In the growing light of day, the British soldiers scurried forward through the trenches, blackened by drying blood and littered with remains dashed and discarded in the haste to escape. In places, the blood and mud formed sticky cloying patches of crimson, which clung tightly to soldiers and trapped misplaced boots, as if trying to drag the individual down into the cursed depths below.
Ahead of them the low sprawling village of Fampoux lay, powder blasted into grey and black, the trees all burnt and smashed away so that only shattered stumps remained. The tallest building in the village, the church, had been broken clean in two, one half blown over the surrounding houses, the standing half tilting to one side so severely it looked like only the slightest of breezes would bring the whole lot tumbling down.
The soldiers could make out lines of quaint little houses standing in long rows along the outskirts of the village, no wider than half a mile. Cafés and shops encircled small squares, all now smashed or damaged by shells or dissected by a web of trenches.
Litter and filth were everywhere, over the fields and across the road down which the soldiers marched. Bits of machinery and broken tools could be seen wherever one looked but strangely, the vast cannons and artillery units, concealed behind ridges or driven into the depths of shrubbery, appeared undamaged, abandoned in the Germans’ haste to leave. Flapping papers floated and tumbled across the landscape on the breeze now slowly picking up.
There was also a sharp smell of coal smoke which embraced the soldiers as they drew into the fabric of the village, a clinging acidic stench that clung to nostrils and the backs of mouths. The only sound was that of the soldiers’ boots crunching and kicking in the rubble as they passed through it. Even the guns had fallen silent. A noisy crow took up its squawking from the roof of a crumpled terrace, the walls emerging from the ground like the bones of a dinosaur regurgitated from the earth.
Major Pewter drew his horse to one side and watched his men march past. Occasionally a soldier would call out to him with good wishes and he would acknowledge them with a stiff hand.
Every now and then a dog would bark, the noise punctuating the severity of the silence. Nothing else stirred, save for the occasional creak of a broken shutter or the knock of a door swinging free on its hinges.
Pewter could barely contain his joy. A mile or two to the north the British, French and Germans were locked in a bloody impasse, mired down in trenches and the dirt of the Arras Salient, whilst here he was walking into German territory without even firing a round. They would write about him in despatches, of that he had no doubt. He often imagined himself a Colonel, in the dark of night when the shells had finally fallen silent. It was all very well commanding a company of men but he aspired to more. Goodness knows he was capable of handling more than one hundred odd men.
An oval faced child pushed forward from a shamble of buildings on the main thoroughfare. He had ears that stuck out too much and dark eyes which seemed too close together. But it were his teeth which caught the attention, a broad set of immaculate looking teeth, beaming from between his cracked and dirty lips. He appeared head to toe covered in dirt and dust and he carried with him a torn dusty union jack flag which he shook energetically as he stepped forward towards the approaching troops. He let one corner of it drop and raised a small clenched fist of victory.
“Vive la France!” he called. “Vive la Grande-Bretagne!” showing his delicious white teeth.
The appearance of the single welcoming child gave the village a now haunted feel. The desolation and silence within it was profound.
“What have you found there then, Lieutenant?” Pewter called down from his saddle.
“Something the Germans have left for us, I suppose?” replied Henry, studying the board. “A message.”
“Oh, and what would that be? Terribly sorry for causing all this trouble, Tommy?” Pewter laughed a high pitched haughty laugh.
“Beware the moon, Tommy,” Henry read off the board, looking around him and then back at the sign. “Wonder what they mean by that?”
“Probably some sort of empty threat,” the Major replied, sitting up in his saddle and looking east. “Giving us a clue as to his next attack. Probably planning night time barrages.” He admired the troops marching past him. “Chance’ll be a fine thing. They’ll have a hard time levering us out of Fampoux, the fools. Nevertheless, no harm in being prepared. We should set up a defensive perimeter around the town, just in case Jerry decides to take a pot shot at us.”
“I’ll pass the order down, sir,” Henry replied, looking back at the sign. There was something about the way it had been written, the scrawled letters scratched into the wood in haste. “Beware the moon, Tommy,” he said again, his hand to his chin.
“Yes, beware,” spoke the boy, who had sidled himself alongside. He placed a hand on Henry’s side. “Beware the moon,” he said, his eyes very serious.
Pewter stood up in his stirrups and peered down on his soldiers. “Goodness me, Frost!” he exclaimed. “Do you know what?”
“No sir.”
“I didn’t think this war was going to be quite this fun,” he chirped, before turning his horse and searching out a building in the village still standing that was suitable for one of his rank.