Lieutenant John Helen of the Royal Army Medical Corps jogged down the trench, the soles of his feet aching and sore, and pushed past four uniformed men into a triage tent. A medic called out: "Sir, they've been in contact with sulfur mustard liquid."
"Bloody hell," said John, pacing to the nearest dressing table with first-aid equipment out. Half a dozen bedridden faces flashed him looks of despair as he searched for morphine. In one glance he took stock of the situation, saw blistering third-degree burns, afflicted limbs covered in wet flannels and bandages, blood-streaked gauzes, and torn packaging scattered about. A continuous, distressed groan filled the air - the youngest victim whose arms were oozing and pink.
"Do we have enough bleach to bathe their wounds?" John asked as he squeezed between beds.
Private Richard Moss, his personal medical assistant, gave a rapid-fire response. "No, sir. The hospitals are refusing to supply us with any more. It seems bleach is gettin' rationed more than food. I've water-washed and dressed them as best I could. We're low on painkillers and bandages. The young lad in pain there refused to take any morphine, he offered it to his C.O instead."
"Where's Daniels and Whittaker?"
"Should be here any minute."
The whimpering boy on the bed laid shirtless, yellow-tinted fibrinous tissue spanning from his wrists to his shoulders. He appeared to be in his mid-teens, small patches of hair developing across his chest and stomach, lean abdominal muscles, and ribs that stood out like arching blades.
John slipped out his rusted canteen that had been filled with bourbon. Dutch courage was just as good as any medicine. Moving the canteen to the boy's lips, he angled the rear up and oak-colored liquor flowed gently onto his parched tongue. The boy's body was shaking. He tried swallowing as much as he could, but the bourbon was too strong. He began to cough, so John pulled the drink away.
The boy sniffled and said: "It hurts so much. Please, oh God, please! Make it stop!"
John's canteen quickly returned to his lips.
"You're going to be fine, son," John said. "Keep necking this. Should've taken the morphine, you silly toss-pot."
"I don't suppose that's rum?" asked Moss.
"I wish. It's some Frenchy bourbon. I would offer you some, but the kid needs it." Someone then tossed a tin cup at him. A grinning patient was already gesturing for John to fill it up. John shook his head and declined. There wasn't enough to go around. Besides, he was in charge, and the final drops were reserved for him.
Moss whisked drapes onto a patient's chest. He grabbed some hemostats from a nearby table and fastened the drapes in place. Squeezing the steel teeth together, he inserted a safety pin, then turned to John.
"At this rate, we'll need to start confiscating alcohol. The lads won't be too happy about that."
"Yeah, that'll definitely go down well," replied John. He glanced over to his pasty-faced, standing assistant. Moss looked exhausted. "Moss," he said. "You can have whatever's left of this."
Gratitude flashed in his eyes. "Are you being serious, sir?"
"I'm feeling rather jovial today."
Moss smirked. "Well, that's a first. I definitely owe you a cigarette. When and if I get one, that is."
"Sir."
John turned to see Daniels and Whittaker arrive. "Where the fuck 'ave you two been?"
"Sorry, sir," Daniels replied. "We were over at the-"
"Scratch that! I don't care, you pair of fuck-wits. Whittaker, see to this young lad. Daniels, fill this cup up with water and give it back to that chap."
Their faces flushed bright red and they immediately got to work. The two were intimidated, but in many ways, John preferred them to be. He'd seen many medics become too relaxed with their role, and witnessed how patients suffered because of it.
A crackling voice came over the radio: "Corpsmen One, do you copy? I repeat, Corpsmen One, do you copy?"
Spry to respond, John motioned to the radio, passing Moss on his way to hand him the canteen. John picked up the receiver and answered, "This is Lieutenant John Helen of Corpsman One, we hear you."
"Good God, it's great to hear from you, John. It's Major Arnold Kenway of the Royal Fusiliers."
"Ah, Arn! Good to hear from you too. And what can I do for you, mate?"
"Well, we're in need of your expertise. The men and I have stumbled across something... Rather disturbing. I'd like you to witness it for yourself. When's the soonest you can get up here?"
"Houthulst? I could probably get there within the hour. But, mate, I need some idea of what I'm up against. What's the issue?"
"We've found corpses."
"Are you pulling my leg, Arn? Bodies aren't exactly uncommon."
"Believe me, John... You need to see this."
Morris was staring up. "How long will it take to reach him? We need the guns firin' by dusk and Nelson's telephone wires haven't been laid yet."
"Sorry, the birds don't work like that. There's no going straight from A to B. They'll fly to Ajax HQ, where the note will be taken and passed on. Pigeons always fly to their original nest, it's like they have a built-in compass."
Nestled into an embankment of sandbags was an old London bus. Like many vehicles in the British military, it had been repurposed and refitted. Glass windows had been replaced with wooden planks, and its distinguishable red coat had been painted over with a darker, olive green. Far more noticeable, perhaps, was the pigeon loft built onto its roof - caging more than two dozen domesticated rock doves.
Stood atop a tawdry ladder, the handler reached into the loft through a short wooden hatch. If the handler's statement was true, if the Brigadier's message could expect unfavorable delays, then throughout the evening there would be little respite, little breathing room from the incessant defensive fighting. Waves of enemies would see more allied forces dead or injured. To deter these assaults, Morris had hoped Norman's request for artillery support would reach Brigadier Nelson quickly. But it was also a gamble. If the carrier pigeon was somehow killed en route to Ajax HQ, then there would be no support, and the Central Power's momentum would continue to grow.
As if shit could get any worse.
Morris's lower back ached from carrying his Lee-Enfield all day. Drops of sweat slid down his cheek and soaked into his collar.
Eventually, the handler retrieved a pigeon. "Here we go, reckon this fella' will do?"
"Go ahead," Morris said, shrugging.
Taking extra care to not cause it any distress, the handler fastened a tiny copper band around the bird's leg and gestured for the paper note. Morris reached up and handed it over, and the handler folded it a few more times before sliding it flush into a petite cylindrical container attached to the band. With minimal exertion, the handler then threw the pigeon up - releasing it into a faint draft - and, instinctively, the bird spanned open its wings and flew off.
"It normally takes about an hour to reach Ajax, give or take."
Suddenly, disorder built like a storm, swirling around them with ever more violence. Morris heard someone call out for cover, saw soldiers drop to their stomachs and hug their heads, and dirt fling up in neat parallels. A German Fokker whooshed overhead firing both machine guns. With every bullet, Morris and the bird handler flinched, keeping near their bus for shelter. They could only watch as several infantrymen were shot down in the open - crimson mist bursting out each of their newly-formed wounds.
Morris stared at the enemy fighter plane soaring into the distance. He was still in shock, still holding back the tidal wave of emotions. Was he imagining it, or did the Fokker just also kill their carrier pigeon?
"Oh Jesus," said Morris. "Don't tell me it's been shot-"
"No, wait. There he is!"
The handler pointed to the sky, and there it was! The bird was still in flight, but it was flapping with greater urgency.
"He's afraid," the handler said. "Like the rest of us."
John Helen arrived at Houthulst trench within the hour, albeit limping. He dared not tend to his feet in the damp, as prolonged exposure could lead to trench foot. No, John would inspect them later in far more hospitable conditions.
He peered into a muddy dugout. Inside, four men, including Major Kenway, were standing chatting.
"Men," Kenway said. "Keep this among ourselves, but I do believe we are out of our depth here."
Kenway was tall and fierce-looking, a coal-eyed giant. He was dressed in the traditional pattern service attire, and proudly brandished an officer's visor cap which fitted firmly on his head. He seemed in his late forties, threads of grey streaked his dark chevron mustache. Maturity had chiseled deeply sober lines into what was once a carefree face.
"Major Kenway," John said.
"Ah, John!"
He stepped further in, and the three other officers looked over with disconcerting glances. John went to smile, but it froze half-formed on his lips when he spotted the abnormal weapon resting on the table - a fork-like spear baring strange, faded syllabaries and tinged with dried blood.
"Thanks for coming," Kenway said, reaching his hand out. "Your expertise is greatly appreciated. Your understanding of the human anatomy may help us to determine what we're up against."
John shook his hand. "No worries, Major, but can I ask what that-"
"In due time, my lad."
"Right, of course. So, where can I find these corpses?"
"All right, follow me. But please try to stay close."
Saluting his colleagues, Kenway headed straight for the dugout entrance, John waiting for him. Immediately he reached for his rifle. It was not leaning against the corrugated wall, where he thought he'd left it. It was only a mild frustration, but it added to the paranoia he was already experiencing. Kenway circled around, searching for his firearm as though his life depended on it. He spotted it laying on the table - beside the alien artifact - and felt a sense of relief as he retrieved it and joined John. He felt at ease with it, protected behind the gleaming beech stock. At ease and in control.
The forest was an ominously dark place, the same way everything was in the Great War. Black oaks and firs leered over them, and the gloom of dusk slipped past their branches. Empty shell casings littered the ground. Faraway thumps of artillery and the soft humming of fighter planes reached their ears. Kenway and John trod cautiously along a dirt trail that stretched out from the trenches and into the trees. For Kenway, the additional three soldiers that accompanied them felt like another layer of protection, another shield to use against the mysterious danger lurking in the woods.
"Little over three hours ago, we caught wind that a Jerry section was sneaking a heavy tank through here," said Kenway as he scoured the treetops with his gaze. "And so, of course, we sent in a scouting party armed with explosives to intercept and destroy it. They never returned."
"Unfortunately, that's a rather common occurrence here, Arn," John replied.
"Well, that's just it, John. We needed to be sure the tank had been destroyed. Not long after, I led a small expeditionary force in. We discovered this-"
Kenway slowed, allowing John to pass. From behind, he watched John step into a vast opening and glance around, no doubt taking measure of the horrific visual. German infantry, strung up from the canopy, dripping red. Situated in the middle: an abandoned A7V with its entry hatch wide open. John counted at least twenty-two bodies. It made him feel exposed and vulnerable.
"I realize this might be difficult to comprehend," said Kenway, finding a seat on a nearby log.
"Shockingly, this sort of stuff doesn't surprise me anymore. I take it your scouts weren't responsible?"
Kenway shook his head. "Far too barbaric and resourceful for a few lads from Merseyside. Besides, we eventually found our scouts. They're the reason you're here."
"And where are they?" John asked.
Kenway was silent for a moment, contemplating his response. Building his courage Kenway swallowed a nervous lump and directed John's attention to the tank. "Inside. Be warned, John, their condition is far worse."
John stepped over to the open hatch, peering his head inside. More red speckled the lever controls and steering wheel. He then spotted a rivulet of blood running down the interior. Following it, John saw that it stemmed from a clump of corpses stacked carelessly on top of one another in the back, barely perceivable in the dying light. John was thankful he'd developed a tolerance to the stench of death, but he wasn't immune to all its qualities. Rodents and flies had gathered for a free meal, and these disease-ridden pests disturbed him far greater than the dead.
"Someone get me a bloody lamp," he said. "It's too dark, I can hardly see."
"You heard him, men. Fetch him a light."
It took a minute for a rifleman to retrieve a lit lantern and hand it to John. He looked inside again, stiffening in disbelief.
"Their heads have been... Completely removed," John said, aghast. "It's not like they were cut off, either. Their vertebral columns have vanished too. Judging by the wounds, they must've been torn out, straight from between the shoulders! You'd need surgery or supernatural strength to accomplish something like this."
"Well," Kenway added. "Whoever or whatever is responsible certainly knows how to get our attention."