Pat Kelleher - Black Hand Gang

Atkins felt his stomach tighten. If the entrenchments disappeared back to Blighty while they were away they would be stranded. He, and every other man in the platoon, kept glancing back anxiously until the small escarpment of the mud field was lost from sight amid the thick tube-like grass. After that, their only comfort was the distant bark of NCOs heard through the man-high fronds that now surrounded them.

“At least if they stop we can tell that they’ve disappeared back to Blighty,” said Pot Shot.

“Yeah, I never thought I’d be grateful for an NCO,” said Mercy, throwing a glance behind him at a sullen Corporal Ketch.

Atkins watched as the edge of the forest grew closer. The fronds began to thin out and become shorter until the platoon found themselves merely wading though them, hip deep, as they approached the edge of the woods. The trees, if that was what they were, seemed to be similar to those in the odd copses they had observed growing in the vale about the entrenchment; great thick trunks that split into boughs protruding radially from the trunks and ending in large, flatish leaves. Those facing the sun were open. Those that faced away had closed, like inverted gentleman’s umbrellas. Some were already beginning to open in anticipation of the sun’s movement. A number of the trees vied for supremacy, some growing taller than their fellows in order to best deploy their umbrella leaves and absorb the maximum amount of sunshine.

At the edge of the wood Everson called a halt. “We’re here to find food. Don’t try anything yourselves. You saw what happened to 1 Platoon. We’re just here to bring back samples of anything we find that might be edible. Captain Lippett has ways and means of testing them, so let’s leave it to him, shall we? We need to be careful in there. We don’t know what kind of wildlife we’ll find. The damned beasts we’ve found so far have been none too friendly so watch your back. Don’t take any chances. We’ve got two hours, and frankly that’s longer than I want to spend away from the trenches under the present conditions and I’m sure you all have similar concerns.”

There were noises of agreement among the platoon.

“Right. 4 Section will hold this position in reserve with the Lewis gun. We’ll meet back here in two hours. If you get into any danger, your NCOs have whistles. I’ll go in with 1 Section. Good hunting!”

As they moved deeper into the wood, the trees they saw on the perimeter, unable to obtain enough sunlight, soon gave way to stranger vegetation. Some of this had great green tubers running down its sides, embedded in its huge thick trunks, like great veins. The trunks rose straight up, without interruption from bough or branch, into the canopy where they seemed to explode with foliage, each competing with its neighbours for the nourishing rays of the sun.

Further in, they came across a tree, an entanglement of thorny weed wrapped around its base. Here and there the mass supported large dark red blooms. Strands of the weed climbed up the trunk, wrapping itself so tightly about it that its barbed thorns drove deep into the bark, a clear thick liquid oozing from the puncture wounds.

“It’s like living barbed wire,” said Lucky, scuttling sideward to avoid a tendril as it moved weakly towards him.

“What kind of hell world is this?” said Porgy, shaking his head.

Even as they watched it Atkins could see this wire weed grow, spreading out feelers across the ground under some vegetable imperative he couldn’t fathom. The men skirted the slowly spreading carpet and pressed on.

The clatter of their weapons and gear was smothered by the surrounding vegetation and, every now and again, sharp cries and calls from the canopy or rustles and snaps from the undergrowth startled them, but they saw nothing.

As they advanced cautiously through the wood Everson heard something ahead. He put his hand up to hush the rest of the section. They stopped and cocked their heads, listening intently, fingers poised on the magazine cut-off catch on their rifles. The Lieutenant beckoned them forward, a warning finger on his lip. They pushed slowly through the undergrowth until it parted to reveal a large sunlit glade.

There, hopping about, feeding on close cropped grass, were a pack of Gordons. They squeaked as their furry snouts probed the ground, no doubt looking for some sort of insect or ground dwelling creature upon which they depended. In the middle of the clearing, towering over them all like some beneficent totem was a tall plant. It consisted of several stems, each as thick as an average man, entwined about each other and rising to a height of around eighteen feet. At its tip was a large bulbous yellow head and around the underside, hanging from the nodule, were small pods of varying sizes, like ripening fruits. A sweet smell hung around the glade. Atkins’ mouth began to water.

“Fascinating,” said Hepton, as he fixed his camera box to the tripod and began cranking away.

“Sir,” said Pot Shot, addressing the Lieutenant. “Do you think we should try picking one of those fruits for the MO, sir?”

“My thoughts exactly, Jellicoe,” said Everson, “once we make sure those damn creatures aren’t harmful.”

As if in answer, Ginger’s haversack began to writhe impatiently. Closer to its own kind again, Gordon became excited and sought a way out of the bag.

“Fuck’s sake, here we go again!” said Gazette as he saw Ginger struggle to control his haversack.

“No, Gordon!” cried Ginger as the creature wriggled its way out from the under the flap and jumped down to the ground, scampering across the glade to be with its fellows, squeaking gleefully. The others stopped and stood on their hind legs, squeaking in answer.

“What the deuce!” Everson exclaimed.

“Gordon, come back!” hissed Ginger, striding into the glade. Startled, the creatures scattered and Ginger clumsily switched this way and that, raising sniggers from his mates as he tried to catch his pet, or the one he thought was his pet, for they all looked the same. The creatures panicked and squealed and ran around bolting into holes in the ground. Others poked their noses shyly out of their holes all except, presumably, Gordon, who sat calmly by the plant in the middle of the glade, preening itself.

“This is better than Charlie Chaplin,” said Hepton, as he followed the slapstick antics in the glade.

“Mottram, get back here!” hissed Everson.

Ginger, a look of grim determination on his face, advanced on his pet. There was a soft pfffft and a giant red thorn exploded from the ground where he stood, ripping up through his groin, the tip exiting through his shoulder. The force of the thrust hefted him off his feet and he hung suspended on the thorn. He screamed, struggling to free himself, but barbs protruding from the spine held him fast. At the bottom of the thorn, large leaf like structures fell open, forming a cup at the base.

Hepton stopped cranking in horror.

“Ginger!” cried Atkins as he Porgy, Mercy and Lucky dashed into the grove.

Atkins saw now, as he ran across the ground, that it seemed soft and springy, yielding under his weight, like boggy earth. It undulated with shallow tussocks. Lucky’s foot came down on one and another thorn sprang up from the earth. He squealed as the point tore up though his gut, ripping out through his back, jerking him off his feet. Lucky’s helmet rolled across the glade and came to a halt near Atkins.

Porgy, Mercy and Atkins stopped dead still.

“It’s burning me! Burning!” screamed Ginger. His pleas degenerated into a meaningless, agonised wailing. He twisted his head and fixed his bloodshot, watery gaze on Atkins. “Help me!”

“God help us,” croaked Gutsy hoarsely. “That thing in the middle — it’s some kind of carnivorous plant. This must be how it feeds.”