by Taffy Thomas
The harps to which we sang are hung
On willow boughs, and their refrain
Drowned by the anguish of the young
Whose blood is mingled with the rain.
Ellis Evans (1887–1917)
Translated by Alan Llwyd for Out of the Fire of Hell: Welsh Experience of the Great War 1914–1918 in Prose and Verse (Gomer Press, 2008), reprinted by permission of Alan Llwyd.
It is not surprising that young soldiers, suddenly exposed to the very real possibility of dying in a foreign land, felt scared and more than a little confused. This combination of fear and confusion could lead to dreamlike delusions. So it was that the rumour ran from soldier to soldier the length of the front line, that soldiers facing defeat and death had unmistakably seen a wispy white figure beckoning them to safety if they followed him. The figure became known as the Angel of Mons, named after the Belgian city near to where a key battle took place. Countless sightings of the Angel were reported back to family and friends in Britain. Here follows a selection of those legends.
THE ANGELS OF MONS
The first few days of August 1914 were crucial for the future of the German Empire. Having declared war on Russia on the first day of that month, the Kaiser was very aware that France, who had a treaty with Russia, might retaliate. For Germany, being geographically sandwiched between these two hostile nations was worrying as it meant there was a very real possibility of facing a war on two fronts at the same time. The only solution, so the Kaiser and his generals believed, was to nip one problem in the bud as quickly as possible.
Predicting that it would take Russia longer to mobilise its troops, the Kaiser drew up his Schlieffen Plan, central to which was the decision to attack France first – and swiftly – and to neutralise them before facing the mighty Russia in the east. But the Kaiser made one assumption too many. The King of Belgium was not going to allow German troops to pass through his country en route to Paris without challenge, and refused to give in to the Kaiser’s demands. So, on 3 August 1914, Belgium faced the reality of a German invasion.
Stepping up to defend their Belgian allies, Britain immediately issued the Kaiser with an ultimatum to end hostilities but, when no withdrawal came, it was Britain’s turn to declare war. By 22 August, 100,000 British Expeditionary Force (BEF) soldiers had crossed the English Channel and four infantry divisions and one cavalry division were headed for Belgium. Just one day later, on 23 August 1914, they were fighting their first major battle on the Western Front – the Battle of Mons.
The battle proved to be an unforgettable start to the Great War for the British. The aim was to try to hold back the German Army and keep it from advancing into French territory. However, the German Army proved to be far stronger than the BEF expected; outnumbering the British troops by more than two to one. Without the support of their French allies, who were already rushing back to defend their capital city, the British found themselves in danger of being surrounded and, under heavy attack, were forced into a rapid retreat.
There seems little doubt that the bloodiness of this first battle shocked the British, who were clearly not expecting to be so overwhelmed in their first major engagement. Equally, there seems little doubt that the British Government realised the damage to morale that this could have caused – not only among the troops but also among civilians back home in Blighty. So when stories began to emerge of angels appearing on the battlefield at Mons, holding back the Germany army and thus helping British soldiers to retreat unharmed, they are unlikely to have resented the suggestion that their troops were ultimately in God’s protection.
This is the tale of the first of these stories and how it evolved into one of the most famous First World War legends of all time.
In 1910, a forty-seven-year-old Welsh writer with a passion for horror, fantasy and mystery, took up a post as a journalist on the popular London newspaper, The Evening News. His name was Arthur Machen, and although his new job saw him writing – far more frequently than before – about factual matters, he never lost his love of legend and folk tale. For a long time, Machen had been intrigued by the legends of King Arthur and ancient stories of the Holy Grail, and he had spent many years searching for grains of truth within these romantic stories of kings and queens of old, brave knights and beautiful maidens, lost religious practices and ancient Christian beliefs. But even successful creative writers can struggle to make a living so, to secure a steady income and thereby a good home for his wife and baby son, Machen knuckled down and got on with the day-to-day grind of working as a newspaper journalist, while continuing to write fiction whenever he could.
Machen was soon to have plenty of new inspiration for his writing for, in 1914, he reported on his country’s descent into war, and right from the start, there came back from the trenches tale after tale of great deeds and immense bravery amid bloodcurdling horror. For journalists like Machen, extracting the fact from the fiction in each of these tales was not always easy. The noose of censorship was pulled tight, as the British Government tried to control the news which leaked back to home shores. So when rumours reached Machen’s desk of a surprise defeat and a rapid retreat from the Allies’ first major engagement on the Western Front at Mons, Machen may not have known for certain where the truth stopped and the gossip began. What he did know was that his country was in danger of spiralling into panic and fear. The people needed, he believed, a story that would inspire them and restore their self-belief.
So he put pen to paper and he wrote a story about a soldier in the midst of a battle, in which his side was outnumbered and under constant artillery attack but in which he was saved by heavenly intervention. He submitted the story to his editor for placement in The Evening News, cleverly choosing the feast of Saint Michael and All Angels – 29 September – as its publication day. He named the story ‘The Bowmen’, and it went something like this …
This is the story of the retreat of the 70,000, relating to 70,000 of the 100,000 or so brave soldiers who made up our British Expeditionary Force at the start of this Great War. It is a gruelling and a terrible tale of a moment when our men faced far worse than just heavy losses; they were in danger of being wiped out altogether.
Among the brave young men going into battle that day was a young soldier from London. After days of marching south, he and his battalion had reached the front line, where a great German army had gathered and was trying to push its way onto French soil. As night approached, they dug themselves a thin line of trenches along the banks of a moss-green canal, hoping that its slow-moving waters would offer some protection when the fighting began.
At first light the next morning, the soldier and his companions awoke to find the landscape cloaked in a thick blanket of mist. Barely able to see their hands in front of their faces, they knew that any attempted attack on the enemy was sheer folly. So they watched, and they waited, certain that when the time came to fight, they would be victorious.
Eventually, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, it burned off the morning mist and, peering over the edge of their trenches, the British were able to see for the first time the scale of the enemy they faced. Even the most battle-hardy swallowed hard, trying not to lose faith as it became clear that they were outnumbered at least two to one.
But the soldiers had little time to dwell on their fears as, at that instant, the German artillery barrage began and, thick and fast, a torrent of shells rained down on the British trenches from higher ground. The ground burst open, bodies were ripped apart and the blood ran thick into the mud. Then in the wake of the artillery barrage came a second attack, this time at ground level, as hundreds of German infantry poured across the canal’s narrow bridges, some even clambering across lock gates to get closer to their enemy.
At first the machine gunners and rifle men posted along the British front line held firm and blasted away at the approaching enemy, but for every grey-coated stampede which stumbled and fell, another would replace it. The British were being overwhelmed.
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sp; Morning turned into afternoon and the Germans now began to surround their enemy. One by one, the British guns were silenced and the Germans sniffed their first whiff of victory. Their soldiers came crashing down into the British trenches. At once brutal and bloody, the gruelling battle raged on.
The young Londoner, who had never stopped firing his gun, paused for a moment and turned to shake hands with the soldiers lying in the ditch beside him. As he looked into each pair of eyes, he could see the hope draining away as each prepared himself for the end. As he turned back to his gun and began to fire once more, one of his comrades started to sing, his voice dull and flat as he adapted the words to his favourite song:
It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go.
It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square!
It’s a long, long way to Tipperary, And we shan’t get there.
Hearing the names of his beloved London streets, the young soldier suddenly remembered a small vegetarian restaurant which he had not long ago discovered and which served a delicious dish of lentil and nut cutlets. But, as hungry as he was, it was not the memory of the flavour of that meal, nor its mouth-watering aroma which now filled his mind – it was the plate upon which it was served. He distinctly remembered the picture and the lettering painted upon it: a picture of Saint George, dressed all in blue, accompanied by the words Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius.
‘May Saint George be a present help to the English,’ he whispered, translating the Latin. Then he spoke the motto again, this time louder as he fired his gun; then louder again, screaming the words in defiance as he blasted away, firing everywhere … anywhere … slamming bullets into the bodies of his approaching enemy.
Then suddenly, tears streaming down his face, he stopped, for a shudder ran up his spine and his skin turned icy cold. Everything around him seemed to fall silent and still, and he could see his breath, heavy on the night air. Then he heard a voice, booming out across the battlefield. ‘Array, array, array!’ it cried. ‘Saint George for merry England.’
The young soldier looked up and to his amazement a shaft of bright light suddenly penetrated the night sky, like sunlight creeping through a great tear in a blackout curtain, and the battlefield was illuminated in a ghostly glow.
Then, floating down the beam of light, came a host of silver-white angels, dressed as archers and carrying golden bows and arrows. Like the mist which had hovered over the canal that dawn, the angels floated above the ground between the two armies’ lines, forming a silvery safety net around the remaining British soldiers.
The soldier stood in awe, rooted to the ground as he watched one angel raising its hand and pointing at the enemy. Then the entire army of angels opened fire, showering the Germans with shimmering arrows, pinning them back so that the British soldiers could make their retreat.
The young soldier and his companions fled, only slowing to an exhausted trudge when the cries of battle behind them had completely faded away. No one spoke a word. Those who had witnessed the heavenly vision were unsure whether or not to believe what they had seen. Had Saint George really brought his Agincourt bowmen back from the dead to help the English in their hour of need? Meanwhile, others kept shaking their heads as if trying to clear their minds of a temporary madness. Most were too traumatised by the scale and the speed of their defeat in the battle to utter a sound. Some were so tired that they slept as they walked.
Back on the battlefield, some 10,000 Germans also slept, but theirs was not the sleep of the exhausted; it was the sleep of the dead. Yet as they moved among their fallen men, the Kaiser’s generals could find no blood, no wound, no mark of any kind on their bodies.
Machen never claimed that ‘The Bowmen’ was anything but a fictional story and he never mentioned Mons within it nor named any soldier on either side. However, the style in which he wrote the tale was so believable that the readers of The Evening Times became convinced that it was based on eyewitness accounts.
Frustrated when Machen repeatedly denied that there was any grain of truth in his tale, his critics then accused him of a deliberate attempt at a hoax. It seemed that nothing Machen could say would make any difference. His story had become a legend and had begun to run away from him.
As it was repeated, précised and retold, the legend of the phantom bowmen grew and evolved, sometimes becoming more fantastical, at others being increasingly locked into reality. And gradually, as the Great War went on, the Angels of Mons began to give birth to other folk tales. Men returned from battlefields far and wide with reports of strange sightings, spiritual encounters and tales of ghostly apparitions. Only one person appeared to tire of the mysterious legend and prayed that he would hear it no more: the man who had created it and unleashed it upon the world – Arthur Machen.
AN ANGEL’S GUIDING LIGHT
The Coldstream Guards are probably Britain’s most iconic infantry regiment. One of seven regiments within the Queen’s Household Division, they are the soldiers famous the world over for the bright red tunics and tall, bearskin caps which they wear for ceremonial duties like the Trooping of the Colour and the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. However, it is the guards’ lesser-known skill – their adaptability for rapid deployment to a wide range of duties – which makes them one of the most courageous and disciplined regiments of the British Armed Forces.
When Britain entered the First World War in 1914, the Coldstream Guards were among the first troops to cross the Channel to France, and they fought in some of the most famous and bloody battles. The regiment suffered devastating losses in the First Battle of Ypres in October 1914 and also played a key role at Mons, at the Somme, Loos, Ginchy and again at Ypres in 1917.
The following tale was first told by British-born writer Arch Whitehouse, a frequent contributor to the 1920s pulp fiction, aviation adventure story magazine Flying Aces. The story was published in Whitehouse’s book Heroes and Legends of World War I in 1964, fifty years after the event which inspired it is deemed to have taken place. Although told as if based on a reported account from eyewitnesses, Whitehouse’s story contains no real names. This, and his penchant for exaggeration, has led many to dismiss the tale, and the ghostly vision described within it, as pure fiction. However, who knows what those exhausted and traumatised soldiers of the Great War battles might have seen or imagined at a time of such great stress, fear and emotion? Might dreams have felt like reality? Might hallucinations have seemed tangible? Whatever the truth behind Whitehouse’s legend, the soldiers he describes encountering the angel certainly seemed to live a charmed life during the hours, days and weeks which followed the Battle of Mons.
It was in the early hours of 24 August 1914 when Field Marshal John French gave the order for the great British retreat from the Battle of Mons to begin. Thousands of soldiers joined the march, exhausted, heads hanging; some mourning the loss of comrades and others stumbling under the weight of the battered and torn bodies of the wounded. Among those who were the last to leave was a company of the King’s own Coldstream Guards. Staying true to their reputation for courage, discipline and loyalty, these brave infantrymen fought on, protecting the rear of the retreating force long after others had fled.
Yet their courage was to bring them no instant reward, for when a safe moment finally came for them to leave their posts, the guards found themselves lost and alone. Separated from the rest of their battalion, they had no idea which way to march and no certainty of catching up with their retreating comrades.
What’s more, night was approaching. The guards knew that to wander on blindly through the dark was pure folly, so they decided to halt and make camp for the night. Their best chance of survival, they knew, was to dig themselves a trench and wait until dawn, when they could continue the search for the rest of their regiment.
Anxious that the enemy would more than likely have followed them, the soldiers took turns to stand guard while others tried to ca
tch a precious few moments of sleep.
Now, the eyes and the ears can play tricks in the dead of night, and it was while the second watch was on duty (a few minutes after midnight) that one young soldier, peering out over the edge of the trench, spotted a bright light just a few feet away. The light flickered and then disappeared, before suddenly reappearing, brighter this time and swaying gently from side to side.
Surprisingly, the young soldier was not afraid. The light was coming from the opposite direction to that in which the guards had marched, so his first thought was not of the enemy.
‘Must be someone messing about with a flashlight,’ he muttered to himself, before calling out, ‘Who’s that out there? You’ll get yourself shot, you darn fool!’
There was no reply. Instead, the light drew closer.
Anxious now, the young guard readied himself to fire. He opened his mouth, preparing to shout ‘Halt or I’ll shoot,’ but his words caught in his throat, for as the light grew brighter, he saw that it was beginning to take a human shape … a female shape … a tall, slender woman dressed in a long, flowing robe of white. On her head was a thin, golden crown and springing from her shoulders were two delicate, snow-white, feathered wings.
Amazed, the young guard dropped his weapon and began to shake his companions from their slumber. As each man awoke, the guard pointed to the angelic vision over his shoulder.
One by one, the men gathered themselves, swallowing hard and blinking as their startled eyes tried to fathom the true nature of the luminous shape. Mouths agape, they wondered if they were truly awake or if they were still dreaming.
The angel was now standing on the very rim of the trench, and as she looked down at the men huddled below her, she smiled and her hair fell softly forwards around her face. Still she did not utter a word, but when all the men were awake, she lifted her hand, gesturing that they should follow her.