Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel) (40 page)

In the four weeks since they had retaken Beauregard Dovecote, the Third Army, including Edward’s Battalion of the 1/8 Lancashire Fusiliers as part of the 42nd Division, had continued to push the retreating German Army back towards the Hindenburg Line. As they had progressed, their line had become more compressed into a shorter front, and there had been some greatly appreciated opportunities both for rest and retraining.

Both sides had suffered heavy casualties but the Allies had taken thousands of prisoners. The temper of the battle had changed and they felt that victory was there for the taking.

Now they were facing what would be, the following morning, their most formidable challenge. They were going to attempt to break the seemingly impregnable Hindenburg Line. They knew that the German Army believed, not only that it could be held, but also that it must be held. Their rather bookish Captain had told them that the Germans had taken the names for the trenches from the final opera in Wagner’s ‘Ring’ which translated into English as ‘The Twilight of the Gods.’ The possible irony here had probably not been recognised by the fiercely defiant German high command, but it was savoured by the British soldiers.

Edward stood on the firestep and gazed out through the slit in the sandbags at the clumsy beauty of the tangled landscape that was gripped by a strained stillness. There was no wind, no sound and no life in this battered, grey domain but he knew that there were thousands of German soldiers embedded into the rolling French plains.

His battalion had been brought up to Ruyaulcourt at 7.30pm and from there they had made their way up to the front line. Now they must wait a lifetime for a battle that could be decisive but might prove impossible.

He went over in his mind, once again, the plan for the attack which had been detailed out for them that day. The strategy for the whole of the Third Army had been explained so that they could see where they fitted into the broader picture. There were five objectives for them to achieve, each of which had been given a colour reference. There was to be a series of massive onslaughts along the whole of the Western Front with the intention of smashing both the Hindenburg Line and the resolution of the German Army.

Edward lit a cigarette and looked out over the low land of the Ribecourt Valley, flanked by two great ridges, where they would mount their attack. Three spurs protruded into the valley from the Beaucamp Ridge on the right. If all went well then they would be camped on the furthest of these – the formidable Highland Ridge – by the following night. It was a distance of around two miles and achieving this target would mean that they had broken through the main defences of the Hindenburg Line.

He knew that when the Allied bombardment opened, the Germans would respond by shelling the stretch of land where they believed they would find the approaching British soldiers. The ground was fairly soft and pock marked by shell holes so that would give the British soldiers a better chance. If the shells landed on hard ground the shrapnel could kill soldiers up to half a mile away but, if the ground was soft, it would cushion the fall and the circle of destruction would be limited.

Edward tried to envisage the route that they would take to keep up their position just behind the creeping barrage provided by the artillery. Things had changed so much in the last two years both with the design of the big guns and with the accuracy that was achieved by the men of the Royal Artillery. There was also a lot more of it. Many lessons had been learned by the infantry Battalions about the tactics to be used. Now they tended to go in fairly small groups and would keep quite close to the creeping wall of shell fire. They also attacked strategic targets on a compact front, often taking the enemy by surprise rather than announcing their attack by heavy artillery bombardments for hours, or even days, before they moved. That had only resulted in the enemy taking shelter in deep dugouts, to emerge when the Allied infantry approached.

Lieutenant Frank Williams was to lead one of the platoons in the Company whilst Edward, subsidiary to Williams, would be leading another. The shortage of officers was becoming a profound problem for the Army because so many were being killed. The ones that were coming in were often straight from the officer training school and most of the Captains appeared to be only in their early twenties. Edward had admired and respected the majority of these young men. Despite their lack of experience, they invariably showed great courage in their leadership, often to the point of foolhardiness. Although some of them were haughty, arrogant and uncaring the majority of them worked hard and thoughtfully to earn the respect of the men that they led.

The only real exception to this that Edward could think of was the detestable Fforbes-Fosdyke, but he had received his just reward. He felt sure that Frank Williams knew a bit more about the Major’s demise than he was letting on. There had been something about his face when Liam had mentioned about Chopper Hennessy being with the 1/7 Lancashires who were in support. Maybe an old score had been settled for the killing of his younger brother in the trench in Gallipoli but, there again, some things are better left unsaid.

Edward’s thoughts turned, as they so often did, to the unfathomable torment that was torturing his friend, Liam. The previous week he had shown him the letter that he had received from his daughter, Laura, and Liam had read it over carefully without comment. His face had been a blank mask that had betrayed nothing of his feelings. Edward had watched him closely looking for a sign of contrition or remorse; any indication that he had been touched by the plaintiff message or become aware of the hurt that he was imposing. There had been nothing. The door had been slammed so tightly shut that nothing could pass through it. After reading it over four or five times he had handed it back to Edward with just a cursory ‘Thanks’ and had wandered off towards the New Zealand camp.

Edward was becoming desperate to find something that would help to free his friend’s manacled mind. He was certain that Liam’s unfailing good humour and ebullient personality had helped most of the longer serving members of their platoon to survive mentally. When a fellow soldier had bad news from home, Liam was available with an attentive ear and a cheery word, if they were depressed he would lift them with his quick wit, and when anybody seemed to be showing signs of shellshock or abject fear, his arm would be round their shoulders and he would weave a protective web of caring attention. Now, as he withdrew deeper into the dark recesses of his mind and needed, in turn, the help from his friends, they were unable to provide it. Liam’s silences were so powerful and affecting that Edward felt his own mental state being gripped by a deep unease.

He had thought that young Laura’s letter might jar Liam off this downward spiral but, once again, it seemed that he had failed. Liam’s cavalier conduct in battle was likely to prove fatal and Edward had no ideas left that might avert it.

His cough was troubling him again. He took out another cigarette and enjoyed the soothing smoke. He watched Big Charlie collecting large, rounded stones together and throwing them at a distant tree. He guessed that it was around 80 yards away but Big Charlie’s accuracy was amazing. Not too surprising, though. Big Charlie could kick penalties from anywhere within the opponents’ half so he obviously had a good eye.

Edward hoped that, at least, he might have helped to resolve Big Charlie’s marital problems. His wife, Laura, had bumped into Dorothy’s cousin and she had given her the new address. Edward had passed it on to a grateful Big Charlie who had then spent several days laboriously writing a letter in his own words.

As he gazed out across the darkening valley his cheek was cooled by a sudden gentle breeze; his wife’s soft hair brushing his face as he kissed her goodbye. Memories of his home and family that he tried to keep locked away but, so often, they floated like unbidden shadows into his consciousness.

***

They had been in their assembly positions since 2.00am on the 27 September 1918 and there had been three hours of tense waiting until just after 5.00am. The silence had been broken by the single shell being fired from one of the big guns in the artillery line behind them that signalled the start of the bombardment. Within seconds, the morning stillness was shattered by a raging cacophony of shrieking shells that flew over them and exploded into a wall of flame over the German lines.

So many guns were firing that the whooshing and screaming of the shells in flight blended with the echoing roar of the explosions as they thudded into the ground and created a melodrama of deafening sound. Huge spectacular plumes of orange, blue and yellow flames and dust rose into the air surrounded by dramatic showers of cracking sparks as ammunition dumps were hit.

Edward’s Battalion was timed to go off at 7.52am to give the chance for the groups on the flanks to clear the higher ground. The wait seemed interminable. The noises coalesced into a wall of sound and their minds closed themselves against it. They had their tots of rum and Edward checked his letters and his pockets and had sudden misgivings about the nature of the letters that he had sent to Laura and each of the kids. His own anxieties had, maybe, flavoured the words with a sense of finality.

He watched Big Charlie going through his cleaning and checking routine again. Others were whispering their mantras, brushing their uniforms, reading favourite letters and saying Hail Marys. He felt a comfort from watching his fellow soldiers attaching themselves to these familiars.

His gaze fell on Liam sitting by himself on the fire step. His eyes were animated but distant. He was silently, but vehemently, mouthing his side of a conversation with an unseen participant. Liam’s sometimes anguished face reflected the telling points that the other person was making. Maybe it was his beloved, though absent, Bridget who had invaded his troubled thoughts. The Captain called out ‘Ten minutes to go’ and patted Liam gently on the shoulder. Liam’s head momentarily dropped as his muted conversation stopped and then he stood up, wiped his boots on the back of his trousers and crossed himself.

Edward watched the men make the final adjustments to their kit. They all carried trenching spades strapped to their back packs and some also held wire cutters. Three of them formed the Lewis Gun team and they had to bring the heavy packs of ammunition in addition to the gun. Most of the soldiers had grenade pouches fastened round them as well as the spare rounds of ammunition for their Lee Enfield rifles. They all had their carefully polished bayonets fixed. The soldiers were increasingly surprised by the apparent fear that was growing in the German ranks for the British bayonet. They seemed happy to exchange rifle fire but, as soon as the Tommies entered their trenches brandishing fixed bayonets, panic filled their eyes.

The Captain came over to Edward, shook his hand and wished him luck. Edward guessed that the officer was probably only in his early twenties. Mind you, he himself had been married two years by that age and he had a baby son. The young man’s armoury consisted minimally of a pistol and a walking stick.

The Captain signalled that it was time to go but held up his hand. ‘Have a good run lads. Look out for each other. This is going to be a tough one so keep your eyes peeled. Hang on until the big fella goes through then we’ll follow.’

They heard a rumbling clatter and a Mark IV tank went by trailing a thick rope with a huge grappling hook attached to it. It thundered across the massive barbed wire barriers of the German defence system, snagging them and dragging them like an immense, contorting, whipping metal tail. It then turned to the side hauling its rapidly growing burden behind it. The soldiers looked on in with utter amazement. The tank had accomplished within a few minutes what hours of artillery bombardment had often failed to do.

The young Captain held his stick aloft. ‘Let’s go lads. Don’t forget the 8th’s motto. ‘Go one better.’ Good luck.’ He was up the ladder and over the parapet. Hundreds of men went over the top following the track cleared by the tank. They kept their heads low and walked at a fast pace behind the curtain of shell fire that was progressing slowly forward in front of them. The artillery gunners had developed their skills in positioning to a high science, firing into the tightly defined coordinates that they had been given. The soldiers didn’t get too close. The shells contained a deadly weaponry of shrapnel.

Rolling banks of smoke began to form into a blanket, held in the valley by the cold morning air. The Hindenburg Line became a wall of dusty orange and red flame. The Captain stood starkly outlined against this dramatic backcloth waving his pistol in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He was directing the platoons in the Company along the most effective routes. Like so many of his fellow officers did, he was leading and inspiring with a self sacrificing display of bravado. Most of the rank and file soldiers would have preferred less inspiration and more continued leadership.

Within minutes, they heard the fearsome staccato chatter of machine gun bullets and men began to fall. Edward’s heart sank. They were caught out in the open like ducks sitting on a pond. He motioned his platoon into a shallow shell hole and tried to determine the direction of the hail of bullets. He looked round to check if the men were alright and he saw that the Lewis Gunner was lying dead about ten yards away. Liam, following Edward’s gaze, jumped out of the hole and ran to retrieve the gun. When he got back Edward asked him where the gunner had been shot. Liam told him that it was in his right temple. Edward looked at the other casualties. Most had received bullet wounds in the right side of their bodies although some had been hit in the front.

Edward told them that it was enfilading fire coming from the Beaucamp Ridge on the right. The groups that had left early to clear the higher flanks must have been stopped. Edward pointed in the rough direction that he adjudged, from the position of the wounds, the machine guns were positioned. The soldiers peered through the shroud of smoke and soon one of them spotted the concrete bunker in front of which were piled camouflaging dead trees. It was over a hundred yards away.