I kicked away the remains of the trap-door. It was rotten with age and foul with manure. A flight of steps carved from the chalk of the Somme stretched down into the darkness. It could be a cellar, although why there should be a cellar in a stable was anyone’s guess. Jesson stood by, waiting for a command. ‘Bring me a torch,’ I said. ‘And you’d better tell Major Tyburn.’
Half an hour later the Major and I were back on the surface once more. I was excited by what we’d found, and I couldn’t understand why the Major seemed so cool. It’s obvious now, but at the time I was full of the significance of my discovery. The Major didn’t say a word as we re-emerged, but strolled off to the low stone wall which divided the stables from the hummocky fields beyond. He leant his elbows on the wall, looking out over the breeze-quickened downland, quilted with little squares of root and grain. It could have been an English landscape if it wasn’t for the shifting line of smoke smudging the air. The Lines. And tomorrow we would be there. Major Tyburn continued to smoke his pipe. Inwardly his mind must have been racing and I wish I could say I guessed then that something was wrong – but I didn’t. After all, you can dislike your commanding officer without leaping to the conclusion that he’s a Hun spy. And even if I had guessed – well, to accuse the higher ranks of treason isn’t the best career move a second lieutenant can make. He, of course, got away with it. He certainly wasn’t killed and that put him streets ahead of the poor beggars he led. They do these things, or at least they used to, better in Berlin. Apparently his wife was German. If anyone was serious about finding out what actually happened to the Gallant Major instead of covering up the facts so as not to embarrass their own over-decorated hide, they could do worse than look among her relations. A new cousin, say, who turned up circa 1916 . . . it would make you think.
I, fool that I was, couldn’t stand the silence any longer. ‘Sir,’ I said impatiently. ‘The tunnel. The compass showed it was running north-east.’ I jabbed my finger towards the line of smoke. ‘That’s pointing directly to the ridge.’
Tyburn tried – and it seemed very natural – to appear sceptical. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you think it could run all the way to the ridge? Why, it must be over three miles away, man.’
‘Why not, sir?’ I persisted. ‘After all, only part of the tunnel was man-made. It seemed to link into some natural caves.’
Tyburn shook his head. He did this part very well, I’ll grant him that. ‘Why should anyone want to tunnel to the ridge?’
‘To get to the chateau, sir. I heard about it the other day at the hospital.’
‘Did you, by Jove,’ he said softly. His arrogant stare was enough to make him thoroughly disliked by any man with the usual allocation of feelings. ‘Yes, I heard you’d got on very well at the last reception.’
I could feel myself flushing at his raised eyebrow. I had got on well and I knew exactly what he was talking about. One of the brightest spots in this God-forsaken dump was the private hospital run by Mrs . . . Well, I’d better not say the name. Not frightfully pukka to boast. Not that I had boasted, of course. Not really the done thing, and all that, as my frustrated, inarticulate and rabidly jealous comrades in arms pointed out to me afterwards.
It was simply that women, as Major Tyburn might be surprised to learn, actually enjoy talking to men whose conversation doesn’t exist entirely of bomb ranges, earthworks and inanely patriotic remarks. I mean, when holding a glass of decent wine and faced with one of the loveliest women in France, I’m damned if I’m going to stutter lame platitudes along the lines of ‘Fritz is giving us a tough time, by jingo, but we’ll show him yet.’ Rank came into it as well, of course. It always does in the army. I’d charmed above my station in life. The lady in question existed on a plane far above that allocated for the use of junior officers who were meant to take their pleasures among her earthier compatriots. A woman who combined the role of Florence Nightingale with the looks of an Italian madonna, she was strictly off-limits to anyone without the requisite number of pips on their shoulder. But even a second lieutenant will occasionally get invited to parties and it a cultured, glamorous woman prefers to talk to him rather than a dull and slightly drunk brigadier, then surely there’s no great mystery as to why.
Major Tyburn was still looking at me in a smugly knowing way. I’d have given a lot to wipe that expression off his face but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’d irritated me. I decided to play it dead straight.
‘Apparently her family used to own the chateau that stood on the ridge, sir,’ I said, ‘together with a lot of the land around here. She was a d’Augier before she was married. If there were an underground passage to the chateau, we could use it to come up behind the enemy.’ Good, eh? Real eager, dedicated, medal-winning stuff and if it came off I wouldn’t have to go up that hellish slope tomorrow.
The Major was in a quandary. He had to make a show of exploring the tunnels otherwise I and the men would be bound to talk and questions asked, but he made a final attempt to get out of it. ‘The thing’s impossible.’
‘Surely not impossible, sir.’ I waved my hand round the old buildings. ‘After all, this farm was massively built. I know it’s all pretty tumbledown now, but you can see how solid it was. What if it wasn’t built as a farm but as a fortification? That would give a reason for linking the chateau to here. And if there’s the slightest chance it does lead to the ridge, sir, then we’re duty-bound to give it a look.’
Tyburn turned away and leaned his elbows on the wall, smoking. He seemed the picture of calm, but he must have been working out what was an obvious point. If he led a party down the tunnels, then he had a chance of determining what happened to them. If he refused outright then another party was almost bound to be despatched, a party over which he’d have no control. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t suppose it’d do any harm to explore further. God knows, we can’t seem to take the ridge by conventional methods. I’d like to give those Johnnies with machine guns a taste of what we’ve been going through. Get a party together. Make sure they’re properly kitted out. I’ll inform Staff what we’re up to.’ He smiled at me and I smiled back, pleased that I had won my point. Stupid of me, perhaps, but then I had no way of knowing that I had played right into his hands.
The tunnel quickly extended into a cave, narrowed back to a tunnel then opened out again. In the light of the torches I could see dark patches against the white of the chalk indicating other passages, but Major Tyburn kept our course directed to the north-east. I was shivering. It was cold down here out of the August sunshine and I didn’t have the faintest idea of how deep we were. Adrian Rutledge dropped back beside me.
‘I say, Jerry,’ he said quietly. ‘Where d’you think we are? We must have walked halfway to Berlin by now.’
‘We must be nearing the lines, surely. It’s hard to tell.’
‘Quiet there,’ hissed Tyburn from in front. He dropped down on one knee and picked something up from the ground. There were six men in the party and we all craned to see what it was. Lying on the Major’s outstretched hand was a cigarette end. I looked at it, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. It had to be German, which meant . . . Tyburn flashed his torch quickly ahead but no challenge came. I realized I was holding my breath, listening for the faintest sound but there wasn’t a whisper of noise.
Tyburn shook his head. ‘I don’t like this,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Boscombe, you take the rear. We’ll carry on, but it’s obvious that someone’s been down here. No talking and keep your ears pricked. If you hear anything, turn the torches off and stop moving.’
I slipped to the rear as we set off again. Should I have suspected anything? I don’t honestly see how I could. His manner was perfect – but fortunately, on the surface, things were happening.
It was during the next few minutes that I conceived a hatred for underground passages that I haven’t overcome to this day. We moved like ghosts along that tunnel and the loudest s
ound was that of my own breathing. Far louder than my chalk-muffled footsteps. Ahead I could see the shapes of the men outlined in the torchlight. Breathing. That was the only noise. In front of me Rutledge drew up sharply. Tyburn had stopped, hand raised. We snapped off the torches and waited. The darkness was so intense it almost hurt. I strained my ears, becoming abnormally aware of the tiny sounds of six men standing rigidly still. Breathing . . . And the breathing had an echo.
A hand pushed gently on my chest. It must have been Rutledge. ‘Go back.’ It was the faintest of whispers.
The tunnel exploded in light and noise. A blaze of torches flared, showing Rutledge’s face as stark as if it were caught in a bolt of lightning. Shouts, running feet, then a thunderous roaring of guns that left me completely deaf with a head full of ringing bells. Rutledge turned slowly, his arms wide, his mouth opening and shutting, shouting, but I could hear nothing. His forehead splintered into darkness and he jerked back like a dropped puppet. I fell to my knees, trying to unholster my revolver, but my numb fingers fumbled on the stiff leather and the gun skittered out of my grasp. I reached out for it, but someone fell against me, pushing me away. I saw his face, mouth open as if he were singing, and it seemed to take me minutes to work out he was screaming. I thrust him away, trying to get the gun. As I lurched to my feet Tyburn waved me on to be killed, but if I was capable of thinking anything, all I thought of was escape. A bullet bit through my shoulder, hurling me backwards. I rolled on to my stomach and crawled, my left arm dragging uselessly beside me. I scrambled to my feet, doubling over to avoid the shots. I still couldn’t hear, but the walls of the tunnel kept on puffing out explosions of dust as the bullets struck home. Then I was beyond the dancing lights, running terror-whipped into darkness.
Perhaps you’re wondering, as you read this sitting at home in a comfortable armchair, what had happened to my courage. It had gone, swallowed up in the sick taste of fear. The hero of a boy’s comic would have rallied the men and led a charge, indifferent to the bullets whistling round his ears. The hero of a boy’s comic wouldn’t have a stomach of water, a head full of crashing noise and an arm that jagged with pain. He would have a lovely funeral, with a grand tombstone and a posthumous medal. I’m not a hero. On the other hand I’m still alive.
I crashed into a wall and lay stunned for a few seconds. Back down the tunnel I could see flashlights playing over the walls, but none were moving towards me. I got to my feet very cautiously and felt my way away from the lights. I rounded a bend and stopped. Darkness ahead, light behind. I felt my breathing steady and something approaching rational thought returned. I still had my torch. I’d slipped it into my pocket when we’d stopped. I snapped it on, being careful to shield the light with my body. My shoulder was on fire and my head was spinning and I had to think how to walk. Lift one foot. Forward. Down. Lift one foot. Forward . . . The bitter sourness of panic filled my mouth and I retched miserably. I staggered on, forcing my legs to obey me. The dark mouth of a side passage opened up and I half-fell into the shielding blackness, lying across the mouth of the tunnel. I wanted, more than anything I’d ever wanted before, to lose consciousness, but it wouldn’t come. I knew I was whimpering in fear, but I couldn’t hear or stop the sound.
I don’t know how long I was lying there. Time meant nothing in that intense blackness. I had a bad scare when I heard a faint sound of breathing, then I nearly laughed out loud as I realized it was myself I could hear. Something very like contentment lapped over me as I lay in the tunnel. My ears crackled as sound returned and then, believe it or not, my conscience started to twitch. Should I go back? No! The sick knot in my stomach returned. Forward? I didn’t want to move . . . and then I froze as footsteps sounded in the main tunnel. I scrabbled back further into the side passage. A light shone, illuminating men walking cautiously past the entrance. They were English troops. I tried to shout out, to warn them, but my voice wouldn’t work. But I knew what was ahead. Half crawling, half walking, I got into the main tunnel, closed my eyes, swallowed hard and concentrated on producing a shout when a wall of sound hit me with physical force. My small store of courage fled and I shrank back, terrified, curled into a ball of fear. I screwed my eyes shut, trying to lose consciousness, but stayed obstinately, unwillingly, awake.
Then I nearly did faint. A hand jerked my wounded shoulder. I suppose I yelled in pain, but the deafness had returned. A torch blinded into my eyes, making me wince. Then the torch was put down, illuminating the man in front of me. I gave a foolish smile of relief as I saw who it was. An English captain, with, oddly enough, the red tabs of a staff officer on his uniform.
I stretched out my hand, but the Captain didn’t take it. He was talking to me – questions, I suppose – which I couldn’t hear. His face was horribly grim. I tried to smile again, but he wouldn’t smile back. Instead he dropped to one knee and took out his revolver. I shrank back, guessing there must be Germans up the tunnel. I strained into the darkness, but couldn’t see . . . and realized the muzzle of the gun was pointed straight at my chest. The hammer raised back, then the Captain whirled and fired a shot up the tunnel. I was weak with relief. God knows what he’d seen. I didn’t ask and couldn’t have heard the reply if he’d answered. And then familiar faces surrounded me. Dixon, Stafford, Keenan. I was safe.
They got me to my feet and walked some way down the tunnel before halting. They seemed to be arguing with the Staff Captain, and the men were evidently unhappy. The Captain was insisting on something, his body tense with conflict. He smacked his fist down into his hand and the men shrugged. Dixon handed over his rifle and a pouch of ammunition. With a nod of thanks the Captain walked back a few steps and crouched down behind a jutting outcrop of chalk, covering our retreat. I spared him a glance as we walked away. So this was a hero. I’ve never met a man who frightened me more.
I landed up metaphorically, if not literally, on my feet. The hospital where I’d so recently drunk champagne, toyed with canapes and flirted with the great, if not repressively good, received my fairly battered remains. It was heaven. The care was excellent, the nurses exquisite if unobtainable, and the food a dream. Private hospitals weren’t uncommon, but this was one of the best. As far as I was concerned the only drawback was that I was going to have to leave. No one could actually want to return to the fighting but this brief period of civilization gave me a loathing of the trenches which amounted to an obsession. I’d lie awake with thoughts of desertion flitting through my head and I honestly believe if I’d had a gun I’d have tried to arrange an accident. A bullet through the foot, perhaps? But I didn’t have a gun and I couldn’t think of a convincing reason for getting hold of one. And to be found out . . . That would mean a court martial and a firing squad.
The Second Lieutenant in the next bed – Grant, his name was – had no such worries. His hip and thigh were a mass of bandages. ‘Mine’s a Blighty one,’ he said with horrible cheerfulness. ‘What about you?’
‘No such luck. I’m damned if I’m going back though.’
Grant laughed, secure in the happiness that comes to those missing half a leg. ‘I don’t see how you can avoid it, old man. Unless you can pull a few strings and end up on the Staff, you’re stuck. Failing that, there’s always the RFC.’
The Royal Flying Corps. Now there was a thought. They didn’t sleep in trenches. They didn’t go over the top. Their quarters were well behind the lines and those quarters were, if rumour was correct, bloody palaces. The RFC . . . Why the hell hadn’t I thought of it? If I transferred that’d mean six months at a home training establishment before joining a squadron. Six months! The war could be over by then. I looked at Grant with real interest for the first time. ‘I’ll do it!’
‘Hey,’ he said, alarmed. ‘Don’t be an idiot. It might sound good but it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. I had a cousin –’
I wish now I’d listened to the story of Grant’s cousin. But I rushed upon my fate. ‘Damn your cousin. I’ve had enough of skulking undergrou
nd. I’ll do it.’
Grant looked at me queerly, then shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. What d’you mean, skulking underground? You weren’t in a tunnelling company, were you?’
‘I might as well have been. I was the fool who discovered the Augier Ridge tunnel. I was in the first party.’
‘I say, were you?’ That was my first indication of how big an affair this was going to be. The admiration in Grant’s eyes was gratifying. If we’d been in an estaminet he’d have bought me a drink. He propped himself up on one arm. ‘D’you know who’s in the private room at the top of the ward? Captain Whitfield himself. That’s why She keeps going in there.’ I didn’t need to ask who he meant. There was only one She in our constricted world. ‘Nothing but the best for The Man Who Saved The Western Front. They say he’s up for the VC for what he did. If all staff officers were like him, we’d have shoved Fritz back to Berlin years ago.’
‘You think so?’ I picked up a four-month-old magazine.
‘No, really,’ persisted Grant, who seemed to have taken The Hero’s cause to heart. ‘They say that Fritz was going to flood through those tunnels and if it hadn’t been for Captain Whitfield they’d have done it. And he’s a staff officer, too.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, you know the old joke. If bread is the staff of life, then the life of the staff is one long loaf.’ He waited for me to laugh but I didn’t oblige him. I’d heard that one before. ‘But honestly,’ said Grant, who could have been the chairman of whatever board it is which awards medals, ‘you have to admire him. He held them off single-handed and they had to dig him out of the rubble.’ He looked up as a door opened further up the ward. She, as Grant would have said, came out of the private room which contained Captain Whitfield. ‘Isn’t that so, Madame?’ he called.
She walked towards us and paused by Grant’s bed, straightening out his pillow. ‘Isn’t what so, Mr Grant?’
A Fête Worse Than Death Page 9