Love and the Loveless

by Henry Williamson

  “I think you’ll find it passable, sir, if you keep to the cocoanut matting,” said the gunner major.

  Phillip waded in, to make sure that it was safe for Westy. Slowly he lifted his feet, one after the other, against the suction of mud above the layers of cocoanut matting, while prodding with his stick. Troops and pack mules passing that way had churned the pug, so that passage was through a sort of canal. “I think this is the best way,” he called out, and the next moment sank to his waist. “It’s either part of the original bed of the beek, or I’m in a shell-hole,” he said, as cold water ran into his waders. It took about two minutes to move a yard, when he found the mat under his feet again. However, he had found the way.

  They sloshed on to a duck-walk, while guns cracked around them, firing along a row of pillboxes. Haifa mile ahead howitzer shells were droning down, raising inverted umbrellas of mud. “Our old friend Jack Johnson,” said ‘Spectre’ West. “That must be at Kansas Cross.” He looked at the map. “The Zonnebeke-Langemarck road should be in front of us. And that upright mark on the sky-line is Passchendaele church tower. We must get a move on.”

  The duck-walk was marked by a taped row of posts, on which hurricane lamps were hanging. Within sooty glasses flickers of flame could be seen. Other duck-walks were similarly posted. Phillip lay on his back on the walk, and emptied his waders by holding up his legs.

  On these narrow ribbings of wood, carrying parties, some with Yukon packs with a band on the forehead, were slowly trailing forward. Others carried 18-pounder shells in sandbags. Stretcher-bearers in groups of four struggled against being rooted among the shell-holes: desperate, haggard men, with faces the hues of mud and smoke. Walking wounded, who had collapsed, sat head-down on the wooden path. Old German dead were lying about, swelled and waxen of face, in contrast to the recent British killed. It was always a startling sight, that of British soldiers lying dead. Although the Germans in feld-grau were men, too, there was no feeling from them. What was the difference? Was it the sharp-cut tunic collars, the eight buttons, the red cotton, or worsted, of the shoulder numerals? Or the sometimes shaved head, a slightly repulsive pink under the pork-pie cap? Or the knee-high leather boots? Or was there racial antagonism, deep down, quite apart from the war, as between members of the same family, his own for instance? What was it about the German dead that made him feel indifferent? The red of blood, the red of shoulder straps, the red piping of the pork-pie cap, contrasted with the modesty, the almost stupidity of khaki … if only he could think clearly and definitely about even one thing. And yet—the tremendous courage of the infantry, to keep on, despite this fearful horror! He himself would never again be able to stand a set attack. Almost worse was the exposure, the sleeplessness, life without horizon. He had a tent, and a stove, comparative safety, and a warm bed. It was easy to feel no fear under such conditions. But these poor sprawled and tumbled dead—had they got beyond fear, beyond pain? Lines from The Mistress of Vision recurred in his head.

  When thy song is shield and mirror

  To the fair snake-curlèd Pain,

  When thou dar’st affront her terror

  That on her thou may’st attain

  Persean conquest: seek no more,

  O seek no more!

  Pass the gates of Luthany, tread

  the region Elenore.

  They came to Kansas Cross, and turned left-handed behind a line of field guns along the site of the old road. ‘Spectre’ West’s destination was a brigade H.Q. at the Green House. This was sign-posted. Picking a way by tape, they came to a blockhouse around which troglodytic figures lay in a shapeless row. Mud had been clawed from these wounded men awaiting with the patience of death for ambulances, which were held up until the beech-slab road was laid from Zonnebeke.

  The Green House lay below the Gravenstafel ridge, out of direct observation of the German posts. Inside the massive concrete and steel blockhouse, with its smell of phosgene, stale smoke, sweat, and putredinous scatter of blood and brains and hair on bomb-pocked floor and walls, the Brigadier sat at luncheon with his brigade-major, intelligence officer, and a doctor. When ‘Spectre’ bent to enter the doorway, squeezing through the low space made smaller by a steel door buckled against the lintel, the Brigadier was about to cut into a cold partridge on a tin plate with wooden-handled French knife and fork. He had already offered to share this delicacy, out of a parcel from home, with his two officers, but they had politely refused.

  Putting down knife and fork, he greeted the two newcomers curtly, for he was annoyed to be disturbed, after the emotions of the past forty-eight hours without sleep, mental relief, or physical ease. He was fifty-six years of age and had been wondering if he was about to be stellenbosched.

  A couple of tommy-cookers, round tins of solidified spirit, were heating enamel mugs of coffee.

  “What do you want?” he demanded, as a salvo of shells howled down and burst at Kansas Cross.

  “I am from G.H.Q., General. I am Major West. I have come to hear the worst.”

  “How d’you do. Well, you’ve come to the right place. Sit down. May I offer you some bird?”

  Phillip kept a straight face; it sounded like the bird, except that regular officers didn’t speak like that.

  “Thank you, General, but we have had our lunch. I am sorry to intrude on you, but my concern is to get the facts back to my Chief as soon as possible.”

  “Which side are you on?”

  Again Phillip made his face blank. Did the old boy think they were German spies?

  “O A, General.”

  “Oh, you’re one of Jack Davidson’s spies. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get some tuck down my throat. My intelligence officer will tell you what you want to know.”

  The captain with blood-shot eyes spoke slowly, with breaks to smooth his forehead with a hand. The march-up had been late, owing to some of the taped and lantern’d duck walks being shelled, as well as crushed and dislocated by mule packs. It took place in the total obscurity of a rainy night, without moon or stars. In places the laden infantry had lost direction. Some, stumbling apart from their platoon files only so much as a yard, had sunken helplessly into shell-holes and been drowned. The survivors had gone on, each man holding to the knapsack of the man in front, to arrive at the tape line, after more than fourteen hours’ continuous going, in no condition for the fight. Some had arrived after zero hour. Those who, emerging from the lines of pill-boxes captured five days previously by other troops, had tried to follow a weak and fitful creeping barrage, but failed. Many of the shells of the barrage had fallen short among the little groups trying to wind a way round shell-holes lipped with water. The H.E. shells, which formed a fair part of the barrage, buried themselves deep in the mud and so limited their effect. Without proper guidance from the barrage, the infantry had come up against belts of new wire, thirty yards in breadth, and been shot down where they stood, unable to lie down because they were fixed to their knees in mud. Their Lewis guns were totally useless, they got clogged.

  “I can offer you café-au-lait,” said the Brigadier, with a sign to his batman.

  The doctor said that some of the wounded had later managed to get back to the pill-box line from where they had started. These pill-boxes were now overfilled with wounded who had received no attention since they had crawled into shelter the day before. Other wounded men were still lying out.

  “Where are the stretcher bearers, doctor?”

  “A few are still on their feet, sir, but most have worked themselves to a standstill, during forty-eight hours without sleep or rest.”

  “How many do you consider are wanted, to get in the wounded on your brigade front?”

  “Owing to the state of the ground, four reliefs will be required to carry a wounded man on a stretcher to the dressing station under Hill 40 near Zonnebeke station. They will take up to four hours for the double journey, provided the rain does not increase. There are about two hundred stretcher cases.”

  “When you say fou
r reliefs do you mean each relief to be four men?”

  “Yes. Sixteen bearers to get a stretcher to the dressing station.”

  “And two hundred stretcher cases?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about German prisoners?”

  “There were, and are likely to be, none.”

  “You’ll need about a thousand men.” ‘Spectre’ wrote in his book. Then, “Before I go, I’d like to know exactly where the new wire belts are. I’ll make some notes, first, with your permission, General.”

  He wrote down the map reference, then giving the book to Phillip, said, “Write at my dictation, if you please.”

  Of Flandern I yet uncaptured. Ravebeek waist-deep morass 30 to 50 yards wide. 300—400 yards east of morass on line Wallemolen—Cemetery—Wolf Farm—Wolf Copse—to Bellevue spur; thence Duck Lodge and Snipe Hall belt of continuous low wire 25–40 yards wide. Behind this belt mebus chain further protected by new apron-fence wire. Main resistance comes from m.g. teams concealed in shell-holes untouched by artillery fire and hard to detect. Reserves from division put in unaware of this wire by BACON failed, but troops were held back by HAM on Gravenstafel spur. Situation static 1.45 p.m.

  “Thank you.” He signed the notes, and they went out into the rain.

  After a visit to another brigade H.Q. ‘Spectre’ West made his way, followed by Phillip, along the Zonnebeke road, for about a mile. Timber baulks were being laid beyond the dressing station at Hill 40. Behind the rise they turned left-handed, past the ruins of the station, and made directly for the line. Tired bullets buzzed and sighed down. The ground, which was sandy, and made fair going, had been in enemy hands less than a week before; German dead, fully equipped, even to hairy cowhide packs, lay everywhere, some still holding bayoneted rifles. They were the sturm-truppen of the 4th Reserve Guards division whose attack on 4 October, set for 6.10 a.m., had been boxed up by the Australians who had attacked at 6 a.m.

  “Where are we going, Westy?”

  “I am going as far as I can go without being shot. Do you wish to turn back?”

  “No, mein prächtig kerl! How about a spot of lunch?”

  “Not for me. This is the Roulers railway embankment.” He looked at his map-case. “Just north of Nieuwenmolen railway crossing, at Tyne Cot, the Germans still hold the Flandern I position. The Second West Pennine division holds this sector, and I want to see how far they have got.” He did not say that the fifth step, planned to be taken in less than forty-eight hours, was based on the assumption that the wire was non-existent along Flandern I, and that the last line of Mannschafts-Eisenbeton-Unterstände (mebus to the Staff, pill-box to the fighting soldier) had already been captured.

  *

  The railway entered what had been a cutting, but now was a prolonged mounding of earth like a scar, strung with wild loops of half-buried rusty wire, in the slope of rising ground to the skyline. A German trench crossed the cutting. This, said a notice, was Daring Crossing, the Red Line. The trench had been deep, and revetted with posts and rough basket-work of willow, but the bombardment of the previous week had smashed, buried, and upturned most of it. A muddy twisted tape lay along it. They must now be close to the front line, thought Phillip, following behind ‘Spectre’ West. Did he know where he was going? If the attack the day before had failed, wasn’t this still the front line? As though the same thought had come to him, the older man stopped, and looked at his map.

  “So far as I can make out, we are about three hundred yards from what was the front line yesterday before the attack. I think perhaps instead of going on up the cutting, we should strike north-east, along Flandern One, until we meet with our fellows.”

  This entailed a scramble over the yellow sandy soil, on top of which was a clear view of a straight road with tree-stumps and broken cottages along a line which ended at a tower startlingly high. There in front was Passchendaele!

  ‘Spectre’ West studied it through field-glasses. “It looks as though it was once even taller,” he said. “I wonder if the bells are buried below in the rubble, or have they been taken away. They found Messines bell, you know, the big tenor, and Plum presented it to the mayor. Well, we must get on.”

  Following up the German trench, they came to an out-post in a shell-hole. “Is this the front line?”

  “One on’m,” replied a Lancashire voice.

  “Do you know who is on your flank?”

  “The man in charge. Over yon.” He jerked his head.

  “Where are the Germans?”

  “Doan’t know, chum.”

  “Have you seen any?”

  “Aye, some’s about.”

  “Why are you here, and not going forward? The way seems clear.”

  “Officer told us stop ’ere.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Doan’t know, chum.”

  “A second-line territorial division, first time in action,” said ‘Spectre’ West to Phillip.

  A tin hat bobbed above the rim of a shell-hole twenty yards away. “Hullo there! Keep down, I say. You’ll give the position away. Who are you, the relief?”

  ‘Spectre’ West walked over. “Halt! Stay where you are! I’ve got you covered!” Two rifles were raised out of the shell-hole.

  “You should be looking for the enemy. Where are the Germans? What is holding you up?”

  “We were ordered to remain here, sir, after withdrawing this morning.”

  “Why did you withdraw?”

  “We got about half a mile forward without much opposition, then emma gees enfiladed from Defy Crossing over there.” He pointed to the right. “Then we saw field guns being turned round. We couldn’t deal with them, owing to the Lewis guns being clogged, and they were out of range of rifle grenades. When they fired at us over open sights, the order to withdraw was given. Since then, we’ve held this line.”

  “Has there been any firing?”

  “None in front of us, sir, since this morning.”

  “Get your men out of shell-holes and come with me.”

  *

  Strung out in file, a score of men under their young subaltern followed ‘Spectre’ West along the road. It was passable, and gave some sort of cover from the débris of tree trunks and stumps. Most strangely, there was no firing on the ridge; but from the north-west, in the unseen lower ground, came intermittent machine-gun fire. After going forward about eight hundred yards they halted, while ‘Spectre’ West looked at his map. He said to Phillip,

  “If we had two battalions, we could clear the Hun out of the pill-boxes along these spurs from behind,” pointing to the map which showed indentations in the contours of higher ground rising from the swampy areas of the Ravebeek. “So far, it looks as though the Hun has taken his troops from the ground here to reinforce his mebus groups. We’ll go on, and see what happens. In file, ten paces between each man.”

  After another half-mile they halted again. He beckoned the Lancashire Fusilier subaltern to his side.

  “In front of us should be the Flandern Two position. I want you to deploy your men, one half-section on the right of this road, the other on the left, and move forward in extended order fifty yards behind me. Do not fire unless you are fired on first. This is a reconnaissance, not an offensive, patrol. I shall go on ahead, down the road. Phillip, will you come with me.”

  The trench was not held. It was unwired. The tower of the church was now large. To the right Phillip could see, over the rubble of cottages and houses lining the road, a countryside of green fields and woods. It was strange to see, even a couple of hundred yards away, grass and hedges. It was rather ominously quiet. Perhaps the village was already held by units which had taken the pill-box line overlooking the Ravebeek? Perhaps Passchendaele was taken at last? How strange, and yet so ordinary.

  They entered through the ruins of the village proper. Nothing happened. The church was a great pile of bricks, out of which arose the peppered tower, with holes in it, through which low-trajectory shells had entered, some to
burst on impact, others, with delay-action fuses, to pass through.

  “We are now about a mile in rear of the Flandern One position,” said ‘Spectre’ West, looking at the map, “still held by the Germans. Yet here we are, through the Switch Line, Flandern Two, which comes back at right angles from Flandern One, north of Fürst farm on the Bellevue spur. The Second Anzac Corps, with the First East Pennine and Second West Pennine divisions, is more or less back on the starting tape.” He marked the map. “Between them and Flandern One is a new belt of wire, then a fence of new apron wire around each pill-box in a line of mebus still occupied by the enemy.” He wrote in his message book; closed it.

  “We must go back and report the situation, as soon as we can. We must not be seen, lest we advertise the fact to the enemy that there is a gap in his line. I think we should remove our helmets, too. It is known by Intelligence that there is at least one fresh division, the Sixteenth ‘Iron’, on the way here, if it hasn’t arrived already at the mebus line from the Ravebeek to the Poelcappelle-Westroosebeke road.” He pointed to German positions marked on the map in red, and the approximate British line in blue, “Right! We shall now withdraw down the road, in single file. Bring in your men, will you, Mr. Dixon?” He folded his map.

  A moment later Phillip cried, “No——No——!” but warning came too late: upon the whistle, in the platoon commander’s mouth, a blast was blown, while he looped an arm with his fingers on his tin-hat, the sign of recall. “Keep quiet, you fool!”

  The patrol had crossed Flandern II and the 58-metre rise—the highest ground on the ridge—and was about to leave the road to go direct over the crater zone to Keerselaarhoek cemetery when a machine gun opened up from the direction of Defy Crossing, and by the direct crack of one bullet ‘Spectre’ West knew instantly, before he could think, that he was hit.

  *

  He was a shadow looking down at his body on the ground. With calm remote wonder he thought, poor little body. He was distantly aware of other figures speaking but could neither see nor hear them. This phenomenon was outside life. The shadow of himself dissolved, and he was suspended in pale blue serenity above the body he saw lying far below, as though asleep. His entire being was remote in the thought, That is not me. He saw only the cratered ground, no other figures.