The Shadow of War (31 page)

The constant series of attempts by the German and Allied armies to outflank one another all along the French-Belgian border goes on relentlessly. The loss of life increases alarmingly by the day.

The war, initiated by rulers whose motives are akin to the vainglories of medieval kings and princes, is, despite the impressive resolve of its generals and soldiers, impossible to win, at least in the short term. All the while, the new technologies of transportation and weaponry are enabling millions of young men to be sent to the battlefield, where they are being killed on a horrifying scale by increasingly lethal modern armaments.

The British Expeditionary Force, the greater part of Britain's small but outstanding army, is being destroyed. Of the BEF's original strength of eighty-four infantry battalions just two months ago, each of which comprised about 970 men, only nine have between 350 and 450 survivors. Thirty-one are down to between 200 and 300, and eighteen have fewer than 100 fit men ready for action. The most severely depleted of all, the 1st Loyal North Lancashire, is a battalion in name only as it now consists of one officer and thirty-five men.

Besides the obvious bullet wounds, shrapnel injuries and the mutilations caused by artillery shells, a new malady is beginning to emerge. There are more and more reports of less tangible symptoms after combat, including tinnitus, amnesia, headache, dizziness, tremors and hypersensitivity to noise. What puzzles the medical staff is that men often
present with these ailments even when they have not been in close proximity to an explosion. There are also increasing numbers of men who appear ‘lost' or ‘disorientated'. Fellow soldiers coin a new term for their condition: ‘the thousand-yard stare'. The medics begin to use the term ‘
shell shock
'.

Many suffer from ‘nervous disorders' that some call ‘fear of battle' and others call ‘cowardice in the face of the enemy'. For the men of High Command, ‘shell shock' and ‘nerves' pose a major dilemma, one that they choose to ignore. After all, what is the difference between conditions caused by the psychological stress of battle and the ‘cowardice' exhibited by men who do not have the stomach for the fight? Few senior commanders allow themselves to show much sympathy for men who are described as ‘shell-shocked' or suffering from ‘nerves', even though there is much evidence that the phenomenon extends to the very top of the military hierarchy.

As in France and Germany, the personal tragedies of the death toll reach into every corner of Britain, including the homes of the ruling class, whose sons in the officer corps are dying in staggering numbers. Prince Maurice of Battenberg, the nephew of Winston Churchill's First Sea Lord, Louis of Battenberg, and a grandson of Queen Victoria, dies at Ypres serving with the King's Royal Rifle Corps. Winston's cousin, 2nd Lieutenant Norman Leslie, the son of Lady Randolph's sister Leonie and her husband, Sir John Leslie, is killed with the Rifle Brigade at Armentières.

It is also a bleak time for the Stewart-Murrays of Blair Atholl. There is still no word from or sighting of Geordie. It is now six weeks since he was last seen in action with the Black Watch near Vailly.

Eton College, perhaps the one school that most typifies the noblesse oblige of the British aristocracy, and the Stewart-Murrays' Alma Mater, will send 5,629 Old Etonians to fight in the Great War. Of these, 1,157 will be killed,
another 1,460 will be injured and 130 will be taken prisoner. Those who are born to lead must expect to bleed.

The telegrams begin to arrive at remote farms, village cottages, detached and semi-detached suburban homes and terraced houses all over the country. For the time being they are delivered to the families of professional soldiers and army reservists, but that will soon change, as will their volume and frequency.

The Ypres Salient remains the critical fulcrum of the war in the autumn of 1914. For British forces, the fighting is being concentrated into an increasingly confined area along a line between Lille and Béthune in the south, and between Ypres and Armentières to the east.

But the whole of the front line extends much further. North of Sir John French's BEF at Ypres, between his soldiers and the coast, the Allied line is held by French and Belgian troops who are resolutely defending their position west of the Yser River under the direct command of Albert, King of the Belgians. To the south of Béthune, the defensive bulwark is held by General d'Urbal's 8th French Army, which continues to fight with great tenacity. Facing the Allies are two entire German Army Groups: the 4th, under General Duke Albrecht of Württemberg, and the 6th, under Crown Prince Rupprecht of Bavaria. In total, Allied forces number just over 350,000, while the two German armies can muster well over 500,000.

French colonial troops from Morocco have already acquitted themselves well in the fighting. Newly arrived British Empire troops from the Meerut and Lahore Divisions of the Indian Army will soon perform with equal distinction, despite having only meagre supplies, few munitions and no winter clothing.

Significantly, the events in and around Ypres in the autumn of 1914 are to offer a salutary lesson: in the battles of the Great War, it is far easier to defend a position than to attack
one. Both the Allies and the Germans are running short of food, clothing, medical supplies and materiel. Shells and bullets are being rationed and transportation is becoming a major headache. The railway systems are in chaos and the roads are blocked by shell holes, broken-down vehicles and endless streams of civilians seeking refuge from the fighting.

Bicycles become a godsend for messengers and reconnaissance; dogs are used as pack animals for machine guns and small mortars. Horses are put to use in the more mundane role of beasts of burden, rather than as cavalry chargers, and aerial scouting from the sky becomes vital to strategic planning.

There is many a nostalgic sighting for British men far away from home when huge fleets of buses arrive, still painted in the liveries of the bus companies belonging to the towns and cities of their origins. They include over 300 red and white ‘Old Bill' London buses requisitioned from the London General Omnibus Company. Each BEF brigade is allocated thirty buses, manned by their own volunteer drivers, who are given uniforms and rifles. Stories soon circulate, apocryphal or otherwise, that men are being driven to the battlefield by bus drivers who previously drove them to work in Civvy Street.

Serjeant Harry Woodruff and what remains of the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers arrive at Pont Logy, 1,000 yards due west of Neuve-Chapelle, early in the afternoon of 25 October.

Neuve-Chappelle is a village of little distinction eight miles north-east of Béthune and sixteen miles south-west of Lille. Like so much of the ground over which the opposing armies have fought since the war began, the landscape is monotonously flat, with only the occasional church spire to break up the otherwise tedious horizon. Well-engineered French rural roads criss-cross the terrain in almost endless
straight lines and disappear to a vanishing point, their drainage ditches offering the only cover between huge open fields of crops.

The fusiliers can see the houses of Neuve-Chappelle in the distance. They are occupied by men of Germany's 158th Infantry Regiment (7th Lotharingians) from Paderborn in Westphalia. The Londoners are told that the order to attack is imminent and that they must stand to.

Harry looks round at his platoon. Most are new reservists, recently arrived from hasty preparatory retraining at Albany Barracks. He wishes Maurice was here, but it has only been eight days since his bayonet wound at Herlies. At least Captain Carey is nearby; both he and Major Ashburner have recovered from the flesh wounds they received in the skirmish.

There has been no replacement for Lieutenant Mead, killed at Herlies, and no new company serjeant major to replace Billy Carstairs, killed at Vailly.

An hour passes and there is still no order to attack. The only movement is the appearance of a bicycle at about 3 p.m., hurtling towards them down Rue du Grand Chemin from the direction of Battalion HQ. It carries a fusilier, peddling frantically, as if in possession of an urgent message. But when the rider comes to a halt at the side of the road, it is not a messenger but Platoon Serjeant Maurice Tait.

Harry is open-mouthed.

‘What the fuck are you doin' 'ere?'

‘I've come to keep an eye on you!'

‘Thought you was gonna be banged up in 'ospital.'

‘The nurse I saw was a right
Miss Fitch
, and the Doc said I'd be as right as ninepence in a fortnight, so I fucked off!'

‘How did yer get back?'

‘Hitched a lift wiv some Cherry Bums, 4th Hussars, on their way down 'ere.'

‘Hussars!
“Whose-arse” tonight, you mean! Not gone queer on me, 'ave yer, Mo?'

‘Fuck off, 'Arry! They were good lads; their officer gave me a packet of fags.'

‘He sounds like an
iron hoof
to me. Didn't tell yer to bend over and tie up yer shoelaces, did he?'

Maurice just grins, ignoring Harry's taunting. So Harry changes the subject.

‘'Ave yer seen Ashburner?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He said, “Fusilier Tait, you are a very ill-disciplined soldier and deserve to be sent straight back to the hospital and punished for insubordination.” Then he stood up, smiled at me and said, “But we need men like you here. Very good to have you back. Your platoon is at Pon Loggy” – or something like that – “so see if you can get up there. A little skirmish is in the offing.” '

Harry smirks.

‘Little skirmish! Take a butcher's: a thousand yards of open ground, and Fritz is in every
birch an' broom
in them 'ouses over there. Some tosser at HQ 'as looked at a map and said, “Jolly easy stroll to the German positions, no problem for our lads!” Well, he don't 'ave to fuckin' walk it, do he?'

Maurice realizes that Harry's mood is no calmer than when he left.

Five minutes later, the order passes down the line and hundreds of Cockneys in khaki begin to move across the broad fields of Neuve-Chapelle; to the right are the Northumberlands, to the left the Lincolnshires. They are a comfort to the London boys. They have given stern support whenever it was needed in the past; today they will have to do so again.

The first men begin to fall at about 700 yards. The toll
grows exponentially with every yard thereafter. There is no cover, and no evasive action is available; survival is a lottery, determined by the aim of the German marksmen, or the breaths of wind that make bullets veer away from their intended victims. Who would send men across open ground into repetitive hailstorms of bullets unleashed from lethally accurate modern rifles and machine guns? The answer is tragically simple: generals who have no other strategy, because none has yet been thought of.

The fusiliers, like all the other men on the battlefields on both sides of the Great War, know that the only combination that will unlock the secret code of victory in this diabolical conflict is simple: whoever is prepared to sacrifice the most men, the most resources and has the strongest stomach for the fight. All any man can hope for in the numbers game of the Great War is that his name, in the final reckoning, will be added to the list of survivors rather than the toll of the dead.

Harry and Maurice, in the absence of a replacement for Lieutenant Mead, are de facto commanding officers of their platoon. They have survived over 800 of the 1,000 yards to Neuve-Chapelle when they hear Captain Carey's order: ‘Fix bayonets!'

Instead of running pell-mell towards the German positions, Maurice and Harry order their men to crouch down and take a breath as they fix their bayonets. It is a shrewd decision; fusiliers around them take the brunt of the final frantic volleys of the German defenders, loosed before the hand-to-hand fighting begins. When the hail of bullets recedes, Harry orders the platoon to charge. With the two serjeants leading the assault, they identify a single modest house in Neuve-Chapelle and storm into it.

Their platoon is now only a dozen strong – half the number which, only minutes ago, started the 1,000-yard walk – but there are only a handful of Germans in the house. After five
minutes of primordial killing by bullet and bayonet, all the Lotharingians, the sons of Paderborn's tailors, clerks and artisans, are dead. Four fusiliers are also dead. Blood covers the walls and floor; crumpled bodies have fallen in distorted heaps in the corners of the room or lie sprawled across the meagre peasant furniture. Patches of German field-grey uniforms have turned ruby and circles of British khaki have become brown, darkened by the cherry red of men's blood.

There is a sudden eerie silence, except for the deep breathing of men recovering from the exertion of a fight to the death. Of the twenty-six men who began the attack at Pont Logy with Maurice and Harry, only eight are still standing.

Harry issues a stark command.

‘Make sure all these German bastards are dead. If they're not, slit their fuckin' throats.'

His emotion is in stark contrast to his benign attitude towards his German adversaries only a few days ago in Herlies.

But that is the terrible dichotomy of men's appetites in wartime.

Even for Winston Churchill, a senior aristocrat and member of the British Cabinet, and Harold Asquith, an urbane and wily old Prime Minister, an audience with the King is a daunting experience, especially if it takes place at Windsor Castle. The oldest inhabited royal palace in the world, it is a long drive from London. Its Upper Ward, where the Royal Apartments are located, is approached by passing a collection of buildings that represent 900 years of British history, from the time of William the Conqueror.

Winston spent much of his childhood amidst the splendours of Blenheim Palace but, as the two men walk into the Royal Apartments, even he marvels at the almost endless procession of gilded rooms leading to the White Drawing Room, where the King will see them.

After being shown in, the two men are left alone for a while. The room is full of mahogany trays piled on several tables, on desks and even on the floor. Each tray is full of stamps from every part of the Empire and every nation on earth. Shooting, at which he is an excellent marksman, naval history, about which he has a profound knowledge, and philately, on which he spends a fortune, are the King's greatest and only passions.

Exactly on the stroke of 11 a.m., George Edward Ernest Albert – His Majesty George V, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith,
Emperor of India – walks in, accompanied by Colonel Arthur Bigge, Lord Stamfordham, his private secretary and most trusted courtier. Stamfordham has devoted his life to the Royal Family and was previously private secretary to the King's grandmother, Queen Victoria.

Although the King is kindly, unassuming and somewhat open-minded compared to many in the higher echelons of the nobility, Stamfordham is highly conservative and distrusts Asquith's liberality. As for Winston, he dislikes him intensely and is probably jealous of his flair and ability – and perhaps, more particularly, of his nobler origins. Arthur Bigge is from a wealthy Northumberland family that has fallen on hard times; he is the son of the humble vicar of Stamfordham, a small village ten miles east of Hexham. As a career soldier, he rose to the rank of colonel in the Royal Artillery before being appointed to the Royal Household in 1895. His peerage as Baron Stamfordham was granted as recently as 1911.

Both visitors bow and say in unison, ‘Good morning, Majesty.'

‘Prime Minister, Mr Churchill, please sit. Some tea?'

A footman appears, as if from nowhere, pours the tea and then makes an unobtrusive exit.

Stamfordham sits to one side. He will scrutinize every word, gesture and nuance and will later commit all his recollections to paper for the King's records. Much of the private bile and public vitriol that has been recently directed at Winston has been filtered to the King through Stamfordham. Those with an axe to grind know that he is the route to the King's ear. Those in the navy – of which King George is very fond, having served in it for many years – who dislike Winston's meticulous approach to even the smallest detail of naval affairs, use Stamfordham as a conduit to the King.

The King Emperor begins the formal meeting.

‘Prime Minister, before we begin the business of the day, I have a slightly parochial matter to raise with Mr Churchill.'

The King looks stern. The rays of the sun suddenly burst into the room, making his thick brown beard and waxed moustache glow. His worsted morning coat and waistcoat look immaculate, as if they have never been worn before; his grey silk cravat, the gold
Albert chain
of his pocket watch and his
bulldog-toed shoes
, the latest fashion in men's footwear, gleam in the bright light. He is an impressive, fatherly figure, much loved by his people, as is ‘May' – his imposing wife, Queen Mary.

Winston knows that the King does not hold him in high regard – their personalities being almost polar opposites – and that he disapproves of his mother, Lady Randolph, especially in view of the rumour that she was one of his father's many mistresses.

‘It is by way of a small request. Iain Stewart-Murray, Duke of Atholl, is a good friend of both of us, I believe.'

‘Indeed, sir, but I know his son Bardie far better.'

‘Good, because my request is about Bardie. Atholl was at Balmoral shooting the other day. He's in very low spirits, poor old boy. All three sons are in the army. One's been wounded and is at home recovering, and he fears he's lost his middle boy, who's not been heard of for several weeks. They hope he may be a prisoner; but it's not looking likely, as the Germans usually make a fuss if they capture a titled soldier.'

The King leans forward and takes a cigarette from the case in front of him. He offers the case to the others, who all refuse. The same footman makes another fleeting appearance to light the King's cigarette and retreats once more.

‘Anyway, I gather Bardie and his fellow investors, Bendor Grosvenor, that Rothschild chap and others, have developed a flying apparatus.'

‘They have, sir, with a Mr William Dunne, a very accomplished aeronautical engineer.'

‘Is that what they call them? Well, Atholl thinks he's as
mad as a hatter. So, what about his contraptions? Are they any use to us?'

‘I'm afraid not, sir, both the Naval Air Service and the Flying Corps have tried them. They are not sturdy enough for the battlefield.'

‘I see. Will you then put him out of his misery?'

‘I will, of course, Your Majesty. I have spoken to Lord Kitchener, who is very fond of Bardie and his Scottish Horse. He has asked him to come down to the War Office to talk about the future deployment of his regiment, and I will use that opportunity to give him the bad news face to face.'

‘Very good, Mr Churchill; I'm delighted that you plan to tell him in person. Thank you for your consideration, and forgive me for indulging in what might seem like a bit of nepotism on my part. But I don't want Iain worrying about a flying contraption when he has three sons in the midst of war.'

‘The duke is fortunate in having so thoughtful a friend in Your Majesty.'

The King smiles for the first time.

‘Now, to the matter in hand. Prime Minister?'

Asquith draws a noticeable breath.

‘Indeed, sir, the Admiralty; Mr Churchill would like to make some changes and has some recommendations with which, I have to say, I concur.'

‘Very well. Mr Churchill?'

‘Sir, I feel I need to move Lord Louis on as First Sea Lord. The constant pressure from the press and others, some within the navy itself, regarding his German roots is undermining his ability to think clearly and act decisively. He is wonderfully loyal and a talented naval man, specifically recommended by Jacky Fisher when he retired, but the idle chatter in the military clubs in St James's is vile, especially the poison that has been spat out by Admiral Lord Charles Beresford.'

‘The man's a fool! Surely you can tell him to keep his opinions to himself?'

‘He is, sir, and rest assured I have told him to hold his tongue. But the damage is done.'

The King's unsympathetic demeanour returns.

‘And with whom will you replace Prince Louis?'

‘Jacky Fisher, sir …' Unusually, Winston pauses to gather himself. ‘And I would also like to bring back Arthur Wilson.'

‘Good heavens, they are both in their seventies!'

John Arbuthnot, Admiral of the Fleet, the Lord Fisher, is widely credited as the architect of the modern Royal Navy. A rabid reformer and mastermind of the dreadnought battleship, he is hugely respected. But he has been retired for over three years and his irascible personality does not endear him to everybody, especially not the King, who once had to ask him to stop waving his clenched fist at him during an otherwise amiable discussion.

Sir Arthur ‘Tug' Wilson, equally abrasive, is a man in Fisher's mould and very much the kind of energetic character Winston needs. The holder of a VC from the Mahdist War of 1884, he is an uncompromising, hard-nosed veteran. But he is also retired, and the King thinks him ‘uncouth'.

The King gets up from his chair and wanders over to the window. As if on cue, Lord Stamfordham speaks for the first time.

‘Mr Churchill, how is your brother, Jack? I believe he is with the Oxfordshire Yeomanry in Dunkirk, part of what I believe the press is calling, and I quote, “Churchill's Dunkirk Circus, a gimmick of comically armoured Rolls-Royce cars and an excuse for a bit of sport for the Lord of the Admiralty's little brother.” '

Winston is livid that Stamfordham should repeat, word for word, a line from the
Morning Post
, but he knows he must avoid the man's deliberate attempt to provoke him.

‘Stamfordham, how kind of you to inquire about Jack. He is doing very well, as is the Yeomanry, who are helping King Albert keep the Germans on the far side of the Yser River. Indeed, Jack saw the King only the other day, who made a point of expressing his gratitude to us for all our support in Antwerp and along the coast.'

Mention of the King of the Belgians makes King George turn his head back to the conversation momentarily. Asquith is not sure if it is true that Jack saw the Belgian King. Nevertheless, it is a shrewd riposte by Winston. However, Stamfordham is not finished. As the King then pretends to be distracted by one of his trays of stamps, his private secretary continues to taunt Winston.

‘His Majesty understands that Lord Kitchener is very agitated about the threat of an invasion and has questioned whether the navy is fully prepared for such an eventuality.'

Winston's neck reddens visibly, and he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. But before he can answer, Asquith responds firmly.

‘Lord Kitchener has twice raised this subject in Cabinet. His views have been well aired and discussed, and Mr Churchill gave a very eloquent outline of the navy's strategy in the event of an attack. I am happy that our fleet is well prepared for any eventuality with respect to the German Grand Fleet, and that there is no imminent danger of an invasion.'

Now that the Prime Minister has taken the sting out of Stamfordham's scorn, Winston feels uninhibited in his response.

‘Howell Gwynne of the
Morning Post
, whose views are, let me say, not admired for their broad-mindedness, and a few of the less intelligent Tory press – which is, by definition, most of them – have their hooks into me, but I'm used to that. If they were not so inclined, I would have to conclude that my actions were somewhat misguided.'

Winston knows that Stamfordham is a Tory sympathizer
who, like most of the Conservative Party, has never forgiven him for crossing the floor of the House to join the Liberals ten years previously.

It is now the King's private secretary who is discomfited, but he knows that propriety demands that he must not rise to Winston's adroit rebuff. Now that Stamfordham's baiting of Winston is over, the King returns to his chair.

‘Mr Churchill, tell us about the
Audacious
. I believe she has gone down, but that the sinking will be kept secret. Is that wise?'

‘That is a good question, sir. She finally went to the bottom last evening, a victim of a mine off the Irish coast. She is a major loss, but everyone on board was taken off. Militarily, we should deny the Germans any good news and do all we can to avoid damaging the status of our fleet. On the other hand, it is always difficult to deny the public information they should rightly have; indeed, Lloyd George is of that view. However, the Lords Jellicoe and Kitchener are adamant that the news should be suppressed.'

‘I am not surprised by the incorrigible Mr Lloyd George's opinion. What is your view, Prime Minister?'

‘I agree with my generals and admirals, sir.'

‘Always wise, Prime Minister.'

The King smiles again and, in a gesture of friendship, addresses Winston by his first name.

‘Tell me, Winston, what of your future? The Prime Minister informs me you are anxious for a military command.'

Winston beams.

‘Your Majesty, nothing would enliven me more. May I be frank, sir?'

‘Of course.'

‘The stark truth is that while we have the German Grand Fleet confined to their ports and our imperious fleet remains on station, impregnable and magnificent, the Admiralty is an
increasing tedium for me – especially when I hear, day after day, of the awful situation around Ypres.'

‘What role would you want?'

‘Well, sir, my French is passable; they have a regard for me, as I have for them. And Sir John French is well disposed towards me. I could envision a role on his staff, perhaps with a command to the south, next to the bulk of the French Army.'

‘As a general, of course.'

‘Of course, Your Majesty.'

The King looks amused; Asquith smiles benignly.

‘Your Majesty, there is no limit to the ambition and resolve of the First Lord of the Admiralty. He is a warrior, as in times past. However, I need him in London, where there is a paucity of men of his breed.'

‘Quite so! I agree, Prime Minister. Winston, if ever, God forbid, my cousin's Prussian Grenadiers come marching up the Long Walk to Windsor, I would feel very much safer if you were to take charge of the castle's defences.'

‘Your Majesty, you honour me greatly with your kind remarks. Worry not, if your security is ever threatened, I will be at your side, my life at your disposal.'

The two men smile at one another warmly before Asquith brings the discussion back to the question of Fisher and Wilson at the Admiralty.

‘Sir, will you approve the appointments Mr Churchill requests?'

‘Prime Minister, the two of them are argumentative with everyone and behave like cantankerous bullies to many. They are retired men in their seventies; the whole experience could kill them!'