Into Battle

by Michael Gilbert

  “Exactly what I thought myself,” said Shoesmith. “The situation is dangerous enough, but doubly dangerous if, as seems to be the case, it’s being organised.”

  “Who by?” asked the general coldly.

  “Well, sir, my men have got the idea into their heads that an army’s being built up in the forest. A hundred men – two hundred – the numbers grow each time it’s talked about. But they’re certain that Jerry’s behind it. If the prisoners broke out and joined them they could take over the camp and massacre everyone in it.”

  The general seemed more amused than alarmed. He said, “Is that what you think, yourself?”

  “Of course not, sir,” said Shoesmith hastily. “But it’s what my men are beginning to believe. And I don’t think they are the only ones.”

  Colonel Harper, sitting silent, found that he could read the characters of three of the officers quite clearly from the comments they made and, even more clearly, by the tone in which they were made. Shoesmith was an old woman. He was exaggerating the danger in the hope that the general would call in help from the army. He wanted a battalion, or, better, two battalions to shield him from the danger that threatened, and if that meant taking men away from the desperate struggle now approaching a climax at Loos, that couldn’t be helped. Security came first, particularly his own security. Lipholzer and Porteous were neutral. They were not intelligent enough to propose any novel solution to their difficulties, but they would faithfully carry out any orders they were given. Yapp, for whom he had recently formed an increasingly high opinion, had not yet spoken. Now he leaned forward to gather their attention and said, “If I might make a suggestion, sir.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I respectfully agree with the comments you made earlier. Our role is to hold the camp with the forces we have available, without”—he shot a glance at Shoesmith—“in any way weakening the men who are doing the fighting. But if we are to organise ourselves efficiently, we need to set up a proper chain of command. Apart from a very small permanent staff, the camp consists, in its larger part, of a shifting population of men coming through it. In its smaller part, of men who are not at liberty to move, either because they are hospitalised or because they are in prison; more securely now, we hope—”

  Harper nodded. They all knew of the precautions he had taken.

  “Then it seems to me that the first step should be to organise this fluid mass into four specific companies so that everyone knows where he stands, and if orders have to be given to him, where those orders will come from. The logical way to do so would be to place each company, A, B, C, and D, under the officer presently in charge of that particular Q store. That will mean”—he smiled around the table—“that we shall each of us cease to be shopkeepers and will have an active command.”

  “I think that’s a very sound suggestion,” said the general.

  It was clear that everyone except Shoesmith thought so, too. He was looking so alarmed at the thought of this additional responsibility that the general decided he must be replaced as soon as possible.

  “I’ll get the adjutant to draw up nominal rolls, and I suggest that each of you arrange a muster parade of the men allotted to you and tell them that all future orders will come from you. Meanwhile, I’ll draw up a general instruction. I’m open to suggestions, but I think that the minimum requirements are the imposition of a curfew and a direction that men shall carry arms with them at all times. And if that interferes with their sporting activities, so much the better. I think they spend too much time playing games and too little thinking about the war.”

  Porteous said, “I suggest, too, that they should organise a system, under selected N.C.O.s, of defence of their quarters at night.”

  “Agreed. We want no more tame handing over of cash. And you might add that while I’m looking for no reinforcements at present, as soon as action at the front does die down, I shall certainly ask for a battalion to comb through the forest and unearth such secrets – if any – as it may hold.”

  After Pepin had taken his normal, unobtrusive departure, all that Luke could do was sit in enforced idleness and await his return. By the evening of the second day, he was becoming extremely uneasy. On the previous night, he had dreamed of passages in the chalk that twisted confusingly, sometimes turning back on themselves like a snake that bit its own tail. Realising that he was not going to get much sleep that night, he remembered what Colonel Knox-Johnson had said to him. When he had assessed the position, he was to report back.

  He was far from confident that he could assess a state of affairs that had become more complex and more alarming every day that passed. But that did not excuse him from putting in an interim report. Indeed, he would not be sorry to have better brains than his own assessing the position.

  After dinner, therefore – a meal presided over by Dan Harper in almost complete silence – he had taken pen in hand. Until he started, he had not realised how tired he was. He tried to sort out his ideas. It was difficult to know where to begin. So difficult that he fell asleep in his chair, waking to stare down at a blank sheet of paper, with the single word “REPORT” at the top of it.

  He heard the cracked tones of the station clock announcing the hour of three, straightened up, and set resolutely to work. The short nap had cleared his mind, and the words seemed to come easily enough.

  He realised that what he was being forced to describe was a community that had lost its nerve, a community held together by the determination of the man at the top not to ask for outside help.

  Not an easy point to put across to his superiors. By the time he had finished and reread what he had written, light was beginning to come back into the sky. Almost the only comment Harper had made at the table was a complaint that the camp lacked a reliable dentist and that one of his men would be going to Boulogne that morning to have an abscess dealt with. Good. He should take the report with him.

  It was after he had decided this important point that he heard the sound of footsteps coming up the uncarpeted stairs. The newcomer was taking care to avoid making a noise. It had been a warm evening, and the windows downstairs had been opened for coolness. They should have been shut when they came up, but this might have been forgotten. Reflecting on this possibility, Luke got up, took his service revolver from the webbing holster in which it was hanging behind the door, and waited.

  After a moment of silence, the intruder started to call attention to himself by scratching gently on the panel of the door.

  Holding his gun in his right hand, Luke used his left hand to open the door and swung it back, stepping aside as he did so.

  It was driver Whitehouse who was standing there, looking like such a scared and unhappy parody of himself that it took a moment for Luke to recognise him. When he did so, he slid the revolver back into its holster and said, “Come in.”

  “Shudden have broke in,” said Whitehouse. At least, that’s what it sounded like, but the words were so jumbled and unclear that it might have been anything at all.

  Luke fetched a bottle of whiskey from his cupboard, poured out half a tumbler of the neat spirit, and said, “Drink that up. Go on. It’s an order.”

  Whitehouse summoned up a pale smile and drank the whiskey. When he had finished spluttering, Luke said, “Sit down. Right. Now tell me, quite slowly, what you’ve come to say.”

  The whiskey seemed to have done its work. Whitehouse said, “I came along because I wanted someone to protect me.”

  “Protect you? What from?”

  “From what happened to Light.”

  Luke asked, speaking slowly, “And what did happen to the bombardier?”

  “Forgan blew his brains out. Light knew what might be going to happen to him. He told me that he had made up his mind to inform on Forgan. He’d written it all out. All the details and dates and the money he’d made. It was going to the major in the morning. As soon as he handed it in he was going to ask to be placed under arrest. Close arrest.”

  “And this is
the document?”

  “He made two copies, in case he was prevented from handing one in.”

  “I see. And you’re saying that Forgan took steps to prevent him?”

  Whitehouse nodded. He had started shivering. When the comfort of the whiskey had faded, Luke thought he was probably going to collapse altogether. Just as well that they had it all in writing.

  He said, “I’ll get you a bed here in one of our cells. You’ll be safe enough. I should try to get some sleep.”

  He found Harper, always an early riser, shaving. He listened to Luke while he scraped his chin with his old-fashioned cutthroat razor, washed his face and hands, and dried them carefully. When this had been attended to he said, “First stop, the QA store. I imagine Forgan will have cleared out, but in case he hasn’t, we’ll take two men with us. Second stop, Major Yapp’s billet. Third stop, the general.”

  Luke had observed General Foxley playing a number of roles, from the relaxed and happy fisherman, to the captain of a sinking ship determined not to leave the bridge. Now, for the first time, he saw him anxious and uncertain.

  It was not the news they had brought with them. He had listened without great interest to the story of driver Whitehouse and B.S.M. Forgan.

  He said, “So Forgan’s taken off.”

  Yapp said, “Yes, sir. One of our men spotted him, early this morning, heading for the forest.”

  He listened with approval to the immediate steps Yapp had taken to replace him. (“Sergeant Drewe, very sound man. Won’t be able to get back to active service until they’ve fixed his arm.”) After this, he had dismissed Yapp and the adjutant, indicating that Harper and Luke should stay behind.

  When they were alone he said, “What I have to tell you doesn’t go outside this room.”

  They both nodded.

  “The monthly imprest payment, which was due here yesterday, failed to arrive. When, by six o’clock, it was clearly overdue, our head cashier came to see me. Normally our money supply comes to us from the Central Bank at Montreuil, in the form of cash for our immediate necessities and a credit note, to be lodged with the branch bank in Le Touquet, so we can draw against it. I telephoned the bank at Montreuil, who told me, with some surprise, that the van carrying the cash and note had left Montreuil at two o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

  This was so unexpected and had such serious implications that neither of his listeners had anything to contribute.

  The general said, “If the truck has been ambushed and robbed, we are very awkwardly placed: we can’t ask the bank here to sanction future withdrawals until new credit has been arranged. Our cashier tells me that there wasn’t much left in the account anyway. And he has only a few thousand francs of ready money in hand.”

  “Surely, once they know,” said Harper, “they’ll send more money. Properly guarded, this time.”

  “That may be their immediate reaction. But I’m not happy that they won’t make it an excuse to do the one thing I don’t want them to do.”

  “Reinforce us with troops from the line.”

  “Yes.”

  Luke said, “Might I ask, sir, wasn’t the money guarded at all?”

  “There was one man with the driver. They wouldn’t be expecting trouble.”

  Harper had been looking at the map on the colonel’s table. He said, “Do we know which route the truck took?”

  “It might have been one of two. The normal way here from Montreuil would be north of the river by the N39. But they could have come south of the river through Valcendre and Trepied. It’s a bit longer, but a much pleasanter road.”

  “More picturesque,” agreed Harper. “Goes through two or three lots of woods.”

  “I noticed that,” said the general. And after a moment of silence, “I want you two to tackle this. I’ve told our head cashier to keep his mouth shut. Apart from you two he’s the only man here who knows anything about it.”

  “When you say ‘tackle it,’ sir.”

  “Find the truck. And the men.”

  “In that case,” said Harper, “I’d like to brief one of my men. Sergeant Renishaw. He’s half Indian and an expert tracker.”

  “And he’ll keep his mouth shut?”

  “Yes, sir, I can guarantee that. He doesn’t talk much anyway.”

  “Very well. As quickly as possible.”

  They took the main road to Montreuil. Luke sat in front between Harper, who was driving, and the sergeant. They went slowly, to give Renishaw plenty of time. He never took his eyes off the shoulder of the road, even when a fox tried to commit suicide. They reached Attin and the outskirts of Montreuil without him having moved an inch or uttered a word.

  They skirted Montreuil to the south, turned right at La Madelaine, and followed the minor D139. Here they were in woodland, with trees on either side of the road, thin on the right, much thicker on the left.

  Renishaw raised his hand.

  “Here,” he said.

  When they got out and looked around them, they saw what he had already spotted: a break in the hedge and signs that something heavy had passed through it.

  Renishaw, avoiding the break, pushed through the hedge farther along and motioned to them to follow.

  The trunk of a newly felled tree was lying along the inside of the hedge.

  “If they put that across the road,” said Luke, “the truck would have to stop. Mightn’t have been suspicious. Tree might have blown down. Any road, they’d have to get out to shift it.”

  “Follow the sergeant,” said Harper.

  Renishaw, his head bent forward, led them along a path into the heart of the woods. The recent hot weather had baked it too hard for it to hold any obvious clues, but the sergeant moved along it confidently. It ended in a small clearing. Here there were signs of recent activity – bushes broken down and the earth trampled. Something else, too: two places, side by side, where the earth had been turned and piled up.

  “That’s where they are,” said Renishaw.

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “So what do we do now?” said Luke.

  “Return and report.”

  The general seemed almost pleased that uncertainty, at least, was ended. He said, “The bodies will have to be formally identified, and that”—he turned to Luke—“is something you will have to do. Colonel Harper has just got – thank the Lord – the first of the reinforcements he has been pressing for. Fifteen more men and a further fifteen coming after the weekend, which means that he and his NCOs will be busy.”

  As he said this, he was looking out of the window. For the first time in weeks, a vanguard of black clouds was rolling up, forming a premature dusk.

  “I’ll give you the same truck and a man to drive it: a youngster called Perry. He was a friend of the driver of the other van and says he knew the man who was with him by sight. The idea of identifying the bodies upset him badly. You’ll have to hold his hand.”

  “And when we have identified the bodies, sir?”

  “I’ll have a word with the padre about that. He may think it better to say a few words over them, mark the spot, and let them lie. Then the war graves people can deal with them in due course.”

  Luke was deeply relieved. He was not as squeamish as young Perry, but the idea of bringing the bodies back with them had been an unpleasant one.

  “It’s too late to do any more today. Start in good time tomorrow and you should be able to do what has to be done.” He added, rather grimly, “We’re up against a time limit. I’ve been promised interim relief in the form of one week’s supply of money. One week. After which anything may happen, so don’t waste any time.”

  By six o’clock on the following evening, Luke was back in his quarters. It had been a miserable day. Under an unrelenting downpour, he and Perry had grubbed with their hands in the newly turned earth until they reached the two bodies. One of them had been shot cleanly in the neck. Executed after surrender, Luke thought. His face was undamaged. Perry, when
he had finished being sick, had identified him as his onetime friend. The other man had been shot in the chest, and a second shot had destroyed his chin.

  Perry had agreed, quickly, that he knew him, too. As quickly as possible, to avoid looking at the broken face too closely. After which the muddy earth had to be shovelled back and patted down.

  Luke had had the forethought to bring a bucket of cold water in the van, and both spent some time washing their hands; washing away the mud and the memory.

  Luke, who felt little desire for food, had made a poor showing at the evening meal and had gone straight up to his room. Here he had found Joe. He was hoping for news about Pepin, but was disappointed.

  “He’s been gone three days,” he said. “What on earth can have happened to him?”

  Joe said, “Why don’t we go and find out. The old man owes you a break. Tell him you want two or three days’ leave. Shooting leave they used to call it in the army, diddun they?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The rain seems to be clearing. We could take some grub and a couple of ground sheets and make a proper job of it.”

  “That’s exactly what we’ll do,” said Luke, his spirits marvellously raised by the thought of action. “But we’ll have to plan it carefully.”

  He was thinking about mobility.

  Joe had been fitted with the most modern type of false leg available, and continued practice had made him expert in using it. “Can do anything but dance the hornpipe,” he used to assure people who asked. But one thing he clearly could not do was a long march, over difficult country, particularly if he was carrying anything.

  “As I see it,” Luke said, “there are three things we want to do. First, and most important, find out what’s happened to Pepin.”

  “That’s a job for me,” said Joe. “I know quite a few of the Easyites. I’ll call on Pepin’s mum. She’s got a place – not much more’n a big hut, really – far end of the quay. If anyone knows where he is, or when and where he was last seen, it’ll be her.”