Heart of War (83 page)

Captain Charles Kellaway struggled painfully along the German trench, followed by his batman-runner, Private Codd. It was extraordinarily empty, except for the thinly spaced men of his B Company, standing on the makeshift firestep they had hacked out of the mud of what had been the backside of the trench until twenty minutes ago. There were some dead Germans, but few – a captain, hands clasped across his stomach, entrails bulging out, in one of the bays behind … two privates, both probably blasted by the same British six-inch howitzer shell … almost nothing in the dugouts as loot – no sausages, bread, wine, greatcoats – just a few worn and filthy blankets, two or three candles. A single jackboot was stuck in the mud in front of him: the boot contained a foot and leg, to the knee. Kellaway thought grimly, at least the Boches share the mud with us, even though they are almost above the range of the
beke's
flooding.

A shot rang out close to his head and he ducked instinctively, then slowly stood upright again. That shot had been going out, and in any case the trench was nearly seven feet deep, so he was well under cover. He looked up, saw the
soles of a soldier and, peering on tiptoe, slowly made out the rest of him, lying almost invisible in the mud, covered in mud from head to foot, including his face, no helmet – only his hands clean and they too showing brown because he was wearing his khaki woollen mittens, the trigger finger ungloved. A German body lay sprawled in front of the man, who now fired again, round the dead German's head. It was Private Fletcher Whitman, at work, sniping, using the dead German's body as cover. He sensed Kellaway's presence and without moving, called back, ‘Got two, sir … but please don't stay there near me.'

‘Good work,' Kellaway said, hastily moving on. Amazing man, Whitman, or, as Boy had told him he really was, Gorse. The men liked him, but were a little afraid of him, too, because he didn't act or move as they did. It was like having a leopard in your midst. He acted as though he wouldn't bite, or turn into a werewolf, but you couldn't be sure … for he was, after all, palpably a leopard, that had temporarily taken man's shape.

Turning the angle of the next traverse he stumbled into Boy Rowland, accompanied by his C.S.M. ‘Is this your boundary, Boy?' Kellaway asked.

Boy nodded, ‘This is my right. There's nothing on my left – not even Germans … I've never imagined anything like this … the mud … Christ, I wish we had some rum, whisky, anything, to give the men.'

‘Nothing's even reached Corps,' Kellaway said. ‘The C.O. told me about an hour before zero that Corps had sent a signal – nothing, but we'll get the first lot that comes up, they promise.'

Boy laughed harshly. Kellaway saw that he was shaking, as though from a light fever, and his eyes were bolting from his head – ‘Had bad casualties?' he asked.

‘Very few, so far,' Boy said. ‘I don't understand it.'

‘The Boche evacuated his front line,' Kellaway said. ‘Well, we've got six of the brigade machine guns up. We're ready.'

‘Where's the C.O.?'

‘He's set up battalion headquarters in the middle of my company area … D's beyond … A's still back in our old front line, to support us and cover our flanks.'

Boy nodded again, and Kellaway turned back. Almost at once the tone of the day again altered. Every German weapon
within its range seemed to open up at the same moment. The air was filled with chattering, battering, whining, the rolling thunder of bursting shells, mortar bombs screaming down from clouds in the rain. Again the mud geysered up and again the liquid earth rose, hovered, and splashed down. The walls of the trench began to give way, so that Kellaway and Codd scrambled on over mounds of mud, boots and arms sticking out, gesticulating, clutching, jerking. From the old British lines machine guns opened fire, the streams of bullets, every fifth one tracer, streaking past the left and right flanks of the Wealds' position. The rest of the brigade attack must have failed to reach the German lines, so here they were, three companies of the Wealds, both flanks exposed, left in air.

Whitman was firing steadily now, and as Kellaway passed called back, ‘They're moving up in their old second line trench, sir … probably going to attack us and C.'

Kellaway stumbled and slid on; but ten yards farther, a German heavy hit the back wall of the trench fair and square, the trench collapsed, tons of earth rose, fell, splashing. The trench was blocked … another shell, the same, twenty yards up. And the Germans were on them.

Kellaway clambered up into the open and started firing his revolver, aiming carefully at the Germans struggling toward him through the mud from their second line trenches. The German artillery fire had lifted. Two British Vickers machine guns and a score of Lewis guns had good targets at close range. Most of the soldiers were out in the open, as long sections of the firestep had collapsed. Kellaway dropped beside one of his platoon commanders, young Cate, and shouted, ‘Are you all right?'

Laurence looked round at him with a puzzled expression. ‘Yes, sir … What's happening?'

‘The Germans, there, attacking, man!'

The mud-coated figure lying beside Cate shouted, ‘I'll look after him, sir … shell shock!' He fired, and again, and again.

‘Good man, Fagioletti,' Kellaway shouted.

Cate didn't know where he was, Kellaway thought … but he had no time to worry about that now. Cate had a competent platoon sergeant and Fagioletti was one of the best corporals in the battalion in a tight corner.

The German attack was wavering, men falling, a few
turning back, others dropping out of sight into shell holes … They'll drown in those, Kellaway thought grimly.

He slid back down into the trench and continued the way he'd been going, toward his right flank. Who had the platoon there? … Fred Stratton. He found him on the firestep, leaning his elbows on the mud, only his eyes and the bowl of his helmet visible above ground level, looking toward the Germans. Beside him two soldiers were working on a jammed Lewis gun. ‘How is it, Stratton?' Kellaway asked.

‘All right,' Stratton said, without turning. ‘The Huns are moving round Boy's left, I think … They'll be coming along the trench soon…'

The German shelling began again, heavies and field guns and mortars all firing at the captured trench. Kellaway shouted, ‘They won't move in till this stops … Have some men ready to help me if I have to back up C.'

‘We may be busy ourselves,' Stratton said. ‘What a balls up this whole bloody show has been. We never had a hope.'

‘You'd best keep your opinions to yourself,' Kellaway said. Stratton was right, of course. The men would be on the verge of mutiny if it weren't for the C.O. They were doing this for him … because he had faith in them, shared all their dangers, and more. They didn't want to disappoint him. And he could see, could understand … nothing!

The shelling continued, hour after hour. Kellaway passed slowly back and forth along his company's sector of trench. Here half a platoon sat in the gloom of a quaking concrete dugout, its mouth facing the wrong way, while two men took half-hour spells on sentry, watching for the Germans to renew their counter-attack. They sat silent in the mud, their backs to the dripping wall, their rifles held between their knees, their faces taut, the thunder and lightning continuous … Suddenly a man screamed, hurled his rifle across the dugout and began tearing off his clothes. Without a word a corporal and two privates seized him and held him down, while Kellaway watched, standing in the entrance of the dugout. When the man was quiet he said, ‘Thank you,' and went out and on, through the mud.

In another place he found five men cowering behind the remains of a brick wall, that had been built into the trench by the Germans – the ruins of a small barn or shed, perhaps. The men were shivering and moaning, as though one had caught a
fever and the others contracted it from him. They were huddled together, bodies, jammed into one another's, their rifles lying in the mud beside them, tears streaming down their cheeks. Kellaway went back a few yards and found the platoon commander. It was Cate. He said, ‘Mr Cate, some of your men are in the last stages of panic up there. Go and shake them out of it. Take your sergeant.'

‘He's dead, sir,' Cate said. His eyes still had a vacant, wandering look – ‘I killed a German.'

‘I hope you killed many Germans,' Kellaway said.

‘There was a flock of swifts, flying over the German lines,' Cate said. ‘It's a little late for them still to be as far north as this.'

Kellaway stared at the young man, thinking – he's not here, he's escaped to another world, where only birds exist, not this fury of madness. He wondered how he should treat him, and decided he must jerk him back to reality before he could do any damage to his platoon. He seized Cate by the shoulder and shook him violently, ‘You're in a battle,' he yelled in his ear. ‘You're in command of a platoon of my company. Command it!'

From beside him Corporal Fagioletti cut in, ‘He was all right after you left last time, sir … killed a lot of Germans with a dead bloke's rifle … walked up and down, telling the blokes it was all right … brave as a lion … Then the sergeant was blown to bits, all over him.'

Now, looking more closely, Kellaway saw blood and mucus and brains mixed with the mud on Cate's uniform. But the young man was recovering. His eyes were focussed and he was trembling; as would any man in his right mind, in these hellish circumstances. Kellaway said, ‘Do you know where you are, Mr Cate?'

‘Yes, sir … we'll stop them, if they come.'

‘Good man … Fagioletti, you're platoon sergeant from now on … acting, of course. Only the C.O. can give you the real promotion.'

‘Thank you, sir. Don't you worry about the platoon, sir … Father Caffin was by an hour ago. Made everyone feel good, he did.'

Kellaway nodded, and Fagioletti said, ‘Wish we could get some rum or whisky, sir.'

‘So do we all, but there isn't any.'

Kellaway moved on along the trench. As soon as he was out of sight round the traverse Laurence Cate said, ‘We must see those men.' He struggled up the trench, found the piece of broken wall, and the still cowering, still weeping men.

‘Get up,' he said gently.

‘Can't sir … can't…' one moaned.

Laurence stared unhappily at them. The shelling would never end. He could hardly make himself think, for the sound was inside his head, shaking his brains. The swifts had gone, there were no birds singing anywhere.

Fagioletti jumped up onto the low step where the men were crouched, and leaned over them with his rifle drawn back. ‘Up, you bastards,' he cried fiercely. ‘Up!' He jabbed an inch of bayonet into one of the men's buttocks. The man yelled in pain, and stopped moaning. Fagioletti jabbed the others in the buttock, one after the other. They tumbled down into the trench proper. He jumped after them, and yelled, ‘Now, up on the firestep … you, there! … you, there! … Look at the Germans, not me!' He fired a shot just over the nearest man's head.

He turned to Cate, ‘They'll be all right, sir.'

Cate leaned against the back wall of the trench, wiping mud off his face with a handkerchief. ‘Thank you, Sergeant,' he said. A soldier slipped backward down into the trench and Cate saw that it was Fletcher, quite recognizable behind the muddied face.

‘Hullo, Fletcher,' he cried. ‘What are you doing here?'

Fletcher glanced at Fagioletti and said, ‘I'm a battalion sniper, sir. Private Whitman.' Poor Mr Laurence had forgotten, though he'd seen Fletcher only a day or two after he'd arrived from the Depot, and knew he was being called Whitman.

Cate said, ‘Did you get any Germans today?'

‘Six by sniping and seven when they attacked, sir … and three more wounded, but I don't count them, 'cos they was holding up their hands, or swinging a pick up and down very slowly, from down in the trench.'

‘What do you mean?'

Fagioletti cut in, ‘Working a Blighty, sir … If they show an arm or a hand, they 'ope one of our snipers'll put a bullet in it – and that'll be a Blighty for them.'

Laurence said wonderingly, ‘Do any of our men do that?'

‘Not in the Wealds, sir,' Fagioletti said virtuously, thinking of half a dozen who had, since he'd come out. Four finally got their Blighties from kind Jerry; the other two had bad luck – showed too much, Jerry sniper wasn't so sharp, bullet through the head; and of himself, who'd spent his first month out here trying that game, and failed.

Fletcher produced a tin of bully beef from his haversack, opened it, and offered it to Laurence Cate and Fagioletti. Both refused, and Fletcher began to eat, with an Army biscuit and his fingers.

Cate said, ‘What do you hear from home, Sergeant?'

‘My wife's found a little house in Soho, sir – that's where I want to live – you can get good Italian food in the grocery shops there, and I still like that. And there's lots of restaurants I could get a job in, when this is over, if I can't get back to the Savoy … or I could open a restaurant myself … But she has had trouble with the boarders. She's had two, already, and had to throw them both out.'

‘What for?'

Fagioletti looked at Fletcher. Mr Cate was barely nineteen and very innocent. The men didn't like to swear in front of him for fear of polluting his ears. He said at last, ‘They both turned out to be loose women, sir … er, prossies. There's a lot of those in Soho.'

Cate said, ‘Give me the address, for when I get home on leave … I'd like to tell her myself how much you've done for me, since I took over the platoon.'

Fagioletti flushed with pleasure, and said, ‘46 Dean Street, sir … here, I'll write it down …'

The shelling continued. The hands of the watches ground slowly on through the afternoon, and the twilight, to the night.