“Your section’s lost two NCOs in almost as many weeks. Sergeant Jessop was a good man. He had family, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. A wife and three children. Last were born a month ago. He hadn’t even seen him.”
“I’d write to his wife, but—” Everson gave a dismissive wave towards the curtained doorway at the world outside and shrugged. “Even if I could I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“No, sir.”
“Which brings me to you and your recent behaviour, Atkins. Ketch didn’t have a good word to say about you, apparently.”
“Sir?” said Atkins. He was not sure where this was heading, but an awful suspicion formed in his mind.
“It’s all right, Atkins. Relax. I knew Ketch of old. A cantankerous old sod and one hell of a toady. Was when he was working at my father’s brewery, was in France by all accounts.”
“Sir.”
“On the other hand, I’ve been impressed by your courage and actions. You’ve certainly proved your worth on all our recent Black Hand Gang stuff. I’ve spoken to Hobson, here. He tells me you’re popular and a good man to have in a tight spot. Your section needs a new NCO. I can’t promote you, but I need NCOs, so I’m giving you a field appointment to Lance Corporal.”
“Sir, I can’t. You don’t want me.” Atkins forgot himself and started forwards. A warning cough from Sergeant Hobson made him catch himself and stand fast.
“Nonsense, Atkins. You’ve earned it. If there’s one thing I need, it’s people I can trust. You’ve proved yourself worthy.” Everson stood up, stepped round his makeshift desk and grasped Atkins’ hand in a firm handshake he barely had the enthusiasm to return. If only Everson knew. If only his dugout mates knew his true colours.
“Is that all, sir?”
“Not yet, Lance Corporal. You and I are the only ones who have any idea what Jeffries — Dwyer — was talking about back at the edifice. I’ve just been looking through the papers you found in his dugout. From the bits I can make out it’s quite a sordid tale.”
“Sir, did he bring us here with some diabolic pact?”
“I’m sure he thinks so, but look—” Everson lifted the empty whisky bottle out of the way and turned the uppermost map around. It was an artillery map, showing British gun positions and barrage targets across the Harcourt Sector. Marked in red were five locations, two beyond the German lines, two behind the British, one in No Man’s Land, all joined by pencil lines to form a perfect pentacle.
“He must have been planning this for weeks, typing up his own orders on blank order sheets, impersonating artillery officers — Tulliver thought he recognised him.
“Is that what he was saying about a geographic whatsit?” said Atkins, looking at the five-pointed star.
“I’d say so, yes. Don’t believe in the mumbo jumbo lark myself. It looks like a magic circle or something, but see here.” Everson took a pencil and a piece of string. Holding one end of the string on a mark in the centre of the pentacle, he drew a circle. Atkins watched with mounting apprehension and dismay at the pencil intersected each point of the five-pointed star on the map.
“So it’s true, then. He did conjure some spell and transport us here?”
“He certainly thinks so,” said Everson, now planting the fingertips of his hand on the map and moving it aside, only to pull another map out from underneath. It was a similar map, only this one had a much cruder circle drawn over it encompassing the Harcourt sector, enclosing the British trenches currently held by the 13th Pennine Fusiliers. “This one was taken from observations made by Lieutenant Tulliver after we arrived here and surveyed by CQS Slacke in our absence.”
“So?”
“Whatever happened, whatever brought us here, I don’t think it was the result of Jeffries’ occult practices. Look.” He took the one map, laid it on top of the other, and held both up in front of the hurricane lamp for Atkins to see. He adjusted them slightly with his thumbs so the trench positions matched up. The two circles however, did not. Oh, there was an overlap, but they didn’t cover the same ground.
“What do you think of that?” Everson said.
“They’re not the same, sir,”
“No. Jeffries’ circle doesn’t correspond to the one we’re stood in right now. It’s just coincidence, d’y’see?”
“So it’s got nothing to do with Jeffries. And when he said that he knew the way home?”
“That, I can’t be sure about. It seems he may have learnt some things from the Khungarrii. He mentioned the name Croatoan. Poilus has mentioned it too. There’s something else going on here and this Croatoan thing seems to be key, it keeps cropping up. That can’t be coincidence, it means something but I don’t know what. All I have are Jeffries’ indecipherable notes. That damn man has caused irreparable damage. But he’s left us with one thing — the possibility of a way home and I suppose for that we should be grateful.”
LANCE CORPORAL THOMAS ‘Only’ Atkins stepped out of the dugout an NCO, but it was a hollow moment. He didn’t deserve this. He felt he was deceiving his friends and the Lieutenant. He had left chaos and calamity in his wake, as Jeffries had. He took out the letter he’d taken from Ketch, Flora’s letter to him, the last post. He held it tightly in his hand as he refused to let the tears fall.
Above, the unfamiliar stars were coming out one by one; the constellation they called ‘Charlie Chaplin’ hung low in the heavens against the gaseous red ribbon that trailed across the alien sky. This new world, like Atkins’ fortunes, continued to turn, but for good or ill, he couldn’t say.
A bright point of light rose above the horizon. It was the brightest star in the sky, the star they had christened ‘Blighty’. Atkins looked towards it, held the thought of Flora in his mind and made the most fervent wish he could.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank: Jean Spencer of the Broughtonthwaite Genealogical Society without whom I would never have stumbled across this story in the first place. I am also grateful to Bill Merchant of the Broughtonthwaite Real Ale Society for an insight into the history of Everson’s Brewery and the Everson family in particular. I am extraordinarily indebted to Arthur Cooke, author of The Harcourt Crater: Hoax or Horror? for access to his own private collection of documents, letters and diaries pertaining to the incident and especially to surviving footage from the original Hepton film. I would also like to thank the Moore Family for their permission to view the letters and diary of Private Garside. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Stephen Maugham, secretary of the Broughtonthwaite Historical Society for his enthusiasm and tireless work in tracing original documentation. I should also thank Graham Bassett and the staff of The Pennine Fusiliers Regimental Museum for providing me with exhaustive details on the deployment and movements of the “Broughtonthwaite Mates” prior to November 1916 and whose otherwise polite refusals to supply further information only served to confirm and bolster my own research. I am also grateful to Sarah Purser of the Jodrell Bank Press Office and to Michael Wild for agreeing to discuss, over a pint of Everson’s Old Fusilier, the speculations still surrounding the Harcourt event. Special thanks must also go to Jim Sherman of the War Museum of the North’s Photographic Department and Mike McCulloch of the Broughtonthwaite and District Mercury in attempting to identify soldiers and individuals appearing in the Hepton footage. I would also like to thank my wife, Penny, for her continued support, encouragement and long hours transcribing interviews. Finally, I must also pay tribute to those descendants of the men of 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers who spoke to me privately for fear of ridicule and censure.