Doctor Who_ War Games - Malcolm Hulke [3]
‘This is nonsense,’ the Doctor protested.
A small soldier, most of his head swathed in filthy bandages, pushed forward. ‘With all my mates dead? With one of my ears half blown off? You call this nonsense? I say we shoot ‘em now, Sarge.’
‘There’ll be none of that,’ said the sergeant. ‘They’ll get a fair trial as German spies, and they’ll be shot afterwards in the proper manner according to King’s Regulations.’
A corporal ran down the trench towards the group.
‘Sergeant,’ he called as he neared the group. ‘Major Barrington’s decided what to do with this lot.’ He indicated the Doctor and his friends. ‘The Major’s been on the blower to headquarters. General Smythe wants them all brought before him. He’s going to have a full investigation made into what they’re doing here.’
The sergeant grinned at the Doctor. ‘You hear that?
You’re going up before General Smythe. And you know what we call him? The Butcher.’
*
The château, a once beautiful mansion belonging to a rich French family, was over thirty kilometres behind the front line. In the early part of the war, though, the château had been twice attacked and bitterly defended. One turret was missing, most of the three hundred windows were shattered, and two servants’ cottages had received direct hits. Despite the damage it remained the most comfortable accommodation anywhere near the now static front line, and had therefore been commandeered by the British army as sectional headquarters.
General Smythe’s office occupied what had been the main drawing room. Ornate chandeliers hung from the cracked, flaking ceiling. Heavy braided curtains were at the tall windows, many cracked or with the glass missing. All the original furniture had gone, burnt as firewood during the bitter winter of 1916. In its place were trestle tables and hardbacked chairs.
The general, a huge man with a square jaw and cheeks like cliffs, sat at one of the tables pondering over the telephone conversation he had just had. How could civilians possibly be in No Man’s Land? It didn’t make sense. Still, he would soon deal with them. His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of his adjutant, Captain Ransom, who came in with his inevitable worried frown and file of papers.
‘Sir,’ said the captain. ‘We are seriously short of men in the Number Three sector.’
‘What?’ The general had a way of pretending not to hear the first time. It put subordinates ill at ease.
The captain sat down at his trestle table desk, taking off his cap. He looked very tired. ‘Last night’s push over the top, sir. Number Three sector suffered seventy-five per cent losses.’
General Smythe scribbled a note on the back of an envelope. ‘I’ve made a note. I’ll get reinforcements as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’ It still appalled Captain Ransom that men’s lives were reduced to reports and statistics, and notes on backs of envelopes. ‘Do you realise, sir, we have lost twenty-nine thousand men in the past month? It makes me wonder how long we can keep this up.’
General Smythe stood up to his full six feet. ‘This is a war of attrition. If we can suffer our losses one day longer than the Germans can suffer their losses, we shall have won. By the way, some civilians found in No Man’s Land are being brought here. I’m going to turn in for half an hour. Let me know when the civvies get here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Captain Ransom watched the general go into the little room he had chosen for a bedroom. It was said that the general never fully undressed and slept in his boots, always ready for action.
Smythe’s little bedroom had once been a study. All the shelves were empty now. In a corner stood his camp bed, and in another corner a tall walnut wardrobe. Against one wall was a large steel safe that he always kept locked. The only decoration was a framed photograph of the British royal family.
General Smythe studied the photograph for a moment.
Then he slid it to one side revealing the telecommunications unit set deep in the wall. He adjusted