Upon being reunited with his company, Gaylard found that, despite his efforts to conceal it, news of his débâcle had circulated around the entire battalion, and he was the butt of cruel teasing until, at RSM Kilmaster’s suggestion, his tormentors directed their energies towards the more important issue of the raid.
Gradually, the noise of the day was dying down. By the time the CO came to meet them it was moderately peaceful. Gathering his officers and the party of volunteers, the colonel was able to address them in normal volume, giving last instructions in the minutes before the artillery was due to start up. Before the latter could drown out his voice, however, a great twittering commotion arose from birds, who should have long since been at roost.
Admiring his own quick thinking, Lieutenant Faljambe shouted, ‘Gas!’ And with a mass movement approaching panic, everyone struggled to don their respirators, fingers scrabbling to help less nimble comrades, hearts thudding in apprehension whilst an authoritative Faljambe strode amongst them, making sure they had done everything right.
Clad in their own masks, the CO and his RSM were striding masterfully along the line to ensure that all were prepared.
‘Lieutenant Postgate!’ The RSM’s muffled bark emerged as if through a drainpipe and was incomprehensible, but the angry gaze which almost shattered the mica eyepiece was sufficient.
Following his pointing finger, Louis saw to his alarm that Unthank was seated calmly on the fire-step, smoking a cigarette. Immediately he yelled through his own mask, ‘Unthank, get that helmet on!’
‘There’s no gas,’ came the unruffled reply, Unthank taking another calm drag of his cigarette.
‘What did he say?’ Too far away, an agitated Louis demanded interpretation from others. But the fact that Unthank appeared to be breathing quite normally was indication in itself. One by one, in the darkness, those around him were beginning to untie their balaclava-style helmets.
‘Dozy bastards,’ growled Unthank to his neighbour Rawmarsh, the glow of a Very light illuminating the smirk on his face. ‘It’s a fooking owl.’
‘What?’ Frowning, Louis strode up, closely followed by the CO and Probyn, who also ripped off their hoods. The birds were still making a terrible din but there was not a whiff of gas.
Unthank was only slightly more polite in the officers’ presence, dropping his cigarette before pointing at a dark silhouette atop a ruined house. All eyes on him, the owl spread his wings and glided silently into the night. Whilst the rest of the observers squinted without comprehension, it soon dawned on Probyn, who was a keen bird-watcher, and with a soft chuckle, he explained to the colonel at his side what all the din had been about. ‘They can’t stand owls, sir. Listen, they’re settling down now.’ Sure enough, the disharmonious chirping was fading away.
The CO was unamused. ‘What fool shouted “Gas” in the first place?’
Having acted in the hope of commendation, an extremely defensive Hugh Faljambe owned up. ‘I did, sir. But I was only acting on information given by the previous—’
‘Well, thanks to you and cock robin,’ the CO cut in tartly, ‘there’s little point in going ahead with the raid now. Captain Cox, I think it safer to wait until they’ve had a little more practice.’ He winced impatiently as the artillery boomed into voice, drowning out the rest of his words. Mouthing a terse, ‘Good night, gentlemen,’ he stalked away.
Forming a small O with his mouth, Probyn teasingly regarded them as a bunch of naughty boys before following the colonel.
‘Clown!’ Louis dealt the embarrassed Faljambe a playful slap round the head as, to groans, the raid was postponed indefinitely.
* * *
After a great deal of persuasion of their company commander, Gaylard and Faljambe were given the opportunity to redeem themselves the following night and allowed to take their platoons out on patrol. Spotting a column of Germans, Faljambe took command and told Gaylard to run back to report the suspected attack whilst he and his men laid low to fend off the enemy should the situation become dangerous. Encountering no problem this time, Gaylard rushed directly to inform Captain Cox, so managing to foil the assault, Faljambe’s platoon creeping up on the enemy’s flank and killing many of them at the small expense of one of his own, the whole performance earning praise from the CO.
Others too began to show improvement. Living amongst the relentless squalor, Lieutenant Reynard had managed to overcome his natural tendency to think only of himself, and Probyn was often to see him going from man to man, enquiring as to their wellbeing, even if he could not help an expression of self-pity from permeating his concern, his face a vision of misery as he murmured, ‘It’s just so cold, isn’t it? So jolly cold.’
Pork and Hamm distinguished themselves by repairing telephone wires under shell fire, earning themselves the Military Medal.
And Unthank, tucked away from everyone else in his sniper’s hidey-hole, was proving to be much less of a nuisance, so long as there were Germans to kill. He had taken to carving a notch on the wooden butt of his rifle for each hit. There being already a considerable number of these indents, Probyn opined to Louis that at this rate the butt would be reduced to fretwork by the end of the war, but fought the urge to remonstrate with Unthank for defacing army property. If taken up for every misdemeanour, the man would be permanently in the guardroom. As far as Unthank was concerned they were here to kill Germans and no one could accuse him of failing in this. Far better to use his dubious skills and to keep him happy.
But it was in general a miserable period for everyone, the battalion sloshing from one waterlogged position to another, existing much of the time on biscuits and tinned stuff, men succumbing to frozen feet and influenza rather than bullets.
The end of October found them in the Cordonnerie Sector, still bailing and digging. Out in no-man’s-land was a crater large enough to put a house in, and the amount of water that had accumulated in the bottom could have drowned an entire regiment. In fact, at times that appeared to be the case, for quite regularly bodies would float to the surface, the constant churning and pounding of the mud fetching up the putrefying corpses of Germans buried a year ago. The smell was sickening.
‘My God, it’s like something from an Hieronymus Bosch canvas,’ Probyn heard a disgusted Faljambe mutter to his companions as yet another supplicating arm protruded through the slime to invade their living quarters.
To Unthank it was just ‘a fooking shitheap’.
It was remarks like this that sapped their RSM’s spirits as much as anything. Despite using the odd oath in anger Probyn had never contributed to the base vernacular of the lower ranks and as much as he knew it was not indicative of a man’s nature nor of his bravery, he could not help but find it morally repugnant and he hoped they would not be in this position too long.
The relentless downpour was to continue into November, weakening the parapet and causing it to disintegrate in parts, so exposing the battalion to regular casualties. Trenches were knee-deep in water and the dugouts in an appalling state. With the frost setting in at night the suffering was intense. Frostbite was one thing their RSM had never experienced but, well aware that once it took hold a man was done for, Probyn did everything in his power to make life a little more comfortable for those in his care. Yet in truth their only comfort was that the Germans were in the same boat and an attack was impossible, allowing them to huddle into their funk-holes and keep warm as best they could, the rats snuggling under the blankets beside them.
Frustrated by his own lack of achievement and by the unforgiving environment, Louis gave voice to his boredom as he stamped his feet and looked out over icy lagoons, a sight to chill the heart. ‘It’ll be Guy Fawkes Night soon. For all the good I’m doing here I’d rather be at home organizing the fireworks display.’
Exercising their frozen limbs, his companions were equally miserable. ‘We always have a lovely bonfire,’ said Reynard wistfully, wringing his gloved hands and shivering, his dispirited gaze fixed on a wisp of smoke that curled
from the German trench. ‘With roast potatoes, toffee apples …’
Overhearing, the equally frozen RSM paused to offer a crumb of encouragement. ‘I can’t promise toffee apples, sir, but perhaps I can persuade the colonel that we should have some fireworks.’
Hunched into their greatcoats, the dishevelled young officers beheld him with muted interest. ‘A raid, you mean?’ sulked Louis. ‘Mr Kilmaster, if you can arrange that you’re even more of a magician than I thought. The CO thinks we’re a pack of dolts.’ Since the aborted raid he and Faljambe had constantly begged to be allowed to do another but had always been refused.
Saying he would do what he could, Probyn directed his aching legs back to HQ, where he put his idea to the colonel.
‘Perhaps now’s the time, sir. Fritz won’t be expecting us in this foul weather. It’d raise spirits no end.’ And mine too, he thought.
Having been entertaining the idea himself, the colonel was amenable and, the date of November the fifth appealing to his sense of humour, said he would arrange for the artillery to send over a few rockets.
Louis and his fellow subalterns were overjoyed upon receiving the go-ahead and were to shower effusive thanks upon the RSM for his part in persuading the colonel that they were up to the task.
How sad, then, that it had to be Probyn who was to disappoint them. Visiting the trenches some hours prior to the attack, their RSM chatted for a moment with the exuberant young officers, inwardly smiling at their repeated prayers for darkness to fall, then took a casual glance through a periscope.
More intuitive than his companions, Louis immediately noticed the alteration in the RSM’s stance. ‘What have you seen, Mr Kilmaster?’
Probyn rotated his gaze from the periscope, his expression grimly apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to put the kibosh on it, sir, but we’ll have to postpone your raid for another night.’
‘Not likely!’ The young officers shared vociferous denial.
Stepping back, Probyn invited, ‘Have a look.’
Frowning, Louis put his eyes to the periscope whilst an impatient Faljambe risked a bullet by raising his head over the pile of sandbags and employing field glasses. Beyond the tangle of frost-coated barbed wire a board had been erected on the German line. The words that had been daubed upon it in paint were misspelled but the message was clear. ‘FIREWORKS DISPLAY ON GUY FOX NIGHT. TOMMIES TO RECEIVE A WARM WELCOME.’ And just as an added taunt, the Germans shot down the periscope through which Louis was peering.
‘The swine, they must have ears like elephants!’ Wearing a bad-tempered expression, Faljambe jumped down from the fire-step.
‘They probably heard you blabbing about it!’ accused Louis, equally crushed.
Able only to offer a sympathetic shrug, Probyn felt the young men’s keen disappointment as yet another opportunity evaporated on the frosty air, along with Reynard’s doom-laden mutterings, ‘So cold, so blessed cold.’
* * *
Such tribulation could not endure for ever and towards the end of November the battalion was withdrawn from the line. Though not overjoyed at incurring more punishment to their tingling feet, Probyn’s men set forth uncomplainingly on their two-day march to Steenbecque, to his great admiration not one of them falling out.
It was a pleasant village, quite untouched by war, only the rumble of guns and distant reflections of Very lights reminding one of its proximity, and with excellent billets to be had. They were to remain here for several weeks, under constant progressive training.
‘Maybe one day it might come in useful,’ quipped Louis to the RSM.
As a pre-Christmas treat everyone was allowed to throw a live grenade. It proved to be not such a treat for Skeeton, who managed to blow off his hands.
Whilst he went home, never to return, others had recovered from their minor wounds and bouts of influenza and now rejoined the battalion, along with a draft from England. Amongst the latter, to his brother’s joy, was Captain Guy Postgate.
Watching their fraternal reunion, Probyn was quick to note the difference in the two. It was Louis who now appeared the elder, on the surface still a whirlwind of enthusiasm, yet inwardly matured by the horrors he had witnessed. Yet to be blooded, Guy remained as before, full of ambition and keen to be involved. However, his first ordeal was to run the gauntlet of the scruffy, lice-ridden bunch of fellow officers who ribbed him for his pristine apparel, a teasing he did not take kindly to; after his enforced stay in England he had expected sympathy. Attached to the same company as his brother in replacement for an officer who had gone sick, he wasted no time in compensating for this joshing by running down Louis’s achievements.
‘Still in bally training, eh? So I haven’t really missed anything after all.’
Instead of listing all he had been through, Louis just formed a self-denigrating smile. ‘No, just good champagne.’
‘I thought as much.’ Guy smiled back, though with just a hint of superiority, before casting his eyes around the peaceful area that was veiled with incessant rain. ‘So you’ve got off lightly up to now, apart from this dreadful weather.’
If Louis was willing to let his brother get away with this the other listeners were not, Faljambe butting in, ‘And apart from poor Sillar being killed.’
‘Ah yes, I heard.’ Guy hung his head for a moment, looking pensive. ‘How did that happen?’
Faljambe was unusually reticent, merely announcing, ‘A shell got him.’
‘You’re fortunate not to have witnessed it,’ Louis told his brother quietly, the horror showing in his eyes.
But Guy took this as an insult. ‘I have seen bodies, you know. Probably more than you. I came through some rough fighting on the way here.’
Louis despaired that his brother had to turn everything into a competition, but, having nothing to prove himself he merely nodded. ‘Have they given you a decent bed?’
Guy looked impressed. ‘Yes, I must say it’s somewhat cushier than I imagined.’
Sharing a wry smile, Louis and his companions offered to show Guy round the training area, to which he was amenable though he strode out in front as if he already knew where he was going. Unfortunately, he was not as conversant with the lay of the land as he purported to be. Skidding on an uneven patch of ground, his feet went from under him and he slithered down a muddy slope, landed in a flooded hole and was drenched from head to foot.
There was a stunned hiatus, before the rest exploded into guffaws, bending double as Guy emerged like some slimy creature from the underworld. Having the grace to see the joke, the victim burst out laughing too and extended his hands for his comrades to haul him from the bog, even allowing himself to be paraded before the men as Christmas entertainment before going off to clean himself up.
In addition to this joyful pantomime, a mass of parcels arrived from home. Whilst this was no novelty to the pampered Reynard, who received a food hamper every month, there was an excited rush from other beneficiaries. Delighting over his own hamper, Louis put aside the tinned commodities for ‘a rainy day’ whilst dividing the rest fairly so that every man in his platoon might receive a treat. Faljambe thought him mad, but when Louis pointed out that if the perishables weren’t consumed immediately the rats would only get them, he saw the logic.
Few of the men were without a gift of food from home; still they accepted their lieutenant’s offering with gratitude – for some a quail’s egg, others a skein of orange, others a sliver of mince pie – all except Unthank. Watching the scene, Probyn could have kicked the man for his surly refusal, and his heart went out to Louis who, desperate to connect, made numerous attempts to get beneath the layer of permafrost that was Unthank’s skin, before finally giving up with a sad smile.
But the rest seemed glad to accept the lieutenant’s little gift, for a few of their parcels had shrunk when opened, being padded out with newspapers – although these were something of a gift in themselves, the men reading out extracts to one another, laughing over the discrepancies between the
reports and the reality.
‘Listen to this!’ said Rawmarsh. ‘There’s a chap here writing in to say he’s never been so well fed as in the trenches – he must have come from the bloody workhouse then!’
‘We’re not so badly off today, though,’ chirped Axup, holding up a quail’s egg before shoving it in his mouth. ‘Blimey, aren’t we posh?’
‘What did you get?’ Though not liking him, Rawmarsh tried to include Unthank who, as always, sat aloof.
‘Me mam sent a bit of Christmas cake and some socks,’ came the guttural murmur.
Rawmarsh shook his head. ‘No, from the lieutenant.’
‘I don’t need his fooking handouts.’
‘Ungrateful get,’ muttered Axup who, along with everyone else, really liked the platoon commander. Then in louder voice, asked, ‘Did you send your mother anything in return, Unthank?’
‘Aye, a Mills bomb wrapped in fancy paper,’ joked another, only to receive a vicious kick in the back from the humourless Unthank.
Returning to his paper, Rawmarsh read aloud the newsprint that told that the deadlocked situation at Suvla Bay in the Dardanelles had been turned around by a wonderful military achievement: the whole force of Anzacs had been withdrawn without the Turks knowing a thing about it. ‘Eh, I wonder if they could do the same here, then we can all go home for Christmas.’
But with training in full swing, few were lucky enough to receive a leave warrant, the rainy days up to Christmas taken up by divisional manoeuvres.
One of the fortunate recipients, mainly because he was required at home to train more troops, Probyn took leave of his young gentlemen, telling them how sorely he felt that they must remain here.
They gathered round to shake the RSM’s hand and thank him for all he had done for them.
A Different Kind of Love Page 14
