The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  Richard nodded, not entirely happily. Offering Scotch for favours was just the Army way of doing things. Paying out cash smacked of criminality… Winter was coming in and the men must be kept warm, whatever the price must be.

  O’Grady returned before dinner, dropped off by the wagons bringing the food up from the cookhouses. The quality had been maintained over the few days since they had arrived; the food was still lukewarm, having to travel for an hour to reach the men, but it was far better than the unending diet of mutton stew that had been the previous staple.

  “Looking at something they call ‘insulated pots’, they are, sir, in the hope of keeping the kai hot. A change to eat actual slices of beef, sir!”

  “And potatoes and greens, ‘Major. The medical orderlies tell me they are seeing far less of dysentery than they were previously.”

  “Damned good thing too, sir! Drains a man’s strength, that does, so that a trifling wound can kill him. At least they are getting one thing right – only taken a year of war to put the cookhouses in order, sir!”

  That was unanswerable.

  “Ten more years and they might have discovered how to fight the war as well. Anything regarding the blankets?”

  “Ten sovereigns in my fellow’s hand, sir – that’s his squeeze and less than it might have been for friendship, you might say. He knows a major, no less, who is strapped for cash and would sell every warehouse in Calais for fifty yellow-boys in hand. Foolish man playing cards, so he says, and up to his neck in debt. The most of it can be delayed, payment next year when he has more cash in his private account. Less than a hundred he owes to a gentleman who is no gentleman at all and will not wait another week for payment.”

  Richard did not wholly understand.

  “The man he owes to is some sort of gang leader, sir. It seems that the French have some sort of underworld, so they call it, and the big bosses able to have any man killed off at a snap of their fingers. I am told it is the same in New York, though I have never been there to know. Whatever, sir, should our major not pay up within a very few days he is more than likely to be found with his throat cut.”

  “But they would never get their money then!”

  “Honour, they call it, sir. No man cheats them of their due and lives.”

  “Nasty buggers, if you ask me, ‘Major. I can see that he wants his cash in a hurry. I have it to hand.”

  “I shall send it off in the morning, sir. Sixty sovereigns – which is a vast sum of money, sir! If at all possible, could you add twenty more, sir?”

  Richard showed surprised – he had not imagined that O’Grady would want a cut.

  “Not for me, sir. To my acquaintance as a deposit against future needs, you might say. He is an enterprising sort, sir, and might well come across other oddments of value to us. He is honest in his way, one might say, and will not forget he owes us.”

  It was no way to run a war. Richard found the coins, tucked away in the bottom of a small document case, finest leather with his initials, a gift from Primrose, she imagining that a colonel must need such. He had brought it with him, unable to leave it behind, and it had proved useful for keeping his hairbrushes and razor and oddments.

  “Eighty, it is, ‘Major. Useful to have a rich father, I must say!”

  “Not that you have need of such a one, sir. You would have made the top, as they say, with or without him.”

  Paisley brought Richard’s meal in and O’Grady withdrew, leaving him to chew his way through a tough and unnamed cut of beef, clearing his plate because that was demanded of him before an action. He had to show unmoved and with a cast-iron gut – in no way upset by the prospect of an evening of bloodshed. The men watched him, he knew; embarrassing as it was, he provided them with an inspiration – he was the hero they could try to measure themselves against. Where he led, they were proud to follow.

  It was a burden.

  Worst of all was that he had to show unknowing – he was not to notice hero-worship, was to be unaware of the men who grew their moustaches and combed their hair as he did, who copied his every mannerism from respect and admiration, junior officers and other ranks alike. Not all of them, by a long way; sufficient to be an irritation. He could never act without thought – was he to pop his head above the parapet to take quick look at the lines, another fifty would do the same before the day was out. Was he ever to show angry at a man who committed some military offence, the poor fellow might find himself kicked half to death before evening – too great a punishment for a dirty rifle or unshaven face.

  “Right, Paisley. Let’s be about it.”

  Shoes exchanged for heavy boots; working uniform with pouches; a Sam Browne belt, not part of the Bedfordshires’ working uniform but very convenient for carrying oddments on a raid; sidearm in its holster; trench knife in a loop on the other side, club next to it; flashlight clipped to the crossbelt over his chest; reloads for the pistol into his pouches; peaked cap exchanged for a sort of woollen Glengarry pinched from one of the Highland regiments and with its badges changed.

  “Shows up less at night, sir. Got an officer’s hat on, makes you a target.”

  Richard bowed to Paisley’s superior knowledge.

  “Let us join Mr Draper, ready to commence the evening’s entertainment, Paisley.”

  He knew that his words would be heard and repeated, that trench raids would be ‘entertainments’ for the remainder of the battalion’s existence.

  He marched down the trench, passing the other three raiding parties making ready to go out at the same time, exchanging a few words with the officers, noticing but not officially seeing who had managed to find a tot of rum or whisky for their men.

  Draper’s party did not smell of spirits when he reached them. He was not entirely surprised.

  “Ready to go, Mr Draper?”

  “Yes, sir. All in hand, sir. Twelve men with trench-fighting weaponry, sir. Myself and my second lieutenant included in that total, sir. Together with your four that makes a large party, sir.”

  Richard glanced about saw that Orpington had appeared, fully equipped, stood at his shoulder next to O’Grady.

  “So it does, Draper. Who has a Lewis?”

  “None, sir. Thought it better to keep them safe in the trench, sir. Don’t want to risk losing a gun, sir.”

  “Get one, now. With three pans of reloads. Give it to a corporal.”

  “No corporals with us, sir. Better to keep the valuable men back, I thought.”

  “Get one, now. Send a runner to the other three parties to delay start time by thirty minutes.”

  It took nearly ten minutes to identify a corporal who was big enough to carry the seventeen pounds weight of the gun and to ready him to go out with three men carrying a pan apiece and to stay at his shoulder.

  “Here, Corporal.”

  “Sir. Corporal Miller, sir.”

  “Are you used to a Lewis, Miller?”

  “Yes, sir. One of the regular gunners, sir, being as I am bigger than most. Can tuck it into me shoulder easy like, sir.”

  Miller was massive, a full head taller than Richard and broad with it.

  “Good. Use your own discretion for opening fire, Miller.”

  The big man nodded, seemed not at all upset at the prospect of having to make his own decisions.

  Richard discovered that Draper had simply added the four men to the party, bringing them up to twenty, far too many for a stealthy raid.

  “Nominate eight riflemen to hold back, to provide covering fire as we pull out, Draper. Have you a lance-corporal for them?”

  He had, was able to name the eight quickly.

  “Right, are we ready?”

  At fifteen minutes past midnight they crawled over the lip of the trench and through the narrow gaps in their own wire, zigzagging along the marked passages between the twenty or so yards of razor-sharp barbs. They tied white rags to the exits to find them again on the way back.

  Thirty yards across the narrow no-man’s-land of their
salient brought them to the German wire. They dropped to their bellies and followed two men with cutters, slowly clipping the bottom wires and hooking them up to give a passage eighteen inches high and a little more than two feet wide. It took half an hour to work their way underneath the wire, unseen and unheard, knowing that three other parties were doing the same and that if one was spotted there would be flares up and machine guns raking the wire hopefully, randomly searching for more.

  Draper was at Richard’s shoulder, panting increasingly heavily.

  “Hush!”

  The noise reduced, slowly grew again.

  They came to their knees on the German side of the wire, readying themselves, waiting on the clock. The wire cutters remained, enlarging the holes and to act as guides to the retreating raiders.

  Twelve fifty precisely.

  “Go!”

  They lobbed grenades left and right into the trench, waited for them to explode and jumped in, stabbing and battering at dark figures as they ran out of dugouts. Paisley worked his way along the trench, tossing grenades into each opening he passed.

  Richard watched the action, jumping forward with his club once as a lost German tried to run past him.

  The Lewis Gun rattled off half a pan, spraying down the trench at movement coming towards them.

  They had been in for five minutes. He heard more explosions distant a couple of hundred yards where the other raids were active.

  “Fall back. Badges!”

  They had thought it unlikely they would be able to drag prisoners back under the wire; every man should have been ordered to collect identifying badges and shoulder flashes instead.

  They dived under the wire, a half-seen officer numbering them off as they passed.

  “Orpington?”

  “Sir. Quickly. Explain later.”

  Richard crawled, tight on the heels of the man ahead, a matter of seconds to traverse the made tunnel. Once through the wire, they came half upright, scrabbling as fast as they could, waiting for the guns to fire, running at full pelt through their own passages and over the parapet, falling into the arms of the men waiting for them, laughing and cheering now they were back. Sergeant Major O’Grady commenced a roll call; it should have been Draper or his lieutenant.

  “Here, ‘Major.”

  Paisley’s voice and Orpington’s, eight more in succession, none of the raiders missing.

  “Where’s the back-up, ‘Major?”

  “Here already, sir. Under Captain Draper’s command, sir.”

  Draper stepped forward.

  “Thought I’d better secure the rear, sir. Make sure you came to no harm in the withdrawal. Dropped back to command them so they would not get in the way, sir. Held them this side of the German wire.”

  “Did you get into the trench?”

  “No, sir. Couldn’t as I was with the riflemen, sir. Behind the wire was the best place for them, I thought.”

  “Your lieutenant?”

  “Second, actually, sir. Only a boy. Kept him with me, in case I needed to send a runner to you. No need for a great mass of officers in the trench, sir.”

  It was a thin argument. In front of a court martial it would probably raise a sufficiency of doubt to prevent a conviction, would leave Draper with a stained reputation but not dismissed from the battalion or actually punished. His Company would be treated as pariahs by the rest of the battalion; their whole efficiency would be downgraded.

  “Very well, Mr Draper. Your men did well. Stand down now.”

  His words were heard and would be repeated exactly as he had said them.

  Richard made his way back to the second line and to his own dugout, turned to the field telephone, knowing that Braithwaite would not have turned in.

  “Highly successful, sir, at first sight. Waiting for reports from the other three parties. No casualties to mine and I have a collection of badges and one of those light machine guns, brought back by the Sergeant Major and young Orpington between them. A Madsen Gun, so Orpington tells me – I don’t know myself. Much the size of a Lewis.”

  The Brigadier knew nothing of the gun, was sure it was a feather in their cap to have captured one for inspection.

  “Got a problem, sir, and one I don’t know how to solve.”

  He gave Braithwaite a detailed account of Draper’s actions.

  “Bastard! Chicken as they come, Baker, and not sufficiently flagrant that you can put him before a court. What you can do is limited… Put him at the front of any action we take to straighten the line – that is being considered, by the way, prior to a big push on the Artois battlefield for the third time this year. That penalises his whole company and doesn’t guarantee that he will be among the casualties. A good chance that he will dive for cover early and be one of those who comes back, in fact.”

  “He has asked to return to the Hampshires, to a battalion going out to India. I would be happy to get rid of him. Do I want to send him off to a place of safety? Is that fair?”

  “Is it buggery, Baker! Transfer him, by all means, but not to India. Give me a couple of days. Let me talk to Fotherby and Atkinson – they won’t want him to stay and possibly end up making a scandal. Good chance they’ll be able to find some way of stuffing him! I’ll get onto them first thing in the morning. Fotherby will be awake and active by ten o’clock, I’m sure!”

  The other three captains arrived with their first reports and with their captures – badges from a regiment of Saxons and a detachment of artillery.

  “A small mortar, sir, on wheels, too big to bring across. Stuffed a grenade into the training mechanism in the base, should have left it well broken.”

  “Well done, Harris. We could use mortars of our own. Word is that there is one in development – when we’ll see it, who knows? No casualties?”

  “Two wounded, cuts and bruises, no more. We killed the sentries and the rest were asleep in their dugouts. They were wearing new uniforms – muddy, obviously, but not faded and old yet. At a guess, they had been in the line less than a week, maybe the same time as us, replaced the previous men at the same time we did, after their battle.”

  “Suggests they took high casualties, same as ours did. Worth knowing. Well observed, Harris!”

  Harris was one of those affected by hero-worship, blushed scarlet at the compliment from his magnificent colonel.

  Captain Thomas reported losing one man dead.

  “Unlucky, sir. Jumped into the trench and landed square on the sentry’s bayonet. Stuck himself from front to back and six inches showing out behind him. Young Purkiss, who was willing and never got anything right first time. No second chance, this time round. Bright lad, had a lot of potential, I thought. We brought him back, didn’t want to leave him for the Germans to bury. Besides that, badges of a Saxon regiment – all of them the same in the one section of trench. Put a grenade into a dugout full of ammunition as we left. Lucky we didn’t hit it going in. Killed at least a dozen Huns, might be more.”

  Richard took quick notes, nodded his satisfaction.

  “Only one loss, and that by bad luck. A good raid, Thomas. Captain Holmes, how did you get on?”

  “Got a prisoner, sir. He’s a bit cut up from dragging him behind us, tied up, through the wire, in the aid post at the moment. Nothing serious.”

  “Well done! Intelligence are forever asking for prisoners to talk to. Hawkeswill, can you telephone them for me?”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  Hawkeswill scurried off, making a show of being busy.

  “Makes us show up in a good light, Holmes, taking a prisoner. The news will go up to Corps, for sure, possibly to Army. I’ll make sure your name is attached, Holmes.”

  “Thank you, sir. Apart from that, we took minor cuts and bruises, nothing serious. My sergeant found what must have been a battalion rations store. He left it well alight.”

  Richard had no doubt that he would have looted it first – D Company would be chewing on German sausage for the next day or two, and quite right
that they should.

  “Found their aid post, as well, sir. Looked like nothing more than another dugout and the men threw a grenade in first, checked it afterwards.”

  “Bad luck, Holmes. Wouldn’t expect to find an aid post in the front line of trenches. Couldn’t expect the men to look for one or to examine each dugout before they bombed it. Sort of thing that happens. Don’t mention it in your report.”

  “No warning to the men to be more careful in future, sir?”

  “No. Definitely not. Anything in the front line is fair game, especially at night. As far as I am concerned, you acted perfectly correctly.”

  Richard wrote up his report next day, made no mention of the aid post, simply including the figures for dead in the estimated total.

  Brigadier Braithwaite appeared in person that afternoon, reaching as far as the second line of trenches and creating a precedent – most senior officer to have penetrated so far forward.

  “Your Captain Draper, Baker. He is to come back with me. Promote up a man in his place and set Orpington into the vacancy. There is a battalion of Hampshires, the 11th, currently in Marseille, due to board a trooper for Mombasa in East Africa, to join the campaign there. In the bush, chasing German askaris, unsuccessfully so far. Not a lot of action, other than long marches though appalling terrain. The figures for fevers alone are higher than we are losing here on the Western Front.”

  “Couldn’t happen to a nicer chap, sir. I shall have the greatest of pleasure in personally informing him that he is to return to his own people.”

  “Do that, Baker. The bulk of the battalion is in Marseille already. He can join the baggage party which is entraining this afternoon. No chance of him getting lost on the journey south, that way. I shall have a word with their adjutant, who is with the baggage, just to make sure he does not wander off by accident.”

  “Excellent! Thank you, sir.”

  “Atkinson is pleased with the raids, Baker, the prisoner especially. He has instructed there are to be no more this month. He thinks the Hun will be too alert and in any case we should be preparing for the big push, which now seems a certainty. Towards the end of September, around Loos, aiming to drive the Germans back out of France and set us up for the final victory next summer when Kitchener’s New Army arrives.”