Pat Kelleher - The Alleyman

Everson chewed his lip, looking at the building, considering his next move. “It’s a defensible position.”

“Only if they know how to defend it, sir. There’s only one way in and out,” said Atkins. “Seem to me that we have surprise on our side, and those loopholes can act just as much in our favour as theirs. Depends who gets to use ’em first.”

Everson nodded approvingly. “I see your point, Corporal.” He patted Atkins on the shoulder as he crawled back to where the rest had laid up.

“Jack and Pot Shot, take the door with me. Gazette, cover us from here. Riley, Tonkins. Miss Abbott, Padre, stay with him.”

“What, we don’t get to try out the electric lances, sir?” asked Tonkins, disappointment clear on his face.

Everson smiled. “Not now, private. I can’t take the chance.” He looked back at Mercy and the tank crew. “The rest of you, fan out and take up positions below the loopholes. Make sure you keep the next man along in sight and on my signal, stand to arms and cover the interior. Fire only on my orders. Napoo, you’re with me.”

They crept up to the edge of the undergrowth and Lieutenant Everson drew his Webley, its cord lanyard hanging round his neck as he ran across in a stoop to the doors. Napoo followed. He reached the entrance to the building and stood with his back against the wall by the door, and listened for a moment. Inside, the chanting continued unabated. Jack and Pot Shot joined him either side of the door. He watched as the rest of the section and tank crew slipped from the undergrowth to take up their positions at the loopholes. He could hear the familiar but faint jingle and clink of equipment, of men moving and trying to be quiet. He waited for it to stop.

Gazette signalled him from the undergrowth. Everyone was in position.

Everson looked across the doorway at Pot Shot, who nodded his readiness.

He took several deep breaths, steeling himself. He could order the men to do this from the rear, but he was too much the subaltern. He’d always led his men over the top. This time wasn’t any different. Neither were the nerves.

NELLIE LAY IN the undergrowth with Gazette and the signallers. Although she had her revolver, Jack’s words still reverberated in her head. She checked her First Aid bag again. Field dressings, iodine, and morphine. It took her mind off Alfie, if only for a moment.

She thought she heard something in the jungle behind them. Or rather, she didn’t hear anything. The background jungle noise, which seemed so ubiquitous it barely registered at all. She only noticed it once it had stopped. Why had it stopped? She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes and ears straining.

EVERSON BLEW HARD. The shrill pea whistle split the air.

Pot Shot and Jack put their boots to the wooden doors, which crashed open. The large Tommies stood in the doorway, silhouetted in the rectangle of light, before stepping to the side and covering the urmen with rifle and revolver.

With a rattle of equipment and a cycling of bolts, the men outside stood to, the barrels of their rifles at the loopholes, as they had done hundreds of times before in the trenches, pointing in and covering the urmen inside.

The chanting churned into a jumble of screams and shouts of anger as the urmen turned to face the intrusion, raising swords and spears, ready to defend their sacred space.

Lieutenant Everson stood in the doorway. A couple of Mills bombs in this space and the urmen would be taken care of, he found himself thinking coldly. Instead, he fired his revolver into the roof.

The shouting and screaming died down to a ripple of sobs and muted wailing.

“I want our man and I want him unharmed. Do you understand?” Everson demanded, loudly and slowly. He indicated the loopholes around the circumference of the building and the bristle of rifle barrels and bayonets thrust though them. “We have you covered.”

The urmen muttered darkly, restrained by uncertainty and fear, shooting nervous glances at the gun barrels.

“Where is Private Perkins?” he demanded again.

THE COMMOTION STARTLED Alfie as much as the urmen, but when he heard the barked orders and the cycling of Enfield bolts he at least knew what was happening, even if he never expected it. He felt a flood of relief to know that he hadn’t been forgotten, and that they had come for him.

“Here, sir,” he called over the heads of the urmen.

Alfie limped towards the Lieutenant. The crowd of frightened, angry urmen parted, allowing him to pass.

Alfie took in the rifle barrels at the loopholes. “I’ve not been harmed, sir. In fact,” he said, “just the opposite.” He hobbled forward on his splinted leg. The cheery grin of mustered bravado twisted into a grimace as pain lanced through him.

“Alfie! Thank God!” blurted Jack as he saw his crewmate.

Alfie hadn’t parted on the best of terms with his crewmates. The last time he saw them they were so paranoid, they’d forced petrol fruit down his throat to try and make him see things their way. He hadn’t expected to see them again, and now that he had, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Anger, relief, and a bright flare of hope. Nellie. Was Nellie with them?

Everson shot a glance at the gunner over his shoulder and the man clammed up. It looked as if Alfie’s answers would have to wait.

“It’s all right, sir,” said Alfie. He turned to face the urmen, who were looking from Alfie to Everson in muted awe. “You can put your weapons down,” he told them. “I know these men. They are like me.”

“Perkins, what’s going on here?”

Alfie glanced back at the urmen. “Long story, sir,”

“Quick précis, then,” said Everson, brusquely, eyeing the restive savages.

Alfie raised his eyebrows. “They worship Croatoan, sir,” he informed him. “Seem to think he’s condemned by that chatt god to the underworld to be punished. They believe the earthquakes and this storm, something they call Croatoan’s Torment, are signs of his hellish punishment, sir.”

Everson arched an eyebrow. “All right, Perkins, you’ve got my attention.”

“Apparently it attracted Jeffries’ attention too, sir. He’s been here.”

“Jeffries? How do you know?”

“They knew him. I thought they’d killed him, but now I’m not so sure. They wanted him to communicate with their ancestors, sir, the way they did me.”

“Spiritualism, Perkins?” said Everson archly. “I hope you haven’t been up to Mathers’ tricks.”

“No, sir!” Alfie protested. “They wanted me to read them something,” said Alfie. “Only they can’t read. Forgotten how, I daresay. To them it’s like magic. So when I read it, they thought I was channelling the voices of the dead, as it were. I suppose in some way I was.”

“Read?” said Everson. “What did they want you to read?”

“A book, sir. They claim their ancestors wrote it, like. And there’s something else, sir. This book, if it was written by their ancestors,” he said, indicating the urmen standing around him. They wouldn’t believe his next words. He was not entirely sure he did either. “If that’s the case,” he said, “the urmen aren’t native to this world. I think their ancestors came from Earth.”

He pulled back, steadying himself, studying the officer’s face, expecting some shared disbelief, that it came as a big a shock to Everson as it had to him, that there was, in all probability, no way home. That they were marooned here. But the revelation barely seemed to register with the subaltern. Everson’s shoulders sagged, and a sigh escaped his lips, as if it was not the bad news he had been expecting.

Alfie looked at him in a disbelief that turned swiftly to anger. He felt the bitter betrayal of the soldier denied the full facts. “You knew!”