The Shadow of War (15 page)

‘Serjeant
Powell is handing out a pamphlet. It is from Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War. It is warning you against temptation, especially those emanating from bottles and brothels. Read it! If any of you have any difficulty with reading, just ask Serjeant Powell, Lieutenants Jones or Morgan, or myself.'

Philip likes soldiering; he is ideally suited to it. If it had paid more, he might well have become a career soldier rather than an auctioneer.

‘Rouen is off-limits tonight. You need to get some sleep as few of us had any last night. We have no orders at present; I expect they will come down to us over the next day or two. Now, Serjeant Powell, get the men off to bed.'

Also en route on 10 August are two of the Stewart-Murray boys from Blair Atholl. While Bardie remains in Dunkeld with the Scottish Horse, Geordie is at Aldershot with the Black Watch, preparing to leave for Southampton, from where they will sail in three days' time. Hamish is with the Cameron Highlanders, who will also leave from Southampton on 13 August. They are billeted at the Duke of York's Barracks in Chelsea. As both men are close to one another, they arrange to have dinner together at Rules Restaurant in Covent Garden. When they arrive, they are part of a majority of diners who are in uniform.

As usual, Hamish does most of the talking.

‘Have you heard from Father?'

‘Not a dicky bird. I expect he'll be as grumpy as hell. Half the staff have gone to the Colours.'

‘I hope Nellie-Hellie is holding the fort.'

‘She will, don't you doubt it.'

‘Do you know which boat you're on?'

‘Yes,
the SS
Gando
.'

‘What the hell is that?'

‘A cattle ship probably!'

Despite the economic gloom that has descended on the country after the outbreak of war, the mood inside Rules is buoyant. The patriotism, a sentiment some would say borders on jingoism, is palpable. The restaurant's famous cellar is being plundered with abandon and its traditional English fare being consumed as if its nourishment will make the difference when a British bayonet clashes with a German one. After all, how can a weapon wielded by a man fed on sauerkraut possibly be a match against one brandished by a doughty Brit sustained by Rules's steak and kidney pie?

The waiters are run off their feet, the laughter becomes louder and the women swoon ever more at the sight of their handsome, khaki-clad heroes. Some diners break into song, even though there are few tuneful voices to be heard. For Hamish and Geordie the atmosphere is irresistible.

‘Shall we go down to Dalton's Nightclub after dinner?'

‘Hamish, you're incorrigible!'

‘Of course I am. Good heavens, we may not see one another, or Blair, or Blighty, ever again! I intend to get drunk and fornicate right royally with at least one little darling tonight.'

Geordie can see that Hamish means business.

‘I'm not going back to the Duke of York's; I'm staying at the Langham. You should do the same, Geordie. Why go all the way back to Aldershot. But you can't sleep on my sofa! I intend to have company, so you'll have to get your own room. Perhaps you'll strike it lucky yourself?'

It proves to be a debauched night for both of them. They eschew Dalton's and go to the Gaslight Club in St James's instead, where they meet a pair of willing ladies. A couple of shop assistants who have digs together in Maida Vale, they are more than happy to spend the night with two uniformed
lords of the realm. They have never met aristocrats before and are impressed by their officer's garb, especially under the influence of fine champagne, the opulence of the Langham Hotel and the cornucopia of a breakfast served to them at three in the morning.

To cap a raucous night, at eight thirty in the morning, Hamish gives them a five-pound note – enough to pay the fare to Edinburgh and back – for a cab back to Selfridges, where they are due at work in the Perfumery Department. They were all smiles and giggles as they left, but perhaps were not looking quite as spruce as they had done the day before.

For their part, Hamish and Geordie have sore heads for the rest of the day, are sullen with their superiors, bad-tempered with their fellow officers and vindictive with their men. But it was a jolly good night!

Maurice Tait and Harry Woodruff have much more spartan accommodation for the night of 10 August than Regent Street's Langham Hotel.

The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers reported to the Ministry of War the previous day that it is fully mobilized and ready to leave for France, but Parkhurst Barracks is far from a picture of precise military organization. In fact, it is chaotic. The battalion's ranks have been swollen by over 700 reservists: middle-class Londoners, artisans, plus a few working-class lads from military families. Most are totally bewildered, frantically trying to get their kit and clothing together. The noise of serjeant majors bellowing orders and the timpani of army boots clattering on cobbles is deafening.

‘Get a move on, lad!', ‘Don't run, you're a soldier, not a
bloody whippet!' are just two of the confusing orders to be heard.

Every spare space at Parkhurst has been requisitioned and blankets issued so that men without beds can sleep in corridors. Eventually, after every inch of covered space has been deemed full, tents have had to be erected on the parade ground to accommodate the last groups of arrivals.

New rifles, kit bags and ammunition have arrived from as far away as Catterick and Colchester, yet still the armourers and storemen are struggling to get every man fully kitted out.

CSM Billy Carstairs has done his share of shouting; now he is almost hoarse and is relaxing over a bottle of pale ale in the serjeants' mess.

‘Where's your lot, Mo?'

‘In B Block, Sarje, all tucked up like bugs in a rug.'

Maurice and Harry have managed to get their platoon into proper beds in the attic space of B Block at Parkhurst.

‘What sort o' bunch 'ave yer been landed with?'

‘All right, the regular boys are corkers, but some of the reservists are a bit dodgy.'

Harry is much more forthright.

‘Dodgy! Some of 'em are shittin' themselves. After a few years away from it, odd weekends on Salisbury Plain and exercises in the local drill hall don't make a soldier. Two lads, one of 'em a solicitor's clerk, the other a fuckin' undertaker, tried to report sick. I told 'em to fuck off to bed an' 'ave a wank.'

Billy Carstairs laughs out loud.

‘That's your answer for everythin', ain't it, 'Arry?'

‘Certainly is, Sarje. You know what they say? “A ham shank a day keeps the medics away”!'

‘Well, the one who's an undertaker will come in useful on this little jaunt. We're being issued with a hundred and fifty rounds of ammo, and that's just for starters.'

‘Bloody 'ell, that's a lot! Sounds like a proper war.'

‘Too
right, matey; Major Ashburner's just told me that we're sailin' from Southampton on Thursday, so we start movin' out tomorra afternoon.'

Harry has a mischievous grin on his face.

‘How abaht that, Mo? We'll be in France for the weekend. All them little mademoiselles just waitin' to be kissed by an 'ansome English boy. I'll be all right, but I don't know abaht you two ugly bastards!'

‘Mademoiselles! You'll 'ave no sap left fer them after you've carried your pack a few miles.'

‘I've carried packs across deserts and into the Himalayas, Sarje.'

‘Not these, you 'aven't. I reckon they'll weigh nearly seventy pounds when we've finished fillin' 'em; that's not countin' yer rifle and ammo.'

‘How far is it to Germany, then?'

‘Far enough, 'Arry, far enough. That's if we ever get there.'

‘We'll get there if we 'ave to. If we can fettle the Boers, we can fettle the Kaiser.'

‘Not sure that's our brief. Ashburner reckons the Germans will roll over the Frogs in weeks. We're just going to hold the Channel ports til Kitchener can build a new army to fight the Germans when they invade.'

‘Invade Blighty! They wouldn't 'ave the nerve. But if they did, we'd give 'em a bloody nose, wouldn't we, Mo?'

‘If you say so, 'Arry.'

‘I just want one of those silly spiked 'elmets they wear.'

‘The pickelhaube?'

‘Whatever you say, Sarje. I want one to go wiv the leather fedora I nicked off a Boer major at Colenso.'

‘Dead, was he, at the time?'

‘I should
cocoa
; shot 'im through the gullet at thirty yards.'

As is his wont, Winston is working in bed in his room at the Admiralty. His breakfast tray has been put to one side and he is working through his ministerial box, creating a mess of documents around him, some of which have cascaded on to the floor. He is dressed in his monogrammed pyjamas and red velvet dressing gown and is halfway through his first cigar of the day. It is just turned 7 a.m.

The bedroom door opens with a flurry. There is no knock, just the sudden looming presence of Britain's Minister for War, Herbert Horatio Kitchener.

Both he and Winston have spent a restless night. They knew yesterday evening, following some skirmishes involving British cavalry patrols, during which the first British shots of the war were fired, that the
British Expeditionary Force
had encountered the German Army. But, at 11 p.m., there had been no news.

The general situation in Belgium had become grave. Liège had fallen on 16 August and General Alexander von Kluck, Commander of Germany's 1st Army, arrogant and fiercely determined, had continued to sweep through Belgium in pursuit of the German grand plan to march through their neutral neighbour, encircle Paris from the north and defeat the French in just forty-two days.

With the British Expeditionary Force safely across the Channel, and with at least a majority of men as prepared as they could be, Sir John French, Commander of the BEF, chose his ground. With reports coming in from Royal Flying
Corps reconnaissance flights that huge numbers of German troops were on the move, John French chose a defensive position around
Mons
, the centre of the Belgian coal-mining region.

The Mons–Condé Canal offered a modest defensive line, but it was little more than six feet deep and twenty-five feet wide – hardly a major obstacle.

‘Bad news, Winston.'

Kitchener hands over a telegram from French, which Winston reads with a perceptible tremor in his hand.

My troops have been engaged all day with the enemy on a line roughly east and west through Mons. The attack was renewed after dark, but we held our ground tenaciously. I have just received a message from GOC 5th French Army that his troops have been driven back, that Namur has fallen and that he is taking up a line from Maubeuge to Rocroi. I have therefore ordered our retirement to the line Valenciennes–Longueville–Maubeuge, which is being carried out now. It will prove a difficult operation if the enemy remains in contact. I think that immediate attention should be directed to the defence of Le Havre.

Winston hands the telegram back to Kitchener. All the colour has drained from his pink cheeks.

‘Bloody hell! Namur, that's the pivot; they've got us on the run.'

Kitchener is not only bereft, he is furious.

‘I fear French has got the wind up; you know how excitable he is.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Well, I'm off to see the PM and give him the grim news. Then I'm off to Dover. I'm sailing this afternoon; I've got to keep French squared up.'

‘Could you replace him?'

‘I'd
love to, but he's a bloody field marshal; I can't fire him on the first day of the war.'

‘Go easy on the Old Block, he'll be mortified.'

‘I will. But do you think Asquith is strong enough for what's hurtling towards us?'

‘There's no doubting his acumen; it's his staying power that could be an issue. He's tired.'

As Kitchener goes to Downing Street to see the Prime Minister, Winston gets dressed and walks across Horse Guards to the Treasury. He is unnerved. His knowledge of Britain's military history is second to none and, as he crosses the great parade ground of the King's Household Division, he thinks back. This is a moment unparalleled since Elizabethan times, when his beloved land faced the Armada of Philip II of Spain, and reminiscent of the Napoleonic Wars when the formidable army of Republican France threatened to subject 800 years of British history to the whim of a military demi-god.

When Winston finds his quarry, he is surrounded by Treasury and Bank of England officials, junior ministers, industrialists and men from the city and leading banks. It is still early, just turned nine thirty, but the group of worthy men are unshaven and a little bedraggled. Remnants of breakfast are strewn on tables and chairs. They have been working all night. At the centre of the group is a diminutive Welshman, Winston's friend and political ally, David Lloyd George, Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Winston catches his eye and beckons him into a small room the size of a broom cupboard.

‘What's the matter, Winston?' Lloyd George, speaking with the lilting vowels of his Welsh homeland, grabs Winston's arm and remarks, ‘Winny, this is where we keep the tea and biscuits.'

Like a conspiratorial schoolboy, Winston whispers earnestly.

‘It's
grave news from France. The Germans have broken through and we are, as French's telegram puts it, “retiring”. Namur has fallen, which is the worst news of all.'

‘Fuck! And the French?'

‘Fighting bravely, as always, singing the “Marseillaise” as they go. But they're outnumbered, out-gunned and dying in droves.'

‘And our French?'

‘Lord K thinks he's wobbling.'

‘Well, he'd better get out there and straighten the bugger out.'

‘He's on his way.'

‘Does the PM know?'

‘He will by now.'

‘I'd better go and see him; he'll need a bit of a lift. And before those buggers in the Cabinet try to convince him to bring our boys home.'

‘Listen, David, French is warning Kitchener about a possible evacuation from Le Havre.'

‘Already! We've only been fighting for a couple of days.'

‘I know, it sounds grim indeed. I will send a note to the fleet this morning telling them to be aware of an impending operation in the Channel. But, if there has to be a withdrawal, I would feel better about it being from the Cotentin – probably Cherbourg, or even St Nazaire.'

‘That's a bloody long way to walk.'

‘Better a long walk than be stuck on the end of a Prussian bayonet.'

‘Well, thank God we've still got you and the navy, Winston.'

‘Thank you. You know, this is going to be a rough ride.'

‘Well, let's make sure we come through it.'

‘How are things here?'

‘It's been a buggers' muddle. The City boys are running around like blue-arsed flies, bankruptcies everywhere, money
flying across the Atlantic. Everyone wants gold; there are runs on the banks everywhere. But we're on top of it; we'll be fine. The country is coming together behind our soldiers and sailors. They must be our priority. They built our Empire, now we must help them defend it.'

‘David, you are an inspiration! Thank you.'

‘You go off and make sure your dreadnoughts are facing the right way, and I'll go to see Asquith. He's a good old boy, but he'll need a couple of malts before lunch.'

Winston feels invigorated by Lloyd George's resolute manner and is reassured that, should Asquith falter, the Welsh Wizard would be an ideal replacement. He returns to Admiralty House to dictate a telegram to the fleet. It reads:

Personal. News from France is disappointing and serious results of battle cannot be measured, as fighting still continues over an enormous front.

We have not entered the business without the resolve to see it through and you may be assured that our action will be proportional to the gravity of the need.

I have absolute confidence in the final result.

No special action is required from you at present, but you should address your mind to a naval situation which may arise where Germans control Calais and French coasts and what ought to be the position of the Grand Fleet in that event.

Winston then goes to his room to write to Clemmie, something he has failed to do for almost a fortnight.

Sunday 23 August 1914 had become one of those days, like so many that summer, when history moves forward, not with a measured step, but with an abrupt lurch.

On the morning of that day, at Obourg, north-east of Mons, men of A Company, 4th Battalion, Middlesex Regiment saw the massed ranks of German field-grey uniforms for the first time. The West London boys, the ‘Die Hards' of the Peninsular War, opened fire. Their commanding officer, forty-year-old Major William Abell from Worcestershire, died instantly from a bullet through the head, the first named British casualty of the Great War.

So unexpected was the coming together of the two armies – 36,000 men of the BEF and many more on the German side – that in the villages around Mons the local
Belgian civilians were on their way to church, in their Sunday suits and feathered hats, when the firing started.

Church bells suddenly stopped ringing. The gentle sound of worshippers' footsteps on dirt and gravel became the grating noise of people running in panic. Women and children screamed in anguish; men shouted instructions, trying to keep control. A quiet Sunday in an inconspicuous corner of rural Belgium had become the first great battleground of the war.

It was said that an angel appeared that day, forbidding the Germans to go any further, the ‘Angel of Mons'. If only it were true. The reality was a long August day of brutal killing. At the end of it, the BEF had suffered 1,600 casualties, while German losses may have been as high as 5,000. The 4th Middlesex lost 15 officers and 353 men.

The Belgians to the north of the BEF fell back, as did the French to the south. The Germans were there in too great a number; the position was untenable and Sir John French ordered a retreat. Chaos ensued. The British Army was not used to retreating.

Hamish Stewart-Murray has, so far, missed the anguish of the Battle of Mons. He arrived from Le Havre on 14 August and, after being fêted by the French population at every turn along their route south, his company, C Company, the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders, was immediately attached to Headquarters, 1st Army. He was designated as escort to General Douglas Haig, Commander of the 1st Corps, and billeted at Haig's HQ at Bougnie, six miles south of Mons. As a result, he has only heard the thunder of distant artillery and seen the glow in the sky from burning buildings.

However, since dawn this morning, a constant stream of wounded, exhausted and disorientated men have been traipsing into Bougnie from the direction of Mons. General Haig has been hurried away, out of danger, to the west. Hamish has been ordered to take a platoon in the direction of the
walking wounded, to Bavay, a reasonably sized town across the French border, fifteen miles to the south-west, to see what he can do to help inject some discipline into the retreat. It takes him most of the day to get there. The roads are full of bedraggled groups of men moving in the same direction, all devastated by fatigue, many in need of medical care.

The local Belgian and French citizens are doing what they can to help, but many of them are also in the process of fleeing from what they fear is a host of bloodthirsty Huns about to descend on them.

When Hamish gets to Bavay, he is confronted by a scene of utter chaos. The exception is the contingent of 200 or so men from the 4th Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, who are in excellent order despite having lost all their officers. They are commanded by the impressive presence of their company serjeant major, who has marched them into the centre of the town as if they are on the parade ground and ordered them to clean their rifles and kit. As for the rest, the elite of the British Army, they look like they have been campaigning for a year. Most can walk no further and are lying around in various states of distress.

Hamish asks the Middlesex's CSM to get his men to organize a muster point outside Bavay's
hôtel de ville
and to begin a roll call.

‘Your name, Serjeant?'

‘CSM Brown, sir.'

‘Major Stewart-Murray, Mr Brown, very well done.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Your officers?'

‘Gone, sir. They were together, lookin' at a map. Direct hit by a big 'un. Thankfully, they didn't know what hit 'em.'

‘I don't suppose there are any ambulances around or any Medical Corps chaps?'

‘No medics, sir. There's a group of vets a mile or so back, but they've got 'undreds of 'orses to deal with. One of my
corporals said that there are some Queen Alex's nurses in a school over there.'

‘Very good, Mr Brown, carry on. But don't take your men off without liaising with me. I'm sure I'll need you during the day.'

‘Very good, sir.'

CSM Brown snaps a salute before marching off. Hamish watches him go, hugely relieved that men like him are at the heart of the BEF. He has heard a story that the Kaiser said that he is going to crush Britain's ‘contemptible little army'. It seems that, although the British Army is relatively small, it is full of men of outstanding calibre like CSM Brown and that the Kaiser will underestimate them at his peril.