The move to a new sector brought a fresh batch of contacts, but none of them any use. Perhaps, came Russ’ wild thought, perhaps they’ve found him and sent him home and Rachel hasn’t bothered to tell me. Would she be so cruel? Oh, yes… yes. He had scribbled innumerable letters but got no reply. Surely, surely she couldn’t still be burning them? Not when they might have contained news of her son. Whichever way, there was no answer. Whilst he was in action his worry was put aside, but sometimes when they were stuck in some uneventful place for days his fears became magnified. The mining village they were in now had been one such place, until the Jocks had started moving in.
Russ, on two days’ rest, stood and watched the kilted battalion march down the street to the skirl of pipes. Even with the khaki aprons over their tartan they were a magnificent sight, though he would never have admitted it to one of them. As the tail of the column neared his standing place, who should he see prancing jauntily behind but Private Dobson who, in between giving a nasal wail, sang rude verses about the Scotsmen’s lack of trousers. Three others from Hazelwood’s platoon were egging him on. Russ collared them as they were about to pass him and warned them to desist. Dobson carried on marching.
‘Eh, Jock! There’s always summat I wanted to know!’
The man at the rear anticipated the question and growled, ‘How would ye like your nose bitten off, sonny?’ Dobson merely laughed and, acquiring a stick, performed the ultimate insult: lifted the edge of the tartan kilt and began to hoist it higher. At this point Russ decided he had better save Dobson from himself.
‘Dobson, you’ve got a Blighty leave coming up in three days, don’t you want to live to enjoy it?’
‘Aren’t you interested to know what’s under there, Sarg?’ laughed Dobson as Russ lunged for him.
‘I’m more interested in hanging onto my own small blessings, thank you very much – Private, I said leave it!’
With a final flourish of his stick, Dobson fell back to join his sergeant. ‘Where’s Strawberry and the others got to?’ he looked round.
‘I’ve no idea, but they’ve more bloody sense than you. Now bugger off, don’t be incriminating me.’
But it was too late. The order for the Highlanders to halt was barked out and with an abrupt stamp of boots they came to a standstill. Even as Russ was attempting to divest himself of Dobson’s companionship, the Scots were falling out. Within seconds they were thundering full cry up the street towards him. Russ took the only sensible action – he ran.
Dobson’s mouth fell open as the horde of yelling warriors streamed at him, then he too sped. The Scotsmen teemed down the street after him, wielding clubs and bayonets which all served to increase Dobson’s speed. In and out of the winding streets he pelted, following his sergeant’s route, but no amount of evasive action could shake off his aggressors. Russ kept screaming for him to go away, but Dobson stuck with him. Side by side they thudded breathlessly round a corner – and suddenly found the way ahead blocked by a wall of khaki. Dobson threw one horrified look at his sergeant, another over his shoulder. Russ saw an opening, grasped a fistful of the boy’s tunic and swung him into the narrow passageway seconds before the tartan mob swept around the corner. There was a door at the end of the passage. Russ took it, and found that their sanctuary was someone’s kitchen.
The woman looked startled as they burst in through her door. Then, seeing that they wore khaki, acted as if she had been expecting them. ‘Ah, mes amis! Asseyez-vous!’ and hustled them into her best room to give them bread and wine.
Struggling for breath, Russ gave a tight grimace at Dobson and tugged his uniform into place, face like a beetroot. ‘Just you bloody wait…’ For answer, Dobson grinned, nudged him and nodded at the window through which could be heard ghastly yells as the Scots clashed with the English. Cap in hand, Russ smoothed his hair. ‘By Christ, Dobbo, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ He offered his thanks to Madame and took advantage of her hospitality. He also questioned her presence – the village was supposed to have been evacuated. Had Madame understood, she would have told him she had lived here for thirty years and it would take more than the Boches to evict her. Dobson settled himself on the chair to watch the fun outside, smiling gaily. Madame winced at the sound of the blows being exchanged and shook her head, muttering something about savages. The private tut-tutted with her, drawing a reluctant laugh from his sergeant, who muttered, ‘God help the poor bloody Boches.’
Dobson sprinkled his tunic with crumbs as he tore off a mouthful of bread, munching appreciatively. Then he noticed the sergeant’s preoccupation. ‘Any news of your lad yet, Sarg?’
Russ had been staring at his plate. Dobson’s voice brought him to life and he sank his teeth into the bread, giving a slight negative movement with his eyes.
Another shower of crumbs settled into the folds at Dobson’s groin. ‘I think they’ve discovered he’s underage by now an’ sent him home.’
‘That’s what Thought thinks, is it? They didn’t seem too bothered about you, Dobson, why should they care about my lad?’
‘Well, looking at his photo he’s a bit more obvious than I am,’ said the private. ‘He’s only a bairn – I’d say his ba—’ remembering the woman’s presence he cleaned up his words, ‘his voice hasn’t even broken yet.’
‘Considering that you’re right and he has been sent home, why haven’t I been informed?’ asked Russ.
Dobson pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘Don’t ask me – look at the cock-up when you were gassed. Your wife thought you were dead, didn’t she?’
Russ nodded and was silent. Outside, the sounds of battle had moved further down the street.
Dobson used his tongue to dislodge the bread from his gums, then guzzled his red wine. ‘What was it you did to her that was so bad?’
Russ eyed him sharply. ‘Who says I did anything?’
‘Well… she never writes to you, does she?’ When Russ tugged the piece of paper from his breast pocket Dobson waved dismissively. ‘That’s a load of cobblers – you made it up. Come on, I won’t tell anybody. It must’ve been summat pretty bad.’
Russ tucked the paper away and leaned forward, signalling for Dobson to do the same. The private downed his wine and moved onto the edge of his chair, putting his head close to the sergeant’s.
Russ’ voice was confidential. ‘Well, you see, it was like this…’ With a swift action he grabbed the boy’s nose and gave it a vicious twist, lifting Dobson right out of the chair. The private screamed. The woman cried out, ‘Ah, non!’ Russ waved her back into her seat, dragging the boy to the door by his nose. ‘It’s all right, love, I’m just helping him with his adenoid problem – merci for the wine!’
* * *
They were back in the trenches, waiting… waiting…
Veee-bang! An enemy shell exploded to their rear, displacing tons of earth and thrusting it high into the air as if some huge mole were at work. The terrain was a contrast to their last picturesque venue – a deserted coalfield, inhabited only by slagheaps which towered above them like huge black boils. Dobson put his eyes to the periscope fixed to the sandbags. There was little reflected in it at the moment. After a while, though, something moved. The horizon began to undulate. Dobson squinted, trying to make out the phenomenon. ‘Sarg, there’s summat…’ Russ pushed him out of the way and took a quick look in the periscope… as the gyrating skyline evolved into a thousand bobbing pickelhaubes.
‘Jerry!’ breathed Dobson.
‘You don’t say?’ Russ brought his rifle into position as the captain shouted orders. ‘And here’s me thinking it’s the Brighouse and Rastrick Band come to entertain the troops.’
D Company tensed as the line of field grey advanced. This was to be their first real experience of hand to hand warfare, having previously seen Jerry as a distant target – which had been hairy enough. Dobson trained his eye down the barrel of his rifle. ‘I’ll never hit ’em,’ he jabbered. ‘They’re too small.’
‘Give �
��em time, they’ll grow,’ muttered Russ, flexing his fingers around his weapon. This time they’re going to get me. I know they are.
Still there was the ponk of shells leaving the howitzers, the whistle and the bang and the churning-up of the ground. Dobson swallowed and tried to wet his lips but his mouth had gone dry. His chin had become glued to his rifle. ‘Blimey, there’s millions of ’em, where do I start?’
‘Pick one out,’ instructed Russ calmly. Why am I calm? he asked himself. I don’t want to die, I don’t. Bertie, where the hell are you? ‘Train your sights on him and when you get the order bring him down. Remember target practice, don’t just fire for the sake of it.’ This brought inward ridicule – here you are telling Dobson what to do and you’ve never shot a man yourself!
The advancing grey wall grew faces, determined and hard. Daw gave the order to open fire. There was a deafening volley and when the smoke cleared the line of field grey had disintegrated.
‘I got him!’ shouted an excited Dobson.
‘Then get another bugger!’ bawled Russ. Thoughts of Bertie were gone. Even thoughts of his own death. All his mind saw were the targets to be hit – not men, targets.
Volley upon volley ripped through the attackers, bringing down hundreds until the remainder took cover in order to regroup. In the lull, Dobson laughed to the pal on his left. ‘Eh it’s easy, Schofe! I thought I’d feel sick when I shot a bloke but there’s that many you can’t be sure whether it was your bullet what got him or somebody else’s. It isn’t that bad.’
‘Keep bouncing up and down like that, Dobson, and you’ll find out how bad it can be.’ Russell’s arm began to tremble with delayed shock and he focused his attention on the ground before him, waiting.
Dobson chanced a look over the parapet at the litter of German helmets. ‘I wouldn’t half mind one o’ them. Can I get one, Sarg?’
‘Are you totally without reck, Dobson? They haven’t finished yet – eh up, they’re here again!’
Dobson crouched over his rifle and prepared to fire… and then there was a funny thwack! and his neighbour went down. He looked agog at the gaping hole in Schofield’s brow where the bullet had emerged. There were glistening splinters of bone and blood on his own sleeve. Another man went down.
‘Christ! How did they get round our flank?’ yelled Russ and immediately altered his rifle to the parados, unleashing rapid fire. Dobson had fallen to his kness and was gawping at his pal. ‘Dobson! Leave him and get shooting!’
The normally garrulous private was rendered dumb as yet another of his comrades was gunned down by a sniper. Russ turned from his firing position, grabbed the boy, slapped him and barked, ‘Dobson, if you don’t move now I’ll have you court martialled!’ and the private instantly broke into action.
In the next bay, something toppled into the trench beside a young soldier. He pressed his back to the wall and, idiotically, covered his eyes. The stick bomb went off, peppering the men of D Company with mud and bits of flesh. Daw had scrambled into the position beside Russ. ‘The captain and Lieutenant Roy have had it. Looks like we’ll have to fall back… if we can get out.’ There was firing to three sides of them now. Stuffing his empty revolver back into its holster, he grabbed a rifle – which he much preferred – off a dead man.
Russell’s weapon had become so red-hot that it attracted slivers of mud which blocked its working parts. With a curse, he thumped the butt then rammed it at the ground several times. Trembling fingers sought for his pull-through while he shouted to Daw, ‘How long d’you reckon we can hold them, sir?’
The Lieutenant himself was reloading. He gave a competent flick of the bolt, slipping the round into the breach, and threw himself into action again, bullets spurting from his rifle. ‘As long as we have to!’ But he too was becoming worried. For the last hour the captain had been anticipating the order to withdraw, but none had come – a shell had brought down the field telegraph. So a runner had been sent. He had not returned yet. Now the captain and the only other lieutenant with the company were dead and the decision was Daw’s.
Russ succeeded in dislodging the blockage from his rifle and once again put it to good use.
‘How many men have we got left?’ Daw shouted, knowing it was futile to ask how many lost; the evidence was everywhere.
‘Put it this way, I won’t need an abacus.’ Russ chanced a quick look to right and left. The sight and sound was pitiful. Dead comrades – and bits of them – littered the section of trench that was visible. Even as he observed, a German shell exploded further along the line, sending arms and legs flying through the air. Those nearby who remained unscathed were assailed with human debris. The sergeant scurried off down the line to count the living, having to stand upon the bodies of the fallen when their number blocked his way. He returned with the news that there were about thirty.
‘We’ll have to get that bastard sniper if we’re to have any hope of…’ Daw did not have time to say any more – the Germans charged. No amount of fire would keep them from storming the trench. As both Lewis guns were put out of action, Daw was forced to give the order to fall back, knowing that his men were going to be cut down by snipers as they left the trench.
But then came a cry that curled Dobson’s blood. A screaming band of Scotsmen teemed from behind a slag-heap, hurling bombs at the sniping posts and halting the German charge. A cheer arose from D Company, who abetted with lusty fire while the grimy-faced Jocks put the Germans to rout, winkling any stragglers out of shell-holes with the same ease as they might enjoy a seafood delicacy.
A breathless runner appeared at Daw’s shoulder. ‘Major Frazer says to retire, sir!’
‘Retreating?’ piped up Dobson when his sergeant passed on the order.
‘Not retreating, just advancing backwards. Come on, jump to it!’
And the exhausted remnants of D Company fell back, dragging with them the red-stained bodies of the wounded…
It started to rain. An age later, they reached safe ground and slumped down at the roadside while stretcher-bearers took command of their wounded. The dead had been left at their killing ground. Drenched as Russ was, it seemed pointless to unroll his groundsheet, but he did so, wrapping it around him. ‘Feeling all right now, Dobbo?’ he asked from his position of collapse.
A weary Dobson did not answer yes or no, but breathed, ‘I can’t believe they’re all… I mean, one minute there’s Schofield laughing an’ joking, and the next…’
‘Aye well, that’s the way of it,’ said Russ and informed him gravely, ‘They got Old Catcrap an’ all… poor little sod.’ Now that the imminent danger was past he had a chance to dwell on the gallant young captain.
‘Oh shit,’ Dobson said with feeling, and capsized onto his back. So did everyone else and all fell instantly asleep, uncaring of the downpour.
* * *
When Russ opened his eyes, it was morning. He sat, rubbing at his shoulder, which was still sore from the constant recoil of his rifle. The rain had stippled the black powder marks on his face. He resembled a collier, eyes standing out like blue glass. He yawned, inhaling the taste of gunpowder, and looked along the road. A band of prisoners was being herded in. Russ slapped Dobson’s thigh. The boy woke, shouting his alarm. ‘Want to see one up close, Dobbo?’ He tossed a casual gesture at the bedraggled-looking specimens being shoved and pushed by a platoon of Highlanders.
Dobson’s interest was stirred. He screwed his fist around a pink eye. ‘That the lot what nearly had us yesterday, Sarg? Sorry-looking crew aren’t they?’
Russ clambered to his feet as the party neared and called to one of the Highlanders. ‘You the lads who got us out of that jam on the Redoubt?’
‘Aye, what’s left of us,’ growled the kilted soldier, shoving a captive in the back. Russ then asked if they had taken many casualties. ‘Go see fer yersel” came the suggestion.
Later, Russ and Dobson were able to meet this. Nestled in a shellhole they peered out over the result of the Highlanders’ heroic
charge. It appeared that the German retreat had merely been a ploy to lure the Jocks into a square of machine-gun fire. Hundreds of corpses were strewn about the coalfield in all the inelegance of death; bloodied tartan flung carelessly aside to reveal the Scotsmen’s secret. That which seemed so interesting to Dobson only the other day was now cruel to look upon.
Russ turned to his young companion and said softly, ‘How d’you like the war now, Dobson?’
The youngster faced him. His eyes had the stunned look of a pole-axed beast, and he knew that the sergeant didn’t really expect an answer.
Chapter Twenty-five
1st October 1915
My dear Charlie,
I hope this letter finds you in good health as it leaves me. I was truly distressed to hear from Mr Hazelwood that you have not been receiving education. That is most unsatisfactory, but is about to be remedied forthwith. I intend to write a letter to a colleague of mine in the north of England, who will give you the education befitting your intelligence. It may seem a long way from home to you, but I have my reasons for selecting this place, not the least of them being that you will be very happy there. With the war showing no signs of being over I cannot say when I shall be able to come for you, but I trust it will be soon. I am so glad to hear that you are now permitted to go to church, and I hope that your brother Bertie is more kindly disposed towards you now… Do write soon with all your news. I pray for this war to be finished and for us to be together – though you may be so settled by now that you may not wish to rejoin the company of a doddering old priest!
My Father, My Son Page 40
