The Death of Hope

by Andrew Wareham

  “Agreed, O’Grady! As you say, well before my time, yet all I have ever heard of the Boers said they were hard men to defeat.”

  “There are those who will say they were not defeated, sir, not in the field. Their women and children were locked away in the concentration camps where so many died and they were left with no food, no supplies to carry on the fight.”

  That aspect of the war had never figured large in the English history books and adventure tales for boys. Richard knew nothing of the camps, suspected it might be wiser to remain ignorant - he still retained a few illusions about his country and wished to keep them. The current war was hard enough without allowing reality to supervene.

  “When do you intend to put the bells up, ‘Major?”

  “The regular wiring parties can do it, each in their own section over the next few days, sir. I suspect that the Germans will fire on our parties tonight, sir, being somewhat cross after the raids. Better to delay sending out any substantial numbers, sir.”

  Both sides put out men to repair breaks in the wire on an almost nightly basis. It was not normally regarded as worthwhile to shoot at the sound of wiring parties, particularly while ammunition was short. When they were feeling bad-tempered, the machine guns would rattle in the night.

  “How are we off for flares?”

  “Short, sir. Too few to be sending them up for every odd noise, sir. Captain Draper’s Company is very low, sir, for their habit of lighting up every time a rat squeaks in the night.”

  “Mr Draper has left us, ‘Major. He has returned to the Hampshires, his own regiment, after lending us the benefit of his experience. I have promoted Mr Caton to acting rank in his place. Lieutenant Orpington is to be his number two. His second lieutenant remains in the company, unless you think I should make a clean sweep?”

  “Mr Michaels, sir? A boy with a deal to learn and an amount to forget. He will do, sir. Most likely, that is. Which battalion of the Hampshires has Captain Draper gone to, sir?”

  “The 11th, on posting to East Africa and the campaign against Von Lettow-Worbeck in the bush there.”

  Sergeant Major O’Grady permitted himself a smile. The East African campaign was already renowned as worse than the Trenches for disease and living. It was unsuccessful as well.

  “I might just let the whisper be heard, sir?”

  “If you would be so good, ‘Major. Insufficient evidence to place a clever man before a court. He is not to get away with his shyness, even so.”

  “The men will be pleased with that, sir. All done on the quiet, no scandal to mar the battalion’s name and the evildoer most thoroughly punished, sir. As good as a book by Mr Dickens, sir!”

  Richard had avoided Dickens as far as he could – not a difficult task at Dartmouth. He knew of A Christmas Carol but no more. He was not surprised that O’Grady had read more than him – he was an able man in many ways, especially now that he was on the wagon.

  “Must bring a book or two out with me, ‘Major. I do get a little of free time most weeks, might enjoy losing myself in a book, anything to get me away from the Trenches for half an hour!”

  “All work and no play, sir – not good for any of us.”

  There was no Mess in the lines, nor could there be. Some of the dugouts were a little larger and enabled the officers to form a card school. There were at least two ongoing games of bridge, competition ferocious between the junior officers. Richard suspected there was a poker table as well, the game fashionable in London before the war. He had no objections to bridge, regarded poker as potentially dangerous – the young men were wild, naturally in the circumstances, and might lose sums vastly in excess of their income. He could do little about it, however. He could not join either game, being the merest novice at bridge and forbidden from gambling with his juniors.

  “Not too much gaming among the men, I trust, ‘Major?”

  “Crown and Anchor is a commonplace, sir. Banned, of course, which means they hide the dice when I come near. Some of the men play pontoon all day, every day, for pennies and the winnings fairly even among them. A couple of solo whist schools, sir, very keen they are, but again, only pennies. No cardsharps that I have heard of, sir. Other than that, the odd wagers you hear of, sir – men betting how many they can pick off with their rifles in a week, that sort of thing.”

  “Sharpshooters? Have you picked out our snipers yet?”

  “Just the one lad who might be sufficient of a shot, sir. I do not know he has the mind for killing, sir. It takes a strange sort to be a sniper, sat up and looking to kill all day, every day. I am thinking we may have to do without a battalion sniper as such until a new body comes in.”

  “Pity. If there should ever be an attack on our lines, a sniper can be handy.”

  “Word is of the opposite, sir. Likely to be us marching shoulder to shoulder off to kill the foe, sir. Provided we can pass through the wire.”

  Richard shrugged.

  “Depends on the artillery, sir. If they bombard and it is sufficient, then we pass through the gaps they have cut. If not, then it is to be Neuve Chapelle all over again.”

  That did not lie in their hands. They could only hope.

  Richard slept badly that night, waking every few minutes to artillery fire coming onto targets in no man’s land. He gave up and walked up to the first line of trenches two hours before dawn.

  “’Morning, Harris. What’s up?”

  “Hun’s having a panic, sir. Wetting his knickers! Calling down artillery every time a sentry sees a shadow by the looks of it. They didn’t like your raids, sir!”

  Captain Harris was young and determined in his hero-worship.

  “Where are they dropping their shells?”

  “Just this side of their own wire, sir. A few overs closer to us – we will be out making repairs later in the week, by the looks of it.”

  “No concerted attempt to cut our wire?”

  “No, sir. Just the occasional small shell falling into the wire. Nothing into our trench, sir.”

  “Fire a flare. Let’s take a quick look at what’s going on.”

  The short lived bright white light showed nothing, no signs of raiders coming in retaliation.

  “I wonder why not, Harris. We killed and wounded anything up to sixty of theirs last night. Not like the Hun to sit back and take whatever we throw at them… Pass the word, Harris. No dawn stand-to this morning. Wouldn’t mind betting we get a concentrated bombardment on the trench just when they would expect all the men to be out of the dugouts. It’s what I might do, anyway.”

  If that was the case, it was a near-certainty as far as Harris was concerned. He sent the message out by his runners, down the trench on either side.

  “A minimum of sentries and an officer to each company to be at the lip of the trench, close to a dugout. The men to be ready to come out if necessary. Heads down away from the entrances.”

  A cloudy morning delaying the dawn and then heavy gunfire from behind the German lines.

  “Get down!”

  Ten minutes of concentrated barrage from several batteries of medium guns and field artillery, landing in and around the first line, almost no unders and only a few over.

  “Good shooting, Harris!”

  “Nothing bigger than a hundred pounds, I would say, sir. Mostly far lighter.”

  Richard agreed.

  “One battery of five or six medium guns. The rest three inch field artillery. Their seventy-sixes, I think. Divisional artillery, not Corps or Army.”

  A single battery began to respond from their rear.

  “Eighteen pounders attempting counter-battery fire. If we have a balloon up for observation, it might be successful. Not otherwise.”

  “I have heard that they are experimenting with aeroplanes, sir. Using them to observe for artillery. Using signalling lamps, like the Navy does.”

  “Could work…”

  They were interrupted by a shell landing feet away from the entrance to the dugout, the noise almost d
eafening.

  “Lucky one, Harris! A little closer and we would have taken the blast through the doorway.”

  “Two feet between earache and the Pearly Gates, sir!”

  Richard laughed. It seemed an apposite comment.

  “Coming to an end, I think, Harris. Time to poke our noses outside, see what is happening.”

  The trench itself had taken some damage – the men would be digging for much of the day to rebuild parapets and walls and replace duckboards.

  “The buggers hit the sump, sir! Pump’s a goner! We will be flooded out before the end of the day if it starts to rain.”

  “Bloody nuisance that will be. Is the telephone intact?”

  Quick examination said that the wire was cut, would have to be replaced.

  “I’ll go back to my own dugout and start the ball rolling. What of casualties?”

  Ten minutes loud noise and the expenditure of thousands of pounds on high explosive had left one man with a cut arm from flying debris. The dugouts were effective protection, provided the men were inside them.

  “Hawkeswill! We need a pump for Harris’ company, quick time. Smashed by a shell. What’s the word from other companies?”

  “Major Vokes is putting the list together, sir. All minor. E Company lost most of their duckboards. Looks as if they had been repaired previously and the whole lot fell to bits, sir.”

  “Put in the requisition. Urgent – they can’t be left to wade in the mud and crap under the walkways.”

  “Yes, sir. Brigade calling, sir.”

  Richard took the telephone.

  “Just a Hate, sir. Retaliation for the raids, I suspect. I cancelled stand-to this morning in case. We took almost no casualties as a result. Need a water-pump and two hundred yards of duckboards, sir. That’s at six feet wide. Six hundred boards, sir.”

  Braithwaite might not have been capable of calculating to such complexity.

  “Lost some of the ready ammunition stores, sir. We could use three-o-three rounds and flares, sir. A replacement supply of Mills Bombs as well.”

  It would be difficult to prove Richard a liar. A worthwhile risk to take as their stores were lower than he liked. Half a million rounds would be very welcome; a few Mills Bombs would be a pleasant extra.

  Braithwaite confirmed that Draper had been put aboard his train and would be in company all the way to Marseille and onto the ship there. There would be no mistaken turns, no getting lost for that gentleman.

  “Strange, sir. He was peacetime Army. Why does a man join up if he is yellow?”

  “Pleasant life except in time of war, Baker. He was Sandhurst in ’02 or ’03 and then joined the battalion in barracks at Winchester and eleven or twelve years of drill and parades. Infantry, so he would not even be expected to go out hunting in winter. Three out of four weekends in London, in the clubs and theatres and bars and other places – back midday Monday, off Friday morning. A quiet, comfortable life for a single man with an income of his own, the Army a social club as much as anything. Always possible to duck out of an overseas posting – a staff course would do for that. No reason to suppose that his life would ever see danger, then the Kaiser chose to start a bloody war! Even then, he almost managed to dodge the column.”

  It was peculiar, Richard thought, went a long way to explaining the attitude of the older officers, the faint air of resentment with which they greeted action at the front. It was not what they had signed up for, though the overwhelming majority responded well to the demands of war.

  “Got three wagon loads of blankets for your battalion, just turned up. My people know nothing about them…”

  “Cold in the dugouts, sir. Can’t have coke fires in enclosed spaces without killing off the men.”

  “I won’t ask how, Baker. They will be on their way up to you within a few minutes.”

  The wagons arrived, were rapidly unloaded and counted.

  “Two apiece, ‘Major.”

  “Yes, sir. Done well by us, so he has, sir. You will note the quality?”

  There was no broad arrow on the blankets. They were not War Department issue.

  “Thick. Warm and heavy. Meant for a hotel, not for the army?”

  “Yes, sir. The woollen mills must still be sending stuff overseas to meet pre-war contracts. They need to earn money, after all. Always the case that English woollens are the best you can buy, sir.”

  “Get them issued, quick time, ‘Major. The sooner they are out of sight, the better.”

  Carrying parties came from each company, ran back yelling to their mates.

  “A few spare, sir?”

  “Aid post?”

  “Already assigned, sir.”

  “Then spread them around the officers, ‘Major. The youngsters especially, those who can’t afford to buy their own comforts.”

  O’Grady nodded and set about the task.

  “What of yourself, sir?”

  “Speak to Paisley. He should have me looked after from my own pocket. Not for me to be dipping my hands in the men’s issue, ‘Major.”

  The words were heard and passed on. The Colonel had not taken a one of the blankets, all had gone to the battalion. It all added to their fighting spirit, their willingness to stand for the Regiment. They were special – their officers were better than the poor sods had in other battalions along the line.

  The mail arrived, in good time for once, letters for the bulk of the men, very few of them completely alone. Richard sat down to a long missive from Primrose, the entirety adding up to very little – she missed him, hoped he was well, knew that was silly. She had met a Lieutenant Commander Adams recently, believed him to be the man he and his friend Sturton had mentioned as having ‘put up a black’; he was evidently rehabilitated. They had danced and he had mentioned that he would leave the Navy when the war ended; definitely no longer the golden boy. That apart, his father had written her to say that he had purchased a house not so far from Wells-Next-The-Sea with some gardens and a little boathouse of its own; she hoped they would like it.

  It was all very domestic and unimportant – a pleasant change from the lines. He waited for the first officer to come knocking at the dugout door. Letters from home were not all enjoyable.

  “Come in Caton. What is it?”

  “Smith Three, sir. His wife run off with a millhand, earning five times as much as a soldier. Left their two children, four and six year olds, with his mother and her at her wits end to deal with them.”

  “What can he do if he goes home for a week, Caton?”

  “He doesn’t know, sir. He can’t do anything while he is here. Find his wife and speak to her, I suppose – she can’t have gone far.”

  “And likely end up before the beak for bashing her, Caton. No. He stays, I am afraid. Besides, she was obviously just waiting for him to go overseas; she has hardly had time to meet a new lover in the few days we have been out.”

  The cases trickled in through the morning. Richard sent one man home for seven days, his father on his deathbed, a chance to see him a last time. The remainder stayed with their miseries.

  “The hard part of soldiering, Hawkeswill. Most of the men have only been out for three weeks. Six months at least before they can hope to see a week at home.”

  “More like to be a year, sir. The Army is not enthused by the idea of leave. Takes up space on transport that can be better used.”

  It was almost cruel.

  “War is not in the way of being easy, sir. At least, not as bad as being in South Africa or India. Leave was impossible there. China Station even worse, of course. Something like four battalions in Hong Kong and along the coast and they will be at least five years away from home, possibly longer.”

  “Trouble is, Flanders being just a day’s travel away from home, the men feel it ought to be possible, sir.”

  There was nothing to be done, regrettably.

  The replacement ammunition arrived together with boxes of two hundred flares; it was pleasant to be the Brigadier’s
favourites. There was an immediate problem of storage, there being too little space in the dugouts for the mass of rounds.

  “Issue an extra fifty thousand rounds to each company, ‘Major. Where they put them is their problem.”

  “Yes, sir. The duckboards have arrived, sir. So have six new water pumps.”

  There was a strong chance that the Brigadier had written down the wrong figures when taking Richard’s telephone message.

  “Right! Put them to use. Under no circumstances are they to go back as surplus to requirement. Which company has the lowest section of trench?”

  “D and E together, sir. A clear two foot lower than the remainder, sir. Always a problem with water running down on them.”

  “Right. Defaulters to dig new sumps. Big ones. Two pumps to each. The other pair to go to Mr Caton.”

  There were always a few men who had committed minor crimes punishable by hours of labour. Now, instead of carrying from the rear at night, they would be given shovels and wheelbarrows.

  Richard was if anything glad of the extra labour demanded of the battalion. Too much of trench life was spent in idleness, the men with nothing to do other than sit and wait and drink tea and, inevitably, find mischief to get up to. Now they would at least be tired enough to sleep well, provided the night was not too noisy.

  He was called away to Brigade next morning, an orders meeting in addition to the ordinary weekly conference. He took Hawkeswill with him as there would undoubtedly be a mass of paperwork to deal with.

  “Baker! Good to see you again. Major Dorrington from the Staff with orders for the next big push.”

  There were four other infantry colonels present and two cavalrymen and a single gunner.

  Dorrington took the stand in the largest room of the small chateau Braithwaite had appropriated.

  “Third Battle of Arras, gentlemen. This one to be more successful than the previous two. Our assault will be unexpected for its timing – late in the year as it is. The BEF is to aim towards Loos, will take the town and open the way forward for the cavalry. All simple and straightforward. In this sector, there will be a bombardment of fifteen hours duration by four batteries of sixty pounders and six of eighteen. A mixture of HE and shrapnel to cut the wire. Guns will register on the day prior to the assault. Take the forward trench and do not delay, gentlemen, quickly into the second line and the communications trenches. Open the way for your supporting horse and their batteries of RHA with their thirteen pounders. You will take off at 0700 hours and will be in the German rear trenches by 0725, the cavalry coming through at that time. Full packs and eighty rounds, the men to maintain a proper order in the advance.”