Easterleigh Hall at War Page 7

  The next morning, 8th March, they fell in and marched to the train. It was raining. Of course it was, Auberon grunted to himself. The Lea End lot were quiet. They travelled in cattle cars all morning and then it was to be Shanks’ pony. The horses were unloaded, skittering down the ramp, and the officers mounted. He headed for the front of the C Company column on a horse that Richard had arranged to be delivered from England. It wasn’t Prancer, but it would do. He slowed as he came upon young Lieutenant Barry marching at the head of Jack’s section. He kept pace as he introduced Jack to Lieutenant Barry, who had arrived late yesterday evening. He looked like a boy. He was.

  Jack and Auberon locked eyes. ‘Lieutenant Barry will be accompanying you, Sergeant Forbes. He’s fresh from Britain by way of Officer Cadet Training at one of our major public schools and then the usual route. I know you’ll keep an eye on him.’ Jack nodded. Auberon shook his head slightly. They understood one another perfectly. Another chick to try and keep from harm until he’d learned the way of the world.

  Auberon told Lieutenant Barry, ‘If you listen to Sergeant Forbes you’ve a chance of reaching the age of twenty, d’you hear me?’

  ‘Sir,’ shouted Lieutenant Barry, snapping to attention. The section stumbled to a halt behind him. Jack and Auberon sighed together. ‘Save your energy, sir,’ Jack murmured. The boy looked confused.

  All morning they marched, then an order was passed down the line and Jack told the men to fall out at the side of the road. They flung themselves on to piles of stones, logs, whatever they could find to keep their arses out of the mud. They ate their rations. The Lea End mob were rallying after their hangovers, because of course the one pint had become many. They moved on again and this time their grumbles reached Lieutenant Barry, who half turned. ‘We should stop them,’ he told Jack.

  ‘You start to worry if they’re saying nothing, sir. When they’re grumbling on the first day of the march they’re alive, they’re functioning. When they’re silent, unless it’s the most bloody awful hangover, which this morning was, it means they’re brewing some trouble. Tomorrow though, they’ll be quieter, the blisters will be bursting, their legs will be aching, then maybe we’ll get Corporal Preston here to give us a song.’

  Si, who was marching the other side of Jack, grinned. ‘How much is it worth, Jack?’

  ‘A clip round the ear, bonny lad.’

  Eddie, their lance corporal, muttered, ‘And I’ll clip the other one just to keep it all balanced.’

  They arrived at the billets, which did not reach the high standard that Lieutenant Barry had clearly expected. He limped off to the officers’ roofless outhouse. ‘Sending us bloody kids, they are,’ Jack cursed.

  ‘Nothing new in that.’ Simon had hunkered down beside his pack and was rolling them both cigarettes. It was dark when Auberon found them crouched around a fire behind a pigsty, the men having been fed and watered. He squatted down with them, checking that there was no one around. He shone his torch on his map. ‘I thought this might be on the cards. We’re to stay in support, on the flank of the Indian Corps. There’s a big push. We’re to arrive at our destination here, let’s say in couple of days.’ He stabbed at the map. ‘Neuve Chapelle. We’ll be here.’ Another stab. ‘Poor bloody Indians will be taking the brunt. We’ll be fannying about but perhaps won’t be needed. I’ll tell you more as I know it. There’ll be the usual barrage, but perhaps we’ll go out under an artillery creeper when we go over the bags, if we go over.’

  He rolled up the map. They stood. Simon offered him a roll-up. He pulled a face. ‘I’d rather die.’

  Simon and Jack said together, ‘You probably will.’

  Auberon tapped his cigarette case, which was in his breast pocket. ‘Never smoked as much as this before, just like bloody chimneys we are. Dr Nicholls would protest.’

  The next day they marched past wild flowers beginning to bud. Above them the Royal Flying Corps were like gnats on a body as they buzzed forward.

  Jack told Lieutenant Barry, ‘They’ll be doing reconnaissance, finding out what’s what with the Huns. Soon the barrage will start. Be ready, it’ll be worse than any bloody railway station run amok.’ He no longer really noticed the continuous shellfire, rifle fire, sniper fire, hand bombs, though they became more and more obvious the closer they drew to the Front, because it was a home from bloody home, as Mart had said. No one else who’d been there any length of time seemed aware of the noise either.

  The barrage started within two hours, and young Donald Barry marched in a sort of crouch as the screaming shells roared and pounded to break the wire and mangle the Huns’ trenches. Jack bellowed, ‘Stand up, lad. They’ll not hit you. They’re way up high. Well, most of the time.’ He ducked as a shell fell short over to the right of them, throwing debris high into the air, and along with it the smell of cordite.

  By lunch they were breaking stride and walked single file along the road as artillery limbers passed, and ammunition carts, ration carts, ambulances, Uncle Tom Cobley and all. They marched a few hours more before receiving the order to fall out, by which time the artillery was deafening, the smell of explosives was being carried back from the Huns’ trenches, and they were shouting to be heard

  Auberon trotted back, his horse twitchy and sidestepping as he reached Jack, who grabbed the bridle and held the horse steady. ‘Prancer would never have clowned about like this, dammit,’ Auberon complained.

  Jack said, ‘He’ll be over the hills and far away if he’s any damned sense.’

  Auberon growled, ‘Nearly there, Sergeant. Captain Bridges is taking his company over the left, we’re to the right. Bring your section and follow me. You doing all right there, Donald? Feet not too much of a problem? Never fear, not much more marching.’ He wheeled away. ‘Follow me.’ A German retaliatory shell came over, close. No one ducked, not even Barry. Jack clapped him on the shoulder. Donald Barry muttered, ‘And what does he know about feet? Stirrups rub, do they?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Ah, he’s learning the way of the world already, Corporal Preston.’ Auberon called back, ‘I have ears, Lieutenant Barry.’ Barry coloured. Jack shook his shoulder. ‘He’s on your side.’

  They followed in the footsteps of their master, and stopped when Auberon flagged down a ration truck. Jack heard the private driving it yell over the noise, ‘Go on till you get to the three dead mules, turn right, right again. Keep going till you reach the two, or is it three dead ’uns, men that is. Bit puffy they are. Then turn left, sir.’

  Lieutenant Barry paled. Well, Jack thought, he’ll hear and see worse before the day is out, and God help him tomorrow, or would it be the next day? Poor bairn.

  That night Jack, Lieutenant Barry and Auberon sat in the dugout in one of the forward trenches. Auberon was puffing on his pipe, filthy thing, as though the air wasn’t bad enough with all the trench muck and blood and shit. It was the one he used before an action, so not long now, Jack thought. He eased himself on an old ammunition crate. Hard as bloody nails it was, and splintered. Auberon picked up his pencil, pointing it at Jack. ‘Told your men to get their letters written?’

  ‘Aye, even the Lea End mob are at it, tongues between their teeth, though a couple asked me to write theirs for them. Let’s hope we don’t have to write too many of the other kind when we get back.’ They were writing by the light of a candle, which stood in a jam jar found by Roger, which was the first helpful thing he’d done on the march. The flame juddered with each salvo.

  Jack wrote to Evie, Mam and Da, Millie, saying much the same thing. He took more time over his letter to Grace, speaking of his love, of his contentment, his happiness now that he knew how she felt, telling her not to mourn but to make a life, telling her that he felt no fear. That last was a lie; the tremors in his hands and guts were a dead giveaway.

  Young Donald Barry was writing to his parents, and one other, perhaps a sweetheart? Jack wouldn’t ask. He hated to see a boy of that age writing a letter to be read in the event of his death.

&
nbsp; He watched as Auberon wrote one letter, to his sister, and then another. He did this every time. He watched as he reread it, and tore it into the smallest pieces. Jack never asked.

  Auberon caught him looking but said nothing. He merely nodded. ‘The barrage will stop just before dawn. The Indian Corps will go over, we will wait our orders. Now, young Donald, you stick like a limpet, do you hear me, a damned limpet to the sergeant’s side, and if not him, then Corporal Preston. You do what they say and that way we might just get you home, is that quite clear?’ Donald Barry nodded, jerking with every explosion, every shudder of the ground, every fall of debris from the roof, every judder of the flame. ‘Now lad, get some sleep. There’s the cot there. If you can’t sleep, rest at the very least. I’m off on rounds. Jack?’

  ‘I’m with you, sir.’

  Every evening before an advance, or even a patrol, the two of them would visit their men. It helped to settle them and with the reinforcements yet to be blooded it was as well to remind them of what to expect, of what to do, of how to empty their minds and follow orders.

  Just before dawn the next day they ducked out of the dugout with Captain Bridges and young Barry. The ladders were in position against the side of the trench, the rum ration had been round. Auberon checked his watch, shook Jack’s hand. ‘Remember we’re to reinforce the right flank. We’ll go over with the whistle and let’s try the small groups, as we discussed. There’ll be machine guns waiting to cut us down and anyone who thinks otherwise is a bloody fool. The barrage didn’t take them out at Ypres, they haven’t been taken out at any time since, so don’t let’s give them an easy target.’

  There was a cracking blast. They crouched down low on the duckboards. Dirt, stones and dying shrapnel fell around. The three of them hunkered down. Captain Bridges tipped his cap.

  ‘So the colonel’s approved it?’ Jack raised an eyebrow, shouting above the thundering and crashing shells. Bridges moved on.

  Auberon shouted back, ‘Let’s show him it works first. I’ve written down my orders so you’re covered.’

  Jack shrugged. ‘D’you think I’m worried about that?’

  Auberon looked past Jack at Lieutenant Barry, who had a hand on the trench wall and was stooping, not hunkering. Jack followed his line of sight as Auberon said, ‘I think you’ll find that our sergeant has very decided views, young Donald, and worrying about the opinion of his bosses isn’t one of them.’

  Lieutenant Barry looked uncertain and finally hunkered down. Auberon said quietly, for Jack’s ears only, ‘Quite right too, when one remembers I put Timmie in the wrong place at the wrong time just because I could.’

  Jack was surprised. ‘We’ve had this out before, at Mons. We’ve both made mistakes in the past. We’ll make a few more but hopefully we’ll keep our bloody heads on straight.’

  Auberon eased himself upright, leaning for a moment on the sandbags which stopped the trench from falling in, and added greater protection for all within it. Roger was still in the dugout. ‘Get out here, Roger, for God’s sake. You’re a soldier too, you know, and we need every man, and his pack,’ Auberon ordered, adding quietly, ‘Though man is taking things a little far, I fear.’

  Roger appeared, ashen, struggling with the webbing of his sixty-pound pack. His hands were trembling fit to bust. Jack cast a look along the trench. Every man was where he should be, and he’d kept the Lea End lot with Frank, Eddie and Simon. Simon should be as safe as he could be with those fighters in his wake. He had to get back in one piece or Evie would have Jack’s guts for garters.

  Auberon was saying, ‘Never ever be tempted to look over the top, young Donald. It’s the easiest way to a third eye or a tin face mask. Not something that will thrill the girls.’ The barrage seemed louder, but then it ceased. Along the line came shouts. Auberon and Jack nodded to one another. Auberon checked his watch and headed down the trench to the left to lead B platoon out. He blew his whistle.

  Jack roared to the men, ‘Be safe, be lucky.’ He gripped Lieutenant Barry’s sleeve and dragged him along the trench as the bullets rattled and zipped. ‘Lance Corporal, take six and go over the bags now. The rest in four-second intervals and dodge, remember the plan. Lea End, think of the Fordington charge, dodge and weave, don’t walk into the mouth of the bloody guns. Make it hard for ’em.’ Jack shoved the arse of one of Frank’s men, Ted, a small bloke weighed down by his pack, then pulled him off the ladder, stripping him of the pack. ‘Now go, have a fighting bloody chance at least.’ Ted roared up the ladder, and over.

  The screams had begun, the machine guns were upping their chatter. Bugger.

  Eddie was lying on his back in the trench, staring at the sky, staining the duckboard red. ‘Steady, lad,’ Jack shouted as Lieutenant Barry moved two paces to the ladder. Simon knelt on the duckboard, checking Eddie. Shook his head at Jack. All along the line the call was up. ‘Stretcher-bearer, stretcher-bearer.’ Simon went over with his group. Jack’s group comprised five of the newest and youngest. ‘Keep with me, dodge, weave, keep your head, think, charge. Hit the ground and get up and have another go, do not run straight into those bullets, do you hear me?’

  ‘Sarge,’ went the roar. They followed him up the ladders, over the parapet, dodging and weaving, crashing to the ground, across ploughed land with early wheat, and mud which dragged at them, slowing their advance, pulling them earthwards, weighed down by their packs. Machine guns nipped and zipped at the men, the earth, the air. Jack was down on one knee. ‘Remember to dodge.’ His voice cracked. He swallowed, looked back, waved them forward in a lull. Had a shell hit a machine gun? They ran on. He spied Lieutenant Barry running on, calling to his troop, ‘Be men, keep going.’

  Jack screamed, ‘Dodge, duck, do as I said.’ He watched the boy spin round, and drop, half his head gone. The men faltered, then ducked and weaved onwards, hitting the ground, waiting, rising when the bullets seemed to lessen, making ground.

  Jack yelled, ‘Dodge, fall, go again, for the love of God.’ He waved his men down. The noise increased. Shells burst. Auberon caught up with him. ‘It’s the Huns’ artillery.’ The crashing was shattering, mud and shrapnel were flying. ‘Keep going, Jack. We’re halfway there, one of the machine guns is out.’

  Roger was at Auberon’s heels. Simon veered towards Auberon, yelling, ‘I’ve lost my men, all of the buggers. Stretcher-bearers. Stretcher-bearers.’ The bullets were still zipping, the shells still exploding. They were pounding through winter cabbage. How bloody ridiculous. Cabbages, Jack thought. He could smell the buggers. The breath was catching in his chest. Maybe this time they’d turn the tide. About bloody time too. He kept running.

  Grace had no time to eat, drink or think as the new beds were filled, the stretchers with their burdens stacked up on the ground in triage, as a French orderly called the assessment area. Ambulances rolled up with more, the Red Cross lorries with even more. They could hear the guns over everything, even the screams and calls of the injured. Angie was labelling the wounded. Grace was washing, cleaning, calling. ‘Orderly, here, now. Emergency.’ Another life might be saved.

  The earth shook even as far back as they were, but it wasn’t so much the noise of guns but of the victims of those guns they saw and heard now. And it was the victims’ blood they smelled. She stared at her hands, just for a second. Blood is so very red, she thought. Blood has a particular smell, all-pervading. She bent to her task again, her mind running along its own path, chattering, chattering. It kept her sane. Blood used to make her feel sick. Now it did nothing except fuel her rage. A soldier on a stretcher was singing, ‘Hitchy koo, hitchy koo, hitchy koo.’ Another moaned, ‘Shut him up. Just shut him up.’

  An orderly moved Mr Hitchy Koo into a marquee at Sister Saul’s request.

  ‘Manton, in the transfusion area, now.’ Sister Miller grabbed Grace as she was reaching for a sterile bandage for a corporal’s ruined face that bubbled as he tried to speak. She administered the bandage, and hoped for his sake he died quickly. He grabbed her ha
nd as she went to rise, but all she heard was gurgling. ‘I’ll be back,’ she soothed, ‘in a moment. If not me, someone. You’re safe now. You will be all right, trust me.’ She pressed his hand between both of hers, bent and kissed it. It was what his mother would have done.

  She hurried along the duckboards towards the transfusion area, wiping her mouth with her hand, but feared that all she did was to smear more blood. A passing orderly threw her a clean dressing. ‘You look like a vampire, Gracie.’ She wiped her mouth again and tossed the soiled dressing in the bucket before entering the tent.

  Major Sylvester was transfusing a pre-operation patient direct from a flask of matching blood. When Slim Sylvester arrived two weeks ago he’d shown the British surgeons and a good many nurses and VADs how to add blood to the sodium citrate solution already in the flask. This was then transferred from the flask to the patient via a pipe, once it was matched. The sodium citrate solution prevented the blood from clotting. Lives had been, and would be, saved. Lives that would previously have been lost.

  Grace could see that the patient had lost his legs from mid-thigh down, and was still losing blood. The loss just had to be slower than the blood going in. He was heavily sedated. She tended him while Slim Sylvester moved on to the next patient. It was midday and just the beginning. Was Jack in this push? Of course he damned well was, why else had they entrained. Dear God, be safe, be lucky.

  Chapter 5

  Easterleigh Hall, 21st March 1915

  ON 21ST MARCH there was the customary morning meeting of the heads of department around the kitchen table to discuss the hospital’s daily orders and requirements under Lady Veronica’s nominal chairmanship, as the daughter of the owner and therefore commandant. Today, as he had for the last few days, Captain Richard, as they called him, attended also, which was a welcome sign of his continuing recovery. Over mugs of tea, the dietary requirements of Matron and Dr Nicholls, as regards the patients, were noted, as were any special measures that would be required in general. On the armchairs the dogs snored.