Instead of moving up, Harry and Maurice spend the next two days watching the events on the Marne unfold. They take their platoon down to the main road on a regular basis to help the movement of soldiers and civilians. More and more French troops move up from Paris, while more and more wounded move the other way. Some French units have lost half their men and two-thirds of their officers. The Moroccans they saw the day before, proud and marching in good order, return bedraggled and with only about a third of their number. But from what they understand from the French soldiers, the battle is going well and the Germans are falling back.
‘Looks like old Ashburner was right, the Frenchies are makin’ a damn good fight of it.’
‘Abaht time! Shame we’re not in it. We were promised a scrap, but we’re not gettin’ it; a soldier’s lot, I s’pose.’
‘Shouldn’t worry, ’Arry, I think there’ll be plenty o’ time fer that.’
‘I’m gonna ’ave a word wiv Billy Carstairs, see if we can nip into the village tonight. The locals will be in a good mood, so we might get our legs over. And if nothin’ else, we can ’ave a couple o’ their bubbly beers.’
Tuesday 8 September
Saint-Ouen-sur-Morin, Seine-et-Marne, France
Major Hamish Stewart-Murray’s Cameron Highlanders are advancing towards the Marne river. Close by, his brother Geordie’s battalion of the Black Watch are part of the same deployment. Both battalions have reached Saint-Ouen-sur-Morin, where they camp for the night. Hamish and Geordie have not seen one another since they had dinner together in London and indulged in their night of debauchery at the Langham Hotel with the girls from Selfridges.
Sister Margaret Killingbeck and her Queen Alexandra’s nurses have been travelling with the Camerons since they coincided in Bavay two weeks ago. Margaret and Hamish have become close since the trauma of the death of Captain Philip Davies of the Welch Fusiliers, but it has remained a platonic relationship. Margaret’s personal circumstances are a mystery to Hamish. She has revealed little of her status or background, and Hamish has chosen not to probe.
All three have been billeted in the town’s main hotel, the Auberge de la Source, and have agreed to have dinner together. The auberge is an old coaching inn and would be an idyllic location for a convivial stay, were it not for the fact that a calamitous battle is taking place only a few miles away. Nevertheless, the proprietor is hurrying from table to table, serving the best of his kitchen and cellar, just like he did only last week for German officers.
Margaret is anxious and feeling a little guilty. She is a farmer’s daughter from Muker, a tiny village high in Swaledale, the most remote of all the Yorkshire Dales. Fine dining played no part in her upbringing and has only been an occasional part of her life in recent years when, as a senior nurse at Guy’s Hospital in London, some of the wealthier doctors took her out to the West End. She left her childhood sweetheart in Swaledale and has since enjoyed only an occasional, inconsequential fling. She joined Queen Alexandra’s nurses in 1912, but this is her first overseas posting.
‘I must be back to relieve one of my girls at eleven. She’s been on duty since this morning without a break.’
‘Of course, Margaret, we understand. Geordie is off early tomorrow, so we should all have an early night.’
Margaret is a little overawed. Meeting one son of a duke was disconcerting; now she is having dinner with two of them. Their self-confident bearing and impeccable manners are disconcerting, but she likes the look of Geordie; he has a nice smile and is warmer than Hamish.
‘So, Geordie, do you have titles like Hamish?’
‘Well, yes, but it’s very complicated. I’m the second son and will only inherit if Bardie, our elder brother, gets on the wrong end of a German bullet. As for Hamish here, he will have to wait for both of us to go. We’ve also got three sisters, all older than us, but they can’t inherit the dukedom, only the boys.’
‘Seems unfair.’
‘You may well be right, but tradition is a difficult thing to change.’
‘It’s a big family.’
‘It is; Father’s a prodigious old stag.’
‘And do you all get along?’
‘More or less. Helen, our second-eldest sister, rules the roost and keeps us all in order. But what about your family?’
Geordie is not as reticent about delving into Margaret’s past. Hamish is all ears; he is hoping, finally, to hear more about the intriguing Sister Margaret.
‘I’m a simple farmer’s daughter. We have sheep in one of the prettiest places in England. I suspect it’s not unlike your part of the world.’
‘So what brought you to nursing?’
‘I did well at school, the teacher took a shine to me, but Muker was too small for my ambitions. It’s a tiny place, fifteen miles up the valley of the Swale, with no mains water and no electricity. The same families have lived there for generations. We even have our own language that only the locals understand!’
‘That’s interesting, we were all taught Gaelic as children. Perhaps your local language is similar?’
‘I’m not sure; I think ours is just Old English. Most Pennine folk have their own words.’
‘So you left your little village?’
‘Yes, I went down the valley to the Friary, a small hospital in Richmond, and fell in love with nursing. Then I went to Guy’s Hospital in London and joined Queen Alex’s two years ago.’
Hamish wants to learn more and risks asking a rather impertinent question.
‘So what’s your ambition after nursing? To start a family perhaps?’
Margaret is maddened that Hamish’s only thought about her future is that she might want to ‘start a family’.
‘What, and bring children into this? I don’t think that would be a good idea.’
‘That’s a bit melancholy, isn’t it, Margaret?’
‘Is it? You should try dealing with what I deal with every day. Yesterday, I had to patch up a boy who had lost his right foot and taken a bullet in the abdomen. He’ll live, but will never have children and will pee like a woman for the rest of his life.’
Hamish and Geordie gulp and look down at their menus.
‘I’m sorry, but I have to cope with that kind of thing all the time.’
Geordie sees that the evening’s conviviality is rapidly disappearing and changes the subject.
‘I hear the French are doing rather well up ahead. I think we should have some champagne to celebrate. And I’m tempted by the chateaubriand. Who’ll join me?’
They all choose the chateaubriand, a rare treat, and soon the champagne, prime beef and a bottle of Burgundy get the evening back on track. Smiles begin to soften Margaret’s face as she relaxes into the evening. But exactly on cue, at ten thirty, duty calls and she says her goodbyes, leaving Hamish and Geordie to drink cognac alone.
‘So, Hamish, how long have you been pursuing her?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘She’s a corker! A bit frigid, but a few pokes with what you’ve got under your kilt will sort that.’
‘I’m not wearing a kilt, Geordie –’
‘I know that; I’m talking metaphorically, dearest brother.’
‘Well, the problem is, I don’t think she likes me very much. I think she’s intrigued – Scottish lord, and all that – but that’s about it.’
‘Well, that’ll do for a start. Try and get your leave to Blighty to coincide with hers. Give her a dinner in the West End, take her back to Eaton Square, show her our illustrious ancestors on the wall and she’ll swoon – guaranteed!’
Hamish is not convinced and looks forlorn.
‘Perhaps … but the trouble is, I want her now. God knows when we’ll get leave.’
‘Listen, she’ll come round; she just needs a bit more warming up. She’s a bit of a suffragette type. No more talk about starting a family; that went down like a lead balloon!’
‘I know, but I’m not very good with the modern girl – too clever for me. Anyway, when are y
ou off?’
‘At six o’clock sharp. The CO has promised us a ding-dong with Fritz tomorrow.’
‘Well, keep your head down if it comes to it. I don’t want you getting a bullet through that thick skull of yours.’
‘It would bounce off! Don’t fuss so.’
Hamish then remembers to tell Geordie the conclusion to a story he began back in June.
‘By the way, do you remember the story I told you about Henriette Caillaux, shooting that newspaper chap in Paris?’
‘Indeed I do; extraordinary business.’
‘Well, she got off scot-free!’
‘Good God! On what basis?’
‘Crime of passion. Her lawyer said that women’s emotions mean they are incapable of premeditation. Therefore, the shooting was an act driven by feminine passion, which was the only feasible explanation. She walked from court a free woman surrounded by hundreds of well-wishers.’
‘Hell’s bells! Couldn’t happen in England.’
‘I know; we are going to give them the bloody vote, and the French think that they’re not capable of thinking straight. Strange world, isn’t it?’
The two brothers shake hands formally, but Hamish puts his hand on his elder brother’s shoulder just as he turns to leave.
‘Be careful, big brother.’
‘I will. And you make sure to get some Scottish beef between the legs of that nurse before she becomes an old spinster. It’ll do her the world of good.’
Thursday 10 September
54 Hart Street, Burnley, Lancashire
Mary and Tommy Broxup are sitting in front of the cast-iron range in the back room of their tiny terraced house in Burnley. The gas board has cut off the gas, so they are sitting in candlelight. There is half a scuttle of coal left by the grate; it is the last fuel they can afford. They have sold their net curtains and all the furniture in the front room to make ends meet.
The house is bare, save for one double bed upstairs, a kitchen table and the two chairs they are sitting on. Their only food for the week has been mutton stew and dumplings, enlivened on odd days by the local delicacy ‘stew an’ ’ard’ as a treat.
The tap above the old stone slop sink is dripping incessantly. Tommy is easily able to put in a new washer, but he cannot afford to buy one now that he no longer has a wage coming in. There is little prospect of work for Mary either, and they have had no money since her union pay ran out after they were both sacked following the trouble at Howard and Bullough’s.
It is ten o’clock in the evening. They would usually be at the pub at this time, or at the Keighley Green Club, but they have no money in their pockets.
In recent weeks, Mary and Tommy have heard rumours that John Harwood, the Mayor of Accrington, has been in feverish correspondence with the War Office since the Declaration of War, asking for permission to raise a Pals Battalion from Accrington and the surrounding area.
Finally, on Monday 7 September, Harwood heard from Harold Baker, MP for Accrington, hotfoot from London on the afternoon train, that the War Office has agreed to the raising of a new volunteer battalion for Kitchener’s Army. It will be called the 11th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment (Accrington Pals) and 158th (Accrington and Burnley) Brigade, Royal Field Artillery (Howitzers). With the proviso that Harwood must raise an entire battalion of 1,100 men, recruitment will begin on Monday 14 September.
Still in two minds about the war, Mary has spent the day walking around Burnley’s weaving sheds, listening to the arguments about Britain’s involvement and how it is affecting ordinary people. There are strong views on both sides.
‘What dost think o’ these pals battalions, Tommy?’
‘Not much. It’s like bein’ in t’Boy Scouts, like them Burnley Grammar lads, who look like reet little tossers!’
‘That’s what many o’ t’lads I’ve talked to say. But there’s many as reckon we should weigh in to keep t’peace in Europe.’
‘What dost tha reckon, our kid? Tha’s cleverer than all on ’em.’
‘Can’t decide, Tom. Fer folks like us, there’s nowt much to feight fer. But it’s all we’ve got. And I know one thing: if what some o’ t’lads who’ve been in t’army say is true, then we can’t beat Germans wi’out ordinary lads like thee. If that’s reet, then maybe tha should feight.’
Tommy looks perplexed.
‘What dost mean, Mary?’
‘Well, if thee and thousands o’ others feight for King and country, then they’ll ’ave to gi’ thee reet to vote for King and country at end on it!’
Tommy smiles warmly at Mary. Proud of his shrewd wife, he puts his arms around her.
‘They should put thee in charge. You’d ’ave ’em told!’
‘I would, but it’ll never ’appen; we’ve to get t’vote first.’
‘Reckon I should get that Boy Scout kit on, then?’
‘Mebbe, Tommy. We’ll ’ave to do summat, or we’ll starve.’
Saturday 12 September
Vailly-sur-Aisne, Picardy, France
French resolve, with not a little German indecision, has won the day on the Marne. The French soldiers have been galvanized by the proclamation of General Ferdinand Foch, Commander of the French 9th Army, issued on 9 September: ‘I ask each one of you to draw upon the last spark of energy, which in its moments of supreme trial has never been denied to our race. Everyone must be convinced that success belongs to him who holds out longest. The honour and security of France are in the balance. One more effort and you are sure to win.’
The Germans retreat in the face of renewed French attacks; they lose over sixty miles in just a week and are driven across the Marne and the Aisne rivers. More atrocities occur, adding to the bitterness of the conflict, especially between French and German troops. German units take hostages from villages in exchange for wounded men they have to leave behind. Many of the hostages are mistreated, and some are executed.
The French newspapers are full of gruesome accounts. In Varreddes, a town north of the Marne, the Germans left twenty wounded men in the hôtel de ville and took twenty elderly citizens with them as hostages. When two of them, men in their late seventies, could walk no further, they were shot in the head at point-blank range; a third was killed by a blow to the head from the butt of a rifle.
Encouraging reports of columns comprising hundreds of German prisoners being rounded up are passed through the ranks of the British Expeditionary Force. Many of the accounts talk of German infantry, abandoned by their officers, hiding in attics and cellars in a drunken stupor. Thousands of cavalry horses have been left by the sides of the roads, which are littered with vehicles for which there is no fuel, surrounded by a plethora of stolen booty that has become a hindrance to the retreat.
The respect most of the British soldiers had for their German opponents is replaced by contempt and loathing. Conversely, the doubts they had about the courage of their French allies are replaced by admiration.
Although Harry and Maurice’s platoon were not involved, the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers has suffered severe casualties in the last two days. Seeing at first hand the wanton destruction of the German occupation, it had been advancing into the territory vacated by the enemy’s rapid retreat, when an opportunity to engage again suddenly occurred.
After crossing the Marne unopposed on Wednesday the 9th, reports came in from a marauding troop of 6th Dragoon Guards. They came galloping down the road to report that the Germans ahead had not yet broken camp and were enjoying a leisurely breakfast.
The fusiliers attacked immediately, but walked straight into a hail of machine-gun fire. Thirty men were lost within minutes, cut to pieces before they could take cover. It was an ambush of sorts. Although the Germans were, indeed, taking a relaxed breakfast, they had taken care to cover their position with well-hidden machine-gun posts. Lieutenants Tower, Beazley, Jackson and Longman were wounded, the latter two severely. Despite the losses, the fusiliers pressed on and soon overran the German camp, taking over 700 prisoners, all of who
m they had confronted in combat before. There was great satisfaction in the British ranks, knowing that opponents who had forced them out of Mons would not take any further part in the war.
Harry and Maurice’s C Company have enjoyed two quiet days, on the 10th and the 11th, during which time they have heard almost no gunfire. Now, on the morning of Saturday the 12th, they reach the Aisne river, which they have to cross by means of wooden planks lashed together by army sappers. These are either hasty French or German constructions; whichever they are, it is a precarious crossing.
By the time they have crossed, it is pitch dark and rain is falling heavily. C Company takes up position in and around Maison Rouge Farm. Reports suggest that the enemy is only a few hundred yards away, so there is no opportunity to make camp or take cover. The men face a miserable night in the open, with the dark skies cascading their contents down upon them; it is the middle of September and the chill of autumn is an ominous reminder that winter beckons.
Harry and Maurice have got their men into a series of outbuildings at Maison Rouge and most have some cover, but the two friends have chosen an exposed position by the farm entrance so that they can see the track leading to the farm. They protect themselves with their standard-issue groundsheets, one underneath them and one above.
‘It’s gonna be a long night, Mo.’
‘And a wet one. At least we ’ad a good night wiv those little ladies in Jew-ar-ray, or whatever it was called.’
‘Yeah, but I ’ope we don’t get a dose off ’em. I don’t reckon they was innocent virgins!’
Maurice adjusts his cap, which is poking out from the top of their impromptu shelter. As he does so, the rain that has accumulated on its felt surface runs down his neck and face.
‘I think nights like that are gonna become few an’ far between, ol’ friend. Let’s take it in turns to snooze; two hours on, two off?’
‘All right, mate. You go first. D’yer reckon Fritz is sleepin’?’
‘I ’ope so, ’Arry. I don’t fancy a set-to in this fuckin’ rain.’
The Shadow of War Page 20