“Cos he’s an absolute fucking bastard, that’s why.” Jack profoundly voiced the knowledge that was in the heart of every man by then.
There was a period of administration which was set aside for uniform and equipment exchanges at the back of the Company Quartermaster Sergeant’s wagon before the midday meal.
Other exchanges took place as well. “Ben let’s fix us some extra rum. This is gonna get all fucked-up damn quick,” said Jack.
“You got money for the CQMS?”
“Yea how else we gonna do the deal? So what you gonna chip in then?”
“Nothing else to spend it on is there?”
“Not unless you sneak out to the officers’ brothel.” Jack prodded Ben as they walked towards the CQMS’s truck.
The rotund Colour Sergeant was at his post in front of the dropped canvas curtain that covered the goodies in the back of the wagon. He looked a little scrupulous as they approached and lost his face in the bills and invoices of his stock. There were sounds from within as the storeman picked out from boxes, the demanded items for the men in the queue.
Of course no money exchanged hands for the uniformed items though the CQMS would still need to account for the stock dispensed, to the Battalion Quartermaster’s department. But when Jack and Ben reached the head of the queue a surreptitious hand went out from under the large stock sheets and money was passed into it; one shilling for one bottle. In this case two shillings.
“We’ll be needing more of this, after that little lot this morning, colour,” said Jack.
“Thought as much,” responded the moody money grabbing NCO whose red crown above his three sergeant’s stripes denoting the ‘colour’ sergeant rank seemed to shine more brightly that day. “I got a feeling the demand may go up all round.”
They didn’t get the rum straight there and then in daylight. Although the strictly controlled daily rum ration often was taken at the midday meal in line with the Naval practice when they were out of line. The ‘extras’ would need to wait until after last light when medical supplies were given out, foot inspections took place and the atmosphere was generally less vigilant. When forward in the trenches, it was sometimes even easier for the CQMS to get the ‘extras’ forward; perhaps via stretcher parties or the parcel post, which took packages, often from home, up to the trenches. Some men did sneak miniature bottles of alcohol through the parcel system, perhaps well wrapped by consenting parents or lovers, in thick socks, but most were confiscated, to feed the supply of extras. Besides jack did not want miniatures. He wanted a decent drink.
Ben had become used to that as well. As to the others they were content with complaining and moping and getting their legitimate share. The Corporal was under the influence of the Platoon Sergeant, still turned a blind eye but his loyalty to either side was questionable.
All loyalties would begin to shift. Regimes, previously anchored, would break loose.
The midday meal was taken under the watchful eye of the new RSM, carrying his useless pace-stick again, drawing out-of-earshot comments such as; “I could find a use for that pace-stick, up ’is fucking arse so far ’e could use the brass bits to fill ’is fucking teeth.”
“Knock his fucking teeth out from behind you mean.”
As if in response the RSM pacing the muddy road between companies, grouped around their cook sergeants’ galleys, from which sounds of metal mess tins being filled and mugs and the occasional satisfied laugh emanated; let out a little impatient expletive, followed by a menacing growl. “NOT FOR LONG, you’ ll soon be back in it!” As if somehow they were going to be rewarded for enduring the extra rifle drill by an early return to the front.
That soon wiped away the laughter from those in earshot. Men miserably took their meal and bowed their heads, quickly returning to billets to shelter from the rain which had started again.
Thunder could be heard as well, but it was not the heavenly variety. Long-range artillery boomed and rolled, presaging something.
For the battalion it was training; section by section, platoon by platoon, gas drills, then finally combining the three rifle companies into a battalion simulated attack.
Rules of multiples dominated military formations, often it was threes, or the four battalion ‘square’ brigade. But at the heart of the army was the soldier and his companion or two; a two, sometimes three-man team. Sometimes they seemed welded together, such as the Lewis team. Sometimes they hung together for convenience, such as rum.
The next day brought another change. They were being ‘thrown in’ somewhere. No longer reserve, they were marching up to fill a gap. The pace-stick finally found a use as the RSM measured the pace of the leading troops. It was not Alpha Company but Charlie up front, always said to be the Old Man’s favourite; perhaps because he always encouraged tail-enders and underdogs. With Alpha and Bravo constantly competing in football and marksmanship, Charlie seemed content to bring up the rear.
The new RSM probably did notice this as he tapped and called out time: “Eft, ight, eft, ight. Keep up the pace there. No gaps between or within companies.” He looked back down the men marching in three ranks. The road was metalled and pot-holed in places but they could still march in formation; boots thumping the tarmac and breaking step over a hole; rifles and equipment banged and scuffled. Men coughed deeply. “SNCOs on the DOUBLE, keep your men up in line.”
Some SNCOs liked being shouted at and goaded on with the men in earshot, as it gave them an excuse to do it to their charges.
On they rumbled in the rain; creaking, coughing and scuffling, some with the rifle slung over the left shoulder, its sling gripped, together with shoulder straps of a ramshackle array of equipment, by a hand which lay over the heart, as they had for the photograph.
It was a seven-mile march to their new area.
CHAPTER THREE
Another use for a trenching tool
Wet and tired they arrived at some holding area having been held up by the presence of two thousand German prisoners being marched through to the prisoner ‘cage.’ The Battalion stood bedraggled in Company groups waiting for news of billets or whether it would be straight up to the front. All the spirit and complaining had gone. What remained was merely a sullenness. Other logistic type outfits were there; horses, trucks and ambulances. There seemed a lot of ambulances. A six-gun artillery battery was parked half off the road with the outside wheels seeming stuck fast in mud creating a useless tilt which forbade any early deployment into an operational position.
They had been put on ‘two hours’ notice to move’, which meant men could get out some food and settle a bit. Perhaps try to boil up some tea. Men grumbled into groups, sitting off the road, packs off; part of the indecisive mess of war.
“READY TO MOVE IN FIVE,” came a sudden shout from the area where the battalion headquarters were assembled, near to a mud-spattered twelve-by-twelve tent that perhaps was some communications post. The battalion had radios though their working was often suspect.
“Move where? Why so quick, we’re on two hours?” Men kicked over partly boiling tea with an expletive; “Fuck this battalion.”
The officers were called into a huddle.
Men remained seated at the roadside, rifles resting on packs. Helmets were tilted back off heads and boots stretched out. New uniforms were already soaked and puttees mud-caked. Men had cursed the lack of new boots at the last billet. They were an absolute rarity. When the uppers broke free from soles some even had to bandage them up. The ‘new army boot’, was a myth that never became real. But good CQMSs did manage to procure some ‘returned’ pairs, from casualties no longer needing them, which came down the line eventually.
Surprisingly quickly the officers returned and fanned out back to their respective companies. The urgency about them planted a dread seed in some.
For Jack it was just another ‘fuck up’. As far as they had been told by the Old Man they should have advanced about five miles by now, in the original plan.
“We collect
a day’s rations and ammunition; then we go forward,” said the platoon commander who had gathered them all together.
“How far, sir?”
As if in reply a dull repetitive boom started, each explosion following before the other had reached its end. The guns were not far and the shells were not going over their heads. They were in support of another part of the battle. What battle?
“Not far, as you can hear.”
“Rum coming up sir, keep out the wet?” Jack’s usual question.
“Definitely not before we go up. We’ll be in by last light.”
Companies were already getting ammo from the back of a truck. The RSM was supervising that. The rations had not yet arrived.
“Not going nowhere without a couple of tins of something.” moaned Ernest.
“You’ll go when you are told.” The Platoon Sergeant had heard the complaint.
“But Sarge I ain’t got nothing!”
“That’s because you eat what’s in your pack even when there’s food cooked for you, you lanky scrounger,” said his corporal.
When things were ‘fucked up’, changes happened fast. But it seemed that no speed could be injected to make what had been promised, actually happen. So they were rushed off, without the resupply of rations mentioned by the platoon commander.
“It’ll be up tomorrow, should have at least one days on you all,” called the Sergeant as they were hurried into marching order.
“Make that one measly packet of biscuits,” said someone.
Ernest had dropped into a black silence.
They hurried forward loaded with ammunition. Water-bottles had been replenished. They marched in file, or twos, not three ranks and soon the rough ground broke up the file as well.
Who was leading?
Alpha was in front this time. But they had pioneers guiding them. They smoked surreptitiously, coughing up phlegm which they left green and glistening in mouthfuls on the track side. The booming continued.
A small rise ended the track and they entered the trench system. The companies split. Alpha went forward, encouraged by the quality of the trench system they had entered. Saps and dugouts were plain and carefully revetted. Why were they empty?
“They’ve taken the bodies out of here then,” said Ben.
“Ain’t bin any bodies, nobody been here, engineers built these, only finished a few day ago,” replied one of the pioneers.
“No nasty little surprises then, left by night visitors,” the Corporal spoke.
“We bin here holding the fort.”
“I thought we was about to attack, not defend,” pointed out Ben.
The pioneer did not reply.
“Like always, all fucked-up,” commented jack.
It was still hard daylight and they weren’t making any effort to conceal the noise of boots scuffing and treading boards and equipment snagging and rubbing and curses and mumbled comments.
“Quieten down you men.” The Platoon Commander was close behind the lead section, so they stopped talking, though the noise of equipment and steps made more noise than words.
They still moved quickly into the forward trench. It had almost everything, from fire and sentry steps, a decent bunker and newly dug latrine.
“This looks fit for a Royal Regiment, just need a fourposter in ’ere.” The Corporal was impressed and sat down in the bunker to start his pipe going.
“No just us fuckers,” said Jack.
The Lieutenant popped his head into the bunker. “Get your Lewis sited, Corporal, and make sure you get a good handover from the pioneers before they leave.”
“Very well sir.” The Lieutenant departed to do the same with the other sections, one to the left and one behind on the rising ground.
As they gingerly climbed a ladder, they could see the lie of the land. They were the end of the decent trench system. To their right the ground dropped away in a mass of broken wire and mud.
“We need a heavy machinegun up here not this popgun,” was the first reaction of Alfred’s number three, the young recruit named Peter.
“They gonna come through there tonight. Up to the Hun positions, up there.” The pioneer pointed towards the low ridgeline to the east.
“Who is going to come through?” The Corporal took his pipe out of his mouth for a short time.
“Well it’s gonna be most of the Brigade.”
“Not our Brigade.”
“No you’re the reserve now.”
The men listening in shook their heads. “We hear this from you, never hear nothing from our own people,” complained an exasperated Peter.
“I know it cos I laid out the starting line, the jump off trench. Like as not they don’t know it yet.”
The pioneer was a sergeant. But his stripes were muddy and discoloured. His uniform was caked. He had several days of beard merging into a dark moustache. He grinned. This was his war. “But now I’m going back to the Corps area for redeployment, and hopefully a few nights rest.”
“And leave us to the fucking battle, thanks Sarge.” The Corporal was getting nervous.
“Done my job mate. Look at the trenches we dug for you. If you can’t stay alive in them you didn’t ought to be here anyway.”
He disappeared quickly after that. And a Five-Nine shell burst in his wake just on the top of the trench they had used for access. The section were showered with wet mud.
Darkness drew on. The booming increased. There was some screeching of shells now as well.
“How far did ’e say that Hun ridge was?” Called the gunner Peter over his shoulder as he eased the Lewis forward, towards darkness before handing it gratefully to Alfred.
“He didn’t,” said Jack from the bunker.
“Mistake.” The Corporal sucked on his pipe.
“Your mistake I think, pal.”
“That black ridge seems to be getting closer anyway,” said the gunner.
No one replied to that obvious statement.
But the next one brought immediate interest. “That barrage is beginning to creep.”
“YOU SURE?” shouted the Corporal, as they all began to react.
“Yes, I’m sure,” came the reply.
“Let’s go and see the firework show then.” Jack was the first out of the bunker, followed by Ben, the corporal and Ernest who was still in the doorway and Bert behind him.
A huge flash blinded them.
“HUN,” screamed Peter. It was too close to get the gun going but Peter at the gunner’s side fired his .303 straight into the face of one grey-uniformed attacker. Others were in the trench or on the firing step. There was screaming and firing in the trenches to their left. One came over a couple of yards to Ben’s left. Images were blurred in the flashing lights which followed the blindness of the initial blast. A fury gave the adrenalin might. Ben had his rifle in his left hand but his right had hold of an entrenching spade which he suddenly clattered on the rifle approaching him. He was the quicker but the rifle was still discharged, into the trench wall. Ben’s .303 was ready with a round in the chamber. He fired at the man to his left. He was left-handed. The Hun fell into the bottom of the trench.
Ben turned. Jack had bayoneted and shot another. They were big, heavy men, like huge grey rats. One screamed in the bottom of the trench, and tried to bring his rifle up as he had fallen there awkwardly. Ben brought the trenching tool down across the side of his face under the grey helmet, with a force borne of fear. He felt the sharp edge bite but he didn’t look at the result, to see how much blood gushed out of the neck. He knew the head kind of jerked oddly. His eyes were almost closed, almost sightless from the flashes and all their ears were blocked by explosions. The Lewis team and the Corporal were fighting their own battle a few yards behind them with screams, gunfire, the bayonet and even grenades booming in the bunker which were to leave a terrible trail for them to discover.
Someone had got the Lewis firing. A parachute flare popped above them and blindness was ended for a bit. There was shouting and f
iring everywhere to the left and right. But no more Hun came over the top of the trench. Ben and Jack saw each other in the light above them, which was floating earthward and soon would be extinguished.
“Fucking hell.” There was nothing more to be said.
The two grey lumps in the bottom of the trench were still and dead.
Ben’s heart beat in his ears. He looked back at the gun team, there was only one man behind it, firing like a maniac, with flashes spurting from the barrel.
A wild figure was in the bottom of the trench, waving his rifle. “That bunker’s a fucking mess.” It was the Corporal.
“Where’s Ernie and them?” Shouted Ben.
“That’s what I mean, the bunker’s a fucking mess.”
“At least the gun’s going… Is that Alfred?” asked Jack.
“Alfred’s dead,” came the response, between bursts which were calm and measured.
“What you firing at?” shouted the Corporal. It was a pointless question, firing was everywhere, it must have been at something, or perhaps nothing. The Corporal was afraid of another bunch of grey figures to finish them all off.
“Fucking Hun, moving down there to the right.” The words were whipped away by the cacophony. Another flare went up. “Look.”
“Our blokes supposed to be moving down there,” screamed Ben.
“No, I can see em, it’s Hun.”
“I’m coming over.” The Corporal had been paralysed but suddenly found his role. But he didn’t go immediately, his feet had lead in them.
Ben and Jack shook with adrenalin and stood looking over the trench parapet. The flare burnt out.
There was a sudden movement behind them, followed by a shout; “Platoon commander!”
They would have shot him, but the silhouette of the helmet in the dying of the flare gave him away as he slid down the communications trench. “Looks like Hun taking advantage to have a go at us before the brigade down there could get their attack going,” he panted breathlessly as he reached them. “Keep your positions here. Ward off the Hun if he comes again. Any casualties?”
A Cellist Soldier Page 3