A Test to Destruction

by Henry Williamson

  Phillip saw that the near-side of the cob, which was taking advantage of the halt to stale, was dripping with grey mud. So was the Quartermaster’s size 13 boot, and the bulky breeches of his off-side leg. Sitting upright, Moggers said stonily, “I consider that the driver should remain under arrest, sir.”

  “Very well, Moggers, I shall expect you at my headquarters tomorrow. Come to luncheon, and afterwards we’ll see what can be done.”

  With a slight smile and a wave of his hand the Divisional General drove away. Phillip went up to Moggers, whose manner towards him was not encouraging.

  “I wonder, Colonel, if you would be so good as to——”

  “Not you agen?” groaned Moggers. Phillip was not to be put off; nor was Moggers, who, asked about the Senlis incident, replied with an explosive word relative to the pig. And you, replied Phillip under his breath.

  When he got back to the quarry the steam-roller was blowing off a lot of steam among the Chinese labourers whose blue cotton blouses and trousers were augmented by old khaki tunics, bombers’ aprons, dark civilian clothing, including cut-up women’s skirts; while an assortment of hats upon their heads had apparently been scrounged from house ruins and salvage dumps. Bowler hats; one crenellated top hat; peasants’ peaked caps; a tam-o’-shanter, a pickelhaube, and several round grey-and-red German pork-pie caps. One man waddled with a sandbag on either flank and fastened over his shoulders by rifle slings, filled with lumpy objects. Seeing Phillip looking at him the man grinned and pulled out a Mills bomb.

  “Me Chum Poo, mister. Me done one piecee bad boy Jelly one piecee Millee bomb—bang!—one piecee bad boy Jelly flucked!”

  Captain Kidd’s loud, slightly rasping voice said behind Phillip, “You be careful, Chum Poo! If one piecee bad boy Jelly catchee Chum Poo mit Millee bombee, Chum Poo flucked pronto, and don’t you forget it, you yellow bellee. Now vamoose! Sling your hook! Depart in peace, or else in pieces! Otherwise, in the King’s English, piss off!”

  The speaker turned to Phillip. “These bastards have a pleasant little habit of sallying forth after an air-raid at night to bomb Jerry prisoner-of-war camps.”

  “I didn’t know China had joined the Allies, Captain Kidd. Are these troops an addition to your company?” asked Phillip, as though seriously.

  “God’s teeth, I haven’t come down to be a Toe-rag ganger, old boy! Have a heart! Now about our shackles next week, when we go into the Bird Cage——”

  “Will you excuse me for a moment.” Turning to the N.C.O. with the Chinese labourers, he said, “What are these idealists doing here?”

  “I had orders to bring them here, sir.”

  “To report for work to the Second Gaultshires?”

  “No, sir, just to bring them here and await orders.”

  Captain Kidd interrupted. “Look, old boy, I must be off. Will you ask Denis Sisley when he comes back to fix up with Moggers that my men’s shackles are no longer greasy and cold when they arrive at night? My blokes are dam’ good blokes, let me tell you, and need a real good hot blow-out once a day.”

  “Oh I see, you mean skilly. I’ll try and arrange with the transport——”

  “No, old boy, Bill Kidd does not mean skilly. Bill Kidd means what Bill Kidd says, the real and original shackles, none of your broken biscuits boiled up with lumps of bully, old boy! Shackles—you know—as served at the Carlton Grill, cut off the joint and two veg. Fourpence in every good pull-up for carmen!”

  “Righty-ho, I’ll see Moggers about it.”

  “Thanks, old boy. You see, we can’t spare any scarlet runners from the old coy, so we have to rely on those slack bastards from the White City, otherwise we’d collect our own grub in double quick time. By the way, the name’s Bill to my pals.”

  “Righty-ho, Wilhelm, mein prächtige kerl!”

  He told Bill about the encounter between Moggers and General O’Toole, and Bill Kidd said, “Oh, those two crab-wallahs are always having a go at one another. Jimmy O’Toole belongs to the regiment, you know. That monocle he wears conceals a glass eye. His driver’s the original Convict 99. Fact, old boy! He was a burglar before the war. On the Somme, he and Jimmy passed a dead Hun showing a gold tooth. Next day, going up the line again, Jimmy saw the tooth was missing.

  “‘You got that one, Johnson, I suppose?’

  “‘Yessir.’

  “‘I suppose someone will take my glass eye, if I cop it, Johnson?’

  “‘Yessir, I put myself dahn fer that, fer a souvenir, sir.’ Good lad, is Jimmy. Cheerio!”

  When Bill Kidd had gone, Phillip said to the headquarter-guard sergeant, “I don’t like the idea of these iron grapes hanging about the place.” He stopped himself in time from adding ‘old boy’. “The Chinks are non-combatants. In fact, in those civvy clothes and carrying weapons, they’re franc tireurs. So get two of your men to collect all the grenades.”

  He went into the orderly room, and took up the dossier about the pig. With any luck Denis Sisley would be back soon; he had only the grippe, according to the American M.O. attached to the battalion. It was more fun going round with ‘Spectre’ than dealing with endless chits. He was wondering what to reply to Minute 13 when the C.O. came in and said, “Denis has pneumonia, and is being evacuated to the base. That means he’s off the strength. For the time being, until a new adjutant is appointed, you will carry on with this job. How do you feel about having Allen as your assistant? Very well, send for him.”

  Allen was still at Corunna Camp. At a nod from Phillip, the orderly room sergeant went out to tell a cyclist orderly to fetch Mr. Allen. The C.O. then said, “Will you look at this sketch map of the Brigade Battle Zone? It’s marked down as The Aviary. We’ll look in this morning on the way to the Forward Zone, which we take over on the twenty-second. Here’s a smaller scale plan which includes our Forward Zone, the Bird Cage. It would be gracious to send a wire to the Officer Commanding the Fifth Verderers—Sergeant Tonks will know the code word—asking his leave to go round the Bird Cage at 2 p.m. this afternoon. We’ll enter the communication trench at the Belvedere. Warn Sullivan to meet us there.”

  Sullivan, the battalion Intelligence Officer, had the charming manners of one who had had some success before the war in musical comedy. It was he who ran The Wasps Concert Party.

  “I need hardly say that these maps are not to leave this office, so memorize what you can, of the Bird Cage in particular.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  He must not allow himself to be flurried. ‘Spectre’ evidently knew his thoughts, for he said, “It may seem a lot to do all at once, but things will come easier with time. Take each thing as it comes.” There was the gruff explosion of a Mills bomb. “What the hell is that?”

  “I think it’s only the Chinks, Colonel. I’ve already told off the guard sergeant to collect their grenades——”

  They went outside. “What is this steam-roller doing here? What is it, Barnum’s Circus? Tell them either to take it away or to damp down the fire.”

  The Chinese labourers were holding out mess-tins for hot water; it was their tea-time, apparently.

  “Get the damned thing camouflaged, and reduce that steam at once!”

  The Quartermaster, riding up, was a relief.

  “What do you think of our fair-ground, Moggers? Pity you haven’t got the band up here too, we might have a dance. Who the devil sent it here? That steam may draw shell-fire. Take your blasted vehicle away!” to the elderly N.C.O. in charge of the Chinese.

  “I can do with a roller, to flatten out the brick standings of our new horse-lines in the White City. Corporal, take your men and machine to the Second Gaultshire lines at Corunna, the police will direct you. I’ll see your officer, I’m Colonel Mogger-hanger. ’Ow many coolies you got? Thirty-two? We can feed ’m. Off you go, make it slippy! Shelling may start any moment now! Don’t forget the roller.”

  Later, he said to Phillip, “Don’t see why we shouldn’t swing the drippin’ on these yellow-bellies, and give our fe
llers a rest. Camouflage the old stone crusher, eh? They won’t recognise it when I’ve done with it.”

  The Quartermaster was about to turn away when Phillip said, “Moggers, what shall I say about that bloody pig at Senlis? If you wouldn’t mind—I won’t keep you a moment—I expect you, too, have rather a lot to do——”

  “Don’t let the bumff get you down, Lampo! Now you listen to me, m’lad. You think I’m a rough, don’t you? A crude old bastard without college ed’jication? Well, you’re right! I’ve had to make my own way, see? And maybe I know what some others don’t always know. Pigs, for instance. ’Alf a mo’, let’s ’ave a wet. We can talk better there. Don’t look so anxious!”

  Over a whiskey and soda in the mess-room, he continued, “Yes, as I was saying, pigs are choosy feeders, except when they’re starved; even then I say you won’t catch ’m feeding on latrines. Those with scarlet runners creepin’ up to their lug-’oles and corns on the seat of their pants know sweet fanny adams about pigs. I grew up with pigs, I’ve slept with pigs, and while they didn’t object to my presence, all the same they’re choosy, and like to be clean.”

  Stretching out his 13-size feet he poured himself another drink and with manner now gentle told Phillip, who waited with assumed interest for him to come to the point, about the habits of a farrow of little pigs with their sow.

  “I’ve seen each squealer doin’ its little job right away from the old gal, for as I told you, Lampo, it’s the nature of a pig to be regimental, in other words, to keep itself decent. No livin’ creature likes to live in its own muck. The pig, I’ll have you know, possesses a very sensitive nose. In the Sudan I saw one once what was trained like a pointer dog by some Buddoo sportsman who fancied himself shooting quails that way.”

  Allen, lumpy with full kit, looked in; hesitated. “Good morning!” cried Phillip. “Come in!”

  Allen saluted; Phillip, after a nod from the Quartermaster, took the salute. “Sit down. Colonel Moggers is talking about pigs.”

  “That’s right. Well, as I was saying, that pig was as good and as patient as any dog in the Duke’s Abbey trials. Intelligent? Wasn’t it, tho’! It grunted slightly when it sniffed a covey in the cotton fields. No, that pig at Senlis didn’t die of us, Lampo, it died of natural causes, and you tell that to your pal Brendon who I’ll probably see at lunch tomorrow. But count me out of it, I’m fer ’ome any day now, and don’t want no stain on my crime sheet.” This with a wink at Allen. “Well!”—heaving himself up—“I must be gettin’ back, Lampo.”

  “Decent old boy, when you know him,” said Phillip, when the Quartermaster had gone. “Now about your job.” He concluded by saying, “The orderly room sergeant is a tower of strength. Don’t be hesitant about asking Tonks any questions. Come with me, and meet him.”

  On his return from behind the hanging blanket Phillip saw ‘Spectre’, who said distinctly, “Will you kindly ask for Brigade exchange to put me through to Shiny Night. No, don’t do it yourself, ask the telephone orderly.” When the call came he heard ‘Spectre’ ask for the Commanding Officer. So Shiny Night was the code name of the Verderers. Damn, he should have put the call through before.

  Now for a reply to Brendon. But a picture of Sullivan singing in the concert party persisted: the fascinating duet from Buzz Buzz. He tried to recall the words.

  Some of the time, you think you love a brunette,

  Some other time, you love a blonde

  Who came from Eden, by way of Sweden.

  They may be short, they may be tall

  Some of them sigh (and some of them fall),

  But you love somebody, somewhere, all of the ti-i-ime.

  Pig, pig, he must get rid of the Great Porcine Mystery. My dear Watson, Sherlock Holmes speaking this end. It’s my delight on a shiny night to meet you at the Belvedere. Bring your wooden stethoscope and of course your wooden head, Brendon—who came from Eden, by way of Sweden——

  There was half an hour to 11 a.m. Now—concentrate. But the thought of even an impersonal communication with Bagshott-Brendon—plain Brendon in 1915—filled him with scorn for Brendon with his off-hand manner towards the Commanding Officer of a regular battalion—and to ‘Spectre’ at that, with his seven wound stripes, triple D.S.O. and double M.C.! Brendon of course would get the O.B.E.

  20/3/18

  Min. 13.

  D.A. & Q.M.G. East Midland Division.

  In re Porcus Senlisiensis v. Rex, and with reference to Minute 12 it is the experience of a senior office in this battalion, who has bred and known the habits of pigs for many years, that they are selective feeders with sensitive noses, and while they will eat carrion in some parts of the world, notably China, they will avoid useless feeding as in latrines, particularly when creosol is used.

  Under the circumstances the claim is considered to be of doubtful validity, despite which the feelings of the farmer should not be ignored. A 20-franc note is appended herewith as an ex gratia payment entirely unconnected with any regimental funds.

  P. S. T. Maddison, Lt.

  for O.C. 2nd Gaultshire Regt.

  “The Colonel is ready, sir,” said the groom, looking in past the gas-blanket.

  On the way up the line, ‘Spectre’ said, “I am going to show you round the Forward Zone this morning; tomorrow you will take up the new draft subalterns and make them familiar with what you learn today. It’s all at very short notice, I’m afraid, but we have had no time for training. In the days ahead, junior officers will have to rely mainly on their own initiative.”

  “Is there any idea when the Germans will start, sir?”

  “At present their front line is being held by Landsturm troops, third-line territorials. That tells us that the assault divisions are still to be moved up. Also, for about half a mile behind their front line, all roads leading to it have been cratered by our heavies. The idea is that the Boche will repair those damaged stretches only just before the assault. Scout ’planes are flying low over them soon after dawn, watching the destroyed sections. So far they have not been made up.” Thank God, he thought, maintaining his air of quiet confidence.

  Chapter 5

  THE CAGE

  They dismounted at the Belvedere, a small ruin near the site of a château blown up by the Germans in the retreat to the Siegfried Stellung a year previously, and leaving a prospect of cultivated fields grey with a tinge of green, entered a communication trench. This position, known as The Aviary, lay on comparatively high ground. Two gentle slopes, hardly valleys, passed through it, descending east to the Forward Zone. The particular communicating trench lay beside another in which telephone cables, connecting various headquarters with Brigade and Division, had been buried six feet deep.

  Where the junction of many lines came together, star-points of chalk had, before the laying, been visible from the air. They had been photographed by high-flying German aircraft. The position was also under observation from tethered drachen balloons 8,000 metres distant, behind the Siegfried Stellung.

  They passed through The Aviary, and went on to the battalion redoubt, about a mile to eastward. Threading their way down a narrow passage of chalk, they found the two battalion Intelligence Officers awaiting them at a T-junction; thence to the dug-out of the C.O. of the Verderers. They were offered whiskey, but ‘Spectre’ refused.

  From the sketch-map which Phillip had memorized, the redoubt was oval, and about 300 yards across. It was a self-contained fort, with stores of water, food, and ammunition, in its four company keeps, to last for three days. Surrounded by many wire-entanglements, the Bird Cage was isolated from the redoubts on either flank by about 1,000 yards. Machine-gun cross-fire covered the intervening ground, some of the guns being hidden in masked pits fifteen feet deep in the chalk.

  This land, like that farther north which Phillip had seen during November, was scarcely marked by shell-fire. It was under cultivation by returned French peasants and had been planted with wheat during the previous October. Then, the downland had been cold and gr
ey with much rain; now it was almost countryside under the sun of the vernal equinox. The wheat-plants, small and spidery beyond the maze of trenches, were beginning to curl with the push of sap. Larks were singing in the sky, borne upon warm currents of air arising from chalk made whiter by the sun. The wheat was growing to the verge of the heaps still being thrown up by thousands of shovels; stalks of corn would eventually rise to the level of the horizontal spirals of barbed wire beyond parapet and parados, which gave to the plateau the name of Bird Cage.

  The spirit of Spring had arisen in the men digging along the trenches. Among the working parties many whistled, others were singing; helmets, gas-masks and tunics were laid aside. The party of officers moved past them, the two colonels leading, their adjutants following, after them the Intelligence officers. The tour went from keep to defensive zone, from machine-gun emplacement to aid-post and underground stores in the keeps, which were the company headquarters. The lines were sited so that enemy forces advancing in extended order would be seen in silhouette beyond the protecting wire belt.

  Leaving behind the Bird Cage, they passed down a communicating trench which zigzagged through the main defensive line, and came to the outpost line. This was held by posts, each widely separated from its neighbour, and consisting of six or seven men under an N.C.O.

  Phillip began to see the tactical pattern of defence in depth: first the outpost, or warning line: then the main defensive line: behind it the Bird Cage. A mile or so behind this was The Aviary, the main Battle Zone. In reserve behind the Battle Zone the Green Line, now being constructed by the inhabitants of the White City. Defence in depth: no more ‘thin red lines’.

  Standing in the deserted front trench, the adjutant of the Verderers told him that it was safe to look over what was left of the weed-grown parapet.

  “There’s a good view over the Hindenburg Line from here.”