The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  It was a division withdrawn from the line, to practise over ground chosen to represent the section of the enemy lines which it was to assault. Irregular chalky white worsted lines herring-boned the threadbare scene to the misty distance. The landscape was downland, broken into arable and pasture, but now overlaid by the dusty squatting of an army, with its wheels and feet that had turned all the living garment of grass to a dust which arose with buzzing blowflies clustering upon open latrines and heaps of dung and garbage despite the scattering of chloride of lime. This was the reality of his life, now, thought Phillip, not the fancied coolth of clear water rushing past the boulders of the shadowy Lyn, or the high moor where the sun cracked the pods of the furze, and bees scrambled over the bells of the heather.

  But Phillip’s depression lifted when he saw in the orderly room a face he knew; and asking if Captain Milman was still the adjutant, learned that Major Kingsman was acting CO.

  “Welcome back,” said Milman, rising from his chair. He was the only adjutant Phillip had known who did that, as though greeting a guest.

  Companies were marching into the lines, singing It’s a long, long trail a-winding, steel-helmeted, boots, puttees, and tunics grey with chalk dust, faces brown and cheerful. And there was dear old Bason on a horse.

  Other familiar faces soon came to greet him—Bason, Tommy Thompson, Flagg, Paul—now a captain—Wigg, Cox, and finally, in the company mess with Bason, Jasper Kingsman himself. The extraordinary thing was that they all seemed pleased to see him! Why, Phillip could not imagine.

  There was no officers’ mess, for they had had no time, said Bason, to do anything about it, since coming out of the line. Bason now had a ropey moustache; Phillip thought he must grow one, too. Paul, the tall shop-walker who had come to them at Northampton, had a Charlie Chaplin. Phillip envied him his three stars: perhaps, if he had remained with them, he would by now have had a captaincy. Another new captain was “Brassy” Cusack, the Glasgow Trades Union official who had given them a beer party in the pub when on the exercise for promotion. Milman’s friend, Thompson, was another—but Wigg, he saw with relief, still had only one pip, so had Cox, acting second-in-command of Bason’s company. The establishment, he knew, was two captains per company; and since he was senior to Cox, he might stand a chance for promotion.

  “So they turfed you out of the Emma Gees, did they, old sport?” enquired Bason genially, as they sat together in the tent that was “A” company office. “Give us the latest about London. Still pretty hectic, I suppose? Seen anything of Frances or Alice? I’ve lost touch with Frances. I was a bit gone on her y’know—still, it’s all in the luck of the game,” he said, playing with a pencil. Then looking at him sideways, “You took her out one night, didn’t you? I rather fancy she was keen on you.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that,” said Phillip, not wanting any more misunderstandings. He told Bason about the fiasco of Christmas Eve. “And that was the last I saw of Frances or Alice.”

  “Alice wanted to make you jealous, and bring you on, didn’t you know?”

  “Good lord, really? I thought she liked her ‘sailor man’, Timmy. Anyway, it’s all over and done with now. What about this push? I heard in London it was to be south of Arras, in the new sector taken over from the French. When are we for it?”

  “Couple of weeks, maybe three, perhaps four.”

  “Where do we go over, I mean, what are all the practice trenches copied from, what place?”

  “North-east of Albert, astride the Bapaume Road.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “You will, old sport, or you’ll see what remains of it when we go over the bags! To give you an idea, take a look at this bumff! It’s going to be a cakewalk this time, for all opposition will be wiped out by our guns before we start, not like those dud attacks in the past.” He tossed over a bunch of cyclostyled foolscap paper, headed

  OPERATION ORDER NO. 1 (Part 1)

  “It’ll be altered, of course. More and more bumff keeps coming in from Brigade. We’re doing another practice rehearsal tomorrow, that’ll make five so far. When you’ve got the general idea, I’ll show you your platoon, and your sergeant can give you the dope. By the way, who’s senior between you two blokes?”

  Cox, who was sitting in a canvas chair, reading a letter from home, eye-glass in eye, looked up promptly and said, “I am”.

  “I had an idea you were, Phil?” said Bason.

  “No, it’s the other way about, skipper,” said Cox. “Catch!” He threw over a packet of cigarettes.

  Phillip knew that he was senior to Cox by ten days, but did not like to say so. Bason took a cigarette, and flipped back the yellow packet.

  Cox is a liar, thought Phillip; and went on reading.

  The division will attack north of the Albert—Bapaume Road. The preliminary bombardment will be carried out during five days preceding Z day … during the hour before zero the bombardment will be intense … machine guns will fire heavy bursts ten minutes before zero … Code name for battalion is CLAY … battalion on the right, SHOV … on left flank, FORK …

  TASK. CLAY will assault and take the trenches on accompanying map named Rudd, Pike, Chub, Roach, Bream, Eel. SHOV on right and FORK on left will pass through CLAY at Pike …

  DRESS. Fighting order with two bandoliers S.A.A., full water bottles, mess tin, mackintosh sheet, iron ration, remainder of day’s ration and two smoke helmets. Officers will carry rifles and conform to movements of their men.

  I’ll wear a tommy’s tunic, thought Phillip, thank God. That will give me an even chance.

  All N.C.O.s and privates (except battalion scouts, signallers, and stretcher bearers) will carry two Mills grenades, one in each side pocket, and three sand-bags. Officers commanding companies will be responsible for seeing that … no grenades are to be thrown by individuals except in grave emergency.

  He read the next paragraph, and then sat very still, feeling that Bason must hear the thudding of his heart.

  OFFICERS AND N.C.O.S TO BE LEFT BEHIND. Fourth Army orders that not more than 23 officers are to go into action with the battalion. Seconds-in-command of companies will remain with the first line transport until ordered to rejoin by Brigade.

  He looked across at Cox, sitting cross-legged in his canvas chair, swinging his whangee cane, and knew that Cox had read his thoughts when he said immediately, with an eye-glassy stare, “Go on, you one piecee bad boy, read the rest of it! Gasper?” He threw over the packet of Goldflakes.

  OBJECTIVES. “A” company will take Roach, point Fin of which is to be made into a strong point. Rudd will be defended by Lewis Gun posts while general consolidation is in progress … B company will … G company … D company will remain in reserve—

  FORMATION. First four waves as practised, platoons being in depth. Special duty of first wave is to clear any wire or obstacles which will hinder succeeding waves. This is more important than making any immediate entry into the German front line.

  Like bloody hell it is, thought Phillip, recalling to mind “Spectre” West’s company of Gaultshires hung up by wire in front of Lone Tree.

  LADDERS. These will be provided in, certainly, the front line, and perhaps in others at a scale of one ladder to two men. Just prior to the time at which men are to leave trenches these will be placed in position and the two men will stand by. The man on right going first.

  Where will the ladders come from, and what about the jam-up they will cause in the jumping-off trench? And who will place them in position? The Angels of Mons? He saw again the chalk-filled bags of the parapet at Loos before Zero, torn by machine-guns to ragged ears of hessian.

  BRIDGES OVER TRENCHES. Local commanders will see that floor boards in the German trenches will be torn up and placed in position for following waves to pass over.

  ADVANCE. At eight minutes before zero hour, the first wave will advance and lie down 250 yards in front of the front line. The second wave will advance and lie down 100 yards in front of front line
.

  At zero hour first, second, third waves will advance simultaneously.

  At zero plus 2 minutes, the fourth wave will advance. At zero plus 4 minutes the fifth wave will advance.

  At zero hour plus 6 minutes, the sixth wave will advance.

  ON NO ACCOUNT WILL THESE TIMES BE EXCEEDED.

  Strict silence will be maintained during the advance through the smoke and no whistles will be blown.

  “What sort of attack is it to be, I mean how wide is No-man’s Land, d’you know, skipper?”

  “Varies between six and eight hundred yards opposite our sector. Why?”

  “That means nearly a quarter of a mile for the first two waves to go, after the first advance. What is the rate of advance, is it at the double?”

  “What, with over sixty pounds per man of clobber we’ll have to carry? Give us a chance, old sport! At present it’s a hundred yards every two minutes.”

  “That’s less than two miles an hour. Rather slow, isn’t it, to go a quarter of a mile under fire.”

  “There won’t be a Boche left alive after the bombardment, old sport.”

  Phillip picked up the pages, and glanced through half a dozen more. An item caught his eye.

  BATTLE POLICE. Their duties will be to see that no one except linesmen use the new communication trenches across Noman’s Land from the German side. They will prevent any N.C.O. or private leaving the German lines who is not wounded. They will direct men who have lost their way, and messengers or carrying parties.

  CASUALTIES. All officers will send casualty estimates with all reports …

  LOOTING. Most extreme disciplinary action will be taken in the case of any officer, N.C.O. or private found in possession of any article from the dead.

  PRISONERS. These will be escorted on scale of 10 per cent of their numbers. Prisoners will be searched at once for concealed arms or documents, always in the presence of an officer. Guards are forbidden to talk to prisoners, or to give them food or tobacco. Identity discs will not be taken from them.

  There were many other paragraphs, including RATIONS, WATER DUMP, REGIMENTAL AID POST; and then his gaze fastened on something which accentuated his thoughts.

  TENDING OF WOUNDED. All ranks are forbidden to divert attention from enemy in order to attend wounded officers or men.

  WHITE FLAGS. All ranks are to be reminded that these are not a sign of surrender, but an implication that the enemy has a communication to make. During action, firing will NOT be discontinued on any account. The showing of a white flag will be reported to Divisional Headquarters.

  WARNING IF CAPTURED. All ranks are warned to give only Name, Rank, Regiment.

  He put this bunch of papers down, then took up OPERATION ORDER No. 2, which consisted of four cyclostyled pages. Then OPERATION ORDER No. 3, which was of three pages; followed by OPERATION ORDER, Amendment No. 2, and OPERATION ORDERS, Additions and Amendments No. 3.

  *

  “Cox, here’s the Imprest Account for the company’s pay tomorrow. You’ll find the Field Cashier at Querrieu. Now don’t go to Amiens with the cash and paint the place red, will you?”

  “What, with my missus expecting a baby next month? No damned likelihood of that, skipper!”

  When Cox had gone, Bason said, “Cox likes to think he is very much the family man these days. Now I’ll take you to your platoon, and introduce you to their feet and kits. The usual inspection. Then you’re free till tomorrow. I’m going down to Amiens this evening, to get a bath, and then a bite at the Godbert. How about coming? We can ride over, it’s only ten kilometres. Are you on? Good. Remember when we used to go up together to Baker Street from camp, and our long walks back after midnight? Good old days. We had some sport, not half we didn’t!”

  They walked down to the company lines. Phillip was taken to his platoon sergeant, a small alert, wiry man.

  “You’ll find him a good chap,” said Bason, aside. “Between you and me, he asked to be transferred away from the platoon last week, under Wigg. You remember the old lizard? Fortunately for us, Wigg’s just got himself another job.”

  “What kind of job, skipper?”

  “Acting Area Commandant—and I hope he stays there—we don’t want him back. All the other chaps in the company are keen as mustard.”

  “For the attack, you mean?”

  “What else? It will be a cakewalk, with one howitzer for every forty yards of Hun front, and one field gun to every twenty-five! That’s in addition to gas, smoke, all the trench mortars—light, medium and heavy—Stokes, Christmas Puddings, Flying Pigs, all going the bundle! We’ll all be home by Christmas, old sport, I’ll take a bet on it. How about a bradbury, level betting?”

  “Do you think the war will be over by then?”

  “I’ll make it five to one, that it’s over by Christmas! Are you on?”

  “All right. Only it will be like robbing an incubator.”

  Speed with the lightfoot winds to run

  the words flashed in his head as he reversed his puttees preparatory to riding into Amiens for dinner with Bason. Followed by two grooms, they avoided the main road, with its heavy traffic, and went along a track which passed away from the practice area of facsimile German trenches. He had a 16 h.h. chestnut, with a white blaze down its face, and a hard mouth; temporary gentleman with temporary charger’s mariners. However, behind Captain Bason bumping up and down on a bay mare, like the Galloping Major of the song, he felt like a cavalry wallah. His mount kept shaking its head. He dismounted to loosen the curb-chain, which had been hooked too tight under the animal’s jaw. The groom didn’t know his job.

  “Two fingers should slide easily between jaw and curb, like this!”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The wind-waves were upon the corn. Larks sang in the sky. There was no other sound save the clop of hooves, the creak of leather, an occasional clink of the loose curb-chain, as the chestnut behaved, he thought, with gratitude.

  *

  Thus began one of the most pleasant periods of Phillip’s military life, brief as it was. It was a time given not only to the practice assault, but to sport. There was cricket in the long evenings between the companies, and inter-platoon football matches. Running events, too, and boxing. The company boxing instructor was Phillip’s platoon sergeant, an alert, cheery man with a brown face and pale blue eyes, part Welsh and part Devon, coming from a village inland from the Exmoor coast—so he and Phillip soon had plenty to talk about. Davy Jones gave him boxing lessons, using patience and kindness, and away from the men, because Phillip was shy of his inability, at first, to avoid blows, which wove around and under and through the almost static guard of his right arm. He used the posture taught him years before by his father, left arm straightly extended, right arm covering chin, with no idea of working the forearm to divert blows. But he persisted, and learned the elements of countering, the use of his toes and calves when striking—it could not be called punching.

  The frame of Davy Jones was spare and hard as the ash handles of the shovels, paring hooks, mattocks, and picks he had used since boyhood with precision. Phillip persisted, and the exercise gave him confidence and some sort of belief in his body powers. He went for long runs, loping along, mile after mile with the athletes of his platoon, and practised deep breathing in the early morning and at night.

  This was after Sergeant Jones had said, “I’ve been a-listening to your breathing, sir. It’s in-out, in-out, like putting three inches of the bayonet in a sack. Lungs is like bellowses, sir, they work best with deep draughts, in and out at the same rate, slowly. Town people don’t know how to use bellowses,” he went on scornfully. “They puff and blast away, scattering the embers, instead of fanning them, sir, to give them new flame with the air in equal proportions, if you understand my meanin’. There’s so much power in an ember, and no more is gained by blasting it to sparks, when its heat is wanted to bake a stick, then fire it. And ’tes the same wi’ breathing, a lung is nothin’ but a bellows. Take in slowly
, like, and let out slowly. I breathe eight to a minute, and can expand my chest five inches. I’ll show you.”

  And putting a piece of string round his chest, Davy Jones asked Phillip to tie it tight, with a double knot. When this was done he said, “Now watch me!” and with his eyes fixed on Phillip’s he drew in breath slowly, more and more, until the string broke. Holding up a hand for silence, he completed his act, letting out air slowly as he had drawn it in.

  “Twenty seconds you’ll find that took, and I could run a mile without breathing any faster if I’d a mind to!”

  After parades, in the calm summer evenings, there was the bioscope, with one riotous night, a Charlie Chaplin film. In another barn in Querrieu was the Ah-Rays concert party, run by some gunners. This, like the mobile cinema, was also packed every evening. Some of the actors dressed up as girls, with various types of wigs. Each man in the audience dwelt upon the plaits, golden curls and rouged faces, upon the eyes made large, liquid, and luring with red specks of paint in the corners and crowsfeet of black extending the lids made shadowy with blue powder. Each herded man in the audience was fascinated, filled with longing, stirred by lust which made him shout or grin or hide his facial feelings according to the experiences, or lack, of his body.

  Phillip sat motionless, for one of them looked like Polly, with short dark curls to the shoulder; he soon transferred to another with fair hair and eyes which reminded him of Lily, as he longed for her with regrets that he had not had her on Reynard’s Common, since Desmond had cast him off, in the words of the girl in Northampton who had been chucked by her boy after he had had her. Why hadn’t he had that girl, too? What was the point of being idealistic, when no one but yourself cared, really, for ideals? He stared at “Lily”, with unutterable longing, until another “girl” with golden curls sang the duet They’d Never Believe Me with an actor who, Bason said, was a West End matinée idol, and the eyes and curls were those of Helena Rolls, remote and beautiful above the tragedy that was ordinary life.