Starshine (22 page)

Bertie proved to be right. Cavendish listened, frowning, to Hickman’s complaint but then shook his head. ‘Flanagan is a hard man, Hickman,’ he said, ‘I know that. But he is very experienced and I want to give him his head in the company. It’s no good having a dog and barking myself, you know. And I can’t allow him to be undermined by an NCO. That will be all, Sergeant.’

‘But, sir—’

‘I said that will be all.’

As dusk fell over the smoking battleground, Bertie inched his way along the shallow sap carrying his rifle and bayonet and flattening himself against the side to allow the two men he was relieving to return to the main trench. He had hardly settled down, however, nervously peering over the top to the German wire, when he heard a sound behind him and whirled round, his rifle at the ready.

‘I thought I’d keep you company,’ said Hickman.

‘Bloody hell, Jim. You scared the livin’ Jesus out of me. But what are you doin’ here?’

‘I told you. I’m keeping you company. Here, I’ve got some grenades. Take these. We shall need ’em if we get visitors.’

‘Aw, Jimmy lad. You’re a real friend, so you are. But you’ll cop it, if Flanagan finds out. He wants me quietly murdered and you’re spoilin’ his party.’

‘Balls to that. I’ll stay with you through the night and creep out just before your relief comes.’

A relieved grin stole over Murphy’s face. ‘Thanks, son. I have to tell yer that I was shittin’ myself at the thought of staying out here
all night on me own. Two’s company, they say, don’t they? We could almost play marlies, so we could, to relieve the monotony.’

Hickman returned the grin. ‘I have a feeling that it’s not going to be exactly boring out here.’ He risked a peep over the top. ‘Jerry knows we’ve dug this sap out and I’ve been expecting him to have a go at it one night since we finished the digging a couple of days ago. It could just be tonight.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘In fact, the more I think of it, I feel that Flanagan had the same thought. He’s no fool. That’s why he stuck you out here on your own tonight. He expects the sap to be raided.’

‘Oh, bloody hell. Then I’m glad you’re here, son. He’s an evil man, that Flanagan. So he is.’

‘Okay. Settle down and be quiet. We’ve got to listen. I’ve bought a couple of flares to send up if we think they’re out there coming at us.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Good old starshines. They just could save our bacon tonight.’

Bertie nodded eagerly. ‘Aye. Send ’em up and the Lord will be with us.’

The dusk settled and the night began – a nervous, worrying period for the two men, crouched in discomfort at their listening post, in what was little more than a prong stretched out towards the enemy, and so near to him that it presented almost an invitation to slip out from his own lines and snip it off.

Hickman had already ascertained that no patrols were to be sent out that night from the British lines, so he knew that any noises he might hear would almost certainly come from the enemy. They decided, therefore, to take it in turns to doze, while the other kept watch.

It was just before 3 a.m. when Jim heard, out to the front, the scrape of a buckle against stone, followed by the distinctive slurp of a boot being freed from the embrace of mud. He nudged Bertie and the two now listened together, intently. There it was again. People were moving out there, quite near to the sap head.

Slowly, Hickman picked up the Very pistol, pointed it high and fired it. The cartridge hissed up high, vertically, and then exploded in a shower of blue light, showering stars – starshine undoubtedly – as it slowly sank. Both men looked over the top. At first, there was nothing to be seen but the moonscape of no man’s land in blue relief: mud everywhere, puddles of water and blackened and stunted remains of trees. Then, concentrating, Hickman saw small mounds of grey mud, symmetrically lined up some forty yards away. They did not move, for they had frozen close to the ground, of course, as the Very light sizzled upwards, but he recognised them for what they were: the small battle packs strapped to the backs of a platoon of German soldiers.

‘Bombs, Bertie,’ he whispered and he seized two Mills grenades, pulled out their pins and threw them in quick succession at the prostrate attackers. Bertie followed suit and the four bombs exploded, almost as one, straddling the line of Germans. Immediately, a shrill command was given in German and half a dozen figures topped by distinctive coal-scuttle helmets rose from the mud and ran – or rather slipped and slithered in the mud – towards the sap head. At the same time, a machine gun stuttered into life from the British lines behind them, but its fire was random and its bullets hissed high over the heads of Hickman and Murphy as they stood erect to meet the charge.

Jim was aware of a second Very light climbing high from the British lines as he levelled his rifle and brought down the nearest of the attackers. Bertie did the same and both men hurriedly worked their rifle bolts to insert another round into their breeches and fired again. Two more Germans fell but the remaining two were nearly upon them, discharging their rifles from the hip as they ran.

Bertie exuded a cry as a bullet took him in the upper arm and he slipped to the ground, struggling in the mud to regain his footing. But Jim firmly put his boot on his comrade’s spine and pressed him
down again, then standing astride the little Irishman, he presented his rifle and bayonet at the two men virtually upon him. He locked his bayonet onto that of the leading German, swung it round and crashed the butt of his rifle into the man’s face, sending him staggering back. As he did so, he heard a rifle shot close behind him and the second attacker was sent sprawling, a bullet in his chest. Another bullet – this time from no man’s land – plumped into the sap wall at his side and Jim picked up a Mills bomb, withdrew the pin and hurled it in the general direction of the marksman.

He turned to see Sergeant Major Flanagan right behind him, working the bolt of his rifle. The warrant officer was alone but, disregarding him, Hickman bent down to see to Murphy. The Irishman was clutching his upper arm, from which blood was gushing freely. Jim used his bayonet to tear open the cloth above the wound and extracted his own field dressing and hastily applied it to Bertie’s arm, tying it tightly to restrict the bleeding.

‘Leave him alone, you stupid fool,’ said Flanagan. ‘There might be a second attack at any second.’

‘Then you’ll just have to deal with it, won’t you?’ He looked up at the sergeant major, who had rested his rifle on the parapet of the sap head. ‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘You deliberately put Murphy out here on his own so that he would be killed. You’re a murderer, Flanagan, that’s what you are.’

The man turned his head for a moment and his teeth flashed in the semi-darkness. ‘That would have served you both right for shopping me to the redcaps in Pop, wouldn’t it? And you be careful how you address a superior officer, Sergeant, or you’ll be put up against a wall and shot. I’ll see to it. Anyway, you would both have been dead if I hadn’t kept my eyes open and helped you out. You—’

He broke off as a lieutenant and three men scrambled up the sap to join them. ‘Any casualties?’ cried the officer. ‘Ah. Corporal—’

‘It’s all right, sir,’ gasped Bertie. ‘It just hurts me when I laugh.’ Then he fainted. He was carried back to the junction of the main trench where he was revived on the fire step with the aid of a little water and rum. One of the dead Germans was also brought back so that his regiment could be established. The man that Hickman had hit with his rifle butt had vanished; presumably he had crawled back to his own lines with whoever had survived the Mills bombs, for no further sign of life could be seen in front of the German wire. The lieutenant left his three men to man the sap –
three
men, Jim noted – and Hickman made his way along to the cramped dugout that was company HQ. He found Captain Cavendish awaiting him.

‘With respect, sir,’ said Jim, ‘Corporal Murphy would be a dead man and we would have had a bombing party creeping along the sap to attack our line if I had not supported Murphy out there. One man would have been overwhelmed.’

Cavendish had the grace to look uncomfortable. ‘Quite so, Hickman,’ he said. ‘I thought about it after we spoke and that’s why I ordered Flanagan to go up the sap to report on how Murphy was coping. I gather he arrived just in time.’

‘Yes, sir. I have to say that sticking Murphy out there on his own, through the night, was an act of personal malevolence on the part of Sergeant Major Flanagan towards the corporal.’

The captain frowned and gestured for Hickman to sit on the camp bed. ‘That’s a very serious charge, Sergeant. Why on earth should Flanagan take so against Murphy, a Northern Irishman like himself, indeed?’

Jim shrugged. ‘I have to say I don’t really know. It is certainly to do with religion, in that Murphy is a Catholic and I presume that the
sergeant major is a Protestant. There was also a bit of business …’ he tailed off and squirmed in his seat ‘… back in Pop, when Flanagan was arrested by the military police for assaulting a prostitute. He thinks we put the redcaps on to him.’

‘Hmm. And did you?’

‘Yes, sir. If we hadn’t he would have killed the girl.’

‘Yes, I seem to remember something about that.’ Cavendish stood, as did Hickman. ‘Now look here, Hickman. If you want to make this a formal complaint, then it will have to go up to the colonel and possibly the brigadier. I am not sure you would want that, would you? Prejudice is awfully difficult to prove you know, and Flanagan is a first-rate soldier. It might well go against you.’

‘Well, I—’

The captain broke in quickly. ‘What I would propose is this. I can’t have this sort of animosity going on in my company.’ He ran a hand across his brow. ‘I have enough problems as it is. So there will have to be a posting …’

‘Don’t break up Murphy and me, sir. We’ve been together since we were four years old and have served together throughout the war so far, on the Salient and on the Somme …’

‘I am aware of that. I believe that Flanagan will have to go. Now listen,’ he held up a hand as a grin spread across Jim’s face, ‘not a word of this conversation must stray from this dugout. Do you understand?’

‘Of course, sir.’

‘Very well. D Company have just lost their CSM. I will try and get Sergeant Major Flanagan transferred to that company and you, my lad, will become my sergeant major. A bit early for you, I fear, but I have observed your training of the men. You’ve obviously got pluck, and you have shown commendable ability and leadership – not least on this last night’s miserable business – so I hope you won’t let me down.’

‘Of course not, sir. I’m very grateful.’

‘Well, I haven’t fixed it yet, but I think I can. I think the colonel and the adjutant will agree. No more arguing with Flanagan, now. Stay well clear of him. Now bugger off and get some sleep.’

‘Very good, sir. Thank you.’

‘Ah, one more thing. While you were in the sap, did you hear anything? Are they mining us, do you think?’

‘I didn’t hear a thing. So I should doubt it.’

‘Good. Off you go.’

Once outside, Jim wanted to let out a yell of triumph but thought better of it. He hurried to tell Bertie the glad news but Murphy had been sent back to a field hospital. It seemed unlikely, he was told, that the Irishman would go back to England for treatment, because the German bullet had gone right through the upper arm, tearing a few ligaments. It would be treated in the hospital and then he would return to the regiment.

Jim’s next thought was of Polly. Would she be impressed by his promotion to warrant officer? It was unusual for one so young to be so elevated, but she, of course, would be unaware of that. Would his success make her think more kindly of him as a husband? His brow wrinkled. Polly Johnson was an enigma. He had to recognise that. She said that she loved both of them equally, but how could that be? Perhaps – horrible thought – Bertie’s wound would win him sympathy in her eyes; she was, after all, a most sentimental person. He shook his head. For all he knew, dear old Bertie had slipped her a diamond, too! – he also had contacts in the Hockley trade. He blew out his cheeks and settled down to write a letter to Polly, telling her of Bertie’s wound but emphasising that they were both alive, well (comparatively, that is) and still smiling. As a PS he diffidently gave the news of his promotion.

Cavendish was as good as his word and Flanagan disappeared to D Company, without a further word with Hickman. Jim dutifully sewed on his new crown, just above the wrist, and assumed the duties of a warrant officer grade II. His was a popular promotion, for he knew, better than any newly arrived subaltern, the hell that was life in the trenches and he did all he could to alleviate the conditions: taking particular care that the men got their mail regularly, that the food came up to the lines even under bombardment and that petty stupidities of line discipline were eased away.

So the regiment took its turn at line duty and then rested back, usually at Pop, where the dangers of meeting Flanagan were increased, of course, because the battalion trained as one unit. If Black Jack noticed Jim’s promotion he gave no sign. After four weeks of rest and recuperation – but no home leave – Bertie returned to his duties. Hickman tried not to recognise his satisfaction that Murphy had not earned a trip to Blighty and so had an opportunity to woo Polly, but, nevertheless, was delighted to have his old comrade back in the line with him.

The winter of 1917 gave way to a spring that seemed no drier, and rumours that ‘a Big Push’ was in the offing increased. It seemed clear that the high command was waiting merely for better weather before attempting to break out of the Salient. Certainly, training back down out of the line became more intense and specific. Gone were the instructions about how to survive in the trenches. Now, the emphasis was on attack: how to advance in units of platoon rather than company; how to recognise objectives; how to relay messages back to battalion and then brigade headquarters about the specifics of land and targets taken; what to do about prisoners of war. Something, definitely, was in the air.