by John Masters
Campbell, sipping the sweet champagne, watched the colonel with an artist’s concentration. This was Fiona’s husband, whom she despised, the man who didn’t understand her … no imagination, she had said a hundred times. No understanding of her, she had meant; but he must have no imagination at all, or how could he sit there, in obvious contentment, with five hundred of his men and more than half his officers dead and wounded, the great attack dead. But there he was, and whatever the men had been through, he’d been through it with them. None of them were going to say a word against him, or hear one said. None of them were going to accuse him of lack of imagination … Why? Because they didn’t have any themselves? That must be it, otherwise how could they face the memory of what they had seen, and the certainty of more of the same tomorrow, and tomorrow … for weeks, months, perhaps?
He said, ‘Sir … at first, when we left our trenches, the battalion on our right was doing very well. If they’d gone on they would have got behind the Huns who were enfilading us. But they stopped. Did they have to do that, sir?’
The colonel said, ‘It was in the orders … pace of advance not to be altered or exceeded in any circumstances, nor objectives changed.’
‘But, sir …’
The colonel interrupted, ‘If we don’t stick to exact orders and timings, we lose all formation … There’s no real communication once the battle has begun, whatever arrangements they make with Very lights, flags, coloured patches on the men’s backs. If they were regulars, perhaps one could allow some flexibility … but as it is – stick to orders. It’s the only way, in the long run. A few weeks at the Depot, a few weeks in the trenches, is not enough to prepare men for this sort of thing … especially the officers. There’d be chaos.’ He puffed on his pipe and leaned back against the dugout’s cold, wet wall.
The priest said, ‘Would there not be an advantage in attacking at night, Colonel … as you were going to do, before Brigade sent up the new orders?’
The colonel said, ‘I don’t think so, Padre. I was going to because I couldn’t get artillery support. This is better.’
The priest said, ‘My brother thought night attacks would be the best way to attack anyone, these days. He was trying to get Pearse to make a night attack on the Curragh. The darkness would even things up, he said.’
Archie saw the colonel’s head jerk up, ‘Attack the Curragh? Why, that …’
The priest said gently, ‘My brother was a Sinn Feiner, colonel.’
The colonel sat silent a moment, then said, ‘So’s my sister.’
The priest said, ‘I know. They call her Lady. My brother was in the Rising. He was courtmartialled and shot.’
The colonel said, ‘Margaret deserved to be. She escaped.’
For a long time no one spoke. Archie thought, the colonel’s staring at me, or through me. He felt nervous. Did he know? Had Fiona told him that her ex-lover had come to the Wealds, and been posted to the 1st Battalion? She’d sent Archie three notes while he was at the Depot in Hedlington, but he had not answered them; and she had not spoken to him the night of the concert; but she hadn’t given him up yet. He knew that from the look in her eye that night.
The priest said, ‘Night attacks may not be possible with these men, colonel … but nor is what we did today. After another day or two like that there’ll be no British Army left.’
The C.O. glowered at him and said shortly, ‘We’ll obey orders.’
The priest looked as though he was going to say something more on the same subject and Archie cut in – ‘Sir, I noticed that when the Germans counter-attacked they came out of their trenches in dribs and drabs, little groups here, others there … some came running, some dived for a shell hole and started firing. They made difficult targets for our machine gunners, even for the riflemen and Lewis gunners.’
‘We go in straight lines,’ the C.O. said, ‘for the same reason that we don’t make large night attacks. The men are untrained. It requires a lot of training and good leadership at the platoon level, to let troops act in small separated groups like that.’
‘The Germans opposite us …’
‘They did two years military training in peace time – all but the very youngest,’ the C.O. said. He took the pipe from his mouth and pointed the stem at Archie. His slightly protruding blue eyes were bloodshot with fatigue, but his voice was still strong. ‘You’re an older man, Campbell, and now you’re adjutant, and you, Padre, are officially a noncombatant … otherwise I wouldn’t be discussing these matters with you. But you must both understand that no officer or man in this battalion must be permitted to express doubts or criticism of a plan, once ordered, whether by me, or by my superiors.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Archie said.
The C.O. said, ‘We must prepare our battle plans with the greatest care … you know how we rehearsed the attack on tapes, behind the lines. The orders must be clear, and allow no alternative choices. You’ve seen a battle now. You saw how quickly everything became disorganized, even with all our rehearsal … battalions, companies, platoons, men – all muddled up. Imagine how much worse it would have been without those definite plans and clearly defined tasks.’
He resumed puffing at his pipe. Archie thought, he may be right. He’s been out here nearly two years, and this is his profession. But surely there was a fault somewhere in that line of thinking? And surely he was underestimating his own men in one way, while holding the most sublime faith in them in another? If German conscripts could be taught to act independently, while supporting each other to a common end, why could not British bankers, farmers, machine tool operators – the men who made up the battalions of the New Army?
He stood up, ‘I’ll try to sleep a couple of hours now, sir, unless you want me.’
‘No. Curl up in that bunk. I’ll wake you at ten and then I’ll take a nap myself until the Connaughts arrive.’
Archie finished his champagne and said formally, ‘Good night, Padre. Good night, sir.’
‘Good night, Campbell … you did well today, and once you’ve learned how to write orders, I’m sure you’ll make a good adjutant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Archie climbed into the bunk and closed his eyes. He was beginning to feel personally fond of Quentin Rowland, for what he was not as much as for what he was. What would Fiona make of that? … Over the top again tomorrow. And tomorrow … Not much use worrying about what Fiona might think, or do, when neither of them was likely to be present to know of it.
The Daily Telegraph, Saturday, July 1, 1916
THE WEEK’S FINANCE
Much that has happened this week has formed a propitious prelude to the removal of the last of the minimum prices. That removal will make marketable hundreds of millions of investment securities hitherto protected or fettered, as one chooses to look at it, by artificial limitations on price … There are staunch people who will sell everything they have got for the sheer pleasure of putting the proceeds at the service of the State, and there are others who have been fretting for the opportunity to sell to discharge liabilities or wind up estates … the released stocks that come on offer will be easily absorbed. For we have seen Consols rising steadily until they yielded only a shade over 4⅛ percent, indicating that buyers were thinking less of present return, subject to heavy tax, than of capital increment which they hope to obtain by and by without tribute to the State. Anybody may be excused just now for projecting their thoughts beyond a troublesome present to a hopeful future, and that seems to be the attitude of investors …
FUNDS FOR THE WAR
Though the Government is drawing large sums from the general body of investors, it is evident enough from the change produced by the raising of Treasury Bill rates that the public is not, and has not been, the factor in enabling the Government to finance the war for months without recourse to a formal loan … Corporate war profits are financing the war to a great extent, and private and individual war profits are being employed in a more or less capricious fashion, with far too
little regard to the main point in view, which is for everybody the hastening of a satisfactory end to the war, and for investors that and its corollary, the easing of the rate of taxation.
Cate thought that the kipper he was masticating did not taste as good as it ought to. Perhaps it had not been well kippered … or perhaps those offhand references to war profits had taken away his appetite. He himself was facing increasing difficulties as landlord to his tenant farmers; so were they. Overshadowing the financial difficulties and labour problems at home was the vast tragedy being staged across the Channel, with its daily sacrifices of blood and flesh. ‘War profit’ ought to be an obscene phrase, but there it was, set out in black and white in a respectable newspaper. And God knew that what it stood for was real, and indeed common. Look at Hoggin, turned from a Hedlington barrow boy to a millionaire and a national figure by the war, and by his shrewdness in seeing where he could use it for his advantage. And Hoggin was only one of hundreds, thousands …
But … but … how could such things be avoided, without the Government taking over the whole economy of the country, and in effect, turning the nation into an army, each person with his allotted role and salary? They’d have to take over all the wealth, too … all the factories, all the land … Would it come to that? Probably not. Just more taxation … if only that could take all war profits, and put them to good use.
The whole subject left an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and he turned the pages of the newspaper. Was all the news bad, or evil? Ah! he relaxed, folded the paper and propped it up on the toast rack:
GREAT ROSE SHOW VISIT OF QUEEN ALEXANDRA
10
Mirvaux, Somme, France: July 1, 1916
Guy Rowland watched the leader’s aircraft swing left, and, in his turn at the flank of the little group, swung his D.H. 2 round, following as the last of the three, now flying in line ahead. The windsock at the edge of the grassy field showed a gusty wind from the south-east, blowing almost across the field. Landing would be tricky, especially in a D.H. 2. He’d only flown one once before – yesterday, after taking delivery at the factory – when a couple of bumps and circuits had shown him that she was a tricky little machine to fly.
The flight leader, Captain Fanshawe, waggled his wings and turned down on his landing run. Lieutenant Osborne, in second place, and Guy in third, kept on course, completing another circle of the field at five hundred feet altitude while Fanshawe landed. Then from the same point where Fanshawe had peeled off, Osborne followed suit. Guy kept on turning … Good heavens, he could hear the guns, even over the sound of the engine! Partly that was because the D.H. 2 was a pusher, so the roar of the cylinders was blown to the rear. He glanced to his left. Nearly twenty miles away the simple sweep of the horizon was obscured by the murk of shell bursts – a pall over twenty miles long and a mile deep – British and German guns of every calibre hammering at each other and at the infantry in a fury of flying steel and earth. The wind whistled past his ears, the land below was neatly marked out in the long parcels of French villages, the wheat stood tall in the fields to the north and south of the landing field. Smoke curled up from the chimneys of the little village near the runway, behind the clustered tents … seven thirty in the morning, the sun up, a beautiful day.
He came to the turning point and tilted his wings sharply – too sharply. For a moment he thought the little beast had got away from him. He lined up the runway in the gun sight … crabbing … corrected with a little right rudder … nose up again to slow her a bit – with a rotary engine like the D.H. 2’s Gnome Monosoupape the momentum of the whirling machinery only permitted throttle control between 70 and 100 percent of full power; below that, the engine had to be switched off … a gust of wind caught him and whipped the nose twenty degrees off course. He was about fifty feet up. He corrected, roared on low over the grass … when would she come down? He cut the engine, nosed down, and hit the grass with a resounding crunch and a groan from all the wooden parts of the plane. Bouncing twice more, ten feet the first time, five feet the second, he rolled at last to a stop a bare five yards from the hedge that marked the end of the airfield. Two brown cows, tethered in the orchard inside, gazed mournfully at him over the hedge. Sweating, he again gave full power, and by alternately cutting and racing the engine – the process called blipping – taxied to the end of the line of D.H. 2s lined up at one side of the field.
Fanshawe and Osborne were nowhere in sight, in fact no other officers, only a small, slight man wearing tartan trews, his hands behind his back, standing by the wooden hut where the windsock flew. Outside the hut, Guy noticed as he taxied past, was a large white board inscribed Headquarters 333 Squadron, Royal Flying Corps. The man in trews watched him as he swung his machine into place, switched off the biplane’s engine, climbed down onto the lower wing, and thence jumped to the ground. Taking off his goggles and leather helmet he walked toward the hut and the figure waiting outside. As he came close he saw that the man in the trews was also wearing the cutaway tunic of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, the wings of the Royal Flying Corps – and the crowns of a major. This must be the famous ‘Sulphuric’ Sugden, the squadron commander.
Guy came to a halt, saluted and said, ‘Lieutenant Rowland, reporting for duty, sir, with one D.H. 2, serial number 37 from Airco. She’s in good condition, sir.’
‘She was, perhaps, until you landed her. And you, I understand from your posting orders, have been instructing at Shoreham? And you taught the students how to land? Or just how to take off?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Guy said again. He wanted to say it was gusty … the D.H. 2 was fairly new but already notoriously tricky … He kept his mouth shut.
The major said, ‘Get back in that unfortunate aircraft and make three circuits and bumps.’
Guy saluted and returned to the D.H. 2. A fitter was already there, pouring in petrol. He said, ‘I’m taking her up again. I won’t be long.’
‘Very good, sir. I’m Belcraft, your fitter. Jenks, your rigger’s having breakfast.’ He ran round to the front of the plane and helped Guy climb back into the cockpit. Then, while Guy checked petrol level and mixture control, he waited behind the propeller.
Guy called back, ‘She’s switched off! Turn!’
Belcraft took hold of the big mahogany and ash laminate propeller and laboriously turned it once, then again, and again, walking away from it each time. The engine had now sucked in the air and petrol mixture. Guy called out, ‘Contact! Start her!’
Belcraft approached the prop again, caught it, and swung hard, using all his body, turning away. The engine, still hot, caught at once, belching blue smoke, the cylinders whirling. Guy waved his gloved hand as the machine began to move.
Fifteen minutes later he came in blipping the engine, cut six feet above the beginning of the field and floated down for his third perfect three pointer in succession. As he taxied off the runway he saw that the propellers of the eleven D.H. 2s on the field were turning, including the other two new ones ferried over this morning.
‘Major said you were not to fly,’ Belcraft shouted up through cupped hands. ‘Report to the adjutant!’
Guy ripped off his goggles and sat still in the cockpit, watching as the D.H. 2s lined up in threes and, three abreast, roared down the dry grass, took off, and climbed slowly to the east, toward the battle, toward the shaking earth and the black murk. The aircraft was trembling under him from the tremendous thunder as he sat, cold with pique and frustration.
When they were all airborne, out of sight, the hum of their engines faded, he climbed down and walked slowly to the Headquarters hut. Inside, he saluted the Lieutenant in King’s Dragoon Guards uniform, with no wings, seated behind a desk labelled ADJUTANT. The man stood up, and came round the desk with a rhythmic creak from the wooden leg inside one of his perfectly cut and polished field boots. ‘Welcome to 333 Squadron,’ he said, his hand extended, ‘or Three Threes, as we usually call ourselves.’
His eyes met Guy’s, and for a long moment stare
d, astonished. Then he lowered his eyes. Guy put out his hand – ‘I’m Rowland, sir. I made an awful mess of landing – brought over a D.H. 2 from Airco and …’
‘I know,’ the other said, ‘the C.O. told me.’ He returned to the other side of his desk and sat down. Guy knew why he had stared, at first. Guy’s right eye was a brilliant icy blue, his left a soft warm brown; all his life he’d been used to that sudden start and stare as people realized that there was something strange about his face, and then recognized what it was. The adjutant said, ‘You weren’t in time for orders, so you’ll have to wait for the next show … probably this afternoon. Let me tell you, on behalf of the C.O., that we’re not fussy about dress in Three Threes – but we are very strict indeed about obeying battle orders. You can fly a show in your pyjamas if you like – plenty of them do, on the dawn patrol – but if you take off after a Hun by yourself when the battle plan is to act in concert, you’ll find yourself grounded … I’ll show you to your tent – you’re alone in it for the moment. Neither of the fellows who were in it before will be using it again … one crashed yesterday, a cylinder exploded and he crashed … yes, it was a Monosoupape. The other fellow was shot down by Boelcke the day before … You’ve met your fitter and rigger?’
‘Not the rigger yet, sir.’
‘Get some breakfast, and have a look at these.’ He handed over a wad of typed and cyclostyled sheets. Guy glanced at the title of the top sheet, ‘Standing Orders for Battle, 333 Squadron, R.F.C.’ and dated March 31 of this year. If there was a chance of a show this afternoon, he’d better do some reading.