The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  The morning of Sunday 13 September breaks with an autumnal chill in the ground, but the rain has stopped and the sky above begins to clear. However, a thick ground mist has descended over Picardy. France’s long hot summer is over. The scene now more closely resembles the dank weather of Britain than the balmy climes of continental Europe. The hot sweats of conflict in the long August days are about to be exchanged for the cold sweats of battle in the cloying mud of autumn, only to be followed by the unyielding rime of winter.

  Harry raises his hand to alert his friend, and whispers.

  ‘Mo, can you hear that?’

  ‘I can; it’s fuckin’ German voices. They can’t be more than two hundred yards away.’

  Harry calls over to a couple of corporals and, in a hushed voice, tells them to keep the noise down and to pass the word among the men. Then their new captain appears, a fresh-faced lad who looks like he should still be at Sandhurst. He is called James Orred. He is friendly and far less pompous than his predecessor, whom they have not seen since he was concussed by an artillery shell at Mons. He is called ‘Orrid’ by everyone, a nickname he has had to live with since his youngest schooldays.

  Although he likes to use the expression ‘Orred by name, ’orrid by nature’, the men do not fall for it. Orred is a soldiers’ officer: firm but fair, brave but not foolhardy, astute but not aloof. His accent suggests he went to one of the better public schools but he is happy to rough it with the lads and spends more time with them than with his fellow officers.

  ‘Good morning, men, I trust you slept –’

  ‘Quiet, sir, Fritz is just over there, through them trees.’

  ‘Sorry, Serjeant.’

  Maurice tugs at the officer’s arm to pull him down behind the farm gate of Maison Rouge. Orred gets out his field glasses and trains them on the trees.

  ‘Good heavens, the woods are swarming with the buggers. It looks as if they’ve gathered themselves and are going to mount a counter-attack. Serjeant Tait, get the men to choose good positions and stand to. Send Corporal Smith to Major Ashburner and tell him that half the German Army is about to come down this farm track!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Serjeant Woodruff, we need as much ammunition as we have with us to be brought forward right away.’

  When Maurice and Harry return, orders carried out, Orred looks at his watch.

  ‘Sunrise was at five twenty yesterday, so a couple of minutes later today. It’s now five twenty-five. Brace yourselves; I think the attack will either commence in five minutes’ time, or at six sharp. Fritz is very precise with his timings.’

  Maurice nods subtly at Harry; they are impressed. Orred seems calm and collected. Given his tender years, he cannot have been under fire before, but he is acting like a seasoned veteran. CSM Billy Carstairs appears.

  ‘Where do you see them, sir?’

  ‘Serjeants Tait and Woodruff spotted them first – or rather, heard them. They’re in those woods over there, Mr Carstairs. I estimate at least a couple of companies.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’m sure the major will send another platoon forward as soon as he hears.’

  ‘I hope so; we’ll hold this ground for as long as we can.’

  When Orred puts his field glasses back to his eyes to check on the Germans, Billy smiles at Maurice and Harry. It is a warm smile, signalling that he too is impressed by the young officer.

  ‘Hold your ground, lads. And look out for the captain’s back.’

  The German attack does not come at five thirty, but on the stroke of six. All hell breaks loose with an earth-shattering artillery barrage. Thankfully for C Company, the Germans have assumed that the British are positioned next to or near the Canal Latéral, parallel to the River Aisne. However, C Company is several hundred yards ahead of that, so the artillery barrage passes harmlessly overhead. The 1st Battalion Lincolnshires, the fusiliers’ relief battalion, are not so lucky; the open ground between the canal and the river is exactly where they made camp last night and precisely where the shells are landing.

  Up at Maison Rouge, the fusiliers are looking anxiously at the trees two hundred yards in front of them. They know that as soon as the artillery barrage stops, which could be a ten- or fifteen-minute burst, German infantry battalions will come streaming through the trees en masse.

  At six twenty precisely the attack begins. A huge wave of shadowy grey figures emerges from the trees. They run, semi-crouched in open formation, their officers urging them forward with their swords held high. Captain Orred looks round to check that his platoon is in place and that his two lieutenants are prominent in encouraging their men. Finally, he looks at his machine-gunners, to ensure that each gun is primed and its gunner has a bead on the rapidly encroaching Germans.

  ‘On my order. Take steady aim … wait for it …’

  He waits for what seems like an eternity. Fingers twitch impatiently on triggers.

  ‘Fire!’

  An intense volley of lethal fire is released. There is a moment’s silence as the fusiliers reload; German bodies fall to the ground, some with obscenely distorted movements. Even at this distance, blood can be seen cascading through the air when a bullet strikes a head or neck. Some victims are propelled backwards by the impact, especially if they are hit more than once in the torso.

  By the time the enemy has closed to within one hundred yards, its front two or three ranks have been devastated. But there are hundreds more men behind them. Harry and Maurice look at one another. The arithmetic is easily done; there are far too many Germans bearing down on the fusiliers for them to be able to hold their ground for long. They can see Captain Orred looking around, hoping to see reinforcements moving their way.

  Then a German machine gun begins to open up from a small copse of trees to their left. What has so far been a one-sided fairground shooting challenge is suddenly a more even contest. Fusiliers are now being hit, including Lieutenant Hobbs, who is hit in the chest and is dead within minutes. Next to him, Jimmy and Nobby Parsons, brothers just nine months apart, two chirpy little fellows from Pimlico, are both cut down in the same burst of machine-gun fire. The agonizing cries of stricken men rise above the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire. Stretcher-bearers scurry backwards and forwards, leaving a gory trail of blood and human remains along their route.

  ‘Fuck me, ’Arry, this is not lookin’ too good. We need to leg it.’

  ‘You’re not kiddin’! Where’s old Ashburner when we need ’im?’

  ‘He needs to get a move on, or we’ll be fucked!’

  As the fighting continues, Harry becomes more and more incensed. He has killed men before and been close to his own demise more than once, but the intensity of this war disturbs him.

  ‘This ain’t like other wars, Mo. So many fuckers tryin’ to kill one another, an’ so much firepower.’

  ‘Let’s ’ope it won’t last long; mebbe a few months.’

  ‘I pray to God it don’t drag on, or we won’t be drawin’ that pension!’

  The Germans are within fifty yards when Billy Carstairs and Major Ashburner lead two more platoons of fusiliers and an extra machine-gun team into the farmyard and round its buildings. The new men make a dramatic difference. Their added firepower forces the Germans to take cover, and an impasse develops that extends well into the afternoon.

  The fusiliers are almost surrounded, but the track to the main road behind them, under the cover of defensive positions, is still in their control and they have the advantage of the protection of the farm buildings. On the other hand, they are significantly outnumbered, and Major Ashburner has been extremely brave – or perhaps reckless – in bringing more men into the middle of what might be a total encirclement.

  Ashburner comes over to Orred and asks him about his situation.

  ‘John Hobbs has gone, sir. We’ve lost at least two dozen men, but we’ve held our ground, thanks to your arrival.’

  ‘Well done, Jim. We now need to think how we get back to the safety of the battalion.’
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  ‘Right, sir. By the way, I thought Fritz was supposed to be retreating.’

  ‘Indeed! Perhaps a fizzer has come down from German High Command, demanding a death and glory charge.’

  Ashburner then turns to Billy Carstairs, Maurice and Harry. He has new orders for them.

  ‘Mr Carstairs, you and CSMs Woodruff and Tait have seen it all before. I want you three to gather together a covering squad for Captain Orred. They must all be top boys, good with a bayonet. I’m going to lead us out of here. I’ll deploy the machine guns to give you covering fire as we go, but you will be the rearguard. It will not be easy; the floodgates will open when they realize we’re pulling back. Any questions?’

  There are none, but Harry and Maurice exchange glances. They know that what they have been asked to do is fraught with danger and a likely death sentence for several of them.

  Ashburner’s withdrawal is done with classic military precision. Men retreat in squads, covering one another as they go. The major makes sure the farm track is protected by covering fire so intense that it is some considerable time before the Germans realize what is happening. The first group to reach the main road comprises the stretcher-bearers and medical orderlies, followed by the rest of the support troops.

  Billy Carstairs and Captain Orred organize the rearguard action. It is done with speed and the utmost discipline, but even so, three men fall before they reach the track.

  As one group, under the command of Carstairs and Harry, provides covering fire the other, under the command of Orred and Maurice, sprints for new ground. But there is just not enough firepower to keep all the Germans at bay, and Carstairs and Harry’s squad is left exposed.

  From his firing position on one knee, Carstairs shouts, ‘Fix bayonets!’

  He and Harry and the eight men in their squad are soon surrounded by more than a dozen Saxon Guards who appear from a ditch behind them. There is a hail of bullets from them, felling at least three of the fusiliers. The lunge and parry of a bayonet skirmish begins immediately. The Saxon Guards are experienced soldiers, but British infantry bayonet techniques, like its musketry, are second to none and the Germans lose several of their number in a fierce close-quarters encounter. But more Germans are rising from the ditch all the time.

  Orred’s and Maurice’s squad reach the security of the buildings by the main road, about 100 yards away, where they meet more reinforcements from the battalion. They are soon able to direct significant fire towards the Saxon Guards and force many of them to seek cover.

  Captain Orred has stepped into the open and is bellowing at his men to make a dash for it.

  ‘Mr Carstairs, get your men out of there!’ He then implores those around him, ‘Come on, men; more volleys! Those boys need covering fire.’

  Maurice shouts at his captain, beseeching him to get behind cover, but Orred ignores him. He raises his pistol to fire; then he stops. For a moment he is motionless, before his raised right arm flops to his side. His knees sag; he releases his grip on his pistol, which hits the ground with a clatter. Maurice realizes that he has been hit and rushes forward to help. He reaches the stricken captain just as he staggers sideways, and manages to stop him falling.

  ‘Stretcher-bearers!’

  Captain Orred’s body goes limp in Maurice’s arms and his head lolls backwards. His eyes are already closed as he is pulled towards the cover of the buildings. As Maurice struggles with Orred’s lifeless form, several bullets strike the wall behind them. One hits the butt of Maurice’s rifle, another takes his peaked cap clean off his head and a third punches into his stricken captain’s midriff with a sickening splash.

  By the time they reach the safety of the rear of the building, Captain James Orred is dead, a trail of blood marking the path of the last few moments of his life. The first bullet he took, entering the left side of his chest just above his heart, killed him within moments; the second one just added an unnecessary affront to a mortal wound. Maurice lays his body down carefully and asks the medical orderlies to check for his pulse.

  There is not a flicker.

  ‘Take ’im back carefully, fellas; he was a brave man.’

  Maurice then rushes back to see what has become of Billy Carstairs and Harry.

  What he witnesses makes him stop in his tracks and yell out loud, ‘Fuckin’ leg it, ’Arry!’

  Harry has got Billy Carstairs on his back and is stumbling down the track carrying a weight that is, in normal circumstances, too much for him. And yet, somehow, he manages to carry him. Of his squad, only two fusiliers are with him, both running in a crouched position to make themselves as small a target as possible. Harry’s face is a contortion of punishing exertion, but he clings to Carstairs’s webbing to keep him steady with one hand and is still able to hold his own rifle in the other.

  Just as they reach the corner of the building, one of the two men with them is hit in the back and careens against the corner with a dreadful thump. A bullet has gone straight through his lower back and exited through his stomach, splattering blood and guts on to the wall and the men standing next to it.

  Maurice helps Harry get Billy Carstairs on to the ground. Harry gulps for air.

  ‘He’s taken two bayonet wounds in ’is ribs from a big Fritz.’ Harry’s face is dripping with sweat. ‘I got the fucker, though. Only just managed to get Billy on me shoulder.’

  Harry takes several more lungfuls of air, watched closely by his friend.

  ‘He’s a heavy bugger, Mo.’

  Maurice has been looking at Billy’s injuries. He glances up at Harry with a look of desolation on his face.

  ‘He’s also a dead bugger, ’Arry. He’s got two ’oles in ’is back; must ’ave taken ’em while you was carryin’ ’im.’

  ‘Fuck! Poor old Billy; he was due ’is pension soon.’

  Harry looks down at his dead comrade. There is no trace of sadness on his face, more an expression of bitterness.

  ‘This war is bollocks, Mo. Look, there’s only me and that fella over there that made it back. Almost the whole fuckin’ squad is gone!’

  Mo is not feeling any less angry. The captain’s death has affected him deeply.

  ‘We’ve lost Orred as well; shot right through, poor lad.’

  ‘That’s a proper shame; he was all right.’

  Harry screws up his eyes and shakes his head, trying to rid the horror from his mind.

  ‘It’s bollocks. This ain’t a war, it’s a fuckin’ slaughterhouse!’

  ‘Steady, ’Arry; some of the lads are listenin’ –’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck; it’s all fuckin’ bollocks, I tell you!’

  Harry picks up his rifle and knapsack and strides off towards the centre of Vailly. Maurice shouts after him.

  ‘Hey, ’Arry! Yer can’t just go walkin’ off.’

  ‘Can’t I? You just watch me. I’m gonna find a bottle o’ brandy; then I’m gonna drink it. Then, if I get lucky, I’m gonna shag somethin’, anythin’! When I’m sober, I might be back. Or I might not; I might walk all the way to Leyton.’

  Maurice watches his friend go. He thinks about going after him, but knows it is better to leave him be. Billy Carstairs’s blood has turned the back of Harry’s khaki tunic a sickly brown colour. His knapsack has two holes in it. They must have been made by the bullets that killed his company serjeant major.

  The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers will hold the farm and surrounding area at Maison Rouge for the next seven days, after which they will be relieved by the Lincolnshires. During the initial encounter, they have lost five officers and over 317 men. But their firm resolve is crucial in ensuring that the advances earned by the French Army to their right flank are not outmanoeuvred by a spirited German counter-attack.

  Harry is as good as his word. Twenty-four hours after his ‘disappearance’, he emerges from Vailly looking calm, if a little bedraggled.

  ‘You, all right?’ Mo asks him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did yer find yer bottle o’ grog?’ />
  ‘Yeah, but it weren’t brandy, just some French bollocks; like fuckin’ turps, but it didn’t ’alf ’ave a kick to it. Was I missed?’

  ‘Yeah, but I told ’em you’d gone to find a dressin’ station. I should keep that blood-stained tunic on an’ make sure everyone sees them ’oles in yer knap.’

  Harry has not noticed the holes and looks at them in amazement. He rummages around in his knapsack and retrieves two G98 Mauser bullets.

  ‘Jesus! If I’d seen them fuckers, I’d ’ave ’ad two bottles o’ grog.’

  The next day, Maurice and Harry are summoned to see Major Ashburner. They fear the worst. With the major is Battalion Serjeant Major Jack Coles, a veteran even more gnarled and fearsome than old Billy Carstairs.

  ‘You two deserve much praise for what you did the other day. Captain Orred and Mr Carstairs were fine men, and what you did to try to save them was highly commendable – especially you, Serjeant Woodruff.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘But there’s a fly in the ointment, I’m afraid.’

  The two men look at one another and then at BSM Coles, who fixes them with an unremitting scowl.

  ‘First of all, you, Serjeant Tait.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Did you not inform my adjutant that Serjeant Woodruff had gone to a dressing station?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Well, sir, he has two big ’oles in his knapsack an’ ’is tunic is covered in blood.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Very well, Serjeant Tait. Let me ask you, Serjeant Woodruff, is it true?’

  ‘Well, yer see, sir, I was a bit confused after Fritz ’ad given us a bit of a seein’ to –’

  BSM Coles intervenes sharply.

  ‘Listen, Woodruff, you was seen in Vailly. You could ’ardly ’ave been missed, covered in blood, wanderin’ around wiv a bottle in yer ’and, shoutin’ an’ propositioning the young ladies of the town. I think you should make a clean breast of it. You was lucky the military bobbies couldn’t find yer, or you’d be in detention now.’

  ‘I expect one of them young ladies took pity on me, Mr Coles.’