Patterson shivered and pulled the scratchy wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. It wasn't right - late August and nights should be balmy. Not this misty bollocks. In the dark you could barely see more than a few dozen yards into "no-mans-land". The mist clung, soaking damn near everything. Morning brought little respite these past few days, the weak sunlight barely drying anything.- damp clung to everything.
Some were grumbling it was the Martians - their lines far off had belched smoke into the sky, firing rockets into the clouds. White smoke had poured from behind their distant barricades and vanished. The mist had descended a few hours later. It seemed too neat to be co-incidence.
All along the line cooking fires and lamps were dimmed and hidden unter tarpaulins or dug-out little crevices. The earthworks and trenches that formed the bulwark against the invaders was now a muddy, sunken thoroughfare. To the rear, the artillery sat in their neater dugouts, all sandpits and ordered ammunition stacks. They were a little ways back from the main front and further into no mans land were dotted smaller posts - the forward observation points.
But here he sat, on watch for their little section. Watches still needed to be kept all along the line. The bulk of the men hunkered down in rear-ward trenches, or rotated through to the tent camp further back towards Aldershot. Right now, Patterson would've shagged tupn'y whore filled with the clap for a chance to bed down in a tent.
He shifted at his post, a small alcove he'd carved against the earth-work mound and peered over the edge again, straining against the evening gloom. Far across the miles of scorched grass and muddy topsoil he could just make out faint glows where creatures moved and their strange plants had begun to sprout. The damn things glowed in the dark, which seemed a ruddy stupid thing to let sprout near your lines.
But so far no one had actually seen any aliens manning the defences. Now and then a beam of light would sweep across the space and incinerate anything it saw that seemed in any way human. The strange red weed had begun crawling across the desolate space between, much like it had beguin infesting barren crop-lands and the small streams nearby, but the sappers had launched a few incendiary devices to burn it away. Just to be sure it wasn't yet another diabolical weapon out of nightmares.
Patterson stretched his shoulders and grunted. A creaking wooden board made him turn, rifle clutched, "Who goes there?"
"Lovely lad, still on watch eh? Tidy, yes, proper tidy." Sergeant Ross, a proper Taff from the Valleys had that sing-song cadence of all Welshmen. It sounded leering, jolly and intimidating all at once. And was all contained in a man five foot nothing with a waxed moustache and a deadly glare.
"Yes, Sergeant, nothin' to report."
"Keep a weather eye out, boyo. Doin' me rounds, checking on the lovely boys and their spit 'n polish. All gleaming smart. Wouldn't want them mucky buggers being all offended at our lack of decorum and bearing now, would we? Cold it is lad, but fight the chill in them bones, keep them peepers peeping, spick and span aye?"
Patterson nodded. Somehow the Sergeant looked well turned out - boots mostly clear of the muck of the trenches, buttons gleaming in the dim light of a covered lantern. The stable belt he wore was practically a beacon of white all on its own. The Sergeant gave him another once over, then continue down the line, pausing to jostle a dozing soldier here, rouse a poker game there. Keeping order. No doubt there was a rupert due any time soon, for whatever good that'd do.
He turned back and looked out over the expanse and squinted. There were lights now, all of a sudden. Not that strange, sourceless spotlight, but almost like new stars in the sky, high up. They were moving. But the ground wasn't rumbling - had the fighting machines learned to creep? His mind whirled - was he imagining it? Stars breaking through a gap in the clouds?
Patterson looked up.
There were no clouds. Mist, yes, low lying. But no clouds above. And these were too large for stars.
He scrambled down and hissed, "Enemy! Enemy lights!"
Roberts, the Corporal, was dozing nearby. He started as Patterson's boot kicked his dozing shin, "What the fuck, mate?"
"Lights!"
"Stars, you…"
"MOVING!"
Roberts scrambled up alongside him. The lights were bobbing. Then suddenly they grew larger and a hum filled the air, accompanied by a strange warbling thrum. They grew and were suddenly above them, then gone.
There was a flash of green and an explosion blossomed to the rear as an artillery magazine caught. The fire fountained up in a mushroom and shocked cries could be heard. Patterson stared, then looked back at Roberts. They paused for a moment then began shouting.
"Alarm! ALARM! Enemy attack!"
Bells were ringing, whistles sounding, all along the line. The sound of Ross' sing song cadence, edged with anger cut through, "Stand ready my boys! To arms! Any sign of the bastards?"
There was another warble and the lights passed over head, stitching a line of green streaks into another artillery emplacement. Patterson could see the night horizon being lit up as more lights droned overhead, too fast to really see, raining fire down onto their guns. He stumbled as the ground suddenly shook and looked back out across the barren space between the lines.
The mist was curling, parting as the dim light reflected off of faint metal outlines, "Fighting machines! Advancing!"
"Canny bastards, knocking out the guns, so their tall-boys can have a crack eh? Well, let's show these bastards we don't roll over like a French fancy my lovely boys!"
The Sergeant yelled orders and men spilled from their bedrolls and cook-fires. Rifle men lay against the earthworks and hunkered down.
Patterson cringed as there was the whining hiss of a heat ray charging. The air suddenly shifted from the nagging cold of the damp and the mist hissed into steam around them. A few men caught jogging down the line were clearly in a vulnerable spot, in line of sight. They sprawled, screaming, heads and torsos steaming and clothes aflame. The mist was good cover, but it seemed to mitigate the more instantaneous impact of the ray.
Small mercy though.
Others ran to their comrades side, dragging the wounded and dying men into cover. Shots could be heard echoing down the line and distant yells as men shouted conflicting commands or directions. There were flashes as heat rays discharged, the night suddenly lit by wood and ammunition catching aflame. The whole front was now a tinderbox waiting to happen.
"Ready my boys, by the numbers! Patterson, you lanky arsehole, grab more ammunition from the depot back, double time now. We'll keep them looking our way. Now jog, you English bastard."
Patterson wasted no time. He broke into a run. Part of him wasn't sure he'd actually head back, but his training and the fear of a proper tongue lashing by the Sergeant spurred him on. He glanced back and blanched as two fighting machines loomed out of the mist a few hundred yards away. They paused and sighted along the lines, firing swiftly. He heard the screams of men caught in the beams. He turned and sprinted towards the depot, a bit further back behind the lines, dug into its own covered trench. Men jostled in the narrow dugouts, pushing forward to the lines, or limping back towards triage medical points.
Patterson shoved his way through and yelled at a dazed looking Corporal to hand him boxes. The man looked about to argue, but saw Patterson's stare. A large crate was hauled from the stack behind him and pressed into his hands.
Patterson staggered and shoved his way back, mud smearing the navy-wool of his trousers, other mens blood splashing against his jacket. He staggered back onto the main run of the lines then tripped and fell. Around him men screamed and the air cooked. Patterson felt his hair singe and eyebrows burn. He pushed his back against the earthworks and stared up as a huge metal beast stomped over the trench like it was a road-gutter. The machine ignored him, advancing past the trenchline, pausing only to resight its heat ray and fire. There was no answering artillery.
He staggered to his feet, ammunition box clutched to his chest and pushed down the line. Men were slumped here and there and the stench of cooked meat filled the air, sickly sweet. Others leaned against the earthworks and trench-sides, firing intermittently at other things out of sight. He heart alien and beastial squeals but the men didn't stop firing, almost frantically loading.
He saw his Company ahead, a thinner collection of men now. Charred husks lay about and the Sergeant now looked disheveled and mudstrewn. Paaterson sprinted up and sagged, slamming the crate to the ground. He yanked his bayonet from his belt and prised open the crate. The Sergeant glanced his way.
"Good job boyo. Let's give these devils what for?"
Patterson unslung his rifle and scrambled up to the trench side. Roberts huddled there and turned his face to his comrade. Patterson flinched back as he saw that the man's face was half melted. Roberts gave him a pained grin and sighed, then slumped down, dead.
Shaking, he Patrick looked over the lip of the trench and stared. Other machines were advancing, spider-like things, carrying large barricades in front of them like shields. Behind them he could make out hulking brutes, advancing under cover.
A thing reared up in front of him and he fell backwards. It had four legs and an upright torso, covered in carapace. It squealed and lunged for him, only to stagger back as a bullet tore into its chest.
"These are my lads, you dirty foreign bastard. I'm the only one allowed to rip them a new arsehole," growled Sergeant Ross. He had his rifle held at hip level and was chambering another round. His movements were fluid and practiced. Another round slammed into the monster, "So you can bugger right off to whatever shitty little hovel you call home."
Patterson scrambled back. He saw his comrades staggering, switching targets. Traces of green scattered overhead as the advancing beasts took potshots at the line. He looked about him as the monster was driven back and staggered to his feet. The insect-beast screeched and lunged again slashed at another man who reeled away clutching his throat. Another round brought it down and Patterson found the Sergeant suddenly in his face.
"Get the lads back, get to the colours and do what the Rupert says. Get on now boyo. Not having you trump me here. "
"But sergeant, what…"
The man gestured down and Patteson saw blood staining the watery mud at the Sergeants feet, "Can't ruddy move boyo. And I'm going to go out like a proper man of the Queen. On my feet. Not in some sawbones ruddy charnel house. No get on. Before we get more bloody cock-roaches crawling up our arses. Shift, and get them colours spick and span."
Patterson nodded and yelled a rallying cry, "Fall back, by the numbers! Rally to the colours!"
The soldiers who were still standing staggered back, firing, dropping to a knee to reload as comrades provided cover. Slow and methodical. They dragged themselves down the trenches to the back-lines. Other companies were crying a retreat as well, men swarming back, firing and falling as green bolts lanced the air. A heat ray swept across a bank of trenches and the air filled with the sound of screams and sizzling flesh.
Patterson watched as comrades fell but still they moved. He dragged one man, limping, backwards and halted as they saw the slumped form of one of the spider machines. Corpses littered the trench it was half buried in - aliens and men. A crater had been gouged out of the soil and smoke poured from the wrecked monstrosity.
The troops staggered on, cutting back into another trench line. The aliens had broken into the lines, the fighting machines now pushing to the rear. Distant explosions could be heard, muffled by trench walls and Palisades. Pursuit was constant, shapes lurching over earthworks, or from side trenches filled with corpses. Grey creatures gurgled and lunged, or skittered out of sight, retreating or falling under the fire of the men.
Slowly they were whittled down - a crab-like horror erupting from the soil to drag a man down in a shower of gore; a hulking brute appearing at the top of a trench and shrugging off bullets as it bludgeoned a trooper to death. Pattersons dwindling company made it to a collection of tents and found men struggling with a strange collection of what seemed to be funeral attendants. An officer clashed with one, his sword like quicksilver in the torchlight. The interloper wielded a strange blade covered in pipes; more like a medical implement.
Patterson had gone from fifteen men to three others now. With a bellow they launched into the fray, bayonets jabbing and fists flying. It wasn't a glorious battle; it was a melee in the mud, surrounded by craters and the groans of dying men.
Patrick watched as a man reeled backwards. His eyes were purple and filled with panic as he drew his own bayonet across his throat. Patterson saw a grey thing staring at the man and, in a sudden flash of desperation, hauled himself forwards and thrust with his bayonet. The creature squealed and staggered backwards, collapsing a hastily erected tent about it as it fell.
He turned and saw the officer impale the tall-man, but then stagger as a cloud of green mist exploded from the unearthly man. He starred as the officer sagged and fell to his knees. He saw blood pour from the rupert's eyes and made to head towards him. The man looked up and waved frantically. Patterson recognised him - their new Lieutenant. He saw the man gesture further back, towards the headquarters for the Company and Regiment - where the colours were. Then the man toppled over, dead.
He cast about him and realised he was alone. His comrades lay dead among their foes, locked in the eternal embrace of death.
Bloodied, bruised and running on fading adrenaline, Patrick "Pat" Patterson pushed back. He staggered down shallow trenches as around him fires burned and men shouted to each other in the dark. Alien hoots and shrieks permeated the air and the night lit up with green tracery. Machines clanked on, advancing past the lines, nearly drowning out the heavy tread of alien legions.
Above, lights whirls and took shots at stragglers where the defiant boom of artillery sounded, swiftly silenced by malevolent angels from another world. Patterson watched as trio of rocket-beasts ducked and weaved around a cluster of men, huddling behind makeshift barricades. He hunkered down and watched as one of the beasts tossed a glowing green sphere into the group, the gesture almost contemptuous. There was a green flash an screams abruptly cut off.
He staggered on and glanced up as strange shells whistled overhead, slamming down into distant, bunkered areas. The sound of gunfire from those positions faded and died as black smoke poured out and pooled across what was left of the British defensive line.
He was nearly into the main camp, nearly half a mile from the front itself, back to the foreward headquarters. Ahead he could see more fires. The sound of gunfire. The headquarters still stood, strangely bypassed by the fighting machines as they pressed on towards… Aldershot?
A song caught his ears.
"...he countenance divine
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
Among those dark satanic mills?"
He stumbled forwards, almost blinded by the blood in his eyes. His vision swam as his strength ebbed. He could feel the pain of a hundred tiny cuts and maybe more. But he pushed on.
"Bring me my bow of burning gold!"
A creature loomed from an alien firing line - another strangely suited man. Patterson fired and the creature fell, head a tattered mess.
"Bring me my arrows of desire!"
He moved forwards into the light and heard a shout over the gunfire. Somehow he made it to the perimeter of stacked boxes and overturned tables. Hands grabbed him and hauled him in.
"Bring me my spear: o clouds unfold!"
He saw around him other soldiers - a mix of uniforms and ranks, hunkered behind barricades and passing ammunition. A Colonel stood amidst it all gesturing for reinforcement. Next to him stood the colours of the Regiment, Patterson's regiment. He wasn;t sure if the man was his Commanding officer, so streaked with mud and gore were all the men around him, uniforms covered in soot and soil. The colonel looked at him as around them the men continued the hymn, keeping their spirits up.
"Well done, trooper, getting this far. Any sign of Lieutenant Gregory and the second platoon?
Patterson blinked, "Sorry sir. I'm Third platoon, Second Company. I think… I think I saw my own Ru-Lieuteant… but they got him. No sign of the others. It's a rout at the front, sir."
The Colonel gave him a faintly tired look, "I think we rather gathered that, soldier. Can you fight?"
"Yes sir."
"Good show. Corporal Jameson, give this man some ammunition. Let's try to hold these ne'er do wells a while longer, let the others regroup."
Patterson found himself at another barricade, taking shots at silhouettes in the dark. Large figures loomed but were driven back by a hail of lead. Scuttling figures got a tossed pitard and a blast for their trouble.
The hymn started up again as another wave of creatures pushed forward. Patterson fired, his vision only on targets he could see right in front of him, or in response to called out warnings where he flicked his aim right and left, cracking off rounds as fast as he could re-chamber them.
He looked around and saw the men to his sides were down, a mess of burned flesh. Another man shrieked behind him and shot his comrade before another man stabbed him. More fire came in, a hail of withering green,
"I will not cease from mental fight;"
He grappled for another round from his pouch but found it empty. A figure charged forwards - one of the suited creatures. It leapt forward, snake like and Patterson thrust his rifle forward. The creature squealed and tried to dodge, but momentum had it. It slammed into the bayonet and Patterson went backwards. He followed through and the creature passed overhead as his rifle clattered away. It landed hard squirmed and then died, leaking noxious gas around it.
"Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,"
Patterson got to his feed and hauled a rifle from the cold hands of a fallen comrade. He scrambled for more bullets and took stock. In the furor most lay dead. He spied the Colonel, slumped over a crate, pistol held limp in his hand. The Corporal lay nearby, his chest a smoking ruin.
"Till we have built Jerusalem"
He moved unsteadily as the last gunshots died away, heading for the fallen pole. Carefully, with single-minded determination, Patterson hauled the standard up from the mud. He looked around and saw shapes moving through the gloom. Great creatures, clad in green loomed near the barricades, armour scarred by bullets and shrapnel. The ground shook briefly and Patterson looked up. A fighting machine lumbered closer and clanked to a halt, hissing steam from the shoulder joints near its hood. There was a whirr as the heat ray protrusion levelled itself down at the lone soldier. He stared up at the darkened visor of the machine hood. He hefted the colours above his head and bellowed out.
"In England's green and pleasant la-"
The engine fired and heat bathed the ground. The air hissed to steam and flesh broiled. Cloth caught and burned to ash.
Light faded. The collection of aliens turned and moved along. With a whirring hiss, the machine rose and turned West, moving to follow its fellows.