“I’ll be sorry to see the back of you two. Straight back on that bloody broom, that’s where I’ll be, what a bloody life, eh?”
“Have you never seen any action, lad?” Thomas asked.
“Action, aye course I have. Trouble with me is, every time I fire a rifle I get a nosebleed. Three times they put me on a bloody stretcher and carted me off to one of them hospitals where they cut off everything with a drop of blood on it. Silly buggers thought I’d been shot in the head, and I thought, bugger me. They’re going to cut it off. The daft buggers realised in the end though, and sent me up here to ponce about for his lordship.”
Overjoyed at the temporary respite from the trenches, they ate their food and counted their blessings. At the close of day they sat in silence and watched the sun wander off to perform its mandatory duty on the other side of the world leaving them to prepare for the grip of approaching winter.
On his bed Thomas lay staring at the decorated ceiling and felt the stirrings of purpose in his belly. For a brief moment he attempted to imagine life without the horror of war. He tried to push the feelings away, but they refused to shift and clamped firmly on the rim of his mind. He ran his fingers across the scabbing scar by his left eye. If he’d lost his eye he would surely be finished with the army and forced to return to England to face an uncertain future, and worst of all the gallows. Suddenly he heard Moses suck in his breath and, putting his plate down, he placed his forefinger to his lips motioning for silence. It was faint at first, hardly audible, then it grew louder and Thomas had no need to strain to listen, the sound of the tins clinking and clanking reached his ears easily enough.
“A fox or a badger most likely,” Thomas said.
Moses never received the opportunity to respond to Thomas’s supposition. His blood ran cold and his breath caught in his throat at the sound of a prolonged eerie howl stretching through the gloominess of dusk. He picked up Thomas’s rifle and peered down the telescopic sight.
“Good grief,” he whispered.
“What, what is it?” Thomas frowned.
“Dogs, they must have escaped from a German dog pound and be close to starving by now. That’s why they’re after the livestock. Lucky for us the noise from the cans have frightened them away. But they’ll be back for sure,” Moses said.
Thomas fingered the wounds on his neck and face and looked at his bandaged fingers. There was no way the two of them would be enough, they needed help. With his present injuries to contend with, it would be weeks before he would be fit enough to precipitate in any form of activity with a rifle. He needed the snipers.
Colonel Dickson stared at Thomas. “How many did you say?” he exploded
“Twenty at least, Sir, maybe more. They have formed a pack, and sooner or later others might well join them.”
“What do you suggest? How about we leave a few poisoned carcasses? That should get rid of the blighters.”
“Might kill a few, Sir, but still leaves the remaining livestock in danger. If I might make a suggestion, perhaps we should bring in a few more snipers, Sir, and kill the lot in one go.”
“Splendid idea,” he said, thumping the table. “Why didn’t I think of that? How many do you think we shall need?”
“A dozen, Sir, at the most. I can get Hill and Banks here later today. Sergeant Bull is on the Menin road. We’ll need him to do the organising, he’s good at that, Sir, and he’ll know the whereabouts of the other snipers, Sir,” Thomas said.
“I’ll write a letter to all ranks stating you are to have everything you need.”
He left Moses to guard the livestock in case the marauding dogs returned and made his way back to the trenches on foot. His damaged hand was in no condition to control a horse as lively as Isabelle. As he drew closer to the front his heart sagged and the temperature dropped, and he wanted to cover his ears and block out the sound of the guns. The tall elms and willows that had gently rustled over the sparkling lake submitted to the bare cold malevolent killing fields, where men died on the whim of another. The unrelenting throb of his partly severed fingers almost drove him to slice them off there and then and be done with them. He showed the letter to Captain Sands and waited.
“Of course, take whomever you need. Glad to see anyone get out of this hellhole for a moment’s respite. When you return, come and see me. Might have need of you sniper chaps myself. Good grief, you look awful.”
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir. I will, as soon as we return,” Thomas nodded.
He found Stan munching his way through a bunch of raw carrots and drinking a bottle of German beer. He looked well enough and the colour had returned to his pale face. His hair was combed and parted down the middle and he was freshly shaved. Married life had obviously changed him, his trembling hands now reduced to a spasmodic twitch.
“Hello, Stan,” he said, startling him into dropping the bottle of beer.
“Bloody hell, General, did you have to do that?” he said, watching the liquid froth and run away between the duckboards. “Jesus, look at the state of you, some bugger drop a bomb on you?”
“Where’s Leslie Hill? We need you both at the chateau,” he answered, ignoring the questions. Stan insisted on calling it the big house, swearing blind a chateau was something you wore on your head, and nothing would force him to alter his mind.
Fired with the thought of escaping from the filth of the trenches he clambered over the edge, his weasel eyes glittering like newly polished diamonds. “I’ll find him, lad, don’t move. The big house eh, lad? Sounds grand that does. What’s the scoff like? Pig’s head with an apple stuffed in its mouth? That’s what them donkeys eat.”
Leslie Hill’s mouth dropped open, and overcome with emotion he feasted his eyes on the unblemished countryside touched only by the coolness of an impending winter. He slowed to a halt, pulled off his helmet and gazed around, unable to halt the tears blurring his eyes, he was in paradise. Where else could he be? Even when he racked his brain for an answer he couldn’t bring to mind the last time he had seen a tree in its entirety, not blackened by fire and gun-smoke or with pieces of human flesh hanging from the boughs. He couldn’t remember anything as nature intended it to be, and at that moment it didn’t matter. On reaching the lake beyond the elms, he ignored the cold and walked into the water fully dressed until he submerged from sight. Stan stripped down to stained underwear and dived in after him, shouting and laughing like a child.
As the weeks passed they were joined by all that remained of the company of snipers: Sergeant Bull, Atlas Blunder, Leslie Walsh and his flute, Walter Smith from Preston and Harry Kershaw from Morecombe. The rest, including Harry and John Burke, were never mentioned or heard of again. One day spirits rose when the indomitable Corporal Apple Crumble turned up with a donkey cart loaded with flares and hand grenades, and a special surprise: a crate of twelve Mauser sniper rifles fitted with telescopic sights captured from a German trench.
It was like old times watching Sergeant Bull bobbing up and down in his inimitable style as he scouted the pasture used during the night to pen in the animals.
“Good thinking, lad,” he said, “stringing out the rows of tin cans. They make a grand warning system they do.”
Despite their arguments both Moses and Thomas were told by Sergeant Bull in no uncertain terms that they would take no further part in the proceedings due to their extensive wounds. One look from the sergeant’s piercing eyes warned them it was fruitless to argue.
On the third night Thomas sat by the open window of his bedroom overlooking the pasture and meadow and watched the moon drifting in and out of the dark clouds. His fingers hurt like hell and with the pain came a shortened temper and a muddied mind. He untied the bandage and studied the wounds. The bones were separated and would take months to knit together properly, and even then they might never function properly again. He drew his bayonet and placed his hand palm down on the top of a set of drawers, and positioned the blade over the damaged fingers, closed his eyes and pushed the blade dow
n. His breath came in short bursts and he groaned, surprised at the lack of pain and blood. With a towel wrapped round as a bandage he tucked his hand under his right armpit for comfort, like he had done when Mr Webster caned him for scratching his name on his desktop.
First the flares fluttered into the dark night, illuminating the meadow and pasture like huge falling searchlights, followed by the crump of the grenades. The sharp staccato of controlled gunfire poured into the unsuspecting dogs, and barking and yelping in pain they jerked and died. It was over in a matter minutes and the thin starving corpses of man’s best friend were quickly collected and burned. Thomas watched sadly at the fire crackling and spitting until only charred bones remained.
“Well done, men. An excellent job performed with military precision,” Colonel Dickson enthused. “Get a good night’s sleep and come and see me in the morning.”
The following morning Sergeant Bull lined up the men in the best orderly fashion they could muster and waited for the arrival of Colonel Dickson. They stood weary and red-eyed, carrying war fatigue like a non-removable badge pinned to their souls and displayed for all to see. Tired of war and degradation, and lacking in hope, they waited patiently and uncomplaining because they were expected to.
“My God, I’ve never set eyes on such a bunch of rabble in my life. Don’t they ever bother to wash and shave, Sergeant?” the colonel said, walking up and down the line of men and staring at the tattered unkempt uniforms with hardly a button between them.
“Where would they do that, Sir? These men are front-line soldiers, the last of a company of veteran snipers, Sir,” Sergeant Bull said, his manic eyes staring fit to explode and blow his head from his shoulders. “Dirty they might be, rabble they are not. You’ll find no finer men on the Western Front, Sir.”
Leslie Hill swivelled his eyes and bit his lip, and he gazed at the sergeant, this was the first time Sergeant Bull had ever spoken of them in this manner. He felt the flush of pride heat his face and forced back his shoulders. Pushing out his chest he pulled himself upright and crashing his right foot down he stood rigidly to attention. Stan Banks followed suit, then the rest of the men. Thomas turned with military precision and smartness to Sergeant Bull.
“Company present and correct, Sergeant!” he bellowed like they would at Catterick.
“Thank you, Private Elkin,” Sergeant Bull nodded and turned to face the colonel. “Company ready and awaiting orders, Sir,” he said, snapping up a textbook salute at the colonel.
Colonel Dickson sucked in his cheeks, stared down at his boots and felt the spur of shame rake his conscience. Now was the opportunity to portray a veneer of decency to real fighting men who looked upon officers as immoral vultures who preyed on the minds of young fools. The only battle he’d ever fought was to convey the correct amount of fresh eggs to GHQ each day. He cleared his throat, and pulled himself to attention, and returned Sergeant Bull’s salute.
“Stand the men down, Sergeant. Tell Cockshead to prepare rooms and hot baths for the men and inform Cook to give them all they need to eat for the next seven days,” he ordered.
“Cookson, Sir,” Sergeant Bull said.
“What?”
“Cookson, Sir. His name is Cookson, not Cockshead.”
“Really, then why didn’t the blasted fool say so?”
“I’m sure he had his reasons, Sir,” the sergeant said scornfully.
For seven short days they ate until they could eat no more, while their dirty uniforms boiled in the scullery under the watchful eye of Marie Antoinette. When she set eyes on Stan Banks, she snarled in disgust, threw him into a tub of hot water and scrubbed him with a kitchen scouring brush while he howled in protest and told her he was a married man.
Chapter Twenty-Two
“I want you to re-form your sniper company. I’ll leave you to decide how it should be done. By all accounts you once did a fine job, so let’s hope you can do the same for us. Dismissed,” Captain Sands said to Sergeant Bull.
“Well, get to it, lad,” Sergeant Bull said to Thomas in the trenches. “We’ve business in Polygon Wood tonight.”
“Polygon Wood?” Stan Banks said, elated at last the snipers were together again. “Never heard of it. I know what a polygon is though, it’s a figure with more than four sides, I think.”
“Thank you for that, Banks, I’m sure it will make everything worthwhile now we know the meaning of the word,” Sergeant Bull said patiently. “After dark our job is to make our way through No Man’s Land and tie explosives to the German barbed wire. Keep the explosives at least nine inches off the ground to keep it dry. In the morning we’ll be going in first after the artillery bombardment. Our job will be to blow up the barbed wire and skirmish with the enemy to give the Aussies a chance to get at them. Good crowd the Aussies. Let’s give them all the help we can.”
To refer to Polygon Wood as a wood would be a misnomer. There were no visible trees, only a few blackened stumps left from numerous previous assaults. A German stronghold, it needed to be cleared to make way for the assault on Ypres.
“All set, Stan?”
“As I’ll ever be, Archie lad,” Stan said, shifting the backpack of explosives over his shoulders and slipping over the parapet. With the camouflaged hessian pulled over his helmet, he began working his way over the dusty terrain. Every few yards he stopped, allowing Thomas to pass him while he re-gained his breath. They repeated the procedure until eventually they reached the rolls of barbed wire, and immediately began tying explosives above ground as ordered, both aware if the scheme worked, thousands of lives would be saved from enemy machine-gunners. Glancing left and then right Thomas watched the rest of the snipers complete their task and start crawling back to their own trenches. Finished, Stan turned, gave the thumbs up and started to do the same. Two hours later they were all safely back and drinking a strong brew.
The bombardment started and continued non-stop through the night. Sleep became impossible, and once again men’s eyes grew heavy with fatigue their bodies racked by tiredness. Gripping their rifles tighter they called upon an untapped energy. Those experienced from their time in the trenches retained the ability to sever their minds from their bodies and stared like zombies dislocated from reality into a valley of darkness. When the time came they would be ready.
At last dawn brought good weather and a dull sun shone overhead. Greatcoats along with all other unnecessary clothing were quickly discarded.
“Like Blackpool in June, that’s what it reminds me of,” Apple joked, wrenching the lids off ammunition boxes with a claw hammer.
In the background, Walsh competed with the guns and piped It’s a Long Way to Tipperary on his flute. Some joined in, grateful for the diversion, others stood quiet, unaffected by either the guns or the tune. Then there were those who stared at photos of loved ones and pressed their lips to the creased squares of thick paper. The younger ones stared at pictures of unknown wives and sweethearts taken from the tunic of an unknown fallen comrade. In their troubled minds it offered a morsel of comfort, a tiny sense of belonging. Dying never seemed so painful in the company of a pretty woman, regardless to whom she belonged.
“What did you do for a living, Apple, before you signed up to become an international playboy with the British Army?” Atlas called out.
“I had a shooting gallery on Blackpool front, eh it were grand it were.”
“Oh aye, and what were the targets?”
“Tin cans, lad, tin cans. What the bloody hell did you think they were, bloody Sitting Bull and his Red Indians?” Apple snapped.
“I had a go on them buggers once. Bloody barrel were that bent when I pulled trigger bloody cork went straight into me ear. Deaf as a hungry dog’s belly for days I were.”
“Aye, lad. We must be using the same bloody guns, I shot a Hun four times last week at point-blank range and he didn’t have a scratch on him, just got up and scarpered he did. I reckon Apple takes gunpowder out of cartridges to make a brew with,” Stan Banks said.
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br /> “Bollocks,” was the only response Banks heard amidst a roar of laughter.
The ear-shattering bombardment maintained its waterfall of exploding metal towards the German lines. The Germans sat in their secure concrete dugouts smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee until the bombardment ceased and the Allies began their attack. Then they would go out into the trenches and mow the advancing enemy down with their machine-guns. Unless the troops had access to a clear pathway unhindered by barbed wire, it would be another bloody slaughter.
Captain Sands sat on the firing step reading poetry from a book written by Keats over the top of his spectacles as though he was waiting for a kettle to boil. At last the bombardment ceased and observers peered though slits between sandbags. Visibility was zero, everything hidden behind great clouds of smoke and dust. Now the time had come to see whether the bombardment had triggered the explosives on the barbed wire. Thomas went first and under the cover of clouds of dust they made their way towards the wire. The gaps they encountered were few and far between but not wide enough for a full bloodied attack and dropping grenades next to the explosives, they retreated a few yards and waited. From somewhere, lessons had been learned and instead of a full frontal charge the attackers came in small groups, and assaults were made from the flanks pinning the Germans down.
“At last some bugger at HQ has grown a brain,” Stan called, grinning and relishing every moment of the Mauser fitted with the telescopic sight, as German after German disappeared in a frothy cloud of blood.
“Yes!” Thomas shouted over the screams of dying and injured men. “After a thousand yards we’ll stop and dig in, then wait for the counter-attack.”
And that’s what they did. Bite and hold they called it. Repel the counter-attack and attack again. Thomas gathered his men together.
“Take out the pillboxes and machine-gun nests and the bastards are finished. Come on, lads, let’s see what the bastards are made of!” he roared, getting to his feet in full view of the enemy. “Well come on then, what are you waiting for?”
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