Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“Must be. Anything in sight behind or to the west?”

“Nothing, sir. Best you keep your head down, sir. Going to cut loose with that machine gun any minute, aren’t they, sir.”

“I must see what’s happening, Sergeant.”

“No losses for us yet, sir. No sense you being first.”

Richard laughed and ran forwards to the hedge where he knelt with just his head showing.

The machine gun fired, traversing the line of the hedgerow, a little high as if expecting men to be standing or kneeling behind it, unaware of the sunken lane protecting them. Richard hunched down, appreciating for the first time just what the gun could do.

“Fires as many rounds in a minute as a whole platoon, Sergeant.”

“Lucky they only got one with ‘em, sir.”

“Right… Who’s our best shot, Sergeant?”

“Pickford, sir.”

Richard yelled for Pickford to come to him.

“You see where the machine gun is, Pickford?”

“Hidden up behind that thick bit of hedge, the blackthorn, sir. Just the muzzle poking out a bit.”

“Right. Get a line on it. Lay up in cover yourself. As soon as you’re ready, try to get its crew. Fill that blackthorn with bullets. Off you go now. Fire at will.”

Pickford crawled a few yards along the bank, found a comfortable place to lie up and opened fire with individual aimed rounds.

“They’re coming again, sir!”

Richard inflated his chest.

“Ten rounds rapid… Fire!”

The machine gun gave cover for the attacking line, for a few seconds that hit half a dozen riflemen. It ceased fire, the muzzle rising into the air as if a gunner had fallen over the breech.

The attack continued, the German infantry falling in swathes under the aimed and fast rifle fire. The nearest came within five yards of the hedge, close enough for Richard to use his revolver, firing repeatedly and finally hitting with his last round.

“Best you ought to carry a rifle next time, sir. There will be spares. The officers all did in the Boer War, because of them Boers picking off any man with a revolver. They could hit at half a mile, them Boers.”

Richard punched the empty brass out of the cylinder and reloaded and nodded.

“What’s it like along the line, Sergeant?”

“They ain’t made it across as far as I can see, sir. None of them to the west yet. They ain’t behind us, either.”

“Get me a count on the wounded. How do we stand for ammunition?”

“Down to half in the pouches, sir, almost for sure. Rapid fire uses up the rounds, sir.”

“Kills Fritz as well, Sergeant. What’s that to the front?”

There was a pole sticking up over the opposite hedge, a bit of rag being waved.

“White flag, sir. They probably want to get their wounded in.”

“Half an hour truce, sort of thing?”

“Colonel will give them a couple of hours, sir. Time for our wagons to catch up with the rations and ammo, sir.”

“That makes sense. Get me a list of the injured and the dead when they give us time.”

Five minutes saw a runner from the colonel calling truce till midday, the better part of five hours.

“Well thought, Sergeant Grace! I am going to speak to Captain Platt.”

“I want you to act as second to the whole company, Baker. Smithers has been sent back under the escort of the walking wounded. He is under arrest and Colonel Braithwaite has agreed that he must face a court. Have you men to go back?”

“Seven men hit, sir. Three of them dead – head wounds, looked up to see what was making all the noise when the machine gun fired. One serious, sir – in the chest and bubbling, Sergeant Grace says.”

“Means he has been shot through the lung, Baker. Not much hope for him.”

“Three with minor cuts and bruises, sir. Where the gun hit the thick trunks and branches in the hedge it sent splinters in a shower. They hurt but they say they can still handle a rifle.”

“Good men. Make sure the colonel hears their names – that’s the sort who makes lance-corporal quickly.”

“Sir. Seven from thirty-eight sir. How did the other half do?”

“Six and Smithers. Four dead, two walking. Twelve walking from the whole battalion, gone back already. Not very pleased at having to do escort duty.”

“Why, sir? It does not sound good, sir.”

“He broke. Sneaked away and hid, face down, behind the back hedge. He was weeping, the men who found him said.”

Richard showed his horror, somewhat exaggerated.

“Oh! Well, that’s the end of him, sir. I had thought he was young and needed to be shown the way to go on, but that’s cowardice!”

“It is. I cannot think that his court will show him mercy. Shocking thing in any man, disgusting in an officer!”

“Well said, sir. Does us Territorials no favours, sir – tars us with the same brush in the eyes of many, I don’t doubt.”

“Not in my eyes, Baker, and I have made sure the colonel knows your worth.”

“Thank you, sir. Ammunition, sir, and rations – any sign of them coming up?”

“The wagons are due in soon – they are no more than a mile off. Got lost in the night, it would seem. You will have ammunition before the ceasefire ends.”

“It will be needed, sir. Most of my men have expended thirty rounds already. My sergeant tells me I should carry a rifle, sir. He says they did so in the Boer War.”

“Mine is over by my bedroll, Baker. Definitely!”

“Damned revolver’s not a lot of use, sir. Took me six rounds to hit a Fritz not ten feet from me!”

Captain Platt laughed.

“You got him, that’s what counts, Baker! A damned sight better than Smithers did!”

“I would hope not to be compared with him, sir.”

“You won’t be!”

It was all very well, Richard mused, but he would have to be seen to shoot his man during every attack. It was asking a lot of his luck.

Sergeant Grace was waiting when he returned.

“Corporal Ekins, sir, had one of his lads, Private Fisher, climb a tree.”

“Good idea! What did he see?”

“He reckons there’s the better part of six battalions lining up opposite us, sir, in their separate blocks. And there’s a battery of field guns dropping their trails. He saw machine guns as well, sir, one to each battalion and being brought up to the hedge. He had a look behind as well, sir, and there ain’t nothing coming up to us, except the battalion wagons. No more men, sir. The battalion’s on its own.”

“Take him across to Captain Platt, Sergeant. Better give the information first-hand.”

Richard called Pickford to him.

“You did well, Pickford. I shall make sure the colonel hears your name. When they come again, I want you to do the same thing. Pick out machine gunners if you can, and officers – anyone who stands out.”

Pickford nodded quietly – he could do that.

Sergeant Grace returned, alone.

“Captain Platt’s taken Fisher to tell the colonel what he saw, sir.”

“Good. What’s the land like behind us?”

“Bit more open, sir, but there’s hedges and ditches enough.”

Neither said the word ‘retreat’, but odds of more than six to one were not encouraging.

“If so be, sir, we have to take up, shall we say, a more advantageous position, then best to send Corporal Ekins first to get set up to cover the others?”

“I don’t like the idea of running, Sergeant Grace.”

“No more do I, sir. May not be a lot of choice, sir.”

“Lieutenant Smithers has been sent back under arrest.”

“So I was told, sir… Don’t mean that all Terriers are bad, sir. No need for you to get yourself killed just to show you ain’t chicken!”

Richard had been thinking, considering an appropriate gesture, one that would show the difference between him and Smithers.