Authors: Stephen Palmer
They slept in spit’n’sawdust huts on the north side of Stains Road, six hundred men or more, all of them new recruits. Velvene slept well, though the accommodation was basic; having lived in the machinora for a while, he wanted a proper bed. Next morning they ate a simple breakfast of kipperettes and sweet mash, with lukewarm teasome to drink. Then it was drill, and more training.
The call to action came after three days. The platoon’s officer, Lieutenant Thwackun, called them into ranks then said, “The Hun is bringing a large company of soldiers up to the Great Chertsey Road, along with a number of engines the purpose of which we have yet to grasp. You chaps will be heading down there to hold the line. The Hun must
not
cross that road. Our front line must stay solid.”
They made busy. The platoon’s second-in-command was Serjeant Bosun, who organised the men into groups while Lieutenant Thwackun got on the field telegraphion to communicate with HQ. Then they were off, marching across Hounslow Heath to the railway line at its southern end. Velvene was surprised to see chocolate debris on the lines – normally it would be scavenged by children – so he and his comrades scraped it off and ate it. The line itself did not seem to have been used for a while because of the war.
They tramped across Hanworth Road then made into Powder Mill Lane, but as they did Chock gasped and pointed across the way to Crane Park. “Wassat?”
Velvene looked, his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. It appeared as though the engines of the enemy had crossed the front line.
They were like castle turrets on legs, made of metal it seemed, and striding like gigantic herons across the trees and bushes of Crane Park. From their upper stanchions rifles emerged, to fire.
“Defensive positions!” came the call.
Every man scrambled for cover as some of the engines approached. Velvene, Arthuriad and Chock lay well concealed behind a hedge, but others were less fortunate, and as the engines approached they began to fall.
Appalled at this early death toll, Velvene took a grenade from his pocket, pulled out the pin, then threw it at the nearest engine, timing the flight so that it would explode just before hitting the thing; which it did.
“Good chuck, that man!” yelled Lieutenant Thwackun.
Velvene watched the machine stumble, but it did not fall, so he took another grenade and lobbed a second perfectly timed throw at the machine. Again it wobbled but did not fall, so he took his final grenade and ran out to hide behind an oak tree. Bullets struck the ground around him. From the cover of the tree he dodged out and lobbed the grenade at the rifle port. It flew in: exploded. The machine’s lid blew off in a shower of clothes, limbs and blood, and it fell to the ground. Parts of bodies rolled out, alongside smoking lumps of machinery.
Velvene ran back. Arthuriad and Chock stared at him. “Where the cracking hell did you learn to do that?” Arthuriad asked.
Velvene shrugged. “I just did what came naturally,” he said, already aware of how he stood out from the rest of the privates.
Serjeant Bosun ran up, skidding to a halt beside him. “Good work Archer,” he said.
“Orchard, sir.”
“Got any more tricks like that, old fellow?”
“Well, just doing my best for my country,” Velvene replied, not knowing what else to say.
“Any more heroics and you’ll be whizzed up to corporal. Good show!”
Then he was gone.
“Corporal Orchard,” said Chock. “Wowee.”
Velvene found himself keen to downplay the incident. “It all came naturally,” he explained. “You would have done the same thing, eh?”
“Not like that,” Arthuriad replied.
Velvene shrugged again. Was this all for the love of his country? He said, “What is it about this land that makes us all defend it, eh?”
“Wot?” Chock grunted.
“It’s not so much this land,” Arthuriad said, “more that we don’t want the Hun occupying it. Frankly I’d rather be in Scotland.”
“Scotland?”
“Cleaner, quieter, no horseless carriages.”
Velvene nodded, surprised at this. “Then you do not love your country?”
“Of course. But not in
that
way. I just don’t want foreigners in it.”
Velvene turned to Chock. “What about you, eh?”
“I just wanted t’get away from ’ome.”
Disappointed, Velvene turned away from them, but there was no time for more small talk. “Incoming Hun devilry!” shouted Lieutenant Thwackun.
Velvene peered over the hedge to see a terrifying sight. Were they metal giants with extended arms? Swaying gun towers with flaring, orange eyes? He could not say, but they were heading their way with a noise like banshees wailing, leaving wakes of smoke and fumes.
“Defensive positions!” Lieutenant Thwackun yelled.
Velvene scanned the land. Ahead: fields with no cover. Behind: a copse. The hedge offered cover, but already it was shot through in many places. The majority of the platoon lay in semi-cover at the edge of the copse, a single bazookette their firepower. And then the shells began to rain down.
All three of them retreated from the hedge into the copse as earth, stones and vegetation burst upwards, then rained down over them. The stench of cordite filled the air. Smoke began to drift into the copse. Then Velvene saw two metal giants stalking towards them. At once he saw they were invincible: vast, monstrous, firing automatic rounds from their extended arms. But then the bazookette fired, and one of those arms fell off. The giant paused, turned, bent down, but seemed to think better of its plan, standing upright and heading for the copse.
“We’re dead meat,” Arthuriad said.
“Get that arm gun off the ground!” Chock said, pushing Velvene.
“What?”
“Get the arm gun, fire at the bleedin’ thing’s legs! Go on.”
Velvene peered out across the fields. “It is a suicide mission,” he said.
“You can do it,” they cried, hauling him to his feet. “Go on, Corporal Orchard!”
But Velvene hesitated. He knew that if he stepped out upon a field of no cover he was dead. Yet he could save his platoon if he reached and fired that Hun gun. The legs of the steel giants were their weakness, like the thin legs of wading birds.
“I cannot just sacrifice myself,” he cried. “It is suicide!”
“You’ve got to! Someone’s
got
to.”
Arthuriad and Chock pushed him to the hedge, but he dug his heels in. “No, it is too dangerous. Even I–”
Chock dodged out and ran through the nearest pall of smoke. Shells exploded at the hedge. Velvene, stunned, ran into the copse. More shells landed, exploded. Then one especially close; and the blood-soaked, headless body of Arthuriad span by him, hit a tree and dropped to the ground.
Another shell, another explosion. The noise seemed to pierce Velvene’s head, crushing it. He had no idea where he was. He ran arms outstretched, crying out, unaware of what he was saying, but feeling words emerge from his mouth like a spume-soaked lament for himself.
He choked, halted. Fumes surrounded him. Another shell exploded. He tripped and rolled down the side of a crater.
Then he heard voices. “Been hit by something.”
“Get his face clear. Man’s gotta breathe.”
Another shell exploded.
“Carry him to the cart. Quick, man! He’s alive.”
Velvene felt himself moving, but he did not know how.
“All right, leave him to the MO.”
“Looks like another case of shell shock.”
More motion.
“Shell shock for sure.”
More voices.
Then nothing.
He woke up, certain that he could hear a train announcement.
“Dr Pharquar to the surgery. Dr Pharquar to the surgery.”
He opened his eyes. He lay in bloodied sheets in a bedroll on a platform. He saw the sign:
Feltham.
It was a military hospital, war wounded surrounding him.
But he felt numb. He could not comprehend how he had got to Feltham railway station. It must be a hoax, for he could not smell chocolate.
He got up and staggered a few steps away.
Not far, he knew, lay his precious Archimedean floating system, in which he could escape this pandemonium.
But could he find it?
It was late afternoon, or so he thought, the sun descending into smoky orange skies. The Recreation Ground lay nearby. He staggered along roads, following signs, his head pounding. He saw buildings, people, but they ignored him. There were lines of wounded all along the road. He smelled death: antiseptic fluid: cordite. Horses whinnied. Puddles were red with blood. Broken carts lay everywhere.
Then he felt clean air on his skin, and he saw grass beneath his feet. He recognised a tall hut with a fox as a weathervane. The machinora might be nearby.
He wandered, lost. His mind felt thick and heavy. His legs were tired. Words came out of his mouth, but they made no sense.
Then he saw a pine tree. He thought he knew where he was. The machinora!
He bumped into something, and that something changed before his eyes; then a figure reached out to haul him in. He stood inside the wicker capacity, a woman beside him, or so it seemed. He lit the heatorix then slumped to the floor.
The wind whistled around him. He felt movement, swaying movement... he heard a woman’s voice. He thought it might be... but no, it could not be her.
“I want to go
home,
” he said. “I want to go home!”
~
The Zeppelin-Benz horseless carriage ran on fish water, and the stink of it followed them up the Windsor Castle paved road. Eastachia, slumped in the back seat with Kornukope at her side, felt mixed emotions: relief that Yeggman had been captured with not even a shot being fired, but afraid of the fate awaiting herself and Kornukope.
“This is a mile an’ a half away from anywhere,” the guardian told them as he helped them out of the horseless carriage. “It’s the furthest you two can be from civilisation round here.” He smiled, doffed his cap. “I like to do me best for me boss. G’night t’you, sir, ma’am.”
With that the horseless carriage chugged away, leaving a pong of kippers.
Eastachia peered through the moonless night at the land around them. They could simply walk back along the road towards Windsor, but anything might happen in that mile and a half. Already she saw camp fires burning to the west, smelled roasting meat, and heard the
bang-bong-bang
of tribal drums. They had no weapons, the clothes they stood in, and little else.
“We are done for,” Kornukope said. “The savages will smell our fear.”
“Not over the odour of roast venison,” she replied. “I think our best plan is to follow the route back to Windsor. It’s the best populated area. Anyway, Englefield Green and Woodside are equally distant.”
“Yes, yes,” Kornukope said. “Let us set a smart pace, dearest one.”
But within five minutes Eastachia knew trouble followed them. Glancing over her shoulder she saw the pale blue glint of a magic lanthorn, and heard the
clip-clop
of horse hooves. Moments later they were surrounded by five riders, wild of hair, brass rings in their noses, dressed in hay skirts and sandals.
“Who do we have here?” the leading man asked.
Eastachia looked them over. All were men, middle aged, with paunches, and their leader spoke well; a Home Counties accent, possibly Beaten, which lay close by. She replied, “Could you escort us to Windsor, please?”
It was a brave attempt. It failed. The rider laughed and replied, “You stink of fish. You are coming with us, and at dawn we shall sacrifice you to Pysgod, the fish deity of Virginia Water.”
To put them off she replied, “That doesn’t sound so bad,” but in response the riders laughed, and made mocking fish-breathing gestures.
The riders were part of a piscine tribe occupying land near the Polo Club, on which they had built rude huts made of wood and wicker. Camp fires burned bright and the thrumming sound of tribal drums echoed across the nearby lake. On the local obelisk the chieftain had hung a number of shrunken heads, along with the pinstripe Saville Row suits and crinolines that the victims had been wearing at the time, the sight of which made Eastachia’s skin crawl.
A number of white posts had been sunk into the ground beside the lake shore, and to these Eastachian and Kornukope were led, their hands tied with dried fish gut. To the posts they were secured. A score or more men and women danced around them, shaking babies’ rattles, ice cream makers and cheese graters, while others banged drums with spaghetti spoons; thus the rituals began. Exhausted, Eastachia and Kornukope waited for the night to end...
A pale glow in the sky. Eastachia snorted and raised her head: she had for a moment dropped off. She was cold and damp. The shore was silent, the fires out, the odour of ash in the air.
“Wake up Kornukope!”
He also had fallen asleep. “Gagh!” he cried out. “Circulation’s gone with these blasted ropes. Curse Pysgod and its tribesmen.”
“Pysgod doesn’t exist,” Eastachia said. “We’ve got to cut these bonds though in case they’re cannibals and they come back.”
“I think Pysgod
does
exist,” said Kornukope, gesturing with a nod of his head towards the water.
Eastachia stared. The surface of the lake had been as calm and reflective as mercury, but now ripples travelled out from white shapes bobbing in the water, white shapes that grew, and closed. Somebody... some
thing
was emerging from the lake. Two, three, four of them.
The shapes became heads, ghostly white heads in which dark eyes flashed; then humpbacked bodies emerged, white-skinned and dripping, naked and hairless and vile; then muscled legs, and finally great webbed feet. The four monsters breathed air as if it were choking smoke, their stertorous gasps and grunts echoing across the shore. Then they pointed at the posts. They grinned. Their sharp, white, pointed teeth were like the teeth of sharks.
Eastachia, scared witless, tried to escape her bonds, but it was hopeless. Two monsters freed her then grabbed her arms, while the other two worked on Kornukope, and soon they were both being dragged towards the lake.
It seemed they would drown, but as they reached the water’s edge the monsters halted, taking strange glassy mechanisms from the humps on their backs, which they placed over their victims’ heads.