Starshine

by John Wilcox

  The fragile little line suddenly sprang to life and the fire was, indeed, rapid, the rifles barking as quickly as tired hands could work the breech bolts. The sound of the individual rifles discharging merged into a continuous crackle and it was as if the line was manned by machine-gunners, so quick was the firing. Framed in silhouette by the flames behind them and at a range now of less than a hundred yards, the infantry approaching in a close-order mass presented an unmissable quarry. The front line fell as one man, presenting the second line as a substitute target, like pop-up ducks at a fairground rifle stall, and it too disintegrated under the heavy fire. Several brave men knelt and presented their long rifles in an attempt to return the fire but they were soon despatched and what had seemed to be an irresistible phalanx broke up into individual units turning and scurrying back up the slope.

  Hickman lowered his rifle in relief but then shied aside as a bullet buried itself into the earth by his thigh. It had come from behind him.

  He turned and caught a glimpse of a group of shadowy, grey-clad figures advancing towards them up the slope.

  ‘Enemy behind us,’ he shouted. ‘My section follow me.’

  He scrambled to his feet, levelled his rifle and fired. Then, without pausing to reload, he presented his bayonet and screamed, ‘Charge!’

  He had no idea if he was alone as he bounded down the slope but he was aware that rifles were being discharged at him, for he saw their flashes and felt a tug as a bullet passed through the flapping corner of his jacket. Then he was among a group of Prussians, judging by their shining helmets, parrying their bayonet thrusts and thrusting in return, turning and stabbing, feinting and swinging his rifle butt.

  But he was not alone. Bertie was at his side, ducking and weaving like a bantamweight boxer, swinging his bayonet-tipped rifle from side to side as though it was a Celtic claymore. Then they were joined by the five other men of the section and, suddenly, the Germans had faded away as though they had not existed – except that three of them lay on the ground, bunched over in pain, foetus-like, as blood oozed through their thick greatcoats.

  ‘Well done, Hickman.’ Captain Yates was at his side, his revolver hanging from its lanyard and his face glistening in the light from the flames still shooting up on the ridge. ‘Now, we must find out if there are any more of them that have got round us.’ He turned to the panting men of Jim’s section. ‘Spread out in a line, behind me. Go on. Fan out further than that. Right, keep your bayonets fixed and follow me slowly. Make sure that there aren’t any Huns hiding.

  ‘You,’ he gestured with his revolver to Bertie, ‘double back and tell the major what has happened and warn him that we might be surrounded.’

  Together the little band walked down the slope, their heads down, dreading the sound of a rifle crack from ahead, behind or either side of them. They were completely exposed, well lit by the blazing village and with no cover. But they met no one, except a platoon of Service Corps clerks, forced off the Menin Road by the shellfire and struggling up to lend support to the defenders below the ridge ahead.

  Eventually, Yates held up his hand. ‘Must have been a stray group who slipped through between us and the Bedfords on the right,’ he confided to Jim. ‘I’ll report it to the major. Thank you for your quick thinking, Hickman. I shall commend you for it.’ He turned to the others and waved his revolver. ‘Back to the line.’

  He led them back up the slope. The Germans had retreated back over the ridge but, ominously, enemy light artillery was beginning to find their range. ‘Dig in, as best you can,’ the captain shouted, turning his head along the line, ‘and get your heads down. They won’t be able to get their heavy stuff on us because we’re too near their line. But they will probably attack again at first light. NCOs, give me ammunition reports.’

  For the first time, Jim realised that there was blood on his bayonet, but he had no recollection of having bayoneted any of the Prussians, only of frantically defending himself.

  ‘Oh aye, Corp,’ confided one of his section, a tall cavalry trooper. ‘I got one,’ he grinned. ‘First time I’ve ever used a bayonet. More used to a sabre. But you got one and Paddy here,’ he nodded to Bertie, ‘got the other. Proper little terrier he was.’

  Hickman nodded, gave a half-shy grin at Bertie, and then collected his section’s ammunition reports. They were still well supplied, having come up to the line carrying their ammunition reserves. He reported as much to Captain Yates and also gave him the news of the death of Sergeant Jones.

  ‘Damn.’ The captain shook his head. ‘He was the best sergeant in the company. Thank you. I’ll send up a detail to bury him. It will have to be here, I’m afraid. Can’t afford to carry him back.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’

  ‘Ask away but be quick. There’s much to do before sunrise.’

  Jim paused and shifted from one leg to the other. Would he sound impertinent? ‘It’s the line, sir.’

  ‘What about it? Come on, man. I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how we can hold it, either under heavy shelling or a few more attacks like the last. There’s no time to dig in properly and we’re more or less left lying out in the open. Even if they don’t attack we’ll be blown to pieces by a decent barrage. It’s pretty obvious that there aren’t any reinforcements to be had and well …’ He tailed off, daunted by the look of impatience in Yates’s haggard face. ‘Sorry if I’ve spoken out of turn.’

  Yates sighed. ‘You’re a Terrier, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘I know you’ve done well in the few days that you’ve been out. But I don’t think that an eighteen-year-old amateur soldier should question the wisdom of experienced senior officers. If the colonel says we hold the line here, we bloody well do so. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  But Yates had a frown on his face as he watched him go.

  As a miserable dawn broke, the enemy did not attack. It was clear that the frontal onslaught – was there no other way that the Germans fought, wondered Hickman? – had proved to be immensely expensive and, it seemed, they had other objectives and perhaps other problems on their minds, for both to the defenders’ right and up above, in the village itself, came the sound of heavy gunfire. Whatever the reason, the makeshift company in the scraped-out half-trench below the ridge was left unmolested, except for sniper fire.

  The opportunity was taken to issue the basic rations that had been able to survive the hazardous journey up the Menin Road – bully beef, bread, jam and hot tea – and then the company was set to digging again. It was not easy, for, as Hickman had pointed out, there was little cover from well-aimed fire from the ridge above them. It was difficult to dig when crouching or kneeling and two men were hit shortly after sunrise as a result of shots from one particular sniper, well sited at the top of the slope.

  Yates called from along the line. ‘Anybody here earned a marksman’s badge during training?’

  Jim looked about him. No one raised his hand. The Regulars, of course, all espoused a mantra of not volunteering for anything. But Bertie raised his hand and, reluctantly, Hickman followed suit.

  ‘Ah, the terrible Terriers.’ Yates, crouching, made his way towards him. ‘Right, Corporal, I’ve got a job for you.’

  Jim sniffed. ‘Private Murphy here, sir, is a much better shot than me.’

  ‘Really? Very well. Murphy will do.’

  Bertie looked concerned. ‘Well, sorr. I’m very happy to be of use to you, indeed I am. But I’m not particularly happy to be shootin’ people, y’see. Our priest always told me …’

  Captain Yates sighed and his face, still youthful with his moustache well trimmed despite the ravages of the last week, assumed the countenance of a man of fifty. He lifted his eyes to the heavens. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Private Murphy, that you’re not particularly happy about killing people. But I really must remind you,’ and his sarcastic tone lapsed into a snarl, ‘that you’re in the fucking army now and
that you are being paid, lad, to kill people. And if you don’t obey orders, then I personally will shoot you. Is that understood?’

  Bertie gave an accommodating smile. ‘Ah well, sorr, put like that it would be difficult to refuse. Now, then, how can I oblige you?’

  ‘How kind of you to agree to help. Now, keep your head low but look with me through this small gap in the mound. That’s it. Now look up to the right along the ridge. See anything?’

  ‘Ah, nothin’ much, sorr. There’s a low wall, but nothin’ much.’

  ‘Right. Come away, or you’ll get a bullet between those blue eyes and what would I tell the priest then?’ Yates pulled Murphy down.

  ‘When you look again – and no, don’t do it now – when you look again, you’ll see a small hole in that wall to the right. There is a German sniper operating behind that wall and he is firing through that hole. He’s already killed two of our men. It is a terribly small target at this range but if you could put a bullet through that hole, you will almost certainly get him, because he is peering through it all the time. And, my lad, if you can pot him, there’s an extra allowance of rum in it for you.’

  Bertie’s face broke into a beam. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you, sorr, but I never drink when I’m workin’, see.’

  Yates caught Jim’s eye and then looked around at the grinning faces witnessing the conversation. The captain put a hand to his face to hide his own smile. He nodded sympathetically. ‘Very wise of you, I am sure, if … ahem … a little unusual. Right. Now be very careful because he is watching us all the time. Try to take him, not from over the top, because you would be dead by the time you propped up your rifle, but from this little gap in the earth that’s been shovelled up here. And don’t thrust your rifle through it. Just rest the tip and sight from back here. The man’s a killer. He’s probably got telescopic sights but we lack them, I’m afraid. Do you think you can get him without them?’

  Bertie took a look. ‘Ooh, bless you sorr, I wouldn’t know how to use them things. But yes, I can see him now, I think. Let’s have a go.’

  The little man knelt and slowly inserted the tip of his rifle into the gap and slipped back a little himself to thrust the butt into his shoulder. A silence seemed to settle on the battlefield and as Jim turned his head he realised that all those in the line and in the immediate vicinity had been listening to the exchange and were now virtually holding their breath.

  Then, in a moment of ridiculous anticlimax, Bertie withdrew his rifle, adjusted his backsight to lift the range, licked his thumb, rubbed it on the muzzle and slowly slid the gun back again into the cleft. Yates removed his cap, raised his field glasses to his eyes and carefully directed them over the parapet.

  The crack as Bertie fired seemed to echo back from the ridge.

  ‘You’ve got him,’ yelled Yates. ‘You’ve got the bastard. His rifle’s gone clattering through the hole in the wall.’ He slid back and seized Murphy’s hand and pumped it. A cheer went up along the line.

  ‘Ah.’ Bertie looked far from elated. ‘It’s not a nice way to kill a feller in cold blood like that. God rest his soul and may He forgive me.’

  ‘You should be a sniper, Murphy,’ said Yates, replacing his cap. ‘That was a fantastic shot at such a range with an ordinary rifle and no special lens. You’re truly a marksman, lad.’

  ‘Well, sorr, I don’t know about that. But, on reflection, now that I’m not exactly working, so to speak, I think I might accept your offer of a little rum. Just a touch, now. Not much.’

  Yates nodded. ‘I’ll see to it.’ He exchanged grins with Jim and made his way back along the line.

  The old sweats along the line were looking at Bertie now with new respect. ‘Well done, Bertie,’ said Jim. ‘They’ll probably make you a general now.’

  The Irishman shook his head and his face was serious. ‘You know, Jimmy, it wasn’t a good thing to do, killin’ someone in cold blood like that. It’s different to when they come chargin’ at you. It’s fair enough then. But I’m not at all sure I approve of this war, after all. All this shellin’ an’ killin’. I don’t see how the good Lord can give it his blessing, so I don’t.’

  Hickman gave him a playful push. ‘You’re talking nonsense, mate. Your priest didn’t disapprove when you joined up, now, did he? I seem to remember that he told you that you would be doing the work of the Lord, now didn’t he?’

  ‘So he did. So he did. But he ain’t here now, is he? If he was, seeing what we’ve seen in not much more than a week out here, I think he’d change his mind, honest I do.’

  ‘Well, we’re in it now. And you’re the finest marksman in the whole of the BEF so you’d better shut up and get on with it.’

  ‘Very good, Lance Corporal, sorr.’

  Although the firing up beyond and to the right of the ridge continued throughout the day, the company was allowed to get on with its digging without too much interference from the enemy. Obviously, the battle was continuing elsewhere. And this was confirmed when, in the mid afternoon, Jim noticed that heads were turning along the line of the trench – now much more substantial – as news of mouth was being passed along.

  Eventually, it reached him. ‘The village up top has been retaken by the bloody Worcesters,’ said the man to his right. ‘They’ve broken through up on the top from the left. Looks as though we shall be movin’ on soon.’

  And so it proved. Within the half-hour, orders were given to load their equipment and move out. In open order, with bayonets fixed, they left the comparative security of their trench and moved up the slope towards where the blackened remains of Geluveld were smoking and serrating the skyline. Hickman realised that defending a position was one thing and attacking, over open ground, was very much another. It was the first time that he and Bertie had advanced in daylight and, walking steadily up the slope, they both felt unprotected and virtually naked. Jim remembered how easy it had been to mow down the Germans when they left their positions and came out into the open. At least now he and his comrades were spread out in open order, but even so, they would offer inviting targets to machine guns set up behind the wall.

  Yet their advance was unhindered and not a shot was fired as they breasted the ridge. A disconcerting sight met their eyes. Hardly a building, it seemed, had been left standing in the village, and streets forming the crossroads were marked now only by rubble and blackened timbers. Corpses of soldiers, British and German, lay unburied where they had fallen, some of them scorched by the flames.

  The little major bustled over. ‘Take cover where you can and rest,’ he called to the men. ‘Captain Yates, take Lieutenant Baxter and a platoon and reconnoitre to the left and see if you can link up with the Worcesters. The colonel is establishing battalion headquarters in what’s left of that school over there. Report back there.’

  Yates beckoned to a young subaltern, a sergeant, another corporal and to Jim, and a makeshift platoon of some twenty-five men began cautiously to patrol down what seemed to be left of the main street.

  They had been walking for perhaps ten minutes when a sudden rattle of machine-gun fire and then another broke out ahead of them and they all went to ground instinctively. A mortar banged and a fountain of earth and rubble sprang up to their right. Then another mortar shell exploded to their left, with the same result. A sharp crack of musketry sounded ahead and bullets began to strike the road and masonry around them, ricocheting away in a succession of pings and whines.

  ‘Into that ditch on the right,’ shouted Yates. They followed him and tumbled into a rubble-fringed irrigation ditch, but not before two of their number fell on the roadway and a third crumbled just as he reached the dubious safety of the ditch.

  ‘Where the hell are they?’ asked Yates of Baxter.

  ‘Can’t see ’em for the life of me.’

  ‘In the churchyard, to the right,’ called Hickman. ‘Look, the place is crawling with them.’ He pointed.

  Grey-coated figures could now be seen flitting between the gravestones
and the fallen masonry. As they watched, two men spreadeagled themselves on either side of a third man, who squatted and began assembling something.

  ‘Can you see ’em, Bertie?’ called Jim. ‘He’s setting up a machine gun just between those tombstones. It’s a long shot. Can you get him? You’ll have to be quick.’

  Murphy nodded but did not reply. Instead, he adjusted his rear sight, licked his thumb and rubbed it on the end of his rifle, levelled it and fired. The German machine-gunner rolled over.

  ‘Good shot, Murphy,’ called out Yates. ‘Glad you’ve swallowed your principles.’

  ‘Ah, it’s different if I’m shit scared, sorr.’

  ‘We can’t stay here.’ Yates was addressing his lieutenant.

  ‘Withdraw, of course?’

  ‘Good God, no. We’ve got to hold them up long enough to give the colonel time to set up a decent defensive position. We’ve got to spread out on the right here where there’s cover and stop them coming down the road. Hickman.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Get back to the colonel – he’s in that old school back where we crested the ridge. Tell him that, by the look of it, a battalion of the enemy is on its way towards him and that we will do our best to hold them up before retreating. Tell him that there’s no sign of the Worcesters. There must have been a massive counter-attack on the village. Go now and don’t get shot, man!’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ hissed Bertie.

  ‘Blimey, no. You can’t do that. That would be desertion in the face of the enemy. You stay here and shoot all the buggers and I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Ah, good luck, Jimmy boy.’

  Jim swallowed. This would be the first time they had been parted since joining up. ‘Keep your head down, Bertie.’ Then he slung his rifle behind his shoulder, scrambled out of the ditch and jumped into what remained of a cottage garden, as bullets spattered against the rubble around him. He ran, head down, sprinting from splintered tree to tree, between scattered piles of stone and brick. Once he twisted his ankle in a pothole and was stung as he lay by a sharp flint, cut out by a rifle shot. Cursing, he scrambled to his feet and ran on, zigzagging as he reached more open ground, until the firing died away behind him.