by John Harris
The notice outside company headquarters, The following officers and men have been carefully selected to participate … resulted in a riot of backslapping and cheers. Only Tim Williams from our platoon was found to have been left out, because of his hand which was still not completely healed.
At first light the next morning, a despatch rider arrived at headquarters, and we all knew what that meant. Soon afterwards the company commanders were called to the colonel’s billet, then Bold appeared to summon all the NCOs to Ashton’s tent, and, as we assembled in a self-conscious little group outside, Ashton told us we were to go in opposite Serre.
‘That’s nice,’ Bold commented in a flat expressionless voice. ‘Serre’s supposed to be a hard nut to crack.’
Ashton nodded. ‘Perhaps that’s why they chose us for the job,’ he said with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘We shall be going forward on a three-hundred-yard front. We’re to form up on tapes that will have been laid for us in No Man’s Land.’
He indicated a map spread out on the grass and poked at it with his stick.
‘The code name for the battalion is Beer. The battalion on our right is Gin. The one on our left is Rum. We’re to attack and capture the trenches marked on the map with the names Tom, Dick and Harry. We’re to form up with C Company in this trench here – code name, Cheerio. A and B will be just in front in China trench. Better have a good look at the map before you leave. We shall go over in the four waves as practised, the first wave – that’ll include A and B companies – to clear any wire or other obstacles. They’ll carry ladders. The bombardment will intensify from six-thirty ack-emma onwards and the first wave will move forward at seven-thirty.’
Bold looked up sharply. ‘Seven-thirty?’ he said. ‘That’s late, isn’t it, sir? The sun’ll be up. We’ll be going up’ill right into it. We shan’t see a thing.’
‘Something to do with the French, I believe,’ Ashton said easily, dismissing it. ‘They want it that way. But there’s no need to worry. We’ve only to walk across and take over what’s left after the bombardment. The French can’t give us a lot of help because of Verdun, but this time I’m not sure we need it. It’s our show and we’ve got to prove to ’em what we can do.’
Bold still looked dubious and Ashton laughed. ‘Good heavens, Sergeant-Major,’ he said. ‘There are only about twenty enemy battalions along the whole front. We know that for certain. We can muster nearly that many divisions. He hasn’t a cat in hell’s chance.’
‘He’s got machine guns,’ Bold said.
‘They’re all taped. We have nothing to fear from them. The gunners are looking after them.’
As he spoke, there was a tremendous crash of artillery and a suggestion of back blast that flapped the tent canvas and made us all glance round. Ashton began to smile.
‘That’s the beginning,’ he announced, gesturing with his papers. ‘That’s the beginning of the bombardment. Today’s the first day and it’s to go on all week. Listen to it. Surely that ought to convince you all how little we have to fear?’
The noise increased, and began to ripple and roll all the way along the front from north to south. You could pick out the individual guns as they went off – the earsplitting bark of the eighteen-pounders, the cough of the howitzers, and the reverberating crash of the heavy guns away in the rear.
It started with the one tremendous bang that had startled us, then settled down to a jerky roar that was flung from horizon to horizon like thunder rolling across mountains.
We moved away from the map and stared silently towards the east. Shirt-sleeved men were standing in groups in the field below us and you could see rolling clouds beyond the curve of the hill, green and yellow smoke that reminded you of the Cotterside steelworks.
I could see young Murray capering among his friends. ‘They’ve hit a dump!’ he was yelling gleefully. ‘They’ve hit a dump!’
All the doubts and fears which had been forming in my mind after Bold’s question dropped away again under that rolling iron-throated thunder. Down below in the field high-spirited figures were cheering and singing and leaping about, and you could see that all the old soldier’s cynicism that they’d acquired in spite of themselves had fallen away as the offensive was set in motion.
There were so many guns going off all round us Ashton had to continue in a shout.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can hear it now. The light stuff’s on his front line. The medium’s on his artillery. The heavies are on his communications so he can’t bring up reinforcements to hinder us. We’ve got fifteen hundred guns. One to every few yards. The front’s stiff with artillery. We’ll be home by Christmas.’
Through the din I heard names like Montauban, Contalmaison, Pozieres, the Miraumont Spur, Hannescamps and Maricourt.
‘That’s twenty-odd miles from north to south,’ I said, startled. ‘Is it going to cover the lot?’
‘This is the biggest thing that’s ever been put on,’ Ashton pointed out. ‘Ever in the history of war. We can’t fail.’
A whole set of instructions followed, which Ashton read from a sheaf of cyclostyled papers in his hand, enlarging on every point as he went along.
‘We’ve got the times of the artillery lifts,’ he said, ‘and we’re not to get in front of them and we’re not to lag too far behind.’
‘What happens if we stick?’ Bold asked disconcertingly.
Ashton laughed. ‘Stick?’ he said. ‘Listen to the racket. Nothing can exist after that. Do you think we’ll stick?’
He stared at Bold for a moment, waiting for a question, but Bold said nothing, and Ashton began to read again from his instruction sheets.
‘It’s impressed on us that we hold on to every yard of ground we gain,’ he said. ‘We must be ready in case he tries to push us out. But, as all the enemy’s balloons have been destroyed, his counter-attacks can only be shots in the dark.’
He paused and took a breath. ‘Every man will wear a steel helmet,’ he continued, ‘and will carry an entrenching tool, a rolled groundsheet, a water bottle, a haversack containing shaving gear and extra socks, the unconsumed portion of the day’s rations and extra cheese, a preserved ration, an iron ration, two gas-helmets, tear goggles, wire-cutters, a field dressing and iodine. In addition, there’ll be flares to carry, and bandoliers of extra ammunition, wire, sandbags, Mills bombs, picks and shovels, water, pigeons and other things. I’ll let you have a list of those last items section by section.’
‘What happens if we have to go in with the bayonet with that lot?’ Bold’s question was harsh and angry and lacking in respect. It was quite unlike his normal manner, and Ashton took off his spectacles and polished them, peering at him, mournfully and a little owlishly, as he always did when he was uncertain, as though disapproving but unable to make up his mind how to reply.
‘Doubtless that’s all been worked out too,’ he said sharply.
‘It’s to be hoped so,’ Bold growled, and I saw Ashton look at him with an annoyed expression on his face. For a moment he stood fiddling with his sheets, staring at Bold, then he seemed to shrug off the distraction. When he went on he seemed a little irritated and nervous, as though things had been pointed out to him that he hadn’t considered and the thought worried him because he ought to have considered them.
‘The men will pile their personal belongings and greatcoats near the waggons for storage,’ he went on, his voice a little higher and firmer, as though by that means he hoped to prevent further interruptions. ‘One man will be detailed to remain on guard over them until after the offensive. Blankets will be handed in at once and the men are to start immediately getting their kits ready. We shall be moving up at any time.’
Bold didn’t seem any too happy as we walked away.
‘The plan’s too rigid,’ he said angrily. ‘It don’t allow for anything going wrong. And that bloody list of things we’ve got to carry! – it’s obviously been got out by some fat little donkey who’s never lifted anything heavier than a ceremonial
sword. The lads’ll not be able to lie down or get up even.’
He turned and looked keenly at me. ‘Me and you are going to be busy, young Fen,’ he said. ‘Looking after this other lot who don’t know how to go on. We’re going to have our hands full, me and you and a few others who know how many beans make five. Believe me, there’s precious few of us, and I shall be busy looking after Ashton. I like Ashton. He’s all right, in spite of that gloomy look he gets on his old mug from time to time. Game as a pebble, he is, and he never loses his temper when he’s tired, but he’ll always be a better penpusher than a soldier, and he needs somebody to keep him straight.’
There was a lot of laughter as we put our kits together. It was a bit like preparing for the summer holidays as we stuffed in the few extraneous things we considered necessary or rejected the things we didn’t want. I had three hundred cigarettes spare and I put them all in, thinking we might be glad of a few extra if we were cut off for a while.
The air seemed supercharged with emotion that evening, and as the sun started to edge towards the hills, and the first owls came out, you could hear groups of men singing all the old sentimental songs in soft, surprisingly sweet voices that left a bewildering sense of loneliness. Hardacre’s choir started up and I was surprised to find out just how good they were; and before anyone quite realised what was happening an impromptu concert was in full swing, and even the officers left their tents and came down the slope of the field to join us round the fires.
Hardacre sang ‘Bright Stars of Italy’ to Tommy Mandy’s mouth-organ, and ‘The Road to Mandalay’, and Spring, in a plummy pompous voice, started a poem which began ‘We take to fighting as a game, and do no talking through our hat…’ then, when the boos and catcalls started, he grinned slyly and announced instead a ditty entitled, ‘Fred Fernackerpan, or the Hero Who Made Victoria Cross’.
There was a storm of cheering and laughter that increased as he unrolled a bawdy ballad, then Catchpole and Henny Cuthbert appeared in a rough-and-ready sketch about capturing Germans with a string of sausages and a bottle of lager beer. It wasn’t really very funny, but we all laughed a lot and I saw the colonel almost weeping as he rolled about in his chair. We were all ready to see the lighter side of anything just then. It stopped you thinking and, in that heightened atmosphere of excitement and dread, it was easy to think too much.
All around us, in every field and orchard, in every village and by every roadside, the final preparations were taking place. Thousands of other men had put their kits together too, and hundreds of harassed officers had checked their lists for the last time. The final loads of ammunition had arrived and the last few men and horses. The last few batteries had rattled into position, digging their pits hurriedly and searching out their observation posts.
It was here. The end of all our training, the moment to which we’d all dedicated our lives for the past two years, the end of all frustrations, doubts and sorrows. Battle. The Big Push.
Beyond the hills, the bombardment was still continuing, rattling and muttering over the valleys like the flutterings of gigantic wings, like some iron monster that would soon snatch all these thousands of well-trained men – the heroes, the cowards, the fainthearts and the strong together – all the guns, all the animals, all the machinery, and fling them into the final holocaust that would end the war.
The offensive seemed to have rolled itself together like some tremendous beast about to spring.
The concert ended on an emotional note. Inevitably the famous speech from Richard II had to be quoted and inevitably it had to be Murray who chose to do it.
There was a storm of cheers and jeers when he announced his intention but, as he plodded solemnly through it, the shouting died.
‘This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise …
… this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.’
His firm, sincere young voice carried clearly in the still air and the laughter had gone completely from the faces of his audience by the time he finished.
Without any suggestion from anyone we started to sing ‘God Save the King’, and I remembered that other occasion I’d sung it like this, on the night before I joined up. It seemed a lifetime away now, but the rough, strong voices in the open air had the same overwhelming effect on me, and I felt proud and sad, and glad I was there.
Death wasn’t very far away over the hill that night and the savour of life seemed twice as powerful. Emotion was strong in all of us as we were confronted with the substance of life and the pre-eminence of death. We were the chosen people, poised on a lofty height, and the tendency to be tolerant with the sentimental, even with the would-be heroic, was strong.
Every man I saw seemed to be concerned with his neighbour and there was a strange gentleness about them all; and underneath the air of excitement, an extraordinary politeness. The normality that had disappeared in the two years we’d been in uniform had returned, as though in this moment of emotion we’d become sane thinking men again, thoughtful of others, forgetting all the brutality they’d taught us and concerned only with trying to do our best. Selfishness had suddenly been left behind.
Part Three
I find a hundred thousand sorrows touching my heart and there is ringing in my ears like an admonition eternal an insistent call, ‘It must not be again.’
WARREN G. HARDING
1
Well, we knew now. We knew when it was coming and where it was coming and what we were expected to do. We had everything on our sheaves of orders and in our notebooks and in our heads. We knew what was happening up ahead and what had been happening during all the past weeks, where all the frustrations and hard labour and waiting had been leading to. It made it easier to face up to it and we all felt better for it. Perhaps it was the definiteness of it, the certainty that now there was no backing down, no escaping. It was much as it had been when war had been declared. It had been hanging over us for weeks, but, now it had arrived, the feeling of ‘Oh, well, now we can get on with it’ came as a relief rather than as a nightmare.
It began to rain, pouring down out of a leaden sky, and as the little camp in Bos Wood became a quagmire, the flights of aircraft we had seen so much of disappeared. The RFC couldn’t see anything and flying had become pointless.
The intense excitement faded a little when no orders to move up came through. We changed into our best khaki and spent the days sitting about out of the rain, crouching in the little bivouacs, cleaning our rifles again and again, going over and over in our minds with a nagging monotony the things we were supposed to do and supposed not to do, pestering for information the cooks who always knew long before the orderly room when there was a move on foot. There was a lot of horseplay that sprang from overexcitement and nervousness, and a lot of sentimental letters were written, in which things were said that somehow had never managed to reach daylight before.
Near the farmhouse the orderly-room staff were stowing typewriters and deed boxes and burning old documents in a puther of blue-grey smoke and flying scraps of charred paper. During the morning, a big grey staff car came churning up the muddy lane, sliding wildly from side to side, and a staff officer got out at the farm door and went to see Colonel Pine. Immediately he’d gone, there was a conference for the officers, and when it was over, the NCOs were all called to Ashton’s tent again to go through the plan once more.
As I came away, I saw Henny Cuthbert sitting alone under the two groundsheets he shared with Spring, cleaning his rifle with a slow faraway thoughtfulness. He looked depressed and in no mood for battle. I squatted down alongside him, and he pushed the weapon out of sight behind him.
‘What’s wrong, Henny?’ I asked.
‘Wind-up, I suppose,’ he said.
‘We’ve all got that,’ I pointed out. ‘I expect most of us are sick with funk if the truth were known.’
He ran his fingers through h
is thin colourless hair. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, it probably isn’t wind-up. It is in a way, and yet it isn’t. It’s hard to explain. I’ve just – well, I’ve just been thinking a lot about all the things I’d like to do and probably won’t ever have a chance to do now. I suppose we’ve all got a good chance of getting knocked out when the balloon goes up, and I’d got around to thinking that I wouldn’t like to die without trying some of the things I’ve never sampled. Fen, do you know – I’ve never been drunk. Never in my whole life.’
‘You can soon rectify that,’ I said.
‘It’s not just that.’ He gave me quick nervous smile. ‘I’ve never – I’ve never been with a girl. I was always what my mother called “well brought up” and went to chapel and that sort of thing and – well, we were taught never to think about that. It seems silly now to have worried about what was right and what was wrong. It probably won’t make any difference either way twenty-four hours from now.’ He looked up and went on with a flash of anger, ‘It seems a bit bloody hard, though, doesn’t it, to go and get knocked out without getting round to experiencing some of the things a man ought to know about.’
‘Who says you’re going to get knocked out?’
‘Oh, nobody,’ he agreed dully. ‘But you’ve got to admit the chances are pretty good. I started thinking how I’d spent all my life working – all hours, I worked – then just when I was getting old enough and making enough money to enjoy myself the war came along. That’s why I thought…’
‘You were going to have a hell of a time, weren’t you?’ I said.
He managed to laugh. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I suppose I was. I was going to spend my leave in London. They tell me that sort of thing’s easier there.’ He sighed and his smile faded. ‘Still,’ he ended, ‘perhaps I’d never have got around to it, after all. I can’t somehow imagine it really. I’m a bit on the shy side.’