Stephen Jones - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror. Vol 15

Machen spoke gently. “Here, let me refill your glass.”

“Thank you.” Smith took a deep swallow of the whisky. He needed to feel that burning spirit in his mouth, but at that moment it had the potency of water. “My battalion — or the thousand that remained of it — had been ordered to hold the trench against a German assault. It was to allow our troops — all eighty thousand of them — to make good an orderly retreat to new, better-fortified trenches five miles behind our position. It was vital that my battalion held the line and prevented a German breakthrough. We knew only too well that if the Germans launched an attack and broke our line, they would flood through in their thousands to attack our retreating army. And believe me, Mr Machen, our men in that month of August were so exhausted and demoralized that they’d have either run like rabbits or surrendered.” Once more he gulped at the whisky. If only it were stronger. The wretched liquor was tasteless.

“You and your men were courageous,” Machen told him. “A thousand Welshmen pitted against an enemy of how many thousand strong?”

“Three hundred thousand.” He shook his head. “And I don’t know that we were courageous. I certainly didn’t feel at all brave at the time. I simply knew it was my duty…my sacred duty. That we had to prevent a German breakout. If we failed, the Hun would overwhelm the British troops. Of that there would be little doubt. Then there would have been nothing between the enemy and the Channel ports. And if the Germans reached the coast, it wouldn’t be long before the Kaiser’s men would be marching into London.”

“So you held fast.”

“We did our best,” Smith told him, as yet more squadrons of bombers throbbed their way through the night sky. The bitter smell of burning reached him, along with the distinctive scents of seared human flesh; the same aroma as pork roasting in an oven. But even the horrors of the Blitz weren’t pungent enough to prevent the memories of more than two decades ago carrying him back to that Great War battlefield. “We vowed to stand and fight with our bare hands if our ammunition ran out. Then we waited. Many of my men crouched down in the trench to scribble a farewell note to parents and wives. And all the time I could sense the coming storm. There was an oppressive heat in the air. Thunder clouds rose on the horizon. The sun turned a bloody red. There was no birdsong. Even the rats fled the battlefield.” Once more he tipped the whisky into his mouth. Good God, his taste was dead. The spirit was a bland liquid that did nothing to calm his nerves. “The German generals didn’t dally. Their spotter planes must have reported the mass retreat, and that a mere thousand infantry had been left to hold the trench-line. Within moments the fiercest artillery barrage imaginable rained down on our heads. You know, it’s not the big shells that are the most fearsome. No, they’re slow and throw up a lot of mud, and mostly you could hear them coming. It was the little three-inch shells, what we called whizz-bangs, that terrified us. They were fast, with an almost flat trajectory, exploding in the air at head height. I’ve seen countless men dissolve into…” The words dried on his lips. He shrugged, hating the grim weight of the memory in his stomach. “It was the shrapnel. They just dissolved, that’s all.” He rubbed his face. “I do beg your pardon. I’m falling into the trap of the old soldier. Telling you old war stories.”

“No, I’d disagree, lieutenant. This isn’t just another war story, is it? This one is unique. Why?”

Smith looked into the old man’s eyes. They were bright. Interested. Yet was there something else? A glitter of fear? As if he suspected he would hear truths expressed that he’d hoped would remain hidden.

“Lieutenant. You and your thousand men were subjected to an artillery bombardment. Then you were attacked by eighty thousand German soldiers. Tell me what happened next.”

“We stepped up to the lip of the trench and fired as the Germans advanced. We kept firing until we ran out of ammunition, or the guns jammed. The barrels became so hot that they glowed red.”

“And?”

“And the enemy kept advancing across the mud.”

“What did you do?”

“That was the strangest thing. My men began to sing music-hall songs and make jokes about the Hun and the shells exploding all around them.”

“Was that usual?”

“Before and after a battle, the men would sing and joke. But not during. You become focused on a tiny aspect of the conflict. You stop being aware of what is around you.”

“They were singing and joking. Weren’t your comrades suffering casualties?”

“Yes. Dreadfully. Within the hour our thousand-strong force was cut by half. Dead and dying men lay in the bottom of the trench.”

“What made your men experience such a mood of elation?”

“I don’t know, Mr Machen. It’s strange. I was frightened. I knew I would be killed, it was inevitable… but my arms and legs tingled. It was as if my body was stimulated by some impending event… something extraordinary. And yet my mind could only realize the terrible aspect of what was to come.”

“So it was as if mind and body had become somehow separate?”

“Yes… yes! That would be the best way of putting it, sir.”

“What happened next?”

“The Hun advanced like a solid wall of grey. Then they stopped.”

“Stopped?”

“Were stopped, would perhaps be more accurate.”

“Your weapons?”

“No. We’d all but run out of ammunition. Our big guns were being pulled back so we had no covering artillery fire.”

“And yet the enemy soldiers lay dead in no man’s land.” Machen inclined his grey head as he regarded Smith. “Dare I say the body count amounted to ten thousand?”

Smith nodded.

“And not a mark was found on the bodies? Not a single scratch?”

“That’s correct. The enemy assault failed. Our men retreated to their new lines in good order. Even the enemy artillery was silenced, and we could walk into no man’s land to collect their weapons. Our medical men eventually went out to examine the bodies. The doctors asked us how the enemy died and we told them-”

Machen harrumphed. “And you told them that they were slain by the ghostly archers of Agincourt?” His eyes burned with sudden anger.

“No, Mr Machen.” Smith shook his head. “They were killed by angels.”

Machen paused, but only for a few seconds. “Angels aren’t noted for their blood-thirsty tendencies, lieutenant.”

“So I was taught at Sunday School.”

“Well?” Machen slowly shook his head. “How do you wish me to respond? With a ‘Yes, lieutenant. Clearly they were avenging angels. Weren’t we, the British, fortunate?’ “

“No, Mr Machen. At Sunday School we are only taught a much-diluted version of Biblical events. The world of gods and spirits is far more complex than that.”

“Ah, the spirit world…”

“Please don’t mock me, sir.”

“Why should I mock you? Whatever you and I believe to make this existence a more palatable one should not be open to mockery.” The tremor of falling bombs jingled Machen’s decanters in their tantalus. “We should be free to choose our gods.”

“And to choose our angels?”

“If that is what is important to you, yes.”

“Mr Machen. What is important to me is that I learn what happened to me on that day in August when I should have been killed. I was saved by something I cannot understand. Perhaps ‘angels’ is the wrong word, but how else can I describe them?”

“Lieutenant. If you believe angels were your saviours then continue to believe. Take strength from that.”