The Shadow of War (21 page)

‘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.

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.'

Instead of moving up, Harry and Maurice spend the next two days watching the events on the Marne unfold. They take their platoon down to the main road on a regular basis to help the movement of soldiers and civilians. More and more French troops move up from Paris, while more and more wounded move the other way. Some French units have
lost half their men and two-thirds of their officers. The Moroccans they saw the day before, proud and marching in good order, return bedraggled and with only about a third of their number. But from what they understand from the French soldiers, the battle is going well and the Germans are falling back.

‘Looks like old Ashburner was right, the Frenchies are makin' a damn good fight of it.'

‘Abaht time! Shame we're not in it. We were promised a scrap, but we're not gettin' it; a soldier's lot, I s'pose.'

‘Shouldn't worry, 'Arry, I think there'll be plenty o' time fer that.'

‘I'm gonna 'ave a word wiv Billy Carstairs, see if we can nip into the village tonight. The locals will be in a good mood, so we might get our legs over. And if nothin' else, we can 'ave a couple o' their bubbly beers.'

Major Hamish Stewart-Murray's Cameron Highlanders are advancing towards the Marne river. Close by, his brother Geordie's battalion of the Black Watch are part of the same deployment. Both battalions have reached Saint-Ouen-sur-Morin, where they camp for the night. Hamish and Geordie have not seen one another since they had dinner together in London and indulged in their night of debauchery at the Langham Hotel with the girls from Selfridges.

Sister Margaret Killingbeck and her Queen Alexandra's nurses have been travelling with the Camerons since they coincided in Bavay two weeks ago. Margaret and Hamish have become close since the trauma of the death of Captain Philip Davies of the Welch Fusiliers, but it has remained a platonic relationship. Margaret's personal circumstances are a mystery to Hamish. She has revealed little of her status or background, and Hamish has chosen not to probe.

All three have been billeted in the town's main hotel, the Auberge de la Source, and have agreed to have dinner together. The auberge is an old coaching inn and would be an idyllic location for a convivial stay, were it not for the fact that a calamitous battle is taking place only a few miles away. Nevertheless, the proprietor is hurrying from table to table, serving the best of his kitchen and cellar, just like he did only last week for German officers.

Margaret is anxious and feeling a little guilty. She is a farmer's daughter from Muker, a tiny village high in Swaledale, the most remote of all the Yorkshire Dales. Fine dining played
no part in her upbringing and has only been an occasional part of her life in recent years when, as a senior nurse at Guy's Hospital in London, some of the wealthier doctors took her out to the West End. She left her childhood sweetheart in Swaledale and has since enjoyed only an occasional, inconsequential fling. She joined Queen Alexandra's nurses in 1912, but this is her first overseas posting.

‘I must be back to relieve one of my girls at eleven. She's been on duty since this morning without a break.'

‘Of course, Margaret, we understand. Geordie is off early tomorrow, so we should all have an early night.'

Margaret is a little overawed. Meeting one son of a duke was disconcerting; now she is having dinner with two of them. Their self-confident bearing and impeccable manners are disconcerting, but she likes the look of Geordie; he has a nice smile and is warmer than Hamish.

‘So, Geordie, do you have titles like Hamish?'

‘Well, yes, but it's very complicated. I'm the second son and will only inherit if Bardie, our elder brother, gets on the wrong end of a German bullet. As for Hamish here, he will have to wait for both of us to go. We've also got three sisters, all older than us, but they can't inherit the dukedom, only the boys.'

‘Seems unfair.'

‘You may well be right, but tradition is a difficult thing to change.'

‘It's a big family.'

‘It is; Father's a prodigious old stag.'

‘And do you all get along?'

‘More or less. Helen, our second-eldest sister, rules the roost and keeps us all in order. But what about your family?'

Geordie is not as reticent about delving into Margaret's past. Hamish is all ears; he is hoping, finally, to hear more about the intriguing Sister Margaret.

‘I'm a simple farmer's daughter. We have sheep in one of
the prettiest places in England. I suspect it's not unlike your part of the world.'

‘So what brought you to nursing?'

‘I did well at school, the teacher took a shine to me, but Muker was too small for my ambitions. It's a tiny place, fifteen miles up the valley of the Swale, with no mains water and no electricity. The same families have lived there for generations. We even have our own language that only the locals understand!'

‘That's interesting, we were all taught Gaelic as children. Perhaps your local language is similar?'

‘I'm not sure; I think ours is just Old English. Most Pennine folk have their own words.'

‘So you left your little village?'

‘Yes, I went down the valley to the Friary, a small hospital in Richmond, and fell in love with nursing. Then I went to Guy's Hospital in London and joined Queen Alex's two years ago.'

Hamish wants to learn more and risks asking a rather impertinent question.

‘So what's your ambition after nursing? To start a family perhaps?'

Margaret is maddened that Hamish's only thought about her future is that she might want to ‘start a family'.

‘What, and bring children into this? I don't think that would be a good idea.'

‘That's a bit melancholy, isn't it, Margaret?'

‘Is it? You should try dealing with what I deal with every day. Yesterday, I had to patch up a boy who had lost his right foot and taken a bullet in the abdomen. He'll live, but will never have children and will pee like a woman for the rest of his life.'

Hamish and Geordie gulp and look down at their menus.

‘I'm sorry, but I have to cope with that kind of thing all the time.'

Geordie
sees that the evening's conviviality is rapidly disappearing and changes the subject.

‘I hear the French are doing rather well up ahead. I think we should have some champagne to celebrate. And I'm tempted by the chateaubriand. Who'll join me?'

They all choose the chateaubriand, a rare treat, and soon the champagne, prime beef and a bottle of Burgundy get the evening back on track. Smiles begin to soften Margaret's face as she relaxes into the evening. But exactly on cue, at ten thirty, duty calls and she says her goodbyes, leaving Hamish and Geordie to drink cognac alone.

‘So, Hamish, how long have you been pursuing her?'

‘Two weeks.'

‘She's a corker! A bit frigid, but a few pokes with what you've got under your kilt will sort that.'

‘I'm not wearing a kilt, Geordie –'

‘I know that; I'm talking metaphorically, dearest brother.'

‘Well, the problem is, I don't think she likes me very much. I think she's intrigued – Scottish lord, and all that – but that's about it.'

‘Well, that'll do for a start. Try and get your leave to Blighty to coincide with hers. Give her a dinner in the West End, take her back to Eaton Square, show her our illustrious ancestors on the wall and she'll swoon – guaranteed!'

Hamish is not convinced and looks forlorn.

‘Perhaps … but the trouble is, I want her now. God knows when we'll get leave.'

‘Listen, she'll come round; she just needs a bit more warming up. She's a bit of a suffragette type. No more talk about starting a family; that went down like a lead balloon!'

‘I know, but I'm not very good with the modern girl – too clever for me. Anyway, when are you off?'

‘At six o'clock sharp. The CO has promised us a ding-dong with Fritz tomorrow.'

‘Well,
keep your head down if it comes to it. I don't want you getting a bullet through that thick skull of yours.'

‘It would bounce off! Don't fuss so.'

Hamish then remembers to tell Geordie the conclusion to a story he began back in June.

‘By the way, do you remember the story I told you about Henriette Caillaux, shooting that newspaper chap in Paris?'

‘Indeed I do; extraordinary business.'

‘Well, she got off scot-free!'

‘Good God! On what basis?'

‘Crime of passion. Her lawyer said that women's emotions mean they are incapable of premeditation. Therefore, the shooting was an act driven by feminine passion, which was the only feasible explanation. She walked from court a free woman surrounded by hundreds of well-wishers.'

‘Hell's bells! Couldn't happen in England.'

‘I know; we are going to give them the bloody vote, and the French think that they're not capable of thinking straight. Strange world, isn't it?'

The two brothers shake hands formally, but Hamish puts his hand on his elder brother's shoulder just as he turns to leave.

‘Be careful, big brother.'

‘I will. And you make sure to get some Scottish beef between the legs of that nurse before she becomes an old spinster. It'll do her the world of good.'