Forward to the Past

By Rapscallion 01/06/2003

“Sergeant? Look at this will you?”

Clive sighed and grabbed his rifle before clambering out of his foxhole. The third stripe sat uneasily on his shoulder, recently ‘won’ through the virtue of dead-man’s boots. He had been proud to receive it at the time. Now he knew it meant questions, orders and responsibility.

“Look at this sarge! I found it when I was digging my trench. The other lads have found loads as well.” The soldier held up a… something. Perhaps a yard in length and a couple of inches in depth, clods of mud held to the irregular shape. “What is it, sarge?”

Clive put his rifle down and glanced out over the plain below. He could take a couple of minutes to investigate, he judged. “It’s metal and rusty,” he said eventually. “Do I look like an egghead?”

”But sarge…”

“It’s a sword, or the remains of one.”

Clive turned in the trench and stared at the figure who watched them with narrowed eyes. No uniform, just civilian clothing and shining shoes, but the respectful attitude of the captain by his side said more than words. What was a scientist doing out here? They spent all their time well away from the front lines in their universities and schools. First to leave when the enemy came close and last to return when the bodies had been carted away.

“Long ago, several hundred years in fact, you would have been expected to know how to use one of those,” the scientist said. “This area has been fought over for thousands of years. An effective weapon, though more likely to leave your opponent bleeding to death instead of the more humane weapons we have today.”

Clive said nothing, thinking of the screams of the wounded from the medical tents and barracks after each assault. He dropped the sword on the edge of the trench and stared at the scientist.

“Now then, sergeant. Now you’ve got rid of the past, I’m here to deliver you the future. I need you to try something out for me. It’s the Pettigrew Mark III bazooka. I’ll instruct you in its use and then you can show your men.” The scientist nodded at the captain who bellowed out orders to a nearby supply truck. Several private started to bring crates over.

“Terribly immodest, but I named it after myself,” the scientist continued urbanely. The captain picked something out of the first crate and held it up – a long barrel with sights on the top. “This is the new weapon which you will be using from now on. Take one and feel the weight if you will.”

Clive reached into the nearest crate and ran his fingers over the smooth metal. The fate of Marks I and II briefly crossed his mind, as did the words ‘try something out for me’. “You lot keep digging. You know what the general said,” he bellowed over his shoulder. His hands brushed over several shells, more like small artillery ammunition than anything else. In the background, the scientist – Pettigrew – droned on about effective ranges and reloading times. Clive didn’t care. He wanted to use it and for the egghead to leave.

“Your arm goes here, the sights there, close that lever and you’re ready for action,” the captain said. “This is how you go about clearing a jammed shell…”

Aware of the curious glances of his men, Clive practiced with his new weapon until he was certain how it worked. “I’m ready, sir,” he said.

“The enemy is that way,” Pettigrew said, pointing at the plain below.

Clive took his position at the front edge of the trench and remembered. How many times had he been here before? The waves of steel tanks had come against the flesh and blood of him and his men. The armour-piercing rifles had only just been issued a week before he signed up, yet rumour had it that the enemy had newer tanks without the familiar weak points in their armour.

He took aim at the craters in the grass below and selected one. Just what would this thing do? He squeezed the trigger and the world moved.

“You all right, sarge?”

Clive looked up and shook his head to clear it. Something had filled his ears. How far away was that soldier?

“I said to brace yourself, sergeant.” Pettigrew crouched on the side of the trench and peered down with a smile that Clive wanted to punch. The ringing inside Clive’s head slowly subsided.

“Sarge? Have you seen this sarge?”

Clive got to his feet and staggered to the front of the trench, joining the other men who crowded around. A plume of dust smoked into the air from a crater in the grass. His aim had been out, but the size of that explosion…

“A new explosive mixture I came up with, sergeant. No need to thank me just yet.”

Clive picked up the new weapon from the soil on the bottom of the trench. This beast would peel the armour from the enemy tanks. “I’ll take one and one for Sunday best,” he said.

“Will you now?” Pettigrew said. His voice held tones of menace and Clive turned to face him. “You’ll be grateful for what you get, soldier. Never take that tone with me. I fight this war just as much as you do.”

Clive looked the scientist up and down. It would take less than five seconds to break the man in two, he suspected. “Right,” he said eventually.

“I don’t think you understand, soldier. I am the future, me and those who I work with. Without us you would be still holding things like this,” he snarled, kicking at the remains of the sword. “Now get training your men and I’ll keep the future alive. It’s my future as well as yours.”

Clive turned to his men. “Break the other crates open lads,” he called out. “The boffins have given us something to be grateful for.”

He heard the doors to the staff car slam and he grinned.

The sun fell slowly and Clive sat back in his trench. Occasionally, the general came by, watching the training with interest. He gave a few encouraging words and more orders, but they could all hear the artillery in the distance. It grew closer as the moon rose.

“He is the future,” Clive muttered. His men looked around in alarm but he waved them back. They had their new weapons and the enemy would be visible in the moonlight.

He shifted his position and kicked an empty rations can with his boot. The salvage squads had scavenged the remains of the swords hours ago, and would be back for the tins in the morning. Every scrap of metal counted. Would any be missed and picked up in years to come? What would the soldier who dug this up be using? Clive stroked his bazooka and watched the plain below.

“Sarge? What’s that, sarge?”

Clive groaned. Had the idiot worked out how to use his ammunition at last? The soldier was pointing into the sky and Clive looked up.

Something bright streaked through the sky, the trailing smoke barely visible in the moonlight. Clive grabbed his binoculars and trained them on it.

“Is it a new sort of plane, sarge?”

“Too fast and too small,” Clive said. What was that thing? It passed over their trenches and headed towards the city some miles behind.

Yellow flame burst in the distance. Clive watched the silhouettes. He knew that part of the skyline – the university.

“Welcome to the future, egghead,” he muttered. “Should have fought harder.”

“Sarge? Sarge? The scout’s been on the radio.”

Clive turned and saw the private’s face.

“They’re coming, sarge.” The man pointed out over the plains.

Clive trained his binoculars onto the cratered landscape below. Dark shapes swarmed over the grass, weaving around craters, faster than he had ever seen tanks move before. “They tried to soften us up, lads,” he called out. “The main attack is coming in now. Get to your barricades and you know what to do.”

Clive put his binoculars aware. He may survive to use them again. He picked up his new weapon and cradled it to his shoulder. The enemy’s future was coming, and he had his own to meet it.

“Fire on my mark,” he shouted. Similar shouts came through the night air from all along the trenches. Tracer fire broke out and he squinted into the bazooka’s sights.

“For the future, fire!”