Eleven Eleven - By Paul Dowswell Page 0,21

taken potshots at farm animals with his Lee-Enfield rifle. Will had seen a scraggy old sheep topple over and had gone and remonstrated with him. It took a whole month before Ogden forgave him. Will was pleased to see Weale and Moorhouse and another veteran of 1914, Hosking, were coming. The three of them thought themselves invincible, and no wonder. Will knew boys, and a few officers, who had died in their first hour at the Front. Cowell and Bradshaw, two other old hands, who had been at the Front for a couple of years, were with them too.

‘Hosking, take point, watch out for mines, any booby traps, but most of all, we’re looking for snipers. If they’ve got machine guns on the edge of the forest, we’ll find out soon enough, so don’t bunch up.’

Sergeant Franklin had his stern voice on.

‘No talking, no smoking, you know the drill. You want to tell me something, you come and tap me on the shoulder. All right? And whisper.’

Will looked at the men they were leaving behind and felt himself lucky. He was sure Jim was right. The forest patrol was definitely a safer bet than the attack on the village. They set off and within ten minutes the dense green trees loomed up before them.

Shortly after they left, the soldiers preparing for the assault were surprised to see a young runner from Divisional Command arrive breathlessly among them. He seemed to be bursting with a wonderful secret, grinning from ear to ear. He could barely contain himself when he asked for Lieutenant Richardson. He handed over an envelope, which the young officer immediately ripped open. The anxiety on his face vanished in an instant. He too seemed strangely excited, and called for the men to assemble immediately. He even rushed around their position himself, to ensure every man under his command would be present to hear him.

Eventually, when he had gathered them all together, he announced, ‘Men, I have some momentous news. The attack on Saint-Libert has been called off.’ A murmur of relief went around the platoon. ‘In fact, I have been informed that hostilities will cease at eleven o’clock this morning.’

Lieutenant Richardson’s men looked at him with dull acceptance. There was no cheer, no celebration, no throwing caps into the air. He felt a flash of exasperation. ‘Gentlemen, don’t you understand? The war is over.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said Corporal Entwistle, who took on Jim’s role when he was elsewhere. The men remained impassive. It was as if Richardson had just announced that breakfast was being served half an hour later.

‘Sir, what about Sergeant Franklin’s patrol,’ said Entwistle.

‘Send a man to fetch them back, Corporal. Tell him to get a move on.’

Half a mile away a couple of shells screamed down and exploded. Even from that distance they still shook the ground around them. ‘The war’s not over yet, sir,’ said the corporal and marched briskly over to Rifleman Heaton.

Corporal Entwistle had never liked Heaton. He was always too eager to obey the officers, always happy to volunteer. There was something smarmy about him. And those books he read – always fishing out an E.M. Forster or a James Joyce from his knapsack when they stopped for a break. That was all right for an officer. But Heaton’s father was a blacksmith. He had no business with books like that. He had just fished one out to read now. Corporal Entwistle pulled down the book and peered straight into his face. ‘Make yourself useful, lad. Go and fetch Sergeant Franklin and his patrol and tell them the war is over.’

Heaton immediately put down his book and gathered up his rifle and helmet. ‘Yes, Corporal. Which direction did they go?’

‘Just follow the path there into the woods, son. Make it sharpish.’

Heaton headed off as fast as he could, in the stooped posture which had become second nature to him. Like the others in the platoon, he was too exhausted to feel anything other than a kind of dull surprise about the end of the war. Maybe when they’d stopped the infernal artillery bombardment he could hear in the distance, maybe then he’d feel something. For now, that endless rumble just clouded up his mind.

As Heaton approached the wood, the artillery stopped and there was no small arms fire – not entirely unheard of, but rare anywhere on the Western Front. He could even hear a few birds singing and began to walk in a more upright manner.

He thought about what he