Some in the crowd, still badly shaken by what has happened, bristle at the serjeant’s tone. One woman shouts at him, reminding him that King’s Lynn is their home and if they want to stay up to find out what has happened, they will. Another, an older man, tells him that he is a former soldier and wants to know if anyone has been killed and what the government has not told them about the German threat. The serjeant takes a more conciliatory approach and slowly ushers away the anxious crowd.
Katherine Furse speaks to him in a hushed tone. ‘I’m Katherine Furse, C-i-C Voluntary Aid Detachment. This is my colleague, Lady Stewart-Murray, Marchioness of Tullibardine. Is this an invasion?’
The serjeant is initially surprised and sceptical about the identity of the two women. He looks closely at their clothes and particularly the large diamonds of their engagement rings, before deciding to salute both ladies deferentially. ‘You’re a long way from home, mum.’
‘Indeed, Serjeant, but King’s Lynn is a convenient meeting place for us. So, having been an appropriately inquisitive police officer, will you now answer my question?’
‘Yes, mum, but I had to ask – ’ave to be careful these days. No, mum, we don’t think it’s an invasion. We’ve had no reports of any landings; no firing heard. We’ve called Hunstanton, Cromer and Boston – nothing – but there has been a raid over Great Yarmouth: a few casualties there. It looks like they’ve dropped a few incendiaries and one or two explosives, one nearby, in Alexandra Dock. They may have been making for the docks on the Humber and been blown off course.’
‘What about Sandringham? Where are the Royal Family?’
‘We’ve checked. They’re in London, safe as ’ouses, mum.’
‘Any casualties here, Serjeant?’
‘We think a couple on the edge of town.’
‘Can we help?’
‘Very kind, mum, but everything’s under control. Are you staying at the Duke?’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘Then, beggin’ your pardon, ladies, I should get yourselves a stiff brandy and get yer heads down.’
Wednesday 20 January
Admiralty House, Whitehall, London
London is wrapped in a thick blanket of early-morning fog. The air is acrid, infused with the smog of thousands of domestic fires, factory furnaces and vehicle exhausts. From the Admiralty it is not possible to see across Whitehall to Gwydyr House, the home of the Welsh Office, let alone up to Trafalgar Square to the Royal Navy’s greatest hero, Horatio Nelson, atop his column.
The din of horns and horses and buses and trams and the rhythmic tread of countless footsteps seems even louder than usual as people make their way to work through the murk. Accompanied by his Special Branch guardian, Serjeant John Gough, Winston Churchill has been to the Home Office for a breakfast meeting with Reginald McKenna, the Home Secretary. There is a mutual loathing between them, but the Zeppelin raid on Norfolk the previous night compelled them to meet and to try to be civil to one another. Both will be asked searching questions about how the attack was allowed to happen and, as crafty politicians do, they conduct their business together in terms of their mutual self-interest. Winston will take the lead in the Commons; McKenna will talk to Fleet Street and report that the attack was an abject failure, thanks to the diligence of the Royal Navy and the fortitude of those manning the coastal defences.
Winston and his serjeant are about to enter the Admiralty gates when Winston looks up Whitehall to where Nelson should be in sight. ‘Wretched morning, Mr Gough.’
‘It is that, sir.’
‘Old Horatio would be able to see bugger all, even with his good eye.’ Winston strides forwards, talking to himself. ‘Similar weather in about a month’s time might be very useful for what we have planned in the Mediterranean.’
‘Is it all approved, sir?’
‘Indeed it is. I’ll spare you the details, but it is not going to be like a jolly weekend at the Henley Regatta.’
After several weeks of debate and argument over the correct choice for a new front against the Axis Powers, the War Council approved a major naval operation in the Dardanelles on 14 January. The decision sanctioned an attack in the Eastern Mediterranean against Turkey, which would not only open a new theatre of the war but also lend significant support to Russia, currently struggling on the Eastern Front against German and Austrian forces.
Before his breakfast meeting with McKenna, Winston had sent a detailed telegram to Victor Augagneur, the French Minister of the Navy, outlining the British plan and requesting the support of the French Navy under British command: ‘The Royal Navy will attack the Turkish forts and force a passage into the Sea of Marmara. There will be a naval bombardment lasting two to three weeks, using 15 battleships or battlecruisers, 3 light cruisers and 16 destroyers, including the 15-inch guns of HMS Queen Elizabeth. The fleet will be assembled between 7 February and 15 February, with the attack to follow immediately thereafter.’ At the beginning of the war, it was agreed that the French Navy would take the lead in the Mediterranean, so it is not going to be easy to get them to commit ships to the operation but at the same time relinquish command to a British admiral.
Winston’s doubts about the operation without army support remain and he still maintains his preference for an attack across the North Sea. But his advisers, especially Admiral Carden, are confident that the Dardanelles can be forced and that the operation can succeed. So, he has thrown himself into the venture with his usual unstoppable determination.
As Winston turns to walk through the Admiralty’s gates, a large truck trundles up Whitehall. Its bulky presence makes the Lord of the Admiralty pause to watch the convoy pass. The truck and its trailer are hauling a large agricultural steam tractor. The tractor is propelled by caterpillar tracks rather than wheels.
‘Mr Gough, what do you make of those?’
‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘Those tracks on that tractor.’
‘Oh, yes, sir; very useful in a ploughed field.’
‘Indeed, Mr Gough.’
As soon as Winston reaches his desk, he writes a hurried note to his Prime Minister:
Dear Prime Minister,
An observation for you that might prove useful in the medium to long term. It would be quite easy in a very short span of time to fit up a number of steam tractors with small armoured shelters, in which men and machine guns could be placed, which would be bullet-proof. Their caterpillar system of propulsion would enable trenches to be crossed quite easily and the weight of the machine would destroy all barbed wire entanglements. I will give the concept more thought and refer back to you.
Ten minutes later, the letter is delivered to Downing Street by a Royal Marine, where it is filed in the Prime Minister’s ‘Winston’ in-tray, a repository already overflowing with months of copious correspondence from his Lord of the Admiralty. At his desk, across Horse Guards, Winston has more pressing matters to deal with and, for the time being, his imaginings about an ‘armoured tractor’ are put to the back of his mind.
That evening, alone for dinner with Clemmie, he is in pensive mood. ‘Cat, darling, I had a couple of terrible shivers in the War Council this morning.’
‘What about, Pug?’
‘Well, first I had to report on a Zeppelin attack on Norfolk. Two people killed in Great Yarmouth and two in King’s Lynn. Bombs from the skies, my darling. They must have flown right over our cottage in Overstrand. Nobody said anything in Council, but I’m sure they were thinking: Where was the bloody navy?!’
‘But is it the navy’s job?’
‘It is while they’re over the sea. But the buggers make almost no noise and, on a cloudy night, you can’t see them. We need to black out our towns and cities if this continues.’
‘How do they drop their bombs?’
‘Not very accurately. They prefer cloud to avoid fire from the ground. They lower a chap on a rope through the clouds, and he telephones back to tell them when to drop their bombs.’
‘Hell’
s bells, that sounds precarious!’
‘Not as precarious as being underneath him.’
‘True. So what was the second shiver?’
‘It was a bit alarming. Old Block was scribbling away to Venetia, as usual. I’m not sure he was even listening properly. Eddie Grey was very enthusiastic in advocating an offensive against Zeebrugge to help prevent submarine attacks – something about which he’s quite right and which I would support wholeheartedly. Anyway, and bless the man, he didn’t realize what he was saying; he was in full flow when he said it had to be worth an attempt and might only cost eight thousand lives!’
‘Oh dear, but Eddie’s a good man, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, he is, but his somewhat callous remark certainly stopped Asquith’s jottings!’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘No, but he gave him one of those reproving looks like he does; you know, the one as if you’re in the headmaster’s study and you’ve been caught smoking in the dorm. Eddie didn’t notice and carried on regardless.’
‘ “Only eight thousand lives.” Winston, what an awful position we’ve come to.’
‘I know, dearest one; men have become no more than cyphers in the arithmetic of this dreadful war. It was ever thus, of course, but the scale of the numbers is horrifying.’
‘So, are we to attack Zeebrugge?’
‘No, LG said it was too insignificant an action and not worth the effort.’
‘That’s a relief. Eight thousand lives saved, then!’
‘Only for the time being, Cat.’
Saturday 23 January
Cant Clough Reservoir, Widdop Moor, Burnley, Lancashire
‘Tell yer wot, Mick, we’re nearly in fuckin’ Yorkshire up ’ere.’
‘Feels more like t’Arctic t’me, Tommy. I’m freezin’ me nuts off!’
‘Sat’day afternoon; it’s a good job t’lads are laikin’ away at t’Spurs, or I’d be reet moithered.’
‘They’ll get a reet seein’-to down there if thi laik like thi did agin City last week.’
Tommy changes the subject from Burnley Football Club to their predicament as volunteer soldiers in Kitchener’s Army. ‘Is’ta still thinkin’ o’ packin’ it in, Mick?’
‘Aye, am reet fed up wi’ it. I want t’feight Germans, not bugger around up ’ere like little lads in t’Boys Brigade.’
‘Well, wi’v med us bed, we’ll ’ave t’lie in it fer now, especially if Cath and Mary go down t’London like they reckon.’
‘Aye, s’pose so. I just wish they’d get on wi’ it.’
Mick Kenny, Tommy Broxup and their comrades in D Company are on exercises high on Widdop Moor above Burnley. They are almost on the Pennine watershed, close to the Yorkshire border. January’s weather has been atrocious. Today is no different, except that at this altitude, almost 1,000 feet, the rain that yet again is soaking the town below is an icy sleet that often turns to thick snow.
With Mick and Tommy in the same platoon are close friends Twaites Haythornthwaite and Vinny Sagar and their mentor, former club steward and local cricketing legend John-Tommy Crabtree.
Following the harrowing reports from France about the appalling conditions in the trenches, D Company’s officers have decided to disperse their men across Lancashire’s bleak moorland in an attempt to prepare them for what they will face at the Front. Not that their deployment overseas is imminent. Their battalion, 11th East Lancs, is still some weeks from going off to their formal military training camp in Caernarvon and months from being deployed to fight.
In command of Mick and Tommy’s platoon are Lieutenant Arnold Tough, an alumnus of Sedbergh School and now a dentist in Accrington, and Captain Raymond St George Ross, an old boy of Giggleswick School and now an analytical chemist in Burnley. Insofar as the primordial chasm between officers and men will allow, Mick and Tommy have become very friendly with Tough and Ross. They know each other from local sport, where they played together as equals, and all are passionate about football and cricket. Tough and Ross love boxing and especially contemporary legend Bob Fitzsimmons, and are teaching renowned street-brawlers Mick and Tommy how to fight within the gentlemanly rules of the Marquess of Queensberry.
Not far away, doing their rounds of the various platoons of volunteers, are previously retired regular training officers Serjeants Jimmy Severn and George Lee, both Englishmen, and Andrew Muir, a Scot, who has just returned from compassionate leave after losing his son, John, at the Battle of Mons. They are trying to bring military discipline to unruly weavers and colliers and to instil in them the ability to fight and kill. Most men take to it, some do not; either way, the regime demands obedience and that they do their duty for King and country.
The men of the battalion are camping in canvas tents and cooking on open fires. They have carried their own packs and equipment on to the moor and, other than the proximity of their homes and the fact that they have been spared the waterlogged trenches, the conditions are not too dissimilar from the rigours of the Front in Flanders. To make matters even more authentic, orders to start digging slit trenches have been issued, with a promise that the men will be lying in them for most of tomorrow, no matter what the weather brings.
John-Tommy Crabtree comes over to where Mick and Tommy are standing. ‘You two moitherin’ agin?’
Tommy is quick to respond. ‘Aye, we are, John-Tommy. Aren’t you? Look at me: ave got icicles on me ’tash; I can’t feel me toes, an’ me fingers ’ave gone blue. Other than that, am reet as ninepunce!’
‘Tha moans t’much, our Tommy. As’ta read t’casualty figures in t’Burnley Express?’
‘Aye.’
‘It’s them lads at t’Front who ’ave a reet t’moan. Think on that – every bit as wet an’ cald as us, but much worse, fer days on end; no Keighley Green an’ a pint o’ Massey’s of a neet fer them. An’ wi’ thousands o’ Germans tryin’ to blow their heeds off or put a bayonet in their bellies. Think on, our Tommy, and you, Mick.’
Both Tommy and Mick look a little sheepish. They would not take such a rebuke from many men, but John-Tommy is different. He has earned the right. Warming to his paternal task, he points to the platoon’s two officers. ‘Sken yon two, Tough an’ Ross. They look like a pair o’ school officer cadets, but don’t be fooled. They luv it, the harder the better; they’ll match yer in any test you like. Think on, both o’ ya. Proper men, those two. Gents, but ’ard as nails.’
Tommy nods in agreement. ‘Aye, they’re alreet. Don’t mind bein’ led b’men like them lads. Mick an’ me call ’em Rough an’ Toss.’
‘ ’Ow’s t’boxin’ comin’ on?’
‘Alreet. Mick gets it better than I do. I reckon it won’t be long afore he fettles Serjeant Severn.’
‘That’s summat I’d like to see if it ’appens!’
The next morning, a bitterly cold Sunday, when it is just possible to hear the church bells of nearby Worsthorne, the Pals complete their slit trenches. The sky is crystal clear and deep blue; the moorland air is breathtakingly pure. But it has snowed heavily overnight and the ground is covered by a half-foot-thick blanket, glistening as if littered by thousands of gemstones.
Clothed only in their uniforms and greatcoats, the men of D Company, just like their equivalents in France, spend the day simulating the mindless monotony of manning trenches. Tommy is not impressed.
‘I reckoned marchin’ up an’ down on t’rec wer bollocks, but this is fuckin’ worse. Me knob’s shrivelled up like a prune. I’ll ne’er produce childer at this rate!’
Mick is also unimpressed by their circumstances but is full of admiration for the men in the trenches at the Front, knowing what they have to endure.
‘By ’eck, Tommy, thi reckon t’trenches at the Front are eight feet deep, ’alf full o’ water, an’ run frae English Channel fer ’undreds o’ miles; ferther than fra’ ’ere t’London. Fuck me, that’s a lotta diggin’, even fer top colliers!’
‘Is ta sayin’ we should be countin’ us blessin’s?’
/> Mick smiles ruefully. ‘Aye, s’pose I am. Reckon t’trainin’ is a piece o’ piss compared to wot them lads are puttin’ up wi’.’
Then comes a welcome relief in the monotony. The orders are given for target practice for each platoon. Numerous oil drums are placed at intervals of 200, 400 and 600 yards. Three ‘mad minutes’ of firing are ordered for each set of targets, with a prize of a half-day’s leave for the most accurate platoon. The noise is heard echoing around the moors for miles around.
‘John-Tommy’s Platoon’, as it is known to the lads, manages to exceed an average of twelve rounds per man for each target and is by some margin the most accurate. To everyone’s surprise, Twaites proves to be the best shot, followed by John-Tommy, whose eye for a cricket ball stands him in good stead. The winning platoon opts to take its prize the following Saturday afternoon, when Burnley will be at home in the FA Cup against Southend at Turf Moor.
After the target practice competition, the temperature plummets as the sun begins to fall rapidly to the horizon, but to the relief of all concerned orders arrive from Captain George Slinger, Battalion Adjutant, that the exercise is over. Lieutenant Arnold Tough confirms the command.
‘Right, lads, if you get a move on, you can fill your bellies with a gallon of ale before closing time. Serjeant Muir, get them on their way!’
Three hours later, after a rapid march which ends in darkness and still in their uniforms, Keighley Green Working Men’s Club is full of 11th Battalion volunteers. The men are trying their best to respond to Lieutenant Tough’s invitation to fill their bellies with Massey’s ale. They have been joined by Tommy’s wife, Mary, and Mick’s wife, Cath. Mary pulls no punches with her menfolk.
‘You buggers stink; tha smells like tha’s been livin’ in a pigsty!’
Tommy is indignant. ‘Nay, our Mary, if we’d loitered t’ave a wash, we’d ’ave lost good drinkin’ time! It’s no good bein’ clean an’ thirsty; much better t’smell like a badger than be as thirsty as a parched donkey!’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 8