The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  It has been almost seven weeks since Mick, Vinny and Twaites arrived in Ypres. Their first day was a baptism of fire as they witnessed the horror of the attack on the Irish Convent. The day after the devastation there, the three men were assigned to the 171st Tunnelling Company and sent up the line to billets at Zwarteleen, just three miles south-east of Ypres. Vinny and Twaites survived their Number 2 Field Punishment with very sore, blistered feet but earned some very important kudos among the hard-bitten moles.

  Almost every day since they left Ypres, they have seen similar horrors on the battlefield, as well as experiencing the back-breaking toil and sweat of digging.

  Sitting above the small village of Zwarteleen is a large mound of spoil from the construction of the railway line in the nineteenth century. It is 60 metres high, thus its name, Hill 60. Since November of 1914 the hill has been held by the Germans, affording them a commanding position over the flat landscape of Flanders. Because of its strategic position, the British want it back, so it was chosen as an ideal proving ground for the new army moles.

  But the task did not have an auspicious beginning. Shipped with great speed from England, specialist mining equipment soon arrived; a huge pile of shuttering, digging tools, air and water pumps, clothing and boots was made ready for work to begin. On close inspection, though, the tunnellers were horrified. All except some of the tools were rotten or antiquated, which was hardly surprising, for when the men read the shipping manifest they discovered that the items had been put into storage in 1856, at the end of the Crimean War.

  Since then, the moles have begged, borrowed, stolen or made their own equipment, including the most important piece of all: air pumps. Theirs, although admittedly not sophisticated, are very effective. Made from blacksmiths’ bellows, pumped by a man using bicycle pedals, they supply a hosepipe with clean, fresh air along the entire length of the tunnel.

  The tunnels they have been digging are smaller than those they use in their normal working conditions. Not designed for the extraction of coal or as sewers, they need only be big enough for a man in a crouching position to pass through easily at his shoulders. This makes the work particularly claustrophobic; not a task for the faint-hearted or a man broad of beam. Mick, despite being tall and broad-shouldered, is used to confined spaces and, fortunately, after a few early shivers, Vinny and Twaites have become accustomed to long hours in narrow slits in the bowels of the earth.

  After digging an access shaft 16 feet down, they have slowly made their way across no-man’s-land. They are now more than halfway, 100 yards from their starting point. Their tunnel is designated M1. Running parallel to theirs is M2, dug by another team of moles, mainly ex-sewer clay-kickers from Major Norton-Griffiths’s own company. Now that each has completed 100 yards of tunnel, they will both split into a two-pronged fork which will run right up to the German trench, creating four explosion chambers.

  Besides the rigours of their daily toil, there are also the brutalities of war to endure. Shells landing nearby have come uncomfortably close, on one occasion collapsing a four-yard section of tunnel behind them. Vinny and Twaites panicked, but Mick made them lie still, close their eyes and breathe deeply, before slowly and methodically digging them out. Snipers are a constant menace at the beginning and end of their shifts, and two members of a tunnelling company nearby were killed on a single day; one on his way to begin his shift, another on his way back to his billet. Both were dead before they hit the ground.

  In their third week of digging, after their eight-hour shift the three Burnley men decided to walk to the village of Zillibeke for a relaxing beer. The German trenches were some distance away and all was quiet. It was a warm spring evening, almost as if peace reigned after all. Fifty yards ahead, several groups of men from the Worcesters were strolling to the same destination. Mick, Vinny and Twaites did not hear the bullet but saw a lance corporal on the far side of the group recoil backwards before crumpling like a ragdoll. Blood spewed on to the road from a large hole in the back of his head. Everyone ran for cover.

  A few minutes later, followed by a serjeant and two men, a Scots Guards captain, a man in his thirties, tall and straight-backed, who looked like a veteran, rushed from a nearby barn. He shouted his orders as he ran: ‘He’s in that large ash in the corner of that orchard! Fire at will; let’s bring him down.’

  Two dozen shots rang out within moments, followed by the cracking of branches and a heavy thud as a human figure fell from the tree. The officer, smiling widely, issued a new order to his serjeant.

  ‘Serjeant, please retrieve our catch. Let’s have a look at the bugger.’

  As a large group of British soldiers from the road gathered around, the sniper was dragged through the field by his boots and deposited on the ground in front of the captain. He was still alive but bleeding profusely from a wound to his shoulder and another to the thigh. Strangely, the boots he had been dragged by were not German Army-issue Knobelbecher marching boots but peasant farmer’s. Nor was he wearing a field-grey uniform, but the civilian clothes of a Belgian local. The captain spoke to him in schoolboy German, then in slightly better French, but got no response. He turned away and spoke quietly and calmly to his serjeant.

  ‘He’s dressed as a civilian; that makes him a spy. Recruit some of those Worcesters. I’m sure they’d be happy to form a firing squad.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  But before the serjeant does as he is bid he whispers in the captain’s ear, ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but he only looks about sixteen or seventeen. How can he be a spy?’

  The captain stiffens, not used to any hesitation from those to whom he issues orders. ‘I have absolutely no idea. Get on with it, man!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the serjeant gathers the men of the Worcesters, all of whom are more than happy to put an end to the life of the man who killed their friend, a shout comes from one of the Scots Guards standing over the stricken sniper.

  ‘Sir … Captain, sir; come an’ ’ave a look ’ere. He’s got a collection of dog-tags round his neck; some Frenchie ones, but mainly Brits. There must be a dozen of ’em.’

  The captain strides over, fury in his eyes. ‘Take them off him.’

  The serjeant takes the large collection of hunting trophies from the young assassin, bringing yet more pain to his shattered shoulder, blood from which has already turned his brown jacket the colour of old mahogany.

  The captain bends down close to the young sniper. ‘How many have you killed, Fritz?’

  Through the gritted teeth of excruciating pain, the boy answers in excellent English, ‘My name is not Fritz; my name is Daan … I’m a Flemish Belgian.’

  The captain is shocked. ‘So why are you killing Belgium’s allies?’

  ‘Because I don’t like the Walloons … the Belgian French … and I don’t like their French cousins.’ The baby-faced killer lifts his head slightly and winces at the extra agony it creates before snarling at the British officer, ‘I especially don’t like you … because you’re helping the French … and it’s none of your business.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  ‘Where did you get the rifle?’

  ‘From a dead German, shot in the back while running away. He wasn’t much older than me.’

  ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  ‘Since the beginning of the war.’

  The captain realizes he is talking to a ruthless killer driven by a profound hatred. ‘How many?’

  The young assassin forces a leering smile through his agony. ‘More than you can count!’

  With that chilling answer, the captain draws his revolver, places it between the young man’s eyes and pulls the trigger. ‘Today you’ve killed your last victim, Daan. May you rot in hell.’

  Without a hint of remorse, the captain strides back towards the barn, issuing another order as he does so: ‘Serjeant, get the men to drag the body down the road and throw it in the ditch. And make sure that p
oor chap from the Worcesters gets a proper burial.’

  The three Lancashire lads have watched the drama unfold wide-eyed. Vinny’s pithy comment speaks for all of them: ‘Fuck me. I thought we laiked ’ard i’ Burnley. But wherever yon captain comes frae, thi laik fer keeps!’

  By the evening of 17 April all four chambers for the explosives have been completed and packed with their charges. The task has been undertaken by engineering officer Lieutenant Lionel Hill, who has placed half a ton of explosive into each one. It has been a delicate business, involving the dogged manhandling along the narrow tunnels of almost a hundred bags of gunpowder, each weighing 100lbs. After being double fused and wired back to the firing plungers, each chamber has been tamped along 30 feet of its access with a plug of wet sandbags to ensure that the blast goes upwards and forwards towards the Germans, rather than backwards towards the British trenches.

  Hard-bitten tunnellers and their engineer officers do not always see eye to eye. The men doing the digging and humping often resent the more comfortable surroundings of their superiors above ground. Nevertheless, the one area where the engineers earn the respect of their men is in the calculation of the quantities of explosives required and how they are placed to inflict the maximum damage on the enemy at the minimum risk to their own men.

  Miscalculations can be catastrophic. Everyone knows that getting it right is subject to very fine margins. Soil or rock composition, levels of ground water, quality or type of explosive being used and diligence during the tamping process may all make a significant difference to the outcome of a blast.

  During the last two days of preparation German tunnellers have been heard directly above tunnel M1. If the German tunnels and explosives are ready before the British ones, all will have been in vain.

  But the British detonation cannot happen until the infantry is ready.

  To everyone’s great relief, 1st Battalion Royal West Kents and the 491st Home Counties Field Company, Royal Engineers, are in position. Their orders are to attack immediately after detonation, even if debris is still falling. Major Norton-Griffiths could not have put it more succinctly when he addressed the men earlier in the afternoon.

  ‘I’d rather the odd one or two of us be killed by German dead falling from the heavens than hundreds of us mown down by their machine guns. And when I say “us”, I mean what I say. I have the permission of your CO, Colonel Westwood, and I will be going over with you when the time comes.’

  It is five minutes past seven. Mick and his baggers look on nervously. For the time being, their work is done, but it has little value if what happens next comes to nothing. Major Norton-Griffiths, every inch of him looking more than worthy of his moniker, ‘Hell-fire Jack’, smiles as he nods to the three sappers holding the explosive plungers. There is then just a moment of delay before the thunderous tremors coincide to make the entire area heave, as if a massive meteor has struck the earth. Almost at the same time a chasm as big as a football pitch is hewn out of the top of the hill. Earth, sandbags, trench timbers, rifles, myriad bits of equipment and soldiers’ paraphernalia are flung hundreds of feet into the air. The ground on to which they fall becomes a field of debris 300 yards across.

  Of course, German soldiers, or parts of them, form part of the debris. Mick looks at the scene. Blood, flesh and pieces of German field grey are all too visible. Thinking back to what happened at the convent when they first arrived, he steels himself against the revulsion he is feeling. He looks at Vinny and Twaites, who both have a look of horror on their faces.

  ‘It’s them or us, lads. Tek a good sken. We ’as t’do that to them, or they’d d’sem to us.’

  Vinny looks doubtful. ‘Ata sure, our Mick?’

  ‘Aye, lad; certain. C’mon, let’s get our tackle fettled.’

  Only seconds after the explosion, as the East Kents and the 491st Field Sappers go over the top and begin their steady climb up Hill 60, British and French artillery pieces open up to keep German support troops in the rear at bay. Unlike almost every other attack in the entire war, the men of 13th Brigade achieve their objective with minimal casualties. Their opponents have either been buried alive or blown to pieces around the hillsides and, by midnight, Hill 60 is under British control.

  As the infantry at the top of the hill consolidate their ground and begin to prepare new trenches, Mick, Vinny, Twaites and the men of 171st Tunnelling Company, having decided that they will celebrate tomorrow, are fast asleep in their billet, a large barn close to Zwarteleen crossroads. But the barn door creaks open, accompanied by the bellowing voice of Company Serjeant Major Morgan.

  ‘Attention! Come on, you lot! Wakey-wakey! Major Norton-Griffiths wants a word.’

  A great deal of expletive-laden muttering ensues until the men finally get themselves into some sort of order. Mick is one of the moles about to confront Hell-fire Jack but sees that he is smiling directly at him.

  ‘At ease, gentlemen.’

  He produces a bottle from behind his back. It is a bottle of Haig’s Dimple whisky, a brand well known to every man in the company but one that few can afford, except on rare occasions. The major then turns and shouts for his batman, who appears immediately, with a large wooden case. The smile on Hell-fire Jack’s face becomes a mischievous grin.

  ‘Gentlemen, providence always provides for the righteous and, miraculously, this case of one of Scotland’s finest exports has just appeared in the boot of my car. As you may have heard, HQ takes a dim view of me driving around with booze in the back of my Rolls, so I thought I had better get shot of it. Do any of you know of a good home for it?’

  The men crowd around the major as the bottles are distributed. Handshakes are exchanged and backs slapped.

  ‘A toast – to all of you. Thanks to your great skill, courage and tenacity, Hill 60 is ours. The first victory for the moles!’

  Norton-Griffiths makes a beeline for Mick and his two baggers and puts his hand on Vinny’s shoulder. ‘How are your feet, Sagar?’

  ‘Alreet, sir. I used to go barefoot as a little lad, so it didn’t moither me much.’

  ‘And you, Haythornthwaite?’

  ‘Same, sir; me mam ollus sez wheer thu’s no sense, thu’s no feelin’.’

  He then turns to Mick and shakes his hand vigorously. ‘I now understand why they call you Mad Mick. Your rate of digging is 8 per cent better than any man in any of my companies. Very well done.’

  ‘Pleasure, sir. It wer a reet grand sight when it blew!’

  ‘Indeed it was, Kenny. But I’ll soon be calling you Mr Kenny. Your serjeant’s stripes will be issued in the morning. Congratulations.’

  Friday 23 April

  British Army Field Hospital, Provost Lace Mill, Poperinghe, West Flanders, Belgium

  ‘What the hell is it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. They’re suffering a reaction to a chemical of some sort.’

  When the orderlies at Pop-Hop open the doors of the first ambulances to arrive during the evening of 23 April they know a different kind of horror has reared its ugly head.

  It is the drivers who tell them the repugnant details: ‘It’s gas of some kind; it came from the German trenches on the far side of Ypres. They said it was like green fog. It got in the trenches and shell holes. The German machine guns were banging away, so either the gas got you or you took a bullet in the back. The worst of it was last night among the French darkies. They ran for their lives. Hundreds never made it. They were foaming at the mouth, eyes bulging, rolling around. They couldn’t breathe – it was horrible!’

  Another driver continues the account. ‘This lot are Canadian boys; they copped for it this morning.’

  One driver pulls an orderly to one side so that he can whisper in his ear. ‘These are the unlucky ones. Their mates – the lucky ones – died quickly and are lying all over Kitchener’s Wood. Most of these will slowly choke to death, unless the docs have got a magic potion.’

  At 5.30 p.m. on 22 April the German Army introduced a new form of killing on
the Western Front. Using a slight easterly breeze, 168 tons of chlorine gas in 5,730 cylinders was released near Langemark-Poelcapelle, north of Ypres. It formed into a grey-green cloud that drifted across positions held by Zouaves, French colonial troops, who broke ranks in sheer terror, creating an 8,000-yard gap in the Allied line. However, the German infantry were taken by surprise at the potency of the gas and, lacking reinforcements, failed to exploit the opportunity. The 1st Canadian Division and more French colonial troops reformed the line before they too suffered gas attacks. It was the beginning of the 2nd Battle for Ypres.

  By the time Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse arrives after an emergency call to his room in Pop-Hop, it has been confirmed by RAMC HQ in St Omer that the French medics in Paris have verified that chlorine is the gas that is being used in the German attacks. When it comes into contact with water in mouths, eyes or lungs, it creates hydrochloric acid, an irritant to soft tissue in diluted form but lethal if concentrated.

  Chavasse orders that the men struggling to breathe should be put in the open air, not in wards, and that sore eyes should be treated with castor oil, not water. Sister Margaret Killingbeck is put in charge of the arrangements. ‘Bron,’ she says. ‘Go to the stores. Bring all the bottles of castor oil and cotton wool you can find.’

  The next three days become one of the most traumatic episodes yet experienced at Pop-Hop. Over three quarters of the men who are admitted die a slow and agonizing death as their lungs dissolve. Those who survive will have breathing difficulties for the rest of their lives, quite apart from the mental trauma caused by their ordeal.

  Bronwyn is now fulfilling the role of a qualified nurse and has been given due recognition and the pay and uniform of a member of Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. While Noel Chavasse and the other doctors administer sedatives, Margaret and Bronwyn spend their time comforting men in their death throes. First it is the Canadians, then British boys from battalions already all but obliterated at least once before by bullet, bayonet and shell. They are now being decimated yet again, this time by a silent killer which invades the air they breathe.