Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

That was too much for Hawkeswill’s nascent independence of thought. He made no reply.

A whistle blew further along their section of trench and a company opened rapid fire. Richard inched his head over the lip of the trench, together with every other unengaged officer. The shouts of ‘ready’ spread all along their line. Their two Vickers began to fire, emptying full belts in sustained bursts. A few more seconds and every company opened fire, followed by the Lewis Guns.

Richard watched as the first wave of attackers dropped to a man. They were shoulder to shoulder, marching faster than the pace the British used, going down under the sustained rifle fire. Second, third, fourth lines appeared and fell, none closer than fifty yards. A few men burrowed into the mass of corpses and began to return fire. The machine guns raked over the pile of bodies, ferreting out the brave few. Fire petered out for lack of a target.

“Runner! Get back to Brigade. We need two hundred thousand rounds of three-o-three within the hour. Another one half of a million at nightfall.”

“Yes, sir. Two ‘undred thou’ jildi, ‘alf a million tonight.”

Richard wondered in passing how the boy had picked up the army slang, an Indian word, in three weeks away from his home posting.

“Hawkeswill, have much have we left to hand?”

“We sent fifty thousand extra to each company, sir, you will remember. They should have forty thousand of that left, sir. That was twelve minutes of rapid fire, sir. Probably one hundred and fifty rounds a man. Never seen the match of that, sir. remarkable performance! Their barrels will be burning hot. Need replacement Emilys, sir. Some of the older ones will have worn past reasonable use after that.”

Richard was familiar with the nickname for the rifle, nodded agreement.

“What have you got in store?”

That was a question never normally to be asked of an adjutant. If he was competent, he would have amassed far more than the legal issue of everything important. The wise colonel never asked, did not want to know. Hawkeswill was properly evasive.

“I can find some, sir.”

“Good. Get your people to discover how many are needed in each company. I suspect we may have to face more of these advances.”

“Not immediately, sir. That’s a white flag to our front.”

“Surrender?” Richard was incredulous.

“No, sir. Temporary truce to pull their wounded in. They will ask for an hour, I expect. Demand two. It will give us time to get ourselves together.”

“Right. How do I respond?”

“Put up our own flag, sir. Then walk out and talk to their man. Take your orderly with you. Never go unaccompanied.”

“I don’t speak German.”

“Their problem. They asked for the truce, they must find an English speaker.”

It was sometimes useful to have an experienced man who knew the rules.

Paisley provided a towel dangling from a broken piece of timber, a split door frame from a bunker by the look of it.

Richard pulled himself over the lip of the trench, marched slowly forward, Paisley tight to his shoulder. A German officer appeared, his orderly carrying a proper flag, dangling from a varnished pole.

“Ready for anything, it seems, Paisley.”

They stopped two yards distant from each other.

Richard stayed silent – the Germans had asked for the truce, it was up to them to speak first.

“Captain Mueller, 2 ndBavarian Jager Battalion.”

“Colonel Baker, 8 thBedfordshires.”

“There are many wounded here, fallen to your machine guns. We did not know you had so many.”

“We do not. Trained riflemen, sir. How long do you require to recover your casualties?”

“There are so many… Two hours, perhaps?”

“Better you should take the rest of the day, Captain. You do not want to drag wounded men about in a hurry. Till four o’clock, Greenwich Mean Time?”

“We use Berlin time. What is your hour now?”

They compared watches, agreed on the precise time for the suspension of hostilities.

“We are not permitted to make local truces, Colonel.”

“Neither are we, Captain.”

They exchanged a smile.

“That is your Victoria Cross, is it not, Colonel Baker?”

“It is, Captain. Awarded last November.”

“The bridge and then the fight all the way back to the slag heaps? I read of it in the Swiss newspapers that come to Germany. My respects, sir.”

They exchanged salutes and parted.

“Find me a runner, please, Hawkeswill. I must inform Brigade.”

“The artillery must be told not to fire – not that that matters, sir – they would miss anyway.”

“Till four o’clock.”

“Oh, that’s useful, sir. I will run our wounded back and have the bearers pick up stores on their return.”

They watched as the German orderlies picked over the piles of bodies, trying to be respectful yet having to haul them out of the windrows they had fallen in, tossing the dead to one side to rescue the living.

“We must have killed two thousand, sir.”

“Not so many surely, Vokes!”

“Like hay before a mower, sir. Never seen the like of it. Take a count now, sir. From the line to the leftmost bunker across to the second, which is directly in front of us. That’s about a quarter of them. So many I have to check them off in tens… Forty tens, sir. Four hundred. Their stretchers are taking off the wounded… Never seen the like, sir. Must be ten dead to one wounded. It ought to be the other way round. Never seen men stand up in the open to be shot before. Unbelievable!”

“Sixteen hundred dead, you estimate, and about one hundred and fifty taken off on stretchers?”

“That’s my count, sir.”

“I shall put that in the report. Two full size battalions destroyed in fifteen minutes of sustained fire. God help us if we are ever ordered to march across open land without a successful barrage in the other direction, Vokes.”

Brigade responded in mid-afternoon with a reminder that it was in breach of Army Regulations to call a local truce. No action was proposed.

Ammunition and replacement rifles began to appear, brought all the way to the front on muleback because there was a truce and it was safe.

Richard was called to the rear, found Braithwaite there together with Major General Fotherby.

“Shouldn’t have accepted a truce, Baker. Very wrong. What’s done is done. No point fussing about it now. What are the chances of an advance, Baker?”

“Given artillery support, sir, it could be done. Big howitzers to batter the bunkers down and two hours of HE from four batteries of sixty pounders to take out the wire. We could then push as far as the bunkers and see what was feasible next, sir. The bunkers are the key. While they remain intact, we cannot move. One of my boys, young Second Lieutenant Michaels, did very well in bombing two bunkers and a pompom. Can’t be done again – they have wire up and are alert for bombing parties.”

“No rounds for the big guns, Baker. All have been expended. No more until the New Year.”

General Fotherby was regretful, accepted they could go no further.

“Done as well as most and better than many, Baker. We have wire. I will get it across to your rear.”

“Thank you, sir. Extra machine guns would be useful. We have two Vickers, could make use of eight more.”

“Eventually, no doubt, Baker. For the moment, no. HQ is concerned that machine guns use up too much ammunition. Battalions should be encouraged to fire them less often and in shorter bursts.”

“What war are they fighting, sir?”

“The important one – in Whitehall, where money is more important than blood. The victor will receive his earldom. Far more important than winning the war. Forget I said that, by the way, Baker.”