They are a few miles away from their previous position near Locre, but they have not abandoned their plan to go into no-man’s-land and flush out at least one of the snipers who has been wreaking so much havoc in the British trenches. However, their plan has been modified following their brief stay in Poperinghe on their way back from leave in London.
There they heard about a young Welsh sniper who has been christened the Black-handed Assassin. He is one of the first recruits to a new army School of Sniping. Currently recuperating in Pop-Hop, one of the army’s field hospitals in the town, Harry thinks he would be an ideal partner in their venture.
Sunday 28 February
British Army Field Hospital, Provost Lace Mill, Poperinghe, West Flanders, Belgium
After several weeks of relative quiet at Pop-Hop, during which most of the casualties have been caused by disease, neglect and squalor, the number of injuries from military activity is beginning to rise again. The hospital’s doctors, nurses, orderlies and ambulance drivers know about changes in German tactics before Sir John French’s HQ at St Omer. They just count the number of men on stretchers and the nature of their injuries. By calculating the balance between wounds caused by artillery, rifle or machine-gun and trench-fighting injuries like bayonet wounds and head traumas caused by improvised weapons, they know with some accuracy what kind of encounter has just taken place. Their statistics go back to the Royal Army Medical Corps HQ in London to help better prepare medical recruits and garner resources and supplies more accurately.
The most dependable planning for the number of incoming wounded to Pop-Hop comes from the arithmetic of artillery attacks. Seasoned medics can calculate with astonishing accuracy the number of likely arrivals, both dead and wounded, from the proximity of the shelling, its intensity and the duration of the bombardment. With a margin of only a few minutes, they are even able to predict the timing of the first arrivals from the Front.
Pop-Hop’s Captain Noel Chavasse has been listening and calculating. He has summoned Margaret Killingbeck, sister-in-charge of the night duty.
‘Fifteen minutes, Sister. Artillery again; a heavy one this time: fifty to sixty stretcher cases; twenty-five for theatre. Check with the theatre sisters and organize the chloroform; alert the orderlies and ward sisters.’
‘Will do, sir. Will you be operating tonight?’
‘Yes, with Lieutenants McKinnell and Cunningham.’
As Chavasse gets ready to operate, Margaret prepares the emergency teams and sends Nursing Auxiliary Bronwyn Thomas, her friend and room-mate, on a vital errand to the outside stores.
‘Bron, take two orderlies. We’re expecting sixty but have only twenty-two beds. We need forty put-me-ups from the stores. Have them placed in the corridors on each floor.’
The first of a steady stream of wounded men begin to arrive barely two minutes beyond Chavasse’s prediction. Chavasse has also been uncannily accurate about the number of casualties. Fifty-seven men are admitted. The operating theatres work all night and, by dawn, forty-nine men are still alive. There have been twelve amputations: eight legs, two arms at the elbow, one at the shoulder and a hand. Two men have lost an eye and one has been blinded. Twenty-six bullets have been excised and half a bucket has been filled with shrapnel. One piece, as big as a man’s fist, was removed from the thigh of a Gordon Highlander. He lost the leg but somehow survived the ordeal and has a modest chance of recovery.
The time has passed quickly, the only saving grace on a typically busy night at Pop-Hop. The orderlies are sluicing the floors of the operating theatres and carrying away the residue of the night’s work: the dead to the mortuary; the body parts to a lime pit dug for the purpose – unless, of course, the remnant belongs to one of the dead, in which case they try their best to add it to the right corpse.
The Monday-morning shift has already been working for over an hour when Margaret and Bronwyn finish all their tasks and find time for breakfast in the hospital canteen. Mushroom omelette is the dish of the day, a rare treat, and the two women are devouring it with an unladylike relish. They have already forgotten the names and faces of the men they have just treated, both the living and the dead. Apparent indifference is a necessary part of the defence mechanism of those treating casualties at the Front. If medical staff allow themselves to become emotionally involved with their patients, they will crumble within a week. Only rarely do casualties become more than yet another anonymous man in khaki. When they do – a particularly badly injured or brave warrior, or a victim not much older than a boy who charms those treating him – it is a dangerous indulgence for those who need to stay immune from normal human emotions. Badly injured men usually die and charming boys eventually go home to their mothers, bringing more sadness to what is already an almost unbearable burden.
As the two women finish their omelettes and begin to swig their mugs of tea, Bronwyn’s brother Hywel joins them.
‘Good, was it, girls?’ he asks.
Bronwyn grins at him. ‘Don’t think it touched the sides.’ She notices that Hywel is also smiling broadly. ‘You look like you’ve either been touching up Nurse Jones again, or you’ve had some good news.’
‘Both. I had some good news about an hour ago, so went round for a grope of Wendy’s arse to celebrate.’
Margaret thinks she knows what the good news is. ‘Dr Chavasse says you can leave Pop-Hop?’
‘Correct, Margaret! Next Friday; can’t wait.’
Both women grab Hywel by the neck and shriek, causing everyone in the canteen to turn around and offer their own congratulations. Many come up to shake Hwyel’s hand, making sure to grasp the uninjured left hand he offers them. Hywel, now known as the Black-handed Assassin because of his reputation as a sniper, grins but is clearly embarrassed by the adulation. As all three have been working nights, breakfast is their supper, so Margaret suggests that they go into Pop to celebrate Hywel’s news at La Maison de Ville, their favourite estaminet.
At 11 a.m., by which time they have consumed another breakfast and emptied a carafe and a half of wine, the need for sleep overcomes them. Bronwyn and Margaret make their way back to their room, while Hywel, somewhat the worse for wear, staggers back to his tiny bunk in Pop-Hop.
When he reaches the reception area he sees two formidable figures arrive at the doorway just behind him. Both colour serjeants, they are immediately recognizable as Fusiliers from their cap badges. Their craggy demeanour and the claret-and-blue ribbons of their Distinguished Conduct Medals suggest they are veterans, men of the first batch of arrivals of the BEF in France. The two men are Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait, 4th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers. Maurice calls out to Hywel.
‘Excuse me, son, we’re looking for Colour Serjeant Thomas, Welch Fusiliers.’
‘There are lots of Thomases in Welsh regiments.’
Harry bristles. ‘Listen, laddie, you’re supposed to answer “Serjeant” when addressing a senior NCO.’
‘Sorry, Serjeant, and you’re supposed to address me as “Orderly”.’
‘You cheeky little –’
Maurice intervenes to prevent an unnecessary altercation. ‘We’re lookin’ for a Thomas who’s a sniper. They call him the Black-handed Assassin.’
‘That’s me. How can I help you?’
Hywel is dressed in the plain khaki uniform of a medical orderly, complete with an embossed red cross on his sleeve. Maurice looks baffled.
‘Sorry, Colour, we thought you was –’
‘I am. I’m working as an orderly until my hand’s healed.’
‘So you’re a sniper?’
‘I am.’
Harry is always more blunt than Maurice and always prepared to say exactly what he thinks. ‘Fuck me, you must be good to make Colour Serjeant at your age.’
‘I am, but listen, I’ve had a bucket of grog and I’m on duty at eight tonight. I need to get some kip.’
‘We need to buy you another ’alf a bucket before you do. Where’s the nearest boozer?’
�
��You want me to do some sniping for you?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Don’t you have any good shots in your battalion?’
‘Not as good as you’re supposed to be.’
‘I don’t think I can help. I’m joining the new army School of Sniping when I’m discharged at the end of the week.’
‘In Blighty?’
‘I think so.’
‘Don’t wan’ another pop at Fritz before yer scarper?’
Intrigued and not a little overawed by the two East Londoners, five minutes later Hywel is back at La Maison de Ville, this time with a jug of beer in his hand. Harry continues his pointed questions: ‘So, how can yer shoot wiv an ’ole in yer ’and?’
‘Captain Chavasse is a magician as a surgeon; I’ve only lost the use of my middle fingers. Then he got a reinforced glove made for me in London. It’s very simple, but very clever; I’m as steady as a rock with it.’
‘But it’s your right ’and.’
‘I’m left-handed.’
Two more beers later, with many soldiers’ stories told, and Hywel, now very drunk, admitting that he has a score to settle with a German sniper, Maurice comes to the point of their visit.
‘You know you said you wanted to nail the Fritz sniper wot plugged your officer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we can ’elp yer get ’im, an’ probably some of ’is mates. Like you, we ’ave our reasons to do fer at least one of those dead-eyed dickheads.’
‘But how?’
‘It’s a full moon tonight, an’ for the next three or four nights. ’Arry an’ me is gonna flush ’im out, an’ you can pop the bugger.’
‘Have you cleared it with your CO?’
‘Definitely not; this is an old soldiers’ operation. Strictly on the QT.’
Hywel is due to go back on the day shift on Tuesday; Harry and Maurice’s offer gives him an ideal opportunity to deal with his unfinished business from November last year.
‘All right, you’re on. Tuesday or Wednesday, if we get a clear night.’
‘Good lad!’
Maurice hands Hywel a piece of paper. ‘We’ve just been moved to Rosendale Chateau, near Wulvergem. We’re stood down, but in support. This is how to find us. There’s a serjeants’ mess in the basement; we’ll meet you there, 21:00 hours.’
As the three colour serjeants are plotting their mission into no-man’s-land, Margaret and Bronwyn are, even though it is only lunchtime, enjoying a nightcap. They have both become fond of pastis. For many of the medical staff at the Front, cheap French alcohol is one of the few ways of bearing the ordeal of long, exhausting hours in the midst of so much death and suffering.
They are both fairly tipsy and, led by Bronwyn’s earthy sense of humour, are in fits of giggles, telling nurses’ stories of bedpans, catheters and male appendages. Margaret is laughing so much she has tears running down her cheeks. She looks at Bronwyn’s radiant face, and feels, as ever, a strong attraction to her. Despite the fact that she is petrified about what the answer might be, she asks a question she has been wanting to ask for some weeks.
‘What became of that Guards officer who took you out a few times?’
In an instant, Bronwyn’s face loses all its joyfulness. ‘He’s dead.’
An awful, gravid silence ensues until Margaret speaks. Now she is weeping tears not of elation but of anguish. ‘Bron, I’m so sorry.’
‘He was blown up last week; a direct hit into his trench. What was left of him was buried nearby. Thank God he didn’t come here – I wouldn’t have coped with that too well.’
‘Had you fallen for him?’
‘Not really. He was very sweet, but only a boy.’
‘And you’re only a girl.’
‘Yes, but Philip spoiled me for boys; he was such a beast. I still think about him.’
They are both lying on Bronwyn’s bed, side by side, still fully dressed. Margaret leans over to Bronwyn and kisses her. Bronwyn does not push her away.
Part Three: March
* * *
GRANNY’S BOOM!
Wednesday 3 March
Reform Club, Pall Mall, London
A very irate and worried Lord of the Admiralty has booked the Cabinet Room, one of the Reform Club’s private dining rooms, for a late lunch with his old friend and colleague in the War Council, Chancellor of the Exchequer David Lloyd George.
‘Winston, why are you so cross? You were rude to that hall porter.’
‘Well, I booked the bloody room an hour ago! How dare he say I didn’t!’
‘He didn’t say you didn’t, he just said he hadn’t got a booking. The office obviously hadn’t told him.’
‘Well, they bloody well should have!’
‘Agreed, but that’s not his fault.’
Winston pauses and stares at one of the few men he regards as his equal. ‘You’re right, of course, LG. I’ll apologize when we leave.’
‘Good. Now tell me the real reason for your grisly mood.’
‘Kitchener! He’s just put me in a very awkward position with the Old Block and enjoyed every moment of it.’
Before Lloyd George can sympathize, a waiter arrives with pre-lunch drinks. After serving them, he is told by Winston, who does not even lift his head, to bring lunch immediately. Unfortunately for the waiter, he suggests the Club claret to accompany lunch.
‘No, certainly not; it’s not good enough to put in a peasant stew!’ says Winston.
Lloyd George intervenes and whispers an aside to his friend. ‘Winston, it’s Wednesday lunchtime, and there’s a war on.’
‘Quite. All the more reason to have a decent bottle.’
Winston turns to the waiter and snaps. ‘Two glasses of Léoville-Barton, ’05, and be quick about it.’
When the waiter leaves, Lloyd George again chastises Winston. ‘You know, you really shouldn’t speak to the staff as if they’re skivvies.’
‘They are skivvies! They’re paid servants of the Club, and well paid too.’
Lloyd George loses patience. ‘Good heavens, man! All too often it becomes patently evident that you’re the grandson of a duke, and a conceited one at that.’
Winston pauses as he scrutinizes the scowl on Lloyd George’s face. ‘Point made, LG. You’re right again. Don’t worry, I’ll leave the man a handsome tip.’
‘Good, but thank him as well. And look him in the eye and smile when you do it; that will make his day.’
Winston, chided like a juvenile, accepts the rebuke. ‘Do you know, David, if your political star ever comes crashing to earth – not that I see any prospect of that, you understand, but should it ever come to pass – you would make an inspirational head of a prep school. The two I had to suffer as a boy were cruel and stupid in equal measure.’
‘I’m sure that’s a copious compliment but, at the moment, I’m not contemplating moving to the comforts of the Home Counties to minister to the snooty and snotty offspring of the great and good.’
By the time the two men begin their lunch, Winston’s preprandial scotch has relaxed him. The two giants of British politics look a little meagre sitting either side of a table big enough to seat fourteen, but both are used to large tables and big rooms. Winston begins to get off his chest the frustrations of the morning.
‘I was summoned by the PM at eleven and told to be at Downing Street in fifteen minutes. I checked with Jacky Fisher as I left: as far as he knew, nothing was brewing or had boiled over. When I got to Number 10, to my consternation Kitchener was with OB in his study. K’s tash, freshly waxed and very erect, like the horns of a prize bull, twitched as I sat down. He smelled blood.’
Lloyd George never resists an opportunity to belittle Britain’s most famous soldier. ‘A prize bull! The old sodomite! I can’t understand why he doesn’t want to send troops to the Dardanelles. If he did, he could reacquaint himself with his old acquaintances, the Ottoman bum-boys he met in Cairo.’
‘LG, don’t interrupt, this is important. K had a teleg
ram in his hand, from Birdwood, a general he has sent to check what Carden is up to.’
‘Isn’t that a bloody cheek?’
‘Not really. If I’m asking him to send troops, then he’s entitled to know how the navy is paving the way.’
‘So, who is this cove Birdwood?’
‘One of K’s coterie, on his staff in South Africa, where I met him briefly. Not a man of great consequence, in my opinion.’
‘What did he have to say?’
‘Well, he’s not very complimentary about the navy or about Admiral Carden. K read out the telegram, the gist of which was that he doubted that Carden could force the Straits, at least in the short term. It seems that the Turkish forts are being dealt with, but that they have brought in mobile artillery pieces. Carden can’t pinpoint them from his ships and can’t get his reconnaissance planes in the air to locate them because of the weather.’
‘It sounds ominous.’
‘I’m concerned, LG. The portents are not good. The Turkish Army is flooding the peninsula with infantry, who are digging in. Carden has telegrammed to say that he has sent some marines ashore, and they got a bloody nose!’
‘I thought the view was that Johnny Turk would capitulate if the Dardanelles were challenged and that there would be a coup in Constantinople.’
‘That was the intelligence from the diplomats.’
‘So much for their intelligence! I have the feeling that their information is no more profound than the gossip of washerwomen. So, what do you think of our prospects in the Straits?’
‘To be frank, LG, it’s not going as expected.’
‘Bugger! I thought Carden said it could be done?’
‘He did. He’s blaming bad weather for the delay.’
‘Is he looking for excuses?’
‘He might be.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘Jacky Fisher and Tug Wilson said he was the right man. Now, I have serious doubts.’
‘Bugger, bugger and buggery! What did the PM say?’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 12
