The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  ‘Do you want me to leak the memo to the press? You’ll get the blame otherwise.’

  ‘Tempting, FE, but we must appear to be united. I’ll take the bullet; it will only be a flesh wound.’

  ‘Yes, but it’ll sting like buggery.’ FE hands Winston his copy of The Times. ‘Look, Winston, it’s a poem from a chap called Laurence Binyon. How beautifully put!’

  Winston reads the poem out loud, raising his voice so that others nearby can hear. He finishes it in tears.

  They went with songs to the battle, they were young.

  Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.

  They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;

  They fell with their faces to the foe.

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

  We will remember them.

  They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;

  They sit no more at familiar tables of home;

  They have no lot in our labour of the daytime;

  They sleep beyond England’s foam.

  There is silence from those who have been listening, except for one man, who asks a policeman who Winston is. When he is told, he walks up to Winston and shakes his hand.

  ‘God bless you, Mr Churchill. We’re all right behind you. Give ’em hell!’

  Applause breaks out all around. Winston acknowledges the support.

  ‘You see, FE, this is different. This is not a war of governments and generals, it is a war for the hearts and minds of people. It touches our very souls.’

  ‘Do you really think it so different? The Napoleonic Wars were fought between Revolutionary France and ourselves, trying to protect our ancient monarchy.’

  ‘Perhaps, but let me quote some figures: four hundred and seventy thousand men have joined up for Kitchener’s volunteer army. That’s nearly half a million men in just six weeks.’

  ‘But they’re amateurs. They are being sent to face a professional army that has been decades in the making.’

  ‘Agreed, but this is a citizen army. And if it maintains its belief in its cause, it will be formidable. Take Glasgow: a whole battalion raised from men who work on the buses and trams, and another from former members of its Boys’ Brigade. Working-class men who care about their King, their country and their empire. I would wager that, with appropriate training, they will soon be the equal of the Hun, especially given the heinous behaviour of some of the Kaiser’s men.’

  ‘Winston, you are an incurable romantic! But I admire you enormously and feel privileged to know you as a dear friend.’

  ‘Thank you, dear boy. Stay close to me over the coming months.’

  When the two men are on the train to London, Winston opens a letter from Clemmie, who is close to giving birth to their third child. He has seen little of her or his children in recent days, so her words of love and support are a great comfort to him. One section, the final paragraph, makes him glow with pride.

  Asquith relies on you more and more. You and LG are the only dynamic ones he has.

  Don’t hang back. You rule our mighty navy with such vigour and wisdom – a navy which will surely decide the fate of this, the greatest war in all history.

  I am so proud that you are in thick of it.

  Your ever loving,

  Clemmie

  Winston immediately puts pen to paper himself.

  Darling one,

  I am enjoying FE’s company, as usual. Last night’s meeting was full of British Bulldog spirit from FE’s excellent Merseyside constituents – who, I believe, call themselves ‘Scousers’. A fine lot. I asked FE what ‘scouse’ means. Oddly, it means at least three things: a cheap Irish stew they eat; the name of their distinctive accent; and their name for themselves. How strange! FE mimics their accent wonderfully, in which book becomes ‘bewk’ and cook is ‘cewk’. He tells a wonderful story at the expense of his homeland.

  St Peter is at the Pearly Gates of Heaven to greet a group of Scousers. As he has not met many Scousers before, he disappears to check their credentials with God. God agrees the Scousers can be admitted to Heaven, and Peter goes to give them the news. But he soon returns, looking shocked.

  God asks him, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘They’ve gone!’ says St Peter.

  ‘The Scousers?’

  ‘No, the Pearly Gates!’

  I thought you would enjoy the story; it made me smile, as FE always does.

  Darling, I feel I am in my prime. No Black Dog in weeks. I go to France tomorrow to pep up the Royal Marines. A new phase of the war is emerging; we need to secure the Channel at our backs. Winter will soon be with us and we need to be mindful of the long term. I have been studying the maps; the city of Ypres could be the key. I will talk to John French about it.

  Tell Goonie that I will also see Jack, who is with the hussars in the area. I have sent them some Admiralty 8-ton trucks to help with logistics in their support of our marines.

  I think of you and the kittens every day. Kitten Number 3 will soon be with us, what a delight!

  Tender love, dearest one

  W

  The next day, Churchill is in Dunkirk, the first of several visits to France over the coming days when, to the annoyance of many in the armed forces and the Cabinet, he takes a central role in the war on land as well as at sea and in the air.

  He urges his Marine Brigade to maraud around the Belgian border area to convince the German High Command that it is a much larger force than it actually is, and to give encouragement to the local population. He orders air attacks on the Zeppelin sheds in Cologne and Düsseldorf. He also tries to persuade Sir John French to allow the army to use six-inch naval guns on the battlefield, a suggestion that the Commander-in-Chief rejects out of hand.

  Winston knows the nature of warfare is changing. The intensity of the fighting and the killing power of the weaponry diminishes significantly any semblance of a code of chivalry between soldiers. As military theorist Karl von Clausewitz said it would, war has become ‘absolute’ and unrelenting, involving all the resources of the nations involved, including its innocent civilians.

  After German air raids on civilians in Ostend, the Cabinet discusses the possibility of retaliating against German cities but, for the time being, rejects the idea. However, Asquith orders the mining of major parts of the North Sea, instructing: ‘Make provision on a Napoleonic scale to deploy those infernal devices freely and even lavishly.’

  Reports also come in of German infantry units using white flags of surrender in order to entice British units out of their defensive positions before firing on them. Churchill is incensed and issues an immediate order to the Grand Fleet.

  All transports believed to be conveying German troops are to be sunk at once by gunfire or torpedo. No parley with or surrender by a transport on the high seas is possible.

  He later adds more instructions to the order.

  There is no obligation to recognize a white flag. Sir John French has found it necessary to order instant fire to be made on any German white flag, experience having shown that the Germans habitually and systematically abuse the emblem. Consequently, any white flag hoisted by a German ship is to be fired upon as a matter of principle.

  Chancellor of the Exchequer David Lloyd George delivers a chilling speech at the Queen’s Hall in London, one that he discusses with Winston beforehand.

  ‘Should I be so bold, Winston?’

  ‘Yes, they will listen to you. You will make the nation think. It needs to think long and hard about what we face in the coming months and years.’

  Lloyd George takes Winston’s advice and makes his speech. One passage, in particular, sends shock waves across the land – especially among those who have lived with years of prosperity and privilege.

  A great flood of luxury and sloth, which has submerged the land, is receding and a new Bri
tain is appearing.

  We can see for the first time the fundamental things that matter in life and that have been obscured from our vision by the tropical growth of prosperity.

  Thursday 24 September

  54 Hart Street, Burnley, Lancashire

  Mary Broxup has lost a lot of friends since Tommy decided to volunteer for the army, and it has been the same for Cath Kenny, Mick’s wife.

  When the recruiting office opened, 104 men enlisted in just three hours. Many more failed the minimum requirements: men have to be at least 5 feet 6 inches tall, in good health, aged between nineteen and thirty-five. Old soldiers are accepted up to the age of forty-five, which can be extended to fifty for experienced NCOs.

  Over 50 per cent of those who tried to enlist were below the height requirement, or had poor teeth or eyesight. Significantly, many showed signs of rickets, or were undernourished. The examining medical officer was shocked by the number of skin diseases he saw, particularly impetigo, and the number of men with various venereal diseases.

  Burnley signed up fourteen men, including Thomas John Broxup, Michael Ciaran Kenny, Vincent Michael Sagar and Nathaniel Mordecai Haythornthwaite, all of whom passed their medicals with ease. Vinny (still smarting from his rejection by Burnley Football Club) and Twaites (loyal, as ever, to his pal) are both just shy of their eighteenth birthdays, but were allowed through as they scored highly on the physical tests.

  At the recruiting office the four met local legend John-Tommy Crabtree, steward at the Keighley Green Club. Although beyond the age limit by several years, he had been nodded through on the basis that he would be an inspiration for future recruits and good for battalion morale. He lied about his age, saying he had never had a birth certificate, and told the recruiting officer he was only forty-one when, in truth, he is forty-six.

  Feeling a sudden shiver of autumnal air coming from the broken window above the sink, Mary now moves on to Tommy’s chair and snuggles up to him.

  ‘How’s General Kitchener’s finest recruit?’

  ‘Don’t ask, lass.’

  ‘Same old routine?’

  ‘Aye, we spent t’mornin’ marchin’ up an’ down Fulledge Rec. No sign of uniforms or kit, an’ no rifles. One of t’lads said we’d get rifles next Sheffield Flood, an’ another said we’d get uniforms next Preston Guild. I reckon they’re reet. We’re like little lads laikin’ at soldiers; we ’ad to pretend we ’ad rifles, usin’ broom ’andles an’ bits o’ wood. Lads an’ lassies on t’way to shifts at Rawlinson Street Mill gee’ us some reet mockin’. We deserved it, I reckon. Only thing kept us goin’ were t’company paymaster; he arrived t’day from Accrin’ton. We get paid t’morn.’

  ‘That’s a relief! We’re dead skint.’

  Tommy frowns and looks at Mary despondently.

  ‘Are we doin’ reet thing, lass?’

  ‘Aye, I think so; but I’m in a reet moither abaht it every day. I need to get mesen some work.’

  Tommy is reluctant to mention a possibility he heard about today. He knows Mary is proud to be a four-loom weaver, a position of some esteem among fellow workers, especially as a woman.

  ‘How abaht pot washin’?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Spoke to Old John-Tommy Crabtree t’day. He said he could get thee some work washin’ pots at Keighley Green.’

  Mary smiles broadly.

  ‘Tell ’im I’ll tek it; I’m not above washin’ a few ale pots.’

  ‘Reet, I’ll sort it tomorra. I thought tha might not fancy it.’

  ‘I’ll do any kind o’ work. When can I start?’

  ‘Weekend, I should reckon.’

  Tommy and Mary cuddle up closer together, relieved that some money is coming into the house. Tommy smiles to himself.

  ‘Reet funny do t’day wi’ t’volunteers. This officer appears, must be fifty-five if he’s a day, from down south, calls ’issen a “colour serjeant”. He walks on t’Fulledge Rec in full khaki uniform wi’ brass buttons, peaked cap an’ shiny boots tha could see thy face in. He starts bellowin’ at t’lads, “Get fell in!”, “One two, one two!” and all that baloney. He says ’is name is Colour Serjeant Severn and he’s ’ere to turn us into proper soldiers.

  ‘So after a bit, he sees Jimmy Dowd grinnin’ – yer know, that lad we ’ad a set-to wi’ at t’Keighley Green – an’ ’e shouts: What are you laughin’ at?

  ‘Jimmy says: Nowt, Serjeant.

  ‘Serjeant then says: Can’t yer speak the King’s fuckin’ English? What’s ‘nowt’ mean?

  ‘Jimmy says: It means “nothin’ ”, Serjeant.

  ‘Serjeant says: Non-commissioned officer on parade, say, “Nothin”, sir!’

  ‘So Jimmy starts to grin again an’ says: Sorry, sir.

  ‘Serjeant says: Do yer often laugh at nothin’, yer daft northern bastard?

  ‘And so it goes on an’ on, til t’serjeant, who’s ’alf a heed shorter than Jimmy, says: Listen, you big ugly twat, I’ve taken on thick-necked Boers twice your size. How old are you?

  ‘Jimmy says: Nineteen, sir.

  ‘Serjeant says: By your age I’d fought in the Zulu Wars and had an assegai in me ribs.

  ‘So Jimmy grins again an’ says: What’s an assegai, sir?

  ‘Lots o’ t’lads start laughin’. Serjeant’s grey tash twitches like a little ’edgehog an’ ’is eyes bulge. His face goes as a red as a beetroot an’ he leans for’ard an’ sticks his nose in Jimmy’s mush an’ says: It’s a spear, you cheeky bastard, and Zulus are twice the men you’ll ever be!

  ‘He then grabs Jimmy’s bollocks an’ squeezes ’em. Jimmy goes to lamp ’im one, but the serjeant lays his nut on ’im an’ knocks ’im reet on ’is backside. He then shouts out: Any more comedians or ’ard cases with something to say?

  ‘Then, some silly bugger from t’back shouts: Tommy Brox and Mad Mick Kenny, sir!

  ‘So he calls out us names an’ tells us to step for’ard.’

  Mary pushes herself up from Tommy’s embrace and stares at him.

  ‘Don’t tell me, tha’s thumped ’im?’

  Tommy adopts a solemn look, suggesting that he has. Then he pauses, and smiles.

  ‘Course not! I knows I’m daft, but I’m not that bloody daft. Serjeant spoke to Mick first: So you’re a “Mad Mick”, are yer, lad?

  ‘Mick says: It’s a nickname I’ve picked up, sir.

  ‘Serjeant says: So are yer going to be a “Mad Mick” in my company?

  ‘And Mick says: No, sir, only wi’ t’Germans.

  ‘Serjeant says: Good lad, that’s what I want to hear. Then he turns to me and says: What about you, Tommy?

  ‘So I says: Same as Mick, sir. I’m here to fettle t’Germans.

  ‘By then, Jimmy Dowd is pickin’ ’issen off t’floor. He’s got a reet shiner on ’is forheed an’ is still rubbin’ ’is bollocks. Serjeant says to ’im: See, Jimmy, these two hard cases have got a brain to go with their brawn. See if you can work out where yours is!

  ‘So that’s our new gaffer; an ’ard little bugger. Me an’ Mick’ll ’ave ter think on an’ keep our heeds down. We’re off on a route march in t’morn; through Brierfield an’ Nelson an’ then o’er Trawden way an’ across Widdop.’

  ‘But that’s miles, Tommy!’

  ‘I know; tell yer what, we’re gonna be as fit as whippets when we feight t’Germans.’

  Docklands, Tiger Bay, Cardiff

  It takes Margaret two days to travel to Cardiff from Pentry Farm. By the time she arrives in the docklands area it is nine thirty in the evening and Tiger Bay’s pubs are crowded. The throng heaving in the fug of tobacco and perspiration is a mix of the least wholesome of the indigenous Welsh inhabitants of the host city and a similar residue of its many migrants and visitors. There are numerous merchant ships anchored in the bay – many more than usual – as war is good for business and trade.

  Tiger Bay is a fascinating racial cocktail of the poor and dispossessed. There are the locals, many of whom are themselves second- or third
-generation sons and daughters of those who have sought refuge on Welsh shores. Then there are the myriad sailors – including Somali, Yemeni, Greek, Irish, West African, Norwegian and legion others.

  Crimes of all sorts are commonplace, but the perpetrators are rarely caught, as most of them are already at sea by the time their misdemeanours are discovered.

  Using the disguise of being a member of the Band of Hope, Margaret persuades the desk serjeant at the local police station to check on the new recruits to Tiger Bay’s ‘ladies of the night’, saying she is looking for a girl of eighteen, long black hair, very pretty.

  ‘This is Cardiff, miss, most of the girls have long dark hair and look pretty – at least, at the start.’

  ‘She comes from a small town on the English border, so perhaps her Welsh accent is not that strong.’

  The serjeant looks at his log book.

  ‘There is one very pretty lass; she’s been arrested twice in the last month, name of Alice.’

  He also tells Margaret which of the local pubs ‘Alice’ has been seen in. But he finishes with a note of caution.

  ‘Be careful, miss, it’s not the sort of area you should be going into alone.’

  Margaret, now feeling distinctly uncomfortable in the neat and prim clothes of a middle-class lady, manages to make herself heard above the multilingual din of the Bute Dock Hotel, West Bute Street. She asks the barman if he knows a girl called Alice.

  ‘No one of that name here, miss.’

  Margaret slips a twopenny piece into the barman’s palm.

  ‘If you see her, can you tell her that a good friend wants to speak to her?’

  ‘Don’t know the lady, miss.’

  Margaret is convinced that she is in the right place and decides to bide her time. She orders a gill of milk stout and a glass of port. They are the tipple of the local girls and, although a little incongruous for a woman of her status, the alcohol helps her fit in with the crowd and its potency soon makes her feel better.

  After about twenty minutes, during which Margaret has to fend off several admirers who feel certain that she is a well-to-do lady looking for a ‘bit o’ rough’, a young woman appears at her shoulder.