CHAPTER FIVE

23 March 1918

The remains of the farmhouse were about a hundred yards east of the road to Albert, a crumbled shell of a place with waist-high walls gaping like the stumps of rotted teeth. Flockhart marched across the shambles, his shoulders squared like the soldier he most definitely was. “I remember this well,” he said, speaking almost conversationally. “We pushed the Hun out at the end of July and they came back in force that same night. It was to and fro for days.” He looked at Ramsay through wary eyes. “You were at the Somme, were you not, sir?”

Ramsay nodded, unthinking. “I was over the top with the first wave,” he said.

God! How well I remember that. The sheer volume of artillery was supposed to have pulverised the German positions so there was nothing left. We were told to sling our rifles, light our pipes and we could march all the way to Berlin, with any Germans that survived so demoralised by the shelling that they would be begging to surrender. Instead we marched into a blizzard of machine gun fire that decimated us before we had gone a hundred yards and cut our numbers by 75% before we even neared our first objective.

Flockhart narrowed his eyes. He looked at Ramsay musingly. “Maybe that was where I saw you before, sir. Were you with the Royals then?”

“I was,” Ramsay said. “Maybe we fought together then.”

For God’s sake, man, don’t you remember what happened? Don’t you remember where we met? It was in Midlothian, miles and bloody miles away from the Somme or anywhere else in bloody France.

He pointed to the ruins and quickly changed the subject. “Is there enough room in there for all of us?”

“There are wine cellars below,” Flockhart said. “We had to push out Fritz inch by inch. God, he is a tenacious bugger when he chooses.” He frowned. “I am sure I know your face, sir. I don’t think it was from the Somme though. I think it was before that?”

You’re getting too close, Flockhart. You will never see the British lines again, that I promise.

“I was at Loos with the 11th battalion,” Ramsay said quietly. “Not many came back.”

I never reached the Front though. Dysentery.

Flockhart nodded. “That was a bad show,” he agreed. He continued to study Ramsay, cocking his head to one side. “But I was not there, so I would not have seen you there, sir. No, no, it is something else, or somewhere else, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Let’s get the men settled in,” Ramsay said. “We can play guessing games later.”

“Yes, sir.” Flockhart stiffened at the implied rebuke. “Sorry, sir. I meant no disrespect.”

“Of course not, Sergeant,” Ramsay reminded Flockhart of their respective ranks. “Show me this sanctuary.”

Ramsay examined the ruins. The highest point of the remaining walls was only shoulder height. For a moment he wondered how even those had survived. He examined the place more closely. The house was built from heavy stone, now pitted with bullet scars and blackened with the marks of grenades and shells. Ramsay looked through the gaping hole that had once been a window. The interior was a mess of mud and tangled wire, small piles of smoke-charred rubble and the debris of battle. The courtyard was square and cobbled, empty save for scattered straw. “It looks safe enough,” he said and eased himself inside.

The interior smelled exactly the same as outside; lyddite and mud and the stench of the long dead. The Royals filed in one by one, holding their rifles in expectation of an attack, glancing skyward at the fading stars, listening for danger. Three of the exterior walls still stood, lower than the one by which they had entered, but a barrier between themselves and the outside world. There was a slight sense of security in here, or perhaps a sensation of claustrophobic confinement; Ramsay was not entirely sure which sensation was uppermost. He knew he would not care to be caught by the Germans in such a place, but it did supply shelter for his men and they needed that. He looked at them as they slumped in exhaustion, they were about done.

“The lads have had it,” Flockhart mirrored his thoughts. “They can’t go on much longer.”

Whatever the dangers of remaining in such a prominent place, Ramsay knew that his men were too exhausted to continue.

“This is as good a place as any,” he said. “We will keep a sentry posted in case Fritz gets too nosey.” He raised his voice, “Right, lads, we’ll bed down here for the day and move at dusk. If you have any iron rations left, this would be a good time to try them out.”

The men filed in slowly: Niven the tram driver, Aitken the soft-hearted man who was always first to help others, Mackay, very young, quiet and cautious, Turnbull who started at every sound and whose nerves were clearly fully stretched, Cruickshank, squat and muscular and always grousing . . . he watched his men come in. He had got to know them in the last few days and he was beginning to understand them a little; some he even liked.

“Keep silent, lads. Keep your heads down and your rifles handy. If Fritz gets nosey we will be out the back door and away.”

“There’s no bloody back door,” Cruickshank said.

“We’ll find one just for you,” Flockhart told him. “Keep a civil tongue in your head, Cruickshank.”

Ramsay did not make out Cruikshank’s muttered reply, but Flockhart’s returning snarl was testimony to its nature.

“Listen,” McKim raised a hand for silence. “Can you hear that?” He cocked his head to one side, then frowned and removed his helmet, handling the sharpened steel rim with extreme care. “It’s not artillery this time.”

Ramsay lifted his head above the low wall. “I can’t hear anything. You’re imagining things, McKim.”

“No I’m not, sir, with respect.” McKim’s furrowed his brows in thought. “It’s not a sound, sir. Wait.” He lay on the ground and placed his ear to the ground. “That’s it, sir. It’s not a sound, it’s a vibration. It’s like . . . there’s something coming, sir. Like a railway train or . . . an army, sir.”

Ramsay grunted cynically. “There are two armies nearby, McKim. Of course you will hear them.”

“Yes, sir,” McKim rose to his feet. “With respect, sir, I think they are closer now.”

Ramsay became aware of a slight trembling under his feet. He grunted, and peered through a gap in the battered wall. The trembling increased until it resembled a machine, a constant monotonous movement that irritated the mind and shook the loose stones from the top of the wall. It gradually became more audible until it was a throbbing sound that permeated every though.

“What the hell is that?” he asked

“It’s like an engine,” Aitken said.

“It’s marching feet,” McKim said flatly. “It’s thousands and thousands of marching feet.”

Ramsay reached for his binoculars and cursed as he realised they were gone, lost somewhere in the frantic struggle in the trenches or in the trudging misery of the retreat. Instead he peered into the steadily decreasing dark and wished that he had not.

At first he was not sure what he saw. It seemed like a moving wall, but as he focussed into the distance he realised that he was staring at the head of a dense column of men. They were on the far side of the farmhouse, marching slowly down the road to Albert and eventually Amiens, with their boots crunching in a terrible symphony. There was a trio of officers at the head and NCOs at regular intervals at each side of the column, ensuring the men kept in step and the pace remained constant.

“Jesus,” McKim breathed, “it’s the whole bloody German army.”

The head of the column passed them with the men marching in perfect step, looking neither to left or right as they moved in a disciplined silence.

“Is that the Prussian Guards?” Aitken asked.

“Nah, they’re just Bavarian foot soldiers,” Turnbull said. “The Prussians are bigger.”

“They look big enough to me,” Cruickshank grumbled. He hawked and spat in the direction of the Germans. “Dirty Fritzy bastards.”

“Right, keep down and keep quiet,” Ramsay ordered. “Let’s hope they keep marching and don’t send a patrol out to inspect these ruins.”

“They’ve no reason to,” Flockhart said quietly. “They think they have won the war. Why should they stop chasing us just to look at a ruin on an ancient battlefield?”

One by one the Royals sank down from the wall and stretched on the ground. In the time-honoured tradition of the British soldier they could sleep in any circumstance, and the exertions of the night and previous day had drawn heavily on their stores of stamina and endurance. Ramsay watched them for a minute and wondered if he should try to sleep. He shook his head. Despite his physical exhaustion, he knew that he would not be able to calm his mind sufficiently to sleep. He huddled in the lee of the shattered building, the dawn salmon pink with gunfire and the columns of Germans marching past in a steady stream. Ramsay thought the sound was like the drumbeats of defeat.

The marching ended, to be replaced by the sound of hooves and the grind of wheels on the pave. Ramsay watched the slow progress of ambulances and ammunition wagons and wondered what was happening at the front.

“There’s plenty of them,” Flockhart said. “They have been marching past for hours now.”

“But the lads are still fighting.” Ramsay jerked his head sideways to the constant rumble of the guns. “So Fritz has not broken through yet.”

“He’s doing damned well, though,” McKim said. “Death and hell to every one of them.” He took off his helmet and began to sharpen the rim on the rough stonework of the wall. “We’ll get him back. You’ll see, sir, we’ll get him back.” There were tears of frustration in his eyes as he watched the Germans roll past. “If we ran at them, sir, we might disrupt them. We might catch them by surprise, like we did in the trench.”

“There are too many of them,” Ramsay said. “We’ll stick to our original plan, McKim. Sit tight here for the day and move at night for our own lines.” He watched the Germans marching past as morning sunlight glinted from the never-ending rows of helmets. They seemed remorseless, a silent snake of field-grey marching in pursuit of the retreating British Army, an endless parade of polished boots rising and falling: thump, thump, thump, as if Germany was pouring out all its manpower in a final attempt to push the British army back to the Channel and an admission of defeat.

The words of that German song came back into his mind, sung with all the arrogance of impending victory:

“Lieb vaterland magst ruhig sein

Lieb vaterland, magst ruhig sein

Fest steht und treu die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein

Fest steht und true die Wacht, die Wacht am Rhein!”

“It’s as if the Somme and Paschendaele never happened.” McKim shook his head in disbelief. “All those thousands of boys, lost for nothing, and now the Huns are rolling us up as if we were not there.” He scraped his helmet against the stone so that sparks flew. “We’ll get him back though, never you fear, sir.” He ran his thumb along the rim and repeated, “Death and hell to every one of the bastards, death and hell to them.”

“Death and hell indeed,” Ramsay said softly. But to whom? The German army seems to stretch forever and there are only thirteen of us here.

Flockhart reached over as if to touch McKim’s shoulder, glanced at Ramsay and dropped it again. “We could be following the German advance for days,” he said, “and never catch up.”

“Nobody advances that far and that fast,” Ramsay tried to sound confident. “They will march beyond their supplies and have to stop to consolidate. Then Haig will counter attack and catch them on the hop.” He looked directly at McKim. “We will get back to the regiment, we will get home, and we will win this war.”

They lapsed into silence, listening to the marching Germans and the rumble of supply wagons and guns over the cracked pave. “You better get some rest, Sergeant. You too, McKim,” Ramsay said. “I’ll stay on watch.”

“I am all right for a while, sir,” Flockhart said.

“Get some sleep, Flockhart. That’s an order,” Ramsay said. Why the hell did I say that? If he is tired, he is more likely to make a mistake and get killed. Except he might get us all killed and these men deserve better than that. Damn it!

“I will in a minute, sir,” Flockhart said. “It’s not right that I should sleep while an officer is awake.”

Ramsay opened his mouth but said nothing, Flockhart had made the decision he should have made for him. Let fate decide the outcome. The Germans continued to march past, rank after rank of soldiers, some silent, some talking; there was the occasional snatch of song but most of them were grim-faced and professional. Ramsay watched and said nothing. Each German soldier between him and the British lines decreased his chances of returning home. He missed Gillian, but what would she think of him if she knew the truth? Oh God, Gill, what would you think?

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” McKim broke the silence, “but was it the war that brought you into the army? I know you are not a regular.” He placed his helmet back on his head, pushed it down firmly and fastened the chinstrap. As he watched the German column march past, his hand reached for his rifle. Flockhart put a hand on his arm and shook his head.

“Not yet, Kenny. Our turn will come.” He faced Ramsay, his eyebrows raised. “Did you volunteer, sir?”

You are still probing, Flockhart. You are suspicious now.

“Yes,” Ramsay agreed. “I volunteered when the war started.” He held Flockhart’s eyes and tried not to blink. The days before he donned the king’s uniform seemed an unreal existence. He smiled wryly at the memories. “I had to do my bit for King and country.”

Flockhart barely glanced up as a heavy shell ripped overhead to explode in a dark fountain of mud a hundred yards behind them. He glanced over to McKim. “That’s our boys reminding Fritz that they have not won yet.”

“Maybe the gunners are going to plaster the German reinforcements!” McKim looked eager at the prospect until Ramsay reminded him, “If the artillery starts any plastering, McKim, we are directly in their line of fire. The spotters will use this ruin as a range finder and plaster us as well.”

They all looked skyward and searched for any sign of British air presence, but the Royal Flying Corps was absent and the sky clear except for a trio of German fighters flying languidly toward the British lines. The white puffs of British Archie seemed innocent from down here and the Germans flew on, unconcerned and untouched until obscured by distance.

A volley of shells followed the first, smashing down around the farmhouse and the sleeping men awoke. Aitken cowered closer to the wall while most of the others simply rolled over and fell back asleep, too tired to be concerned. A second volley followed, landing a hundred yards over, and a third landed even further away. Then there was silence, and the acrid drift of lyddite in the smoke.

Flockhart continued the previous conversation as though nothing had happened, “What were you before the war started, sir?” His eyes were more than curious, they were predatory.

“Don’t you know what I was?” Ramsay began, but the sound of another passing shell drowned his words and then McKim spoke quietly. “The Germans won’t win.”

Ramsay glanced at him. There was no false defiance, the corporal was just stating what he firmly believed to be a fact.

“Good man, McKim.” He gave a bleak smile. “It’s statements such as that, and men like you, that convince me Fritz won’t win this war.”

McKim grunted. “Have you seen those wagons rolling back, sir?” He nodded to the nearby road. “They started just as the shells came down.”

Ramsay looked up. He had been too busy ducking from the British artillery shells to even notice the changes on the road. McKim was right, the German infantry were now marching on the verges beside the road. Wheeled vehicles had taken their place on the pave.

Ramsay looked at them; military wagons drawn by teams of horses. Some bore the broad red cross of ambulances, others wore plain canvas covers over the back. They moved slowly, nose to tail against the tide of the marching men and although Ramsay stretched his neck as far as it was safe without revealing himself to the nearby Germans, he could not see the tail of the convoy.

“There are a lot of them,” Ramsay said.

“Aye, sir,” McKim said, “and if you look at the sides, as they pass sir, you can see inside the flaps. The Huns have the covers tied down so their troops can’t see inside, but they are carrying the casualties. See the blood?”

Ramsay concentrated on one wagon out of the hundreds that were passing. He saw the dark streaks down the side and the ominous red drops that descended to the splintered stone of the pave. “Fritz may be pushing us back but he is paying a heavy price for it,” he agreed.

“And he is using his best troops, too,” McKim said. “That first wave was storm troopers, they were Saxons, and then we faced the Prussian Guards, and that lot that marched past were a mixture of Bavarians and Prussians. That’s the reason old Fritz won’t win.” He produced his pipe and thrust it into his mouth. “He’s gaining ground but losing his best men.” He sucked on his empty pipe. “And you volunteered for all this blood and slaughter too, sir.”

Once again Ramsay was aware of Flockhart’s interest as the sergeant moved slightly closer. He kept his voice neutral and nodded. “I had to do my bit,” he said slowly. He could sense Flockhart watching him through narrow eyes and forced a shrug. “It seemed the best thing to do at the time.”

McKim gave a small smile. “Good for you, sir,” he said, “I expect it all seemed like a big adventure back then.”

“It did,” Ramsay agreed with a smile that was hardly forced at all. “It all seems so long ago.”

The memories came back of that fateful autumn day he had signed away his life for the duration of the war.

There seemed always to be a cold wind on the Dean Bridge in Edinburgh. It came from nowhere and swirled the dead leaves around their legs, flicked Gillian’s dark hair across her face despite her tight hat and flapped the lapels of Ramsay’s coat in a mad frenzy against his chest. He lowered his head, tucked Gillian’s arm closer under the crook of his elbow and strode on, occasionally squeezing her to show his affection and pride. A group of soldiers passed them, young men talking too loudly to hide their self consciousness in their stiff new khaki.

“We must look over the parapet,” Gillian decided for them. “I always look over the parapet of the Dean Bridge whenever I cross.”

Ramsay smiled indulgent acceptance and allowed her to steer him to the breast-high wall. They stood there arm in arm and Gillian stretched to stare down at the Water of Leith rushing brown and creamy white between its verdant banks far below. “I always get dizzy looking at this,” she said, “and I am not sure whether I want to run away and hide from the fall, or launch myself into space. It must be a form of vertigo I have.”

“We’d better get back, then.” Ramsay tried to usher her away from the wall but she shook off his hand and stood on tip-toes to look further over. Her head and the top half of her body stretched over the wall and she peered down and down and further down as Ramsay smiled and held on to her arm.

“Oops!” Gillian grabbed hold of her hat and giggled nervously as the wind threatened to blow it away. She looked sideways at him, her eyes bright with mischief. “Did you see that? I nearly lost my hat! Don’t you wish we could fly, Douglas? Can you imagine the fun? Being like a bird and just jumping off here and soaring away?”

“You are a strange little creature,” Ramsay said.

“Why thank you, sir.” Gillian half-turned her head away, but Ramsay saw her smile as she returned to her scrutiny of the water far beneath. “Where are you taking me today, Douglas?”

“You’ll see.” Ramsay turned the small box over in his pocket. It was cool and square and so very important.

Am I doing the right thing? Am I being presumptuous?

Gillian laughed and drew back from the parapet. “All right then. Lead on MacDuff.” She bumped her hip against his with a movement that could have been deliberate, but if so there was no indication as she pulled away again to a more respectable four inches.

Ramsay replaced her arm inside his and pulled her closer, but not near enough to touch. He led her off the bridge and round the corner into the terraces and crescents of the Georgian New Town.

There was a group of women clustered at the corner of Moray Place. They were talking quietly as they held their parasols against the wind and controlled the ripple of their long skirts. They all looked round as Ramsay and Gillian walked arm in arm. One broke away from the group and approached, smiling pleasantly as she hugged a handbag to her plump breasts.

She was perhaps twenty-five, with the heavy face that signified self indulgence and would certainly run to fat in later life. At present she was graceful, elegant and confident.

“Are you on leave, sir?” Her voice was educated, Morningside more than Canongate, and her eyes were friendly as they scrutinised him. Grey eyes, quite pretty. There is potential here, for a year or two.

Ramsay shook his head. “No, I am not.”

She thinks I am in the Army. Do I look like a soldier? It must be the spread of my shoulders and my upright carriage. What fun.

“Ah,” her smile broadened, “you are still waiting for your commission to come through then.”

“No,” Ramsay met her smile. “I am waiting for my final Law results from Edinburgh University.”

Now what do you say when you know I am going to be a solicitor? Are you impressed, my fine fat lady?

The smile faded from the woman’s face. “Young man,” she said, “you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself, hiding behind the pages of a book while other and better men are dying for king and country.”

You pompous hussy! Young man? I doubt I am three years younger than you!

The woman reached into her handbag, produced a small white feather and, as Ramsay stood still, pinned it on the lapel of his coat. “You should be in uniform.”

You besom! You pretended friendship to trap me!

As the woman stalked back to her friends, Gillian gave a little giggle. The other women were glaring at them; one woman of about forty shook her head and repeated, “You should be in uniform.” She gave Gillian a look that would have frozen hell and said, “And you should be ashamed to be seen walking out with a coward, young lady.”

“Come on, Gill.” Ramsay took hold of Gillian’s arm and strode away. He could feel the flush of blood colouring his face. After a few steps he tore the white feather from his lapel, threw it on the ground and stamped on it. The object lay there, accusing him of all the things that the women had said.

Evil besoms. I am no coward. I am trying to make something of my life and not wasting it in a silly war. They had no right to say that, women don’t go to war. They don’t know what it is like.

Gillian giggled again. “Temper, temper, Douglas: I have never seen you take on so! Do you know who these ladies were?” She answered her own question. “They were the League of the White Feather. They go about the city trying to shame men into joining the army.”

“Well,” Ramsay said as he ground the feather under his heel, “they won’t shame me.” He looked at Gillian and smiled. “I have other ideas for my future than finding glory in France.”

Gillian’s smile spread right across her face. “I wish you would tell me what they are, Douglas. Why don’t you tell me?”

Ramsay listened to the echo of his footsteps from the serene grey sandstone and to the rustle of leaves from the trees in the private garden that sat secure behind its iron railings. This was Edinburgh at its best: serene; dignified, secure, home to the High Court and very much his world. This was where he belonged, not facing death and glory in some maniacal charge across foreign fields. “I’ll tell you when the time is appropriate,” he said.

“Oh, you are such a beast!” Gillian squeezed his arm. She looked up at him, blinking as a wisp of hair flopped across her eyes. Ramsay brushed the hair away and bent to kiss her, but she pulled away with a slight smile. “You would look so handsome in uniform, though,” she said, thoughtfully. “I can see you as a dashing captain in the cavalry, charging the Germans at the head of your men.”

Oh God, not you too!

Ramsay frowned. “This war will all be over by Christmas,” he told her. “Neither us or France or Germany or Austria has the resources to make it last longer than that. And after all, the Kaiser is related to the king, why should we fight each other?” He shrugged.

Don’t let her think such things. Take charge!

“Even if I volunteered today, I would never get near the front. By the time I am trained it would all be finished.” He looked away. That was a blatant lie. He had no intention of joining the army and leaving his comfortable life behind. The very thought was terrifying.

Gillian crinkled her nose up. “Oh, Dougie! That’s so disappointing.” She wriggled free of his hand and moved a step away from him, pouting. “You would suit a uniform – the tight leggings, the smart jacket, the scarlet and black and gleaming brass . . .” She giggled like a schoolgirl and looked away, blushing furiously. “You have no idea what that thought is doing to me!”

You don’t need a uniform for that, my girl. Wait until I get you somewhere quiet and I will redouble those feelings.

Ramsay looked at her. “You are indeed a strange little creature,” he said, and the genuine affection he felt for her redoubled. She smiled up at him and poked out her little pink tongue.

Oh, dear God! Gillian. Don’t do that in public, please!

He fingered the box in his pocket again, suddenly certain that he was doing the right thing. The revelation burst on him unannounced and he stopped dead in the street. He wanted this woman. He wanted to hear her musical voice with that fascinating gurgling laugh, he wanted to smell her hair, he wanted to feel her small gloved hand inside his as they walked side by side along the elegant streets of Edinburgh and he wanted her in his bed. God, how he wanted to have her in his bed.

Is this love? Is this love, this desire to investigate and examine every aspect of her? I don’t only want her body. I want her mind and her sound and her soul. Oh, dear God, I have fallen in love with her.

“Shall we step along?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Where are you taking me, sir?” Gillian’s chin thrust out appealingly

“To an island in the Caribbean,” Ramsay kept his voice mysterious and smiled at Gillian’s gasp of delight.

“The Caribbean!” There was a pause as he guided her along the Georgian terrace, and then came the inevitable and expected question, “Where is that?”

“It’s not far from here,” Ramsay told her seriously. “It’s a very romantic haunt of pirates and smugglers and writers.”

“This is a lovely area,” Gillian echoed his thoughts as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I do love Edinburgh so.” She looked up at him with her eyes wide and grey and smiling. “I never want to leave this city.”

“Nor do I,” he told her, truthfully. Especially not to go and fight in Flanders field.

They crossed to the elegant terrace of Heriot Row, and Ramsay guided Gillian to the private garden occupying the entire southern half of the street. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the key, unlocked the gate and pushed it open. It creaked slightly as he ushered her in. The autumnal tints of the spreading trees contrasted with the bright blue of the sky above while a blackbird sang melancholic and sweet. The atmosphere altered as soon as they stepped inside; seclusion and privilege surrounded them.

“This isn’t the Caribbean,” Gillian protested. “This is Queen Street Gardens.”

Ramsay rubbed a hand up her arm. “We aren’t there yet,” he said. “Come on now, it’s only a short step.”

He led her along the ochre-red path to where the pond lay, still under its canopy of trees, the water languid, specked with fallen leaves. “Here we are,” Ramsay stopped at a green-painted bench. “Sit you down now.” He watched as she smoothed her skirt beneath her and folded herself onto the wooden slats. She looked up at him, eyes bright and questioning.

“Here I am, Douglas.”

Ramsay stood at her side. Now the moment had come he felt nervous, yet there was no need. He had no doubts that he was correct and the recent, overwhelming surge of affection had only confirmed his decision. “Did you know that this was where Robert Louis Stevenson thought of Treasure Island?” He indicated the small island that sat in the middle of the pond and then nodded to the street beyond. “He used to live just over there, in Heriot Row.”

“Did you bring me here to tell me that?” Gillian’s eyebrows rose slightly. There was amusement in her eyes, and perhaps a touch of something else. Disappointment perhaps?

Ramsay shook his head. He realised he was just trying to delay the moment. “No, I was just explaining the Caribbean connection.” He forced a smile he guessed must look like the grin on the face of a skull. He fumbled in his pocket, found the box and pulled it out. His hand was trembling so much that he nearly dropped it on the path. He knelt, hoping there were no witnesses.

Who cares about witnesses? This is one of the most important decisions of my life.

“Gillian,” he opened the box and pushed it toward her. “Would you consent to become my wife?”

God that sounds clumsy!

The call of the blackbird seemed to last for an eternity as Gillian looked at him and then at the ring. Her eyes were a liquid grey and so beautiful that he wanted to just sink inside them and stay forever.

When they came, her words seemed to cut so deep into him that he gasped. “No, Douglas,” she said softly. “No. I will not consent to become your wife.”

What? You can’t turn me down? I am Douglas Ramsay! I am set to become a successful solicitor! How dare you treat me like this, damn you!

The blackbird was still calling, but the sound was now a mockery of beauty. Ramsay felt the breath choking in his throat. “Dear God, why not? I love you, Gillian. I am on the cusp of my career. Once I pass my finals – and I will – I will be a solicitor. I already have a position in a law firm. We will have enough money to live in comfort, and . . .”

Gillian was smiling and shaking her head. She pressed a gloved finger against his lips. “Sshhhh, Douglas, dear. I know all about your attributes. I have no doubt of your love, but you see, I want a husband of whom I can be proud, and how could I be proud of a solicitor when all the brave young men are marching to war?”

I am not going to France to get killed or have my legs blown off by some German artilleryman. Not for you and not for anybody else, for God’s sake. There are plenty more women who would jump at the opportunity of marrying a solicitor.

But I love you, damn it all, and I don’t love anybody else.

“To war?” Still on his knees, Douglas stared at her. “You want me to be a soldier? I thought I had explained about that. This war will all be over before I’m even half-trained.”

“Well then, you have nothing to lose, do you?” Gillian shifted along the seat, away from him. “You know that all three of my brothers have joined up, don’t you? I don’t want to be married to the only man in the family who did not do his bit.” She was still smiling, but there was doubt behind the grey eyes now, and something shifting that Ramsay did not like. He did not want to think that it was contempt.

He stood up and brushed the dirt from his knees. He had never wanted this girl as badly as he did at that second.

Damn, damn, damn!

“If I agree to volunteer, will you agree to marry me?” He kept the temper from his voice and fought against the desire to throw the box and ring into the pond and stamp away in frustration and disgust.

“Certainly,” Gillian said at once.

“Well then,” Ramsay contemplated her. With that single dark hair still loose across her heart-shaped face, and her lips open, ready to smile or frown, she was utterly endearing. “Well then,” he repeated, “in that case, I can hardly refuse.”

Oh, Christ. What have I said? Please God the war is over before I get near the front.

Her smile seemed enough reward for a lifetime of soldiering. “Is that a solitaire diamond on my ring?”

*

“You volunteered, then?” McKim asked and Ramsay crashed back to a present consisting of mud and broken men and lyddite-tainted smoke.

“I did,” he said. “Kitchener and the King could not do without me.”

McKim grunted. “Of course not, sir. The army would not be the same without you. Why just the other day General Haig was saying to me . . .” He stopped talking, “Sorry, sir. No offence intended.”

Flockhart continued to scrutinise him through narrow, thoughtful eyes.

He is working out where he met me before. I have to get rid of him before he remembers and murders me out of hand.

Although the German column had passed, the tramp and shudder of marching feet could still be felt, while the return convoy of ambulance wagons was never-ending. Ramsay realised that his men were all awake again and watching the road.

“Try and grab some more sleep, lads,” Ramsay ordered. “Sergeant Flockhart, you take the next watch, call me at noon.” Uncaring of the mud and shattered stones, he rolled on his side and closed his eyes, not expecting to sleep. The memories of Gillian and that peaceful day in Edinburgh returned and he had to fight against self-pitying tears. The halcyon days of before-the-war seemed so far away they were like a different world. He knew, somehow, that nothing would ever be the same again.

I will never be the same careless man again.

They moved an hour after dusk, slipping silently from the shelter of the shattered farm to head in the direction of the retreating British Army.

“Which way, sir?” Cruickshank asked.

“Head for the guns, Cruickshank, and keep your eyes open for Fritz.” The gunfire continued as a muted roar in the distance, punctuating the horizon with red and white flashes.

“The lads are still fighting, then,” Flockhart said. He pointed to a new shell crater in the ground, the remains of three Germans bore testament to the accuracy of the British artillery.

“But still retreating too,” McKim reminded. “This must be our biggest withdrawal since Mons.” He nudged Flockhart’s side. “Remember that, Flocky? When the angels came to help us? I wonder if they will come again this time.”

Flockhart grunted again. “There are no such things as angels, McKim. There are no angels and there is no God. There is only hell and demons and they are all around us in this purgatory.”

“We’ll keep in line with the road, lads, but far enough away so the Germans won’t see us.” Ramsay led from the front, but he was now constantly aware of a faint prickling at the back of his neck. He knew that Flockhart was gradually working out who he was and where they had met. Once Flockhart worked that out, then there was another threat to his life and an even greater threat to his reputation and name.

“Keep the lads together, Flockhart,” Ramsay ordered. He turned around and saw the compact group of Royals, with McKim slightly to one side and Flockhart in the rear. Flockhart’s eyes met his and did not drop. They probed him; musing, questioning, suspicious, and Ramsay touched the butt of his pistol as a warning. Flockhart nodded but said nothing.

He must know who I am. He must have worked it out and now he’ll try and kill me. I must get rid of him before we reach the British lines. There will be an opportunity somewhere. If not I will make one.

They trudged on into the dark, stumbling over loose strands of wire, skirting the deep shell craters with their pools of gas-poisoned water, freezing with every star shell and flare and watching the intermittent flashes that lit up the horizon and revealed where the fighting front was.

“Over there, sir.” McKim pointed into the dark. “If you look at the gun flashes, you will see something sticking up. It may be a village or something.”

Ramsay focussed, narrowing his eyes against the sudden brilliant flashes of artillery against the dark of the night. There was something there; an oblong of greater black protruding from the chaos of the ground.

“It might be an idea to investigate,” Ramsay said.