He was called across to C Company, Captain Holmes at the lip of the trench, peering out.
“In front of the third bunker, sir. There is a wiring party just visible to us. A dip in the ground uncovering them, do you see?”
Possibly four hundred yards distant. Difficult for accuracy.
“All of your men up, Holmes. Ten rounds aimed fire.”
A minute and there were thirty rifles at the aim and Holmes called the command.
Richard watched through his glasses, saw tiny figures dropping, being spun around by bullet strikes.
“Take cover!”
C Company slipped to the bottom of the trench as machine guns opened up, crossing the lip, making it untenable.
“No losses, sir.”
“Good. I saw the whole party going down, a dozen hit at least.”
There was a loud explosion from the front.
“Artillery?”
“Not ours, sir.”
Holmes risked raising his head, saw a cloud of smoke at the location of one of the small guns.
“Ready use going up, sir. Might be Michaels again.”
Half an hour and Richard heard yelling from along the line, could not pick out the words. A few minutes and Michaels appeared with two of his riflemen.
“Lost Brown Two and Carmody, sir. Destroyed two bunkers, some ammunition and one gun, two pounder pompom, thereabouts, sir.”
“Well done, Mr Michaels. Get some tea and write a report before you rejoin your company, sir.”
The youth saluted and marched off to the rear.
“That is worth something, Hawkeswill. A brave lad.”
“He has too much to prove, sir. He knows what Draper was as well as we do.”
“So he does. I shall write him up for the MC at least. Can you ask Caton to send me the names of the two surviving riflemen as well?”
“Will do, sir.”
The runner returned with Braithwaite’s reply.
“No artillery to hand. Cavalry brigade will not release RHA in case of breakthrough elsewhere. Is night attack possible?”
Richard wrote his answer – heavy wire in front of the bunkers made attack impossible without artillery.
An hour and there was sudden activity to the left, the battalion there mounting a push to close the open flank. Richard ran across to Major Vokes.
“Can we support them? Who is it, do you know?”
“One of the London battalions. Dozens of them, it seems, volunteers from August ’14 with officers from the various TA and Volunteer companies. Most of them are good. One or two are badly led, according to the whisper.”
Vokes was old Army, could talk with his compeers, was part of the network of pre-war officers. The word did not reach Richard, always came to Vokes, knowing as he did the bulk of established officers of his rank.
“What do you know of that lot?”
“Not a word, sir. Indicative in itself. Wouldn’t mind betting that their brigadier has been on the scene this morning, has superseded the colonel, sent him back, replaced him with a man with some fire in his belly.”
“Support them as we can, Vokes.”
They were able to fire across the face of the advancing battalion, did some good in suppressing the machine guns.
“They have found gaps in the wire, sir. The ones that were said not to exist this morning. Into the first line.”
“Good. Bring your companies up to our front, Vokes. The flank should be secure now. See if you can get men into the second line from our side.”
An hour and the line was secured, the dogleg gone and a gain of almost a quarter of mile in places.
Captain Hawkeswill was less than enthused.
“How far is Berlin from here, sir?”
“No idea! Five hundred miles?”
“Two thousand more advances like this and we will get there, sir.”
“Don’t count how many casualties that will be, Hawkeswill. I doubt I could stand it. Have we been able to get an idea of the wire around the bunkers?”
“A full thirty yard apron, sir, where we can see it clearly. The new German lines are a little higher than ours, so we can’t see too much.”
“Pass the word to dig in. We do not expect to move from here.”
There was an engine noise, an aeroplane coming towards them, low.
“Don’t shoot! It’s one of ours!”
It was a two-seater, a figure in the front cockpit standing up and throwing something over the side, a long streamer dangling from it.
“Bring that in!”
A cleaned out bully beef can with a lid tied on and a brick underneath to weight it, disclosed a written message. Hawkeswill pored over the handwriting, penned in a bouncing cockpit.
“’Mass of infantry to your northeast. Estimate six battalions. Field guns. Aligning for attack.’ That could be dodgy, sir.”
“Issue all Mills Bombs. Bring up our contingency stocks of three-o-three and issue them all. Parties to the rear to grab any of our wire they can move and throw it out to our front. German wire as well. Just in rough entanglements, don’t worry about setting it properly. All walking wounded who can use a rifle to take post. Lewis Gunners to ensure that all expended pans are filled. ‘Major O’Grady!”
The Sergeant Major came at the run, glanced at the message Richard held out to him.
“Sure, and it’s busy chaps we shall be, sir.”
“So we shall, ‘Major. Make a rum issue, if you would be so good.”
In theory, the battalion did not carry stocks of rum. Spirits were brought up from the rear immediately before issue.
“Some will have to have gin, sir. Schnapps, to be more precise.”
“Just as long as they all have something, ‘Major.”
An unexpected, generous-handed issue would do morale a lot of good.
“I shall order them to eat as well, sir. No more than bully and biscuit with tea, being all that we have to hand. It will make them feel the better.”
Something would need to.
Richard sent his runner across to the left, to inform the battalion there that a push was advancing towards the Bedfordshires, would inevitably spill out onto their flank.
A single eighteen pounder battery began to fire probing shells out ahead, presumably guided by a spotter of some sort, possibly the aeroplane that had given them the warning. They suddenly fell into rapid fire, five guns pumping out two shells each a minute, the maximum allowed because of the shortage of ammunition.
“Could use the bloody RHA now, sir.”
“Cavalry won’t release them, Hawkeswill. Say they are to remain in reserve in case of a breakthrough.”
“There will never be a breakthrough, sir. Not that can be exploited by horse.”
“I know that. You know that. Tell it to the generals.”
“Hopeless, sir. Will we ever get generals appointed by ability?”
Blasphemous words from an old salt like Hawkeswill, a man who had spent twenty years training his brain not to think.
“Dear me, Mr Hawkeswill! They are appointed by ability! Their ability to sit on a horse is unmatched and they can parade better than any soldiers ever known. Add to that French is a true expert at fawning to Royalty while Haig knows all about bribing politicians. What more can we demand of our leaders?”
That was too much for Hawkeswill’s nascent independence of thought. He made no reply.
A whistle blew further along their section of trench and a company opened rapid fire. Richard inched his head over the lip of the trench, together with every other unengaged officer. The shouts of ‘ready’ spread all along their line. Their two Vickers began to fire, emptying full belts in sustained bursts. A few more seconds and every company opened fire, followed by the Lewis Guns.
Richard watched as the first wave of attackers dropped to a man. They were shoulder to shoulder, marching faster than the pace the British used, going down under the sustained rifle fire. Second, third, fourth lines appeared and fell, none clo
ser than fifty yards. A few men burrowed into the mass of corpses and began to return fire. The machine guns raked over the pile of bodies, ferreting out the brave few. Fire petered out for lack of a target.
“Runner! Get back to Brigade. We need two hundred thousand rounds of three-o-three within the hour. Another one half of a million at nightfall.”
“Yes, sir. Two ‘undred thou’ jildi, ‘alf a million tonight.”
Richard wondered in passing how the boy had picked up the army slang, an Indian word, in three weeks away from his home posting.
“Hawkeswill, have much have we left to hand?”
“We sent fifty thousand extra to each company, sir, you will remember. They should have forty thousand of that left, sir. That was twelve minutes of rapid fire, sir. Probably one hundred and fifty rounds a man. Never seen the match of that, sir. remarkable performance! Their barrels will be burning hot. Need replacement Emilys, sir. Some of the older ones will have worn past reasonable use after that.”
Richard was familiar with the nickname for the rifle, nodded agreement.
“What have you got in store?”
That was a question never normally to be asked of an adjutant. If he was competent, he would have amassed far more than the legal issue of everything important. The wise colonel never asked, did not want to know. Hawkeswill was properly evasive.
“I can find some, sir.”
“Good. Get your people to discover how many are needed in each company. I suspect we may have to face more of these advances.”
“Not immediately, sir. That’s a white flag to our front.”
“Surrender?” Richard was incredulous.
“No, sir. Temporary truce to pull their wounded in. They will ask for an hour, I expect. Demand two. It will give us time to get ourselves together.”
“Right. How do I respond?”
“Put up our own flag, sir. Then walk out and talk to their man. Take your orderly with you. Never go unaccompanied.”
“I don’t speak German.”
“Their problem. They asked for the truce, they must find an English speaker.”
It was sometimes useful to have an experienced man who knew the rules.
Paisley provided a towel dangling from a broken piece of timber, a split door frame from a bunker by the look of it.
Richard pulled himself over the lip of the trench, marched slowly forward, Paisley tight to his shoulder. A German officer appeared, his orderly carrying a proper flag, dangling from a varnished pole.
“Ready for anything, it seems, Paisley.”
They stopped two yards distant from each other.
Richard stayed silent – the Germans had asked for the truce, it was up to them to speak first.
“Captain Mueller, 2nd Bavarian Jager Battalion.”
“Colonel Baker, 8th Bedfordshires.”
“There are many wounded here, fallen to your machine guns. We did not know you had so many.”
“We do not. Trained riflemen, sir. How long do you require to recover your casualties?”
“There are so many… Two hours, perhaps?”
“Better you should take the rest of the day, Captain. You do not want to drag wounded men about in a hurry. Till four o’clock, Greenwich Mean Time?”
“We use Berlin time. What is your hour now?”
They compared watches, agreed on the precise time for the suspension of hostilities.
“We are not permitted to make local truces, Colonel.”
“Neither are we, Captain.”
They exchanged a smile.
“That is your Victoria Cross, is it not, Colonel Baker?”
“It is, Captain. Awarded last November.”
“The bridge and then the fight all the way back to the slag heaps? I read of it in the Swiss newspapers that come to Germany. My respects, sir.”
They exchanged salutes and parted.
“Find me a runner, please, Hawkeswill. I must inform Brigade.”
“The artillery must be told not to fire – not that that matters, sir – they would miss anyway.”
“Till four o’clock.”
“Oh, that’s useful, sir. I will run our wounded back and have the bearers pick up stores on their return.”
They watched as the German orderlies picked over the piles of bodies, trying to be respectful yet having to haul them out of the windrows they had fallen in, tossing the dead to one side to rescue the living.
“We must have killed two thousand, sir.”
“Not so many surely, Vokes!”
“Like hay before a mower, sir. Never seen the like of it. Take a count now, sir. From the line to the leftmost bunker across to the second, which is directly in front of us. That’s about a quarter of them. So many I have to check them off in tens… Forty tens, sir. Four hundred. Their stretchers are taking off the wounded… Never seen the like, sir. Must be ten dead to one wounded. It ought to be the other way round. Never seen men stand up in the open to be shot before. Unbelievable!”
“Sixteen hundred dead, you estimate, and about one hundred and fifty taken off on stretchers?”
“That’s my count, sir.”
“I shall put that in the report. Two full size battalions destroyed in fifteen minutes of sustained fire. God help us if we are ever ordered to march across open land without a successful barrage in the other direction, Vokes.”
Brigade responded in mid-afternoon with a reminder that it was in breach of Army Regulations to call a local truce. No action was proposed.
Ammunition and replacement rifles began to appear, brought all the way to the front on muleback because there was a truce and it was safe.
Richard was called to the rear, found Braithwaite there together with Major General Fotherby.
“Shouldn’t have accepted a truce, Baker. Very wrong. What’s done is done. No point fussing about it now. What are the chances of an advance, Baker?”
“Given artillery support, sir, it could be done. Big howitzers to batter the bunkers down and two hours of HE from four batteries of sixty pounders to take out the wire. We could then push as far as the bunkers and see what was feasible next, sir. The bunkers are the key. While they remain intact, we cannot move. One of my boys, young Second Lieutenant Michaels, did very well in bombing two bunkers and a pompom. Can’t be done again – they have wire up and are alert for bombing parties.”
“No rounds for the big guns, Baker. All have been expended. No more until the New Year.”
General Fotherby was regretful, accepted they could go no further.
“Done as well as most and better than many, Baker. We have wire. I will get it across to your rear.”
“Thank you, sir. Extra machine guns would be useful. We have two Vickers, could make use of eight more.”
“Eventually, no doubt, Baker. For the moment, no. HQ is concerned that machine guns use up too much ammunition. Battalions should be encouraged to fire them less often and in shorter bursts.”
“What war are they fighting, sir?”
“The important one – in Whitehall, where money is more important than blood. The victor will receive his earldom. Far more important than winning the war. Forget I said that, by the way, Baker.”
“Of course, sir. We could do with a rum issue, sir. Buck up the men’s spirits.”
“Speak to your Sergeant Major, Baker. If he can’t arrange that, there’s something wrong.”
“It was worth a try, sir.”
“So it was. I shall see what may be done. Send me a report on that boy, Michaels, was it?”
“Yes, sir. A good MC, sir, and two riflemen at his side as well.”
“Mentions for them. I shall do what I can for the boy. Pity he used Mills Bombs. French don’t like them.”
“Impossible to blow up a bunker with a bayonet, sir.”
“Nonsense, Baker. To the willing mind, nothing is impossible!”
Fotherby permitted a smile, gave permission to his juniors to laugh.
“Communicatio
ns trenches, sir.”
“Ah, yes. Haven’t got any and you need them. I shall get a labour battalion up at soonest. They should start work tonight.”
“Labour battalion, sir? New one on me.”
“Hired them in, just arrived. Chinks. Coolies. From China. You know, the yellow buggers with the slant eyes?”
Richard did know who Chinese were, saw nothing wrong in Fotherby’s description of them, perfectly normal in ordinary conversation.
“They say there are hundreds of thousands of them going spare in China, sir. Cheap, as well. Good idea to pick up a few thousand. I read somewhere that the Americans did the same when building their railways. San Francisco is supposed to be full of them.”
“Didn’t know that, Baker. Never been there, of course. Not been to China, either. Regiment was sent to South Africa, wasn’t available when the Boxer business blew up. Pity. Good little campaign, that one. Nice and tidy. Not to worry. I should be able to lay my hands on a good number. Get them to dig a proper zigzag forward.”
There had been a problem in the early days of the trenches, the unwary digging in straight lines which a bullet could traverse end to end.
“Get the telephone wires in as well, sir. Useful thing to have up in the second line.”
“So it is. Get yourself settled in, Baker. The General wants us to keep pushing forward. It might be possible elsewhere, won’t be here. Get yourself comfortable for the winter.”
The German trenches were far better constructed than the British. Concrete had been used in places and the drainage system actually worked. Reversing the trench was a nuisance but the end product was more comfortable, the dugouts deeper and larger than the British and timber lined, making them far less muddy. The bunks were equipped with thicker mattresses as well, although just as full of lice as the British. They fumigated the dugouts and carpeted their floors with thousands of dead insect corpses. At least as many survived, hidden away and emerging to greet the new occupants.
The Medical Officer was worried about the possibility of typhus, which apparently was carried by some sorts of lice, or ticks, perhaps… bugs of some sort, certainly. Not the right sort for these trenches, it seemed, typhus and enteric and its various subspecies all staying clear for the winter.
The Death of Hope Page 11