by John Masters
He tried to breathe normally. The Germans must be advancing, but he could see no one. Should he go back, and try to collect his platoon? They were having it worse than he, for they were still in the moving cloud, moving with the wind.
He had been ordered to hold the position. He called to Knapp, ‘Are you all right, sar’nt?’
‘Think so, sir … Gawd, that was awful! Shall I take Stratton and try to get some of those silly bastards back, sir?’
‘No. The reserve companies will stop them, and send them back up soon.’ He coughed violently for a full minute, then choked out – ‘We’re staying. The machine-gunners … left their gun … there … you and Stratton … work it.’
Quentin’s A Company had been immediately behind B in that day’s advance, and had been able to dig deeper trenches during the night, for two GS cart loads of picks and shovels had reached them about midnight. No one had slept all night, working. Quentin had visited each of his platoons half a dozen times during the hours of darkness, and himself worked an hour with a pick, thinking of Guy’s letter; and another received from Virginia, written a week earlier, mostly about how she hated Cheltenham Ladies College. He wondered why there had been nothing from Fiona. His thoughts were not happy ones; but they had made him dig harder.
The dawn gas attack came before tea or food had been sent up. As his men tried to piss on their handkerchiefs, Quentin forgot that he was supposed to do the same, as binoculars to his eyes, he stood in his trench, watching the greenish cloud roll slowly over B Company. German artillery fire increased, but it was not accurate. Quentin thought that their observers’ view was partially blocked by their own gas.
Figures appeared out of the gas cloud, running, and Company Sergeant Major Vickery, at Quentin’s side, cried, ‘Here they come!’
Quentin dropped the binoculars: ‘They’re ours! … Quick, get some men, spread out here – stop them any way you can – butt, fist, trip … shoot if they won’t stop.’
He jumped up, arms spread. Vickery was bellowing – ‘Up, up! Stop them!’ The running British soldiers approached, veering, weaving, falling.
‘My Gawd!’ Vickery muttered: Quentin saw it at the same time: an officer, running with the others, the sleeve badges clear. Quentin knew who it was, but could not bring himself to say the name aloud, or even to himself. Then the staggering rout was on him and Quentin saw their faces close to; and knew at once that these men were not themselves. He ran to the officer, faced him, and caught him by the shoulders and yelled in his face: ‘Halt, you!’ The lieutenant tried to struggle free, moaning and gasping. Gobs of yellow phlegm spattered Quentin’s muddy tunic; for a few seconds the lieutenant fought like a madman, possessed of fearful strength in spite of his growing disability; then, without warning, he collapsed.
Vickery and a dozen other NCOs and men had stopped most of the others; a few staggered on, heedless, but when Quentin saw a corporal near him raise his rifle to shoot one such in the back, he signalled wearily, ‘Let him go, Nunnelly … I’m afraid he won’t go far.’
Nor did he, stumbling, running forward, falling again, to fall and not move, less than fifty yards on. The gas cloud was close on A Company now, and the German shell fire, already falling over, lengthened the range and fell still further towards the rear. Quentin knelt by his trench, a long half-minute, staring at the gas wall, wavering, advancing, baring holes, which soon closed again … that eerie monster had broken the Weald Light Infantry where Napoleon’s Old Guard had not been able to, nor the Sikhs at Chillianwallah, nor fifty squadrons of French cavalry at Minden. It was a damned disgrace. That bloody gas had to be taught a lesson. He pulled out his whistle and blew it fiercely, then yelled at Vickery, ‘Advance! Pass the signal to all platoons!’ He swept his right hand forward in the signal ‘Advance!’
His platoon commanders saw him, and at first thought he must have gone mad. In a few seconds they understood, and to right and left the men of A Company rose from the muddy earth, looking like second-rate actors playing brigands in a third-rate play, piss-stained handkerchiefs wrapped over nose and mouth and advanced. Through the handkerchiefs Quentin heard a ragged muffled cheer. His blood raced as it had not since he saw the Field Artillery rescuing their guns at Le Cateau. The company was attacking, attacking the infamous, filthy cloud. He wished he had a bayonet to stab it with … then they were in it, gasping, choking, he reeled as his eyes closed involuntarily against the smarting stab of the gas. Two more shallow breaths, then he was out. The air was clean, the denser part of the rolling cloud behind them, only stray trendrils creeping along the torn earth, clinging round their knees. The company stumbled on, but at a faster pace. Quentin knew the men, he knew they were wildly excited now, for they had attacked the gas, and beaten it. He saw holes in the ground ahead, heads and shoulders and peaked khaki caps. He saw his nephew, tore off his useless handkerchief and shouted, ‘Up, up, Boy! Charge!’
Boy jumped up, a handful of men with him, and joined the sweep of A Company. On the right more men in khaki were running forward. The whizzbangs were on to them, but obviously couldn’t see clearly, or did not realize that the British were advancing, not retreating, for after a few accurate shell bursts, most of the rest fell far behind. As they moved forward, the ground began to be covered with corpses, here and there a body still moving. Canadians, Quentin saw. My God, they must have fought hard! When was it – yesterday, the day before, a week ago? Windrows of Canadians, facing in every direction in death, and Germans as dense over the sodden fields, the hedges, round the trunks of the willows … A farm building loomed ahead and then they were in it … grey shapes rising out of the grass, appearing from behind walls, jumping from piles of manure. His revolver was in his hand, God knew how, Vickery’s rifle blazing at his ear, a German throwing up his hand, falling … the clack and slap of bullets loud in his ears, and then the same sound he had eard before – a ragged, gasping cheer. The Germans had gone … some lying where they had fallen, some crawling, some wounded to death, some with hands up, some running away across the field, among the brown and white cows, some grazing placidly, some legless, some dead.
The German artillery began bursting shrapnel over the farmhouse. A wooden wall caught fire. Smoke towered eastward in a dense column. At Quentin’s shoulder his nephew said, ‘Wind’s changed again, sir. There’ll be no more gas.’
Quentin nodded: he’d never have thought of that. By God, the farmyard, too, was full of dead Canadians. He and Boy looked at the corpses in silence for a time, then Quentin said, ‘They were the fellows who filled the hole when the Algerians first ran. God knows where we’d all be now, if it wasn’t for them.’
He turned away. There’d be a counter-attack, unless he could get the CO to bring up the rest of the battalion and force onward from where A had got to. A runner appeared with a message. Vickery read it aloud. ‘From the CO, sir. Withdraw to St Julien-Wieltje road … same formation as for the attack, just about turn.’
Quentin said, ‘All right.’
Boy said, ‘Couldn’t we stay, sir? They’re probably expecting us to attack.’
Quentin said, ‘No … Orders.’
Vickery said, ‘Another runner, sir … the colonel’s killed, sir. Shell fire. So’s Major Bergeron. They must have been together. You’re the commanding officer – this is from the adjutant. The previous orders were from brigade.’
Quentin said, ‘Start the withdrawal at … nine ack emma. Write a simple message for me to send out to all companies, sar’nt major. Where’s Captain McDonald?’
‘With the reserve platoon, sir.’
‘Send for him to take over. I’m going back to battalion headquarters.’
‘’Ope you can get us some more fire from them gunners, sir.’
‘I hope so, but they swear they’re short of ammunition.’ He looked at his nephew closely for the first time. ‘Boy, you’re wounded.’
Boy’s face was pale and strained, one sleeve torn and bloodstained. He said, ‘A shell splinter cut i
t hours ago. Then I got a bullet – very slight.’
‘Does it hurt?’ Quentin asked. He’d never been wounded and couldn’t imagine what it felt like.
Boy said, ‘Burns like the dickens, sir.’ He coughed violently, his eyes bulging.
‘You’d better come back with me.’
‘I’ll stay with the company, sir. Till we get back, at least.’
‘I’ll look after him, sir,’ Private Stratton cut in anxiously.
Quentin nodded and said, ‘I’m going, then.’ He started back with his batman, heading south-eastward, the way he had come barely half an hour since. Soon the companies would be following, in retreat again, as at Le Cateau. But he knew that they were not depressed: they had overcome panic and gone to the enemy with the bayonet; and they had seen, in the harvested sheaves of the Canadians, how men could fight. He had been unfair to shout at those wretched men of B Company that they were indeed Contemptible. For one thing, they had been overcome by something more primitive than ordinary fear of death or wounds: and for another, they were not the old Contemptibles of Mons and Le Cateau and 1st Ypres. They had gone, for ever. This battle, 2nd Ypres, was being fought by the new armies, which meant, by civilian England.
Towards evening Boy Rowland trudged back, half a dozen men at his heels, towards Wieltje. They were the walking wounded from B Company. The retreat had lasted an hour, then there’d been seven hours of German shelling, attacking, shelling, attacking. Maclachlan was dead. Rush was dead, replaced by Fred Stratton, just arrived. Richards, who’d broken and run away, had vanished – some said dead of gas and left out in the fields, some said carried back to the CCS, but dying. He himself should be commanding the company, but the CO – his uncle – had ordered him back; so Kellaway was commanding. He had wanted to stay; in truth the arm wound was not serious and would heal of itself in a few days; but all day he had attacks of vomiting; his eyes smarted and the lids would spasmodically flutter of themselves. He had not been blinded, but for moments at a time could not see for the smarting, and the fluid draining out of his eyes. A persistent pain nagging behind his breastbone made him wonder if he had been hit there, unknowing, but he could find no trace of a wound or blow. Above all, he felt weary, to death.
The last person of the company he’d seen was his batman, Frank Stratton, who’d come back with him for half a mile, anxiously assuring him not to worry about anything he might have left in billets in Wieltje. He, Stratton, would see that it was collected. And he’d be waiting as soon as Boy came back to the battalion.
He walked on. His arm hurt badly, but it was all on the surface. He wondered how deeply and how badly the gas had affected his lungs. What swine the Boches were! Well, two could play at that, or any other game … and the prevailing wind here was generally from France towards Germany, not the other way.
As they entered Wieltje the little band of walking wounded were joined by others; all heading towards St Jean and Ypres, where dense smoke arose from many fires. One group of soldiers, all their eyes bandaged, walked slowly along the edge of the pave, each man’s left hand on the shoulder of the man in front. The man in the lead, a corporal of the 60th, wore a bandage round his head – but he had not been gassed; he could see. Divisional staff officers beside the road were giving directions to the wounded; and one called to Boy, ‘The WWCP is in St Jean, if you can get that far. Ambulances are following to pick up those who can’t.’
Boy nodded, too exhausted to speak. Columns of infantry tramped up the pave towards the front. Stray shells burst in the village and in the fields. The sky was dark with smoke and loud with the thunder of artillery. The Germans had stopped attacking by the time he left: but they’d begin again tomorrow. He glanced at the shoulders of the men marching by in the other direction – Coldstream Guards. They looked good, and fairly fresh – must have come up from army reserve.
‘Meester Boy, oh, oh!’ Her wail was piercing. She came running out of a side alley at the south end of Wieltje, her arms extended. ‘Oh, you are ’urt!’
Many of the marching guardsmen turned round to look. Boy caught a smile here, a look of envy there, muttered remarks – ‘Local greens,’ ‘Officers’ rations, mate.’
‘I’m all right, Madame Baret,’ he said in French. ‘Just a scratch.’ A fit of coughing prevented him saying more. She hurried along at his side, her hands reaching out supplicatingly towards him. He said, ‘Private Stratton … will collect … what I’ve left.’
‘Oh, Meester Boy …’
Another voice called in the gathering dusk. ‘Isn’t that Boy Rowland?’
Boy stopped and turned, peering, Mme Baret now hanging on to his good arm, and weeping loudly. ‘Who’s there?’
‘Arthur Durand-Beaulieu.’
Arthur fell out of the ranks and Boy saw the single Garter-badged stars of an ensign of Guards on his shoulders. He looked concerned as he said, ‘You look all in, Boy.’
Boy said weakly, ‘Welcome to the Salient, Arthur.’
Mme Baret fell away, and Boy turned to call after her, ‘Goodbye, Madame Baret. Thank you … for everything.’
He realized that anyone who understood French, such as Arthur here beside him, might misunderstand that last phrase. There was nothing he could do about that.
‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a touch of gas but it isn’t as bad as it might be … if the men face it … attack it.’
Arthur raised his hand. ‘Get well soon, Boy. I’ll write to your people and tell them I saw you.’
Then he ran forward to catch up with his platoon, as the Guards continued to swing by. Darkness fell as Boy and a thousand others staggered back towards St Jean. Boy thought that he had never felt so weak, and ill, and miserable, in his life.
Excerpts from the diary of John Charteris, General Haig’s Chief of Intelligence:
APRIL 28 (1915). I paid a visit to Ypres yesterday. There was still heavy artillery fire. Officers who were through the German attack there last week, say the shelling was very bad, worse even than in October. Certainly the whole face of the area has been changed. Ypres is nothing but a collection of ruins … The whole character of the area immediately behind the trench area has totally changed. One no longer sees troops; the men stow themselves away in houses, barns, sheds, anywhere where there is cover. Horses seem to disappear by a Maskelyne and Cook magic. All that remain are the vast number of motor lorries, and they rest most of the day and work at night. As one drives through the area, all one sees is a few men loitering about the villages, occasionally a stray company marching up to, or back from the trench area; a few – very few – horse wagons, and motor ambulances bringing back their burden of aching humanity; long strings of motor lorries waiting until nightfall to go up with supplies.
The countryside is pretty enough. Nature is still trying to convince us that there is no war, or perhaps that war is vain. All the fields are green, the orchards covered with apple blossoms, the wild flowers just beginning to come out. The most peaceful, and therefore now the prettiest parts, are along the canals with their grass roadways on the banks, shaded by long avenues of high trees, barges, picturesque in the distance, grimy rather when nearby, still lazily rippling through the water. Often for long periods there is not a sound of war, not a shell bursting, nor an aeroplane scraping its way through the skies. You close your eyes and wonder if it has all been a bad dream.
MAY 9 (SUNDAY). The French womenfolk are a curious type: they dress in solemn black in the early Sunday morning, go to Mass looking as demure as a pack of Puritans. That duty over, they change their raiment with all celerity, and their interest with equal rapidity runs from the religious to the purely secular task of ogling everything in trousers that comes their way. It is human nature of course – all the world over – but it is strange with the guns shaking the windows, and the first wounded just beginning to arrive.
Daily Telegraph, Tuesday, April 27, 1915
BERLIN IN WAR-TIME
From a Neutral Correspondent. The difference be
tween the reading public of England and Germany is that, however much you tell a Britisher about the war he always thinks that many things are kept back – whether rightly or wrongly is not my province to express … The German system is different.
The Press department of the General Staff meets three or four times a week the representatives of the Press. Apparently all the cards are laid on the table. Reverses are explained; successes described at length. The general policy is, as every journalist will be able to confirm: ‘We have nothing to hide, only tell the truth.’
So those journalists leave the Reichstag’s building, 99 out of every 100, convinced that the General Staff members have been absolutely frank and open with them; that they have learned the true state of affairs and that what they were not told they have no business to know.
The confidence of that nation is something colossal and … whether the Allies push them back as far as the Rhine, or even over it, the Press is so well organized, the publicity bureau of the General Staff, as are all other departments, such a perfect machine, that there is no question of the general public waking up to the real state of affairs.
… I believe, too, that in the majority of cases the German readers do get some truth but – there is a little nigger in the woodpile, the old saying that ‘half a truth is often worse than a lie’.
J. M. DE BEAUFORT
Shrewd fellow, Cate thought, even though he was only a foreigner. Other pages of the paper were full of the announcement of the grand Allied assault on the Dardanelles, and of course everything was going swimmingly. Nothing of importance on the Western Front, since the ‘staggering success’ of Neuve Chapelle … which, it had since been admitted, was no success at all. Britain had confidence, too, just as much as Germany; but it was built on knowledge of the good and the bad, and faith in the country, not on what one was told.