My Hundred Days of War, page 19
A hiccup came from the Fokker, and then a sickly cough, followed by a clunk. The propeller’s rotations slowed as if they were churning underwater. Black smoke poured from the mottled cowling, and there was a flickering of flames. With that the biplane lost its momentum, tilted forward like a drunken sailor, and fell into a long arching dive. It passed just beneath us, and I turned and watched it in a mix of horror and morbid fascination as it plummeted to Earth, a dense plume of smoke marking its descent. The time ticked away till it hit ground. In my mind it was as if the whole world went quiet for an instant. After a pause there was a small flash. I took a deep breath and then looked ahead. I realized I was shaking. I don’t think I was cut out for aerial combat.
Catchpole had his thumb in the air.
CHAPTER 22
16th of September, 1918
Aden Mound, near Chérisy, France
‘So there really is only one way we can cross the canal,’ I concluded.
General Loomis asked, ‘The dry ground between Sains-lez-Marquion and Moeuvres?’
‘That’s right, sir. And I expect the Germans are well aware of that. Although they may think we’d be daft to do so given the defences. I suppose that’s what we’ll have to hope.’
The general frowned. He knew as well as I did that there were three divisions lined up across the canal with another five in reserve. And hoping the Germans believed we were of sound mind and a conservative nature was not what you would call a well-prepared plan – not in my estimation, and certainly not in Loomis’. From the little I’d seen of him he was a stickler for details.
‘I wondered about XVII Corps,’ I added. ‘They’re opposite that stretch now, still fighting the Boche on the western bank. If we’re to crash the canal, then we can’t do that with them in the way.’
He nodded. For a brief instant I thought he might smile. I don’t think I’d ever seen him smile. It turned out to be a feint. ‘Well, Major, that’s one problem that has been solved. General Currie has arranged for us to side-step southwards. The Corp’s southern boundary is now at Moeuvres. The intention is to leave the Germans on the west bank so they don’t suspect anything is coming.’
‘Ah,’ I said, trying to mask my disappointment. XVII Corps had neatly side-stepped the whole mess, leaving it firmly in our lap.
‘How long is it, exactly?’ asked Loomis. ‘The unfinished section between Sains-lez-Marquion and Moeuvres.’
‘Roughly 2600 yards, sir.’
Ominously, an ear-shattering crack split the sky, followed by a long roll of thunder rumbling in its wake. It began to pour. For days on end it had rained. Not continuously, but often enough and hard enough to make life miserable. Autumn was coming, and with it new misery, and another new battle – the two inextricably linked. I looked to the dug-out entrance where silhouetted against a dreary dawn light a sheet of water was streaming down over the head jamb. As I watched, a soldier dropped into the entranceway and made a dash for it; the curtain of water broke around him as he entered the dug-out. He was drenched.
‘A mile and a half,’ mused Loomis, oblivious to the drama at his own front door. ‘That’s a very narrow front to put four divisions through.’
‘Yes, it is, sir. Not to mention it would be a disaster if the Boche put down a gas bombardment on our assembly areas. We’ll be packed in like sardines.’
‘All right,’ said Loomis, with a finality in his voice. ‘We’ll leave crossing the canal up to General Currie. He tells me our role will probably be to follow the lead divisions, and push in the direction of Cambrai, once the canal is crossed and Bourlon Wood taken.’
‘Cambrai,’ I whistled. ‘That means puncturing the Marcoing line and likely tackling the Canal de l’Escaut as well.’
‘Indeed it does, Major. At this stage nothing is definite, but we need to get planning right away.’
‘Very good, sir,’ I responded. ‘I’ll arrange a reconnaissance. And I’ll request some additional aerial photographs. Hopefully I can soon give you more information.’
Overhead there was a long whine. Not long after, the muffled crump of an explosion. The daily Boche regimen of serving up early morning cocktails of high explosive and gas had begun. It was a tiring way to begin the day.
18th of September, 1918
Canal du Nord near Inchy-en-Artois, France
Having spent the better part of two days in a waterlogged tent with Smith pouring over maps, drawings of the canal and hundreds of aerial photographs, I was surprisingly eager to be in the field again. It was always one thing to read the reports from the scouts, and something entirely else to see it with your own eyes. General Lipsett had taught me that. I’d been teaching it to Smith.
Which was why he was beside me now, most of him obscured by a shrub. Off my right shoulder, ensconced in green shrubbery of his own, was Captain Merston, an intelligence officer from one of the 4th Division’s brigades. He wasn’t tall, so he fit in well. Myself, I was peering through the battered Lemaire field glasses I’d “borrowed” almost a year earlier. Leaves tickled my ears, a branch rubbed painfully against one cheek as I tried in vain to wriggle into a more comfortable position. Were it not that the abundant shrubbery on the other side of the canal housed dozens of machine guns, I would have just stood up. But the young lieutenant from the scouts who was our guide had made it abundantly clear that to show but a touch of flesh was to see it shot off. He made a persuasive case.
At this spot we were only a short sprint from the canal, and a few hundred yards from the German positions further south. Luckily, this morning, it cleared up a bit and the visibility was decent. The sides of the canal were dark and greasy from the recent rain. While they weren’t terribly high, it would be no easy feat scrambling down one side, crossing the canal bed and climbing up the other under a hail of machine gun fire.
‘Sir,’ whispered Smith. ‘It’s a veritable Skittle Alley. I can see at least three machine-gun nests covering the road.’
‘I see them,’ I replied. The small road from Inchy crossed the canal close to where we lay. The construction work in this section was not far advanced, the excavations really just started. The canal bed was shallower still where the road dipped into it before rising again on the enemy side, heading towards Sains-lez-Marquion. The Germans had constructed an earthen and brick embankment along their edge of the canal. ‘We’ll need to take this quickly,’ I said in Merston’s general direction, ‘so the artillery can move across.’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply from the shrubs. ‘Perhaps we should move on ourselves,’ he suggested. We’d barely backed out of the greenery edging slowly towards the rear, when a machine gun began rattling, quickly followed by another. The bushes we’d vacated were seeing a nasty trimming.
We spent the rest of the day working our way down the canal at intervals in the direction of Moeuvres, squirming forward in the moist earth as far we dared, taking notes of everything we saw.
Finally, around two, I turned to Smith, Merston and the scout lieutenant. We’d temporarily retreated to the staff car on the road for a hasty picnic of sorts, our sober lunch spread out on the bonnet. ‘So, gentlemen, has anyone reached any useful conclusions?’ I asked, and gulped at my canteen.
True to form Smith answered first. ‘The enemy bank is very well wired, sir.’
‘But the trenches behind are in poor condition,’ said Merston. ‘And the artillery should be able to clear a path through the wire, thick or not.’
‘What do you think, Lieutenant?’ I asked of our guide. He was the youngest of the party, and noticeably reticent, but you didn’t get to be a lieutenant in the scouts on the strength of your diplomatic skills alone.
‘Well, sir, I reckon it’s neither the wire nor the trenches, but what’s behind them that will prove crucial.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll bite. So what’s behind the wire and the trenches?’
‘See, sir, that’s the whole problem. We don’t quite know. To the east is Bourlon Wood. But with all the foliage on the trees you can’t make out anything. Other than to suspect it’s packed with Fritzs and their Mausers. One thing I will say, is at the battle of Cambrai the British ran into all sorts of dug-outs, and other obstacles, approaching Bourlon Wood. Overgrown or not, my bet is the wood, and every tiny undulation in front and behind, is full of Boche.’
I hadn’t thought of that. The battle of Cambrai. There was a wealth of information from the maps and reports of November 1917 when General Byng and the Third Army had mounted their ill-fated surprise attack. Certainly everything the lieutenant said rang true. All the photos I’d seen of Bourlon Wood and vicinity had shown a lot of trees surrounded by thick undergrowth and long grass. With little creativity required Kaiser Wilhelm could have had his summer palace there, for all we knew. ‘What about patrols, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, we have made patrols, sir. At night. We’ve even crossed the canal and gone into the first trench system. But as you know, even if we were to make it through unnoticed there’s a second line 1500 yards further on.’ He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Merston spoke up. ‘I have a feeling we’ve seen all we’re going to see, sir. And I have a Commanders’ Conference to attend shortly.’
‘Fine,’ I said resignedly. I made no attempt to argue with him. ‘Looks like Smith and I are going to have to dust off the archives.’ At the rate things were going, my report to Loomis might not even fill a page.
Having said our good-byes to Merston and the perceptive scout lieutenant, we were soon bumping down the Arras-Cambrai road towards Vis-en-Artois and our HQ near Chérisy. The engineers had done wonders patching the holes and removing the wreckage, but I was glad it was light, particularly as I was driving. It was not a road to attempt at speed, which made it fortunate the pedal-heavy Australians were miles to the south. Once it turned dark, the road would be packed with men and material all moving surreptitiously forward. Amiens was a mere six weeks ago and already we were working feverishly to prepare our third major attack.
‘It’s ironic, don’t you think, sir?’ said Smith.
‘What is?’
‘We’ve spent the whole day reconnoitring on our bellies, and it turns out the real intelligence is to be had from a few old maps and a couple of reports, we could have examined at our desks.’
Sourly I grunted. Today’s “lesson” had taken an unexpected turn.
It was going on nine o’clock when a single bugle called out. ‘Not again,’ groaned somebody in exasperation. The bustling activity in one of the headquarter dug-outs gave itself over to a heavy unnatural silence. The lamps were shuttered and I blew out the candle beside me. There were shouts of ‘lights out, lights out,’ from outside. Heine was overhead.
The heavy droning crept closer. I looked over at Smith. ‘Gothas,’ he whispered excitedly. The whispering wasn’t intended to be dramatic, but I could see the faces of our two new clerks as they exchanged meaningful glances. Everybody in the division knew what had happened a few nights before when a party was caught in the open and a couple of Gothas released their eggs.
‘It takes real courage to venture out only at night,’ I muttered to Smith. ‘If they’d tried this three hours ago they’d be burning wrecks on the ground.’
‘I expect the Germans realize that, sir,’ said Smith, absentmindedly. I looked at him. He had his head tilted to one side, listening intently. I couldn’t detect any sign of fear – curiosity rather. His own close encounter with a Gotha last spring, seemed to have left few scars, at least none I could see. Sensing I’d been staring at him he looked up and a shy smile appeared. He probably thought I found this as interesting as he did; he’d questioned me endlessly about my time in the aeroplane.
In a slow buzz the bombing machines, two or three I guessed, passed by. They hadn’t spotted us. Or if they had, they hadn’t wanted to waste their loads. Within a minute the sound of them disappeared, and reinforced dug-out or not, the faces within brightened appreciably. Soon the lights went on, work resumed, and General Loomis finally appeared.
‘Tell me,’ he said, after he’d plunked himself down next to the small table we were working at. ‘What did you learn today, Major MacPhail?’
I told him straight. Naturally, I’d debated adding some rhetorical flourishes and extraneous detail, to camouflage the simple fact that I could tell him precious little beyond the obvious; the path to Bourbon Wood, and later to Cambrai, was likely sown with enemy positions. I had drawn a handful of obstacles on the map to show him, from an old British trench map Smith and I had discovered. And I had an aerial photo or two with a clear shot of the wood and the Marcoing Line. I didn’t feel like much of an intelligence officer I must admit. Being on “probation” didn’t help my frame of mind.
‘The way I see it, sir, is that whatever plan we make, it’s going to be contingent on fifty different things that could happen in the four miles before we’re even in action, including the canal crossing itself. It doesn’t help, I realize, but I think we have to prepare for anything and everything. Assuming we take Bourlon Wood, and that will be tough, the path to Cambrai is not likely to get any easier.’
Loomis pursed his mouth and observed me, expressionless. He said nothing for the longest while. ‘Fine, Major. Thank you. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’
As he clambered out of the dug-out I looked questioningly over at Smith.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir. He didn’t say much.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘And that’s precisely what worries me.’
CHAPTER 23
21st of September, 1918
Château de Duisans, Duisans, France
Arriving at Corps Headquarters, I found myself still thinking about the two letters that I’d received in yesterday’s post, and feeling mildly depressed as a result. I was accompanied to Corps HQ by another cold, drenching shower, which only added to my melancholy.
The first letter had been from Captain Clavell of the military police.
Dear Sir,
Subsequent to our conversation of September 12th last, I felt it only fitting to inform you of the progress of my investigation. I have followed up on the information you brought to my attention.
Following my recent inquiries to the relevant French Army authorities, I have been informed that Capitaine Madelot is unavailable for questioning regarding this matter, for the simple reason he has been reported missing for more than two weeks. I am therefore compelled to inform you that this avenue of investigation must, as a result, be considered a blind alley.
I will you keep you abreast of any further developments.
Yours faithfully,
Captain Aidan Clavell
A blind alley! I’d sat fuming at my desk. If I had pilfered a King’s ransom I’d be missing as surely as Madelot was. Only I wasn’t missing and Madelot was. That must be obvious. Clavell couldn’t see reason if it hit him on the head. But then he appeared to be working to a foregone conclusion and it wasn’t hard to guess what that was. All the rest of this farce, including his inquiries about Madelot, were pure form. Frustrated, I slammed my fist on the table, the letter crumpled in my hand.
Tibbet looked up, startled. ‘What’s the matter, Malcolm?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ I responded. ‘Nothing you can help with, unfortunately. Thanks for asking, though.’
‘If there’s anything, anything at all, let me know. I’ll do the best I can, Malcolm.’
‘Thanks, Paul.’ Tibbett’s offer was well-meaning and I was touched by it, but he was as powerless as I was against the workings of an army bureaucracy run amok. Or more accurately a certain red-capped captain on a crusade. And I didn’t much relish telling him the story – I’d told Benoît, of course, simply to get it off my chest – as that would require telling the entire wretched story, including my narrow escape from Clavell’s uncle and the court martial he had planned for me. Only one or two others, including Benoît and Smith, knew anything about that. Predictably, when he did hear of my latest predicament, Benoît was as empathetic as ever.
The second missive had been no more uplifting than the first. My mother was spending her afternoons in bed. “Old age has finally struck,” she wrote with two exclamation marks. That was a fairy tale I knew, for she was barely fifty, and I’d only ever known her as an inexhaustible bundle of energy that neither flu nor family misfortune could quell. My father and I struggled to keep up. So I guessed it had to be her heart. Spotting the familiar château at the end of the drive, I willed myself to push it all from my mind.
McAvity greeted me as I arrived. For his part, he was doing his utmost to hurry me into the Château de Duisans, whilst appearing not to.
‘I see you’ve landed once again in the lap of luxury,’ I said. ‘Had enough of the dug-outs?’ I stopped and breezily waved my arm at the ivy-clad white stone of the façade like an enthusiastic tour guide intent on a lengthy explanation.
He cut me short. ‘We’re expecting an important visitor, momentarily,’ he said. ‘I had to be here, so that’s why I asked you to come to the rear headquarters.’ Slowly, a thought came to him. ‘What exactly are you insinuating, anyhow, MacPhail? You lot had your headquarters here not two weeks earlier.’
I shrugged innocently, bounded up the couple of steps, walked across the paved stone terrace, through the open doorway and nearly mowed down Lieutenant-General Sir Arthur Currie. Fortunately, it would have taken more than me to bowl over our Corps commander. I probably would have just bounced off. Currie stood anchored there as solidly as the bronze likeness of Robert Peel outside the Parliament buildings in London. He was wearing his best dress hat, with his tunic neatly buttoned, a thick brown belt tightened not around his waist where the number of belt holes no doubt came up short, but well above it. The general was leaning on his cane, waiting. I had a suspicion it wasn’t for me.
