Oh, God! I knew it was too good to last.
Ramsay crouched in the doorway and aimed his revolver. Out of the corner of his eye he saw McKim readying his rifle, but there was no need. These Germans were no threat. He watched them stagger up the street, one carrying what looked like a bolt of cloth and a pile of women’s clothing and the other with a wine bottle seemingly permanently attached to his lips.
“McKim!” Ramsay spoke in a whisper that could not possibly carry the distance. “Don’t fire!”
Perhaps the force of his thoughts conveyed the message, or maybe McKim was too experienced to draw attention to himself, but he restrained himself. Timms and Turnbull clattered into the house and Ramsay ordered them into the front room.
“In there and keep quiet,” he said.
Now what? Do we wait until the road is clear of Germans? Or trust to blind luck?
We can’t stop. We must keep on.
“McKim!” he hissed. “Send the next bunch over.”
McKim acknowledged with a wave of his hand. Ramsay waited, hearing the thunder of his heart. The two Germans were still reeling along at the far end of the street. The man with the bottle was singing, the words slurred and the tune indecipherable, the other was swaying from side to side under the weight of his burden.
The shoemakers were next. They scurried across the road in panic, one looking over his shoulder at the two Germans as though petrified.
“Move!” McKim encouraged them. “Don’t bloody stop!”
Ramsay stepped on to the street and waved them in. “Come on lads!”
They ran in, grinning as if they had performed a meritorious feat that deserved a reward.
“Into the back room and keep out of trouble!” Ramsay checked the street again. The more sober of the two Germans had dropped some of his loot and was trying to pick them up. The breeze had blown a long dress closer to the estaminet. McKim had withdrawn inside the doorway and was watching events.
Ramsay heard the sound he had been dreading: the distinct bark of a German officer giving an order. It was loud and clear across the babbling roar of undisciplined looting.
Oh, Jesus. Somebody is taking command out there. I have to take a risk.
Ramsay raised his voice to ensure it was heard. “Come on McKim! Never mind the German drunkard, get the men across!”
McKim looked across for a second, nodded and spoke over his shoulder. Four men came this time, running with rifles at the trail and without looking back.
Neither of the Germans paid any attention; one was too drunk and the other was wrestling with the woman’s dress.
All four men got across within seconds and Ramsay thrust them inside the house. “Come on, McKim,” he said and realised that the woman’s dress had floated against the door of the estaminet. The German was following, his face screwed in concentration at the thought of losing his prize.
The German officer was shouting again and Ramsay heard the drumbeat of marching men. There was some disciplined force in Albert now.
Ramsay stood in front of the house. “Come on, McKim,” he shouted. “Get the men across and let’s get out of here!”
The German had lifted the dress; he looked up as a press of British soldiers erupted from the estaminet. He dropped all his loot and tried to unsling the rifle from his shoulder, but McKim was quicker. Before the German had swung the rifle round, McKim had slid his bayonet into the man’s throat and sliced. The German died instantly, without uttering a sound, and McKim lowered him to the ground.
“Come on!” Ramsay yelled, as some of his men hesitated, whether to help McKim or out of shock, he didn’t know. He noticed that McKim was counting the men and then the corporal returned inside the estaminet. “McKim! Come on!”
The sound of marching was distinct now. Ramsay expected to see German soldiers come around the corner into the street at any minute. “McKim!”
Another shell exploded overhead, scattering shrapnel around. One stray fragment bounced from the cobbles and grazed the leg of the drunken German, who jerked away in pain. He looked up, saw the mob of British soldiers and yanked his rifle round to fire. Ramsay aimed but hesitated, unwilling to squeeze the trigger in case the noise alerted the approaching Germans, but as the soldier pulled the rifle to his shoulder he knew he had no choice.
He aimed and fired, once, twice, three times. The noise of the shots echoed around the narrow street. The German soldier screamed as at least one bullet hit him. He looked directly at Ramsay and lifted his rifle higher. Ramsay took deliberate aim and fired again. He saw the German’s head jerk back and the man slumped down; his rifle fell to the ground with a clatter.
Please God the Germans don’t notice that in the general noise.
The whole affair had taken less than ten seconds; the bulk of the British soldiers were still crossing the road. Some had halted when Ramsay fired.
“Don’t stop!” Ramsay yelled. He waved his hands. “Come on! Move it!”
The sound of marching was louder now; the tramp of feet dominating Albert.
Where the hell is McKim?
“McKim! Come on, man!”
McKim appeared at the doorway of the estaminet, he was dragging one of the English soldiers behind him.“Come on, you drunken bastard!”
Ramsay looked at the men behind him: eighteen of them, from veterans to cooks and store men, all dependent on him to get away. He looked at McKim, an elderly, experienced corporal trying to save a soldier who had obviously succumbed to the temptation of the estaminet.
“McKim! Leave him! Fritz is coming!”
As Ramsay shouted, he saw two German soldiers turn the corner of the street. Unlike the previous two, these were sober and carried their rifles ready to use. They saw McKim immediately and shouted a challenge.
Ramsay fired, but he had no idea where his shots went. “McKim! Drop him and run!” He shouted into the house, “Fritz is here! Out, lads, and head for our own lines!”
The Germans dropped to their knees and fired. One shot thudded into the door at Ramsay’s head, but McKim had dropped his burden and snapped a shot in return. More Germans had filed into the road, they took up firing positions as the hammer of Ramsay’s revolver clicked on an empty chamber.
He swore and reached for more cartridges. “McKim!”
Cruickshank was firing, snarling as he advanced toward the Germans. “Come on, you bastards! Come out and fight, you woman-murdering Hun bastards!”
Timms joined him, firing and advancing as McKim ran across the road to join them. The Germans had halted to form a disciplined line; more joined them; thirty tall men wearing round helmets on their heads and boots that still shone.
“Bloody Prussian Guards,” McKim said.
Prussian Guards. Who else but the Prussians would keep their discipline when the rest of their army was dissolving into a rabble?
The Prussians were advancing slowly, one group moving forward as the others gave covering fire. He saw one drop as Timms, or more likely Cruickshank, found his mark, but they were getting too close.
“Cruickshank, Timms, get out of that.” He saw McKim bang himself into the shelter of a doorway and fire two shots. At that range a marksman such as him did not miss and the two foremost Prussians dropped. The rest continued as if nothing happened.
Ramsay glanced behind him. Most of his men had left the house and were vanishing around the corner of the street. “Timms, Cruickshank, McKim. Come on!” He pushed in the last of his cartridges and fired a single shot in the direction of the Prussians just as the officer appeared.
As before, their eyes met immediately. The Prussian looked as immaculate as he had in their previous encounters, tall and smart and very much in command. Ramsay mentally contrasted his own appearance: unshaven, with his khaki coat cut off at the knees, torn and stained with mud and lyddite, his boots carrying mud an inch thick and dried blood crusted from the crown of his head to his chin. But he was still here and still fighting.
“Up the Royals!” McKim
gave his unique perspective on the appearance of the officer. “Death and hell to all of you!” He snapped off another shot, worked the bolt of his rifle and withdrew.
Ramsay and the Prussian officer continued to stare at each other for what seemed like an age but in reality was probably only a few seconds. For some reason, Ramsay straightened to attention and saluted, the Prussian did the same and for an instant he felt a renewed bond with this enemy who had fought in the same actions as he had, yet was on a different side of the war.
“Sir!” Cruickshank was at his side, loading as he spoke. “They’re coming again!”
These few words shattered the connection. Ramsay’s loyalty was to his men, as the unknown Prussian’s was to the soldiers who wore his uniform.
“Get out of this street,” he shouted and fired a single shot in the direction of the Prussians.
It was as if his life had been in temporary suspension, but now things were back to their normal speed as the Prussians advanced toward him and McKim knelt a yard away, firing rapidly.
A bullet crashed against the wall, a foot from his face, spraying him with chips of stone. Another ricocheted at his feet.
Time to go.
“Come on lads.” He led the way around the corner to see the rest of his men in a loose group, some running, some walking back and one or two waiting in doorways with their rifles ready.
This is no good, most of these men are only half-trained.
“Right, lads. Form into two groups. One group withdraws while the other supports them and then swap over.” He let McKim attend to the details; corporals did that sort of thing far more efficiently than he could ever do.
“Not bloody bon, boys!” McKim said cheerfully. “Follow my lead.”
This street was short and relatively undamaged. Some of the houses had holes in their roofs where shells had gone through, and one was on fire. At the far end there was a single farmhouse behind a protective wall and beyond that Ramsay could see fields, rising to the ridge that overlooked the town. There was certainly movement on that ridge, he hoped it was the British Army preparing a defensive line that would halt this German advance once and for all.
Just one more push and they would be through and in open countryside. Just one more effort from his exhausted, filthy, battling Royals and the collection of odds, sods and bottle washers he had picked up en route and he was home free and without Flockhart to worry about.
Gillian will have heard about the German advance. She will be worried about me. She will be waiting and now I can meet her without fear and with a clear conscience. I have proved myself. I am fit to be an officer, I am fit to be with these men.
“Keep moving now. McKim, take your boys to the end of the street and cover us.”
Ramsay took up position behind a fallen chimney stack and looked over his men. He did not know all their names, but McKim had left him Cruickshank and Timms among the varied others.
“Keep up a steady fire, boys. Keep the Prussians back until McKim’s lads get clear up the road.”
He heard the German officer giving orders and wished he could speak German. Most of the Prussians were out of sight or only partially visible in doorways and behind windows. One young NCO was out in the open, checking his men; Ramsay shot him without compassion and ducked behind the chimney as the Prussians responded with a hail of shots.
“Good shooting, sir,” Cruickshank said. He sounded more calm than usual and the wild anger was absent from his eyes.
“Keep working that rifle, Cruickshank,” Ramsay said.
“Yes, sir.” Cruickshank pulled back the bolt, sighted and fired.
The Prussian officer gave an order and a score of men burst out of the houses, bayonets fixed, while supporting fire ripped around Ramsay’s positions.
“Here they come again,” Cruickshank said. He was very calm as he sighted and fired. His bullet kicked splinters from a window frame a few inches from an advancing German. The man flinched and Cruickshank fired again. He grunted as the German staggered back and slowly slid down the wall.
“One less for Kaiser Bill.” Cruickshank worked the bolt of his rifle.
The others were also firing in a wild cacophony of shots that splattered over the street, hitting the walls and the ground, but seldom coming near the Prussians.
Oh, I wish I had my Royals with me now. Niven and Aitken and Flockhart would make mince out of this lot. There are too many good men dead.
“Sir!” That was McKim’s voice. “We are ready whenever you like.”
The street behind Ramsay was clear. McKim had his men in position at the very edge of the village, facing every direction. “Into the street, boys, and run! Corporal McKim will cover us.”
Timms led the rush down the road but Cruickshank remained in place. “Come on, Cruickshank. Don’t play the hero!”
Cruickshank looked up and gave a small smile. “I better stay, sir. I’ll cover you.” He coughed and a spurt of blood erupted from his mouth and spattered the ground in front of him. “The bastards got me, sir.”
Oh, God. That’s another one gone.
“Is it bad, Cruickshank? Maybe it’s only minor.”
“I’m shot through the lungs, sir. I haven’t long to go, but I’ll take as many as I can with me.” He spat blood and stifled a groan. “l’ll be with the missus soon enough. Run, sir.”
“Good luck, Cruickshank.” Ramsay touched his shoulder. There was nothing he could do for him and he had other men who depended on his leadership.
He felt very exposed turning his back to the Prussians and literally running away, but he heard McKim’s shouts of encouragement and the usual slogan:
“Death and hell to you!”
The street seemed to stretch for miles as Ramsay ran up it. Individual shots merged into a continuous roar of sound containing rifle fire, yells and the whine of ricocheting bullets.
Ramsay saw a man fall before him; he hesitated, but the man had been shot through the head. Ramsay jumped over the body and continued, hearing the breath rasp in his throat and feeling his legs weak with fear. He glanced behind him and saw Cruickshank half-rising and trying to thrust with his bayonet. He saw a Prussian shoot him, and another smash the butt of his rifle onto Cruickshank’s head. Ramsay stumbled and fell, landed with a heavy thump on the cobbles and something hard grabbed hold of his shoulder and hauled him around a corner.
“Careful, sir,” McKim growled. “The Fritzes are everywhere.” He pointed to his right where a group of soldiers were probing cautiously around the corner of a building. “They’re over that way as well.” Another party of Germans were filing slowly from the left, keeping to the shelter of the houses as they approached Ramsay’s position.
Ramsay swore. He had hoped for a clear run to the British lines, but the Prussian officer had outflanked him on both sides. He had two choices: make a stand and hope for help or run up the ridge with the Prussians in close pursuit.
He knew the Prussians would not be distracted by the prospect of loot. They would ignore their dead and march on until they were victorious. If he organised a fighting retreat his rearguard of crocks would not be strong enough to hold them back for more than a few moments. There was no choice, he would have to make a final stand.
“Get up to that farmhouse, McKim.” The house was about three hundred yards away, set at the far side of a field. A narrow lane led straight to the door, with a tall boundary hedge for shelter.
“Sir.” McKim nodded. “Same system, sir?”
“Yes.” Ramsay loosed three shots at the Germans to his right. His men were in a confused clump, some firing one way and some the other. “Move, McKim!”
McKim clicked his magazine into place, rolled the pipe around his mouth and nodded. “Good luck, sir.”
“Good luck, McKim.”
Ramsay fired his last three shots at the Germans advancing up the street behind him and fumbled for cartridges. “Fire away, boys. Keep them back.” He ducked as a bullet struck fragments from the wall a
bove his head and watched as McKim led his men in a weaving run across the open field. One of the Germans on his left pointed to McKim and the others began to fire at the hideously exposed British force. Ramsay saw one man fall, and then another. McKim staggered, spun and fell, landing on his face in the muddy field. He looked ridiculously small there, an old man who should be sitting quietly by his own fireside, not a fighting soldier struggling through a foreign field.
Ramsay rammed home the last cartridge and fired at the Germans, hating them. Until that moment he had been detached from the war. He had survived in misery and fear, but had felt no personal animosity towards the Germans. They had been the enemies of king and country – fighting was an unpleasant duty and nothing else. Now, as he looked at McKim, elderly, intelligent and wise but shot like a dog, he experienced such a surge of hatred as he had never felt before.
“You Prussian bastards!” He rose from cover, firing. He saw one of the Germans fall and laughed. “Death and hell to you!” He borrowed McKim’s phrase in an unconscious tribute to the corporal.
The Prussians were closing in on both sides. Their numbers had increased, there were at least thirty on the right, perhaps half that on the left and more pounding steadily past Cruickshank’s prone body.
Without McKim to lead them, the first group of Ramsay’s men had floundered to a confused halt outside the farmhouse. With the Germans advancing on three sides he had no time to waste.
“Come on, lads, follow me and don’t stop for anything!”
He tried to sound confident as he led his group at a run up into the field and towards the farmhouse that already seemed so far away. He heard his men following him, the sound of their boots changing from the sharp crack of studs on stone to a softer thud as they sank into the mud and grass of the field.
“Keep going!” Ramsay urged as an overweight storeman struggled up the slope. He glanced over his shoulder. The Germans were following, scores of them now forming a compact column that would surely batter through any defensive line he could create. They marched on the path, so confident that they began to sing.
“Into the farmhouse!” Ramsay put his hand on the storeman’s shoulder and shoved. “Come on, man, don’t give up now!”
Last Train to Waverley Page 23