Andrew Wareham - Falling into Battle

Christopher explained.

“Ah! I see. Blair’s daughter – damned nuisance for you, but nothing else for you to do. Leaving aside your age and rank, which make marriage ineligible for you, not a family to become entangled with. The previous Duke was a fool with his money, left the estates much encumbered and the present man has hardly two coppers to rub together. I doubt his daughter would come with a thousand pounds of her own! Definitely a young female to steer well clear of! Who is your admiral?”

“Tompkins, sir. Not a known figure.”

“Never heard of him. I shall have a word about in Town – don’t be surprised if you discover your orders changed just a little, my boy! You may well discover yourself placed in the way of whatever action may be going. Should help your promotion prospects, I think!”

“Might find ourselves going up against the Austro-Hungarian fleet, Father. They have a few capital ships, enough to make a respectable little battle, I suspect.”

“Excellent! What allowance am I making you at the moment, Christopher?”

“Four hundred a year and my tailor’s bills, sir.”

“Right – better make that five hundred from this month. Can you live inside that?”

“Four was sufficient at Scapa, sir. I cannot imagine that it will be too little in the Med.”

“Make it five for convenience’s sake. Never know, you might need a few quid in hand. Better to have too much than too little, I always say!”

“I’ve never really worried about money, you know, sir. One does not in the Navy – although you do get the odd strange type who has money and nothing else. One of the mids on St Vincent was that sort – he was told to send in his papers. I’m told he was seen in Calais in brown, with the Bedfordshires.”

“Good regiment. The word is that they are heavily involved around Ypres. A big casualty list, that I know. If he has lived, then he will probably be wishing he was still at sea!”

The slagheap was filthy. Wet half-burned coke and ash and sulphur-stinking lumps of waste from the blast furnaces mixed with dust and God alone knew what else to make a gritty, foul-smelling mess. It stank as if a thousand cats had done their business there.

Richard could taste the vile concoction; when he spat to clear his throat he almost gagged again at the sight of the noxious brown-streaked mess he heaved up.

The men were equally distressed by the disgusting, unhealthy foulness, but they showed very willing to pile up lumps of clag in front of themselves and rest their rifles in the gaps between. Filth in the throat was better than rifle bullets in the head.

The company was down to eighteen men, having left behind another six wounded and put five more into shallow graves during the fighting retreat through the town and into the steelworks. They hoped the wounded would receive treatment from their captors, could do nothing for them otherwise. They had seen German stretcher bearers taking men away, thought they might have been theirs. Captain Platt and Sergeant Grace remained, as did Corporals Abbott and Ekins – the benefit of experience and quickness of thought, Richard suspected, as well as no little luck. Their liaison, young Second Lieutenant Sturton, had been shot in the first hours of the retreat through the town; he had never learned to keep his head down, had been excitedly pointing out a party of Germans infiltrating on their left, had stood up to show exactly where they were…

They had been pushed out of the town by the weight of numbers, at least a division having pressed forward relentlessly, backed by light artillery, their casualties replaced by fresh men every morning. The Fusiliers had given ground slowly, fighting for every yard while the thin company of Bedfordshires had repeatedly slipped a furlong to the rear to provide a line for them to fall back on. The German infantry had simply not stopped, pushing left and right to make the new line untenable, and the ones that followed. They had reached the slagheaps behind the blast furnaces and there had stayed for days, cover and height protecting them, enabling them to use their rifles to their best effect, expending their ammunition.

Now, there was another attack building – in the open, entirely visible as there was no cover in the flat marshalling yard that ran for three hundred yards in front of their position. Infantry were lining up in blocks by the railway lines, not fewer than five full battalions of new, unblooded troops – keen and enthusiastic still. This onslaught would not be stopped.

“What’s the ammunition state, Ekins?”

“Just shared out, sir. Twenty rounds apiece.”

“Abbott?”

“Same, sir.”

Richard turned to Captain Platt.

“Five rounds as they show, sir, then fall back?”

The exhausted, lean figure blinked, stared at Richard and tried to formulate a response.

“Do so, Mr Baker.”

Captain Platt was no longer capable of making any decisions. He had effectively stopped eating days before – a mouthful and the acid in his belly overcame him, left him hacking and retching and spitting blood. He made a show of listening to suggestions and then did as he was told. Sergeant Grace did his best to cover for him and supported Richard in every way he could. The sergeant was starting to look his age, well into his forties and pushing his body harder every day to keep to the standards he demanded of himself. Richard glanced at the lined face and prayed that he might last a few days longer; he needed the sergeant’s knowledge.

“Sergeant Grace!”

“Sir!”

Grace snapped to attention, the effort obvious, and then marched to Richard’s side.

“What have you seen behind us, Sergeant?”

“Fusiliers are a quarter of a mile back, sir. On the far edge of a canal. They’ve got one of those narrow boats, sir, and pushed it at an angle so it makes a bridge. Burn it out when we’ve crossed and it will hold Fritz back for a good few hours, sir. If they’ve got ammunition, sir, it’s a line to hold.”

“Good. Is there an easy way down off the slagheap?”

“Yes, sir. Not too steep. The men can just run down.”

“Good. Abbott, Ekins, fire the five rounds when I give the order and then keep low, out of sight and down from this position and back to the canal, at the double. Sergeant Grace, lead the way, go to the canal and act as marker. Go now.”

Sergeant Grace stiffened, showed almost offended then nodded.

“Thank you, sir.”

He slipped and slid his way down the slagheap and walked slowly back, admitting his tiredness.

“Will you show the men the way, sir?”

Captain Platt stared at Richard and shook his head. He seemed suddenly both alert and broken, bent over and weary.

“No. You will go, Baker. I still have twenty rounds. I shall shift from one firing point to the next and make it seem that we are still here. Corporal Abbott! Corporal Ekins! Five aimed rounds. Now!”

Thirty seconds and the men had all fired and had dropped at least a score of German soldiers at three hundred yards and caused another three thousand to dive for cover.

“Well done. Withdraw now. Heads down!”

Platt watched them go, settled down at the end of the line, rifle to shoulder.

“Go, Mr Baker. I haven’t got another mile in me. You have done very well and will do even better without me to slow you down. I am finished. Go!”

Richard saluted and trotted down from the crest. He heard the single rifle fire as he ran. The shots continued for several minutes, then there was a burst of fire from a company, eighty or ninety rifles together. After that, the slagheap was silent.

The Fusiliers had a strong position behind the canal, would be able to hold until the German guns came up. Major Higgins-Hall was quite chipper about their placement, showed optimistic.