Pat Kelleher: Black Hand Gang

“Ah Chaplain Rand,” said the Major. “Although a little late, I fear. Our prayers, it seems have been answered and without your intercession on this occasion,” he said, chuckling. The subalterns laughed politely, but briefly.

“What can we do for you, Padre?” said Captain Grantham.

“I’m after a little Christian charity and a few of your men, if you can spare them. There’s been an accident on the St. Germaine Road. An ambulance came off the road hit a shell hole. Thankfully the occupants weren’t injured — they’re shaken and a little bruised but generally fine.”

“Well send ’em on their way again, Padre, they’re no business of ours,” said the Major.

“Well, it’s just that they’re VAD’s — three of them.”

“Women? Shouldn’t they be in their hospitals instead of gadding about out here?”

“They say they were dropping off supplies for the Casualty Clearing Stations. Now they’re stranded until they can get their ambulance on the road again. They’ve taken shelter in the cellar of the old Poulet Farmhouse. Do you think you can spare some men to get their motor out of the hole?”

The Major glanced at Captain Grantham, who eased his way round the table to the Chaplain.

“Sorry Padre, we can’t spare the men. Big show on tomorrow.”

“Well what about a couple of men to guard them?”

“Absolutely not,” he said ushering the Chaplain towards the steps. “We can’t afford to waste men to nursemaid silly gels.”

“Who’s going to look out for them until they can get back to their depot? You can’t leave them alone out here.”

“I can’t think of a better man than yourself, Padre,” said Grantham. “I’ll send some men to help them out as soon as I can, but it probably won’t be until late tomorrow. But feel free to stop by the kitchens and pick up some rations. Best tell ’em to keep their pretty heads down, eh? It’ll be getting damn busy around here soon.”

Everson watched the Padre’s shoulders slump. He may have been God’s representative to the Battalion, but even the Almighty cut no slack with Army bureaucracy. Resigned, the Padre left the dugout.

“Right, if there are no questions, that’s it,” said the Major. “Best get back to your platoons and inform the men. Oh, and I’d like some patrols out tonight, make sure the Bosche aren’t up to anything that can put the kibosh on our little stunt. You’ll also need to do the usual wire cutting. Same old, what!”

As the dismissed subalterns shuffled up the steps, Everson was approached by Private Cartwright. “Sir, Can you have a word with the Major? I’d really like to go over the top with my mates, tomorrow, sir.”

“You were a member of the Broughton Harriers, weren’t you?” asked Everson.

Cartwright nodded reluctantly.

“That’s why you’re needed as a runner to the Battalion. I need you to watch our backs. D’you understand? If the lines go down — and they will, your speed could save the company. I’m counting on you, Cartwright.”

“Sir,” said Cartwright heavily.

Everson mounted the steps up to the trench. Both he and Cartwright knew he hadn’t being doing him a favour. Being a runner was a very hazardous occupation. He felt himself sinking into a distinctly black mood.

“At last. My first action old man. Bally good show. I’ve been waiting to give old Hun what for, eh?” Morgan was saying to others at the top of the steps.

“Oh yes, old thing. Give the Hun what for, hmm?” agreed Jeffries, but the twitch of a sneer at the corner of his lips betrayed his condescension.

“God help his men,” said Everson, half to himself, as he watched him go.

“Oh I shouldn’t think so, John. I shouldn’t think so for one moment,” said Jeffries. “In fact I should think that’s the last we’ll see of Morgan.”

Everson looked at Jeffries in disbelief and shook his head.

They set off up High Street together, Everson slightly ahead as the way wasn’t quite wide enough for two-abreast.

“I didn’t see you at church parade this morning, Gilbert,” said Everson. “All Hallows’ Eve, you know.”

“I don’t require a third party to intercede with my god on my behalf, Everson.”

“Ah, Presbyterian, eh? Say no more.”

Jeffries just smiled.

Everson was about to say something when a familiar screech made him look up.

“Whizz-Bang!”

Everson shoved Jeffries down Garland Avenue, a foul-smelling latrine sap, to take cover against the wall. A second later there was an almighty explosion. They felt the concussion wave through their backs as they were showered with soil and mud.

There was a brief silence before the cries and wails began. Everson got up and brushed the dirt off his uniform. Smoke and dust rose over what was left of the sandbag parapet above his head. His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, then he stepped round the corner into the chaos.

A soldier, blood streaming down his face, ran blindly past, screaming, almost knocking him over. Everson walked up the communications trench towards the sound of pitiful squeals and gruff shouts.

“Gilbert, there’s men hurt down here,” he called back. Jeffries sauntered out to join him. They rounded the corner of the traverse to a scene of devastation. The shell had burst in the trench, taking out a dugout, burying the men below. Severed limbs lay on the ground and slick red offal steamed in the mud.

Everson saw a soldier walking around unsteadily. He grabbed the fellow by the shoulder. “How many?” The man wheeled round and stared through him, eyes wild and rolling like a cow that had smelt the abattoir. Everson could see no blood, no injuries, but the vacant expression in the eyes told a different story if you cared enough to look. “How many? How many in the dugout?”

“Nine, ten. I only stepped out for a fag. Harris’s talk was getting on me wick. I only stepped out for a fag,” his gaze focused on Everson as if remembering where he was. “You got to help ’em, sir. You got to get ’em out.”

“And we will do. Now get some entrenching tools and we’ll need wood for levers and bracing. You there,” he said, his eyes alighting on another Tommy. “Get back to the support trenches and muster up a rescue party. We won’t have much time.”

“Why bother?” said Jeffries. “They’ll be dead before they can dig them out. Might as we’ll just wait for the trench repair party. This whole section will have to be repaired overnight anyway. It’ll be needed tomorrow.”

“Damn it, Gilbert. There’s still hope we’ll find some alive.”

“Sir!” Several men digging with their entrenching spades called him over. A hand protruded from the mud. Everson brushed the dirt from it and clasped it gently by the wrist. There was a pulse; weak and thready.

“He’s alive. Quickly, but carefully.”

The men nodded and resumed their task, excavating the body. He wished he could join them but that wasn’t his role. They looked to him for leadership. It was his job to stand back, take in the chaos before him and shape it into order.

“Everson!” called Jeffries. He was holding up a wounded, insensate man whose face was covered with blood; a ragged wound in his side. “He can’t wait for stretcher bearers. I’m going get him to the Regimental Aid Post. Can you carry on here?”

Everson nodded curtly and watched as Jeffries, staggering slightly under the weight of the semi-conscious soldier, started off down the trench.

JEFFRIES HALF WALKED, half dragged the man down the communications trench. The Tommy’s hold on consciousness was tenuous. They came to a T-junction in the communications trench. A left turn would take them to the Regimental Aid post, where the Medical Officer could see to his charge and take him off his hands.