The Long Week-End 1897-1919

by Wilfred R. Bion

  The infantry did not leave their trenches. Terrified at what would happen to the tanks without infantry support to keep enemy gunners immobilized—a very slender hope at the best of times—I doubled back to the trench, tumbled in and begged the first officer I could find to open immediate fire. Nothing except the advance of the infantry could have saved us, that I knew, but if their machine-guns opened up… They couldn’t; they were ready to advance. They did not fire and they did not advance.

  Hauser, who had gone into action sitting on the back of one of the two tanks under his immediate command, had also run back to see what had happened. It was uncanny; nothing had happened—that’s what had happened. But he was unmistakably terrified; we both were—and both perfectly safe in the trench. The troops might have been sleep-walking.

  We looked at the tanks; they had nothing wrong with them. They were quietly purring their way forward and were already too far away to catch up with them even if we had wanted to do so. As there was no method of communication, wireless or otherwise, we could only stand and watch, the Colonel almost demented, Hauser and I ghost-ridden.

  The tanks rolled up a gentle grassy slope. There was a soft muffled explosion. Robertson’s tank opened as a flower in a nature film might unfold. Another thud; then two, almost simultaneous, followed. The whole four had flowered. Hard, bright flames, as if cut out of tinfoil, flickered and died, extinguished by the bright sun. One tank, crewless, went on to claw at the back of one in front as if preparatory to love-making; then stopped as if exhausted.

  We stared, fascinated. Then we went to the Colonel, saluted and asked formally for permission to withdraw. He was in no fit state to know what we were talking about, but he nodded agreement. Two of his men gaped at us open-mouthed.

  We never heard of that infantry battalion or that division again. Perhaps they had had long experience of the qualities of their General and his staff.

  Like a boy learning a task set for detention I repeated mentally, “I must remember these four officers and all their men are dead.” 1 do not remember the slightest suspicion of mourning or regret. It was as if my only concern was to avoid a social blunder by speaking as if I were not aware that ‘their name liveth for evermore’. Greene, Robertson and… who were those two poor sods from C Company? Or was it A Company? I’m damned if I knew.

  Aitches was silly and made me feel he was on the verge of giggling. Cook was tight-lipped, his eyes bright and hard. “Right. Give me a written report—now. And make it snappy. And short.”

  Hauser, Carter, Cook, Aitches and I—it suddenly seemed as if we had an enormous number of officers. There was Asser too of course. That would be more still unless something had happened to him.

  It was only about 11.30. Time for another battle before lunch, especially if we ‘made it snappy’ like the last one.

  “I’ll see if I can find out what’s happened to Asser”, said Cook.

  I volunteered to keep to the French zone while Cook kept to the border between the two.

  “I thought I told you to write me a report.” Cook’s tone was icy.

  God damn your bloody eyes, I thought. But I kept my mouth shut.

  36

  I WROTE the report. Hauser read it. How could one spin it out enough to make it short? From that day to this I have had no other experience which was so utterly devoid of mystery yet totally incomprehensible. Troops can mutiny; these merely failed to leave the trench. Staff can be hesitant; this divisional staff was adamant. Generals can be stupid; this one impressed my hidden reserves of intelligence. There were night attacks, dawn attacks, feint attacks; but not a 10.30 attack—surely not 10.30?

  What happened after I had no idea. If I had sat for an examination in which I was called upon to read the account and the complete the story I could not have done it.

  Greene was dead; I did not like Greene. He was too ruthless, to pushing, out for himself too much and too often. Should I say this in my letter of condolence to his mother? ‘Fine officer… a great loss to all his comrades… his Colonel remarked to me the other day that he would go far…’ So he would have, but someone had put a stop to all that.

  Robertson? Such a nice fellow, quiet, modest, reserved…

  Cook was back and drew me aside. “We found a bullet through his heart.” I stared at him; he looked serious. I nearly said “Liar!”—what I meant was “Don’t be a melodramatic ass!” What I said was “Oh”. Then I burst into tears, wiped them off my face. “Sorry”, I said, “I’m tired.” Cook looked at me curiously. I hoped he wasn’t going to suggest I had ‘shell-shock’.

  “I’d better go and write to the relatives”, I said quickly and cleared off.

  With some wads of paper, ammunition box for a table and petrol can for a chair I started off at a great pace. ‘Always cheerful and a perpetual source of…’ of what?

  I suddenly remembered Sweeting. I had not written—of course I had not promised to. “Sir, you will write to my mother won’t you?” I wiped the sweat off his brow with my sleeve. “Mother, Mother, Mother…” His mind was wandering, thank God.

  And to whom am I supposed to be writing? Must be rather a nice woman, I thought. Yes, but suppose she was that fat old trollope who had turned her angry eyes on my moonface and said, “What the bloody hell!” that day in Woburn Place, years and years ago…

  “Finished?” It was Cook again. “Good God, what have you been up to?” I told him I wouldn’t be long and scribbled furiously.

  ‘Hero and strumpet voluntary—One of the best’ (Mother, Mother, Mother) ‘Always could be relied upon’ (Mother, Mother, Mother) ‘We shall miss him’. Chorus: (all letters) ‘Luckily he died instantly and could not have experienced pain.’

  Fortunately someone on the staff, foreseeing the danger that a tank commander would surrender his tank to the enemy—”You know what these tank commanders are”—had provided that each tank carried a charge of high explosive. That explained that fascinating opening of the tanks like blossoms greeting the sun.

  ‘Dear Madam, I am sorry I have not been able to write to you before about the death of your son. He was a good lad and you must have been a very good mother to him. I was with him at the end when he knew he was dying. You were the person who was in his mind in those last hours and it was your name that was on his lips. I hope you will feel proud that he loved you so much. I am, dear Madam, his officer that day.

  Cook heard a rumour; the battalion was to be withdrawn from the line. It seemed likely to be true of B Company since half a dozen officers and no men did not at once suggest itself as obviously useful. The next day the news became official. We could not rejoice but we were relieved. I supposed it would mean withdrawal for some days, perhaps even a week or so, to one of the villages near Regimental Workshops. Packing up was always a dismal business for me but this time I had to pack up the effects of officers from whom I did not wish to be parted. Even Greene’s death was difficult to tolerate; he had at least been reliable and tough.

  The Colonel was reputed to be the only officer sad to go. He was accused of having worked very hard to win a DSO by offering our tanks as ready for action however few remained and however worn. If so, he should have been offered half a dozen DSO’s for intelligent anticipation and support of the needs of the Commander-in-Chief. Haig was perhaps the only man, soldier or civilian, who knew the war could be finished that year. Had he not held this view and forced it, it is impossible to know what price might have had to be paid by failure to catch the tide now running in our favour. What could not be grasped by high government officials, even when explained by Haig himself, could certainly not be grasped by junior officers—especially junior officers in my state of mind. I was unable to grasp anything; for once I could even feel free from fear. The loss of the four tanks was almost a physical blow, so difficult it had been to believe the sight as it unfolded before my eyes. The death of Asser was different but had the same quality of being blunt, unable to penetrate the most superficial layer of one’s mind. It
was in this state that I obeyed a summons to see the Colonel.

  Redfaced, garrulous, healthy and smart in his yeomanry amateur way, he talked of this and that. Then I heard him saying, “Bad show what? That affair with the tanks—must have been terrible for you.”

  “Yes sir”, I agreed. It had not in fact been in the least terrible for me but I thought it as well to keep this to myself. It was no more terrible for me than it was for him except that it went on in front of me while my eyes were open wide.

  “We have now”, he went on, “only four tanks left in the whole battalion. On August 8th we started with”, he looked at his papers, “thirty-six.”

  I began to feel suspicious; what was the old fool talking about? It was most unlikely that he wanted to talk statistics to a junior section commander. Then it came.

  “We have a bit of a tough nut to crack. The army commander especially wants four tanks to help with a job at Meaulte—you remember that place? The Christmas camp?”

  Did I not I That’s where I heard about the chap who was lucky enough to have lost his leg.

  “This place is just near there—Happy Valley—you probably know it.” I certainly knew it by repute.

  “But sir”, I said, “I haven’t any tanks left. All my section and the crews have gone.”

  His voice was smooth, almost sympathetic, rather like the Major, I thought, only he had not been so coarse—silkier, as befits a genuine gentleman as opposed to the ‘officer and gentleman’ type. “Yes I know. But we want a reliable man.” (That bloody DSO again7) “Winsop has all his four tanks available.” (I breathed again.) “But he is not really the man I would choose for this kind of job.” (I felt my breathing had been premature.)

  “He has a Military Cross though sir.” This Military Cross had created a mild scandal. Winsop was regarded by all the officers I had known as ‘no damn good at all’. He was a military version of the ‘dumb blonde’ of strip cartoon fame.

  The Colonel became confidential. “Bion, that MC was not my recommendation. He had it before I came here.” He went on, strained, staring at me, “He is in my opinion no good. I can’t help it—I’m very sorry, but there is no one I know on whom I can rely as I can on you.”

  Pure cajolery, I thought bitterly. In fact he doesn’t know me from Adam. I had hardly seen enough of him to know more than his reputation for Irish blarney. In any case, what the hell was I belly-aching about? It was not so long since I had been complaining about being left out of an action at Ypres. Oh, for the Guards Division! Soldiers, real soldiers and above all, Orders!—not blarney. Not, “Will you be so kind as to oblige me by fighting for your country?” This was what it came to, the glorious voluntary system. It was a failure to understand that there is nothing voluntary about being attacked by a powerful, well-armed army.

  “I don’t think the Military Cross should be awarded to officers who are no good sir.”

  The Colonel still had his eyes fixed on me. Perhaps he had begun to wonder if the same rule should not apply to people who had been awarded the DSO. After all, it was a higher decoration than the MC. I saluted and went out before, as far as I knew, the thought had occurred to him. When a young man is granted a decoration perhaps he should also be given a permit entitling him to go and win it at any time in the next six months.

  I took over the four tanks and set out for Happy Valley.

  37

  WE passed by Villers Bretonneux, through the Australian Corps and on. I remember little except feeling ill and tired. There was a beautiful lake near Villers Bretonneux; sometime later, the next day, there was woodland and I felt eased by the green grass and firm ground on which we travelled smoothly. There was much engine and tank track trouble; the tanks were nearing the end of their mechanical life so we all knew we must have mechanical failure.

  I was vomiting badly; I did not know till the day before the attack that I had contracted the influenza which had appeared as an unknown pandemic inflicting all armies. I was at divisional HQ trying to absorb my orders when a medical officer saw me looking ill and diagnosed the infection. He advised me to take a couple of bottles of champagne into action—”Your runner can carry it.” “And if it makes me drunk?” “Then he can carry you.”

  Luckily the orders were simple—drive from our starting point towards the enemy and go on from there; then stop. At least, that was what I thought they were as I contemplated my trembling hands; not fear this time—fever.

  It was a hot day. The rolling devastated region of Meaulte shimmered in the heat. I sweated and trembled and staggered about till I found myself back with the camouflaged tanks.

  This time the action was to start at ‘dawn’. It always did, unless it was obtained by the divisional commander of the 42nd Division. ‘Never, never say “dawn”. Be exact’, said the manuals. Orders had to be ‘04.20’ or ‘06.30’ so that all watches were precisely synchronized. We all—tanks, gunners, infantry, the whole division—attacked at the same moment. Or I assume we did because I have never heard anything to the contrary. The Germans were not co-operating, and as I myself seemed to be present only very fitfully my account is even more incoherent than is usual with sophisticated versions of chaos.

  The first thing of which I have any recollection is sitting in an infantry trench, pausing before making an advance. The sun was hot. The camouflaged tanks at which I had arrived the previous evening were somewhere in the battle. I could not see them. My two runners had one bottle of champagne for which they showed some solicitude though they seemed more concerned for me.

  A man with his chest and belly exposed was lying on the trench floor. His face showed a deadly pallor but he was breathing and sweating. Some flies were settling and crawling on his belly trying to reach a neat puncture in the lower half on the right side. The flies were periodically disturbed by one of two privates who stared dully with unspeculating eyes at their wounded mate. I pulled myself together.

  “Shouldn’t the stretcher bearers get him back?”

  “Him? No sir—he’s a gonner.” I gave up.

  Someone was blowing a whistle. We all scrambled out of the trench, my two runners shoving and pulling at me.

  Time to advance. I felt extremely fit; it seemed queer but unmistakable that the battle was doing me a lot of good. There were a number of wounded, ours, not German; I thought it strange that they were in grotesque positions.

  There was in fact nothing mysterious about it for the enemy had gone, retired, leaving the position to be held by a small rearguard with high velocity guns whose shells had the same unpleasant quality as those near the Steenbeck—the whizzes arriving after the bangs. So one could not duck as one heard the shell approaching. This explained why the infantry lay about in grotesque attitudes and groaned.

  At last I saw one of the tanks. It had stopped; the petrol feed had broken down.

  “Come on!”

  “Where to sir?”

  “Where to? In, of course. We’ll ride the rest of the way.” They probably thought I was drunk. I told the tank commander to carry on as before when he had got it started again. Just then it did start, so suddenly that he was hurled against the sharp edge of the ammunition racks. The blow was on his temple and he lay there unconscious. I took over command of the tank; or perhaps it was the alcohol.

  The scene was yellowish; not summer landscape, not autumn, not anything, but warm, and the tank was hot and stank of petrol. Nobody was about, certainly no enemy. Even the lack of mud gave a nightmare quality to the drive, for in real battles one did not travel fast and easily across rolling downland unopposed. Nor did one go for rides in tanks if one felt ill and bright-eyed.

  I turned to shout to the driver. “Lots of sausage balloons up.” I pointed to the long array of dark shapes looming almost overhead. Funny the way German observation balloons always looked so dark compared with our silvery shapes—obviously the Devil’s Own.

  I tried being jocular. “Do you know”, I shouted, “I get the feeling we are being fired at!”r />
  The driver looked tense and pale. He must be tired, I thought.

  “It’s those balloons sir.”

  Of course—it had not occurred to mel We were under direct observation; they must be concentrating on us. But in that case why were there no shells bursting round us?

  “Get out!” I shouted. “All of you! Walk close behind.” They tumbled out. I took over driving the tank, meaning to drive a zigzag course with the escape hatch over me open. Then I realized that with no crew I could not steer the tank and could not drive anywhere but straight ahead. I had no sense of fear. I opened the throttle so that the tank was at full speed.

  Before I knew what I was doing I had left the driver’s seat and joined the crew behind. It was difficult to keep up with the fast-moving driverless tank. Then, only then, panic overwhelmed me. Suppose they were not firing at us? Suppose they did not hit us? A fully equipped tank in complete working order would have been handed over to the enemy, abandoned on my orders by its crew.

  I could not catch up with it; as I stumbled and tried to run to the door I fell. Then mercifully the shell hit, pierced and burst. The tank stopped, flames spurting everywhere. In a moment it was a total wreck.

  I felt bemused, unable to grasp what had happened. I only knew that I had failed in my desperate resolve to get back to the tank. Had I succeeded I could not possibly have survived. Every course I had initiated had almost immediately seemed to be an irretrievable blunder. It was not a repetition, it was not a reminiscence, but again I had the sense of being a cornered rat which a giant was nonchalantly aiming to club to death. Even as a rat I was incompetent—like a mouse I had once seen sit up on its haunches in what looked like an attitude of prayer to Lord Cat Almighty who at that moment was luxuriously licking his paws and washing himself. I had escaped—apparently. Who knew what Lord Cat Almighty was up to during this short respite? ‘Remember also the humble beasts…’