October 1914, France.
The bugle call sounded loud, clear and as intrusive as a douche of spring water, for the bugler stood in the predawn merely a few paces from where they all lay wrapped in groundsheets by the railway sidings, just outside Boulogne. A gentle rain was falling and it was cold, damned cold.
Jim Hickman shivered, threw aside his greatcoat and groundsheet and looked across at Bertie. True to form, Private Bertram Murphy, of King George V’s Territorial Force, continued to sleep, only his curly red hair peeping out from his turned-up coat collar, completely impervious both to the hardness of the ground on which he lay and the bustle all around him.
‘Get your mate up, or I’ll ’ave ’im on a charge as soon as you can say Kaiser Bill.’ The corporal emphasised his words by prodding Murphy with his boot.
‘Don’t worry, Corp, he’ll be up.’ Jim bent down and shook his friend. ‘Come on, Bertie. Rise and shine. Time to fight the Germans, mate.’
One sleepy eye, as blue as his mother’s best china, regarded him. ‘In France, then, are we, Jimmy?’ The muffled voice was mellifluously Irish and came from deep beneath the groundsheet. There was no sign of movement. ‘I think I’ll sleep on a bit, if it’s all the same to you, son. I’ve only just got comfortable enough to close me eyes, see. Give me another shout in a minute or two, there’s a feller.’
Hickman reached down, seized the end of his friend’s groundsheet and pulled, unrolling Murphy like a pork sausage from its wrapping.
The simile remained, however, for the Irishman lay inert on the wet ground, still, it seemed, sleeping.
‘For God’s sake, Bertie, get up.’ He pulled his friend to his feet and shook him. ‘We’re on the way to the front now, man. This bugler’s in the army, not the bleedin’ band. Come on, now. Smarten up.’
He flicked away a piece of mud that was attached to Murphy’s ear and jerked the rumpled tunic downwards in an attempt to straighten it. The Irishman regarded him with a happy smile and knuckled his eyes. In truth, the figure he cut was not soldierly. At just over five feet five inches, his rotund build made him seem much smaller than Hickman’s lean six feet, and his face was round and rosy. A dimple cut into his chin and his eyelashes were long and fair. He had somehow managed to button up his tunic haphazardly, so that it was lopsided. The binding of his puttees had come undone and one end trailed in the mud. The lace of his right boot draped over the toecap.
‘Am I not the very model of a modern British soldier, James?’ he dreamily enquired of his friend. ‘Just what you’d want to fight the savage foe, eh?’
‘You two.’ The corporal’s voice thundered. ‘If you’re not fallen in line within five seconds you’ll be on fatigues for a week. Move your bloody selves. NOW!’
There was no breakfast, no water to wash in or make tea and they waited gloomily, some two hundred of them, for the train that eventually trundled into view. The euphoria that had accompanied their crossing of the Channel from Folkestone – they had sung all the way – had lingered on when they landed on French soil. Girls had flung flowers at them and they had been offered glasses of wine as they marched through the streets of Boulogne, under the surly gaze of a troop of French soldiers who looked like something from a musical comedy with their long rifles and in their kepis, dark-blue frock coats curled back at the thighs, red pantaloons and white spats.
‘Toy soldiers, that’s what they are,’ growled a sergeant. ‘The Boche walked all over ’em in the seventies an’ they’re doing it again now. Let’s ’ope we can get ’em out of the mess they’re in.’
The euphoria had died quickly, however, as they reached the railway station at Boulogne to find no train waiting to take them to … where? Rumour fuelled the speculation: they were destined for a big counter-attack below Mons, where the French had sustained a great defeat, only saved from rout, it was said, because the tiny British Expeditionary Force had stemmed the German advance; or Paris itself, to where the Boche had advanced dangerously close; or perhaps Belgium, which the uhlans had ridden through contemptuously, spearing babies, it was said, on the end of their long lances. Wherever it was, there was no train to take them there and they were forced to wait on the platform and then march outside the town to the sidings where they camped in the open – and the rain began.
Now, however, as dawn began to seep through the pewter-coloured clouds, an aged locomotive was wheezing into sight, pulling a line of open cattle trucks.
Bertie’s eyes widened. ‘Surely the King is not himself sending us to war in these things,’ he cried. ‘I’ll get me stuff all dirty, I will.’
He and Jim filed on board and made themselves as comfortable as they could on the damp straw at the bottom of the truck, easing the large packs on their backs so that they could sit upright, and balancing their rifles so that the bolt mechanism was protected against the soft rain.
The sergeant who had spoken so disparagingly about the French army squeezed himself next to Hickman and took a puzzled gaze at his rifle.
‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘What’s that thing?’
‘It’s me rifle, Sergeant.’
‘I can see that, yer bloody fool. But what sort?’
‘Er … it’s a Mark I Lee-Metford.’
‘Ah. Single shot, eh?
‘Yes, Sarge.’
The sergeant sniffed. ‘You must be Territorials. I didn’t think Lord Kitchener wanted you lot over ’ere.’
Bertie, bright-eyed, leant over to join the conversation. ‘No, Sarge, he doesn’t. For some reason, y’see, he doesn’t like us and kept most of us back home to defend England’s green an’ pleasant land, although with respect, sorr, it ain’t so green and pleasant as Ireland, although to be true it’s bin years since I seen the place meself, see.’
The sergeant flicked the rain from the end of his long moustaches. ‘Wot’s ’e on about?’
‘He’s Irish, Sarge,’ said Jim, ‘although he’s really from Brum, like me. But we both wanted to fight and not stay at home, see, so we took the … what’s it called? … Ah, the imperial service obligation, that’s it, which allows Terriers to fight abroad, like.’
‘Humph. Well,’ the sergeant gestured to their rifles, ‘you won’t do much fighting with them things. They’re well outdated. You won’t last long with single shots. When the Huns come at yer in their ’undreds, as they do, you need rapid fire to ’old ’em. You just won’t ’ave time to pop single cartridges into the breech. They’ll be on yer before you can scratch yer arse. You’ve got to ’ave rapid fire and you’ve got to pump the bolt till yer ’ands bleed. I know …’ He paused. ‘I was at Mons, yer see. There were only a few of us there – cooks, clerks, grooms, the scrapings of the battalion thrown in to support the few Regulars like me that was left. To fill in the ’oles, so to speak.’
Jim and Bertie leant forward transfixed, their eyes on the leathery face at their side. But the sergeant now seemed almost unaware of their presence.
‘There seemed millions of ’em,’ he continued, staring at the strange assortment of soldiers squatting around him but seeing none of them. ‘Grey ’ordes of ’em, comin’ over massed together, their bayonets glintin’. We couldn’t miss at that range. We’d got no machine guns and we just pumped bullets in as fast as we could.’
He seemed to rejoin the present and turned his head back to Hickman and Riley. ‘They do say as ’ow the Germans thought we’d got Maxim guns, so fast was our firin’.’ His momentary elation quickly disappeared, however, and he sighed. ‘Now it looks as if we’ve got to do it all over again.’
A silence fell. Then: ‘Any idea where we’re going, Sarge?’ asked Jim.
‘The captain says it’s a little town over the Belgian border called Wipers, or somethin’ like that. I ’ear that things are desperate, ’cos we’re outnumbered, with little artillery an’ lots of their ’eavy stuff comin’ over. It’s another rescue job. This lot is a ragtag and bobtail get-together of every thing that could be thrown into the line.’
He indicated the men lining the walls of the truck and sitting awkwardly in the middle. ‘None o’ these is regulars. They’re mainly Reservists who’ve just arrived, with clerks, sanitary orderlies an’ so on from the back lines about ’ere who can be spared. If you’re from Birmingham, you won’t be joinin’ any Warwicks, as far as I know. An’ if you take my advice, you should get rid o’ those bleeding so-called rifles they’ve given you.’ He glanced sharply at them. ‘But don’t just lose ’em – that’s a court martial offence. At your first chance, stick mud in the breech, or something like that, so you get reissued with proper Lee-Enfields. But don’t say I said so.’
‘Thanks, Sarge.’ A glum silence descended on the group, to be broken with a half cheer as, eventually, the trucks shuddered into life and began to clunk forward.
Bertie bent his head towards his friend and whispered. ‘Just as well we’re the two best shots in the whole of the British army, then, Jimmy. Trouble is, if my hands are as cold as this when the Germans’ lads come at us, I’ll never get a single round into the bloody gun, that’s for sure. I’ll just have to throw mud at the bastards or take down me breeches an’ fart at ’em.’ He gave his great face-splitting smile. ‘That’ll put ’em off, so it will.’
If the situation at their destination was desperate, then the driver of the locomotive seemed to be unaware of it. The trucks juddered together regularly as the train slowed down and then picked up speed with seeming difficulty, as though the cargo was too heavy for its capacity. The men in the trucks were continually being thrown together violently as the staccato journey continued. Black smoke belched from the funnel of the engine and hung low over them to add to their misery and the rain slipped down like a damp shroud.
At mid afternoon, after a journey of what the sergeant estimated to be only some fifteen miles, the train halted and they disembarked to be met at the rail side by the welcome sight of cooks handing out mugs of tea and sandwiches. As they stood munching and drinking, a darkly moustached major, dapper despite the rain, called them to gather around him. Ominously, as he spoke they could hear the rumble of guns from the north-east.
‘I’m sorry the journey is uncomfortable and slow,’ he said, ‘but there were no proper passenger carriages to be found for love nor money and this bloody loco has as much puff as George Robey’s whistle.’ They all laughed dutifully. ‘Now, men, we are going to a little town called Ypres, just over the border into Belgium. The Boche are attacking it strongly and have pushed us, the French and the Belgians right back, virtually to the walls of the town. They dominate us with their guns from the slopes that surround the place to the east and they know that, once they take Ypres, the Channel ports are open to them. And we can’t have that, of course.’
He looked around at them. ‘Well, they are not going to take Ypres because you lot will arrive in time to prevent that.’ An ironic cheer broke out. ‘Nevertheless, the situation is critical. If the Hun breaks through, then he will stream down the coastal plain, take the Channel ports, break our supply lines and turn our and the French lines. He has to be stopped.’
He coughed and took a sip of his tea. ‘I came down from there two days ago and I can tell you that it is not pleasant. You will be under constant shelling and the blighters outnumber us strongly. At the rate this loco is going we won’t be there until after nightfall, but I’m afraid there will be no time for rest. You will be issued with basic rations and ammunition and undertake a night march to go straight into the line. I am sorry that you will almost certainly not be fighting with your own regiments but I know that I can rely on you to show the Kaiser just what strength the British army has in its Reservists.’
Another ragged cheer followed and the major held up his hand. ‘Right, get back on board now. Make sure your weapons are dry because you will have to fight with them.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘At least this damned rain has stopped. Good luck, lads.’
‘Now there’s a nice enough feller, don’t you think?’ asked Bertie, as the pair settled down together again in their truck.
‘Oh, lovely. He’s just told us that we’re almost certainly going to be shot or blown to hell. Lovely feller.’ Jim indicated his friend’s rifle. ‘Wrap your hankie around the breech bolt and block. It may only fire one shot at a time but it’s all we’ve got and we don’t want the bloody things to rust up.’
‘Ah, right you are, Jimmy lad.’
Dusk was creeping down when they wheezed into a station marked Poperinghe. The only lights to be seen were lanterns held by NCOs who rapidly segregated the men into groups of about thirty each. Shellfire thundered near to them, it seemed, and the sky to the east was lit sporadically by flashes of scarlet, although these grew less frequent as the night closed in. In the semi-darkness, gaunt-faced quartermasters gave them sealed packs of field rations and water bottles containing, they were told, also a ‘wee drop of rum’. Each man was issued with seventy rounds of ammunition and then, under the command of a sergeant major whose uniform was smeared with mud, they set off.
Their march took them through the town of Ypres and, in the dim light, Jim Hickman could see that this was a fine town, with solid and lofty architecture. But there were no lights in the streets and the artillery flashes in the near distance had now died away and were occasionally replaced by the flashes of Very lights. No one was about and it seemed a ghost city. Soon darkness had completely descended and they were ordered to march in single file, with one hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Heads down and hearts pounding, they stumbled over broken ground and a strange smell assailed them.
‘I know what it is,’ said Bertie. ‘It’s tobacco and beetroot, so it is. It must be grown round here.’
‘Quiet at the back,’ hissed the warrant officer.
‘I think we’re marchin’ into hell, Jim lad,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Let’s keep together whatever happens.’
‘Don’t worry,’ answered Jim over his shoulder. ‘I’m never going to lose you, I’ll promise you that. We’ll stay together.’
Together. They had been together almost as long as both could remember, living in the same street with only one house in between them since Bertie and his Irish road labourer or ‘navvy’ father – his mother had died at childbirth – had moved in at the turn of the century. Together they had joined the Territorials, for they offered exciting camps on Salisbury Plain and the chance to ‘play soldiers’, as Bertie called it. Together, too, they had answered the call to arms on August 4th when war had been declared on Germany.
The year was 1914, one which had begun so well for them both, with their beloved Aston Villa, whose huge, bright red brick stadium loomed large just down the road from them, finishing second in the first division that season for the third successive year. Jim had begun the fourth year of his apprenticeship as a diamond mounter in the little business where his father laboured in the heart of the jewellery quarter in Hockley and he had managed to get Bertie a job there, too, sweeping, making tea and becoming universally popular, just by being his cheerful, happy self. It was a good time to be eighteen and they had both enjoyed the blissful summer of that year, playing football and cricket in Aston Park and, of course, taking Polly rowing on the lake in Handsworth Park.
Polly was exactly their age and she lived in the terrace house between them at number 64, Turners Lane, Aston. Neither of them could remember a time when the girl had not been at their side. They had formed an inseparable trio, going everywhere together. As children, when the boys played their way home from school by rolling marlies in the gutter, Polly came too, jumping, skipping alongside and talking continually. As they grew older, Polly quietened a little but stayed close, doing what they did, insisting – to their embarrassment – on holding their hands as they walked, bowling at them at cricket and keeping goal in the park kickabout. She grew to be tall, slender and pretty in an unconventional way, with soft brown hair, high cheekbones and strange, green eyes that seemed to shine in the dark. As the boys went through their teenage years, growing tall (less so in Bertie’s case) and filling out, Polly appeared to segue almost imperceptibly from tomboy into striking young woman. She remained unusual, however, in spurning the friendship of her own sex and the approaches of other boys and staying one of the trio, joining Jim and Bertie as they in-puffed their first Woodbines and heroically matching them as they drained their first pints of mild beer.
She had seen them off at the station when they had enlisted, but now it was mid-October and the boys had to concede that the war that was to be over by Christmas perhaps was going to take a little longer. The two and a half months that had passed since they had enlisted had been marked by major setbacks to the Allied cause. The Germans had marched through Belgium, despite valiant resistance by the little Belgian army, and the French army had been forced to retreat from Mons, under cover of a last-ditch stand by the British, and Jim had read that only an heroic victory by the French at the Battle of the Marne had saved Paris itself from being taken by the enemy. Now the British Expeditionary Force – the largest army that Britain had ever sent abroad, but still tiny compared to the force facing it and depleted by the bitter fighting at Mons – had been redeployed to the north-west to take its position on the left flank of the mighty French army, now swollen to more than four million men. The British, then, occupied a key position between the French and the Belgians in a line that extended some thirty-five miles in a curve to the east of Ypres, against eleven German infantry divisions and eight cavalry divisions.
The long file of men were now approaching the front and a smell very different to that which Bertie had recognised earlier now assailed them. It was an odour sweet and sickly and came from the bloated corpses of mules and horses that emerged starkly from the darkness every time a star shell illumined the sky ahead of them. They no longer walked in a straight line, but threaded their way between shell holes half filled with water that reflected the light of the flares.
‘Hey, Jimmy,’ whispered Bertie hoarsely, ‘it’s not just horses that are dead. There are bodies in them holes.’
‘Quiet!’ The sergeant major’s urgent whisper came from the front.
On they went, now in pitch darkness that was only occasionally lit by a flare or, even less frequently, the flash of cannon fire. It was impossible to see even the man in front, and the track that had once been firm was now uneven and spongy, causing them to stumble and curse and grope for the shoulder ahead. There was no smoking and no conversation. Jim Hickman felt that they were a ghost army advancing to … what?
Eventually they halted, just as the clouds above receded to reveal a watery moon. A sergeant whom they recognised as the veteran from the cattle truck strode along the line touching each one and giving them a whispered number. Hickman was the last to be numbered and Jim caught the NCO’s arm.
‘My mate’s behind me, Sarge,’ he said urgently. ‘Don’t part us, there’s a good bloke. We’ve always been together and I sort of look after him, see.’
For a moment the sergeant paused, then he nodded. He pulled out the man in front of Jim and pushed him into the line behind Bertie. Then he gestured to the numbered men to fall out and join him and a corporal who was waiting at the beginning of what had once been a sunken road, although shellfire had brought its sides tumbling down, leaving it merely a depression in the ground.
The sergeant gestured for them to sit, then addressed them in low, urgent monotones. ‘Right, lads. I am Sergeant Jones. I’m goin’ to be your platoon sergeant. Corporal Mackenzie ’ere is goin’ to guide us up to the front. But from what ’e tells me it ain’t much of a front. There’s very little cover up there – just scooped-out trenches only about three feet ’igh, sort of joining up with shell ’oles.’ He sniffed. ‘Seems everyone’s waiting for the bloody sandbags to be shipped over from England. But never mind that.
‘Now listen. Jerry doesn’t shell much at night but ’e knows exactly where these support trenches an’ tracks go up to the line, because ’e’s up there on the ’eights ahead of us and can see ’em all during the day. So, whatever you do, don’t show a light otherwise we’ll ’ave bloody great Jack Johnsons – those are ’is ’eaviest shells – down on us like a ton o’ bricks. So definitely no smokin’. We’ve got about ’alf a mile to go an’ we’ll soon be in sniper country. They operate at night, even if the artillery doesn’t. So no noise, keep yer ’eads down an’ freeze when the star shells go up, ’cos that’s when the Jerry snipers will be lookin’ down their sights. Understood?’
Everyone nodded. Bertie held up a muddy hand. ‘Where are we goin’ to exactly, Sarge?’
Jones sighed. ‘If I told you Piccadilly Circus, lad, it wouldn’t make much bloody difference, would it?’
‘Oh yes. Piccadilly’s in London, isn’t it, Sarge? Me father told me that, anyway.’
‘All right, then, sonny. So as not to confuse your father, I’ll tell you that we’re ’eading for a place that we call Nun’s Wood, although it’s summat unpronounceable in Flemish. It’s almost up on the top of the ridge ahead of us. The Germans ’ave pushed us down that ’ill to this wood – although there ain’t many trees left I’m told – an’ we’re ’angin’ on by our eyelids. A mixed bag up there trying to ’old the line: Jocks, Service Corps blokes, an’ dishwashers. Not many rifles to go round and the corporal tells me that we pushed back the last attack by swingin’ picks and shovels. So the lads there are waitin’ for us to ’elp ’em an’ that’s what we’re goin’ to do.’
He fell silent and stayed still as a green light soared into the sky behind him, leaving his silhouette – broad shoulders, rifle pointing to the sky and soft peaked cap, jammed squarely onto his head – gradually fading as the flare dropped and died.
‘Right. Just one more thing. There are twenty-five of us. ’Ow many Reservists?’ Everyone but Jim and Bertie raised a hand.
‘Ah yes, our two Terriers with their bloody muskets, last used at the Battle of Waterloo. Well the rest of you at least are trained soldiers, who have seen service, even if it was a year or two ago. Who’s seen active service, though?’
Three hands rose.
‘Where?’
‘Boer War, Sergeant. All three of us.’
‘Right. Well I know that was no picnic because I was there too. I survived the Kop. But I’ve got a feeling, lads, that this one is goin’ to be a bit different. A bloody sight worse, in fact, because of the guns the Jerries ’ave got: heavy stuff an’ machine guns. Even so, we’ll beat the buggers, but remember – from now on, ’eads down and no talkin’. Lead on, Corporal.’
They plodded on and Jim realised that they were beginning to climb – up a gentle slope, of course, to where the Germans looked down on them. As they neared the front line, or what was left of it, they all became aware of sharp flashes that penetrated the darkness ahead sporadically and then the rattle of a machine gun. As if on cue at this, the corporal peeled off to the right and took with him the leading half of the column, who disappeared into the darkness. Sergeant Jones waved his arm and the remainder followed him, walking at a crouch until they were able to slip into a communications half-trench, which zigzagged up the slope and whose walls, about four feet high, offered protection of a sort.
Three minutes later an officer loomed out of the darkness and held a whispered conversation with the sergeant. Jones turned and waved his men towards him.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re whispering because the enemy is only just about one ’undred and twenty yards ahead of us, up by what’s left of them trees up ahead – no, don’t look now, you duffers! You’ll get a bullet in yer ’ead. A couple of corporals will be along in a minute to take you along the line and deposit you in the gaps. I’ll come on afterwards and settle you in and make sure you’re nice an’ comfortable.’
Then the jocularity died. ‘Listen. You’ll be sprawled up there without much cover, so dig in as much as you can while it’s dark. I’m told that trenches ’ardly exist, so it’s a case of finding what cover you can. Rations are due up soon so you should get something to eat before daylight comes. I know that you’re tired but don’t sleep. DIG!
‘The Jerries will almost certainly come at us at daybreak so make sure that your rifles are clean and oiled and fix your bayonets at dawn. You’ll probably need ’em. Ah, the corporals are ’ere. Off you go – and good luck, lads. Now then, where are the Brummie Terriers?’
Jim and Bertie raised their hands – but only as far as their shoulders.
‘Good. You two come with me.’
They crawled behind the sergeant, for by now the trench had given way to little more than a declivity in the ground and the occasional swathe of the German machine gun was obviously firing on a fixed traverse, aiming to hit anyone who had the temerity to stand in what was left of the British lines.
And, indeed, it soon became clear that the line hardly existed. Jim and Bertie were deposited into a shell crater, some seven feet deep, occupied by five men, who were sprawled on the German side of the crater fast asleep, their rifles at their side, while a sixth kept watch.
A trench of sorts had been scraped out from either side of the shell hole and the sound of digging came from it.
‘Get in there. You,’ he indicated Jim, ‘go to the right and Paddy to the left and see if you can relieve the diggers. They’ve all been at it for forty-eight hours or more with little rest, so they could do with a spell.’
‘Sure, Sergeant,’ said Bertie, ‘but, bless you, we’ve no shovels or spades, see.’
‘Use what they’re usin’, which I expect is bayonets and their ’ands. Get on with it and be thankful it’s not rainin’. I’ll be back later with any luck.’
The two sloughed off their heavy packs and ammunition webbing, drew their bayonets and split up, right and left. Hickman found that his so-called trench was, again, only about three feet deep, but it was wide enough to accommodate his long legs if, when facing the enemy, he knelt. Now, however, he found himself facing the ample bottom of a soldier who was hurling soil over his left shoulder to form a low barrier and so raise the wall on the enemy side of the trench.
He put his hand on the man’s buttocks and suddenly found a bayonet at his throat.
‘For Gawdsakes, son,’ exclaimed the soldier, ‘don’t do that. I thought you was a Jerry.’
‘Sorry, mate. I’ve come to relieve you. Is there a spade or something?’
‘Blimey, no. This ain’t the Ritz. You’ve got to use your sticker. This clay is an absolute bleeding bitch. Thing to do is to cut it out in lumps with your bayonet and then claw it out with your ’and and toss it on top. See? But keep your ’ead down. That machine gun comes round every sixteen minutes, I’ve timed it. Waste of bullets. Stupid, but he’ll get you if you forget ’cos he skims the top of the trench like.’
‘Strewth!’
The soldier, thin-faced, with dark bags under his eyes, hitched up his braces and looked sharply at Jim. ‘New at the front, lad?’
‘Yes. Just arrived.’
He sighed. ‘It’s bad ’ere. So keep your wits about you. We’ve been pushed down this bloody slope for days now. We’re just about ’angin’ on, but they do say that reinforcements are coming soon to give us an ’and, so if we can keep the buggers out for a few more days, we might be all right. Now, there’s only room for one to work ’ere so I’ll be off. Thanks for relievin’ me. See if you can join this ditch up with the shell ’ole up ahead, there … ooh, watch out, ’ere ’e comes again.’
They both ducked their heads as the machine gun began its chatter and, true enough, bullets clipped the tops of the turned earth, pinging away with a high-pitched whine as they hit stones.
‘All right now, son.’ The older man squeezed his way past Hickman. ‘We’ve got a rota. I’ll see that you’re relieved in two hours. Keep diggin’, lad.’
Jim set to with a will. The work was constricting, particularly for someone of his height, for he had to work kneeling, but he was fit and strong and, despite the fact that he had had virtually no sleep for twenty hours, he almost enjoyed the labour. He too began timing the machine gun’s traverse with his wristwatch and found that the swing began exactly every sixteen minutes. How stupid! He had heard that the Germans were methodical but this was ridiculous. Perhaps there was no one behind the gun; perhaps it was set to go off, like an alarm clock, every sixteen minutes. If this was war, it was strange. Nothing like the manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain when they had marched, countermarched, flung themselves down, fired and then charged an imaginary enemy. That was stirring stuff, real soldiering. This scraping away on hands and knees waiting to be shot at every sixteen minutes was ridiculous. He felt no fear of the morrow. It would be good to stand up and face a real German and fight properly!
Nevertheless, it was a relief when his turn came to crawl back into the crater. There, he found Bertie in conversation with Sergeant Jones. The NCO had brought two of the modern Lee-Enfield rifles.
‘Ah, good, you’re back. These are dead men’s rifles, but it can’t be ’elped. There’s no time to instruct you properly with them but it’s better that you ’ave them before Jerry pays a visit in a couple of hours’ time. Now listen. The main difference is that they’re shorter than the Lee-Metford, so they’re much easier to ’andle in trenches. Your sword bayonets will fit just the same. Best thing, though, is that they’re magazine guns, see, ’ere.’
He slapped the magazine protruding in front of the trigger guard. ‘This means you can load with ten shots, instead of one at a time. Difference between life or death when you’re just a few feet away from the enemy – like now.’ He pulled back the bolt. ‘Just stick a couple o’ clips of five rounds each down there. The firin’ ejects the spent cartridge case, an’ the workin’ of the bolt, like this, pushes a new round up the spout. When you really get used to it you can let off about forty rounds a minute. It’s a great little gun. You got your oil and pull-through?’
They nodded, holding the rifles admiringly.
‘Good. Well give ’em a good clean now, while you’ve got the chance. I ’ope you ’ave better luck with ’em than their last owners.’
‘Very kind of you, sorr,’ added Bertie.
‘You don’t “sir” me, lad. I’m only a poor bloody sergeant. Now, clean the rifles and try and get your ’eads down. You might be able to ’ave about two hours’ shut-eye before we ’ave visitors.’ He paused. ‘’Ang on.’ He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Noticed anything?’
The boys stood, silently listening. ‘No, Sarge.’
‘That fixed machine gun’s stopped firing. It could mean that it’s a night attack, but I doubt it.’ The sergeant crept up to the watchman at the lip of the crater and lay there, his head just above the edge scanning the darkness ahead. He ducked momentarily as a blue Very light shot up from the British lines, then resumed his vigil. Eventually, he slipped down again and rejoined them.
‘Seems okay. Get some sleep. I’ll be back just before stand-to at dawn.’
‘Thanks, Sergeant.’
‘Nice bloke,’ said Bertie, as they saw Jones’s back disappear down the communications trench. ‘He’s looking after us.’
‘Yes. I like the look of these things.’ Jim held up the rifle admiringly. ‘We’re in the twentieth century now, Bertie. Proper rifles, for the killing of Germans. Come on, let’s oil ’em and try and get a bit of shut-eye.’
Hickman had no intention of sleeping, for he was on edge with the thought of what was to come in the morning and he wanted to be completely ready. He had carefully oiled the breech mechanism of his rifle, pulled a small square of cloth through the barrel several times to clean it, fixed his bayonet, and it seemed that he had only just closed his eyes for a moment of relaxation when he was being shaken awake.
‘Come on, lad, stand to. The good news is that grub’s up.’ It was his friend from the digging. He was handing him a hot mug of tea and a sandwich of bread and jam. ‘Get this down you quick ’cos it’ll be light soon.’
Jim took the mug and the sandwich gratefully and began gulping down the tea and the bread and jam in successive mouthfuls. He looked across to find Bertie and winced as he saw that the little man had gone to sleep again, curled up on the soil of the crater edge, his mug and sandwich by his side.
He crawled across. ‘For God’s sake, Bertie. Wake up or you’ll be shot. Come on, man.’
The blue eyes opened and beamed at him. ‘Good morning, Jimmy boy. Holy Mary. Is that tea you’ve got there?’
‘Stand to, men.’ The sergeant had miraculously appeared. ‘Lookout – any sign?’
‘No, Sarge. Nothing moving as far as I can see.’
‘Right. Get that grub down you quickly, all of you, and then man the edge of the crater. You two Terriers, get out on the trench at the side there. You two,’ he gestured to two men who were hurriedly buckling on their equipment, ‘don’t let me see you taking off your belts at night again. The next time it’ll be a charge. Now get out on the trench on the left. Put a cartridge up the spout. Move now.’
The sergeant turned to greet a young subaltern who had slipped into the crater. It was obvious from the mud that clung to the young man’s boots and riding breeches that he was attempting to work his way along the line. ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning, Jones. Everything all right?’
‘Yessir. Ready and waiting.’
‘Now, men,’ he addressed them all in a low monotone. ‘We’ve held ’em off so far. There’s to be no more retreating, so we have to hold out here to the end. Understood?’
There was a low murmur of assent.
‘Very good. Rapid firing when they come. Good luck.’
Hickman and Murphy crawled their way along the ditch that Jim had helped excavate during the night. A soft light began to illuminate them all. Bertie threw away his last crust and took a peek over the edge towards the German lines. He called back to the sergeant.
‘How many men would there be in the German army, then, Sarge?’ he asked.
‘What? Oh, about seven million. Why, for God’s sake?’
‘Well, they’re all standing up now just across there and starting to come towards us.’
‘Stand to! Lookout, what the hell’s wrong with you?’ The sergeant scrambled to the lip of the crater and pulled back the inert form of the lookout who had a small black hole in the middle of his forehead. Jones’s voice rose to a shriek. ‘Man the lip of the shell hole and trenches. Rapid fire at enemy in front. FIRE!’
Jim, on his knees, levelled his rifle and looking down its unfamiliarly short barrel found himself gazing at a grey mass of uniformed men marching stolidly towards him, a frighteningly short distance away. At the same moment the British line exploded into a crackle of gunfire.
He pulled the trigger and saw his target collapse and fall. He groped with his hand to find a replacement cartridge and realised, with a curse, that the action was unnecessary and a waste of precious time, for he did not need to feed the breech with single cartridges; he could just keep firing. He did so, hardly bothering to take aim now, pumping the bolt as fast as he could and blessing the fact that he had cleaned the rifle, for it was firing fast and smoothly. His ten rounds were soon spent and he fumbled to put two more clips into the magazine, flipping away the clip holders with his thumb, and recommenced firing.
The enemy were falling all across the line, for they were tightly bunched together and presenting an unmissable target to the British rifles. Yet they still marched on with great courage into that devastating fire. The front rank were near enough now to break into a lumbering trot, their bayonets presented to the front and the rising sun glinting on their strange, spike-topped pickelhaube helmets.
‘Bloody ’ell, Jimmy boy,’ Jim heard Bertie cry. ‘They’ll be on us in a minute.’
‘Keep firing,’ hissed Jim. ‘When they’re a few yards away climb out back, away from the trench and get behind me. They’ll have to reach across the trench to get to us.’
‘I’ll not be fightin’ behind yer, lad, that’s for sure. But I’ll be awful glad if you’ll stay with me …’
But these desperate measures were not needed. Within some ten yards of the flimsy entrenchments the grey line suddenly seemed to pause, stop and then turn and run back up the slope, leaving behind it groups of bodies, some of them still moving and emitting a low moan of men in pain. A faint cheer ran along the British line.
‘Keep firing, don’t stop, bugger it!’ The sergeant’s voice rang out from the shell hole to the left of the two men. ‘You’re allowed to shoot the bastards in the back if they run away. Rapid fire still!’
Hickman kept sighting down the barrel of his Lee-Enfield, firing and banging the bolt down until his hand felt bruised and perspiration ran down his forehead and into his eyes, affecting his aim. He looked across at Bertie. The little Irishman’s head was lying, cheek down on the soil to the side of his rifle. A surge of fear ran through Jim.
‘Bertie! Have you been hit?’
The familiar round face turned slowly and regarded him. ‘No, but I’m fair knackered, Jimmy. And, I don’t mind confessin’, more than a touch shit scared, darlin’ boy. I thought we were done for.’ The grin came back. ‘Think of it, Jimmy boy, our first battle and killed in it in the first mornin’. Now that wouldn’t have been fair, would it? Gone without a sniff of the altar cloth. Snuffed out with no chance of enjoyin’ it all and gettin’ medals and stuff like that. Eh?’
Hickman grinned back. Then he half rose and looked at the dead men in heaps before them. The smile disappeared. ‘Well, I’m right glad, Bertie, that you took a look over the top. Otherwise we’d probably have been done for. Strange we didn’t hear the bullet that got the lookout, poor bugger. Must have been a sniper.’
He indicated the bodies. ‘We shot well, though, didn’t we?’
‘Couldn’t miss at that range. Lucky we’d got the new rifles, though, eh?’
The sergeant’s voice called from their left. ‘You Terriers all right?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
‘Good shooting. You knew what you were doing.’
‘Ah well.’ Bertie’s voice had pride in it. ‘We was both marksmen with them long rifles, Lee-Whatsits, but it was even easier with these new little darlins.’
‘Will they attack again, Sarge?’ asked Jim.
‘Oh yes. But I can’t understand why we weren’t shelled first. We’ll probably get it now. Use your bayonets to scoop out ’oles in the side of the trench and crawl into ’em when the shelling starts. At least they won’t attack when we’re being shelled. Well done, lads.’
The two removed their bayonets, laid down their rifles and began scraping away at the side of the trench. As if to give their efforts urgency, the German guns began to boom and they felt for the first time the fear that comes from being shelled and knowing that there was absolutely nothing at all that they could do about it. They were lying virtually out in the open, like rabbits sprung from the last vestige of corn as a field is harvested – except that the rabbits could run. Here, all the two men could do was to press into the slight depressions they had made in the trench wall, put their hands to their ears and pray.
At first, the shells exploded behind them, further down the slope towards Ypres. Ah, thought Jim, they’re targeting the support tracks and trenches, to stop reinforcements coming forward to the line. Clever bastards! Then the explosions began to creep nearer until they seemed to be all around them, landing everywhere and sending clouds of soil, rock and steel fragments into the air to rain down onto the trench. The hiss as the shells soared down, and then the crash and crump as they landed, were deafening and caused Hickman’s tongue to cleave to the roof of his dry mouth.
As he pressed, foetus-like, into the scraping he had made, Jim thought of the German wounded, lying even less protected, out in the open the other side of the low parapet. Would the gunners think of them? Would they lift their sights to avoid killing their own kind?
They did not. The shells continued to rain down, exploding with less ferocity as they landed among the soft bodies of the fallen, sending remnants of what had been living men high into the air. An arm, torn from its body, landed at Hickman’s side as he crouched. He noticed with disgust that a watch was still fixed to the wrist. He wrinkled his nose and shuddered. None of the wounded could have survived that. If this was modern warfare, then it was disgusting!
‘Are you all right, Bertie?’ he called.
‘No. I’d rather be somewhere else, Jim boy.’
He had no idea how long the bombardment had lasted but suddenly it ceased. Immediately, the sergeant’s voice came from the shell hole to their left. ‘They’ll come at us again now. Fix bayonets and man the edges, but keep your heads down. I’ll shout when you have to fire.’
‘Oh, bloody hell, Jim,’ said Bertie. ‘You’d have thought that they would have had enough—’
He was interrupted by the arrival of a young Gordon Highlander, his knees grimed and his kilt filthy. ‘Move up, boys,’ he said. ‘Sergeant’s sent me to give a hand. We’ve had reinforcements, the noo. All four of ’em. Very crowded in our shell hole.’
‘Stand to!’ The sergeant’s voice was high and it cracked now. ‘Rapid fire!’
The three men immediately thrust their rifles above the rim of the trench, resting them on the soil piled there. ‘Blimey,’ exclaimed the Scotsman. ‘They’re coming over as thick as before. Stupid. They should be in open order, yer ken. If only we’d got a machine gun.’
Jim realised that he had not heard a machine gun fired from the British lines and, for a brief moment, he wondered why. Did the British Expeditionary Force in France not possess the things? But the thought was soon replaced with a mixture of twin emotions: fear and a new kind of elation as, through his sights, he saw the grey mass dissolve into a line of individuals as they neared – men, like himself, except that they wore funny hats and grey coats. They were coming once again to kill him and he must kill them. He squinted down the barrel, fired, worked the bolt and fired again, as the fragmented British line sprang into life in a blaze of yellow flashes.
The German attack this time, however, was a little more sophisticated. Its front line fell – some men, indeed, as casualties as a result of the British fire, but others because they intended to do so. They fell, levelled their long rifles and delivered a volley at the British lines, reloaded and then fired again. It became apparent that the second line had been kept further back, for it now stepped through its supine comrades and charged ahead, bayonets levelled.
That volley had had its effect, because, as bullets thudded into the turfed mound and whined overhead, Jim, Bertie and the Highlander instinctively ducked their heads. As they lifted them again, the German line was closer, considerably closer.
‘Bloody hell,’ shouted the Scotsman. ‘Rapid fire, boys. Rapid fire.’
The fire was effective but not completely so, for six men bounded ahead of the German line and were within ten feet of the three men kneeling in the trench when the bullets of the defenders caught three of them and brought them down. The other three, however, presented their long bayonets low and came on, so close that Jim could hear the sound of their heavy breathing.
‘Out and back, Bertie,’ he shouted, scrambling to his feet and climbing up the trench wall behind him. Immediately, he found the little Irishman beside him. But the Highlander was too late. The leading German’s bayonet caught him in the shoulder as he attempted to rise to his feet and he spun round, to be bayoneted again in the chest. Bertie jerked back his bolt and fired, catching the German in the breast, so that he toppled into the trench in front of his comrades.
This gave a moment of precious respite to the two Territorials who worked their bolts and fired again, bringing down both men. They had no time, however, to do anything more than present their bayonets to the next two Germans, who jumped down onto the bodies of their fallen compatriots and thrust upwards at them, stabbing fiercely at their ankles and calves, forcing them back.
Hickman swung his own bayonet downwards, locked it onto the steel of his opponent and swung up and to the side, allowing him to bring the butt of his rifle into the man’s face. He had time to mark the look of surprise in the German’s eyes – blue and staring – before he swung the bayonet back again and plunged it into the man’s neck. He withdrew it, remembering instinctively the drill of ‘twisting and pulling’, and then, turning, he thrust it deeply into the back of Bertie’s opponent. The man fell without a sound.
For a moment, Jim and Bertie stood facing each other, gasping across the bodies of the two men slain. Then they turned to face what was next to come – to find the Germans retreating once more, leaving a new line of bodies, like seaweed detritus on a beach after high tide had receded.
‘Mother of God bless us,’ exclaimed Bertie, wiping his brow. ‘That was close. Thank you, Jimmy. He was a bit big for me and I don’t think I could have taken him. God bless you, boy.’
Hickman stayed for a moment staring into the eyes of his friend, then he switched his gaze to the end of his bayonet, which was dripping with blood. He felt suddenly sick. Plunging a blade into straw effigies of Germans on the training ground, urged on by the instructors screaming, ‘Go on, stick the pigs, kill ’em,’ had been one thing. This was very, very different. With both thrusts he had felt his bayonet scrape against bone – someone’s bone, the bone of a man of flesh and blood. The bone of a man he had killed. He shuddered and turned away.
He felt Bertie’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It had to be done, Jimmy. I’m feeling, sonny, that this is a terrible war, so it is.’
‘Get down, you bloody idiots.’ The sergeant’s voice rang out just in time, for as they half jumped, half fell on top of the bodies in the trench, the machine gun began its chatter; not on a fixed traverse this time, but aimed at them, for the bullets thudded into the soil just above their heads.
Hickman turned to the Gordon Highlander, but the man was quite dead, his face contorted into an expression of wounded surprise, his eyes staring. The Germans, too, were dead and they realised that they were kneeling on corpses.
‘Ugh,’ exclaimed Jim. ‘I think we’d better throw ’em up on the top, if we can. But keep your head down.’
Somehow they were able to lever and then push the bodies up above the side of the trench and then give them a push so that they rolled away, but only a few inches.
‘Jesus,’ said Murphy. ‘I don’t fancy resting me rifle on their arses.’
‘Here,’ muttered Hickman. ‘Give me a hand to drag the Jock into the shell hole. There’s no room for the poor devil here.’
Together they pulled and pushed the Scotsman the few yards into the crater where the sergeant was kneeling over a wounded Tommie, applying a dressing to his stomach. The man was groaning and three others lay dead, spreadeagled, their faces half buried in the soil, having slipped back from the rim. Of the original seven men, plus the four reinforcements, who had defended the crater, only six were left.
The survivors lay sprawled along the walls of the shell hole, still breathing heavily, their rifles with their fixed bayonets in their hands.
The sergeant looked up, perspiration running down into his moustaches. ‘Gawd, you two know how to look after yourselves, I’ll say that for you,’ he said. ‘You, Lofty,’ he nodded to Hickman, ‘take post as lookout. When the shellin’ starts again, you take what cover you can. They won’t attack then. You, Paddy, go back down the line and try and find company headquarters. It’s down that so-called communications trench leading down the ’ill, though I doubt if there’s much left of it after that shellin’. Tell the major that I doubt if we can ’old on if they attack again unless we get reinforcements. Oh,’ he nodded to the wounded man, ‘find stretcher-bearers and tell ’em we’ve got a bad one ’ere.’
‘Very good, sorr … Sergeant.’
‘Come back, you bloody fool.’
‘Sorr?’
‘Take yer rifle with you. Never move without it when you’re in the line. Oh, and see if you can scrounge a couple of spades while you’re gone – and sonny …?’
‘Sorr?’
‘Don’t call me “sir”.’
‘No, sorr.’ And Bertie crawled away, one long strip of his puttees trailing behind him.
Hickman took up his post, removing his cap and showing only a few inches of his face above the rim, a few seconds at a time. He also moved his position along the edge so that he did not offer a set target for a sniper. He became aware that Sergeant Jones was at his side.
‘Sarge?’
‘You’re doin’ well, lad. Seen you movin’. You’ve got sense. ’Ow long ’ave you been in the Terriers?’
‘Oh, only about ten months. We joined at seventeen.’
‘Well, if you stay alive, you’ll make a bloody good soldier.’ His voice dropped slightly. ‘Better’n these Regulars ’ere, who just can’t think for themselves. Look – what’s your name again?’
‘Hickman.’
‘Right, Hickman. If I cop it when they come over again and we don’t get reinforcements, take charge of this little lot. Make sure they spread out along the top of the crater and don’t present a bunched-up target. Get a report on ammunition. If there’s not enough left, then take ’em back down the line. You can’t ’ang on without bullets. ’Ow many ’ave you got?’
‘About forty rounds.’
‘Good. The others ’ave got about twenty-five or so each. Just about enough to defend this bloody ’ole. Below two apiece move out. Now, I’m just goin’ along the line to see what’s either side of us. ’Aven’t ’ad a chance yet. With any luck I’ll be back in about ten minutes. If the lieutenant comes, explain to him. Right?’
‘Right, Sarge.’
The weathered face broke into a smile. ‘Good lad.’ He moved away and as he did so, Jim noticed that he was limping and a thin trail of blood, dried now, had dripped down from a tear in his trousers at the thigh. Hickman looked round at the men in the crater. Everyone was now sleeping, except for the wounded man, who lay softly moaning. He could see no regimental badges but he sensed that they were a mixed bag, made up from different battalions, including probably some service troops, drivers, clerks and the like. He gulped. He had been in the front line, in action, for less than twenty-four hours and already he had his first command, of a sort. He closed his eyes and hoped that the Germans would not attack again while the sergeant was away. Then he opened them again when he realised that the alternative was probably worse: shelling.
He was moving himself along the rim, with great caution, when a crisp voice called up, ‘Where’s Sergeant Jones?’
‘He’s gone along the line, sir,’ Jim called down, ‘to make contact with the blokes on our left.’
The young lieutenant looked even older in daylight, for his face was lined and his cheeks and chin were covered in stubble. ‘Right.’ The young man looked at the bodies. He bent down and shook awake two of the sleeping men. ‘You two. Get up and put the bodies out of the shell hole. Tip them over the front, on the enemy’s side, and they will help to protect the lip. Can’t bury them, I’m afraid. There’s no time and nowhere to put them anyway. Lookout …’
‘Sir?’
‘Has someone gone to find bearers for this wounded man?’
‘Yes, sir. My mate’s gone.’
‘Good.’ He looked around again. ‘You’ve done well. I’ll see if we can reinforce you but we are very thin on the ground. Hang on here. It’s vital that you do. So far the line has held and it’s important that it does. There’s nothing between here and Ypres, so it’s backs to the wall, chaps. Take it in turns to sleep. I don’t think they’ll come over again today, but the fact that they’re not shelling means that they might. Good luck.’
He raised a languid finger to his cap and was gone.
The Germans did not come again that day, for their attacks across open ground had cost them dearly. The machine gun remained active, as did the snipers, but the little redoubt sustained no more casualties and, for some reason, the shelling did not recommence. The sergeant returned to say that a company of Bedfords were holding the shell holes and ditches to the left ‘in good order’, so that flank seemed to be soundly covered. To Jim’s relief, Bertie returned after about an hour, carrying two shovels and bringing with him two stretcher-bearers, who gently loaded the wounded man and disappeared with him, at a crouch, down the hill.
‘Where’s the battalion of Grenadier Guards that I asked you to bring back with you?’ demanded the sergeant.
‘Well,’ said Bertie, ‘I did find an officer and gave him your message, sorr, but he told me to fuck off, so I thought I’d better. Mind you, I pinched two shovels when his back was turned so it served him right to be rude. You know, it never pays to be rude, sorr, it never does.’
Sergeant Jones sighed. ‘Don’t call me … oh, never mind.’ He threw the shovels at two men, half asleep. ‘Here, you men, deepen the trenches either side. Get crackin’ before the shellin’ starts again.’ He turned back to the two Terriers. ‘Get some rest, both of you. It’ll soon be dark.’
Later, having taken their turn with the shovels, the two friends curled up together in the trench in which they had fought earlier. They lay silently at first. Then Bertie spoke, in a half whisper.
‘Have you thought about Polly since we landed, then, Jimmy?’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Have you thought often about her, I mean?’
‘All the bloody time, if you must know. Have you?’
‘All the time, like you.’
The silence returned, to be broken by a crack as a Very cartridge broke into light above them, to deter any night patrols in no man’s land. Then:
‘I think I love Polly, Jimmy. Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Is it all right for us both to love her, then, d’yer think, Jim?’
‘Course it is.’
‘But I’d like to marry her, yer see. Wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, but not yet.’
‘Right. But we can’t both marry her, now can we?’
‘No. But p’raps she wouldn’t have either of us, so it wouldn’t come up, would it?’
‘Ah, sure you’re wrong there, darlin’ boy. She loves us both. I know she does.’
Jim rolled over. ‘Well, the way this war is turning out, it’s not very likely, Bert, that we’ll both survive, or even one of us. Blimey, we’ve only been here a day and we’ve both nearly got the chop. So we won’t have to bother about it, I should think. Now get some sleep.’
‘Yes, Jimmy. Perhaps you’re right. You always are. Goodnight.’