By the Green of the Spring

by John Masters

  ‘All right, Stork,’ Campbell said grimly. He checked the rifle that he, like his CO, had taken off a corpse yesterday and made sure that he had a round in the breech. These men were going to realise that when Lieutenant-Colonel Quentin Rowland gave an order, even indirectly, it would be enforced.

  The men were spread out in two groups, side by side, in a loose line. Sergeant Fagioletti and one of the gunner subalterns were with the group on the right. They moved steadily up towards the big wood on the slope above. British rifles and machine-guns chattered in the wood and German overs smacked overhead, but no artillery shells were coming close, though guns were firing all round the horizon, and occasional shells raised brown mushrooms of earth in distant fields. Archie felt completely lost. The guns weren’t firing east or west, but in every direction; and they weren’t in gun pits two miles behind the line, they were here – there, two 18-pounders, standing at the corner of a small copse, abandoned … and here was a dead man, in the field, a German officer, a bullet through the middle of his forehead, very neat …

  Just as Kellaway had feared, a couple of men from the left group were dropping back. In a minute they’d vanish into the copse. Archie raised his rifle and fired a bullet a yard in front of the men’s noses, shouting, ‘Get back in line, there!’ The men stopped, startled, then ran forward to rejoin the rest of their group.

  On the right Sergeant Fagioletti jumped down into a sunken lane and moved along it with half a dozen men spread out behind. The soldier on the left, Private Lucas, said, ‘I’m going to take a look in the turnip clamp there, sarn’t. Maybe some bloke left a drop of rum in there.’

  ‘All right, but look sharp.’

  The soldier disappeared through the broken door, his bayonet thrust forward. A moment later Fagioletti heard him call, ‘Sergeant, ’ere, quick!’

  ‘What is it?’ Fagioletti yelled, breaking into a run. He burst into the twilit gloom of the clamp, and stopped short. Lucas was standing facing Lieutenant Cate. Cate was standing, too, looking puzzled, his mouth a little open.

  Fagioletti stammered, ‘Sir … it’s you … you’re all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Cate said. ‘Where’s the rest of the platoon?’

  ‘Some of ’em outside, sir … what’s left.’ He realised suddenly that the young officer would have some explaining to do. He said, ‘Come along, sir. The colonel’s ordered us up to the wood … this way, sir.’ He caught Laurence’s sleeve and pulled him out into the open, Lucas following. Cate said, ‘You needn’t pull me, sergeant … Lucas, Jessop, Brace … spread out more!’

  Lucas shot Fagioletti a strange look and said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  Fagioletti dropped back and said in a low voice to Lucas, ‘What am I going to say? They’ll shoot him.’

  Lucas said, ‘Can’t say he was with us all the time. The captain knows he wasn’t … It’s shell shock.’

  ‘That’s it. Shell shock! And now he’s over it.’

  ‘Is he?’ Lucas said grimly. ‘We’ll see.’

  It was noon of March 22nd. The Germans had been passing by Duke’s Wood Redoubt all day, mostly in small numbers, advancing in skirmishing order, but occasionally in larger masses of up to a battalion at a time. The garrison had fought off one small and one large attack, the latter supported by a dozen field guns. The guns had inflicted some casualties, but by now the trenches were deeper, the men driven on to use their entrenching tools with desperate energy. But for every inch the trenches sank, Quentin’s gloomy anger increased. Back to trench warfare … it had been a real thrill, just like old times on the North-West Frontier, or before and after Le Cateau, to move across the open, fighting man to man, not machine to monstrous machine. He’d have to court-martial Laurence if he didn’t do something really valuable today. Perhaps there should be a Court of Inquiry first, as no one seemed to know what had happened. Laurence himself couldn’t explain how he got back into the turnip clamp where they’d found him; all he could say was, ‘I must have run away, sir … but I don’t know.’ Whatever the truth was, he couldn’t afford to let the men think that an officer would get special treatment just because he was a relative of the CO’s … But today Laurence would have the opportunity to redeem himself.

  He turned to Archie, sitting beside him on the edge of a small trench, about three feet deep, which was his command post. ‘I’m going to counterattack before they bring up heavier artillery, Campbell. I’ve made my plan. Our object will be to break clear, so that we can continue the withdrawal as a formed body until we find a definite line … And I must do it before our ammunition gets any lower. I’m going to clear the Germans out of that little spinney over there, where they have three machine-guns. I’ll attack that with B Company, and as soon as they have got it, we’ll start withdrawing, first to the barns … from there, we’ll cover B back … and so on. We called them laybacks, on the Frontier … Send for all officers here, please.’

  Sergeant Fagioletti gathered himself. They only had a hundred yards of open ground to cross. The Germans were shelling Duke’s Wood Redoubt steadily now, and everyone’s head was down, their bodies crammed into the shallow trenches. The colonel had given the officers the orders half an hour ago. Somewhere to his right, facing the little wood which was the objective, across the bare field, were half a dozen men with rifle grenades and launchers. The colonel had no artillery, but plenty of Mills bombs, so that was to be the artillery support. Better pray that some of the grenades landed in those Jerry machine-gunners’ ears … the Jerries hadn’t had time to dig in, that was sure: they’d only sneaked into the wood an hour or so ago … Mr Cate had explained the orders very clearly: the captain was leading the attack on the right, Mr Cate on the left … forty men of B Company, the 1st Battalion, the Weald Light Infantry. There were about fifteen Jerries in the wood, the officers seemed to think – machine-gunners for the three guns, and a dozen riflemen covering them … Must be nearly time to go.

  ‘Ahhhh! Aaah!’ He heard a high screaming gasp from close to and raised his head. Willum Gorse, twenty yards away, was lying half out of his slit trench, his hands upflung. ‘They’ve got me,’ he gasped, ‘legs …’ He turned his head and moaned, ‘Legs …’

  Private Lucas was there, in the trench. He called across to Fagioletti, ‘Both legs smashed above the knee, sarn’t.’

  ‘First field dressing …’

  ‘No more use than farting agin thunder,’ Lucas said briefly.

  A whistle shrilled and Fagioletti, Lucas, and the rest jumped to their feet. The rifle grenades were fired with the distinctive loud hollow bang of the propellant cartridges … the men of B Company were charging out of the wood. There was the captain, his revolver outthrust. Every Lewis gun in the Redoubt was firing at the objective, to keep the German machine-gunners’ heads down … but where was Mr Cate? He’d been ten feet away, just now, before the Germans increased their shelling, as though they’d guessed that the British were going to sally out of the wood. Fagioletti had asked him if he was all right … ‘Quite, thank you, sergeant,’ he’d said, and smiled … smiled as though he wasn’t just about to lead a charge across open ground against German machine-guns. Fagioletti looked desperately around … no sign of him. The grenades had completed their trajectories and were falling into the wood … bang! bang! bang! Men fell, here, there, something plucked at his sleeve, then he was in, his bayonet at the throat of a German gunner, the man’s hands up. They had the wood! The captain was there, a Very light pistol firing red in the bright daylight. ‘Where’s Mr Cate?’ the captain gasped.

  ‘Don’t know, sir … perhaps he was hit, by the shelling, just before we started. P’raps …’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Kellaway said. ‘Turn those guns round, man, quick. The others are going to leave the Redoubt in three minutes after we give the success signal, and that’s gone up. They want covering fire.’

  Fagioletti yelled, ‘Lucas, Jones, Jackman, give me a hand with these guns … here, you, show ’em how to feed the belt in.’ He raised his rifle threa
teningly at the nearest German. Christ, Mr Cate was for it this time; deserting his commanding officer when ordered for an attack … punishment: death.

  The adjutant popped his head round the door of Guy Rowland’s office and said, ‘Wing Commander on the phone, sir.’ Guy went through to the outer office; Major Sugden had had the machine on his own desk, but Guy found it interrupted his thinking, so gave it to the adjutant.

  He picked it up – ‘Rowland here, sir.’

  Colonel Freeman’s voice was weary – ‘Morning, Guy. Your dawn patrol back yet?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I told you not to take it yourself because I was expecting orders. They’ve come. We’re to evacuate Mirvaux – both squadrons. Move to Vercors le Château. I want you to lay out the site, while Tim Fairchild moves the squadrons.’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Guy said. Major Fairchild was the commanding officer of the Bristol Fighter squadron that shared Mirvaux with the Three Threes.

  ‘Fix details with him. I’ll be sending you some extra lorries as soon as I can get some. God knows how many. The army staff are in, well, chaos is too strong a word … but only just.’

  ‘What’s happened, sir?’ Guy asked. ‘Have the Germans made another big breakthrough?’

  ‘As far as we know, no,’ the tinny voice at the other end said. ‘But the battle’s been going on for five days now and there’s still no real line, nothing fixed. No one can say yet that the Germans are here, our chaps there. So the brigadier general has ordered all wings to find new fields twenty miles back.’

  ‘The extra distance will be a bit of a handicap to us,’ Guy said.

  ‘Can’t be helped. We can’t risk the airfields being overrun by Jerry ground troops, or suddenly shelled by their heavies … Good luck.’

  Guy hung up thoughtfully. On the second day of the great German offensive he had flown back, on orders, to look for airfield sites further west; and had chosen Vercors le Château and two others as good possibilities. There had been no time for more then; now he had to fly back, land and actually decide where the runway would be, where the aircraft would be pegged out, what billets would be available, where tents and workshops would be placed, what access roads were available and in what state. He’d need the quartermaster. He turned to the adjutant. ‘Dandy, we’re moving. I want to see Gorringe as soon as he lands. Send for the quartermaster. Have the squadron staff car ready to go in an hour. Also my Camel.’

  The adjutant began to speak, but stopped suddenly, listening – ‘They’re coming back, sir – the dawn patrol.’

  Guy cocked an ear and snapped, ‘They’re not ours … Fokkers!’

  He ran out of the hut, drawing his revolver. Eight Fokker triplanes were screaming in low from the east, out of the sun, their guns clattering and blazing. Thank God the squadron’s not on the ground, Guy thought – only my plane. The Fokkers swooped down in line ahead, breaking off right and left to machine-gun the huts, tents, buildings, and the three aircraft on the ground – two British Fighters and Guy’s Sopwith Camel. He stood outside his command headquarters, aiming carefully with his revolver, and firing as each machine roared over his head. From the corner of his eye he saw flames and turned as his Camel exploded in a single mushroom of flame, followed by a towering column of black smoke. Simultaneously, the sound of machine-gun fire and the snarling and whining of aircraft engines increased. Behind him the adjutant shouted, ‘Ours are back, sir!’

  The air was thick with planes as the twelve machines of Three Threes, returning from patrol, attacked the eight Fokkers. One Fokker, taken by surprise from behind and above, streaked down in flames … and another … a third was making a pancake landing half a mile to the north … one Camel was down, limping, dragging a wing, cartwheeling across a field, pilot probably wounded or dead before he hit … It was all over. The Fokkers were dots receding low towards the east, smoke trailing from one of them. The Camels were circling, coming in on the last of their petrol – one of C Flight dead stick … they were down.

  Guy turned to the adjutant, ‘Tell them at Wing that we need two more Camels. Send them to Vercors at once, please.’

  The 137th Regiment, US Field Artillery, was in bivouac behind La Fère, most of the men sleeping in barns and sheds, a few billeted in the scattered houses of the little hamlet. The battle still raged to the north, but the line no longer ran straight towards St Quentin – it bulged out ominously towards the west – and it was no longer a line. The Americans waited, ready.

  Some men of Battery A, billeted in a cow barn, were singing a song that had been a favourite on the ship coming over:

  Goodbye, pa; goodbye, ma; goodbye, mule, with your old hee-haw:

  I may not know what the War’s about, but I bet, by gosh! I’ll soon find out.

  Goodbye, sweetheart, don’t you care; I’ll bring you a piece of the Kaiser’s ear.

  I’ll bring you a Turk and a German, too, And that’s about all one fellow can do.

  In Battery D John Merritt was walking behind Captain Hodder as he inspected the battery’s teams of draught horses. The four guns were lined up in a field a hundred yards away, breech mechanisms covered by tarpaulins. Distant artillery to the north mumbled and grumbled under the munching of the horses at their nosebags.

  Hodder stopped opposite a sturdy bay gelding, examined it carefully from fetlock to croup, then turned to the soldier standing at attention by the horse’s head, ‘This beast’s got catarrh, soldier. What are you doing about it?’

  The soldier, John Merritt’s Navajo friend Chee Shush Benally, said, ‘Singing, sir.’

  Captain Hodder eased his weight back on to his heels – ‘Singing, eh? What sort of songs? Over there … K-k-katie?’

  ‘Navajo sing,’ Benally said, expressionless.

  John said, ‘Excuse me, captain, but … I served with this man in the 16th Infantry. He told me a lot about how the Navajo cure sickness in men and animals. They perform ceremonies, which they call “sings.” Sometimes they make sand paintings. He’s not a medicine man, a proper singer, but he knows how to perform the ceremony.’

  Hodder said, ‘I see … Well, soldier, if that horse isn’t well from your singing, by this time tomorrow, it’ll get regular veterinary treatment, like any other horse in this battery … and you can do some singing in the guard house.’

  The Indian remained motionless, staring straight ahead. John knew he wasn’t angry, or put out. The horse would get well; the white man would attribute it to pure chance.

  He followed the captain. Down the narrow lane beyond the guns French infantry surged westwards in dense column, with horsedrawn cookers rolling on heavy iron wheels among them, smoke pouring from the tall chimneys, men, guns … tramp tramp tramp … neighing of horses, sharp yells of sergeants.

  A car was coming the other way, flying the Stars and Stripes from its fender. Hodder looked up and exclaimed, ‘Good God, is General Pershing coming? Well, he doesn’t go for eyewash. Let’s get on with what we were doing.’

  The car crawled on through the dense press of the French, who unwillingly made way for it. A hundred yards away it turned into the field where the guns were, and an officer in a long greatcoat jumped out of the back seat and hurried forward. He was a major and Hodder saluted as he came up. The major gasped, ‘I’m looking for Battery D, 137th Field Artillery …’

  ‘This is it,’ Hodder said briefly. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘General Pershing told me to bring that lady to see an officer in your command.’

  John thought, heavens, the lady must have some pull to get General Pershing’s permission to come this far forward … and be sent up in one of the commander-in-chiefs own cars, too. Then he saw a shortish woman in a fur coat and warm hat climb down from the car, helped by the soldier driver. She raised her veil and came towards them, limping slightly on a stick. ‘Aunt Isabel!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘Mrs Kramer,’ the major said. ‘She wants to speak to a 2nd Lieutenant Merritt.’

  Hodd
er said, ‘This is Merritt. He’s a 1st Lieutenant now. Go ahead, lieutenant.’

  John hurried forward, remembered he was in uniform, halted six paces from his aunt and saluted her formally. Then he rushed forward and hugged her – ‘What are you doing here?’ he exclaimed, standing back. ‘How did you get General Pershing’s permission? How …?’ Then he saw the expression on her face and stopped.

  His aunt said gently, ‘John, we’ve found Stella. In London, a week ago. With the German offensive it’s taken me a long time to get up here.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’s not well.’

  They were walking away from everyone else, across the field, guns to the right, horses to the left, towards the endless columns of the French infantry and artillery.

  Isabel said, ‘She has venereal disease. And she is pregnant … two months.’

  The words beat him nearly into the ground. He waited a minute, while his aunt held his hand. Then, his strength recovered enough to speak, he said, ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘In hospital, the Limehouse. The doctors think they can cure her of her addiction in two or three weeks, the disease in the same. She has consented to an abortion, but your consent is needed, too. Do you give it?’

  John walked away from her towards the row of 75s. She had lost one child already … he had heard that babies born of mothers with venereal disease were sometimes born blind … she would be clear of the disease long before then … What miserable hours, days, weeks, she must have spent … alone, gripped by the craving, no way of escape … And he as helpless in the grip of the war. She must have something to hold on to, to live for, to become strong for … He could not bear to think of the men to whom she had sold her body, a prostitute, bartering that once pure beauty to them, for money – no, for the drug … But this was no time to think of that. He loved her.