Hour of Need tlom-6 Page 17

  47

  The weeks since the Holmland advance had been halted had been well spent, Aubrey decided as they moved through the trenches. He knew that foot soldiers had been notorious scroungers ever since they’d discovered that waiting for the gates of Troy to open meant that they had a long camping holiday ahead of them. Those who were dug in at Fremont were no exception. In military parlance, they had entrenched themselves well, shoring up the sides of the diggings with rocks, timber and – if Aubrey was any judge – the remains of any shot-down ornithopters. Neatly fashioned walkways had been laid across marshy ground that would be a nightmare in rainy weather.

  Dugouts had been scooped into the side of trenches at intervals; wary-eyed infantrymen watched as the squad passed with their magic neutralisers. In the manner of soldiers everywhere, the infantrymen were mostly sleeping or eating, making the most of a lull in the artillery barrage. Some were in disarray, missing parts of their uniforms, but Colonel Stanley had developed the selective blindness of the good officer and ignored such paltry matters. Aubrey noticed, however, that no matter how ragged the uniform, no soldier was without his soup-plate helmet. Aubrey touched his beret, which he was sure now looked more like a dust-ridden tea cosy, and felt vulnerable.

  Lanterns appeared at intervals as the sun continued to set and the homely smells of cooking wafted through the trenches. For a time, these smells overcame the unfortunate stench of too many men living in such confined circumstances, circumstances that included a lack of running water and, in particular, sewerage. Aubrey was sure the commanders were following the manual in hygiene procedures, but he held his breath as he hurried past the most noisome pits.

  When they reached the front line of trenches, Colonel Stanley consulted area commanders, explaining his job and asking for assistance in positioning the magic neutralisers. One by one they were erected and dug into the walls of trenches, to make them as stable as possible while keeping them out of the way of the troops who would be hurrying along the narrowness of the trenches. Stanley consulted Aubrey on every deployment, and fretted over the coverage that they were hoping to achieve. The range of effect of each neutraliser was meant to overlap – but that was the desired outcome and was based on laboratory trials. On the ground, things had a way of working out differently. From the schematics, Aubrey saw how the range of effect was designed to be linear, to keep the actual trench area safe. The intention was for the effect to extend twenty yards or so front and back, projecting out into no-man’s-land, while reaching further to either side along the length of the trenches.

  This, of course, was based on straight lines. With the best intention in the world, the trenches were not straight. They curved pragmatically, following contours, dodging around large boulders, winding their way across the battered landscape. The result of their deploying the neutralisers was inevitably going to be less than the optimum designed by the masterminds back at Darnleigh House.

  But distinctly better than nothing, Aubrey thought, wiping grime from his face as they settled the last magic neutraliser into place in a position on the north-west extremity of the Allied position, about two miles from where they first reached the trenches. Colonel Stanley gestured at the sandbagged dugout that was nearby, where lantern light pushed away the night. ‘Major Davidson is waiting for us with some supper.’

  George tamped down some loose earth with his foot. ‘Excellent. After you, Sophie.’

  Aubrey hesitated and glanced at the sentry who was standing on a firing step and using field glasses to peer across to the Holmland lines. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’

  Caroline gave him a curious look, but she said nothing as she filed past with the others. Aubrey tapped the sentry on the leg, only to have him jerk and try to whirl around while grappling for the rifle that was standing by his side. Only Aubrey’s steadying prevented him from falling off the firing step. ‘May I take a look?’ he asked.

  The sentry was a narrow-faced fellow with a beaky nose, somewhere in his early twenties, with narrow shoulders and skinny frame. The helmet on his head made him look like a table lamp. When he gave Aubrey the field glasses, his hands shook. ‘They’re all yours, sir.’ He swallowed and took off his helmet. ‘You’ll need this.’

  The sentry ducked as Aubrey mounted the firing step, but Aubrey hardly noticed. He was too busy taking in the scene.

  Glimmers came from the hills some miles behind the lines, where troops must be encamped with their cooking fires and lanterns, but closer at hand tiny splinters of light escaped from where the Holmland trenches lay. It was hard to judge, but Aubrey guessed they were roughly two hundred yards away across broken ground. A volley of shots sounded to his right and Aubrey instinctively flinched, crouching low, even though he couldn’t tell if the rounds came from this side or that. No-man’s-land was a place of shadows that collected in gullies or shell holes and were strained by barbed wire.

  A flare went up, bathing the warscape in bright, pitiless light, banishing the shadows, making the ruined land suddenly sharp and hard-edged. A half-hearted stone’s throw away from where Aubrey stood was a battered wooden frame with blades hammered in at angles, the ghastly medieval siege defence made modern. It was only one of countless hazards Aubrey could see, obstacles to breaching what looked like a sea of barbed wire.

  On the other side of the wooden frame, draped over a ragged shell hole, was a body. Mercifully, it had slid halfway into the crater. Aubrey wondered if the soldier had thought he was safe, for a tiny moment, safe at the bottom of a hole made by a massive explosion, or whether he’d been shot earlier and had crawled, scrabbling at the hard earth, searching for a place of refuge before expiring.

  Aubrey couldn’t make out the uniform. It could have been Albionite, Gallian or Holmlander, or one of the colonials, nationality coming to nothing in the end.

  The flare spluttered in its arc, winked, then disappeared after having done its job of providing a few seconds of light, enough for an observer to sketch details for tomorrow’s troop movements. Aubrey stood silently in the dark for a moment, knowing that he’d been granted a glimpse into the dark heart of war.

  A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘You see anyone?’

  It took Aubrey a moment to realise that it was the sentry who was talking. The man was sitting on the firing step at Aubrey’s feet, smoking and staring at the opposite wall of the trench.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Aubrey asked.

  ‘You see anyone out there?’ The sentry added as an afterthought: ‘Sir?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Ah. You’re lucky, then. I always see ’em, flitting about out there.’ A short, dry laugh. ‘Imagination. Puts the wind up, though.’

  ‘I’m sure it would.’ Aubrey wasn’t about to criticise anyone for that, now he’d gazed over the nightmare landscape.

  ‘Sometimes they’re real, though. Holmlanders sussing us out, looking for the best ways across. Raiding teams.’

  ‘Raiders?’

  ‘They send ’em over, every now and then. When they think we’re not looking. Nasty work, if they get into our trenches.’ Another dry laugh. ‘Can’t complain, not really. We do the same when we can.’

  ‘You’ve been across there?’

  ‘Twice. Both times I never thought I’d make it over there. Then I thought I’d never make it back. Three times? No thanks.’

  ‘What’s it like out there?’

  Silence. Aubrey wondered if he’d offended the man, and then he thought the sentry must have nodded off. When he finally spoke, Aubrey started. ‘It smells,’ the sentry said. ‘Something horrible.’

  Aubrey handed back the helmet and the field glasses.

  Supper was brutally sparse: bread and cheese, followed by bread and jam, served with tin mugs of tea. The dugout was well floored with boards that looked as if they had come from a farm building. Aubrey noted how Colonel Stanley and Major Davidson both ate exactly what the small squad of infantrymen outside the dugout ate. The lantern light was
low, the conversation muted.

  Major Davidson had been at the front for weeks and it showed. His uniform and his moustache were trim and neat, but every movement, every gesture was jittery. His eyes kept straying to the field telephone sitting on an empty ammunition box by his side, and to the entrance of the dugout with its screen made from jute bags. He was a man waiting for something, Aubrey realised. It was going to be dreadful, whatever it was: the call to advance, news of a Holmland breakthrough – the exact nature was uncertain. Uncertainty bred imagining, imagining bred fear, and fear bred more fear. As Commanding Officer, Davidson couldn’t show his feelings, and this only made it worse.

  The bread was stale and the cheese past its best but it was an awkward meal. Stanley tried to be positive, but Major Davidson had developed an armour plating against cheerfulness. He was polite, but restrained, as if any show of emotion could open the floodgates – and who would know what would pour out then?

  He farewelled them, giving thanks for the extra protection of the magic neutralisers before vanishing back into the dugout, and to another sleepless night, if Aubrey was any judge.

  Stanley took a deep breath, and then coughed to cover the fact that this was a bad idea. ‘He’s not unusual,’ he said as he led them back toward the rear. ‘All of the commanders are showing signs like that.’

  ‘And the troops?’ Sophie asked. ‘What about them?’

  Aubrey had seen Sophie and George talking to the infantrymen in spare moments, asking for their impressions, their stories. Their honest approaches had been rewarded, again and again, with even the most taciturn soldier offering a thought or two.

  ‘They’re finding it hard as well,’ Stanley admitted. ‘They hate the inaction, but they fear the prospect of action. It’s an awful situation to be in.’

  Another flare cast its light across the top of the trench. Dull hammering not far away made the ground shake and Aubrey raised an eyebrow. ‘Tunnelling?’

  ‘It could be,’ Stanley said. ‘It could be more trenching or shelling in the distance.’

  Aubrey scratched his chin and he noticed that Caroline was also studying the ground in the light cast by Stanley’s lantern.

  Before anyone could react, it was George who tried to settle the matter. He used a pair of stakes that had been hammered in at chest height to lever himself up the side of the trench. He peeked over the edge and then dropped, shouting, ‘Cavalry!’

  Stanley goggled at George as Sophie helped him to his feet. ‘Are you mad? Cavalry at night?’

  Aubrey knew better than to doubt George. ‘Use your whistle, Stanley, quickly.’

  Stanley hesitated and that was enough for Caroline. She produced her pistol, pointed it at the sky and loosed three quick rounds.

  Major Davidson bolted out of the dugout, his eyes bulging, brandishing his sidearm. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘You’re being attacked,’ Aubrey said as calmly as he could. ‘Rouse your men.’

  ‘Attacked? How? What?’ He spied the lone sentry. ‘What’s going on out there?’

  ‘Horses, sir,’ the sentry snapped. ‘Lots of horses.’

  Davidson swore and bounded up onto the firing step, pushing the sentry aside. He swore again. ‘Get me a flare gun, damn you!’

  The sentry darted into the dugout and staggered back with the bulky shape of a flare gun in his hand. With a show of initiative, he didn’t wait to give it to Major Davidson. Instead, he fired it.

  Aubrey leaped onto the firing step just as the flare bloomed overhead. The ghastly white light revealed that they were under an unlikely attack. Scores of horsemen were charging toward them across the war-torn landscape. Stunned, Aubrey took in the improbable sight of a massed cavalry charge, their brass-spangled, white-belted navy jackets, their plumed shakos, their raised sabres. They flowed across no-man’s-land, weaving between obstacles without missing a step, holding the line as they leaped magnificently over the barbed wire as if it were hedgerows. A bugler was giving wind, urging his comrades forward.

  Davidson blew his whistle, nearly deafening Aubrey, then he started shouting. Stanley assisted, running along the trench and rousing sleeping men, kicking their rifles at them.

  Caroline leaped up onto the firing step. She took one look and then began reloading her pistol.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Aubrey said. ‘In this day and age? Here? A cavalry charge?’

  George helped Sophie onto the step next to Aubrey, then joined her. ‘Plenty of cavalry regiments around, old man. Probably some old general convinced someone that it was a good idea.’

  A wicked chatter came from their left and the cheers went up from the Albionite infantrymen. Volleys of rifle fire sounded one after the other as the officers bullied the men into ranks.

  ‘Against machine guns? Who’d ever think a cavalry charge against machine guns would be a good idea?’

  Sophie tugged on his sleeve. She was wearing a helmet. It didn’t fit and made her look even more petite than she was. ‘Aubrey, it’s not real. It’s an illusion.’

  Aubrey gaped. ‘Everything? The horses? The noise?’

  The cry went up to fix bayonets.

  ‘It is very good magic. Many spells together.’

  The charge was only fifty yards away, a line of warrior-laden horseflesh that was unfazed by any obstacle in its path.

  Cries of horror went up from the Albionites as the charge came nearer and nearer. A grenade, hastily flung, exploded but didn’t make a dent in the wall of galloping death. Aubrey could see the eyes of the horses, the whites large and panicked.

  His pistol was in his hand. He didn’t remember unholstering it. ‘Illusion?’ he said to Sophie.

  ‘Yes.’

  He glared as the charge came to within forty yards – more panic from the Albionites – then thirty. The rifle fire was growing ragged, the Albionite ranks losing formation despite the oaths from the officers – then, when the horses reached the twenty-yard line, rising over the last of the barbed wire, they simply melted away like smoke on the wind.

  ‘Magic neutralisers,’ Aubrey said, and he tried to tell himself that the hammering of his heart at such a rate was entirely normal, given the circumstances. He sagged against the parapet. ‘At least we now know that they work.’

  48

  The night became a long one. Despite the debriefing, Major Davidson remained sceptical. Even Colonel Stanley’s backing didn’t convince him that the cavalry charge had been an illusion. After the second phantom infantry advance of the night, however, he began to understand.

  Aubrey hoped that intelligence would help. With Major Davidson’s aid, he commandeered some of the messengers who were racing along trenches, bringing reports from up and down the line of similar phantom attacks. He wanted them to spread the word that the attacks were illusory, and that the entire Allied line was firing at thin air and wasting ammunition.

  Knowledge was one thing. The sudden appearance of what looked like an enemy attack was another. An hour later, a squadron of low-flying ornithopters swooped toward their position. This caused panic in the troops and, despite their officers telling them to stand easy, a fusillade of rifle fire sprang up from the trenches until the flying machines evaporated in the early morning light.

  A red-eyed Major Davidson confronted Aubrey as he and his friends were going about the practical duty of rebagging the front of his dugout where it had toppled in the mad scramble caused by the cavalry charge. ‘So what are we going to do about this, then? None of my men have had a wink of sleep all night. They were jumpy enough before this nonsense, but now…’

  His voice trailed off and Aubrey knew that his men weren’t the only ones who were being pushed to the edge. ‘Miss Delroy here has pointed out some characteristics of the illusions. A competent magician should be able to detect them in plenty of time to warn your troops.’

  ‘Magician, eh?’ Davidson turned to Stanley. ‘And exactly how many of your spell boys do you have at the front, Stanley? Is it three or f
our?’

  ‘We’ve been asking for more frontline operatives for some time now,’ Stanley said. He was both apologetic and unutterably weary. ‘We’re promised that they’ll be here any time now.’

  They were interrupted by a band of soldiers limping toward them. The leading sergeant gave Davidson and Stanley an exhausted salute. ‘Major Long’s compliments, sir, but could you spare some men? We’ve been doing it hard up the line a bit.’

  The sergeant went on to report about the disaster a little further down the line.

  The 4th Foot Regiment had been under siege all night from phantom attacks without the help of magic neutralisers, getting no rest until they realised the attacks never reached them. Time and again, the horses would veer away and retreat just as they came close to the trenches, testing nerves and discipline until a suspicious corporal finally saw them passing right through solid barbed wire. After that they had successfully ignored lines of marching infantry, skirmishers and even a wave of dog attacks.

  Then a real attack nearly succeeded in capturing their position.

  It was a key location, the intersection of a number of important trenches and supply lines, a slightly elevated knob of land, perfect for machine gun emplacements. Having understood the news that the attacks were illusions, when a company of Holmlanders advanced on the position the order was given to ignore them, especially since they were wearing outmoded uniforms in brilliant scarlet, more suited to a hundred years ago than today.

  When the scarlet-clad Holmlanders launched themselves into the trenches and set about with bayonets that were deadly evidence of their non-illusory nature, the Albionites panicked and ran. It was only the efforts of a callow lieutenant in rallying a squad of men and firing by rank back along the trench that drove them off.

  It had been a close thing, and a bloody one. After that skirmish, the inability to tell phantom attack from real one started to drive the men mad. Holmland snipers added to the despair, slipping into place during the phantom advances and having great success in picking off any confused Albionites showing themselves.