“But I have papers. You said—”
“And they need soldiers and you are, clearly, able to walk.” Vignon felt his pocket again, brought out a small, corked, brown-glass bottle. “If your wounds weep or open up, apply this. Don’t ignore them. It’s strong stuff.”
Jean-Baptiste looked at the label. Solution Carrel-Dakin, it said.
Vignon made a flapping motion with his hand. “Now. Off with you.” He eased himself upright and looked at Jean-Baptiste. He smiled; but behind it was, Jean-Baptiste saw, an unspeakable sadness.
“Dr. Vignon… .”
“Walk.”
“I’m sorry I stole your boots.”
Vignon nodded. “Start walking.”
The Plan
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Theory
THE PLAN IS LOZENGE-SHAPED IN transmission. In London, the War Committee has communicated its wishes in outline to the Chief of the Imperial General Staff; he in turn has passed on the resolution to break through in northern France to the Commander-in-Chief; and he has conveyed this to his generals in France.
The British generals, situated at the widest point of the plan’s progress, argue about the date with the hard-pressed French, who are struggling at Verdun; under pressure, they choose June 29. The generals draw up the detailed plan and relay its relevant objectives to the divisional commanders. These meet the battalion commanders, who communicate the basics of the plan to the company commanders and, the plan becoming simpler and narrower in the process, so on down to the private soldier at the lowest point. He has one task, one field to cross, and nobody else to tell.
The plan envisages a British attack on an unprecedented scale on a front stretching from a diversion at Gommecourt in the north down to Montauban in the south, with the French Sixth Army providing a subsidiary attack from there down to Foucaucourt. The attack, thrilling in its ambition and deployment of resources, will be preceded by five days of shelling of the enemy positions. Nearly two million shells are to be fired. Troops have gathered in Picardy. Railway lines have been laid, wells sunk, roads built with stone ferried from Cornwall and Jersey; hospitals are equipped, mass graves dug. In Britain, the Whitsun holiday is canceled so there need be no interruption to the flow of munitions.
This is a British plan and, almost inevitably, rain delays the attack. But the men are ready, the bombardment has begun, and eventually the rain will stop. On June 28, General Rawlinson hands down the new date: July 1.
At 0551 hours, the sun will rise. At 0720 hours, the biggest mines ever laid will be detonated under the German front-line positions. At 0730 hours (well into the clear, warm light of a summer’s day), the troops will leave their trenches and advance in waves: thirteen divisions; over half a million men. They will move slowly, on foot, not bunching up, safe in the knowledge that, after what has now become a week of shelling, there will be little resistance from the enemy. A hot meal will be ready for them when they reach their objective. The details are all in the plan.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Benedict, France,
June 30, 1916
THE MEN WERE DRINKING FRENCH wine, and who could blame them, Benedict thought. An illicit bottle or two had kept his battery in good spirits over the past week. The division was so far to the south of the line that several of the soldiers had made friends with sections of the French Sixth Army and various items of food and clothing had been swapped. When he returned to camp, they were diverted by a can of French rations that they were daring the youngest lad to eat.
“It’s monkey, sir,” said Smith. “That’s what they get, the French. Canned monkey meat, they say.”
The boy was pulling out something solid from the brown jelly and staring at it dubiously.
“And the wine, sir. It’s part of their rations.”
“They need it to wash down the rest.” A bombardier, whose name Benedict had forgotten, laughed, but then waved a can at him. “Chicory coffee, sir. Disgusting. No tea at all.”
“They’ve got some mighty big black infantrymen, sir. Six foot tall. Red caps. They say the Jerries shoot themselves rather than fall into their hands. Fearless. Never take prisoners. Wouldn’t like to run into them in the dark, sir. Wish we had some.”
Most of the division was comprised of northern regiments, the majority volunteers still up for a fight. The accents around him had been unfamiliar, sometimes incomprehensible. Initially, the problem had been neutral.
They were good lads, but Benedict had to stop the flow of wine now. The colonel had finally talked his junior officers through the detailed plan of attack. The front line was shaped like an L. Its aims were to secure territory from Gommecourt in the north, where they would stage a diversion, down to Montauban, which Benedict could see through his binoculars.