A Test to Destruction

by Henry Williamson

  Now it was happening in reverse, he thought, as he set out with Tabor, commanding the support company, to look around the ruins for extra strongpoint sites to be wired ready for use. Above the red-and-grey rubble undulations of Wytschaete was an outstanding mound upon the site of the church, which had been knocked down brick after brick, section of wall following arcading, coign, and corbel, by shell after shell until nothing but a debris of masonry and splintered wood remained to settle with the elements. Under the tumulus stood a large concrete shelter, with 4-foot-thick reinforced roof, which had apparently served as a German dressing station in 1917, said Tabor, who had had the entrances cleared, but not what had been found inside. The tremendous bombardments of June had choked the entrances into the original crypt, and what had served as a German dressing station was now an ossuary of bones and uniforms, decaying gas masks, bottles, surgical instruments, Red Cross armlets and other litter left by large carnivorous rats which, now that shells were falling again, ran squealing along their runs and into tunnels in the rubble.

  “What do you think, sir, shall I get the place prepared for my company keep?”

  “It would be another death trap, Tabor. The Alleyman’s sure to have it taped. Better to avoid it, don’t you think?”

  Tabor looked relieved. “I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning it out.”

  “You know,” said Phillip, as they went on, “these brick mounds will act as cushions to high explosive, and limit, to some extent, splinters. No, I don’t think that crypt will be a healthy place, Tabs, it will draw all the heavy stuff. Keep clear of it. Well, so long!”

  He left Tabor at his company headquarters, and refusing a drink, went on to visit Hedges of No. 2 company. They went down to look at the Peckham Switch line, which was being strengthened and wired in preparation for possible occupation by No. 2 company, when the two front-line companies would withdraw through them. It was a warm afternoon on the lower slopes of the Ridge, which were as yet in dead ground, otherwise not under observation by enemy gunners. Hedges was told about the situation, and given the battalion code word for withdrawal, SPARHAWK.

  Accompanied by O’Gorman, he went to visit the colonel of the Moonrakers, and hurrying back, called at the Hadrian headquarters; then back to the Saschenfeste, as the guns, which had been thudding and booming continuously to the south since morning, suddenly swelled to barrage intensity. This was followed by comparative silence. Had Hill 63 been taken? Confirmation was soon coming over the wire. Hill 63 was gone, the southern end of the Ridge was to be evacuated.

  Rapid fire of British batteries on the south-western slopes of the Ridge suggested that they were firing off their ammunition before pulling out.

  “Brigade-major on the wire, sir.”

  He sat on the floor by the D3-converted telephone box, and heard that Merville had fallen, that German patrols were pushing out into the Forest of Nieppe on the way to Hazebrouck. At once he sent a runner with a written message to Bill Kidd, warning him to prepare to withdraw into Wytschaete, to the position already prepared for, and known by, him.

  Heavy shocks of dumps being blown up on the plain of the Lys buffeted the air of the Saschenfeste, seeming to make momentarily solid the ear-drums, up to half a minute after tremors had been felt through the floor. At 5 p.m. he was told that the Brigadier was asking for him.

  “You should come back, as soon as the light goes, from the road along the crest,” the voice of ‘Spectre’ said through the itching of the wire. “Keep touch with the Moonrakers and Hadrians on your flanks. Have you been over the Peckham Switch?”

  “Yes, as far as Boegart Farm. All my company commanders have been warned, I’m about to send out the code word to withdraw to their prepared positions.”

  “Where is Bill Kidd?”

  “He’s forward of the left-wing company, Whitfield’s, which is east of the main road, sir. Kidd is in the Staenyzer Kabaret, with those two Vickers guns. Oh, blast, I’ve forgotten all about them.”

  “Is he on the wire?”

  “He was, but the line’s been dud, I’m told, for the past two hours.”

  “Try again, and put me through.”

  The signals corporal tried again. “No reply, sir.”

  Phillip told ‘Spectre’, adding, “I’ll go up myself and see him, sir, and let you know at once.”

  With a sergeant and two runners and his personal orderly, O’Gorman, Phillip went along one of the many worn and winding footpaths through the brick-and-mortar mounds to the eastern end of the village, past the square, with its miasmic bone-yard under the church; and crossing the road at the eastern end of the village—the Ridge road—distinguishable by patches of cobble and broken rusty lines of the steam tram, continued on down the Oostaverne road to the Kabaret. No claquement of bullet came their way across the wastes of No-man’s-land, suggesting that Kidd’s occupation of the pill-box was well-known, and he was to be scuppered at the right time.

  “Bill, we’ve got to get back to the Peckham Switch. Hill 63’s gone, so is Messines.”

  “All the more reason for staying here, old boy! An Englishman’s home is his castle, you know. Besides, has it occurred to you that this place gives observation on Messines? So forget your Sparhawk tripe, old boy. Have a spot of old man whiskey.”

  “The order has come from ‘Spectre’. We’re holding on to Wytschaete at all costs, but hinging back from the church to Boegart Farm.”

  “We’re also holding on to the Staenyzer Kabaret, old boy.”

  “The Alleyman is in Merville, and making for Hazebrouck.”

  “As I said, old boy, all the more reason for stopping here. What about Haig’s ‘Backs to the Wall’ message? You sent me a copy last night, surely you read it first?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Well, it’s our backs to this wall, as far as Bill Kidd is concerned. Read your copy of Infantry Training Manual, if you’ve ever heard of it, old boy, and you’ll learn that the bloke on the spot often knows a damn sight more than any Staff wallah miles away out of it. After all, Staff wallahs can only act on what reports are sent back to them, then they cough back more or less the same ideas.”

  Phillip forced himself to treat Kidd’s remarks in the manner of Jimmy O’Toole dealing with Moggers.

  “Do tell me what is your idea, Bill.”

  “I’ve told you! Bill Kidd’s boys are here and here they stay!”

  “But aren’t they my boys too, Bill?”

  “Oh, dry up!”

  “They’re Tabor’s boys too, Bill. What is more, Tabs has asked me if he can have them back.”

  “You give me the guts ache, old boy.”

  “There’s another thing, Bill. I sent you a message to return these Vickers guns last night.”

  “They’re more use where they are now. I’ve had this pillbox wired, a hundred yards away on three sides. Any Boche coming over will get it in the neck. Enfilade fire, old boy, pop-pop-pop, all the old ninepin stuff they gave us on the Somme, now about to be returned, with interest!”

  “I have to tell you officially that the line is ordered to swing back. You are now five hundred yards east of the new line.”

  “I’ve got deaf ears, old boy, like Nelson’s grandmother. Have a spot of Haig and Haig, old boy, and stop nagging! You’re worse than a bloody old woman. Your hand’s shaking, what you been doing, wanking yourself in the Saschenfeste?”

  “Perhaps you speak from experience?”

  “I gave it up, old boy, when I lost my potato-water!”

  “Oh, damn all this kid’s talk, Bill. You’ve got to come back.”

  “I won’t!”

  “But we need you for further entertainment. You’re our morale raiser, now that the Alleyman is so persistent.”

  “Boche, old boy, Boche! Alleyman went out with jam-tin bombs, Lee-Enfield long rifles, crypts of German churches at Sydenham filled with machine-guns, hard tennis courts made before the war to take 17-inch Krupps hows to bombard London from Guildford, Asquith having sh
ares in Krupps, and all that milksop ‘Sapper’s’ stuff. No use for Alleyman, old boy! I’m a Boche eater.”

  “This pill-box will be crumped to hell, you know.”

  “Then we’ll find better ’oles outside, old boy! It’s no good naggin’ at Bill Kidd, I told you. Bill Kidd’s a Boche eater!”

  “The horse steaks you brought up are good enough for me!”

  “I got up the shackles, old boy, and if it had been left to you, we’d have had damn all! Now look, I’m fed up with all this yap! Bill Kidd’s busy, so buzz off, like a good little man.” He glared at Phillip. “So you need me for further entertainment, do you? Who d’you think I am, Harry Tate? Right, old boy, here’s some further entertainment! Let me tell you this! Bill Kidd was born in the county! He belongs to Gaultshire, see? I don’t need to supply myself with a bogus address of so-called next of kin! You lie like a dead mule, my Mad Son! Now hop it, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got a job on.” He sloshed whiskey into a mug, and drank.

  “So have we all, Bill. I think you’d better come back. It’s an order.”

  “You can stuff it, old boy, where the monkey put the nuts! This is the only order I recognise!” He held up his cyclostyled copy of the Field-Marshal’s Special Order of the Day.

  “Don’t get sozzled, Bill.”

  “Piss off!”

  *

  It was growing dark by 8 p.m., the time ordered for the withdrawal to the Peckham Switch. Phillip had seen both colonels of the flanking battalions; he had arranged with Tabor and Dawes the times of bringing in their company outposts, and filing back through the companies occupying the new trenches, and so into support. All papers in the Saschenfeste had been burned, but the wires to Brigade were not yet cut. Signallers waited to do this, to carry away their D-3 converted boxes and power buzzers.

  At 8.15 p.m. the Germans put down a barrage extending from the Menin road east of Ypres to the Canal, thence south along the Damstrasse to the Wytschaete-Wulverghem road. Obviously they had anticipated the intended withdrawal, but not the time. After the high explosive and shrapnel there was a pause. By this time the forward companies, except two platoons virtually held prisoner by Major Kidd, had withdrawn to the new line. Soon after 8.40 p.m. gas shells began to fall with soft down-spinning sighs into the low rubble undulations of Wytschaete. Phillip was then on his way back to the Saschenfeste. From the low ground to the south, across wastes of decayed life that was the battlefield there arose the most melancholy, the most desolate noise of the ruined nights of the war, the rising and falling howls of Strombos horns.

  Wearing his respirator, he arrived sweating hot at the Saxon fort, and pushing aside the heavy gas-blanket, sat down on an ammunition box and pulled off the rubber mask. About him were men with greenish faces, for the only light within the shelter came from two dips of rifle-cleaning flannel in tins of whale oil, burning fitfully and casting shadows on the walls of cold sweating concrete. The air within was acrid with smoke of ration-box wood, for an attempt had been made to light the stove after a hock bottle on several joined pull-through cords had been hauled up and down the rusted chimney pipe. At least resinous smoke overlaid the smell of sweat and unwashed bodies.

  Wooden frames had been made for chicken-wire beds; from somewhere O’Gorman had scrounged a round table-top, and fixed it to biscuit boxes.

  “Let the Brigade-major know that the withdrawal is complete, and tell him that we have left an advanced strong-point in the Staenyzer Kabaret, with two Vickers and protecting parties in shell-holes with Lewis guns and rifle grenades on its flanks. If he wants to know why, I’ll speak to him.”

  “Very good, sir.” Then, “Brigadier on the wire, sir.”

  Phillip told ‘Spectre’ that Bill Kidd was repeating his stunt of going forward to the wire in front of the Bois de Gurlu, when he had caught the Germans in enfilade and broken up the attack there. ‘Spectre’ listened, then he said, “Come down and see me as soon as you are clear of the Saschenfeste.”

  The new advanced headquarters of the battalion were to be behind Boegart Farm.

  This conversation with ‘Spectre’ had, of necessity, been overheard by the headquarters staff. As he put down the instrument, Phillip saw R.S.M. Adams look at Naylor, with a half-suppressed appeal. They know I’m going to be stellenbosched, he thought, before saying aloud, “I think I’ll lie down for a spell.” Would they think that he was saying that, before going sick? He felt cold and thin. After a couple of minutes unrest upon a wire bunk he got up, and taking the hoe-handle, which was by now a mental protection against disaster, he said, “You know what to do, Naylor? Destroy everything here before going down to Boegart Farm. Report to Brigade as soon as you arrive, and confirm telephonic communication with the companies. And don’t forget the flanking battalions.”

  “Very good, sir? We’ll see you at Boegart, later?”

  “Oh yes, indeed! I shall be back within the hour.” R.S.M. Adams looked as though he wanted to say something, but again resisted the impulse. Phillip went out, with O’Gorman.

  All wires having been cut and then dragged about, and the telephone removed by the signallers, a couple of Mills grenades were thrown into the opening of the Saschenfeste, to set off loose phosphorus bombs left lying on the floor and so to explode what ammunition boxes had not been carried away.

  It was then that the R.S.M. spoke. “Sir,” he said to Mr. Naylor, “there are times when silence is not golden. Permission to speak, sir.”

  “Yes, Mr. Adams?”

  “Sir, I don’t like seeing anyone so good-natured as the Colonel being put upon, sir. With your permission, sir, I’ll go up now and bring back the men in front of the Kabaret outpost to the Peckham Switch. That’s the Colonel’s orders, sir, direct from the Brigadier, sir.”

  “Yes, Mr. Adams, I agree.”

  “I’ll go at the double, sir.”

  *

  Phillip heard the muffled explosions in the Saschenfeste as he hurried down the Vierstraat road. Byron Farm was now Brigade advanced H.Q. ‘Spectre’ came out of the sand-bagged shelter when the sentry announced the visitor. ‘Spectre’ and Phillip were standing in the open when salvoes of gas-shells began to flop down. “We’d better get inside, Phillip——” the Brigadier was saying when there was a loud swoosh, followed by a snapping noise as a yellow-cross canister struck ‘Spectre’ on one of his legs and its contents splashed over the face of Phillip with what seemed to him to be an enveloping rush of crimson.

  *

  Unknown to himself, Major Kidd was alone in Kidd’s Castle as he smoked gaspers furiously by the light of a solitary candle. His mouth was feeling, as he told himself in the current phrase, like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. He was reading a cyclostyled foolscap sheet.

  SPECIAL ORDER OF THE DAY

  TO ALL RANKS OF THE BRITISH ARMY IN FRANCE

  AND FLANDERS

  Three weeks ago today the enemy began his terrific attacks against us on a fifty-mile front. His objects are to separate us from the French, to take the Channel Ports and destroy the British Army.

  “Stale news, old boy,” he said to an imaginary audience of Bill Kidd’s face imposed on that of Sir Douglas Haig. He spat out a wet fag-end, caught it expertly, and lit another from it.

  In spite of throwing already 106 Divisions into battle and enduring the most reckless sacrifice of human life, he has made as yet little progress towards his goals.

  “Throwing the ball towards a goal is neither cricket nor football. Won’t do, old boy. Must put that straight for the lads.” He poured out more whiskey, and after rumination upon nothing added another stub to the pile cremating itself beside the candle.

  We owe this to the determined fighting and self-sacrifice of our troops. Words fail me to express the admiration which I feel for the splendid resistance offered by all ranks of our Army under the most trying circumstances.

  “No good, old boy. If words fail you, then get someone to do the job properly. Bill Kidd, forward please! Yours in humble duty, Sah!
” as in imagination he saluted the Field Marshal about to pin a Victoria Cross, with bar, upon Bill Kidd’s tunic.

  Many of us are now tired. To those I would say that Victory will belong to the side which holds out the longest. The French Army is moving rapidly and in great force to our support.

  “We’ve heard that one before, old boy, about the Froggies!”

  There is no other course open to us but to fight it out. Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement.

  “That’s the stuff to give ’em!” The glass bottle-neck of Haig & Haig rattled yet once again on the rim of the tooth-mug.

  With our backs to the wall and believing in the justice of our cause each one of us must fight on to the end. The safety of our homes and the Freedom of mankind alike depend on the conduct of each one of us at this critical moment.

  D. Haig,

  F.M.,

  Commander-in-Chief,

  British Armies in France.

  General Headquarters,

  Thursday, April 11th, 1918.

  “Not quite right, old boy. Permit Bill Kidd to show you.”

  After an hour or so, the following was written in Major Kidd’s Field Message book.

  LATE NIGHT EXTRA!

  To All Ranks,

  KIDD’S FORCE

  re SPECIAL ORDER FROM SIR D. HAIG

  (1) This sector will be held, and all ranks will remain here until relieved.

  (2) The enemy cannot be allowed to interfere with this programme.