Werewolf the Podcast: The Fallen Angel Archer of Mons. (Episode 222)

So we hear the tale from Private Clarence Smith, who, with the aid of the Luci-fer, became a Werewolf. We understand his story, how she took on the Germans, aiding him in becoming the ruthless beast on the battlefield. 

We get the story from the other side. A German soldier tells a mysterious officer what he saw that night. It will shock you.

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Transcript

The sun was a pale smudge behind the grey veil of a gunmetal sky as Major Simon de Montfort rode his dark bay gelding through the churned fields of Flanders. 

Once-green pastures were now a soup of mud, cordite, and sadness... the usual aftertaste of a British retreat. Although this was the first of this war. Simon had been in several throughout the ages.

His boots, once polished to a gleam by a very hopeful valet in Dover, were now dirty and dishevelled with the journey. Maddeningly, they had developed a squeak when dismounted in Boulogne.

He wore the khaki of the British Major. A much better colour choice than the bright reds and blues of past campaigns. 

The collar of his finely tailored greatcoat was turned up against the wet air.

'Come on, Beefy.' He said to his horse as he tapped it gently in the flanks with his heels.

In his saddlebag, he already had the remnants of his last job. It was the head of a Prussian necromancer who had an inflated ego but an unfortunate allergy to silver, which led to his head being in the bag.

Simon had kept the man's noggin, as it would not shut up once it had been removed from its body. In fact, it was so talkative that it was now gagged, bound and would be taken to someone who understood its infernal language when he got back to wherever he needed to get back to. Simon smiled. 

'Early days as well.' He said to the horse, giving it a quick pat. 

'War brings out all the bottom feeders of the occult world.' He smirked.

'Anyway, it will all be over by Christmas.' He laughed bitterly and with a lack of belief that that would be the case.

His insignia pin was on his lapel. It bore a small, almost imperceptible brass pentagram and dagger. It marked him out from the other soldiers around him as Something Overtly Special.

It marked him out as a member of the 'spooky chaps,' as they were called by the higher ranks. He was a member of the SOS. 

To the British forces' top brass, it stood for the Special Occult Service. To the average army chap, the SOS stood for those who Save Our Souls. 

Whatever it stood for, those who knew what it meant saluted him differently... as if wondering whether they ought to salute or cross themselves. Most did both.

In the distance, the field hospital crouched in the mud like a collection of sulking laundry. 

The still air of the camp smelled of blood, lye, and death. All hope here had recently been kicked in the teeth and cast out as lost. 

British defeat has an odd taste.

Stretcher-bearers moved with the urgent gait of men long past the point of caring how many horrors they'd seen before breakfast. 

Those same horrors would not disturb Simon. He had been on untold numbers of battlefields through the centuries. He was used to the result of... war in all its forms.

At the field hospital, Simon dismounted and landed with the squelch of boot impacted horse shit that made him sigh.

'I suppose that was inevitable,' he muttered, and patted the horse he called Beefy.

He smiled at the horse. 

Beefy looked far more intelligent than the officers he'd recently briefed. The horse snorted as though getting the joke he'd not voiced.

Inside the tent. He was given a mug of, for all intents and purposes, coffee, but it was, in fact, hot watery grit in a cup. He spat it out and returned the mug with an unwarranted 'thanks.'

Rows of cots lay crammed with soldiers... groaning, twitching, staring, and praying.

One had already decided to die and looked rather smug about it. Hopefully, he was somewhere better. Simon closed those glassy, unseeing eyes as he passed the man's bed.

Patient 47-B, no name, caught Simon's eye. A Belgian lad with a thigh wound and veins now running black as tar. His breathing was wrong... not shallow, not fast. Calculated. Like something inside him was checking for weak spots.

Simon brought out his watch chain and the crucifix that was on its end. The soldier finched away from it. 

'Not good.'

Simon turned to the attending doctor. A man with shaky hands and a look that said he'd recently seen a man with his own foot lodged in his mouth, and not metaphorically.

'He's… not right,' the doctor said. 'He keeps whispering in Latin.'

Simon raised an eyebrow. 'Classical or ecclesiastical?'

The doctor blinked incredulously. 'Does it matter?'

Simon shrugged and gave him a smile. 'Only if he starts conjugating verbs correctly. Then we're really in trouble.' A wasted joke in this instance.

Simon stood by the man, a handkerchief to his nose, and opened his coat, withdrawing a heavy iron flask etched with protective glyphs older than Britain itself.

The doctor looked at him blankly. Simon winked at him. 

'You'll see. Not understand, but you'll see. Trust me.' He told the medic, whose mouth was open wide and displaying teeth that would make a dentist break down in tears.

'Physician, treat thyself.' Simon said out loud. 

'What?' Said the doctor.

'Nothing.' Simon soothed, uncorking the flask with a quiet hiss and wafting it below his nose. The smell was… spicy, like nutmeg laced with lightning. 

In response to the cork pop, the patient's chest bucked. His... no-it's eyes snapped open now entirely black, and that ravaged hole of a mouth gaped in a silent scream.

'Ah, excellent,' Simon said. 'You're awake.'

The tortured transformation then began. 

Its teeth lengthened. Fingers spasmed. Veins bulged and writhed. An orderly shrieked and dropped his tray.

Simon sighed, stepped forward, and knelt one knee on the thing's chest with a forceful crunch, pinning it to the mattress like a butterfly on a board, while he delicately poured the potion onto its brow.

The effect was immediate. There was a sound like a hundred bats being startled in a cathedral, and then... stillness, silence and a gasp.

It was just a man again. Dead, this time. But at least… just a man.

Simon took a sip of the flask. Coughed and then corked it. 

'Bloody raw stuff.' He said to the doctor, wiping his mouth with the back of a gloved hand and offering the flask, at which the medic just stared with that open maw of degradation.

'Maybe not.' Said Simon, turning away and pocketing the flask, and brushing his gloves clean. 

'Right,' he muttered with what could have been mock bravado but probably wasn't, 

'That's breakfast ruined.'

The doctor stared, pale and wide-eyed, still. 'What in God's name was that?'

Simon paused, deciding whether to reveal the information to the man. 

'Why not?' He asked no one.

'It was... an Incubi Vectoric. Type IV.' He said as he flipped open a notebook. 

'Battlefield carrion-feeders. Prefer emotional trauma and high body counts. Think of them as spiritual rats with academic ambitions.' He said as he wrote notes in shorthand on the paper with a tiny pencil

The medic blinked.

'My prescription for you and yours...' He said, pointing to the staff of the tent. '...is to tell your men to burn any corpses that twitch twice,' 

'And if a corpse starts talking in Greek, Latin or Russian, don't argue. Just shoot it.'

He turned to leave, then paused, not turning.

'Ah, and also, your coffee is dreadful. Just thought you ought to know.'

Outside, the drizzle had resumed. Artillery boomed again, politely distant for now. 

Simon sighed, adjusted his cap, and pulled his greatcoat tighter around himself before wandering back to a patient, Beefy.

He patted the creature and adjusted its tack. Not for his but for his horses' comfort and remounted.

Before resuming his journey, he briefly looked back over his shoulder at the field hospital. 

'Well,' he said, 'another quiet morning.'

The horse snorted, which Simon took as an agreement.

'Come on, Old Chap.' He said as he made to ride on into the mud where the ghosts were, and into a war that hadn't even properly begun. 

Suddenly, a young private came running, yelling and grabbed at his horse's bridle. 

'Annoying.' Said Simon to the horse.

He was going to strip the man to the bone with his withering wit, but when he saw the young man's eyes, the anger that had risen was soon calmed. 

The Boy yammered inane nonsense.

'Slow down... Slow down... Please.' Simon had to shout to be heard over the garbled words of the soldier. 

'I will listen, but only when I can understand you.' He told the terrified... Boy. Yes, Boy, he could be no more than fifteen years old. A few pitiful hairs clung to the Boy's upper lip.

'Stop. Breathe... Private!' Simon ordered.

The young man with the weary eyes breathed and settled, gulping in air.

'There are werewolves on the battlefield.' The young man spilt.

Silence.

He looked at Simon with not only the fear of what he was saying, but also with the fear of saying it to a Major. 

Although a Major of the SOS was not going to laugh in his face. Simon smiled a reassuring smile and leant over the neck of his horse.

'Really.' Said Simon. 'Please tell me more. Also...' He reached down to his pack.

'Is there somewhere I can make this?' He held up a small hessian bag of coffee beans.

'You see, I can cope with war and werewolves, but not bad coffee,' he said as he dropped once more from his saddle.

*squelch sound effect*

'Bugger.'

The horse snickered. 

Major Simon de Montfort.

The official account of what happened that day follows.

The railway bridge east of Mons, on that tense, heavy Sunday on the 23rd of August 1914, was no place for glory. 

Yet, it was here that the Royal Fusiliers etched themselves into the stubborn memory of the British Expeditionary Force's first battle on continental soil in nearly a century. 

The bridge itself was a squat and functional thing of iron and stone.

It spanned not just the canal but the hopes of the French flank it protected.

The men that day knew such. 

Orders were curt: hold the Bridge at all costs. 

There was nothing romantic about it; the Bridge had to remain intact and uncrossed, or the German advance, already pressing with unnerving precision, would spill into the heart of the British Expeditionary forces' thinly held line. That could not happen.

From the cover of sandbagged positions and hastily erected barricades, the Fusiliers, men from London streets and quieter English shires, endured the opening notes of the first truly modern war. 

Shells came first, whining down with the kind of mechanical certainty that made men duck before they heard the explosion, and then the skirmishers appeared on the far bank, grey uniforms blending with the smoke and dust.

The Germans came forth with that relentless, almost tidal method that the British were only beginning to grasp. 

They were probing. Then withdrawing, and then surging forward again, with bayonets fixed.

Their NCOs barked commands like stuttering metronomes in the chaos. 

And each time they came, the Fusiliers met them with disciplined rifle fire. 

The Lee-Enfield rifles were working in a rhythm and a drilled precision that astonished their enemy.

Later, a German prisoner would mutter that it was as though they faced machine guns disguised as men. That was how good the British soldiers were.

For hours, the Bridge was a fulcrum of the battle. 

Men fell and were replaced, not in the grand Napoleonic style, but with a quiet, grim efficiency born of grit and necessity. 

Sweat mingled with the black stench of powder. 

Messages came from brigade HQ. 

'Hold a little longer, reinforcements are coming.' 

But reinforcements were always somewhere else and were needed more urgently there.

By late afternoon, with ammunition running perilously low, the Fusiliers held still. 

The German pressure had slackened, not broken, but spent for now. 

The Bridge stood. Behind it, the road to retreat remained open.

That night, as the order to withdraw at last reached them, the allies slipped away into the darkness, leaving the Bridge to the enemy. They had held it long enough; in war, sometimes that is victory enough. 

Some men stayed behind to fight to the last. Two Victoria Crosses were given in this first battle. They held the machine gun nests while the rest filed away into the deepening dark of the night.

In the memory of the regiment, and in the understated annals of British arms, the stubborn defence of that railway bridge would remain as one of those small, essential stands without which greater disasters might have unfolded. Pure bravery by all. Altruism and the sacrifice of their lives for some. 

That was the story, and it is true. But for the whole tale, we need to add some more.

Simon followed the Boy into a hastily rigged mess tent. Other soldiers were there in different states of dress and injury. 

Tea and slop were being offered to them. While silence held. These men needed to work through what had happened in their heads. If they ever could.

Simon could empathise. He had been in the aftermath of... more times than he could reflect on. It never got easier for him to be honest. 

It just got... easier to pretend that it was acceptable to feel like this. 

Simon had brought his most valuable piece of kit with him to the tent, mainly in hope.

It was his coffee percolator. A thing of beauty and brilliance until even that was surpassed by the invent of the Moka pot in the 30's by the genius Alfonso Bialetti. He just needed a stove and water, and all would be good.

He sat now at the table with the Boy as he filled his grinder and whirled its handle to get the perfect grist.

'Now tell me more.' Simon asked him as he worked. 

'I need all of it.' He reassured the private. 

'I don't know where to start.' He said.

'Well, I get the gist of the battle. Tell me about the run-up to the appearance of... the... er... Werewolves, Simon said, making brief eye contact at the word 'werewolves' to emphasise that word's importance. 

'Beggin' your pardon, sir…here it is then.'

'It was the Vickers machine guns, sir, the crews was gettin' knocked out one after the other.' He paused. 

'Position was that tight you couldn't so much as scratch your ear without hittin' the chap next to you.' He sighed

'Soon as one of the lads went down, we had to drag 'im out before anyone else could get on the gun.'

'And the only way in was across open ground, sir. Jerry had it sighted in perfect like, anyone crossing was in God's hands, he was.' He said, making the sign of the cross over his chest.

A beautiful nurse, immaculately dressed, took a seat at an empty table behind the boy as he spoke. An enamelled cup steaming in her hand.

'Lieutenant Dease…' The boy continued, but Simon interrupted.

'Sorry old chap...' He apologised for the interruption. The boy stopped and nodded. 

'Are there any women nurses here?' He asked the private.

'No, sir... be a fine thing if there was.' He smiled.

Simon gave the woman a hard look. She, in turn, kept her head down. Purposefully not making eye contact. 

'Ah...' Simon said.

'Interesting... Please carry on.' He continued nodding and looking back at the boy.

The boy nodded. 

'Well, Lieutenant Dease… sir, I've never seen the like. Any time the gun stopped, he'd go over imself to see what was wrong. Didn't send another lad, didn't shout for help. He just went.'

'Once, twice… more than I could count, sir.'

'Took rounds while he was doin' it proper bad wounds too, but he wouldn't leave his post. Stayed there till one of the crew could fire, even when he could barely stand. Third hit… that was it, sir. He went down. Deserves that VC, every scrap of it.' The boy now ran his hands over one other and then hugged himself to feel some comfort.

'Carry on private.' 

'By then, sir, both guns was out and the crews was… well, gone.'

'Someone called out, 'Anyone else know the gun?' and Private Godley stepped up. Didn't say a word, sir, he blinkingjust got on with it. An I 'elped him, I did. Don't know why it just felt right.' The boy was obviously now in some distress, so Simon removed a glove, reached over the table and held the boy's hand. The look he received in return was warm and contained gratitude.

'Carry on, my brave lad.' Simon said as he patted the boy's hand before passing his second-best pocket square for the boy to wipe away the tears. 

He could see the boy was embarrassed by his tears.

'Begging your pardon, sir...'

'You have nothing to beg for. Tears are fitting for such a tale, young man.' The boy blew his nose into the cotton cloth. It made Simon flinch in a moment of distaste, which thankfully the boy did not notice. 

'That was a bit much in a chap's hanky though.'

'What did you say, sir?'

'Nothing of importance. carry on.'

'We pulled the bodies clear, set the gun back up, and started firing.'

'We caught the bloody hun's attention quick enough, and before long the water jacket was shot through, gun spittin' steam like a kettle. Couldn't use it no more. Godley was hit bad, sir, and the Germans were almost upon us.'

'I...' The boy clammed up, staring at and ringing the handkerchief in his hands. 

'I...' A sniffle broke him.

Again, Simon leant over the table. He placed a hand on the private's shoulder as the boy broke.

'Hey now... Hey... You are a jolly brave chap. You held that spot and let many others escape. Come on... Come on... That is a rare quality'

The boy went on to continue, tears leaving clean tracks on that grimy face.

'If I may, sir… I've seen men do brave things, but that day… it was different. Weren't just about orders or duty. Lieutenant Dease and Private Godley… they was somethin' else entirely. Couldn't name it proper, but I'll not forget it as long as I live. That's the truth of it, sir.'

'Yes, yes. Brave men. As are you.' He told the boy.

He left a silent gap for the boy to fill. He said nothing, just continued to stare at what was once a bleached white handkerchief, now a grey, ruined rag.

'Werewolves?' Simon prompted.

The boy looked up.

'I prayed din't I sir. Prayed with all me heart, I did.' The private continued.

'An then she were there want she.' the boy paused.

'Proper beautiful she was. An angel she were in our uniform too. Proper reminded me of Sall from home, she did.' *sniff*

Simon looked at the woman at the table with a knowing look. 

'Ah... I see.' He said, staring at her. Daring her to meet his eyes.

'She told me she was a proper Angel and that she could help me, she could. Just made me promise to give myself to her, she did.'

'I promised.' 

Simon looked hard at the boy. 'You promised what?' He bit.

'I promised that she could have all my faith and love. After all, she were an angel. Sounds daft, I know.' The chill that now struck Simon's heart was created by more than the painful possibility of death. He felt true horror at the boy's words.

'You promised...?' 

The boy nodded.

Now Simon felt sorrow.

'Shit!' He said as he looked up to be met by a beautiful smile and a wink from the nurse that no one else seemed to have noticed. 

'Not good.' He said to himself, looking ruefully at the boy.

'What's not good, sir?' Asked the boy.

'Nothing...' replied Simon, again raising his eyes to the woman who was not there. He smiled at this. 

'Then what happened?' 

'Well, sir... It's difficult. It's unbelievable, really. This gigantic black wolf ghost thing walked through the sandbags. It were huge. Proper big. Big burning yellow eyes... but I want more scared by it. It actually made me feel better, it did.'

'I bet it did.' Simon said offhandedly.

'Pardon, sir.'

'Sorry, I bet it did.' Simon said with faked enthusiasm.

'Then what?' He asked, rubbing his neck with his hands and stretching it back and forth as if to try and release a trapped niggle.

'Well...' (Pause)

'Well, what?' He said with evident annoyance.

I mean, please continue.' Said Simon with a smile.

'I only became a bloody wolf man, dint I?' 

Simon looked at his grinder, then back at the now beaming boy and sighed, removing his cap and placing it carefully on the table. 

He smiled bitterly at the boy and then ran his hands through his perfectly coiffured hair.

'Hmmm!...' (pause)

'Fuck I need coffee.'