A Test to Destruction (8 page)

“I had orders to bring them here, sir.”

“To report for work to the Second Gaultshires?”

“No, sir, just to bring them here and await orders.”

Captain Kidd interrupted. “Look, old boy, I must be off. Will you ask Denis Sisley when he comes back to fix up with Moggers that my men’s shackles are no longer greasy and cold when they arrive at night? My blokes are dam’ good blokes, let me tell you, and need a real good hot blow-out once a day.”

“Oh I see, you mean skilly. I’ll try and arrange with the transport——”

“No, old boy, Bill Kidd does not mean skilly. Bill Kidd means what Bill Kidd says, the real and original shackles, none of
your broken biscuits boiled up with lumps of bully, old boy! Shackles—you know—as served at the Carlton Grill, cut off the joint and two veg. Fourpence in every good pull-up for carmen!”

“Righty-ho, I’ll see Moggers about it.”

“Thanks, old boy. You see, we can’t spare any scarlet runners from the old coy, so we have to rely on those slack bastards from the White City, otherwise we’d collect our own grub in double quick time. By the way, the name’s Bill to my pals.”

“Righty-ho, Wilhelm, mein prächtige kerl!”

He told Bill about the encounter between Moggers and General O’Toole, and Bill Kidd said, “Oh, those two crab-wallahs are always having a go at one another. Jimmy O’Toole belongs to the regiment, you know. That monocle he wears conceals a glass eye. His driver’s the original Convict 99. Fact, old boy! He was a burglar before the war. On the Somme, he and Jimmy passed a dead Hun showing a gold tooth. Next day, going up the line again, Jimmy saw the tooth was missing.

“‘You got that one, Johnson, I suppose?’

“‘Yessir.’

“‘I suppose someone will take my glass eye, if I cop it, Johnson?’

“‘Yessir, I put myself dahn fer that, fer a souvenir, sir.’ Good lad, is Jimmy. Cheerio!”

When Bill Kidd had gone, Phillip said to the headquarter-guard sergeant, “I don’t like the idea of these iron grapes hanging about the place.” He stopped himself in time from adding ‘old boy’. “The Chinks are non-combatants. In fact, in those civvy clothes and carrying weapons, they’re
franc
tireurs.
So get two of your men to collect all the grenades.”

He went into the orderly room, and took up the dossier about the pig. With any luck Denis Sisley would be back soon; he had only the grippe, according to the American M.O. attached to the battalion. It was more fun going round with ‘Spectre’ than dealing with endless chits. He was wondering what to reply to
Minute
13 when the C.O. came in and said, “Denis has pneumonia, and is being evacuated to the base. That means he’s off the strength. For the time being, until a new adjutant is appointed, you will carry on with this job. How do you feel about having Allen as your assistant? Very well, send for him.”

Allen was still at Corunna Camp. At a nod from Phillip, the orderly room sergeant went out to tell a cyclist orderly to fetch Mr. Allen. The C.O. then said, “Will you look at this sketch map of the Brigade Battle Zone? It’s marked down as The Aviary. We’ll look in this morning on the way to the Forward Zone, which we take over on the twenty-second. Here’s a smaller scale plan which includes our Forward Zone, the Bird Cage. It would be gracious to send a wire to the Officer Commanding the Fifth Verderers—Sergeant Tonks will know the code word—asking his leave to go round the Bird Cage at 2 p.m. this afternoon. We’ll enter the communication trench at the Belvedere. Warn Sullivan to meet us there.”

Sullivan, the battalion Intelligence Officer, had the charming manners of one who had had some success before the war in musical comedy. It was he who ran
The
Wasps
Concert Party.

“I need hardly say that these maps are not to leave this office, so memorize what you can, of the Bird Cage in particular.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

He must not allow himself to be flurried. ‘Spectre’ evidently knew his thoughts, for he said, “It may seem a lot to do all at once, but things will come easier with time. Take each thing as it comes.” There was the gruff explosion of a Mills bomb. “What the hell is that?”

“I think it’s only the Chinks, Colonel. I’ve already told off the guard sergeant to collect their grenades——”

They went outside. “What is this steam-roller doing here? What is it, Barnum’s Circus? Tell them either to take it away or to damp down the fire.”

The Chinese labourers were holding out mess-tins for hot water; it was their tea-time, apparently.

“Get the damned thing camouflaged, and reduce that steam at once!”

The Quartermaster, riding up, was a relief.

“What do you think of our fair-ground, Moggers? Pity you haven’t got the band up here too, we might have a dance. Who the devil sent it here? That steam may draw shell-fire. Take your blasted vehicle away!” to the elderly N.C.O. in charge of the Chinese.

“I can do with a roller, to flatten out the brick standings of our new horse-lines in the White City. Corporal, take your men and machine to the Second Gaultshire lines at Corunna, the
police will direct you. I’ll see your officer, I’m Colonel Mogger-hanger. ’Ow many coolies you got? Thirty-two? We can feed ’m. Off you go, make it slippy! Shelling may start any moment now! Don’t forget the roller.”

Later, he said to Phillip, “Don’t see why we shouldn’t swing the drippin’ on these yellow-bellies, and give our fellers a rest. Camouflage the old stone crusher, eh? They won’t recognise it when I’ve done with it.”

The Quartermaster was about to turn away when Phillip said, “Moggers, what shall I say about that bloody pig at Senlis? If you wouldn’t mind—I won’t keep you a moment—I expect you, too, have rather a lot to do——”

“Don’t let the bumff get you down, Lampo! Now you listen to me, m’lad. You think I’m a rough, don’t you? A crude old bastard without college ed’jication? Well, you’re right! I’ve had to make my own way, see? And maybe I know what some others don’t always know. Pigs, for instance. ’Alf a mo’, let’s ’ave a wet. We can talk better there. Don’t look so anxious!”

Over a whiskey and soda in the mess-room, he continued, “Yes, as I was saying, pigs are choosy feeders, except when they’re starved; even then I say you won’t catch ’m feeding on latrines. Those with scarlet runners creepin’ up to their lug-’oles and corns on the seat of their pants know sweet fanny adams about pigs. I grew up with pigs, I’ve slept with pigs, and while they didn’t object to my presence, all the same they’re choosy, and like to be clean.”

Stretching out his 13-size feet he poured himself another drink and with manner now gentle told Phillip, who waited with assumed interest for him to come to the point, about the habits of a farrow of little pigs with their sow.

“I’ve seen each squealer doin’ its little job right away from the old gal, for as I told you, Lampo, it’s the nature of a pig to be regimental, in other words, to keep itself decent. No livin’ creature likes to live in its own muck. The pig, I’ll have you know, possesses a very sensitive nose. In the Sudan I saw one once what was trained like a pointer dog by some Buddoo sportsman who fancied himself shooting quails that way.”

Allen, lumpy with full kit, looked in; hesitated. “Good morning!” cried Phillip. “Come in!”

Allen saluted; Phillip, after a nod from the Quartermaster, took the salute. “Sit down. Colonel Moggers is talking about pigs.”

“That’s right. Well, as I was saying, that pig was as good and as patient as any dog in the Duke’s Abbey trials. Intelligent? Wasn’t it, tho’! It grunted slightly when it sniffed a covey in the cotton fields. No, that pig at Senlis didn’t die of us, Lampo, it died of natural causes, and you tell that to your pal Brendon who I’ll probably see at lunch tomorrow. But count me out of it, I’m fer ’ome any day now, and don’t want no stain on my crime sheet.” This with a wink at Allen. “Well!”—heaving himself up—“I must be gettin’ back, Lampo.”

“Decent old boy, when you know him,” said Phillip, when the Quartermaster had gone. “Now about your job.” He concluded by saying, “The orderly room sergeant is a tower of strength. Don’t be hesitant about asking Tonks any questions. Come with me, and meet him.”

On his return from behind the hanging blanket Phillip saw ‘Spectre’, who said distinctly, “Will you kindly ask for Brigade exchange to put me through to Shiny Night. No, don’t do it yourself, ask the telephone orderly.” When the call came he heard ‘Spectre’ ask for the Commanding Officer. So
Shiny
Night
was the code name of the Verderers. Damn, he should have put the call through before.

Now for a reply to Brendon. But a picture of Sullivan singing in the concert party persisted: the fascinating duet from
Buzz
Buzz.
He tried to recall the words.

Pig, pig, he must get rid of the Great Porcine Mystery. My dear Watson, Sherlock Holmes speaking this end. It’s my delight on a shiny night to meet you at the Belvedere. Bring your wooden stethoscope and of course your wooden head, Brendon—who came from Eden, by way of Sweden——

There was half an hour to 11 a.m. Now—concentrate. But the thought of even an impersonal communication with Bagshott-Brendon—plain Brendon in 1915—filled him with scorn for Brendon with his off-hand manner towards the Commanding
Officer of a regular battalion—and to ‘Spectre’ at that, with his seven wound stripes, triple D.S.O. and double M.C.! Brendon of course would get the O.B.E.

“The Colonel is ready, sir,” said the groom, looking in past the gas-blanket.

On the way up the line, ‘Spectre’ said, “I am going to show you round the Forward Zone this morning; tomorrow you will take up the new draft subalterns and make them familiar with what you learn today. It’s all at very short notice, I’m afraid, but we have had no time for training. In the days ahead, junior officers will have to rely mainly on their own initiative.”

“Is there any idea when the Germans will start, sir?”

“At present their front line is being held by Landsturm troops, third-line territorials. That tells us that the assault divisions are still to be moved up. Also, for about half a mile behind their front line, all roads leading to it have been cratered by our heavies. The idea is that the Boche will repair those damaged stretches only just before the assault. Scout ’planes are flying low over them soon after dawn, watching the destroyed sections. So far they have not been made up.” Thank God, he thought, maintaining his air of quiet confidence.

They dismounted at the Belvedere, a small ruin near the site of a château blown up by the Germans in the retreat to the
Siegfried
Stellung
a year previously, and leaving a prospect of cultivated fields grey with a tinge of green, entered a communication trench. This position, known as The Aviary, lay on comparatively high ground. Two gentle slopes, hardly valleys, passed through it, descending east to the Forward Zone. The particular communicating trench lay beside another in which telephone cables, connecting various headquarters with Brigade and Division, had been buried six feet deep.

Where the junction of many lines came together, star-points of chalk had, before the laying, been visible from the air. They had been photographed by high-flying German aircraft. The position was also under observation from tethered
drachen
balloons 8,000 metres distant, behind the
Siegfried
Stellung.

They passed through The Aviary, and went on to the battalion redoubt, about a mile to eastward. Threading their way down a narrow passage of chalk, they found the two battalion Intelligence Officers awaiting them at a T-junction; thence to the dug-out of the C.O. of the Verderers. They were offered whiskey, but ‘Spectre’ refused.

From the sketch-map which Phillip had memorized, the redoubt was oval, and about 300 yards across. It was a self-contained fort, with stores of water, food, and ammunition, in its four company keeps, to last for three days. Surrounded by many wire-entanglements, the Bird Cage was isolated from the redoubts on either flank by about 1,000 yards. Machine-gun cross-fire covered the intervening ground, some of the guns being hidden in masked pits fifteen feet deep in the chalk.

This land, like that farther north which Phillip had seen during November, was scarcely marked by shell-fire. It was under cultivation by returned French peasants and had been planted with wheat during the previous October. Then, the downland had been cold and grey with much rain; now it was almost countryside under the sun of the vernal equinox. The
wheat-plants, small and spidery beyond the maze of trenches, were beginning to curl with the push of sap. Larks were singing in the sky, borne upon warm currents of air arising from chalk made whiter by the sun. The wheat was growing to the verge of the heaps still being thrown up by thousands of shovels; stalks of corn would eventually rise to the level of the horizontal spirals of barbed wire beyond parapet and parados, which gave to the plateau the name of Bird Cage.

The spirit of Spring had arisen in the men digging along the trenches. Among the working parties many whistled, others were singing; helmets, gas-masks and tunics were laid aside. The party of officers moved past them, the two colonels leading, their adjutants following, after them the Intelligence officers. The tour went from keep to defensive zone, from machine-gun emplacement to aid-post and underground stores in the keeps, which were the company headquarters. The lines were sited so that enemy forces advancing in extended order would be seen in silhouette beyond the protecting wire belt.

Leaving behind the Bird Cage, they passed down a communicating trench which zigzagged through the main defensive line, and came to the outpost line. This was held by posts, each widely separated from its neighbour, and consisting of six or seven men under an N.C.O.

Phillip began to see the tactical pattern of defence in depth: first the outpost, or warning line: then the main defensive line: behind it the Bird Cage. A mile or so behind this was The Aviary, the main Battle Zone. In reserve behind the Battle Zone the Green Line, now being constructed by the inhabitants of the White City. Defence in depth: no more ‘thin red lines’.

Standing in the deserted front trench, the adjutant of the Verderers told him that it was safe to look over what was left of the weed-grown parapet.

“There’s a good view over the Hindenburg Line from here.”

Phillip raised his head to the parapet weeds and looked down a valley to the German lines about a mile away. He saw, on ground ascending to the south, the belts of 1917 German wire streaking with rusty brown the withered grasses of the valley side. In the distance lay green meadows, in which a glint was the St. Quentin Canal. Through field-glasses, freckles of red turned out to be the broken roofs of a village seeming to float on the midday mist.

To the right, the skyline of the old French position was slightly roughened by the remains of a village blown up, said the Verderers adjutant, in the retreat to the Hindenburg Line a year before.

“When last I had a platoon, some years ago now, the front line trenches were held fairly strongly,” said Phillip.

“You had wonderful targets, I believe,” replied the other, glancing at the riband of the 1914 Star on Phillip’s breast.

They moved on to an outpost. The Verderers C.O. asked the platoon commander questions.

“What are your duties in the event of an attack?”

“Each of my posts has orders to withdraw separately to the main line of defence in rear, sir.”

“You mean to The Aviary?”

“No, sir. To the main defence line of the forward zone.”

“Where is that in relation to the battalion defence zone?”

“It lies in front of the support line, sir.”

“You mean the Bird Cage?”

“No, sir. The Bird Cage lies behind the support line.”

“Do your section commanders know their lines of withdrawal in the event of an attack in force?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve rehearsed them in the dark, wearing gasmasks.”

“How many times?”

“Twice, sir.”

“What is your name?”

“Longmire, sir.”

The colonel of the Verderers turned to his adjutant. “See that every other platoon east of the main defensive line practises withdrawal wearing gas-masks once every night at staggered times, will you?”

They went back. ‘Spectre’ again refused whiskey, asking for soda-water with lime-juice. The Verderer’s Colonel, who had a slight Midlands accent and wore waxed moustaches, urged him to have some whiskey instead; and when ‘Spectre’ said he never drank it, remarked, “Go on? I should have thought”—with a glance at his guest’s gongs—“that a Band of Hope tipple wasn’t much in your line.”

“I find it keeps me in good shape, Colonel,” replied ‘Spectre’ equably.

On the way back he looked suddenly tired, thought Phillip.
The two sat down in a passing-place for stretcher-bearers. The sun was now warm, the air buoyant. “Well, Phillip, what did you think of the defensive measures?”

“May I speak my mind, Colonel? Well, to tell the truth, I was rather surprised to see so few dug-outs, but then I understand that there has been no time so far to make them.”

“What else occurred to you?”

“I thought that some of the keeps sheltering company headquarters wouldn’t stand a direct hit by a four-two, let alone a five-nine. Then, the machine gun emplacements, although camouflaged, are cruder than in 1916. I expected pill-boxes with at least two feet of ferro-concrete head-cover. Those I saw had only corrugated iron sheets over them, held down by sandbags. Others in The Aviary are still only sites marked by notice boards.”

“What do you deduce from that?”

“I couldn’t help thinking that it was a poor copy of the German redoubt system on the Somme, less the deep dug-outs, less the concrete, less the ten-foot trenches with fire-steps, less the trench-sides revetted with willow hurdles.”

‘Spectre’ was silent, then he murmured, “I will tell you in confidence that in the Fifth Army there are only eleven divisions holding a forty-two mile front. There is one division in reserve. As you know, Haig has been systematically starved of drafts from home. In spite of having to break up one battalion in nearly every infantry brigade, all divisions are far below strength.”

Phillip recalled that ‘Spectre’ had had a Staff billet at G.H.Q. until three months previously. It all seemed pretty bad. “What about the Yanks? Couldn’t one of their battalions be put in with every British brigade, as we Terriers were in 1914? We’d have been lost without the regulars to nurse us at First Ypres.”

“I heard that Haig suggested that to General Pershing, without result. You can’t put an old head on young shoulders. No, the trouble with reinforcements is that Haig has many enemies, who think he’s a fool because he won’t compete with the glib tongues of the
arriviste
politicians, or play off one against another in the Frocks’ game. So here we are, short of men to complete our defences. Even barbed wire is hard to get, and at a time when it is known in Whitehall that the Germans have brought up more than forty assault divisions, including those in support, opposite Gough’s eleven depleted and tired divisions holding
forty-two miles of front. Five fresh Germans against one tired man in the army of what you call the Mud-balled Fox.”

“I heard General Mowbray tell Lord Satchville that, just before I came out.” In momentary panic he thought, It’s going to be another ‘red little, dead little army’. Should he go sick, and get away in time? But it was no good in England any more. God, he was still windy.

“What a thing it is,” went on ‘Spectre’, “for a Commander-in-Chief to have a positive enemy in front of him and a negative enemy behind his back! They say that the onlooker sees most of the game. He does; but unless he has experience of playing the game, he will not understand what the antagonists are going through. But that is the classic pattern of human life in all known literature. Well, we’ll have to make a fight of it where we are now, and so allow Gough to withdraw his main forces behind the line of the Somme. Yes, I said behind the Somme: for it’s no good holding the banks of canals and rivers, they merely provide easy targets for enemy gunners. Open warfare does not necessarily mean disastrous warfare. On the contrary.”

He tried to get rid of flatulence, while Phillip stared at a lark in the sky. “I didn’t want that lime-juice, but if one refuses a drink some of these new colonels take it as an offence.”

“Sir, did you say Gough’s
main
forces?”

‘Spectre’ laughed drily. “Yes. His main forces consist of one division in reserve—perhaps eight thousand bayonets—against the
stosstruppen
of perhaps twenty
divisionen
making the original assault, and reinforced by twenty more in support. Yes, Fifth Army has one division in reserve. But there are G.H.Q. divisions in further reserve, no doubt.”

“Then it may be a good thing if we have to retire some distance, because then Haig will be able to counter-attack, as the Germans did at Cambrai, into the base-angles of the re-entrant?”

“Precisely. Open warfare is necessary for victory.”

Peace came upon Phillip. He sat at ease in the warm sun. All would be well while ‘Spectre’ was with them. Gossamers were now crossing the tops of the communication trench. Pictures of faraway springtimes appeared and faded in his mind, while into the air arose the sounds of pick and shovel, men talking, a tenor voice singing
Roses
of
Picardy.
He saw that Westy’s face looked paler than usual, and wondered if he were like Moggers, tired to his very bones—an eye out, a hand gone; shell splinters
through left thigh, calf, and ankle; bullet through top of lung. He had been with ‘Spectre’ when he had copped that lot; what the earlier wounds, at Festubert, and then at Hooge, were he did not know. Could it be that he had been emasculated? Was
that
why he had been in hopeless love with Frances, and later on, apparently unable to do anything with Sasha, the free-for-all girl at Flossie Flowers’ hotel? Since that New Year’s Eve party, when Westy had come into his bedroom and found Sasha there, and had walked out of the hotel, Westy had been, not exactly distant, but aloof. The fact that he was incapacitated would not alter his longing to be loved, only his power, or potence they called it, to be natural. Was that his secret, the ‘grievous wound’ of King Arthur before the sword Excalibur was lost forever?

“Do you know what this war is about, Phillip?”

“Well, I don’t believe what the newspapers say, Westy.”

“It is caused by the vindictive self-will in France, in England, and above all in Germany.”

“Why above all in Germany?”

“Because of their geographical position, and large tracts of sandy soil which will not grow wheat. Hence the Germanic migrations of the Middle Ages.”

A gossamer touched Phillip’s forehead. He looked across the bay to where Westy, his eye closed, sat with uncovered head a little forward, and wrists crossed on lap. The still figure was to windward of the gossamers, and in fancy he held to the thread across his forehead as coming from Westy. He remembered the myriad gossamers making tunnels to the sun on the stubble fields around Billericay in Essex, where he had gone to the funeral of the Zeppelin crew burned to death with their craft so long ago. Poor Westy, he thought, closing his eyes against stinging moisture; he was worn out, but with a mind still as clear as glass, and as rare as unbroken glass upon the battlefields. As adjutant, he must take care of the old fellow.

Had gossamer thought passed between them? For the pale blue eye opened. “Surely you were boarded B2 until the middle of March, Phillip?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“So you applied for another board, did you?”

Phillip hesitated, then told the truth. “I put down my own name on the ‘A’ list.”

“Why?”

“Well, sir, you know how it is.”

“I do know how it is. But do
you
know, I wonder?”

He did not know what to think, much less what to say, at the peremptory tone.

“I—I think so, sir.”

“I told you before that you call me ‘colonel’ unless we are on parade. I will be frank. You were in a position of trust, and you took advantage of that position in the orderly room at Landguard to send in a false return?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“Did you connect your action with the fact that, while living with your people in London, you gave the address of your next-of-kin to be in Gaultshire? Now think of the question! Have you connected those two actions of yours? There is no objection, in so far as the Regiment is concerned, why you shouldn’t choose to come from the county. There may be good reasons for it—feelings of consideration, for example, in order to avoid the direct impact of possible bad news.”