‘So, wot yer doin’ up ’ere?’
‘Liverpool Scottish is my regiment. When I heard they were part of the push today, I took leave from Pop-Hop to set up this dressing station. Good job I did: we’ve had a lot of casualties.’
‘Bad is it, sir?’
‘Terrible, Colour. By my calculations, I’m the only officer left from those I came over with last year, and that’s because I’ve been at Pop-Hop most of the time.’
‘So, sir, what ’ave I done to meself?’
‘Can’t you remember?’
‘Can’t say I do, sir. Everything went black; I just keeled over.’
‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been machine-gunned in several places. One through your right forearm, one through the right thigh, another under your collarbone, and one hit you on top of the head. You must have a thick skull, because it appears to have bounced off! You have a bit of a hole where your parting ought to be.’
‘Bloody Nora. I was lucky then.’
‘Very fortunate: no arteries hit, no major damage to bones or vital organs, but you’re going home, that’s for sure. You’ll be invalided out to Blighty in due course.’
‘No, sir, not for me. Wot the ’ell am a’ gonna do at ’ome when every other bugger’s out ’ere fightin’?’
‘But you’ll be a hero and get a good pension.’
‘Bollocks. Excuse my language, sir, but wot’s the good o’ that if Fritz is marchin’ up an’ down Piccadilly by Christmas!’
‘Do you mean you don’t want to go home?’
‘Correct, Doc. Can’t you patch me up and get me some lovin’ care from some of your lovely nurses till I get better?’
‘Well, most men go home with half the wounds you’ve got – plus, it’s expensive on staff and resources to fill up beds in France when there are plenty of convalescent hospitals back home. Besides that, your recovery will be long and painful. Then it will be back in those awful trenches. Have you got the bottom for that?’
‘I ’ave, Doc. Better than bein’ wheeled up Leyton High Street in an invalid’s wheelchair bein’ kissed by old ladies with stubble on their chins.’
‘But what will I do with you here?’
‘Wot abaht one of them nice little ’ospitals on the coast. I hear Boulogne is nice an’ dandy this time of year.’
Chavasse smiles. He finds Harry’s attitude heart-warming. ‘It will take three or four months to get you into a state so that you can go into the line. Let me have a think about it.’
‘Thanks, Doc.’
Harry turns to Maurice. ‘So wot about your lot, Mo?’
‘Blown to buggery by our own artillery.’
‘Fuck me! All of them?’
‘Most of them.’
‘And the attack?’
‘Not sure.’
Chavasse, who is still examining Harry’s wounds, answers for Harry. ‘Well, it looks like we have gained some higher ground, but at a very high price. At this rate, every man in Britain and the empire will have to be sacrificed to get us to the German border, never mind Berlin.’ He pauses. ‘The last man I agreed not to send home was Hywel Thomas, the sniper you met. He’s now back to killing Germans in large numbers, so perhaps I should do as you ask.’
Maurice cuts in. ‘I think you should, sir. ’Arry is very good at killin’ Fritzes; he’s got a DCM an’ bar for it.’
‘Really? A double DCM; then that settles it. It’s recuperation by the sea in Boulogne for you, Colour. I’ll sort it with your colonel.’
‘Thank you, sir, but yer’ll ’ave to wait till we get a new one – we’re gettin’ through ’em like hot cakes. Colonel Hely-Hutchinson is going home, seriously wounded.’
‘You make it sound like a curse, Colour.’
‘Your words, not mine, sir.’
Wednesday 30 June
Rugeley Camp, Penkridge Bank, Cannock Chase, Staffordshire
John-Tommy Crabtree and Tommy Broxup had left Caernarvon on 13 May. It was a sad parting on both sides. The Lancastrians and the North Walians had grown fond of one another. There had been no trouble, no incidents, a little drunkenness but nothing to threaten the harmony between the Royal Duchy and the principality. In fact, there was more than one tender embrace on the platform of Caernarvon Station to signify the warmth that had been generated between the locals and the visitors. Handkerchiefs and Union flags were waved, cheers were bellowed and songs sung. There were also a few tears, not least those shed by the local publicans, hoteliers and retailers, whose recent income will now be matched only by a bumper summer season of holidaymakers.
After a parade in Castle Square it took two hours to get the massed ranks of the Accrington Pals on to their trains for the Midlands. Colonel Rickman led the way, with Battalion Serjeant Major Jimmy Shorrock keeping the men in proper marching order.
Little was ready for them at Rugeley. The land has been given to the war effort by Lord Lichfield and an army of carpenters had built wooden accommodation huts, but when the Pals arrived there was no running water or electricity. It also rained for three days, in contrast with Caernarvon, where the weather had been searingly hot. The men did not like the remote location, there were no pubs nearby to quench their thirst in and no local girls to catch their eye.
Their only company is other Pals Battalions. Two battalions of Barnsley Pals are also residents, as are the Sheffield City lads. There are few distractions. A heath fire on Whit Sunday, 23 May, threatened the entire camp and took 4,000 men eight hours to put out and damp down. Football has been a godsend. Z Company, the new designation for the Burnley men, has swept all before it and, with seven players in the battalion team, the Accy Pals beat the Barnsley men 2–1 in front of 500 spectators. Many men have taken advantage of Whit Weekend railway passes to go home to their loved ones but, with Mary away in France, Tommy decided to stay in camp. John-Tommy did take up the offer and went home to Wynotham Street to see his wife, Mary, and their children, Jack and baby daughter, Eileen.
Perhaps the highlight of their first few weeks at Rugeley occurred on 31 May, when a ceremonial parade in front of Brigadier General Bowles was held on the parade ground to mark the formal handover of the battalion to the War Office. It did not mean that the Pals were ready to fight at the Front, but it did mean they were now regular professional soldiers. Everyone was very proud, especially John Harwood, Mayor of Accrington, who had launched the battalion almost nine months earlier.
Following a route worked out by the thirstier men at the camp, Tommy and John-Tommy have walked the mile and a quarter across the Chase to the Horns Inn on Slitting Mill Lane, the nearest pub. It is an easy walk in daylight, but less so at night, when a Tilley lamp is required to illuminate the whitewashed tree trunks painted by the battalion’s more resourceful drinkers.
‘Not a bad drop this draught Bass, John-Tommy?’
‘Aye, not bad, but gimme a pint o’ Massey’s any day o’ t’week.’
‘ ’Ow were Wynotham Street an’ t’family?’
‘Champion, thanks, Tommy. Little Eileen’s doin’ alreet; she’ll be a year old this next September.’
‘Why do’st thi call it Wynotham Street?’
‘No bugger ’as any idea. Mary reckons tha’s an old wives’ tale that, years ago, one o’ Burnley’s mayors went to a civic reception where thi served cheese sandwiches instead o’ ’am and ’e were supposed to ’ave shouted out, “Why not ham!” Thi reckon t’story went in t’Burnley Express and it stuck. Later that year, t’Town Council were voting on street names an’ every bugger thought it were a good idea.’
‘Do’st yer believe it?’
‘Not a word – it’s all eyewash!’
‘I ’ear we’re off to a new camp soon.’
‘Wheer’s that?’
‘Ripon.’
‘Bollocks, that’s in Yorkshire. Can’t be doin ’wi’ that; it’s full o’ Tykes.’
‘Well, at least wi can gi’ ’em a hiding at cricket.’
‘An’ football.’
<
br /> ‘Aye, tha’s reet. Tha’s nowt like beatin’ a Tyke to remind ’im who’s Cock o’ t’North.’
The Horns is full of soldiers, Lancastrians and Yorkshiremen, and the volume of the conversation is getting louder and louder as the evening wears on and the level of alcohol consumption rises. A popular local down a country road, it is usually full of farmers and agricultural labourers and men from the slitting mill nearby. Although the locals are annoyed by the commotion created by the boisterous northerners, they forgive them for the sake of King and country and, in the main, only sit and scowl at them. The landlord, on the other hand, is more than happy to share in the men’s King’s shillings and keeps his doors open as long as the Staffordshire Constabulary will allow.
Colonel Rickman’s training regime has extended to the digging of trenches, and mock-battles to attack and defend them. The heavy rain that often falls on the Chase has added to their resemblance to the real thing at the Front, much to the enhancement of the men’s pride in being ‘proper soldiers’.
Tommy takes a deep swig of his draught Bass. ‘At least our trainin’s lookin’ up. RSM Shorrock sez it’s just like reel thing at t’Front.’
‘Mebbe, but we get to go ’ome for a wash an’ a kip at neet.’
John-Tommy changes the subject. ‘As’ta ’eard fra’ Mary?’
‘Not much. I got a letter to say she were in St O’Mare, or some such place, drivin’ lorries, buses an’ ambulances an’ t’like.’
‘And Cath?’
‘Aye, they’re workin’ together.’
‘Wonder ’ow Mick an t’lads are goin’ on?’
‘ ’Spect they’re chasin’ t’French lasses a merry dance.’
‘Don’t expect we’ll get a letter fra’ them.’
‘Reckon not; not one fer letters, our Mick.’
The beer has had the desired effect on Tommy and John-Tommy.
‘Come on, lad. Let’s be on our way across that heath, wi’v a battle to feight t’morn.’
‘Aye, Le Cateau agin – Rickman loves it: “Hold the line men, stand firm; give them another mad minute.” “Triumph of British Musketry!” He just loves it, old Rickman.’
Part Seven: July
* * *
FLAMMENWERFER
Saturday 3 July
Marble Lodge, Blair Atholl Estate, Perthshire
The Stewart-Murrays of Blair Atholl have gathered together for a rare family weekend, but not at Blair Castle. The old duke has refused to leave the security of Marble Lodge, Maud Grant’s humble estate cottage. So, cooked on her small kitchen range, Saturday lunch is being served by the redoubtable Mrs Grant, the duke’s only comfort in the depths of his melancholy.
High up Glen Tilt, Marble Lodge in July presents a fine picture of the Glens in all their glory. Red kites and golden eagles soar overhead, and the green of the hillsides is so bright it almost assaults the eyes. The Tilt river teems with salmon and the hill lochs with brown trout, making Mrs Grant’s choice of lunch menu a predictable process.
‘Lady Helen, will you ask everybody to come through and help themselves. It’s all arranged on the kitchen table,’ she says.
‘Thank you, Mrs Grant, but please call me Helen. This is a family gathering.’
Lady Helen’s comment makes Maud smile. Calling the lunch a ‘family gathering’ is tantamount to normalizing Mrs Grant’s relationship with Helen’s father, an acceptance that has taken a long time.
After the family have helped themselves to oven-baked salmon with tarragon, homemade fresh bread and butter and home-grown salad, they spread themselves around the fire in the lodge’s tiny sitting room. Bardie has brought up some dry white Gewürztraminer from the castle cellars and pours out a glass for everyone.
There is an embarrassing pregnant pause as everyone thinks about how to start the ‘family’ conversation. Bardie decides he ought to be first.
‘Father, any more news from Hamish?’
The duke, closest to the crackling fire that is kept lit all year round, is well wrapped up in a pullover and scarf, even though it is a warm summer’s day. He would have preferred not to go through the ordeal of the gathering but has been forced into it by Helen’s and Maud’s insistence that he must resume his duties as head of the clan and the family. It is now three months since the death of Geordie became a brutal reality for the family, but the most titled man in the land still has not come to terms with it.
‘He’s been transferred to some god-forsaken place called Bischofswerda, in Bohemia. He could not be further away; it’s apparently far to the east, near the Czech and Polish borders.’
‘But very agreeable in the summer, Iain.’
Maud, as always, tries to get the Duke to look at things positively.
‘I suppose so. He says the food and sanitation are much improved, but they have few orderlies so are having to do everything for themselves.’
‘That won’t do him any harm.’
David Tod, Lady Helen’s fiancé, whose politics are significantly more radical than those of the family he is marrying into, cannot resist making this pointed remark – much to the annoyance of Dertha’s husband, Colonel Harold Ruggles-Brise. He is not an aristocrat by birth but is very pleased with himself for having married one.
‘You do talk rot, David. Do you have a housekeeper in your Edinburgh flat?’
‘I do, but I can, and do, iron my own shirts and polish my own shoes. I don’t need a servant to do those things for me.’
‘More fool you!’
‘Who would like some more?’ Maud gets up to change the subject. ‘I’ve made us a raspberry cranachan and been generous with the whisky. And, as this is a family gathering, Iain asked me to make a jug of Atholl Brose, and again I’ve not been mean with Blair’s own malt.’
The duke’s mood has not improved. ‘Inglis wrote to me a fortnight ago to tell me that the army tents we’ve allowed on the Black Island might be visible from Blair’s drawing-room window. I told him to tell the regimental quartermaster concerned that he had to move them forthwith, or I would come down personally and stick my 12-bore up his arse – bloody cheek! Then he told me that our chief clerk is joining the Seaforths. Yesterday was his last day. Inglis says that, because of the war, he might have to get a woman in to do the bookkeeping. What’s the world coming to!’
Helen tries to soothe her father and goes to sit on the floor next to his chair. ‘Papa, there is a war on, and I’m sure most women can add and subtract just as well as men.’
‘Helen, I know only too well that women can do arithmetic. Your mother was a genius at adding up her allowance and knew to the penny how much I should write a cheque for to cover her debts at Binns of Edinburgh. That’s not the point: a woman will be a bad influence in the estate office; if the young office boys get a sniff of her quim they’ll not be able to concentrate.’
‘Father, don’t be so disgusting!’
‘It is disgusting, I agree, but the smell of a woman in heat is a fact of life; like stags and does in the forest. And, by the way, I know there’s a war on. I’ve lost two sons in it – have you forgotten?’
The old man’s eyes fill with tears and he starts to rock in his chair. Dertha rushes over to help Helen comfort their father.
Bardie jumps to his feet. ‘Father, let me get you some cranny and brose. I know they’re your favourites.’
The duke tries to compose himself. ‘No, thanks, Bardie. The wine’s gone to my head. I think I’ll go and lie down for a while. I hope it was a French Gewurzi not a Hun one?’
‘Good point. I didn’t think.’
Bardie grabs the bottle. ‘Bugger me, it is a Rolly Gassmann – bloody German!’
‘Pour the rest in the Tilt, Bardie. I can’t have Hun wine on our tables when the bastards are killing my family and putting them in prison camps!’
Maud takes the duke up to bed, after which everyone settles down to enjoy the raspberry cranachan.
‘Bloody good, Mrs Grant.’
‘Thank
you, Colonel Ruggles-Brise. Please call me Maud.’
‘Only if you promise to call me Harry. My name is such a mouthful.’
Ruggles-Brise turns to Bardie. ‘The old boy is very lucky to have such peace and quiet up here, to say nothing of Maud’s cooking. Talking of peace and quiet, how’s your Scotty Horse in Northumberland? I thought there was talk of a posting overseas?’
‘There was. I assume it was Gallipoli, but nothing came of it – very dull.’
‘Don’t know, old boy. I think you’re well out of it. I’m told it’s a buggers’ muddle, with Delhi Belly thrown in for good measure.’
‘Well, I’m sure Kitchener will get it sorted now that Winston’s heavy hand’s not on the tiller at the Admiralty.’
‘Not a fan?’
‘I am, actually, he’s a good man, although he rather forgot the promises he made over the aeroplanes we built up here. But he’s a politician with dreams of being a general. I prefer them like Wellington, who did it the other way round.’
‘I agree. Lloyd George is the same. Now he’s interfering with munitions. The boys at the War Office know what they’re about, but he’s got his hooks into them. Mark my words, Asquith will be next; the little Welsh socialist will be Prime Minister soon. God help us all – we’ll be taxed to buggery.’
‘Well, it won’t be Winston in Downing Street. I suspect he’s blown his chances for good now.’
Harry leans forward so that no one can overhear. ‘How are you and Kitty getting along? Any better?’
‘Not really. I’m afraid I’m still partial to a bit of rough and ready, if you know what I mean. There are a couple of game girls near Blagdon I see from time to time. One, in particular, loves a hard ride on the moors, which loosens her loins somewhat, then she enjoys an even harder ride in the stables afterwards. And I’m pretty sure Kitty’s got someone in London. She gets very scrubbed when she leaves for the train and is full of vim when she comes back. So we’re both quite grown up about it.’
‘What do you make of Mr Tod, the grocer who’s soon to be your brother-in-law?’
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