The Complete Richard Hannay: The Thirty-Nine Steps , Greenmantle , Mr Standfas

by John Buchan

  ‘Where on earth did you pick up that man Wake?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s a conscientious objector and a non-combatant,’ I said.

  ‘Then I wish to Heaven we had a few more conscientious objectors in this show. He’s the only fellow who seems to know anything about this blessed battle. My general’s sending you a chit about him.’

  ‘No need,’ I said, laughing. ‘I know his value. He’s an old friend of mine.’

  I used Wake as my link with Corps Headquarters, and especially with Blenkiron. For about the sixth day of the show I was beginning to get rather desperate. This kind of thing couldn’t go on for ever. We were miles back now, behind the old line of ’17, and, as we rested one flank on the river, the immediate situation was a little easier. But I had lost a lot of men, and those that were left were blind with fatigue. The big bulges of the enemy to north and south had added to the length of the total front, and I found I had to fan out my thin ranks. The Boche was still pressing on, though his impetus was slacker. If he knew how little there was to stop him in my section he might make a push which would carry him to Amiens. Only the magnificent work of our airmen had prevented him getting that knowledge, but we couldn’t keep the secrecy up for ever. Some day an enemy plane would get over, and it only needed the drive of a fresh storm-battalion or two to scatter us. I wanted a good prepared position, with sound trenches and decent wiring. Above all I wanted reserves – reserves. The word was on my lips all day and it haunted my dreams. I was told that the French were to relieve us, but when – when? My reports to Corps Headquarters were one long wail for more troops. I knew there was a position prepared behind us, but I needed men to hold it.

  Wake brought in a message from Blenkiron. ‘We’re waiting for you, Dick,’ he wrote, ‘and we’ve gotten quite a nice little home ready for you. This old man hasn’t hustled so hard since he struck copper in Montana in ’92. We’ve dug three lines of trenches and made a heap of pretty redoubts, and I guess they’re well laid out, for the Army staff has supervised them and they’re no slouches at this brand of engineering. You would have laughed to see the labour we employed. We had all breeds of Dago and Chinaman, and some of your own South African blacks, and they got so busy on the job they forgot about bedtime. I used to be reckoned a bit of a slave driver, but my special talents weren’t needed with this push. I’m going to put a lot of money into foreign missions henceforward.’

  I wrote back: ‘Your trenches are no good without men. For God’s sake get something that can hold a rifle. My lot are done to the world.’

  Then I left Lefroy with the division and went down on the back of an ambulance to see for myself. I found Blenkiron, some of the Army engineers, and a staff officer from Corps Headquarters, and I found Archie Roylance.

  They had dug a mighty good line and wired it nobly. It ran from the river to the wood of La Bruyère on the little hill above the Ablain stream. It was desperately long, but I saw at once it couldn’t well be shorter, for the division on the south of us had its hands full with the fringe of the big thrust against the French.

  ‘It’s no good blinking the facts,’ I told them. ‘I haven’t a thousand men, and what I have are at the end of their tether. If you put ’em in these trenches they’ll go to sleep on their feet. When can the French take over?’

  I was told that it had been arranged for next morning, but that it had now been put off twenty-four hours. It was only a temporary measure, pending the arrival of British divisions from the north.

  Archie looked grave. ‘The Boche is pushin’ up new troops in this sector. We got the news before I left squadron headquarters. It looks as if it would be a near thing, sir.’

  ‘It won’t be a near thing. It’s an absolute black certainty. My fellows can’t carry on as they are another day. Great God, they’ve had a fortnight in hell! Find me more men or we buckle up at the next push.’ My temper was coming very near its limits.

  ‘We’ve raked the country with a small-tooth comb, sir,’ said one of the staff officers. ‘And we’ve raised a scratch pack. Best part of two thousand. Good men, but most of them know nothing about infantry fighting. We’ve put them into platoons, and done our best to give them some kind of training. There’s one thing may cheer you. We’ve plenty of machine-guns. There’s a machine-gun school near by and we got all the men who were taking the course and all the plant.’

  I don’t suppose there was ever such a force put into the field before. It was a wilder medley than Moussy’s camp-followers at First Ypres. There was every kind of detail in the shape of men returning from leave, representing most of the regiments in the army. There were the men from the machine-gun school. There were Corps troops – sappers and A.S.C., and a handful of Corps cavalry. Above all, there was a batch of American engineers, fathered by Blenkiron. I inspected them where they were drilling and liked the look of them. ‘Forty-eight hours,’ I said to myself. ‘With luck we may just pull it off.’

  Then I borrowed a bicycle and went back to the division. But before I left I had a word with Archie. ‘This is one big game of bluff, and it’s you fellows alone that enable us to play it. Tell your people that everything depends on them. They mustn’t stint the planes in this sector, for if the Boche once suspicions how little he’s got before him the game’s up. He’s not a fool and he knows that this is the short road to Amiens, but he imagines we’re holding it in strength. If we keep up the fiction for another two days the thing’s done. You say he’s pushing up troops?’

  ‘Yes, and he’s sendin’ forward his tanks.’

  ‘Well, that’ll take time. He’s slower now than a week ago and he’s got a deuce of a country to march over. There’s still an outside chance we may win through. You go home and tell the R.F.C. what I’ve told you.’

  He nodded. ‘By the way, sir, Pienaar’s with the squadron. He would like to come up and see you.’

  ‘Archie,’ I said solemnly, ‘be a good chap and do me a favour. If I think Peter’s anywhere near the line I’ll go off my head with worry. This is no place for a man with a bad leg. He should have been in England days ago. Can’t you get him off – to Amiens, anyhow?’

  ‘We scarcely like to. You see, we’re all desperately sorry for him, his fun gone and his career over and all that. He likes bein’ with us and listenin’ to our yarns. He has been up once or twice too. The Shark-Gladas. He swears it’s a great make, and certainly he knows how to handle the little devil.’

  ‘Then for Heaven’s sake don’t let him do it again. I look to you, Archie, remember. Promise.’

  ‘Funny thing, but he’s always worryin’ about you. He has a map on which he marks every day the changes in the position, and he’d hobble a mile to pump any of our fellows who have been up your way.’

  That night under cover of darkness I drew back the division to the newly prepared lines. We got away easily, for the enemy was busy with his own affairs. I suspected a relief by fresh troops.

  There was no time to lose, and I can tell you I toiled to get things straight before dawn. I would have liked to send my own fellows back to rest, but I couldn’t spare them yet. I wanted them to stiffen the fresh lot, for they were veterans. The new position was arranged on the same principles as the old front which had been broken on March 21st. There was our forward zone, consisting of an outpost line and redoubts, very cleverly sited, and a line of resistance. Well behind it were the trenches which formed the battle-zone. Both zones were heavily wired, and we had plenty of machine-guns; I wish I could say we had plenty of men who knew how to use them. The outposts were merely to give the alarm and fall back to the line of resistance which was to hold out to the last. In the forward zone I put the freshest of my own men, the units being brought up to something like strength by the details returning from leave that the Corps had commandeered. With them I put the American engineers, partly in the redoubts and partly in companies for counter-attack. Blenkiron had reported that they could shoot like Dan’l Boone, and were simply spoiling for a fight. The re
st of the force was in the battle-zone, which was our last hope. If that went the Boche had a clear walk to Amiens. Some additional field batteries had been brought up to support our very weak divisional artillery. The front was so long that I had to put all three of my emaciated brigades in the line, so I had nothing to speak of in reserve. It was a most almighty gamble.

  We had found shelter just in time. At 6.30 next day – for a change it was a clear morning with clouds beginning to bank up from the west – the Boche let us know he was alive. He gave us a good drenching with gas shells which didn’t do much harm, and then messed up our forward zone with his trench mortars. At 7.20 his men began to come on, first little bunches with machine-guns and then the infantry in waves. It was clear they were fresh troops, and we learned afterwards from prisoners that they were Bavarians – 6th or 7th, I forget which, but the division that hung us up at Monchy. At the same time there was the sound of a tremendous bombardment across the river. It looked as if the main battle had swung from Albert and Montdidier to a direct push for Amiens.

  I have often tried to write down the events of that day. I tried it in my report to the Corps; I tried it in my own diary; I tried it because Mary wanted it; but I have never been able to make any story that hung together. Perhaps I was too tired for my mind to retain clear impressions, though at the time I was not conscious of special fatigue. More likely it is because the fight itself was so confused, for nothing happened according to the books and the orderly soul of the Boche must have been scarified…

  At first it went as I expected. The outpost line was pushed in, but the fire from the redoubts broke up the advance, and enabled the line of resistance in the forward zone to give a good account of itself. There was a check, and then another big wave, assisted by a barrage from field-guns brought far forward. This time the line of resistance gave at several points, and Lefroy flung in the Americans in a counter-attack. That was a mighty performance. The engineers, yelling like dervishes, went at it with the bayonet, and those that preferred swung their rifles as clubs. It was terribly costly fighting and all wrong, but it succeeded. They cleared the Boche out of a ruined farm he had rushed, and a little wood, and re-established our front. Blenkiron, who saw it all, for he went with them and got the tip of an ear picked off by a machine-gun bullet, hadn’t any words wherewith to speak of it. ‘And I once said those boys looked puffy,’ he moaned.

  The next phase, which came about midday, was the tanks. I had never seen the German variety, but had heard that it was speedier and heavier than ours, but unwieldy. We did not see much of their speed, but we found out all about their clumsiness. Had the things been properly handled they should have gone through us like rotten wood. But the whole outfit was bungled. It looked good enough country for the use of them, but the men who made our position had had an eye to this possibility. The great monsters, mounting a field-gun besides other contrivances, wanted something like a highroad to be happy in. They were useless over anything like difficult ground. The ones that came down the main road got on well enough at the start, but Blenkiron very sensibly had mined the highway, and we blew a hole like a diamond pit. One lay helpless at the foot of it, and we took the crew prisoner; another stuck its nose over and remained there till our field-guns got the range and knocked it silly. As for the rest – there is a marshy lagoon called the Patte d’Oie beside the farm of Gavrelle, which runs all the way north to the river, though in most places it only seems like a soft patch in the meadows. This the tanks had to cross to reach our line, and they never made it. Most got bogged, and made pretty targets for our gunners; one or two returned; and one the Americans, creeping forward under cover of a little stream, blew up with a time fuse.

  By the middle of the afternoon I was feeling happier. I knew the big attack was still to come, but I had my forward zone intact and I hoped for the best. I remember I was talking to Wake, who had been going between the two zones, when I got the first warning of a new and unexpected peril. A dud shell plumped down a few yards from me.

  ‘Those fools across the river are firing short and badly off the straight,’ I said.

  Wake examined the shell. ‘No, it’s a German one,’ he said.

  Then came others, and there could be no mistake about the direction – followed by a burst of machine-gun fire from the same quarter. We ran in cover to a point from which we could see the north bank of the river, and I got my glass on it. There was a lift of land from behind which the fire was coming. We looked at each other, and the same conviction stood in both faces. The Boche had pushed down the northern bank, and we were no longer in line with our neighbours. The enemy was in a situation to catch us with his fire on our flank and left rear. We couldn’t retire to conform, for to retire meant giving up our prepared position.

  It was the last straw to all our anxieties, and for a moment I was at the end of my wits. I turned to Wake, and his calm eyes pulled me together.

  ‘If they can’t retake that ground, we’re fairly carted,’ I said.

  ‘We are. Therefore they must retake it.’

  ‘I must get on to Mitchinson.’ But as I spoke I realized the futility of a telephone message to a man who was pretty hard up against it himself. Only an urgent appeal could effect anything… I must go myself… No, that was impossible. I must send Lefroy… But he couldn’t be spared. And all my staff officers were up to their necks in the battle. Besides, none of them knew the position as I knew it… And how to get there? It was a long way round by the bridge at Loisy.

  Suddenly I was aware of Wake’s voice. ‘You had better send me,’ he was saying. ‘There’s only one way – to swim the river a little lower down.’

  ‘That’s too damnably dangerous. I won’t send any man to certain death.’

  ‘But I volunteer,’ he said. ‘That, I believe, is always allowed in war.’

  ‘But you’ll be killed before you can cross.’

  ‘Send a man with me to watch. If I get over, you may be sure I’ll get to General Mitchinson. If not, send somebody else by Loisy. There’s desperate need for hurry, and you see yourself it’s the only way.’

  The time was past for argument. I scribbled a line to Mitchinson as his credentials. No more was needed, for Wake knew the position as well as I did. I sent an orderly to accompany him to his starting-place on the bank.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said, as we shook hands. ‘You’ll see, I’ll come back all right.’ His face, I remember, looked singularly happy.

  Five minutes later the Boche guns opened for the final attack.

  I believe I kept a cool head; at least so Lefroy and the others reported. They said I went about all afternoon grinning as if I liked it, and that I never raised my voice once. (It’s rather a fault of mine that I bellow in a scrap.) But I know I was feeling anything but calm, for the problem was ghastly. It all depended on Wake and Mitchinson. The flanking fire was so bad that I had to give up the left of the forward zone, which caught it fairly, and retire the men there to the battle-zone. The latter was better.protected, for between it and the river was a small wood and the bank rose into a bluff which sloped inwards towards us. This withdrawal meant a switch, and a switch isn’t a pretty thing when it has to be improvised in the middle of a battle.

  The Boche had counted on that flanking fire. His plan was to break our two wings – the old Boche plan which crops up in every fight. He left our centre at first pretty well alone, and thrust along the river bank and to the wood of La Bruyère, where we linked up with the division on our right. Lefroy was in the first area, and Masterton in the second, and for three hours it was as desperate a business as I have ever faced… The improvised switch went, and more and more of the forward zone disappeared. It was a hot, clear spring afternoon, and in the open fighting the enemy came on like troops at manoeuvres. On the left they got into the battle-zone, and I can see yet Lefroy’s great figure leading a counter-attack in person, his face all puddled with blood from a scalp wound…

  I would have given my soul to be in two pla
ces at once, but I had to risk our left and keep close to Masterton, who needed me most. The wood of La Bruyère was the maddest sight. Again and again the Boche was almost through it. You never knew where he was, and most of the fighting there was duels between machine-gun parties. Some of the enemy got round behind us, and only a fine performance of a company of Cheshires saved a complete break through.

  As for Lefroy I don’t know how he stuck it out, and he doesn’t know himself, for he was galled all the time by that accursed flanking fire. I got a note about half past four saying that Wake had crossed the river, but it was some weary hours after that before the fire slackened. I tore back and forward between my wings, and every time I went north I expected to find that Lefroy had broken. But by some miracle he held. The Boches were in his battle-zone time and again, but he always flung them out. I have a recollection of Blenkiron, stark mad, encouraging his Americans with strange tongues. Once as I passed him I saw that he had his left arm tied up. His blackened face grinned at me. ‘This bit of landscape’s mighty unsafe for democracy,’ he croaked. ‘For the love of Mike get your guns on to those devils across the river. They’re plaguing my boys too bad.’

  It was about seven o’clock, I think, when the flanking fire slacked off, but it was not because of our divisional guns. There was a short and very furious burst of artillery fire on the north bank, and I knew it was British. Then things began to happen. One of our planes – they had been marvels all day, swinging down like hawks for machine-gun bouts with the Boche infantry – reported that Mitchinson was attacking hard and getting on well. That eased my mind, and I started off for Masterton, who was in greater straits than ever, for the enemy seemed to be weakening on the river bank and putting his main strength in against our right… But my G.S.O.2 stopped me on the road. ‘Wake,’ he said. ‘He wants to see you.’