The Secret Generations (29 page)

‘
Can I fire, sir?’ he whispered.

Caspar opened his mouth, but a volley of rifle shots broke out around them, and there was no need to ask or reply. Billy had one figure in his sights. He squeezed the trigger, felt the harsh kick of the rifle against his shoulder and the smell of cordite in his nostrils, as the figure leaped into the air
– a St Andrew’s Cross for a second – silhouetted against the sky, then falling, and nothing.

By the time his first target had dropped, Billy Crook had jerked at the bolt action and reloaded. He fired again four times in quick succession, knowing that at least three of the shots found their mark. Then he became oblivious to the sounds around him: the crack after crack of other rifles, the constant pounding of the guns to the rear, the continued roar and crash of German shells.

After the first advance, and the hail of bullets put down by the men on the ridge, the shadowy grey figures did not come walking; but crouched or slid, creeping on their bellies like snakes.

Billy stopped counting after his sixth kill, there were so many of them, rising from the ground only a few yards away, or crawling almost to within spitting distance. They came again and again during the morning, and you only knew time was passing because the sun grew hotter and higher in the heavens. The noise and obvious dangers
– the thud of bullets hitting the ditch, or sharding the road – became the natural pattern of the day. For Billy Crook, the world was reduced to what he could see over the foresight of his rifle; while the sounds of nature became the chirp of the machine-gun, the screech of the wounded, the bark of rifles, and the quaking thunder of the guns.

In one short lull, Billy eased himself back, and saw that Caspar Railton, who kept talking for most of the time, had acquired a rifle and ammunition from somewhere and was busy reloading. Billy wondered where the weapon came from; then, looking around, saw the decimation of his comrades.

He spotted the remains of Sergeant Martin, spreadeagled on his back behind the ditch. There were men lying as if asleep over their rifles, while others moved, adjusting aim, or reloading. Stretcher bearers worked, like scavengers picking over rubble, quickly lifting their treasure of shattered bodies on to canvas litters, and hurrying with them to comparative safety.

He turned to his front again, spotting three Germans trying to creep along a gully across the road. Sighting quickly, he fired, conscious of his officer
’s rifle delivering a shot at the same moment. One of the Germans disappeared with a cry, and the other two ducked down and were gone from sight.

So far, the action had been from their front, apart from the heavier gunfire over them, and from behind. Then, as suddenly as the first attack, there came a rising wave of fire from the right.

‘My God!’ Railton said loudly, ‘they’ve broken through the town!’ As though to give credence, a runner, crouched and weaving, ran along the ditch.

‘
They’re through Le Cateau, sir. Manchesters and Argylls coming up on the right as quickly as possible. The General says to please hold as long as you can.’ Then he was off, carrying his message to the next platoon, as another attack – about sixty enemy soldiers – made itself apparent in the fields beyond the road.

The artillery were moving. Billy recognized the jingle of harness and rumble of wheels.

As he fired, re-cocked the bolt action, fired again, worked the bolt, and fired, Billy heard the sounds of guns being made ready nearby. ‘Good lads, coming up in close support,’ Caspar said, firing as a flitting figure rose from hiding fifty yards away, then slipped back to the earth.

The German shelling intensified, and, as he slid a new clip of ammunition into his magazine, Billy had to crouch, trying to bury himself in the ground as a lucky shell hit the gun
– limber, horses, crew, everything – only a short distance behind them. The noises were unlike anything the boy had ever dreamed of in his worst childhood nightmares: inhuman, agonizing, and dreadful – as though a hoard of demons had been unleashed in this normally peaceful and innocent part of the French countryside.

Without warning, the fighting ceased to their front; as though the enemy troops had been spirited away. The air fell still around them, and the battered, ripped ranks seemed to hold their collective breath, waiting for some final worse onslaught, which did not come.

‘It’s not over yet.’ Caspar crawled back from the ditch, moving cautiously along the lines of his, now seriously depleted, platoon.

‘
It’s bad.’ He shook his head, and Billy saw a look of horror deep in the young officer’s eyes. ‘God knows what’s happened to the other lads, but ours are feeling the strain. Doubt if they’ll hold them off for long.’ Fighting was still heavy far away to their left, while the sounds of even more concentrated battle came from the far right of their line.

The artillery, mauled in the constant barrage of the last hours, appeared to be reforming; shifting their positions in order to help in what seemed to be developing on the right flank. But around the main standpoint, along the ridge of the Roman road, only the occasional shell whined overhead, or exploded
– stray – in the fields nearby. The odd rifle-shot made Billy start, jump, and turn – his rifle ready. But the heavy fighting seemed now to be sparing them.

After about an hour, Caspar said that it sounded as though the referee had blown his whistle for the first half of the match.

‘Wonder how we’ll play in the second half, sir,’ Billy murmured, and Mr Railton laughed.

‘
I have to tell you,’ the young officer seemed embarrassed. ‘You did damned well this morning, Billy Crook. I’ve seldom seen anyone as cool under fire.’

‘
Don’t know how you work that out, Mr Caspar.’ Billy grinned. ‘You was too busy to notice. Anyhow, what’s the point of getting in a muck sweat? We all has to go some day. I came used to it quickly, and with a lot of help.’

‘
Help?’

‘
The General, sir. Back at Redhill. When I was little, he talked to me a lot. Told me how it was when you’re fighting; said he wanted me to be a soldier. Said I’d find myself on a battlefield one day. Give me a lot of tips, The General did. You’ve no idea how he helped.’

‘
Oh, I’ve got a very good idea of how much he helped,’ Caspar smiled. ‘He gave me a lot of tips as well. You ever play with his army, Billy? His toy soldiers?’

‘
I have them, sir. Christmas before he died, The General give his army to me. My prize possession that is. He taught me how to play soldiers, only it .was never play. Taught me strategy and tactics.’

The fighting, to their left and right, became audibly worse during the next hour. Worse, and if anything closer at hand. Billy was surprised when Caspar told him it was almost two o
’clock in the afternoon. He thought it was much later.

Soon after, another runner arrived.
‘CO’s compliments, sir,’ he managed an apology of a salute. ‘You’re to withdraw by sections, quickly as possible. CO says there’s danger in it, so take care. We regroup at…’ He fumbled in the map case slung around his shoulder, and looked at the contents, reading off a map reference.

Caspar thanked him, consulting his own maps, not looking up as the man trotted away. Then he told Billy that they would be moving back, down the line of the Roman road, to their left, to regroup at a place called Reumont. Billy was to pass down the line, giving the orders for withdrawal by sections.
‘And warn them they’ll certainly have to fight their way back. If we’re not careful, some of our chaps will get caught up here on the ridge.’

Billy nodded, repeated the map reference, and was away,
moving low and fast along that section of the road held by the remnants of Mr Railton’s platoon.

It was a short journey, but only now did he take in the full measure of what had happene
d that morning. He was also suddenly aware of what Mr Caspar had meant about the possibility of being cut off on the ridge.

A mile or so away, to the right, below him, a vicious series of actions were taking place. From this distance, it was like gazing at some painting come to life: small figures fought, lived, and died among the savage storm of bullets, grenades, and bayonets; while the artillery of both sides kept up their constant pounding.

A long cloud of dirty smoke, breaking up into sinister tendrils, swept over the fields, hovering above the desperate men of both sides. If the Germans broke through, then all would be lost for those of them left on the Roman road.

Closer to hand, the carnage was terrible to see
– the fields stained in patches with blood; horses, and what was left of men and guns, scattering the place where – he imagined – young men and girls from the local villages had probably come, in summer, to learn love. There was no thought of love in this place now.

Along the ditch where Caspar Railton
’s platoon had made their stand, things were as bad. The numbers of men were now so reduced that Billy had to search hard for faces he could recognize from the few hours he had spent in the barn.

Some lay dead and broken. Others looked at him, anxious, as though willing him to be a messenger of hope. He saw Lofty Lofthouse, his eyes old
and showing no sign of recognition. Sergeant Graves, who had given him a cheerful nod when they first reached the ridge, now met Billy with a glance of tired disillusion.

As he glanced at the unlucky ones, caught in a frozen moment, and now sleeping for eternity, Billy thought
– It could be me. Any one of them could be me. Then, for some unaccountable reason, what appeared to him as even worse – It could be me, or Mr Railton.

He returned, sweating.
‘Number Two section say there’s only four of them left, though some lads from another platoon’ve joined them; and Corporal Lester’s only got three of his original lads with him, sir.’

Caspar nodded, glumly.
‘Right. Let’s watch them go, then we’ll move our toes, and be ready to kill any Jerry who tries to get in our way.’ He stood up, shading his eyes, as the khaki figures began to move away from the ditch. Then, as he turned back, the stray shell exploded less than fifteen yards away.

The blast knocked Billy off his feet. His ears rang, while the right side of his body stung from the blast. He rolled over, shook himself like a dog, then moved his arms and legs. He appeared to be in one piece.
‘You all…?’ he began, swinging his head to where Caspar Railton had been.

The officer was sprawled unnaturally, with blood all down one side where his left arm had been sheared off at the shoulder. The right leg was bent grotesquely at an angle just above the knee, the lower part of the limb hanging free, attached by one thick strand of bone and sinew.

Within a second Billy was beside him, kneeling in the blood. Caspar’s eyes were closed, the fine face suddenly parchment grey. Then he moved his head, and sobbed, ‘Mummy…’

The eyes opened, and the head turned.
‘Billy! Billy Crook! Jesus!’

‘
It’s all right, Mr Caspar…’

‘
No… Company Commander… Finished… I’m…’ The eyes rolled back, steadied, then closed again. ‘Finished.’

But Billy was not Martha Crook
’s son for nothing. Since he had been old enough to understand, he had watched his mother as she tended the sick or helped at dreadful accidents among the farm hands, or the men on the estate.

‘
Oh no, you’re not finished, Mr Caspar.’ Billy almost shouted in fury, ripped off his webbing and tunic, then the shirt from his own back – tearing it from collar to tail.

In a fever of speed, he rolled half of the shirt into a ball, pushing it hard against Caspar
’s shoulder, moving the body slightly so that the bleeding could be stopped. Then he turned his attention to the leg.

His fingers scrabbled at Caspar
’s khaki tie, pulling it free, binding it tightly around the thigh, ripping at the material of the officer’s breeches to get at the flesh. When it was tight, and cutting a ridge into the skin, Billy looked down, seeing the blood running less freely. There was no hope of saving the lower part of the leg, and he looked about, desperately shouting, ‘Stretcher bearers! Stretcher bearers!’ as he had heard so many shout during that morning. But now nobody would come. The men who had been with them were well away by this time.

Then he spotted the clasp knife, clipped to Caspar
’s belt. The officer had started to use it that morning to try to dig a firing position. Billy unclipped it from the Sam Browne belt, opening the blade, testing it on his thumb, then cleaning it off as best he could on his own handkerchief.

From just above the knee, down to the foot, the leg was held only by slivers of bone, one strand of sinew and veins, about as thick as Billy
’s own thumb. He parted the way with his fingers, then slid the knife blade in. Taking a deep breath, he bore down and started to saw through the cord.

Caspar gave a half-scream, then lay silent, as the strand parted and Billy kicked what was left of the limb into the ditch.

He bound up the stump with the other half of his shirt, then tied his first makeshift bandage on the shoulder, using the revolver lanyard which he unlooped from around his officer’s neck, unclipping the far end from the small swivel on the revolver butt.