Saturday 31 October became the critical day of the First Battle of Ypres. The German High Command, dismayed that their 4th and 6th Armies had failed to break through enemy lines, despite launching relentless infantry attacks and pouring murderous fire into the Allies’ defensive positions, developed a new plan.
Using fresh troops transferred from the south, a new Army Group was formed under the command of General Max von Fabeck, a respected infantryman. While the two existing Army Groups continued their attacks in their present positions, von Fabeck was ordered to throw his six divisions, over 60,000 men, at a point which Erich von Falkenhayn, the German Commander-in-Chief, thought was the weakest in the entire Allied line. He chose a position only six miles wide, between Ploegsteert Wood and Gheluvelt, just four miles west of Ypres.
Von Falkenhayn, notoriously demanding and uncompromising, insisted that his men strike a ‘hammer blow’ to the British defenders, pushing them back, taking control of the Messines Ridge and thus opening the door to Ypres.
Von Fabeck’s Order of the Day could not have been more explicit, nor laden with more scorn.
We must and will conquer and settle for ever the centuries-long struggle. We will finish the French, British, Indians, Moroccans and other trash. They are feeble adversaries, who surrender in great numbers if attacked with vigour.
To help ensure success, von Fabeck was given 260 heavy guns and almost 500 smaller-calibre pieces. The British defenders, on the other hand, had far fewer artillery resources and were having to ration shells.
The German onslaught began at 4 a.m. that morning, without a preliminary artillery bombardment, thus catching the British unawares. Ferocious battles raged all along the six miles of the attack until daylight allowed some sense to be made of the situation. The morning was damp and foggy with visibility poor. At one point, in the village of Beccelare, a mile north of Gheluvelt, defended by the 1st Battalion Scots Guards, a gust of wind cleared the fog to reveal an entire regiment of German infantry just eighty yards away. To their right, just three diminished companies of the Black Watch and the Coldstream Guards faced three battalions of seasoned Bavarians.
As the British positions began to weaken against overwhelming numbers, General Haig asked for help from General Joseph Dubois, commander of the 9th Corps of the French 8th Army, who readily sent a brigade of cuirassiers and three infantry battalions. But still, the sheer weight of German numbers was beginning to overwhelm the British positions.
The road to Ypres was full of artillery pieces being rushed out of danger; hundreds of wounded men were limping and shuffling westwards. A gap appeared at one section in the line – right in its centre, close to Gheluvelt – leaving barely 1,000 battle-fit British troops standing between Ypres and the massed battalions of Fabeck’s army.
With just two of his staff officers for company, General Haig rode up to assess the situation. Immaculately turned out as always, he sat calmly on his conspicuous white horse and gave encouragement to his men as shells burst all around him. Despite his presence, the day looked lost; a miracle was needed. But, in an action typical of many such acts of heroism in the Great War, a miracle did happen.
Just at the moment of imminent defeat, Major Edward Hankey of the 2nd Battalion Worcesters, an Etonian and a veteran of the Boer War and the Sudan, was ordered to attempt an audacious counter-attack.
The Worcesters had already been involved in heavy fighting throughout October and had suffered severe casualties. But they were the only unit not already committed to the battle. As Hankey prepared for his attack, he counted just seven officers and 357 men. They off-loaded their packs, ate a tin of hot stew, quaffed a rum ration and were given extra ammunition. As they sat on the ground, the major spoke to them only briefly.
‘These are our orders: “The 2nd Worcesters will take Gheluvelt.” We can and will do it. Good luck to you all.’
They had to cross 1,000 yards of open ground in front of them, just beyond a line of trees. As they emerged from the treeline and looked around, every other British and French soldier was moving in the opposite direction, towards Ypres.
Hankey turned to his regimental serjeant major and asked quietly, ‘Are they up for it, Sarn’t-Major?’
‘All up for it, sir,’ was the immediate response.
Hankey then bellowed his order.
‘Officers to the front; advance at the double!’
In the few minutes it took the Worcesters to charge across the muddy field of stubble, they lost over 100 men – almost a third of their number – in a hail of fire so intense that some men said they could see bullets in the air like waves of rain in a storm. When they eventually reached a copse next to Gheluvelt Château, Hankey ordered bayonets to be fixed before his men emerged from the trees to confront over 1,200 Germans in the process of looting the château. Fierce hand-to-hand fighting followed; miraculously for the Worcesters, their opponents were novices from a Bavarian reserve battalion, who soon scattered in disarray.
Hankey ordered his men to spread out left and right. They soon made contact with remnants of the Scots Guards on one side and the South Wales Borderers on the other. Thus, the line was restored before the German commanders could take advantage of the breach.
At the end of the day – a day which saw ferocious fighting, as intense as any since the beginning of the war – von Falkenhayn decided to retreat to lick his wounds.
As the men of the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers gather in the village square at Merris, a small village nine miles north of Armentières, on the morning of 4 November, all the talk is of the heroics around Ypres and, in particular, of the amazing counter-attack by the Worcesters – an action that it is now being talked of as the charge that saved Ypres and the Channel ports.
The success helps disguise the sorry state of the Royal Fusiliers’ own battalion. Since the costly bayonet charge at Neuve-Chapelle on Sunday 25 October, they have suffered three more days of close-quarters fighting, during which they had to be supported by two companies of French Chasseurs Alpins, the elite mountain troops of the French Army, who were a very welcome sight and came to their aid just in time.
The fusiliers were taken out of the line on the 29th and marched to Merris, taking a route via Vieille-Chapelle and Doulieu. When the roll is taken at Merris, only eight officers and 350 men have survived the ordeal. Captain Leicester Carey has fallen, shot through the head by a sniper, and almost all the NCOs have perished. Harry and Maurice are among the lucky few.
They have spent the morning cleaning their uniforms, kit and rifles and, having been inspected by General Horace Smith-Dorrien, Commander II Corps BEF, are standing to attention to listen to him address them. Harry and Maurice are not keen on listening to addresses, especially not from generals.
‘Stand at ease, men. I will make this brief, as I know you would prefer some well-earned rest rather than listening to me. I just wanted to say that I cannot find the words that adequately express my admiration for the way in which your regiment has behaved. All through the campaign, you have had it the hardest of any regiment in my Corps and I can safely say there is no better regiment in the British Army than the Royal Fusiliers. I can assure you that when this war is over, you will be treated as heroes at home. Thank you on behalf of everyone at HQ and everyone at home. I can’t promise you it’s going to get easier; it isn’t. You will be back in the trenches very soon, and winter is approaching quickly. However, I am not concerned, because I know you men will stick it out better than the Germans. Until we meet again, brave Fusiliers!’
An appreciative cheer goes up from the ranks of men. Maurice looks at Harry quizzically.
‘Thought you said he’d be a tosser like all the others?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘You bloody did!’
‘Well, the exception proves the rule.’
‘Which is?’
‘All top brass are wankers!’
‘Well that one’s got a DSO on his ribbons, so at one time he must have done more than give speeches.’
Not long after Smith-Dorrien leaves, Harry and Maurice hear that, having been promised eight days’ rest out of the line, they will be going back in just forty-eight hours.
Harry is furious.
‘Fuck a duck, at this rate none of us’ll be left by Christmas!’
Maurice is much less perturbed.
‘The adjutant says we’re replacing the 1st Dragoons, who are worse off than us.’
Harry’s ire rises another notch.
‘Fuckin’ Cherry Bums! I bet they get their eight days off, while we get our arses blown off for ’em.’
‘Come on, ’Arry, you need a tiddly; let’s get into that gaff opposite the church before the other lads drink all the pig’s ear.’
The prospect of a beer calms Harry down. He decides to let Mo in on something that has been bothering him lately.
‘Mo, what are we gonna do wiv that German officer’s clobber?’
‘Dunno, we can’t carry it around for ever.’
‘Let’s bury it.’
‘Where?’
‘Someplace where we’re sure to be able to find it again. But nice an’ deep, where no bastard comes across it by mistake.’
Two hours and four strong Belgian beers later, Maurice and Harry, using a yew tree as a base point, have paced out a spot that is twenty strides into a farmer’s field. They have spent many hours in recent weeks preparing endless trenches, so digging a deep hole for their captured Prussian sword and helmet does not take them long, especially when fortified by the extra flagons of beer they have brought with them.
When they are finished, Harry proposes a toast. He is drunk and the words do not come easily.
‘To Herr Fritzy Mecklenberg … and his mate, Tannhausen … may they rest in peace.’
‘Amen.’
‘Mo, do me a favour; if I cop it, promise me you’ll get this loot back to that bloke’s family?’
‘Course I will.’
Both men, still swigging from their brown ceramic flagons, stagger back to the road and into the village’s tiny café. The bar owner is trying to remove the last few fusiliers, who are much the worse for wear. It has been a long night for him. The village has seen troops pass through before, but this is the first time any have been billeted there, and it is his first experience of British drinking habits and the raucous behaviour it produces. Both his serving girls left halfway through the evening, no longer able to cope with having their arses tweaked and their breasts squeezed.
Harry notices some of the men giving the owner a hard time and bellows at them.
‘Right, you lot, fuck off! Now!’
No one messes with Serjeant Harry Woodruff and his order has the desired sobering effect. He then turns to the diminutive bar owner and waves his empty flagon at him, as does Maurice.
‘Non, messieurs, s’il vous plaît, le café est fermé. Finish!’
Harry waves his flagon again and attempts some of the French he has picked up.
‘Non … ouvrez!’
Harry’s intimidating demeanour has the same effect on the little Frenchman as it does on his men and he fills both flagons with beer. He refuses to take money for them, but pushes both serjeants out of the door and gestures to them to sit at the outside tables.
‘Pas de chants, pas de cris, s’il vous plaît; no sing, no shout!’
With a hasty flourish, he then closes and bolts his door. The bar lights go out seconds later, leaving Maurice and Harry illuminated only by the glow of the cigarettes they are smoking. Harry is still feeling morose over the incident with the Prussian Guards.
‘Them German toffs we killed.’
‘What abaht ’em?’
‘Well, they’re rotting in the ground, just like any other boys.’
‘Once we’re in the earth, we’re all the same, ’Arry. Worms don’t know a toff from a barrow-boy.’
‘Except for their families, they’ll soon be forgotten.’
‘That’s the way of it, ’Arry.’
Harry pauses, pulls on his cigarette and takes a deep draught of beer.
‘We’re gonna end up the same before long, ain’t we?’
‘S’pose so; we’re all gonna cop it sooner or later, the way this is goin’.’
‘Who’ll remember us?’
‘We should’ve got ’itched an’ ’ad kids, like other blokes.’
‘What, an’ leave ’em with no fathers? Not on your Nelly!’
Maurice does not respond. Like Harry, he knows that, other than the fading memories of their ageing parents, and their scant regimental records, no one will regret their passing, or remember who they were or what they did. Almost everyone they have served with over the years is dead, or has been invalided back to Blighty. There is silence between them for some time. Another cigarette is lit and more beer drunk. Then Harry resumes his melancholic reflections. Maurice cannot see them, but there are tears running down his friend’s cheeks.
‘This new army Kitchener’s makin’.’
‘What abaht it?’
‘Two-thirds of the battalion’s gone, Mo: top soldiers, pros. The new recruits are kids: poor farm boys from some shit’ole in the middle o’ nowhere; city boys who think they’re Jack the Lads. They ’aven’t a fuckin’ clue. Poor sods! If only they knew.’
Maurice grabs Harry’s arm.
‘Come on, let’s get our heads down; the war can wait til the mornin’.’
Early the next morning, too early for Maurice and Harry, they are ordered to Battalion HQ at Bailleul, two miles away. Major Ashburner has been badly wounded and has gone home to England, so they have been summoned by Colonel McMahon, the new commanding officer. The two serjeants have managed to smarten themselves up a bit, but are still very bleary-eyed. McMahon has just been promoted to brigadier, but has not yet received the extra pip on his epaulettes. He will soon be transferring to the newly arrived 10th Brigade’s HQ, removing the last veteran senior soldier of quality from the 4th Fusiliers’ line officers.
‘Are we gonna get a bollickin’, ’Arry?’
‘Dunno, don’t see why we should; unless it’s a bollickin’ fer survivin’ this far!’
‘What abaht last night?’
‘Nah, no one seen us.’
McMahon is a tall, lean man with a bald pate and heavy moustache. His cavalry boots and spurs gleam in the weak autumn sunlight. But their lustre is not his work; it’s the product of the elbow grease of his batman.
Battalion HQ is an abandoned barn next to a large manor house where the officers are billeted. Trestle tables are covered with maps; messengers and junior officers, looking stern, scuttle around with purpose. Behind the barn, the officers’ horses are stabled. Mounts long since abandoned as chargers are now used to carry messages.
McMahon smiles at Harry and Maurice.
‘You look worn out, Serjeants. Is that last night’s R and R, or last week’s fighting?’
Maurice looks a little discomfited, but not Harry.
‘A bit of both, sir. Serjeant Tait and I did enjoy a couple o’ beers last night. First in a while, sir.’
‘Very well done. I was also celebrating my promotion to Brigade last night. I hope you are feeling a little better than I am.’
‘Congratulations, sir.’
‘Well, I think it most appropriate if you enjoy a little more beer this evening. We are adding a crown to your three stripes, Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff. Very well done!’
Harry and Maurice look at one another. They are delighted to be promoted; it means extra pay and a better pension. But it also means they are unlikely to stay together in the same platoon.
Then, to their relief, McMahon continues.
‘We are expecting a large contingent of at least three hundred reservists from Albany in about three weeks’ time, so you will be staying with C Company for the time being. But with our current shortage of officers, a great burden rests on your shoulders as senior soldiers. The men will look to you for leadership, and your new officers will need your help and advice. Please continue the sterling work you have been doing.’
‘Thank you, sir; we’ll do our best.’
Taking their commanding officer at his word, Maurice and Harry enjoy a little more beer in celebration that night, and are soon to be found back in the bar in Merris. There is no shortage of beer for them as almost every man in the bar places a jug in front of them. As they do, most salute mockingly, some bow and a few even attempt curtsies.
‘Well, Colour Serjeant Tait, whadda yer reckon?’
‘Not bad, Colour Serjeant Woodruff!’
‘Might still be goners next week, though. A little cloth crown on our arm ain’t gonna stop a German bullet.’
‘S’pose that’s one way of lookin’ at it, ’Arry, you miserable fucker!’
‘Only jokin’, Mo; come on, we’ve got about forty pints o’ pig’s ear to drink before stop-tap.’
The following day, on the night of 6 November, the 4th Battalion moves back into the line east of Hooge, on the south side of the Ypres–Menin road, where C Company forms a defensive position on the edge of Herenthage Wood. To its left are French Algerian Zouaves, unmistakable in their bright-red baggy pantaloons and navy-blue jackets, and to its right are the far less ostentatious Northumberland Fusiliers.
Maurice and Harry have decided that Geordies are worthy of respect after all, given that the Northumberlands have fought with them for three months and have twice helped get them out of a tricky spot. As for the North Africans, they are not so sure.
‘Bloody Nora, Mo; look at that lot! They look like fuckin’ circus clowns.’
‘I ’ope they fight as well as they look!’
It is not long before the 4th Fusiliers are welcomed back to the conflict with the most intensive artillery barrage they have faced since they arrived in France.
It begins in the morning and lasts all day.
By the late afternoon, Harry and Maurice’s platoon – all but two of whom are new men assigned from other depleted platoons – have had three near misses. Nerves are frayed and Harry is on edge. Maurice can always tell because he is even more aggressive than usual, which is saying something.
‘This is bollocks! Fuckin’ lyin’ here, takin’ a pastin’. Why don’t we attack the fuckers?’
‘Cos we’ll get mown down by their Mausers, ’Arry.’
‘Better way to go than waitin’ for one of their Jack Johnsons to blow yer Tommy Rollocks off.’
Maurice suddenly opens fire.
‘Here they come! Fuck me, it’s nearly dark; cheeky buggers.’
Harry shouts orders to the platoon, which still does not have an officer attached to it.
‘Fire at will! Make sure of your targets.’
Harry dashes to the far left of the platoon’s position to make sure they are in good spirits. When he gets there, he looks over to the Zouaves. He struggles to see many men still alive. Their positions have received several direct hits and it is now difficult to tell where the bright red of their pantaloons ends and the blood they have shed begins. All their French officers and senior NCOs appear to be dead, and the men look to be in disarray. Fortunately, the Germans have not yet realized that the French-Algerian sector of the line is all but undefended.
Harry shouts to Maurice.
‘Mo, I’m takin’ ’alf the boys to cover the ’ole on our left!’
With only a dozen men at his disposal, Harry takes control of a position previously occupied by two companies, comprising over 150 men. He immediately rallies the Zouaves’ survivors and places fusiliers at intervals along their line. Within moments, having now seen how meagre are the numbers facing them, the Germans close to within yards of them. Fortunately, Harry’s cry, ‘Fix bayonets!’ works equally well in French and English.
A lethal assault begins by the 106th Royal Saxons from Leipzig, who pour into the position like a swarm of ants. Maurice, whose own position is being overwhelmed by the same German regiment, looks across but cannot see British khaki or Zouave red for German field grey.
While Maurice, leading by ferocious example, tries valiantly to hold together his half of the platoon, Harry rallies the Algerians in a murderous close-quarters encounter against overwhelming odds. The position appears hopeless until, just at the point where only a few of the defenders remain on their feet, a support company of fusiliers – D Company, barely seventy strong – led by Lieutenants Stapleton, Bretherton and Jackson, appears out of nowhere and rushes the Saxons. The men from Leipzig panic and begin to retreat before D Company head off in pursuit of the fleeing Germans.
Almost all are never seen again; sixty-two men and all three officers do not come back. But their sudden appearance has saved the day for the Zouaves and for the exhausted men of C Company.
In pitch darkness, Maurice and Harry gather the remnants of their platoon, just seven survivors, and take charge of a mere eleven Zouaves. They share their rations, which are hardly enough to sustain a family, let alone twenty men. But one of the Algerians produces a bottle of cognac – from where beggars belief – and hands it to Harry, whose uniform drips with sweat and blood. Fortunately, the former is his, but the latter is not.
‘Pour vous, mon brave!’
Harry thanks the Moroccan, whose face looks like it has been carved from the rock of the Atlas Mountains, and passes it around the group. Now confident that he has grasped the enormity and beauty of the French language, he says to his comrade-in-arms:
‘Mercy, Monsewer.’
Two days later, Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff will be summoned to Battalion HQ. They are now the only senior NCOs to have survived this far into the war. They are part of an ever dwindling elite. There are only six officers left from the original roster who sailed from Southampton, and only a quarter of the men remain.
However, the two doughty survivors are about to receive some heartening news from the battalion adjutant.
‘Gentlemen, following your action the other day at Herenthage Wood, Colonel McMahon has recommended you both to Brigade for gallantry awards. Colour Serjeants Tait and Woodruff, you are both recommended for a Distinguished Conduct Medal. Now, I must stress that a recommendation is not an award. But given the detail of the citation that has been sent to Brigade, I don’t think there’s any doubt. Congratulations!’
Harry and Maurice have been given another reason to celebrate, but neither feels particularly excited by the news. They feel honoured, of course, but the loss of so many comrades, and the dire circumstances and exhaustion of three months of warfare, are taking their toll.
That night, they do have a beer or three to lighten their mood. Maurice tries to cheer up Harry, but he uses the wrong words and only makes matters worse.
‘S’pose it’s somethin’ to leave for the grandchildren.’
‘You ain’t got any bloody kids yet, never mind grandchildren!’
‘I know, but I’m gonna fix that when we get ’ome.’
Harry explodes and throws his beer across the bar.
‘For fuck’s sake, Mo; we aren’t goin’ ’ome. Ain’t you realized that yet!’
Maurice tries to stop him, but Harry rushes out, pushing men out of the way as he goes.