A Fox Under My Cloak

by Henry Williamson

  He started to build for himself a rough bunker by piling chalk-bags on to a length of sheet-iron crossing the trench, obviously someone’s shelter during the past night. That would make it shrapnel-proof. While he worked he saw what had caused the German fire. Away on his left, up the track, several columns of infantry were advancing. It must be the Detached Force. German shrapnel now started to burst in the air in places over the old front line. It was the high-explosive variety known as woolly bears, which had yellow smoke.

  Now the columns of troops were running sideways, extending to open order, advancing on Lone Tree, while the scorching hisses of machine-gun bullets were increasing. He kept down his head; he sat back and tried to sleep; but all the time his mind was working. If discovered there by the Battle Police he would say that his heart was bad, owing to the gas, and that he had not gone back to Mazingarbe because he had been asked to join his regiment; he had wanted to take part in the attack, but had dizzy spells, due to gas. That anxiety being allayed, he decided to remain where he was for the time being, and watch what was happening.

  He peeped over the chalk parapet, and saw that some of the kilted infantry—they must be London Highlanders—were stumbling, their rifles dropping out of their hands first. Now the smoke had cleared off, they were easy targets across No Man’s Land, since the German front line was still in the same place as the day before. Bullets were cracking sharply overhead, so he crept under his narrow shelter and, suddenly weary, lay down with face on one arm, to get some rest. His throat felt sore. Could he be slightly gassed?

  Sometime later he was aware of noises of slipping feet and heavy breathing, and, looking up, saw men leaping and sliding into the trench. They were the Gaultshires. Intense fire was now cracking and hissing over the trench. From a sergeant he learned that they were in support. Thank God, he thought, for his gas brassard; he could not be ordered to take part. How strange it was that this was part of the Big Push, that he was actually in it. To be hit at such a distance from the enemy was not so bad as being aimed at: it would be rather like being in a street accident. When he asked a sergeant what the time was (for his watch had stopped again) he was surprised to learn that only an hour had gone by since he had been at Le Rutoire farm.

  *

  Sitting in the trench was rather like being behind the corn-stack on Messines ridge nearly a year before, in the same slow meaningless drag of time that was dead; hour after hour, while half a mile in front the London Highlanders, part of the Detached Force, were lying behind the shallow parados of the original front line, exposed in the weak sunshine to prolonged enemy fire as they waited for orders: from nine o’clock to ten o’clock: to eleven o’clock: to twelve o’clock: to one o’clock.

  “Are you Lieutenant Maddison, sir? Captain West would like to speak to you, sir.”

  With thudding heart he followed the runner along the trench. Captain West was sitting beside his telephone signaller, eating bully beef and biscuits. He offered his water-bottle, which was empty. He was now apparently in better humour.

  “Have a spot of old man whiskey. Boon is making tea. Where the hell did you get to? Our attack has been washed out. We are standing by. Only when those coves, who help themselves to all the gongs, have had their luncheon of potted Morecambe Bay shrimps, chicken in aspic, truffles, Camembert cheese and Romary biscuits, coffee and brandy, will the order to infiltrate through the gap on our left come through; for, by the teeth of God, what else but staff luncheon is preventing us from filing to the north along the trenches and debouching by the Bois Carré?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That was the only reply he could think of. Why was Westy staring at him so intently? His face was changed; it was slightly unpleasant, with its paler blue eyes and little pin-pointed irises. The sweat on the white forehead was rather nasty. He was now indeed his nickname of “Spectre”. Staring at him intently, “Spectre” West said, “I weep tears of blood for you, Phillip! Look at me, my poor young friend!” He flung away his lump of bully beef. “Look at me! Now listen carefully! On our right the Fifteenth Scottish Division has gone out of sight over Hill 70! Got that? They’ve broken through on a narrow front. A narrow break-through is dangerous. It is vulnerable! Got that? But Hill 70 is the key to the battle. It gives observation over everything else. Do you know what Hill 70 in Hun hands is?” He paused. “Death peering with folded wings.”

  “I understand that, of course, for they can shell anything moving——”

  “Listen to me! Don’t turn away your head! I have told you that the Scottish Division, or the Fifteenth, if you prefer staff-like precision, has got into the suburbs of Lens, beyond Hill 70. The Seventh on our left has got almost to Hulluch. So I asked permission to lead all available reserves through the Bois Carré, and so get behind the Lone Tree position, and pinch it off. And what was the result? Pass me the bottle. Hell! Who’s drunk it? Boon! Boon! Where the devil is Boon? Send for Boon, s’ar major!”

  “Here, sir!”

  “Good. Another bottle, Boon.”

  “Napoo, sir. You’ve had the last bottle,” replied Boon, pumping the Primus.

  “No excuse! Get one! Help yourself, Phillip.”

  “Spectre” West passed the empty bottle.

  “No thanks, I think I’ve had a whiff of gas, it makes my taste seem rather funny.”

  He wanted to get back to his shelter, but he must not make it too obvious. Was Westy blotto? Or even mad? Boon the batman continued to sit by the canteen of water on the Primus stove. When Westy spoke again, he was suddenly his old self once more.

  “I’ll give you a mug of café-au-lait in a minute, Phillip. Sergeant Jones! Has the company s’ar-major come back yet?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “I sent him to the colonel with a message, asking permission to move to the flank,” remarked Captain West, to Phillip, as though he had forgotten his former outburst, “and so give fire-support to the frontal attack of the Detached Force. Hullo, it looks as though it has started.” He looked at his watch. “Two pip emma! The staff have finished luncheon,” he announced, almost cheerfully.

  A whipping fury of bullets passed over the trench, followed by a distant crackling. It was now impossible to hear what Westy was saying, for almost simultaneously the field-guns behind Le Rutoire had opened up. They sat there, unspeaking, until the rugged face of the regimental sergeant major was seen, bending low, pushing its way to them. Kneeling by Captain West, he bawled through cupped hands:

  “The colonel has been hit, with the adjutant, sir.”

  Phillip saw Westy’s jaw tighten. Then his nostrils opened wide.

  “What happened, Mr. Adams?”

  “The C.O. was leaving battalion headquarters to go to brigade, sir. A coal-box burst right beside them, sir. You are now in command of the battalion, sir.”

  Phillip watched Westy open his message book. While he was writing, it was a good moment to slip away. He went back to his shelter, and put on the red-white-green gas brassard that he had taken off on the way to the farm, to be inconspicuous.

  After five minutes the storm of rifle-fire died away. It became intermittent, with a traversing machine-gun now and again, telling plainly that the attack of the Detached Force was stopped before the wire. Then shrapnel, black German smoke, began to burst over the trench. He got as far as he could under the parapet, while the smoke drifted sideways overhead. The rising wind would shift the pockets of gas. Some of the infantry were looking at him curiously; they had been in reserve, and evidently had not seen a gas brassard before. Soon the shelling ceased, both ways, and he heard the rumbling of guns to the south. It was wearisome waiting; it was cold; but there was nothing else to do, but wait for twilight, and then get back to his billet. He closed his eyes, to sleep; and was aware that someone had touched him on the shoulder. He saw Boon, the batman.

  “Captain West’s compliments, sir, would you please come to him. He’s been hit, sir.”

  “Captain West?”

  “
Yes, sir. Whizz-bang, sir.”

  Phillip resisted an impulse to say that he was not really anything to do with the attack. He followed the servant. Westy lay on the floor of muddy chalk, working his jaws as though chewing. There were tiny white specks in the froth on his lips. A stretcher-bearer with red-cross armlet was kneeling by him, holding a field-dressing pad to the wounded man’s cheek. When the pad was lifted, Phillip saw that the eye beneath was a broken pulp in a bloody star-fish of flesh stripped away from the cheekbone. Then he saw the left arm lying askew to the body, with two fingers gone from the hand and purple sinews at the wrist broken and shredded. The shell had brought down some of the trench wall; chalk partly covered the wounded man’s left leg. The exposed end of the puttee had little tears in it, the boot had slight cuts in the leather.

  Phillip knelt beside him, saying, “So you’ve got a Blighty one, Westy.”

  Captain West turned his head, with its one staring eye, minute of pupil. “Morphine—give me my box—get round the flank,” he muttered. Blood was now staining the froth on his lips. “Morphine—give me my box—get round the flank——” the voice kept repeating, while the right hand fumbled at the breast pocket below the stained riband of the Military Cross.

  “He keeps ’is little box there, sir,” said Boon, bending down to speak against Phillip’s face. “His syringe’s smashed with ’is haversack, sir. He ’as had to keep ’isself goin’ since he got that little lot at Neuve Chapelle, sir. He ’ad ’eadaches something awful, sir.”

  Rolling his head Captain West repeated, “Morphine—Phillip, come nearer——”

  Phillip knelt to hear the voice, feeble and whispering, “The Grapes, Lime Street. My mother—tell her——” His hand sought Phillip’s. Phillip held the cold hand between his own. “See my mother—The Grapes, Lime Street—the City—tell her—all my love.”

  “I understand, Westy. But you’ll be all right.”

  Boon meanwhile had taken a small silver wax-vesta box from the breast pocket, opened it, and let two tablets roll into his palm. “That’ll settle you, sir,” as he put them into his master’s mouth.

  “More—more——” complained the voice, as the chin stretched back. “Put six under my tongue.”

  “And don’t forget to put the requisite number o’ crosses on his for’ed at the aid post, my lads,” said the R.S.M. to the stretcher-bearers. “All right, I’ll see to it,” and with the indelible pencil from the message book and spit from his mouth he drew two thick crosses on Captain West’s forehead. “Now then, gently does it—mind that leg—lift ’im careful——”

  Blood running from bitten lower lip, eye closed, the man on the stretcher lay feebly with pain; then through clenched teeth came the murmur, “Get round the flank——” and then a strangled screaming broke from his bloody lips. “Morphia——”

  The bearers waited while the paroxysm passed, then Boon opened the mouth and put two more tablets under the tongue.

  The jaws worked; the slow, partial swallow; the struggle to articulate. The batman said, “All right, sir, don’t you worry yourself no more. Mr. Maddison ’eard you, sir. ‘Get round the flank.’ Didn’t you, sir?”

  “Yes, Westy, I heard. I’ll carry on. Leave it to me. We’ll get round the flank.”

  The uninjured hand again made to find Phillip’s; but the wounded man was sinking into a coma.

  “The bearers will get him back to the dressing-station as soon as we’ve moved off, sir,” said the R.S.M. “I think you are senior to Mr. Allport, sir? The captain told me you was out in ’fourteen, sir. Will you take command of the battalion, sir? The orders come just before the captain was hit, to carry on the attack acrost to Lone Tree.”

  With forced jocularity Phillip heard himself saying, “Mr. Adams, I have not heard any order, beyond that given by Captain West!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “Have the men got their rations, water, ammunition, Mr. Adams? What about bombs?”

  “Each man carries two bombs, in addition to what the bombers have, sir. It’s bombs we need in this sort of work. The Jerry trenches are eight feet deep, you’ve got to hand it to Jerry, sir, he knows how to protect his infantry in trench warfare, all right. Shall I send a runner for Mr. Allport, sir?”

  “Yes, please, Mr. Adams.”

  When the slight, fair-haired Sandhurst youth came, Phillip, feeling Colonel Mowbray on his face, said in the colonel’s manner, “‘Spectre’ West’s orders are to get round the flank. Who is the senior of us?”

  “I was gazetted last July.”

  “I was March. Righty ho. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I’ll go to the end of the trench, and lead the company through as far as I can get. Then we’ll go over the top and string out and make for the Bois Carré then swing round by platoons, in an arc. No covering fire, remember—it will only advertise that we’re going to attack. Will you, company sergeant major, tell the platoon sergeants? Mr. Allport, will you bring up the rear-half company?”

  “Shall I report back to the farm, sir?” asked the R.S.M. Then, “You’ll send a runner back with any information, of course, sir? I’ll take them. A negative report is as valuable as a positive report, sir. I’ll see that all reports get to brigade, sir. The battalion ammunition dump is behind the H.Q. dugout, sir. I shall be there, sir.”

  The R.S.M. saluted, and Phillip said, “We’ll be dining in Lille tomorrow night, with any luck, Mr. Adams!” And with a swiftly thought prayer, he turned away with a wave of his walking-stick.

  Chapter 22

  “A BIT OF FAT”

  HIS exhilaration soon settled to determination, now that he was moving. Men cumbering the trench were in his way; he climbed out and walked along the parapet, swinging his walking-stick, indifferent to occasional bullets, mere strays and spents, as he thought of them. Looking down into the trench he said, as he passed, “We’re going round the flank, you chaps, wait there till you get word to move from your sergeant.” Then looking to the east, he saw the stumps of the Bois Carré about a quarter of a mile away on his right front, beyond the white lines of trenches lying parallel and numerous in the yellow grass spreading to the smoke-laden horizon of the Hohenzollern Redoubt and the great spoil-heap known as the Dump.

  The Fosse Way trench extended to the Vermelles-Hulluch road, along which in the distance wheeled transport was moving, under shell-fire in places. He waited by the road, while the men came up, to halt by him. He did not know what to do, so he said, “Keep at intervals of five paces, and follow me up the road.”

  The stumps of the, plantation were now slightly forward on the right. He walked on, followed by his string of soldiers. The mackintosh was hot, so he took it off, and slung it over his shoulder. Odd walking wounded could be seen coming down the road in front; bullets hissed by overhead; figures in khaki were everywhere lying and crawling in the grass. Some called out, with cries for help, for water. The less badly hurt were grateful when he said, “Help is coming soon, boys.” Others stared with drawn faces the hue of clay. Forcing himself not to heed the cries, he walked on, while arms rose waving and from some came despairing wails and weeping. What a game it all was, what a game. From the Bloodhound Patrol to the First Gaultshires!

  The company was now strung out along the road. He halted, and said to the nearest men “Right turn”. They turned all along the road, and walked forward in line across the old No Man’s Land, towards the plantation. The ground was pitted with shell-holes, many of them occupied by wounded men. Dead figures lay about in all attitudes of complete repose, however stricken: joined to the ground in its stillness. He had a curious sensation, from part of himself in detachment, that invisible parts of their once-bodies were still about in the spaces of the air, looking down at the poor little bodies rather curiously as they became smaller and more remote. He thought of Cranmer; it was almost as though Cranmer’s face were beside him, very near him, knowing all that he was thinking. It was strange how the feeling was bearing him up, almost leading him on, the other s
ide of the glass. It was wonderful not to be afraid.

  The stumps of Bois Carré were in front. It was a tumbled wreckage of chalk and posts and wire, splintered boles and branches, roots in air upheaved by shells, through which the bag-lumpy parapets of trenches straggled, with their broken faggot-like revettments, and everywhere the first feld-grau dead he had seen since 1914—flung upon the ground with English dead—passive among the crawling and crying wounded.

  There were no direct shots coming over now; only tired bullets flopping down, some making their last eccentric spins as they fell with their deadly little music. From over the slight rise to the left, in the direction of the brown roofs and chimneys of Hulluch, a heavy racket of rifle and machine-gun was mingling with gruff thuds of bombs; but nearer in front the comparative silence was strange. Were the Germans waiting to open up, when they got nearer? He was not bothered: if they did, they did.

  Even so, having left the plantation behind, and with the stark little ruin of the Lone Tree less than a quarter of a mile away, Phillip began to feel alarmed. It must be a trap. He walked closer to the tumbled wire of the captured German front line wondering if he dare try and cross it and take shelter in the shell-holes which had churned up the level wilderness into a frozen sea of chalk stuck with splintered balks of wood and crumpled sheet-iron—a petrified foreshore horribly untidy with a jetsam of broken rifles, stakes, machine-gun tripods, pickelhauben, torn grey tunics—and the sprawled dead. So he gave the order to cross the front trench in lines of platoons as that was as good as anything he could think of.

  “We’ll advance in four waves, Mr. Allport.”

  “Very good, Sir!”

  “Sir!” He thought of Mrs. Neville, and what a tale he would be able to tell her, to match that of Mavis’ bogus staff officer, Wilkins, who ordered the recruiting parade on Blackheath. How long would his luck hold? Anyway, he was only obeying a superior officer’s order. He was getting round the flank!