I did not expect that. I thought my German friend would keep his word.
Ramsay began to run, dragging Aitken as best he could. He felt the shock of the bullet and looked down. Aitken’s head lolled onto his shoulder and fresh blood spurted from his mouth.
“He’s gone,” Flockhart said. “Drop him and run, sir.”
Flockhart was correct. A German bullet had slammed into Aitken’s back and exited from his chest. He had died instantly. Ramsay released his grip on Aitken’s arm and fled for the cottages.
Bullets were kicking up the ground and McKim had organised a defence. The Royals were returning fire, working the bolts of their rifles and firing as fast as they could. Ramsay ducked as a bullet whined over his head, and then vaulted the low wall, all that remained of the nearest cottage. McKim nodded to him; he still clenched the broken pipe between his teeth.
“Bloody Bavarians,” he said and slammed another bullet into the breach of his rifle, took quick aim and fired again.
“They’re Prussians,” Ramsay said. He saw Flockhart lying panting in the shelter of the wall, loading his rifle; Turnbull was prone, firing through a gap in the stones; young Mackay was crouching and crying, but still firing as best he could.
“Not the boys in the trench. It was the other lot that started firing at you,” McKim spoke around his pipe and nodded his head to the right. “They arrived just as you and Sergeant Flockhart lifted Aitken.”
For some reason Ramsay felt a surge of relief. He had not wanted to think that his Prussian enemy had broken his unspoken word.
The Bavarians were on their left flank. They were moving cautiously, firing fast but with a lack of accuracy that caused Ramsay to believe they were raw troops rather than veteran Prussians.
“How’s Jim … Aitken?” McKim spoke without relaxing his concentration. “There’s one Hun who won’t make it back to Bavaria.” He worked the bolt and fired again, releasing the fifteen aimed rounds a minute that he had been trained to do. “And there’s another. Death and hell to all of them, death and bloody hell.”
“Aitken did not make it,” Ramsay said.
McKim grunted, aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. “Death and hell, you Bavarian bastards. He was a good lad, was Aitken, another good man gone.”
Ramsay looked around, The Royals were loading and firing, but there was a company of Bavarians opposing them and now the Prussians were also firing. He checked who had fallen: Benson was lying still with a neat bullet hole in his head.
Ten men left now.
“Time to get our train,” Ramsay squeezed off a volley of shots from his revolver. “There will be hundreds of Fritzses here shortly. McKim, you take Niven and two men and head for the station. Flockhart, you and I and Turnbull are the rearguard.” He waited until the Royals were prepared. “Right, on the count of three: One, two, three!”
He fired again, alongside Turnbull and Flockhart, aiming and firing as fast as they could, trying to keep the Bavarians and Prussians quiet as McKim led his men away.
The cottages were at the end of a short street that stretched toward the main square of the village. McKim led his men into the next cottage along and set them into defensive positions.
“Ready, sir!”
The firing increased and a group of Bavarians rushed forward, but the concentrated fire of the Royals accounted for five of them and the others threw themselves onto the ground or ran back to the shelter of the trenches.
“Up the Royals!” McKim yelled.
“Follow me, lads!” Ramsay rose, jumped over the wall at the back of the cottage and dashed up the street to the next in the row. The studs on his boots struck sparks from the cobbled ground and he slid sideways, nearly fell, but recovered his balance in time to lunge through the low doorway of the cottage.
“Here they come again.” Flockhart was a few seconds behind him. He looked over his shoulder as Turnbull tripped over the uneven ground and staggered through the door. “The Prussians are on the move.”
“Not far to the train,” Ramsay could see past the line of cottages to where the train sat, isolated and miraculously untouched. “It’s only a few hundred yards.”
“And there are only a few hundred Huns trying to stop us getting there,” Flockhart said. He aimed and fired. “I can’t see us getting out of this, sir.”
Ramsay raised his voice, “Flockhart! Take Turnbull and Niven and get to that train. Get it moving. We will cover you. Once it’s travelling, you and Turnbull will cover us.” He ducked as a bullet smashed into the wall and sprayed splinters of stone in his face. “Jesus!”
“Are you all right, sir?” Flockhart sounded concerned.
“Yes, keep firing!”
The Prussians were advancing in three long regular lines, immaculately spaced and with the monocled Hauptmann leading from the front.
I can’t shoot that man, nor can I order my men not to shoot him. He will have to take his chance with the rest of them.
For an instant Ramsay’s eyes met those of the German officer. Neither acknowledged the other, but Ramsay thought he detected a tacit understanding. He raised his revolver high and pointed it toward the German. The German did not flinch, but marched on expressionless. Ramsay lifted his arm high and slowly and deliberately swung his arm round to the right, far from the officer, and fired a single round.
“Five rounds rapid, lads!”
The Royals responded with a will, thrusting the barrels of their rifles toward the Prussians and opening fire.
“Shoot them flat, lads!” But not that officer, he is a true gentleman.
“Death and hell!” McKim gave his inevitable slogan, “death and hell to youse all!”
The concentrated rifle fire took a heavy toll on the Prussians as they marched across the open ground and bodies began to pile up. Ramsay spotted some Prussians ducking behind the cart and he fired in that direction.
“Bomb the bastards out!” McKim yelled and young Mackay threw a grenade that exploded in a shower of splinters a few yards above the men cowering behind the cart. There was a chorus of screams and yells and the Prussians fell back, carrying their wounded with them.
“Cease fire!” Ramsay ordered. “Give them time to get the injured away.”
“For God’s sake! We may as well take them tea and biscuits,” Cruickshank grumbled. “They’re the bloody enemy.” But he lowered his rifle and the Germans retired in peace.
“Next house, boys, and then we dash for the train.”
Without waiting for the Prussians to reach the shelter of their trenches, Ramsay led the Royals out of the cottage and towards the next. Once he was outside the shelter of the walls he again experienced that familiar feeling of vulnerability. He could sense the Bavarians and Prussians aiming at him but tried to ignore the crackle of musketry and the crash and ping of bullets on the road and against the buildings.
The door of the next cottage was closed and Ramsay had to boot it open and dive inside, his men following him in a pell mell scurry. Mackay was giggling as his nerves got the better of him, but McKim pushed him roughly inside. “Get in there, boy and don’t dawdle!”
Bullets hammered against the far wall as Ramsay kicked the door shut.
“That’s the way, sir. They’ll never get through that,” Cruickshank said. He ducked as shots crashed through the window, smashing the last remaining pane of glass. “Go on, Fritz, ruin the woman’s house.”
“Any sign of the Prussians?” Ramsay tried to peer through the window. Now that they were further up the street, their view of the open space was limited.
What do we do now? Keep moving from house to house or make one long run to the train?
A long whistle helped make his decision.
“That’s the steam whistle,” McKim said. “Niven’s telling us that he’s all ready to move.”
Ramsay nodded. “On the count of three, break out and run for the train. Don’t stop for any wounded, don’t stop for anybody or anything. One, two, three!”
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He was first into the street, hearing the mad hammer of his heart that seemed to complement the incessant crack of rifles. He heard a yell behind him as somebody was hit, flinched as a bullet ripped through the leg of his trousers, heard a long drawn out scream and saw the train ahead of him.
It was three carriages long, with the engine at the front and a closed guard’s carriage at the rear. He could see Niven in the driver’s cab and Flockhart at his side, while Turnbull leaned out of a window, shooting down the street. Sparks and splinters of steel and wood showed where bullets were clashing against the bodywork.
The carriage doors hung open as Niven sounded the whistle again; white steam shrouded the train, acting as a temporary smokescreen. The Royals scrambled on board, fingers and feet scrabbling for purchase. German bullets crashed and whined and smashed the remaining windows.
“Are we all on?” Ramsay looked down the road; there was one crumpled khaki body. Mackay had not made it. He looked very small lying in the devastated street. “Get moving, Niven. Get this train moving!”
“Come on lads!” McKim roared. “Last train to Waverley Station!”
Flockhart flinched at the words and jerked his head round to look directly at Ramsay.
The words had acted as a trigger.
CHAPTER NINE
25 March 1918
“Last train to Waverley Station! Last train to Waverley!” The stentorian roar of the station master echoed across the double tracks of Newtongrange Railway Station. As always, the platform was filled.
There were miners’ wives returning home from trips to Edinburgh or Dalkeith, self-important managers and clerks, a handful of gentlemen and their ladies trying to pretend they were of a different breed, and the ubiquitous travelling salesmen who spent half their lives at small railway stations as they scraped a precarious living from the pennies of the poor. Sprinkled among the hard-faced miners and busy women was a scattering of soldiers in khaki, one sporting a bandaged head and carrying the unmistakable air of a veteran, but the rest were eager young men on their first leave of their training.
Ramsay felt Gilllian’s hand slide inside his and he squeezed his reassurance. “Soon be home now,” he told her.
Steam from the engine filled the station, channelled by the high banking at the rear of the platforms, to cover the milling passengers. A crowd of bare-footed children ran past, laughing, as their mother shouted after them.
“I would like children,” Gillian said, and smiled as Ramsay stiffened. She patted his arm. “It’s all right, Douglas. Not for a few years yet.”
“Not for many years yet.” Ramsay felt her hand slide away from his. “But we will have them,” he added. Her hand returned, the gloved fingers pressing for entrance to the security of his palm.
“Three children at least” Gillian pressed her advantage. “Two girls and a boy.”
“Two boys and a girl,” Ramsay corrected.
As a press of people emerged from the train, Ramsay and Gillian walked quickly along the length of the platform. “The first class compartment must be here somewhere,” Ramsay said. “Let’s get away from these peasants.”
“Don’t be so disparaging, Douglas,” Gillian rebuked him. “These men work hard.” She looked around at the raucous crowd pushing and shoving their way on and off the train. “They are a bit shabby though, aren’t they? They could have made at least a little effort before they left their hovels.”
Ramsay laughed and stepped aside to let an elderly woman squeeze past. “I will be glad to return to Edinburgh but Father insisted that I view the family mines at least once every year. I don’t know why. He is only a minority shareholder.”
“You will be going alone next year,” Gillian said and stopped short. “Sorry, Douglas. I forgot for a second.”
“Next year I will be a soldier in France, or dead.” Ramsay decided he could add drama to the situation. He shook his hand free. Try for sympathy; it might gain you something.
“Or the war could be over and you could be back home and married,” Gillian neatly countered his argument. She grabbed his hand back. “Now stop your complaining and take me home. I have had enough of coal mines, numbered rows of brick cottages and coal dust at the back of my throat.”
Ramsay smiled. “So have I. Here is what they laughingly call the first class carriage.” He turned the handle, pulled open the door and offered his arm to help Gillian up.
“Hey, you!” The voice was rough and aggressive. Ramsay paused with his hand in Gillian’s and a smile frozen on his face. Two men were on the platform, distinct from the crowd only because of their obvious anger. One wore khaki and bore the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve; the other had the flat cap and heavy boots of a working man. When Ramsay looked at him, he recognised the man he had seen at the gate just a year previously: Rab.
“That’s the fellow, Jamie!” Rab pointed to Ramsay. “That’s Napier. That’s the man who knocked up your sister!”
Oh, God. I thought that incident was long dead and forgotten.
“Are these men addressing you, Douglas?” There was curiosity in Gillian’s voice. “He certainly pointed to you, but he called you Napier.”
“I don’t think so,” Ramsay said. He handed her up inside the carriage with more force than he had intended. “Come on Gill, let’s get inside.”
Rab and the soldier pushed through the crowd as Ramsay turned to follow Gillian.
“Not so fast, you bastard. Napier, we want a word with you!”
“Last train for Waverley!” The station master roared above the hubbub of the crowd. “All aboard who’s going aboard!”
Ramsay slammed the carriage door shut behind him. Neither James nor the corporal flinched at the bang. James grabbed hold of the handle, but the station master shook his head.
“This is a first class carriage, Tommy. Soldiers travel third class.” He shoved the soldier’s hand off the handle and blew a long blast on his whistle as the train emitted another spurt of steam.
Ramsay guided Gillian across the corridor and into a compartment where two occupants looked up without interest. The man returned to the scrutiny of his newspaper while his female companion turned her face to the window.
“Sit here, Gill.” Ramsay waited until Gillian had taken her seat before slouching in the corner furthest from the window. The train began to roll away from the platform. He took a deep breath.
It is over. I escaped. Another year without discovery.
The rapping at the window was urgent and loud.
“These men seem keen to see you, Douglas,” Gillian pointed out. “I think they may be tenants of your father.” She nudged him with a sharp elbow. “The least you could do is acknowledge them, Douglas!”
The men were at the window closest to the platform, running alongside the train as it gathered speed.
“They must have missed the train,” the man with the newspaper sounded amused.
“They are desperate to see you, Douglas,” Gillian said. “Are you sure you don’t know them?”
Rab looked directly at him and shouted, but the words were lost as the train emitted another shrill whistle. As the train picked up speed he fell behind. Younger and fitter, the corporal took his place at the window. He took hold of the sill and clung on by his fingertips as he opened his mouth.
“I’m James Flockhart! Remember my name, you bastard! Wherever you hide, I will find you!”
Gillian watched as Flockhart’s grip on the window slipped and he tumbled down. The train rattled on its journey to Edinburgh and left him behind.
“He must have mistaken you for somebody else,” she said.
Slightly shaken by the experience, Ramsay nodded. “That must be it. He thought I was somebody called Napier.”
The woman at the opposite window gave a slight smile. “He was probably drunk,” she said. “Soldiers are often drunk.”
Her husband looked up from his newspaper. “That’s the only reason they join the army,” he said. “They giv
e them too much nowadays.”
Ramsay held Flockhart’s gaze for only a fraction of a second as the memories sped through his mind.
Does he know now? Did McKim’s shout trigger the memories?
Flockhart dropped his eyes. “Here come the Huns,” he shouted above the rattle of the train and the incessant crackle of musketry. “Hundreds of them!” He raised his eyes and stared at Ramsay for a second too long, his eyes narrow and calculating.
Oh God, it’s out at last. He has remembered where he saw me.
Ramsay flinched as a volley of bullets shattered the window into a thousand pieces and shards of glass imploded toward him. He thrust through his revolver and fired at the Prussians, but did not see any fall.
The train picked up speed, but the Germans were running toward it, some with rifles at the charge, others with rifles at the trail. The monacled Hauptmann was in front, giving rapid orders that resulted in a section of men sprinting forward as the others gave covering fire.
“Come on, Niven!” Turnbull yelled. “Fritz is catching us.”
“Death and hell to you!” McKim smashed the glass of his window with the butt of his rifle then leaned out. He fired, worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again, shooting a Prussian each time. “Death and hell!”
The train picked up speed but Niven raised his voice, “I need a fireman. I need fuel!”
I did not think of that. Damn!
“Turnbull, go forward and help Niven!” Ramsay yelled. “Move, man!”
A long line of Germans followed the train, the slowest already giving up. Two hundred yards in the rear, a line of kneeling riflemen rained constant fire on the train.
“Where’s my fireman?” Niven’s roar was desperate. “We’re losing pressure!”
“Turnbull! Get forward!” Ramsay withdrew from the window, just as a bullet skimmed through. He felt a hammer blow on his head and was thrown backward across the carriage.
I’ve been shot. The Huns have shot me again.
Ramsay tried to focus but the carriage spun before his eyes. The seats and door and ceiling were intermixed into a confusion of images that made no sense at all. He extended his arm, grabbed hold of something solid and attempted to pull himself upright but his hand had no strength and he slumped back down.
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