Harry fires two shots in quick succession. The first misses the German’s head by a whisker, the second hits the rider next to him in the shoulder and catapults him from his horse.
‘Fuck!’
Harry’s target disappears from view behind a group of riders, and the opportunity passes.
The covering fire from the German positions ceases as the Prussian cavalry close in at breakneck speed. Despite heavy losses, they keep close formation. When they reach the fusiliers’ positions, they break off into small groups and use their lances and swords to launch a ferocious attack. Several dismount and begin to use their G98 rifles. A fierce firefight ensues with much hand-to-hand combat.
Lieutenant Mead, despite Harry’s assessment of him, does it by the book: he orders the men around him to fix bayonets and form small squads to advance at a run and take on the dismounted Prussians at close quarters. The scene is reminiscent of a medieval battle, with men in very close proximity trying to hold their ground. Bayonets and sabres clash violently; rifles and pistols exchange fire at close range, inflicting terrible damage; and men wrestle one another to the ground in individual duels to the death. Every available weapon – conventional and improvised, including knives, clubs, feet, fists and teeth – is used to maim and kill one’s opponent.
Bodies fall to the ground, men shout in German and English, but their screams are the same in both languages. Blood spews in all directions and washes over the ground. There is no mercy; the killing is bestial.
Maurice, now standing in the middle of the road, senses movement behind him and turns just in time to avoid the arc of the sabre wielded by the grandiose officer on whom Harry had earlier trained the sights of his rifle. The Prussian’s mount rears, almost unseating him, but knocking Maurice to the ground with a thump. Harry rushes forward and grabs the horse’s bridle to pull it to the ground.
‘Got you, Fritz. I’m ’avin’ your ’elmet, golden boy!’
But the Prussian turns athletically in his saddle and slashes at Harry’s left arm with his sword. Harry manages to get the barrel of his rifle in the way, just in time to deflect the blow. Nevertheless, the blade bounces off the rifle and slices into Harry’s arm, causing a deep gash just below the shoulder. He falls backwards, but as he does so, he gets off a shot from his Lee-Enfield, hitting his adversary full in the throat. The bullet’s impact makes a sound like an apple being squashed; blood spurts in all directions. It exits at the back of the man’s head, flipping his flamboyant helmet over his face and on to the ground.
‘Gotcha, yer bastard!’
The stricken man slumps forward and drops his sword, blood streaming down his tunic. His horse runs off in panic before depositing its lifeless rider in a field fifty yards away.
Despite the wide gouge to Harry’s upper arm, his only concern is the prize lying on the ground in front of him. Maurice, still shaken, is getting up from the road.
‘Quick, Mo, get that ’elmet for me. You can ’ave the sword.’
Maurice picks up the helmet and sword and runs back to help Harry to the safety of their rubble-strewn entrenchment by the church, where he hides their booty under their knapsacks. The fighting all around them is still intense, although there are now more men on the ground dead and dying than are on their feet still fighting.
‘Come on, ’Arry, let’s drop back down the road.’
He grabs Harry’s good arm but, as he does so, a German bayonet enters his back just below his ribs. The cavalryman must have been hiding in the church. The bayonet is quickly withdrawn, ready for another strike, but Maurice reels round and knocks the German’s rifle to one side with his own before shooting him square in the chest.
To his surprise, Maurice does not feel as much pain as he thought he would. He has been knicked by a blade twice before, once in India and once in South Africa. Neither was a serious wound, but both felt worse than this.
Suddenly, the 4th Fusiliers’ machine gun opens up, making everyone scatter for cover.
‘Abaht fuckin’ time! Bet the tosser got it jammed again!’ Harry then shouts at Maurice, ‘Come on, Mo! Fritz’s infantry’s comin’ across the fields!’
As they both get down behind the rubble, dozens of field-grey uniforms stream across the open ground on the other side of the road. Harry peers over the top of the stones.
‘We’re in a bit o’ bovver, Mo.’
‘Not ’alf! How’s the shoulder?’
‘Stings like buggery, but it’s only a flesh wound. How’s the back?’
‘All right, I think, mate; it don’t ’urt that much.’
Harry’s concerned. Although it might not hurt now, there is certain to be internal bleeding.
‘Do we stay ’ere, or scarper?’
All around them are dead and wounded from both sides. One or two of their platoon are still behind the rubble, firing at the enemy, but most are either dead or have made a run for it.
‘I think we should leg it, ’Arry.’
‘Well, if you can run, I can. Let’s go, but I’m not going without my ’elmet.’
Both grab their spoils. Harry manages to get the helmet in his knapsack and Maurice wraps his sword in his groundsheet. They decide to take a quick look at their surroundings before making a dash for it. As they do, they see Major Ashburner running down the road to their right, followed by at least sixty fusiliers, including Captain Carey and Lieutenant Mead. They take up positions in the ditches on the far side of the road and unleash several volleys of fire, which halts the German infantry in its tracks. Almost all the men in the front ranks fall immediately, while those further back run for the cover of a copse of trees to the right.
Ashburner orders his men to charge and the fusiliers chase the Germans into the copse, where a ferocious fight ensues.
Almost all of the cavalrymen who attacked them are now either dead or have retreated, leaving Maurice and Harry alone with the dead and dying of the encounter.
Harry helps his friend to his feet.
‘Come on, let’s go, while it’s quiet. You’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig.’
The back of Maurice’s tunic is soaked in blood and the wound is beginning to hurt him far more than when it was first inflicted. The two men begin to stagger across the ruins of Saint-Amé, back towards the centre of Herlies. They step over the rubble on the other side of the nave and into a small yard at the back of the village, which seems deserted. Maurice begins to stumble, so Harry helps him through the back door of a small house.
It is the middle of the day, the sun has begun to shine. Although it is autumn, the sun is warm. They enter a small kitchen. A table still sits in the middle of the room, but one of its legs is broken. The chairs that belong to the table are scattered around the room; they are all broken. Nothing else remains. The family which would usually be sitting there enjoying a leisurely French Saturday lunch has long gone.
Maurice and Harry slump to the floor. Maurice is very pale and Harry’s concerns for him are deepening. His friend has lost a lot of blood. He decides to give him a breather for five minutes before trying to get him back to the battalion dressing station. However, despite heavy gunfire not very far away, they are both overtaken by fatigue and fall into a deep sleep.
Twenty minutes later, they have a rude awakening. A group of Prussian cavalrymen, survivors of the gruesome encounter nearby, stumble into the room. Three of them are wounded; three are unharmed, but exhausted.
The noise of the German arrival wakes Harry and Maurice but, by the time they reach for their rifles, it is too late. Several German rifles are pointing directly at them.
Then, in excellent English, one of the men addresses them calmly, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
Recognizing the man as a Rittmeister, a cavalry captain, by the two pips on his epaulettes, Harry thinks quickly. The fighting between them was so intense barely half an hour ago, and there have been so many stories of German atrocities, but these men seem like proper soldiers who follow the old code of discipline and ho
nour.
Harry salutes and prompts Maurice to do the same.
‘Good afternoon, sir. You speak good English, Captain.’
‘Thank you, Serjeant, I lived two years in London. I was fencing coach at London Fencing Club with the famous maître, Leon Paul.’
Harry tries to get to his feet and help Maurice do the same.
‘It is not necessary to stand; you are wounded. Please stay on the floor.’
‘Thank you, sir. My friend ’as a bayonet wound through his ribs. He needs to see a medic.’
‘Yes, of course, but we need to get back to our lines. If we do, we will take care of you and your friend. But I am not certain where are our comrades. At this moment, you are our prisoners, but we may soon be yours. I think we are closer to your position than to ours. I have sent two men to find out what is the situation. Please be patient.’ The Rittmeister smiles. ‘I liked London but, under these circumstances, I do not think it would be wise for me to go back.’
The Germans light cigarettes and pass them around. Maurice refuses; he is in considerable pain and looking very pale. The Rittmeister kneels down to look at Maurice’s wound.
‘It is clean; I don’t think it penetrates organ. But it needs strapping.’
‘Are you a doctor, sir?’
‘No, but I have seen many sword wounds; this is not too deep.’
Maurice grimaces.
‘It were a bayonet, sir.’
The German helps Maurice take off his tunic and shirt.
‘Ah, yes, the crude hole of bayonet; not neat like sword.’
He then takes a clean white, neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and begins to rip Maurice’s shirt into strips.
‘I am sorry, but I’m sure your Lord Kitchener can buy you another one. This will hurt, but it must be done.’
He clicks his fingers and a German serjeant produces a small pewter hip flask.
‘Marillenschnaps, Austrian apricot brandy. It is good for drink and good for wound.’
He takes a swig before pouring a liberal amount on to the handkerchief and applying it to the wound, which he secures with strips of Maurice’s shirt.
‘Das ist gut, now you need rest. Here, drink schnapps.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
The captain inhales from his cigarette with relish.
‘We allow ourselves five cigarettes a day. This is our second.’ He turns to Harry. ‘What is your regiment, Serjeant?’
‘The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers, sir.’
‘How very appropriate; London men. From where?’
‘Leyton, sir, in the East End.’
‘Ah, yes, I coached at City of London School, Blackfriars. I used to watch the Thames rise and fall on tide; fascinating. We do not have this on our rivers so much. My name is Carl von Tannhausen, my family home is in Eberswalde, in Brandenburg.’
Harry is watching one of the Rittmeister’s men very closely. He has noticed the hilt of the ‘confiscated’ Prussian sword sticking out from beneath Maurice’s groundsheet. The burly German, who looks uncannily like the beastly ‘Hun’ depicted in the British newspaper cartoons, suddenly leans forward and pulls the sabre from its hiding place.
‘Mein Gott, Rittmeister! Der Säbel von dem Major!’
The German strikes Harry a heavy blow across the face with the back of his gloved hand and points the tip of the sabre at Maurice’s throat.
‘Du Bastard!’
‘Nein!’ von Tannhausen bellows at his man. ‘Sie würden das gleiche tun. Es ist eine Kriegstrophäe.’
The German serjeant lowers the sword and relents. Harry breathes a huge sigh of relief.
‘Thank you, sir. What did you say to ’im?’
‘I told him that he would do the same. It is what I think you English call “spoils of war”.’
‘Well, sir, we’re sorry. But we didn’t steal it.’
‘I understand. You should know that the men were very fond of Major von Mecklenberg. His family has been part of the Gardes du Corps since its formation.’
Harry feels a strong sense of remorse, an emotion he has never felt before.
‘Sir, I think I’d better tell yer that I’ve got ’is ’elmet in my knapsack.’
Von Tannhausen smiles.
‘I am not surprised. I was told that you boys – Cockney boys, am I right? – are very light with fingers. Do I use the right expression?’
Harry looks appropriately sheepish.
‘Almost, sir, but I know what you mean.’
‘I think, Serjeant, you perhaps should give the pieces to me so that they can be returned to the major’s family. My men will feel happier then.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Harry retrieves the gleaming eagle helmet from his knapsack and hands it to his captor. Von Tannhausen then collects the sword from his serjeant.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?
The Rittmeister turns the sabre in his hands. Heavily gold-plated, its hilt is inlaid with ivory. Its guard spews from the mouth of an eagle, which forms the weapon’s pommel. The guard covering the blade hides a small compartment that is home to a tiny, but perfectly matching, skinning knife.
‘To prepare the animal for the fire, Serjeant.’
Harry is fascinated; he has never seen a weapon so beautifully made. The blade of the weapon, almost two feet long, shines like mirrored glass, and on it are delicately etched hunting scenes of boar, deer and bear. Like the master swordsman he is, the Rittmeister then slashes the sabre through the air, making a soft ‘whoosh’ of sound no harsher than the merest breath of wind.
‘You could cut a man in half with this.’
Harry thinks back to his encounter with the weapon and realizes how lucky he has been.
Just at that moment a German corporal bursts into the room.
‘Rittmeister, Englische Infanterie in der Straße!’
There is a sudden panic in the room as, hearing that British soldiers are in the street, the Germans spring to life. But their response is too late. There is a burst of gunfire from the kitchen window above where Maurice and Harry are sitting. Three of the Germans are flung backwards by the impact of bullets at close range. Harry shouts at the top of his voice.
‘No! Cease firing! They’re our prisoners!’
But his plea cannot be heard. The kitchen door bursts open and another hail of bullets sends more Germans sprawling, their blood splashing on the wall behind them. Rittmeister von Tannhausen is hit in the chest and thigh; he falls against the wall and slides down it until he is sitting like a rag doll propped up in a child’s playroom. He looks at Harry, with half a smile and half a grimace of pain on his face.
‘Perhaps I would have been safer in London after all –’
He barely finishes speaking before two more bullets thud into his chest, making his body jerk. His eyes close and his chin drops on to his chest.
And yet, still more rifle fire fills the room; more bullets slam into the bodies of the already dead Germans.
Harry jumps to his feet.
‘Enough! They’re fuckin’ dead!’
Men of his own platoon edge cautiously into the room, emerging through the shattered doorway; they did what they thought was best and are shocked at Harry’s response.
‘Sorry, Sarje, we thought it was the right thing to do.’
‘Never mind, Corporal; help me get Serjeant Tait to the dressing station.’
One of the platoon picks up the Prussian helmet, while another picks up the sword.
‘Cor blimey! Take a butcher’s at these, must be worth a fuckin’ fortune.’
Harry turns on the two men.
‘Listen, you two arseholes, them things belong to me and Serjeant Tait. If they’re not with our kit when we’ve ’ad our wounds dressed, I’ll skin you alive! When I’m outta this shit’ole, they’re goin’ back to Germany where they belong. We took them off a brave man to stop twats like you gettin’ ’old of ’em!’
The fusiliers look at Harry. Out of earshot, on
e of them mutters, ‘What’s got into ’im? Looks like ’e’s goin’ doolally tap!’
Harry’s wound needs several stitches, but he will be able to resume duties after a few days. Maurice’s injury is much more serious, but he has been very fortunate. The bayonet puncture has missed both his lung and kidney on his left side, but it is a deep laceration and he will be sent to a rear field hospital in Boulogne to recover.
Both Major Ashburner and Captain Carey have been injured in the battle at Herlies, but not seriously enough to take them out of action for long. However, Lieutenant Mead will not be going anywhere. Like thousands of others, he will be buried nearby, or at least those pieces of him that can be retrieved from where a shell exploded just next to him.
Maurice’s departure and the heavy fusilier casualties in the encounter – five officers and 150 men killed, missing or severely wounded – only worsen Harry’s disposition, already melancholy after the melee at Vailly. The loss today of so many comrades, and the unnecessary death of Rittmeister von Tannhausen, a man who treated him with kindness and respect, have left Harry with much to ponder. And his thoughts serve only to darken his mood even more.
The one positive thought that stays with him is his resolve to return the Prussian helmet and sword to the family of the man he killed.
Sunday 18 October
Royal Welch Fusiliers’ Regimental HQ, Hightown Barracks, Wrexham, Clwyd
The Royal Welch Fusiliers’ austere nineteenth-century castellated Hightown Barracks is more like a prison block than a home from home for the Thomas boys. Used to their isolated cottage at Pentry Farm, amidst the rolling hills of Radnorshire, life in a large barracks room with scores of other men is alien to them; as are military discipline and routine. They do not find the regime physically demanding, but its rigidity and mind-numbing repetition is psychologically exhausting. Even so, they are exemplary soldiers.
Geraint and Morgan have been here since joining up at the beginning of September, in the aftermath of the scandalous revelation of their sister’s relationship with Philip Davies. Their older brother, Hywel, followed them to Highgate when he joined up later in the month, following Margaret Killingbeck’s visit to Presteigne in search of Bronwyn. Her visit partially rescued him from his melancholy, and he did what he said he would do: he closed up the cottage, let the land to a neighbour and joined Kitchener’s Army.
The Shadow of War Page 29