His Second War

by Alec Waugh

  It was slow-motion work, but it was exhausting all the same. He was tired by half-past seven. In most messes dinner was at eight, and there was nothing to do when it was over. The anteroom contained half a dozen chairs for twenty members. With a strict black-out there was no sitting in cafés “watching life go past.” There were no cabarets. One’s eyes were tired of type and print; one did not want to read. It was close on nine o’clock, one’s billet was a quarter of an hour’s walk away. The cafés on the way were dreary. An occasional couple of Frenchmen playing dominoes, a small group round the billiard table, an officer reading a paper over a glass of beer, an “about to close” air about everything. Most evenings he was asleep by ten o’clock. It was a very different life from that which he had pictured for himself as a machine-gun officer twenty-three years before.

  41

  ARRAS, 9 MAY 1940

  Once a week at G.H.Q. one was allowed a half-day off. He had been there twelve days before he took his. It was a warm spring day. He’d walk, he decided, till he was tired out. He was getting little exercise and he needed it. He had an objective moreover for his walk. Twenty-two years ago he had been taken prisoner five miles from Arras, by the village of Neuville-Vitasse. He wanted to visit the place to reconstruct the scene, to see if there was anything left there to remind him of that morning.

  It was with a light heart that he set out. The sun was warm upon his face, the air was keen. One did not carry respirators at G.H.Q. and it was good to feel one’s shoulders free. He was at peace with himself and with the world. He had been here twelve days and he had found his feet. He saw his job clear-cut. He knew what he had to do and how to do it. The people who had brought him out here had not visualized his job. But if one was going to get anywhere in life with anything, one made one’s own job for oneself. One listened to editors, one found out the limits within which one had to work. There was a tether always. Then one went away and wrote one’s stories.

  He knew what his job was here—to make the French realize that the British were full out, to publicize in fact the British war effort. For twelve days now he had been turning out daily some fifteen hundred words. His two series of articles had been translated into French and were to be issued to the French Press through the Ministry of Information. He had prepared a shortened version for a Paris broadcast. He had roughed out his feuilleton and written the first three instalments. He had worked at heavy pressure. His section had, he believed, been somewhat surprised at the volume that he had produced. He knew, however, that it could not last.

  Another fortnight, he told himself, and he’d be through. One couldn’t just sit in a room and write. One wrote out of one’s nerves and one had to live upon one’s nerves. One had to recharge one’s batteries. Every writer had his own method and he knew his. He had to get about, to see new people and new places, to feed his eyes and ears with sights and sounds. He had to see a thing before he could describe it. He could not work up local colour from a guide book. He could not visualize the British war effort through a study of summaries and morale reports, not at least in the way that he would need to if he was going to make that effort real to the French public.

  “I’ve got to get about,” he thought. “I’ve got to see what’s happening. I’ve got to see how troops are living in the line, I’ve got to see the Pioneer battalions, the base camps, the L. of C., the workshops. I must get an idea of what the A.T.S. are doing. I must get a composite picture for myself; something that I can re-create for the French public.” Thank heavens, he thought, that he had a G.3 who realized that, and a G.I too, he added, remembering the pencilled note that he had read that morning.

  He’d be backed in the right way. Within the necessary and proper limits he’d be given a free hand. His pace quickened at the prospect. It was a big, a real job of work, and there was only one way of tackling it, in the broadest sense. The more one bit off, the more one found that one could chew. He was only one person among very many at work in the broad field of propaganda. He would never have anything to show for what he was doing. There would be no equivalent for box-office receipts and sales returns.

  Propaganda was not only a playing day by day upon the mass mentality, the creation by suggestion, by mental coercion of a state of mind adaptable to one’s own purpose. It was that, but it was more than that. It was a playing also upon the minds of those few who directed operations, who influenced and controlled events. A chance phrase in an article or story might alter the point of view of a man whose change of opinion was as important as the destruction of two brigades; might fortify a general’s resolution at the decisive moment; might create doubt in a politician’s mind at the hour when complete confidence alone could hold the day.

  Battles were not only won by armaments. Sitting at a desk in Arras he was no less a part of the war than he had been twenty-three years before as a machine-gunner in the very sector through which he was walking now.

  42

  NEUVILLE-VITASSE. 9 MAY 1940

  It was on the 28th March 1918 that he had been taken prisoner. On the 21st he had been holding a position south of Monchy with a sub-section of two machine-guns. He had been on the extreme left of the attack, on a sector where the attack had been held and not pressed home.

  It had been a misty morning: they had been shelled fairly heavily with mustard gas. He had peered anxiously through his misted goggles, expecting to see at any moment the shadows of curved helmets above the parapet. When the mist had finally lifted, and he had seen that the valley that his guns were covering was empty of hurrying figures, he had imagined that the attack had been beaten off. It was not till the evening that a runner from Company H.Q. brought the news that the Germans were breaking through on the right flank.

  On the night of the 23rd, to straighten out the line, he had been withdrawn to join his section commander in a new position north-east of Neuville-Vitasse.

  He had been there, in that position, that was to say, four days. He should, he felt, with the map to help him, be able to locate the place.

  On the map it had looked clear enough, with the valley of the Cojeuil river and the villages of Heninel and Henin. But in his mind’s eye he saw it as a drear colourless stretch of dank vegetation and ruined masonry, of tangled wire and a rutted road. There was no waste land now, crops were growing on the slopes, horses were plodding slowly down the trim ditched lands. It was a firm and metalled road that ran north to Cambrai. There were church spires against the sky, and bright red roofs and modern gables.

  It was all very much, he thought, like a scene out of a novel: a man coming back to a place that he had known in childhood, that he had dreamed of returning to, only to find on his return no landmarks left, nothing to recall his memoried picture of the place.

  In his case, though, there was no clear-cut picture. He had been nearer to death that day than he had ever been. Had he written of it in a novel he would have made that day a high peak in his character’s existence. For him it had not been, though; even at the time it had not seemed quite real. It had not had the reality of Passchendaele or of the long dreary routine of trench life. It had been like something that happened in a sham fight on a school field-day.

  He tried to reconstruct the scene: the mingled eventlessness and confusion of that long morning; the sight of men moving out of range at the head of the long valley on the left that they had been told to guard; the shelling on the right; a wounded sergeant coming past them with the news that they were cut off, but the absence of any attack down the valley where it had been expected. Where so much was happening, nothing had appeared to be happening just where he was.

  It was that contrast that had made the whole day unreal. There was no enemy near at hand. There was nothing they could fire at. His section commander had bitten at his glove pensively.

  “I’ve been told to stay here,” he said, “I suppose I’ve got to. If we moved to look for a better target I might get courtmartialled.”

  His section commander was only a few years
older than himself, was not a regular, had been trained like himself to trench conditions, felt lost in open warfare. “We might mount a gun out in the open, we might get a target from that hill,” he’d said.

  They had tried to, but it hadn’t worked. They’d barely got the gun mounted when fire was opened on them. A bullet went through the barrel casing; they had just got the hole patched over when a bullet went through the wrist of the No. 1. As he bound up the wound he noticed the curious way in which the broken skin had puckered back, like a stretched material that had been released.

  “Try and get back to the dressing-station,” the section commander said. “Try and get that way round. Good luck to you.” He watched the No. I creep down the trench towards a sunken road. There was no proper trench system here. They were living in old German dug-outs, abandoned during their retreat in the previous spring. The man would have to get back across the open. The betting was heavy against him getting back. There’d have been less chance for him, though, if he had stayed. Lying flat on their stomachs, their heads barely lifted, he and his section officer had tried to get a grasp of what was happening. There were still no targets. But far away on the right they could see the outline of curved helmets. The Germans had come down the other valley, on the other side of the hill.

  “It’s no good,” said the section officer. “We’d better get the gun back.”

  As they pulled it over the parapet, a shell pitched in the next traverse, smashing the gun, killing the No. 2—even then it had not seemed quite real.

  Even then, even during the next half-hour when as a result, no doubt, of that sortie into the open, a battery that had got their range was dropping periodic shells around and into their position, even then, because possibly it was open warfare, because it was unlike the trench warfare to which they were accustomed, in terms of which he still saw war, even then it had seemed like a field exercise.

  They had stood there, he and his commander, helpless, unable to fire back. They had no bombs. They had been forced to evacuate with a single limber. They had only been able to bring back some guns and some ammunition. They had not been able to make a strong point out of their position. They could not attack. They could not defend themselves. What use was a Vickers gun when someone was bombing you from behind a traverse, and your gun emplacements were sighted on lines where there was no attack? They had stood there, under the intensified intermittent shell-fire, trying to gauge the situation, while those grey uniforms and those curved helmets curled round them like a sea; a sea that began to wash against them.

  At last his section commander had shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no good,” he’d said, “we can’t do anything. We’d better destroy the one gun left.”

  And it had all happened here somewhere within a few yards of him. In the distance, three miles away, he could see on the horizon the poplars of the Cambrai road. Yes, that was familiar; it was that line that he had kept searching with his binoculars for any transport that might give a clue to the situation. And this, yes, this must be the valley down which they had expected the attack; a firm metalled road was running through it now. There was a little cluster of poplars, seven or eight, yes—he remembered those. Their position had been on the side of a slope. It must have been this slope.

  But there were now no shell craters on the slope; there was no trench system. The valley was green with crops, peasants were working on the soil. Slowly he climbed the slope, turning back from it half-way up. It must have been somewhere here. There was a rise of ridge still to the summit. It must have been there that they had tried to mount that gun. And there were the roofs of Neuville-Vitasse—fresh and bright now in the sunlight. Brown ruins they had been on that grey morning. Yes, there was the group of poplars and on the horizon there was the Cambrai road. It must have been just here. By the map and by his memory it must have been.

  He climbed the ridge, half expecting that some peasant would shout at him for trespassing. On the crest of the ridge there was a tower: low and round, a kind of martello tower. The bricks were old; he could not conceive what purpose it was serving, or had ever served. But it was old. There was no doubt of that. He stared at it, puzzled. It was extraordinary that he should not have remembered there was that tower there.

  43

  10 MAY 1940

  There was an air raid alert that morning. Annoyed and almost indignant, he had listened to its dreary moan. It was the second time that this had happened. There had been one last week. Why on earth couldn’t they keep the damned thing quiet, till things really started; disturbing people’s sleep, people who had to work. He went down in a bad temper to his breakfast.

  On the mantelpiece of the mess was a notice: “Will all I.O.s report to their offices directly after breakfast.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “That the war’s begun.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  In his office the senior I.O. was staring gloomily at his typewriter. That morning he had arranged to drive over to a neighbouring mess and lecture the Hopkinson Mission on Anglo-French relations. The Hopkinson Mission would be over the frontier now. It had been planned to give in the following week the preview of a British propaganda film. The film was to be attended by the C.-in-C. and by a number of highly-placed French generals and officials. The performance was to be preceded by a dinner. The senior I.O. had been trained and for many years had served as a diplomat. He was acquainted with matters of precedence. For the last three days he had been arranging the seating of the table. There would be no film or dinner now.

  His in-tray was piled high with a collection of war photographs. It was proposed to select out of this collection the material for a travelling exhibition that would be presented by a lecturer, as an illustration to the French of how thoroughly England was at war.

  “I suppose,” said the senior I.O. gloomily, “that they’ll still need this exhibition somewhere.”

  The G.3 was cleaning his revolver.

  The film unit officer came bustling in as though all Wardour Street were at his heels. “I’d better be moving, hadn’t I?” he asked.

  “And take that I.O. writer of mine along with you,” the G.3 said.

  44

  THE FIRST DAY OF IT

  The bright brief green of early spring lay over the Artois plain. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. They were bound for Douai. Bombs had been dropped in Douai. The roads were empty and they made good progress. By eleven the camera was recording the first bomb damage of the war. The bombs appeared to have been dropped with forethought. A large ammunition-producing factory was out of action.

  “When will it be in order again?” he asked the owner. The owner shrugged his shoulders.

  “A fortnight, three weeks, who can say?”

  From the atmosphere inside the factory it looked as though it would take a great deal longer. All action in the vast main building was suspended. The roof was shattered, pipes were twisted, there was a constant drip of water, the stone floors were puddled. No one seemed to be taking any steps to put the damage right. Workmen strolled about, examining the ruined tanks as though they were exhibits in a museum. An “alert” went and they hurried off to the air raid shelter. The alert lasted for half an hour. There was no sound of firing or of bombing. An aeroplane flying perhaps twenty miles away had disorganized the working life of a town for thirty minutes. At this rate a couple of squadrons could indefinitely immobilize an entire industrial fabric. In time, he supposed, it would be realized that civilians had to go on with their work just as soldiers had when bombs were falling.

  45

  THE FRONTIER. 10 MAY 1940

  A red, white and blue post, as thin as a Rugby goal post, barred the road.

  There was a piquet of gendarmes by it. There was a staff officer at a table with a large book, taking down particulars. There were a couple of staff cars. There was a conducting officer, with an American war correspondent from the B.B.C. No one knew when the fron
tier would go up. If anyone knew he was not telling.

  “Anyhow, we’re going through,” said the film-unit men. “We’ve got to photograph it from in front.” They were the first to cross.

  They fixed up the tripod in the ditch. It was a warm day, and they lay in the dry grass. A German aeroplane flew low above them. A couple of Bren guns opened fire. The machine tilted and flew low, but dropped no bombs. It had seen what it had to see. The afternoon wore on. Nothing was happening. Yet everything was happening. It was the lack of drama that dramatized the moment. In a few minutes the bar would lift. France and Belgium would be one country. There would be no more frontiers.

  This was one of the big hours of history, yet here he was, half asleep in the ditch in a quiet country road.

  When the moment came, it was so sudden, that he scarcely realized that it was happening. A small unimportant car drew up. An ordinary-looking officer without red tabs got out of it. There was a minute or two of conversation with the officer at the desk. Then the officer got back into his car. The car started forward. Before the I.O. writer realized what was happening, the cinema at his side began to click—The red, white and blue post went up. There was the snort of a motor-cycle, a red-capped military policeman crossed in front of the small car. From round the curve in the road beyond came suddenly a stream of red-caps. The red, white and blue pole was standing like a goal post, pointing at the sky. The road lay open. Not to be closed until the day of victory.

  46

  THE FIRST EVENING. 10 MAY 1940

  The road had been empty as they motored out. As they came back from Tournai it was past a long khaki stream of vehicles, of lorries, of supply wagons, of staff cars, of Bren gun carriers, of gun carriages that they travelled, a long and steady stream, with dispatch riders and orderlies on motor-cycles riding past, checking the distances, carrying messages, a long and steady stream with the men leaning over the sides of the carriages gay and chattering and laughing, excited and relieved that their long months of waiting were at an end, that they were at last going into action. They looked fit and well, built up with healthy living and good food, hardened by open air and work, with the rigours of the long bitter winter. The lorries were decorated with sprays of lilac, white and mauve, that the Belgian peasants had tossed into the cars as they went past.