by Taffy Thomas
The young soldier who had been on guard immediately bent to pick up his gun and made ready to obey the angel, but his companions held him back, nervous, suspecting a trick.
‘She means us no harm,’ said the young guard. ‘She has been sent to guide us. Come, we should have faith. We should follow.’
The soldier appeared so calm and so certain of the angel’s protection that his companions’ doubts were eased, and one by one they followed the ghostly figure out of their makeshift trench. Keeping their heads low, they followed the angel across a muddy field, she appearing to drift effortlessly over it while their mortal feet stumbled after her through the dark.
The angel led them to a sunken lane: a perfect, sheltered escape route from any pursuing Germans. The men were able to move more swiftly now, on firmer ground, and they made good progress, following in the angel’s silent footsteps.
When they came to the end of the lane, the angel led them out of the gully and up a steep bank. At the top of the bank, she halted and turned to face the soldiers, smiling once again. Raising a slender hand, she pointed to a small wood nearby. Before the men could question her meaning, however, she vanished; her light snuffed out in an instant like a candle in the wind.
Not knowing what else to do, the men headed into the wood, thankful that the angel had led them to a safer place to see out the night. But they soon realised that she had done much more than that, for camped among the shelter of the trees and watching them approach, was the rest of their battalion.
The next day, at daybreak, the soldiers told their comrades about the angel and how she had helped lead them to safety. Most of them laughed, joking that the soldiers had succumbed to the madness of Mons, but a small group of those with more faith agreed to accompany the guards and retrace their steps, to see if their experience had indeed been true.
The men made their way out of the wood and down the steep hill. The young soldier and his companions from the previous night were all certain of the direction in which they had wandered. But try as they might, not one of them could find the sunken lane along which they had been led by the angel. Nor could they find it on any map. Like the angel, the lane had simply vanished.
Whether or not the Guards’ heavenly visitation had been real, the angel had certainly led this brave group of men to safety. She had blessed them with good fortune, too, for those same Coldstream Guards travelled on from Mons to Ypres. There, once again, they found themselves isolated and fighting alone to defend a dangerously exposed position. Yet somehow, against all the odds, they held that post, without support, for more than twenty long days.
THE VISION OF THE VIRGIN
Echoing the many legends featuring protecting angels and heaven-sent visions, which grew out of the fighting on the Western Front, is this legend from a Prussian town called Suwalki on the Eastern Front. Today, Suwalki lies in north-eastern Poland, but before the map of Europe was redrawn under the terms of the 1919 Treaty of Versailles, these parts of Polish land were under the control of, firstly, the Russian Empire and then, after 1915, the German Empire.
The legend features a Russian captain, who was leading the army that was invading Eastern Prussia near the start of the war, in an attempt to overthrow German control. The source of the story is said to be a Russian general, under whose command the captain served. It is possible that this is General Pavel Rennenkampf, who chased the Germans out of the area around Suwalki for nine days in the Battle of Augustovo, which took place from 26 September to 9 October 1914.
At the start of the Great War, the generals of the Russian Army had a problem. They needed to strike quickly and hit out at their German enemy while it was at its weakest and while large portions of German troops were tied up in the invasion of Belgium and France.
Yet the Russians could not advance too far into German territory to the west without first protecting their own flanks. For to the south was Galicia, where a huge Austro-Hungarian force awaited, and to the north was the kingdom of East Prussia. Here lay the seat of the Prussian nobility, and so East Prussia was not only important strategically; it was also a tempting prize for the Russian Army who relished the thought of conquering a place of such symbolic significance.
Hence the Russian Army made its move, snatching Eastern Prussia while the Germans were looking the other way. But the German Kaiser was not to be cheated of the great kingdom for long. Licking his lips at the prospect of regaining Eastern Prussia from Cossack control, he recalled the eminent General Paul von Hindenburg from retirement and put under his command 150,000 men, many of them redirected swiftly from the front line in the west to face this new enemy in the east.
Now, alongside his impressive military knowledge, General von Hindenburg had a second deadly weapon. Prussian-born, he knew the landscape upon which he was about to meet the Russian Army like the back of his hand. It was a waterlogged realm of vast lakes, thick forests, treacherous bogs and sodden marshes, and von Hindenburg knew how to weave a safe path for his men between them, using the kingdom’s natural defences to his army’s advantage.
So it was that, even though they were outnumbered, the German Army managed to outmanoeuvre the Russians. Like fish caught in deadly nets, isolated pockets of Russian soldiers were trapped in the narrow spaces of passable land between the swamps, while others were driven into bogs where they and their guns were sucked fast into the mud. Some, trying desperately to escape, were forced to attempt to cross the lakes, where they met a hopeless, watery death.
By the end of August 1914, tens of thousands of defeated Russian soldiers were being led away as prisoners and their leader, General Samsonov, was dead. But the battle-hungry Paul von Hindenburg had not finished yet. His tail up, he chased after the remaining retreating Russians, crossing the Russian frontier and clashing with the enemy near Augustovo.
Once again, von Hindenburg was rewarded with a German victory, and his jubilant troops occupied the nearby town of Suwalki.
However, now it was the turn of the esteemed Prussian-German general to be tricked. Too confident, perhaps, in his own abilities, or carried away by his successes, von Hindenburg had advanced too far. While he and his men were caught up in the fighting at Augustovo, additional Russian troops crept up on them from the rear. Led by the General Pavel Rennenkampf, these fresh Russian forces had regrouped behind the Niemen River, and now had the unsuspecting Germans surrounded.
Late at night, on the eve before they made their surprise attack, a well-respected captain in Rennenkampf’s slumbering camp was woken by a young soldier. Rushing into the captain’s tent, the soldier begged for his superior officer’s forgiveness for disturbing him, but stressed that there was something which the captain simply had to see.
The soldier led the captain to the treeline at the edge of the camp and pointed towards the sky.
Looking up, the puzzled captain saw at once a vision which was so instantly recognisable, so miraculous, that he staggered backwards in shock. Indeed, had it not been for the quick reflexes of the soldier and his strong, steadying arm, the captain would have surely fallen to the ground. Entranced, he found himself gazing into the soft, compassionate eyes of the Virgin Mary.
Floating in the inky sky, the Blessed Virgin cradled the infant Christ in her left arm, while her right hand was outstretched, one delicate finger pointing to the west.
Dumbstruck, the captain and the young soldier simply stared at the heavenly apparition, uncertain what to believe but certain that they should not – could not – avert their gaze.
After a few moments, the Virgin Mary vanished, but where her shape had illuminated the sky before them, there was now a shining cross. Instinctively, both soldiers got down onto their knees, overcome with emotion, and they remained there on the ground until the cross, too, faded away and the sky was dark once again.
The captain and the young soldier returned to the camp and to their individual quarters, neither daring to speak to anyone of the vision they had encountered.
As he tossed
and turned on his bunk, chasing sleep, the captain contemplated the meaning of the Virgin Mary’s visitation. He was certain that it was a sign of God’s blessing, and by dawn he had made the decision to lead his troops boldly to the west.
The very next morning, that same Russian captain rode with his men into the Battle of Augustovo. For nine long days they chased the German Army towards the Masurian Lakes, and although General von Hindenburg’s knowledge of the marshes and the woods helped many to escape, 60,000 German soldiers were killed, wounded or taken prisoner.
As the vision of the Virgin had suggested, the Russians were to be victorious.
THE BROTHER WHO RETURNED
If the Tommies felt remote from their families and friends when just the width of the English Channel separated them, one can only wonder how the Australian or Canadian soldiers who came to aid their Commonwealth brothers felt when they were half the world away – or at least the width of the Atlantic Ocean – from their loved ones. Perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised that support for them came from the most unlikely quarter … even from beyond the grave, as the following Canadian legend reveals.
In early 1916, Will Bird, a fit young Canadian man, sat in his forest-side home in British Columbia, Canada, shining his best black boots with a mixture of polish and spittle in equal proportions. He was undertaking this task with gusto as he was about to venture into town to the Army Recruiting Centre to join up; something his elder brother, Steve, had done the previous year. Will knew that his brother had been posted to Europe to aid the Allied war effort against the troops of Kaiser Wilhelm and felt that his joining up would only serve to reunite the two of them.
If only he had known!
There was a sharp knock at the back door. Will’s mother called him to answer it. Opening the heavy oak door revealed an army officer in full uniform, with plenty of scrambled egg (that is, gold braid) on both cap and lapels.
The officer saluted.
Will called his mother, who immediately burst into tears. This could only be bad news.
The officer gently told Will and his mother that brother and son, Steve, had gone missing in action. Then, after performing all the usual necessities and reassuring Mrs Bird that she should be proud of her son, who had been a much-loved comrade and who had perished for a worthwhile cause, the officer saluted and headed up the road to deliver further tragic news. The Birds would not be the only family in that remote Canadian community mourning a loss that night.
If Mrs Bird’s first reaction was to sob for the loss of her eldest son, her second was to try to persuade her younger son, Will, not to go and join up. She hadn’t gone to the pain of pregnancy and motherhood, she said, to produce handsome young sons as cannon fodder.
Will considered his mother’s words while shedding a tear himself for the passing of his older brother, who had always been a hero and a role model for him. But this same thought process led him to thinking that if the cause had been important enough for Steve to surrender his young life, then perhaps he owed it to Steve’s memory to join the campaign.
So, with a tear in his eye but with his head held high and gleaming boots on his feet, Will marched down to the Recruiting Office and joined a regiment soon to be posted to Flanders on the French-Belgian border.
A year later, on 12 April 1917, and by then elevated to the rank of corporal, Will Bird was fighting in the Battle of Vimy Ridge. Lying in an exhausted sleep in a shell hole, Will was squashed together with companions from his platoon under a tarpaulin.
In the middle of the night, Will was shaken from his slumber by two warm and familiar hands. Half asleep, Will was amazed to see standing next to him his brother, Steve.
Despite Will’s anxious questions, Steve remained silent, gesturing the younger brother to follow him 100 yards downwind to another shell hole.
As the two brothers lay side by side under a tarpaulin in that shell hole, Will was aware of a slight, strange smell of wet clay about Steve. Too tired to fret, however, he soon fell into an exhausted sleep once again.
At first light, Will woke to discover himself alone, the tarpaulin and his brother both gone. Had they ever been there?
Confused, Will staggered back to the shell hole where he had been with his platoon the night before, and there he discovered a scene almost too terrible to describe. That first hole had taken a direct hit and his comrades lay where Will had left them, their bodies now smashed and lifeless. Only then did Will realise that his brother, or the ghost of his brother, had returned with the sole purpose of saving his life.
Will survived several more tough scrapes and, in 1918, returned to his mother in that little forest-side home in British Columbia, Canada, with a service medal and this remarkable story to tell.
THE HAUNTED HILLS
The Battle of Verdun, which took place from 21 February to 19 December 1916, was one of the costliest confrontations of the First World War. It is said that, by the end of it, more than 360,000 French soldiers and nearly 340,000 German soldiers had lost their lives. The conflict centred on the small French city of Verdun on the River Meuse, which had served as a fortress since Roman times and therefore was a strong symbol of military power. The Germans knew that the French would not want to lose control of it and that they would therefore commit all the manpower they could in order to defend it. This was a chance, the German military leaders believed, to inflict heavy losses upon the French and so clear the way to a subsequent attack on the nation which they considered to be their real enemy: the British.
The following story comes from the middle stages of the Battle of Verdun, during the summer months of May, June and July, when the focus of the German attack was on two hills in particular – Cote (or Hill) 304 and another mound referred to as Le Mort Homme, or The Dead Man.
North-west of the French fortress city of Verdun, there is a small hill known locally as Le Mort Homme, or The Dead Man. The place was so called because, years before the Great War, it was here that the dead body of a stranger was found. No one knew who the man was, where he came from, nor how he had been killed. The mystery was never solved, but from that point on the hill was always referred to by its new name. It was a name that turned out to be a prophetic one too for, in 1916, the hill was the site of one of the bloodiest battles of the First World War, and by the end of the fighting, its slopes were covered with hundreds more corpses – the bodies of dead soldiers.
The Germans had had their eye on Le Mort Homme and the nearby hill, Cote 304, for some time, being aware that these two neighbouring mounds were important lookout points for the French and could be the key which unlocked the gates into Verdun. Hungry for victory, they launched their attack from both land and air.
Thousands of artillery guns, hundreds of thousands of troops and millions of shells were made ready and the skies were filled with more planes than had been seen at any other battle in history.
Bravely, the French returned fire and men fell on both sides. The days passed, and back and forth went the advantage, each attack followed hot on its heels by a counter-attack. Rain came, falling as heavily as the wounded who, sucked into the oozing mud, were buried alive before they could be rescued.
So long did the battle continue that supplies began to dwindle and fatigue gripped the soldiers who could find no food or fresh water to sustain them. Bound to their trenches, they cried out in thirst and one poor German was so desperate that he threw himself prostrate into a foul-stinking green pond just to feel some moisture on his lips.
Yet, as exhausted as they were, the German battalions’ response was not to give up – but to step up – the attack. More men and more ammunition were found and the French felt the force of both, until the hills echoed with the screams and the moans of the wounded and the dying.
The sheer weight of their numbers and their determination to succeed became the German Army’s best defence. They did not stop to mourn their comrades when the French gunned them down; instead they used their dead bodies as protection, turning their c
orpses into macabre shields and, inch by inch, they advanced higher up the hill.
So it was that finally they conquered the two blood-soaked peaks. First to fall was Cote 304, and from their new vantage point the Germans bombarded their enemy, now struggling below them, until the air was thick with choking dust and the planes flying overhead had to swerve for fear of flying blindly into the hillside through clouds of pure black. The earth shook as the barrage of shells blasted into the flanks of Le Mort Homme until that, too, fell into German hands.
But, having fought so hard to take the two hills, the Germans were stopped in their tracks. News came of a Russian attack on the Eastern Front and reinforcements were needed to strengthen the German lines.
Seeing the chance to dwindle German numbers further, the French came up with a cunning plan. They convinced their British friends to bring forward their scheduled offensive on the River Somme, moving it from August to July, knowing the Germans would need to respond.
Their plan worked.
In spite of the hundreds of thousands of men the German Army had lost, and the hundreds of thousands of enemy soldiers they had killed, Verdun was no longer their big prize. They had tried to bleed the French to death but their self-inflicted wounds proved to be just as deep and as great, and at the end of it all, they had made no ground. As December came and the French pushed back, the German lines were back where they were at the start of the battle.
Even today, visitors to the hills of Cote 304 and Le Mort Homme can still see the wounds of this immense and fruitless battle. The landscape is gnarly and pockmarked, scarred for ever from the hailstorms of shells. So much of Cote 304 has been blown into dust that its peak is a whole seven metres lower than it was a century ago. Everywhere you look there are overgrown bunkers, crumbling gun posts, faded trench lines and monuments to the fallen. This is an eerie, evocative, disturbing place and more than once, while taking battlefield tours around Le Mort Homme, visitors have reported hearing the sound of an old aircraft coming over the hill. They look to the sky and see, they say, a German fighter plane flying low over the brow of the hill, trailing fire and smoke. The plane then disappears behind the crest of Cote 304 and the sky falls silent once more.
