by John Wilcox
‘Now we shall want someone to go just ahead of me to lie on his belly and cut the wire—’
‘That can be Private Murphy,’ interjected Flanagan quickly. ‘He’s the smallest.’ Bertie shot a frightened glance across to Hickman.
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Very well. I shall be right behind you, Murphy, and Sergeant Flanagan will be behind me. Corporal Hickman, you will bring up the rear. We crouch at first, on leaving our lines, then go onto our bellies as we approach their lines. When a star shell goes up, we flop and freeze. The weapons we carry are for threatening our prisoner.’ He gave his artificial laugh. ‘Let’s hope we can get one who is happy to get out of the war. To repeat, then, no shooting unless I begin it. Understood?’
‘Yessir,’ they chorused.
‘Right, then.’ He coughed. ‘Over we go. No talking or unnecessary noise. Follow me and good luck.’
Jim gripped Bertie’s arm and gave it what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze, as Flanagan roughly pushed the little Irishman up ahead of him. The raiders flattened themselves to crawl under the wire, the lowest strand of which Hickman held up for them and then, at the crouch, began to make their way between the shell holes towards the enemy line. The distinctive smell of no man’s land – sweet decay and foul earth – assailed Jim’s nostrils and made his stomach heave. The enemy line was too far away to discern in the darkness but then was lit by a star shell that rose into the sky and popped, shedding its strange, ghostly glare across the battered land. Lying flat, Hickman could just see a line of wire, with, to the left, what appeared to be a group of figures on his side of the German parapet, lying flat also to avoid being exposed by the flare.
Immediately, Smith-Forbes made a gesture with his hand, indicating that they must crawl to the right and set off again. After about ten minutes, the lieutenant dropped onto his stomach and indicated for Bertie to move ahead of him. Flanagan immediately gave the little Irishman a shove, which caused him to drop his large wire cutters, so hitting a shell fragment and causing a large clunk to sound out across that frightful terrain.
The lieutenant turned his head in anger and they all lay inert, as if frozen, expecting a searchlight to probe the shell holes and reveal them. But everything stayed quiet and, with another push from Flanagan, Bertie crawled past Smith-Forbes, his elbows and knees propelling his plump body forward at a remarkably fast pace.
At the rear, Jim, his heart in his mouth, watched him go and filed away a solemn vow that retribution would reach Flanagan if anything happened to Bertram Murphy. But the little man got clear and, in single file, the party followed him, each man placing hand, elbow and knee forward with great care. The ground, with its many shell craters, made for hard going but it also gave them good cover and the mud and gentle rain muffled the noise they made. To their left they could hear the tap of barbed-wire stakes being driven into the soggy soil, although they could see none of the working party.
Eventually, after what seemed an eternity to Jim, he saw Bertie raise a hand, look nervously behind him and then, on a nod from the lieutenant, inch forward, wire cutters in hand. The German wire was only some ten feet away. It was in three lines – far deeper, noted Jim, than the English wire – and four strands high. He watched as Bertie slowly wriggled forward, then turned onto his back and reached up to cut the first strand, and then the second above it. ‘Don’t go any higher, mate,’ breathed Jim to himself and, as if hearing the advice, the little Irishman turned onto his stomach, wriggled forward and began cutting the second line. Within three minutes a passage had been cut through the barrier and Bertie lay breathing heavily on the ground, his cheek pressed into the mud, completely exhausted.
With great caution, Smith-Forbes edged forward, waving for the others to follow. Each man crawled past Bertie and, as Flanagan did so, Jim saw the sergeant press the little Irishman’s face heavily into the mud and grit. As he grew abreast of Bertie, Jim paused.
‘You all right, Bertie?’ he whispered.
The Irishman lifted his blackened face, tried to grin and nodded.
Together, the two followed the others until they saw the lieutenant disappear over the parapet of the trench, followed by the sergeant. They heard a voice from within the trench begin to ask: ‘Was is—?’
Smith-Forbes cut in quickly and they heard him answer, ‘Keine Angst! Wir sind nur die Stacheldrahtsmannschaft auf der Rückkehr.’
Then, as they neared the parapet, they heard a scuffle and, peering into the trench, saw the lieutenant holding a revolver to the cheek of a wide-eyed German soldier, whose rifle and bayonet had been laid on the fire step beside an untended trench periscope. In his hand was a half-eaten sandwich. The sergeant was waving the other members of the raiding party to either side, to stand guard at the traverses, while he, revolver in hand, stood to the entrance of a deep dugout.
Jim waved Bertie back to the wire and, leaning down from the parapet of the trench, held out one hand to the German and motioned him to climb up, while covering him with his revolver. Meeting the eyes of the soldier, he put his hand to his lips to invoke silence, and gestured upwards with the handgun. Immediately, the man stuffed his sandwich into his mouth and climbed up the trench wall ladder, with an alacrity that made Jim feel that they had, indeed, found a German who was quite happy to leave his war behind him.
At the top, the sentry was unceremoniously bundled forward to where Bertie was holding the broken strands apart. To their right, they could now distinctly hear the low voices of the German work party, although the night was too dark for them to be revealed. Seeing that the lieutenant was now behind the prisoner, Jim wriggled underneath the wire and beckoned with his revolver for the German to follow him. Eventually, all of the party was through, leaving Bertie, who had held the wire open for them all, as the last man, keeping the strands apart for Flanagan, the last to leave the trench.
Looking back anxiously, Jim saw the sergeant turn as Bertie left the wire to follow him. Then he saw Flanagan suddenly thrust the little Irishman back onto the wire, so that his tunic caught in the barbs and he was spreadeagled against it. As Bertie desperately tried to untangle himself, the sergeant grinned, put his head down and began crawling after the main party.
Hickman cast caution away and ran back to where Bertie was struggling in the wire coils. He pulled out his knife, ground to razor sharpness for the raid, and cut away the fabric that had caught on the barbs and pushed his friend down. A fraction of a second later, a star shell lazily burst into life above them, revealing the moon-like contours of no man’s land – seemingly empty, for its occupants had all flung themselves down flat into the mud.
‘Thank the Holy Mother for you, Jim lad,’ breathed Bertie. ‘I would have been crucified out there on the wire, in the light, so I would. Did you see that bastard do that to me?’
‘Oh I did, Bertie. Yes I did. The man’s not just a bully, he’s a bloody murderer, that’s what he is. I’m going to have a word with him.’ Then, as the star light faded: ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Just before they reached the halfway mark, Jim rose and, at the crouch, half ran, half stumbled to reach Flanagan, who brought up the rear of the party. As the sergeant rose to the crouch, Hickman reached forward and caught his ankle, so that Flanagan fell flat.
Immediately, Jim was lying at his side, his revolver pressed hard into the Irishman’s ear.
‘Now listen, Sergeant Flanagan,’ he whispered. ‘I saw what you did to Murphy back there. You are a fucking would-be murderer, that’s what you are.’ Flanagan began to try to rise, but Hickman pushed his head down into the mud and pressed the muzzle of the revolver harder into his ear. ‘No. Stay still. Otherwise there will be a terrible accident and this gun will go off. It’s easily done and no one will know what happened. So listen to me and listen carefully. If you lay another finger on Murphy, or continue to make his life hell, I shall see that you get an accidental bullet in the back. There are two of us and only one of you, so if you do the same to me or to Murphy, then
the other one will get you. Understand?’
Flanagan half lifted his head. ‘Fuck you, Hickman,’ he growled. ‘You’re a kid and I’m a man. I’ll see you off any time. So don’t threaten me. Just watch yourself.’
Jim withdrew the pistol. ‘All right. Now we understand each other. Get moving, Sergeant.’
Hickman held back a little so that Bertie could catch him up. ‘Jimmy, don’t do anything stupid, lad,’ the little man whispered. ‘He’s evil. What did you say to him?’
Jim grinned. ‘Oh, I just had a quiet word, asking him to be reasonable. I think he understood.’
The party regained the British line without incident and were welcomed warmly by the company commander, who shook the hands of Smith-Forbes and Sergeant Flanagan. The German was ushered away, his face white but his eyes bright. The rest of the party settled down on the fire step to drink hot tea and smoke their cigarettes. Flanagan walked away without looking at either Jim or Bertie.
The members of the raiding party were allowed to avoid stand-to at dawn the next morning and sleep as best they could in their scooped dugouts in the side of the trench. Hickman, however, was shaken awake by the duty corporal. ‘The colonel wants to see you right away,’ he said. ‘Blimey, lad, what have you been up to?’
Jim gulped. Had Flanagan levelled a charge against him? What to say? Would Smith-Forbes stand by him? The sergeant, he knew, was rated highly in the battalion, as a seasoned veteran, a good soldier, hard but fair. Would his word stand against a junior NCO?
Battalion HQ was way down the line in a dugout and Hickman reported at the top. There was no sign of Flanagan, either in the trench or in the smoky room below the steps. The adjutant and the colonel were both working at a crowded desk and a signal corporal sat at a tiny trestle table, on which sat a telephone with a cranked handle.
The colonel, a large, burly man with tired eyes and a clipped pepper-and-salt moustache, looked up as he entered. Immediately, he rose, as did the adjutant and they both held out their hands.
‘Congratulations, Hickman,’ said the colonel. ‘Fine work.’
‘Er … what?’ began Jim.
‘First class, corporal,’ tuned in the adjutant, wringing his hand.
‘I’m sorry, sir. I don’t quite understand.’
‘We have just heard,’ said the colonel, ‘that the award to you of the DCM – the Distinguished Conduct Medal – has been confirmed by Army HQ. This is for your work in your early days here at Nonne Boschen, you’d probably know it as Nun’s Wood. I gather you virtually single-handedly repulsed an attack on the rear of the line and then helped to bring back a patrol under heavy enemy fire. Splendid work.’
‘Good lord!’ Hickman’s mouth fell open. ‘I didn’t do much, sir. And I was bloody scared most of the time.’
The colonel laughed. ‘Aren’t we all, lad. Aren’t we all. Look, I am particularly delighted that this award has come to a Terrier, eh George?’ He looked across at his adjutant.
‘I should say so, sir.’
‘Yes. It will show we old soldiers that you young volunteers can behave just as commendably as a Regular. And I’m finding out that that needs to be said sometimes. Now, lad, you know that this award is only one down the scale in merit to the Victoria Cross?’
‘Well no, sir. I didn’t.’
‘Well it is. You will receive it formally when the general next visits this part of the line. But I felt you should have the news now. Very well, you can return to your post.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Ah, one more thing. I understand that you did a good job of work with that raiding party last night. That little bird you brought back with you has sung very sweetly and told us a lot that we needed to know. Splendid work by everyone on that party. That Sergeant Flanagan is a splendid chap, eh George?’
‘One of the best men we have, sir.’
‘Yes well, Hickman. Congratulations again. Now off you go.’
Jim saluted and climbed the rough wooden steps, his head in a whirl. The DCM! And Flanagan regarded as ‘a splendid chap’. One almost seemed to cancel the other out. Strange things seemed to be happening to him in this awful place. Oh, how he wished he could be alone with Polly just now, to run his fingers through her hair and hold her close …
His musings were interrupted by a familiar voice. ‘Corporal Hickman.’ The name was uttered with a rising inflexion on the last syllable, as though it was a command. Sergeant Flanagan was standing with his back to the traverse.
‘Sergeant.’ Jim walked to the man and stood facing him.
‘I’ve just heard your news, sonny. Now …’ Flanagan leant forward and pointed to a small red and blue ribbon amongst the row on his chest. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘No, Sergeant.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. This ribbon signifies that I am a holder of the Distinguished Conduct Medal, as soon you will be. So don’t you go giving yourself any airs and graces, lad. I got this under shot and shell at the Battle of Colenso, not in some little night-time caper against second-rate troops. This medal was deserved, unlike yours. So don’t you dare think that you are as good as me.’ He leant forward so that his face was within a few inches of Jim’s, who could smell the rum on his breath. ‘Because you are not and never will be.’
He withdrew his face. ‘That will be all. Carry on, Corporal.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’ Jim strode away, but allowed himself a smile as he turned the traverse. To hell with Sergeant Flanagan!
The news of his decoration seemed to reach home almost as quickly as it trickled along his own trench, for he received warm letters from his mother and, of course, from Polly. For once, it was good to receive a letter from her that was not accompanied by one to Bertie, although he took care to keep the receipt of it quiet. He didn’t wish to gloat. She told him that the Birmingham Gazette had carried a picture of him and the Mail had done a little feature. It seemed that he was the first of the Terriers to be decorated. But she didn’t say that she loved him, nor did he expect her to. He just, however, hoped that she might have hinted at something like that, some word or two, anything … Later, he received his decoration from the hand of General Haig himself, commander of the 1st Corps, at a parade in Poperinghe.
That night he and Bertie got gloriously drunk at the Café des Allies, drinking red wine this time. They found it much more satisfying. They still, however, eschewed the idea of ‘going next door’. As a safeguard against the redcaps, Jim pinned the medal on his tunic for the unsteady walk home and, although they were stopped twice, they were allowed to proceed with congratulations and a request to ‘keep it down, lads’. It seemed that even the military police had hearts. Sometimes.
The first Christmas of the war came and went quietly for them, billeted as they were behind the lines. They heard rumours of the fraternisation on Christmas Day, when Germans and British stood in no man’s land, exchanged souvenirs and even played football, but they saw little evidence of fraternal feeling when they returned to the shelling and constant sniping of the line a few days later.
After their brief conversation on the morning after the night raid, there had been no further confrontation between Hickman and Sergeant Flanagan, although Bertie still seemed to suffer more than his fair share of latrine duty. Short of complaining to their platoon officer, which was unthinkable, there was nothing that Jim could do about it and Bertie endured it stoically enough, excusing his many absences by saying that he was just ‘goin’ down to the Mountains of Mourne again, see.’
Hickman could still see no real reason for the sergeant’s persecution of Bertie. The Protestant-Catholic divide was the obvious explanation, but there were other Catholics in the company and they were not singled out for bullying. Perhaps it was Bertie’s perennial cheerfulness that irked. Yet, as the incident on the German wire had proved, it was more than bullying. Bertie’s entanglement would have been illuminated by the star shell and his body would have been riddled with bullets within seconds, if Jim
had not cut him free just in time. It was, in fact, an evil and malevolent act. Thinking about it, a little shudder of fear ran through Jim. He had to admit that, despite his angry confrontation with the man in no man’s land, he was more than a little afraid of Black Jack Flanagan. Physically, there was not much to choose between them. Jim was marginally taller and as broad, but the sergeant was older, experienced and weathered by a dozen or more violent encounters on battlefield and in barrack room. Regular soldiers like him had served all over the Empire: India, South Africa, probably Burma. His skin was like leather and his attitude equally hard. He was, undoubtedly, a man to be feared and watched carefully.
Both Jim and Bertie were longing for their first period of home leave, but spells of relief behind the lines, days occupied with training, were all that came their way. Reinforcements were now beginning to pour into the Salient, not only from the first trickle of Kitchener’s ‘first hundred thousand’ of volunteer recruits, but also from the Empire. Turbanned Indians arrived to take their turn in the line and show that, despite suffering from the cold more severely than British troops, they were their equal in courage and soldierly skills. Then came the South Africans and, in more strength, the Canadians. The children of the Empire, it seemed, had responded enthusiastically to the call of the Mother Country.
As winter progressed towards spring in rain, sleet and snow, it became clear that both sides were building up for a big spring offensive. It was incomprehensible that these vastly swollen armies should continue sitting in their trenches, facing each other across a few hundred yards of battered earth, without one or the other crouching back on its haunches, like a challenged stag, and then springing forward.
Hickman confessed his fears to Bertie one evening as they stood together on the fire step. ‘We’ve been lucky, old lad,’ he said, ‘that we have not yet really been asked to do what the Germans did when we first landed. That is, charge across this bloody mud in the face of rifle and machine-gun fire. I’d rather they did it again before we try. It would be bloody suicide.’
