Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Page 10

  ‘Right,’ he mumbled. I could as easily have said, Kaiser Wilhelm, sir, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

  ‘You don’t appear to be doing much.’

  I was preparing to quibble, but the look he threw me was convincing enough to suggest silence was preferable.

  ‘You know the terrain,’ he said. I did. I wasn’t entirely sure how he knew that. Without as much as a confirming nod from me, he blazed on, ‘I need you to get up there as fast as possible. Survey the exact situation and get back to me like the dickens. Clear?’

  Anything other than a yes wasn’t in his play book, but I’m not the sort to always play by the rules. ‘And reinforcements, sir?’ I ventured bravely, thinking the obvious.

  ‘Yes, the 52nd is reinforcing, a fresh advance has been ordered.’ The 52nd was the battalion held in support for situations such as this. ‘But I need to know exactly what’s going on up there. Report to the Camerons’ HQ at Waterloo Farm when you’re finished; they have a telephone there. Now get going.’ Snatching a rifle, a satchel with ammunition and my helmet, I hastened to the door.

  All told, it took me the best part of an hour to reach the tip of the Spur. It was still raining – tamely compared to its earlier ferocity, but the going was tough. The slippery gummy slime, and occasional shreds of wire, pulled tirelessly at my boots. I fell twice. The Boche continued to lay down a barrage on the central approaches to the Spur, so I veered to the left, avoiding the worst of it. Now I was coming up on the crest. I made sure to steer well away from Bellevue Farm, or where I figured it must be. My mental map I was so confident about was fogging over.

  The Farm’s formidable concentration of pill-boxes was, untaken as far as I knew, and I had no desire to tackle it on my own. If ever I’d entertained any notions that an appointment as divisional intelligence officer meant a cozy sinecure full of warm beds, baths and food, they were being severely disabused.

  A shell came whistling over in my direction, so low it almost seemed to graze the ground. Soldiers’ superstition said that you never heard the one that got you, but that was an easy thing to say when there was no one around to contradict it. I certainly wasn’t about to take any chances. I sprang into the crater ahead of me – to my surprise it was occupied.

  A young soldier sat hunched over, directly opposite, staring with the most innocent big brown eyes, as if I’d landed from the moon. In some ways I had, coming from brigade headquarters. He wouldn’t have looked out of place in a schoolyard. However, he sure did here. He couldn’t have been more than 18 and I was convinced he was a lot younger – though if he lied when he joined up, he wasn’t likely to confess that to an aging captain who, at 28, must have seemed positively ancient to him.

  He was in the 43rd Battalion, the Cameron Highlanders. The connection wasn’t difficult to make after my eye fell on the kilt he was wearing. That was hard to miss even at my age. Of all the impractical absurdities I’ve ever seen, wearing a kilt in the pouring rain, in this soupy bog, topped them all.

  I nodded to him. He perfunctorily returned my glance before nervously looking away. I saw he was trembling and it wasn’t from the cold. His arms were shaking, wrapped tightly in an embrace of the Lee-Enfield he clutched to his chest. He was holding it so fiercely I feared he might set it off, perhaps even in my direction. Ignoring the danger, I moved closer.

  ‘It’s not a bad hole you have here, Private,’ I said. And it was true, it wasn’t. It was deep, the earth was firm as far as shell-holes go, and there was only a smallish puddle of water at the bottom.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Philips, sir.’

  ‘And where are you from, Philips?’

  ‘Digby, sir. Digby, Nova Scotia.’

  ‘Now, that’s a place I’ve never been. What’s it like? I imagine you’re out on clam-bakes whenever you can,’ I said. ‘Well, at least you’re not far from the water here in Ypres,’ I went on, hoping for a laugh or even the glimmer of a smile.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, deadly serious.

  ‘How does a lad from the Maritimes end up in a unit from Winnipeg?’

  ‘Mother, sir.’

  This was going nowhere. ‘Mind if I move over there beside you?’ I asked. Not awaiting an answer, I crawled over next to him and lay on my side. ‘Least now I can look out in the right direction,’ I fibbed.

  At that moment a shell exploded. It was near enough that we were both doused in a shower of wet mud which rained down on our helmets and soaked our coats, and something harder. It bounced off my shoulder and lay grotesquely next to my boot. When I took a second glance I was pretty certain what it was: part of an arm. I looked Philips in the eye, trying to engage him before he noticed, and kicked desperately with my foot to push it off into the water.

  He didn’t see it. But he was shaking so badly by this time I almost thought he was having a seizure. I put an arm around him and firmly squeezed his shoulder. ‘You know, when I first arrived, I was scared too. I still am,’ I said. ‘There’s no shame in that. Being scared keeps you sharp. But look, you’ve had all sorts of training and I can see you’re a fine soldier. I bet you can handle that rifle better than I can.’

  He looked doubtful.

  ‘You miss home?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The sooner we dispatch with this bunch, the sooner we’ll be there,’ I said smiling. ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘A bunch of us Camerons, sir,’ he replied. A complete sentence – that was encouraging – as was the news. We still had a foothold in the centre of the ridge. The battle wasn’t lost yet.

  ‘I really need to find your commanding officer,’ I said, ‘Do you know where I can find him?’

  ‘That’d be Lieutenant Shankland, sir, the captain’s gone missing. I expect he’s somewhere over there,’ he said, motioning off to our left and ahead. ‘They’re about 40 yards in front of two pill-boxes.’ I guessed the concrete bunkers he was referring to were stormed in the first hour or two, when things looked a lot brighter than they did now.

  I was about to respond when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turned, ever so slowly, to lie flat on my stomach, and peered gingerly over the brim. Sure enough, clearly visible despite the rain and the smoke, were ten shadowy figures in grey, perhaps more. Inexorably they moved towards us. They were crouched low with rifles in hand and walking abreast of each other. I could see their Stahlhelms. They weren’t more than 100 yards away.

  I slid down the mud wall to the bottom of the crater, breathing hard. My helmet was now well under the lip of the shell-hole and I grabbed my Lee-Enfield with both hands. ’Boche!’ I whispered fiercely to Philips. ‘When I start firing, you shoot like you’ve never shot before,’ I commanded. I looked him directly in the eye. ‘Are you ready?’ His chin bobbed affirmatively.

  We wormed our way upwards on our bellies using our elbows and legs, the wooden stocks of our rifles clasped with two hands in front. Reaching the top, my eyes just cleared the rim and we assumed firing positions. I planted my feet in the earth for more grip and glanced over at Philips. He looked across anxiously, awaiting a sign from me.

  Grasping the butt tight against my shoulder, I closed my left eye and squinted down the barrel at the nearest of them, close to the middle of the group. With the bead on him I adjusted my aim, sliding the small dot carefully into the centre of the little ‘u’ of the rifle sights. I paused, held my breath ever so slightly, and then squeezed the trigger. The figure crumpled to the ground. Almost immediately there was the retort of a shot beside me. I saw another grey shape collapse. A trained rifleman, it was said, could shoot 30 aimed rounds a minute from a Lee-Enfield. I didn’t come anywhere close to that, but I was working the bolt with a desperation and an oiled ease I’ve seldom known. Within a minute it was over. My heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Empty brass cartridges lay scattered around.

  The Germans were gone. We hit a few before they turned tail and fled and that
was a decisive victory in my books. It had been a long time since I’d fired a shot in anger. I was pleased I hadn’t deported myself like a total baboon.

  I looked over at Philips and gave him a huge smile. I was more than a little relieved at the way things worked out. ‘Well, done, Private Philips. I knew you were a natural with a rifle; you could teach me a thing or two.’

  He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I’m pleased that I can report back to the general that this part of the part of the front is in good hands,’ I said, only half jesting. ‘I do have to find your Lieutenant Shankland, however.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know. Thank you,’ he said, still grinning. It was an astonishing transformation.

  ‘Good luck! And good-bye, Philips.’

  ‘Good-bye, sir,’ he called cheerfully.

  I crawled from the hole, hesitated briefly as I turned to give him a final wave, and set off in the direction of the two pill-boxes he’d indicated.

  THUMP.

  The shell fell only scant yards behind me. Instinctively, I dived forward, into the crater that lay before me. I landed head-first, my helmet falling to one side and my face coming to rest at the bottom of the hole in a cesspool of mud and water. I waited there for the explosion which, amazingly, didn’t come. The shell was a dud. Luck was a mighty fine thing to have.

  Pulling myself from the blubber I looked back expectantly, waiting to see Philips waving, with an exuberant grin on his face. But I saw nothing. I clambered out of the hole to get a better look. Still there was nothing, absolutely nothing in this empty pockmarked wasteland. ‘Philips!’ I called and then again. No answer came. The only sounds to be heard were those of the shells whistling overhead and the explosions a little further on. And then the realization hit. In my heart I knew what had happened; the shell had hit him mid-ships. Dud or not, it had ripped his fledgling body asunder and buried it deep in the muddy depths of Flanders, miserable yards from where I now stood shaking like a leaf.

  I felt empty. My head, my limbs, my entire being, were buried under a great numbness. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so drained in all my life.

  ‘You okay there?’ It was a soldier calling. He shouted again. He’d seen my dive and the shell landing. He was hollering from a few holes away.

  I woke sufficiently from my shock to curtly wave. I stumbled towards him. I was lucky he’d called; as it was I was a sitting duck for any German grandmother with a rifle.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said, as I reached him. ‘I didn’t realize you were here, Captain. I thought maybe you were Philips or one of the others.’

  ‘Philips is dead… a shell,’ I mumbled.

  The soldier shook his head with evident sorrow. ‘That poor kid, best shot in the unit. I saw you and him take down that patrol.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know why his parents ever let him sign up.’ It was a damned good question.

  I grimaced. ‘No, neither do I. They won’t be seeing him ever again, I’m afraid.’ I paused to shake my head, as if that would clear the whole miserable scene from my mind. ‘I’m trying to find your commander, Lieutenant Shankland,’ I murmured.

  ‘We’re dug-in in front of two bunkers further up, he’ll be there. Keep your head down, sir, there are some nasty machine-guns not far ahead.’

  I thanked him and headed out, anxious to make time, and glad for anything at all to keep my mind off young Philips from Digby.

  Before long I reached the captured bunkers, forewarned by a minefield of corpses in olive green and kilts. As I covered the last few feet they made way for field grey. Not far in front of the pill-boxes, two Lewis-guns were positioned and a fair-sized group of soldiers. They were deeply entrenched with a good view down the Spur in the direction of the Germans. Incredibly, I’d missed Lieutenant Shankland. The first two Camerons I encountered told me he’d left only minutes earlier. He’d gone back to battalion HQ to get reinforcements.

  ‘Damn,’ was all I managed to say, albeit with real feeling. The soldiers looked as if I’d tossed a grenade into their hole instead of a curse. I’d risked life and limb to get here, across this macabre morass, and it appeared to be for nought. I wiped the face of my wristwatch clean on my sleeve as best I could – 9.37 a.m.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ they replied, obviously bewildered; first by the sudden appearance of this mud-drenched captain whom they didn’t know, and then by my foul temper on learning that Shankland had departed.

  ‘No, that’s alright,’ I said a little gruffly, ‘I was hoping to see him, that’s all. Who’s in command then?’

  ‘Lieutenant Ellis, he’s over by that Lewis gun. Keep your head down, sir, there’s Germans in the trench ahead.’

  Following their advice, I ran low and fast across to the machine gun. ‘Lieutenant Ellis, I presume,’ I said, sliding in beside him without warning. ‘I’m MacPhail. General Hill sent me.’

  He looked as surprised to see me as the two privates had, but recovered well. I could see he was wounded.

  ‘Welcome, Captain,’ he said. ‘I would have been even happier to see you with 50 men at your back.’

  ‘I bet. That’s the reason for my visit. No one actually knows you’re here. But thank God you are. I hear Lieutenant Shankland went back to HQ for reinforcements. Tell me about your situation.’

  ‘Well, it’s not too bad,’ he began. This was one unflappable fellow: wounded, under sporadic shell-fire, outnumbered by twenty to one, with a gaping hole between his position and other units on both his left and his right, and not too bad is how he summarizes it. ‘We dispersed a big counter-attack not long ago. They were forming up ahead, over there,’ he said, and pointed to a lower lying area 500 yards forward. ‘We hit them hard and they didn’t make it far.’

  ‘You’ve got good defensible positions here. What about the Farm?’

  ‘The company commander, Captain Galt, took a few men to capture it, but we’ve heard nothing for hours.’

  ‘So, it’s likely in German hands. And you’ve got a troublesome trench in front?’ I asked.

  He nodded, ‘That’s right, but with a few more men and machine guns I’m sure we could break through. The Germans are shelling the hell out of the Spur, even with their own men all over it. But that whole stretch, there,’ he said, motioning with his hand, ‘it’s a dead spot, it’s shell-free. Send a couple of companies through and we’d be on our way.’ I looked closer; it was the lower left slope of the ridge and impossible to observe from where the Germans were.

  Presumably, that was what Shankland would relay when he got to HQ, assuming he made it. If he didn’t, that made it all the more crucial I get back myself. I had a few things to tell General Hill, not wishing he endanger his guts, unnecessarily. One thing was as clear as a sunny day in the Rockies: if we didn’t regain the initiative soon, this attack was going to be an unmitigated disaster. Then, a lot more than just the General’s guts would be in danger.

  I grilled Ellis for another couple of minutes, told him what a great job they were doing in the most inspirational tones I could summon, and bade him an abbreviated farewell. I hoped it would be a quick run back to battalion HQ at Waterloo Farm. It was.

  The lieutenant’s route was as good as promised. Barely half an hour passed before I stumbled into Waterloo Farm and my second former German bunker of the morning. It had been reincarnated as a headquarters. You had to give the Boche credit, they made some seriously robust bunkers.

  Shankland had made it back too and, predictably, his appearance was like a bolt of electricity in a pond of sleeping frogs. When I arrived, the air was still buzzing. Hope had returned.

  A large group of men, rallied from those who’d fallen back to HQ, was making ready to leave, as was the dauntless lieutenant himself, to return to his embattled company. Lieutenant-Colonel Foster of the 52nd was there. He was in furrowed discussion with another colonel whom I took to be the Camerons’ CO. It was a maelstrom of activity.

  ‘Get me a line to Brigade headquarters. I need to speak w
ith General Hill,’ I commanded the private manning the telephone.

  ‘Sir, the line is reserved for urgent matters only, for use by the battalion commander.’

  Only after the promise of a bottle, and an improvised but serious threat involving my bayonet, did he relent and put my call through.

  ‘General Hill?’ I began awkwardly. ‘Yes, hello, sir. It’s Captain MacPhail,’ I stuttered, conscious of the static and the crackle on the line. It felt as if I was using a bullhorn to bridge the distance back to the Capitol. ‘You’ve heard we still have a position on the Spur. Yes, indeed, sir, it’s wonderful news. I’ve just returned from Lieutenant Shankland’s company… yes… yes… I completely concur with the lieutenant’s assessment,’ I said. Hill had asked whether sending reinforcements up the left slope was advisable. I barely had my two bits in before the general spoke again.

  ‘If I might add one thing,’ I interrupted, doggedly persevering in the face of the general’s proclivity to rattle on. ‘I spoke at length with Lieutenant Ellis, who was left in command, and I surveyed the situation myself. They are held down by fire from a trench dead ahead of them. Ellis is convinced, and I agree, that with additional men they could overwhelm that position. In fact, if we reinforce up the left slope as Lieutenant Shankland suggests and take that trench, it would allow the Camerons to sweep to the right and back, to help the 58th… yes… very true, sir… we could then attack the remaining strongpoints at Bellevue Farm and Laamkeek, from behind.’

  General Hill had instantly grasped what I told him. I glanced at my wrist: ten minutes to eleven.

  CHAPTER 10

  30th of October, 1917

  Duck Lodge, Bellevue Spur, Belgium

  I slept poorly: recurring visions of Private Philips, grinning idiotically and jauntily waving farewell like the schoolboy he was, haunted my thoughts as they had the last four nights. I tossed and turned in my bunk, dropping in and out of consciousness in the last precious few hours I had to rest. Yesterday’s orders that I was to remain with the front line battalions to “reconnoitre, advise and assist as required”, hadn’t added to my inner peace.