Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

Two nights later, a bit before two in the morning, he led a party of a dozen through the wire in front of their line, using the switchback pathways left for their own use when they needed to mend or expand the apron. The gaps in the wire were wide enough for one man and meandered through a hundred yards right and left to cross the thirty yards in front of the trench. They could not be spotted and infiltrated at night other than by the luckiest of chances, offered no risk of letting the Germans through.

They walked silently in single file, brasses blackened and all personal equipment tied tight so that they would make no noise as they walked forward, carefully out of step.

Each man carried a bag of Mills Bombs over his shoulder.

Richard consulted his compass and directed the men out in twos to make a line outside the German wire at its narrowest points where soft ground or a watercourse or a group of shell craters forced it back towards their defences.

He went out last, Paisley at his shoulder, came to his own pre-selected spot, or so he hoped. He knelt, eyes fixed on the luminous dial of his watch, waiting on the slow second hand to reach the exact minute set. Observation suggested that the Germans changed sentries every two hours through the night, exactly on the even hour.

“Now!”

He spoke in a whisper – the men would react to the first explosion rather than to a shouted command.

Paisley pulled the pin on the grenade he was holding and lobbed it towards the trench, taking another out of the bag in front of him. The light of the first explosion showed him an over. He tossed the next and six more in succession, landing at least two directly in the trench. A machine gun began to fire on fixed lines, close to them. They had mapped all of the machine guns they could locate, knew where to throw the next bombs.

Richard took out his whistle, waited for the second minute of the action to come to an end, sounded the recall. He and Paisley dropped low, scurried back, bent over all the way, occasional bursts of fire passing just over their heads in the darkness.

They had marked the exit to the pathway with a scrap of white rag, tied at ground level. The pair knelt there, counting the men in. Four pairs and one single.

“Jones Two, sir, stood up to throw a bomb over where ‘e saw a bit of light. Machine gun got ‘im, sir. Dead, sir. Right through ‘is face and knocked the top of ‘is ‘ead off!”

“Thank you, Private Errigo.”

One of the sons of the many Italian immigrants to the boot and shoe factories around Bedford, Errigo was English in everything but name. He intended to become a policeman after the war, he had said. A new man in, he was already on the list for promotion, would get his first stripe in the morning. He was pleased to be recognised, to have his name remembered.

The eleven remaining of the party gathered outside Richard’s dugout, a tot of rum in hand.

“Well done all, a successful evening and only one man lost. Did any of you see anything of interest?”

Ten headshakes, one hand rising.

“Who is that, Bass, is it?”

“Yes, sir. I did see summat over by the machine gun nest what was on the side of us…” Bass looked down at his hands still not entirely certain of left and right. He wore a wedding ring on the left hand. “To the left, so it were, sir, mebbe ten yards from the old gun. Sort of upright, so it were, sir, a gun barrel, real thick it were, as big round as me, most like. One of they mortars, so I reckons, sir, and new put in place acos of there was men a-working round it.”

Bass was a Wiltshire man, had joined the battalion in Devizes after hearing of his younger brother’s death aboard Good Hope.

“Right, well seen, Bass. I will put that on my map.”

“It ain’t there no more, sir, for old Plowright and me throwin’ a couple of they bombs apiece at it. Old Plowright ‘ere, ‘e tossed one what landed right inside the barrel, sir.”

“Well done, both of you. Anything else?”

Nothing was offered.

“Right! Drink up and get some sleep in. I’ll do the same, after writing up the report.”

Richard ducked into his own space, made a show of sitting to his desk.

“Was it worth it, Paisley? Lost one man, threw a hundred bombs, thereabouts. Damaged or destroyed a big minenwerfer and two or three machine guns. Killed a few men. Pretty much pointless, when you look at it.”

“All the officers and most of the blokes will be wanting to go out on the next one, sir. Bit of a laugh, ain’t it, waking the Huns up with Mills Bombs about their earholes! They ain’t going to sleep easy these next few nights, that’s for sure.”

Brigadier Braithwaite agreed. He was much in favour of demonstrating the offensive spirit, said so at some length over the telephone.

“Thing is though, Baker, it’s not the sort of thing for you to be doing, not in person. I know there’s nothing you like better than getting into the Hun, but you are not to be risking your neck in these little affairs. Leave them to your subalterns – give them a chance to get some blood on their hands! I shall send the report up the line, give Division something to tell Corps to prove they are busy. Let Haig know that we are fighting this war. He comes in on the 15 th, by the way. Day after tomorrow. Your boy Michaels has his MC at last. Took them long enough!”

“Well deserved, sir. I have made him up, acting, as lieutenant.”

“I’ll send through his permanence, Baker. He needs to be looked after – got the right sort of stuff in him. Getting back to you, an order, Baker! You are not to go out on any more of these bombing raids. You have done one, to see if it was possible. You have found that it works, now don’t do it again! You are far too valuable to be killed in a minor sort of bickering. I shall need you next year when we have made the breakthrough with the New Army.”

“Right, sir. I shall be good. It does get tedious, sir, sat here a quarter of a mile from the Hun and unable to get my hands round their necks!”

Braithwaite responded appropriately, telling him to calm his fire eating instincts. A few months and he would get all of the blood he wanted.

“For the while, behave yourself, and remember that pretty little girl who is waiting at home for you. She will not want to put on black for you, Baker!”

“I hope to marry next leave, sir. Provided one comes through that is long enough.”

“In the New Year if our plans work out. We shall see, Baker.”

Braithwaite managed to sound mysterious, no doubt intentionally.

As Paisley had predicted, Haig took over command of the BEF on December 15 thand the battalion went into reserve that afternoon. Their attitude made it clear which was the more important.

Richard stood at Hawkeswill’s side and listened to the queue of men at the delousing station, moaning as they stripped and threw their uniforms to the last stitch onto a heap outside the doors. They had been forewarned, had put all personal possessions and their all-important paybooks into the safekeeping provided and guarded by a pair of Provosts.

“First time I heard of they bastards doing something useful.”

He heard the same words a dozen times over as the men complained about standing out in the cold.

“Bloody well ‘urry up! Freezing me knackers off out ‘ere!”

The system was surprisingly efficient in fact, the men waiting a very short time before entering hot showers, water under pressure beating down on them as they lathered up the ‘medicated’ soap and shampoo, both reeking of carbolic, and scrubbed themselves clean. Most took advantage of the razors provided and shaved their heads to the barest stubble, clearing out the lice the easy way. A few of the vain persevered with nit combs, scraping the eggs out of their hair.