Until We Meet Again (17 page)

The battle of Jutland had resulted in heavy losses for both the British and German navies. But the news that began to filter through in July regarding the losses that had occurred during the British offensive on the Somme was far worse than anything that had been known before.

Chapter Sixteen

D
ominic and Tommy knew that their turn would come very soon. Their platoons had been moved nearer to the front line and there was talk of a British offensive to be launched at the beginning of July. It was hoped that this big push would succeed in breaking down the German defences and lead to a resounding victory. That was what they all tried to tell themselves, although they knew, in truth, that they were fighting an army as vast as their own and – though they did not say it out loud – one that was better equipped than they were.

To prepare for the big offensive night patrols were sent out in advance for a reconnoitre of the enemy trenches. Dominic was asked to be in charge of a patrol one night, and Tommy decided that he, too, would volunteer to take out some of his own men.

‘We’re in this together, mate,’ he said to his friend. ‘You know what we promised my sister; that we’d stick together and look out for one another.’ They clasped hands in a comradely manner.

‘It might not be possible, Tom,’ said Dominic. ‘We’ll be heading in different directions but… anyway, all the best, old pal. Keep your chin and…well…trust in the Lord. We’ll be all right. We’re indestructible, you and me.’

‘I can’t very well keep my chin up when we’re told to keep our heads down,’ quipped Tommy. ‘But I know what you mean. Good luck, mate. See you…when I see you.’

Dominic checked the weapons of his patrol and his own revolver. Then they set out, crawling stealthily on their stomachs, inch by inch across no-man’s land; like so many wild beasts stalking their prey, he thought. He could smell the distinctive aroma of the earth after the rain – it had rained earlier that day – and taste its bitterness in his mouth and at the back of his throat, but he dared not cough or clear his throat. The night sky was dark, with just a few faint stars and a crescent moon. They had waited till after darkness fell, later on the summer evenings. A mist had fallen, too, following the rain, which gave a certain amount of protection although it
made it more difficult for them to follow their course.

A rustling in the row of bushes nearby told him that rats were scurrying to their nests. Then he heard a different sound, that of the footsteps of a human being. He began to fear, and to feel instinctively, that it was an enemy patrol that he could hear, not very far away. He heard a shot and could see, in a sudden flash of light from a trench mortar illuminating the darkness, that they were heading off course in the enveloping mist. In the distance, in another flash of light, he thought he could make out Tommy’s fiery mop of hair some twenty yards away. He didn’t think he was mistaken; his friend’s colouring was unique, and he muttered a quick prayer that they would both get through this. A volley of shots forced him to call out to his men to retreat. The patrol, alas, had come to nothing; all they could do now was to get away from the danger zone as quickly as possible. As far as he could tell there had been no loss of life as yet.

Then an almighty explosion threw him off his feet and at the same time he felt a searing pain run through his left arm. He landed several feet away, face down in the choking soil and dust. He guessed he had been flung into a crater left by an exploding shell. He was struggling to breathe, but
lifting his head slightly he could see fragments of shell falling around him. He knew, too, as he felt himself drifting into unconsciousness, that there was something badly wrong with his left arm.

When he came to a while later – he could not tell how long – all was silent around him; the noise of gunfire was in the distance. His arm felt sticky and he knew that he had been injured and was rapidly losing blood. He knew, too, that if he lay there much longer he would die.

No, no! He mustn’t die! The very idea of it was ridiculous. He and Tommy had promised that would always be there for one another, and they had told Tilly they would come home safely when it was all over. Tommy was still alive, as far as he knew. That glimpse of his red hair had been unmistakable and he hoped that his mate had got himself and his men back all in one piece; as he, Dominic, had tried to do. He hoped they had all made it back… They mustn’t have been aware of what had happened to him or else they would have rescued him. But it had all happened so quickly and he was out of sight in the crater.

But he knew he had to get back despite his injuries. He made a supreme effort to drag himself out of the hole. He tried to inch forward on his stomach; he did not think he could stand on his feet. He could not do it. He collapsed
again, fighting for breath; he was too weak and exhausted to move more than a few inches at a time. He closed his eyes, knowing that he must rest for a while, then try again later. As he drifted once more into unconsciousness he could see Tilly, his beloved Tilly, standing on the station platform waving to him as his train disappeared into the distance.

Tilly and Sophie read the Bradford newspapers when their shifts came to an end. They felt they had to know what was going on both at home and across the channel, although the news was often depressing.

At the beginning of July, however, the papers proclaimed, with what was to prove unfounded optimism, that the ‘Big Push’ – as it was being called – would be a walkover for the British troops. General Sir Douglas Haigh believed – or so he said – that the Germans would be defeated once and for all, leaving the road to Berlin and to victory wide open.

The
Bradford Daily Telegraph
brought out a special pink Sunday edition of the paper with the headline ‘British Advance – Many Villages Occupied’. On Monday, July 2nd it was reporting ‘All Goes Well’, and on the 4th, ‘Further Successes’. There was to be no true report of what had
actually taken place, but by Thursday, July 6th it was noticed that the casualty lists, which appeared every day, were getting longer.

Then on the Saturday came the first series of pictures of the dead and wounded. There were fifty such photographs of men from the Bradford area, covering a whole page with the heading ‘Bradford Heroes of the Great Advance’. The truth of the grim reality of the ‘Big Push’ was reported elsewhere in the paper. At last it was admitted that ‘the toll taken of our Bradford lads was heavy.’

The dreadful horror of the first day of the Battle of the Somme gradually dawned on the folk of Bradford; and on the rest of Britain, of course, although it was the Yorkshire regiments that Tilly and Sophie were most concerned about. Sophie’s brother, Steve, and his friend Harry, were both over there with the ‘Bradford Pals’. There was no news of either of them as yet, nor of Tommy and Dominic.

The Bradford Pals had enlisted enthusiastically, friend encouraging friend, and had gone off to fight with little idea of the dangers they would be facing, as had similar groups of young men from other towns in the north of England. After the first few days of the battle seventy per cent of the young men from the Bradford area had been reported killed, wounded or missing.

The people of Bradford were numb with grief and horror. In every street there were several households who had lost a beloved son or father. Tilly and Sophie tried to encourage one another with meaningless sophistries such as ‘no news is good news’, but after the first few days, by what seemed to be mutual agreement, they did not speak of their fears at all.

They were busier than ever at the hospital as the casualty lists grew and more and more sick or wounded soldiers arrived back from the battlefields. Their hectic and exhausting days or nights took their minds away from their own worries to a certain extent.

When Tilly’s and Sophie’s free afternoon coincided on the Wednesday of the following week Sophie, as she often did, invited her friend to go home for tea with her. They took the tram to Manningham Lane, alighting near to the Ashton’s shop.

‘Oh no… Oh, dear God in heaven, no!’ gasped Sophie as they drew nearer and they could see the scene of destruction that faced them. The plate-glass window had been smashed and several bricks and large stones lay amongst the wreckage of foodstuffs that lay strewn on the floor of the window. Pork pies lay broken in pieces amidst the jumble of sausages, pork chops, cheeses and dishes
of sauerkraut, smashed to smithereens amongst the shards of broken glass. And on the pavement was the slogan daubed in red paint, ‘Germans go home!’

‘No, no, no!’ cried Sophie as she pushed against the shop door, but it was closed. She banged on it and a few moments later her mother appeared. She flung her arms around her daughter. ‘Oh, Sophie! Thank goodness you’re here.’

‘When…?’ Sophie began, but her mother interrupted her.

‘This morning, but there hasn’t been time to let you know; anyway, I knew you said you would come this afternoon.’

‘But are you all right, Mother? You’ve not been hurt?’

‘No…I’m all right. Badly shaken but angry more than anything. Your father’s had a blow on the head, though. A brick hit him—’

‘Oh! Dear God!’ exclaimed Sophie. ‘Is he badly hurt? Has he gone to hospital?’

‘No; fortunately it wasn’t too bad. I’ve cleaned the wound and put some ointment on and a dressing. There’ll be a bruise there, but he’s angry as much as anything, like I am. Anyway, come on in and see for yourself. Nice to see you, Tilly, my dear.’

‘I’m so very sorry, Mrs Ashton,’ said Tilly. ‘If
there’s anything I can do to help…’

‘Well, we’ll have to clear up this mess as best we can. Mrs Pritchard’s here from the newsagent’s next door; she’s a very good friend. We were just about to make a start.’

‘I see their shop hasn’t been damaged,’ observed Sophie.

‘No, they’re not Germans, are they?’ replied Martha Ashton bitterly.

‘And neither are we!’ said Sophie. ‘I can’t believe it. We get on so well with everyone round here.’

‘Some folk have long memories, it seems,’ replied her mother. The three of them stood inside the shop staring at the debris scattered far and wide.

‘Who were they? Do you know?’

‘We caught a glimpse of a crowd of youths running away,’ said Mrs Ashton. ‘It all seemed to happen so quickly and it was such a shock. No… we didn’t recognise any of them. The police have been. They came very quickly actually. They’ve taken fingerprints, but I very much doubt that they’ll be able to find out who did it. But we’re not the only ones, they told us. There’s been another attack near to here, and a couple in another part of the town. Anyway, come on in and see your father…’

Karl Ashton was sitting by the fireside in his usual easy chair. There was a small fire burning as there always was, even on a summer’s day, to keep up the supply of hot water. Although his wife had said that he was not badly injured he looked pale and shaken. Sophie stooped to kiss his cheek and noticed the glimmer of a tear in the corner of one eye. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her father so moved before.

‘Hello, Father,’ she said. ‘It’s a good job it’s my afternoon off, isn’t it? And here’s Tilly as well. We’ll give Mother a hand with all this mess.’

‘Aye, it’s a bad do, Sophie lass,’ he said. ‘But if I could get my hands on the bloody bastards who have done this!’ He clenched his fists, shaking them in anger.

Sophie was startled. Neither had she heard him use bad language before.

‘Try not to upset yourself, dear,’ said his wife. ‘Feelings are running high at the moment, after that fiasco on the Somme.’

‘Well, there’s no need to take it out on us.’ Karl shook his head fiercely. ‘We’ve been good loyal citizens of Bradford and we’re just as English as the rest of’ ’em by now. And more English than the king, I might say. He’s part German, and more so than we are!’

The neighbour, Mrs Pritchard, came in from the
kitchen with a tray laden with cups and saucers and a teapot. ‘Hello, Sophie,’ she said. ‘And Tilly, isn’t it?’ She had met her before on a visit to the Ashtons’ home. ‘This is dreadful, isn’t it? As if we haven’t already got enough to worry about with our lads away at the Front.’

‘You have a son over there, have you, Mrs Pritchard?’ asked Tilly.

‘Aye, so I have,’ she replied. ‘Two actually. Our Alf, he’s in France, or Belgium or wherever it is. I expect he’ll have been involved in this recent debacle, but we haven’t heard anything yet. So we’re just keeping our fingers crossed, and saying our prayers, of course. And our Will’s over in the Middle East somewhere. Happen not in quite so much danger, but I don’t know. They only tell us what they want us to know, don’t they? Anyroad, come on; let’s have a cup of tea before we get started again on clearing up this mess. We’ve had umpteen cups of tea, haven’t we, Martha?’

‘Yes, so we have, Lizzie,’ agreed Mrs Ashton. She poured out the tea and handed round the cups and saucers, with a plate of digestive biscuits. ‘What about you, Tilly?’ she asked. ‘You’ve not had any news, I suppose, about…your brother, isn’t it, and your young man as well? They’re both over there, aren’t they?’

‘Yes, that’s right. No…we’ve not heard anything.
I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we, waiting and wondering?’

‘At least none of them have been in the first lists of casualties, have they? So we’ve just got to go on hoping and trusting,’ said Martha Ashton. ‘But like Lizzie says, we’ve got enough problems without all this to cope with as well.’