Today, a century back, is a day of battle. In keeping with the usual procedure, here, I will not attempt any broad description of the action–it is “in the histories,” as one of our writers will note. It’s the last convulsion of the Somme, the last, exhausted shove forward into the battered German positions that if been in the British sights since July. It’s an especially notable day, here, because several of our most evocative memoir-writers were under fire–and because its events loomed large in two of the war’s most vividly rendered fictional lives, Frederic Manning‘s Bourne and A.P. Herbert’s Penrose.
We will begin with two writers on the outskirts of the battle, and work our way in from there. First, Sidney Rogerson, awaiting the return of his marauding Corporal Robinson.
About midnight Robinson reappeared, looking like some vendor of cheap jewellery at a fair. He was garlanded with watch-chains, and his pockets and haversack bulged with the haul of his gruesome search. He reported his return to me and added “You know that shell-hole with the two dead Jerries in it where I had to shelter last night, sir? Well, there aren’t two. It’s the same Jerry, sir, only his head has been blown across the other side of the hole!”
This news he gave me with the cheerful air of one correcting a piece of false information, with no hint of either horror or disgust.
Forthwith he proceeded to spread out his trophies on the fire-step as if arranging a shop-counter… There were six or seven German watches complete with chains, two gold rings, an automatic pistol, several pocket-books…
As per his unofficial orders, he has also collected twenty pay books, which will serve as proof of decease for the British dead. I’ll pass over more discussion of parcels, trench cooking, and a rare admission that some of the infantry’s complaints about their own artillery may have been ill-founded, in order to get us to today’s main event. An officer named Hawley is just receiving a cup of hot café au lait brewed from a casualty’s parcel,
…when suddenly the flashing of a distant line of light lit up the night sky above the trench. Silence. A great cool rush of steel overhead. Then the roar of a thousand guns rushed upon us and over us, submerging us in a sea of sound. Hawley jumped, spilt scalding liquid down his chin, swore vigorously…
But the barrage–a feint, on their section of the front–is over quickly. Not so elsewhere.
And that is how we were unwittingly stallholders for one of the biggest shows of the Year of Grace, 1916. A few miles north of us the 5th Army had attacked on a wide front. It is known to history as the Battle of Beaumont Hamel. But this we only learnt afterwards. At the time of the assault we drank, smoked, and sang with never a thought for the thousands of lives being choked out by bullet, bayonet, or bomb within a few miles of us. We were content to know someone else was “for it.”
…simultaneously with the 5th Army’s offensive far away to the left, the French had attacked on a smaller scale some few hundred yards to our right, and the front line troops had found themselves in the orchestra stalls for a battle-piece. According to Mac the spectacle was so fantastic as to be scarcely credible. Pressing the metaphor of the theatre, the stage, seen through the curtain of the early morning misty, was lit by the dancing flames of the barrage, the din of which, drowning all else, gave the muted movement of a silent film…
This second-hand description of the French attack continues for a long paragraph–it’s very good, especially with our Fussellian interest in the “theater of war.” But as some of those lives being choked out on the left concern us, we will tread, fearfully, northward.
Next comes Edmund Blunden‘s appreciation of Beaumont Hamel, viewed from near the Schwaben Redoubt.
Our own part was subsidiary, and the main blow was to be struck northward toward Grandcourt and Beaumont Hamel. Struck it was in the shabby clammy morning of November 13th.
That was a feat of arms vying with any recorded. The enemy was surprised and beaten. From Thiepval Wood battalions of our own division sprang out, passed mud and wire and took the tiny village of St. Pierre Divion with its enormous labyrinth, and almost two thousand Germans in the galleries there. Beyond the curving Ancre, the Highlanders and the Royal Naval Division overran Beaucourt and Beaumont, strongholds of the finest; and as this news came in fragments and rumours to us in Thiepval, we felt as if we were being left behind. Toward four o’clock orders came that we were to supply three hundred men that night, to carry up wiring materials to positions in advance of those newly captured, those positions to be reconnoitred immediately. This meant me.
A runner called Johnson, a red-cheeked, silent youth, was the only man available, and we set off at once, seeing that there was a heavy barrage eastward, but knowing that it was best not to think about it. What light the grudging day had permitted was now almost extinct, and the mist had changed into a drizzle; we passed the site of Thiepval Crucifix, and the junction of Fiennes Trench and St. Martin’s Lane (a wide pond of grayness), then the Schwaben — few people about, white lights whirling up north of the Ancre, and the shouldering hills north and east gathering inimical mass in their wan illusion. Crossing scarcely discernible scrawls of redoubts and communications, I saw an officer peeping from a little length of trench, and went to him. “Is this our front line?” “Dunno: you get down off there; you’ll be hit.” He shivered in his mackintosh sheet. His chin quivered; this blackness was coming down cruelly fast. “Get down.” He spoke with a sort of anger. By some curious inward concentration on the matter of finding the way, I had not much noticed the frantic dance of high explosive now almost around us. At this minute, a man, or a ghost, went by, and I tried to follow his course down the next slope and along a desperate valley; then I said to Johnson: “The front line must be ahead here still; come on.” We were now in the dark, and before we realized it, inside a barrage; never had shells seemed so torrentially swift, so murderous; they seemed to swoop over one’s shoulder. We ran, we tore ourselves out of the clay to run, and lived. The shells at last skidded and spattered behind us, and now where were we? We went on.
Monstrously black a hill rose up before us; we crossed; then I thought I knew where we were. These heavy timber shelters with the great openings were evidently howitzer positions, and they had not been long evacuated, I thought, stooping hurriedly over those dead men in field-gray overcoats at the entrances, and others in “foxholes” near by. The lights flying up northward, where the most deafening noise was roaring along the river valley, showed these things in their unnatural glimmer; and the men’s coats were yet comparatively clean, and their attitudes most lifelike. Again we went on, and climbed the false immensity of another ridge, when several rifles and a maxim opened upon us, and very close they were. We retreated aslant down the slope, and as we did so I saw the wide lagoons of the Ancre silvering in the Beaucourt lights, and decided our course. Now running, crouching, we worked along the valley, then sharply turning, through huge holes and over great hunks of earth, came along high ground above what had been St. Pierre Divion, expecting to be caught at every second; then we plunged through that waterfall of shells, the British and German barrages alike now slackening; and were challenged at last, in English. We had come back from an accidental tour into enemy country, and blessed with silent gladness the shell hole in which, blowing their own trumpets in the spirit of their morning’s success, were members of four or five different units of our division. We lay down in the mud a moment or two, and recovered our senses.
The way to Thiepval was simpler. At the edge of the wood a couple of great shells burst almost on top of us; thence we had no opposition, and, finding a duckboard track, returned to the battalion headquarters. Johnson slipped down the greasy stairway, and turned very white down below. We were received as Lazarus was. The shelling of the Schwaben had been “a blaze of light,” and our deaths had been taken for granted. Harrison was speaking over the telephone to Hornby, and I just had vitality enough to hear him say: “They have come back, and report an extraordinary barrage; say, it would be disaster to attempt to send up that party. Certain disaster. Yes, they say so, and from their appearance one can see that they have been through terrific shelling. . . . Yes, I’ll bring him along.” “That’s all right,” he turned to his second in command. “No wiring party. Seven o’clock — take it easy; Rabbit, we’ll go and see the General when you feel a bit better.”
Charles Carrington, too, had a small part to play in the day’s battle. First the theater, then a brief brush with the war:
On 13th November 1916 there took place the last active operation of the Somme Battle, when the Durham Light Infantry of the 50th Division attacked the Butte of Warlencourt. We had moved to Prue Trench, a reserve position far down the forward slope, and enjoyed a view from the stalls, just as on 1st July we had watched the assault on Gommecourt from Hebuterne trenches…
I’ve had a tough time finding good maps for today’s action–our viewers are widespread, and the attacks happen to spread out over several sheets, few of which (available in the unparalleled McMaster University online archive) show anything like the current extent of the trenches. Here, then, is a large-scale map of the battlefield without any trenches at all, which will at least show the relative position of the many towns and villages mentioned.
Serre is in the extreme northwest; Beaumont Hamel in the north center, Thiepval east and south of center…
Carrington at least got to fire a shot in the battle, if only from the periphery. He fired point-blank, from a Lewis Gun mounted on his corporal’s soldier, at a German airman, “a florid young man with a little dark moustache,” as he swooped down, strafing their trench. “We both missed.”
So Charles Carrington and “Rabbit” Blunden have survived their day on the periphery of the battle. Others are headed for its center. The 22nd Royal Fusiliers were in reserve, but still directly behind the main line of the attack and sure to get into action eventually. They formed by 3 a.m., and in their ranks was Hector Munro–Saki–just back from the hospital so as not to miss the show. “He looked a very sick man and should have been in bed, but I knew his thoughts and the reason for his being fit.”
The 22nd moved up behind the troops attacking Beaumont Hamel, taking over the old British assault positions later in the morning. By mid-afternoon they had taken up a flanking position in no man’s land, protecting the new advance from possible counter-attack.
Leading the assault, in the center of today’s action, was the Royal Naval Division. This unusual division–formed of two battalions of marines and six battalions, named after famous admirals, of volunteers and surplus sailors–did not perhaps have the trust of the army command, especially after the failures of Gallipoli (which were hardly the fault of the infantry, naval or otherwise). But today, despite heavy casualties, they were successful, taking several lines of German defense and the town of Beaumont Hamel. The hero of the battle will be the New Zealand athlete and Friend of Rupert Bernard Freyberg, commanding the Hood Battalion.
The Nelson battalion will take terrible casualties, losing almost all of its officers before Freyberg rallied its remnants to cover a floating left flank. Two officers of the Nelson who survived the day were A.P. Herbert and Edwin Dyett. Herbert will avoid describing the day in any detail, but neither is it absent from his later novel:
I shall not tell you about it (it is in the histories); but it was a black day for the battalion. We lost 400 men and 20 officers, more than twice the total British casualties at Omdurman… Harry and myself survived.
Ah, but now I have crossed into fiction. Harry, in whose mind is waged The Secret Battle, is an officer whose struggle with his failing nerve is based–to a certain extent, at least–on Edwin Dyett. But while “Harry Penrose” will struggle on into 1917, today was the day that Dyett failed.
Dyett was considered unreliable. He was “windy”–which might mean either that he was anxious and jumpy or that he was considered to be cowardly, but which is a pretty good colloquial place holder for what we should think of as “exhibiting symptoms of PTSD.” He had also applied for transfer four times, letting his commanders know that his “nerves” were not bearing up under the strain. Dyett, accordingly, was left with the small cadre of reserves, back with the Divisional headquarters, out of the battle.
But not all the way out of it–just in reserve, cut off from his men and his fellow-officers, whether scornful or understanding. Late in the day, Dyett was ordered up, along with another officer, to take charge of reinforcements at Brigade headquarters and lead them into the line. The other officer found his men and, after showing Dyett a map of their destination, marched off. But Dyett disappeared somewhere between Brigade and the front, and no one will lay eyes between the middle of the afternoon and the end of the battle.
So much for the men who were there (more or less). But the most affecting piece of writing that I can associate with today, a century back, is Frederic Manning‘s The Middle Parts of Fortune. The entire novel is devoted to the mental life of Bourne as he endures the long Somme campaign, and to his observation of the men of his company. It’s a very, very good book, and the chapter that takes place today is in most ways the climax. It is based, surely, on today’s attack on Serre (on the left of the line, to the north of the R.N.D.’s attack on Beaumont Hamel), in which Manning’s 7th Shropshire Light Infantry took part, suffering heavy casualties before returning to their trenches.
I can’t post an entire chapter, but I will post most of it… and I have more justification, perhaps, than usual. I haven’t read deeply in the literature on Manning, but I have several times come across statements to the effect that he named his fictional alter ego after the town of Bourne, where he had lived. But in my sketchy research aimed at ascertaining that today was indeed the day on which his fictional battalion attacked–i.e. on which his real battalion suffered heavy casualties–I came across an entry in the CWGC database that I have not seen referenced in the Manning scholarship. I’ll save that (possible) revelation, though, for after this lengthy excerpt…
If you have been reading along then you have been working up to this attack for several days. If not, the following details will suffice: Bourne, an educated man in the ranks, has had to slowly win the trust of the laborers and countrymen in his battalion. But he has done so: he is accepted as a good soldier, despite the fact that he was recently given a stripe (i.e. promotion to Lance-Corporal) in earnest of his officers’ intention to send him, against his wishes, to be trained as an officer. Bourne doesn’t want to go–he feels that he belongs with his battalion, and he has flatly refused to be sent away before the attack. So, today, he marches into it, together with his two particular mates, Shem and young Martlow.
We see yonder the beginning of day, but I think we shall never see the end of it…
I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle.
The drumming of the guns continued, with bursts of great intensity. It was as though a gale streamed overhead, piling up great waves of sound, and hurrying them onward to crash in surf on the enemy entrenchments. The windless air about them, by its very stillness, made that unearthly music more terrible to hear. They cowered under it, as men seeking shelter from a storm. Something rushed downward on them with a scream of exultation, increasing to a roar before it blasted the air asunder and sent splinters of steel shrieking over their heads, an eruption of mud spattering down on the trench, and splashing in brimming shellholes. The pressure among the men increased. Someone shouldering a way through caused them to surge together, cursing, as they were thrown off their balance to stumble against their neighbours.
“For Christ’s sake walk on your own fuckin’ feet an’ not on mine!” came from some angry man, and a ripple of idiot mirth spread outwards from the centre of the disturbance. Bourne got a drink of tea, and though it was no more than warm, it did him good; at least, it washed away the gummy dryness of his mouth. He was shivering, and told himself it was the cold. Through the darkness the dripping mist moved slowly, touching them with spectral fingers as it passed. Everything was clammy with it. It condensed on their tin hats, clung to their rough serge, their eyelashes, the down on their cheekbones. Even though it blinded everything beyond the distance of a couple of yards, it seemed to be faintly luminous itself. Its damp coldness enhanced the sense of smell. There was a reek of mouldering rottenness in the air, and through it came the sour, stale odour from the foul clothes of the men. Shells streamed overhead, sighing, whining and whimpering for blood; the upper air fluttered with them; but Fritz was not going to take it all quietly, and with its increasing roar another shell leaped towards them, and they cowered under the wrath. There was the enormous grunt of its eruption, the sweeping of harp-strings, and part of the trench wall collapsed inwards, burying some men in the landslide. It was difficult to get them out, in the crowded conditions of the trench.
Bourne’s fit of shakiness increased, until he set his teeth to prevent them chattering in his head; and after a deep, gasping breath, almost like a sob, he seemed to recover to some extent. Fear poisoned the very blood; but, when one recognised the symptoms, it became objective, and one seemed to escape partly from it that way. He heard men breathing irregularly beside him, as he breathed himself; he heard them licking their lips, trying to moisten their mouths; he heard them swallow, as though overcoming a difficulty in swallowing; and the sense that others suffered equally or more than himself, quietened him. Some men moaned, or even sobbed a little, but unconsciously, and as though they struggled to throw off an intolerable burden of oppression. His eyes met Shem’s, and they both turned away at once from the dread and question which confronted them. More furtively he glanced in Martlow’s direction; and saw him standing with bent head. Some instinctive wave of pity and affection swelled in him, until it broke into another shuddering sigh, and the boy looked up, showing the whites of his eyes under the brim of his helmet. They were perplexed, and his underlip shook a little. Behind him Bourne heard a voice almost pleading: “Stick it out, chum.”
“A don’t care a fuck,” came the reply, with a bitter harshness rejecting sympathy.
“Are you all right, kid?” Bourne managed to ask in a fairly steady voice; and Martlow only gave a brief affirmative nod. Bourne shifted his weight onto his other foot, and felt the relaxed knee trembling. It was the cold. If only they had something to do, it might be better. It had been a help simply to place a ladder in position. Suspense seemed to turn one’s mind to ice, and bind even time in its frozen stillness; but at an order it broke. It broke, and one became alert, relieved. They breathed heavily in one another’s faces. They looked at each other more quietly, forcing themselves to face the question. “We’ve stuck it before,” said Shem. They could help each other, at least up to that point where the irresistible thing swept aside their feeble efforts, and smashed them beyond recovery…
“It’ll soon be over, now,” whispered Martlow.
Perhaps it was lighter, but the stagnant fog veiled everything. Only there was a sound of movement, a sudden alertness thrilled through them all with an anguish inextricably mingled with relief. They shook hands, the three among themselves and then with others near them.
Good luck, chum. Good luck. Good luck.
He felt his heart thumping at first. And then, almost surprised at the lack of effort which it needed, he moved towards the ladder.
Martlow, because he was nearest, went first. Shem followed behind Bourne, who climbed out a little clumsily. Almost as soon as he was out he slipped sideways and nearly fell. The slope downward, where others, before he did, had slipped, might have been greased with vaseline; and immediately beyond it, one’s boots sank up to the ankle in mud which sucked at one’s feet as they were withdrawn from it, clogging them, as in a nightmare. It would be worse when they reached the lower levels of this ill-drained marsh. The fear in him now was hard and icy, and yet apart from that momentary fumbling on the ladder, and the involuntary slide, he felt himself moving more freely, as though he had full control of himself…
Then suddenly that hurricane of shelling increased terrifically, and in the thunder of its surf, as it broke over the German lines, all separate sounds were engulfed: it was one continuous fury, only varying as it seemed to come from one direction now, and now from another. And they moved. He didn’t know whether they had heard any orders or not: he only knew they moved. It was treacherous walking over that greasy mud. They crossed Monk Trench, and a couple of other trenches, crowding together, and becoming confused. After Monk was behind them, the state of the ground became more and more difficult: one could not put a foot to the ground without skating and sliding. He saw Mr Finch at one crossing, looking anxious and determined, and Sergeant Tozer; but it was no more than a glimpse in the mist. A kind of maniacal rage filled him. Why were they so slow? And then it seemed that he himself was one of the slowest, and he pressed on. Suddenly the Hun barrage fell: the air was split and seared with shells. Fritz had been ready for them all right, and had only waited until their intentions had been made quite clear. As they hurried, head downward, over their own front line, they met men, some broken and bleeding, but others whole and sound, breaking back in disorder. They jeered at them, and the others raved inarticulately, and disappeared into the fog again. Jakes and Sergeant Tozer held their own lot together, and carried them through this moment of demoralisation: Jakes roared and bellowed at them, and they only turned bewildered faces to him as they pressed forward, struggling through the mud like flies through treacle. What was all the bloody fuss about? they asked themselves, turning their faces, wide-eyed, in all directions to search the baffling fog. It shook, and twitched, and whirled about them: there seemed to be a dancing flicker before their eyes as shell after shell exploded, clanging, and the flying fragments hissed and shrieked through the air. Bourne thought that every bloody gun in the German army was pointed at him. He avoided some shattered bodies of men too obviously dead for help. A man stumbled past him with an agonised and bleeding face. Then more men broke back in disorder, throwing them into some confusion, and they seemed to waver for a moment. One of the fugitives charged down on Jakes and that short but stocky fighter smashed the butt of his rifle to the man’s jaw, and sent him sprawling. Bourne had a vision of Sergeant-Major Glasspool.
“You take your fuckin’ orders from Fritz!” he shouted as a triumphant frenzy thrust him forward.
For a moment they might have broken and run themselves, and for a moment they might have fought men of their own blood, but they struggled on as Sergeant Tozer yelled at them to leave that bloody tripe alone and get on with it. Bourne, floundering in the viscous mud, was at once the most abject and the most exalted of God’s creatures. The effort and rage in him, the sense that others had left them to it, made him pant and sob, but there was some strange intoxication of joy in it, and again all his mind seemed focused into one hard bright point of action. The extremities of pain and pleasure had met and coincided too.
He knew, they all did, that the barrage had moved too quickly for them, but they knew nothing of what was happening about them. In any attack, even under favourable conditions, the attackers are soon blinded; but here they had lost touch almost from the start. They paused for a brief moment, and Bourne saw that Mr Finch was with them, and Shem was not. Minton told him Shem had been hit in the foot. Bourne moved closer to Martlow. Their casualties, as far as he could judge, had not been heavy. They got going again, and, almost before they saw it, were on the wire. The stakes had been uprooted, and it was smashed and tangled, but had not been well cut. Jakes ran along it a little way, there was some firing, and bombs were hurled at them from the almost obliterated trench, and they answered by lobbing a few bombs over, and then plunging desperately among the steel briars, which tore at their puttees and trousers. The last strand of it was cut or beaten down, some more bombs came at them, and in the last infuriated rush Bourne was knocked off his feet and went practically headlong into the trench; getting up, another man jumped on his shoulders, and they both fell together, yelling with rage at each other. They heard a few squeals of agony, and he saw a dead German, still kicking his heels on the broken boards of the trench at his feet. He yelled for the man who had knocked him down to come on, and followed the others. The trench was almost obliterated: it was nothing but a wreckage of boards and posts, piled confusedly in what had become a broad channel for the oozing mud. They heard some more bombing a few bays further on, and then were turned back. They met two prisoners, their hands up, and almost unable to stand from fear, while two of the men threatened them with a deliberate, slow cruelty.
“Give ’em a chance! Send ’em through their own bloody barrage!” Bourne shouted, and they were practically driven out of the trench and sent across no-man’s-land.
On the other flank they found nothing; except for the handful of men they had encountered at first, the trench was empty. Where they had entered the trench, the three first lines converged rather closely, and they thought they were too far right. In spite of the party of Germans they had met, they assumed that the other waves of the assaulting troops were ahead of them, and decided to push on immediately, but with some misgivings. They were now about twenty-four men. In the light, the fog was coppery and charged with fumes. They heard in front of them the terrific battering of their own barrage and the drumming of the German guns. They had only moved a couple of yards from the trench when there was a crackle of musketry. Martlow was perhaps a couple of yards in front of Bourne, when he swayed a little, his knees collapsed under him, and he pitched forward on to his face, his feet kicking and his whole body convulsive for a moment. Bourne flung himself down beside him, and, putting his arms round his body, lifted him, calling him.
“Kid! You’re all right, kid?” he cried eagerly.
He was all right. As Bourne lifted the limp body, the boy’s hat came off, showing half the back of his skull shattered where the bullet had come through it; and a little blood welled out onto Bourne’s sleeve and the knee of his trousers. He was all right; and Bourne let him settle to earth again, lifting himself up almost indifferently, unable to realise what had happened, filled with a kind of tenderness that ached in him, and yet extraordinarily still, extraordinarily cold. He had to hurry, or he would be alone in the fog…
Bourne leaves Martlow and catches up with the main attacking wave.
And Bourne struggled forward again, panting, and muttering in a suffocated voice.
“Kill the buggers! Kill the bloody fucking swine! Kill them!”
All the filth and ordure he had ever heard came from his clenched teeth; but his speech was thick and difficult. In a scuffle immediately afterwards a Hun went for Minton, and Bourne got him with the bayonet, under the ribs near the liver, and then unable to wrench the bayonet out again, pulled the trigger, and it came away easily enough.
“Kill the buggers!” he muttered thickly.
He ran against Sergeant Tozer in the trench.
“Steady, of son! Steady. ‘Ave you been ‘it? You’re all over blood.”
“They killed the kid,” said Bourne, speaking with sudden clearness, though his chest heaved enormously. “They killed him. I’ll kill every bugger I see.”
“Steady. You stay by me…”
They were now convinced they could not go on by themselves. They decided to try and get into touch with any parties on the left. It was useless to go on, as apparently none of the other companies were ahead of them, and heavy machine-gun fire was coming from Serre. They worked up the trench to the left, and after some time, heard footsteps. The leading man held up a hand, and they were ready to bomb or bayonet, when a brave voice challenged them.
“Who are ye?”
“Westshires!” they shouted, and moved on, to meet a corporal and three men of the Gordons. They knew nothing of the rest of their battalion…
Some Huns were searching the trench. Sergeant Tozer, with the same party, went forward immediately. As soon as some egg-bombs had burst in the next bay, they rushed it, and flung into the next. They found and bayoneted a Hun, and pursued the others some little distance, before they doubled back on their tracks again. Then Mr Finch took them back to the German front line, intending to stay there until he could link up with other parties. The fog was only a little less thick than the mud; but if it had been one of the principal causes of their failure, it helped them now. The Hun could not guess at their numbers; and there must have been several isolated parties playing the same game of hide-and-seek. The question for Mr Finch to decide was whether they should remain there. They searched the front line to the left, and found nothing but some dead, Huns and Gordons.
Bourne was with the Gordons who had joined them, and one of them, looking at the blood on his sleeve and hands, touched him on the shoulder.
“Mon, are ye hurt?” he whispered gently.
“No. I’m not hurt, chum,” said Bourne, shaking his head slowly; and then he shuddered and was silent. His face became empty and expressionless. Their own barrage had moved forward again; but they could not get into touch with any of their own parties…
By now it is clear that the attack has failed (despite the success to the east, of which they could know nothing).
To remain where they were was useless, and to go forward was to invite destruction or capture.
“Sergeant,” said Mr Finch, with a bitter resolution, “we shall go back.”
Sergeant Tozer looked at him quietly.
“You’re wounded, sir,” he said, kindly. “If you go back with Minton, I could hang on a bit longer, and then take the men back on my own responsibility.”
“I’ll be buggered if I go back with only a scratch, and leave you to stick it. You’re a bloody sportsman, sergeant. You’re the best bloody lot o’ men…”
His words trailed off shakily into nothing for a moment.
“That’s all right, sir,” said Sergeant Tozer, quietly; and then he added with an angry laugh: “We’ve done all we could: I don’t care a fuck what the other bugger says.”
“Get the men together, sergeant,” said Mr Finch, huskily.
The sergeant went off and spoke to Jakes, and to the corporal of the Gordons. As he passed Bourne, who’d just put a dressing on Minton’s wound, he paused.
“What ‘appened to Shem?” he asked.
“Went back. Wounded in the foot.”
“E were wounded early on, when Jerry dropped the barrage on us,” explained Minton, stolidly precise as to facts.
“That bugger gets off everything with ‘is feet,” said Sergeant Tozer.
“E were gettin’ off with ‘is ‘ands an’ knees when I seed ‘im,” said Minton, phlegmatically.
There was some delay as they prepared for their withdrawal. Bourne thought of poor old Shem, always plucky, and friendly, without sentiment, and quiet. Quite suddenly, as it were spontaneously, they climbed out of the trench and over the wire. The clangour of the shelling increased behind them. Fritz was completing the destruction of his own front line before launching a counterattack against empty air. They moved back very slowly and painfully, suffering a few casualties on the way, and they were already encumbered with wounded. One of the Gordons was hit, and his thigh broken. They carried him tenderly, soothing him with the gentleness of women. All the fire died out of them as they dragged themselves laboriously through the clinging mud. Presently they came to where the dead lay more thickly; they found some helplessly wounded, and helped them. As they were approaching their own front line, a big shell, burying itself in the mud, exploded so close to Bourne that it blew him completely off his feet, and yet he was unhurt. He picked himself up, raving a little. The whole of their front and support trenches were being heavily shelled. Mr Finch was hit again in his already wounded arm. They broke up a bit, and those who were free ran for it to the trench. Men carrying or helping the wounded continued steadily enough. Bourne walked by Corporal Jakes, who had taken his place in carrying the wounded Gordon: he could not have hurried anyway; and once, unconsciously, he turned and looked back over his shoulder. Then they all slid into the wrecked trench…
Bourne has survived. Of his two great friends, the canny Shem has been lucky, and gotten a blighty one in the foot. But Martlow, the kid, is dead, and Bourne is in shock.
…He sat with his head flung back against the earth, his eyes closed, his arms relaxed, and hands idle in his lap, and he felt as though he were lifting a body in his arms, and looking at a small impish face, the brows puckered with a shadow of perplexity, bloody from a wound in the temple, the back of the head almost blown away; and yet the face was quiet, and unmoved by any trouble. He sat there for hours, immobile and indifferent, unaware that Sergeant Tozer glanced at him occasionally. The shelling gradually died away, and he did not know it. Then Sergeant Tozer got up angrily.
“Ere, Bourne. Want you for sentry. Time that other man were relieved.”
He took up his rifle and climbed up, following the sergeant into the frosty night. Then he was alone, and the fog frothed and curdled about him. He became alert, intent again; his consciousness hardening in him. After about half an hour, he heard men coming along the trench; they came closer; they were by the corner.
“Stand!” he cried in a long, low note of warning.
“Westshire. Officer and rations.”
He saw Mr White, to whom Captain Marsden came up and spoke. Some men passed him, details and oddments, carrying bags of rations. Suddenly he found in front of him the face of Snobby Hines, grinning excitedly.
“What was it like, Bourne?” he asked, in passing.
“Hell,” said Bourne briefly.
Snobby moved on, and Bourne ignored the others completely. Bloody silly question, to ask a man what it was like. He looked up to the sky, and through the travelling mist saw the half-moon with a great halo round it. An extraordinary peace brooded over everything. It seemed only the more intense because an occasional shell sang through it.
There is no dating fiction, really, but it would be strange to deny that Manning’s depiction of the attack on Serre in his novel is not based on the day his battalion attacked Serre, losing many men.
And it is very strange indeed to learn–this is the aforementioned fact that I stumbled upon on the CWGC website–that one of the men who of the battalion who was killed today, a century back, was a lance-corporal named John Bourne.
Is this a mere coincidence? Simply a name from the battalion that Manning bore with him, that linked a place and a feeling and a man in his mind? Or did this man, the real-life Bourne, mean something more to Manning?
If it’s entirely a coincidence, it’s uncanny. John Bourne’s body moulders in no known grave–he is listed, with the other missing of the Somme, on an Addenda Panel of the Thiepval Memorial. And then there’s the odd fact that his name is hand-written belatedly into the register–a correction or an afterthought (see at right). Unlike most of his fellow casualties, there is no information about his family.
I don’t know anything about the provenance of the CWGC’s documents… is it possible that this entry is “reality” influenced by fiction, that someone has written Bourne into the record after reading the novel? That would be strange indeed… it seems more likely that there was a John Bourne in the Shropshires, known to Manning.And so in some sense–weighty and interesting? trivial?–this man may have been the model for Manning’s Bourne, one of Great War Literature’s most important characters..