Sergeant Hackett was, to put it bluntly, having a rubbish day. First was the early start. Now, he was a Sergeant - he was used to inflicting those on others. But deep in his soul he'd hoped to be approaching that stage of life when you left the service or got put into a nice cosy little quartermasters office.
Well, that was unfair - he'd miss the smell of oil and stink of the powder. No, more it was the fact it was an early start in the north. Which meant it was damp as a woman's undies on parade day.
Second was the pace of their advance. The southern shore was more marshland, at least close to the river, so they'd had to wade inland before turning west to advance towards Gateshead.
Third, the buggering red shite the Martians had brought with them. It choked the ground away from the water, fronds waving despite there being no breeze. And it was everywhere. They hadn't seen it, masked by the trees and the rise of the bank, but the weed cover buildings, walls and plants. It choked the trees that weren't near the river and several collapsed buildings looked to have been pulled down by the larger, thicker fronds.
They'd meant to advance and wait, but at their current pace he was worried they wouldn't be able to get far enough even with a distraction. The ground away from the river was thick with red and some steps revealed sinkholes where the weed appeared to be burrowing out hollows. He had not idea why.
What was at least partly reassuring was that the stuff seemed to dislike water, or rather larger bodies of water - streams it choked out and drained, but the larger river seemed too fast flowing or too full of pollution to let it get a foothold. Something for the nutters back in London to theorise on, no doubt.
He had felt slight envy for his boss, the newly minted Lieutenant. He was used to working with utter plonkers, or people so far up their own arses they could snog themselves.
You got a few earnest ones who were wise enough to know the boundaries, who worked with their sergeants. He never disobeyed officers, but he'd seen plenty who spent men like bullets. Zhang seemed different. More cautious, thoughtful. He could count on the fingers of one hand how many of that type he'd met. And he led from the front. Well, most officers did. But in that "Stand next to your soldiers and bark at them" format. Zhang was in the dirt with them.
He was also doing the riskier assignment, to a point. Unless the bloody walking tin men came along to piss on everyone's parade. Then he'd curse the bastard six ways to sunday. But only for want of a decent weapon to kill the bastards.
His larger group made their way excruciatingly slowly through the red weed covered farmland. They saw nothing. No enemies, no walkers. As they rounded a copse of trees his extended line, moving in crouched positions and with tentative glances, caught sight of the rise of the Newcastle hills for the first time. Hackett wasn't afraid to admit, even he sucked in a breath.
The cloud of dust rising over the city; the vast grey oblong that seemed to both sit and hang on the edge of one hill, messing with his perspective as he tried to make sense of it, And in the distance, he could see the silhouettes of fighting machines. Mostly on the northern bank.
Thank the ruddy saints for that. Well, one of them was in the ruddy river. Because why not let the buggers wade as well!
He could feel the tint of mania in his thoughts and breathed in slowly, gesturing to either side for the men to continue advancing. They used the bun-lines of fields and ditches to mask their approaches. As they carefully advanced down an overgrown road he called a halt, pushing the large platoon into the cover of some crumbled buildings.
Hackett fished out his pocket watch and peered at it, then sighed and looked at his troops, "We've got four hours. It's bloody midday and it's taken us nearly six hours to get here. And we're only halfway."
He pulled out a map and, whispering, traced several routes they needed to take, to avoid bulking up and being noticed; especially now they were closer to the sentries. They were only supposed to get a little closer, or into a position where they could bolt into the city. But he didn't want his men sprinting a mile to get in there. From here they could also see a strange dome, just visible over the bulk of the town of Gateshead, strange and green, made of glass perhaps. Certainly alien. It would likely have defenders and he didn't want to get caught in the open attacking it. Best to get as close as possible then use the distraction to get in even closer.
The Corporals nodded, then crept off to brief their soldiers. Minutes later they were on the move, splitting into three sections. One moved further south, cutting single file through the fields, using the ragged remains of the crops for cover, where the red weed hadn't completely choked them out.
The next section took the northern fields, sticking to the hedgerows. They were slightly closer to the river, a risk, but a necessary one.
And Hackett led his section through broken rubbled villages and choked roads, moving as fast as they could. All three groups had to push further south, through Monkton Village, then veer west to head towards Wardley. The southern team would likely cross a railway line, which meant clear open ground - another risk.
Their rendezvous point was set as Heworth, on the western edge of Wardley.
Unfortunately, they hit a bit of an issue in Wardley.
This close to Newcastle they could hear the distant sounds of construction and the hiss of distant steam. Over it all was a rhythmic clunking noise that was always on the edge of hearing. Maybe that's why they got caught out.
They heard the gunfire from the south, as well as the screams.
Immediately Hackett had his men move to form a firing line from the cover of a small hamlet of buildings. They watched as the southern broke cover and charged over the red weed, vaulting and tumbling over fronds. Ten men dashing their way, two covered in blood. There should've been twelve men.
A shape erupted from the soil, all limbs and spines, shrieking as it launched itself at a man, who it tackled easily. They went down, tumbling and Hackett saw limbs flying. He remembered stories his father told him of relatives working in mills. Sometimes people fell into looms, or working machines. They came out in pieces. It was like that.
The panicking men were obscuring the line of fire and he swore, then stood up and yelled "DOWN!" Seven troopers dropped, the other two too terrified to listen. Hackett sighed and clenched his jaw, "READY, 2, 3, 4. PRESENT! 2!"
The men with the Martini Henry rifles went down on their knees in cover and went through loading and readying weapons, aimed, then fired.
The shot was abominably loud and white smoke drifted across the fields from the simultaneous discharge. But the monster that was standing up from its latest kill jerked and jinked as twelve rounds thudded into it, shattering carapace and blasting green-blue chunks from it. One of the fleeing soldiers hit the dirt just before the soldiers fired, the second miraculously avoiding being hit.
The echo of the shots faded, muffled by the buildings and tree copses. Hackett stared around the field and glared at the men who were scrambling forwards, "What the devil happened?" he hissed.
A lance-jack leaned forwards, resting his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, "Trap…. Sergeant," Hackett waited, "Two of them, came out the ground near the rail line. Took Corporal Jimmy and Bert. We got one with a shotgun, right in the face, winged the second and legged it, saw the ground shifting like there were more."
Hackett's gaze shot back to the distant rail line, slightly sunken in the field, hidden behind a line of trees at the edge of the farmland. There was no movement. Then he looked at the field, nodding.
"Bastards… using them as mines," The lance-jack looked confused, "Leaving some underground surprises. Saw these wankers in Baker Street too. Seems they like to dig. You didn't see any more?"
The soldier shook his head, then paled, "We left a couple of ammo boxes out there…" his fear was palpable. Hackett weighed it up and sighed.
"We leave it. Maybe why they haven't charged out here. Think we'll go back for the bodies and the gear. Not going to bleed us out that way. Come on, get your lads policed, loaded up and get some water on board. They we fuck right off. Private Thomas, any sign of big ugly and metal?"
One of the soldiers who was overving the north shook his head, "Watching that way, no signs. Probably get one of them disc-buggers along soon to check out the shots though."
Hackett nodded and looked at the buildings, "Check 'em, let's hunker down."
"What about Corporal Jacobs lot, north?"
"They heard shots, but only a few. He knows to go to ground after initial engagement, then continue to the rendezvous. Now, check these buildings, sharply lads. Hop to it."
Sure enough, ten minutes later a white disc floated over the trees from the city, flanked by small, black, pincery drones. Hackett observed, carefully, from a slightly open coal cellar hatch as the thing floated over the hamlet. Once it was out of sight he shut the hatch carefully and scraped the bolt home. The platoon waited in the dark, cramped cellar, breathing carefully.
Above, a floorboard suddenly creaked as something heavy moved into the house. It skittered across the floor, like something tap dancing, footfalls sharp and rapid - the clicking of claws. Then a window smashed and they heard something clack away down the street. Everyone was silent.
They hunkered down there for an hour, waiting, before Private Thomas carefully, slowly, slid the bolt back and peered out. The afternoon was getting on now and Hackett checked his watch again and huffed, "No choice, let's go."
They emerged and made their way cautiously down the road. Blood spattered the pavement, as well as spent casings. A smashed ammo box was on the path, something that made them all tense up. Hackett frowned at it, then looked over at the massed construction and nodded slowly, "Think they took the gear and the bodies. Maybe we'll be lucky and they think it was just wandering idiots. Local resistance or something," The soldiers ecxhanged glances, then Hackett waved at them to grab up the spilled ammo, "Waste not want not. Come on lads, lets go."
They moved down the road and now had a clearer view of the top of the dome. A single fighting machine stood next to it, just visible. But it seemed to be at rest, squatting lower. Hackett got them to draw a halt in the cover of another small copse of trees alongside the walled road and peered through his binoculars. The machine was connected to a gantry that led into the side of the dome - some sort of maintenance? Dock? Who knew.
Further along the road they saw Heworth - basically, the edge of Gateshead. A quick recce with binos showed a white cloth flapping from the upper window of one of the houses at the edge of the urban build. Most houses seemed to be little more than shells - blown out windows or missing whole walls. Some had no roofs at all.
Hackett led his men to the building paused outside. A whistle came from inside, a recognisable tune.
King George commands and we obey.
He whistled a response,
Over the hills and far away.
It was old, more a folk tune, but a lot of the infantry still hummed it now and then, in memory of the Queens long-dead Uncle, King George.
Corporal Jacobs appeared at the window and waved them in. The platoon piled into the building, spreading out and hunkering town in the cramped terrace. Really, they spilled into two buildings as there seemed to be serious structural damage to interior walls.
Jacobs gave Hackett a once over, looking relieved. The Sergeant smirked, "Look like you want to bloody marry me, boyo."
"Well, sarge, heard that bloody racket you made. We had to bloody lie down in the bloody bog, you know. Up to our necks in water, covered in mud as that bloody flying wheel thing went over. Then booked it like we owed the devil money. Saw some of those 'orrible spikey horse things go galloping past with the disc thing. And saw some blokes being carried in the fucking air, mate. By little black floating things. This stuff is mucked up, sarge,"
Hackett nodded, "You ain't wrong. So, got the lie of the land?"
"Only been 'ere twenty minutes. But, yeah. It's a shitter, boss. Glad you turned up cos I haven't got a clue what we do next."
"Oh?"
Jacobs laid it out - the dome had people going in and out - they had a man out, getting a closer look. Careful-like. But there were watch-towers and a single patrolling walker - the one that was docked. Apparently it looked like it was undergoing a crew change as the strange grey things had clambered out of it.
Also, it seemed there were humans helping the aliens. Trench-coat, tricorn wearing weird ones, with welding masks that covered their eyes, or scarves over their faces. Some had gas masks, which seemed to indicate the place could have dust or gas in there.
Hackett exhaled then popped out his pocket watch, "Half an hour lads. Right, Lance-corporal Smitwick, Corporal Jacobs, lets plan something out."
The scout returned at that point and sat down with them at the shattered kitchen table, unrolling a scrappy piece of paper and pointing out some rough and ready drawings of the layout, "We'd need to do a proper recce of the place first though. That could take a while."
Hackett shook his head, "No time. But then again looking at how they've just got the walker just sat there, unmanned… don't think they're expecting much of a threat."
There seemed to be two visible watchtowers, hastily constructed and over-watching the rubbled buildings. They were setup seventy yards from the edge of the dome. And a good line of sight over the more open areas to the east. But south of them the buildings hampered good avenues of sight - clearly it was meant as a perimeter. Not a hardened target. That appeared to be on the other side of the river, which was where the walkers were concentrated.
No, this was a prison camp. And most prison camp guards had their attention focused inward. Hackett stroked his chin, then ran a hand through salt and pepper hair. His woolen jacket was feeling warm, his shirt starchy and itchy. He needed a bath. His boots were scuffed and muddy, his trousers a mess, overcoat stained with dust. And he felt alive all of a sudden.
"Them spiky buggers. They're the proper guards."
"Not great ones though, are they?" mused Jacobs, earning a sharp glare from Smitwick. Hackett waved him away idly.
"No, they're meant to deter, set off those discs. Maybe panic unexpecting idiots to hold ground. If we hadn't seen that last one before we would've been caught with our pants down. Imagine if we'd blundered this way the way we did to the north. Sliced up like carrots for a stew, then god knows whatever that disc does, then a walker maybe. No. You get this far, they're expecting maybe two or three blokes, stragglers. So, likely got sharpshooters and watching for panicking, scared people."
"Awful big assumption there, Sergeant," murmured Smitwick, looking uncertain. To his surprise Hackett nodded.
"Maybe wishful thinking. But these bastards have been up here for a while, getting all dug in. You've done guard duty. You know how you doze off when you want to. You rely on the dogs, the wire, your other mates. It's a lapse. But go a while with bugger all happening? Yeah this smacks of sloppy. They had us rock up and shoot some of their sentries… and where's the alarms, the walker smashing buildings and being scary?"
The soldiers exchanged frowns, "But… if the distraction."
"Yeah that'll probably actually put them on more of an alert… but we assumed this lot were a honed fighting force of never-sleeping murder bastards. Turns out they can be sloppy as well, potentially. But look at it - no patrols, a single trooper, maybe two, to a tower. And not even that attentive for sharpshooters if Mac here got a look at them. They're looking in. Stopping the bloody cattle legging it."
He shook his head, as if suddenly realising something. Jacobs cocked an eyebrow, "What's that boss?"
"They really don't think much of us. I don't know why, I just have a sudden feeling. Bizarre. They don't expect much. They think we're all down south getting our collective shit kicked in."
The NCOs exchanged confused looks and Hackett shook his head, the strange thoughts flitting away. It had been a weird epiphany-like experience. Some sort of overall realisation, a deep sense of arrogance washing over him, like that feeling when you catch someone sneering at you when you thought they liked you. The mask falling away.
Bizarre.
Hackett fished the pocket watch from his jacket and glanced at it, then nodded. He issued some more orders, had the troops load up, checking primary and secondary weapons. Ammo crates and explosives all checked. Then he grabbed two of the demolitions soldiers.
"I want trip wired bombs across the streets into town and in the main buildings to either side. Plus one on a long trigger-fuse, got it?" The pair nodded and began unpacking the explosives and fuse lines. He briefed the corporals and set the men up for a rapid briefing, outline their line of advance into three main areas of the dome. And then explained their role."
"The Northern team are going to identify and secure the device. We are support. But we're also distraction number two. Striking an enemy hot spot, wound them, then leave traps. But here we have a change in the plan. A prison camp. Some sort of labour and food processing plant maybe," all the men knew what the invaders did with captured humans, "So a ripe moment to really fuck up their day. We'll hit them, try to lure them out, see if we can't knock out that walker. Demo lads are setting up rear guard devices so we don't get nasty surprised. Then we need to get a path into the dome, disable that walker and do as much damage as we can."
He went over avenues, walked through the sketch plan and then checked his watch again, Jacobs took up the sergeants speech as the man checked his timepiece, "It's quick and dirty. We don't have a good lie of the land. But we're here to cause a ruckus. And who better for that, eh?"
A few chuckles went around the room and men nodded. Hackett looked around the room and grinned, "Five. Four. Three. Two. O-"
A series of explosions echoed from the North east, followed by a ululation from the Martians. Hackett gestured to the men and a few peered out of windows or spilled into the back garden of the terrace, watching carefully in the fading light.
They had a slightly obscured view of two of the fighting machines - one advancing down the river, parallel to them, the other heading over the hillside beyond. They were strangely elegant to watch, almost gliding as they walked, only the slightest hiss of steam and rumble of the ground as their ovoid bodies were perambulated by the pistoning legs. From this distance they looked like toys. The one on the hill moved away vanishing from sight, but they could see the light flashing as the heat ray began to spray.
The one on the river turned slightly, then there was a crash and a second explosive cacophony. The river walker seemed distracted, turning about as if unsure. The lower part of its legs were hidden by rooftops and the line of the shore-crest. But the cockpit body twisted as the legs pivoted. The machine belched black smoke and steam, then it advanced, moving around the bend in the river.
There was a sudden flash and a louder explosion echoed across the open expanse. The machine wailed and tumbled, a shattered limb flailing as it collapsed.
"Sergeant!"
Hackett moved back inside and peered out the front window carefully, where a soldier was pointing. He checked through his binoculars and, through a break in the buildings, saw the fighting machine "docked" to the dome begin to move. An insectoid scuttled along the gantry and leapt aboard, even as the machine itself began to pull away. The machines thumbed in an awkward turn and then loped away, heading towards the river., the ground gently shaking with each step. The sergeant grinned.
"Alright my lovely lads. Let's go introduce ourselves to the neighbourhood."