“The only reason I didn’t sign up for the navy was because I couldn’t swim,” Tommy grumbled. “And no one warned me I could drown just as easily in the army.”
Even soaked, frozen and hungry, they somehow remained cheerful. For seven weeks Charlie and his section endured such conditions, waiting for fresh orders that would allow them to advance. The only advance they learned of during that time was von Ludendorff’s. The German general had caused the Allies to retreat some forty miles, losing four hundred thousand men while another eighty thousand were captured. Captain Trentham was generally the bearer of such news, and what annoyed Charlie even more was that he always looked so smart, clean and—worse—warm and well fed.
Two men from his own section had already died without even seeing the enemy. Most soldiers would have been only too happy to go over the top, as they no longer believed they would survive a war some were saying would last forever. The boredom was broken only by bayoneting rats, bailing more water out of the trench or having to listen to Tommy repeat the same old melodies on a now rusty mouth organ.
It wasn’t until the ninth week that orders finally came through and they were called back to the man-made square. The colonel, monocle in place, once again briefed them from his motionless horse. The Royal Fusiliers were to advance on the German lines the following morning, having been given the responsibility for breaking through their northern flank. The Irish Guards would give them support from the right flank, while the Welsh would advance from the left.
“Tomorrow will be a day of glory for the Fusiliers,” Colonel Hamilton assured them. “Now you must rest, as the battle will commence at first light.”
On returning to the trenches, Charlie was surprised to find that the thought of at last being involved in a real fight had put the men in better humor. Every rifle was stripped, cleaned, greased, checked and then checked again, every bullet placed carefully into its magazine, every Lewis gun tested, oiled and retested, and then the men finally shaved before they faced the enemy. Charlie’s first experience of a razor was in near-freezing water.
No man finds it easy to sleep the night before a battle, Charlie had been told, and many used the time to write long letters to their loved ones at home; some even had the courage to make a will. Charlie wrote to Posh Porky—he wasn’t sure why—asking her to take care of Sal, Grace and Kitty if he didn’t return. Tommy wrote to no one, and not simply because he couldn’t write. At midnight Charlie collected all the section’s efforts and handed them in a bundle to the orderly officer.
Bayonets were carefully sharpened, then fixed; hearts began to beat faster as the minutes passed, and they waited in silence for the command to advance. Charlie’s own feelings raced between terror and exhilaration, as he watched Captain Trentham strolling from platoon to platoon to deliver his final briefing. Charlie downed in one gulp the tot of rum that was handed out to all the men up and down the trenches just before a battle.
A Second Lieutenant Makepeace took his place behind Charlie’s trench, another officer he had never met. He looked like a fresh-faced schoolboy and introduced himself to Charlie as one might do to a casual acquaintance at a cocktail party. He asked Charlie to gather the section together a few yards behind the line so he could address them. Ten cold, frightened men climbed out of their trench and listened to the young officer in cynical silence. The day had been specially chosen because the meteorologists had assured them that the sun would rise at five fifty-three and there would be no rain. The meteorologists would prove to be right about the sun, but as if to show their fallibility at four-eleven a steady drizzle began. “A German drizzle,” Charlie suggested to his comrades. “And whose side is God on, anyway?”
Lieutenant Makepeace smiled thinly. They waited for a Verey pistol to be fired, like some referee blowing a whistle before hostilities could officially commence.
“And don’t forget, ‘bangers and mash’ is the password,” said Lieutenant Makepeace. “Send it down the line.”
At five fifty-three, as a blood-red sun peeped over the horizon, a Verey pistol was fired and Charlie looked back to see the sky lit up behind him.
Lieutenant Makepeace leaped out of the trench and cried, “Follow me, men.”
Charlie climbed out after him and, screaming at the top of his voice—more out of fear than bravado—charged towards the barbed wire.
The lieutenant hadn’t gone fifteen yards before the first bullet hit him, but somehow he still managed to carry on until he reached the wire. Charlie watched in horror as Makepeace fell across the barbed barrier and another burst of enemy bullets peppered his motionless body. Two brave men changed direction to rush to his aid, but neither of them even reached the wire. Charlie was only a yard behind them, and was about to charge through a gap in the barrier when Tommy overtook him. Charlie turned, smiled, and that was the last thing he remembered of the battle of the Lys.
Two days later Charlie woke up in a hospital tent, some three hundred yards behind the line, to find a young girl in a dark blue uniform with a royal crest above her heart hovering over him. She was talking to him. He knew only because her lips were moving: but he couldn’t hear a word she said. Thank God, Charlie thought, I’m still alive, and surely now I’ll be sent back to England. Once a soldier had been certified medically deaf he was always shipped home. King’s Regulations.
But Charlie’s hearing was fully restored within a week and a smile appeared on his lips for the first time when he saw Grace standing by his side pouring him a cup of tea. They had granted her permission to move tents once she’d heard that an un
conscious soldier named Trumper was lying down the line. She told her brother that he had been one of the lucky ones, blown up by a land mine, and only lost a toe—not even a big one, she teased. He was disappointed by her news, as the loss of the big one also meant you could go home.
“Otherwise only a few grazes and cuts. Nothing serious and very much alive. Ought to have you back at the front in a matter of days,” she added sadly.
He slept. He woke. He wondered if Tommy had survived.
“Any news of Private Prescott?” Charlie asked, after he had completed his rounds.
The lieutenant checked his clipboard and a frown came over his face. “He’s been arrested. Looks as if he might have to face a court-martial.”
“What? Why?”
“No idea,” replied the young lieutenant, and moved on to the next bed.
The following day Charlie managed a little food, took a few painful steps the day after, and could run a week later. He was sent back to the front only twenty-one days after Lieutenant Makepeace had leaped up and shouted, “Follow me.”
Once Charlie had returned to the relief trenches he quickly discovered that only three men in his section of ten had survived the charge, and there was no sign of Tommy. A new batch of soldiers had arrived from England that morning to take their places and begin the routine of four days on, four days off. They treated Charlie as if he were a veteran.
He had only been back for a few hours when company orders were posted showing that Colonel Hamilton wished to see Lance Corporal Trumper at eleven hundred hours the following morning.
“Why would the commanding officer want to see me?” Charlie inquired of the duty sergeant.
“It usually means a court-martial or a decoration—the governor hasn’t time for anything else. And never forget that he also means trouble, so watch your tongue when you’re in his presence. I can tell you, he’s got a very short fuse.”
At ten fifty-five hours sharp Lance Corporal Trumper stood trembling outside the colonel’s tent, almost as fearful of his commanding officer as of going over the top. A few minutes later the company sergeant major marched out of the tent to collect him.