WEARY, FOOTSORE AND hungry the bedraggled column marched on, although the two day trek back was not without incident. Along the way, a small group of Chatt soldiers harried them, although they mostly kept their distance, still awed by the sight of the ironclad.
When they reached the open veldt the trail they had followed days ago was still there, cutting across the vast expanse of tube grass, but to what would it lead them?
The answer to their prayers came on the wind in the form of a faint insect drone. A dot in the sky resolved itself into the flimsy shape of Tulliver’s Sopwith as it circled them. Seeing the biplane raised their spirits and sent their hearts soaring. A rousing cheer went up as it passed low overhead. They waved their rifles and hats jubilantly above their heads and were delighted to receive a waggle of the wings in return. Knowing that that the muddy field they called home had not disappeared in their absence, their mood became more ebullient. The aeroplane wheeled above them once more, then flew on ahead, leading them home.
JEFFRIES STAGGERED UP the hill, away from the crashing sounds in the forest below. Whatever it was, it had been following him for some time now.
Escaping from the edifice in the confusion, he’d managed to pick up his dropped weapons and equipment, although the barrel of one Enfield was broken beyond use and he’d had to discard it.
Panting, he reached the crown of the hill and dropped his equipment. Paled into grey by the distance he could make out the Khungarrii edifice behind him, still smoking. He took the map out of his pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out on a rock. His eyes flicked from the parchment to the landscape and back again as he orientated himself, matching landmarks to symbols. He turned the map. Satisfied, he studied it more closely. He tapped a Croatoan sigil thoughtfully and looked out over the forest towards a line of hills some twenty miles away before folding the parchment away again. He checked his rifle, picked up his load and set off down the far side of the hill.
He was on the final road to meet his god and when he did, The Great Snake would rise again.
EVERSON HARDLY RECOGNISED the trench system when they saw it. In four days, Company Quartermaster Sergeant Slacke had begun to turn the field of Somme Mud into something resembling a defensible stronghold, a corner of a foreign field that was to them, for now, all that was England. A fire trench now ran all the way around the perimeter with saps and OPs projecting out into the scorched earth cordon.
Everson went to the hospital tents, where Napoo and Half Pint were made comfortable. They were gravely ill, but stable. All they could hope for was that infection didn’t set in. Padre Rand, who had been melancholic all the way back from the edifice, insisted on discharging himself from the MO’s care. Everson was keen to hear about his experience.
“I don’t know what to say, Lieutenant,” he told Everson. “What I experienced there severely tested my faith to the point where I rejected my God, but then,” he said with a self-effacing smile, “even St. Peter failed that particular test as I recall. Jeffries had me fooled. He had everyone fooled. I’m sure he had some machinations of his own. What they were I don’t know, but I do know he was willing to sell us all into slavery to get what he wanted. And these Khungarrii, although they look hideous to our eyes and their culture is like none I have encountered before, would we have reacted any differently in their shoes? Even so, I have a horrible feeling that we may have started a war where none was looked for.”
Everson rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, briefly wishing the entire world away, before dragging his hands down his face to confront it again with a sigh of resignation. “Could we have avoided it? Did we do the right thing?”
“‘When I was a child I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child,’” quoted the Padre. “We’re warriors, Lieutenant. We understand as warriors, we think as warriors. Was it the right thing to do? Only God can judge, although in mitigation, I must say, we are British.”
“Well, you’re back on form, then,” said Everson.
The Padre patted his Bible “I shall pray for us.”
THAT EVENING THE elation of the men, while temporary, was a pleasant and much needed diversion. The nurses danced gamely with as many men as they could until, exhausted by the constant demand for their attention, they retired for the night.
The noises of revelry and the slurred sound of a battered, hand-cranked gramophone warbling at varying speeds drifted down the steps into Everson’s dugout. “—Take me back to dear old Blighty; Put me on a train for London Town. Take me over there, drop me anywhere; Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham, well I don’t care…”
Everson sat looking dolefully at the light of the hurricane lamp through a glass of whisky. He was now the highest-ranking officer left in the 13th. Like it or not, these men were now his responsibility and it was a heavy load to bear. It was everything he never wanted.
On the table before him, the Battalion’s salvaged war diary lay open on blank pages. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to write this one up. Beside it, under a now empty bottle of whisky from his father’s own cellar, lay several maps and orders from Jeffries’ chest. On the edge of the table sat the man’s journal with its incomprehensible ciphers and sigils. Everson had spent the last hour or so examining them, looking for any clues that there might be a hint of truth in what Jeffries had said, looking for a shred of hope.
“I don’t know what to think. Is he pulling the wool over our eyes, are we chasing him up a blind alley, Hobson?”
“Not my place to say sir,” said Hobson.
“This is the last of it,” he said, swilling the malt around the dirty glass. “I was fully expecting to get another case when we went back into the reserves. Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen any time soon.”
“S’not true sir. It could happen tomorrow.”
“And if it doesn’t, Sergeant, what then?”
“With the help of Napoo and his people we can always find more food.”
“And ammunition? The only reason we survived that attack on the Khungarrii edifice was firepower. They hadn’t seen anything like it. And that’s another thing. I didn’t see anything there that would remotely suggest they had the ability to bring us here in the first place. No great scientific or technological advances. They were little more than savages. Mind you, once our ammunition runs out, we’ll be reduced to fighting on their level. And they have the superiority of numbers. They know where we are. They’ve come for us once. They’ll do it again. That’s a certainty. If nothing else, we’ve proved we’re a threat to them now and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Slacke has done sterling work the past few days. We’ve got the beginning of a stronghold we can defend until we can go home, but how long will that take?”
“Can we get home, sir?”
“Jeffries — Dwyer said he had a way, a map, information.”
“He could have been lying. Slippery bastard like that, you can’t trust a word that comes out of that man’s mouth.”
“He could have been lying to save his own skin, yes, but what if he wasn’t? I have to believe he’s telling the truth. Who knows what information he garnered from the Khungarrii? He was willing to sell us all into bondage over it, so it must have been important. No, we have to find him, Hobson.”
ATKINS FOUND HIMSELF summoned to Everson’s dugout. His stomach turned. You never knew what to expect when sent for by an officer.
“Atkins!” said Everson as the private entered and snapped to attention in front of the desk. “At ease, Atkins. At ease.”
Atkins relaxed his stance. “Thank you, sir.”