Guardian Of The Dark Slap

Prelude

Gunfire lit the horizon, with the nonstop flashes destroying the sanctuary of the dark. Lieutenant Thomas Armstrong of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers crouched in the trench, feeling the ground tremble under his feet as the first shells exploded around him. The noise was so continuous that he could not distinguish any single sound and could hardly hear the man beside him speaking.

“Sir!” Sergeant Kilner mouthed the word. “We’ve lost Number One Section. A Turkish shell landed directly on top of them.”

Thomas nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant!” He flinched as a shell exploded twenty yards away, sending a shower of earth and small stones to patter on his helmet and shoulders.

The bombardment continued, with explosions all around the British and Anzac trenches, blasting dirt, stones, and fragments of men into the air. It rose to a crescendo and stopped abruptly at dawn, leaving men stunned, gasping for air, and scrabbling for cover in the bottom of shallow trenches.

The Turks will attack any moment now, Thomas realised. He forced himself to stand upright and peer over the dust-hazed landscape towards the Turkish positions. A glitter in the distance warned of a moving mass of men carrying rifles with fixed bayonets.

The Turks will attack any moment now“Here they come, boys! Stand to!”

Whistles sounded along the length of the British trenches, and men emerged from cover, adjusting their helmets, checking their rifles, and staring into the rising sun.

The Turks advanced as bravely as always, a mass of men in dark khaki uniforms cheering as they ran forward. The officers led from the front, resolute in their determination to push the invaders from their land.

The British artillery opened fire, raising fountains of dust among the Turkish infantry, smashing men to a pulp, or sending deadly shrapnel to lacerate frail human bodies. The machine guns came next, the .303 Vickers, renowned for their reliability as they scythed down the advancing men. After a few moments, the Lewis machine guns joined the cacophony, with the riflemen firing last.

“Come on, Borderers!” Thomas shouted. “Show Johnny Turk what we’re made of!”

The men aimed and fired, worked the bolts of their Lee-Enfields, held the stocks firm to their shoulders, and fired again. Soon there was no need to aim; the Turks were so close the Borderers fired at the mass of dark khaki, working the rifle bolts frantically.

“Come on, Johnny Turk!” Thomas found himself shouting as he stood in the trench, encouraging his men. “Come and face the Borderers!” He emptied his revolver and paused to reload, pushing the cartridges into their chambers with trembling, dirty fingers. He dropped one cartridge and watched the growing light reflect on the brass as it spiralled, seemingly in slow motion, down to the dust.

Thomas jammed the final cartridge into his revolver and looked up. Despite their losses, the Turks were nearly at the trench, teeth and bayonets gleaming.

“Fire!” Thomas roared. “Send them back to Constantinople, boys!” He squeezed the trigger, saw his bullets knock a Turkish officer sprawling, and then the Borderers were fighting bayonet to bayonet.

A stocky Turk jumped into the trench and lunged at Thomas, who shot him, seeing the man’s head shatter under the force of the bullet. Another Turkish soldier took his place, and then another until Thomas had emptied his revolver and was fighting with fists and boots. He saw Wee Willie Scott leap into the air and smash his forehead into a Turk’s face as Danny Hunnam fell with a Turkish bayonet in his stomach.

“Fight them!” Thomas shouted and screamed as something long, sharp, and cold snaked into his side. He turned around and saw the swarthy face of a Turkish private, and then somebody cracked a rifle butt on his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Before he passed out, he saw a shadowy figure at the far end of the trench, a tall man dressed like a mediaeval knight.

What the devil is he doing here?

What the devil is he doing here?* * *

“Tom!” The voice came to him from far away. “Tom! Wake up!”

Thomas fought away the memories and opened his eyes. “I had that nightmare again,” he said. “What a mazurka!”1

“I know,” Eleanor told him. “You were shouting in your sleep.” Her smile teased him. “Your language was shocking.”

Thomas struggled to sit up. “Trench language,” he explained. “Not fit for a lady’s ears.”

“Well,” Eleanor said, “I’m no lady, I’m your sister, and I’ve heard it all before. Get up, wash, and get dressed. We’ve got a bit of a drive before us.”

“It was the war,” Thomas explained.

“The war ended three years ago,” Eleanor reminded sternly. “It’s time you forgot about it.”

“It’s in my mind all the time,” Thomas said.

“That’s why we’re moving to somewhere quiet.” Eleanor dragged the covers from the bed. “New beginning and no old memories. Come on!” She slapped his leg and pulled his arm. “Up!”

Thomas frowned. “This dream was a little different,” he said. “I thought I saw a knight in armour in the trench.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Were there not angels and archers at Mons? Maybe there’s a connection.”

“I was dreaming of Gallipoli,” Thomas said, shrugged, and slid out of bed. “Come on, sister-of-mine. We have a longish drive ahead of us.”

“I think I already said that,” Eleanor told him.