The Shadow of War (17 page)

‘Let's lift him.'

The two of them lift the dying man's shoulders, and his throat clears. But the sister knows from experience that it won't be long.

‘I'll have to stay, Captain. I need to keep your throat clear.'

Philip stares at Margaret plaintively and grabs her hand.

‘This is a terrible question to ask, but are you a woman of the world, Sister?'

‘I think I probably am, Captain.'

‘Then I must ask you to forgive me. If you are going to stay, you will have to be privy to what I want to ask of Major Stewart-Murray. I don't have much time.'

‘We have to keep you upright, but I doubt I'll be shocked by anything I hear. And nothing you say in this room will go any further.'

‘That's reassuring, Sister, but my request actually involves something that must leave this room.'

He turns to Hamish.

‘Hamish, will you do a huge favour for a complete stranger?'

‘Of
course, old boy.'

‘HQ will have my details, but I'm from Presteigne in Radnorshire. When you're next on leave, would you deal with a matter of some delicacy? It is an awful imposition, but my circumstances leave me little choice, and I don't want an entirely innocent party to suffer.'

Hamish looks at Margaret; both can guess the gist of Philip's dilemma.

‘There is a girl, Bronwyn Thomas, she is very young, engaged to a fine young man in the town. My wife is not very well and couldn't cope with the house. Bronwyn, a farmer's daughter, a lovely girl, came in to do some cleaning for me' – he squeezes Sister Margaret's hand – ‘oh dear, this is so embarrassing …'

Both Margaret and Hamish smile at Philip, wanting to reassure him.

‘Listen, old chap, don't worry, I have the morals of an alley cat. And although I'm sure Sister Killingbeck's are impeccable, listening to men's infidelities comes with her job.'

Margaret smiles warmly and nods her head.

After a brief moment, Philip appears to lose consciousness and Margaret shakes her head; she fears he has gone. But Philip suddenly opens his eyes, his face twisted in pain.

‘There's a key … in my knapsack … It is to a safety-deposit box at the Midland Bank … in Ludlow … Whatever is in there should go to Bronwyn … some silver and jewellery, it should make a fair bit … There's also … a letter …'

His words falter and, at last, he goes limp in their arms.

Hamish helps lay Philip down before rummaging through his knapsack, where he quickly finds the key and the letter tucked into one of its side pockets. He turns to Margaret, who has tears in her eyes. She looks at Hamish for the first time without the ascetic look of a professional nurse who has seen it all before.

‘What tangled webs we weave.'

‘I'm
afraid many of us are weak when it comes to life's temptations; I know I am.'

‘Will you do as he asked?'

‘Of course.'

Both Margaret and Hamish think that Philip has died, but he suddenly squeezes Margaret's hand. She leans towards him to hear what he is trying to say. His voice is barely audible and beyond Hamish's hearing.

‘What did he say?'

Margaret's tears are now flowing down her cheeks. She pauses, trying to compose herself. Eventually, she takes a deep breath.

‘He said to tell Bronwyn that she made him very happy. And that she should take wing and fly.'

Margaret feels for a pulse. There is nothing. She covers Philip with his bed sheet.

‘I don't normally cry. I have lost eleven men here today, but this is so sad. To experience all that mental torment on top of his pain. And that poor girl, just a cleaning maid. When you go to see Bronwyn, may I come with you?'

‘I would be greatly relieved if you would.'

Contrary to the wishes of Sir John French, Commander-in-Chief of the BEF, a momentous decision has been taken by General Horace Smith-Dorrien, Commander of the British II Corps. A courageous veteran of the Boer War and the Battle of Omdurman, he was one of only a handful of men to escape the slaughter of the Battle of Isandlwana against the Zulus in 1879.

Realizing that his exhausted men will soon be overrun by the rapidly advancing Germans, he has decided to make a fight of it. He has 40,000 British and French troops at his disposal and hopes that a courageous stand will derail the German momentum and grant Douglas Haig's I Corp, and the bulk of the French 5th Army, time to regroup.

Maurice and Harry are dug into a light trench on the western side of the Cambrai–Le Cateau road. They are not with the 4th Fusiliers, who are stationed behind the line in reserve, near Troisvilles. Maurice and Harry and eight of their platoon have been sent forward with a consignment of ammunition to replenish the supplies of the 1st Battalion Lincolnshire Regiment. Like the entire BEF, the Lincolnshire men are exhausted. They have marched all night and, after being given bread and tea in the village of Inchy, have taken up a position ready for an imminent German attack. As the onslaught is expected at any moment, the Lincolnshire's CO has told Maurice, Harry and their men to choose their ground and join the defensive line.

French
civilians – men, women and children, the few locals who have not fled eastwards – are still to be seen. They have been helping dig trenches and readily sharing whatever food they have left.

Unlike Mons, where the British position looked across an urban canal to factories, pitheads and slag heaps – not unlike the coalfields of Wales or the North of England – Maurice and Harry are now looking out over rolling green fields reminiscent of the Home Counties. In the few minutes' lull before the inevitable storm, the mist of dawn is clearing and birdsong is in the air.

It is unlikely that many of the British defenders realize it – and the French certainly do not – but it is the anniversary of the Battle of Crécy, in 1346, a battlefield not a million miles away, when English archers shot twelve arrows per minute to destroy the army of the French King, Philip VI. If, today, the British infantry can fire their Lee-Enfield rifles at fifteen rounds per minute, as they did at Mons, it could have the same effect on Alexander von Kluck's 1st German Army.

On the stroke of 6 a.m., a huge German artillery barrage destroys the early morning serenity. The deafening noise scatters the French civilians far and wide and wakes all but the most stubborn of the Lincolnshires, asleep with their chins on their rifles. A few are so tired that, despite the roar, they have to be shaken like rag dolls to rouse them from their slumber. The Germans have learned an important lesson from Mons. Before their infantry attacks en masse, they are going to intimidate the British marksmen and decimate their ranks in preparation for a frontal attack. The bombardment is relentless.

‘Fuck me, 'Arry! 'Ow many howitzers 'ave they got?'

‘More than us, that's for sure.'

The British guns are brought closer to try to knock out some of the German artillery, but they are vastly
outnumbered. After about two hours, during which Maurice and Harry can also hear heavy infantry battles to their right, a German shell explodes only yards from them.

‘Stretcher-bearers! Stretcher-bearers!'

The same cry goes up from several men at once as clods of earth and human flesh land like heavy spots of rain at the beginning of a storm. Some men are crimson with the blood of obliterated colleagues.

‘
Stretcher-bearers!
' One of the cries becomes increasingly hysterical. It issues from the throat of someone in the fusiliers' platoon, one of Harry's men.

‘What the fuck is wrong with 'im?'

‘I think 'e's gawn marbles and conkers, 'Arry.'

‘Fuck! I'll 'ave to go and sort 'im; come wiv me, Mo.'

The two veterans make their way along the line towards their panic-stricken comrade, who is screaming uncontrollably and being held down by the two men on either side of him. Harry is livid.

‘It's that tosser from 'Ackney. I'll lamp 'im when I get over there.'

As he makes his remark, the rat-a-tat-tat of German machine guns suddenly begins. Many voices shout that field-grey German uniforms can be seen in the meadows on the other side of the road. Harry and Maurice's focus is no longer on their distressed fusilier.

‘Look to your fronts, lads; here they come! Let's give 'em an old “
mad minute
”!'

While German machine-gunners to the left and right keep up murderous fire, their infantry advances across open ground. They are in more open order than they were at Mons, making them more difficult targets. Nevertheless, they still suffer significant casualties, but they do not falter. They just keep coming on like a grey tide crested by spiked beige helmets. Almost one helmet in three falls to the ground as its wearer is hit by a British bullet. On the British side, the
number of men hit by the German machine guns is fewer, but their loss is depleting a much smaller number of men.

Harry looks over to where the hysterical soldier was acting up. His minders, now too busy to give him any attention, have left him and he is sitting behind a tree, head in hands, rocking from side to side.

‘Look at 'im, Mo! I'm gonna shoot that twat when this is over.'

Almost before he has finished speaking, fusilier John Savage, aged thirty-one, from Hackney, reserve soldier and tailor at Henry Poole on Savile Row, has jumped out on to the main road with his hands held high in surrender. One of his comrades tries to pull him back, to no avail. Savage starts to walk towards the advancing Germans.

The intensity of the machine-gun fire is so great, he only takes a few strides before he is shot, not once, but several times. He staggers backwards with the multiple impacts. Two bloody holes appear in the rear of his tunic, made by bullets that have travelled straight through him. His arms fall to his side, then he stumbles forward, appearing oblivious to the pain he must be feeling.

Another bullet penetrates his skull. A German Army standard-issue
Gewehr 98 Mauser
bullet is half an inch wide and makes a terrible mess of a man. The one that strikes the young fusilier creates a deceptively small, neat entry hole just above his left eye, but the back of his head explodes as the missile exits. He falls to the ground in a twisted heap. Now the pain has gone; he will never feel anything again.

Harry looks at his men and the Lincolnshire lads around them to assess the impact of the incident. To his relief, it has made them angry and, after a moment of reflection, they renew their accurate fire into the ranks of the German infantry. The fight goes on for most of the morning; the number of dead and wounded rises relentlessly. The stretcher-bearers are exhausted, unable to cope.

The
advancing Germans take cover on the other side of the road, only making occasional forays forwards.

‘How many rounds 'ave yer got off, Mo?'

‘Lost count, but enough fuckin' lead to cover a church roof.'

‘My barrel's as hot as a poker. I'd like to ram it up the arse'ole of that Hun machine-gunner over there. I've been tryin' to plug 'im for twenty minutes, but I can't getta bead on 'im.'

A minute or so later, Harry exclaims and throws his cap in the air.

‘Got the cunt! What a fuckin' shot; took 'is fuckin' pickle helmet right orf. It must be six hundred yards.'

Maurice is impressed. He retrieves Harry's cap and throws it at him.

‘Put it back on, yer daft bugger. I'll give you four hundred yards, no more. But not a bad shot, I'll grant yer that.'

Artillery shells are still falling all around them, sending huge tremors through the ground. Most men are covered in soil or the blood of their comrades. The German machine guns are relentless, as is the rifle fire from their infantry. The enemy is finding secure positions from which to fire, producing a stalemate. The continuous noise is overwhelming, making most men feel disorientated.

Bullets make many different noises when they hit home. Some ‘ping' when they strike stone or metal, others ‘thud' into soft ground, but when they hit men they produce more sickening sounds: the ‘splash' of hot metal tearing into flesh, the ‘spray' of blood that the impact produces and, finally, the tormented scream of the victim.

To live through the sights and sounds of war is to become what is called ‘battle-hardened'. Some men survive the experience, some men are devastated by it, but no one is ever the same again.

The
British and French line at Le Cateau is over ten miles long and is being breached in places, especially where it is receiving machine-gun fire from its flanks.

By two o'clock in the afternoon, Harry and Maurice can see that several sections of the British line are in retreat. Of the eight men they brought, in addition to the stricken John Savage, two more men have been killed and two have been wounded.

Word is passed along the line: ‘A tactical withdrawal in fifteen minutes.'

‘So we're orf, 'Arry.'

‘Scarperin' again. I thought the British Army didn't do that kinda thing; certainly not twice in three days!'

‘I think we might 'ave to get used to it. We could be doin' it all the way to the fuckin' Channel at this rate.'

Although the British position is crumbling, Smith-Dorrien's decision to stand and fight at Le Cateau proves to be a masterstroke. Having seen him hold his ground, and after witnessing the quality of British musketry, the German High Command hesitates, giving the BEF a vital few days of grace to regroup and allowing the French to organize courageous counter-attacks. For the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers, it means many more hours of marching, but they have bought themselves some valuable breathing space.

The initial casualty figures from France are a shock to the nation. Large numbers of war dead have not been a familiar phenomenon for the British people in modern times. During the two and a half years of the Boer War, some twelve years earlier, Britain suffered almost 21,000 men killed, missing or dead from disease. So far, in just three days of fighting in France and Belgium, more than 1,600 have been killed at Mons, 5,000 at Le Cateau and another 500 in peripheral fighting. Another 2,500 men have been taken prisoner.

The Times
's report of the events is sobering: ‘The battle is
joined and has so far gone ill for the Allies. Yesterday was a day of bad news and we fear more must follow.' Although British numbers are significantly smaller than French and German figures, they create alarm at home, but also indignation, which strengthens the mood of patriotism, swelling yet more the numbers of those flocking to army recruiting stations.