Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

There were ships waiting at Southampton, all as planned by Division. The 8 thBeds left the train at quayside and marched up the gangway to their trooper and watched as stevedores unloaded the freight wagons into nets and quickly transferred them to the holds. Two batteries of eighteen pounders were being loaded with their horses onto a smaller freighter along the quay and they could see other battalions of infantry marching aboard converted passenger liners.

A glance over the other railing showed a light cruiser and four destroyers waiting to act as escort. There was a shout and a general pointing of hands as a Royal Naval Air Service dirigible appeared and slowly flew along Southampton Water, adding to their safety at sea.

“We are honoured, sir. The RNAS has only four operating balloons at the moment, so I read. Nothing to do other than read for the weeks coming back to England. The article said that they are developing smaller blimps for submarine work in the Channel. Useful!”

It occurred to Richard that he might prefer not to be sunk en route to France. The Navy was being efficient, it seemed, and the prospect of disaster was slight.

Food aboard was Spartan – biscuit and bully beef – but the passage was brief, completed overnight, entering Calais harbour before six in the morning. They were offloaded and marching out to a holding camp before midday, pleased by the efficiency shown – this was not the Army of ’14, improvising and only too often cocking up.

“Looks like the Staff are good for something, Major. A pleasant surprise!”

“More like to be the Royal Engineers, sir. They tend to be efficient in my experience. What is the plan for the next few days, sir?”

“Damned good question, Major. I am aware that we are to arrive in France and have little doubt that we shall be employed somewhere. General Fotherby will no doubt know more than me.”

They ate at the holding camp – a mass of tents and wagon parks behind a wire fence with a huge cookhouse permanently dishing out meals to the flow of men coming in and out. The food was awful.

“Mutton stew! Tells us we are back in France, Vokes!”

The Major was not impressed.

“We ate better than this in India, sir. Even Army curry is better than this.”

“France, the home of cuisine, they tell me. One would never know. Is that a messenger coming our way?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt he is to tell us that we will have bellyache this afternoon.”

The note was handed across and the messenger, a military policeman, stamped to attention.

“Beg pardon, sir. Please to sign the attached receipt, sir.”

Major Vokes scribbled his name and dismissed the man. He read the message and passed it across to Richard.

“Motor transport at Number Five Gate for fifteen hundred hours, sir, for the battalion. To take us into Artois, to join General Gough’s First Corps near Cambrin.”

“New territory for me, Vokes. Find out where Five Gate is, if you would. Where’s the Adjutant?”

A prolonged search found Captain Hawkeswill arranging officers’ accommodation for the night and bewailing the poor quality of the Mess. On being informed that they were on the move he was most upset, thinking they had travelled quite far enough for one day.

“It’s war, Captain! Please ensure that each company is aware of the order and point them to Five Gate, allocating each to transport. We will not require the tents, it would seem. They can go to Division. Ensure that all other stores remain with us.”

Hawkeswill ran; he had shown actually afraid of Richard since he had, in his opinion, driven poor Templeton to his grave.

“I think you will have to double-check, Major Vokes.”

Vokes shrugged.

“He is getting better, sir. Too old to learn new habits, perhaps, but he was a useful officer ten years ago and is remembering the fact now.”

They boarded the familiar red double-decker buses, most of them the worse for wear after their hard service since the Battle of the Marne, and rattled off to the front, the green soldiers singing and cheering at first and then growing suddenly quiet as they entered the devastation of the rear areas, as farmland turned to broken waste in the space of half a mile.

“8 thBeds? Colonel Baker?”

A harassed staff officer carrying a clipboard ran across to Richard.

“You are required to take over your section of the trenches with immediate effect, sir. There was a local advance yesterday, the Hun attempting to turf us out of a salient which narrows no-man’s-land to a bare eighty yards. They don’t like us so close to them, it would seem!”

The last comment appeared to be a joke, in the staff officer’s estimation. It fell flat.

“Yes, well… They failed to dislodge us. Casualties were rather high and it is judged best to relieve the battalion of Norfolks that had the line. After dark, tonight.”

“Certainly, Captain. That should be no problem. What arrangements have you made for feeding the men while we remain here?”

Nothing had been done regarding food.

“Well, it is seventeen hundred hours now. I am sure you can come up with something in the next hour. Eight hundred and fifty of us, officers and men. By eighteen hundred hours, captain?”

The staff officer ran. Richard turned to Major Vokes.

“The Norfolks won’t be eating much tonight, from the sound of it. Probably half of their meals will be spare. Arrange for an issue from our own reserve stores, Major, to make up the portions.”

“Bully beef will be better than that bloody mutton stew they dished up at the holding camp, sir!”

“Get used to it – that was typical of the stuff that comes up to us. Word is that they are supplying fresh bread and bottles of jam as extras from this month. The bread will be stale and the jam will taste like crap, no doubt!”

“I say, sir!”

Major Vokes was upset by such vulgarity, being used to the Victorian habits of the Indian Army.

“Captain Hawkeswill!”

The Adjutant came running.

“Organise tea for the men while we are waiting, please.”

Hawkeswill ran in the direction of a cookhouse he had spotted earlier, pleased with his forethought. The men were dipping their mugs into tea buckets inside twenty minutes, most of them pleased for something hot and only a few cavilling at the flavour. The officers were less pleased but mostly accepted the hardships of war. Richard heard Wincanton’s voice raised in protest, heard a sharp response from another young gentleman.

“Do shut up, Wincanton! You are a complete tit, you know!”

Richard was quite pleased to discover that his contemporaries shared his own opinion of Wincanton’s merits.

A little more than an hour and the battalion was queuing outside a vast mess tent, eating five companies at a time, their plates heaped with real meat and cabbage and boiled potatoes.

“General Gough insists, sir. He won’t tolerate lukewarm mutton stew, sir.”

A cookhouse sergeant saluted as he explained and called the officers to a smaller tent.

“Same food for officers, sir. It ain’t the best but it’s as good as we can do with a field kitchen, sir. Given the stuff to cook, we can turn out a meal, sir.”

“What’s like up in the trenches, Sergeant?”

“Same grub, sir, but two hours colder. Can’t do nothing about that, sir.”

They marched to the line in darkness, using a hard road, newly surfaced with crushed limestone and just visible. The Norfolks pulled out, company by company, attenuated parties of twenty or thirty being replaced by groups of eighty officers and men.

“Lost two thirds by the looks of it, sir.”

“Worn down over a few months and then big losses last night, Major. We came out of Neuve Chapelle in the same condition. Be sure that the men have their picks and shovels. There’s likely to be some digging tonight. Must have been some shell fire yesterday.”