Angels at Mons

by Carl Leckey

  The Corporal turns to me.

  “Right lad, go and rouse the rest of the troop, don’t light the fire, and send Billy up to me, do not tell them of the situation yet. I don’t want to build their hopes up, and tell them to be quiet, do not venture outside the house.” As I leave the upstairs room the Corporal looks through the window and remarks. “It’s still as thick as a bag out there I can’t see a bloody thing.”

  Billy rushes upstairs when I inform him the Corporal wants to see him urgently. The driver and my other mate suspect something is happening and pump me with questions. Despite dire threats I refuse to reveal anything except what the Corporal has ordered. After about five minutes the three come downstairs and the Corporal addresses us.

  “Now then lads I want you to listen carefully. We think the Germans have retreated again and our troops have moved forward, this means we could be back behind our lines.”

  The lads are about to cheer when the NCO cuts them off with a hand gesture. “There’s thick fog covering the area. I intend to go out and do a bit of scouting. Now you should realise this, if it is our troops out there we will have to be very careful contacting them, they will assume all soldiers in this sector are the enemy. Another problem I have, what shall we do about Oscar?”

  Billy spoke up. “Can I go with you Corp? I’d like to do a bit of soldiering for a change.”

  The Corporal agrees but warns Billy. “You can come along only as long as you do exactly what I say, understand?” Billy agrees and asks,

  “Ok Corp, but can I have some live ammo? We will look bloody daft if they are Huns and we have to club them to death.”

  The Corporal reluctantly agrees and orders Dave. “Go fetch that ammo box from the ambulance.” Dave scurries away.

  The Driver protests to the Corporal. “I don’t think you should be carrying ammunition in a vehicle marked with a Red Cross you know?”

  Our leader shrugs his shoulders and replies. “I only do what I’m ordered” ’

  The driver informs him. “I have never been allowed to do that before. I thought when they ordered me to deliver you lot along with the ambulance you would only be carrying unloaded weapons. I wasn’t too happy about that either. I have never been allowed to carry arms before.”

  The driver continues to complain. “That’s the rules of war you know? You could have me shot if we are taken prisoner.”

  I can see the driver won’t let the matter drop and the Corporal is getting pissed off with him. I decide to intercede by reopening the subject of what to do with Oscar. I have been in his company more than any of the others and feel I know him better than anyone else. “Corp, Why not ask Oscar what he wants to do? I mean, he could have easily escaped but he risked everything to warn us, what will happen to him if we hand him over as a prisoner?” Before the Corporal answers, Billy intervenes much to my surprise he agrees with my proposal, it appears as if he has changed his mind about Oscar. The driver spoke, a man of few words usually but when he says something it usually makes sense.

  “If you let the prisoner go it’s a court marshal offence, I for one don’t want any part of it.

  I want to see my wife and kids again and don’t fancy being stood against a wall and shot for helping a German.” No one speaks as the lads think on the implications of his statement.

  Oscar speaks. “Look chaps, hand me over, don’t worry, at least if I’m a POW I won’t have to take any more part in this damnable war. You should think on what the driver said it makes sense.”

  Finally after much debate we agree, if they are British troops out there we will hand Oscar over as a prisoner. As he has co-operated the Corporal will inform the authorities he assisted us a great deal.

  “Hey, they might even give him an interpreter’s job.” The Corporal tells us hopefully.

  Dave returns lugging the controversial ammo box. He dropped it on the table and opened the lid to reveal the contents. It is packed with bandoleers of 303 ammunition rifle ammunition.

  Billy and the Corporal leave the building with live ammo in their rifles and bandoleers of cartridges slung over their shoulder. Before leaving he put the driver in charge of us with instructions to issue the remainder of the ammunition to rest of the troop. We wait and wait, an hour goes by then another. I peer out of the window for the thousandth time. At least the fog appears to be gradually thinning. I decide to close the window when I hear footsteps approaching.

  “We better hide lads.” I whisper urgently. “There is someone coming, it sounds like a bunch of fella’s, there is definitely more than just the Corp and Billy.”

  Oscar leads us into his hidey-hole, when we are crowded inside I point to the hatch. “We can get out this way if we have to make a run for it.”

  Clearly we can now hear the crunch of boots coming closer, then a muffled shout sounding like the word halt.

  “They are Brits.” Toot whispers excitedly. “I definitely heard the word halt! He begins to open the door until Oscar restrains him with the advice.

  “The word halt is the same in both languages my friend, maybe it is advisable to wait a while longer until we are able to confirm their identity with certainty.” The driver accepts his advice and releases the door handle.

  Dull sounds of footsteps come from the kitchen as one of the soldiers enters the house. We hear him clearly moving about as he investigates the interior of the house.

  Damn, I realise we have left our kit outside, worst of all our rifles are also there. With fingers crossed I hope against hope he does not see them. The Corporal insisted we stow all our gear at the side of the door for a fast getaway for just such an occasion. I silently pray whoever it is out there has swung the door back and left it open to conceal the kit. Jeez! I forgot about the bucket and the remains of the food as well?

  These thoughts race through my mind as another soldier moves about in the yard outside close to the escape hatch. Then blessed relief, an unmistakable Scottish voice shouts.

  “Hey Sergeant Major! You better come and have a look in the barn; there’s one of our ambulances in there. There is no sign of the blokes that English Corporal was on about though.”

  We three Englishmen attempt to leave through the door at once, with me in the lead. A huge kilted Scotsman in full battle kit confronts us. Pointing his rifle he orders. “Halt or I fire.”

  The driver shouts in alarm. “Hey Jock, don’t shoot we are English we are on your side.”

  “Honest we are, don’t fire.” I plead for my life thrusting my arms into the air.

  The soldier indicates his badge of rank. “I am named Jock to my wife and friends, you lot will address me as Sergeant Major or Sir, understand?” He roars as he gestures us to move to one side.

  Oscar emerges with his hands folded on top of his head.

  “Well my boyo’s you have been busy little chaps haven’t you? A Boche prisoner no less, over here Fritz.” He directs Oscar to stand against the wall. “You Lad.” He gives an order to the quiet member of our troop Dave.

  “You go outside and tell the Sergeant I want him. Chop chop.”

  The trooper rushes to obey, glad to be out of the presence of the menacing giant. The driver asks. “Where’s our Corporal, er Sir?”

  “And, my mate Billy, Sergeant Major?” I add nervously. He replies in a sneering way. “Intelligence has got em both. You see lad’s nobody would believe an ambulance and five daft Englishmen could get so far ahead of the whole British Army without enemy help. They have most probably been shot as spies by now.”

  His last remark totally shocks me, how could they do such a horrible thing to such a fine soldier as our Corporal? Let alone poor Billy, what has he done to warrant such cruel behaviour by his own side? I notice the smile on the SM’s mouth, the bugger is kidding us, at least I hope so, I don’t have the courage to pursue the truth.

  The SM. continues “and now we find the rest of you fine fellows consorting with the enemy.” My knees turn to jelly for the second time, what will they do to us
for this misdemeanour?

  Not too far away the crackle of small arms becomes apparent. A Sergeant in similar dress to the Sergeant Major enters, followed by our mate Dave. He reports. “It looks like the forward troops have made contact Sir?” “Yes looks like the fun has begun again. How’s the fog looking?” The SM asks

  The Sergeant tells him. “It’s virtually cleared away now Sir.” Although I am in awe of the massive Scottish Sergeant Major, I have to admit his presence makes me feel a great deal more secure than I did before he and his men arrived.

  Chapter four

  The dressing station

  “Right set the men on guard duties this place is just what we are looking for.” The SM informs him. “What’s the water like here lad?” He addresses me.

  “Good Sir, there is that pump over there by the sink.” I indicate its location, “and there is a good well in the yard.”

  “Excellent.” He replies, and orders the Sergeant. “Those trees will give us good cover from observer planes the lads can pitch tents among them, we need to have the Red Cross displayed on the roof of this building as soon as possible. You know what to do, dig latrines for about a hundred men, not forgetting the big hole for the bits and pieces. The quick lime should be arriving with the transport, have it stocked by the big hole, make sure it doesn’t get wet this time eh? And keep the latrines well away from the water supply.”

  The Sergeant turns to leave he is almost out of the door when the SM instructs him, “and get them bloody cooks to do the lads a decent feed for Christ sake. Otherwise the poor buggers will be going down with scurvy and things.” The Sergeant disappears to carry out his orders.

  He instructs our troop. “You three daft buggers, you can put your hands down now and relax, we are setting up a front line hospital and dressing station here. I reckon we are about an hour’s march from the front line, close enough to bring casualties and far enough away to give them a bit of peace. Other nursing staff and the quacks will be here shortly, until we find your unit you lot will be under our command do you understand?”

  We answer in unison. “Yes Sir.”

  He asks. “Is this ere Hun to be trusted?” Before we answer he informs us. “Your Corporal reckons he is. He seems to think a lot of this ere Hun does your Corporal for some reason.”

  Oscar answers on his own behalf. “May I speak Sir?”

  The Sergeant Major exclaims. “Bloody Hell, he speaks better English than my lot do. Yes, go ahead prisoner, say your piece.”

  “Sir, I will co-operate in any way I am able. I will help with the wounded and interpret if it helps them, but I will not betray my country or be used in any way as a spy or an informer.”

  “I understand that, but thankfully that decision will be made by someone of higher rank than me, comprende?” The SM explains.

  His decision appears to satisfy Oscar.

  The driver complains. “Excuse me Sergeant Major. I’m not one of their mob. My designated duty is delivering these vehicles from the port. I’m under orders to return as soon as possible to pick up another vehicle. I can’t stay around here otherwise I’ll be in the shit. I haven’t even delivered this one to the designated area yet.”

  The SM consoles him mockingly. “Don’t you worry lad Ill make sure your not shot for being deficient of an ambulance. I shall take full responsibility for your predicament, the Doctors will be here shortly. See you have to understand these motorised ambulances are as rare as hen’s teeth in this section. You can bet your wages on this, our Doctors won’t give it up in a hurry. Seeing that you are the only one who can drive one of these beasts I reckon that makes you a very desirable commodity in these here parts.”

  The driver looks crestfallen.

  “In the meanwhile lads get some tucker into you. After you have wined and dined we shall set about turning this place into a first class dressing station.”

  Dave moans. “We ain’t got no food ourselves, we have been living on nothing but shit for two days.” It doesn’t say much for my culinary skills, the cheeky bugger seemed to enjoy the feed I cooked up for him last night.

  “Right lads go and see my Sergeant he will fix you up with a splendid Scottish breakfast.” ’

  “What about the prisoner Sir?” I enquire. “Can he come as well?”

  The Sergeant Major asks Oscar to give his word of honour that he would not try to escape. The German responds by standing to attention, putting his hand on his heart and uttering the following oath.

  “On my honour as a practising Christian, I will not try to escape or cause any disharmony whatsoever. This I swear in front of my countries enemies and my friends.”

  The sound of heavy guns interrupts any further dialogue. The Sergeant Major dismisses us with a wave of his hand.

  Out in the yard we find his Sergeant, he informs us about our food routine. “The cooks are just setting up a field kitchen, when the foods ready you can join our troops for rations.” ’

  “Sarg, there is a great stove in the farmhouse kitchen and lots of wood already chopped. Why don’t the cooks use that?” I suggest.

  He laughs. “You’ve got a lot to learn lad.” He gives me a pitying look. “The house has already been marked down for the H’officers quarters and for the treatment of H’officers. The wounded troops, ordinary poor bleeding soldiers will be treated in the barn and the milking parlour.”

  The Scotsman is a man who evidently has the same sentiments as I have about the class system. My mates and I set about clearing the milking parlour to be used as an operating theatre.

  “We have to get a move on lads.” the Sergeant urges us to greater efforts. “Hear that gunfire? Well the casualties won’t be far away, expect them any time now. I hope they don’t get here before the quacks do.”

  We are informed the barn is to be fitted with beds as a recuperation ward. It takes us a couple of hours to get the place clean and up to the NCOs standard. The Sergeant waits impatiently for the transport to arrive bringing the beds and medical equipment. Thank goodness when we hear the sound of the cookhouse bugle, I’m absolutely starving by this time.

  The English lads join an orderly queue in front of a couple of field kitchen boilers. There is no sign of the usual layout of bread and other choices of food when I reach the boiler. When I extend my mess tin to the server my reward for all the work I carried out consists of a huge dollop of porridge. Oh God something I have hated since being forced to eat it as a kid.

  No milk to thin it down either, just this thick glutinous mass ladled in.

  The Scots lads wolf it down with all the enjoyment of food gourmets.

  I take a small sample, my stomach rebels at first but hunger drives me to follow the Scots example. Hesitantly, I have an even bigger spoonful.

  The first mouthful shocks my taste buds, instead of the sweetened concoction I became used to in the orphanage when there wasn’t any alternative. This porridge is stiff with salt the only consolation is at least it is a hot meal.

  I wonder why it has taken so long to create such a culinary disaster and how can the men who created it be given the title of cooks?

  The words of the veteran come to my mind. “Eat anything lad, especially if it’s hot.”

  I sit down on a rough wooden bench in the barn alongside the Scottish Sergeant and Oscar to finish my weird breakfast.

  I tentatively drink a cup of scalding tea, the heat of the enamel cup burns my lips, I cannot get used to the metal cups and I continually burn my tongue and lips when using them.

  The Sergeant is quite talkative, asking and answering questions about the war in general.

  I pluck up courage and ask him a question that concerns me a great deal. “Sarg, do you know what has happened to our Corporal and my mate?” “Hasn’t the SM. told you?” He seems surprised when I reveal what his senior NCO reckons has happened to out mates.

  “The SM told us they had been shot as spies.”

  He laughs. “Black Mac the lads call him. He’s a bugger for se
tting fella’s up and frightening the shit out them, especially sprogs and Sassenachs.”

  “Please tell me the truth Sarg? Our Corporal is a good fella, and Billy’s only been in the Army for a couple of weeks, same as the rest of us except the driver.”

  “Well lad, it’s no secret, we were pushing forward in the fog early this morning when we came across some German sick soldiers, they were suffering with pneumonia, dysentery things like that, there wasn’t any of their wounded.

  Fritz left the poor bastards for us to look after, we reckon cos they were in such a hurry to get away and they couldn’t cope with these dead weights. Ha, ha, I expect they heard the Jocks were on their heels no doubt, and they were shitting themselves.”

  “Anyway back to what happened this morning, one of our lads speaks German. Oh! Here he is now.”

  A soldier wanders about, a mess tin in one hand and a cup in the other looking for somewhere to sit and have his breakfast. He spots a sawhorse and settles down to eat his meal

  Oscar asks the Corporal if he might have a chat with the interpreter the Sergeant agrees “Yes go on, it will give our lad a chance to brush up on his German. Good idea.”

  Oscar strolls over to the seated soldier and introduces himself. The man looks confused until the Sergeant shouts over.

  “It’s alright Angus, I’ve given him permission. Ok?” Angus waves his hand in acknowledgement.

  The Sergeant continues relating the story of Billy’s capture. “Where am I? Oh yes. Angus is questioning the sick prisoners when a voice screams out of the fog. ‘Hande hoche, bastards.’ Or something resembling that.

  Our interpreter lad presumes it’s another German so answers him in German, next thing we know is this idiot mate of yours orders him in English to surrender.

  Of course our lad tells him to piss off, just after the bloody lunatic comes rushing out of the fog bayonet fixed. Bloody Hell he frightened the shit out of me I don’t mind telling you.