The Shadow of War (30 page)

Ashburner
orders his men to charge and the fusiliers chase the Germans into the copse, where a ferocious fight ensues.

Almost all of the cavalrymen who attacked them are now either dead or have retreated, leaving Maurice and Harry alone with the dead and dying of the encounter.

Harry helps his friend to his feet.

‘Come on, let's go, while it's quiet. You're bleedin' like a stuck pig.'

The back of Maurice's tunic is soaked in blood and the wound is beginning to hurt him far more than when it was first inflicted. The two men begin to stagger across the ruins of Saint-Amé, back towards the centre of Herlies. They step over the rubble on the other side of the nave and into a small yard at the back of the village, which seems deserted. Maurice begins to stumble, so Harry helps him through the back door of a small house.

It is the middle of the day, the sun has begun to shine. Although it is autumn, the sun is warm. They enter a small kitchen. A table still sits in the middle of the room, but one of its legs is broken. The chairs that belong to the table are scattered around the room; they are all broken. Nothing else remains. The family which would usually be sitting there enjoying a leisurely French Saturday lunch has long gone.

Maurice and Harry slump to the floor. Maurice is very pale and Harry's concerns for him are deepening. His friend has lost a lot of blood. He decides to give him a breather for five minutes before trying to get him back to the battalion dressing station. However, despite heavy gunfire not very far away, they are both overtaken by fatigue and fall into a deep sleep.

Twenty minutes later, they have a rude awakening. A group of Prussian cavalrymen, survivors of the gruesome encounter nearby, stumble into the room. Three of them are wounded; three are unharmed, but exhausted.

The
noise of the German arrival wakes Harry and Maurice but, by the time they reach for their rifles, it is too late. Several German rifles are pointing directly at them.

Then, in excellent English, one of the men addresses them calmly, ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.'

Recognizing the man as a
Rittmeister
, a cavalry captain, by the two pips on his epaulettes, Harry thinks quickly. The fighting between them was so intense barely half an hour ago, and there have been so many stories of German atrocities, but these men seem like proper soldiers who follow the old code of discipline and honour.

Harry salutes and prompts Maurice to do the same.

‘Good afternoon, sir. You speak good English, Captain.'

‘Thank you, Serjeant, I lived two years in London. I was fencing coach at London Fencing Club with the famous maître, Leon Paul.'

Harry tries to get to his feet and help Maurice do the same.

‘It is not necessary to stand; you are wounded. Please stay on the floor.'

‘Thank you, sir. My friend 'as a bayonet wound through his ribs. He needs to see a medic.'

‘Yes, of course, but we need to get back to our lines. If we do, we will take care of you and your friend. But I am not certain where are our comrades. At this moment, you are our prisoners, but we may soon be yours. I think we are closer to your position than to ours. I have sent two men to find out what is the situation. Please be patient.' The Rittmeister smiles. ‘I liked London but, under these circumstances, I do not think it would be wise for me to go back.'

The Germans light cigarettes and pass them around. Maurice refuses; he is in considerable pain and looking very pale. The Rittmeister kneels down to look at Maurice's wound.

‘It is clean; I don't think it penetrates organ. But it needs strapping.'

‘Are you a doctor, sir?'

‘No,
but I have seen many sword wounds; this is not too deep.'

Maurice grimaces.

‘It were a bayonet, sir.'

The German helps Maurice take off his tunic and shirt.

‘Ah, yes, the crude hole of bayonet; not neat like sword.'

He then takes a clean white, neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and begins to rip Maurice's shirt into strips.

‘I am sorry, but I'm sure your Lord Kitchener can buy you another one. This will hurt, but it must be done.'

He clicks his fingers and a German serjeant produces a small pewter hip flask.

‘Marillenschnaps, Austrian apricot brandy. It is good for drink and good for wound.'

He takes a swig before pouring a liberal amount on to the handkerchief and applying it to the wound, which he secures with strips of Maurice's shirt.

‘
Das ist gut
, now you need rest. Here, drink schnapps.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

The captain inhales from his cigarette with relish.

‘We allow ourselves five cigarettes a day. This is our second.' He turns to Harry. ‘What is your regiment, Serjeant?'

‘The 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers, sir.'

‘How very appropriate; London men. From where?'

‘Leyton, sir, in the East End.'

‘Ah, yes, I coached at City of London School, Blackfriars. I used to watch the Thames rise and fall on tide; fascinating. We do not have this on our rivers so much. My name is Carl von Tannhausen, my family home is in Eberswalde, in Brandenburg.'

Harry is watching one of the Rittmeister's men very closely. He has noticed the hilt of the ‘confiscated' Prussian sword sticking out from beneath Maurice's groundsheet. The burly German, who looks uncannily like the beastly
‘Hun' depicted in the British newspaper cartoons, suddenly leans forward and pulls the sabre from its hiding place.

‘
Mein Gott, Rittmeister! Der Säbel von dem Major!
'

The German strikes Harry a heavy blow across the face with the back of his gloved hand and points the tip of the sabre at Maurice's throat.

‘Du Bastard!'

‘
Nein!
' von Tannhausen bellows at his man. ‘
Sie würden das gleiche tun. Es ist eine Kriegstrophäe
.'

The German serjeant lowers the sword and relents. Harry breathes a huge sigh of relief.

‘Thank you, sir. What did you say to 'im?'

‘I told him that he would do the same. It is what I think you English call “spoils of war”.'

‘Well, sir, we're sorry. But we didn't steal it.'

‘I understand. You should know that the men were very fond of Major von Mecklenberg. His family has been part of the
Gardes du Corps
since its formation.'

Harry feels a strong sense of remorse, an emotion he has never felt before.

‘Sir, I think I'd better tell yer that I've got 'is 'elmet in my knapsack.'

Von Tannhausen smiles.

‘I am not surprised. I was told that you boys – Cockney boys, am I right? – are very light with fingers. Do I use the right expression?'

Harry looks appropriately sheepish.

‘Almost, sir, but I know what you mean.'

‘I think, Serjeant, you perhaps should give the pieces to me so that they can be returned to the major's family. My men will feel happier then.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Harry retrieves the gleaming eagle helmet from his knapsack and hands it to his captor. Von Tannhausen then collects the sword from his serjeant.

‘Beautiful,
isn't it?

The Rittmeister turns the sabre in his hands. Heavily gold-plated, its hilt is inlaid with ivory. Its guard spews from the mouth of an eagle, which forms the weapon's pommel. The guard covering the blade hides a small compartment that is home to a tiny, but perfectly matching, skinning knife.

‘To prepare the animal for the fire, Serjeant.'

Harry is fascinated; he has never seen a weapon so beautifully made. The blade of the weapon, almost two feet long, shines like mirrored glass, and on it are delicately etched hunting scenes of boar, deer and bear. Like the master swordsman he is, the Rittmeister then slashes the sabre through the air, making a soft ‘whoosh' of sound no harsher than the merest breath of wind.

‘You could cut a man in half with this.'

Harry thinks back to his encounter with the weapon and realizes how lucky he has been.

Just at that moment a German corporal bursts into the room.

‘
Rittmeister, Englische Infanterie in der Straße!
'

There is a sudden panic in the room as, hearing that British soldiers are in the street, the Germans spring to life. But their response is too late. There is a burst of gunfire from the kitchen window above where Maurice and Harry are sitting. Three of the Germans are flung backwards by the impact of bullets at close range. Harry shouts at the top of his voice.

‘
No!
Cease firing! They're our prisoners!'

But his plea cannot be heard. The kitchen door bursts open and another hail of bullets sends more Germans sprawling, their blood splashing on the wall behind them. Rittmeister von Tannhausen is hit in the chest and thigh; he falls against the wall and slides down it until he is sitting like a rag doll propped up in a child's playroom. He looks at Harry, with half a smile and half a grimace of pain on his face.

‘Perhaps
I would have been safer in London after all –'

He barely finishes speaking before two more bullets thud into his chest, making his body jerk. His eyes close and his chin drops on to his chest.

And yet, still more rifle fire fills the room; more bullets slam into the bodies of the already dead Germans.

Harry jumps to his feet.

‘
Enough!
They're fuckin' dead!'

Men of his own platoon edge cautiously into the room, emerging through the shattered doorway; they did what they thought was best and are shocked at Harry's response.

‘Sorry, Sarje, we thought it was the right thing to do.'

‘Never mind, Corporal; help me get Serjeant Tait to the dressing station.'

One of the platoon picks up the Prussian helmet, while another picks up the sword.

‘Cor blimey! Take a butcher's at these, must be worth a fuckin' fortune.'

Harry turns on the two men.

‘Listen, you two arseholes, them things belong to me and Serjeant Tait. If they're not with our kit when we've 'ad our wounds dressed, I'll skin you alive! When I'm outta this shit'ole, they're goin' back to Germany where they belong. We took them off a brave man to stop twats like you gettin' 'old of 'em!'

The fusiliers look at Harry. Out of earshot, one of them mutters, ‘What's got into 'im? Looks like 'e's goin'
doolally tap
!'

Harry's wound needs several stitches, but he will be able to resume duties after a few days. Maurice's injury is much more serious, but he has been very fortunate. The bayonet puncture has missed both his lung and kidney on his left side, but it is a deep laceration and he will be sent to a rear field hospital in Boulogne to recover.

Both Major Ashburner and Captain Carey have been
injured in the battle at Herlies, but not seriously enough to take them out of action for long. However, Lieutenant Mead will not be going anywhere. Like thousands of others, he will be buried nearby, or at least those pieces of him that can be retrieved from where a shell exploded just next to him.

Maurice's departure and the heavy fusilier casualties in the encounter – five officers and 150 men killed, missing or severely wounded – only worsen Harry's disposition, already melancholy after the melee at Vailly. The loss today of so many comrades, and the unnecessary death of Rittmeister von Tannhausen, a man who treated him with kindness and respect, have left Harry with much to ponder. And his thoughts serve only to darken his mood even more.

The one positive thought that stays with him is his resolve to return the Prussian helmet and sword to the family of the man he killed.

The Royal Welch Fusiliers' austere nineteenth-century castellated Hightown Barracks is more like a prison block than a home from home for the Thomas boys. Used to their isolated cottage at Pentry Farm, amidst the rolling hills of Radnorshire, life in a large barracks room with scores of other men is alien to them; as are military discipline and routine. They do not find the regime physically demanding, but its rigidity and mind-numbing repetition is psychologically exhausting. Even so, they are exemplary soldiers.

Geraint and Morgan have been here since joining up at the beginning of September, in the aftermath of the scandalous revelation of their sister's relationship with Philip Davies. Their older brother, Hywel, followed them to Highgate when he joined up later in the month, following Margaret Killingbeck's visit to Presteigne in search of Bronwyn. Her visit partially rescued him from his melancholy, and he did what he said he would do: he closed up the cottage, let the land to a neighbour and joined Kitchener's Army.

The 1st and 2nd Battalions Welch Fusiliers, which have been in France since August, have seen little action and suffered almost no casualties, other than the ill-fated Captain Davies. In stark contrast to so many other regiments, their only hardship has been the many pairs of blistered feet caused by ill-fitting new boots.

A draft detachment of around 100 reservists is being prepared at Hightown for the long journey to reinforce the 1st
Battalion. They are the pick of the men in training; not only are they fit and ready to fight, their departure will create space for the new volunteers who are flocking to the recruiting offices.

The draft will be led by 2nd Lieutenant Francis Orme, a gangling 23-year-old from a renowned military family, who has only recently passed out of Sandhurst.

As news of an imminent departure for France spreads around the barracks, the three Thomas boys are summoned to the Regimental Adjutant's office. With the senior officer are Colour Serjeant Major John Hughes and Lieutenant Orme.

The three boys march in smartly and salute. The adjutant smiles at them.

‘Stand at ease, Fusiliers. How is your training going?'

Hywel answers.

‘Very well, thank you, sir, but I'm a little behind my brothers.'

‘Well, all three of you are doing exceptionally well.' He looks down at various sheets of paper in front of him on his desk. ‘You are physically strong, and your scores on the range are outstanding – especially yours, Fusilier Thomas, H. Your scores are as high as we've ever seen from a novice; you are a remarkable marksman. Indeed, were it not for the small matter of the war in France, we would be preparing you for the Regimental Shooting Championships at Bisley.'

Hywel looks distinctly self-conscious.

‘Thank you, sir. I've always enjoyed shooting on the farm.'

‘Now listen; you will have heard that Lieutenant Orme here is taking a detachment of men to France next week, probably on Wednesday. Altogether, one hundred and nine men have been chosen, all with some experience as reservists. All, that is, except six recent volunteers, all of whom show great promise. We have spoken to the other three, Fusiliers Jones, G. and Jones, E. and Fusilier Bennett.'

The
Thomas brothers look at one another in amazement; they know what is coming next.

‘Yes, we have chosen all three of you to be part of Lieutenant Orme's detachment.'

All the Thomas boys thank the adjutant in unison; there are smiles all round.

Before CSM Hughes dismisses them, Lieutenant Orme offers them some warm words of encouragement.

‘Delighted to have you in my detachment, Fusiliers Thomas, Thomas and Thomas. It will be my first posting as well. Perhaps we can help one another?'

Appreciative of the lieutenant's words, Geraint answers this time.

‘Thank you, sir, we'll do our best.'

CSM Hughes then takes them to the Regimental Quartermaster's store, where they are issued with weapons and kit. It is a proud moment for them, and they find it hard to stop grinning during the whole process.

Finally, they are taken to the Orderly Room where their details are checked by the Regimental Clerk, a punctilious serjeant, who fires questions at them.

When it comes to the question about their next of kin, there is a difference of opinion. Initially, Hywel answers for all three of them.

‘None, Serjeant, both our parents are dead. There are just the three of us.'

Morgan disagrees.

‘I have a twin sister, Bronwyn.'

The serjeant looks puzzled.

‘Make your minds up. If one of you has a sister, then you all have a sister! Unless you breed differently in Presteigne. What's her address?'

‘Don't know, Serjeant.'

‘Then it isn't much bloody use me putting her down, is it?'

The
boys look at one another. They do not know how to answer.

‘Look, if you cop a Jack Johnson in France and you all go up in smoke, we have to send a telegram to someone. I need a name and address.'

Geraint, never afraid to ask an obvious question, asks the one that both his brothers want to ask.

‘What's a “Jack Johnson”, Serjeant?'

The serjeant smirks.

‘It's an exploding shell that gives off shitloads o' black smoke.'

The boys still seem none the wiser.

‘Don't you have newspapers in Presteigne? Jack Johnson is World Heavyweight Champion. He's a bloody darkie, black as the ace of spades! Anyway, I need a name.'

Hywel comes up with a name.

‘The Reverend Henry Kewley, the Vicarage, St Andrew's Church, Presteigne. Thank you very much, Serjeant.'

‘That'll do. Now off with you! And try not to get in the way of a Jack Johnson in France … or a
whizz-bang
.'

‘What's a “whizz-bang”, Sarje?'

‘Fuck off, you cheeky little bugger!'

That night, the Thomas boys are allowed to leave Hightown Barracks and go into Wrexham to celebrate their deployment. They do not go very far, just to the King's Mill, a Banks's pub a few hundred yards down the road. It is very much a soldiers' haunt. Many men come up to them to shake their hands and congratulate them, and a few even buy them jugs of ale.

As they talk, Morgan takes the opportunity to get something off his chest.

‘Hywel, I know your opinion of Bron, disownin' her an' all that. But when it comes to our next o' kin, shouldn't she know if we get blown up by one of those Jack Thompsons?'

‘Jack
Johnsons!'

‘Yeah, one of those.'

‘I suppose so. But what do we give as her address? A dockside whorehouse in Tiger Bay, Cardiff?'

‘Perhaps that nurse who came to Pentry has found 'er and straightened 'er out?'

‘Not much chance o' that, Morgan. There's no way back from bein' a tart in Tiger Bay.'

Geraint changes the subject.

‘I wonder what Tom's up to?'

Hywel misses his boyhood friend. Tom has not been seen since the trauma over Bronwyn.

‘If he's got any sense, he'll be a long way away from Presteigne and will never go back.'

Morgan looks into the fire glowing in the hearth, then stares at the chestnut-coloured brew in his jug.

‘Bet they don't 'ave Banks's Mild in France.'

Hywel looks at his younger brother. Although he has felt much better since following his brothers and joining the Welch Fusiliers, he is still very raw after the ordeals of the summer. But he is putting on a brave face in front of Geraint and Morgan.

‘I'm sure they 'ave beer in France. And I'm sure it will 'ave the same effect as Banks's.'

‘I 'ope so, Hywel! I do 'ope so, with all those darkie bombs goin' off.'

Hywel smiles pensively and also stares into the fire. He is still thinking that a quick and painless death in France will be an appropriate end to a life full of sadness and with no prospect of respite.