by John Wilcox
Later, having taken their turn with the shovels, the two friends curled up together in the trench in which they had fought earlier. They lay silently at first. Then Bertie spoke, in a half whisper.
‘Have you thought about Polly since we landed, then, Jimmy?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Have you thought often about her, I mean?’
‘All the bloody time, if you must know. Have you?’
‘All the time, like you.’
The silence returned, to be broken by a crack as a Very cartridge broke into light above them, to deter any night patrols in no man’s land. Then:
‘I think I love Polly, Jimmy. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Is it all right for us both to love her, then, d’yer think, Jim?’
‘Course it is.’
‘But I’d like to marry her, yer see. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, but not yet.’
‘Right. But we can’t both marry her, now can we?’
‘No. But p’raps she wouldn’t have either of us, so it wouldn’t come up, would it?’
‘Ah, sure you’re wrong there, darlin’ boy. She loves us both. I know she does.’
Jim rolled over. ‘Well, the way this war is turning out, it’s not very likely, Bert, that we’ll both survive, or even one of us. Blimey, we’ve only been here a day and we’ve both nearly got the chop. So we won’t have to bother about it, I should think. Now get some sleep.’
‘Yes, Jimmy. Perhaps you’re right. You always are. Goodnight.’
CHAPTER TWO
For the next three days, the line was quiet except for desultory shelling during the day and some sniping and machine-gun fire from the German lines. Relief for the men in the shell hole came with the arrival of reinforcements in the shape of newly arrived Reservists, enabling work to begin – mainly after dark – on establishing proper defences. Trenches were dug between the shell holes, deep enough at seven feet to offer protection from anything but a direct hit by shell or mortar. Precious duckboards were brought up from the rear to lay on the floor of the trenches, where mud was beginning to ooze through, despite the absence of recent rain. Timbers arrived, too, to shore up the sides and, under the directions of Sergeant Jones, proper fire steps were cut to give firing height and a base for the lookouts.
More heartening, on the fourth day, the first hessian sandbags appeared and, with them, Sappers to erect wire during the hours of darkness. Wire, but only sufficient to fix a single strand in front of the trench lip.
It seemed that the Royal Artillery was also facing economies. When asked why the British gunners were not replying to the salvoes of German shells that still peppered the lines and the communications systems in the rear, Sergeant Jones snorted.
‘The lieutenant says that the British Expeditionary Force ’as only got fifty-four ’eavy guns,’ he explained. ‘An’ all our gunners are short of shells – only eighteen rounds per battery is all they’re allowed to fire each day. We’re outgunned, son, an’ that’s the truth of it.’
Bertie listened to this and watched the nocturnal efforts of the Sappers with interest.
‘Well bugger it, Jim,’ he said. ‘The British Government must be very hard up, you know, what with short rations, no rifle oil, no shells and now sending up Engineers to the front line to stretch out one single bloody strand of barbed wire which is the only single bloody strand in the whole of France and Belgium and which a bloody giraffe could get up and walk under.’
Jim nodded solemnly. ‘So it seems, Bertie. So it seems.’
For the last three days he had been anxiously scanning the British positions and the terrain, as best he could analysing it from the trench and from what he could pick up from Lieutenant Yates, the young man who was their platoon commander. It was becoming clear to Jim that the British lines had been thrust forward from the little town of Ypres – vital to protect the Channel ports only a few miles to its rear – in a sweeping line that curved from north to south, but which occupied a far from ideal position. He explained it to Bertie by extending his right hand and cupping it.
‘You see, Wipers is here, just in front of the ball of the thumb. Got it, Bertie?’
The Irishman frowned and nodded.
‘So we’re all spread in a great curving line along the cup of my hand, with the Jerries up here on high ground on the base of my fingers. Look up there, up front to the ridges. Their guns are all up there, looking down on us, with the plain behind us. So, from their observation posts, they can see everything we do on the plain. They can see and shell all the movements out of the town. They can spot all the supplies and reinforcements coming up the line, which means we have to bring everything up by night. But they can fix firing lines on all the tracks and roads by day and shell ’em by night, even when they can’t see.’
‘I see, I see. Ah, Jimmy lad, you’d make a fine general, so you would.’
‘Well I don’t know about that. But I know enough to see that this bulge we’re in – it’s called a salient, I think – means that we can be fired on from three sides, which is a fair old bugger, I would say. And if we attack, we will have to go uphill, up to this ridge up ahead.’
‘So we will. So we will.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Jones. ‘Hickman, I want a word.’
‘Sergeant?’
‘You’re getting a stripe, lad. Lance corporal.’
‘Blimey!’
‘Don’t let it go to yer ’ead. It’s dead man’s shoes – like your rifles, so to speak. We’ve lost so many men that we ’ave to plug the ’oles, even with a Terrier. But you deserve it. As I said, you’ve shown more nouse than most of these Regulars that are left. Get down be’ind the lines and find the quartermaster at Regimental HQ. Say the lieutenant sent yer. They know about it. Draw your stripe and get it sewn on smartly. Well done, lad. Off you go now.’
It was clear that some order had been restored to the British line by the arrival of the reinforcements from home, but it was also clear that the original BEF, consisting of some 96,000 Regulars in twelve divisions and arguably the most efficient army ever to have left British shores, had been terribly mauled by the fierce fighting at Mons and now in what was being called the Battle of Ypres. The superior artillery of the Germans and the sheer numbers of their troops had made themselves felt, and only the disciplined rifle fire of the British in the centre above Ypres, plus the bravery of the Belgians on their left and of the French on their right, had saved the town from being taken and the Channel ports falling. However, it was still touch and go – as the little band on the ridge below Nun’s Wood now experienced.
Jim had hardly time to sew on his single stripe when the Germans recommenced their attack.
It was presaged, as usual, by an artillery barrage, complemented by short-range bombardment from minenwerfers fired from trench mortars, cylindrical bombs some eighteen inches long which whirled up high and tumbled down to explode, unleashing a deadly cargo of shrapnel splinters that killed and maimed.
The two comrades crouched on the firing steps, close to the buttress provided by the zigzag in the trench, their rifles, bayonets fixed, in their hands, their cloth caps pulled down and the collars of their greatcoats pulled up in a pathetic attempt to provide protection from the shell splinters. Bertie put down his rifle and pulled out a rosary and began fingering it, murmuring to himself.
‘Your rifle will do you more good than that thing,’ yelled Jim.
The Irishman shook his head. ‘No, lad. No. Me trust is in the Almighty. God save us both. This is dreadful.’
‘Stand to! Here they come.’
The cry came as soon as the barrage had lifted and the men in the trenches sprang on to the firing step and levelled their rifles. Once again, Jim squinted through his sights and saw the edge of the stunted trees that was all that was left of the wood ahead of him up the slope come to life as bodies rose in a mass and began their grim advance. This time, two Vickers machine guns bega
n to stutter into life from the British lines and the grey figures fell, as though reaped by some mighty sickle. The attack was stillborn before it had a chance to get under way, for the British rifle fire, supplemented by the Maxims, was deadly at that short range.
A whistle blew and the cry rose: ‘Cease fire. Save your ammunition.’
Jim reached out his hand to clutch his friend’s shoulder. ‘Well, thank the good Lord for that,’ grinned Bertie, a touch shamefacedly. ‘Though I don’t much fancy this killin’ business at long range, I prefer it to doin’ it up close when I’ve got a bayonet pointed at me belly.’
‘Aye,’ nodded Jim. ‘But I’d rather have both than just lying here, shittin’ meself when the big guns start.’
‘Corporal Hickman.’ The cry came from Sergeant Jones, conferring with Lieutenant Yates. ‘Bring your section up ’ere, at the double.’
Hickman stepped down from the fire step, nodded to Bertie and the five other men who made up his section and they ran to where the sergeant waited.
Yates – Jim noticed that a third pip was now fixed to his shoulder and forearm, making him a captain – looked around and counted. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This company is moving quickly. Get your reserve ammo and entrenching tools and follow me and the sergeant.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’ Bertie’s blue eyes were wide.
Yates pointed to the right, to the south-east. ‘There’s a crossroads up there, on the ridge, a little village called Geluveld. It’s important because it’s the last observation post we hold up on that ridge. Or at least, we did hold. We’ve been pushed back and out of the village. It’s vital we get it back. We are going to join the counter-attack. No more talking now. Get your things at the double. GO!’
They all ran and returned within a minute and followed Yates and Jones, down the zigzagged support trench, trotting as best they could in the crowded, narrow trench, about a hundred of them. Jim noticed that Sergeant Jones was limping and that his uniform was still torn and the line of blood remained congealed, running down to his puttees. He maintained the pace, however, biting his moustache as he trotted. Was this worse for him, Jim wondered, than when he crouched in that shallow trench at Spion Kop, being raked by the Boer sharpshooters?
All around them shells were falling and they were forced to stop several times as debris rained down upon them. But dusk was falling also, and the shelling began to die down and then ceased altogether. They emerged, about a quarter of a mile behind the line, and formed up, a makeshift company, in the semi-darkness at the side of what had obviously been a main road. Now, however, it was cratered and potholed and, from what they could discern in the dusk, lined by the bodies of animals and the wreckage of carts.
‘The Menin Road,’ mouthed Jim to Bertie. ‘Blimey, I hope we are not going to be marching up here.’
But they were.
Captain Yates had been joined by a short, stout major, who now addressed them. ‘We’ve got just over a mile at the most to go,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The Hun probably knows we’re here but there’s a chance that he doesn’t. So we don’t want to do anything to attract his fire. No smoking, no lights and – particularly as we start to climb the ridge – no talking. There will probably be a bit of shelling on fixed sights when we start but that should die out as we near Geluveld, where our lads are preparing for a counter-attack at dawn. So we’ve got to get a move on to be with them. Right. Let’s go.’
The major was right about the shelling. Although the night was moonless and black, the German gunners seemed to know that they were there, for immediately the big guns began to boom. The range was approximate but near enough to cause extreme discomfort and fear. The whine of the shells approaching caused the men to hurl themselves down and then regain their feet to stumble onwards as the crump of the explosions followed to the rear and either side of them.
The company was not the only unit on the march up the Menin to reach Geluveld. They passed strings of mules, heavily laden with supplies and ammunition, being urged along by frantic muleteers, anxious to get close enough to the crossroads up ahead to escape the long-range shelling. Not all succeeded. The company heard screams ahead of them after one explosion and, heads down, on the trot, they passed the remains of one train: dismembered mules and horses sprayed across what was left of the track, and bodies of men, some of them crying for help, among the carnage.
‘Don’t stop,’ cried the major. ‘We must keep going. The bearers will come for these poor chaps.’
‘But I don’t think they will, Jim,’ puffed Bertie. ‘We’re a long way from the bearer posts. We should stop and help them, for mercy’s sake. Holy Mother of God! What sort of war is this, then?’
‘Well, it ain’t the Boer war, mate, that’s for sure.’ Hickman gave his comrade a friendly push. ‘Keep going, son. Keep going.’
Eventually, they escaped the arc of the shellfire and immediately found the ground began to rise and sensed as much as they saw the presence of British troops around them. The major was met by another officer, obviously of senior rank by the deference with which he was greeted, but his badges were now completely covered in grime and smoke smudges. Hickman inched forward to overhear the conversation.
‘What have you brought up?’
‘A scratch lot, sir, I’m afraid. More or less a company, but from various regiments. We’ve even got a couple of stray Territorials.’
‘Good God!’ The colonel ran a weary hand across his brow. ‘No question of a counter-attack now, I’m afraid. We’ve been completely disseminated. We must have lost a couple of thousand at least and we’ve had to leave two guns in the village and another four destroyed. Get your men spread out along the diggings here. The Hun is in great force up ahead and cock-a-hoop. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make a night attack. We must try and hold on if we can, and if not, we must retire down the ridge, but in good order, mind. We can’t afford a rout.’
‘Very good, sir. Captain Yates.’
‘Sir.’
‘Get the men up ahead into the makeshift trenches there. Spread along the line and reinforce it. No sleeping now. An attack is expected at any minute.’
Jim slipped back and found his section. As they all groped their way forward they suddenly realised that it was no longer dark. Ahead, it seemed that the whole of the ridge was aflame. The village of Geluveld was a fiery mass and the church spire looked like a torch, the flames licking round its tip. By its light, the straggling company found a thin line of Tommies spread along a trench which was hardly more than a scraping on the slope, with a low mound of earth thrown up ahead on the lip.
‘Spread along here, chaps,’ shouted Yates. ‘Anyone found sleeping will be shot summarily.’
‘What’s “summarily”?’ asked Bertie as he made room for himself between two riflemen of the Kings Royal Rifle Corps.
One turned a weary head. ‘Don’t think it matters, mate. We’re all goin’ to be dead by the mornin’, anyway.’
‘’Ere, what’s that?’ Sergeant Jones had materialised behind them. He nodded up ahead. It was a strange sound, deep and rhythmical, but growing louder as they listened.
‘The buggers are singin’,’ swore the sergeant. ‘Would you believe it. They’re singin’ an’ comin’ on now.’ He raised his voice. ‘Fix your bayonets, but ’old your fire till the captain gives the order.’ His voice dropped. ‘No need to worry, lads. When they come over that ridge we shall see ’em beautifully against the light of the flames.’ Then a note of derision and almost of glee came into his voice. ‘We’ll teach the buggers to sing, oh yes we will.’
Jim turned to look at the sergeant. He was on one knee in the half-trench and his right hand was stroking, almost caressing the stock of his rifle. Hickman noticed that the wound in his right leg had opened up again and his puttees were soaked in fresh blood. But it was his face that drew the attention. In the flicking light of the flames, it was alive with animation. His great moustache had been sucked down so that it had almost
disappeared under his lower lip and his eyes were fierce and staring. He worked the bolt on his rifle to slip a round up the breech and half stood to catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy.
Then the bullet took him soundlessly in the breast, whirling him round so that his hands flew up, sending his rifle flying in an arc to the rear. He fell and lay still.
‘Sarge!’ Jim ran to him but the veteran’s eyes were open and staring. He was quite dead. A shot rang out from the British lines.
Hickman whirled round involuntarily. ‘Hold your fire!’ he screamed, and ran back to his position, shouldering a rifleman aside to take his place next to Bertie. ‘Sergeant Jones is dead,’ he muttered.
Bertie’s eyes widened and he tucked a stray lock of red hair back under his cap. ‘Holy Jesus,’ he whispered. ‘If they can kill him they can kill us all.’
‘Here they come,’ cried the rifleman next to him.
The singing was loud now and the choir emerged over the brow of the ridge to reveal itself as a black mass against the flames, approaching ponderously but steadily, now down the slope. The flames at their rear reflected in golden flashes from the long sword bayonets that were levelled at the waiting British. It was a frightening sight and Jim Hickman felt his stomach churn. There were so many of them …
Captain Yates’s voice rose loud and clear above the singing. ‘Let them come,’ he shouted. ‘Hold your fire until I give the order.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Bertie murmured, squinting as he lined up his fore- and backsights. ‘They’ve got lovely voices, so they have. Good baritones. Seems a pity to kill them, Jimmy, don’t you think?’
Hickman licked his lips. ‘No I don’t, for God’s sake, Bertie …’
‘You know,’ continued the little man, conversationally, ‘I haven’t had a proper wash for four days now. I don’t know what me mother, bless her sainted soul, would say—’
The captain’s voice interrupted in a high, barrack-square scream. ‘At the enemy in front, rapid fire. FIRE!’
