Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “There are too many of them,” Ramsay said. “We’ll stick to our original plan, McKim. Sit tight here for the day and move at night for our own lines.” He watched the Germans marching past as morning sunlight glinted from the never-ending rows of helmets. They seemed remorseless, a silent snake of field-grey marching in pursuit of the retreating British Army, an endless parade of polished boots rising and falling: thump, thump, thump, as if Germany was pouring out all its manpower in a final attempt to push the British army back to the Channel and an admission of defeat.

  The words of that German song came back into his mind, sung with all the arrogance of impending victory:

  “Lieb vaterland magst ruhig sein

  Lieb vaterland, magst ruhig sein

  Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein

  Fest steht und true die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein!”

  “It’s as if the Somme and Paschendaele never happened.” McKim shook his head in disbelief. “All those thousands of boys, lost for nothing, and now the Huns are rolling us up as if we were not there.” He scraped his helmet against the stone so that sparks flew. “We’ll get him back though, never you fear, sir.” He ran his thumb along the rim and repeated, “Death and hell to every one of the bastards, death and hell to them.”

  “Death and hell indeed,” Ramsay said softly. But to whom? The German army seems to stretch forever and there are only thirteen of us here.

  Flockhart reached over as if to touch McKim’s shoulder, glanced at Ramsay and dropped it again. “We could be following the German advance for days,” he said, “and never catch up.”

  “Nobody advances that far and that fast,” Ramsay tried to sound confident. “They will march beyond their supplies and have to stop to consolidate. Then Haig will counter attack and catch them on the hop.” He looked directly at McKim. “We will get back to the regiment, we will get home, and we will win this war.”

  They lapsed into silence, listening to the marching Germans and the rumble of supply wagons and guns over the cracked pave. “You better get some rest, Sergeant. You too, McKim,” Ramsay said. “I’ll stay on watch.”

  “I am all right for a while, sir,” Flockhart said.

  “Get some sleep, Flockhart. That’s an order,” Ramsay said. Why the hell did I say that? If he is tired, he is more likely to make a mistake and get killed. Except he might get us all killed and these men deserve better than that. Damn it!

  “I will in a minute, sir,” Flockhart said. “It’s not right that I should sleep while an officer is awake.”

  Ramsay opened his mouth but said nothing, Flockhart had made the decision he should have made for him. Let fate decide the outcome. The Germans continued to march past, rank after rank of soldiers, some silent, some talking; there was the occasional snatch of song but most of them were grim-faced and professional. Ramsay watched and said nothing. Each German soldier between him and the British lines decreased his chances of returning home. He missed Gillian, but what would she think of him if she knew the truth? Oh God, Gill, what would you think?

  “If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” McKim broke the silence, “but was it the war that brought you into the army? I know you are not a regular.” He placed his helmet back on his head, pushed it down firmly and fastened the chinstrap. As he watched the German column march past, his hand reached for his rifle. Flockhart put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

  “Not yet, Kenny. Our turn will come.” He faced Ramsay, his eyebrows raised. “Did you volunteer, sir?”

  You are still probing, Flockhart. You are suspicious now.

  “Yes,” Ramsay agreed. “I volunteered when the war started.” He held Flockhart’s eyes and tried not to blink. The days before he donned the king’s uniform seemed an unreal existence. He smiled wryly at the memories. “I had to do my bit for King and country.”

  Flockhart barely glanced up as a heavy shell ripped overhead to explode in a dark fountain of mud a hundred yards behind them. He glanced over to McKim. “That’s our boys reminding Fritz that they have not won yet.”

  “Maybe the gunners are going to plaster the German reinforcements!” McKim looked eager at the prospect until Ramsay reminded him, “If the artillery starts any plastering, McKim, we are directly in their line of fire. The spotters will use this ruin as a range finder and plaster us as well.”

  They all looked skyward and searched for any sign of British air presence, but the Royal Flying Corps was absent and the sky clear except for a trio of German fighters flying languidly toward the British lines. The white puffs of British Archie seemed innocent from down here and the Germans flew on, unconcerned and untouched until obscured by distance.

  A volley of shells followed the first, smashing down around the farmhouse and the sleeping men awoke. Aitken cowered closer to the wall while most of the others simply rolled over and fell back asleep, too tired to be concerned. A second volley followed, landing a hundred yards over, and a third landed even further away. Then there was silence, and the acrid drift of lyddite in the smoke.

  Flockhart continued the previous conversation as though nothing had happened, “What were you before the war started, sir?” His eyes were more than curious, they were predatory.

  “Don’t you know what I was?” Ramsay began, but the sound of another passing shell drowned his words and then McKim spoke quietly. “The Germans won’t win.”

  Ramsay glanced at him. There was no false defiance, the corporal was just stating what he firmly believed to be a fact.

  “Good man, McKim.” He gave a bleak smile. “It’s statements such as that, and men like you, that convince me Fritz won’t win this war.”

  McKim grunted. “Have you seen those wagons rolling back, sir?” He nodded to the nearby road. “They started just as the shells came down.”

  Ramsay looked up. He had been too busy ducking from the British artillery shells to even notice the changes on the road. McKim was right, the German infantry were now marching on the verges beside the road. Wheeled vehicles had taken their place on the pave.

  Ramsay looked at them; military wagons drawn by teams of horses. Some bore the broad red cross of ambulances, others wore plain canvas covers over the back. They moved slowly, nose to tail against the tide of the marching men and although Ramsay stretched his neck as far as it was safe without revealing himself to the nearby Germans, he could not see the tail of the convoy.

  “There are a lot of them,” Ramsay said.

  “Aye, sir,” McKim said, “and if you look at the sides, as they pass sir, you can see inside the flaps. The Huns have the covers tied down so their troops can’t see inside, but they are carrying the casualties. See the blood?”

  Ramsay concentrated on one wagon out of the hundreds that were passing. He saw the dark streaks down the side and the ominous red drops that descended to the splintered stone of the pave. “Fritz may be pushing us back but he is paying a heavy price for it,” he agreed.

  “And he is using his best troops, too,” McKim said. “That first wave was storm troopers, they were Saxons, and then we faced the Prussian Guards, and that lot that marched past were a mixture of Bavarians and Prussians. That’s the reason old Fritz won’t win.” He produced his pipe and thrust it into his mouth. “He’s gaining ground but losing his best men.” He sucked on his empty pipe. “And you volunteered for all this blood and slaughter too, sir.”

  Once again Ramsay was aware of Flockhart’s interest as the sergeant moved slightly closer. He kept his voice neutral and nodded. “I had to do my bit,” he said slowly. He could sense Flockhart watching him through narrow eyes and forced a shrug. “It seemed the best thing to do at the time.”

  McKim gave a small smile. “Good for you, sir,” he said, “I expect it all seemed like a big adventure back then.”

  “It did,” Ramsay agreed with a smile that was hardly forced at all. “It all seems so long ago.”

  The memories came back of that fateful autumn day he had signed away his life for t
he duration of the war.

  There seemed always to be a cold wind on the Dean Bridge in Edinburgh. It came from nowhere and swirled the dead leaves around their legs, flicked Gillian’s dark hair across her face despite her tight hat and flapped the lapels of Ramsay’s coat in a mad frenzy against his chest. He lowered his head, tucked Gillian’s arm closer under the crook of his elbow and strode on, occasionally squeezing her to show his affection and pride. A group of soldiers passed them, young men talking too loudly to hide their self consciousness in their stiff new khaki.

  “We must look over the parapet,” Gillian decided for them. “I always look over the parapet of the Dean Bridge whenever I cross.”

  Ramsay smiled indulgent acceptance and allowed her to steer him to the breast-high wall. They stood there arm in arm and Gillian stretched to stare down at the Water of Leith rushing brown and creamy white between its verdant banks far below. “I always get dizzy looking at this,” she said, “and I am not sure whether I want to run away and hide from the fall, or launch myself into space. It must be a form of vertigo I have.”

  “We’d better get back, then.” Ramsay tried to usher her away from the wall but she shook off his hand and stood on tip-toes to look further over. Her head and the top half of her body stretched over the wall and she peered down and down and further down as Ramsay smiled and held on to her arm.

  “Oops!” Gillian grabbed hold of her hat and giggled nervously as the wind threatened to blow it away. She looked sideways at him, her eyes bright with mischief. “Did you see that? I nearly lost my hat! Don’t you wish we could fly, Douglas? Can you imagine the fun? Being like a bird and just jumping off here and soaring away?”

  “You are a strange little creature,” Ramsay said.

  “Why thank you, sir.” Gillian half-turned her head away, but Ramsay saw her smile as she returned to her scrutiny of the water far beneath. “Where are you taking me today, Douglas?”

  “You’ll see.” Ramsay turned the small box over in his pocket. It was cool and square and so very important.

  Am I doing the right thing? Am I being presumptuous?

  Gillian laughed and drew back from the parapet. “All right then. Lead on MacDuff.” She bumped her hip against his with a movement that could have been deliberate, but if so there was no indication as she pulled away again to a more respectable four inches.

  Ramsay replaced her arm inside his and pulled her closer, but not near enough to touch. He led her off the bridge and round the corner into the terraces and crescents of the Georgian New Town.

  There was a group of women clustered at the corner of Moray Place. They were talking quietly as they held their parasols against the wind and controlled the ripple of their long skirts. They all looked round as Ramsay and Gillian walked arm in arm. One broke away from the group and approached, smiling pleasantly as she hugged a handbag to her plump breasts.

  She was perhaps twenty-five, with the heavy face that signified self indulgence and would certainly run to fat in later life. At present she was graceful, elegant and confident.

  “Are you on leave, sir?” Her voice was educated, Morningside more than Canongate, and her eyes were friendly as they scrutinised him. Grey eyes, quite pretty. There is potential here, for a year or two.

  Ramsay shook his head. “No, I am not.”

  She thinks I am in the Army. Do I look like a soldier? It must be the spread of my shoulders and my upright carriage. What fun.

  “Ah,” her smile broadened, “you are still waiting for your commission to come through then.”

  “No,” Ramsay met her smile. “I am waiting for my final Law results from Edinburgh University.”

  Now what do you say when you know I am going to be a solicitor? Are you impressed, my fine fat lady?

  The smile faded from the woman’s face. “Young man,” she said, “you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, hiding behind the pages of a book while other and better men are dying for king and country.”

  You pompous hussy! Young man? I doubt I am three years younger than you!

  The woman reached into her handbag, produced a small white feather and, as Ramsay stood still, pinned it on the lapel of his coat. “You should be in uniform.”

  You besom! You pretended friendship to trap me!

  As the woman stalked back to her friends, Gillian gave a little giggle. The other women were glaring at them; one woman of about forty shook her head and repeated, “You should be in uniform.” She gave Gillian a look that would have frozen hell and said, “And you should be ashamed to be seen walking out with a coward, young lady.”

  “Come on, Gill.” Ramsay took hold of Gillian’s arm and strode away. He could feel the flush of blood colouring his face. After a few steps he tore the white feather from his lapel, threw it on the ground and stamped on it. The object lay there, accusing him of all the things that the women had said.

  Evil besoms. I am no coward. I am trying to make something of my life and not wasting it in a silly war. They had no right to say that, women don’t go to war. They don’t know what it is like.

  Gillian giggled again. “Temper, temper, Douglas: I have never seen you take on so! Do you know who these ladies were?” She answered her own question. “They were the League of the White Feather. They go about the city trying to shame men into joining the army.”

  “Well,” Ramsay said as he ground the feather under his heel, “they won’t shame me.” He looked at Gillian and smiled. “I have other ideas for my future than finding glory in France.”

  Gillian’s smile spread right across her face. “I wish you would tell me what they are, Douglas. Why don’t you tell me?”

  Ramsay listened to the echo of his footsteps from the serene grey sandstone and to the rustle of leaves from the trees in the private garden that sat secure behind its iron railings. This was Edinburgh at its best: serene; dignified, secure, home to the High Court and very much his world. This was where he belonged, not facing death and glory in some maniacal charge across foreign fields. “I’ll tell you when the time is appropriate,” he said.

  “Oh, you are such a beast!” Gillian squeezed his arm. She looked up at him, blinking as a wisp of hair flopped across her eyes. Ramsay brushed the hair away and bent to kiss her, but she pulled away with a slight smile. “You would look so handsome in uniform, though,” she said, thoughtfully. “I can see you as a dashing captain in the cavalry, charging the Germans at the head of your men.”

  Oh God, not you too!

  Ramsay frowned. “This war will all be over by Christmas,” he told her. “Neither us or France or Germany or Austria has the resources to make it last longer than that. And after all, the Kaiser is related to the king, why should we fight each other?” He shrugged.

  Don’t let her think such things. Take charge!

  “Even if I volunteered today, I would never get near the front. By the time I am trained it would all be finished.” He looked away. That was a blatant lie. He had no intention of joining the army and leaving his comfortable life behind. The very thought was terrifying.

  Gillian crinkled her nose up. “Oh, Dougie! That’s so disappointing.” She wriggled free of his hand and moved a step away from him, pouting. “You would suit a uniform – the tight leggings, the smart jacket, the scarlet and black and gleaming brass …” She giggled like a schoolgirl and looked away, blushing furiously. “You have no idea what that thought is doing to me!”

  You don’t need a uniform for that, my girl. Wait until I get you somewhere quiet and I will redouble those feelings.

  Ramsay looked at her. “You are indeed a strange little creature,” he said, and the genuine affection he felt for her redoubled. She smiled up at him and poked out her little pink tongue.

  Oh, dear God! Gillian. Don’t do that in public, please!

  He fingered the box in his pocket again, suddenly certain that he was doing the right thing. The revelation burst on him unannounced and he stopped dead in the street. He wanted this woman. He wante
d to hear her musical voice with that fascinating gurgling laugh, he wanted to smell her hair, he wanted to feel her small gloved hand inside his as they walked side by side along the elegant streets of Edinburgh and he wanted her in his bed. God, how he wanted to have her in his bed.

  Is this love? Is this love, this desire to investigate and examine every aspect of her? I don’t only want her body. I want her mind and her sound and her soul. Oh, dear God, I have fallen in love with her.

  “Shall we step along?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “Where are you taking me, sir?” Gillian’s chin thrust out appealingly

  “To an island in the Caribbean,” Ramsay kept his voice mysterious and smiled at Gillian’s gasp of delight.

  “The Caribbean!” There was a pause as he guided her along the Georgian terrace, and then came the inevitable and expected question, “Where is that?”

  “It’s not far from here,” Ramsay told her seriously. “It’s a very romantic haunt of pirates and smugglers and writers.”

  “This is a lovely area,” Gillian echoed his thoughts as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I do love Edinburgh so.” She looked up at him with her eyes wide and grey and smiling. “I never want to leave this city.”

  “Nor do I,” he told her, truthfully. Especially not to go and fight in Flanders field.

  They crossed to the elegant terrace of Heriot Row, and Ramsay guided Gillian to the private garden occupying the entire southern half of the street. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the key, unlocked the gate and pushed it open. It creaked slightly as he ushered her in. The autumnal tints of the spreading trees contrasted with the bright blue of the sky above while a blackbird sang melancholic and sweet. The atmosphere altered as soon as they stepped inside; seclusion and privilege surrounded them.

  “This isn’t the Caribbean,” Gillian protested. “This is Queen Street Gardens.”

  Ramsay rubbed a hand up her arm. “We aren’t there yet,” he said. “Come on now, it’s only a short step.”