‘For brawling!’ Chagrined at the other’s constant trespass against his good nature, the young officer projected uncharacteristic fury. ‘I’m damn well sick of you, Unthank, and if you don’t stop this insubordination it’ll be Field Punishment number one!’
Unthank’s first instinct was to be unimpressed. Younger, less worldly than himself, the lieutenant had always been an easy touch, but looking closer he detected a truly murderous glint in the normally smiling blue eyes. So furious was Louis that his uncontrolled lips pitched a rain of spittle along with his words. This in itself caused Unthank to stop and think. There were few things more dangerous than a placid man losing control. But more importantly, he had just caught sight of the RSM watching from a distance and who now began to walk in this direction. The seven days of excruciating boredom were still fresh in his mind, he was determined not to repeat the experience. Hence, his attitude towards the lieutenant underwent a swift metamorphosis. ‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that being cooped up so long I’ve been dying to have a pop at Fritz.’
Louis’s angry expression was tempered by surprise at this unexpected apology. He glared for a good few seconds into the soulless green eyes, trying to make out if he was still being taken for a fool, before coming to the conclusion that Unthank meant what he said and finally allowing, ‘Well … that’s quite understandable.’ But he was still frowning as he turned his eyes on Skeeton. ‘So, what was the blessed argument all about?’
The frenzied pumping of blood in Skeeton’s brain was gradually returning to its normal rate. Faced with Unthank’s declaration and the amount of missiles now coming from the enemy trench it sounded ludicrous to condemn him for murdering Germans. ‘Nothing really, sir.’ Out in no-man’s-land the horrible gurgling had stopped, though Skeeton’s stomach continued to churn with disgust.
‘You risked detention over nothing?’ Still concentrated angrily on the transgressors, Louis was unaware of the imposing figure approaching from behind.
But Skeeton was, and he mumbled accordingly. ‘It was just a misunderstanding, sir. He didn’t know we had a truce.’
‘What truce?’
‘It was just a private arrangement, sir. We had a word with Fritz and, well…’ The RSM almost upon them, Skeeton’s voice petered out and his eyes darted a warning.
‘One can’t have private truces!’ sputtered Louis.
‘Everything in order, sir?’
Though startled by the RSM’s voice Louis revolved with an automatic beam on his face. ‘Perfectly, Mr Kilmaster! I was just informing Unthank of my decision to make him a sniper, put his talents to good use.’ Stern of face again, he directed Unthank to go about his business, receiving a curt nod from the other that acknowledged him as a saviour from more detention. Dispersing everyone else in similarly efficient fashion, Louis turned again to the RSM, wondering how much Mr Kilmaster had witnessed.
But Probyn made no reference to what he had overheard. Reading the faces of those involved, he interpreted with some satisfaction that, despite the cock-and-bull story, Louis had at last found a way to deal with his bête noire. ‘A very good idea that, sir.’
The trench was under mortar fire now, the increasing ferocity of the explosions compelling both to move on, but in doing so Probyn looked back and made reference to the bottles under his arm. ‘Oh, by the way! You might be interested to know, sir, that Lieutenant Faljambe has come into possession of some very fine wine.’
At Louis’s grin of thanks, he headed back for HQ to the accompaniment of a noisy exchange of mortars. Casting one last look over his shoulder, he saw Louis approach Private Skeeton and startle him from his morose paralysis with a cheery pat on the shoulder.
Prodded into action, Skeeton took up his position on the fire-step. Though before doing anything else he withdrew from his pocket the portion of German sausage that he had been given in barter for the loan of the mallet and flung it as far as he could into no-man’s-land. He would never be able to eat it.
6
In general, Probyn had found that one’s daily existence in war was little different from that of ordinary life, a matter of just getting on with things, coping with one’s lot and managing quite well until some bombshell exploded and ruined everything. Except that in war the bombshells were not metaphorical.
Having enjoyed a passable dinner, made excellent by Faljambe’s wine, the occupants of HQ had gone to bed merry, only to be woken this morning by the scream of one such bombshell homing in on them.
Fully dressed, Probyn hurled himself out of the wire-netting hammock and in the same protective movement dragged his flea-bag over him just as the shell landed, exploding in the garden with a tremendous, ear-splitting roar and throwing up great columns of earth. It was followed by several others, all of which shook the walls and sent shards of plaster tumbling from the ceiling, peppering everyone and everything, burying desks, maps and paperwork under a layer of dust.
Fearing that he was going to be buried too, when the explosions appeared to have stopped Probyn came from under his mattress and called out to check if others had been hurt. Reassured by their answers, he joined the exodus. In the aftermath of the incendiary shells several buildings were ablaze and the area resembled a dog sprinkled with flea powder, its inhabitants scurrying around in alarm, officers’ grooms trying to calm horses that screamed in panic, that bucked and wrenched at their tethers, their flanks punctured and bleeding from shrapnel. Along with the colonel, adjutant, clerks and orderlies, Probyn staggered through the choking pall of smoke to emerge covered in dust.
A cheer arose from the trenches.
Slightly dazed, bashing the bits of ceiling from his hat and blinking rapidly to rid his eyelashes of debris, the colonel wondered aloud, ‘Are they cheering for us or the bomb?’
‘I wouldn’t care to hazard a guess, sir.’ Wearing a wry expression, Probyn coughed twice and, crunching grit between his teeth, spat distastefully through a powdery moustache.
Along the line, squinting through the weak early morning sunlight, Hugh Faljambe had been observing through field glasses. Relieved to see all unhurt, he joked to his companions, ‘That’ll teach the blighters to thieve our wine.’
Convinced that all were safe, Louis chuckled at the black humour.
However, back at the scene the mood had turned grim upon discovery that the battalion had accrued its first casualties. Added to the stench of gunpowder and hot metal was that of blood, seeping amongst the broken bricks. Small crowds had gathered around each of the two injured men, projecting anxiety and fascinated horror. There were excited demands for medical aid, no one seeming sure how to help the victims but wanting to feel that they were doing something by making wild gesticulations for assistance.
Calmly, despite his close shave, Probyn stepped forth to carve a way for the stretcher bearers, ordering the onlookers to get about their business and so they did, but still they could not tear their eyes away from the sight of human skin shredded to rag, milk-white bones protruding through rent flesh, and the pitiful cries of their comrades.
* * *
After such an experience it was good to be back in billets. For Probyn, besides being a welcome relief from the trenches there was to be pleasure in conversation too, for a draft from the 3rd York and Lancasters were also billeted here, and amongst them he met old comrades who had fought alongside him in South Africa.
Days of glorious weather were to follow, each devoured with the zest of those who teetered on the brink of death, misty morns dedicated to fishing in the Lys, evenings to the pursuit of feminine company and champagne.
Clad in shorts, their knees and cheeks as brown as conkers, the young officers seemed to Probyn’s eye more like boy scouts than soldiers as he watched them on this sunny afternoon. During a rest from training, Faljambe had brought his gramophone outside and, in the lack of more suitable partners, men waltzed together.
Louis had draped a white silk scarf over his head to resemble female hair and was partnering Bob Gaylard. Sa
shaying provocatively, he called to the portly figure seated on a chair in the shade of a bomb-damaged wall. ‘This is a gentlemen’s excuse me if you’d care to interrupt, Mr Kilmaster!’
Pulling on a cigarette, Probyn smilingly declined. Though he might act the clown at home it was beneath an RSM’s dignity to do so here.
But a fellow lieutenant obliged, rushing up to come between Gaylard and his partner.
‘Ah, monsieur, would like to dance with me?’ Louis puckered his lips at Sillar and prepared to be embraced but Sillar brushed him aside roughly. ‘Not likely – this one is far younger and prettier!’ And he hugged Gaylard to his chest before launching him into a waltz, leaving Louis to stalk off in a pretend huff and grab another partner.
The frivolity was interrupted by the tack-tack-tack of fighter planes. Abandoning their dancing, the youths grouped excitedly to tilt their faces heavenwards, shielding their eyes against the glare of the sun. Probyn looked up too, but, fascinating though the aerial duel undoubtedly was, after a while he lowered his gaze and instead began to watch the rapt expressions of the young officers, glowing with exhilaration, each obviously yearning to be up there.
A sudden cheer arose – the Hun was hit – and Probyn quickly turned his eyes skywards again. How flimsy the enemy aircraft seemed now, disintegrating like a moth that had come too close to the flame. The British aeroplane soared triumphantly above its victim, looping the loop whilst the other broke into three pieces, the men below cheering even louder. Then came a slight falter as they watched the German pilot make frantic attempts to escape the cockpit before it fell, but fail and plummet with it to earth.
Probyn looked again at his young warriors, noted the varied expressions; even now some continued to cheer the death of their enemy, but others, possessed of a deeper sense of humanity, went quiet and turned away, as if to pretend it had not occurred.
Slowed almost to a stop, the gramophone emitted a distorted groan. Rushing to it, Louis wound it vigorously and gave the tune life, summoning others back to the dance floor.
* * *
Towards the end of a sweltering month to the accompaniment of intense bombardment by their own artillery, the battalion moved to Brigade Reserve HQ at Grispot, accumulating two more casualties along the way.
That evening it began to rain heavily, the day’s gunfire eclipsed by a violent thunderstorm. By morning it had slowed to drizzle, though a pewter sky forewarned more to come. Save for a brief respite when a rainbow arched over the German lines, it continued to rain throughout the next day, each fresh downpour washing away Probyn’s former admiration of the trenchwork. Whilst in the duckboarded sections there was no more than six inches of mud, an unfloored zone was like a quagmire, becoming knee-deep in parts. Trenches filled up as soon as they were dug, in the flat landscape impossible to drain.
He had marched through mud before but had rarely been forced to dwell in it. Remaining still for more than five seconds he found himself imprisoned by the ankles. His thighs ached from the constant effort of having to negotiate such a morass. It was like living with some foul subterranean beast that would suck at his boots, dragging them into its loathsome mouth and hampering each step, the air filled with a constant squelching as he and others fought their way through it, churning the mire to even greater slime.
Still dogged by bad weather, caked in mud from head to toe, the battalion moved forward in anticipation of the attack on the German-held town of Loos. Though still in reserve there was in every heart the hope that they might be called upon to join the action. Most were already awake when, after a night of heavy rain, they were roused before four and told to cotton wool their ears in preparation of the bombardment. The sky was clear and starry but such tranquillity was destined not to last, and within half an hour the barrage had opened, its indescribable proportions shattering their senses as never before, the flimsy barrier of fluff in their ears of little effect against such an inferno of noise, its reverberations felt in the very earth beneath their feet.
In response to the British bombardment, German shells came whooshing from their batteries, whistling and screaming with devilish intent. Even a mile behind the front lines Probyn and his men came in for a considerable battering, cowering in their waterlogged trenches, listening to the cries of those being hit, full of admiration for the valiant medical officer who risked his life to tend them, whilst, all around, houses and farms were exploded off the map, along with their animals.
Then, about noon, during a lull in the barrage, a message was received along with the handing out of extra ammunition: ‘Stand to, ready to move!’ Whilst some knew only raw excitement, it suddenly became clear to those with any imagination that they could die today, and Probyn dispersed his old regulars amongst the virgin troops with orders to keep them cheerful. He himself visited his young officers, by his calm presence hoping to instil confidence. One of lesser experience might have assumed from their stalwart demeanour that they had no need of this, but Probyn knew the weaknesses of everyone around him.
‘Everything all right, sir?’ He struggled to make himself heard above the guns.
Young Postgate’s eyes were bright. ‘Yes, everyone is most enthusiastic!’
‘Enthusiasm is all very well, sir, but they have to know what to do when they get to their destination. They’re all primed, I trust?’
Louis gave an eager nod. But then his exuberance made way for sober admittance. ‘Well … there are a few doubts over the use of the bayonet.’
Inserting a sentence between bangs, Probyn spoke with confidence. ‘I wouldn’t let that concern you too much, sir. Once their blood is up they’ll take it in their stride.’
‘But will I?’ murmured Louis. The constant battering from high explosive had made him dizzy and numb, the reek of lyddite doing naught for his bilious stomach. All the noble thoughts about rescuing oppressed nations were gone, his thoughts concentrated on self-preservation.
‘What was that, sir?’ bawled Probyn, cupping his ear.
Louis shook his dark head, thinking what a terrible responsibility it was to have so many souls under one’s protection.
Guessing from the sick expression, Probyn mouthed, ‘I’m certain you’ll be fine, sir.’
Louis threw the RSM a grin for this vote of faith – but then a man in his platoon was hit by shrapnel and in a trice he was running to give aid.
The man was crying out in panic and holding his chest. ‘I’m going to die! Help me!’
Louis was doing the best he could for the victim but needed assistance and his sergeant-major quickly gave it, employing a calm but firm tone as he squatted to instruct the casualty. ‘Spit on your hands, Watson. Come on, do as I say.’
His eyes still dilated with fear, the man beheld him dumbly at first, then complied.
Probyn dealt him a nod of satisfaction. ‘Oh, you’re going to be all right. See?’ He took Watson’s wrist and held the man’s palm to his face. ‘The spittle’s clear. If you’d been hit anywhere vital that would have blood in it.’
This reasoned tone from a man so respected had the desired effect, the victim calming sufficiently to be stretchered away.
Still under fire, the RSM at his side, Louis went back to his position with a sigh. ‘I think that I shall never know as much as you, Mr Kilmaster.’
Probyn was self-effacing. ‘Me? I don’t know a jot about anything medical, sir, but it helped to calm him down, didn’t it?’ Giving Louis a reassuring nudge, he further explained, ‘I’ve seen men die of little more than a scratch just because they got all worked up and terrified. Say anything you can to keep them calm, even if it’s a lie. It’ll help them one way or another.’ With a supportive wink, he moved on to lend his strength to others.
Lieutenant Reynard seemed grateful too for the company of this old professional. He smiled but it was a nervous little effort and he constantly fidgeted with a blemish on his chin. ‘Thank God that ghastly row has finished. I’ve heard of people being sent mad by noise, now I know why.
’
Probyn voiced understanding.
‘It’s almost as bad as the waiting.’ Reynard slumped back into the thoughts that had possessed him before the RSM had arrived, his fingers moving from his chin to his neck. ‘I’ve heard reports that a number of men have been shot for cowardi—’
‘Not in this regiment, sir,’ Probyn cut in proudly.
‘Even so, it makes one think.’
‘Doesn’t pay to think like that, sir.’ Probyn displayed no empathy here. ‘Don’t spare any pity for them. They let their comrades down.’
Reynard admitted, ‘That’s the thing I’m most afraid of.’
‘You won’t let anybody down, sir.’
Sweat poured down the spotty face as bullets hissed around them. ‘Gosh, I could drink Lake Windermere dry.’
Probyn noticed that the young man’s hand continually explored his neck. ‘Something wrong with your throat, sir?’
‘I’m not sure. There appears to be a lump. I might take a trip to the MO once this is over.’
Probyn spoke kindly. ‘I think you’ll find that once it’s over the lump will have vanished, sir. It’s not real, it’s just nerves.’
Reynard was only half-relieved. ‘Truly?’
A firm, reassuring nod. ‘I’m sure most of the men here are experiencing the same thing. I myself am well acquainted with it.’
A sceptical smile, for, even under this terrible barrage the RSM barely flinched. ‘I find that hard to credit from your demeanour, Mr Kilmaster. But, tell me, what should I do to stop myself being afraid?’
‘Only a fool isn’t afraid, sir. Just bear it in mind that the Germans are more afraid than you are. Don’t worry, you won’t let anyone down.’ Having succeeded in bolstering Foxy, the old hand moved on to work his magic elsewhere.
But all the soul-searching and reassurance turned out to be for nothing. The order to move was never received.
Told to stand down, there came bitter complaint from Hugh Faljambe. ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the blasted bride!’
A Different Kind of Love Page 12
