Last Train to Waverley E-Book

Malcolm Archibald

• Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

To commemorate the involvement of Scots Regiments in WWI "Last Train to Waverley" is set in France during one week in March 1918. The Germans launched their final major offensive of the war and pushed the British back thirty miles. One unit of the 20 Royal Scots were cut off. This book follows the fortunes of this unit, and the personal dilemmas of Douglas Ramsay, the officer in charge. Lieutenant Ramsay returns from hospital to the front line in March 1918. Before he has time to get to know his men, the Germans attack and break through the British lines. He is left in an isolated position with a handful of men. Most of his men are very young but he has two veterans in Sergeant Flockhart and Corporal McKim. Unfortunately Ramsay and Flockhart have a bad history, the details of which come out in a series of flashbacks throughout the book. Ramsay leads the survivors of the 20th Royal Scots back through the German lines to try and reach the always moving British positions. He is aided by Flockhart and McKim as he encounters various German formations on the way, including a crack Prussian platoon. As the Royals find their way back, the back stories of the sergeant and the officer are revealed through a series of flashbacks that show the social tensions and difference in lifestyles of the period. The book climaxes when Ramsay leads his men through the town of Albert in Picardy. The German advance slows as the soldiers loot the town. Ramsay's men reach the British lines and a machine gun ambush wipes out the Prussian Guards.

Leseprobe

Malcolm

Archibald

LAST TRAIN TO

WAVERLEY

For Cathy

PRELUDE

BOTANIC GARDENS, EDINBURGH,

June 1919

Despite the early morning sunshine that threw long shadows from the Lebanese cedar, dew still lingered on the stalks of the grass. A gardener worked diligently with his hoe, barely looking up as the man and his woman eased past. Her arm was hooked into his, but whether out of affection or to support him, the gardener could not tell. The man wore the uniform of an army officer with the three pips of a captain, but as they passed beyond the shadows, the sun gleamed briefly from the three gold wound stripes on his sleeve.

The gardener paused to lean on the haft of his hoe as his interest was briefly roused. The officer was tall and he limped heavily and stopped frequently as if in constant pain. His face was drawn and his eyes haunted, as if the war had not yet left him; although he was physically among the peace of the Botanical Garden, mentally he was still trapped in Flanders mud.

The gardener sighed and returned to his work; Edinburgh was full of injured men recently returned from the War; it was not his concern. This week’s crop of weeds was more important to him. He ducked his head and sliced the hoe through the dark soil.

The couple walked past. They did not notice the gardener at all. Gillian pulled the silk scarf tighter over her throat and took hold of Ramsay’s arm.

“It’s cold this morning.” She shivered and huddled closer, her eyes lifting to his.

Ramsay squeezed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “You may have been better advised to wear a longer skirt,” he said.

“You like it?” Gillian looked down at her sky blue dress. She straightened her left leg so the serrated hem rose even higher up her shin. “Shorter skirts are the height of fashion this season, Douglas.”

“Of course they are,” Ramsay agreed. He tried to lengthen his stride slightly but that damned wound caught him again and he winced and returned to his now-familiar but still frustrating hobble.

Gillian had automatically hesitated when he faltered and now she looked enquiringly at him. “Are you all right?”

Ramsay nodded but said nothing. God! He hated this weakness of his body. He looked up suddenly and ducked his head as something exploded from the shrubbery on his left. It was a magpie: only a magpie. He grinned to hide the embarrassment he felt at having betrayed his ragged nerves.

Gillian patted the stripes on his cuff. “It will get better, Douglas. You will get better in time.”

He watched the bird flutter toward the domed glass of the Palm House, black and white against the green leaves. He saw its reflection in the polished panes and then it was gone, disappeared behind the glittering roof as if it had never been. Here one minute, gone the next; it no longer mattered. The only things that mattered were those that were before you at that second: the here and now. All the rest was unimportant. The past had happened and could not be altered and the future may never happen. Only the present mattered, and that was Gillian. He inhaled deeply, very aware of her perfume mingling with the soft scent of earth and new-cut grass.

“Douglas?” Gillian pulled lightly on his sleeve. “Are you with me?”

I think so Gillian but hold onto me or I may drift away back to the trenches.

The sun had risen in the short time they had been walking. It emerged from the fringe of the shrubbery and eased its light on to the Palm House, caressing each pane of glass as the Earth continued its inexorable orbit around that mysterious yellow globe. Ramsay thought of how the sun had looked on other mornings, in another country, in another world far removed from this place of false tranquillity. Maybe he had left a part of himself there; maybe the memories and the guilt would follow him forever.

“Douglas?” Gillian was leaning into him, trying to catch his eyes. She asked again: “Are you with me?”

“Of course I am with you.” Ramsay forced a smile. He watched as the sun caught the penultimate pane on its gradual spread over the Palm House. There was no sign of the magpie now; nor was there a lark singing. But there should be a lark; there was always a lark. He looked down at Gillian; her eyes were bright, but the concern was also there.

“I think you are getting tired now.” When Gillian spoke in that kind tone, her voice washed over him like warm soapy water, loosening the visible hurt but unable to penetrate to the depths beneath.

She tightened her grip on his arm. “Come along, Douglas; time we were getting back home I think.” She held out her left hand and allowed the sunlight to glint on the central and largest diamond of her engagement ring. “We have a wedding to arrange.”

Ramsay nodded. “We have indeed, Gillian.” He lengthened his stride to match hers, rode the pain and tried once more to concentrate on this strange life of peace, where a sudden noise was more likely to be somebody dropping a cup rather than a dreaded coalscuttle bomb exploding, and men wore dark suits or flat caps rather than mud-coated uniforms stinking of lyddite and sweat.

He heard the whistling before he saw the source, but automatically his mouth formed the words of the song and he joined in, softly.

“Après la guerre finie

Soldat Ecosse parti

Mademoiselle in the family way

Après la guerre finie”

Gillian saw the movement and smiled. “You looked happy there for a moment, Douglas. Please sing louder for me.”

Ramsay shook his head as he realised what he was doing. “It’s a trench song, Gillian. It’s hardly suitable for your ears.”

“I’m not made of glass you know!” Despite Gillian’s smile, the words retained enough of a sting for Ramsay to recognise her hurt.

He saw the residual anger in her eyes and shook his head. “I know that,” he said softly. “I know you have seen plenty and heard plenty, but I still think of you as that young girl I fell in love with a lifetime and four years ago.”

“I am still me, silly.” The hurt faded from Gillian’s eyes. “And you are still you, under that uniform, Douglas. The war was only an episode.”

Ramsay nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It was only an episode.”

The whistling continued to the tune Sous les Ponts de Paris, jaunty and sharp but with an undertone of bitterness. Ramsay stopped and waited for the whistlers. They came around the corner of the Palm House, three men in blue hospital suits and scarlet neckerchiefs. One pushed a wheelchair in which the second sat; the third hobbled behind on a pair of crutches; his single remaining leg heavily bandaged. The badges on their caps advertised membership of three different regiments.

They stopped when they saw Ramsay and two of them saluted. The man in crutches tried to balance long enough to lift his arm but staggered so the wheelchair pusher had to hold him upright.

Ramsay returned the salute. “Stand easy, men.” The words came automatically, as did the instinctive relaxation of the three men. They had stopped whistling and stood as if waiting for orders that Ramsay was not inclined to give. He nodded to the man in the wheelchair. “Where did you get that?”

The man glanced down, where his legs should have been. “Ypres, sir; gas gangrene.”

“And you?” Ramsay nodded to the man on crutches.

“Hindenburg Line, sir.” The accent was East End Glasgow, the cap badge HLI.

“And you?” Ramsay nodded to the wheelchair pusher.

“Amiens, sir.” The man bore himself with some authority and Ramsay guessed he had been a corporal, perhaps even a sergeant. Blue eyes met Ramsay’s in a gaze that was neither obsequious nor challenging.

“Well done, men,” Ramsay said. “Carry on.” He watched them pass, noting they still had their shoulders squared and their heads up; they were soldiers, but more than that, they were men. They started to sing, the words soft but distinguishable as they continued with their defiant, tragic song.

“Après la guerre finie

Soldat Ecosse parti

Mademoiselle can go to hell

Après la guerre finie”

“Well,” Gillian watched them disappear behind the bushes. The song returned to whistling, which gradually faded away. “The guerre is après now, but there is not much partying from these Scottish soldiers.” Her voice lowered. “Not without legs.” She sighed and rubbed her hand up and down his sleeve. “I am very glad you came back intact.” She touched the ribbons sewn on his breast, “and decorated. You are a hero, you know.”

“I am no hero,” Ramsay denied. “And I am not sure if I am intact. The true heroes were the men who did not come back.”

Men such as Edwards, Niven, Aitken, Mackay . . . the list is endless.

“What nonsense!” Gillian said. She touched his ribbons again. “These prove your heroism and that’s all there is to be said . . . no!” She held up her hand, palm toward him. “I won’t hear another word, Douglas; not another word. You are intact, just a wee bit hurt and I can cure all of that, I promise you.”

She slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow and they continued to walk, slower now, toward the western entrance gate. A trick of the breeze brought the sound of whistling back toward them and then there was silence, save for the rustle of leaves and the sad refrain of blackbirds.

Ramsay stopped abruptly, and Gillian staggered slightly. The woman stood just inside the gate with a child at her side and hope shorn from her face. The high polish could not disguise the battered state of her shoes and her clothes that had gone out of fashion at least four years before. The child stared at Ramsay, pointed and whispered something briefly to his mother. The woman shook her head.

“Do you know that woman?” Gillian asked.

Ramsay spared her a cursory glance and looked away quickly. “No.” He hesitated for a moment, swore softly and tapped his right hand on his leg. “Excuse me, please, Gillian.” He disengaged his arm and walked over to the woman. She watched him approach, her face disinterested.

“That is a fine boy you have there,” Ramsay tried to smile.

“He’s not bad.” The woman pulled her son back and held him close.

“His father must be very proud of him.”

“His father is dead,” the woman said bluntly. She looked at the medal ribbons on Ramsay’s breast and pursed her lips.

“In the War?” Ramsay asked. He put out a hand but the woman pulled the boy out of his reach.

“Where else?” The woman sounded too tired to be bitter. There were dark rings around her eyes and deep lines between the edges of her mouth and her poverty-sharp nose.

Ramsay nodded. “That must be hard for you.”

“It’s hard for everybody.” The woman barely shrugged. “Why should it be any different for me?”

“Of course.” Ramsay looked closely into the eyes of the boy. They were brown and wide. “How old is he?”

The woman pulled him closer. “He’s four come August.”

“Oh.” Ramsay pulled out his wallet. As the woman watched, he extracted a pound note and held it out. “To help,” he said. “Take it, please.”

“I don’t take charity.” There was a surge of pride in the woman’s voice, despite the desperation in her eyes.

Ramsay shook his head. “It’s not charity,” he said, “your husband might have served with me. Please,” he repeated, and lowered his voice, “please. For the boy’s sake if not for your own.”

The woman glanced down at her son and then slowly took the money. She held it as if it was red hot. “Thank you,” she said. She stuffed it away inside some recess of her coat, turned and walked, round shouldered, out of the gate. “Come on, William.” She looked back once, as if to reassure herself that Ramsay was serious, and hurried away.

“That’s the third woman to whom you have given money in the past two days.” Gillian’s eyes were soft. “You can’t support every war widow you know, Douglas. The government does provide for them.”

Ramsay said nothing. He watched the woman scurry across the road to the tall stone pillars that marked the entrance to Inverleith Park.

“Why do you do that, Douglas? The war was not your fault.”

“No,” Ramsay agreed softly. “The war was not my fault; but some of the killing was.” He began to sing again, the words soft as the tear that brightened his eye.

“Après la guerre finie

Soldat Ecosse parti.”

But there were no larks.

CHAPTER ONE

FRANCE

19 March 1918

Even in Albert there was always the sound of guns. Wherever he was near the line the guns formed an unremitting backdrop, so regular that it became part of life, unheeded unless the unseen gunner targeted him personally. Mostly the rumble came from the north, where the salient around Ypres was constantly under siege, but today they came from the French sector to the south. Lieutenant Ramsay disembarked from the train, lit a cheroot and allowed the sergeants to organise the unloading of the draft reinforcements.

A stocky NCO with the face of a boy and the eyes of an octogenarian stepped past him. “Right lads. I want the Royals to form up on the right, the Durhams to form in the centre behind me and the Fusiliers to the left!” The stentorian roar echoed around the railway station, competing with the sound of the train as it voided steam over the shifting mass of men.

“Should we not be taking charge?” Second Lieutenant Kerr adjusted his Sam Browne belt slightly and checked the holster of his revolver.

“I always find it best to allow the sergeants to do this sort of thing,” Ramsay said. “They do it so much better than us. It’s what they’re made for.”

Kerr forced a smile. “Yes, sir.” He straightened his cap so the peak was exactly square on his forehead.

Did I look as young as him when I first came out here?

Encouraged by the sergeant’s bellowing, the khaki-clad men filed into their respective units. The veterans stood at ease, their faces expressionless, while the recruits looked around in nervous excitement. The stocky sergeant was joined by two others; a taller, slender man who Ramsay guessed was in his late teens and an average-sized man with a greying walrus moustache.

“You’re with me, Durhams.” The tall sergeant barely raised his voice above a conversational tone yet when he gave the order to march the Durhams immediately moved out of the station towards the town outside.

The stocky sergeant blasted the Fusiliers in his wake, leaving the Royals standing, watching the officers with a mixture of frank curiosity and total disinterest. Ramsay noted the difference between the wide-eyed recruits who scarcely halted chattering even when the moustached sergeant barked at them, and the wary eyes of the silent veterans.

The Durhams and the Fusiliers filed into lorries, hauling themselves over the tailgate and taking their seats with non-stop noise and the clatter of equipment. One by one the lorries jerked away, leaving a blue cloud of exhaust fumes and rising dust. Kerr watched them go. “Is there transport for us, sir?”

“No,” Ramsay told him. “From here on, we march.”

Kerr indicated the disappearing files of lorries and the slowly dropping dust. “I thought they were all coming with us,” he sounded disappointed.

“They are replacements,” Ramsay explained, “to fill the gaps caused by casualties and sickness. They are fortunate that they are going to their own regiments. If there was a big push on, they would be spread out wherever they are needed along the whole line.” He glanced at the train. Already empty, it was heading back for more men. The front always demanded more men, like some starving dragon that devoured human bodies and drank human blood. Ramsay shook away the horrific images and glanced up as a new body of men marched past, arms swinging and rifles slung over their shoulder. They were singing, the words familiar, jaunty with sardonic humour.

“Après la guerre finie

Soldat Ecosse parti.”

Ramsay noticed that many looked terribly young, younger even than Kerr, and his face had never experienced the sliding hiss of a razor. Others were little older in years, but their mouths were hardened from experience and eyes embittered by the sights they had seen. Some had socks fastened over the muzzles of their rifles in preparation for the mud ahead. Many had one or more gold wound stripes on their sleeve; few of these were singing and then only softly; more as in prayer than with vigour. Their steel helmets seemed pitifully inadequate protection against the howitzers and mortars that would soon be targeting them. Yet still they marched and still they sang, with the veterans joining in one by one as they slid into the routine of the march.

Ramsay turned his attention to the single body of men who remained. They stood in the fading evening light, some with the patience of cattle, others lighting the ubiquitous Woodbine cigarette and talking quietly among themselves, a few staring at their surroundings in something like awe.

“That’s the men ready, sir.” The moustached sergeant saluted. “The guide is waiting for us.” He nodded to the station exit, where a tousle-headed corporal lounged against the pillar, smoking a cigarette.

The corporal lifted a single hand in acknowledgement and slouched forward. He eyed Kerr’s Sam Brown, raised a weary eyebrow and threw a casual salute to Ramsay.

“I am ready whenever you are, sir.” He was all of eighteen years old.

With the men formed in a short column of four abreast, the replacements for the 20th Battalion, the Royal Scots followed Ramsay toward the front. He felt the familiar mixture of emotions; the slide of despair that he was returning to carnage, the fear that was so constant a companion he had almost learned to control it and the strange exhilaration that he was returning to what now felt like home. This was his regiment; this was the First of Foot, the oldest regiment in the British Army outside the Guards; the right of the line, Pontius Pilate’s Bodyguard: he was returning to his family.

There was the clatter of hooves on the central pave.

“Clear the road, lads!” The sergeant ushered the men to the mud in the verges. They moved reluctantly and the younger faces watched as the field ambulance hurried past, the red cross bright against the spattered background of mud.

“Blighty!” one of the veterans yelled. “Blighty!” He turned to the man next to him. “There’s another lucky bastard got a Blighty.”

His companion grunted. “Lucky bastard,” he echoed, and shifted his grip on his rifle. Neither mentioned the slow drip of blood that fell from the tail of the ambulance.

“Right, lads,” the sergeant stepped back on the pave. The corporal guide was watching, his eyes unreadable as he lit one cigarette from the glowing tip of the last. He led the way, shoulders hunched and feet sliding rather than marching.

The column trudged on, slower now as more vehicles approached. An ammunition limber growled past, then a water carrier. They marched through a village where every second house bore signs of shell damage. Many were uninhabited, but others contained civilians who watched the marching soldiers with no interest at all. A mother cradled her infant son as the men passed; a young girl skipped alongside for a few yards and laughed when one of the privates tossed a biscuit to her; she stuffed it in her mouth and ran away. The village slid away as they marched on, the drum beat of their feet monotonous on the cracked pave.

“How far is the front?” Kerr asked.

“Not far now; it’s just a few miles.” Ramsay recognised Kerr’s excitement. “You will know when you get there.”

The sudden roar made the recruits jump and Ramsay was not the only veteran who flinched as the battery of six inch guns fired.

“Give them hell, boys!” somebody shouted, the words lost in the concussion of the blast.

“That’s bon,” a smooth-faced veteran said, and looked to the horizon where the shells were travelling.

“I didn’t even see them there!” Kerr shouted. He held a hand to his ear. “What an infernal noise!”

The gunners threw aside the empty brass shell case and slammed in another. Stripped to the waist and perspiring, they did not look around as the infantry marched past. Ramsay watched them fire again and then looked away; the first shot had taken him by surprise, the second was a familiar entity in this world. He knew that each successive round would be less important until the shellfire became just part of the psychological landscape, accepted and ignored.

Ramsay glanced up as a shell ripped overhead. The sky above stretched to infinity, a void of nothingness marred only by the vapour trail of a single patrolling aircraft, thousands of feet up. The aircraft looked so innocent up there, harmless, almost angelic, that Ramsay had to force himself to remember what horrors such a flying machine could unleash. The devil had sent his winged emissaries to soil the purity of heaven.

At noon they stopped for a break. The men lit pipes or slender Woodbines, chatted in undertones or looked around in dismay at the increasing devastation. Ramsay bit the end off a cheroot, lit carefully and inhaled slowly. He looked forward, hoping the fear did not show in his face. With every step his excitement lessened.

Oh God, here we go again. Please, God, let this nightmare end soon.

They moved off again, trudging now as weariness settled on them. There were more gun batteries, more ambulances, and the occasional dispatch rider on a snarling motor bike. There were perspiring store men and a red-tabbed staff officer in a motor car, heading away from the front. They passed a cemetery where new planted crosses seemed to blossom like some obscene crop. One young soldier tried to count them but gave up after a few moments.

“Don’t look, son. Leave the dead in peace.” The sergeant sounded almost gentle. “You concentrate on staying alive.” He was only a year or two older than the recruit, but his eyes were timeless with fatigue and responsibility. The corporal guide watched and said nothing. He murmured something to the sergeant, glanced at Ramsay and altered their direction; they headed east, away from the dying sun.

The column moved on, relentless, the sound of their boots on the pave like the rhythmic clatter of some subterranean caterpillar, hollow and sharp, mocking the men who were so blithely marching to meet death. Ramsay counted his steps, each one was a millisecond of this life easing away, each one brought him closer to that other existence. Each one took him further from Gillian.

There was another battery of guns, eighteen pounders this time, firing slowly at the unseen enemy, the gunners moving like machines and the pile of empty brass shell cases head high at their side. Only the recruits turned their heads to watch; the veterans had returned to their front line selves, they had seen artillery before. There was a sound like an express train overhead and a sudden eruption in the flat fields, a hundred yards away to their right. The recruits ducked, some held on to their steel helmets, others stared open-mouthed at this ugly growth that subsided in a roar of falling mud and stones.

“What was that?” Kerr’s nose wrinkled at the reek of lyddite. He peered through the brown haze of dirt.

“That was the bloody receipt, sir,” one of the veterans explained, to be quickly hushed into silence by the sergeant.

“That’s Fritz replying,” Ramsay explained. He raised his voice. “Split the men up, Sergeant. Spread out the column.”

The sergeant nodded, wordless, and gave quick orders. The column spread out, men looking uneasy as they were deprived of the comfort of close companions who had been strangers only a few hours previously. The sky was darkening overhead, with the flare of shellfire bright on the southern horizon.

“Why did you split the men up?” Kerr asked. “They don’t like it at all.”

“Minimise casualties,” Ramsay said shortly. “If a shell lands in mud it will plunge underground before it explodes. The mud dissipates most of the force. If it lands on this pave,” he tapped his boot on the road, “it will explode on contact and spread shrapnel and shell casings and bits of stone for scores of yards. One Jack Johnson could wipe out the entire column.”

Kerr nodded. He looked around at the Royal Scots who now marched in a long, extended line.

“You take the rearguard, Kerr,” Ramsay ordered. “Try and bring them in safe.”

There were more ruins now, the shattered shells of houses, some sheltering small groups of soldiers on mysterious errands of their own. Behind one wall lay the bloated corpse of a horse, its flesh furred with flies. Behind another wall lay three soldiers sleeping in a heap, their uniforms so muddy and torn it was impossible to identify to which unit they belonged. An occasional gust of wind carried a smell of human waste, putrefying flesh and lyddite; the stink of the Front.

Ramsay halted the column in a muddy field. “The boys are marching by their chin straps now, Sergeant.” He raised his voice. “Bed down for the night, men,” he said, and watched the veterans show the recruits how to use straw and grass as a makeshift mattress. He lit another cheroot and looked up at the uncaring gaze of a million stars, already accepting the constant grumble of the guns as part of life. He leaned against a tumbledown wall at the edge of the field and drew on his cheroot until the tip glowed red.

Kerr joined him, shivering at the bite of the March night. “How far is the front?” Kerr asked again.

“Not far,” Ramsay said. “This is the support area. We will be in the front line tomorrow.” The words had the ring of doom about them. “But before you think of what tomorrow will bring, do your rounds – check your men. As an officer, the men are your first priority.”

“Yes, sir,” Kerr threw a smart salute.

“And please don’t salute when we are near the front.” Ramsay knew his nerves were showing. “It lets the Hun snipers know who the officers are.”

With the eastern horizon intermittently scarred by the brilliant flashes of gunfire, and an occasional distant star shell illuminating the sky, Ramsay found no sleep that night. He lay hard against the rough stone wall and fought the fear that mounted within him. I cannot go back again, he thought. I cannot go back again. But he knew he must. There was no choice. The alternative was disgrace, ruin and the loss of Gillian. He reached into his inside pocket, pulled out the silver hip flask and unscrewed the cap. The aroma of whisky was sharp in his nose. He tipped the flask into his mouth and swallowed. If I drink enough it will all go away for a while. Each time though, it got worse.

He listened to the sweet call of the larks and envied them their freedom.

Ramsay felt the flask tremble as he held it. The mouthpiece rattled against his teeth as he tipped it further back. Please God, if I am to be killed make it quick.

They marched on next morning, with Ramsay’s head throbbing in time with the pounding of iron-studded boots on the cracked pave. Sleep had refreshed the men and they marched faster now, the veterans keeping their heads down and the recruits looking around them, exclaiming at the shambles and flinching at even the most distant shell burst.

“Is this the front?” Kerr asked.

Ramsay grunted. “Not yet.” He kept silent for a few more minutes before he relented. “This is the area the Germans vacated when they retreated to the Hindenburg Line.” He waved his hand around. “Behold the civilisation of the Hun.” He stepped aside and looked around.

There was mile after mile of devastation. All the houses had been pulled down, all the wells filled in or polluted; even the trees were stripped – the branches were bare, naked fingers entreating pity from an uncaring sky.

“They make a desert and call it peace,” Ramsay flicked ash onto the ground, “to misquote Tacitus.”

“It’s frightful,” Kerr said. He ducked as a 5.9 inch exploded a hundred yards away. “We must win this war.”

Two of the passing veterans threw him looks that combined disgust with pity. Ramsay noticed but did not comment. He could appreciate their point of view.

“Oh, yes. You keep that thought in your head, Kerr, when the whizz bangs are falling.”

He looked upwards, to where two aircraft were pirouetting together, their vapour trails creating white patterns on the grey sky. It could have been pretty except for the distant chatter of machine guns. Somewhere the lark was still calling, the sound melancholic against the unheeded grumble of the guns. There are always bloody larks. I hate those birds.

Ramsay pulled hard on his cheroot. It was the smell that he objected to most. It seemed to seep into every pore of him; it stuck to his clothes and refused to leave. It was not a single smell, but a compilation of a hundred; from the sickening stench of decaying meat created by the dead and buried bodies that lay in No Man’s Land, to the stink from the latrines, socks: weeks unwashed and men’s lice-infested bodies, and the vicious stink of lyddite and phosgene gas. The stench remained with him long after the sights and sounds had vanished.

They reached the first trenches at seven in the morning, passing a battery of artillery whose gunners glistened with sweat as they fired a continuous stream of shells toward the German lines.

“The morning hate,” Ramsay explained as Kerr flinched. “You’ll get used to it.”

There was another small cemetery here; the crosses plain, with the name, number and regiment of each soldier the only sign that the grave beneath held a man who had lived, breathed and loved, who had planned for his future, who had a mother and perhaps a sweetheart or a wife. Now they were empty carcasses mouldering in France with the vitality and personality that had made them unique gone and already fading from memory.

Not all the dead were buried yet. There was one body lying outside the wall, covered in a single blanket. As they passed a twist of the wind flicked open the cover and the corpse glared out. He had not died easy; shrapnel had sliced him open, his intestines had escaped and he had tried to replace them with clawed hands. Fear and agony furrowed his face.

Ramsay watched as Kerr gagged, recovered and moved bravely on, muttering, “Frightful.”

“You’ll get used to that as well,” Ramsay said quietly.

“Here’s the Communication Trench, sir,” the guide said, and slipped into an entrance of muddy sandbags. “We call it Leith Walk.” He thrust a Woodbine between his lips and slouched on, his feet straddling the sludge of mud in the centre of the trench.

“Just keep behind me, sir,” the guide sounded bored, “and duck when I do.” He led them along the trench and through a maze of shoulder-high ditches, some with deeper trenches that led to the front. On either side the slimy mud was riveted by planking, with a wall of sandbags on top. Occasionally there were pools of water to negotiate, some crossed by duckboards, others without. There were dugouts from time to time, some containing groups of weary men, others piled with equipment or stores, with a bored sentry to prevent pilfering. The gunfire seemed muted down here.

“Watch yourself here, sir.” The guide ducked his head. “A shell knocked the sandbags to glory.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the German lines. “It’s not bon because Fritz occasionally sprays the gap with a machine gun.”

Ramsay nodded and passed the information back. He remained at the gap in the sandbags, waving his men through one by one until the sergeant at the rear nodded to him. “That’s them all, sir.”

“Make sure there are no stragglers,” Ramsay ordered, and pushed through to the head of his men.

A shell burst overhead, scattering shrapnel over a wide area. The veterans ducked into what cover there was, pulling the recruits behind them. “Come on, you!”

Nobody was injured, but the recruits grasped their shrapnel helmets closer and looked around, fear and anger replacing excitement. Somebody whimpered. Someone else shook a fist in the direction of the German lines and shouted a challenge. Something metallic thudded into the sandbag, a foot from Ramsay’s head. He looked at it without interest. He did not care about near misses, they did not matter.

Kerr had crouched down in the bottom of the trench. “Will our guns fire back?”

“That was one of ours, sir,” the guide said. His voice was flat.

“Keep going, boys,” Ramsay ordered. “But keep your wits about you.”

Twice the guide stopped them to warn of areas where snipers were active. The replacements ran past at irregular intervals, ducking low beneath the sandbag parapet. The gash in the back wall of the trench with the dribble of sand onto the ground beneath told its own story.

“No casualties?” The guide glanced over the replacements. “Bon. Now keep your heids down, eh?”

As they neared the front line the guide moved more slowly, checking every traverse of the trench until he arrived at the entrance to a dugout. The gas curtain was pulled back, revealing a long flight of steps descending into the dark.

“Here we go, sir. Major Campbell will look after you now. You too, Mr Kerr.”

Without bothering to salute, the guide ducked away leaving Ramsay and Kerr to negotiate the steps. Ramsay sniffed the familiar aroma of candle smoke, sweat and whisky, tinged with the cheerful scent of fried bacon. He pushed through a second gas curtain and stepped into the interior of the dugout. There was a single deal table, much stained, with three hard-backed chairs arranged around it and a larger, occupied armchair in the corner. A single candle burned low from its perch in the neck of an empty wine bottle.

“Ah! Douglas Ramsay I presume!” The major was short, stout and red-faced. He lifted himself from his lopsided armchair and advanced with his hand outstretched. “Welcome to the 20th Royals!”

“Thank you, sir,” Ramsay saluted, and accepted the proffered hand.

Campbell looked at his two pips, then at the wound stripes on his sleeve. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing. He glanced at Kerr; “And you must be Simon Kerr?”

“Yes, sir.” Kerr stiffened to as near attention as the low ceiling of the dugout permitted. He threw a salute that would have made any guardsman proud.

“There is no need for you to stay, Kerr,” Campbell said. “The sooner you get used to things the better, so just jog along after the guide, eh? There’s a good chap.”

Kerr flushed a little, but recognised the dismissal and withdrew toward the door.

“Oh, and Kerr,” Campbell called him back. “Lose the Sam Browne would you? There’s no sense in advertising to the Huns that you’re an officer.”

Kerr blinked, glanced at Campbell’s shoulder, bereft of any Sam Browne. “Yes, sir.”

Campbell waited until he was gone. “There is no need to scare the lad yet, but your timing is excellent, Ramsay. We’re expecting Fritz to try a push soon and we need all the experienced men we can get.”

Campbell’s eyes were weary, half-hidden beneath a spider’s web of wrinkles.

“Yes, sir,” Ramsay said. “I heard the rumours before I came.”

Campbell’s smile dropped. “This war is full of rumours, Ramsay, but this one may be true.” He shrugged. “I wish the defence line was completed, but if wishes were horses we’d all win the Derby, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” Ramsay took the chair that Campbell offered.

“Since we took over this section from the French we have done a lot of work to it, but it is far from completed yet.” Campbell shrugged again. “We will just have to manage as best we can.”

Ramsay realised he was supposed to comment. “Yes, sir. I am sure we will.”

“Have you brought your servant with you?” Campbell looked at the dugout entrance as though expecting a private to emerge from the dark. “Obviously not. We can get that arranged tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Only if Fritz allows us the time.

Campbell grunted, leaned across to the table and opened a drawer. He produced a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet and two glasses. “This is just to take the trench taste away.” He sloshed whisky into both and slid a glass over to Ramsay.

“Your health,” he said quietly. “Try and avoid bullets this time, Ramsay, and may God be with us both.”

The whisky burned its way down Ramsay’s throat and exploded in his stomach. He gasped and took a second swallow.

Campbell finished his glass in a single gulp, poured himself another and drank that too, before replacing the bottle in the drawer. “Now that you’ve been christened, Ramsay, have you any questions?”

Ramsay glanced at the map of the front line spread over one entire wall of the dugout. “Where are we, exactly, sir?”

Campbell unsheathed a bayonet that hung in its scabbard from the back of his chair, looked at the glittering blade for a second and jabbed it in the map.

“We are here, between the Durhams and the Northumberland Fusiliers. As you know, most of the Front is no longer a continuous line of trenches, but a system of strongholds – we call them keeps – which should be mutually supporting with interlocking fields of fire.” Campbell raised his eyebrows and waited for Ramsay’s confirmation.

“Yes, sir,” Ramsay said.

“Except the keeps are not complete yet,” Campbell said, “and we are lacking machine guns and artillery.” He opened the drawer again, looked at the whisky bottle and closed it with a bang. “How up to date with the situation are you, Ramsay?”

“I have been recovering from wounds for the past few months, but I have kept in touch with events in France.”

Campbell nodded. “You are quite experienced for a lieutenant. Remind me where you were wounded, Ramsay?”

Ramsay ignored the implied criticism of his rank. “Passchendaele.” He heard the flat intonation of his own voice.

Campbell heard it too. “That was a bad one,” he said. He glanced at Ramsay’s two pips and pushed harder. “Was that your first action?”

“No, sir.” Ramsay shook his head. “I was at the Somme as well.”

Campbell glanced again at the two wound stripes. “You were injured there as well?’

“Yes, sir.” Ramsay did not explain further.

Campbell nodded. “I will be blunt, Ramsay. I would expect an officer of your experience to hold a higher rank than lieutenant.” The weary eyes held Ramsay’s gaze.

“Yes, sir,” Ramsay sighed. “I was wounded on the first day of the Somme. I hardly cleared our own trenches before I was hit, so there was little time to gain promotion.”

Campbell nodded, but his eyes remained hard. “Was that your first action?”

“Yes, sir,” Ramsay said.

“And your second?”

“Passchendaele,” Ramsay told him. “In between I was recovering and then based in southern England.”

“Hence no chance of promotion,” Campbell agreed. “Even so, it’s good to have an officer of your experience here, Ramsay. We are fighting a different war to the one you knew at the Somme, and with different men.” He returned his attention to the map. “As I was saying, the front line should consist of a series of strong points with interlocking fields of fire, so in theory every inch is covered by machine gun and artillery fire.” He tapped the point of his bayonet on the combination of lines and dots that marked the British front line.

“We are here, in the centre left of General Gough’s 5th Army. I want you to take over this section of the firing line, from here, to here.” He moved the bayonet slowly across the map. “We are still creating our strong points, but we have a partially completed small keep which you will command.” Campbell sat back down, put a hand toward the table as if reaching for something, changed his mind and began tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair. “As soon as you are settled in, Ramsay, I want you to send out an observation patrol. Tonight will do. See if old Fritz has anything planned, listen for anything unusual. Try and see when Fritz is coming.”

Ramsay nodded. “How many men do I have, sir?”

“Thirty three,” Campbell said quietly, “and you have three traverses with one Lewis gun. There is support behind you, of course. We have two Vickers machine guns, as well as artillery, so your front is well-covered if Fritz decides to call.’

Ramsay nodded. “Thank you, sir, that is good to know.”

“We call your section of the line Gorgie Road,” Campbell gave a wry smile. “I hope you are not a keen follower of the other Edinburgh football team.”

Ramsay did not smile at the Edinburgh connection. “I prefer rugger sir. How are the men?” he asked.

Campbell shrugged. “Mostly very young, with a stiffening of veterans,” he said. “You have a few originals and you will need Sergeant Flockhart and Corporal McKim.” Campbell shook his head. “McKim is a bit of a rogue, but there is no better man when things get rough, except perhaps Flockhart.”

“Sergeant Flockhart?” Ramsay started. He felt the blood rise to his face but took a deep breath. Calm down; it’s a common enough name. There’s no need for worry.

“That’s the man,” Campbell confirmed.

“Sergeant James Flockhart?”

Oh God, no! Of all the people to bump into out here!

“You know him?” Campbell looked up, smiling.

“Not personally, sir, but I have heard the name,” Ramsay lied easily. He tried to still the increased hammering of his heart as the memories crowded back into his mind.

Fresh spring grass; puffy clouds painted white against a blue washed sky, with trees waving only the tips of their boughs in the lightest of breezes. She looked up into his face, wide eyes of light blue laughing with him as they made soft love.

“Happy?” he asked, and she nodded her head, and then opened her mouth in a cry of ecstasy.

He smiled and allowed the sensation to linger as he gazed down at her, with those wondrous breasts now exposed to the kiss of the sun that highlighted the faint down on her arms.

In a few years, Ramsay knew, the breasts that gave him so much pleasure would be ponderous and her eyes hardened with toil and poverty, but for the time being she was all that he desired in a woman: young, willing and free.

He climaxed and lay there, panting slightly as she moaned in his ear. The world was good.

He listened to the sound of her breathing and reached out for her again.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“That’s not surprising,” Campbell’s words brought Ramsay back. The major studied a section of the map for a second. “Flockhart is a good man – one of the originals – a veteran of Mons, Ypres and the Somme. He’s seen it all and done it all, he can be trusted. McKim is an old soldier from way back. He’s been promoted and busted back to the ranks so many times the regiment has lost count. He was in the Boer War from Bird’s River to Paardeplatz, the siege of Wepener and with Dawkins in the Transvaal. He knows all there is to know about soldiering.” Campbell touched the two gold wound stripes on Ramsay’s sleeve. “Junior officers have to earn the trust of McKim and Flockhart, but these will help.”

The sergeant’s name had startled Ramsay but he glanced down. “Yes, sir.”