Malcolm MacPhail's Great War Read online

  There were three detailed maps and I took a look at one. On it were drawn various artillery emplacements, both ours and theirs. Ours I knew. Tibbett and DuBois would be thrilled, however, to see what the Germans had and where. And the artillery lads were always keen to know what the enemy knew about their own positions; no one liked having a bulls-eye painted on their head.

  I whistled. ‘Andrews, you and the scouts have outdone yourselves tonight. This looks like great material. I’d like you to pass on all the details of your raid to Sergeant Smith, once you get back to battalion headquarters. And then make sure you get a good night’s sleep. You deserve it. You all do,’ I said loudly, turning to face the others. ‘I’ll be sure to tell the general what you’ve accomplished tonight.’

  Suddenly, Andrews noticed my bandages. He must have seen them when I turned. ‘You’re wounded,’ he cried.

  ‘Just a scratch, Lieutenant, just a scratch,’ I said, acutely aware I was the only one wounded despite having remained in the dug-out all night.

  ‘Sergeant Smith, would you accompany Lieutenant Andrews and these two over to battalion HQ?’ I asked, gesturing at the two German privates. ‘See what you can get out of them. I’m going to take a crack at the captain right away. Andrews tells me he speaks English so you’d best concentrate on them. And keep a very close eye on this,’ I said as I handed him the case. ‘This might get Tibbett into quite a lather.’ Smith looked intrigued. ‘Not that that would require much,’ I mumbled under my breath.

  I turned my attention to the captain. He sat despondently at the corner table where I’d motioned to Andrews to leave him. He had fair hair, a thin waxed moustache and a face I could best describe as gaunt. His features were perfectly symmetrical. He had a solid dependable air about him that women undoubtedly found handsome. The moustache looked absolutely absurd – though who was I to criticize Prussian facial hair fashions?

  And he was obviously Prussian. Not only did his tunic display the insignia of the 1st Guards Reserve Division, an elite formation from Prussia, he looked as only a Prussian can – not dissimilar from the majestic bald eagle sitting high in a tree and arrogantly surveying his domain. The captain’s normal proud bearing was frayed a touch. His ignominious capture, and being prodded at bayonet-length through the rain and mud by a private who probably just as easily would have shot him, could have had something to do with that. Still, he had a dignity about him in the circumstances I couldn’t help but admire.

  ‘Hauptman,’ I said, addressing him by his German title as I approached. Before he could respond, I grabbed the jenever bottle and poured out two full glasses. I pushed one towards him. Then I pulled up a chair, sat down, and offered him a cigarette. He grabbed it with a mix of enthusiasm and desperation. I lit it for him. He inhaled greedily – after the night he’d been through I could certainly relate.

  ‘Don’t look so glum,’ I said. ‘You’re one of the lucky ones, you’ve made it out of this war and with your skin intact. Cheers.’

  I raised my glass to him, and he responded with a formal nod of his head, and raised his glass as well. I drained the glass and looked expectantly over at him. He hesitated, and eventually did the same, whereupon I refilled both glasses.

  ‘You’re obviously not from around here,’ I said. ‘Where are you from?’

  He brightened. That was good. He understood English well enough and he didn’t seem inclined to play the sullen prisoner.

  ‘Danzig,’ he replied, which sounded awfully truthful to me. The interrogation was off to an excellent start.

  ‘You know, I’ve never had the pleasure. Perhaps after the war you can take me around. I’d take you around the dug-out, but there’s not much to see.’

  ‘You’re Canadians?’ he enquired.

  ‘We are indeed. You can probably tell from our rugged good looks,’ I clowned, trying to ingratiate myself.

  Cautiously he smiled. ‘You’re all so big.’

  He was right, we were. We were a good head taller than almost all the Germans I’d encountered, and the English and French were no different. Field-Marshal Haig could be forgiven for wishing he had a few more lumberjacks in his merry band.

  ‘It’s all because of our healthy air, I expect. Until we arrived at Ypres, that is,’ I said, unsure whether he’d pick up on my oblique reference to the German gassing we’d suffered in 1915 – it had been just our luck to be at the receiving end of the first-ever gas attack.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ he said seriously. ‘This war leads to the worst in man.’ He spoke English well – for a Prussian – and his heavy German accent was more amusing than distracting. In happier times it would have been reason enough for a little good-natured teasing. I didn’t disagree with what he said, though.

  ‘You must miss your family?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Very much.’

  ‘Show me them.’

  He took out his billfold and from it, a picture folded in quarters. With great care, he methodically unfolded it, and placed it on the worn table in front of me. ‘My wife Else, and my two little daughters, Ensel and Katryne. They are in front of our home.’

  ‘They’re absolutely beautiful.’

  ‘Do you also have a wife and children?’ he asked.

  I hesitated. This wasn’t a topic I’m normally keen to discuss. In some perverse way it seemed alright to talk to him about it, a total stranger and an enemy to boot. ‘I did,’ I said, ‘a wife, that is. But we never had kids. She died more than three years ago, in the summer of 1914. Her name was Kathryn. Almost the same as your daughter.’

  He pursed his lips sympathetically and raised his glass. I did the same.

  The bottle was three-quarters empty and it was approaching 3.30 a.m. when I decided to get down to brass tacks.

  ‘Horst, you know I was puzzled why so many officers visit this bunker where young Andrews found you. Sure, you have a nice view of our trench-line, but it’s not without its dangers?’ I said. That’s the beauty of a bottle of jenever; you find yourself on a first name basis long before you might otherwise.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘It really is very simple, Malcolm. We are being replaced next week, and our young lieutenant just received a whole case of pear schnapps. Imagine that, a whole case. He has,’ he began to say, and then corrected himself, ‘He had important relations in the Kriegsrohstoffabteilung.’ I knew a little German, but I must have looked puzzled. ‘You know, the raw materials department. Our lieutenant friend was not a very pleasant man, but his pear schnapps… well…’ He left the thought hanging.

  By the time we finished the bottle, we were each feeling worse for wear; and I was definitely feeling the dumber of us both. All the heightened activity had boiled down to a standard trench rotation, much as we’d done last week, and a case of pear schnapps. My report was going to require some serious creative embellishment.

  Luckily for me, artillery Hauptman Horst Gruendemann was thoughtful enough to bring his attaché case with documents and maps to what was officially an observation of our lines, and unofficially a schnapps tasting. I should have felt relieved there was to be no attack, only a darker cloud was circling: Haig’s plans for us in the Salient.

  CHAPTER 4

  9th of October, 1917

  Château Villers-Châtel, Villers-Châtel, France

  ‘Bloody hell!’ I muttered to myself, after glancing fleetingly at my watch. It was 10.05 a.m. and the staff meeting had already begun. It wasn’t the first time I was late to a meeting, and I hoped this time my recent nocturnal duties might grant me a reprieve. We might even hear some good news from Ypres: such as the objectives were taken, or Haig had called off the offensive. I was clutching at straws, I admit.

  ‘Ah, the walking wounded have decided to join us,’ exclaimed General Lipsett on seeing me ease through the door, sinking any hopes I had of silent anonymity. There were snickers of laughter; petty retribution for past jokes of mine. The general watched as I slunk across the room and eased into a chair at the far end of the table.

/>   General Lipsett had a good sense of humour, which I appreciated; except when I was the butt of it. At the moment, it was his temper I feared most. He prized punctuality. And results.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ I stuttered, breathing hard from the run downstairs.

  ‘We really ought to get you into physical training, MacPhail. You sound like you’re seventy.’ The snickers grew louder. Some of those present were enjoying my discomfort a tad too much, I thought.

  To my relief, our senior staff officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Hore-Ruthven, called the meeting to order. I’d missed next to nothing, but in typical army fashion, enough to get lambasted for it anyhow. Then the colonel asked Tibbett to speak. Apparently, this was not going to be my morning.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tibbett. ‘Thanks to Captain MacPhail, we have determined precise firing locations for most, if not all the German batteries in the Méricourt sector.’

  I sat bolt upright in my chair. I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. The entire room was staring at me – again – this time without the smirking grins.

  Lipsett seemed to wink in my direction. Then he rubbed an eye with a finger leaving me in doubt. I was still a little light-headed after my exertions of two nights earlier.

  Tibbett continued: ‘2nd Division has already undertaken several counter-battery shoots…’

  I let his words buzz on like a bee gorging itself on apple blossoms. It surprised me; Tibbett was not one to share credit, not if he could take it himself. Maybe he was resigned to sharing his oxygen supply, after all.

  I’ve always found staff conferences to be a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I had to like them. Typically, each officer gave a succinct summary of recent developments in his department, and came away with an extensive wish-list of new tasks. Operating on the theory that the less said, the less likely additional work would be thrown in my lap, I kept my contribution to a minimum. Tibbett had covered my back admirably.

  I did mention the upcoming German troop rotation. Also, I reported what the prisoners from the 1st Guards Reserve told us: they believed they were going to Flanders. No one said a word.

  I repeated it, changing the wording so nobody would misunderstand. ‘Due to the heavy casualties from our Ypres offensive, the Guards anticipate being called north as reinforcements.’ Nothing. Lipsett and Hore-Ruthven were as mute as the rest of them. It made no sense at all. Was I the only one fearful we were to be reunited with the 1st Guards across the wire? Or worse, going up against them in an attack?

  Mercifully, Hore-Ruthven tolerated few deviations, and developments were largely routine, so the meeting wound up well before 11 a.m. DuBois grabbed my arm as I went to leave.

  ‘Lipsett was very pleased, Mac,’ said Benoît.

  I shrugged. ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I was thinking about this whole Ypres offensive,’ he said, slowly. Someone had heard my guarded warnings. ‘Perhaps the French will come and help?’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t think so. The rumours have it the whole damned thing began when General Pétain begged Haig to attack. You remember General Nivelle’s offensive in April and May?’

  ‘At the Chemin des Dames, in the Champagne? Of course.’

  ‘And you remember what happened.’

  ‘A big disaster. The French soldiers, the Poilus, were baa-ing like sheep as they left their trenches.’

  ‘Right. And there were 190,000 dead and wounded, and afterwards whole units mutinied. An entire division even deserted.’

  ‘Nivelle got sacked.’

  ‘True, but the damage was done. The French Army was a mess. And everyone feared the Germans would catch on. It came as godsend when Haig launched the offensive in June.’

  ‘And that’s why he launched the offensive?’

  ‘That’s what I think. That and the Admiralty were lobbying hard to retake the ports at Oostende and Zeebrugge, to relieve the U-boat menace.’

  ‘So, no French reinforcements?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Captain MacPhail!’

  It was General Lipsett. He and the colonel had concluded their brief post-meeting conversation.

  ‘Wait a minute, Captain, I’d like a few moments of your time.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ I answered, not sure whether to be pleased or concerned.

  While his accent sounded upper-class English, Lipsett had been born Irish, and I had no reason to doubt it, having been at the muzzle-end of his fierce temper more than once recently. He had a low tolerance for fools. It was something he’d evidently decided to overlook in my case, temporarily, at least. He’d made it abundantly clear that my accession to the intelligence section was on a “trial” basis, even if he worded more tactfully.

  ‘Does it still hurt?’ he asked. He gestured towards my bandaged forehead as we strolled down the corridor to his office.

  ‘No, it was more the shock than anything, sir,’ I replied, lightly touching my temple. As a matter of fact, it hurt like hell, but I wasn’t about to admit that to anybody, especially not the general.

  ‘There are a few things I’d like to tell you,’ he said, immediately after we settled into our chairs in his spartan office. Sadly, he seemed intent on skipping vital refreshments like tea, or even a biscuit from the tin box in the middle of his desk that I knew was home to assorted delights. He and I plainly differed on what constituted necessity, so long after breakfast, and so far before lunch. I kept my mouth shut.

  It certainly wasn’t an office anyone would have thought belonged to a major-general. When I was in the trenches, I always equated a general’s domain with pure luxury. This was far from that. The ornate furniture belonging in an elegant room like this was nowhere to be seen; the general’s desk and armchair looked like stock army fixtures – of the nicer variety, not like those I was using. There was a painting of rolling hills and quaint woodland prominently displayed off to my left – presumably so both the general and his visitor might appreciate it. I guessed it was some place in Ireland. Otherwise, there was a regimental standard I didn’t recognize, and several photos of the general posing with other officers. One, judging by the helmets they were wearing, was taken in Africa during the Boer War. Another had Lipsett standing erect beside the Prince of Wales.

  ‘First of all, I had the occasion, yesterday, to speak briefly with Colonel Whatley-Wigham,’ he said, without as much as a word of introduction. He hadn’t invited me to critique his interior decorating. ‘The colonel told me the field-marshal was able to assist you with some car troubles a while back. He also insinuated he overheard you taking an insubordinate tone.’

  I began to sputter. Lipsett lifted a hand to silence me. ‘I trust that’s an exaggeration on the good colonel’s part, but I hope I don’t have to remind you again of the importance of showing appropriate deference to your superior officers.’

  ‘No, sir,’ I mumbled.

  After a long pause, he came to the real topic. ‘As of this morning, we’ve been reassigned from the First Army to the Second,’ he announced. I didn’t say anything. ‘Are you alright, Captain? You look ashen.’

  I nodded. So it was to be Ypres. ‘Yes, sir,’ I murmured. There was nothing to be done.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  My chin went up and down. And my stomach followed. We were being thrown into the quagmire.

  Until now we’d served under General Horne’s First Army in the Lens-Arras sector, the site of our big battles at Vimy Ridge and Hill 70. The Second Army, commanded by General Sir Herbert Plumer, was well into its fourth month of the offensive in the Ypres Salient. There was one small salvation.

  ‘We’re off to Ypres, but we’re not joining General Gough’s Fifth Army, then?’ I asked.

  The Fifth Army was active on the left flank of the Ypres offensive. Many in the know thought that if we were going anywhere, it would be there. I had no desire to repeat the experience of the Somme, the last time we’d fallen under Gough’s command, or to come anywhere near his bullying chief of staff Major-Genera
l Malcolm. Malcolm was widely despised in the BEF, and it was a sentiment I shared – despite the name.

  He sighed. ‘You’re nobody’s fool, MacPhail. That was a considerable risk, in my opinion,’ he said, and paused abruptly. Pensively, he looked off through the windows to the trees outside now being showered with rain. After a moment, he came to a decision.

  ‘Now, and this is not for general consumption, Captain,’ he continued, ‘but I have it on excellent authority that General Currie told General Horne in no uncertain terms that he and the Corps were not enthusiastic about serving under General Gough. I’m told General Horne relayed that to the chief of staff, and he informed Field-Marshal Haig. Upon reflection, the field-marshal has decided we will join the Second Army rather than the Fifth. I think you’ll agree that’s rather fortunate.’

  ‘Wow,’ I managed to utter. This was potent stuff. No officer took refusing to serve under another’s command lightly. In its harshest light it could be seen as mutiny or, at the very least, insubordination on a scale far worse than I’d been accused of. General Currie must indeed be in Haig’s good books.

  The attack on Hill 70 was Currie’s baptism by fire as Corps commander. We took the objectives and German casualties were three times our own. Crucially, Haig’s plan to divert enemy resources from Ypres was masterfully accomplished, no doubt explaining his forbearance with our new commander.

  ‘Wow, indeed. I trust I won’t be hearing idle chit-chat about this in future, Captain,’ he said, with a glare that penetrated right through me. ‘Secondly, now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, I’d like you to…’

  ‘…get my ass up to Ypres,’ I said, finishing his sentence.

  He smiled thinly – a good thing for me, not every general would have taken my upstart interruption so magnanimously.

  ‘And?’ he asked. There was a long moment of silence. In an uncharacteristic loss for words, I pondered what he could be driving at. With his elbows on his desk, and hands clasped together under his chin, he gazed fixatedly at me. I started to feel claustrophobic.