We were out picking more fruit when there was a raid on our trenches by some bug-eyed Bosche and some of our chaps were snatched. Lt. Everson gave a speech and whipped the lads’ dander up good and proper. We’re setting out to get them back. The Lt. says they’ve enslaved the local natives, too. It’s disheartening to find that there are tyrants everywhere, but I suppose this is why I volunteered.
These Chatts, as the lads call them, make you feel squeamish just looking at ’em and, after what we had to put up with on the Somme, that’s saying something. Anyway, the Lt says these things may know how we can get home too. That is my dearest wish, next to William returning safe and sound.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE RESCUE PARTY set off several hours after the attack, the patriotic cheers of those left guarding the entrenchment ringing in their ears, the pride singing in their blood as the tank led the column off. Everson had made his point and without having to order them, in all, sixty men had volunteered for the dangerous raid, including 1 Section. Porgy said it was the biggest Black Hand Gang he’d ever seen. Poilus reluctantly agreed to accompany them, despite his fear of the tank, which he believed to be some sort of demon. Even Hepton volunteered, the chance of obtaining more heroic and fantastical footage proving too great to resist. Among those who stayed behind was Tulliver. Until he could repair his machine, he was grounded.
Morale had been high as they set off. Everson knew there was a long hard march ahead of them and estimated the action, with the return trip, might take three days to four days to accomplish. He charged Lieutenant Palmer with fortifying the entrenchments against the possibility of a repeat raid or retaliation.
The Chatts’ trail wasn’t hard to follow. Their passage had crushed and flattened a wide path of tube grass, fronds ripped and chewed in places as if by some great beast. And, despite a constant vigilance against hell hounds or anything else that might skulk out here, the march out of the valley and across the veldt, although steady and relentless, was relatively uneventful, thanks in part to the measured mechanical pace of the ironclad, whose dark, menacing shape and perpetual growl seemed to ward most things away.
Everson remembered the long marches along the Front whenever the battalion moved sectors. Forty miles in a day sometimes wasn’t uncommon with your boots rubbing your feet raw. Now, with the heat and the load they were carrying many of the men were already becoming weary, even as NCOs worried at their heels like agitated terriers chasing motor cars. Everson was aware of it, which was why he had to push them now, so that they could camp for the night and be fresh for the assault the next day.
THAT AFTERNOON, EVERSON stood on the roof of the tank and, through his binoculars, surveyed the dark line of forest ahead. Under him the tank growled impatiently, snorting smoke, as if the trees were a personal challenge and it was preparing to rip them up by the roots, each running up of the engine like the pawing of a bull’s hoof. Everson called down into the square hatch in front of him.
“It looks as though they’ve gone into the forest,” he bellowed above the din of the engine. There was no answer. He stamped loudly on the armoured plating. A sweaty, oily face peered up from below. Everson could only tell who it was by the fact that he was wearing an officer’s cap. A hot damp waft of muggy air, sweat, oil and engine fumes hit him as he squatted down to yell into the vehicle. “All right, Mathers. Take us in.”
The Tank Commander nodded and disappeared again. Everson walked back along the line of the tank and jumped down the back of the ironclad landship. The tank moved off with a jerk, rumbling and clanking, belching out black plumes of smoke from its rooftop exhaust as it followed the trail into the treeline.
THE PLATOON FOLLOWED behind the tank as it grumbled its way through the forest, following the clear trail, every now and again making minor course corrections so that it appeared to be sniffing out a scent, like a bloodhound. The canopy above was so thick that the exhaust fumes billowed back down towards them, creating a gritty grey smog that had the men coughing in fits.
They passed through a grove of pallid trees, whose gnarled and twisted trunks were interspersed with boles and fistulas and down which dripped thick, viscous slime that had the sweet sickly smell of gangrene about it. Small creatures drawn to its scent found themselves trapped in the substance. The whole effect of the grove conspired to produce an atmosphere that sought to absorb sound so that it fell dead almost the moment it was created.
Gordon started whimpering from inside Atkins’ gas mask bag. Damn thing. He didn’t even know why Lieutenant Everson told him to bring it. “Shut up,” he grumbled at the bag. Gordon didn’t. If anything the intensity of the mewling increased.
4 Section were bringing up the rear. They’d been singing half heartedly to keep their spirits up, however, travelling though the grove the singing grew harder to hear. “Sing up, Carter, I can barely hear you,” called Atkins, the sound of his own voice sounding leaden and curiously clipped. Hearing no answer, he glanced round. 4 Section had vanished.
“Carter?”
Atkins heard something above him. He looked up. A thick, gelatinous string was dropping towards him. Before he could move or scream the warm, wet mucus landed heavily on him and it slithered down over his head and torso, enveloping him. The world about him vanished behind a grey-green film. It was thick and heavy and his struggling bore no fruit. He tried to breathe but the slime was smothering him. He began to panic as he felt the ground disappear from beneath him. Something began drawing him up into the canopy. He thrashed about and kicked his legs but the thick glutinous mass held him firm. His struggle only succeeding in using up what oxygen he had left and his lungs started to burn. He began to lose consciousness. His last thought was of Flora kissing him on the cheek — Blushing, Flora pushed away from him and, smiling fondly, busied herself brushing lint from his lapels before holding him at arm’s length for inspection. She nodded approvingly. “Come on, walk me back. Mam will be wondering where I’ve got to.” As he walked her home from the Picture House, her arm through his, he felt as if his very heart would burst. He blushed furiously, feeling as if every step he took would thrust him skywards. She didn’t look at him; she kept her eyes straight ahead and kept the small talk polite and parochial. If only she were his. He envied his brother’s good fortune. William. His momentarily buoyant heart sank, weighed down by thoughts of his brother. His cheeks still burned, but with shame at the conflicting feelings that now tugged at his heart—
He felt another tug. Something began pulling at his feet, against the suction of the mucus shroud. Another tug threatened to pull his head off as he was drawn down, inch by inch. The mucus wall in front of him thinned and began to tear. More light. A face drifted into focus against the grey green wall of snot. He felt the suction against him weaken. Muffled voices began to reach his ears. He felt as though he was being ripped in two, the webbing and pack resisting the downward pull. He felt strong arms grab his thighs and hold him tight. The mucus began to slide up over his face until he fell heavily, landing on top of Pot Shot and Gutsy and heaving down great lungfuls of air. He looked up to see the long stringy mucus tendril begin to recede back up into the canopy.