Heart of War (92 page)

At the German machine gun the C.O. turned down the steps into the battalion headquarters cellar. Fletcher scurried on and a moment later passed a soldier running in the opposite direction. He turned to watch the man dive down into the cellar, then continued on his way.

In the cellar Quentin was taking off his tin hat and wiping his brow when the man appeared. Quentin said, ‘What is it?'

The soldier gasped, ‘Mr Campbell's hit, sir.'

Quentin stopped, his big khaki silk handkerchief pressed to his forehead – ‘How badly?'

‘Bad, sir. In the belly.'

Quentin jammed his helmet back on his head and hurried up the steps, the runner and his batman Cottrell at his heels. Twenty yards away a deep cellar housed the Regimental Aid Post and Captain Sholto. The floor was covered with men with serious wounds, an arm missing here, a leg there, the stumps heavily bandaged, shots through the face, Kellaway with his bandaged head and eye, here another officer with teeth and jaw smashed, shoulder wounds, a man blinded, another coughing bloody froth. Someone was whimpering, less than half-conscious and unable to control himself; another was breathing fast and shallow with a rattle in his throat at each inhalation. The rest lay in the semi-darkness, staring at the ceiling, or at the doctor, water dripping on them, waiting, teeth and hands clenched.

Quentin said, ‘Campbell's got one through the belly, Sholto.'

The doctor's chin was dark with stubble and dried blood, and there were black hollows under his eyes. He looked round the floor at the lying men. A few eyes met his. Quentin waited. He didn't want to give Sholto an order to come with him, but … he wanted him to.

Sholto said at last, ‘Nothing I can do for a moment … I'll be gone ten minutes, sergeant … fifteen.'

He followed Quentin into the open. Five minutes later they hurried round the crumbling traverse of a destroyed trench and came upon Archie Campbell lying in the mud beyond, a private of the regiment on the firestep above him, looking out toward the enemy.

Sholto knelt and Campbell opened his eyes. He saw Quentin and muttered, ‘Sorry, sir.' His tunic had been unbuttoned, his shirt and vest lifted, and a first field dressing
tied over the wound. It was soaked with blood, and blood was trickling slowly down the side of his bare belly into the mud. Sholto said, ‘If I could get him back to the R.A.P….'

‘Don't move him,' Quentin said sharply.

The doctor said, ‘I must turn him over, sir … Here, easy does it.' Campbell groaned involuntarily as they carefully turned him over. The exit wound had missed his spine by an inch. The doctor produced disinfectant and bandage from his satchel and dealt with the big ragged hole, seeping dark blood. Then together they turned Campbell back. His eyes had again closed and Sholto said, ‘I'll give him a shot of morphine now … that's all I can do, except make him a little more comfortable under cover in the R.A.P.'

‘Don't move him,' Quentin said again, watching as the doctor injected the morphine into Archie's arm.

He moved a few paces up the trench and Sholto joined him. He said, ‘What chance does he have?'

The doctor said wearily, ‘Can't tell, sir. It's possible it went through without doing any serious damage. I can't operate to find out … All stomach wounds are dangerous …'

‘All right,' Quentin said. ‘You get back to the R.A.P. … and thanks.'

The doctor disappeared round the traverse. Quentin stared anxiously at Archie. His face was pasty, sweaty, pale, his breathing fast and shallow … slowing a little as the morphine took effect. He'd got to pull through, or what would Fiona have to live for? And he himself? For, by God, Campbell had become as close a friend as he'd known in his life.

He turned to the private soldier on the firestep, who had not turned round through all this – ‘Where's Mr Walworth?'

‘That way, sir.'

Quentin ploughed along the trench in the direction indicated, struggled out into the open where the trench had been blown in and blocked, and a few minutes later found 2nd Lieutenant Walworth in a shell hole.

Walworth had somehow managed to shave. Good man, Quentin thought, he's one of ours, a Weald. He said, ‘Everything all right here?'

‘Yes, sir, except that Campbell's been wounded. He wouldn't let me stay by him. I sent a runner to …'

‘I know. I've seen him. Send another man to where he is,
and make sure that he is not moved or given anything to eat or drink until he can be put on a stretcher and carried all the way back to an ambulance … which won't be until after we are relieved, of course. Do you understand?'

‘Yes, sir … When will we be relieved, sir?'

‘I don't know,' Quentin said shortly. ‘Hang on until we are.'

‘Yes, sir.'

Quentin struggled back to where Archie lay. He said to the soldier, ‘Any change?'

‘No, sir.'

Archie's eyes opened and he said, ‘That's grrrea' stuff, tha' morphine sirr.'

‘You just go back to sleep. Don't try to move. You'll be all right.'

‘Ah, mebbe, colonel dear, mebbe no' … Ah feel a mite drrunk, bu' Ah haven't had a drrap … Ah colonel dear, you ought to be getting a brigade, but they won't give it to you … 'cos of wha' ye said aboot the whusky at the Corps mess … Christ, I canna help laughing at tha' even now …' He was indeed laughing, a shaking silent chuckle. Then he gasped, and cried, ‘That hurts …!'

‘Don't laugh,' Quentin said sharply.

‘Ah canna help it … An' colonel dear, don't be worrying about your dauchter marryin' the sergeant major. The times are changin', sirr, an' it's nae use to fart agin the thunder. Let the puir lassie find her man where she will … aah!' Again he grimaced in pain.

Quentin said, ‘I've got to go back. Get well soon. And when you reach a hospital in England, write … tell me where you are so that I can tell … her … And, Archie, do you hear me? I'm going to miss you. Archie? Archie? Do you hear?'

Archie was too exhausted and drowsy to respond, except to nod his head, and Quentin, after a moment more looking down at him, went on to his battalion headquarters.

At ten o'clock that night a runner tumbled down the steps – ‘Sir, the Leinsters is here … Come into our area, A Company, ten minutes ago. Mr Wildeblood sent me to tell you. They're taking over from us. We're to go back right away, before it gets light.'

‘Who says?' Quentin said sharply. ‘Where's the order?'

‘The Leinsters' C.O. has it, sir, Mr Wildeblood said, he's bringing him here as soon as they've got their leading company into our trenches and dugouts.'

Quentin said, ‘All right. Go back, give Mr Wildeblood my compliments and tell him the sooner he can bring the Leinsters' C.O. to me here, the better for all of us.' He turned to his batman – ‘Cottrell, you go and warn the company commanders of B, C, and D to be ready to pull out, on my written order, when they have been relieved. Run now, man! Wait – tell Captain Sholto in the R.A.P. first.'

Ten minutes later the commanding officer of the 9th Battalion, the Leinster Regiment, came down the steps, his hand to the brim of his steel helmet. He said, ‘Congratulations, Rowland! You got Nollehoek – and held it! You've been having a rough time, we could see from back there … Here are the orders.'

Quentin read them quickly then pocketed the paper, and said, ‘It'll take us about half an hour to get ourselves clear, with what wounded we can move. I'll show you the company areas … I ought to stay to point everything out by daylight.'

The other colonel said, ‘No need. We can look after ourselves. And I have a gunner O.P. with me.'

Quentin was relieved. He wanted to get out of this hell as much as anyone; and if he stayed, who would see the battalion back?

He said, ‘There are the remains of an officer of mine in C Company area … where our C Company was, at least … He was rather badly mangled. I would be grateful if you could give him a decent burial, here in Nollehoek. He was my nephew.'

‘I'll see to it myself.'

Cate sipped his coffee. It was nice to know that there was a low death rate somewhere on earth. The letter beside his plate was addressed in a crabbed, old hand … Blyth's. He began to open it, hoping to learn that the old man was enjoying a happy, and healthy retirement. Through the windows movement caught his eye, and he got up to investigate. It was John Rowland, looking like a ghost, his
feet dragging, his shoulders sagging, his face grey and old, the hand of death on it. Cate dropped the letter and hurried round to the front door, reaching and opening it just as John was raising his hand to knock. The two men stared at each other, wordlessly. Then John began to cry, and Cate went forward and took him in his arms as John's head sank onto the rough Donegal tweed of his shoulder, sobs racking him.

After a while Cate heard the quiet voice of Garrod behind him – ‘Let me help you bring him in, sir.'

The wind howling in from the north off the Wichita Mountains carried a hint of snow in its teeth. Leaden clouds hurried south low over Fort Sill, the thousand tents of Camp Doniphan, and, beyond, the compact little town of Lawton. The six officer candidates stood in a row behind the 75-mm field gun on the park at the west end of Camp Doniphan. Facing them was a Regular Army sergeant in breeches, leggings, and a short coat with sheepskin collar, his campaign hat pushed well forward over his forehead, the red cord and acorns dulled by age.

‘Take post!' he shouted.

The six young men ran to the gun and took post beside it, some facing inward to the gun, some forward, one back.

The sergeant barked, ‘Call your duties! Gunner!'

The recruit officer at the Gunner's post bellowed, ‘Set the deflection – apply the deflection difference – give direction to the piece – set the site – give elevation to the piece – call READY – move my head out of the way before the piece is fired – measure a deflection – measure a site – measure an elevation – measure the minimum range – refer the piece!'

‘Cannoneer Number 1.'

This was Johnny Merritt's post, and he bellowed, ‘Set the range – open and close the breech – call set – fire the piece – use the rammer!'

‘Cannoneer Number 2!'

The next man shouted, ‘Load the piece – throw the empty cartridge out of the way – in volley fire, call out the number of the round …' His voice trailed away.

The sergeant screamed, ‘What have you forgotten, Anspach? Think now! … Anyone?'

Cannoneer Number 4 shouted, ‘Handle the sight extension bar.'

‘Right! Cannoneer Number 3!'

‘Set the corrector – set the range on the fuse setter – set the fuse when the hand fuse setter is used – distribute the fuses for shell to Numbers 4 and 5 – receive the fused shell from Numbers 4 and 5 and pass them to Number 2.'

‘Cannoneer Number 4!'

‘In time fire, complete the setting of the fuse – in shrapnel fire, pass the round to Number 2 …'

Johnny's attention wandered. The telegram had been bad enough, but the letter, from Father Christopher, even worse. He still found it an effort to believe that his child, his first born, was dead. Poor Stella … it was all very well for the doctors to say that apnea was a normal condition of infants; that their lungs had not been functioning for those nine months in the womb and often started very shakily … ‘death from natural causes' sounded soothing, inevitable … but how must Stella be feeling, having carried the child all that time, and then, after suffering the pains of parturition, lost it?

‘Change!'

He returned to reality with a start, and took the Gunner's post. The recruit who had been acting as Gunner ran to Cannoneer Number 5's post, Number 5 went to Number 4, and so on. The sergeant barked, ‘Prepare for action!'

Johnny removed the sight support cover, released the elevating latch and operated the elevating and traversing mechanisms, leaving the piece in the centre of its traverse on the axle. Cannoneer Number 1 handed him the sight; he seated it carefully, and checked that the deflection setting was Plateau 1, Drum 100. Then he set the sight at zero, levelled the bubble, opened the sight extension bar case, and waited motionless at his post.