by Phillip Rock
“I suppose we could walk to Le Cateau tonight and see who’s in possession of the place,” Fenton said, studying his map and eating an apple.
“We could, sir,” Ackroyd said dubiously. “If we’re awful ruddy careful about it.”
It was impossible to maintain a strict officer-to-man relationship with Lance Corporal Ackroyd, considering the circumstances. Men who had spent hours together half submerged in the stinking wallow of a pigsty while uhlans foraged their horses nearby learned a great deal about each other’s qualities as human creatures. Fenton had only the greatest respect for Ackroyd. He was uncomplaining, resourceful, cautious, and brave. The type of indomitable soldier any officer would want at his side when a situation became rather sticky.
“You don’t think it’s a good idea, Ackroyd?”
“Beggin’ the captain’s pardon, but no, sir, I don’t. If there was a battle over there, it would seem to me that both sides’ll be a bit touchy and we could get crumped by either of ’em if we got spotted blunderin’ about in the dark. Fritz or Tommy . . . we’d still be feedin’ the crows.”
“A sensible deduction.” He squinted at the map in the fading light. “Well, then, what say we keep going south until we reach the railroad line from Cambrai . . . then follow the track toward St. Quentin? If the Hun is that far south, then we know it’s all up and we might just as well toss in the towel.”
That met with Ackroyd’s approval, and they set out as soon as it got dark. The moon rose early, and they made swift progress through fields and woods, reaching the railroad tracks before midnight. They rested in a culvert for an hour, eating the last of their apples, then walked along the edge of the tracks in a southeasterly direction. Fires ringing the northern horizon created a dull glow, as though some strange dawn were about to break. They could only speculate as to the source of the fires. Villages and fields going up in flames? The bivouac fires of some uncountable host? Either thought was chilling and drove them on without further rest. At four in the morning they reached the first scattered houses of a small town, a railroad sign beside the tracks revealing the name—St. Petit Cambresis. A narrow road leading to the town came into view, a white ribbon under the dying moon snaking over a low hill and through vineyards. Transport wagons were parked along it, the draft horses grazing in a field.
“Ours, by God,” Fenton said as he spotted the distinctive field cookers.
The two men paused to dab at their mud-caked, bramble-torn uniforms, then marched on smartly, Ackroyd whistling “Tipperary” to alert any sentries. They were not challenged when they walked along the station platform, nor when they went through the deserted station house onto the street beyond.
“A bit queer,” Fenton said. “There should have been a sentry posted.”
“Ruddy town seems to be empty, sir.”
“Impossible.”
They walked on, their boots ringing loudly on the cobblestones. The street curved and led to the town square, which was dominated by a stone fountain in its center. Around the fountain and spread out across virtually every inch of the paved square were the sprawled figures of soldiers, three hundred or more, lying like dead men. They were not from one unit. Fenton noticed the badges of half a dozen regiments. A sergeant in the Gordon Highlanders lay on his back in the gutter with his head resting on his pack. His left hand was swathed in a dirty blood-caked bandage. Fenton nudged him gently in the side with his foot.
“On your feet, Sergeant.”
The man stared stupidly at Fenton for a moment and then stood up with a groan.
“What the hell is going on?” Fenton said sharply. “It looks like beggars’ army.”
The sergeant’s red-rimmed eyes moved from Fenton’s face to his regimental cap badge and then down to the pips on his stained, muddy sleeves. He pulled himself to rigid attention.
“All the lads just worn down, sir.”
“I can understand that, Sergeant. But why are there no pickets out? Good Lord, man, Fritz’ll be here by dawn.”
“Yes, sir . . . colonel told us to stack arms and get some sleep, sir. Told us we were out of the war, sir.”
“Your colonel, Sergeant?”
“No, sir . . . from the Winchesters, sir.”
“How many Gordons are here?”
“Twelve of us, sir.”
“Wake them up. Send six out along the railroad tracks and six down the road. Find the transport drivers and wake them up, too. I want those horses in the traces. Where is the colonel?”
“Town hall, sir . . . just across the square.”
“Do you believe you’re out of the war, Sergeant?”
The muscles in the tall sergeant’s jaw tightened. “I can no’ argue with a colonel, sir—even a colonel in the bluidy foukin’ Winchesters, sir.”
The foyer of the town hall and the central corridor were crowded with badly wounded men, who were being attended to by a couple of medical orderlies and a French civilian. The wounded were well bandaged and all of them appeared heavily anesthetized. Fenton was impressed by the efficiency.
“You men are doing a good job here.”
“Thank you, sir,” one of the orderlies said, then nodded toward the Frenchman. “Thanks to ’im. He’s the local vet. Brung over bundles of ’orse bandage and plenty of morphine.”
“Can any of the men be moved?”
The man rubbed the side of his face and looked thoughtful. His eyes were sunken and there were deep shadows under the sockets.
“A dozen maybe . . . if they’re kept flat. Most are in rum shape, sir. Them bloody shells tear ’ell out of a man.”
“Sort out the men you can move . . . then you and your mate decide which one of you will stay behind with the rest. Toss a coin if you have to, but one of you must stay, I’m afraid. It won’t do for the Germans to say we abandon our wounded.”
The man nodded gravely. “Right you are, sir . . . only Colonel Hampton’s been sayin’ we’re all chuckin’ it in.”
“Not so. Where can I find Colonel Hampton?”
The orderly pointed vaguely down the corridor. “One of them rooms, sir.”
“Any other officers present?”
“Yes, sir, two lieutenants and a major. The major’s over there on a stretcher. Fractured leg, sir. The lieutenants are with the colonel.” He lowered his voice and looked earnestly into Fenton’s face. “There’s something a bit odd about the colonel, sir. I been in the RAMC for twenty years, sir, an’ I’ve seen it happen before, more than once I can tell you.”
“Seen what happen, Sergeant?”
“Why, sir, a man losin’ control of himself. I think the colonel’s half ’round the bend.”
Oh, God, Fenton thought, what a bloody awful situation. The sight of the stuporous men in the square, the drug-deepened sleep of the wounded, made him realize how deathly tired he was himself. It would have been the simplest and most natural act in the world to lie down on the floor and close his eyes—and if a German boot woke him in a few hours, so be it. And there was a colonel down the hall, a regimental commander—most probably an elderly man who had seen long, honorable service—who was just as tired but was unable to cope with it, who had let exhaustion dictate his decisions. He must, somehow, relieve that man, assume command as senior officer capable of duty, and lead the ragtag and bobtail conglomeration of troops out of the town by dawn. It seemed like an impossible undertaking at the moment, like being asked to scale an insurmountable cliff stark naked.
“I respect your comments, Sergeant, but kindly keep them to yourself from now on. Is there anything you can give me that will keep me awake?”
“Sorry, sir. We don’t have even a coffee bean or a palmful of tea.” He smiled wryly. “I can put you to sleep quick enough.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, but I can do that quite well on my own.”
He found the three officers in the mayor’s office, the two lieutenants lying on the floor and the colonel stretched out on a leather couch. There was an oil lamp on the desk glowing f
eebly. Fenton turned up the wick, but no one moved a muscle as the sudden light fell upon them. He kicked the two younger officers until they stirred, groaning and mumbling, then shook the colonel vigorously. The colonel was white-haired, with a long cadaverous face. Sixty at least, with a faded ribbon from the South African war stitched to his tunic. Off the reserve list, yanked from his London club to lead a regiment to France and into battle. He could almost feel sorry for the man.
“Wake up, sir. Wake up.”
Slack-jawed and glassy-eyed, the colonel stared at Fenton.
“What? What’s that you say?”
“Wake up. Time to move out.”
The colonel struggled feebly to sit up, and Fenton helped him by pulling on his tunic.
“Move out?” the old man said bewilderedly. “Move out, you say? What the deuce you talkin’ about, sir? What the devil do you mean?”
Fenton glanced at the lieutenants, who were now on their feet, rocking slightly from fatigue. They were both Ninth Brigade men, one from the Winchesters and the other a Royal Fusilier.
“Had enough beauty sleep?” he said icily.
The Fusilier lieutenant rubbed his face vigorously. “God, what time is it?”
“Time to move along,” Fenton said. “Go out on the square and start getting the men on their feet.”
“What the devil you think you’re doin’?” the colonel muttered thickly. “Get the men on their feet? By Harry, they’ve earned their rest, sir . . . earned their rest . . . fifty-two hours without sleep . . . two battles . . . they’ve done all they can do.”
“Not quite, sir,” Fenton said quietly. “Not quite enough yet.”
The lieutenants seemed unsure of what to do, tensely aware that some sort of clash was developing between two superior officers.
“Stay for a moment,” Fenton told them. “I’ll need you as witnesses. I am about to request that the colonel place himself on the sick list.”
The colonel’s face turned a mottled shade of purple.
“Sick list? What the deuce you talkin’ about?”
“There must be something the matter with you, sir, to permit your command to fall asleep and be captured by the enemy.”
The elderly officer opened his mouth several times, spittle drooling from a corner of his lips. He was staring up at Fenton with the pop-eyed fixity of someone on the verge of apoplexy.
“What’s that you say, sir? What? Good God . . . jetsam . . . not my command . . . flotsam . . . found ’em here . . . tired to the bone. . . . Can’t expect ’em to go on . . . too bloody much to ask of any man. Not fair . . . not—”
Fenton interrupted coldly. “No colonel of the Winchesters would give up without a struggle unless he was an ill man. I needn’t remind the colonel of his regiment’s history.”
The man’s face became darker, the eyes more protuberant.
“Coldstream,” he said thickly. “You bloody Guards are all alike . . . arrogant bastards, every man jack of you. Who the hell you think you are talkin’ to me like that . . . tellin’ me what to do? Ill? I’m not ill, sir!”
“You are either ill or a coward, sir. If you refuse to place yourself on the sick list, then I have no other recourse but to leave this room, come back with a rifle, and blow your head off.”
The colonel seemed to stop breathing. His mouth worked soundlessly, then the staring eyes rolled back and he slumped forward. Fenton put his hands out to keep him from pitching to the floor.
“Poor old duffer,” the Fusilier scoffed.
“Watch your tongue,” Fenton said sharply. “Fetch the medical orderly and be damn quick about it.”
The young officer darted from the room while the other lieutenant lurched almost drunkenly toward the couch.
“Is he all right?”
“Yes. Get out on the square. Rouse the men. Blow bugles . . . ring bells . . . kick posteriors . . . but get ’em on their feet.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Fenton glared at him. “Not try. I didn’t ask you to try.”
The colonel’s wrist was clammy, but there was a faint, steady pulse. He would be all right. Or would he? No, how could he ever be “all right” again? The man might live to be a hundred, but he had died in France just as surely as poor old Webber had died. He let go of the wrist and eased the colonel onto his back. The orange-yellow-and-black South African ribbon looked a bit frivolous on his chest.
When he returned to the square, he saw that some progress was being made. Roughly one-quarter of the men were standing up, but there was nothing martial in their attitudes. They had ceased to be soldiers. They looked like tramps crawling out from under bridges in a cold dawn. Lance Corporal Ackroyd was helping the two lieutenants get men up, swearing and pleading with them, tugging at their belts and straps, kicking them. Some men rose, others lay half stupefied, muttering curses and threats. It looked to Fenton like a hopeless task, and time was running out. The Germans would be stirring smartly at dawn and moving on toward St. Petit Cambresis in a gray-green tide. He spotted three Cameronian privates buckling on their equipment near the fountain. One of them had a canvas sack slung over one shoulder, bagpipes jutting up from it.
“You there!” Fenton shouted at the man. “Blow us a tune.”
“He dinna ’ave the breath, sir,” one of his mates called back.
“He’d better bloody well find some!”
The piper grinned sheepishly and took his pipes from the bag. There was a slow howl like a dying cat, and then the skirling of “Blue Bonnets over the Border” issued forth, clear and stirring, with just that hint of sadness which all pipe music seemed to contain, summoning a vision of gallant men doomed on bleak moors in lost causes. The bonnie prince had listened to those same notes before Culloden.
“Walk around, man . . . walk around.”
The piper moved slowly among the exhausted men, picking his way carefully to avoid stepping on anyone’s face. Soldiers began to stand up. A few cheered feebly. A Royal Fusilier corporal cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Bugger the Jocks!”
There was some laughter here and there. More men got up and began to buckle on their equipment.
“If you don’t like Jock tunes,” Fenton called out, “let’s hear it from the Londoners!”
A mouth organ apeared from one man’s pocket, a small concertina from a pack. “Who’s Your Lady Fair?” and “The Old Kent Road” competed with “Blue Bonnets.” Singing began, and the troops started to form fours and move slowly out of the square. There was a distant neighing of horses and the clatter and creak of the transport wagons. The men knew which way to go—south across the railway and a small bridge; slim poplars marked the road.
Fenton remained in the square until the last man, wagon, and horse had left the town. It was dawn, the dark stone of the church steeple turning to a pale rose. Swallows dove from the sun-tinged belfry into the dark folds of a chestnut tree. It reminded Fenton of Abingdon on any summer morning.
He turned to go, pausing for a moment to look at the medical orderly who was staying behind with the wounded. The man stood on the steps of the town hall, smoking his pipe, seemingly unconcerned. Perhaps he was relieved that he wasn’t marching out with the others, that the war was over for him.
“Good luck, sir,” the orderly called out.
Fenton raised his arm in a pointless gesture of farewell and walked away, limping slightly, the cobblestones painful to his feet, following the droning bagpipe out of the little town.
“Over by Christmas”—that was what everyone had been saying. “Home before the leaves fall.” He pondered the truth of it as the first shells howled out of the dawn, the German gunners searching for the St. Quentin road and the troops they knew would be on it. The shells were fifty yards off target, air-bursting black and crimson, ripping shrapnel paths through a vineyard.
“Home before the leaves fall.” A damn good joke, that.
10
The morning crackled with frost, the grass snapping under Ju
piter’s hooves as Lord Stanmore cantered out of a leafless copse and headed back across the fields toward Abingdon Pryory. A black February day with slate-gray clouds lowering against the frozen earth. The earl could feel the chill penetrate to his bones, and he was grateful when the stables came in sight. An elderly groom, well scarfed and sweatered against the cold, waited to take the horse.
The earl left the stable area in a hurry. It pained him more than anyone knew to see the rows of empty stalls, the shuttered cottage where George Banks had lived, the deserted bunkhouse that had once been noisy with the shouts and laughter of grooms and stableboys. All of the horses, with the exception of Jupiter and a twelve-year-old brood mare, had been given to the army in October. Cavalry losses had been heavy at the Marne and during the many clashes following the epic German retreat. The call had gone out for remounts, and the earl had been generous. He did not regret his gesture of patriotism—it was, after all, the least he could do—and yet, seeing the empty stalls brought a lump to his throat. The call to the colors had not stopped there. Banks had taken a commission in the veterinary corps, and the grooms and stableboys had joined the yeomanry or the regulars. No one left at Abingdon Pryory but the middle-aged and the elderly, the halt and the blind. And not just men either, the earl reflected bitterly. The last of the young maids had departed after Christmas, answering their country’s call for women to take over the jobs that men were leaving. Men and more men. Kitchener had asked for one hundred thousand volunteers to form the nucleus of his New Army. Over a million responded.
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU
On posters one saw Kitchener’s likeness, grim, steely-eyed, pointing his finger directly at one’s face. Advertising the war, selling it like Pears’ soap or White Manor Tea Shops. And of course the men would go, hurrying to the flag for a bit of excitement and adventure. The girls, too . . .