Pat Kelleher - Black Hand Gang

“Well, you’re back on form, then,” said Everson.

The Padre patted his Bible “I shall pray for us.”

THAT EVENING THE elation of the men, while temporary, was a pleasant and much needed diversion. The nurses danced gamely with as many men as they could until, exhausted by the constant demand for their attention, they retired for the night.

The noises of revelry and the slurred sound of a battered, hand-cranked gramophone warbling at varying speeds drifted down the steps into Everson’s dugout. “— Take me back to dear old Blighty; Put me on a train for London Town. Take me over there, drop me anywhere; Liverpool, Leeds or Birmingham, well I don’t care…”

Everson sat looking dolefully at the light of the hurricane lamp through a glass of whisky. He was now the highest-ranking officer left in the 13 th. Like it or not, these men were now his responsibility and it was a heavy load to bear. It was everything he never wanted.

On the table before him, the Battalion’s salvaged war diary lay open on blank pages. He didn’t know how the hell he was going to write this one up. Beside it, under a now empty bottle of whisky from his father’s own cellar, lay several maps and orders from Jeffries’ chest. On the edge of the table sat the man’s journal with its incomprehensible ciphers and sigils. Everson had spent the last hour or so examining them, looking for any clues that there might be a hint of truth in what Jeffries had said, looking for a shred of hope.

“I don’t know what to think. Is he pulling the wool over our eyes, are we chasing him up a blind alley, Hobson?”

“Not my place to say sir,” said Hobson.

“This is the last of it,” he said, swilling the malt around the dirty glass. “I was fully expecting to get another case when we went back into the reserves. Doesn’t look like that’s going to happen any time soon.”

“S’not true sir. It could happen tomorrow.”

“And if it doesn’t, Sergeant, what then?”

“With the help of Napoo and his people we can always find more food.”

“And ammunition? The only reason we survived that attack on the Khungarrii edifice was firepower. They hadn’t seen anything like it. And that’s another thing. I didn’t see anything there that would remotely suggest they had the ability to bring us here in the first place. No great scientific or technological advances. They were little more than savages. Mind you, once our ammunition runs out, we’ll be reduced to fighting on their level. And they have the superiority of numbers. They know where we are. They’ve come for us once. They’ll do it again. That’s a certainty. If nothing else, we’ve proved we’re a threat to them now and I’m not sure that’s a good thing. Slacke has done sterling work the past few days. We’ve got the beginning of a stronghold we can defend until we can go home, but how long will that take?”

“Can we get home, sir?”

“Jeffries — Dwyer said he had a way, a map, information.”

“He could have been lying. Slippery bastard like that, you can’t trust a word that comes out of that man’s mouth.”

“He could have been lying to save his own skin, yes, but what if he wasn’t? I have to believe he’s telling the truth. Who knows what information he garnered from the Khungarrii? He was willing to sell us all into bondage over it, so it must have been important. No, we have to find him, Hobson.”

ATKINS FOUND HIMSELF summoned to Everson’s dugout. His stomach turned. You never knew what to expect when sent for by an officer.

“Atkins!” said Everson as the private entered and snapped to attention in front of the desk. “At ease, Atkins. At ease.”

Atkins relaxed his stance. “Thank you, sir.”

“Your section’s lost two NCOs in almost as many weeks. Sergeant Jessop was a good man. He had family, I believe.”

“Yes, sir. A wife and three children. Last were born a month ago. He hadn’t even seen him.”

“I’d write to his wife, but—” Everson gave a dismissive wave towards the curtained doorway at the world outside and shrugged. “Even if I could I wouldn’t know what to say.”

“No, sir.”

“Which brings me to you and your recent behaviour, Atkins. Ketch didn’t have a good word to say about you, apparently.”

“Sir?” said Atkins. He was not sure where this was heading, but an awful suspicion formed in his mind.

“It’s all right, Atkins. Relax. I knew Ketch of old. A cantankerous old sod and one hell of a toady. Was when he was working at my father’s brewery, was in France by all accounts.”

“Sir.”

“On the other hand, I’ve been impressed by your courage and actions. You’ve certainly proved your worth on all our recent Black Hand Gang stuff. I’ve spoken to Hobson, here. He tells me you’re popular and a good man to have in a tight spot. Your section needs a new NCO. I can’t promote you, but I need NCOs, so I’m giving you a field appointment to Lance Corporal.”

“Sir, I can’t. You don’t want me.” Atkins forgot himself and started forwards. A warning cough from Sergeant Hobson made him catch himself and stand fast.

“Nonsense, Atkins. You’ve earned it. If there’s one thing I need, it’s people I can trust. You’ve proved yourself worthy.” Everson stood up, stepped round his makeshift desk and grasped Atkins’ hand in a firm handshake he barely had the enthusiasm to return. If only Everson knew. If only his dugout mates knew his true colours.

“Is that all, sir?”

“Not yet, Lance Corporal. You and I are the only ones who have any idea what Jeffries — Dwyer — was talking about back at the edifice. I’ve just been looking through the papers you found in his dugout. From the bits I can make out it’s quite a sordid tale.”

“Sir, did he bring us here with some diabolic pact?”

“I’m sure he thinks so, but look—” Everson lifted the empty whisky bottle out of the way and turned the uppermost map around. It was an artillery map, showing British gun positions and barrage targets across the Harcourt Sector. Marked in red were five locations, two beyond the German lines, two behind the British, one in No Man’s Land, all joined by pencil lines to form a perfect pentacle.

“He must have been planning this for weeks, typing up his own orders on blank order sheets, impersonating artillery officers — Tulliver thought he recognised him.

“Is that what he was saying about a geographic whatsit?” said Atkins, looking at the five-pointed star.

“I’d say so, yes. Don’t believe in the mumbo jumbo lark myself. It looks like a magic circle or something, but see here.” Everson took a pencil and a piece of string. Holding one end of the string on a mark in the centre of the pentacle, he drew a circle. Atkins watched with mounting apprehension and dismay at the pencil intersected each point of the five-pointed star on the map.

“So it’s true, then. He did conjure some spell and transport us here?”

“He certainly thinks so,” said Everson, now planting the fingertips of his hand on the map and moving it aside, only to pull another map out from underneath. It was a similar map, only this one had a much cruder circle drawn over it encompassing the Harcourt sector, enclosing the British trenches currently held by the 13 thPennine Fusiliers. “This one was taken from observations made by Lieutenant Tulliver after we arrived here and surveyed by CQS Slacke in our absence.”

“So?”

“Whatever happened, whatever brought us here, I don’t think it was the result of Jeffries’ occult practices. Look.” He took the one map, laid it on top of the other, and held both up in front of the hurricane lamp for Atkins to see. He adjusted them slightly with his thumbs so the trench positions matched up. The two circles however, did not. Oh, there was an overlap, but they didn’t cover the same ground.