From the outside, Blair Atholl Castle on Christmas Day 1914 looks much as it has always done. With fresh, thick snow on the ground and no overnight visitors to spoil the virginal blanket on the drive, the white stucco walls blend perfectly with the landscape of the estate and the glens all around. Only the grey slates of the conical roofs of its turrets and its many windows break up the pure white panoply.
But much has changed at Blair. It is the quietest Christmas celebration in living memory. The pipes and drums of the duke’s private army, the Atholl Highlanders, are silent. Many of its men have volunteered for the army; as for the rest, the duke has asked them to stay away. There will be no piper playing from the battlements today. There have been too many deaths in France of men from the estate and the local community. Although not yet in mourning, the duke is sure that his middle son, Lord George, ‘Geordie’, is dead.
More bad news arrived at 6 p.m. on Christmas Eve, courtesy of a willing young lad who brought the telegram from the village post office in the middle of a snowstorm. After spending several weeks at Blair recovering from his infected leg wound, Hamish returned to his regiment in France, the Cameron Highlanders, early in November. However, his company did not see action until 20 December, when he led them in an attack on German positions at Givenchy, near Ypres. The attack was a success and the German trench was taken. But late that night, while reconnoitring his defences with a small patrol, he was ambushed. Two of his men were killed. The telegram was brief and to the point.
Regret to inform, Major Lord James Stewart-Murray, 1st Battalion Cameron Highlanders, taken prisoner, enemy forces, Givenchy, 20 December 1914. Whereabouts unknown. Reported unharmed and safe.
Kitchener.
The old duke, having been locked away with his mistress in her cottage in Glen Tilt for most of the winter, had dragged himself away to host Christmas lunch for his immediate family. Already desperately morose about Geordie, the telegram from the Ministry of War was too much for him and he immediately took to his bed, refusing all visitors. Lady Helen decided that she had no choice other than to send for his ‘lady friend’, Mrs Grant, who promptly took him back up to her cottage. He was in tears as he left.
There will not be the usual houseful of guests at Blair this year; there will be none of its renowned gaiety, and certainly none of its notorious debauchery. Lady Helen has given most of the servants the week off. She has invited her friend from Edinburgh, David Tod, and Bardie and Kitty have travelled up from England. Lady Dorothea, ‘Dertha’, and her husband, Harry Ruggles-Brise, who is still recovering from his shrapnel wounds, have also arrived from England, but only late last night, delayed by the snow.
So the family gathering is just six. They have all risen late and taken a very sombre breakfast, coming to terms with the news of Hamish. They decide to exchange presents before lunch and then to sit down together for the best Christmas fare Blair Atholl’s vast estate and fine kitchen can muster. There will be beef, goose and turkey, all Blair meat, and the vegetables will be those grown on the estate and in the kitchen gardens and greenhouses. Mrs Forsyth, the butler’s wife who runs the kitchen with a rod of iron and is never addressed by any other name, even by her husband, has made the stuffing, pudding, cake, mince pies and sorbets.
It is also agreed to plunder the cellar for the 7th Duke’s favourite Bollinger and three bottles of 1900 Château Petrus, the finest vintage in a generation. Bardie asks Forsyth to bring up some Monbazillac for pudding and a Grande Champagne cognac for the men with their cigars. He means to ensure that some kind of Christmas cheer comes to the Stewart-Murrays, even if it has to be induced by alcohol.
Bardie says grace before lunch and asks everyone to think of Geordie, in the hope that he has managed to survive, of Hamish, hopefully not too cold or miserable in a German prisoner-of-war camp, of poor old Father, heartbroken about what has happened to his family, and of Evelyn, about whom nothing has been heard for some time.
After Bardie has finished, and the servants begin to serve lunch, Lady Helen produces a surprise.
‘Amidst the gloomy reports, I have some good news. I have just received a letter from darling Evelyn.’
She begins to read as, for the first time since they arrived, everyone is able to smile.
Dearest Father,
I have taken a little cottage in the woods near Spa. Very quiet here, no hint of fighting. My rooms in Malines are just about in one piece, but the damage is extensive. Like the rest of the town, windows are gone, blinds are rags, china smashed to dust, furniture in splinters. I doubt I will ever return.
But I am well, and my faithful companion is so kind to me.
Please send my love to all at Blair at Christmas,
Evelyn
David Tod offers a thoughtful response.
‘All of us here, safe in Scotland, let us give thanks.’
‘Hear, hear!’ is the response from everyone.
Harry Ruggles-Brise, shifting uneasily in his chair as his shoulder injury makes him wince, makes polite conversation.
‘So, Kitty, what have you been up to?’
‘Well, I go to London on VAD business once a week. But it’s a long way from Blagdon; it’s a bit of a bore, really.’
‘Blagdon?’
‘Blagdon Hall, Matty Ridley’s home. He’s a Tory MP and Colonel of the Northumberland Hussars –’
Bardie breaks in and takes over Kitty’s account.
‘Kitchener is still bothered about the east coast and has ordered me up to Northumberland at the beginning of the month.’
‘With the whole of the Scottish Horse?’
‘Yes, three battalions of us. Wouldn’t let even one battalion go to France.’
‘Bloody stuff and nonsense! There’s no possibility of a German invasion. I don’t often agree with Churchill, but in that respect, he’s spot on.’
‘Harry, strictly on the QT, I spoke to Kitchener the other day. Churchill and Lloyd George are cooking up a scheme to launch a spring offensive in the Dardanelles to get the Central Powers fighting on another front. He told me he’s earmarked the Horse for the campaign.’
To the annoyance of the two soldiers at the table, who cannot understand how an Edinburgh merchant with a part-time line in sculpting can possibly have an opinion about war that is worth listening to, David Tod offers his view.
‘A wise strategy, it seems to me. If there’s a stalemate in France and Belgium, another front makes sense.’
Bardie shrugs off David’s opinion.
‘Whether it does, or it doesn’t, is neither here nor there. I’ll leave that to Kitchener and French. But if it gives my boys a chance to fight, then I’m up for it.’
Harry then chips in.
‘I have to say that, although Churchill has some military experience, he has never been in a position of high command; after all, he’s a bloody politician, for God’s sake! And now we’ve got that odious little Welshman sticking his oar in.’
Helen draws a line under the conversation.
‘Kitty, Dertha, shall we withdraw?’
The three ladies of Atholl settle in the drawing room. Unbeknown to the men, who are happily drinking cognac and smoking the finest Bolivar Cuban cigars, Helen has secreted a bottle of Bénédictine, her favourite tipple, under her chair.
‘Ladies?’
An increasingly intimate conversation ensues as the liqueur bottle empties. Eventually, Kitty’s relationship with Bardie comes up.
Helen is blunt.
‘So, Kitty, how have you persuaded Bardie to keep his trousers on?’
‘I haven’t. He can do what he likes with his trousers. But now we’re on an equal footing, which means other men’s trousers are within my compass once more.’
Dertha is impressed.
‘Well done, Kitty. I’m pleased to say that I don’t think Harry has the imagination to stray. What about you, Helen, are you going to take the leap with your sculptor? He seems very sweet.’
‘I think I might. Father will be upset, but he’s now got other things on his mind …’ Helen’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Everything is changing. What will become of us?’
Kitty takes the question to another level.
‘I worry for Bardie and for the family. When he inherits the title, will it mean anything? Old Europe is dying, and I fear Old Britain is dying with it. All those men being slaughtered at the Front! Will the survivors come back and accept the world they left behind? I doubt it. You know I don’t agree with the suffragettes, but do we really expect to deny working men the vote when they’re dying in multitudes for a country they have no say in running?’
Dertha is shocked.
‘Really, Kitty, you sound like a communist! Harry says, if we give everyone the vote, we will be under socialist rule within five years.’
‘He may be right. But it may not be possible to stop it happening. And it may not be right to do so.’
Helen is less shocked than Dertha, but is still surprised.
‘Kitty, you sound just like David; he says much the same. You should go into politics.’
‘Perhaps I should.’
The conversation gradually becomes less and less erudite, the mood more and more solemn, until Christmas Day 1914 at Blair Atholl ends in a drunken haze. Everyone fears for the future and knows that the carefree days of the past are probably gone for ever.
At the stroke of midnight, after consuming the greater part of a bottle of Glenmorangie, the 7th Duke of Atholl cries himself to sleep in the arms of Mrs Maud Grant in her modest Glen Tilt cottage.
A British Army field hospital in one of the most dangerous zones of the Great War is not an ideal setting for a Christmas celebration. Neither are the hospital’s celebrants in the best of spirits. Many are badly wounded, some are dying; all would rather be anywhere else. Back in the trenches with their mates, no matter how wet and cold, would mean that at least they are fit and well. Home would be perfect, but they know that is not going to happen.
In addition to those with war wounds, there are plenty of men with infectious diseases, respiratory problems and a growing number with an ailment the doctors are struggling to define. Some call it ‘nervous fatigue’, others call it ‘mental exhaustion’ and a few – those of less generous spirit – call it ‘malingering’. The latest description, which attempts to relate it to its most obvious cause, is ‘shell shock’.
The milder cases wander around aimlessly in a world of their own, their eyes lost in the ‘thousand-yard stare’. The worst cases find corners in which to hide, where they shiver and convulse like sick dogs. Some shout and scream, and a few become violent and have to be restrained. In fact, Surgeon-Captain Noel Chavasse has insisted that Brigade assigns a squad of infantry to the hospital to help with recalcitrant patients.
Because ‘hospital’ is ‘hôpital’ in French, it has not taken long for the field hospital in Poperinghe’s old lace mill to be called ‘Pop-Hop’.
Sadly, Christmas Day did not start well at Pop-Hop. Two men died of their wounds on Christmas Eve, and when Margaret arrived for duty early on Christmas morning she found the night staff searching frantically for a missing man. A Coldstreamer from Berwick, he talked the night before about not being able to bear the thought of Christmas. Already missing his left arm, he had been told he would have to lose his right because gangrene had set in. He was found an hour later in an outbuilding. He had cut the wrist of his offending arm and bled to death.
The doctors, nurses, auxiliaries, orderlies, stretcher-bearers and ambulance drivers are all exhausted, but they are trying hard to make the day as enjoyable as possible for the sick and injured.
Hywel Thomas, his hand in a sling, is doing sterling work, helping men eat and drink and talking to them to boost their morale. His new purpose in life has given him a vitality that inspires many of the patients and is also often a boost to the demoralized staff. His reconciliation with Bronwyn has grown stronger by the day, and they have helped one another come to terms with the loss of their brothers.
Hywel’s reinforced glove has arrived from London and Captain Chavasse allows him to wear it for an hour a day when his sling and bandages are removed to clean his wound. He is fortunate that his hand has remained free from infection and that he has good movement in his thumb and some feeling in his index finger. His glove is a very simple but clever device. An extra-large, officer’s black cavalry glove, it has been reinforced by sewn-in, bendable copper rods that allow Hywel to position his fingers to help him secure the barrel of his rifle.
Thoughtfully, Desoutter Brothers have also sent the other glove of the pair. He wears both when he is practising holding his gun outside the hospital, as it means that he gets the same feeling in both hands. He is soon christened the ‘Black-Handed Assassin’ by the other patients. Understandably, he is impatient to fire his rifle, but Captain Chavasse has expressly forbidden it for the time being and insists that he only rests the rifle gently on his injured hand.
Major Hesketh-Prichard has visited Hywel twice to discuss the training programme for the army’s new School of Sniping. On his second visit, he brought Hywel’s new serjeant’s stripes with him which, much to Hywel’s amazement, also included a crown.
The major explained.
‘We thought we might as well make you a colour serjeant, as you may well be teaching other serjeants how to shoot!’
‘But, sir, I’ve only just turned twenty.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that! There are shave-tail officers younger than you who are on the front line leading thirty men.’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
Smiling proudly, the major then handed Hywel a pair of small brass lapel pins, sporting a design of crossed rifles topped by an ‘S’.
‘The new insignia for all who pass through the new School of Sniping. Yours is the first pair.’
‘Major, they look very well. I’ll treasure them, but I think I might put ’em in my pocket when I’m out snipin’. I’ve been sniped by a fellow sniper once before, and I don’t intend lettin’ it ’appen again.’
The major then produced a gleaming new rifle from its canvas bag.
‘I have another present for you. I have spent many days at the Royal Small Arms Factory in the Lea Valley, in London, working with its armourers. This is the experimental P13, intended to replace the standard-issue Lee-Enfield. It has a Mauser-type action and has been fitted with a new telescopic sight based on the one you took from the German at Zwarteleen. The primitive long-range sights used by British snipers in the Boer War have remained largely unchanged. Thanks to you, these are much better. The Ministry of War has approved an order for an initial production of three hundred and fifty sights.’
‘When will we get them, sir?’
‘Hopefully, in time for our first recruits in the spring. Let me know what you make of the rifle and the sight.’
He then asks his batman to bring over a large box of rifle ammunition.
‘I’ve brought you a box of the latest .303 Green Spots to practise with when your hand is healed.’
Hywel still has revenge on his mind but, bolstered by his serjeant’s stripes, he is beginning to channel it into the zeal of a professional soldier.
‘So I still ’ave time to get back to my battalion, sir?’
‘Yes, I’ll give you a month. In the meantime, I need to find three more training officers and ten NCOs.’
While things are beginning to improve for Hywel, Bronwyn is still emptying bedpans and mopping floors. But her recovery seems complete and her youthful vitality has returned. She is very much a favourite among patients, doctors and any male visitors to the ward. She has had to learn to live with all kinds of banter, innuendoes and overt propositions. Being a lot worldlier than they know, she is able to deal with almost anything. A typical situation was witnessed by Hywel, who was about to rush to her aid when he realized that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.
A precocious young Scouse gunner from the Royal Artillery, who had lost two fingers in a gunnery accident, suggested he needed help from Bronwyn.
‘Nurse, can I ’ave a bottle?’
Bronwyn hurried away, came back with an enamel urine bottle and handed it to the now grinning gunner.
‘Can you ’elp me with it, gorgeous?’
Bronwyn did not bat an eyelid, but lowered her voice seductively.
‘Do you mean, help you put your … er … artillery piece in the neck of the bottle?’
The young lad leered.
‘That’s right, darlin’. An’ you can give it a tug while you’re at it.’
Bronwyn leaned forward, by which time every soldier on the ward was hanging on her every word.
‘Well, if you can get your little weapon in there, I’m not interested. I prefer real men with ten-inch howitzers!’
The Scouser was duly admonished as hoots of laughter reverberated around the ward. Bronwyn’s crude rejoinder became the talk of Pop-Hop for days.
Bronwyn and Margaret are in their usual haunt, Pop’s Maison de Ville. It is the end of a long day, made even longer by the staff’s attempts to provide a semblance of Christmas joviality, including a lunch of roast pork. It was cooked by Pop-Hop’s cooks, who butchered a pig caught near the Front by an eagle-eyed and fleet-footed gunner on Christmas Eve.
The women’s relationship is still close but, other than work matters and pleasantries, little has been said between them since, some weeks ago, Margaret confessed to her love for Bronwyn.
Bronwyn sees that Margaret is deep in thought.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, just tired.’
‘Come on, Margaret, what’s the matter?’
Margaret’s eyes redden; she throws her head back.
‘It’s Hamish; I heard yesterday from an officer in the Camerons that he was taken prisoner a few days ago.’
‘I’m so sorry. He seemed like a nice man.’
‘Yes, he is – a bit of rogue, but nice with it.’
‘Have you fallen for him?’
‘Not really, but I’m very fond of him. And now I won’t see him until the end of the war, if ever.’
‘I’m sure you will. Try not to worry, you’ll see him again.’
Bronwyn scrutinizes Margaret as she stares into her empty wine glass. She fills it with more of Maison de Ville’s cheapest vin de table, which, over the weeks, seems to have become less and less cheap and more and more unpalatable.
‘I never asked, but how was your dinner with Hamish?’
Margaret smiles.
‘The dinner was wonderful. But that’s not what you meant, is it?’
‘I suppose not; so, how was your night with Hamish? Did he “make a woman of you”?’
‘Bron, that’s unkind.’
‘Sorry, it was. You’ve been so wonderful to me; I just want you to be happy.’
Margaret takes a quaff of her wine and follows it with a cavernous breath.
‘I had a nice time with Hamish; he was very sweet and gentle. I tried, Bron.’
Bron reaches out and touches her hand. Margaret smiles, but tearfully.
‘The truth is, I am what I am.’
‘Oh, Margaret, it’s hard for me to understand. Don’t you enjoy men at all?’
‘Bron, it’s hard to answer questions like that.’
‘Remember, it’s me! You know all my little secrets and have taught me not to be ashamed.’
‘I feel some things, but it’s not the same. The truth is, I’m queer; a freak!’
Bronwyn pushes Margaret’s glass away and puts her arm around her.
‘You’re nothin’ of the sort; you’re a wonderful woman, my saviour. I love you so much. And I don’t care that you prefer women, I still love you. Come on, let’s go home; we both need some sleep.’
Bronwyn leads Margaret away, in a tender reversal of their roles when Margaret rescued Bronwyn in Tiger Bay. When they get back to Margaret’s room, Bronwyn helps her undress and puts her to bed.
As Margaret rests her head on the pillow, the tears of the woman who runs her ward like Florence Nightingale – proud, dignified and supremely professional – run down her cheeks and soak into the rough cotton sheeting.
Bronwyn strokes her brow.
‘I love you, Margaret.’
Margaret opens her eyes.
‘Bron, do you remember that night when you asked me to stay with you? When you were very upset –’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Will you stay with me tonight?’
Bronwyn slips off her dress and climbs into bed with Margaret, where she holds her like a mother would cradle a child. Margaret’s tears subside and her anxiety diminishes.
‘Thank you, Bron.’
Margaret closes her eyes and is asleep very quickly, leaving Bronwyn to reflect on their strange circumstances. She feels so much love for Margaret, but no hint of arousal by being close to her. She realizes how hard it must be for Margaret to live in a world where emotions she cannot prevent herself from feeling are regarded as so wrong.
She also knows that, sooner or later, she is going to meet a man who will help her regain her own sexual feelings. And when that happens, it will be very difficult for Margaret to deal with.
A reinvigorated Winston Churchill, for once in receipt of modest praise following the navy’s victory in the Battle of the Falkland Islands, has spent most of December feverishly looking for ways to break the impending stalemate on what is becoming known as the ‘Western Front’.
‘The Balkans!’ he would cry. Or, ‘The Baltic!’, ‘The Caucasus!’ He has written memos, harangued his friends and lectured his War Cabinet colleagues: ‘We must strike at the Turks!’, ‘Russia: how can we help the Czar to hit harder in the East?’
With the passionate, mercurial but vastly experienced Jacky Fisher at the Admiralty, Winston has been able to concentrate on the broader canvas of the conflict. Inevitably, it has led him into clashes with his colleagues and the renewal of denunciations by the Tory press.
Sadly, as the circumstances of the war have worsened towards Christmas, the men in charge of its execution, normally shrewd and considered, broad-minded and wise, have begun to lose sight of even the most obvious circumstances, and have started bickering like juveniles.
On 17 December Winston wrote to Asquith, asking if he could go to France to see for himself what his ‘Dunkirk Circus’ of planes, marines and armoured Rolls-Royces was up to. He also wanted to use the opportunity to see Sir John French and boost his morale. Asquith’s reply insisted that Winston seek the approval of Lord Kitchener before going. When he duly did so, instead of replying, Kitchener went to Asquith to complain that the First Lord of the Admiralty was, yet again, interfering in the strategic business of the army.
Winston was furious that Kitchener had gone to the Prime Minister instead of replying directly to him, and a series of sternly worded letters followed. Ultimately, it was agreed that Winston could go to France for his inspection, but not to see John French. Winston resented the snub bitterly.
Similarly, as many had predicted, and especially Clemmie, Jacky Fisher’s volatility was becoming as much of a burden as a bonus. Letting his temperament get the better of him and seemingly unable to differentiate between his laudable forcefulness and his sheer bloody-mindedness, he was rapidly making enemies. Many in the Admiralty and the Conservative Party began to say that the only difference since Fisher’s return to the Admiralty has been that it is now ruled by two Churchills, when one was already too much to bear.
By Christmas Day, the spat among Britain’s war leaders has calmed down as they prepare to spend Christmas with their families, and as the press and MPs do the same. It is not so in the trenches, where the rain, mud and cold pay no heed to Christian feast days. At least the Germans are Christians, so the shelling and sniping have become more and more sporadic.
Herbert Asquith has spent Christmas Day with his family – his second wife, Margot, and his youngest children, both Margot’s, Elizabeth and Anthony. But he has now returned to Downing Street, where he knows his private secretary and mistress, Venetia Stanley, will be waiting for him. He has been drinking, even more than his usual prodigious volume, and is feeling amorous. It is six thirty; they will have an early supper and retire to their top-floor love nest for a Christmas night of passion.
As he prepares to sit down and relax, he looks across Horse Guards Parade and sees that the lights are on in the First Lord’s office in the Admiralty.
‘Bugger me, Churchill’s at his desk! Something must be up.’
He looks down at the mound of papers on his desk and sees a large red ‘Top Secret’ stamped on the memo at the top of the pile. It is a report from Colonel Alfred Knox, British Military Attaché in Petrograd. It is a startling document, describing in great detail the state of affairs on the Eastern Front, where Russian and German forces have been locked in a conflict every bit as gruesome as that on the Western Front. He describes, ‘an alarming shortage of rifles’, ‘men in the front line facing the enemy without ammunition’, and quotes the words of a disillusioned general who said that the sturdy Russian infantrymen can scavenge for potatoes and turnips in frozen ground, but that bullets don’t grow in fields.
The memo ends with the chilling words: ‘I fear an imminent collapse of the Russian Army.’
‘Venetia, get Churchill for me. I want him to come over.’
‘But, Bertie, it’s Christmas Night. What about our supper together?’
‘Worry not, the night is young. Where is Lloyd George?’
‘He’ll be with Frances next door, I should think. I’m sure he said he would spend Christmas Eve and lunch today with Margaret and his family, then come back here this afternoon.’
‘About as sober as you, I imagine.’
‘Get someone to go to Number Eleven and ask him to come over for a drink.’
‘What’s going on, Bertie?’
‘A bit of a crisis with the Russians; you can read Knox’s memo later. Send someone, Special Branch or a policeman, to fetch Eddie Grey; he’ll be at home with Pamela. Then send someone to bring Kitchener; he’ll be at Carlton Gardens with one or more of his boys. Hopefully, as it’s only six thirty, he’ll still have his trousers on.’
By 7 p.m. on Christmas night, Britain’s War Cabinet is assembled at Downing Street. Venetia pours whisky for them and Asquith promises that their business will be done by eight thirty, in good time for their private suppers.
Venetia assesses the mood as she carries around the decanter of fifteen-year-old Macallan. Only Winston appears happy to be there. Lloyd George, as eager as anyone to find a solution to the crisis in France, would normally be keen to attend any emergency meeting. But his recent passion for Frances Stevenson, formerly the governess to his youngest child, Megan, and now his private secretary, is a major distraction. Eddie Grey seems impatient, probably feeling guilty about leaving his wife on Christmas night. As for Kitchener, Venetia is not sure what delights he has planned – nor does she want to speculate. She makes her exit, thoughtfully leaving the Macallan behind her.
‘Gentlemen, you can thank Colonel Knox in Petrograd for this, and Winston, of course, who spotted it first. Knox says the Russians are on their knees. He fears a collapse, and we all know what that will mean in the west, come winter’s end. Now, I know you all have different thoughts, but I think you all agree that we need to open a new front to dilute the Central Powers’ military capabilities. Winston, you go first.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister. I will be brief. Nobody here needs me to reiterate how dire the position is in France, and how long it will be before we can put Lord Kitchener’s courageous new army into the field. But, if you will indulge me, I will reiterate one sentiment once more: thank God for the courage and elan of our French friends and for brave little Belgium, who are both holding their ground so fearlessly.’
Even though every man there wants the gathering to be as brief as possible, Winston holds them enthralled for twenty minutes as he not only summarizes the situation but does so with such bravura that he resembles a Shakespearian thespian rather than a politician.
‘For my sake, I’m wholly committed to a plan that Jacky Fisher and I have designed – a ferocious, direct attack on Germany from the north-west. First, we will seize the island of Borkum in the North Sea. Then, using Borkum as a springboard, we will hurl ourselves against the foe in vast numbers in Schleswig-Holstein. We will take the Kiel Canal, bring in neutral Denmark and launch a daring naval attack into the Baltic. Finally, with massed ranks of Russian infantry at our side, in the greatest amphibious assault in history, we will put a hundred thousand men ashore on the Pomeranian coast and smash our way through to bring Berlin and the Kaiser to their knees.’
Winston sits down with a self-righteous look on his face, raises his tumbler and takes a deep draught of his whisky. His peers, their faces creased by admiring smiles, are quiet for a moment. They are impressed by the plan, but much more by the way Winston has described it.
David Lloyd George then stands up.
‘Winston, you are a hard act to follow. But let me say that, if things get worse and there comes a time when – as Henry V at Agincourt, or Queen Elizabeth at Tilbury – someone has to make a speech to save this nation, then you’re the man to do it.’
Lloyd George begins his peroration with a distressing portrayal of the plight of the men in the trenches, enduring the kind of conditions that ‘would destroy the morale of the best of men’. He argues vociferously that the war cannot be won in France without casualties on an as yet unimagined scale. He then describes in detail a ‘Southern Strategy’, which he finishes with a summary.
‘So you see, Salonika is the key on one side, engaging the support of all those who hate the Austrians: Serbs, Montenegrins, Romanians and Greeks. Then, on the other side, Syria, where we strike the Ottoman Turks at their weakest point.’
Kitchener has said nothing. Although he has some sympathy for a southern offensive, he remains convinced that the war will be won or lost on the Western Front, if only because that is where such hordes of men face one another and where the thousand-year rivalry between the Germanic and Gallic civilizations is being played out.
Winston senses the exhaustion in the room, which is not helped by the dwindling contents of the whisky decanter. He sees that both the ‘Northern Strategy’ and Lloyd George’s ‘Southern Strategy’ have merits.
‘Prime Minister, if I may, there is a middle position, which Fisher and I would both support. First, a feint of the kind I have described in the North Sea, with fewer Russian forces, which would disorientate the enemy, followed by another disguise, as David has described, towards Ottoman Syria through Alexandretta. Thirdly, an additional feint attack from the north on Constantinople from Bulgaria and, finally, a major amphibious landing from Greece, Malta and Egypt through the Dardanelles, probably on the Gallipoli Peninsular. From there, Constantinople beckons.’
Following the mention of the evocative name ‘Constantinople’, a debate ensues, sometimes heated. Reference is made to the traumas of the Crimean War of 1854, and even to the Christian Crusades of 800 years ago.
The name ‘Gallipoli’ does not strike a chord with anyone, but it soon will.
After the gathering, which does not end until 9.45 p.m., the senior protagonists of Britain’s war effort make their way home. Winston goes back to the Admiralty; not to Clemmie, who is still at Lympne, and not to his bed, which will not welcome him for several hours yet, but to the Admiralty Map Room. He gathers two sleepy marines on sentry duty to help him lay out the huge maps of the Eastern Mediterranean. They pin some on the wall before Winston lets them resume their duties.
He then pours himself another whisky – this time his favourite, Glenmorangie – and studies the Bosphorus, especially the landing sites on the western and southern coasts of Gallipoli. After several hours of note-taking, analysis and scrutiny, he marks three crosses on the Gallipoli Peninsula: Cape Helles, Suvla Bay and a small cove north of a headland called Gaba Tepe.
Satisfied that he has done his homework, he retires to bed. It is 3.45 in the morning. As he passes the marines on duty in the Central Hall, he bids them goodnight. They snap to attention.
‘Do you need a wake-up call, sir?’
‘Yes, thank you; six thirty sharp!’
Christmas Day on the Western Front begins inauspiciously. The air is cold, the sky leaden and a haze hangs over the land as if the clouds have descended to drape a dank blanket across the ground. There are patches of snow in places, especially up against trees and hedges, but the immediate landscape is as it has been for weeks, a sea of Flanders mud.
Everywhere and everything is scarred or destroyed. Not a single building stands undamaged, and most are in ruins. The fields are pockmarked by the impact of shelling, which makes the landscape resemble the craterous surface of the moon – even more so in the silvery glow of the moon itself. Hedgerows are shredded, trees shattered and the deep ruts of artillery gun carriages, ordnance lorries and field ambulances criss-cross between the craters, creating random lines and patterns.
Like rats scampering in sewers, some creatures survive in this wasteland. They live in snake-like scars in the ground, parallel to one another, in separate colonies, competing for territory and the means of survival. They kill their rivals without provocation and in vast numbers and, like lemmings, will occasionally rush at the other’s lair in suicidal attacks. These creatures were once ordinary men; now they are part hero, part beast.
The trenches are the worst horror of this wretched environment, where the front-line troops live, eat, defecate and die. It is all but impossible to keep dry, and certainly impossible to keep clean or retain simple human dignities. They are foul places in every sense of the word: a place to eat, but usually standing up; a place to sleep, but only fitfully; a latrine, but with no privacy; and a charnel house, where decaying corpses, or parts of them, protrude from the walls.
The pristine appearance of the professional soldier on both sides of what is now being called ‘no-man’s-land’ has long gone. Every item of clothing has had to be modified or improvised and there is a plethora of garments to insulate or waterproof the body. Following the delayed arrival of greatcoats, sheepskin body warmers have arrived from Britain, as have heavy-duty woollen balaclavas, socks, mittens and gloves. Long johns are a godsend, and most men would prefer a pair of those from the Red Cross than any amount of cigarettes or chocolate.
Indulgences like chocolate are all but meaningless when hot food and clean water are difficult to find. Scavenging for anything that strays nearby is essential, and Flanders’ entire population of domesticated animals was consumed before winter began. Now, nature’s larder of rabbit, hare and birds, especially the highly prized pigeon, is diminishing rapidly. The latest source of meat for those with the strongest stomachs – meat that is both the scourge of the trenches, and sometimes its finest delicacy – is roasted rat. At least a consignment of coke braziers has arrived, making it easier to heat food and warm cold fingers.
Lice and sores from a lack of cleanliness only add to the misery. There is also the return of an ailment not seen since Napoleon’s Grande Armée made its infamous retreat from Moscow. Caused by long-term exposure to wet, cold and unhygienic conditions, the soldiers’ feet become sore, infected and even gangrenous. The medics have begun to call it ‘trench foot’. Its only cure is to reverse the circumstances that cause it.
Diseases spread rapidly; many bodies still lie in parts of no-man’s-land, unburied since they fell, sometimes many weeks ago. So bad is the smell that men wear scarves around their mouths and noses, even when the weather is mild, just to try to keep at bay the stench of open latrines and human putrefaction. A strong wind is like a blessing from heaven. It plays havoc with the accuracy of the snipers and drives away the stink.
All the local civilians have long gone so, around Ypres, where British troops face their German foes, both sets of men are alien to one another, surviving in an alien land without people, which lends yet another surreal dimension to an already bizarre world.
Occasionally, an intrepid soul will wander into the fields of death. A farmer may walk for miles, managing to evade the sentries guarding the roads, to bring a chicken or a piglet to sell for an exorbitant price. Other, less savoury, characters will offer contraband: stolen cigarettes, wine, or various highly intoxicating concoctions produced by home-made stills.
Then there is the ‘little chocolate girl’, a tiny mite, no more than eleven or twelve, who appears once a week with a knapsack full of chocolate. She will never say who sends her, or where she gets the chocolate from, but does admit that she took the knapsack off a dead British soldier; ‘un homme portant une jupe’ she says, whenever she is asked, which at first meant nothing to the soldiers, until an officer explained that it means ‘a man wearing a skirt’. Then they realized the dead man must have been from a Scottish regiment.
The chocolate she brings is instantly recognizable to the men: ‘Caley’s Milk Chocolate, made by A. J. Caley in Norwich’, with its emblem of crossed Union Jacks on the wrapper. So it must have come into the possession of her family, or fence, illegally. But it is of no concern to the men as she will exchange a bar for two cigarettes or a couple of coins of any denomination.
It is a mercy that, as winter has bitten ever harder, the clashes between the men in the trenches have diminished. Sniping is still an occasional hazard, and there have been sporadic artillery exchanges, but the will to fight seems to have been dulled on both sides.
That is a blessing in more ways than one, for both sides are desperately short of ammunition and men are finding it hard to clean and maintain their rifles. As a consequence, improvised weapons are commonplace.
Close-quarters encounters have taught men that a long rifle with a bayonet attached is not the most manoeuvrable of weapons. So a multitude of improvised knives, clubs and axes has appeared. A toothed gear from the gearbox of an abandoned vehicle jammed on to a pickaxe handle is a particular favourite, as are various ‘trench cleaners’, small daggers made from kitchen knives, or farm implements. Knuckledusters, billhooks and chains are in common use, and some men carry barbed wire to use as a garrotte.
Home-made grenades – ‘jam tins’, as they have come to be known – where an old ration tin of jam or condensed milk is filled with dynamite, loaded with shrapnel of stones or nails and fused by a roll of gun cotton, prove to be very effective.
However, on the whole, the greater enemies are now mud, lice, hunger and lethargy. Inevitably, morale has plummeted and indiscipline escalated. The annihilation of the greater part of the officer cadre and of the experienced NCOs has left men without leadership. Those officers and NCOs who remain are finding it difficult to maintain basic discipline, let alone preserve the men’s willingness to fight.
Harry Woodruff and Maurice Tait have been assigned to separate companies in the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers for the first time in their army careers. Maurice has remained in C Company as its colour serjeant, and Harry has gone to be colour serjeant in B Company.
After Colonel McMahon’s pugnacious charge in early November at Hooge, they soon had to withdraw from the advanced position they had gained. They ran the risk of being isolated at the small farm they had captured, which was 100 yards beyond the British line, so Harry and Maurice led their fusiliers back. It was a well-executed withdrawal. Even so, it cost six men their lives, and a dozen more were wounded, but it earned them a message of thanks from Brigade HQ.
After resting in dry billets at Festubert for over a week, they have been back in the line at Kemmel, six miles south-west of Ypres, since 21 December. Their two companies are adjacent to one another in the trench, but the men in both are hardly recognizable as those who left Albany Barracks with Harry and Maurice in August. Between them, they can count just eighteen men they remember from those days in the summer.
Harry has been given the bar to his DSM and has become a regimental legend. Maurice is also of legendary status, and the survival of both is thought to be close to miraculous. Needless to say, under their firm rule, both B and C Companies of the 4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers are tight ships with few of the morale and discipline problems affecting so many other battalions.
The new commanding officer, Major John Hely-Hutchinson, is a strong disciplinarian and has immediately imposed his authority on the battalion. Captains Lee, Pipon and Magnay arrived at the end of November. But Lee broke his leg two days later, after falling into a shell hole, and Magnay had a breakdown – an ‘attack of the shakes’ – during his first artillery bombardment.
Four more officers and thirty reinforcements arrived in Belgium on 11 December, followed by two more young lieutenants on the 19th. Maurice likes his new CO, Captain George Marshall, fresh from duty in Hong Kong. Harry liked his new man, Captain Francis Bovey, but he was killed by a sniper late on the afternoon of the 21st.
Harry was standing next to him and had warned him about putting his head too far above the parapet. He was lying on top of the trench using his field glasses to survey the German position barely 150 yards away. Harry left him to check on the men; when he returned, Bovey was still in the same position. Harry spoke to him, but there was no response, so he pulled him down into the trench.
He was already dead. His face was unharmed, save for a small bullet entry hole above his left eyebrow. But the back of his skull was missing, the shoulders of his tunic drenched in blood. He had been at the front for just seven hours after an eighteen-year career with the Indian Army dealing with civil disturbances and border patrols. Yet again, Harry had no CO and, as its colour serjeant, was temporarily in charge of B Company.
Coming back to a trench after a leave of absence is almost as bad as an extended stay in one. There are the familiar deprivations, filth and lice to deal with but also, at first, the detritus and squalor of other men. The 4th Royal Fusiliers have relieved the Worcesters – good men, heroes of the charge at Gheluvelt – but they are not their own, and it is never the same.
The battalion had been inspected by the King on 3 December, which, apart from the honour, was a major boost to morale as it meant delousing, hot baths, clean shaves, neat haircuts and laundered uniforms. For the first time in many weeks, they looked and felt like proper soldiers. The fusiliers lined up along the Menin Road outside Ypres, but the King kept them waiting for forty-five minutes, in the cold, presumably because he was inspecting several other battalions in different locations. He arrived in a fleet of cars, accompanied by a host of brass hats, and began his inspection immediately. He looked impressive as he walked past in his army greatcoat with its dark-brown fur collar, an added luxury that many men looked at enviously. He nodded appreciatively at the men from time to time. A quick chorus of ‘three cheers for the King’ was shouted; then he was gone.
It snowed on the 22nd and the men talked briefly about a white Christmas. But then it thawed, and the mud returned.
Harry and Maurice have agreed to meet first thing on Christmas morning at the section where their two companies adjoin in the trench. Dawn has just broken. Each has an enamel mug of tea in his hand.
‘’Appy Christmas, Mo.’
‘’Appy Christmas to you, mate.’
‘Quiet, ain’t it?’
‘Too right, ’specially for your Captain Bovey; ’e’s gonna be quiet for a long time.’
‘Silly bugger, I told ’im to keep his noggin’ down! Poor sod, ’e’d only just got ’ere. How you gettin’ on wiv Captain Marshall?’
‘Oh, ’e’s all right, a bit quiet. He’s gone off to Brigade, left me in charge, said he’d be back tonight; I reckon he’s gawn off to get pissed.’ Maurice points in the direction of the German trench. ‘Did you ’ear Fritz singin’ carols last night? Sweet, it were. Some of our lads joined in; they was singin’ “Silent Night” in Fritz, but our lads could follow it and sang along wiv it.’
‘You need to be careful, Mo. The boys are s’posed be fightin’ the fuckers, not singin’ Christmas carols wiv ’em.’
‘I know, ’Arry, but it’s Christmas.’
‘Bollocks, it’s no different from any other day. It’s dog eat dog, like it’s always been.’
Maurice smiles at his friend, good old ’Arry, just the same.
As the two men swig their tea, they hear a distant voice.
‘Happy Christmas, Tommy!’
The voice, in heavily accented English, is clearly coming from the German trench.
Harry is immediately alert.
‘What the fuck!’
As he throws the dregs of his tea into the bottom of the trench, several young fusiliers come running.
‘Colour Serjeant, it’s Fritz! They’re shoutin’ at us all along the line, in English. One of ’em has a Christmas tree with candles on it. ’E’s put it on top of the parapet and is sittin’ next to it, large as life. What do we do?’
Harry does not hesitate.
‘Shoot the bugger!’
He rushes towards where the young soldier came from, pursued by Maurice.
‘Fuck a duck! What’s goin’ on?’
As he runs along, he sees more and more fusiliers sitting on the parapet of the trench.
‘Get your heads down, you stupid fuckers!’
Then he sees a lance corporal from Bermondsey, a good lad he has known for years. He is standing in no-man’s-land, in full view of the enemy.
‘’Ere, Sarje, ’ave a butcher’s at this.’
He offers Harry his hand to help him up and then helps Maurice up. Maurice smiles, while Harry is open-mouthed.
‘Bugger me with a brass rod up a black mountain!’
Through the milky mist, all along the long line of trenches in both directions, German and British troops are in no-man’s-land. There are handshakes, smiles and laughter; there is sign language and exaggerated gestures as men try to communicate with one another. Several Germans can speak English and are in great demand as translators.
Harry is ill at ease and looks around anxiously. He is in temporary command of over 100 men, some of whom are very raw recruits. But he is relieved to see through the mist that among the men who are fraternizing together there are several German and British officers.
‘I’ve never seen anythin’ like it! What d’ya reckon, Mo?’
‘It’s a right rum do, I should cocoa! I s’pose we get on wiv it an’ shake ’ands wiv a few Fritzes.’
The next hour or so is spent by the men exchanging gifts: beer, wine, cigarettes, chocolate, caps and helmets, badges and insignia. There is also the grisly business of decomposing bodies. Because no-man’s-land has been true to its name for many weeks, it is strewn with the corpses of the dead.
Groups are formed, comprising men from both sides, who cooperate together in burial parties and undertake the gruesome ordeal of digging pits for their dead comrades. British and German men are alongside one another and prayers are said by parsons and pastors, sometimes together.
The most senior officer in Maurice and Harry’s sector is a captain they can see in the distance, who is in the Black Watch, but there is no one from Brigade to spoil the party.
There are more German officers around, including several Hauptmanns, the equivalent rank to a British captain, and one very tall and imposing major whose uniform looks immaculate and who wears his leather Prussian greatcoat draped jauntily over his shoulders without putting his arms into its sleeves. He is smoking a Sobranie Black Russian cigarette from an ivory cigarette holder, the business end of which is carved into an eagle’s claw.
Undaunted by his striking appearance, and despite the stern look of the two fierce serjeants either side of him, Harry walks up to the tall German and salutes him.
‘Excuse me, Major, do you speak English?’
‘Of course, Colour Serjeant … ?’
‘Woodruff, sir.’
‘I was at Cambridge before the war, Colour Serjeant Woodruff, where I played football for my college, Pembroke. Do you play football?’
‘Well, I did as a lad, sir, for Upton Park in West Ham, a London team.’
‘It is a very good game, is it not? Would you like a cigarette? And the other serjeant?’
‘Colour Serjeant Tait, sir.’
One of the German’s staff serjeants hands around cigarettes from a silver cigarette box.
‘Where are your officers?’
Harry has to think quickly.
‘Er … they’re ’avin’ a Christmas breakfast at a gaff … sorry, at a ’ouse nearby, sir. They’ve left us in charge, we’re old ’ands, see.’
‘How very civilized.’
‘Sir, will you be here for a while?’
‘I don’t think so; I will go back to my billet for lunch soon. Why do you ask?’
Harry looks at Maurice. Sometimes Cockney rhyming slang comes in useful, especially in the presence of a German officer who is fluent in Standard English.
‘You mean those little red riding hoods we put in the safe and sound?’
‘You got it, Mo!’
‘Good thinkin’! I’m on.’
The German major looks perplexed.
‘You are confusing me, gentlemen?’
‘Sir, can we be ’onest wiv yer, soldier to soldier?’
‘I would be delighted. Honour among soldiers is a rare commodity these days.’
‘Well, sir, we took an ’elmet an’ sword from a German officer who was killed at Herlies in October. We found out he was called Major von Mecklenberg.’
‘A very famous man. I’m sure his sword will be very valuable; you are lucky.’
‘Indeed, sir. But you see, there was an incident later, when another officer, Captain von Tannhausen, who told us who von Mecklenberg was, was killed.’ Harry looks down guiltily. ‘Let’s just say he shouldn’t ’ave died, sir.’
‘I see. So how can I help?’
‘Would you take his sword and helmet back to Major von Mecklenberg’s family? It’s the least we can do for him and Captain von Tannhausen.’
‘That is very noble of you, Colour Serjeant. I will gladly do it.’
‘But sir, one of us will have to go and get it. And it will take a while.’
‘Not to worry. If I’m not here, one of my serjeants will be. This one is Walter and the other one is Fritz. Yes, he is called Fritz. And you are?’
‘Harry and Maurice, sir.’
‘Very good. How long will you be?’
‘Probably well into the afternoon, sir.’
‘Try to be back before dark, it will make things much easier. By the way, tell your officers when they have finished their Christmas breakfast that I plan to put an end to this, I suppose we should call it a “Christmas truce”, at dawn tomorrow. I will be firing a single shot in the air. Until then, we will honour the ceasefire that has occurred in this sector. I will go to my fellow officer down there and tell him the same.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No, no, it is a little moment of sanity in a crazy world, so let us treasure it while we can. And thank you for returning von Mecklenberg’s belongings. I know his family, they will be very grateful, and I will make sure they know the names of the men who made the gesture.’
‘May we ’ave your name, sir?’
‘I am Count Christian-Günther von Bernstorff. You may have heard of my father, he is the German Ambassador to Washington.’
While Maurice keeps an eye on the no-man’s-land truce, Harry takes his trenching tool and rushes to Merris to retrieve the Prussian helmet and sword. Merris is eight miles away, across the border into France. He is able to hitch a couple of lifts but, even so, by the time he gets back to Kemmel, it is mid-afternoon and the light is beginning to fade.
Maurice then leads Harry to where the two German serjeants, Walter and Fritz, are sitting, smoking cigarettes. The two men jump to attention and salute as the Tommies approach them and the formal handover takes place.
Walter tries to speak in English.
‘The major, he say, thanks to you.’ He then hands over two bottles of cognac. ‘From the major …’ The serjeant hesitates, then looks at his comrade. ‘Frohe Weihnachten?’
Fritz translates into English.
‘Happy Christmas.’
Maurice smiles appreciatively.
‘Fro Vynakten to you, Fritz!’
The four men shake hands, and Harry and Maurice stroll back to their trench admiring their fine bottles of cognac. They will both have sore heads in the morning.
‘Guess what, ’Arry.’
‘What?’
‘You missed a big international match today.’
‘How d’yer mean?’
‘We played the Fritzes at football.’
‘I ’ope we beat ’em?’
‘Nah, but we might ’ave if you’d played. We lost 2-1. They ’ad some good lads. Shame, innit? We’ll be shootin’ the buggers tomorra.’
As he said he would, at first light the next morning, Major Count Christian-Günther von Bernstorff ordered Walter, his staff serjeant, to fire a single round into the still air. As its echo reverberated across the dreary landscape of Flanders, men on both sides knew that the Christmas truce of 1914 was over.
A brief moment of sanity, and a few expressions of friendship and common humanity, will soon be forgotten as the hatred and carnage resume.