Paxton borrowed a motorcycle and explored the more northerly parts of the Somme. He found a fresh kaleidoscope of regiments, with more units arriving daily. It excited him to know he was part of the most brilliant battle-force the world had ever seen, he was in the prime of his life, and he was about to demonstrate his dash and prove his courage in the mightiest clash of arms ever known. And – most splendid part of all – Britain was going to win! Patriotism glowed in him like plum brandy.
The roads were dense with military traffic, endless supply columns feeding the infantry its meat and drink, its bullets and bags of mail and boots, and so Paxton often rode his motorcycle across country. It was a sign of the changing times that he was stopped by a military policeman at the entrance to a field, and made to prove his identity.
“If you wouldn’t mind keeping to the side of the field, sir,” the man said. “There’s manoeuvres going on in the middle.”
Paxton-chugged around the edge and saw nothing going on in the middle. He was stopped by another MP, and then by a third, who was reluctant to let him continue. “You ought to have been given a special pass, sir,” he said.
“Well, I’m certainly not going back to get one,” Paxton said crisply. The man consulted his clipboard. Paxton looked too. “There it is, for heaven’s sake,” he said. “Air Liaison. Two from the end. Satisfied?” He rode off before there could be any argument
A couple of hundred yards ahead stood a reviewing stand built of scaffolding poles and planks. Cars were parked nearby, and a crowd of officers lounged about. It was an odd scene: like the finish of a fashionable point-to-point, but without the horses.
He avoided the crowd and left his bike near the cars. This wasn’t his sort of show; those were staff officers, colonels and brigadiers and generals; he shouldn’t be here; he could get into very hot water. That’s what made it irresistible. But did he have the nerve to walk over to those officers and join in their conversation? No. No, he knew he wasn’t brave enough for that. Instead he walked over to a driver who was sitting on a running-board. The man came to attention. “Stand at ease,” Paxton said. “Look here, I can’t afford to stay long, I’ve got to get back to my squadron.” He glanced wisely at the sky. “Routine patrol, but it’s got to be done.” How sweetly the lies flowed!”So when is this show going to start, d’you reckon?”
“Well, it’s late now, sir. In fact—” An orange flare burst high in the air, half a mile away. The crowd began moving towards the stand. “Good man,” Paxton said. (Always praise the servants, his father had taught, even when they haven’t done anything; it costs nothing and they feel they have to work harder to deserve it.) He hurried to join the crowd.
Nobody looked twice at him. He found a space to stand at the top, in a corner, behind some Guards subalterns. Their gloss made him feel dingy.
A major appeared below, and announced through a megaphone: “One minute to zero hour.” Paxton began to notice things. Two hundred yards to the right a long trench had been dug, in the correct military zigzag pattern; communication trenches led to it. Two hundred yards to the left, white tapes had been laid in a long line, parallel to the trench. A second set of tapes could be seen a hundred yards behind the first. Between the trenches and the tapes the ground was smooth and green. There was no breeze. Sounds carried perfectly: a few crows complaining as usual, a horse neighing somewhere out of sight. It was all very peaceful. “Zero hour in five seconds,” the major said. Conversation ceased.
Whistles blew, dozens of whistles, and men popped up from the trench as if on springs. “The first wave will advance in extended line at walking pace,” the megaphone informed. “They will cross No-Man’s-Land in eight minutes and thirty seconds.” Indeed the wave had set off and NCOs could be heard shouting, straightening the line. Very soon it was impressively correct. A lieutenant walked in front of each platoon, holding a revolver or a walking stick. “The men are spaced five yards apart,” the megaphone declared. “Company HQ, comprised of company commander and six men, can be seen following.” Whistles shrilled again, and the trench ejected another force. “The first wave having completed one hundred yards, the second wave commences the advance,” explained the megaphone.
Paxton was puzzled. This was all rather slow. He expected troops to charge when they advanced, shouting hoarse defiance, terrifying the enemy into surrender or retreat. These chaps were just plodding. Then the first wave got close enough for him to see how heavily loaded they were. Equipment was strung all over them. Faces shone with sweat. “Full packs are worn,” the megaphone announced obligingly. “Two days’ rations and water bottles are carried. Each man has his rifle with bayonet, two gas respirators, full ammunition pouches, two grenades, one spade, one pair of wirecutters and other minor kit. Thus he can be sure of being ready to cope with any eventuality.”
The first wave plodded past the reviewing stand. Whistles shrilled and the third wave appeared from the trench.
“At zero hour,” said the megaphone,”our barrage lifted from the enemy Front Line, represented here by white tape, and moved to the enemy Second and Third Lines. No resistance is anticipated. However, for training purposes, some opposition has been allowed to exist.” Sure enough, half a dozen isolated figures sat up behind the white tape and began firing blanks. The first wave kept walking. Eventually the megaphone admitted: “Minor casualties may be suffered.” Here and there a man gratefully sank to his knees and lay down. A bugle sounded. Stretcher-bearers climbed out of the trench and trotted forward.
“You will notice,” the megaphone said,”that some men carry poles with flags. These will be raised in due course to act as markers for our guns. Others carry wiring stakes. They will use these to fortify captured positions. Rockets and carrier pigeons are carried for purposes of communication. Machine-gun units are present.”
By now a fourth wave of troops had come out of the trench. The first three waves were walking steadily across No-Man’sLand, five yards between men, a hundred yards between waves, the NCOs nagging at them to straighten their lines. Paxton was enormously impressed. There was something so calm yet so implacable about this attack. Unstoppable: that was the word. They looked as if they could walk all day, wading rivers, climbing hills, trampling the enemy beneath their steady tread, never tiring. He chuckled. “They really need a band,” he murmured,”playing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.” The Guards subalterns looked at him, looked at each other, looked away. Go to hell, Paxton thought cheerfully. How many Huns have you shot down? Well, then.
A green rocket went up. “The first wave has now reached and captured the enemy Front Line,” the megaphone reported. “It arrived fifteen seconds late. Our apologies.” The reviewing stand was mildly amused. “The fifth wave has now left our trenches.” My God! Paxton thought. Is there no end to them?”This fifth wave will carry out mopping-up operations, if necessary. The sixth wave will act as reinforcements, preparatory to the seventh wave, which will consist of Battalion HQ including Signals.”
There was a pause while the second wave trudged to the white tape and lay down. The third wave followed but crossed the tape and kept going. So did the fourth. A minute later a red rocket went up. “The enemy Second and Third Lines have now been captured,” said the megaphone. “Our barrage had already lifted from them, of course.” There was a flicker of ironic applause. “The opportunity for breakthrough has therefore been created,” said the megaphone defiantly.