Nursing Fox

2-1

2British XVIII Corps, front line, Arras, Tuesday, 14 March 1916

‘I can see why the French couldn’t capture that hill,’ Adam said. He was standing on the fire-step of the trench, staring across no man’s land towards Vimy Ridge, the highest escarpment in the crescent of hills that formed a natural barrier to the north-east of Arras.

‘They tried a few times, but they lost so many men they lost their enthusiasm.’ Sergeant Crawford reached inside his shirt and scratched at the bites in his armpit. ‘Bloody chats. We’ve been back in the front line less than a day and already they’ve made themselves comfortable. The little sods are making up for lost time.’

‘At least they’re always pleased to see you.’ Adam dodged as the sergeant threw a playful punch. ‘So now it’s our turn to take a stab at it, is it?’

‘Don’t give me lip, Hayward.’ Sergeant Crawford grinned. ‘How would I know? I’ve heard that Fritz has been digging a lot of tunnels. The Frogs have been at it as well, but Fritz went deeper. They’ve been setting mines under each other’s trenches.’ The sergeant joined Adam on the fire-step to make room for a party of sappers. ‘We’re doing the same. That’s what these chaps are for. I just hope there isn’t a mine under this trench.’

‘So that’s what all these Royal Engineers are about?’ Adam pointed to the sappers who were still filing along the trench.

Sergeant Crawford nodded. ‘That’s right. There are several companies of the bastards ferreting about down there. But it’s not just the British; there are tunnellers from all over the shop, Canada and Australia. Some Kiwis too, so I heard.’

When the sappers had passed, Adam leant his rifle against the wall of the trench, sat in the entrance to a dugout, and watched the sergeant stand on a sandbag on the fire-step to peer over the parapet. Sergeant Crawford was a slim man, about five feet seven, three inches shorter than he was. He was always smart and Adam wondered how he managed to keep so clean, despite the mud.

The sergeant stepped down and joined him at the dugout’s entrance. ‘The buzz is they’ve found some caves and are using them to get down below Fritz. Apparently there are dozens of caverns. They’re making them deeper and joining them up so the shells can’t reach us.’

‘That’ll be good,’ Adam said with feeling, but his attention was on the last of the sappers as he disappeared round the corner of the trench. ‘They’re a bit small for digging tunnels. You wouldn’t think they were strong enough to work underground.’

‘Don’t underestimate the Bantams. They’re tough little buggers, miners from the north of England. Hundreds of the poor sods.’ The sergeant pulled a packet of Woodbines from his pocket. ‘Fag?’

‘Thanks.’ Adam took the offered cigarette and lit it from the sergeant’s match. ‘How do you know?’

‘While we were out of the line I was talking to a chap from Battalion HQ. He reckons the plan is not just to dig the normal tunnels for mines, but also to excavate huge chambers connected to the reserve areas so that people can come and go without being fired on.’

‘That’ll be an improvement.’ Adam thought about the times they’d moved to and from the front line while being shelled. ‘They could bring the meals up that way too.’

‘They’ll not need to bring meals up. According to that chap they’ve got cookhouses, and other things too, machine-guns and mortars included.’

‘How big are these darned caverns?’ Adam asked. Disbelief was strong in his face. ‘Mortars underground? You sure about that?’

Sergeant Crawford stepped up to the fire-step and surveyed no man’s land for a short time, then moved back to the lower section of trench. ‘That’s what the chap said, and he seemed to know. They have light railways down there too.’

‘Who? Fritz or us?’

‘Us, of course. I don’t know about Fritz, but he’s probably done the same.’ He reached inside his shirt to scratch his armpit again. ‘Oh, that’s better,’ he sighed. ‘These little bastards are driving me batty.’

‘Do we get to ride to work now they’ve gotten railways?’ Adam asked, grinning. ‘Are the seats padded?’

Sergeant Crawford returned his grin. ‘You’ll be lucky. The railways are only for the important stuff, like ammo. Why do you think they issued you with boots? You might get a ride back after you’ve been wounded, but don’t bank on it.’

‘Wounded? What aren’t you telling me, Sergeant? How will I get wounded in the tunnels?’

‘What do you think the machine-guns are for? There’s already been some fighting down below. I think Fritz had a bit of surprise to find us there and not the Frogs.’

‘I don’t like the thought of fighting underground.’

‘I’m with you. I don’t fancy it either, but that’s what that chap told me.’

‘That’s not the only place there’s fighting. Look up there.’ Adam pointed to a German biplane firing at an observation balloon. ‘Isn’t that an Albatros?’ he asked.

‘If you say so. I’m no expert on these aeroplanes.’

More stabs of flame shot out from the plane and lines of light marked the trajectory of the bullets. Two black specks leapt from the gondola of the balloon moments before it erupted in flames. They were halfway to the ground before a pale hemisphere appeared above each of them.

‘There’s another bastard,’ Sergeant Crawford said and pointed to a second German plane that was diving and firing at the two observers who were floating below their canopies. ‘And that’s three more.’ He became excited and pointed towards the three new arrivals. ‘Bastards. Shooting at helpless men.’

Adam looked to where he was pointing. Three different biplanes were diving from the thin clouds. One peeled off and turned towards the plane that had fired at the balloon, but the other two converged on the plane that was targeting the two men. ‘They’re ours. Brits.’

The British planes closed and their machine-guns spewed streaks of tracer rounds. The German plane veered away, but smoke was streaming from the forward fuselage. Flames flared from the engine compartment as the port upper wing crumpled. The lower wing collapsed too, and the plane began to spin as it fell. The two British planes followed it down until it hit the ground. They began to climb again and turned towards the other Albatros, but the pilot had abandoned the fight and was heading back to German territory. The third British plane rejoined them and they flew off along the line of the remaining balloons.

As the planes moved away Adam said, ‘They’re those new Nieuport 17s that have just come into service.’

‘How do you know they were British and not Froggies? I couldn’t make out their markings,’ Sergeant Crawford said. ‘All these bloody aeroplanes look the same to me.’

‘They had Lewis guns above the upper wings. The French use Vickers fitted on the fuselage.’ The sergeant looked sceptical, so Adam continued. ‘I keep up with airplane developments. That’s what I’d really like to do—fly. If I’d thought about it I’d have tried for the Royal Flying Corps instead of the Infantry, but I was so mad at Ma’s death I didn’t stop to think.’

‘How come you know so much about aeroplanes?’

‘Aeroplane, I thought that’s what you said. I’ve never heard that before. We just say airplane. Why do you English have to be different?’

‘Don’t ask me. That’s the way it is. But you didn’t answer my question. Where did you learn about aeroplanes?’

‘When the Wright brothers made the first powered flight I was twelve years old and it grabbed my imagination. I began to read about airplanes, everything I could get my hands on. In January 1910, just before my twentieth birthday, there was an international air meeting organised at Los Angeles, and Pa took me for a birthday present. Fliers from all over the world, over forty of them, were at Dominquez Field. I think I must have asked everyone to take me flying. One of them agreed to take me up the next morning, but when I looked for him he’d disappeared. His plane had gone too.’ Adam looked wistfully at the Nieuports as they left the scene. ‘I had a good look at the airplanes though and one flier let me sit in his cockpit. That really fired my imagination. I can still remember the excitement. That’s the way to fight. Flying must be magic.’

‘Whatever… but you saw what happened to that Fritz,’ Sergeant Crawford said, and nodded to where the German plane had crashed.

‘It has to be better than all this trench digging and charging into machine-gun bullets across a strip of darned mud.’ Adam was still staring at the planes, which were no more than tiny silhouettes as they closed with the horizon. ‘As for living in holes in the ground, that’s for worms.’

‘Maybe you’re right, but that pilot is just as dead as any of our mates who died in the trenches.’ Sergeant Crawford shuddered and became thoughtful. ‘It’s an awful way to die if you ask me. I’d sooner have my feet on the ground.’

AIF, Second Australian Division, Anzac, Rouen, Wednesday, 29 March 1916

‘John, the commanding officer wants to see you at once,’ the company commander said when Sergeant Mitchell presented himself at the tent that had been set up as the company office.

‘What’s he want to see me for? I’m not in the rattle, am I?’ John asked.

‘Not that I’m aware of. You’ve not been up to mischief, have you?’ the company commander said, a broad smile on his face. ‘There’s only one way to find out what’s on his mind, but it won’t hurt to tidy up a bit before you present yourself. Don’t be too long. He says it’s urgent.’

‘We’ve only just got off the train, sir,’ John said. ‘I haven’t even had time for a meal yet, never mind get cleaned up.’

‘I know that, and so does the colonel.’

As John made his way across to the battalion headquarters he passed the sergeant cook. ‘I’ll have a meal ready for you when you’re organised,’ the cook said. ‘Do you know where the cook house is?’

‘Show me.’

The cook pointed along a paved path. ‘Down there about one hundred yards. On the left. It’ll only be a Maconochie stew. That’s all I can organise in so short a time, but it’ll be hot, so I don’t want any wasted.’

‘I’ll do it justice, don’t you worry about that.’ John hurried on, the creases in his weather-beaten face accentuated by his scowl as he wondered why the CO wanted to see him. Everyone seemed to know he’d been summoned, even the cook, and he became irritated, but it was best not to keep the CO waiting when he said something was urgent. He increased his pace.

The adjutant met him at the door to the station waiting-room that had been commandeered as their temporary headquarters. The adjutant knocked and, on the CO’s command, ‘Come,’ he led John into the room.

John marched up to the desk, halted and stood to attention, his back ramrod straight, emphasising his five feet eleven. He saluted.

‘Good man,’ the CO said and acknowledged his salute as the adjutant moved to stand by the door. ‘At ease, Mitchell.’

John relaxed.

The CO picked up a signal from the blotter in front of him. ‘I’ve just heard about a party of Australian nurses. They’re due to land at Marseilles on 1 April, then they’ll entrain for Rouen, like we did, but I’m not happy about them making the journey unescorted. You know as well as I do how chaotic it was, and I don’t want our Aussie girls being left to fend for themselves at the food stops.’ The CO paused and lifted his head.

‘The first of April? Is someone having a go, sir?’

The CO flashed a fleeting smile. ‘This is no joke, Mitchell. Those girls will need someone to take care of them. I want you to take twenty men. You’re to escort the nurses throughout the trip and make sure they don’t have to fight for their food, or anything else come to that. You’ll probably find objections from some of the base-based wallahs, so use your discretion. If a senior officer tries to countermand my orders, refer him to me, but my orders are paramount. If you have to use your rifle, do so, but I’d prefer you didn’t shoot anyone.’