The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  Winston nods knowingly.

  ‘You fear the worst in France?’

  ‘I do; we could be cut off from the sea or, worse still, suffer drastic casualties. I know your dreadnoughts are our greatest bulwark but, should doomsday come to pass, I want sufficient men to remain here to defend the south coast.’

  ‘I understand. But “doomsday”? Surely not!’

  ‘I know you’re a warrior at heart, Winston – it’s in your blood – and that the possibility of defeat never enters your head, but it’s an ever-present thought in mine. The French will fight bravely, their officers will conduct themselves with their usual elan and their tough little poilus, full of national pride, will fight for the honour of the Republic. But their generals are thirty years behind the times, as are their weapons and tactics. The Germans, on the other hand, are cunning, well-equipped and hungry for conquest.’

  ‘You paint a depressing picture, my Lord K.’

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Winston, we can win. We have the navy and we have the Channel. But if we are to have an army to win this war, we’re going to need time to build it. What the Romans took two hundred years to create, we’re going to have to do in eighteen months.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘One million, perhaps closer to two.’

  ‘Bugger me! Can it be done?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m going to have to break a few eggs and crack a few skulls to do it.’

  ‘You can count on my full support, both within government and in the country.’

  ‘I am grateful to you, Winston.’

  ‘Not at all! Quite apart from the kindnesses you showed to me in the Sudan, all those years ago, for which I will always be grateful, all of us need to support you in your noble efforts.’

  ‘You’re very kind. You and I go back a long way, do we not? Now this great responsibility has fallen to us. May God give us the wisdom and the strength to carry it through.’

  Later that day, Winston telephones Clemmie, who is waiting for the call at the post office in Overstrand, where she is staying with their children at Pear Tree Cottage.

  ‘What a day it has been, Clemmie. Lord Kitchener gave an admirable account of his intentions; very impressive it was too. We had a private lunch together, and I think we are going to cooperate very agreeably. Mind you, I made something of a faux pas when I exclaimed at one point, “Bugger me!” ’

  ‘What do you mean, Pug?’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way, he’s not married and surrounds himself with a coterie of handsome young officers.’

  ‘I had no idea … such a handsome, strapping chap as well.’

  ‘I know, but, as it’s often said, anyone who has served in Egypt comes back with a penchant for sodomy –’

  ‘Oh, Pug, really! Not over the telephone, darling.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dearest one, this is a secure line.’

  ‘I’m not concerned about security, I just don’t want to hear about men buggering one another over the telephone.’

  ‘Oh, dearest Cat, buggery doesn’t happen over the telephone …’ He pauses, but there is no response to his crass humour. ‘Sorry, Cat. Let’s change the subject. How are the kittens?’

  ‘Well, but Chumbolly is being difficult, as usual. I know you are trying to change the subject, Winston, but I’ve been hearing the most dreadful stories about how the Germans are behaving towards the Belgians.’

  ‘I don’t want to distress you any more than is necessary, but the reports suggest they are being absolutely bestial. There have been mass executions, dreadful reprisals against soldiers and civilians alike, it seems they’ve gone mad; it’s bloodlust.’

  ‘Oh, my darling, how awful! Those poor people –’

  ‘Lord K’s organizing our Expeditionary Force; the first battalions have already left. The rest will be on their way soon.’

  ‘Oh, I do hope so.’

  ‘I must go, darling Cat. Lord Louis is coming to dinner. The Goeben, one of Germany’s biggest battlecruisers, has evaded our entire Mediterranean Fleet and got through to Constantinople. The poor chap is coming to explain how it happened.’

  ‘All right, Big Pig, many kisses from me and the kittens.’

  ‘And from me to all of you. Make sure those marines keep their eyes peeled. Love you, Cat.’

  Rouen, Normandy, France

  Philip Davies, professional auctioneer and reservist captain in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, has had a frantic time. Within three days, he has had to make provision for his mentally ill wife to be cared for in his absence, arrange for his household and businesses in Presteigne to be run while he is away and rush to join the fusiliers who are already billeted in Dorchester Town Hall. And he has done all of this while in the throes of an intense affair with an eighteen-year-old cleaning girl who has become obsessed with him, and he with her.

  He has vowed to write to Bronwyn every day, using the post office box he has arranged in Presteigne. But he has been too busy, so far, to send anything more than one short, scribbled note. He knows how smitten she has become by him, but his first few days away from her have allowed him to think more deeply about his feelings for her. Does he love her? He has repeatedly asked himself this question. He knows how totally infatuated he has become, but is it love? He is not sure.

  At Dorchester, he was given a precautionary medical and granted command of two platoons in A Company, most of whose men are seasoned veterans – not the easiest baptism for a reserve officer with only a modicum of real military experience. Philip’s top hat and tailcoat have been put away, to be replaced by British khaki. His auctioneer’s gavel has been exchanged for a Webley Mk IV revolver.

  The Royal Welch Fusiliers sailed from Southampton at 2 a.m. this morning and arrived in Rouen in the middle of the afternoon. They are the first British troops to arrive in Normandy and are given a rapturous welcome. As they march through the streets, they are cheered, kissed and embraced by men, women and children alike. They are given flowers, wine, food and cigarettes and hailed as saviours of a land about to be overrun by a horde of barbarian Huns.

  The fusiliers are given a temporary billet in a local convent, only just vacated by nuns who have gone south to their sister house in Bordeaux. When his men are settled in, Philip calls them together.

  ‘Stand at ease, men. Welcome to France, land of wine, women and song, at least two of which delights are only to be enjoyed in very small doses and one of which is likely to give you a dose!’

  Their new officer’s towering presence and blunt humour make an immediate impression on the forty-eight men in the room. They had expected a ‘chinless wonder’, probably an English one – or at the very least one with a cut-glass English accent – but Philip speaks like they do, or like the schoolteachers they remember from childhood. He fills his address with humour and detailed information not usually given to private soldiers. He finishes with a final flourish.

  ‘Serjeant Powell is handing out a pamphlet. It is from Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War. It is warning you against temptation, especially those emanating from bottles and brothels. Read it! If any of you have any difficulty with reading, just ask Serjeant Powell, Lieutenants Jones or Morgan, or myself.’

  Philip likes soldiering; he is ideally suited to it. If it had paid more, he might well have become a career soldier rather than an auctioneer.

  ‘Rouen is off-limits tonight. You need to get some sleep as few of us had any last night. We have no orders at present; I expect they will come down to us over the next day or two. Now, Serjeant Powell, get the men off to bed.’

  Rules Restaurant, Covent Garden, London

  Also en route on 10 August are two of the Stewart-Murray boys from Blair Atholl. While Bardie remains in Dunkeld with the Scottish Horse, Geordie is at Aldershot with the Black Watch, preparing to leave for Southampton, from where they will sail in three days’ time. Hamish is with the Cameron Highlanders, who will also leave from Southampton on 13 August. They are billeted at the Duke of
York’s Barracks in Chelsea. As both men are close to one another, they arrange to have dinner together at Rules Restaurant in Covent Garden. When they arrive, they are part of a majority of diners who are in uniform.

  As usual, Hamish does most of the talking.

  ‘Have you heard from Father?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird. I expect he’ll be as grumpy as hell. Half the staff have gone to the Colours.’

  ‘I hope Nellie-Hellie is holding the fort.’

  ‘She will, don’t you doubt it.’

  ‘Do you know which boat you’re on?’

  ‘Yes, the SS Gando.’

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘A cattle ship probably!’

  Despite the economic gloom that has descended on the country after the outbreak of war, the mood inside Rules is buoyant. The patriotism, a sentiment some would say borders on jingoism, is palpable. The restaurant’s famous cellar is being plundered with abandon and its traditional English fare being consumed as if its nourishment will make the difference when a British bayonet clashes with a German one. After all, how can a weapon wielded by a man fed on sauerkraut possibly be a match against one brandished by a doughty Brit sustained by Rules’s steak and kidney pie?

  The waiters are run off their feet, the laughter becomes louder and the women swoon ever more at the sight of their handsome, khaki-clad heroes. Some diners break into song, even though there are few tuneful voices to be heard. For Hamish and Geordie the atmosphere is irresistible.

  ‘Shall we go down to Dalton’s Nightclub after dinner?’

  ‘Hamish, you’re incorrigible!’

  ‘Of course I am. Good heavens, we may not see one another, or Blair, or Blighty, ever again! I intend to get drunk and fornicate right royally with at least one little darling tonight.’

  Geordie can see that Hamish means business.

  ‘I’m not going back to the Duke of York’s; I’m staying at the Langham. You should do the same, Geordie. Why go all the way back to Aldershot. But you can’t sleep on my sofa! I intend to have company, so you’ll have to get your own room. Perhaps you’ll strike it lucky yourself?’

  It proves to be a debauched night for both of them. They eschew Dalton’s and go to the Gaslight Club in St James’s instead, where they meet a pair of willing ladies. A couple of shop assistants who have digs together in Maida Vale, they are more than happy to spend the night with two uniformed lords of the realm. They have never met aristocrats before and are impressed by their officer’s garb, especially under the influence of fine champagne, the opulence of the Langham Hotel and the cornucopia of a breakfast served to them at three in the morning.

  To cap a raucous night, at eight thirty in the morning, Hamish gives them a five-pound note – enough to pay the fare to Edinburgh and back – for a cab back to Selfridges, where they are due at work in the Perfumery Department. They were all smiles and giggles as they left, but perhaps were not looking quite as spruce as they had done the day before.

  For their part, Hamish and Geordie have sore heads for the rest of the day, are sullen with their superiors, bad-tempered with their fellow officers and vindictive with their men. But it was a jolly good night!

  Royal Fusiliers’ Albany Barracks, Parkhurst, Isle of Wight

  Maurice Tait and Harry Woodruff have much more spartan accommodation for the night of 10 August than Regent Street’s Langham Hotel.

  The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers reported to the Ministry of War the previous day that it is fully mobilized and ready to leave for France, but Parkhurst Barracks is far from a picture of precise military organization. In fact, it is chaotic. The battalion’s ranks have been swollen by over 700 reservists: middle-class Londoners, artisans, plus a few working-class lads from military families. Most are totally bewildered, frantically trying to get their kit and clothing together. The noise of serjeant majors bellowing orders and the timpani of army boots clattering on cobbles is deafening.

  ‘Get a move on, lad!’, ‘Don’t run, you’re a soldier, not a bloody whippet!’ are just two of the confusing orders to be heard.

  Every spare space at Parkhurst has been requisitioned and blankets issued so that men without beds can sleep in corridors. Eventually, after every inch of covered space has been deemed full, tents have had to be erected on the parade ground to accommodate the last groups of arrivals.

  New rifles, kit bags and ammunition have arrived from as far away as Catterick and Colchester, yet still the armourers and storemen are struggling to get every man fully kitted out.

  CSM Billy Carstairs has done his share of shouting; now he is almost hoarse and is relaxing over a bottle of pale ale in the serjeants’ mess.

  ‘Where’s your lot, Mo?’

  ‘In B Block, Sarje, all tucked up like bugs in a rug.’

  Maurice and Harry have managed to get their platoon into proper beds in the attic space of B Block at Parkhurst.

  ‘What sort o’ bunch ’ave yer been landed with?’

  ‘All right, the regular boys are corkers, but some of the reservists are a bit dodgy.’

  Harry is much more forthright.

  ‘Dodgy! Some of ’em are shittin’ themselves. After a few years away from it, odd weekends on Salisbury Plain and exercises in the local drill hall don’t make a soldier. Two lads, one of ’em a solicitor’s clerk, the other a fuckin’ undertaker, tried to report sick. I told ’em to fuck off to bed an’ ’ave a wank.’

  Billy Carstairs laughs out loud.

  ‘That’s your answer for everythin’, ain’t it, ’Arry?’

  ‘Certainly is, Sarje. You know what they say? “A ham shank a day keeps the medics away”!’

  ‘Well, the one who’s an undertaker will come in useful on this little jaunt. We’re being issued with a hundred and fifty rounds of ammo, and that’s just for starters.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, that’s a lot! Sounds like a proper war.’

  ‘Too right, matey; Major Ashburner’s just told me that we’re sailin’ from Southampton on Thursday, so we start movin’ out tomorra afternoon.’

  Harry has a mischievous grin on his face.

  ‘How abaht that, Mo? We’ll be in France for the weekend. All them little mademoiselles just waitin’ to be kissed by an ’ansome English boy. I’ll be all right, but I don’t know abaht you two ugly bastards!’

  ‘Mademoiselles! You’ll ’ave no sap left fer them after you’ve carried your pack a few miles.’

  ‘I’ve carried packs across deserts and into the Himalayas, Sarje.’

  ‘Not these, you ’aven’t. I reckon they’ll weigh nearly seventy pounds when we’ve finished fillin’ ’em; that’s not countin’ yer rifle and ammo.’

  ‘How far is it to Germany, then?’

  ‘Far enough, ’Arry, far enough. That’s if we ever get there.’

  ‘We’ll get there if we ’ave to. If we can fettle the Boers, we can fettle the Kaiser.’

  ‘Not sure that’s our brief. Ashburner reckons the Germans will roll over the Frogs in weeks. We’re just going to hold the Channel ports til Kitchener can build a new army to fight the Germans when they invade.’

  ‘Invade Blighty! They wouldn’t ’ave the nerve. But if they did, we’d give ’em a bloody nose, wouldn’t we, Mo?’

  ‘If you say so, ’Arry.’

  ‘I just want one of those silly spiked ’elmets they wear.’

  ‘The pickelhaube?’

  ‘Whatever you say, Sarje. I want one to go wiv the leather fedora I nicked off a Boer major at Colenso.’

  ‘Dead, was he, at the time?’

  ‘I should cocoa; shot ’im through the gullet at thirty yards.’

  Monday 24 August

  Admiralty House, Whitehall, London

  As is his wont, Winston is working in bed in his room at the Admiralty. His breakfast tray has been put to one side and he is working through his ministerial box, creating a mess of documents around him, some of which have cascaded on to the floor. He is dressed in his monogrammed pyjamas
and red velvet dressing gown and is halfway through his first cigar of the day. It is just turned 7 a.m.

  The bedroom door opens with a flurry. There is no knock, just the sudden looming presence of Britain’s Minister for War, Herbert Horatio Kitchener.

  Both he and Winston have spent a restless night. They knew yesterday evening, following some skirmishes involving British cavalry patrols, during which the first British shots of the war were fired, that the British Expeditionary Force had encountered the German Army. But, at 11 p.m., there had been no news.

  The general situation in Belgium had become grave. Liège had fallen on 16 August and General Alexander von Kluck, Commander of Germany’s 1st Army, arrogant and fiercely determined, had continued to sweep through Belgium in pursuit of the German grand plan to march through their neutral neighbour, encircle Paris from the north and defeat the French in just forty-two days.

  With the British Expeditionary Force safely across the Channel, and with at least a majority of men as prepared as they could be, Sir John French, Commander of the BEF, chose his ground. With reports coming in from Royal Flying Corps reconnaissance flights that huge numbers of German troops were on the move, John French chose a defensive position around Mons, the centre of the Belgian coal-mining region.

  The Mons–Condé Canal offered a modest defensive line, but it was little more than six feet deep and twenty-five feet wide – hardly a major obstacle.

  ‘Bad news, Winston.’

  Kitchener hands over a telegram from French, which Winston reads with a perceptible tremor in his hand.

  My troops have been engaged all day with the enemy on a line roughly east and west through Mons. The attack was renewed after dark, but we held our ground tenaciously. I have just received a message from GOC 5th French Army that his troops have been driven back, that Namur has fallen and that he is taking up a line from Maubeuge to Rocroi. I have therefore ordered our retirement to the line Valenciennes–Longueville–Maubeuge, which is being carried out now. It will prove a difficult operation if the enemy remains in contact. I think that immediate attention should be directed to the defence of Le Havre.