Starshine (2 page)

The year was 1914, one which had begun so well for them both, with their beloved Aston Villa, whose huge, bright red brick stadium loomed large just down the road from them, finishing second in the first division that season for the third successive year. Jim had begun the fourth year of his apprenticeship as a diamond mounter in the little business where his father laboured in the heart of the jewellery quarter in Hockley and he had managed to get Bertie a job there, too, sweeping, making tea and becoming universally popular, just by being his cheerful, happy self. It was a good time to be eighteen and they had both enjoyed the blissful summer of that year, playing football and cricket in Aston Park and, of course, taking Polly rowing on the lake in Handsworth Park.

Polly was exactly their age and she lived in the terrace house between them at number 64, Turners Lane, Aston. Neither of them could remember a time when the girl had not been at their side.
They had formed an inseparable trio, going everywhere together. As children, when the boys played their way home from school by rolling marlies in the gutter, Polly came too, jumping, skipping alongside and talking continually. As they grew older, Polly quietened a little but stayed close, doing what they did, insisting – to their embarrassment – on holding their hands as they walked, bowling at them at cricket and keeping goal in the park kickabout. She grew to be tall, slender and pretty in an unconventional way, with soft brown hair, high cheekbones and strange, green eyes that seemed to shine in the dark. As the boys went through their teenage years, growing tall (less so in Bertie’s case) and filling out, Polly appeared to segue almost imperceptibly from tomboy into striking young woman. She remained unusual, however, in spurning the friendship of her own sex and the approaches of other boys and staying one of the trio, joining Jim and Bertie as they in-puffed their first Woodbines and heroically matching them as they drained their first pints of mild beer.

She had seen them off at the station when they had enlisted, but now it was mid-October and the boys had to concede that the war that was to be over by Christmas perhaps was going to take a little longer. The two and a half months that had passed since they had enlisted had been marked by major setbacks to the Allied cause. The Germans had marched through Belgium, despite valiant resistance by the little Belgian army, and the French army had been forced to retreat from Mons, under cover of a last-ditch stand by the British, and Jim had read that only an heroic victory by the French at the Battle of the Marne had saved Paris itself from being taken by the enemy. Now the British Expeditionary Force – the largest army that Britain had ever sent abroad, but still tiny compared to the force facing it and depleted by the bitter fighting at Mons – had been redeployed to the north-west to take its position on the left flank of the mighty French
army, now swollen to more than four million men. The British, then, occupied a key position between the French and the Belgians in a line that extended some thirty-five miles in a curve to the east of Ypres, against eleven German infantry divisions and eight cavalry divisions.

The long file of men were now approaching the front and a smell very different to that which Bertie had recognised earlier now assailed them. It was an odour sweet and sickly and came from the bloated corpses of mules and horses that emerged starkly from the darkness every time a star shell illumined the sky ahead of them. They no longer walked in a straight line, but threaded their way between shell holes half filled with water that reflected the light of the flares.

‘Hey, Jimmy,’ whispered Bertie hoarsely, ‘it’s not just horses that are dead. There are bodies in them holes.’

‘Quiet!’ The sergeant major’s urgent whisper came from the front.

On they went, now in pitch darkness that was only occasionally lit by a flare or, even less frequently, the flash of cannon fire. It was impossible to see even the man in front, and the track that had once been firm was now uneven and spongy, causing them to stumble and curse and grope for the shoulder ahead. There was no smoking and no conversation. Jim Hickman felt that they were a ghost army advancing to … what?

Eventually they halted, just as the clouds above receded to reveal a watery moon. A sergeant whom they recognised as the veteran from the cattle truck strode along the line touching each one and giving them a whispered number. Hickman was the last to be numbered and Jim caught the NCO’s arm.

‘My mate’s behind me, Sarge,’ he said urgently. ‘Don’t part us, there’s a good bloke. We’ve always been together and I sort of look after him, see.’

For a moment the sergeant paused, then he nodded. He pulled out
the man in front of Jim and pushed him into the line behind Bertie. Then he gestured to the numbered men to fall out and join him and a corporal who was waiting at the beginning of what had once been a sunken road, although shellfire had brought its sides tumbling down, leaving it merely a depression in the ground.

The sergeant gestured for them to sit, then addressed them in low, urgent monotones. ‘Right, lads. I am Sergeant Jones. I’m goin’ to be your platoon sergeant. Corporal Mackenzie ’ere is goin’ to guide us up to the front. But from what ’e tells me it ain’t much of a front. There’s very little cover up there – just scooped-out trenches only about three feet ’igh, sort of joining up with shell ’oles.’ He sniffed. ‘Seems everyone’s waiting for the bloody sandbags to be shipped over from England. But never mind that.

‘Now listen. Jerry doesn’t shell much at night but ’e knows exactly where these support trenches an’ tracks go up to the line, because ’e’s up there on the ’eights ahead of us and can see ’em all during the day. So, whatever you do, don’t show a light otherwise we’ll ’ave bloody great Jack Johnsons – those are ’is ’eaviest shells – down on us like a ton o’ bricks. So definitely no smokin’. We’ve got about ’alf a mile to go an’ we’ll soon be in sniper country. They operate at night, even if the artillery doesn’t. So no noise, keep yer ’eads down an’ freeze when the star shells go up, ’cos that’s when the Jerry snipers will be lookin’ down their sights. Understood?’

Everyone nodded. Bertie held up a muddy hand. ‘Where are we goin’ to exactly, Sarge?’

Jones sighed. ‘If I told you Piccadilly Circus, lad, it wouldn’t make much bloody difference, would it?’

‘Oh yes. Piccadilly’s in London, isn’t it, Sarge? Me father told me that, anyway.’

‘All right, then, sonny. So as not to confuse your father, I’ll tell
you that we’re ’eading for a place that we call Nun’s Wood, although it’s summat unpronounceable in Flemish. It’s almost up on the top of the ridge ahead of us. The Germans ’ave pushed us down that ’ill to this wood – although there ain’t many trees left I’m told – an’ we’re ’angin’ on by our eyelids. A mixed bag up there trying to ’old the line: Jocks, Service Corps blokes, an’ dishwashers. Not many rifles to go round and the corporal tells me that we pushed back the last attack by swingin’ picks and shovels. So the lads there are waitin’ for us to ’elp ’em an’ that’s what we’re goin’ to do.’

He fell silent and stayed still as a green light soared into the sky behind him, leaving his silhouette – broad shoulders, rifle pointing to the sky and soft peaked cap, jammed squarely onto his head – gradually fading as the flare dropped and died.

‘Right. Just one more thing. There are twenty-five of us. ’Ow many Reservists?’ Everyone but Jim and Bertie raised a hand.

‘Ah yes, our two Terriers with their bloody muskets, last used at the Battle of Waterloo. Well the rest of you at least are trained soldiers, who have seen service, even if it was a year or two ago. Who’s seen active service, though?’

Three hands rose.

‘Where?’

‘Boer War, Sergeant. All three of us.’

‘Right. Well I know that was no picnic because I was there too. I survived the Kop. But I’ve got a feeling, lads, that this one is goin’ to be a bit different. A bloody sight worse, in fact, because of the guns the Jerries ’ave got: heavy stuff an’ machine guns. Even so, we’ll beat the buggers, but remember – from now on, ’eads down and no talkin’. Lead on, Corporal.’

They plodded on and Jim realised that they were beginning to climb – up a gentle slope, of course, to where the Germans looked
down on them. As they neared the front line, or what was left of it, they all became aware of sharp flashes that penetrated the darkness ahead sporadically and then the rattle of a machine gun. As if on cue at this, the corporal peeled off to the right and took with him the leading half of the column, who disappeared into the darkness. Sergeant Jones waved his arm and the remainder followed him, walking at a crouch until they were able to slip into a communications half-trench, which zigzagged up the slope and whose walls, about four feet high, offered protection of a sort.

Three minutes later an officer loomed out of the darkness and held a whispered conversation with the sergeant. Jones turned and waved his men towards him.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re whispering because the enemy is only just about one ’undred and twenty yards ahead of us, up by what’s left of them trees up ahead – no, don’t look now, you duffers! You’ll get a bullet in yer ’ead. A couple of corporals will be along in a minute to take you along the line and deposit you in the gaps. I’ll come on afterwards and settle you in and make sure you’re nice an’ comfortable.’

Then the jocularity died. ‘Listen. You’ll be sprawled up there without much cover, so dig in as much as you can while it’s dark. I’m told that trenches ’ardly exist, so it’s a case of finding what cover you can. Rations are due up soon so you should get something to eat before daylight comes. I know that you’re tired but don’t sleep.
DIG
!

‘The Jerries will almost certainly come at us at daybreak so make sure that your rifles are clean and oiled and fix your bayonets at dawn. You’ll probably need ’em. Ah, the corporals are ’ere. Off you go – and good luck, lads. Now then, where are the Brummie Terriers?’

Jim and Bertie raised their hands – but only as far as their shoulders.

‘Good. You two come with me.’

They crawled behind the sergeant, for by now the trench had given way to little more than a declivity in the ground and the occasional swathe of the German machine gun was obviously firing on a fixed traverse, aiming to hit anyone who had the temerity to stand in what was left of the British lines.

And, indeed, it soon became clear that the line hardly existed. Jim and Bertie were deposited into a shell crater, some seven feet deep, occupied by five men, who were sprawled on the German side of the crater fast asleep, their rifles at their side, while a sixth kept watch.

A trench of sorts had been scraped out from either side of the shell hole and the sound of digging came from it.

‘Get in there. You,’ he indicated Jim, ‘go to the right and Paddy to the left and see if you can relieve the diggers. They’ve all been at it for forty-eight hours or more with little rest, so they could do with a spell.’

‘Sure, Sergeant,’ said Bertie, ‘but, bless you, we’ve no shovels or spades, see.’

‘Use what they’re usin’, which I expect is bayonets and their ’ands. Get on with it and be thankful it’s not rainin’. I’ll be back later with any luck.’

The two sloughed off their heavy packs and ammunition webbing, drew their bayonets and split up, right and left. Hickman found that his so-called trench was, again, only about three feet deep, but it was wide enough to accommodate his long legs if, when facing the enemy, he knelt. Now, however, he found himself facing the ample bottom of a soldier who was hurling soil over his left shoulder to form a low barrier and so raise the wall on the enemy side of the trench.

He put his hand on the man’s buttocks and suddenly found a bayonet at his throat.

‘For Gawdsakes, son,’ exclaimed the soldier, ‘don’t do that. I thought you was a Jerry.’

‘Sorry, mate. I’ve come to relieve you. Is there a spade or something?’

‘Blimey, no. This ain’t the Ritz. You’ve got to use your sticker. This clay is an absolute bleeding bitch. Thing to do is to cut it out in lumps with your bayonet and then claw it out with your ’and and toss it on top. See? But keep your ’ead down. That machine gun comes round every sixteen minutes, I’ve timed it. Waste of bullets. Stupid, but he’ll get you if you forget ’cos he skims the top of the trench like.’

‘Strewth!’

The soldier, thin-faced, with dark bags under his eyes, hitched up his braces and looked sharply at Jim. ‘New at the front, lad?’

‘Yes. Just arrived.’

He sighed. ‘It’s bad ’ere. So keep your wits about you. We’ve been pushed down this bloody slope for days now. We’re just about ’angin’ on, but they do say that reinforcements are coming soon to give us an ’and, so if we can keep the buggers out for a few more days, we might be all right. Now, there’s only room for one to work ’ere so I’ll be off. Thanks for relievin’ me. See if you can join this ditch up with the shell ’ole up ahead, there … ooh, watch out, ’ere ’e comes again.’

They both ducked their heads as the machine gun began its chatter and, true enough, bullets clipped the tops of the turned earth, pinging away with a high-pitched whine as they hit stones.

‘All right now, son.’ The older man squeezed his way past Hickman. ‘We’ve got a rota. I’ll see that you’re relieved in two hours. Keep diggin’, lad.’

Jim set to with a will. The work was constricting, particularly for someone of his height, for he had to work kneeling, but he was fit and strong and, despite the fact that he had had virtually no sleep for twenty hours, he almost enjoyed the labour. He too began timing the machine gun’s traverse with his wristwatch and found that the swing began exactly every sixteen minutes. How stupid! He had heard that
the Germans were methodical but this was ridiculous. Perhaps there was no one behind the gun; perhaps it was set to go off, like an alarm clock, every sixteen minutes. If this was war, it was strange. Nothing like the manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain when they had marched, countermarched, flung themselves down, fired and then charged an imaginary enemy. That was stirring stuff, real soldiering. This scraping away on hands and knees waiting to be shot at every sixteen minutes was ridiculous. He felt no fear of the morrow. It would be good to stand up and face a real German and fight properly!