‘I had considered a court martial in your case, but Mr Shorrock pleaded your cause and said that you were provoked in the extreme. That has saved you, Crabtree. But your victim has had eleven stitches to his head and ear and is in a sorry state. Unforgivable, absolutely unforgivable.
‘By the way, the trophy for the cricket has been sent to 3rd Battalion Hull Pals, the Sportsmen, Lieutenant Willoughby’s battalion, with my compliments. Any questions?’
All the men shake their heads.
‘Very well. Captain Slinger, make the arrangements at Catterick. Mr Shorrock, take Crabtree to the Provost Marshal. I want him shackled to a gun wheel for eight hours a day for three of the next four days, and I want it done right outside the camp entrance at the side of the road.’
BSM Shorrock leans forward to whisper to his colonel. ‘But the regulations say no more than two hours a day, sir.’
‘I know what the regulations say, Mr Shorrock. But I want him punished. I hope passers-by throw eggs at him, and I hope his fellow soldiers spit on him!’
Saturday 25 September
Vermelles, Pas-de-Calais, France
Morgan Thomas has returned to his regiment, the Royal Welch Fusiliers. He has been given a hero’s welcome and awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal for escaping from captivity and for defending the honour of the QAIMNS nurses at Vlamertinge. He has gone back to his original unit, 1st Battalion, but is horrified to see that of the 109 reservists he left Wrexham with in October last year, only a handful are still with the battalion.
He is in a forward trench, primed to be part of a huge Anglo–French attack. First Battalion is part of 22nd Brigade, one of the three brigades of General Sir Thompson Capper’s 7th Division. With the Welch is 2nd Queens to its left, and 2nd Warwicks and 1st South Staffs to its right.
Despite great reluctance to launch any more major offensives during 1915, significant Russian setbacks on the Eastern Front, including the fall of Russian Lithuania and the capture of 22,000 prisoners, bring a change of mind. Under pressure from the French, it is decided to support their attack in Champagne to the south with a major attack around the village of Loos. The ground is monotonously flat, except for the pitheads and slagheaps of the local mining industry. Six divisions will be committed: over 70,000 men, the biggest offensive of the year. Although heavy artillery shells and small-round ammunition are in short supply, the planners hope that 150 tons of chlorine gas in over 5,000 cylinders will tip the balance.
Morgan’s trench is 750 yards east of the small village of Vermelles, now all but destroyed and abandoned after a year of war. He is nervous; his first experience of battle, at Zwarteleen in Flanders in November last, could not have been more traumatic. He lost his brother, his commanding officer and all his comrades and was almost killed himself.
He has prepared for what is to come, as most soldiers have. Last night he went into Béthune with half a dozen of his company. They had a few beers in a local café and then queued for an hour to visit the red-light girls. It was two francs well spent. The girl he bought was not much older than eighteen and nothing like as exciting as Cath Kenny, but Cath is back in Pop, and if the full-figured young French girl is to be his last sexual partner in this life, then he could have done a lot worse.
‘Here, Taff, have a swig of this.’
Morgan’s company serjeant major, John Hughes, an Englishman from Chester, offers him his canteen.
‘No, ta, Sarge. I’ve got lots of water, thanks.’
‘It’s not water, it’s rum. Have a good gulp.’
‘How did you get that?’
‘From battalion stores.’
‘How?’
‘The storeman was lying flat on his face, pissed, so I helped myself.’
‘Thanks.’ Morgan takes two big mouthfuls.
Two lance corporals appear, followed by half a dozen storemen.
‘Private Thomas?’
‘Yes, Corp, here.’
‘These are yours. You’re a signaller for the attack.’
Morgan was given a D3 telephone, one reel of wire, one large and one small signalling flag, some signalling blinds and a roll of rabbit-hutch wire.
John Hughes looks bemused. ‘What the fuck is the rabbit-hutch stuff for?’
‘Some bright spark at Division reckons that the netted wire will survive better than single cables, so if we run it between all the companies and back to HQ we can connect it up for the telephones.’
Incredulous, everyone looks at one another. CSM Hughes is apoplectic. ‘You must be fucking joking. He’s not carrying chicken wire, or whatever the fuck it is, along with all the other clobber.’
Morgan adds to the debate. ‘And Corp, I’m not a signaller. I don’t know what to do with it all.’
‘I know, but the platoon’s signaller has gone sick. Captain Thomas went down the list, saw that you’ve been with the battalion for nearly a year and that you’ve won a medal, so he said that you’d do.’
‘But I was a POW for all of that time.’
‘You mean you escaped to come back to this lot!’
Hughes interrupts. ‘Never mind, Taff. You lot fuck off down the line.’
When they have gone out of earshot Hughes turns to Morgan. ‘Lob it into the first shell-hole you come to. Fuck ’em.’
Like all his comrades, besides his Lee-Enfield, Morgan is carrying 200 rounds of ammunition, extra rations, a trenching shovel, four ‘cricket ball’ grenades, and a PH gas helmet under his service cap, both of which are fastened to his head by a piece of string under his chin.
After ten days of glorious weather, it is raining. It is 05:30 hours. Four huge underground explosions are detonated and create large holes in the German defences, but they also alert the enemy that an attack is imminent. Then the British artillery barrage begins, making the ground shake and confirming British intentions.
Morgan turns to CSM Hughes, who has a trench periscope. ‘What’s it looking like, Sarge?’
‘Well, Fritz is getting a pasting, but they’re only 18-pounders, not big enough to do much damage, and the wire is hardly touched.’
‘Not great then?’
‘No, but we’re going to use gas. That’ll put the wind up the buggers!’
‘Hope so.’
‘Aye, as long as the wind is blowin’ in the right direction.’
‘Which way is it moving now?’
‘It’s swirling around a bit, but mainly across no-man’s-land from south-east to north-west.’
‘That’s the wrong way, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘They wouldn’t, would they?’
‘Nah. Not even Haig is that stupid!’
A few moments later the artillery barrage stops, and sappers with chlorine-gas cylinders move into the line and start to open the valves. John Hughes checks the wind direction. ‘What the fuck are you buggers doing?’ he shouts. ‘The wind is against us!’
‘Orders, mate. We’ve been told to release the gas as soon as the artillery stops.’
‘But it’s blowing back into the trenches!’
‘So put your gas helmets on!’
Hughes bellows down the trench. ‘Gas helmets! Get them on, boys.’ He grabs Morgan by the arm. ‘Get rid of that signalling kit and run to Captain Thomas. Tell him what’s happening.’
He turns to the sappers’ serjeant. ‘Turn that fucking gas off. You’re gassing our own men!’
‘Can’t. Orders. Put your helmet on.’
‘Fuck me, I’ll shoot you if you don’t turn it off!’
‘No, you won’t. See that lance corporal behind you? He’ll shoot you first.’
Hughes turns to see a Royal Engineer pointing a Lee-Enfield at him. He looks around. Men are already beginning to cough and splutter. He hears whistles and the sound of men going over the top, followed shortly afterwards by the whizz and zip of rifle and machine-gun fire. The attack has begun. Captain Thomas is nowhere to be seen. The gas is getting worse and filling the trench. His men look
at him questioningly.
He takes command. ‘Right, over we go, boys. Keep your helmets on.’
First Battalion Royal Welch Fusiliers makes its charge. They can hear the pipers of the Scottish regiments in the distance and the battle cries of men in every accent of the British Isles echoing across no-man’s-land. Hughes does not get very far; nor do most of his men. The hail of bullets is too severe and the shrapnel bursts from above wreak terrible damage. Limbs are severed, some men are decapitated, many are blown to pieces and, other than a few remnants of khaki, are unrecognizable, their body parts now no more than fertilizer. The first day of the Battle of Loos is going to be a long and painful one.
Thirty minutes later Morgan Thomas is still looking for Captain Thomas, but he is lost. He knows he is not far from Vermelles because, since dawn broke a few minutes ago, he has been able to see the ruins of the village church. However, no matter which way he turns in the labyrinth of trenches, he is unable to get closer to the village. Eventually, despite the shrapnel shells and the gunfire, he decides to clamber over the top of the parapet and make a dash for the village.
When he reaches open ground several shells burst above his head. He is knocked to the earth, the blast forcing his rifle out of his hands. His pack sticks in the heavy mud beneath him, so he pulls his arms free and leaves it on the ground. He sees a derelict barn 50 yards away with at least half its roof intact – a chance of cover. He makes a dash for it. He has crossed less than half the distance when he runs into a column of the Royal Sussex, a reserve company of men on their way to the battle. At their head is a company serjeant major, closely followed by a captain. The CSM holds his rifle across Morgan’s path, and he shudders to a halt.
‘So, where are you off to, laddie?’
‘I’m looking for Captain Thomas. I’ve got orders from the Front.’
‘You’ve overshot, lad. The Front is more than a quarter of a mile the other way.’
‘I got lost back there, Serjeant.’
‘Where’s your rifle and pack?’
‘Back there. There was a shell burst. The rifle got blown out of my hand and my pack got stuck in the mud.’
‘Where?’
Morgan looks back. In the sea of mud and equipment that covers the ground he cannot recognize where he fell.
The Sussex’s officer intervenes, a tall man no older than twenty-five who sounds as pompous as he looks. ‘Your name and regiment, Fusilier?’
‘Thomas, sir, Morgan, 1st Battalion, Royal Welch Fusiliers.’
‘Well, Thomas. This doesn’t look good. There is a big fight up there. Your battalion is in the middle of it, and you’re here, hundreds of yards away, running in the wrong direction without your kit and rifle.’
‘What do you mean, it doesn’t look good, sir? CSM Hughes told me to go and report to our company CO, Captain Thomas, that the gas is being released with the wind in the wrong direction. It’s our men who’re being gassed.’
‘And?’
‘I got lost, sir.’
‘Well then, I’m sure your CSM will vouch for you. In the meantime, we have to get forward, so I’m going to have to take you into temporary custody. Colour, have two men take this Fusilier back to the Provost Marshal’s office.’
‘But, sir, I just got lost. It was dark.’
‘Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Colour, see to it.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the Sussex men move off, Morgan looks around for an escape route. He is desperate to get his message about the gas to Captain Thomas or to Headquarters.
‘Please, Colour, where is Divisional HQ?’
‘Over there, in those railway buildings. But you’re going with these two corporals for a little walk to the Provost Marshal’s office in Béthune.’
‘No, I’m not; I’m under orders. We’re gassing our own men!’ Morgan sets off at a sprint towards the railway buildings.
‘Fusilier, halt! That’s an order!’
The CSM bellows twice at Morgan to stop, but he carries on running. One of the corporals raises his rifle, but the CSM puts his hand on it.
‘Let him go. We’re not shooting one of our own, even if he is a deserter. He won’t get far: the MPs will track him down. Take a note of his name and number.’
A single shot rings out.
The Sussex’s captain, John James Rhodes, a twenty-eight-year-old solicitor’s son from Chichester, a volunteer seeing his first action at the Front, has raised his Webley service revolver and shot Morgan in the back. The bullet has shattered his spine and he collapses to the ground in a heap.
‘Fuck! Come on, boys.’
CSM Danny Capstick, a previously retired regular who has re-enlisted to serve his old regiment, runs to Morgan with his two corporals. ‘Stretcher-bearers!’
When Capstick reaches Morgan, Captain Rhodes bellows at him. ‘Leave him, Colour! Shot while running away from custody. Let the orderlies deal with him. I need you up here.’
Capstick mutters under his breath, ‘Cunt!’
‘Corporal, stay with the lad until the stretcher-bearers take him in. Join us when you can. Poor fucker. Is he breathing?’
The corporal puts his face to Morgan’s mouth to check. ‘Just, but it doesn’t look good. He’s shot through.’
Then the corporal notices something poking out of Morgan’s pocket. ‘Look, Sarge; sticking out of his top pocket. It’s a ribbon.’
Capstick unbuttons Morgan’s breast pocket and pulls out his medal. ‘Fuck, it’s a DCM. And we’ve shot the poor bugger.’
Captain Rhodes bellows at his colour-serjeant.
‘Mr Capstick, I need you up here. Let’s go.’
The CSM, livid at his CO’s arrogance and ruthlessness, mutters under his breath.
‘Bloody hell, I should put a bullet through him!’
He pushes the medal back into Morgan’s pocket and fastens the button. ‘Make sure the medics take care of him.’
The Battle of Loos continues for many days but, sadly, it is a repeat of so many previous catastrophes. Despite the pre-attack artillery bombardments being ineffective in many areas and much of the gas being blown back into British positions, the initial attacks gain much ground and many German trenches are overrun. But reserve battalions are not sent in support quickly enough to press home the advantage. Once again, communications break down and men from different battalions get mixed together, causing confusion in the chain of command – all of which gives the Germans time to consolidate new defensive positions and bring up reinforcements.
The French attack in Champagne is declared a success. Twenty-five thousand German prisoners are taken and 150 heavy guns captured. British losses, however, are severe. In one sector, after the seventh attempt to capture a copse called Bois Hugo ends in failure, with khaki-clad bodies thick on the ground, so appalled are the German officers in command at the carnage in front of them that they order a ceasefire for the rest of the day so that the British can bury their dead.
Fifty British battalions lose more than 300 men and more than three quarters of their officers from their strength of 650 to 700. First Cameron Highlanders lose 687 men and 19 officers; 9th Black Watch 680 men and 20 officers. Morgan Thomas’s Battalion, 1st Royal Welch Fusiliers, loses 442 men and 16 officers.
The most well-known victim at Loos is Morgan’s divisional commander, Major General Sir Thompson Capper, CO of 7th Division. During an advance on 26 September Capper visits the Front to view the enemy for himself from the captured trenches. Urging his men into a final assault, he stays behind to view the field and is struck by a sniper’s bullet fired from houses along the line of advance which were thought to have been abandoned. The assault fails, and Capper is discovered by his retreating units and taken to Number 6 Casualty Clearing Station, to the rear of the British lines. The bullet has penetrated both lungs, doctors give him no chance of survival and he dies the following day, along with 5,200 of his men, in just three days of fighting.
Part Ten: October
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br /> * * *
‘SO BE MERRY, SO BE DEAD’
Saturday 9 October
Marble Lodge, Blair Atholl Estate, Perthshire
‘Good morning, Lady Helen. What a surprise.’
‘Good morning, Maud. It’s Helen, remember.’
‘Sorry. Come on in, there’s the chill of winter blowing down the glen today.’
Helen Stewart-Murray has ridden up Glen Tilt to see her father, who has not made an appearance at Blair Castle for months. Inglis, his factor, goes to see him at Marble Lodge to discuss finance; otherwise, Helen runs the house and the estate in his absence.
‘How is he, Maud?’
‘Oh, fine. A bit grumpy last night, but he’s fine this morning. He had a good breakfast and is now reading the paper. That poor McFarlane boy cycles all the way up here every morning with the post and the newspapers.’
‘I know; he’s a sweet boy. Tragic about his father.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Missing: they got a telegram last week.’
‘Oh no. The poor little mite. He hasn’t said anything.’
‘He wouldn’t. They’re a stoical lot, the McFarlanes. He’s got two younger brothers and an older sister.’
‘How are they coping?’
‘Very well under the circumstances. Jenny is doing some jobs for me, so they have a few shillings in the pot.’
Helen goes into the kitchen, where the duke has his head in The Times. ‘Good morning, Papa.’
‘Good morning, Helen. Another bloody shambles in France. A place called Loos; terrible losses. French is going to have to go. The man’s incompetent; should have gone in the spring.’
The Darkness and the Thunder Page 33
