"Look... out for them, would you be so kind?" he turned to Phillipa with one of the weakest and half-hearted orders he had ever given in his career. He turned and walked after Church.
"Always giving a speech or two?" the stocky man asked.
"Come now, Church. They are going through a difficult period."
"So are we."
"We all are. Collectively. As a group."
"Anyway, be quiet. It's over there."
Choosing to neglect the rudeness, Neven looked through his comrades binoculars. Beyond the unkempt fields lay a house as golden as the corn which surrounded it. Beyond the gingerbread of the bricks, however, lay mesh rigging on the flat roof, thickly woven and tattered.
"Is that?"
"A gun placement."
"Fantastic! And are those..."
"Soldiers. Yes."
"Well then," Neven turned to the other man. "Let's introduce ourselves."
If the others in the group were surprised by their sudden veering off the path, they showed no sign of it. Neven neglected to tell anyone what they were doing, though he deemed it unnecessary anyway. Since the incident in the Lamb and Lion, everyone had seemingly deferred decision making to the two soldiers. Despite them only saving a small percentage of the group, there was apparently some mutual understanding, and, dare Neven say it, some belief that they were trying to do the best for everyone. Neven did not want to lose face.
As they approached the house, they could feel all the eyes within it turning upon them. Quickly, each side did a head count of the other. Neven saw five, which they would have far outnumbered as their own eleven had those in the house not been all soldiers. The door flew open and out stomped yet another. He was unarmed, at least that Neven could see. His lack of helmet emphasised the stripes upon his shoulder. Under those, tucked into his armpit, Neven saw a cane.
A real officer, is all he thought. He was caught between relief and disappointment. At once he was both glad there was a real authority figure to whom he could cede command. But at the same time he was sorry that his time in charge had been so short, and so unworthy to those whom had seen it.
"Hang on, what does this nob want?" Church asked, as if he didn't know. Neven understood that his comrade was just as disappointed as him. Now he would have to straighten up, follow commands and be responsible. Playtime for Church was over.
"Soldiers," the man said almost quizzically with his full-bodied voice. He was young, too. Must have been in the academy. He arrived at their feet, not giving an inch. "What company are you from?"
"Fortieth rifles, sir," Corporal Plumsworthy stood to attention. "Under Sergeant Whis... McDonald."
The man's voice implied surprise, but his dashing moustache and grained face showed no sign of reciprocating the emotion. "Fortieth? My God, you boys have been missing for over a week. What happened?"
"We were ambushed," Private Church butted in. As he talked, more deference crept into his voice as his the old soldier inside remembered how to act. "Off Great Portland Street. Sir. No other survivors."
"My God," the officer repeated. "So you got a good look at the enemy?"
"Not exactly," Church pre-empted Neven again. "We had to evacuate civilians from the area."
"Are these them?" the officer's cane waggled in the direction of the group behind them, which can become a tight, huddled circle.
"Yes, Major," Neven was back in the conversation. The way the Major looked over his shoulder, Neven could see he was counting.
"Well, bring them in. I have a medic, he'll see to them. You look like hell. Can you perform your duties?"
"Yes," they replied in unison.
"Well, relieve my men. Sergeant Swinton," he motioned to a fat man eyeing them carefully from behind an overturned cart. "And Private Brunswick. He's on the roof. Okay."
Without waiting for the two subordinates to say anything, the great Major Vernon swallowed up the whole group. He stepped past the soldiers to address his newcomers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Bisham Farm. If you'll accompany me inside, we can have our resident medic look you over and I'll make sure that my men personally see to your every comfort."
The mood in the group changed suddenly. It was like a thick fog had cleared; faces were brighter, expressions lighter. Neven had never felt so insignificant. The civilians walked past him and Church, only Phillipa threw a glance his way. Eventually, with the Major at their head, they passed into the house, leaving the two soldiers alone again.
"Well," Neven couldn't think of anything to say. The power dynamic had just shifted so incredibly. Church did not stick around for the sentiment.
"I'm going to the roof," he said gruffly, and left. Neven watched him go.
"Hoi! Corporal!"
Colour rushed to his face. An unfamiliar voice was making demands. He turned to see the formerly crouching Sergeant Swinton, now risen and approaching him.
"Yes?" he stuttered, and hated himself for it.
"You takin' over or what?"
"Oh right... yes. Sorry."
"Shit I need a piss so badly."
And with that as his goodbye, Swinton too walked to the farmhouse. Neven watched him go as well. As he got to the door, Church leaned out from the roof above.
"Helps if you face the front," he shouted. "Corporal, sir," he added, before disappearing to the other side of the roof.
*
It was getting dark before he was relieved. Another new face approached him readily. His name was Private Thornhough. He was quiet, and did not say anything as he set up next to Neven. It took a minute before the young Corporal realised his services were no longer necessary.
He went to the farmhouse. The door was bolted shut from the inside, so he had to knock. There was a noise of metal slowly sliding along wood, and then he was face to face with a woman holding a baby.
"Hello," she said, before retreating into the house.
"Corporal, come in,” said Vernon from deeper inside the recesses.
Neven stepped in from dark to light and found himself in a wide sitting area bedecked in several palettes and cots made up for sleeping. The Major, the medic, the woman and her baby were present. All other unaccounted for.
"You have civilians under your care, sir?
"Of course. Can't go two miles without tripping over them. Hanging around. Well, I suppose you know that. Come. Sit."
Neven did as he was told. Good boy.
"I was debriefing some of the people you brought here," the Major was chewing on some tough bread, and Neven realised just how hungry he was himself.
"Oh, sir?"
"They speak highly of you and Church. They say your quick thinking may have saved them. Damned shame about that large man though. Tom, I think. Couldn't get a word out of him, lost his wife, I hear."
"Yes, she was left behind."
Something struck him as odd, academically discussing events when a few days ago they had been so visceral, so terrifying. Reliving it now reminded him how scared he had been.
“Family's important; Mrs Simpson here has just had a boy not three weeks ago.”
“What's his name?” Never asked her, with a lighter face.
“We haven't decided yet,” the farmer's wife replied, rubbing the baby's soft head.
"Losses are unacceptable,” Vernon cleared his throat. “Not a single one of these proud people is falling by the wayside. I hope we're clear."
Was the Major accusing him of not being careful enough? Neven couldn't tell.
"If you want to be a good officer, you take measures to ensure the survival of those in your care," he took a long drag on a pipe that he had previously set to his side. "Which reminds me. This is Margaret," he gestured at the woman and her baby. "She and her husband, Enoch, own this humble abode, and they have very generously offered us quarters."
"Would you like some supper, Corporal Plumsworthy?" Margaret asked.
"Oh..." he cast a glance at his commanding officer, but
then was unsure why. "Yes, if you would be so kind."
"There's not a lot, unfortunately. Especially with all these new people."
"Go on, Corporal. Go through to the kitchen. I believe Private Church is in there already. Then get some rest, man. We have a lot to discuss in the morning."
The kitchen was a smaller, familial affair. That did not stop the off-duty soldiers from cramming in, among some of the civilians who had not, or could not, sleep. Neven crossed the room, and pulled up a spare wooden stool at the large oak table. It was all rather rustic. A plate sat at his place, already dusted with crumbs and juice. Thinking little more than to brush it with his dirty hands, he set upon what remained of a loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese. Despite his hunger, he dared not take any more than a small portion, wary not only of the others stomachs, but also their eyes upon him.
Speaking of which, Church had been glancing at him from the other side of the table, breaking eye contact with Private Brunswick in the middle of their conversation. Neven emerged from the silence aggressively.
"Church."
"Neven," his subordinate replied.
"How's the roof?"
"It's great," Church said into a plate that was once piled with more food than was fair, Neven was sure.
"I saw the placement. Is that a machine gun?" Neven said with some mustered up awe. In truth, he had only seen one of those weapons before, and that was in a picture on the cork board at the academy.
"Not much of one," Church mumbled.
"Excuse me?" Neven was determined to have a conversation with this confounded man, with or without his help.
"It's broken, Corporal," Brunswick helpfully spoke out, greasing the conversational wheels. "Hasn't even fired a shot yet. Not... that it's had to, mind."
"Damn," Neven shot out, casting a surreptitious glance about him to make sure that there were no women-folk present in the room.
"Yes sir, another useless bit of kit from the brass," the small private continued.
Neven thought about telling the man about the tank they had crossed paths with, but thought better of it. Describing exactly what a tank was would be too strenuous. Instead, he settled upon nodding.
"Not to... say that we're ungrateful for the opportunities the army's given us, mind," Brunswick twisted in his seat like a strong breeze was rocking him to his roots. The nervousness of the man was making Neven unsettled.
"I regret it," Church rejoined the conversation. "Every rotten day."
“What's it like, sir?” Brunswick asked.
Neven was unsure the Brunswick was addressing him, having never been given that particular nomenclature of authority, 'sir'. It took a moment or two to register, and by the time he had settled his attention back to the boy, his eyes were wider than they possibly had any right to be.
"Sorry?"
"To face the enemy. You know. Face to face. What's it like?"
"We wouldn't know," Church grumbled. "Barely got a look at them the whole time we were retreating through London."
Neven ignored him. "To tell you the truth, Brunswick, we're not even sure they have faces."
"So... you ain't killed any yet."
Neven and Church exchanged glances. The silence told the boy everything he needed to know.
"But they... can be killed, right?" Brunswick probed.
"Oh, I..." Neven began, rather unconvincingly. "Oh, I'm sure they can be. Yes." He added, a bit more decisively.
"I reckon they're German, those fucking Krauts are sending over some new kind of weapon. Biological warfare, innit?" Brunswick was postulating, waving his hands about the table. He brushed a mug, thankfully empty.
"That's... a little farfetched, Private," Neven said.
"Nah, like... when we're messing about with mustard gas and all that, what's Gerry been up to? Some sort of monster program. Fucking science. It's ungodly."
“Germans' have been measuring their military dicks against ours for years now, maybe they're taking the initiative and finally kicking off this war,” Church added. "What's your spin on it, Plumsworthy?"
Neven shrugged. "All I know is they're dangerous."
"Fantastic. Illuminating as always," Church snapped.
"Hey, listen Private..."
"Oh what," Church about-faced him. "I've been through all the same as you and all you can think to say is they're dangerous? Tell me something I don't know."
"They're fascinating, at least," a dour voice joined in in a low baritone to the trio's timbre.
They span around in their chairs, as Anthony the veterinarian pushed his glasses up his nose and sat down with them.
"Doctor York," Neven dusted the chair next to him, the crumbs that had previously been on his plate fell yet another level to the floor. "Please, have a seat."
A large cup of tea slammed down to the tabletop, followed by further shaking when the man steadied himself onto a stool of his own.
"Did you see them?" Neven asked.
"A little, Corporal. Just a glance back at the pub. And before," Anthony's voice lowered another semitone, and the three soldiers leaned in closely.
"Well," Neven spoke, laying down an oil slick of words in order to increase the flow from the learned man's mouth.
"My practice wasn't far out from the original impact."
"The original impact?" Church was on tenterhooks too.
"Oh yes. You see boys, this particular enemy came from the sky."
"Like... heaven?" Brunswick asked.
Church giggled. An itch developed at the base of Neven's neck. He didn't dare move to scratch at it. For some reason, the next words out of the vet's mouth were drastically important to him.
"No," Anthony said simply. "A bit more corporeal."
There was a resounding, deafening silence.
"Space. Another planet." He elaborated.
Under the table, Neven's fists were clenching and unclenching, joints cracking and popping softly like logs on a fire.
"What," Church spoke first. It was less of a question, more of a statement.
"It was like a meteorite striking the Earth, I swear. And, quite simply, they just poured out from the crater."
"Hmm," Brunswick pushed back his chair and rose from the table. He had heard enough. He strode to the back door, gathered his rifle and walked out.
"Is it something I said?" York asked.
"I don't think that invaders from space were listed in the Bible."
"I can't believe this," Neven said. He felt like he was watching a bad joke being told, the punchline of which he already knew. Perhaps Anthony could be wrong.
"I know what I saw. And I know what I saw at the Lamb and Lion."
"What did you see?" Church was shaking a little; the memories were a little too fresh.
"That they have a hell of an appetite," Anthony replied coldly.
At that moment, a shadowy figure rose from the corner with a sob, and left the room.
"Oh shit, Tom?" Neven asked, twisting in his chair to peer through the closing door. He had been previously unaware that he was behind him.
"Tom," Anthony confirmed, a little remorseful. "Oh dear. I... didn't mean any... oh dear."
"He'll be fine," Church said, his face going back to normal. His concern was over as soon as the large barkeeper was out of sight. "What happened happened. You both saw the carnage, I think we're going to have to get used to it. Get over it. Move on."
Neven sighed. "I'm going after him."
He rose from his seat, unwilling to continue the conversation. The whole affair: rumours, blasphemy and sore memories, had left a sour taste in his mouth. Instead he went to the door and out to the hallway. Through a frosted glass window that led out to the back porch he could see the moon gathering strength to reach its zenith. Its light illuminated the staircase, which had just stopped creaking from Tom's bulk.
He started up after him, but at the landing above was stalled by a thin crack of light. He peered through and saw a some strands of Phillipa's hair da
ncing in front of a bedside lamp. Placing one hand to the door, he had time to study his gnarled and dirty digits before pushing slowly into the room.
She looked up from her sitting position on the bed. Neven traced her outstretched arm down the the covers and saw she was slowly stroking a softly sleeping girl. Polly's breath was shallow, yet rapid enough that Neven was not sure it was not a heartbeat. Next to her, Simon was in a deeper sleep, suckling upon his thumb and dreaming of life anew.
Neven ducked his head instinctively, hoping he had not disturbed anyone. Phillipa saw him, and beckoned for him to enter.
"Hello," she said, louder than Neven had thought was sensible. "Oh them," it was as though she could read his mind. "They're no bother. Tired as ever. I think the thought of sleeping in a real bed was too much to pass up on."
He nodded.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Fine. Clean, for the most part. But I'm nervous," Phillipa replied. "How long until they find us?"
The question was so direct it took Neven off guard.
"I mean," she continued. "We were happy at the pub too. How long until they pass by this way and attack us again?"
"I can't say," Neven managed.
"Come on," she chided. "You can tell me more."
Neven's shoulders released themselves from an insufferable haunch and he relaxed. He crossed the room to the foot of the bed and sat down.
"In the morning," he started. "I'm to suggest to the Major that we make for the cavalry base Frank was talking about."
It was a strange feeling, he realised, discussing policy with a woman. But he supposed this was how it was going to be from now on. She deserved to know.
"Will it be safe there?"
Neven hadn't even considered that possibility. It was an army building, full of able-bodied and well armed soldiers. Of course it was safe. The question had never entered his mind. But now it had, it swam freely amongst the sea of his other ideas. Fed on them, and grew fat.
"Maybe," was all he could say. "I hope so." He added.
"Well," she said. "That's good enough. I trust your judgement."
He was embarrassed, and didn't know how to react. Instead he lowered his bashful gaze to the sleeping children.
"You're good with them."
She said nothing. The energy had been sucked from the room. "I... had a son of my own."