Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  This is serious. I am dead.

  There were sounds he could not recognise and sensations he could not name. Somebody was moaning; somebody else was shouting “death and hell”; somebody was leaning over him.

  That will be Mother, surely, come to ensure I am all right.

  “Mother? I’m very hot, is the fire on?”

  His mother was holding him in hands far too rough; he tried to pull away but lacked the strength. “Leave me, let me alone.”

  “Death and hell to you all!”

  There must be workmen in the house, nothing else could account for that incessant loud banging as they used their hammers on his head.

  “Leave me alone. Mother, do the workmen have to make such an infernal noise?”

  “Sir, sir, are you all right?” The face that loomed over him was certainly not his mother; it was dirty and she had never sported a five day growth of beard like that. Nor had her dress been stained yellow and green with lyddite fumes.

  “Of course I’m not all right! I’ve been shot, damn it!” Ramsay took hold of the hand that Flockhart proffered and hauled himself upright. He staggered as the train bounced across points. He blinked as something blocked his vision, and passed a hand across his forehead. It came away sticky and red with blood. “God …”

  Flockhart looked closer. “It looks like a bullet has scored your head, sir. There’s lots of blood but I don’t think it’s serious.”

  Why me? Why not me? I get wounded every time I come to the front.

  “Here, sir. Try this.” Flockhart handed over a handkerchief.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Ramsay wiped away the worst of the blood from his forehead and eyebrows. More followed in a steady flow, but he probed upward until he found the wound and pressed the handkerchief firmly down. He gasped at the pain but applied pressure until the flow of blood eased.

  “It is just a graze,” he said.

  That will be a fine scar to show to Gillian when her hero comes marching home from the war.

  Fighting against the hammering pain in his head, Ramsay took a deep breath and tried to focus on his surroundings. The train was slowing down. He looked out of the window. They had left the station and were in open countryside, still scarred by war but not as mutilated as most he had passed through. There was something burning on the horizon, he could see huge flames and a pall of dark smoke rising. He could no longer see the Germans, although the occasional crash of a striking bullet told him they had not forgotten about the impudent Royals in their midst.

  “Find out why we are slowing down,” he ordered. “Tell Niven to keep moving no matter what. The greater distance we can put between ourselves and the Prussians, the better.”

  “Yes, sir.” For a moment something flickered behind Flockhart’s eyes, but he nodded and moved forward from the compartment.

  He knows; I am sure he knows who I am; how the hell do I get out of this mess?

  Ramsay tried to follow Flockhart but his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. He lay there for a moment as the carriage spun around him, then pushed himself back upright, clinging to the seats for support. This train lacked the corridors he knew so well and was composed of open plan carriages, with seats each side of a central aisle. He staggered to the front and opened the door that connected to the guard’s van.

  The van was crammed with bags and baggage, boxes and all the paraphernalia of a retreating army. Ramsay ignored it all as he pushed forward to the far end, where a wooden door allowed him access to the tender and the engine itself. He had been aware of the sound of firing for some time but now it increased to a nonstop rattle of musketry. He pushed open the carriage door.

  The sudden blast of air nearly knocked him off the step but also cleared his head. Turnbull was firing, his nerves under control and his face set, Cruickshank was sheltering as he tried to clear a jam. Edwards was lying back with blood on his face, Blackley was shovelling coal as Niven stared forward along the track as if he had been a train driver all his life.

  “Sir!” Flockhart pointed to the left.

  A battery of field guns was wheeling around to face the train. The drivers lashed their horses unmercifully as the sun flashed from burnished metal. It was a gloriously military sight; lovely for civilians to watch but so dangerous in the reality of battle.

  “Not bon!” Cruickshank shouted, “Not bloody bon at all.”

  “Shoot the gunners,” Ramsay shouted, and winced in pain as Turnbull fired only a few inches from his ear. “Everyone concentrate on the gunners. Niven, can’t you get this train to move faster? My granny could walk faster than this and she’s been dead for years!”

  The Royals opened rapid fire, leaning out of the glassless windows as the train rolled along the track. Ramsay saw some of the gunners fall, but the others continued their work and as the train approached a broad bend he found himself staring down the black muzzles of the guns.

  “Here we go!” Flockhart said quietly. He lifted his rifle, took careful aim and fired. One of the gunners fell. “That’s one less anyway, but their guns are bigger than ours.”

  “Here comes the receipt.” Cruickshank ducked as all six guns opened up at once.

  Ramsay stood transfixed as he saw the guns leap back with the recoil. He did not see the rush of shot, but saw the results as the ground erupted a good three hundred yards to the right, beyond the train.

  Flockhart fired again, and McKim followed suit. A curtain of falling earth from the explosions prevented Ramsay from seeing the result.

  “Get shovelling, Blackley!” Ramsay shouted. “Niven, get as much speed as you can from this train!” He looked around, as far as he could see there was no cover as the line crossed the open countryside of Picardy.

  “Do you think we will make Albert?” McKim asked, just as the guns fired again.

  The Germans had corrected their aim. The explosions fell either side of the train, spreading shrapnel and stones across the track and shattering the last remaining carriage windows. The shock jolted the train sideways, first one direction and then the other, until it righted itself and Niven steered it around the wide curve.

  “They’re firing again.” Flockhart worked his bolt and shot at the artillery. “Missed!”

  “Here it comes!” McKim said.

  Ramsay ducked involuntarily as the shells burst. He only saw two explosions, but felt the results of at least one more as the train heeled to one side and rocks and shrapnel tore into the bodywork of the carriage. One shard of metal ripped through the seat beside which he stood, emerging sharp and wicked, inches from his hand.

  “Jesus!” somebody blasphemed as the train juddered sideways. Men and loose fittings were thrown across the carriage; a discarded rifle clattered along the slanted floor, Turnbull rolled past him, swearing wildly and he put out a hand to help.

  “We’re going over,” McKim yelled.

  “Hold on lads,” Flockhart roared and then there was pandemonium as the carriages crashed onto their side and scraped and crashed along the tracks. Ramsay tried to grab hold of a seat for support but it was torn loose of its mountings and he was thrown the length of the carriage amidst a jumble of men and fittings, broken glass and equipment. For a moment it seemed that the whole world was in confusion as the carriage crashed onto the ground with a litter of seats, men and equipment falling on top of him, and then he lay still, with a crushing weight on top of him and pain in his head and his left leg.

  Ramsay gradually became aware of his surroundings. There was a cacophony of noises; groaning and cursing, the hiss of escaping steam and a crackling he could not identify. He tried to make sense of the various sounds.

  “Get off me for Christ’s sake, Turnbull.”

  “Has anybody seen my rifle? Where’s my rifle?”

  “I can’t see. Oh, God, I can’t see!”

  “Hurry, lads, before the boiler blows!”

  “Bloody Fritzes. Bloody, bloody Fritzes!”

  Ramsay ‘s vision was obscured by blood dri
pping from his reopened head wound, he tried to raise a hand to clear his eyes but something held him trapped and he could not move.

  “Sergeant Flockhart? McKim? Are you there?”

  His voice was lost in the general hubbub. The crackling sound was growing stronger and he coughed.

  God. That’s smoke. The train is on fire!

  “Flockhart, get the men out of here before we all burn to death!” Again he tried to move but with no success. Another drift of smoke swept over him and he coughed again, harder. “Is anybody there?”

  Other men were shouting and Ramsay took a deep breath that contained as much smoke as oxygen.

  Don’t panic, think what is best to do. You are an officer and a gentleman, it is your place to lead and show an example. Check if you can move all your limbs.

  Ramsay tried his feet, left and then right. Nothing.

  Am I paralysed? Oh God what a way to die, burned to death in a train in France.

  His right arm was trapped, but he could move his left slightly. He concentrated, tried to block out all extraneous sounds and the increasing smell of smoke. He shifted his arm from side to side, felt something solid and pushed hard. It moved a little and he had more space.

  “Flockhart!” Ramsay yelled.

  Now he could move his arm as far as his shoulder and he inched his arm up. There was a rattling sound and something rolled heavily onto his legs, but his left arm was free. Ramsay wiped the blood from his eyes. He opened them and saw a scene of utter chaos. The carriage lay on its side: all the chairs were piled up, together with what appeared to be pieces of the body of the train and a number of khaki-clad corpses. The smoke was not as thick as he had thought; blue and evil, it slid in from the left, where the engine should have been.

  There were two heavy seats on top of him and a section of what had once been the roof of the carriage. Ramsay shoved at the nearest chair and wriggled free. He stood in a half crouch and examined himself for injuries, but save for bruises, cuts and grazes he was unscathed.

  “Is that you, sir?” As usual, McKim had his stub of a pipe in his mouth as he picked his way through the mess. “Fritz got us proper that time,” he said casually, “but we’d better get out before the boiler blows.”

  He kicked at the nearest man. “Come on, Cruickshank. You’re not hurt. It’s just a scratch.”

  “Get up, lads, and get outside,” Ramsay took over. He checked the two remaining men. Edwards was dead, his head almost severed, but Turnbull was alive although he nursed a broken wrist. “Outside, lads. Come on now!”

  Ramsay led the way by climbing out of the far window, which was now facing the sky, and helped Turnbull up. It was the work of a moment to slide down to the ground and assess the damage.

  A shell had hit the track immediately in front of the engine. Niven had not had a chance to stop and had driven right into the explosion. The engine had crashed into the shell crater and the carriages had derailed one after the other. They lay on their side like a metallic snake – orange-red flames surging from the engine and lightening up the rapidly darkening landscape.

  “Have you seen Sergeant Flockhart?” Ramsay asked and one by one the men shook their heads.

  “I think he was in the engine with Niven,” Turnbull said. McKim had fixed him with a temporary splint and sling and he nursed his arm, in obvious pain.

  “McKim, you gather the rest of the men. I’ll check the engine.” Ramsay moved forward, occasionally stopping to clear blood from his eyes.

  “Be careful, sir! If that engine blows…” There was no need for McKim to complete his sentence. A boiler explosion would be just as lethal as the German artillery.

  Flowers of flames surrounded the engine and licked at the spilled coal of the upended tender. Ramsay saw Niven lying on his back, pinned under the body of the engine. He was immobile, with his arms outspread. Blackley was a few yards away from the engine, groaning.

  “Blackley,” Ramsay knelt at his side. “Can you move?”

  Blackley looked up and nodded. “Only winded,” he gasped. “I was thrown clear. How’s Niven?”

  “Dead.” Ramsay said shortly. “Have you seen Sergeant Flockhart?”

  Blackley shook his head. “Not since the shelling began,” he said.

  Free. I am free of him. The Germans have done it for me.

  Ramsay tried to hide the immense relief that came over him. He had lived with the fear of discovery for so long that it had become part of him, but now he no longer had that worry. He was free. Only the Germans remained as a threat.

  “Back to the train, Blackley,” Ramsay said. “Let’s get out of here before Fritz comes to see what remains.”

  McKim had gathered the Royals together. They stood beside the train, most nursing wounds and only two still carrying their rifles. Ramsay counted them:

  “Me, McKim, Blackley, Turnbull, Cruickshank.” Only five men left. “Right, lads. Let’s move out of here.” He led the way, heading into the dark for what he hoped was the British lines, as the flames spread across the train and leaped up to the sky. “Come on lads. Toute-de-suite.”

  There were flames on the horizon. Ramsay was not sure what was burning, but it was large, lighting up the horizon to the south.

  “We have not stopped Fritz yet, then,” McKim said. He had retained his rifle and ignored the cut that dripped blood from his right arm as he walked.

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Ramsay said. He could hear the growl of guns and see intermittent flashes on the horizon. “We are still fighting though. It looks like the line is at Albert now.” That was a guess, but as an officer he liked to appear omnipotent.

  “Is that where we are headed then?” McKim asked. He stumbled over a high tussock of grass, looked down, cursed and continued.

  “That’s the plan,” Ramsay said. He had no plan at all, except to get as far from the train as possible. The Germans would be clustering there in minutes.

  “The lads need a rest,” McKim reminded. “They have been going nonstop.”

  “We will rest when it’s safe,” Ramsay said. He looked behind him. The burning train dominated the night, the flames soaring skyward as a warning to everyone within a ten mile diameter of the further destructive cost of this war.

  “We’ll march for another hour, then rest for four and continue,” Ramsay decided. “Head for the guns.”

  “Which bloody guns?” Cruickshank grumbled, “There are guns everywhere.”

  “Mind your lip, Cruickshank,” McKim stopped Ramsay from having to explain further. At that moment he felt that if he had to make another decision his brain would explode.

  They halted in the lee of a small group of shell-blasted trees, with the light from the burning train on one horizon and the intermittent flash of shellfire on the other.

  “What date is it, sir?” McKim asked.

  Ramsay tried to work it out but shook his head. “I don’t know, Corporal. We seem to have been retreating for days.” Once again he cursed his loose tongue.

  I am getting too familiar with these men. I should learn to keep more distance between us, but that is not easy when we share the same shell hole and use the same latrine.

  Ramsay wondered what the lack of expression on McKim’s face meant; was he sneering at him? Was he wondering why he was only a lieutenant after all his experience at the front?

  “Try and get some sleep,” Ramsay said curtly. “I’ll take first watch.”

  God knows, I can’t sleep anyway.

  He watched as the Royals slumped onto the ground around the base of the trees. After the fire they were smoke-stained as well as unshaven and ragged, and all were carrying a number of minor wounds and cuts, some of which were already showing signs of gas gangrene from the contaminated shell holes they had negotiated.

  There are not many of us left now. Once again I’ve let my men down and got them killed.

  Stripped of their bark by shrapnel and explosive, the trees pointed stark fingers skyward to an unforgiving God. They
provided scant shelter in the shattered landscape, but they were a focal point, a reminder of earlier times when fields were green and soil was a promise of future life, not a sanctuary from death or hideous disfigurement.

  As she stood under the branches of the tall elm tree, she was beautiful. There was no other word to describe Gillian. With her long coat almost touching the short grass and her bonnet tight around her heart-shaped face, she was a picture of female perfection.

  She greeted him with open arms and soft lips. A year earlier such a display of affection would have brought disapproving frowns from the righteous and the respectable, but after twelve months of war people were used to women greeting their soldier men. What was once reserved only for the lower classes was now acceptable for gentlemen and ladies; certain proprieties had been put aside, at least for the duration of the war.

  “Your last leave before you are off to the front, my Hector.” Gillian did not release him, but whispered the words in his ear. “We must make it memorable.”

  Ramsay pulled her even closer, seeking comfort in the proximity of her body, rather than mere sexual desire. He did not want to go to France. He wanted to stay here in Edinburgh and live a quiet life among the papers and deeds and legal terminology for which he had been trained. He looked around. Princes Street Gardens spread on either side, the lawns not quite as immaculate as they were in peacetime and the late summer flowers losing their fire to the cool onslaught of autumn. He was desperate to remain.

  “You look so smart,” Gillian pulled back and examined him. “You suit uniform, you know. Maybe you should remain a soldier even after the war is won.” Her eyes were gentle, but also urgent with an emotion he had never thought to see in her. “Just think of all the places we could visit!”

  Ramsay said nothing, but his mind intoned the words: Mons, Loos, Le Cateau; Ypres. Death and horror awaited him in a thousand different forms and shapes.

  “Imagine it, Douglas. We could be posted to Poona and live in a hill station with ten servants to do our bidding!” A smile curved Gillian’s lips at the thought of having people to bow to her and follow her every command. “Our babies would have Indian nannies, Douglas. I would have tea with the Colonel’s lady and you could hunt tigers.”