Love and the Loveless

by Henry Williamson

  As a fact, they were flash-spotters and sound-rangers. With telephones, directors, telescopes, buzzers, and wiring schemes between two and sometimes three points, flash-spotting of enemy guns was taking the place of orthodox registration. Flash spotting depended upon the simultaneous recording of the flash, as the shell left the muzzle of the gun, at two or three stations at the end of a measured base.

  Sound ranging, which was more intricate, depended on the time-record, made on a cinema film from three or more stations, of the spread of the sound-wave of discharge. Adverse conditions for sound-ranging were a contrary wind, and possible confusion of shell-wave with gun-wave; mist and fog prevented flash spotting.

  The invention of the Tucker Microphone made it possible to discriminate between the records of several batteries firing at once, while by observing the shell-bursts and noting the time of flight the calibre of a gun could be deduced.

  Thus German batteries were being located, so that they could be accurately swamped by counter-battery shells at zero hour; and the British batteries doing the job could remain silent until the moment of assault.

  *

  The new Brigadier became known as the Boy General. He was said to be twenty-three years old, the youngest General in the British Army. His substantive rank was lieutenant in one of the two regular battalions of a North Country regiment. He had held all temporary ranks to lieutenant-colonel, before getting a Brigade.

  Riding into Bapaume one day, Phillip went to the Officers’ Club, and saw the Boy General there. And to his surprise, the General recognised him, saying with a smile, “I hope you won’t steal my horse this time, Maddison!”

  “Not while I’ve got Black Prince, sir!”

  Then, moving away, he felt awful. The General would think he was familiar. Ought he to apologise? Oh, why had he been such a fool as to answer like that?

  286 M.G. Coy B.E.F. 14 Nov. 1917

  Dear Mother

  I am writing this in an Officers’ Club somewhere in France. I must apologise for not having written much during the past three months. I hope all is well at home. Will you give my love to everyone, and say I’ll write when I can. I expect you’ve seen by the papers what’s been happening, more or less, out here. Personally speaking, no news is always good news.

  Will you please order, for every day until further notice, a copy of The Times, from Hanson’s in Randiswell? I do not want any of them posted to me out here. Will you please keep them for me, meanwhile look at the Roll of Honour every day and look for the name of Major H. J. West, D.S.O., M.C., which may be under (a) The General List, (b) General Staff, (c) Gaultshire Regiment (which you will find under the heading of Infantry). He may be listed under Captain H. J. West, or Major, or possibly Lt.-Col. (He is the one I told you about, whose parents keep, or used to have, The Grapes tavern in Lime Street, in the City. But I do not want you or Father to call there, or at the War Office: just look in The Times, please). If you see the name, which may be under Killed, Wounded, Missing, or more likely Wounded and Missing, will you then cut out the whole Roll of Honour of that day, and post it to me without delay? I do hope the foregoing is clear.

  We don’t hear much out here, once we have moved away from former associations. This is all I can say at the moment, for reasons you will no doubt understand.

  I have heard neither from Desmond nor Eugene for some considerable time now. Leave may begin shortly, but I do not know for certain. I saw Ching twice during the summer, or late summer, once when I was on a course, and another time just before he was going up the line; we didn’t speak, as I only had a glimpse of him. There are many hundreds of thousands of faces out here, and it is rare to meet anyone you knew in the old days. Now I must do some work. Black Prince is still going strong, and everything is pretty cushy.

  Yours affectionately,

  Philip (with one “1”).

  Also love to Father, Elizabeth, Doris, Mrs. Feeney, Gran’pa, Aunt Marian, and all who ask after the donkey boy—real donks this time!

  Having signed the addressed envelope, as self-censor, and posted it, he sat down to look at the papers. Bonar Law, whoever he was, had asked for and got without discussion a new vote of credit of £400,000,000 for the war. The National Debt, whatever that was when it was at home, was now £5,000,000,000. It had been £648,000,000 at the outbreak of war. I suppose I’ve got some of it in my bank, he thought, with satisfaction.

  The scene in the House of Commons, as Bonar Law made his speech with rapidity and remarkable lucidity, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, and with only half a sheet of notepaper to aid his memory, was most striking.

  Never has there been seen in the House of Commons so many senior members. It was truly a gathering of the Fathers of the Nation.

  The young and the strong must continue to go forth and try to make the crooked straight by brute force, despite the suffering to themselves and sacrifice of life.

  What utter tripe, as Teddy would say. He threw down the paper.

  While he sat there, two officers began talking a couple of yards away. One spoke about the “sloppy discipline” he had found in the line when his battalion had taken over.

  “Huns were apparently allowed to stroll about behind their trenches, in full daylight. I soon altered all that. I organised the battalion snipers, and waited until a score or more of Huns were sunning themselves openly. My men got some juicy targets—forty-two entries in the Game Book the first two days.”

  Bloody fool, he muttered. It was what Teddy would call robbing an incubator. He moved away to another chair, and tried not to think about it. “The Game Book”. “The only good Hun is a dead Hun.” But they did not understand. With sinking feelings he recalled what cousin Willie had told him about the German officer after Christmas 1914 sending over a message one night, asking them to keep under cover, as their machine guns were to fire at midnight during a staff inspection.

  But it was the same spirit almost everywhere. In the paper was an account of a row in the House of Commons, over a motion in favour of peace by negotiation supported “by a minority of only twenty-one”, among them being names he had heard Aunt Theodora, when a Suffragette, speak of as “lights in darkness”—John Burns, Ramsay Macdonald, Charles Trevelyan, James Thomas, “the railwaymen’s secretary”, and Philip Snowden, who

  has none of the ingratiating manner of Ramsay Macdonald. Wholly unconciliatory, his bitter jibes and defiant expression when referring to what he is pleased to call “Die-Hards”, arouse only contempt.

  Bitter jibes were no good, even in the mind; it led to game-booking the game-bookers. One must try to be generous about people and their faults. Often the faults came from matters that were not their own fault. How magnanimous Lily had been about Keechey, who had cold-heartedly seduced her. To forgive was to be forgiven. He sighed; and was about to take up The Bystander when he saw, in one of the armchairs, a familiar red face under unbrushable sticking-up short fair hair. Cox, of all people! The last time he had seen that almost blistered face was just before July the First, at Albert. Cox had told a lie, claiming to be senior to himself, and thereby, as the supposed second-in-command of the company, had dodged the attack, remaining behind with the battalion cadre. Cox was now pretending not to have seen him, judging by the way he held his paper still. So Phillip went over to Cox, and mimicked Cox’s former manner of addressing himself, saying,

  “Hullo, you one-piecee bad boy! What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question!”

  “Oh, I’m just mucking about. And you?”

  “Hush-hush, old boy. Mustn’t say.”

  “As a matter of fact, Cox, I was wondering if I’ll take a job at the new Tank and Infantry Liaison School at Albert.”

  Cox pretended to splutter. “What, another instructor? My dear One-piecee, almost everyone I know has been asked to instruct at that bogus school!”

  “Well, as it happens, I have, Cox.”

  “Shall I tell you how? You were specially sent for b
y your Brigade-major. Your Brigade-major specifically asked you to talk over your prospects with your friends. My dear One-piecee, I do assure you that it is the main subject of conversation at the bar over there this very moment!”

  “Then what’s the idea?”

  “Softly softly catchee monkey! ‘Les oreilles ennemies vous ecoutent’. Comprennez? I see you do! But hush! Play the game, One-piecee! Don’t let the side down. Wait here. Drink perpends!”

  Cox returned, carrying a bottle and glasses.

  “Now, my dear One-piecee, I’ll let you into something not planted out by Intelligence, Third Army. If you repeat it, I shall deny it. I am relying on you to be more discreet than I am, In any case, you can draw your own conclusions.”

  “I don’t quite follow you——”

  “You will. First of all, I owe you an apology, One-piecee, for claiming seniority to you in the company under Bason.”

  “Oh, I’ve forgotten all about that, Cox.”

  “No you haven’t! But I’d like you to know that the reason why I held back was because my missus was going to have a baby. Anyway, my transfer was due any moment.”

  “Yes, you told me at the time.”

  “And you thought I showed the white feather, didn’t you?”

  “Not until you accused me of showing it! Then I knew you were windy, to be quite frank!”

  “How d’you mean?” The old sun-scorched irritable face, part eclipsed by eyeglass, looked at him sourly.

  He knows I know he’s a funk, thought Phillip. Putting on an ingenuous expression he said, “Well, if a chap thinks too much of his mother’s feelings for him, or his wife’s, as the case may be, he’s bound to feel pretty awful inside. Death literally stares him in the face. His bowels turn to water. The thing to do then is to take more rum with it, to dilute the water. I knew that when you taunted me, it was because you’d been taunting yourself, until it was unbearable. So you passed it on. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  “Have you heard of Confucius, One-piecee?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, read Confucius, when you get the chance. Chin chin!”

  They drank. “What’s your hush-hush about, Cox?”

  “Chains.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  Cox lowered his voice. “It may interest you to know that the whole of Great Britain has been scoured during the past two months for a certain weight of chain. Two thousand fathom, to be exact. But we got ’em!” Cox with his boiled red face and sandy eyelashes had a Mongolian stuffed-pheasant glass-eye look. Was he bottled?

  “It means nothing to you, One-piecee?”

  “Frankly no, mein prächtig kerl!”

  “Thank God! I nearly let it out!”

  After the third bottle, he did let it out.

  “Swear on your honour to God you’ll keep it dark? You know the Tank Central Workshops at Teneur? You don’t? Then you’re more damned ignorant than I thought, One-piecee. Teneur is where I’ve been working with my company of Chinese coolies. We’ve been on the go, day and night, for the best part of a month. What for, you wonder. I’ll tell you. Making enormous faggots! Or fascines, as they call ’em. Each containing seven dozen faggots of straight brushwood, held together by chains hauled tight by two tanks, each pulling against the other. At one time we had eighteen tanks on the job. Result, three hundred and fifty fascines—each a solid roll ten feet long, and four and a half feet in diameter.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “How much does a ‘fascine’ weigh?”

  “Well, it takes twenty of my coolies to push one along the ground!”

  “I think you’re sprucing!”

  “You’ll find out, all in good time, you one-piecee bad boy!”

  18 Sun At 5.25 a.m. Alleyman opened up on our outpost line just inside the wood and raided. Sergt and 5 men taken back.

  3 p.m. Secret O.O. from Bde said Zero day for Raid 20th. Wood crammed with new arrivals, including our div. infantry. Pinn. said he knew two days before, when secret O.O. were given him personally by Bde-major. RFC been over daily, to spot any poor camouflage. Cavalry Corps standing by. Under Camouflage; also whole Brigades, ‘within a stone’s throw’, said P. in hollows and ravines completely covered over.

  4 p.m. Ger scout came over, hedge-hopping, was shot down by Lewis gun. Said lost his way, thought he was over Arras.

  7 p.m. Tanks came into woods. Bloody row, clankings, crews shouting etc. What hopes of secrecy. Some had Cox’s ‘fascines’ on top, for tipping into deep trenches. Each tank had its own canvas ‘stable’.

  11 p.m. Pinn says our trenches are to be flattened, to allow tanks to go straight over. Also armoured cables laid to Bde h.q. Another Alleyman raid, one man pinched. Will he split, is the great question.

  In the wood were many tanks under canvas covers, over which string-netting tied with bits of black and green cloth was spread. Pinnegar explained to his officers what was to happen. A Raid on a wide front, to penetrate the Hindenberg Line, led by tanks each of which had a special function. There were supply tanks, to tow sleds in line; tanks with chain grapnels, for pulling up belts of barbed wire. First to go over were the Advance Guard tanks. Each one had two Infantry tanks working with it. Leaving its tracks through pressed-down wire, it was to turn left at the enemy trench and shoot up any opposition, thus protecting its pair of tanks following with the infantry.

  The pair of Infantry tanks was to make for a special place in the German main trench. There the left-hand tank was to drop its fascine. This was done by dipping its nose while release-gear was pulled. Having crossed the wide main trench, it was to work left-handed down the trench parados, to get any “late sleepers” coming up from dug-outs. While they were “put finally to sleep”, the right-hand tank of the Infantry Pair would be making for the second line. There, in a similar main trench, it would drop its fascine, cross over, and work down left-handed as before.

  Meanwhile the Advance Guard tank would have gone over the two main trenches and, keeping its own fascine on its neb, make for the third line and “bonk the bloody thing in. Then we come up, and emplace our guns for barrage fire for the second phase of the advance”.

  Phillip made notes in his diary.

  19 Mon Heard that G.O.C. Tanks is to lead them flying his flag. Looks like rain. Usual battle weather. Two yellow and red flags to be thrown out by fascine-dropping tanks; infantry will stick them in to mark borders of bonked faggot for others following.

  Infantry in three groups. Trench Clearers, who carry small red flags to mark tank-paths through wire, then mop up dug-outs, etc.; Trench Stops, who catch what bolts from tanks (a la ferret); Trench Garrisons, who stay in captured trenches (and meet any counter-attack, tho this ‘eventuality is not to be discussed’). Pinn. said nearly 400 tanks, and 96 infantry batts. going over. Plus all cavalry. Some raid!

  Special parties to lift wounded out of the track of tanks.

  10.45 a.m. Pinn said Z hour 6.20 a.m. (Sun rises 7.27 a.m.)

  German prisoners, who said a raid was expected, called this sector ‘the Flanders Sanatorium’. They also said they heard our ‘caterpillar tractors hauling heavy guns into wood’ last night. As Westy once said,

  ‘The staff knows damn-all, unless you or I tell them’. Still, RFC says no tank tracks visible anywhere.

  Returning with limbers tonight, passed scores of tanks going to their forming-up lines. They went like snails, in bottom gear, engines almost idling. Two hundred yards away I couldn’t hear them, so had a shock, finding myself suddenly among the dark shapes.

  Tank wallah told me earlier spoof orders had been hung in Secret No Admittance office of 1st Tank Bde at Arras, and spoof maps, plus bogus plans. But nobody pinched them!

  20 Tue Alleyman barrage opened up at 4.30 a.m. Feared worst in this shelter, where stove burns cheerily. Wrote last letters, just in case.

  5.15 a.m. Gunfire stopped. False alarm.

  After the se
rgeant and five men captured in the German raid on the Sunday night had been interrogated, as a precautionary measure reserve machine-gun batteries had been moved to behind the third line of the Siegfried Stellung.

  Two hours before dawn of 20 November, after examination by senior German officers of the British prisoners taken forty-eight hours previously, an urgent warning was sent down to all units to fit armour-piercing bullets into every third place in all machine-gun belts. But time was getting on; and it was not long before some of these messages, half copied out, were to be found lying in abandoned battalion headquarter dug-outs.

  Chapter 20

  VICTORY

  While the German warning was going over their telephones, 350 tanks, having rolled and bundled their camouflage nets, started to move forward, while many aeroplanes flew low over the lines. Roaring of engines filled the dank darkness. Ten minutes later, in the murk of first light, infantry followed behind the leading tanks; and as they walked into no-man’s-land a thousand hidden guns opened up. The reverberation of this tempest of light was riveted by the combined noises of as many Vickers machine-guns streaming their nickel jets into and over the Siegfried Stellung.

  General Sir Julian Byng’s Third Army was about to occupy the Flanders Sanatorium.

  *

  “It looks as though Haig has done it at last, sir,” said Sergeant Nolan, at 7.30 a.m.

  From the Brigade Observation post had come news that tanks and infantry had reached the first Hindenburg position. Smoke and mist had obscured early telescopic vision: now the morning was clearing. German prisoners came past, under escort. They were middle-aged men, some with beards, and very young soldiers of the 384th Landwehr regiment—the equivalent of second-line territorials. They said that the attack had been a complete surprise. Walking wounded followed.