by John Harris
He managed another smile and reached behind him under the shallow shelter of the laced groundsheets for his rifle. As he began to clean it again, a thin forlorn figure, I thought of Helen. I’d come back from leave feeling I had something strong and tender and delicate that couldn’t ever be destroyed in the battle ahead of us, but as I watched Henny turn away from me, seeking privacy where there was no privacy and comfort where there was no comfort, I thought of his lack of love, and of Murray with his first love and Mason with his lost love; of Eph with his faithless Mabel and Locky with his newborn son; all of them thinking that they too had something to sustain them through the future, a sort of talisman that gave them the right to return, when by all the laws of average some of us inevitably wouldn’t survive to see the fulfilment of our hopes.
I found Henny had made me feel depressed and I went in search of company. The platoon had taken shelter in a barn and were playing cards in the straw, Murray as usual holding forth on his faith, which he wore always like a suit of shining armour.
‘Intelligence says Fritz has no idea when we’re coming,’ he was saying, aggressively and indignantly,’ and I guessed someone had been baiting him.
‘Intelligence underrates friend Fritz a bit,’ Mason retorted. His face seemed taut and there was only a thin veneer of cheerfulness over a nervous irritation. ‘When the Bantams went in, they shouted “Cockadoodledoo” at them. They called the Royal Welch “Bloody Welsh Murderers”. You heard what they shouted at us. Fritz isn’t as daft as they’d like us to believe.’ He cocked a thumb at the heavy sky. ‘He’s only got to look up there and count the observation balloons to see how many divisions we’re going to use. He even knows how many of us there are.’
He threw down his cards and lay back in the straw, his eyes far away. ‘I think I’ve had enough cards for a bit,’ he said.
Nobody else seemed to want to play either and Catchpole began to collect up the money. For a moment he stared at it, then he took off his cap and threw it inside. ‘Why not pool all our spare cash?’ he said. ‘We can hand it over to somebody who’s staying behind – somebody like Bickerstaff. He’s staying with D Company’s cadre.’
‘What the hell for?’ Spring asked.
Catchpole put the cap down on the straw. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Whoever’s left after it’s all over can share it out. It’s not much use to us if we’re dead or back in hospital with a Blighty one, but it’ll be a nice consolation prize for anyone who has to stay out here.’
They all looked at each other for a moment, thinking over the implications, then Eph dug out a handful of crumpled five-franc notes and threw them into the cap. ‘’Ere y’are,’ he said. ‘I’m game. All me winnings for three months. That cleans me out. Me conscience is clear now. I’ve ’anded me swindles to one of the cooks and one of the orderly-room boys has got me watch. Now you’ve got me cash, Vicar, so I’ve nothing to lose now but me life.’
While they were all digging in their pockets, Ashton appeared in the doorway, the rain dripping off his cap, and called me out. There was a group of men behind him, an officer, a sergeant and about ten men who looked as though they’d come straight out from England. There was something vaguely familiar about the officer and when I looked again I saw it was Arnold Holroyd.
‘Hello, Fen,’ he grinned. ‘I made it. I got back just in time.’
Locky and Mason and Murray and the others were on their feet at once, and the air was full of questions.
‘They posted me up from Gibraltar,’ Holroyd explained. ‘They split up my unit. Some of ’em went to Mesopotamia and some of us came to France. I was due to go to the East Surreys, but I heard of someone who’d been posted here and I managed a swop.’
Ashton interrupted. ‘You’ll be in charge of the strongpoint party,’ he said. ‘You two had better get your heads together. Better check kits.’
‘Well, it’s up to you,’ I said when Ashton had gone. ‘Just tell us what to do.’
Holroyd grinned shyly. ‘Not me, Fen,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away too long. I’ve not even been in the line yet. I’ll do what you suggest.’
I indicated the sergeant. ‘What about him?’ I asked. ‘Perhaps he’s senior to me.’
‘He probably is,’ he said. ‘But he’s not been out before. He’ll do as I do. Don’t worry.’
That afternoon we erected a final colony of tents in the next field for an emergency casualty clearing station, and at tea time there was another kit inspection. Eph still had his crown-and-anchor board in his pack.
‘Kit only, Eph,’ I said.
‘It is kit,’ he grinned. ‘You never know, we might find time for a game with the Germans.’
After we’d finished, we were paraded on the slope of the field and Pine appeared in front of us, his cap rakish over his eye-patch, fiddling incessantly with that button of his, his other hand full of papers, his dog at his heels. His brother was behind him, holding more papers, and Ashton, and Blackett and Arnold Holroyd and all the other officers, standing in a group.
Pine told us again what was expected of us and where we were to jump off from. We listened restlessly. The repetition was becoming irritating and all we wanted to do was go. We were sick of talking and practising and only wanted to get on with the job and finish it.
‘There won’t b-be much in front of us, I’m told,’ he announced. ‘He’s only got low-category troops left after Verdun. And his batteries and machine guns have all been pinpointed and they’re all to – be knocked out at the last minute so he won’t have time to replace them. We’ve only to get across there at the right time.’
Somehow the field with its little colony of brown bivouacs and its brown-clad men, and the brown ruins of the farm behind, seemed to stand out more clearly just then than I’d ever noticed before. There were clouds like hewn marble picking up the sunshine, their lower skirts full of rain; and buttercups, dandelions, poppies, cowslips and moonpennies about my feet, and mustard and thistle and convolvulus in the hedgerows with the last of the day’s butterflies. Above the thud and rumble of the bombardment, you could hear cuckoos and linnets in the wood down the lane and the pipe and whistle of water-birds drowning the croak of frogs among the bulrushes and tufted weeds and poplar stems by the cool grey pools, and the last of the skylarks falling out of the sky for their evening’s rest. The voices of the cooks cursing the flies round the field kitchens came up to us quite clearly from the hollow. It was the full heat of the summer now, despite the rain, and the flies, breeding on the unburied dead in front of the wire, had been making eating a misery for a long time as they poised determinedly over the food, sickening you with the knowledge of where they’d come from.
Thursday was to be Zero Day, the colonel concluded, and we were to parade in battle order the following morning and be ready to move off at daybreak.
There was a strange kind of excitement about the camp as we were dismissed. Even those of us who were afraid put on a show of bravery and went in for laughter to hide their fears, seeking courage from the rumbling of the guns and the red pricks of light that speckled the heights in front of us in clusters, as the nine-point-twos dropped behind the German trenches, wallowing down from the top of their curves to explode on reserves and communications.
That evening thousands of little fires burned in the darkness in the hollows where the Germans couldn’t see them, twinkling back at the stars that pricked the sky. Groups of men were singing softly and nostalgically to the nasal chant of mouth organs, and as the fires burned low in the damp evening air the water-birds called from the marshes, and the nightingales in Bos Wood seemed louder than ever.
‘Them bloody sparrers,’ Eph called them, turning over restlessly as he tried to sleep.
Sleep didn’t come easily, though. A few men still played cards and someone was reading the war news aloud from the Daily Mail. Tom Creak and the Mandy brothers didn’t even pretend to try, and in the dusk at the bottom of the field they were making one last effort among the yellow irises in
the pools to catch the carp that had eluded them for days.
All around me, men were resting against the trees. Scraps of paper, many of them letters from home, were scattered about the grass, giving the place a forlorn look. I could see Ashton eating sandwiches with Blackett and young Welch and Arnold Holroyd and Appleby. Sheridan was up ahead somewhere arranging for our arrival.
The smell of mown grass was strong in the air, with the musty dead smell of old leafy gardens. Somewhere in the distance I could hear the sound of a train coming through the continuous croaking of frogs from the marshy bottom ground.
I sought out Locky, feeling I needed someone to talk to, and found him writing a letter to his wife.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘How do you feel?’
He looked up. ‘All right, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Hoping to see the downfall of the wicked and to share in the kudos therefrom.’ He grinned. ‘A little concerned, nevertheless,’ he went on gravely, ‘that the paths of glory have a habit of leading but to the grave.’
I laughed and squatted beside him. ‘I’m trying not to think of it,’ I said.
‘You’re all right,’ he said. ‘You’ll come out of it trailing clouds of glory and drunk on victory.’
‘You sound more lyrical than normal,’ I said. ‘Been at the rum?’
His smile faded. ‘I wish I had,’ he said. ‘I wish I were like Murray. Weariness and scepticism haven’t touched him. Death in battle still manages to be glorious. He’s fighting for right and the honour of his country. He’s full of England, my England, the precious stone set in a silver sea. I feel like dropping maudlin tears on him. This time tomorrow night it may be earth that I’m dropping on him.’
He handed me a cigarette, and paused with the match flame in his cupped hands lighting the curves of his features.
‘I always think they managed it better in other times,’ he said. ‘There ought to have been a ball somewhere last night with us all called out in whispers from the ballroom. There ought to have been a few tearful goodbye kisses in the corners, then the clattering of hooves as we cantered off to war. A few swirling capes and rattling scabbards and jiggling plumes. The fun’s gone out of fighting.’
‘You’re sure you’re not drunk?’ I asked.
He gave me a grin, the old imperturbable grin that I loved so much. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just a touch of the hump. I’m trying to live up to being honourable and noble and all the rest of it, and finding it a bit harder than I thought. It’s all right for you, you blasted militarist. You’re tougher morally and physically than all the rest of us put together.’
‘That’s what you think.’
He grinned again but his smile faded quickly. ‘I don’t fancy it, Fen, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s as simple as that. If you want the bitter, old and wrinkled truth, the old Adam’s getting awkward about the possibility of getting hurt.’
‘You’ll be all right.’
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t help a child with toothache to tell it it’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m not all right. I’m scared I’ll let you down. In spite of all this paraphernalia they drape about me and all the swearing of strange military oaths, I still keep remembering Molly and the child. I belong to quiet streets and noisy offices, making money and doing a little gardening and playing lawn tennis at the weekend, pushing the baby and going to church. I was born to get married and stay married to some woman for fifty years and tell whoppers about my past to my kids.’
‘We’ll tell some whoppers after this lot.’
‘I suppose we shall. Twenty years from now we’ll be ageing windbags who can’t forget we were once in battle. The kids’ll sneer at us and the youngsters’ll dodge us whenever we appear.’
‘Can’t say I’ll mind, so long as I’m still around.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ He laughed. ‘I’ve begun to take a new view of bores. I’ll welcome them after this lot. Come and bore me. Fill me with dusty valour. I wouldn’t mind boring people myself. Am I boring you?’
‘Yes.’
He leaned back and laughed. ‘Thank God for Fenner,’ he said. ‘You’re worth a guinea a box. There’s always been more to you than met the eye. Helen wouldn’t have got it so bad otherwise. She always felt the same about you. As long as I can remember. Did you know?’
‘I do now.’
‘She’s a discerning child and I hope you have lots of kids, with legs and arms and real eyes and teeth. Between you, you ought to make a good job of bringing up a family.’
‘Give us a chance. We’re not even married yet.’
‘You’ll be more married than I’ll ever be.’ He gave me a warm friendly glance. ‘Go away now, Sergeant Fenner. I want to be alone without my military superiors standing over me. What are you doing? Visiting the nervous cases: “Sleep no more, MacFen?” or “a little touch of Fenner in the night”?’
‘Neither. It’s just that talking to people stops me thinking.’
He grinned. ‘I hope you come out of it with a very small wound that looks very heroic and a very large medal on your chest.’
I was a little uneasy as I left him. He hadn’t sounded much like Locky somehow. He’d seemed a little shrill and tired.
As I went back to where I’d left my equipment, I saw that Henny was asleep. At least, he seemed at peace. I was glad, and settled down myself, but I wasn’t as lucky as Henny, though most of the men around me were fast asleep by now. Young Murray was lying on his side, his face curiously boyish. He seemed untroubled by what lay ahead of him and quite sure of himself. He’d spent half the day debating the efficiency of knuckle dusters in close combat with Eph, who he felt was some authority on the subject.
‘The cops always used to think they were nice and handy,’ Eph had said dryly, and Murray had seemed satisfied.
Over the horizon the bombardment thumped and thudded and grumbled, and the flashes lit up the sky. You could hear the neighing of horses from the nearby artillery lines down the lane and someone was playing a mouth organ dreamily in the darkness so that the haunting music came thinly through the night.
‘There’s a long, long night of waiting,
Until my dreams all come true…’
The words went round in my head long after the mouth organ had stopped and I found I couldn’t get Helen out of my mind. I was in no mood for battle and, as I thought about the future with her, I couldn’t help wondering again and again if there were to be any future.
I sat up and smoked a cigarette, thinking it was better to do that than struggle with sleep that wouldn’t come.
All around me equipment and arms were piled and nearby were the carts with the Lewis-guns on them, covered with ground sheets against the rain and the dew. I found myself thinking of old Corker and wondering if, in his search for a cushy billet, he’d have dodged the battle. I decided in the end he wouldn’t, in spite of what he’d always said. Then I thought of Henry Oakley and Barraclough and that corporal from Loos who’d died in my arms the first day we’d been in the trenches, and I found that certainty of survival wasn’t very strong. There was an uncomfortable beating in my chest and I felt angry with myself for being afraid, but there was nothing to do to take my mind off the battle and scourge me of its dread. I had no doubts about the attack succeeding, but I had grave doubts about my own fate. Then, somehow, I thought of Bold and decided, with a warm flooding affection I’d never been aware of before, that he’d pull us through somehow. Whatever happened, Bold wouldn’t let us down.
In the end, I threw away the cigarette and tried to write a letter with the aid of a candle-end, but it was pretty hopeless.
I tried to tell Helen what I felt and that I wasn’t afraid. But I was afraid and the letter seemed to show it.
After a while, I heard a boot brush through the grass alongside me. It was Ashton.
‘Keep your light down, Fen,’ he said. ‘There are staff wallahs about, and we’re not supposed to show lights.’
‘I’ll fix something over it,’ I said.
<
br /> ‘How do the lads feel? How’re they taking it?’
‘They’re all right. I think a few of ’em feel they’ve been kidding along a bit. After all, most of ’em are pretty intelligent chaps. There are four degrees in this company alone and dozens of university men who’d have got commissions easy in any other outfit. They work things out for themselves.’
He nodded. ‘That’s right enough,’ he said. ‘I hope I haven’t tried to kid them. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, to think of all the men around us, asleep or trying to sleep, and that in a very short time we’re all going to get up and try to kill each other. Nothing can stop it now. They’ve even got the graves ready for the dead. When you think about it, it seems incredibly cruel, doesn’t it?’ He paused. ‘How do you feel about it?’ he asked.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
‘Frightened.’
‘So am I really.’
‘It’s a big thing to be facing, isn’t it?’ he went on, and I knew he was feeling far more like a chief reporter and a friend at that moment than a captain in the Army.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘It’s what we’re trained for,’ he went on, ‘but I sometimes wonder if I’m good enough as an officer.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Brave men are entitled to good leaders and, when I think of it, I realise I don’t know very much.’
‘None of us do, really.’
‘I hope everything goes all right. There’ll be a grievous shortage of good men at home if it doesn’t.’
‘Of course it’ll go all right.’
He nodded and crouched down alongside me on the grass.
‘We’re pretty raw,’ he said. ‘It’s only when you think about it that you realise just how raw we really are. They’ve taught us how to salute and when to use the bayonet, but we’ve not been told much about mopping up and we’ve not got much experience except for what Bold and Blackett and a few others have passed on.’