This platoon was all warm. Some regiments insisted on living cannon fodder.
'You, Lady Bloodsucker,' the officer said, prodding her. He was elderly, about thirty. 'Are all your limbs working?'
'My name is Kate Reed. I'm whole.'
'Captain Penderel, at your service. You're conscripted.'
A spade was given to her. It had bloody handprints on it.
'See that earth there? Get stuck into it.'
Penderel's men shovelled away. The trench was blocked by an earthfall. Reinforcements, brought up from rear positions, were accumulating in the bottleneck. If the obstacle were breached, they could get into the fight. She saluted and started digging. Being a reporter was shame enough for her family; she would never tell them she'd worked as a navvy.
She hurled a spadeful of dirt over the top of the trench and stuck her shovel back into the packed, blasted earth. The blade struck something soft. A chunk fell from a face frozen into a dead scream. She flinched. Tommies pitched in, found the corpse's arms and pulled him out of the wall. The dead man came out in one piece. With a one and a two, the Tommies slung him into the air and out of the way, to fall where he might.
With the corpse gone, the barrier was greatly broken up. A man could scramble past it without sticking his tin hat over the top. Penderel approved the job and directed his men to advance. As he passed Kate, he saluted. She was left behind, still holding her shovel.
The Hun has broken through, all along the lines,' said Ginger. He was the Squadron's telegraph expert. 'It's pretty much a wash-out.'
From the field, Winthrop could tell the battle was intense. The sky over the trenches was burning. The massed screaming of guns and dying men carried over the few miles.
Every man in Condor Squadron was in flying kit. Every machine was out of the hangars and fuelled.
Over the battle hung a dark shape, its underside crimsoned. It was the Attila.
'It's a big gasbag, remember,' said Bertie. 'It'll burst in flames with a few incendiaries. Like a balloon.'
'It's a hundred times bigger than a balloon,' Allard reminded the pilot. 'It takes a big spark to set off such a firework.'
'Is he really up there?'
Winthrop had imagined Dracula would radiate an aura of evil and despair which would be unmistakable.
'Intelligence confirms the Graf von Dracula is aboard the Attila,' said Mr Croft. 'Your moment has come.'
The grey man had addressed himself to Captain Allard.
'Shouldn't we be strafing ground troops?' Algy suggested. 'Our lads must be taking a terrible pasting.'
Croft looked death at the young airman. 'Nothing matters but the Attila.'
Winthrop had the sense Allard was, for once, uncertain. In the end, he would obey orders.
If Dracula was up there, so was Baron von Richthofen. Every nerve in Winthrop's body thrilled. This must be what it was like to be a vampire. His blood sang, calling for victory. Tonight, he was sure, it would end one way or another.
The pilots clustered around Jiggs, handing over letters and keepsakes. Winthrop had nothing more to give. He hadn't told Catriona he was still alive. By tomorrow's dawn he might not have to. In the end, this was kinder.
The first Camels were aloft, circling the field, waiting for the formation to come together.
Equipment was piled on to trucks. There was not an idle man in Maranique. By the time this flight was through, the airfield might be in enemy hands. If there was fuel left, the squadron were to fall back to Amiens. There would be no fuel left. Condor Squadron would fight until it could fight no more.
He hauled himself into his machine, settling comfortably at the stick.
'Contact,' he shouted.
Jiggs spun the prop. The Camel moved forwards smoothly and into the air. The sun was down, but the land was burning.
Kate squirelled along, following Penderel's men. More reinforcements were on her tail. She knew her way, following the clattering troops as they rushed to the front. The trenches were partially covered, turning into tunnels. Candle-stubs stuck in tin dishes gave points of light.
She used the shovel as a scythe, getting things out of her way. She was stripped down to the animal, acting on instinct. No purpose but to be in the thick of it.
Popping out of a tunnel into the main trench, she found herself facing a fifteen-foot wall of collapsing sandbags. Men held ladders against them, but their upper reaches snapped.
A terrible grinding assaulted her ears. The treads of a tank churned at the top of the wall, shredding sandbags. The motorised juggernaut was jammed in mud and wire. Soldiers fired upwards at the plate-iron shell of the tank. Bullets spanged off metal, leaving dents. The tank lurched forward a yard, great flat nose protruding over the trench, shadow cast down on the squirming men below.
Fumes leaked from inside the thing. Kate coughed, fearing gas. Gun turrets in the war-beast's side swivelled. She threw herself down into the liquid depths of the trench. A shell shot across the gap and burst against the mouth of the tunnel. Someone had drawn a bead on her former position.
The fire-flash lit the tank, showing every bolt on its side. It was a castle, with arrow slits and battlements. Shrapnel and fire spattered around. Men were pierced and fell, writhing bloodily.
Kate wanted to kill.
The tank's centre of gravity eased over the lip of the trench. The nose swung downwards, threatening to crush the men who crawled in the bed. The treads snagged on the rear wall and ground on, getting a purchase, pulling the machine level. It could roll over the trench as if it were a crack in the road. Men fired at the iron underbelly as it passed.
Kate bent low, like a frog, and leaped upwards, extending clawed hands, pushing against the ground with all her vampire strength. She shot level with the tank and grasped at the steadily moving tread. The grinding wheels caught a fold of her coat and pulled her into the side of the beast. She would be turned to paste as if thrown into the workings of a flour mill, but her broken body would stop this thing. A war cry began in her lungs and emerged as a death scream.
Poe had intended to present his manuscript to Theo this evening, but events had overtaken them. It started when the Attila detached itself from the castle, the signal for the offensive to begin. All along the lines, tanks trundled out of concealed positions, and men fixed bayonets to go over the top. The might of the Central Powers thrust forwards, trampling over the Entente. This would be victory.
On the tower, they watched fliers prepare to join the battle they could hear all around and see in the middle distance. It was still an awesome sight, the transformation of the fliers, but it had become almost familiar.
Poe and Theo watched Richthofen as he changed. Upon the death of his brother, he had shown no trace of anger or passion. But his armour, opening in cracks as Poe teased out material for his book, was entire again, locking inside whatever there was of him that had been alive.
Richthofen's calm face disappeared under fur. Poe thought the flier not even aware of their presence, but, as Kurten and Haarmann stood away, he bowed to his biographer, flourishing a wing-tip as if it were a courtier's cloak. Poe wished Richthofen farewell. The Baron leaped from the tower, followed by his fellows. The fliers swarmed around the Attila.
Theo watched his comrades slip into the night, eyes shaded by the peak of his cap.
'It is almost as if our duties here were over,' he said, at last. 'After tonight, what more use will we be?'.
Ten Brincken's disciples had packed their records, preparing to withdraw. Karnstein was redeployed to the Italian front. Poe assumed the Schloss Adler was converted for use as the Graf's headquarters. As the castle became more significant militarily, its scientific purpose was wound down. Reports were written and despatched. The experiment was concluded.