The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  ‘Within hours, we will be involved in a terrible struggle, above and beyond anything we encountered in South Africa. Are you up for it?’

  Harry is the first to answer as they both nod enthusiastically.

  ‘We are, sir, good an’ ready.’

  ‘Very good; that’s the spirit. It will be a long and bitter road, but we will prevail.’

  Maurice and Harry watch him go.

  ‘So, ’Arry, sounds like that’s that. We’re orf to war.’

  ‘Right, we’d better get back on duty. Nice fella that Churchill, ain’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, not a bad bloke fer a toff. Don’t look like a soldier wiv his little baby face an’ wispy ginger tash, but he don’t ’alf sound like one.’

  When they get back to Green Park, CSM Billy Carstairs suddenly appears.

  ‘We’ve just had a message from the Old Bill at Piccadilly Circus. There’s a right crowd gatherin’ there, an’ at Trafalgar Square; they’re makin’ one ’ell of a commotion. Take your squad down there an’ ’ave a butcher’s.’

  Harry and Maurice decide it is probably wise to walk down Piccadilly in a relaxed manner, rather than in marching order, but as they approach the gates of Green Park, they see a sudden change of mood transforming the scene before them. What was a quiet Sunday afternoon is now a blur of activity. People begin talking animatedly as groups form around individuals holding opened newspapers. Harry’s attention is drawn to a young newspaper vendor on the corner of the Ritz Hotel. He is surrounded by a growing crowd and has a pile of Evening Standards on his arm, which he is selling as quickly as he can hand them out.

  ‘Mo, it’s Sunday, ain’t it?’

  ‘Yes, mate. It looks like they’ve printed special editions.’

  ‘War in Europe! War in Europe!’ is the incessant cry of the paper boy. Behind him, his news-stand’s banner headline is just one word: ‘WAR!’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, the balloon really ’as gawn up!’

  The newspaper lad changes his tune.

  ‘Kaiser declares war on the Czar … first shots fired!’

  The paper-seller repeats his cries over and over again as the crowds grow and grow.

  ‘We’d better form up if we’re gonna go to the Circus.’

  The squadron of fusiliers manages to march no further than fifty yards before the crowd begins to applaud them. By the time they reach Piccadilly Circus, they are all but mobbed by a throng several hundred in number. In between wild cheering, choruses of ‘God Save the King’ break out. Union flags appear and cloth caps and boaters are thrown into the air. Several groups of men form up like soldiers and, with newspapers and umbrellas over their shoulders as improvised rifles, start marching up and down next to Eros.

  Bottles of beer and wine and even champagne materialize, as if by magic, and the mood becomes more and more jubilant.

  ‘Mo, it’s time to beat a retreat. I’ve already ’ad one girl ask me if she can ’ave a cuddle wiv an ’ero!’

  ‘Too right, our shift will be over in a couple of hours, let’s get back to barracks, get into our civvies and get back up ’ere. A big night is in the offin’ – we’re ’eroes, good an’ proper!’

  ‘Or ear’oles! Either way, I’m up fer it. If we don’t get a goose and duck tonight, I’m a Chinaman.’

  The night of Sunday 2 August 1914 becomes a never-to-be-forgotten London occasion. Pubs and restaurants that have been closed for the second half of the week, because of anxieties about the banks and the drying up of credit, suddenly open their doors. The West End becomes the setting for a celebration of a kind not seen since the end of the Boer War.

  Thousands mill around in a state of euphoria, but there is none of the brawling that usually results from long nights of drinking, and the mood remains joyous. Harry and Maurice get lucky; they meet two girls from Balham and do not get back to the Wellington Barracks until an hour before reveille the next morning.

  Fortunately for them, CSM Carstairs, despite being a strong disciplinarian in military matters, is an understanding sort when it comes to the temptations of the opposite sex and usually turns a blind eye to such indiscretions, as long as they do not happen too often and are committed by men he trusts. If his two serjeants are on parade on time and look presentable, all they will receive by way of reprimand is a knowing look, followed by a frown and his favourite rejoinder, ‘Dirty bastards!’

  Bank Holiday Monday becomes an extraordinary extension of the night before. Britain has not yet declared war, but everyone feels that it is inevitable. The mood all over the country is the same. Old animosities begin to disappear and, overnight, what was a nation divided becomes a people united in common cause. Union leaders call for an end to strikes, the suffragettes discuss a truce and, in Ireland, both the Nationalists and Unionists throw their weight behind Britain’s cause.

  Despite the temptations, Harry and Maurice decide not to return to the girls in Balham on Monday evening, but choose an early night in barracks. They have heard that a full mobilization of the army is imminent and they may well be on a train to the Isle of Wight by midday on Tuesday. After a couple of beers in their mess at Wellington Barracks, they go for a stroll along the Tower battlements overlooking the Thames.

  ‘These last few days ’ave been a right two an’ eight, ’Arry.’

  ‘Not ’alf! You’d ’ave thought we’d won a war, not just started one.’

  ‘It was a good larf. But all that celebration about a war that ’asn’t ’appened yet –’

  ‘I know! But it’s because none of the silly buggers out there ’ave ever fought in one.’

  Thursday 6 August

  Blair Atholl Castle, Perthshire

  After German troops marched into Belgium on Tuesday 4 August, invading a country whose neutrality Britain had vowed to protect, King George V signed a momentous Declaration of War. The Foreign Office issued the following statement.

  Owing to the summary rejection by the German Government of the request made by his Majesty’s Government for assurances that the neutrality of Belgium will be respected, his Majesty’s Ambassador to Berlin has received his passports, and his Majesty’s Government declared to the German Government that a state of war exists between Great Britain and Germany as from 11 p.m. on 4 August 1914.

  By midnight, five empires were at war: Austria-Hungary, Germany, France, Russia and Great Britain. All thought victory would be swift and decisive.

  The Kaiser, shocked that his British cousins – allies since they had fought together against Napoleon at Waterloo – should take such a step, relinquished his honorary titles as Field Marshal of the British Army and Admiral of her Fleet. The German servants at the British Embassy in Berlin removed their uniforms, spat and trampled on them and refused to help the British diplomats pack up and leave.

  The dramatic news that Britain was at war reached every corner of the nation like a shock wave. The normally peaceful Blair Atholl Estate soon became a scene of confusion and upheaval.

  Two days later, the old duke’s notorious irritability has been provoked not only by the hectic activity but also by the realization that his Golden Jubilee celebration as duke of his demesne, scheduled for today – his birthday – must be cancelled.

  A magnificent gathering of 2,500 guests had been expected, including the entire Scottish nobility and almost every man, woman and child for miles around. His own Atholl Highlanders were due to march past the castle in all their finery, accompanied by men from the Scottish Horse, the Cameron Highlanders, the Black Watch and a full fife and pipe band. A chamber orchestra from Edinburgh had been booked for the evening, enough catering companies were standing by to feed a small army, and Brocks Fireworks had sent its pyrotechnics experts all the way from Hemel Hempstead to organize the largest display Scotland had ever witnessed. All this has been cancelled at vast expense, lending a yet deeper shade to the duke’s mood.

  Of his six children, only Lady Helen is at Blair, newly arrived from Belgium, where she has been to see her sister,
Evelyn, and now has to contend with her father’s ire.

  ‘What a bloody miserable day! The boys are all off playing soldiers. Your sister Dertha is too busy thinking about how she’s going to cope with her husband’s new commitments. But what about me? I’m a bloody commitment; my own jubilee and not a bugger in sight to celebrate with!’

  ‘Don’t swear so, Papa! I’m here, we can have an agreeable dinner together; I’ll ask Forsyth to have a bottle of the ’05 Margaux brought up.’

  The old boy calms down a little.

  ‘I’m sorry, Helen, but I’m not keen on the idea of a celebratory dinner on such a miserable day, even with your engaging company. The place is in chaos. Half the staff have gone!’

  The duke has lost his valet John Seaton, his factor Robert Irvine, his second chauffeur David Scott, his head stalker Peter Stewart, five gamekeepers and six junior men from his household; all reservists who have been called to the Colours.

  ‘They’ve all gone off to fight for the King, thinking it’s going to be a jolly, like a weekend’s manoeuvres in the glens. Little do they know! I spoke to Shimi Lovat yesterday, who saw Churchill in London on Tuesday. He said it’s going to be bloody. The German is a resolute cove and will take some beating.’

  ‘Oh, Papa, our poor boys! I’m worried for them.’

  ‘So am I. Hamish is somewhere in the Firth of Forth with the Camerons, George will be in Aldershot tomorrow with the Black Watch, and Bardie is running around like a blue-arsed fly, back and forth to Dunkeld, trying to get the Scottish Horse into shape. The bugger has taken all my good horses and left me just a few fat-bellied old nags.’

  ‘Papa, please stop swearing.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just at sixes and sevens with it all.’

  The old boy’s face begins to mellow from fury to bewilderment. He looks at Helen wistfully.

  ‘How’s Evelyn?’

  The duke rarely mentions his third daughter, a year younger than Helen, a forsaken child, now middle-aged; he has not seen her for many years.

  ‘The same; her letters are lucid, as always. But when one sees her, she’s as timid as a mouse. It’s still difficult to have any kind of conversation with her.’

  ‘Her companion?’

  ‘Yes, she’s a good sort; they seem to get on well together.’

  Lady Evelyn is something of a family embarrassment. She has been withdrawn and difficult since childhood, a malady the duke is certain was caused by a notorious incident that has not been talked about since. When not much more than a baby, she was lost in deep snow for over an hour by a careless nanny. She became ill and eventually developed diphtheria – although the duke did not accept the doctor’s diagnosis, preferring to think it was ‘all in her troubled mind’.

  When Evelyn finally recovered, she began to resent her mother, exhibiting an antagonism that became so entrenched it persuaded the duke, with the full agreement of his wife, to send her away into the care of a governess. She was sent first to Switzerland and later to Belgium. When she became an adult, a series of companions were found and an apartment bought for her in the old district of Malines, near Antwerp.

  ‘Strange child, perhaps we should never have sent her away. At least Dertha is normal.’

  ‘Dertha’ is the family name for Dorothea, Helen’s elder sister, who lives in England with her husband, Colonel Harold ‘Harry’ Ruggles-Brise. Harry, in his youth a fine athlete, excelling at cricket and tennis, is a superb shot and a decorated Boer War veteran. He is now a Grenadier Guards career soldier and Commandant of the British Army School of Musketry at Hythe.

  Helen bristles slightly at what she thinks may be her father’s hint that she too might not be ‘normal’. Unmarried at the age of forty-seven, she has assumed the role of nominal Duchess of Atholl, a task she has undertaken since the death of her mother over ten years before, and has since devoted herself to her father and the estate.

  The duke notices his daughter’s discomfiture.

  ‘Helen, dearest, I didn’t mean that only Dertha is normal. You’re the most sane of all of us. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Helen, much reassured by her father’s words, moves to place her hand on his arm, but he turns away. She can see that there are tears in his eyes and knows that he would not want her to see him in a moment of weakness. He has ruled his realm for just over fifty years and fears that his private fiefdom is about to change in ways that he will find hard to cope with.

  Helen leaves him alone, knowing that he will soon be taken by carriage to one of the cottages on the estate to spend the night with his latest mistress, a humble widow from Perth who he met only a month ago. She will be his only companion for his seventy-fourth birthday dinner, an occasion that was supposed to be a glittering celebration befitting a duke of the realm. Helen feels desperately sad for him but knows that, despite his bluster, many titles and elevated status, he is a very weak and docile man, who will find contentment in the simple comforts his lover will provide for him.

  Later that evening, Bardie makes a surprise return from Dunkeld, hoping to join his father for dinner. Helen, now alone, is sipping sherry in Blair’s huge and ornate withdrawing room, a habit of which she has become increasingly fond.

  ‘Hello, Helen, where’s Father?’

  ‘Fulfilling a social engagement.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s his birthday!’

  Helen does not answer, but looks uncomfortable.

  ‘Don’t tell me he’s up the glen with that Grant woman?’

  ‘Yes, of course; he’s feeling sorry for himself, and old habits die hard. He became quite melancholy this afternoon. It’s a shame he didn’t know you were coming, it would have made all the difference.’

  ‘Bugger! I was only just able to get away at the last minute.’

  ‘Well, he’s gone; we won’t see him until after lunch tomorrow. At least he might be in a better mood by then. What news from Dunkeld?’

  ‘Sis, it’s extraordinary what’s happening. The recruiting office is overwhelmed by queues of men, young and old; there are farm boys, solicitors’ clerks, teachers, factory workers. It’s the same all over the country. All the old antagonisms seem to be evaporating. The strikers, the suffragettes, all are suddenly amenable, the papers are full of it. Quite remarkable! The mood is ever so jolly.’

  ‘Let’s hope it lasts, Bardie – especially when the fighting starts.’

  ‘Don’t be so gloomy, Helen, it will be a real adventure. The Germans can’t hold the French on one side and the Russians on the other, especially without our help.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard; you’re forgetting the central Europeans. What about all those Austrians and Hungarians?’

  ‘Have you been talking to your Edinburgh friend again?’

  Helen has become acquainted with an Edinburgh businessman and accomplished sculptor, David Tod, a man several years her senior.

  ‘Bardie, don’t be inane. You know my friendship with David is entirely platonic.’

  ‘Darling H, I wasn’t suggesting otherwise, don’t be so touchy.’

  ‘Well, David says the war will be a calamity and that we should stay out of it.’

  ‘Does he now! You should be careful about him. Father will be furious if your liaison becomes more than platonic.’

  ‘Don’t be beastly! It is not a “liaison”, as you so inelegantly put it. I won’t be jumping into bed with him, not at my age. But even if I did, why would it matter?’

  ‘By all means have a roll in the hay with him, but don’t let it get serious.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Come on, old girl, Father would have a fit; the man’s a wholesaler.’

  ‘Bardie, you are an arse! David runs a number of very successful businesses and is a very fine sculptor.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but you know how stuffy Father is.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’

  ‘By the way, your man knows bugger all about military matters. Calamity, indeed; the Ge
rmans will be sent packing within six months!’

  ‘Is that so? David is very well read and has been to Germany several times. Besides, he’s entitled to his opinion.’

  ‘Of course he is, but his opinion happens to be misguided on this occasion.’

  Helen feels the beginning of tears of frustration.

  ‘Bardie, let’s not argue about war. Get yourself a drink and I’ll have Forsyth serve some supper. I had promised Papa a bottle of his ’05 Margaux. Shall we have it?’

  ‘What a divine idea! Let’s start with a glass of fizz, and I’ll tell you about how splendid the Scottish Horse are looking.’

  Friday 7 August

  Pentry Farm, Presteigne, Radnorshire

  It has been a long week at Pentry Farm. Tom Crisp has been working on a new shop front for Newells’ ironmongers in Broad Street, while the three Thomas boys have been harvesting in their fields from dawn until dusk. Bronwyn’s days have been equally long. She has now found more houses to clean in the town, which keeps her occupied for six days a week. She and Tom walk to and from Presteigne every day, a round trip of ten miles.

  A truce has been called over the issue of selling the farm. The terms of the domestic armistice involve Bronwyn going off to bed after supper every night so that Tom and her brothers can discuss the details of their new building business. There is also an agreement that the subject is never mentioned within her hearing – not even by Tom, and especially not when they are alone.

  Everyone accepts that the truce will only last as long as it takes for Aaron Griffiths’s solicitors to draw up the legal papers for the sale. They were due to appear this week, but have not yet been delivered. As usual, Bronwyn has gone off with a tilley lamp and retired to the little love nest that Tom has converted from Pentry’s wood store, leaving the boys to continue with the planning of their future.