Is It Farther Than Tipperary?

Their preparations for war began five days before the actual declaration, and, by the 4^th of August itself, the rifles were oiled, the bayonets sharpened, and the stores packed; the 2nd King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry were ready for anything.

All went by the book, when crossing to France; everyone having a good old laugh when the Colonel told ‘em about the Kaiser’s order to sweep their contemptible little army into the sea - but Smudger needed to explain the joke to Finchy.

When marching North into Belgium, they filled the lanes and villages along their line-of-march with song, and they bedecked their caps and webbing with flowers plucked from summer hedgerows as they loped along to fife and drum.

But, after their long march, they’d all been happy to finally stop and dig in on that damp, late August night; hacking out three-foot deep, three-man trenches along the south bank of a man-made waterway.

As the rest of their section dozed, catching up on lost sleep, George, Smudger and Finchy patrolled the canal’s northern bank with their eyes. To their right, the first glow of dawn began to silhouette the horizon as they kept watch. And the mist rising from the water mixing with the drizzle, played tricks on their senses in the pre-dawn shadows.

"That’s the twentieth bleedin’ jerry you’ve spotted in the last five minutes," whispered Smudger, "You want to report sick and get your bleedin’ eyes tested. It’s a bleedin’ big canal, though, Finchy?"

"It looks just like the Leeds navigation canal," whispered Finchy, "A lot wider, but just like it. What do they call this place again?"

"Jesus Christ," said Smudger, "How can it look just like it, if it’s a lot bleedin’ wider? And you’ve got a memory like a bleedin’ sieve, its called Mons - M-O-N-S, bleedin’ Mons, got it?"

"That’s it, Mons. I was just thinking…"

"…God help us." Moaned Smudger

"…Is it farther than Tipperary?"

"Is what bleedin’ farther?"

"Here, Mons. Is it farther?"

"Farther than bleedin’ what?"

"Tipperary."

"Jesus Christ almighty," groaned Smudger, "Somebody must’ve invented a stupid potion and put it in your bleedin’ water bottle?"

"No, listen. We sing it’s a long way to Tipperary, don’t we?"

"We do."

"So, is Mons farther than Tipperary? And if it is, then why don’t we sing that instead?"

"Sing bleedin’ what instead?" cried Smudger.

"It’s a long way to Mons," said a smiling Finchy.

"Where’s me bleedin’ bundook? I’m going to bleedin’ shoot meself."

"If you two don’t shut up," said George, "I’m going to…… shush, somebody’s coming."

It was Lieutenant Robinson, their platoon commander. "Any sign of the Germans, Corporal?"

"No, Sir," George replied, "the far bank’s as quiet as the grave. If they are over there, they’re keeping themselves well hidden, Sir?"

"Nearly dawn, Corporal. Intelligence says there’s thousands of the buggers heading this way. Get your men on their toes, we’re spread thin, and you’re the Battalion’s extreme right. This mist isn’t helping, but we have to keep them on the far side, we don’t want them in our bloody laps when it gets light."

"We’ll be ready, Sir, don’t worry about us, Sir. If they do get across they’ll have to face this," said George, tapping his rifle, "And they’ll soon scurry off - back the way they came, Sir."

"Good man. I’m going back down the canal bank to platoon HQ. Any sign at all, send your runner sharpish."

"Yes, Sir."

"Did you here that?" said Smudger, when Robinson was beyond earshot, "There’s thousands on the way and we’re out on a bleedin’ limb. Just our bleedin’…"

"Smudger?"

"Yes, Corp?"

"Shut your bloody gob."

"Sorry, Corp."

"Now go and tell the lads to stand to."

As Smudger crept his way along the bank, George surveyed the fifty or so yards of the canal bank that his section was spread along. To his right, somewhere, but not too far away he hoped, were the Royal Fusiliers.

The canal was wide, much wider than any canal he’d seen in England, so the Jerrys would have problems getting across. The few bridges were the key; that’s why they battalion was spread so thinly along the bank, its main strength concentrated about a thousand yards behind George’s section on and around the large steel railway bridge. The sappers would solve that problem, once they’d blown it up, but it looked as if that wouldn’t be done until later that day.

But, he had a small problem of his own; staring him in the face was another potential crossing point, a small, rickety swing-bridge. It was a strange, flimsy looking affair; with an arched steel frame, about two yards wide, that spanned the canal. Mounted on the frame was a system of pulleys and cables, which enabled its deck to be swung, in or out, to one side of the canal or the other. It was a foot bridge, and its users could approach from any bank, wind the deck into position, cross over, then wind the deck to the bank they were now on, which would then allow barges to pass. When they’d arrived last night, he’d been ordered to take two men across it and destroy its winding gear on the far bank. They’d returned and then swung the bridge away from the far bank using the winding gear on this side. He’d been about to destroy this winding gear when Robinson stopped him, saying they may need the bridge themselves to advance across later.

George couldn’t help thinking this may be a mistake; but perhaps Robinson’s right? I'd rather walk across than swim, he reasoned, and anyway, the deck’s now on our side of the canal and out of reach.

His thoughts then wandered to the enemy; not seen any Germans yet, but from the stories we’ve heard about their treatment of the Belgians I wouldn’t be surprised if they all had horns, a tail and breathed fire. But they’re not up against the Belgians now they’re up against us, the Koylis, and we’re a bunch of proper bastards. I can’t wait to teach them a thing or two. Heard a bit of gunfire in the distance yesterday and Sergeant Reader said it’s probably from our own cavalry patrols making first contact, but I’ve never even clapped eyes on a Jerry yet, how much bloody longer? My trigger finger’s not just itching, it’s twitching like mad at the thought of doing what it’s been trained to do.

As the sun crept slowly over the horizon the mist and drizzle lingered. One thing’s for certain, thought George, whatever the weather there’ll be no bloody church parade this Sunday morning.

"Finchy?"

"Yes, Corp?"

"Get yourself off along the bank, it’s light now so keep low. Try and make contact with the Royals, but don’t take all bloody day about it, we need to know where their positions are."

Finchy scurried off along the bank, and after a few minutes, Smudger returned.

"Any problems, Smudge?"

"No, they’re all awake and stood too. I’ve told ‘em cold rations only."

"Good, lad."

"I don’t bleedin’ like this, George, we’re spread thin, it’s a big front for twelve bleedin’ men to defend. And the rest of the platoon’s spread out over at least five-hundred bleedin’ yards."

"I know, but the Jerrys should funnel into the main bridges, we shouldn’t see too many here, they’ll be able to spot this one’s not open for business."

"They might still bleedin’ try for it, though?"

"If they do, we’ll concentrate the section here as ordered."

"Well, it looks like all we can do is wait. At least it’s got us off bleedin’ church parade. Could do without this bleedin’ drizzle, though."

"Smudger, shut up bloody moan……Christ, Finchy, that was quick?"

"They’re only just along the bank, a couple of hundred yards at the most, but they’re spread even thinner than us."

"Shite! But at least they’re in position. Run off and tell Robinson where they are, and hurry up back, I'll need you when the fun starts."

"I’m glad you said when," said Smudger, "I’m bleedin’ fed up o’ waiting for them bleedin’ Jerrys to show."

"For Christ’s sake, Smudger, if you don’t stop moaning, I’ll shoot you my bloody self."

*****

When will the buggers come? Thought George as he looked at his fancy new wristwatch, a going away present from Molly. It’s just after nine and no bloody sign of ‘em. It’s been light since five-thirty, so where the bloody hell are they? Rifle fire in the distance at around six-thirty, but nothing since. Perhaps we’re not going to have any fun today? What the…?

SPLEDOOSH! A large plume of canal water jumped about thirty feet into the air, about seventy yards away, in the direction of platoon HQ. Then explosions along the canal bank rent the air on either side of George’s position, towards the Royals as well as platoon HQ.

"TAKE COVER," yelled George, "ARTILLERY."

As they huddled in their trenches, George realised the German shells weren’t landing on them. He looked up and could see that on both sides of their position there was heavy shelling along the canal bank, which extended into the fields beyond by about eighty yards. In effect, a giant arc of high explosives isolated them from the outside world; a shell-free semicircle, with the swing bridge at its centre, of about one hundred and fifty yards wide by about eighty deep.

He could see that his section’s ground wasn’t taking any hits, except for the odd piece of white hot shrapnel that lay smoking on the ground or hissed as it landed in the canal.

"George, get your bloody head down," yelled Finchy.

"No need, the buggers are missing us."

"What?" said Smudger.

"They’re missing us, they’re hitting all around, but not our ground."

Smudger sat up and looked around, "It’s about time our bleedin’ luck changed." He said, then popped his head back into the trench.

"Nothing to do with luck."

"Course it bleedin’ is, now get down, before they realise their bleedin’ mistake."

"It’s not a mistake, they’re doing it on purpose," said George.

"On bleedin’ purpose? Get down before you lose your bleedin’ head."

"They’re doing it on purpose because they don’t want to hit the swing bridge, if they destroy it they won’t be able to use it."

Smudger jumped back up, "The crafty bleeders, I just bleedin’ knew it, what did I tell you?"

They both looked across the canal. In the fields beyond they could see line upon line of figures, ghost like in their field grey, moving towards the far bank, "Holy bleedin’ smoke," said Smudger, "Here we bleedin’ well go."

George looked along the bank to the rest of his section, most had their heads raised and looked at him from their slit-trenches. He raised his right hand, and, with spread fingers, placed it on top of his head; his signal told all nine men to leave their trenches and run towards him. Then he turned to Smudger, "Get them into those extra trenches we dug close to the bridge, and wait for my orders."

"You’ve bleedin’ got it," said Smudge, "But Robinson will have twigged on as well, he’ll soon be here with the rest of the bleedin’ platoon."

"Through that bloody lot?" said George, pointing to the barrage that arced all around them.

"Holy bleedin’ Moses, the crafty bastards; they can’t bleedin’ reinforce us."

Smudger hurried the men into the trenches, and they all took aim.

German soldiers were now about eighty yards from the far bank and moving at a slow trot towards the shallow ramp on the far side that led to the swing bridge’s damaged winding gear. George figured they’d concentrate there and try to close the bridge, and when realising it was knackered they’d put swimmers across, under heavy covering fire, to try and close it from this side. Realising that he needed to stop them getting up the far ramp or he and his men were doomed, he decided to concentrate his men’s small amount of firepower on one spot; the far ramp needed to be turned into a killing ground.

George shouted, "NUMBER 4 SECTION - CONCENTRATE ON THE FAR RAMP – DO NOT MARK ANY TARGETS AWAY FROM THE RAMP - AT ONE HUNDRED YARDS AND CLOSING - MASSED INFANTRY TO YOUR FRONT – RAPID FIRE."

Close formations advancing over open ground are manna from heaven for well disciplined British infantry with their Lee Enfield rifles, and, on George’s command, each man of number 4 section poured fifteen aimed rounds a minute into the advancing Germans as they tried to move up the ramp.

They couldn’t miss; the field grey mass advanced in close, tightly packed formation, and fell by the score. Number 4 section came under intensive counter-fire from the German side, but being well dug-in they only picked up two slight wounds.

At first, its momentum still carried the grey mass forward, but it then faltered before being forced into reverse by 4 section’s sustained and accurate suppressing fire. The Germans withdrew in disorder, leaving the ramp littered with their dead and wounded.

"CEASE FIRE." Yelled George.

Number 4 section cheered, "Quiet," said George, "Don’t worry, they’ll be back. Check your weapons and ammo, then stand to. Smudger I want…"

"…I don’t bleedin’ believe it," yelled Smudger, pointing along the bank, "The fucking idiots."

George turned to see a group of men running out of the barrage, Lieutenant Robinson fell to his knees but was hastily lifted by two men.

"Put him down over here." Shouted George.

He looked in a bad way; his left arm missing below the elbow and his face and uniform covered in mud and blood. "Corporal Wheeler," he gasped, "Report."

"We’ll get you cleaned up first, Sir. Make you more comfortable."

"Damn you, Corporal, I said report."

"Yes, Sir, sorry, Sir. I realised they were going for the bridge, Sir, so I concentrated my section here. German infantry then attacked us from across the canal. We laid down a suppressing fire, Sir, and they withdrew with heavy casualties."

"Well done, Corporal, bloody well done. But they’ll be back, and we have to hold this bridge at all costs, Corporal. Hold it at all…"

George closed Robinson’s eyes, then took his field glasses, compass and map case from around his neck, "Right, you two, carry him over there and lay him in the long grass out of sight. Gently mind."

As they carried Robinson away the German barrage stopped, but after a few seconds, George could hear the railway bridge receiving the same treatment.

"Smudger what have we got?"

"Fourteen, all Privates."

"Fourteen? Where are the others?"

Smudger pointed along the bank, to where the smoke began to clear. Raising Robinson’s field glasses, George could now see where the others were, at least those who hadn’t been blown to pieces. The rest of number 3 platoon, all twenty-four of them, were strewn along the canal bank.

Looking down, sickened by the sight, he waited a couple seconds before turning, "What happened, Reid?"

"The barrage was only about fifty yards deep. That’s all, Corp. On the other side we were getting a few hits but not many. But after a bit he formed us up and told us we’d got to get through to help you lot at the swing bridge. Said we’d got to hold the bridge, told us if we ran as fast as we could we’d get through, then he shouted follow me and led us straight into it. God it was awful, Sergeant Reader’s head is lying by…"

"… All right, Reid. That’s enough, go and a get a drink, Lad, well done."

"Bleedin’ mad bastard."

"Smudger, that’s enough! Finchy, get along the bank to Company HQ, and be careful, by the sound of it their hands are bloody full as well. Tell ‘em what’s happened and what our strength is. Tell ‘em I’ll hold here until I get fresh orders, but tell ‘em we’ll need reinforcing and more ammo, got it?"

"Yes, Corp."

"Go on then, run like fuck. Smudger, take four men along the bank and check for wounded, you never know some might still be alive? And get any ammunition off those that don’t need it anymore, I’ve a feeling we’re going to need as much ammo as we can get hold of."

"No bleedin’ problem, see you soon. Hey look, the bleedin’ drizzle’s stopped."

Having no time to lose, George walked around the remnants of 3 platoon, checking on levels of ammunition, on the condition of the men and telling them to dig in. Six walking wounded, but they were still able to fight. That gave him twenty-six men. I hope that’s enough, he thought, I can’t see ‘em coming in mass formation again. But how else can they do it? The ramp on the far side is open ground with no cover. Perhaps they’ll wait until dark and try to swim it?

The fight for the railway bridge was almost an hour old when Finchy returned with two men helping him carry two ammo boxes.

"Well done, Finchy, what’s the word?" asked George.

"There’s a hell of a scrap going on down there; there’s thousands of the bastards trying to get over. The sappers are trying to finish off the demolition charges but they’re dropping like flies."

"What’s Holdsworth say?"

"He says you’re a bloody genius for twigging on to what they were up to, but says he’s got his hands full at the minute. He sent these two and this ammo, says it’s all he can spare. The only orders he’s got for you is to hold until relieved."

"Well it could be worse, I suppose, we could be with the rest of the platoon?"

"Christ, George, I’ve just bleedin’ passed ‘em. Sergeant Reader’s head is…"

"… I know, Finchy, now shut up. You’re beginning to sound like Smudger."

The barrage at the railway bridge stopped, "That’s it," yelled George, "They’ll be back at us now. STAND TO."

He was right, same as before, the barrage restarted and tore up the ground all around them, but no shells hit their little patch.

"Here they come," yelled Smudger.

"Come on, you bastards," yelled Finchy, "Come and see just how contemptible we can really get."

"Hey, Finchy," said Smudger as he cocked his rifle, "You were bleedin’ right."

"Right about what?"

"Mons is farther. It has to be - you don’t get all this bollocks in bleedin’ Tipperary."To George’s surprise, and immense relief, the Germans once again attacked in close order formation, and, once again, 3 platoon cut them down by the score.

Once again, the small band of Koylis turned the ramp on the far bank into an impenetrable killing ground with their rapid, accurate and sustained fire; firing, re-loading, and firing again with impunity. The Germans’ heavy counter-fire, as before, having no effect on their well-protected positions.

"This is too bleedin’ easy," yelled Smudger, as he loaded two fresh ammo clips into his rifle’s magazine, "I don’t even have to aim, this is bleedin’ cold blooded murder."

"They’ve turned away again," yelled Finchy.

"NUMBER 3 PLATOON – CEASE FIRE," shouted George.

Unlike the last time, the barrage ceased almost at once and transferred back to the railway bridge. "Smudger, check for any casualties," ordered George, "Finchy, make sure they all have enough ammo."

"Hey look at that lot," yelled Finchy, pointing down into the canal, "Frying tonight?"

He was pointing to the dead fish floating on the surface near to the bank; killed by the shells that landed in the water.

"Finchy, you nip down and collect the bleedin’ fish," said Smudger, "And I’ll nip and get the spuds to make the bleedin’ chips."

"No chance," said Finchy, "You’d need two of them tiddlers just to make up a good gob full."

"Ten at least to fill Smudger's gob," laughed George, "Now get on with what you’re supposed to be bloody doing."

Scanning the far bank through the field glasses, George tried to rationalise the situation. I can’t understand why they’ve tried the same tactics again? Both times, they’ve attacked with the strength of two full companies in close order, and both times, we’ve scythed them down; there’s at least one hundred and fifty bodies on and around the far ramp. They aren’t stupid, or are they? The nearest any of them got to the winding gear was five yards, and that was on the first assault when I’d fewer men. They must know that even a small number of men, if they concentrate their fire on the ramp, can stop a much larger force? If I had to capture this bridge, I’d use a small number of men and try to approach it under cover, but there’s very little cover to use, except for the banking itself, which, unlike this side, drops away by about three feet in a few places. Shite, have they sneaked some men in under cover of the last attack?

As those thoughts raced through his mind, something flew out from the far bank and arch towards the swing bridge’s decking, which jutted out by about ten yards from this side. It seemed to be a rope with something heavy attached to its end, and it only just missed the decking, making a splash as it hit the water.

"Grappling hook," yelled George, but his voice was drowned out by the vicious buzz-crack of bullets passing overhead, followed by a loud scream and the sound of machine gun fire.

He turned to see Private Reid lying face down near the ammo boxes, half his head shot away. Smudger and Finchy, bent double, were running like maniacs towards his trench as bullets whistled around their heads.

"Bleedin’ hell, where did that lot come from?" gasped Smudger, as both of them landed in a heap in the trench.

"TAKE COVER AND STAY IN THE TRENCHES," George yelled to the rest of the platoon.

Lifting the field glasses again; George could see smoke from several rifles accompanying the machine gun, but their rounds travelled about three feet overhead. You can’t take direct aim without showing yourselves above the banking, can you, you buggers? he mused, our bundooks have made you wary, haven’t they? Come on, show your bloody selves.

A grey figure then appeared briefly above the banking as the grappling hook arched through the air again.

George tracked its flight. Splash - missed again.

"Smudger, get on your belly – I want one man in each trench to fire at will at their smoke. They’re behind the banking about five yards to the left of the ramp. No more than one mind, we need the ammo. Got it?"

"One man, no more, in each bleedin’ trench to fire at the smoke. Don’t go away, I’ll see you soon."

George licked his right index finger then touched his rifle’s foresight before bringing its butt it into his shoulder. He could hear rifle fire start to issue from his own trenches as his message was passed down the line.

Closing his left eye and looking through his rifle’s backsight with his right, he then brought the tip of its foresight into line with the centre of the backsight, then aligned both with the grappling hook as it was pulled up the far banking. After following the hook with his sights until it disappeared over the banking, he then stayed in the aim at that exact spot before taking a full breath in, then half out, and holding it as he squeezed the trigger to the first pressure.

Jumping up, the German to threw the grappling hook again. BANG! The grappling hook hit the water only a yard from the bank, and the German flew backwards, shot through the chest; dead before hitting the ground.

"Yes," whooped Finchy, "I wish I could bloody shoot like that."

"That’s the only chance I’ll get, though. They’ll not throw it from the same spot again."

"Unless they’re as bleedin’ thick as Finchy?" laughed Smudger as he returned on his belly.

"Piss off, Smudge."

"Don’t start again, you too. Don’t we have enough on?" snapped George.

"Enough on?" laughed Smudger, "You don’t have to be a bleedin’ mental case to go for a stroll along this canal bank. But you’ve got to be bleedin’ crackers to spend more than one bleedin’ second here."

All three laughed. They laughed even more when the enemy's fire stopped.

"Probably arguing about whose turn it is to throw the bleedin’ grappling hook?" said Smudger.

"I bet they’re all saying they’ve got stiff arms?" said Finchy.

"Hey, Finchy, you cracked a bleedin’ joke."

"Did I? I just thought that’s what I’d be saying?"

"Forget it, mate, just bleedin’ forget it."

The fire from the far bank soon recommenced, followed by their own counter-fire. "Here we go again," said George, "Looks like they’ve had an eeny, meeny, miny, mo and picked a thrower?"

Sure enough, the grappling hook arched through the air. Splash, missed again.

George licked his right index finger once more, "Just in case they are as thick as Finchy?" he said as he touched his foresight.

As before, he held his aim on the precise spot where the hook disappeared. The hook flew once more, but from three yards to the right this time. Although George adjusted his aim and fired, he was too late, the German was back below the banking a split second before George’s round passed through, and this time, instead of a splash, he heard the sound of metal hitting wood.

All eyes on the bridge; the hook moved along the decking boards before holding fast on its steel hand railing. Every member of 3 platoon held their breath as they saw the rope strain against the weight of the bridge. Nothing; the decking didn’t move. Thank Christ for that, thought George.

But then, as if in a bad dream, the decking began to creep towards the far bank. Making a high pitched grating sound as it travelled towards the Germans; a soprano’s sweet song that cheered on the enemy as they pulled on the rope, but to number 3 platoon it was an unsynchronised melody that sounded their death knell.

"We’ll have to cut that bleedin’ rope." Yelled Smudger.

"No we won’t," said George, "I’ve an idea."

"It’d better be a bleedin’ good un, we’ve got about five bleedin’ minutes before it’s all the way across."

"Smudger, get the crowbar from the ammo boxes, and meet me at the end trench, nearest the bridge."

They both left the trench on their bellies, the machine gun’s bullets missing their heads by a good couple of feet.

Smudger prised the crow bar out of Reid's lifeless clenched fist, "Sorry, Reidy, but our need is bleedin’ greater than yours." He then joined George by the end trench. The bridge was about ten yards away, across open ground, its winding gear another two. The Germans by now had managed to pull the decking a third of the way across.

"Give me the bar, Smudge. I’m going out to wedge it into the gears. We left the covers off last night. Look, you can just see the main gear wheels turning. If that doesn’t work, I’ll go out onto the decking to cut the rope."

"Bleedin’ hell, George, they’ll cut you to bits."

"They’re not depressing their fire enough to draw a bead so I’ll stay on me belly. But if they twig on and show themselves, hit ‘em with everything we have."

"Christ, George. Give it to me, I’ll bleedin’ do it. You’re needed here."

"Do as you’re told, Smudger. That’s an order!"

"Fuck that, George. If you cop for one, that’ll leave me in bleedin’ charge, and I don’t bleedin’ want…"

"… Smudger, for once in your life just shut your fucking cakehole and do as you’re told. Just watch that far bank and if they show themselves then give me some covering fire."

George headed towards the winding gear at a fast crawl. As he raised the crowbar above his head, to smash it down between the two main gears, a bullet hit it and spun it out of his hand. Sending it spiralling through the air and landing on the banking on the far side of the gear housing, just above the water line.

He scrambled after it, but as he retrieved it he sensed movement to his right. A German, soaking wet from his swim, ran along the banking towards him, his rifle and bayonet all set to send George to his maker. Bollocks, thought George, my bundook's up by the bloody gear housing.

Hurling the crowbar with all of his might, it smashed into the German’s chest, throwing him off his feet. George drew his own bayonet as soon as the bar left his hand, and was on top of the winded German before he could recover his senses or his rifle. A loud gurgling sound came from the German as George rammed his bayonet through his throat and six inches into the banking behind.

But, unbeknown to George, two swimmers had reached this side, and as he finished off the first, the other crept up and stood over him; rifle raised above his head, intent on thrusting his bayonet right through the Englishman as he struggled to extract the bayonet from the his comrade’s throat.

George peered into his new assailant’s eyes, knowing he was helpless, unable to defend himself; knowing he was at the German’s mercy. But the steel blade never started its downward thrust. The German’s chest exploded in a of mass shattered bone and bursting arteries as he was launched through the air and back into the water he’d just left. His lifeless eyes still locked on George’s as he disappeared below the surface; then he bobbed back up amongst a shoal of dead fish with a surprised, almost pleading, look on his face.

As he scrambled back up the banking with the crowbar, George could see Smudger lying flat on his belly by the gear housing - in the aiming position, his still smoking rifle pulled tight into his shoulder. "You disobeyed my bloody orders," he said, "But I won’t put you on a charge - I’ll bloody kiss you instead."

"I’d rather be shot at bleedin’ dawn. But first, get that bleedin’ crowbar wedged into them gears and let’s piss off."

Raising the bar again, shots began to strike the gear housing. George looked across at the far bank; the Germans had spotted what they were up to and firing directly at them; their heads and shoulders above the banking as they took aim. "NUMBER 3 PLATOON." Screamed George, "TARGET TO YOUR FRONT – RAPID FIRE.

British bullets hit the German position like a swarm of angry hornets; some fell dead, the rest were wounded, and the Germans’ fire ceased.

But the bridge deck carried on moving under its own momentum; the grappling rope was hanging loose but the decking was still travelling towards the far bank, as if some unseen German hand were pushing it into position, its high-pitched melody still singing out.

George rammed the crow bar into the gearing; spinning around and smashing into the casing with a loud bang, it bent almost double with the force of the cogs before jamming the mechanism.

Coming to a sudden halt, the decking was now suspended halfway across the canal, swinging to and fro - looking for all the world like those big basket rides at the funfair do when stood waiting for their next passengers to climb on board.

George and Smudger scrambled back into their own trench, "CEASE FIRE," shouted George, "CEASE BLOODY FIRE."

"That’s a new way of giving orders, Corporal. Cease bloody fire? That’s not in the manual, is it?"

George looked up; Major Holdsworth had come up with what was left of two sections of number 2 platoon.

"No, Sir, sorry, Sir." said George, "It just came out, Sir."

Major Holdsworth laughed, "From what I’ve just bloody seen; you two have rewritten the bloody manual," he said, "Bloody well done, the pair of you. A fine bloody show."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Right, Corporal, or should I say, Sergeant. You’re number 3 platoon’s commander until you get a new officer, and God only knows when that will be? Get your platoon ready to move, Sergeant."

"We’re advancing, Sir?"

"I wish we were, Sergeant. But we’re not; the whole army is making a strategic withdrawal. We’re falling back. We’re going south – back the way we came."

"Falling back, Sir?" But we can handle these bastards, Sir?"

"I know we can, Sergeant. We’ve fought a much larger force to a standstill, but our French allies are being forced back on our right, leaving our flank exposed. We have no choice. So, get your platoon ready to move, Sergeant. You will march on that church spire in the distance," he said, pointing to a tiny spec on the horizon."

"What about our dead and wounded, Sir?"

"I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the dead as they are, Sergeant. We’ve no time, we’ll have to leave them for the Germans to bury. But any wounded that can’t march can come with me. I’m off to the aid post right now."

"Yes, Sir." Said George, hanging his head; he detested the thought of not burying their own dead, but orders are orders. "Murray – Nuttall," he yelled, "You won’t get far with those wounds – fall in with Major Holdsworth's party, along with the two that came up with Finchy."

"Is that the lot, Sergeant?"

"Yes, Sir. The rest can march and fight all right, Sir."

"Good. You’ll meet up with rest of the Battalion at that church. It’s a little over six miles march, here’s the map reference," said Holdsworth, handing him a slip of paper. "I’ll expect you to be there in just over an hour, so you’d better get a move on. I’m off to check on the wounded then I’ll be right on your heels. Get them moving, Sergeant."

"Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir."

Holdsworth then led his party off towards the ruins of a nearby village.

As George plotted a route to the church on his map, the twenty-two men that remained from 3 platoon gathered up their own kit as well as extra equipment from their dead comrades. George stopped and watched them as they searched the bodies; only twenty-three of us left out of fifty, he thought, it’s just after eleven now and the whole bloody show didn’t start until nine. Christ, that’s twenty-seven gone in two bloody hours – we’ll not be able to stand many more mornings like bloody this.

Smudger found Sergeant Reader’s spare tunic as he searched. He handed it to George, "Here, Sarge, best show your new rank - he’ll never bleedin’ need it again."

After five minutes they were ready to move off, "3 platoon – follow me," yelled George, and they set off, away from the canal, to rendezvous with the rest of the Battalion.

As he led his little band, George could feel the exhilaration he always felt when winning against the odds. Christ, there are good men lying dead behind us but I feel the same as I did when leaving Clancy's after my first time with Kathleen – I feel excited. Is there something wrong with me?

But his men were far removed from a state of sexual arousal; their eyes were fixed on the ground beneath their feet, and their shoulders drooped as they forced one leaden boot in front of the other in order to follow George towards that distant church spire.

After about half a mile, Smudger turned to him and said, "Do you know what really pisses me off about all this? Going back always seems a lot bleedin’ farther - a lot bleedin’ longer. You never seem to bleedin’ get there?"

On hearing Smudger’s words, Finchy began to sing as he marched along beside him, "It’s a long way – back from Mo-ons. It’s even farther - to go. It’s a long way – back from Mo-ons. TO THE FARTHEST CHURCH I KNOW."

The whole platoon laughed.

"COME ON – EVERYBODY SING!" Yelled George, "SING YOUR BLOODY HEARTS OUT – AND SHOW THEM BASTARDS BEHIND US THAT THE KOYLIS MIGHT BE WITHDRAWING BUT WE’RE FAR FROM BLOODY LICKED."

Their heads came up, their chests went out, their arms started to swing and their pace quickened, "IT"S A LONG WAY - BACK FROM………."

© John Sales 2002.