CHAPTER ELEVEN
"If the Sergeant Steals Your Rum..."
After the Yrredetti incident, fires were set on the plain in a controlled slash and burn policy, forming a cordon sanitaire around No Man's Land to deny further cover to any predators. Atkins watched as the smudgy black smoke drifted into the sky. It felt as if they were finally making their mark, conquering the land that had seemed so hostile to them when they first arrived.
As the days passed, hope began to fade that they would be transported home as quickly as they had arrived and the new survival practices became an established part of the daily military routine. With the most suitable trees nearby having been cut down for firewood, shoring or building materials, the Foraging Parties had to move further and further afield. Poilus continued to improve and Napoo, in high spirits, continued to educate the soldiers in hunter-gathering.
He had pointed out a fruit tree, the large purple fruits of which were the size of mangoes and wincingly sweet. This gave Mercy an idea. To be fair it was obviously an idea he'd had for quite a while because it didn't take him long to put it into action. In an abandoned dugout, Mercy constructed a crude still from water drums and Ticklers' jam tins, and even managed to scrounge some copper piping for a condenser. He also acquired some yeast from the cooks' supplies.
One night Mercy slunk into the Section's dugout carrying an old stone rum jar, almost tripping over Gordon as the creature chatted the seams of Pot Shot's shirt. "Here, he said. "Try this. I've already sold half to some lads from 4 Platoon."
"You haven't been nicking the rum rations, have you? Hobson'll have your guts for garters," said Porgy.
"Relax, this is my own mixture, isn't it?"
"You mean -"
"He's been brewing this stuff in secret for days," said Gutsy, shaking his head. "I tried telling him it wasn't a good idea. If he gets caught he'll be for the high jump."
"So what's this gut-rot called then?"
"Flammenwerfer," said Mercy with a grin. "Who's first?"
Porgy and Half Pint pushed Atkins to the fore. "Go on, Only! Put hairs on your chest, will that."
Mercy, laughing, poured a large tot into a dixie can and thrust it towards Atkins.
"Down! Down! Down! Down!" the others chanted.
Egged on by the rest, Atkins, wanting to be a good sport, grudgingly emptied his dixie in one draught. He immediately regretted it, stumbling back, half-blinded by stinging tears as the liquor burned down his throat. Flammen-bloody-werffer indeed. Although, as he fought for breath, he thought 'Gas Attack' would have been a more appropriate epithet. He could feel a pounding begin at the base of his skull until the beat of it filled his head. The burning liquid etched a path down his insides to his stomach where it seemed to reach flashpoint and ignite, expanding to fill his entire body. His limbs began to tingle and throb to the beat of his pulse. As he wiped the tears from his cheeks, he began to feel dizzy and light-headed. Blinking, he tried to speak, but it seemed that his vocal chords had melted.
The faces of the men before him began to contort, twisting and turning like a Futurist canvas, their features malleable, fading and shifting. The khakis and mud greys around him began radiating kaleidoscopes of geometric patterns that burst against his retinas. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the vision, opening them again only to find the scene around him stubbornly ablaze with guttering colours. He tried to speak again, but his voice sounded so far away and foreign he could barely hear himself let alone distinguish what he was saying or whether it made sense. He was finding it hard to breathe. He thrust a finger down the collar of his shirt and pulled at it. He looked down at his feet impossibly far below him and a wave of vertigo washed over him. Arms reached for him but he batted them away and struggled to put one foot in front of the other as he broke away from the garish India rubber limbs that tried to claw him back.
He clambered out of the blue-tinged trenches that expanded and contracted in waves before him, threatening to swallow him, and ran over sky blue mud with teal vapours rising in convection eddies. Above him, the sky boiled gently off into magenta hues. Time seemed to contract and expand in waves, too. One moment he was stumbling across crusting mud then next he found himself oozing slowly across the deep red stubble of the burnt open ground beyond as the orange fronds loomed towards him.
Two lidless eyes stared back; multicoloured whorls like oil on water dancing on their dark surface, watching him from the foaming purple undergrowth before shadows crept in from the periphery of his vision, occluding all...
Noises intruded on the blackness. Atkins felt himself surface from dark depths as diffuse light seeped into his consciousness. The noise grew until he thought his eardrums would burst. He sat bolt upright, gasping for air like a drowning man breaking the water's surface.
"Eyes!" he cried. "There's something watching us!"
Gentle hands urged him back down. Everything seemed raw and tinged with garish colours, like a hand-tinted photograph. The after effects of the Flammenwerfer, he expected. Things still wavered slightly, washing gently to and fro. He went with it and sank back into the pillow.
"There, there, you're safe. You've been hallucinating," said a soft warm voice. It was Sister Fenton. She soaked a cloth in a bowl of water by his stretcher and gently wiped his face. "That was a stupid thing you did. It could have killed you. How many of you drank that filthy stuff? Three are over there. One is blinded, another two have lost their minds. One poor wretch stumbled into a flooded shell hole and drowned. You were lucky." She held his head and gave him a sip of water. His dried, cracked lips stung as the water moistened them.
"Where..."
"You're safe. You're in the Casualty Clearing Station. Your friends brought you in. They found you wandering about - out there."
"Mercy," asked Atkins.
"Pardon?"
"My mate, Mercy."
"Is he the one who brewed the liquor?"
"Yes," he rasped.
"Hmm," said Fenton with a note of disapproval. "Well he'll get what's coming to him. He's in custody on a charge. There's to be a Court Martial."
Captain Grantham, Second Lieutenant Everson and Lieutenant Jeffries sat behind the table. Everson hated this part of the job. Already that morning they had heard several cases. The penalties for even minor infractions were often excessive and out of proportion for the supposed crime. And as the accused this time was one of his own he felt a little ashamed too. Evans had always been one to run close to the wire. He looked along the table. Captain Grantham was playing nervously with his fountain pen, clearing his throat every minute or so. The only person who seemed relaxed with the situation was Jeffries. Since most of the men who tried the liquor were in 4 Platoon, Lieutenant Jeffries had a personal stake in the case. One of his men had died, another had been temporarily blinded and another had been relegated to the stockade with the shell-shocked. Everson heard Hobson's bark outside. He shifted position, sitting upright.
"Prisoner and escort, halt! Right turn!"
Evans entered the dugout flanked by two soldiers.
"Prisoner and escort, halt! 'tenshun!"
Evans stood to attention, his thumbs extending down along his trouser seams, looking straight ahead at the wall over the officers' heads, his face emotionless but for his eyes betraying a flicker of fear.
"What's this one?" asked Grantham.
Everson read from the charge sheet regretfully, "The accused, 98765 Private Wilfred Joseph Evans, 13th Pennine Fusiliers, a soldier of the regular forces, is charged with, when on active service, wilfully destroying Army property without orders from a superior officer and with brewing and distributing alcohol."
"Which frankly doesn't cover the half of it," said Jeffries. "Several of my men are in hospital and one is dead because of this man's actions. Brewing and distributing alcohol in the trenches. In fact, worse than alcohol. The report from the MO says here that the liquor, while being extremely alcoholic, also contained some form of noxious opiate, causing hallucinations. This man's expertise with the still equipment suggests to me that this isn't the first time he's done this."
"With respect, Lieutenant," said Everson. "There is no evidence he knew the ingredients to be harmful."
"Nevertheless," pressed Jeffries in clipped and measured tones. "I would ask for the maximum sentence."
"Has the accused anything to say in his defence?"
Even if he had, thought Everson, it wouldn't do him any good.
"With respect -" began Evans.
"Respect?" barked Jeffries, shouting him down. "You know nothing of respect, Private!" He turned and whispered to Grantham.
The Captain had a glazed look in his eyes, almost as if he had given up. He nodded, and then spoke up. "The unauthorised use of Army property will not be tolerated. I will be issuing a general order expressly banning the fermenting of alcohol for consumption forthwith. Sergeant, make sure his equipment is put beyond use. As for you, Private, penal servitude not being practical at this point, I hereby sentence you to Field Punishment Number One. I trust you will learn from this. Dismissed."
"Sah!" barked Hobson. "Prisoner and Escort left turn. Quick march."
Hobson marched Evans and his men away.
Grantham sighed, pushed his chair back and began shuffling his papers together in preparation to leave when Lieutenant Tulliver and Lieutenant Mathers entered.
"Excuse me, sir," said Mathers. "Tulliver and I have a request. If I might?"
"Eh?"
Jeffries leaned forward and looked past Grantham at Everson, his eyes narrowing. Everson shrugged.
"It's about the still your private constructed, sir. I understand you've given orders for it to be dismantled."
"Yes, dashed bad show. Showed the fella what for, though, eh, Jeffries?"
"Sir," said Jeffries darkly.
"Damned right."
"Well as you know, my tank and Mr Tulliver's plane only have limited supplies of petrol. Without it, our machines will be useless. Although unfit for human consumption we might be able to use this liquor as a petrol substitute."
"Of course!" said Everson, "that's a capital idea!"
"You agree with this, do you, Mr Everson?" asked Grantham.
"Resources are scarce, sir, and petrol supply is very limited," said Everson. "I believe Quartermaster Slacke only managed to find forty gallons. With Napoo's help, we've managed to find food and water and started to build up our stores. If we can solve the fuel problem as well, then that will increase our chances of survival. Without petrol those machines are just, well, so much junk, if you'll excuse me gentlemen."
Mathers shrugged indifferently.
Tulliver nodded in agreement. "No, you're right. If we can gather more of these fruits that your man found then we can distill as much fuel as we need. You know what they look like, where to find them?"
"Napoo does," answered Everson.
"Ah, yes, Napoo," said Jeffries quietly. "And just what exactly are this Napoo's motives?" He had been sat quietly listening, thinking. Jeffries seemed to do a lot of thinking, to Everson's mind. Which wasn't a bad thing in general. Too many officers didn't think at all. Jeffries, though, seemed to think altogether too much. Now, he uncoiled from his nest like a snake. "Who is he? What do we know of him?"
"He offered us help and knowledge when we needed it in exchange for aid with his kinsman," said Everson.
"Oh, and he has been helpful," admitted Jeffries. "To a point. He has warned about these... Khungarrii, yes. But the question is what else does he know? Is there anything he isn't telling us? You know virtually nothing about this world including, I might add, how we got here."
"I'm sure he'd tell us if he knew," said Everson.
"Your faith in human nature is heart-warming," said Jeffries, condescendingly. "But is he human? If this is a different world how can he be?"
"He seems to be an honest soul," said Everson.
"And again," said Jeffries. "Does he even have a soul at all? I'm sure Padre Rand could dispute your claim."
"What's your point Mr Jeffries?" asked Grantham.
"My point, sir, is that we know nothing about this native, his loyalties, his people. How do we know they aren't hiding anything from us?"
"They have no reason to lie," said Everson.
"Speak plainly, Mister Jeffries," pleaded Grantham, rubbing his temples as if the very concepts Jeffries iterated pained him.
"Aren't we rather getting off the point here?" said Mathers. Jeffries shot him a glance as he continued. "Captain, have we your permission to commence distilling fuel for our machines?"
Grantham sat down heavily in his chair with a sigh and waved them away with his hand. "Yes, yes, of course. Take whatever you need. We must keep them going, I suppose."
Tulliver grinned and patted Mathers on the shoulder as they left, eagerly talking about plans to construct a bigger still.
Jeffries watched them go, like a cat watching another, warily, as it skirted its territory.
"Captain, if I may?" said Everson, rising.
Grantham, looking tired and worn, glanced up at him and nodded mutely.
"Sir," said Everson, putting his cap upon his head and adjusting it. "Mr Jeffries."
"So you have no objection then, sir?" asked Jeffries, in Everson's hearing.
Grantham looked up. "To what?"
"To my questioning this Napoo character, of course?"
"No, none at all."
"Good," said Jeffries under his breath, "good."
Everson realised that Jeffries was playing a dangerous game over this Evans incident. Since the repeal of flogging, the British Army had to resort to other imaginative forms of corporal punishment. Field Punishment Number One consisted of the convicted man being lashed to a fixed post or gun wheel for two to three hours a day without food or water, often deliberately in range of enemy fire. Asserting authority and discipline was one thing, but there was no telling how the men might respond to the brutal and public punishment out here. Separated from their home, their loved ones and now their planet, the trenches were a powder keg right now. The men were discontented, fractious. The last thing they needed was a reason to riot.
Everson entered the small dugout that was being used as a guardroom. "That was a damn foolish thing you did, Evans, bloody irresponsible!" he said, sitting down on the bunk bedside him. He pulled a hip flask from inside his tunic.
"A drop of the real stuff?" asked Mercy, meekly.
"You should know," said Everson as he unscrewed the cap and passed the flask to Evans. Evans took a slug.
"Aaah." He wiped his lips on his sleeve and passed it back. "Gilbert the Filbert's really got in for me hasn't he, sir?"
"Oh, believe you me; he's like that with everyone. No quarter given, but you bloody well asked for it. I warned you. What the hell did you think you were doing?"
"I didn't know the damn stuff made you see things and worse, sir, I swear! I didn't mean any harm. Those poor lads. It was only meant to warm the cockles and raise morale a bit."
"Damn it, Evans, There's a whole world out that that's trying to kill us. I don't need to worry about my own men doing it as well!"
Mercy lowered his eyes.
"This has got to be done, Evans. Discipline is important. Sometimes I think it's all that's keeping us together at the moment. If things go too far, I fear the men might mutiny and there are precious few officers to maintain order. If the men took it into their heads there's nothing we could do to stop them."
"Won't come to that, sir."
"How can you be so sure? No officer has the answers. I don't know where we are, or how. But I have to believe we'll get back. I have to. Because without that, without hope, then it all falls apart."
"The men know that too sir. Right now, they can grouse about the officers all they want but they know that if they usurp them, they'll have to fend for themselves. To put it bluntly sir, they don't want the responsibility. That and the fact, with the exception of Captain Grantham, you're all front line officers. If you weren't it might be a different story. But the men know you sir. They trust you."
"Well that's something I suppose," sighed Everson. "Can you take it, Evans?"
"Sir?"
"The punishment?"
"Had worse, sir," Evans said stoically.
Everson let a smile play briefly on his lips as he stood up, before scowling. "I can believe it. But I've already lost half my best men. I can't afford to lose any more. Straight and narrow after this Evans, or you'll answer to me."
"I don't suppose you'd care to leave that with me, sir?" he asked, nodding at the flask.
Everson looked down at the engraved silver hip flask and, after a moment's thought, tossed it over to Mercy. "It won't be enough, you know."
"Every little helps sir," Evans caught it cleanly. "Every little helps."
The next morning Grantham summoned all able-bodied men to witness Mercy's punishment. Discharged by the MO, Atkins still felt a little delicate when he joined the rest of his Section on parade. Ketch gave him a self-satisfied smirk as their eyes met.
"Bloody 'ell, Only, you look pale, you sure you're all right?" whispered Pot Shot.
"A little light-headed," Atkins replied. Spots still burst in his vision like Very lights and he had to keep moving his head to prevent Pot Shot being lost in drifting after-images. "What the hell happened?"
"We thought you were just foolin' around at first," muttered Gutsy, "but after you went doolally Ketch happened, that's what. The moment them blokes from 4 Platoon began screaming and blundering about in a blind panic, it didn't take him long to follow the trail back to Mercy. Hobson confiscated the booze and the still, but it were Gilbert the Filbert that pressed for a Court Martial."
"Parade! Parade 'shun!" bellowed Sergeant Hobson.
The guards brought Mercy out, stripped to the waist. He looked in a bad way; he'd been beaten black and blue. Jeffries' men had obviously given him a seeing to during the night, revenge for the men they lost. Jeffries stepped forward from the rest of the officers and addressed the men.
"98765 Private Evans, 2 Platoon 13th Pennine Fusiliers has been found guilty of wilfully destroying property without orders from a superior officer and endangering the lives of fellow soldiers while on duty. The penalty: 14 days Field Punishment Number One."
Mercy was led out into No Man's Land, beyond the barbed wire entanglement, to where a T-shaped post had been set into the ground. He was tied to the post in a crucifixion position, facing the trenches, so the men could see him, abandoned to the torment and torture of the alien sun, and whatever creeping, flying pests and predators might happen by.
A restless mutter arose from the watching troops.
"Silence!" bellowed Sergeant Hobson. "Parade! Parade fall out into working parties. Dismiss!" cried Sergeant Hobson.
Section NCOs began barking their orders and groups fell out, smartly marching off to their work details while Tulliver and Mathers' crew set off in the tank in search of more of the 'petrol fruit' for their newly acquired fuel still.
2 Platoon was due out on another Forage Patrol. They set off over No Man's Land, past Mercy who, despite bruised ribs, black eye and split lip, gave them an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. With uneasy glances back towards their pal they set out across the burnt clearing and across the veldt toward the forest.
Everson was uneasy that Napoo wasn't coming with them. Jeffries wanted to question him and Grantham had given him permission. Jeffries seemed to have Grantham eating out of his hand recently. He had been taking advantage of Grantham's weakened state; the man was obviously susceptible to whatever suggestions Jeffries was making. Of course, it was perfectly possible that Jeffries was just trying to bolster the old man's nerve...
As the Urman entered the dugout, escorted by Sergeant Dixon, Jeffries studied him with some disdain. He didn't see the Noble Savage Everson claimed he saw but a wily indigent. From his occult researches he knew primitive peoples had caches of sacred knowledge forbidden to outsiders.
"Thank you, Dixon, that will be all."
Dixon saluted and left.
"So, you're the barbarian, the one they call Napoo?" said Jeffries as he watched the Urman pick up objects and study them briefly before putting them down and moving onto the next thing that caught his eye. He was like a child. Simple things delighted him greatly. Britannia was a Mother to many such peoples and Jeffries held none of them in any great regard. This man, though, was different. This man was wiry, but it all seemed to be muscle and he had survived to live to an age where his hair had greyed. Obviously he had a survivor's instinct that shouldn't be underestimated. Jeffries reached down to the holster on his Sam Browne belt and slowly undid the revolver cover. He grinned at Napoo as the man looked up at the sound of his new nickname, smiled, and went back to gazing with wonder at the things he saw.
"Everson has not such things," he said. "You are mightier than he is?"
Jeffries allowed himself a smile. The man amused him.
"Oh yes. Mightier than he knows, old chap."
"You are king here, then?"
"No, but I do like the sound of it. Are you not king of your own people?"
"No, only the Ones have kings," said Napoo as he picked up a pen from the small wooden crate that served as a writing desk. He sniffed the instrument then put it down.
"You're not one of the Ones, then?"
"No. Urman."
"The Ones," said Jeffries, "I wanted to ask you about them."
"This is Khungarrii territory. You should not be here. Not safe."
"Yes. So you said. And where are these Kungry -"
"Khungarrii," corrected Napoo, now sniffing, now licking a sealed tin of Tickler's Plum and Apple jam.
Jeffries took it off him and, using a tin opener, scythed it open before handing it back. He couldn't stand the stuff himself. It was just his luck that one of the foods they had did have in large supply was damned Plum and Apple jam.
Napoo stuck his fingers into the tin, scooped out the runny jelly and shoved his fingers into his mouth with great delight. "Mmm hmm," He smacked his lips.
"I saw a gleam over against those hills in a forest out beyond the veldt. A high spire. Is that them? Is that where these Khungarrii of yours live?"
"Aye, that's the Khungarrii Edifice," said Napoo. "Croatoan curse them!"
Jeffries froze.
"What?" he said. That the name of his chosen god should be uttered by one such as this who should not know of him at all stunned Jeffries. This was more than mere coincidence. Within the Great Working there was no coincidence. It was another sign. Of that he was sure. He rounded on the savage. "What did you say?"
Napoo was startled. He offered the half eaten tin of jam back to Jeffries. "Forgive me, I didn't not mean to -"
"What did you say?" he asked again, urgency in his voice.
"I - I said Croatoan curse them! Forgive me."
"What do you know of Croatoan?" said Jeffries, advancing on Napoo. "Tell me!"
"Nothing," he answered, puzzled at his host's sudden change in bearing. "It is an old curse that once had meaning to my forebears."
"You don't... worship him?"
"No, it is forbidden.
"By whom?"
"The Ones. There is only one god, GarSuleth, Weaver of the World," said Napoo reverently bowing his head.
Jeffries picked up his journal and leafed impatiently through the pages until he reached one on which was scrawled a symbol. He thrust the page under Napoo's nose. "This symbol. This sign. Do you recognise it, the Sigil of Croatoan?"
"No," said Napoo, shaking his head.
"Are you sure?"
"I have never seen its like."
"Never?"
"No, Only the Ones make such marks."
"What marks?"
"Like these," said Napoo gesturing at the open book. "Like the ones outside, the telling marks."
"The trench signs? Writing? Urmen don't write?"
"We do not know how to make the telling marks."
Jeffries slammed the book down. The rickety table juddered under the impact. These savages were so simple they had no written language. If Napoo was speaking the truth then they were of no immediate use to him. But, clearly, the Khungarrii were. After days of confusion, his path was now clear. These Khungarrii were the key.
"Are you telling me everything?"
"Yes. We do not mark-make."
"What are you not telling me, Napoo?"
"I don't understand."
"This is your world, are you seriously telling me you know nothing more than how to pick fruit and hunt animals?"
"What else is there to know?"
"Don't play games with me, Napoo," said Jeffries, picking up his ceremonial dagger, allowing the blade to glint in the dim light. "Either you tell me what I want to know or I will divine the truth from your entrails."
"All they would tell you are what fruit is good to eat and what animals good to hunt," said Napoo calmly.
There was a commotion outside. Jeffries did not want to be disturbed now. Whoever it was would pay for it. "Stay here," he told Napoo. "I haven't finished with you yet." He heard shouts and rifle fire. He lifted aside his gas curtain and stepped out into the trench. A private almost knocked him over.
"What's going on?" he snapped.
"We're being attacked! They came at us from the rear near the unfinished trenches!"
"Napoo, come with me," Jeffries called back into the dugout. If something was mounting an attack, this savage's knowledge could prove vital. Napoo appeared and he pushed him along the trench, the revolver in the small of his back urging him forwards.
A petrified solider ran down the trench toward them, screaming. "They're not human!" he cried as he tried to barge past Napoo and Jeffries.
"Private! Halt. This is desertion. Turn back or I'll shoot." However, the panic-stricken soldier was no longer listening. Reason had fled. Jeffries pointed his pistol and fired. The man fell back and slithered down the trench wall. Jeffries urged Napoo on. He could see smoke rising now from the newly fortified trench and the noises of battle filled the air. Blue flashes crackled over the lips of the communications trench followed by brief screams. Approaching the rear fire trenches Jeffries saw men retreating towards them along the bays, fighting a defensive action.
"Khungarrii," said Napoo calmly, gazing towards the blue flashes that lit the trenches. "I warned you."
Jeffries glared at Napoo furiously. There was nothing he could do here now. If he were to face these Khungarrii, he would do it on his terms, not theirs. He turned to slip back down the communications trench. Round the traverse, he caught a glimpse of something manlike. A bright blue flash filled his vision. His body went numb and the duckboards swung up to meet him.