by Judy Nunn
It was the end of October and the men of the 11th Battalion were on their third tour of the line. The Westralian diggers had seen it all and there wasn’t a man amongst them who didn’t awake in the muddy trench after his several intermittent hours of cold, wet, liceridden sleep to wonder at the fact that he was still alive. Snowy, Tom, Jack and Rick made a joke of it. ‘Still here, mate?’ was their good morning greeting to one another.
The 11th Battalion headquarters were in dugouts at Zonnebeke but the troops of the 3rd Brigade, on the line near Decline Copse, were existing under terrible conditions. Having relieved the 2nd Brigade, the 3rd was acting as protection and decoy for the right flank of the 4th Canadian Division which was making an attack on Passchendaele, and the gunfire had been so heavy for so long that there was not one area of ground untouched. In the welter of mud and broken trenches it was up to the troops to find shelter for the night as best they could and, all over the battleground, pockets of men huddled in holes in the ground.
In the ditch by the wagon, the group dragged out their waterproof sheets from their packs, settled themselves down in the mud and lit their cigarettes whilst Rick pulled the old concertina from his kitbag.
‘“Piccadilly”,’ Charlie Blanchard insisted. Charlie was a Cockney and he always wanted the old vaudeville songs. ‘Give us “Piccadilly” first.’ The Aussies didn’t howl him down the way they used to do. By now, the Diggers knew the Tommy songs as well as they knew their own and, in No-Man’s-Land, any song was a good song.
They sang in desperation at first, to drown out the sound of gunfire and erase the memory of the day’s hideous battle. Then cries of ‘Good on you, mate’ sounded from other ditches and craters and broken trenches and, here and there, a man stood and waved. More and more voices joined in. Wherever the sound of the concertina could be heard, men sang and, gradually, down the line, the song swelled to become a rousing chorus of defiance. ‘“… dear old London’s broad highway!”’ They shouted the finale.
Requests were yelled from afar. ‘“The Road to Gundagai!”’
‘“My Old Man!”’ And everyone’s favourite, ‘“The Rose of No-Man’s Land!”’
‘There’s a rose that grows,
In No-Man’s-Land …’
Jack studied Rick, playing valiantly on and on, never missing a beat. Even when a shell exploded nearby and they were showered with mud, Rick played on.
‘… It’s the one red rose,
The soldier knows.
It’s the work of the Master’s hand …’
Today of all days, they needed Rick Gianni, Jack thought. Today had been a day from hell.
“Neath the world’s great curse
Stands the Red Cross nurse.
She’s the Rose of No-Man’s-Land!’
Whilst men from all over the battlefield roared the final words Jack looked around at his mates. He and Rick and Mad Tom Brereton—they called him Mad Tom these days to his face, Tom seemed to like it—and Snowy Wilson and the others. How the hell had they lasted this long? Jack wondered. How the hell had they lasted this long?
There had been a purpose to start with, or at least they’d told themselves there was. Reach the front line, man the trenches and advance when the order came through. Pretty simple really.
Through the communication saps and over the parapet they’d gone, with the hundreds of others. Through and over the endless maze of trenches, amongst the shell holes and barbed wire, ignoring the bodies that lay strewn in their wake. There had been many a fight for the ridge ahead and both sides had suffered heavy losses. No time to think about that now. The Germans were retreating. Orders were to advance.
The front line. They’d made it. The trench was full of bodies, Germans as well as Allies. So Fritz had got this far, they thought. Some men were not yet dead. Stretcher bearers would come under cover of darkness for those who could last that long.
Ahead of them was No-Man’s-Land. And the orders to advance once more at dawn.
They’d advanced, all right, Jack thought as he looked at the others—they were singing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’ now—but, here in No-Man’s-Land, there were few left to tell the tale. This was a gunner’s war, an artillery duel between the Allied and German batteries, and heaven help the poor infantryman caught in the middle. If they could only meet Fritz face to face, in man-to-man combat, at least they would feel they were serving a purpose.
Finally, the men stopped singing. As the blackness of night crept in about them, broken every now and then by German flares and a fresh burst of gunfire, they fed themselves from their kitbag rations. Then they curled up in the mud and tried to give their weary bodies whatever minutes’ or hours’ sleep their nerves would allow.
‘I’ll take first watch,’ Charlie Blanchard offered. Nightly watch was maintained not so much for fear of attack, as for fear of the dreaded mustard gas. The minute the familiar shower of popping gas shells sounded, the alarm went out and the men had only seconds to don their gas masks before the yellow-green haze wreaked its deadly havoc.
Jack’s mind drifted off and the visions appeared, as they always did. Old ones were joined by the fresh unspeakable horrors of the day and he couldn’t rid himself of the man’s face. The man drowning in the mud that very afternoon. As they’d frantically dug to free Snowy, the mortally wounded man had been barely five yards away. Buried from the shoulders down, he’d been blown to pieces. God knew how much of him was left beneath the mud. But he was conscious and struggling feebly. The more he struggled the quicker he sank and, by the time they’d dug Snowy out, the man had gone. But Jack had seen the final look in his eyes and now, in fitful sleep, the man was back. His mouth opened he was about to say something.
Jack awoke, startled, the sweat of alarm mingling with the drizzle of rain. A noise nearby. ‘What was that?’ He sat up.
‘Rats, mate.’ It was Snowy. ‘Rats, that’s all. Go back to sleep. You too, Charlie, I’ll take over the watch.’
‘Right you are then,’ and Charlie curled up in his waterproof sheet.
Tough little Snowy Wilson was having trouble sleeping. Each time he closed his eyes, panic rose in him. He could feel himself drowning as the trench closed in about him. Jack was pulling on one arm and Tom on the other whilst Rick dug frantically at the mud. But it was no use, Snowy was being sucked down into his grave. He kicked with his feet and felt the bodies of the men buried beneath him. His foot found a purchase and he started to climb. The limbs of dead men were the steps of the ladder he climbed to safety as his mates pulled him from the slime. Tough little Snowy Wilson was having trouble sleeping.
Tom Brereton was not. Mad Tom always managed to sleep. But there was no respite in it and he usually awoke more tormented than before. In his sleep, an endless array of torn flesh and limbless bodies paraded behind his eyelids and every dead man bore the face of one of his brothers. Now Ben, now Bill; they seemed to take it in turn. Even the faceless bodies, those with a stump where a head used to be, were the headless bodies of his brothers.
Rick Gianni had managed, more successfully than the others, to exorcise his nightly demons. As the images started to appear, he concentrated on the music in his brain. Always the same tune, the very first one he’d written. He’d been just a boy. ‘Solange’s Song’ he’d called it. And then he would conjure up her face. Not as he’d last seen it, with nothing but the fear of discovery in her eyes. But loving. Impudent and laughing. During every tormented night, the memory of Solange was Rick Gianni’s saviour.
The image of the drowning man would not allow Jack sleep so he and Snowy talked quietly together.
‘Not a good possie, this,’ Jack said, referring to the ditch in which they were huddled. It was beside one of the few existing roads across the battlefield and roads were regularly shelled to prevent the supplies getting through to the Allied front line.
‘We’ll be out at dawn, mate. They’ll signal the advance.’ Snowy lit up another cigarette. ‘We’ve got to press forward
and get under the barrage. We’re sitting ducks out here.’
‘Reckon we can make it to the ridge?’
‘I reckon.’
Dawn’s first light revealed the carnarge. Behind the men there stretched miles of wet, grey wasteland strewn with bodies and debris. A low mist rolled across the boggy marshland and, here and there, lay evil pools of yellowish liquid, remnants of the hideous mustard gas.
Far ahead, the German lines looked green and untouched. Virgin country, in stark contrast to the Allied lines and No-Man’s-Land. Strange to think that the hideous slime in which they lay was the victor’s ground and that the Germans were in retreat.
They could see the ridge ahead and, as the signal sounded, men rose like ghosts from the mud. Were there really that many of them left, after all? Jack wondered as he ran with the others.
The noise from the heavy German bombardment was horrendous. Shells roared overhead like freight trains to explode in a shower of mud and men. Still they ran, staggering, falling in the mud, and rising again, those who could. As he ran, Jack’s mind was strangely lucid. Snowy was right, he thought, they were spot in the middle of the heavy guns’ target range. If they could just get forward. If they could live that long. Usually the cacophany of artillery became one nightmare roar, but something told Jack’s mind that there was less sputter of machine-gun fire. Amongst the growl of shells and the squeal of field guns, where was the constant rat-tat-tat of machine-guns? Was it true then? Had the Germans retreated? Was the ridge theirs for the taking?
Closer and closer to the ridge. Soon they’d be under the heavy barrage. Then a wall of mud engulfed them and Jack was thrown to the ground, Rick beside him. ‘You right?’ he yelled, but Rick was already struggling to his feet. So were Charlie Blanchard and Snowy. The shell had missed them. Mad Tom Brereton, the strongest and fastest runner of them all, was twenty yards ahead, screaming like a banshee.
On they ran. And on. They’d left the shells behind now. But the fierce splutter of machine-gun bullets suddenly surrounded them and Charlie Blanchard’s chest ripped open. Three other men beside him fell. Jack saw them, to his right. On he ran. The ridge was in front of them now. The ground was slightly firmer underfoot. Bayonets at the ready, they charged.
Tom disappeared in front of them. Over the ridge and he was gone. But, through the inferno’s noise, they could hear his screams. Then they, too, were over the ridge, Jack and Rick and Snowy. And there was Tom, bayonet plunging. Thrust, twist, withdraw. Thrust, twist, withdraw.
But they were dead men. Mad Tom Brereton was fighting dead men. Beyond the ridge were shell craters filled with bodies. The craters of their own shells, Jack realised. And the bodies were those of both sides; the Allies who had led the previous charge and the Germans who had been too late in their retreat.
Tom, in his madness, at least had wits enough to bayonet the enemy uniform. ‘Bastard!’ he was screaming. Thrust, twist, withdraw. ‘Bastard!’
‘Leave it, mate,’ Jack yelled, while the others dived for cover. There was machine-gun fire nearby.
‘Bastard!’ Thrust, twist, withdraw.
‘I said leave it!’ Jack grabbed Tom’s arm. ‘Leave it!’ Tom whirled on him, madness in his eyes, bayonet at the ready. Then recognition dawned. ‘They’re dead, mate,’ Jack said.
They huddled in a crater amongst the bodies and looked back at the butchery of No-Man’s-Land. The mists had lifted and a cold wind blew across the battlefield. Troops who had nearly made it were being mown down by machine-gun fire from further along the ridge.
‘It’s up ahead,’ Snowy said, ‘not far.’
They all knew what they had to do but, as usual, Jack took command, leading the way as they dodged amongst the rubble and craters and mutilated bodies.
In a large bunker, a number of enemy troops were manning the gun. Behind the blockade of sandbags and barbed wire, it was impossible for Jack to see how many. But they were effective. The blokes coming in this end of the line didn’t stand a chance. He wondered if there were more guns further along the ridge covering the Germans’ retreat.
Jack, Rick, Tom and Snowy huddled for a moment in the whistling wind.
‘Now!’ Jack yelled, and together they charged.
There were four enemy troops in the bunker. One German fell dead on the sandbags, a bullet through the head. Snowy Wilson was a crack shot. The soldier manning the machine-gun whirled about, bullets spurting in all directions. Mad Tom’s arm was ripped apart but, even as he fell screaming ‘bastard!’, his bayonet found its mark and a German soldier fell dead beneath him.
Jack hurled himself at the soldier manning the gun, driving his bayonet into the man’s side. Twist, withdraw, and a club to the head with the rifle butt. Another soldier was upon him but Snowy’s bayonet had caught the German in the shoulder. A shot to the head from Jack and the man was finished.
Snowy and Jack collapsed amongst the bodies, Mad Tom writhing beside them, clutching his mangled arm and muttering ‘bastards’ between clenched teeth.
Before they could regain their breath, two men had wriggled over the sandbags and into the bunker.
‘Good on you, boys.’ It was Captain Bob Bains, a popular officer, and with him was Tiny Nelson. They were from the original C Company and Jack knew them both. ‘We’d never have made it if you hadn’t drawn their fire. Bloody good work.’
But Jack had suddenly noticed that Rick wasn’t there. Where the hell was he?
He peered over the top of the bunker. Twenty yards away, Rick Gianni lay face-down on the ground. His pack, shot to pieces, hung in the coils of barbed wire beside him.
‘Rick!’ Jack started to climb from the bunker, but fresh machine-gun fire sounded from behind them.
‘Get down, man!’ Bob Bains yelled. ‘Get down!’
They had broken their cover in charging the bunker and the retreated enemy troops, from the safety of their new position a quarter of a mile away, were concentrating their attention on the pocket of men who had gained the ridge.
But Jack didn’t listen. ‘Rick!’ He yelled his friend’s name as he scrambled out of the bunker and charged across the twenty yards of ground, bullets cracking the air all about him.
‘Jesus,’ Snowy muttered, peering cautiously from the bunker, ‘the man’s mad.’
Then, as Jack hauled Rick up into a fireman’s lift and turned to run for safety, Snowy threw caution to the wind. He stood and screamed with all his might. ‘Run, mate! Run! Run!’ Tiny Nelson and Bob Bains also stood. ‘Run, Jack! Run!’ All three were yelling now.
The twenty-yard sprint back to the bunker seemed a lifetime to Jack, with the weight of Rick’s body on his shoulders. Any minute he expected to feel the bullets tear into his flesh. Fifteen yards to go. Ten yards. Five. Any minute now. But miraculously, he escaped the gunfire which screamed about him.
Eager hands grabbed at Rick as Jack tumbled the body from his shoulders and dived headlong into the bunker. There was a hard thump and a burning pain as a bullet hit him in the calf.
‘Good on you, mate. Good on you.’
Jack didn’t even feel the others thumping him on the back as he settled Rick against the walls of the bunker. His face was only inches from his friend’s and he could feel the breath fanning his cheek. ‘Hold on, Rick,’ he muttered. ‘Hold on, mate.’
The others too turned their attention to Rick as they tried to stem his bleeding.
‘He’s copped it in the back, mate,’ Snowy said. ‘He won’t make it.’
‘How do you know?’ Jack snapped. ‘You’re not a bloody doctor.’
‘Don’t get maggoty. I’m just saying he’s copped it in the back. I don’t reckon …’
‘Shut up, Snowy.’
‘All right, all right.’
While the others tended Tom’s wounds, Jack took a cloth from his pack and wiped the mud from his friend’s face. ‘Hold on, Rick,’ he said, ‘they’ll bring the stretchers in when it’s dark. They always manage to somehow, don’t they? Just hold on
till then, mate. They’ll get you back.’
Snowy Wilson was a tough little man. The job in a war was to stay alive and not let yourself get rattled. That was the way Snowy viewed things, and nothing rattled him much. Except getting buried alive in the mud—he wouldn’t forget that in a hurry. Jack Brearley was tough too, but Jack was rattled, he could tell. He supposed it was understandable, Rick and Jack were best mates. Perhaps he’d better try and say the right thing.
‘Yeah, maybe he’ll make it,’ he said helpfully, ‘if they haven’t hit a vital organ that is …’
‘I said shut up, Snowy.’
By now, Tom Brereton had lapsed into unconsciousness, broken every now and then by a moan of pain. But Rick Gianni hadn’t uttered a sound. He was still breathing, though, that was the main thing. ‘You’ll make it, mate,’ Jack kept saying. ‘Just hold on until nightfall—they’ll come and get you then.’
It was Captain Bob himself who dressed Jack’s leg. ‘Only a flesh wound, son, you’ll live,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It was a courageous thing you did.’ He nodded at Rick. ‘A bloody fine thing. You’ll get a medal for that, I’ll see that you do.’
‘That’s not why I did it, sir,’ Jack snapped.
‘’Course not, son.’ The lad was rattled, Bob could tell. Pity his mate wasn’t going to make it.
Dodging amongst the cover, Bob Bains, Tiny Nelson and Snowy did a ‘recce’ further along the line. There was jubilation amongst the troops who had survived the charge. The ridge was in Allied hands.
The men returned to the bunker. ‘You’ve done your job, boys,’ Captain Bob congratulated them. ‘Dig in till nightful and we’ll look after the wounded then. Stay with the lads, Snowy.’ And he and Tiny Nelson left.
Over the next several hours, Rick seemed to drift in and out of consciousness. He made no sound, but his eyelids flickered and once or twice they opened and he looked at Jack, although he appeared not to recognise him. ‘Hang on, mate,’ Jack said each time, ‘not long to go.’
The boom of heavy artillery was more distant now and less constant. Without the immediate threat of danger, it was peaceful in a way. The cold wind picked up and whistled along the ridge and even that was a sort of comfort—anything other than gunfire. Snowy fell asleep.
