earth, and there was another peculiar odour, like sour potpourri. It began getting crowded as Gutsy and Gazette entered behind him, their bulks blocking out what little light filtered down from the entrance.
Porgy went over to the small crate that served as a writing desk. On it were a pack of worn cards and a leather-bound journal surrounded by a circle of salt. “Diary of an officer,” he said, holding it up with a leer and a wink. He riffled through the pages. His face screwed up in frustration and disappointment. “’Ere, these entries are all in code. Look, there are symbols and things… I can’t make head nor tail of it.”
“Let me have a look,” said Gutsy, picking up the volume and licking the tip of his index finger before turning a page.
“I’m telling you. It’s in code,” said Porgy. “You don’t reckon he’s in military intelligence, do you? We’re in deep if he is.”