Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “There’s a gas curtain sir. We’re safe.”

  Ramsay ignored the protest and yanked the strap tight. He pushed his face against that of the private and glared though the eyepiece. “Keep it on!” He yelled, knowing that the words would not be heard.

  Even as he pushed the private away, Ramsay knew he had been correct. He could distinguish the different calibres of shells as they pounded the British positions and knew that this was far more intense than the usual morning hate, or a box barrage for the trench raid. He cringed at the horrible, heavy sound, like an express train, made by the large shells as they rushed overhead to pummel the rear. He recognised them all by sound or sight. There were the Jack Johnsons that exploded with a pall of greasy black smoke, the hated ‘oilcans’, the woolly bears and the fast and deadly whizz-bangs.

  Ramsay tried to counter his fear by identifying each explosion as the German artillery lashed the positions of the Royal Scots, from the barbed wire entanglements in front, to the supporting trenches in the rear.

  Dear God will this nightmare never end? How long has it been now? Two hours? Two days?

  Ramsay checked his watch. Four hours and still the shells hammered down.

  The sudden silence was a shock. It entered Ramsay’s consciousness like the blow of a hammer and he looked up, confused after hours of continual bombardment. He felt the tears on his face beneath the gas mask, but experience had taught him never to remove the mask if there was even the remotest chance of gas. He had seen too many men choking on their own vomit, gasping for agonised breath and with eyes and noses streaming with scalding fluid, to ever want to chance it.

  Small sounds seeped in to the dugout, gradually taking the place of the hellish roar of the guns. Somebody was screaming in a high-pitched keen, the sound unnerving. There was the distant popping of musketry, on and on; that was no mere display but a full scale battle. There was the slither of sand from above. Ramsay looked up and saw the mist-smeared sky. The roof of the dugout had been torn asunder by a shell. He had been cowering beneath an open space without realising it.

  His ears ringing from the bombardment and his head dazed and numb, Ramsay glanced around the dugout. The telephone lay shattered in a hundred pieces. There was no way to call in reinforcements when the Germans attacked, as they would. They were alone. Ramsay stumbled for the steps leading upward to the trenches; they were gone. There was only an uneven mess of churned-up mud and ripped sandbags lying askew, partially blocking the entrance.

  Ramsay had no desire to stand in the firing step, but the intensity of the bombardment argued for more than a mere trench raid – Fritz had begun his push. He stepped onto the first of the torn sandbags and looked upward into the thick smoke and fog. There could be anything up there.

  “Sir …” Ramsay had forgotten about the private who had shared his dugout for the past … how long? He checked his watch, it was half past ten. The bombardment had lasted five and a half hours. It could have been five minutes or five days.

  “Sir.” The private looked up. He had ripped off his gas mask again and the eyes that stared out were red-rimmed and weeping.

  “Put your bloody mask on!” Ramsay roared, his own gasmask muffling the words. He pointed vigorously to get his message across.

  “Come on.” Ramsay was aware his words would be unheard. He grabbed hold of the man’s sleeve and hauled him to his feet. “Get up and get to a firing bay. Fritz will be here in a minute. Come on, man!” Ramsay stepped into the gap and swore as the ragged gas sheet tangled around his legs. He threw it aside. “If Fritz gets into the trench he will toss a potato masher down here and that will be us.”

  The bombardment had obviously disorientated the private, he stared at Ramsay with his mouth open.

  “Come on, man!” Ramsay repeated, and stepped toward the door, pulling the private behind him. The trench was above them, the steps had been obliterated by the shellfire. There was only a ragged slope, half-covered in mud and split sandbags. There was a human arm lying at the top. Ramsay pulled himself up, reached down and hauled the private up.

  “Get to a firing bay!” Ramsay bellowed, and pushed the man in what he hoped was the right direction. He looked around and tried to focus through the clouded eyepiece and the thick gas fog. He had emerged into an unfamiliar landscape, one that bore little resemblance to the trench line he had taken over only the previous day.

  The shelling had been devastatingly accurate. In a dozen places the sandbag barrier was only a memory, with great gaps blasted in the defences and holes gouged in the barbed wire beyond. Gas and smoke merged with the mist, clinging densely to the corkscrew stakes that held roll after roll of savage barbs.

  Recognisable only by his jaunty swagger and the stripes on his arm, McKim nodded to Ramsay. His eyes were calm through the gas mask and his rifle looked as clean as ever.

  Ramsay jerked a thumb to the corporal. “Get the men out of the dugouts and on to the fire bays immediately. Fritz won’t be long.” He knew his words could not be heard but spoke automatically. As McKim nodded, instinctively understanding, Ramsay glanced at the devastation. There were few fire bays left. The shelling had scattered the sandbags and destroyed the parapets and men crawled to whatever cover they could find. Not all of the men were able to do even that. There were three crumpled bodies in this section of what had been the trench, and an ugly smear of blood within a smoking crater that told of another casualty. Others were wounded, quietly or noisily, with the stretcher bearers already busy on their endless job.

  Men grabbed at those rifles that had survived. They removed the canvas covers protecting the bolts and peered into the shifting grey fog. McKim lay prone amidst a scatter of sandbags, staring into the mist. He looked alert and yet casual, the very image of the veteran soldier he was. He checked the magazine of his rifle and slowly slid the weapon forward. Every moment was measured. Not slow, but unhurried; he was a man at home with his job.

  The pop-popping of musketry was louder now, coming from left and right along the remnants of what had been the British positions. Ramsay squinted forward, there was movement in the mist, figures threading quickly through the shattered tangles of wire. The first man came out in a rush, a huge figure in field-grey with a flame-thrower in his hand and a gas mask over his face.

  Ramsay snapped open his holster, but before he could draw his revolver McKim had fired, worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again. The bullets slammed into the petrol canister on the German’s back. The man spun with the force of the bullet and McKim fired again. The petrol ignited with a whoof that was audible even through the gasmask and the man screamed, high pitched and terrible, as flames engulfed him. Ramsay stared as the German tried to beat out the flames with flailing arms, but succeeded only in fanning them further. He ran in agonised circles and collapsed on the ground where the orange glow of the flames reflected in the surrounding fog and gas. Ramsay’s horror lasted only for an instant and then the rush of grey-clad men that burst from the fog took his whole attention.

  “Shoot them down, boys!” Ramsay yelled, knowing his voice would not carry through the gas mask. He looked to where the Lewis gun should be – there was nothing left but a crater and a rubble of burst sandbags. The Vickers guns were also silent, their positions blasted away by the bombardment, and only a scattering of British artillery pieces challenged the German advance.

  Ramsay levelled his pistol, swallowed hard and fired. The sensation of the revolver kicking back into his wrist was good. At last. At last I am firing back!

  The grey mass seemed undaunted by the rapid fire from the Royals. They were faceless, inhuman in their gas masks and their silent, rushing advance; men the size of giants who appeared through gaps in the mist and disappeared just as quickly. Ramsay fired six quick shots into the grey tide that poured over No Man’s Land, ducked beneath the remnants of the parapet and fumbled for cartridges to reload.

  “There’s thousands of them.” A young private had torn off his helmet. He hauled himself on
to the top of the parapet, levelled his rifle and emptied his magazine into the mist.

  Ramsay clicked closed his revolver and lunged at the private, who was ramming another magazine into his rifle. He grabbed the man’s sleeve, but the private shook him off and looked around, his eyes wild.

  “We’ve got to beat them, sir!” He clicked home his bayonet and ran forward, screaming, into the mist.

  The barrage had blown holes in the barbed wire and the attacking infantry were pouring over. They moved quickly, large groups of men racing forward and not stopping to care for their wounded as the Royal Scots fired into them.

  Ramsay counted eight men in this section of the trench, and judging by the rifle fire coming from the traverses on either side, there were about the same there as well. A quick count told him there were sixteen surviving men under his command. Seeking revenge after the five hours of hell the Germans had put them through, the Royals had no mercy for the attackers.

  McKim was firing like the old soldier he was; fifteen aimed shots a minute, working his rifle bolt like a machine. The Germans were bunching at the holes torn in the barbed wire and that is where they fell in droves. Ramsay fired his six shots and reloaded; fired and reloaded; fired and reloaded, but still the Germans came on.

  Kill them, kill them. At last I have fired back, at last I am a fighting soldier. Come on you Hun bastards, come on and die.

  Ramsay saw the German advance hesitate as the Royals fired nonstop. Some men wavered and turned back into the mist. Some stood static, to be mowed down like corn beneath a skilful scythe. Some threw down their weapons and fled; the Royals shot them as well. One tall, grey-uniformed man charged forward, his rifle levelled and bayonet thrusting forward. McKim barely moved as he shot him through the forehead. The man fell on the lip of the trench line, the furthest forward of that German advance.

  A sudden shaft of sunlight glinted on the coiled wire. It reflected on a discarded bayonet and the buckle of the belt of the tall German soldier; the words Gott Mitt Us mocked the twisted corpse it adorned. Flames from the burning soldier flickered orange through the haze. A slight breeze shifted the mist and the day began to clear.

  The firing died down. Ramsay felt his heart thumping, there was sweat dribbling down his chest. He reloaded with trembling hands, dropped a cartridge and saw the brass glitter in the sandy mud of the trench floor. He lifted it, slid it into the empty chamber of his revolver and looked around.

  A volley of shells exploded a quarter of a mile to the south. Nobody noticed.

  The mist was shredding now as the breeze increased. Some of the men were loosening and removing their gas masks, cautiously breathing in the relatively fresh air.

  “Was that it?” a young soldier asked. He stared at Ramsay through wild, wide eyes. “Have we beaten them?” He grinned and raised his gas mask in the air. “We’ve beaten them, lads!”

  The bullet sliced the top of his head clean off and he died still with the grin on his face. His body crumpled into the bottom of the trench.

  “Here they come again!” McKim roared and fired into the mass of grey uniforms that crammed once more into the gaps in the wire. The Germans still wore gas masks and moved quickly, silently, efficiently. They died by the score but kept coming with a courage that Ramsay could only admire.

  “Death and hell to you!” McKim yelled as he reloaded. Ramsay knew that each British infantryman carried 220 rounds of ammunition, but judging the volume of fire the Royals were unleashing, even that number would not last them the day.

  The breeze increased, aiding visibility so that Ramsay could distinguish each man who advanced. In the dark and the mist they had been inhuman monsters, but now they were men with two arms and two legs, much as he was. The enemy, the dehumanised Hun, was exposed as vulnerable flesh and blood. They advanced bravely in long lines that bunched as they came to the gaps, and fell in writhing heaps as the Royal Scots emptied their magazines into the mass.

  “Up the Royals!” McKim yelled. “Royal Sco-o-o-o-ots!”

  As the mist cleared more men yanked off their gas masks, becoming equally recognisable and more vocal as they joined McKim in yelling at the advancing German soldiers. Ramsay unclipped his mask again, and took a deep breath of air thick with lyddite and the stench of raw blood.

  “It’s like shooting targets,” a freckle-faced private said as he worked the bolt of his rifle with frantic speed. “We can’t miss!”

  “But there’s thousands of them,” a swarthy youth shouted. “They’re coming on forever.”

  “Pay them back for the Somme, boys,” McKim shouted. “Mow the bastards down.” He looked over to Ramsay, “How’s the ammunition, sir? I’m running short.”

  Ramsay checked his own supply. “You there, that man!” He pointed to the swarthy soldier. “Search for ammunition.”

  “Check the dead, Hepburn,” McKim ordered. “Check their bandoleers and magazines, and then go to the stores bay. If we’re lucky, Fritz won’t have hit it.”

  “This is pure hell,” somebody was sobbing, “this is pure hell.”

  “Quiet!” Ramsay cracked out. “If you can’t say anything useful, then keep your mouth shut!”

  “Die!” another man said softly. “Die you German bastards!”

  “That’s the way, Cruickshank,” McKim encouraged.

  The next wave of Germans formed up behind the barbed wire, their uniforms merging with the returning mist to form an amorphous grey mass beneath featureless white faces.

  “These Fritzes are brave men,” McKim said. “They keep coming even when we shoot them to bits.” He raised his voice. “Any news of that ammunition yet?” He checked the magazine of his rifle. “I’m about empty here!”

  The Germans came forward in a rush, throwing themselves at the gaps in the wire as the Royals fired, worked the bolts of their rifles and fired again. There was no need to aim, the Germans were so densely packed that it was impossible to miss.

  “Ammo!” McKim shouted, “where’s the bloody ammunition!” There was no chanting or cheering now, only gasps of effort and the occasional curse as the Royals fired, worked their bolts and fired again. Flames still flickered from the burning man and the stench of his charred flesh was sickening. The field-grey bodies piled up in heaps and drifts; a writhing carpet of suffering. Eventually the advance faltered, fewer men pushed over their own dead to face the aimed musketry of the Royals.

  “Cease fire!” Ramsay yelled. “They’re turning, save your bullets!”

  The grey mass was wavering again and then it broke and fled, pushing back through the wire. Only one man emerged from the anonymity of the crowd. He swayed forward in a half crouch, his greatcoat flapping around his legs and a gas mask concealing his face. He dropped his rifle as he came forward, dodging from side to side as he neared the battered British trenches. As he passed the final concertina of wire he ripped off his gas mask, threw it on the ground and began to shout, but the words were lost in the terrible noise of battle.

  Ramsay aimed his revolver and began to squeeze the trigger, but McKim knocked his arm up. ‘Sorry, sir, but that’s Flockhart in a German coat!”

  “What?”

  I thought he was dead. I thought I was safe!

  “Dinnae shoot boys! It’s me! I’m coming in!” Sergeant Flockhart slithered over the top layer of sandbags and landed with a soft thud in the bottom of the trench. His face was brown with mud, smeared with blood and his eyes stared through red rims.

  “About time you got back, Jim,” McKim said. “Leaving us to do all the fighting while you skulk in a bon shell hole.”

  Flockhart swore at him and shrugged off the German great coat, the bloodstained hole in the chest told its own story.

  “Mr Kerr and the others?” Ramsay already guessed the answer.

  “Dead, sir. They were blown to atoms,” Flockhart said. He glanced at the sleeve of his tunic where a tear showed the raw scar of a new wound. “We were lucky that the German shelling was so accurate. It went right ov
er us, but one dropped short, right on top of the listening post.” He took a deep breath and coughed as the lyddite-laden smoke entered his lungs. “The lads had no chance sir. There was nothing left of them but a smear.”

  Ramsay nodded. He felt sympathy for the dead men but there was no time to mourn. There is never time to mourn.

  Flockhart looked along the shattered line of the trench. “How do we stand?”

  “Badly, Sarge,” McKim said. “We have enough ammunition for one more attack and then . . ,” he shrugged. “That’s us.” He glanced around. “I already sent Hepburn to scrounge what he could, but he has not come back.”

  “He could have been killed,” Ramsay said. “Send a runner to Major Campbell. Choose a good man and tell him to take care of himself.”

  “Aye, sir,” McKim said. “That will be you, Niven. Off you go, lad. Tell the major we need men and ammunition but we are holding out well. Keep your head down, son.”

  Niven was a steady-eyed man of around twenty-five. He nodded, ducked as a shell exploded some thirty yards away and headed for the communications trench.

  No sooner had Niven vanished than the swarthy private appeared with his helmet held in both hands and a mixture of magazines and loose cartridges rattling inside. “It’s all I could get, sir,” he reported to Ramsay. “The store bay is blown to pieces.”

  “Well done, Hepburn. Let’s hope Niven brings us more.” Ramsay handed the cartridges round, just as a renewed roar came from their left and a group of gape-mouthed privates swarmed into their section of trench.

  “They’ve broken through!” the first man gasped in the accents of North East England. “Fritz is everywhere! In the trenches behind us. They’re everywhere!”

  McKim grunted and looked to the rear. “I can’t see any Germans,” he said.

  “They’re everywhere!” The private repeated. He had lost his rifle and his eyes were wild.

  Ramsay grabbed hold of the man’s shoulders. “Calm down! There are no Germans in this trench and we have no intention of allowing any in!” He held the man for a moment, “Take a deep breath, man! Who are you? What’s your name, rank and number?”