The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  “I’ll tell you who else would have thought of it,” Taggart said. “Jerry. And he probably rigs mines to burst at crotch height and emasculate you.”

  “There could be a great future for you in writing horror films. But if you do take it up, Rodney, you’ll have to avoid being genteel. Emasculate, forsooth! If you mean ‘blow your balls off’, say it”

  But Taggart’s attention had wandered. He was recalling his own fear a few hours ago — it seemed like minutes, so clear was the whole escapade in its immediacy — that he would be shot through his unprotected head.

  He wondered how long it would be before his first action kept returning vividly to mind; and bringing with it its terrors as well as the self-respect with which he could look back on it.

  Despite the intrusive memory, he did not neglect the chance to rag George Dempster.

  “Jolly decent of you to be worried about me and my chaps treading on a trip wire, old boy. I had rather more to worry about, myself. I’ll remember to sit and bite my nails when you go out on a fighting patrol.”

  The laughter that followed was hollow. Taggart had the experience safely behind him. For the rest of them it was yet to come. There was a measurable atmosphere of apprehension that had not existed before.

  Taggart blamed himself. What had been meant as a jibe had touched a legitimate chord of fear in his comrades. He tried at once to restore a mood of levity and to give the others confidence.

  “As a matter of fact, it wasn’t as bad as I’d expected; and now that I’ve done it once, I don’t at all mind how often. Everyone will find the same thing. The worst part is the cold and damp. Can’t anyone suggest a way of padding one’s elbows and knees? I know one thing: next time, I’m going to wear a towel around my neck to keep the snow out, and tie string round the wrists of my battledress.”

  This promoted discussion. Major Eugster, listening, told himself that young Rodney Taggart, at a mere 21, exhibited more qualities of leadership than any other subaltern in the battalion.

  * * *

  The barrack-rooms opened off the main gallery, which was seven metres wide and six high. In B Company’s, Corporal Fysshe-Smith lay at his ease on a top bunk. They were ranged in tiers of three. Private Udall was stretched out on the bottom one directly below the corporal’s. The intervening one was empty. It had been occupied by Private Maguire, killed on patrol twelve hours ago.

  They had eaten well at lunch.

  Udall belched and rubbed his stomach.

  “Didn’t use to think much of foreign food. The wine’s a bit of all right, innit?”

  “Rough but acceptable; in the circs.”

  “‘Circs’ my arse. You trying to talk like an officer, Fishy? ‘Ere, when did you ever drink wine, then?”

  “Every Friday night, at dinner. With the candles lit.”

  “Cor.”

  “My father is very Orthodox.”

  “Oh, religious. Communion wine, like?”

  “No, Bert, not like Communion wine at all.”

  Udall’s mind was apt to behave like a grasshopper, flitting from topic to topic.

  “‘Ere, Sar’nt Duff could have got a V.C. an’ all, they reckon, if he’d brought in a wounded man instead of picking up a gonner... old Maggie.”

  “Who are ‘they’ who reckon, Bert?”

  “The lads.”

  “They don’t know their arses from their elbows. V. Cs are won by leaving a safe position, under heavy fire, and crawling a long way to bring in a wounded man; still under heavy fire. Well, that’s one way of winning a V.C. Sometimes.”

  “The lads say... I think... he ought to get a medal for what he did. He could have left old Maggie there to be picked up by Jerry and buried in Germany, poor sod.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has it occurred to you that bringing Maguire’s body back means spit and polish and an extra parade for the rest of us, that could have been avoided?”

  “What d’you mean, Fishy?”

  “Burial detail. Firing party. Pall bearers. They won’t plant him in Army time, you can bet. It’ll be done in our stand-down time.”

  “You’re a hard bugger, sometimes, Fishy. I don’t mind polishing me boots and pressing me uniform for old Maggie. Last respec’s, like.”

  “It’s going to be a long war.”

  A longish silence followed while Udall contemplated the implications of this statement. He visualised a series of military funerals in which he would have to participate. He thought that in one of them he might eventually play the central role. The thought made him shudder.

  “You heard the rumour? Some of the lads got it from the Froggies.”

  “Which of the many lavatory rumours d’you mean?”

  “The Froggies told some of our blokes that the only ways they can dispose of bodies in one of these forts is to melt them in acid and pour them into the drains; or stick ‘em in a pit of lime right outside the main entrance.”

  “The French have a taste for being gruesome, Bert. Don’t pay any attention. Wait and see: you’ll be carrying Maguire’s box tomorrow. And it’ll be heavy. I happen to know there’s a stack of them, made of galvanised sheeting, in the stores here.”

  “Blimey.”

  “On the other hand, we might get away from this rabbit warren for an hour or two and go back to Battalion H.Q. so that the Colonel can hold a full parade. After all, he is our first casualty, Maguire.”

  “I’d like to get out of here, an’ all.”

  “So would we all.”

  Udall grinned. “And I know why you’d like to: to get on the nest, that’s what.”

  “She’s a very pleasant woman. And a good-looking one.”

  “Yeah. If you like ‘em over forty. Motherly an’ all.” Udall leaned out to look up. Fysshe-Smith, leaning down, looked indignant and more like a horse than ever. “Right old stallion you are, Fishy. Got yourself quite a brood mare, eh?”

  Udall worked in a brewery and was knowledgeable about dray horses. Hence he considered himself no less a horsey man than the corporal, with his racing association.

  His mind took another hop.

  “He’s all right, Mister Taggart, inn ‘e?”

  “Very much all right.”

  “I felt bad when he left me be’ind that time last night. Next time, I’ll follow him, whatever he says. I mean, look what might have happened when he bumped into them two Jerries. If I’d been there, we could have taken one each.”

  “He seems to have done all right on his own.”

  “Yeah. But think if he ‘adn’t.”

  Fysshe-Smith dropped his bantering, pretendedly superior pose and spoke seriously.

  “Lieutenant Taggart’s first class. He’s got guts and he can think. I’ll go anywhere with him.”

  “Me, an’ all. What d’you think of this ‘ere Maginot Line, then, Fishy?”

  “It’ll keep Jerry out. Every strong point can hold out for days. Even the casemates are manned by twelve to thirty troops and they’ve got plenty of food and water in the basements.’

  “Go on?”

  “Fact. And look at the artillery forts. Those pairs of seventy-five millimetre guns can shoot twelve thousand metres...”

  “Wassat in yards?”

  “A bit further. The shortened model can shoot nine thousand five hundred metres. The eighty-one howitzer has a range of three thousand five hundred; and the one-three-five howitzer, five thou six.”

  “Go on? ‘Ere, you going to take a commission, Fishy? I mean, you know a bloody sight more than some of the officers.”

  “Which isn’t saying much.”

  “They ain’t all like Mister Taggart, but...”

  “The C.O’s all right. He’s made B the best company in the battalion. The Colonel’s keen: look how he came to see us off last night and waited up till we got back. You could tell he was green with envy and wishing he could go out on patrol himself.”

  “What d’you think about Dempster?”


  “I’ve always said there’s more there than meets the eye. I used to suspect he’d joined the Terriers just to earn his pay for attending parades; and camp: I mean, he’s not so much in demand that he can’t get away because of some play or film.” Fysshe-Smith laughed. “Poor devil. But I’ve changed my mind. He’s not bad. Odd thing is, he’s quite good at discipline. And I think he’s going to be a cool hand in action. Won’t panic. Actors have to be cool, you know; always forgetting their lines... and having to ad lib for other actors who forget theirs.”

  “You don’t half know a lot, don’t you, Fishy?”

  “I’m twenty-five, Bert. Dempster’s only twenty-three. You’re just a brat.”

  “Nineteen. Bin working since I was fourteen, an ‘all. And smoking. And ‘avin’ birds. And I went on the beer when I was seventeen. But, you know, never drunk or smoked much on account of me boxing.”

  Udall had gone as far as the quarter-final of the A.B.A Junior Championships twice, as a lightweight; and the semi-final of the Territorial Army Championships, once. Dave Crowley of Clerkenwell, British Lightweight Champion, was his idol.

  “I’m not denying you’re a man, Bert; but you’re still a kid.”

  “Wonder why Mister Taggart didn’t join the Regulars; him being so bloody good, like.”

  “I can tell you why. We talked about our reasons for joining, one day.”

  “Go on?”

  Udall was full of admiration. Taggart came level, dead-heat, with Dave Crowley in his scale of values; since last night’s patrol. That Fishy should have a casual conversation with any officer, let alone the peerless Taggart, astonished him as well as provoked his esteem.

  “He asked me why I’d joined. But, because he’s a born leader, he told me, first, why he had. You know he’s articled to a solicitor: he said he didn’t want to join The Inns Of Court Regiment, because he wanted to get away from the legal profession in his spare time. So he joined our mob, where the company’s very mixed. I mean, there’s the Colonel, a stockbroker, Major Eugster, Sales Manager of a company making bathroom and lavatory fittings, Dempster on the stage. And all the others in various professions. Taggart told me he’d really prefer an outdoor life, but the Regular Army, the Navy or the Air Force are too badly paid and he hasn’t any private income. But he must be keen, to give up some of his Saturdays to T.A. training instead of playing cricket and rugger; which he’s so keen on.”

  “Yeah.” Admiration from Udall again. “He played rugby two seasons for Surrey, an’ all. Don’t know much about rugby meself, but he’s a centre threequarter.”

  “That’s right. I’ve seen him play. He’s got a crushing trackle and a hand-off that could push a man’s face in. And a side-step and swerve that...” Fulsomeness was a betrayal of Fysshe-Smith’s studied coolness. He stopped abruptly.

  Udall’s mind hopped once more.

  “My old man was in the Navy, you know, last war. ‘E told me I ought to join the R.N.V.R. and go for submarines; they get extra pay. Didn’t fancy that. All shut in, like. This bloody Maginot Line must be like being in a sub.”

  “The French troops hate it. They call it ‘Le Trou’.”

  “Go on? Wassit mean?”

  “The hole.”

  Udall grinned, folded his arms behind his head and lay back as though his thin mattress offered luxury. A wicked expression settled on his face.

  “Now we’re back to your widder woman again, Fishy.”

  There was a creak of wire netting as the corporal jerked his head and shoulders over the edge of his bunk to glower down at his friend.

  “That was uncalled for. And vulgar.”

  “Never mind, Fishy. You’ll be all right when you take your commission.” (In Other Ranks’ parlance, officers always “took” a commission; as though the War Office, Air Ministry or Admiralty had begged them to accept it. This was an invariable common factor in the speech of all three Services’ O.Rs.) “Officers aren’t allowed to talk about ladies in mess. Not even if they ain’t technically quite ladies.”

  Fysshe-Smith reflected that one could never have the last word with a Cockney or an Irishman. He wondered what happened in an encounter between the two breeds.

  * * *

  Deep under snow, the countryside, no-man’s land, waited. Surveying it from an observation post halfway between the main fort which was the battalion’s base during its fifteen-day attachment to the French Army and the smaller fort to its north — there was a casemate between them also — Taggart thought how serene it looked. Like a polar bear probably would if one saw it ambling across ice flows. But the polar bear would attack a man on sight, to kill. The snowbound scene out there was no less deceptively lethal.

  He had walked to the observation post with Dempster in the early afternoon for the sake of fresh air and a break from their bleak quarters. The night’s escapade had left him tingling with zest to repeat the experience. He sensed that Dempster, who would be commanding a patrol tonight, was more wrought up at the prospect than he himself had been.

  The battalion strength was 60. Each of its five companies comprised four platoons. Thus there were 20 subalterns to take their turn. Four of the companies were commanded by captains. Each of them and Major Eugster would be going out too. And, knowing the Colonel, Taggart guessed that he would attach himself to a patrol as often as he could.

  Last night he had been paid the compliment, given the honour, of leading the way so that only one officer and one section were at risk. His debriefing had taken more than an hour and he had gone over the details again in the morning with the Colonel and all the battalion officers. Henceforth each company would send out two fighting patrols every night, benefitting from the initial experience.

  He had volunteered to patrol on this night, but been refused.

  “Why so keen?” Dempster had asked.

  “When a pilot crashes, he’s sent up again at once. When a rider is thrown from a horse, he mounts again and rides on, if he has any sense.”

  Dempster had looked at him in his calculating way. “As bad as that?”

  “One should always test one’s nerve. The first time, at anything, isn’t any true indication of what an experience is really like.”

  “I know all about first-night nerves.”

  “You’ll be as cool as a cucumber once you leave the Line behind.”

  “The worst moment, for me, will be passing through the advance posts.”

  “That’s what I thought. It’s coming back that you have to worry about. Even with some of our own chaps helping to man them, you can bet they’re always jumpy.”

  “Glad we’ve got some Tommy guns.”

  It was as galvanic a change of subject as Udall might have made.

  “It’s about time some more were issued. I’m glad we got that Schmeisser last night. Try to grab some nine-mil ammo tonight.”

  The Thompson submachine-gun was still a rarity in the British Army. After buying a few, War Office had placed a large order but the American manufacturer was having to find sub-contractors to make them.

  “You said the Schmeisser’s a better weapon.”

  “Keep out of its way, George, old boy. And bring back as many as you can.”

  “Oh, certainly. We’ll come back festooned with them, no doubt.”

  “Don’t overdo it.”

  This light-hearted banter is all very well, Dempster told himself; real Journey’s End stuff, and I can’t help feeling I’m speaking lines rather than reflecting my own character or feelings. It’s all very well for Rodney: he’s cleverer than I am and he’s got more muscles. He’s used to great hairy toughs trying to grind him into the mud. The only rough stuff I’ve ever been involved in is stage-directed sword fights at R.A.D.A. and in the odd costume play. I’m fond of Rodney, but it’s not exactly comfortable being in the same company. He gives the rest of the platoon commanders a hell of a lot to live up to. But then, he sets every platoon commander in the battalion a high standard. A hard act to follow, Rodney.
But, of course, it’s no act, with him. I wonder how much of it comes naturally and how much he has to sweat like the rest of us?

  And Taggart: I hope George will be all right tonight. I wish he had a better platoon sergeant; and at least one corporal as good as Fish-Smith. I’m afraid he’s the sort who’ll push himself too far, simply because he knows everyone thinks that actors are essentially soft underneath whatever surface show they put on. It’s not fair; either on actors in general or on George in particular. Especially not on George.

  He said “Mind if I make a suggestion, George?”

  “If you’re going to say ‘Develop a raging toothache and go sick’, I’ve already thought of it.”

  “Don’t be an ass. I’m serious. Don’t go rushing into anything.”

  Dempster produced a laugh which he privately categorised as “My Number Five: expressive of chiding derision. I’ve got a facial expression that goes with it”. He had once stated this to Taggart.

  “You’re a hell of a one to advise caution. God! If they gave prizes for impetuosity, you’d win the gold medal.”

  And Dempster added the thought: Actually, it’s dash. But he is an impetuous devil just the same. It’s that quick temper that he thinks he manages to conceal.

  “I didn’t say caution, George. I just suggested a spot of calculated prudence, that’s all. I don’t think I’m impetuous. And if you think so, all I can say is that I’m lucky enough to be backed up by bloody good N.C.Os.”

  But, he thought, I won’t have the benefit of Sergeant Duff’s support for the rest of our stint here.

  Meanwhile, across the intervening miles of disputed ground, the enemy watched from his fortifications in The Siegfried Line. The villages that lay there had been evacuated in September. There had been no heavy artillery barrages and the houses stood looking, in a way, more forlorn because they were intact than if they had lain in ruins.

  Taggart and Dempster watched German working parties through their field glasses and the observation post’s telescopes. Well beyond the range of machine-guns in the advanced posts, the enemy repaired his wire, dug in anti-tank obstacles, laid mines and built outposts.