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Noblesse Oblige By Henry H. Hilliard with Pete Bruno Book 3 The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling Chapter 1 Dazzle
High up in the windy blue sky Stephen watched two birds swoop and dive. One would soar then suddenly plunge while the second performed acrobatic spirals about him (Stephen had decided that by they were boys from the way they were showing off) before the first one pulled out of the dive only to engage in a sort of mad waltz with the other, their wings never quite touching. Stephen thought that they looked like they were tying complex aerial knots or perhaps engaged in 'tatting' one of Miss Tadrew's doilies.
It was a beautiful early summer's morning beneath the infinite blue depths. Only the distant sound of boots on hollow timber and the scraping of a spoon on a tin plate disturbed the peace.
"Them birds is enjoying themselves, sir," said Sgt. Spinner.
"Yes," said Stephen who had now decided the birds were Martin and himself and their formless dance was analogous to their own lives--but the birds were free and enjoying their play whilst they were otherwise.
"Yes," repeated Stephen, "they're larks."
"Good name for 'em--skylarking about when there's a war on. Only sparrers and seagulls down in Rotherhithe; we didn't see many country birds. Is they the same as English larks?
"I think so, Spinner," said Stephen, taking one last look up to the place where God ought to be. "We'd better get below the parapet. It's nearly time."
At seven every morning the German bombardment began and lasted for two hours. Ever since the great battle, the big guns had been chiefly ranged on the lines of trenches forward of the support trenches occupied by Stephen's Corps of Royal Engineers. Both sides, as everyone quickly realised six months ago, had bogged down in a stalemate of trench warfare.
When war had been declared the previous August, Stephen had been disinclined to volunteer. He had despised war even then. He wanted to build things for the betterment of mankind; the destruction of things (not to mention people) took such a little time in comparison to their creation; it was the waste more than the humanity that sickened him most. The destruction of Louvain perhaps tipped his thinking. In any case Martin was already in uniform and the Engineering Faculty had all but shut down by Christmas.
After some perfunctory training at Chatham, Lt. Knight-Poole found himself posted to France where the life of young officers was famously brief and the need to build things, in the midst of all the destruction was, ironically, great.
Major Dibden had taken a great liking to Stephen. Stephen was clever he realised and had the respect of his men. He had gathered--and been indulged in this--a detachment of men who would follow him, initially without rancour, then out of a loyalty born of trust. Had he been asked, he would have said that he did not like his men to obey without question, however the reality appeared to Dibden to be different. Thus to them were given the particularly tricky tasks to perform.
"The bridge over the canal, Knight-Poole, has been utterly destroyed," said the Major, indicating on a topographical map. "Of course the road, or what's left of it, is needed to bring up supplies to the trenches here and here. At the moment everything has to come around the long way via...via Sint-Jan," he said peering at the map. "If we can get a team of horses and some great timber beams we might be able to make a temporary bridge--iron; girders are out of the question-- but the means of transport and the road present obvious problems."
"Fillbrook and I have been thinking, sir, that we could build strong temporary bridges with simple trusses rather than using heavy beams," said Stephen. "Short lengths of timber--short enough and light enough for two men to carry and fit in the light wagons, sir. We could fit the ordinary iron plates in just the same way. We could even make some of the components here under cover, sir, and carry them up the line for rapid assembly. We would need more bolts but there'd be less weight."
"How long?"
"Well, we could send out some men to survey while Fillbrook and I drew up the design tonight. If we had the timber tomorrow we could have it sawn by the next day if the Huns leave us alone and we could start sending it up even before it's all cut if we had, say two wagons and four horses. We could have it built in a day--or a day-and-a-half if you want a wider one, with a bit of luck."
"You will require some luck, Knight-Poole. You'll have your timber and wagons."
Thus Stephen built his bridge, all the time thinking of the bathrooms project at Croome. The design was for a double bridge with inverted scissor trusses. The timbers were scanty and so Stephen had the thicknesses doubled. Holes for the bolts were bored in each length in the workshop he had constructed in a section of trench and here his men were mostly free from disturbance from the enemy. There were twelve standard pieces and each was numbered. As the lengths were sawn, they were loaded onto a wagon which then set off over the crater-filled road, still getting bogged, but not hopelessly so. The wagons passed each other, sometimes swapping horses.
An unexpected bombardment had delayed its construction, but the new bridge was built over a long day and night in the lee below the exposed hillock where the old one had stood.
"I suppose they built the old bridge there," said Spinner, "so they could have a view of the church."
"What church?"
"There used to be a stone church over there, sir, where them tree stumps are."
"Why does this half only have them lighter timbers sir?" asked Spinner.
"Because that will do for the returning carts and trucks which won't be so heavy as the ones going up the line," answered Stephen.
"Bloody brilliant, sir," said Spinner.
Stephen was exhausted when he and Fillbrook returned in the dark to their position--the danger of getting lost in the maze of trenches being very real. Stephen waited behind, as usual, and made sure all his men were off safely before he too departed for his dugout.
"I've made some cocoa for you, sir, with a bit of something in it."
"Thank you, Carlo."
"I hear he's in Boulogne"
"Yes, I heard that too."
They were referring to Martin, the Marquess of Branksome and Hon. Colonel of the Earl of Holdenhurst's Yeomanry, who had been in England ever since the war had begun. It had been more than a month since Stephen had heard from him and Carlo, his batman, had also had little news from home.
"Carlo, get me some paper and a pen. I must write to Rouse's parents and tell them that the wound is nothing too serious. I want to do it tonight before I turn in. Take some of that cocoa in to Fillbrook. It was very good."
"Thank you sir. It was real cognac this time. I swapped cigarettes for it."
Martin had crossed the channel. He had not had a good war. The general mobilization in August 1914 had activated the Yeomanry who were based in Dorchester and Martin found, to his horror, that he was automatically their commander-in-chief despite his being only 18 years of age. Thus he had a colonel's uniform but it was devoid of any battle colours and he was put through officers' training at Cambridge where he attempted to complete his term reading Philosophy, making frequent visits down to Dorchester where the real running of the Yeomanry was in the hands of two regular majors who looked at Martin askance. Martin could hardly blame them for this.
He had met Bertrand Russell at Cambridge but he had little time for undergraduates and he had his own troubles--being hauled off to prison for opposing the war. So, like Stephen, Martin found that the University had simply dissolved from under him and he presented himself, in his dishonest uniform, at the War Office in the hope of doing something useful.
The General Staff found Colonel Martin Poole, Marquess of Branksome, an irritatingly awkward problem. They already had two dukes and The Prince of Wales himself wanting to go to the front. Added to this was the problem of Martin's rank; what could they do with an inexperienced, fresh-faced colonel?
In the end they made him the nominal head of a section in Whitehall dealing with specialised staffing. Martin had a team of people, including several from his old school, whose job it was to provide German, Flemish, Arabic, Turkish and speakers in any other useful language for units in need of translators or interrogators. Martin worked conscientiously and found that his informal social contacts were far more useful that the normal Army channels. It was also convenient that he could live at Branksome House, although, like Croome, it was but a shadow of its pre-war self. M. Lefaux, the chef, had returned to his native France to enlist as an army cook and all the footmen had gone too. Only Glass was exempt due to his rheumatic heart and the injuries from the train accident.
On some pretext Martin had himself transferred to France where he hoped he would see some action--or at least be closer to Stephen from whom he too had heard nothing in the last months.
Martin was establishing an office in the Hotel de Ville and seeing to the billeting of himself and his staff of six. His latest problem was a request for three civilian journalists who were fluent in all of French, English and Dutch-- one of which was preferred to be an American. Martin had found goods to this description and was now trying to work out how to get them up to General Headquarters in St Omer.
"Hullo, Poole." This informal and unsoldierly greeting was followed up by a very smart salute. The soldier was turned out in an immaculate, crisp uniform that must have just come within regulations. The tall figure was topped with an officer's cap worn on a very fetching angle from under which could be detected carrot-coloured hair and a glinting eyeglass.
"Plunger!" cried Col. Poole. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Lt Archie Craigth removed his cap and put it under his arm and removed his monocle. "I'm here with SCAT. We're headquartered at a chateau on the edge of the town. Come and bunk with us."
"SCAT? I don't know that."
"Special Camouflage and Artistic Tactical Warfare. Norman Wilkinson and Edward Wandsworth head it up and I liaise between the Admiralty and the Army. We're working on something called 'Dazzle'."
"What's Dazzle?"
"It's sort of modern art applied to ships and things to confuse the enemy when they look at it."
"Well, it might work because modern art confuses me."
"I find it all a bit depressing though, Poole, because I'm sick of kaki and green but we can't always choose. I say, have you heard from Stephen?"
The Plunger invited Martin to mess with him and naturally they fell to talking about their friends and their homes.
"Has Croome been requisitioned, Poole?"
"Not exactly. The Army is using some of the grounds for various things, but the house wasn't needed. The men who work with the horses have been exempted, but the bulk of the men have gone. The old men and the women are the ones now doing the farming.
"Chilvers?"
"Good heaven no--he's too old, but all the footmen have volunteered but one who is a conscientious objector and our chauffeur is driving an ambulance."
"I've got Gertie with me; why I don't know; he leads me a merry hell. Could you get him transferred to somewhere? We could say he speaks Berber or something."
"I want to get up to the front, Plunger. I feel such a funk as I am."
The chateau was a small one and Martin's batman, who was also his driver, was left to the tender mercies of Gertie to find accommodation. "I don't like your man, Poole," said The Plunger."
"Yes, I don't like Private Sage much myself. I've only had him a few months and I know he has contempt for me. I have contempt for myself. I wish I were just a lieutenant like the other fellows. Do you know how terrible it was to face those fellows who came back from Ypres and the Dardanelles?"
"Stephen is somewhere near Ypres isn't he?"
"I believe so." They were silent for a few minutes, lost in thought.
"Do you think we'll ever see Antibes again?"
"That seems a million years ago. Let's not talk about it. Tell me about Dazzle."
So The Plunger launched into his latest idea, which was to paint the roofs of the warehouses and dockyards to confuse the zeppelins and aeroplanes that had lately been raiding London.
"That actually sounds like a brilliant idea, Plunger," said Martin.
"Thanks, Poole. I ran it past Churchill. It was Tsindis' idea really."
"Oh, he's in SCAT?"
"No he's a Greek national--neutral. What about Tennant and Selby-Keam?"
"Christopher is a medical orderly in the Dardanelles and Donald is out here somewhere. Custard is in France too."
Martin dined at the chateau with the mixed bag of officers who had made it their headquarters. The main topic of conversation was the very public falling out between Lord Kitchener, Sir John French, General Horace Smith-Dorrien and Marshal Foch, all of whom had allowed their contesting claims and grievances to be aired in the press.
"That will be why Sir John wants your tri-lingual journalists, Poole," said The Plunger. "Are you going to take them up yourself?"
Martin turned this over in his mind.
"There's a young fellow here says he's a Colonel Poole to see you, sir," said Sgt Spinner.
Stephen threw down his pencil and square and rushed out the door of his dugout. He pulled himself up short when he saw Martin and saluted. He wanted to hug him but had to hold himself back. Instead he wrung his hand, looking at him intently trying to see what the passage of time had done. He looked much the same. "I like your moustache sir," he said with a twinkle in his eye.
"Ah yes, Stephen, it is a bit more successful than the last one. Does it make me look older?"
"Oh yes, Mala, it adds years," lied Stephen
Martin too stared at Stephen. His moustache was jet black like his hair, now cut short, and it made him look particularly handsome, Martin thought. He was in need of a shave and his eyes looked weary; they were no longer the eyes of youth. This was the thing Martin most feared: Stephen was changed by the war--it was inevitable--but he didn't like to think of it, but it was there in his eyes for certain.
"Sir," he said, for he was in the hearing of others, "I would like to present Major Dibden and Lt Fillbrook. Col. Poole is my kinsman." Salutes and pleasantries were exchanged. The Major invited Martin to mess with them.
When they were alone in the dugout that Stephen shared with Fillbrook, they kissed. Both were in tears. Carlo came in and saluted and he too was embraced by Martin.
"How is Mr Stephen?" asked Martin when Stephen had gone off to see the Major.
"He is exhausted, but he won't admit it, sir, but he is quite well and fit otherwise. He has done some clever things, sir--that bridge you crossed; that was his. Our trench is pretty dry thanks to Lt. Knight-Poole--best trench in this section.
"You know he was due for leave, sir, but he refused to take it; he doesn't want to leave his men, sir. We lost a lot in the second big push but since he's had his own, he hasn't lost a single one. He dotes on them, knows all their names and personal stuff about each of them. Do you know what he does, sir?" Martin looked for more. "He personally inspects the feet of every one of his men--he's right down on trench foot, sir--and he rubs the men's feet with Spong's Soothing Salve (it comes in big vats and is available at the quartermaster's store)... Martin's mind went back to one Easter when Stephen washed his feet... "They call him Lt Foot behind his back."
"Because of his foot inspections?"
"Well, perhaps, but there is the other reason too, sir--it does give him a special respect in the men's eyes, knowing that they are led by a fellow with such a big gun."
"And speaking of that Carlo..."
"Oh I've been seeing to that for him, sir. I keep my hand in--if you'll pardon the expression, sir, and I make sure he gets relief when I think he needs it--which is pretty often as you'd know. It is the only part of the war effort I enjoy. You know sir, he has more than once called your name when I'm doing it and I've heard him say it when he's asleep in his bunk."
"Yes, I miss him too, Carlo. I'm lonely without him." There were the sounds of men outside the door. "Carlo, when you're giving him relief," he said in a low voice, "you could try..." Here he bent a whispered in the batman's ear.
"No!" replied Carlo. Does he like that sir?" Martin nodded, grinning. "His men love him, you know, sir," he continued, "and they don't wear army drawers--that's how you can tell who his men are--they do it out of respect. The Sans Culottes they call themselves."
Just then the outside noises grew louder and Stephen opened the door.
"Sir, I have work to do and I must leave you alone," said Private Carlo Sifridi. "I also have some things that I have to remind Lt. Fillbrook's batman to get the Lieutenant to do, so he might not be back for an hour-- say?"
"Well done, Carlo," said Stephen, unbuttoning his tunic. "But latch the door just in case."
It was that night that the Germans launched their big push. It was preceded by a ferocious shelling. It went on unremittingly for three days and nights. The trenches and their occupants suffered terrible damage. Stephen repeatedly ventured out into his section of trench to ensure his own men were safe in their foxholes and had food and water and he had a party of sappers to constantly maintain the stability of his section of the line, despite the shelling and the vibration. To the north and the south however, he knew the trenches had collapsed, burying hundreds of men and there was little that could be done under such heavy and sustained fire.
Martin was also trapped or rather stranded with Stephen and Major Dibden's brigade, all means of travel and communication having been shattered. He found the constant boom of the guns almost unbearable--he thought he would go mad--nothing could have prepared him for it. The ground vibrated continuously as if it were an earthquake. He clung to Stephen at night. He knew Stephen was afraid, but his men never saw it.
Suddenly, on the fourth day, the shelling stopped. Lt Fillbrook used his periscope at the loopholes and over the parapet. He expected to see the German's marching across no man's land towards the first line of trenches. "Spinner, tell the Major and Lt Knight-Poole that there's no sign of an advance."
Stephen was worried and used the periscope himself.
"Oh my God!" he cried. "Gas!" Plumes of grey-green chlorine gas were streaming on the light easterly breeze toward their lines. The alarm was sounded and the men donned mica goggles and fitted the cloth pads across their faces after they dipped them into pails of stale urine that had been put by for such an event. Stephen ran to Martin and put the goggles him clapped a pad over his face, not having time to give an explanation for what seemed an extraordinary move.
"No! No!" he cried down the trench. "Get up off the floor. Onto the fire step! Put your head over the parapet if you can! Get that man off the stretcher get him up high!" He raced back to Martin and made him climb up to the firing step just as the cloud enveloped them. The gas was heavier than the air and much of it sank into the bottom of the trench, beneath their feet. Then the main cloud passed over their heads to the west.
Martin could feel the chlorine burning his eyes. He tried not to breathe or exert himself. Stephen saw the west wind pick up and the gas was now being blown back over the German lines. The danger had passed and the respirators-- such as they were--were removed.
When it became clear that there was to be no advance, Sgt Spinner was sent up to the next section to see what damage had occurred. He returned a quarter of an hour later and reported to Major Dibden:
"In section XXIV they have lost at least 70 men when their trench gave way. The gas has killed about 12 in the trench and another 20 when the men panicked and fled before it; it overtook them, sir. Lt Collins looks pretty crook on it."
Stephen took out a party of his men to restore the telephone lines. Martin went with him. He watched Stephen lead his men across dangerous ground: where Stephen trod the men followed; if Stephen went left around an obstruction, so would his men; if Stephen traversed a crater, his men did likewise.
There was sniper fire but Martin couldn't tell if it was from the German or the British trenches. Stephen didn't show any particular concern so Martin decided it must be either safe or pointless. He hoped it was the former.
"Over there is the front line of trenches and beyond that, no man's land," said Stephen as his men unrolled wire from drums. They crossed the second line of trenches, the traverses having collapsed. As they got closer to the front line, the scenes of devastation were even more shocking. There was a burial party retrieving bodies and parts of bodies from the muddy ground between the lines of trenches, and lines of men with wounds and blindness from the chlorine were crawling along a duckboard pathway presumably to a dressing station somewhere to the rear. It was shocking, but Martin felt only numbness. It was on a scale of enormity that couldn't be comprehended by relating it to anything from any other part of his life or to his own experiences.
The link to the front line was restored and Stephen rounded up his men, counting them, and then shepherded them back the way they had come, at one point throwing themselves into a shell hole when the sniper fire became particularly intense. "Could the war go on forever?" asked Martin suddenly, trying to hide his distress. "I mean, could this be the new permanent state of things, Stephen? Has the old world we knew gone forever or was it always just an illusion?"
Stephen was lying on his stomach. He didn't look at Martin but said: "It seems like it, Mala. Perhaps it is the way the world will end. Perhaps it is what everything was always going to come to. But seems like it' doesn't mean it is'." He turned to look at him and smiled. "We'll have to get the Colonel cleaned up." He paused then continued solemnly: "I don't believe in destiny, Mala. It's not all for a purpose. There is no higher meaning. Things just happen. We have to deal with them and not make excuses."
That night the shelling resumed. Stephen's trench took an almost direct hit, the shell landing just behind them and the parados failing to stop the blast. Stephen found himself stunned when his head received a blow and his shoulder was bleeding where a large splinter of shattered timber had caught him. He clutched his shoulder and could see some of his men around him were wounded. He cast around but couldn't see Dibden or Fillbrook. Spinner came up to him. His mouth was opening and closing in an agitated manner. He must be struck dumb, thought Stephen. Then he realised he was deaf. He then made out what he was saying: Col. Poole was injured.
He rushed to where Martin had been sheltering in a foxhole. Martin seemed to be all right until he looked at his left leg. His uniform was torn and there was a large patch of blood where he had been struck. He motioned to Carlo to bandage his thigh tightly to reduce the flow of blood. He then turned his attention to the other wounded. Fillbrook was already organising stretchers, which would have to make the difficult and hazardous journey to the dressing station. On one of the stretchers was Dibden, unconscious and he looked as if he'd been quite badly wounded. There were no dead. Stephen still couldn't hear, but he shouted at Fillbrook that the stretchers should follow the line of the canal which offered some protection in the form of poplar trees, still miraculously left standing. The stretchers set off and Stephen returned to Martin who was being attended by Carlo and Spinner who had removed his trousers. Stephen noted with approval that, like all his men, he was wearing no drawers.
He knelt over Martin and wiped his forehead with a cloth. Martin instinctively grabbed his hand while Stephen examined him.
"I'm going to have to extract the shrapnel from your leg, Mala," he said unnaturally loudly, because he was still deaf. "There's no doctor here," he continued. "I need to get in there and take it out. I have sterilized these forceps. I've no morphine to give you. I have to open the wound wider to get the forceps in. I'm sorry."
Stephen entered the red and bloodied hole and Martin yelled.
"Does it hurt?" asked Stephen unnecessarily.
"Yes, of course it bloody hurts. It hurts like hell, Derby."
"Do you want me to take it out?"
"Oh, yes, Derby. Would you?"
"No."
"Oh well, you'd better get on with it. But give me something to bite on, for God's sake."
A clang announced that the shrapnel had been retrieved and Martin lapsed into unconsciousness.
To be continued.
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I would love to hear from you. Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.