The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly

by Santa Crux

A brief fic on Remembrance Day in memory of those who served in The Great War

November 7 1915 Brighton Agricultural Research Centre Brighton England

They call this monstrosity ‘His Majesty’s Naval Office of Special Research’, George E Challenger snorted as he scanned the dusty lab, tables covered by dustcovers, beakers and equipment sitting grimy from disuse on the shelves. So this is how they plan to shut me up, he growled, send me off to Brighton where I won’t ruffle any feathers. The pompous dimwits!

He had held a position in the main Royal Navy research lab until a few weeks ago. Until a regrettable outburst had him on the carpet in front of his supposed superiors and out on his ear. Oh yes, they’d promised him a team of researchers and carte blanche on the project he might pursue, but he knew very well what they were up to.

It had been one of those interminable meetings where scientists from the Army and Navy exchanged information on the projects they were pursuing. Challenger was restless; he had been dragged away from some very promising research. Now he became increasingly irritated with the inane prattling of an Army chemist who was carping about the disadvantages of chlorine gas.

“Good grief, man, just combine them,” Challenger finally burst out, unable to restrain himself any longer.

“What?” responded the army chemist as heads turned. Challenger’s Royal Navy colleague leaned over to growl in his ear.

“For god’s sake, Challenger, hold your tongue. Poison gas is and never will be a weapon the navy will need to research.”

“Bah,” Challenger responded and stood to educate the thick-headed assembly, “You’ve got chlorine gas, lethal but it’s so noxious no-one can breathe it in. Then there’s phosphine, more easily introduced into the human lung, but not as potent. So you combine them,” he paused for breath and survey the open-mouthed crowd. “And while you’re at it, the delivery system is preposterous. British lads are killed when the wind shifts and brings the gas back into our trenches. Read your own reports. You’ve got to lob those canisters deep into enemy lines.”

“See here, Challenger, those are restricted reports you’re quoting from,” The head of the Royal Army’s research team rose to his feet. “Where did you get your hands on those?”

“Besides,” the red-haired scientist’s eyes gleamed with scientific fervour, “your research is headed in the wrong direction entirely. As scientists we shouldn’t be mindless automatons doing the bidding of the War Department. We should be designing a kind of technology that will do away with war. I’ve been investigating some ideas stemming from van der Waal’s work with gases –“

“A German scientist?” called out one outraged biologist.

“No, you miserable miscreant, he’s Dutch.”

Any further words were drowned out by cries of “Hold your tongue” and “Someone silence that crackpot.”

His colleague hauled him back into his seat. The professor smiled at the pandemonium he had created.

And so, he was here, starting up a new facility with young researchers fresh out of university. Owing to the secrecy of the work done here, he was living alone in a rooming house. Jessie was still in London, helping the university as a research assistant and secretary. He missed her terribly already. Perhaps he’d go into Brighton tonight and have a pint. There was little enough to do until his research notes caught up with him.

That same night Arthur Summerlee unfolded another dossier on yet another research project. He had been recently asked to head a panel that would try to organize and co-ordinate the research and technology that had been accelerated by the war effort. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He and his committee would really need to impose some sort of order on these disorganized professors. Some of these projects were only tangentially connected to the war effort and were a colossal waste of money.

But this project in his hands, this was far more pragmatic and devastating in its potential. Apparently the Germans were doing research on a new type of poison gas. It was still in the clinical testing stage but a sample had been smuggled out, presumably by a spy or an informer in Germany. Since it had arrived in England hidden in a ladies hatbox, the lab boys had been trying to analyze its composition. Summerlee’s mouth tightened as he read about two scientists who had died in an accident, the stages of their horrific deaths recorded with as much detail as would accompany any experiment on a lab rat.

Dear lord, what was he involved with? He was a botanist not a warmonger. With his signature, research could continue with this deadly mustard gas – what an innocuous name for such a noxious substance- or cease. It was in his hands. What would his dear Anna have said if she knew what he was doing sitting here in his old chair in the study .

Do it, she would say. It’s your patriotic duty, Arthur. If winning this war means killing German lads to save British ones, then sign away. After all, his oldest grandson James was fifteen. Not long before he’d be old enough to serve in the trenches of Flanders.

Summerlee sighed as he signed off on the poison gas research. No amount of reminding himself of the greater good would remove the foul taste from his mouth. He bundled up the research notes and reached for the next project.

***

June 10, 1916 Berlin, Germany

Naval officers in full regalia competed with the finery of the women they escorted creating a fairy-tale vision of bravery and beauty. The ball to celebrate the German victory at Jutland was well underway. On closer examination an observant person might notice whispers and frowns among the sailors. All was not well in the German navy. Perhaps there had been more British ships lost than German but high command knew that it was not a clear victory. The High Seas fleet was penned in port, most of their heavy ships badly damaged. Control of the sea belonged to Britain.

Meetings had been held to try to discover how the British Grand Fleet had been aware of their exact location in the vast North Sea. One admiral had suggested that the British had knowledge beforehand of the planned attack. The suggestion that a spy might have spirited away German battle-plans unnoticed was pooh-poohed by others at the meeting. The decision was made to put a brave face on the battle, thus the gala this evening.

The spy who had stolen the German communication codes and given them to the British sat at a table watching the dancers on the floor. The arm of Walther Nicolai was draped possessively around her shoulders. Marguerite Schmidt excused herself – indicating with a word in the colonel’s ear that she needed a breath of fresh air.

Fraulein Schmidt walked gracefully through the double doors of the ballroom, aware that she was drawing glances of curiosity, admiration and jealousy. She was driven by a need to escape the stares and notice. The celebration tonight was a bitter reproach to her work as a spy. The codes she had stolen should have guaranteed a clear-cut victory for the British. Instead she was surrounded by people celebrating a British defeat. Sometimes she felt that the risks she was taking were pointless; the war seemed to grind on and on despite her best efforts. No point in second-guessing, she supposed. Like a good soldier, she had done what her superiors had asked of her.

She walked outside the hall and leaned back against the corner of the building. It was quiet here and she appreciated the opportunity to gather her thoughts. She stood there in the shadows until a junior officer, obviously the worse for drink, staggered out of the hall and stumbled down the step. Instead of picking himself up, he rolled to a sitting position and held his face in his hands, sobbing.

Marguerite Schmidt stood hesitant, realizing she was imposing on a very private moment. Should she slip by or stay in the shadows and hope he didn’t notice her. At the same time a maverick instinct urged her to go over and comfort the distraught sailor. As she debated her next move the officer looked up and around as if suddenly aware he might not be alone. She was discovered.

“Pardon me, fraulein. I am very sorry about my behaviour. It is inexcusable. I’ve been drinking and I was just thinking about – my crew,” He collected himself a little as he rose to his feet and made a crisp bow. “I should leave you to your thoughts. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I wasn’t enjoying my own company anyway. Would a brief stroll and a sympathetic ear be in order?” She couldn’t believe what she was saying. She told herself she could be gathering information useful to England; she had picked up vital bits and pieces in the oddest places. If she were really honest with herself though, it was the haunted expression of the officer that had drawn her toward him.

A few polite exchanges and then the sailor began the tale that filled his nightmares in the weeks since the battle of Jutland. It was a story he had to tell, but didn’t feel he could. He did not wish to shame himself in front of his fellow officers nor was he willing to darken the face of his young bride. But here he was telling his sad story to a beautiful stranger. Perhaps it was the wine or the empty darkness, but the floodgates were opened and the tortured memories tumbled out.

“I served aboard the Lutzow. It was hit by a torpedo in the battle. The blast simply blew apart the fore part of the ship – metal, wood, bits of bodies, fallen wires, all mangled together –harshly illuminated by the electric light. Down in the diesel room the men were safe but cut off from the rest of the ship by flooded compartments. The kept the engines running for as long as they could even knowing – knowing they were going to die down there. We had slowed down because we were running bow-heavy. We were sitting ducks for the enemy guns. Shells hit everywhere- the wireless department, forward, below. We were surrounded. Flames started up on the bow which was starting to submerge. Sick bay had over one hundred and fifty wounded men and then it was hit by a shell. Only four men survived.”

They had stopped walking; the young officer leaned up against the wall. Fraulein Schmidt flinched slightly as he grasped her hand, tightening his grip in the pain of the memories. With a shudder, he drew a deep breath and continued his story.

“The Admiral knew it was a lost cause and transferred to the Moltke. We tried to limp back to port, our propellers half out of water. The interior of the ship was filled with the poisonous fumes from all the shelling so all the wounded had been brought up on deck – hundreds of them just lying there –there were no doctors anymore. The rigging lay twisted, empty shell casings were everywhere, the gun turrets had been destroyed by enemy shells.

Corpses floated by; the ship was half-submerged. The only motion was the lookout man and the officers – the three of us left alive- on the commander’s bridge. Still we laboured toward port. Night had fallen; maybe we could lose our pursuers in the dark.

The interior bulkheads gave way at the same time as news came that seven British ships were closing in on us. I was told to give the order to report to the aft deck. We were going to have to abandon ship.”

Tears flowed freely down the man’s youthful face. Marguerite stood before him, not knowing what to do other than honour the man’s experience by listening.

“There wasn’t time, you see, for all the people below to get on deck. They all came at once, struggling through the passageways and up the ladders. The wounded were scattered everywhere and those that couldn’t walk or crawl were left behind. The men in the diesel room stayed at their stations and provided the power needed to run the lights. They could hear through the speaking tube the order to abandon ship and knew they were never getting out.

The torpedo boats came alongside to take away the crew and we left the others to their doom. As we moved away we saw some crewmembers that must have missed hearing the orders to abandon ship; they were running on the deck, waving their arms. It had been decided that the ship must not fall into enemy hands so we put a torpedo through our own ship and the bow sunk until she stood on end. At last she heeled over and went down, taking everything and everyone with her.

We lost 597 men that day. And today we celebrate a grand victory. It doesn’t feel like a victory to me. Not at all.” He lapsed into silence.

In an impulsive gesture Marguerite Schmidt put her arms around the slumping sailor and let him sob into her shoulder. It took only a minute for him to compose himself. He stepped back to give her a fragile grin.

“Oh my, that was very bad form of me,” he apologized, “I’m not in the habit of telling my deepest secrets to perfect strangers. I hope you won’t – you know…”

“Don’t worry, all your secrets are safe with me.”

“I suppose we ought to get back to the party. Someone must be wondering where you are by now and I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I had taken advantage of you.”

“No chance of that. They’ll probably think I took advantage of you.” She responded with an ironic smile.

He took her hand and escorted her back to the party. The bright lights and noise hit them like a blow.

“Thank you for your kindness,” he said with a bow, “It was good of you to listen.”

She smiled and returned to her table, troubled by what she had heard. Here she was, upset by her lack of success in the chess game of espionage. Hearing a first-hand account of what the pawns in the game endured strengthened her resolve to do what was necessary to end the war quickly. She smiled sweetly at Colonel Nicolai as he rose to welcome her back to the table.

***

July 31, 1916, behind the front lines – the Somme

Major Lord John Roxton rolled over in his bunk as the crump, crump, crump of an artillery barrage brought him out of an exhausted sleep. Even in the half-awareness of awakening, he could identify the sound as an enemy attack not a resumption of their own barrage which had been a regular part of their days since this offensive had started almost a month ago. He pulled his watch out of his pocket. Two in the afternoon. He had overslept. The briefing this morning had given him orders for his company. They would move out at dusk to the front lines.

He cursed under his breath. The barrage likely signaled the beginning of an enemy counterattack which could interfere greatly with tomorrow’s offensive. He got up still dressed in battle dress, gathered his helmet and left the officers’ quarters. This was the last day his company was on reserve duty. Later this evening they would make their way through the communications trenches to the front lines. The attack was scheduled for dawn tomorrow.

He had argued vehemently against the dawn launch. On both sides of the line, soldiers in the forward trenches rose early to ‘stand to’ and watch the morning mist swirling through no man’s land. If they saw anything moving they’d spray the area with machine-gun and rifle fire. Sometimes they’d shoot a few rounds for no reason other than to alleviate the edgy restlessness that was so much a part of their daily lives. He’d told the commander that with smoke shells they could cover their advance just as easily as using the morning fog and there would be the advantage that the enemy might not be waiting for the attack. His commander shrugged. Orders had come from higher up.

Both of them had been at the front for over a year now. They knew firsthand the futility of launching an attack on fortified positions. The hill that the Germans held had been in British hands twice in the past months and as soon had been given back. More lives had been lost in this see-saw battle in Northern France than any other in history. The commanders and strategists seemed unable to find a weapon that would allow an offensive to triumph over the defensive bulwarks of trenches and barbed wire, backed by machine guns. There seemed little else to do but trot out the tired old stratagems that had failed so badly to date.

Major Lord Roxton’s shoulders slumped. His company had just been reinforced with some new recruits from back in ‘Blighty’. Their talk ranged from false bravado to barely-contained panic when they heard the horror stories from the few veterans remaining from the original company.

A cavalry company it had been in the beginning, from Wiltshire county near his Avebury home. The Roxton estate had supplied the bulk of the horses for the troop. Those noble steeds were mostly gone, killed in so many ghastly ways in the early days of the war. Shot in battle, blown up by artillery shells, legs broken in shell holes and sickened to death from disease and hoof rot. Their carcasses had created the earliest stench on the front lines. Now the remaining horses were hauling light artillery, dragging wagons and used as pack animals, a sorry pass for some of the finest riding animals in England. And his brave cavalrymen were wallowing in muddy trenches, huddling low so their heads weren’t shot off by snipers.

After this next spell on the front lines, he and many of his company would be up for a leave. A chance to go to Amiens, have a real bath, wash the lice out of his uniform, forget the war a little while. He wondered how many of his men would survive this battle to enjoy a few days away from the nightmare.

Lord Roxton wondered if he would survive. He worried about his mother, managing the estate with a reduced staff and a patriotic duty to supply foodstuffs for the army. What would she do if he were to die here? His father gone, William… He collected himself and shook his head. Every soldier knew not to dwell too long on that kind of thinking. To think too much would surely lead to cowardice. He would, however, consider that offer from Harry who had told him that a position back in England awaited him if he chose to take it. As a member of the House of Lords and the sole heir to Roxton estate, his decision to enlist as a regular officer had raised objections at the time. Nothing would make the War Office happier than to see him out of harm’s way. He had stayed in Flanders because of loyalty to his men and the belief that it was his duty. He now knew that only a change in strategy in this war could stem this daily loss of the finest youth of their nation. Perhaps he would be more able to accomplish that back in England; he certainly wasn’t making much of a difference in this hell on earth.

But for now he would marshal his troops and move forward. It was almost dusk now. His batman came up behind him.

“Major, I’ve got all yer things packed up. The sergeant’s got the men all lined up and ready to go.”

“Thanks, Reddings, it’s time to move out, I suppose.”

The journey to the front was slow, jostling past troops moving to the rear, enduring long hold-ups whenever the line of troops got slowed down by intermittent shell-fire or detours necessitated by collapsed trenches. The stench got worse as they approached the front. It was singularly the most offensive smell anyone could recall – rotting corpses, overflowing latrines and the smell of stale sweat of thousands of unwashed soldiers mingled uneasily with cordite from the shell-fire, cooking smells and general rot. It created an ambience Roxton knew he would never forget.

They took their positions, the corporal going down the line reminding all the green recruits not to stick their head up to take a look across no-man’s land. Uncounted numbers of soldiers curious about the enemy died from sniper fire on their first day at the front. The whisper went down the line to get some rest before the attack the next dawn. Everyone in the company was warned not to discuss the attack as enemy listening posts could be dug in just outside their lines.

The soldiers gathered the next day poised on the fire step. The sappers had cut through their own barbed wire during the night and through the periscopes the pockmarked landscape could be clearly seen. Roxton ground his teeth. It would be slow going through the muck and water-filled holes between themselves and the enemy lines. He could only hope the artillery barrage would destroy the enemy barbed wire and keep the enemy’s head down or they’d be sitting ducks.

The barrage began, heavy and hard. It was zeroed in pretty well on the German artillery and machine gun emplacements; Major Roxton could see bits of metal going up with the clumps of earth as the shells hit. He muttered under his breath,

“Get rid of the barbed wire, damn it, shorten the range.” He knew that the information from the observers would never get to the artillery in time. He just had to hope for a few lucky shells. The sound of shells hitting close by shook the ground and raised geysers of water in no-man’s land. He looked once more through the periscope.

“Right on time. Well done, lads.” He put down the wooden viewing apparatus and alerted his sergeant. All along the line, soldiers rustled and prayed as the last few moments before the attack passed. The orders came down. The troops surged forward in a ragged line. Major Lord Roxton stepped up and over the top.

***

September 12, 1916 Craiglockhart War Hospital, England

The two young men stood on the edge of the field, idly kicking a soccer ball back and forth. On the field itself a group had divided into teams to play a makeshift game of cricket. The visiting doctors halted their tour on the verandah of the hospital overlooking the fields below.

“It looks like some of your chaps are making a splendid recovery,” stated one young doctor, sickened by what he had seen in the common rooms inside the hospital - the healthy bodies of hundreds of fine young men betrayed by the psychological ravages of shell-shock.

“Yes, it is good to see them out there getting lots of fresh air and enjoying some of the pleasures of life,” replied the well-respected psychiatrist, W.H.R. Rivers, who served at the hospital.

The care-free shouts of the men below reached up to the gathered medical personnel.

“Come on, you two, we could do with an extra player a side. Riggins, old man, why don’t you be a batsman and Malone, you can join us in the field.” The man named Malone appeared a little reluctant.

“I don’t know how to play cricket. I’m an American, remember.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ll soon catch on.”

“American?” one of the visiting psychiatrists asked, “Serving with our forces?”

“No, his is an interesting case,” replied Dr. Rivers. “He was an observing journalist that got caught in an enemy attack. The patrol with him was killed. He brought back important documents though – seems they ran across a downed courier. He seemed a bit nervy at first but passed along the information like a trooper. It wasn’t until a few weeks later that he broke down completely. Classic shell-shock. But he’s made rapid strides here. Unfortunately he is still suffering from repression. His memories of the event have been completely suppressed.”

The psychiatrist’s lecture was interrupted by an incident down on the field. Malone has been fielding and recovered a ball hit almost to the boundary. He drilled it toward the wickets as the batsman ran. The accurate throw flattened the pegs while the man was still strides away. The batsman and his team were out. Excited shouts ran through the fielding team as they jogged in to take their place at bat. One fellow ran up and threw an arm around the American.

“Well done, old boy, you’d make one hell of a cricketer!”

At that, the happy grin fell off the boyish face of the American. He tore himself out of the grip of his teammate and strode off the field back toward the hospital, fists clenched at his side. As he approached the doctors could see a shimmer of tears in his eyes. An orderly approached Dr. Rivers, a question in his raised eyebrows. Rivers shook his head and replied.

“Leave him. He’ll be fine, I think.” He watched as the American stormed past him back into the hospital.

“Doctor, what brought that on?” asked one of the curious visitors.

The doctor shrugged. “Something must have triggered one of his repressed memories. It’s too soon yet for his damaged psyche to face that, thus he runs away from the memory.”

“What is the best course of treatment, doctor, in these cases of repression? Should the patient be forced to face reality?”

Rivers sighed. “We’re not entirely sure. I myself have changed my mind about treatment. I have been preparing a paper for the Royal Society of Medicine but there will be no conference this year. Perhaps next year.”

“Could I read your notes?” the eager young psychiatrist quizzed.

“Why yes, I’ll see you later after dinner. Come to my office then. Now let me show you how a regimen of calisthenics has made inroads into the problem of catatonia.”

Later that evening the young visitor read Dr. River’s notes with interest “voluntary process by which it is attempted to remove some part of the mental content out of the field of attention with the aim of making it inaccessible to memory and producing the state of suppression.”, “this natural tendency to banish the distressing or the horrible is especially pronounced in those whose powers of resistance have been lowered by catastrophes of war.”, “in such cases the greatest relief is afforded by the mere communication of these troubles to another.” Catharsis and reintegration comprised River’s treatment, carefully treading a middle ground between allowing the soldier his false reality and forcing him to relive the horror that had caused the repression. He put down the paper and pondered the case he had seen that day.

Ned Malone tossed on his cot, perspiration beading his forehead. A voice echoed in his head over and over, England could have made a damn fine cricketer out of you. The voice was lost in the sound of artillery shells landing, screaming by his ear. A damn fine cricketer.

November 11, 1917 Somerset, England

The black-edged letter fell from her fingers. Viveca Layton sat at the desk, the coal-oil lamp flickering shadows over the papers on the desk’s surface. Her husband sat rigidly in his chair staring as the coals glowed in the hearth. He’d sat like that for hours, silent. Ever since the messenger…

Ever since the messenger had walked through their gate a few hours ago with a letter informing them of the death of their youngest son at Passchendaele. Lost in action. So sorry, Mr and Mrs Layton. Howard was a brave and jolly chap.

Indeed he had been a merry child, rough and tumble, fast chums with Teddy and a great pet of Thomas who was a great deal older than the younger boys. Even as a grown man, Howard had kept his youthful enthusiasm, always playing competing at sports and eager to have children of his own. Teddy killed last year at the Somme and now Howie. She must visit his fiancée tomorrow. Her husband sat silent, his cup of tea untouched.

Perhaps one son still lived. Dear Thomas, gone away so long ago to South America with his lovely bride. Was he there yet, unaware of this dreadful conflagration that was destroying the world? How she missed him. Was she possibly a grandmother now or was the Layton family line extinguished, another victim of the Great War. She folded the letter and put it with the other. She reached for her sewing basket and got up to sit in her chair beneath the brightest light. She looked up at her husband still staring at the fire.

“Come, Tom,” she said and watched as his eyes slowly turned toward her, “read to me while I sew.”

The end

Author’s notes
The descriptions of the war are borrowed liberally from first hand accounts of the war found on the Firstworldwar.com website as are the quotes from Dr. River’s address to the Royal Society of Medicine which he made December 4, 1917 on The Repression of War Experience.

The title, of course, is taken from John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields perhaps the only poem I have committed to memory.

Web hoster's notes: On  November 11, 1918 the armistice was signed that brought to cessation the 'war to end all wars'. Thank you to Santa Crux for reminding us this Remembrance Day in 2006.

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