The Command

by Christopher Nicole

‘Wouldn’t surprise me.’ Harry, only slightly larger than his sister and with somewhat puckered features, drank the last of the wine. ‘You’re for the line.’

  ‘Great God Almighty! Is nothing secret in this army? When I find out the name of your little bird, I’m going to have him shot.’

  ‘Or her,’ Prendergast suggested.

  ‘Okay, you guys. So I found out. Nobody else knows, believe me. But as I’m here...’

  ‘We can lock you up for a start. Billy, get Destry. I want this character locked up for the next week.’

  ‘I hope you’re kidding,’ Harry said. ‘Listen, why do you think I’m here?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to know.’

  ‘I want to come with you.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘Listen! Nobody knows for sure what it’s like in the line. Only the guys who have been there. No correspondents. If I can get up there, Murdoch, think of the story I could write. Listen! The folks back home want to know what it’s like over here. They really do.’

  ‘And you’ll make yourself famous all over again.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll make you famous all over again too.’

  ‘That I can do without. And what do I tell Lee when you get your head shot off?’

  ‘I intend to stick closer to the ground than a crocodile’s prick. Come on, Murdoch. Give a guy a break.’

  Murdoch looked at Prendergast, who looked back and shrugged.

  ‘One haversack,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘You got it.’

  *

  The regiment was still uncertain exactly what it was doing, and there was considerable grumbling at having to walk, but their officers had them well in hand and they moved off, along a good road to begin with. Murdoch took the lead with Harry and Regimental Sergeant-Major Yeald; Murdoch and Yeald had served together since South Africa, when they had both been boys, and Yeald had been with him in Somaliland. He had never undertaken an action without Yeald at his shoulder. Prendergast brought up the rear to make sure there were no stragglers, and the three captains marched at the heads of their dismounted squadrons. It seemed odd to be on the march, even on foot, without an advance guard, a rearguard and flankers, but he was obeying his instructions. At the crossroads they were met by their guides — two military policemen, a sergeant and a private — and proceeded into the night. All smoking was forbidden and they tramped wearily on, each trooper aware only of the man immediately in front of him. They followed the road for over an hour before out of the darkness to either side there loomed the shattered remnants of houses, and they realized they were marching through a deserted village. A single starving dog barked and then slunk away.

  Now the road turned to mud, and walking became more difficult. And now too their nostrils were assailed by a slowly increasing stench which seemed a mixture of every offensive smell any of them had ever inhaled.

  ‘What the hell is that stink?’ Harry Caspar muttered.

  ‘You name it, sir,’ said the MP sergeant. ‘There ain’t no latrines out here. And no graves, either.’

  ‘Christ!’ Harry muttered.

  ‘It was your idea to come along,’ Murdoch reminded him.

  ‘You get used to it,’ the sergeant said.

  A star shell burst in the sky in front of them, and every man froze.

  ‘Just Jerry keeping himself awake,’ the sergeant said. ‘He don’t know we’re here or he’d have opened up.’

  At last even the muddy lane ended, and they were on duckboards laid across the churned-up countryside. Men slipped off them and cursed, were dragged back into line by their comrades. They came upon the first trenches unexpectedly, and Murdoch nearly tumbled in.

  ‘Who the hell is that?’ someone asked.

  ‘Royal Western Dragoons.’

  ‘Horses, by Christ! That’s all we need.’

  ‘No horses,’ Murdoch assured him, climbing out the other side.

  ‘Real quiet now, sir,’ the sergeant recommended. ‘Jerry ain’t that far away.’

  ‘Pass the word back,’ Murdoch told Prendergast. ‘I’ll have the balls of any man who speaks.’

  Their feet dragging through the mud seemed to make as much noise as a herd of elephants, and when a shot rang out Murdoch had to exercise all his self-control not to hurl himself to the ground.

  ‘Long way away, sir,’ the sergeant said, no doubt enjoying playing nursemaid to a famous holder of the Victoria Cross, as well as DSO and bar.

  A few minutes later they descended into another trench and this time remained below ground, following connecting passages until they arrived at their sector. Here Murdoch was greeted by the colonel of the infantry battalion they were relieving.

  ‘Quiet as the grave around here,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t be a better place for a first time. Look out for raids, though. Keep your men up to scratch.’ He showed Murdoch into the headquarters dugout, one line of trenches back from the front, where a lantern gleamed. It’s not much, but it’s home. Enjoy it.’ He saluted. ‘Lincolnshires moving out.’

  Murdoch saluted in turn. Prendergast came in. ‘Holy Jesus Christ!’ he remarked. ‘We have to spend a week in here?’

  Murdoch grinned. ‘At least it’s not raining.’

  *

  Next day it rained, a steady, chilling drizzle. The rain limited visibility to fifty yards, and the German trenches, they had been told, were about a hundred and fifty yards away. They could have been a thousand, and the dragoons the only human beings left on earth. Even when the rain cleared in the afternoon they looked at an absolutely desolate vista, with hardly a tree standing, not a soul to be seen across the muddy plain before them, and just a continuous roll of barbed wire to separate them from the presumed enemy position. Suitably keyed up, the troopers spent all day on the alert, expecting to see grey figures emerging out of the murk at any moment. Several times they opened fire at some suspected movement. On these occasions the Germans invariably fired back, but the dragoons never actually saw any of their enemies and they soon settled down into such routine as was possible in the very nearly impossible conditions under which they were forced to exist. The stench did actually become familiar within twenty-four hours. Less easy to accept was the necessity of using the trenches themselves as latrines, and of being unable to wash, so that hands handling food grew steadily filthier, while it was difficult to conceive what their bodies were like under their uniforms or inside their boots — the itches which increased with every day were evidence that they had a good deal of company in there. Externally things were bad enough; Reynolds was in despair as he watched Murdoch’s uniform turn into a soggy, odorous mess.

  Worst of all were the rats, huge, bloated monsters which scurried across the mud and in and out of the trenches. Everyone knew that their food supply was dead bodies, but killing them only increased the stench which surrounded them.

  And above all there was the boredom. Behind the lines it had at least been possible to exercise the men daily, and there had been the horses to care for, however much the troopers might have grumbled at the constant curry-combing. In the trenches there was simply nothing to do, twenty-four hours a day, but wait and watch; Murdoch and Harry and Prendergast played cards and reminisced, which presumably was what most of their men were doing when not actually on sentry duty, but they got to the stage of praying for an enemy attack, just to relieve the monotony.

  The dragoons remained remarkably cheerful in all this — but they knew they were only there for a week. What it must be like to have a fortnight of this, and be pulled out, only to know there was another fortnight of hell waiting, Murdoch could not imagine.

  Even Harry Caspar was shocked out of his usual insouciance by his surroundings. ‘When we get out of here, Murdoch,’ he said. ‘We are going to get drunk.’

  ‘That might be an idea.’

  ‘I don’t see why they need us at all,’ Prendergast grumbled. ‘We’ve been here nearly our week and hardly fired a shot. Our sentries loosed off this morning and did
n’t even get a reply. Jerry could have pulled out and gone home for all we know.’

  ‘Only he hasn’t,’ Ramage reminded him. ‘He’s a hundred and fifty yards away. Waiting for us to start something serious.’

  ‘And as we’re not going to, let’s hope he stays there,’ Murdoch commented.

  Their neighbours were also concerned at the lack of activity. The two regiments next to them were composed of French colonial troops, cheerful black men who were used to the heat of North Africa and found the cold and wet of a French spring particularly irksome. ‘It is not usually like this,’ explained the French major who acted as liaison officer, and spent a good deal of time in the British trenches — he was fond of tea. ‘The Boches are up to something. I wonder if we should not mount a raid.’

  ‘Not on your life,’ Murdoch told him. ‘Because we are also up to something — right, monsieur? — and we don’t want to stir it until our chaps are ready.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Frenchman agreed. ‘But still...it is odd.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Murdoch asked Prendergast after their guest had departed and they stood together on the firing step, cautiously peering out at their barbed wire. It was quite a good afternoon, and they could see the German lines. They could even hear someone singing over there.

  ‘Well, sir, I think we should obey orders, and just sit tight. We only have until tomorrow night to go. And we haven’t lost a single man.’

  It was the oddest warfare Murdoch had ever engaged in. He had of course sat opposite Boer armies in South Africa, but that had been in open country, with the opposing forces separated by picquets or perhaps a river or a fortified position — never within a few yards of each other. And never exchanging more than an occasional shot.

  ‘I shall be damned glad to get back to the farm,’ he confided to Reynolds that night.

  ‘You can say that again, sir,’ the corporal agreed.

  ‘Champagne,’ mused Harry, leaning back and staring at the roof of the dugout. ‘Bottles and bottles of champagne.’

  ‘So what are you going to write about?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘We’re due to be relieved in another twenty-four hours.’

  ‘I’ll think of something.’

  Murdoch slept heavily. Tomorrow night they would be pulling out, and the infantry would be coming in — to launch the offensive which might just end the war. He wished he could believe that.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Ralph Manly-Smith. Murdoch sat up. So did both Prendergast and Harry. ‘What time is it?’ the American asked.

  ‘Three seventeen ack emma, sir.’

  ‘For God’s sake...’

  ‘I think there’s something happening out there, sir.’

  Murdoch threw off the blanket, buttoned his jacket, and went outside. Reynolds was there to press his steel helmet into his hand before he followed Manly-Smith along the communicating trench to the line.

  He found that nearly the entire regiment was awake and standing to arms, listening. The night was shrouded with mist, and they could hardly see as far as their own wire. But from beyond the mist curtain there was certainly sound. ‘What the hell is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘A kind of slithering,’ Ramage suggested.

  ‘There’s been some clanking as well, sir,’ Manly-Smith said.

  ‘Definitely Jerry is moving some kind of machinery out there,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘Artillery, do you think?’ Harry wondered.

  ‘Not right up behind the line. I wonder...’ He checked the words, because he was sworn to secrecy. But could it be possible the Germans were also working on some kind of machine to force its way across trenches? Yet there had been no sound of engines. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see,’ he said. ‘Double your sentries, Peter.’ He and Harry and Prendergast returned to the dugout, where Reynolds had tea on the go. ‘We’ll stay awake,’ Murdoch decided.

  ‘They must’ve heard you were due to leave tonight,’ Harry said. ‘And are planning a celebration.’

  ‘So maybe that was all cases of champagne.’ Murdoch looked at his watch. Four o’clock. If anything was going to happen, it would be soon. And it would begin with an artillery barrage. Which the experts said was all noise and little effect. But there had been no bombardment. He looked at his watch again and again as it reached five and the darkness started to fade.

  ‘False alarm,’ Prendergast said thankfully.

  ‘Or Jerry’s running late,’ Harry suggested.

  Suddenly there was noise. A huge amount of noise, from over to the right. But not gunfire. Men screaming, shrieking in fear and agony.

  ‘What the hell...?’ Murdoch led the rush back to the line, where his troopers were staring into the gloom, hands wrapped around their rifles.

  ‘Those are the French,’ Ramage said.

  ‘Listen,’ Harry said. ‘That sounds a lot like “sauve qui peut”.’

  ‘Save yourself if you can,’ Prendergast muttered.

  ‘There!’ Harry said. He had mounted the firing step, but was looking back. In the steadily growing light they could see the Senegalese streaming away from their trenches, many of them having thrown away their rifles. And now the machine guns started to chatter, and the exposed men fell left and right. ‘What in the name of God...’ He sniffed, stared at Murdoch in horror.

  Several of the troopers were also sniffing, and one was choking.

  ‘My God, sir,’ shouted RSM Yeald. ‘It’s some kind of gas.’

  The main body of gas hadn’t reached them yet. The wind was blowing along the trench from the direction of the French position, and now Murdoch could see what looked like a yellow cloud lying on the ground, twisting and seeping towards them.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Prendergast gasped.

  Murdoch’s mind seemed to be turning handsprings. The French on their right had pulled out, and there would be a huge gap in the line over there. Into which the Germans would undoubtedly be pouring. If he maintained his position his men would not only be gassed to death, they would be surrounded. ‘We fall back,’ he said. ‘But slowly. No running away. Get on the telephone to brigade and inform them of the situation. Tell them the French have given way. But remember, I want a fighting retreat.’

  The orders were given and the men prepared to pull out. But the gas had drifted closer, and Murdoch saw one man crumple and fall to his knees, choking and gasping, while his own eyes were smarting so that he could hardly see, and his nose was burning. He had to do something, because they were not going to get away in time, unless they turned and ran like the French. While the Germans, clearly advancing behind the gas, had opened fire on them as well now.

  ‘Handkerchiefs,’ he shouted. ‘Anything cloth. Wrap them over your noses and mouths. Wet them. Quickly now.’

  ‘Wet them?’ Prendergast gazed at him, handkerchief in hand. ‘Is there enough water?’

  ‘Use your bottles. Come on. If there isn’t any, well pee on the goddamned things.’ He tied his own kerchief over his nose and mouth, and breathing, if not easier, was no longer suggestive of immediate choking. Then he started waving his men down the communications trench.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Harry gasped.

  ‘With the rearguard. You get out.’

  Harry hesitated, then stumbled down the trench. Prendergast had already taken command of the retreat, and Ramage, Manly-Smith, Yeald, Murdoch and one troop, but with two Lewis guns, were alone in the forward trench. Now they were entirely surrounded by the pungent yellow fumes, but they could see beyond them, too, into clear air...and advancing Germans. ‘Open fire,’ Murdoch snapped.

  The machine guns began to chatter, and the rest of the troop used their rifles. Several Germans fell and the rest went to ground; they still had not crossed the British wire.

  ‘Withdraw,’ Murdoch said.

  The Lewis guns were taken down and the men hurried along the communications trench. It meant re-entering the swirling chlorine, but they could not stay where they were. Murdoch wa
s last to leave the trench, with Ramage, and by the time they had reached the second line the Germans were coming again. Now the officers had to use their revolvers while the machine guns were set up again, but at least a real breeze had sprung up and the gas was starting to clear.

  ‘Talk about Huns,’ Ramage said, pulling off his handkerchief and taking great gulps of air.

  ‘I imagine we have something nasty up our sleeves,’ Murdoch said. But he kept thinking of those crumpled figures in the trench. What a way to die.

  *

  The Germans were now flooding into the abandoned trench and coming along the communications.

  ‘Get those guns working,’ Murdoch shouted, and realized the gunner was Johnnie Morton. RSM Yeald himself was feeding the belt as the Lewis gun resumed its chatter. Several of the grey-clad enemy returned fire, and one hurled a stick grenade before falling. With the greatest of calm Yeald picked it up and threw it out of the trench before it exploded.

  There was a gasp from beside Murdoch, and he saw Manly-Smith on one knee. He grasped the boy’s arm and pulled him back to his feet but several more men had fallen from the close-range firing, even if the Germans had now gone to ground. ‘Pull back,’ Murdoch snapped, his voice hoarse. ‘Pull back.’

  They had to cross open ground to regain the next line, but only a couple of men were hit as the Germans had temporarily run out of steam. Here too the gas had drifted through, and Murdoch saw an entire stretcher team crumpled on the ground, suffocated by the swirling chlorine.

  ‘Orders from brigade, sir,’ Prendergast gasped. ‘We’re to fall back to support. It’s on its way.’

  ‘So let’s do that,’ Murdoch agreed, and realized he was still half carrying Manly-Smith. The boy had been shot in the thigh and was groaning horribly, and weeping as the shock wore off and the pain began, but he was unlikely to die. Murdoch handed him over to two troopers and organized the retreat. The regiment pulled back several hundred yards before they encountered masses of infantry coming up in support, and now too the artillery opened up in an attempt to blast the Germans back.

  *

  The Royal Westerns were returned to their cantonment. It was like entering heaven, to breathe clean air, to sink into vast tubs of boiling, disinfected water and watch the dirt and lice floating to the surface, to consign uniforms to more vats of boiling disinfectant, to eat clean food. Harry went into St Omer and got his champagne, but no one really felt like getting drunk. Some hundred men — one in five of the ration strength — had not returned, and of those who had, over a hundred had not got their faces covered in time and had to be sent to field hospital, still choking and gasping; their lungs would clearly be affected for a very long time. They, together with the wounded such as Manly-Smith, eventually were taken to the rear and then England. ‘Lucky buggers,’ RSM Yeald told them. ‘You won’t be back for months.’