Starshine

by John Wilcox

  ‘You’ve got your own bloody letter, Bertie. Don’t pry. But look. These fit exactly right. What a great girl, eh?’

  ‘She is that. So she is.’

  ‘Hey. Listen to this.’ He began to read from Polly’s letter: ‘You’ll never believe this, Jim. Wagstaffe has volunteered and joined up! He’s called himself an engineer and become what they call a Sapper, I think. So you won’t see him in the Warwicks, which is a good thing. We don’t know what’s come over him, but he went off last Tuesday. Connie – you remember her – has become foreman …’

  ‘Well, well,’ mused Jim. ‘The world’s a changing all right.’

  The changes continued all around them. Captain Cavendish was made adjutant and Hickman was in camp talking to him when their new commanding officer arrived. He trotted in riding a magnificent chestnut, his brown boots gleaming, and his groom riding behind on an equally resplendent polo pony, leading a donkey carrying the colonel’s baggage.

  The colonel vaulted to the ground, a stocky man of five foot four inches, with a red face and sporting a closely clipped, salt-and-pepper moustache. He immediately strode towards Cavendish and returned the salute of both men.

  ‘Lieutenant Colonel Cox,’ he said brusquely. ‘Are you the adjutant?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Cavendish. Welcome to the regiment, Colonel.’

  ‘Thank you.’ His eyes cold, he looked Cavendish up and down, completely ignoring Hickman, who remained at attention.

  ‘Cavendish. Cavendish. You’re not from the … ah … Devonshire family in the north, by any chance?’

  Cavendish looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Yes, sir. The … er … Duke is my uncle.’

  Cox’s frown immediately disappeared and what could only be interpreted as a faint smile came to his countenance. ‘Really, well now. Splendid. Yes, splendid. Good to have you as adjutant.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Cavendish hurriedly indicated Hickman. ‘This is the company sergeant major of my old company – A Company. Sergeant Major Hickman.’

  Jim, still at attention, inclined his head. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to the regiment.’

  Cox regarded him with faint distaste. ‘Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major! How old are you, Hickman?’

  ‘Twenty-one, sir. In fact it was my birth—’

  ‘Ridiculous.’ The colonel cut him short. ‘A warrant officer at twenty-one. Far too young. How long have you served?’

  ‘Since August 1914, sir. I joined up immediately war broke out.’

  ‘What! You’re not a Regular soldier?’

  ‘Er no, sir. I joined as a Territorial.’

  Cox swung on his heel and spoke to Cavendish. ‘I might as well tell you now, Cavendish, that I do not approve of Territorials reaching that sort of rank. Just can’t rely on them.’

  ‘Sir, Hickman is one of our very best warrant officers. He won the Distinguished Conduct Medal as a corporal—’

  ‘Humph! Ten a penny these days. Now, let’s get on. There is much to do if I am to knock this battalion into shape. Have the men paraded for me to address them in an hour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let us say eleven-thirty?’

  ‘With respect, sir, that might be a little difficult. Some of the men are off duty and are probably in the town …’

  ‘Very well. Make it twelve noon. I want them all back by then. See to it. You,’ he addressed Hickman, ‘show my groom where he can stable the horses.’

  Jim looked aghast at Cavendish.

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t have any stables here, Colonel,’ said the Captain. ‘We’ve only just come out of the line, you see. We are under canvas here. However,’ he turned to Hickman, ‘have a word with the RSM and see what he can suggest.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Jim gave them both his best salute and wheeled away, glad to escape.

  Somehow, the battalion was assembled for twelve noon and stood at attention, with every eye fastened on the little man who stood before them, slapping his shiny boots with his riding crop.

  ‘At ease, men.’ His voice, now raised, was predictably squeaky. ‘We are shortly going to go back up to the line and I want to make it quite clear to you what I expect of you all. I understand that you have had quite a mauling in your last attack. Well, these are no times to be feeling sorry for ourselves. General Haig’s intention is to knock the Boche off their perches on those ridges and I intend to make sure that this battalion is right at the front when we do that.’

  He strode up and down for a few seconds, as though allowing his words to sink in. Then he continued: ‘We will not have long here before we move up, but we will make the most of every second we have here in ensuring that we are fully trained for the task ahead. There will be no – I repeat – no sloppiness; no undue familiarity between NCOs and men. The usual procedures for saluting will be strictly adhered to and, when out of the line, kit will be cleaned, boots polished and brasses buffed until they gleam. There will be no leave from the camp unless I am assured that the necessary standards have been achieved.

  ‘This is my first time in the Salient but it can be no worse than Palestine, my previous posting. So you will find that I know the ropes. I will be hard but fair. I expect you all to do your best. Right, Adjutant. Dismiss the parade.’

  The men broke up and Bertie found an excuse to find Hickman. ‘Bloody hell, Jim,’ he said, ‘what was all that about?’

  Hickman looked about him. ‘I think it was about bullshit, that’s what it was about. The man’s a prat, that’s what he is. When he found that Cavendish was a duke’s nephew, he nearly pissed down his trousers. And if he thinks that two years on a fucking camel is preparation for this mudbath, then he’s got another think coming.’

  ‘Ah Jim, that’s all we need. An eejit for a colonel.’

  ‘Better break up or we’ll be beheaded for talking to each other.’

  So a period of hard, non-stop drilling ensued. They were all back on the barrack square: marching, turning, stamping, shouldering arms, moving to the right in threes, saluting, all leavened with only the occasional imparting of practical skills, such as finding natural ground cover, avoiding trench foot and recognising a sniper’s lair.

  Meanwhile, up beyond the ruined town, across the acres of mud, shell holes and unburied corpses, the great battle continued – as did the rain. Haig pitched more and more troops into what was now being called ‘Passchendaele’ back home. It was the third and greatest Battle of Ypres, the fight by the Allies to reach the little village at the top of the series of low ridges that dominated the killing ground. Inch by inch, the Germans yielded terrain, sometimes taking it back again and then losing it once more. The conflict now raged beyond trenches and up among the rows of pillboxes and fortified positions that formed the second and far more formidable line of the Germans’ positions. Into this maelstrom, Colonel Cox’s re-formed battalion was thrown.

  Once again, Jim and Bertie slogged with their comrades between the shell holes in the darkness, to take up their positions before dawn for yet another attack. A Company had another new commander, Captain George Simmons, a tall, thin, taciturn young man who had been at the front for two years. Like the rest of his men, he seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited them. Since his arrival two weeks before, Hickman had never seen a smile on his face.

  As they trudged on they realised that the line was where a helmeted head stood out briefly here and there above the ground in the dim light. Machine-gunners with their heavy Vickers were now dotting the edges of the craters, partly shielded by sodden sandbags. Below the edge of the crater, near the gun, a hole had been dug in the side and covered by a groundsheet. This was where the gunners were trying to sleep.

  This time, the dawn attack was no longer a case of ‘over the top’, for there was no trench top to surmount, only slurries of mud that had been piled up to give a fragment of protection in front of the tape along which they crouched. Jim had no idea of where they were in the line. It didn’t seem to matter. The objective was always the same: to destroy the pillboxes up ahe
ad and surge on up to the top.

  Jim found Bertie trying to keep his Lewis gun dry under his cape. The little Irishman greeted his old friend with lacklustre eyes. ‘We can’t keep gettin’ away with it, Jim,’ he said. ‘We’ve bin lucky so far but I can’t help feelin’ that we’re runnin’ out of time and luck now.’

  Jim clapped him on his shoulder, sending a shower of rain over them both. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Bertie. The Irish were born lucky, you know that. All we can do is keep our heads down and do our duty. I’ll keep an eye out for you, lad, so don’t worry. We’ll both get back to kiss Polly, I promise.’

  Murphy gave a woeful smile. ‘Ah strewth, Jimmy, I do hope so. But if not, I hope it’s me that gets it. You’d make a better fist of lookin’ after the girl, so you would.’

  ‘Balls.’ Jim looked at his watch. ‘One minute to go. Don’t forget, Bertie. Set up that bloody gun of yours as soon as you can out in front to give us a bit of covering fire.’

  ‘Very good, Sergeant Major.’

  The whistle blew and the men slipped and slithered over the mud piles immediately in front of them and began to flounder up the slope to where grey boxes were spitting out flame. This time, however, the Germans were concentrating their shells on the advancing troops, rather than on the supporting lines behind. As before, it was the shrapnel that caused the most casualties, for these razor-sharp steel missiles were capable of causing the most horrific injuries.

  A man immediately ahead of Hickman suddenly whirled around, his face a crimson mess where a piece of jagged steel had sliced away his jawbone and part of his nose. He slumped down, trying to speak but only gurgling blood. He held up a supplicatory hand but Jim put down his head and struggled by. All around men were falling. Turning his head, Hickman looked for Bertie but there was no sign of the little man, nor any chatter from his gun.

  A growing rage at the futility of it all consumed him and he broke into a shambling, slipping run, disregarding the shouts, screams, explosions all around him. Nearing a pillbox that was spitting fire, he dropped to his knees and crawled under the fire until he sat, his breast heaving, immediately under the machine gun. He unclipped a grenade, pulled out the firing pin with his teeth, waited two seconds and then rose and slipped it through the gun slit, falling back as he heard the muffled explosion from within. Getting to his feet, he floundered to the back of the pillbox, kicked down the door and thrust his rifle and bayonet into the interior. Three men lay dead inside, the muzzles of their heavy machine guns tipped to the sky through the firing slits. Three others lay wounded on the concrete floor. Hickman shot them in turn and stumbled outside, spitting to rid his mouth of the foul taste of cordite.

  A machine gun stuttered into life from behind a stunted tree ahead of him and brought down two Tommies to his right. Hickman dropped to the ground and fired two quick rounds in the general direction of the gun but the emplacement was well camouflaged and he saw little effect. Others were firing at the gun and he wriggled forward on his stomach until he was able to hurl his last bomb. It exploded just behind the stump of the tree and the gun fell silent.

  He stumbled to his feet, sensing rather than seeing other troops at his side, and, meeting firmer ground, ran towards a pillbox set in a fold in the ground further back. He realised that it had been taken, for white-faced Germans, some seeming no older than seventeen, were being taken back, their hands held high, under the guard of a single soldier. Passing them, he reached the edge of what had been the wood. British troops were straggling, knee-deep in the mud, upwards beyond it. Despite the explosions from the shells and bursts of rifle and machine fire, a little knot of soldiers had gathered at the side of one of the holes. Reaching them, Hickman realised that they were trying to rescue one of their comrades who had slipped down to the bottom. A human chain, linked by extended rifles, stretched down the slope of the crater but it was impossible to reach the man, who was now up to his armpits and screaming. Reluctantly, the attempt had to be abandoned and the last man was pulled to the top.

  ‘Shoot me, mates, for God’s sake,’ the sinking man was shouting. No one could do it.

  ‘Get on,’ shouted Hickman. ‘Get on.’

  Looking away, the men trudged on. The man was now up to his neck. Jim took quick aim and fired. A black hole appeared in his forehead and, mouth open, he sank beneath the mud. Kneeling down, Hickman was sick. Then, wiping his mouth, he staggered on.

  Up ahead he could see a long line of what appeared to be practically undamaged concrete machine-gun posts with barbed wire entanglements in front some fifty yards deep. It was an impregnable position that seemed to have been completely untouched by the British bombardment, except for a few spaces in the wire that had been cut. Into those gaps the Tommies were funnelling and Jim saw dozens caught up in the wire, many dead but some of them still alive and twitching.

  Men were now falling all around him and Jim saw a figure running back towards him. He recognised Captain Simmons, blood running down his arm from a tear in his uniform.

  ‘It’s useless, Sarn’t Major,’ he shouted. ‘Get the men to fall back and dig in just at the edge of the old wood. We simply can’t afford to lose any more men.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ He turned and waved his arm. ‘Back chaps. Back to the edge of the wood. Quick as you can now.’

  Where was Bertie? He could see no sign of him. And then, from the edge of the wood, came the familiar sound of a couple of Lewis guns opening up, to give cover to the retreating men. He prayed it would be Bertie but could not be sure, for every platoon had set out with two machine-gunners, and the gunners themselves were indistinguishable in the rain.

  There was precious little cover to be had from the few splintered tree trunks that still remained in the wood, but entrenching tools were produced and, somehow, Hickman oversaw the establishment of a line of sorts, linking the craters on the edge and piling up bodies to extend the height of the slipping, slopping mud walls of the so-called trench.

  ‘Good man, Hickman.’ The captain slumped down.

  ‘Let’s have a look at that arm, sir.’

  Jim produced his pocketknife and cut away the sleeve of Simmons’s uniform. It looked as though a bullet was still lodged against the bone of his arm and the captain was obviously in great pain. Hickman swabbed the wound with iodine and put a temporary dressing on it.

  ‘Better get back down the line, sir,’ he said.

  Simmons shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stay here. There is bound to be a counter-attack and we must hold what we’ve got here. I think the rest of the battalion – what is left of it – is to the left of us and we’ve got the Suffolks to the right. So we’ve got a line and we’ve got to hold on here until reinforcements come up.’ He nodded behind him. ‘Our objective is that ridge there. The colonel should be able to call up a barrage on those emplacements and we can have another go with more chaps in the morning. But we must hold this line against the counter-attack. I suggest …’ His voice tailed away and he slumped down, unconscious.

  Hickman lifted his voice. ‘Bearers. Any stretcher-bearers here?’

  Two men appeared, wearing the distinctive red cross on white arm bands. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Can you take the captain down the line?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. No chance at the moment. We’ve got six bad cases on stretchers back there and only the two of us. We’ve got to wait for more of our chaps to come back. It’s taking six men to carry one man ’cos we’re sinking up to our ’ips in the mud, see.’

  ‘All right. But take him back to one of the captured pillboxes and give him an ampoule of morphia or something.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Jim looked along the line to where the Lewis guns were still firing. It was important to see who was on either side, for it would be fatal to be outflanked if and when the counter-attack came. He splashed along to the left and met the mud-spattered figure of Sergeant Major Jack Flanagan.

  ‘I never thought I’d be glad to see you, Flanagan,’ said Jim.
r />   ‘Ah, real soldiers don’t run, sonny.’

  ‘Have you got a line established along there?’

  ‘Course we have. And you?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t know who’s on our right. I’m about to go and check. Who’s in command?’

  Flanagan flashed his teeth in that familiar grin. ‘Why our brave colonel, of course. I think he’s just sauntered in.’

  ‘What about Cavendish?’

  ‘Yes, he’s made it. But none of my subalterns have.’

  ‘My company commander is wounded and I haven’t seen any officers since we attacked. Look, they’re bound to counter-attack. I’ll see who’s on our right and I’ll come back and let you know.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll be here.’

  With a curt nod, Hickman made his way along the makeshift line, checking ammunition and preparing the men for the defence of the position. At the end, to his huge relief, he saw the diminutive figure of Bertie Murphy, crouched over his machine gun and seemingly asleep.

  ‘Corporal!’ barked Jim in mock barrack room tones. ‘You’re not asleep at your post, are you?’

  A weary eyelid was raised and a slow smile spread over Bertie’s face, smeared with mud and yellow cordite stains. ‘God bless you, Jimmy lad,’ he said. ‘I thought again you’d gone this time, I really did.’ And the two solemnly shook hands.

  ‘Are you all right, Bertie?’

  ‘As well as can be expected, as they say. I think I’ve killed more men today than yesterday so I’ve had a jolly day, so I have.’

  ‘Look, Bertie, they’re going to come at us before it gets dark. Have you got plenty of ammunition?’

  Murphy lifted a weary hand. ‘Bless you, lad, me and Stanley here,’ he jerked his head at his fellow gunner, ‘have got about six drums left. So that’s … what? Somethin’ like 280 rounds or so – I never could do sums, yer know, Jimmy.’

  ‘Well, be sparing. Who’s on the right of you?’

  ‘I don’t know, but they’re ranged along behind tree stumps. I don’t think they’re Germans, ’cos they seem quite nice chaps.’