13
INTO THE SEWER
In the sewer, just under the manhole, there was an equipment cache: sets of leather waders like an angler’s, and gauntlets, and protective caps for the head, rather like a pilot’s. There was an immediate fear among the men that there wouldn’t be enough of the stuff to go around, a fear that proved all too justified, but as the stock was broken out Ted Lane made sure I got a set.
Once we were kitted out it took some time to get us all down that hole, one at a time – there were dozens in the party. It was a vivid experience for me when it was my turn, with Lane below me and Gray coming after. I remember how greasy the rungs of the ladder were, perhaps some measure against rust. As I descended I looked up at the diminishing circle of day, which by that time was already fading, and wondered what kind of landscape I would see when next I emerged into the light.
Then I was in the water, which was thick and muddy. By the light of electric torches we moved away from the manhole. The tunnel in which I found myself had a profile like an egg-shape, perhaps to give it structural strength. The bricks seemed to sweat, glistening with damp. I could feel shingle on the floor, through the thickness of the waders and my shoes. We were walking against the current, but the water was not quite waist-high, and the current was no more than a gentle push. And I was relieved it was nothing but water, as far as I could see, with none of the horrors I had imagined: no waste, no dead rats – or worse, live ones.
Even so it was tiring, and we soon fell silent as we plodded into the dark, one step after another, with only the pools of light cast by the torches of those ahead visible, their distorted shadows making them seem hulking, like inhuman forms. We did not speak much, though at first a few noisy fellows whooped to get an echo. And the jokers had a go: ‘Just think, lads. One quick rainstorm and we’ll all be flushed out like turds, all the way to the North Sea!’ But they soon shut up.
I could not track the time, with one gloved hand gripping my torch and the other skimming the greasy wall for balance. It was one of those experiences when you simply have to put your head down and endure, for counting the seconds won’t make it go by any faster, and you’re better off trying to forget where you are, what you are doing – who you are, if you can.
So I got through it, as did we all.
It was a huge relief when the walls opened out around us, and we came to a more open chamber. It was a cylindrical cave, the walls and flat roof more roughly finished than those of the sewer itself, and I surmised that this place was more recently built – constructed, indeed, since the Martians had arrived. The walls had been cut back at an angle so there were places where you could sit and lift your feet out of the water, or even lie down if you were lucky. This peculiar architecture was sustained by pillars of clay that had been left uncut to support the roof above us.
There we were, arrayed on the brick ledges like toys in a shop’s store room, with candles under-lighting our faces and the shallow water casting shimmering reflections on the brick roof. Talking softly, we broke out water and food and blankets from our packs. I was obscurely fascinated by the details of the men’s equipment, up so close: their uniforms, the greenish khaki, a woollen tunic, trousers, puttees, boots with iron toecaps and heels, the peaked cap – and the contents of the their kit-bags: each man had a toothbrush, soap, towel, spare bootlaces, a mess tin and fork, a razor – even a sewing kit – along with reading matter, mail from home, photographs and locks of their children’s hair… A mouth-organ or two. And probably French letters, tucked discreetly away.
The toilet was just an offshoot of the tunnel, a little way out of sight in either direction – more easily managed by men than women, but I found a way. We were in a sewer, after all.
‘A strange place to stay the night,’ I said to my companions, as Lane broke a chocolate bar and shared it with us. ‘But I have been more uncomfortable.’
‘And it’s as safe a spot as you’ll find anywhere within fifty miles of here,’ Lane murmured. ‘You want to try kipping in a trench in Siberia.’
‘I wonder where we’ll all be this time tomorrow.’
Gray said, ‘I know where we’re supposed to be, which isn’t always the case, and that’s good enough for now.’ He wriggled down and pulled his cap over his face.
I lay down too and made myself as comfortable as I could. I did not expect to sleep, not in such circumstances – deep in a sewer, under occupied London, with the men snoring all around me. But the echoes off the brick walls and the water and the breaths of my fellows merged into a kind of susurrus, broken by the plinking of water drops somewhere, and I was neither warm nor cold. Physically worn out, emotionally drained by the experiences of the day, I drifted gently to sleep.
I woke once to the sound of someone whimpering, off in the candlelight. It sounded like a child. There was a gruff rumble, a murmured, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ and then silence.
14
EMERGENCE
The next morning we completed our subterranean journey under London and surfaced, blinking in the dawn light, in the ruins of Hampstead. There was no time to sight-see.
We were hastily bundled aboard a small fleet of motoromnibuses, waiting in a rough, shell-cratered car park that might once had been the yard of a school now a blackened ruin. The vehicles were nothing but London buses, I saw, their company markings roughly covered over with camouflage paint, the dull green and brown and black that were the colours of England that summer. They did have peculiar flaring fins attached to the engine compartment at the front.
I was still more surprised to find Eric Eden waiting for me on one of the buses, somehow spruce in a clean-looking uniform. He grinned. ‘Beat you here – don’t ask me how! I’m glad to see you’re healthy and in one piece given your travels so far, Miss Elphinstone. We had to send you by the most secure route, uncomfortable though it may have been; I am a less valuable shipment.’ He eyed me now. ‘And I take it you are – I mean, the special package has been no burden?’
He meant, of course, the tainted blood that coursed in my veins. ‘Oh, everything is tickety-boo,’ I snapped back.
We boarded promptly and the bus rolled away, one of a small convoy on an otherwise empty road– heading west, I saw, from the angle of the rising sun, towards the lair of the Martians. Here, I learned, the scouts had assured the officers that there were no Martian patrols nearby, and it was comparatively safe to dash across this last bit of open ground. Eden sat with me on a scuffed leather seat, with Gray and Lane sitting behind. The rest of our group, groaning theatrically, slumped down in their seats, broke out water flasks, and started cadging cigarettes from each other.
Ted Lane, an NCO himself, watched this display with amused contempt. ‘Look at ’em, all grumbling and groaning. You wouldn’t think they’d all just come from eight hours’ lovely kip safe in that rat-hole, and a slap-up breakfast on top of that.’
Eden laughed. ‘Well, they can grumble about me all they want when my back’s turned, as long as they follow orders. And as long as we’ve got the right quality. In a set-up like this you need a mix. You want your fighters, but also men who have been miners, navvies, gangers on the railways – that sort, with practical skills. And a well-trained sapper is worth his weight in gold, of course.’
For me, from the beginning, this long journey had been one step in the dark after another, all the way from the bright daylight of Berlin. I asked now, ‘What “set-up”, Eric?’