The Face Behind The Glass - pt 3. (of 4)

[wytchcroft]

There was no time to be lost. Rolling sideways off the trolley I pulled it with me, vainly trying to ignore the pain as it toppled over with a crash onto my arm - pinning me to the spot but keeping the precious hose out of harm’s way and still pointing roughly where I wanted. Slithering on the hot damp floor I struggled to find Bert. I could still hear him murmuring from my ear piece.


I thought he must’ve been knocked out or something for he sounded confused, concussed maybe, not knowing where he was poor blighter. This weren’t no kind of place to be coming round – light coming from splatters of fire across what was left of the charred walls crumbling under the impact of the flames and my hose. Those wooden walls blackened and shedding flakes of noxious soot into the air around us like a dark snow, the stench of ourselves in the helmets, sweaty and drawing in what we could of the stale air coming from the pumps.
Christ, I thought suddenly – what if the air was bad?
Maybe that’s what done for poor Bert. You couldn’t take no parrot with you into a conflagration – and if the air-pipe fouled up you were buggered.

I have to admit to swearing like the proverbial sailor as I wriggled my way about trying to find Bert with one flapping arm. He had the knife d’you see? To cut the straps – we both had knives but I couldn’t reach mine on account of the unbending uniform. I hardly felt him through the great mittens I was wearing – what I did feel was the contact clang! As we banged metal heads.

“Bert!” I yelled – and hoarsely now, “Bert yer bastard! What you playin’ at?”
I was slapping frantic now – down what had to be the front of his coat – it was no good, I had to get the gauntlet off and risk me fingers scorching up. That was when the hose gave out. I felt the great weight off my arm in an instant – and I pulled it out from under the trolley. I think I screamed.

The chief didn’t like that. “Shut up you!” he barked. “Carryin’ on like a couple of nancies – for cryin’ out loud – think of the other lads will yer, they don’t need to hear your caterwauling! What the ‘ell’s going on down there anyway?”
“Broken arm gov’ner,” I was gasping, “Bert’s in a bad way too. But I got the wall – it’s wet like anything down here now.”
“Well hold yer horses – we’ll have someone through to ya in a jiff. We’re just changing over the siphon for the water.”
That meant the hose weren’t melted and someone else could use it when they got here. They’d sling us two back on the trolley and pull it out. “You hear that Bert? They’ll be ‘ere soon and we’ll be out of this!”

I was hoping to hear something reassuring from Bert, some sign he understood me – but no, nothing but the same low sobbing and confused mutter. Enough of that now. Shoving my good arm between my legs I yanked the glove off with me feet. My hand flicked arm by instinct, don’t touch nothing – part of me screamed - you’ll lose yer damn hand! But I had to – I need the knife. I rolled slightly taking me closer to Bert and started feeling down the pockets of his coat. There! I pulled the long dirk free and with vengeful strokes cut the tethers between me and the trolley, me and the hose and me and Bert.

I got a shock as I did that. Bert was talking to me. His voice was low and whispering, like some poor Jenny in the mad house, just broken phrases, like he couldn’t remember how to say words no more.

Oh God no… “Chief! Chief!” I yelped. “It’s alright son,” the boss came back with withering pity, “we’ll soon have the lads at yer back an-“
I cut him off. “It’s Bert boss! He’s lost his fucking memory – he’s lost his fucking mind!”
“Alright – keep yer hair on!” The chief grunted a terse reply. “You know what to do. Get the bloody pack out. And quick about it.”

“But…” I didn’t bother saying anything else, I aint never given no/one a Mem’ before, never hoped to neither. Sticking a needle in someone is one thing but the memory pack meant shoving it into the back of Bert’s head, waiting, then blowing a charge to release the little whatsit that did the business. Implanting. Like a man’s mind was a flower bed and you could just stuff in another bunch of roses. Course we all had to have something a little similar and every day, or else it was the blanks and that was that – what every man dreaded.

But still… my hands were shaking as I rifled the bag on Bert’s back – the bloke didn’t resist when I shoved him over. But I got a shock – there was an ugly gash in the sack and the pack was gone.

“No… no..” I dunno if that was me or Bert, but I was panicking for England right then. I felt my head slam into the trolley behind me with an iron slam! Ignoring the hot of it I was scrabbling at my visor – I couldn’t ruddy see! – trying to clear off some of the muck. My eyes were nearly popping off their stalks as I tried to see through the smoke and steam and lurid dark, to - find – the - pack…
No use, Christ it was no use. Twisting my head sideways and

straight into a par of calm unblinking eyes.

There was a face out there – in the shadows, staring at me. Someone was in here with us!