Jim and Bertie moved up with their battalion to join the attack four days after it opened. They moved, of course, at night to avoid attracting attention from the German artillery which, as ever, commanded the whole of the Salient and which throughout the British barrage had replied in kind, showing that, once again, the long, supposedly devastating, Allied shellfire had not put out the German guns.
It was, of course, dark – except for the Very lights up ahead and the flashes of the explosions – and raining. The movement up to what passed as the front line was almost as dangerous as attacking the German line. The threat here – apart from the speculative enemy shelling – was the mud. In fact, as Jim attempted to put one squelching boot after another, he realised that the terrain he was attempting to cross was not mud, it was a surface made up of liquid gunge, under which lay the thicker ooze that could hold a man and pull him down. The real danger here lurked in the bottom of the shell craters. A false step in the darkness could lead a heavily laden man to slip down the sloping sides into the glutinous bottom, from which it was extremely difficult and sometimes impossible to extricate him.
‘For God’s sake, Jimmy,’ murmured Bertie, ‘grab me if I go. With this gun, I’ll never be able to stop meself sliding.’
The two-gun Lewis section was at the back of Bertie’s platoon, which, in turn, brought up the rear of A Company. As company sergeant major, Hickman was last man, there to pick up stragglers and help maintain some form of uniform company advance. In fact, this worthy objective was impossible to attain. There was no track or road, only the slippery edges of the shell holes to negotiate and with only the man in front to show the way. As the troops groped their way forward, attempting to avoid the remains of pack mules and other corpses that emerged from the mud, they could hear a great sigh from the bottom of the craters as a bubble would burst and release the foul air expelled from some bloated human or animal remains caught in the depths. It was, mused Jim, like picking your way through Hades.
He attempted to establish some kind of discipline, with each man holding onto the shoulder of the man ahead, but this too was impossible to maintain as the soldiers slipped and sank in the slime. The marchers attempted to help each other as a leader would murmur to the man behind ‘deep one here, keep to the right’ and the warning would be passed on. Sometimes a man would go waist-deep and have to be hauled out. It was not a march, more a wade through and between a series of devilish obstructions, waiting to pluck men down. The Lewis gunners were at a particular disadvantage because they had to carry these four-and-a-half-feet-long, twenty-eight-pound machine guns as well as their own equipment. Hickman attempted to relieve Bertie’s men of part of their burden at the rear by carrying some of the forty-seven-round magazines. As he staggered along, he prayed that, elsewhere in the darkness, they were not losing men to the mud because of their similar millstones.
The men were, indeed, heavily laden. Marching – or rather slipping and sliding – into battle, each man now carried eighty pounds of equipment: rifle and bayonet, haversack, gas mask, water bottle, bombs, ammunition and, down the back of every fourth man, the pickaxe or shovel that would send him ramrod straight into action, unable to crouch and dodge the enemy fire. The machine guns were additional burdens.
It was 3 a.m. by the time the last stragglers came in to find the tape at which they were to line up and dig in. They were all exhausted, but they were now close to the German line and in the morning they would attack it. Digging a trench of sorts was vital, for the enemy artillery was hurling shells at them consistently, if not exactly accurately. And, as Bertie observed, you couldn’t attack another trench if you didn’t have one to attack it from in the first place. That just wasn’t like the army …
Once again the first assaults had not met with the predicted success. It had become apparent that the Germans regarded their front-line trenches as mere outpost positions. Their real defences lay further back, concealed by the folds in the ground between the ridges: pillboxes, heavily fortified; deep dugouts from which the men would emerge once the barrage had ceased; and the hidden machine guns.
Jim Hickman knew this and had no illusions. As the men of his company crouched in the ditch they had dug for themselves just before dawn – a ditch that had filled with water as soon as it was dug – he sloshed along the line, pouring extra slugs of rum into their water bottles. As he went he kept repeating the attack mantra: ‘Open order, now, keep with your platoon, don’t stop for the wounded, not even for your best mate. The stretcher-bearers will be right behind …’
Would he stop for Bertie? He knew he would. Please God – Bertie’s good, merciful God – that the situation wouldn’t arise.
Then, as a pewter-coloured dawn began to lighten the rain clouds, the whistles blew and Jim urged his men forward. He moved to where Bertie with his two men servicing his Lewis gun brought up the rear and he put his hand behind his comrade and pushed him and his heavy gun up the slight slope ahead. Their first objective was the German trench that could dimly be seen ahead, as a long grey line, some one hundred and fifty yards away.
Heads down, rifles and bayonets held across the body, the men advanced. It was not a cohesive movement, certainly not an attack, for they could hardly extract one mud-clogged boot after the other as the slime sucked at their feet and legs.
‘Open order,’ screamed Jim. But there was not, could not, be order of any kind as the men plodded on.
Then the machine guns began. The fire came from much further away, behind the German trench and up the slope. Perhaps because of this it was not as devastating as it should have been, given the slow progress of the troops. Even so, men began falling. Because of the weight on their backs, the stricken men fell forwards, face downwards into the mud, some of them sliding down the sides of the shell craters. Either way, the result was death, for it was as possible – no, as likely – to drown in a few inches of mud as in three feet of the stuff.
‘Get on, Bertie, for God’s sake,’ yelled Jim. ‘Get into that German trench. It looks as though it’s unoccupied.’
In fact, it was not, although only lightly manned by the look of it. What was left of the company’s advance guard had bombed their way into it and only a few, frightened men in grey were left, hands held aloft.
‘Get your guns set up, Bertie, and direct your fire on their gunners.’ This was easier said than done, for the reverse side of the German trench, their ‘friendly’ side, had no fire step and Bertie and his men had to pull out sandbags for them to stand on and then form some sort of protection on the trench top for their own guns before they could fire them.
Hickman looked behind him. The slope up which they had so laboriously climbed was littered with the men of A Company, a few of them trying to crawl forward but most of them ominously still, their faces in the mud. Up ahead, he could make out an indistinct line of grey-painted, concrete, round boxes sited along the top of the ridge. Some of them leant over crazily, steel bars projecting out from the concrete, having received a direct hit from the British guns. Most of them, however, were very much occupied and spitting fire from their gun slits. The first few yards beyond the German trench were lined with British dead, where the deadly fire had caught them.
Jim wiped the rain from his eyes and realised that Captain Cavendish was standing by his side.
‘We’ve got to get on, dammit,’ said Cavendish, gesturing to the men huddled in the trench.
‘Madness, sir. We’ll be mown down as soon as we climb out into the open. There’s no way we could get over this open ground in this mud without being cut to ribbons. You’d lose the whole of your company.’
‘Huh.’ The captain gestured behind. ‘Haven’t got many left.’
‘Can’t you call down a barrage on those pillboxes?’
‘All my signallers with their equipment have been killed.’
‘Very well. We’ll direct our Lewis-gun fire on their slits and see if we can crawl forward under their cover.’
‘Yes. But I agree. Don’t do anything foolish. We may be forced just to stay here and hold this trench. I’ve lost my subalterns already. I’ll try and find the colonel. Carry on, Sarn’t Major.’
As if on cue, Murphy’s two Lewis guns chattered into life. They fired in short bursts and, through his field glasses, Jim could see fragments of concrete jumping away from the wall fringing the firing slits in the pillboxes. Immediately, the German fire slackened. It was good shooting at such a range and Hickman grinned. Bertie had regained his skill as a marksman.
He pulled out his whistle. ‘Right,’ he shouted. ‘At the whistle, get over the top and let’s put those bloody pillboxes out of action. Bombardiers at the front. Try and leave a field of fire for the Lewises. Right. GO!’ And he blew his whistle and climbed up the trench ladder at the head of what was left of A Company.
Immediately, he was floundering in the mud. This was ground that had been pounded for weeks in the heaviest bombardment that the war had known and the heavy, consistent rain had made it a morass even worse than that lower down the slope between the old lines. Before he had taken three desperate, lunging strides, he was up to his thighs in mud and sinking. Bertie and his men were still firing their guns, but he knew they would have to change their drums soon and then the attackers would all be stuck, literally, facing the Germans in the open like sitting ducks.
He looked around and as far as he could see, men were thigh-deep in mud. Turning to go back would be suicide.
‘Make for the nearest shell crater,’ he screamed, ‘and fire from the lips.’ They had to maintain some form of aggression.
He turned towards a crater to his right and winced as he heard sharp plops as he struggled through the mud. All around him, bullets were hissing into the morass. It was like being trapped in a nightmare; he wanted to move faster but the mud held him back. And now the foot that had taken the German bullet all those months ago was hurting like hell, as he twisted and turned it to free it from the mud.
How he made those few yards to the shell hole without being hit he did not know and he offered up a brief prayer to Bertie and his fellow gunner whom he could hear were still directing their fire at the machine-gunners in the pillboxes. He half rolled, half fell over the lip of the crater and clung on for dear life to stop himself falling into the yellow, stinking pool at the bottom.
A lance corporal and four men were already lying on the slope beneath the lip. They looked as though they had stepped out of a painting from Dante’s inferno. Caked from head to foot in mud, their eyes white caverns in their dark faces, they looked like demons and regarded Hickman half in astonishment, half in fear.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing, lying still like that?’ he roared. ‘Get your bloody rifles over the edge and return their fire.’
‘Can’t sir,’ said the lance corporal. ‘They’re clogged with mud. Can’t fire ’em.’
Jim blew out his cheeks. ‘Then clean the fucking things. We’re not going to stay here until the Jerries come walking over and pick us off. Go on. Clean ’em. Use your bloody handkerchiefs.’
Slowly, the men began to pick the mud off their bolts and firing mechanisms. Jim eased himself to the top of the crater. Bertie and his fellow gunner were still blazing away and the fire from the pillboxes had reduced noticeably. He eased his own rifle over the lip and sighted it at a slit from which came an occasional flash of fire. Then he stopped. Would his gun fire? He inspected it discreetly. Hmm. Would it …? He sighted again and – it fired. He turned to the others and grinned.
‘Always look after your weapons, lads,’ he said. And laughed to himself at the thought. He had become the very model of a modern sergeant major!
The little group stayed in the crater for about an hour. Then slowly, Hickman in the lead, they eased themselves over the rim and crawled upwards, dipping into the next shell hole as they attracted fire, then crawling on again until, reaching a patch of firmer ground, they stumbled forward at the crouch. On the way, Jim collected other remnants of the advance who had taken refuge in holes and craters, until he had about twenty men under his command, crammed together on the slopes of a large shell hole. For one blessed moment the rain stopped and a wan, watery sun began to appear.
‘What are we going to do now then, sir?’ asked a grey-haired corporal. ‘Can’t quite take on this German line on our own, eh?’
‘No, Corporal. But we can give ’em a hell of a fright. How many bombs do we have?’ He counted five Mills grenades. ‘Good. That’s enough to put out a couple of pillboxes. Right. Now, listen.’ He wiped a grimy hand across his brow. ‘We stay here until dark. Sorry, but it’s going to be quite a wait – probably about four hours or so. We lay low so Jerry will think that we’ve either bought it or buggered off. Break out your field rations and let’s share what rum and water we’ve got left …’
He left his sentence hanging for a moment. The corporal said: ‘Er … and then what, Sarn’t Major?’
‘We take on the whole bloody German line on our own. No. Only joking.’ He grinned and indicated over his shoulder. ‘We are going to put out those two pillboxes nearest to us. But first, you, Corporal,’ he indicated the lance corporal whom he had found in the first crater, ‘will wriggle back to our line. Find either Captain Cavendish or Corporal Murphy with the Lewis guns, and tell them that …’ he wiped the mud from the face of his wristwatch ‘… at about eight pip emma tonight, just when it’s getting dusk, the Lewises should open fire on the four pillboxes up ahead and keep it up for about five minutes. That should give us a chance, in the dusk and under cover of the firing, to crawl up to the things and post our letters through their boxes. Got it?’
The lance corporal gulped. ‘Blimey. Very good, sir. Should I go now?’
‘No, wait a bit. Break open your rations first. Set off in about two hours. It looks as though the attack has completely failed so the Jerries won’t be keeping such a close watch. Any questions?’
The grey-haired corporal raised a hand.
‘And when we’ve knocked out the pillboxes?’
Jim took a swig from his water bottle. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Too much rum! He wiped his mouth. ‘Then, Corporal, we make an orderly retreat back to our own lines, crawling on our bellies and sliding down shell craters on our arses for much of the way, I expect. Right, do your best to relax, lads.’
The taste of the rum inspired a sudden thought. ‘Anybody know the date?’
The corporal responded. ‘I think it’s the fourth of August, Sarn’t Major.’
Hickman put his head back, so that the edge of his steel helmet tilted upwards revealing his face. He was grinning. ‘Well blimey! Do you know what, lads,’ he said. ‘Today’s my birthday.’
‘How old are yer, sir?’ one of the younger men called.
He answered slowly, emphasising each word. ‘I am exactly twenty-one bloody years old today.’
The corporal’s disbelief echoed that of the rest of them. ‘What? Only twenty-one …?’ he said, his mouth open. His thoughts were unspoken but clear for all that. This tall, supremely confident warrant officer acted and looked – mud-covered and completely dishevelled as he was – like a veteran, as though he was at least in his mid thirties. Yet he was one of the youngest in the group.
Jim grinned and nodded. ‘Yup. If I was at home now, I’d be given the key of the door.’
The thought removed the grin from his face. The key of the door! It would be a party – probably with his parents and those of Polly, with Bertie and his dad thrown in, too, of course. And most of all, with Polly. They would be crowded into the little front room and his dad would sing ‘Lily of Laguna’ and everybody would be a bit tipsy. And he would be with Polly … He gulped, then realised that they were all staring at him.
Then, slowly, the corporal raised a finger and, turning to the others, said, ‘Right, lads. One, two, three …’
Hesitantly, at first, then more strongly, the words of ‘Happy Birthday to You’ rose from the shell hole. Jim put his finger to his lips and the volume dropped a little but the song was concluded, ‘Happy birthday, Sergeant Major, happy birthday to you.’
Hickman realised that his nose was running. He sniffed. ‘Very kind, lads. Thank you very much. But best keep our voices down.’ He handed his water bottle to the corporal. ‘Here, have a drink with me. There’s too much rum in it for me, anyway. Pass it round. There’s just about enough for everyone if you just take a sip.’
And so passed one of the strangest birthdays that Jim Hickman had ever experienced, tucked into a shell hole, just about fifty yards from a line of enemy strongholds that they proposed to attack in a do-or-die attempt to silence them.
‘Well, anyway, sir,’ said the corporal, ‘you’ll remember this birthday as long as you live …’
His voice tailed away, for the unspoken ending to the sentence was in everyone’s thoughts: ‘… which will probably not be very long.’
Jim ventured a look over the rim of the crater, anxious in case the singing had been heard. But he saw no movement to the front or between the pillboxes. More to the point, there was nothing from the other shell holes, either. They were, of course, out in no man’s land on their own.
He looked at the elderly corporal who had conducted the singing. He was not from A Company but Jim had noticed him in the line, a quiet, efficient NCO, doing his work without fuss or bluster – a touch unusual in the brutal British army of 1917. He moved over to sit next to him.
‘What’s your name, Corporal?’
‘Burgess, sir.’
‘You can drop the “sir” till we get back to the line. First name?’
‘Martin.’ Jim noticed that he had crinkly laugh lines at the corner of his eyes.
‘What did you do in Civvy Street, Martin?’
‘I was a teacher, at King Edward’s Grammar in Birmingham.’
‘Oh yes? The one in Aston or the posh one?
Burgess grinned. ‘I’m afraid it was the posh one.’
‘And what did you teach the posh kids?’
‘Latin.’ He laughed. ‘Not a damned bit of use out here.’
Hickman nodded. ‘Why didn’t you go for a commission?’
‘Well.’ The man thought for a moment. ‘For one thing, my age would have gone against me, I felt – I’m forty, you see – and for another, I wasn’t sure that I was cut out to be a soldier. Oh, I’m fit enough, though this mud and rain plays hell with my knees. Seeing so many of my sixth-formers going straight out to the front, I felt a bit of a fraud, so I volunteered into the ranks. I just wanted to do my bit.’ He looked around ruefully. ‘I think now, perhaps, that I may have overdone it a touch.’
Hickman laughed. Then, instinctively, he ducked his head as a shell hissed overhead and exploded some two hundred yards down the slope. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘They know we’re here and they’re going to try and blast us out. Heads down, everybody.’
So began twenty minutes of intensive shelling, a mixture of high explosives adding to the craters all around them. This form of bombardment was less than effective, however, for not one shell landed in their refuge and the danger of the near misses was virtually nullified by them landing in the soft mud. More of a threat were the shrapnel clusters that exploded above them and sent their jagged steel fragments raining down like deadly confetti.
Three of the men were hit, as they crouched face down on the slopes of the crater. Two were killed outright, the shafts penetrating their backs and necks, and the other sustained wounds to his legs, which rendered him unable to walk. The little party was now reduced to an effective force of only seventeen.
‘Sorry, chaps,’ said Hickman as the shelling eased and then finally ceased. ‘We can’t bury these lads, so we’ll just have to leave them here. You two,’ he gestured at two of the men, ‘will stay with this wounded man and help him back to the line as soon as it gets dark. That leaves us with fifteen men to take possession of the whole German line.’ He grinned. ‘Can’t think of a better army to do it with. Now, Corporal,’ he gestured to the lance corporal, ‘I think you’d better be on your way. Remember: covering fire from the Lewises on the pillboxes at about dusk. Good luck, lad. Take your time.’
The lance corporal clearly did not fancy his chances, for he gulped. But he gave a cheery nod and wormed his way out of sight over the edge of the crater.
Hickman cursed that the two dead men were both specialist bombardiers, for he would have needed them in the assault, but he pocketed their grenades and, like the rest, sat down to wait.
‘Do you think that Jerry will send a party out to see if we’re still here after the shelling?’ asked Burgess.
‘Good point. You’ll be an officer yet. Thank you. Take first watch looking up to their line and then I’ll relieve you. Don’t show much of yourself.’
So the minutes ticked away until the grey clouds began to get darker and, inevitably, the rain came on again. Jim welcomed it for he hoped that, after the shelling and the failure of the British attack, the German sentries might be just a touch less on guard as the rain tumbled down. At least, those deadly machine-gunners out in their foxholes might be miserable and a touch careless, huddled and sheltering under their capes. He looked about him and then at his watch. Eight-twenty-five and visibility now considerably reduced. He would attack, he resolved, as soon as Bertie and his men began to shoot.
But they did not.
By eight-forty there was still no firing from down the slope, so Hickman decided they had to go before it became too dark to see what they were attacking. Accordingly, he slipped the bolt on his rifle, took out his three grenades and called to them all.
‘It looks as though my message back to our line has not got through,’ he said, ‘so we shall have to attack without covering fire. Never mind, it should be sufficiently dark for us to get close enough before they see us. Listen, we can’t hope to seriously damage the pillboxes just with Mills bombs, but, if we deposit one in each of the boxes that I intend to target, that should kill the crew inside. That leaves three grenades for the machine-gun posts dug in around the boxes. You and I,’ he indicated one of the men, a large bombardier, ‘will each take a pillbox with a grenade each; just one bomb, so we must make it count. Corporal Burgess, you will take the other bombs and the rest of the men and attack the machine-gun nests.’ He distributed the grenades and then took a deep breath. ‘Right, boys. Let’s go. Good luck.’
He crawled to the lip of the crater and peered over. Everything up ahead seemed quiet and so, distressingly, did everything behind him along the old German line recaptured by the attack. Gritting his teeth he crawled over and began to make his way, as best he could, squirming through the mud between the shell holes. It was a depressing way to begin an attack, crawling in the mud and the rain, but at least he was distributing his weight more or less evenly over the mud and he did not sink down. He looked behind. The rest were following.
Suddenly a flare soared upwards from the German lines. ‘Freeze,’ he shouted and lay still.
The star shell hung and then slowly descended, lighting the dismal scene. But nothing ensued. Hickman breathed again. It was obviously just a precautionary measure by the Germans. He waved his arm and resumed his crawl, awkwardly holding his rifle to keep its firing mechanism out of the mud.
After a further ten minutes, he realised that he was only about thirty yards away from the nearest pillbox, which loomed ahead out of the dusk, a machine-gun barrel poking out of each of its slits. He examined it carefully; could he reproduce the successful tactic of the raid of 1915 – crawling below the lowest trajectory of the guns so that they could not fire down at him? Doubtful. He attempted to locate the machine guns that he knew had been dug in surrounding the stronghold, but he could see no sign of them in the gathering gloom. He crawled on.
Then another flare hissed upwards. Damn! This must mean that they had been seen. He eased his rifle into position and aimed at the nearest slit, just above the gun barrel poking out from it. Before he was able to squeeze the trigger, however, it blazed into life. Its flash, though, gave him a target and he fired. Immediately the gun ceased firing but only to be replaced by about six others, from the other pillboxes and from hitherto hidden pits arranged around them.
The flare died away in dozens of tiny starshines but the guns continued to fire, the bullets thudding into the mud around Hickman and behind him. He attempted to rise to his knees to give himself a base from which to hurl his bomb but he slipped, lost his purchase in the mud and rolled down a crater, ending with his boots just inches above the gas-shrouded pool at the bottom. Behind, he heard cries as the bullets found their targets. He also heard a rattle of machine-gun fire from the British line, presumably in retaliation.
Jim lay winded and realised that tears were running down his cheeks; tears of what – frustration or sadness at the losses he knew the men he had led so foolhardedly must now be incurring? He didn’t know. But he realised that his attack was over before it had begun. They could never hope to get near enough to this new kind of line without being cut down. Two explosions up ahead showed that two men, at least, had been able to release their grenades. And then there was silence.
Suddenly, there was a disturbance at the edge of the crater and he swung his rifle upwards, to catch a glimpse of grey hair under a steel helmet.
‘You all right, sir?’ called Burgess.
‘Only wounded pride. What about the others?’
Burgess shook his head. ‘Myself and another chap got close enough to hurl our grenades at the machine guns but they fell short. The other bloke was just ahead of me and he got riddled with bullets, but I sheltered behind him for a bit and stayed unhurt and then slid down here. I’m afraid all of the others were shot down as they tried to get on. Sorry, sir …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Don’t call me “sir” out here. I’ve completely fucked it up. I’m not worthy of being called anything.’ Hickman wiped his brow, spreading more mud across his face. ‘I should never have tried to – what was it you called it? – take on the whole German line. Bloody barmy. Ah well.’
‘Now, don’t take it so hard. We had orders to attack and you did your best to carry them out.’ Burgess’s voice, its upper-class accent sounding somehow incongruous in the shell hole, took on a bitter tone. ‘It’s not your fault that our high command consists of idiots who have no idea of what they are ordering us to do. It might help if some of them came up to the line sometime to see for themselves. I consider it disgraceful.’
Hickman gave a wan smile. ‘Spoken like a Latin master. Just as well I am stuck out here and no longer a sergeant major, otherwise I would have had to run you in for … something or other. Ah shit, Martin. What a mess! All those good men gone. I just hope that the two chaps with the wounded bloke made it.’
‘What do we do now, then?’
‘We get back. I am determined that two of us, at least, get out of this. We wriggle back, Corporal. But let’s wait a bit, until they settle down. Let them think they have killed us all.’
‘Do you think they will send out a patrol to check?’
‘I doubt it. A bit too dangerous, I would say, with the lines so close. It’s pretty dark now. Let’s give it just five minutes and then go. Ah, blast it. Do you remember the code word for the day? I don’t want to be shot by our own blokes.’
‘Yes. I should. It’s Horace.’
‘What? Ah, yes. Latin, of course. It’s good to be stuck in the mud with a scholar.’
The crawl back was horrendous. Not so much for the danger, for both lines were now quiet, but for the obstacles – the once-human obstacles – that they had to avoid. It was impossible to be certain that any of the bodies that lay strewn across that fetid slope were still alive but certainly none was moving. Halfway along the journey, Jim came across the body of the lance corporal whom he had sent to ask Bertie to give cover to the attack. He was lying face down, his back riddled with bullets. He lay with many others.
There was no wire in front of the old German trench and the password saved them from nervous friendly fire. They slipped over the edge of the trench and lay gasping on the fire step, as much from relief as exhaustion.
The word went along the trench and Captain Cavendish squatted by their side. ‘Bloody glad to see you back, Hickman, and you, too, Corporal. Any wounded men left out there, do you think?’
‘I doubt it, sir. We crawled back over so many bodies. The attack was hopeless, you know.’
The young man coughed. ‘Mustn’t talk like that, Sarn’t Major. Orders are orders.’
‘How many men have we lost, then, sir?’
Cavendish’s voice was weary. ‘About sixty per cent of the battalion, I would say. Colonel’s dead, so is the adjutant. I am the senior one left and in temporary command. A Company is in shreds – just about a dozen men left. One good bit of news for you, though, Hickman. The two chaps and the wounded man you sent back made it all right. They told me about your attack on the pillboxes. Sorry, we couldn’t do much to help.’
Jim looked along the trench. ‘Corporal Murphy. Is he all right?’
‘Ah yes. He wanted to go out and look for you but I ordered him to stay here. We needed him and his Lewises in case of a counter-attack. Look here, Hickman. You’d oblige me if you could do a final count on the company. I just haven’t had time. Can’t let you sleep, I’m afraid, because we are to be relieved during the night. A new lot are coming up and …’ his voice dropped in tone, as though in disbelief, ‘they’re going to renew the attack in the morning, God help them. There’s food at company HQ – get what you can.’
With a nod, he was gone.
Jim found Bertie Murphy cleaning his Lewis gun with a piece of oily rag, his movements slow and fumbling, his face melancholic in the darkness. It lit up, however, when he saw his old comrade.
‘They wouldn’t let me come and look for yer,’ he said, grasping Hickman’s hand. ‘I really thought you’d gone to Jesus this time, son. I really did. Oh, Jim.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how long we’ll be spared in this terrible business. When the firin’ started, with you out there, I guessed you’d be tryin’ to do something daft, so I blazed away as best I could to give you cover, but bullets don’t do much against concrete, so they don’t. But you’re back, so thank the good Lord.’
‘Bad pennies always turn up, Bertie. But we’ve lost more than half the battalion and what’s left of us are going back down the line in an hour or so, when the relief comes. Then they’re going to have another go in the morning.’
Bertie blew his nose in the oily rag and shook his head once again. ‘Mad bastards. That’s what they are. Mad bastards. It’s just not doin’ any good.’ He waved his hand. ‘All of this stuff. We’re getting’ nowhere, but this stupid killin’ goes on. Jesus must be weepin’.’
‘Are you on guard?’
‘I think all of us are. Nobody’s told us to stand down.’
‘Right. Well you stand down now. I’ll go along the line and get a guard mounted. Try and get some sleep, old lad.’
The relieving battalion came in at about 3 a.m. and what was left of the battalion – some one hundred and fifty exhausted men and only three officers – slipped away down the slope, picking their way warily between the shell holes and the bodies of their dead comrades. Dawn was breaking when they eventually reached Ypres and began filing through the wreckage of the old town.
They lay in rest near Poperinghe, licking their wounds and taking in contingents of men from other battle-wrecked regiments and drafts of white-faced youngsters from back home. Black Jack Flanagan once again had survived the fighting, as had the battalion’s regimental sergeant major, a fiercely moustached old Regular who had fought at Omdurman with Kitchener. This was a relief to Jim and Bertie, for Flanagan would surely have been next in line for promotion to that post if the old man had gone.
Two parcels were awaiting Jim. One from his mother, revealing the usual packets of Woodbines and a knitted woollen scarf, and the other from Polly, containing a pair of very fine leather gloves. Birthday cards came with both.
‘Ah, damn me eyes, Jim, I forgot yer birthday,’ cried Bertie. ‘Sorry, lad. Now, tell me what the sweet lass says.’
‘You’ve got your own bloody letter, Bertie. Don’t pry. But look. These fit exactly right. What a great girl, eh?’
‘She is that. So she is.’
‘Hey. Listen to this.’ He began to read from Polly’s letter: ‘You’ll never believe this, Jim. Wagstaffe has volunteered and joined up! He’s called himself an engineer and become what they call a Sapper, I think. So you won’t see him in the Warwicks, which is a good thing. We don’t know what’s come over him, but he went off last Tuesday. Connie – you remember her – has become foreman …’
‘Well, well,’ mused Jim. ‘The world’s a changing all right.’
The changes continued all around them. Captain Cavendish was made adjutant and Hickman was in camp talking to him when their new commanding officer arrived. He trotted in riding a magnificent chestnut, his brown boots gleaming, and his groom riding behind on an equally resplendent polo pony, leading a donkey carrying the colonel’s baggage.
The colonel vaulted to the ground, a stocky man of five foot four inches, with a red face and sporting a closely clipped, salt-and-pepper moustache. He immediately strode towards Cavendish and returned the salute of both men.
‘Lieutenant Colonel Cox,’ he said brusquely. ‘Are you the adjutant?’
‘Yes, sir. Cavendish. Welcome to the regiment, Colonel.’
‘Thank you.’ His eyes cold, he looked Cavendish up and down, completely ignoring Hickman, who remained at attention.
‘Cavendish. Cavendish. You’re not from the … ah … Devonshire family in the north, by any chance?’
Cavendish looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Yes, sir. The … er … Duke is my uncle.’
Cox’s frown immediately disappeared and what could only be interpreted as a faint smile came to his countenance. ‘Really, well now. Splendid. Yes, splendid. Good to have you as adjutant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Cavendish hurriedly indicated Hickman. ‘This is the company sergeant major of my old company – A Company. Sergeant Major Hickman.’
Jim, still at attention, inclined his head. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to the regiment.’
Cox regarded him with faint distaste. ‘Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major! How old are you, Hickman?’
‘Twenty-one, sir. In fact it was my birth—’
‘Ridiculous.’ The colonel cut him short. ‘A warrant officer at twenty-one. Far too young. How long have you served?’
‘Since August 1914, sir. I joined up immediately war broke out.’
‘What! You’re not a Regular soldier?’
‘Er no, sir. I joined as a Territorial.’
Cox swung on his heel and spoke to Cavendish. ‘I might as well tell you now, Cavendish, that I do not approve of Territorials reaching that sort of rank. Just can’t rely on them.’
‘Sir, Hickman is one of our very best warrant officers. He won the Distinguished Conduct Medal as a corporal—’
‘Humph! Ten a penny these days. Now, let’s get on. There is much to do if I am to knock this battalion into shape. Have the men paraded for me to address them in an hour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let us say eleven-thirty?’
‘With respect, sir, that might be a little difficult. Some of the men are off duty and are probably in the town …’
‘Very well. Make it twelve noon. I want them all back by then. See to it. You,’ he addressed Hickman, ‘show my groom where he can stable the horses.’
Jim looked aghast at Cavendish.
‘I’m afraid we don’t have any stables here, Colonel,’ said the Captain. ‘We’ve only just come out of the line, you see. We are under canvas here. However,’ he turned to Hickman, ‘have a word with the RSM and see what he can suggest.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Jim gave them both his best salute and wheeled away, glad to escape.
Somehow, the battalion was assembled for twelve noon and stood at attention, with every eye fastened on the little man who stood before them, slapping his shiny boots with his riding crop.
‘At ease, men.’ His voice, now raised, was predictably squeaky. ‘We are shortly going to go back up to the line and I want to make it quite clear to you what I expect of you all. I understand that you have had quite a mauling in your last attack. Well, these are no times to be feeling sorry for ourselves. General Haig’s intention is to knock the Boche off their perches on those ridges and I intend to make sure that this battalion is right at the front when we do that.’
He strode up and down for a few seconds, as though allowing his words to sink in. Then he continued: ‘We will not have long here before we move up, but we will make the most of every second we have here in ensuring that we are fully trained for the task ahead. There will be no – I repeat – no sloppiness; no undue familiarity between NCOs and men. The usual procedures for saluting will be strictly adhered to and, when out of the line, kit will be cleaned, boots polished and brasses buffed until they gleam. There will be no leave from the camp unless I am assured that the necessary standards have been achieved.
‘This is my first time in the Salient but it can be no worse than Palestine, my previous posting. So you will find that I know the ropes. I will be hard but fair. I expect you all to do your best. Right, Adjutant. Dismiss the parade.’
The men broke up and Bertie found an excuse to find Hickman. ‘Bloody hell, Jim,’ he said, ‘what was all that about?’
Hickman looked about him. ‘I think it was about bullshit, that’s what it was about. The man’s a prat, that’s what he is. When he found that Cavendish was a duke’s nephew, he nearly pissed down his trousers. And if he thinks that two years on a fucking camel is preparation for this mudbath, then he’s got another think coming.’
‘Ah Jim, that’s all we need. An eejit for a colonel.’
‘Better break up or we’ll be beheaded for talking to each other.’
So a period of hard, non-stop drilling ensued. They were all back on the barrack square: marching, turning, stamping, shouldering arms, moving to the right in threes, saluting, all leavened with only the occasional imparting of practical skills, such as finding natural ground cover, avoiding trench foot and recognising a sniper’s lair.
Meanwhile, up beyond the ruined town, across the acres of mud, shell holes and unburied corpses, the great battle continued – as did the rain. Haig pitched more and more troops into what was now being called ‘Passchendaele’ back home. It was the third and greatest Battle of Ypres, the fight by the Allies to reach the little village at the top of the series of low ridges that dominated the killing ground. Inch by inch, the Germans yielded terrain, sometimes taking it back again and then losing it once more. The conflict now raged beyond trenches and up among the rows of pillboxes and fortified positions that formed the second and far more formidable line of the Germans’ positions. Into this maelstrom, Colonel Cox’s re-formed battalion was thrown.
Once again, Jim and Bertie slogged with their comrades between the shell holes in the darkness, to take up their positions before dawn for yet another attack. A Company had another new commander, Captain George Simmons, a tall, thin, taciturn young man who had been at the front for two years. Like the rest of his men, he seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited them. Since his arrival two weeks before, Hickman had never seen a smile on his face.
As they trudged on they realised that the line was where a helmeted head stood out briefly here and there above the ground in the dim light. Machine-gunners with their heavy Vickers were now dotting the edges of the craters, partly shielded by sodden sandbags. Below the edge of the crater, near the gun, a hole had been dug in the side and covered by a groundsheet. This was where the gunners were trying to sleep.
This time, the dawn attack was no longer a case of ‘over the top’, for there was no trench top to surmount, only slurries of mud that had been piled up to give a fragment of protection in front of the tape along which they crouched. Jim had no idea of where they were in the line. It didn’t seem to matter. The objective was always the same: to destroy the pillboxes up ahead and surge on up to the top.
Jim found Bertie trying to keep his Lewis gun dry under his cape. The little Irishman greeted his old friend with lacklustre eyes. ‘We can’t keep gettin’ away with it, Jim,’ he said. ‘We’ve bin lucky so far but I can’t help feelin’ that we’re runnin’ out of time and luck now.’
Jim clapped him on his shoulder, sending a shower of rain over them both. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Bertie. The Irish were born lucky, you know that. All we can do is keep our heads down and do our duty. I’ll keep an eye out for you, lad, so don’t worry. We’ll both get back to kiss Polly, I promise.’
Murphy gave a woeful smile. ‘Ah strewth, Jimmy, I do hope so. But if not, I hope it’s me that gets it. You’d make a better fist of lookin’ after the girl, so you would.’
‘Balls.’ Jim looked at his watch. ‘One minute to go. Don’t forget, Bertie. Set up that bloody gun of yours as soon as you can out in front to give us a bit of covering fire.’
‘Very good, Sergeant Major.’
The whistle blew and the men slipped and slithered over the mud piles immediately in front of them and began to flounder up the slope to where grey boxes were spitting out flame. This time, however, the Germans were concentrating their shells on the advancing troops, rather than on the supporting lines behind. As before, it was the shrapnel that caused the most casualties, for these razor-sharp steel missiles were capable of causing the most horrific injuries.
A man immediately ahead of Hickman suddenly whirled around, his face a crimson mess where a piece of jagged steel had sliced away his jawbone and part of his nose. He slumped down, trying to speak but only gurgling blood. He held up a supplicatory hand but Jim put down his head and struggled by. All around men were falling. Turning his head, Hickman looked for Bertie but there was no sign of the little man, nor any chatter from his gun.
A growing rage at the futility of it all consumed him and he broke into a shambling, slipping run, disregarding the shouts, screams, explosions all around him. Nearing a pillbox that was spitting fire, he dropped to his knees and crawled under the fire until he sat, his breast heaving, immediately under the machine gun. He unclipped a grenade, pulled out the firing pin with his teeth, waited two seconds and then rose and slipped it through the gun slit, falling back as he heard the muffled explosion from within. Getting to his feet, he floundered to the back of the pillbox, kicked down the door and thrust his rifle and bayonet into the interior. Three men lay dead inside, the muzzles of their heavy machine guns tipped to the sky through the firing slits. Three others lay wounded on the concrete floor. Hickman shot them in turn and stumbled outside, spitting to rid his mouth of the foul taste of cordite.
A machine gun stuttered into life from behind a stunted tree ahead of him and brought down two Tommies to his right. Hickman dropped to the ground and fired two quick rounds in the general direction of the gun but the emplacement was well camouflaged and he saw little effect. Others were firing at the gun and he wriggled forward on his stomach until he was able to hurl his last bomb. It exploded just behind the stump of the tree and the gun fell silent.
He stumbled to his feet, sensing rather than seeing other troops at his side, and, meeting firmer ground, ran towards a pillbox set in a fold in the ground further back. He realised that it had been taken, for white-faced Germans, some seeming no older than seventeen, were being taken back, their hands held high, under the guard of a single soldier. Passing them, he reached the edge of what had been the wood. British troops were straggling, knee-deep in the mud, upwards beyond it. Despite the explosions from the shells and bursts of rifle and machine fire, a little knot of soldiers had gathered at the side of one of the holes. Reaching them, Hickman realised that they were trying to rescue one of their comrades who had slipped down to the bottom. A human chain, linked by extended rifles, stretched down the slope of the crater but it was impossible to reach the man, who was now up to his armpits and screaming. Reluctantly, the attempt had to be abandoned and the last man was pulled to the top.
‘Shoot me, mates, for God’s sake,’ the sinking man was shouting. No one could do it.
‘Get on,’ shouted Hickman. ‘Get on.’
Looking away, the men trudged on. The man was now up to his neck. Jim took quick aim and fired. A black hole appeared in his forehead and, mouth open, he sank beneath the mud. Kneeling down, Hickman was sick. Then, wiping his mouth, he staggered on.
Up ahead he could see a long line of what appeared to be practically undamaged concrete machine-gun posts with barbed wire entanglements in front some fifty yards deep. It was an impregnable position that seemed to have been completely untouched by the British bombardment, except for a few spaces in the wire that had been cut. Into those gaps the Tommies were funnelling and Jim saw dozens caught up in the wire, many dead but some of them still alive and twitching.
Men were now falling all around him and Jim saw a figure running back towards him. He recognised Captain Simmons, blood running down his arm from a tear in his uniform.
‘It’s useless, Sarn’t Major,’ he shouted. ‘Get the men to fall back and dig in just at the edge of the old wood. We simply can’t afford to lose any more men.’
‘Very good, sir.’ He turned and waved his arm. ‘Back chaps. Back to the edge of the wood. Quick as you can now.’
Where was Bertie? He could see no sign of him. And then, from the edge of the wood, came the familiar sound of a couple of Lewis guns opening up, to give cover to the retreating men. He prayed it would be Bertie but could not be sure, for every platoon had set out with two machine-gunners, and the gunners themselves were indistinguishable in the rain.
There was precious little cover to be had from the few splintered tree trunks that still remained in the wood, but entrenching tools were produced and, somehow, Hickman oversaw the establishment of a line of sorts, linking the craters on the edge and piling up bodies to extend the height of the slipping, slopping mud walls of the so-called trench.
‘Good man, Hickman.’ The captain slumped down.
‘Let’s have a look at that arm, sir.’
Jim produced his pocketknife and cut away the sleeve of Simmons’s uniform. It looked as though a bullet was still lodged against the bone of his arm and the captain was obviously in great pain. Hickman swabbed the wound with iodine and put a temporary dressing on it.
‘Better get back down the line, sir,’ he said.
Simmons shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stay here. There is bound to be a counter-attack and we must hold what we’ve got here. I think the rest of the battalion – what is left of it – is to the left of us and we’ve got the Suffolks to the right. So we’ve got a line and we’ve got to hold on here until reinforcements come up.’ He nodded behind him. ‘Our objective is that ridge there. The colonel should be able to call up a barrage on those emplacements and we can have another go with more chaps in the morning. But we must hold this line against the counter-attack. I suggest …’ His voice tailed away and he slumped down, unconscious.
Hickman lifted his voice. ‘Bearers. Any stretcher-bearers here?’
Two men appeared, wearing the distinctive red cross on white arm bands. ‘Sir?’
‘Can you take the captain down the line?’
‘Sorry, sir. No chance at the moment. We’ve got six bad cases on stretchers back there and only the two of us. We’ve got to wait for more of our chaps to come back. It’s taking six men to carry one man ’cos we’re sinking up to our ’ips in the mud, see.’
‘All right. But take him back to one of the captured pillboxes and give him an ampoule of morphia or something.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jim looked along the line to where the Lewis guns were still firing. It was important to see who was on either side, for it would be fatal to be outflanked if and when the counter-attack came. He splashed along to the left and met the mud-spattered figure of Sergeant Major Jack Flanagan.
‘I never thought I’d be glad to see you, Flanagan,’ said Jim.
‘Ah, real soldiers don’t run, sonny.’
‘Have you got a line established along there?’
‘Course we have. And you?’
‘Yes. But I don’t know who’s on our right. I’m about to go and check. Who’s in command?’
Flanagan flashed his teeth in that familiar grin. ‘Why our brave colonel, of course. I think he’s just sauntered in.’
‘What about Cavendish?’
‘Yes, he’s made it. But none of my subalterns have.’
‘My company commander is wounded and I haven’t seen any officers since we attacked. Look, they’re bound to counter-attack. I’ll see who’s on our right and I’ll come back and let you know.’
‘Very well. I’ll be here.’
With a curt nod, Hickman made his way along the makeshift line, checking ammunition and preparing the men for the defence of the position. At the end, to his huge relief, he saw the diminutive figure of Bertie Murphy, crouched over his machine gun and seemingly asleep.
‘Corporal!’ barked Jim in mock barrack room tones. ‘You’re not asleep at your post, are you?’
A weary eyelid was raised and a slow smile spread over Bertie’s face, smeared with mud and yellow cordite stains. ‘God bless you, Jimmy lad,’ he said. ‘I thought again you’d gone this time, I really did.’ And the two solemnly shook hands.
‘Are you all right, Bertie?’
‘As well as can be expected, as they say. I think I’ve killed more men today than yesterday so I’ve had a jolly day, so I have.’
‘Look, Bertie, they’re going to come at us before it gets dark. Have you got plenty of ammunition?’
Murphy lifted a weary hand. ‘Bless you, lad, me and Stanley here,’ he jerked his head at his fellow gunner, ‘have got about six drums left. So that’s … what? Somethin’ like 280 rounds or so – I never could do sums, yer know, Jimmy.’
‘Well, be sparing. Who’s on the right of you?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re ranged along behind tree stumps. I don’t think they’re Germans, ’cos they seem quite nice chaps.’
‘Good. I’ll go and see. Sleep, but make sure one of you is awake. We’re going to need you.’
He climbed past the gun emplacement and met a young private of the Suffolks, nestling in the mud and cradling his rifle.
‘Have you got an officer, son?’
‘Yes, Sarn’t Major. He’s along there, I think.’ He spoke in the soft burr of East Anglia.
Jim crept along and found a young subaltern, cool and seemingly confident, and established that the Suffolks had suffered similarly to the Warwicks but had entrenched, with orders to hang on at all costs. He retraced his steps and met an anxious Captain Cavendish, whom he assured that their right flank seemed covered.
‘Have you seen the colonel?’ asked Hickman.
Cavendish looked up sharply. ‘That will be enough of that, Sarn’t Major,’ he said. ‘The colonel is in the line and is … er … in command. You know the orders – we hold this line at all costs until reinforced.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The counter-attack came, as expected, late in the afternoon, after a dank day spent huddling in the drizzle. The Germans first laid down a barrage and then came squelching down the slope in a grey mass.
Although severely depleted, the British line belched fire and it was the Germans’ turn to fall in swathes as the Lewis guns and rapid rifle fire raked across the black mud. With superb bravery, however, the men in grey came on, presenting their long bayonets and – without wire to protect them – it was touch and go for a time for the British, before the attack eventually faded away, almost on the edge of the wood. Hickman wiped his brow, his rifle hot to touch. Would the Huns come on again – perhaps with a night attack? But they did not.
However, reinforcements did arrive during the night and, with the dawn, a new barrage was laid down by the British gunners. It began by crashing all about the exhausted troops crouched at the edge of the wood and only after frenzied signals had been sent back and the line further depleted by friendly shells did it creep forward and begin to play on the German defences ahead.
After an hour it lifted, and once again the men of the Warwickshire Regiment trudged upwards into the mud and the fire of machine guns whose gunners re-emerged from their bunkers to cut the British down, like a scythe going through corn. Hickman had hardly cleared the makeshift parapet of the trench when a bullet took him in the shoulder, whirled him round and sent him tumbling back into the mud.
The force of the impact was what he felt first, then came the pain, as though his shoulder was on fire. He tried to lever himself back onto his feet, slipped back again and at least had the presence of mind to fall onto his back and so escape drowning in the mud. There he lay before blessed unconsciousness overcame him.
He came to, in great pain, and realised that he was being carried on a stretcher by four men who were ploughing through the mud, swearing and shouting as they did so. The jolting caused by their struggles sent shafts of agony searing through his body, but he gritted his teeth and hung onto the side of the stretcher with his good hand. Eventually, he lost consciousness again and regained it – he knew not how long afterwards – to find himself in a tent, lit by a hurricane lamp. Other men lay around him and he could hear moans.
He caught sight of an orderly whom he recognised. ‘Where am I, Jones?’
‘Field hospital, Sarn’t Major. You’re waiting your turn for surgery.’
‘Ah. You’re a bearer from A Company, Warwicks, aren’t you?’
‘Yessir. Well, I was. They’ve brought me back here to help out. The bloody battle is still going on. Hundreds of wounded are coming in. Sorry, gotta go.’
Jim help up a hand. ‘Hang on. Corporal Murphy. Irishman. You know – is he all right?’
The orderly looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘I don’t really know, sir. I did hear that he’d deserted, pushed off, and they’d caught him and he’s in jug. But I’m not really sure. Gotta go, sir.’
‘Oh my God.’ Jim’s head fell back onto the pillow.