But enough. I shall not recount how I was arrested, nor tell of my subsequent ordeals. Suffice it to say that it cost me incredible patience and effort to get back abroad, and that, ever since, I have foresworn carrying out commissions entrusted one by the insanity of others.
NOTE: The unfortunate narrator notices a shop sign and realizes he is not in the Russia of his past but in the Russia of the Soviets: what gives it away is the absence of one letter which used to decorate the end of words after consonants but is now omitted in the reformed orthography.
Vladimir Nabokov
3
Phantom Ranks
Supernatural at War
The Bowmen
Arthur Machen
Location: Mons, France.
Time: August, 1914.
Eyewitness Description: “He saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the German hosts . . .”
Author: Arthur Machen (1863–1947), born Arthur Llewellyn Jones in Caerleon, Wales, fell in love with London as a young man and moved to the capital to try and earn his living as a writer. For years he lived in a shabby rented room, existing on “dry bread, green tea and tobacco”, churning out journalism and short stories until he accidentally found fame with this story about cut-off British troops being rescued from the Germans by a ghostly St George and his archers from Agincourt. The story was published in the London Evening News and, despite Machen’s insistence that it was purely imaginary, rapidly became regarded as true and the centre of a legend that has persisted to this day. So entrenched did belief in the “account” become, that claims were even made that the corpses of dead Prussian soldiers had actually been found at Mons, their bodies pierced by arrow wounds. “The Bowmen” has subsequently often been cited as fact in histories of the supernatural as well as inspiring a virtual library of “faction” ghost stories set during wartime.
It was during the Retreat of the Eighty Thousand, and the authority of the Censorship is sufficient excuse for not being more explicit. But it was on the most awful day of that awful time, on the day when rain and disaster came so near that their shadow fell over London far away; and, without any certain news, the hearts of men failed within them and grew faint; as if the agony of the army in the battlefield had entered into their souls.
On this dreadful day, then, when three hundred thousand men in arms with all their artillery swelled like a flood against the little English company, there was one point above all other points in our battle line that was for a time in awful danger, not merely of defeat, but of utter annihilation. With the permission of the Censorship and of the military expert, this corner may, perhaps, be described as a salient, and if this angle were crushed and broken, then the English force as a whole would be shattered, the Allied left would be turned, and Sedan would inevitably follow.
All the morning the German guns had thundered and shrieked against this corner, and against the thousand or so of men who held it. The men joked at the shells, and found funny names for them, and had bets about them, and greeted them with scraps of music-hall songs. But the shells came on and burst, and tore good Englishmen limb from limb, and tore brother from brother, and as the heat of the day increased so did the fury of that terrific cannonade. There was no help, it seemed. The English artillery was good, but there was not nearly enough of it; it was being steadily battered into scrap iron.
There comes a moment in a storm at sea when people say to one another, “It is at its worst; it can blow no harder,” and then there is a blast ten times more fierce than any before it. So it was in these British trenches.
There were no stouter hearts in the whole world than the hearts of these men; but even they were appalled as this seven-times-heated hell of the German cannonade fell upon them and overwhelmed them and destroyed them. And at this very moment they saw from their trenches that a tremendous host was moving against their lines. Five hundred of the thousand remained, and as far as they could see the German infantry was pressing on against them, column upon column, a grey world of men, ten thousand of them, as it appeared afterwards.
There was no hope at all. They shook hands, some of them. One man improvised a new version of the battlesong, “Good-bye, goodbye to Tipperary,” ending with “And we shan’t get there.” And they all went on firing steadily. The officers pointed out that such an opportunity for high-class, fancy shooting might never occur again; the Germans dropped line after line; the Tipperary humorist asked, “What price Sidney Street?” And the few machine guns did their best. But everybody knew it was of no use. The dead grey bodies lay in companies and battalions, as others came on and on and on, and they swarmed and stirred and advanced from beyond and beyond.
“World without end. Amen,” said one of the British soldiers with some irrelevance as he took aim and fired. And then he remembered – he says he cannot think why or wherefore – a queer vegetarian restaurant in London where he had once or twice eaten eccentric dishes of cutlets made of lentils and nuts that pretended to be steak. On all the plates in this restaurant there was printed a figure of St George in blue, with the motto, Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius – May St George be a present help to the English. This soldier happened to know Latin and other useless things, and now, as he fired at his man in the grey advancing mass – 300 yards away – he uttered the pious vegetarian motto. He went on firing to the end, and at last Bill on his right had to clout him cheerfully over the head to make him stop, pointing out as he did so that the King’s ammunition cost money and was not lightly to be wasted in drilling funny patterns into dead Germans.
For as the Latin scholar uttered his invocation he felt something between a shudder and an electric shock pass through his body. The roar of the battle died down in his ears to a gentle murmur; instead of it, he says, he heard a great voice and a shout louder than a thunder-peal crying, “Array, array, array!”
His heart grew hot as a burning coal, it grew cold as ice within him, as it seemed to him that a tumult of voices answered to his summons. He heard, or seemed to hear, thousands shouting: “St George! St George!”
“Ha! messire; ha! sweet Saint, grant us good deliverance!”
“St George for merry England!”
“Harow! Harow! Monseigneur St George, succour us.”
“Ha! St George! Ha! St George! a long bow and a strong bow.”
“Heaven’s Knight, aid us!”
And as the soldier heard these voices he saw before him, beyond the trench, a long line of shapes, with a shining about them. They were like men who drew the bow, and with another shout their cloud of arrows flew singing and tingling through the air towards the German hosts.
The other men in the trench were firing all the while. They had no hope; but they aimed just as if they had been shooting at Bisley.
Suddenly one of them lifted up his voice in the plainest English.
“Gawd help us!” he bellowed to the man next to him, “but we’re blooming marvels! Look at those grey . . . gentlemen, look at them! D’ye see them? They’re not going down in dozens, nor in ’undreds; it’s thousands, it is. Look! look! there’s a regiment gone while I’m talking to ye.”
“Shut it!” the other soldier bellowed, taking aim, “what are ye gassing about?”
But he gulped with astonishment even as he spoke, for, indeed, the grey men were falling by the thousands. The English could hear the guttural scream of the German officers, the crackle of their revolvers as they shot the reluctant; and still line after line crashed to the earth.
All the while the Latin-bred soldier heard the cry:
“Harow! Harow! Monseigneur, dear saint, quick to our aid! St George help us!”
“High Chevalier, defend us!”
The singing arrows fled so swift and thick that they darkened the air; the heathen horde melted from before them.
“More machine guns!” Bi
ll yelled to Tom.
“Don’t hear them,” Tom yelled back. “But, thank God, anyway; they’ve got it in the neck.”
In fact, there were ten thousand dead German soldiers left before that salient of the English army, and consequently there was no Sedan. In Germany, a country ruled by scientific principles, the Great General Staff decided that the contemptible English must have employed shells containing an unknown gas of a poisonous nature, as no wounds were discernible on the bodies of the dead German soldiers. But the man who knew what nuts tasted like when they called themselves steak knew also that St George had brought his Agincourt Bowmen to help the English.
The Ghost of U65
George Minto
Location: Wilhelmshaven, Germany.
Time: Spring, 1917.
Eyewitness Description: “At 4.30 exactly the starboard look-out was amazed to see a figure in officer’s uniform, without coat or oilskins, standing right in the bows, apparently impervious to the seas that burst round him. Then the apparition turned, and, even in the failing light, the stupefied sailor was able to recognize the features of the officer whose pitiful remains lay buried in the naval cemetery . . .”
Author: George Minto (1901–79) was a Scottish writer and naval historian who became fascinated with the “supernatural at war” after reading Arthur Machen’s story and was made aware of the furore that surrounded it in the aftermath of the conflict. He spent much of his working life as a civil servant, although he did see action in the Royal Navy during the Second World War. While at sea, Minto devoted his spare time to researching the “curious and fascinating facts” to be found in the annals of the world’s navies and later began contributing articles to the leading Scottish periodical, Blackwood’s Magazine. He was particularly fascinated by stories that had occurred during the First World War while he was growing up in Glasgow, and when consulting German records came across the following story of a haunted U-Boat. A bit like Machen’s legendary tale of phantom bowmen – though having none of its notoriety – “The Ghost of U65” is an excellent combination of some curious facts and the beguiling art of the storyteller.
I have been a servant of the State for most of my working life and, up till very recently, believed that no Governmental activity, however exotic, could surprise me. The complexity of modern life being what it is, there are few pies untouched by official fingers, and the process, for good and evil, continues apace. Nevertheless, when I learned from cold clear print that the German Admiralty had, within living memory, officially laid a ghost on board, of all things, a brand-new submarine, I confess that I blinked incredulously. Church and State throughout the ages have been closely interwoven, but it is surely unique, certainly in the twentieth century, for the High Command of a great armed service to call upon the clergy to exorcise an unquiet spirit. This actually happened in the spring of 1917, and I have been at some pains, so far as is now possible, to trace and verify this strangest of stories. It must be exceedingly rare for reports of such a nature to be submitted by responsible officers to their superiors, and the Naval Staff in Berlin were, no doubt, puzzled and intrigued. There must have been eager competition in the Marineamt for the papers; for to my mind the haunting of U65 ranks as one of the best authenticated ghost stories of the sea.
In 1915 the naval policy of the Imperial Government had at last been formulated. Briefly, among other weighty matters, it called for a large expansion of submarine construction; for the High Command were gradually coming round to the idea, energetically and perpetually expounded by Grand Admiral von Tirpitz, that the war might well be won by the U-boats. This strategy was particularly congenial to the Kaiser, who was most reluctant to risk his surface ships in an all-out clash with Jellicoe’s Grand Fleet. Accordingly, large contracts were placed with State and private shipyards for submarines, and soon they were sliding down the ways in ever-increasing numbers.
U65, the subject of our story, was one of a class of twenty-four vessels especially designed to operate from the ports of the occupied coast of Flanders. Fully loaded, she displaced five hundred and twelve tons and her diesel engines gave her a surface speed of just under fourteen knots. In commission she was manned by three officers and thirty-one petty officers and men.
Her keel had been laid in the great naval dockyard of Wilhelmshaven in June 1916, and, almost from the first, ill-luck had dogged her construction. A few days after work on her had started she claimed her first victims. A heavy steel girder was being lowered into position when it slipped from the crane tackle and, crashing down on the embryo boat, killed one workman outright and mortally injured another. Accidents are, of course, unhappily frequent in all places of heavy labour, but it was a bad beginning for a new ship. Her reputation as unlucky was luridly enhanced a few months later when three men were suffocated in her engine-room by poisonous fumes. U65 had cost five men their lives even before she put to sea.
Her trial trip was equally marked by tragedy. Meeting very heavy weather in the Heligoland Bight, she lost one seaman overboard, and only chance prevented the loss of two more. Nor was that the whole tale of the trials (in both senses); for U65 came near to killing her entire complement when she submerged for diving tests a few hours later. A serious leak developed in one of the forward ballast-tanks, and it was over half a day before she could be persuaded to surface again. Meanwhile the flood water had reached the giant batteries and, releasing deadly gases, almost asphyxiated every man aboard. When, at last, she emerged on to the surface, two-thirds of the technicians and crew were unconscious and the remainder violently sick and ill. Two died in hospital soon after getting ashore. Eight lives was now U65’s melancholy score.
However, the necessary repairs were made and a second series of trials passed off without any noteworthy incident. Early in February 1917 she was officially accepted for the Imperial Navy and Oberleutnant Karl Honig was appointed in command. He was a Regular officer of experience and high reputation in the submarine service, and one marked out for accelerated promotion in the future. He appears to have been quite satisfied with his command, and his Letter of Proceedings after the first operational cruise makes no mention of any constructional defects.
Unhappily, though the word gremlin was unknown in the First World War, there was a very evil one lurking in the shapely grey hull of U65. A few days after her return to Wilhelmshaven she was hoisting in torpedoes when a war-head exploded, blowing five men, including the Second Officer, into fragments of humanity. Nine others received serious injuries. A court of enquiry was unable to discover the cause of the disaster, and returned the German version of the verdict “Act of God”.
A few weeks later, while still in port, the post-luncheon calm of the wardroom was rudely disturbed when a white-faced seaman dashed in shouting, “Herr Kapitan, the dead Second Officer has come aboard!” Such a breach of the iron Prussian discipline must have, thought the shocked Captain Honig, some rational explanation, and, selecting the most obvious, he taxed the sailor sternly with being drunk. But the man seemed perfectly sober, albeit terrified, and repeated the story that he had seen the dead officer mount the gangplank to board the ship. Deeply puzzled but thoroughly sceptical, the Commanding Officer picked up his cap, and, followed by his subordinates, climbed on deck. It was a perfect spring afternoon, and a less likely time to see ghosts could hardly be imagined. Nevertheless he was amazed to find another seaman called Petersen crouching behind the conning-tower in an extremity of terror. In response to a barked order this man pulled himself together sufficiently to stammer that he, too, had seen the dead officer come aboard, salute and walk forward to the bows, there to vanish into thin air.
Like a good officer, Honig was determined to get to the bottom of an incident so obviously dangerous to the morale of his crew. A doctor was called, and certified that both men were sane and sober; then Honig interrogated them strictly about what they had seen. They were unshaken in their separate yet similar accounts, and since they both bore excellent characters, their puzzled ca
ptain had to accept the fact that they had at any rate seen someone or something. For a little he toyed with the idea that some misguided humorist had perpetrated a practical joke in the worst possible taste, and vowed grimly that the joker, if detected, would be sorry. He decided to seek the discreet help of the Chief of the Dockyard Police, and that officer, sworn to secrecy, made very thorough enquiries. They all led to nothing, and it seemed clear that practical joking could be ruled out. More puzzled and more than a little worried, Honig reported the strange incident to his Flotilla Captain, who put the matter down to the over-strained nerves of tired men. The incident, however, had, as Honig had feared, made a serious and distressing impression on his crew, who were now convinced that the submarine and her company were doomed. The day before she sailed on her next cruise Seaman Petersen deserted, and, so far as is known, was never apprehended by the naval authorities.
In due course U65 left her home port, and her next two forays against Allied shipping were moderately successful. Seven ships were sunk, and Captain Honig may well have thought that his superior’s explanation had been correct. His subordinates were not so cheerful, for they were uneasy and depressed. The story of the ghost at Wilhelmshaven had lost nothing in the telling, and a number of the men swore that the boat was haunted. At least three officially reported that they had seen an unknown officer walk into the torpedo-room, from which he did not emerge.
The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories Page 23