As FE’s driver takes them through a wet and squally night to Blenheim, Winston’s friend tries to cheer him by reading aloud a note recently sent to Clemmie by Eddie Grey.
‘Listen to this, old chap: “I am sitting next to Winston in Cabinet, having welcomed him back from Antwerp. I feel a glow imparted by the thought that I am sitting next to a hero. I can’t tell you how much I admire his courage, gallant spirit and genius for war. It inspires us all.” ’
Winston smiles at FE, but only thinly, and grasps Clemmie’s hand.
‘Eddie is very kind; you are kind, FE, to do this for Clemmie and me. I am in my cups, I’m afraid. Give me a little time, old friend.’
Both Clemmie and FE know that now is not the time to challenge Winston’s assessment of his own well-being. It is better to give him time to wrestle with Black Dog in his own way. The rest of the journey to Oxfordshire takes place in silence, as Winston broods, staring fixedly through the car window at the wind and rain of the passing night.
Monday 12 October
Town Hall, Great Harwood, Lancashire
Great Harwood’s new town hall, only completed ten years ago, is packed. It is a special meeting of the British Socialist Party, called to air opinions about the war. The room is full for two reasons. First, leading socialist Henry Hyndman is the main speaker, and he always pulls a large crowd. And second, the debate about the war has reached fever pitch in recent weeks as more and more join up for Kitchener’s Army and ever more bodies return from France.
After much cajoling from Mary, Cath has agreed to speak at the meeting. She is petrified. After several local speakers have addressed the meeting, Henry Hyndman, as usual, gives a typically rousing speech in support of socialist principles but, to the consternation of many in the audience – a few of whom boo the speaker – he also articulates a powerful defence of Britain’s war effort. His closing words bring the majority of the audience to their feet.
‘Comrades, our boys at the front are fighting a just war against an enemy bent on a new imperialism. The bloodlust of the Kaiser must be defeated. I know that our own leaders are hardly radicals, as we use the phrase, but the unity that we now see in Britain will bring inevitable change. Our servicemen are fighting for freedom in France and Belgium, a freedom that cannot be denied them when they return home. Until that time, we must do all we can to support them.’
The time has come for Cath to speak. She is the first woman to be invited to speak at any of the local Lancashire branches, an honour accorded her following the recommendation of several Burnley members. She is introduced by the Chairman of the meeting.
‘Comrade Catherine Kenny, a weaver from Burnley. Welcome, Cath.’
Cath’s heart is pumping so fast, she can hardly breathe. The fact that she is almost seven months pregnant is not helping; neither is the fact that, in the last couple of weeks, the baby’s little flutters of movement have been replaced by easily discernible kicks.
Mick is in the front row with Mary and Tommy. Nat and Vinny are at the back of the room with other friends who have travelled from Burnley to listen to her speak in public for the first time. Lieutenant Heys is there to hear her with several members of the Burnley Clarion Club who, of course, have cycled the six miles to Great Harwood.
Mary and Cath have abandoned the dowdy Lancashire shawls worn by the local working-class women, an attire that makes them look like impoverished nuns, and are wearing smart pleated skirts and blouses, like well-to-do ladies. Mick and Tommy are very proud; their lasses look very fetching indeed. The men are looking exceptionally neat and tidy: they sport short-back-and-sides military haircuts, clean-shaven faces, well-brushed Sunday best clothes and highly burnished boots. They look quite the part.
Henry Hyndman, seeing how nervous Cath seemed, took her on one side before the meeting began and gave her some simple advice: ‘Be yourself, be true to what you believe; you’ll be fine. They will love your honesty.’
The silence is deafening as her trembling fingers try to flatten her speech on to the lectern in front of her. She looks up and peers through the town hall’s window just as the clock on Mercer’s Tower nearby is about to strike eight o’clock. Cath sees the minute hand move, prompting her to begin, her voicing cracking with apprehension.
‘Good evening … Comrades …’
Then, as if on cue, the clock strikes with a loud clang. It stops Cath in her tracks and makes the audience laugh. Mercer’s Clock Tower was built by his daughter in memory of John Mercer, one of the giants of the cotton industry and the inventor of ‘mercerized’ cotton. An impoverished child, who never attended school, he taught himself to read and write and to understand the basics of chemistry. He would eventually be admitted to the Royal Society and become a juror at the Great Exhibition of 1862. Cath knows the story of John Mercer well. He is one of her heroes. As she continues to fumble with her speech, she remembers Henry Hyndman’s words of encouragement.
As the clock booms its seventh strike, she decides to heed Hyndman’s advice and, despite the hours of writing and rehearsing, abandons her scripted words and lays them to one side. She looks at Mick, who is as nervous as she is. But, as Mercer’s clock strikes its last chime, she smiles and thinks to herself: If little John Mercer can do what he did and transform the cotton industry, I can make a little speech. The weight of fear lifts from her shoulders. She rests her hands on the side of the lectern and begins.
‘It’s ’ard to foller a lad like Mr Hyndman. ’E’s cleverer than me and ’as ’ad a proper education. But I’m goin’ to try because ’e’s been an inspiration to me an’ lots o’ t’people in this room. Like John Mercer, whose loud clock is reet outside that yonder window, he’s an example to all on us.’
Cath begins to flow. For over fifteen minutes, she describes her childhood in the squalor of a cellar dwelling in Brierfield, a suburb of Burnley, the daughter of Irish immigrants, and how she struggled to learn to read and write. She speaks with an easy fluency, full of humorous detail about the delights of long-drop lavatories and carbolic soap, of visits from the schools’ nurse, ‘Nitty-Nora, the Bug-Explorer’, and tidemarks around children’s necks who are only able to swill their faces before going to school.
She describes the early socialist meetings she attended and her gradual conversion to the cause of equality for all. Her ancient East Lancs dialect is understood perfectly by the locals and even those who are not familiar with its nuances understand the greater part of it and enjoy its peculiar charm. Mick smiles broadly, proud of his wife. Henry Hyndman nods appreciatively as she gets to the nub of her proposition, one that is not in direct opposition to his, but more a cry from her heart.
‘I got t’sack fer picketin’ at Howard an’ Bullough’s strike, so did me ’usband, Mick, and me friends Mary an’ Tommy. We ended up wi’ no job and blacklisted in t’mills an’ t’pits. We ’ad nowt, an’ no prospects of owt. So Mick an’ Tommy an’ their mates Nat an’ Vinny joined up. Not because we ’ad a choice, but because we ’adn’t!’
A round of applause echoes around the room from those who think she is going to support the anti-war position. But they are to be disappointed.
‘Now we’re committed to Britain’s war effort, there’s no goin’ back. There’s lads’ lives at stake – one in, all in! Colliers, weavers, posh lads, poor lads, they all bleed!’
A much louder roar of approval reverberates around Great Harwood Town Hall. If Mercer’s Tower Clock were to strike again, it would not be heard.
‘So I ’ave no argument wi’ Mr Hyndman’s opinion o’ t’war. Like ’im, I support this war because it’ll bring change, an’ it’ll mean that when our lads come ’ome, it will be to a land fit for heroes!’
Cath’s closing remarks bring the entire audience to its feet. Mick jumps onstage to give his wife a warm embrace. Then Henry Hyndman does the same.
‘Comrade Kenny, that was an excellent speech. You are a natural; you should have no fears about speaking in public. I loved your closing line,
“to a land fit for heroes”. Do you mind if I steal it?’
‘Do what tha wants wi’ it, Henry; I’m just glad it’s over!’
Lieutenant Heys appears at Mick’s shoulder.
‘Good evening, Mick!’
‘Even’, sir.’
‘Call me Fred; no formalities here, not at a meeting of socialists. Please introduce me to your formidable wife.’
‘Cath, this is Lieutenant Heys. ’E’s in charge o’ t’platoon.’
‘Rousing words, if I may say so, Mrs Kenny.’
‘Thanks, Lieutenant.’
‘I think you and Mr Hyndman are right, this war will herald a new order in Britain.’
Cath frowns.
‘Aye, mebbe … Just bring ’em ’ome in one piece.’
Later, back at Keighley Green Club, Tommy and Mick are enjoying a drink.
‘So, your Cath did alreet t’neet.’
‘She did that; I’m reet proud on ’er.’
‘Yer know what, Mick?’
‘What’s that, Tommy?’
‘We gonna ’ave to start listenin’ to our Cath an’ Mary; they’re cleverer than we are.’
‘I reckon tha’s reet, Tom lad.’
Saturday 17 October
Herlies, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France
The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers reach the small town of Herlies at dusk on 17 October. They are now only twelve miles south of the Belgian border at Armentières. Herlies occupies a strategic position on the main road between Béthune and Lille.
Since their bloody encounter at Maison Rouge Farm at Vailly-sur-Aisne, over a month ago, the 4th Fusiliers have moved north in stages by train, French Army transport and on foot. On occasions, there have been four or five days of fifteen-hour marches. Even the most inexperienced soldier knows that both the Allies and the Germans are trying to gain the strategic advantage of controlling the Channel ports.
For Maurice and Harry, life has been quiet. Since Harry’s mental aberration in Vailly and his fortunate disciplinary reprieve by Major Ashburner, he has been subdued. His usual happy-go-lucky demeanour and his eye for a pretty girl – or any girl, for that matter – have only been glimpsed on rare occasions. Maurice is worried about him.
The general strategic position in France continues to be dire for both the Germans and the Allies. After the heroic victory on the Marne, the priority for the French has been consolidation; for the British it has been to make certain that there is a route home across the Channel. Ominously, when the victorious German Army marched through Antwerp on its victory parade, it took them five hours to pass and their ranks were made up of 60,000 men. The Germans have already occupied the key city of Lille after a huge artillery bombardment. Then, only two days ago, Ostend fell.
With more German advances come more atrocities, adding significantly to the level of hostility at the front and at home in Britain. Tens of thousands of Belgians are pouring into London and the South of England, all with horrendous stories of acts of German cruelty.
Along a line almost forty miles long, German, French and British units have been clashing in a series of light to medium skirmishes. Casualty levels are rising inexorably. Both sides are beginning to come to terms with the awesome power of the machine gun and the value of the well-protected infantry position, where highly trained marksmen can have a significant impact on advancing troops across open ground.
The use of heavy concentrations of artillery is also proving deadly. But both sets of High Command are still scratching their heads, trying to absorb as quickly as possible the consequences of these changing patterns of warfare. All of their senior men served in a different age and went to Staff College in an era dominated by memories of massed ranks of infantry, of dashing cavalry attacks, when artillery fired shrapnel weapons, not explosive shells. While they develop new strategies to meet new times, men die in droves.
To the south of the fusiliers’ latest position, the 1st Dorsets and 1st Bedfords suffer major losses close to Givenchy, three miles east of Béthune. The Bedfords lose almost all their officers. To the north, the 1st Royal Warwicks are mauled at Méteren, losing over 250 men in a single encounter.
For the fusiliers, a night behind hastily arranged cover in and around Herlies beckons. There are Germans all around the small town, many in sniping positions, and there is the constant ‘ping’ of bullets hitting hard objects. Sometimes, the bullets strike flesh and the noise is altogether different – as are the cries of the stricken men.
There are also frequent bursts of artillery fire, which are reducing most of Herlies’s buildings to rubble. When a shell finds a human target, the victim is often incinerated or blown to pieces. The men have already realized that it is often better to be killed instantly in such an attack than to survive in unbearable pain, only to die days later in a body shattered beyond repair.
Nights are drawing in and it is becoming colder and wetter, making life for the soldier even more onerous. Not only that, all know that winter is yet to bite with its inevitable ferocity and that there is no prospect of an end to hostilities in the foreseeable future.
Maurice and Harry’s platoon has taken up positions beneath and around the ruined walls of the Eglise Saint-Amé, which has neither roof nor spire intact. It is not clear which army inflicted the damage or when, but, like its church, the village is also devastated, its inhabitants long gone.
‘What a bloody mess, ’Arry.’
‘Too true, Mo. The whole fuckin’ thing’s a mess.’
With six men for company, the two veterans have been ordered to form a battle outpost at the corner of Saint-Amé, using the rubble of its nave for cover. A German attack could come at any time or, using the cover of darkness, exploratory skirmishers could suddenly appear out of the gloom. On the other side of the road sits another outpost and, behind them, the rest of the platoon and its machine gun are scattered along the road’s drainage ditches. The men of the forward outpost take it in turns to keep watch.
The night passes uneventfully, but they do hear artillery and rifle fire from both their right and left flanks. Unfortunately, just before dawn, it begins to rain heavily, making life even more miserable. The men of the 4th Battalion were promised winter greatcoats over a week ago, but they still have not appeared.
Just after a damp and cold dawn, Maurice is the first to hear the beginning of the German attack.
‘’Arry! Cavalry! Look, right down the middle of the fuckin’ road, dozens of ’em.’
The platoon springs to life. Lieutenant Mead, a newly arrived officer from the 1st Battalion, shouts orders to the men. Captain Leicester Carey, the recently promoted replacement for James Orred, who was killed at Maison Rouge, is fifty yards further back sending a messenger to Major Ashburner to inform him of the attack.
Mead, a man of no more than twenty-five, is in his first battle. Harry claims that he knew the lieutenant was what he called a ‘weekend soldier’ as soon as he met him.
‘I can sniff out the amateurs. They smell nice an’ clean; they don’t ’ave the whiff of muck and bullets abaht ’em.’
Maurice smiles and thinks to himself: Good old ’Arry, never one to make a considered judgement when a first impression will do.
Bullets begin to pepper the remnants of the nave of Saint-Amé behind them. A German machine gun has opened to their right and sniper fire is finding targets all around them. One or two men are hit; one is dead for sure, his head like a crushed melon.
Lieutenant Mead can just be heard, bellowing, ‘Pick your targets! Commence firing!’
Several men have already got off rounds before Mead gives his order. The massed ranks of the German cavalry are now within 300 yards and advancing at a gallop.
‘What’re our machine-gun boys’ doin’? They should be mowin’ ’em down like fuckin’ daisies!’
Harry is angry, swearing and cursing as he lies in a prone position, firing rapidly.
‘Come on, Mo, target practice! Yer can’t miss!’
Maurice ado
pts the same pose. Harry is right, it is harder to miss a target – whether man or horse – than to hit one. The broad chests of the oncoming horses are the easiest mark, so many riflemen aim for those. But there is more satisfaction to be had in taking a man clean out of his saddle – and, besides, it grants the marksman another notch on his rifle’s stock. Accurate British musketry is already inflicting crippling losses on the pure-black steeds of the approaching cavalry, but they keep coming on relentlessly.
The men approaching at speed are no ordinary troopers. They are the rigorously chosen elite of the Imperial Guards Cavalry Division, the Gardes du Corps. They were first raised as the personal bodyguard of the Kings of Prussia by Frederick the Great, in 1740. The troopers are hand-picked from all over the German Empire for their horsemanship, fighting ability and endurance. The officers, selected with equal sternness, are exclusively from the German aristocracy, mostly Prussian Junkers.
Their uniforms are more sea blue than the German Army’s standard field grey, and they are shod in fine, pale leather, highly polished cavalry boots. The flowing pennons on their lances are halved in black and white and decorated with the Black Eagle of Prussia. Although the troopers are wearing standard-issue pickelhaube helmets, not so the senior officer in the middle of the front rank. He is sporting an eye-catching, lobster-tail dress helmet of polished tombac brass, topped with a huge eagle grasping its prey.
The man beneath the ostentatious headdress sits tall in his stirrups, his square jaw giving a firm anchor to the helmet’s lamellar chinstrap, his blond moustache almost matching the golden hue of his helmet.
Harry spots the prize immediately.
‘Mo, look at the Granny Grunt in the middle! He’s mine, I’m ’avin’ that ’elmet!’
The Shadow of War Page 28
