Hobson was about to press Poilus further when there was a shout from Cox. “There’s more over there, Sarn’t.”
Scattered through the thinning fog like stone angels in an unkempt smoggy cemetery, they found hundreds more of the disorientated chatts spread out over the trampled ground. All of them were standing aimlessly. Their passivity emboldened the soldiers who began to prod them with bayonet points. No amount of cajoling or shoving could induce a reaction.
“All right. A joke’s a joke. I’ve ’ad enough now,” said Private Wilson.
If it had been just the chatts, that would have been disturbing enough, but then they spotted Tommies stood in among them in a trance. All of them, human and alien alike, just standing. In union. Like statues. Not moving. For no apparent reason at all.
By their armbands, these were the men suffering from shell-shock.
“What the hell are they all doing?” Carter asked no one in particular.
“I don’t know, but it’s giving me the screaming abdabs,” confided Cox, as they trod warily between the mesmerised individuals.
Private Draper recognised one of the men, an old mucking-in pal. They’d shared a dugout on the Somme. The bugger always had the cheek to complain about his snoring. “Townsend? Townie?”
Townsend offered no response. Draper put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him round, only to be met with a vacant stare. “Townie?” Not a flicker of recognition. As soon as he let go Townsend returned to face the direction he had been facing. Draper shuddered when he noticed a large swelling at the base of Townsend’s skull.
“Let me try,” said Cox, “you need to know how to treat these types.” He slapped Townsend across the face. There was not a flicker of anything; not pain, not surprise, not anger, just a small trickle of blood from the mouth that the man also ignored.
“There was no need for that!”
“I was trying to snap him out of it!” said Cox.
“What are they doing out here?”
Draper was spooked. “You heard the urman. Evil spirits. Possession. It’s Jeffries’ doing. ’E’s using the ’fluence, I tell you. He’s coming for the rest of us!”
“Draper, shut your cake ’ole before I shuts it for you!” barked Hobson.
“They’re all the shell-shocked blokes, Sarn’t.”
“Aye. Dixon. It seems Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep,” said Hobson. “Nurse Bell won’t be happy having her patients wandering about out here. She won’t know where to find ’em. Carter, Cox. Go back to camp. Fetch some men to help round ’em up and take ’em back home.”
“Waggin’ their tails behind ’em!” said Monroe with a grin.
“Very droll, lad,” said Hobson. “Very droll.”
Private Wilson pushed his soft cap back on his head and rubbed his forehead, perplexed. “Here, Sarn’t. How come they’re all facing the same direction?”
“What’s that, Wilson?”
Wilson pointed it out. “The same direction, Sarn’t. Tommie. Chatt. They’re all facing the same way. It’s fair giving me the creeps seeing ’em doin’ it all together like that. Like a drill parade.”
Now Hobson could see it himself, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck bristle. He had to admit it was damned odd. None of them made a sound. They just stood there. Chatt and man, together.
“That, private, is a bloody good question and one I feel is for better heads than mine.”
Private Monroe yelped with alarm. In the distance, something large rose out of a fog-enshrouded copse. It was one of the great armoured battlepillars. Ignoring them, it reared up to start languorously stripping the disc-like leaves from the treetops.
The party came across two more further on, their great mandibles crunching their way through the tube grass unperturbed by the carnage around them.
Hobson put a hand on their rifle barrels and pushed them down. “Enough. They could be right useful to us, beasts like that.”
“It’s all very well saying that, Sarn’t, but how do we get ’em back?”
Hobson puffed out his chest, played with the end of his moustache, and pointed up at the great larva-like beast. “See that box on its back, just behind its head? That there’s called a howdah. They have them in India when ridin’ helephants. Same principle.”
“And how do we get up there? Magic rope trick, I expect?”
“I’ve got me penny whistle if it helps,” suggested Draper.
Hobson’s eyes narrowed. “If I thought you two was taking the mick I’d have your names so fast me pencil would leave skid marks.”
“Us, Sarn’t? No, Sarn’t. Perish the thought, Sarn’t.”
“Right, then. Wilson, go back and report to Lieutenant Everson. Tell him we’ll need some more men out here, jildi.”
HALF AN HOUR later, the sun was burning off the fog, revealing the strange, new landscape before them with its scattered pyramids of clay coffin balls, earthen banks and trampled tube grass.
Everson watched as a battlepillar lumbered towards the stronghold with a couple of Tommies sat in the howdah behind its head. The other two larval beasts fell into line and followed on behind.
The parties that went out afterwards rounded up the dazed shell-shocked Tommies, carefully avoiding the mesmerised chatts.
Other than them, the veldt was empty. It was true. The Khungarrii army had decamped, although exactly why still remained a mystery.
SERGEANT HOBSON STOOD at ease as Lieutenant Everson digested his report. Outside, he could hear ragged and muted cheers as the men celebrated their apparent victory.
“They’ve gone. Just like that,” said Everson, shaking his head in disbelief.
“They seem to have left in a hurry, sir. Weapons have been left scattered around. There are pyramids of the dead, after their fashion and, as you can see, we have captured several abandoned battlepillars and a good many of their electric lance packs. They have been digging sir, but I couldn’t say for what purpose, exactly. Mines, perhaps, to dig under our positions. And then there were the mesmerised scentirrii, sir. Sent shivers down my spine, they did. Especially when we found a number of our mob amongst them, dazed like. Like they’d been sleepwalking. None of ’em seemed to realise where they were or how they got there. Poilus claims they’re possessed.”
“And you, Sergeant? What’s your opinion?”
“Couldn’t say, sir.”
“Hmm.”
The report left Everson with more questions than answers. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “They had us. Why did they leave? And why abandon their soldiers like that?”
EDITH COUNTED THE shell-shocked patients back into the compound. She bridled when she saw them strung together with rope looped around their waists, and accosted the private escorting them.
“Is that absolutely necessary?”
“It were the only way we could get ’em, back, miss. It were like herding cats. They kept trying to wander off. But once we got ’em like this, they came quiet like,” he said, somewhat abashed.
“Yes, well, they’re not wandering loose now. Take the ropes off, please.”
The private obliged and untied each one as they went quietly and compliantly into the compound.
“Thank you,” said Edith with a curt nod, and turned to follow them in.
“Nurse Bell, a moment please!”
Sister Fenton came striding towards the compound from the hospital tents. Edith sighed with frustration. What was it this time? She turned and waited diffidently as the senior nurse approached.
“Yes, Sister?”
“These men were in your charge. How on earth did they get out?”
Edith felt her face flushing. “There was a gap in the wire, Sister. It’s been dealt with.”