The three Thomas boys are a long way from home. Before they sailed for France two weeks ago, the furthest they had ventured from Presteigne – apart from Hightown Barracks, in Wrexham, the dreary home of the Welch Fusiliers – was Hereford in England and Builth Wells in Wales.
They have seen Birmingham, London, Southampton and Paris, admittedly only through the windows of their railway carriage, and are now staring across the monotonously flat landscape of Flanders. But Belgium is not offering much of a greeting.
By the time Lieutenant Orme’s detachment joined the 1st Battalion at the end of October, they found it had all but been destroyed in an engagement at Zandvoorde, a hamlet six miles south-east of Ypres, where, unbeknown to them, they faced German regiments which outnumbered them six to one. During the fighting, 276 officers and men were killed and fifty-four taken prisoner. By the end of the encounter, only eighty fusiliers remained.
The new arrivals from Wrexham, who were supposed to be a small supplement to the original battalion, outnumber the old. Not only that, the survivors whose ranks they have joined look as if they have been to hell and back. It is a cruelly inauspicious start for 109 young men from North Wales who have never been to war before.
The second Sabbath of November has dawned much later than it should because a dense fog hangs over the ground. It is also cold; a damp, clinging cold, not unlike the Welsh weather they are used to. Contrarily, the English inhabitants of Presteigne call this kind of weather ‘typically English’, but the Welsh residents insist it is ‘typically Welsh’.
They are crouching in a deep drainage ditch on the Ypres side of the road to Zandvoorde, 1,000 yards south of Zillebeke, at a small hamlet called Zwarteleen. Ypres itself is less than three miles away. It is 6.15 a.m. The severely depleted Royal Welch has been amalgamated with the Queen’s Regiment, 1st Royal West Surreys, also much reduced in number by the severity of the fighting. They are supported by the South Staffs boys, with the 2nd Warwicks in reserve.
Although the British troops are in Belgium, where the population speaks a language distinctly alien to them, the four regiments preparing to attack have, like many British Army brigade groupings, distinctive dialects so different from one another that comprehension is often a challenge and a source of much banter.
They are to attack a line of trenches just ahead of them in order to push back a previous German counter-attack. As one of the West Surreys said earlier, the war is becoming a bit of a merry-go-round: one side digs a trench, the other side attacks it and takes it, then the other side counter-attacks and takes it back. ‘Then we start all over again – bloody daft!’
Hywel, Morgan and Geraint and the other 106 new arrivals from Wrexham still look pristine in their uniforms. Their faces, despite the foul conditions, still glow with enthusiasm. However, as the time for the assault draws closer, some faces begin to be etched with anxiety. Lieutenant Orme, who is also a novice, walks among the men with his serjeants, calming any nerves. When they reach the Thomas boys, Orme stops to speak to Hywel.
‘Private Thomas –’
‘Sir!’
‘I have been hearing about how good a shot you are. The adjutant tells me that you are the best he’s ever seen, a born sniper. I want you on top of that barn over there. As soon as we attack, I want you to target their machine-gunners. For every one you eliminate, you’ll save ten lives.’
‘Very good, sir.’
As soon as Orme has gone, Hywel turns to his brothers, smiling.
‘Hey, boyos, no pressure then! Listen, you take care of yourselves out there.’
‘We’ll be fine, Hywel; we can run faster than you!’
The order to attack comes at 6.30 a.m. sharp. There is no artillery barrage to soften up the German opposition; the Royal Field Artillery in this sector has no shells. The German trenches are only 150 yards away and are not taken by surprise.
As soon as Lieutenant Orme raises his pistol and his men appear in the open, beginning to cross the road, a fusillade of bullets cuts through the air like rapiers. For those who are experiencing it for the first time, it is utterly terrifying. For those who have experienced it many times before, it is just as frightening. In some ways, it is even more difficult for the experienced men because they know what a high-velocity bullet can do to a man. Several men do not make it across the road; they die in the first moment of their first battle.
As his comrades-in-arms rush across the open fields, Hywel climbs to his sniping position, a lofty perch at the apex of a Zwarteleen barn, one of the few buildings in the area still standing, He begins to pick out his targets. He has never shot a man before and winces every time a German body recoils hideously after being struck.
He makes a decision there and then never to keep a tally, something he relished doing on the farm when competing against his brothers at shooting pheasant. He has been given enough ammunition to slaughter a regiment and carries on firing until his fingers ache and his barrel is too hot to handle.
Every now and then he pauses, to see if he can measure the progress being made by his brothers. But they become lost in a sea of khaki uniforms set against Flanders mud.
Lieutenant Orme’s men make it all the way to the German trenches, where bayonets are fixed and a quick flurry of excellent British close-quarters battle training scatters the Germans far and wide. Hywel can hear cheering from the Fusiliers and the Surreys. However, that soon subsides as enfilade fire pours in from cleverly disguised German machine guns. They have a line of fire along the length of the trench, exposing the Welsh and Surrey boys to bullets thudding into the walls and even the floor of the trench in repetitive waves.
Men fling themselves against the walls, trying to find a hollow that will hide them from the deadly onslaught. Several crumpled khaki heaps lying in the bottom of the trench shudder as they are hit over and over again. Thankfully, they are already dead.
Hywel is still trying to locate his brothers, but he cannot identify them. As he strains to see them, he feels what seems like a breath of wind by his ear and realizes immediately that it is a passing bullet. He quickly slides down the barn roof and on to the ladder he used to get into position. Bullets follow him, smashing roof tiles and timber. At least one German sniper has found him.
He was warned about the high quality of German sniping and the fact that some are using newly developed telescopic sights, which improve accuracy significantly. When he sees how accurate their fire is, he vows to himself that he will move heaven and earth to hit an enemy sniper and take his rifle and scope. But, for now, his priority is to find his brothers.
As long as he uses the barn for cover, he is safe from snipers. But between him and the captured trench where his brothers and their comrades are pinned down, there is 150 yards of open ground. As a single target it would be impossible for him to cover such a distance without being shot. All he can do is wait.
He looks at his watch; it is still only mid-morning. Machine guns and snipers are still firing on the boys in the trench. Then he notices a broken slat in the wooden wall at the back of the barn. If he can prise open the gap a little more with his bayonet, he can use the opening as a sniping position that his German adversaries would find very difficult to pinpoint.
He is soon in position with the muzzle of his rifle protruding from the wall of the barn and picking out targets. His first priority is the machine-gunners. They are a relatively easy target as they have to put themselves in such prominent positions in order to fire. He picks out one with ease, but the second one’s crew is protected by a wall and he can only see the fat barrel of their MG 08.
So Hywel turns his attention to the snipers. They are much more difficult to find as they are not only expert shots but are also trained to camouflage themselves and use well-protected positions. Nevertheless, after several hours, he has pinpointed three and dispatched them. The hour is now drawing late and the light beginning to fade.
The men in the trench are still trapped and under fire, but at least some are firing back, confirming that several are still alive. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he notices movement in a small coppice of trees to his left. It is a German sniper taking up a new position. He is only sixty yards away and Hywel can clearly see the long thin outline of the barrel of a telescope sight on top the of his Mauser rifle. It is a prize too good to miss. As the German marksman gets into a prone position at the base of a tree, Hywel puts two bullets into him before he can raise his rifle. All he has to do now is wait for darkness to retrieve his reward.
When dusk falls, pandemonium breaks out in the trench, as a massed German counter-attack overwhelms the beleaguered men of the Royal Welch and the West Surreys. It is now too dark for Hywel to help, so he has to stand there and listen to the appalling sounds of hand-to-hand combat. The worst of all are the cries of anguish from the youngest voices, high-pitched and clear, the voices of boys whose throats are not coarsened by tobacco and hard liquor.
The battle lasts until total darkness descends, when all goes quiet. Hywel is then able to cover the sixty yards between him and his sharpshooting trophy. When he reaches the coppice, it takes him a while to find the dead German. But when he does, he retrieves the rifle from the man’s hands, which still clutch it tightly. Hywel lights a match. The German is an older man, perhaps in his late thirties, the first enemy he has seen up close. He is certainly not the Hun of the propaganda posters. Dressed in field khaki, he could easily be a Welch Fusilier – indeed, a man you could pass in the streets of Presteigne.
He lights another match because he has seen something interesting. On the German’s left sleeve is a small cloth badge depicting a hawk framed by two oak leaves. It is his sniper’s insignia, the perfect complement to the booty of the man’s rifle and scope. Using the tip of his bayonet and the illumination provided by several more matches, he unpicks the badge and puts it in his pocket. He then raises the match to blow it out. As he does so, he feels a searing pain burn through the palm of his right hand and the thump of a bullet embedding itself into the tree behind.
It is as if a crucifixion nail has been hammered into his palm. He can feel blood flowing down his fingers and excruciating spasms of pain running up his arm. He quickly undoes one of his puttees and uses it as an emergency bandage to strap his hand. None of the fingers of his smashed hand responds, so he has to grasp one end of the puttee between his thumb and his palm, a procedure that produces yet more pain, and wrap it around as tightly as he can, which ratchets up the agony to yet another level.
Sweat is pouring down his face and his heart is pumping like a steam engine. He tries to calm himself, taking deep breaths, comforted that at least the sniper can no longer pick him out in the darkness. He thinks back to his naivety. Why strike so many matches in a dark wood? He had been the canny fusilier who sniped the sniper; now he has been sniped in turn. How careless is that?
The pain subsides a little and his breathing eases. He begins to think about the perverse reasoning that brought him to France. Joining up was an expedient escape from unbearable adversity; now things are even worse. Both his brothers are probably dead in a trench just fifty yards away. He has not been granted the quick death he had hoped for. And now that his hand is shattered, a return to the life of a farmer is well-nigh impossible. Similarly, his recently discovered talent as a marksman is ruined.
He begins to think about his wound and the fact that he needs medical help. That reminds him that he saw Sister Margaret Killingbeck in Poperinghe – which, in turn, makes him think about Bronwyn. Was it wrong of him to think so badly of her? He feels sure Sister Killingbeck would not have been able to find her. His anguish makes him conjure up dreadful thoughts about his little sister. Is she still in some fleapit in Tiger Bay, sucking off fat Greek sailors or being fucked by big buck niggers? He begins to cry. Did her big brother let her down by not rushing after her and bringing her back to Pentry? He thinks he did; he feels ashamed of himself.
His Lee-Enfield is by his side. Even with one hand, he could use it to put an end to his misery and join his brothers in peace. It is unlikely anyone would realize that he had shot himself, and he would have the quick and noble death he wished for. An eerie silence begins to settle across Flanders’ battlefields as a dark night subdues the fighting. There is some noise from distant artillery, which echoes around the boundless fields like rolls of thunder.
Hywel decides it will be his death knell. He reaches for his rifle with his good hand and turns it so that the muzzle is in his mouth. He reaches for the trigger and inhales a huge lungful of air.
But his concentration is broken by rustling in the undergrowth and whispered, anxious voices. Hywel immediately swings his rifle around in the direction of the noise. He cranes his neck to see if the whispers are in Welsh or English, or the alien tongue of the German enemy. Seconds later, it is clear that the voices are mostly English, a few with a strong Welsh lilt. Some are even speaking Welsh.
Hywel gets to his feet and collects his two rifles. Thwarted in his attempt to end his wretchedness, he now thinks only of his brothers. His eyes are fully adjusted to the darkness; he can see shadowy figures stumbling towards him. There are some singletons, but most men are in pairs, or trios, helping one another to get back to the positions they started out from this morning.
Hywel joins his comrades and shuffles with them back to Zwarteleen. When they arrive at a ruined farmhouse on the Zandvoorde Road, they find it is an impromptu Battalion HQ. There is light from tilley lamps; there are cups of hot tea, and even warm food.
Men are helped to sit on the floor all around the farmhouse. Young boys, all bright-eyed and smiling with bravado this morning, are not boys any more; they are broken men. Lieutenant Orme is not in the farmhouse, neither are Geraint and Morgan. Hywel begins to cry again.
An arm wraps itself around his shoulders while the hand of the other arm proffers a mug of tea. It is CSM John Hughes, a face Hywel has not seen since Wrexham.
‘Colour Serjeant, what are you doing here?’
‘What do ya think, son?’
‘But I thought you stayed behind in Wrexham –’
‘I did, but I arrived yesterday with another three hundred likely lads. How’s your hand?’
‘Got a bullet through it; it’s not a lot of use any more.’
‘Well, it’s your passport home, then. It could be a lot worse. Where’re your brothers?’
‘In the bottom of a German trench.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Think so.’
‘Come on, let’s get you into an ambulance and have the medics sort out that hand. By the way, one of the officers back here had his field glasses on you during the day. He said he’d never seen marksmanship like it. Well done, lad.’
‘Thanks, Colour Serjeant.’
Hywel’s polite words belie the desolation he feels at the end of a day that has changed his life.
Of the 109 Royal Welch Fusilier reservists who took part in the attack at Zwarteleen, only seventeen have made it back unharmed. Eight more are wounded, but managed to get out alive. The rest are assumed to have perished. Of the six recent volunteers to the regiment who were chosen to accompany the reservists, only Hywel has made it back. Lieutenant Francis Orme, the eldest son of an old Anglo-Irish landowning family from County Mayo, was killed right at the end of the day’s fighting. He fought courageously all day, organizing his dwindling numbers with calm authority and encouraging any who faltered. Having decided to use the gloom of dusk to fall back, he was the last man to leave the trench. As he did so, he was shot in the back by a single sniper’s bullet. He was twenty-three years old.
No one could recall seeing either Morgan or Geraint Thomas fall, but it was thought that no one was left alive when the trench was evacuated. Morgan was eighteen, Geraint seventeen. Today would have been Morgan’s nineteenth birthday. Hywel has a packet of five Wild Woodbine cigarettes in his knapsack. It was to be Morgan’s birthday present.