From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 19 June 1897, 22:02 GMT:
It was a clear moonless night. The stars were brilliant, but cool and unsympathetic. I thought about Mars, now below the western horizon. “They’ve not sent any more cylinders,” I said. “I keep wondering why.”
“Perhaps there’s a problem with their launcher,” said Persephone.
“You’re very perceptive,” I said taking her hand. “You take after your grandfather.”
She smiled. “I’m a keen observer, like him.” Her hand tightened around mine.
“Indeed. If it’s trouble with whatever the Martians use to hurl their cylinders at us, it’s a stroke of luck.”
I looked at Persephone. We smiled at each other. I found myself taking a definite liking towards the young suffragette. If… If…
“Help!” We turned around to see Persephone’s father stumbling out of the house towards us. He was bleeding from his face. “Mr. Farmer attacked me!”
Maxim fell into his daughter’s arms. “…when I came to, he was gone… so was my revolver.”
“You’ve a nasty wound.” I got him to his feet as his daughter cleaned away the blood from his face.
“…what’s more,” said Maxim, “the explosives I was experimenting with in my shop are gone.”
“You don’t think Mr. Farmer’s gone after the Martians on his own?” asked Persephone.
“Undoubtedly,” I said as we walked Maxim back to the house. “We can’t go after him, or we’ll risk giving ourselves away. The poor mad fool must’ve overheard us. I don’t know what he has planned.”
We got to the house and lay Maxim on the cot in his workshop. Maxim reached out to Persephone. “With my injuries, I can’t take the flying machine up tomorrow.”
“I can pilot,” she said. “But I will need someone to drop the explosives.” She looked at me. “Roger, can you help?”
Persephone’s comment that the Martian’s failure to send more capsules was “perhaps a problem with their launcher,” was more accurate than she had guessed at the time.
Recent investigations for this production have confirmed that the Martian launcher was in fact destroyed by a by a powerful beam of electromagnetic energy projected by Mr. Nikola Tesla from his laboratory in Colorado Springs, U.S.A. The search for the Martian launcher, begun at the invasion’s onset, was a carried out by observatories around the world linked by telegraph.
Once again, as Carter confirmed this in a note added to his journal in 1898, it is unclear why this was neglected by Wells in his own history.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 07:30 GMT:
‘You’re sure now, sir?” Sergeant Howard regarded Maxim’s flying machine and its long catapult track with scepticism.
“I’m not,” I said, “but if there’s a chance that it’ll work, I need to be here. I trust you and Lieutenant Mann have deployed per my orders?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Carry on then, Sergeant -Major Howard,” I saluted and shook his hand. “And take care of yourself.”
“You too, sir. And don’t worry about Mr. Farmer, sir. We’ll keep an eye out for him.”
“Very good, Sergeant. Don’t be tardy.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, sir.” Howard smiled.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 07:52 GMT:
I sat strapped into the bow of the Maxim’s flying craft. Persephone sat behind me her hands gripping the tiller. Occasionally, she would make an adjustment to the throttle lever, causing the giant steam engine driving a four-bladed airscrew to thunder and shake the machine.
I carried a bag of dart-like grenades in my lap that I were to drop on the enemy when we passed over. The machine shook around us, its engine at full power, restrained on the catapult track by the locking mechanisms. “Ready to go?” Persephone leaned over and yelled in my ear.
I leaned back and nodded at her.
I felt the clamps holding us back disengage. We surged ahead, picking up speed as went, racing dizzyingly towards the end of the track that curved up into space. The wind whistled past my ears. I saw the end of the track come up and we fell.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:02 GMT:
We were flying! Somehow, we fell and staggered into the sky, lurching from one air current to the other. We started to rise. We were just as good as the Martians: we could fly too! As we rose above the roofless houses, I could make out the green star drifting above Horsell.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:06 GMT:
We passed over the artillery position, some 80 feet below. I could see the men below wave excitedly to us, including Maxim. I definitely owed him an apology. Despite the life-and-death struggle we faced, I joined Persephone in grinning and waving madly to our comrades below.
The artillery resumed firing as we left them. I could see the shell land in the pit, but short of the tower. I could see our men in the trench line, supported by the machine gunners, firing into the pit, trying to prevent the Martians from gaining their fighting-machines.
We began a turn to starboard, so that our path would take us over the pit. I reached for one of the grenades, primed it by twisting the firing pin in the nose. I leaned over, released it. There was a satisfying sound of an explosion. I looked up: the tower was directly ahead.
“The tower!” I grabbed Persephone by the hand and pointed ahead. She nodded, throttling up the engine.
“Ulla! Ulla!” Suddenly, a fighting-machine reared up in front of us. The flying machine made a hard turn to port, as the Martian tried to bring its Heat Ray to bear on us.
I picked up a pair of grenades. I primed them and threw them at the Martian. They exploded harmlessly as they hit the carapace. I felt a flash of blistering heat behind me Persephone! I turned around. Persephone struggled with the tiller while the rudder of the aircraft burned.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:20 GMT:
“Carver! Wake up!” I felt a hand shaking my shoulders. Slowly, I opened my eyes. I hurt in several places. Farmer knelt over me. Half his face was a mass of burnt red flesh, swollen, and cracked. Nonetheless, he smiled grotesquely when he saw me open my eyes. “I saw you crash.”
“Persephone?” I sat up.
“Still unconscious.” Farmer wheezed. “I’ve hidden her behind your craft’s wings. Amazing machine, really.” For a brief second, he was his old self, but only. “Your friends have managed to damage the tower, but it’s still standing.”
“We must destroy it.”
I looked around. Much of the pit looked like a scene out of Dante’s Inferno, consumed by smoke and fire. The wreckage of the Martian tripod lay toppled with smoke rising from its cracked carapace. Alarmingly, I saw a single unmoving grey tentacle dangling from the opening.
“Don’t worry,” Farmer laughed unevenly, looking at the tentacle. “He’s quite dead.” He helped me up and patted a canvas bag that hung over his side. “I took some of the explosives that the old man was working on in his lab. I needed your grenades, but here’s his gun.”
I took Maxim’s revolver, a big Webley from Farmer. It was still loaded. “You could’ve injured him seriously when you attacked him.”
“I had to do it, old man.” Farmer shrugged. “Fortunes of war and all that.”
I looked back where Persephone lay, safe for now. “Let’s go.”
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:42 GMT:
Farmer and I carefully moved along through crater, picking our way by the shattered remains of a low, spider-like machine with five metallic legs and two claw-like appendages in its front. I smiled. It looked like it had taken a direct hit from the 12-pounder. The thing was dead.
The tower, leaning broadly, stood in front of us, beside the open cylinder which was about the size of an apartment block. Suddenly our own gunfire which had been in the background, stopped. “Sounds like they’re about to storm the crater,” I said, looking at Farmer.
“The more the merrier!” Farmer laughed uproariously. We passed by the open maw of the cylinder. It looked like the mouth of an ancient monster. Yet, from inside, I could hear a small girl crying.
“Farmer!” I said, “Do you hear that?” The child’s sobbing echoed out of the dark.
“The child’s dead already,” said Farmer.
“She’s still alive!”
Farmer laughed. “You go save the bloody child, for all it matters. I’ll tend to the tower.” “Here, you’ll need these, old man.” He passed me two grenades. Then taking out a metal cylinder, he pushed a button on its lid. “I have this.”
I looked at Farmer. In a short time, he had changed irrevocably. Not just physically, but morally, spiritually. One way or another, we had all changed. For the better or worse, I didn’t know. We waved at each other. He went on his way; I went on mine.
I would not see him again.
Pistol drawn, I advanced into the open maw of the cylinder. “Hello?” I called out.
As I probed deeper, my eyes gradually became aware to the dim reddish light around me. This must be what daylight looks like on Mars. At the same time, I became aware of an overwhelming stench.
The cavern around me stank of rotting flesh. I repressed a shiver. God only knew what that meant. “Hello.” I called. “Hullo?” A small voice answered back. I stepped further in, pistol in hand. In the red gloom I could see a small blonde-haired girl in a ragged dress.
“Are you taking me home?” asked the girl. She was strapped down on something like the wrecked machine outside. A transparent tube ran from the machine’s innards to her arm. Every once in a while, the girl would groan and a pulse of red liquid would run from her into the machine.
They were milking her blood! “I most certainly am.” I stuck the Webley into my belt. I tried to grab the tube only be blocked by a metallic arm with a claw at the end of it, which darted in front of me. “I don’t think he’ll let you,” she said nodding to something behind me.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 08:43 GMT:
“I don’t think he’ll let you,” the child said nodding to something behind me.
“He?” I spun around, pulling out my gun. It was then I saw my first Martian.
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 09:02 GMT:
I beheld the Martian: a large greyish-brown misshapen head with pulsing veins and delicate whip-link tentacles protruding from its sides. Two tiny soulless beady black eyes regarded me impassively, set above a small beaklike mouth that sucked red fluid through a glass straw.
So this was one of the Master Race, one of the would-be conquers of Earth. I felt revulsed. But I also sensed something else. I was able to gather a series of impressions from the Martian. Telepathy? I sensed a brutal disdain for humanity, as we clearly didn’t matter to it.
I gripped my pistol. Yet I sensed something else. Something I sensed when I was on China Station and once cleared out an opium den. Confused satisfaction. Addiction! The Martians were addicted to human blood! I raised my pistol and squeezed the trigger.
The Martian reeled as the bullets struck its misshapen form. Anger directed at me filled my head, as the alien strained to rear its bulk against me, fighting earth’s gravity. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my two grenades. I twisted the two priming caps and threw them.
“Maxim,” I said, “make sense!”
“That cylinder – it’s a prototype of a new explosive I’ve been developing. I named after my daughter – Persephone’s mother – Carol… Carolinium. When that mad fool sets that bomb off, it’ll destroy everything in this pit.”
“What about the button?”
“He’s activated the delay timer. We have less than thirty minutes to escape!”
“Sergeant Howard,” I called out, with a rising sense of urgency, “Fall back.”
“You heard him,” Howard called to the men, “fall back – double time!”
We ran to the edge of the pit to a break in the smoke.
“Sir,” said Howard, eyeing the break in the smoke suspiciously, “we don’t have gas masks for everyone. Not including the little girl.” He reached for his mask. “Here, sir.” He took off his mask. “I’m an old man. Let the child have mine. I’ll take my chances with the smoke.”
“Keep your mask,” Sergeant,” I said, giving it back to him. “The child already has mine. Professor Maxim says the air should be clear enough if I go straight up the middle.”
“Aye, sir.” Howard saluted me. “Mind if I say, Mr. Carver, it’s been a pleasure serving with you.”
From the personal log of Lt Roger Carver, Royal Marines, HMS Thunder Child, 20 June 1897, 09:17 GMT:
I tried to hold my breath as we ran up the slope. I stayed to the clearest path, where I could see a patch of blue sky. My lungs began to fill with acrid smoke. I stumbled, picked myself up and kept going.
I crested the hill but dropped to my knees again, coughing. I could not get up but immediately I felt myself being picked up and carried by Sergeant Howard. “It’ll be all right, sir. We’re clear of the pit and the smoke.”
“Thank you,” I felt myself croak. My chest was on fire.
We’d proceeded a hundred feet further when I heard Maxim yell for us to go to ground and cover our eyes. There was flash. The ground shook like it had been struck by a hammer. I managed to sit up in time to see black toadstool-shaped cloud, edged with fire, boil up from the pit.
I was sitting in the grass when Persephone joined me, still holding the girl. “Oh Roger.” She hugged me. “Are the Martians…”
“…quite dead – at least here anyway,” I took her hand. I watched the reddish black cloud rise skyward. “I shall never doubt your grandfather again.”
I lost consciousness.
From A Suffragette’s War of the Worlds, by Persephone Maxim-Carver, Maidestone Press, 1916:
My husband spent the next three months recovering in hospital, being treated in an oxygen tent. After the War, medical science, including treatment of the victims of the Black Smoke, grew by leaps and bounds. I visited him daily in his ward, along with Amanda, whom we’d adopted.
To his regret, due to his injuries, Roger would never return to sea. He was promoted to Captain and retired on a full pension. Yet life went on. We married in the fall and Roger became a loving husband and father and divided his time between writing and working with Grandfather.
With the destruction of the Martian tower at Woking, Grandfather’s theories were proven correct, as within the week, all the Martians began to sicken and die. Yet Grandfather sought no reward for his contribution. He was at heart, perhaps a little overwhelmed by what he had done.
Our scientific knowledge increased one hundredfold since the War, partially due to the examination of what the Martians left us, and humanity’s own response. Our increasing mastery of aviation is one such example, along with our early efforts at space travel.
After the war, Mr. Churchill proposed that we arm our new aerocraft with my grandfather’s bomb. This Vengeance or “V” force would be able to strike the Martians wherever they land should they return. Grandfather made it clear he would make no more bombs and the idea died.
The Martians never returned. We know of the Martians’ failed landing on Venus after their failure on Earth. Attempts to contact Mars by wireless were greeted by a great silence. Dr. Goddard and Dr. Tsiolkovsky have suggested we send a robotic messenger rocket to establish contact.
Roger was never terribly fond of the popular history of the War, as related by Mr. H.G. Wells. He complained to Wells at length how he had either left so many details out or reported them incorrectly. Wells told him his story was a work of fictionalized history and poetic license.
Perhaps what disturbed Roger the most, was that while Wells told him he had the right to tell his own story, people would find it too hard to believe. “People believe the Martians because they’ve lived it. But a tower that protects from being ill? And Maxim’s bomb? Unbelievable.”
For their actions at Woking, both Grandfather and Roger were knighted by Her Majesty at the National Service of Thanksgiving, that Christmas Eve on the steps of the fire-blackened St. Paul’s Cathedral. Sergeant Howard received a Victoria Cross for his role in the action.
Of course, I – and all women of the Empire – received a great gift of our own in 1902: the electoral franchise.