“Bloody ’ell, you’re right,” said Gutsy, throwing the book down as if it had stung him. “You think he’s a Jerry spy? He seems the sort. Hates his own men worse than Fritz.”
Mercy casually glanced around the place, looking for anything of value. Seeing nothing of immediate or obvious interest, he bent over with a grunt and began feeling about under the thin straw mattress on the wire frame bed. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. I always thought there was something a little ‘off’ about him. He was always a bit too full of himself. Only, give us a hand will you?”
Atkins dropped down on his knees by his friend, who, finding nothing under the mattress, put his hand under the bed. Mercy pulled a suitcase into the light, the oxblood red leather case scuffing along the dirt-covered floor as they did so. Half-heartedly, Atkins tried opening it and was relieved to find it locked. But Mercy wasn’t going to be beaten. He pulled his bayonet from its sheath, jimmied the lock and opened the suitcase.
“Bloody hell.”
“Hey, you chaps ought to see this,” said Gutsy, pulling at a loose-fitting piece of tea-chest panelling. It came away exposing a sackcloth curtain which he pulled back to reveal a hidden niche. “What do you make of this little lot?”
They peered into the niche. There were ornate silver candleholders and a ceremonial dagger of some exotic foreign design, along with a black stone with a symbol carved in it.
“Loot?”
“Looks expensive, like he’s robbed a church or museum or summat.”
“Yeah, but why keep ’em there? Not exactly hidden is it?”
Atkins turned his attention back to the contents of the suitcase. There, he found a private’s uniform with patches indicating it to be from the Black Foresters — the Midland Light Infantry, and an Artillery officer’s uniform, neither had any links with the Pennines. There were five pay books, one of a Private and the others of several officers and an assortment of identity discs, cap badges and regimental patches. Stuffed under the uniforms were maps and papers; maps of Harcourt Sector showing British artillery positions and barrage targets, Battalion papers with dates of leaves and transfers; some old, some yet blank and undated.
“Something bloody odd’s going on here,” said Atkins.
“Who’d have stuff like this but a bloody spy!” said Mercy. “Gawd almighty!”
“Do you think the Lieutenant knows?” asked Porgy.
“Do you want to ask him?” Half Pint said. “Sir, we were just looting the Lieutenant’s dugout when we came across these?”
“We have to tell him,” said Atkins. “It’s the right thing to do. If we don’t it’s failing to inform. Look, I trust Lieutenant Everson. I don’t trust Jeffries. And certainly not now. There’s something rum going on here and frankly I’d feel a lot more comfortable if we had the Lieutenant on our side.”
UNFORTUNATELY, ATKINS COULDN’T go straight to Everson. This was the army. You didn’t just barge up to an officer. It wasn’t done. You had to go through an NCO. He had to go through Hobson. He was more worried about the Sergeant’s reaction than the Lieutenant’s. Nevertheless, with the ‘evidence’ bundled up in an Army blanket, Atkins sought him out.
The Platoon Sergeant looked at him sternly and not without a little suspicion, glancing through the items, singling out the coded journal and the exotic knife as Atkins explained his finds.
“I think you’d better come with me, lad,” he said.
They found Everson with Tulliver in the Company HQ. He was having a heated exchange of words with the Flying Officer.
“Sir,” said Sergeant Hobson. “Atkins here has something to say. I think you’ll want to hear it.”
“This’ll have to wait, Tulliver,” said Everson. Exasperated, Tulliver turned to leave the tent. “What is it Atkins, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.”
“It’s about Gilb— Lieutenant Jeffries, sir.”
Tulliver turned from the tent flap when he heard the name. “Wait, did you say Jeffries?”
“We were combing the entrenchments, sir, and thought we heard something in one of the dugouts,” said Atkins. “It was Lieutenant Jeffries’ one, sir. We — we found this stuff scattered about the floor.” Atkins emptied the blanket’s contents; clothing, papers, maps, pay books, discs and museum loot onto the table. “We didn’t pay much heed at first, sir, until we noticed the pay books. They aren’t for men in his platoon, sir. They aren’t even for men in this battalion. Blood thought he might be a Jerry spy, sir, and that we ought to report it.”
“Stop right there, Atkins,” said Everson. “Those are very serious charges. You can’t just bandy about such accusations like that.”
“But, sir…”
“Leave this with me. Thank you Atkins. That will be all. Dismissed.”
“Sir.”
Atkins saluted and left, feeling disappointed and dismayed by Everson’s noncommittal reaction. However, he told himself, he’d done the right thing this time, or at least he hoped he had.
ALTHOUGH HIS DISMISSAL of Atkins might have been brusque, it was only because the evidence in front of him troubled Everson. He been sorting out the logistics of a raid on Khungarr and frankly the odds weren’t in their favour. “Do you believe him, Hobson?”
“I believe they found this stuff in Jeffries’ dugout, yes, sir.”
“And what about these? Any of these names mean anything to you?”
The Sergeant flicked through the pay books and shook his head. “No, sir.”
Tulliver began leafing through the books himself, opening and discarding one after another. “Wait. This one. Hibbert. I know this name.”
“From where?” asked Everson.
“Artillery officer. I took him up for a look-see three or four weeks ago. It’s not something I’ve done often, so it stuck in my mind. Fella had this queer way of signalling ‘okay’, with his thumb and forefinger, which I thought was odd. Most people use a thumbs up. Then when I met that chap, Jeffries, I thought he looked damned familiar, you remember? He half convinced me we hadn’t met at all, then, when I took him up the other day, he used the self-same signal. I’d swear it’s the same man, although he didn’t have a moustache then. And this,” he said, picking up the officer’s jacket with the artillery patches and badges. “This was Hibbert’s mob. How do you explain this? It could have been he who sabotaged my machine, because it was sabotage. The petrol feed was punctured after he thought I recognised him. And he couldn’t have failed to notice that spire I saw in the distance, reflecting the sun the way it did. You didn’t believe me ten minutes ago, but surely you can’t ignore this? The man’s up to something, though God knows what his bloody game is.”
“Hmm.” Everson studied the papers for a while and then looked at the artillery barrage maps which showed a pattern of bombardment marked over the Harcourt Sector “There’s something peculiar about these maps, too.”
He turned to the Flying Officer and came to a decision. “All right, maybe there are allegations to answer here, Tulliver, but Jeffries will have to wait. Our main objective is to rescue our people and our secondary objective is to free these subjugated Urmen from the… Khungarrii.” He turned to Sergeant Hobson, who was leafing through a sheaf of Jeffries’ blank battalion orders. “Sergeant, get the men on parade.”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Everson stood under the ragged Union Jack, before a parade of weary, discontented men as NCOs barked and cajoled them into order. It had long been a point of contention among the Red Tabs that, at the Front, the men’s aggression should be channelled into attacks and trench raids to prevent them becoming an idle, disaffected rabble. While he was sure they would be glad of the opportunity of action, he may well have to convince them of it. However, as much as they needed an objective and motivation, above all they needed hope.