There was another khaki-clad body on the ground, and another. Bullets were buzzing like bluebottles around a piece of rotted meat, but Ramsay knew he had to keep going or nobody would survive.
“Not far now, boys,” he said as the walls of the farmhouse thrust up before them. He spotted McKim lying on the ground, but the small man was not still. He was twitching and trying to rise.
Ramsay halted. “McKim!” He flinched as two bullets thudded into the ground at his feet and another hissed past his face.
The corporal looked up, suddenly he looked very old and frail. “Go on, sir! Give them hell!”
I won’t leave McKim behind.
“Up you get, McKim.” Ramsay stooped and put an arm under the corporal’s shoulder. He felt the surge of renewed fear as all his hatred and anger evaporated.
I have half the German army trying to kill me and here I am trying to save the life of a foul-mouthed soldier I had not even met a few days ago. What a bloody fool I am.
“Come on McKim!” Ramsay limped upwards, with McKim a light weight on his arm. “Not long to go now, man!”
McKim grunted. “My rifle, sir. I can’t leave my bundook behind, I’ve had it since Mons.”
“Forget your bloody rifle,” Ramsay snarled, but he stooped and allowed McKim to scoop the weapon from the ground.
The Prussians had stopped firing now. Their officers had formed them into two smart columns marching slowly uphill. One column remained on the path, the other was making easy work of the slope.
Ramsay’s men were scattered across half the field, some with rifles, some without. Turnbull was propped against the outside wall of the farmhouse holding a rock in his left hand as though he intended throwing it at the Prussians. Timms was nursing a wounded leg.
One column of Prussians was closer now; barely twenty yards away and singing. His Hauptmann was with them, tall and as immaculate as if he were on a parade ground somewhere in Berlin. He signalled for his men to halt and shouted, “Surrender, Lieutenant. You can do no more. Surrender and save the lives of your men.”
Ramsay shook his head and struggled on. He had lost but he would not surrender. He had fought too long and too hard to give up now.
I am condemning them all to death. I am saving their honour. What the hell am I doing?
The terrible chatter of the machine gun deafened him. He ducked as the bullets sprayed down the slope of the hill, scything down the Prussians in their close formation. The Guards fell in scores, NCOs and officers were hit before they could give orders to their men.
Ramsay had just presence of mind enough to dive to the ground and take McKim with him. “Down, men!” he shouted. “Get down!”
The machine gun was manned by an expert; it produced a cone of fire that virtually wiped out both columns of Prussian Guards, hosing them as a fireman sprayed water on a reluctant fire, back and forth and back again. Then it turned its attention on the straggling looters who were watching from the broken shops of the nearest streets of Albert.
Having been on the wrong side of machine gun fire, Ramsay could only watch with admiration and some sympathy as the Germans fell. He heard the screams and cries of brave men who had no chance, but he stilled his sympathy. The Kaiser had started this war and these men had followed him to war with willingness and relish.
At last the hellish chatter died. Only the dead and writhing wounded remained in the sloping field. Those and a khaki-clad handful who staggered to their feet and continued their walk to the farmhouse.
“Up you come, lads.” The voice was North Country English, boisterous and friendly. “We’ve been watching you for an hour.”
As Ramsay supported McKim up the remainder of the slope to the farmhouse and the remnants of his men picked themselves up, a moustached captain led a file of men down to take prisoners from the shocked German soldiers. Ramsay saw the German Hauptmann being led away by a pair of grinning Northumberland Fusiliers. He tried to catch the man’s eye, but the German had his head down in his shame at being captured.
“Where the hell did you spring from, lieutenant?” The captain bore the scar of an old wound across his face. “And who are you anyway?” He looked over the collection of men from different units who were staggering past him and into the farmhouse.
“Lieutenant Douglas Ramsay, sir. 20th Royal Scots.” Ramsay would have saluted, but to do so would have meant letting McKim fall so instead he just smiled foolishly.
“Captain Regan, Northumberland Fusiliers.” The captain introduced himself. “I heard that the 20th Royals were all gone to glory. How did you get here?”
“We followed the German advance,” Ramsay said.
The Fusiliers were shepherding their prisoners past the farmhouse and up to the ridge. The Vickers machine gun fired an occasional burst into Albert whenever the crew saw any sign of movement.
“Are we making a stand, sir?” Ramsay felt as if he had not slept for a month. Now that he had reached comparative safety all the strain and fatigue of the last six days was catching up on him.
“Not here,” Regan said. He jerked his head backward. “We are on the ridge up there. This is just an ambush to remind Fritz that we still exist.” He watched as a couple of shells exploded on the far side of Albert. “We’ve done some damage and now we will withdraw. The line is still fluid to the north.” He put out a hand as Ramsay swayed. “Best get you somewhere safer than this, Ramsay, and you can give us all the information you have gathered.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
29th March 1918
Ramsay jerked awake and looked around him in a half-panic, unable to decide where he was. He could hear the rumble of guns in the background, but that had been part of life for so long he barely took heed. There was chicken wire in front of him, holding back an earthen wall, so he was in an established dugout rather than a scrape in the ground or an old shell crater, and somebody was talking quietly nearby. He strained to hear the words, fearful in case they were in German and he had been captured.
He breathed out in slow relief when he realised the man was speaking English and he was safe, at least for the time being. He rolled over in bed, feeling the bounce and give of an actual mattress, and saw there were half a dozen men in the dugout, playing cards around a circular table by the light of an oil lamp.
“Ah, you’re awake, Ramsay.” A burly major stepped towards him. “How are you feeling?” He held out a hand. “No, don’t try to get up or salute or any of that nonsense. We’re all in the same boat here.”
“I am fine, sir.” Ramsay struggled into a sitting position and immediately wished he had not as his head began to pound. He put a hand to ease the pain and encountered a large bandage.
“Nasty knock you had there,” the major said pleasantly. “You had quite a collection of cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. That strange little corporal of yours tells me you were in the front when the Germans began their push and you brought your men home through enemy lines. Is that correct?”
Ramsay tried to nod but the movement brought fresh pain. “Something like that, sir. How is McKim?”
“Garrulous and wanting to get back to his regiment.” The major grinned and perched himself at the foot of Ramsay’s bed. “He’s quite a character and tough as old boots.”
“McKim is one of the originals,” Ramsay told him. “He lives for the regiment.” He smiled. “I’m glad he made it. We lost far too many good men in the last few days.”
The major nodded. “We did indeed, but there are still stragglers coming in now and then. We have a couple of your men in the ranker’s hospital and one or two have filtered back to our lines.”
“I should go and see them.” Ramsay swung his legs out of the bed. He was wearing a striped night shirt that certainly was not his own and he had been washed, and bandages applied to various parts of him. His uniform, washed, repaired and ironed, hung on a peg thrust into the wall. “How long have I been out?”
“You collapsed from loss of blood the moment you ca
me through the lines,” the major said. “That would be two or three days ago.”
When Ramsay reached for his uniform the major shook his head. “If you insist on getting up, I’ll have your servant fetch something for you to eat.”
“I don’t have a servant.” Ramsay became aware of the terrible weakness of his legs, while the pounding of his head was increasing with every passing minute.
“We found you one,” the major replied.
“Have we stopped the Germans yet?” Ramsay asked.
“Not yet, but we’ve blunted their thrust,” the major said. “They failed to break through our defence lines, but they certainly pushed us back miles. They dented Gough’s Fifth army and now they have stopped. They will never take Amiens and when we have regrouped we will push them as they have pushed us.”
“We’ve lost thousands of good men.” Ramsay thought of his own dead.
“The Germans have lost more,” the major said. There was great satisfaction in his voice.
It was two hours before Ramsay left the dugout, fully fed and feeling smart in his crisp uniform. He was about a mile behind the new British lines, in an encampment that was part tented and part dug in, although there seemed no intention of a permanent stay, to judge by the lack of fixed positions.
His servant was a fussy, cheery Geordie with bright eyes. He escorted Ramsay to the hospital tent and saluted punctiliously. He smelled of soap and was so immaculately shaved that his skin glowed. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, carry on …” Ramsay hesitated.
“Gilmore, sir,” the servant reminded.
“Carry on, Gilmore.” Ramsay acknowledged his salute with a flick of his hand and entered the tent.
Men lay in parallel rows of cots, some quiet, others moaning or chatting to their neighbours. The sharp smell of disinfectant battled with gas gangrene and male sweat.
Ramsay ran his eyes along the shaved or bandaged faces and wondered if he would recognise his men in this state of cleanliness.
“Royal Scots!” he announced as he entered, and four faces turned toward him. Two he did not know, but McKim and Blackley stiffened to attention.
“At ease, men,” Ramsay said. He had thought that Blackley was dead. “It’s good to see you both again.”
“There are a few more Royals turning up, sir.” McKim looked naked without the broken pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if they are ours or not.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Blackley was wounded in the arm and leg, but greeted Ramsay with a broad grin. “Blighty one sir. I’m going home!”
“Congratulations, Blackley.” Ramsay held out his hand and accepted Blackley’s somewhat tentative handshake. “I hope this war is over before you are fit enough to return.”
Blackley shook his head. “Soldiering is my job, sir. I signed on for twenty-two years.” He smiled again, “If I wasn’t in this war I’d be in another one, sir.”
“Good man.” Ramsay was smiling as he left the hospital tent. A flight of aircraft left vapour trails overhead as they headed for the German lines.
Get them, boys. Send the Kaiser a message that he will never win this war.
Five men from an English regiment escorted a file of German prisoners through the camp towards a waiting lorry. “Get along there,” the smallest of the guards snarled. He prodded the tallest of the Germans with his bayonet. “Pick your feet up, you lazy bastard!”
Ramsay watched the scene without interest until he realised that the tall German was his old adversary. “Enough of that!” He stepped forward and pushed the bayonet back from the German. “You treat this man with respect, you hear?”
The private looked at him in surprise. “But he’s a German, sir. A murdering Hun!”
“This man is a gentleman and an officer,” Ramsay made sure he spoke loudly enough for all the guards to hear him. “I want him treated with all possible courtesy.”
He waited until the guards had acknowledged his order before he checked his pockets for a cheroot, but had none, so stood to attention instead and saluted the Prussian officer.
The officer slammed to attention, clicked his heels and returned the salute. “Thank you,” he said. He did not smile.
Ramsay watched the prisoners boarding the lorry and took a deep breath.
What now? I suppose I had better report somewhere and get sent back to my unit, or what remains of them.
Ramsay realised that he was in that strange military position of not belonging anywhere. With the 20th Royal Scots no longer a viable unit, he had no local battalion to which to return, while the parent cadre was still in Scotland. It was unlikely that he would be posted there, but until the higher command remembered he existed, he could enjoy the relative security of this camp, wherever it was.
Cadging a cigar and a match from a passing Fusiliers captain, Ramsay lit up, shook the flame out and threw the match away. He looked around at the ordered array of tents and the disciplined khaki-clad soldiers and contrasted the scene with the chaos through which he had retreated for so many days.
Well, I survived. I survived the greatest retreat and the greatest German attack since 1914.
He drew deeply on his cigar and smiled.
“Lieutenant Ramsay?” The voice had the familiar cadences of Midlothian.
Another of my men turned up alive I hope!
Ramsay turned around, still smiling.
Sergeant Flockhart stood foursquare behind him with the thumb of his right hand hooked into the sling of his rifle. “Or should I call you David Napier?”
Ramsay felt the shock like a kick in the stomach but over three years in the army had taught him some self control. He removed the cigar from his mouth with as much appearance of calmness as he could muster. “I rather think you should call me sir, Sergeant. I do not know what you mean by that other name.” He forced a smile. “It is good to see you again, Flockhart. I had thought you killed when the engine was hit.”
“The last train to Waverley.” Flockhart swung the rifle around and held it at the trail. The muzzle was pointing directly at Ramsay’s stomach and Flockhart’s hand was dangerously near the trigger. “I knew I had seen you before, but I could not remember where. It was at the station at Newtongrange, wasn’t it, sir?”
“Pointing a rifle at a superior officer is a capital offence.” Ramsay turned aside slightly and felt for his pistol, but he had not strapped it on. He was completely unarmed although in the middle of a camp of British soldiers he should be safe.
“Raping sixteen year old girls and leaving them pregnant is worse.” Flockhart worked the bolt of his rifle. The sound was unheard amidst the general bustle of the camp, but Ramsay knew there was now a bullet in the breach.
“Don’t be a fool, man!” Ramsay said.
“We’re going for a wee walk,” Flockhart told him. His eyes were steady and utterly merciless, “and you are going to tell me exactly what happened.”
Ramsay grunted, “I do not know what you are talking about, Flockhart. Now for God’s sake put that rifle aside. I think you are shell shocked, man. Come now, and I will take you to a doctor.”
Flockhart slowly shook his head. “I could shoot you here and now,” he lowered the muzzle slightly so it pointed at Ramsay’s belly, “And take my chance with a court martial. I might be shot or they might believe that my rifle went off by accident.” He shrugged. “Do you really think I care?” He prodded Ramsay with the muzzle of his rifle. “Walk in that direction, Lieutenant.”
Nobody spared Ramsay and Flockhart a second look as they moved through the camp.
How can I get out of this? If I shout for help he might just shoot.
Ramsay looked over his shoulder and into the dispassionate eyes of Flockhart. They were the same colour as Grace’s had been, but while hers had been bright and dancing with life, Flockhart’s were utterly poisonous.
There was no dispute. Flockhart would shoot. He was a trained and experienced soldier with a longs
tanding grudge.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see. Move.” Flockhart nodded to the camp exit. “Out there and keep moving.”
The camp was set in the midst of open countryside, the fields already bearing a sheen of green as the spring growth began. The guards on the gate merely glanced up as they passed.
“Be careful out there, sir. One of the Hun prisoners has escaped.”
Ramsay barely heard the words. Flockhart led them off the pave road to a farm track, rutted and sunk between high hedgerows. A lark was singing, its song plaintive in the shaded gloom.
Will I see the summer blossom this year? Will I hear the liquidity of the blackbird over the gardens of Edinburgh?
There was a scattering of small villages in view, undamaged and peaceful beneath the afternoon sun. A civilian led a horse through a field and a gaggle of children shouted as they watched a military lorry snarl past. It all seemed so normal that Ramsay wanted to reach out and embrace it.
“Over there.” Flockhart shoved him in the back. “That old barn will be the place.”
In the dark of a French barn in Picardy. Shot by one of my own men for a sin I committed as a youth. This is not the death of a soldier.
Flockhart sidled past him, keeping the muzzle of the rifle pointing at his stomach, and kicked the door open. The interior was dark and there was a sweet smell of damp hay. “In you go.”
As Ramsay stepped in, Flockhart cracked him over the head with the barrel of his rifle, reopening his wound. Ramsay yelled and staggered until Flockhart pushed him to the ground. He sprawled face down and Flockhart kicked him in the ribs.
“Lie still, Ramsay, or Napier, whatever your bloody name is.”
Ramsay groaned at the agony in his head, tried to roll away and swore when Flockhart kicked him again.
“I said lie still!”
When the barn door shut Ramsay could hardly see. He struggled to a sitting position just as there was the flare of a match and Flockhart lit a small lamp.
Last Train to Waverley Page 24