A Test to Destruction (11 page)

“Divide these men into groups and put each group under an officer or senior N.C.O. and tell them to make their own way back to the Quarry.”

“I have already done so, sir.”

When they got to the Quarry, the Brigade staff had left. Then down the road appeared a German squad, marching at ease.

“Do we want them, sir?” asked Tonks.

“No,” said ‘Spectre’.

Tonks fired from his hip, the figures scattered into the fog.

*

It was growing dark when they reached the Green Line. There they stopped short, to see a position marked by up-turned sods with occasional notice-boards. So much for the bloody dago slackers of the White City! Having cursed them, ‘Spectre’ ordered pits to be scraped out with entrenching tools. There was some relief when Moggers brought up a hot meal. “The Boche is through down south.” By this time, 10 p.m., stragglers from other units had been embodied in the battalion, while patrols had been sent out to get in touch with units on the flanks. The right-wing patrol came back to report “No-one within a mile,”
so the two remaining Lewis guns were posted to form a defensive flank facing south.

It was curiously silent in the mist. Where was Brigade? An officer patrol had failed to find the new headquarters.

“The trouble with us,” said ‘Spectre’ to Phillip, as supper was being prepared, “is that our tactics of defence are out-of-date. We were ordered to form a defensive flank to cover the ground left open by the retirement of the Irish on our right. This in effect meant a narrowing of The Aviary, because we had to draw in Bill Kidd’s company. So the gap was widened, allowing more Boche to get past. We were held in by that Boche machine gun at the Belevedere. It was fortunate that you came up at the right moment.”

“I brought the order to withdraw, after the Brigadier had sent up Allen telling you to hold fast.”

“I anticipated it. There is no point in allowing one’s forces to be neutralised.”

“You know, sir, I couldn’t help thinking when you told me in the Bird Cage——” He stopped. The thought had gone, with his vitality. He felt cold and dispirited.

Boon put out two enamel mugs of tea thick with condensed milk. With the glow of the drink came optimism, to ‘Spectre’ as well as himself apparently, for he said, “What were you going to say, Phillip?”

“The idea has always been ‘to stand fast and kill Germans’. But surely if we had a planned retreat, it would put the Alley-man at a disadvantage? I remember when we got through the Hindenburg Line at Cambrai the Germans drove into the flanks of the salient we’d made in their line, and cut off a lot of our troops. Therefore, if we went back a long way now, wouldn’t we be in a position to do the same to them on a big scale?”

“That’s the classic movement, Phillip, that every Commander dreams of. But the question now is, how much ground can we afford to give up, before the limited railway supply system comes under range of the Boche guns?”

“Back to the line of July the First?”

“Yes, but no farther. Amiens, and its railway junctions, is the vital town. By the way, I want to talk to your two prisoners, when they’ve had their grub.”

After a good dose of rum in their tea, the two were ready to talk. ‘Spectre’ spoke to them in German.

“Vogelkäfig! Nein, die Schlachthofe, Herr Oberst!”

“Ja! Ein Uberschwemmung von Englishes, Herr Oberst!”

After the interrogation ‘Spectre’ said, “They say, in effect, Phillip, that the Bird Cage is misnamed. It should have been Slaughterhouse. The other man’s description is more picturesque, ‘the Flood-breaker’. I should call it a temporary dam, that got washed away! Apparently they lost a lot of men, but prisoners treated well usually try to please. They belong to the 440th Reserve Regiment, you may note. Not the leading
Stosstruppem,
but the second-rate followers-up. They say their transport is largely civilian carts and farm waggons. Even dogs are used to draw ammunition in those little Belgian trolley carts. They’ll have some fun presently, if we go back behind the Somme battlefield, and they have to cross it. Water, too, should be quite a problem.”

Tonks, acting R.S.M., was given the pass word for the sentry groups. Men were lying about, sleeping, when Phillip accompanied ‘Spectre’ round the posts, to be challenged in unfamiliar dialects.

“Oo are yer?”

“‘Stag’.”

“Commanding officer.”

“Pass, Stags.”

“’Alt, thar!”

“The voice of Nottingham,” said ‘Spectre’. “Are you the the Foresters?”

“Yaas, sa’.”

“A fine regiment,” said ‘Spectre’, moving on.

“Oo be ’ee?”

“Stag.”

“Aw, you’m a-right.”

“Almost we might be in a Dartmoor fog with Sherlock Holmes,” said ‘Spectre’. “No need to tell me that you come from Devonshire!”

“Aye aye, zur, zurenuff!”

“One of the best of the line regiments,” he remarked to Phillip, who was admiring the way ‘Spectre’ aroused interest in these unknown men.

At 1 a.m. when they returned he told Phillip, “I’m going to lie down for an hour. Wake me if anything comes in.”

There was a challenge, a light held low. A party approached.

The senior Colonel said he had taken over when the Brigadier had been wounded in the Quarry. Maps were opened. While they were talking Phillip prepared to sign and detach the casualty and other returns, already written out by Tonks in a Field Message book, and to hand them over to the staff-captain accompanying Colonel Calvert. It was only when the party had gone on that he remembered the two prisoners who were now sleeping curled up together.

Battalion H.Q. was chosen, two hundred yards behind the Green Line, in a sunken farm-track four feet or so below the level of the surrounding arable fields.

“What is our strength?”

“Five officers and one hundred and eighty-six other ranks, Colonel. I had no details of casualties, so I returned the total of eighteen officers and four hundred and thirty-three other ranks as missing.”

Remotely behind their position, from the south, flares were rising so far away as to belong almost to another war. At 3 a.m. a despatch rider thudded up with written particulars of a new line to be occupied ‘in the event of an ordered withdrawal’. With it was a rough cyclostyled map, marking the line in blue, west of the Canal du Nord. Phillip acknowledged the message, and decided to let ‘Spectre’ sleep on. Should he send out scouts to find the position of the new line? But could they do so in the fog? Everything was so silent—the calm before the storm. The acting Brigadier had said that fresh German divisions had been put into the line.

Just before 6 a.m. the first low-flying Fokker biplanes were heard above the mist. ‘Spectre’ said, “I don’t want any of these aircraft to be fired at, and tell all company commanders to withdraw their men two hundred paces to the rear. This position is certain to be marked on their gunners’ maps.”

They had hardly got back when shells began to drone down. They lay in extended order across a grass field. Behind them, according to the map, was the Bois de Gurlu, the new position. Mist dissolved everything beyond thirty yards.

“The Kaiser must think that God sent this weather especially for him. Hardly a ‘place in the sun’, is it? There’s one consolation, if we can’t see the Boche, he can’t see us.”

A motorcycle was approaching.

“Sounds like a twin-cylinder J.A.P., sir. One of ours.”

“Keep it covered.”

A sidecar was attached to the motorcycle. The driver delivered two envelopes. While Phillip was signing for them ‘Spectre’ opened one. “We’re to fight a rear-guard action to the new line, which is wired. Have you got a compass?”

“Not on me, sir.”

“Then why not say ‘No’?” replied ‘Spectre’ sharply. He opened the second envelope, while Allen put his compass on the grass in front of Phillip. The needle trembled as it settled to the north.

‘Spectre’ folded the second message.

“I have to leave you,” he said quietly. “Colonel Calvert has been killed. Phillip, you will take over command of the battalion.”

Before he left ‘Spectre’ said, “Treat a battalion as one large company, divided into four. You may feel at first that everything depends on you alone, but your company commanders will support you.” Then he said, “Keep touch, in so far as you can, with the battalions on your flanks. We are in for a long and trying rear-guard action. Remember that the enemy will know no more and no less about you than you do about him. Probably he will be a damned sight more confused!” He said, “Don’t forget that negative information is often as valuable as positive. I’ll keep you informed as often as I can, and I expect the same in return, from you.”

They shook hands, then the side-car was gone in the mist. The clatter of the engine had hardly ceased when a scout came out of the fog across the grass to say breathlessly that the Germans were approaching the Green Line.

“I saw machine-gunners in front, carrying the guns, sir!”

Phillip swallowed to get rid of the dryness in his throat; and breathing deep for calmness, said after a few blank moments, “Allen, we’re for the Cork lightship! Send runners to the companies with orders to get back, keeping line as far as possible, until they come to the wood. Then get inside and line the edge and await my order to fire. Come with me, Sergeant-major!”

“What about these two Jerries, sir?”

“Bring ’em with us. They can carry a stretcher.” God in heaven, everything depended on him.

With relief he remembered the Grenadiers holding their fire in the Brown Wood Line in November 1914, until the Prussian Garde du Corps was right up to the wire. He waited, resisting
panic thoughts to urge everyone to get back to the wood, his mind opaque as the fog dulling the world of wet grass and a few ghostly thorns along the sunken track. Seven headquarters details and the two prisoners were waiting near him, hanging on his orders, his feelings. “How far away is the wood? About a mile away, would you say, Sergeant-major?”

“That’s about it, sir.” He didn’t know, either.

They waited. At last an irregular line appeared, men in groups, others lagging behind. Some were puffing fags. There was nothing to worry about, really. What was to be, would be. Until then, to hell with worry.

“Lead on. Hold all fire until further orders. Pass it down. Quietly does it.”

“Aye aye, sir!” The reply came from a ramshackle bareheaded figure among them, long scarf round neck, ends hanging low and loose. Tremendously cheering sight!

“Good God, where’ve you sprung from, you old devil?”

“Hunland, old boy.”

“What happened?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, old boy, I was given such a bloody awful breakfast,” the voice drawled casually, “that I decided not to stay.” The manner reverted to that of the battalion k’nut. “I ask you, old boy! Acorn coffee! Black bread! Sausage made of old boots! Cor, you ought to see their cavalry on cab horses! And their tanks! Towing Randy Ruperts! Fact, old boy! Bloody balloons towed on a cable stretched between two tin pantechnicons! What hopes they have of seeing anything in this fog, God only knows, and he won’t split! Where’s the Old Man?”

“‘Spectre’? He’s commanding the Brigade.”

“Who’s in command, Pluggy?”

“Pluggy copped it yesterday morning. I’m temporarily in charge of things. Not so loud, if you don’t mind.”

“Right-ho, old boy. What am I supposed to do? Return to Home Establishment, as an escaped prisoner of war?”

“D’you want to?”

“Not in these trousers, old boy. Where’re we making for?”

“Edge of Gurlu wood. Here, on the map. Will you look after the right flank, Bill? I’ll stay here and look after this end. By the way, no firing until I give the order.”

“Righty-ho, old boy.” Kidd disappeared along the line.

Phillip walked on, Allen holding the compass. Sooner than
expected a dark shade in the mist. Thank God, right direction! Coils of concertina wire, trees beyond. Where could they get through? He felt alarm. Damn, he should have sent scouts ahead, to find out. “We’ll have to get over as best we can. It’s only one coil.” It wasn’t easy, it was terrifying, spikes against cloth. A sergeant hurried up, “Gap over there, sir!”

“Oh, good! See the men through, will you?” He must stand there, be the last through. He took out pipe and pouch, filled the bowl; waited, imagining sudden figures, shouts …
stop
being
windy!
Now think: Germans advancing at, say, two miles an hour. Mile in thirty minutes; thirtieth of a mile in one minute. Roughly fifty yards a minute. Four hundred yards away when reported to be crossing the Green Line. Eight minutes’ grace.

“Get a move on there, my lads!” The red-faced sergeant had a stubby fair moustache with waxed spikes.

“Have you seen the Regimental Sergeant-major?”

“’E went off wi’ Captain Kidd, sir. I think that’s about the lot through, sir.”

Why had Tonks gone with Kidd? Of course, he was responsible for ammunition. Would Brigade have a dump? Where was Moggers? They should have brought their ammo, boxes with them. God, he’d left them behind! Through the wire, he resisted panic feelings to run the last few yards. Be calm. Loosen the jaw. As they entered the wood a pheasant crowed, flapped, flew away east. God damn the bird, giving them away! Men lying down. Keep calm, calm, calm. He went down the edge of the wood, telling men on no account to fire until the Germans were at the wire, which was forty yards out in the field, just visible. He leaned against an oak dripping with splashes, and heard himself repeating to a nameless subaltern what the R.S.M. of the Coldstream had said on nth November 1914 when dishing out ammunition in the wood off the Menin Road, “It’ll be a good thing when all this is over, and we can get back to real soldiering.” A blank face looked at him. Of course, his remark must seem stupid, pointless.

“Anyhow, this fog will make Jerry blind. They don’t know we’re here. Keep your men quiet.”

“Very good, sir.”

He walked under the dripping trees, hearing a Gaultshire voice saying as he passed, “That’s Lampo. You know, the one ’oo bounced old Moggers.”

More confident, he trod on the wet brown and buff leaves half hidden by new green growths of dog’s mercury and bluebell plant, to the end of the line, less than three hundred yards. To Allen, following, he said, “Send out two runners to try to find who is on our left flank. If they see no one after a quarter of a mile, to return and say so. Meanwhile get a Lewis gun posted here, to cover the gap in the wire. According to this map, the wood is wired for about a mile. But where we are along it, God knows. No, wait a moment. Tell Tabor to post the louie gun to form a defensive flank. I want you to act as adjutant.”