by Alan Bardos
Crassus twitched as Johnny corrected him. ‘Very well, we’ll go now and make use of your cosy little arrangement with the Huns.’
‘We need to find the whole in the wire the Germans use to come and trade. Once we’re through, I’m going to head for the first shell hole I see and you can observe the German lines to your heart’s content.’
‘Cheer up, old man, your local knowledge is proving to be in valuable already.’ Crassus began to confer with Savage.
Johnny snatched the wine from Corporal Williams and drank down a good measure as he led him into the next bay. ‘I’m leaving the platoon in your care.’
Williams nodded grimly and took the wine back while Johnny scribbled out a note.
‘You know this is a fool’s errand, sir?’
‘I do rather specialise in them I’m afraid, Williams. Be sure to offer up a prayer for my salvation.’ Johnny said and tried to stamp some feeling back into his feet.
‘I’m more concerned about you cocking things up with the Germans and getting us all killed, sir.’ Williams replied, dropping all pretence of good humour.
‘So am I,’ Johnny agreed, blundering about in no man’s land was a sure fire way of ending any truth. However, if there was going to be a raid, this was the best opportunity Johnny had to warn the Germans.
Communicating with the enemy didn’t appeal to him, but Johnny felt he owed it to them. They’d sent a message over earlier in a dud mortar bomb, warning of their artillery’s plan to bombard them. ‘We don’t want the powder-heads to do it, it isn’t us.’ That simple message had probably saved half his platoon.
'Come on!’ Crassus shouted, coming into the bay.
Johnny climbed up over the top and into the cold darkness of no man’s land. He was filled with a sudden thrill of being in a new strange world. The moon gleamed on lakes of mud and ice around him. In the distance he could see the woods of Ploegsteert, a dark mash of battered shadows.
He heard the men on fatigue and began to limp towards them, the feeling slowly returning to his feet. Johnny swore, Crassus was making a heck of a racket as he followed.
Johnny signalled for his men to return to the trench. If things went wrong, there was no point in them being caught in the open.
He crossed through the British wire and was amused to observe that the battalion scout officer was having some difficulty keeping up. Johnny stopped to take his bearings. He’d never been this side of the wire before and was not entirely sure where to go next.
The wind blew, shaking the German wire and filling the night with an eerie metallic twang. Johnny began to make out the steel pickets the German wire was hung on. They looked strangely human and for a moment he was sure that they were coming towards him.
Johnny heard Crassus crashing about, breaking the spell and began to move forward at a half crouch. He stumbled on something, he couldn't see what it was, but the squeals of rats told him everything he needed to know.
He reached the German wire and began to follow it until he found the gap the Germans had left. Johnny remembered they usually had machine guns covering any openings and carefully lay down. The slime enveloped him in a freezing blanket.
Johnny could hear Crassus and hoped he was making enough noise to draw any enemy fire that might come their way. He began to crawl through the gap. He was only a few yards from the German trenches and could see the glow of a cigarette and hear the sentries laughing. The perfect picture of the truce Crassus hoped to ruin.
Johnny’s reverie was disturbed by a loud metallic twang and a stifled cry. Crassus had got himself entangled in the German wire. The sentries stopped laughing and the unmistakable sound of rifle bolts being pulled back filled the flat landscape.
One of the sentries called out a challenge and with a presence of mind that surprised Johnny, Crassus called back. ‘Don’t shoot. I thought you might fancy a trade, jam, cigarettes, biscuits…’
Crassus continued to list wares he could not possibly have, as he meticulously unpicked himself from the barbs.
Johnny dived into a shell hole. Leaving Crassus in the lurch felt even more disgraceful than what he was about to do. He rummaged about in his pocket for the dud mortar bomb which the Germans had fired over earlier. It was a bugger to open. His gloves were covered in mud and kept slipping off.
Behind him, Johnny could hear the German sentries calling to Crassus. Johnny took his gloves off and found that his fingers were too numb to work. He saw that Crassus had untangled himself. He was nearing the German trenches, waving a tin and calling out, ‘Jam, bully beef, plumb duff, steak and kidney pudding…’
The mortar bomb finally came apart. Johnny put his note inside and closed it. As he lifted his arm to throw, the night exploded in front of him. He was tumbling head over heels, his arm twisted behind his back. Savage was on him.
‘There’s no point struggling, sir. Mr Dawkins has blown your Boche pals to kingdom come. Amazing what you can do with an old tin and some dynamite,’ Savage chuckled to himself.
Crassus slid into the shell hole and Savage handed him the mortar bomb. Crassus took out the note. ‘Good work, Savage.’
Crassus looked down at Johnny, ‘Bravado with the enemy works wonders for morale indeed! You’re in league with the Germans. I can spot a bad one a mile off. I knew you'd try to queer the pitch and all I had to do was give you enough rope to hang yourself. My man, Savage, could track a Boer through the veld. Let alone a third-rate reservist through a few yards of mud.’
Johnny was too angry to respond, with all the noise Crassus had been making he’d forgotten to keep an eye out for Savage.
‘We should get out of here before the Germans organise themselves, Mr Dawkins,’ Savage said.
‘Yes agreed, bring that.’ Crassus hurried out of the shell whole.
Savage threw Johnny over his shoulder and stumbled after his master. Johnny could hear shouts of outrage echoing across from the German trenches punctuated by ragged rifle fire. Bullets churned up the mud and pinged off the wire as they zigzagged back to the British lines.
Johnny was unceremoniously dumped into the freezing mud at the bottom of his trench. The German fire began to intensify, thumping into the parapet and showering Johnny in sticky mud. Savage stumbled and fell on him, the side of his head missing. Johnny gagged, realising he was covered in brains.
‘Now that’s a pity,’ Crassus said, crouching over them.
‘What the hell have you done, Crassus?’ Johnny demanded, trying to get out from under Savage. He had to organise his platoon.
‘It’s called fighting a war, Swift,’ Crassus answered and pressed Johnny down into the mud.
‘What happened, sir, are you alright?’ Corporal Williams asked, leaning over Johnny, searching for an injury.
‘This officer is under arrest,’ Crassus said, trying to push Williams away.
‘What for?’
‘How dare you adopt that tone with me, Corporal!’
‘I see, like that then, is it?’ Williams said and called behind him. ‘D-section on me.’
The nearest squad of men crowded behind Corporal Williams. Crassus saw he was outnumbered, but held fast. ‘Corporal, you’re loyal. I respect that, but do you wish to add mutiny to aiding and abetting the enemy? Now I’m willing to overlook this and what I’ve seen here, if you stand down.’
‘Not bloody likely. You’ve just unleashed the fury of the Gods on us. I ought to run you through. See if you really think the bayonet is the best way to kill a man.’ Williams flicked his bayonet towards Crassus. Johnny was amazed to see that Crassus looked impressed.
‘That’s enough, Corporal, we don’t want to make things worse,’ Johnny said, fishing into the right-hand breast pocket of his jacket and taking out his brass box. This could be his chance for a spot of leave in Paris.
‘Well, if you’re sure, sir. It’s no trouble to rip this chap’s guts out.’ Williams said coldly.
‘Yes, I’m sure. Can’t have men under my command going round stic
king bayonets in officers. God knows where that may lead.’ Johnny opened the box and passed Williams a letter. ‘Now take a note of this address, it’s my uncle’s. I want you to write to him and tell him what’s happened.’
‘This is your uncle?’ Williams asked as he copied the address into his notebook, clearly surprised that Johnny knew someone of such rank.
‘That’s right. I do have the odd connection,’ Johnny replied smugly.
‘Very good, sir,’ Williams said and passed the letter back to Johnny. ‘Peculiar lot, the English.’
‘Not above playing the family connections still, Swift,’ Crassus said tersely.
Johnny looked nonchalantly towards him. ‘So what’s your plan, Crassus, take me into custody? It would be jolly decent if you could send me some groceries to help while away the time?’
Crassus knelt down next to Johnny. ‘Remember, I might be a grocer’s boy, Swift, but you’re the bastard.’
Johnny tried to struggle out from under Savage as the air began to whistle with the sound of 5.9s. Crassus stood up, grinned and brought the heel of his iron-shod boot down on Johnny’s forehead.
Chapter 3
‘Smith, Smyth whatever your bloody name is, are you with us?’ The petulant voice of the First Lord of the Admiralty ripped into Sir George Smyth’s thoughts. He turned his attention away from the blue grey January evening.
Sir George had been wondering if he could hear artillery fire. It was said that the sound sometimes drifted across the channel, but he suspected it was some dreary storm and suitably bleak for the discussion at hand.
‘I beg your pardon, First Lord?’ Sir George calmly asked the flushed man sitting across from him. Winston Spencer Churchill, the minister responsible for the Royal Navy.
‘An empty taxi pulled up outside the Admiralty this morning, Smyth, and you got out.’ Churchill quipped irritably. ‘I was asking if you have anything you wish to add? That is why we are all here, after all, to win the war!’
Sir George suppressed his embarrassment. He hadn't been spoken to like that since prep school and hesitated for the first time since then.
'We are waiting, Smyth.' The First Lord smashed a fist on his desk, his ring scouring a hole in the varnish.
Sir George glanced at the other person in the First Lord’s room, Admiral ‘Jacky’ Fisher, the First Sea Lord and head of the Navy. He looked tired and flustered by whatever he’d been arguing about with Churchill. Fisher had created the modern Royal Navy, but now in his seventies he looked a spent force. Sir George knew there would be no assistance from that direction.
He skimmed through his notes. They’d been considering the repercussions of Turkey's entry into the war, before Sir George allowed his mind to wander.
A year ago he’d been enjoying a brilliant career in the diplomatic service, married to a refined, if somewhat troublesome, social beauty. Then he’d discovered that his wife was having an affair with one of his office juniors. When the war had come, it had seemingly presented him with a golden opportunity for advancement and a chance to leave that indignity behind.
'I believe it was agreed at the last meeting of the War Council to mount a demonstration against the Turkish threat in the East, to aid our Russian allies in the Caucasus,' Sir George said at length. ‘Since the Ottoman Empire has closed the Dardanelles Strait, cutting the main supply route to Russia, Lord Kitchener had suggested a naval assault on the Straits.’
Although Sir George wasn’t sure if the idea had originated from the Minister for War or from various proposals submitted by Hankey, the Secretary of the War Council.
‘The Admiralty has been tasked with making preparations for a naval expedition to bombard the defences and clear the Straits for commerce,' Sir George read from his notes. 'This so-called demonstration is of the utmost importance. If Russia were to fall, the full might of the German Army would be brought to bear on the Western Front.’
'Smyth, you have the gift of compressing the largest amount of words into the smallest amount of thought.' Churchill threw a stack of papers onto his desk, scattering the minutes of the last War Council meeting which Sir George had meticulously crafted.
'I know what was agreed at the War Council, Smyth, I was there. I invited you to the meeting so you might offer opinions and, God forbid, produce an idea that could break the deadlock in Europe. Not so you can regurgitate discussions already held!' Churchill stood up and walked towards the window to gaze out at the Foreign Office across Horse Guards Parade.
Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary, had taken up a similar stance, looking out at the Admiralty building, when he'd given Sir George the opportunity to work for Churchill. He’d commented that the lamps were going out across Europe. Little did he know that the same thing was happening to Sir George’s career.
'When I accepted your transfer from the Diplomatic service, the Foreign Secretary had led me to believe you were something of an unorthodox thinker. A Napoleon of the Diplomatic Service. However, I've yet to see anything to justify such lofty accolades. What are you, thirty five? I was already a Cabinet Minister by the time I was your age. Napoleon had achieved somewhat more.'
Sir George didn’t doubt that if had also descended from a noble bloodline with Churchill’s social connections he could have accomplished at least as much as he had.
The First Sea Lord turned away from the window, placing his hands on his hips. Sir George couldn’t deny his force of personality as he adopted the pose he often took when addressing the House of Commons.
'The Dardanelles operation is in hand and will be decided upon at the next War Council meeting, Smyth, so I would greatly appreciate it if you would kindly apply that much vaunted analytical mind of yours to the matter at hand.'
'Forgive me, First Lord, I had thought a review of the War Council’s conclusions would provide a useful basis to work from,' Sir George said flatly. He was still unsure what the matter at hand was.
'You sold the plan to force the Dardanelles Strait superbly to the War Council, First Lord.' Sir George found playing to the ego of a firebrand like Churchill sometimes helped to stifle his outbursts.
'Smyth, I don’t need a scribbler to take down notes and toady. I have plenty of those already. I need dash –boldness. If the Navy is to be more than a heap of floating metal in this war, we must have operations.'
Sir George understood now what was at issue – Churchill's great frustration. The Royal Navy had had a largely inauspicious start to the war. Besides a few skirmishes, the long awaited clash of the titans between the British and German fleets had failed to take place.
'There are the proposals for combined operations against the Frisian islands and Zeebrugge. They will all give the navy an opportunity to exert force on the enemy.' Sir George had no idea what to suggest. He was a career diplomat and the Staff at the Admiralty considered these schemes quite mad – that is, with one exception. ‘The most practicable idea and the one that has the most support in the admiralty is the Dardanelles operation.’
'Yes, yes, that's all well and good, Smyth, but have you actually contributed an initiative yourself? What value does your presence add?' Churchill asked and sat back at his desk.
Sir George had heard talk of a fanciful cloak and dagger idea put forward by Maurice Hankey, to end the Turks’ involvement in the war diplomatically. Which might have suited Sir George’s skill set, but he had little faith in such operations and saw no reason to bring it to Churchill's notice.
He needed a chance to work the back channels, make contacts and have the right word in the right ear. He had to know all the facts before he could make reasoned and informed suggestions.
'I believe my role is to provide a strategic overview, First Lord.'
'You haven't listened to a word I've said, Smyth. Am I to send you back to Grey with your tail between your legs?' Churchill paused to light a cigar and leant back in his chair. 'There is little point in having you remain in well-paid inactivity. Perhaps we could put you to better use in
uniform. I'm sure a place can be found for you somewhere at the sharp end.'
'Mr Churchill, is this really the appropriate juncture for you to discipline one of your subordinates?' Fisher asked abruptly. 'I have grave misgivings about this scheme of yours in the Dardanelles.'
Churchill turned to the old Admiral, forgetting Sir George's dressing down. 'I am at something of a loss, Admiral Fisher. Are you saying that you no longer support a naval demonstration in the Dardanelles?'
'I did support an attempt being made on the Dardanelles Strait following the Russian request for help, but only if it was to be immediate and with full military support. Since then the Turks have had time to prepare their defences. The Germans are pouring military aid into the country, down that blasted railway of theirs. There is also their gift of the Goeben and the Breslau, two state-of-the-art cruisers, lurking in the Straits, ready to pounce on our ships.'
Churchill growled at the mention of the German cruisers. Sir George suppressed a smile. It had been the First Lord’s interference that had allowed them to reach Constantinople. They were now highly effective pieces in the power politics that led to Turkey’s entry into the war on the side of the Central Powers.
'The Turkish government are merely a collection of radicals and gamblers. It doesn't matter how the Germans enticed them onto their side, a few well-placed shells will have them running. The Foreign Secretary has stated that the political situation in Constantinople is such that one good knock at the door and the whole government will tumble down.'
Sir George came out of his daze, realising that he'd been a complete fool. If the political situation in Constantinople was as shaky as Churchill suggested, then Sir George thought he might be able to poach a better way of solving the problem in the East.
Admiral Fisher stood up and Sir George could see the shadow of what must have once been a formidable man. 'Damn the Dardanelles! Every Admiralty study for the past century has concluded that modern gunnery makes it far too dangerous to send ships through such a narrow stretch of water, without troops to clear the coastal defences. You said it yourself in 1911 - the days of forcing the Dardanelles are over.'