by John Masters
‘Here,’ Coley shouted. ‘Another, right, sarn’t!’
Fagioletti saw a soldier, lying behind a broken wall, covered in coal dust. He was about to run forward when the man called over his shoulder – ‘It’s me – Whitman, battalion sniper. Fuck off, sarn’t.’
Fagioletti turned back. No one interfered with Private Fletcher Whitman, even if it was in a battle. He was like a leopard on a chain, only you weren’t sure whether the chain would hold. He didn’t need no sergeant or officer to tell him what to do. He was killing … mostly officers, picking his targets with that rifle and telescopic sight. He could knock a Jerry’s eye out at a thousand yards, the blokes believed.
The centre platoon was in trouble … heavy artillery fire, and a lot of Jerries in the houses in front of them. Mr Wylie it was, the old 2nd in command’s son, waving them on … now he was bowled over, that was a Jerry sniper got him … Here, three, four men had turned, were running back. Fagioletti dropped to one knee. The running men came close. He shouted, ‘Stop! Get back to your platoon!’ One stopped, three came on, one screaming, firing from the hip – ‘Get out of the way, you fucker!’ Fagioletti fired, aiming at the heart. The man dropped. Private Coley fired; another man fell. The third dropped his rifle and threw up his hands.
‘Pick up your rifle,’ Fagioletti yelled, ‘and get forward.’
‘I can’t do it,’ the man wailed, ‘I can’t!’ Tears streamed down his face, his whole body shook. Fagioletti said, ‘It’s them or me.’ He put his finger to the trigger. Slowly the man stooped, picked up the rifle and, with a quick movement, before anyone could stop him, hurled himself down, neck first, on to the fixed bayonet. It pierced his throat, sticking out at the back, blood spouting.
The suicide was down, gargling in agony, blood spouting from his mouth. Private Green looked at Fagioletti; Fagioletti nodded. Green put the point of his bayonet to the man’s ear as he lay howling and bubbling on the ground, and pulled the trigger.
They hurried forward. The left platoon was holding. The centre and right were on their objectives. Fagioletti reached the centre platoon headquarters and found Sergeant Rhodes in command, since Lieutenant Wylie had been knocked out.
‘How’s it going, Dusty?’ he gasped.
‘We got ours … The captain’s taking your platoon round behind the Jerries on that side. You’d best get to them.’
Fagioletti ran forward again. Four soldiers of the battalion lay sprawled on the soiled earth, two moving, two not. He turned over one who was lying face down – Brace. They’d been caught by a machine-gun – Privates Brace, Fallow, Felstead, and Hart. Fallow and Brace were dead. Felstead’s arm was broken, and Hart had got two in the belly. Felstead gasped, ‘We done it, sarn’t, we done it … Mr Cowell’s hit, not bad … but you’d best get to the platoon …’
‘Where?’
‘In the hand … shell splinter.’
‘Where’s the platoon, you stupid bugger?’
‘Up in them houses … someone’s waving out of a window … the Jerries is running! The buggers is running!… Give me my rifle, sarn’t.’
‘You can’t fire with that arm, Felstead.’
But Fagioletti could, and he ran on towards his platoon, every few seconds stopping and firing an aimed round at the Germans running away across the wasteland to the east of the village. ‘Jessop,’ he muttered, pulling the trigger, ‘and Brace’ – firing again – ‘and England … Barnes … Fletcher … Spenser … Cook … Jenner …’
It began to rain harder, the wind slowly backing into the south-west.
Near midnight it stopped raining. The Wealds, huddled in makeshift trenches, ditches, and piles of rubble, were too weary to try to bale out the accumulated water. They just stayed where they were, soaked, shivering to a cold night wind, their hands numb holding the rifles, their eyes blinking, scratchy, staring into the darkness. Artillery of both sides was firing but it seemed indiscriminate, shells bursting here, there, somewhere else, without particular purpose or plan; and it was not heavy fire. The infantry were firing in the same manner – a lone machinegunner briefly scourging a slag heap, a few rifle pops, then silence … broken by another sudden outburst of automatic fire – but from where? There was no moon, and no stars, for the clouds had not broken up, only a faint luminous glow close to ground level.
At four o’clock Quentin, shaking with ague in the cellar of a miner’s half-ruined cottage, looked round at the other occupants in the candlelight … RSM Bolton, Campbell, Caffin, two runners … all looking exhausted, even the RSM. He hoped no one would notice that he was shaking and shivering. They’d think it was funk, but it was malaria, he was sure … ought to go and see Sholto about it, but what could Sholto do? They didn’t carry quinine in the trenches even when they’d had a fixed Regimental Aid Post. This was mobile warfare, they’d got the Huns on the run at last, but the doctor now had little more than what could be carried in his own and his sergeant’s haversacks. Nearly all sick and wounded had to be sent back to the CCS these days. No one ever knew where it was, for it kept moving, too. You just told the men or stretcher bearers to keep walking west until they met Red Caps … The men were nearing the end of their tether. Caffin had told him so, and two of the company commanders had hinted at it. The RSM too, though it had been wrung out of him. He knew it himself. He wished he could get them all together for one last time, formed in hollow square, bayonets peacetime bright, steel flashing in the sun, uncased Colours crossed over piled drums, and say to them, ‘Weald Light Infantry! Remember Minden! … Remember what the Duke of Wellington said at Waterloo, in the heat of the battle, “Hard pounding this, gentlemen. We shall see who can pound the longest!” … Wealds, we shall pound the longest!’
He stood up abruptly – ‘I’m going round the companies. Hold the fort, Campbell.’
Archie stood up awkwardly, grimacing with the pain of a knee wrenched falling over a low wall in yesterday’s attack. He said, ‘I’d better come with you, sir.’
Quentin rasped, ‘I said, hold the fort here. Keep badgering Brigade about the tanks that didn’t show up yesterday. We must have them by six o’clock this morning, if we are to continue the advance.’
‘Yes, sir … But I don’t think you know where A Company is. They moved their position, you remember, and you told me to co-ordinate it.’
Quentin hesitated. Father Caffin was already on his feet. Campbell was right. ‘Very well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Mr Bolton, you take over here.’
‘Yes, sir. Shall I send a couple of runners back with a message about the tanks?’
‘No,’ Quentin grunted. ‘They know about it. Just keep badgering them on the artillery line … unless the brigade line comes in, of course.’
He moved out into the darkness, stepping cautiously. Half-right here, down what had been a lane behind a row of houses. Most of the houses were still standing, and not severely damaged; and B Company was at the end of the row, facing north-east. The pattern of the gun fire had not changed, but he paused and listened to it for a moment, ducking instinctively as a shell screeched over fairly low, to burst 200 yards behind the village … Now he heard the other men’s heavy breathing close behind him. On – carefully, it would be the last piece of bloody foolishness to break his leg, as Campbell damned nearly had, at this stage of the game. A low voice from directly in front muttered, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’
‘Commanding officer and party.’
‘Give the password.’
‘Kent.’
‘Road … Pass, sir.’
Quentin moved forward. The two sentries were standing by a wall, and he peered into the face of the nearest – ‘Where’s Captain Kellaway?’
‘Straight on, sir … about a hundred yards. He’s where two streets cross.’
‘Private Lucas, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Colder than Bareilly in the hot weather, eh?’
‘Yes, sir. No char and wads, either.’
Quentin suddenly paus
ed, whispering, ‘Hush!’ He listened intently. The artillery pattern was changing. The British was the same – ranging, some harassing fire on rear areas. But the Germans … a deafening roar filled the night and Quentin and the others hurled themselves flat as a heavy concentration of artillery fire fell on the village. About forty guns were in action, he thought, trying to organise his mind … whizzbangs and 5-9s certainly … anything heavier? … No. But what …?
Private Lucas, crouched beside him, said, ‘The Jerries are getting ready to attack, sir.’
Bloody Germans, he thought, bloody good soldiers. These were Prussian Guards, he knew from prisoners taken just before dark: now they were coming back, teeth bared, fighting to the last gasp. In the morning, the advance would continue, nothing could stop it; but now, here, the Prussian Guard had to be stopped. He heard whistles blowing ahead and off to the left in the darkness. All three forward companies were standing to. They’d been at alert all night, so it wouldn’t take thirty seconds to come to full readiness. The SOS tasks were ranged in, the supporting artillery ready to fire with communications good to them. Each company, each platoon, each individual soldier would now have to fight it out by himself.
The German artillery concentration lasted five minutes and stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but not before the other soldier in the sentry post had gasped and fallen back, dead, half the top of his head gone, half his steel helmet with it … The Germans would come from close to, sheltered by the darkness. Christ, he wished his men were dry, full of food, rested … and full of spirit. But the bloody Germans had been out under the same rain, and you could bet they hadn’t had any food or rum, and, God damn it, who was winning this war? He took the dead soldier’s rifle, its bayonet already fixed, slung a bandolier of ammunition over his shoulder, and stood ready by the wall, peering forward.
Lucas began to fire, fairly fast. ‘Half-right, sir,’ he shouted, ‘sneaking through the rubble.’ A white Very light rose from B Company’s headquarters and Quentin fired six shots while it was in the air, hitting four Germans, for they were barely fifty yards away. Machine-guns from C Company ahead raked the front in long traverses; but the beaten zone was behind the Germans now assaulting B Company. The German second wave would catch it. Under the Very lights and star shells, and the yellow-red bursts of the British SOS fire, Quentin dimly saw Germans advancing further back, falling in windrows … These nearest ones were the ones who had to be stopped. Campbell’s revolver was barking. Father Caffin was kneeling, watching the spectacle with a strange expression on his face – horror, exaltation, compassion all blended in it; but he was not praying, not at that moment.
Two Germans burst out of the darkness on to them, a huge feldwebel and a Guardsman. Campbell got the soldier and Lucas, swinging round and firing without aiming, shot the feldwebel through the chest. Father Caffin leaped on to the fallen body, grabbed the Mauser pistol he had been carrying, and began shooting. ‘You’re not supposed to do that,’ Quentin gasped.
‘Ach, colonel darling, how could I be sitting out a foight like this?’ the priest yelled.
The Germans came on in one more desperate wave, still only the leading ranks of the assault; the supporting waves lay dead and wounded in the sodden coal dust, caught by the Vickers and Lewis guns of the battalion, and by the artillery SOS fire, now rising to a screaming crescendo, as more and more batteries received fire orders from divisional and corps artillery grids, and joined in.
Now came the Prussian Guard in another attack, as fierce as wolves, wounded, decimated, cornered. Quentin realised that the sentry post he had walked into had become by chance the protective flank of B Company’s right rear, and hence of the whole battalion, for B was on the right, and echeloned slightly back from C at the point, with A on the other flank and D in battalion reserve round headquarters.
The sky was wavering, intermittent bright, darkness chased away. The rifle was growing hot in Quentin’s hands. Father Caffin’s Mauser was empty but he was wresting spare magazines from the dead feldwebel’s pouches, ramming them in, and continuing firing. Campbell had the other dead German’s rifle, and was firing steadily, his revolver in its holster, the flap unfastened. Bullets from B Company swept over and among them, for the main body of the company could not know that in firing at the Germans trying to work round behind them they were also firing at the little party by the wall.
They came, like the first charge, black shadows racing on under the dissected light, steel helmets gleaming, the short ventilation stubs on each side, faces pale, contorted, orange fire rippling from the muzzles of the guns at their hips. ‘Wealds, Wealds!’ Quentin yelled, knowing that none of the regiment could hear him, except the two men so close he could almost touch, and the Irish priest.
‘Wealds, Wealds!’ he heard Campbell’s yell behind him; then a choked gasp. He dared not turn, for the Prussians were twenty feet away. He fired, aimed, fired. The rifle was sent flying from his hand by a savage upwards thrust of a German’s rifle with fixed bayonet. The German toppled forward, a bullet from Lucas through his stomach; then another German fell on top of him, killed by Caffin’s Mauser; then another, killed by some chance shot from elsewhere, for none of the four at the wall could fire – Lucas’s magazine empty, Father Caffin knocked unconscious by a rifle butt on the side of the head, Quentin buried under three German corpses, and Archie Campbell – dead, a single bullet through the heart, lying face up, arms outspread, his mouth wide in the word ‘Wealds!’
Lucas systematically and quickly reloaded his magazine, and stood ready. No Germans. He pulled the bodies off the CO, and as Quentin tried to struggle to his feet said, without taking his eyes off his front – ‘They’ve gone, sir.’
‘Retreated?’
‘To ’eaven, sir.’
Father Caffin groaned, swimming back to consciousness. Quentin knelt by him – ‘Are you all right, padre?’
Caffin groaned again, then muttered, ‘Depends what you call all right … Me head’s splitting …’
Quentin looked round – ‘Campbell? Campbell?’
Then he saw the spread-eagled shape in the dimmer light, for the star shells were fewer and further; but there was no doubt it was Campbell, and there was no doubt, as he knelt over him, that he was dead.
Quentin began taking off Campbell’s watch, identity disc, and paybook, and emptying his pockets. He stuffed what he found into his own pockets; there may have been a snapshot, but he didn’t look, he wouldn’t look, now or later. It may have been of Fiona. It didn’t matter. Everything but the disc and paybook would go to her.
He said, ‘Lucas, are you keeping watch?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A figure approached out of the darkness forward and Lucas growled, ‘Halt! Who goes there?’
‘Kent, Snaky. I’m taking a message to old Rowley from the captain.’
‘I’m here,’ Quentin said. ‘Let me have it.’
‘To say we’ve beat off the attack, sir, and the captain thinks A and C did, too, but he’s sending contact patrols out to make sure.’
Quentin said, ‘All right. Go back and tell Captain Kellaway to be ready to advance half an hour after first light, with tanks in close support … Everyone except the severely wounded will stay with their companies. Everyone. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Off with you, then.’ He stood, the first of the dawn light beginning to spread, a heavy figure in his burberry and steel helmet, and the respirator high on his chest, the rifle still in his hand, looking east towards the rising day.
Lucas was swaying on his feet and Quentin snapped, ‘Are you all right, Lucas?’
‘Me? All sigarno, sir … just a mite ’ungry. Or p’raps it’s the flu.’
‘Don’t you dare! Rejoin your company. You did very well.’ Lucas shambled off, still swaying slightly. Hungry, Quentin thought, also thirsty, and dead beat. But he was an old stiff, he wouldn’t give in.
He turned to Caffin. ‘If you’re feeling well enough
, padre, I’d like you to say a few words over Campbell here.’
The priest said, ‘My head’s still splitting, sir, but … of course. It’ll be in Latin, you know.’
Quentin snapped, ‘I don’t care if it’s in Pushtu. Go on.’
The priest made the sign of the cross over the silent body, it too forming a cross on the black earth, and began to intone:
Miserere mei Dues secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.
Et secundum multitudinem miserationum tuarum, dele iniquitatem meam.
Amplius lave me ab iniquitate mea: et a peccato meo munda me.
Quoniam iniquitatem meam ego cognosco: et peccatum meum contra me est semper.
Quentin listened, his helmet held across his chest in one hand. The dawn breeze was bringing with it the smell of cordite and lyddite, of coal dust and slag, of the sulphur fumes of the chimneys; and under and over them all a deep, continuous low rumble, growing steadily louder and closer.
Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda:
Quando caeli movendi sunt et terra! Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem …
The dead Germans lay as neatly piled in death as Archie Campbell, none in agony or even the contortion of dying. The sound grew louder and Quentin cried aloud – ‘The tanks … I can see them … ten … twenty … thirty tanks … Advance, advance!’
Kyrie eleison. Christe eleison. Kyrie eleison.
Amen.
Battery D was in action behind yet another village. They all looked the same to John Merritt now. Smoke was rising from low hills ahead, where houses burned – houses and other works of man, set afire by the retreating Germans or by American artillery fire; nothing natural was in a state to burn after so many days of rain, though it had stopped now. The ground was sodden but at last beginning to dry out. Six months ago it wouldn’t have mattered; then, the guns were in position and would not move, except short distances, long pre-planned to upset the Germans’ counter battery intelligence. Now, it was different; they moved two or three times a day. The last great German effort had been stopped, on the Argonne, at St Mihiel and Château-Thierry. The armies were advancing.
