Robert gazed upward. The sky beyond the crater’s rim was patched with blue. The flat, steel-coloured clouds were breaking up and easing apart. This was dangerous. The smoke had begun to drift. It was dispersing back towards their own lines. Their cover was being destroyed. Robert carefully put the notebook and pencil away and drew his automatic. He felt in his pockets for his reserve of clips. There were only seven of these. He fingered them—counting and recounting. Each clip had seven cartridges. Seven. Seven. Seven times seven. Is forty-nine. Plus seven. Is fifty-six. If he hadn’t fired the gun—but he couldn’t remember that. He’d fired it at a peach can. When?
‘Sir?’ said one of the men who was with him on the ledge.
‘Be quiet!’ said Robert. Both of them were whispering.
‘But sir…’
The man pointed.
Robert looked.
Slithering over the crater’s rim—a pale blue fog appeared. Like a veil his mother might’ve worn.
Robert blinked.
It tumbled over the edge and began to spread out over their heads—drifting on a layer of cold, dank air rising from the pool below them.
Jesus.
Gas.
Bates had scrabbled up to the ledge.
‘Put on your masks,’ Robert whispered. The air seemed to be alive with sibilance. The cannisters were that close.
Bates just stared.
‘Put your mask on, Corporal Bates!’
‘I can’t,’ said Bates.
‘What the hell do you mean?’ Robert turned and shouted hoarsely to the men below him. ‘Put your masks on!’
‘We can’t sir,’ said Bates. ‘They sent us up so quick that none of us was issued masks.’
‘Every man is issued a mask!’ Robert shouted out loud. (It was like being told that none of the men had been issued boots.)
‘No, sir,’ said Bates. ‘It ain’t true.’ He was shaking. Shivering. His voice was barely audible. Robert might as well have yelled at God, for all the good it would do. He looked at the weaving strands of gas. They were spreading further out—like a spider’s web above the crater—reaching for the other side. Some of it was spilling down towards them.
Robert didn’t even think. He just yelled: ‘Jump!’ and leapt into the air.
Looking back at the gas and seeing nothing else was to be done, one by one the others also jumped. Some landed short and tumbled the rest of the way but most landed helter skelter on top of one another in the water.
—
IN SECONDS there was nightmare. All too quickly they discovered they could not touch bottom. Three of the men could not swim. One man had broken both his legs in the fall. Two or three corpses that had lain nearby against the sides of the crater, slid down after them and sank like stones. But in moments they floated to the surface and when Robert and Bates began to struggle to the edge with the men who could not swim, Robert found he was saving a man who was already dead. He pushed the corpse back in the water but it wouldn’t sink this time and he had to kick its hands away from his boots. Silence—and every other safety precaution—was thrown to the winds. For a moment they ceased to be soldiers and became eight panic-stricken men who were trapped in the bottom of a sink hole, either about to be drowned or smothered to death with gas. Eight men and one mask. Robert had to fight to keep it and he ended up kicking both the living and the dead. At last, lying flat on his back, he managed to get the automatic out of his pocket and using both hands he pointed it straight at Bates. ‘Tell them to back off,’ he said; ‘or by Jesus I’ll fire!’
‘Back off,’ said Bates.
Robert sat—and used his knee to support the gun. He was shaking so violently the air was filled with drops of water spraying off his head. He swallowed hard and looked at the gas. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘you sons-of-bitches do exactly what I say.’ One of the men began to run. Robert fired. The man fell down but was not hit, Robert having missed him on purpose. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘If you want to live you have about twenty seconds. Get out your handkerchiefs.’
‘We got no handkerchiefs,’ said Bates.
‘THEN TEAR THE TAILS OFF YOUR GOD DAMNED SHIRTS!’
To a man—like chastised children—they reached around and tore the tails from their shirts. The man with the broken legs was lying by the water’s edge. He was already the colour of death. His hands were full of clay. He didn’t utter a word. He’d bitten his lips until they’d bled and his teeth had gone through the flesh. Robert threw the gas mask at Bates. ‘Put that over his face. And remember this gun is pointed right at your back.’ Bates obeyed—crawling to the man on his hands and knees.
The rest of the men were waiting numbly, holding torn pieces of cloth in their hands—staring at Robert with their mouths open. ‘What are we s’posed to do?’ one of them asked. ‘These won’t save us. Not if it’s chlorine.’
‘Piss on them,’ said Robert.
‘Unh?’
‘PISS ON THEM!!!’
The men all looked at Bates, who had turned again, having put the gas mask over the injured man’s face. He looked at Robert and shrugged. He nodded at the men. Then he knelt and began to fumble with his flies. He was quite convinced that Robert had lost his reason—but you have to obey a man with a gun—mad or sane. Here was the terror. Bates was so afraid that he collapsed backward and sat like a child in the sand and dug in his underwear for his penis. It had shrunk with fear. The gas was reaching down towards them—six feet—five feet—four. Bates was certain he would defecate. His bowels had turned to water. He fell on his side. At last his fingers took hold. He closed his eyes. He prayed: dear Jesus, let me piss. But he couldn’t. Neither could one of the other men and this other man began to weep, till Robert shouted at him: ‘Damn you! Damn you! Give it to me!’ and he ripped the shirt tail away from the man and urinated on it himself. Then, with it dripping like a dishcloth, he thrust it back at the other man and said to him: ‘Put it over your face.’ But the poor daft crazy was so afraid and so confused that he put the cloth on top of his head and Robert had to grab it again and slap it on the man’s face so that it covered him from eyes to chin. Then Robert said: ‘All you others do the same thing and lie down flat with your faces in your hands.’ They did. Without a word. The gas was now two feet above their heads. Finally, Bates let go. His muscles gave away like bits of yarn and he fouled himself as he peed. How could it matter? They were all going to die. He flattened the wettened tail of his shirt across his face and rolled to his stomach, pressing his face in the mud. His father’s image deserted him. His mind was white.
In the meantime, Robert dribbled all that was left in his bladder into his handkerchief and he too lay down—like a pilgrim in the clay.
9.30 A.M.
They waited.
What would save them—if it did—was an image that had come unbidden into Robert’s mind from a dull winter classroom long ago. It was an image clear and definite as the words themselves: two tiny bottles poised side by side. Crystals forming in the air. Ammonium-chloride—a harmless dusty powder blown off the back of someone’s hand.
Chloride in one tiny bottle—but what was in the other? Clear as a bell—in fact, so clear he thought he’d heard it aloud—came the sound of Clifford Purchas, all of twelve years old, giggling and poking at Robert’s ribs. ‘Piss,’ he’d said—and been dismissed from class for saying it. Now that one word might save them. The ammonia in their urine would turn the chlorine into harmless crystals that could not be breathed.
10.30 A.M.
Still, they waited.
The gas had begun to dissipate. More breeze had sprung up. More and more clouds were leaving the sky. It became very cold. But Robert and the men dared not move. At any moment the Germans would appear, for surely the gas had been the prelude to their attack. And if the Germans came, their only hope was to play dead and pray.
12.15 P.M.
The sun—at its zenith—died.
The crows began to call to one another.
It a
lso began to snow.
1 P.M.
Robert slowly tilted his head to one side. He had lain completely still for three hours. The back of his neck was numb. He slid his hand up under his cheek. The glove made it feel like a stranger’s hand. His hair was frozen into points that hung down over his eyes.
‘Bates?’
There was no answer.
‘Bates?’ A little louder.
‘Yes sir?’ Somewhere to his left.
‘I’m going to roll over now. Onto my back. I don’t want anybody else to move.’
‘Yes sir.’
Robert eased himself onto his side. So far—so good. There wasn’t a sound. Then he rolled over with his arms stuck out above his head. He looked like a child about to make ‘an angel’ in the snow. The handkerchief was frozen to his left glove. Looking back, he could see it way off down his arm in another country. A bird sang, something like a white-throated sparrow: one long note descending; three that wavered. This was the bird that had sung before. He waited for it to sing again. It didn’t. Robert tried to focus every inch of the rim within his range. The bird had made him extremely nervous. Rob the Ranger always whistled like a white-throat if he saw an Indian moving in the woods. And the Indians hooted like owls and howled and barked and yipped like wolves. Robbers could meow like cats. Anyone in hiding was an imitation animal.
Once he’d rolled over, Robert was the only brown figure in the landscape. That could only mean one thing. He was alive. All the others, playing dead, were covered with snow. Robert thought: well—no one’s shot at me yet. Surely if anyone’s watching they’d have killed me by now.
Snow was still falling. It filled his lashes and turned them white. He could taste it on his lips. He could feel a single flake on the tip of his nose. He sat up, resting on his elbows, sweeping his arms to his sides and his right hand into contact with the Webley.
He lifted his gaze to the rim.
Nothing.
He angled his head to the left.
The bird sang.
Robert froze.
There was a German soldier with a pair of binoculars staring right at him.
Robert stared back—unmoving.
The German—who was lying down at the very edge of the crater—lowered the binoculars. Robert could see his eyes. He was very young. Maybe eighteen. He was not an officer and he wore no hat. He did not even wear a helmet. His hair was frozen like Robert’s, but blond. He wore a pair of woollen mitts that had no fingers.
Robert could see him so clearly he could see him swallow, as if he was nervous.
Bates said: ‘Sir?’
Robert tried to speak without moving his lips. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘There’s somebody there.’
Bates did not reply but Robert heard one of the other men cursing in the mud. ‘Be quiet,’ he said and, as he said it, he saw in front of them the dreadful phenomenon that could give them all away. His breath. He muttered: ‘Don’t anybody raise his head. Keep on breathing into the ground.’
All this time, Robert had not moved. All this time, the German had watched him. Robert thought: there has to be a reason.
He sat up.
Nothing happened.
The German went on staring at Robert—not even using the binoculars. He seemed to be waiting for Robert to take the initiative.
Robert thought: he isn’t armed. That’s what it is. He isn’t armed. He hasn’t caught us—we’ve caught him. He’s afraid to move.
Very slowly, Robert drew the Webley and held it in such a way that the German could not help but see it. He didn’t want to point it at him yet. He waited to see what reaction the gun itself would get. The German raised his binoculars. Then he lowered them—but that was all.
Robert said: ‘Bates? Don’t be afraid. There’s only one and I don’t think he has a gun. Try rolling over and see what happens. I’ve got him covered.’
Bates rolled over.
The German shifted his gaze—saw that Bates had moved and then looked back at Robert. He nodded. It was astounding. He nodded!
Robert did not quite understand at first and then the German lifted his head as much as to say: get up.
‘Get up,’ Robert said to Bates. ‘Stand right up. He isn’t going to shoot.’
Bates had been watching the German too. He stood up. ‘Now what?’ he said.
‘Go to the top,’ said Robert. ‘Go the way we came. Just go. But go slowly. Don’t alarm him.’
Bates went around behind Robert—out of his sight lines—but Robert could hear him scrambling and squelching through the mud and then the sound of falling debris as he clambered up the face of the crater. Robert didn’t take his eyes off the German for a second and the German didn’t take his eyes off Bates. The tilt of his head was like a mirror. It showed Bates’s progress all the way to the top. And when Bates had arrived and was safe—the German looked back down at Robert—smiling.
Robert stood up. He waved acknowledgement. Whatever his reasons—the German obviously intended them all to go free.
‘I want everyone of you to go and join Bates,’ Robert said.
‘Don’t stop and don’t look back. Go as far as you can with your hands in the air, so he’ll know you’re not armed. Maybe he’s crazy—but he isn’t going to kill us.’
One by one, four of the men began to stumble to the Lewis gun. ‘Get up,’ Robert said to the fifth, whom he thought must have fallen asleep. When the man did not respond, Robert went across to him and turned him over with the toe of his boot. It was the man who had wept and become hysterical. Dead. His eyes wide and staring. He had strangled on his shirt tail.
Robert rolled him back, face down in the mud, and went to the man with the broken legs. All this while the German was watching him but Robert felt entirely safe. He crouched by the water’s edge and was amazed to see it was solid. In the three hours they had lain there it had got that cold. This man was also dead. Probably of shock. Robert could not see his eyes. The vapour inside the gas mask had frozen. The man’s last breath was a sheet of ice.
It was now Robert’s turn to climb.
He would have to turn his back on the German.
Well. There was no other way.
He began.
It was the sort of climb you have in dreams. Every step forward, he slid back two. He almost dropped the gun. His knees were in agony. Harris’s scarf got caught on the Lewis gun and Robert had to tear it away. He kept falling forward, sliding in the snow. Once he looked up and could see Bates waiting—watching the German. The others could not be seen. They were over the lip and safe in the trench. Robert had about six feet to go.
All of a sudden, Bates shouted: ‘Sir.’
What happened next was all so jumbled and fast that Robert was never to sort it out. He fell. He turned. He saw the German reaching over the lip of the crater. Something exploded. The German gave a startled cry and was suddenly dead, with his arms dangling down.
The shot that had killed him rang around and around the crater like a marble in a bowl. Robert thought it would never stop. He scrambled for the brink only in order to escape it and Bates had to pull him over the edge, falling back with Robert on top of him. The warmth of Bates’s body was a shock and the two men lay in one another’s arms for almost a minute before Robert moved. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. He could barely see. He sat with his head between his knees. He didn’t even know the gun was still in his hand until he reached with it to wipe the mud from his face. It smelt of heat and oil. He turned around and crawled to the edge of the fold where, hours ago, he and Bates had first looked out and seen the crater. He could barely see. He sat with his head between his knees. He wanted to know what had happened and why the German had so suddenly moved against him after letting all the others escape.
He raised his field glasses and the first thing he saw was their counterpart lying in the mud about a foot from the young man’s hand. Binoculars. He had only been reaching for his binoculars.
Robert sagged
against the ground. It was even worse than that. Lying beside the German was a modified Mauser rifle of the kind used by snipers. He could have killed them all. Surely that had been his intention. But he’d relented. Why?
The bird sang.
One long note descending: three that wavered on the brink of sadness.
That was why.
It sang and sang and sang, till Robert rose and walked away. The sound of it would haunt him to the day he died.
When they made their way back through the trench there was no one there alive. They had all been gassed or had frozen to death. Those who lay in water were profiled in ice. Everything was green: their faces—and their fingers—and their buttons. And the snow.
TUESDAY, 29 FEBRUARY—THURSDAY, 2 MARCH
One day bled into the next. They melded. Day and night became inseparable—the nights lit up with the flames of a terrible new weapon and the days impalled in smoke. The ground was on fire. Troops were obliterated and the others brought forward. Companies were decimated to the size of sections. In the time since the battle had begun Robert should have shared the command of twenty men with Levitt, but he lost all count of the numbers that had come and gone. Maybe eighty—maybe a hundred. More. He would only know when he took his tally book to Battalion H.Q. at the end. If there was an end.
The weapon with which the Germans now attacked had been introduced at Verdun. It was something called a ‘flame thrower’ and rumours had come down the line describing it—but no one had believed. Men, it was said, carrying tanks of fire on their backs came in advance of the troops and spread the fire with hoses. Water burned and snow went up in smoke. Nothing remained. It was virtual attrition. The ultimate weapon had been invented. Only powder and dust remained of trenches filled with men. These were the rumours. Some of the commanders laughed. Fire could not come out of hoses. Don’t be ridiculous. If fire came out of hoses—the men who wielded them would be the first to burn. (Dynamite and tanks and gas and aeroplanes had all been dismissed with the same rebuttal. A: men would not do such things and, B: they could not. Then they did.) The flame throwers made their first appearance at St Eloi on the evening of the 29th—a Tuesday. (1916 was a leap year.) Fourteen ‘carriers’ had appeared in No Man’s Land at about the time of sundown, wearing metal breast plates with large red crosses painted on the front. These were not the crosses of mercy. They were the emblem of the units specially trained in ‘liquid warfare’ and shown off only a month before to an enthusiastic Kaiser. The German High Command had invested so much faith in this new weapon that they dubbed the Verdun Offensive where it would first be used as Operation Gericht. The Place of Judgement.