by Hilary Green
‘What do you think? Killed by a shell or dropped dead from exhaustion?’ Victoria asked.
Leo, thinking of Amber, had to swallow hard before replying. ‘Who knows? I’m certainly not getting down to check.’
After that they saw more horses and the landscape became pitted with shell-holes. A column of walking wounded passed them, many of them limping, heads or arms swathed in bandages. The sound of the gunfire grew louder and then they all heard the whistle of a shell and an explosion somewhere just ahead. At that point the road made one of its infrequent bends, to by-pass a large farmhouse, and when they rounded it they saw a smoking crater almost in the centre of the road. Victoria stood on the brakes and Wilks and Nicky crowded forward to look over her shoulders. For a moment nobody spoke.
Then Victoria said, ‘Oh well, there but for the grace of God . . .’ and put the engine into gear.
Wilks said in a small voice, ‘You don’t think perhaps we should turn back?’
Leo was about to speak but Nicky’s robust rejoinder cut her off. ‘Good heavens, no! That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?’
There was just enough of the pavé left for the ambulance to edge past but it took all Victoria’s skill and Leo found herself staring down into what looked like a bottomless pit of mud and praying that the wheels would not slip over the edge.
It was late afternoon when they finally drew up at a dilapidated building which was serving as a poste de secours, where the officer in charge was delighted to receive the medical supplies they had brought with them. The gunfire had stopped and he informed them that they could stretch their legs without fear as the bombardment had finished for the afternoon.
‘How can you be so sure?’ Leo asked.
‘Because it happens like this every day,’ he answered. ‘The Boche have a schedule and they keep to it like clockwork.’
Leo looked across the darkening landscape. The banks of the Yser had been breached and the land around flooded to slow down the German advance and the light of the setting sun was reflected off the water, giving the whole scene an air of unreality.
‘I don’t understand,’ Nicky said. ‘I thought we were close to the front but I can’t see any sign of either army.’
‘That’s because they are all dug in, in trenches,’ Leo explained. ‘Can you see those dark lines? They are full of men, but if they were to show themselves they would risk being blown to bits.’
They were told that they could not go up to the trenches until after dark so they sat drinking marc with the officer and his men until nightfall. Then they were instructed to follow one of them to a point beyond the village where a doctor would meet them. After that, they must walk in single file with at least twenty feet between them and be prepared to drop flat if the Germans sent up a star shell. They set off, each carrying a bundle containing woollen socks and mufflers, donated by knitters back in England, as well as a supply of bandages and other medical items. Along the way they passed silent lines of troops, heading for the trenches or going in the opposite direction. It was pitch dark by now and they were not allowed to show a light and Leo felt that she had trudged for miles, just keeping the shadowy figure of the doctor in sight. At last they came to the first trench and scrambled down a slippery plank into it. At once Leo’s nose was assailed by a familiar stench of foetid water and human excrement and for a second she was back in the Turkish trenches with Sasha. She pushed the memory to the back of her mind and concentrated. Behind her, she could hear Wilks trying not to retch.
The first task was to assist the doctor with a number of wounded men. Then they set off along the trench to distribute the ‘comforts’. It seemed to Leo that she had stumbled along for hours, up to the ankles in mud, ducking down every few yards to crawl through the entrance to a dugout where the inhabitants crouched like troglodytes around hissing paraffin lamps. Their gratitude for the gifts was touching. The socks were particularly welcomed and, feeling her own frozen feet, Leo could understand why.
When all the goods had been distributed they made their way back to the entrance, where two wounded men were waiting on stretchers.
‘This is going to be tricky,’ Victoria muttered. ‘How are we going to get them up that slippery plank without tipping them off?’
‘Tricky is an understatement,’ Leo agreed. ‘But it has got to be managed somehow.’
Somehow, between the four of them, they manhandled the stretchers out of the trench and set off, with aching arms, for the village. Halfway there a star shell exploded overhead, flooding the area with light, and they had to dump their burdens and lie flat until it died out. By the time they reached the poste de secours they were all ready to weep with exhaustion. One of the wounded men reached up and caught Leo’s hand.
‘Merci! Merci, madame!’
Leo stooped over the stretcher and managed a smile. ‘De rien, mon brave.’
Once they were safely back in the ambulance and on their way Leo voiced a thought that had been at the back of her mind since they left the trenches.
‘Vita, do you think Tom and Ralph are living in the same conditions as those men?’
Victoria gave a small snort. ‘Well, wherever they are, I imagine your brother’s boots are not as shiny as they used to be.’
Leo looked at her. ‘That’s a bit hard-hearted.’
Victoria negotiated a pothole in silence. Then she said, ‘Sorry. I suppose it was a bit uncalled for. But you must admit Ralph did need taking down a peg or two.’
Leo thought back to the scene at Adrianople, when he had discovered her in her male disguise. Than she remembered what Tom had told her about their exploits in Sarajevo. ‘He can be a pompous ass at times,’ she conceded, ‘but he’s very brave, you know. He’ll be doing his bit with the best of them.’
The conversation lapsed, largely because Leo had to fight to stay awake. She tried to keep talking, because she was afraid that Victoria might drop off and drive them into the ditch, but she kept forgetting what she was trying to say. In the end, it was only the frequent need to whisper the password for the day to the sentries along the way that kept her from falling into a deep sleep.
Back at the hospital, Leo found a letter waiting for her. It was from Luke, telling her that he and his regiment were now encamped outside Cairo.
We’re training with a load of Australians and people have started referring to us as ANZACs. We’re not too sure about being lumped in with them – they’re an uncouth lot, most of them. But they seem to be pretty tough, so on the whole we’re glad to have them fighting alongside us. Anyway, now the Turks have come into the war, it means I’ll have a chance to even some old scores.
A few days later, walking back to the Bon Genie with Victoria, Leo’s gaze was attracted by a lighted shop window. In it was a replica of the Nativity scene. Leo stopped dead and caught Victoria’s sleeve.
‘Vita, what’s the date?’
Victoria frowned. ‘No idea. Why?’
‘Look!’ She indicated the window. ‘It must be nearly Christmas.’
She opened the shop door and asked the woman behind the counter what the date was. The women stared at her with an expression that said plainly that these strange English girls were obviously mad, or heathens – or both.
‘It’s December the twenty-first, mademoiselle.’
‘The twenty-first!’ Leo repeated to Victoria. ‘It’s almost Christmas and we’d forgotten. We must do something for the patients.’
‘Difficult,’ Victoria said. ‘There’s nothing in the shops to make a Christmas meal and we couldn’t give them all presents.’
‘Perhaps we could get together and sing carols,’ Leo suggested.
‘Let’s see what Boss says. She may have something up her sleeve.’
Lilian Franklin had given some thought to the festival and over the next three days everyone who had a moment to spare was occupied in wrapping presents, culled from among the various comforts sent out from England. So on Christmas morning every man received a
parcel containing cigarettes and chocolate, often with a handwritten card from whichever nurse had been taking care of them. Leo’s suggestion of carol singing was well received and after a few scratch rehearsals all the FANYs not actively required for duty assembled and toured the wards, singing ‘Away in a Manger’ and ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night’ and ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ The patients were delighted and some of them joined in, singing along in their own languages.
Afterwards, Beryl Hutchinson, who had already established herself as one of the leading spirits in the group, said, ‘You know, we were not half bad, even after only two rehearsals. I reckon if we put our minds to it we could put on a pretty good revue.’
‘It reminds me of Christmas in Lozengrad.’ Victoria said privately to Leo. ‘Oh, no, you weren’t there, were you?’
‘No, but you told me about it,’ Leo said. ‘About how the local orderlies taught the men to wish you Merry Christmas and they all sat up in bed and chanted . . .’
‘Melly Chissimas!’ Victoria laughed.
‘And Melly Chissimas to you, too!’ Leo responded.
Further along the line of trenches that now stretched from the Channel to the Alps, in a dugout only slightly larger and more salubrious than the ones Leo had visited, Tom and Ralph huddled over a paraffin stove. Tom was sketching and Ralph was desultorily flicking through the pages of an old copy of Punch. Tom raised his head.
‘Listen!’
Ralph cocked an ear. ‘Sounds all quiet to me. I checked the sentries ten minutes ago.’
‘No, I don’t mean anything like that. Can’t you hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
‘Sounds like singing.’ Tom got up and lifted the tarpaulin covering the entrance. The sound was clearer now; male voices singing a lilting lullaby. ‘It’s coming from the German trenches! I’ve heard that tune before. I think it’s a Christmas carol.’
Ralph joined him at the entrance. ‘You’re right.’ Then he added gloomily, ‘Can’t think what the Boche have got to sing about.’
‘As much or as little as we have, I suppose,’ Tom said. ‘I imagine they are just as fed up and homesick as we are. Maybe singing carols helps them to remember that somewhere out there people are still living more or less normal lives, putting up decorations, wrapping presents, all the usual things, and one day we shall be doing it, too.’
‘Shall we?’ Ralph asked.
‘Of course. Next year we may all be home.’
‘I doubt it. I shan’t see another Christmas.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’
‘You know what the mortality rate has been among junior officers in these few months. I don’t expect to escape much longer.’
Tom looked at him in dismay. ‘You mustn’t think like that! That’s the way to get yourself killed.’ Ralph shook his head without speaking and Tom, with a flutter of nerves at the pit of his stomach, laid his arm across his shoulders. ‘Come on, old chap! You’ve borne a charmed life so far, and it’s going to go on. We’re going to survive this war and I won’t hear you say otherwise.’
For once Ralph did not shrug away from the contact as he usually did, but leaned against him and gripped his shoulder in return. ‘Good old Tom! I’m glad you’re here with me.’ He met Tom’s eyes. ‘I suppose it would sound daft to say “Happy Christmas”?’
‘Not to me,’ Tom replied, his voice suddenly husky. ‘Happy Christmas, Ralph.’
Eight
‘Ever been up in a balloon, Devenish?’ the colonel asked.
‘What?’ Tom responded, aghast, then remembering his position, added: ‘Sorry, sir. A balloon? No, never.’
‘Well, you’re going to have that pleasure tomorrow,’ the colonel informed him.
‘Me, sir? But I can’t . . . I mean, I’m not very good at heights . . . Why me . . . ? He trailed into silence.
‘Because we need your eyes up there. I’ve seen some of your drawings. You have a remarkable eye for detail and we need to know everything we can about the enemy dispositions. The Royal Flying Corps chappies do their best, but the photographs are very indistinct. From the balloon you should be able to get a pretty clear picture of the location of artillery emplacements, fuel and ammunition dumps etc. That’s what we need from you, in as much detail as possible. Captain Manson here will brief you with the arrangements.’
Tom made his way back to the house where he and Ralph had been billeted in a mood of fatalistic depression. The Coldstreamers had been withdrawn from the line for a rest and until that morning he had been enjoying the chance of sleeping under a proper roof. Though even that was a doubtful pleasure, since the shelling had left huge holes in it, and as it was a single storey building there were only limited places where it was possible to avoid the unending rain. At least the big stove in the centre of the main room still worked and he had been able to dry out his clothes and boots.
After the initial fighting around Ypres both sides had dug in and the winter months had become an exercise in stubborn endurance. The days had passed in the unending routine of drills and inspections interspersed with periods of inactivity and boredom. Now it was March and everyone knew that the coming of spring meant the beginning of a new offensive. The sickening knot in Tom’s stomach was due as much to the anticipation of renewed fighting as to the prospect of going up in the balloon. He was not afraid so much for himself as for Ralph. He knew that his role as official war artist was supposed to keep him out of the fighting line, but he had learned already that the distinction was impossible to maintain; at least he would not be required to lead men into battle, as Ralph would be. He sensed that Ralph was chafing at the inactivity of the winter and eager for the fighting to start again but there was a fatalistic quality about that eagerness that disturbed him.
When he told Ralph about the balloon he saw his eyes widen and for a moment he looked as if he was about to voice a protest. Then his expression changed and he looked away, saying, ‘You lucky bugger! I wouldn’t mind going up in one of those things.’
‘Well, you’d be welcome to take my place, if it was possible,’ Tom replied. ‘You know how I feel about heights. I shall probably be sick or start blubbing, or disgrace myself in some other way.’
‘Oh, you’ll be fine,’ Ralph said dismissively. ‘You’ll soon get over it.’
Looking at him, Tom knew that neither of them was saying what was really in his mind; namely that balloons presented an obvious threat and were therefore often targeted by enemy aircraft. They had both seen what happened when a hydrogen filled balloon was hit by incendiary bullets.
The following morning was damp and chill, with a threat of snow in the air and Tom had hopes that the flight might be cancelled. He arrived at the site soon after dawn and shivered as he saw the vast, sausage-shaped balloon hovering a few feet above the ground, tugging at the mooring lines that held it. The basket below it looked improbably small by comparison. He had not eaten breakfast, as a precaution, and now he was unsure whether the nausea he was feeling was a product of nerves or hunger.
The pilot, who introduced himself as ‘Wally’ Wallace, was a man in his thirties with a large, drooping moustache and a quite unreasonably cheerful manner, or so it seemed to Tom.
‘Ever been up in one of these before?’
Tom shook his head and tried to stop his teeth from chattering.
‘Nothing to it, old boy! Climb in and hang on to that handle, there, and keep your knees bent during the take-off. Same when we land. Apart from that, sit back and enjoy the ride!’
‘Once we’re up, what’s to stop us drifting away and ending up on the wrong side of the lines?’ Tom asked.
‘No chance of that,’ the pilot replied. ‘We shall be tethered to that cable there – see? – and that is attached to that winch. In the event of a problem, such as an attack by an enemy plane, we can be winched down in less than a minute. Planes won’t risk coming down to less than a thousand feet, because of the ack-ack guns. Don’t worry, we�
�re well protected. Oh, here. You’d better put this on.’
He handed Tom a package resembling a rucksack. ‘What is it?’ Tom asked.
‘Parachute, old boy. Don’t worry, you won’t have to use it, but we’re supposed to wear them.’
Tom allowed himself to be strapped into the parachute and climbed stiffly over the side of the basket. He heard Wally shouting orders to the ground crew, who were hanging on to the ropes that kept the balloon from soaring away. He gripped the handle like a drowning man clinging to a life raft and shut his eyes. There was a slight jolt, a sense that his body had grown suddenly heavier and then a gentle rocking motion.
‘Right, that’ll do,’ Wally said. ‘Visibility’s not too bad. You should be able to see all you need to see from here.’
Tom opened his eyes and looked down. Below him the landscape swayed gently as if the solid earth was tilting from side to side. He stared for a minute, then grabbed the side of the basket and leaned out, retching.
‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ Wally’s voice came from behind him. ‘Lost our breakfast, have we? Never mind. It takes some people that way to begin with but you’ll get over it. Now, you’d better get your sketches done before the Boche decide to use us for target practice.’
Tom straightened up, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth, and reached into the case he carried on one shoulder to produce his sketch pad and pencil. He moved unsteadily to the side of the basket facing the enemy lines and forced himself to examine the scene below him. The basket had come to rest and the ground had almost stopped swaying and he was amazed at how far he could see. In the foreground were the British trenches: first the reserve line, then the support line and furthest away from him the front line, with a network of communication trenches. Beyond the front line was no-man’s-land, a grey wasteland pitted with shell-holes and bisected by barricades of barbed wire. Beyond that was the first line of German trenches. Further away still was the village of Neuve Chapelle, the skeletons of houses abandoned long ago by their inhabitants. The landscape beyond the village was flat and featureless until it rose in a low ridge, the Aubers Ridge, which Tom knew would be one of the objectives in the next attack.