‘Mr Barton?’
‘Yes. Hallo, Grosse. I’m ready when you are.’
‘Right, sir.’
Grosse was from Glaziers’ platoon, one of the best runners in the Battalion, though he was large and clumsy looking, with huge hands and feet and an enormous, wide head. He stood in the doorway. Coulter came up behind him.
‘The C.O. would like to see you, Mr Hilliard, as soon as you can.’
Hilliard stood up at once, grateful for the interruption, for now he would not have to watch Barton go, hear his footsteps retreating behind those of Grosse along the trench, would not have to sit here and stare at his papers for hours on end, waiting. They both went out of the dugout together without speaking again, turned their backs and went in opposite directions.
Battalion Headquarters was in a half-derelict cottage standing on its own at a crossroad half a mile from the support trench. Behind it, in a field which had one been ploughed and then overrun by the army, so that it had deep ruts, dried and caked in the sun. There was a trampled path, the grass was brown-yellow. In one corner, the rusty remains of a plough.
Looking behind him across the countryside Hilliard saw no signs of life except the white dust from the guns in one direction and in the other from the trucks coming up the road. The lines of sandbags forming the trench parapets were pale brown and grey in the sun. The landscape was flat and featureless here, apart from a few trees, which had been split and stunted by shells through the previous summer. The guns fired from the enemy lines and then their own replied, and in the lull that followed, blackbirds sang and sang.
He wondered why Garrett had sent for him, whether it was a routine matter or whether Coulter had been right, and ‘something was up’. But nobody else had been summoned, so far as he could tell.
‘They wanted a plan of the whole section of country just there. I thought young Barton would do it. I thought he’d make the best job of it. He’s got a good eye, hasn’t he? Yes, I should think he’s got a decent eye. It’ll be experience for him.’
The C.O. pushed a box of small cigars across the table towards Hilliard. He looked ill again, the effects of the boost given to his morale by the move out of rest camp had vanished. His skin was a bad colour, yellowish grey, so that Hilliard wondered if he might not, in fact, be physically ill. But the bottle of whisky was on the desk beside him.
‘I wanted to have a word with you, Hilliard. I thought it would be as well to put you in the picture – in so far as I have a picture, that is.’
Hilliard wondered why. When something big was coming up there were full briefing conferences. But Garrett had always singled him out, had liked to confide in him, tell him things, even trivial, irrelevant things, had asked him for his opinion, he seemed to place some kind of confidence in him. Now, he shuffled some maps on his desk, stared at them, took up a pencil and began to circle it in the air above one of them as he talked. ‘You’ll hear all about the details when they come in, but I’ll tell you what all this is about. You’re going up into the front line in a couple of days. Not sure exactly when. I suppose you’ve heard what’s going on up there?’
Hilliard did not reply. And he did not want to hear, not today.
Barton had been gone almost an hour now.
‘Oh, I know the rumours that get about, and rumour doesn’t always lie, not out here. Well, it’s merry hell at the moment, though it’s rather worse ten miles or so further east. I don’t know exactly why – we haven’t been doing much. The Boche seem to have got the wind up. But what we can expect pretty soon is the date of an attack they’re planning for the 2nd to make on Barmelle Wood. They want to have another go at it. The Hampshires tried to take it in July and the City of Londoners last month – perhaps you know? They lost a hell of a lot of men. The trouble with that place is it’s on a ridge, and they’ve got perfect cover, they can simply look down and take their time until they see us coming up, and it’s just bloody good target practice for them – that’s all. The Hampshires lost most of their men before they’d gone a hundred yards. You can’t advance up a slope like that, no matter how good your barrage is, and get away with it.’
But this had been the pattern of the whole summer here, Hilliard thought, this was how the Big Push had come, and failed, this was what it was all about.
Garrett did not pause or glance up at him, but gradually his voice had taken on an edge of sarcasm and of disbelief in the ignorance of those who were planning this new offensive in precisely the same way as the old, those who were so many miles away. His contempt for the men who looked at maps and moved pins about upon them was scarcely veiled at all. Hilliard was still surprised, even knowing the C.O. as well as he did, surprised that he should allow himself to talk like this before a lieutenant. But 1 July had changed him, he no longer cared greatly about anything, except for the men under him.
‘Well, you know what all this will mean. Preparations once you get into the line, all day and all night, fatigue parties, wire parties, reconnaissance raids.’
Hilliard’s heart sank.
‘Yes.’ Garrett lit another of the cigars. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ He paused, then, in a burst of real anger, said, ‘Those bloody raids are a waste of time, arms and men, and I have said so until I am sick and others have said so and we might as well save our breath, save our breath. You know all about it.’
Hilliard did.
‘Well – there it is. There’s more of it to come. I don’t suppose it’s much of a surprise to you? No. Meanwhile, of course they want to know everything about the German line here, everything about Queronne and the Wood, everything about everything, and apparently all the information they have got from aeroplanes will not do for them. So our contribution is this little trip of Barton’s, out to the o.p. After that, up we go.’
How little did Garrett really care about the war now? Had he told all the others this? Did the Adjutant know? And Glazier and Prebold. No, he had told them nothing, Hilliard was certain of that. Garrett had been to the conference at Divisional H.Q. and heard the plans for this new operation on their section of the line, had been angry and wanted to talk to someone outside his immediate personal staff. He liked Hilliard and trusted him. It made no difference that he was so far junior in age and rank and experience. Hilliard was on his side. Garrett took the risk. He was a democratic man.
‘Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘And the chances are that everyone will have completely new orders this time tomorrow. You know how they chop and change us about. But for the moment, that’s the operation.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Barton will be up there by now.’
Suddenly Hilliard realized that there was more to it than a simple desire for his company, that Garrett had brought him here to get him away, pass some of the time for him. He saw and understood. Hilliard felt a surge of gratitude.
The Colonel’s batman brought tea, with bread and butter on a plate.
‘Privilege,’ Garrett said wryly. ‘You see, Hilliard? This is what rank gets you – sliced bread and butter and tea in a pot. Privilege!’ He raised his cup. Then said, ‘Young Barton’s got a cool head, hasn’t he?’
‘I – yes, sir. I think so.’
‘Reservations?’
‘Not exactly. It’s only that he hasn’t seen any action yet and he’s … I wonder how much things will affect him, how much he’ll take to heart.’
‘He’s a sensitive young man, yes.’
‘Yes.
‘That’s no bad thing.’
‘Oh no.’
‘I doubt, you see, if emotion will cloud his judgement. He’s a valuable sort of man to have around. He keeps us going, but there’s more to it. He makes us think twice, Hilliard – helps us not to take it all for granted, to become too cynical. He has some quality we’ve been lacking – gaiety, composure, and sensitivity. He’s a good man.’
Hilliard was surprised at Garrett’s perception and sureness of judgement, surprised that he had seen below the surface of Barton’s good humour and c
harm to what lay below. He felt a keen pleasure, hearing it, wanted the C.O. to go on with his praise and approval. If he could not be with Barton, then he could hear his name spoken, hear the best things said about him.
‘Who’s taken him up there?’
‘Grosse, sir.’
‘All right?’
‘He’s a good runner, yes.’
‘I don’t want to lose young Barton through some stupid accident.’
Hilliard clenched his hands together under the table. He won’t come back, he won’t come back.
He felt giddy.
‘We’ve had enough silly bloody accidents.’
Garrett drained his tea and looked about for matches. ‘You’d better go back,’ he said, and now he seemed abstracted, no longer sure why he had sent for Hilliard or what he was going to do next. But as an afterthought, as Hilliard reached the door, he said ‘Keep quiet about all this of course.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘I suppose they’ll change their minds, as I’ve told you, we shall find ourselves shunted off somewhere or other. It may all come to nothing.’
But it will not, Hilliard thought, and knew that Garrett knew it would not. Sooner or later, they would be going up to Barmelle Wood, the ridge, Queronne – they were on the plans, to be attacked and captured now, since they had not been taken that summer. There would be the long, tedious preparations by night, the waiting and the orders and then, over the top. They would take the place of the Hampshires, who had failed here in July, and the City of London Regiment, who failed last month. For some reason known only to those seated round the tables with their maps, this particular place mattered so much.
So tomorrow, then, or the day after, or at the beginning of next week, sometime, they would leave their dugout with the comfortable bunks and the gramophone, and march a mile along the communication trenches, and up the road to the front line, and into the thick of daily shelling and nightly raids, they would spend hours without sleep, fetching and carrying up and down the dark winding trenches, hours writing more and more reports, and the atmosphere would be more strained and tense than ever. It had been the same in July.
Yet it would not be the same as July, they had been excited then, they had planned for the coming battle, which was to be the last, the battle to end the war, they had been confident and purposeful, jubilant even, they had not minded the tiredness and the heat and the slow, tedious work of preparation, the accidents and the danger.
1 July had come and gone. And all the days after. It was not the same now. But it had all begun again.
Hilliard dropped down into the trench, and began to walk along towards the dugout. The smoke was going up from the cooking fires ahead. It was quiet for the time being, the guns might not have been there, hidden towards the east.
Coulter came round a traverse. ‘There you are, sir. The Adjutant wants to see you. Some trouble over kit inspection.’
‘All right. Thanks, Coulter.’ He paused. He did not want to go on. He wanted to stay here, in the sun.
Coulter said casually, ‘I take it we’re not expecting Mr Barton back until dark, sir?’
‘No.’ Hilliard forced himself to take a breath, to relax. ‘No, of course.’
He went to find Franklin.
When they began to make their way along the front line trench, Barton felt excitement churning in the pit of his stomach. It was his first real job, one for which he was entirely responsible, he had nobody, not even John, behind him. Only the runner, Grosse, guiding his way.
He had not been prepared for the full extent of the noise, which was deafening when the shells came over. They were falling very close but they were mainly the heavy sort, which came with a sudden roar and at such speed that escape was impossible. You could do nothing about them, moreover, could not predict in advance where they might land, and so you simply went on, trusting to luck.
The trench was quite deep, cut into the chalk, and at the beginning the sandbags had been renewed and the parapets built up again. But as they went further on, work had ceased, the floor was a mess of rubble, and the sides badly broken. Pit props, shovels and bales of wire cluttered every traverse, and the duckboards, laid in preparation for the coming winter, and the wet weather, were often broken or rotted away.
Grosse went ahead steadily, vanishing every few yards round a traverse, so that Barton felt that he was following his own shadow, felt time and again that he was completely alone. The chalk of the trench was bright, dazzling his eyes in the midday sun. But he was exhilarated, glad that he had been chosen to come here. There was an element of chance, but that did not yet seem to be the same thing as danger.
The shells were whining down often and seemed to be falling in a direct line ahead of them as they walked. Barton came around a traverse and almost bumped into his guide.
‘What is it?’
Grosse had his head slightly on one side. ‘Just seeing which way they’re coming, sir. They’re working them to a pattern.’
There was a pause, and then, from nowhere, the loudest explosion Barton had ever heard, his eardrums seemed to crack and his head sang, the whole trench rocked as though from an earthquake. Just ahead, soil was thrown up like lava, and then there was the sound of it splattering down, mingled with pieces of shrapnel, into the trench bottom. As they moved on a few paces, they heard a scream, which came with a curious, high, swooping sound and then dropped abruptly, became a moan. Then, behind them this time, another shell.
Grosse had thrown himself down, his hands over the top of his steel helmet, pushing it almost into his skull, but Barton had only dropped on to his knees. His heart was thudding.
‘Grosse?’
The man moved, lifted his head. ‘Are you all right, sir?’
‘Are you?’
The runner stood up cautiously, brushing down his tunic. His face was still impassive. He nodded.
‘Shall we go on then?’
But as they rounded the next corner walking towards the spot from which the cry for stretcher bearers had just gone up, they came upon a total blockage in the trench-way, a mess of burst sandbags and earth, shrapnel and mutilated bodies. Blood had splattered up and over the parapet and was trickling down again, was running to form a pool, mingling with the contents of a dixie which had contained stew. The men had been getting their mid-day meal in this traverse when the bomb had landed in the middle of them.
‘Grosse …’
‘Better hold on, sir.’
‘Stretcher bearers!’
Barton said, ‘Is there an officer here?’
A man was crouching, knees buckled and apparently broken beneath him, and he looked up now, his face white and the eyes huge within it. ‘There was, sir.’ He vomited, shuddered, wiped his mouth on his tunic sleeve.
Grosse leaned over him.
It was impossible to tell how many men there had been, and now the shells were landing again, following the line of the trench further ahead. Barton wondered if they were going to meet a scene like this at every corner. He found himself staring in fascination at the shattered heap of limbs and helmets, at a bone sticking out somehow through the front of a tunic, at the blood. He felt numb.
The stretcher bearers came up, and sent back at once for more help, to dig the men out and clear up the mess. The trench parapet had a hole blown out of it like a crater.
‘We could go on, sir,’ Grosse said eventually. His voice was calm.
They went on and for a short way nothing happened, they came across parties of men eating and drinking tea and they made room for them to pass. The shell might not have fallen, such a short distance away, killing perhaps half a dozen soldiers.
They found the C Company Captain and Barton reported his presence to him, he was cleared to continue.
‘Get down!’
He got down though he had heard nothing. But the smaller, minenwerfer bombs were different, they could just be spotted, sailing down like crows through the blue sky. They watched, waited, tried t
o guess where this one was going to fall, ducked again.
Nothing. After a moment, Grosse got to his feet. ‘Dud,’ he said. From behind, their own guns began to fire towards the German line.
They went on again. He wondered how he was going to sit in the Observation Post and make any sort of accurate map if this heavy shelling went on, and if his eyes were drawn again and again by the sight of the minenwerfers, if he was so tense, trying to gauge each time where they would fall. But he was still somehow unafraid for himself, though his initial excitement had gone long since. Grosse’s face was grey with dust and soil. He supposed that his own must be the same.
They turned another corner. A young soldier was up on one of the firesteps, facing them and about to step down into the trench. Barton caught his eye. As he did so, a shot came and the man toppled rather slowly forwards, to land almost on top of Barton and between him and Grosse.
Barton stopped. Bent down.
The man lay quite still but as Barton looked at him, a shudder and a quick breath went through his chest, and the limbs jerked and convulsed before going still again, the helmet slipped sideways off his head. His eyes were open and his mouth was full of blood. Otherwise, he seemed quite undamaged, his legs lay relaxed as though in sleep. Barton stared down at him. The skin across his nose had peeled with the sun. He had very pale, almost white eyelashes, and a curious mark, like a smoke burn, across his forehead.
Grosse retraced his steps and was standing on the other side.
‘Get a stretcher quickly.’
‘He’s dead, sir.’
‘He was breathing.’
‘He was dying.’
‘Get a stretcher.’
Grosse did not answer. Barton reached out a hand and touched the man’s chest.
‘Stuck his head too far up, I suppose. Daft thing to do. They’re crack shots, they could shoot a bullet through a ring on a pig’s nose at a hundred yards, those Jerry snipers.’ Grosse leaned against the side of the trench, his voice was conversational.