Pat Kelleher - Black Hand Gang

“Don’t move,” said Everson. “You may trigger off more of those things.”

Lucky was screaming too, thrashing about in a frenzy as he tried to work himself free, but only succeeding in driving himself further down the thorn. As he slipped down he revealed little sacs that pulsed at the base of small barbs, pumping out some vile secretion. Atkins realised that similar sacs, caught within Ginger and Lucky’s bodies, were even now pumping this stuff into them; some sort of poison or digestive juice. The whole glade was a honey trap. Gordon and its little friends had been safe, being too light to trigger the plant’s mechanism.

Pot Shot had his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to blot out the anguished screaming. “Somebody do something!”

Everson cocked his pistol and aimed at Ginger’s head. It was the only thing to do to save him from a slow, agonising death by internal liquefaction. He pulled the trigger and the back of Ginger’s head exploded across the glade. He turned and re-cocked his pistol, this time aiming at Lucky who looked straight back at him.

“Thank—”

Everson met his gaze as he fired again and Lucky slumped lifelessly down on the thorn. Everson sagged visibly as he holstered his pistol. Atkins didn’t envy him. But they were still stuck. One wrong move and their fate could be that of their companions.

“Right,” said Everson eventually. “These things are obviously set off by weight. Otterthwaite, can you shoot the tussock things and trigger the remaining thorns?”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” said Hobson. “But there’s a quicker way. Jellicoe, give me your Mills bombs.”

Atkins, Mercy and Porgy exchanged glances. Atkins watched as the Sergeant got down on his hands and knees to sight along the floor of the glade, looking for the tell-tale tussocks of untriggered thorns.

“Right-o, watch yourself, lads, sir,” said Hobson, pulling the pin from a Mills bomb. Hobson counted to three and tossed it towards the edge of the clearing, away from the trapped men, who crouched down where they were. The grenade exploded and Atkins felt himself showered with dirt as one, two, three huge thorns, triggered by the concussion wave, sprang up around him. The engorged sacs on the barbs pulsing and ejaculating their venom impotently.

Hobson threw a second grenade and it landed in the cup of the furthest thorn before it exploded, shredding the plant. “There’s your way out,” said Hobson, indicating the path of triggered thorns. “Watch where you step.”

Mercy and Porgy edged their way carefully past the thorns, now oozing with digestive acids.

“We can’t leave them here, sir,” said Atkins, looking back at the impaled bodies.

“I’m sorry, Atkins, it’s too dangerous.”

“Then just their pay books, sir?” he pleaded, William foremost in his mind. If someone had taken his brother’s disc and pay book they might now have known his fate.

“Very well, but be careful.”

Atkins stepped as gingerly as he could in his hobnails towards Ginger’s slack body. Standing on his tiptoes and leaning over the shiny red collecting cup at the thorn’s base, he tentatively opened up what was left of Ginger’s tunic and pulled the cloth-covered pay book from his inside pocket. God, this was never a pleasant job at the best of times. A wet splash made him jump as half-liquified organs and viscera slipped out of Ginger’s torso and fell into the waiting plant cup. The stench drove Atkins back a step. Used to the charnel stench of the trenches as he was, this was a foul odour that turned his stomach. A squeak startled him. He whirled round almost losing his balance, his foot coming down inches from another tuft. It was Gordon. He’d almost trodden on the creature. It looked up at him, squeaking. He felt a hot flush of anger burst across his face.

“Piss off. This is your fault, you little shit!” he took a swing at it with his boot but it hopped back. It looked up at him from the safety of a tussock.

“Atkins, come on!” called Everson from the edge of the glade.

As he moved round to Lucky’s body Atkins blatantly ignored the creature even though he was aware of it turning to watch him. He tottered precariously on his toes as he stretched to reach Lucky’s torso. Carefully retrieving his now bloodstained pay book, he made his way back across the glade slowly, step by step.

Atkins leapt thankfully to the edge of the glade only to hear a wistful squeak behind him. Gordon had followed him. He tried shooing the creature away as Everson ordered them away from the glade one by one, but it hopped mournfully after him. With a huff of exasperation, Atkins picked up the creature and put him into his gas helmet haversack as Hepton packed up his camera and tripod.

They moved off sombrely through the undergrowth, knowing now to avoid the large airy sunlit glades, which they saw were dotted everywhere.

“Watch it, more of them damn Sting-a-lings,” said Mercy. The name seemed morbidly appropriate and, for want of anything better, it stuck, adding a new level of poignancy to the old soldier’s song.

Hobson took the lead followed by Ketch, with Everson bringing up the rear. As they progressed through the wood, each man glanced nervously about; every rustle, every breeze that stirred fronds or leaves or tendrils, every crack, every snap was now potentially something lethal. From elsewhere came the sound of muted rifle fire, screams and a whistle. One of the other sections was in trouble. There was nothing they could do about it but it didn’t help the tension any.

Out of the corner of his eye Atkins caught a flash of something. Before he could shout a warning, something man-sized and mottled green detached itself from a trunk and sprang at Lieutenant Everson. Large, saw-toothed mandibles clicked lustfully on empty air as the Lieutenant dived out the way.

Even as the men ran to their commander’s aid there was a husky cry and a figure hurled itself out of the undergrowth onto their assailant, deftly working a blade between the chitinous plates on the creature’s neck and, with a twist of his arm, severing the head.

There were three bayonetted rifles aimed at him as the man looked up, while the soldiers lifted the partially decapitated body of the man-beetle from their struggling, spluttering commander. Everson, red faced, kicked it away angrily and sat up, struggling to contain the wracking sobs of relief. With their rifles and a jerk of the head, Gazette, Mercy and Gutsy herded the wild man against a trunk and disarmed him. Sergeant Hobson examined the curved blade he carried.

“Bloody hell, he looks human,” said Gutsy, peering at the wild man.

The Lieutenant’s saviour was a wiry, well-muscled middle-aged man with wild greying hair and a scrubby grey beard. His face and arms were tanned and weathered. He was dressed in clothing that looked as if it had been assembled from various animal hides and vegetable barks. Across his chest and tied to his upper arms were chitinous plates, worn like armour, that looked as if they’d been acquired from creatures similar to the one in front of them.

“Here, Kameraden, you speak English?” asked Mercy.

“Don’t be so bloody silly!” said Gutsy. “Does he look like he can?”

The man’s eyes flicked from one to the other as they talked.

“I am Urman,” said the man, standing erect and thrusting out his chest proudly.

Gutsy’s mouth dropped open. When it came down to it, though, the Tommies were not too shocked that the man spoke English. As soldiers of the great and glorious British Empire, they were used to the idea that Johnny Foreigner would speak at least some English, even if it was in an odd accent. It was only right and proper, after all.

Everson was too shaken up by his near miss to question it.