The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  Winston hands the telegram back to Kitchener. All the colour has drained from his pink cheeks.

  ‘Bloody hell! Namur, that’s the pivot; they’ve got us on the run.’

  Kitchener is not only bereft, he is furious.

  ‘I fear French has got the wind up; you know how excitable he is.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, I’m off to see the PM and give him the grim news. Then I’m off to Dover. I’m sailing this afternoon; I’ve got to keep French squared up.’

  ‘Could you replace him?’

  ‘I’d love to, but he’s a bloody field marshal; I can’t fire him on the first day of the war.’

  ‘Go easy on the Old Block, he’ll be mortified.’

  ‘I will. But do you think Asquith is strong enough for what’s hurtling towards us?’

  ‘There’s no doubting his acumen; it’s his staying power that could be an issue. He’s tired.’

  As Kitchener goes to Downing Street to see the Prime Minister, Winston gets dressed and walks across Horse Guards to the Treasury. He is unnerved. His knowledge of Britain’s military history is second to none and, as he crosses the great parade ground of the King’s Household Division, he thinks back. This is a moment unparalleled since Elizabethan times, when his beloved land faced the Armada of Philip II of Spain, and reminiscent of the Napoleonic Wars when the formidable army of Republican France threatened to subject 800 years of British history to the whim of a military demi-god.

  When Winston finds his quarry, he is surrounded by Treasury and Bank of England officials, junior ministers, industrialists and men from the city and leading banks. It is still early, just turned nine thirty, but the group of worthy men are unshaven and a little bedraggled. Remnants of breakfast are strewn on tables and chairs. They have been working all night. At the centre of the group is a diminutive Welshman, Winston’s friend and political ally, David Lloyd George, Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  Winston catches his eye and beckons him into a small room the size of a broom cupboard.

  ‘What’s the matter, Winston?’ Lloyd George, speaking with the lilting vowels of his Welsh homeland, grabs Winston’s arm and remarks, ‘Winny, this is where we keep the tea and biscuits.’

  Like a conspiratorial schoolboy, Winston whispers earnestly.

  ‘It’s grave news from France. The Germans have broken through and we are, as French’s telegram puts it, “retiring”. Namur has fallen, which is the worst news of all.’

  ‘Fuck! And the French?’

  ‘Fighting bravely, as always, singing the “Marseillaise” as they go. But they’re outnumbered, out-gunned and dying in droves.’

  ‘And our French?’

  ‘Lord K thinks he’s wobbling.’

  ‘Well, he’d better get out there and straighten the bugger out.’

  ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘Does the PM know?’

  ‘He will by now.’

  ‘I’d better go and see him; he’ll need a bit of a lift. And before those buggers in the Cabinet try to convince him to bring our boys home.’

  ‘Listen, David, French is warning Kitchener about a possible evacuation from Le Havre.’

  ‘Already! We’ve only been fighting for a couple of days.’

  ‘I know, it sounds grim indeed. I will send a note to the fleet this morning telling them to be aware of an impending operation in the Channel. But, if there has to be a withdrawal, I would feel better about it being from the Cotentin – probably Cherbourg, or even St Nazaire.’

  ‘That’s a bloody long way to walk.’

  ‘Better a long walk than be stuck on the end of a Prussian bayonet.’

  ‘Well, thank God we’ve still got you and the navy, Winston.’

  ‘Thank you. You know, this is going to be a rough ride.’

  ‘Well, let’s make sure we come through it.’

  ‘How are things here?’

  ‘It’s been a buggers’ muddle. The City boys are running around like blue-arsed flies, bankruptcies everywhere, money flying across the Atlantic. Everyone wants gold; there are runs on the banks everywhere. But we’re on top of it; we’ll be fine. The country is coming together behind our soldiers and sailors. They must be our priority. They built our Empire, now we must help them defend it.’

  ‘David, you are an inspiration! Thank you.’

  ‘You go off and make sure your dreadnoughts are facing the right way, and I’ll go to see Asquith. He’s a good old boy, but he’ll need a couple of malts before lunch.’

  Winston feels invigorated by Lloyd George’s resolute manner and is reassured that, should Asquith falter, the Welsh Wizard would be an ideal replacement. He returns to Admiralty House to dictate a telegram to the fleet. It reads:

  Personal. News from France is disappointing and serious results of battle cannot be measured, as fighting still continues over an enormous front.

  We have not entered the business without the resolve to see it through and you may be assured that our action will be proportional to the gravity of the need.

  I have absolute confidence in the final result.

  No special action is required from you at present, but you should address your mind to a naval situation which may arise where Germans control Calais and French coasts and what ought to be the position of the Grand Fleet in that event.

  Winston then goes to his room to write to Clemmie, something he has failed to do for almost a fortnight.

  My Dear One,

  Humblest apologies to you and the kittens for the silence, but you have never been far from my thoughts despite the traumas of recent days. It is a tonic just to write to you, and it is my second fillip of the day. I’ve just left DLG. He picked me up by the lapels. He was so full of vigour and strength, just like his Mansion House speech when he took on the Tories over Agadir. I sang as I walked through the Downing Street Tunnel and skipped across Horse Guards like a schoolboy.

  The news is not the best from France. The BEF has had a bloody nose at Mons and are in retreat. No hard facts yet, but French is pulling them back. We may face some difficult days ahead.

  I want you to come home soon. Summer is nearly over and kitten number 3 an impending joy. Close up the cottage and come home to your ever loving husband. The marines will help, and I will make arrangements for transport. Tell Jack the news so that the Jagoons can come home with you.

  Tender love, dearest.

  Your ever loving,

  W

  Bougnie, West Flanders, Belgium

  Sunday 23 August 1914 had become one of those days, like so many that summer, when history moves forward, not with a measured step, but with an abrupt lurch.

  On the morning of that day, at Obourg, north-east of Mons, men of A Company, 4th Battalion, Middlesex Regiment saw the massed ranks of German field-grey uniforms for the first time. The West London boys, the ‘Die Hards’ of the Peninsular War, opened fire. Their commanding officer, forty-year-old Major William Abell from Worcestershire, died instantly from a bullet through the head, the first named British casualty of the Great War.

  So unexpected was the coming together of the two armies – 36,000 men of the BEF and many more on the German side – that in the villages around Mons the local Belgian civilians were on their way to church, in their Sunday suits and feathered hats, when the firing started.

  Church bells suddenly stopped ringing. The gentle sound of worshippers’ footsteps on dirt and gravel became the grating noise of people running in panic. Women and children screamed in anguish; men shouted instructions, trying to keep control. A quiet Sunday in an inconspicuous corner of rural Belgium had become the first great battleground of the war.

  It was said that an angel appeared that day, forbidding the Germans to go any further, the ‘Angel of Mons’. If only it were true. The reality was a long August day of brutal killing. At the end of it, the BEF had suffered 1,600 casualties, while German losses may have been as high as 5,000. The 4th Middlesex lost 15 officers
and 353 men.

  The Belgians to the north of the BEF fell back, as did the French to the south. The Germans were there in too great a number; the position was untenable and Sir John French ordered a retreat. Chaos ensued. The British Army was not used to retreating.

  Hamish Stewart-Murray has, so far, missed the anguish of the Battle of Mons. He arrived from Le Havre on 14 August and, after being fêted by the French population at every turn along their route south, his company, C Company, the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders, was immediately attached to Headquarters, 1st Army. He was designated as escort to General Douglas Haig, Commander of the 1st Corps, and billeted at Haig’s HQ at Bougnie, six miles south of Mons. As a result, he has only heard the thunder of distant artillery and seen the glow in the sky from burning buildings.

  However, since dawn this morning, a constant stream of wounded, exhausted and disorientated men have been traipsing into Bougnie from the direction of Mons. General Haig has been hurried away, out of danger, to the west. Hamish has been ordered to take a platoon in the direction of the walking wounded, to Bavay, a reasonably sized town across the French border, fifteen miles to the south-west, to see what he can do to help inject some discipline into the retreat. It takes him most of the day to get there. The roads are full of bedraggled groups of men moving in the same direction, all devastated by fatigue, many in need of medical care.

  The local Belgian and French citizens are doing what they can to help, but many of them are also in the process of fleeing from what they fear is a host of bloodthirsty Huns about to descend on them.

  When Hamish gets to Bavay, he is confronted by a scene of utter chaos. The exception is the contingent of 200 or so men from the 4th Battalion, Middlesex Regiment, who are in excellent order despite having lost all their officers. They are commanded by the impressive presence of their company serjeant major, who has marched them into the centre of the town as if they are on the parade ground and ordered them to clean their rifles and kit. As for the rest, the elite of the British Army, they look like they have been campaigning for a year. Most can walk no further and are lying around in various states of distress.

  Hamish asks the Middlesex’s CSM to get his men to organize a muster point outside Bavay’s hôtel de ville and to begin a roll call.

  ‘Your name, Serjeant?’

  ‘CSM Brown, sir.’

  ‘Major Stewart-Murray, Mr Brown, very well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Your officers?’

  ‘Gone, sir. They were together, lookin’ at a map. Direct hit by a big ’un. Thankfully, they didn’t know what hit ’em.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there are any ambulances around or any Medical Corps chaps?’

  ‘No medics, sir. There’s a group of vets a mile or so back, but they’ve got ’undreds of ’orses to deal with. One of my corporals said that there are some Queen Alex’s nurses in a school over there.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Brown, carry on. But don’t take your men off without liaising with me. I’m sure I’ll need you during the day.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  CSM Brown snaps a salute before marching off. Hamish watches him go, hugely relieved that men like him are at the heart of the BEF. He has heard a story that the Kaiser said that he is going to crush Britain’s ‘contemptible little army’. It seems that, although the British Army is relatively small, it is full of men of outstanding calibre like CSM Brown and that the Kaiser will underestimate them at his peril.

  Hamish takes his platoon over to the school, where he finds several dozen men lying on stretchers in the playground. In the middle of them, trying to cope, are two nurses and a sister from Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service. There are also several local French people offering help, bringing soup and water and even wine and brandy.

  The nurses’ once immaculately starched white aprons and pale grey dresses are covered in blood and more closely resemble the uniforms of slaughtermen than the garb of nurses.

  ‘Sister, can we help?’

  A woman of no more than twenty-five turns sharply. Her hair has begun to fall from its tight bun and strands of it are matted to her face by perspiration.

  ‘Yes please, sir.’

  ‘My men will start taking the wounded into the school, so that you can start doing dressings.’

  ‘That’s helpful, sir, but I’m afraid we don’t have any bandages left.’

  Hamish immediately calls over his NCO.

  ‘Serjeant, take six men, see if you can find some transport and go around Bavay. Requisition all the sheets from any hotel or boarding house you can find. Don’t brook any argument’ – he pulls out a handful of pound notes and gives them to the serjeant – ‘and give them one of these for their trouble. Now, do you need anything else, Sister?’

  ‘A case of morphine, an operating table and a surgeon … sir.’

  Hamish just smiles at the sister’s sarcasm.

  ‘Don’t you have anything for pain?’

  ‘I have a little morphine, but very little else. Perhaps some blankets would help – and any food your serjeant can find.’

  ‘What happened to your medical officer?’

  ‘He’s gone up to see where the men are coming from, taking his ambulance, his orderlies and half my nurses –’

  ‘Well, we’ll help you as much as we can.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. By the way, your general, Haig, came through earlier. He’s got terrible diarrhoea.’

  ‘Has he, by Jove. That will teach him to eat oysters in the middle of a war!’

  The sister smiles for the first time.

  ‘May I know your name, Sister?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Margaret Killingbeck.’

  As always when Hamish sees a woman worth pursuing, he does not think twice, even amidst the carnage around him.

  ‘Interesting name.’

  ‘Yorkshire Dales, sir.’

  ‘Well, I’m Hamish Stewart-Murray. My batman has a couple of bottles of claret in his knapsack. Would you like to have a glass or two this evening?’

  Not surprisingly, the sister looks disconcerted at the suggestion and glances at the sea of stretchers around her.

  ‘That’s very kind, Major, but don’t you think I might be a little busy this evening? Perhaps some other time.’

  Hamish, suitably chastened that he has had to be reminded of the dire circumstances which surround them, smiles meekly, then rolls up his sleeves and begins to help get the wounded inside the school. He talks to each one with genuine concern, especially a young Gordon Highlander whose dark green kilt is dripping with blood from an abdominal wound.

  ‘Where are the rest of your platoon?’

  ‘I dunno, sir. Our officer got shot by the canal, then we lost both our serjeants when we had to pull back. A lot of men went down around me. When I got hit, I fell into a ditch an’ lay still until the Germans passed.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Walked, sir.’

  ‘With a bullet in you?’

  ‘Aye, but it’s gone right through, sir – just on me side, beneath me ribs – I dinna think it hit anythin’ important.’

  Hamish can’t help smiling.

  ‘You’ve done well, soldier. What’s your name?’

  ‘Hamish, sir, frae Aberdeen.’

  ‘That’s a good name to have. Let’s see if we can get you patched up.’

  The lad’s mood suddenly changes. He has lost a lot of blood and is exhausted. He starts to talk animatedly.

  ‘It went well at first, sir. It was like shootin’ practice on the range. They came in massed ranks, like toy soldiers, shoulder to shoulder; we couldna miss. A squadron of their cavalry tried to come over the bridge, but they went down like nine-pins; horses and men fell into the canal. It was a terrible sight, sir.’ The young man grabs Hamish’s hand and starts to shake it violently. ‘But they kept comin’, sir, thousands of ’em. We couldna hold ’em any longer.’

  One of the nurses take
s the young Highlander away; he is still talking excitedly.

  All the men have similar stories. Thousands of German soldiers, their field-grey uniforms making clear targets in the green fields of summer, came through the trees in close order, only a few hundred yards from the British line. Then they fell like fairground ducks, easy targets for the extremely accurate fire of the British infantryman. But the defenders were outnumbered by at least three or four to one in many areas, and the German superiority in numbers eventually made the difference.

  Hamish is keen to find out what has become of the Black Watch and, specifically, his brother Geordie. To his relief, he hears that his brother’s regiment is still in reserve and was not involved in the fighting at Mons.

  Inchy, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France

  By the evening of Monday 24 August, the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers have reached Inchy, a French village over fifty miles from Mons. They are exhausted and have suffered heavy casualties. Mons has cost them five officers and over 150 men. Six more officers and over 100 men are wounded.

  Maurice and Harry are unscathed. They saw many Germans in their rifle sights and shot too many to count but, other than some artillery shells that landed close to them, they were never under threat. They are now waiting to be addressed by Major George Ashburner. When Ashburner appears among the fusiliers, they are resting on the platform of Inchy railway station and, despite their desperate weariness, they immediately spring to attention.

  On Ashburner’s nod, CSM Billy Carstairs orders the company to stand at ease. Both Ashburner and Carstairs are well turned out, their uniforms tidy, their faces shaved; but it is obvious they have been in the thick of it. Ashburner manages a broad smile.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am a proud man this evening. You have acquitted yourselves with great distinction today. Even though we are withdrawing, it is against overwhelming odds and there is no shame in that. Our information is that C and D Companies faced two whole battalions of Germans on Sunday and we gave them a lesson in British marksmanship. So, a proud day for the Royal Fusiliers.’