Two more grenades reached the parapet and Jonathan heard shots and then weak screams as they exploded, mercifully outside the trench.
‘
Cease firing!
’ Jonathan thrust his revolver back into its holster as like a tide broken on the beach the enemy began to recede. There was firing here and there, but they were eager to reach safety beyond the wire, so that their own line could rake the British defence and force their heads down.
He heard men gasping for air as they wedged fresh clips into their rifles, or slammed magazines and belts of ammunition into the machine-guns.
Vaughan said harshly, ‘Determined bastards!’ He too was breathing fast and heavily. ‘The gaps in our wire were some help after all!’
‘Only in daylight, Ralph.’ He glanced round as Wyke called, ‘Four casualties, sir. One of them dead, Private Ellerman, and another going fast!’
‘See what you can do for them. But there’s bound to be artillery brought into it, so the wounded will have to wait until darkness before we send them back.’ He knew it sounded hard, callous to some of the new men, but all he must think of was what they had just done. They had repulsed a German attack, probably of company strength, with more waiting in reserve in case they had managed to bomb the front-line trench.
The rain had begun again and he heard Harry Payne murmur, ‘Oh, sod it!’ Jonathan watched two men carrying a stretcher past the dugout, blood-soaked canvas draped over it. They saw McCann and one asked, ‘Where do we put ’im, Sar’ Major?’
McCann retorted brutally, ‘Tip ’im over the back. No time for a state funeral just now!’
Jonathan knew what those close enough to hear would think, the youngsters anyway. McCann was good, damned good, but here, as on any barracks square, the sergeant-major was rarely seen as a friend.
Another bombardment made the yellow water in the puddles and shell holes quiver as if it was being boiled from below. More guns joined in from either side. The Germans were trying to find the supply column again and maybe the promised reserves. The British gunners were trying to crush any more attacks before they could begin.
Hot soup was coming from somewhere, hunks of half-stale bread packed with bully-beef and mustard. The marines’ jaws worked on it busily, their tired eyes and stubbled chins so much at odds with their habitual smartness, something highly prized in the Corps.
The corpse of Private Ellerman sprawled over the rear of the trench, his clothing in bloody tatters where the grenade had riddled him with splinters, with all the others who had died here over the days, the weeks and the months. A man or a good mate to a
thing
, and now just another liability to be endured.
Two more marines were to fall, but the constant bombardment seemed to have beaten the men of both front lines into a kind of dulled torpor. The two marines had been hit by well-aimed solitary shots. A sniper somewhere, watching for a careless moment, a face or shoulder showing just seconds above the parapet, the sandbags and makeshift defences they had built from
fallen trees and piles of what had once been the bricks of a small village here.
Jonathan ordered his men to stand down, and the sentries to be careful of their own safety.
He sat in the command dugout with the map outspread on an old packing-case, and wondered when the enemy would strike next, and where. Vaughan was struggling with a tough hunk of bread, and he was sharing a mug of tea and rum with Lieutenant Maxted. Even down here they could hear the screams and anguished moans from the wire, where so many of the German infantry had been abandoned. There was nothing anyone could do for them, even if somebody was crazy enough to crawl out and try to help. It was more than likely that he would soon become one of the dead.
Sergeant Timbrell ducked through the rough curtain and handed Maxted a small bag.
Maxted looked at him without understanding and the sergeant said dully, ‘Personal belongings and identity tags, sir. An’ a few francs.’
Vaughan said, ‘Put them in the book. There may be time to send letters to . . .’ He did not go on.
Timbrell said, ‘I’ve detailed the section to draw their gear at sunset, sir.’ He had to repeat it before Maxted looked up at him again.
‘Oh, good. Thanks.’
Jonathan said, ‘Are you in charge tonight, Sergeant?’
He replied, ‘Yessir. I done it before. We won’t let you down – they’re all good marines.’
Jonathan indicated the earthenware jug. ‘Have a tot.’ He watched the foxy-faced sergeant as he poured a full
measure of rum into an unwashed cup. Anything was better than just sitting, listening to the distant roar of guns. Some were probably Captain Alton’s great howitzers, hurling their challenge with all the others. How could men stand it? How many had sat here or in miserable holes like it and listened to the relentless thunder, always expecting a box barrage to move over and then fix upon their particular part of the defence line? At the other end of the trench and behind them in the next support line, men were already unable to lie down except on the firestep. Water was knee-deep in places, and the rain showed no sign of stopping.
If only there was somewhere he could find solitude, even for a few minutes, so that he could read a few lines of her letters.
Maxted said sharply, ‘I’d like to take charge tonight, sir.’ He stared at the sergeant. ‘I don’t see why you should take all the risks!’
Jonathan put the letters to the back of his mind. ‘I thought you already had an officer?’
Timbrell looked down at the jug. ‘Mister Rooke, sir.’ He made another effort. ‘I’spect ’e’ll be up to it, sir.’
Jonathan watched them gravely.
Rooke would not be missed
was closer to the truth.
Like an intrusion they heard Rooke’s petulant voice as he snapped, ‘I don’t care what you’ve done,
Private
Vickers! Just follow my example and do as you’re told!’
Timbrell scowled and turned to leave but Maxted said evenly, ‘Have your rum, Sergeant, if the Colonel doesn’t object.’
Outside in the steady downpour Maxted found the
subaltern, hands on his hips, glaring at the marine in question.
‘Over here,’ he said. The pain was devouring him, and he knew why he had just volunteered to take charge of the wiring party. It had been wrong; he knew that. Others would suffer because of it.
‘Sir?’ Rooke squelched across the mud and sagging duckboards. ‘Is everything all right?’
Maxted found that he hated this pompous, self-satisfied little prig who would one day be a general. Upbringing and influence. Unbeatable. He asked quietly, ‘Must you always try to make the men look like peasants? Vickers is a good man. Brave too.’
Rooke gave a small smile. His complaint to the adjutant had obviously worked. Maxted was almost subdued.
‘There
are
standards, sir.’
Maxted stared up at the sky, the rain cleansing his desperation and his anger. ‘Remember what I told you. Or you might get yourself shot in the back!’
Rooke gaped at him. It was not what he had expected. ‘Shoot
me
?’ He sounded outraged. ‘An officer?’
Maxted gave him a contemptuous glance. ‘In their place, I think
I
would!’ He lowered himself into the dugout and sat down, rain making puddles around his boots.
Vaughan said uneasily, ‘Well, I suppose he’s got to learn sometime.’
Sergeant Timbrell picked up his rifle and gave his lieutenant a quick smile. ‘Thanks, sir.’
Maxted stared emptily at the curtain after Timbrell had departed.
Thanks
. So simply said. And for what? For
allowing them all to be killed, to die decently like the corpses they had tipped over the parapet?
While I pay a much higher price even than death . . .
Sergeant Ned Timbrell climbed carefully up and onto the parapet, every sense and nerve straining to detect danger. It was like being suddenly naked, alone in this terrible place, without cover and completely vulnerable. He could feel the rest of the wiring party moving to the parapet, doubtless ready to drop out of sight if he were suddenly shot down by a sniper. He could still taste the rum on his tongue and wondered if it might be his last. He made himself stand quite still, his ears and mind reaching out like signals from a wireless set.
It might conceal their movements and hide any unexpected sounds, but the unending chorus of groans and pitiful whimpering from the German wounded and dying grated on his nerves. They seemed not only men who had fallen in the attack through the wire but all those others who lay dead in the mud, becoming a part of the ground they had once fought over.
Timbrell pushed the mysterious caller at the base camp from his mind. It could not matter now. One lapse and they might all be lying with the rest in this haunted place.
He bent over. ‘Ready!’ He did not call him sir, even though he guessed that the subaltern was close by in the darkness. Sod him, he thought.
It was strange about Maxted. Always a cool one under fire, and ready to help anyone who needed it. He was growing more moody and intolerant by the hour and
Timbrell guessed that the adjutant had noticed it as well. He said hoarsely, ‘Up you get, you layabouts!’
They climbed out of the trench where their comrades were already in position, ready to cover their return if the worst happened. Timbrell picked out each man, everyone a black shadow; but to him they could have been lit by torches.
Corporal Geach was almost the last. ‘Hey-oop, Sarge! The rain’s stopped!’ Then finally came the second lieutenant, peering round like a terrier after a rat. If he were a dog there would be plenty of things to hunt out here, Timbrell thought.
‘Sir?’
Rooke touched his mouth with his hand. ‘You just carry on, Sergeant.’
Timbrell drew a deep breath.
What they all say.
They gathered around him so that he could speak in a whisper.
‘We go through the wire at the two main gaps. We’ll withdraw after we’ve done the wirin’. Nothin’ fancy. Just like I told you. Corporal Geach and I will mark the gaps with white tape. Don’t want to lose any of you, eh?’ Nobody even grinned.
They began to move away from the trench. Only three of them were armed with their rifles, with every loose piece of gear on the weapons from piling-swivel to webbing sling laced and taped tightly into place. There was less chance of them making a noise with these precautions. The drums of barbed wire were carried by two pairs of men, with a stout spar through the middle and leather gloves to offer some protection.
As they crept and slithered closer to the wire the sounds of men in agony became louder and more insistent. It was unnerving. From time to time there was a shrill cry as one of the marines trod on what he had thought to be a corpse. Once a German soldier reared up on his buttocks, hands clawing at their clothing as they stumbled past.
Timbrell thought savagely, it could be us. Could be us!
A corpse pirouetted like a ragged puppet as if to watch them pass. He must have been there since the wire was originally laid out. Not enough flesh or bones left to hold the thing in position.
Timbrell peered round for Geach, but with his party he had already been swallowed up in the darkness. Timbrell halted and stared ahead. There were fewer groans out here. He shivered despite his toughness. Nothing between them and the Germans except their own wire somewhere ahead. Very carefully he cut a strip of white tape with his trench knife and knotted it around a metal staple where the gap began. Cut by an enemy patrol or blasted away by artillery, it had probably been severed so many times that it no longer really mattered.
Something bumped into him. It was Vickers. ‘Sorry, Sarge.’ Timbrell nearly laughed. Such politeness amongst this hell. Like Old Bill.
‘Get on with it.’ He could rely on these men. By sounds alone he could feel their purpose as they got busy with pliers and crowbars, while those with the drum of wire wove this way and that. The barbs seemed incredibly loud as the first long strand was paid out, but
from experience Timbrell knew that the noise would be lost out here. Like being in a boat and attempting to board a darkened vessel at night. Every movement, even the sound of the rudder was like a thunderclap.
Second Lieutenant Rooke said curtly, ‘I’ll see how Geach is getting on. It’s all taking too long.’
Timbrell bit his lip. ‘I’d think again’bout that, sir.’ His wiring party were hunched in the midst of it like dumb beasts, probably listening, cursing the officer for wasting time.
‘Now look here, Sergeant . . .’
Timbrell hissed, ‘
Still?
’ This was the first real test.
The flare exploded some way off to the right, probably in the sector where their line linked up with the Royal Warwicks. But the Germans had often used flares before, piece by piece along the length and breadth of no man’s land.
Timbrell glanced at his men, shining so brightly even at this range that it seemed impossible they could not be seen. The same searing brightness illuminated the cratered land beyond and around them, the gaping corpses and the bright-eyed rats. Even the great coils of cruel wire held a kind of beauty.
Timbrell was aware for the first time of something which he had thought had no place here. It was pride. Pride for these men he had helped to train, whom he had chased and bullied where necessary, and had allowed to buy him a beer when the worst of it was over.
After an eternity the flare faded and died away. It took far longer to accustom their eyes to the all-engulfing blackness that followed.
Private Vickers said, ‘Hey, Sarge, he’s buggered off!’ He sounded amazed.
‘Good riddance, and you never ’eard me say that, see?’
Another flare lit the scene and Timbrell saw a wounded soldier staring up at him, his eyes like stars in the drifting flare. Timbrell saw the gaping wounds, black in the glacier light. How could a man still be alive? Man? He was just a boy, like young Barlow had been.
Timbrell whispered, ‘Die! Why can’t you die?’
The boy’s mouth opened and closed but he did not speak, nor could he probably. But one hand lifted very slowly as if it were part of someone else and tried to seize Timbrell’s sodden tunic. Then just as suddenly it fell back into the mud. Only the pleading eyes remained before the flare faded away.