“Not a hope, sir. There are no weak points to burst through.”
Braithwaite agreed that was the fact.
“Reality don’t matter too much just at the moment, Baker. General French is in need of a miracle and hopes he can pull one out of the hat. He knows he can win this war if he can just set thirty regiments of cavalry loose and he cannot understand why we are unable to deliver that requirement. He is inclined to think that we in the infantry are deliberately holding back so that he can be seen to fail and be replaced by Haig.”
“Does he not know that we regard Haig as no better than him, sir? Another cavalry general with no knowledge of the what the front looks like. Add to that, word is that Haig is a little shy. Got caught up in the fighting at Le Cateau and discovered just what machine guns could do and has kept well out of their range since. They say he has never seen a trench.”
Braithwaite reluctantly agreed that probably to be true.
“I do not know that he has ever come forward of Headquarters, Baker. The better part of thirty-five miles distant from the line. I understand it makes it easier to confer with the Frogs, staying that far back. Bad enough that I am here, two miles behind the line and unable to get up to see what is happening more than once a month. To be damned near twenty times that distance and never to see the real thing! Beyond me, Baker! Orders are, by the way, that senior officers must not cause unnecessary congestion of the forward lines by showing themselves there. It has been suggested that colonels should be pulled back from the fighting zone, the better to command their men, taking a dispassionate view.”
“Balls to that, sir!”
“Which is what I said, though not in those exact words, Baker. I believe every brigadier made the same response.”
“Is there any prospect of the cavalry being dismounted, sir? The extra men could be useful in the lines, relieving men more frequently. At minimum, could the RHA be released to do something useful?”
“No and no, Baker. The cavalry are vital to the winning of the war and must be held intact, ready to make the great advance. The RHA are, as their name tells us, mobile horse artillery and must again be held back for the war of movement that must inevitably come if only the infantry will do their job.”
“I lost eighty-seven men attempting to do the job in this poorly-planned, ill-thought out cock up the General called a battle, sir. I must of course ask for replacements, hoping they will come through before bloody conscription comes in! Three of them were second lieutenants, in the nature of things.”
“I shall try, Baker. All three of my battalions suffered heavy losses, though nothing like we took at Neuve Chapelle, of course. I have put in for three hundred and fifty men and eight junior officers. Word from Division is that we might get the officers and fifty men before Christmas. The New Year sees conscription coming in. What the plans are then, I do not know for sure. It is not unlikely that conscripts will be given basic training and sent out raw to fill gaps in the ranks. Might be they will see as little as eight weeks before coming out.”
“They will be useless, sir.”
“Up to you to make something of them, Baker. That’s what you are getting. About the only good thing to say will be that you will get a good number of them. You may well end up oversize, in fact.”
Richard was even less impressed – being oversized would simply mean that he had more unwilling bodies to train and make useful, in an environment which was discouraging to the keenest young soldier.
“What will the rules be, sir? Who will we get?”
“Good question! As it stands, and according to current plans – which will probably change daily – it will be single men between twenty and forty years of age. That excludes widowers with children, by the way. Not many of them but they obviously cannot be taken away from their family. There will be exemptions for necessary workers – presumably skilled men in their trades. Conscientious objection will be permitted, if the man can prove it to be legitimate. Religion, I suppose that will be. Might be a few political types who believe the war is wrong, or that all war is wrong – don’t know anything about them, meself! On top of it all, of course, they have to pass a medical.”
“I have been told that more than a half of volunteers to the Boer War failed the medical, sir.”
“So I believe. Figures have been better this time round. Thing is, Baker, a lot of young men will have known they could not pass and have not volunteered as a result. Bringing them up for conscription will be a waste of time because they won’t make the grade. We don’t want them if they are consumptive – every man in the Trenches would catch the disease from them! That must be half a million men on its own. They tell me the disease is rife in the industrial towns of the North Country. I was talking to the MO a few days back and he says he's worried about the men’s well-being as it is. Another cold winter out in their dugouts might break many of the men. Bad chests, you know.”
Richard was dismissive.
“If the problem is known, sir, then the Army should deal with it. More coal. Paraffin heaters. An extra thick jumper for the men to wear. Waterproof galoshes. More blankets. Woollen hats, what do they call them, ‘balaclavas’, isn’t it? Mittens. It is not impossible to keep men warm.”
“Cost, Baker! It would add so much to the bills. Add to that, the generals do not wish to coddle the men and make them soft. They think that hardship makes for better soldiers.”
“That’s ripe, sir! Coming from men sat on their fat arses in chateaux eating seven course dinners every day! If they’re right, then they should all be put out to live in tents and fed bully beef – might make them into useful generals!”
“Calm down, now, Baker! You may well be right. No gain to shouting it out where anybody can hear you. Can’t afford to have you superseded, sent back home as unreliable. I need you to set the example to the brigade, to give us all a lead. Where you go, other officers follow, you know. In fact, if you had not come to me today, I was to call you down, Baker. Awards have just come in. You have another Mention for your trench raid and a DSO for your leadership up to and including Neuve Chapelle. You can put the ribbon up. Might be able to organise an investiture for the Corps sometime in the next month or so. It all adds up. The newspapers will have it today.”
“Give a dog a good name, sir?”
“What? Oh, I see. Clever comment. Don’t think it’s so. Just no alternative – you must be recognised again. Wouldn’t be surprised if you picked up a knighthood in a year or two. You present a bit of a problem, you know. With the VC already, it’s a bit silly to give you a Military Cross. DSO is different, being for leadership as well as gallantry. Can’t just ignore the things you have done, got to find the correct way of noticing them. My congratulations, again, Baker – you know my opinion about you! They have given me a DSO too. I think it’s for being clever enough to have you under my command. Have to say, I am rather pleased!”
“Deserved, sir. You were busy enough last year to have earned more than one medal.”
“Good of you to say so, Baker. We were all up at the sharp end for those few months, were we not? Time for a bite of lunch before you go back up the line. I shall make all of your requests for winter clothing for the men, by the way. Don’t hold your breath waiting for them to turn up!”
A week and carrying parties turned up in the night, reels of wire one between two. Thousands of iron stakes followed accompanied by wooden-headed mallets, hopefully less noisy than sledgehammers. The Adjutant supervised all, rubbing his hands with glee.
“New style war wire, sir. Not the farmers’ stuff.”
Richard inspected the finger-long, pencil-thick barbs, cut to a razor-sharp diagonal point.
“Vicious! How are the men to handle this?”
“New gloves, sir. Leather with metal plates to palms and separately to each finger joint.”
“Good. Sergeant Major!”
O’Grady was there, nodding thoughtfully.
“Set in coils, sir. A post every six f
eet. I shall take a count, sir, see how many layers we can set out. Silently in the night and with no lights… I shall put out markers, sir. Canes stuck in the ground at the proper points. Stretcher-bearers waiting in the trench immediately behind them.”
They would lose men in the wiring parties. Random machine gun fire, possibly a bombardment if the Hun picked up movement. Men would slip as well, rip themselves on the barbs.
It took a week and ten men, all injuries handling the wire, two of them dead to blood-poisoning, the others sent back with deep gashes to arms and abdomen.
“Eight lucky men got a Blighty One, sir.”
“Is that how they see it now, Paisley?”
“It’s what they are saying, sir, which is not to mean that is what they are actually thinking. You will not find any of our men deliberately cutting themselves, sir. Nor do I know of any battalion where it has happened for sure. Talked about, that’s all.”
“And if we get a hard winter, Paisley?”
“God alone knows, sir. I do not.”
The next letter to Primrose asked if she knew of one of the committees sending comforts to the troops. A fortnight brought a response.
’I have gone beyond the bounds of good taste, my dear, and have achieved much! Nothing like vulgarity for getting results! A mention to the ladies of Mayfair that Colonel Baker VC’s 8th Beds Battalion was without a kind sponsor brought immediate action. You will have to attend some sort of gala function when you come back on leave, I do not doubt, and display your blushing self to the old tabbies and young predators. In return, the first parcels were put on the boat this morning with arrangements made to expedite their travel. I am told they will be with you inside the week.’
The remainder of the letter was as ever, with the exception that Zeppelins had been observed over England. This was very shocking, as he no doubt appreciated. She had almost lost her temper with one dear dowager who had commented that they now knew what the troops were facing, were sharing the hazards of war with them.
He wished he might have been there.
There was little unusual in that, he often wished he was at her side in England.
The parcels arrived, one for each in the battalion with a few dozen extras, counting being imprecise at a distance. Richard was amused that officers received the same as the men. Hawkeswill was not at all sure that was correct, felt that they should not refuse the dear ladies’ bounty.
“No doubt they knew no better, sir.”
Richard was sure Primrose knew exactly what she was doing, saw no need to say so. He took his own box into the dugout.
“What have we got?”
They inspected the box, appreciating the thought that had gone into the selection.
“Two half-pound bars of chocolate, sir. Everybody will like that. One hundred cigarettes, Senior Service, one of the better brands. Four ounces of pipe tobacco. The smokers can exchange that between them. One balaclava helmet, thick wool, best quality. Two pairs of thick stockings.”
They had spent at least two pounds on each box.
“I still don’t smoke, Paisley.”
“I know, sir. Don’t worry. I’ll look after the tobacco for you, sir.”
Word spread somehow that the parcels had been organised by the colonel’s lady. The men cheered her.
‘Major O’Grady was appreciative of the benefit to his battalion.
“No end of good, it has done, sir. Not for what it was so much, though it was very welcome, but for the ladies caring for them. A good smoke and a lump of chocolate to chew on is welcome. Christmas coming and the weather getting raw. The men are pleased with the balaclavas under the cold tin helmets.”
The Army had at last organised protective helmets for the front-line infantry. Opinion was varied on their effectiveness and many of the men had begrudged wearing them, being an innovation and therefore probably not necessary. Richard put his on unfailingly, setting the example and ordering all other officers to do the same.
“Problem with Mr Wincanton, sir. The helmets coming in just the one size, his tends to slip down and sit on his ears, sir. Perhaps the balaclava will help it stay on top of his head.”
Richard was not surprised that Wincanton’s head was smaller than most – there was nothing to fit inside it, after all.
“How did he do in the push, Hawkeswill? I cannot remember noticing him.”
“He was where he should have been, sir. At the front, waving a damned great big walking stick vaguely and shouting to the men to keep their line. He went in first to his section of trench. Cannot ask for more than that. He fell over, jumping in, but they picked him up quickly. Apparently he found four Huns in a dugout and pulled them out at the point of his revolver, to the approval of his own platoons.”
“Well done the boy. I thought he might have gone wandering off in the wrong direction.”
“No, sir. Better put him up to full lieutenant, sir. His men find him funny. They like him.”
“Glad somebody does! Put the papers in, Hawkeswill. How far does it have to go these days?”
“Division will give the effective approval, sir. If they agree, it’s rubber stamp from the War Office. Same for lieutenant to captain. Major has to be approved at Corps and anything higher is handled in London.”
“Good. What have you in mind for the conscripts?”
“A choice of their own platoons, separate for training purposes, or feeding them into the existing company structure, to fill in the gaps. I don’t like the idea of keeping them apart from the men. Makes them pariahs. My advice, sir, is to treat them like any other replacement coming up the line.”
“I’ll have a word with Major Vokes. Unless he has strong opinions otherwise, that’s what we shall do.”
“I expect most of them will fit in, sir. If they don’t, we can make them.”
Chapter Nine
The dinner party was, Simon imagined, a great success.
His uncle took pride of place, having seniority in station over all present. Simon took the next chair, a baronet’s wife on one side, a knight’s lady on the other. As heir to the viscountcy, he supposed he had some social standing. Being the proud fiancé, he must also be given prominence; add to that, he had some rank and good decorations. The combination made him visible and valuable to Mrs Parrett, concerned to increase her already high standing in the County. The Lord Lieutenant was not present, to her regret, she could not yet call on the very highest to grace her table; that would come, she did not doubt, when her new son-in-law acceded to his uncle’s honours.
The one great worry, clouding her triumph, was that dear Simon insisted still on sailing off to war, risking his valuable life. An early wedding, followed, she much trusted, by a rapid pregnancy and there would be an heir in his line, a grandson to keep the title in the Parrett family. She must hope that he could achieve another leave, although he had said that he expected to be many months aboard ship now, could not look for a second spell of rest in the next twelvemonth. He would be able to pay fleeting visits, a day or two at a time, totally inadequate for a wedding. The war was a nuisance, interfering with the important things in life!
Mrs Parrett was a little chagrined that she was stepping up on the back of her youngest child, rather than her own endeavours, consoled herself that dear Alice had always been her favourite. A pity that her husband had never been willing to work for a title; she was sure that he could have done so, had no doubt they could have found the money involved, the family had pots of it, after all!
Two of the invited families had sent late apologies, had just gone into mourning for sons lost in a flare-up at the Front. Both had been lieutenants in the Suffolks. She wondered if her eldest son, recently joined the regiment, might have been involved. They had received no telegram, had no rational cause for worry, and she was not to disturb her peace of mind with such gloomy speculations. All was well in her world, as it always had been and must ever continue.
The ladies withdrew and the men clustered around the he
ad of the table, the decanters circulating.
“What have you heard in London, my lord? Even so close as Ipswich, we pick up little of the latest information.”
“The Battle of Loos is winding down, Mr Parrett. Fifty thousand losses and almost nothing gained. French cannot last. It is a matter of a very few weeks now while the government tidies all and decides who must go where. Haig is being consulted, of course, and will have the final say on who is promoted, who will be sent away among the generals. No names available yet.”
He had said very little. It was more than the newspapers had to offer.
“There was talk of advances made, territory held, my lord.”
“Much talk. Little eventuality, I fear. The newspapers are no longer to be relied upon. Perhaps the only accurate items are the lists of names.”
“Fifty thousand dead and wounded! How many of them will be fit ever to return to service, my lord?”
“That is unclear. More than twenty thousand died. The machine guns and artillery took a heavy toll. Of the wounded, at least one half will never fully recover. Many are suffering from gas, their lungs impaired for life, a shortened life in all probability.”
“What swine the Huns are to use poison gas!”
Viscount Perceval chose not to enlighten them; they would not understand how it could come about that British gas had caused the bulk of such casualties, possibly all. He did not know that the Germans had released any gas in that battle.
“What of the sea, Captain Sturton? Have we regained command of the oceans?”
“No, sir. The submarine is the menace. We have no way of discovering submarines under the surface. We will see far more losses to the boats over the coming years.”
The Death of Hope Page 16