The Long Week-End 1897-1919

by Wilfred R. Bion

  The second event followed almost immediately—voices in the distance, calling urgently, coming nearer, newsboys. I did not need to be told; I felt that the news was so old, so very old that I read it mechanically, with tired eyes. The banner headlines read ‘Great German Attack Opens’. I read on: Blah… blah… blah, said my mind. I could have made it up in my sleep. Daylight had caught up with my nightmares. ‘Dense fog…’ Quite. I suppose their troops, like ours, must have had luck… What? ‘… holding the enemy in our battle positions… Tincourt’. Our battle positions? There could be no doubting it. We were holding them in our battle positions— ‘Tincourt’ being the battle positions mentioned!

  I remembered the climax of a funny story about a man trapped in a blazing house who was urged to jump from the roof-top into a tarpaulin below. ‘And at last old Bill ‘e jumped. And we couldn’t ‘elp larfin’ because there weren’t no tarpaulin there!’ Well, I could help laughing; because there weren’t no battle positions there! The lying jades! The lying bloody twisters!

  “How’s the news dear?”, said my mother in her calm, matter-of-fact little tones. “Good?”

  I pretended to be absorbed in the news while I tried to think of a suitable lie. ‘… enemy’s overwhelming forces. They attacked in a strength of three troops to every one of ours’. Let me see now… When we were attacking we considered that the attack had no hope at all if it was not at least in a strength of three to every one defencer. Thick fog’—fatal to the attacking troops. Three to one’— barely margin enough for starting an attack. Who then was overwhelmed? And why?

  “Yes”, I said at last. “Pretty good they seem to think. Sounds all right.” I folded up the paper. “Lucky I am at the end of my leave or I would have had to be recalled.” I was due to return at six thirty from Waterloo Station the next morning. The lying bastards, I thought. If only the trenches had been marked out in red tape even the Germans might have been held up!

  We walked slowly along Green Park to our hotel. It was hopeless to pretend; my mother was no fool. It was simply a matter of compelling our face muscles to do their drill.

  By eight that evening I felt neither of us could stand any more. Pleading the excuse of an early morning and a long day I suggested we should go to bed. She agreed—like an automaton.

  As I entered my bedroom and closed the door I felt I had entered Hell. I have entered it since, not often, but too often. To others who have to do the same I can say: it’s not so bad if you stick it out. After the first three or four times it’s not so bad, but don’t do it till after twenty-one—nineteen is too early.

  The next morning when I saw my mother’s white powdered face I recognized misery. We did not talk; we had withdrawn. We said good-bye in the hotel and a taxi took me to Waterloo.

  ‘Everybody suddenly burst out singing’—I did not; not even after the war. Never, never again. I was not unhappy—indeed I often felt I was much happier than most. But no more singing; never.

  There was singing at Waterloo; alcoholic singing, but surprisingly little. The platforms were a mass of khaki—’recalled from leave’, ‘all leave cancelled’. We took whatever coaches were in front of us and in due course the train pulled out.

  No more cares, no more thinking; no worries and nothing to do but remain a parcel of BEF. until one reached one’s destination. Where was that? If you were a gunner, ‘Ubique’. ‘Quo fata vocant. Quo fas et gloria ducunt’. But what if you were a 2nd Lieutenant of Tanks with a DSO? Where the hell did one go from there?

  In fact it turned out to be Le Havre. I stuck it for three days. Then, following the example of other impatient souls, confident that in the chaos we should not be found out, we ‘deserted’ towards the Line. It was coming towards us anyhow.

  21

  THE technique of travel was simple—thumbing lifts. At the end of the first day I found myself at Etaples—where the communion service was said to be right behind the front line under gun-fire. Well, perhaps it was a bit exaggerated, but the news from the front seemed likely to make the lie approximate more closely to the truth by bringing the gun-fire up to the communion service.

  A gunner captain with whom I travelled for about twenty miles said, “I see the wicked Germans have been bombing one of our hospitals.” He pointed to a newspaper paragraph and winked heavily. “Clearly marked with the Red Cross too. I know the ruddy place—there are ammunition dumps for at least five miles along the railway. They’ve got the hospital right in the middle of it. No wonder they marked it clearly with a Red Cross. I nearly had kittens every hour I was there—wound in my leg; couldn’t run”, he explained.

  I had been directed to bed down at a small hospital just outside Etaples. It appeared to be a peaceful spot. I found a friendly RAMC doctor who showed me where I could lie up for the night and as it was a lovely afternoon I unpacked my safety razor to mark the spot as mine, and decided to stroll round and move on after a night’s rest.

  “How is it you are so slack?” I asked him. “I would have thought you would be chock-a-block with wounded.”

  “Efficiency, my lad. The moment this shemozzle started they sent all wounded that the Boche didn’t or couldn’t capture straight to England. Result—the first decent holiday we’ve had for years. We’ve got one poor devil in that hut over there, that’s all—he’s dying anyway.”

  I was worn out. I lay down under some pines and went to sleep. When I woke the sun was beginning to set. For a time I was aware of voices mingling with dozing dreams.

  “Aren’t I awful!” It was a girl’s voice. “You don’t think I’m awful do you?” The man muttered something. The girl spoke again. “It would happen on my half day—and me going out with you.”

  Again the man’s voice. “All right”, she replied, “you stay here; 1 won’t be long.”

  I felt, as I had felt my last night in England, that my nerve must have gone. I was petrified with fear at an ordinary lovers’ lane conversation such as one might hear any night in England. I could not make up my mind to move. Before I had made up my mind to stay she was back.

  “OK. He’s snuffed it.” The two walked off. Lucky he had died in time, but what on earth was the matter with me? Not shell-shock pray God. Not… ridiculous I

  The next morning I felt quite rested. Before going off I said goodbye to the RAMC man and thanked him for putting me up. He had found out that orders had come into the RTO’s office that all Tank Corps were to report at Le Treport, the Tank Corps Depot camp. I checked up with him to find out where it was.

  “I hear your officer patient died.”

  “Yes; he shouldn’t have, but he kept on starting up and trying to get out of bed. Thought the Boche were after him. Last time he was so terrified—he thought the nurse was trying to murder him—he leapt out of bed, ruptured his wound. Well, so long. Good luck. What? Oh yes, she’s a charmer.” He winked. “But you haven’t a chance old boy—half the thugs in the town are after her.”

  Le Treport was a magnificent camp, but I saw little of it. At HQI asked the Adjutant for news. “Blangy: I’ll give you a warrant, but I would get on anything on wheels if you can—the 5th Battalion are refitting there. So long—and good luck.” He saw the ribbon. “That’s very nice. Had it long? Congratulations—should get you anywhere—without a warrant!”

  A lorry was going out of camp. I jumped on next to the driver to get a lift to the rail-head. Then I found he was going to Blangy. Hardly believing my good luck I asked him to put me down at Battalion HQ when we got there. He had to concentrate on his driving, leaving me free with my thoughts.

  So; the officer had died of wounds—or was it shell-shock? Shell-shock was obviously complicated—from Quainton who, according to Clifford, was working his ticket, to the officer who did not bother about his wounds but thought that everyone from the Boche to his nurse was trying to murder him; all apparently had shell-shock. War was also complicated. My experience of it so far should have added up to something, but from it all I learnt nothing—presumably
because at nineteen I had become too set in my ways. Now I suspect that I was aware of a lack of discipline either of the kind that is a part of spontaneous maturation, or of that which depends on endless mechanical repetition such as military drill. This last I had seen when the Coldstream Guards took Gouzeancourt; I could therefore imagine a feat of arms which could not be conveyed by words however eloquent. For lack of any such training I had my childhood and schoolboy culture. It gave me something, but neither the discipline of repetitive command, nor the ‘heaven’ of middle class England, nor an exo-skeleton taking the place of a skeleton for an endo-skeletonous animal, can serve; still less in the domain of the mind.

  At last we arrived and I reported to HQ. To the voluble inquiries of the Colonel I made the appropriate conversational replies. I had, of course, had a good leave. No, I had not been besieged by bevies of admiring females. I quickly escaped to rejoin my company.

  My first impression was that the battalion had not altered. I had met O’Kelly and Fitzwilliam at HQ and here were the old Gang. Both adjutant and colonel had come to us before March, but the Adjutant I had met only when he told me I was to go on leave. Here were all the old familiar faces—Homfray, Clifford, Carter, Hauser, Cook. Aitches was a newcomer from A Company where he had been a section commander in the original battalion. He was likeable, but timid. As I know now, and suspected then, A Company would not have transferred him unless they wanted to get rid of him by kicking him upstairs. He was with us to be promoted.

  Broome, rosy and youthful as ever, had no horror stories. “It was pretty thick I can tell you”, was his contribution to the saga of March 21st.

  Where were the others?

  “What others? Oh yes, you met Cartwright and Robinson didn’t you?—I had forgotten. Bridges? We don’t really know, but Robinson was killed. In fact all the men in tanks were done in I think. Cartwright may have been captured after escaping from his tank.” That was as far as I went with Broome’s story.

  As I had missed all the fighting I was first choice to take a party with Lewis guns up to the front at once. It was the Adjutant himself who had come round to our mess to give me the message in person. Written orders were being typed out and would be sent round soon.

  He drew me into a corner out of hearing of anyone else. “Things are pretty damn serious I can tell you. We have no tanks and I’m certain the rest of us won’t be long after you. I’m sorry it is so soon after your leave. You are really the only officer…”

  I was furious. Why? I cannot have realized that I was supposed to fight. I was dominated by a romantic idea that my business was to be a hero, decorated, and to spend the rest of life basking in the warmth of approval. Fitzwilliam was guilty too; had I known it his apologies only showed that he also was an amateur soldier. I felt it was good of me to have ‘won’ the DSO—I think I must already have begun to believe this. I hope it didn’t show; fortunately the light in our corner was not good. I dredged up some commonsense from somewhere while he talked.

  “Of course you realize we are shot to bits—only senior non-tank crew officers left—we useless non-combatants. The Boche have torn another gap in our line; we have to help stop it. I’m expecting orders to come in any time. We are to ‘stand to’ for immediate movement to the Line—supposing there is one”.

  “Not like Cambrai?”

  “Oh God, worse, far worse. As far as I can make out it’s as bad as March 21st. Only this is to the Channel ports—if they get across the sea. No retreat and no surrender.”

  Ah, my cup of tea after all—heroism. But I knew it was not. This was not an agreeable option for ‘public school men of suitable character’. It sounded a simple, straightforward order like laying out kit, just so, for inspection; or ‘all officers must return salutes in a soldierly manner’ and not as if they were acknowledging a well-deserved tribute to their superior merits; or ‘the Guards Division will retake Gouzeancourt’.

  22

  I HAD not counted on getting back to the battalion to be hustled off straightway as if I had been having a nice time while they were fighting. Except for the ‘nice time’, which was my responsibility, this was no inaccurate summary.

  O’Toole was there, and Hayler; Gunner Allen was shut in, uncommanding. Of the rest, about a dozen, I knew one or two faces including a Corporal Smith, cheerful and stolid. To my great relief Hauser was added to the party thus giving me company and a second in command.

  After a deal of eager but curiously ineffectual bustle we loaded ourselves into two lorries. Our morale was not bad; it was not good. It was replaced by representations of morale remembered from earlier pre-Cambrai models. We jolted to a stop—Arras. Gunner Allen made a rare emergence to speak to me.

  ‘They say this place is honeycombed with passages and tunnels under the whole of Arras. Wouldn’t mind staying here for a bit.” He relapsed into silence. From what I had heard from O’Toole it was the communication, not the silence, which was remarkable.

  The pause was long enough to let the men get tea. Then Hauser and I clambered onto the seat next to the driver. Orders were to proceed to a point behind the Messines Ridge. The jolt, rattle and roar of the lorry would have made conversation difficult had we wished to talk. For my part I was glad to be left to my own thoughts.

  I was more relieved than I would have thought possible to have Hauser as my supporting officer. I had not lost my affection for Quainton, and I had friendly memories of the South African, Stokes. I was dis-illusioned by Quainton and dis-enchanted by the background from which we came. The rhythmical rise and fall of the cold brilliance of the Very lights pierced the velvety blackness. We were travelling parallel with, about five miles from, the Front Line. What the devil were we up to now? I felt ignorant in detail of my task, of my place in any larger design. We had no rifles; Hauser, O’Toole, Smith and I had revolvers; six Lewis guns were manned by four men each. I did not like Lewis guns; 1 thought them unreliable and unsuitable for any job we had to do inside or outside tanks. They sounded ‘tinny’ when they were firing. Our job?—to reinforce infantry. Training?—purely technical and applicable only to the machinery, guns, engines which we had to use. Of fighting we knew nothing and we were supposed to engage one of the world’s greatest professional armies. Could the nation possibly be in such dire straits that we twenty men could really be required to reinforce the Front? We were, had we known it, GHQ Reserve—no less.

  Foch had decided that in no circumstances were the reserves he had accumulated to be committed to the battle. He gambled on the line holding till the great enemy attacks of March and April had exhausted themselves. This we did not know. What I and thousands of others like me were to learn over the next few months was desolation, loneliness, defeat.

  Cook turned up the next time we left our lorries. “These trenches here are where Carter and I will be. They are advanced Company HQ. I’m OC Company. We shall call ourselves B Company. One mile in front is the Infantry Brigade; they are down to the strength of one company, spread out over a mile. You must spread out your six Lewis guns over that same mile. There are no supports so no support trenches—unless of course time lies heavy on your hands and you like to dig some.” He gave a cold, acid smile. “I don’t think time will lie heavy on your hands—we have been told the enemy has to break through at no matter what cost. There’s only you lot and this bunch of infantry between him and the sea thirty or forty miles behind. There are no orders for retreat because there is no retreat arranged. You hold on—unless of course you are dead. Any questions? Of course not—there aren’t any. Well, goodbye. Don’t forget—one mile, Divide 1760 yards by six Lewis guns.”

  I divided the party into six and we advanced in open order of sections; three infantry guides were there to show us the way. I said I would be with the third section from the right if wanted.

  Dawn broke about half an hour after we reached our position. I could see then that our trench lay at the corner of a hutted camp. It stank because it was full of dead horses. An infantry o
fficer told me the enemy trenches were fifty yards in front and that they liked infiltrating through the huts to throw a grenade or two into our line and then disappear. It did not happen while we were there, but his report cost us many an anxious hour; perhaps it was well for our vigilance.

  I posted the Lewis gun nearest me with a field of fire down a lane formed by the huts. Doing something physical was a great relief and I planned to walk the length of our mile to post the other five guns. As I was nearer the right flank I decided to work towards it first.

  I had not gone ten yards when I found the trench had been obliterated; nor could I see where the trench continued on the far side of the burst. I set out to crawl the gap but found I was at once observed and fired on by a machine-gun. I had already fallen so much under the influence of this eerie place that I felt relief at this evidence of a human being’s existence. Still, bullets are bullets and I didn’t want my brains spattering out of the back… I began to pull myself back by my toes. This led to another burst of fire. I did not want to stay there all day. I dared not try to get up and run for it. After some minutes I tried again; same result. If this chap gets annoyed, I thought, I shan’t be surprised if he takes more careful aim. I felt better when I buried my head into the mud.

  After what I thought was a decent interval I again began to pull myself out by my toes. This time the response was immediate, but it was aimed rifle fire—not machine-gun. This felt personal and intimate. Throwing caution away I scrambled back as fast as I could to the remnant of trench. I was pouring with sweat and trembling.

  It was queer. I had no idea where my marksman was, but for the first time, and only once again in the war, I felt engaged directly with a person who was trying to kill me personally. The fact that the encounter was entirely one sided gave it an added peculiarity of being animal—the hunted animal. I was having an unusual view of ‘sport’.