War of the Worlds 1960

By Phillip Rhodes

War of the Worlds 1960, is an unauthorized sequel to the classic The War of the Worlds (written by H G Wells). This new book follows the daughter of the protagonist from the original book, as she (a scientist) and her husband (an RAF fighter pilot) combat a new, more advanced and deadly Martian threat, hampered by those with secrets to keep and a frightening agenda to enact.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781008970564

Phillip Rhodes

Phillip Rhodes is a professional author, photographer, film-maker and graphic artist. He is passionate about what he creates, including his new Science Fiction book, "The Lost Diaries of John Smith". Phillip Rhodes was born in an RAF Hospital in 1965 and grew up on a number of military bases, both in the UK and abroad. His childhood obsession with war films, Dad's Army and Airfix models was almost, but not quite, surpassed by his interest in Science Fiction. From an early age he was exposed to the very best in British Science Fiction including Quatermass, Thunderbirds, Blake's 7, The Tomorrow People, The Day of the Triffids and Dr Who. He also adds The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Red Dwarf to his list of favourites. He is also a ardent fan of Steven Spielberg. Although praised for his clean style of prose, he was illiterate through most of his childhood, only becoming confident in his writing ability well after leaving school. He has written for newspapers and magazines, while his photographs have appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian (UK). Of his latest book one reviewer wrote: "This is an remarkable story with characters who live with you well after you have finished the book. I wanted to know more about their lives after the story ended. I couldn't put it down and heartily recommend it to anyone who likes a great tale."

Book preview

War of the Worlds 1960

by

Phillip Rhodes

Copyright © 2021 Phillip Rhodes

Copyright © 2021 Phillip Rhodes

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner, without the written permission of the author.

This book is an unauthorised sequel to The War of the Worlds (1898), written by H G Wells, which passed into the public domain in 2016. Any resemblance to actual events or obnoxious persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Charcoal and Red Planet science fiction book cover template provided by Marketplace Designers on www.canva.com.

PLEASE NOTE

Although published in 1898, the common consensus amongst literary scholars and fans of science fiction is that The War of the Worlds was probably set in 1907.

This book was first published in 2021

ISBN – 978-1-008-97056-4

Prologue

I once wrote, How could we have become so complacent? To forget was to damn all humanity. And here, as I write these words, we are on the verge of defeat, and perhaps even extinction. The above was written by me, and rediscovered only recently, scrawled in one of my note books. But we were not defeated. We persevered and we did win our second war against the Martians, but at an unparalleled cost.

And that nightmare, both abstract and real, dreamt but weeks before the attack on London. Imagine if you will, being harassed into fleeing from the Martian tripods, not seen for more than fifty years. Imagine you and your neighbours, a young family, running for our lives. We come across the basement of where I know not, but it is full of refugees, and there is no room. So we continue to run into the darkness. Then in the middle of a field we turn around to see the Martians in the distance. They are busy destroying the haven we had just departed. The Martians. The tripods. Silent. Deadly. Distant. Clear as can be, and amongst the conflagration of a burning city. But it is the silence that sticks with you.

Today, in the East Midlands, there is a little known and somewhat inactive aerodrome, though still maintained by the Air Ministry. Behind the barbed wire and military cordon are the remains of some 400 alien machines. They sit neatly in rows, each given a number - stencilled on its greater portion. This is one of four similar sites that store the remains of the second Martian invasion. Also present are the mangled artillery pieces and wrecked armour from the fierce land battle. Although the location has been publicised elsewhere, most notably in Picture Post, strangely I am not permitted to reveal its whereabouts. Indeed there is much that the Official Secrets Act prevents me from disclosing. I am the latest in a long line of visitors, mostly scientific researchers or military scholars and tacticians. We all seek answers and perhaps closure.  

But walking between these lines of Martian tanks, crawlers or killing machines, call them what you will, Salvador Dalí or Pablo Picasso have nothing on these metallic, crippled and surreal forms. And the silence of this place. Just a light breeze and sporadic bird song.

The intensity is debilitating. Yet, it is not the raw emotion of the moment, nor the personal loss associated with these machines. Rather it is the fatigue. The long nights. The endless travelling and the myriad of reports, researched and written, most of which will probably never see the light of day. The war ended abruptly, about two years ago now, but when will we get back to normal? Or is this the new normal? A never-ending war. Perhaps a pause between battles?

And what destruction these creatures caused, and the collateral damage we inflicted on ourselves to defeat them. But this is the price we paid for our negligence. Indeed, it is incredulous to think that so much death and destruction was awarded through our collective ability to forget or discount. We learned from that first Martian invasion, but when we threw away our teachings we became the victims of our own making. Our preparedness for meeting any second Martian invasion was eroded, then discarded through time, budget cuts and an ever-changing world.

My own position within the scheme of things, during this second invasion, was secured through being the daughter of a writer and campaigner, someone who warned of the continued Martian threat. My father wrote The War of the Worlds, which was his personal account of the Martian invasion of 1907. It became a best seller. Afterwards, and until his death in 1942, he researched all aspects of the attack, and helped create a series of military field service manuals. He himself would serve in France during The Great War, before becoming a teacher.

I’m not sure why I didn’t follow the family tradition of becoming a philosophical writer or indeed a doctor, like my uncle. For me science became my calling, and subsequently an interest in the first Martian invasion manifested itself while studying at Cambridge. Obviously I was aware of the events of 1907, and of my father’s involvement. As a teenager, I became enthralled listening to his tales of survival and heroism, but knew little of his concern about the potential threat of a second invasion. But now, as I walk between these Martian machines, thoughts drift to London and the night of 23rd March 1960.

My father was as much a poet as he was an educated and well informed philosophical writer. Some of his writings, while very technical or high brow in style, as well as in content, were also beautiful in syntax and luxurious in its choice of words. I myself am more technical minded, and less of the poet. I hope this does not discourage the reader.

Chapter One

Attack on London

Unbeknown to me, my husband Peter was still in London when the Martians attacked on Wednesday, 23rd March 1960. He had an informal interview with BOAC at Heathrow on Tuesday, the day before, and was expected back at RAF Leconfield in Yorkshire that evening.

We had both been married before, both losing our spouses during the war. Peter’s young wife was killed in an air raid on Coventry. My husband was killed in Burma. Peter had joined the RAF in 1940, and finally gained his pilots wings in 1947. Although currently flying the Hawker Hunter, Peter planned to convert to the multi-engined Britannia and Comet aircraft of RAF Transport Command, hoping to leave the service with sufficient hours to satisfy BOAC.

His father flew with the Royal Flying Corps during The Great War, before becoming a pilot with Imperial Airways in the 1920s. After flying Mosquitoes for BOAC between Scotland and neutral Sweden during the war, he retired in 1948, but his contacts were fortuitous in securing a favourable meeting for his son.

After an informal chat, and not one to pass on the opportunity to hitch a ride on any type of aircraft, Peter managed to secure the jump seat on a newly delivered Boeing 707, soon to enter service with BOAC. The aircraft was to undergo a two hour familiarisation flight, and the subsequent knock on effect to his schedule would reverberate through to this day.

Missing his train from Kings Cross to Hull, and not wanting to travel overnight, he decided to book a room at the RAF Club in Piccadilly. There he dined with another officer, someone he hadn’t seen since attending the RAF College at Cranwell. That night he slept as most of London slept, not knowing that the lateness of his booking would save his life. His room was on the top floor, and one of the few still available that evening. In the distance he could hear the night buses and the chimes of numerous church bells, not to mention Big Ben. Further afield was the river traffic on the Thames, readying itself for the high tide.

23rd March 1960

That morning he awoke just after 8am, surprised that he hadn’t received his 7am alarm call. He called down to reception, but received no answer. Perplexed, he washed, then dressed before leaving his room in a tidy manner. Walking down the hotel corridor he was struck by the silence. This was not his first stay at the RAF Club, and he was curious as to the lack of activity. He entered the lift and arrived on the ground floor, only to find the reception void of people.

Hello?

He tapped the bell on the reception desk, but even that failed to attract attention. It was then that he spotted the body. It was the night porter. Checking for a pulse, he realised the body was cold. The poor chap had been dead for a number of hours. He immediately picked up the phone, and securing a dialling tone, tried to call the police. No answer. He tried the reception office and kitchens, but both were empty.

Returning to his room, he managed to open the window onto a London that seemed eerily silent. Then he started to pick out details that confirmed London was similarly void of life. There was no traffic and no pedestrians. The city was dark ashen grey, as if covered with a thin layer of soot. In the distance he spotted plumes of smoke, and a single building ablaze, just there in the distance.

Having picked up his travel bag he returned to reception, and tried one final time to call the police. Before leaving, he covered the body of the night porter with a large table cloth. As he stepped outside he noticed the course black grit under foot, and it wasn’t long before he saw another body, then another, a policeman.

Hello he shouted into the distance, and waited momentarily, before setting off for Hyde Park Corner Tube Station. On reaching the station he was surprised to find the gates still shuttered and padlocked. Hyde Park itself looked deserted. Nearby he found the body collapsed by a bicycle. Peter stared at this poor man. His eyes were open. It was as if he had succumbed to fright. Peter picked up the man’s bicycle and rode towards Paddington railway station. It was here that the full horror of what had happened revealed itself. Like most London termini, Paddington never sleeps. But in and around the station he found countless bodies.

What happened?

Startled, Peter turned around to find a station porter, bedraggled and in great distress.

What happened? He porter repeated himself.  

I don’t know. I woke up to find my accommodation empty, apart from the night porter. He was dead. I need to get back to my base. He explained that he was a pilot in the RAF, and suggested they visit the nearest police station.

Don’t bother. It’s full of dead coppers. I survived sleeping in a guards van. They messed up my work rota, so I slept in one of them carriages, otherwise I wouldn’t have made it into work this morning. It’s a liberty having to finish at midnight, then having to start again at seven. I need to go home to my wife and kids. They live in Battersea. What will I find there?

Peter gave him the bicycle, wished him luck, and they parted company. He knew he had to get out of London, and considered travelling north. RAF Hendon was the nearest military base. He could try one of the great army barracks of Greater London, but that meant going towards what he considered to be the epicentre.

He found another bicycle and studied a tourist map of London, displayed outside Paddington station. Studying this he calculated that Hendon was some six miles straight up the Edgware Road. It was then that he noticed the dead bird by his foot. Looking skyward he suddenly realised that London was devoid of pigeons. The silence. The empty sky and blackened streets. For the first time that morning he felt apprehension and fear. London was dead and frightfully silent.

Suddenly he heard a jet aircraft flying overhead. He looked up to see a Canberra bomber flying at about 10,000ft. This reassured him. He then knew this calamity was probably only confined to London. Turning onto Edgware Road, Peter was stopped in his tracks. Later he would admit that he had more or less worked out the cause of this calamity, but the remains of a canister proved his suspicions.

The canister had just missed a parked car. Its fragmented remains littered the road. An intact canister, one that dispensed the deadly black smoke, was approximately eighteen inches in diameter and approximately five feet in length, and made from a black Bakelite like material. Each canister also contained several strands of pure copper, though it is unclear for what purpose. And all around was this black grit. It covered roads and paths, buildings and vehicles. Black Smoke was as deadly a Martian weapon as the heat ray. Peter knew I owned a small glass medicine bottle filled with course black powder, recovered from an archaeology dig near Kew Gardens.

Is that someone, over there? he thought. No! He gazed from one building to another, and from one window to another. All the while cycling up the middle of the road, from where he spotted numerous bodies. Each showed the same frightful and violent conclusion, with open mouths and staring, pleading eyes.

It was approaching midday, and Peter was becoming thirsty. But the shops were shuttered, and he didn’t want to venture beyond his track north.

He then stopped abruptly, and turned. There