Looking behind him across the countryside Hilliard saw no signs of life except the white dust from the guns in one direction and in the other from the trucks coming up the road. The lines of sandbags forming the trench parapets were pale brown and grey in the sun. The landscape was flat and featureless here, apart from a few trees, which had been split and stunted by shells through the previous summer. The guns fired from the enemy lines and then their own replied, and in the lull that followed, blackbirds sang and sang.
He wondered why Garrett had sent for him, whether it was a routine matter or whether Coulter had been right, and ‘something was up’. But nobody else had been summoned, so far as he could tell.
‘They wanted a plan of the whole section of country just there. I thought young Barton would do it. I thought he’d make the best job of it. He’s got a good eye, hasn’t he? Yes, I should think he’s got a decent eye. It’ll be experience for him.’
The C.O. pushed a box of small cigars across the table towards Hilliard. He looked ill again, the effects of the boost given to his morale by the move out of rest camp had vanished. His skin was a bad colour, yellowish grey, so that Hilliard wondered if he might not, in fact, be physically ill. But the bottle of whisky was on the desk beside him.
‘I wanted to have a word with you, Hilliard. I thought it would be as well to put you in the picture – in so far as I have a picture, that is.’
Hilliard wondered why. When something big was coming up there were full briefing conferences. But Garrett had always singled him out, had liked to confide in him, tell him things, even trivial, irrelevant things, had asked him for his opinion, he seemed to place some kind of confidence in him. Now, he shuffled some maps on his desk, stared at them, took up a pencil and began to circle it in the air above one of them as he talked. ‘You’ll hear all about the details when they come in, but I’ll tell you what all this is about. You’re going up into the front line in a couple of days. Not sure exactly when. I suppose you’ve heard what’s going on up there?’
Hilliard did not reply. And he did not want to hear, not today.
Barton had been gone almost an hour now.
‘Oh, I know the rumours that get about, and rumour doesn’t always lie, not out here. Well, it’s merry hell at the moment, though it’s rather worse ten miles or so further east. I don’t know exactly why – we haven’t been doing much. The Boche seem to have got the wind up. But what we can expect pretty soon is the date of an attack they’re planning for the 2nd to make on Barmelle Wood. They want to have another go at it. The Hampshires tried to take it in July and the City of Londoners last month – perhaps you know? They lost a hell of a lot of men. The trouble with that place is it’s on a ridge, and they’ve got perfect cover, they can simply look down and take their time until they see us coming up, and it’s just bloody good target practice for them – that’s all. The Hampshires lost most of their men before they’d gone a hundred yards. You can’t advance up a slope like that, no matter how good your barrage is, and get away with it.’
But this had been the pattern of the whole summer here, Hilliard thought, this was how the Big Push had come, and failed, this was what it was all about.
Garrett did not pause or glance up at him, but gradually his voice had taken on an edge of sarcasm and of disbelief in the ignorance of those who were planning this new offensive in precisely the same way as the old, those who were so many miles away. His contempt for the men who looked at maps and moved pins about upon them was scarcely veiled at all. Hilliard was still surprised, even knowing the C.O. as well as he did, surprised that he should allow himself to talk like this before a lieutenant. But 1 July had changed him, he no longer cared greatly about anything, except for the men under him.
‘Well, you know what all this will mean. Preparations once you get into the line, all day and all night, fatigue parties, wire parties, reconnaissance raids.’
Hilliard’s heart sank.
‘Yes.’ Garrett lit another of the cigars. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’ He paused, then, in a burst of real anger, said, ‘Those bloody raids are a waste of time, arms and men, and I have said so until I am sick and others have said so and we might as well save our breath, save our breath. You know all about it.’
Hilliard did.
‘Well – there it is. There’s more of it to come. I don’t suppose it’s much of a surprise to you? No. Meanwhile, of course they want to know everything about the German line here, everything about Queronne and the Wood, everything about everything, and apparently all the information they have got from aeroplanes will not do for them. So our contribution is this little trip of Barton’s, out to the o.p. After that, up we go.’
How little did Garrett really care about the war now? Had he told all the others this? Did the Adjutant know? And Glazier and Prebold. No, he had told them nothing, Hilliard was certain of that. Garrett had been to the conference at Divisional H.Q. and heard the plans for this new operation on their section of the line, had been angry and wanted to talk to someone outside his immediate personal staff. He liked Hilliard and trusted him. It made no difference that he was so far junior in age and rank and experience. Hilliard was on his side. Garrett took the risk. He was a democratic man.
‘Well, there it is,’ he said. ‘And the chances are that everyone will have completely new orders this time tomorrow. You know how they chop and change us about. But for the moment, that’s the operation.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Barton will be up there by now.’
Suddenly Hilliard realized that there was more to it than a simple desire for his company, that Garrett had brought him here to get him away, pass some of the time for him. He saw and understood. Hilliard felt a surge of gratitude.
The Colonel’s batman brought tea, with bread and butter on a plate.
‘Privilege,’ Garrett said wryly. ‘You see, Hilliard? This is what rank gets you – sliced bread and butter and tea in a pot. Privilege!’ He raised his cup. Then said, ‘Young Barton’s got a cool head, hasn’t he?’
‘I – yes, sir. I think so.’
‘Reservations?’
‘Not exactly. It’s only that he hasn’t seen any action yet and he’s… I wonder how much things will affect him, how much he’ll take to heart.’
‘He’s a sensitive young man, yes.’
‘Yes.
‘That’s no bad thing.’
‘Oh no.’
‘I doubt, you see, if emotion will cloud his judgement. He’s a valuable sort of man to have around. He keeps us going, but there’s more to it. He makes us think twice, Hilliard – helps us not to take it all for granted, to become too cynical. He has some quality we’ve been lacking – gaiety, composure, and sensitivity. He’s a good man.’
Hilliard was surprised at Garrett’s perception and sureness of judgement, surprised that he had seen below the surface of Barton’s good humour and charm to what lay below. He felt a keen pleasure, hearing it, wanted the C.O. to go on with his praise and approval. If he could not be with Barton, then he could hear his name spoken, hear the best things said about him.
‘Who’s taken him up there?’
‘Grosse, sir.’
‘All right?’
‘He’s a good runner, yes.’
‘I don’t want to lose young Barton through some stupid accident.’
Hilliard clenched his hands together under the table. He won’t come back, he won’t come back.