by Max Hennessy
There was an excited stirring. In front of him Dabney could see the high ground lifting away to the sky, and he glanced back at the restless lines of horses and the men standing in groups, dragging at cigarettes, their faces bleak with anticipation. But there seemed to be some confusion over the orders and Johnson was growing more impatient by the minute.
‘Cavalry action should be left to the men on the spot,’ he fumed.
Storming off to see the brigadier in command, he returned livid with rage. ‘The bloody fool’s gone off to some infantry headquarters to find out what’s going on, and he’s sent his liaison officers all over the blasted countryside to see what’s happening, so that now nobody knows anything.’
He had barely spoken when a message came for the move forward to begin. But the Secunderabad Brigade of Indian cavalry was still without its commanding officer and the two British regiments, the 7th Dragoon Guards and the 19th Lancers, had been told not to move without him.
‘For God’s sake!’ Johnson fumed. ‘We’ve already been waiting for hours! Those bloody Wogs were never any damn good at anything except polo, tent-pegging and pigsticking!’
In the end, they began to move forward without the Indians, clattering out of the village and on to a plank bridge over a trench filled with the detritus of battle. They were held up again on the edge of a shattered wood where the Germans had been dropping shells since the battle had started fourteen days before. By this time it was a mass of shell holes, with every tree broken off at the top or bottom to add to the impenetrable tangle that sliced the sun into broken dusty beams.
Nearby, the mainstream of the battle traffic passed, artillerymen sitting stiffly on tired mounts in front of long steel guns, weary infantrymen trudging along in little groups, out of step, heads heavy under helmets. Mounted officers dozed on jaded horses, nodding forward over the saddle horn, their sleeping men drooping over gun limbers, fast asleep even while hanging on. The chink of equipment and the tap of a bayonet against a petrol tin half-full of water seemed the only sound about them over the shuffle of boots.
There were a few jeers at the cavalry that served only to make Johnson more livid, but eventually, the Indians appeared, their dark faces shadowed under their helmets, and as the order came to move forward, the columns cantered ahead. But as the tarmacadamed road was left behind, they found themselves struggling in the shell-pitted, churned-up land near the original front line. Horses slithered and stumbled in the increasingly deep mud and one or two went down, horse and man rising covered with grey sludge.
As they stopped once more, the guns seemed to have grown quieter and they could hear only sporadic firing on the flanks. But no orders came and nobody seemed to have thought of food for them, so that the horses began to stamp and whinny with impatience.
The brigadier had detached several squadrons to gallop round the wood to prevent German reinforcements approaching, while other squadrons were ordered to dismount and push forward on foot from the north. The reserve squadrons were ordered forward again and as afternoon gave way to a pale sun-washed evening they found themselves on the slopes leading towards High Wood, two squadrons of the 19th, two of the 7th Dragoon Guards and two of the Deccan Horse, with Johnson in command as senior colonel.
As they thudded along the valley, ahead of them lay barley fields and the rich beauty of undamaged countryside. A field of corn sloped upwards on their right, and at the other end they could see spiked-helmeted German officers moving about. For a moment, as the six squadrons edged forward, clattering and clinking, the horses whinnying excitedly, there still seemed a little glory left in the war.
Then a machine gun opened up on them and several horses went down. At the edge of the wood, a few shells dropped close, to empty a few more saddles. Galloping along the line of men as they became unsteady under the shelling, Dabney’s voice and example restored a drift to the rear. His eyes were everywhere, looking for chin straps not in place and rifles not jammed home in the bucket, as he always did, and they began to think that if he had time to think about such things it couldn’t be as bad as it seemed.
As they reached the corn, German outposts rose to meet them. They were trying to mount a machine gun and, immediately, realising it demanded instant action, Dabney waved his squadron forward without waiting for orders. A German officer swung to meet him as he thundered up, raising a hand with a revolver in it to point it at Dabney. The shot went past his ear then the German staggered back, clutching at his head as Dabney’s sabre crashed down on his helmet and sent him rolling under the flying hooves. As the rest of the Germans turned to run, they were speared by a group of Deccan Horse which had come up alongside.
‘Hold those men, Goff!’ Johnson came galloping up as they drew rein, angry that Dabney had moved without orders. ‘Keep them steady, damn it! We don’t want them out of hand.’
Dabney gave him a cold look, knowing perfectly well his men had been well under control, but Johnson wheeled his horse and, as they regained their place in the line, he took a position just in front, followed by his orderly and his trumpeter. It seemed an unbelievable sight, with the corn and the luxuriant green of the wood as a backcloth. But there were more Germans with machine guns waiting along the edge of the wood in a position to enfilade them. Johnson seemed blind to the danger and, feeling it his duty to point them out, Dabney edged his horse forward.
Johnson waved him away. ‘We’ve been ordered to take the wood,’ he said. ‘It’s our duty to take it, machine guns or no machine guns. Dammit, so far we’ve hardly been touched by the battle! This is a splendid moment and we mustn’t fail.’
He seemed elated by the thought of action and quite unable to appreciate the danger in his eagerness. As the trumpets sounded, Dabney glanced at his men. Ellis Ackroyd’s face was set and grim, but, as they began to move forward at a trot, the surge and excitement of the action gripped him, too.
As they swung into the corn, moving from column into line, the machine guns started to chatter. Immediately, the magnificent vision of a mounted action crumbled into slaughter as horse after horse went down, flung to the ground like rabbits at a farm shoot. Johnson was waving his sword, urging them forward, and his trumpeter had his head back, his trumpet in the air, sounding the Charge. But the machine guns swept across and the call ended in a despairing bray as the trumpeter’s horse went down. Johnson was just turning as the bullets caught him. His head was back and his mouth open, and Dabney saw his chest and throat flower red. The raised sword fell from his hand and, after a few more strides by his mount, he drooped in the saddle and slid to the ground.
More and more horses were going down, squealing and neighing in pain. Riderless chargers were facing in every direction and as Dabney’s own mount went down, he lay for a moment in the corn, dazed. Recovering his senses and rising to his feet, he began to shout, his sword in the air, trying to rally his men, but Johnson had led them into a perfect ambush, and it was impossible to make himself heard above the din. A horse crashed to the ground alongside him, frothing blood, its eyes glazing even as it stopped rolling. Its rider scrambled to his feet and stood alongside Dabney, responding instinctively to discipline. Almost immediately, however, he was hit in the face and staggered back, tripping over the neck of his own dead horse to sit down beyond it and flop over, flat on his back, his spurred boots in the air.
There seemed to be no one else near Dabney and he began to run bent double to where he could see a grey horse standing trembling in the waist-high corn, its Indian rider dead alongside it. Stumbling over the body, he reached the horse and swung himself into the saddle, only to realise that the grey had been hit, too. As it moved away, its breath came in spasmodic wheezes, and its legs were already unsteady.
The following squadrons had caught up with the first line now, and were thrown into confusion by the struggling horses and men and, as the grey finally crashed to the ground, Dabney found himself sprawlin
g again. Struggling to his feet just as a group of Indian soldiers galloped towards him, he had to dive for safety behind the body of the horse and one of the Indians actually hurdled them in a perfect jump to pelt him with flying clods of muddy earth.
The advance had lasted a mere two or three minutes and now the flailing maelstrom of men and horses was shredding itself out into a general movement to the rear. Forced along with it, Dabney found himself alongside Ellis Ackroyd whose face was covered with blood and grey with pain.
‘Get up behind, sir,’ he yelled.
As Dabney swung himself up, horses were still falling, the unseated riders rolling and dodging until knocked senseless by flying hooves. One of the Indians crossing Ackroyd’s front was hit by a machine gun burst and bounced from the saddle in front of them, all scattered brains and smashed teeth. Another horse barged against them, its rider dragged along screaming, one foot still in the stirrup, then Dabney became aware that Ackroyd’s mount was faltering, too, and, even as he wondered what to do, it went down on its knees and he and Ackroyd were flung over its head into the trampled corn.
For a while Dabney lay still, dazed, as the field emptied of living men. All round him, wounded horses were screaming and there were moans from the dying and cries of anger and disgust from the running survivors. Dragging himself to his feet, he moved to where Ellis Ackroyd lay. His eyes were open but he seemed unable to speak, and, quite unaware of the machine guns that were still chattering by the wood, Dabney managed to drag him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift and began to stumble back down the slope. Johnson’s charge had been an utter failure.
The shattered squadrons were regrouping behind the trees further along the valley, wounded men stumbling in, clinging to the stirrup of any man who still had a horse. The slope above them was scattered with dead and dying, half hidden by the corn which was now trampled to a bloody mash. A wounded horse was lying on the ground, its hooves skittering against a patch of stony ground until its rider drew his rifle from the bucket on the saddle and put a bullet through its head.
As Dabney lowered Ackroyd to the ground, a trooper of the 19th, his face bloody but still mounted, approached, leading a limping horse.
‘’Ere y’are, sir,’ he said. ‘Better ’ave this one. It don’t seem to belong to nobody.’ He looked at the shattered squadrons and the panting, dazed men, then back at Dabney. ‘For God’s sake, sir,’ he said, ‘what the ’ell did we want to go and do a soft-brained thing like that for?’
Three
The newspapers were still hailing victory on the Somme in a lunatic fashion, full of reports that made the British soldier sound like a sportsman, and killing Germans a cheerful sort of affair a little like ratting.
Taking a taxi to King’s Cross, the Field Marshal climbed into his compartment feeling as old as God. York station was full of soldiers and, having a long time to wait for the train to Braxby, he went into the station hotel, where he almost bumped into Hedley Ackroyd.
‘Better join me,’ he growled. ‘You on leave?’
‘A short one, sir. My grandfather’s ill. We’ve been given new single-seater machines and brought back from France to see if we can do anything about the zeppelins.’
‘What’s that on your chest?’
‘Croix de guerre, sir. We shot down a German machine which was worrying a Caudron carrying a French general. He was so relieved at his escape, he put me up for it.’
The old man was recovering his spirits slowly. For a man who had spent half his life in odd corners of the world fighting for the Empire, he felt a curious ageing sensation of being safe only in his own small corner of Yorkshire that he had never felt before. It was good to be surrounded by familiar sights and reassuring to see familiar faces like Hedley’s.
‘You been seeing my granddaughter?’ he asked.
The boy stiffened and looked the old man straight in the face. ‘Yes, sir, I have,’ he said. ‘I hope you have no objection.’
‘Good God, boy, whatever made you think I might have?’
‘Well, sir, my father being only your sergeant—’
‘And my friend. As also was your grandfather. I’ve known your family a long time, my boy. It doesn’t surprise me. What about her parents?’
‘I don’t think they mind, sir.’
‘Shows their good sense. Perhaps I ought to congratulate you. Philippa, too. She’s getting a good bargain. Are you getting engaged?’
‘We’d like to, sir. But the war’s a problem.’
‘War’s always a problem. But you might just as easily get knocked down by a brewery dray in Ripon.’ The old man sighed. ‘With all the people who’re being killed, my boy, marriage is coming into its own more and more as an institution. I shouldn’t let that put you off.’
As the cab rolled up to Braxby Manor, Lady Goff appeared on the doorstep to greet her husband with bright eyes. ‘Isn’t the news splendid, Coll?’ she said.
‘What news?’
‘The battle. Do you think the end of the war’s in sight at last?’
‘No!’ His retort was sharp and harsh and she looked hurt and puzzled enough for him to try to soften it.
‘What you’ve been reading in the newspapers, Gussie,’ he growled, ‘is nothing but a lot of bloody mumbo-jumbo.’
He hadn’t the courage to tell her the truth, only that it had been an infantry battle and that Dabney must be safe. During the evening, Robert arrived, pink and smiling.
‘What do you think of the battle, Father?’ he said. ‘It’s obviously a victory.’
‘It’s nothing of the kind,’ the Field Marshal snapped.
He tried to explain without giving away the facts and Robert frowned. ‘Well, anyway,’ he said. ‘We shall pull it off before long. They’ve asked for the tanks to be sent out.’
‘How many?’
‘Well, there aren’t many ready yet. We shall send all we’ve got. Fifty or so.’
‘And they’re going to give away a secret like that for a piffling little local victory? They must be mad. And so must you.’
With Robert despatched with a flea in his ear, the old man huddled in his chair, watched by his worried wife. The following morning brought a letter from Dabney. It was enough to break his heart. Up to now, despite the losses, the battle had been impersonal, though made less so when he noticed among the casualties the names of Captain Cleaver, and Captain Archer of the 3rd/7th South Yorkshires. They had both treated him kindly, pleasant young men tired of the war, both of them anxious to tell him things he ought to know but trying to be loyal enough not to. Now Dabney’s letter informed him that with the cavalry finally in action, two-thirds of the 19th Lancers had been wiped out.
The old man frowned. He had seen the picture too often not to know what it meant. In his mind’s eye he saw the surge forward crumbling into butchery and the survivors stumbling back across the field among the dead. It had happened to him over sixty years before in a long valley in the Crimea.
He turned to the end of the letter. ‘Johnson’s dead,’ Dabney wrote. ‘Tim Leduc’s wounded. Quibell was killed with the machine gunners. Ellis Ackroyd is gravely hurt.’
The old man’s eyes filled and he remembered what old von Hartmann had once said to him of war. ‘It’s always the tallest poppies that are taken.’
He rose and, pouring himself a brandy, swallowed it hurriedly. Poor Ellis! Suddenly he felt desperately old and lonely and, almost without thinking, he poured another brandy and swallowed that, too. Immediately, he felt his heart begin to thump and decided he’d better swear off the damned stuff. These days it made his heart race.
‘Thank God not Dabney,’ he murmured.
He informed his wife and together they went down to the Home Farm in the Vauxhall to inform Ellis Ackroyd’s wife. Hedley met them, his face grim.
‘We’ve just heard,’ h
e said.
‘I can’t say how sorry I am,’ the old man said.
They returned to a quiet lonely house, and it was late in the evening when the doorbell rang. It was Hedley. He paused. ‘I’ve come about my grandfather, sir,’ he said. ‘I thought you ought to be the first to know. He died this evening. About a couple of hours ago, to be exact. I came straight up.’
The Field Marshal turned away, blinking rapidly. Tyas Ackroyd, of all people! The old fool, going and dying like that! He drew a deep breath, aware for the first time how fond he’d been of him.
‘I’m sorry, Hedley,’ he said slowly, trying to control his voice and stop the tears coming. ‘I had good reason to be fond of your grandfather. How’s everybody taking it on top of your father?’
‘Not too badly, sir. We’d been expecting it ever since he had to retire, of course. It was just as though he were tired and wanted to go to sleep.’
Lady Goff watched her husband come down the stairs. He was in full fig, in the complete panoply of the 19th Lancers. His uniform was a little tight across his stomach and his overalls were looser round the thighs than they were once, but, despite his age, he still looked an impressive figure.
‘Bloody uniform,’ he growled as he reached the hall.
‘Dear Coll.’ His wife kissed him. ‘You look magnificent.’
‘I’d have preferred,’ he grumbled, ‘to look magnificent for something other than Tyas Ackroyd’s funeral.’
She handed him his sword which he clipped in place, then he put on his schapka and let the peak rest on his nose. The green and red dyed blackcock’s feathers hung over his cheek with the cord that attached the helmet to his shoulder. Studying him, she was aware how little time they had together now and felt desperately close to tears.
