When dusk falls, pandemonium breaks out in the trench, as a massed German counter-attack overwhelms the beleaguered men of the Royal Welch and the West Surreys. It is now too dark for Hywel to help, so he has to stand there and listen to the appalling sounds of hand-to-hand combat. The worst of all are the cries of anguish from the youngest voices, high-pitched and clear, the voices of boys whose throats are not coarsened by tobacco and hard liquor.
The battle lasts until total darkness descends, when all goes quiet. Hywel is then able to cover the sixty yards between him and his sharpshooting trophy. When he reaches the coppice, it takes him a while to find the dead German. But when he does, he retrieves the rifle from the man’s hands, which still clutch it tightly. Hywel lights a match. The German is an older man, perhaps in his late thirties, the first enemy he has seen up close. He is certainly not the Hun of the propaganda posters. Dressed in field khaki, he could easily be a Welch Fusilier – indeed, a man you could pass in the streets of Presteigne.
He lights another match because he has seen something interesting. On the German’s left sleeve is a small cloth badge depicting a hawk framed by two oak leaves. It is his sniper’s insignia, the perfect complement to the booty of the man’s rifle and scope. Using the tip of his bayonet and the illumination provided by several more matches, he unpicks the badge and puts it in his pocket. He then raises the match to blow it out. As he does so, he feels a searing pain burn through the palm of his right hand and the thump of a bullet embedding itself into the tree behind.
It is as if a crucifixion nail has been hammered into his palm. He can feel blood flowing down his fingers and excruciating spasms of pain running up his arm. He quickly undoes one of his puttees and uses it as an emergency bandage to strap his hand. None of the fingers of his smashed hand responds, so he has to grasp one end of the puttee between his thumb and his palm, a procedure that produces yet more pain, and wrap it around as tightly as he can, which ratchets up the agony to yet another level.
Sweat is pouring down his face and his heart is pumping like a steam engine. He tries to calm himself, taking deep breaths, comforted that at least the sniper can no longer pick him out in the darkness. He thinks back to his naivety. Why strike so many matches in a dark wood? He had been the canny fusilier who sniped the sniper; now he has been sniped in turn. How careless is that?
The pain subsides a little and his breathing eases. He begins to think about the perverse reasoning that brought him to France. Joining up was an expedient escape from unbearable adversity; now things are even worse. Both his brothers are probably dead in a trench just fifty yards away. He has not been granted the quick death he had hoped for. And now that his hand is shattered, a return to the life of a farmer is well-nigh impossible. Similarly, his recently discovered talent as a marksman is ruined.
He begins to think about his wound and the fact that he needs medical help. That reminds him that he saw Sister Margaret Killingbeck in Poperinghe – which, in turn, makes him think about Bronwyn. Was it wrong of him to think so badly of her? He feels sure Sister Killingbeck would not have been able to find her. His anguish makes him conjure up dreadful thoughts about his little sister. Is she still in some fleapit in Tiger Bay, sucking off fat Greek sailors or being fucked by big buck niggers? He begins to cry. Did her big brother let her down by not rushing after her and bringing her back to Pentry? He thinks he did; he feels ashamed of himself.
His Lee-Enfield is by his side. Even with one hand, he could use it to put an end to his misery and join his brothers in peace. It is unlikely anyone would realize that he had shot himself, and he would have the quick and noble death he wished for. An eerie silence begins to settle across Flanders’ battlefields as a dark night subdues the fighting. There is some noise from distant artillery, which echoes around the boundless fields like rolls of thunder.
Hywel decides it will be his death knell. He reaches for his rifle with his good hand and turns it so that the muzzle is in his mouth. He reaches for the trigger and inhales a huge lungful of air.
But his concentration is broken by rustling in the undergrowth and whispered, anxious voices. Hywel immediately swings his rifle around in the direction of the noise. He cranes his neck to see if the whispers are in Welsh or English, or the alien tongue of the German enemy. Seconds later, it is clear that the voices are mostly English, a few with a strong Welsh lilt. Some are even speaking Welsh.
Hywel gets to his feet and collects his two rifles. Thwarted in his attempt to end his wretchedness, he now thinks only of his brothers. His eyes are fully adjusted to the darkness; he can see shadowy figures stumbling towards him. There are some singletons, but most men are in pairs, or trios, helping one another to get back to the positions they started out from this morning.
Hywel joins his comrades and shuffles with them back to Zwarteleen. When they arrive at a ruined farmhouse on the Zandvoorde Road, they find it is an impromptu Battalion HQ. There is light from tilley lamps; there are cups of hot tea, and even warm food.
Men are helped to sit on the floor all around the farmhouse. Young boys, all bright-eyed and smiling with bravado this morning, are not boys any more; they are broken men. Lieutenant Orme is not in the farmhouse, neither are Geraint and Morgan. Hywel begins to cry again.
An arm wraps itself around his shoulders while the hand of the other arm proffers a mug of tea. It is CSM John Hughes, a face Hywel has not seen since Wrexham.
‘Colour Serjeant, what are you doing here?’
‘What do ya think, son?’
‘But I thought you stayed behind in Wrexham –’
‘I did, but I arrived yesterday with another three hundred likely lads. How’s your hand?’
‘Got a bullet through it; it’s not a lot of use any more.’
‘Well, it’s your passport home, then. It could be a lot worse. Where’re your brothers?’
‘In the bottom of a German trench.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Think so.’
‘Come on, let’s get you into an ambulance and have the medics sort out that hand. By the way, one of the officers back here had his field glasses on you during the day. He said he’d never seen marksmanship like it. Well done, lad.’
‘Thanks, Colour Serjeant.’
Hywel’s polite words belie the desolation he feels at the end of a day that has changed his life.
Of the 109 Royal Welch Fusilier reservists who took part in the attack at Zwarteleen, only seventeen have made it back unharmed. Eight more are wounded, but managed to get out alive. The rest are assumed to have perished. Of the six recent volunteers to the regiment who were chosen to accompany the reservists, only Hywel has made it back. Lieutenant Francis Orme, the eldest son of an old Anglo-Irish landowning family from County Mayo, was killed right at the end of the day’s fighting. He fought courageously all day, organizing his dwindling numbers with calm authority and encouraging any who faltered. Having decided to use the gloom of dusk to fall back, he was the last man to leave the trench. As he did so, he was shot in the back by a single sniper’s bullet. He was twenty-three years old.
No one could recall seeing either Morgan or Geraint Thomas fall, but it was thought that no one was left alive when the trench was evacuated. Morgan was eighteen, Geraint seventeen. Today would have been Morgan’s nineteenth birthday. Hywel has a packet of five Wild Woodbine cigarettes in his knapsack. It was to be Morgan’s birthday present.
Monday 9 November
British Army Field Hospital, Provoost Lace Mill, Poperinghe, West Flanders, Belgium
The British Army’s main field hospital in Flanders occupies all three floors of the old Provoost Lace Mill in Poperinghe. It houses over 600 men in beds so close together that there is only just room to pass between them. Matron-General Emma McCarthy visited the hospital yesterday and declared that she was very satisfied with the way it is being run.
Margaret Killingbeck, one of three ward sisters, is in charge of Ward 1 on the ground floor. She is mightily relieved, knowing what
a tartar McCarthy can be. British sappers have been able to restore the mill’s ancient steam-powered lifts so that the worst cases, those who have no need of the ground floor operating theatres and who are likely soon to die from their wounds, can be kept in the relative calm of the top floor.
It is a relief to the medics, nurses and orderlies that they have a relatively permanent base in Pop, given that they have moved all their patients and equipment five times since arriving at the Front.
Despite the immaculate cleanliness and organizational efficiency of the hospital, and the elevated tranquillity of the top floor, it is a grim place. It is, after all, an old lace mill, not a hospital. Painkilling drugs are in short supply, there are not enough surgeons, and sheets and blankets are hard to keep clean. On Ward 3, at the top, although there is mostly silence from the men slowly losing the struggle for life in semi or total unconsciousness, some are fighting their battle noisily, unable to deal with the dreadful ordeal of their pain, or unable to accept that death is close.
Hywel Thomas is allocated a bed on the ground floor, the area reserved for men who may not need to be sent home to Britain and could go back to active service. He is a borderline case. The injury to his palm has badly damaged his right hand, but he is still mobile. And his state of mind has improved. The desire for revenge has overcome the self-pity he felt in the coppice at Zwarteleen.
When the senior surgeon, Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse, a man just twenty-nine years old, examines Hywel’s mangled right hand, he concludes that the bullet has shattered metacarpals two and three, the bones that control his two central fingers – the middle finger and the ring finger.
Hywel’s first question is to ask whether he will still be able to anchor his rifle. The surgeon furrows his brow.
‘You won’t be using a rifle any more, Fusilier. You’re going home. Your regiment won’t take you back in your condition.’
‘But, sir, I’m the best shot in the battalion. They’ve made me a sniper.’
‘But it’s your right hand –’
‘I’m left-handed, sir.’
‘I see, let me have another look.’
Chavasse spends several minutes carefully examining the wound and talking to his juniors, who are gathered around Hywel’s bed.
‘It’s a clean hole, but the metacarps are beyond repair. There will be extensive nerve damage, and the healing time will be months.’
‘Please, sir, I have no family to go home to. My parents are dead, and both my brothers were killed yesterday.’
Captain Chavasse is stunned. He can see the desperation on Hywel’s face.
‘I’m sorry … that’s very unfortunate. Please accept my condolences.’ The surgeon examines the hand once more. ‘What is your name, Fusilier Thomas?’
‘Hywel, sir.’
‘Look, Hywel, it could take three or four months to heal. To be blunt, the army is not going to feed and house you for that length of time in the unlikely hope that you are going to be able to shoot again.’
‘Sir, I only need my right hand to rest my rifle on. I’m a quick healer, and while it’s getting better I can work here at the hospital.’
‘With one hand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Doing what?’
Hywel looks around at the frantic activity of the nurses and orderlies.
‘Most of what they’re doing, sir. I have a strong left hand.’
Chavasse smiles.
‘Let me talk to your CO.’
‘He doesn’t know me, sir. I only arrived from Wales last week. Our officer was killed yesterday; the only one who knows how good I am is Colour Serjeant Hughes.’
‘Very well, where is he?’
‘At the Front, I think, sir – the other side of Wipers.’
‘Well, I think he may be a little preoccupied at the moment.’
Chavasse smiles again and looks at his juniors next to him. They stand in respectful silence, waiting to see what he will decide to do. His smile breaks into a mischievous grin.
‘Very well, I’ll take your word for it that you’re a top marksman. I’ll operate this afternoon and will see what we can do. You’ll need a reinforced glove, but I know where we can get one.’
Chavasse’s juniors look puzzled; this is the first they’ve heard of such a thing.
‘Desoutter Brothers in London, a new company set up by Marcel Desoutter. Eighteen months ago, he was badly injured in a flying accident. I had to take his leg off. Not satisfied with the wooden leg he was fitted with, he and his brother designed a new artificial limb made out of duralumin, an alloy of aluminium. They have now started a new company making artificial limbs.’
One of Chavasse’s juniors cannot resist making an acerbic quip.
‘From what we’ve seen in the last three months, sir, they’ll soon be rich men.’
‘Quite! I’ll get them to make a reinforced glove for Fusilier Thomas, designed to help the hand in supporting a rifle. It’ll be a good challenge for them and an interesting case for us.’ He then turns to Hywel. ‘You make sure you bag plenty of the Hun to justify all this.’
‘Don’t worry about that, sir. There is a German sniper I need to nail for Lieutenant Orme and for popping my hand. He may as well pay for my brothers too.’
‘That’s the spirit! I should warn you, you’ll have no flexibility from your middle fingers, but your little finger, your index finger and your thumb should, with a bit of luck, hard work and a following wind, function as they do now.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘You will be in pain for several weeks and should only undertake light duties for three months after that. Then we’ll put you on the range and see how you get on.’
‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take the eye out of a sparrow at three hundred yards.’
‘I’m sure you will. Nurse, would you tell Sister Killingbeck to get this man ready for surgery after lunch?’
Hywel’s euphoria at the news about his hand is dramatically dissipated on hearing Margaret’s name. His eyes follow the nurse. As they do, he sees a nursing auxiliary appear from the sluice room, where the bedpans and urine bottles are dealt with. It is another blow to his elation of only moments ago. The auxiliary is the sister he has disowned.
Bronwyn looks pristine in her pale-blue uniform, white apron and cap. In fact, Hywel thinks she looks even prettier than the sweet Welsh lass he remembers from happier days at Pentry before the trauma of the summer. Bronwyn does not notice Hywel as she walks past the end of his bed.
He is distraught; his eyes begin to fill with tears. He does not know what to say or do. His instincts tell him to run away, anywhere, but he has no clothes, bar the hospital gown they have given him. He also wants to have his operation so that he can fulfil his newly found purpose in life: to avenge Lieutenant Orme and his brothers by killing more Germans.
Bronwyn has gone out of sight, further down the ward, but she soon appears again, carrying a bedpan, and walks back past Hywel’s bed. He calls out in Welsh, wishing her a happy birthday.
‘Penblwydd hapus, cariad.’
Bronwyn lets out a squeal and drops the enamel bedpan and its contents all over the ward floor. She turns towards Hywel, screams again and rushes out of the ward. As she does so, she pushes past Margaret, who is carrying the notes of ‘Fusilier Thomas, Royal Welch Fusiliers’.
Guessing immediately what has happened, Margaret brings to bear all the discipline and self-control of her training.
‘Nurse Henderson, sort out that bedpan.’ She then calmly walks over to Hywel’s bed. ‘Good morning, Fusilier Thomas. How are you feeling?’
‘I’ve felt worse, Sister, but only just.’
‘Well, let’s get you operated on so that you can start to get better.’
Then, as she goes around his bed tucking in his sheets and arranging his pillows as nurses do, she speaks again, but in a whispered tone that no one else can hear.
‘You are looking a lot better than when I saw you at Pentry.’
‘Thank you … Can I call you Margaret?’
‘Of course, but only in private.’
‘How did you find Bron?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. She was where you said she would be.’
‘Doing what I told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘She’s fine. Can’t you see that?’
‘How did you do it?’
‘I’m a nurse … and a woman. She saw you in Pop when you arrived.’
‘I saw you, but not Bron. Was she with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then she saw Geraint and Morgan as well?’
‘Of course; it was quite a shock for her.’
‘Not as big as the one she’s got coming. I don’t know how I’m going to tell her.’
Margaret stops fiddling with Hywel’s bedding, a look of horror forming on her face as she sees the pained expression on Hywel’s.
‘They’re both dead. We got cut to pieces yesterday. I was lucky; I was sniping behind the attack. So few of the boys came back.’
Margaret cannot hold the tears in check. Despite all her resolve, they begin to spill down her cheeks and her chest heaves involuntarily.
‘Look, Hywel, I must go and find Bron. I’ll get a staff nurse to cover for me for an hour, she’ll get you ready for the op …’ She pauses, remembering her duty. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, you go. I’m not feeling like I did when we met before. I’ve found something I’m good at, and I want to recover for my brothers’ sake. I also want to make it up to Bron for not looking after her.’
Margaret puts her hand on Hywel’s shoulder and then rushes away to the nurses’ quarters, where she finds Bronwyn curled on her bed, sobbing. Margaret sits on the edge of the bed, pulls Bronwyn towards her and cradles the girl’s head in her lap. She begins to stroke her hair, but does not say anything.
Several minutes pass before Bronwyn speaks.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s been shot in the hand.’
‘Which one?’
‘The right.’
‘Thank God for that small mercy; he’s left-handed.’
The Shadow of War Page 35
