The Shadow of War (29 page)

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 adopts 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!'

Harry fires two shots in quick succession. The first misses the German's head by a whisker, the second hits the rider next to him in the shoulder and catapults him from his horse.

‘Fuck!'

Harry's target disappears from view behind a group of riders, and the opportunity passes.

The covering fire from the German positions ceases as the Prussian cavalry close in at breakneck speed. Despite heavy losses, they keep close formation. When they reach the fusiliers' positions, they break off into small groups and use their lances and swords to launch a ferocious attack. Several dismount and begin to use their G98 rifles. A fierce firefight ensues with much hand-to-hand combat.

Lieutenant Mead, despite Harry's assessment of him, does it by the book: he orders the men around him to fix bayonets and form small squads to advance at a run and take on the dismounted Prussians at close quarters. The scene is reminiscent of a medieval battle, with men in very close proximity trying to hold their ground. Bayonets and sabres clash violently; rifles and pistols exchange fire at close range, inflicting terrible damage; and men wrestle one another to the ground in individual duels to the death. Every available weapon – conventional and improvised, including knives, clubs, feet, fists and teeth – is used to maim and kill one's opponent.

Bodies fall to the ground, men shout in German and English, but their screams are the same in both languages. Blood spews in all directions and washes over the ground. There is no mercy; the killing is bestial.

Maurice, now standing in the middle of the road, senses movement behind him and turns just in time to avoid the arc of the sabre wielded by the grandiose officer on whom Harry had earlier trained the sights of his rifle. The Prussian's mount rears, almost unseating him, but knocking Maurice to the ground with a thump. Harry rushes forward and grabs the horse's bridle to pull it to the ground.

‘Got you, Fritz. I'm 'avin' your 'elmet, golden boy!'

But the Prussian turns athletically in his saddle and slashes at Harry's left arm with his sword. Harry manages to get the
barrel of his rifle in the way, just in time to deflect the blow. Nevertheless, the blade bounces off the rifle and slices into Harry's arm, causing a deep gash just below the shoulder. He falls backwards, but as he does so, he gets off a shot from his Lee-Enfield, hitting his adversary full in the throat. The bullet's impact makes a sound like an apple being squashed; blood spurts in all directions. It exits at the back of the man's head, flipping his flamboyant helmet over his face and on to the ground.

‘Gotcha, yer bastard!'

The stricken man slumps forward and drops his sword, blood streaming down his tunic. His horse runs off in panic before depositing its lifeless rider in a field fifty yards away.

Despite the wide gouge to Harry's upper arm, his only concern is the prize lying on the ground in front of him. Maurice, still shaken, is getting up from the road.

‘Quick, Mo, get that 'elmet for me. You can 'ave the sword.'

Maurice picks up the helmet and sword and runs back to help Harry to the safety of their rubble-strewn entrenchment by the church, where he hides their booty under their knapsacks. The fighting all around them is still intense, although there are now more men on the ground dead and dying than are on their feet still fighting.

‘Come on, 'Arry, let's drop back down the road.'

He grabs Harry's good arm but, as he does so, a German bayonet enters his back just below his ribs. The cavalryman must have been hiding in the church. The bayonet is quickly withdrawn, ready for another strike, but Maurice reels round and knocks the German's rifle to one side with his own before shooting him square in the chest.

To his surprise, Maurice does not feel as much pain as he thought he would. He has been knicked by a blade twice before, once in India and once in South Africa. Neither was a serious wound, but both felt worse than this.

Suddenly,
the 4th Fusiliers' machine gun opens up, making everyone scatter for cover.

‘Abaht fuckin' time! Bet the tosser got it jammed again!' Harry then shouts at Maurice, ‘Come on, Mo! Fritz's infantry's comin' across the fields!'

As they both get down behind the rubble, dozens of field-grey uniforms stream across the open ground on the other side of the road. Harry peers over the top of the stones.

‘We're in a bit o' bovver, Mo.'

‘Not 'alf! How's the shoulder?'

‘Stings like buggery, but it's only a flesh wound. How's the back?'

‘All right, I think, mate; it don't 'urt that much.'

Harry's concerned. Although it might not hurt now, there is certain to be internal bleeding.

‘Do we stay 'ere, or scarper?'

All around them are dead and wounded from both sides. One or two of their platoon are still behind the rubble, firing at the enemy, but most are either dead or have made a run for it.

‘I think we should leg it, 'Arry.'

‘Well, if you can run, I can. Let's go, but I'm not going without my 'elmet.'

Both grab their spoils. Harry manages to get the helmet in his knapsack and Maurice wraps his sword in his groundsheet. They decide to take a quick look at their surroundings before making a dash for it. As they do, they see Major Ashburner running down the road to their right, followed by at least sixty fusiliers, including Captain Carey and Lieutenant Mead. They take up positions in the ditches on the far side of the road and unleash several volleys of fire, which halts the German infantry in its tracks. Almost all the men in the front ranks fall immediately, while those further back run for the cover of a copse of trees to the right.