Anno Dracula 1918 - The Bloody Red Baron (25 page)

'We get few warm visitors,' said Mellors, with a tone of resentful mockery. 'This is indeed a privilege.'

Winthrop thought he heard Derbyshire in Mellor's voice. The soldier obviously had some education but spoke as if trying to forget what he'd learned. There was an ill-sewn set of lieutenant's pips on his shoulder. He might have won a field promotion from the ranks. It would not do to underestimate this unhappy rogue.

Held between Jules and Jim, Ball offered no resistance. He was gathering resources, trying to see a way through. Winthrop knew he could count on the pilot.

The passageway widened and they emerged into an underground dugout decorated like a neolithic cavern. Fires burned in oildrums, coating the ceiling with thick soot. Crude but striking images of violence and rapine were daubed on the walls with boot-black, dirt and blood. The collage incorporated newspaper portraits of Kaiser and King, images of generals and politicians, advertisements from the popular press of Paris and Berlin, and personal photographs of long-lost men. Sweethearts and wives and families were worked into a red and black inferno. All were swallowed by a many-eyed, many-mouthed monster that allegorised the war.

There was an overwhelming stench of decay, blood and faecal matter. Homemade coffins were laid out, each billet personalised with items that suggested its occupant's former life. Foraged weapons and clothes were piled in unsorted lots. There were also scatterings of human bones, some old, some disturbingly fresh. The troglodytes lived in this appalling bolt- hole, emerging by night to feed on the dead and dying.

'Welcome to our happy retreat,' Mellors said, gesturing freely. 'As you see, we have made for ourselves a Utopia away from the idiocies above. We have settled our differences.'

'There are no German and French, British and Austrian here,' said Svejk. 'All allies, all comrades.'

Mellors let go of Winthrop's neck. As he bent over to choke and gulp in air, he was skilfully spun round. His wrists were bound with loops of barbed wire. Points stuck into his skin, discouraging struggle.

'And there's no rank,' Mellors said.

'You're still wearing your pips,' Winthrop pointed out.

Mellors smiled nastily.

'Don't make me an
officer
by your lights,
sir.
Not a scholarship boy.'

I might have known,' the ghastly remnant of Ball said through shiny teeth. 'A grammar school oik.'

Mellors laughed deeply and bitterly. For a moment, Winthrop was almost embarrassed by Ball's sneering. He had been at Greyfriars himself but did not think that alone earned him a place in Heaven. Good schools produced as many swindlers and stranglers as missionaries and martyrs. After all, Harry Flashman was a Rugby man.

As a conclusion to the night's business, it seemed odd to listen to a debate between a pair of grotesque vampires on the merits of their old schools. The Nottingham-born Ball was not even that far removed from Mellors in background.

'The enemy of the soldier is not the soldier on the other side of the ditch,' Mellors said, 'but the high muckety-muck who sends him out to do and die. King or Kaiser, Ruthven or Dracula. They're all the same stamp of bastard.'

'We are good soldiers,' shouted Svejk. 'We are the troglodytes.'

Mellors took off his camouflage cloak and draped it over one of the coffins. The long box was fashioned from ammunition cases broken apart and nailed together.

'You are not our enemy, Winthrop,' Mellors said kindly.

'I'm glad to hear it. Now, if we could be on our way

'You are a living man and you can do us no harm. Only the dead hands of the old men hurt us. The century-befuddled fools with their tides and honours and bloodlines and lineage, they are the monsters who have reduced us to what you see.'

Ball's eyes swivelled. He was bound too, hoisted up by a couple of the troglodytes. There were iron hooks set into the concrete wall, high up and painted to fit in with the savage mural. Ball hung from the hook, shoulder-joints creaking, arms forced behind him. He hissed through lengthening teeth.

'This man has suffered,' Mellors said. 'That's obvious. Why should he suffer? What is it to him which weak-blooded parasite holds sway over the muddy stretch of countryside up above?'

Ball howled like a rage-maddened animal, showing the proper school spirit. He snarled abuse at his captors.

Winthrop's wrists were yanked upwards. Barbs tore flesh. Pain burned in his shoulders.

'No sir, you are not our enemy, but you might be our salvation. As you see, we are sadly short on provisions.'

Svejk's head expanded inside his mask. His eyes grew to fill the holes, wolfish hair swarming around them.

Winthrop was lifted by troglodytes. His wrists scraped as they were forced up over the hook. His heels scrabbled at the wall as his captors let him go. His weight dragged him down, but his feet did not reach the floor. A belt of agony fell across his shoulders and neck.

One of the troglodytes, a kilted Scot, sniffed his swollen knee. He pulled off the boot and rent apart Winthrop's layers of clothes, then ran a long, sandpapery tongue over the wound. Winthrop fought to keep his stomach down.

Mellors reached up and pinched his cheek.

'You might last for weeks,' he said.

Her best bet was to seem as small, harmless and mole-like as possible. She fluttered stupidly behind her glasses. She had survived childhood by such disguise. Somehow she didn't think the act would fool Dravot. At least she had not been thrown into a cell to await a formal arrest. Dravot favoured the use of the currently unoccupied pig-pens but, without an officer to back him up, had no real authority.

Kate was the latest novelty in the pilots' mess. At another time, she might have turned this to her advantage. Pilots were a nervy, chattery, show-offy crowd. If she kept her ears open, she could fill in blanks.

Dravot stood in shadows, head bowed by the low ceiling, eyes fixed on her. Even he did not suppose her liable to attempt an act of traitorous sabotage.

With Major Cundall, the flight commander, out on patrol, the ranking officer was a hawk-nosed American, Captain Allard. He peered into her soul with gimlet eyes, then allowed idle pilots to adopt her as a mascot while he decided whether she should be put to the stake now or at dawn.

Kate was in the custody of three absurdly young Englishmen: Bertie, Algy and Ginger. They offered her animal blood, which she kindly refused. She knew their type. They bantered continually and competed good-naturedly for attention, projecting boyish bravado by ever-so-casually mentioning feats of heroism and stupidity. When she asked what they thought of the war, they became embarrassed and clucked about 'duty, old thing' and the threat posed to cucumber sandwiches, country lanes and cricket matches if the Kaiser and Dracula were allowed to prevail.

Kate was not sure what use those things would be in the world she wanted to see after the war. If there was an 'after the war'.

'I say,' Algy began, 'are you one of these suffragette dollies?'

'Votes for women and all that rot?' chipped in Bertie.

'I'd like to see votes for everyone. When was the last time anyone in Britain got to vote?'

Lord Ruthven had suspended electoral process for the duration, calling a Government of National Unity. Lloyd George, notional Leader of the Opposition, was Minister of War. The Prime Minister still cited the twenty-year-old achievement of bringing the country through the Terror as qualification for continuance in office. His government might be inept, cruel and politely tyrannical, but it had emerged from the bloody nightmare of the Dracula years. By comparison, Ruthven was not so bad. At least he was a
British
bloodthirsty monster, and personally a modest, grey presence beside the fiery, imperious atrociousness that characterised the former Prince Consort. It was hard to think of a hard-and-fast decision made by the Prime Minister. His invariable policy was prevarication. Ruthven took blame for nothing.

'When the time is right, things will get back to normal, old girl,' Bertie said. 'We're on the side of decency, you know.'

The complacent smugness of these brave children was tragic. They were unlikely to survive the war, let alone the peace. Average life expectancy for a pilot on the Western Front was something like three weeks.

Ginger looked at his wrist-watch and tutted. All the pilots kept consulting time-pieces, even glancing at the stopped grandfather clock. It had been a good two and three-quarter hours since the patrol passed over her on the road.

'Never fear,' Bertie continued, 'it'll turn out for the best.'

A Sopwith Snipe fighter could stay in the air for only three hours. That nasty little fact concerned the men of Maranique rather more than one stray dotty lady journalist.

Kate knew it was rare for a whole patrol to be wiped out. Stragglers and survivors would always come through, limping home with smoking engines and singed wings.

She was received at the airfield with comparative kindness because she served as a distraction. If not for her capture and casual interrogation, the pilots would have listened over and over to 'Poor Butterfly', nerves tighter with each passing minute.

'I've an Aunt Augusta who was a suffragette,' Algy said. 'Chained herself to the railings outside Parliament. It rained like a drain and she caught a deathly chill. Had to turn vampire to come through it. Grew young again, ditched the old uncle, became a ballet dancer. Doesn't talk much about the vote and such these days. She wants to dance
The Rite of Spring
at Sadlers Wells. Slings around with that chap Nijinsky. You know, the bounder who shape-shifts in mid-pas de
deux.'

'Three hours,' Allard announced, eyes cold. 'The patrol is lost.'

There was a long, wordless pause. The gramophone clicked, waiting to be rewound.

'Steady on,' said Bertie, finally. 'Give a couple of minutes' grace. Old Tom and the rest have come through many a scrape in extra time, on fumes and prayers. No need to spread despond at dear old Wing.'

'The three hours are up. No matter the quality of the men, the machines will fail.'

Allard was an American. He did not seem part of the club. Even for a vampire, there was something strange in his eyes. Kate was suddenly aware again that it was a long time since she had fed. Her heart felt like a concrete lump.

As the Captain picked up the telephone, Algy said, 'Come on, no need for that.'

Allard ignored Algy.

'Wing, Allard, Maranique,' he said, not wasting words. 'Cundall's patrol is missing. We have to assume they're lost.'

A voice at the other end crackled.

'Yes,' Allard said. 'All of them.'

Ginger, Algy and Bertie were disgusted. It was bad form to say such things, as if talking out loud made the loss more likely. If Allard were not so blunt, they'd blithely expect their friends to turn up, a little bruised, with exciting yarns of hairsbreadth escapes and daring wheezes.

Allard replaced the telephone. On a blackboard were listed the names of pilots, the serial numbers of aeroplanes, and a tally of individual victories. Several columns already ended with a chalked word, 'lost'. A column was not wiped out until a loss was confirmed. Allard wrote 'lost' against columns headed 'Ball', 'Bigglesworth', 'Brown', 'Courtney', 'Cundall' and 'Williamson'. His chalk scratched and skittered, setting Kate's sharpened teeth on edge.

'Don't forget Courtney's supercargo,' Ginger said, gloomily.

Allard nodded, acknowledging his omission but implying he had already thought of it. He chalked a new name on the board. 'Winthrop'.

'Some hero from Diogenes,' Bertie explained. 'Poor blighter. First time up and he gets shot down.'

Kate almost said something but thought better of it. Dravot's fixed expression did not change. She knew the sergeant must feel as keenly as it was possible for him to feel that he had not done his duty. He was supposed to protect Charles's protege and had been unable to do so. If anything could hurt Dravot, that would be it.

When they had parted in Amiens, there had been something unfinished between her and Edwin. What was he doing in the air anyway? He was a staff officer, one of those stay-at-home souls never exposed to fire and blood.

'It'll be a devil of a job to replace that little lot,' Ginger said, contemplating the blackboard. There were more 'lost' columns than active pilots. 'Probably have to haul in a whole flight of Yanks. No offence, Allard. It just won't be the same.'

'Don't learn their names,' Allard said.

Ginger was devastated by the advice.

Kate had known too many truly dead, in the Terror and now in the war, to be entitled to feel any especial loss. But entitlement meant little. She had not earned the right to mourn, but she did. Her heart, starved of blood, ached.

Too exhausted to stay awake, too hurt to sleep, Winthrop hung on the wall like the Sunday joint. The pain in his shoulders, neck and knee was still sharp, but otherwise he was numb. His mind drifted, his senses slurred.

He and Ball were not immediately to be cut up and eaten. The troglodytes sat on their coffins and talked among themselves. Each retold his history as if blessing a class of children with a favourite fairy tale. Jules, an Austrian, recounted the story of his original separation from his unit. He had braved many perils before joining up with the tribe. Jim, the Frenchman, chipped in with his own variation on the theme, of desertion to escape the stake after ringleading a mutiny against General Mireau. Jim bitterly recalled the erosion of his patriotic fervour with each fresh injustice, inequity and corruption.

Winthrop shifted on his hook. Shards of pain speared through his shoulders. He bit back his impulse to yelp.

He could not pay attention to the deserters. Stories of privation, desolation and horror became scrambled and monotonous. Perhaps the narratives were embroidered with each retelling, incorporating favoured incidents from the stories of those who had passed on.