Last Train to Waverley

by Malcolm Archibald

  “They’re running!” Timms sounded excited. “We’ve beat the Germans!” He hauled himself out of his trench and took a few steps forward until McKim grabbed hold of his collar and threw him back.

  “Get back in there, you bloody idiot!”

  “Keep firing!” Ramsay emptied his revolver. “The more we kill the less likely they are to return.”

  His scratch force responded with a will, knocking down another dozen Germans before Ramsay called a halt. “Withdraw to the shelter of the town, lads. Fritz won’t be pleased at us.”

  He left the details to McKim, who responded as though withdrawing a tiny rag-tag bunch of soldiers only half a mile away from a huge German army was something he did every week. The shells began to land before the men were all clear and Timms screamed in sudden fear.

  “Run, Timms!” McKim shouted, “Don’t mind the shine!”

  The shells landed in groups of six, plastering the positions the British had so recently vacated, throwing up great columns of mud and soil and the remains of sandbags.

  The lyddite fumes had not yet cleared when the German infantry came again.

  “That’s not the Saxons this time,” McKim said quietly. “That’s the bloody Prussians.”

  “Get back in line, boys, and bowl them over!” Ramsay led the men back to their old positions. A couple of stray shells exploded and a machine gun began its insistent chatter, spraying the line of defences so that now his men had to throw themselves behind the meagre cover left by the bombardment.

  The Prussians advanced faster than their predecessors – two long lines of tall men carrying fixed bayonets and led by the usual quota of brave officers.

  “This lot won’t be stopped by a few casualties,” McKim commented.

  “Maybe not, but we’ll send as many to hell as we can.” Ramsay said. He felt a new sort of madness, a crazed desire to stop the Prussians by any means he could.

  “Come on, Fritz! Come on! Die for your Kaiser! Up the Royals!”

  Ramsay stepped forward from the trenches and opened fire. He heard himself cheering as he faced the still-distant Prussians. “Come on you Prussian bastards! Come and face the Royals!”

  The words were unheard amidst the growing crackle of musketry as the defenders opened fire and the Prussians continued to advance. They seemed huge in the morning light, rank after rank moving inexorably in an impersonal advance, covering the ground with methodical skill.

  “Death and hell to you!” McKim was shouting, but his firing was unhurried, professional as he aimed each shot.

  “Oh, God! Oh, God, there’s thousands of them!” That was an English voice. One of the shoemakers perhaps, but its owner was still firing, still keeping his position despite the danger.

  “Get back in cover, sir!” McKim was beside him. “We need you alive!”

  Sanity returned as Ramsay realised what he was doing. He was standing a full two yards in front of the British position in full view of the Prussians, a lone officer with a pistol, facing hundreds of enemy infantry.

  What would Gillian think of me if she saw me? Would she think I am her Hector, a hero of antiquity?

  “Get back, you bloody fool!” McKim made no secret of his feelings. “You’re an officer, not a bloody recruit looking for a medal! You’ll catch a bullet sure as death!” The corporal stopped firing for a moment to grab Ramsay’s tunic and haul him back to the meagre shelter of the sandbags.

  Putting a hand on an officer is probably against Kings Regulations. I could have him court martialled for that …

  “Thanks, McKim,” Ramsay said. A machine gun opened up and bullets sprayed the front of the British positions. Somewhere on his left a man screamed, high-pitched and agonised.

  “Keep firing boys! Send them back!”

  There were gaps in the German lines, but they kept advancing. The officers gave an order and they quickened their pace from a fast walk to a trot and then lowered their bayonets and began to charge.

  “We can’t stop them! Run boys!”

  Ramsay looked along the line. The man who had called himself Smith had left his position and was backing away. He dropped his rifle, turned and began to run, screaming as his panic overcame him. One of his companions, the man named Jones, quickly followed.

  “Smith! Get back in line!” McKim whirled round and aimed his rifle at the fleeing man.

  “Leave him, McKim. Let him go!” Ramsay understood McKim’s reasoning, for panic could easily spread and Smith and Jones’ example might lead to a mass exodus. “Concentrate on the Germans. Those men are not worth your attention.”

  The Prussians were about seventy yards away and coming fast despite the gaps in their ranks. Ramsay estimated that there were three hundred in the front line alone. He glanced along the defensive line. He had twenty men, about half of whom were front line soldiers.

  Do we fight to the death or retreat? The boys are shaky already.

  The decision was taken from him as Turnbull shouted, “They’re behind us! We’re outflanked!”

  Prussians were pouring in either side of Ramsay’s small group, some stopping to kneel and fire, others advancing at speed, their long bayonets snaking forward.

  Ramsay had no time to give the order. His line collapsed as his mix of deserters, shoemakers and odds and sods broke and ran. Only the Royals remained, together with Timms, who was still firing when Ramsay gave the order to retire to the village.

  “But we can beat them!” Timms screamed.

  “Come on, you stupid bastard!” McKim grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

  Ramsay left three dead behind, including the moustached veteran who was slouched over a sandbag, still facing the enemy.

  “Back to the houses, lads,” Ramsay ordered.

  I have ordered more retreats than advances, yet again.

  “We held them for a few minutes at least,” he shouted, but McKim corrected him.

  “We held them for more than an hour sir; that’s more than the generals could do.”

  “Do you know Albert, McKim?” Ramsay stopped to fire three shots at the advancing Prussians. None took effect. The Prussians on the flanks joined those who had been in the frontal attack. They stopped to dress their lines.

  “Yes, sir,” McKim said. “I have been here before.”

  “Can you guide us through the streets?” Ramsay reloaded as he moved. His men were scattered, the Royals a compact group and most of the others running ahead.

  I should call them back, but for what purpose? Let them go; they did their bit.

  “Yes, sir. Are we leaving Albert now?” McKim shoved a magazine into his rifle and ducked as Prussian bullets gouged holes in the wall immediately behind him.

  “As fast as we can, McKim,” Ramsay said.

  McKim nodded and shoved his pipe back in his mouth. “This way lads. We’ll leave by the Amiens Road. If any Huns get in the way we’ll send the bastards to hell!”

  The Germans were close behind them as McKim led the British in a crazy race over the cobbled streets of Albert. The Cathedral tower still stood, but the Virgin and Child, the symbol that had withstood a hundred German bombardments, was down now, felled by a British shell. The figure lay in Cathedral Square, its gold face battered and still somehow accusing as Ramsay ran past.

  “Nothing much left here,” said McKim. Artillery had pounded the buildings surrounding the square to piles of rubble. A few civilians remained, cowering for shelter as the Germans poured in and the last of the British stragglers ran for their lives.

  Their boots crunched over sacred mosaics and more pedestrian fragments of brick and stone, scraps of paper littered the streets and the smoke of a score of fires drifted between the buildings.

  “Over there!” Turnbull ran awkwardly, still cradling his broken wrist, but he managed to indicate the junction of the Amiens Road and the Millencourt Road. A shell had blasted open the ground and the main town drains were exposed, seeping noxious fumes into a place already made filthy by lyddite and rub
ble and the ugly hint of gas. “Germans!”

  Ramsay saw the distinctive round helmets of German infantry amongst the rubble; they swarmed forward bravely, dozens, scores of them. Their long bayonets caught the morning sun and their faces were set and determined and grim as they advanced along the Millencourt Road, the officer in front holding a pistol and roaring orders.

  “There’s more, sir.” McKim pointed behind them, along the Amiens Road. A long column of Prussians were approaching, shoulder to shoulder across half the width of the street, marching in utter silence except for the steady crunch of their boots. “And there.” Cruickshank aimed and fired, worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again. “There are hundreds of the woman-murdering bastards!”

  “They’re ahead too,” McKim said. “They’re everywhere, sir.” His voice was calm as he stopped running and stood in the doorway of a house, chewing on his pipe.

  Is this it? Is this the end of our war?

  Ramsay called his men to a halt. They gathered around him, some panting, some clearly scared, Cruickshank as truculent as ever. He looked around. German soldiers were in every direction, marching, running, laughing, joking. The enemy had taken Albert and were celebrating their triumph.

  “Where to, sir?” McKim was kneeling behind a pile of rubble with his rifle at the ready. “Where to?”

  Where to? We are surrounded by thousands of Huns for God’s sake. There is nowhere left to go. I don’t want to surrender now. I want to get back to the British lines.

  “Where shall we go, sir?”

  “Where shall we go, David?” Grace was smiling as she asked the question. There was such hope in her eyes that Ramsay almost felt affection for her. “Where shall we get married? Your church or mine?”

  She patted his arm and moved closer as they walked through the sun-blessed field towards the cool water of the South Esk.

  Ramsay shook his head and wondered if he could just push her away and make a run for it, but with Rab acting as chaperone only a few yards behind, he did not think he would get far. “I think your church would be best, Grace.”

  He tried to imagine Grace meeting his family or standing at the altar of St Andrews and St George’s in George Street, with the elite of Edinburgh gathered all around. She would be in her shabby best, completely overawed by the educated voices and intelligent conversation of judges and advocates and businessmen; she would also be plump and pregnant and a figure of veiled contempt. As would he of course; men of the Ramsay family simply did not mix with mining stock from Midlothian.

  “My church?” Grace was obviously thrilled at his answer. “Would your family come out here for the wedding? We could gather in father’s house before and maybe the men could meet in the Miner’s Institute afterwards.”

  Ramsay shuddered. He had no idea what the Miner’s Institute was, but he imagined it to be some drink-sodden den where flat-capped miners downed pints of sour beer before going home to kick their wives. “That sounds delightful,” he told her.

  “This is Trotter’s Bridge,” Grace told him as they stood at the parapet of a low bridge with the water churning creamy brown beneath them. “It is my favourite spot in all the world. I often come here to think. We can bring our children here, even if we live in Edinburgh.” She pronounced it “Edinbury” and gave a little frown at the same time. “I’ll miss my mother but I dare say I’ll get used to living in the city. Will your mother talk to me?”

  That last question was fired at him out of the blue and suddenly Ramsay realised that Grace was not quite the simpleton he had imagined her to be. She was just as aware of their class differences as he was.

  Grace continued: “My father won’t talk much to you. He will see you as a ‘toonie’ and won’t think much of a man who doesn’t work with his hands.”

  The contempt would be two-sided then; miner to solicitor as well as solicitor to miner.

  “We will not be welcomed in either family, David,” Grace surprised him further with her acumen. “So where will we go, David? We can go to Newtongrange and be shunned by my family or go to Edinburgh to be ignored by yours.” She perched her plump little bottom on the parapet of the bridge and faced him squarely, “Or we can go somewhere new that is just for us – you and me and our family. Where will we go?”

  Ramsay made his decision. With the Germans all around, there was no choice.

  “We don’t go anywhere, lads. This is it I’m afraid. We dig in and stay right here.”

  They looked at him, Cruickshank with his hatred of everything German, McKim with his decades of military experience, Turnbull with his injuries and all the newcomers, cooks, shoemakers and sundry hangers-on. They had all depended on him to lead them and he had led them to ultimate defeat.

  “This is as far as we go.” Ramsay looked around. The street was a shambles of ruined houses and shell craters, and a single house set back from the road. He looked closely at the house: it had restricted access so it would be difficult for the Germans to approach without being seen

  That will do.

  The nearest German was about a hundred yards away, fast approaching with only a few shattered shops between them. “At Waterloo and Omdurman we formed a square, here we will do the same. Form all round positions and we will hold out at long as our ammunition lasts and then we try and break out if we can or …”

  “Or we surrender?” Cruickshank slid his bayonet from its scabbard and clicked it into place. “No bloody surrender, sir. I’m not surrendering to the Huns.”

  McKim grinned, moved the broken pipe from his mouth and nodded. “I’ve been in four wars and God alone knows how many actions, sir. I’ve fought Boers, Germans, Pathans, and hunted dacoits in Burma. I have never surrendered in my life and I don’t intend to start now. As Cruickshank says – no bloody surrender.” He raised his voice in a roar that carried across the street and must have been heard by every German within two hundred yards. “Up the Royals! Royal Sco-o-o-o-ots!”

  “Enough!” Ramsay cut short McKim’s rousing slogans. He pointed to the house. “In there, lads, and hold out.”

  They scurried in, pushing at each other to kick down the door and rush inside. Timms hovered outside, pointing his rifle in the general direction of the Prussian Guards.

  “Get in, Timms. What the hell are you waiting for?”

  “After you, sir,” Timms said, probably the most surprising thing that Ramsay had ever heard on a battlefield in his life. “It’s not polite to enter in front of an officer and a gentleman.”

  Ramsay grabbed hold of the collar of his tunic and physically shoved him through the broken door. “In you get, you bloody idiot! This is no time for politeness!”

  The interior of the house had been partially cleared by the owners, but there was still furniture and some household possessions. Ramsay took a quick look around. “You two, close the door and barricade it with the table. Cruickshank, shoot any Fritz who even looks at us. McKim, take six men upstairs and keep the front clear. Let’s make a nuisance of ourselves as long as we can.”

  They smashed the remaining panes of the windows with rifle butts, dragged the furniture across as additional protection and settled into position.

  Every minute Fritz grants us makes us stronger, but where the hell are they? They know we are here, they should be swarming all over us by now.

  Ramsay checked his watch: midday. They had been in the house for a full five minutes and still not a single shot had been fired at them. There was a great deal of noise outside; singing and shouting and the sound of breaking glass, but the shooting had ended, save for the occasional British shell bursting within the town. Ramsay stood beside the window and cautiously looked outside. His view was restricted, but there were no Germans in the small alley that led to their house.

  “McKim!” Ramsay shouted, “What’s happening up there?”

  “Fritz is having a party, sir,” came McKim’s reply. “He’s looting everything in sight.”

  Ramsay mounted the narrow wooden stairs two a
t a time. Even on the upper floor his view was restricted, he saw only a small section of the Amiens Road, and a dozen German soldiers looting a shop.

  “I’ve never known that before,” he said to McKim. “What has happened to the famous German discipline?”

  McKim took the pipe from his mouth. “In my youth,” he said, and he smiled faintly, as if reliving an experience from a very long time ago, “the boys still wore red coats, and we were notorious for drunken brawls. On weekends, or before a regiment was posted abroad, garrison towns lived in fear of mobs of Tommies on the batter. Now … ?” He shrugged and replaced the pipe. “We are soft as shit, sir. There’s hardly a peep out of us when we have leave, but I think the old spirit is still there, somewhere.”

  Ramsay waited. He guessed that McKim had not yet reached the point of his story.

  “I think the Germans are like that. They have a reputation for fearsome discipline that makes them scared to act in case the officers hammer them. They must have lost tens of thousands of men in their advance. We’ve seen the ambulances remember, and now they have come to a town of temptation.” He shrugged. “Their discipline has collapsed.”

  Ramsay nodded. “You look after the house, McKim. I am going out to see what is happening. Fritz should have attacked us a long time ago.”

  “You can’t go alone, sir!” McKim put a hand on his sleeve and withdrew it immediately. “Sorry, sir!”

  “I’ll go alone.”

  Who else could I take? The only man here I could trust is McKim himself and somebody has to take care of things here. Turnbull is injured, Cruickshank is on a hair trigger and could erupt at any time and the rest simply lack the experience.

  It was easier to slide out of a window than to unblock the door and once in the street Ramsay moved into the side to try and merge with the shadows.

  He moved slowly, aware that he had only his wits and a revolver to pit against thousands of trained and dangerous German soldiers. He could hear the sounds of breaking glass and of laughter. Somebody was singing, but not the usual German martial song; it was more raucous, higher – a drinking song.