Love and the Loveless

by Henry Williamson

  “Would you like to?”

  “I would very much, sir.”

  Visions of souvenirs from dead Jerries animated the batman.

  By the time the pack mules reached what had been the German front line, the battle was halted beyond the skyline. In the crater-area not one green blade of grass was visible. Everywhere brown earth was overturned and pocked. Broken fragments of concrete lay about. Rusty steel wires clawed the air above split and shattered mebus, called pill-boxes. Barbed-wire belts were buried among corpses in torn feld-grau with blackened faces, flopped about in all positions. Some of them wore white arm-bands. They had stayed in the unbroken pill-boxes and been bayoneted. There was hardly a dead man in khaki to be seen. Already the pockets of the dead Germans had been slit or pulled out, and rings cut off fingers.

  They passed by the ragged mine crater at Spanbroekmolen. It was about a hundred and fifty yards from lip to lip, and deeper than the German dugouts, for one was exposed at the edge, with its occupants. Looking through his field-glasses, Phillip saw what was like something at Madame Tussaud’s: a boarded room with one side open, revealing four German officers seated at a table, with waxen faces. They looked as though they had been playing cards. Glasses and bottles on the table were still upright. Apparently they had been killed by concussion. In the pit below were ragged lumps of blue clay each big enough to fill a G.S. waggon.

  “I reckon they’re between two and three yards each,” said Barrow, who had worked on roads in civvy street.

  “Yards long, you mean?”

  “In a way, yes, sir. All through, solid like. You know, sir.”

  “Oh, cubic yards?”

  “That’s what I mean, sir.”

  The guide led them past tanks, their tracks churning as they tried to get over the loose and undulating ground. Sitting on a box near the crest, was Captain Hobart writing a report. “Hullo, Sticks. Got everything? The post too! Good man. Better get back fairly soon, the second barrage is due to drop in about forty minutes, so you’ll have to look slippy. You haven’t forgotten water for the guns? Good man!”

  The contents of the Vickers’ water-jackets had boiled away, despite the steam being led through water-buckets, for concealment and condensation. Soon everything was off-mule’d, and he went back. The new lines of infantry, all extremely cheerful at the success of the attack, were among the tanks in position for the second phase. Hardly had he passed the Spanbroekmolen mine hole when the guns started up. 18-pounder shells seemed to be screaming a foot or two over his head, making him crouch, until he remembered the drivers, and walked on as though unconcerned. It was 7 a.m. The barrage was falling beyond the unseen crest.

  Two hours later he went up again with more water, oil, ammunition, food. Each pack mule carried six boxes of belted ammunition, and a petrol tin of water. The second objective had been taken. The sun was now hot. Captain Hobart was sitting in shirt-sleeves, soft fawn stock-tie around neck, leather braces over shoulders. “Hullo, Sticks, my boy, we’ve done it again!” he said, as he buried, Phillip noticed, the peel of his ration orange. The forward crest was crowded with troops, most of them with tin-hats and tunics off. Some were naked above the waist, lying back to get the joy of the sun. Orange peel was chucked about everywhere, and the congestion of troops added to the illusion of a Bank Holiday on the Hill. The reason was, of course, the smallness of casualties.

  “Will it be all right if I go forward a bit, Skipper?”

  “Another of your Cook’s tours, Sticks? Don’t go too far. This picnic is too dam’ good to last, if you ask me.”

  “I rather want to see where I was, nearly three years ago, Skipper.”

  “Well, don’t be long. As I said, this pause is too good to last. Reminds me too much of Loos, Sticks.”

  “Yes. I’ll be quick.”

  He looked in vain for the old road along the crest, with its rusty steam-tramlines embedded in cobbles, along which he had bicycled on Christmas afternoon, 1914. But where was the road? Had he crossed it, before meeting Hobart? Of course, the bombardment had dug it up. He felt lost. Then looking east, he saw green country stretching away to the far horizon. That was the same. There were the trees beside the river Lys, no longer bare, but in full leaf, untouched by shell-fire. He thought back to the sunlit winter scene, resting himself in thought.

  Then, back in the present, he wondered why the attack was not pressing on. Was it going to be another Loos—the line unexpectedly broken, and no pursuit? Or was the plan to await the counter-attack, smash it, and then advance, having exhausted the local enemy reserves? But the heavy guns could not get up over such ground. Perhaps that was why the push was stopped.

  Looking through his field-glasses he saw a column of troops marching along the road from Wervicq, near the canal. The counter-attack was late: but it was coming. He hurried back to report, to be told that it had already been spotted.

  “Well, so long, dear boy.”

  When he got back to the picket line, he went for a ride on Prince. There was a spirit of optimism everywhere, especially in the Casualty Clearing Station, where the number of wards had been doubled, with the staff of doctors and orderlies; they had nothing to do.

  But something now had gone wrong, judging by the remote crackle of small arms and machine-gun fire on the Ridge later in the afternoon, after the British barrage and attack at 3.10 p.m. Rumour said that the Germans had recaptured the position. Many wounded began to arrive. Rumours spread: some units had retired in panic. At 5.30 p.m., as he was waiting to go up again with the pack-mules, red SOS rockets arose into the sky. When going up, he heard that the British barrage had fallen upon an Australian brigade, in advance of the Oosttaverne line, having been mistaken for Germans. They had retired; the Germans had come forward again.

  Phillip lost two mules, and a driver wounded, that night. On the return, green cross and yellow cross gas shells—phosgene and lachrymatory—made the wearing of box-respirators necessary. Despite the special anti-dimming paste, it was hard to see, with the mask over one’s face, and stifling hot. He had swallowed some tea, with rum, and had hardly got down for a bit of shut-eye when a runner came with the news that Captain Hobart had been killed, and that Mr. Pinnegar was in command.

  Part Three

  ‘SHARPSHOOTER’ DOWNHAM

  Chapter 9

  BASE WALLAHS

  A week later, when the battle was over, the company went to rest and refit at Nieppe, behind Armentières. Pinnegar was still acting C.O., but, he grumbled, there were rumours of a new major coming from Wisques, the Machine Gun School near St. Omer. A draft to replace casualties arrived, among them Cutts, from whom Phillip had heard nothing since he had been wounded by the egg-bomb in the fire-bucket.

  On the third day out, an inspection was ordered by Lt.-Col. Wilmott, the divisional Machine Gun Officer, who accompanied the Brigadier-General of Group, from Corps. The Brigade Major came, too, with a second-lieutenant who was the Brigade Transport Officer and galloper to the Brigadier—both positions unofficial and honorary. Phillip had seen this junior subaltern only on one occasion, during the A.S.C. gymkhana at Ervillers: a graceful, willowy figure on a horse, son of a considerable Yorkshire landowner, and a winner of several point-to-point races in the Brigadier’s country before the war. One other figure approached with the visitors, the blue-hat-banded Assistant Director of Veterinary Services.

  The day before the inspection, and again on the morning, Pinnegar urged everyone in the company to give a first-class turnout, hoping thereby to be given permanent command of the company. In the transport section chains were swung and shaken to-and-fro within bags of chaff, limbers were washed and oiled, saddlery soaped and polished.

  Round the sections the inspectorate passed, the Brigadier once asking to see a Vickers gun stripped by its team. He wanted to look at the barrel. This took some time; a certain spanner was missing. The barrel rifling was seen to be worn. Why had it not been replaced, the General asked Col. Wilmott, who passed the query on to Pinn
egar.

  “Spares indented for have not yet come to hand, sir,” replied Pinnegar. “We are waiting for them.”

  “Why haven’t you gone yourself to draw them?”

  Pinnegar turned to his quartermaster sergeant. “You indented for them, Bowles?”

  “Yes, sir. Immediately we came out of the line.”

  Pinnegar passed this on; and was asked, “Why not before you came out of the line?”

  “We had spare barrels then, sir.”

  “Then why aren’t they fitted?”

  “We used them in the later barrages, sir.”

  “Then you had no spares when you came out of the line?”

  “If you put it that way, no!” retorted Pinnegar, flushing.

  The inspectorate passed down the lines of guns on their tripods, each crew stiffly at attention.

  “Action!” said the General, suddenly.

  Nobody moved.

  “Don’t your men recognise an emergency order?” cried Colonel Wilmott.

  “Well, what d’you expect me to do?” replied Pinnegar.

  “I want to see how quickly your men can go into action,” said the General. “Target six hundred yards, between clump of trees at eleven o’clock!”

  “Come on, jump to it!” yelled the section sergeant. “You ’eard! Action!”

  The crew dashed themselves upon the ground, No. 1 at the spade grip, No. 2 at the belt, No. 3 observing, No. 4 writhing to grab spare belt-box, etc. Pushing the belt tab through the feeding porte, No. 1 grabbed it, jerked it twice, thus feeding a round into the breech; and in the excitement raised the safety bar, pressed the thumb-piece, and a dozen rounds kicked up the dust between the tents and the picket line, where Phillip was waiting, dismounted, wearing a new pair of silver-plated racing spurs he had bought for 10/6 from an advertisement in The Tatler.

  A hoarse cry from Driver Cutts, sitting on a trace mule, made him realise that he had not been cured.

  When it was the turn of the transport another demonstration was being given overhead. Several anti-aircraft batteries were pooping off at an old 2-seater Cody-Wright Birdcage sent over, said Phillip afterwards, to take photographs for The Birmingham Smoke Trumpet in anticipation of Teddy Pinnegar’s appointment. Little white balls of smoke were bursting ten thousand feet up, in irregular chains, following a tiny pale midge-like object. Splinters began to sing and hum around the camp, their notes of descent varying with the size and pattern of fragmentation. Drivers looked to their front during the inspection; they knew that “Vinegar” was on trial, and anyway the shelling by archie of an aeroplane was a common sight. Col. Wilmott, accompanied by Pinnegar wearing his best Harry Hall’s salmon-pink breeches, and Phillip, was passing the tall grey mule when Jimmy gave a tremendous double kick with its hind legs and threw its forty-five-year-old driver, M’Kinnell, at the feet of the General, who said, “What’s this?”

  “Can’t your drivers control their mounts?” asked Col. Wilmott, sharply.

  “I’ve never known this mule kick before, sir,” said Phillip.

  “Your drivers should anticipate what their mounts are likely to do.”

  Phillip knew enough to keep silent; he saw a thin red weal near the mule’s off point of hip, but said nothing. When the inspection was over, he pointed out the wound to Pinnegar.

  “Driver M’Kinnell was lucky not to have his head bashed into his shoulders.”

  “What is it?”

  “A nose-cap of an archie shell. Poor old Jimmy.”

  The mule was led away to the Mobile Veterinary Station, and the casualty recorded without comment in the return that night to Brigade.

  “That bloody fool Wilmott told me that the General said he’d never seen such a poor turn-out!” grumbled Pinnegar. “What does he expect, with a third of the men, and three officers, casualties? I’m fed up. I’m quite happy to go back to my regiment. After all we’ve been through together, to have some bloody stranger from the C.O.’s pool at Wisques planted upon us! Probably only just come out from England, and never been in action! It would be just our luck to have someone like your pal Downham again.”

  “Oh God. But I suppose anyone can apply to go to a particular company?”

  “Why not? It’s all done off a roster in some orderly room at the base. You’ve got to grease the orderly room sergeant’s palm, of course.”

  “Oh hell. Sergeant Rivett’s been corresponding with Downham. It might very well give him an idea to try and get here, to someone he knows.”

  When Phillip returned from a visit to Jack Hobart’s grave in Kandahar Farm Cemetery, he had a shock when Nolan, on picket duty, said, “The new C.O.’s arrived, sir, the one we ’ad temporary in H Lines when Capt’n Ho-bart got jaundice.”

  “What?”

  Devastated by his premonition having come true, Phillip went to his tent, where he drank a tooth-mug of one part of whiskey and two of water. Then he put on a record of Destinn singing in Tosca, and lay on his bed, while passionate and tender contralto tones brought back poignantly an awareness of Hobart, whose favourite opera it was. Why had it happened to Jack like that—a chance in a million: a dud howitzer shell passing within a few inches of his head had sucked out his breath and broken the tissues of his lungs, so that he had been drowned in his own blood. He felt weary and hopeless. All the decent people seemed to get killed, just as life was beginning to have possibilities. Now it would be the same old muck-up all over again.

  He lay on his bed, thinking of old days, and fortifying himself with more whiskey.

  He was lying back, with some sort of interior comfort, and resolution not to care a damn, when Downham’s lean ruddy face looked in at the tent flap.

  “Hullo, you young blighter! Why the hell didn’t you come and see me when you returned from wherever you’d been joy-riding?”

  Phillip got up. “I was just coming, sir—I felt a bit tired——”

  “Sit down. And don’t bother to pretend.”

  “Would you care for a spot, sir?”

  “Subalterns don’t ask field officers to have a drink, at least not where I’ve come from. Well, how are you?” He held out his hand, and gave Phillip a crushing grip. Jack’s handshake had been gentle, not the hearty stuff.

  “Very well thank you—sir.”

  “Drop the sir, man, we’re not on parade! What I came to tell you is that a chit has come in, about sending an officer to the Divisional Signalling Course. I don’t see how we can spare a section officer, so it’ll have to be you. Sergeant Rivett can look after the transport while you are away. No need to look so depressed. It will probably be your turn to go on leave by the time you come back.”

  After four days Phillip was sent back from the course. Returning to the picket line, he learned from Sergeant Rivett that Black Prince was “now the charger of the Officer Commanding”.

  “Which horse am I supposed to have, d’you know?”

  “It’s beyond me to say,” replied Rivett, buoyantly.

  “But I’ve had Prince since October! The Riding Master at Grantham made a point of letting me have him, at Captain Hobart’s special request! Didn’t you tell Major Downham that, sergeant?”

  “Sir, I consider it to be outside my duties to question the decisions of the Officer Commanding.” Phillip went to see Downham about it, to find that he already wanted to see him about the report that had come in from the Divisional Signalling School.

  This officer shows no interest in his work, is inattentive, and appears to spend his time writing personal entries in Army Book 136 provided for the purpose of taking notes on the material of lectures.

  “Well, my young friend of a Christian bloody fool, still true to form, I see! Who the hell d’you think you are? What sort of a fool d’you think you’re making of me, when I’ve just taken over the company, to have the first officer I send on a course kicked out for sheer damned laziness? You always did dodge all the work you could! And a fine reputation your transport has got with Division! The A.D.V.S. was here this
morning. I had to take him round, since you’d gone off on a joy-ride, leaving all the work, as usual, to your sergeant! And there’s another matter, over which you’d better watch your step! I don’t know what sort of a pervert you are inside, but take my tip, young Maddison, and watch your step when you come back! Here’s your leave ticket. Your leave starts at midnight tonight. Well, what is it?”

  “Sir, may I have permission to leave camp for one hour this afternoon.”

  “What for?”

  “Urgent private affairs, sir.”

  “What are they?”

  “I want to go to Kandahar Farm Cemetery, sir, to see Captain Hobart’s grave.”

  “Very well. But you can’t take the black gelding.”

  “I understand, sir. May I take any other horse, not in use?”

  “I should have thought that the brown mare would be more in your line.”

  He knew then that Sergeant Rivett had reported what he had seen on the night before the Messines show to Downham.

  He rode the bay mare to Kandahar Farm Cemetery, and planted some pansies, taken from the Commandant’s garden during the darkness of the previous night, on All Weather Jack’s grave, now set with a plain wooden cross.

  Chapter 10

  TEN DAYS’ LEAVE

  HE went to rail-head with Bright, the rather grim silt-lands farmer, whom he managed to lose at Boulogne. They had nothing to talk about. A few days later he was to realise what had been wrong with Bright; meanwhile he was glad to be on his own in a bunk among unknown others, crossing the Channel in darkness. There was an escort of three destroyers. To his surprise and satisfaction, he felt no qualm of sickness.

  Taking a taxicab from Victoria, he looked about him eagerly for a manifestation of his own feelings, but saw none. Trafalgar Square was but a place in memory of the many occasions shared with Desmond, Eugene, Jack Hobart and others, including Aunt Dora and cousin Willie. He told himself that he must expect nothing: all scenes had an existence but in the mind, and would fade with a man’s death. Away with personal desires; only poetry endured. What time did the War Office open? He thought to see Colonel Orlebar, to ask for a transfer back to the Gaultshire Regiment.