Pat Kelleher: Black Hand Gang

Private Seeston, coming up the steps, graciously backed down and stepped aside as Everson entered.

“Thank you, Seeston,” said Everson.

“Sir.”

Seeston had worked for Everson’s father before the war and they often exchanged pleasantries in passing, but today Seeston’s terse demeanour unsettled him. The men had been on edge for days. Supplies had been moving up from the support lines for more than a week now; ammunition, rations and medical supplies along with new troops, and still nobody had told them anything. The tension was palpable. Was this it?

Below, the Dugout was sparsely furnished but the furniture was of good quality, requisitioned from some bombed house, no doubt. Hurricane lamps lit the small room, casting large shadows on the crude wooden walls. Everson could hear the disciplined rattle-tattle-ting of the battered old Underwood typewriter as Private Garside typed out order sheets. Major Hartford-Croft, the Battalion Second-in-Command, stood over a makeshift table and looked up from the papers in front of him as Everson entered. Around him stood the Platoon Commanders of C Company. The Major had seen the men through the early summer of the Somme and had even been over the top with them. The men liked him all the more for that. He was a ruddy faced man who permanently looked as if he’d just done the hundred-yard dash and hadn’t yet recovered, a raspy catch to his breath as he breathed out, his cheeks almost as red as the tabs on his lapels. His mood wasn’t good.

Captain Grantham was there too, C Company’s new commanding officer. This was his first time on the front line and he’d yet to prove himself to the men. Oh, he’d been round the trenches and tried to jolly them along with the odd joke in an accent you could cut glass on, but that had only served to confirm the men’s original unfavourable impressions.

Also present were Everson’s fellow subalterns, Morgan and Holmes. In the corner two men, neither of whom Everson knew, muttered together self consciously; a nervous-looking Second Lieutenant and another man, wearing small round spectacles and a British Army Warm.

Everson edged around to where Lieutenant Morgan was idly polishing his belt with a cuff.

“Is this it then?” he asked in a low voice.

“Looks like it. The old man’s been huffing over those papers for the past ten minutes. It don’t look good.”

Everson ran his fingers under his collar and began to chew his lower lip.

“Sorry I’m late. Dashed sniper at it again, hmm?” Lieutenant Jeffries didn’t wait to see if his apology had been accepted.

Everson glanced up at him with disapproval but found himself looking away as Jeffries caught his gaze. He was a queer fish that one, no doubt about it. He’d been with them a little over a month and didn’t seem particularly keen on the company of the men, liked his privacy, of which there was precious little to be had on the front. Sometimes it seemed the sensible option he supposed. The life expectancy for an officer in the trenches was only months and eventually you got tired of making new friends only to have them blown to buggery.

“Gentlemen,” began Major Hartford-Croft. “Orders have come down from Battalion HQ. We go over the top at 7.20 Ack Emma tomorrow morning. We are to take the German stronghold at Harcourt Wood at all costs. The general advance is being held back by the stalemate in this sector. This objective falls to us. We are to take the machine gun positions that have been holding back the line for the past four months. Bite and hold, gentlemen, bite and hold.” Using his swagger stick, he pointed at the map spread out on the table. “The Germans have held the ground around the woods all summer. Unless we can break them before the winter sets in the whole advance will be held back until spring. I don’t want that ignominy falling on the Pennines, is that clear? Tomorrow is the first day of November and we will take that ridge.”

On taking over the trenches three days previously, Everson had studied the lie of the land well. Before the war, it had been gentle rolling farmland. Harcourt Wood sat on a low ridge about a half a mile beyond the front line, overlooking the British positions. After years of artillery bombardment, the long incline to the wood was a featureless shell-pocked quagmire. It wasn’t going to be easy. He caught Jeffries smirking to himself and looking a tad more pleased than he had a right to, considering what they were being asked to do. As if he knew something the others didn’t.

“Sir?” It was Holmes, Commander of No.3 Platoon. “The Black Country Rifles before us didn’t manage it. The German machine gun emplacements will mow us down as they have every other assault. We can’t get near them. We’re well under strength. They can’t seriously expect —”

Captain Grantham cleared his throat in a meaningful fashion.

“Thank you, Captain” said the Major. “GHQ have absolute faith in the Pennines to sort this little mess out. A bombardment will begin at 5.30 Ack Emma tomorrow to soften them up.”

“Tomorrow, sir?” queried Morgan. “I thought a bombardment would start days before an attack.”

“All very well in theory, Morgan, but that would only warn ’em of an impending attack. Blighters’ll huddle in their deep dugouts until it’s over and then come out like rats and cut us down. This way we have the element of surprise.” The Major broke into a grin. “The Machine Gun Corp Heavy Section is putting a section of their new Hush Hush Boojums into the fray. They’ll lead off the assault and clear a path through the wire. That ought to make Fritz windy enough.”

There was a chorus of muttered approval. Tanks. None of them had ever seen one, although there were many wild rumours floating up and down the line. It was said they’d made a great show of themselves a couple of months back at Fleurs Courcelette. They had apparently scared the Hun witless — great roaring metal monsters crawling inexorably towards them through the smoke. By God, with a section of those it might just be possible. Despite his better judgement, Everson could feel himself getting excited at the prospect of an attack.

“The tanks will set off first and break through the wire. Here and here,” continued the Major, pointing at the map. “They will also draw the machine gun fire, giving the Company a fighting chance. Your job will be to take the German positions and hold them until relieved, which may be a couple of days. The Jocks will be holding our flank, but I want this to be our victory. Understood? GHQ have such confidence in us they’ve even sent one of their flicker-wallahs to film the battle for the Kinemas back home.” The Major turned to introduce the men in the corner. “This is Oliver Hepton and his conducting officer, Mr Talbot.”

The bespectacled man in the greatcoat at least had the decency to give a weak apologetic smile. Everson wasn’t impressed. This was going to be a difficult enough job as it was, but it looked as if GHQ wanted a circus, damn them. His men needed rest, but perhaps this might provide a momentary diversion in the lead up to the attack. Flickers were always popular among the men and the chance to appear in one might take their minds of things. Briefly.

“Don’t mind me,” said Hepton. “Just go about your duties as you would normally. I’m sure your chaps will put on a jolly fine show for the folks back home.”

Everson shook his head; bread and bloody circuses.

There was a scuffle outside. Everson heard Seeston’s deferential but firm voice. “You can’t go in there just yet, Padre… Padre! ”

They heard the heavy tread of boots upon the steps and the Padre half stumbled into the room. The only thing that marked him as an army chaplain was his dog collar and lack of a sidearm.