by John Wilcox
Hickman returned the grin. ‘I have a feeling that it’s not going to be exactly boring out here.’ He risked a peep over the top. ‘Jerry knows we’ve dug this sap out and I’ve been expecting him to have a go at it one night since we finished the digging a couple of days ago. It could just be tonight.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘In fact, the more I think of it, I feel that Flanagan had the same thought. He’s no fool. That’s why he stuck you out here on your own tonight. He expects the sap to be raided.’
‘Oh, bloody hell. Then I’m glad you’re here, son. He’s an evil man, that Flanagan. So he is.’
‘Okay. Settle down and be quiet. We’ve got to listen. I’ve bought a couple of flares to send up if we think they’re out there coming at us.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Good old starshines. They just could save our bacon tonight.’
Bertie nodded eagerly. ‘Aye. Send ’em up and the Lord will be with us.’
The dusk settled and the night began – a nervous, worrying period for the two men, crouched in discomfort at their listening post, in what was little more than a prong stretched out towards the enemy, and so near to him that it presented almost an invitation to slip out from his own lines and snip it off.
Hickman had already ascertained that no patrols were to be sent out that night from the British lines, so he knew that any noises he might hear would almost certainly come from the enemy. They decided, therefore, to take it in turns to doze, while the other kept watch.
It was just before 3 a.m. when Jim heard, out to the front, the scrape of a buckle against stone, followed by the distinctive slurp of a boot being freed from the embrace of mud. He nudged Bertie and the two now listened together, intently. There it was again. People were moving out there, quite near to the sap head.
Slowly, Hickman picked up the Very pistol, pointed it high and fired it. The cartridge hissed up high, vertically, and then exploded in a shower of blue light, showering stars – starshine undoubtedly – as it slowly sank. Both men looked over the top. At first, there was nothing to be seen but the moonscape of no man’s land in blue relief: mud everywhere, puddles of water and blackened and stunted remains of trees. Then, concentrating, Hickman saw small mounds of grey mud, symmetrically lined up some forty yards away. They did not move, for they had frozen close to the ground, of course, as the Very light sizzled upwards, but he recognised them for what they were: the small battle packs strapped to the backs of a platoon of German soldiers.
‘Bombs, Bertie,’ he whispered and he seized two Mills grenades, pulled out their pins and threw them in quick succession at the prostrate attackers. Bertie followed suit and the four bombs exploded, almost as one, straddling the line of Germans. Immediately, a shrill command was given in German and half a dozen figures topped by distinctive coal-scuttle helmets rose from the mud and ran – or rather slipped and slithered in the mud – towards the sap head. At the same time, a machine gun stuttered into life from the British lines behind them, but its fire was random and its bullets hissed high over the heads of Hickman and Murphy as they stood erect to meet the charge.
Jim was aware of a second Very light climbing high from the British lines as he levelled his rifle and brought down the nearest of the attackers. Bertie did the same and both men hurriedly worked their rifle bolts to insert another round into their breeches and fired again. Two more Germans fell but the remaining two were nearly upon them, discharging their rifles from the hip as they ran.
Bertie exuded a cry as a bullet took him in the upper arm and he slipped to the ground, struggling in the mud to regain his footing. But Jim firmly put his boot on his comrade’s spine and pressed him down again, then standing astride the little Irishman, he presented his rifle and bayonet at the two men virtually upon him. He locked his bayonet onto that of the leading German, swung it round and crashed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, sending him staggering back. As he did so, he heard a rifle shot close behind him and the second attacker was sent sprawling, a bullet in his chest. Another bullet – this time from no man’s land – plumped into the sap wall at his side and Jim picked up a Mills bomb, withdrew the pin and hurled it in the general direction of the marksman.
He turned to see Sergeant Major Flanagan right behind him, working the bolt of his rifle. The warrant officer was alone but, disregarding him, Hickman bent down to see to Murphy. The Irishman was clutching his upper arm, from which blood was gushing freely. Jim used his bayonet to tear open the cloth above the wound and extracted his own field dressing and hastily applied it to Bertie’s arm, tying it tightly to restrict the bleeding.
‘Leave him alone, you stupid fool,’ said Flanagan. ‘There might be a second attack at any second.’
‘Then you’ll just have to deal with it, won’t you?’ He looked up at the sergeant major, who had rested his rifle on the parapet of the sap head. ‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘You deliberately put Murphy out here on his own so that he would be killed. You’re a murderer, Flanagan, that’s what you are.’
The man turned his head for a moment and his teeth flashed in the semi-darkness. ‘That would have served you both right for shopping me to the redcaps in Pop, wouldn’t it? And you be careful how you address a superior officer, Sergeant, or you’ll be put up against a wall and shot. I’ll see to it. Anyway, you would both have been dead if I hadn’t kept my eyes open and helped you out. You—’
He broke off as a lieutenant and three men scrambled up the sap to join them. ‘Any casualties?’ cried the officer. ‘Ah. Corporal—’
‘It’s all right, sir,’ gasped Bertie. ‘It just hurts me when I laugh.’ Then he fainted. He was carried back to the junction of the main trench where he was revived on the fire step with the aid of a little water and rum. One of the dead Germans was also brought back so that his regiment could be established. The man that Hickman had hit with his rifle butt had vanished; presumably he had crawled back to his own lines with whoever had survived the Mills bombs, for no further sign of life could be seen in front of the German wire. The lieutenant left his three men to man the sap – three men, Jim noted – and Hickman made his way along to the cramped dugout that was company HQ. He found Captain Cavendish awaiting him.
‘With respect, sir,’ said Jim, ‘Corporal Murphy would be a dead man and we would have had a bombing party creeping along the sap to attack our line if I had not supported Murphy out there. One man would have been overwhelmed.’
Cavendish had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Quite so, Hickman,’ he said. ‘I thought about it after we spoke and that’s why I ordered Flanagan to go up the sap to report on how Murphy was coping. I gather he arrived just in time.’
‘Yes, sir. I have to say that sticking Murphy out there on his own, through the night, was an act of personal malevolence on the part of Sergeant Major Flanagan towards the corporal.’
The captain frowned and gestured for Hickman to sit on the camp bed. ‘That’s a very serious charge, Sergeant. Why on earth should Flanagan take so against Murphy, a Northern Irishman like himself, indeed?’
Jim shrugged. ‘I have to say I don’t really know. It is certainly to do with religion, in that Murphy is a Catholic and I presume that the sergeant major is a Protestant. There was also a bit of business …’ he tailed off and squirmed in his seat ‘… back in Pop, when Flanagan was arrested by the military police for assaulting a prostitute. He thinks we put the redcaps on to him.’
‘Hmm. And did you?’
‘Yes, sir. If we hadn’t he would have killed the girl.’
‘Yes, I seem to remember something about that.’ Cavendish stood, as did Hickman. ‘Now look here, Hickman. If you want to make this a formal complaint, then it will have to go up to the colonel and possibly the brigadier. I am not sure you would want that, would you? Prejudice is awfully difficult to prove you know, and Flanagan is a first-rate soldier. It might well go against you.’
‘Well, I—’
The captain broke in quickly. ‘What I would propose is this. I can’t have this sort
of animosity going on in my company.’ He ran a hand across his brow. ‘I have enough problems as it is. So there will have to be a posting …’
‘Don’t break up Murphy and me, sir. We’ve been together since we were four years old and have served together throughout the war so far, on the Salient and on the Somme …’
‘I am aware of that. I believe that Flanagan will have to go. Now listen,’ he held up a hand as a grin spread across Jim’s face, ‘not a word of this conversation must stray from this dugout. Do you understand?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Very well. D Company have just lost their CSM. I will try and get Sergeant Major Flanagan transferred to that company and you, my lad, will become my sergeant major. A bit early for you, I fear, but I have observed your training of the men. You’ve obviously got pluck, and you have shown commendable ability and leadership – not least on this last night’s miserable business – so I hope you won’t let me down.’
‘Of course not, sir. I’m very grateful.’
‘Well, I haven’t fixed it yet, but I think I can. I think the colonel and the adjutant will agree. No more arguing with Flanagan, now. Stay well clear of him. Now bugger off and get some sleep.’
‘Very good, sir. Thank you.’
‘Ah, one more thing. While you were in the sap, did you hear anything? Are they mining us, do you think?’
‘I didn’t hear a thing. So I should doubt it.’
‘Good. Off you go.’
Once outside, Jim wanted to let out a yell of triumph but thought better of it. He hurried to tell Bertie the glad news but Murphy had been sent back to a field hospital. It seemed unlikely, he was told, that the Irishman would go back to England for treatment, because the German bullet had gone right through the upper arm, tearing a few ligaments. It would be treated in the hospital and then he would return to the regiment.
Jim’s next thought was of Polly. Would she be impressed by his promotion to warrant officer? It was unusual for one so young to be so elevated, but she, of course, would be unaware of that. Would his success make her think more kindly of him as a husband? His brow wrinkled. Polly Johnson was an enigma. He had to recognise that. She said that she loved both of them equally, but how could that be? Perhaps – horrible thought – Bertie’s wound would win him sympathy in her eyes; she was, after all, a most sentimental person. He shook his head. For all he knew, dear old Bertie had slipped her a diamond, too! – he also had contacts in the Hockley trade. He blew out his cheeks and settled down to write a letter to Polly, telling her of Bertie’s wound but emphasising that they were both alive, well (comparatively, that is) and still smiling. As a PS he diffidently gave the news of his promotion.
Cavendish was as good as his word and Flanagan disappeared to D Company, without a further word with Hickman. Jim dutifully sewed on his new crown, just above the wrist, and assumed the duties of a warrant officer grade II. His was a popular promotion, for he knew, better than any newly arrived subaltern, the hell that was life in the trenches and he did all he could to alleviate the conditions: taking particular care that the men got their mail regularly, that the food came up to the lines even under bombardment and that petty stupidities of line discipline were eased away.
So the regiment took its turn at line duty and then rested back, usually at Pop, where the dangers of meeting Flanagan were increased, of course, because the battalion trained as one unit. If Black Jack noticed Jim’s promotion he gave no sign. After four weeks of rest and recuperation – but no home leave – Bertie returned to his duties. Hickman tried not to recognise his satisfaction that Murphy had not earned a trip to Blighty and so had an opportunity to woo Polly, but, nevertheless, was delighted to have his old comrade back in the line with him.
The winter of 1917 gave way to a spring that seemed no drier, and rumours that ‘a Big Push’ was in the offing increased. It seemed clear that the high command was waiting merely for better weather before attempting to break out of the Salient. Certainly, training back down out of the line became more intense and specific. Gone were the instructions about how to survive in the trenches. Now, the emphasis was on attack: how to advance in units of platoon rather than company; how to recognise objectives; how to relay messages back to battalion and then brigade headquarters about the specifics of land and targets taken; what to do about prisoners of war. Something, definitely, was in the air.
Whatever it was, however, was transferred to the line in France for a while and in the spring of 1917 the British attacked between Bapaume and Vimy Ridge in what became the Battle of Arras. The men waiting and training in the Salient watched the battle in the south but the Germans at Arras had retired to their Hindenburg Line, defending in depth with well-wired, concreted pillboxes. Once again the British attack faded away and Jim and Bertie realised that the next push must come in their area of battle, the long fought-over few square miles of mud and holes that formed the Ypres Salient.
Throughout that spring the preparations intensified. The battalions were now rotated strictly, with periods in the line punctuated with spells at the rear, where training was precise and sophisticated, compared with what had gone before. Previously, the company had been regarded as the principal unit of the army in attack. By now, however, the emphasis had shifted to the platoon. These units had now been reorganised, making each one self-contained, almost a miniature army of four sections: two Lewis guns, a rifle grenadier section containing bombers, plus two sections of rifle and bayonet men. When advancing, the Lewis guns supplied covering fire, the rifle grenadiers acted as artillery and the riflemen made the assault.
It became clear as the spring of 1917 wore on that the new system was to be tested in full on the Salient. Yet the attack did not come.
‘Why the hell don’t they let us go?’ asked Bertie, now in command of two Lewis guns. ‘If they wait much longer, I shall be too bloody old to carry this gun, so I will.’
Then, as they were under training out of the line, one of the great secrets of the war was unveiled. Since early in 1916, miners had been active on both sides tunnelling towards each other’s lines. This was known even to rankers like Jim and Bertie and, indeed, there had been a kind of subterranean warfare conducted under no man’s land across the front, with mines being exploded pit-shaft to pit-shaft with sometimes horrific deaths resulting when men were buried alive. But these were comparatively minor affairs – a clash of specialists – resulting in few casualties. The scale of the excavations carried out by the British at the southern end of the Salient had remained unknown to the rank and file.
In fact, throughout that year and far into the winter and spring of 1917, special teams of miners had been digging twenty-one tunnels, sometimes to a depth of eighty feet, along more than three miles of the British front on its right flank, creeping out beneath the German emplacements on Messines Ridge. Huge mines had been laid at their ends and, at 3 a.m. on the morning of 7th June, they were all exploded at exactly the same time.
It was, said observers, ‘as though the earth itself had risen up in anger’ and, lying three miles behind the line, Jim and Bertie, whose battalion was part of General Gough’s Fifth Army, had been woken in alarm at the sound of these massive explosions, far stronger and louder than anything produced by shellfire. For weeks they had watched as thousands of fresh troops of General Plumer’s Second Army had marched through their lines and up to the front. Now these men – eighty thousand of them, supported by tanks – were launched at what was left of the enemy’s lines in this hitherto impenetrable sector and reports flooded back of ‘white-faced Germans’, weaponless and with their clothing torn, surrendering to the advancing British.
The British surged forward and were only stopped when, further up the rise, they met with fierce resistance from a sophisticated German second line of defence, involving massive concrete and steel strongpoints, camouflaged so that they could not be detected from the air and surrounded by strategically sited foxholes holding machine guns and snipers. The attac
kers, tanks and men alike, were badly mauled and fell back.
Hickman’s prediction about the German foresight in preparing defence in depth was proved true. Nevertheless, the Battle of Messines had undoubtedly been won and that ridge taken. There was general rejoicing across the Salient. It was clear that the Great Offensive, breaking out along the whole of the line, would follow.
And yet again there was a delay. Company Sergeant Major Hickman, back in the rear, drilled and re-drilled his men, some of whom were recruits brought in to replace the inevitable casualties that resulted from life in the line. Meadows were marked out and taped to represent the areas of attack. The orders went out consistently: ‘Advance with your company. Do not stop to help the wounded, the bearers will do that. Stick with your platoon. Stop and consolidate at your objective while the next wave passes through you to the next line of attack …’ Incongruously, nightingales began to sing as they trudged back to their tents at the end of each day.
As though in retaliation to the Messines explosions, soon afterwards the Germans to the left of the front used their own new weapon, mustard gas. After release, it became a dark oily fluid which not only emitted deadly fumes but seeped into the earth and clung in the holes and at the bottoms of the shell craters. It often had a delayed-action effect, clinging to the uniforms of the poor devils who had sought shelter in the craters, and it even attacked the nurses, way behind the lines, who removed the gas-drenched uniforms of their burnt and blistered patients. They became dazed, with dreadful coughs and hair and skin that had been turned yellow. It was the latest horror in a conflict that was becoming more barbaric by the day.
Bertie heard of this and he fell silent and did not speak for two days, except to converse to do his duty. Then, in a quiet moment, he confided to Hickman that he could no longer see any point in the continuation of the war.
