by John Masters
Chapter 19
Flanders: January, 1919
The 1st Battalion, the Weald Light Infantry, was on ceremonial parade, in the battered main square X of Roulers. The steel helmets gleamed under new green paint, in the light rain. The web belts and buckles were uniformly green-grey, of the same shade, as also the webbing rifle slings; the trousers knife-creased to six inches below the knee where they were turned in and up one inch, below that hidden by eight exactly spaced folds of khaki puttee. The boots shone black with heelball and boot polish, the brass tabs shone, the fixed bayonets glittered with their peacetime silvery fire, for the sandblasting had been done away with. The new commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel the Honourable Thomas Wylie, was inspecting, each company springing to attention at its own commander’s order, as the colonel, his adjutant, and the Regimental Sergeant-Major reached the right end of its front rank.
‘Dirty buttons,’ the CO said. ‘Take his name.’
‘Gottim, sir.’
‘Mud on the puttee. Why didn’t you see that, Captain Kellaway?’
‘I … did, sir,’ Kellaway stammered, ‘but he had no time to get it off before we had to march on …’
‘No excuse!’
The little procession crawled slowly on. In the rear rank of B Company Private Snaky Lucas muttered, ‘He don’t see as much as Old Rowley did. Smith ’46 up there’s forgot his ruddy bayonet!’
From behind him Sergeant Fagioletti hissed, ‘Quiet in the rear rank!’
Lucas shut his mouth. The Dago was a good sergeant – not as good in peacetime as he was when it came to a scrap, perhaps, but all right. He was finding it hard to understand what all this square bashing was about, and why it was important. A lot of the new blokes felt the same, blokes that had come in since the retreat … over forty, half of them, didn’t know anything about the army and didn’t want to. Some of them would be going back to Blighty now, because they were ‘key’ men. Other blokes thought it was a bleeding swindle, but the way he looked at it, it was good riddance. The Wealds didn’t need blokes with their minds on their ruddy mortgages and grown-up children. It wasn’t that sort that went in with the bayonet at the Kaiwan Pass in ’99, or burned the nigger town down in Kurramabad in ’06 … what the hell was that all about anyway? Something to do with a bloke in C Company being robbed in a bibikhana. Those were the days …
‘General salute – present … arms!’
He sprang automatically to attention, and jerked his rifle to the present.
‘Order arms!’ Down, at ease.
‘Unfix!’ To attention … right marker stamping out … ‘Bayonets!’ Rifle between the knees, bayonet off, searching for the mouth of the scabbard with the point, his left thumb over it … someone to his right couldn’t find the hole, Fagioletti hissing, ‘You’d be in quick enough if it had ’air round it!’ Oldest joke in the army … Right marker’s hand flashing up, straighten, at ease.
He waited. ‘B Company, move to the right in column of fours … right! By the left, quick march’ … snap to attention, step out with the left foot, at the same instant jerk the rifle up into the trail … the band was playing, the bugles were screaming, the drums bang bang banging at a hundred and forty paces a minute.
‘B Company … eyes … right!’ Snap eyes right. There was the colonel, saluting, and behind him the adjutant, Mr Woodruff, and the Regimental, Bolton … a row of shop fronts at the back, and some watching Belgians, mostly women. The women here liked British soldiers: they spent more money than their own men did.
‘Halt … Dismiss!’
He walked back towards his billet. The madame was there, arms folded. She was about fifty and her husband had come back a month ago from prisoner-of-war camp in Germany. She spoke now in a broken English she had learned during the war, together with a similar brand of German, to go with her French and her native Flemish – ‘’Ave you ’ear … when you go on?’ She pointed to the east, towards Germany.
‘Not a thing, mother,’ Lucas said. The woman’s two sons were coming home from the Belgian Army any day, and she’d need the room which Lucas now shared with three other privates of the Wealds. He went on upstairs. Pay day yesterday and his pockets were still full, as he’d held off, mostly getting drinks off other blokes, particularly the young ones who’d stand him a beer and a fag to hear him talk about Mons and India … India, mostly. That’s what they liked to hear, nigger servants bringing you tea in the barrack room, the nappi-walla shaving you while you were still asleep on your charpoy.
The other fellows were clumping up the steep stairs, crowding into the little room, hanging up their equipment, and helmets, taking off their wet greatcoats … no room to hang them all, but they’d got to be creased and pressed by tomorrow.
‘I’m going to the estaminet,’ he said. ‘No more parades today. Let’s have a booze up.’
‘You stand treat, Snaky?’ Private Halton asked. ‘Wonders will never cease!’
‘What I want is about eight pints of pig’s ear,’ Smith ’87 said, ‘but what we’ll get … is van bloody blong!’
‘Are you coming or not?’
‘All right, all right, wait a mo …’
The estaminet was full of soldiers, and cigarette smoke, and the loud sound of voices. The four soldiers ordered a bottle of white wine and sat down at a scrubbed table. Nearby another group of four were gloomily singing one of the battalion’s favourite billet-area songs:
Dan, Dan, the sanitary man,
Working underground all day
Sweeping up urinals,
Picking out the finals,
Whiling the happy hours away –
Gor Blimey!
The B Company men drank, half-emptying the bottle. ‘I’m bloody fed up with this bloody Art Karney,’ Smith ’87 said. ‘Why the ’ell aren’t we on our way ’ome? Or back in Blighty already – sitting in armchairs, wiv our wives and girls taking off our boots, and just waiting for us to say “Up them stairs!” Aaah!’
Halton said, ‘Bloody square bashing in bloody Belgium while blokes in Ally Fucking Slopers Fucking Cavalry, wot ’aven’t ’eard a shot fired in anger, go ’ome and take all the jobs that’s going … I’ve ’alf a mind to start a fucking mutiny, and that’s the truth.’
At the next table they moved to the second verse:
Doing his little bit,
Shovelling up the shit,
He is so blithe and gay.
And the only music that he hears
Is poo-poo-poo-poo-poo all day.
‘Go and get another bottle of van blong,’ Lucas said. ‘You’d do wonders, you would … in your trousers. ’Ow long ’ave you been out? Four months?’
‘Five,’ Halton said defensively. ‘And wounded once, Snaky. But they’ve demobbed a dozen blokes that didn’t come out till a week before the fucking armistice! Is that fair, I ask you?’
‘Don’t ask me,’ Lucas said, pouring more wine. ‘Ask the Chief of the Imperial General Staff. Or what about forming up to Field-Marshal Sir Douglas ’Aig? … ’Spose we set up the board?’
‘’Ere? We’ll be for the Glasshouse, for sure. The Red Caps is always popping in and out of here.’
‘Not here, man, in the barn behind the church. Where we went last week. No one found out about that.’
‘’Ave you got everything with you?’
Lucas nodded, saying, ‘Let’s get four more blokes.’ He looked round the crowded room, searching for eager young soldiers who were likely to have money in their pockets and the innocence to lose it to him at Crown & Anchor.
‘There,’ he began, ‘you go and whisper to …’
The outer door burst open and the Regimental stood in the opening. ‘Silence!’ he bellowed in a voice that could have been heard a mile away. The men fell silent. ‘The battalion is to move at once … field service marching order. Fall in by companies! The bugles are calling now, but you blokes couldn’t hear, you were making so much row on your own. Everyone back to his own billet to kit up!’
He turned to go, as a voice called, ‘Are we going on to Germany now, Mr Bolton?’
‘I ’ope so. The Jerries has good beer, not this ’orse piss,’ another cried.
The RSM said, ‘We’re not going forward. We’re going back, the whole division, marching on in lorries, as soon as they can find some for us. There’s trouble in Calais and Ee-taps …’
‘The ruddy Bullring!’ someone said. ‘Wot the ’ell …?’
‘Shut up and get out now!’ the RSM bellowed. ‘At the double!’
Lieutenant Ron Gregory, Royal Engineers, stood by the window of the hut at the Reinforcement and Transit Camp, near Calais, watching the crowd of soldiers milling about outside. Another officer stood beside him; the third occupant of the hut was lying on his bed, reading a book; the fourth inhabitant was not present. The officer beside Gregory said, ‘What are they doing now?’
‘Talking,’ Gregory said shortly. ‘Perhaps they’re deciding to bash all officers’ heads in.’
The man beside him said, ‘They won’t do that to us … to some of the MPs, and the sergeants on the camp staff, perhaps. They know we’re just passing through on our way to demob.’
Gregory cocked his head and tried to hear. A soldier in a greatcoat, standing on a box, surrounded by two or three hundred others, was waving his arms and shouting – ‘Comrades, we’ve done our bit, right? They’re holding us here because a lot of us are trade union men. They’re making sure the blacklegs get the jobs … our jobs. Who do you think is a “key man”?’ – he yelled the last words with great scorn – ‘A “key man” is a man that doesn’t belong to no union and swears he never will, either!’
He stopped to draw breath, and a clear, harsh voice from the crowd shouted, ‘So what are we going to do?’
The speaker shouted back, pointed his finger, ‘Stay where we are. Refuse to obey any orders. They’ll cave in and send us all back to Blighty, you’ll see.’
‘Send a telegram to John Bull,’ another voice cried. ‘Tell ’em we want Horatio Bottomley over ’ere … He’ll ’elp us.’
‘Shoot all the officers!’ a voice cried.
Gregory thought, here it comes; but at once a deep murmur arose, and he made out men shouting, ‘No … no … what have they done?’
‘Wot about Sergeant Byfield, then?’ another voice cried. ‘’E deserves shooting!’
‘Sergeant Byfield, Sergeant, Byfield, Bloody Byfield, Bloody Byfield …’ A hundred took up the chant; suddenly the crowd broke up, most men streaming off in search of Sergeant Byfield, some dispersing. Gregory had never heard of Byfield; but he had only arrived yesterday, and expected to be on a ship within the week.
The orator was left almost alone on his box. He glared after the retreating soldiers and raised both arms to heaven; then jumped down and walked off, with three or four companions, their heads close. Gregory closed the window, went to his bed and lay back on it, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. God knew when he’d get home now. The camp staff were having no success in getting the men to return to their duty. So far no one had been hurt … except now, probably Sergeant Byfield; but there was no progress, either. Naomi was home already, he believed: the last he had heard, her convoy was to be disbanded the first week of the month and all the women sent back to England, their service with the FANY terminated. She’d be waiting for him in the house with the nice name – High Staining. He was rather apprehensive about the prospect. Was her mother as strong as she? Would they look down their noses, now that the war was over, because he was just an ordinary middle-class Londoner … his father was a dentist and his mother’s father a haberdasher. He saw Naomi’s face before him, her wide clear eyes looking into his. He wished she were here now. She’d know what to do, and honestly, he didn’t. What could you do with five thousand angry men, who felt they’d been badly treated? And with whom you agreed?
The door opened and the fourth officer came in, closing the door quickly behind him and drawing the bolt. He was a lieutenant of the Royal Field Artillery, his name was Haddon, and that was all Gregory knew about him. Haddon said, ‘Listen, you fellows … I saw the camp adjutant, and they’re going to make another effort first thing tomorrow, seven ack emma. The bugles will blow for parade, and an officer is to be at each barrack room and hut, calling on all men to get on parade. He’s to read this, aloud, in the barrack room. It’s a message from the Commander-in-Chief, Field-Marshal Haig, that they are hindering the peaceful progress of demobilisation, and endangering our victory over the Germans …’
‘Does he say what’ll happen if they don’t get on parade?’ Gregory asked.
Haddon shook his head, ‘No, I have no idea what can be done. These men are mostly Army Service Corps, motor transport drivers, ordnance corps … a lot of them were trade unionists before they were conscripted. They don’t have the esprit de corps of the regiments.’
‘There are RAF and Royal Engineers out there,’ Gregory said. ‘They have plenty of esprit de corps.’
Haddon shrugged – ‘Well, here’s the allotment. You’re to Hut 45, East Camp. Here’s your copy of Haig’s message. Be outside the barrack by five to seven, the adjutant said.’
‘Armed?’
‘Unarmed. No weapons of any sort.’
One of the other officers said, ‘But they’re all armed.’
‘Do you want to start a fight, five hundred against five thousand?’
Waiting outside Hut No. 45 in the East Camp, shivering in the raw early morning wind, the light just strong enough to see the puddles in his path, Gregory found himself shivering, too, from apprehension. He was not a professional soldier, nor an officer by caste, but an electrical engineer. He had not been closer than half a mile to the front line in his two and a half years out here, for there was nothing electrical to be found further forward than that. He had been under shell fire half a dozen times, and he had not liked it at all, for it had seemed inhuman, impersonal, mindlessly violent. What would he do if the men told him to fuck off? Or, worse, came at him yelling, grabbing him by the collar to throw him out? The pips on his shoulders had seemed like talismans for so long; now they might as well not exist … or even be a danger, marking him as an enemy.
He waited, peering at the luminous dial of his watch. A minute to go. He walked closer and stopped, listening. They were awake in the hut, and talking. The electric lights were on … the camp had its own petrol-driven generator, 220 volts AC, 60 cycle, operated by his own corps, he’d found that out within an hour of his arrival … A bugle blew, the call taken up at once by another, and another. They were blowing the reveille all round the camp. He found the piece of paper in his pocket, opened the door of the hut, and walked in.
All the occupants of the hut – twenty-five or so soldiers – were gathered round a couple of beds at the far end. Someone was speaking, low-voiced, urgent – ‘We got to do something … more than tear Bloody Byfield’s clothes off and whip him into town. We got to burn the records.’
Gregory cleared his throat and cried, ‘Men!’ It came out as a croak and he tried again – ‘Men! The bugles have sounded reveille. First parade is in forty-five minutes.’ They were silent, all turned, staring at him. He held up the paper to the light and cried, ‘This is a message to all of you from Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force.’
The man who had been speaking shouted, ‘Shut up! We aren’t listening to anything Haig has to say to us.’
Gregory raised his voice and continued, ‘Your action in refusing to obey orders …’
The soldier shouted, ‘Sing, mates! Sing! The Red Flag!’ He waved a hand in time.
‘The victory won by our sacrifices over the past four years …’
They were yelling at the tops of their voices, Gregory yelling back at them. A soldier who had broken away from the group muttered in his ear, ‘Better go, sir. You’ve done your best.’ Gregory saw that the man was from his own corps, and said, ‘What are y
ou doing with these scum? You’re a sapper!’
‘No use arguing now, sir. The bolshies are in charge, and no one’s going to fight ’em because we’re all fed up … me, too.’
Gregory waited a minute, glaring at the singers. Some glared back, some would not meet his eye. He turned and left the hut.
The camp was in turmoil, men tumbling out of huts everywhere, forming groups, those coagulating into larger groups, all eddying hither and thither. After a time, as Gregory stood watching, a general movement began towards the central parade ground, outside the huts of the headquarters offices. He followed: might as well learn all he could, and the men didn’t seem to have any animus against officers, unless perhaps they tried to take charge of … whatever was going on. A man in civilian clothes fell in beside him, and said, ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’ He held out his hand – ‘I’m Wilfred Bentley, MP for Mid Scarrow.’
‘Oh, Hedlington,’ he said – ‘I’m Ron Gregory.’
‘A sapper, I see,’ the MP said. ‘I was 60th before I swallowed too much chlorine, early in ’16. I came over on a night boat to see if I could help restore order. They’re in a great tizzy about this in Whitehall, I can tell you.’
‘It looks bad,’ Gregory said. ‘They’ve got reasonable complaints – the demobilisation system’s very unfair, and it’s working terribly slowly. There are very few men from the fighting arms here …’
‘So I’ve been told,’ Bentley said. ‘Mostly ex-trade unionists from the technical services. Well, I’m a Labour MP so I don’t think that’s bad, and perhaps they’ll listen to me.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ Gregory said. ‘There are a lot of agitators among them, egging them on to burn the records … perhaps burn the whole camp down.’
They had come up behind the crowd now, which was gathered round a table dragged out from an office. A soldier was standing on the table – the same man Gregory had been watching and listening to yesterday. Perhaps six hundred men were gathered round him, and more hurrying up all the time. The man on the table raised both arms – ‘Comrades! … we’re running around like chickens with their heads cut off. We’ve got to act together and towards a common end … We’ve got to form a Soldiers’ Council.’