Starshine (4 page)

‘Out and back, Bertie,’ he shouted, scrambling to his feet and climbing up the trench wall behind him. Immediately, he found the little Irishman beside him. But the Highlander was too late. The leading German’s bayonet caught him in the shoulder as he attempted to rise to his feet and he spun round, to be bayoneted again in the chest. Bertie jerked back his bolt and fired, catching the German in the breast, so that he toppled into the trench in front of his comrades.

This gave a moment of precious respite to the two Territorials who worked their bolts and fired again, bringing down both men. They had no time, however, to do anything more than present their bayonets to the next two Germans, who jumped down onto the bodies of their fallen compatriots and thrust upwards at them, stabbing fiercely at their ankles and calves, forcing them back.

Hickman swung his own bayonet downwards, locked it onto the steel of his opponent and swung up and to the side, allowing him to bring the butt of his rifle into the man’s face. He had time to mark the look of surprise in the German’s eyes – blue and staring – before he swung the bayonet back again and plunged it into the man’s neck. He withdrew it, remembering instinctively the drill of ‘twisting and
pulling’, and then, turning, he thrust it deeply into the back of Bertie’s opponent. The man fell without a sound.

For a moment, Jim and Bertie stood facing each other, gasping across the bodies of the two men slain. Then they turned to face what was next to come – to find the Germans retreating once more, leaving a new line of bodies, like seaweed detritus on a beach after high tide had receded.

‘Mother of God bless us,’ exclaimed Bertie, wiping his brow. ‘That was close. Thank you, Jimmy. He was a bit big for me and I don’t think I could have taken him. God bless you, boy.’

Hickman stayed for a moment staring into the eyes of his friend, then he switched his gaze to the end of his bayonet, which was dripping with blood. He felt suddenly sick. Plunging a blade into straw effigies of Germans on the training ground, urged on by the instructors screaming, ‘Go on, stick the pigs, kill ’em,’ had been one thing. This was very, very different. With both thrusts he had felt his bayonet scrape against bone – someone’s bone, the bone of a man of flesh and blood. The bone of a man he had killed. He shuddered and turned away.

He felt Bertie’s hand on his shoulder. ‘It had to be done, Jimmy. I’m feeling, sonny, that this is a terrible war, so it is.’

‘Get down, you bloody idiots.’ The sergeant’s voice rang out just in time, for as they half jumped, half fell on top of the bodies in the trench, the machine gun began its chatter; not on a fixed traverse this time, but aimed at them, for the bullets thudded into the soil just above their heads.

Hickman turned to the Gordon Highlander, but the man was quite dead, his face contorted into an expression of wounded surprise, his eyes staring. The Germans, too, were dead and they realised that they were kneeling on corpses.

‘Ugh,’ exclaimed Jim. ‘I think we’d better throw ’em up on the top, if we can. But keep your head down.’

Somehow they were able to lever and then push the bodies up above the side of the trench and then give them a push so that they rolled away, but only a few inches.

‘Jesus,’ said Murphy. ‘I don’t fancy resting me rifle on their arses.’

‘Here,’ muttered Hickman. ‘Give me a hand to drag the Jock into the shell hole. There’s no room for the poor devil here.’

Together they pulled and pushed the Scotsman the few yards into the crater where the sergeant was kneeling over a wounded Tommie, applying a dressing to his stomach. The man was groaning and three others lay dead, spreadeagled, their faces half buried in the soil, having slipped back from the rim. Of the original seven men, plus the four reinforcements, who had defended the crater, only six were left.

The survivors lay sprawled along the walls of the shell hole, still breathing heavily, their rifles with their fixed bayonets in their hands.

The sergeant looked up, perspiration running down into his moustaches. ‘Gawd, you two know how to look after yourselves, I’ll say that for you,’ he said. ‘You, Lofty,’ he nodded to Hickman, ‘take post as lookout. When the shellin’ starts again, you take what cover you can. They won’t attack then. You, Paddy, go back down the line and try and find company headquarters. It’s down that so-called communications trench leading down the ’ill, though I doubt if there’s much left of it after that shellin’. Tell the major that I doubt if we can ’old on if they attack again unless we get reinforcements. Oh,’ he nodded to the wounded man, ‘find stretcher-bearers and tell ’em we’ve got a bad one ’ere.’

‘Very good, sorr … Sergeant.’

‘Come back, you bloody fool.’

‘Sorr?’

‘Take yer rifle with you. Never move without it when you’re in the line. Oh, and see if you can scrounge a couple of spades while you’re gone – and sonny …?’

‘Sorr?’

‘Don’t call me “sir”.’

‘No, sorr.’ And Bertie crawled away, one long strip of his puttees trailing behind him.

Hickman took up his post, removing his cap and showing only a few inches of his face above the rim, a few seconds at a time. He also moved his position along the edge so that he did not offer a set target for a sniper. He became aware that Sergeant Jones was at his side.

‘Sarge?’

‘You’re doin’ well, lad. Seen you movin’. You’ve got sense. ’Ow long ’ave you been in the Terriers?’

‘Oh, only about ten months. We joined at seventeen.’

‘Well, if you stay alive, you’ll make a bloody good soldier.’ His voice dropped slightly. ‘Better’n these Regulars ’ere, who just can’t think for themselves. Look – what’s your name again?’

‘Hickman.’

‘Right, Hickman. If I cop it when they come over again and we don’t get reinforcements, take charge of this little lot. Make sure they spread out along the top of the crater and don’t present a bunched-up target. Get a report on ammunition. If there’s not enough left, then take ’em back down the line. You can’t ’ang on without bullets. ’Ow many ’ave you got?’

‘About forty rounds.’

‘Good. The others ’ave got about twenty-five or so each. Just about enough to defend this bloody ’ole. Below two apiece move out. Now, I’m just goin’ along the line to see what’s either side of us. ’Aven’t ’ad
a chance yet. With any luck I’ll be back in about ten minutes. If the lieutenant comes, explain to him. Right?’

‘Right, Sarge.’

The weathered face broke into a smile. ‘Good lad.’ He moved away and as he did so, Jim noticed that he was limping and a thin trail of blood, dried now, had dripped down from a tear in his trousers at the thigh. Hickman looked round at the men in the crater. Everyone was now sleeping, except for the wounded man, who lay softly moaning. He could see no regimental badges but he sensed that they were a mixed bag, made up from different battalions, including probably some service troops, drivers, clerks and the like. He gulped. He had been in the front line, in action, for less than twenty-four hours and already he had his first command, of a sort. He closed his eyes and hoped that the Germans would not attack again while the sergeant was away. Then he opened them again when he realised that the alternative was probably worse: shelling.

He was moving himself along the rim, with great caution, when a crisp voice called up, ‘Where’s Sergeant Jones?’

‘He’s gone along the line, sir,’ Jim called down, ‘to make contact with the blokes on our left.’

The young lieutenant looked even older in daylight, for his face was lined and his cheeks and chin were covered in stubble. ‘Right.’ The young man looked at the bodies. He bent down and shook awake two of the sleeping men. ‘You two. Get up and put the bodies out of the shell hole. Tip them over the front, on the enemy’s side, and they will help to protect the lip. Can’t bury them, I’m afraid. There’s no time and nowhere to put them anyway. Lookout …’

‘Sir?’

‘Has someone gone to find bearers for this wounded man?’

‘Yes, sir. My mate’s gone.’

‘Good.’ He looked around again. ‘You’ve done well. I’ll see if we can reinforce you but we are very thin on the ground. Hang on here. It’s vital that you do. So far the line has held and it’s important that it does. There’s nothing between here and Ypres, so it’s backs to the wall, chaps. Take it in turns to sleep. I don’t think they’ll come over again today, but the fact that they’re not shelling means that they might. Good luck.’

He raised a languid finger to his cap and was gone.

The Germans did not come again that day, for their attacks across open ground had cost them dearly. The machine gun remained active, as did the snipers, but the little redoubt sustained no more casualties and, for some reason, the shelling did not recommence. The sergeant returned to say that a company of Bedfords were holding the shell holes and ditches to the left ‘in good order’, so that flank seemed to be soundly covered. To Jim’s relief, Bertie returned after about an hour, carrying two shovels and bringing with him two stretcher-bearers, who gently loaded the wounded man and disappeared with him, at a crouch, down the hill.

‘Where’s the battalion of Grenadier Guards that I asked you to bring back with you?’ demanded the sergeant.

‘Well,’ said Bertie, ‘I did find an officer and gave him your message, sorr, but he told me to fuck off, so I thought I’d better. Mind you, I pinched two shovels when his back was turned so it served him right to be rude. You know, it never pays to be rude, sorr, it never does.’

Sergeant Jones sighed. ‘Don’t call me … oh, never mind.’ He threw the shovels at two men, half asleep. ‘Here, you men, deepen the trenches either side. Get crackin’ before the shellin’ starts again.’ He turned back to the two Terriers. ‘Get some rest, both of you. It’ll soon be dark.’

Later, having taken their turn with the shovels, the two friends
curled up together in the trench in which they had fought earlier. They lay silently at first. Then Bertie spoke, in a half whisper.

‘Have you thought about Polly since we landed, then, Jimmy?’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Have you thought often about her, I mean?’

‘All the bloody time, if you must know. Have you?’

‘All the time, like you.’

The silence returned, to be broken by a crack as a Very cartridge broke into light above them, to deter any night patrols in no man’s land. Then:

‘I think I love Polly, Jimmy. Do you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Is it all right for us both to love her, then, d’yer think, Jim?’

‘Course it is.’

‘But I’d like to marry her, yer see. Wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, but not yet.’

‘Right. But we can’t
both
marry her, now can we?’

‘No. But p’raps she wouldn’t have either of us, so it wouldn’t come up, would it?’

‘Ah, sure you’re wrong there, darlin’ boy. She loves us both. I know she does.’

Jim rolled over. ‘Well, the way this war is turning out, it’s not very likely, Bert, that we’ll both survive, or even one of us. Blimey, we’ve only been here a day and we’ve both nearly got the chop. So we won’t have to bother about it, I should think. Now get some sleep.’

‘Yes, Jimmy. Perhaps you’re right. You always are. Goodnight.’

For the next three days, the line was quiet except for desultory shelling during the day and some sniping and machine-gun fire from the German lines. Relief for the men in the shell hole came with the arrival of reinforcements in the shape of newly arrived Reservists, enabling work to begin – mainly after dark – on establishing proper defences. Trenches were dug between the shell holes, deep enough at seven feet to offer protection from anything but a direct hit by shell or mortar. Precious duckboards were brought up from the rear to lay on the floor of the trenches, where mud was beginning to ooze through, despite the absence of recent rain. Timbers arrived, too, to shore up the sides and, under the directions of Sergeant Jones, proper fire steps were cut to give firing height and a base for the lookouts.

More heartening, on the fourth day, the first hessian sandbags appeared and, with them, Sappers to erect wire during the hours of
darkness. Wire, but only sufficient to fix a single strand in front of the trench lip.

It seemed that the Royal Artillery was also facing economies. When asked why the British gunners were not replying to the salvoes of German shells that still peppered the lines and the communications systems in the rear, Sergeant Jones snorted.

‘The lieutenant says that the British Expeditionary Force ’as only got fifty-four ’eavy guns,’ he explained. ‘An’ all our gunners are short of shells – only eighteen rounds per battery is all they’re allowed to fire each day. We’re outgunned, son, an’ that’s the truth of it.’

Bertie listened to this and watched the nocturnal efforts of the Sappers with interest.

‘Well bugger it, Jim,’ he said. ‘The British Government must be very hard up, you know, what with short rations, no rifle oil, no shells and now sending up Engineers to the front line to stretch out one single bloody strand of barbed wire which is the only single bloody strand in the whole of France and Belgium and which a bloody giraffe could get up and walk under.’

Jim nodded solemnly. ‘So it seems, Bertie. So it seems.’

For the last three days he had been anxiously scanning the British positions and the terrain, as best he could analysing it from the trench and from what he could pick up from Lieutenant Yates, the young man who was their platoon commander. It was becoming clear to Jim that the British lines had been thrust forward from the little town of Ypres – vital to protect the Channel ports only a few miles to its rear – in a sweeping line that curved from north to south, but which occupied a far from ideal position. He explained it to Bertie by extending his right hand and cupping it.

‘You see, Wipers is here, just in front of the ball of the thumb. Got it, Bertie?’

The Irishman frowned and nodded.

‘So we’re all spread in a great curving line along the cup of my hand, with the Jerries up here on high ground on the base of my fingers. Look up there, up front to the ridges. Their guns are all up there, looking down on us, with the plain behind us. So, from their observation posts, they can see everything we do on the plain. They can see and shell all the movements out of the town. They can spot all the supplies and reinforcements coming up the line, which means we have to bring everything up by night. But they can fix firing lines on all the tracks and roads by day and shell ’em by night, even when they can’t see.’

‘I see, I see. Ah, Jimmy lad, you’d make a fine general, so you would.’

‘Well I don’t know about that. But I know enough to see that this bulge we’re in – it’s called a salient, I think – means that we can be fired on from three sides, which is a fair old bugger, I would say. And if we attack, we will have to go uphill, up to this ridge up ahead.’

‘So we will. So we will.’

They were interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Jones. ‘Hickman, I want a word.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘You’re getting a stripe, lad. Lance corporal.’

‘Blimey!’

‘Don’t let it go to yer ’ead. It’s dead man’s shoes – like your rifles, so to speak. We’ve lost so many men that we ’ave to plug the ’oles, even with a Terrier. But you deserve it. As I said, you’ve shown more nouse than most of these Regulars that are left. Get down be’ind the lines and find the quartermaster at Regimental HQ. Say the lieutenant sent yer. They know about it. Draw your stripe and get it sewn on smartly. Well done, lad. Off you go now.’

It was clear that some order had been restored to the British line by the arrival of the reinforcements from home, but it was also clear that the original BEF, consisting of some 96,000 Regulars in twelve divisions and arguably the most efficient army ever to have left British shores, had been terribly mauled by the fierce fighting at Mons and now in what was being called the Battle of Ypres. The superior artillery of the Germans and the sheer numbers of their troops had made themselves felt, and only the disciplined rifle fire of the British in the centre above Ypres, plus the bravery of the Belgians on their left and of the French on their right, had saved the town from being taken and the Channel ports falling. However, it was still touch and go – as the little band on the ridge below Nun’s Wood now experienced.

Jim had hardly time to sew on his single stripe when the Germans recommenced their attack.

It was presaged, as usual, by an artillery barrage, complemented by short-range bombardment from
minenwerfers
fired from trench mortars, cylindrical bombs some eighteen inches long which whirled up high and tumbled down to explode, unleashing a deadly cargo of shrapnel splinters that killed and maimed.

The two comrades crouched on the firing steps, close to the buttress provided by the zigzag in the trench, their rifles, bayonets fixed, in their hands, their cloth caps pulled down and the collars of their greatcoats pulled up in a pathetic attempt to provide protection from the shell splinters. Bertie put down his rifle and pulled out a rosary and began fingering it, murmuring to himself.

‘Your rifle will do you more good than that thing,’ yelled Jim.

The Irishman shook his head. ‘No, lad. No. Me trust is in the Almighty. God save us both. This is dreadful.’

‘Stand to! Here they come.’

The cry came as soon as the barrage had lifted and the men in the
trenches sprang on to the firing step and levelled their rifles. Once again, Jim squinted through his sights and saw the edge of the stunted trees that was all that was left of the wood ahead of him up the slope come to life as bodies rose in a mass and began their grim advance. This time, two Vickers machine guns began to stutter into life from the British lines and the grey figures fell, as though reaped by some mighty sickle. The attack was stillborn before it had a chance to get under way, for the British rifle fire, supplemented by the Maxims, was deadly at that short range.

A whistle blew and the cry rose: ‘Cease fire. Save your ammunition.’

Jim reached out his hand to clutch his friend’s shoulder. ‘Well, thank the good Lord for that,’ grinned Bertie, a touch shamefacedly. ‘Though I don’t much fancy this killin’ business at long range, I prefer it to doin’ it up close when I’ve got a bayonet pointed at me belly.’

‘Aye,’ nodded Jim. ‘But I’d rather have both than just lying here, shittin’ meself when the big guns start.’

‘Corporal Hickman.’ The cry came from Sergeant Jones, conferring with Lieutenant Yates. ‘Bring your section up ’ere, at the double.’

Hickman stepped down from the fire step, nodded to Bertie and the five other men who made up his section and they ran to where the sergeant waited.

Yates – Jim noticed that a third pip was now fixed to his shoulder and forearm, making him a captain – looked around and counted. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘This company is moving quickly. Get your reserve ammo and entrenching tools and follow me and the sergeant.’

‘Where are we going, sir?’ Bertie’s blue eyes were wide.

Yates pointed to the right, to the south-east. ‘There’s a crossroads up there, on the ridge, a little village called Geluveld. It’s important because it’s the last observation post we hold up on that ridge. Or at
least, we did hold. We’ve been pushed back and out of the village. It’s vital we get it back. We are going to join the counter-attack. No more talking now. Get your things at the double.
GO
!’

They all ran and returned within a minute and followed Yates and Jones, down the zigzagged support trench, trotting as best they could in the crowded, narrow trench, about a hundred of them. Jim noticed that Sergeant Jones was limping and that his uniform was still torn and the line of blood remained congealed, running down to his puttees. He maintained the pace, however, biting his moustache as he trotted. Was this worse for him, Jim wondered, than when he crouched in that shallow trench at Spion Kop, being raked by the Boer sharpshooters?

All around them shells were falling and they were forced to stop several times as debris rained down upon them. But dusk was falling also, and the shelling began to die down and then ceased altogether. They emerged, about a quarter of a mile behind the line, and formed up, a makeshift company, in the semi-darkness at the side of what had obviously been a main road. Now, however, it was cratered and potholed and, from what they could discern in the dusk, lined by the bodies of animals and the wreckage of carts.

‘The Menin Road,’ mouthed Jim to Bertie. ‘Blimey, I hope we are not going to be marching up here.’

But they were.

Captain Yates had been joined by a short, stout major, who now addressed them. ‘We’ve got just over a mile at the most to go,’ he said in a low voice. ‘The Hun probably knows we’re here but there’s a chance that he doesn’t. So we don’t want to do anything to attract his fire. No smoking, no lights and – particularly as we start to climb the ridge – no talking. There will probably be a bit of shelling on fixed sights when we start but that should die out as we near Geluveld,
where our lads are preparing for a counter-attack at dawn. So we’ve got to get a move on to be with them. Right. Let’s go.’

The major was right about the shelling. Although the night was moonless and black, the German gunners seemed to know that they were there, for immediately the big guns began to boom. The range was approximate but near enough to cause extreme discomfort and fear. The whine of the shells approaching caused the men to hurl themselves down and then regain their feet to stumble onwards as the crump of the explosions followed to the rear and either side of them.

The company was not the only unit on the march up the Menin to reach Geluveld. They passed strings of mules, heavily laden with supplies and ammunition, being urged along by frantic muleteers, anxious to get close enough to the crossroads up ahead to escape the long-range shelling. Not all succeeded. The company heard screams ahead of them after one explosion and, heads down, on the trot, they passed the remains of one train: dismembered mules and horses sprayed across what was left of the track, and bodies of men, some of them crying for help, among the carnage.

‘Don’t stop,’ cried the major. ‘We must keep going. The bearers will come for these poor chaps.’

‘But I don’t think they will, Jim,’ puffed Bertie. ‘We’re a long way from the bearer posts. We should stop and help them, for mercy’s sake. Holy Mother of God! What sort of war is this, then?’

‘Well, it ain’t the Boer war, mate, that’s for sure.’ Hickman gave his comrade a friendly push. ‘Keep going, son. Keep going.’

Eventually, they escaped the arc of the shellfire and immediately found the ground began to rise and sensed as much as they saw the presence of British troops around them. The major was met by another officer, obviously of senior rank by the deference with which he was greeted, but his badges were now completely covered
in grime and smoke smudges. Hickman inched forward to overhear the conversation.

‘What have you brought up?’

‘A scratch lot, sir, I’m afraid. More or less a company, but from various regiments. We’ve even got a couple of stray Territorials.’

‘Good God!’ The colonel ran a weary hand across his brow. ‘No question of a counter-attack now, I’m afraid. We’ve been completely disseminated. We must have lost a couple of thousand at least and we’ve had to leave two guns in the village and another four destroyed. Get your men spread out along the diggings here. The Hun is in great force up ahead and cock-a-hoop. I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t make a night attack. We must try and hold on if we can, and if not, we must retire down the ridge, but in good order, mind. We can’t afford a rout.’

‘Very good, sir. Captain Yates.’

‘Sir.’

‘Get the men up ahead into the makeshift trenches there. Spread along the line and reinforce it. No sleeping now. An attack is expected at any minute.’

Jim slipped back and found his section. As they all groped their way forward they suddenly realised that it was no longer dark. Ahead, it seemed that the whole of the ridge was aflame. The village of Geluveld was a fiery mass and the church spire looked like a torch, the flames licking round its tip. By its light, the straggling company found a thin line of Tommies spread along a trench which was hardly more than a scraping on the slope, with a low mound of earth thrown up ahead on the lip.

‘Spread along here, chaps,’ shouted Yates. ‘Anyone found sleeping will be shot summarily.’

‘What’s “summarily”?’ asked Bertie as he made room for himself between two riflemen of the Kings Royal Rifle Corps.

One turned a weary head. ‘Don’t think it matters, mate. We’re all goin’ to be dead by the mornin’, anyway.’

‘’Ere, what’s that?’ Sergeant Jones had materialised behind them. He nodded up ahead. It was a strange sound, deep and rhythmical, but growing louder as they listened.

‘The buggers are singin’,’ swore the sergeant. ‘Would you believe it. They’re singin’ an’ comin’ on now.’ He raised his voice. ‘Fix your bayonets, but ’old your fire till the captain gives the order.’ His voice dropped. ‘No need to worry, lads. When they come over that ridge we shall see ’em beautifully against the light of the flames.’ Then a note of derision and almost of glee came into his voice. ‘We’ll teach the buggers to sing, oh yes we will.’