by David Hough
“Awkward. Look here, old chap, women don’t usually cope well with aeroplanes.”
“Women are already doing great things in this war.”
“On the ground, old boy. On the ground. Who is this old lady?
DeBoise leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It’s the Countess of Birkensaft.”
Polmassick’s face creased into a deep frown. “That old lady? Good heavens, man! You want to bring her out in an aeroplane?”
“Could you do it?”
“Me?”
“I’d trust you before anyone else.”
The pilot thought for a moment. “It’s possible, I suppose. Risky, but possible. Of course, we’d need two aircraft if we were to bring Captain Wendel back here with the old Countess.”
“Can that be done?”
They both paused when the waitress returned with DeBoise’s food. They waited until she was well away from the table before they continued the discussion.
“You’re asking a lot, Lieutenant.” Polmassick sipped slowly at his coffee. “I’d have to clear it with my Wing Commander, especially if we’re going to send in two machines. When would you want us to go in?”
“Can’t be sure at the moment. I’ll have to go back to Ypres and check on the situation at the front. I would need to know where the main battle line is at the moment. I could send you a message as soon as I think the moment is right. Assuming you’ll do it, of course.”
“You know, the Countess of Birkensaft has a bad reputation. They say she’s in cahoots with Prince Rupprecht.”
“Yes. I know.” And it was one more black mark he was able to put against the noble name of von Birkensaft.
The old lady would be a problem, but her grandson might be far more dangerous. Should he warn the pilot? No, on balance he decided not to reveal all he knew about Pierre von Birkensaft. It wasn’t as if he had asked Lieutenant Commander Polmassick to bring the boy out of Gheluvelt.
“All right.” The naval pilot wiped his napkin across his mouth. “Finish your breakfast and I’ll drive you out to the aerodrome. We’ll see if we can clear this with my Wing Commander before you go back to Ypres.”
*
It was midday before they were able to make contact with the naval Wing Commander. Persuading him to agree to the task was easier than DeBoise expected. Maybe it was Cumming’s name that did the trick, or the fact that a Belgian royal was involved. What military commander would, or could, refuse to help a member of the royal family escape from the clutches of the German army?
An hour later, Lieutenant Commander Polmassick drove DeBoise back to the Dunkerque quayside. There was little more to be discussed so DeBoise thanked him and hurried across the cobbles looking for a vehicle heading towards Ypres. He approached a motor lorry with large red crosses painted on the tarpaulin sides. A young woman wearing a heavy greatcoat sat in the driving seat. Her silky black hair was barely hidden beneath an officer’s field cap. He wondered where she had found it, and how she got away with wearing it. The vehicle engine was idling, but there seemed to be no one else aboard.
“Where are you going, miss?” DeBoise leaned into the cab.
“Ypres, sir. Have to pick up some more wounded from the field hospital and bring them back here for evacuation.”
“Mind if I ride with you?”
“I’m not sure if I’m supposed to take passengers.”
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
“All right, if you don’t mind the smell.” The young woman looked over her shoulder. “I had to carry some men with nasty injuries on the way here. Some of them smelt real bad. Not their fault, of course. I’ll scrub the lorry clean at the end of the day.”
“I’ve come across worse smells,” DeBoise conceded and walked round to the passenger seat alongside the woman.
Moments later, she let out the clutch clumsily and the vehicle jolted forward. “Sorry about that, sir. Haven’t been driving long.” She had a well-educated articulate voice and he wondered if she had learned to drive on a country estate at home in England.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’,” he replied. He tried to relax and military formality was something he didn’t need right now.
“Might get sent straight home again if they knew I was getting friendly with an officer.” She grinned and he noticed for the first time how pretty she looked. Almost as pretty as Marie. His heart ached to see Marie again.
“My name is Charles DeBoise.”
She changed gear and the vehicle juddered again. “Can I call you Mister DeBoise? I couldn’t call you Charles, could I?”
“Fair enough,” he said, although he had an inkling she might well have called him Charles at some grand country house ball had they met in happier circumstances. What’s your name?”
“Yolanda. Yolanda Reynolds.”
“Are you one of the FANYs, Yolanda?”
“No.” She swung the ambulance hard left into a busy road. “Munro Ambulance Corps. It was the only organisation I could get into over here. The army still doesn’t like the idea of women driving ambulances, you know. Especially young women like me. They think we’re too flighty.” She laughed lightly as she slowed to negotiate round a long line of marching soldiers and then accelerated ahead of them. “I ask you! Flighty? In a place like this?”
She was right, he silently conceded. Women were doing valuable work on the ground, but they were so limited in their options. They could do good, useful jobs in a virtuous way, as were the likes of Yolanda Reynolds and the volunteer nurses in the field hospitals. Or they could do good, useful work in an immoral way, as were the likes of Brigitte Clostermann and… the thought upset him… Marie Duval.
“Your parents don’t mind what you do here?” he asked.
“Daddy approves, but mummy gets very worried about me.” She glanced sideways at him. “Daddy’s a Major General on Haig’s staff.”
“Major General Reynolds?” He smiled. “I’ve met him. A very obliging officer.”
“He’s a sweetie. He says he’s proud of what I do.”
“I’m sure he has every right to be proud.”
DeBoise rested as best he could on the hard seat and wondered what his own father would make of his war record here in Flanders. If he knew about it. Charles DeBoise had never revealed to his parents the true nature of his military service since leaving the KOHD. And Major General Redvers DeBoise had never asked.
Darkness was falling when the motor ambulance turned into the square at Ypres. It rattled noisily on the cobbles before the girl drew it to a halt in front of the Cloth Hall.
“This all right for you, Mr DeBoise?”
“Perfect.” He thanked the young driver and hurried towards the billet.
Marie was waiting for him in his room.
*
That night DeBoise was plagued with a nightmare. From the start, his senses were overwhelmed by the claustrophobia of a stinking trench and the noise of machine-gun fire.
Oddly, because he had never experienced it in reality, he had a whistle in his mouth, and he was blowing for all he was worth. But he didn’t hear the whistle. All he heard was the relentless rattle of the guns. He stood at the base of a ladder. When he began to climb, the ladder slipped against the trench wall, but he kept going until he was over the top. Then he was in the enemy’s line of fire with only a pistol and a swagger stick to protect him. No protection at all.
Ahead of him, other soldiers were running towards a barrier of smoke and a tangle of barbed wire, and the noise of the enemy guns. He turned to ensure his own men were following him up the ladder.
Come on, you men! Up, up up!
He waved an arm at them, urging them, begging them to follow. A young, baby-faced boy was next to reach the top, his mouth open, his eyes wide. He crouched on the lip of the trench, frozen with abject fear.
It was Billy Donohoe.
Run, Billy! Run!
But Donohoe didn’t run. A bullet hit the youngster in the forehead, smashing open
his skull, stopping him in his tracks. In the space of a second, the noise of battle faded into an eerie silence. No guns, no death cries. And all he saw was the young Irishman’s bloody face. The next man up, an older man, pushed the body out of the way until it fell silently back into the trench.
DeBoise turned towards the enemy and began to walk. In the vivid imagery that filled his head, he was trudging through thick mud that seemed to be grasping at his feet, slowing his progress. Irregular lines of soldiers walked either side of him, each man holding firmly to his rifle but unable to shoot because the enemy was out of sight beyond the smoke. The noise of the shells screaming across the battlefield was deafening almost beyond endurance, but the barrage of machine-gun fire was more frightening. Men fell like hay before a scythe, mown down in droves. The lines became thinner with each passing minute.
He was not going to survive. It wasn’t just an odd thought; it was a massive certainty. He was going to die. And there was nothing he could do about it. Strangely, he felt a wave of acceptance wash over him.
He walked on, noting how few of his men now walked with him. Most were lying in the mud, dead or wounded. He winced as a bullet tore a hole through his right sleeve. Only a grazing shot. The killer bullet had yet to find its target.
But it would. He was certain of it.
Then he saw the enemy guns ahead. They were shooting straight at him.
“No!” DeBoise screamed out the single word. In that same instant, he woke up. He sat upright in the darkness and shivered, his whole body encased in clammy cold sweat.
From close by, Marie’s voice called out to him. “Charles? What’s the matter?” She reached out a hand and clasped at his arm.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He gulped.
It wasn’t nothing. Of course it wasn’t. The machine guns, the trench, the walk out into the enemy’s line of fire… Those vivid images meant something, but what? Were they a foretaste of his own death?
He lay back against his pillow, his breath coming in short heaving sounds.
“Was it a nightmare?” Marie cuddled closer to him. She sounded anxious.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “Just a nightmare. Nothing more than that.”
But he doubted that she believed him. He didn’t believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
DeBoise woke early that morning, residual images of the nightmare still vivid inside his mind. Marie said nothing about it as she dressed, but he caught her eyeing him suspiciously, as if she was wondering whether to question him again. In the event, she kept her thoughts to herself. It was, he thought, best that way.
Daylight had barely broken through an overcast sky when he hurried to the Hôtel de Ville in the hope of a further message from Cumming. Major General Reynolds approached him in the hotel foyer. His uniform looked pristine, even at that early hour.
“Glad you came here, Lieutenant. I was about to send someone to find you. General Haig wants to see you.”
“General Haig? Why, sir?” DeBoise recoiled at the thought of being summoned to Haig’s presence. What had he done wrong?
Reynolds grimaced. “That’s for the General to tell you. You’d better cut along straightaway.”
“You’ve no messages for me from London?”
“None.” Reynolds paused in the act of turning away. “There’s a staff car outside. You can get a lift in it if you hurry.”
General Sir Douglas Haig had moved his headquarters from Hooge Château to the White Château near Hellfire Corner, to the east of Ypres on the Menin Road. It was only a short ride from the town, but it took DeBoise onto the fringe of the battlefield. Troops marched past him along the road towards Gheluvelt, their faces looking resolute. Bedraggled remnants of scarred battalions returned, all semblance of fortitude wrung from them.
DeBoise hurried into the Château and was shown straight in to the General’s presence. Haig looked up from a map he had been studying. His features were hard, worn by the pressures of command.
“Lieutenant DeBoise? How is your father these days?”
“Haven’t heard from him lately, sir.”
“Really? At ease, man. You know why I’ve sent for you?”
“No, sir.” DeBoise found it impossible to adopt an easy stance.
“No one told you? Oh, well, I suppose someone must have forgotten. Look, this is an off-the-record discussion, just for the two of us.” General Haig leaned back in his seat and flapped a flimsy sheet of paper in front of him. He looked at DeBoise with cold reproof. “It’s about this message. If it came from anyone else but Churchill, I wouldn’t be bothering with it. Too many other things on my plate at the present.”
“Yes, sir.” DeBoise frowned. If Churchill was reaching out to Haig for help, it had to be important.
“Churchill has been speaking to the PM and they’re both concerned about this damned Countess at the Château Gheluvelt. You know about the Countess?”
“The Countess of Birkensaft? I know she’s still holed up at the Château, sir, along with her grandson and granddaughter. Captain Wendel went forward to try to get them out.” For the moment he decided not to mention C’s plan to fly the Countess out from Gheluvelt. In hindsight, it sounded like a rather foolish idea. He was already having second thoughts.
Haig sniffed and clicked his tongue. “I know what Wendel was asked to do, and it looks like he’s failed, damn it. Well, it’s all got even more highly political now. Word is that the Kaiser himself has taken an interest in the Countess. He’s near the front line, so our sources tell us. He’s come to see his army retake Ypres. We simply can’t afford for that woman to remain in German hands with the Kaiser there to gloat over it.”
“She’s not a security risk, sir.”
“No, but she’s one hell of a political risk.” Haig leaned forward again. “The damned woman has to be brought back to Ypres for her own safety, whatever it takes. There’s too much at stake here. You know about her brother, the Duke of Rheinham?”
“No, sir.”
“Time you did. He’s leading one of the Bavarian reserve regiments attacking Gheluvelt. Churchill thinks he might try to get the Countess back firmly onto German soil. Wendel probably doesn’t know that, so I want you to make sure he gets the message. Give him all the help you can.”
“Yes, sir.” He hesitated before continuing. “I am making plans to help him get the Countess out of there.”
“On your own?”
“I’ve been promised some help from the RNAS.”
“The Navy?” Haig looked appalled. “Good God, man! This is an army task. You’ll do this with army help or not at all! And you’ll need a lot of help, by God. A lot of help.”
“I think I can manage, sir.” He trembled at the thought of trying to get the Countess to safety along the Menin Road.
“No you can’t, DeBoise. I can’t have you wandering off on your own when so many of our runners are being killed. It’s absolute carnage out there.”
“But I’m making plans to fly the Countess out, sir. I’ve already been in contact with the Royal Naval Air Service at Dunkerque.”
Haig’s face contorted into a deep scowl. “Fly the Countess out? Don’t be ridiculous, man! Fly an old lady out from under the Huns’ noses? Preposterous! No, I have other plans for you.” He straightened in his seat. “Cruikshanks and his Highland Dragoons are in the spearhead of our push towards Menin. I’m going to attach you to the regiment until they get to Gheluvelt.”
“Oh.” DeBoise felt suddenly deflated. The KOHD was the last regiment he would willingly turn to for help.
“Well may you be concerned about that, DeBoise. You didn’t do very well when you were stationed with them in Edinburgh, did you? Your father was ashamed of your efforts. Anyhow, Cruikshanks has lost too many of his officers and now he needs more men. So I’m sending you. What do you think of that? Think you can bring yourself to lead a bunch of Highlanders into battle?”
“Lead them into battle? But I have a more important job to do,
sir. You’ve just told me so.”
Haig let out a long sigh. “Don’t be so dim, man. This will suit both of us. Cruikshanks will be taking his battalion forward to Gheluvelt and you’ll be a damn sight safer going with them than piddling off on your own. It’ll be up to you to see that you break off and reattach yourself to Wendel when you get to the Château. Think you can do that?”
DeBoise took a deep gulp while he considered his options. He was in no position to argue with Haig, and yet he was certain the General’s plan was doomed from the start.
After a moment’s thought, he said, “I’ll give it my best shot, sir.”
“You’ll do more than that, DeBoise. Your father was disappointed in you after your bad show at the Edinburgh barracks. You need to pull your socks up and make him proud of you.”
“Yes, sir.” DeBoise was on the point of reminding Haig of his previous actions behind the enemy lines, but quickly held himself in check. In all probability Haig had no knowledge of that escapade.
“So, be off with you.”
“Very well, sir.” DeBoise shook his head sadly. He drew back his shoulders. “One more thing, sir. I’d like to have Private Donohoe continue under my command.”
“A private? Why? What’s he to you?”
“He’s one of Commander Cumming’s people, sir. He’s been with me in Ypres and I don’t want him pulled off for other tasks. He could be useful to me.”
“Very well.” Haig flapped a hand impatiently. “If you want him, you’ve got him. Now get about your business, man. And remember what I said.” He gave DeBoise a dark, fierce look. “At all costs, the Countess must be brought out.”
*
DeBoise made his way back to the Hôtel de Ville and sought out Major General Reynolds.
He felt angry and frustrated as he asked, “Any more messages for me, sir?”
“Just this one. It’s coded.” Reynolds held out a buff envelope.
DeBoise hurried back to his billet before he opened the envelope and decoded the message.
He showed it to Marie. “This is what C wants from me.”
From Cumming
To DeBoise