Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“Check your sidearm, sir. Make sure it’s loaded and with one under the hammer today.”

Normal practice was to load with five rounds, the chamber under the hammer empty, for safety.

Richard obeyed, conscious that his heart was beating faster and his belly felt queasy. He recognised the physical symptoms of fear – St Vincent had steamed through the edges of a hurricane once and he had noticed the same then as the big ship was thrown around like a rowing boat. It did not matter – he was not much of an officer, but he was not about to run away or scream in terror.

He walked across to the nearest hedgerow, saw Corporal Abbott with his platoon.

“Ready for trade, Abbott? Feels like we might earn our pay this morning. Sights for a hundred yards, I would think.”

“All set, sir. Ten rounds rapid will do Fritz no end of good, sir.”

“Keep the fire aimed, Abbott – same as you did on the range.”

“Got me marksman’s badge, sir. I’ll show old Von Kluck what that means!”

A voice from the darkness called out the watchword of the BEF.

“We don’t give a fuck for old Von Kluck!”

“Language, lads! Not what we want to hear from English gentlemen!”

There was a short laugh from those in hearing distance – the colonel strongly disapproved of the slogan, always in the same words.

Richard walked on, Sergeant Grace at his side, covered the fifty yards of hedge and bank facing north east where the bulk of the half company lay and paced the rough barricade they had thrown up along the ten yards to the southern side of the lane, which was wide enough to drive a herd of cattle. There were just four men in the hedge, widely spaced and looking south.

“All well?”

“Watching for ‘em, sir!”

“Good men.”

Corporal Ekins was holding the woods; again, the bulk of his men were on the northeast face.

“Open fire when you have a clear target, Ekins. They might come in from the west.”

“Watching out, sir. Nothing to worry about, sir.”

The hot bacon sandwiches arrived, carried in buckets for lack of serving trays and dripping grease from the thick wodges of toasted bread. Richard took one, trying to hold it clear of his uniform, leaning forward to eat. He made his way to the right of the half company, expecting to find Captain Platt towards the middle.

“What’s that you’ve got, Baker?”

“Toasted bacon sandwiches, sir. Hot and greasy and tasty at this time of day.”

“Well done to organise them for your men.”

“Sergeant Grace, sir, not me.”

Captain Platt ignored the disclaimer, regarding it as yet more evidence that Richard was a good officer, one who encouraged his NCOs.

“I’m afraid young Smithers did not think to do the same for his people. A few tins of bully, eaten cold, and that’s their lot for breakfast.”

Richard said nothing, looked about in the pre-dawn darkness for the young officer.

“Inspecting the men, I hope. Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Sergeant Brewer, where is Mr Smithers?”

The regular sergeant made a show of looking about him before shaking his head.

A loud whisper came from behind, one of the men pretending to speak to the sergeant without being heard by the officers.

“ Still in ‘is pit, ain’t ‘e, Sarge. Over by the bottom ‘edge. ”

“God damn it! Wake him up, Sergeant Brewer!”

Brewer ran and ‘accidentally’ stumbled over his officer’s feet in the dark, was heard making profuse apologies, saying that he had not expected to find anybody still lying down.

“I’ll get back to my people, sir.”

“Do that, Baker. I shall be busy with this half company. I think Mr Smithers is surplus to requirements as of now, Baker.”

“With respect, sir, can you give him the chance to redeem himself? He is young still and might be able to do better.”

“I’ll not send him back until the end of the morning. If we do see action, he will have the opportunity to show willing. Good of you to care for him - he’s one of your people, I suppose - but I think you are wasting your time, Baker.”

Richard turned away, wondering why he had made the show of being concerned for Smithers, who was, when all was said and done, a bit of a tit. It had done him no harm in Platt’s eyes, which probably made it worthwhile. If Platt took action against Smithers he would have to tell the Colonel and would mention that Baker had done all he could to help the young man.

If Sergeant Grace was right, there was a chance of rapid promotion – he must look out for himself and seeming concerned for his juniors was a way of showing up well. So was being prominent in a fight, he suspected; it was not impossible that the Third Bedfordshires was about to gain a home-grown hero, provided the risks were not too excessive. His father might have to think twice about the inheritance if he showed really well in the newspapers… A photograph in the local rag and a Mention in Despatches must do him some good.

There was light in the east, before dawn as yet but the first glimmerings allowing some visibility. There was a call from Abbott.

“Can see something moving, sir. Off to the right, other side of the field, look. Where the gate is.”

Richard peered. There was definitely something over there.

“Ready, men! Silently still! Keep low. No lights!”

“Infantry, sir. They got one of they machine guns setting up, sir.”

“Corporal Abbott, your platoon to fire on the gun. Can you all see it? Aim…Ten rounds rapid, fire!”

More than two hundred rifle bullets in the space of thirty seconds, aimed fire from trained men. The Territorials had spent their hours on the range and were capable shots using a rifle that was one of the best of its day. The crew of the machine gun fell and the men immediately behind went down as well.

“Cease fire. Reload.”

Firing spread along the length of the hedgerow held by the Bedfords, was returned sporadically.

“Not expecting that, was they, sir. They reckoned they was going to take us by surprise, wasn’t ready for us to start up first. Not got no guns with ‘em, sir, except they machine guns.”

“Right, Sergeant Grace. Tell the men they can light their gaspers, if they want. No need to hide ourselves now.”

Three quarters of the men lit their Woodbines; most of the rest sucked at pipes. Almost all smoked, Richard had noticed.

“Fancy a John Player, sir?”

Players were a more expensive brand, supposedly a smoother smoke.

Richard shook his head.

“Haven’t picked up the vice yet, Sergeant.”

“I hadn’t, first time I come under fire, sir. I did straight after!”

Richard laughed, suspected that, as so often, his sergeant would be right.

“Fritz is moving, by the looks of it, Sergeant. Behind the hedge, do you see, at that thinner bit?”

“Looks like they’re forming a line, sir… Going to climb over the hedge and come at us, sir. Bloody daft, they must be!”

“Wait till they start climbing or pushing through, Sergeant, or fire into the hedge first?”

“Let ‘em get a man over, sir. Probably be two or three lines, sir. Kill the first one in sight and then get as many of the buggers behind as can be while they make their minds up which way to go, forward or back again. They’re shoulder to shoulder, sir. Hell of a lot of ‘em!”

“Take aim! Wait… On my word, five rounds, aimed fire… Shoot!”

The naval command came from old habit.

The first line of Germans melted under the twenty seconds of sustained fire; the second fell back, those men not hit going to ground.

“They got their machine gun back, sir. Pulled it back while we was busy. Got to be a hundred of their men down, sir.”