The Death of Hope Andrew Wareham (book club reads TXT) 📖

feared that he was a cold, heartless sort of person; it seemed that he wasnot.

“Paisley, could you get me a mug of tea,please.”

“Coming up, sir. Do you want a sandwichwith it? I got hold of some Branston pickles and a can of the good ham thismorning, sir. Bread is fresh today as well and I got some butter.”

“Well done, Paisley! If it cost anything, takethe money from the drawer.”

Richard always kept a mixture of halfsovereigns and francs to hand, never more than about ten pounds, topping it upwhen necessary. Paisley knew to use the cash if the opportunity arose for alittle black-marketeering and could be trusted absolutely not to abuse theliberty – he would never do more than pick up the odd bottle of ‘vanrouge’ forhimself, spending no more than sixpence once or at most twice a week.

“No need, sir. Came in as a favour, sir.The bloke what supplied the ‘Major with the blankets came across a case of eachand sent them up to him gratis, being an old friend.”

Richard wondered what the quid pro quo hadbeen. He also knew that it was none of his business. He would not ask, wouldnot be told the truth if he did.

“What’s the buzz, Paisley?”

“General French to go next week, sir. Haigto take over. Bit of a shake up but none in our corps, sir. We go out of theline the week after, get Christmas in reserve, sir.”

The chances were that Paisley’s informationwas accurate.

“No leave this time round, sir. We gets achance in February, one week for the men, two or three for the officers.Conscripts start coming in middle of March.”

“We need the men, Paisley.”

“They’ll be no problem, sir. They’ll knuckleunder, see if they don’t!”

If that was the opinion of the senior menand the sergeants, it would do for Richard. They were the ones who would have thedirect work of making the unwilling bodies fit in.

“Done it before, sir. Half the poor sodswhat came out to South Africa didn’t really want to but everybody else in thestreet was volunteering and they’d look yellow if they didn’t too. They fittedin, was just as brave as the rest.”

Richard was much of the opinion thatbravery was no more than a matter of circumstance, more often than not. He wasa hero, officially, and knew how it had come about.

“Good. That’s one less problem to worryabout.”

That left him with the unending concern,the need to nurture an offensive spirit in the men. Standing in a trench, doingnothing other than wait, was destructive of morale. The old trench raids wereno longer practical. He had to do something.

Two nights later, a bit before two in themorning, he led a party of a dozen through the wire in front of their line,using the switchback pathways left for their own use when they needed to mendor expand the apron. The gaps in the wire were wide enough for one man andmeandered through a hundred yards right and left to cross the thirty yards infront of the trench. They could not be spotted and infiltrated at night otherthan by the luckiest of chances, offered no risk of letting the Germans through.

They walked silently in single file,brasses blackened and all personal equipment tied tight so that they would makeno noise as they walked forward, carefully out of step.

Each man carried a bag of Mills Bombs overhis shoulder.

Richard consulted his compass and directedthe men out in twos to make a line outside the German wire at its narrowestpoints where soft ground or a watercourse or a group of shell craters forced itback towards their defences.

He went out last, Paisley at his shoulder,came to his own pre-selected spot, or so he hoped. He knelt, eyes fixed on the luminousdial of his watch, waiting on the slow second hand to reach the exact minuteset. Observation suggested that the Germans changed sentries every two hoursthrough the night, exactly on the even hour.

“Now!”

He spoke in a whisper – the men would reactto the first explosion rather than to a shouted command.

Paisley pulled the pin on the grenade hewas holding and lobbed it towards the trench, taking another out of the bag in frontof him. The light of the first explosion showed him an over. He tossed the nextand six more in succession, landing at least two directly in the trench. Amachine gun began to fire on fixed lines, close to them. They had mapped all ofthe machine guns they could locate, knew where to throw the next bombs.

Richard took out his whistle, waited forthe second minute of the action to come to an end, sounded the recall. He andPaisley dropped low, scurried back, bent over all the way, occasional bursts offire passing just over their heads in the darkness.

They had marked the exit to the pathwaywith a scrap of white rag, tied at ground level. The pair knelt there, countingthe men in. Four pairs and one single.

“Jones Two, sir, stood up to throw a bombover where ‘e saw a bit of light. Machine gun got ‘im, sir. Dead, sir. Right through‘is face and knocked the top of ‘is ‘ead off!”

“Thank you, Private Errigo.”

One of the sons of the many Italianimmigrants to the boot and shoe factories around Bedford, Errigo was English ineverything but name. He intended to become a policeman after the war, he hadsaid. A new man in, he was already on the list for promotion, would get hisfirst stripe in the morning. He was pleased to be recognised, to have his nameremembered.

The eleven remaining of the party gatheredoutside Richard’s dugout, a tot of rum in hand.

“Well done all, a successful evening andonly one man lost. Did any of you see anything of interest?”

Ten headshakes, one hand rising.

“Who is that, Bass, is it?”

“Yes, sir. I did see summat over by themachine gun nest what was on the side of us…” Bass looked down at his handsstill not entirely certain of left and right. He wore a wedding ring on theleft hand. “To the left, so it were, sir, mebbe ten yards from the old gun.Sort of upright, so it