Doctor Who_ War Games - Malcolm Hulke [38]
‘Which,’ said the War Lord, ‘would be just as foolhardy as using our security guards. Artillery would almost certainly destroy our control units there. Time zone barriers would vanish. In any case, let us not forget the purpose of the war games. We want battles. We need to know which of Earth’s soldiers are the fiercest and can best be relied on to fulfil our destiny.’
The War Lord rose and went to the great war map. ‘We shall order our human species to make a mass attack on the château. If they are British let them believe the Kaiser is there. If German, tell them this Doctor is the King of England. We shall mount a pincer movement with this Doctor and his group of bandits in its jaws!’
In flickering lamp-light Lieutenant Carstairs stood on a chair as he addressed the resistance fighters. In all kinds of ragged uniforms they had crowded into the château’s one-time drawing room.
‘You all know that some terrible trick is being played on us.’
The soldiers responded with an angry murmur.
‘We are an elite, because for all of us in this room the trick has stopped working.’ He paused while those who understood English translated his words into a variety of languages. ‘What we must do now is to find other groups of resistance fighters so that together we can create one big army.’
It was during his second pause for translations that Sergeant Russell came hurrying through the shattered french windows. He pushed his way through the crowd to speak to Carstairs.
‘Time’s up for speech-making, sir. There’s a whole British regiment coming up the road towards us. Our patrol has just spotted them.’
He had hardly finished giving his message when the French soldier came running in. In his excitement he cried out in French: ‘ M’sieur lieutenant, les boches avancent là-derrière vers le château! ’ (‘Lieutenant, the Germans are advancing towards the back of the château!’) A multilingual hubbub broke out among the soldiers. A young Russian officer of 1812 wielded his sword above the heads of those around him, causing most of them to duck.
‘We must fight for our honour! We must die like heroes at the battle for Moscow!’
‘ You die like a hero,’ growled a New Yorker from Abraham Lincoln’s Unionist Army of the American Civil War. ‘Lootenant, whyn’t we get the hell out of here under the cover of darkness and re-group someplace else? That’s make sense to me.’
‘It does not make sense to me.’ The Doctor spoke from the open door of the little room that had been General Smythe’s bedroom. Heads turned towards him. ‘We need to hold a firm base. There is important equipment here that may solve some of our problems.’
Carstairs looked down to Sergeant Russell. ‘Do you think we could defend this place?’
‘We can have a good try. What about it, lads?’ the sergeant called to the crowd of soldiers.
‘Ve have the advantage of darkness,’ a German called back.
‘I shall go into their ranks,’ cried the 1812 Russian officer, ‘slashing them to pieces with my sword. Only the dead will know that Boris Ivanovich Petrovich of the House of Trebetskoy has been among them.’
‘Good on you, sport,’ said an Australian infantry-man wearing a slouch hat. ‘Let’s get out of this room before they arrive. Otherwise we’re sitting ducks.’
As Lieutenant Carstairs went into a strategy discussion with the sergeant and leaders of other resistance groups, the Doctor turned back into the little bedroom.
Zoe said, ‘Do you really think you can make this gadget work, Doctor?’ She sat on the edge of the camp bed looking at the control console in the wall.
‘I can try,’ he said. ‘It’s a question of how much time I’ve got before the château is overrun.’
The War Lord looked down at the war map. ‘How are we progressing?’
The War Chief pointed to illuminated colours appearing on the map. ‘British troops advancing here and here, converging with French troops. The Germans are pressing in on the rear of the château.’
‘Good, good,