by John Masters
The Top Sergeant’s voice was weak behind him as he snapped out another fire order – ‘Sir … lieutenant … you’re going to be out of ammunition in another five minutes … Better hold off on some targets unless the captain says it’s desperate.’
‘They’re all desperate, Top,’ John said grimly. ‘The Jerries are only 200 yards away now, the captain says, and still coming … And that was fifteen minutes ago. He may have been overrun.’
‘Gotta get up some more ammo,’ the 1st Sergeant mumbled. ‘There was a park back there a mile, beside the road … a dump. 75 ammo.’
John looked round. Every piece had had some men wounded or killed, so all were being served by half the full complement of cannoneers. Yet none was out of action or so badly damaged that it could not be fired; so he could not take crews from one piece to reinforce the others … The telephone was in operation again, and another call for fire coming through from the captain. Thank God he was all right, but … ‘Germans advancing! From previous target, left six mils, down four … shrapnel … and for God’s sake hurry!’
Behind him the 1st Sergeant cried, ‘Look, sir …!’
John couldn’t look for a moment as he barked the new fire orders. That done, he turned. A column of three caisson teams was coming up the pavé at a gallop, each pair pulled by four horses. The German artillery spotters saw too, and a new storm of high-explosive shells rained down on the road in front of and among the galloping caissons. ‘Chee!’ John yelled, throwing up his arms. ‘Chee!’; for he had recognised the Indian on the near horse of the lead team. Behind him, one driver guided each of the other two teams … One was down, the two lead horses struck simultaneously by German shells, down, the driver pinned, the horses struggling, kicking, blood spouting from throat and belly. The other teams came on. Chee wheeled his horses round behind the guns, reined in, and jumped down. ‘Get the stuff out!’ he shouted. ‘All caissons full!’
‘Chee!’ John shouted, but the Navajo was running back down the road, drawing a knife from his belt … reaching the fallen team among the bursting shells, stooping, dragging the pinned driver free, leaving him at the roadside … cutting the traces of the two wounded horses, taking the bridles of the remaining, fear-crazed two, pulling, breaking into a run, the two horses at last pulling with turn, the caisson coming, slow at first, then faster, wheels rumbling on the pavé … they only had a hundred yards to go; and now the shelling ceased with no more warning than it had started. They reached the guns. The cannoneers were frantically unloading the caissons, stacking the shells close at hand, by the gun trails.
The sergeant of No. 1 piece, on the left, shouted, ‘Sir! … Left!’
John turned … German infantry, a hundred yards away … coming on at a shambling run … He yelled, ‘Battery left, open sights, muzzle burst, fire!’ The cannoneers dragged the guns round, rammed in the shells, the gunners spun the elevating wheel down, pulled the lanyards, smoke and flame belched, shell splinters from the close bursts flew back, clanging against the guns’ shields. ‘Fire!’ Again, again, again. The German infantry was melting away … all except six men, scuttling into the remains of a brick shed … they had a light machine-gun, and a small mortar. The gun position would be untenable in a few minutes. The machine-gun began to fire, sweeping the guns.
‘Chee, wait!’ John yelled, breaking into a run. The Navajo had snatched up a rifle with fixed bayonet and was running with it straight at the Germans in the ruined shed, firing as he went. John ran after him, drawing his pistol, firing. Two other men were at his heels, also firing; but Chee was there now, vaulting over the top of the low broken wall, dropping down, bayonet outthrust. They heard his rifle crack twice, the German machine-gun stopped firing. A moment later they came out over the wall, three German soldiers and a feldwebel, unarmed, hands on their heads, Chee behind them, jabbing them in the buttocks with his bayonet, all running …
‘Jesus Christ,’ the 1st Sergeant said. ‘The Chief came through. The son of a bitch must have thought they had some cognac in there … Now I’ll die happy.’
It was the next day, just after dawn. The fighting had gone on until 2 a.m., but now there were no Germans in sight; a ration convoy had come up; and Captain Hodder had returned to the gun position.
‘We held them,’ he said. ‘And the British are advancing … cutting through them like a knife through butter, the reports say … eight miles the first day. The French are advancing. And we’re going to advance. Make all preparations to march order, so that we only have to hitch up and go when I give the order. The doughboys up there are in touch with our division headquarters.’
John walked back to his section and found Sergeant Curran talking to the two gunners of the pieces. The three enlisted men turned, saluting, as John came up. ‘See that the men eat at once,’ he said. ‘Then make ready to march order – forward. We’ve got the Heinies on the run.’
‘They won’t run very far,’ the sergeant said. ‘Those sons of bitches have a sting like a scorpion in their tails … Sure you’re OK to move with us, lieutenant? You don’t look too good.’
John shook his head impatiently. His left arm ached where a small shell splinter had passed through the fleshy part of the upper arm, about midnight. His head throbbed and swelled from utter weariness. But he could not drop out now. He still would not sleep, for he would think of Stella. ‘I’m OK,’ he said roughly. ‘Get on with it.’
The sergeant said, ‘Yes, sir!’ John turned away. Now what did he have to do? Get some chow, walk about, supervising. See that the soldiers were doing their jobs … which they knew as well or better than he did. Impress the captain … What could he do about Stella? How could she be saved, even if he were at her side, in Walstone … or somewhere else?
‘Sir … lieutenant …’ He turned impatiently. It was Sergeant Curran. ‘Sir, we can’t find Benally. I thought maybe you’d given him some special job.’
John said, ‘No … I haven’t seen him since he cleaned out that German machine-gun crew. He got wounded then, and I sent him back to the horse lines. They were in that hamlet back there, what’s its name?’
‘Can’t pronounce it, sir. But I’ll send a couple of men back to search for him. There’s some medics set up an aid post in it, from a doughboy outfit. Benally may have checked in with them to get his wound dressed.’
John nodded, the sergeant went off, and John, standing amid the bustle of the preparations to move, looked about … corpses of Germans; a burying party digging graves for six Americans; dead horses; one upturned, smashed 75 – a direct hit just before dark … the debris of battle. Smoke was rising from kitchen fires in the little hamlet back there, where Chee might be. But when Chee was unhappy, he didn’t go into towns or villages. Even in El Paso, when they’d got out of Bliss on a pass, he seldom wanted to go into town or over the line into Juarez and booze it up in a bar, like the other soldiers. He’d buy a couple of bottles of tequila and head out into the desert, with John at his side: and find a mesquite or stunted piñon and sit down in the thin shade and start drinking; and go on till he could hardly walk; twice John had had to grab the bottle and break it on a stone to make sure Chee could get back to Bliss …
He had told Sergeant Curran to search the hamlet. His eyes wandered round the landscape. The wood over there … some trees shattered by shell fire, but still plenty of cover. Chee liked a view, liked to see a long way, so no one could sneak up on him, he used to say. He’d be at the edge of the wood if he was there at all, looking out … not this way: he didn’t care what the battery was doing, if he was in that mood. He’d be looking the other way, west, over the hills and seas and mountains and rivers to Sanostee.
He walked quickly out of the gun area and up the slope to the wood, then round the outside edge, where a thin hedge contained it. Chee was there, his back against a tree where the hedge had been broken down, looking westward, a bottle clutched in one hand.
‘Chee!’ John said sharply. No answer. The head lolled sideways. ‘Ch
ee!’ Still no answer, but the hand raised the bottle to the lips, Chee drank, the arm and hand again fell.
‘We’re under orders to move. Wake up, man!’ He knelt and tried to lift the Indian, but his wound had weakened him, nor did he have the use of his own left arm. He could not budge the sticky, dead weight. He looked round in desperation … nothing. Turning, he stumbled back down the hill to the battery position. The guns were lined up, the teams ready to limber up for march order twenty paces in rear, and Captain Hodder was walking up the line of guns towards him.
Hodder stopped as John approached and said, ‘Where have you been? Is your section ready?’
‘No, sir … Private Benally’s up there in the wood, wounded.’
The captain looked hard at him – ‘Wounded or drunk?’
John hesitated, then said, ‘Both, I think.’
Hodder said, ‘And you … You have another wound you haven’t told me about.’ He gestured at John’s tunic. John looked down and saw a big brown stain on his side. He realised what had happened and said, ‘It’s Benally’s blood, sir! I was trying to lift him, but couldn’t …’
The captain turned on Sergeant Curran – ‘Take a team, and two corpsmen. Bandage him and bring him down … Where in hell does he get the liquor, Merritt?’
‘I don’t know, sir … He’s always been able to smell it out.’
‘And now he ought to be up for court-martial and the stockade … but he won’t be. I’m recommending him for the Medal of Honour, for his work yesterday. If the corpsmen say that he ought to be sent to the rear, see that he goes, even if he has to be tied down.’
Twenty minutes later the team came down, Benally being held on to one of the caissons by a corpsman. The other corpsman jumped down in front of John and saluted. ‘The bullet went through the left side, sir, but doesn’t seem to have done any serious damage. He’s been bleeding a lot, but …’ He shrugged – ‘We’ve stopped that now.’
John looked at his friend and made up his mind – ‘He’ll come on with us,’ he said.
Five minutes later the battery moved off in march order, Private Chee Shush Benally unconscious drunk, tied to one of the steel seats in front of the gun shield of Piece No. 3, his torso heavily bandaged. The battery, the regiment, and the armies moved eastward, towards Germany.
Daily Telegraph, Saturday, August 24, 1918
WOMEN IN INDUSTRY
AFTER WAR PROBLEMS
There has just been published the report of a conference between organizers of trade unions, Bristol employers, and others concerned with the industrial employment of women … on the position of women in industry after the war …
The underlying fact in relation to the status of woman in industry is that her position as an industrial worker is, and always must be, of secondary importance to her position in the home. To provide the conditions which render a strong and healthy family life possible to all is the first interest of the State, since the family is the foundation-stone of the social system. It is accordingly the duty of the State to ensure that women are only employed as factors in industrial efficiency in so far as the interests of family life and the healthy development of the race are not prejudiced …
Presumably it will be possible for 400,000 women to return to domestic service or small workshops, from which they have been withdrawn, either by the attraction of higher remuneration or the needs of the country. If, however, women are to be persuaded to enter those occupations in large numbers the wages, hours, and conditions of work will require very considerable amendment. In particular, the conditions of domestic service will have to be greatly improved …
Quite so, Cate thought, but it would not be as easy as it sounded When they built these houses three or six centuries ago in this country, builders thought of permanence, grace, stateliness … in earlier times, of defence, too. They did not think so much of comfort for the owners, and not at all for the domestic staff. The kitchen here at the Manor was a long way from the dining and breakfast rooms, and food had to be covered and carried. There was no central heating, so each room needed a fireplace, so coal scuttles had to be filled and carried, fireplaces cleaned, fires laid. The houses were often needlessly large, especially when the children grew up and left home … again, to make for graciousness; but large houses needed large staffs to keep them clean, and in good repair.
The Manor needed another maid, at least; but it was doubtful if he would ever find one. He could not afford the wages that would be asked; and young girls would no longer come here. Their rooms were small, their hours long. So the house would slowly decay. Was that what the war had been fought for?
Isabel had told him that though they could still get domestic help in America, they generally employed many fewer than in England; and that for some years now, certainly since the turn of the century, architects had been designing houses that could be run with small staffs, or even none at all. ‘I could run this place with one helper,’ she had said, sweeping a small elegant hand at the Manor from the front lawn one summer day last year. ‘I can cook. I can use a vacuum cleaner – ever heard of those, Christopher? You would learn to wash and dry dishes. I can iron … Of course, I wouldn’t have much time to be Lady Bountiful to the village – open fetes, preside at the Women’s Institute, and so on … but I don’t think that part of your position is going to be so important after the war, if it exists at all … Of course it would be easier if we tore the old place down and …’
‘Isabel!’ he had cried, shocked; for the site of the Manor had been occupied since Roman times; and there was a line of Roman tiles in the cellar wall to prove it.
She had laughed then, taking his arm – ‘I was only teasing, darling. If I ever live here with you, we shall live in the correct, time-honoured English discomfort … except that there will be those wonderful heated towel rails, and the lovely big WC with a view of the Down and the little bookshelf beside you as you sit …’
‘Isabel!’ … He heard his own cry again, from the past, as Garrod came in, her colour returned, her step nearly as perky as ever; but not quite, for age was advancing upon her, too.
‘More coffee, sir?’
Chapter 11
The Western Front: August, September, 1918
The air was bumpy over Picardy, for the summer sun had blazed down on it all day, and evening thunderstorms were building up in the southwest, advancing now, black-fronted, across the cratered land far below. Guy Rowland led his squadron eastward at 10,000 feet in his favourite fighting formation, a stepped-up V of Vs, his rear flights being nearly 500 feet higher than C Flight, in the lead, and his own machine at the point. It was four o’clock in the afternoon.
The Camel heaved and dropped forty feet … up now on an updraught … lurch sideways … from the corner of his eye he saw that C Flight was suffering just as he was … violently up … the propeller blades momentarily catching the sun, forming a whirling gold disc in front of him … down, the bottom dropped out of the bloody air … steady … Something made him turn his head and look back over his right shoulder. The pilot at the right rear of the squadron, the wing man of A Flight, was waggling his wings. His flight commander had seen and was peeling off in an upward climbing turn. As yet Guy could not see what they were turning towards, but he swept his arm round and at the same time gave a touch to pedal and stick to pull his Camel up and round. As soon as he was into the turn he saw them – specks at 15 or 16,000 feet, in the south-west, the eye of the sun, and coming down fast … And many of them … he couldn’t count properly for the glare of the sun on his goggles, but there must be about twenty triplanes. Then they were on them, the Fokkers diving down through the formation with guns chattering and long streaks of tracer whirling off and past, curving in strange-seeming arcs from the trajectory of the bullet and the deflection imparted by the machines’ bank and skid. Yellow wheels: Jasta 16 … Werner would be here somewhere … cunning old sod, taking up two squadrons of the Jagdgeschwader when he normally never went out with more than
one … Someone was getting on his tail, he glanced round … not quite ready yet … must be new to the front because he was settling down to steady his aim. Couldn’t do that against good pilots and every German out here knew that the Three Threes was good … He made ready to spin out, when what he had been waiting for happened. A stream of tracer from the Camel which had been above and behind him hit the attacking triplane in the engine and cockpit. It fell out of the sky … No time to wonder what had happened to it. He swung violently left and found himself on a Fokker’s tail … pulled the stick back to steady himself and immediately rammed it forward … tracer arching past his head. Bloody fool, he’d come within half a second of doing what that German had done a few minutes ago … and he would have ended up the same way, down there, dead. He pulled up and turned, looking for a target in the milling three-dimensional game of tag … a Fokker crossed at speed – full deflection, he pressed the trigger and the tracer curved away from his gun muzzle … in front of the Fokker … damn, side slip, give it more bank with the rudder pedal, fire again … this time the bullets were striking home just behind the engine. The pilot started up, half-raising a gauntleted hand. Dead? No, his head was down, but he was controlling the machine … and tracer was flying past his own machine from behind. He crabbed round but the bullets kept coming … not close … well off to one flank. Dive, turn, twist, he was managing to keep one jump ahead of the German, but only just. Where the hell were the rest of his fellows? Someone ought to be able to get on the German’s tail and shoot him down, if he was so preoccupied in this man-to-man chase … The Fokker swung round in a wide circle and Guy muttered through gritted teeth, ‘Now I’ve got you, you …’; for the triplane was exposing its underbelly in a graceful curve ending in a loop. Then Guy saw the yellow wing ends outside the black crosses. It was Werner von Rackow, claiming victory. When the Fokker flattened out from its loop Guy was flying level with it and about a hundred yards away. Guy raised his fist and shook it at the German, shouting, ‘Try it again tomorrow, and …’ He knew perfectly well that von Rackow couldn’t hear, but was sure that he would nevertheless understand the message. Then the two young men waved and, each banking away, the distance between them rapidly grew until they could no longer see each other’s machines. At once Guy flew into towering cumulo-nimbus. Rain slashed against his goggles and stung his cheeks. His hands ached cold inside the big gloves … altitude 12,500 … remote rendezvous after a dogfight was 10,000 over St Quentin … north-west from here … The air currents inside the cloud were hair-raising … He felt himself being pushed upwards as though by a giant’s hand under the Camel. He put the stick forward until the nose was pointing almost straight down … the altimeter needles circled remorselessly round, climbing … in spite of everything he was being hurled upwards at 2000 feet a minute … out suddenly … thrown out of the top of that particular cloud – there were others to be seen towering much higher into the upper air … He was at 17,000 feet … Where was St Quentin? Think, man! Set course, north-west … He headed once more into the cloud, nose down, once more to be buffeted, thrown about … Down at last to 10,000 feet … in dense swirling cloud and hissing rain. No chance of making a RV here or now. Back to base. He headed west and twenty minutes later groped his way down out of the cloud base at 300 feet and flew home, hopping over the hedges, farmhouses, and hamlets of Picardy, to land in driving rain, the field already a morass.