Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “There’s no front line here,” McKim said. He hefted his rifle, checked the magazine and worked the bolt. “There is nothing to hold on to and Fritz is going to walk right in.” He glanced at Ramsay, “Unless you organise a defence, sir?”

  Ramsay felt the fear return at this new responsibility McKim expected him to assume.

  Oh, God, no. I can’t! I am not a real soldier. I am just here to keep Gillian happy.

  “If that Durham is there, there might be others, sir. You can gather them all together and stop the Fritzes. They won’t be expecting anything …” He looked up with hope bright in his dirty face.

  An hour ago I was contemplating surrendering and spending a peaceful duration, now I am being persuaded to organise the defence of Albert against half the German army. Trust McKim to know exactly what regiment that private was from.

  But what a thought; what would Gillian think if I went back as the man who held Albert and stopped the German advance?

  Ramsay nodded. “Let’s show them what Royal Scots can do, McKim.” Despite his tiredness he smiled at the expression on the corporal’s face. “See how many men you can gather; I don’t care what unit they are from, just bring them together. Start with that Durham.”

  Ramsay remembered Albert as a bustling transit town, damaged by German shelling but still functioning, with busy shops and a population confident that the British Army could protect them from the German hordes. Now he saw a town in terror. Lamps lit the night time streets and people were packing up their belongings and loading them onto carts, horses or mules.

  “I have never seen such fear,” Turnbull said. “These poor people are terrified of the Huns.”

  We have let them down. We came with our guns and our arrogance and our confidence that the great British Empire could defend the citizens of Albert and all of France from the rapacious hordes of Prussia. Instead here we are, running like khaki rabbits and not even attempting to defend these poor people. Imagine if this was Edinburgh and the Hun was at the gate with their rape and pillage and slaughter; how would I feel?

  What if Gillian was waiting helpless for Fritz with his usual Hun frightfulness?

  Ramsay saw an old woman stumbling up the street with all the worldly possessions she could carry balanced in her frail arms. He saw entire families crowding onto carts piled high with furniture, bags and baggage, children crying as their mothers held them tight and their fathers led the horse. He saw women gathered in corners, weeping in despair and fear at the prospect of German occupation. He saw an ancient man with a long moustache standing in his doorway, weeping uncontrollably and knew the sad reality of war.

  “Jesus,” Cruickshank breathed out as he loosened his bayonet in its scabbard, “these poor bastards.”

  “Is this the defence line, sir?” The speaker was a small man in the uniform of the Army Service Corps.

  Ramsay nodded, wearily at first and then grimly as his resolution strengthened. “Yes. This is where we will make our stand. You are ASC?”

  The small man nodded. “Yes, sir.” He was around fifty, his steep helmet lying low on his head. He threw a crooked salute that would have disgraced a schoolboy. “878, Private Timms, sir.”

  “Have you seen much action?”

  “Not yet, sir. Everybody thought I was too old and unfit.” The man stood as erect as he could.

  Good God. He’s a bald old man with bad eyesight, but he is volunteering to stay and fight while others run.

  “Good man, Timms, you’ll do. Let’s see how many more men we can find and we’ll give old Fritz a fright, eh?”

  Timms smiled and immediately attempted to look martial and tough, an image he promptly spoiled by almost dropping his rifle.

  Ramsay ignored the racket of the fleeing evacuees as he tried to work out some sort of defensive plan. He had a tiny force of men and only a few weapons, while there was an entire army of efficient Germans waiting to occupy Albert as soon as their commander gave the order.

  When will they come? When would I come? Just before dawn so the advancing men have the advantage of growing light.

  “I found these lads doing nothing, sir,” McKim encouraged three unshaven privates forward with the point of his bayonet. “They claim that their regiment left them behind and they have been searching for another unit to join.”

  The men shambled to attention in front of Ramsay. In the dark he could not make out the insignia on their uniforms.

  “Welcome to the new front line, lads.” He was not sure he had managed to keep the irony from his voice. He jerked his thumb in an eastward direction. “Fritz is coming from out there,” he nodded to the town, “and he wants to take Albert. We are going to stop him.”

  None of his new recruits looked particularly enthusiastic at the prospect.

  “You men have the chance to make history if you stand firm and do your duty.” Ramsay looked for signs of agreement on their faces, but they merely looked sullen. “What are your names?”

  There was a few moments’ silence then the nearest man muttered: “Smith, sir, 456.”

  “Jones, sir, 768”

  A longer pause and then, “Perkins, sir, 973.”

  That last name could have been genuine but Ramsay suspected that the others were not.

  Are these men deserters? Or men who were genuinely left behind and are so demoralised that they just hoped to surrender. I was thinking that myself not long ago. Are we so close to defeat that we are willing to give up?

  “We have a chance to dent the German advance boys! You could help win the war.”

  There was still no response so Ramsay sharpened his tone. “I expect you to fight. Dig yourself a trench and fortify it with sandbags. God knows there are plenty lying around. Carry on.”

  Ramsay acknowledged their too-brief salutes and paced where he intended to make his stand. He had no barbed wire, only a handful of tired men and no heavy armament to stop half the German army.

  “I know you bastards were ready to desert or surrender,” he heard McKim’s snarl through the gloom. “Well, I’ve been around too long to let that happen. I am Corporal McKim of the Royal Scots, First of Foot, right of the line and pride of the British Army. Remember the name. If any of you run from here I will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog!”

  Ramsay hid his smile. Maybe the Germans were making huge inroads, but as long as the British army had men such as McKim, there was hope. The Prussian Guards might kill him eventually, but they would never defeat him.

  More men came in through the night. They arrived in ones and twos, a couple of cooks, a beribboned veteran with a fierce moustache who almost rivalled Cruickshank for truculence, a duo of bewildered storemen and three men that McKim winkled out of an estaminet.

  “Here are three drunken sods for you, sir. Some sort of fusiliers I think, but not the best sort.” McKim pushed them forward. “Stand to attention you miserable bastards! That’s a real officer you are addressing, not some dugout king!”

  Ramsay appreciated the implied compliment. A dugout king was an officer who stayed out of danger; McKim was quietly telling him that he was now recognised as a fighting man.

  Dear God, I am accepted. The old veteran thinks I am of some use.

  “You three, get sober and get digging. We have a town to defend.”

  Turnbull unearthed two more volunteers, men who had been left behind when the bulk of the army retreated and he ushered them to Ramsay.

  “Here we are sir; two more rifles.”

  The men stared at Ramsay as if he were some sort of ogre until McKim roared at them to stand to attention and “at least try to look like soldiers and not tailor’s dummies wearing dirty khaki!”

  Ramsay smiled. “Don’t mind him, lads. He’s a corporal, he can’t speak without shouting and he can’t shout without an insult. It’s a gift that all corporals are born with.”

  The two relaxed slightly but still stared wide-eyed at him.

  “So what unit did you lads belong to?”

>   One wore spectacles with thick lenses; the other was about three stone underweight and stood with a permanent stoop.

  “We are shoemakers, sir,” the spectacled man stuttered, “but we want to help stop the Germans.”

  “Shoemakers,” Cruikshank said in the background. “Jesus help us – shoemakers. I bet Kaiser Bill is shaking in his boots.”

  “Well, a shoemaker can shoot as straight as anybody else.” Ramsay did not smile. “Welcome aboard, lads. Corporal McKim will find you shovels and you can start to dig a trench. You will do fine.”

  As the hands on his watch gradually circled toward dawn, the train still burned toward Carnoy and stars appeared in the sky. Ramsay heard a drift of singing from the German positions. He recognised the song that the Prussian Guards had regaled them with a few days earlier.

  “Shall we sing back, sir?” McKim asked. “We can let them know the Royals are still here.”

  “No!” Ramsay said firmly. “We want them to think that the place is undefended. There are so few of us that our only advantage is surprise.”

  As more men joined Ramsay’s force he had created a defensive line about two hundred yards long, only a fraction of the perimeter of Albert, but hopefully long enough to at least stall the German advance.

  We cannot possibly halt them, but if we delay them for only an hour or so, we might give our army time to form a better defence.

  Ramsay checked his watch. Four in the morning and dawn was pink in the east. Dew formed on the grass in front of the makeshift trenches, pale-glittering in the starlight.

  “Stand to, boys. They might probe with a raiding party.” He watched as his warriors - reluctant, eager or resigned - woke up, stretched, yawned and took up their positions. One by one rifles protruded, ready to greet the Germans with at least a show of resistance.

  He paced the length of his front. His flanks were based on two solid houses, both of which he had tried to form into strongpoints by sandbagging the windows and doors and placing determined men inside. With no machine guns they would have to rely on their personal weapons, but massed musketry had scared the Germans at Mons, and might work again.

  Unfortunately I don’t have a mass of men, and certainly not of the superb quality that we had at Mons. Oh, for a hundred of the Old Contemptibles! I would flatten the front ranks of the Prussians.

  He looked at his hodgepodge collection of drunks, cooks, clerks and laggards. It was hardly an inspiring sight, despite the thin scattering of his own Royals and the few veterans McKim had managed to scrape up from the depths of Albert. Timms was scowling fiercely at the slowly rising sun, with his helmet pushed well over his face and his bayonet fixed and ready.

  “Are you fully loaded, Timms?” Ramsay asked kindly and Timms nodded.

  “Yes, sir. I am ready for them.”

  “Good man. That’s the spirit.” Ramsay thought of the tall, broad and highly trained Prussian Guards who were probably already assembling a couple of miles away and hid his fear. Timms had all the guts in the world, but he would need much more to stand a chance against the military machine that was the German army. In the last sixty years the Prussians had swept aside the Danes, Austrians, French and Russians, as well as flattening all opposition in Africa in their march to a world power. Now it was Britain’s turn to face them.

  And what do we have in opposition? Private Albert Timms, never having fired a gun in anger, with shaking hands and a shrapnel helmet two sizes too large for his head. God save us all.

  “Plenty food at least.” McKim joined him in his tour of the trenches, handing out French bread and glasses of wine. “There’s no rum, boys but vin blank is bon, eh?” He was smiling and as jaunty as ever, his broken pipe emitting aromatic smoke and sandbag-sacking protecting the bolt of his rifle.

  And then we have McKim.

  The men did not object to wine and when the veterans began to brew up tea, Ramsay said nothing. Whatever aided morale could only be helpful when they faced impossible odds.

  McKim stiffened slightly. “Fritz is singing,” he said softly. “He must think he has won the war.”

  The sound filled the pinking sky; the same deep-throated melody they had heard before as a thousand Prussians boasted of their love for their fatherland.

  “Musical buggers aren’t they, sir?” McKim sucked at his pipe.

  “They are,” Ramsay agreed. “Good soldiers, too.”

  McKim considered. “Not bad,” he conceded, “but a bit limited. They are efficient at this sort of warfare. If we faced them on the veldt we would run rings round them.”

  Ramsay smiled. “I am sure we would, McKim, and once this war is won we can return to the old days.”

  Ramsay looked around. Their train was still glowing red but the dawn was stronger now, streaking the eastern sky with bands of ochre red. A wind ruffled the grass and carried a whiff of smoke and the distinctive sour aroma created by tens of thousands of men living without proper sanitary facilities.

  “They will be coming soon then,” McKim said calmly. He took the pipe from his mouth and added more tobacco to the bowl. “Well, death and hell to them all.”

  “Death and hell to them,” Ramsay echoed. He checked that his revolver was fully loaded. “Good luck, McKim. If anybody gets through this, it will be you.” He surprised himself and held out his hand.

  McKim hesitated and then tentatively accepted the handshake. His hands were surprisingly small, but hard as granite callused along the base of the fingers. They shook gingerly and then both tightened their grip in an act of mutual respect.

  “Good luck, sir,” McKim said.

  The Prussians came just as the first low rays of the sun crested the eastern horizon. Ramsay blinked and tried to shield his eyes.

  Clever buggers, the Hun. We are half-blinded by the sun.

  He saw movement ahead and readied his revolver. He had expected the Prussians to come in their long, extended lines that only death stopped, but instead there were a few scattered parties of men, walking cautiously over the sloping ground as they approached the shattered town of Albert.

  “Scouts,” he said. “Keep low and don’t fire. There are only a few of them. McKim, once they have passed us, take two men and deal with them. Quietly.”

  “Prisoners, sir?” McKim drew his smoke-blackened bayonet from its scabbard. The sight carried so much menace that Ramsay almost felt sorry for the German infantry.

  The German scouts were within a few yards when Timms opened fire. “There they are!” He shouted, “I see them, sir! It’s the Germans!”

  The scouts dropped immediately and Ramsay cursed. His plan had depended on the discipline inherent in regular or at least experienced troops, but most of his tiny command was neither. Once the first shot was fired there was no point in remaining quiet.

  “Fire, lads! Shoot them flat!”

  It was easy to distinguish the steady, rapid fire of the veterans from the staccato fusillade from the inexperienced, but the combined result knocked down half a dozen of the scouts and sent the rest scurrying for shelter.

  “Cease fire!” Ramsay ordered. No sense in letting Fritz know exactly how many of us there are.

  “McKim, if you see movement, shoot. The rest of you, all of you, including you Timms, hold your fire until I give a direct order.”

  The artillery fire began five minutes later, a short, intensive bombardment from light guns that landed mainly behind Ramsay’s position and added to the devastation of the town. And then the infantry came in.

  They advanced in long lines with bayonets fixed, tall men silhouetted against the rising sun, a light rolling barrage flattening everything in front of them. Ramsay kept his men down until the shellfire had stopped and then watched the infantry advance.

  “Saxons, I think,” McKim said casually as he aimed. “Or maybe Wurtenbergians. They’re not Prussians at any rate.”

  “Hold your fire,” Ramsay ordered. The Germans were quarter of a mile away and walking rapidly. The first line was ext
ending to overlap their position.

  Damn! I can’t do anything about it. Keep calm. Do as much damage as we can and see what transpires.

  “Hold your fire!” he repeated.

  The Germans were four hundred yards away now and still approaching steadily. Ramsay could make out the features of individuals; he could see the officers marching in front and the NCOs at regular intervals keeping the line precise.

  They were three hundred yards away now – about five hundred German infantry against his twenty-two scattered and half-trained men.

  Two hundred and fifty yards and still they came. McKim had ignored the officers and had his rifle pointed firmly at one of the senior NCOs. As an old soldier he knew that they were the backbone of any military formation. Officers could come and go, but sergeants were the lifeblood, the soul and the experience of any army. Kill them and the officers were left with nobody to translate their orders to the private soldiers.

  Two hundred yards. Oh, God. I will have to give the order soon.

  McKim glanced at him. His finger was curled around the trigger, already white under the pressure.

  One hundred and fifty yards. Even his most inexperienced men could not miss at this range.

  Ramsay stood up so he could clearly be seen. “Fire!”

  He pointed his revolver at the mass of Germans and squeezed the trigger as the British opened up. The initial volley was ragged, but it still tore holes in the German line. As the firing continued, the veterans made the most of the close range and the element of surprise, firing their fifteen aimed shots a minute and the enemy fell in droves. Ramsay distinctly heard the German officers shouting orders. He aimed at the closest and fired: two, three, four shots. The man turned around, a look of surprise on his face, then he crumpled and fell.

  Ramsay reloaded as his men fired, worked their bolts and fired again. He heard Timms shouting and McKim giving his habitual slogan of “Death and hell to you” as he fired. He saw the leading German line falter, lifted his revolver and aimed at the next German officer. Something tugged at the skirts of his coat, but he ignored it and fired until that officer fell, then looked for his next target.