CHAPTER FIVE
“The Outlook isn’t Healthy...”
LIEUTENANT MATHERS, OPERATING the steering brake levers, peered out of the front visor at the small rectangle of world he could see before him, a world that see-sawed violently as the landship crashed up and down on the swell of ground beneath them. As they nosed up over obstacles, the bright rectangle of sky was snatched away with vertiginous speed to be replaced with lurching glimpses of soil and rock, before he was teased with a horizon line of vermillion-hued vegetation that vanished again abruptly.
Again, Mathers heard the whispering. He glanced at Clegg beside him, the bantam cockney’s wiry arms tense on the driving levers.
“Blimey,” the driver shouted over the noise of the engine behind them. “This place has got more pot holes than Oxford Street.”
Mathers shook his head. He could barely hear Clegg speak, let alone whisper. It must be some resonant engine note he’d not noticed before.
As they left the canyon behind them, the blue-green rock blisters gave way to a cinnamon-coloured soil. Ahead of them lay a rocky plateau scored with haphazard cracks and stress marks from the same geological event that caused the canyon. Cracks and gullies splintered the landscape like crazy paving; some rocky plates tilting, some sunken, some thrust up. Some gullies were too wide for the tank to cross, even though the weight of its hydraulic steering tail was designed as a counter-balance to cross trenches of up to nine feet.
They had to find a way to safely cross the labyrinthine field. As tank commander, that job fell to Mathers, and quite frankly he was glad of it. He was the tallest man in the crew, a real legs eleven. Sat in the small cockpit on the hard chair being jolted and jarred had given him a stomach cramp. Even now he hated being cooped up in the tank for long periods and he found himself tensing, clenching his stomach muscles against the unexpected drops, jolts and bangs.
He had cramp. And a headache. Maybe the fresh air would help. He tapped Clegg on the shoulder.
“I’ll walk on ahead, guide you through.”
It was a common procedure in tanks. When going became difficult it was the commander’s unenviable task to negotiate paths round shell-hole-pocked roads, and he’d done his fair share during night manoeuvres and under fire. There were times when he almost preferred that to being cooped up in an iron coffin. At least here, there was no chance of Fritz sniping at you, and that brought a great deal of relief. On the other hand, you never knew here what you were going to encounter next.
He walked ahead of the tank, checking the ground, searching for narrow enough gullies for them to cross. He could hear things moving about in the bottom of them, slithering and snuffling. He peered over the edge of one, but some form of bruised purple vegetation obscured the gully bed. In a way, he was relieved. He indicated to Clegg to swing right over a gap narrow enough for the Ivanhoe to bridge.
In this manner, the tank crew progressed slowly across the broken plain, having to go out of their way to find a route passable enough to be of little concern to the great metal behemoth. From then on, progress was faster and the jungle loomed ahead. A short sort of crimson brambly plant became more prevalent, its thorns scratching the leather of his calf-length boots.
One caught his ankle and sent him tumbling into a gully; he slipped to the bottom. An accompanying land slither sent dirt and soil raining down onto him. For a moment, disorientated, unable to move, the old panic rose in him again.
Mathers had been an officer in the infantry, on the front lines, until one day he found himself under heavy bombardment for days. The dugout he was in had collapsed under shellfire. There was a large bang, and then darkness. And silence. He couldn’t move. He was buried, pinned under the body of an orderly, Hammond, that lay across him, staring at him with lifeless eyes for what seemed like hours, but must have been a lot less. His ears were ringing. Muffled by the dirt, the sandbags and joists, he could hear the barrage going on around him, the shriek of whizz-bangs and, in the breeze that blew gently through the collapsed dugout, a hint of gas. He could barely hear his own voice as he called for help. He knew he mustn’t be seen to funk it in front of the men he could hear digging for him. He had enough gumption about him not to scream, fighting off the urge by biting his own hand while, in his head, he pleaded with a god he barely believed in to let him get out. He promised anything, everything.
When they finally dragged him from under Hammond’s corpse and carried him by stretcher to the aid post, he was found to have no serious injuries. Hammond’s body had cushioned him. He was lucky. But his scars couldn’t be seen.
He was still shaking the next day. The tremors made it difficult to walk, so he was forced to remain in bed by stern matrons.
Commotional distress, they said. Perfectly understandable. Several weeks behind the lines helped him recover. Except that it didn’t. Back at the front, it didn’t take long for his nerves to fray. He noticed the tremors, the rising panic, and the tic under his eye, whenever he had to go into a dugout. He could hardly sleep. Alcohol helped, initially. Eventually they sent him back to Blighty to recuperate.
That was when he met Major Parkhurst. Damn Major Parkhurst. Man had the bloody temerity to call himself an MO. Bloody croaker, more like. The man didn’t believe in neuralgia. You were either a coward or you weren’t. Mathers insisted he wasn’t, which was all Parkhurst wanted to hear to declare him fit for duty. The trouble was, Mathers no longer knew for sure. He had to prove it to himself one way or the other. Kill or cure, he thought.
The Machine Gun Corps’ new Heavy Section was looking for officers and men. It would be a fresh start away from his old battalion. He applied, hiding the true extent of his condition. He hadn’t realised what was involved until he’d arrived at Elveden. But you couldn’t show fear in front of the men. You were an officer. To do so was to invite a court martial. Every time he entered the tank he could feel the pressure building inside him, like a pot that threatened to boil over, but he managed to control it, tensing his stomach and legs so that he wouldn’t jump at unexpected noises or lurches. Thankfully, it seemed everyone in the tanks was ill from the fumes and the working conditions at one time or another and he found he could disguise the worse of his nervous debility. Here, on this world, however, the tank provided its own medication. The fuel fumes seemed to have a beneficial effect on him, making him less jumpy. He wondered what was in it to make him feel this way, but only briefly. Mostly he was just glad. Even that infernal tic under his left eye, that would fire uncontrollably in bursts, like a machine gun, had stopped recently.
He put it to the back of his mind and breathed deeply.
He realized he wasn’t buried. The cloth of his jacket had just caught fast on the bramble. He tore his arm free, ripping the serge. He heard something in the damp shadows slithering towards him along the gully bed, under the cover of the creeping plant, and he scrambled back up the side of the gully.
As he clawed his way to the lip, he heard a sound over the noise of the tank, and he saw an apparent cluster of boulders a hundred yards away lift itself up, limbs unfolding from beneath it. He had seen one of these things before in a forest, on the way to rescue captured Tommies from Khungarr. They had only survived then by good fortune. A stone beetle, about the size of the Ivanhoe.
Cautiously, it stretched and unrolled itself, watching the tank warily. Clegg tried to turn the Ivanhoe so that it faced their foe; Mathers urged them on silently. The stone beetle was quicker and scuttled round the tank, as if looking for weaknesses. In order to turn more quickly Clegg had kept both tracks running, one in reverse. It would strip the differential if he kept that up and they’d be buggered out in the middle of nowhere with no tankodrome or machine shops. Mathers was sure Perkins would be scolding him.
The beetle crouched low on its limbs, its head down, mandibles scything, all the while watching the tank.
The tank halted, its engine growling. Mathers urged it to do something. It seemed an eternity before the tank began to lurch backwards away from the beast. The huge rock beetle advanced, keeping pace with it. It then tried scuttling round to the right as if to flank it. A burst of machine gun fire spitting across the ground soon stopped that.
Mathers watched, helpless, as the tank tried to fix the thing in its sights, but it was altogether faster and more agile than the cumbersome armoured machine. Mathers threw himself to the ground as a spray of bullets zipped over his head.
“Nesbit!” he roared, the admonition all but drowned by the noise of the tank.
The giant beetle, having abandoned its flanking manoeuvre, now sought to charge the trespasser. Head down, swaying, its great stone stag horns wove through the air. It scuttled forwards again in short, abrupt bursts, the brief spatter from the forwards facing Hotchkiss ricocheting off its carapace, merely giving it pause for thought. It was almost with reluctance that the stone beetle then backed away. It regarded the ironclad hesitantly before slinking away and slithering down into a large gully.
Mathers breathed a sigh of relief. When he picked himself off the ground, a sharp pain in his abdomen almost doubled him over. He frowned and sucked air in through gritted teeth until the sensation passed.
He felt inside his tunic, pulled out his hip flask and took a quick slug of the distilled petrol fruit. Its fumes alone weren’t enough to dull the pain. More recently, he needed something stronger.
The tank slewed round blindly, trying to find its vanished foe. Mathers approached the tank and stood in front of it. He could make out Clegg’s face through the driver’s open visor plate, and waved him on. The tank began to clank obediently towards him as he continued to scout ahead. The crevices and gullies were becoming fewer and narrower, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He hadn’t gone fifty yards when he heard a pistol go off. He turned to see someone fire from one of the tank’s pistol ports.
This stone beetle creature was obviously more cunning than its forest cousin was. It had used the cover of the gullies to come round behind the tank and surprise its rival.
“Swing to port!” Mathers yelled, waving his arms to his right as if he could speed up the tank’s turn by the action. “For Christ’s sake, swing to port!”
INSIDE THE TANK, peering out of the sponson door pistol port, Frank saw a flash of stone carapace and fired his revolver.
“Bugger’s back!” he yelled. Faces peered out of the other pistol ports, searching for the creature.
“Where?”
“It’s behind us,” said Cecil, peering out of the pistol port in the rear door by the radiator.
“Wally, about face, ninety degrees!” yelled Alfie. He nodded to Frank and when Wally gave the signal from his driving seat, they changed gears. The tank began to turn almost on the spot.
“Where is it? I can’t see it!” said Wally, peering though his visor plate. They peered out of pistol ports and gun slits, checking off their positions.
“Not here,” called Jack, swinging the gun round through a hundred and twenty degrees and peering through the gun slit.
“Nor here,” said Cecil.
“Can’t see it,” said Norman.
“Then where the bloody hell is it?”
As if in answer, there was a heavy thud accompanied by an oppressive green synesthetic flash as the creature landed on top of the tank. A noise like nails on a blackboard pierced the bass rumble of the engine as the creature’s feet sought purchase. Blocked by the belly of the creature above, exhaust fumes began to belch back into the compartment, filling the space with a choking black smoke.
Alfie began coughing until spots burst before his eyes.
Reggie took the commander’s seat next to Wally.
“No free rides on this ’bus!” he said, pulling on the brake lever. The Ivanhoe jerked to a halt. Unable to get a firm grip, the stone beetle slithered off the front.
“That’ll teach it,” said Wally with a self-satisfied sneer. “Go on, clear off, you great bleedin’ cockroach.”
It skittered off round out of his limited field of view. Back in the compartment, the crew flung themselves at the pistol ports again. It was too fast for the gunners to get a bead on it.
The back end of the tank tilted up as the creature shoved its horns beneath the steering tail and tried to lever it up. The tank crashed down again as it failed. It tried again.
“Oi!” Wally drove the tank forwards.
“Cecil, take a peek and see what the bleeder’s trying to do, will you.”
Cecil peered out of the rear loophole. “Lawks, it’s coming after us again!”
The tank juddered once more as the back end tilted up and crashed down again.
“We can’t take much more of this.”
There was a brief stillness. Alfie held his breath.
Then Cecil piped up, jerking back from the pistol port in the rear door. “It’s trying for the roof again.”
Alfie found himself looking up at the roof, from where the noise, and jagged green spikes, of scrambling issued. Between them, Wally, Alfie and Frank tried to swing the tank and throw it off, but it clung tenaciously to the roof.
“What the hell do we do now?”
“Aaaugh. Shit!” yelled Cecil stumbling back over the differential. “It’s trying to get in!” After several attempts, a thin exoskeletal tube about two feet long appeared through the pistol port. He reared back and cocked his revolver at it. He watched, open-mouthed, as the end opened and something wet and glistening, like a tentacle, protruded from the chitinous casing.
“It, it’s a whatsit, a prob-sis? It’s trying to suck us out!”
“I don’t think so, son.” Jack edged past Alfie, put a hand on Cecil’s wrist and forced him to lower the weapon. “Don’t shoot in here, Ces. The bullet’ll ricochet.”
“Fellas,” said Norman,warily.
The tank began to rock as the beetle creature above them sought purchase. The rocking became more rhythmic. The tentacle, if that’s what it was, began to throb.
A vile thought took hold as Alfie watched. “That’s not a bloody tentacle, or a proboscis. It’s a bleedin’ short arm!”
Reggie blanched. “A what?”
The rocking became more urgent and the occupants of the tank were being shunted backwards and forwards with every thrust. Expressions of horror and disgust dawned on their faces as they realised what was going on.
“It’s not trying to kill us. It’s after a bon time,” said Norman.
Only Cecil still looked blank.
“It thinks we’re a lady friend?” Frank suggested.
Cecil frowned. “But this is a male tank.”
Alfie braced his hands against the roof as another enthusiastic thrust rocked the tank. “I really don’t think it cares.”
“Jesus! Well don’t just stand there,” bellowed Wally.
Cecil looked at them. “What do we do?”
Moral indignation flooded Jack’s face. “Well, I’ll tell you what I’m bloody well not going to do and that’s lie back and think of bloody England.” He grabbed a wrench and took a swing at the now tumescent and dripping appendage. “D’you know, Ces,” he said, “after this, I can see me and you is going to need a long talk about... country matters.”
Frank leered. “After this, I don’t think he’ll need one.”
MATHERS WATCHED AS the giant beetle attempted to mount the Ivanhoe, using its mandibles to try to bite and hold the tank’s roof, its legs scrambling for leverage as it began to grind against the rear of the tank. All thought of its own safety washed away in a primal urge too strong to ignore.
The tank juddered forward, but the beetle was determined not to lose its mount and tottered forwards with it, almost comically, still attached.
Mathers felt a hint of shame that the ironclad should be misused so shamefully, as if it had been a faithful beast unwillingly put out to stud. He picked up a rock and hurled it at the creature, but it bounced off. He picked up another one and edged closer, this time aiming at its face. It bounced off a mandible. He felt light-headed, but didn’t stop. Whatever he was feeling, it wasn’t fear; it was... exhilaration. He picked up another rock and, yelling incoherently, he charged. He ran at the tank and, using his momentum, and the starboard gun barrel, in one swift move he scrambled onto the Ivanhoe and began smashing at the beetle’s legs, which seemed to be the most vulnerable part. Smoke began billowing out from the smothered exhaust vents beneath the beetle. He was about to leap on its back in an attempt to stove its head in when a sheering screech ripped the sky.
A shadow flicked overhead.
Mathers looked up. A large creature like a manta ray swooped down over the rutting beetle. It had a long neck and small head, with a deceptively wide mouth and sharp teeth. The beetle, locked as it was in congress with the tank, neither knew nor cared.
The flying creature Mathers recognised; the men called it a jabberwock. They preyed on the herds of tripodgiraffes that roamed the veldt. It wheeled round and extended its hind legs and sharp talons, like a hawk’s. Mathers, unperturbed, threw the rock at it, less of a defence and more of a challenge. He stood on the beetle’s back as it humped and roared at the jabberwock in defiance. So close to death and he had never felt so alive.
By now, the beetle was hastily trying to dismount the tank but seemed to be having difficulty withdrawing.
The jabberwock screeched again as it dived towards the unnatural pairing. Mathers, stood atop the mating beetle, was prepared to meet the thing head on, though with what he had no idea and didn’t care. The struggling stone beetle freed itself and slipped clumsily off the back of the tank, tipping Mathers from its back. He put out a hand but found no hold and fell from the creature onto the starboard tank track before tumbling heavily to the ground by the sponson. His graceless dismount saved his life, as talons tore through empty air above him.
Winded and dazed, he shuffled back on his buttocks away from the tracks, for fear the tank should start up again and crush him. Shrieking in frustration, the jabberwock banked sharply and, talons first, slammed down onto the disorientated and satiated stone beetle. Using its great manta wings to stabilise itself, the jabberwock sought gaps that its sharp curved claws could lock under, while its head sought similar weaknesses on its prey’s back.
The beetle flailed pointlessly, unable to grasp anything of its attacker with its mandibles. Turning this way and that like a dog chasing its tail, desperate to dislodge its assailant from its back, it slammed into the tank, shunting it sideways. Mathers watched as the vehicle slid several feet towards him. He could only see the flapping of the great wings and hear the cries of the jabberwock, hidden from view by the tank.
His face and back began to prickle with drying sweat, he felt a wave of nausea rise up, and he vomited on the ground. What the hell did he think he was doing? His hands began to shake. Thinking of himself up on the tank beating that damn thing with a rock made him heave again. Jesus. His head began to pound.
There was a screech of triumph as the jabberwock rose from the ground, talons locked tightly onto the beetle. The stone beetle’s legs thrashed weakly, defenceless. The pair rose higher and higher as Mathers scrambled to his feet. Trembling, feeling faint and clammy, he staggered towards the tank.
The jabberwock cawed loudly and released the beetle, which dropped like a dead weight. There was a wet cracking sound as the beetle slammed down onto the tank’s roof. It clawed feebly. Triumphant, the jabberwock flew down and began to prise at the cracked carapace with a taloned foot. Its long neck and hooked beak began ripping at the innards, tearing its soft wet organs.
Thirty feet away, Mathers made to creep towards the sponson hatch, but the gimlet-eyed predator spotted him. For a moment, he thought it was going to attack, but it just extended its neck, screeched in his direction, warning him off, and went back to tearing at the beetle carcass.
The jabberwock kept one eye on him, jealously guarding its kill as it ripped and tore, throwing back its head to swallow lumps of offal. He needed to get the thing and its meal off the tank. Slowly, still trembling, he edged round to the front of the tank and ducked round the starboard track horn, and over the pervasive rumble of the engine shouted into the driver’s cockpit.
“Clegg, the beetle thing is lying on the starboard track. If you drive forwards the track might run it off the front of the tank.”
Clegg nodded his comprehension through the driver’s visor. Mathers saw him turn back in the tank and yell something. Her ran up the engine and the tank jerked into life, then began, clanking track plate by track plate, to inch forwards. The beetle carcass moved. The jabberwock didn’t notice at first, but when its kill was tugged away from it, it looked around for the unseen rival.
Mathers backed off and watched the progress of the dead beetle as it ground slowly forward. The jabberwock, furious that its meal was being snatched, put one clawed foot on the body to hold it. The tracks ground on inexorably, shredding the underside of the carcass and leaving viscous blue stains on the track plates. The weight of the jabberwock was holding it back.
Mathers would have to do something. Picking up a rock, he threw it at the jabberwock to draw its attention. The first one hit its body; it turned and hissed at him. The second hit its neck. It roared in his direction. A third had it rearing up over its kill and spreading its huge wings. But Mathers now felt no fear. He grinned to himself. His crew had better be ready for this.
“Come on!” he yelled at the beast, waving his arms. “Come on! You great ugly trout! Over here!” Ugly trout? Really? Was that the best he could do? Never mind. It seemed to do the trick. The jabberwock flapped its wings and took off, shrieking at him all the while. Mathers backed off even further, trying to draw the creature away from the tank. He glanced behind him. There were several boulders that might provide cover, if he could reach them.
Without the weight of the jabberwock, the beetle carcass began moving as the Ivanhoe advanced, and flopped limply off the front track horns, where it fell to the ground. The tank rolled over it, crushing it and staining the ground blue.
The jabberwock advanced on Mathers in short agile hops. Mathers wasn’t a serious threat to it, no more than an annoyance.
Now would be a good time, thought Mathers as he backed away, facing the creature.
A burst of machine gun fire from the driver’s position raked the jabberwock, perforating a bloody line across its wingspan. The jabberwock turned on the new threat. The landship lumbered towards it. There was another burst of machine gun fire and the jabberwock’s head vanished in an explosion of bloody vapour. The body staggered on another few yards under its own momentum before collapsing, also to be crushed under the tracks of the advancing Ivanhoe.
Mathers collapsed against the boulder, his breath coming in great heaving pants, sweat trickling down his back. He could feel his heart banging in his chest and waited for it to settle down.
The tank halted and Clegg called out through the driver’s visor. “Lieutenant, are you all right?” Mathers nodded and waved his hand to brush off his driver’s concern, his mouth too dry to speak.
From the back of the tank, he could hear the sponson hatches clang open and the crew staggering out into the fresh air, a tangle of voices, to survey the bodies.
Perkins ignored the dead creature, turning his attention to the tank. Mathers watched him. He walked along its length checking the tracks and track plates, tapping rivets. Eventually he was satisfied.
“Damage?” asked Mathers, remembering his position, straightening himself up, and striding purposefully towards Perkins.
“We were lucky, a couple of buckled plates, but they should be all right. The track tension will need adjusting soon, but we’re all tickety-boo, sir.”
“Good man,” he said, patting him on the shoulder and walking off towards the tank.
“Sir?” asked Perkins.
Mathers turned. “What is it, Perkins?”
“I was just wondering, sir, shouldn’t we be heading back to camp? We’ve come far enough. We’ve found no sign of Jeffries so far and we’re reaching the limits of our range. Our fuel is limited, we should think about returning. I mean, they’ll be expecting us back, sir.”
“But we’re all right for now?”
“Yes, sir, but –”
Mathers stepped closer and fixed Perkins with a stare, aware that his eye had started to twitch again. “Any complaints?”
If Perkins noticed it, he didn’t say anything. “Complaints, sir? No sir.”
“Then we’ll carry on. As you were, Perkins.”
THE IVANHOE HEADED off, leaving the corpses behind to be picked over by whatever scavengers found them. They made for the forest a couple of miles off.
Mathers was still walking in front of the tank, only now he carried a large suitably gnarled wooden staff tied to the top of which was a PH gas hood, looking like some desiccated head. He wore his ‘turtle shell’ helmet and splash mask, even though he was outside. It afforded him some meagre protection at least. But more than that, right now it served to accompany his rain cape, daubed as it was with hand prints and strange arcane symbols, or at least what the crew had decided passed for magical signs: spirals, stars, lightning flashes and unblinking eyes. Mathers fancied himself the subject of some fantastical Arthur Rackham illustration. He looked for all the world like a tribal shaman leading some great, tamed antediluvian beast.
Which was exactly how it was supposed to look.
Behind him, the Ivanhoe squeaked, clanked and growled its way closer to the jungle, its periscopes up, looking like eye-stalks or antennae.
Mathers could hear the whispering again. This time it was more insistent. This time he thought he could detect words in the tinny susurration. It was coming from behind him, from the Ivanhoe. It was the Ivanhoe. No, not the Ivanhoe. It was Skarra.
Mathers walked on. And listened.
THEY HALTED AT the jungle edge. When Mathers looked there was nothing, but he knew they were there. The fumes from the tank allowed him to see their breathing; slight yellow eddies in the air around the undergrowth.
Through the protective eye slits of his splash mask, he caught a movement from the tree line. A group of urmen stepped out from under cover. One came forwards hesitantly.
Mathers braced himself. You could never be quitesure of the reaction, but he heard the great six pounders coming to bear behind him, and Clegg running up the engine so it sounded like a throaty growl. That usually did the trick. Behind his chainmail mask, Mathers smiled. He enjoyed this next bit.
The warrior stopped, his eyes wide with fear and, while still a full twenty yards away from the ironclad, gave a great cry, threw up his arms and dropped to his knees, genuflecting until his forehead touched the ground. Behind him, his fellows did the same, hardly daring to look upon them.
Then from his position of supplication, he spoke. “We have been expecting you. Your coming has been foretold.”
Mathers hadn’t expected that.