by Barry Sadler
The nation of Belgium, a recent British invention, had only come into existence in 1831, and was neutral. So now the potential conflict had widened to include the British Empire, and through the Triple Entente Treaty, Britain would be allied with her long-term enemies, Russia and France.
Casca's daily toil in the mine had become easier as his muscular body had adapted to the demands made upon it. He came to tolerate the heavy, dangerous work and more and more enjoyed the company of the tough, little men he worked with. Gwyneth made no demands on him, except in bed, and his life had settled into a routine that was not at all unpleasant, especially when compared to sleeping out on the London embankment and running to open cab doors in the hope of a penny.
Each evening he came back from the pit to a hot bath and a fine hot meal, then off to the pub for a few beers with Cockney Dave whose landlady had similarly moved in with him. Over pints of bitter Casca and Dave would discuss their undesired, but irresistible, marital arrangements, the worsening economic conditions of the mine workers, and the increasingly bizarre politics of Europe.
On August fourth, its ultimatum unanswered, Germany moved on Belgium, and sixty thousand German troops crossed the frontier, swamping the twenty-five thousand Belgian defenders. The German spearhead attacked Liege, the key to the narrow pass to the Belgian plain.
England and France immediately declared war on Germany, Austria, and Hungary. Russia quickly declared that she too was at war, joining England and France.
The declaration of war gave the two reluctant spouses just what they needed. They bade farewell to their landladies and their underpaid jobs and headed for London to join the volunteer force being raised by Secretary of War, Lord Kitchener.
Half a million men flocked to the colors, almost half of them miners. Conservatives, liberals, the Labour Party, even the Irish members, supported the war and the recruiting campaign. First Lord of the Admiralty Winston Churchill was to direct the war, personally supervising strategy. Sir John French was to command the troops in the field and was ready for a short, decisive campaign that would wrap up the whole affair before Christmas.
The recruits were paraded through the London streets in their civilian clothes, mostly worn out and none too clean. Crowds cheered them, women threw flowers, and old men clapped them on the back as they passed.
"Popular war," Cockney Dave smiled.
"They all are – when they start," Casca grunted, unimpressed by the crowd's patriotism.
As they came to Whitechapel, they were saluted by a bobby sergeant. Hugh Edwards shook his fist at him in return. "I know that bleedin' perisher," he snarled. "Three months ago I was marchin' with the unemployed, and the bobbies broke up the march. That swine tried to break my 'ead with 'is baton – and now he salutes me."
A pretty woman in a white dress and a flowered hat ran to pin a flower on Dave's chest and kissed him on the cheek. Dave grinned happily then chuckled to Casca, "And a week ago she'd have stepped into the gutter to avoid me."
Casca and the other ragged men within earshot laughed with him. The army of the rear had become the army of the front.
But Lord Kitchener was only accepting the cream of young British manhood, and two thirds of the recruits were rejected as chronically undernourished or otherwise medically unfit. Many recruits were barely eighteen, and many, having lied about their ages, were younger.
Cockney Dave passed fit, his youth making him acceptable, and Hugh Edwards and Casca were readily enlisted for their physiques, but several of their friends were summarily rejected by the army doctors.
The doctor who examined Casca was intrigued by his numerous scars but accepted his explanation that he had survived a number of mine accidents. There was scarcely a miner who didn't carry some scars. But when he looked into Casca's eyes, the doctor was puzzled, then began to feel uncomfortable. There was something in the eyes that was older than the face. A thousand disappointments had made these eyes as unfathomable as a mountain lake.
The first recruits were drafted into the Territorials, the expeditionary force formed in 1910 as an elite, amphibious corps intended to be always ready for immediate overseas service.
For Casca, the Territorials were something of a surprise. The 125,000 professionals were still clad in the khaki uniforms that had been designed for the South African war against the Boers in the previous century. Only a handful of veterans from that war had seen any action. The rest were proficient in musketry, but their commanders seemed to have little understanding of the handling of troops other than enforcing crushing discipline.
Chief disciplinarian was the regimental sergeant major, a strutting martinet in a shiny, peaked cap with a voice rarely heard at any pitch below an angry scream.
Reveille sounded at six, and RSM Norman's screech tore through the barracks hut. "Orright, orright, orright. Come on, you lot, let's 'ave you out 'ere then."
Norman's raucous voice called the roll, men stepping one pace forward in response to their names. Until he bellowed, "Atkins, Thomas," at which a dozen or so men stepped out, Casca and Cockney Dave among them.
"I thought your name was Prince," Casca muttered to Dave.
"It ain't that neither," the Cockney answered, "but I saw Atkins on the form and thought, well, that'll do."
"Damn," Casca muttered, realizing that he had made a mistake. He too had liked the look of the sample name on the form in the recruiting booth and had thought it would serve as well as any.
RSM Norman didn't seem to think the number of Atkinses strange; indeed, he was bellowing for more. "Come on, come on, you 'orrible lot. I've got about twenty more Atkins, Thomases on this list, and I want 'em all out here!"
A few more men stepped forward reluctantly. "What's the matter with you lot? Don't you know your own names?”
It turned out that numerous recruits had adopted the same name from the sample form for their own reasons as had Dave and Casca. Many more, unable to read at all, as almost all Englishmen were illiterate, had simply copied everything – name, age, marital status, number of dependents. About a fifth of the recruits had been enlisted under the name Thomas Atkins.
In a rare moment of wisdom, RSM Norman decided to accept the situation and leave it to the pay corps to sort out. By the time the confused roll call was over, all the recruits were laughingly calling each other Tommy.
Norman's cretinous monologue continued through a three- mile run with an unending tirade of threats and sneers.
At seven there was a merciful break for breakfast, but by seven-thirty the unmerciful shriek was snarling its dissatisfaction with the cleaning of the spotless barracks. And at eight RSM Norman's snarling dominance really began with the drill that occupied most of the rest of the day.
The repetition of the simple routines bored and exasperated Casca. Hour after hour, day after day, they repeated the same basic drill. There was no weapons instruction or any combat training. Their torturer's only interest was in endless marching, and he drilled his charges until their actions lost all semblance to normality, and they moved in a series of timed jerks like so many wooden dolls.
Norman carried a pace stick, two canes fixed to one head and separated at the ground to exactly the size of the regulation pace of the British army.
The regimental sergeant major especially liked to humiliate his immediate subordinates, the drill instructor sergeants, and he would march alongside one of their squads twirling his ridiculous cane and loudly lamenting the tiniest deviation from the sacred length of pace. One of his favorite drill square pastimes was to combine a number of squads and drill them unmercifully their squad instructors, who squirmed mightily at every taunt.
During one endless sequence of left turn, right turn, about turn, into line, form fours, form column, quick march, Casca found himself in the front rank with Cockney Dave in the rank behind and Hugh Edwards farther back. The sergeant major wheeled them to the left, and Casca saw a chance to turn the game on the tyrant. He had once, and not too long ago, been a drill i
nstructor sergeant in the British Army and thought he could teach Norman a thing or two.
He stepped out mightily, calling softly to Dave and Hugh to stay with him. Their rankmates kept up, and the nine men opened up a wide gap ahead of those in the turn.
"Come on, come on, you 'orrible loafers, you bleedin' bums," Norman shouted at his men, "shake it up, shake it up."
The entire squad stepped out, but the wheel slowed those who were in the turn, and they had to hasten even more as they came through it. The result was that half the large squad was strung out along one side of the drill square, while the rest were jammed into one corner of it.
The furious Norman saw his mistake too late. He turned his attention to the runaway leaders." 'Orright, you lot in front, slow down will you!"
But Casca had already slowed so that he was now leading a bunch of about thirty recruits, with more catching up at each pace. He now slowed to a crawl. The corner of the square was coming up, and Norman ordered another left wheel. Casca almost marked time through the turn then streaked away again.
Behind him he could hear Norman harassing the stragglers to lengthen their stride – ensuring yet another pile up while Casca strung the whole column out across the next leg of the square.
Norman raced to meet the head of the column and fell into step alongside Casca, twirling his pace stick along the ground beside him. But Casca had anticipated him and was moving at exactly British Army regulation pace. For several seconds RSM Norman was silent as his pea brain strove to understand what was going wrong.
Hugh Edwards, though, was not fooled. "You've done this drill before, haven't you, Cass?" he whispered.
"Some," Casca admitted as RSM Norman returned his attention to calling up the tail end of the lagging column. Casca smiled to himself as he recalled all the times that he had been a rookie on a drill square. The smile widened as he reflected on the times that he had been the drill instructor, a job he had always excelled at.
The sweating NCO brought the column to a halt, dressed ranks, formed them into line, then back into a column. He then marched Casca's rank to the rear, having concluded that somebody in this rank, probably the oversize Casca, had an erratic pace. He then recommenced the march around the square. Within a few minutes he had to call another halt. At the head of the column Dave and Hugh contrived to distort his every order, while at the rear, Casca was working to the same purpose. But to the perturbed RSM, the column seemed to be falling apart by itself.
As the disruption grew worse, more and more of the recruits tuned into the game, and soon the entire column had passed that point at which discipline ceases to be effective. There were simply too many men too determined to fuck up – and Casca had shown them a way to do so without ever actually committing any offence.
Norman ranted and raved, stamped and screamed until he was almost frothing at the mouth. The men's vengeance was complete when a major, riding past on a splendid horse, was so appalled at the display that he rode over to the drill square and summoned the RSM.
Norman handed over the recruits to one of his sergeants who promptly called the men to order. They responded readily and correctly. He reformed them into squads, then handed them over to their squad sergeants. In a few minutes the drill square was in regular order while the sorely discomfited RSM stammered an explanation to the major.
Casca was gratified but not impressed. A Roman officer would have taken over himself. Even emperors such as Trajan and the great Julius were apt to themselves undertake the instruction of soldiers, challenging them in strength and dexterity. Casca had once so matched swords with Hadrian who took great pride in his skill as an instructor and frequently seized the opportunity to try out his men in the line. Hadrian was a master swordsman, and Casca a mere trooper, but he had acquitted himself well, as Hadrian had expected.
That night the recruits gloated over their victory. The morning, however, brought the raucous voice and vicious snarl back into their lives with redoubled malevolence. But when it came to drill time, Norman left them to their D.I. sergeants.
When eventually they came to combat training, Casca was appalled at the elementary level of sophistication. What passed for unarmed combat was no more than a simple set of armlocks which almost required an opponent's cooperation to be effective.
Weapons instruction was an even greater shock. Each company was issued one Lee Enfield .303 rifle with bayonet and an empty five-round magazine – for the instructor. The recruits were issued plywood dummies and had to pretend to manipulate these in a parody of the sergeant's motions with the one real rifle.
Casca recalled his first training in Domitian's legions. The Latin word for army was derived from the word for exercise, and early and late Roman recruits were instructed to march, run, jump, swim, carry each other, handle every type of arms that could possibly be utilized for offense or defense, for work in a distant engagement, or for close combat. They moved always to the sound of flutes playing the Pyrrhic martial dance. And all their training arms were double the weights of those they would actually use in battle. Casca felt something close to despair as he hefted the six-ounce replica of a nine-pound rifle and looked around him at the callow boys with whom he was about to go to war.
Replicas were also used to introduce them to the Mills bomb, an explosive grenade with a time-delay fuse that commenced when a lever was released as it left the thrower's hand, the lever being normally held in place by a pin. The practice dummies merely looked like the real thing, lacked both moving lever and pin and were absurdly light.
The only worthwhile training was in the use of the bayonet. The Territorials were expert musketeers, and since their day-of-fire issue was only twenty-five rounds per man, the bayonet was as important as the bullets. Day after day they practiced at the straw dummies that represented German soldiers, taking turns to use the few real rifles.
"In! Out! On guard!" the instructor bellowed, and the sweating soldiers would stick their bayonets the regulation four inches into the dummy, withdraw them, and return to the on-guard position.
They also practiced against each other. Two men faced each other with real rifles and bayonets and went through the motions of trying to stab each other. They learned how to thrust and how to feint, how to wrestle down the opponent's guard, and how to turn their rifle so that the opponent's own force brought his weapon down, uselessly out of the way and with his body off balance.
Casca was impressed but shocked to find that this represented almost the whole of their combat training. Bullets were too scarce to waste on target practice, and each man's total marksmanship training consisted of firing one five-round magazine.
The worst shock of all was the pay. In the mines Casca had earned enough for his simple needs with always something left over to treat Gwyneth and the children. He now learned that his army pay would be less than half that, and he had already signed an allotment form remitting what turned out to be most of it to Gwyneth on the first of each month.
"I don't believe it," Cockney Dave lamented. He too had signed over what he had thought, was half his pay to his ex-landlady.
When he had fought in Britain for the Roman Emperor Domitian, Casca had been paid a piece of gold per month, about twenty English pounds a year. And at the end of twenty years, he would be paid off with three thousand denarii, about two hundred pounds sterling. After twenty years a British soldier would get about a quarter of that.
"Well," Cockney Dave ruminated, "for all that, it beats being down the mine."
CHAPTER FIVE
The troopship was yet another shock. It was a derelict hulk laid up ready for scrap and had now been pressed into urgent military service. The British Army, despite its global responsibilities, had no regular means of conveying its troops abroad and depended on commercial shipping companies.
The SS Plymouth was an antique rust bucket, a tramp steamer registered in Panama, barely seaworthy, commanded by an elderly neurotic with a polyglot crew hastily recruited from numerous waterfront b
ars. One hold had been converted to convey the troops with crude timber bunks one atop the other and hammocks slung between. The only ventilation when the hatch covers were closed was a single pipe vent.
The troops spent most of their time in endless lines waiting for their food, drinking water, to use a toilet, to shave, and to wash. The hold stank like a cesspit, but the soldiers were forbidden to travel on deck.
The Territorials disembarked in France on August fifteenth, the day the last Belgian resistance collapsed. The huge German army had entered Liege on August fifth, but Belgian troops under the determined command of diehard General Leman had demolished all the city's bridges and retreated to a dozen modern, thick-walled forts on high ground.
Over the next ten days, German 420mm siege guns demolished the forts one by one. Colonel of Fusiliers Erich Ludendorff succeeded in getting lost with his three brigades and was harassed severely by civilian snipers. He gave orders for the summary execution of these "Francs Tireurs," and the German firing squads were kept busy shooting every civilian they found at large. Many hundreds were slaughtered including a number of elderly priests.
On August 10, Fort Barchon was captured from the rear, then Ludendorff and his fusiliers got lost again. By August 15, Ludendorff had found his bearings and laid siege to Fort Loncin. Toward nightfall the gallant General Leman was carried unconscious from the ruins.
The previous day, August fourteenth, German troops engaged a large French force in Lorraine. The French general Lamezac was defeated in what became the ten-day battle of Charleroi.
Meanwhile the British Expeditionary Force of ninety thousand men under the Boer War hero Sir John French was idle. The troops spent their days in unending, trivial drill, digging latrines, cleaning and re-cleaning their tents, and telling and retelling the numerous rumors.
It seemed that Germany had eighty-seven divisions, each with eighteen thousand men, equipped with Mauser rifles and Maxims, the machine gun invented by an American-born Englishman. Each German division was backed with thirty-six 105mm and sixteen 150mm howitzers.