Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

“To an extent. More likely they are in a panic to get more men up to the sharp end. The chances are that we shall be marching to the fighting before nightfall.”

Calais bore out Richard’s prediction. No sooner were the three officers from first class reunited with the draft than a redcap came running up, saluting as he took in Richard’s chest.

“Sir! What unit, sir?”

“D Company 3 rdBeds, draft from the depot.”

The redcap glanced at his movement sheet on the clipboard he carried.

“Very good, sir. Transport is waiting, sir. The battalion marched day before yesterday and you are to catch up with them. This way, sir.”

Four hours later they were pushed out of their steam lorries at a chaotic camp southwest of Ypres.

“3 rdBeds? Follow the guide, sir. About five miles.”

They marched down muddy lanes, breaking up under the passage of heavy guns and ration wagons, conscious of a growing noise to the north and east, a rumble of gunfire over the unceasing rattle of small arms. At intervals the draft was forced onto the crumbling verge by horse-drawn ambulances crawling in the opposite direction. Once they stopped for a party of walking wounded, covered in mud, the only clean part of them the fresh, brightly stained bandages.

Two hours and they came to a stretch of woodland and the headquarters company, a party of a bare two dozen and four officers, including Colonel Braithwaite.

“Welcome back, Baker! You have made good time. The remainder of the company is holding the trenches we have scraped out along the hill. You should join them as soon as possible. Push your front out a hundred yards to your left. E Company has an over-sized stretch to cover at the moment. You are to hold, come what may. Off you go.”

From the edge of the copse it was possible to get a feeling for the ground they were occupying. There was a low hill to the front, little more than an easy slope of a hundred feet, less perhaps, and running more or less north-south. He could see a shallow trench following the crest, men just visible, brown against the mud. To the immediate front was a field battery, small guns, howitzers of some sort, Richard did not know what they were; they were firing rapidly, throwing shells over the hill as fast as they could load them.

“Up the hill, gentlemen! Sergeant Painter, to the left and find E Company and then take the trench from their right. Go.”

The trench, so-called, was at most four feet deep, the earth still fresh and raw; it had been dug in a hurry overnight, was no more than a long hole in the ground.

“Presteigne, make contact with E Company on the left, tell them we have eighty men and work out how much of the trench is ours and then set men out in two platoons under their corporals. I shall organise them further when we have time. Willoughby, go right, find who our neighbours are and establish where our line ends. I shall find Sergeant Grace, who is our senior. At some point you will find Corporals Ekins and Abbott taking men for their platoons and extending their section of the trench. And keep your heads down!”

The pair scuttled off and Richard ran forward and proceeded to disobey his own order by jumping into the trench and then looking out over the crest.

There was a valley about a furlong wide with a shallow stream down its centre and a slightly higher hill on the other side. The bottomland was full of German infantry, trying to push forward. A guess said a full brigade attempting to march through the mud and across the watercourse. They seemed to be concentrating towards Richard’s position, where there had been fewer riflemen opposing them.

D Company was immediately behind him, jumping into the trench and settling down.

“Up! Rapid aimed fire! Sights to one hundred yards! Fire!”

Sergeant Grace appeared from his right.

“Sir!”

“Sixty-one men for the Company, Sergeant. Get a runner back for ammunition, they only have sixty rounds apiece. You are senior NCO. Have we got a spare rifle?”

“Pinched one a couple of days back, sir. I’ll get it to you at soonest.”

Grace ran.

Richard had noted that the old sergeant’s face was grey, showing too much unbroken effort for too many weeks. He would have to go back soon, but was too valuable to lose… He would die of heart failure if he kept up his current efforts. A week or two and he must go, but not yet, there was nobody to replace him.

The additional sixty rifles broke the German attack. They were in the open, perfect targets for competent riflemen. Richard noticed that they kept their discipline as they withdrew; it was not a rout.

Sergeant Grace came back with the rifle and webbing and pouches.

“Well done, Sergeant. Feels more comfortable with this to hand. Have we got shovels?”

“Forty for the battalion, sir. Most of them Germans carry little folding shovels, sir. Some of them got almost up to the trench, sir, first attack.”

“Get a party out to grab them while they’re still reorganising. Quickly.”

Ten minutes saw a dozen shovels retrieved and put to work, deepening and widening the trench.

“Get a wooding party down to the copse behind us. Firewood, as much as possible. Can’t exist without tea. I want a dugout as soon as possible to store company ammunition reserves, Sergeant Grace. We need to organise the new men into their platoons as well.”

“In hand, sir. You need an orderly if we are to stay in a trenchline, sir. Always useful to have a runner.”

“New man, Sergeant. O’Grady – he’s been a sergeant in his time and saw service in the Boer War. Put him up as soon as there’s a vacancy. For the while, he can work to me.”

“Good. We need to have one or two men ready to go up. Ekins and Abbott are good at their job but they take too many risks trying to look after their people. Still Terriers in their minds, sir, looking after their neighbours and all that.”

“Try to bring them on, Sergeant. If they survive, they will be the sort we want as sergeants. I’ve got two corporals and two lances in the draft, but I don’t know them yet. Keep an eye on the lieutenants – they seem to be good enough. Did you ever hear anything of Lieutenant Smithers, by the way?”

“Not official like, sir.”

Richard raised an eyebrow – he knew he must not ask to be given the other ranks’ buzz. All must be kept to the status of rumour accidentally overheard so that he could tell any court of inquiry that he ‘knew’ nothing.

“What I sort of heard, sir, was that he got about three miles back with the walking wounded and two of them had to stop for a break, being too much for them, hurt as they were. He tried to pull rank then, ordered the party to march on and leave them as they was slowing everybody down. Then, what happened, sir, as close as I can get it, is there was a bit of a misunderstanding and one of them what still had his rifle shot at one of them airyplanes what was flying over them and somehow the bullet hit poor Mr Smithers. Blew his head off, sir. Tragic it was. Then they picked up the two men and took it in turns to carry them in.”

“Least said, soonest mended, Sergeant Grace.”

“That’s what I say, sir. It’s not as if he was a loss to the battalion, sir. Been a scandal if he’d been put before a court and shot, what he would have been most likely. Better off this way.”

“So it is. No report made, I presume?”

“None, sir.”

“Keep it that way. Does the Colonel know?”

“Doubt it, sir.”

“I’ll tell him one day – but not yet. Let it get cold before he hears anything.”

“’Missing believed killed’, that will do for him, sir.”

“Could be any of us before too long, Sergeant. Can we hold here, do you think?”