And the entire time one ridiculous order from HQ followed hot on the heels of another: ‘Supply immediately six men fully qualified to act as instructors in signalling’ – another day they might ask for soldiers qualified in Lewis guns or Stokes mortar or bayonet drill, until even the Old Man, whom no one had ever heard swear, issued a string of curses that would have made a navvy blush, and headed off to HQ in high dudgeon. For such fully qualified men didn’t exist. Indeed, if the British possessed only half the trained men the top brass seemed to think they did, then the Poor Bloody Infantry wouldn’t now be cowering before the fortified German positions on the flatlands of northern France, but would instead be marching victorious through the boulevards of Paris.
Then, finally, the British bombardment of the German lines began, a ceaseless, roaring, deluge of millions of shells that it seemed inconceivable a single man could survive. It was like being at the centre of a thunderstorm, utterly at the mercy of the ordnance flying over your head, which turned the sky dark, like an endless swarm of malicious birds. The ground lurched beneath your feet and the blood jolted in your veins, and even your own thoughts were pulverised until you wanted to scream the fact of your own existence above the din. Except that it was Fritz on the receiving end.
The men of Robert’s platoon had looked at each other hopefully and called out to each other, grinning:
‘We’ll be walking straight into the town square at this rate!’
‘Bombardier Fritz with ’oof and pang and plonk at the first estaminet!’
‘And a “mamzelle” to see to your every need – and a few more besides!’
Then they would break into a rousing chorus of ‘Mademoiselle from Armentières’ that no one could hope to hear above the tumult.
Of course, the Germans answered with ordnance of their own, peppering the sky with the bright burst of shrapnel shells. But every day Robert was struck anew by the indomitable spirit of the British Tommy.
And now, earlier this morning the guns had stopped. No one sang now; the minutes before an attack were the most miserable of a soldier’s existence. The battalion was to start out from staggered positions, as the new advanced trench was too waterlogged to use. It had taken many of them all night to get here, getting lost several times amid the sea of soldiery, and they were all exhausted and wretched as devils.
Now here they stood in shallow, sodden trenches that offered little protection. They’d been given bacon sandwiches, and pea soup that tasted and smelled of the petrol cans it had been transported in. But few had much of an appetite. Robert felt the weight of the scores of anxious eyes on him. There was a dull ache in the back of his throat. He wouldn’t let them down; he would die first.
A little further off an almighty mine went off under Hawthorn Redoubt. If the Germans had had any doubt that the British were coming, that had dispelled it.
A smoke screen was lit. Two men were quietly sick. Robert doled out a final rum ration, said a few encouraging words to the youngest privates, grasped a few shoulders – then told the men to fix bayonets. He knew they would all go; there wasn’t a single one who would funk it, whom he’d have to force up and over the parapet at the end of his revolver. Briefly, he considered making some kind of speech, to give them heart, then thought better of it.
Instead, he simply said: ‘No bunching up or you’ll be picked off like flies. Remember, men, you’re soldiers of the South Middlesex. You make me proud to serve as your officer, and you’ll make the regiment proud today. Good luck, everyone, and I’ll see you in the German trenches for Würst and Schnapps!’
The last interminable seconds ticked down.
He nodded to Sergeant Dobbs to give the order. The whistles blew up and down the line, and they climbed silently and mechanically up the ladders and pegs and out of the trenches, filed through the narrow gaps in their own wire and headed out across the open. At first there was an unseemly scramble as the heavily loaded men struggled through the spaces. The smoke at first seemed impenetrable, but then it dispersed.
And then the German machine guns found them, bullets ‘zzzp, zzzp, zzzp’-ing around them like a great swarm of hornets. It was at once exhilarating and utterly insane. Robert went forward, bent over, his revolver in his hand. His mind felt empty and clean, scoured out and purified. Men fell all around him. A corporal a little way ahead was stumbling: a machine gun had sliced through a sandbag lying directly in front of him and sprayed sand into his eyes. He was trying to wipe it away. But now he was hit full in the neck, and blood from his artery splashed into Robert’s face as he went forward past him. He wiped himself with his sleeve and went on without breaking his stride. He felt as if he were moving inexorably not just towards the enemy but towards his fate.
‘Forwards! No bunching together! Keep in formation!’ he yelled over and over like an automaton. Whatever happened, they had to keep going. Any confusion or delay would spell disaster.
On and on they went. Until, gradually, the sick realisation dawned on Robert that the German defences had not been ground into dust as promised, and their staggered starting positions meant his company’s right flank was hopelessly exposed.
The deadly ‘Rat-tat-tat!’ of the machine guns from Gommecourt Park Wood was pitiless and echoed up and down the Fritz lines like a hideous cackle, as if the devil himself were laughing at their folly. Then Robert saw with a surge of despair that the British artillery had barely managed to cut the German wire at all. There was nowhere to get through. Even as he ran, head down, he saw with desperate clarity that this was not to be the glorious advance they had all dreamed of, but a rout of the most barbarous and bloody kind.
His men were falling left, right and centre. All the equipment that HQ had ordered each man to carry – the ammunition, picks and spades – was so heavy and cumbersome they could barely even crouch down to save themselves from the bullets. Still they went on, picking their way through the ravaged earth of no man’s land. There was no way but forwards, to whatever fate awaited them. And in that moment, watching them, so valiant and magnificent, he felt that he loved them – with all the fierceness and pride of a father.
Finally, somehow, they made it to the German wire, and he led his bombers through the narrowest of gaps, barely registering the barbs biting into his flesh. Fire came from the German trenches beyond, and candlestick bombs. Two men fell beside him, and a piece of shell embedded itself in his thigh. One of his men, Private Burchill, lost the lower part of his face. Just his jaw and top teeth remained. Such a good-looking boy he’d been too – profile just like a Thomas Woolner head. Wife had just been delivered of twins. No time to stop…
They pitched their bombs and dropped down into a wide, revetted trench, which, judging from the half-eaten meals and scattering of personal possessions left behind, had clearly been abandoned in a hurry. Robert spotted the entrance to a dugout and signalled for his bombers. There might still be Germans inside, and they must proceed with the utmost caution: German dugouts were reinforced and deep and their entrances were angled to prevent bombs from harming the inhabitants. A short while later the dugouts were confirmed to be empty. Robert posted guards in the trench, then went back to Private Burchill.