Then he discovered that the North Cape Horse, his old unit, had raised a contingent which was fighting as infantry, but once again he realised he belonged to the lost age of Victoria’s little wars and his connection with them was unknown.
He was equally disappointed with his visit to head-quarters. He was given a good lunch and the brandy bottle was placed so conspicuously to his hand that he was particularly watchful. The Commander-in-Chief was on a visit to French headquarters and he was attended throughout by the brigadier in charge of Intelligence, one of whose jobs seemed to be to convince everybody at home through the person of the Field Marshal that all was well. He seemed to be suffering from a sort of self-delusion that the Germans were blind and stupid and was convinced that the struggle for Verdun which was beginning at last to die down from sheer inanition, was going to be a great help.
‘The Germans are worn out,’ he insisted. ‘Their reserves have all been swallowed up in the battle against the French. Once we get going, we can punch a hole in the front here so wide that any attempt by the Germans on the flanks to close it can only fail.’
Over the maps, he became even more enthusiastic. His hand moved across the sheets, indicating strong points and positions where German reserves were held.
‘Sir Douglas would have preferred Flanders,’ he said. ‘But it was Joffre’s claim that the land here in Picardy is far drier and more suitable than the marshy land up there. Besides, it’s unfought over and undamaged and it gives us elbow room. We’ve built railway lines and provided water and seven weeks’ lodgings for over four hundred thousand men and a hundred thousand horses. It was, of course, originally to have been a Franco-British attack but the German assault on Verdun’s changed all that. It’s now almost entirely British.’
In the eyes of the staff officers around him, the Field Marshal perceived an unholy glint of triumph – as though they had never wanted the French, anyway, and welcomed the slaughter at Verdun as a means of freeing them from the interference of foreigners they didn’t like.
‘What about the men? Can they operate in scattered groups?’
‘They won’t need to. We’ve made it clear to them they’re to obey orders to the letter. All they’ll have to do is go over with the bayonet and mop up the survivors of the bombardment.’
The Field Marshal had looked across the maps at the brigadier. ‘Have
you
ever done any trench fighting?’ he asked.
The brigadier seemed surprised at the question. ‘Of course not,’ he said.
‘Then,’ the Field Marshal had asked coldly, ‘how can you be so sure?’
Sitting in the car that was taking him up to the line, the Field Marshal thought on what he had learned. The French seemed worried by the ideas coming from British headquarters and he had discovered that Rawlinson, commanding Fourth Army, whom he had met in South Africa and considered an intelligent man, also had doubts. Rawlinson believed there was too great an optimism at headquarters and felt that the methods to be employed would exhaust the British before they had exhausted the Germans. His own suggestions had been for a more modest series of attacks instead of an attempt to finish the war at one blow. Allenby, another intelligent man who had the Third Army, was also suggesting less ambitious ventures, but neither was prepared to object too strongly, and it occurred to the Field Marshal that the Dardanelles had had its effect on all of them. Ian Hamilton, who had run that campaign, was also an intelligent man and he had been defeated, and they didn’t seem prepared to set too much store by their military acumen.
As the car neared the front, the Field Marshal brooded. He had to admit that about him there was a new spirit in the air. He could sense it, could see it in all the eager faces about him. Kitchener’s New Armies were arriving in their tens of thousands now, enthusiastic and, for the most part, untouched by the cynicism of the older soldiers. The shell shortage had been overcome, the ground was dry and different from the soggy marshes of Flanders. It was land where cavalry could move, good open country for the breakthrough. The Field Marshal earnestly prayed that they’d be given the chance.
The procession of cars reached Albert during the afternoon. The place had been destroyed in the early battles and hollow echoing buildings with broken windows like empty eye-sockets and smashed doorways like wailing mouths passed on either side. Heavy batteries were hidden among the trees and behind ruined houses and, as they entered the road that led to the Rue de Bapaume, the car stopped to let a battalion of marching men pass. Mouth organs were whining and they were singing the maudlin songs that had already carried them across France for two years. They were all grinning as they passed, old faces, young faces, all brown and healthy, all excited at the prospect of being in at the final victory on the Somme. They were a Kitchener battalion and they forgot to give eyes right and one or two men, seeing the Field Marshal’s red hat band, even made rude noises.
The old man, huddled in his coat, said nothing. He had never been one to fuss about ceremonial. What was more important was the look of these splendid men. Four after four they came, the crunch of their heavy boots muffling their strong rough voices. They were all reduced to a common level by their khaki uniforms and were sweating under the weight of their equipment, but they were all singing, all cheerful in spite of their loads, all chivvied by new young officers, all bursting into cheers at the slightest excuse.
When the last man had passed, the car moved on again, eventually stopping at a crossroads close to the line. A tired-looking young captain with hollow eyes and a livid scar on his face that looked only newly healed, was waiting for them. He seemed quite indifferent to the Field Marshal who suspected he had done this job of conducting important people to safe areas of the line far too often to be impressed.
‘Cleaver,’ he introduced himself. He nodded to the pink-faced major. ‘’Morning, Horton.’
Major Horton seemed to resent his attitude, but Cleaver appeared not to notice.
‘Ammunition dumps,’ he pointed out, gesturing. ‘Rest billets for troops.’
‘I didn’t come all the way from England to see ammunition dumps and rest billets,’ the Field Marshal snapped. ‘I’ve come to see the troops.’
‘Sir,’ Horton pointed out, ‘we’ve seen troops all the way up here.’
‘I’ve seen troops moving up to the line. Many of ’em. But I’ve not seen troops coming out of the line and I’ve not seen troops
in
the line. That’s what I intend.’
It was noticeable that the cortège of officers and pressmen dwindled suddenly. The smooth brigadier discovered he had work to do and with profuse apologies climbed back into his car, removing with him several other officers. The press gallery disappeared at once – and far from unwillingly – as they were informed that they were not allowed, as civilians, into the area of the front line.
Cleaver stood watching the Field Marshal while all the sorting out was going on. The old man waited patiently. He was cold and tired but was still grimly determined to see what he’d come to see. Cleaver seemed to consider him mad, but he shrugged and finally led the way.
‘Dangerous just here,’ he said, moving quickly across the road.
Hurrying after him with Horton, back aching with stooping, knees cracking with unaccustomed exertion, the Field Marshal arrived at a wide and muddy path cut in the clay that ran through a cluster of white crosses on the edge of a wood. On one or two mouldering caps hung khaki ones among the old-fashioned French képis.
‘Devons caught it here,’ Cleaver remarked.
The path went downhill until they found themselves stumbling below ground level between strong parapets of clay. The going was hard because the mud was glutinous and sometimes deep, and Cleaver was clearly worried for the health of his elderly charge.
‘You all right, sir?’ he kept asking.
‘Yes, dammit,’ the Field Marshal panted, hoping to God he hadn’t bitten off more than he could chew.
They passed under a plank bridge and moved round a promontory of earth and timber that forced them to make right-angled turns. The parapet was edged now with sandbags, laid header-stretcher three or four deep. Between them grass was sprouting and a poppy bloomed scarlet against the sky. A few men stood in the trench, dressed in mud-caked sheepskin jackets, and more lay asleep on the fire-step. They waited patiently as the group pushed past, a tattered crowd with hacked-off overcoats and sloppy unwired caps.
Here and there were dark caves with corrugated iron roofs with, occasionally, real curtains and little doors to give them a look of home. Above the openings were signs, ‘No barrel organs, circulars or hawkers.’ In the entrance to one of them a man was sitting with his shirt across his knees, delousing it.
‘Just picking them out?’ the Field Marshal asked.
The man looked up, his expression a little startled to see red tabs, but he made no attempt to rise. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Just taking them as they come.’
It had begun to drizzle now and the dry walls of the trenches were changing from dust to pasty white mud. Horton’s splendid uniform was showing signs of heavy wear and tear.
‘How much farther?’ the Field Marshal asked.
Cleaver smiled. By this time, he was beginning to admire the old boy who was so persistently eager to see the conditions. He had conducted many important people to the front but very few of them had been willing to come this far.
‘Any further, sir,’ he said, ‘and we shall be in Jerry’s lap.’
The Field Marshal smiled back at him. ‘I’d like to see the commanding officer.’
The young captain in command of the trench was shaving as they stumbled into his dug-out, scraping his face by the light of a candle.
‘Come in,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Brought the reliefs?’
‘This,’ Cleaver said forbiddingly, ‘is Field Marshal Sir Colby Goff. This, sir, is Captain Archer, 3rd/7th South Yorkshires.’
The captain put his razor down and slammed to attention, his face half-shaved.
‘Finish what you’re doing, my boy,’ the Field Marshal growled. ‘I’m sorry to intrude.’
The officer finished his face in record time and scrambled to put on his collar and tie and tunic. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’ he asked. ‘Only whisky and it’s out of mugs. But the whisky helps the water and the water helps the whisky.’
Somebody hooked a box forward with his foot and the Field Marshal sat down.
‘You comfortable?’ he asked.
The boy grinned. He looked tired but in good spirits. ‘Hardly comfortable, sir,’ he said. ‘But it’ll do.’
‘Anything you need? I’m here to find out.’
The boy grinned again. ‘Only the end of the war, sir.’ He paused. ‘We could do with more Mills bombs, sir. There’s an awful lot of cock – that is, rubbish, sir – talked about going in with the bayonet. Bombs are much more useful.’
‘Make a note of that, Horton. Anything else?’
‘Rubber boots, sir. It’s going to get pretty sticky when the summer ends. That’s about all.’
‘You sure?’ It seemed a modest enough request.
The boy stared at him, and for a moment there was an aching pause as though he felt he had something to say and daren’t. The Field Marshal tried to persuade him to speak further but he wouldn’t, and they left as soon as they decently could.
As they moved into the communication trench, a flurry of shells dropped nearby. Cleaver grabbed the old man and dragged him under the shelter of the parapet as a shower of pulverised earth and stones came down on them.
‘We’d better hurry, sir,’ he said. ‘We don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Dammit,’ the Field Marshal pointed out, ‘it would do no harm, at my age. We all owe God a death, my boy, and mine’s been put off on more than one occasion.’
By the time they left the communication trench on the return journey, the Field Marshal was growing weary. As Lloyd George had said, he was no longer young and this sort of behaviour was exhausting, even for a fit old man. Besides, he was growing chilly and felt he had a cold coming on, but he insisted on seeing the 19th Lancers.
The Crossley moved under a darkening sky past long-snouted guns painted in drab browns and greens. There were military police everywhere and then, on the right, in a long sloping grass field that ran down to a crescent-shaped valley that lay like a shadow, the Field Marshal saw thousands of cavalry horses picketed, and clusters of lances, their bright blades catching the daylight above the pennants.
The 19th were nearest the road and headquarters were in a ruined cottage in a corner of the field. Dabney was there, working over a map, and he jumped to his feet as he saw his father.
‘Father! Sir! Good God, what are you doing here?’
‘Tour of inspection, boy. They tried to fob me off with the second line and reserve billets. I wasn’t having that. How are the men?’
Dabney grinned and pushed a box forward. ‘They’re splendid. They never complain.’
The old man was silent for a moment, then he lifted his head. ‘What do you think of the coming battle, Dab?’
Dabney’s smile died. He paused then he drew a deep breath. ‘I think the whole damn thing is wrong, Father,’ he said. ‘It’s so flagrant, the Germans must be just waiting for us.’
‘Military commanders in time of war,’ the old man said slowly, trying hard to be tolerant, ‘succeed in tasks that would make the running of a large commercial enterprise seem like child’s play. What’s more, their decisions are often made under conditions of enormous stress, with noise, fatigue and grinding responsibility added to the ever-present threat of death.’
‘It’s not that, sir.’ Dabney looked tired and irritable. ‘There aren’t enough men.’
‘With five hundred thousand?’
‘Numbers count only up to a point. We’ve begun to think in terms of numbers instead of skill. They’re not trained. They haven’t time to train. Their duties rotate between holding the line, labouring and rehearsing for the offensive. They don’t know the meaning of rest because they’re always being called on for patrols. This spirit of unlimited offensive’s smiting the infantry like the Black Death. It not only keeps the Germans on the alert, it also takes a heavy toll of our own men.’