“And have her wearing widow’s weeds before she has even reached twenty one.” Ramsay kept his voice neutral. “I think not.”
Did I make the correct decision when I said we would not marry until after the war? I did not wish to burden Gillian with a child, but perhaps she would want a child of mine?
“Char up!” Turnbull called out cheerfully and the men clustered around, as happy and unconcerned as if they were in Edinburgh Castle. The tea was only lukewarm but it was wet and welcome.
“Can’t beat a cup of char,” Blackley said. He had the deep tan of tropical service on his face and the slight sing-song accent of a man who had spent time in India. Four wound stripes gleamed golden on his sleeve.
Ramsay had taken only a single sip of his tea when Flockhart slipped up to him.
“Fritz, sir. Coming this way, lots of them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
24 March 1918
“Get your gear, men. We’re pulling out! Turnbull, douse that fire. McKim, take two men and act as rearguard.” Ramsay acted instinctively as he poured out orders. “Show me where they are, Flockhart.”
In peacetime the ridge would have been almost invisible, but when all Europe was aflame, every scrap of land in the combat zone was used for military purposes. The ridge shielded an area of dead ground in which the transport limber had been wrecked. Flockhart inched to the summit, ensuring that his head was not highlighted on the skyline.
“Over there, sir, coming fast.”
The German formation was around half a mile away, marching in a close formation across the landscape with no thought of breaking step for any obstacle that may have been in their path. As usual, there were officers in front and NCOs at the flanks.
“They are coming fast,” Ramsay agreed. He glanced over his shoulder. The Royals were about ready. McKim had them in hand, joking and rebuking in equal measure as he checked their ammunition, water bottles and food.
“It’s our old friends, sir,” Flockhart said, “the Prussian Guards.”
“It’s time we were gone, then,” Ramsay slid down the side of the ridge even as he spoke. “Come on, lads, the Prussians are coming.”
“Not a-bloody-gain,” Cruickshank mumbled. “Bloody Prussians, it’s about time somebody shot the buggers.”
“You do it then, Cruickshank,” Flockhart suggested. “There are thousands of them.”
“Quick march, lads, get those feet moving!” Ramsay decided on his route, aiming at a 45 degree angle, away from the advancing Germans. “McKim, keep a sharp lookout there, in case they have men out in front.”
“Yes, sir.” McKim hefted his rifle.
“Go on Kimmy, ambush the bastards,” Cruickshank said quietly. “Maybe you can kill the lot of them.”
“Keep quiet and keep moving,” Flockhart ordered. “Save your breath, we’ll need it.”
“Aye,” Niven said. “Them Prussian bastards never give up. They will march on and on until they reach Paris.”
“Or until they are all killed,” Cruickshank said.
McKim grunted and shouldered his rifle. “You’re lucky it’s only the Huns. If that had been the Boers we would have been diced and sliced by now. Those boys could ride!”
“Save your breath for marching!” Flockhart ordered and the men fell silent, save for an occasional grunt of effort or muted curse if they stumbled on the uneven ground.
Ramsay glanced up, three aircraft made pretty patterns in the clear sky. They were too high for him to discern whether they were friend or foe, but the last thing he wanted was to be caught in the open by a German machine.
“Keep moving, boys!”
“What the hell else does he think we’re doing?” Cruickshank muttered, but put his head down and pushed on.
The musketry around Carnoy was nonstop, and every step brought them closer.
The ground was open here, a level plain that sloped slowly down towards the village. Ramsay looked ahead. He could see Carnoy plainly now, with a line of makeshift trenches in front and the occasional bobbing heads of the defenders.
“Sir,” Turnbull was at his elbow, “Corporal McKim sent me, sir. He says that the Prussians have altered direction.”
McKim was correct. Ramsay lay prone behind a mound of ripped sandbags and watched as the Prussians changed direction on the march, as efficiently as if they were on the parade ground. The column opened out until it was sixteen abreast; then thirty two, sixty four and finally it was around a hundred men abreast and still marching toward Carnoy.
“These boys are good,” Flockhart said.
“Bloody parade ground soldiers.” McKim spat on the ground, but Ramsay noticed the intent expression on his face and wondered if the corporal was working out the best way to defeat the military machine known as the Prussian Guards.
The Prussians marched on, now moving in waves with each man a precise distance from his neighbour and each wave twenty paces behind the one in front.
“They are going to take Carnoy,” Flockhart said quietly. “These lads won’t let anything stop them. They’ll keep going like a steamroller.”
Ramsay said nothing. He could only watch as the Prussians marched on, inexorably, until the officer in front stopped for a moment. He turned around, shouted an order and the line behind him halted immediately, as did the following lines.
“What’s happening? Have they seen us?” McKim levelled his rifle.
Ramsay pushed the barrel down. “Rest easy McKim, even if they had seen us, they would not stop. Look where they are.”
The Hauptmann had halted at the rim of the crater where the Royals had erected the triangle of rifles. Ramsay watched as he slipped down and gestured to some of his men to follow. Within a few moments the Prussians had lifted the shell shocked young soldier and two men were carrying him back through their own lines.
For one moment the officer turned towards him and Ramsay saw him clearly. The officer was tall and broad-shouldered, as would be expected of any Prussian Guardsman, but as a stray shaft of sunlight caught the man’s face and reflected on a monocle Ramsay recognised him. This was the same Hauptmann he had faced in the trenches.
Ramsay watched as he reformed his men and continued the advance. This was not at all the typical Prussian officer that the propaganda messages depicted; this man had halted an advance specifically to help a wounded man – an act of compassion that Ramsay had never seen any officer, British or German, perform before.
The Prussian advance continued as though the incident had never happened, but Ramsay had seen a different side to the enemy, and he wondered at the shape of this new animal that national politics dictated that he must fight.
I would like to meet that man after the war. As Kipling said, ‘You’re a better man than I am, Gungha Din.’
“Orders, sir?” Flockhart asked. “Shall we continue to the village?” He nodded toward the Germans. “We might get there before that lot, but I think they would be hard on our tail, sir.”
“Carry on, Sergeant. Double.”
The Royals increased their pace as they tried to keep ahead of the Prussians. Ramsay led from the front, while Flockhart was in the rear to shepherd any stragglers and McKim, the oldest man there by at least twenty years, acted as a sheepdog, circling the men while still watching for any Germans.
As they got closer to Carnoy, there were more Germans and Ramsay had to alter his route to skirt round gun emplacements and an encampment of hospital tents.
“Just like ours, sir,” McKim said with some surprise. “I have never seen a German hospital before.”
There was a steady trickle of stretcher bearers carrying men in, with some walking wounded and others supported by their comrades. Ambulances left at regular intervals, presumably taking the more serious cases to hospitals behind the lines.
“Fritz may be driving us back sir, but he is still paying the price.” Flockhart said. “This push may cost him more than it costs us in the long run.” He shrugged. “If we keep withdrawing and keep
killing him, he’ll have nobody left to fight with.”
Ramsay grunted. “Best leave the high strategy to General Haig, Sergeant. I am sure he knows more about it than you or I do.” He looked toward the tented hospital, where a Red Cross flag hung limp in the breezeless air. “I am not saying that you are wrong, though. We are making him pay for his attacks.”
They skirted around the hospital, keeping well clear of the corrugated track along which the stretcher bearers struggled, and kept marching toward Carnoy.
Ramsay felt an uneasy prickle on his spine and flinched; he knew that feeling well. It was a warning of danger and instinctively he knew that it was not the Germans this time. When he looked over his shoulder, Flockhart was watching him, shaking his head as if he was unsure where he had seen him before.
The man was shorter than Ramsay, and perhaps ten years older, with the broad shoulders and weak legs common to a man who spent his working life crouched in a tiny space, hacking at a seam of coal. Blue scars on his face and hands told their own story of accident and danger.
“Good morning,” the coal miner said politely. His eyes were curious as they scrutinised Ramsay but he recognised a gentleman and did not enquire further.
“Morning,” Ramsay replied. He made to move past the miner.
“It’s a fine day.” The miner leaned against the gate, pulled out a pipe and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl.
“Yes.” Ramsay tapped his walking stick on the gate. His bootlace was not tied properly so he knelt down.
“David! David Napier! You can’t leave me!” Grace’s clear young voice cut across the air like a knife.
The miner looked into the field where Grace was pushing through the long grass. “Grace? Is that you?”
Ramsay cursed inwardly. It was just his luck that he should meet somebody who knew the troublesome girl, but he supposed that in a tight knit mining community such things were more likely than not. He nodded to the miner, tied his lace, swung his stick as a statement of intent and stepped away from the gate.
“Just a minute.” Perhaps the miner was respectful of a gentleman, but he was obviously not inclined to be intimidated by one. He placed a hard hand on Ramsay’s arm. “Is that you Grace is talking to?”
“Get your hand off me, fellow! What the devil do you think you’re playing at?” Ramsay tried to shake himself free but the man’s grip tightened.
“Grace?” The man raised his voice in a shout. “Over at the gate!”
Grace ran over to them. She had pulled her clothes together but had not fastened them properly and her hair was tousled and drifted across her face.
“Rab? I didn’t know you knew David.”
“We’ve just met.” The miner did not release Ramsay’s arm. “What the hell have you been doing Grace Flockhart? As if I have to ask!”
“David has to marry me now,” Grace said at once. “He has taken liberties with me and now I’ll have a baby.”
Ramsay struggled in Rab’s grip. He thought quickly. This miner was unbelievably strong and probably well used to brawling. It would be unseemly for a gentleman to indulge in fisticuffs, and might result in a court case and public exposure, as well as an undignified defeat.
“We will make a fine baby together,” Ramsay drawled the words. “So if your friend Rab – Robert is it? – unhands me, we can plan for the future.” He gave Grace the full force of his most charming smile.
“Oh, David!” Grace stopped crying. “I thought you were running away from me!”
“Good God, no! Why ever would I do that? I was just going for a quiet smoke to plan our next step.” Ramsay patted her arm fondly. “Come, Grace, and you and I will talk about our life.”
There were many more German formations now, some resting in encampments small and large, others preparing to move forward. There were ammunition limbers and store dumps, water carts and artillery emplacements, strings of mules and detachments of men carrying wire and other equipment and everywhere the infantry, marching or standing smoking.
“Plenty of Fritzes here,” McKim said. “I didn’t know there were so many Fritzes in the world.”
Flockhart smiled. “Aye, the Kaiser is trying to make sure of winning the war before the Yanks get in. He’s defeated the Russians and now he thinks he can beat us.”
“No bloody chance,” McKim said. “We’re not bloody Ruskis.”
“Fritz!” McKim hissed the warning to Ramsay.
The German voice floated across to Ramsay, the words harsh. Ramsay looked around. The ground was open here, with no cover into which they could duck. They had to run, fight or try to make themselves invisible. Running was hardly an option with so many Germans in the area and for the same reason fighting was hardly an option.
Make a decision!
“Down lads, form a circle,” Ramsay said quietly. He did not need to say more as his veteran soldiers dropped to the ground and lay in a circle, feet almost touching feet as they faced outward, ready to face any German force but hoping they did not have to.
They lay still, waiting, as the German voice sounded again. Ramsay slid the revolver from his holster, cocked it and looked out. In lying down the Royals had rendered themselves less visible, but they had also cut their own arc of vision. He could see little except a slight ridge topped by ripped sandbags, a broken traversor mat and a broken fascine, left over from some abortive tank attack at the time of the Somme battle.
A quick glance reassured him that his men were in position, rifles ready, bayonets loose in their scabbards, eyes probing, watchful, waiting for discovery.
The German voices came closer. There were about a dozen of them, men talking amongst themselves with casual camaraderie. Ramsay saw one round helmet appear at the periphery of his vision. The man was walking away from Carnoy, he was laughing and his rifle was slung over his shoulder as if he had no immediate intention of using it. As Ramsay watched, a second German came into view, walking with his head down and a bandage across his forehead.
Ramsay sensed a slight movement and glanced to his right. Cruickshank was settling down for a shot, having slid his rifle forward and was peering into the sights.
“Easy, Cruickshank. One shot and all the Huns in Hunland will be down upon us.”
The German voices grew louder as more appeared until there were fifty men, sixty, a hundred, shambling back from the front. Some were lightly wounded, some smoked pipes or cigarettes and few were paying attention as they passed only a few yards from the British positions.
“Easy, lads,” Flockhart muttered. “Keep your nerve.” He had his forefinger curled around the trigger of his rifle, moving the barrel slightly to aim at whichever German soldier came into his line of vision.
The Germans crowded around the Royals position and Ramsay visualised what would happen if one of them noticed the prone British soldiers. The Royals would have the advantage of surprise, so the initial conflict would go their way as they opened fire on the unsuspecting Germans. That would be the first stage, but Fritz was a tough fighter and would soon recover and then there could only be one outcome. The advantage of numbers would tell and the Royals would soon be overrun, with death and wounds or imprisonment the only possible outcome. How would Gillian take that? She would mourn, but she is a beautiful woman and would soon find somebody else.
The thought of Gillian in somebody else’s arms caused a shiver to run the length of Ramsay’s spine. He visualised the scene. Gillian laughing as a shadowy man held her. The man’s arms were around her waist and his hands were exploring the length of her body, travelling north and south. She was laughing, revelling in his touch. Then he turned around and it was Flockhart who was with Gillian, taunting him, taking sweet revenge for that occasion so long ago …
Ramsay shook himself back to the present. He saw the Germans file past, talking, grumbling, singing. One man had a harmonica and played a melancholic air; his helmet was pushed well back on his head and blonde hair flopped over his face.
Ramsay tightened
his grip on the butt of his revolver and slid his finger around the trigger; the steel felt cold to his touch.
One more ounce of pressure and I could kill that man. I would have helped win the war. I would have killed another German soldier.
The thoughts ran through Ramsay’s mind, tripping over themselves in the confusion of his brain. He took a deep breath, realised he was shaking with tension and eased off the pressure slightly. The blonde German walked on, the notes of his harmonica following until they faded away.
“They’ve gone,” Mackay said. He was white under the grime that covered his face, and his voice cracked with the strain.
“There will be others,” Ramsay said. “McKim, have a decko and see if the coast is clear.”
McKim nodded and slid away, belly down on the mud as he followed the line of a long abandoned sap before emerging into the open land beyond. Only then did Ramsay realise that the musketry had risen to a crescendo, and then faded away, dying into a number of isolated rifle shots, a sudden burst of machine gun fire then silence. The smell of smoke drifted to him.
“Sir, the Huns are in Carnoy.” McKim spoke in an urgent whisper. “It looks as if they’ve taken the place.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
24-25 March 1918
McKim was correct. Ramsay crested the ridge overlooking the village and looked down. He could see grey uniforms everywhere and the distinctive disciplined formation of the Prussian Guards marching down what he presumed was the main street.
“Look,” Ramsay pointed, “all the Germans are at the opposite side of the village from the train. It’s still standing in the station.” He grinned as a sudden crazy idea came to him. “If we only had a train driver we could capture that train and ride it all the way back to our own lines: what an adventure that would be!”
Already Ramsay could see his name in the papers: British Officer breaks through German lines in train. King awards him the Victoria Cross.
Now that would impress Gillian if anything could.
Last Train to Waverley Page 15
