The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Timbrell peered round for Geach, but with his party he had already been swallowed up in the darkness. Timbrell halted and stared ahead. There were fewer groans out here. He shivered despite his toughness. Nothing between them and the Germans except their own wire somewhere ahead. Very carefully he cut a strip of white tape with his trench knife and knotted it around a metal staple where the gap began. Cut by an enemy patrol or blasted away by artillery, it had probably been severed so many times that it no longer really mattered.

  Something bumped into him. It was Vickers. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Timbrell nearly laughed. Such politeness amongst this hell. Like Old Bill.

  ‘Get on with it.’ He could rely on these men. By sounds alone he could feel their purpose as they got busy with pliers and crowbars, while those with the drum of wire wove this way and that. The barbs seemed incredibly loud as the first long strand was paid out, but from experience Timbrell knew that the noise would be lost out here. Like being in a boat and attempting to board a darkened vessel at night. Every movement, even the sound of the rudder was like a thunderclap.

  Second Lieutenant Rooke said curtly, ‘I’ll see how Geach is getting on. It’s all taking too long.’

  Timbrell bit his lip. ‘I’d think again’bout that, sir.’ His wiring party were hunched in the midst of it like dumb beasts, probably listening, cursing the officer for wasting time.

  ‘Now look here, Sergeant . . .’

  Timbrell hissed, ‘Still?’ This was the first real test.

  The flare exploded some way off to the right, probably in the sector where their line linked up with the Royal Warwicks. But the Germans had often used flares before, piece by piece along the length and breadth of no man’s land.

  Timbrell glanced at his men, shining so brightly even at this range that it seemed impossible they could not be seen. The same searing brightness illuminated the cratered land beyond and around them, the gaping corpses and the bright-eyed rats. Even the great coils of cruel wire held a kind of beauty.

  Timbrell was aware for the first time of something which he had thought had no place here. It was pride. Pride for these men he had helped to train, whom he had chased and bullied where necessary, and had allowed to buy him a beer when the worst of it was over.

  After an eternity the flare faded and died away. It took far longer to accustom their eyes to the all-engulfing blackness that followed.

  Private Vickers said, ‘Hey, Sarge, he’s buggered off!’ He sounded amazed.

  ‘Good riddance, and you never ’eard me say that, see?’

  Another flare lit the scene and Timbrell saw a wounded soldier staring up at him, his eyes like stars in the drifting flare. Timbrell saw the gaping wounds, black in the glacier light. How could a man still be alive? Man? He was just a boy, like young Barlow had been.

  Timbrell whispered, ‘Die! Why can’t you die?’

  The boy’s mouth opened and closed but he did not speak, nor could he probably. But one hand lifted very slowly as if it were part of someone else and tried to seize Timbrell’s sodden tunic. Then just as suddenly it fell back into the mud. Only the pleading eyes remained before the flare faded away.

  ‘Keep at it, lads!’ He saw them pulling at the wire; they knew what he was going to do. They had all seen what they were not supposed to see. Not an enemy soldier, but a horribly mutilated boy who was refusing to die.

  Timbrell knelt down and put his hand on the inert shape. Rules of war. Not out here, there bloody weren’t. He felt the shoulder jerk only feebly as he drove his trench knife into him, ending it.

  He trudged back with the wiring party. The drums were almost empty. It did not seem possible. He turned back as if he expected to see him there. Why should it bloody matter? He was a Jerry, like all these sprawled in the darkness, gasping, crying out for help which would never come. Timbrell shook his head. But for some reason it did matter. Aloud he muttered, ‘Leastways it does to me!’

  Dark shapes were standing amidst the few remaining bricks of this unknown village. Instinct told him it was Geach and his party.

  Vickers said wearily, ‘Beat us to it, Sarge!’

  But Timbrell was staring round, suddenly anxious. ‘Where’s that soddin’ officer?’ There were no medals for losing even a second lieutenant.

  ‘Still!’ As the flare burst high over the wire a machine-gun began to chatter from the enemy line. Once again Timbrell felt the same strength of pride at the courage and sheer guts of his men. Not much further. Twenty yards at the most. Then helping hands, slaps on the back and mugs of rum for all of them. He moved his head very slowly and felt his hair rising on his neck as one of the corpses stood up suddenly amidst the sprawling tangle of wire.

  Someone said in a fierce whisper, ‘Jesus, it’s him, Sarge!’

  It couldn’t be. In the same instant Timbrell knew that it was. Then it came to him. Rooke had not gone to find Geach. It’s all taking too long. He had found himself a place to hide. Unknowingly, the wiring party had passed him in the darkness and had sealed him inside this barbed metal trap.

  ‘Get me out of here!’

  Timbrell tried to think clearly. One stupid move, and that machine-gunner and then all the others would be turning them over like a reaper in a field. He moved as quickly as he could to Geach. Take them back, Corporal!’

  Geach peered at him. ‘Not likely, Sarge! What do you take me for?’

  ‘Do as I say, now!’ He added heavily, ‘They’ll be on us in a minute.’

  He froze as Rooke’s voice echoed shrilly over the ground. ‘That’s an order, Sergeant!’

  Geach exclaimed, ‘Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stairs!’ Then he said, ‘I’ve got it, Sarge.’ To the others he called, ‘Single file – you lead, Jury!’

  Timbrell watched them melt away. All but one. It was Vickers.

  ‘Nothing you can do.’ He slipped and fell across something stinking and rotten, but Vickers dragged him to his feet and said, ‘See? Can’t manage without me!’

  It was like a new nightmare. The pair of them rigid as if on parade, their legs slowly sinking into the ooze and filth, while Rooke peered through the wire at them, gripping a length of it, his eyes wide with mounting terror.

  Timbrell was astonished as he listened to his own voice. Inhumanly calm and patient, when every fibre was screaming for him to turn and run after the others.

  ‘You’ll be all right, sir. But we can’t do nothin’ now. Stay under cover till we can get to you.’ He winced as Rooke began to scream, ‘Don’t you dare to leave me! I’ll see you shot!’

  Timbrell looked up at the black clouds. At any second they would pop off another flare. Then the guns would start up.

  Surprisingly, it was Vickers who said, ‘We need the proper wire cutters. Our tools are for bending and shaping the bloody stuff. Remember? You were telling me how to do my job.’

  ‘That’s enough.’ Timbrell backed slowly away from the wire. Geach would be in the trench by now, and even the colonel would know what the hell was going on.

  ‘Come back!’ Rooke must have dragged at the wire with sudden desperation because several of the little tins jangled noisily, so that even the dead and wounded seemed to be listening.

  ‘Bloody fool!’ Timbrell and his companion began to stumble back towards the invisible trench, everything gone from their minds but escape. The flare seemed to explode directly above them, but for several long seconds nothing happened. Timbrell saw men rising from the parapet to help them and heard Rooke’s screams grow wilder until the guns opened fire, traversing back and forth, no doubt expecting to catch a whole section of men out in the open.

  They were almost into the trench when Vickers gave a sharp cry and fell down amongst the others. Timbrell followed him and tried to hold his limbs still as Vickers reached out for him, like the kid had done. He was actually grinning. Before he fainted all he said was, ‘Blighty one, Sarge!’

  At dawn, Rooke’s riddled corpse was still hanging on the wire.

  Alexandra P
itcairn climbed the steps to the main entrance of Hawks Hill and thrust open the door. Even inside the reception area it felt cold and damp and she could see her breath hanging in the air like steam. In the village they were all saying it was the worst September they could remember. It was unbelievable to think it would be October in only a week’s time. People talked about Christmas, but few were looking forward to it. Rationing and the shortages of even simple items were bad enough, but the deteriorating weather made it a poor outlook.

  The duty sergeant smiled at her, ‘Bit parky, Miss.’ Then he said, ‘Old Jack Swan wanted me to tell him if you dropped in. I’ll have one of my lads find him for you.’

  She sat down in a high-backed porter’s chair, one of the few original furnishings in this part of the house. Even the worn leather felt damp through her coat. She unbuttoned it slowly. It was past its best, but like her long boots it was an old friend, and even if a new coat were available it would be no match for a Hampshire winter like this one was.

  She had heard her father discussing the need for further medical accommodation for the endless tide of wounded men from the Western Front. All the military and naval hospitals had long since been filled to overflowing, as were the large civilian hospitals in the southern counties. But it was still not enough. More long huts had been constructed by the army here, and some of those which had originally been intended for rest and recuperation from operations elsewhere were now transformed into surgical wards.

  She thought of her own patients. All of them had been sent to other places, many of them to the north of England. How must it be for these young, sightless survivors from the war who had just begun to recover their faith and hope, to be suddenly shifted elsewhere? They would know no one, and be very aware of the strangeness, the different dialects and accents. It would be like starting all over again. She had still not decided what she herself should do. She helped her father whenever she could, but he seemed troubled and at times distant. He asked her little about Jonathan; perhaps he was indifferent, or too depressed by his own work to care.

  Jonathan wrote whenever he could, but the post was irregular and the letters usually came in packets. Enemy action in the Channel and North Sea had cut down sea passages or ensured that the vessels were used for more urgent cargoes.

  She had read every letter several times, and ached to know what he was doing and where he was. She had sent him a photograph of herself with a lock of her hair in the folding case, and she wondered if he had received it safely. Her own letters, now written freely and without reserve, would draw them closer across the miles.

  She recalled the August evening when she had heard the guns as she walked up towards the copse: like a distant thunder below the horizon. The Western Front had suddenly touched her even at Hawks Hill.

  She stood up abruptly and walked to the fire, staring at herself in the unpolished mirror over the mantel. She wrinkled her nose at her reflection. Her hair was all anyhow after the mist and rain outside and the scarf with which she had covered it.

  I look a real sight.

  Behind her the orderly sergeant was sitting at his desk, apparently reading a newspaper, but she knew he was watching her. She smiled to herself. What would he think if he really knew?

  ‘Here he is, Miss.’

  She turned, startled by his voice. As if he had read her thoughts, or she had spoken them aloud.

  ‘Hello, Mr Swan.’ They shook hands. She never called him Jack in front of the military intruders, as he referred to them. It might take away his last piece of authority.

  Together they walked down the familiar passageway, but the notice was no longer on the door of the little ward where she had helped men to see words once more in their broken minds. It merely stated No entry without escort, and she wondered what terrible injuries lay concealed there.

  There was nobody about, and Jack Swan stopped by a side door. ‘I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing, Miss. Now that you’re here I’m not so sure.’

  She clutched his arm. ‘Tell me. Is it about the Colonel?’

  ‘Bless you, no, Miss. But . . .’ His eyes moved along the passageway and his face was troubled. ‘Only found out by accident. You know the rules here.’ He made up his mind. ‘In one of the new wards there’s an officer from the R.M.L.I.’ He saw her frowning. She did not understand. ‘The Fifty-First, Miss.’

  ‘Jonathan’s battalion.’

  ‘Yes, Miss. I did manage to see him myself. To make certain . . .’ He did not elaborate, and he could see he had no need to. ‘But I said nothing about you, of course.’

  By the time they reached one of the new wooden wards she was shaking as though with cold, but she knew it was something more than that. Once through the door, and then another where an army nursing sister sat at a table sipping tea, it was no longer a part of Hawks Hill. It had become a hospital.

  The sister smiled at her. ‘Of course I know you, Miss Pitcairn. Your father, too.’

  Swan said, ‘Lieutenant John Hunter, Sister. Is he well enough to talk?’

  She looked at the girl in the shabby green coat. ‘A friend of yours, perhaps?’ She did not press the point. ‘He’s still sedated – they removed several splinters from his body. But with luck he should be all right. He’s a hardy young man.’

  Swan said stoutly, ‘He’s a Royal Marine!’

  Alexandra heard nothing of the exchange. She was thinking of the terrible scars on Jonathan’s back, recalling how he had almost broken down when she had stroked them.

  The sister glanced at her little watch. ‘I can give you five minutes. The M.O. and matron are doing their rounds shortly.’

  Swan saw how visibly she was bracing herself, the tanned hands clenched into fists so tightly that the knuckles were bleached.

  ‘I’ll be here, Miss. Case you needs me.’

  The sister led the way between the beds. The light was hard and bright as it came through some of the windows, more like a cold dawn than nearly dusk. She bent over the bed to one side.

  ‘A visitor, Lieutenant Hunter.’ Then she pulled out a stool and said in an undertone to the girl, ‘Not too long now.’

  The lieutenant had very fair hair, almost white in the hard sunlight.

  ‘I don’t want to trouble you,’ Alex said. He was staring at her as if she had dropped suddenly from the sky. ‘I wanted to ask you about somebody.’ She was already out of her depth. ‘In your battalion.’

  She saw his eyes cloud over, and something like fear looked out at her.

  ‘I – I may not have seen . . . There were so many, you understand—’ He seemed to sense her desperation. ‘I might not even know him.’

  She took his hand in hers and said, ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwood. I have to know. Is he all right?’ She wondered how she had managed to say it, and did not see the relief flooding into his face.

  ‘Oh, gosh,’ he said boyishly, ‘the colonel!’ and blushed. ‘Yes, he’s fine. Was anyway, when I picked up this basin of Krupp steel.’

  He was safe. He was safe. She realised that the patient in the bed opposite was watching them, smiling as if he knew what she had come about.

  ‘There was a terrible battle.’ She felt his fingers move inside her hand, like frightened creatures trying to escape. ‘It went on for days. I don’t know how many men we lost, let alone on the whole front.’ He stared at her and then whispered, ‘Don’t they know in England, Miss? It’s like a slaughterhouse over there.’

  She squeezed his hand to reassure him. There were so many things she wanted to ask, but rounds were about to begin, and his voice was becoming slurred with drugs and exhaustion.

  ‘May I come again? I work here sometimes.’ But he was asleep, his face, like the hand in hers, that of a young boy.

  She stood up and smiled at the man in the opposite bed.

  An orderly was coming along the ward, but he stopped motionless as he saw the expression of horror on her face. The man’s smile had not moved. Nor would it ever again.

 
; She walked quickly from the ward. Don’t they know in England? It’s like a slaughterhouse.

  At the door she turned and forced herself to look back. Curtains had been drawn around the bed to hide the terrible smile. There would be another occupant there tomorrow.

  Swan seemed quite shocked when she returned to him.

  ‘Why, Miss, you’re crying! I should never have . . .’

  ‘No, Jack, you did the right thing.’ Outside the air was like a knife, and she felt herself shivering. She said quietly, ‘Somebody should cry. For all of them.’

  Eighteen

  Captain Christopher Wyke sat on an empty ammunition case and watched with tired interest as his colonel completed a careful shave. The water was cold, and he thought how painful each stroke of the razor must have been.

  Jonathan wiped his face and throat with a towel which was none too clean, and felt more alive and alert. He had been told to report to the brigadier yet again. What this time? Another desperate attack before the weather stopped any hope of success?

  The battalion was in the reserve trenches, or what remained of them. The walls had collapsed as soon as they tried to shore them up again. It was like hacking through solid mud. The little beeks or brooks that criss-crossed this part of the front had, as expected, swollen in the torrential rain to become rushing rivers and spread across the pock-marked battlefield, turning it into one huge morass. It was now a constant danger, a risk even to try and move across it, let alone force an advance.

  From every sector the news was the same. Tanks were bogged down and useless, like stranded whales. Wounded men drowned in it; mules, guns and limbers vanished as if they had never been. And all the while, the rain fell in torrents, and icy winds swept through the water-logged trenches where soldiers and marines alike shivered, often knee-deep in mud.

  Secretly, Jonathan knew that the offensive should have been halted, at least until the weather improved. It was what they had said last year too. But they had not waited, and by the end of the August offensive the casualties had already risen to more than eighty thousand.