When Louis rejoined his unit, he realised more than ever that he definitely did not want to remain a soldier. He was saddened to discover that only a few of the original men were left. Most of them had been killed in battle, but some, he was shocked to learn, had been shot for either desertion or disobeying orders.
Louis could tell that, though the replacement soldiers were now better trained for the job, they were less confident and many of them were dispirited.
In the dead of night, he sometimes heard the younger men cry and wished he could just let them go home.
Louis tried to boost their morale as he had done previously, but felt unable to carry it off now. How could he rally the men into thinking in terms of victory for England when inwardly it really felt futile to him? The job they were there for he thought, was simply too much for most of them and he hated what was expected of them all. He felt he was caught up in an endurance test that went beyond human capabilities.
Part of his own problem he realised was that he enjoyed the quiet life back in England and now he had no stomach for war.
Initially his unit had pushed through France relieving towns and villages from occupation on the way, with fighting becoming more intense as they drew near the German front line. As they had travelled along the route, he had witnessed slaughter everywhere and in the small villages it was commonplace to see women with their throats cut or bayoneted through the chest by the Bosch.
Now reflecting on it all brought an overwhelming sense of futility and depression which he was unable to share with anyone.
One evening they camped near a farmhouse close to a wood on the outskirts of Poperinge. All was quiet and Louis hoped they could have a few hours of peace. But just as they were bedding down for the night, they came under attack. Shells burst all around them and as well as bullets and mud flying it was raining torrents. Gas shells fell adding to the chaos.
Men, blinded by either shrapnel or effects of gas, staggered around, getting in the way of their own men firing at the enemy. Everywhere he looked there were bodies. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the gunfire and shelling ceased and all that could be heard was injured soldiers groaning.
Louis decided to push forward and take the farmhouse on the other side of the field where they were camped. He suspected the enemy were hiding there.
It was almost dark when he signalled to the men to spread out and begin moving towards the farmhouse. As they crossed the field, Louis noticed a barn ahead, to the left of the farmhouse, hidden in a copse. The men divided, some to the east and others to the west.
Within twenty feet of the barn Louis motioned for everyone to lay flat on the ground and fire at the barn. When they stopped firing, some German soldiers ran out with their hands up.
‘Bitte, bitte,’ they pleaded.
Poor devils, Louis thought, and turned to speak to his sergeant.
‘Escort these prisoners away─’ But he was unable to finish the command because gunfire from inside the hideout took him by surprise. ‘Down, down,’ he shouted and his men threw themselves to the ground, but the German prisoners, being in the direct line of fire, were shot by their own men.
The English gunners, some distance behind Louis’ men, immediately fired their howitzer at the barn. Shells roared overhead and as Louis lay there, he became conscious of the fact that he was lying in a mire of cow dung which was emulsifying in the rain.
As soon as he felt the Germans held no more threat, Louis urged the men to move forward again.
‘Keep going and stay low,’ he said turning to Georgie, the youngest of their group, only to see him shot straight through the heart.
The gunfire had come from the direction of a barn on the other side of a stream.
‘Carry on,’ he ordered the others, ‘there is no time to mourn the dead, otherwise you’ll be joining them.’
So they pressed on.
On a small bridge crossing a stream between the field and the farmhouse, a sign pointing the way to Poperinge hung like a lifeless scarecrow as the soldiers, crouching low, stole across in silence.
They surrounded the barn from where Louis thought it likely the gunfire came, then without warning, two German soldiers stepped out into the farmyard waving white handkerchiefs.
They lay down their guns and with their hands above their heads surrendered to Louis. These were the men who had shot Georgie and he was face to face with them. His anger flared and his instinct was to shoot them on the spot; but his training as an officer overtook his emotions and he ordered them to be tied up.
Once the prisoners were secured, Louis pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, staring away into the distance through glazed eyes.
Then he saw the door of the farmhouse open slowly and braced himself to fire again, but relaxed when an elderly man appeared waving a white cloth. The man called out, but Louis did not understand what he was saying.
Puzzled, Louis decided to try French in the hope that they could communicate.
‘Parlez vous Français, Monsieur?’
The old man smiled and nodded. ‘Monsieur, monsieur, s’il vous plait, entré. Entré. Merci, merci.’
Louis walked up to the doorway and tipped his cap. ‘Bonsoir, Monsieur.’
The old gentleman stepped aside and gestured for him to enter.
Inside was an elderly woman, whom Louis supposed was the man’s wife, filling glasses of wine.
She pointed at the glasses and some bread and cheese on the table and then gestured to him to eat and drink.
‘Pour les hommes, et vous, Monsieur. Et merci beaucoup.’ Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper.
‘Merci, Madame. Merci,’ Louis replied.
He went to the door and whistled to his men to come in, and they were given wine, bread and cheese.
The farmer and his wife were exuberant at the arrival of the British troops and explained that they had been captive for two weeks. They told how the Germans stole all their produce and shot their animals one by one for fun.
In the candlelight of the room, Louis held up his glass of wine and raised it to the old folk.
‘Bon chance, Madame et Monsieur,’ he said before swallowing it in one go. He thanked them for their hospitality and then they all left, calling out, au revoir, as they walked across the yard and out into the field.
Back in the camp, long after nightfall, Louis settled down to write up his field diary. The one thing that gave him a sense of reality was recording his thoughts and events on paper. It reminded him of who he was and helped him deal with the bizarre nature of events.
And as always in his mind, when the fighting lulled and the blood ceased to ooze from others’ wounds, he clung to the image of Cat walking towards him, smiling, under the July sun.