A Fox Under My Cloak (39 page)

Pleased and surprised that so important a figure already knew his name, he replied with a slight stutter, “N-none now, sir, it was all 1-let off before the assault.”

“Then your duties on detachment are ended?”

“I have to send in my report, sir.”

Colonel Mowbray began to talk to Captain West, so Phillip once more went a few yards away, and looked towards the smoke of battle. Bullets passed; he was pleased that he did not flinch. He hastened forward when the R.S.M. said the colonel wanted him. “You had better hear what I have to say,
Maddison
.” Colonel Mowbray went on to say that the attack was generally going well on both flanks: that the temporary check on the brigade front was to be dealt with by the Divisional Detached Force, consisting of mixed troops. They were about to advance from their assembly trenches of the Fosse Way, and occupy the front line, with a view to carrying on the attack towards Lone Tree.

Phillip wondered if he would be ordered to go with the attack. If he said that his gas brassard prevented him going, would
they know he was afraid? How could he get away? The colonel was explaining that the rôle of the Detached Force, as originally intended, was to fill the gap between the two brigades when the first enemy position had been carried, and maintain touch with them.

“The First Brigade, as you know, is advancing due east to Hulluch, while our brigade has still to strike east-south-east over the Loos Road Redoubt to the slag-heaps of Puits Fourteen. Now the Detached Force, the liaison force, is, unless the brigadier can prevail upon division to prevent it, to be thrown in to repeat our attack, with Lone Tree as their centre. We are concerned in that the reserve company of the Gaultshires is to support the attack.”

Captain West replied with distinctness, “Surely division knows, Colonel, that the Hun position behind Lone Tree is now a salient, and that it should be pinched off? If the reserve company were to debouch to the left, by the Bois Carré, which has been overrun by the First Brigade, we could outflank the entire position.”

“I know, Harold, I know. But those are my orders.”

Colonel Mowbray then said very quietly, “The reserve company has only two junior subaltern officers left, as Hopkins was killed and Whitfield wounded by the same shell this
morning
, so I am putting you in charge of the attack. I’m afraid you will have to go straight for Lone Tree again, Harold. I asked to be allowed to go myself, but the brigadier has ordered me to remain with the cadre. Ah, here’s Bimbo—he may have some news——” The staff-captain was coming towards the dugout. The colonel went to meet him.

Phillip, feeling icy cold, watched Captain West staring into the sky. He strove against a feeling of being fixed to the ground; he wanted to go away, while the chance was there; but he could not move. Westy would know why he went, if he went. Then Westy went towards the dugout, and suddenly he felt free; and with trepidation, and sickness of his fear, he set off to Le Rutoire farm, with the excuse to get the correct time. His wristlet watch had stopped, due either to grit or gas, probably both. He lit a cigarette, to show his nonchalance; but the smoke tasted of rotten eggs. The Germans must be sending over lachrymatory shells, called pear-drops by the men, after the farthing-an-ounce fruit-drops in the sweetstuff shops at home.

It was shortly before eight o’clock, he learned at brigade headquarters. He thought it best not to be seen hanging about, so he made for the white line of trenches beside the track leading to the Chapel of Consolation, where he had talked with the London Highlanders the previous night. Would it have been wiser to have gone back to the billet in Mazingarbe with his section? But if he had gone back, by now he might have been ordered to join an infantry battalion, his detachment duty being over. And while he remained where he was, no-one would be able to find him, even if anyone thought of him, which was unlikely in the continual movement of all kinds of troops, once he was clear of the Gaultshires.

He walked in the direction of the chalk thrown up beside the Fosse Way; and was almost at the beginning of them when shells began to drone down, as salvo upon salvo dropped upon and around Le Rutoire farm. The air, too, was again being scorched with swift hissings like water spilled on red-hot iron. The smoke and gas had cleared across the dim, dull plain; and the old front line was under fire again from machine-guns and rifles.

He started to build for himself a rough bunker by piling chalk-bags on to a length of sheet-iron crossing the trench, obviously someone’s shelter during the past night. That would make it shrapnel-proof. While he worked he saw what had caused the German fire. Away on his left, up the track, several columns of infantry were advancing. It must be the Detached Force. German shrapnel now started to burst in the air in places over the old front line. It was the high-explosive variety known as woolly bears, which had yellow smoke.

Now the columns of troops were running sideways, extending to open order, advancing on Lone Tree, while the scorching hisses of machine-gun bullets were increasing. He kept down his head; he sat back and tried to sleep; but all the time his mind was working. If discovered there by the Battle Police he would say that his heart was bad, owing to the gas, and that he had not gone back to Mazingarbe because he had been asked to join his regiment; he had wanted to take part in the attack, but had dizzy spells, due to gas. That anxiety being allayed, he decided to remain where he was for the time being, and watch what was happening.

He peeped over the chalk parapet, and saw that some of the kilted infantry—they must be London Highlanders—were
stumbling, their rifles dropping out of their hands first. Now the smoke had cleared off, they were easy targets across No Man’s Land, since the German front line was still in the same place as the day before. Bullets were cracking sharply overhead, so he crept under his narrow shelter and, suddenly weary, lay down with face on one arm, to get some rest. His throat felt sore. Could he be slightly gassed?

Sometime later he was aware of noises of slipping feet and heavy breathing, and, looking up, saw men leaping and sliding into the trench. They were the Gaultshires. Intense fire was now cracking and hissing over the trench. From a sergeant he learned that they were in support. Thank God, he thought, for his gas brassard; he could not be ordered to take part. How strange it was that this was part of the Big Push, that he was actually in it. To be hit at such a distance from the enemy was not so bad as being aimed at: it would be rather like being in a street accident. When he asked a sergeant what the time was (for his watch had stopped again) he was surprised to learn that only an hour had gone by since he had been at Le Rutoire farm.

*

Sitting in the trench was rather like being behind the
corn-stack
on Messines ridge nearly a year before, in the same slow meaningless drag of time that was dead; hour after hour, while half a mile in front the London Highlanders, part of the
Detached
Force, were lying behind the shallow parados of the original front line, exposed in the weak sunshine to prolonged enemy fire as they waited for orders: from nine o’clock to ten o’clock: to eleven o’clock: to twelve o’clock: to one o’clock.

“Are you Lieutenant Maddison, sir? Captain West would like to speak to you, sir.”

With thudding heart he followed the runner along the trench. Captain West was sitting beside his telephone signaller, eating bully beef and biscuits. He offered his water-bottle, which was empty. He was now apparently in better humour.

“Have a spot of old man whiskey. Boon is making tea. Where the hell did you get to? Our attack has been washed out. We are standing by. Only when those coves, who help themselves to all the gongs, have had their luncheon of potted Morecambe Bay shrimps, chicken in aspic, truffles, Camembert cheese and Romary biscuits, coffee and brandy, will the order to infiltrate
through the gap on our left come through; for, by the teeth of God, what else but staff luncheon is preventing us from filing to the north along the trenches and debouching by the Bois Carré?”

“I don’t know.”

That was the only reply he could think of. Why was Westy staring at him so intently? His face was changed; it was slightly unpleasant, with its paler blue eyes and little pin-pointed irises. The sweat on the white forehead was rather nasty. He was now indeed his nickname of “Spectre”. Staring at him intently, “Spectre” West said, “I weep tears of blood for you, Phillip! Look at me, my poor young friend!” He flung away his lump of bully beef. “Look at me! Now listen carefully! On our right the Fifteenth Scottish Division has gone out of sight over Hill 70! Got that? They’ve broken through on a narrow front. A narrow break-through is dangerous. It is vulnerable! Got that? But Hill 70 is the key to the battle. It gives observation over everything else. Do you know what Hill 70 in Hun hands is?” He paused. “Death peering with folded wings.”

“I understand that, of course, for they can shell anything moving——”

“Listen to me! Don’t turn away your head! I have told you that the Scottish Division, or the Fifteenth, if you prefer staff-like precision, has got into the suburbs of Lens, beyond Hill 70. The Seventh on our left has got almost to Hulluch. So I asked permission to lead all available reserves through the Bois Carré, and so get behind the Lone Tree position, and pinch it off. And what was the result? Pass me the bottle. Hell! Who’s drunk it? Boon! Boon! Where the devil is Boon? Send for Boon, s’ar major!”

“Here, sir!”

“Good. Another bottle, Boon.”

“Napoo, sir. You’ve had the last bottle,” replied Boon, pumping the Primus.

“No excuse! Get one! Help yourself, Phillip.”

“Spectre” West passed the empty bottle.

“No thanks, I think I’ve had a whiff of gas, it makes my taste seem rather funny.”

He wanted to get back to his shelter, but he must not make it too obvious. Was Westy blotto? Or even mad? Boon the batman continued to sit by the canteen of water on the Primus
stove. When Westy spoke again, he was suddenly his old self once more.

“I’ll give you a mug of
café-au-lait
in a minute, Phillip.
Sergeant
Jones! Has the company s’ar-major come back yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“I sent him to the colonel with a message, asking permission to move to the flank,” remarked Captain West, to Phillip, as though he had forgotten his former outburst, “and so give fire-support to the frontal attack of the Detached Force. Hullo, it looks as though it has started.” He looked at his watch. “Two pip emma! The staff have finished luncheon,” he announced, almost cheerfully.

A whipping fury of bullets passed over the trench, followed by a distant crackling. It was now impossible to hear what Westy was saying, for almost simultaneously the field-guns behind Le Rutoire had opened up. They sat there, unspeaking, until the rugged face of the regimental sergeant major was seen, bending low, pushing its way to them. Kneeling by Captain West, he bawled through cupped hands:

“The colonel has been hit, with the adjutant, sir.”

Phillip saw Westy’s jaw tighten. Then his nostrils opened wide.

“What happened, Mr. Adams?”

“The C.O. was leaving battalion headquarters to go to brigade, sir. A coal-box burst right beside them, sir. You are now in command of the battalion, sir.”

Phillip watched Westy open his message book. While he was writing, it was a good moment to slip away. He went back to his shelter, and put on the red-white-green gas brassard that he had taken off on the way to the farm, to be inconspicuous.

After five minutes the storm of rifle-fire died away. It became intermittent, with a traversing machine-gun now and again, telling plainly that the attack of the Detached Force was stopped before the wire. Then shrapnel, black German smoke, began to burst over the trench. He got as far as he could under the parapet, while the smoke drifted sideways overhead. The rising wind would shift the pockets of gas. Some of the infantry were looking at him curiously; they had been in reserve, and evidently had not seen a gas brassard before. Soon the shelling ceased, both ways, and he heard the rumbling of guns to the south. It was wearisome waiting; it was cold; but there was nothing
else to do, but wait for twilight, and then get back to his billet. He closed his eyes, to sleep; and was aware that someone had touched him on the shoulder. He saw Boon, the batman.

“Captain West’s compliments, sir, would you please come to him. He’s been hit, sir.”

“Captain West?”

“Yes, sir. Whizz-bang, sir.”

Phillip resisted an impulse to say that he was not really anything to do with the attack. He followed the servant. Westy lay on the floor of muddy chalk, working his jaws as though chewing. There were tiny white specks in the froth on his lips. A stretcher-bearer with red-cross armlet was kneeling by him, holding a field-dressing pad to the wounded man’s cheek. When the pad was lifted, Phillip saw that the eye beneath was a broken pulp in a bloody star-fish of flesh stripped away from the cheekbone. Then he saw the left arm lying askew to the body, with two fingers gone from the hand and purple sinews at the wrist broken and shredded. The shell had brought down some of the trench wall; chalk partly covered the wounded man’s left leg. The exposed end of the puttee had little tears in it, the boot had slight cuts in the leather.

Phillip knelt beside him, saying, “So you’ve got a Blighty one, Westy.”

Captain West turned his head, with its one staring eye, minute of pupil. “Morphine—give me my box—get round the flank,” he muttered. Blood was now staining the froth on his lips. “Morphine—give me my box—get round the flank——” the voice kept repeating, while the right hand fumbled at the breast pocket below the stained riband of the Military Cross.

“He keeps ’is little box there, sir,” said Boon, bending down to speak against Phillip’s face. “His syringe’s smashed with ’is haversack, sir. He ’as had to keep ’isself goin’ since he got that little lot at Neuve Chapelle, sir. He ’ad ’eadaches something awful, sir.”