The Shadow of War

by Stewart Binns

  At the stroke of midnight, after consuming the greater part of a bottle of Glenmorangie, the 7th Duke of Atholl cries himself to sleep in the arms of Mrs Maud Grant in her modest Glen Tilt cottage.

  British Army Field Hospital, Provoost Lace Mill, Poperinghe, West Flanders, Belgium

  A British Army field hospital in one of the most dangerous zones of the Great War is not an ideal setting for a Christmas celebration. Neither are the hospital’s celebrants in the best of spirits. Many are badly wounded, some are dying; all would rather be anywhere else. Back in the trenches with their mates, no matter how wet and cold, would mean that at least they are fit and well. Home would be perfect, but they know that is not going to happen.

  In addition to those with war wounds, there are plenty of men with infectious diseases, respiratory problems and a growing number with an ailment the doctors are struggling to define. Some call it ‘nervous fatigue’, others call it ‘mental exhaustion’ and a few – those of less generous spirit – call it ‘malingering’. The latest description, which attempts to relate it to its most obvious cause, is ‘shell shock’.

  The milder cases wander around aimlessly in a world of their own, their eyes lost in the ‘thousand-yard stare’. The worst cases find corners in which to hide, where they shiver and convulse like sick dogs. Some shout and scream, and a few become violent and have to be restrained. In fact, Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse has insisted that Brigade assigns a squad of infantry to the hospital to help with recalcitrant patients.

  Because ‘hospital’ is ‘hôpital’ in French, it has not taken long for the field hospital in Poperinghe’s old lace mill to be called ‘Pop-Hop’.

  Sadly, Christmas Day did not start well at Pop-Hop. Two men died of their wounds on Christmas Eve, and when Margaret arrived for duty early on Christmas morning she found the night staff searching frantically for a missing man. A Coldstreamer from Berwick, he talked the night before about not being able to bear the thought of Christmas. Already missing his left arm, he had been told he would have to lose his right because gangrene had set in. He was found an hour later in an outbuilding. He had cut the wrist of his offending arm and bled to death.

  The doctors, nurses, auxiliaries, orderlies, stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers are all exhausted, but they are trying hard to make the day as enjoyable as possible for the sick and injured.

  Hywel Thomas, his hand in a sling, is doing sterling work, helping men eat and drink and talking to them to boost their morale. His new purpose in life has given him a vitality that inspires many of the patients and is also often a boost to the demoralized staff. His reconciliation with Bronwyn has grown stronger by the day, and they have helped one another come to terms with the loss of their brothers.

  Hywel’s reinforced glove has arrived from London and Captain Chavasse allows him to wear it for an hour a day when his sling and bandages are removed to clean his wound. He is fortunate that his hand has remained free from infection and that he has good movement in his thumb and some feeling in his index finger. His glove is a very simple but clever device. An extra-large, officer’s black cavalry glove, it has been reinforced by sewn-in, bendable copper rods that allow Hywel to position his fingers to help him secure the barrel of his rifle.

  Thoughtfully, Desoutter Brothers have also sent the other glove of the pair. He wears both when he is practising holding his gun outside the hospital, as it means that he gets the same feeling in both hands. He is soon christened the ‘Black-Handed Assassin’ by the other patients. Understandably, he is impatient to fire his rifle, but Captain Chavasse has expressly forbidden it for the time being and insists that he only rests the rifle gently on his injured hand.

  Major Hesketh-Prichard has visited Hywel twice to discuss the training programme for the army’s new School of Sniping. On his second visit, he brought Hywel’s new serjeant’s stripes with him which, much to Hywel’s amazement, also included a crown.

  The major explained.

  ‘We thought we might as well make you a colour serjeant, as you may well be teaching other serjeants how to shoot!’

  ‘But, sir, I’ve only just turned twenty.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that! There are shave-tail officers younger than you who are on the front line leading thirty men.’

  ‘Well, thank you, sir.’

  Smiling proudly, the major then handed Hywel a pair of small brass lapel pins, sporting a design of crossed rifles topped by an ‘S’.

  ‘The new insignia for all who pass through the new School of Sniping. Yours is the first pair.’

  ‘Major, they look very well. I’ll treasure them, but I think I might put ’em in my pocket when I’m out snipin’. I’ve been sniped by a fellow sniper once before, and I don’t intend lettin’ it ’appen again.’

  The major then produced a gleaming new rifle from its canvas bag.

  ‘I have another present for you. I have spent many days at the Royal Small Arms Factory in the Lea Valley, in London, working with its armourers. This is the experimental P13, intended to replace the standard-issue Lee-Enfield. It has a Mauser-type action and has been fitted with a new telescopic sight based on the one you took from the German at Zwarteleen. The primitive long-range sights used by British snipers in the Boer War have remained largely unchanged. Thanks to you, these are much better. The Ministry of War has approved an order for an initial production of three hundred and fifty sights.’

  ‘When will we get them, sir?’

  ‘Hopefully, in time for our first recruits in the spring. Let me know what you make of the rifle and the sight.’

  He then asks his batman to bring over a large box of rifle ammunition.

  ‘I’ve brought you a box of the latest .303 Green Spots to practise with when your hand is healed.’

  Hywel still has revenge on his mind but, bolstered by his serjeant’s stripes, he is beginning to channel it into the zeal of a professional soldier.

  ‘So I still ’ave time to get back to my battalion, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll give you a month. In the meantime, I need to find three more training officers and ten NCOs.’

  While things are beginning to improve for Hywel, Bronwyn is still emptying bedpans and mopping floors. But her recovery seems complete and her youthful vitality has returned. She is very much a favourite among patients, doctors and any male visitors to the ward. She has had to learn to live with all kinds of banter, innuendoes and overt propositions. Being a lot worldlier than they know, she is able to deal with almost anything. A typical situation was witnessed by Hywel, who was about to rush to her aid when he realized that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

  A precocious young Scouse gunner from the Royal Artillery, who had lost two fingers in a gunnery accident, suggested he needed help from Bronwyn.

  ‘Nurse, can I ’ave a bottle?’

  Bronwyn hurried away, came back with an enamel urine bottle and handed it to the now grinning gunner.

  ‘Can you ’elp me with it, gorgeous?’

  Bronwyn did not bat an eyelid, but lowered her voice seductively.

  ‘Do you mean, help you put your … er … artillery piece in the neck of the bottle?’

  The young lad leered.

  ‘That’s right, darlin’. An’ you can give it a tug while you’re at it.’

  Bronwyn leaned forward, by which time every soldier on the ward was hanging on her every word.

  ‘Well, if you can get your little weapon in there, I’m not interested. I prefer real men with ten-inch howitzers!’

  The Scouser was duly admonished as hoots of laughter reverberated around the ward. Bronwyn’s crude rejoinder became the talk of Pop-Hop for days.

  Bronwyn and Margaret are in their usual haunt, Pop’s Maison de Ville. It is the end of a long day, made even longer by the staff’s attempts to provide a semblance of Christmas joviality, including a lunch of roast pork. It was cooked by Pop-Hop’s cooks, who butchered a pig caught near the Front by an eagle-eyed and fle
et-footed gunner on Christmas Eve.

  The women’s relationship is still close but, other than work matters and pleasantries, little has been said between them since, some weeks ago, Margaret confessed to her love for Bronwyn.

  Bronwyn sees that Margaret is deep in thought.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, just tired.’

  ‘Come on, Margaret, what’s the matter?’

  Margaret’s eyes redden; she throws her head back.

  ‘It’s Hamish; I heard yesterday from an officer in the Camerons that he was taken prisoner a few days ago.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. He seemed like a nice man.’

  ‘Yes, he is – a bit of rogue, but nice with it.’

  ‘Have you fallen for him?’

  ‘Not really, but I’m very fond of him. And now I won’t see him until the end of the war, if ever.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Try not to worry, you’ll see him again.’

  Bronwyn scrutinizes Margaret as she stares into her empty wine glass. She fills it with more of Maison de Ville’s cheapest vin de table, which, over the weeks, seems to have become less and less cheap and more and more unpalatable.

  ‘I never asked, but how was your dinner with Hamish?’

  Margaret smiles.

  ‘The dinner was wonderful. But that’s not what you meant, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not; so, how was your night with Hamish? Did he “make a woman of you”?’

  ‘Bron, that’s unkind.’

  ‘Sorry, it was. You’ve been so wonderful to me; I just want you to be happy.’

  Margaret takes a quaff of her wine and follows it with a cavernous breath.

  ‘I had a nice time with Hamish; he was very sweet and gentle. I tried, Bron.’

  Bron reaches out and touches her hand. Margaret smiles, but tearfully.

  ‘The truth is, I am what I am.’

  ‘Oh, Margaret, it’s hard for me to understand. Don’t you enjoy men at all?’

  ‘Bron, it’s hard to answer questions like that.’

  ‘Remember, it’s me! You know all my little secrets and have taught me not to be ashamed.’

  ‘I feel some things, but it’s not the same. The truth is, I’m queer; a freak!’

  Bronwyn pushes Margaret’s glass away and puts her arm around her.

  ‘You’re nothin’ of the sort; you’re a wonderful woman, my saviour. I love you so much. And I don’t care that you prefer women, I still love you. Come on, let’s go home; we both need some sleep.’

  Bronwyn leads Margaret away, in a tender reversal of their roles when Margaret rescued Bronwyn in Tiger Bay. When they get back to Margaret’s room, Bronwyn helps her undress and puts her to bed.

  As Margaret rests her head on the pillow, the tears of the woman who runs her ward like Florence Nightingale – proud, dignified and supremely professional – run down her cheeks and soak into the rough cotton sheeting.

  Bronwyn strokes her brow.

  ‘I love you, Margaret.’

  Margaret opens her eyes.

  ‘Bron, do you remember that night when you asked me to stay with you? When you were very upset –’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Will you stay with me tonight?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bronwyn slips off her dress and climbs into bed with Margaret, where she holds her like a mother would cradle a child. Margaret’s tears subside and her anxiety diminishes.

  ‘Thank you, Bron.’

  Margaret closes her eyes and is asleep very quickly, leaving Bronwyn to reflect on their strange circumstances. She feels so much love for Margaret, but no hint of arousal by being close to her. She realizes how hard it must be for Margaret to live in a world where emotions she cannot prevent herself from feeling are regarded as so wrong.

  She also knows that, sooner or later, she is going to meet a man who will help her regain her own sexual feelings. And when that happens, it will be very difficult for Margaret to deal with.

  10 Downing Street, Whitehall, London

  A reinvigorated Winston Churchill, for once in receipt of modest praise following the navy’s victory in the Battle of the Falkland Islands, has spent most of December feverishly looking for ways to break the impending stalemate on what is becoming known as the ‘Western Front’.

  ‘The Balkans!’ he would cry. Or, ‘The Baltic!’, ‘The Caucasus!’ He has written memos, harangued his friends and lectured his War Cabinet colleagues: ‘We must strike at the Turks!’, ‘Russia: how can we help the Czar to hit harder in the East?’

  With the passionate, mercurial but vastly experienced Jacky Fisher at the Admiralty, Winston has been able to concentrate on the broader canvas of the conflict. Inevitably, it has led him into clashes with his colleagues and the renewal of denunciations by the Tory press.

  Sadly, as the circumstances of the war have worsened towards Christmas, the men in charge of its execution, normally shrewd and considered, broad-minded and wise, have begun to lose sight of even the most obvious circumstances, and have started bickering like juveniles.

  On 17 December Winston wrote to Asquith, asking if he could go to France to see for himself what his ‘Dunkirk Circus’ of planes, marines and armoured Rolls-Royces was up to. He also wanted to use the opportunity to see Sir John French and boost his morale. Asquith’s reply insisted that Winston seek the approval of Lord Kitchener before going. When he duly did so, instead of replying, Kitchener went to Asquith to complain that the First Lord of the Admiralty was, yet again, interfering in the strategic business of the army.

  Winston was furious that Kitchener had gone to the Prime Minister instead of replying directly to him, and a series of sternly worded letters followed. Ultimately, it was agreed that Winston could go to France for his inspection, but not to see John French. Winston resented the snub bitterly.

  Similarly, as many had predicted, and especially Clemmie, Jacky Fisher’s volatility was becoming as much of a burden as a bonus. Letting his temperament get the better of him and seemingly unable to differentiate between his laudable forcefulness and his sheer bloody-mindedness, he was rapidly making enemies. Many in the Admiralty and the Conservative Party began to say that the only difference since Fisher’s return to the Admiralty has been that it is now ruled by two Churchills, when one was already too much to bear.

  By Christmas Day, the spat among Britain’s war leaders has calmed down as they prepare to spend Christmas with their families, and as the press and MPs do the same. It is not so in the trenches, where the rain, mud and cold pay no heed to Christian feast days. At least the Germans are Christians, so the shelling and sniping have become more and more sporadic.

  Herbert Asquith has spent Christmas Day with his family – his second wife, Margot, and his youngest children, both Margot’s, Elizabeth and Anthony. But he has now returned to Downing Street, where he knows his private secretary and mistress, Venetia Stanley, will be waiting for him. He has been drinking, even more than his usual prodigious volume, and is feeling amorous. It is six thirty; they will have an early supper and retire to their top-floor love nest for a Christmas night of passion.

  As he prepares to sit down and relax, he looks across Horse Guards Parade and sees that the lights are on in the First Lord’s office in the Admiralty.

  ‘Bugger me, Churchill’s at his desk! Something must be up.’

  He looks down at the mound of papers on his desk and sees a large red ‘Top Secret’ stamped on the memo at the top of the pile. It is a report from Colonel Alfred Knox, British Military Attaché in Petrograd. It is a startling document, describing in great detail the state of affairs on the Eastern Front, where Russian and German forces have been locked in a conflict every bit as gruesome as that on the Western Front. He describes, ‘an alarming shortage of rifles’, ‘men in the front line facing the enemy without ammunition’, and quotes the words of a disillusioned general who said that the sturdy Russian infantrymen can scavenge for potatoes and turnips in frozen ground, b
ut that bullets don’t grow in fields.

  The memo ends with the chilling words: ‘I fear an imminent collapse of the Russian Army.’

  ‘Venetia, get Churchill for me. I want him to come over.’

  ‘But, Bertie, it’s Christmas Night. What about our supper together?’

  ‘Worry not, the night is young. Where is Lloyd George?’

  ‘He’ll be with Frances next door, I should think. I’m sure he said he would spend Christmas Eve and lunch today with Margaret and his family, then come back here this afternoon.’

  ‘Will he be sober?’

  ‘About as sober as you, I imagine.’

  ‘Get someone to go to Number Eleven and ask him to come over for a drink.’

  ‘What’s going on, Bertie?’

  ‘A bit of a crisis with the Russians; you can read Knox’s memo later. Send someone, Special Branch or a policeman, to fetch Eddie Grey; he’ll be at home with Pamela. Then send someone to bring Kitchener; he’ll be at Carlton Gardens with one or more of his boys. Hopefully, as it’s only six thirty, he’ll still have his trousers on.’

  By 7 p.m. on Christmas night, Britain’s War Cabinet is assembled at Downing Street. Venetia pours whisky for them and Asquith promises that their business will be done by eight thirty, in good time for their private suppers.

  Venetia assesses the mood as she carries around the decanter of fifteen-year-old Macallan. Only Winston appears happy to be there. Lloyd George, as eager as anyone to find a solution to the crisis in France, would normally be keen to attend any emergency meeting. But his recent passion for Frances Stevenson, formerly the governess to his youngest child, Megan, and now his private secretary, is a major distraction. Eddie Grey seems impatient, probably feeling guilty about leaving his wife on Christmas night. As for Kitchener, Venetia is not sure what delights he has planned – nor does she want to speculate. She makes her exit, thoughtfully leaving the Macallan behind her.

  ‘Gentlemen, you can thank Colonel Knox in Petrograd for this, and Winston, of course, who spotted it first. Knox says the Russians are on their knees. He fears a collapse, and we all know what that will mean in the west, come winter’s end. Now, I know you all have different thoughts, but I think you all agree that we need to open a new front to dilute the Central Powers’ military capabilities. Winston, you go first.’