Love and the Loveless (21 page)

Hell, why worry. It wouldn’t happen. The attack would go according to plan. The sections were not going over with the first waves. They were to squat still at their emplacements, sixteen among seven hundred Vickers machine guns helping
with the barrage. The rate per gun was three hundred rounds per minute, fired in bursts … twenty odd thousand empty brass cartridge cases being flicked out by the extractors per minute, the bullets swishing up and over the Ridge. Poor bloody Alleymans! He imagined himself in
feld-grau
uniform, bringing up ammunition, water, and rations, and having to pass through one of the seven hundred lattice-curtains of nickel. Fourteen million bullets, spinning, three feet above the ground, over the Ridge and down the reverse slopes. Each one a whisper, a cry, a moan, a buzz, unheard in smoke, dust, and roar-rendings of more than two thousand shells from guns and howitzers, and nearly as many again from Stokes mortars and short-ranged torpedoes—the “flying pigs” of the heavy trench-mortars.

This vision momentarily spoiled his ambition to see the grandeur of the opening bombardment from Hill 73, behind Ploegsteert Wood, between two and three miles away. There was a ruined chateau, La Hutte, on its top. He remembered it had yellow walls seen in the distance when bicycling down from Messines on Christmas Day, 1914, during the truce, to try and find cousin Willie at Plug Street.

How tight was he? Holding hands before him, he shut his eyes and stood on one leg. He stumbled; still, it was difficult in the moonlight. He tried again, and kept upright while he counted three, slowly. Good, he was all right. Very well, check. It was 2 a.m. He was free for a least three hours. Pack mules, loaded with water and ammunition, were to be at the emplacements at 5 a.m., together with pack mules to carry the Vickers guns to the Second Line just below the Crest. There was to be a two-hour pause, in which to consolidate. Then the second assault, to be followed by a five-hour pause, to await the counter-attack, smash it, and then advance to the sixth objective, the Oosttaverne Line.

Zero hour was at 3.10 a.m.: if he left at 2 a.m. he would get to La Hutte Hill in plenty of time to see the start of the show. With no transport on the roads, he would be able to trot all the way back, taking from fifteen to twenty minutes.

“I’ll be back well before five o’clock,” he told Sergeant Rivett. “You’ll know what to do if anything comes in, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Not that anything is likely to come in, but anyway—I’ll not be gone for long. Back about four ack emma.”

“Very good, sir.”

When his officer had left, Rivett said to the man on picket duty, “There he goes, joy-riding again! Leaving everything to me!”

The driver said, “Yes, sergeant,” but he thought that the sergeant had it as cushy as the A.S.C., for Sticks always took the convoy up the line, while Rivett stayed back and had a good kip every night.

Followed by Morris, Phillip took the road to Wulverghem, with its faraway memories of the grey morning after the defeat at Messines on that never-to-be-forgotten night of Hall’o’en. As he trotted beside his shadow, aeroplanes began to fly over, at about a thousand feet. Surely that would tell the Germans quite clearly that they were flying to and fro in order to drown the sounds of tank engines, as they moved up to their starting points? Then, before him, was a misty movement, which he saw as he went on to be a column of marching men. They were the reserves, and carried much equipment, spades, extra bandoliers, canvas buckets of bombs, and Lewis-gun ammunition—and oranges. He stood still as they passed, faces turned curiously towards him. They seemed endless, so he walked on, followed by Morris. Other columns were moving across the fields, all in silence. No red point of cigarette.

By the time he got to La Hutte Hill the guns, which had been firing intermittently, were silent. He left Morris with Prince, and walked up a slope. Somewhere inside the hill was a very big dugout, called the Catacombs, rumoured big enough to hold a brigade. He was aware of faces suddenly appearing, as he came upon groups of men talking in quiet voices, some sitting, others standing, all waiting like himself for the start.

He found an 18-pounder shell-box, and settled himself comfortably elbows on knees and face in hands, while thinking that the Bible phrase of bowels turning to water could not be bettered.

The aircraft flew back towards Bailleul and Hazebrouck. Time dragged at the moon. At last it was three o’clock. His heart began to thump. It was so quiet that he could hear nightingales singing far away. They were surely very late in singing, the eggs must be hatched by now, and normally the cockbird ceased to sing when the hen began to sit. Perhaps the unnatural noise of the guns had strained their nervous systems. Some birds, notably wrens, uttered nervous little trilling bursts of song
when alarmed at night. Perhaps all beauty, whether of sound or colour or shape, came out of pain, or suppression of life, as poetry came from suffering. Then he thought, How
can
any species evolve without fear, or dread of pain? Life on earth was obviously a series of experiments. And behind fear and pain was the spirit of life, which was love. Of course! He felt calm, and happy. Life must endure all things.

Low voices were audible. He stood up and moved towards a group, drawn by the feeling of their excitement which showed itself in all their faces turned one way; but in time saw the dark old-blood colour of their hatbands, and moved away to a safe distance. Then hearing their voices, he knew them for Australians, and felt at ease, though still keeping his distance.

What were the Germans feeling in their pill-boxes, so white in the sun after the bombardments had blown away the covering earth around them? Had they evacuated their forward positions, knowing of the attack, as they had Y Sap before La Boisselle on July the First? Their detector-sets had picked up the Fourth Army’s telephone messages then, perhaps they had better
instruments
now? He felt the being-drawn feeling between his legs, and his mouth was dry—he looked at his watch—nine minutes past three.

Before he was ready for it a great tongue of deep yellow flame arose slowly into the moonlight. It went up silently and was followed by another and another, curling up away in the distance, slowly turning red and broadening upon his stopped breath, until each became in shape like an enormous rose, opening its petals and shedding them slowly in fire and smoke. He could not breathe; then the entire world seemed to split; terrific explosions bumped against him. He did not know if it was his legs shaking or the earth. Smoke arose blackly, tarnishing the moon, which seemed to tumble and twirl. He found himself thrown down upon the grass, while figures of staff-officers, their red bands clearly seen in the fiery light, were clutching one another and calling out among themselves.

But it was not over; now yellow chrysanthemums were rising on broad ruddy stalks, to burst and rock the earth. Staggering reports echoed in thunder all around the night, suddenly to be joined by a mixed massiveness of light quenching moonlight. More than two thousand gun-flashes fluttered to the zenith; thunders rolled; and through them running sparkles of three necklaces appeared low in the night—three zones of barrage fire
upon the western slope of the Ridge. Now seven hundred Vickers guns would be heating their water-jackets, and more than a hundred battalions of infantry advancing up the slope.

From above, white and green rockets burst almost
imperceptibly
. How pathetic, he thought: SOS, SOS, SOS, the German rockets were saying, help us, help us, help us, to their smothered artillery.

As he rode back, in the light of the guns and a dawn of lurid pink, he saw the camouflage netting of a howitzer battery, 9.2 guns almost track to track, flare up as one gun fired. Even Jimmy the mule broke into a canter, to get away from that. The sun was behind the Ridge, now clear against the sky, when he got back to the picket line, feeling grey and emptied out. There was no time to sleep, so he had some tea from his batman, who came into his tent with the German dog on a leash.

“What’s the idea, Barrow?”

“Precaution, sir, as you might say. I don’t want to git Little Willie half-inched, not wiv all them Horsetrailians about, proper scroungers they are, sir. They nick anyfing from a dorg to a mule if they could git away wiv it.”

When he had gone, Phillip poured whiskey into his tea, and soon felt more cheerful. And when the sun rose up, and all firing ceased, and he knew it was successful, he drank another quartern to celebrate. They were moving up, said Barrow, coming into the tent, to the tune of
Destiny
waltz.

“I shan’t want any breakfast, thanks.”

“Come on, sir, you must stoke up! I’ve got some nice rashers fried, wiv a bit o’ fat bread. I know just what you want, sir. They say it’s a walkover this time. I reckon Ole Indenburg’s copped it good an’ proper. Abaht time too. This new General Plumer ’as put paid to ’is little game. Not like at Bullecourt, sir.”

A minute later he returned. “The guide ’as come from the capting, and Sergeant Rivett says the pack mules will be ready in ten minutes, sir. I brought you some fresh tea, and here’s your lunch. Jules packed it special, sir. He says he’s got all the orfficers done the same. There’s a ration of oranges, too. Very different from the Fifth Army style, sir. Shall you want me to come, sir?”

“Would you like to?”

“I would very much, sir.”

Visions of souvenirs from dead Jerries animated the batman.

By the time the pack mules reached what had been the German front line, the battle was halted beyond the skyline. In the crater-area not one green blade of grass was visible. Everywhere brown earth was overturned and pocked. Broken fragments of concrete lay about. Rusty steel wires clawed the air above split and shattered mebus, called pill-boxes. Barbed-wire belts were buried among corpses in torn
feld-grau
with blackened faces, flopped about in all positions. Some of them wore white
arm-bands
. They had stayed in the unbroken pill-boxes and been bayoneted. There was hardly a dead man in khaki to be seen. Already the pockets of the dead Germans had been slit or pulled out, and rings cut off fingers.

They passed by the ragged mine crater at Spanbroekmolen. It was about a hundred and fifty yards from lip to lip, and deeper than the German dugouts, for one was exposed at the edge, with its occupants. Looking through his field-glasses, Phillip saw what was like something at Madame Tussaud’s: a boarded room with one side open, revealing four German officers seated at a table, with waxen faces. They looked as though they had been playing cards. Glasses and bottles on the table were still upright. Apparently they had been killed by concussion. In the pit below were ragged lumps of blue clay each big enough to fill a G.S. waggon.

“I reckon they’re between two and three yards each,” said Barrow, who had worked on roads in civvy street.

“Yards long, you mean?”

“In a way, yes, sir. All through, solid like. You know, sir.”

“Oh, cubic yards?”

“That’s what I mean, sir.”

The guide led them past tanks, their tracks churning as they tried to get over the loose and undulating ground. Sitting on a box near the crest, was Captain Hobart writing a report. “Hullo, Sticks. Got everything? The post too! Good man. Better get back fairly soon, the second barrage is due to drop in about forty minutes, so you’ll have to look slippy. You haven’t forgotten water for the guns? Good man!”

The contents of the Vickers’ water-jackets had boiled away, despite the steam being led through water-buckets, for concealment and condensation. Soon everything was off-mule’d, and he went back. The new lines of infantry, all extremely cheerful at the success of the attack, were among the tanks in position for the second phase. Hardly had he passed the Spanbroekmolen mine
hole when the guns started up. 18-pounder shells seemed to be screaming a foot or two over his head, making him crouch, until he remembered the drivers, and walked on as though
unconcerned
. It was 7 a.m. The barrage was falling beyond the unseen crest.

Two hours later he went up again with more water, oil,
ammunition
, food. Each pack mule carried six boxes of belted ammunition, and a petrol tin of water. The second objective had been taken. The sun was now hot. Captain Hobart was sitting in shirt-sleeves, soft fawn stock-tie around neck, leather braces over shoulders. “Hullo, Sticks, my boy, we’ve done it again!” he said, as he buried, Phillip noticed, the peel of his ration orange. The forward crest was crowded with troops, most of them with tin-hats and tunics off. Some were naked above the waist, lying back to get the joy of the sun. Orange peel was chucked about everywhere, and the congestion of troops added to the illusion of a Bank Holiday on the Hill. The reason was, of course, the smallness of casualties.

“Will it be all right if I go forward a bit, Skipper?”

“Another of your Cook’s tours, Sticks? Don’t go too far. This picnic is too dam’ good to last, if you ask me.”

“I rather want to see where I was, nearly three years ago, Skipper.”

“Well, don’t be long. As I said, this pause is too good to last. Reminds me too much of Loos, Sticks.”

“Yes. I’ll be quick.”

He looked in vain for the old road along the crest, with its rusty steam-tramlines embedded in cobbles, along which he had bicycled on Christmas afternoon, 1914. But where was the road? Had he crossed it, before meeting Hobart? Of course, the bombardment had dug it up. He felt lost. Then looking east, he saw green country stretching away to the far horizon. That was the same. There were the trees beside the river Lys, no longer bare, but in full leaf, untouched by shell-fire. He thought back to the sunlit winter scene, resting himself in thought.

Then, back in the present, he wondered why the attack was not pressing on. Was it going to be another Loos—the line unexpectedly broken, and no pursuit? Or was the plan to await the counter-attack, smash it, and then advance, having exhausted the local enemy reserves? But the heavy guns could not get up over such ground. Perhaps that was why the push was stopped.