Danny grips his arm. ‘And we’ll lose a lot more if we stay pinned down here. They’ll cotton on to our position eventually and start sending grenades over. We can’t stay put.’
Robert’s lips press into a thin line but he nods. And so we slide back down the crater and inform the men of the plan. It doesn’t take long because, in all honesty, it isn’t much of a strategy. On the count of three we will break cover and make for the gap, Jackson and I leading the charge and firing on the sniper post. It needs to be quick and direct, no zigzagging, no fumbling, no darting for cover. The men’s expressions range between dull acceptance and stark terror. My own fear has largely left me. I worry now only for Captain Jackson, Robert, the rest of the men. And of course for Danny. Danny most of all. For his sake, I must leave the last traces of reluctance behind me. I must be ready to kill, and so must he.
Jackson holds up three fingers, folding each in turn. When he makes a fist, I scramble with him up and over the crater and into the last stretch of No Man’s Land before the wire. The smoke has almost cleared, giving us an uninterrupted view of the land. Dents and divots in the hard earth, snares of sheared metal and bits of broken bodies are easily traversed. But the advantage isn’t all one-sided. We’re barely a second into the charge when the sniper starts picking us off. From the tail of my eye, I see figures flinch and fall, their cries wrenching at me. But we can’t stop, can’t go back, can’t help them. Not now.
At the gap, Jackson and I stand either side, like prefects at my old school ushering younger pupils in from the playground. The way is narrow, forested with artificial thorns that catch at the men’s clothes like fairy tale brambles, holding them up. Robert shouts to ignore the pain of sliced hands and fingers and to hurry, unless they want their heads blown off. He then exchanges a quick nod with Jackson before plunging after them.
Meanwhile Danny remains with us, his rifle unslung, firing at the sniper post. His instinct to survive, to save those he cares for, has overridden his demons at last.
‘It’s no good,’ he roars over the gunfire. ‘Bastard’s bedded in too well.’
And with that, he automatically grapples the Mills bomb from his pocket. It lies in his palm for a moment, its dark, egg-shaped form somehow sullen in the sunlight. Then a bulletchingsagainst the wire right next to me, and Danny lifts the grenade to his mouth, pulls free the pin with his teeth, and launches it towards the sniper. A handful of seconds stretch out before the explosion sounds. The usual boom and shower of earth, followed by silence from the sniper post. I turn to Danny, see a kind of mute blankness in his expression. But there’s no time to worry about what this might have done to him.
Jackson pushes us both into the gap. Tearing ourselves bloody, we hurtle through and, finding a ladder, clatter down into the ditch. We take our first breath in a German trench and I look around myself. Two years of waiting and wondering and here we are. It’s almost disappointing, how similar the place is to the one we quit an hour or so ago. Although fairly ploughed up by British guns, the trench is very deep, just as Danny and I predicted. It has successfully sheltered a great many men.
Some of them now stand at a bend in the trench a few yards off. Thefeldgrauof their uniform, that light grey-green, is smattered with dirt and blood. A shaft of daylight dazzles the dull bronze of their imperial buttons and makes me think of bullets sparking off wire. We watch each other for a moment, mirror images of outrage, fear and determination. As if on some agreed signal, weapons are shouldered and sighted. But before the enemy can fire, a command from Jackson catches them off-guard.
‘Company, charge!’
We follow his lead, firing, hollering, stampeding across the duckboards and into the fray. Rifles bark and blood scarlets the wall behind the Germans. Arcs and starbursts, bright and bold as a Franz Marc painting. Some fall before we reach them, others scramble out of the trench, presumably making for their reserve positions or for the village that lies beyond. Enough remain that the fight is desperate. I see bayonets flash around me, cutting into limbs, plunging into stomachs and throats. A few of our boys hit the ground, but before I can make any sense of the fight, my revolver is knocked from my hand and I am bulldozed into the wall behind me.
My back hits the earth and a gasp bursts from my lips. The huge German who disarmed me has his forearm across my throat and is pressing hard. I hear the complaint of bones in my neck, the creak of cartilage like a wet sail on a ship. All I can see is a mop of black hair and blazing grey eyes, the German’s lower face hidden behind that thick forearm. I flail, fingers brushing against his cheeks, soft as a lover’s caress. I try to catch a breath. Can’t.
And then I see his eyes widen and the pressure at my throat vanishes. I choke, grasping my neck, drawing down ragged snatches of air. The German lies at my feet, groaning and clutching the small of his back. Danny stands over him, face crimson with rage. He pistons his fist twice more into the German’s kidneys before planting his strong hands around the man’s windpipe. I try to speak, to tell him to stop, but my throat is too raw. When I move to step forward, hoping to drag Danny off my now-defenceless attacker, my legs almost give way and I stagger against the wall. All I can do is watch as the agonised soldier attempts to squirm out of Danny’s grip.
‘Bitte, Bitte, nicht,’ he manages to croak. ‘Bitte, ka... kam... Kamerad.’
And suddenly it’s no longer the big, dark-haired German pleading for his life. It’s a boy with ash-blond hair and startling blue eyes. Did he come from this very trench, I wonder? Sent out on the orders of old men who would never have to dip their own wrinkled hands in innocent blood? I know he was scared, I saw as much in his face before I shot him. As scared as any of us.
‘Danny, stop,’ I wheeze. ‘Stop.’
At my plea, my ghost vanishes, dissolving into the daylight.
Slowly, my vision readjusts and I see that my words were unnecessary. Danny had already released the man and is now kneeling beside him. Blinking up at me, he says, ‘I didn’t want to. I didn’t. Not this man nor that sniper either. I had to.’
‘I know.’ I nod. ‘I know. You’ll be all right.’
Will he? Only time will tell. If Danny is allowed that time, of course. The battle isn’t over yet, although the fighting here appears to be, for now at least. And we have won. A couple of men from our own company have been killed along with ten or more Germans. The rest are bound hand and foot and treated as prisoners of war. The big dark-haired man who tried to end my life shakes his head sadly when Danny secures his wrists.
‘Why haven’t your generals learned it is useless to let human beings run against machine guns?’ he asks in heavily-accented English. ‘Do you think we wanted this?’
‘No,’ Danny replies. ‘I don’t imagine you did.’
Captain Jackson comes forward, Robert at his side. They are both streaked with blood and sweat. ‘I’ll make up a platoon and take them with me further along the trench and then into Montauban itself,’ he says rustily. ‘I’m putting you in command here, Wraxall. Privates McCormick and Billings will remain with you as well as half a dozen other men. Secure as much of the trench as possible, make sure the injured are patched up as best you can, and set a guard on the prisoners until you’re relieved. Is that understood?’
‘Are you sure you don’t want us to go with you, sir?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘There is none I’d rather have at my side, but I need to leave soldiers here that I can trust. All being well, I’ll see you again in twenty-four hours.’ He looks down at his wristwatch. ‘Almost eleven now. I’d say that you have about an hour before the Jerry bombardment starts up again. They won’t want to shell their own lines until they’re certain they have as many of their men out as possible. After that, all bets are off.’ He reaches out and shakes each of our hands in turn. ‘Good luck. It’s been an honour.’
37
1st-2nd July
The next hour passes in a blur of gruelling labour. The German trench needs to be turned around and made into our new front line. Already exhausted, my platoon work hard, cutting fire steps into what had been the rear wall so that we can face the occupied village of Montauban. That desolate and flattened community, where hardly a rooftop remains intact, and into which our commanding officer is currently battling a path. As I work, I wonder if I shall ever see the courageous Captain Jackson again.
Our work complete for now, I set the men to cleaning their rifles and making an inventory of their remaining ammunition. There’s some mild grumbling which I let pass. They’re tired, I know, but we need to remain vigilant and routine will help to settle their nerves. It might also distract them from the cries that continue to sail in from No Man’s Land. I’ve already hopped up onto the trench’s old fire step and seen a scattering of stretcher-bearers carrying men back to our line. Not nearly enough, but there are no wounded within safe reach of us here and it is vital that we hold our position. Still those cries tear at my conscience.
‘Bloody hell,’ Robert grunts. He’s sitting with the other men, his back to the trench wall, rifle between his legs. Upending his canteen, a drop or two of water dribbles out. He throws his cleaning rag across the ditch in frustration. ‘I’m bloody parched.’
