Starshine (25 page)

The word went along the trench and Captain Cavendish squatted by their side. ‘Bloody glad to see you back, Hickman, and you, too, Corporal. Any wounded men left out there, do you think?’

‘I doubt it, sir. We crawled back over so many bodies. The attack was hopeless, you know.’

The young man coughed. ‘Mustn’t talk like that, Sarn’t Major. Orders are orders.’

‘How many men have we lost, then, sir?’

Cavendish’s voice was weary. ‘About sixty per cent of the battalion, I would say. Colonel’s dead, so is the adjutant. I am the senior one left and in temporary command. A Company is in shreds – just about a dozen men left. One good bit of news for you, though, Hickman. The two chaps and the wounded man you sent back made it all right. They told me about your attack on the pillboxes. Sorry, we couldn’t do much to help.’

Jim looked along the trench. ‘Corporal Murphy. Is he all right?’

‘Ah yes. He wanted to go out and look for you but I ordered him to stay here. We needed him and his Lewises in case of a counter-attack. Look here, Hickman. You’d oblige me if you could do a final count on the company. I just haven’t had time. Can’t let you sleep, I’m afraid,
because we are to be relieved during the night. A new lot are coming up and …’ his voice dropped in tone, as though in disbelief, ‘they’re going to renew the attack in the morning, God help them. There’s food at company HQ – get what you can.’

With a nod, he was gone.

Jim found Bertie Murphy cleaning his Lewis gun with a piece of oily rag, his movements slow and fumbling, his face melancholic in the darkness. It lit up, however, when he saw his old comrade.

‘They wouldn’t let me come and look for yer,’ he said, grasping Hickman’s hand. ‘I really thought you’d gone to Jesus this time, son. I really did. Oh, Jim.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know how long we’ll be spared in this terrible business. When the firin’ started, with you out there, I guessed you’d be tryin’ to do something daft, so I blazed away as best I could to give you cover, but bullets don’t do much against concrete, so they don’t. But you’re back, so thank the good Lord.’

‘Bad pennies always turn up, Bertie. But we’ve lost more than half the battalion and what’s left of us are going back down the line in an hour or so, when the relief comes. Then they’re going to have another go in the morning.’

Bertie blew his nose in the oily rag and shook his head once again. ‘Mad bastards. That’s what they are. Mad bastards. It’s just not doin’ any good.’ He waved his hand. ‘All of this stuff. We’re getting’ nowhere, but this stupid killin’ goes on. Jesus must be weepin’.’

‘Are you on guard?’

‘I think all of us are. Nobody’s told us to stand down.’

‘Right. Well you stand down now. I’ll go along the line and get a guard mounted. Try and get some sleep, old lad.’

The relieving battalion came in at about 3 a.m. and what was left of the battalion – some one hundred and fifty exhausted men and
only three officers – slipped away down the slope, picking their way warily between the shell holes and the bodies of their dead comrades. Dawn was breaking when they eventually reached Ypres and began filing through the wreckage of the old town.

They lay in rest near Poperinghe, licking their wounds and taking in contingents of men from other battle-wrecked regiments and drafts of white-faced youngsters from back home. Black Jack Flanagan once again had survived the fighting, as had the battalion’s regimental sergeant major, a fiercely moustached old Regular who had fought at Omdurman with Kitchener. This was a relief to Jim and Bertie, for Flanagan would surely have been next in line for promotion to that post if the old man had gone.

Two parcels were awaiting Jim. One from his mother, revealing the usual packets of Woodbines and a knitted woollen scarf, and the other from Polly, containing a pair of very fine leather gloves. Birthday cards came with both.

‘Ah, damn me eyes, Jim, I forgot yer birthday,’ cried Bertie. ‘Sorry, lad. Now, tell me what the sweet lass says.’

‘You’ve got your own bloody letter, Bertie. Don’t pry. But look. These fit exactly right. What a great girl, eh?’

‘She is that. So she is.’

‘Hey. Listen to this.’ He began to read from Polly’s letter: ‘You’ll never believe this, Jim. Wagstaffe has volunteered and joined up! He’s called himself an engineer and become what they call a Sapper, I think. So you won’t see him in the Warwicks, which is a good thing. We don’t know what’s come over him, but he went off last Tuesday. Connie – you remember her – has become foreman …’

‘Well, well,’ mused Jim. ‘The world’s a changing all right.’

The changes continued all around them. Captain Cavendish was made adjutant and Hickman was in camp talking to him when their
new commanding officer arrived. He trotted in riding a magnificent chestnut, his brown boots gleaming, and his groom riding behind on an equally resplendent polo pony, leading a donkey carrying the colonel’s baggage.

The colonel vaulted to the ground, a stocky man of five foot four inches, with a red face and sporting a closely clipped, salt-and-pepper moustache. He immediately strode towards Cavendish and returned the salute of both men.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Cox,’ he said brusquely. ‘Are you the adjutant?’

‘Yes, sir. Cavendish. Welcome to the regiment, Colonel.’

‘Thank you.’ His eyes cold, he looked Cavendish up and down, completely ignoring Hickman, who remained at attention.

‘Cavendish. Cavendish. You’re not from the … ah … Devonshire family in the north, by any chance?’

Cavendish looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Yes, sir. The … er … Duke is my uncle.’

Cox’s frown immediately disappeared and what could only be interpreted as a faint smile came to his countenance. ‘Really, well now. Splendid. Yes, splendid. Good to have you as adjutant.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Cavendish hurriedly indicated Hickman. ‘This is the company sergeant major of my old company – A Company. Sergeant Major Hickman.’

Jim, still at attention, inclined his head. ‘Good morning, sir. Welcome to the regiment.’

Cox regarded him with faint distaste. ‘Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major! How old are you, Hickman?’

‘Twenty-one, sir. In fact it was my birth—’

‘Ridiculous.’ The colonel cut him short. ‘A warrant officer at twenty-one. Far too young. How long have you served?’

‘Since August 1914, sir. I joined up immediately war broke out.’

‘What! You’re not a Regular soldier?’

‘Er no, sir. I joined as a Territorial.’

Cox swung on his heel and spoke to Cavendish. ‘I might as well tell you now, Cavendish, that I do not approve of Territorials reaching that sort of rank. Just can’t rely on them.’

‘Sir, Hickman is one of our very best warrant officers. He won the Distinguished Conduct Medal as a corporal—’

‘Humph! Ten a penny these days. Now, let’s get on. There is much to do if I am to knock this battalion into shape. Have the men paraded for me to address them in an hour.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Let us say eleven-thirty?’

‘With respect, sir, that might be a little difficult. Some of the men are off duty and are probably in the town …’

‘Very well. Make it twelve noon. I want them all back by then. See to it. You,’ he addressed Hickman, ‘show my groom where he can stable the horses.’

Jim looked aghast at Cavendish.

‘I’m afraid we don’t have any stables here, Colonel,’ said the Captain. ‘We’ve only just come out of the line, you see. We are under canvas here. However,’ he turned to Hickman, ‘have a word with the RSM and see what he can suggest.’

‘Very good, sir.’ Jim gave them both his best salute and wheeled away, glad to escape.

Somehow, the battalion was assembled for twelve noon and stood at attention, with every eye fastened on the little man who stood before them, slapping his shiny boots with his riding crop.

‘At ease, men.’ His voice, now raised, was predictably squeaky. ‘We are shortly going to go back up to the line and I want to make it quite clear to you what I expect of you all. I understand that you have had quite a mauling in your last attack. Well, these are no times to be
feeling sorry for ourselves. General Haig’s intention is to knock the Boche off their perches on those ridges and I intend to make sure that this battalion is right at the front when we do that.’

He strode up and down for a few seconds, as though allowing his words to sink in. Then he continued: ‘We will not have long here before we move up, but we will make the most of every second we have here in ensuring that we are fully trained for the task ahead. There will be no – I repeat – no sloppiness; no undue familiarity between NCOs and men. The usual procedures for saluting will be strictly adhered to and, when out of the line, kit will be cleaned, boots polished and brasses buffed until they gleam. There will be no leave from the camp unless I am assured that the necessary standards have been achieved.

‘This is my first time in the Salient but it can be no worse than Palestine, my previous posting. So you will find that I know the ropes. I will be hard but fair. I expect you all to do your best. Right, Adjutant. Dismiss the parade.’

The men broke up and Bertie found an excuse to find Hickman. ‘Bloody hell, Jim,’ he said, ‘what was all that about?’

Hickman looked about him. ‘I think it was about bullshit, that’s what it was about. The man’s a prat, that’s what he is. When he found that Cavendish was a duke’s nephew, he nearly pissed down his trousers. And if he thinks that two years on a fucking camel is preparation for this mudbath, then he’s got another think coming.’

‘Ah Jim, that’s all we need. An eejit for a colonel.’

‘Better break up or we’ll be beheaded for talking to each other.’

So a period of hard, non-stop drilling ensued. They were all back on the barrack square: marching, turning, stamping, shouldering arms, moving to the right in threes, saluting, all leavened with only the occasional imparting of practical skills, such as finding natural
ground cover, avoiding trench foot and recognising a sniper’s lair.

Meanwhile, up beyond the ruined town, across the acres of mud, shell holes and unburied corpses, the great battle continued – as did the rain. Haig pitched more and more troops into what was now being called ‘Passchendaele’ back home. It was the third and greatest Battle of Ypres, the fight by the Allies to reach the little village at the top of the series of low ridges that dominated the killing ground. Inch by inch, the Germans yielded terrain, sometimes taking it back again and then losing it once more. The conflict now raged beyond trenches and up among the rows of pillboxes and fortified positions that formed the second and far more formidable line of the Germans’ positions. Into this maelstrom, Colonel Cox’s re-formed battalion was thrown.

Once again, Jim and Bertie slogged with their comrades between the shell holes in the darkness, to take up their positions before dawn for yet another attack. A Company had another new commander, Captain George Simmons, a tall, thin, taciturn young man who had been at the front for two years. Like the rest of his men, he seemed resigned to whatever fate awaited them. Since his arrival two weeks before, Hickman had never seen a smile on his face.

As they trudged on they realised that the line was where a helmeted head stood out briefly here and there above the ground in the dim light. Machine-gunners with their heavy Vickers were now dotting the edges of the craters, partly shielded by sodden sandbags. Below the edge of the crater, near the gun, a hole had been dug in the side and covered by a groundsheet. This was where the gunners were trying to sleep.

This time, the dawn attack was no longer a case of ‘over the top’, for there was no trench top to surmount, only slurries of mud that had been piled up to give a fragment of protection in front of the tape
along which they crouched. Jim had no idea of where they were in the line. It didn’t seem to matter. The objective was always the same: to destroy the pillboxes up ahead and surge on up to the top.

Jim found Bertie trying to keep his Lewis gun dry under his cape. The little Irishman greeted his old friend with lacklustre eyes. ‘We can’t keep gettin’ away with it, Jim,’ he said. ‘We’ve bin lucky so far but I can’t help feelin’ that we’re runnin’ out of time and luck now.’

Jim clapped him on his shoulder, sending a shower of rain over them both. ‘Don’t talk rubbish, Bertie. The Irish were born lucky, you know that. All we can do is keep our heads down and do our duty. I’ll keep an eye out for you, lad, so don’t worry. We’ll both get back to kiss Polly, I promise.’

Murphy gave a woeful smile. ‘Ah strewth, Jimmy, I do hope so. But if not, I hope it’s me that gets it. You’d make a better fist of lookin’ after the girl, so you would.’

‘Balls.’ Jim looked at his watch. ‘One minute to go. Don’t forget, Bertie. Set up that bloody gun of yours as soon as you can out in front to give us a bit of covering fire.’

‘Very good, Sergeant Major.’

The whistle blew and the men slipped and slithered over the mud piles immediately in front of them and began to flounder up the slope to where grey boxes were spitting out flame. This time, however, the Germans were concentrating their shells on the advancing troops, rather than on the supporting lines behind. As before, it was the shrapnel that caused the most casualties, for these razor-sharp steel missiles were capable of causing the most horrific injuries.

A man immediately ahead of Hickman suddenly whirled around, his face a crimson mess where a piece of jagged steel had sliced away his jawbone and part of his nose. He slumped down, trying to speak but only gurgling blood. He held up a supplicatory hand but Jim
put down his head and struggled by. All around men were falling. Turning his head, Hickman looked for Bertie but there was no sign of the little man, nor any chatter from his gun.

A growing rage at the futility of it all consumed him and he broke into a shambling, slipping run, disregarding the shouts, screams, explosions all around him. Nearing a pillbox that was spitting fire, he dropped to his knees and crawled under the fire until he sat, his breast heaving, immediately under the machine gun. He unclipped a grenade, pulled out the firing pin with his teeth, waited two seconds and then rose and slipped it through the gun slit, falling back as he heard the muffled explosion from within. Getting to his feet, he floundered to the back of the pillbox, kicked down the door and thrust his rifle and bayonet into the interior. Three men lay dead inside, the muzzles of their heavy machine guns tipped to the sky through the firing slits. Three others lay wounded on the concrete floor. Hickman shot them in turn and stumbled outside, spitting to rid his mouth of the foul taste of cordite.