The Shadow of War (34 page)

‘Are we gonna get a bollickin', 'Arry?'

‘Dunno, don't see why we should; unless it's a bollickin' fer survivin' this far!'

‘What abaht last night?'

‘Nah, no one seen us.'

McMahon is a tall, lean man with a bald pate and heavy moustache. His cavalry boots and spurs gleam in the weak autumn sunlight. But their lustre is not his work; it's the product of the elbow grease of his batman.

Battalion HQ is an abandoned barn next to a large manor house where the officers are billeted. Trestle tables are covered with maps; messengers and junior officers, looking stern, scuttle around with purpose. Behind the barn, the officers' horses are stabled. Mounts long since abandoned as chargers are now used to carry messages.

McMahon smiles at Harry and Maurice.

‘You look worn out, Serjeants. Is that last night's R and R, or last week's fighting?'

Maurice looks a little discomfited, but not Harry.

‘A bit of both, sir. Serjeant Tait and I did enjoy a couple o' beers last night. First in a while, sir.'

‘Very well done. I was also celebrating my promotion to Brigade last night. I hope you are feeling a little better than I am.'

‘Congratulations, sir.'

‘Well, I think it most appropriate if you enjoy a little more
beer this evening. We are adding a crown to your three stripes, Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff. Very well done!'

Harry and Maurice look at one another. They are delighted to be promoted; it means extra pay and a better pension. But it also means they are unlikely to stay together in the same platoon.

Then, to their relief, McMahon continues.

‘We are expecting a large contingent of at least three hundred reservists from Albany in about three weeks' time, so you will be staying with C Company for the time being. But with our current shortage of officers, a great burden rests on your shoulders as senior soldiers. The men will look to you for leadership, and your new officers will need your help and advice. Please continue the sterling work you have been doing.'

‘Thank you, sir; we'll do our best.'

Taking their commanding officer at his word, Maurice and Harry enjoy a little more beer in celebration that night, and are soon to be found back in the bar in Merris. There is no shortage of beer for them as almost every man in the bar places a jug in front of them. As they do, most salute mockingly, some bow and a few even attempt curtsies.

‘Well, Colour Serjeant Tait, whadda yer reckon?'

‘Not bad, Colour Serjeant Woodruff!'

‘Might still be goners next week, though. A little cloth crown on our arm ain't gonna stop a German bullet.'

‘S'pose that's one way of lookin' at it, 'Arry, you miserable fucker!'

‘Only jokin', Mo; come on, we've got about forty pints o' pig's ear to drink before
stop-tap
.'

The following day, on the night of 6 November, the 4th Battalion moves back into the line east of Hooge, on the south side of the Ypres–Menin road, where C Company forms a defensive position on the edge of Herenthage Wood. To its
left are French Algerian
Zouaves
, unmistakable in their bright-red baggy pantaloons and navy-blue jackets, and to its right are the far less ostentatious Northumberland Fusiliers.

Maurice and Harry have decided that Geordies are worthy of respect after all, given that the Northumberlands have fought with them for three months and have twice helped get them out of a tricky spot. As for the North Africans, they are not so sure.

‘Bloody Nora, Mo; look at that lot! They look like fuckin' circus clowns.'

‘I 'ope they fight as well as they look!'

It is not long before the 4th Fusiliers are welcomed back to the conflict with the most intensive artillery barrage they have faced since they arrived in France.

It begins in the morning and lasts all day.

By the late afternoon, Harry and Maurice's platoon – all but two of whom are new men assigned from other depleted platoons – have had three near misses. Nerves are frayed and Harry is on edge. Maurice can always tell because he is even more aggressive than usual, which is saying something.

‘This is bollocks! Fuckin' lyin' here, takin' a pastin'. Why don't we attack the fuckers?'

‘Cos we'll get mown down by their Mausers, 'Arry.'

‘Better way to go than waitin' for one of their Jack Johnsons to blow yer
Tommy Rollocks
off.'

Maurice suddenly opens fire.

‘Here they come! Fuck me, it's nearly dark; cheeky buggers.'

Harry shouts orders to the platoon, which still does not have an officer attached to it.

‘Fire at will! Make sure of your targets.'

Harry dashes to the far left of the platoon's position to make sure they are in good spirits. When he gets there, he looks over to the Zouaves. He struggles to see many men still alive. Their positions have received several direct hits
and it is now difficult to tell where the bright red of their pantaloons ends and the blood they have shed begins. All their French officers and senior NCOs appear to be dead, and the men look to be in disarray. Fortunately, the Germans have not yet realized that the French-Algerian sector of the line is all but undefended.

Harry shouts to Maurice.

‘Mo, I'm takin' 'alf the boys to cover the 'ole on our left!'

With only a dozen men at his disposal, Harry takes control of a position previously occupied by two companies, comprising over 150 men. He immediately rallies the Zouaves' survivors and places fusiliers at intervals along their line. Within moments, having now seen how meagre are the numbers facing them, the Germans close to within yards of them. Fortunately, Harry's cry, ‘
Fix bayonets!
' works equally well in French and English.

A lethal assault begins by the 106th Royal Saxons from Leipzig, who pour into the position like a swarm of ants. Maurice, whose own position is being overwhelmed by the same German regiment, looks across but cannot see British khaki or Zouave red for German field grey.

While Maurice, leading by ferocious example, tries valiantly to hold together his half of the platoon, Harry rallies the Algerians in a murderous close-quarters encounter against overwhelming odds. The position appears hopeless until, just at the point where only a few of the defenders remain on their feet, a support company of fusiliers – D Company, barely seventy strong – led by Lieutenants Stapleton, Bretherton and Jackson, appears out of nowhere and rushes the Saxons. The men from Leipzig panic and begin to retreat before D Company head off in pursuit of the fleeing Germans.

Almost all are never seen again; sixty-two men and all three officers do not come back. But their sudden appearance has saved the day for the Zouaves and for the exhausted men of C Company.

In
pitch darkness, Maurice and Harry gather the remnants of their platoon, just seven survivors, and take charge of a mere eleven Zouaves. They share their rations, which are hardly enough to sustain a family, let alone twenty men. But one of the Algerians produces a bottle of cognac – from where beggars belief – and hands it to Harry, whose uniform drips with sweat and blood. Fortunately, the former is his, but the latter is not.

‘
Pour vous, mon brave!
'

Harry thanks the Moroccan, whose face looks like it has been carved from the rock of the Atlas Mountains, and passes it around the group. Now confident that he has grasped the enormity and beauty of the French language, he says to his comrade-in-arms:

‘
Mercy, Monsewer
.'

Two days later, Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff will be summoned to Battalion HQ. They are now the only senior NCOs to have survived this far into the war. They are part of an ever dwindling elite. There are only six officers left from the original roster who sailed from Southampton, and only a quarter of the men remain.

However, the two doughty survivors are about to receive some heartening news from the battalion adjutant.

‘Gentlemen, following your action the other day at Herenthage Wood, Colonel McMahon has recommended you both to Brigade for gallantry awards. Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff, you are both recommended for a Distinguished Conduct Medal. Now, I must stress that a recommendation is not an award. But given the detail of the citation that has been sent to Brigade, I don't think there's any doubt. Congratulations!'

Harry and Maurice have been given another reason to celebrate, but neither feels particularly excited by the news. They feel honoured, of course, but the loss of so many
comrades, and the dire circumstances and exhaustion of three months of warfare, are taking their toll.

That night, they do have a beer or three to lighten their mood. Maurice tries to cheer up Harry, but he uses the wrong words and only makes matters worse.

‘S'pose it's somethin' to leave for the grandchildren.'

‘You ain't got any bloody kids yet, never mind grandchildren!'

‘I know, but I'm gonna fix that when we get 'ome.'

Harry explodes and throws his beer across the bar.

‘For fuck's sake, Mo; we aren't goin' 'ome. Ain't you realized that yet!'

Maurice tries to stop him, but Harry rushes out, pushing men out of the way as he goes.

The
three Thomas boys are a long way from home. Before they sailed for France two weeks ago, the furthest they had ventured from Presteigne – apart from Hightown Barracks, in Wrexham, the dreary home of the Welch Fusiliers – was Hereford in England and Builth Wells in Wales.

They have seen Birmingham, London, Southampton and Paris, admittedly only through the windows of their railway carriage, and are now staring across the monotonously flat landscape of Flanders. But Belgium is not offering much of a greeting.

By the time Lieutenant Orme's detachment joined the 1st Battalion at the end of October, they found it had all but been destroyed in an engagement at Zandvoorde, a hamlet six miles south-east of Ypres, where, unbeknown to them, they faced German regiments which outnumbered them six to one. During the fighting, 276 officers and men were killed and fifty-four taken prisoner. By the end of the encounter, only eighty fusiliers remained.

The new arrivals from Wrexham, who were supposed to be a small supplement to the original battalion, outnumber the old. Not only that, the survivors whose ranks they have joined look as if they have been to hell and back. It is a cruelly inauspicious start for 109 young men from North Wales who have never been to war before.

The second Sabbath of November has dawned much later than it should because a dense fog hangs over the ground. It is also cold; a damp, clinging cold, not unlike the Welsh
weather they are used to. Contrarily, the English inhabitants of Presteigne call this kind of weather ‘typically English', but the Welsh residents insist it is ‘typically Welsh'.

They are crouching in a deep drainage ditch on the Ypres side of the road to Zandvoorde, 1,000 yards south of Zillebeke, at a small hamlet called Zwarteleen. Ypres itself is less than three miles away. It is 6.15 a.m. The severely depleted Royal Welch has been amalgamated with the Queen's Regiment, 1st Royal West Surreys, also much reduced in number by the severity of the fighting. They are supported by the South Staffs boys, with the 2nd Warwicks in reserve.

Although the British troops are in Belgium, where the population speaks a language distinctly alien to them, the four regiments preparing to attack have, like many British Army brigade groupings, distinctive dialects so different from one another that comprehension is often a challenge and a source of much banter.

They are to attack a line of trenches just ahead of them in order to push back a previous German counter-attack. As one of the West Surreys said earlier, the war is becoming a bit of a merry-go-round: one side digs a trench, the other side attacks it and takes it, then the other side counter-attacks and takes it back. ‘Then we start all over again – bloody daft!'

Hywel, Morgan and Geraint and the other 106 new arrivals from Wrexham still look pristine in their uniforms. Their faces, despite the foul conditions, still glow with enthusiasm. However, as the time for the assault draws closer, some faces begin to be etched with anxiety. Lieutenant Orme, who is also a novice, walks among the men with his serjeants, calming any nerves. When they reach the Thomas boys, Orme stops to speak to Hywel.

‘Private Thomas –'

‘Sir!'

‘I have been hearing about how good a shot you are. The adjutant tells me that you are the best he's ever seen, a born
sniper. I want you on top of that barn over there. As soon as we attack, I want you to target their machine-gunners. For every one you eliminate, you'll save ten lives.'

‘Very good, sir.'

As soon as Orme has gone, Hywel turns to his brothers, smiling.

‘Hey, boyos, no pressure then! Listen, you take care of yourselves out there.'

‘We'll be fine, Hywel; we can run faster than you!'

The order to attack comes at 6.30 a.m. sharp. There is no artillery barrage to soften up the German opposition; the Royal Field Artillery in this sector has no shells. The German trenches are only 150 yards away and are not taken by surprise.

As soon as Lieutenant Orme raises his pistol and his men appear in the open, beginning to cross the road, a fusillade of bullets cuts through the air like rapiers. For those who are experiencing it for the first time, it is utterly terrifying. For those who have experienced it many times before, it is just as frightening. In some ways, it is even more difficult for the experienced men because they know what a high-velocity bullet can do to a man. Several men do not make it across the road; they die in the first moment of their first battle.

As his comrades-in-arms rush across the open fields, Hywel climbs to his sniping position, a lofty perch at the apex of a Zwarteleen barn, one of the few buildings in the area still standing, He begins to pick out his targets. He has never shot a man before and winces every time a German body recoils hideously after being struck.

He makes a decision there and then never to keep a tally, something he relished doing on the farm when competing against his brothers at shooting pheasant. He has been given enough ammunition to slaughter a regiment and carries on firing until his fingers ache and his barrel is too hot to handle.

Every now and then he pauses, to see if he can measure
the progress being made by his brothers. But they become lost in a sea of khaki uniforms set against Flanders mud.

Lieutenant Orme's men make it all the way to the German trenches, where bayonets are fixed and a quick flurry of excellent British close-quarters battle training scatters the Germans far and wide. Hywel can hear cheering from the Fusiliers and the Surreys. However, that soon subsides as
enfilade
fire pours in from cleverly disguised German machine guns. They have a line of fire along the length of the trench, exposing the Welsh and Surrey boys to bullets thudding into the walls and even the floor of the trench in repetitive waves.

Men fling themselves against the walls, trying to find a hollow that will hide them from the deadly onslaught. Several crumpled khaki heaps lying in the bottom of the trench shudder as they are hit over and over again. Thankfully, they are already dead.

Hywel is still trying to locate his brothers, but he cannot identify them. As he strains to see them, he feels what seems like a breath of wind by his ear and realizes immediately that it is a passing bullet. He quickly slides down the barn roof and on to the ladder he used to get into position. Bullets follow him, smashing roof tiles and timber. At least one German sniper has found him.

He was warned about the high quality of German sniping and the fact that some are using newly developed
telescopic sights
, which improve accuracy significantly. When he sees how accurate their fire is, he vows to himself that he will move heaven and earth to hit an enemy sniper and take his rifle and scope. But, for now, his priority is to find his brothers.

As long as he uses the barn for cover, he is safe from snipers. But between him and the captured trench where his brothers and their comrades are pinned down, there is 150 yards of open ground. As a single target it would be impossible for him to cover such a distance without being shot. All he can do is wait.

He
looks at his watch; it is still only mid-morning. Machine guns and snipers are still firing on the boys in the trench. Then he notices a broken slat in the wooden wall at the back of the barn. If he can prise open the gap a little more with his bayonet, he can use the opening as a sniping position that his German adversaries would find very difficult to pinpoint.

He is soon in position with the muzzle of his rifle protruding from the wall of the barn and picking out targets. His first priority is the machine-gunners. They are a relatively easy target as they have to put themselves in such prominent positions in order to fire. He picks out one with ease, but the second one's crew is protected by a wall and he can only see the fat barrel of their
MG 08
.

So Hywel turns his attention to the snipers. They are much more difficult to find as they are not only expert shots but are also trained to
camouflage
themselves and use well-protected positions. Nevertheless, after several hours, he has pinpointed three and dispatched them. The hour is now drawing late and the light beginning to fade.

The men in the trench are still trapped and under fire, but at least some are firing back, confirming that several are still alive. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices movement in a small coppice of trees to his left. It is a German sniper taking up a new position. He is only sixty yards away and Hywel can clearly see the long thin outline of the barrel of a telescope sight on top the of his Mauser rifle. It is a prize too good to miss. As the German marksman gets into a prone position at the base of a tree, Hywel puts two bullets into him before he can raise his rifle. All he has to do now is wait for darkness to retrieve his reward.

When dusk falls, pandemonium breaks out in the trench, as a massed German counter-attack overwhelms the beleaguered men of the Royal Welch and the West Surreys. It is now too dark for Hywel to help, so he has to stand there and
listen to the appalling sounds of hand-to-hand combat. The worst of all are the cries of anguish from the youngest voices, high-pitched and clear, the voices of boys whose throats are not coarsened by tobacco and hard liquor.

The battle lasts until total darkness descends, when all goes quiet. Hywel is then able to cover the sixty yards between him and his sharpshooting trophy. When he reaches the coppice, it takes him a while to find the dead German. But when he does, he retrieves the rifle from the man's hands, which still clutch it tightly. Hywel lights a match. The German is an older man, perhaps in his late thirties, the first enemy he has seen up close. He is certainly not the Hun of the propaganda posters. Dressed in field khaki, he could easily be a Welch Fusilier – indeed, a man you could pass in the streets of Presteigne.

He lights another match because he has seen something interesting. On the German's left sleeve is a small cloth badge depicting a hawk framed by two oak leaves. It is his sniper's insignia, the perfect complement to the booty of the man's rifle and scope. Using the tip of his bayonet and the illumination provided by several more matches, he unpicks the badge and puts it in his pocket. He then raises the match to blow it out. As he does so, he feels a searing pain burn through the palm of his right hand and the thump of a bullet embedding itself into the tree behind.

It is as if a crucifixion nail has been hammered into his palm. He can feel blood flowing down his fingers and excruciating spasms of pain running up his arm. He quickly undoes one of his
puttees
and uses it as an emergency bandage to strap his hand. None of the fingers of his smashed hand responds, so he has to grasp one end of the puttee between his thumb and his palm, a procedure that produces yet more pain, and wrap it around as tightly as he can, which ratchets up the agony to yet another level.

Sweat is pouring down his face and his heart is pumping
like a steam engine. He tries to calm himself, taking deep breaths, comforted that at least the sniper can no longer pick him out in the darkness. He thinks back to his naivety. Why strike so many matches in a dark wood? He had been the canny fusilier who sniped the sniper; now he has been sniped in turn. How careless is that?

The pain subsides a little and his breathing eases. He begins to think about the perverse reasoning that brought him to France. Joining up was an expedient escape from unbearable adversity; now things are even worse. Both his brothers are probably dead in a trench just fifty yards away. He has not been granted the quick death he had hoped for. And now that his hand is shattered, a return to the life of a farmer is well-nigh impossible. Similarly, his recently discovered talent as a marksman is ruined.

He begins to think about his wound and the fact that he needs medical help. That reminds him that he saw Sister Margaret Killingbeck in Poperinghe – which, in turn, makes him think about Bronwyn. Was it wrong of him to think so badly of her? He feels sure Sister Killingbeck would not have been able to find her. His anguish makes him conjure up dreadful thoughts about his little sister. Is she still in some fleapit in Tiger Bay, sucking off fat Greek sailors or being fucked by big buck niggers? He begins to cry. Did her big brother let her down by not rushing after her and bringing her back to Pentry? He thinks he did; he feels ashamed of himself.

His Lee-Enfield is by his side. Even with one hand, he could use it to put an end to his misery and join his brothers in peace. It is unlikely anyone would realize that he had shot himself, and he would have the quick and noble death he wished for. An eerie silence begins to settle across Flanders' battlefields as a dark night subdues the fighting. There is some noise from distant artillery, which echoes around the boundless fields like rolls of thunder.

Hywel decides it will be his death knell. He reaches for his
rifle with his good hand and turns it so that the muzzle is in his mouth. He reaches for the trigger and inhales a huge lungful of air.

But his concentration is broken by rustling in the undergrowth and whispered, anxious voices. Hywel immediately swings his rifle around in the direction of the noise. He cranes his neck to see if the whispers are in Welsh or English, or the alien tongue of the German enemy. Seconds later, it is clear that the voices are mostly English, a few with a strong Welsh lilt. Some are even speaking Welsh.

Hywel gets to his feet and collects his two rifles. Thwarted in his attempt to end his wretchedness, he now thinks only of his brothers. His eyes are fully adjusted to the darkness; he can see shadowy figures stumbling towards him. There are some singletons, but most men are in pairs, or trios, helping one another to get back to the positions they started out from this morning.

Hywel joins his comrades and shuffles with them back to Zwarteleen. When they arrive at a ruined farmhouse on the Zandvoorde Road, they find it is an impromptu Battalion HQ. There is light from tilley lamps; there are cups of hot tea, and even warm food.