“What the fuck, Cap,” Wiggins said. “How the bloody hell did we get out here? It happened again, didn’t it?”
“Aye,” Banks replied. “But we fought it off. So don’t go worrying about it. Back to the hut. We’ve got some thinking to do, but we need to get out of this weather; it looks like a storm coming in.”
They turned away from the door and with Hynd and Banks in the lead made their way quickly back down the slope. Banks turned the corner to the doorway of the hut, and stopped so quickly that Parker walked into his back and nearly tumbled them both to the ground.
The hut door was wide open, but there was no space for the squad inside; that was taken up by the dead, both the Germans, half a dozen of them… and three new recruits to their ranks in Wilkes, Patel, and Hughes. Wilkes showed no sign of the bloody wounds he’d taken in getting slammed into the hut wall. Like the other two, he now wore an immaculately clean uniform, as pristine as that worn by the German officer. The only difference now was that each of them sported the familiar Swastika armband on their left upper arm. The three dead men stood just behind the tall German oberst, and all four of them raised their arm in unison, and pointed. Banks didn’t have to check the direction; he knew exactly where they wanted him to go.
“We can take them here and now, Cap,” Hynd said at his shoulder. “Just give the word.”
“No. We can’t,” Banks said. “That bastard has already proved that to us. What do they say — insanity is keeping doing the same thing and expecting different results? I’m done with that. And I’m not about to fire on my own men, dead or not. It’s time for a new tack. And we might as well be warm while we think on it. Back to the hangar base, lads. And down to the living quarters.”
Wiggins was the one to speak, but Banks knew most of them were thinking it.
“Bugger that for a game of soldiers, Cap. I’m pished off playing the hokey-cokey with these wee shitebags.”
Banks pointed into the hut.
“I’ve lost three of you already. I’ll be fucked if I’m losing anymore. Now get back to the hatch doorway. And in case you’ve forgotten your place, that’s a fucking order, Private.”
When Hynd called for them to move out, they all moved out. Banks was last to turn away. He had a final look at the three men — his men, his failure showing all too clear in the milk-white eyes. The sight of the Swastika band on their arms sickened him, as he knew it would have sickened them; now, it was just another taunt, another all too clear sign of how he had let them down. Their gaze bored into the back of his head as he walked away to join the remains of his squad.
At least he’d been right about one thing; it was considerably warmer inside the base, noticeably so even as they stepped inside the heavy metal door and closed it behind them. Wiggins moved to lock it internally, but Banks stopped him.
“Leave it, lad. Yon frozen buggers don’t seem to be any respecters of locks, and our relief might need to come in fast, so let’s not make it hard for them, eh?”
Wiggins looked like he wanted to say something, but Banks’ rebuke several minutes earlier appeared to make him more circumspect this time, which suited Banks just fine. He didn’t have time to be dealing with insubordination; he was too busy dealing with his own doubts.
They all moved down to the first landing. Banks unzipped his outer jacket and winced as his hands tingled with returning heat. He turned to Hynd.
“We’re only going as far in as we need to go in order to get some heat and some rest. I don’t want anyone going near that fucking saucer. We’ll make for the living quarters then pick a nice wee warm room, and we stay there until the relief arrives. We’ve got some rations, some reading material, heat, and light. Everything a growing lad needs.”
“Except the sarge’s wife,” Wiggins replied, but this time the humor fell flat. The squad had just seen their dead friends stand with the German officer, and it had affected them all. Banks pushed the image away as soon as he thought it. He realized he was locking an awful lot of stuff away in there, stuff that he knew would be back to bite him on the arse on long dark nights once they got home.
Aye, well, it can get in line with all the other crap.
He led the squad away, heading down into the bowels of the base.
“In out, in out, shake it all about,” Wiggins muttered, but nobody felt like singing along.
It felt warmer still in the main living chamber at the foot of the stairwell. The overhead lights glowed, not white as might be expected, but the same warm golden glow they’d encountered in the hangar around the saucer. Banks glanced at the double doorway that led to the hangar, and felt the pull and tug, the urge to join the dance.
“Dhumna Ort!” he muttered. He remembered how putting in his earplugs had muted the effect, and motioned to the others to follow his lead in pushing the plugs in deep.
“We’re going to be shouting at each other with these things in, so keep chat to a minimum,” he said. “Hand signals only, and speaking only if you really need to. Got it?”
Hynd pushed his plugs in and gave Banks the thumbs up. The other three followed suit. Banks was relieved to note that the urge to run through the double door and head for the hangar had now gone. He motioned to the team to get on the move.
They did a quick survey of the rooms, relieved to find they were all empty of cold corpses, and chose one with four bunks and a table and chairs. Banks got them inside, closed the door behind them, and motioned that the team should each take a bunk.
He sat down, suddenly dog-tired, at the table. The weight of the events of the day before, and the night they’d spent in the hut felt like a heavy stone pressing down on his shoulders. He put his head in his hands and was asleep before he could give any thought to setting a guard.
He dreamed, of starry vistas and swirling shadows, of nebulous gas clouds the size of galaxies, of the nurseries and graveyards of the stars themselves, and of dancing, lost and joyous in the rhythm of the black.
This time, he came out of it standing at the door of the room, his hand on the door handle — it had been the feel of cold metal in his palm that had brought him just far enough out of dream sleep to realize what was happening. Somewhere, far distant, a choir chanted in the wind, but now that he was awake, he found he could fight against it.
“Dhumna Ort!” he whispered, and all compulsion fell away from him, dispelled as quickly as the vanishing of the far-off chanting.
He looked around. The other four men were all asleep, Wiggins snoring loudly, Parker muttering and moaning, McCally lying half-in, half out of a cot as if he’d tried to get out of it then lost all energy, and Hynd, face down, breathing heavily. They all seemed to be genuinely asleep, but Banks couldn’t help wondering if they too were somewhere off in the black, lost to the dance.
He let them sleep. He rummaged in his backpack and took out the old leather journal, needing something to focus on to stop sleep, and the dance, from leading him astray. He’d already read all of the account of the nature of the thing in the submarine, but perhaps there was something else in the writings that could help him understand — and maybe even overcome — what they were dealing with here. One word, ‘demon’ caught his attention as he scanned the pages, and he backed up a few pages, and started reading at that point.