Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Niven!” he called the private to him as the idea formed in his head. “You were a tram driver you said.”

  “Yes, sir,” Niven agreed.

  “Do you think you could drive a train?” Ramsay pointed to Carnoy. “That train there?”

  “Jesus.” Niven breathed out slowly. “Sorry, sir. I mean, that’s an interesting plan. You mean to drive it away right under the noses of the Germans?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Niven. Could you drive it?”

  Niven shook his head. “I don’t rightly know, sir. A tram is very different from a train …”

  “I realise that, Niven, but you are the best man we have for the job. Are you game?” Ramsay said sharply, “Come on, man! Give me an answer so we can act before the Germans wake up to the fact that it’s there.”

  “I could try, sir,” Niven said. ‘It has steam up already, I see …”

  “Good man,” Ramsay interrupted him. He raised his voice. “Right, lads. We are going into Carnoy and if things go well we are going home in style. Put a bullet up the spout, ensure your magazines are fully charged and follow me.”

  Once the decision had been made, Ramsay felt a new thrill of excitement. He felt that he had been skulking around, hiding from the Germans, ever since the collapse of the British front line. Now he was going to lead his men straight through the advancing Germans and into a French village to grab a train and drive it towards God only knew where. The feeling of reckless devilment gripped him and for a second he wished he had a piper with him.

  “Right, lads. Keep together, avoid trouble if you can but if Fritz gets in our way, bloody destroy him!”

  That raised a cheer, as he had expected, and when Ramsay stood up straight and began a quick march toward Carnoy, the men fell in step behind him and followed without question.

  The Germans had entered at the south of the village, so Ramsay headed for the north, moving as quickly as he could. As they neared the outlying houses he saw a scattering of dead and wounded men on the ground, and a few dazed-looking German infantrymen.

  “Ignore them,” Ramsay ordered as Cruickshank lifted his rifle. “Push on.” He increased their speed so they were moving at a trot, passing larger formations of Germans who looked bewildered at the sight of a group of khaki-clad men running past them from behind their own lines.

  “Keep moving. Don’t stop for anybody.” Ramsay increased his speed until he was almost running. As they got closer to Carnoy the number of German casualties increased; they passed a long row of bodies, obviously caught by a machine gun, and then a group that a shell had butchered, and all around and in between were individuals and small groups of men in a hundred obscene positions of death.

  The old British positions came into view – sandbagged trenches that had been hastily dug and even more hastily fortified; farm houses and cottages made into strongpoints, machine gun nests marked by piles of shining brass cartridge cases, light artillery emplacements and supply depots.

  There were British casualties now, less than the Germans but still in significant numbers.

  “Too many of our lads here,” McKim said. “Too bloody many.”

  “Not bon,” Niven said. “Not bloody bon at all.”

  “Over there, sir.” Flockhart had dropped to a crouch behind a scatter of sandbags. The others followed him, rifles at the ready. They were on the village side of the defence line, with an area of open ground between them and the cover of the buildings. There was a scattering of dead bodies on the ground, but for some reason the Germans had ignored this section of the line and there were none of the enemy present. Ramsay eyed the distance his men had to cover and wondered if he had brought them so far, only to fail at this hurdle.

  “What do you think, Sergeant? Can we make it?” It went against the grain to ask a sergeant for his opinion, but Ramsay knew it was only common sense to use the experience of a veteran.

  Flockhart scrutinised the open ground. “It’s about eighty yards sir and no cover, save for that broken cart.” He nodded to a farm cart from which one wheel had been broken so it lay on its side, tangled with the remains of a disembowelled horse. “We will be lucky to get halfway without attracting attention, that’s for sure.”

  Ramsay nodded. “Well, Flockhart, we’re not going back.”

  The Prussians were already tidying up the defences, lifting sandbags, checking for discarded weapons and organising burial parties for the dead. Although they had recently seen action, they appeared immaculate and utterly professional.

  “We have to try,” Ramsay decided. “But we won’t go all at once. Keep low and move one at a time,” Ramsay ordered. “The rest will provide covering fire if needed. You first, McKim.”

  Ramsay slid behind the meagre shelter of a waist-high sandbag wall and held his pistol ready as he watched the Prussians at work.

  “Efficient buggers aren’t they, sir?” Flockhart lay on the bottom of the makeshift trench with his rifle ready.

  “So it seems, Sergeant.”

  One by one the Royals slipped out of what little cover they had concealed themselves in and made a lunging run across the open ground towards the first houses of the village. Ramsay watched, counting his men. He knew them all, by name and personality, and now he felt true responsibility toward them.

  These are my men. I want to get them back. I want to prove that I am a good officer after all.

  Ramsay glanced over the men at his side. They were watching the Prussians, aiming through the sights of their rifles. They looked calm, if nervous.

  Good lads, my lads.

  Niven was next to attempt the run. Flockhart tapped his shoulder and nodded toward Carnoy. “Off you go, boy. Low and fast. Take care because we need you.”

  Niven gave a brief, nervous grin, touched the collar of his tunic and stepped out from cover.

  You take care, Niven. We need you most of all.

  Ramsay looked over his men again. He focussed on Flockhart.

  You too, you bastard. You are one of my men too. I want you dead and out of the way, but paradoxically I want to get through with all my men.

  Niven had reached the shelter of the cart and rolled behind the single wheel.

  “They’re moving,” Flockhart hissed. “The Prussians are moving.”

  The nearest Prussians were edging closer. They had reached the last traverse in the trench before Ramsay’s position and were only about two hundred yards away. Ramsay admired their efficiency, but also thanked God that they were so intent on discipline that not one of them stopped working to look around. If they had they could hardly have missed the handful of khaki-clad Royals who crouched behind pitifully inadequate shelter.

  “Five men left to cross,” Ramsay said. “Keep an eye on them, Flockhart.”

  “Yes, sir.” Flockhart had not moved a fraction. “Niven’s on his feet again.”

  How did he see that without moving? It must be some special skill that sergeants possess.

  Niven left the cover of the cart and ran toward the buildings. When he took a single glance behind him, Ramsay waved him urgently on. Move Niven! Move!

  Turning away, Niven put down his head and raced for the first of the cottages. They were low walled and roofless, damaged by the shelling, but in better condition than most of the villages in the battle area, which proved that the fighting here had not been as intense as in other places. Even after their stand, the British retreat had been precipitous compared to the usual stubborn, yard by yard withdrawals of either army.

  We’re being caned. The Germans really have us on the run, but in this case it may turn out to our advantage if we can capture that train. And if we can keep Niven alive.

  Ramsay watched as McKim half stood to usher Niven into the relative safety of the village. For a second both were highlighted against a smoke-dark background and then they were gone.

  “Next man,” Ramsay ordered. “Turnbull, off you go.”

  Turnbull and Aitken rose; both men moved off, hesitated and
returned.

  Jesus! Somebody move!

  “Turnbull, you go. Aitken, wait until he is safe.” Ramsay kept his voice level and quiet.

  Four to go –Turnbull, Aitken, Flockhart and myself. I have to be last, the position of most danger. That is my duty and obligation as an officer.

  Turnbull followed Niven’s path, jinking across the ground in a crouch with his rifle at the trail. He glanced at the cart but did not stop and raced over to McKim at the cottage without hesitation.

  “Good man. Now you, Aitken.” Ramsay spoke without looking round. The Prussians had stepped closer in their methodical cleansing of the trench. He could make out every detail of the nearest man; tall and dark-haired, he was joking as he worked, swinging sandbags back onto the trench wall with scarcely a pause.

  Ramsay realised there had been no response. “Aitken! Move, man!” He glanced over his shoulder. Aitken was clutching the ground with both hands, shaking his head. “No, sir, I can’t go!”

  Oh God! His mind’s broken. What shall I do now? There is nothing about this in the officer’s training manual.

  “You must,” Ramsay began, and looked helplessly at Flockhart for support.

  “Bloody get going, Aitken, if you want to see your sweetheart again!” Flockhart did not move from his position. “Jenny needs you, Jim. You won’t get to her unless you get to that train. Just think of Jenny, Jim.”

  Come on, Aitken. Move, man. For the love of God, move before the Germans see us!

  Ramsay looked from Aitken to Flockhart and over to the Prussians. Aitken had altered his position. He was sitting up now, with his head above the sandbags and the distinctive shape of his British helmet clear for any half-sensible observer to see.

  All it needs is for one German to look up now and we are all dead men. Move Aitken! Please move!

  “There she is!” Flockhart said quietly. “She’s over by that house, Jim. Jenny’s there now, waiting for you.”

  “Jenny?” Aitken spoke in a conversational tone, his Edinburgh accent carrying easily across the ground.

  God! These Prussians must be deaf as well as efficient.

  “Where’s Jenny?” Aitken raised his voice. “Jenny?”

  “Over there, by the houses,” Flockhart said. “She said you have to go over and see her. She said you have to keep quiet in case you wake the bairn.”

  “Is wee Davie there too?” Aitken stood upright until Ramsay hauled him back down.

  “Keep quiet you fool!” Ramsay hissed. “Wee Davie’s sleeping! It’s past his bed time.”

  “You get over to Jenny now,” Flockhart’s voice was quiet, persuasive. “Get over there, Jimmy. Hurry, man, before she thinks you’re not coming and goes away.”

  Ramsay saw McKim peering toward them, obviously wondering what had gone wrong. He saw the dark-haired Prussian take another few steps forward; he was at the last traverse, once he turned that corner he could not fail to see the British soldiers.

  “I’m going to see Jenny,” Aitken said. He stood up and ran forward with his mouth open. For a moment Ramsay thought he was going to shout out Jenny’s name, but he kept quiet and some strange soldier’s instinct compelled him to weave and bob as he ran. Ramsay saw him reach the shelter of the cart, but rather than stop, he passed right by, on the side nearest to the Prussians.

  The shout was loud and in German, as the dark-haired Prussian looked up at exactly the wrong moment.

  “They’ve seen him,” Flockhart said. “Permission to fire, sir?”

  No. Hold your fire, they might concentrate on Aitken and miss us!

  “Yes, fire away. Give Aitken as much cover as you can.” Ramsay lifted his revolver and fired three quick shots, but Flockhart had already squeezed his trigger. He must have had the Prussian in his sights all the time, for the bullet took the man full in the forehead. The force snapped back his head and threw him against the back wall of the trench.

  Ramsay saw Aitken hesitate, then fall, just as McKim thrust up his head and fired toward the Prussians.

  “Here!” Flockhart fired away the clip from his rifle, rammed in another and threw a grenade along the trench. “Share that!” He ducked away from the explosion.

  “Come on, Flockhart. Time we were gone.” Ramsay hauled himself out of the cover of the sandbags. “Come on, man!”

  Flockhart was a second behind him, and together they ran toward the shelter of the cart. Ramsay heard a fusillade of shots behind him; he heard shouts in German and McKim’s raucous war cry. “Up the Royals! Royal Scots! Death and hell to you all!”

  Something struck him a massive blow on the left foot and he yelled and fell down.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Flockhart loomed over him, his face anxious.

  “Get on!” Ramsay shouted instinctively. “Get to the houses and get away! Don’t bother about me!” He rolled over, desperately trying to avoid the bullets that whined around him. “Run, man!”

  He could see heads bobbing up along the rim of the German trenches, he could see rifles pointing toward him. Flockhart still hesitated. Ramsay tried to rise, there was no pain. He looked down and saw that the heel of his boot had been shot off, but there was no blood and no pain, only a tremendous numbness. He rose, put his foot on the ground and began to run.

  “Come on, Flockhart!”

  McKim and the others were firing like madmen and bullets flew in a frenzied crossfire. The cart was only a few yards away and Ramsay dived behind it. He lay there, panting, beside Flockhart as German bullets thudded into the body of the cart and spat splinters of wood all around them.

  Ramsay emptied his revolver in the direction of the Prussians, and thrust cartridges into the chambers.

  I could shoot him here and now and nobody would know. It would be the easiest thing in the world.

  For a second temptation almost overcame him. Ramsay altered his position behind the cart and allowed his revolver to fall slightly until the muzzle was pointing towards the sergeant’s side.

  All I have to do is squeeze the trigger. A slight pressure and it would all be over and that worry would be gone for good. Just a slight pressure …

  “Are you wounded, sir?” Flockhart asked.

  Ramsay shook his head. “No. They shot the heel off my boot, but I’m unhurt. How is Aitken?”

  “Still alive,” Flockhart said. “He’s moving, but I think he’s in a bad way.”

  They looked at the private. He lay curled in a ball, a few yards between the cart and the Prussians. Although bullets smacked into the ground all around him, no more hit him, but his tunic was deeply stained and blood pooled around him.

  Somebody shouted an order from the German trench and their firing halted immediately. “Stop firing, boys,” Ramsay ordered and an uneasy silence descended. The stink of lyddite filled the air.

  Aitken moaned, the sound loud in the hush. Ramsay looked at Flockhart.

  “What the hell is Fritz playing at?” Flockhart wondered.

  It’s that Hauptmann with the monocle. He is giving us a chance to rescue Aitken. Oh, God in heaven. Do I take it? I have to, I am the officer.

  “You stay here, Flockhart. If I am shot, leave us both and make for the rest. Try and get them home.”

  “Sir? What are you going to do … ?”

  Taking a deep breath, Ramsay stood erect. He tensed, expecting a volley of shots from the German lines, but the silence continued. He stepped forward, hearing his own breath harsh and brittle. Aitken was moving, shifting in the agony of his wound.

  Aware that every eye would be on him, Ramsay knelt beside the wounded man. “How are you doing, Aitken?”

  The eyes that turned on him were liquid with pain. “Jenny?”

  “Not Jenny, Jim. It’s Lieutenant Ramsay. How are you, son?”

  Son? Aitken was the same age as he was.

  “Where’s Jenny?” Aitken tried to sit up, gasped in pain and sank back down again. “It hurts, Jenny. It hurts sore.”

  “You rest easy, son, and we’ll get y
ou home.” Ramsay crouched down at Aitken’s side. “Let’s have a look at you.” It was surreal, tending to a wounded man in full sight of an unknown number of German soldiers, knowing that there would be scores if not hundreds of rifles pointing at him and that every second he spent here was jeopardising his chances of escape.

  What do I do? Leave a wounded man to the mercy of the Germans, or risk having the rest of my men killed or captured?

  Ramsay looked up. Flockhart was staring at him as if it was the first time he had ever seen him. There was a strange expression on his face, recognition perhaps.

  Somebody spoke on the German side. The words were unintelligible, but Ramsay recognised the meaning. He was being asked to get a move on. The tall German Hauptmann rose calmly from the trench; the low sun reflected from the monocle of Ramsay’s old adversary. The German raised a hand in salutation and held up three fingers.

  He is giving us three minutes grace before the war starts again. Sir, you are a gentleman and it is a privilege to fight against you.

  “Come on, Aitken,” Ramsay raised his voice. “Flockhart, give a hand here, would you?”

  The sergeant emerged slowly, still holding his rifle. A single shot sounded from the German trench and a fountain of dirt erupted immediately in front of Flockhart.

  “Dirty Hun bastards!” McKim’s voice came a second before the crack of his rifle, but Ramsay was nearly as quick.

  “Cease fire! Stop firing!” He faced Flockhart. “Sergeant, shoulder your rifle. That was a warning shot!” He lowered his voice. “If they meant to kill you they would have.”

  With obvious reluctance, Flockhart lowered his rifle and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Now help me lift Aitken.” Ramsay put a hand under Aitken’s left arm and lifted. Flockhart did the same to his right and together they hauled him upright.

  McKim was watching from the shelter of the cottages. He had seen the byplay with Flockhart and had balanced his rifle over his shoulder. The other Royals were equally unprepared for the sharp outbreak of musketry.

  “Jesus!” Flockhart yelled as one of the Royals fell and the others dived back behind the shelter of the cottage walls. “The bastards were fooling us!”