Love and the Loveless (45 page)

*

Snow was falling when Phillip, following the company, left Havrincourt for the Cambrai road. It was congested with traffic, being the only hard road leading to the left sector of the battle. The German machine-gun barrage hissed over and down. Copper-sheathed bullets with steel cores sometimes struck sparks from the cobbles. They passed the wreckage of waggons and horses. Shells growled down in front, near the sugar refinery. He suggested to Pinnegar that they turn off the road, and follow one of the parallel tracks, but Pinnegar replied that the snow would have covered most guiding posts and all the tapes. Shrapnel burst redly in front.

“I’m fairly sure I know the way, Teddy.”

“We’ll go by road and risk the shit flying about.”

Two figures stood by the brick-and-iron ruin that had been the sugar refinery. The arrival of the company was checked by the Brigade-major: the Boy General said, “Well done! Keep going!”

The relief on the night of 29/30 November. Thousands of gas-shells falling. Yellow-, green-, blue-cross shells plopped down. Soft swooping noises, almost gentle, like sighs, followed by the slightest of pops. Angry buzzings and hissing among them—the enemy machine-gun barrage. Rotten-egg smell: phosgene, with its delayed action on the heart——

“All drivers to put on their animals’ masks! Look slippy! Then your own.”

The whole area was being drenched by gas. Stifling hot mask of box-respirator. Goggle glass steamy. Damn, why not anti-dimmed by paste? Impossible to speak, rubber teat in mouth.

Shells screamed down on the road. Wheel fragments flying, screaming horses. He lifted his mask. “This way, this way!” Better the suck of mud on track than splatter-flesh-blood on road. To get away, get away, get away, teeth ground with the thought of get away.

No more shells. Safe to lift mask, and sniff. Must have done a mile in masks.

“Halt in front! Five minutes’ breather. No smoking.”

He plodded back to see Pinnegar, at rear of column.

“Where are we, Phil? How far from Graincourt?”

“It should be in front, Teddy.”

“Oughtn’t we to get back on the road?”

“It’s frightfully congested at this hour. The relief of the Guards and ourselves will add to it. I know the way.”

“How far is Demicourt?”

“About two and a half miles past Graincourt.”

Demicourt, about half a mile behind the old British front line, was the Brigade assembly area. There they were to rest before going, with the remains of the Division, to refit in a back area.

“The men are just about all in, sir,” said the sergeant-major.

“Yes, for Christ’s sake get a move on!”

After half an hour he had doubts about being on the right track. Where was Graincourt? How could he have missed it?

Continuing onwards, they came to an unfamiliar wood. Beyond and below sloping ground lay the dark mass of a village, revealed by a line of distant flares. O God, where were they?

“Don’t look like Graincourt to me,” said the sergeant-major.

“Nor to me.”

“Then where the hell are we?” asked Pinnegar.

“I don’t know, Teddy.”

“Well, you should damn well know! For two days and three bloody nights we’ve been fighting your
prächtig
kerls
the Alleymans, while you’ve had damn-all to do! I told you Demicourt on my message, couldn’t you bloody well have familiarised yourself with the route by daylight?”

“We’ve been on road-making fatigues all day, skipper, and only returned half an hour before leaving to meet you.”

“Who the hell cares?” shouted Pinnegar angrily. “Couldn’t you have left Nolan, and gone off to find the way? What the hell d’you think you’re here for? To go on bloody Cook’s tours, like a bloody war correspondent?”

The sergeant-major said, “I think that’s the Bapaume road in front of us, although this don’t look like Graincourt, sir.”

“But those flares look like it, Teddy. Jerry’s lines go parallel to the road, below the sugar factory. We must have come in a wide circle.”

“Then what the bloody hell’r we arguing about? Lead on, for Christ’s sake.” They crossed a small stream. Phillip could not remember any stream around Graincourt, or the Bapaume road. But the line of flares was the same. With a shock he realised that the moon was in the wrong place.

The moon, two nights past the full, had risen about 8 p.m. Out of the
east.
The German lines below Bourlon ran
west
of the Bapaume road: they were an extension of the Hindenburg Line going up to Bullecourt and Arras. He felt giddy. Was he ill, his mind become unreliable? The road in front was straight. It must be the Cambrai–Bapaume road. Perhaps he had a temperature. He had been in his wet things for over a week. The sooner he was bloody dead the better.

Passing by the village, they moved across grass, and down a gentle slope, to the road. It was trenched on the near side. They were challenged. “Who are you?”

“Machine Gun Corps. This is the Cambrai road, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Thank God! Which way is Boursies?”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s just behind our old front line, about half-way between Bapaume and Cambrai.”

“Then you’re right off it, old boy. This is the Cambrai–St. Quentin road. It’s not healthy to move on it, the Boche is less than half a mile away. His patrols are probably a couple of hundred yards off.”

“Oh hell. Our chaps are dead beat.”

“About turn is your only hope. And the sooner the better. The old Hun has got some pretty hot mortars opposite, and we’ve had a Special Alert Warning.”

He fought against panic. What would Pinnegar say? No: the point was, how to get back.

“If I can make Havrincourt, I’ll know where I am.” When Pinnegar came up, he said, “We’re a little off course, skipper.”

“Havrincourt isn’t far, come into my cellar, I’ll show you on the map,” said the unseen speaker. In candle-light he was revealed as a captain of the Queen’s regiment. He pointed out the position on a map.

“We’re here, at le Quennet farm. If you go on the road, it’s a bit tricky as far as the fork at Bonavis farm. The old Hun has got it taped by his mortars. The right-hand fork will get you to Gouzeaucourt. You’ll have to be careful all the way until you’ve got past Steak House and the Hindenburg support trenches. From there onwards it should be fairly plain sailing, for, as you can see, the line runs south while your road to Gouzeaucourt lies south-west.”

“But that’s a hell of a long way to go! My men are just about done in!” cried Pinnegar.

“I’m afraid I can’t suggest anything better.”

“Well, thank you very much,” said Phillip.

“Not at all. I’m afraid I can’t offer you a drink——”

Pinnegar, no longer angry, thanked the Queen’s captain, and the convoy went on, iron bands of limber wheels rattling loudly on pavé. But no shells came over.

Half-way to Gouzeaucourt the gunners were crying weary. Pinnegar said he’d had enough, so they turned off into a village which had some walls standing, and there bivouacked. Having seen that the mules and officers’ horses were tied to limbers, and the drivers under tarpaulins, Phillip followed Pinnegar and the section officers into a dug-out. Taking off his wet clobber, he put on pyjamas, which were in his haversack ready for the camp at Demicourt; and getting into a bunk above Pinnegar fell asleep.

Noises of bumping hovered on the verge of consciousness; noiseless shouting seemed to be going on for a very long time. Then he was aware of being in a bunk, of Pinnegar’s face looking up at him with the light of an electric torch, of the sergeant-major talking to him. Then a voice bawled down the stairs, “They’ve broken through! They’re coming! Jerry’s broken through!”

*

Throwing trench-coat over pyjama jacket, with an arm through one sleeve, he followed Pinnegar and the sergeant-major up the steps: hesitated in a rush of thoughts: scrambled
down again to grope for his boots, which were not where he had pulled them off. He felt shivery, his eyeballs ached. Where was Barrow, he thought, irritably. Barrow had taken away his things to dry them, also to sew a button on his breeches.

No Barrow. No boots. No breeches. No shirt. No tunic. The rattle of a Lewis gun came from almost immediately outside. With shaking fingers he buttoned his trench-coat, and carrying tin-hat and revolver holster on webbing belt, went up the stairs, telling himself to be calm, to remain calm,
not
to
panic
if Germans were near, but to drop belt and tin-hat and stand still, with arms raised. He saw it happening apart from himself, and felt no fear, only calm anticipation. If he was shot, he was shot. Let it come.

Outside it was grey and misty. Many aeroplanes were flying low, about a quarter of a mile away. Bullets cracked. Figures were moving through the ruins. Tin hats. Farther off, a line of advancing Germans. They appeared to be firing from the hip. Enemy ’planes were flying low, machine-gunning. Dozens of them. He ran bare-footed up the cobbled street, and saw, with tremendous relief, the mules already hooked-in to the limbers. Field-guns were firing in the ruins. Infantry, some without rifles, hurrying down the street.

Sergeant Nolan was waiting. “We’re just about hooked-in, sir.”

“Good man, oh, good man!”

“They say the Alleyman’s got flamethrowers, but they won’t have carried them things so far. Best get out, sir.”

“Have you seen Captain Pinnegar?”

“Gone to see to the sections, sir.”

Pinnegar came back, looking grim.

“We’ll have to get back to the reserve line, wherever it is. From what I hear, the outpost line had been overwhelmed. Look at that lot!”

Panic-stricken faces were passing, among them an officer striding on alone.

“Let’s get a move on! Trouble is, no bloody ammunition. We left ours in Bourlon Wood, for the relief.”

Phillip remembered the map of the night before. “There’s a station at Gouzeaucourt, Teddy. We might get some there. There’s bound to be a dump of sorts. Shall I take the limbers there?”

“It’s as good a place as any.”

“I’ll see you at the station!”

“Righto. Lead on, for Christ’s sake. Better make for the road, though these bloody Hun scouts will strafe us, I suppose.”

Barrow appeared, flushed and panting. “I’ve got your clobber, sir!”

“Shove it in a limber! Are you ready, Nolan? Turn left just before the straight road. You know—the one we came down last night. Better still, keep off it, keep a parallel course, about a hundred yards short.”

They got down without trouble, and found a train standing in a siding of the Decaville light railway built before the battle, when Gouzeaucourt had been about two miles behind the British lines. Its iron trucks were loaded under tarpaulins. The A.S.C. officer was clean-shaven, and wore pince-nez spectacles. He was saying that he could not allow any unauthorised removal of food or ammunition, when Pinnegar drew his revolver and said, “That’s my authorisation! If you don’t bloody well get out of the way …! Come on, get a move on, s’ar-major, get the limbers filled!”

“I must ask you to give me a receipt for the stores you’re taking,” said the A.S.C. officer.

“You’ll be able to give it to the Boche, who was just about up to our field-gun batteries in Gonnelieu when we left half an hour ago!”

The A.S.C. officer looked bewildered. He went to the telephone, while tins of biscuits, boxes of Maconochie, bully, butter, and whiskey were put in the limbers, together with bombs and S.A.A. The A.S.C. officer came back to say that the line was dead. He looked anxious. He was saying that five heavy batteries of howitzers were in Gouzeaucourt when an engine was heard coming down the track. A great rattle approached, enveloped in steam. Waving arms were seen as the train rushed backwards into the station. The trucks were filled with elderly men. An officer standing up in the last truck shouted as it passed, “Germans! Coming down!” The train swayed past, going south, at its maximum speed of about ten miles an hour. It was soon gone over the skyline.

“Better fill a couple of belts,” said the sergeant-major.

While this was being done, Pinnegar took the officers into a shed, where they filled their bottles with whiskey and water. “May as well let the men have a swig,” he said, giving each section officer a bottle. Small loaves and tins of butter had already been dished out.

Drivers’ carbines were hauled from limbers, magazines charged. Half a dozen belts had been filled when engine-steam was seen again at the top of the cutting. The train was returning to the station. Hardly had it stopped when the pioneers jumped out, and made for the village.

“Look at them, the ragtime army,” said the sergeant-major, a stocky little man with a big dark brown head, as he munched bread and butter. One of them heard and shouted in a broad West Country voice, “They’m zwarmin’ through Gosh Wood, maydeers! The man in charge a-roarin’ and a-bawlin’ in Jarman ‘Zurrender!’ ’a crieth! You’d bestways start sparkin’, maydeers!”

“Closin’ time! Jerry’ll be ’ere in ’arf a mo’!” cried another.

“What do you feel about a receipt now?” said Pinnegar, whiskey-jovial, to the A.S.C. officer. “Of course, if it will make you happy I’m quite prepared to give you one for the whole bloody train.” Dot-like figures were now to be seen at the top of the cutting about a thousand yards away. Bullets began to buzz.