The Shadow of War (22 page)

Mary and Tommy Broxup are sitting in front of the cast-iron range in the back room of their tiny terraced house in Burnley. The gas board has cut off the gas, so they are sitting in candlelight. There is half a scuttle of coal left by the grate; it is the last fuel they can afford. They have sold their net curtains and all the furniture in the front room to make ends meet.

The house is bare, save for one double bed upstairs, a kitchen table and the two chairs they are sitting on. Their only food for the week has been mutton stew and dumplings, enlivened on odd days by the local delicacy ‘stew an' 'ard' as a treat.

The tap above the old stone slop sink is dripping incessantly. Tommy is easily able to put in a new washer, but he cannot afford to buy one now that he no longer has a wage coming in. There is little prospect of work for Mary either, and they have had no money since her union pay ran out after they were both sacked following the trouble at Howard and Bullough's.

It is ten o'clock in the evening. They would usually be at the pub at this time, or at the Keighley Green Club, but they have no money in their pockets.

In recent weeks, Mary and Tommy have heard rumours that John Harwood, the Mayor of Accrington, has been in feverish correspondence with the War Office since the Declaration of War, asking for permission to raise a Pals Battalion from Accrington and the surrounding area.

Finally, on Monday 7 September, Harwood heard from
Harold Baker, MP for Accrington, hotfoot from London on the afternoon train, that the War Office has agreed to the raising of a new volunteer battalion for Kitchener's Army. It will be called the 11th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment (Accrington Pals) and 158th (Accrington and Burnley) Brigade, Royal Field Artillery (Howitzers). With the proviso that Harwood must raise an entire battalion of 1,100 men, recruitment will begin on Monday 14 September.

Still in two minds about the war, Mary has spent the day walking around Burnley's weaving sheds, listening to the arguments about Britain's involvement and how it is affecting ordinary people. There are strong views on both sides.

‘What dost think o' these pals battalions, Tommy?'

‘Not much. It's like bein' in t'Boy Scouts, like them Burnley Grammar lads, who look like reet little tossers!'

‘That's what many o' t'lads I've talked to say. But there's many as reckon we should weigh in to keep t'peace in Europe.'

‘What dost tha reckon, our kid? Tha's cleverer than all on 'em.'

‘Can't decide, Tom. Fer folks like us, there's nowt much to feight fer. But it's all we've got. And I know one thing: if what some o' t'lads who've been in t'army say is true, then we can't beat Germans wi'out ordinary lads like thee. If that's reet, then maybe tha should feight.'

Tommy looks perplexed.

‘What dost mean, Mary?'

‘Well, if thee and thousands o' others feight for King and country, then they'll 'ave to gi' thee reet to vote for King and country at end on it!'

Tommy smiles warmly at Mary. Proud of his shrewd wife, he puts his arms around her.

‘They should put thee in charge. You'd 'ave 'em told!'

‘I would, but it'll never 'appen; we've to get t'vote first.'

‘Reckon I should get that Boy Scout kit on, then?'

‘
Mebbe
, Tommy. We'll 'ave to do summat, or we'll starve.'

French resolve, with not a little German indecision, has won the day on the Marne. The French soldiers have been galvanized by the proclamation of General Ferdinand Foch, Commander of the French 9th Army, issued on 9 September: ‘I ask each one of you to draw upon the last spark of energy, which in its moments of supreme trial has never been denied to our race. Everyone must be convinced that success belongs to him who holds out longest. The honour and security of France are in the balance. One more effort and you are sure to win.'

The Germans retreat in the face of renewed French attacks; they lose over sixty miles in just a week and are driven across the Marne and the Aisne rivers. More atrocities occur, adding to the bitterness of the conflict, especially between French and German troops. German units take hostages from villages in exchange for wounded men they have to leave behind. Many of the hostages are mistreated, and some are executed.

The French newspapers are full of gruesome accounts. In Varreddes, a town north of the Marne, the Germans left twenty wounded men in the
hôtel de ville
and took twenty elderly citizens with them as hostages. When two of them, men in their late seventies, could walk no further, they were shot in the head at point-blank range; a third was killed by a blow to the head from the butt of a rifle.

Encouraging reports of columns comprising hundreds of German prisoners being rounded up are passed through the
ranks of the British Expeditionary Force. Many of the accounts talk of German infantry, abandoned by their officers, hiding in attics and cellars in a drunken stupor. Thousands of cavalry horses have been left by the sides of the roads, which are littered with vehicles for which there is no fuel, surrounded by a plethora of stolen booty that has become a hindrance to the retreat.

The respect most of the British soldiers had for their German opponents is replaced by contempt and loathing. Conversely, the doubts they had about the courage of their French allies are replaced by admiration.

Although Harry and Maurice's platoon were not involved, the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers has suffered severe casualties in the last two days. Seeing at first hand the wanton destruction of the German occupation, it had been advancing into the territory vacated by the enemy's rapid retreat, when an opportunity to engage again suddenly occurred.

After crossing the Marne unopposed on Wednesday the 9th, reports came in from a marauding troop of 6th Dragoon Guards. They came galloping down the road to report that the Germans ahead had not yet broken camp and were enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

The fusiliers attacked immediately, but walked straight into a hail of machine-gun fire. Thirty men were lost within minutes, cut to pieces before they could take cover. It was an ambush of sorts. Although the Germans were, indeed, taking a relaxed breakfast, they had taken care to cover their position with well-hidden machine-gun posts. Lieutenants Tower, Beazley, Jackson and Longman were wounded, the latter two severely. Despite the losses, the fusiliers pressed on and soon overran the German camp, taking over 700 prisoners, all of whom they had confronted in combat before. There was great satisfaction in the British ranks, knowing that opponents who had forced them out of Mons would not take any further part in the war.

Harry
and Maurice's C Company have enjoyed two quiet days, on the 10th and the 11th, during which time they have heard almost no gunfire. Now, on the morning of Saturday the 12th, they reach the Aisne river, which they have to cross by means of wooden planks lashed together by army sappers. These are either hasty French or German constructions; whichever they are, it is a precarious crossing.

By the time they have crossed, it is pitch dark and rain is falling heavily. C Company takes up position in and around Maison Rouge Farm. Reports suggest that the enemy is only a few hundred yards away, so there is no opportunity to make camp or take cover. The men face a miserable night in the open, with the dark skies cascading their contents down upon them; it is the middle of September and the chill of autumn is an ominous reminder that winter beckons.

Harry and Maurice have got their men into a series of outbuildings at Maison Rouge and most have some cover, but the two friends have chosen an exposed position by the farm entrance so that they can see the track leading to the farm. They protect themselves with their standard-issue groundsheets, one underneath them and one above.

‘It's gonna be a long night, Mo.'

‘And a wet one. At least we 'ad a good night wiv those little ladies in Jew-ar-ray, or whatever it was called.'

‘Yeah, but I 'ope we don't get a dose off 'em. I don't reckon they was innocent virgins!'

Maurice adjusts his cap, which is poking out from the top of their impromptu shelter. As he does so, the rain that has accumulated on its felt surface runs down his neck and face.

‘I think nights like that are gonna become few an' far between, ol' friend. Let's take it in turns to snooze; two hours on, two off?'

‘All right, mate. You go first. D'yer reckon Fritz is sleepin'?'

‘I 'ope so, 'Arry. I don't fancy a set-to in this fuckin' rain.'

The
morning of Sunday 13 September breaks with an autumnal chill in the ground, but the rain has stopped and the sky above begins to clear. However, a thick ground mist has descended over Picardy. France's long hot summer is over. The scene now more closely resembles the dank weather of Britain than the balmy climes of continental Europe. The hot sweats of conflict in the long August days are about to be exchanged for the cold sweats of battle in the cloying mud of autumn, only to be followed by the unyielding rime of winter.

Harry raises his hand to alert his friend, and whispers.

‘Mo, can you hear that?'

‘I can; it's fuckin' German voices. They can't be more than two hundred yards away.'

Harry calls over to a couple of corporals and, in a hushed voice, tells them to keep the noise down and to pass the word among the men. Then their new captain appears, a fresh-faced lad who looks like he should still be at Sandhurst. He is called James Orred. He is friendly and far less pompous than his predecessor, whom they have not seen since he was concussed by an artillery shell at Mons. He is called ‘Orrid' by everyone, a nickname he has had to live with since his youngest schooldays.

Although he likes to use the expression ‘Orred by name, 'orrid by nature', the men do not fall for it. Orred is a soldiers' officer: firm but fair, brave but not foolhardy, astute but not aloof. His accent suggests he went to one of the better public schools but he is happy to rough it with the lads and spends more time with them than with his fellow officers.

‘Good morning, men, I trust you slept –'

‘Quiet, sir, Fritz is just over there, through them trees.'

‘Sorry, Serjeant.'

Maurice tugs at the officer's arm to pull him down behind the farm gate of Maison Rouge. Orred gets out his field glasses and trains them on the trees.

‘Good
heavens, the woods are swarming with the buggers. It looks as if they've gathered themselves and are going to mount a counter-attack. Serjeant Tait, get the men to choose good positions and stand to. Send Corporal Smith to Major Ashburner and tell him that half the German Army is about to come down this farm track!'

‘Sir!'

‘Serjeant Woodruff, we need as much ammunition as we have with us to be brought forward right away.'

When Maurice and Harry return, orders carried out, Orred looks at his watch.

‘Sunrise was at five twenty yesterday, so a couple of minutes later today. It's now five twenty-five. Brace yourselves; I think the attack will either commence in five minutes' time, or at six sharp. Fritz is very precise with his timings.'

Maurice nods subtly at Harry; they are impressed. Orred seems calm and collected. Given his tender years, he cannot have been under fire before, but he is acting like a seasoned veteran. CSM Billy Carstairs appears.

‘Where do you see them, sir?'

‘Serjeants Tait and Woodruff spotted them first – or rather, heard them. They're in those woods over there, Mr Carstairs. I estimate at least a couple of companies.'

‘Very good, sir. I'm sure the major will send another platoon forward as soon as he hears.'

‘I hope so; we'll hold this ground for as long as we can.'

When Orred puts his field glasses back to his eyes to check on the Germans, Billy smiles at Maurice and Harry. It is a warm smile, signalling that he too is impressed by the young officer.

‘Hold your ground, lads. And look out for the captain's back.'

The German attack does not come at five thirty, but on the stroke of six. All hell breaks loose with an earth-shattering
artillery barrage. Thankfully for C Company, the Germans have assumed that the British are positioned next to or near the Canal Latéral, parallel to the River Aisne. However, C Company is several hundred yards ahead of that, so the artillery barrage passes harmlessly overhead. The 1st Battalion Lincolnshires, the fusiliers' relief battalion, are not so lucky; the open ground between the canal and the river is exactly where they made camp last night and precisely where the shells are landing.

Up at Maison Rouge, the fusiliers are looking anxiously at the trees two hundred yards in front of them. They know that as soon as the artillery barrage stops, which could be a ten- or fifteen-minute burst, German infantry battalions will come streaming through the trees en masse.

At six twenty precisely the attack begins. A huge wave of shadowy grey figures emerges from the trees. They run, semi-crouched in open formation, their officers urging them forward with their swords held high. Captain Orred looks round to check that his platoon is in place and that his two lieutenants are prominent in encouraging their men. Finally, he looks at his machine-gunners, to ensure that each gun is primed and its gunner has a bead on the rapidly encroaching Germans.

‘On my order. Take steady aim … wait for it …'

He waits for what seems like an eternity. Fingers twitch impatiently on triggers.

‘
Fire!
'

An intense volley of lethal fire is released. There is a moment's silence as the fusiliers reload; German bodies fall to the ground, some with obscenely distorted movements. Even at this distance, blood can be seen cascading through the air when a bullet strikes a head or neck. Some victims are propelled backwards by the impact, especially if they are hit more than once in the torso.

By the time the enemy has closed to within one hundred
yards, its front two or three ranks have been devastated. But there are hundreds more men behind them. Harry and Maurice look at one another. The arithmetic is easily done; there are far too many Germans bearing down on the fusiliers for them to be able to hold their ground for long. They can see Captain Orred looking around, hoping to see reinforcements moving their way.

Then a German machine gun begins to open up from a small copse of trees to their left. What has so far been a one-sided fairground shooting challenge is suddenly a more even contest. Fusiliers are now being hit, including Lieutenant Hobbs, who is hit in the chest and is dead within minutes. Next to him, Jimmy and Nobby Parsons, brothers just nine months apart, two chirpy little fellows from Pimlico, are both cut down in the same burst of machine-gun fire. The agonizing cries of stricken men rise above the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire. Stretcher-bearers scurry backwards and forwards, leaving a gory trail of blood and human remains along their route.

‘Fuck me, 'Arry, this is not lookin' too good. We need to leg it.'

‘You're not kiddin'! Where's old Ashburner when we need 'im?'

‘He needs to get a move on, or we'll be fucked!'

As the fighting continues, Harry becomes more and more incensed. He has killed men before and been close to his own demise more than once, but the intensity of this war disturbs him.

‘This ain't like other wars, Mo. So many fuckers tryin' to kill one another, an' so much firepower.'

‘Let's 'ope it won't last long; mebbe a few months.'

‘I pray to God it don't drag on, or we won't be drawin' that pension!'

The Germans are within fifty yards when Billy Carstairs and Major Ashburner lead two more platoons of fusiliers
and an extra machine-gun team into the farmyard and round its buildings. The new men make a dramatic difference. Their added firepower forces the Germans to take cover, and an impasse develops that extends well into the afternoon.

The fusiliers are almost surrounded, but the track to the main road behind them, under the cover of defensive positions, is still in their control and they have the advantage of the protection of the farm buildings. On the other hand, they are significantly outnumbered, and Major Ashburner has been extremely brave – or perhaps reckless – in bringing more men into the middle of what might be a total encirclement.

Ashburner comes over to Orred and asks him about his situation.

‘John Hobbs has gone, sir. We've lost at least two dozen men, but we've held our ground, thanks to your arrival.'

‘Well done, Jim. We now need to think how we get back to the safety of the battalion.'

‘Right, sir. By the way, I thought Fritz was supposed to be retreating.'

‘Indeed! Perhaps a fizzer has come down from German High Command, demanding a death and glory charge.'

Ashburner then turns to Billy Carstairs, Maurice and Harry. He has new orders for them.

‘Mr Carstairs, you and CSMs Woodruff and Tait have seen it all before. I want you three to gather together a covering squad for Captain Orred. They must all be top boys, good with a bayonet. I'm going to lead us out of here. I'll deploy the machine guns to give you covering fire as we go, but you will be the rearguard. It will not be easy; the floodgates will open when they realize we're pulling back. Any questions?'