The Yeomen of England (Posleen in England)

Chapter Thirty-One: Spy Stuff

HMS Invincible

North Sea

14 April 2007
A journey that should have taken less than a day had stretched into two weeks as a result of the Posleen. The original plan had been for the Invincible to deliver its civilian refugees to Ireland, and then head to the docks at Portsmouth. By the time it was realised that the Posleen were happily firing at anything in the English Channel, from both sides of the Channel, the carrier had to turn around and return around the other side of Britain, finally coming into dock at Great Yarmouth. It had taken time and effort for the navy to build the dock, but in the end it had been worthwhile.
Sarfraz shook his head as the carrier finally came to a stop. The Regiment had nearly broken apart over the retreat from Liverpool; some men had wanted to go back and fight, others had been quietly determined to avoid a useless fight. By the third time the carrier had to retreat from the Posleen, the morale was at rock bottom, and the ship was starting to suffer.
Colonel Yates, to be fair, was old and wise enough to let the men blow off some steam, before forcing a new training regime on them. The government researchers had learned a great deal from the Posleen attacks, including some interesting details about their lander-infantry coordination. By and large, they claimed, it was non-existent; the times that both had tried to attack together had been caused by the relative smallness of the battlezone, rather than any coordinated plan.
I really hope they’re right about that, Sarfraz thought. They’d lost nearly seventy men in the brutal battles, leaving them with only five hundred and seventy men in effective fighting shape. The time on the carrier, he had to admit, had not been wasted; they’d been able to make some repairs on the damaged suits, as well as training constantly.
Still, it was good to be back on dry land, enjoying a proper dinner in the military base nearby. After the third soldier-sailor brawl, Sergeant Benton had kept the two groups apart as much as possible, trying to prevent more injuries. The soldiers had accused the Royal Navy of being too cowardly to stay and fight the Posleen; the sailors had accursed the Armoured Combat Suit Regiment of running from the battle.
“If I could have your attention,” Yates said, unfailingly polite. Sarfraz put down his knife and fork – having proper implements for eating was a genuine pleasure after so long surviving on Navy food – and listened. He smiled contentedly; the beef stew and dumplings would never had passed the test of ages, but it had been good and there had been enough of it for him to feel quite full.
“Silence in the ranks,” Sergeant Benton bellowed. The sergeant had worked hard to keep them training and preparing for the next confrontation with the Posleen, one that they all expected would be coming soon, perhaps in London itself. “Silence…there!”
“At ease,” Yates said, as soon as quiet had fallen. “We’re going to London,” he said grimly. “The Posleen are going there too. Intelligence estimates that they will have completed the task of…annexing all of the south by May at the latest and then they will come for London.”
His voice shuddered slightly. Sarfraz understood; Yates was a career officer and watching his country get eaten by alien monsters was more than he could take. “Our mission is to get to London now, and then act as a forward recon force, slowing the Posleen down to buy time for London. Any questions?”
John coughed. Sarfraz winced as Sergeant Benton’s glare slowly orientated itself on John’s face. “Sir, where are the people going to go?” He asked. “We’re running out of country.”
“We’re trying to move people up north into Scotland, where we’re training new regiments,” Yates said. He left one detail unspoken; the regiments would have no ACS units. Since the Posleen had blockaded Earth, there would be no new ones from the Federation. “We have to keep fighting.”
“Yes, sir,” Derek said. His voice rang out in the silence. “Will we be leaving again?”
The room tensed. The question was right on the edge of insubordination. “We will be holding the Posleen up as long as we can,” Yates said. “We are a valuable resource, Private, and we cannot be wasted trying to turn back time.”
“In effect,” Sergeant Benton added, unexpectedly, “we will not be sacrificed for nothing, like the Highland Division was in the Second World War.”
Sarfraz, who knew very little of non-Islamic history, understood the point. “Will we be acting as a regiment, or as individual platoons?”
Yates nodded at the sensible question. “We’re not sure yet,” he admitted. “It might easily be both, depending upon the circumstances. For the moment, we have to get to London. We’re going to be taking the train, so I expect everyone up at 0700 tomorrow.”
He stepped down from the podium. “The normal rules apply about being on the town,” Sergeant Benton said. His voice was like granite; some of the conscripted regiments had caused real trouble before the Posleen had come. “Be back here by 2300, or you will regret it for the rest of a short and miserable life”
He glared once at them all. “Dismissed,” he said, and left the room.
“We should be training,” Derek said. “Why are they giving us” – he checked his watch – “ten hours on the town?”
“It’s a reward,” John said gloomily. “Ave, Caesar; those who about to die salute you.”
Sarfraz glared at him. “You’re bloody morbid today,” he snapped. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a wife to email.”
“Try to call her if you can,” Derek said. He smiled suddenly. “You might be able to get a landline from here; the Posleen aren’t close enough for the CDC to claim all of the landlines for themselves.”
“True,” Sarfraz agreed.
“I’m going to find some drink and a girl,” John said, and smiled. “Wine, women and song.”
“Booze, whores and caterwauling,” Derek said. “I’ve heard your singing before.”
“Up yours,” John said, and they left together. Sarfraz laughed once and then went to try to call Anisa. If John was right, then it might be their last chance to talk, face to face.