The food here has got steadily worse and scarcer too. No idea why. God knows what they make the jam of – tree roots I think, and the stuff in the stews is obscene. We get by with the help of John’s parcels, though I must say I wish that they would send less delicacies and frills and some more plain and substantial things too. Last week we had marrons glacés and crystallized pineapple.
John has just come in to say we are to go and see the C.O. yet again. Another trek and it’s raining torrents, which means we shall crowd into the dugout H.Q. and sweat and steam and smell. And it won’t be anything more than boring orders, more work, work, work.
‘Gentlemen, I am here to tell you that we have been ordered to make a further series of reconnaissance raids up to the enemy line as far as the edge of their trenches near Barmelle Wood.’
The C.O. was looking straight ahead of him, his eyes on the patch of air, avoiding any individual face. His hands, which usually fidgeted with papers or cigar tin, were folded in front of him. He looked relaxed and curiously happy, his face was without any of its recent strain and even the skin seemed to have become smoother and taken on a more healthy look.
‘There have been, as you know, five raids from B and C companies in the past week. The information obtained from these has been negligible, through no fault of those concerned. In the course of these raids, the Battalion has lost six officers and thirteen men killed, and two officers and eleven men have been seriously wounded. In addition, B Company lost three men when in a similar raid at Leuillet a fortnight ago.’
He was silent for a moment. Barton and Hilliard sitting side by side and opposite to him in the cramped dugout, each felt the stillness of the other. Something was different, they had come for a routine briefing but the atmosphere was full of foreboding, they heard this news of the planned raids and expected that something more was to follow, the date and details of the expected offensive on Barmelle Wood.
Instead, Garrett said. ‘I have made a decision and it is my duty to tell you all of the nature of that decision. I have said that in my opinion such reconnaissance raids are pointless in terms of strategy and a criminal waste of men. I have categorically refused, therefore, to pass on the orders for further raids of this sort. I will no longer accept responsibility for the fruitless loss of life which they entail. Not unexpectedly, my objections have been overruled. Not unexpectedly, I have been ordered to relinquish my command of this Battalion and to return to England. I expect to leave within the next two or three days. If I am wrong, I am sorry. I would ask each of you to feel entirely free to place upon record your dissent from my opinion on this matter if you wish to do so. But I cannot continue against the dictates of my conscience and my common sense, and I am entirely content that the action I am taking is the correct one.’
They realized that he had written, rehearsed and learned his speech by heart. Now that it was over he leaned back in his chair and began to look into their faces for the first time, his eyes moving quickly from one to the other, seeking some response or approval or reassurance – or hostility. He did not know what to expect. He reached for the cigar tin, opened the lid. No one spoke.
‘Gentlemen, do you wish to say anything to me at all? Do you wish to ask me anything?’
Silence again.
‘Then I will ask you to return to your posts and to say nothing to the men of the Battalion. Your new Commanding Officer will make whatever arrangements he thinks fit. I shall myself hope to come round the lines before I go.’
Still silent, avoiding one another’s eyes, they herded out of the dugout into the teeming rain and running mud of the trench. The men glanced up apprehensively as they passed along, and their faces had the sunken-eyed look of suppressed fear. They were huddled in greatcoats and waders, trying to get what rest they could after the previous night’s work of carrying up large quantities of ammunition.
‘He’s right,’ Barton said at once when they reached their dugout. He felt suddenly faint and light-hearted from tiredness and from a sense of shock. ‘He’s right and he’s courageous.’
Hilliard hung up his mackintosh. ‘I think he just wants to be out of it all.’
‘That’s bloody unfair!’
‘No. I think he is right about it but I simply think that he’s been half-looking for something like this, though perhaps without altogether realizing it himself. He isn’t the man he was. He’d never have done something like this last spring when I first came out here.’
‘Then perhaps he has just learned some sense.’
‘It’s the end of him of course. His career, I mean.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘Would it to you?’
‘No.’
Hilliard wondered whether Barton were not right after all, whether the C.O., who stood to lose most, might not simply be courageous, a man of conscience. He said. ‘I’ve always liked him. But he’s in better sympathy with you now.’
‘I know.’
‘And he’s had Franklin for an Adjutant – that can’t have made life easier.’
‘Come now – Franklin is efficient.’
‘I wish you weren’t so bloody charitable!’
Barton smiled, turned over on his stomach, slept.
Two days later Garrett had gone. He took his leave of no one.
It was the end of November.
‘Is everything all right?’
‘Very quiet, yes.’ Hilliard set down his torch. ‘They’ll get what sleep they can.’
‘John – I’m afraid. I’m very afraid indeed.’
‘Yes.’ They looked at one another across the dugout. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like – it seems a long time since the summer, such a lot has happened. I’d forgotten this feeling.’
‘Sick.’
‘That’s it.’
‘What about the men?’
‘Oh, Fraser’s gunning for victory, he’s keeping them cheerful. But they don’t give much away, you know how it is. Some of them are looking so tired they ought to be in hospital, let alone sent into battle.’
The near approach of the offensive on Barmelle Wood had redoubled the calls on the front line for fatigue parties, the men had worked from early morning until late afternoon, snatched two or three hours sleep and then spent the nights bringing up ammunition and supplies.
Until early on Thursday evening the rain had continued, the whole area for miles around was a sea of mud. But yesterday it had stopped, a wind had got up, bringing a sweet stench across into their faces and flapping against the sack curtains of the dugout. Now there was a frost. For the first time their clothes had had a chance to dry out.
Hilliard said, ‘We’d better turn in.’
‘I shan’t sleep.’
‘You’ll sleep.’
But Barton shook his head, reached for his greatcoat. An hour earlier Keene, the new C.O., had come down the line and the men had surveyed him, faintly suspicious, disliking changes in command. They had been loyal to Garrett – there were one or two still left who had served under him since August 1914. Colonel Keene made little impression upon them: he was a thin man, softly spoken, apparently hesitant. But a reputation for both thoroughness and toughness had preceded him to the Battalion and the required reconnaissance raids had been carried out, costing the lives of fourteen men. At the final briefing conference he had spoken concisely, had made the battle plan eminently clear to them, asked rapid questions around the table. He had, also and immediately, remembered their names.