Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“Laudable sentiments, Bains. But I’m afraid I can’t allow it. You signed up for the duration of the war. And, if you haven’t noticed, we are still at war – with this entire world. Our lives and safety depend on well-ordered military discipline. It represents our best chance of survival.

“The court sentences the accused to suffer death by being shot. However, the court recommends the accused mercy on the ground that they have been present in the line without relief for over four months and this may have gone some way to contributing to their behaviour.”

Bains’ Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He didn’t meet Everson’s gaze, but he nodded.

“May God have mercy on your souls,” said Everson heavily.

EVERSON ORDERED ALL men fit for duty on parade at dawn the next day. This was not something he wanted to do, but punishment had to be seen to be done.

The prisoners were marched out, under guard, past the Union Jack, out across the rings of defensive trenches and between the waiting ranks; the two full companies that were all that was left of the battalion, a couple of orphan platoons from the remaining two and several loyal Karno platoons. The men were escorted to the old bombed-out Poulet farmhouse, which now served as a gatehouse and watchtower to the camp.

Everson stood stiffly to attention as he addressed the condemned men, his voice hard and cold. “If I carried out the sentence as required it would, frankly, be a waste of what bullets we have left, and mercy has been recommended by the court. Privates Bains, Swindell, Compton and Rutherford, I hereby exile you from the camp. You will be sent forth with such provisions as we can spare and forbidden to return on pain of death. Is that understood?”

Company Quartermaster Sergeant Slacke handed the men two days’ provisions, water and one magazine of ammunition of ten rounds for their Enfields, which he felt was more than they deserved given the circumstances.

Everson wasn’t entirely sure how merciful the commuted sentence was. It was in effect still a death sentence, expecting them to survive out there for any length of time. At least they had a chance. Rutherford had a ‘wife’ among the nomadic urmen. Everson knew that her urmen enclave was planning to move out, unsettled by the riots. It brought him some comfort. If the men survived long enough to meet up with them, then they might improve their chances.

They walked past the poppies that spread out across the scorched cordon sanitaire and strode out into the veldt of tube grass. Only Rutherford turned to glance back. It was a look of hurt, betrayal and sorrow, and it shook Everson to the core.

Standing up on the observation platform on the remains of the ruined first floor, Everson felt duty-bound to remain long after the other ranks had been dismissed, not to make sure they actually left, but out of a sense of guilt.

“It had to be done, John,” said Lieutenant Baxter, coming up and standing at his shoulder. He watched with him as the dwindling figures were finally swallowed by the veldt. Although a couple of months younger than Everson himself, Baxter, with his full moustache and easy smile, exuded the air of a favourite school master. Everson found his company comforting.

From behind, within the wireweed-bounded camp, the barks of NCOs urged work parties on, a little harder than necessary in revenge for the rioting.

He looked out across the camp. “I’ve lost them, Bernard.”

“They’ll come round, John. They need you, more than they think.”

THE OFFICERS GATHERED in the Command Post. Their mood was sombre and subdued. All of them looked shaken. Their world of entitlement and privilege had come close to being toppled. Next time, they might not be so lucky.

There were seven of them left, a smaller and more exclusive club than they were happy with: Baxter, Palmer, Tulliver, Lippett, Haslam and Seward. They sat on old salvaged chairs or ammo boxes, each lost in their own thoughts or, perhaps, wondering whether to give voice to them.

From his desk, Everson looked around the room. The mutineers’ stupid little act had almost cost him his men. He didn’t want it to cost him his officers, too.

“Right. First things first. If anyone has anything to say about my leadership of the battalion since Captain Grantham’s death, best get it off your chest now. I don’t want another coup on my hands.”

Palmer let out an awkward cough. “Everson, old stick, no one thinks anything of the sort.” He looked around at his fellow subalterns. “Do they?”

There was a chorus of nos and of course nots . The position of battalion commander seemed to be a poisoned chalice. No one else wanted to oversee the decimation of a once-proud battalion.

“Have I lost them?” he asked.

“Just got to keep them busy, old man, that’s the thing.”

“How about an inter-company football tournament?”

Lippett sat polishing his glasses, breathing on the lens, watching them fog and rubbing them between a thumb and forefinger with a scrap of cloth before hooking the wire arms back over his ears again. The MO was considerably older than the young officers around him, and his rank of Captain purely honorary. Eager young bucks once, now cautious and fatigued. Old men before their time, their bright, once-flushed faces now drawn and pasty.

Lippett considered his words. “You’re losing them,” he said, “but you’ve not lost them yet. They need something concrete to focus on. Vague hopes of being spirited back home are no longer enough.”

Baxter stroked his moustache, arched an eyebrow at Everson, and nodded with encouragement.

Everson stood up and braced his palms on the table. “You’re right,” he said with resolve. “We must move forward from this, carry the men with us. Our first priority is to relieve the tank crew and salvage the tank, if we can. That operation has been delayed far too long.”

“Exactly! The ironclad is a great boost to morale. It scares the dickens out of the chatts. With that back in our midst, morale should soar.”

Tulliver spoke up. “Well, the tank crew were still alive and camped by the crater as of my last patrol three days ago.”

“But I thought the tank was at the bottom of the crater. How are we going to get the bally thing up?”

Everson smiled for the first time in days. “That’s the easiest part,” he said. “We’ll use the captured Khungarrii battlepillars.”

The battlepillars were great larval beasts of burden, giant armoured caterpillars larger than an elephant and up to thirty yards long.

“There are secondary objectives too,” said Everson, his confidence growing with every moment. It was a relief to be putting a plan into action again. “On the way, I intend to leave a party of sappers at the gorge to investigate this mysterious metal wall that Corporal Atkins found.”

Haslam, his curiosity piqued, leant forward. “Yes, what the hell is it?”

“That’s what I intend we find out. Atkins reports that it’s a machined face of metal in the gorge wall, perfectly flat, with no visible doors or windows. Indicative of some civilisation, perhaps. We won’t know until we take a closer look at it.

“In addition, once we reach the Croatoan Crater, we can pick up Jeffries’ trail. This is the closest we have come to him, gentlemen.”

“But how do you know he was there?” asked Seward.

Everson fished in his tunic pocket and tossed onto the table a scrap of bloodstained khaki cloth with a button attached.

“This was found at the Nazarrii edifice by the crater. The button bears the Pennines’ crest. Since Atkins and his men were the first Fusiliers to reach that place, this can only have belonged to Jeffries. He was there. I’d stake my life on it.”