by David Hough
The road was busy with fleeing refugees and troops. Wendel cursed openly as he forced a way through in the Bugatti. Long before they reached Ostend, it became clear that the town was overwhelmed with military activity. It looked worse when they entered the suburbs. French, British and Belgian troops mingled unchecked with the civil populace. Men in every type of uniform from Highlander’s kilt to Frenchman’s red pantaloons packed the narrow streets.
Wendel drove slowly on into the town, using the horn repeatedly to force a passage through the crowds. Motor vehicles, crammed with soldiers chugged along the digue, the sea wall. British warships sat ominously a mile or two off-shore. Silent and unchallenged.
“That’s the Kursaal.” Marie pointed to Ostend’s gambling casino. “It’s been turned into a hospital. I heard that they’ve got operating tables where there were once roulette tables. It’s not a place you’d want to see now.”
“Nevertheless, I get the feeling there are enough troops here to hold back the Hun,” Wendel replied. “Do you think they’ll make a stand?”
Marie shrugged. “Who knows? There are no natural defensive positions along this part of the coast. Nothing that could be used to hold the Boche at bay. To fight here would result in bloody street battles.”
They pushed their way further towards the town centre, edging through the mass of the armies which had evacuated Antwerp, and were now pursued by the very same enemy from which they had fled. The uneven tramp of tired infantry was all round them. At times they had to stop and move aside to allow artillery columns to shuffle noisily past.
Marie pointed towards the canal. “When I was last here, there were British columns camped over there. Madame Beaumier told me how they just stole away one night. Maybe there are no plans to fight a rear-guard action here. Maybe Ostend will be left to its fate.”
“Abandoned to the Germans?”
“Maybe.”
“But there are still British, French and Belgian troops here.”
“Do you really have any faith in them holding their position? I don’t. I think the rest of these troops will pull out soon.”
Wendel eased the car to the side of the road and killed the engine. “Wait here a moment, Marie.” He ran across the road to where a senior French officer was attempting to bring some order to the surrounding chaos.
He spoke to the Frenchman for barely a minute before pushing his way back to the car.
“It looks like the end is near for Ostend.” He shook his head as he climbed back into the driving seat. “The government is capitulating.”
“Capitulating? You mean they’ve given up? That means the Boche will be allowed to sweep across Belgium with virtually no opposition…” Marie got no further before she was interrupted by the clatter of hoofs.
Wendel turned to see a Belgian cavalryman galloping along the digue shouting, “The Boche are here! The Boche are here!”
The horseman charged on down the shore, beating his mount with his rifle barrel and shouting his warning. Civilians and soldiers stared at him as he passed. Some began to panic.
“Time to go, Marie,” he said with as much calmness as he could muster.
He drove back to the city square in time to see six mounted German uhlans come to a halt in front of the Hôtel de Ville. The enemy had now taken possession of Ostend. From here on things were going to get yet more difficult for a British officer in Belgian civilian clothes.
He leaned close to Marie and hissed in her ear. “Let’s get out of here before they close the roads south.”
“And then?”
“We’ll have to get to Gheluvelt through Ypres. C’s fall-back plan.”
“We may have to cross the enemy front line.”
“Can’t think of another way. Can you?”
“No. God help us all,” Marie replied.
PART TWO
The First Battle of Ypres
14–31 October 1914
Chapter Seventeen
DeBoise was impressed. If he avoided looking directly at the cobbled square, the architectural beauty of the surrounding buildings was impressive. A sliver of afternoon sunshine briefly peeped through grey, fast-moving clouds. Then the illumination of the buildings turned them into something tranquil and beautiful. They could, he thought, so easily look just as they had before this damned war began.
It was, however, impossible for him to avoid focussing his gaze lower down, where so many British troops poured into the centre of Ypres. He wondered how long they would have to wait before the Hun army came back and attempted to recapture a place they had so recently evacuated? How long before their siege guns began pounding at the city’s structure.
In the meantime, he felt smugly satisfied with the accommodation he had arranged. French troops of the 87th Territorial Division were billeted in Ypres before the British arrived, but they had missed this particular opportunity. That mistake was their loss, DeBoise told himself.
Monsieur Goossens also appeared pleased as he escorted Wendel’s team into his house. A short, rotund man with a round, florid face, he was the owner of a bakery next door. His red jacket and baggy pantaloons had an air of faded gaiety about them, a last link to a bygone age. In contrast, his wife was tall, angular and sour-faced. Dressed all in black, she stood in the background, clasping her hands together at her waist while eyeing them suspiciously.
“Why is he so welcoming?” Wendel asked as the Belgian baker led them towards a steep stairway. “You’d think he’d resent having us here.”
DeBoise leaned towards the Captain and lowered his voice. “I told him he could billet the four of us, or I could arrange for him to take half a dozen men from the King’s Own Highland Dragoons.”
Wendel eyed him curiously. “Would you wish that upon him?”
“It was an idle threat.”
“Looks like he believed you. The KOHD made life hell for you, didn’t they?”
“I’ll tell you about it some time.”
A brief smile flitted across Wendel’s face. “They’re damned good fighters, Lieutenant, the best. But you wouldn’t want one near your drinks cupboard. What’s Madame Goossens looking so miserable about?”
“She doesn’t understand my threat. By the look of her, she could frighten me almost as much as the KOHD once did.” DeBoise whispered his remark as they followed the Belgian baker up the stairway.
Marie and Donohoe trailed silently at the rear. The young Irishman had said little since they told him about Danielle’s execution. DeBoise vowed to keep an eye on him.
He climbed the stairs with darker thoughts creeping back into his mind, memories of a previous killing. He hastily put them aside.
The odd thing about Ypres, he reflected, was the way the Germans had occupied the city completely a week ago and then moved on. Eight thousand cavalrymen and foot soldiers had arrived unopposed. There had been no fighting, no shooting, they simply walked in, took over and acted as if they were on German territory. On German military orders, the local bakers, including Monsieur Goossens, produced thousands of loaves of bread which were paid for in German currency. To balance their books, the army then emptied the city’s coffers and, suitably replenished, left the following day. The brief occupation had been so unlike the destruction of Leuven.
Monsieur Goossens smiled as he gestured DeBoise and Wendel into a large attic room with two double beds that appeared clean and comfortable. A single window looked out onto the town square.
DeBoise crossed the room and peered out with interest. The view of the magnificent architecture was even better up here. The first building to capture his attention was the thirteenth century Cloth Hall, directly opposite the Goossens house. At the eastern end of the square, the ornate Hôpital Notre-Dame belied its purpose as a mental hospital. DeBoise felt a surge of sadness as he swept his gaze around the square, admiring each building in turn. Would all this suffer the way other Belgian cities had suffered? Would all this eventually be destroyed?
Down below, long lines of Br
itish troops continued to pour into the confined space. The men of General Rawlins’ IV Corps looked tired after a two-day march from Ghent along cobbled roads. Marching had given way to weary shuffling. But not all of the soldiers gathering in Ypres seemed weary.
DeBoise spotted the King’s Own Highland Dragoons assembled outside the Cloth Hall. A shiver ran through him as he again recalled the mental torture they had inflicted on him in Scotland, and yet he was forced to admit to himself that they made an impressive sight. They had recently arrived in motorised transport from Dunkerque and looked supremely ready for battle. Their pristine kilts fluttered as they moved, and the polished metal on their bolt-action Lee Enfield rifles glinted in the weak winter daylight.
He shivered again when he spotted the short, sturdy figure of Regimental Sergeant Major MacRapper berating one of the soldiers. Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, watching his men with a steely glare.
DeBoise felt his whole body tense. If the Lord God would allow him to rid the world of just two men, they would be Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks and Regimental Sergeant Major MacRapper. Kaiser Wilhelm came a poor third.
He gripped the window surround as he recalled his Scottish commanding officer’s assessment of him: Doesn’t seem to have the stomach for fighting. An accurate assessment, he had to admit, but one that damned him in the eyes of his father, Major General Redvers DeBoise. The humiliation had been hard to bear.
“Something wrong?” Wendel asked as he stepped up close to the window.
“See those two men?” DeBoise pointed. “That’s RSM MacRapper and Colonel Cruikshanks of the KOHD. Remember how I told you about them? Between the two of them, they made my life hell when I was based in Edinburgh. Don’t ever get involved with them, sir.”
“They look harmless enough from here.”
“They have some sort of unholy alliance going for them. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t aim to find out.
“I’ll take your word for it. Not that it matters to me. I’ve no reason to tangle with either of them.” Wendel shrugged as he stepped back into the middle of the room.
DeBoise remained at the window and swept his gaze from side to side. The British Army Town Major, responsible for the troops’ billets, strode across the cobbles towards Lieutenant Colonel Cruikshanks. DeBoise wished the Major well in his dealings with the KOHD’s commanding officer.
“The other rooms are very small,” the Belgian baker said in fluent French, interrupting DeBoise’s thoughts. “The lady can have one and your soldier can have the other.”
“Very well.” DeBoise turned away from the window and thanked him. “We shall come downstairs for a meal shortly. You will be paid handsomely to house and feed us as long as we remain here.”
“You are welcome, M’sieur.” The Belgian nodded and turned to leave.
When they were alone, Wendel closed the door and sat down on one of the beds. “Now we must talk business, Lieutenant. We must act quickly.”
“So soon, sir?”
“There’s no time to waste. If I can arrange suitable cover to get me through the lines, I shall leave tomorrow night. That will leave you in charge of things here in Ypres. You’re clear on what you have to do?”
DeBoise sat on the other bed. “I’d be clearer in my mind if we had the chance to speak to C. Couldn’t we try again to make contact? There must be a communications station in the city.”
Wendel shook his head. “Contact him where? He’s been shipped back to a hospital in England, and that’s as much as we know. No, we shall both have to rely upon our own judgement from here on. Once I’ve moved out, you’ll wait here until IV Corps is ordered on towards Menin. I can’t be sure how long that will be. However, if I haven’t returned by the time IV Corps advance, you and Donohoe must do your best to get through to the Gheluvelt Château.”
“Will you try to bring the Countess directly back here?”
“Yes. The Countess and both her grandchildren… if I possibly can. Provided I see a chance to get them out without putting their lives in jeopardy, or mine. Otherwise, I’ll remain at the Château and try to keep them secure until IV Corps have taken the Menin Road as far as Gheluvelt.”
Not an easy task for one man, DeBoise decided. “I could go with you–” he began.
“No.” Wendel raised the flat of his hand as a gesture of refusal. “We’ve been through that already. C was right: it’s essential there’s a back-up plan. If I’m killed, you must try to get to the Château and bring all three of them back here. Understood?”
“Understood, sir.” DeBoise lowered his gaze.
He wondered if he might feel more comfortable out there in the face of the enemy than remaining here in close proximity to the hardened men of the KOHD. Then another thought came to him. “What about…?” He paused.
“Yes?”
“What about Wood Wine? He might be working for us or for the Hun. C could have misjudged him.”
“He might.” Wendel scratched at his chin. “If only we knew his identity for certain. I have a suspicion, but I may be wrong.”
“Who do you suspect?”
Wendel clicked his tongue. “C once told me the Germans are very bad at dreaming up code names. They invariably leave a clue. You speak German fluently, Lieutenant. Work this one out for yourself. Wood Wine, meaning…”
DeBoise jumped as a sudden revelation spring into his mind. “Of course! Birkensaft! Not the Countess, of course. It has to be the twins.”
“Well, one of them.” Wendel nodded.
“But which one?”
“I don’t know, Lieutenant. I really don’t know. Another reason for bringing both of them back here.”
DeBoise stood up and went to the window. He looked out to where the KOHD were still gathered. They were still a problem for him, but at least they were on the same side. If Captain Wendel was right about Wood Wine – if he or she was working for the Huns – the whole mission was that much more dangerous than either of them had first imagined.
Chapter Eighteen
Wendel had just finished a satisfying breakfast cooked by Madame Goossens. He tightened his Sam Browne belt as he stepped out into the cool morning air. The town still looked beautiful, but the sound of distant guns added a darker atmosphere. The prospect of Ypres being enfolded in a destructive battle was getting steadily closer.
Daylight was slowly cresting the ornate buildings, but the town was already alive. The cafés and shops were busy with British and French troops enjoying what might be their last period of relaxation. There seemed to be no general animosity between the different national groups, although some men were already drinking heavily.
Wendel stared at a group of King’s Own Highlanders sitting outside a small café, singing noisily. Were these the same men who had humiliated Lieutenant DeBoise? He turned away from them, glad they were not his problem.
He strode across the square. As the Scots singing faded behind him, he became aware of English voices echoing between the tall buildings. He grinned to himself at these soldiers’ poor efforts with the French language. They had already turned the name of Ypres into Wipers.
It was but a minor matter. Despite their differences, the English, French and Belgian tongues co-existed in expectation of what was to come. It was the uneasy lull before an inevitable storm. Soon, the British soldiers would be marching out of the town to where General Rawlinson had set up his defensive line. The General’s task was to block the route the German Army would have to take to get to the French and Belgian ports. Defending that line was not going to be easy. Many men would die.
General Sir Henry Seymour Rawlinson’s main headquarters was located in the Hôtel de Ville, but lack of space meant he also used part of the Cloth Hall. Wendel had already ascertained that the General was in the Hall this morning, and it was conveniently close to the bakery.
A light drizzle tainted the air as Wendel walked into the magnificent building. His boots echoed on the polishe
d marble floor. It was quieter in here. The thick walls muted the sound of gunfire and the boisterous behaviour in the square. The carillon in the belfry was silent at this hour.
Wendel’s first task was to get past a young Lieutenant seated at a desk in the long foyer. He was hunched over a mountain of paperwork, reading from a hand-written despatch. A thin ribbon of smoke curled up from a cigarette lying in a dirty ash tray. He glanced up at Wendel’s approach, grabbed at the cigarette, and drew on it deeply before speaking.
“Yes, sir?” The tone was one of unmistakable belligerence. His face looked hard and dangerous, but Wendel had seen such faces before. They often masked a weak intellect.
He took a firm tone. “I am Captain Wendel, Tenth Battalion Royal Fusiliers, Intelligence Section. I need to see General Rawlinson. It’s a matter of considerable urgency.”
“Sorry, sir.” There was a naturally shrill note in the Lieutenant’s voice, probably honed to a peak during his time as a public school fag. “Can’t let every officer in Ypres just pop in to see him. Not without a good reason.”
Wendel gritted his teeth. “I told you it’s a matter of urgency.”
The young Lieutenant sniffed with an air of disdain. He looked like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant. “They all do, sir. Usually turns out they don’t like their billet.”
Wendel sucked in a deep breath. He held his temper, but he was determined not to be dissuaded. “Tell the General I’m here on the business of Commander Smith-Cumming. That should reassure him it’s nothing to do with my billet.”
The Lieutenant scratched at his nose. “I’m not so sure about that, sir. But, if you insist, I’ll speak to him. You can take a seat while you wait.” He strolled away and returned five minutes later. He eyed Wendel with a suspicious look. “General Rawlinson says he’ll give you a few moments of his time, sir. But woe betide you if it’s not important.”
