The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  His senior officer nodded, resigned. ‘You see, there is a heart beating in there, Nash; you just don’t want to be reminded of it,’ he said, this time prodding gently at Charlie’s chest. ‘I’ll send him down.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Charlie selected a new part of the trench to work from.

  The sniper who had been privately taunting him, while picking off members of his unit with ghastly regularity, had grown large in his mind as a monster. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more in the world than to kill him. Life was getting worse with the familiarity of war, not easier: wanting to kill someone was everything his pacifist soul deplored. The fighting sometimes began early; other days it could be quiet for hours, or it might only crank up at night. In between the carnage the soldiers on both sides filled their time coping with the filth and discomfort of daily life, spiced by the anticipation of death. Most, he realised, quietly accepted their end was near, but the concern was how it would arrive. Would it come quickly? Invisibly? With noisy warning? Painfully swift? Bloody and terrifying? Would the dying last for hours or just moments? The waiting and wondering kept them all on edge. In the meantime, their duty was to survive. Live through the anxiety that shredded their consciousness. Dodge the bullets and artillery fire, find some sleep in the impossible conditions, stay strong-willed on meagre rations, keep a sense of humour through what felt like the ending of humanity, shut out the grief for lost friends and fine, brave men. Kill, kill and keep killing more strangers you have no personal grudge against. Block the hunger, the chilblains, the trench foot, the rats, the excrement, the blood, the screams of the dying and the scared. Above all, don’t lose your rifle and never give up, even as you feel your hold on sanity slipping. How did the others lean back against a filthy trench wall and smoke a cigarette? How did they find cheerful words to write letters or postcards with stubby pencils? He was amazed at the humour they dug deep to find; so often he would hear the soldiers laughing together, sometimes uproariously – as though they were sharing a huge joke at the pub, and not here contemplating their death at any moment. And most seemed to keep their consciences clear despite who they might be killing on the other side. Following orders. They were protecting Britain: their families, their friends, their country . . . everything it stood for. No doubt the Germans felt the same about their loved ones, their country, their Kaiser . . . their orders. It wasn’t personal. Would it matter if the guns just stopped and the men emerged from both sides and shook hands, called it quits?

  The Tigers Brigade, as the Leicesters were known, had arrived here in Polygon Wood in Flanders in late September. He’d volunteered a year into the battles, in time for the bright and murderous hell of the Somme. The number who died in that fray felt as impossible to contemplate as it was that he’d survived clambering over the top of a trench to run towards enemy machine-gun fire. Back in 1915 he couldn’t have believed that the conditions or the attrition of men could get worse. Of course they had – much worse.

  The 8th had been moved around so much now it no longer mattered which trench he found himself in. Ultimately, they all felt like the same tunnel of despair, and the landscape had begun to look like the same wilderness wherever they landed. Mud, a few tree stumps, grim skies overhead; below ground he was always at least ankle-deep in diseased, muddied water – and that’s if the 8th were lucky. In 1916, the Battle of the Somme, in northern France; the Arras offensive on the Western Front during spring of this year and now here they were: another trench, another battleground in Ypres, and autumn was approaching. Not that Charlie could tell one season from another. All those delicious telltale signs he used to appreciate were no longer there. From the birds and creatures that heralded the seasons to the plants and the fragrances of the air . . . now it all felt the same. Dim, smoky, toxic-smelling, bleakly grey, with the sounds of pain and gunfire almost drowning out all others.

  It was here in Ypres that Charlie discovered more about the gas that had sent him scuttling to join up. He learned that the Germans had helpfully marked their differences. The shells bearing a yellow cross contained mustard gas, which lingered and caused severe blistering, affecting the eyes in particular. There were those bearing a green cross, and Charlie’s chemist’s mind immediately knew this to be chlorine and phosgene – the mix that had enraged him sufficiently to volunteer, despite his pacifist leaning. He’d discovered a third since arriving . . . the one marked with a blue cross. This one had variations of diphenylchlorarsine that he understood had been designed to make the victim sneeze and cough, forcing him to pull off his gas mask and expose himself to the gas. He wondered if his old boss back in Lancashire had been involved in developing the filter that had been inserted into all their gas masks this summer to protect them from the gas in the blue-crossed shells. It was an idle thought that didn’t help anyone, least of all Charlie himself.

  The truth was that in this wasteland of trenches and shell holes, the mustard gas could saturate and dissolve itself in the pools of water. It was poison waiting to be drunk, washed in, boiled up for tea in the mess tin . . . Still lethal, in other words. He’d tried to explain this to his men, to make them take care, but were they listening when they were parched?

  With a feeling of fresh disgust, Charlie began adjusting his Enfield.303 to take account of his new position. He didn’t like to clean the outside of his rifle, believing that the grubbier it was, the less likely it would show up when the enemy scrutinised positions, although he was not entirely sure whether this was a just superstition. Internally, however, he kept it pristine.

  A young man stumbled up, moving awkwardly, not yet used to trench conditions. His eyes were wide and worried.

  ‘I’m H-Hartley, sir,’ he stammered. ‘Er, I’m to be your new spotter . . . sir.’

  ‘Keep your head down, Hartley,’ he ground out, roughly pulling the lad below the lip of the trench. ‘Got a mirror?’

  ‘I do, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ He pointed to the top of their trench. ‘That’s your ceiling. Never be tempted to peek over.’ He turned and fixed the freckle-faced youth with a hard stare. ‘You want to be alive tonight, yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The lad looked bewildered.

  ‘Tell me about your girl.’

  Hartley’s face flushed beneath the smudges of mud. ‘I wish I had one, sir.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be fighting them off, I promise. You’ll be a hero.’ The youngster grinned crookedly but the smile died as a fresh eruption of artillery fire whizzed and exploded around them. Charlie could see the mirror shaking in his hand, the boy’s breath coming faster. That had to stop if he was going to survive even today. ‘Where are you from, Hartley?’ They were waiting for the general signal that would send men clambering above them, but Charlie needed to distract his young companion, keep him talking.

  ‘Burnley, sir.’

  ‘I know Burnley. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Queen’s Road, s-sir,’ Hartley stammered, back pressed hard against the trench wall.

  Charlie could see it was taking all of his willpower not to simply shut his eyes and scream. He carried on conversationally. ‘Ah, yes. Apparently that is the only road of its name in the country, making it unique. Did you know that?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t think I understand, sir.’

  Charlie kept checking his rifle sight, narrowing his world down ready for the moment his skills were needed. ‘Well, there are probably lots of places called King’s Road, or Princes Lane, or even Hartley Street . . . but there’s only one Queen’s Road in the whole of Britain – and it’s where you live.’

  ‘Heck!’ Hartley said, scratching his head beneath his helmet and sounding impressed, and Charlie knew he had him. Now he had the lad’s attention directed away from the fear, and perhaps the shame that even he himself felt that it was others going over the top. ‘I must write to my mother about that, sir. She’ll be right chuffed.’

  ‘You should. Write tonight.’

  Machine-gun fire escalated from the Ger
man line.

  He straightened the boy’s helmet and pointed at the mirror. ‘Your world is in there. Don’t listen to the guns, don’t watch our men or get distracted. Just look in there. Hold it up . . . higher . . . bit higher. There. Now, take your time. I want you to help me search for their gunners but most particularly their sniper . . . there’s only one of those at present in this section and I want him. Can you see anything interesting for me, Hartley?’ he muttered.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Go slow. I call him Adolph Topperwein in my mind,’ Charlie admitted, ducking lower in the trench to finally look squarely at Hartley. He was such a baby-face, appearing younger than most at seventeen. How was Charlie going to keep this child alive?

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a man,’ he began, fiddling again with his weapon, making a slight adjustment, ‘who used to perform in travelling shows in America, and he would entertain audiences with his clever shooting. He could outline the silhouette of an Indian chief in bullets. That was his famous trick. He had the German name of Adolph Topperwein. So I think of him as our cunning shooter across the way; he’s the best I’ve encountered. In these few days we’ve lost four men to his rifle. I don’t plan on there being a fifth.’

  ‘Let’s get him, sir.’ Hartley grinned.

  ‘Sniping takes patience,’ he began again, but shouting now, as around them the world had essentially exploded. ‘No matter what happens, I must remain still, breathing evenly – slowing my breathing, actually – searching for the clear-sighted moment and the target.’

  Satisfied, Charlie cast a glance around at the men of the company. The nervous tension was so thick it was now a presence around the soldiers, wrapping long arms around them and whispering that death beckoned. Most of those about to go over the top would not make it back, and almost certainly would not make it much further forward. Behind their position the bigger guns bucked and coughed fire as gunners slammed rounds into the breeches. No one could be heard above the ruckus now. It was as though one hundred orchestras had been given the signal to make as much of a discordant din as they could possibly achieve . . . as loud as they possibly could.

  He imagined the conductor instructing, As many cymbal clashes and hammering drums as you can . . . use your muscles, chaps!

  A shell exploded in their zigzag of trench and he felt his heart give to see Hartley cower, his face contorting with primal fear. The cries of men were a minuscule sound – a bare jangle of a triangle in the terrible symphony being waged – and still he could hear it. It was as though only he was attuned to death, because those hit from that explosion had died without the soldiers a few feet away knowing. They were just gone, like Royce: here one moment, their heartbeats stilled the next. Someone needed to bear witness to their last breaths. And so that was him. The captain with good hearing, a deadeye shot, a heart he only knew was there because it kept pumping. He heard them and he wished them peace.

  ‘Mirror, Hartley,’ he yelled. ‘Focus on that. And remember, we just have to survive today, the last of our four-day rotation, and then we can drop back into reserve. You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  ‘Good lad. Let’s get to work.’

  Machine guns bristled from the other side, their staccato noise a murderous chorus among the fire and explosions. Mud spat nearby and Charlie peered through the gloom and searched for his nemesis. As the second whistle blew over Polygon Wood, torrential rain began.

  Men, terrified, nevertheless readied to haul themselves over the top of the trench while trying not to slip. Everyone’s minds would be on the best way to run across the pocked battlefield, which was rapidly turning into craters that could suck a man down in moments. He felt a familiar chill spangle through his body, an animal instinct that meant every sense he possessed was now switched on, engaged and working as one. No more internal debate on whether to face the threat or flee. The mind had won; the body was resigned and obedient. We fight, his consciousness instructed every muscle. Instead of tensing as they wished to, they relaxed under its orders.

  No wind today. Hopefully no chlorine gas, then, although it now arrived by shell and didn’t need Nature’s help. Even so, he pulled off the hateful mask. No special calculation for his shooting either. But so much noise that it was no longer possible to convey anything to poor Hartley. Charlie took a deep breath, aware of slowing his exhale, and then another. The final breath was even deeper, and as he emptied his lungs achingly slow, it felt like his breathing had stilled, and Charlie took one final, steadying blink, firmed his finger on the trigger, and saw the single giveaway glint of a machine gunner’s weapon at the back of the opposing trench. Triumph trilled through Charlie as he narrowed his gaze still further and then depressed the trigger smoothly. The bullet left the barrel with an exhilarated sigh that at last it had a destination. It hurtled towards its victim, and in the heartbeat after the crack of its departure, Charlie watched a man’s head snap back as the rifle bucked against his shoulder. He let the trigger return smoothly, and momentarily, silently, acknowledged a good shot. He took no pleasure in the result of his accuracy; he knew that if he paused to consider its repercussions on that man’s family and those who loved him, his threads of composure might unravel. He moved on swiftly: it gave his men some time, but that gunner was not the prey he was hunting.

  The third whistle screeched like a panicked bird and men clambered up and over the lip of the sandbagged trench. He was aware that several fell immediately, their bodies jerking and jumping as the bullets hit them. They toppled backwards or sidewards, like ragdolls. Not wanting to survey the greater carnage, he focused his gaze through the tiny sight of his rifle, then watched a man’s head explode as flying artillery smashed into it. The body moved, headless, for a full revolution before collapsing like a half-emptied sack of flour. He closed his eyes on it and shifted his sights. Look for Topperwein.

  Red and sulphurous yellow flashes began to burst in front of enemy lines and the machine-gun fire that had only just cranked up fell silent again. Charlie peered through his sight into what felt like eternal oblivion, but as he adapted his vision he could see his infantry stumbling about, up to their knees in mud, hauling themselves from one sucking footstep to the next, carrying eighty pounds of kit on their backs with their rifles readied to shoot. Everything around was as desolate as Charlie’s state of mind. This had surely once been the prettiest of landscapes, surrounding a picturesque medieval city that was famous for its cloth. Now there were blackened tree stumps, the once verdant ripples of the land turned into a bog filled with the flotsam and jetsam of war: metal, timber, rubber and flesh.

  He’d begun to believe that no matter the risks he took, there was no German bullet or shell with his name on it. No bomb would kill him. He wondered whether in this moment he should scramble over the top and just run at the enemy to test his theory. If he was right, then he would take as many of the Hun as he could before he was wounded. If he was wrong, well, anything, including death, was better than this. This was not life. This was not even existence. This was a caught animal, surviving a few more minutes by snarling at its trapper.

  He hadn’t realised he was moving until Hartley grabbed his sleeve. ‘Sir?’

  But Charlie wrenched clear and angled towards the makeshift ladder. ‘Hartley, remember to write to your mum.’ He used it to launch himself as others had minutes before. And then he was moving . . . more freely than he had in an age cooped up in the trench. If the marshy ground would only permit it, he could run. He was not weighted down by a pack; he had only his rifle. He would take as many of the enemy with him as he could. He didn’t want recognition.

  He ran into the back of a disoriented soldier, and as that man turned, Charlie could see half his face was gone. The soldier collapsed in his arms. Charlie laid him down, feeling the hot pain of fresh despair. Another mother’s son, dying for what? A small piece of land? Let them have it, for pity’s sake. Another soldier stumbled over him as he crouched.r />
  ‘Keep moving!’ the fellow yelled, eyes wide and terrified.

  If he could see better through the chaos and smoke, he would take aim at Fritz; hell, he would duck and weave his way right up to that sniper and —

  Charlie didn’t hear the explosion; he only felt its effects. He didn’t remember landing on his back. He had no idea how long he had lain there and whether he’d been unconscious or simply stunned. He felt first for his rifle. Nowhere close. Then he checked he was whole. He could feel sticky blood on his hands and he could move his feet, but was he pushing back towards the British trench or moving closer to the enemy line? He couldn’t tell. Charlie checked that each digit of his hands moved on command. They did. So, perhaps not so badly injured. Winded, something broken – a rib perhaps because there was distant pain stabbing, and his mind felt gauzy, like it was suddenly filled with cotton wool and too dense for clear thought.

  Another explosion: a piece of shrapnel missed him by inches, but he felt mud spatter him and harmless metal shards landing on his boots. There was no way to tell if the bomb was one from friend or foe. He could hear men crying nearby but couldn’t see them. Charlie lay back, closed his eyes and this time felt himself drift.

  Topperwein may not have had a target painted on his helmet but Charlie knew some things about him. The man liked to wear his helmet tipped arrogantly backwards . . . it made shooting easier, Charlie knew, but he preferred to think Topperwein was so certain of his invincibility that he invited the enemy to take a shot at his exposed forehead. He also knew that Topperwein had orange hair. Thick and aggressively cut so it stuck up, like carroty grass. He needed these insults to hold his hostility strong in his mind, for this man surely couldn’t help the colour of his hair or the fact that he too was a deadeye Dick.

  Charlie lay there feeling stronger as the hours passed. There was pain but he determined no fracture; bruising, no doubt, and ringing in his ears. Be still, he told himself, and wait for evening to close over you.