Now, God be Thanked

by John Masters

  ‘We’ve got to get on,’ Fred said. ‘The platoon’s fifty yards ahead of us by now.’

  ‘We’ll catch ’em up, sir. Just run, don’t crawl. You too, Jenkins. And you’ll be docked for that cap next pay day!’

  ‘Sergeant, I …’

  ‘’Old your trap! Get moving!’

  They stumbled forward in the darkness and Fred tripped over something, which gave out a shriek and yelled, ‘The Germans!’

  ‘Shut up, man, it’s me – Mr Stratton.’

  ‘Oh. I thought you was a ’Un, coming at me from be’ind, like.’

  Fred got down to his hands and knees, and continued crawling … five minutes … ten minutes … fifteen … The sweat was cold round his neck, inside the tunic collar. He had cut both hands on flints and thorns. He had checked his compass several times, but each time the platoon seemed to be going in a different direction. Why couldn’t he and the platoon move across country the way old Probyn Gorse did? Because they were mostly town men, even here in Kent. The pavements of Hedlington and the Smoke was where they lived, not the woods and fields at night. The gentry spent more time in the country than most working men did, nowadays, so they were better soldiers … this sort of soldier, anyway.

  He found himself staring at a shadow that grew darker and more defined in the ensuing seconds, and finally came close, and stopped. A paler face peered, and a voice grated, ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Stammers? This is Stratton.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, man? You’re half a mile out of position. Can’t you read a bloody compass?’

  ‘There’s no need to swear,’ Fred said stiffly. ‘What are you doing here, then?’

  ‘I’m on a diversionary raid … and ‘I’m in the right place. I know. In Kenya we don’t care about the bloody knives and forks, but we do know how to find our way about a flat plain at night.’

  ‘This is not flat. This is the North Downs!’

  ‘Pimples! … That’s your direction.’ He held Fred’s arm and swivelled him round. ‘And stop crawling, and get on your feet, for Christ’s sake, or you’ll never get there before morning.’

  Fred passed the word to his sergeant and after five minutes of muttering, cursing, and bringing back men who were still crawling obstinately on, the platoon started on a new and, Fred hoped, right line, this time at a smart walk, standing upright. Time enough to change to a crawl when he got near the objective.

  After fifteen minutes, Fred realized that he was hopelessly lost, and his platoon with him. The night was still now, the wind died almost to nothing. The clouds had thinned too, and clusters of stars peered through in glowing masses. He gathered his thirty men round him in a forlorn group, and wondered what to do … If this was manoeuvres, what must it be like in real war, when enemy machine-guns and shells really kept you crawling? And to make a mistake like this would be fatal to you, and to most of your men?

  He crouched down, unfastened the greatcoat from his pack and, with the sergeant’s help, made a little tent out of it. He crouched under it, lit a match, and examined the compass. That was west, the right direction. He might be off the position where he should have been, but not by very far. The only thing to do was to march in the direction given, unless …

  The pop and crackle of blank rifle fire sounded from quite close.

  … march to the sound of the guns, they said.

  ‘Follow me!’ he shouted. Someone must have made contact, meaning that they had reached the recently dug trenches on the down, guarded by two aprons of barbed wire and manned by bayonet-fighting dummies and sandbags dressed to look like German soldiers. The platoon broke into a shambling run. ‘Spread out!’ he called, ‘right and left, like we were before!’

  He drew his revolver, feeling a surge of excitement. This felt better … The barbed wire showed dimly ahead. No sight of anyone else. Firing was increasing, from close to his right. ‘Charge!’ he shouted. His men began firing blank, shooting from the hip. Now they were struggling through the barbed wire. He seemed to have struck a gap, by chance … Strange sounds were coming out of the trench … moaning, calling …

  ‘Wot the ’ell?’ his sergeant muttered, breathless beside him in the wire, struggling to free himself from the barbs without tearing his tunic.

  ‘Sheep!’ Fred cried. ‘Sheep bleating!’

  An ancient voice called in a pure Man of Kent accent, ‘Will you soldiers take yourselves away from my sheep, in the name of God, now?’

  A torch shone in Fred’s eyes and a cold voice said, ‘Who’s this? Stratton? Mr Stratton, would you kindly mind telling me why you have brought your platoon to the south side of the assault line, when it was ordered to be on the north? And half an hour late?’

  ‘Oh, dear!’ a voice cried in the dark, ‘I think I’ve bayoneted a sheep!’

  ‘Wot? Jenkins! You again! You don’t know your arse from an ’ole in the ground!’

  The shepherd appeared, blinking in the light. ‘Thou’ll be paying for the sheep, mister?’

  ‘Of course, of course, my man … Take down all details, sergeant. And you, Mr Stratton, rejoin your company, which is in that direction, one hundred yards away. Do you think you can find them?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And report to me tomorrow afternoon at three for extra compass instruction.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It had started to rain before the column formed up for return to barracks, near 4 a.m., the stars now obscured and the night darker than at any time earlier. The men had been singing Tipperary at first, marching along the old cart track that was Daneway, on the Downs, and Fred had hummed with them. He liked that tune. After the rain began one of the men – there were always one or two in each platoon, who were self-appointed jokesters and cheerer-uppers – began one of the Wealds’ favourite songs:

  We are Fred Karno’s army,

  The ragtime infantry!

  It was sung to a hymn tune, The Church’s One Foundation, known to most before they joined the army and certainly to everyone since. The whole column quickly took it up:

  We cannot fight, we cannot shoot,

  What bloody good are we?

  And when we get to Berlin,

  The Kaiser he will cry,

  Hoch, hoch, Mein Gott,

  What a bloody fine lot

  Are the ragtime infantry!

  That lasted ten minutes, then they sang Wash Me in the Water, another favourite set to an old Salvation Army tune: then gradually the singing died away, and the men trudged on down towards the dim presence of Hedlington in the valley, the slung reversed rifles making a hump in the glistening cape behind each man’s right shoulder.

  While the soldiers were singing, Fred had talked with the sergeant. The routine details had been dealt with: a couple of names taken for minor military crimes; Private Jenkins noted for the loss of his cap – and what they were going to do about the bayoneted sheep, heaven knew, as Jenkins would not be getting any pay for months if he had to pay for that too. As the sheep was dead, perhaps the platoon could club together to buy it, and get the cooks to make an Irish stew out of it for them? The shepherd had apparently promised to let anyone have the corpse as long as he paid for it – fleece and all. Perhaps that would be the best solution. Fred told the sergeant to talk to the men about it, first thing after reveille. Business disposed of, he asked, ‘What is there for the men to do in Hedlington, when they get passes out of barracks, sergeant?’

  ‘Drink, sir. Hedlington’s got more pubs to the acre than any town in Blighty – ’cept p’raps Aldershot.’

  ‘Does anyone arrange dances? Are there places where they can meet people … women?’

  The sergeant laughed. He was an old regular with Boer War ribbons and a leathery face, sent back from the 1st Battalion as an instructor after Ypres. He said, ‘The civvies didn’t want to ’ave anything to do with us before the war … and no one’s told ’em that now their own brothers are in, not just blokes like us.’

&nb
sp; Fred thought, he’s right: Frank and I and Dad and Mum and the girls never had anything to do with the redcoats, before the war. He said, ‘Something ought to be done. The men ought to have something better to do than get drunk. A lot of them are well educated – better than me, to tell the truth.’

  Now it was the sergeant’s turn to keep tactfully quiet. He was well aware that Fred was not a gentleman, except temporarily by virtue of the stars on his sleeves. Fred broke the silence – ‘I’ll talk to someone … see what I can do.’

  ‘Very good, sir … I’d better speak to the men about the sheep before we get in, sir. They won’t be roused till near noon, and if we’re going to get the sheep, we ought to get it early.’

  ‘All right. Carry on.’

  He trudged on, head bowed, rain dripping from his cape and seeping down his back. He’d like to meet a nice hot woman himself, like that parson’s daughter … There was the widow but she’d taken up with one of the town councillors, the councillor also having a wife … and now he was an officer, he had to mind his Ps and Qs. The town women were not for him, not even such as the widow; and the real ladies knew he was not a gentleman, and were polite, but distant. Perhaps he could find another like Carol Adams. No such luck!

  The casualties in this latest battle, round Neuve Chapelle, seemed to have been very heavy. The lists were huge. Most of them were fellows who’d joined up in August and hadn’t been in France long. Perhaps those women were right, and there ought to be conscription. It did seem wrong that some should stay at home and get rich while others were mown down by German machine-guns, to rot in the mud over there. But no one said those fellows had to go. The King asked them, and they went, of their own free will. It wasn’t English to tell people what they’d got to do. They ought to see it for themselves, and then they’d do whatever had to be done. But while that was happening, the best were going … but were they the best, or, like Bill Hoggin said, only the most stupid?

  The sentries at the main barrack gate challenged the head of the column as it tramped up. The column halted, in the darkness – no unnecessary lights were shown anywhere at night, for fear of Zeppelin raids. The major went forward, and gave the password and identified himself. ‘Bloody silly,’ the sergeant muttered beside him. ‘Them buggers know we’ve been out on the Down.’

  Fred knew he should correct the man for using foul language in front of an officer, but he didn’t feel like meeting the little burst of resentment a rebuke would arouse. A moment later, as the column began to move again, he acknowledged that the sergeant would be much happier if he had been put in his place; then he’d know what he was dealing with.

  The company commander yelled orders and the platoons formed into close column. Fred suddenly remembered Naomi Rowland’s face as she shouted at the police. She’d be in trouble at the police station, unless someone had been able to get her out. Someone probably had: her grandfather lived here, and was a big nob in the town; and her aunt, Major Quentin’s wife; and High Staining was on the telephone … but he knew he was only trying to evade his responsibility, as he had earlier by telling himself that someone must be organizing recreation for the other ranks. ‘The subaltern’s pride is the faithful, unsupervised performance of all duty, whether it is dangerous, or – as is far more often the case – it is boring, unrewarding, or unpleasant, and sometimes all three.’ That had been in the colonel’s speech when he welcomed them into the Weald Light Infantry … rather more stirring than the adjutant’s instructions about the regimental tailor, hatmaker, and bootmaker … and on no account to buy shirts of any shade of khaki darker, or lighter, than this – he had fingered his own, a medium shade with a touch of green in it, the correct khaki for Weald Light Infantry officers’ shirts. One was not to be seen dead in any other.

  Now there’d be rifle inspection, collection of unused blank ammunition … it was half-past five, and would be getting light soon. He ought to go up and ask the company commander for permission to leave the parade now – the sergeant was perfectly capable of doing what needed to be done; but he restrained himself. He was an officer, a very junior officer, and must remain till the end, till he had counted the rounds, handed them over, and dismissed the men to their barrack rooms.

  It was the company commander who gave the final order, ‘C Company – dismiss!’ The men came to attention, turned right, snapped the rifles up into their right shoulders, slapped the slings with the flat of the left hand, at the same time whipping their heads to the left, where the company commander stood saluting them … pause to a count of three, then break off and trickle away in the rain, talking in low voices.

  Fred marched up to the company commander. ‘May I have permission to leave barracks for an hour or two, sir? I know two of those women who were in trouble with the police, when we marched out.’

  The captain was in a bad temper. ‘Don’t they have husbands or fathers?’

  ‘One’s the niece of Major Quentin Rowland in the 1st Battalion, sir, and sister of Lieutenant Charles Rowland, who was 2nd Battalion, but I heard he’s been transferred to the 1st, too.’

  The company commander said, ‘All right. Tell the quarter-guard commander you have my permission. Report to me when you get back – no, at noon.’

  The police station was a mile away, down in the heart of the town, behind the Town Hall. A blue light shone over the door of the Victorian building, which was made of the same yellow bricks that had been used for the barracks and the gaol. A chink of light shone through the squared bow-type windows to the right of the door, as Fred went in, to enter a big bare room, furnished only by three benches and a large high desk with an electric lamp on it. A police sergeant was sitting behind the desk, a big constable standing beside him. A woman was standing in front of the desk, the cape on her shoulders still dripping rain. She turned as he came in and he recognized Miss Alice Rowland, old Mr Harry’s daughter. There had been a Rowland car at the kerb outside, its chauffeur dozing over the wheel.

  He saluted, and she said, ‘Why, it’s Fred Stratton! I hope you aren’t in trouble with the police!’

  Fred said, ‘No, miss. I saw Miss Naomi – Naomi – at the gates yesterday evening … there was some trouble but I couldn’t get away till now, and I came down to see if she’s all right.’ He saw her looking at his uniform, and glanced down himself. The harsh light showed that his tunic and breeches were splashed with chalk and clay marks – ‘Manoeuvres on Busby Down,’ he said.

  ‘Naomi and Rachel were arrested for breach of the peace, the sergeant has just told me. Those silly girls refused to give the police their names or anything – said they had done nothing wrong and would not help … so we knew nothing about it until a policeman telephoned – this man here, Constable Waygood. He knows the family and guessed who Naomi was, so telephoned us when he came on duty here. So I came at once. They only got home from Cambridge yesterday!’

  Fred said to the sergeant, ‘The only breach of the peace I saw was when a policeman pushed Miss Cowan, the other young lady, off her feet. And do you realize that Miss Rowland is a granddaughter or Mr Harry Rowland?’

  ‘She’ll have to stand trial, same as anyone else,’ the sergeant said.

  Alice cut in – ‘Quite. But can they not be released now, on my word? You know who I am.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Rowland. Yes, now that we know who they are, I can release them on your recognizances. Joe, let the young ladies out.’

  The constable left the room. Alice turned to Fred. ‘I am so glad for you, Fred – you deserve to be an officer and we’re all sure you’ll do well.’

  Fred said, ‘Thank you, Miss Rowland. I hope Mr Harry and Mrs Rose are well.’

  ‘Father’s all right; mother hasn’t been well for some time. I’m fit … so much so that I feel I ought to be doing much more for the war than I am. I run the Tipperary Lodge here, which is something.’

  Fred had a brainwave. He said eagerly, ‘Miss Rowland, the men up there – the privates and corporals – have nothing to do whe
n they’re not on parade, except get drunk in the pubs. There are no dances, no games, nothing. They can’t meet nice women. Can anything be done for them?’

  Alice regarded him seriously. ‘I should have thought of that myself, months ago. I’ll talk to some other ladies, and some of our men, too … What’s that game the soldiers play, with numbers?’

  ‘Housey housey.’

  ‘We could have that, with our ladies serving tea and lemonade, and perhaps playing the game itself, with the men, for a few pennies. Dances … we’d have to think about that … places to sit and read magazines … perhaps have ladies whom they can talk to about their families. I know how lonely many of them must be.’

  Constable Waygood reappeared, the clump of his boots heard down the stone floor seconds before he appeared, leading Naomi and Rachel. Naomi rushed into her aunt’s arms, half-crying, half-laughing. She didn’t notice Fred, who saluted Alice Rowland’s back and went out quietly.

  Light was creeping like an alley cat down the streets. A newspaper had been thrust through the police station’s letter box and Fred pulled it out and looked at the front page headline – DRESDEN SUNK … then in smaller type on the line below ‘by HMS Glasgow and Penrith at Robinson Crusoe Island.’

  He returned the paper to the letter slot. So the navy had finally wiped the slate clean, after Coronel – four of the Hun ships at the Falklands, in December, and now the fifth and last.

  He found that he was marching at Light Infantry pace, 140 paces to the minute, head up and shoulders back, and the tune that he whistled was his own regimental march, Green Grow the Rushes O! From barracks the quarterguard bugler was blowing Gunfire, the call for early morning cocoa, before first parade.

  Daily Telegraph, Friday, March 19, 1915

  BATTLE OF NEUVE CHAPELLE

  Splendid Story of British Heroism

  The net results of the operations in this quarter on this day were that, not only had our original gain of ground been maintained against repeated counter-attacks, but that further progress had been made by us at some points, notably to the north-west of the village, and that we had captured over 600 more prisoners. By nightfall the German dead lay thick all along our front. Opposite the sector south of the village, there were more than 2000 bodies, and in front of one battalion east of the village were stretched 500 more.