Barbed Wire and Roses Page 6

  ‘When you fill in the charge, major, you should mention the joke was told to us on Gallipoli… by the general himself.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘General Birdwood told us that one.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Ask the other blokes who were there.’

  ‘I’m hardly going to believe them!’

  ‘Then ask our own brigadier at HQ.’ Stephen met his gaze with apparent surprise. Then he added ingenuously, ‘I thought everyone knew that was old Birdie’s own story.’

  They were given a ration of rum at three-thirty in the morning, and tried to steel themselves for what lay ahead. The shrill whistles that signalled the attack came ten minutes later. When they climbed from the trenches and cut the wire to cross no-man’s-land without sign of return fire it felt like a reprieve, but most knew this meant there’d be gas. A short time later they began to hear the sporadic thump of mortars, an indication that somewhere in the dark ahead canisters were exploding, not scattering shrapnel but spewing out far deadlier phosgene fumes. The faint stink of rotten fish was a sure warning that chloride gas had been fired. It attacked the heart and bloodstream, and men swiftly suffocated and died from it in agony.

  ‘Masks!’ Stephen shouted, and Bluey ran back to convey the message. They could hear him yelling, berating the tardy ones to get the bloody things on, ‘Quick smart and tout-bloody-sweet, mes amis, or you’ll soon be pushing up bloody daisies.’

  They hated the masks, but there was no option. Devised in haste when it was learnt the Germans were using gas, the masks did not always protect them: gas could seep through the material, and sometimes breathing tubes became so blocked that men choked in their own vomit. The respirators often fogged, making vision difficult. Whatever the outside temperature, even if it was zero, all soldiers sweltered inside the hoods, and audible communication was virtually impossible.

  Stephen did his best. It was the first time he had led his own platoon, let alone others. He knew they were unable to see his hand signals; he simply had to lead and hope they could follow. The amount of equipment they were made to carry encumbered them; not only rifles and ammunition, but water bottles, Mills bombs and grenades. Festooned with this ordnance, they were also weighed down with a backpack containing trenching tools and rations.

  ‘Like bloody draught horses, only they get fed better,’ had been Blue’s opinion when the kit was issued.

  They ran to the opposing trenches hurling grenades, but the lack of response confirmed they were unoccupied. Stephen felt sure the Germans had moved to the high ground towards Thiepval Hill. There were blockhouses up there, well-fortified observation posts that gave them enormous advantage. By now they’d have machine gun placements established; there would be portable searchlights powered by their diesel generators. Any attempt to approach the village and they’d be held like trapped rabbits in those lights.

  It would be suicidal; the battle plan they had been given was con-cocted in a hurry and without detailed knowledge of the terrain; it would surely lead to a massacre. There was only one possibility: use the dark to find their way north to some high ground marked by the ruins of an old windmill. He hoped the brigade major had thought of this, wherever he was, and wondered why the hell the intelligence — if that was the right word for the useless bastards — hadn’t latched on to the bleeding obvious.

  After dawn the nightmare was complete. Stephen’s decision for his platoons to change direction had been followed by hundreds of dislocated troops from other sections of the brigade, and this had briefly confused the enemy artillery whose gunners spent the remaining hours of darkness wasting ammunition. But with day-light came Fokker planes. First was a reconnaissance aircraft that discovered the diversion, and soon after this the sky seemed full of attacking aircraft that flew low overhead, dropping cylinders of gas wherever they could find clusters of Australian infantry. This time the phosgene was combined with a far more lethal mix of chlorine. With those on the ground forced to again don their masks and try to run from the danger, they were an easy target as the biplanes swooped even lower to strafe them with machine-gun fire.

  There was no respite even when the Fokkers left to refuel, for the German guns had now been told of their error and began a systematic onslaught. It was a deadly accurate bombardment that lasted the rest of a cataclysmic day in which bodies were blown apart and men deafened, while others were driven insensate or demented by the incessant pounding.

  When the shelling ceased they were too exhausted to bury their dead. The three platoons Stephen led, and the hundreds who’d joined them, had been almost annihilated. The remnants loyally followed him, because they hoped he knew what he was doing. Stephen kept going forward because he had to; retreat was no longer an option. Blind instinct made him head in the direction of the ridge between the valleys. Along there must be a way to reach their objective: the village of Pozieres, provided the village still existed, which now seemed doubtful. He was conscious Bluey was always there alongside him, sending back messengers with new reports of their movements, so there was at least some link between the surviving forward platoons. Where the other battalions were that made up the brigade Stephen had no idea, such was the confusion now. When they finally had to rest for a time, Bluey was gasping.

  ‘Why the bloody hell,’ he said breathlessly, ‘do we always seem to be attacking up a bloody hill?’

  ‘Huns are smart.’ Stephen was equally fatigued and out of breath. ‘Why do you think they’re winning this fucking war?’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Bloody oath they are. They live in dry trenches on the tops of hills. We sleep in the mud and shit down below.’

  ‘I’ll write to bloody old Haig, complain our accommodation stinks,’ Bluey decided. ‘And if it don’t improve, we’re off home.’

  ‘Send a copy to Birdwood.’

  Bluey laughed. ‘Feathers up his arse, eh? That Pommy was a real prick. I bet he’s somewhere safe right now, probably busy polishin’ his belt and boots.’

  ‘Or putting me on a report. I expect he will.’

  ‘Stuff him. Forget the bastard. Most Pom officers treat their own mob like dirt. They’re the pits. Piss on their troops from a great height, they do. They can’t pull that stuff on us. We’re a different army.’

  ‘I wish we were. We’d be better off, fighting on our own.’

  ‘Mate, you know what?’

  ‘What, Blue?’

  ‘Much as I’m enjoyin’ this chat of ours, I reckon we gotta find somewhere a bit safer from the planes, or we’re likely to be in for another real crook sorta day.’

  It was almost mid-morning and they were near the crest of the ridge when they found temporary shelter in some abandoned trenches. But there was hardly time for much-needed rest, as the guns found them again. The bombardment, nowhere near as intense as before, was still enough to keep them pinned down. The night brought no relief, for with it came an enemy counterattack across the entire front. All the isolated battalions and groups like their own were outnumbered and in extreme danger.

  When this was finally repulsed the dawn brought more German planes with gas canisters and bombs. Sleep was now out of the question. They’d had none since being informed of the battle plan, forty-eight hours before the attack. It was now twice that time, and they were entering their fifth sleepless day.

  Fatigue became more invasive than the enemy. Food supplies ran out, and they were short of ammunition. Lice were rampant, infesting their hair, nesting in their clothes and tormenting them. Haggard and filthy, they began at last to lose their optimism. On the fourth night of the actual battle, and into their sixth day without rest, Stephen expressed the wish he’d brought his diary instead of leaving it behind with his watch and letter to Jane. There were things he wanted to write in it, thoughts about how it felt to face death. It was a serious mistake not to have brought it, he kept telling those around him. He needed to record his final thoughts. One day his infant son might want to rea
d what had happened here.

  ‘Jesus,’ Bluey said, trying to jolt him out of this perilous mood of bleak depression, ‘stop yer bloody laughin’, will yer?’

  At midnight they heard the brigade major had been killed, and it was rumoured there was a signal from Haig ordering all groups to withdraw to the original trenches.

  Bugger that, they decided. Has all this been for nothing?

  ‘It’s the way they fight their shitty war,’ Dan Ridley complained with customary bitterness. ‘A few yards at a time. One step forward, two steps back in a weird and mad dance of death.’

  ‘Put a sock in it,’ Bluey told him.

  ‘When we joined,’ Ridley continued, ‘they all said it’d be over by the first bloody Christmas.’

  ‘Shut yer fuckin’ whingeing!’ Bluey ordered angrily.

  They began to realise he was the strongest man among them. Indomitable, Stephen thought; he should be in charge, not me. He felt Bluey deserved a medal, but knew if he tried to express this opinion, his mate would tell him to stick the medal up his arse and stop carrying on like a headless chook.

  Since Haig’s signal to retreat could not be confirmed and most of their officers were either dead or out of communication, they debated the issue of what to do. Should they assume the order was authentic and withdraw? Could they even get back without more appalling losses? Most of them would probably be killed in a degrading retreat. They concluded that if there was to be a bullet, it was better to face it in the front than feel it in the back. There was no confirmation of Haig’s order. Did they go; did they stay, or — what about surrender?

  ‘Let’s vote on it,’ Bluey suggested.

  So they did. After the vote was counted, a runner went to tell those alive in other groups — if he could find them — what had been agreed.

  The next day at dawn, the exhausted remnants of the division gathered together and attacked the German forces holding Pozieres. They left behind their supplies and heavy equipment because it would delay them; they went carrying just their rifles, firing from the hip as they moved forward in the manner they’d made famous. It had been agreed the previous night that if they ran out of ammunition they would use bayonets, and after that if nothing else was left, their fists, then their boots.

  Major Carmody had been ordered to attend a staff meeting in Paris, and not wishing to rebuff French hospitality, it was a week before he arrived back at the British Empire Forces headquarters, situated in a large chateau behind the lines at Armentieres. The catering officer, Captain Lacey, was busy supervising crates of fresh food being unloaded from a field ambulance. The Red Cross markings on the wagon were a sure guarantee against attack on this most cherished of cargoes.

  ‘My dear James.’ The greeting was prefaced by a smart salute. Despite their friendship, Lacey knew James Carmody was a stickler for conformity. ‘Been to Paris, we heard. Some of us have to do the tough jobs in this war, eh? How are you?’

  ‘Flourishing,’ Carmody replied as he stood watching medical orderlies unload the ambulance. ‘New supplies, Lacey?’

  ‘Nothing but the best. Scottish salmon, lamb, venison — the old chap loves his venison as we know.’ He lowered his voice to prevent the orderlies hearing this, for the ‘old chap’ was Sir Douglas Haig, the British Commander in France.

  ‘Any decent wine?’

  ‘Burgundy. The 1910. Port and brandy as well. Should be a right Royal shindig tonight. You’re back just in time.’

  Carmody was delighted at the prospect. ‘Something special?’ ‘Things have gone well at the front, so the general’s ordered a celebration. Any excuse for a party. How was Paris?’

  ‘Stimulating,’ Carmody replied, deciding it was perhaps best not to mention the banquets he’d attended, or the exclusive brothel in the Rue Saint Honore, where he’d been made an honorary member by a French colonel. Being an honorary was a particular delight, since the choicest of the mademoiselles were freely available, paid for by a special fund established for what the French called Officers’ Creature Comforts. The OCC club was both elite and restricted. Carmody thought it highly civilised, and was manoeuvring to spend the rest of the war in Paris as a liaison officer.

  He went into the chateau where tables were being set in the elegant dining room that tonight would be en fete. Passing the first floor that contained Sir Douglas Haig’s private quarters, he proceeded upstairs to where the chateau had been converted into a labyrinth of offices. This was Carmody’s destination, requesting an urgent meeting with the major-general who commanded the Australian first division.

  On being advised the general was touring his troops on the battlefield, he met instead with a senior staff officer, Colonel Bridges, informing him of his wish to lay a charge. Insubordination and offensive behaviour by a mere sergeant, a non-commissioned officer. It was a serious complaint, and he opined these colonial troops were a conceited unruly rabble, having been given far too much adulation after their arrival in England from the Dardanelles. It was ridiculous, the acclaim that had been bestowed on them; marches through London, cheered by crowds, sought after by girls, not to mention the columns of praise in some English newspapers. It had gone to their heads, and their conduct had become intolerable.

  He spoke as if unaware, or uncaring, that Colonel Bridges was himself an Australian.

  As for discipline, he continued, they rarely bother to march in step, they show no respect, hardly ever salute, and he thought their prowess as fighters vastly over-rated.

  Although senior in rank and annoyed by the tirade, Colonel Bridges was not of an aggressive nature or he might have disputed some of this invective. He glanced at the name on the charge sheet with mild surprise, then told the major an Australian division had just pulled off a remarkable victory. Perhaps the news had not reached Paris with its distractions, but the previous day, while vastly outnumbered, the Anzacs had driven the enemy back and retaken the town of Pozieres.

  An NCO — the same Sergeant Conway accused here — had been heavily involved, commanding several platoons whose officers had been killed. There was talk of his being mentioned in dispatches. He had led his men in a savage bayonet attack from which the Germans had fled. Despite huge losses, days under heavy bombardment and counterattack, the Australians had prevailed and Field Marshal Haig was greatly impressed. In fact, there was a dinner tonight for staff to celebrate it, did the major know? Sir Douglas had even sent word to all the AIF brigades involved that this was a splendid achievement.

  Despite these plaudits, the major showed no sign of changing his mind. He just pointed to the charge sheet.

  ‘Insubordination, sir. It can’t be allowed to pass. Without proper discipline and respect for officers, we’ll never win this war.’

  SIX

  There was a gentle splash of water. Stephen thought he was dreaming. It sounded like waves lapping onto a beach, something remembered from the school summer holidays when his family went to Narrabeen, but surely he was mistaken. It could not be a beach. Perhaps it was a dripping tap, but how could there be a tap when there was no village? What they had captured at such cost was little more than a stretch of mud, with the bones of men strewn everywhere: an awful place full of nothing but the stench of death and a pitiless silence.

  Then he felt a cool cloth wiping his forehead.

  ‘Pouvez-vous m’entendre?’ a soft voice asked. He did not know what it meant, and had to be dreaming for the voice seemed to be a woman’s. Young, and perhaps foreign. But it was impossible. There was no beach, no taps and no woman within miles.

  ‘Comment vous sentez-vous?’

  More words he didn’t understand. He opened his eyes and saw her. The Angel of Mons, he thought, seeing luminous brown eyes gazing down at him, and recalling the strange story he had read on the tram the day he enlisted.

  She was young with dark hair that fell to her shoulders, kneeling at his side with a pail of water and a cloth. He was in some kind of a farm shed, lying on what felt like straw or hay. She wet the clo
th again and gently moistened his mouth and face this time. The relief was instantaneous and he smiled his gratitude. Her face that had been grave with anxiety was transformed by an answering smile.

  ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

  ‘Vous — she began, then paused. ‘You…’ she pointed at him, ‘your nomne est… Stephen.’

  He nodded, surprised, then felt for his identity disc. It was not around his neck. She took it from a pocket of her shapeless dress and handed it back to him.

  ‘Stephen… Con-way. Oui?’

  ‘Oui,’ he said. ‘Et vous’

  She replied in rapid French, too swift for him to understand, which he took to be a reaction to his attempted few words. From his brief acquaintance with the French he was aware they liked foreigners to speak Français. Some insisted. Stephen had often tried to oblige, but his vocabulary of about twenty words, useful for rudimentary moments, rendered any real conversation like this out of the question. He raised a hand to stem her flow.

  ‘Sil vous plait,’ he began cautiously, ‘my French is very small.’

  ‘Comment?’ she asked, looking puzzled.

  ‘Small,’ he repeated, and then remembered the words from his schooldays. ‘Mon Francaise est petit.’ He used both his hands, putting them close together to show how extremely petit it was.

  ‘Ah! Petit!’ The girl laughed softly. It was a nice laugh. He wondered where she came from, and how he had ended up here.

  ‘My name,’ she said in strongly accented and halting English, ‘it is Marie-Louise.’

  ‘Hello, Marie-Louise,’ he said.

  ‘Bonjour Stephen,’ she replied, and kissed him.

  Reports kept coming in confirming that more Australian troops had been killed during the recapture of Pozieres than in any other battle. During the remorseless weeks of attack and counterattack and especially in the ferocious final days, more had perished than during the entire Gallipoli campaign. Casualties already numbered over twenty thousand dead or seriously wounded, and the toll was likely to rise with many still missing and unaccounted for. In the chateau at Armentieres, Harry Norton, a staff captain of the Anzac contingent, was appalled at the tactics and the cost.