Curzon bade the Twenty-second a sorrowful good-bye at the end of the day. He could not stay to dinner, as he had an invitation to Corps Headquarters. As he stood shaking hands with his friends they heard the roar of the bombardment – in its third day now – which was opening the Battle of Loos.
‘They’re getting Hell over there,’ said a subaltern, and everyone agreed.
‘You’ll be having your chance in less than a week,’ said Curzon, and regret surged up in him again as he mounted his horse. He had gained nothing in forsaking a regiment for a division. He would never know now the rapture of pursuit; all there was for him to do now was to make the way smooth for the cavalry.
There were high spirits at Corps Headquarters, all the same, to counter his sentimental depression. Wayland-Leigh had provided champagne for this great occasion, and in an unwonted expansive moment he turned to Curzon with his lifted glass.
‘Well, here’s to the Big Push, Curzon,’ he said. His green eyes were aflame with excitement.
‘Here’s to it, sir,’ said Curzon fervently.
‘It’s like a bit of Shakespeare,’ said Wayland-Leigh – and the fact that Wayland-Leigh should quote Shakespeare was a sufficient indication of the greatness of the occasion. ‘“When shall we three meet again?” Or rather we five, I ought to say.’
He looked round at his four divisional generals.
‘On the Rhine, sir,’ said Hope of the Seventy-ninth.
‘Please God,’ said Wayland-Leigh.
The horizon that night was all sparkling with the flashes of the guns as Curzon rode back to his headquarters; the bombardment was reaching its culminating point, and the gentle west wind – Curzon wetted his finger and held it up to make sure – was still blowing. It would waft the poison gas beautifully towards the German lines, and those devils would have a chance of finding out what it was like.
At dawn next morning Curzon was waiting in his headquarters for orders and news. The horses of the staff were waiting saddled outside; within half a mile’s radius the battalions and batteries of the Division were on parade ready to march. Neither orders nor news came for some time, while Curzon restlessly told himself that he was a fool to expect anything so early. Nothing could come through for seven or eight hours. But Frobisher looked out at the Divisional flag drooping on its staff, and he went outside and held up a wet finger, and came in again gloomily. There was no wind, or almost none. In fact, Frobisher had a suspicion that what little there was came from the east. There could be small hope to-day for a successful use of gas.
‘We can win battles without gas, gentlemen,’ said Curzon, looking round at his staff.
As time went on Curzon grew seriously alarmed. They were fifteen miles from the line, and if orders to move did not come soon they might be too late to exploit the initial advantage. Curzon knew that the Forty-second Corps was being held directly under the command of General Headquarters, so that he could try to quiet his fears by telling himself that there was no question of a middle in the command; G.H.Q. must know more than he did. The orders came in the end some time after noon, brought by a goggled motor cyclist. He and Miller ran through them rapidly; all they said was that the Division was to move up the road at once – it was not more than a quarter of an hour after the motor cyclist’s arrival that Curzon had his leading battalion stepping out briskly towards the battle.
By the time the Division was on the march there was news of sorts to be picked up on the road as the debris of the battle drifted back. Ambulance drivers and lorry drivers and wounded contributed their quota, and the tales told brought the deepest depression and revived the wildest hope alternately. A light infantry officer told of disastrous failure, of the ruin of his division amid a tangle of uncut wire. An ambulance load of wounded Scots reported a triumphant advance, the overrunning of miles of German trenches, and desperate fighting still in progress. From a Seventh Division major Curzon learned of the failure of the gas, and how it was released in some sectors and not in others, and how it had drifted over the German lines, or had stayed stagnant in no-man’s-land, or had blown sideways over the advancing British troops as if moved by a spirit of murderous mischief. Then on the other hand there came the news that the British had reached Hill 70 and Hulluch, that the German line was definitely broken, and that the enemy was fighting desperately hard to stave off disaster.
A big motor car with the flag of the Forty-second Corps fluttering at the bonnet came bouncing up the road. Inside could be caught glimpses of scarlet and gold – it was Wayland-Leigh and his staff. The car stopped where Curzon’s horse pranced over the pavé, and Curzon dismounted, gave his reins to Greven, and hurried to the door.
‘Keep your men stepping out, Curzon,’ said Wayland-Leigh, leaning forward in his seat and speaking in a hoarse whisper.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Curzon. ‘Can – can you give me any news?’
‘I don’t know any myself,’ said Wayland-Leigh grimly. ‘G.H.Q. has hashed it all up, as far as I can see. Your division’s ten miles back from where it ought to be. We broke through this morning, and hadn’t the reserves to make a clean thing of it. You’ll have to break through again to-morrow, Curzon. And I know you’ll do it. Good luck.’
The motor car jolted on along the road, while Curzon swung himself back into the saddle. His division might be late, but he would see to it that it made up for some of the lost time. All down the five-mile-long column the pace quickened as his orders reached each unit to lengthen the pace. Then the head of the column came to a halt, and as Curzon was spurring furiously forward to ascertain the cause of the delay word came back that the road was jammed with broken-down transport. So it was, as Curzon saw when he reached there five minutes later, but it did not remain so long. His blazing anger goaded the transport drivers into a final effort to clear the road. An empty lorry was heaved bodily clear into the ditch, where it lay with its wheels in the air. A distracted officer was bullied into organizing a party to empty the lorry with the broken wheel of the ammunition in it so that the same could be done with that, but before the party had even set to work the Ninety-first Division was pouring through the gap Curzon had contrived.
They marched on while darkness fell and the battle flamed and flickered before them. Long ago the men had lost their brisk stride and air of eager anticipation; now they were merely staggering along under the burden of their packs. No one sang, and the weary sergeants snapped at the exhausted men as they blundered on the slippery pavé. At midnight they reached what billets were available – half the division slept in wet bivouacs at the roadside, while Curzon slept in his boots and clothes in an arm-chair in the back room of the estaminet which became his temporary headquarters.
The order he had been waiting for came during the night. The division was given an objective and a sector and a time in to-morrow’s attack. Miller and Curzon compared the orders with the maps spread on the marble-topped tables. Miller made his measurements, looked involuntarily at his watch, and said: ‘It can’t be done.’
‘It’s got to be done,’ said Curzon, with a rasp in his voice.
‘Dawn’s at six-fifteen,’ said Miller. ‘We’ll have two hours of daylight for seven miles on these roads.’
‘Can’t help that,’ snapped Curzon. ‘The division’ll have to move at five. We’ll have to get the orders for the brigades out now. Here, Frobisher –’
A weary staff wrote out the orders, and weary orderlies took them to Brigade Headquarters, where tired brigadiers were roused from sleep to read them and to curse the higher command which forced their men to go into action with no more than four hours’ rest – and those, for most of them, passed in muddy bivouacs.
In the half-light the division formed up on the road, trying to loosen its stiff joints. The march began long before dawn, and they toiled forward up the road to the summons of grumbling guns. Dawn had hardly come when there was another hitch ahead. Curzon was almost beside himself with rage as he rode forward, and what he found made him bo
il over completely. The road was crammed with cavalry, two whole brigades of it, a forest of leaden-hued lance points. Their transport was all over the road, apparently in the process of being moved from one end of the column to the other. What miracles of staff work had brought that cavalry there at that time in that place and in that condition Curzon did not stop to inquire.
He turned his horse off the road and galloped madly along the side of the column over the muddy fields; not even Follett could keep pace with him. Curzon’s quick eye caught sight of a cluster of red cap-bands. He leaped his horse over the low bank again, risking a nasty fall on the greasy pavé, and addressed himself to the general of the cavalry division.
‘Get your men off this road at once, sir!’ he blared. ‘You’re stopping the march of my division. Orders? I don’t care a damn what your orders are. Clear the road this minute! No, sir, I will not be careful what I say to you. I’ve got my duty to do.’
The two major-generals glared fiercely at each other for a moment, before the cavalry man turned to his staff and said: ‘Better see to it.’
Curzon was tapping with impatience on his saddle-bow with his crop during the slow process of moving the cavalry with their lances and their forage nets and their impedimenta over the bank into the fields, but it was done at last; soon Curzon saw his leading battalion come plodding up the road, a few staunch spirits singing, ‘Hullo, hullo, who’s your lady friend?’ with intervals for jeers and boos for the disgruntled cavalry watching them go by.
A precious quarter of an hour had been wasted; it seemed almost certain that the division would be late at the rendezvous appointed for it. Soon afterwards it became quite certain, for the narrow road, only just wide enough for two vehicles side by side, was utterly jammed with transport. There was a road junction just ahead, and no military police in the world could have combated successfully with the confusion there, where every vehicle in nine divisions seemed to have converged from all four directions.
Frobisher and Follett galloped hither and thither to find someone in authority who could compel the way to be cleared for the Ninety-first Division, but it was Curzon who achieved it in the end, riding his maddened horse into the thick of the turmoil, and using the weight of his authority and the urge of his blazing anger to hold up the traffic.
It was not for Curzon to decide whether the state of the battle made it desirable that the division should have precedence; that was for the General Staff, but as the General Staff was seemingly making no effort to tackle the problem he had to deal with it himself – and as his division was an hour late his decision was a natural one. For Curzon was not to know that German counter-attacks launched in the early morning had completely stultified the orders he had received that night, and that the task before the Ninety-first Division was not now to exploit a success, but to endeavour to hold on to precarious gains.
They were nearing the line now. There were battery positions beside the road, firing away with a desperate rapidity which indicated the severity of the fighting ahead. Curzon rode on through the drifting flotsam of the battle to the house which his orders had laid down should be established as his headquarters. There was a signal section already there, as Curzon saw with satisfaction. Telephonic communication with the new front line had at last been established, and Headquarters would not have to rest content with the news dribbled out an hour too late by scribbled messages borne by runners.
Curzon had no intention of staying in these headquarters of his. He was determined upon going forward with his division. Miller could be trusted with the task of communicating with Corps Headquarters. Curzon knew the value of a commander on the spot in a confused battle; as Curzon saw it, a divisional general among his men even if they were occupying a mile of tangled front was of more use than a divisional general two miles behind.
The division came on up the road – it was hardly a road by now. The artillery branched off, rocking and swaying over the drab shell-torn fields to take up the position assigned them. Webb and Challis rode up for their final orders, and then the division began to plunge forward into action, while Curzon waited, with Daunt’s brigade still in hand, in case new orders should come during this period of deployment.
New orders came right enough. Frobisher came running out of the headquarters to where Curzon stood chatting with Daunt and staring forward at the battle he could not see.
‘Please, sir,’ said Frobisher, breaking into the conversation, and discarding prefixes and circumlocutions with the urgency of the situation. ‘Miller wants you. Quickly, sir. Buffalo’s on the phone.’
When Curzon arrived indoors Miller was listening at the telephone, writing hard with his free hand. He waved Curzon impatiently into silence at his noisy entrance.
‘Yes,’ said Miller. ‘Yes. All right. Hold on now while I repeat.’
Miller ran slowly through a list of map references and cryptic sentences about units of the division.
‘All correct? Then General Curzon is here if General Wayland-Leigh would care to speak to him.’
He handed the instrument to Curzon. A moment later Wayland-Leigh’s voice came through.
‘Hullo, Curzon. You’ve got your new orders?’
‘Miller has.’
‘Right. I’ve nothing to add, except to remind you of the standing orders of this Corps. But I can trust you, Curzon. There’s all hell let loose, but as far as I can see it’s just a last effort on the part of the Huns. You’ve got to hold until I can persuade G.H.Q. to reinforce you. Sorry to break up your division. Good-bye.’
Curzon turned to Miller, appalled at these last words. Miller was already engaged in writing orders in a bold, careful hand.
‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Curzon, and Miller told him, briefly.
There was no intention now of sending the Ninety-first Division in to break through an attenuated line. The German reserves had arrived and were counter-attacking everywhere. So difficult had been communication with troops a mile forward that only now was the higher command able to form an approximately correct picture of the situation of units far forward with their flanks exposed, and other units beating themselves to pieces against strong positions, units in retreat and units holding on desperately in face of superior numbers. The Ninety-first Division was to be used piecemeal to sustain the reeling line. The new orders prescribed that two battalions should be sent in here, and another employed in a counter-attack there, a brigade held in reserve at this point, and support given at that.
‘Christ damn and blast it all!’ said Curzon as the situation was explained.
He had had enough experience in South Africa as well as elsewhere of the confusion which follows countermanded orders in the heat of action. His artillery were already getting into action, two brigades of infantry were in movement on points quite different from new objectives. He tore at his moustache while Miller went on steadily writing, and then mastered his fury.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing for it. Show me these orders of yours.’
So the Ninety-first Division, after a morning of interminable delays on the road, was now subjected to all the heart-breaking checks which were inevitable with the change of scheme. The bewildered rank and file, marched apparently aimlessly first here and then there, cursed the staff which heaped this confusion upon them. They were short of sleep and short of food. They came under fire unexpectedly; they came under the fire of British artillery who had been left in the dark regarding the fluctuations in the line; and then, when that mistake had been set right, they remained under the fire of shells, from British artillery – shells bought in Japan and America, the trajectory and time of flight of ten per cent of which were quite unpredictable.
Curzon had perforce to fight his battle from headquarters. Wayland-Leigh, besieged by requests for help and by orders to give help, coming from all quarters, was persistent in his demands upon the Ninety-first. Challis with a fraction of his 302nd Brigade reported that he had stormed the redoubt whose enfilade
fire had caused such losses in the Guards’ Division, but an hour later was appealing for permission to use another of his battalions to consolidate his position. Daunt in another part of the line sent back a warning that a counter-attack was being organized in front of him apparently of such strength that he doubted whether he would be able to stop it. From every hand came appeals for artillery support, at moments when Colonel Miller was warning Curzon that he must persuade Corps Headquarters to send up yet more ammunition.
To reconcile all these conflicting claims, to induce Corps Headquarters to abate something of their exacting demands, and to try and find out from the hasty reports sent in which patch of the line might be left unreinforced, and in which part a renewed attack was absolutely necessary, constituted a task which Curzon could leave to no one else. All through the evening of September 26th, and on through the night, Curzon had to deal with reports and orders brought in by runner, by telephone, and by motor cyclist. There was no possible chance of his being in the line with his men – there was no chance either of guessing in which part of the line his presence would do most good. Miller and Frobisher, Greven and Follett, slept in turns on the floor of the next room, but Curzon stayed awake through the night, dealing with each crisis as it came.
He was red-eyed and weary by the morning, but in the morning there were fresh counter-attacks to be beaten back. All through the night German divisions had been marching to the point of danger, and now they were let loose upon the unstable British line. The nine British divisions had been prodigal of their blood and strength. The mile or half-mile of shell-torn ground behind them impeded communications and supply; the inexperienced artillery seemed to take an interminable time to register upon fresh targets. It was all a nightmare. Units which had lost their sense of direction and position in the wild landscape reported points strongly held by the enemy which other units at the same moment were reporting as being in their possession.
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