Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

“And many of us shortly after,” said Everson. “They knew the risks, Seward, and if the Padre can tip the scale with a few impassioned words rather than bullets, then that suits me.”

“And if he doesn’t, the chatts will come for us again?” asked Haslam.

“Without doubt,” Everson told them candidly. “But we’ll be ready for them. We already have battlepillars. We have several platoons of urmen that Sergeant Dixon has trained. In addition, Corporal Riley in Signals has had a breakthrough with the electric lances. We are adapting, gentlemen.”

“And what about the gunpowder experiment?” asked Seward.

The huge tarpaulin-covered heaps of manure were a source of contention for the sanitation parties.

There, Everson had to admit defeat. “The dung and the charcoal are no problem and, with the men, there is no shortage of urine for saltpetre, but we’re still looking for a source of sulphur. We’ve had a production line of jam tin grenades being made and when we run out of Ticklers’ tins, Houlton of ‘A’ Company has found a substitute casing in some sort of fruit gourd.”

“Hand ‘gourd’-nades, eh?” said Palmer with a chuckle.

Everson’s shoulders dropped with relief as a ripple of light laughter washed round the dugout. He knew these officers well. Once they’d found the humour in a subject, it spoke of a certain acceptance. He had won them round. All he had to do now was to rescue the tank, to bring their defences up to full strength.

“Palmer, I’ll leave you in charge of defences. Keep a tight rein on the NCOs. I don’t want them using my absence for personal reprisals. The ringleaders, and those caught for offences, have been punished. That’s an end to it. And for God’s sake, see what you can do with that Kreothe carcass up the valley. It’s beginning to rot and the stench is frankly appalling. It’ll bring every scavenger for miles down here.”

“Actually, they don’t seem to care for it,” said Palmer. “It seems to be doing a damn fine job of keeping them away.”

Lippett coughed. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind studying this aerozoan Kreothe before you do anything. Portions of its body seem to be decaying into some sort of gelatinous matter. Some of the men are calling it ‘star jelly.’ They’ve reported a sulphurous smell associated with its decomposition and, if that’s the case, it might solve our gunpowder problem.”

“Are you sure?” asked Everson, intrigued.

Lippett shrugged. “No, but it bears further investigation, don’t you think?”

“Very well, I’ll leave that in your capable hands. Communications. Tulliver, you’re going to have to be our line of communication to camp. You’ll be our lifeline and our eyes, so yes, you’ll get to fly.”

Tulliver needed to hear no more. He rocked his chair onto its back legs and beamed at the rest of them, like a man who had just got a two-week pass.

“I’ll be leading the salvage party out to the Croatoan Crater to recover the tank. On the way I’ll leave a party to take a look at this mysterious ‘wall’ that Atkins found. I must admit, I’m eager to see it myself.”

“Maybe take some men from Signals, see if they can pick up anything with their Iddy Umpty gear, hear anything inside,” suggested Baxter.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Everson. “We’ll also take a couple of Riley’s jerry-rigged electric lances, too. Give them a proper field trial.” Everson looked round the room. “That’s all, gentlemen. You have your orders.” He gathered up his papers to indicate that the meeting was over. “Dismissed,” he added lightly.

As they left, Everson fingered the khaki scrap and button in his pocket. The metal wall and the tank were certainly priorities, but he had one more objective for this trip, and that was to find Jeffries’ trail.

TULLIVER STRODE ACROSS the parade ground from the briefing with a spring in his step and a grin smeared across his face. He was walking on air. He felt he barely needed his bus to fly, but fly it he would.

He felt no need to stick to the trenches, even though they felt familiar and comforting to most of the men. Those of a nervous disposition didn’t have to face the alien landscape about them, and it helped hold their nerve. It felt like home.

Not to Tulliver, though. Up there, that was his home and that was where he was going. That new predator up there would have to watch out; next time, he’d be ready for it.

AT DAWN THE next day, the tank salvage party – a platoon of Fusiliers and a platoon of Karno’s army, drilled and trained urmen outfitted in an odd combination of part-worns, carapace chest plates and steel helmets – fell in around the two captured battlepillars that Everson hoped would be able to haul the tank to safety.

The Fusiliers had outfitted the captured Khungarrii larval beasts of burden for their own use. Several people-carrying panniers had been slung along the sides of the beasts, chatt-style. Unlike the chatts, the Fusiliers had modified them to ride at varying heights, allowing for a wider field of fire by the pannier occupants, fore and aft, without their neighbours obstructing their view or aim. They had also constructed a less ornate, more functional howdah for the ‘drivers.’ One had been a drayman before the war, so it stood to reason in the minds of most that his be the unenviable task of controlling the brutes.

The private saluted as Everson passed. “Woolridge, isn’t it?” asked Everson.

“Yes, sir.”

Everson’s face softened. “Your father was an Everson’s drayman, wasn’t he?”

“That were my uncle, sir.”

“Ah. Right.”

Everson looked up at one of the beasts. “What do you think to them?”

“Big Bertha and Big Willie, sir? They seem docile enough, sir. They’re easy to command now we’ve got the reins figured out.”

“I certainly hope so.” Everson nodded his approval. “Carry on, private.”

It was more than a mere battlepillar omnibus, however. Lieutenant Baxter and his Machine Gun Section had mounted a Lewis machine gun tripod to a small chariot-like basket just forward of the driver’s howdah. They had also turned the section of the fuselage salvaged from a downed 1½ Strutter from Tulliver’s squadron, with the observer’s seat and the Scarff-ring-mounted Lewis machine gun, into a tail-end machine gun emplacement down the creature’s armoured back.

Everson saw Hepton, pushing through the milling soldiers assigned to the salvage operation as they checked their gear and bartered for final supplies from mates, but ignored him. Everson couldn’t bring himself to like the man. He had been foisted on them to record the battle for Harcourt Wood for the folks back in Blighty. He was only supposed to be with them for a day or two. In the end, he had got rather more than he bargained for, and so had Everson. Hepton had been a constant irritant ever since. He turned his attention to the supply manifest that Sergeant Hobson had handed him.

Hepton spotted him. “Lieutenant, you weren’t thinking of going without me, were you?”

Everson looked up from his clipboard. “As a matter of fact, yes, I was.”

Hepton pulled a face of mock hurt and put a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Lieutenant. It’s my job. I’m authorised by the War Office to make you look good for the folks back home. You want to look good, don’t you? All I’m looking for is a little excitement, a little action.”

“Exactly the things I was hoping to avoid,” said Everson.

Hepton smiled his greasy smile and shrugged. “In that case, I’ll settle for a spectacular otherworldly landscape. Can’t say fairer than that, eh?” he said with a wink, rubbing his hands together.

Hobson tapped Everson on the arm and drew him aside. Hepton, hands behind his back, proceeded to rock back and forth on his heels, pretending to inspect the battlepillar in whose shadow they were standing.