Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “Why is that?” Ramsay asked, and then cursed his own stupidity. “Of course, he works down the mines, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s in the Lady Victoria.” There was pride in her voice.

  Ramsay nodded. Although his father owned shares in various mines he had no idea which one was which. He presumed that working in the Lady Victoria was a sign of prestige to this girl. “That must be interesting.”

  “It’s bloody hard work,” the girl said. “Mother has to wash him when he comes home. He sits in the tub in front of the fire all black with coal.”

  Ramsay hid the thrill of shock. He smiled at the thought of his elegant and graceful mother washing his father in a tub in front of the living room fire.

  “Do you find that funny?” The girl struggled to sit up so Ramsay kissed her again, softly, and eased her back to the ground.

  “I find you adorable,” he said, and kissed her again. She responded with a will, and then slid her lips free.

  “Where will we live?” she asked.

  “Where do we live?” Ramsay said, “You know where we live. I live in Edinburgh and you live in Newtongrange with your father.”

  “I said where will we live,” the girl repeated. “After we are married, I mean. Where will we live? Will I move into Edinburgh with you or will you come out here with us?”

  Ramsay stared at her. He did not hide his amusement.

  The tower was truncated; the top had been blown off so Ramsay balanced on a single, half broken step with half of Picardy unravelled before him and empty air all around. He surveyed the view. The old battlefield of the Somme spread like a plague-site; the churned and broken grave of three quarters of a million men. A sliver of cloud obscured the rising sun and the scene darkened, as if God was frowning at this insignificant man peering over the wreckage of a beautiful country. Ramsay swore and focussed toward the west, where the British lines should be.

  There was the flash or artillery and the pall of smoke where guns were firing or houses burning. There was the occasional fountain of earth and mud where a shell landed, or the bright starburst of an explosion. Ramsay concentrated on searching for any sign of a British stand. He looked for a concentration of troops and shelling, or a merging of marching men. He saw a number of mobile observation balloons floating high above the tortured ground, but they were moving too slowly for him to ascertain in what direction they were headed. Far below the nearest balloon was a truck, at the head of what appeared to be a dusty snake but which would be a marching column of men, dwarfed by height and distance. They were not far from Albert. Ramsay nodded. That could be British reinforcements marching to stabilise the front. The situation was obviously improving.

  The cloud passed. A thin gleam of sunlight eased onto the column.

  “Oh, good God in heaven!” Ramsay focussed on the marching men. For a second he thought they were the guards, but then the sun glinted off the ranked helmets and onto the uniforms below. They were not khaki. The Germans were pushing the British back to the very gates of Albert.

  If Albert falls, how much further can the Germans get? Arras? Amiens even? Dear God, if they break through they will head north and roll up our line, all the way to the Channel!

  Movement caught his eye. There was a village much closer than Albert, spread on some rising ground. There were troops formed around it and the puffs of light artillery. The British were holding out, somehow. Was that a train? Ramsay nodded. Yes. So there were still transport links between that village and the British line. Perhaps it was a salient pushed in the German advance by a counter attack, or a piece of line that had refused to crumble. He needed a second pair of eyes to verify what he saw.

  Who had the best eyesight? Undoubtedly that was McKim. Then the idea came to him. He had nearly fallen when he crossed that gap in the stairs. Nobody could suspect him if Flockhart fell there. The sergeant was older and had been in the line far longer; he was fatigued, worn out with the strain of constant fighting. Get rid of Flockhart – Ramsay hesitated to use the word ‘murder’, even to himself – and half his troubles would be gone. After that he would only have the Germans to worry about, and surviving the war.

  Dear God, I would be free!

  The thought was like an electric light bulb illuminating inside his head. It lifted his spirits so that he was negotiating the descent even before the plan was fully formed.

  Do it! Do it now! Don’t think about it. Just do it. I’ll be free!

  Turnbull and Aitken were still on watch, peering over the low walls, while further out, Flockhart and McKim had organised a defensive perimeter and a scatter of khaki-clad men huddled around the ruins. Ramsay waved a hand and signalled for Flockhart to come up. He watched as the sergeant handed his rifle to Niven and approached the stairs.

  “Be careful, Flockhart,” Ramsay shouted, loud enough for all the men to hear. “There are some missing steps, but I need your opinion on something.”

  Flockhart waved an acknowledgement and came up the first set of steps.

  The bastard is faster and more sure-footed than I am. How can I get rid of him without the men seeing?

  Ramsay waited at the top of the gap in the stairs, holding out his hand as though to help Flockhart up. The sergeant ascended without a pause until he came to the gap. “Thank you, sir,” he balanced at the lip, looked for footholds and stepped into the abyss.

  Ramsay stretched down, their hands met and gripped. Now I have you! Now I can rid myself of this burden and find peace of mind. I will be free with Gillian.

  “Up you come, Flockhart!” Ramsay exerted pressure to pull Flockhart further into the gap so there could be no possibility of the sergeant taking hold of the steps. He glanced down. Most of the men were watching for any approaching Germans, but there were a few faces staring at them. Ramsay looked away.

  Flockhart found a foothold and the pressure on Ramsay’s hand eased slightly. He could feel Flockhart’s hard fingers slipping through his and he watched the sergeant’s face furrowed with concentration as he sought safety in the upper tower.

  “Sir!”

  Ramsay could see beads of sweat forming on Flockhart’s face. He looked directly into the hard blue eyes and saw the pain and fortitude and grief there. He saw the lines deeply etched into the face he had only glimpsed once, but remembered so well.

  Do you remember me now, you bastard? Do you remember where we first met? Do you remember Grace? Do you?

  Flockhart’s boots were slipping on the stonework. Ramsay saw his studs strike a spark that glittered momentarily and died.

  “Sir!”

  There was urgency in Flockhart’s voice now, as he tightened his grip on Ramsay’s hand.

  God he’s strong, but if I loosen my fingers he will fall. He will die and half my problems will be over.

  Ramsay locked eyes with Flockhart, but rather than release his grip, he pulled harder. It was an instinctive movement, not one dictated by his conscious mind, and within seconds Flockhart was lying on the steps, gasping for breath.

  “Thank you, sir. I thought I was gone then.”

  You should have been, you lucky bastard. I won’t save you a second time. Oh, God, I should have let you die.

  “You’re all right now, Flockhart. Take your time and recover before you try any more stairs.”

  They moved up together, their boots ringing on the stone stairs as Ramsay cursed himself for failing to take advantage of the situation. “You saved my life, sir,” Flockhart said. “I won’t forget that.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Sergeant. It was nothing.”

  When they reached the top of the tower the light had strengthened; the view was huge and the air clearer. They moved up more slowly now, Flockhart was obviously still a bit shaken from his near fall. He hesitated slightly when they reached the section with no outside wall, but carried on. A rising wind tugged at them, inviting them to step over to oblivion.

  You might fall yet, Ramsay thought, but Flockhart continued to the topmo
st step and stood upright like a khaki-clad mountain goat, surveying the panorama.

  “It’s different from up here, sir,” he said. “It all looks so small, sort of. It makes you wonder what it’s all about.”

  “It’s all about beating the Hun, Sergeant.” Having saved this man’s life, Ramsay was not inclined to pander to his homespun philosophy. “Now. Look over there,” he indicated the village he had seen, “and tell me what you think.”

  Flockhart studied the terrain for some time before he gave his opinion. “I see a straggling village with a train standing at a platform about halfway between here, wherever here is, and the town of Albert. I see British soldiers in formation around the village and the Germans trying to break the line.”

  Ramsay nodded. “That is about what I thought, Sergeant. Anything else?”

  Flockhart nodded. “Yes, sir. I can hear gunfire and see puffs of smoke as shells explode, and I see men massing to attack.”

  “So what would you say was happening, Sergeant?” Ramsay hoped for confirmation of his own ideas from this sensible, experienced and level-headed veteran that he hated.

  Flockhart was obviously not used to having an officer ask for his opinion. He glanced at Ramsay, looked away, and looked back before he answered. “I think that we are still holding out there, sir, and Fritz is trying to push us out.”

  Ramsay nodded. “I agree, Flockhart. How far would you say that village was?”

  Flockhart screwed up his face. “I would say three miles, sir. Four miles at the outside. Certainly no more than that.”

  So the Huns have advanced four miles in, what, three days? But we are still holding out.

  Ramsay nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  Now he had a definite target. All he had to do was get his men to that village and either help the defence or jump on that train and travel back to safety.

  The ugly snarl of a Mercedes engine took Ramsay by surprise. He had been concentrating on the position of the rival armies to such an extent he had neglected his own security. The plane roared past him; the great black crosses prominent on its wings and the observer staring at him from the rear cockpit.

  “Sir!” Flockhart shouted his warning a moment too late.

  Ramsay looked down as the plane banked to turn. The sun gleamed on the varnished wings and the almost invisible arc of the propeller. It was a Halberstadt CL II, a specialist ground attack fighter, and to judge by the direction it was travelling, the pilot intended to rid the church steeple of these impudent British soldiers.

  “Come on Sergeant, get down the stairs!” Ramsay saw Flockhart glide away in front of him as if he was a ghost. He tried to hurry down the steps toward the nearest fragment of sheltering wall but the third step crumbled beneath his feet and he staggered, and for a second his head and shoulders hung over the immense fall to the ground beneath.

  “Sir!” He glanced up and saw Flockhart hesitate. The sergeant had reached the sheltering wall but was looking back as if prepared to return and drag his officer to safety.

  “Stay there!” Ramsay yelled as he looked down. He could see his men scurrying among the ruins. Some were pointing upwards. Turnbull was aiming his rifle at the German aircraft, Marshall was clambering onto a pile of rubble as if to get a better shot, Niven was fiddling with his magazine. Ramsay recovered his balance and rose to his feet. As if moving in slow motion he stepped carefully over the missing step and flinched at the renewed rattle of the 7.92 Spandau.

  The bullets sprayed around him, hacking at the ancient stonework and creating a haze of dust into which he ducked as the Halberstadt roared past, with the pilot grinning fiercely and an array of red and black ribbons fluttering from the struts as though the aircraft was celebrating a joyous occasion rather than trying to kill two men. For a second Ramsay stared straight into the goggled eyes of the observer; they were deep brown and warm, and then the machine roared past.

  The plane turned again, streamers rippling from its struts, the pilot concentrating on his controls. The observer was struggling with his Spandau, which seemed to have jammed, and Ramsay allowed himself a few seconds breathing space. He took a deep breath and ducked as the single bullet smacked into the central column a few inches above his head, and swore again.

  Where the devil did that come from? God! Had German infantry arrived while I was up the tower?

  Ramsay looked down and saw half a dozen men pointing rifles in his direction; his own men.

  “Stop!” He waved his arms at them, coming perilously close to overbalancing on the spiral stairs. “Hold your fire!”

  They could not hear him. He saw them working the bolts of their rifles, aiming and firing at the rapidly moving German aircraft and he jumped the final few steps to where a fragment of wall offered some shelter. Just as he arrived the Halberstadt roared past again, its machine gun chattering, bullets chewing at the wall and steps below.

  “You bastard!” Ramsay shouted. He unholstered his pistol and fired at the aircraft, knowing that the possibility of hitting anything vulnerable was very remote. The machine roared past, and dived on the men firing at it from the ruins below.

  “Come on, sir!” Flockhart was in the shelter of the wall, watching the aircraft. “Get into cover!”

  Ramsay saw the machine gun firing and spurts of dust and stone rising from the church then the plane reached the limit of its dive and rose again. He saw the Royal Scots rise from cover to fire at it, and realised that Flockhart was right. He began to hurry down the steps again.

  “Come on Flockhart, we’ll get down as far as we can. The nearer the ground we are the better I’ll like it.”

  “You’ll get no arguments from me there, sir,” Flockhart said. “This is definitely not bon!”

  Ramsay heard more musketry and the snarl of the aircraft as he ran down the remaining stairs, but the wall prevented him from seeing what was happening. By the time they reached the gap in the stairs the aircraft was gone.

  “I’ll go first, sir,” Flockhart volunteered, and stretched across the airy gap. He positioned himself and dropped the few feet to the lower steps. “It’s a lot easier going down than coming up, sir,” he said, but still he waited with hands outstretched for Ramsay to negotiate the yawning hole.

  They gripped hands once more; this time Ramsay felt secure in Flockhart’s grasp.

  “There we go, sir, all safe and sound.”

  It was just a small run to the ground, where McKim was organising the men. “We’ve lost Marshall, sir,” McKim reported. “That Hun caught him clean with a burst.”

  Ramsay grunted as he saw Marshall’s body lying crumpled beside an old gravestone. “He was a steady man. I saw him firing back at the aircraft. Who was closest to him?”

  He looked around the small group of Royal Scots. After days in the line and on the march they were haggard, unshaven and ragged, but their rifles were clean and their faces determined.

  “Menzies and Paterson, sir,” Turnbull volunteered. “They never made it out of the trenches.”

  “I see.” Ramsay looked at Marshall again. Although he had marched with him for days, he had never spoken to him directly. Private Marshall had died alone. “Arrange for a burial, Sergeant. I don’t like to think of leaving my men for the birds.”

  Does it matter? Once you are dead, you are dead. But it does matter to these men. They don’t like to think that their bodies will be left outside to rot.

  The men scraped a shallow trench and rolled Marshall inside. A burst from the German aircraft had virtually cut him in two. They piled loose earth and stones on top of the body and Flockhart thrust a stick at the head to mark the resting place.

  As soon as Marshall was laid to rest the men found a sheltered corner and curled up to catch as much sleep as they could. Nobody looked at the makeshift grave; they all knew they could be next.

  “How far are we from the front, sir?” McKim asked. He had taken the clip from Marshall’s rifle and placed it in his pouch. He had also piled the last stone o
n top of Marshall’s body.

  “About three miles,” Ramsay said. “There’s a village just that distance to the west, with what seems like a marshalling yard and a stores dump …”

  “That will be Carnoy,” McKim said at once. “It’s a munitions dump.”

  “We are holding out there,” Ramsay said. “Get the men up and ready to march.”

  “They’ve marched all night and fought off that German aircraft,” Flockhart reminded, “they are dropping on their feet.”

  “They’re Royal Scots,” Ramsay said flatly. “Get them ready.” He jerked his head skyward. “That machine will alert his headquarters that we are here and there’ll be hundreds of Huns knocking on the door in no time.”

  McKim grunted but raised his voice. “Right lads, we’re on the move again. Up you get!”

  “Bloody cold-blooded bloody officer,” somebody said, as others groaned or cursed or sighed, but they all stumbled to their feet, shouldered their rifles and waited for orders.

  “We are holding out at a village called Carnoy,” Ramsay told them quietly. “It’s only about three miles away, but there are some Germans in the way.”

  McKim did not hide his grin as he worked the bolt of his rifle. “We have another score to wipe off the slate,” he said and nodded to the pile of loose stones marking Marshall’s grave.

  “And it’s near full daylight,” Ramsay had no need to say that.

  “We can see them all the better in the light, sir,” McKim said.

  “So keep together, keep your fingers on the trigger and try and keep out of trouble. If Fritz does not notice us, don’t draw attention to yourselves.” Ramsay checked the chambers of his revolver, snapped it shut and replaced it in its holster. “Right, lads; let’s try and get back.” He nodded to McKim, “You’re the most experienced man here, Corporal, you are the advance guard. Don’t get too far in front and don’t go looking for trouble.” He looked toward Flockhart but said nothing. Flockhart was smiling, but there was a question in his eyes.

  I saved his life; I should have let him fall. Why did I do that? Now I have to find another opportunity. I wonder what he will do when he remembers where he first met me?