The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  All five smile. Winston is in one of his rampant veins. They know that what will follow will be an oratorical tour de force.

  ‘At sea, our ships have muzzled the German Grand Fleet and it has run back to its ports, where I’m sure its sailors will spend the autumn idly polishing the brass and mahogany of their captains’ wardrooms. The Heligoland Bight encounter was a stunning blow. Three of their cruisers and a destroyer are on the bottom, many more damaged. We had some impairment to one of our cruisers, but Commodore Roger Keyes’s battle plan was outstanding. Old Jelly Bones is crowing about it, but it was all Keyes’s doing.’

  Goonie looks confused. ‘Jelly Bones’ is one of Winston’s many pet names with which she is not familiar. Jack comes to her aid.

  ‘John Jellicoe, my dear. Winston has just made him a full admiral and given him command of the Grand Fleet.’

  Winston suddenly turns, with a fiery look in his eye.

  ‘And he had better bring home the bacon for me, or I’ll have it sliced off his rump!’

  He then resumes the acclamation of his and Britain’s prowess; he gets to his feet, goblet of claret in hand.

  ‘I have more to tell: I wrote a memo three years ago, outlining what I thought would be the disposition of German forces if they were to launch an attack on France and how the subsequent conflict would unfold. Among many other things, I suggested that the German lines of communication would become too stretched and that their rapid advance would be curtailed within forty days.’

  Then Winston gives an illustration of his extraordinary memory.

  ‘I can quote from it now: “By the fortieth day, Germany should be extended at full strain and this strain will become more severe and ultimately overwhelming.” Well, today is the thirty-sixth day of their assault, and it has come to pass. Of course, our army high command did not take my advice. I suggested that we should wait in reserve to strike at the right time but, pressured by the French, who panicked a little, we threw in our lot immediately and hence the unnecessary mauling at Mons. However, I do take some small comfort from being vindicated – especially as Kitchener and others have said as much.’

  Despite Clemmie’s hugely pregnant midriff, she jumps to her feet to kiss her husband.

  ‘If they listened to you more often, my darling, the army might be in the same unassailable position as our navy.’

  ‘Thank you, Clemmie, dearest heart. But actually, you have brought me to my next piece of news. Lord K has asked me to take control of all our air defences and add the Royal Flying Corps to my Royal Naval Air Service. He hasn’t the time to devote himself to air power and is not really an advocate of its potential. But he knows I am very passionate about it. So, as well as our oceans, our skies are mine to command!’

  All the listeners are enthralled; there are squeals of joy.

  ‘I have already established a new squadron at Hendon and ordered a fleet of armour-plated Rolls-Royce cars to go to France to help establish forward air bases fifty miles inland. Twenty-four planes have already left, and we have launched our first aerial bombing sorties over German positions. The world’s first air war has begun. I’m exhilarated by it all!’

  Jack calls for a toast, which is made with great cheer. Clemmie remembers their visit to Glen Tilt to see Bardie Stewart-Murray’s experimental machines.

  ‘Does that mean you can commission some of those things we saw at Blair Atholl?’

  ‘Ah, yes; that’s going to be a little embarrassing, Clemmie. Those Dunne prototypes don’t quite cut the mustard according to our engineers and experienced pilots. They’re fine for civilian use, but they are not robust enough for a war zone.’

  ‘Oh dear, such nice people.’

  ‘Indeed, and Bardie’s investors are all good friends of mine. But the two planes that were commissioned just couldn’t stand up to the kind of sudden movements necessary under fire. Bardie is with the Scottish Horse in Dunkeld. When he comes south for embarkation to France, I’ll break the news to him. I’d rather do it in person.’

  Jack then intervenes.

  ‘Why are you so sure he’ll be going to France? The Scottish Horse is not on the latest list.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, dear boy, I predict that by the time this is over, every able-bodied man in the realm will be involved in one way or another. And, if I may say so, ladies, every woman as well.’

  Goonie grabs Winston’s arm.

  ‘So it won’t be over by Christmas, as many are saying?’

  ‘No, Goonie. Not this Christmas, not the next. And maybe not the one after that.’

  ‘My God, Winston! With the casualty figures we’ve read so far, that means tens of thousands will die.’

  ‘No, Goonie, hundreds of thousands, maybe millions.’

  There is a sudden pall in the room.

  Winston seeks to reinvigorate his guests.

  ‘But let’s face all that when the time comes. I have more to tell you – much more. And it’s good news.’

  Winston is now striding up and down the room. He has refilled his glass and the deep red claret is perilously close to the rim as he becomes more and more impassioned.

  ‘Now, let me come to the best news since war was declared: the opportunity predicted by the scenario I outlined in my 1911 memorandum. All intelligence, especially from aerial reconnaissance, is indicating that von Kluck is swinging his army south-east of Paris.’

  Clemmie looks perplexed.

  ‘Why would he do that, darling?’

  ‘Paris is too tough a nut to crack in a frontal assault. That was never part of the German plan. They wanted to encircle the city from the north, defeat the bulk of the French Army on the battlefield and then squeeze the life out of the city until it was forced to surrender. Now they are trying to do the same thing, but in a southerly arc, because the northern route is too much of a stretch, as I said all along.’

  Clemmie is still baffled.

  ‘So why is that good news?’

  ‘Because he is exposing his left flank to a swift counter-attack from the French railheads in the city. Not only that, the French have been blessed by an astonishing stroke of luck. Three days ago, a German officer returning from von Kluck’s headquarters to his own division took a wrong turn and drove straight into a French patrol. His car was sprayed with bullets and he was killed.’

  Goonie lets out an impromptu gasp.

  ‘Oh dear! That poor man –’

  ‘Goonie, don’t be ridiculous, he was our sworn enemy; this is a fight to the death.’

  ‘I know, Winston, but he’s probably a lovely village boy, only twenty-five years old, with a sweetheart and mother at home.’

  ‘Quite so, but I’m more concerned about our lovely boys. Anyway, this sweet Prussian boy had a map of von Kluck’s current disposition in his pocket and, more importantly, drawn on it in pencil were the lines of his intended movements. He is heading for the River Marne, and the plans show General Lanrezac exactly where to put his 5th Army. It shows the French the precise point from where to spring an ambush. The BEF will support Lanrezac and will share in what I’m sure will be a great victory.’

  Jack is wide-eyed in astonishment.

  ‘What an extraordinary piece of good fortune.’

  ‘Quite right, dearest Jack, God always smiles on the righteous!’

  FE then produces a copy of The Times newspaper.

  ‘Talking of the righteous, I’ve got a copy of your Guildhall speech yesterday. I love this bit.’

  FE gets to his feet, a great orator in the courtroom and parliament in his own right. He mimics Winston’s voice, complete with his renowned lisp and flamboyant gesticulations.

  ‘ “You only have to endure to conquer. You have only to persevere to save yourself and all those who rely on you. You have to go on and at the end of the road, be it short or long, victory and honour will be found.” ’

  Clemmie and Goonie applaud both men: FE for his perfect impersonation, and Winston for the stirring power of his words. Clemmie then tu
gs at Winston’s jacket.

  ‘Tell everybody what the Prime Minister said to you yesterday.’

  ‘No, it was nothing.’

  ‘On the contrary, it was very important. Four of us are Churchills, and FE and Margaret are honorary members of the clan; they would like to know what he said.’

  Before Winston can respond, FE makes a little speech of his own.

  ‘Really, Clemmie, honorary Churchills? What a rare privilege! But does it mean we have to agree with Winnie all the time?’

  His wife, Margaret, answers immediately.

  ‘Of course you do; I have to agree with you all the time, so why shouldn’t you toe the Churchill line? You’ll get used to it – I’ve had to!’

  Everyone laughs; Margaret’s wit is almost as sharp as FE’s renowned jocularity.

  Winston is being coy. In truth, he needs little encouragement to reveal what Asquith said.

  ‘Very well, the Old Block had been talking to the lovely Venetia, his … erm … private secretary. She said she was worried about me, that I had the look of a ravenous wolf, desperate for the kill, and that she sensed the last thing I wanted was peace. I think OB meant it as a warning to mind my rhetoric in public. But I made it very clear to him that we Churchills are a family of fighters; it is in our blood, and I make no apologies for my demeanour as an uncompromising warrior.

  ‘I explained that I cherish peace as much as the next man, but not above victory over an enemy who is so uncompromisingly ruthless in his ambitions. We must meet force with superior force. When the clarion call of war is sounded, we must answer until the account is settled. Nothing must be spared until victory is achieved; then we can enjoy the peace.’

  There is silence for a moment.

  Clemmie’s eyes fill with tears as Jack and FE shake Winston’s hand, and Goonie hugs him. All five at the table are thinking the same thing: he might be like a ferocious animal, but thank God we have him.

  Rue du Marteroy, Jouarre, Seine-et-Marne, France

  The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers has been acting as rearguard for the retreat from Mons for two weeks. They have marched over 140 miles with full packs, are footsore and totally fatigued. Dozens have dropped out from sheer exhaustion or from feet so blistered they can no longer walk. They have been living off the land, to preserve their rations, but have taken care to pay their way and not to alienate their French civilian hosts, who are, after all, their allies.

  The Germans, however, have been less than courteous. The small town of Jouarre has been left resembling the kind of pitiful scene that follows an attack by a plague of locusts. The local people are nowhere to be seen. Every house has been ransacked, anything valuable taken and everything else destroyed.

  Harry and Maurice have been ordered to take their platoon and check all the local houses for lurking Germans, or any sick or wounded soldiers and civilians.

  ‘They’re bloody animals, Mo. Look at that, some arse’ole’s ’acked into that larder wiv an axe.’

  Harry then goes upstairs.

  ‘Mo, look at this lot. They’ve used the small bedroom as a shitter, dirty bastards. Jesus, what a pong!’

  ‘Everything’s gone, ’Arry; there’s not a stitch in the ’ouse. They’ve nicked everythin’. Billy Carstairs says we’re movin’ up, not back, so we’ll soon be able to ’ave a pop at the bastards.’

  ‘I’ve lost track. I ’aven’t a bloody clue where we are; we seem to ’ave been marchin’ since last Christmas.’

  When their platoon returns to the open fields behind the Abbey of Notre Dame, where the battalion is being billeted, they are just in time to hear an address from Major Ashburner. Already well liked by his men, his reputation among C Company has grown with every step from Mons. He gave up his officer’s cavalry mount after Le Cateau and has since walked every yard with his men, carrying his own pack.

  ‘Relax, men, and get yourselves comfortable on the ground – which, thank God, is still dry.’

  He looks around at them. His face glows with pride.

  ‘When my wife heard that we would be departing for France in August, she said, “Don’t get sunburned!” But all we’ve had is thunderstorms and blisters!’

  He gets the laugh he was hoping for.

  ‘As you know, I let my charger go after Le Cateau. I thought I preferred blisters to saddle-sores.’

  This time, the laughter is louder and much more heartfelt.

  ‘Now, to the matter in hand, gentlemen. We stood our ground at Mons against overwhelming odds, bloodied their noses at Le Cateau and then withdrew in excellent order. Now we have a chance to teach our Teutonic friends a lesson.’

  Maurice looks at Harry quizzically and whispers.

  ‘What the fuck’s a Tu-tonic?’

  ‘Dunno, Mo … must be a German.’

  Billy Carstairs sees Harry and Maurice whispering to one another and glares at them. Major Ashburner does not notice. He is in full flow.

  ‘Now we have a chance to strike back. As you will have realized, we have swung round and, after falling back to the south-east for what seemed like an eternity, we are moving forwards, to the north-east. Paris is behind us and soon we will move up to the River Marne, where General Lanrezac’s 5th French Army is attacking in vast numbers as I speak …’ He pauses and smiles at his men. ‘I want to read something to you. It is from the Commander of the French Army, General Joseph Joffre, a decorated veteran and highly respected soldier. It is his order of the day, issued this morning.

  ‘I know the French troops look a little comical in their red pantaloons and blue tunics – and they certainly make for easy targets – but rest assured, they can and will fight. These are the general’s words to his men: “Now as the battle is joined, upon which rests the future of our country, you must know that this is not a time for looking back. Every effort must be made to attack and throw back the enemy. A unit which finds it impossible to advance must, regardless of cost, hold its ground and be killed on the spot rather than fall back. In the present circumstances, no failure will be tolerated. Vive la France!” ’

  Ashburner scrutinizes the faces of his men. He can see that they are impressed.

  ‘Rest well tonight. Bathe your blisters. As you relax, and again before we march out, just look around you and see what the Germans have done here in France and all through Belgium. Sister Anne-Marie, Abbess here at Jouarre, has told me that they even desecrated the abbey. They were rude and threatening to the monks and nuns, they got drunk and brought in women, some against their will. They even used the crypt, a holy place that is over a thousand years old, as a latrine. Tomorrow you will be able to repeat what you did at Mons and remind Fritz of his manners!’

  A huge cheer goes up from the fusiliers, some of whom jump to their feet in anger, waving their rifle bayonets in the air like native warriors brandishing their spears.

  The next morning, just before dawn, Maurice and Harry are breaking camp and prompting their platoon into life. They are as well rested as an eight-hour open-air bivouac will allow. They have eaten better than they have for the previous two weeks and have managed to bathe and dress their blistered feet. Most significantly, they are eager to get even with Fritz after the retreat from Mons and are indignant at the behaviour of fellow soldiers, albeit German ones, towards the local population.

  ‘All set, Mo?’

  ‘Yeah, as good as I’ll ever be.’

  The men of C Company spend the rest of Sunday 6 September in a long march in the heat of a warm, late summer day. They head north-east, from which direction they can hear distant artillery, rifle and machine-gun fire sufficient to indicate that a major battle is going on ahead of them.

  They make camp at Château-Thierry. As their transport fails to appear yet again, they bivouac in the open air. Harry is rummaging around in his knapsack.

  ‘Mo, what ’ave yer got for tucker?’

  ‘A tin o’ Moir Wilson’s. What about you?’

  ‘A Maconochie’s.’

  ‘That’s
a result, let’s boil ’em up together and make a nice stew. Tell ya what else I’ve got, a bottle o’ beer.’

  ‘Where the fuck did yer get that from?’

  ‘Been savin’ it. Picked it up two days ago from an officer’s table outside a café. He went fer a piss at just the wrong time for him; right time fer me. I’ll share it with yer.’

  ‘You’re a good sort, ’Arry. ’Ere, ’ave one of my fags. Afraid it’s one o’ them filthy Frenchie ones – Sweet Caporal!’

  ‘Fuck knows why they call ’em “Sweet”, they’re like smokin’ dog shit!’

  Harry and Maurice settle down for their feast of army rations and a bottle of beer. It is a long way from the comforts of home cooking, or the beer at the Drum in Leyton, but they feel better than they have for days. They are in a meadow just south of the Marne river, three miles east of Château-Thierry. Behind them is the main road from the town to the east. The road is congested in both directions with long columns of fleeing civilians going towards Paris and French troops moving the other way, both in vast numbers.

  ‘Look at that lot, Mo! Black as the ace o’ spades, some of ’em.’

  ‘French native troops, ’Arry. North Africans, by the look of ’em.’

  ‘But some are black.’

  ‘I know, mate. They get about, them darkies.’

  Led by French officers, thousands of French colonial troops join the battle for the Marne and for control of the approaches to Paris. Even more colourfully dressed than their French army comrades, they march past proudly to fight for the Republic.

  There is suddenly a melee along the road as car horns sound and cheers ring out.

  ‘Bugger me! The Frenchies are moving men up in cars.’

  ‘They’re bloody taxis, ’Arry. Hundreds of ’em. They must have come from Paris.’

  ‘That’s a good bit o’ thinkin’ by some Frenchie clever dick. None of our generals would ’ave thought o’ that. Except for transportin’ themselves, o’ course.’

  ‘What do yer reckon to the French boys?’

  ‘Warmin’ to ’em a bit, now that they’re turnin’ and makin’ a fight of it. I still prefer the girls, though.’