Starshine (18 page)

Hickman shook his head. ‘Quite right. We can’t hold all the bloody trench if they counter-attack, as they surely will. We’ve probably bitten off more than we can chew already.’ He looked at the wounded man. ‘Can you walk a few yards?’

The man nodded, sweat pouring down his face. ‘Hobble more likely, Sarge.’

‘Good. Help him back to the section behind me, Bertie, and I’ll bring your chaps. Three sections is as much as we can hold.’

Then Bertie pulled the arm of the stricken man round his shoulder and together they hobbled to the traverse. Jim beckoned to the men standing guard at the far barrier. He posted one man at the angle of the trench and then, as before, ordered the rest to blockade it, with whatever they could find from a dugout from the entrance of which smoke was still seeping. He was hurrying back when, from ahead, he heard the cry, ‘Sergeant.’

Overtaking Bertie, he rushed to the furthest section they had taken, to where the men he had left barricading the traverse were standing. One of them gesticulated to the other side of the barrier. ‘They say they’re English over there,’ he said. ‘Could be Jerries, pretendin’, like.’

‘Who are you?’ shouted Hickman.

‘Lieutenant Hamilton, A Company, Third Warwicks. Who are you? Call your man off, he nearly shot me.’

Jim did not know a Lieutenant Hamilton, but then he did not
know all the subalterns in A Company. ‘Tell me the name of the CO.’

‘Colonel Angus Bradbury.’

Hickman nodded and gestured to his man to remove the barricade and stand aside. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he called. ‘Just had to be sure. We’ve only just taken this section of the trench.’

The broken bed and table, splintered by the explosions in the dugout, were pulled aside and a young officer stepped through, followed by a swarthy, moustached sergeant and a handful of men. They were all plastered with mud and grit from crawling across from shell hole to shell hole.

‘I saw you put out that machine gun and go in, Sergeant,’ said Hamilton. ‘Bloody well done. What’s your name?’

‘Hickman sir. B Company. And this is Corporal Murphy. We’ve cleared three sections of the trench, sir. I thought we should barricade the traverses and try and hold it until the next wave of the attack comes across. We could give support from close up.’

‘Hmmm. This is Sergeant Flanagan.’

‘Yes. I know sir.’

Flanagan extended his grin. ‘We’re old friends, sir.’

‘Ah good.’ Hamilton ran his hand across his face. ‘How many men have you got, Hickman?’

‘Eight fit and one wounded.’

‘Right. I’ve got ten. Eighteen to hold about three hundred yards of trench, with a low side facing the enemy. I doubt if we can do it.’

As if to emphasise his words a machine gun opened fire from the village and began traversing along the top of the trench, causing them to duck and take cover against the German side of the trench, as the bullets thudded into the sandbag line low on the other parapet.

‘If they shell us we’re done for.’ Flanagan spoke between gritted teeth.

‘Doubt if they’ll be able to drop shells down on us accurately,’ responded Hamilton, his brow furrowed. ‘Too close to their own lines. But they are bound to counter-attack, probably along the trench, feeding in from their communication trench connecting to the village, as well as over the top. We’re only about a hundred and fifty yards from the rubble. It will be damned difficult to hold them off.’

‘What about the second wave of our attack?’ asked Hickman.

Hamilton gave him a slow, ironical smile. ‘These ten men are all that’s left of my company, Hickman. About ninety men wiped out trying to reach that bloody village over open ground. It looks as though your company has been reduced similarly. God knows what happened to C Company. Maybe no survivors at all, except for what’s lying out there in the shell craters. So, the whole battalion has been decimated. I don’t think we can look forward to a second wave. In any case, it would have been on its way by now – and nothing has happened.’

The machine gun sprayed the top of the trench again.

‘Get out of here, as fast as we can, is what I advise, sir,’ said Flanagan.

‘Not in daylight, sir,’ said Hickman. ‘We’d stand no chance.’

Flanagan’s face was set in a fixed grin. ‘Then we’ll just be slaughtered here.’

Hamilton stood erect. ‘One thing’s for certain. We can’t stand arguing the toss here. You say, Sergeant, that you have cleared three sections of the trench? Have you barricaded the ends?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Good. Then by hook or by crook we hang on here until the light goes. Then we’ll hop it, the way we came in, crawling on our bellies. Hickman, take six men and man the far section. Flanagan do similarly with the section here and I will take the middle section. Get the men building up the parapet on the German side – use the bodies. There’s
no time to be squeamish. I expect that they will try and bomb us along the trench first. And, if that doesn’t work, they’ll come over the top, though that will expose them to fire from our trenches as well as this one. Try and get cover over the top of the trench to prevent bombs landing at either end. Off you go now.’

They exchanged nods and broke up. Jim called Bertie and tapped five others of his original party and they trotted to the far section. They found the men there had built up a convincing enough barricade to close up the gap around the traverse, but nothing over the top.

‘Can’t find anythin’ that’ll stop a bomb comin’ over,’ said an elderly soldier, a Reservist with experience from the Boer war.

‘Right. Build some kind of cover around the corner to allow a man to lie there and pick off anyone who comes along the next section of the trench near enough to throw a bomb. You go first. We’ll relieve you.’

Jim and Bertie exchanged glances.

‘How’s the chap with the wounded leg?’ asked Hickman.

‘It’s nasty. I’ve tried to stop the bleedin’, so I have. But I don’t honestly think he’ll last long. I think it’s an artery.’

Hickman nodded. ‘Well, in a way I hope he goes. I don’t see how we can drag him across no man’s land in the dark.’

‘Ah, that’ll be sad, so it will. Tell me, Jimmy lad …’

‘Yes?’

‘How many men would it be that we’ve killed in the last half hour, d’yer think?’

Jim put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Now, Bertie. It doesn’t do to think about. It’s horrible, I know, but this is war, matey. You know that.’

‘Oh, I know that well enough, Jimmy lad. I know it all right. I only hope that God will forgive us, that’s all.’

Hickman could only shrug his shoulders.

‘Ah. There’s another thing. D’yer know, I can’t remember for the life of me the colour of Polly’s eyes. I should know, o’course, but I just can’t remember. It would be lovely to have something like that to think about, laddie, wouldn’t it, among all this filth? Eh? But I can’t bloody remember.’

‘Green, Bertie. A wonderful, wonderful shade of green.’

They were interrupted by a rifle shot from around the traverse: ‘They’re comin’, Sarge.’ Then another report, followed by an explosion.

Hickman ran and put his head around the traverse. The Boer War veteran had built himself a refuge capped by a sheet of corrugated iron. He was lying spreadeagled under it, his rifle propped on a sandbag, its butt nestling in his cheek. At the far end of the trench the body of a German lay, with the signs of an explosion around him.

Without looking up, the veteran said, ‘’E tried to get close enough to throw ’is bomb. But I got ’im. They can’t reach us by getting along this trench. They’ll ’ave to go over the top to us.’

‘Good man.’ Jim knelt and patted his calf. ‘Stay there for half an hour and then you’ll be relieved.’

‘Very good, Sarge.’

It seemed as though the Germans in the ruins of the village had not quite known what to make of the part-invasion of their trench, for there was no immediate rush to retake it. Maybe the lone bomber had acted on his own initiative, for no other attacks followed – at least at first. The machine gun continued to play across the top of the far parapet, making it suicide to stand on the firing step or move too close to the British side of the wall. Nevertheless, it did not prevent the trench defenders from building up the parapet on the German side, using bodies and sandbags taken from the dugouts.

Then, however, the attacks began. They came along the trench from Hickman’s sector. Just after the veteran had been relieved and his replacement was crawling into the tiny redoubt built on the other side of the zigzag, two men emerged from behind the far traverse and ran along the trench to get to within throwing range. They were about to hurl their bombs when Hickman, who had been standing guard as the replacement crept into position, brought them both down before they had had a chance to withdraw their timing pins. A third came from behind the traverse – clearly with trepidation – but a bullet sent him scurrying back.

No one else came forward. It was obviously suicide to attempt to round that traverse now. Shouts and rifle shots (but, significantly, no sounds of grenade explosions) came from down the line, in Flanagan’s section.

Hickman ceded his post at the traverse once the replacement guard was in his place and met Hamilton, running along the trench.

‘You all right here, Sergeant?’

‘Yes, sir. I don’t think they will try to bomb us along the trench now. At least not from this end. Has Flanagan held out?’

‘Yes, but they got a couple of bombs over. One failed to explode but we lost one man. They will probably try to come at us over the top from the village now. Space the men out as best as you can. When the machine gun stops – that’s when they will come. Good luck.’

‘Same to you, sir.’

Hickman looked at his watch. Useless, clogged with mud. Then up at the sky. The sun was at about forty-five degrees towards the west. Perhaps – what, five o’clock? They would have to hold out for at least another three and a half hours before they could retreat after dark. And then they would have to leave smartly because the enemy would almost certainly try to swamp them as darkness fell. Space
the men … He could not risk taking away the guard at the traverse buttress, for the smart thing to do would be to attack frontally and along the trench at the same time. Would the Germans be smart? Almost certainly. ‘Never underestimate the enemy’, that’s what the books all said. Right. That left only five men, including himself and Bertie, to defend something like sixty yards of trench. Could they do it? They would have to.

He spaced the men out, Bertie next to him, of course, and he distributed sandbags for them to stand on so that the parapet could be reached, for there was no firing step on the reverse side of the trench. Then he checked everyone’s ammunition. They had all set out with two hundred rounds per man. Luckily, it had been bayonet and bomb work for most of them so far and their pouches were comparatively full. Ah, the German bombs! He ran to where the bomb holsters were hanging. Three left. Good! He gave Bertie one and, reckoning that he was probably the best bomber among the five, kept two for himself. They could be useful if the enemy attacked in close order.

‘As soon as the machine gun stops,’ he shouted, ‘man the top. That’s when they’ll come. When they do, it will be rapid fire, so put clips of ammo on the parapet where you can get them easily. Good luck, chaps.’ He looked across at Bertie, whose face was drawn and wan and, on impulse, he leant across and shook his hand.

They did not have long to wait. Suddenly everything was quiet as the machine guns stopped clattering. Then they heard a whistle blow.

‘Up on the top,’ shouted Jim.

As he levelled his rifle he saw that the ruins ahead – so dangerously close – seemed to have come alive. Climbing over the rubble was a line of scuttle-helmeted infantry, their bayonets glinting in the early evening sunlight. Immediately, the thinly held trench burst into fire.

There were many attackers and few defenders, but the British were
expert marksmen by now and the range was short. The grey-clad men advancing could not run, for the shell holes broke up the ground and, at that range, the defenders could not miss. They fell in crumpled heaps and Hickman could not help but feel sorry for them as the attack broke up and the remnants retreated.

Nevertheless, remembering the old sergeant in the First Battle of Ypres, he called out, ‘Keep firing. It’s not against the law to shoot the buggers in the back.’ So the fusillade continued until the last German had found the shelter of the ruined village and the torn land in between was left bestrewn with the enemy dead.

‘Will they try to outflank us, Jimmy, d’yer think?’ called Bertie.

Hickman looked to right and left. ‘It would mean them coming out into no man’s land if they did and the blokes in our lines could pick ’em off. But it’s a thought. I’ll keep an eye on the back. I only hope the Lieutenant or bloody Flanagan will do the same.’

They exchanged grins at the mention of Flanagan’s name.

‘D’yer think he knows we shopped him to the redcaps, now?’

‘Probably. I think he saw us in that … er … bar. But to hell with that. It’s getting out of here that’s going to be the problem now, Bertie lad.’

‘Aye.’ The blue eyes regained their twinkle for a second. ‘We could do with a bit of starshine now, Jimmy love.’

‘Keep watch to the front. I’m going to see the lieutenant.’

Hamilton was kneeling over the original member of Hickman’s party who had been wounded in the groin. He looked up at Jim’s approach. ‘He’s gone, I’m afraid. Nothing really we could do. He was beyond just being patched up. Any casualties from that attack?’

‘No, sir. Have you lost any – apart from this poor chap, that is?’

‘No. But Flanagan’s down to four in his section, including himself. One fellow caught it in the head. But Flanagan’s a good soldier and can shoot for two. Better get back, Hickman – oh, one thing.’

‘Sir?’

‘I saw you put out that machine gun and lead the attack. I’m going to recommend you for the Victoria Cross when we get back.’

‘Very kind of you, sir. But not necessary.’

‘No. I’m lucky to have two good sergeants with me.’ Hamilton pushed back a stray lock of blond hair that had escaped his steel helmet. ‘It’s my first action, this.’ He smiled apologetically, looking, thought Hickman, about sixteen years of age. ‘Only been out two weeks. Still … good to be blooded early. What?’