Good Hope Road: A Novel (40 page)

‘Hardly matters though, in the end,’ Gaillard say. He tell of this soldier he heard ’bout, from someone whose buddy’s cousin, twice removed, been at the very same hospital when it happen.

This soldier he hear ’bout catch a dumdum bullet in the leg. By the time the doctors get to him, the wound bad enough that they got to amputate, ’bout halfway up the thigh. The operation go well, and this soldier, he recoverin’ proper, when the hospital come under heavy shellin’. A shell drop clean through the skylight, straight on to the bed where he lie, right through it, and land with its nose buried in the floor.

Turns out, it was a dud.

A harmless dud. Thing is though, the shell, it fallen
exactly
where that man’s amputated leg would have been. Did no other damage as it fell, but if that leg were still there – Gaillard waves his hand ‘
Au revoir
!’

We silent as we take it in.

‘So what’s the point of the story?’ Karan ask.

‘Point being,’ Gaillard say, ‘that a man can only be hit by the bullet – or shell – that got his name written on it. And if it’s got his name on it, if his time is up, nothin’ that anyone can do about it. As for the rest,’ he grin. ‘
Ce n’est pas important
.’

The Fiat race on. A cher walks sleepy like by the side of the road, a pail in her hand; the war, it been goin’ on long enough now that she don’t even look up as we pass. It’s us who watch, takin’ in every little thing ’bout her as she grow smaller and smaller in the distance: the way she raise a hand to the scarf ’bout her head, the hip-sway of her walkin’. Small things, everyday things, but already they feel like they from a different world.

We near the lines now – I can tell by the newly set-up evacuation sheds comin’ into sight. Enough light to the dawn now that I can read the signs nailed to their entrances –
‘Blessés Assis’
on some,
‘Blessés Couchés’
on others. The wounded who can sit up, and the wounded who layin’ flat on their backs.

The dead, we know, will lie where they fall.

The explosions from the shells so many, so bright, it clear as day in the reserve trenches although it hardly 2:30 a.m. All summer long, the generals been readyin’ for this attack. Three thousand French guns we got firin’ on this strip of Front that ain’t even fifteen feet long. Thanks to them aviators, every last enemy trench, earthwork and buttress has been mapped out. Each of our batteries got a target to grind into dust. Two thousand shells piled behind every battery, so they don’t run outta ammunition. Cannon everywhere, and fat
saucisses
observation balloons fancied up with telephonic connections to guide the firin’. Ain’t nothin’ left to chance this time – at the briefin’ last evenin’, they even tell us the regimental numbers of the Boche facin’ our line.

Four shells, per minute, per metre the order is. Four shells a minute per metre, for three full days and nights now, with no lettin’ up. I ain’t up to figurin’ how many shells that is, but they make a noise so devil-filled, it seem to move and breathe. Thing of smoke and fire-tongue. We ain’t none of us slept too much these past couple of days, and when our orders finally come at 1 a.m. this mornin’, 25 September, we all been relieved.

So much shellin’. We can’t hardly hear ourselves speak no more. James shout somethin’. I look over at him to read his lips and see the thin line of red comin’ from his ears. Only now do I realise wetness is in my ears too; I touch my fingers to one and they come away bright with blood. I tear open my medical kit, orders be damned. Handin’ some cotton to James, I stuff the rest into my ringin’ ears.

The cold drizzle of the night don’t let up none, fallin’ from a sky the colour of gunmetal when mornin’ come. 9:15 a.m., our artillery go dead quiet. The silence, it hurt my ears, so sudden that it feel like a hammer blow. My shoulders sore from the tension, nerves wire-tight as we wait. One second. Two. There – the sound of the regimental bands. My ears still ringin’ somethin’ awful; I
feel
the vibration of the drums instead of hearin’ them. A sea of blue pour from the advance trenches, forward, into the smoke that hang over No Man’s Land, thick as a stage curtain over the Boche lines. Slowly my hearin’ come back. Trumpets and drums, and the rhythm of the ‘Marseillaise’.

It the turn of the Boche guns to roar into action. Their gunners got the range, cuttin’ down full sections of the advance. Just as quick, other troops take their place.

A cloud of smoke and dust in the reserve trenches; a shell, someplace ahead. We turn our faces, coughin’. Word come down the line: nine lost, includin’ an officer, before we even gotten the chance to advance. Another shell. We duck, haulin’ our musettes on to our necks to protect against shrapnel.

Ain’t even stepped out into the battlefield yet, and already I’m thinkin’ them soup-kettle helmets a powerful good idea.

The bugles now, callin’ our cavalry forward. A wave of men and horses, tryin’ to advance through the firin’. Three times they try, three times they forced to fall back. A unit of French 75s open up from somewhere in the back, tryin’ to give them cover. Their firin’ fall short, right into the reserve trenches. The horses, they rear and plunge, some goin’ boo coo crazy, throwin’ their riders from their backs as they leap into the trenches. One goes gallopin’ terrified down the trench, men yellin’ warnings, pressin’ to the sides of the trench as it race past. A copper-coloured beauty, frothin’ at the mouth. Gaillard grab its reins, sweatin’ and cussin’ from the strain, but he hold on. The horse swerve to the left, eyes rollin’ in fright. Liftin’ its tail, it let go a hot stream of dung as it come to a stop.

Our Captain scramble on to the parapet. ‘
Courage mes enfants
!’ His voice high, clear as a bell as he walk along the length of our trench, tryin’ to calm everybody down, his thin figure in full view of the enemy guns. ‘Courage!’

We round up them runaway horses and put down the wounded; James, he use his helmet to cover their eyes, sparin’ them the flash as he fire.

Wild cheerin’ in the French trenches around noon. The line that the Boche said was so strong that it need only two washerwomen and a gun to hold it, that line just fallen.

‘
Vive La France
!’ ‘
Vive La Liberté
!’

Our orders come late afternoon. We supposed to advance in reserve and strengthen the French position in the enemy trenches. Forward, through the smoke-filled communication trenches. I make out shapes, faces as we pass. Them tortuosa trees from near Verzy . . .

Now the medic stations, marked with boards painted with a red cross. Already the stations crowded with the wounded and dyin’. A sweatin’ priest bendin’ double as he perform the last rites. He gone and pulled up his cassock to make it easier to get around; we see the hobnailed boots and army-issue trousers that he wear underneath.

A group of Boche prisoners being herded along. Many just boys, some look no more than sixteen. They torn through with shell, bullet and bayonet wounds, uniforms flappin’ in its and bits, fire-scorched and still smokin’ in places. The look in their eyes – I seen it in the horses of earlier this mornin’. That same crazed fright, a settlin’ madness from being pushed to the edge of what they can take. Many openly cryin’, like the children they are, skinny white arms tight ’bout a buddy’s neck. The stink of vomit and explosive ’bout them, and fresh, barbecue char.

Out of the trenches at last, forward, through the break in our wire, across No Man’s Land. The white limestone has been shot away by the shells – furrows of brown undersoil look like scars across the plain. A mess of litter – blooded bayonets, tangles of bobwire, cartridge casings, shrapnel, dented helmets, sheets of elephant iron, all twisted and shot through with holes, ridin’ spurs, broken stakes of the Boche’s
chevaux de frise
, detonated shells. All sorts of metal bent and beaten outta shape, some still red hot and glowin’, like battle wreaths for the dead.

Closer now, to the Boche trenches. Their line so fully shelled, levelled so flat that there ain’t no need for the sections of bridgin’ our French ’genie engineers been stockpilin’ to the rear. Bodies everywhere, lyin’ so thick in places, ain’t no way to advance but to run right on top of them with our hobnailed boots. In one huge pit, dozens lyin’ twisted together, all killed by the same shells.

Into the Boche trenches, down into the earth along flights of stairs. Stairs, real stairs, made of concrete. The Boche done built an underground city, fully six to eight metres below ground. These ain’t no itty bitty dugouts like ours, with chicken wire for beddin’, but bedrooms proper, with bedsteads, washstands, tables and chairs. There’s kitchens, bathrooms. Even a mess room, kitted out with a piano and phonograph, both gutted from the shellin’.

Broken glass crunch under our feet as we start to look around. A signboard hang crooked along one wall. James, he set the board upright – ‘
Schützengraben Spandau
,’ he read aloud. The Boche, they gone and given their trenches names. This here been Trench Spandau. Two bottles have rolled against the wall, untouched. They filled with wine. Dustin’ them off, I stuff them in my musette.

Most everybody doin’ the same now, pickin’ out treasures from the smokin’ rubble and messes of bloodied bandage. System D in full swing – anythin’ of use is ours. Luger pistols, still in their holsters, packs of cigarettes, lighters, tins of cherry jam, a tobacco pipe, its bowl painted with soldiers in what look like regimental colours. Gaillard come whistlin’ past, two boxes of cigars under an arm. He point at the string of dried sausages around his neck – ‘
Landjäger
!’ he say happily.

James bend over somethin’. I mosey on over, curious to see what he picked out. He lookin’ at half an arm. It lyin’ there in the dirt, a postcard in its fingers. The fingers, they long and well formed I notice, long enough for the piano. I can read some of the words on the postcard – ‘
Mein schatz Ernst
. . .’ Ain’t no sign of the rest of the body, ain’t no way of knowin’ if Ernst among the wounded or just one more of the dead. Just his arm remain, with its piano-playin’ fingers, holdin’ tight to that postcard.

James dust his hands on his trousers. He look at me as if to say somethin’, when someone casually kick the stump aside.

Word come late that afternoon. Only the first line of the Boche trenches has fallen; even with all that shellin’, the wire belts of the second line, they stand untouched.

‘Still,’ Gaillard say stoutly, ‘these trenches are ours.’

The look on James’ face say it all. These trenches ours now, this day sure gonna count as a victory, but for all the men and ammunition lost, we ain’t advanced no more than this thin bit of chalky ground.

The Front powerful restless all that night. Verey lights goin’ up at all hours, and the crackle of rifle fire – short, sharp bursts through which we can hear the cries of the wounded and dyin’.

It keep drizzlin’ through the night, leadin’ into a mornin’ all grey and fuzzy ’bout the edges. We get new orders, to double back part of the way we come, then head off at an angle towards a wooded ridge north of Souain.

The drizzle keep drip-drippin’ on to our helmets, workin’ past upturned collars as we make our way back through the captured trenches. The French ’genies, they sure been busy since we came through here last afternoon. Their crews gone and shifted the sandbags around overnight. Parapet turned into parados, facin’ the other way, towards the Boche second line. Passage been cleared through the rubble. Too many been through here already but my eyes peeled to the floor all the same, for more wine, cigarettes or other stuff that might be worth a legionnaire’s while, when:

‘Fuck.’

He stop so sudden that I nearabout bump into James’ back. Everybody ahead stopped too, starin’ at a section of loopholes. Now that I look, there somethin’ right odd-lookin’ ’bout the shape of those loopholes. I squint through the drizzle, tryin’ to make out what it is, and then it hit me – those loopholes, they framed in boots. Short of time, and needin’ to turn these trenches around in a hurry, our ’genies, they gone and used the dead to fortify the walls. Two Boche, laid ’bout six inches apart, their boots flush with the wall of the trench. Another body placed across them. Dirt shovelled over,
et voilà
, both grave and loophole ready.

‘Fucking System D,’ James says, and begin to laugh softly.

It right hilarious, that ’genie version of System D. It crack us up proper. James laugh, we all do, eyes starin’ wide, mouths white at the corners as we look at those dead-filled loopholes and laugh.

A few hours later, it’s us lyin’ in graves. When we get to the ridge, our orders are to draw the fire of the enemy batteries, so that our troops can make a flankin’ move. Ain’t no trenches in this part of the sector and so we dig shallow graves for ourselves, lined up side by side. Just deep ’nuff for a man to lay flat, with the walls thick ’nuff that if a shell falls in one, the men on either side still got a chance. The rain, she keep fallin’ all the while.

Two days later, it still rainin’ and we still lyin’ here in our graves, gun bait for the Boche. Lucky for us, they don’t have our exact location, but they got the range to do plenty damage all the same.

I run my fingers over the eyeholes of the canvas we each got for coverin’, checkin’ that the cartridges holdin’ it down against this diabolic rain still in place. When all of this craziness done, I swear I’m headin’ straight to the desert somewhere. Some place with white sun and hot sand, and I don’t care none ’bout no
cafard
brain, I don’t.

Verey lights start to go up, plenty bright through the canvas. I shift ’bout in that cold, wet grave, tryin’ to get comfortable as the rattlin’ of machine guns go on, all night, even louder than the rain.

When I wake up, it taken a second or two to figure out where I am. I think at first that maybe I gone and died sometime in the night. Lyin’ there in the grave with the canvas over me, and everythin’ so quiet, ain’t no gunfire, nothin’. I throw open that canvas in a hurry. A cold grey mist pour in. James, I hear James, whistlin’ soft under his breath. I damn near jump up and do a jig right then ’cause the rain, that no ’count, devil-spawn rain, it finally stopped.