Angels at Mons

by Carl Leckey

  Abruptly turning his back on him Sandy addresses me.

  “Scouse I have a letter for you, do you want to read it now or in the morning?”

  “That is two letters in one day my luck must be changing.” I congratulate myself.

  Chapter seventeen

  Changes

  Fred is quiet after Sandy made the remark about him. I am about to ask Sandy to read me the letters now when Fred says.

  “May I have a word with you in private?”

  Sandy answers him with a touch of anger in his voice.

  “Anything you have to say, you can say in front of these men, and for your information I have served on the front line.”

  Toot and Dave have been awakened by the talking and join us on the beds surrounding Billy’s.

  Toot remarks. “I heard what you said to this one Sandy, you know some of the things he told us did not ring true, the more I think about it the more phoney he appears.”

  Fred holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

  “I give up.” He laughs. “Soon as I recognised you Sandy I knew my cover was blown. Right I shall confess all, if you don’t like what I reveal I’ll move out of your tent.

  Lord Kitchener, our beloved Minister of War has banned journalists from reporting anywhere on the front line, I admit I am a reporter for a national paper. I joined the Red Cross as a stretcher-bearer to get the facts and report them to the Great British public. That my friend’s brief as it may be is my story. Oh! And the reason Sandy is a bit antagonistic towards me, well. I’ll let Sandy fill you in on that subject. I think George will bear my story out if you don’t believe me.”

  Sandy clarifies the position for our benefit. “I am a member of the No- Conscription Fellowship, this one.” He points at Fred. “He ran a vicious campaign against our peace movement, even encouraged those mad upper class lunatic women to run around giving white feathers to poor sods. The only courageous folk that have the courage to stand against this bloody evil war. Some poor buggers couldn’t stand the shame and committed suicide, leaving their families to carry the shame of the deed for the rest of their lives.

  Did you know that lads?”

  There is a pause in the conversation until Fred speaks.

  “Yes I admit all of that, but it was at the beginning of the war before the slaughter on the Western front occurred, please believe me I know better now. That is why I am here, simply to inform the general public of what’s happening to their Husbands, Sons, Brothers Fathers, Uncles.”

  Sandy replies “I have to admit I have seen some of your recent editorials they are good and true. The fact that you are now serving as a stretcher-bearer I believe exonerates you from your past sins.”

  He stuck out his hand and they shake warmly.

  Toot enquires. “What about your mate George then, what’s he doing here?”

  Fred informs us with pride. “George my friend is someone I’m sure you will approve of for he is a genuine Red Cross stretcher-bearer. He failed his medical for the British Army and joined the French Red Cross. He wangled his way into front line duties then moved to the British section when he had the opportunity. George assisted me to get a position with the Red-Cross, enabling me to get to the front line and carry out some undercover reporting.”

  The attitude of our lads changes when he discloses this information. The two letters I have received intrigue me I can hardly wait until morning so I request Sandy to read them for me right away. The lads are chatting to the two new comers like old friends as Sandy and I slip out of the tent. Although it is dark outside the tent a hurricane lamp hanging on a branch gives him enough light to read my letters.

  I handed a letter to Sandy as he opens the envelope I notice a slight grin on his face he lifts the envelope up to his face and sniffs before he passes it over to me. I detect a lovely perfume surrounding the letter as I recognise it excitement grips me.

  I carefully open the envelope slip out the folded paper and hand it over to my mate. He begins reading stops and asks.

  “Are you sure I should read this? It’s very personal note to you from your friend Denise.” My heart races, I am in a dilemma, I want the contents strictly for myself, yet I know I must share them with my mate. At that moment I realise I have to learn to read as soon as possible. Never has the inability to read affected me so much as at that moment.

  As I try to make a decision Sandy holds up his hand indicating we should listen, above the sound of gunfire we detect a new sound. The roar comes closer until it is directly overhead. As the sound is directly overhead I detect a whistling sound immediately followed by a huge explosion.

  A triangle rings out a warning of an air raid this sound is immediately followed by another terrific explosion. Panic grips the station, men run about half dressed after being rudely awakened. Sandy as quick thinking as ever hurriedly extinguishes the hurricane lamp.

  This is the first time we have been attacked in any manner by air. Unfortunately the station has never practised blackouts or established an air raid procedure in the event of bombing from aeroplanes. Another bang in the vicinity of the farm-house followed by screams of pain. A fire begins to blaze in the stable area, as quickly as it began the air raid is all over.

  The sound of cannon fire from the front line dominates my hearing again as the roar of the aero engine recedes into the distance. A bugle sounds assembly, I hear horses screaming in pain and terror and men desperately shouting to each other.

  All the lights have been doused and chaos reigns in the station as men try to find their way to the farmyard in darkness. This is where the occasional parades take place, we are fortunate as we know the area better than most this knowledge enables us to arrive well ahead of the other personnel. The haystack in the horse’s paddock burns illuminating the whole area. Drivers are scurrying about attempting to quell the flames with buckets of water drawn laboriously from the well. Other men risk life and limb as they attempt to calm the terrified rearing horses.

  The Colonel appears from the direction of the farmhouse as more men begin arriving in dribs and drabs. We join the bucket chain leading from the well to the fire. The Staff Sergeant arrives much to my amazement accompanied by of all people our friend the MP and another person I don’t recognise.

  We manage to extinguish the hay stack fire after a half hour back breaking work I reckon only because there is nothing left to burn. As a fire brigade we have to admit we were a disaster.

  The Sergeant promises this will never happen again as emergency water reservoirs will be constructed immediately after we have resolved the current crisis.

  Two horses have been killed instantly during the attack and another three of the badly wounded horses are shot. Dave remarks somewhat cynically. “At least the cooks will get some satisfaction out of the raid.”

  We discover the first of the bombs has hit the German POW compound ironically killing a German prisoner, the second landed close to the small horse ready paddock. The third exploded harmlessly a distance away in a field close to where we buried poor Tommy and the bits and pieces.

  When we have assembled in ranks the Colonel addresses the staff.

  “Men up to now we have been comparatively safe here in this casualty station, I now believe we are being deliberately targeted. Sadly this is one of the enemy’s tactics I have witnessed previously when I served on another front line.

  The raids are carried out deliberately to destroy the moral of the troops, from now on men we must take precautions. I will meet with the NCO’s to plan an air raid policy for the future.

  I must take full responsibility for this present disaster men. With all of my experience I should have foreseen that eventually the enemy would use this despicable tactic on our station. Come daylight we will get things underway I can assure you. Right chaps you are dismissed go and try get some sleep we have an even more busier day tomorrow.”

  That is it from then on things are never the same again. Blackout is strictly enforced by a rovin
g camp piquet. The planes came over sometimes night after night, followed by an apprehensive pause for an indeterminate time until the whole horrific cycle begins again.

  In some ways these pauses are worse than being bombed every night.

  We rescue casualties from the trenches in the front line and when the poor buggers arrive at the station after a bone shattering trip they are being maimed and slaughtered again in the supposedly place of sanctuary.

  Billy angrily remarks during a particularly long spell of bombing.

  “I hope our Flying Corp is bombing shit out of their hospitals, it will give them bastards a taste of what it’s like to be on the receiving end.”

  Sadly the lads all agree with his sentiments, how sad even decent men are driven to advocating revenge on the wounded innocents albeit their enemy?

  During this time we live similar to moles in our dugouts under our tents, the tents are only useful for keeping us dry that is until they are ripped by flying shrapnel. Luckily for us Dave has served as a sail maker in civvy-street and keeps our tent fairly watertight.

  Toot scrounges some sheet steel plates on one of his trips to the rail siding and we reinforce the roof of our dugout. Under the added welcome protection we shelter during the horrific times.

  The Honourable Member as Sandy referred to our friend to differentiate him from the military police remains at the station for another few days billeted with the NCO’s not the Officer’s much to our surprise. He is evidently, a Gentleman true to his word our friendly Member of Parliament. I often observe him in all parts of the station assisting in various tasks and taking notes, the majority of the lads take to him immediately and generally he is well liked and greatly admired.

  The other chap I first saw after the big raid accompanying our Honourable Member turns out to be none other than Sir Fabian Ware.

  According to the station gossip he has set himself the task of touring all the front line stations organising the establishment of Military Grave sites. Another of his duties entailed developing methods of recording where the fallen soldiers are buried.

  This is a welcomed enterprise very much appreciated by the common soldier. I know Sandy is a great admirer of Sir Fabian and his enterprise. He often speaks to me about the number of soldiers that have been buried in unmarked graves.

  “Imagine the additional grief this will bring to the soldiers families not knowing where their loved ones are buried. How will they be able to grieve for their loved ones?” Again this is something I have not considered. It set me wondering about Tommy’s Dad buried somewhere in Africa and his son Tommy himself dumped in an unmarked hole in the ground.

  The reporter Fred sent a number of brilliant reports in to his paper about the bombing of a casualty station somewhere on the front line, the devious government censors allowed them to be published we believed cynically for propaganda purposes.

  Fred and his partner move away from our area after a few days working with our stretcher-bearers. One sad note for me, the letter I received from Denise was lost in the confusion of the air raid. I still have the envelope and treasure it and place the wonderful piece of folded paper close to my head every night. Although I scoured the area by the tents inch by inch assisted by my mates the letter was not to be found.

  When I ask Sandy what she has written in the letter, he assured me he had only read the opening words before handing it over to me on that eventful night.

  At my urgings Sandy begins giving me reading and writing lessons, I found much to my surprise I am improving by leaps and bounds under his tutoring. Already I am able to identify many words in common use printed in and around the station after only a few lessons.

  The Sergeant heard about his efforts to educate me and requests Sandy to do the same for the rest of the illiterate lads, he agrees without hesitation and set to with relish doing what he has been trained for.

  Thankfully although he never did it for this purpose his teaching role kept him away from the front line.

  Much to Sandy’s delight I set myself a target to write a letter for Denise in a month’s time with my own hand.

  Whilst digging my fifth hole for the bits and pieces I have an idea.

  The ground is particularly hard in the location, when I come upon a layer of sandstone fairly close to the surface. The thought of abandoning the work I have completed so far and having to dig another hole pisses me off, in a fit of temper I throw my shovel down

  I remember the bomb dropping into the field on the night of the first raid and wonder if I can utilise it for my purpose. We have filled in many craters after air raids that would have been suitable for disposal sites unfortunately they were too close to the buildings to be of use.

  I wander across the field until I am standing on the side of the crater. At first glance looking down at the hole, it appears ideal for my purpose. Only one drawback to my idea it is a great deal further to push the cart, otherwise it will be a perfect for disposals.

  I jump down into the hole to investigate and to my surprise I land not on soft soil but something hard. Scrabbling about in the soil an object catches my eye.

  I identify it as a block of cut masonry. As I dig many more appear scattered about by the explosion. Frantically I begin clearing them with my hands until the remains of a set of steps surface. The bomb has blown the top section away. With excitement gripping me, I run back to the half excavated hole to fetch my shovel. I return breathlessly to dig feverishly like a mad rabbit.

  Gradually I expose an arched entrance with the remains of a wooden door. Boosted by the sight of this I continue digging until I break through into a clear area beyond the splintered wood. Not waiting to clear the doorway completely I scramble my way through and drop into pitch darkness. Much to my surprise the air smells sweet with a slight aroma of something I find hard to identify.

  To be honest, I am too scared to go any further on my own, I need someone I can trust to further explore my discovery.

  It has to be Billy, he is a hard case and nothing seems to frighten him. Roughly covering my work I race back to the station remembering a conversation I had with Oscar about a Roman Villa. Have I discovered the secret he longed to share with the French farmer?

  When I arrive at the tent Billy is sleeping peacefully in his bed.

  Last night’s duty ended his week of night work. When I waken him he opens his eyes and sleepily asks.

  “What time is it, what do you want?” He spots the time on his clock and complains sleepily. “Bloody Hell Scouse I’m knackered, bugger off will you and come back in a couple of hours?”

  He snuggles back into his bed and pulls the blanket over his head.

  Sitting on the side of his bed, I plead with him. “Bill please get up. I want you to come with me I’ve discovered something really interesting I promise you won’t regret it. I have an idea what it is but need someone with a light to help me.”

  He is a good mate Bill, although he moans a bit he rises and dresses, before we set off I unhook the hurricane lamp from the tent pole. When we arrive at the bomb crater Bill and I set to scraping the doorway completely clear. He relights the lamp and we enter carefully clambering over the last of the rubble located inside.

  Sticking close together we nervously creep along a wide, vaulted, underground passage, sloping downward for about fifty feet.

  With limited illumination from the lamp it is difficult to see very far ahead.

  Without warning we find ourselves in a wide chamber part natural cave with areas evidently hued from living rock. Huge wine barrels line the walls set on shaped wooden blocks about three feet high.

  I gasp. ‘Jesus!’ When I recognise what we have discovered.

  Billy whistles in amazement, bundles of candles are stacked by each barrel, some half burnt. Others are located in iron candleholders set into the rock walls.

  Bill strikes a Vesta and lights all the candles in our vicinity. It is eerie yet somehow peaceful very similar to being in an empty church.


  It is hard to believe but there is no sound of the guns pounding away at the front line penetrating the cave for the first time since we arrived in France we are blessed with wonderful silence.

  I slump onto a box surveying the scene about me.

  Billy exclaims with glee. “Bugger me Scouse, if these here barrels are full of booze we have hit the jack pot?”

  “I reckon there is only one way to find out.” I giggle excitedly.

  Crossing to the nearest barrel I locate a wooden tap sited near the bottom, I have difficulty turning the blooming thing only by using two hands am I able to get it moving. Nothing happens, for a moment joy turns into disappointment. Dejected I sit on the box again until a kind of plopping noise heralds a gush of red liquid streaming from the tap.

  Billy whoops with delight he rushing over and cups his hands under the running wine. Lapping like a dog he samples the contents of the barrel. He doesn’t make a comment for a moment but simply turns the tap off.

  Suddenly a loud yippee fills the cave. “Bloody Hell! Scouse.” He yells. “We are bloomin’ millionaires.”

  We have a few gulps each, although Billy and I are not experts the wine tastes fine to us. When, like a flash, the reality of the situation dawns on me. I am loath to spoil Billy’s fun and dreams but what the Hell are we going to do with a cave full of wine in the middle of a war?

  We have a discussion and decide to re-cover the entrance and set out to return to the tent line and duties, without revealing our find to anyone. As we make our way back to our quarters, we agree to sleep on it and make a decision tomorrow.

  That night we have the worst raids so far resulting in two dead, five wounded, and one of our precious motor ambulances totally destroyed. Thankfully the horses are now being kept a good distance away from the main station after that first awful raid. The German flyers really have our position clearly marked. They prove this by their first accurate raid soon after dark. Thanks to the new water reservoirs we are able to extinguish the fires in record time.