by Holly Green
On the evening of March 9th Ralph came back from a briefing and Tom knew at once that they were about to go into action.
‘This is it,’ Ralph said, rubbing his hands. ‘We go up the line at zero four-thirty. The bombardment will start at zero six-thirty and this time the artillery are going to concentrate all their fire on the primary objective, which is the Boche first line of trenches. Once they have been reduced, we go in and the artillery moves the target to the next objective.’
‘Which is?’
‘The village and the Bois du Biez. Ultimately, if all goes well, we shall take the Aubers Ridge, which will deprive the enemy of the high ground. If we can do that we shall have cut through the German lines. So, this is the big push – and you’ll see it all happening, you lucky devil! We poor bloody infantry never get to see the big picture. All we know is what’s happening within about forty feet of us.’
‘Well, I’ll show you the pictures when you get back,’ Tom said, trying to keep his voice even.
Ralph turned away, holding his hands to the warmth of the primus stove. ‘Oh,’ he said, as casually as if he was saying he would not be home for dinner, ‘I shan’t be back. I know that. I’ve been lucky so far but I know my number’s up this time.’
Tom strode across the intervening space and grabbed him by the shoulders, swinging him round to face him. ‘Don’t talk like that! You can’t know anything of the sort.’
Ralph shrugged and looked away. ‘I do. I can’t explain how. I just feel it.’
‘That’s nonsense! Can’t you see that thinking like that is the best way to ensure that you don’t come back? You have to make up your mind that you’re going to survive.’ He paused, struggling for words. ‘Listen, what would you say to one of your men if he told you he was sure he was going to die in the next attack?’
Ralph’s eyes swivelled from side to side in the effort to avoid Tom’s gaze. ‘I’d tell him to stow that sort of defeatist talk. But I’m not telling them how I feel. Give me some credit!’
‘Do you think they can’t guess? You don’t have to put it into words. It’s there in your eyes. They need you, Ralph! What will they do without their officer? You have to come back for their sakes. You owe it to them to do your damnedest to survive.’
For a moment Ralph continued to look from side to side as if searching for a way of escape. Then Tom felt his shoulders begin to shake and he ducked his head, but not before Tom had seen his eyes well up with tears. Without further hesitation, Tom did what he had longed to do so often before and put his arms round him. Ralph burrowed into his shoulder and Tom held him tightly, rubbing his face into the dishevelled chestnut hair. For a moment they clung together without speaking, then Ralph pulled away, blew his nose and walked out of the door. Tom took a step or two after him, then thought better of it and instead busied himself putting the kettle on the primus.
Ralph came back after ten minutes or so, huddling his greatcoat round his ears. ‘Bloody hell! I thought it was supposed to be spring! It’s snowing out there.’
‘Never mind,’ Tom said, carefully casual. ‘Come and have a hot cup of tea.’
*
Neither of them slept much that night and it was still snowing at 4 am when Ralph left to join his men in the reserve trenches. There was no repeat of the emotional scene of the previous evening. Ralph checked that his revolver was fully loaded, shrugged on his greatcoat and said lightly, ‘Cheerio, old man!’ and Tom replied, ‘See you later.’
When it was light Tom reported to his position at the balloon launching point, where Wally was waiting for him. This time he kept his eyes shut until he felt that the basket had stopped swinging and managed to avoid a repeat of the sickness that had overtaken him before. They had just reached their intended height when the British guns opened up in a barrage that was more intense than any Tom had ever heard.
‘By George, they’re giving the Boche a proper pasting!’ Wally exclaimed. Tom agreed and wondered if the Germans had any idea what the sequel would be. He peered eagerly across the expanse of no-man’s-land and saw the shells bursting on the trenches with their barbed-wire entanglements. So far, so good. The sound of aircraft engines caused him a sudden lurch of alarm but Wally said quickly, ‘It’s OK. They’re ours. See?’
Three planes bearing the red, white and blue roundels of the Royal Flying Corps, appeared from the south and began to patrol over the battleground. They were almost at the same height as the balloon and it was the first chance Tom had had to study one at close quarters.
‘Those things look as if they’re held to together with paper and string,’ he commented.
‘You’re absolutely right!’ Wally agreed. ‘Give me a balloon any day.’
‘Just a minute! What is that chap doing?’ Tom pointed to the nearest aircraft. The planes were manned by two men and, as he watched, the observer leaned over the side of the cockpit and dropped something. Seconds later they saw the puff of an explosion close to the German trench.
‘A bomb, by God!’ Wally exclaimed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve seen that.’
Before long the planes turned and headed for home but the barrage continued for half an hour. Tom was sketching busily when he was startled by the sound of a bugle and Wally exclaimed, ‘There they go!’ Staring through his field glasses Tom saw men scrambling up out of the front-line trenches and swarming across no-man’s-land. There was something inhuman about the sight and he found himself thinking of ants or locusts – or maybe lemmings. The first of them were well across before the Germans, presumably startled out of their early morning lethargy, opened fire. Tom saw men falling and soon the ground was littered with bodies, but the wave of attackers rolled on and the leaders reached the German trenches. At that point Tom could no longer follow what was happening, or distinguish friend from foe. The infantrymen poured over the rim of the trench and what went on beyond it was hidden, even from his vantage point.
Suddenly, figures appeared on the far side of the trenches, running across the clear ground towards the village.
‘By God, they’ve got them on the run!’ Wally shouted. ‘They’ve bloody done it. They’ve taken the first trenches!’
Today, as well as the line tethering the balloon to the winch, they were trailing another wire connected to a field telephone, through which they were to relay their observations to the ground. Tom wound the handle and when a voice crackled down the line in answer he reported that the first phase of the attack appeared to have been successful.
The British soldiers were surging towards Neuve Chappelle now and soon disappeared again amongst the ruined buildings. Other units were spreading out across the plain while more poured out of the trenches. Movement to the south caught Tom’s attention.
‘Where do that lot think they’re going?’ he asked. ‘They’re heading straight for a section where the wire hasn’t been cut.’
He wound the telephone again and reported that one unit appeared to have lost their sense of direction and were heading for disaster, but whether the fact was passed on to HQ he never knew. Perhaps it was impossible to communicate with the wandering unit. Either way, he watched helplessly as the soldiers threw themselves uselessly against the strongly defended section and were cut down almost to a man.
The fighting around the village went on for another two hours but by midday it seemed to have died down.
‘It looks as though we’ve done it,’ Wally said cheerfully.
‘I thought we were supposed to move on to take the wood and Aubers Ridge,’ Tom responded.
‘Waiting for reinforcements, I expect,’ Wally said.
The artillery barrage had refocused on the ridge but Tom, watching through his glasses, realised that many of the shells were falling short. He reported the fact, but it seemed to make no difference. Before long they saw several companies moving out of the village in the direction of the ridge, but the Germans were ready for them now and the wire, it seemed, was still intact. Tom saw more men fall and at length the
remainder retreated to the village.
‘Where are the reinforcements?’ Tom demanded, of the air. ‘God knows, I’m no military strategist, but it’s obvious we can’t hold onto the gains we’ve made without more men.’
When darkness fell, the situation was more or less unchanged. The balloon was winched down and Tom went to the command centre to give a fuller account of what he had observed. He raised the question of reinforcements and was told that there had been a delay. No one seemed to know quite why, or where the new units were at that precise moment. Tom went back to his billet but was unable to rest. Eventually, he made his way up the line to the forward dressing station, hoping and at the same time dreading to get news of Ralph. No one knew where he was, but it was assumed that he was with his men in Neuve Chappelle. Tom spent most of the night at the grim task of listing the names of the dead and dying.
After four hours sleep he was back at his post in the balloon, watching helplessly as attack after attack was thrown back by the German second line of defence. There was still no sign of the promised reinforcements. Then his glasses picked up movement on the Aubers Ridge and he saw, to his dismay, columns of fresh German troops advancing. He wound the handle on the telephone desperately.
‘Tell HQ that German reinforcements are approaching from the ridge. I can’t estimate numbers yet but there are a lot of them. Our men need back-up urgently!’
He saw the final reserves brought forward and pushed into the line. The British forces were entrenched in what had been the enemy strong points and mounted a stubborn resistance, and by evening it was obvious that a stalemate had been reached. The Germans were unable to push them back, but the advantage of the early success had been lost and the ridge had not been taken. What the cost in lives had been, for the gain of a few yards, Tom could not begin to estimate.
By noon the next day a truce had been declared so that both sides could bury their dead and Tom was relieved of his duty. He made his way forward, through the British trenches and across no-man’s-land, stepping over bodies so mud plastered that it was hard to tell from their uniform which side they belonged to. In the German trenches there were more bodies, and burial parties were picking their way among them but Tom did not recognise any Coldstream uniforms. He asked several times for information but no one seemed to know where any particular units were. In the confusion they had become inextricably mixed.
He found some of Ralph’s men eventually, hunkered down in a German dugout on the outskirts of the village.
‘Where is Lieutenant Malham Brown?’ he asked.
A corporal struggled to his feet. ‘Sorry, sir. We’ve no idea. He was ahead of us when we pushed out of the first enemy trench but there was a lot of hand-to-hand business when we reached the village and I lost sight of him. We’ve scouted round but we couldn’t find any sign of him. We think perhaps he pushed on towards the ridge without waiting for us.’
Tom suddenly understood the force of the cliché ‘his heart sank’. It was as if some vital force was draining out of his body as he remembered watching the advancing lines thrown back time after time, and the landscape scattered with bodies.
‘I’ll keep looking,’ he said thickly and stumbled on.
He found Ralph at last, standing under the crucifix in the village square, his uniform in tatters, his revolver dangling from one hand, his face blank and deathly white. He looked up as Tom approached and shook his head slowly.
‘I don’t know what to do, Tom.’ He sounded like a bewildered child. ‘There are too many of them.’ He made a movement of his free hand to indicate the bodies heaped around him.
Tom took him by the arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to do anything. The burial parties will see to them. Come along. Your men need you. This way.’
Ralph looked at him and there was a hint of new life in his eyes. ‘My men? They’re not all dead?’
‘No. I’ve seen some of them. Come on. I’ll show you.’
He tugged his arm gently and Ralph roused himself as if waking from sleep and let himself be led away.
Chapter 9
In Calais, as winter turned slowly to spring, life at Lamarck continued in the same routine. Casualties were collected from the trains and transported to the hospitals or, in the case of the most severely wounded, directly to the hospital ships in the harbour. The patients had to be fed and bathed; dressings had to be changed; and there was the occasional variation of a trip up to the front line to distribute comforts and collect casualties. The work was unremitting and carried out against a background of Zeppelin raids, limited rations and inadequate sleep. Amazingly, in the middle of it all, Ashley Smith, whose command had transformed the FANY into the efficient organisation it now was, found time to get married and became Mrs MacDougall – known from then on to everyone as Mac.
There were more vehicles now. They had three ambulances, converted trucks with canvas hoods and no windscreens, two lorries, which were used for carrying supplies, and, of course, Sparky, who was pressed into service to carry the less seriously wounded – designated ‘sitters’ rather than ‘liers’ (a terminology that gave rise to some considerable amusement among the troops). Leo saw less of Victoria these days, because as one of the most experienced drivers she was more often put in charge of this side of the work.
Every day at ten in the morning they all met in the common room at the top of the building, in the steamy fug produced by the freshly laundered sheets that hung on clothes horses around the big black stove. There, for a few precious minutes, they drank tea, ate biscuits and swapped stories. One morning Victoria rushed in, breathless with amusement.
‘I say, girls, come and look at this!’
They crowded to the window and Leo saw in the courtyard below a quite extraordinary looking vehicle.
‘What on earth is it?’ she asked.
‘Mobile baths,’ Victoria replied.
They all clattered down the stone stairs and found ‘Boss’ talking to two unknown young women in FANY uniform. The elder of the two turned to greet them.
‘Good morning. I’m Gamwell – Marion – and this is my sister Hope.’
‘Is it really a mobile bath?’ Leo asked.
‘Baths, plural,’ was the reply. ‘Come and have a look.’ As many of them as possible crowded into the vehicle and Marion went on, ‘It’s a forty horsepower Daimler engine and the chassis has been specially fitted out. There’s a boiler here – you see? – with a tank and a pump, and six canvas baths on either side, all divided off with these canvas screens.’
‘That’s marvellous!’ Leo exclaimed. ‘And it really works?’
‘Well, proof of the pudding and all that …’ Marion said with grin. ‘But we’ve tested all the equipment and we should be able to bathe twelve men every fifteen minutes – say forty-eight an hour. And what’s more, we can boil up their clothes as well.’
‘It’s exactly what’s needed,’ Lilian Franklin said. ‘Most of the men are ridden with lice, poor things. No wonder there is so much typhus.’
Leo found that the days began to blur into each other, each of them a long round of backbreaking labour. To her intense distress, she discovered that the resilience and self-confidence that had carried her through the mud of Chataldzha and the squalor of Adrianople seemed to have deserted her. Then, she had been buoyed up by the excitement of strange surroundings and new experiences; and there had been, of course, the vital frisson of knowing that Sasha Malkovic was somewhere nearby. Now, the work had become a matter of routine, there were few distractions in Calais, and she was more acutely aware than ever of the pointless waste and misery of war.
Her depression was deepened by the news from the front. She knew from letters forwarded from Sussex Gardens that Tom and Ralph were somewhere in the Ypres salient and she dreaded going to pick up casualties from the train one morning and finding one or both of them there. But her worst imaginings were centred on what was happening in Serbia. In November the Austrians had occupied Belgrad
e but then, in a determined counter-attack, the Serbs had retaken it and pushed forward into Bosnia and Croatia. Max had ceased to write and she had no way of knowing whether he had been killed in the fighting, or had fled the country, or whether he was still at his post but unable to get letters out. Either way, she had no news of Sasha and no way of knowing if he was alive or dead.
Strangely, it was the behaviour of her colleagues that she found hardest to tolerate. At the outset, she’d had private doubts about how some of her fellow FANYs, with their highly privileged upbringing, would react when faced with real casualties. It was one thing to be full of fun and enthusiasm at camp in England but could they cope with the real thing? She soon had to recognise that they coped superbly. Their main resource was humour, much of it of a fairly black variety. They had the capacity to transform even the most gruesome occurrences into jokes that left them all doubled up with giggles. All, except Leo. She found herself unable to join in the laughter and every day it grated more and more on her nerves.
One morning in the common room she found herself screaming at the top of her voice. ‘Stop it! Stop it! It’s not funny! How can you laugh like that? You’re like a lot of little children! Stop it, for God’s sake!’ In the stunned silence that followed she was overwhelmed by a wave of anguish. She clasped her hands over her ears and sank down on a bale of blankets that served as a stool, sobbing desolately.
