The Angel of Mons - Chapter twenty

Twenty
George had never witnessed anything like it. When he thought back across the previous few months devastating defeats, he could not believe that they were now talking of the possibility of making a breakthrough.
To him the story of the year, and so much of what had happened in his history was of retreat, defeat and loss. Just twelve weeks before he and his men had struggled desperately in the face of a seemingly unstoppable advance, which consumed life and land as a plague of locusts would consume an uncut crop.
And then, seemingly exhausted by its own frenzied feeding. The plague stopped.
Now the tide was about to turn, and George felt it was within them to finish the struggle once and for all.
George and the men were billeted in the village of Vaux. He had a room in the house of an elderly schoolmaster and his wife who was an accomplished cook, she was able to present spectacular meals from even the most modest ingredients. His room was bright and comfortable, it looked across a small market square and in the morning George was able to sit and watch as the local people set up stores and trade what little they had with one another. Wine, chickens and clothes pegs repaired pots and tobacco. Beyond the village he could see the open plains, the flat lands, green with rich unused grass and white where the soil had been turned. Beyond that, out of site were the preparations.
They had been involved in laying narrow gauge railway track and repairing roads. White-tented cities had grown over night in the fields and filled with tiny camp beds in preparation for those who were lucky enough to make back to the dressing stations. At night the aeroplanes buzzed around over the enemy lines to disguise the sound of the tanks as they growled like angry lions waiting to pounce. They formed in fields and disappeared under the marquees to keep them out of site of the prying eyes of the reconnaissance aircraft and the brave soles in balloons who hovered high above the German lines.
Everything moved at night. The soldiers marched in at night and spent the day lying in the shade under hedges. The munitions were carried under the cover of dark and the huge grey artillery were positioned, fortified and covered before the sun could rise in front of their mighty form.
George was aware of a general sound of muffled activity. He wondered how it was organised. When men arrived there were places for them to rest. There was food simmering in mighty cauldrons. Latrines were dug. Guns were moved into precise positions and tanks slipped into hiding places in forests as if the ancient woodland had been designed for that purpose and that purpose alone.
There was another stirring. One of anticipation in every man he met and saw. They said nothing specific but like expectant fathers they paced, their faces slightly bewildered as they anticipated both the thrill and the fear of the unknown.
The night before the off, George formed his charge in the Market Square. He checked their weapons and kit and made ready to move forward, as an experienced Scoutmaster would look over his young troop before a camping expedition. There was a gentle fondness in his approach. He could see the fear in their eyes, feel the excitement in their trembling fingers. He wondered how many would still be filled with life in a few hours time. Not for a single moment did he think about himself.
At sunrise, all was quiet. The men sat silently looking at the walls of the support trench. They checked their weapons and fixed bayonets. Some carried ladders and wire cutters. George’s men were scheduled to be in the third wave. He had emphasised the importance of mopping up. He had often experienced the hazards of moving forward on an untidy battlefield. Inexperienced troops tended to advance too quickly, leaving small groups of isolated enemy soldiers some wounded, often ready to fight to the death.
He had realised that they would be advancing in support of an American unit, and so had briefed his men to be particularly thorough as the ‘Doe boys,’ had a deserved reputation for bravery on the one hand but for leaving chaos in their wake on the other.
The barrage was a symphony of power. It began without warning raining down on the enemy lines, throwing smoke and dust high into late summer sky. It battered and roared with a rhythm all of its own, almost as if it were alive, independent, relishing its strength.
George could smell the smoke, its thick heavy sweet odour. It pounded unceasing for an hour. He had seen it all before, but there was something different about this attack. It seemed so sudden it almost caught him by surprise. He looked into the faces of the young men around him and prayed that he would hold his nerve and not let them down.
Their eyes flitted around jerking suddenly. Some began to perspire. George was aware that many of them were watching him. Looking for his reaction and he found that the calmer he appeared, the more comfortable they would seem to be.
Suddenly the tone of the barrage changed as the sights were raised and it swept away pounding the support trenches on the other side. In the distance, above the din, George could here the sound of whistles and the sound of men shouting as they climbed above the bags and began their advance. The chatter of a few machine guns could be heard as the enemy began its resistance, and George could see some men falling. But on the whole the enemy fire was light, and it would seem, easily dealt with.
George felt a tremendous excitement as he watched the karcky hordes make their way toward the smoke. Tens of thousands of men on the move, some ducking down into shell wholes, others running at the enemy hurling grenades and putting the flashing silver blades to good use. He thought how different it was to two years before when the order was to walk up right into the enemy guns, to be cut down like ripened wheat it the July sunshine. This time, they were able to move. Able to run and hide, shoot as snipers, consolidate and move forward. This thought George was a new type of war.
Each time a wave went over, George and his men moved up. And as they stepped down the support trench and at last arrived on the front line the level of excitement had reached a point where it was bubbling away in their speech. Their eyes were wide and their jaws were twitching. George looked around his men to make sure they were ready for the challenge. There were two he was unsure of. They were pail and trembling. They had ducked down at the sound of the guns, and they twitched and reached as they moved forward, never speaking. But when the whistle went, he noticed they went too.
George could smell the earth thick dusty and damp, it stung in his eyes as he reached the top of the ladder. A few stray machine gun bullets buzzed above him like wasps lost with no where to go. There short lives about to expire. He felt some loose soil get thrown into his face from a distant explosion and was sure he had been grazed. He could feel blood running down his cheek and was pleased he had been hit early and barely at all. They made their way through the wire and into the middle, into the land, which for so long had been so unobtainable.
George led from the front turning to check his flock were following close behind. They remained gathered close together heads down shoulders hunched rifles diagonal across their chests. To his left George was aware of another unit advancing just ahead of them and when they all disappeared into the cover of a shell whole he instinctively instructed his men to dive for cover, just as a wave of lethal metal buzzed over them and into the hearts of the line which followed.
They remained low, leaning back against the sides of a huge crater. All present and correct, for the time being at least thought George. He raised himself up and was about to stand when the thought of Captain Harrison all those years before entered his mind as if he had just seen the incident. He shook for a second and then worried whether any of the men had seen his guard go down, he looked into their faces and when he smiled at them they stretched their mouths back at him. They still trusted him, he thought. They still looked to him for reassurance.
It took three tentative attempts before George began to recognise the guns' rhythm and was able to raise his eyes high enough above the soil to see where it was spitting from. He was amazed how close they were, forty feet at the most.
“The Doe Boys have been sloppy again, left a nest just up ahead. Only one looks like it’s on a limb.” As he spoke, the barrage took a momentary break and he could here the small arms crackling all around. “Give me a grenade,” he said. He took the bomb and held it on his flat palm for a moment like a bowler familiarising himself with a new ball. “You and you, you too,” he said nodding at three of the largest men in the unit.
He gathered them together and told them to follow his lead, he explained that he knew when best to go and told them not to look, just throw in the same direction as him.
The four of them crouched and when George stood they followed, he threw and so did the others and he thought it looked good even though he only saw the weapon fly its first few feet. The four-second fuses seemed to take an eternity. The bombs exploded simultaneously, one of them blowing soil all over them as they lay with their arms wrapped around their heads and their legs curled beneath them.
George once again slid slowly to the top of the crater. The landscape had changed. As he had thought, one of the grenades had exploded virtually next to their position. So close in fact that he assumed it had been hurled back at them. He could see part of a man lying on his back, his arm blown off, and George assumed that he had been returning a second when they all went off.
“Forward,” he called above the surrounding din as he scrambled up the bank. They ran the forty feet to the pitiful remains and without thinking they made safe the area by running their bayonets into the shattered remains of the machine gun grew.
After that their advance seemed comparatively simple. The ground was taken and all they had to do was mop up as they went. Every body was shot in the head or stabbed through the heart. Most were already dead, but now and then they came across the occasional live one. George never thought about what he was doing nor did he show any mercy or compassion. It was his job, and if he didn’t do what he had to then his friends might die, and he would have failed in his duty.
George was surprised at the apparent weakness of the defence. Within an hour they were ahead of the barrage and still advancing. They had broken away from the desolate landscape of the entrenched battlefields and were walking through overgrown and neglected farmland. The Germans were burning buildings and villages as they left. And mines slowed their advance in some sectors. But generally they did not falter.
In the middle of the afternoon, they entered a village, which had been to all intent and purpose completely destroyed. The smashed remains of furniture littered what was left of the streets. An old brass bed was in the centre of the Market Square, its mattress removed, an enemy body lying on its rusty springs as if in a deep carefree sleep.
As they cautiously turned a rubble strewn corner, George noticed a building which seemed to be virtually intact. A bar. And sitting casually at the wooden tables and chairs, where a group of men in grey. Their shoulders were hunched and they sat with their heads in their hands, their elbows resting on the tables. Some lay on the cobbles in front of the buildings entrance. They were drinking beer and talking quietly to one another.
George and his men dived for cover, but they had been seen. One of the men in grey, an officer stood and held his hands above his head. He turned to the others and gestured to them to do the same. And there they stood. Battered, filthy, unshaven, dark rings around their exhausted eyes. Their shoulders were hunched, their faces drained of all emotion. George realised immediately that non-of them cared what happened to them at all. They would be happy to be shot where they stood he thought.
“Henderson,” called George who turned his head slightly, as he spoke from the corner of his mouth keeping an unblinking eye on the men in front of him. “Take two men and search them for weapons.”
The three soldiers moved forward, watched closely by the remaining men. When they reached the bar they prodded and pointed so that within a few seconds the German troops stood in a line, their eyes staring at the ground in front of them their heads bowed.
It was then that George noticed a pile of rifles and grenade to the left of the bar and realised that these men were done with fighting.
“Thank you Henderson,” he called as he stepped forward, slipping his pistol into its holster. “We’ll rest here for a few minutes. Jackson, go see if you can find some food and something drink.” He paused and looked around at the German faces, drawn and exhausted, the faces of old men on young thin tatty bodies. “For everyone,” he said.
George thought the Captain was probably a little younger than him. But it was difficult to tell through his thin young beard and mud caked face. The centre of his eyes were a cold metallic blue the whites were cloudy yellow with large bursting red blood vessels. He ate hungrily and looked up from time to time nodding his head at George who acknowledged his gratitude by raising his tin mug which he had filled to the brim with red wine.
George was surprised when the young man spoke to him in near perfect English. He explained that his mother was from Dover and that he had been taught to think in both English and German from when he was a child.
“I believe you have the beating of us now,” he said biting his lip. “I have lost so many friends, and for what?” He swallowed his last mouthful of stale bread and raised his hands to his face. “There are many bad people,” he continued, his voice muffled by his hands. He spread his finger and his blue eyes shone through and fixed on George. “I have seen them. They always seem to survive I don’t know why,” he said his voice becoming quieter as the words seemed to lose direction. He was rambling, like a drunk or some one who had taken to much morphine. His eyes became wild and he sat like a mad man staring at a full moon.
The next morning, George broke off Hardcastle and Richmond. He had watched them on the day they moved up and had concluded that they seemed most likely to crack. But they didn’t, they fought their fear struggled through doing just enough to keep themselves and those around them alive. George briefed them and waved to them as the shepherded the prisoners down the long road through the shattered trees back toward the reserve line.
Clear of the battlefields and into the littered acres of rural France, George noticed that the season had begun to change. He had already felt the cold in the night and noticed the shortening of the daylight hours. The trees were carrying a sad redness, and even the earth seemed rustier in the long shadows cast in the misty mornings. But more than anything George noticed in himself and those around him a new spirit, an inner strength a self belief that this autumn brought with it not just the end of another bloody summer and the beginning of an entrenched and desperate winter, but a feeling of hope. A feeling of a future, a feeling that just perhaps this time it might be about to end.

George welcomed the end. He felt so much that everything he had done and the manner in which it had been done was right. His life had had many moments. Periods of happy pleasure and a few of terrible burdening sadness. But all in all he thought, he had been lucky.