The Golden Virgin

by Henry Williamson

  At Zero minus 8 minutes the first of six waves was to advance upon the fluttering line of flags held by distant figures representing the final barrage, in order to cross three hundred yards of ground by Zero. There was sixty yards between each wave, and the pace had to be set so that the last wave rose out of the earth at the moment that the flags stopped fluttering: when a more distant fluttering indicated that the guns had raked back upon the second objective at the moment when the leading infantry wave was five hundred yards away from the German front line.

  Lt.-Col. West was addressing the assembled officers of the battalion.

  “On our right,” he said, indicating two straight lines of pegged white tape, “lies the Bapaume road. Across the Bapaume road to the north-west, lies La Boisselle. It will be attacked by the North Country division, but not directly. Mine craters lie between our lines and the fortress of La Boisselle, and the area of these craters, as many of you are aware, is known as the Glory Hole. The Glory Hole won’t be attacked directly. Columns of troops will pass on either side of it, and bomb their way into La Boisselle, which is a maze of trenches and dug-outs. Lewis-gun teams and batteries of Stokes guns will support them. So much for our right flank.

  “Now I come to our own problem.

  “As you know there is a salient around La Boisselle, pushed out like a great fist, half a mile wide, forming a re-entrant into our lines. Machine-guns on the end knuckles of this fist can sweep across all the lower ground of Mash Valley over which we have to advance. Their fire, as things stand now, can take us in enfilade, at precisely one hundred and eighty degrees. From Y Sap, which is at our end of the German fist, machine-gun batteries can fire right across our line of advance.”

  All eyes were fixed on the speaker’s face.

  “Likewise the southern knuckle of the fist, at the far end of the Glory Hole, is able to enfilade the advance there. That is what you all know.”

  Lt.-Col. West paused.

  “Well, gentlemen, I have some news for you! Both knuckles of this fist are to be sent sky-high, from two mines packed with about fifty thousand pounds of ammonal apiece, at Zero hour. The mines will not only destroy the Boche’s flanking m.g. fire, but will throw up many hundreds of tons of chalk. This chalk will drop around each crater. The dropped tons of chalk will be in the way of all enfilade fire. The crater lips will be about fifteen feet high, enough to do the trick. Thus our flanks, in the coming assault, will be secured.”

  The commanding figure looked at his watch, took their salutes, fastened his wrist by the swivel on his belt, then rode away with his adjutant.

  *

  Deployed upon the rolling downland three brigades of four battalions each, with subsidiary companies of engineers and pioneers, waited for a rocket to splash its yellow plumes against the blue summer sky, signal that the imaginary barrage had started. Distant flags began to waggle.

  A second rocket burst on high, to fall in red rain, denoting that 45 minutes had passed and it was now Zero minus 15 minutes.

  The brigade-major cantered up to Lt.-Col. West and said, “The Brigadier wishes to emphasize that on no account will the times of advance be exceeded, sir,” then he cantered four hundred yards away to the next battalion of his brigade. Far away other mounted staff officers were to be seen, cantering.

  The troops waited.

  At Zero minus 8 minutes, the first wave got up, and moved in line towards the faraway flags. Although it was early morning, the heat of the sun was great. Soon dust was arising above the extended lines of men moving forward. They were followed by groups of companies in diamond or artillery formation. Six hundred yards farther back the supporting battalions, in lines of columns, moved forward meticulously in time with the plan of advance, thirty-three yards to the minute. Aeroplanes on contact patrol flew overhead.

  Upon the field, junior staff-officers with printed tables and stopwatches beside them checked the rate of advance.

  “God’s teeth,” muttered “Spectre” West, “they knew better than this at Waterloo.”

  The sight of the waves and the masses of waves following was exhilarating to the young inexperienced officers and their men who, although ordered to be silent, gave to one another small greetings with hand and lift of chin. They had been told to imagine that they were carrying, beside their rifles, water-bottles, entrenching tools, and haversacks, an assortment of spades, bandoliers of ammunition, picks, rolls of barbed wire, pigeon baskets, electrical-buzzer gear, drums of telephone wire, water-cans, sandbags filled with bombs, and other gear; and such was their ardour and enthusiasm that they imagined what they had been told. Metallic discs were stitched between their shoulder blades; coloured ribbons tied to their shoulder straps.

  *

  Each man of Captain Bason’s company, plodding astride a mock Bapaume Road made of white tape, had a red ribbon tied on his left shoulder. The three other companies of the battalion wore blue, yellow, and green ribbons; while every rifleman with wire-cutters had a white bow tied upon his right shoulder—the bridegrooms, Bason called them.

  Bridegrooms of death, thought Phillip.

  Unimpeded, irresistible, the division went forward in six waves, up slowly rising ground to the final objective, a large white notice board on which was painted in black letters

  SITE OF POZIERES

  While strict silence had been observed and no whistles had been blown, occasional cigarette-smoking had been observed by the brass hats; so the attack must be made again. More dust arose with a greater heat; sweat, flies, boredom, and thirst. The gilded staff lost its pristine glamour in the eyes of the once-ardent. Then the whisper went round that the Field-Marshal himself was coming to watch the rehearsal.

  There was the C.-in-C.’s pennant, carried upright by a first-class warrant-officer of Dragoon Guards, an object of mahogany, bristle, and brass with the appearance of one who had never been boy or man but always a figure of impersonal military power. The spit-and-polish of this equestrian figure was such that Phillip thought of him as altogether inhuman. He wore brown riding boots so straight in the leg and so polished that they looked as though before coming on the field they had been kept in a showcase: as in fact they had been—breathed upon, boned, saddle-soaped, boned and waxed and boned and polished, boned again and waxed again and polished until they resembled brown lustre glass. Behind rode an awe-ful figure, grey-moustached, keen of eye—Sir Douglas Haig. With the group of generals, a little in rear, rode a svelte, sallow young man with imperturbable manner more Eastern than European, with eyes both cervine and calculating, a two-legged deer of the oases who had somehow come to stand beside the British lion, immaculate in uniform with gorget patches and brassard of G.H.Q.

  *

  Peasant cultivateurs, whose roots and tillered corn had been crossed again and again, ceased to pause in their work of hoeing down the rows of beet-sugar and mangolds, as they struck at thistle and spurrey with feelings of violation, of outrage, for the destruction of their crops. The soldiers from office, factory, and machine shop considered these morose individuals to be hardly more animate or intelligent than the roots they tended.

  There was one exception. While “A” company was resting near the notice board for the third time, a short fat Frenchman in peaked cap, dark coat, and trousers clumsily tucked into black leather leggings, showing laced ankle boots of glacé kid below, appeared out of nowhere with a gun under his arm and an angry expression on his face nearly covered by thick black beard and whiskers. Judging by the string bag stuffed with red-legged partridges and other smaller birds slung on his shoulder, he had been having a successful day. He was, moreover, equipped for comfort. He was complete with rolled cape, leather wine-bottle, cartridge belt, and La Vie Parisienne. A thin unhappy-looking setter with over-worked dugs quivered behind his heels.

  “Hullo, cock, how’s yourself?” cried a wag.

  “Pah!” With indignation the French sportsman surveyed the soldiers lying down on his land. “Les autres Boches,” he announced to himself
.

  At that moment a yellowhammer flew over the grass. The tireur followed it with eager eyes. It lit on the board, and sang in a small, flint-chip voice. The tireur raised his gun—crack! The brown-and-yellow bird dropped as to a puff. Breast feathers floated in the air. There were ironical cheers from the men as the small body was picked up and the sportsman strode away, towards a wood, followed by his bitch and a cry of, “Next time, Pah, ’ave a go at Fritz!”

  Phillip picked up two of the breast feathers and put them in his pocket book, beside a poppy and a marigold picked in Tara Valley. He was keeping them to send home in the next letter to his mother.

  *

  Back at camp, rumour spread like a chill. The Colonel had been removed from his command.

  “Have you heard anything, Captain Bason?”

  “Straight from the horse’s mouth, otherwise our one and only Wigg. He has honoured us by visiting the mess—complete with red tabs, crown, and spurs. Blimey, some people know their way about, all right! But why the ‘captain’ all of a sudden? Cheer up, old sport!”

  Phillip left the letter he was writing and went with Bason to the mess marquee.

  “Your pal has mucked himself up good and proper this time,” said Ray, with some glee.

  “What happened, skipper?” asked Phillip, feeling weak.

  “You ought to know, he confided in you, didn’t he?” Bason could not help saying.

  While they were discussing it, Major Kingsman came to see Bason. Captain Paul was with him. The three walked up and down side by side, a hundred yards from the lines, talking together for several minutes.

  *

  The battalion officers had not dined together in mess since leaving England, until the previous night. For this second and final occasion before returning up the line for the Show, as it was now called, a special dinner had been arranged in a marquee, with champagne, provided by the C.O. The occasion had been much looked forward to, a grand send-off in the spirit of Eat, Drink, for tomorrow—the Break-through! And then the news about Colonel West leaving, and Major Kingsman commanding the battalion. Would the old C.O. be present? And would he now pay for the fizz? asked Ray. Beaucoup fizz was what he wanted; lashings and lashings of the stuff. And all buckshee.

  The dinner took place. Major Kingsman, after His Majesty’s health had been drunk, proposed the toast of the Regiment. Then he read an apology for absence from Lt.-Col. West, who said that to his very great regret he would not be leading the battalion into action. He knew, however, that they would give whole-hearted support to their new Commanding Officer, and do their damndest to get the Hun out of France, and so play their part in bringing Victory to the Allied Arms. He himself would be taking part in the offensive with his own regiment, to which he would be on his way, to serve in any capacity that he was ordered, when his Farewell Message was being read by his good friend and comrade-in-arms, Major Kingsman.

  He wished them God Speed, and Good Luck.

  There was prolonged cheering as Major Kingsman sat down. Beside him was Captain Paul. Toasts were drunk to “Spectre”, by which name he was by now generally known, in the wine he had provided. But it was not the old colonel they cheered, so much as their thoughts of the Great Push that was imminent.

  *

  Major Wigg, sitting on the other side of the C.O., drinking his seventh glass of gin and lighting his second cigar, was a more refined sardonic self, as befitted the gilded frame of his self-portrait as a G.S.O. 3. He never drank champagne, he explained, it was bad for his liver. He was a man of gin. To those beside him—Captains Milman, Paul, Thompson, Cusack, and Bason—he gave the inside information.

  A man of manners on occasion, Major Wigg, now a guest, withheld his personal views and spoke objectively, although in a dry tone of voice as befitted one on the staff of Army, with a comprehensive point of view.

  The rate of advance, “Spectre” had complained, was too slow, and it began too far off. The German front line should be rushed, he had most considerately explained to a mere G.O.C. Army, from close up behind the barrage. Army’s plan, he maintained, was based on a fallacy, that “the opposition would be wiped out by the preliminary bombardment”. Even if this “wiping out” were feasible, and he had reason to doubt it, Field Service Regulations made the principle of the assault after bombardment perfectly clear: the phrase used was “rush the position”. The Regulations also laid down that troops, even under the orders of junior commanders, seeing an opportunity to get in quickly, should start off under their commander’s own initiative, and “others were to co-operate as soon as possible”. That was the principle of successful attack in all wars, and this war was no exception, the “mushroom colonel” had argued.

  Putting down his damp cigar, and choosing as though carefully a cigarette from his gold case, Major Wigg continued, in a voice of gravel, “Our would-be military genius went on to say that he had heard that the Field-Marshal himself had suggested that the advance should be made in small rushes. This view of the Field-Marshal—our late schoolmaster was kind enough to lecture his seniors, who by this time were wondering why Old Man Rawly had put up with such damned insolence for so long—was based on the ‘historic principle’ of overcoming the enemy’s unformed resistance speedily at close quarters, before it could cohere into resistance. With the usual sweat bedewing his brow, ‘Spectre’ went on to say, ‘The Field-Marshal’s suggestion, I understand—and I say it with the very greatest respect, and in humble duty’—for all the world as though he were the P.M. before H.M., and about to kiss hands—‘has been rejected by the Fourth Army Commander.’ His very words. So,” concluded Major Wigg, with satisfaction, “Mr. Bloody West’s goose is cooked.”

  At this point Phillip, wishing he had not had any champagne, made his way back to his quarters.

  *

  The post corporal had left parcels in the tent. Among them was one for him addressed in a strange, unformed handwriting. In the parcel were two tins, one of sardines, and another of café-au-lait, a packet of cigarettes, some chocolate, a cake, a packet of ginger snaps, a tin of Zam-buk, and a glossy picture postcard of Gaby Deslys dancing with Harry Pilcer. There was also a letter written on cheap lined paper.

  The sender thanked him for his ever-welcome letter, and hoped he was well. She asked him to take care of himself, and prayed for his return every morning on waking up, and every night before going to sleep, and hoped he would not mind. The Zam-buk was in case he was wounded, and had nothing handy to kill germs with. She had seen none of the old faces, as she was now doing hospital work in the evenings, after the laundry. Yours truly, Lily.

  He was ending a reply to the letter, and about to take one of the yellowhammer’s feathers from between the pages of the book Westy had given him, to put it in the folded writing paper, when Bason came into the tent and said, “Hullo, where did you get to?”

  “I didn’t feel too well, skipper.”

  “What’s that you’ve got, a canary’s feather?”

  “No, it’s one of the yellowhammer’s, shot by the Frenchman this afternoon.”

  “Well, old sport, I just looked in to suggest that perhaps in future you’ll remember the old saying, ‘Easy come, easy go’. And I’d like you also to know, for what it’s worth, that you have a company commander who is also your pal.”

  Bason put his hand for a moment on the younger man’s shoulder, and went out of the tent.

  Chapter 17

  WAITING

  8th Bn. P.R.O. Regt.

  B.E.F.

  27 June, 1916

  Dear Mother.

  I am sorry I have not replied to your letters before this, or written to thank you for your two excellent parcels; my only excuse is the work out here, and the hectic time accompanying great preparations.

  There is now an interval: I am lying on a little hill above a river valley and the sun is going down upon the long straight road we have marched up to our destination. The company is billeted in bunks put up in outhouses and barns, for this area
is almost as crowded as the Hill on a Thursday band-night before the war, when people waited to see the fireworks from the Crystal Palace. We, the officers, have a room in the farmhouse, on the floor.

  We started our march up yesterday morning. The road was much congested, for it is the main route to the Picnic, as we call it. Often we had to leave the road and walk in file the other side of the poplars, in and out of the ditch. At times it was a bit trying, as after the bright weather the sky became dull with heat. Then rocky grey clouds moved over, sullen and hard; the air became more oppressive; lightning struck, and the heavens began their bombardment. We were soon soaked to the skin, but afterwards regained cheerfulness, for after the rains, which fell upon an almost silent countryside, the sky came clear, the sun flashing. At night an Aurora Borealis greater than the one Father used to tell us about, when in the hard winter before I was born you were living in the canal-keeper’s house at the end of Comfort Road (I have sudden vivid pictures of a life that is gone, it seems forever, out here), filled the night sky. From where we were last night we heard nothing, for by some freak of the strata underground or the atmosphere above all the thunders of man were inaudible. The eastern sky was a wonder; the winter-god was conquered by Proserpine; a thousand butterflies fluttered there, soundlessly fluttering on wings of light, tremulous at times, suddenly flushing gold as though with some discovered nectar in the flowers of the night. It was wonderful, it was terrible, it was music and poetry and all the power of life come to play upon our little world—or should I write worlds, for each one of us is a little world, which in course of time will dissolve like the animals that once inhabited the shells, now chalk, upon which soon we are to move, as in a new creation by fire, and, for some of us, darkness evermore. For the wondrous light is not of Proserpine; the nether world of Pluto has opened upon the earth, with the fires of hell.