Quartered Safe Out Here (14 page)

Something exploded about ten feet above us with an ear-splitting whine-crack—the celebrated Jap whizz-bang, better known as the 75 or 73 calibre gun. Then another and another, whizz-bang, whizz-bang, and dust was flying among the marchers ahead, and invisible things were whistling past. They seemed to be crashing out every second now, and I found my head was flinching to each report even while my feet kept moving. People were shouting orders—no, they weren't orders, really, just the automatic cries of rally and encouragement common to advancing armies since time began: “Keep going! Keep moving! Don't stop! Keep spread out! Keep going!” And overhead those infernal things whined and cracked, deafening and staggering the mind if not the body; to my left Stanley was striding on, head down, face turned like a man walking into the wind. On my right Nick had his head hunched down on his shoulders, and I could see him swearing savagely to himself; something went shrieking past between us, the explosions seemed to be rising to a crescendo—out of the tail of my eye I saw a man in the platoon ahead go down, and then another, stumbling onto his knees, but he was up again in a second and someone was running to the first man, who lay horribly still.

Grandarse staggered and let out a bellow of pain,
and I thought, oh, Jesus, not Grandarse, and Hutton ran past me and grabbed his elbow. “Y'areet? Y'areet, man?” Grandarse turned, clinging to Hutton to keep his balance, then letting go to wipe his face which was plastered by dirt thrown up by a splinter. He was roaring unheard obscenities, the whining and cracking over-head blotting out the words, and then he was plunging on, and Hutton was turning, marching backwards for a few steps, bellowing to make himself heard: “Keep ga'n! Keep ga'n! Keep spread oot!” As I passed him he was snarling in a justified way about how right he'd been—we were in the middle, catching the shit, just as he'd foretold. Whine-crack, whine-crack—and I saw a cloud of smoke and flame erupt right in front of Morton the Yorkshireman at head height, bursting right in his face. Goner, I thought—and he shook his head without even breaking stride; about seven thousand shell splinters must have missed him, by a miracle.

A deafening crash, apparently on top of my hat, and I staggered, momentarily stunned, but only by the force of the explosion. Nick was staring at me, but I signalled that I was all right—and there was a man reeling away from the lead platoon, collapsing on a little bank, blood running down his face. Someone ran to him, but the fallen man—he was a corporal, with black curly hair—waved him almost savagely away, and the man ran back to the ranks. As we drew level the corporal had dragged out his field dressing and was mopping the gash on his temple; he waved it at Nick and me and shouted:

“Ga'n git ’em, marras! Remember Arroyo!”

“Booger Arroyo!” roared Grandarse, and the corporal pulled himself up into a sitting position, and as we swung past he was trying to sing, in a harsh, unmusical croak.

He was a romantic, that one, but whoever he was I'm grateful to him, for I can say I have heard the regimental march sung, and the regimental war cry shouted,
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as we went in under the Japanese fire. I don't know how many casualties we took at that point—seven dead and thirty-three wounded was the count at the end of the day—but I do know that the companies never stopped or even broke stride; they “kept ga'n”, and I must be a bit of a romantic, too, I suppose, for whenever I think back
on those few minutes when the whizz-bangs caught us, and see again those unfaltering green lines swinging steadily on, one word comes into my Scottish head: Englishmen.

Then suddenly we were through, and the shelling stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Hutton had been right: the closer we got, the better. Only a few hundred yards of broken ground separated us from the line of ruined buildings beyond which the gradual slope began, and the Japanese guns, on the reverse slope, must already be at maximum depression—in other words, they couldn't shoot low enough to hit us. Then there was small arms firing to the right, and we were ordered to take up firing positions in a cluster of low hillocks; I believe, but am not certain, that the right-hand company had hit bunkers, and our advance checked while they were cleared. Anyway, we were halted long enough for an incident which I blush to record, because it was too damned silly for words, but since I am writing a faithful record I can't very well omit it.

We were lying among the hillocks, watching our front and listening to the firing on the flank and the occasional whit! of a shot overhead, cursing the blazing heat and lamenting that we had no chaggles with us, when Grandarse asked Wattie for a drink from his bottle, a request answered in that comradely spirit for which Nine Section was celebrated.

“W'at's wrang wi' thi own fookin' bottle?”

“It's roond back on us, ye gormless Egremont twat!

It's lyin' atop me bloody arse, that's w'at's wrang wid it!”

“Well, oonfasten the bloody thing!”

“Look, bollock-brain, if Ah oondoo the bloody straps Ah'll nivver git them doon oop again!” Grandarse, being portly, might well have had difficulty re-threading the two straps from which his bottle hung below the small of his back. “Ye want us runnin' at bloody Japs wid me
bundook
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in one hand an' me bottle in t'other?”

“Awreet—Ah'll oondoo it for thee mesel'. Then we'll baith git a drink—oot o' thy bottle!”

“Ye miserable sod, w'at difference does it mek w'ee's bottle we soop frae?”

“That's w'at Ah'm sayin'! W'at fer should we use my bottle ’stead o' thine? Y'are always on the scroonge, you! Guzzlin' big-bellied git!”

“Reet!” roared Grandarse. “Stick yer effin' bottle oop yer goonga, an' Ah hope it gi'es thee piles!”

“Ah, give ower, ye bloody bairns!” snapped Forster. “There's a fookin' well ower theer, wid watter in't. Use that, an' stop natterin', an' keep thi bottle till efter.”

This sounded sensible, since water was liable to be precious by the end of the day, and the well was in plain view just outside our position, a circular mud wall enclosing the well-head. Grandarse, however, was hygiene conscious.

“It'll be full o' shit, like that ’un we used last week,
an' foond there wez twa deid Japs in't. Bloated tae boogery, they were.”

“Weel, ye took no ’arm!” said Forster. “The purification pills does the trick. Ye've got toons o' the bloody things!”

“We ’evn't got a chaggle,” objected Grandarse. “We'll ’ev tae use oor ’ats tae git watter. Weel, then, ye ’ev to shek pills tae dissolve them—’oo the hell ye gonna dae that in a bush-hat?”

That seemed to dispose of that, until Wattie had his great idea.

“Tell thee w'at! Why doan't we put t'pills in oor gobs, an' dissolve boogers that way! Then we can wesh ’em doon wid the pani,
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easy!”

“Aw, piss off!” derided Grandarse. “Stick ’em in oor gobs!” He gave a great guffaw. “’Ey, that minds us o' w'en Jocky Rootledge wez constipated. Ye mind Jocky, back in't 5th Battalion? A reet wooden booger. Weel, ’e ga's till the M.O., an' the orderly gi'es ’im a suppository. ’W'at dae Ah dee wid this?' sez Jocky—’e wez a reet iggerent cloon, tho'. ’Insert it in your rectum, my man,' sez the M.O. ’In me w'at?' sez Jocky. ‘Stick it oop yer arse,’ sez the orderly. ‘Doan't give me yer bloody lip,’ sez Jocky, an' ’e larruped ’im, an' brok' ’is jaw, an' got ’issel' twenty-eight days!”

“Fook Jocky Rootledge! Ye gan fer the pani or nut?” said Forster. “Ah's gittin' thoorsty listenin' tae ye!”

“Ah'm gehm,” said Wattie, and after consultation
with Peel I made a quick dash for the well to examine its condition. I peered over the wall into the murky depths, and while it wasn't company's own water, I'd seen worse. The surface was about six feet down, covered with a bright green scum no doubt rich in vitamins, but the pills should take care of that. I called to Wattie and Grandarse to brings their pills, and they scuttled across. Grandarse still had doubts about swallowing the pills along with the water, but Wattie brayed at him, insisting it was all one how they got inside him.

“Dissolve the bloody things in yer spit, man!”

“Ah've got nee spit! Me mooth's like a Toorkish russler's jock-strap! Awreet, then—let's git crackin'!”

The difficulty was to reach the water. I lowered my hat on the end of a rifle sling, but the thing refused to sink through the emerald crust, however much I bounced and swung it.

“W'at's in this fookin' well—sheep dip?” demanded Grandarse. “Aw, booger it—Ah've ’ed this. It'll joost give us the fookin' cholera, any roads.”

“We've got the pills!' cried Wattie, panting like the hart. ’Coom on, man, gi'e's that sling!”

He plumbed away, blaspheming, without success. I had already decided that whoever drank from that well, it wasn't going to be me. We'd better pack it in, I said.

“Nivver!” cried Wattie, straining over the wall. “Sink, ye sod! Ah, hell! Ah'll git thee, thoo varmint! Giddoon!” But even he had to give up at last. “There's
nowt for it,” he croaked. “One of us'll efta ga doon.” They both looked at me. “It'll efta be thee, Jock.”

Now I know this was the point where I should have put my foot down, and indeed I did demur, quite forcibly, but Grandarse whined that he was dee-eye-drated, and I was his only hope. Which was true, for Wattie weighed thirteen stone, and Grandarse himself would have needed a cattle sling. Anyway, there was no sign of our having to advance soon, and it is difficult for a feckless youth to resist the pleadings of his elders, even when he knows they're idiots. And a good lance-corporal should look after his men. Or perhaps I'd got a touch of the sun. So a few seconds later I was hanging upside down just above the green surface, preparing to scoop with my hat, while Wattie and Grandarse, mumbling as they chewed purification pills, held my legs. To do this, they had to stand erect, oblivious of the fact that Jap was still in the vicinity.

In that confined space I didn't hear the machine-gun opening up, but I was aware of shots smacking into the well-head, splinters raining down, startled bellows from overhead, and of my legs being released. And that, my dears, is how grandpa came to fall down a well during the last great battle of World War Two.

I took the water smoothly, sliding in rather than falling, and fortunately the shaft was wide enough for me to turn underwater and come up head first, coughing and clawing waterweed out of my eyes. After the initial shock it was quite pleasantly cool, and I trod water while muffled shots sounded from the world above,
and Grandarse announced my plight—he sounded as though he was speaking with his face pressed to earth; the section was evidently firing, and either they or the well-head were being fired upon in return. But it was difficult to tell, and the thought crossed my mind that
if
Jap counter-attacked successfully, I was going to be embarrassed. There wasn't a hope of climbing out, and I was just wondering how long I could tread water in heavy boots, when a bush-hatted head appeared above.

“W'at the hell are you daein'?” demanded Sergeant Hutton.

I try to be civil to superiors, but there are limits. “I'm attacking Pyawbwe by submarine!” I shouted. “What the hell does it look like I'm doing? That bloody idiot Grandarse dropped me!”

“Jesus wept! Toorn yer back an' they're divin' doon bloody wells!” His head vanished, and I heard him bawling to the section to git rifle-slings an' git that gormless Scotch git oot afore ’e droons. The firing had stopped, and presently they were all hanging over the lip, helpless with mirth, asking if I needed purification pills and was the watter loovly and nut tae piss in it or they'd play war wid us.
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To all of which I did not deign to reply.

They hauled me out with the help of rifle slings, and Hutton returned raging.

“Git the hell oot o' this afore Long John sees ye! You, Jock—it's dozy boogers like you that toorns ma hair grey! Christ, Corporal Peel, if ye can't keep a better grip on yer section—ah, the hell! Git formed oop! We're advancin'!”

The lines were moving on again, Nine Section consisting of eight men and a pillar of cloud, or rather steam, under a sodden bush-hat. I squelched for only a few minutes, for such was the heat that when the next check occurred, a Jap sniper opening up on the left and sending us diving for cover, I was bone dry again—and raging thirsty. But for the next hour there was little time to drink or to worry about what bugs I might have absorbed during my immersion; this was the sticky time with the company on our right in trouble, and Long John saved the day by fighting us forward to outflank the objective and help the other company on to it. I should remember it clearly, but the fact is that my memories are too uncertain to attempt a coherent narrative; I can only suppose that Nine Section played no significant part beyond giving covering fire; that I do remember, and a trivial incident when I was lying prone behind a little bund taking occasional shots at a rock which I'd been told concealed a sniper, and a man with a wireless set came tumbling down on me. I'd known him back home, and he addressed me not as Jock, but by name: “Aye-aye, Geordie, what fettle?” and asked me where Long John was. I thought he was ahead and left, so he muttered “He who hesitates is lost” and darted away with his wireless set, zig-zagging while
I gave the rock five rounds rapid. He made it, and we have pints together every September with Long John and others.

And some time later we were all on our feet and going like hell for the ruins with the rusted railway line running through them; we went into them shooting, and there was an iron wagon by the tracks, half-derailed, and beyond it was the long slope, with Japanese running across it.

Nick jumped into the wagon, and I was on his heels. It was open on the far side, like a picture window; it might have been designed as a firing point for kneeling marksmen. All around the wagon men were yelling with excitement, throwing themselves down on the rubble and blazing away at those running figures, some of whom must have turned to fire at us, for two or three shots clanged against the wagon. But most of them were running, and all we had to do was pick our targets.