highlighted in the popular press, they had gained a currency that meant Aubrey had read about them from an early age. ‘Adventures’ was how they were inevitably described. Daring raids, perilous escapes, heart-stopping rescues, the stories of Darius Fitzwilliam’s exploits had added to the reputation of the young man who was already a public figure before he went to war. Of course, the stories were later immensely helpful in garnering public support for his political career.
Even as a lad, Aubrey was aware enough to understand that the stories he read were coloured, so to speak. He knew his father, and Sir Darius would have laughed at some of the platitudes the man in the books regularly bandied about. Aubrey trusted the accounts of his father’s service friends more. People like George’s father, who was with Sir Darius when his military service was at its most dangerous. George’s father was also reticent to discuss war stories, but the few fragments he let slip told of a man he would follow anywhere – brave and steadfast. He also hinted at the horrors of war and of those who didn’t come back.
Aubrey glanced again in the direction of the ornithopter crash, then looked toward the barbed wire and smoke of the front. This was war: a vast machine that chewed up people.
47
The weeks since the Holmland advance had been halted had been well spent, Aubrey decided as they moved through the trenches. He knew that foot soldiers had been notorious scroungers ever since they’d discovered that waiting for the gates of Troy to open meant that they had a long camping holiday ahead of them. Those who were dug in at Fremont were no exception. In military parlance, they had entrenched themselves well, shoring up the sides of the diggings with rocks, timber and – if Aubrey was any judge – the remains of any shot-down ornithopters. Neatly fashioned walkways had been laid across marshy ground that would be a nightmare in rainy weather.
Dugouts had been scooped into the side of trenches at intervals; wary-eyed infantrymen watched as the squad passed with their magic neutralisers. In the manner of soldiers everywhere, the infantrymen were mostly sleeping or eating, making the most of a lull in the artillery barrage. Some were in disarray, missing parts of their uniforms, but Colonel Stanley had developed the selective blindness of the good officer and ignored such paltry matters. Aubrey noticed, however, that no matter how ragged the uniform, no soldier was without his soup-plate helmet. Aubrey touched his beret, which he was sure now looked more like a dust-ridden tea cosy, and felt vulnerable.
Lanterns appeared at intervals as the sun continued to set and the homely smells of cooking wafted through the trenches. For a time, these smells overcame the unfortunate stench of too many men living in such confined circumstances, circumstances that included a lack of running water and, in particular, sewerage. Aubrey was sure the commanders were following the manual in hygiene procedures, but he held his breath as he hurried past the most noisome pits.
When they reached the front line of trenches, Colonel Stanley consulted area commanders, explaining his job and asking for assistance in positioning the magic neutralisers. One by one they were erected and dug into the walls of trenches, to make them as stable as possible while keeping them out of the way of the troops who would be hurrying along the narrowness of the trenches. Stanley consulted Aubrey on every deployment, and fretted over the coverage that they were hoping to achieve. The range of effect of each neutraliser was meant to overlap – but that was the desired outcome and was based on laboratory trials. On the ground, things had a way of working out differently. From the schematics, Aubrey saw how the range of effect was designed to be linear, to keep the actual trench area safe. The intention was for the effect to extend twenty yards or so front and back, projecting out into no-man’s-land, while reaching further to either side along the length of the trenches.
This, of course, was based on straight lines. With the best intention in the world, the trenches were not straight. They curved pragmatically, following contours, dodging around large boulders, winding their way across the battered landscape. The result of their deploying the neutralisers was inevitably going to be less than the optimum designed by the masterminds back at Darnleigh House.
But distinctly better than nothing, Aubrey thought, wiping grime from his face as they settled the last magic neutraliser into place in a position on the north-west extremity of the Allied position, about two miles from where they first reached the trenches. Colonel Stanley gestured at the sandbagged dugout that was nearby, where lantern light pushed away the night. ‘Major Davidson is waiting for us with some supper.’
George tamped down some loose earth with his foot. ‘Excellent. After you, Sophie.’
Aubrey hesitated and glanced at the sentry who was standing on a firing step and using field glasses to peer across to the Holmland lines. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’
Caroline gave him a curious look, but she said nothing as she filed past with the others. Aubrey tapped the sentry on the leg, only to have him jerk and try to whirl around while grappling for the rifle that was standing by his side. Only Aubrey’s steadying prevented him from falling off the firing step. ‘May I take a look?’ he asked.
The sentry was a narrow-faced fellow with a beaky nose, somewhere in his early twenties, with narrow shoulders and skinny frame. The helmet on his head made him look like a table lamp. When he gave Aubrey the field glasses, his hands shook. ‘They’re all yours, sir.’ He swallowed and took off his helmet. ‘You’ll need this.’
The sentry ducked as Aubrey mounted the firing step, but Aubrey hardly noticed. He was too busy taking in the scene.
Glimmers came from the hills some miles behind the lines, where troops must be encamped with their cooking fires and lanterns, but closer at hand tiny splinters of light escaped from where the Holmland trenches lay. It was hard to judge, but Aubrey guessed they were roughly two hundred yards away across broken ground. A volley of shots sounded to his right and Aubrey instinctively flinched, crouching low, even though he couldn’t tell if the rounds came from this side or that. No-man’s-land was a place of shadows that collected in gullies or shell holes and were strained by barbed wire.
A flare went up, bathing the warscape in bright, pitiless light, banishing the shadows, making the ruined land suddenly sharp and hard-edged. A half-hearted stone’s throw away from where Aubrey stood was a battered wooden frame with blades hammered in at angles, the ghastly medieval siege defence made modern. It was only one of countless hazards Aubrey could see, obstacles to breaching what looked like a sea of barbed wire.
On the other side of the wooden frame, draped over a ragged shell hole, was a body. Mercifully, it had slid halfway into the crater. Aubrey wondered if the soldier had thought he was safe, for a tiny moment, safe at the bottom of a hole made by a massive explosion, or whether he’d been shot earlier and had crawled, scrabbling at the hard earth, searching for a place of refuge before expiring.
Aubrey couldn’t make out the uniform. It could have been Albionite, Gallian or Holmlander, or one of the colonials, nationality coming to nothing in the end.
The flare spluttered in its arc, winked, then disappeared after having done its job of providing a few seconds of light, enough for an observer to sketch details for tomorrow’s troop movements. Aubrey stood silently in the dark for a moment, knowing that he’d been granted a glimpse into the dark heart of war.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘You see anyone?’
It took Aubrey a moment to realise that it was the sentry who was talking. The man was sitting on the firing step at Aubrey’s feet, smoking and staring at the opposite wall of the trench.
‘I’m sorry?’ Aubrey asked.
‘You see anyone out there?’ The sentry added as an afterthought: ‘Sir?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘Ah. You’re lucky, then. I always see ’em, flitting about out there.’ A short, dry laugh. ‘Imagination. Puts the wind up, though.’
‘I’m sure it would.’ Aubrey wasn’t about to criticise anyone for that, now he’d gazed over the nightmare landscape.
‘Sometimes they’re real, though. Holmlanders sussing us out, looking for the best ways across. Raiding teams.’
‘Raiders?’
‘They send ’em over, every now and then. When they think we’re not looking. Nasty work, if they get into our trenches.’ Another dry laugh. ‘Can’t complain, not really. We do the same when we can.’
‘You’ve been across there?’
