The Horizon (1993) (31 page)

That night Jonathan lay on a blanket and stared at the
stars through the beams of a roofless cottage. They seemed so distant, so remote, so peaceful: so untouched by the rumour of war.

He could not sleep, although he had been drinking the Scotch Payne had produced like the magician he was, and several times throughout the night he had heard the steady tramp of marching boots, going ‘up the line’ as they called it. Thousands of men, making their way to an inevitable rendezvous.

He had written to her immediately after holding his conference with officers and N.C.O.’s. She would receive the letter in a few days. By then it might be all over. For many it would be over for ever.

There were no heavy bombardments this time. There was only a dull, ominous rumble from another far-off sector of the front.

The scene was set. Only the actors had to appear.

The four companies of the battalion were paraded in a loose and untidy formation while their officers and senior N.C.O.’s carried out a final inspection. Nothing must be forgotten or overlooked. Nobody knew what their next billet might be, and once on the march they had to be completely self-dependent.

Some of the heavier equipment would be carried in handcarts, but each marine would be loaded down with the rest: full pack, and a small one for essential items like mess tins, water flask, ammunition pouches and extra bandoliers, entrenching tools, rifle and bayonet, all topped by the new steel helmet.

A little apart from the main body of men, the H.Q. platoon was having a similar inspection.

Private Bert Langmaid watched his two assistants with a suspicious eye while they lashed the heavy machine-gun and boxes of ammunition into one of the little carts. With a snort he crunched over the broken
ground and released two of the straps. ‘Remember that next time, my son!’

‘
That
man!
’

Langmaid swung round and glared at the officer. He was the second-in-command of the platoon; probably because nobody else would have him, he thought. Second Lieutenant Brian Rooke was nineteen years old and very sure of himself. He had a pink, pouting face and was rarely seen to smile, and then only if it was at some joke made by a senior officer. He came of an old Royal Marines family and his father had recently been appointed colonel commandant of a new training establishment.

‘That’s not the correct way to do it!’

Langmaid replied bluntly, ‘S the way
I
does it.’ He watched the officer’s flush of anger, and knew the other marines had stopped their activities to listen. A bet or two might be laid on the outcome of Langmaid’s latest insubordination.

Ned Timbrell, now appointed platoon sergeant, marched quickly to the scene and saluted, his heels clicking together as if he was on the square.

‘Did you hear what this man said, Sergeant? I want him put under arrest!’

Timbrell had taken to his three stripes as if he had been doing it all his life, as he had always known he could.

He said, ‘We’ve at least an eight-mile march, sir. To arrive on time we’ll be doing the first bit when it’s still light.’

‘I can manage without the statistics, thank you,
Sergeant.’ Rooke was angry but enjoying it in some strange way.

Timbrell kept his temper. ‘Private Langmaid is the best machine-gunner in the battalion. We’re lucky to have him.’

‘In
your
opinion!’

Timbrell clenched his fists and pressed them against the rough serge of his trousers.
Stupid little sod
. But he said patiently, ‘We might be spotted by a Jerry aeroplane, sir. A column on the march with all this gear would be easy meat. Couldn’t miss!’ Oh Christ, he thought, here comes the platoon commander.

Lieutenant John Maxted asked sharply, ‘What’s going on? We shall be falling in in two hours’ time!’

Rooke felt on safer ground. ‘That man there, sir, is insolent! And the platoon sergeant seems to think he is fit enough to tell me my duties!’ He pointed at Timbrell’s ribbon: the Distinguished Conduct Medal, a rare decoration even at the Dardanelles. ‘I’ll not be treated like a child because of
that
!’

Maxted said hotly, ‘Then stop bloody well acting like one!’ To Timbrell he added, ‘Get the men to work again!’

Timbrell saluted but did not even blink at what he had just witnessed. As he marched past the machine-gun party he muttered fiercely, ‘If you drop me in it again, Bert Langmaid, you’ll live to regret it!’

Langmaid deliberately loosened another strap on the cart. ‘Well, Sarge, don’t ’e know nothin’? Who does ’e think’ll defend the column? It takes long enough to mount the gun and load it, without ’avin’ it tied up like
a . . .’ He could not think of a suitable comparison and said, ‘Little bastard – thinks ’is shit doesn’t stink because ’e’s an officer!’

As Timbrell strode away Langmaid turned to his two assistants and gave a great grin. ‘One of the sappers told me the life of a second lieutenant on this front is about six weeks.’ It amused him and he even patted their shoulders. ‘If that little prick crosses my sights I’ll soon shorten the bleedin’ record!’

Almost two hours later Maxted went to one of the cottages, which had a crude sign painted outside:
Adjutant, Please knock before entering
. Some wag must have done it in the night, for there was no door left to knock and not much of the cottage either. Maxted looked round at the emptiness of the place. Only a map-case and Wyke’s personal belongings for the march remained.

‘H.Q. platoon’s ready, sir. They’ve been stood down for a meal, as ordered.’

Wyke said, ‘I’ve just had young Rooke in here to lodge a complaint against you.’

‘I thought he might. Pompous idiot! If he treats the men the way he did just now he’ll get what he deserves.’

Wyke studied him for a moment and then said quietly, ‘What is it, John? You know you can tell me.’

Maxted thought of the pain, which was getting worse by the day. He asked, ‘Will it go any further?’

‘No. The Colonel won’t know either. He has enough on his plate without this sort of trivial behaviour. But Rooke was right – you know the rules well enough when the men are listening and watching.’

Maxted stared at him wretchedly. Rooke came from
one of those old Corps families, like the Blackwoods and Wyke. He tried not to think how hard his own father had had to work so that he himself could go to a good school and gain the right of entry into the Corps, the one thing he had always longed for. Now that would soon be in ruins. When the truth came out he would be disgraced, court-martialled and dismissed from the Corps: everything gone. The others would change their tune then. Even Christopher Wyke would turn his back on him.

I were better dead.

And what of his parents and his sister when the scandal was exposed? He felt suddenly sick.

Wyke was saying, ‘I’m worried about you, John. Would you like to see the M.O. at Brigade?’

His own response was startling in its fury. ‘
No
,
I don’t!
What do you want the men to think? That their lieutenant is a coward? Afraid for his own skin? Is that it?’

Wyke sat on an empty packing case. ‘Whatever you say, John. But nobody would ever be stupid enough to think that about you.’

He watched Maxted slam out into the hazy sunshine. All very peculiar, he thought. Then he listened to the rolling thunder of another artillery bombardment which was making the air quiver, and was surprised that it no longer disturbed him. But that was exactly how the old sweats felt about it. Unless you were in it, you took the guns for granted. He began to buckle on his belt and holster. Well, almost . . . He reached for his respirator haversack, hesitated, and opened his breast pocket, in
which he carried a stainless steel shaving mirror. The old hands always maintained it would deflect a stray bullet from the heart. Unlikely, but it gave some comfort. He took out the little leather case he also carried there and opened that. Inside was a lovely photograph set in a fine silver frame, which Hermione had given him on his last leave. The frame had come from Garrard’s, she had said. She must feel the same way about him. He studied her face and her mischievous smile and carefully replaced it.

Two marines were walking past the doorless cottage, their boots heavy on the rubble.

One was saying, ‘We’re off soon, Wilf. What d’you reckon to it?’

His companion said harshly, ‘Don’t think we’ll see this ruddy place again!’

The guns seemed suddenly louder and more menacing as the unknown marine’s comments lingered behind him.

Wyke’s hand was still pressed to his pocket, and in his mind he tried to see the girl more clearly. He whispered her name aloud. ‘Hermione.’ But it no longer seemed real. Only the distant thunder remained.

The young lieutenant of the 60th Rifles touched Jonathan’s sleeve and said, ‘This is it, sir. The Brigadier’s in the command dugout.’ Then he was gone.

It had been an eerie experience, groping along the narrow communication trenches and being handed from one guide to the next. Jonathan stared up at the sky. Still dark, but at this time of the year dawn, when it came, would be sudden. He thought briefly of the battalion,
now safely delivered to the main support lines. What would most of them think of this? The awful stench, the awareness of the enemy, the compulsion to whisper even though there were at least two lines of trenches ahead of them. They had passed sentries like silent statues, who had barely given them a glance; other inert shapes lay where they could, men worn out by continuous combat, trying to rest wherever and whenever the opportunity presented itself. It was almost impossible to believe that there were so many thousands of troops on either side of this place: men who were waiting for the attack, their minds empty of everything but the inevitable.

‘They’re here, sir!’

Jonathan ducked through a canvas curtain and paused to accustom his eyes to the cramped clutter of the forward command dugout. Brigadier Ross was drinking tea by a map table, and the place seemed to be full of people. The air was cold and tangy, and the smell of damp clothing mingled with that of something like bleach, which Jonathan had already learned was the aftermath of chlorine gas.

Ross inclined his head curtly.

‘Got here then, Blackwood.’ He laughed, a bleak sound. ‘Have some char.’ He wore his smart cap, probably so that his men would instantly recognise him and know he was here with them. Closer to the front line the cap would be a real gift to any sniper with a telescopic sight.

Someone called, ‘Good to have you with us, Colonel!’ Several others grunted with what might have been approval. They were all tense, on edge.

‘Last one’s arrived, sir!’

‘About bloody time.’

A figure stumbled into the dugout and showed his teeth. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir . . .’ He turned and stared at Jonathan, his face filled with disbelief. Then he crossed to him and seized his hand. ‘Remember me? Christ, I thought you’d been knocked off!’

Jonathan felt the warmth of the man. He was a major now.

‘Of course I do. Ben Duffy – your father builds boats in Perth!’

They stood in silence, isolated from the others in memory. The peninsula, the snipers, Sari Bair, Gaba Tepe, the Anafarta Ridge and all the other objectives which had been denied them. The final cost did not bear recollection.

Ross commented dryly, ‘The Anzacs are here with us, on our right. The Canadians are next after that.’ He gave a thin smile. ‘Melting pot of Empire!’ They all looked toward him while he studied them, assessing them. Then he said, ‘Tomorrow morning is the moment, gentlemen. Many of you know this sector well. Only
too
well.’ Someone gave a contemptuous cheer. Ross seemed very relaxed, not even annoyed by the jokes or the mockery.

‘Ahead of us lies the Messines Ridge, higher terrain of course, with a good field of fire from the enemy’s viewpoint. They’ve had plenty of time to prepare. They realise we must attack before winter when, as we know, the whole front will become bogged down again. We know about their trench system, deeply built and very strong. Time and time again, gentlemen, we have put
down an artillery barrage before each attack, only to have them pop up from their bunkers as soon as we cease fire and try to advance. Result – catastrophe.’

A ruddy-faced major stepped up beside him and said, ‘I can tell you what
we’ve
been doing.’ His badge was that of the Royal Engineers.

Someone commented, ‘About time you did something, Nobby,’ and the others laughed. Jonathan glanced at the brigadier but he showed no resentment. Like an indulgent schoolmaster, or a referee before the big match, going along with their biting humour.

The sapper officer beamed. ‘On the morning of the attack there will be a careful and calculated bombardment of the enemy’s front line. As usual, they will take to their bunkers and wait for the infantry’s assault.’

They had all fallen silent, and some of them were watching him steadily, not with affectionate derision now but with a quiet concentration and intensity, as though they did not dare to hope that this time it might be different. Young faces made old with strain and exhaustion and the experience of death, which those at home could never appreciate. Sons, lovers, fathers.

The major said in an unhurried tone, ‘We have been digging saps right up to and beyond the German front line, and we have laid the biggest mines there in military history.’ He glanced at the brigadier, who gave a spare gesture of approval. ‘Each mine consists of over twenty tons of explosive.’ He allowed the words to sink in. ‘As soon as the bunkers and dugouts are filled, we’ll blow them to smithereens!’

The brigadier said, ‘Thank you – er, Nobby. That was
very graphic. Well done.’ He became grave. ‘We will advance on our whole six-mile front, and the reserves will reinforce the line.’

Jonathan thought of the R.M.A. detachment with its two massive howitzers. No wonder they had not been brought into close support, and that more carefully controlled artillery was being used. One great howitzer shell, each the size of
Reliant
’s main armament, would drop from full elevation and not much accuracy at this range, and might have blown up the mines and all the sappers with them.