Part 32 (1/2)

So, it was thus that, towards the end of the day, Hadleman finally found the point that he'd evaded forced upon him, in circ.u.mstances where he thought he'd finally won.

There had been no great surge of relieved soldiers running past them up to the new positions. They'd pa.s.sed a few reconnaissance patrols, who all indicated that some swift new offensive was about to happen. The sound of occasional battle was far ahead of them now, as the sun sank towards the horizon. They'd complete their work in an hour, the engineers a.s.sured him. Surely they wouldn't be asked to go forward again then? Whatever attack was being organized to dive into the break in the German line and open it up wide enough for a conclusive push, it was already overdue. Surely, the ma.s.s march would be on before they'd got back?

Then on the horizon to the west, silhouetted against the sun, Hadleman saw the cavalry. Three divisions of them, tiredly organising themselves into formation squares on the other side of the great fields of corn that were growing wild out here in the wastes. The engineers laughed and made expressions of amazement.

Hadleman's own troops started to speculate that this must be some kind of diversion, until Hutchinson quietened them. He and Hadleman realised the truth at once, that this was the crucial attack they'd been waiting for. It had taken all day to bring the hors.e.m.e.n up to the line. This offensive had been seen as the one opportunity this war had offered for an old-fas.h.i.+oned set-piece action, and those in charge had leapt at it.

There came the sound of a distant bugle and the horses formed up. A sabre was raised, then dropped, and they accelerated forward.

The Norfolks watched in awe as the hundreds of hors.e.m.e.n raced through the corn, a great cry erupting from them. 'They must think that they've got a chance,'

Hutchinson whispered. 'Maybe they can see something we can't.'

The noise made them all wince as it started up, the regular clatter of machine-guns.

At first, it seemed that maybe it was only an isolated post, that perhaps the German line ahead that the cavalry were supposed to overrun contained an isolated weapon.

But then the rattle became a great roar and the air around the cavalry darkened with metal.

The first line of horses crumpled, their riders flying off their backs as they fell, some of them riding them down into a crumbling ma.s.s of man, animal and corn.

The second, third, fourth, line fell as the guns scythed back and forth across the field. The momentum of the charge continued, hundreds of men spinning off the backs of their mounts, the bodies of those in front tripping and hindering the ones who came behind until the whole field was a mist of noise and metal and flying blood.

'Retreat, for Christ's sake,' Hutchinson was whispering. 'Why does n.o.body give the order? Why don't they - '

The first whistle sounded overhead and the soldiers threw themselves to the ground, their hands grabbing their metal helmets.

'Christ!' screamed Hutchinson. 'This is the one! This is the one Dean - Christ!'

The sh.e.l.l landed noiselessly, for Hadleman, the sound too loud and close for him to hear. At least, that was his memory of it.

Hutchinson died instantly.

When the noise ended, Hadleman was lying in a pile of dead people, his head ringing from something distant.

He pushed his way out, shouldering corpses off of him, and immediately choked on the air, his eyes streaming. He slapped for the gasmask at his neck, and found that, along with half his pack, it had been dragged off him.

So, under nothing but instinct, he burrowed down into the men again, pulling their warmth back around him, until he was concealed in a dark burrow of flesh, with a little air.

He stayed that way for maybe ten minutes, then had to surface.

He lay there amongst the limbs of those he knew, for some time, taking one full breath in three and coughing, aware that he was getting the end of the gas as it drifted away. That, and there was some bleeding in his jacket, a wound the pain of which rose and fell with his lungs.

He didn't even think of trying to get back to the line. He wasn't sure where it was any more, or even in which direction. If it wasn't for Alexander, he would be quite satisfied to die, knowing that the war he was fighting in was utterly futile. It was almost as if he'd proved a point of politics to himself. In this place, upwards of 400,000 British men were going to be killed. They'd lost 20,000 just the other day.

He sucked a grim smile. It was like rich countries deliberately killing themselves, leaving their battered remains ready for the revolution that would surely come, for who could return home without wanting to face those who had wasted good men thus?

He raised his hand, and tried to sing 'The Red Flag'. But he was unconscious before he'd got past the bit about cowards.

He woke again in the night to a noise. He tried not to make a noise, though he heard many distant cries, oddly hoping that it wasn't a German come to rob him.

A face appeared over the low ridge above him, a muddied blond lad in a dull grey uniform. 'Good Lord,' he whispered. 'I knew there were some Norfolks out here.

Richard Hadleman, isn't it?'

Hadleman blinked, the face wobbling in and out of vision. He tried to remember the name. 'Timothy? What regiment are you? '

'None, actually. Red Cross. A few of us are having a sniff about out here, because n.o.body quite knows who owns this bit at the moment, and we kept hearing shouts.

Now, if you can move, I don't want to get my a.r.s.e shot off doing field dressings.

Mind taking the hand of a filthy conchie?'

Hadleman reached up and felt everything give as Timothy Dean hauled him out of the pile of bodies. He stifled a shout.

Timothy supported him by his shoulder and the two of them picked their way off towards the British line. Hadleman glimpsed familiar shapes a few hundred yards away. 'Got any jobs going?' he whispered.

'You don't need to worry,' Timothy replied. 'You're going home.'

The bells of Norwich Cathedral rang clear and sharp on an April morning in 1995.

Snowflakes were falling steadily. Above the cathedral blew great billows of them, whipping around the comers of the dark building as if to emphasize the structure's harsh lines.

From out of the building trooped a handful of very old men in uniform, supported by their relatives and children. The Norfolks who'd fought in the Great War had a yearly reunion in the city, though their numbers grew smaller every time. This might well be the last one.

By the door of the cathedral, at some distance from the marching men, another old man sat in a wheelchair, surrounded by his family.

'I don't know why you come here every year, Grandad,' said Richard Dean, leaning on the wheelchair's handles. 'What's there to see?'

'Old friends...' the pensioner whispered. 'Not from the war. From before.'