The thought of her made his very being ache at their parting. His one driving thought was to return to her, to do by right by her, to make up for all the wrong he had done.
But it wasn’t Jeffries. He had wanted it to be true, but then he would have to face the possibility that Jeffries might have lied. He was terrified the truth would leave them marooned on this world forever, like the Bleeker party. Those twin urges, wanting to find Jeffries and not wanting to find him, kept his hope alive.
It wasn’t Jeffries. And some small part of him was relieved.
“AND JUST WHO the hell are you?” asked Everson, angry for letting himself be duped, if only for a moment.
The man stepped away from the glare of the window and into the chamber. Two stately red-surcoated Chatts stepped out of the shadows to attend him, their antennae waving in agitation at the Tommies’ arrival. The man, however, seemed quite at ease with their presence.
Everson could see him clearly now. He, too, wore a uniform. It was grey.
“How is this possible?” wondered the Padre in hushed tones.
Everson shook his head.
“Jesus!” muttered Gutsy in astonishment. “It’s a bleedin’ Hun.”
“A bloody Alleyman, here?” said Mercy, shaking his head. “And I thought we had the worst of it with Jeffries. Aren’t we ever to be rid of the bastards?”
The Alleyman ignored them, addressing himself to the officers. He had a proud bearing, born of Teutonic aristocracy. His uniform was immaculate. His hair was black and slicked into a centre parting, and he had a peculiar little bow of a mouth that gave him a petulant look. He clicked his heels together. “My name is Oberleutnant Karl Werner, late of the Jasta Bueller.” He held out a hand.
“You’re a German pilot.” Tulliver’s eyes lit up and he shook the hand enthusiastically. “Lieutenant James Tulliver, 70 Squadron.” Then he studied his host, somewhat aggrieved. “And, if I’m not wrong, I shot you down when we first arrived here.”
The German laughed and clapped his hands on the top of Tulliver’s arms. “Yes. Yes, you did.” He smiled broadly. “You’re a good shot,” he said. “But not too good, I think. As you can see, I am still here.”
The silent chatts observed the polite introductions intently. Their antennae waved as they communicated with each other using senses beyond the ability of the Tommies to understand. Everson found himself unnerved by their scrutiny.
Reluctantly, Everson put out his hand and introduced himself. “Lieutenant Everson, acting commander of the 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers. Your English is very good.”
Werner shook his hand. “My aunt married an Englishman. He has a leather goods business in Suffolk. I used to stay there. Before the war.”
“This is Padre Rand, our chaplain.”
Werner nodded and shook his hand, “A pleasure, Father.”
Padre Rand returned a polite smile. “I must say, you’re the last person we expected to find here.”
Everson turned and indicated the Fusiliers behind him.
“And this is Lance Corporal Atkins and his Black Hand Gang.”
Werner’s glance swept up and down the NCO, unimpressed. “Yes, I did ask to see the officers only, but obviously the insekt menschen can’t tell you apart. Never mind; you’re here now, Corporal.”
“Bloody cheek,” muttered Mercy.
Pot Shot rolled his eyes. “Officers, same the world over.”
One of the flanking chatts spoke in its peculiar breathless, halting way. “What is Black Hand Gang?”
Werner pursed his lips as he searched for an appropriate term that they would understand. “I suppose you would say ‘dark scentirrii’,” he suggested, looking to Everson for confirmation.
Everson nodded irritably.
The chatt seemed satisfied and resumed its silent conversation.
Atkins felt a knot tighten in his stomach, and shot an accusing glance at Pot Shot. The lanky Fusilier’s eyes widened and he spread his hands in protest.
Hepton pushed his way forward, an obsequious grin on his face, and grasped Werner’s hand in both of his without being offered.
“Oliver Hepton,” he said, pumping the pilot’s hand. “Official War Office kinematographer, at your service. Pleased to meet you, Oberleutnant. What a moment! If only I had my camera.”
“A photographer?” Werner pulled Hepton to one side. “You have a camera? Equipment?”
“Well I did until your chatts took it from me after they captured us,” replied Hepton. “I hope it’s being taken care of, that’s all. It’s very expensive.” This last remark was addressed rather loudly at the uncomprehending chatts.
“My what?”
“Chatts. It’s what the men called these insects. Chatts, after the lice that infected their uniforms in the trenches. Lice? Pop, pop, pop?”
“Ah, yes. Tommy humour, no? We must talk more.”
Hepton beamed in triumph.
He was interrupted by Everson, irritated at Hepton’s derailing of the conversation. “Look, this isn’t getting us anywhere. What do you intend to do with us, Oberleutnant?” he demanded.
Hepton scowled but kept his eye on Werner.
The German took a deep breath and smiled at them, the expansive genial host. “All in good time, Lieutenant. All in good time. You’re the first human company I’ve had in a long while. I’d like to savour it. Can we not converse as gentlemen? Perhaps your men are hungry.”
He turned to the two inscrutable chatts and mimed eating. Moments later, several chatt nymphs with translucent carapaces came through from adjacent chambers, carrying gourds and platters.
Mercy leant over and whispered loudly to his mates. “So how come we’re still living in trenches and he’s living it up like a bleedin’ lord? There’s no fucking justice in the world.”
“Have I not been telling you that?” said Pot Shot wryly.
There were no tables in the chamber. Mercy was considerably less impressed when the nymphs poured the contents into two long chest-high troughs set into the curved walls of the chamber, one of water, the other now containing some kind of sloppy fungus.
Gazette watched the chatt servants retire from the chamber, his sniper’s eye mentally fixing them in his sights.
“Please, don’t stand on ceremony. Help yourselves,” said Werner to the Fusiliers. “It is insekt futter, foul stuff, but nutritious nonetheless. I’m sure you’ve eaten worse in the trenches.”
Atkins glared at the Hun and then at the troughs. “No thanks to your lot – and never like animals.”
Werner laughed, amused. “It’s how these creatures eat,” he explained, throwing off the accusation. “They don’t use crockery and cutlery. They don’t even use their hands. They eat directly with their mouth parts. They have the manners of pigs, these insekt menschen. Have you seen them eat? They slice with their mandibles and scoop it straight into their mouths with their – what do you call them?” he put the back of his hand to his lips and waggled his fingers.
“Palps,” said Everson.
“Ah. Palps, then. Yes.”
Everson gave a weary nod to Atkins, dismissing him, while the officers continued their conversation at the other side of the chamber.
The men went over to the troughs. They were at an awkward height, too high to eat from comfortably, even if they felt like it.
“A Hun,” said Tonkins in awe, as they huddled round the troughs, glad to have some space away from the officers. “I’ve never actually met a Hun before.”