Praying That We Meet Again, page 26
“They do fire thousands of rounds for every man they hit, Major Griffin.”
“More than rifles, sir?”
“Very much so, provided, of course, that the riflemen are trained and experienced. Our new men in are neither of those, of course.”
“I presume from that, sir, that there is small chance of our receiving light artillery for trench use.”
“No chance!”
“A pair of pompoms would be most welcome, sir.”
“They might be. We will not get them.”
“A pity.”
“The RFC suggests that troops are being moved back from the German lines. Intelligence reports also say that there is a commitment to assist the Austro-Hungarians who are experiencing difficulties on their Russian and Servian fronts. It has been suggested that the remaining troops in the trenches may show aggression to disguise the movement out of their people.”
“I will pass word to my officers to watch for any signs of activity.”
“The word is that any attack will be focussed on the Canadians and the French forces in the Salient. We shall be peripheral to anything that happens.”
“We can, of course, sir, trust every word the Intelligence people say to us.”
“Not damned likely, Griffin! You know better than that! I should add that Servia is now officially Serbia. It has been decided that the implications of servility are unacceptable in our bold ally.”
“What utter bloody nonsense, sir!”
“I do not doubt there was a long conference with the newspapers to come to that conclusion, Griffin. The powers of government were unleashed upon the issue.”
“Will we win this war, sir?”
“No. The sole question is whether we shall lose it. The best we can hope for is some sort of stalemate, every country worse off for having engaged in this ridiculous conflict. Europe will never recover from the losses of its best young men – and they have only started as yet! This war is the end of our civilisation, and there is no sign of any to replace us. Off you go, Griffin! We still have no choice other than to fight this war to its bitter end, and bitter it still will be.”
“Bombardment, sir. Southeast of us, down on the Canadians and French, sir. Something wrong with it, sir. Can hear the guns fire but there’s no explosion from the shells.”
“Can’t all be duds, Marchant. Must be some other reason… Smoke shells, to provide cover for advancing lines of men?”
It was an obvious explanation, satisfied them initially.
“What do we do, sir?”
“Wait on orders and be thankful it is not us this time around. Ordinary readiness – we are always alert, so it makes little difference to us.”
The bombardment continued for an hour or less then changed into more ordinary shellfire, the crash of high explosive sounding across the bare ground.
“They are hitting behind the lines, sir. Does that mean they have broken through?”
It was possible but unlikely.
Word came after a couple of hours. The French had broken under a gas attack, something completely new in warfare. The Canadians were holding in part. The Germans were advancing only slowly. They were shelling the town of Ypres, closing many of the roads through the city centre.
John did not appreciate the significance of the last piece of information. Colonel Caine enlightened him.
“The road and rail network, Griffin. All pass through Ypres. Block off Ypres and communications are cut for days, weeks perhaps, while roads and railway lines are made anew, going around the town. The whole point of holding Ypres was because of the roads and railways. Now, they are destroying the network. I suspect they have given up on actually capturing the place but are making certain we take no benefit from it. They are turning it into just another bit of territory to be fought over.”
“The French and Canadians were holding the higher ground, were they not, sir?”
“They were. Once the Boche get in there, they will be the Devil to get out again. Can’t be helped. Could not have expected a bloody gas attack! Utterly vicious! Banned under the Conventions, as well. It is a war crime to use poison gas.”
“Hang the Kaiser! Which means laying hands on him first. A reasonable war aim, one might think, sir.”
“Unacceptable, Griffin. He is Queen Victoria’s grandson. He is not to hang. Can’t be done, old chap!”
“It ought to be, sir.”
“Bad precedent to set, Griffin. Can’t go about making our leaders responsible for their actions. Where would we stop? More like where would we start, in fact. In any case, we don’t want to spread the idea that kings can be killed for no better reason than breaching international law, which don’t exist, anyway. The Tsar has enough problems as it is, not to speak of the Emperor in Vienna. China as well, for that matter. Damned near every king on Earth is shaky just now. Not up to us to make things worse.”
“Perhaps not, sir. What are we to do just now?”
“Hold and watch to the south. We will probably find ourselves having to pull back a mile or two to form a tenable new line. Don’t want to be left out exposed with the Boche on our flank as well as our front. Can’t go too far if we are to hold Ypres itself. Can’t lose Ypres after fighting so hard to hold the place. No bloody use to us now but we have no choice other than to hold on. Far too public a loss if we pull back from Ypres. It would be seen as a major defeat. Washington would lose confidence in us.”
It was clear that could not be allowed. The flow of trade across the Atlantic was essential to feed Britain, let alone to fight the war.
“The Americans are neutral on our side just now. Lose Ypres and they might think it would be wise not to offend Germany. We must hold on and appear to deliver victory. If we can’t do that, we must avoid defeat at all costs. Lose here and the food ships may stop crossing the oceans.”
“We must pull more troops in from India, sir.”
“Government will not tolerate that. The cost to the Empire would be too great. We cannot allow India to become independent. That would be the price of a million sepoys coming to our aid.”
“They would rather lose the war instead, sir?”
“To men like Churchill, that would be a far preferable outcome. We must keep India at all costs. The Empire must last a thousand years.”
“Why?”
“Only a traitor could ask that question, Griffin. It is obvious.”
“I think I was born in the wrong country, sir. I cannot see any reason at all why England must rule more than half of the world.”
“A great pity, Griffin. Certain truths are so great they do not need explanation. They simply are.”
“That is bloody nonsense, sir!”
Colonel Caine laughed.
“Only just realised that, old boy? Everything is a bloody nonsense, if you dig deep enough. This war is certainly a nonsense. We still have to fight it, however. Be ready to fall back to a more defensible line. Brigade will identify it and tell us where to go, and hopefully when. I will get the word to you at soonest. I believe it is a certainty we shall have to pull back. Brigade is trying to organise a labour battalion to start digging, so we have a made trench to fall back on. If and when you go, destroy gun pits and dugouts behind you, assuming that to be possible.”
“Assume we shall not be coming back, sir?”
“Assume we shall be bloody lucky to hold the new line, Griffin.”
The Colonel returned to his command post, leaving John to work out the precise orders he needed.
“Sergeant Chitty!”
The NCO ran, scuttled bent over along the trench.
“We shall be pulling back, Chitty. Probably tonight, maybe not until tomorrow. Make all ready to go to a new line, which we shall probably have to dig for ourselves. The French are broken to the south and the Canadians have taken a hammering but are holding in places. The line has to be rebuilt, some miles further back. We must still hold Ypres, but the town is being battered flat. We are losing the higher ground.”
“Right, sir. Stores go back to where?”
“Brigade, in the first instance. Do you know anybody there?”
“A couple of bodies, sir. They will look after what needs to be kept safe.”
“Good. Use working parties as you need.”
John did not know but was utterly certain that Chitty had a store of unlawfully acquired goods of various sorts, almost all of which would be used to the benefit of the company. That must not be lost.
“Your servant, sir.”
“Not seen him this morning, Chitty.”
“Gone back to the aid post, sir. Won’t be back again. Chest playing up and too old for it now. Your replacement should be in the dugout now.”
“All change, it might seem. Have we heard any word of my brother?”
Chitty would have heard the unofficial whispers, never spoken to an officer.
“Posted out of Dicky Bush, sir. Sent up to the north, almost as far as Nieuport, wherever that is. Gone to a new squadron forming up. He told a staff officer he was a bloody fool for not knowing that shrapnel couldn’t cut wire, sir. He was right and they called off the Big Push for the wire all still being in one piece. They threw him out of his squadron for being right when they were wrong. Gave him another Mention, sir, for shooting down a German aeroplane. Him and his observer got one each. It was because of that they couldn’t break him but just had to send him out of sight, sir.”
“His bloody mouth is going to be the death of him, Sergeant!”
“Clever man, your brother, sir. No place for that sort in this Army, sir.”
“No. Only bloody fools in this place. Carry on, Chitty. Pick up the pieces and soldier on.”
Andrew Wareham, Praying That We Meet Again
