CHAPTER TWELVE

 

"The Sacred Call of 'Friend'..."

 

"One of these days I'm going to have that buggering bastard Jeffries, officer or no," said Gutsy as they moved swiftly and quietly along now well-trodden paths through the forest, thankful to be out of the heat of the alien sun. They were all painfully aware that, back at the entrenchment, Mercy had to endure its unforgiving glare, tied to the post as part of his punishment. To a man, the Section resented the example Jeffries had made of their pal and Ketch's part in it. Army justice could often be swift and cruel and discipline unavoidable, but there was a point beyond which it ceased to be effective. Given the conditions the men were living and fighting under, morale was brittle and they would only bear so much.

"Keep your voice down," hissed Atkins, nodding forwards to where Ketch ambled along, his ears no doubt burning, "or you'll be up on charges, too."

The routine of food collecting had now become a practised one for 1 Section. They knew now where to find the fruits that would not poison them. They had set traps and nets to catch animals. Fruits they slung into sandbags suspended from a pole carried between Porgy and Gutsy. The rest of the men had emptied their packs and were now carrying them in what they called Forage Order. The constant bombardment of Hun shells seemed a distant memory; many of the men had taken to wearing their regulation soft caps instead of their steel helmets, which proved uncomfortable in the heat.

Ketch had shuffled forward and was talking to Sergeant Hobson.

"Yeah, but Field Punishment?" said Gutsy. "He didn't have to go that far."

"Quiet back there," said Hobson, walking back along the line.

Atkins saw Ketch, up ahead, turn back and watch, scornfully. He pointed at his own eyes, then at Atkins - I'm watching you.

"If I hear any more 'mutinous mutterings' I'll make the lot of you sorry you were born," snarled Hobson in a low, dangerous voice. "And you, Atkins. You should appreciate just how stupid your mate Evans was. You nearly died. He knew the consequences when he started that racket. And he took 'em like a man. Scroungers and chancers like him may do you a favour every now and again, but they'll all get caught out somewhere down the line, you mark my words."

"But couldn't the Lieutenant do anything, Sarn't?" asked Porgy.

The Sergeant's face softened. "He did what he could, lad."

"Shh!" hissed Pot Shot. The column froze.

"I don't hear -"

Muffled by the forest canopy and the undergrowth they heard the faint sound of a whistle blown three times.

"The entrenchment!" Ketch blurted.

Blood and sand, thought Atkins, please God don't say the entrenchment is vanishing without us.

From the fleeting looks of panic on the others' faces, he could tell they were thinking the same thing.

"Make for the rendezvous point" said Lieutenant Everson. Immediately they dropped the carrying pole and sandbags of fruit and pelted back along their trail, hobnail boots pounding out an urgent tattoo.

It took them ten long agonising minutes of occasional stumbling, shouted encouragement and blasphemous urgings to reach the edge of the forest and Lieutenant Baxter's covering Lewis gun section. They had blown the whistle. Between deep wracking breaths, Atkins peered out across the plain; down the trail they'd made though the tube grass. Nothing seemed amiss.

"Baxter?" queried Everson.

"Shooting, sporadic gunfire from the direction of the entrenchment."

"Flare?"

"No."

"Oh, thank god!" muttered Everson.

"Is it vanishing, sir?" asked Pot Shot, through a hacking smoker's cough.

"No. Signal for that's a red flare. From the gunfire, sounds like they're being attacked. Right. Back to the entrenchment at the double. Set up covering positions and OP at the edge of the razed clearing. Stay under cover of the grass. I want to know what we're getting into before we go charging in blindly."

"Christ," said Atkins. "Now what?" he checked his rifle's magazine and flicked the cut-off open. He didn't like surprises. And this planet was just bloody full of them.

 

For the last hundred yards or so, 1 Section dropped into a crouch and edged their way forward through the bush, fanning out from the path. Everson peered across the charred earth that lay before the tilted muddy escarpment ahead of them. Smoke rose from beyond the lip and the cries of wounded reached them, carried on the wind.

"Hobson, take three men and proceed to the lip of the entrenchments. Hold that position," said Everson quietly. "We'll cover you. If it's all clear, we'll leapfrog you."

Hobson looked around. "Atkins, Hopkiss, Blood, you're with me."

Gazette, Half Pint, Pot Shot and Ketch took up covering positions in the tube grass. The Lewis gun section set up their gun. To their left Atkins spotted another couple of foraging parties that had returned in answer to the shots and now held back on the edge of the tube grass awaiting further orders. Everson indicated they should wait for his order before advancing.

Keeping low, Atkins followed Hobson as they ran across the scorched earth before throwing himself down against the chalky embankment of Somme mud.

"Atkins," hissed Hobson, with a jerk of his head.

Feeling vulnerable without his battle bowler Atkins cautiously peered over the lip of the mud across the remains of No Man's Land and towards the trenches a couple of hundred yards away. He could make out the tents of the Casualty Clearing Station beyond the Front Line. The remains of several tents were smoking. Figures wandered about dazed. Atkins looked back over his shoulder. "Looks like the aftermath of an attack, Sarn't. I can't see any enemy troops."

"Hopkiss, Blood, get up there with Atkins. Cover the Lieutenant's advance."

They scrambled to the top of the lip alongside Atkins, their rifles aimed, unnaturally, towards their own Front Line as the Lieutenant, Gazette, Pot Shot, Half Pint and Ketch scurried past them before dropping down into the cover of a large shell hole. Further to their right, they saw several other sections moving towards the trenches. There was a brief wait before Everson waved Atkins and the others forwards. Atkins leapt up and ran low across the drying mud, kicking up dust as he did. He slid down into the shell hole, Porgy, Gutsy and Sergeant Hobson almost coming down on top of him.

"I can't see any sign of occupation," said Everson. "Hobson, stay here. I'm going to take a butcher's. Atkins you're with me. Straight for the firing trench."

Atkins took several deep breaths and launched himself out of the shell hole. It felt distinctly odd to be charging your own trenches. This is what the Huns must have seen as they attacked. There was a buzz and crack as a bullet crunched into the crust of mud at his feet. He threw himself aside, into a crater.

"Ally Pally!" called Everson. "Ally Pally!"

A head appeared above the parapet. "Sorry, sir. Thought you were another of them Chatt bastards!"

Everson glanced at Atkins. Chatts? Atkins shrugged and shook his head. Everson stood up and walked towards the fire trench, Atkins following. Behind them, the rest of the section made their way in, along with other forage patrols, alert and nervous. Atkins grabbed a dazed private with haunted eyes.

"What happened?"

"They came out of nowhere."

Atkins shook him out of frustration. "Who? Who did?"

"Them!" said the soldier pointing at a body on the ground nearby, half obscured by the bend of the traverse. "Dozens of 'em."

Atkins took a step towards it. "Blood and sand! Lieutenant, I think you should see this."

"Good God," Everson gasped as he looked down at the corpse before them. Was it some sort of insect? It would take a more scientific mind than his to determine, although it certainly seemed to elicit that level of primal revulsion.

Porgy and Gutsy came up beside them and stared down at the sight.

The body that lay on its back at their feet wasn't human, although its proportions were. It would have stood between five and six feet tall. Its large black eyes were set in a wide flat armoured head and Atkins realised with a shock that he'd seen ones like them before, staring back at him from his hallucinatory episode. Below the eyes, at the bottom of the fused chitinous plates that covered its head was something he scarcely recognised as a mouth. Two shiny black mandibles, closed over a mucus-slick muscular maw. Four smaller articulated palps lay slack and lifeless about it. At the top of its head protruded two antennae, segmented and each about a foot long. One had snapped and lay at an odd angle. Two wiry looking arms, each covered with a series of barbed chitinous plates, extended from shoulder joints in the thorax. Each arm ended in what may have been a hand with two fingers and a prehensile thumb-like appendage.

Where, on a man, one might expect to find the ribcage, this creature had a hardened plate that shimmered with an iridescent gleam. There was a gaping hole in the plate from which a bluish liquid oozed. Atkins poked it with his bayonet. The edges of the hole gave way with a brittle crack. He drove the bayonet home, just to make sure. The thing didn't move.

He thought of the beetles that used to scuttle about his mam's kitchen. He and William used to crush them under their clogs with just such a frail, moist crunch.

Below this was an unarmoured mid-section from where two smaller, less well-formed limbs projected, each ending with a single curved claw of the same iridescent black as its carapace.

"Yrredetti?" asked Atkins.

Everson shook his head. "Wrong colouring. Besides, Napoo said they hunt alone. This must be Khungarrii."

"They're just big fat bloomin' lice!" exclaimed Gutsy. "Nothing more than vermin!" He kicked the creature's thorax. "'Chatts' is bloody right."

"Atkins, Hopkiss, see what you can find out," said Everson, still staring thoughtfully at the alien body before them. "Jellicoe, Otterthwaite and Nicholls, pull together as many able bodied men as possible. I want this entrenchment secure. Hobson, order the men to stand to."

 

Atkins and Porgy weaved their way through the fire and communications trenches. They came across several Khungarrii dead, lying among the bodies of their own. They stopped for a line of men, their faces roughly bandaged, one hand on the shoulder of the one in front, led, blind and stumbling, to the Casualty Clearing Station.

"Bastards spit acid," said the Lance Corporal leading them.

From a shelled section of trench, they ascended onto the open ground. Between the lines, they passed Hepton who was excitedly filming a group of grinning Tommies posing with a dead Khungarrii, like Big Game hunters. Amid the chaos and aftermath of the attack, Atkins could see the punishment post beyond the wire. Mercy was still there, crucified. His torso was now one great purple and black bruise.

"Mercy!" He ran towards him, stopping only to find a breach in the wire entanglement.

"Huu -"

"Mercy, you okay?"

"'S it look like?"

"Hang in there, mate."

"Oh, ha ha, very funny," said Mercy through dry, cracked, lips. "You should be in the musical hall, Only." Atkins held him up as Porgy used his bayonet to cut the rope binding his wrists.

"You two, what do think you're doing? I'll have your names for this!" It was Ketch. "Atkins, I might have known it were you!"

"Back off, Ketch," snarled Porgy. "Lieutenant Everson asked us to find witnesses. No thanks to you and Gilbert the Filbert, Mercy here was front and centre for the whole attack."

Mercy managed a weak grin. "Nice to see you, too, Corp," he rasped before insolently hawking a gob of mucus in Ketch's direction.

 

Mercy sat on an ammo box, Everson and 1 Section gathered round him. He gulped down the proffered water as Everson and the others waited impatiently.

"What happened?" asked Porgy, indicating the confusion around them. "Where's Edith?"

"I don't know. Couldn't see much from where I was," he said hoarsely. "They moved fast, rounded up prisoners. I think they must have come in through one of the unfinished OP saps. They must have taken out the sentries. Nobody saw them until they were in the trenches. I heard some shooting, then they swarmed across the top, some leaping ten, twenty feet at a go. Ugly buggers, like great big fleas."

"Yeah, we seen 'em," said Half Pint.

"They were well organised. Some of them spit, like, an acid. Others had lances and backpacks. Looked like a flammenwerfer, but it shot blue crackling fire stuff. Like electricity. But mostly they had swords and spears. They seemed to take a lot of loot as well, trench equipment, weapons and the like."

Among the missing were Captain Grantham, Padre Rand, Lieutenant Jeffries, Napoo, the three nurses and about twenty-five other ranks.

"Seems to have been a well-planned raid," Sergeant Hobson said bitterly.

"We've got to go after them, sir," said Porgy.

"We will, Hopkiss, we will," said Everson. "But first things first. We have to secure the entrenchments. We have to wait for the other Forage Parties to come back. And we have to find out exactly what we're up against. Then we have to put together a plan of attack and get a party together to go after them. Rushing into this won't do us any favours."

It seemed though, from Ration Dump rumour, that wasn't good enough for a section of Jeffries' Platoon, who had grabbed their guns and just gone after them; it was twenty minutes before anyone noticed that they were missing.

"Idiots!" said Everson. He was now the ranking infantry officer in the entrenchment. "Hobson, order the NCOs to take roll calls. Find out if anyone else is missing."

 

Tulliver and the tank crew returned in Ivanhoe from their petrol fruit forage trip, unaware of the raid until they were met with the organised chaos of mobilising infantry.

"Tulliver, how quickly can you get your machine in the air?" asked Everson.

"Give me ten minutes," said Tulliver.

"They've got about three hours on us by now. Can you track them, see which way they're headed?"

"Yes, I can do that but the state of the strip isn't perfect. I don't want to do too many take off and landings there without flattening the ground more."

"Right, I understand, but for now?"

"I'll chance it."

Everson watched anxiously as Tulliver and a couple of soldiers pulled the aeroplane out of its makeshift tarpaulin and brushwood hangar. The pilot waved at him as he stood by his machine. Everson raised his hand in reply and watched the young lad climb into his cockpit and strap himself in. A soldier pulled the propeller. Contact. Tulliver ran up his engine, testing it. Finally, the Sopwith began to run forwards eagerly. Tulliver gave it its head, the tail left the ground before the end of the take-off strip, and it lifted up across the fronds of tube grass. The aeroplane wheeled around the entrenchment before climbing and veering off, following the path Everson told him the arthropod raiders had taken. Everson turned from the aeroplane and headed back towards the trenches and the Casualty tents.

 

In the dank-smelling tent, Everson sat down next to Poilus. The young savage sat up in his cot, drinking a dixie of water. He looked disconcertingly out of place wearing striped pyjama bottoms. God knows where they'd come from. "Tell me about the Khungarrii," he said.

"They are of the Ones," said Poilus, as if that explained all.

"They've taken my men. Napoo, too. We intend to get them back but we need to know what they're going to do with them."

Poilus sighed. "Khungarrii always take Urmen. They make them work for them in Khungarr; building, mending, growing, cleaning..."

"But not you. They didn't take you."

"The sick and frail are no use to them," said Poilus with a hint of disgust at his own weakened state.

"Because they can't work them as slaves?"

"I don't know this word."

Everson didn't feel like explaining. He pressed on with his questions. "How many Khungarrii in Khungarr?"

"I do not know. Many. A great number."

"And Urmen?"

"Many."

"Damn," muttered Everson. For someone who resented the weight of responsibility, it looked like his load had just become a lot heavier.

 

Tulliver banked his machine with a little left rudder and turned to follow the trail that was plainly visible from this height, cutting a swath through the tube grasses of the valley, but of the raiders and their prisoners there was no sign. The valley side's fell away diminishing into foothills before a vast veldt opened up below him. He followed the trail across it for some twenty miles until he saw it vanish into a huge forest that seemed to extend for hundreds of square miles. Amid the forest, something glinted in the sun. A large tower-like structure rising above the tree canopy, twinkling as if -

The engine started to cough and splutter fearfully. That wasn't good. Best head for home. He throttled up, pulled the stick back to gain more height, and turned the machine towards the khaki coloured smudge of drying mud in the distance.

"Just another ten minutes, old girl," he urged. But he wasn't going to get it. He grimaced, throttled back and put the nose down before shutting the engine off. Better not to risk the engine, not in this place; there was no machine-shop to repair it if it went. The choking cough of the engine silenced, the only sound now was the wind whistling through the struts and interplane wires as he glided in, making for the burnt strip ahead. He circled to make his landing, skimmed over the top of the tube grass and came down a little inelegantly for his tastes, but without any further mishap. He jumped out to examine the machine. The fault didn't take too long to find. The petrol feed pipe had been crudely punctured. Since there was no corresponding hole in the fuselage, it could only indicate that someone had tampered with it from inside. Luckily, it shouldn't be too hard to fix. The control lines were another matter. Someone had tried to file through those as well. If they had failed while he was in the air he would have lost complete control. Thankfully, whoever it was hadn't done their job too well. Nevertheless, there was only one word for it. Sabotage.

 

It had been Porgy's idea, but nobody was against it, if it took his mind off Edith for a while.

"Gilbert the Filbert's had it coming," said Porgy as they crept down the comm trench.

"We can do his dugout over and blame it on them Chatts. No one'll ever be the wiser. I'll bet there'll be some good loot in there. Whisky. God, what I wouldn't give for some good whisky."

Mercy had insisted on coming with them, hissing, sucking and cursing with pain from his beating all the way.

It wasn't long before they reached the switch where Jeffries' dugout was located.

"We'll be up for it an' no mistake if we get caught, fellas," said Pot Shot hesitantly.

"We're here now. We're only looking for a little payback, Pot Shot, that's all," said Mercy, wincing. "The least that bastard can give me is a decent malt." He pushed back the gas curtain and stepped down into the dugout.

Atkins looked apologetically at Pot Shot and shrugged, "Look, stay here and keep watch. We won't be long, I'll stop him from doing anything too stupid." He knew this was a bad idea, but then so was going over the top and that had never stopped them before. He dealt with it the same way: one step in front of another. It was dark in there and smelt of stale sweat, hair oil and damp earth, and there was another peculiar odour, like sour potpourri. It began getting crowded as Gutsy and Gazette entered behind him, their bulks blocking out what little light filtered down from the entrance.

Porgy went over to the small crate that served as a writing desk. On it were a pack of worn cards and a leather-bound journal surrounded by a circle of salt. "Diary of an officer," he said, holding it up with a leer and a wink. He riffled through the pages. His face screwed up in frustration and disappointment. "'Ere, these entries are all in code. Look, there are symbols and things... I can't make head nor tail of it."

"Let me have a look," said Gutsy, picking up the volume and licking the tip of his index finger before turning a page.

"I'm telling you. It's in code," said Porgy. "You don't reckon he's in military intelligence, do you? We're in deep if he is."

"Bloody 'ell, you're right," said Gutsy, throwing the book down as if it had stung him. "You think he's a Jerry spy? He seems the sort. Hates his own men worse than Fritz."

Mercy casually glanced around the place, looking for anything of value. Seeing nothing of immediate or obvious interest, he bent over with a grunt and began feeling about under the thin straw mattress on the wire frame bed. "I wouldn't be at all surprised. I always thought there was something a little 'off' about him. He was always a bit too full of himself. Only, give us a hand will you?"

Atkins dropped down on his knees by his friend, who, finding nothing under the mattress, put his hand under the bed. Mercy pulled a suitcase into the light, the oxblood red leather case scuffing along the dirt-covered floor as they did so. Half-heartedly, Atkins tried opening it and was relieved to find it locked. But Mercy wasn't going to be beaten. He pulled his bayonet from its sheath, jimmied the lock and opened the suitcase.

"Bloody hell."

"Hey, you chaps ought to see this," said Gutsy, pulling at a loose-fitting piece of tea-chest panelling. It came away exposing a sackcloth curtain which he pulled back to reveal a hidden niche. "What do you make of this little lot?"

They peered into the niche. There were ornate silver candleholders and a ceremonial dagger of some exotic foreign design, along with a black stone with a symbol carved in it.

"Loot?"

"Looks expensive, like he's robbed a church or museum or summat."

"Yeah, but why keep 'em there? Not exactly hidden is it?"

Atkins turned his attention back to the contents of the suitcase. There, he found a private's uniform with patches indicating it to be from the Black Foresters - the Midland Light Infantry, and an Artillery officer's uniform, neither had any links with the Pennines. There were five pay books, one of a Private and the others of several officers and an assortment of identity discs, cap badges and regimental patches. Stuffed under the uniforms were maps and papers; maps of Harcourt Sector showing British artillery positions and barrage targets, Battalion papers with dates of leaves and transfers; some old, some yet blank and undated.

"Something bloody odd's going on here," said Atkins.

"Who'd have stuff like this but a bloody spy!" said Mercy. "Gawd almighty!"

"Do you think the Lieutenant knows?" asked Porgy.

"Do you want to ask him?" Half Pint said. "Sir, we were just looting the Lieutenant's dugout when we came across these?"

"We have to tell him," said Atkins. "It's the right thing to do. If we don't it's failing to inform. Look, I trust Lieutenant Everson. I don't trust Jeffries. And certainly not now. There's something rum going on here and frankly I'd feel a lot more comfortable if we had the Lieutenant on our side."

 

Unfortunately, Atkins couldn't go straight to Everson. This was the army. You didn't just barge up to an officer. It wasn't done. You had to go through an NCO. He had to go through Hobson. He was more worried about the Sergeant's reaction than the Lieutenant's. Nevertheless, with the 'evidence' bundled up in an Army blanket, Atkins sought him out.

The Platoon Sergeant looked at him sternly and not without a little suspicion, glancing through the items, singling out the coded journal and the exotic knife as Atkins explained his finds.

"I think you'd better come with me, lad," he said.

They found Everson with Tulliver in the Company HQ. He was having a heated exchange of words with the Flying Officer.

"Sir," said Sergeant Hobson. "Atkins here has something to say. I think you'll want to hear it."

"This'll have to wait, Tulliver," said Everson. Exasperated, Tulliver turned to leave the tent. "What is it Atkins, I've got a lot on my plate right now."

"It's about Gilb- Lieutenant Jeffries, sir."

Tulliver turned from the tent flap when he heard the name. "Wait, did you say Jeffries?"

"We were combing the entrenchments, sir, and thought we heard something in one of the dugouts," said Atkins. "It was Lieutenant Jeffries' one, sir. We- we found this stuff scattered about the floor." Atkins emptied the blanket's contents; clothing, papers, maps, pay books, discs and museum loot onto the table. "We didn't pay much heed at first, sir, until we noticed the pay books. They aren't for men in his platoon, sir. They aren't even for men in this battalion. Blood thought he might be a Jerry spy, sir, and that we ought to report it."

"Stop right there, Atkins," said Everson. "Those are very serious charges. You can't just bandy about such accusations like that."

"But, sir..."

"Leave this with me. Thank you Atkins. That will be all. Dismissed."

"Sir."

Atkins saluted and left, feeling disappointed and dismayed by Everson's noncommittal reaction. However, he told himself, he'd done the right thing this time, or at least he hoped he had.

 

Although his dismissal of Atkins might have been brusque, it was only because the evidence in front of him troubled Everson. He been sorting out the logistics of a raid on Khungarr and frankly the odds weren't in their favour. "Do you believe him, Hobson?"

"I believe they found this stuff in Jeffries' dugout, yes, sir."

"And what about these? Any of these names mean anything to you?"

The Sergeant flicked through the pay books and shook his head. "No, sir."

Tulliver began leafing through the books himself, opening and discarding one after another. "Wait. This one. Hibbert. I know this name."

"From where?" asked Everson.

"Artillery officer. I took him up for a look-see three or four weeks ago. It's not something I've done often, so it stuck in my mind. Fella had this queer way of signalling 'okay', with his thumb and forefinger, which I thought was odd. Most people use a thumbs up. Then when I met that chap, Jeffries, I thought he looked damned familiar, you remember? He half convinced me we hadn't met at all, then, when I took him up the other day, he used the self-same signal. I'd swear it's the same man, although he didn't have a moustache then. And this," he said, picking up the officer's jacket with the artillery patches and badges. "This was Hibbert's mob. How do you explain this? It could have been he who sabotaged my machine, because it was sabotage. The petrol feed was punctured after he thought I recognised him. And he couldn't have failed to notice that spire I saw in the distance, reflecting the sun the way it did. You didn't believe me ten minutes ago, but surely you can't ignore this? The man's up to something, though God knows what his bloody game is."

"Hmm." Everson studied the papers for a while and then looked at the artillery barrage maps which showed a pattern of bombardment marked over the Harcourt Sector "There's something peculiar about these maps, too."

He turned to the Flying Officer and came to a decision. "All right, maybe there are allegations to answer here, Tulliver, but Jeffries will have to wait. Our main objective is to rescue our people and our secondary objective is to free these subjugated Urmen from the... Khungarrii." He turned to Sergeant Hobson, who was leafing through a sheaf of Jeffries' blank battalion orders. "Sergeant, get the men on parade."

 

Twenty minutes later Everson stood under the ragged Union Jack, before a parade of weary, discontented men as NCOs barked and cajoled them into order. It had long been a point of contention among the Red Tabs that, at the Front, the men's aggression should be channelled into attacks and trench raids to prevent them becoming an idle, disaffected rabble. While he was sure they would be glad of the opportunity of action, he may well have to convince them of it. However, as much as they needed an objective and motivation, above all they needed hope.

"Men!" he began. "You know by now that these Khungarrii have captured some of our own. We will get them back, but this cannot be our sole objective. For, whatever reason we find ourselves here, we are still British. We are a long way from home, on a foreign world where Man has been subjugated by an inhuman race who may very well know how we came to be here. They may even know how we can return home. But we also know our duty. It is clear. It is the reason you took the oath and the King's shilling in the first place. It is the reason you volunteered."

"We didn't volunteer for this!" came an anonymous cry. There were mutterings of agreement among the ranks.

Everson ignored them. "Did we turn our backs in '14 when Belgium pleaded for our aid? No! We answered their call. Honour bade us do no less. Can we do any less now, when our fellow Man suffers here under the oppression of a cockroach Kaiser?

"Or will we let the fate of these Urmen be our fate too? I say to these Khungarrii that whatever you do to the least of my brethren you do unto me. We will show them that 'no gallant son of Britain to a tyrant's yoke shall bend.' We may no longer be on the Western Front, but we have found ourselves a new Front. Here is where we draw the line, here in this Somme mud, where we always have. This corner of a foreign field is all we have left of England and we shall defend it - and all it stands for.

"I want volunteers to mount an expedition to free our companions and perhaps rouse these subjugated Urmen into rebellion. We do not know the number of the enemy or their disposition, but we put the kibosh on the Kaiser. We can put the kibosh on these Khungarrii! What do you say, Pennines?"

A raucous cheer rent the air. Everson's chest heaved as much with pride as with relief. These were the men he knew, men with a purpose, with a challenge. These were the 'Broughtonthwaite Mates.'

"I think you got 'em, sir," said Hobson.