The Angel of Mons - Chapter eight

Eight

George and Peter never talked about Sid or David. There seemed little point. All through the summer, they battled with boredom and constant hunger. The rations seemed to be more depleted than ever and they found themselves becoming increasingly accomplished at scavenging and improvising. They discovered that the disgusting biscuits which they were given as a part of their rations offered no relief from their hunger but burnt reliably and so were more likely to be used to light a fire or warm a kettle.
Whenever they were off duty, they would search out rabbits, shoot pigeon or simply steel eggs and chickens from the few local people who stayed in what remained of their farms. And this was despite knowing that if they were caught, the punishment would be harsh.
George had noticed a change in himself and Peter. He noticed they had got into the habit of functioning. They could sleep anywhere no matter how cold it was no matter how wet it was. They saw most of Gods creatures as food. They thought nothing of killing. It was part of their lives. It was what they did.
They became used to the rumours of “a big,” push which came to nothing. They lived the threat of gas attacks and the constant, lazy erratic blast of shells which whistled overhead and thumped, into the ground around them. They would sit and watch as woods were blown apart by an ill directed artillery attack, reducing fine trees to bare trunks and tiny splinters. As shell upon shell blew wholes in the earth, breaking the wire, and tossing the remains of the dead into the air like macabre broken dolls.
They became used to the rats which were growing big and strong on the flesh of the fallen. They became accustomed to the lice biting and breeding by the millions in their tatty uniforms. They became used to burying their comrades and the stench of death that filled the air when the wind blew cold from the east.
They became used to the constant change and the churn of those around them. The arrival of fresh young faces, full of colour and hope. Some destined to last a matter of moments, others to hang on long enough to become grey and weary.
And above all they became used to each other. They knew each other’s habits, their moods their emotions and they knew they belonged together. Amongst all this they had found inside themselves a lasting affection for one another which meant that on occasions, when their bellies were full and they were away from the line. When the fire burnt warm and the weather was kind, George would look around the faces which stared into the glowing flames and feel that at that time there was without doubt nowhere else in the world that he would rather be.
At the end of September in 1915, they had worked on extending the facility at “Sunny Down Farm,” as it had become known. They had dug new latrines and set up a large green marquee and rows of small white tents. All of which frantic activity served to fire the flames of speculation and the rumours of another big push. They had helped to repair outbuildings and had re built a water tower, which had been flattened to its foundations during the first few months of the war. They had helped to clear the farmhouse of what had remained of the owner’s property and put the old wardrobes and tables on their fires at night. New bunks arrived in the barns this time with narrow gaps, rising high toward the rafters, ten high in places and just two feet apart on either side. They had worked to unload food and ammunition from the carts and small trains, which puffed busily along the tracks behind the lines.
One early autumn morning, George was making ready to return to the front line for another tour of duty. He packed away his few belongings in a small wooden cupboard at the end the barn. He ran is thumb over the embossed lettering on his valet case. Over the months, the contents had become depleted and although he had written home regularly asking for more polish and shaving materials, none had arrived. Just the tales of trivia from the household, and the news that his father been unwell. He placed all his letters on the top of the case, and on top of that he placed the letter he had just written. George had become accustomed to writing most of a letter before heading up the line, and then leaving it to be finished after he returned. Inside he felt it helped to keep him alive. Gave him a real reason to return. Surely he thought he could not be taken, without his affairs being tied up, his final words and thoughts noted.
He walked from the barn and into the hubbub of the yard. The men were forming. Peter was leaning against the wall of the barn smoking. He stared down at his boots and bent over to wipe away some mud with a licked finger. When he saw George he smiled and nodded to him.
The early morning sun was bright and warm, it threw long shadows across the farmyard and added colour to the predominantly karquey scene.
George looked out beyond the entrance and noticed a column of men marching quickly down the road toward them. They marched in perfect rhythm. The sun glinting from their gun barrels, which swung from side to side with every purposeful step. They seemed almost to be as one. Like a single item locked together driving forward like some sort of machine. George had seen many units marching, he had seen many men on exercises working through the day to perfect the appearance of discipline, but he had never seen anything like the column marching toward him.
The walk from the station was three miles and the usual reaction of any group of soldiers was to enter the dusty courtyard sweating and gasping for breath. As the unit passed through the gates and eventually were halted by the order of their Sergeant, they stood silent. Mouths closed chins held high eyes to the front. George wondered for a moment if they were breathing at all. All he could hear was a large rat as it scurried through some straw in search of a morsel of food.
George looked over to Peter who glanced back, raised his eyebrow and smiled at the new recruits.
They were issued with their orders, which were just as they had been for the Hertfordshire’s all those months before and were dismissed. When they broke rank, they smiled and slapped one another on the back. They smoked and laughed. A tall broad shouldered young man walked across to George and Peter and offered them both a cigarette, which they took with a nod and a smile.
“Charlie Chandler,” he said his large round face beaming, his light blue eyes flashing holding out his right hand which in turn they shook. “We just came in. Crossed last night. You been here long?”
George looked at Peter wondering if he was going to reply but he was looking over Charlie’s shoulder toward the gates. “Ten months,” said George who looked at the end of his burning cigarette. Charlie peered over his shoulder at the other men who had gathered in small groups, all standing, their rifles formed into neat triangles like rows of tiny uncovered tents. Even when dismissed they seemed to stand tall and straight, their movements quick and precise.
“It’s been quiet,” said George anticipating Charlie’s next question. “We’ve been over a few times. And gas, we’ve had gas, once. But nothing big yet. We’ve lost a few but on the whole, we’ve been lucky.” Charlie smiled and nodded, his eyes moving from George to Peter and back again.
George looked up at Charlie’s cap badge. “You’re from Oxford?”
“South Oxford and North Bucks. Oakley, do you know it?”
George took a draw on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, shaking his head. Peter looked at Charlie and shook his head too. “I don’t know it, but we’re from Hertfordshire, can’t be to far away,” said George shrugging his shoulders.
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a large open topped Rolls Royce, which glided into the yard and discharged a cargo of small-featured officers.
The other ranks stood to attention and were acknowledged with lazy salutes and the waving of silver topped canes. A small corporal who had been driving the car scurried round to a trunk strapped to the rear and pulled out three or four large rolls of paper, which George assumed to be maps. He then ran eagerly like a faithful dog after his masters as they entered the main farmhouse.
George frowned at Peter.
Half an hour later George and Peter, what remained of the Hertfordshire’s and the new Oxfordshire, the ‘Oakley Boys,’ were making their way up the line. George watched the faces of the new recruits as they enthusiastically marched down the road across the fields to the end of the support trench where they waited for the exhausted men of Warwickshire who they replaced. George watched the new men as the grey fatigued soldiers shuffled back from their duty. He remembered the horror he had felt on seeing the effect that the front had on men for the first time. The Oakley boys seemed not to notice. They all stood nodding their heads and smiling.
George seemed strangely uplifted by their youthful enthusiasm. He had been conscious that he and the others were getting used to the routine of it all. He had even joined in with the Essex and played the lottery a couple of times, although he had never won anything. It seemed that whoever he drew out of the hat was assured of survival at least until that game was decided. George had drawn a man called Donavan, twice. He was a small stammering spotty young man who barely had the strength to tie his own bootlaces. But even after two quite vicious skirmishes, he survived untouched. That game finished on a Saturday afternoon at three. At half past four on the same day, Donavan, jumped onto the fire step to let a rushing stretcher pass, and as he did, he unwittingly raised his head above the bags. A fast reacting sniper, the man in grey, turned Donavan’s skull into a mass of flying bone and brain tissue with a single shot. “Three hours earlier, and that would have been worth thirty snout,” said Peter as they left the messy scene to go and get something to eat.
In the weeks that followed George got to know some of the new men and felt attached to them in some way. They brought with them a contagious enthusiasm for life, which George had rarely experienced before the war and until then had never even thought possible in France. They were quick to carry the heavy loads. The first to volunteer for wire repair and trench digging duty, always available to help to carry men back to the dressing stations. They sang loudest in the bars, woke with the biggest hangovers, and were the quickest to recover.
News of battles south of their position filtered through the ranks. Although always patchy and often exaggerated, it seemed that the French were taking most of the action at a place called Vurdun. George had heard one of the officers from the house telling a colleague that the plan was to relieve that pressure by pushing forward in the North. At last thought George a chance to begin to finish the war.
George had been on duty for three days and was tired. He and Peter seemed to have spent most of their time on watch. The Oakley boys had amused themselves by rigging up the remains of a German private on a long metal pole. There wasn’t much left, head shoulders and some of the torso. They took off his helmet and brushed his hair. They rigged up a small pulley using a wire post and some rope which they pulled on to leaver him above the parapet. A snipers bullet whizzed past and struck the bags at the back of the trench. “You’ll have to try harder than that Frits,” shouted Chandler as the others swung the corpse around. Another bullet flashed through the early evening sky, and hit the head, taking off a large portion from the upper left-hand side including the eye. “No, better, but not good enough,” called Chandler once more, his colleagues providing the tragic marionettes animation. Seconds later, the familiar and terrifying rattle of a machine gun tore into it, sending it spattering across all those within twenty feet, releasing the odious sweet stench of rotting flesh. The Oakley boys laughed as they wiped the mess from their hands and faces. “I give up Fritz, cease fire,” called Chandler as he leant against the wall of the trench, tears of laughter running down his red cheeks.
When they were relieved and got back to the farm, the post had arrived. George lay on his bunk and opened the letter from his mother. He was expecting the usual warm best wishes and news of the farm, the village, the servants and Graham. But not this time. His mother simply, coldly informed him that his Father was dead after a short illness.
George could not understand the grey pounding darkness that seemed envelope every part of him. He felt panic and then wondered what to do. Death was his companion. He had seen young men who had experienced nothing in their lives cut down or impaled while their foe turned the blade inside them. But that was not a death like this one. This was one was real and the pain was complete.