CHAPTER SIX

 

"What's the Use of Worrying..."

 

"I'm going to need numbers, Sergeant; roll call and casualties," Everson said as he inspected the fire trench along his Platoon Front. After the attack by what they were calling hell hounds, the men were stood to on the fire step, rifles at the ready. Any questions the men might have were silenced by Hobson's stern glance, for which Everson was thankful. He had no idea what had happened. Right now he was as ignorant as his men, which was not a position he liked to be in and one he was even less likely to want to admit to. Latrine rumours were flying about. You couldn't stop them. Those that thought they'd suddenly materialised in Paradise and the Just Reward they so richly deserved were quickly disabused by the attack of the creatures. Now they were convinced they were in Purgatory. Others thought it Hell, although that argument was soon sunk by the virtue of them having been on the Somme which was itself the very definition of hell. Best to nip such gossip in the bud, if you could. Having stalled after the initial confusion over the strange surroundings and the attack of the beasts, the great military machine was beginning to reassert itself.

"I want you to keep the men busy," Everson told Hobson. "Don't want 'em getting windy. After they're stood down, set them to repairing the trenches. Work will keep them occupied until we can sort out what the hell is going on here."

Cries and moans from the wounded drifted over from No Man's Land, those wounded by Fritz in the initial attack and those poor souls left alive by the attacking hell hounds. That was the real morale sapper, he knew. In a Pals Battalion like the Broughtonthwaite Mates, those weren't just any soldiers, those cries came from people you'd known all your lives. That's what became unbearable; the knowledge that they weren't just going to die. With gut-shots or shrap wounds they could lie out there for days, begging for help, crying for their mothers, calling for you to help them, and you knowing that if you tried to help them, you'd be joining them on the old barbed wire. That's what broke men, that's what ground insidiously away at morale. Oh, the bombs and the shells and the sniping got to some after a while, but this was the clincher.

"Sergeant?"

"Sir?"

"Best, get a party together with stretcher bearers, too, and start bringing in some of those woundeds while we've still got daylight. Those damned beasts are still out there somewhere. See to it, will you?"

"Sir," he said. Everson left him to it, turned down the comm trench and began to work his way back to where the temporary HQ had been set up and a Company meeting arranged.

 

Hours later, with only the occasional reappearance of a wily hell hound or two, the men were stood down with only sentries left on guard against further attack. Those not on duty retired to the support trenches.

"Fuck, look lively here comes Hobson," said Porgy, sucking the last dregs of smoke from his Woodbine before dropping it in the mud to sizzle and die.

"Great. Ketch'll be in charge of the Section. Bet he couldn't wait," muttered Mercy as they noticed the Corporal skulking along behind the Sergeant, "and Jessop barely cold."

"Right, you lot, finished sitting around on our arses have we?" said Hobson. "Then there's work to do."

"Sarn't," said Porgy, putting a hand to his grubbily bandaged pate, "Me head's spinning. I think it's that crack I got last night."

Atkins could almost hear the rest of the Section groan and suppressed a smirk. Bloody Porgy. He had an aversion to manual labour. Had to keep his hands soft for his long-haired chums, or so he said.

"Right, Hopkiss," said Hobson, almost wearily. "Let's get you to the MO then and see what he has to say. If you're malingering, I'll have you. The rest of you fall in. Come on," he barked when they were slow to get up, "put some jildi into it!"

They got up and put themselves into lacklustre order.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you're a sorry bunch. If your mothers could see you now they'd be ashamed!" he snapped. "You lot are on trench fatigue. I'll leave it to Corporal Ketch to sort the details out. They're all yours, Corporal." And he set off, escorting Porgy to the MO. Porgy turned and gave Atkins a quick wink before Hobson shoved him down the comm trench.

"Right," said Ketch slowly once Hobson had gone, the sneer on his lips smearing itself across his face. "We're going down Broughton Street for a bit of digging, so grab your entrenching tools."

There was a lot of muttering and sighing as they picked up the spades from their kits and began sloping off down the trench.

"Not you, Atkins," said Ketch. "I've got another job for you. Don't think saving me from them hell hounds has won you any favours, cos it hasn't. You suffer too much from cheerfulness you do. Well, I've got the cure. You're a cocky little shit, d'y'know that?"

"Here, steady on Corp!" said Mercy.

Ketch shot him a look and carried on.

"And shit should be in the latrine. Sanitation duty until I say so."

"Corp!" objected Atkins, but knowing it was an argument he was going to lose, Atkins bit his tongue. Mercy had no such reservations.

"Quit riding the lad, Ketch. You may be an NCO but apres le guerre I'll have you cold, mate," he said stepping between Ketch and Atkins and going to-to-toe with the Corporal.

"For that you can join him, Evans, you like getting yourself in the shit so much."

Once Ketch had dismissed them and they'd gone off to fetch their tools, Atkins turned to Mercy.

"What up with him? Why's he got it in for me?"

"Ketch? Regular four-letter man he is. He was foreman over at Everson's brewery before the war an' he didn't 'alf lord it over us. Thought he had it cushy 'til old man Everson decided to let the workers form a union, didn't he? Aggravated Ketch no end that did, but there were nowt he could do about it, was there? War broke out, we joined up to get away from the bastard only to find that, as a foreman, he'd been made an NCO. He's worse now than he ever was," Mercy said with sardonic grin. "He hates everyone and everything."

"Because?"

"Because they are and he's not."

"Not what?"

"Tall, handsome, rich, popular, sergeant, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Take your pick. But don't worry about him, It's not worth it. Look on the bright side, Sanitation duty stinks but shouldn't take more than a couple of hours," said Mercy with a smile and a wink. "Gives us an easy ride while the others are breaking their backs, don't it?"

 

Padre Rand, having left Tulliver with Captain Grantham, escorted the VADs through the trenches drawing curious glances from some of the men as they passed.

"Where are we going?" asked Nellie Abbott.

"To see the Regimental Medical Officer. He's trying to set up a Dressing Station here until we can find a way back to your hospital."

"Looks like you're going to have to find the Somme first," said Nellie chirpily.

Edith bowed her head and smiled privately. She liked this young, tough woman.

"Driver Abbott, you may not be under my direct supervision, but I'll ask you to show some respect to your betters," said Sister Fenton.

Edith saw Nellie bite her lip and flick a dirty look to Sister Fenton and loved her all the more.

"But she's got a point, hasn't she Sister?" said Edith. "We don't know where we are and that... that creature...."

"It probably escaped from a zoo, or some such, Bell," said Sister Fenton. "Or it's a new kind of attack hound bred by the Hun. I'm sure they're not above doing that sort of thing. Remember poor Belgium?"

They followed a crudely painted sign and turned a corner to find a wide, bombed out shell hole appropriated as a sort of waiting room. Dozens and dozens of men sat about listlessly. Some bandaged, some staring vacantly ahead. Others lay on stretchers, still and lifeless. The group worked their way through the crowd of men, who parted quietly, politely, until the nurses came to a lean-to structure made from timber, corrugated iron and sandbags.

"Captain Lippett?" enquired Padre Rand.

A man, late thirties, with slickly oiled hair and a small pair of pince-nez sat on his nose, dressed in shirt sleeves and braces, wearing a blood-stained apron, looked up from a bare-chested, pale skinned man, whose arm wound he was cleaning. "Padre. If you've coming looking for work there's plenty. Many of these men will die today. I haven't the time or the facilities to deal with them here. I've got a large percentage bleeding from eyes, ears and nose. Never seen anything like it. Damned if I know what's caused it. Been tellin' 'em it was the gas. Seems to keep 'em quiet for a while. Tompkins," he called to a nearby orderly, "dress this man's wounds. Bloody lucky there, private."

"Light duties, Doc?" the man asked weakly.

"For you? Yes, I'd say so."

The man could barely disguise his smile as the orderly led him away.

"Actually, I've brought you some help," said the Padre.

Captain Lippett turned to look at the women over the top of his glasses. He obviously wasn't pleased with what he saw. He hurriedly took the Padre by the arm and dragged him away. There seemed to be a heated discussion going on between them. Edith made out the words "Women!" several times. It was clear that the MO didn't approve of their being there, but here they were and there was nothing to be done about it. In the end the officer threw up his hands in submission and returned to the nurses.

"Well, if you're so put out, Captain, I'd be obliged if you could just arrange transport back to the hospital," said Sister Fenton.

"Sister, I have absolutely no idea what's going on. And it would seem motor ambulances, or indeed transport back to anywhere, is beyond us at the moment. In the meantime, however, we have many injured men here and, while I believe that this is no place for a woman, frankly I could use your help."

Which was about as much apology as they were going to get. Nellie was set to sterilising equipment and finding bandages, while Sister Fenton assisted the MO with the more serious cases. Edith was assigned the duty of helping MO orderlies assessing and treating the crowd of walking wounded. She cast her eyes around the crater. There were so many of them waiting around stoically and the stretcher bearers were bringing more. There was a sudden rush as the more ambulatory felt they would rather be treated by a woman than the rough hands of Privates Tompkins and Stanton.

A soldier with a bandaged head caught Edith's attention, or rather, his grin did. She beckoned him over. He shuffled over humbly, steel helmet in hand, dirty bandages covering his head, and sat down on an ammunition crate.

"Ain't you a sight for sore eyes?" he said. "We don't ever get nurses this far up the line. I must have died and gone to heaven," he said.

"Any more talk like that and you'll wish you had," she said firmly as she began unwinding the bandage from around his head. She gently eased the dressing off his wound. He winced. Edith uncovered the now scabbing furrow on his temple. The wound, at least, seemed clean.

"My name's George. George Hopkiss, but my mates call me Porgy," he said. "Guess why?"

"I can't imagine," she said, keeping her business-like demeanour, working intently on his wound, feeling herself blush.

"Kiss the girls and make 'em cry, don't I?"

"Well that's not much of a recommendation, is it?"

"Do you fancy walking out with me down Broughton Street tonight?"

"Shhh. Or Sister will hear!"

"She can come too, if she likes," he grinned.

"Now, now I'll have none of that. I'll have you know I'm a respectable lady."

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

"I was a debutante. I was presented at Court before the war."

"You don't say! Cor, That's as good as Royalty to me. Fancy!" said Porgy amazed, trying to turn round, but she took his head in her hands and gently, but firmly turned him back to face front.

"Oh yes," she said as she carried on cleaning the burned and torn flesh. "So don't forget with whom you're dealing! I have friends in high places," She dabbed the iodine on and Porgy stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.

"Let that be a lesson to you," she said. She wondered if it sounded too playful and improper.

"I knows me place," he said, touching his forelock, mockingly. Edith gently pushed him on his shoulder.

"You. Now you're teasing."

"Nurse Bell!" barked Sister Fenton. "When you've quite finished fraternising with that jackanapes there are other men waiting for your attention!"

Edith felt her face burn as she reached for a gauze pad. "Hold this," she told him as she placed it over his wound.

"Sorry, Miss," said Porgy. She began wrapping crepe bandage around his head. "Not too much," he said, "otherwise I won't be able to fit me battle bowler on."

"I've a feeling your head's way too big for it anyway," she said with a smile. "Away with you."

 

Everson reached the makeshift Headquarters. It was dug back into the side of a trench; all salvaged beams, corrugated iron and tarpaulins. News of the death of the Major hadn't taken long to filter down through the Company and the men had taken it quite hard, especially as the next in command was Captain Grantham. To be truthful he didn't have much faith in the new Skipper himself. Captain Grantham shouldn't even have been at the Front. He'd had some cushy job back at Battalion, but he'd probably whined and groused about a Front Line position, wanting to see a bit of action just so that he could say he'd been there before returning to his nice desk job in the rear. Now, for better or worse, they were stuck with him.

"Is this it?" Everson asked, stepping inside and looking around despondently. "Is this all of us?"

It was dispiriting how few officers were left. There was Slacke, the Company Quartermaster Sergeant, Padre Rand and Captain Lippett, the MO and Captain Palmer of D Company. Jeffries was sat on a wooden chair, slouching with his legs stretched out in front of him, his chin resting on steepled fingers, glowering blackly, lost in thought. His eyes flicked up as Everson entered, but seeing nothing to interest him, lost focus as he turned back to his own contemplations. Grantham looked up from talking to a Royal Flying Corp officer and an officer with Machine Gun Corp insignia on his uniform.

"Everson," said Captain Grantham. "I'm afraid so."

The Flying Officer looked young, even to Everson. He had blonde hair and there was something about the double breasted tunic and that RFC wing on the left breast that just looked so - dashing. Everson felt a pang of jealousy. Here he was caked in mud, dog-tired and aching to his very bones and here was a handsome young man seemingly unmarked by the terrors of war; an 'angel face' he believed they called it.

"James Tulliver, RFC," he said, turning, extending a hand and jerking his head in Jeffries' direction. "Who's that louche chap over there, I'm sure I know him. Hibbert, is it?"

"Jeffries, Platoon Commander, 4 Platoon, C Company."

"Jeffries?" said Tulliver, mulling the name over. "Oh. Are you sure? No, of course you are. Sorry, my fault. Thought he was someone else."

"I often wish he was," said Everson.

The other man turned too. Tall and lanky, he had dark circles under his eyes and a greasy pallid look to his skin. His uniform hung on him as if it were a size too big.

"Mathers, Machine Gun Corps, Heavy Section."

"Ah, the tank commander," said Everson. "Good show. You saved some of my men out there today," he added, gripping the proffered hand. He was disappointed to find the grip a little weak and clammy. "So what the devil's going on, d'y'think?"

"Hmm," said Mathers. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "Sorry. Damned headache."

"Gentlemen?" said Grantham, bringing the meeting to order. The officers gathered round the rickety table covered with maps. "Casualty Reports?"

"We weren't up to full strength to begin with. Out of nine hundred and twelve officers and men, we had already lost twelve officers and two hundred and forty eight other ranks to German fire and gas, and we lost two officers and fifty-eight other ranks from shock of transport here. We have a further two officers and twenty seven other ranks killed by those creatures. There are three hundred and seventy wounded, some critically, most walking and nine suffering from severe shell-shock. In short, gentlemen, you're down to less than two hundred able-bodied men at the moment, barely a Company."

Seven. Seven officers left, thought Everson.

"We need to get the wounded to a Casualty Clearing Station," said Lippett, "I don't have the means to deal with them here."

"Well, Mr Tulliver here doesn't seem to think that's going be, ah, possible," said Grantham nervously.

Lippett peered at Tulliver from under his eyebrows in a way that reminded Everson of his old schoolmaster.

"That's right, sir," said Tulliver. "I'm afraid there is no Casualty Clearing Station to go to. I explained to Captain Grantham earlier, we're completely cut off. This is all that's left," he said, pointing to the pencilled circle on the map. The other officers leaned in to look. "The rest of the area outside the circle no longer seems to exist. You've all seen it. What's out there bears no resemblance to any maps or aerial photographs. It's as if we've been picked up and dropped elsewhere entirely."

"But the world can't just disappear!" muttered Grantham.

"Perhaps it didn't," said Everson. "Maybe we did."

"Preposterous!" agreed Lippett.

"You've seen it for yourself," said Jeffries sternly. "How can you doubt it?"

"Some of the men have suggested it's Paradise," said Padre Rand.

"Are you trying to say that we're all dead and this is some blasted afterlife?" said Grantham. Everson tried to ignore the tremor in his voice.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't say so after meeting those hell hounds earlier," said Mathers.

"Some think we're dead, yes," continued the Padre. "Some men have been saying it's Africa."

"Well, something, I have no idea what, has brought us here, wherever here is," said Everson. "There's no reason to think it might not snap us back to the Somme at any moment, like an Indian Rubber band."

"And if not?" asked Grantham. "What then? We have no line of communication, our supply line ends several hundred yards to our rear. If Tulliver is to be believed you can't ring up Battalion and ask for another truck load of Maconochies and Plum and Apple to be sent up. We can expect no replacements and no relief. What on earth do you suggest we do?"

"Survive," said Everson. "Survive until we return home."

"An admirable sentiment, Everson," said Jeffries. "but what if we don't return home?"

"We'll find a way. That's what hope is all about. 'If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, then Mohammed will go to the mountain.' Isn't that how the saying goes?"

"Very prosaic," said Jeffries. "But platitudes won't save us. What if there isn't a way? What if this," he said, gesturing at the foreign landscape beyond the tarpaulin, "is it?"

The discussion degenerated into a babble of voices and opinions, each seeking to be heard. Jeffries stood back and smiled to himself as if pleased with the discord he had sown.

"Gentlemen, please!" cried Grantham, but he was unable to bring any kind of order to the debate.

Jeffries leaned forward and began whispering quietly into his ear. Grantham pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. For a moment Everson thought the man had found an ounce of gumption.

"Mr. Jeffries, what is your opinion?"

Jeffries drew himself up and glanced at the men one by one. They fell silent. He took a moment before he spoke, to make sure he held their attention. "It is my belief that we are no longer on Earth at all."

Over in the corner CQS Slacke barely stifled a snort of derision. Jeffries ignored it and pressed on. "One, the sun is slightly larger than we know our sun to be. Also, we attacked Harcourt Wood at dawn mere hours ago. The sun is now sinking towards the horizon. Two; the temperature here owes more to the tropics than to winter in France. Thirdly, those creatures that attacked us exist in no bestiary I'm aware of. And fourthly, my compass." He shoved his brass compass onto the table. The needle swung round and round indecisively. "North seems to be everywhere."

"Then where the deuce are we?" said Lippett.

"I have no more idea than you, Captain," said Jeffries, "but Everson is right in one respect..."

Startled by his name, Everson looked up and found Jeffries regarding him curiously.

"Something, it seems, has snatched us up and delivered us here. As to how and why, well, I wonder if we'll ever know," mused Jeffries. "However you may be sure that there are things in this universe, gentlemen, of which you have no conception, no conception at all."

"So what do we do now?" asked Grantham.

"I suggest an inventory of all rations, supplies and equipment," said Slacke.

"For the moment we should keep to Standing Orders, sir," said Palmer. "Confine the men to the trenches just in case, as Everson says, we should be returned as abruptly as we arrived."

"So that's your answer? We stay on this charnel pit on the off-chance we should be catapulted back to France?" Lippett said.

"Which is fine in the short term," said Everson. "But if supplies start running low we shall have to find water and food. We need to find out about this world if we are to survive it. We should think about sending out scouting parties."

"And what happens should we get snapped back to the Somme while they're out? What will happened to the those left behind?" said Padre Rand.

The men around the table fell silent as they ruminated on the possibility of their being marooned under such circumstances. It was a fate nobody wanted to contemplate.

"Padre," said Grantham. "I think it would be a good idea to arrange a church parade for tomorrow. I think the men could use your moral guidance and faith right now."

The Chaplain looked startled. "Er, certainly Captain."

"Captain," Jeffries urged Grantham. "You should address the men. They need to be told something. We must keep up morale and quell any thought of desertion or mutiny. A few words from you, sir, would help."

Grantham slumped into a chair, completely overwhelmed by the situation. His eyes searched the floor of the dugout as if they might find the answer there. "I don't know. What the hell can I say?"

Everson swore under his breath. Grantham was funking it. And what was Jeffries' game? He seemed to have made a good job of undermining Grantham while appearing to support him. After Grantham, as the next senior officer left in line, command would fall to Jeffries himself. If something wasn't done this whole situation would turn into a bigger disaster than it already was. The men needed leadership. Now.

"Sir!" said Everson, rather more sharply than he had intended. Grantham started. "Whatever you're going to tell the men, tell them quickly. The sun is setting and we'll need them to Stand To. God alone knows what else is out there."

Grantham looked up and nodded wearily. "Of course," he said. "Order the men on parade."

 

"Men!" began Captain Grantham. He was stood on an old ammo box, Everson Jeffries, Lippett and the Padre standing in the mud behind him as a show of unity. "As you know from our current troubles we face a predicament the like of which the Pennines have never faced before. There is a rumour that this is some kind of hallucination or afterlife and that your fighting days are over. I am here to tell you that they are not. You took the King's shilling, made the oath and signed up for the duration, the duration, gentlemen, and as such you are still soldiers in the King's Army. We are still at war. Any insubordination under the present circumstances will be dealt with severely. Standing Orders are still in effect and all men are confined to the trenches. If we are to get through this we must all pull together. I am informed that the world around us may not even be Earth, but we have faced adversity in foreign climes before and triumphed and we shall do so again. We do anticipate an eventual return to Blighty but, as the Pennines, we know that there's always a long hard climb before we reach the top. But reach it we will, so we must bear our current troubles with fortitude. Onward and Upwards, the Pennines!"

The men cheered and waved their helmets in the air. It was half-hearted, but, nevertheless, Grantham seemed pleased with the response. It wasn't the most rousing speech Everson had heard, but nobody expected much of Grantham. It would be left to the subalterns and NCOs to pick up the pieces. Oblivious, Grantham smiled magnanimously. Enjoying the brief moment, he spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his poker-faced staff. "Come on, smile boys, that's the style."