‘Don’t you give me any lip, Woodruff.’
Major Ashburner gets to his feet and walks up to Harry.
‘Woodruff, your record is exemplary. You and Tait have got more medals and clasps than the rest of the battalion put together. What on earth got into you?’
Harry rests his chin on his chest and takes a breath.
‘Forgive my manners, sir, but I was well pissed off. Billy Carstairs was a good bloke, and so was Captain Orred. This war is not like anythin’ I’ve ever seen before. It’s mad; mass slaughter, on both sides.’
Maurice tries to catch Harry’s eye to stop him talking, but to no avail.
‘I just lost control for a while, sir. I’m hot-headed, always ’ave been.’
Major Ashburner circles Harry, staring at him. BSM Coles now puts his head on his chin as if to say, ‘Silly bugger!’ before Ashburner turns to him.
‘Well, Mr Coles?’
‘It’s a court-martial offence, sir. Or, at the very least, a reduction to the ranks and three months’ field punishment.’
Ashburner circles Harry once more. His expression becomes sombre.
‘I want to tell you something. Two days ago, Thomas Highgate, a nineteen-year-old private in the Royal West Kents, was shot for desertion in Jouarre, just up the road. He was found hiding in a barn in civilian clothes. General Haig said that an example had to be made of him. If you had been picked up in Vailly, Serjeant Woodruff, you might well be in the same position now.
‘However, what men like you have done since we came to France has made me very proud. I’m going to read you a short note addressed to the 4th Battalion Fusiliers from Sir John French, CO of the British forces here. We received it yesterday: “No troops in the world could have done better than you have. England is proud of you, and I am proud of you.” Well, that’s what you two embody – the best of the world’s finest professional army.
‘I also think this is a war like nothing we have seen before. And I suspect that what we have witnessed here is only the beginning. However, we are here to fight the war, not pass judgement on it. Do you understand that, Serjeant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If you had not disappeared into Vailly to get drunk and cavort with the locals, I would have recommended that you receive the Distinguished Conduct Medal. As it is, I think your extraordinary stupidity is just about compensated for by your bravery in carrying a man such a considerable distance under fire.’
The major turns to BSM Coles, who is ready to record his senior officer’s verdict.
‘Let it be noted in the battalion diary that Serjeant Woodruff suffered a minor wound at Maison Rouge and, after treatment, was given twenty-four hours’ leave in Vailly.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Harry, a very relieved man, asks Ashburner for permission to speak. He waits for the major to nod his approval.
‘Thank you, sir. It won’t happen again.’
‘Make sure it doesn’t. You will not get away with it a second time.’
Monday 14 September
Troyon Sugar Factory, Vendresse, Champagne-Ardenne, France
Major Hamish Stewart-Murray is with the Cameron Highlanders as they approach a bare, open plateau beyond a ridge above the village of Vendresse, forty miles north-east of Rheims. Across the ploughed fields in front of them is the red-brick edifice of the Troyon Sugar Factory. It is 6.30 a.m., and the day is going to be autumnally dank and murky.
So far, the Camerons have had few major encounters with the enemy; they are itching to prove themselves on the battlefield, especially now that the French seem to have forced the Germans on to the retreat.
Hamish is no longer attached to General Douglas Haig’s headquarters, but is back with the Camerons’ D Company and is leading platoons 13 and 16 in a wide-ranging British advance.
Hamish is used to being in the public eye – indeed, he has been a leader of territorial soldiers for many years – but has never led men into the teeth of a real battle. He is nervous. Somewhere ahead of him is a large force of German infantry, probably well set in defensive positions and supported by disguised machine-gun posts. There may be German Uhlans with their fearsome sabres and lances, hiding in the trees; there may be batteries of deadly artillery with their trajectories aimed towards the Camerons’ advance. This morning is for real, far removed from a training exercise, and even more distant from the splendid nostalgia and ducal pomp of Blair Atholl’s toy-soldieresque private army, the Atholl Highlanders.
The third son of a duke, he is supposed to have been bred to confront daunting situations like these. Courage is central to his family’s heritage, part of his education from when he was a small boy; leadership defines his class and his nation. But, at this moment, in the chill of a misty morning in Champagne, he derives no strength from the breeding of his ancestors. He feels very lonely and grossly inadequate.
He looks around. He is surrounded by fellow Scots, the vast majority of whom are coarse and hard wee men from Scotland’s poorest villages and towns. They are inured to adversity. He, on the other hand, has lived a life of almost unbounded privilege, where neither hardship nor suffering has played a part. Now, he is exposed. The comforts of Blair Atholl are a long way away. His gun will soon be pointed at a resourceful enemy who will return his fire with at least equal ferocity, not at a defenceless grouse or stag which cannot shoot back.
Hamish’s pistol hand is shaking. His men are looking to him to lead, but he feels like a nervous schoolboy on his first day of boarding. He is thirty-five years old, but feels like he is thirteen. He is a son of the most titled aristocrat in Scotland, who is a close friend of the King, but he wishes he was a son of a humble forester.
Fortunately for him, Angus Farquhar, his redoubtable company serjeant major, hollers at him. His authoritative voice and familiar accent stop Hamish’s mind wandering to places where it should not go.
‘The factory is empty, sir; there are no Germans in sight. Will we move out?’
Hamish does not respond with the same confident authority, and barely gets out the appropriate response.
‘Yes, Mr Farquhar, let’s go.’
‘Are you all right, sir?’
Hamish steels himself.
‘Yes, just a bit of Bombay belly, bloody field rations, Mr Farquhar.’
‘Aye, sir, well, stay close to me. The lads will be makin’ a brew when we get into that factory. I’ve got a wee flask in me knap, a tot or two o’ that’ll sort yer out.’
‘You’re very kind, Mr Farquhar; I’ll look forward to that.’
‘Are we advancing to the pipes today, sir?’
‘No skirl of the pipes today, Mr Farquhar. We don’t want to let the Hun know we’re coming.’
Hamish feels much better knowing that he is with men like Angus. He has a flask of his own in his pocket and decides that when they reach their destination, he will add a couple of shots from his supply to those from his CSM. It might be ‘Dutch courage’, but it will be very welcome.
Platoons 13 and 16 continue to advance over open ground towards the factory, which is now about 400 yards ahead. It looks deserted and an advanced reconnaissance patrol has confirmed that the Germans moved out some time ago. To his right are more platoons of Camerons stretching along the plateau. To their right are the Black Watch, where Hamish knows Geordie will be, and to the left are several platoons of Scots Guards and the Coldstream.
Just after the sudden, deafening squawks of a parliament of rooks fade into the distance, there is an ever more ear-piercing fusillade of gunfire. Rifle retorts and machine-gun chatter fill the air and echo down the valley. The mechanical din is soon supplemented by human clamour – the sounds of men in torment. Highlanders fall all around. Many are killed outright; others receive terrible wounds as bullets tear into their flesh.
CSM Farquhar hollers at his men.
‘They’re in the woods above and to the left! Find targets in the trees, and try to keep your heads down.’
He then
turns to Hamish. He can see that his captain is bewildered.
‘Platoon 13 to give covering fire, sir; platoon 16 to make a dash to the factory?’
Hamish is galvanized by the danger and answers firmly.
‘Yes, Mr Farquhar, get them going. I’ll organize covering fire.’
His hand has stopped shaking as his adrenalin begins to flow. He is aware of bullets cutting through the air close to him. Some whine as they pass, some whistle, a few make a sound like a bird in flight. Then there is a muted yelp behind him. He looks around just as Company Serjeant Major Angus Gordon Farquhar, a decorated veteran with twenty-two years’ service, falls in a heap fifteen yards away. His khaki kilt apron is immediately covered in blood, which is running into the green, red and purple of his regimental plaid and down his bare legs to his hose and garters.
For some bizarre reason, despite the horror of what is in front of him and the threat from the bullets flying all around him, the sight of his CSM’s exposed alabaster-white thigh and backside covered with trickles of crimson makes Hamish pause to reflect. He thinks how odd it is that Scottish soldiers still go to war in kilts, just like their ancient ancestors. As an officer, he is in cavalry britches and riding boots. They are suddenly a great comfort to him. If he is to fall into the cold, sickly soil of Troyon, he would prefer not to expose his lily-white flesh in the process.
Farquhar’s beige tam-o’-shanter is lying on the ground a yard from his head, which has a gaping hole where his jaw should be. The man’s eyes are still open, frozen in the moment of death. Hamish has to look away. The handsome highlander he has just spoken to, who had the presence of a man well-nigh indestructible, is now a hideous corpse.
Hamish goes over to the body. He feels compelled to straighten the man’s kilt to cover his exposed buttocks. It seems the least he can do.
He feels very fragile again. If a man like Farquhar can be killed so easily, what hope is there for lesser mortals like him?
Then, before his burgeoning panic can manifest itself, he is hit too. It feels like a red-hot poker has been thrust through his left thigh. He looks down and sees blood spewing down his leg and over his cavalry boots. He tries to stay on his feet, but cannot. He makes the mistake of trying to put weight on his stricken leg. Pain sears through him and he collapses to the ground. A young corporal rushes over, shouting for medical help, and tries to support his captain.
The pain has banished Hamish’s fear.
‘Corporal Tovey, we need to get the platoon to the cover of the sugar factory. Where’s Serjeant Murray?’
‘Dead, sir.’
‘Macpherson?’
‘Wounded, sir.’
‘Then you must get the men moving.’
‘They’re already on their way to the factory. We’ve got to get you going as well, sir.’
Hamish hears another dull thud, just above his head, and his corporal’s torso falls across his chest. John Tovey, a 25-year-old veteran from St Andrews with eight years’ service, is still breathing. But his chest is rapidly filling with blood, which he is spluttering out of his mouth in involuntary spasms. The blood flows on to Hamish’s tunic and seeps through to his shirt. He can feel its syrupy warmth. He can also feel the heaving of Tovey’s chest. But then the rhythm stops.
Another mother’s son is dead.
Hamish is about to push the body off him when another bullet plunges into it. Others hit the ground close by, some of which are so close that he can feel the quiver they make as they strike the earth. He realizes that the Germans are targeting him. He needs Tovey’s body as a barricade and decides to lie still in the hope that the German marksmen will assume he is dead. He is afraid to move his head, to take a look, but hopes that the remnants of his platoon have made it to the safety of the sugar factory.
Minutes pass into hours and his body begins to lose feeling. His leg is throbbing mercilessly, and occasionally the pain is all but unbearable. Bursts of fire are still happening at regular intervals, but the Germans seem to have stopped using him as target practice.
He tries to assess his predicament. He cannot be sure how bad his wound is, or how much blood he is losing. Help is unlikely to arrive until darkness, at the earliest, and there is a chance that the men of his platoon will be under too much pressure to venture out from their cover. They may even think that he is dead already and leave him, like so many others who have been left to die on the battlefield.
At what Hamish estimates to be late morning, the punishing rhythm of the firing diminishes. About half an hour later, it ceases completely. But by now he is in a bad way. The dampness of the ground is making him shiver uncontrollably. He has lost a lot of blood and is feeling faint. Worst of all, claustrophobia is taking over. He has been lying with a dead man across his chest for a long time, a weight that is now restricting his breathing. He begins to push at Corporal Tovey’s body but, to his horror, he no longer has the strength to shift it.
A blind terror overwhelms him; he is finding it hard to breathe and, despite his strivings, he cannot release himself from the weight lying across him. All the while, he is staring into the face of the young corporal, a face that has now lost all its colour and whose lips have taken on the hideous powder blue of death.
Then comes blessed relief. The ashen face in front of him is replaced by an encroaching darkness – a liberation that he knows will mean his death.
The terror recedes into a void of unconsciousness.
‘Major Stewart-Murray … Major …’
The voices Hamish hears later are distant and indistinct. They come in waves. There are only voices, no images.
Then they fade away; silence and emptiness resume.
When he eventually becomes conscious, Hamish is in a convent in Armentières. It has been turned into a forward field hospital and is full of badly injured British soldiers.
His vision is not completely clear, and his head thumps like the worst of hangovers. But he feels no pain from his leg, and the terror of his final moments on the battlefield at Troyon has gone. He is in a room on his own, in one of the nuns’ cells. Standing by his bed is a young subaltern from the Camerons and next to him is Sister Margaret Killingbeck, looking immaculate in her starched white apron, grey uniform and red-trimmed nurse’s bonnet.
‘How are you feeling, Hamish?’
Margaret’s gentle voice is such a comfort. Her tone sounds almost angelic to Hamish’s ears.
‘You have been very fortunate. You lost a lot of blood; another hour or so on the ground and you would not have made it.’
Hamish croaks a question.
‘How did I get here?’
The Camerons’ subaltern provides the answer.
‘Sir, the Germans withdrew from the woods under pressure from the Coldstream boys on their flank, so we were able to retrieve you. Corporal Tovey’s body saved your life. It was riddled with bullets when we found you both.’
‘How many did we lose?’
‘I’m afraid the numbers are grim, sir. Eighteen officers and four hundred and fifty-six men from the battalion killed, missing or wounded. In your company, D Company, the numbers are worse still. When we came to do the roll call, of its five officers and two hundred and twenty-two men, none of the officers and only eighty-six men reported in. You are the only officer to survive.’
‘Good God! I need to get back on my feet.’
Margaret swiftly intervenes.
‘You won’t be back on your feet for quite a while, and certainly not in France. You’re going home.’
‘I can’t, Margaret. We have no officers left.’
‘That’s as may be, but you’ve been unconscious for over a week. You nearly lost your leg, and you have a hole in it the size of a cricket ball. Fortunately, the bullet missed the bone and the artery, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But the wound is now infected –’
Hamish tries to interrupt, but Margaret will have none of it.
‘You’re going home. There’s nothing more to be said. The do
ctors and I give the orders here, and you will do as you’re told.’
Hamish remembers his fears before any shots were fired at Troyon. He then recalls the tormented faces of the men who died around him. Finally, the horror of his predicament on the battlefield invades his senses. He breathes a huge sigh; Margaret’s words are suddenly a great comfort. Home seems like a good idea.
He remembers his brother, Geordie, and turns to the subaltern.
‘What have you heard about the Black Watch, Lieutenant?’
‘They got a mauling like us, sir; very heavy losses, I’m afraid.’
‘Will you do something for me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Please find out what you can about Captain George Stewart-Murray, B Company.’
‘Straight away, sir; I’ll go over to the brigade myself. Their HQ is just down the road.’
‘Thank you.’
The Camerons’ lieutenant salutes and leaves. When he has gone, Margaret touches Hamish’s hand.
‘We nearly lost you, Hamish, and that leg is going to hurt. We can’t give you much morphine – we haven’t got much – so you’re going to face a lot of pain. You need a long convalescence in that castle of yours.’
Hamish’s latent feelings for Margaret rise to the surface.
‘Come with me, Margaret.’
She smiles at him warmly.
‘Sorry, Hamish; it’s a nice thought, but a million Germans down the road are not going to let that happen.’
Hamish then remembers the promise he made to Captain Philip Davies.
‘At least take some leave and come with me to deliver on my promise to that Welch Fusilier.’
‘I’m afraid there’s no leave for me just yet. And you must go straight home; your leg is already septic, you can’t go wandering off to Wales.’
‘But what about that poor girl?’
Margaret then has a thought.
‘I’ve been asked to go back to Britain for a month. We are desperately short of nurses and, with Lord Kitchener recruiting a new army, we’re going to need even more. A few of us are going to be touring all our general hospitals in a recruitment drive. I could see if I can be given Shropshire and Herefordshire, then I could deliver the letter and key.’
The Shadow of War Page 22
