It was a cold night, stained by the glow of flares far behind them, and the pink mists of fires. The battalion was now made up of remnants of seven or eight different units. They suffered from thirst, and chewed slices of mangolds. Rumours came from nowhere: there was to be an armistice: Haig had shot himself: the French Government had fallen.
Weary challenges were called out in the darkness, to be met with enquiries. “Are you the Seaforths? Have you seen the Second South Africans? I’m looking for the Leicesters, sir. Can you tell me …?” Sussex, Herts, Northumberland Fusiliers—soon the whiskey bottle was empty.
“It’s my idea there’s a spy about,” said one elderly lieutenant, who wandered in, wearing pince-nez spectacles. “He asked me who I was, and when I told him Tunnelling company, he said ‘Please me by doing an allez, you base wallah’, in a gutteral voice.”
“Sounds to me like the one and only Bill Kidd, mein prächtige kerl! Had he a swashbuckling manner, and a hoarse, whiskey voice?”
“You speak German?”
“About six words.”
“Who are you?”
“Fred Karno’s Boy Scouts. D’you mind not shining that torch in my eyes?”
“Where d’you come from? What are those men doing in German uniform, anyway?”
“Oh, let me introduce you to our mascots, Sauer and Kraut!”
“I’m not satisfied! You’ve got a German pistol!”
At this point Bill Kidd came up and said in a cockney voice, “Cut out the paraffle, old boy, and bring up some more ammo. We want it!” He spun a Mill’s bomb in one hand, like a googly bowler practising with a cricket ball before beginning an over.
“I was only asking.”
“And I’m giving you an order!”
When the darkness thinned shells began to fall. Then came the fog-muffled popple of a German machine-gun, slow and deliberate. Some time later, by the louder noises on the left it appeared that the Germans were advancing. Orders came to remain where they were and make a stand. They yawned and dozed. The water-party came back from a village (ruined) a mile behind them with no water in the petrol-cans.
When the fog thinned they saw they were on a long slope ending to the west in a grassy fringe which was the beginning of the 1916 battlefield. To left and right small groups of khaki figures were moving up the slope.
The order came to withdraw: the entire northern wing of the Fifth Army was by then overlooked by the enemy on a hill near Peronne. This meant accurate shelling and destruction of all positions; so back once again. They came to a railway, and crossing over took cover at the edge of a burnt-out wood, with one year’s new undergrowth pushing through tangles of rusty wire. Phillip sent a runner to ‘Spectre’, to say they were in position, ‘in Railway Wood’. Two hours later the runner returned with an order to remain there and hold on ‘at all costs’.
*
On Palm Sunday morning the London terminal stations of Waterloo and Victoria were thronged with khaki figures. Some were accompanied by women of all conditions and ages—mothers, sweethearts, concubines, sisters, and—rising to the occasion—more than one prostitute hopeful of enduring love. The faces of the women revealed every kind of expression; all shared one emotion. A few showed forced cheerfulness; others, with set faces, pretended to be calm—well-dressed women, these. All were staring beyond the moment, bracing themselves for the coming moment of farewell, determined not to let down their men—many of these from the middling suburbs. The majority, ill-fed, permanently anxious since childhood, had the strained white faces of respectable working class women. A few showed tear stains, as, irregular in breathing, they felt the shadow of death upon the parting.
The parting came sooner than expected. No civilians allowed past the barriers to the platforms! Military police barred the way. Little cries were stifled behind strained faces which assumed a mask of courage, even of gaiety, here and there; but among the less inhibited women of the soldiery there was sobbing unrestrained, with little attempt to put on a brave face. They stood with children in arms wailing, as pressure increased before the gates of wood and iron, guarded by elderly porters and young women, wearing red ties, all trouser’d, cap’d, and tunic’d, beside old ticket collectors with long coats and more formal stiff hats. The screech of boilers at pressure arose under the black-painted glass roof, where a few pigeons and sparrows were flying, plumage dulled by soot and smoke. Goodbye, goodbye! Clear the gates! Make way!
Hour after hour, morning, noon, and night, the troop trains left for Dover and Folkestone; while, on the other side of the station, hospital trains began to glide in with their quiet loads of wounded. No reporters came to ask questions.
*
That night General Pétain arrived at Advanced Headquarters in the Château at Dury to see Sir Douglas Haig. The British Field-Marshal explained the situation. The British Third Army under General Byng was confident of holding on to the First Army near Arras with his left, while his right was yielding ground in an orderly manner to conform with the Fifth Army withdrawal. Nine fresh Divisions were on their way from the North. With these he hoped to strike a blow southwards if the Germans penetrated to the region of Amiens. Meanwhile the outcome of the present situation depended on what the French would do in the Fifth Army Area south of the Somme.
*
The German advance appeared to have gone past Railway Wood on the left flank, while the attack in front had been repulsed. The question was, What to do—go back or stay where they were? Leaving Bill Kidd in command, Phillip, having cut himself a thumb-stick, and accompanied by an Irish orderly to whom he had taken a fancy, set off along the railway track, which curved around the edge of the wood, eventually to cross a road. They went on up the road, which rose before them, hoping soon to be able to look around. Phillip saw what looked like a platoon retiring from the line three hundred yards away, and hurrying after them, ordered the subaltern in command to turn about and report to Major Kidd in the wood. Then going on up the road, suddenly from a ditch beside a haystack Germans jumped up, one firing at him from a few feet away. The report rang in his ears, the flash knocked him over, and he found himself lying on the road impersonally curious as to whether or not he was dying, so strange was the feeling. Then he knew when he was helped to his feet what had happened: for the cloth around the left breast pocket of his trench coat was hardened as though scorched, the bullet must have passed under his arm as he started at the sudden appearance of the Germans. In relief at being alive, with O’Gorman his runner, he exclaimed, “Ha, mein prächtige kerl, ist mittagessen fertig, bitte?” which was about all the words he had learned from his German nurse of long ago.
This drew laughter, and a question in English, “Eggs and bacon and orange marmalade, with tea or coffee, which is it, Herr Hauptmann? First may I say what you are from, what regiment I mean?”
“From a Composition battalion, Herr Offizier. All kinds—Jocks, Irish, Midlanders, North Country—the Plum and Apple Jam battalion, the men call it.”
This brought more laughter, as a tin of Plum and Apple jam was held up, one among several pork-and-bean tins which the German squad had been eating under cover of the haystack. “Much bean, no pork! Hunt the Slipper, yes, you may find it in one of your games, but find the pork, where is it?”
“It’s one of the mysteries of the war, Herr Offizier! Have you tried our Plum and Apple jam?”
“Ja! It is goot, yes?”
“For the first year, but after that——” More laughter. He began to feel light-headed and hoped they would not notice that he was trembling.
An officer came down the road on a horse; they jumped to attention. A few sharp words—Phillip thought he must be a staff officer by the way the young German leutnant, who wore the silver-black riband of the Iron Cross in his second button-hole had stiffened himself to attention while being spoken to.
The morning passed timelessly for Phillip, as he watched the preparations for an attack. Companies appeared, all the men wearing light grey puttee
s (he thought that they must be short of leather in Germany, no more knee-high boots). Many carried light machine-guns as they loped along the road, perfectly grouped in sections. At a certain moment they deployed, no orders were apparently given. The line advanced and lay down, another followed and also lay down; then teams of mules appeared—captured British donks by the look of them—hauling light trench mortars and heavy machine-guns on sleds, and boxes of ammunition also on sleds. Meanwhile Fokkers were flying overhead, circling as though awaiting the signal to advance. Ahead of the first line patrols were going forward in staggered groups. At a certain moment they extended also in staggered line, while the aircraft turned west, flying low, apparently to bomb and machine-gun the British line of defence. The German artillery had been firing for several minutes before this happened, gun shells screeching overhead and the heavier big stuff moaning up into the sky. White lights burned low above the horizon, the artillery ceased, and with the increased hammering of machine gun and rifle fire he suddenly felt depressed and miserable. To end the war like this—perhaps never again to see Westy, and all because he had been unable to delegate, because he must do everything himself and behave like a Lone Scout, instead of a real Commanding Officer …
*
General Humbert had already arrived at Fifth Army Headquarters at Villers Bretonneux, near Amiens.
I said (wrote Gough) I was very glad to see him come to support the line, and eventually take it over as previously arranged, and my men were struggling against terrific odds. He replied, however, ‘Mais je n’ai que mon fanion’, referring to the small flag on his motor-car. This was not exactly the amount of support that the moment seemed to require.
One French Corps Staff arrived with a few candles for a dozen Staff Officers simultaneously to study maps and write orders. Verily we all had to improvise much.
Only two of the promised French divisions arrived, and without artillery. The infantry of one of these two divisions, after 15 hours in lorries and a 20-mile march, had only 80 rounds per man.
It was after midnight when the Field-Marshal wrote in his diary
Pétain struck me as very much upset, almost unbalanced and most anxious. I asked him to concentrate as large a force as possible about Amiens astride the Somme to co-operate with my right. He said he expected any moment to be attacked in Champagne and he did not believe that the main German blow had yet been delivered.
He said he would give Fayolle all his available troops. He also told me that he had seen the latter today at Montdidier where the French reserves are now collecting and had directed him (Fayolle) in the event of the German advance being pressed still further, to fall back south-westwards towards Beauvais in order to cover Paris.
It was at once clear to me that the effect of this order must be to separate the French from the British right flank, and so allow the enemy to penetrate between the two Armies.
I at once asked Pétain if he meant to abandon my right flank. He nodded assent and added, ‘It is the only thing possible, if the enemy compel the Allies to fall back, still further’.
From my talk with Pétain I gathered that he had recently attended a Cabinet Meeting in Paris and that his orders from his Government are to ‘Cover Paris at all costs’. On the other hand, to keep in touch with the British Army is no longer the basic principle of French strategy. In my opinion, our Army’s existence in France depends on keeping the British and French Armies united. So I hurried back to my Headquarters at Beaurepaire Château to report the serious change in French strategy to the C.I.G.S. and Secretary of State for War, and ask them to come to France.
After more than a hundred hours without sleep, Bill Kidd, now in command, felt himself to be separated from his body, a wonderful feeling. He seemed to be floating at times; only his legs kept him down. After all-day firing from the Railway Salient he had withdrawn under the direct fire from advancing Germans into an undulating area of old shell-holes tangled with sere grasses and rusty barbed-wire. His men needed to rest for half an hour every mile of retreating westwards under cover of darkness; he never rested himself. Almost savagely he drove himself to be better than his ‘real self’, as seen through the eyes of others in the old days—when in a uniform of gold and silver ric-rac sewn all over a long-skirted ex-coachman’s coat, and wearing an ex-bandmaster’s peaked cap made splendid in the eyes of small boys by additions of more gold braid, Mr. Kidd had stood outside one of the lesser picture palaces of North London, chanting such names as Bill Hart, Theda Bara, Nazimova, Sessue Hayakawa, Charlie Chaplin and other heroes and heroines of the flicks.
With not always concealed scorn Bill Kidd made comments to his men on ‘Posh Percy’, the men’s nickname for the Divisional Commander, General O’Toole—whom Bill Kidd suspected of being bogus, like himself.
Plain eyeglass screwed into socket holding glass eye, shaven, wearing slacks with polished light brown shoes, sometimes the dapper figure of Jimmy O’Toole appeared out of nowhere while long-range bullets passed tiredly overhead. Sometimes he offered cigarettes from a gold case to regimental officers; but red-tabs were, as before, of another world—of eggs-and-bacon with coffee for breakfast, and a bed to sleep in every night.
When strafing Fokkers appeared Bill Kidd cursed loudly the absent ‘Flying Corpse’, not knowing that all scouts were patrolling east to bomb and rake a feld-grau road congestion, the counterpart of their own.
Smoke of dumps rose up by day; fires stained with pale rose the nights of endless lunar light veiled in mist until the coming of day revealed the column slouching onwards, to reach the ultimate stand upon the old front line of early 1916.
Bill Kidd could not rest; he had to see to everything. His life in daylight was a series of right angles that crumbled along a base and then down one side, as first they strung out from the road to fire from hasty positions at oncoming distant figures which disappeared, giving them time to scramble back to another temporary position until the cold red ball of the sun went down, when, with backs to the enemy, they trailed to the road, to limp away west, under the chiarascuro of the moon, with half an hour’s rest for every mile covered, with always the blond stain to their left front, the silent remote rising of lights which marked the deep German penetrations down south towards Amiens.
“Come on, you crab wallahs, do an allez!” Many had to be kicked awake, goaded to their feet.
Monday, March 25 Lawrence left me (wrote Sir Douglas Haig) to telegraph to Wilson (C.I.G.S. London) requesting him and Lord Milner to come to France at once in order to arrange that General Foch or some other determined General who would fight, should be given supreme control of the operations in France. I knew … that he was a man of great courage and decision as shown during the fighting at Ypres in October and November, 1914. General Wilson, C.I.G.S., arrived about 11 a.m. from London. I gave him my views in the presence of my C.G.S., General Lawrence. Briefly, everything depends on whether the French can and will support us at once with 20 Divisions of good quality, north of the Somme. A far-reaching decision must be taken at once by the French P.M. so that the whole of the French Divisions may be so disposed as to be able to take turns in supporting the British front as we are now confronting the weight of the German Army single-handed.
Phillip and his runner had been left in the charge of two soldaten, one of whom had a pistol, which he kept pointed in their direction as they sat on the ground. The other soldier had his rifle and bayonet. The attack appeared to have gone forward; other prisoners appeared, with more guards, until several hundreds were gathered there, apparently a collecting post. All had the buttons cut off their trousers, after equipment had been shed. They were kept, without food, until the moon arose, then they were marched up the road, coming to a village with the name Maurepas on a white board visible in the moonlight, and British traffic boards with arrows pointing the way to Bapaume, Peronne, and Albert.
Towards the end of the night British shells began to drone down. 9.2 inch, shells burst in the ruins and hutments, and at onc
e Phillip said to O’Gorman, “It looks as though our guns are pulling out, first popping off all their shells.” Just as he spoke a salvo fell about them, the guards flung themselves down with most of the prisoners, who kept down as more shells womped into the road.
“Now’s our chance, follow me,” said Phillip, as he slithered down the ditch on hands and knees, followed by O’Gorman. Then creeping round a half standing wall they got up and ran away, to fling themselves into an old grassy shell-hole. The going was difficult, and hot with sweat they made for the road. There they took off their helmets, and taking direction from the dimming moon, made for lower ground, in what Phillip thought was the direction of the wood.
A fire was burning in the village behind them; they kept their backs to it, and walking on, sometimes falling over old twists of wire, came after about a mile to the railway, where they stopped and sat down, seeing the glaze of the last light-balls growing pale in the west. The battalion had either been cut off and annihilated or got away and was now somewhere beyond the line of lights wavering on the horizon. It was dangerous to expose themselves so they lay in a shell-hole and went to sleep, to awake into full daylight.
“We’ll have to stay here, O’Gorman, until it’s dark.”
“Very good, sorr.”
But Phillip was not content to lie still; he must explore. Crawling from old shell-hole to hole through wet draggling weeds and grasses, he stood up after a while, and seeing a dead soldier went to look at the body, its face a brick red from bullets through throat and chest. Farther on were two more British dead, lying as though they had been running when shot. Turning over the bodies to get at the haversacks for food he saw where the line of a machine-gun burst had caught them below the shoulders. Going on, he came across the shattered wooden handle of a stick-bomb, with its white bead still on the string which had pulled the detonator. There, around a crater, lay other bodies, and a Lewis gun tilted off its pronged rest.
A Test to Destruction Page 13