by Iain Gale
Bennett spoke. ‘But your guess was right. They’re not here any more, sir.’
Valentine chimed in, ‘This seems a little mad. We’re risking our lives for a wood that no one wants.’
Lamb replied, still looking into the trench, ‘The French want it. And we’re here under French orders.’
Perkins joined in, ‘Never thought I’d see the day. Taking orders from a Frog.’
Bennett snapped at him, ‘Shut it. Orders is orders. Doesn’t matter who gives them. Isn’t that right, sir?’
‘Quite right. We just do the job. Come on. And spread out.’
Another shell came through the foliage and crashed behind them this time.
Perkins laughed. ‘Couldn’t hit a barn door.’
Hughes yelled at him, ‘Don’t tempt fate, you silly bugger. You’ll get us all killed.’
They were almost at the far edge of the wood when, as abruptly as they had begun, the shells stopped.
Bennett said, ‘That’s queer, sir. Doesn’t make sense.’
‘Perhaps they’re saving their ammo for later.’
Looking out from the woods they could see the German positions on the ridge above them, but otherwise there was no sign of the enemy. Exhausted, the men collapsed on the ground. Perkins slipped, and his leg fell through a hole in the undergrowth. ‘Bloody hell.’ He brushed aside the twigs and found himself half sitting in an abandoned slit trench. ‘That’s handy, Sarge. They must have known we was coming.’
Valentine stood over him. ‘Don’t move. It might be booby-trapped.’
‘Shit.’
Valentine stretched out an arm. ‘Here, take my hand. Carefully now.’ Gently, Valentine pulled him out of the hole and quickly to one side.
‘Thanks, Corp. Pity. Seems a waste.’
Bennett spoke. ‘You won’t be saying that when your arse gets blown over the trees.’
Lamb looked at the trench. ‘All right, all of you. Be careful not to fall into one of these holes. Corporal Valentine’s right. They might be rigged.’
So they sat in the undergrowth, away from the trenches, huddled as close to the ground as they could get. There was always the chance of an enemy sniper seizing the moment, and Lamb did not intend to lose anyone else.
Bennett was close to him. ‘Now what, sir?’
‘We wait for more orders. I imagine they’ll want us to hold the wood, now we’ve taken it. So we might have to dig in. Just tell the men to remember to dig away from the Jerry trenches.’
They could hear firing now from further over on their right, well beyond the wood at the nearby town. Cambron, Crawford had told him it was called. Heavy rounds were coming in from the direction of the bluff at Laviers, and explosions that suggested they might have found their targets.
Crawford came across to them through the trees. ‘Looks like the French are getting shot up pretty badly over there at Cambron. I don’t think their intelligence chaps can have got it quite right, do you? They weren’t exactly on the ball in here, were they?’
‘Where are the French tanks? I thought they were meant to be pushing through with us on their flank.’
‘Those are their tanks. Sounds like they’re being blown to buggery.’
A runner came up from the rear. A Frenchman. ‘You are the Black Watch?’
Crawford answered, ‘Yes, that’s us.’
‘You are to retire.’
‘What?’
‘You are to retire, sir. Pull your men back to the village.’
‘You must have the wrong man, old chap. We’ve just taken this wood. I’ve lost four men doing it. I’m not giving it up now.’
‘Those are your orders, sir. From the General.’
‘From your general. Not mine.’
The Frenchman shrugged. ‘Those are the orders I have. Now you have them.’ He nodded politely, turned and ran at a trot back through the woods.
Crawford turned to Lamb. ‘What d’you make of that?’
The RSM came over. ‘The French have been beaten back on the right, sir. Jerry’s pushing on over there too. Past Cambron. If we don’t get out of here pretty sharpish we’ll be left up in the air with the Jerries on our flank.’
‘So that’s the reason we’re off. No wonder that runner didn’t want to explain it.’
He turned to the men. ‘All right, lads. Pack up. We’re falling back.’
Bennett came up to him. ‘Is that right sir, that we’ve been told to pull out?’
‘That’s it, Bennett. Can’t help feeling as if we’ve been here before.’
‘Just like at the Dyle, sir.’
‘Just like at the Dyle. What I don’t understand is . . .’
His words were lost in a great whooshing noise as an 88-millimetre shell came in low over their heads, smashing through the treetops, and Lamb just had time to yell ‘Cover’. It hit the trees at 1,000 metres per second and tore two of them up, exploding in the centre of a group of Highlanders who were putting on their kit. It took the left leg off one of them, decapitated another and made a hole in the torso of the third, killing him. The maimed man screamed, and his noise was drowned by the roar of a second shell.
‘Christ, their aim’s better now. Run. Run for it.’
The men turned and began to run through the under-growth as fast as they could. More shells began to fall, and Lamb was aware of men falling to his right, tripping on the hidden roots. There were screams from the Highlanders, but there was no turning back to help. The woods were a mass of flame and falling trees as the 88s continued to plough in. Lamb emerged, panting and dripping with sweat at the far edge, just out of range. He saw Crawford close by, doubled over with the effort, as the men began to come in.
Crawford straightened up and yelled at one of them, ‘Get a runner back to the colonel and tell him we’ve taken casualties in the woods. And tell him that we were ordered to pull back by the French.’
Still panting, he turned to Lamb. ‘I’d like to hear the general’s comments when he finds out where we are. Trust the French to renege on their agreement. De Gaulle went behind his back. We were strictly not to be used in an attack. And now this happens. It’s a bloody mess. Who the hell can we trust?’
Lamb shook his head. He was damned if he knew any more. But the biggest question on his mind was why, if Colonel Honeyman could send a runner to the general, he had still not got through to HQ.
Chapter 16
Lamb sat in the Battalion HQ of 1st Black Watch in Lambercourt and puffed at a Craven ‘A’ as he tapped his fingers against the table top. He was frustrated beyond imagining. For three entire days, ever since they had pulled out of the wood, they had been waiting here. Three days. Days in which he could have moved closer to General Fortune and closer to getting his men home and back to the regiment. He had decided now that, whatever happened, that was his duty. Once the message had been delivered his mission in France was complete and it was paramount that he should return with what was left of his command to Britain. But first he had to reach General Fortune. He drummed his fingers harder and tried to think of a plan. Twice he had approached Colonel Honeyman and twice had been rebuffed with the answer that he was unable to spare the man necessary to guide him safely to Fortune. Whatever credence the colonel gave to Lamb’s story, he knew that Honeyman’s prime concern was to hold the front line and he knew too that he did not want Lamb to take his men with him when he went. Even ten men were a bonus here, where the line was stretched to capacity. Nor of course would Lamb have dreamt of attempting to reach GHQ without them, particularly after what he presumed had happened to Briggs’s section.
There was something else too. Honeyman had asked Lamb if he would assume temporary command of ‘A’ company, which had now lost every one of its officers, killed and wounded, supporting ‘B’ company on their left flank in the past few days. Of course he had accepted and had met his new command that morning.
They were a friendly bunch, if hugely reduced in strength over the past few weeks. There were only
forty-eight of them remaining now, led by Sergeant-Major Dodd, a huge farmer from Fife, and two other notable NCOs, Sergeants McNulty and Graham. Lamb had been more than a little apprehensive as to how he would be received. To place a Sassenach in charge of a bunch of Highlanders, rather than promote the leading NCO, seemed to him to amount to heresy. But Honeyman had insisted that the men would accept him, and to Lamb’s surprise the colonel had been right. They welcomed him as if he had been a Highlander himself, and now he was fully committed to staying. His own men, including Sergeant McKracken, had of course been integrated as an independent platoon within the company, bringing its strength up to fifty-seven. In truth he was excited by the challenge of leading a company, but knew too that when the opportunity came he must immediately find General Fortune.
His only hope lay in the possibility that a messenger might come from GHQ, but thus far the only orders had been those received from the French. Honeyman had sent a runner back on a civilian bicycle with the news that they had been attacked in the wood, but the man had not returned and they did not even know if the message had got through. There was worse, though.
From the French they had got wind of the fact that if the Germans overran their current position the division was to pull back to Rouen, in the opposite direction to Le Havre. Lamb realised that if that were to happen it would in all probability be cut off from the sea, and given the French defeatism such a move could only result in the loss of the division. It made his message all the more vital, but how could he explain that to Honeyman? A withdrawal from Le Havre was in contravention of all general orders to date, and Lamb knew that the moment the French found out about their intentions, they would scent treachery, which was the last thing he wanted to engender.
He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray, then got up from the table and left the room. Madeleine and the Battalion MO, a bluff Glaswegian doctor named Macwilliam, had established a rudimentary first aid post across from the Mairie in what had been the village hall. Lamb crossed the road and went inside. She smiled at him, and instantly his spirits rose. They had not had a chance to be alone in days, save for the occasional furtive embrace, but he knew that nothing in either of their feelings had changed. She was washing bandages in sterilising liquid, wringing out the bandages and laying them to dry on the old stove at the end of the hall. Dr Macwilliam was not to be seen, and unusually there were no patients. Lamb walked across to her and was about to wrap her in his arms when behind him the door opened and she pulled away.
It was Crawford. ‘I say, Madeleine, don’t suppose you’ve anything for gyppy tummy. Two of my men have gone down with it. Reckon it was that half-cooked chicken they scrounged. Oh, hello Lamb.’
Madeleine looked at Lamb, ‘Gyppy tummy?’
‘He means an upset stomach. The runs.’
‘Oh. I see. No, not really. But my mother used to say eat plenty of bananas. Perhaps the doctor can help.’
‘Not to worry. No time. In fact, glad I found you, Lamb. Have you heard?’
‘Heard?’
‘We’ve been ordered to attack.’
‘Attack? You are joking?’
‘No, I’m in deadly earnest. Order just came through to the Colonel.’
‘From General Fortune?’
‘Hardly. From de Gaulle. But the old man says that Fortune’s been given command.’
Lamb brightened. ‘Is he coming to the front?’
‘I hardly think so. We’re only one battalion out of nine in the Division, old boy. He’s better off back at St Leger.’
Lamb had known it would be the case. Once again he found himself moving further away from Fortune in another futile attack that would get them nowhere and only served to appease the French generals. He wondered at the logic of it. But just as quickly he realized that there was no logic and that the French generals were desperate. They could only do what they had done time and again in the Great War, and throw more and more men into the meat grinder. For a moment he considered refusing to join the attack, but he realised that would be not only ridiculous but tantamount to cowardice, particularly given his new command. The only answer was to go as ordered and to tell Madeleine the gist of his message and importantly who she should say it was from. If he should be killed or lost then at least she could try and get the message to Fortune, and he prayed that she would be believed.
He turned to Crawford. ‘When do we go?’
‘Three thirty in the morning.’
Madeleine looked alarmed. ‘Tonight?’
‘Yes.’
She looked down and pretended to busy herself with the bandages.
Crawford continued, ‘The objective’s a patch of ground from Caubert to Cambron, about six miles. They’re planning a stonking great barrage before it. Should be like Guy Fawkes Night. They say nothing will stand under that. What do you reckon?’
Lamb thought back to tales of the Great War and to another huge barrage, the largest ever seen back then, which had happened a month later than this, in July 1916, along a different stretch of the same river. The troops had also been assured then that nothing would be alive when the barrage lifted, yet it heralded the worst day in British military history. ‘Well,’ he said, disingenuously, ‘you never know.’
Colonel Honeyman had generously arranged a supper for all the battalion officers in the Mairie at 11 p.m. that evening, and they sat down together in the large anteroom at an improvised table. Smart joined the other batmen in serving, and for a moment it was as if Lamb, in his borrowed uniform, had been transported back to Kent, to the officers’ mess. There were eight of them at the table, including the colonel, and the conversation flowed as easily as the wine. But Lamb realised that, cheerful as it was, this would be the last time they would be together like this. It was almost as if the dinner became a wake for the battalion, and he hoped his presentiments were ill founded.
As they ate, Honeyman went over the basics of Fortune’s plan. The French tanks were attacking in the centre, with the Scots on either flank and the Seaforths in support with the few British tanks from 1st Armoured, attached to Fortune’s command. To the right, the Camerons would take Caubert and the wooded ridge known as the ‘Hedgehog’, while the Gordons on the left would take Cambron and the troublesome bluff overlooking the wood where the 88s were positioned. The Black Watch were to support the Gordons and take the wood.
Lamb could hardly believe it. He turned to Crawford. ‘Not that bloody wood again.’ Crawford smiled but could not disguise his unease. He said in a whisper, ‘D’you want to know something? The adjutant told me that if the enemy aren’t destroyed by the barrage they’ll be able to enfilade us. And didn’t the French fail in exactly the same place three days ago? And there’s one more thing. We haven’t rehearsed with tanks, have we?’
Lamb nodded. ‘You’re right. I remember a Tank Corps commander lecturing us at Aldershot. Tanks and infantry just don’t mix, he said, unless you rehearse. Otherwise you’re going to fail. Just like in 1918.’
At that moment Honeyman rose to his feet. ‘Gentleman, a toast. To the King.’ They echoed his words and drained their glasses, which were quickly refilled. ‘And to our success in tomorrow’s attack.’
At a quarter after three on that morning of June 4th the valley of the lower Somme was shrouded in mist, and Lamb was thankful for it. Behind it the men were well hidden from enemy observation. Lamb looked at his watch, and at precisely 3.20 the guns began. From their start point on the far north-west edge of Lambercourt, he looked away from their own objective, south east across the valley in the direction of the villages of Bienfay and Villers, and saw smoke rising as explosions shook the ground. There were known to be enemy posts there at least, even if the reconnaissance had not done its job anywhere else. There were other, smaller explosions from the wood in front of them, their own objective, and that of the Gordons a little further on. For a full ten minutes the barrage continued and the air high above Lamb’s head seemed to turn into a continuous mass of whistling metal. He
began to think that no man could possibly survive the torrent of explosive raining down upon the German positions. But then it stopped, and all he could hear was the rumble of tanks and the murmur of the men around him, heightened with apprehension. Curiously, the tanks appeared to be behind their position, and at first he thought he must be mistaken. But then he saw them, advancing to the north west of the village: French heavy tanks. Surely that was wrong. They were meant to be with the Seaforths in the centre of the line. As he watched, the column halted and began to reverse and then turned and withdrew. It was not hard to see that something had gone wrong.
He looked at his watch again. 3.29.
Off to his left and behind, a whistle blew to signal the attack and Lamb put his own to his mouth and followed suit, along with the other officers. Together the men entered the woods. Lamb looked both ways, making sure that none of them were going too far ahead, keeping in a line abreast, like a pheasant shoot walking through a copse. It had been the British artillery, 25-pounders and 6-inch howitzers, not the French, that had shelled the wood, and where the shells had struck home trees were still smouldering. Others had been ripped up by the roots, or simply blown to pieces. As before, there was no enemy opposition, and while he could hear machine-gun and artillery fire on both flanks, in the wood itself there was nothing. The company walked on until it reached the far fringe of the wood, where the trees gave way to fields once more, before the huge green mass of the Bois de Cambron rising before them. That was where the Gordons were heading. It was his job merely to sit tight here in support.
Lamb watched as the Gordons began their attack on the wood. Advancing with fixed bayonets along a narrow sunken lane, they marched in regular formation, looking like something out of the nineteenth century. Then half way up the right face of the wood they turned and began to advance inwards.
It was then that the German machine guns opened up, and he saw the Jocks begin to fall. But still they went in.
After a few minutes of the slaughter, Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘I don’t know about you, Sarnt, but I can’t sit here like this watching them being mown down. Come on.’
