A Fox Under My Cloak (48 page)

Turning to the south, he saw the high, tree-billowing crest of Nôtre Dame de Lorette, running into another wooded height, which must be Vimy Ridge, which the French had failed to take. The Germans were too strong. Their dugouts, forty feet down in the chalk, made them safe from bombardment. How could men so brave and clever be beaten? Would they not hold out for ever, since they believed that God and Right was with them in their struggle for their Fatherland?

A terrific clang shook the turret; an equal fear possessed him. Supposing the stairway was blown away, and he would not be able to get down? The air was acrid; a yellow bear had hit the steel frame somewhere. Well, if it happened, it happened. He peered out tremulously from his high place. Yellow bears were coming over almost as regularly as clockwork from Lens, and Black Johnsons from Hulluch, or from Auchy—two horns of a bull goring the attackers. He could just discern the flashes of guns.

*

The noise was greater now, the attack of the Foot Guards must be starting. He could see a row of dots, in perfect
alignment
, coming down from Lone Tree ridge into the shallow valley beyond the brown fracas of the village. Soon black spots of shrapnel found them; and woolly bears were breaking above them. Through the Zeiss glass he saw a tiny figure fall; then another threw up its arms, and fell, and another, and another, while the line went on steadily. The air was solid with metal hammering. Was Bertie down there?

He felt fascination and excitement. The Foot Guards! He recalled the charge through the Nonne Bosschen before Ypres in November 1914. Oh, why wasn’t he with them, and Cranmer, and Tommy Atkins? But this wasn’t like that faraway charge, this was like a field day before the general, all correct in line and spacing. He began to swear as more and more figures in those straight lines dropped out. If the Guards failed, all was lost. Ought he to get down the tower? Would the Prussian Guard division counter-attack down the slopes, if the Foot Guards’ attack was broken by the terrible hammering?

Then he saw thick black smoke rolling along from the direction of Hulluch, two miles away in the shallow openness of the valley. The wind was very slight, it brought it billowing forward so very slowly. Would it get up the slight slope in time, to hide the advancing lines? Even if it did, the fixed machine-guns would sweep through it, as before. Oh hell, hell, hell!

Looking farther back, towards Vermelles, where the lower sky was grey with drifting smoke of another kind, obviously shrapnel, he saw that the supports were coming forward in diamond formation; and in between was a column of slowly moving transport. Black dots began to spatter the sky above it, as he watched.

Turning north again, he saw the black smoke screen moving towards the Lens-La Bassée road, but so slowly. Quick, quick, quick! Get to the coppice around the Chalk Pit this side of the road, and Bois Hugo the other side of the road! That was where the hammering came from! Then above the rolling smoke all the woolly bears began to gather, in sixes and sevens, while howitzer shells spouted up from the ground. Obviously the Germans were taking no chances, for there were no troops under the smoke screen. Go on, waste all your ammunition on the smoke! Poop it all off before the line of Guards came up the slope! He felt great excitement and anguish.

The shells were coming from behind the Hohenzollern
Redoubt
, three miles away, and the dark mass of the Dump, from Auchy; where the infantry was back again in the original British front line. He could see little nicks of flashes in the village, from the German batteries.

Trembling and taut, he turned away to the south again, and saw troops leaving the shelter of the houses immediately below, and making for the little plantation beside the road into Lens. From Hill 70 redoubt, less than a mile away east, came the hammering noise, while a few British shells burst upon the chalky flatness. As he moved his glass from figure to figure, taking the boiling feeling of each one upon himself, he gave a start: for in the retina of his right eye he saw a dark-blue
movement
, and with a rush of fear turned round prepared to see a German covering him with blued barrel of automatic.

To his relief he saw that it was a swallow, flying round and round inside the turret, crying with beak open above the tawny stain on its throat, crying inaudibly. Looking up, he saw a nest upon one of the roof girders, in a space where it was crossed by a lighter length of iron. There was the lip of grey mud, dry grasses showing, and shrunken marks of droppings on the floor.

He climbed on the table, and felt in the nest. It had young, a late brood, probably, he thought, coming from rich feeding on the flies which infested the battlefield. The swallows would be migrating soon; the little ones would be left behind. He thought of the tragedy of the parents, torn between love and the urge to migrate when the inner call came to leave. Would it be kinder to kill the nestlings, and so decide for the parents?
Perhaps
they might be able to feed their young in time for the
flight down to the Mediterranean and across to Africa? After all, they had built there, and had been able to rear them so far during the war.

The hen bird slipped through the open window, and he saw her flying in the air, catching flies. He thought it wonderful, that in all the noise, she had carried on; but if a woolly bear were to burst near her——

*

The attack of the Guards had become a feeling of mourning. They moved so slowly, they were but figures walking on, with wider and wider gaps between each little fore-shortened figure. Only a ragged suggestion of a line reached the Chalk Pit and its trees; and when, after an interval, a few scattered figures appeared beyond the trees, in the terrible exposure of flat open country beside the narrow road, they withered away almost immediately: and looking through the glass, he saw that they were lying on the ground. About a dozen figures got up to run across the road, but they too, in ones and twos and threes, went down under the hammering.

He felt empty and weary. The afternoon light was going. He must try not to think as he went down the spiral stairs. He must go slowly, lest be become giddy. One last look at the nest on the rusty iron girder,
bon
chance
mes
hirondelles!
; and slinging haversack and water-bottle, he left the turret.

*

It was dark when he got back to his billet, after passing troops winding up along the road, amidst the usual roll of wheels on mudded
pavé
,
through all the desolation and the raging of guns. It was dark, the moon not up; but far away, around the
Hohenzollern
and beyond, the flares were rising, like curious lilies of the dead.

“Ou est M. ‘Twinkle’, madame?”

“Parti, m’sieu!” The tragic face of the woman, her children staring behind her thicknesses of black skirts, looked into his.

“Gone?”

“Oui, m’sieu! Les ‘redcaps’.”

“Comment, madame?”

“Pardon, m’sieu?”

“Pourquoi les ‘redcaps’ avent prendre prisonnier ‘Twinkle’, madame?”

“Mud Jeck, m’sieu!”

“Comment, madame?”

She spelt it out, he was the more puzzled: she wrote it down in pencil:
Mad
Jack.

Mad Jack! The name seemed familiar, but only when he learned that “Twinkle” was a deserter, and had been one since
’quatorze,
did he connect Mad Jack with the old deserter he had once seen at Villeneuve railway junction outside Paris, in September of the first year of the war. Mad Jack used to sleep behind hay-bales, he had a sack of bully beef as his capital, and swopped tins of it for red wine. When last seen, in those lines-of-communication days, Mad Jack had been humping his sack across the tracks, having seen redcaps on one of the platforms.

The news of his batman’s arrest depressed Phillip, and he went to bed after an omelette and lay in his sleeping sack
unsleeping
, a prey to thoughts that he too was a sort of deserter: the R.E. detachment had gone away, and to whom should he report? And how explain his absence? Even if the doctor had verbally put him on light duty, he had never reported anywhere for light duty.

I
N
the morning his fears seemed to come true. At first, when the military police appeared to search the premises for stolen army property, including blankets, the talk was of Mad Jack, who had been caught with nearly twenty thousand francs, which, said the redcap sergeant, came from flogging army property to civilians.

Apparently “Twinkle” had been given away by a woman in Noeux-les-Mines, after he had “taken on the mam’selle in the Demi Lune, sir, if you understand my meaning”, said the sergeant. It seemed rather sordid to Phillip, and he wondered how much of “Twinkle’s” tales were true. He mentioned that he was, anyway, a good batman; whereupon the sergeant asked him casually how he had come to get him for a batman, when he wasn’t on the strength of any unit? Phillip explained about the gas detachment.

“Aren’t they back at G.H.Q., sir?”

“I heard they were, I suppose my job is ended now they’ve gone.”

“Yes, sir,” said the sergeant non-committally. “I suppose you come up with the reserve divisions, sir?”

“Oh, no. I was First division.”

“Oh yes sir.”

A few minutes after they had gone, wheeling away over four hundred tins of bully beef, ham, tinned butter, with a dozen blankets and other articles on a barrow, there was a knock on the door. Madame opened it. An officer stood there, a captain with a red brassard on which were letters in black
A.P.M.
The sergeant stood behind him. Phillip felt as though shot.

The assistant provost marshal was curt. He wanted to know who he was. Why he was not with his unit? Why he had not reported back for light duty? How long he had known his so-called batman? The A.P.M. ended up by saying that he was under close arrest. His belt and revolver were taken away.

“Your kit will be packed up and be brought to you. You will come with me.”

Round the corner was a motorcar. Through lines of curious troops Phillip was driven to corps headquarters, feeling what Father would call white about the gills as he thought of court-martial. He recalled what Cranmer had told him about men being shot for leaving their units only for an hour or two, and felt even whiter about the gills. “Pluggy” Marsden, Allport, the R.S.M., Mr. Adams, of the Gaultshire—probably dead. He would have no witnesses.

After interrogation at corps he was taken away in the
motorcar
; and to his immense relief he saw “Nosey”, the brigade major, who vouched for him. He was set free, belt and pistol returned, and told he could join the Gaultshire mess. “Nosey” now wore a crown and star; Gaultshire badges replaced the red gorget-patches.

“Meanwhile, write out a report, will you, Maddison, about those batteries you saw in Auchy, and let me have it immediately.”

“Very good, sir.”

He wrote with the speed of jubilation, and took it to the orderly room.

In the mess, he learned that “Nosey’s” nickname had been given at a pre-war inter-battalion heavyweight boxing contest.

He heard that the Gaultshire casualties had been very heavy, nearly seven hundred in the battalion. All attacking officers had either been killed, wounded, or taken prisoner. Both “Pluggy” Marsden and Allport had been wounded. It was the same with most other units. Three divisional generals out of the eight divisions engaged had been killed. Over forty battalions had lost their commanding officers. Beyond that, no-one in the mess spoke about the battalion attacks. They seemed very quiet. Among the rumours was one that the field-marshal had been recalled to London. The reason, it was said, was that the new-formed Guards division had been almost annihilated, owing to Sir John French having put them into a hopeless attack, when it was too late. An Irish Guards major came to visit “Nosey” Orlebar and Phillip learned that they were out at rest at Verquineul quite near. He wondered if he could go there, and find out if Bertie got through all right. Perhaps he could borrow a horse from the transport officer? He heard that “Spectre” West was down at Le Touquet, at the Duchess of Westminster’s hospital; he had lost an eye and a hand, but had dictated a letter to one of the nurses: a brief letter, wishing the battalion good luck, and apologising to the commanding officer that he was “not able to return to duty at the moment”. To Phillip it was rather a frightening letter. It was pinned on the ante-room board, showing a ducal coronet embossed in black.

On this ante-room board battalion orders were put up every evening. Phillip learned that he was posted to No. 1 company. With a shock he read that he was acting company commander. During a route march he felt pride and a new determination as he rode in front of his thirty-seven men, and wondered, in intervals of doubt about his ability to remain mounted, if he would be given his second pip. Or even a captaincy. But no, it must be only temporarily.

The battle was still going on, never pausing night or day. As soon as drafts arrived from England, it was understood that the brigade would be going back into the line. The odd thing was that when some officers did join, with a draft, he remained in command of No. 1 company. “Nosey” was always very friendly when he saw him. But he was friendly to all the new officers.

In battalion orders one evening was a paragraph that officers i/c companies were to read out on three successive parades
the names and regiments of five deserters who had been condemned to death by sentence of general courts-martial, each sentence duly having been carried out.

“Hell to that,” said Phillip to his acting company sergeant major, “I’m not going to put the fear of God into these new chaps by reading them this bumff.”

He threw down the orders, thinking that Westy would approve.

In the same issue of orders all officers not on duty the next
afternoon
were informed that they were free to attend a lecture on
The
Opening
Phases
of
the
Battle
of
Loos.
It was said at luncheon that it was to be given by a war correspondent of a London
newspaper
, in a marquee outside Béthune. Phillip went, with two other subalterns.

The lecturer stood on a daïs by a blackboard, with a pointer. He drew diagrams in chalk, and spoke in a soft voice, so that, with the canvas walls of the marquee flapping with gun-fire, no-one could hear him properly at the back. Soon voices were calling out, “Speak up”. The lecturer cleared his throat, and spoke louder, but still his voice did not carry, so that after ten minutes or so even the young officers of the new drafts, spick and span and eager to learn everything in a quiet way, became restless. Phillip had a seat half way down, to one side, from where he could see backs of heads in rows of red-tabbed and senior officers in front. One head, constantly moving as though with impatience, was familiar—the white curly hair, the
mulberry
cheeks and scowling brow of—could it be?—yes, it was—“Crasher”! Phillip looked for the white head of “Strawballs”, but could not see it.

The audience became more and more restless as the voice continued in its sympathetic monotone. At last the lecturer laid down his pointer, came forward to the centre of the daïs, and said:

“Gentlemen, I feel I must ask your indulgence for what must appear, to many of you who had to do the fighting, a most imperfect account of it. I do assure you all that I, as a mere distant spectator, feel most humble when I think of what you were called upon to do—and what you did was magnificent. Our great national poet Shakespeare said that all the world was a stage. This remark has never been more truly illustrated in all our island story than in the past two weeks. You,
gentlemen
, are the actors; we who stand and wait are but the audience,
or to be more exact in the metaphor, not even the audience; for we can see little or nothing of what is happening, we are
behind
the scenes, or backstage to use the jargon of theatre-land. But while you are acting your valiant—I will not say tragic parts, for that would imply a condition that I am sure you would not yourselves ever consider, or wish to be admitted on your behalf—as I was saying, we who are in the rear do not share your particular experiences, varying with every trench and rise and fall of ground—but this I can say, that just as the landscape painter’s perspective is always remote from actuality, so is the remoteness from the battlefield, for mere scribblers like myself in the rear, a clearing-place of often contrary messages and reports. Only gradually can the whole picture of what is happening be built up. Thus in one sector all may seem, for the time-being, to be lost; while that aspect, by its very pessimism, may enable troops a mile away to overcome the enemy position and so effect a break in his defences.”

The lecturer paused. There was dead silence among the audience.

“Well, gentlemen, I have done my best to give an outline of the general position on the first, second and third days of the battle; I am always open to correction; and if any of you would like to ask any questions, or to amplify what I have said, in any
particular
, I shall do my humble best to reply.”

The lecturer bowed, as though awaiting applause. Phillip felt a slight distress when none came. The silence remained. Perhaps people did not clap at military lectures, even when given by civilians? He felt a little sorry for the speaker; he was obviously nervous, and must have known that what he had said was only a sort of newspaper account.

“Well, gentlemen, have you any questions?”

There was a stir in the front row. Phillip saw “Crasher” slowly getting on his feet. Then he heard the curt, growling voice, “I want to ask only one question.” “Crasher” paused, and glared at the lecturer.

“The other day I took part in the battle of Loos. Now, having listened to the lecturer, he has proved to me that I was never there. I would like to ask ’im to explain that.”

The marquee was filled with cheering, clapping, and laughter. The meeting broke up. On impulse Phillip went to the brigadier, came to attention, bowed and said, “Excuse me, sir, but I am
the guide who took you up past Lone Tree on the evening of the twenty-fifth. I have been wondering, sir, what happened to the colonel of the Cantuvellaunians?”

“Caught a ball,” growled “Crasher”. “Every other man jack of ’m caught a ball. As I told ’em at First Army, it was the charge of horse against the Russkies guns at Balaclava all over agen. They put me on ha’ pay after that one for telling ’em what I thought, and b’God they put me on ha’ pay after this one! No dam’ progress in the human race! That feller Darwin was right. Who the devil are you? I’ve seen your face somewhere before, dammit.”

“I am the guide who took you up past Lone Tree——”

“That don’t account for your name, dammit.”

“Maddison, sir. I met you in the Cantuvellaunian mess in England.”

“Did you b’God. More people know Tom Fool than Tom Fool knows.”

Misunderstanding this remark, Phillip said, “Yes, sir, I was a bit of a fool, I admit.”

As the old general did not reply, but continued to fix him with his pale blue eyes, Phillip went on, feeling more and more awkward, “I mean, sir, in setting fire to the colonel’s newspaper.”

“Why, bless my soul, you must be the young feller o’ spirit they bully-ragged for speaking out o’ turn, but b’God, if
no-one
spoke out o’ turn——! I have, b’God, and blotted me copybook! Yes, ‘Strawballs’ told me about you the other night in that damned cold quarry, said it was a pity you have never been to school. Well, don’t let it worry you, I never learned a dam’ thing at Eton, except how to hunt the hare with those dam’ jelly-dorgs they call beagles.”

The anciently-dressed brigadier lifted his hand in dismissal, and Phillip went away, thinking what a wonderful old boy he was.

The next afternoon he started to ride with a groom to visit cousin Bertie at Verquineul, about three miles distant, behind Noeux-les-Mines; but the chronic congestion of the roads, and the fact that he was still not able to “sit down to it”, in the groom’s phrase, made him turn back. It was now into the first week of October, and the battalion was nearly up to strength. The further attacks had got nowhere, all the attackers who survived had gone back to their jumping-off trenches. Training
with smoke-helmets pointed to a new attack with the French, who had now come into the sector north of Loos. And the
following
afternoon, when he walked to Verquineul, hoping to see Bertie (and yet hoping not to meet him, now that his face had partly eclipsed that of Helena) he learned that he had missed him by one day. Bertie’s battalion was in the line up by the Hohenzollern, which, except for the forward trench, was once more in German hands.

A day later, in Béthune, whither he had gone to draw the battalion pay in francs, he saw the Coldstream G.S. wagons being loaded with gas-cylinders, and heard that another assault upon the Hohenzollern Redoubt was being prepared. It was part of the renewed attack all along the line.

He took the company the following day to the bombing range beyond the town, a hot and suffocating business with gas-helmets; and on return, when he went into the ante-room, to see what post had come in he saw a khaki envelope in the M pigeon-hole of the letter rack—2/
lt.
P
.
S.
T.
Maddison
to
report
immediately
to
the
orderly
room.
With trepidation he went there, to hear the worst.

The adjutant and the colonel were working late, before dinner. Cold water in stomach, with drying throat, Phillip stood to attention.

“Good evening,” said the adjutant, amiably. “Your exchange into the Diehards has come through. There’s a train leaving Béthune at nine ack emma tomorrow morning.” He pushed over a yellow ticket for Victoria. “Your dossier has been
following
you about, from here to Helfaut, and back again. The colonel wants to see you.”

Lieutenant-colonel Orlebar was genial as ever.

“So you’re leaving us, Maddison. ‘Spectre’ West will be sorry to hear it. You belong to the county, don’t you?”