A Fox Under My Cloak (36 page)

Smoke came from pipe and cigarette, hot tinned
café-au-lait
from the primus stove next door was poured steaming into mugs by the attentive Boon. The record ended; was put on again.

“I’ve got the corks done, sir,” Phillip heard him say to his master.

Captain West was looking at his wristlet watch when the blanket parted, and a sentry said, “Corporal asking for Mr. Maddison, sir.” Phillip went out into the night. “Sergeant Butler says he’s got the right spanners, sir, and the domes are being removed according to plan.”

“Oh, good! Tell Sergeant Butler I’ll come and see him, and
inspect all emplacements with him in half an hour. And give him my thanks. Have a bit of chocolate. Have you had your grub?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Have some of mine. Half a mo’, I’ll get it.”

“That’s all right, sir. I’ve got my haversack ration intact, sir.”

Feeling quivery as the multiple play of light upon the sky beyond Nôtre Dame de Lorette, Phillip went back into the shelter. It was now empty except for “Spectre” West putting on his webbing equipment. A transformation had come over the tall figure: his face, recently so pale, was now black. Burnt corks lay on the table. A sergeant of the Gaultshires, similarly darkened, stood beside him.

“Stop that blasted record!” cried Captain West, as he took up a knobkerry and said tersely to Phillip, “I’m going out to look at the Hun wire. It is now nine pip emma. Since you seem to have about as much initiative as a chick just out of the egg, all wet, I will exceed my duties as a mere company commander of footsloggers to tell you that you will leave this trench at nine-thirty pip emma, to be in plenty of time to report to brigade at ten pip emma. You know where brigade is, don’t you? In one of the cellars of Le Rutoire farm. Give ‘Nosey’ my
compliments
, and tell him that I look forward to dining with him in Lille tomorrow night.”

“Are you serious, Westy?”

“God’s teeth, am I ever anything else? Now pay attention. Each battalion going over tomorrow has orders to get as far as it can into the blue. The limit is the Haute Deule Canal, where we shall stand and await the cavalry going through the gap and on to the plain of Flanders and the Scheldt.”

Phillip felt excited. Again he remembered that Gran’pa Turney had said the very same thing.

“‘Nosey’, is that his real name? I can’t very well ask for ‘Nosey’.”

“What is good enough for the regiment,” said Captain West, “is good enough for a brigade-major. Now sling your hook and go and look at your emplacements, and next time don’t rely on bicycle spanners. Come and see me when you get back from brigade, you blue-eyed wonder! Boon!” to his servant, “why the hell have you stopped the gramophone? Put on They’d Never Believe Me.”

Taking the tall ash-plant he had cut from a thicket at Helfaut, Phillip followed the guide through long grass, around
shell-holes
, and over wooden bridges laid across trenches, to the ruins of Le Rutoire village. There was enough light from the gun-flashes to see ahead. A mild wind came from the west with occasional spots of rain. Troops were moving everywhere. From the two roads in front, leading from Vermelles, came the prolonged grind of wheels. Buzzing salvoes of howitzer shells passed overhead, to burst with red-black splashes upon the German lines. There were no German shells coming over. He passed waiting men in groups—individuals revealed suddenly by the little glow of cigarette held in hand-palm, so that a stealthy draw glowed upon cheek and chin. He bumped into an aiming post, painted white, by a hidden lamp: with a start realising that he was in front of a battery of field-guns.

“Who are yer?”

“Officer in charge of special emplacements, R.E.”

“Pass, sir.”

Broken, lonely walls were discernible along a narrow cobbled road forlorn with watery craters. The guide said they were at Le Rutoire farm. Here were many figures, the phut of
motor-cycles
, the rattle of bits, the roll of wheels. Stretcher-bearers passed, breathing heavily; there was an aid post, lit by a
hurricane
lamp, in what looked like a cellar, the door covered by a gas-blanket, and within, walls covered by white sheets. Perhaps it was an operating theatre. “This way, sir,” said the guide, leading him down some sandbagged steps behind the ruin-heaps facing away from the lines. He went down a dozen steps, saw many telephone wires, and tables. At one sat hatless clerks and two officers with red tabs, also bare-headed. He saluted the
grey-moustached
officer with gold on his tabs, and a blue brassard, who looked up a moment and went on writing at another table. He had crossed swords on his shoulder straps: the brigadier. The third table had a large map pinned on it.

“What is it?” said a captain with a thickly mended bridge to his nose, and a D.S.O. riband, sitting at the other end of the table, beside a telephone. Obviously this was ‘Nosey’. Having confirmed from a clerk that he was the brigade major, Phillip gave in his written report, that all his emplacements were in order. It was quiet in his sector. They had had no casualties.

“You are to wait here until you are given the time of zero
hour, which will come later from division, and then you will be responsible for taking it to the adjutant of the battalion on the left section of your front, the Gaultshires. Do you know where the commanding officer’s battle headquarters are?”

“No, sir.”

A frown came from the brigade major. These temporary officers of the New Army! He said evenly, “Don’t you know your sector?”

“Yes, sir, as far as my fourteen emplacements are concerned.” He remembered what Westy had said about never explaining. “I’ll find it, sir. My guide belongs to the battalion.”

“Good,” sighed the brigade major. He looked very tired. He sat back in his chair, and stretched his elbows behind the blades of his shoulders. He belched slightly, as though he had eaten bully beef. “Is it raining?”

“Slight drizzle now and again, sir.”

“What effect has rain on your gas?”

“It dissolves it, sir, partly in relation to the volume of rainfall.”

“What will it do in fog or mist—apart from the smoke of the candles? Hang about?”

“Yes, sir. Chlorine is heavier than air, and so tends to flow to the lowest level.”

“I see.” The brigade major looked thoughtful. “You will, of course, remain in close touch with the adjutant of the
Gaultshires
. Here’s the weather report. Look at it later. You know, there is an alternative plan for the assault at zero plus forty minutes for the infantry, should it be impracticable to employ the gas discharge. Unless you hear from me, or from someone else here at brigade, that no discharge is to be made, you will carry on according to the time-table you will receive later. Is that clear? Then repeat your instructions.”

“Yes, sir. Unless I hear from brigade to the contrary, my cylinders will be turned on according to time-table.”

The brigade major took a hand-made Goldflake cigarette from the yellow tin on the table, and pushed the tin to Phillip. “Help yourself. You were with the London Highlanders at First Ypres, ‘Spectre’ West tells me. Stout fellows, all of ’em. They’re on your left, along the road outside. How did you leave ‘Spectre’? Fulminating against all with gorget patches?”

“He was just going out on patrol, sir, with blackened face, to look at the Hun wire, opposite the Lone Tree.”

“He should have sent one of his subalterns. But ‘Spectre’s’ a chap who won’t ask subordinates to do anything he isn’t prepared to do himself. He’ll have plenty of chance to get moving
tomorrow
, when we get over the La Bassée-Lens road, into their
unwired
and unoccupied second position, and so into open country.”

“By the way, sir, he asked me to say: ‘Give my compliments—there was a nickname, sir, but I’m not sure what it was—and will you dine with him in Lille tomorrow night’.”

“The deuce he did. He said the same thing before Neuve Chapelle, and again at Aubers Ridge—— Well, you’ll have to hang about until I can give you zero hour.”

“Very good, sir.”

He was dismissed, but with a feeling of exhilaration that he had been spoken to as an equal. He was proud of being in the Gaultshire Regiment. This pride awoke a keener interest in what was taking place. He leaned against a wall by the telephone exchange board, listening to the cryptic replies of the operator. The operator seemed to be taking calls and plugging lines all the time. Likewise orderlies were coming and going, handing envelopes for signature to the clerks, while two sergeants were also writing out messages, taking them either to the staff captain or brigade major for signature, and then, tearing out the
top-copies
, taking them to a compartment separated by a hanging blanket where two signallers at morse-buzzers were sitting on the floor, each with a diaphragm fixed to one ear. It reminded him of the cigar-box telephone he had once made and fixed between his bedroom and mother’s; and he began to see what a lot of work there was behind the lines. Those telephone wires by the
roadsides
on blue and white R.E. poles, scores of them, must link up battalions, batteries, and other units with each other, through the little spider-webs of brigades, and farther back, through divisions and corps headquarters, to Sir John French himself in his château somewhere.

It was hot in the cellar. He went outside, after telling a sergeant that he was going to relieve himself, should he be wanted. He wore the mackintosh under his webbing, with haversack, P.H. helmet, revolver in holster, and ammunition outside. It was not cold in the night air, but fresh. Followed by his guide, he tapped his way along the road which, said the guide, led to the Chapel of the Consolation, on the Vermelles to Hulluch road.

“Who are you?” It sounded like an officer’s voice.

“Special Section, R.E.”

“Advance, and prove yourself.”

Phillip went up to a dim group of figures, with strange
head-gear
, he could just see.

“I’m the officer in charge of a special section of the R.E.”

“What is your rank? And your name?” the authoritative voice demanded.

“Second-lieutenant Maddison.”

“What is your Christian name, and where were you born?”

Phillip gave the particulars, and was about to ask why, when the voice said, “Does the name Bleak Hill mean anything to you?”

“Yes, I was there in August 1914 with the London
Highlanders
.”

“Do you remember me? My name is Douglas.”

“Good lord, Sergeant Douglas! I heard you were gazetted to the Highlanders. But what is the idea—you scared me at first.”

“We were warned that spies were about, masquerading in British staff officers’ uniform,” replied Douglas. “One was reported this afternoon on a bicycle near Verquin, asking various troops who they were. So we were warned to keep a look-out.”

Douglas shone a torch on Phillip for a moment, and then asked what the brassard was for. Phillip told him, after which he and Douglas enquired about mutual acquaintances, and how they had fared. Mr. Thorverton, the old platoon officer, had gone home sick, and was now a district recruiting officer in the West Country. “Fiery” Forbes commanded the battalion, which was in an assembly trench as far as the cross-roads, to advance, after the first waves had gone over, to the front lines, and fill the gap between the division’s right flank and the left flank of the Scottish division. With another battalion, it was known as the Detached Force. Then Phillip mentioned the draft he had brought over, including Kirk of their old tent party.

“He’s in my company,” said Douglas. “In fact, he’s my runner. Kirk, are you there?”

“Here, sir. Hullo, Phillip.”

They shook hands. Phillip asked what were they wearing on their heads, and learned that the turban-like effect was due to the rolled gas-helmets sitting upon the tam-o’-shanters, ready to be pulled down.

He told them about the gas and smoke, and feeling optimistic, said that no German in the trenches opposite would survive the double effect of shell and gas bombardment. “Well, we’ll all be dining in Lille tomorrow night! Au revoir, you chaps—I’ve got to see the general in the basement of Le Rutoire farm—so long, and the best of luck!”

When he returned to Brigade H.Q,. he saw that the brigade major was reading a message held in one hand, while he picked his teeth with a gold pick concealed in the other. Then he got up and spoke to the general. Together they looked at the map on the third table. Phillip could see the crenellations of the German trenches marked in red, line behind line along the contour marks opposite the blue trenches of the British, for the table was only a yard away from him.

The brigade major was saying, “From this point, General, two hundred yards north of Lone Tree, to a further three hundred yards south of the track——” The brigadier said wearily, “Why can’t the gunners observe their own shoots effectively? Ring up division, and ask if they can arrange for the corps heavies—better still, get on to the B.G.R.A. corps himself—I’ll speak to him. No, wait a moment.” The brigade major waited. Phillip pretended to be examining his field service message book, while he listened. “I’ll speak to division myself.” He turned to the telephone operator, a pale-faced lance-corporal with oil-smoothed hair and spectacles, and said, “G.S.O. One, division.”

*

The night dragged on. The three other gas-officers waiting for the information of zero hour had long exhausted all topics of talk. They wanted to sleep; they were new to the war; they kept on their feet, hoping that the next moment would be the moment of call to the cellar.

The fourth gas-officer, Phillip, had found a brazier inside a shelter, from where the headquarter guard was mounted; he dozed beside it, while his runner waited, with orders to exchange with him every hour. On one of his “rests” he walked to the front of the farm, seeing the battlefield in fancy as a skeleton ribbed with phosphoric lights: a skeleton which would sink to invisibility at daybreak, issue its poisonous breath upon the day, dart forth its eyes in hundreds of thousands of bullets every minute, its body of nothingness break into thousands of burning
sores. The dogs of war would lick this Lazarus turned Sisyphus, rolling backwards and forwards, in attack and counter-attack; and all in vain, for the German
mutter
was the British
mother
, the German
Gott
was the British
God
,
German
Freiheit
the British
Freedom
.
He yawned wearily, his tongue sharp with nicotine.