‘Sorry, sir. Mebbe tha can build us a road o’er no-man’s-land.’
Mick’s caustic comment only makes matters worse, and the laughter gets louder. He begins to feel sorry for the young officer. ‘Alreet, you lot, button it. Let’s get up t’shaft.’
Serjeant Bickley, a burly Tyke with several scars that attest to his ruggedness, takes offence. ‘Who the fuck are you to be givin’ orders?’
‘Kenny’s the name, you Tyke twat. Now get movin’.’
His face reddening, Bickley does not move; his colleague, Lance Corporal Laughton, bristles and positions himself at Bickley’s shoulder. Mick stares at the two men impassively. Then he throws a punch with lightning speed. A short right jab, it catches Bickley just below the left eye; he falls backwards, pushing Laughton to one side. Laughton staggers but is able to swing with his left. Mick ducks, just as he has been coached to do by East Lancs pugilists Captain Ross and Lieutenant Tough, and the punch catches Sawyers plum on the side of the jaw, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. Mick is at Laughton immediately, hitting him with a combination of punches that put him on his back in some pain.
Bickley has got back to his feet and rushes at Mick with a shovel. Unfortunately, Mick’s arms are now being held by two powerful clay-kickers who are trying to stop the fighting. Bickley seizes his chance and takes a wild swing at Mick’s head. At the last moment Mick manages to heave the two men restraining him sideways, and the edge of Bickley’s shovel slices into the back of the head of one of them, just behind the ear. There is a sickening noise of fracturing bone and spewing blood, and the man, one of Norton-Griffiths’ Manchester sewer-builders, hits the wet ground with a squelch. Blood is pouring from the back of his head and everyone there knows the man is dead. There is a sudden silence, broken by Mick: ‘Reet, let’s get this fettled. Is Sawyers out cold?’
Bickley, his anger now replaced by fear of the consequences of what he has done, answers with a rasp of anxiety in his voice. ‘Aye, a think so.’
‘Reet, get ’im up top afore he comes round. Haul him up wi’ a rope if tha ’as t’.’
As Bickley and Laughton begin to pull the stricken Sawyers to his feet, Mick tells everybody his plan. ‘Look, we’ve a lad who’s punched an officer; another’s been killed wi’ a shovel. We’re lookin’ at court martials ’ere – firing squads fer sure. Sawyers won’t say owt about fisticuffs, but wi’v got to get this dead ’un into a tunnel, bury him under a roof-fall and make his wound look like ’e’s been clattered by some timber.’
Laughton, still wincing from the punches to his body inflicted by Mick, asks how.
‘Lie ’im on t’ground, crack ’im on t’back o’ th’eed wi’ a big piece a timber; then leave it restin’ on his heed. Then collapse t’tunnel on t’top on ’im. Thi’ll probably ne’er find ’im anyway, cos this lot’s goin’ up t’neet. But just t’ b’ certain.’
Mick looks around. ‘All in fer it?’ he asks.
There are nods all round.
‘Reet, let’s crack on afore this Canadian lad comes round.’
An hour later the deed is done. Mick goes to see Lieutenant Sawyers in his quarters, a refuge deep in the side of a trench not much bigger than the tunnelling shaft out of which they pulled him.
‘You alreet, sir?’
‘Not bad, Serjeant. You miners pack a hell of a punch.’
‘Aye, but tha knows it weren’t meant fer thee?’
‘I know. Don’t worry, the incident won’t be mentioned; it’s already forgotten.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Call me Bas when there’s no one around, I’m not used to this “sir” business. By the way, thank you for standing by me down there.’
‘Well, I spoke out o’ turn; shouldn’t ’ave.’
‘Did everyone get out?’
‘No, one of t’lads, Postlethwaite, one of the Manchester boys, went back to check the fuses. There was a collapse, only a few yards, but he copped it.’
‘Oh dear, the fuses all right?’
‘Yes. All fine.’
‘Did you dig his body out? He was one of Hell-fire Jack’s men.’
‘No, reckoned as tunnel’s bein’ blown t’neet there were no point.’
‘Yes, I suppose so, but it would have been better to have given him a Christian burial.’
‘Aye, but it’s only two hour t’detonation.’
‘Is it? How long was I out for?’
‘Not long, but then tha slept fer a bit.’
The Canadian offers Mick a swig from a bottle of Canadian whiskey he keeps by his bed. ‘So, our job’s done here,’ he says. ‘We’re off to Hooge next, a big one.’
‘Wheer’s that?’
‘Just up the road. Hell-fire Jack says he wants the biggest bang in history!’
‘That’ll tek a lot o’ gunpowder!’
‘He’s not using gunpowder. Our new CO, Lieutenant Cassells, is bringing ammonal from London.’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘Deadly!’
Mick’s Burnley mates Vinny Sagar and Twaites Haythornthwaite have not been with him since early morning. They have been sent to try to rescue a large group of 5th Battalion 1st Lincolnshire Regiment who have been buried alive by a German mine near Ouderdom. With a dozen more tunnellers, they have been working for over twelve hours without a break. So far, they have dug out eleven men, all of them dead, but they are not giving up. A distinct sound of tapping has been coming from below since they started the rescue. Every few minutes they stop, and listen. It’s growing fainter but is still just audible.
‘It’s right under me feet, Twaites, a can still ’ear it. It’s Morse code – SOS – am certain on it.’
Vinny shouts over to the Lincolnshire’s officer supervising the dig. ‘It’s tappin’ out SOS, sir.’
‘Very well done, that man. Keep digging, boys. Let’s have two more over here to help Sagar and Haythornthwaite.’
The pattern of tapping changes. Vinny shouts out again. ‘It’s different now, sir, and stronger again. Dash-dot-dot; dash-dot-dash-dash; dot-dot-dot; dash-dash-dash; dash-dot. That’s it, sir, over an’ over agin.’
‘Excellent work, Sagar.’ The officer checks in his notebook. ‘It’s D-Y-S-O-N, Lieutenant Dyson. He’s alive!’
Cheers go up from the diggers, and from the Lincolnshires who are watching.
Less than five minutes later Twaites’ shovel strikes something metallic: a piece of corrugated roofing. Faint cries can be heard from underneath, and the men scrape the earth frantically from it. A voice, weak and desperate: ‘Quickly, lads! As quick as you can. I’m nearly done for.’
Several men rush forward to help. Together, and aware that every second counts, they quickly but carefully work at the corrugated sheeting. They can’t risk any collapse. They dislodge it without any earth fall and draw it aside.
Beneath is a pitiful figure. So contorted are the khaki torso and limbs, it takes a moment to recognize which part is which. The lower legs are pressed tightly against the upper legs. Above them, like another sardine in a tin – and with its arms pressed hard against its side – is the victim’s body. The head is cocked to one side, its fixed eyes staring out in dread.
Lieutenant Eric Dyson had been speaking on a field telephone when the mine exploded. The roof above his head collapsed on him, pushing his head between his knees and breaking the chair he was sitting on. He ended up on the floor, bent double, winded and unable to move. Tons of earth pressed down on him, but the roofing bore some of the brunt and had saved his life. But for how long? Was his initial survival only a prelude to a slow and agonizing death?
He was in a small pocket of air, but he had no idea how long it would last. Was he to die here, entombed, asphyxiated? He could see nothing, hear nothing. In agony from his contorted position, he was sure his back was broken and he had little feeling in his legs. His torso was clamped close to his legs, his chin only inches from his knees. Unable to see how much space there was around him, he had to rely o
n his instincts, but the messages his senses were sending him were grim. He felt cocooned in soil; earth above his forehead and under his chin, everywhere. The only air hung dense in the small space between his bent knees and the beaten-earth floor. After a while, his blind panic subsided a little and he was able to assess his position. It was hopeless. If he could have reached his revolver, he would have used it, but there was no possibility of him reaching his holster.
Then he heard a distant noise, which, after what seemed an eternity, he identified as the sound of digging. He could move his right hand a couple of inches, so began to tap the telephone handset still in it against the corrugated roof. He remembered his training and turned his frantic tapping into a measured SOS signal. He knew it was only a matter of time before the diggers reached him. But would they come soon enough? He felt crushed, claustrophobic, terrified.
When Lieutenant Eric Dyson is finally pulled from his tomb, he has survived for over fourteen hours. He is very weak and severely traumatized but, apart from some bruising, he has no serious injuries and his back is not broken. The battalion medical officer thinks he will be able to walk properly in a fortnight or so. As for the mental scars, it is hard to know if, or when, they will ever heal.
He is offered the chance of leave, but declines. He asks instead for a large room with windows in the rehabilitation hospital in St Omer. As he is taken away, still curled in a foetal position, he holds out his hand to Vinny and Twaites.
‘Thank you, lads. Your names?’
‘Sapper Sagar, sir, and this is Haythornthwaite, 171st Tunnelling Company, Royal Engineers.’
‘Your CO?’
‘Captain Bliss, sir.’
‘I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. I could hear every strike you made with your shovels – you were relentless. I’ll never forget.’
‘All in a day’s work, sir.’
‘Perhaps, but Captain Bliss will be receiving a crate of Belgium’s finest ale on your behalf. It’s the least I can do to help quench your thirst from today’s digging.’
When 171st Tunnelling Company’s mine under Bellewarde Ridge is exploded at 02:50 hours the whole area heaves into the air, like a chest taking a lungful of air, before settling again. But, close to its epicentre, the blast is much more violent, sending trees, machine guns, trench timbers, sandbags and men, careening into the sky. It is an awesome sight, the like of which Maurice and Harry in their Fusiliers’ trenches have never witnessed before. The sky is still mostly black but, to the east, a rich heliotrope turning to yellow and red marks the first hint of dawn. The half-light, edging them with a soft glow, lends a strange, surreal quality to the silhouetted shapes rising into the sky.
Hundreds of German defenders are killed in a moment. More follow as, seconds later, the British howitzers begin their onslaught. Harry looks around. He feels alone. He is used to having Maurice at his side in battle, but he is many yards away, with his own company. So Harry talks to himself: ‘About bloody time. I thought those hamptons at HQ were gonna wait till it was broad bloody daylight!’
Despite Harry’s cynicism, for once the British attack has been well planned. Three duplicate lines of telephone communications have been laid. Each man has been issued with two extra bandoliers of ammunition and double rations, and each company has been allocated good supplies of wire-cutters, shovels, empty sandbags, signalling flags and Mills grenades, a new invention which the men value highly.
The pre-attack artillery barrage, in three phases, with ten-minute gaps in between, appears to have been a success. It is now 04:25 hours and Harry can see that the German barbed wire has been shredded in several places and that their trenches, in some areas only 50 yards away, appear to be in disarray, having taken many direct hits. Harry checks his watch again: 04:28. Another artillery attack will begin in two minutes, or the signal to attack will send him and the men of his B Company over the top. From where he is, he cannot see his new CO, Lieutenant Brian Edmund Warde. He is just twenty years old, from Kensington, London. The son of a career soldier who was a major in the same regiment, he was educated at Lancing College and Oxford University, before leaving his college to fight. Harry thinks Warde is a nice enough young man and will no doubt serve with distinction, but he feels sorry for him. He is about to be exposed in the most challenging of circumstances but has had no real training and has no credentials to justify his leadership of professional soldiers in battle.
In the distance, Harry can see the battalion adjutant, Captain O’Donel, clamber to the top of the parapet, whistle already in his mouth. This is it. Harry shouts as loudly as he can: ‘Stand to!’
The piercing shrill of O’Donel’s whistle cuts across no-man’s-land, followed by countless others. Then come the roars and cries of thousands of men asserting their lust for battle, their anger, their fear. Just behind his new CO, Lieutenant Charles Wilfrid Bannister, a twenty-two-year-old from Tunbridge Wells, Harry can see Maurice at the head of his company, just part of a huge wall of men moving across the bare ground of no-man’s-land. The German defenders open fire within moments, punching holes in the solid wall of khaki. Harry looks left just as Lieutenant Warde is thrown back over the parapet by the impact of several bullets that strike him simultaneously. His head is jerked backwards, knocking off his service cap. Blood cascades from an exit wound at the back of his neck; his whistle tumbles through the air. His grip on his revolver loosens, and it falls into the trench behind him, quickly followed by his lifeless form. He has made only one step and managed just one strangled toot of his whistle in his first battle. Now his war and his brief life are over. Harry turns away.
‘Steady, lads, heads up!’ he shouts. ‘Keep moving: look for your objectives.’
Bullets cut through the air with whistles and whizzes, except those that strike targets. Then there are thuds and splashes, followed by the screams of dead and dying men. A rake of machine-gun fire strikes the ground in front of Harry. Moving from right to left, the bullets squelch into the ground, making small craters in the clay. He knows that the machine-gunner will adjust his trajectory on his next sweep, but there is nowhere to hide. All he can do is shout to his men: ‘Keep moving!’
Maurice and his company reach the German trenches with relative ease. In the area of his objective, the British artillery has destroyed the barbed wire and 171 Company’s mine has killed most of the Alsatian defenders. Ironically, many of the men from Alsace are native French speakers whose grandparents would have thought of themselves as French. Now they are dying for a country that is attempting to annihilate their motherland. The few German survivors of the explosion soon surrender, so Lieutenant Bannister orders C Company to move on to its second objective. It is only 07:00 hours; the attack is going well.
Again the Fusiliers make good progress, but it is soon halted by the thunder of artillery fire. Maurice turns; the fire is coming from the wrong direction. They are British howitzers: 9.2-inch-calibre monsters, which can make a very big hole in the ground. Maurice dives for cover; the British barrage is falling short, right on top of the advancing British infantry. Either the Fusiliers are moving too quickly – or the gunners’ trigonometry is dramatically askew.
Maurice shouts orders that their signal flags be driven into the ground to indicate their position but soon realizes that there is too much smoke and early-morning mist to allow them to be seen by the range finders. Now his only defence is to force himself as close to the ground as possible and put over his exposed head the shovel he is carrying. The ground beneath him trembles as the massive Lyddite shells rupture Flanders’ fields. The explosions assault his head and ears, as if they are being struck by a blacksmith’s hammer. The barrage lasts for many minutes; he loses count of how many. When it is over, he is covered from head to toe in earth. The dirt is mixed with human remains: the red and pink of flesh, bleached white bone fragments and light grey brain tissue.
Maurice jumps to his feet. C Company is no longer with him – at least not as the group of able-bodied men with who
m he left their trench. Most of them have been obliterated, strewn over no-man’s-land like ground meat. He can see the remains of Lieutenant Bannister, but only because he glimpses a sleeved arm with an officer’s braid on it. He recognizes the mangled bodies of army stalwart Serjeant Billy Berry from Hounslow, wily Private Henry Burns from Bethnal Green and hard-bitten Private Charlie Hankin from Isleworth, a thirty-five-year-old Old Contemptible, a dogged veteran with twenty years’ experience. Maurice had liked Charlie: he was a proper soldier, a man so resolute, so strong, he seemed indestructible … until today. Now he is a smoking pile of khaki and blackened skin.
The remnants of C Company gather around Maurice, a dozen humbled, ragged souls. Stretcher-bearers appear and begin the search for survivors of the bombardment.
Maurice gathers himself. ‘Come on, lads; let’s get the fuck out of this khazi.’
Fifty yards away, Harry is still encouraging his men onwards. ‘Keep moving, lads. Keep –’
But his order is stifled by an intensity of firing that fills the air with overwhelming sounds and sensations. His men are being cut to pieces all around him. There are more stricken comrades on the ground than still moving. The bullets, like hailstones, hit his men again and again, causing sickening injuries. Harry feels nothing in the maelstrom but, in the midst of its ferocity, for Harry, time slows down; the noise of battle recedes. Then there is silence; the light fades. And nothing – a black void.
‘ ’Arry, it’s Mo. Wake up, mate.’
Harry hears the same voice over and over again. He is returning to consciousness. Eventually, he recognizes the voice of his life-long friend.
‘Mo, what the fuck! Where am I?’
‘You’re in a dressin’ station with the Liverpool Scottish boys. This ’ere is Captain Chavasse, the doc we talked to at that hospital in Pop when we was looking for that Taff sniper Hywel – remember?’
‘Yeah, I remember – you sorted out the Welsh boy’s ’and, right, sir?’
‘That’s right, Colour.’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 26