Unable to sleep for cold, he went to find out what was behind a light glimmering in the remains of the Havrincourt château. Gun-flashes revealed two motorcars standing outside, with the stencil of a bantam cock. With luck he might find somewhere to sleep. It was the 40th Divisional Headquarters. To the two sentries by the door he said good-evening, and walked inside, to see faces around a table on which stood German beer-bottles winking with candles. The General was looking at a large map. Men with red tabs were writing on pads, on their knees. The conference seemed about over, for soon message books were being shut, armfuls of maps collected and tied in bundles. He went away into the night and as he waited there he heard one of the officers asking where he could find a pole, or a stout stick. He helped in the search, thinking it wise to say who he was, in case the sentries were suspicious; and hearing the tank officer ask about the way to Graincourt, said that he had just come from there, and would direct him. He was asked about headquarters of brigades, and told them where his own were, under the church; and with white bundles of maps for the next attack slung on a clothes’ prop, the officer and his orderly set out. Phillip returned to the château, and tried to sleep under the table of the empty conference room, but it was too cold, he was wet, water squelched in his boots when he got up to swing his arms. His head ached, from the extra rum he had drunk.
21 Wed 10 a.m. attack on Bourlon Wood and village failed. Rations etc. to Graincourt. Pinn said lots killed. Tanks arrived late. Guns couldn’t all get up, only one road, and that axle-deep in mud.
22 Thu More attacks on Bourlon, which is slight rise dark with leafless oaks in distance. Many low-strafing Alleyman aeroplanes about. Bombs and m.g. Hard scrapping around Crucifix in Bourlon Wood. SOS signals not replied to. Pinn said the new rifle-grenade “rocket”— bursting with 2 red and 2 white balls—is n.b.g. They get muddled with R.F.C. contact flares—white for infantry, red for cavalry.
Haig and staff officers were riding about Flesquières ridge in morning, watching Bourlon Wood through field glasses.
23 Fri Div. relieved 1 a.m. by 40th (Bantam). Into hutments Havrincourt Wood. Saw Yank doc. at Dressing Station, he very popular, no swank, and sympathetic. On fatigue, carting road material, all limbers. Tracks as bad as Ancre valley. Only one good road, pavé Bapaume—Cambrai, ½-mile-hour progress. 40th Div. attacked Bourlon Wood. Failed. Rain intermittent, wind cold, sky overcast.
Tanks in Bourlon Wood; and Fontaine village, 2 miles from Cambrai.
Our scout planes flying low, strafing Alleyman. Many shot down.
All transports working on roads, 8 a.m.–10 p.m.
“Yes, it is wonderful news,” said Richard, on the Friday morning at breakfast. “I wonder if Phillip will be in this?” He held open The Daily Trident, with its black headline of CAMBRAI VICTORY! “We have, according to the report, made an advance four to five miles deep with hundreds of tanks on a front of ten miles, taken thousands of prisoners and a great number of guns! Listen to this, Hetty! ‘Our tanks might have been waltzing through the Hun barbed wire.’ Thank heaven that the powers that be seem to have stirred their stumps at last!”
In Head Office there was quiet satisfaction all the morning. Then at midday something extraordinary happened. Mavis, going upstairs to the Luncheon Room, heard noon striking, as usual, from the clock of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The Head Messenger, returning from Lloyd’s, said that the carillon of St. Paul’s Cathedral was playing a tune. “I last heard that when Peace was declared, at the end of the South African War, sir,” he told Richard and others in the ground floor Town Department. The news spread. Could the Germans have surrendered? Paul, the tenor bell, was heard striking noon. The manager of the Department went into the street, as the cathedral clock was striking noon. Immediately afterwards they heard Great Paul, the tenor bell, booming. The sonorous echoes were followed by the full peal of twelve bells; immediately afterwards, at the signal, all the City churches followed with wildly clashing noise. People were coming into the streets, waving hands and handkerchiefs, half the Town Department went out, leaving Richard working at his desk. He wanted to follow, but tears were dropping from his eyes. Mavis ran down the mezzanine iron stairs, overcome by the general feeling. On the pavement she thought of Albert Hawkins, who had been killed, O, long ago; she prayed silently for his soul; she thought of her mother, alone in the house, poor Mother … but she would have Mrs. Bigge next door, and also Gramps and darling Aunt Marian. Poor Doris, she would be thinking of cousin Percy, killed over a year ago now; poor Aunt Liz and Uncle Jim, what could Victory mean to them? It was all wrong, these people could not possibly understand. Nobody really understood, Phillip by now was probably tipsy, with his safe job. Still, it would make Mother happy, she doted on her donkey-boy, mothers always did care more for their first child than for the others. She could not bear the cheering, it was awful, why waste time, she was having first lunch at twelve o’clock, there was nothing really to rejoice for. And going back into the office, she saw that old Journend was crying, and Father was blowing his nose loudly. He would! Soon it was over, and she was back at her desk, working away under green-shaded electric light.
24 Sat
Bourlon Wood taken by Bantam division. Great news. Cavalry going through tomorrow. Haig issued Special Order of the Day, thanking all ranks. “Capture crowns a most successful operation.” Working all day and half night on roads. Wet through. Wish I’d kept my waders and long thick woollen stockings. Squelch squelch squelch. Three Alleyman Guard divisionen reported to be at Cambrai.
Our Guards division at Bourlon. Cavalry came up.
25 Sun East Pennine relieved Bantam in Bourlon Wood, at night. Very eerie, going up through trees with mule pack, to edge of Bourlon village. Sweated hot. Saw stragglers, incoherent. Three mules died by m.g. fire. Driver Gordon wounded. Cold and raining.
26 Mon. Fine and bright. Heard that Byng himself is now i/c Bourlon attacks. Our batteries shelled to hell. Alleyman can see every flash etc. from Bourlon.
“Bourlon village to be captured without fail tomorrow.” The Guards div. and ours to attack side by side. Feel rotten, slight headache.
The wood sinister, snipers are everywhere, no definite trench lines. Trees cover about a square mile.
This morning saw G.O.C.’s Guard div., East P, and Corps arriving at Havrincourt for conference in my “bedroom” of last Tues, night. Then Byng’s car arrived, and then Haig and staff rode up.
After a short while Haig came out, and rode across to the Flesquières ridge.
The Field-Marshal had said that “no further offensive operations could be attempted, but that he was satisfied that the plan for the 27th offered every chance to secure the main object,” which he described as “to capture and hold the best line for the winter”. Thereupon he left.
The General commanding the Guards division objected to the plan for the 27th. The advance of the Guards would be “exposed to artillery fire from the high ground north of Romilly, and also from behind the Bourlon ridge and the western outskirts of Cambrai. The objective to be reached was 1,800 yards; he had only six battalions available for whole operation. The assault upon Romilly was essential to the attack to secure the Bourlon ridge”.
In effect, he said, the Guards were asked to make a salient out of a salient: and if resources were not sufficient for this attack, it would be advisable to withdraw from the low ground and establish a main line of defence upon the Flesquières ridge.
The Third Army commander decided that the attack must take place as planned. He was aware, he said, that the London division, then in the Achiet-le-Petit area, represented the last of the reinforcements he could expect, and that, “whatever the fortunes of the morrow, the Third Army’s offensive must be brought to an end”.
Thereupon orders were issued that the object of the Guards, with 12 tanks, was to “gain all the ground from which the enemy can observe our batteries, and to take the village of Fontaine”. The East Pennine division was to attack in line with the Guards, to secu
re, with 20 tanks, the northern part of Bourlon Wood, and the village.
*
Snow was falling when Phillip, following the company, left Havrincourt for the Cambrai road. It was congested with traffic, being the only hard road leading to the left sector of the battle. The German machine-gun barrage hissed over and down. Copper-sheathed bullets with steel cores sometimes struck sparks from the cobbles. They passed the wreckage of waggons and horses. Shells growled down in front, near the sugar refinery. He suggested to Pinnegar that they turn off the road, and follow one of the parallel tracks, but Pinnegar replied that the snow would have covered most guiding posts and all the tapes. Shrapnel burst redly in front.
“I’m fairly sure I know the way, Teddy.”
“We’ll go by road and risk the shit flying about.”
Two figures stood by the brick-and-iron ruin that had been the sugar refinery. The arrival of the company was checked by the Brigade-major: the Boy General said, “Well done! Keep going!”
29 Thu Attack on Bourlon failed. Two companies of Grenadiers wiped out at start, only sgt with 6 men getting into Fontaine. One company of Scots Gds, sent to join them, shot down. Sgt took command and reached sunken road from Cantaing, and held on until ordered to retire. Coldstream enfiladed but some reached Fontaine. Irish Gds on left went through Bourlon Wood and dug in on fringe with both flanks in air. Our Bde at first lost in darkness among trees, but reached village (Bourlon) where hand-to-hand scrapping. Attack called off in afternoon by Byng. E.P. div. to be relieved tonight by 2nd N. Midland.
The relief on the night of 29/30 November. Thousands of gas-shells falling. Yellow-, green-, blue-cross shells plopped down. Soft swooping noises, almost gentle, like sighs, followed by the slightest of pops. Angry buzzings and hissing among them—the enemy machine-gun barrage. Rotten-egg smell: phosgene, with its delayed action on the heart——
“All drivers to put on their animals’ masks! Look slippy! Then your own.”
The whole area was being drenched by gas. Stifling hot mask of box-respirator. Goggle glass steamy. Damn, why not anti-dimmed by paste? Impossible to speak, rubber teat in mouth.
Shells screamed down on the road. Wheel fragments flying, screaming horses. He lifted his mask. “This way, this way!” Better the suck of mud on track than splatter-flesh-blood on road. To get away, get away, get away, teeth ground with the thought of get away.
No more shells. Safe to lift mask, and sniff. Must have done a mile in masks.
“Halt in front! Five minutes’ breather. No smoking.”
He plodded back to see Pinnegar, at rear of column.
“Where are we, Phil? How far from Graincourt?”
“It should be in front, Teddy.”
“Oughtn’t we to get back on the road?”
“It’s frightfully congested at this hour. The relief of the Guards and ourselves will add to it. I know the way.”
“How far is Demicourt?”
“About two and a half miles past Graincourt.”
Demicourt, about half a mile behind the old British front line, was the Brigade assembly area. There they were to rest before going, with the remains of the Division, to refit in a back area.
“The men are just about all in, sir,” said the sergeant-major.
“Yes, for Christ’s sake get a move on!”
After half an hour he had doubts about being on the right track. Where was Graincourt? How could he have missed it?
Continuing onwards, they came to an unfamiliar wood. Beyond and below sloping ground lay the dark mass of a village, revealed by a line of distant flares. O God, where were they?
“Don’t look like Graincourt to me,” said the sergeant-major.
“Nor to me.”
“Then where the hell are we?” asked Pinnegar.
“I don’t know, Teddy.”
“Well, you should damn well know! For two days and three bloody nights we’ve been fighting your prächtig kerls the Alleymans, while you’ve had damn-all to do! I told you Demicourt on my message, couldn’t you bloody well have familiarised yourself with the route by daylight?”
“We’ve been on road-making fatigues all day, skipper, and only returned half an hour before leaving to meet you.”
“Who the hell cares?” shouted Pinnegar angrily. “Couldn’t you have left Nolan, and gone off to find the way? What the hell d’you think you’re here for? To go on bloody Cook’s tours, like a bloody war correspondent?”
The sergeant-major said, “I think that’s the Bapaume road in front of us, although this don’t look like Graincourt, sir.”
“But those flares look like it, Teddy. Jerry’s lines go parallel to the road, below the sugar factory. We must have come in a wide circle.”
“Then what the bloody hell’r we arguing about? Lead on, for Christ’s sake.” They crossed a small stream. Phillip could not remember any stream around Graincourt, or the Bapaume road. But the line of flares was the same. With a shock he realised that the moon was in the wrong place.
The moon, two nights past the full, had risen about 8 p.m. Out of the east. The German lines below Bourlon ran west of the Bapaume road: they were an extension of the Hindenburg Line going up to Bullecourt and Arras. He felt giddy. Was he ill, his mind become unreliable? The road in front was straight. It must be the Cambrai–Bapaume road. Perhaps he had a temperature. He had been in his wet things for over a week. The sooner he was bloody dead the better.
Passing by the village, they moved across grass, and down a gentle slope, to the road. It was trenched on the near side. They were challenged. “Who are you?”
“Machine Gun Corps. This is the Cambrai road, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Thank God! Which way is Boursies?”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s just behind our old front line, about half-way between Bapaume and Cambrai.”
“Then you’re right off it, old boy. This is the Cambrai–St. Quentin road. It’s not healthy to move on it, the Boche is less than half a mile away. His patrols are probably a couple of hundred yards off.”
“Oh hell. Our chaps are dead beat.”
“About turn is your only hope. And the sooner the better. The old Hun has got some pretty hot mortars opposite, and we’ve had a Special Alert Warning.”
He fought against panic. What would Pinnegar say? No: the point was, how to get back.
“If I can make Havrincourt, I’ll know where I am.” When Pinnegar came up, he said, “We’re a little off course, skipper.”
“Havrincourt isn’t far, come into my cellar, I’ll show you on the map,” said the unseen speaker. In candle-light he was revealed as a captain of the Queen’s regiment. He pointed out the position on a map.
“We’re here, at le Quennet farm. If you go on the road, it’s a bit tricky as far as the fork at Bonavis farm. The old Hun has got it taped by his mortars. The right-hand fork will get you to Gouzeaucourt. You’ll have to be careful all the way until you’ve got past Steak House and the Hindenburg support trenches. From there onwards it should be fairly plain sailing, for, as you can see, the line runs south while your road to Gouzeaucourt lies south-west.”
“But that’s a hell of a long way to go! My men are just about done in!” cried Pinnegar.
“I’m afraid I can’t suggest anything better.”
“Well, thank you very much,” said Phillip.
“Not at all. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a drink——”
Pinnegar, no longer angry, thanked the Queen’s captain, and the convoy went on, iron bands of limber wheels rattling loudly on pavé. But no shells came over.
Half-way to Gouzeaucourt the gunners were crying weary. Pinnegar said he’d had enough, so they turned off into a village which had some walls standing, and there bivouacked. Having seen that the mules and officers’ horses were tied to limbers, and the drivers under tarpaulins, Phillip followed Pinnegar and the section officers into a dug-out. Taking off his wet clobber, he put on
pyjamas, which were in his haversack ready for the camp at Demicourt; and getting into a bunk above Pinnegar fell asleep.
Noises of bumping hovered on the verge of consciousness; noiseless shouting seemed to be going on for a very long time. Then he was aware of being in a bunk, of Pinnegar’s face looking up at him with the light of an electric torch, of the sergeant-major talking to him. Then a voice bawled down the stairs, “They’ve broken through! They’re coming! Jerry’s broken through!”
*
Throwing trench-coat over pyjama jacket, with an arm through one sleeve, he followed Pinnegar and the sergeant-major up the steps: hesitated in a rush of thoughts: scrambled down again to grope for his boots, which were not where he had pulled them off. He felt shivery, his eyeballs ached. Where was Barrow, he thought, irritably. Barrow had taken away his things to dry them, also to sew a button on his breeches.
No Barrow. No boots. No breeches. No shirt. No tunic. The rattle of a Lewis gun came from almost immediately outside. With shaking fingers he buttoned his trench-coat, and carrying tin-hat and revolver holster on webbing belt, went up the stairs, telling himself to be calm, to remain calm, not to panic if Germans were near, but to drop belt and tin-hat and stand still, with arms raised. He saw it happening apart from himself, and felt no fear, only calm anticipation. If he was shot, he was shot. Let it come.
Outside it was grey and misty. Many aeroplanes were flying low, about a quarter of a mile away. Bullets cracked. Figures were moving through the ruins. Tin hats. Farther off, a line of advancing Germans. They appeared to be firing from the hip. Enemy ’planes were flying low, machine-gunning. Dozens of them. He ran bare-footed up the cobbled street, and saw, with tremendous relief, the mules already hooked-in to the limbers. Field-guns were firing in the ruins. Infantry, some without rifles, hurrying down the street.
Love and the Loveless Page 41