Praying that we meet aga.., p.10
Praying That We Meet Again, page 10
Bissell’s voice close to his ear.
“Half a blasting charge. Cut in two and wrapped around with bandages carrying old nuts and bolts. Bit of fuse and away she goes, sir. Used to use them on the wogs out on the Frontier.”
The first attackers were at the lip of the trench, yelling and jumping in. They fell on bayonets but made a space for following men. The Vickers was still hammering away, clearing the area around itself.
A few of the attackers jumped the trench, made as if to turn and fire in from behind, were shot down to a man by a volley from further back.
“Surreys, sir.”
Alfred had no time to respond, in the middle of a melee of bayonets and clubbing rifle butts, interested mostly in saving his own skin.
The attack eased suddenly, the Germans turning to their left to face an attack from the Hampshires, firing across the line and breaking their momentum. Heavy shells fell behind them, a mixture of HE and shrapnel forbidding their second line from crossing the open ground to their assistance.
“One more push!”
The Kents rose from their trench, shouting, screaming, swearing vilely, using bayonet, butt and boot equally, driving the attackers back into the shellfire before turning and running back to cover, corporals and sergeants grabbing the wildest and heaving them back to the line.
Rain began to fall, cold, bitter in a November wind. Light crept across the field, showed a mass of bodies, a few moving, trying to crawl back to safety. Shots rang out as Wittington and his snipers began to pick off the wounded.
Captain Soames ran up to Alfred.
“Stop them, sir! You must give the order! They cannot, must not do that!”
“What?”
“Our men are shooting down the wounded, sir! That is a breach of decency. We cannot permit that.”
“Sergeant Wittington has his orders. He will be picking off officers and sergeants. He will not bother with the private soldiers. Every officer down is a bonus for us.”
“It is inhumane, a breach of the Laws of War! The King would be appalled, sir, that his soldiers could do such a thing!”
“The King can shove the Laws of War up his arse, Captain Soames. There are no laws in Flanders!”
Colonel Savager appeared, trotting up and grinning as he heard Alfred’s last words.
“Bloody good job of work, Griffin! Once again, well done, Griffin! You are covered in blood, man. Is any of it yours?”
“Damned good question, sir. Bissell, am I wounded?”
For some reason, all within earshot thought that was funny. Alfred had hoped they might; things had been getting too serious.
“Tunic ripped across the ribs, sir. Looks like a cut there. Another through the breeches, sir. I only finished sewing them up last night! High across the inside of the thigh, sir. Can’t have been half an inch from the family jewels, sir!”
There was an ‘ooh!’ of horror from the audience.
“Get back to the aid post, Mr Griffin. Sounds as if you need sewing up, sir.”
“A few minutes, sir. There are wounded men to be looked after first.”
“There are, and you are one of them. Bissell, help your officer back to the doctor. Mr Soames, are you fit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Get a list of the casualties back to me and make everything right here. Can you still hold the trench?”
“No, sir. Too few men, sir. Not enough before we were attacked, sir. Can’t be done now, sir.”
There was a shot from the snipers and Soames span around in irritation.
“You there, Sergeant, whatever your name is. Get them to stop bloody shooting. We have had enough of that for one night!”
Colonel Savager showed his surprise. The officer had been two days with the company and did not know the names of his sergeants. He sounded too much upset as well, and had a clean uniform.
“Stand down, Captain Soames. Report immediately to my HQ. Now, sir!”
Soames showed white-faced, broken on the field of battle, finished in the regiment. He turned away, shoulders slumped, confirming Savager’s suspicions. The man had showed yellow, only explanation for it.
“You, sir. Second Lieutenant Ames, is it not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you look the part, sir!”
Ames was blood spattered literally from head to toe.
“One of the fellows I stuck with a bayonet, sir. Hit him high, by accident, in the throat, in and out the side. He sprayed blood everywhere, sir. Excuse me, sir.”
Ames turned to one side and spewed, thoroughly.
Savager could remember doing the same, in India nearly twenty-five years previously, for much the same cause on his first battlefield. Only a small skirmish, nothing compared to what this youngster had seen overnight.
“You’ll feel better for that, boy! Happens to us all. Full lieutenant as of now and you can expect something for this night’s work, young man. Well done! Now, take a drink of water and I want an immediate head count. How many losses, how many fit men in the line. To my HQ within the hour.”
Best thing was to keep the youngster working. There was good material in that young fellow and the regiment needed him.
“Griffin, you come down with me and I shall escort you to the aid post. Now, sir!”
Alfred hated people who did things for his own good. He smiled and looked for his hat and allowed Bissell to pick up spare uniform tunic breeches and shirt from the dugout and bring them down to change into.
Reaching the aid post he was stripped down to official issue undervest and drawers, khaki and blood-soaked, started to object as they were removed and realised he was sounding silly. An orderly tied a towel around his waist and quickly washed him down, in cold water which was unpleasant of a November morning.
“Got no hot, sir. Used up the little we had, sir.”
Almost certainly that would have been on men whose need was far greater than his. He nodded, made no complaint.
“Sliced along the lower ribs, sir, going upwards. That one was aiming for the heart by the looks of it.”
“Good thing he missed.”
They laughed obligingly.
“A bit of a nick a couple of inches higher, and that can be ignored. Another across the belly – you were lucky there, sir. It did not penetrate. Deeper on the thigh, pointing downwards, luckily again! Missed the artery by a fraction. Stitches and best you should not walk on that leg for a couple of weeks, sir. There is blood on your head, sir. Were you hit there?”
Alfred shrugged. He did not know that he had been.
Examination showed a slice above the ear. Half of his head was shaved in response, before it was decided it need not be stitched.
“Right, sir. Needle and thread it is. Thigh first, for taking the longest. Then the chest. Hypodermic, orderly.”
They filled the area around the wounds with cocaine and spent half an hour on needlework. At the end of that, Alfred felt rather unwell.
“Colonel!”
Savager came across from his HQ, within shouting range.
“Doctor?”
“Major Griffin must not walk at all for a week and will need a stick for a month, sir. His chest wound also demands rest. He could, just, remain with you at HQ, sir, but I had rather he did not.”
“Send him away, Doctor! Bissell, you are to accompany the Major. Keep him off his feet.”
Bissell produced a pair of kitbags, his own and Alfred’s, having assumed he would not be returning to their dugout.
“Certainly, sir.”
An hour saw Alfred in a general service waggon, on his way into Ypres, resting on a stretcher.
“Did you hear what happened to Captain Soames, Bissell?”
“Under escort, sir, of a pair of redcaps. Being sent back to depot as unfit for service, sir. They took his revolver away from him, sir.”
That was the end of Soames as far as the regiment was concerned. They would discuss his future with the War Office but the probability was that he would be dismissed the service with a medical discharge that implied mental unfitness to carry out his duties as an officer.
“Let us hope he has a private income, Bissell. He is never going to get a job.”
There would be no public scandal, but Soames was a broken man. He had no future as anything. If he was lucky and his family had money, he might end up as a gentleman farmer. Assuming he had a younger son’s income of no more than two or three hundred a year, sufficient to pay his mess bills comfortably, then he would be put into a small place by the seaside, there to spend his days taking healthy walks along the cliffs and drinking too much, forgotten by all.
Neither man had sympathy for him. He had failed the regiment in time of need.
Brigadier-General Rossiter greeted Alfred sympathetically.
“Lacerations, bayonet wounds, to thigh, stomach, chest and head, Major. More than thirty stitches. Unable to walk freely for a month. That must hurt, sir! On top of that, you lost a finger a bare three days since.”
“Now that I have stopped and have time to think, sir, it is uncomfortable.”
“So it damned well must be! Return to England for you, Major Griffin. Sick leave initially. The MO here will organise that for you. I shall recommend a posting to depot at Canterbury after that. A couple of months training up the next detachment to come out to us, using your knowledge to its best advantage. I shall see you in March, and not before, Major Griffin!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Your servant is to accompany you, necessarily so.”
“That would be to the good, sir. He is devoted to my interests.”
“As he should be. An ideal position for an older soldier. Much preferable to shouldering a rifle in the line. Go across to the MO now, Griffin, while I work out exactly how to replace you and this Captain Soames who is my next problem. Off record, what is wrong with Soames?”
“Full of the old soldier, sir, but I did not see any blood splashes on him after the fight. In fact, I did not see him at all during the time we were busy.”
“Didn’t see him, so you cannot stand as witness at a court martial.”
“I could not sir. He might have been a hundred yards distant and solidly busy, but none of the men stood up to say that was so, and they would have if they thought he was being unfairly hounded out.”
“Right. Nasty bloody business. If I take formal action he will be found not guilty for lack of sufficient evidence and will have a cloud over him for all of his days. I shall send him back to depot with the information that he is unsuitable for service in front line combat conditions and that I recommend his immediate discharge.”
“What then, sir?”
“He can accept that or fight it. If he fights, he must go to court martial and come out with his character blackened but still a soldier. He will then be posted as second in command of a military prison in West Africa, or some other hellhole for fever. If he accepts the discharge, then it must be for medical grounds, hinting at mental instability; that means he will be known as a loony, or get the reputation of being a queer and pushed out rather than be taken to a court. Either way, he is finished in society. The County will have nothing to do with him.”
“So, he is finished, sir.”
“He is, Griffin. Wrongly so?”
Alfred thought for a few seconds then shook his head, regretting the movement immediately.
“No. He let us down. Bugger him!”
“Agreed.”
A few minutes more and Alfred was sat before the Divisional MO, a gentleman in his fifties, recently brought in from retirement in England.
“What to do with you, Major? Five separate bayonet wounds, three of them fractions of an inch from a fatality. Mobility impaired. Wounded previously this week. Nothing individually to be called life-threatening, but the combination is not good. You are going back to England, sir. A year ago and I should have admitted you to hospital for a week, for observation and to keep you off your feet. There are too few beds to do that now. Report to the military hospital at Aldershot and they will discharge you to your home, making arrangements to see you again in three or four weeks to assess your fitness. You will then, I expect, be sent to depot at Canterbury to remain for at least two months. Get yourself fully fit, Major. It is possible to become run down, for a series of minor wounds to build up, one upon another, so that you eventually lose your strength and resistance and die from a wound or infection or disease that you would normally have shaken off without a second thought. Avoid that, if you please, by not coming back here until you are strong again!”
Alfred was intelligent – he knew that – and could see the old quack’s logic. It even applied to him.
“I will do so, sir, provided my orders permit. I shall not ask to have my orders changed, sir.”
“Well done. I shall see you in March, at earliest, Major!”
An orderly was called, with a wheelchair and Alfred suffered the indignity of being wheeled through the corridors of the old town hall housing Division until he reached his father’s set of offices.
“You look like Death warmed up, Alfred! Home is the place for you, boy!”
“So I am told, sir. I will not disagree. I am feeling a little under par just now.”
“Did you run into John and Peter this last week, Alfred? They can’t have been a quarter of a mile distant.”
“Too busy, sir, on both sides. No time for going visiting.”
“Pity, but I do not doubt you are right. I will pass word to them that you are on your way to England for three months. I doubt they will envy you the reason for going there.”
“They will be lucky not to experience the same, sir.”
“Intelligence says there will be no more night attacks in the Salient, Alfred. There was another at Polygon Wood that failed in costly fashion a few days ago and the Germans are giving up on them. Opinion is a stalemate over winter and then more organised warfare in 1915. This past few months has been very much extempore, you know. Neither side has known what it is doing. A winter of thinking and then perhaps a more rational summer to come. That is what they say, anyway!”
Alfred was inclined to laugh. He rather doubted that the High Command of either nation was capable of orchestrating a modern industrial war.
“When you tell me they have put the cavalry to bed, sir, then I may believe they have some slight understanding of warfare in the Twentieth Century!”
“You may be right at that, Alfred. Too complex for me. I grow old, I fear. Not to worry! My staff car will convey you and your servant to Boulogne and see you on a boat back to England. The sergeant driver knows his way around the offices there and can get you quickly on the boat.”
The Navy was dealing with walking wounded at Boulogne, putting the relatively few aboard their small ships and running them quickly across to Dover or Folkestone. Officers particularly were swept up and assisted aboard light cruisers in from submarine chasing in the Channel. Destroyers were too small and generally had no wardroom available.
“Major Griffin? If you would come with us, sir?”
A very small midshipman waved a stretcher across to the car where Alfred sat waiting to be told where to go. He was quickly strapped down and the stretcher was run across to the side of the ship and taken up the brow and onto the deck, never slowing until it reached the wardroom. A pair of wardroom stewards picked him up from the stretcher and carried him into the big cabin and sat him in a large and comfortable armchair.
“If you need anything at all, sir, catch the eye of the steward. He will be watching, sir. There are four wounded officers today, sir. All from the Salient, sir. Sailing in about fifteen minutes, sir. High speed passage to Dover and the train, sir. Being walking wounded, more or less, not a hospital train but there will be ambulances waiting at Aldershot and to take you across to Waterloo when you reach London, sir.”
It seemed to Alfred that he was receiving out of the ordinary treatment. Perhaps being a general’s son was useful.
The ship was certainly fast, was little more than an hour at sea between the two ports. He was kept in conversation all of that time, different officers sitting down beside him and making a point of introducing themselves and asking after his needs.
They docked and he was stretchered off first of all, very quickly, and carried to a first class compartment where he was encouraged by a guard to put his feet up and stretch out across three seats. He wondered what was happening – no passenger ever was permitted to take more then the seat he had paid for and putting even bare feet up on the upholstery was a great sin.
At Victoria Station, he was escorted off the train and into an ambulance, was driven to Waterloo and tenderly escorted to the train for Aldershot. It was full, unsurprisingly, of military traffic bound for the depot, the biggest in Southern England and in many ways the centre of the working Army. He was given a compartment to himself with an orderly standing in the corridor outside.
At Aldershot there was a reception party waiting to take him from the compartment to a horse-drawn carriage. A staff colonel accompanied him.
“Feeling well, old chap? Not exhausted by the journey?”
“No, sir. I have never travelled in such comfort.”
“Quite right too! All will be explained when we reach the barracks, Griffin!”
They pulled in through the big gates, the sentry waving them through then coming to attention. On reaching a large mess, the carriage drew up in front of a parade of New Army recruits, at least a thousand of them in their company squares. Alfred was eased out into a wheelchair and brought to face the parade, set in front of a lieutenant general.
“Major Alfred Griffin, welcome to the home of the British Army, sir. We are honoured to see you here. I am empowered, Major Griffin, to inform you that His Majesty has been pleased to award you the Victoria Cross for your outstanding gallantry in the field on several separate occasions and particularly in the action of the Thirtieth October where you personally bayoneted seven German soldiers and shot at least five with your revolver. You led the defence that prevented the German Army from breaking through the line to reach the sea, sir. I am proud indeed to inform you of this award, Major Griffin. His Majesty will present your Cross to you in person, sir, on a later day.”
