The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  Twaites starts to giggle, which immediately attracts the major’s attention. ‘Serjeant Major Cadwallader!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘The comedian there is called Sagar; the grinning idiot next to him is called Haythornthwaite: both Lancastrians – Burnley boys, baggers – music hall turns, comics! They think General Fowke’s name is amusing. Field Punishment Number 2: one day; they’re to march with us to the Front tomorrow in their stocking feet, no shoes.’

  ‘Very good, sir – no comedians in this company!’

  The major, his face now thunderous, continues. ‘Let me be clear, I’m paying you six shillings and sixpence a day, three times the rate for an infantryman. You’re spared drills and spit and polish, and you’ll be better fed than the average Tommy Atkins. But, in return, I demand bloody hard work, strict professional standards and rigid army discipline. No “if”s, no “but”s – is that clear?’

  Shocked by the change in the major’s tone and by the issue of a rare Number 2 Field Punishment to two of their comrades, there are nods of assent and ‘yes, sir’s’ from everyone in the room.

  ‘So, to continue, I will liaise with General Fowke’s second-in-command, Colonel Harvey, another first-rate engineer who believes in the same techniques as I do. If you come across him, listen and you will learn, but don’t get on the wrong side of him. His nickname is Ducky Harvey not because he waddles like a duck or acts like a girl but because, when he’s angry, you duck!’

  Everyone laughs. The men like the sound of their officers.

  ‘He and I will be responsible for recruiting new men, so that we will soon have nine tunnelling companies, each of at least two hundred men, commanded by a Royal Engineer. We will be the size of two battalions – a formidable force. You are the pioneers, the army’s moles. Tomorrow we march to the Front. Try to keep together and look like soldiers. The rifles you’ve been given are the real thing; if you see any Germans, shoot them! Those of you who’ve come straight from a mine or a tunnel will be shown how to use them by Serjeant Major Cadwallader. Now, get some rest.’

  As Norton-Griffiths leaves, Vinny tugs at Mick’s sleeve. ‘What’s a Field Punishment Number 2 when it’s a’ ’ome?’

  ‘Didn’t yer reckon to owt in trainin’?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Han’cuffs an’ fetters; tha’ll ata walk all way t’Front wi’ ’em on.’

  ‘D’ya mean like ’obblin’ an ’orse?’

  ‘Aye, that’s reet. It’ll learn yer to keep yer trap shut; an’, Twaitesy lad, not t’giggle like a little lass.’

  Kruisstraat, Wulvergem, West Flanders, Belgium

  It is the last night in their billets at Chateau Rosendale for Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait. Tomorrow they will go back into the trenches they vacated only a few days ago. But, if the audacious scheme they have planned comes to fruition, they will be back at the Front even earlier than that. The prospects for their nocturnal mission into no-man’s-land are looking good. The moon is gibbous, only two days before full, and the sky is crystal clear. They are rehearsing their tactics for the night while enjoying a beer in their serjeants’ mess in the chateau’s basement, a poor imitation of their previous abode at Locre.

  The two London veterans are waiting for their rendezvous with Royal Welch Fusiliers sharpshooter Colour Serjeant Hywel Thomas. The two BEF originals look distinctly odd. To the amusement of their fellow NCOs, they are wearing wet-weather ponchos from neck to knee. Most of their colleagues know what they are planning, so there is not too much mickey-taking. Nevertheless, although not apprehensive about their venture, they still feel distinctly self-conscious. They know that their ponchos hide the other bizarre preparations they have made for their derring-do operation.

  They have stripped to their waists, smothered themselves in goose fat, blacked up with boot polish and armed themselves with razor-sharp knives and bayonets. So as not to be the cause of too much mirth, they have left the blacking-up of their faces till later.

  ‘Where’s that Taffy boy? He’s fuckin’ late!’

  While Harry is typically impatient, Maurice, as always, is more relaxed. ‘We’ve plen’y o’ time, ’Arry. It’s only ’arf ten.’

  Ten minutes later Hywel Thomas arrives and sits down next to them. He appears uneasy. ‘Evening, Maurice, Harry. Is the Mess Chairmen here?’

  Harry, surprised, is apprehensive. ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t get annoyed, but I’ve come with an officer. He’d like to help us.’

  ‘Fuck me, Taff, this is strictly an off-limits op. You could get us all court-martialled!’

  ‘He’s a good bloke, he won’t let on; he’s not like that … He’s, well, eccentric, but he can help us.’

  Maurice adopts a more conciliatory tone. ‘Who is this geezer?’

  ‘Major Vernon Hesketh-Pritchard, explorer and big-game hunter. He knows everything you need to know about guns and shooting.’

  Harry is now incensed. ‘A fuckin’ huntin’ an’ shootin’ toff. Don’t tell me, he wears a deerstalker?’

  ‘No, a cowboy hat.’

  Harry looks at Maurice; he is incredulous. ‘You’re fuckin’ jokin’, right?’

  ‘No, he’s outside, with his Buffalo Bill hat. He’s the CO of the army’s new School of Sniping.’

  ‘Mo, ave gotta see this. Who’s the senior NCO in ’ere?’

  Maurice looks around. ‘There’s a Jock CSM over there, an’ a Geordie in the corner. Both looked pissed.’

  ‘Well, we won’t be botherin’ wiv them. Who else?’

  ‘The two of us.’

  ‘Good, then let’s invite Buffalo Bill into our little drum! Hywel, son, get four Crimeas in, on my mess tab.’

  ‘Four what?’

  ‘Beers, son, Charlie Freers, Christmas cheers; Daily Mails – ales! What do they call ’em where you come from?’

  ‘Beers.’

  ‘Fuckin’ Welsh – no imagination!’

  Major Hesketh-Pritchard is well over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, an athletic man who played first-class cricket with W. G. Grace for the MCC and toured the West Indies. All conversation stops when he strides into the dimly lit basement room. Cowboy hat in hand, highly polished cavalry boots catching the lantern-light, and immaculately clean and pressed uniform contrasting with the dishevelled dress of the assembly of front-line soldiers, he is an impressive sight. He nods appreciatively to all and sundry and shouts over to the duty barman.

  ‘Serjeant, a round for everyone, on me. Thank you for inviting me into your mess, gentlemen.’

  His words, delivered with the haughty air of a music hall compere, break the silence to great effect. His greeting is reciprocated with nods and smiles from the gathering, many of whom raise their beer mugs in appreciation. As the animated conversation in the mess resumes, Hywel introduces Hesketh-Pritchard to the two Royal Fusiliers.

  ‘Sir, Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff.’

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen. I’ve heard a good deal about you from CSM Thomas. It is a privilege to meet two highly decorated originals, men who are now being called “Old Contemptibles”.’

  Maurice responds first. ‘Good to meet yer, sir. Dunno about “contemptibles” – sounds like an insult.’

  ‘It was intended to be; apparently, that’s what the Kaiser called the BEF last year.’

  Harry, as strident as ever, answers next. ‘If you arsk me, sir, he’s got an effin’ cheek, old Kaiser Bill!’

  ‘Indeed he has, Colour, a right effin’ cheek.’

  Hywel arrives with the beers, and the serious business of the evening begins with a pointed question from the major.

  ‘I see you’re prepared for a little expedition. What do you have in mind?’

  Harry and Maurice look at one another, worried about revealing their plans, but Hesketh-Pritchard reassures them.

  ‘Gents, this is off the record: I’m in your mess, as your guest. King’s Regs are waived for this op. I’m here to help for two very good reasons. First, Hywel he
re is an absolute natural; you can’t teach what he’s got. His scores on the range are unparallelled, and he’s done it on the battlefield, not something that all crack shots can manage. Now that his hand is healed, I’ve got my first chance to see what he can do. The second reason is that I’m determined to beat Fritz at his own game. In their bountiful and extensive forests, the Germans are a nation of hunters and have no shortage of marksmen. Their elite battalions are called Jaegers, which is German for “hunter”. Other than a few gamekeepers, who shoot with rifles, we shoot with shotguns, so have nothing like the same number of men to pick from. Their scopes are excellent. I estimate they have 1,500 in service, most of them pointed at the Allies on the Western Front, and they know how to use them. We only have a few scopes cobbled together from private sources, but they’ve been given to men without any training. I’ve been checking any I can find. Over three quarters are out of alignment to such an extent that the man using it couldn’t hit a barn door at 50 yards!’

  Harry and Maurice are hanging on every word Hesketh-Pritchard utters.

  ‘Although we have the best rapid-fire infantrymen in the world, we are years behind the Germans in sniping. Some officers from the Guards Division told me the other day that they have stopped wearing their luminous watches, as they attract Fritz’s beady eye. The word around the battalions is consistent: if you put your head where Fritz can see it, he’ll put a bullet in it within moments.’

  Maurice nods in agreement. ‘That’s definitely ’ow it is in our lot.’

  ‘Let me give you one startling fact from BEF HQ in St Omer. Since the beginning of the year, each British combat battalion has lost an average of twelve to fifteen men a week to snipers, almost all of them clean head-shots.’

  The three men at the table find that number incredible, as do those eavesdropping on nearby tables.

  ‘Last week, one bored Fritz near Aubers Ridge, in between shooting British soldiers, spent the day carving out a crucifix on a barn door. The range was over 200 yards and, when he’d finished, the cross looked like it had been carved by a master craftsman. So you see, I’m here with very serious intent: instead of cowering in our trenches, your adventure and others like it are what we should be doing every day. So your laudable expedition is safe with me, and I’m happy to authorize it here and now.’

  Maurice and Harry nod to one another. Maurice smiles as he outlines the plan.

  ‘Very well, sir. We’re gonna do it the old soldiers’ way; we’ve greased up, blacked up, an’ we’re goin’ in like Gurkhas, dagger in the belt, bayonet in the teeth. The Fritz snipers in our sector ’ave two or three men on their night shift. They’re active until abaht 02:00 hours. We was gonna lie low in a shell ’ole or some other cover until we spot one of ’em in ’is ’ide. Then we’ll crawl up to ’im on two sides an’ ’ave ’im!’

  ‘I see. Shame you don’t have kukris.’

  ‘That’s what we thought, sir.’

  ‘Well, I think I can help.’

  Hesketh-Pritchard gestures to his batman, Private Greaves, who is sitting at the bottom of the basement steps. The young soldier picks up a large kitbag and brings it over to the table. Hesketh-Pritchard rummages around in it before producing two fearsome knives the size of a man’s arm.

  ‘There you are: a Gurkha kukri and a Malaysian golok.’

  Harry is impressed. ‘Does yer always carry round yer own personal arsenal?’

  ‘I do. Well, my man Greaves does. You should see my collection of guns. I have a Holland & Holland Magnum in my car, an elephant gun that is accurate at over 500 yards. Thought it might be jolly useful; Fritz has taken to skulking behind steel plates, which a bullet from an ordinary Lee-Enfield won’t penetrate. But my Magnum will punch a hole straight through it.’ Grinning broadly, he pauses for effect. ‘And straight through the bugger hiding behind it!’ he resumes. ‘I’ve also got a box of our new Mk III Aldis telescopic sights. They are excellent. If properly adjusted and in the hands of a top marksman, they can take out a sparrow’s eye at a quarter of a mile. They’re based on one that CSM Thomas acquired for us from a German sniper last year.’

  Hywel’s eyes light up at the thought of a high-velocity gun with a range over 500 yards. Harry’s eyes are also full of admiration. He likes the officer with the double-barrelled name and the cowboy hat. To Harry, he is a proper gent and a proper soldier.

  ‘Sir, your batman is welcome to a drink wiv us. He can put it on my tab.’

  ‘Thank you, Colour. Now, how can CSM Thomas help you with your op?’

  Maurice responds. ‘As cover, sir. We thought that, if we got rumbled, Hywel could keep Fritz’s head down so we can get back to our line.’

  ‘I understand. Well, gentlemen, I think your ruse is a fine and brave effort, but very hazardous. I also fear your chances of success are not high. I think we can improve them, however, and that Thomas can do better than give you cover. I have brought something for you which will mean you don’t have to get cold or put yourself at risk.’ Hesketh-Pritchard smiles smugly. ‘Shall we show them, CSM Thomas?’

  Private Greaves, who was in the middle of a swig of his beer, disappears up the basement steps to retrieve something from Hesketh-Pritchard’s car. Moments later, he returns with a large box, from which he removes an object covered in brown cloth, and hands it to his officer. Like a magician on stage, the major pulls off the cloth: ‘There!’

  Instead of a round of applause for the magician’s trick, there is a stunned silence from Harry and Maurice. Several of the NCOs nearby also fall silent, then there are outbursts of sniggering and laughter.

  The major is undaunted. ‘So, gentlemen, what do you think? It’s papier mâché, cheap to make; I am having dozens made.’

  Harry does not hold back. ‘It’s a painted bald head, sir!’

  ‘How perceptive of you, Colour. But it’s a very clever bald head. We call him Tommy, after Tommy Atkins.’

  So what? is the question Harry is asking himself.

  ‘Your cap, please, and your fag.’

  Still bewildered, Harry hands over his service cap and half-finished Sweet Caporal. The major places the cap on the papier mâché head and the lit cigarette into a small hole in its mouth. He then stands and asks that all except one of the mess lanterns and candles are extinguished.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. This will only take a moment. Imagine a typical night in the trenches.’

  He removes the cigarette to take a deep draw on it, and puts it back. Using the muzzle of his revolver, he then hoists the head high into the now dimly lit basement. The derision that accompanied the appearance of the dummy head is replaced by gasps of amazement. With a cigarette glowing in its mouth, its painted moustache and sideburns under its genuine cap look convincing, even from as little as ten yards it could easily be mistaken for a careless Tommy Atkins taking the night air while enjoying a quick fag.

  ‘You see, Colour Serjeant Woodruff, it could be you, or any other British soldier who happens to put his head above the parapet.’

  There are appreciative comments from all observers.

  ‘But I have something else for you. I am having these made by the score as well.’

  This time Private Greaves produces a long, rectangular box and hands it to Maurice.

  ‘It’s a simple periscope for the trenches. Again, cheap to make: three reflective mirrors allow you to see the position of a sniper without putting yourself in danger. And finally, Greaves, if you please.’

  Private Greaves produces yet another surprise, this time a large bag, and passes it to his officer.

  ‘This is my final contribution to your worthy mission.’

  The major reveals a canvas, balaclava-style hood with sewn slits for eyes, nose and mouth. It is camouflaged with green, brown and beige paint and covered with foliage so that it looks like a small clump of wintry ground.

  ‘They are made for me by a group of elderly ladies in Eastbourne. We call them Eastbourne Grannies. They can be tailored to different c
ountryside and different seasons. With one of these on and a camouflaged rifle, it is almost impossible to see you in your lair.’

  The major pauses to let the impact of his revelations sink in.

  ‘So this is how we nail Herr Scharfschütze.’

  ‘Wot’s one o’ them when he’s at ’ome?’

  ‘Our target, CSM Tait: that’s what they call their marksmen.’

  ‘Bloody darft language if you arsk me!’

  ‘So, gentlemen, shall we get to work? CSM Woodruff, you’re the dummy …’

  Maurice cannot resist. ‘Good choice, sir!’

  ‘Forgive me, Colour, but someone has to be the dummy. You place the head where it can be seen. Now, here’s the skill: you have to be subtle about it. Fritz will be suspicious if the dummy bobs around like a circus clown.’

  Harry is a convert and hanging on every word. ‘Understood, sir.’

  ‘Now, CSM Tait, you and I have the vital job of trying to see the source of the sniper fire. To help with this, when Herr Scharfschütze hits Tommy, we can use the trajectory of the entry and exit points to help us source the origin of the bullet. While all that is going on, CSM Thomas and I will be secreted away, wearing our Eastbourne Grannies. CSM Thomas will use my Magnum – suitably camouflaged, of course, while I support your work with the periscope with my ship’s telescope. We will be his spotters. By triangulating the bullet into the dummy and our sightings, we should be able to pin him down. Then we will be ready to plug Herr Fritz – perhaps two or three of them.’

  Everyone in the mess, all of whom are now watching and listening to Hesketh-Pritchard’s demonstration, is amazed.

  ‘Any questions?’

  Harry and Maurice answer in unison: ‘None, sir.’

  ‘Good, it’s eleven fifteen. How far to the trenches?’

  ‘Twenty-five minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Perfect. Gents, you can rub off your grease and boot polish and get dressed. Let’s go to war!’