‘Isn’t that a huge security risk?’
‘You’re damned right it is!’
After breakfast the next morning Winston has a private conversation with Asquith. Notoriously unable to grasp the nettle of difficult decisions, the Prime Minister has been equivocating for weeks about the various options for a new front against Germany. Winston still favours a new theatre in the north, with the seizure of the German island of Borkum being his preferred choice, followed by an invasion of the Schleswig-Holstein mainland with the support of the Russians. However, there is strong support, especially from Lloyd George, for an operation in the south, against Germany’s allies, the Turks, a plan which Winston thinks is not without merits.
‘Prime Minister, a good dinner last night, was it not?’
‘Indeed, very good. I imagine Margot was probing you about Beauchamp?’
Winston looks away awkwardly. ‘Yes, she was a little. She thinks he’s a bit of an old fruit.’
‘She’s right, but he covers up well.’
‘Really, I had no idea. I can only think of what the old King used to say when another sodomite came to light: “I thought men like that shot themselves!” ’
Asquith smiles. ‘If that were true, Winston, there would be piles of dead men littering the streets of St James’s from Piccadilly to Pall Mall. Now to more pressing matters. What am I to do about a new front? I’ve read your report about the northern theatre several times. It’s compelling in the main, but I hear that there are some wise heads in your own Admiralty War Group who think it, to quote them, “preposterous”, and that you are – forgive me for repeating their words – “ignorant and impulsive”.’
Winston is annoyed, but not surprised, that the views of dissenters in his ranks have reached the ear of the Prime Minister. ‘That will be Bertie Richmond, my Assistant Director of Ops. He thinks I’m quite mad, and apparently is so vindictive about me that he says openly that I ought to be hanged for treason.’
‘A little harsh, I feel! Why don’t you fire him?’
‘That would be foolhardy. It’s always good to have sceptics around to curb one’s rashness, even if they are a damned nuisance. Besides, he’s clever in a fiendish sort of way and knows which end of a ship is which, not an attribute with which everyone at the Admiralty is blessed.’
‘That’s unusually generous of you, dear boy.’
‘I’m not quite as blinkered as some suggest, and I’m not always right.’ Winston grins and playfully cocks his head to one side. ‘But I’m rarely wrong. In fact, come to think of it, I can’t recall the last time …’
‘You know, Winston, being Prime Minister can be very dismal, surrounded as I am by some very grey men, which is why I prefer the company of women – but you’re never dull, far from it. God bless you.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
‘Please call me Henry when we’re alone, I prefer it to Herbert, which is too reminiscent of my plebeian Yorkshire roots, and certainly to Squiffy, which I know is my nickname among my enemies.’
Winston looks down at the floor, startled that Asquith knows about his derogatory nickname, a reference to his heavy drinking.
‘Surprised? It’s one of the many drawbacks of being PM. The security reports I read from Scotland Yard often include direct references to me. Some are much worse than that!’
As if to make a point, Asquith goes over to a table at the side of the room. There, under the stern glare of a huge portrait of a self-righteous Duke of Wellington, sits a tray of crystal decanters and matching tumblers.
‘It’s eleven, Winston; a loosener before lunch?’
‘Thank you. A watery malt will do very well.’
‘So, what’s it to be? North or south? I’ve got you for Borkum; Lloyd George wants Salonika or Dalmatia with the Greeks; John French is talking about how we could go in with the Montenegrins and that he could spare a division to stiffen them – not that Kitchener would stand for it; Kitchener himself favours Gallipoli through the Dardanelles, but only with your navy, not his army; while a few others, including your good friend F. E. Smith, have talked about Smyrna or Ephesus. What are we to do? You can’t all be right.’
‘As you say, my firm preference is for Borkum in the north. Landings in the Balkans, in Palestine or an attack through Syria all have merits, but I don’t believe we can force the Dardanelles without men from France, men that Kitchener won’t release.’
‘What do your admirals think about the Dardanelles?’
‘Well, you know what Richmond thinks – that I’m a blithering idiot – but I’m waiting for a response from Vice-admiral Carden, in command of the Eastern Med.’
‘What about Fisher and Wilson?’
‘In favour, in the main, but Jacky Fisher grows more and more unpredictable by the day.’
‘When do you expect to hear from Carden?’
‘He’s sent an initial reply, which suggests it’s possible by ship alone, but asked for more time. I think we’ll have his full report within forty-eight hours.’
‘Very well. Let’s make a final decision in War Council as soon as we’ve absorbed Carden’s report.’ Asquith raises his glass. ‘Is he a good man?’
‘Not bad. Getting on a bit.’
‘Aren’t we all? To his health and his wisdom. We can’t have another year like the last one.’
‘Hear, hear, Henry, and, if I may, a toast to the boys at the Front. God bless them.’
‘Indeed, I would do anything to bring them home.’
‘We will get them home … and with the gleam of a glorious victory in their eye.’
‘I hope so, Winston, I hope so.’
Saturday 16 January
Kemmel, West Flanders, Belgium
‘What’s the time, Mo?’
‘Quarter to five.’
‘Nearly pitch bloody black an’ it ain’t fuckin’ tea-time yet! Can’t wait fer them longer days. I ’ate winta.’
Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait have met for a cigarette at an agreed rendezvous point in the trench between their two companies. After four days in yet another new billet at Westoutre, 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers has just arrived back in the trenches at Kemmel, six miles south-west of Ypres, where it has relieved 2nd Battalion South Lancs and 1st Battalion Honourable Artillery Company. Fourth Fusiliers is positioned on the extreme right of the 9th Infantry Brigade, itself the right flank of the BEF’s 3rd Division, part of General Horace Smith-Dorrien’s II Corps of the BEF.
Kemmel, its indistinct little red-brick houses and modest arable farms inconspicuously drab, is yet another West Flanders village that has lain dormant for centuries but which is now on the battle-line of the greatest war in history.
Not for the first time in the past few days dusk has brought a flurry of large flakes of wet snow. The thick blanket that is forming, which seems to muffle all sounds, will soon transform the landscape from one of dim silhouettes to one of sharp, pencil-grey outlines.
‘Snow! That’s all we need.’
‘Stop bloody whinin’, ’Arry. I came up to ’ave a fag wiv yer and all you do is moan abaht the weather.’
‘Well, it’s enough to send yer doolally tap.’
Maurice changes the subject. Harry has always been a moaner, but this war, now into its sixth month, has made him much worse. ‘Wot do yer make of the new colonel – Campbell? S’pose he’s a Jock?’
‘Dunno. Seems all right, only seen ’im once. He’d only been ’ere a couple of days when he inspected my company. He woz climbin’ down into the trench when he tripped over ’is own plates o’ meat an’ sprained ’is bleedin’ ankle! I ’ope ’e does better when it comes to a proper bull and cow wiv Fritz.’
Harry shakes his head contemptuously and takes a deep lungful of smoke from his cigarette. ‘I ’ate these black Sober-annies. I ’ear the toffs smoke ’em; I think they make ’em outta dog-shit an’ black treacle! You got any Willie Woodbines?’
‘Nah, these are all right, though. Got ’em orf an i
njured Fritz officer who woz brought through Locre. All he wanted for ’em was a drop o’ rum.’
The snow is coming down heavily. It is depositing a thick coating on the hand-knitted woollen scarves, gifts from the Red Cross, which the two serjeants are wearing over their Standard Dress army caps. To his amusement, their headgear reminds Harry of a confectioner’s pie. ‘Fuck me, Mo, yer look like you’ve got a dollop o’ cream on yer crust!’
‘Very funny, and you look like a twat in a girl’s bonnet!’
The laughter the two images creates is suddenly curtailed. They can hear hurried footsteps in the mud of no-man’s-land; there is the heavy breathing of someone approaching only a few yards away. Is this a surprise attack? Someone clambers into the trench. They are only feet away, but it is impossible to identify who it is. Both men raise their rifles and aim at a shadowy shape coming towards them out of the blizzard. Suicidal Germans have been known to launch frenzied attacks in the middle of the night. But instead of the pickelhaube helmet of a German foe, they see the peaked cap of a British friend. Harry bellows at the intruder. ‘Identify yourself, you bloody idiot!’
The reply is breathless and inaudible but clearly emanates from an Englishman; a well-spoken one at that.
An earnest young face appears. Maurice and Harry stiffen to attention as they recognize the three pips on the young captain’s uniform. Maurice speaks before Harry, knowing full well that his comrade will have recognized the cavalry insignia and will be thinking: Another clueless cherry bum!
‘You a bit lost, sir?’
‘I might be, a little. I was going to our right but now realize that 3rd Division ends here. I did shout over to some of our lads further down the line and told them that I was looking for 3rd Division HQ.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, they told me to fuck off, and that I was going the wrong way.’
‘Well, sir; you’ve now found the end of the sector: we’re it. I’m CSM Tait. This is CSM Woodruff, 4th Royal Fusiliers.’
‘Very good, what a relief. Captain Aubrey Smythson, C Squadron, 15th King’s Hussars.’ Smythson’s voice is breaking; he is in shock. ‘I was doing reconnaissance on a small mound just beyond our trenches with my serjeant. The snow started to fall, so we took some cover in an old shed. A flare went up and – bang! – my poor serjeant, John Waddle from Gateshead, wife and three kids …’ He pauses to fight back a tear. He tries to compose himself. ‘… shot by a bloody sniper. Killed him stone dead, with a shot just above the eye. Thank God he didn’t feel a thing; he was dead before he hit the ground.’
Harry sees that Smythson’s hands are shaking. He is very pale and has noticeable beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘I’m very cold, Colour, and a bit ashamed that I had to leave Waddle out there. But he’d gone down a shell crater and, when I tried to pull him out, I couldn’t get a good footing.’
Harry’s annoyance has subsided. The lad might be another cherry bum, but he is a forlorn and frightened one. And Harry knows how that feels; every soldier does.
‘You were right to leave ’im. That sniper would’ve plugged you for sure ’ad you tried to drag ’im.’
Maurice offers him one of his Sobranie cigarettes. ‘Would you like one o’ these, sir?’
‘Good heavens, where did you get those? They’re my mother’s favourite.’
‘Orf a Fritz officer, for a tot o’ rum.’
‘Not my style, I’m afraid. Have one of these – good old British fags, Capstan Navy Cut.’
Harry grabs one with relish. ‘Thank you, sir.’
As Smythson tries to light his Capstan, his hand trembles so much he fails to get the match close to the tip of his cigarette. He realizes that the two fusiliers have noticed his anxiety, which only adds to his woes. ‘Actually, I am a little off beam,’ he says. ‘I need to get back to HQ. Do you mind … ?’ The young officer pauses, his knees buckle and he staggers forwards. ‘… I … need to …’
Maurice grabs Smythson under his armpits to steady him. ‘Sir, where’s your battalion? Is it near to HQ? You might be better off there – we can send a messenger to your CO, telling him that you’re reporting sick.’
Smythson becomes a little incoherent, as if he’s been drinking heavily. ‘… I’m not sure where they are, I only arrived in Flanders on New Year’s Eve. I was sent up to HQ and they went into billets at Locre, but I think they’ve moved since.’
Maurice and Harry realize that, although Smythson has three pips on his epaulettes, he is but a boy in this horrific world of muck and bullets. Maurice asks a pointed question. ‘Sir, if I might ask, if you’re new to the Front, why are you out doin’ a recce on a night like this?’
‘My CO thought it would be good for me to get the lie of the land.’
Harry cannot resist passing comment. ‘Then, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so, sir, the man’s a right crown an’ anchor.’
Smythson looks at Maurice quizzically.
‘A wanker, sir; it’s Cockney rhyming slang.’
‘I see. CSM Woodruff says what he thinks, doesn’t he?’
‘He does, sir, always has. Hope you don’t take offence.’
The young captain smiles for the first time. ‘No, Colour, don’t worry. Actually, his assessment is not far off the mark.’
Both Harry and Maurice smile back. Maurice takes the young man’s arm. He seems calmer. ‘ ’Ave a sit down ’ere, Captain. So, are yer from the Reserve?’
‘No, India. I served with the Duke of Connaught’s Lancers in Bombay for six years, where I made Captain. I came home in December and got myself a transfer to the Hussars.’
‘Tot o’ rum, sir? I ’ave a little ’ip flask ’andy.’
‘Have you now? Don’t s’pose I’ll be missed at HQ for a while … Thank you, most kind.’
Harry cannot resist another barbed remark. ‘Not in this blizzard, you won’t. They’ll all be sittin’ on their fat fifes an’ drums, warmin’ themselves on loverly warm braziers an’ scoffin’ Maconochies.’
Smythson looks puzzled again. Maurice clarifies.
‘Fifes and drums, sir – bums.’
‘How amusing. You must teach me more, it will go down very well in the mess after dinner.’
‘I’m sure. ’Arry will always come an’ do a turn for yer, won’t yer, ’Arry?’
‘Bollocks I will!’ Harry looks up to a clearing sky. ‘Come on, sir, we need to get you back. The clouds are breakin’. This isn’t a safe place to wander around in with that sniper abaht; he’s got eyes like a bleedin’ ’awk.’
‘But it’s the dark of the moon?’
‘I know, Captain, but he’ll see yer if yer stick your ruby red above the parapet.’
Maurice begins to translate again.
‘No, wait, Colour. Ruby red – head; is that right?’
‘Spot on, sir, we’ll soon be makin’ a Cockney outta yer. Come on. I’m going back to C Company, my Gates of Rome. Stay close.’
‘Gates of Rome?’
‘Got yer that time, sir: Gates of Rome – home.’
‘Of course! Very good. I do like your rhyming slang.’
Smythson shakes hands with the two fusiliers. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for the rum and the lesson in linguistics.’
Now Harry looks bemused. ‘What’s lingistics, sir?’
‘Linguistics, Colour – languages. But, most of all, thank you for straightening me out. I was a bit Mazawattee for a while.’
Harry smiles at the officer in an earnest, fatherly way. ‘We all get that way from time to time. I do almost ev’ry bleedin’ day.’
Maurice and Smythson begin the long, awkward traverse of the trench towards the north-west. It is impossible to move at any speed or with any steadiness. There is almost a foot of water in the pit of the trench and, beneath that, almost the same depth of cloying mud. There are duckboards in certain places, but timber is in short supply and most are ramshackle at best. T
here is an all-pervasive stench that is all but unbearable, created by improvised sanitation and the putrefying bodies which still lie in no-man’s-land. To make matters worse, after the fall of snow the clear skies are allowing the temperature to plummet to well below freezing.
As the two men navigate one of the zigzags of the trench bulwarks, less than 50 yards from where they left Harry, they see the red glow of a fire.
Maurice shouts as loudly as a hushed voice will allow: ‘Who’s lit a fuckin’ fire? Douse it, you twats!’
Both men begin to run towards the glow. As they get closer they see that a group of men have turned an old grease tin into a small brazier.
Maurice rushes forwards and kicks the tin and its contents into the bottom of the trench, extinguishing the flames. ‘You cunts! Fritz can see that for miles.’
‘Sorry, Colour, but Fritz can’t see this little glow down ’ere – unless he can see round corners!’
Maurice raises his fist to strike a fresh-faced corporal, the most senior man there, who cowers in terror. As he is about to strike, a bullet splats into the trench just in front of him.
‘Down! Everyone down!’ Maurice ducks as low as he can in the trench, then looks around to check that everyone has done the same. It is only then that he realizes that Captain Smythson is still standing. He grabs the officer’s belt and pulls him on to his knees, which splash into the muddy water, sending waves halfway up the trench wall and soaking everyone to the skin.
Squinting through the gloom, the veteran Fusilier peers at Smythson. His eyes are wide open in a fixed stare; his impassive face seems frozen in time but his knuckles are white with strain. They are at his throat, as if he is trying to strangle himself. But it is not an act of suicide, it is a desperate act of self-preservation. The bullet that just missed Maurice had already found its mark. It had entered Smythson’s neck marginally to the right of his spine and exited to the left of his Adam’s apple, severing both his carotid artery and jugular vein and destroying his larynx.
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 6