The Ghosts of Gallipoli
I am the unknown soldier, known just to God and me.
—Unknown Soldier
Steven swung open the door to the expansive research lab. Computer displays, terminals, and other electronic devices lined the walls and a row of desks down the centre. Tom followed him inside, eyes wide. At the far end of the room, on a slightly elevated platform, stood a small square building with a little porch. A chair sat outside beside a small door.
It looked profoundly ordinary. “Is that it?”
“That’s it. My cosy little getaway,” Steven said.
“That new manufacturing system allowed you to build all this?” Tom asked.
“Yeah. And the AI, with help from the bot swarm.”
“Amazing.” Tom looked around. “I’ve heard some people have built spaceships that are fully self-contained.”
“Over here.” Steven beckoned, nodding towards a small chamber. “If you want to try it, you put the item in here.”
“Looks like a microwave,” Tom said with a grin. “And then I get in the little house and it sends me back in time? Really?”
“Yes. There’s a five-minute countdown to give you time to get inside. The location is accessible for only forty-two minutes, and then the house returns. Be back inside at forty.” Steven handed him a thick watch. “Here’s the wrist alarm.”
“And you’ve done this?” Tom asked.
“Three times so far. I’ve stayed close, taken notes until forty minutes were up, and then gone inside.” Steven swept an arm towards a nearby desk covered with notes and devices.
“And you say no one can see you?”
“It seems they can’t. You can’t touch that world, either. You can only observe. It’s like watching it on a 3D screen.”
“Huh.” Tom nodded and pulled a metal badge from his pocket, showing it to Steven.
“Oh, a badge. An old one, too. If this was worn in battle, it could send you there.” Steven paused. “You okay with that?”
“As long as I don’t get shot, it could be interesting.”
“Just stay close,” Steven said. “Are you still interested, knowing the risks?”
“Sure. This is from my great-grandfather. Story goes he lost his leg in some great war.” Tom nodded.
Steven opened the chamber, and Tom placed the bimetal badge, labelled The Lancashire Fusiliers, on the tray inside. Steven closed the small door, latched it, and pointed to the green button.
Tom pressed it and started towards the little building. To his surprise, there were no strange sounds or flashing lights, only a countdown in a monotone male voice. He reached the porch with a few minutes remaining and stepped up. Though it looked like wood, it was all metal and cool to the touch.
Tom opened the door and looked into a small, comfortable room. It was well lit but had no windows. A small table and chair stood in the centre. He stepped inside, closed the door, and sat down. The chair was comfortable, but the room reminded him of a waiting room.
Appropriate, he thought, as the countdown continued. Just over a minute. Then thirty seconds. Ten. Five.
The watch on his wrist chimed. He glanced down. A new countdown had begun at forty minutes. There had been no bright lights, no kaleidoscopic patterns or swirling vortex. The seconds passed without any sign of a great change. Tom stood, opened the door, and stepped onto the porch.
What he saw took his breath away. Directly ahead, the sun was beginning to rise, casting everything in a bright, sandy cream haze. The view seemed filtered through thick glass. At certain angles, geometric, prismatic patterns appeared for a moment. The effect ebbed and flowed without disorienting him. Through it, the world around him was as clear as anything he had ever seen.
Beyond the railing to his right lay the sea, its green and blue surface rolling softly. Large ships and smaller boats rocked in the steady swells.
To his left, the hillside rose steeply. The cabin had come to rest above a trench that ran parallel to the beach for a few hundred feet. Soldiers faced the water, aiming their rifles. Machine guns occupied several built-up emplacements along the trench. Great booms sounded offshore. A large ship was firing on the trench and other pockets of men scattered across the hillside.
Other heavy guns sounded to his left, somewhere on the hill or beyond it, firing at the ships and the boats full of men heading towards the beach.
The sights and sounds overwhelmed him. He sat for a moment, then stood and stepped off the porch onto the hillside. His movement was slower than normal, and he couldn’t feel the ground beneath him. An explosion struck nearby, but he felt nothing. Even the sound seemed strangely muffled, as though hearing it through a tunnel.
He tried to jump, but his body didn’t respond. He tried to run. Again, he couldn’t accelerate; he simply moved forward at a constant pace.
Down the hill to his right, the smaller boats were unloading men. They ran forward, searching for cover, firing their guns, falling.
The soldiers to his left opened fire on the exposed men below. All along the trench, hundreds of rifles created a terrible chatter. The machine guns rattled to life and rained death onto the beach.
Tom was captivated by the scene. Its intensity drew him downhill.
Men scrambled below, sheltering from the heavy fire in every hollow and behind every rock. Barbed wire blocked the routes forward. Bodies were piling up across it and tangling in its strands.
Tom was close enough to see the faces of soldiers struggling up the gnarly hillside. The very young and the older men alike blended into a pale watercolour of cream and khaki, spattered with red, black, and brown. They fought the pull of gravity as they pushed upwards towards their objective.
He was amazed by their bravery. Many fell wounded, only to get back up and push forward, then fall again. They repeated this until they could no longer rise.
Men stood tall under heavy fire, pointing uphill at the next position, yelling and forging ahead. Others rose from the blurred scene to follow. One group fell; another tried. The line moved unevenly upwards.
Tom knew his great-grandfather would be somewhere in this horror. He peered about as though he might recognise him, then realised how futile that was. Had he lost his leg here or in a later battle? Tom didn’t know. In this crossfire of destruction, he was surprised anyone could survive.
A horn sounded, and a group of men cheered and charged. They ran over open ground under intense fire, drawing the enemy’s attention. As though their chanting and cheering could keep them safe, they jumped into the enemy position and attacked with bayonets, knives, and fists.
A great explosion engulfed one of the larger ships near shore. It lurched in the water. Men were still coming ashore as the blast tore through the nearby boats, smashing and capsizing them. Weighed down by heavy gear and packs, men struggled and gasped for air. Many never reached the shore.
The battleship continued bombarding the hillside, tearing great smoking gashes in an attempt to suppress the enemy fire.
Tom could see the devastation, yet the rumble of gunfire sounded far away. Sight and sound seemed disconnected. He had never experienced anything like it and would have been hard-pressed to explain it.
Then the alarm sounded.
The watch. Forty minutes had already passed. That couldn’t be right.
“Damn,” he muttered.
He tried to run uphill towards the cabin, but his body moved at the same limited pace. The door wasn’t far away. He could see it; in fact, it was all he could see. His mind screamed at his body to go faster. His body maintained its even rhythm.
Tom was about ten feet from the cabin when the alarm stopped.
The cabin was gone.
Everything sharpened. He felt the warmth of the rising sun on the side of his face.
His body stiffened, and he dropped to his knees. He could feel the ground beneath him now. The sounds of battle reached him in full. The smells of gunpowder and blood filled his nostrils.
Something moved ahead of him. The trench was directly in front of him, still manned by soldiers. He understood the danger just as shots rang out at point-blank range. One round whizzed past his ear. Another grazed his leg. He rolled forward and to the side, falling into the deep trench. The impact stunned him for a moment.
As he recovered, a man rushed towards him, bayonet first. There was no time to explain, no time to choose. Instinctively, Tom knocked the blade aside and drove his elbow into the man’s jaw. The soldier lurched sideways, dropped his Mauser rifle, and fell unconscious.
Without hesitation, as though acting on some inherited instinct, Tom grabbed the rifle. He turned it in his hands and drove the bayonet down through the unconscious soldier’s neck. Pulling it free, he looked along the trench. Another soldier, about fifteen feet away, had missed the struggle in the commotion. He was firing downhill at the advancing Lancashire forces.
Tom had no choices left. He knew he would never return.
He would die today.
He moved down the trench, firing at the surprised soldiers. A few fell before they realised the danger. One turned towards him, yelling and firing. A bullet struck Tom’s left shoulder, spinning him slightly. He fired the remaining rounds, dropping two more men.
Directly ahead, several soldiers manned a machine gun in a built-up position. Tom grabbed another rifle off a nearby soldier, hoping it was loaded and charged. They had seen him, but they couldn’t swing the gun around to fire along the trench. One opened fire with a rifle; the other two drew pistols.
A bullet grazed the top of Tom’s head. Another struck his leg. He dropped to his knees, firing until the rifle was empty. Fuelled by an unknown fire, he threw himself forward, using what strength remained to leap into the gun nest. Somehow, he had killed two of the soldiers. He thrust his bayonet into the stunned third, then collapsed, unconscious.
An explosion destroyed the position and, with it, any record of what had happened there.
***
Steven watched the countdown. Forty minutes had passed, and he was looking forward to hearing about Tom’s experience.
At forty-two minutes, the cabin returned. There was no vortex, no rift, no strange pattern of light. One second, nothing; the next, the cabin was back in place.
Steven had the feeling he was chasing a thought, trying to hold on to a moment. Whatever it was drifted away. He turned from the cabin and resumed preparations for his next trip.
He placed a small button in the empty chamber.