Ashburner bows his head and looks at the list in his hand of known C Company casualties.
‘But it is not without significant cost, and we mourn the loss of many brave colleagues today. I will give Mr Carstairs the list, which he will post whenever he can find somewhere appropriate. Men, you are tired and need rest, but I have one particular story to tell you. It is a sad tale, but one of extraordinary heroism that illustrates who we are and what we do. It occurred at the Nimy railway bridge, where our young Irish Lieutenant Maurice Dease commanded our machine-gun section. The section came under extremely heavy fire and several men were killed or injured and had to be replaced. Their position was very cramped and Lieutenant Dease was wounded twice, but he continued to help his section keep firing.’
Ashburner looks down; the men close to him can see that their commanding officer has tears in his eyes.
‘Both our machine guns had, by now, jammed, but Private Sid Godley rushed forward, cleared one of the guns and resumed firing. While his comrades made their escape, Private Godley continued firing for almost two hours until he ran out of ammunition. Witnesses think that he was hit during this time.’
By now, there are many fusiliers, even the most battle-hardened, with lumps in their throats.
‘Even so, he began to dismantle his gun and throw its parts into the canal. As far as we know, Lieutenant Dease died during this action and we saw his body being removed by the Germans. As for Private Godley, he was also taken away, but all who witnessed it say he was alive at the time. Let us hope that they are merciful to him.’
Ashburner nods at CSM Carstairs once more, who bellows at the men, ‘Attention!’
Ashburner takes a deep breath.
‘Let us bow our heads and remember our brother soldiers who have fallen at Mons.’
After a full minute of silence, a voice from the back of the company begins to sing the famous soldiers’ song from the Boer War, which is soon taken up by the entire company, including all the officers.
I have come to say goodbye, Dolly Gray,
It’s no use to ask me why, Dolly Gray,
There’s a murmur in the air, you can hear it everywhere,
It’s the time to do and dare, Dolly Gray.
So if you hear the sound of feet, Dolly Gray,
Sounding through the village street, Dolly Gray,
It’s the tramp of soldiers true in their uniforms so blue,
I must say goodbye to you, Dolly Gray.
Goodbye, Dolly, I must leave you, though it breaks my heart to go,
Something tells me I am needed at the front to fight the foe,
See, the boys in blue are marching and I can no longer stay,
Hark, I hear the bugle calling, goodbye Dolly Gray …
Maurice and Harry sing as loudly as the rest. Boer War veterans themselves, it brings back fond memories, but also puts the events of the last few days into perspective.
‘This ain’t South Africa, is it, Mo?’
‘No, it ain’t. Bloody ’undreds of ’em and they kept comin’, no matter how much of a pastin’ we was givin’ ’em.’
‘This war could get nasty.’
‘Not ’alf; it’s already ’airy enough!’
‘I’m knackered and I reckon we’ll be on the move agin soon. Ashburner will want more distance between us and the Hun than this.’
Harry is right; after only four hours’ sleep, they are on the move again. The weather is not kind. After days of stiflingly hot August weather, the heavens open and the temperature drops dramatically.
‘Bloody ’ell! I’m fuckin’ freezin’, ’Arry.’
‘Too right, mate, it’s brass monkeys. Where do yer reckon we’re off to?’
‘I ’aven’t a clue! But we’ll know when we get there.’
They march until three thirty, and the first hint of dawn, on Tuesday 25 August. Maurice can see the French road sign in the early light. It reads ‘Le Cateau’.
‘Let’s ’ope it’s got a boozer.’
‘A bath would do me. I’m beginning to feel lousey.’
‘You’re not kiddin’, you whiff like a fuckin’ badger.’
Bavay, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France
By the late evening of Monday 24 August Hamish Stewart-Murray has managed to get all the fit and able British troops out of Bavay. Of the wounded, most have been evacuated, leaving only those too badly injured to be moved. There are just three requisitioned transport buses waiting to make the final withdrawal. But the lead troops of the German advance are thought to be making camp only two miles down the road.
Sister Killingbeck and her two Queen Alexandra’s nurses are still treating the casualties. She wants to stay with them until the Germans arrive; Hamish is insisting that she leave on one of the final transports.
‘You must come with us, Margaret; we need you on our side of the line. There will be lots more men to treat before this is over.’
‘But what about these men? They are my responsibility.’
‘The Germans have got excellent medical facilities, they will be well taken care of. I want you on the final transport. If you want me to make it an order, I will.’
‘Very well, Hamish, if you insist. But first I need your help with something. I’ve been looking after a badly injured Welch Fusilier captain; he is still conscious, but not very coherent. When he’s cogent, he asks for a senior officer.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘It’s astonishing he’s still alive; he’s a very strong man, but he won’t survive the night. He’s got two bullets in his chest and one in the right leg. He’s bleeding internally.’
‘Is there nothing you can do?’
‘He needs surgery, but we can’t move him.’
‘Should I see him?’
‘It would be kind.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Captain Philip Davies. He was taking a message from his battalion, took a wrong turn and rode straight into a German patrol. He survived for five hours in a ditch, then dragged himself two hundred yards to a crossroads, where he was found by the Middlesex boys.’
‘Is he in pain?’
‘Yes, rather a lot. I’ve no more morphine to give him.’
Hamish does not relish his task. There has been no sign of a chaplain since he arrived in Bavay and he fears the dying man wants to make a confession, or at least be comforted in his death throes.
The captain has been put in a small office in the school, where he can die in peace. The room is dark, but as Hamish enters he can hear the death rattle in the man’s breathing very distinctly.
‘Captain Davies, Hamish Stewart-Murray.’
The stricken man stirs slightly and blinks rapidly, as if trying to clear his head.
‘Good evening … I can’t see your pips?’
‘Major.’
‘Good evening, sir. Do you mind coming closer? I can’t really turn my head to see you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Where are you from, sir?’
‘Please call me Hamish. I’m from Blair Atholl, Perthshire.’
‘Stewart-Murray, Blair Atholl … then your father must be the Duke of Atholl?’
‘He is, indeed. Do you know him?’
‘Yes, slightly, I sold him a few things last year; I’m an auctioneer and dealer in Civvy Street –’
Philip suddenly winces with pain and begins to cough blood. Hamish desperately summons help.
‘Sister!’
Sister Killingbeck rushes into the room. She knows what to do instantly.
‘Let’s lift him.’
The two of them lift the dying man’s shoulders, and his throat clears. But the sister knows from experience that it won’t be long.
‘I’ll have to stay, Captain. I need to keep your throat clear.’
Philip stares at Margaret plaintively and grabs her hand.
‘This is a terrible question to ask, but are you a woman of the world, Sister?’
‘I think I probably am, Cap
tain.’
‘Then I must ask you to forgive me. If you are going to stay, you will have to be privy to what I want to ask of Major Stewart-Murray. I don’t have much time.’
‘We have to keep you upright, but I doubt I’ll be shocked by anything I hear. And nothing you say in this room will go any further.’
‘That’s reassuring, Sister, but my request actually involves something that must leave this room.’
He turns to Hamish.
‘Hamish, will you do a huge favour for a complete stranger?’
‘Of course, old boy.’
‘HQ will have my details, but I’m from Presteigne in Radnorshire. When you’re next on leave, would you deal with a matter of some delicacy? It is an awful imposition, but my circumstances leave me little choice, and I don’t want an entirely innocent party to suffer.’
Hamish looks at Margaret; both can guess the gist of Philip’s dilemma.
‘There is a girl, Bronwyn Thomas, she is very young, engaged to a fine young man in the town. My wife is not very well and couldn’t cope with the house. Bronwyn, a farmer’s daughter, a lovely girl, came in to do some cleaning for me’ – he squeezes Sister Margaret’s hand – ‘oh dear, this is so embarrassing …’
Both Margaret and Hamish smile at Philip, wanting to reassure him.
‘Listen, old chap, don’t worry, I have the morals of an alley cat. And although I’m sure Sister Killingbeck’s are impeccable, listening to men’s infidelities comes with her job.’
Margaret smiles warmly and nods her head.
After a brief moment, Philip appears to lose consciousness and Margaret shakes her head; she fears he has gone. But Philip suddenly opens his eyes, his face twisted in pain.
‘There’s a key … in my knapsack … It is to a safety-deposit box at the Midland Bank … in Ludlow … Whatever is in there should go to Bronwyn … some silver and jewellery, it should make a fair bit … There’s also … a letter …’
His words falter and, at last, he goes limp in their arms.
Hamish helps lay Philip down before rummaging through his knapsack, where he quickly finds the key and the letter tucked into one of its side pockets. He turns to Margaret, who has tears in her eyes. She looks at Hamish for the first time without the ascetic look of a professional nurse who has seen it all before.
‘What tangled webs we weave.’
‘I’m afraid many of us are weak when it comes to life’s temptations; I know I am.’
‘Will you do as he asked?’
‘Of course.’
Both Margaret and Hamish think that Philip has died, but he suddenly squeezes Margaret’s hand. She leans towards him to hear what he is trying to say. His voice is barely audible and beyond Hamish’s hearing.
‘What did he say?’
Margaret’s tears are now flowing down her cheeks. She pauses, trying to compose herself. Eventually, she takes a deep breath.
‘He said to tell Bronwyn that she made him very happy. And that she should take wing and fly.’
Margaret feels for a pulse. There is nothing. She covers Philip with his bed sheet.
‘I don’t normally cry. I have lost eleven men here today, but this is so sad. To experience all that mental torment on top of his pain. And that poor girl, just a cleaning maid. When you go to see Bronwyn, may I come with you?’
‘I would be greatly relieved if you would.’
Tuesday 25 August
Le Cateau-Cambrésis, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France
Contrary to the wishes of Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the BEF, a momentous decision has been taken by General Horace Smith-Dorrien, Commander of the British II Corps. A courageous veteran of the Boer War and the Battle of Omdurman, he was one of only a handful of men to escape the slaughter of the Battle of Isandlwana against the Zulus in 1879.
Realizing that his exhausted men will soon be overrun by the rapidly advancing Germans, he has decided to make a fight of it. He has 40,000 British and French troops at his disposal and hopes that a courageous stand will derail the German momentum and grant Douglas Haig’s I Corp, and the bulk of the French 5th Army, time to regroup.
Maurice and Harry are dug into a light trench on the western side of the Cambrai–Le Cateau road. They are not with the 4th Fusiliers, who are stationed behind the line in reserve, near Troisvilles. Maurice and Harry and eight of their platoon have been sent forward with a consignment of ammunition to replenish the supplies of the 1st Battalion Lincolnshire Regiment. Like the entire BEF, the Lincolnshire men are exhausted. They have marched all night and, after being given bread and tea in the village of Inchy, have taken up a position ready for an imminent German attack. As the onslaught is expected at any moment, the Lincolnshire’s CO has told Maurice, Harry and their men to choose their ground and join the defensive line.
French civilians – men, women and children, the few locals who have not fled eastwards – are still to be seen. They have been helping dig trenches and readily sharing whatever food they have left.
Unlike Mons, where the British position looked across an urban canal to factories, pitheads and slag heaps – not unlike the coalfields of Wales or the North of England – Maurice and Harry are now looking out over rolling green fields reminiscent of the Home Counties. In the few minutes’ lull before the inevitable storm, the mist of dawn is clearing and birdsong is in the air.
It is unlikely that many of the British defenders realize it – and the French certainly do not – but it is the anniversary of the Battle of Crécy, in 1346, a battlefield not a million miles away, when English archers shot twelve arrows per minute to destroy the army of the French King, Philip VI. If, today, the British infantry can fire their Lee-Enfield rifles at fifteen rounds per minute, as they did at Mons, it could have the same effect on Alexander von Kluck’s 1st German Army.
On the stroke of 6 a.m., a huge German artillery barrage destroys the early morning serenity. The deafening noise scatters the French civilians far and wide and wakes all but the most stubborn of the Lincolnshires, asleep with their chins on their rifles. A few are so tired that, despite the roar, they have to be shaken like rag dolls to rouse them from their slumber. The Germans have learned an important lesson from Mons. Before their infantry attacks en masse, they are going to intimidate the British marksmen and decimate their ranks in preparation for a frontal attack. The bombardment is relentless.
‘Fuck me, ’Arry! ’Ow many howitzers ’ave they got?’
‘More than us, that’s for sure.’
The British guns are brought closer to try to knock out some of the German artillery, but they are vastly outnumbered. After about two hours, during which Maurice and Harry can also hear heavy infantry battles to their right, a German shell explodes only yards from them.
‘Stretcher-bearers! Stretcher-bearers!’
The same cry goes up from several men at once as clods of earth and human flesh land like heavy spots of rain at the beginning of a storm. Some men are crimson with the blood of obliterated colleagues.
‘Stretcher-bearers!’ One of the cries becomes increasingly hysterical. It issues from the throat of someone in the fusiliers’ platoon, one of Harry’s men.
‘What the fuck is wrong with ’im?’
‘I think ’e’s gawn marbles and conkers, ’Arry.’
‘Fuck! I’ll ’ave to go and sort ’im; come wiv me, Mo.’
The two veterans make their way along the line towards their panic-stricken comrade, who is screaming uncontrollably and being held down by the two men on either side of him. Harry is livid.
‘It’s that tosser from ’Ackney. I’ll lamp ’im when I get over there.’
As he makes his remark, the rat-a-tat-tat of German machine guns suddenly begins. Many voices shout that field-grey German uniforms can be seen in the meadows on the other side of the road. Harry and Maurice’s focus is no longer on their distressed fusilier.
‘Look to your fronts, lads; here they come! Let’s give ’em an old “mad minute”!�
��
While German machine-gunners to the left and right keep up murderous fire, their infantry advances across open ground. They are in more open order than they were at Mons, making them more difficult targets. Nevertheless, they still suffer significant casualties, but they do not falter. They just keep coming on like a grey tide crested by spiked beige helmets. Almost one helmet in three falls to the ground as its wearer is hit by a British bullet. On the British side, the number of men hit by the German machine guns is fewer, but their loss is depleting a much smaller number of men.
Harry looks over to where the hysterical soldier was acting up. His minders, now too busy to give him any attention, have left him and he is sitting behind a tree, head in hands, rocking from side to side.
‘Look at ’im, Mo! I’m gonna shoot that twat when this is over.’
Almost before he has finished speaking, fusilier John Savage, aged thirty-one, from Hackney, reserve soldier and tailor at Henry Poole on Savile Row, has jumped out on to the main road with his hands held high in surrender. One of his comrades tries to pull him back, to no avail. Savage starts to walk towards the advancing Germans.
The intensity of the machine-gun fire is so great, he only takes a few strides before he is shot, not once, but several times. He staggers backwards with the multiple impacts. Two bloody holes appear in the rear of his tunic, made by bullets that have travelled straight through him. His arms fall to his side, then he stumbles forward, appearing oblivious to the pain he must be feeling.
Another bullet penetrates his skull. A German Army standard-issue Gewehr 98 Mauser bullet is half an inch wide and makes a terrible mess of a man. The one that strikes the young fusilier creates a deceptively small, neat entry hole just above his left eye, but the back of his head explodes as the missile exits. He falls to the ground in a twisted heap. Now the pain has gone; he will never feel anything again.
Harry looks at his men and the Lincolnshire lads around them to assess the impact of the incident. To his relief, it has made them angry and, after a moment of reflection, they renew their accurate fire into the ranks of the German infantry. The fight goes on for most of the morning; the number of dead and wounded rises relentlessly. The stretcher-bearers are exhausted, unable to cope.
The Shadow of War Page 16