The Secret Generations (27 page)

The dispatches lay on Smith-Curnming
’s desk, silent witness to the awful truth. Sir John French, with the one hundred thousand strong British Expeditionary Force, had come up against the forward units of the German First Army near
Mons.
Now the BEF was in retreat.

Giles was still angry.
‘Someone has to pay for this.’

He was not to know that
– like many thousands of others – a member of his own family was about to pay.

Chapter Three

The Sergeant pointed at the wooden signpost, set at a fork in the road.
‘Right, my lads, that’s where you’re goin’.’ The signpost said
Le Gateau 6K
.

One hundred thousand regular soldiers had crossed the Channel with the BEF. The whisper was that casualties were now incredibly high. Sergeant Graves sadly looked at the platoon in his charge. Schoolboys in uniform, he thought.

‘Why we goin’ to this Lee Cat-ee-ow place, then, Sergeant?’ The rake-thin lad called Lofthouse, and well nicknamed ‘Lofty’, had to shout to make himself heard, for the hot road was crowded: horse-drawn carts, French and Belgian civilians, old men, women, children, trudging along the grass verges, while the road itself was clogged with troops.

‘
You are reinforcements for Two Corps, lad. Commanded by General Sir Horace Smith-Dorrien.’ Sergeant Graves pronounced it ‘Smith Doreen’. ‘You’ll be part of the 14th Infantry Brigade, with the Second Suffolks.’ In his mind he said ‘and God ’elp you’. ‘Now, let’s see what you learned at Aldershot. I want you fresh, and marchin’.’

A squad of infantry went past, in ragged file, the men hardly turning their heads to look at the platoon
– their eyes dull, and many limping from the blisters of miles.

‘
Strikes me, we’re goin’ the wrong bloody way,’ Lofty Lofthouse muttered to the young private marching beside him. ‘They’re all coming
from
this Lee Cat-ee-ow place. What you reckon?’

‘
Dunno.’ The tall boy next to Lofthouse had about him the look of the country, and he could not keep step properly, as though used to a different pace – behind the plough perhaps.

The air was heavy as lead, with thunder in the distance
– not that they would be able to distinguish thunder at the moment. Ever since they had landed at Le Havre the sound of guns had been background music for their journey. As for the clogged roads, they were the reason for the march to Le Cateau; for the transport on which they had travelled from Le Havre had been forced to a halt by the retreating Belgian, French and British troops, combined with the endless stream of refugees. Khaki figures could be seen in the fields, while ambulances, and men hobbling, bandaged and grey with pain, spoke of fearsome work ahead.

As they marched towards Le Cateau, Sergeant Graves worked out the possibilities. Unless troops were really in rout from the enemy, the time always came for them to turn, stand and fight. This, according to all the elementary strategy he had learned, usually meant that a stand had to be made in order to buy time for others: so that an Army, Corps, or Division, could regroup, re-arm, and take up a defensive line.

Lurking in the back of Sergeant Graves’ mind was the unhappy notion that, possibly, they were heading towards Two Corps because Two Corps was going to buy that much-needed time for the British Expeditionary Force.

Though the Sergeant
’s thinking was accurate enough, nobody knew – at this moment – as the little platoon of reinforcements plugged along the dusty road, that any covering action would be fought at all. In fact, only now, in the late afternoon of 25 August, had the bulk of Two Corps arrived, under pressure from the enemy, in the Le Cateau area.

They had fought their way s
lowly back from the Mons battlefields, in harness with One Corps, and, at this moment – as the sergeant’s half-trained, untried reserves broke into a bawdy song – the men and artillery of Two Corps were skirting the Forest of Mormal, to the north-east of Le Cateau, and the clutch of villages which lay between it and the town of Cambrai to the north-west.

Sergeant Graves
’ orders had been less specific than he had allowed the recruits to know. Yet, to all intents, this tiny band of raw boys was destined to join their allotted units in the field of battle, and move back the way they had come – under the fire of German rifles, machine-guns and artillery.

Four-and-twenty virgins came down from Inverness,

And when the ball was over there were four-and-twenty less;

Singing, I
’ll do ye this time,

I
’ll do ye now;

The lad that did ye last time, he canna do ye now.

The young civilians in uniform sang with gusto, but all Sergeant Graves could think about was the countryside through which they marched.

The roads suddenly became clearer, less crowded; but the sound of sporadic gunfire was closer by the minute. They marched through bleached, dry, slightly undulating ground
– bare but for the occasional tree, and without cover, except for the odd ditch in the hard-baked earth. Bloody ’ell, Graves thought. It’s like soddin’ Salisbury Plain without the trees. Graves did not relish the thought of having to stand and fight in this place.

Nor did General Smith-Dorrien, but later that night he would be faced with no alternative.

*

‘
Young officer, Mr Railton, needs a batman. One volunteer.’ A sergeant, Martin by name, stood in the doorway of the barn, on the outskirts of Le Cateau, making the request sound like an order from God.

Sergeant Graves had handed over his
‘children’, as he called them, to a sergeant-major of the 2nd Suffolks, just outside Le Cateau itself, at exactly five minutes past six, as the storm clouds began to gather and the air seemed to thicken like soup.

‘
Children, Sarn’t? The children of this regiment have become old men in the past week. Same’ll happen to these lads – those that’re spared.’ And the men were quickly, and efficiently, split up and sent, in twos and threes, to those platoons now under-strength from casualties suffered during the gruelling cross-country chase from the Mons battlefields.

Three of the reinforcements sat in the barn with hardened campaigners, nineteen and twenty years of age, who told them stories of the fighting; exchanged cigarettes; ate bully beef; and drank hot sweet tea, brewed up in mess tins and billy cans.

As the new arrivals heard of the bitter fighting around the Mons salient, one of them, goggle-eyed, asked, ‘What’s it like? What’s it really like when the shooting starts?’ half in fear and half excitement and anticipation.

‘
Noise, blood and guts.’ A corporal from North London, still young enough to have acne scarring his face, drew on a thin cigarette. ‘It jus’ ‘appens, see. One minute you’re scared shitless; the next you don’ ave time to think. Not ’till after, like.’

‘
And them bloody Jerries.’ Another man – a fat, red-faced private – spat on the stone floor. ‘You don’ ardly ever see them; but when you do it ain’t ’alf strange. Like grey ghosts, they are, in them uniforms, and the ’elmets, wi’ spikes on ’em, like a London copper.’

There was muttered agreement, and a short silence. Then an older man, around twenty-three or four
– neat as a bank clerk, even in the dusty, stained uniform – cleared his throat. ‘Funny,’ he looked up at the beams in the barn’s roof. ‘It’s funny. We were in this village – don’ ask me the name of it. Odd name it had. Well, we was there all morning, and Jerry, he kept on coming in waves, like; and we just went on shootin’ at ’im, and forcin’ ‘im back. I know I killed my first man that morning – saw him slide down like he’d had too much plum duff and cider. Round dinner time it went all quiet, an’ the sergeant – ’Awkins – you remember ’Awkins, copped it last night, other side of that big wood; them trees; that forest…’

‘
Mormal, I heard an officer call that forest “Mormal”,’ from someone sitting well back in the corner.

‘
Yes, the forest. Well, Sergeant ’Awkins says as how half on us can stand down. It was all quiet, and the sun shining and everything. I went off and sat on a doorstep. Didn’t think no people was left in the place. Then out comes this kiddie, ’bout four or five years old. Bright as a button, and not frightened or nothing. She starts to jabber away in her own lingo, then comes and sits on my knee. Well, eventually she finds this whistle.’ He reached for the top right-hand pocket of his tunic, bringing out a silver police whistle on a chain. ‘Me Mum give it me: use to be my uncle’s, him in the police force. Died of pneumonia, 1910. Always keeps it here,’ patting the pocket. ‘Never know, do you? Anyhow, she gets hold on it and puts it in her mouth, then starts blowin’ and blowin’ – makes one hell of a din, but she was so happy; so happy blowin’ away.’ He seemed to take a deep breath to control himself. ‘First time I was ever homesick that was. First bleedin’ time. Funny.’

There was a violent crash and roar, echoing around outside, shaking the barn, but only the newcomers flinched.

‘Said we was in for thunder,’ the man with the whistle nodded. ‘Been sayin’ it all day.’ He looked at the suddenly startled eyes of the newcomers. ‘No, it’s only thunder. You’ll know all right when it’s the Jerry guns.’

And it was at that moment the sergeant came in demanding a volunteer to be young Mr Railton
’s batman.

Billy Crook did not think twice. He just stood up and ambled over to where the NCO stood. Sergeant Martin looked at him as though he was deformed.
‘Ho yes,’ with a humourless laugh. ‘And what makes you think you can be a batman, an officer’s servant, then, Sunny Jim?’

Billy Crook
’s voice was cloaked in a Berkshire burr. ‘Use to work for ’em, Sergeant.’

‘
Work for who?’

‘
Railtons. Haversage way.’

‘
And where the hell might Haversage way be?’

Billy genuinely thought the NCO was joking.
‘Come on, Sergeant,
everybody
knows Haversage. Haversage, and Redhill Manor – that’s where I worked and lived.’

‘
That’s enough of the dumb insolence, lad.’ The Sergeant peered closer at Billy Crook, his brow creasing. Strange, he thought. This lad had a similarity to Mr Railton, but he could not quite put a finger on what it was. The eyes, perhaps? Or the nose? ‘Mr Railton was related to the late General Railton, did you know that, lad? General Sir William Railton?’

‘
I was at the Manor when he died.’ Billy stood, unperturbed by the Sergeant’s suspicious gaze. ‘They sent me down the hill, to the Vicar, that night. First time I ever saw the Vicar, close up like that, the night they sent me, the night The General died…’

‘
All right, lad. Get your kit and come with me.’

*

At twenty years of age, Caspar Railton looked thirty. Tall, like his father, he had already grasped the nettle of confidence. Everyone could detect natural leadership within five minutes of being with him. The striking blue eyes were now filmed with fatigue; his hair, usually blond and lank, was dirty, and sticking to his scalp; while the characteristic nose twitched, much in the way his late uncle’s, The General’s, nose had moved at the scent of trouble, a fox, the enemy, or a pretty woman.

Caspar had seen to the platoon first, making sure his sergeant found them a good billet for a few hours, then issued the ammunition, followed by rations. He gave special orders c
oncerning any replacements, and said he would be round to see the men himself, shortly. Asking Sergeant Martin to get him a new batman was almost an afterthought, just as he was leaving to join the other platoon commanders in the old stone house once the home of some peasant smallholder.

Evans, the man who had been with him ever since he joined the regiment, had caught a piece of shrapnel in the spine late in the afternoon.

Now, Caspar shaved out of a mess tin, peering at his face in a tiny cracked piece of glass that hung against the stone wall next to a highly-coloured painting of Christ. The Saviour’s finger pointed to a radiant bleeding heart projecting from his chest.

A heart just did not look like that, Caspar thought.
He
should know, having seen one about a week ago. Some poor fellow, with a great rent in his chest from a hunk of shell, and his heart, literally, in his hands, still pumping the life from him. The heart did not look like Jesus’ heart at all.

A sharp rap at the half-open door announced Sergeant Martin. One of the other subalterns, also carrying out his ablutions, called for the NCO to enter, and Martin barked out,
‘Private Crook, sir. Volunteer for batman, sir.’

Caspar hardly looked up.
‘Know your duties, Crook?’

‘
Not yet, sir.’

‘
Right. You look after my kit, and always have your own near at hand – especially your rifle. In the field, you stay close to me. You’ll have to be sharp and keep your eyes open. You’ll be my runner when there’s action. Oh yes, and you’ll help the other officers’ servants with meals. Up to it you think, Crook?’

‘
I reckon, sir.’

At last Caspar lifted his head and looked at the young soldier.
‘Don’t I know you, Private Crook?’

‘
Billy Crook, sir. Martha Crook’s son: Redhill Manor. Known you, on visits, all me life, sir. Rode with you an’ all…’

‘
Good Lord!’ Caspar’s face split into a wide smile. ‘Billy Crook!’ The sight of the lad brought back a flood of happy memories – Redhill in high summer, and in the winter. Heavens, young Billy had scrumped apples with them, and – as he said – they had ridden together. ‘Good to have someone from Redhill here, Crook. Now, clear up that stuff, would you,’ waving towards his shaving gear, ‘then go and join the other servants in the kitchen. Help get some food ready.’ He turned to Martin, ‘Platoon settled in, Sarn’t?’