The First of July (22 page)

Jean-Baptiste, Amiens,
June 1916

H
E WAS WOKEN BY A
hand shaking his shoulder. Vignon was standing over him. He struggled to sit up, his heart racing.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I’ve told them who you are. You’re finished.”

Vignon sat down, squeezing himself with difficulty between Jean-Baptiste’s feet and the foot of the bed, his head bowed.

“And who am I?”

“You’re a German. A spy. A poisoner.”

A smile flickered across Vignon’s face and was extinguished.

“A German? Yes. My father was a German. I was born in Germany. But my mother was from Alsace. When the Germans were handed Alsace in 1870, they were handed my mother’s family.”

“You never said anything about a German father.” Jean-Baptiste suddenly felt defensive.

“I don’t think I actually mentioned my father at all. Any more than you told me about
your
father’s violence.” Vignon looked angry but then held out his hand. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Let us agree that we both had difficult fathers?”

Jean-Baptiste nodded, very slowly, uncomfortable that Vignon had always known how things were at home in his childhood, either through his mother or village gossip.

“My mother,” Vignon continued, “was a very young, naïve woman when she met my father; he was a military doctor.” He put his hand up as Jean-Baptiste tried to interrupt. “Yes, a German military doctor. Charming, I’m told. He took her to Berlin. Once married, he was rather less charming. His family loathed this wife with French roots; she tried to be more German but was very unhappy. She had only one child, me. My father sent me to medical school, then he died quite suddenly and my mother returned to Alsace. Once I finished my training, I too returned to Alsace. I was a Frenchman by nature, with German nationality and a love of both cultures. My mother resumed her maiden name, as did I. I didn’t want anything to do with my father’s family, who had rejected her.”

“You lied about where you came from.”

“I don’t think I did,” Vignon said. “I think if you’re scrupulous in examining the evidence, you’ll find I was rather . . . vague.”

“Why?”

“Vengeance. That foolish, meaningless word. Revenge against the Germans for a war forty years old that the French started and then lost; it was in their blood. Even decent men like Godet. German-haters—long before the war. Them and their goddamn ‘Vengeance.’ It was easier to believe myself French.

“So, no, I am not a spy. I am a victim of revenge, of arbitrary borders, of long-ago struggles. I wanted to do everything I could to help my motherland. It’s what my own mother would have wanted.”

Then, perhaps steering away from the sensitive topic of mothers, he added, “But yes, I am a poisoner.”

Jean-Baptiste had felt the first stirrings of anxiety as Vignon pleaded his innocence, but now, strangely, he felt reassured rather than vindicated.

The doctor was silent for a while. He’d taken out a cigar but he didn’t light it, just turned it between his fingers.

“Do you know how army medicine works?” he whispered. “Very simple. Three categories. One: hopeless; two: might survive in some shape or form but not as a soldier and scarcely as a man; three: could be patched up and returned to combat—‘conservation of effectives’ is the official designation.”

He leaned so close that Jean-Baptiste could feel his breath on his cheek and opened Jean-Baptiste’s shirt. Took Jean-Baptiste’s own hand and guided it down the wide, lumpy scar under his ribs.

“Which do you think gets the medical attention? Which group were you placed in when you were brought in?”

When Jean-Baptiste didn’t reply, Vignon repeated himself, then continued: “Which? Eh? You were ‘might survive.’
Might.
Hence the diabolical surgery. Not worth too much effort. You were lucky you didn’t get gangrene or typhus. Most do. But despite the doctors’ best efforts, you did rather better than they’d ordained. They moved you to Royaumont with life, albeit a short one, probably, ahead of you. But the ladies did a good job. Fed you properly. Gave you fresh air. Cleaned up your scar. Put in a proper tube for you to piss down and let the one God gave you heal. You fought off one infection after another. The only thing wrong with you was that you wouldn’t open your damn mouth.

“All this time, I’ve been trying to keep you from being sent back. I removed you from the terrifying Scottish ladies. When you and I met that day at Royaumont, do you know what had been written on your chart by the visiting doctor ten days earlier? ‘CdE.’ Conservation of effectives. You’d been upgraded. You were good to be sent back as soon as you were on your feet. You were worth their resources.”

His eyes never left Jean-Baptiste’s.

“So I took you with me. It was impulsive—but if I’d waited, you would have been sucked back into service. I brought you here: the only place I could keep an eye on you. Yes, each time you improved enough to be discharged, I gave you drugs to ensure that you had a new outbreak of worrying symptoms. But you got better all the same, and you refused the cure I was providing for the almost certainly fatal disease of being returned to your unit.”

He looked almost resentful. “I put myself at risk. Why? Because all I do is save broken men and send them back to be broken again. It disgusts me.” His expression reminded Jean-Baptiste of Godet in a spitting mood.

“And, mostly, I just want your mother to have a son when all this is over.”

Jean-Baptiste had started off not believing it; but slowly, and with horror, as Vignon had been speaking, he saw it all.

“But I thought … I’ve told… .”

“I know. I know. I presume it was the British officer, from the appalled look you gave me. But I’ve had a little walk, considered our problem. Your note will take a while to reach the French authorities—although it is possible, I suppose, that they’ll ignore it. But it’s a dangerous time for us both. You, because they’re emptying the boats; me, well, because—” He leaned forward and patted Jean-Baptiste on the leg. “Because no doubt like all British gentlemen, your major will be scrupulously reliable.”

He stroked the untidy beard that had been so black, so sleek, back in Corbie.

“You addressed it to?”

“Colonel Marzine.”

Another smile. “So. Marzine. The Germans killed both his sons at Douaumont.” He sighed. “Ah, well.”

“What will happen—?” Jean-Baptiste couldn’t go on. He thought of his mother. Vignon had continued to care what happened to her when he, Jean-Baptiste, had fled in childish rage—and now he had, unwittingly, betrayed the man who was loyal to her.

“What will happen to me is that I’ll probably be shot. I might get prison. But my money is on a firing squad. No time to sort out the little question of my change of identity, nor the matter of my lack of papers; no matter that I have been a good doctor. The army is full of criminals and bigamists with false identities but, as you have so vehemently pointed out, I am a German.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were so unequal to what he felt. At first he had thought or hoped it was a trick, but now he had no doubt. Vignon had tried to give him life—and he had probably brought about Vignon’s death.

The doctor continued as if Jean-Baptiste hadn’t spoken, pulling out a letter. A proper letter in an envelope.

“I have had a little walk. Time to think. These are for you.” he said. “They’re your medical discharge papers. All correct and proper. They say that you have a bladder injury, kidney damage, disease, probably renal consumption, exacerbated by an injury in that area, and are unfit for further service. The last part is almost true.” He held the envelope for a while, tapping it on his knee, then handed it to Jean-Baptiste.

“Now get up and leave. Leave Amiens. Follow the river. You’re a web-footed boy”—he paused, with a little smile; “you know ways where other men won’t go. Tomorrow the British have something under their hats, so get as near to home as you can tonight. Stay on the north side and mingle with the British traffic. On the south side you’ll meet your own soldiers walking back toward Verdun. No point in looking for trouble.”

“But I have papers. You said—”

“And they need soldiers and you are, clearly, able to walk.” Vignon felt his pocket again, brought out a small, corked, brown-glass bottle. “If your wounds weep or open up, apply this. Don’t ignore them. It’s strong stuff.”

Jean-Baptiste looked at the label.
Solution Carrel-Dakin,
it said.

Vignon made a flapping motion with his hand. “Now. Off with you.” He eased himself upright and looked at Jean-Baptiste. He smiled; but behind it was, Jean-Baptiste saw, an unspeakable sadness.

“Dr. Vignon… .”

“Walk.”

“I’m sorry I stole your boots.”

Vignon nodded. “Start walking.”

Theory

T
HE PLAN IS LOZENGE-SHAPED IN
transmission. In London, the War Committee has communicated its wishes in outline to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff; he in turn has passed on the resolution to break through in northern France to the Commander-in-Chief; and he has conveyed this to his generals in France.

The British generals, situated at the widest point of the plan’s progress, argue about the date with the hard-pressed French, who are struggling at Verdun; under pressure, they choose June 29. The generals draw up the detailed plan and relay its relevant objectives to the divisional commanders. These meet the battalion commanders, who communicate the basics of the plan to the company commanders and, the plan becoming simpler and narrower in the process, so on down to the private soldier at the lowest point. He has one task, one field to cross, and nobody else to tell.

The plan envisages a British attack on an unprecedented scale on a front stretching from a diversion at Gommecourt in the north down to Montauban in the south, with the French Sixth Army providing a subsidiary attack from there down to Foucaucourt. The attack, thrilling in its ambition and deployment of resources, will be preceded by five days of shelling of the enemy positions. Nearly two million shells are to be fired. Troops have gathered in Picardy. Railway lines have been laid, wells sunk, roads built with stone ferried from Cornwall and Jersey; hospitals are equipped, mass graves dug. In Britain, the Whitsun holiday is canceled so there need be no interruption to the flow of munitions.

This is a British plan and, almost inevitably, rain delays the attack. But the men are ready, the bombardment has begun, and eventually the rain will stop. On June 28, General Rawlinson hands down the new date: July 1.

At 0551 hours, the sun will rise. At 0720 hours, the biggest mines ever laid will be detonated under the German front-line positions. At 0730 hours (well into the clear, warm light of a summer’s day), the troops will leave their trenches and advance in waves: thirteen divisions; over half a million men. They will move slowly, on foot, not bunching up, safe in the knowledge that, after what has now become a week of shelling, there will be little resistance from the enemy. A hot meal will be ready for them when they reach their objective. The details are all in the plan.

Benedict, France,
June 30, 1916

T
HE MEN WERE DRINKING FRENCH
wine, and who could blame them, Benedict thought. An illicit bottle or two had kept his battery in good spirits over the past week. The division was so far to the south of the line that several of the soldiers had made friends with sections of the French Sixth Army and various items of food and clothing had been swapped. When he returned to camp, they were diverted by a can of French rations that they were daring the youngest lad to eat.

“It’s monkey, sir,” said Smith. “That’s what they get, the French. Canned monkey meat, they say.”

The boy was pulling out something solid from the brown jelly and staring at it dubiously.

“And the wine, sir. It’s part of their rations.”

“They need it to wash down the rest.” A bombardier, whose name Benedict had forgotten, laughed, but then waved a can at him. “Chicory coffee, sir. Disgusting. No tea at all.”

“They’ve got some mighty big black infantrymen, sir. Six foot tall. Red caps. They say the Jerries shoot themselves rather than fall into their hands. Fearless. Never take prisoners. Wouldn’t like to run into them in the dark, sir. Wish we had some.”

Most of the division was comprised of northern regiments, the majority volunteers still up for a fight. The accents around him had been unfamiliar, sometimes incomprehensible. Initially, the problem had been neutral.

They were good lads, but Benedict had to stop the flow of wine now. The colonel had finally talked his junior officers through the detailed plan of attack. The front line was shaped like an L. Its aims were to secure territory from Gommecourt in the north, where they would stage a diversion, down to Montauban, which Benedict could see through his binoculars.

He had returned to his battery to tell them that the date of the infantry attack and cavalry follow-through had been changed to July 1. “Z” Day. Zero hour. Not that the next morning would be any different to them. Their field guns had started the run-up to the attack over a week ago. The infantry grumbled at the noise and worried that the shells weren’t hitting the barbed wire. The shelling seemed relentless, but the gunners were actually firing on a schedule of two hours on, two off, plus one session of eighty minutes every day. Howitzers and eighteen-pounders. Four days. Five days. Six. Who knew what it was doing to the three German lines, apart from alerting every man of them that something big was coming.

He had seen the effect in their own trenches: men crouched with their hands over their ears, grimacing, mere gargoyles of flesh, but it made no difference. The ground itself shook with the barrage; earth fell into the trench. The Germans fired back from time to time, but the British troops were quite adequately numbed by their own artillery. It was making sleep well-nigh impossible, as well as deafening the gunners.

On and on it went, day and night. The first night there had been a sort of glory to it in the darkness—the sky lit with man-made and lethal shooting stars, fiery planets, phosphorescent flares shooting up. After that, it rained and then became so misty that they were hurling missiles from a limited world of guns, sandbags, and tree trunks into the unknown. Spotters were useless, so they had no idea whether they were succeeding in destroying the wire. The pounding was colorless, apart from the close detonation of a shell, which would create a purple veil of light that Benedict alone could see.

The gun he was standing by was a beauty, as guns went. New, still shiny in places. The horses had pulled the limber up a slight incline, and it had been set up in a small wood. The infantry had put a Lewis gun on the perimeter to cover their positions. They were all exhausted. When active, the gun crew had stayed half naked; it was hot work despite the rain. But waiting, as their own gun fell silent, listening to other guns firing in sequence, they were hunched together in shining waterproof capes as implacable as a coal face. The branches above them offered no cover; when it stopped raining, the leaves dripped constantly and the sandbags were sodden, so to lean against them to rest was to be sodden too.

After the main attack—“the infantry breakthrough,” the colonel had said, confidently—it would be the turn of the cavalry. Benedict’s gunners would lay down a final barrage on the wire and then shift the range farther to allow the attack to follow. By then, the first and second waves would be moving forward to seize the German positions. But had his guns destroyed the wire? He had a good team, but they had been hurried to the front with very little training. One of them still winced every time they fired a shell.

The wire
, he thought, and knew his faith had been finally obliterated when he couldn’t pray.

“July 1,” said Corporal Smith in a lull in the firing. “Who’d’ve thought it?”

“Why?” He liked hearing Smith’s Lancashire accent, and the man’s common sense steadied the young gunners.

“It’s my birthday, sir, and it’s Saturday tomorrow. Has to be good luck. Last year, Saturday night, the big excitement was going for a pint of ale with the lads.”

Benedict was surprised to find tomorrow was Saturday. Had lost count somewhere.

“I expect we all had something better to do,” he said. “It would have been a lot quieter, anyway.”

“To my way of thinking,” said Smith, as if it were something he’d thought about a lot, “it must be worse for you. You officers. Blokes like me—hold down a job if you’re lucky, marry a girl from the next street, a pint of ale in the pub of a Saturday, that’s it. Nothing wrong with it, mind, good laughs. But you—you’ll have expectations. For all kinds of things. To see the world. Meet people. Read books. Learn stuff. I’m missing out on my pint, but you’re here missing out on everything.”

When Benedict didn’t answer, he went on: “I didn’t mean to talk out of turn, sir.”

“Not at all. No. Let’s hope we all get back home soon. Get this business over with. Though I don’t think my life was quite as rich as you think. Mostly I played a church organ. And I liked a pint too.”

Smith made a face. “Well, you’ll have to come and have an ale with the lads, then. One day.”

Behind them, the gun started firing again. Benedict moved forward. On the accuracy of their fire depended the lives of thousands of soldiers, spending this last hour of daylight waiting in the trenches. Soldiers whose waiting was tempered only by the knowledge, for those who believed it, that the wire would be obliterated. It was torn apart at Loos the year before, the colonel had said, hitting his boots with his swagger stick for emphasis. Shredded. Men had sauntered through the German defenses. As every soldier would have noticed, the ordnance here was on a vast scale. Thwack. So much greater than Loos. Where it had torn apart the German defenses. Thwack. Thwack.

The adjutant had raised his eyebrows.

If the gunners had failed to cut the wire, soldiers would die as dancing men, trapped and twitching in its coils, so it had to be true.