Private John Greene of the Royal Fusiliers stumbled through the dim forest with the Lewis light machine gun held tight across his chest and his khaki bags strapped across both shoulders. He shifted his gun, wondering why it was called ‘light’ when it was three times the weight of his old Lee Enfield rifle.
The trees grew less dense the higher he got, giving him a view of the sky but little else, so he pushed on, determined to find a viewpoint to look for buildings or landmarks he recognised. This didn’t look like Flanders though, he thought. It smelt different too, like a wet dog’s blanket.
Last thing he could remember was defending his trench, manning his gun with its bipod propped on sand bags, spraying bullets at the line of Germans crossing no-man’s-land – then a blinding flash of light, and he was here. Was he behind enemy lines? Or maybe he’d been gassed? Gas would explain why the clouds were green, he thought.
He jumped on a rock to scout ahead.
Nothing.
As he turned to get down, he slipped.
‘Bugger it!’ His bags clattered against the rock and images flashed before his eyes: explosions ripping up the ground; bodies in the mud; a pile of bloody sheets. He tried to force the images out of his head by focusing on his son, Joe. Joe singing nursery rhymes.
Lying on the ground, John pulled a worn photo from his pocket – Rosie – wrinkled his nose and whispered, almost in prayer, ‘I must be strong.’ He pictured little Joe running up to greet him, let out a sigh, got back up. Come on, he told himself, you can walk back. Done it before, eh?
It had taken John weeks to get used to life on the front line. At first he’d welcomed the distraction of digging latrines and laying wire – it took his mind off Joe and the loss of Rosie. Every job drained him so when he rested, whether it was on a pallet or against a mud wall, he always found sleep.
Then the artillery had started. The attacks and counter-attacks. Men died, horses died. Charges were made over the top and whole platoons didn’t come back. When John saw the damage a sniper’s bullet or mortar shell could do, the fear set in. The charges, retreats and the switch from the front line to the reserve trenches became routine, but every time he rotated back to the front line, every explosion and rifle shot picked and gnawed at John’s nerves. He knew it was the fear that would kill him in the end, just like it had Johnson.
None of it compared to his night in the crater though.
He stopped walking. Was that someone shouting?
‘Miks?’ the voice shouted again, clearer this time.
John lowered his gun, checked the disc-like magazine was clipped in.
‘Miks nuud?’ the man called out.
After months in the Belgian trenches and villages, John had learnt a bit of French and German – even Flemish – but he didn’t recognise this language.
John backed away further then heard a new voice. He crouched and froze. Another voice rang out from further away… and another. They multiplied, coming from every direction: new languages; odd-sounding languages; some desperate; others angry. John shook his head and breathed in deeply to control his panic. He had to stay strong.
The shouts and calls were merging into one sound, reminding him of the noisy rookery next to the farm where he’d been stationed. Focus on Joe, he told himself. He pictured his son playing with a wooden train. Joe had just turned two when he’d left for the war. He remembered the day he caught the bus to East Ham to sign up for Kitchener’s army. Pictured his parents holding Joe, standing proudly outside their greengrocer’s shop in Whitechapel, alongside John’s grandfather. John flinched. He didn’t miss his grandfather: sitting in his fireside armchair, barking orders like he was still in the army.
John’s hand clasped the tin soldier on the cord around his neck, and he closed his eyes to picture the Greene’s Fruiterer and Grocer sign above the family shop, the pyramids of fruit and veg. The place had been a sight for sore eyes after a day of deliveries with the old horse, Jess, and her cart. What he wouldn’t give to see it now!
‘If you’re not sure what you need to do, lad,’ John’s father often said, ‘take the time to think it through. And if you’re going to do anything important, make sure you’ve been to the lavvy first.’
John laughed. Alright then. He put his gun on the floor, found a tree and unbuttoned his flies.
As he relieved himself, he tried to make sense of where he was. He hadn’t seen any other soldiers, just heard foreign shouting, so… had he somehow strayed behind enemy lines?
He stared up at the green-tinged sky and wondered if he would ever make it back home. What would happen to Joe if he never made it back? John’s parents would look after him, of course, but the boy needed his father, especially without a mother. And what about home? Would he ever see Woolwich Arsenal get back into the First Division? Or have another lock-in at the King’s Head?
John shook his head. He’d just been knocked out and left behind, that was all. I’ll get my bearings, he thought, be back with the lads in time for tea. He ignored the shouts echoing through the forest and made his way along a dry stream bed.
He shifted the position of his gun to give his arms a rest, but he’d never carried it this far before and soon had to stop for a rest. The Lewis gun wasn’t like the Vickers machine guns they had built into the trenches – this new American automatic rifle was just a few inches longer than the Lee Enfield rifle he’d been issued with during training but weighed a damn sight more. He stretched his back. If he wasn’t… wherever he was, he could unclip the magazine fixed to the top or strip off the barrel shroud – thick as the pipe on the back of his mother’s kitchen stove, he thought. Right now, that didn’t seem wise.
John picked his gun up but had only made a few steps when a noise in the branches above stopped him.
‘Who’s there?’ he shouted, spotting a shape in the tree and following it as it jumped down through the branches.
‘Name yourself!’ John shouted. He checked his magazine again and pulled the gun up to aim as a man dropped to the ground, half naked and covered in paint, yelling as he landed.
‘Prohiba!’
John stood his ground.
‘Prohiba homusionem!’ The man’s wild eyes widened as he jabbed a three-pronged spear at John.
John was too confused to be scared. Who was this nutter? He smiled.
‘Ego ridiculam?’ the man barked.
John thought he recognised some of the words… was that Italian the man was babbling in?
‘Sorry, mate, I don’t understand you.’ John lowered his machine gun and tried some French. ‘Je ne comprend pas.’
‘Quid agis homusionem?’ the man barked, hopping from foot to foot in his sandals.
‘Listen, I don’t understand you. I’m just trying to get back… home.’ John’s shoulders dropped: he’d had enough of this war.
The painted man stared at John and twisted his head in a manner that unnerved him. He’d seen it before: a lad in his battalion, Johnson, had lost all emotion: no smile; no fear. The next day he bayonetted his commanding officer, and was shot running across no-man’s-land in his underpants.
‘Tim-entes?’ the man growled and took a step forward.
‘Oi, don’t you try nothing!’ John said and took a step back.
He could see now it wasn’t paint the man was covered in but tattoos. Maybe he was lost as well, John thought.
The man growled and jabbed at John’s head with his trident.
‘Bollocks to this.’ John slipped the safety off and fired a burst of bullets into the dirt, showering the painted man with earth.
John was used to firing the gun on its built-in bipod, not holding it loose, so the power of the shots sent him stumbling backwards over a branch. The noise of the gun reverberated around the forest, silencing the nearest shouts, but John didn’t care, he’d heard it a thousand times before and by the time he was back on his feet, the man had gone.
‘Yeah, fuck off, you nutter!’ John shouted, feeling a surge of energy rush through him.
He took a second to calm his breathing and realised, now it was quiet again, that he could hear bells ringing in the distance. He resumed his walk, aiming for the bells, and soon spotted a black object on the grassy crown of the hill. John stood on the forest edge watching people coming out of the woods, heading for the hill’s crown. Who were they?
Tentatively, John stepped into the open to join what looked like other soldiers. They were all armed. Some carried guns, others held swords or spears and most wore armour. He recognised one man’s blue coat with red collars and cuffs from a book his grandfather kept by his armchair – a Russian infantryman from the Crimean war. He’s long dead, John thought. So did that mean he had died as well? Was this… some kind of soldier heaven?
John felt dizzy, leant on his gun. I have to get out of here, he thought. Somewhere safe. He was turning to go back into the forest when the thought came to him: but if I’m dead… maybe Rosie’s here too? But where were his mates from the Thirty-second and the soldiers who had died at Transloy? Where were all the Huns he’d shot from the crater? John hadn’t seen one uniform from Flanders yet – friend or foe.
A bemused look crept across his face as new warriors came into view, some he recognised from his grandfather’s old books – a Roman centurion with a rectangular shield and a Mongol archer – and others he didn’t – a bronze-armoured spearman and a tall African warrior holding an incredibly long spear.
Has the gas sent me doolally? John wondered.
Scores of soldiers weighed up their nearest neighbours with scorn or derision. Some fought and some talked. The warriors from ancient times inspected their neighbour’s weapons with confusion, while modern soldiers eyed their ancestors with suspicion, fearing a practical joke. They were all heading to the summit, towards the black tip, which wasn’t a building after all, John realised, but an obelisk, like Cleopatra’s Needle back home by the Thames, only this one looked to be covered in white markings of some sort. Was that writing?
John stopped, turned his head like a deer sensing a predator. He’d heard someone speaking English.
‘Hello?’ He turned to locate the voice, staring at the people around him, but the voice came and went.
‘Station command… Delta… read me?’
John stepped through the crowd.
‘Can you read me?’ the American voice was clear now.
John saw movement inside a grove of blue-leaved trees and pulled the branches back to see a crouching man speaking to his wrist.
‘Do you copy?’ the man sounded anxious.
John studied him before venturing any nearer. He wore a skin-tight grey suit, a shiny helmet and a small backpack. No weapon? John relaxed: this man was the least dangerous person he’d seen yet – maybe he was a communication officer?
‘Station command, this is Delta-Six. I repeat: the enemy have transported me to an unknown location. Positioning systems down. No satellites or orbit stations located. I may be under sedation or captured in a virtual world. I will make contact on the hour, every hour. Delta-Six, out.’
‘I was starting to think I was the only English speaker around here!’ John’s throat felt dry.
Delta-Six jumped to his feet and strode over, pointing his clenched fist at John. ‘Stay there,’ he demanded.
‘Oh… I guess I can’t look too friendly walking round with a machine gun, can I?’ John froze as Delta-Six turned a blue torch on him.
‘Where are you from?’ the American snapped mechanically.
‘Whitechapel, London but…’
‘No. Where exactly have you come from?’
Delta-Six loomed over John, but he was used to people being taller than him.
‘Well, Belgium – Flanders.’
‘When?’
‘Nineteen Seventeen, April the…’
Delta-Six sniffed and walked out of the trees.
‘Wait! Where are you going?’ John shouted, fumbling through the branches and back into the open. ‘Stop! Oi – just tell me where we are… you’re the only bloody one who speak s English… ’ Swinging his gun under his arm, John chased the American . ‘Wait!’ He reached out but as he touch ed the man’s shoulder an electric shock blasted through hi s hand and everything went dark .
Delta-Six’s face came into focus. ‘At least my auto-defence still works.’
John rubbed his eyes and blinked, then looked at the red patch on his palm where he’d been shocked.
‘ All I want to know is why I’m here,’ he said .
Delta-Six spoke slowly – ‘I can’t trust you. You may be my enemy’ – and walked away.
‘Great,’ John said.
Keeping his distance, John cradled his gun and sighed when he pressed his burnt hand on the cool metal to soothe it. He followed Delta-Six to the black obelisk and watched him circle the stone, sidestepping the ever-growing crowd of warriors who gazed up at the brilliant-white carvings.
‘Some kind of archaic script,’ John heard Delta-Six mutter as he passed.
‘What does it say?’ John asked, but was ignored.
An inquisitive Arab, dressed in scarlet robes and a maroon turban, tried talking to John, apparently mesmerised by his machine gun. ‘Get off!’ John pulled it back. The Arab turned to Delta-Six and shouted, as though giving him an order, but was ignored by him too. John studied him: a lethal-looking curved sword swayed within his robes and his furrowed brow reminded him of the old, fierce French teacher at his school – Monsieur Boivin. How had he managed to dye his beard red? he wondered.
In the distance, a clash of steel rang out and the cry of a dying soldier signalled the end of another feud.
John could feel the pressure building. ‘Delta-Six!’ he shouted. ‘What does it say?’ He stood in the tall man’s path, careful not to touch him this time.
Delta-Six frowned and looked down. ‘My systems don’t recognise the code.’
John squinted. ‘But you must know something. I mean, why are we here?’
‘No, I–’
‘Humans,’ a resonant voice silenced him. ‘You are the chosen. You are the supreme warriors of your species.’
Heads turned. Everyone appeared to understand the voice, which was odd, John thought, because it was speaking plain English.
‘Those who stand against you fall in great numbers and those who fight alongside you pale into insignificance.’
The crowd parted and the speaker appeared: his eyes fixed on the obelisk as he walked. He was short, like John, and wore layers of rough, brown material with his face hidden beneath a hood.
‘You are challenged to reach the silver gates within the next fourteen days.’
Delta-Six scanned the man as he passed.
‘Follow the path which leads to growth, strength and endurance and you will achieve victory.’ The newcomer pulled his hood back to reveal a bearded face. Although his red hair was free of grey streaks, the wrinkles around his eyes suggested he was older than fifty. ‘This is what the inscription states,’ he said and pointed at the obelisk.
The Red Arab moved forward and asked the newcomer a question, to which he replied, ‘I am Althorn and, like you, I have been taken by the gods and deposited here on this wild hillside.’
The Red Arab nodded.
‘You speak English?’ John’s question was lost in a cacophony of other questions.
Althorn raised his hands and tried to answer each question, but no matter the language of the question, his reply was always in English.
A warrior with a long spear and red cloak asked a question.
‘The writing says we are challenged to reach the silver gates,’ Althorn answered.
A man with a silver helmet and short sword shouted another question.
‘I haven’t brought you here. I heard your questions and read the script for you.’
The crowd grew aggressive as, like John, they only understood the answers, not the original questions.
‘A Bronze Age warrior,’ John heard Delta-Six say, ‘but able to communicate with everyone. How can you read the script, if nobody else can?’ Delta-Six asked.
Althorn shrugged. ‘I have been taken from my land and brought here. I know nothing else.’
A man in a black uniform with a red armband pushed forward, shouting what John recognised as German.
‘As I said, the writing–’ Althorn began to reply but Delta-Six moved in and touched the German on the shoulder,where a tiny spark flashed and the man collapsed into a pile of fine powder.
Those nearest stepped back and gripped their weapons a little tighter.
‘The laws of physics must be distorted,’ Delta-Six whispered. He turned to Althorn. ‘Where are you from?’
‘I am Althorn of the Careni people, south of the mountains. I am a… soldier for hire.’
‘Hey buddy! What the hell’s going on here?’ A short, butch man in a dark-green uniform pushed his way through the crowd.
John smiled. ‘Another American? I’m John.’
‘Hey, a Limey! Christ , who isn’t here? I’m Crossley – what’s going on?’ He puffed on a cigarette as he spoke.
Delta-Six shook his head. ‘A Second World War marine? It’s just too perfect to be real.’ He asked Althorn, ‘How can you understand all these languages?’
‘I don’t know,’ Althorn frowned.
‘What language do you speak?’ Delta-Six asked.
‘Careni,’ Althorn replied. ‘But I know a few words of – ’
‘Have you consumed anything since arriving here?’ Delta-Six asked.
‘I have eaten these . ’ Althorn pulled a few mushrooms from a bag. ‘From down by the tree line . ’ Althorn pointed to the purple-leaved trees fringing the hilltop. ‘Would you like one?’
Delta-Six declined.
A tall man, with a broadsword swinging by his side, pushed through the crowd. Although he wore no armour, John assumed by the emblem on his tunic he was a knight. The handsome man picked a mushroom from Althorn, chewed and swallowed. He stared at the crowd with a look of annoyance. ‘Well? How am I to know if the bloody thing has worked if nobody speaks to me?’
The soldiers erupted into a volley of cheerful shouts as they clearly understood every word the knight had spoken.
‘God be praised – it worked,’ he laughed.
Althorn looked relieved. ‘And now we have another translator.’
John saw men run off to find mushrooms of their own, but stayed put as the knight handed out Althorn’s mushrooms. He smiled as a tall archer with an athletic figure strode up to the knight.
‘It is my pleasure to serve such a beautiful lady, ma’am.’ The knight bowed and offered her a mushroom.
John couldn’t help but stare at her curved body.
‘Pretty fine lady, eh?’ Crossley said. He was probably the only person short enough for John to talk to eye to eye. ‘I wouldn’t try anything with her though.’
‘What? Why?’ John felt himself blushing.
‘That Amazon’s more tiger than princess, believe me.’
‘Really?’
‘I saw some Frenchy trying to get his way with her,’ Crossley said. ‘She had a knife at his balls quicker than you could blink.’ He nodded at three men. ‘See?’
John caught a glimpse of a soldier in a blue tunic, limping and sporting a black eye. ‘I–’
A distant explosion made them turn and John s aw a leg fall from the sky, shortly followed by another explosion and a n acrid smell John recog n ised as burnt flesh . He felt the urge to fall to the floor and had one hand on his gas bag. The men and women around him had raised their shields or stared at the forest, while others were running away.
‘There are some orange toadstools in the woods ,’ Althorn said and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a nasty rash on his forearm, ‘ but these men do know how to check their food, don’t they?’
John squinted at the rash. He knew of poisonous toadstools but how could one explode?
‘ I gotta get my hands on some of those !’ Crossley said , then asked , ‘ But are these ’shrooms worth all this? I mean, why can’t us English- speaking boys just stick together , right ?’
‘Communication can be more important than any weapon you wield,’ the tall archer said.
‘Hah!’ Crossley shook his head, then did a double take . ‘Those things really work?’ He took a mushroom and looked at John.
‘I guess things can’t get much worse,’ John said and popped a piece into his mouth. He waited a few anxious seconds before what sounded like a distant biplane crossed behind him and the murmur of voices transformed into a muddle of English. He clasped his hands over his ears. It sounded like everyone was talking to him. He looked at Crossley, who was smiling.
‘Amazing!’
Tensions eased as the warriors talked to one another.
John spotted Delta-Six on the edge of the crowd and joined him. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m getting out of here . ’ Delta-Six pointed to a range of golden- coloured hills . ‘To the silver gates and back to my war where I’m needed.’
John frowned. ‘You want to go back to your war?’
Delta-Six connected a yellow tube to his streamlined backpack. ‘I’m sure I could help, but my protocol dictates I leave. I have no choice.’ He stepped away. ‘So long.’
Hot vapour streamed out of the backpack, pushing Delta-Six into the air and away from the hill, painting a white trail behind him.
‘But we need your help!’ John shouted, as he and hundreds of pairs of eyes watched their best hope of survival disappear.
John looked at the obelisk. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’
The script which snaked up the black stone was in English now. At least it was to his eyes:
Humans. You are the chosen ones. You are the supreme warriors of your species. Those who stand against you fall in great numbers and those who fight alongside you pale into insignificance. You are challenged to reach the silver gates within the next fourteen days. Follow the path which leads to growth, strength and endurance and you will achieve victory.
John stroked the letters but flinched: he had white sores on his palm and fingers where he’d been shocked by Delta-Six. He found a rock to sit on and leant his gun against his leg so he could soothe his hand on its cold metal.
‘So what do we do now?’ a swordsman in chainmail asked. ‘And do we get paid when we get to the gates?’
Althorn shrugged, pulled up his hood and stepped away.
‘Who’s in charge?’ someone asked.
The calm created by the effects of the mushrooms began to erode as each person’s anxieties and frustrations crept back.
The Arab with the red beard was questioning a rifleman. ‘Where are these silver gates?’
‘Delta-Six knew where the gates are,’ John said quietly.
‘We’ve only got fourteen days!’ a Roman said. ‘What happens after that?’
John tried again. ‘Delta-Six knew the way to the silver gates.’ But nobody heard him. He thought about giving a burst from his gun to get some attention, but it was a bit risky with the swords, axes and other deadly implements around.
His grandfather’s face popped into his head. ‘Stop being an imbecile and speak up, boy!’
‘I know where the gates are!’ John shouted and everyone turned to him.
‘Do you?’ Althorn asked.
John swallowed. ‘Yes. Well, Delta-Six said he was heading for them – past the golden hills.’ He pointed.
Althorn smiled. ‘So we know our direction.’
‘So we just start walking?’ the Red Arab asked. ‘What about supplies?’
And the arguments grew again.
‘That Delta-Six was probably a decoy anyway. Set up by whoever put us here,’ Crossley said.
‘Should we wait for nightfall to see the stars?’ the tall knight said.
‘Then we could just find our way home, couldn’t we?’ said a rough voice, and John pictured the tattooed man with the trident. He daren’t turn around in case the man recognised him.
‘You can try walking back to where you came from,’ Crossley said with a snigger.
‘My home was destroyed by the Romans,’ the man sounded as menacing as John remembered, ‘they sowed salt in our fields, killed our elderly and took us into slavery… they made me fight for their entertainment.’
‘Sounds shitty,’ Crossley said. ‘Really… but I don’t give a damn. Walk wherever you want to.’
John took a peek: it was the same man, standing ten paces from Crossley with his trident lowered.
‘Do not poke fun at me, little man. I am Sakarbaal of Carthage.’
‘I’m not poking fun, I just–’ Crossley stood with hands on hips. ‘Hey, if I wanted to poke fun at you, I’d ask about your tattoos. I mean, seriously? What’s with all those?’
‘I will skewer you, little man,’ the gladiator stepped closer.
Crossley stood his ground. ‘You want to kill me with your oversized fork just because I don’t like your body paint?’
‘This fork will tear a hole from your arse to your mouth, you little–’
‘Okay, now you’re being offensive.’ Crossley pulled a shiny revolver from his holster and cocked it. ‘I’m only two inches shorter than average.’ He aimed the gun at the gladiator’s head. ‘One more step and I’ll put a hole through your head.’
Sakarbaal of Carthage paused.
‘Oh, you’ve seen a gun before, eh?’ Crossley was smiling.
A crowd was building around them.
John stepped forward and the man’s wild eyes flicked to him. He sneered as he recognised John. ‘You little men with your pissy weapons are like children. When you fight like real men, I will have respect for you.’ He spat on the ground and walked off.
Crossley turned to John and tucked his gun away. ‘You and him had previous?’ he asked.
‘You could say that,’ John tapped his machine gun.
‘I’ve got a feeling this whole hill’s full of muscleheads like that – we’d better watch our backs.’ Crossley held his hand out. ‘You’re John, right?’
‘John Greene.’ John shook the American’s hand but winced and pulled away. ‘Shit,’ he said and looked at his burnt palm.
‘Sorry, buddy!’ Crossley looked at the burn. ‘Jeez, you need to get something on that.’
‘No, it’ll be alright,’ John replied and pressed on his cool gun, sure it would heal in its own time.
‘Why should we go to the silver gates?’ a Spartan with long hair asked as John joined the circle that had formed around the obelisk to become the soldiers’ forum.
‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ the knight replied.
‘I don’t see much point staying on this hill,’ a spearman added.
‘Maybe we should stop thinking about where we want to go,’ all eyes turned to a bronze-armoured warrior, ‘and decide how we will get to these silver gates.’
‘What do you mean, Persian?’ asked the knight.
The man paused before answering. ‘My name is Samas and I am from Babylon – I fight for the Persian Empire, but I am not Persian.’
‘Very well, Babylonian – but why do you ask how we should travel?’
Samas straightened his back. ‘This is a strange land. There are dangers here.’ He pointed his spear at the dark woodland. ‘Look at what happened with the toadstools. We must decide whether to travel as one or to journey in smaller groups – ensuring some will make it through.’
‘If we split up and travel in the same direction we will get in each other’s way.’ The Red Arab spoke with a deep voice. ‘Resources might be scarce… food, water and so on.’
‘So we go at different times,’ Crossley said. ‘Personally I’d rather go now and get a camp set up before whatever comes out at night finds us unprepared!’
‘No,’ the Red Arab replied. ‘We would travel faster in the cool of the night.’
Arguments broke out throughout the group and John looked around, bemused by the sight of so many diverse people arguing fluently in the same tongue. A huge Maori with a tattooed face argued with an Asian spearman adorned in jewelled armour, while a Roman soldier was having none of a medieval lancer’s suggestions.
‘Quiet, quiet! People! Let’s have some order!’ A commanding voice drew everyone’s attention. ‘Thank you!’
A tall, slim soldier stepped onto a rock, wearing a suit of armour marked with what John recognised as Chinese symbols. This had to be another soldier from the future like Delta-Six, John thought. A headpiece covered the soldier’s face but the voice was louder than John had expected and distorted like when his officers used megaphones to shout along their trench during bombardments. ‘We must keep order if we are going to succeed in our mission. I suggest everyone who wishes to travel at night moves to this side,’ an arm gestured to the right, ‘and by day to this side.’
After a few mumbles, the rabble steadily split in two with an equal split of eighty warriors moving to each side, leaving a scattering of unsure warriors in the middle – including John – and one Japanese samurai who simply walked away, choosing to go it alone into the forest, it seemed.
Crossley caught John’s eye. ‘What’s the point in choosing a group anyway?’
John shrugged. ‘Safety in numbers?’
‘Maybe.’ Crossley tilted his head. ‘But I’m outta here the first chance I get.’
‘How will you get home?’ John asked and shook his head when Crossley offered him a cigarette. He’d tried a few with the lads in the trenches but they just made him cough.
Crossley shrugged and lit his. ‘Who knows? The whole thing’s screwy if you ask me.’ He gestured at the men and women surrounding them. ‘They can’t be real, right?’
John answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know.’ He’d accepted what was going on just like when Rosie died and when he’d been stationed in the trenches: he felt numb and just got on with it.
‘So, you got a home to get back to?’ Crossley asked.
‘Yes.’ John thought of Joe’s cheeky face and smiled. ‘I’ve got a son.’ He pictured Joe tearing about the family shop, weaving in and out of the piles of veg or jumping up for a cuddle when he came back from his deliveries.
John pulled out the tin soldier around his neck. ‘I bought him this in a Calais market. When I get back to London I’ll give it to him.’
‘London? Jeez…’ Crossley exhaled a puff of smoke. ‘That place took a helluva pasting from the Luftwaffe. I met a Limey who told me his whole neighbourhood got flattened in one raid. One raid! Some ammunitions factory.’
‘Really?’ John frowned. ‘I didn’t hear about it. I heard some Zeppelins had gone over but–’
‘Zeppelins?’ Crossley laughed. ‘Hell, no! Bombers – you know, Junkers and Dorniers? Five-hundred-pound bombs – thousand-pound bombs.’ He stopped and looked John up and down. ‘I thought your kit was old but…’ he pointed to one of John’s bags, ‘…gas mask, right?’
John pulled out the cloth head sack with two glass discs and mouthpiece. ‘Only used it twice.’
Crossley nodded and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘So you’re fighting the Great War, right?’
‘Yes,’ John replied.
‘Well I’m fighting in the Great War’s bastard son. The Second World War we call it… for now anyways. About twenty years after your war, it all flared up again.’ Crossley raised his eyebrows. ‘Germans.’
‘But… our war was the war to end all wars.’ John’s voice trailed off and he took a sip from his canteen. ‘Did we lose?’
‘Oh no, we won alright – just didn’t do a good enough job of it.’ Crossley shook his head. ‘Plus this time the Italians joined in, and the Japanese.’
John took a deep breath. It had all been for nothing then: his friends blown to pieces; the civilians killed in their homes; the men he’d killed from the crater.
‘So your wife’ll be waiting back in London with your son?’ Crossley asked.
‘Joe’s there, but Rosie… er, no.’ John felt the familiar chill run through his stomach as he pictured Rosie’s dead body. ‘She died.’ He pictured Rosie’s face, the way she smiled every time he took her back to the Chapel music hall where they first met; the white lace in her hair on their wedding day; the way she had rested her hand on her pregnant belly. He remembered Joe as a helpless newborn and the days and nights John had spent desperately trying to feed him with one of the new bottles with rubber teats his father had managed to get hold of.
‘Shit, I’m sorry,’ Crossley said and patted John on the shoulder.
The affection nearly made John cry but he turned a sniff into a cough.
‘April the Fifteenth, 1912,’ John said.
Saying the exact date made it feel less real for some reason, like it was part of history now.
‘Hey, I know that date – Titanic, right?’ Crossley said. ‘Shit. Must have been awful.’
‘No, I…’ John looked at Crossley to tell him the truth but the Chinese soldier was speaking again.
‘Quiet! Thank you. Now we need a spokesman to talk to these abstainers.’
John and Crossley were in the minority: just twenty soldiers waited to choose their side.
For those wanting to travel by night, the Red Arab stepped forward, while the handsome knight, who introduced himself as Sir William Lavalle, stepped forward for the day travellers.
‘Just like being at school waiting to be picked for footy,’ John joked.
‘Yeah, only this time we’re the ones choosing,’ Crossley whispered back.
The Arab spoke first. ‘I am Mihran ibn al-Hassan.’ He paused and John wondered if he should know his name. ‘Under the cover of darkness, we will be hidden from our enemy’s eyes and we will travel faster when the temperature is coolest.’ He spoke calmly. ‘Travelling at night is the obvious choice.’
Nods and jeers behind him showed his group’s approval.
Next came Sir William. ‘We should not challenge the natural order of things – we work in the day and sleep at night. If we travel in daylight we will see our enemy and defend ourselves better.’ The day group chanted their support. ‘And it would be easier to lose our way when travelling at night.’
John still didn’t know which group to choose.
‘Who do you choose?’ a tin-helmeted soldier asked the Chinese soldier.
‘I choose night.’ The future soldier jumped off the rock and walked to Mihran, the Red Arab.
For some, that was enough.
John looked at both sides, weighing them up: Night had Samas, the Chinese soldier and Mihran, while Day had Sir William, the huge Maori and Althorn in its ranks.
A shudder ran through John as an image of the war he’d left behind appeared in his mind: explosions lighting up the night sky and screams in the dark. His worst times had come during the night. He caught a glimpse of Sakarbaal, the tattooed warrior, in the night group, who fixed his eyes on John and drew a line across his neck.
‘Day Watch, definitely Day Watch,’ John said and stepped over to Sir William’s side.
‘We need a leader.’ Sir William Lavalle towered over John and Crossley as he addressed the newly formed group of nearly ninety soldiers.
‘Althorn is the best choice,’ the tattooed Maori said.
‘He should have the final say in any decision,’ agreed a blue-turbaned fighter who cleaned a long curved sword.
Althorn shook his head. ‘I’m not a leader – I can’t make decisions for us all.’
‘What about Sir William?’ the Amazon archer said. ‘He has shown the courage of a chief.’
The handsome knight shook his head. ‘No, we are all equals here, in this unknown territory.’
‘Yeah,’ Crossley joined in. ‘We should all have our say.’
Many in the group nodded.
‘So how do we decide?’ John asked.
‘We wait for the right leader to emerge,’ Sir William said. ‘The Lord will show us who should lead.’
‘Or we cast votes when we need a decision?’ the Maori suggested.
‘And we go with the most votes?’ Sir William asked.
‘That’s democracy…’ Crossley quipped.
‘I’m happy with that,’ Althorn said.
‘I’m not sure,’ the Amazon shook her head.
‘It will work for now, sweetheart,’ Crossley said. ‘So shouldn’t we get a move on?’
‘Not before we have our rules.’ Sir William looked stern. ‘We need guidelines on how our group should behave in combat and how we vote to make our decisions…’
As the conversation drifted off, so did John. He rubbed his palm, which still ached, and watched the Night Watch, who had set up camp and now talked in a huddle.
‘What happened to your hand?’
John turned to see Althorn.
‘I burnt it,’ John said, and showed him the white blisters on his palm.
Althorn studied it and said, ‘Keep it cool and it should heal itself.’
‘I can try,’ John said and placed his palm on the metal of his gun.
Someone was shouting in their direction and John turned.
‘You! With the…’
‘Gun.’
‘Yes, you with the gun!’ Sir William pointed at John. ‘How do you vote – quick march, steady or alternating?’
John felt the weight of his gun and bags. ‘Steady,’ he answered.
‘Alternating,’ a blue-suited rifleman said.
‘Steady,’ Althorn said.
‘Steady march it is then,’ Sir William concluded. ‘Best to be wary at this stage, I agree.’
‘So, can we go now?’ Crossley asked with raised eyebrows. ‘Or do we have to vote on which foot we step with first?’ He laughed and walked down the hill into the forest.