CHAPTER SIX

23 March 1918

The church tower rose above the flattened ruins of the hamlet it had once served. Without a map and with every recognisable feature of the surrounding countryside devastated by war, Ramsay had no way of knowing the name of the place.

“Do you have any idea where we are, Sergeant?”

Face him directly, alleviate any suspicion, appear as normal as possible.

Flockhart looked around and screwed up his face. “I couldn’t really say, sir. There are so many wee villages around here, and all have churches.” He shrugged. “I know we are somewhere east of Albert and west of Berlin.”

Sarcasm? Or humour? Is Flockhart trying to show his contempt for me?

Ramsay turned away. “That was very helpful, Sergeant. How long until dawn, McKim, would you say?” Until the beginning of this retreat, Ramsay would never have dreamed of asking the opinion of a mere corporal, but the enforced close companionship had stripped away some of the elitism of rank.

“Less than an hour, sir,” McKim said at once. “Then Fritz will see us marching across his landscape as if we own the bloody place.”

Ramsay listened to the sputter of a machine gun and the crackle of musketry. He estimated it to be at least three miles away, possibly further. For all their marching since the German breakthrough, they were further behind the front than they had been at the start.

“I want to get up there,” he nodded to the church tower. “I want to see how far we are from our lines.”

The tower loomed upward, its top lost in the already lessening dark. “Flockhart, you organise a defensive position around the base,” Ramsay ordered. “If any parties of Fritz approach, destroy the bastards.”

McKim grinned. “That’s the spirit, sir!”

“I’m surprised the Germans have not already occupied this place, sir,” Flockhart said quietly. “It will make a splendid observation post.”

“So am I,” Ramsay admitted quietly. “It makes me wonder just how far they have already advanced. Take McKim and six men and set up defensive positions. I will take Aitken and Turnbull with me in case of nasty surprises.”

And hope to God that our side don’t decide to use this place to range their artillery.

Shelling had ruined the nave of the church and brought down the roof so the interior was a heap of shattered rubble, interspersed with shards of stained glass that glittered and crunched underfoot. The disembodied head of the Madonna stared at them from the top of a shattered pew, its eyes accusing, seemingly wondering how mankind could remain this destructive and violent nearly two thousand years after her son had carried the message of peace and love. There had been a skirmish in here very recently, with three bodies among the ruins, two dressed in British khaki, the third in bloodstained field-grey.

“Check them for ammunition and food,” Ramsay ordered, and lifted three clips from the nearest man. Aitken watched and then rifled the equipment of the second British corpse. Turnbull circled slowly, keeping the muzzle of his rifle pointed toward the darker areas of shadow within the ruins. Only one wall remained nearly intact, with a staircase coiling upward.

“This bugger had his iron rations intact,” Aitken said. “Shall I share it with the lads?” He showed the tin of bully beef and packets of biscuits and sugar and tea that every infantryman carried as standard issue.

“There’s not much to share,” Ramsay said. He eyed the food. It was days since he had eaten properly and even this meagre amount made him ache for sustenance.

You are the officer. It is your duty to look to the men first and yourself last. Ignore the hunger!

“Have half, Aitken and give the rest to Turnbull; maybe the other man has anything?”

“There’s nothing on him at all, sir. He must have been a right greedy bastard.” Turnbull pushed away the corpse in disgust. It was significant that neither soldier searched the German. Even in death he was still the enemy.

“You two watch the flanks. If Fritz has the sense I know he has he will have his eye on this place as an observation post.” Ramsay hesitated for a moment, watching as Aitken opened the bully beef with the point of his bayonet. The smell of the beef seemed to set a fire in his stomach and for one guilty second he was tempted to pull rank and demand his share.

You can’t do that. You need the respect and loyalty of these men.

“Keep alert, Aitken.” Ramsay turned away and tested the first step of the stairs. They were solid stone and had probably been in place for many centuries before this war had rained new powers of destruction on them. The passage of thousands of feet over hundreds of years had worn a depression in the centre of each. The step felt secure and Ramsay moved upward, tested the next and carried on. There were fixtures in the wall to which a rope handrail had presumably once been fastened, but now there was nothing except the rough stone, pockmarked where shrapnel had smashed against it.

I feel vulnerable already. If Flockhart wants to shoot me he will rarely have a better target.

Five steps, ten, and Ramsay was well above head height. The remaining external walls were low and as the grey light of dawn expanded across the eastern horizon he felt very exposed. He was a tiny moving figure against a background of slender grey stone, crawling upward step by careful step. After thirty steps he stopped. There was a gap where a blast had torn apart the stonework and left a hole of sucking nothingness.

Now what do I do? Every German in this part of France can see me if he just glances in this direction.

He looked down. Turnbull was watching him, his face white against the dark background of rubble. Aitken was sweeping the surroundings, rifle ready, watching for the Germans.

Should he go on? Ramsay looked upward, the steps continued, spiralling round and round the central stone column toward the rapidly lightening heavens above. In places the wall remained, concealing the stairs from the outside world, in other places there were huge gaps in the stonework where he would feel ridiculously exposed. Yes, he decided. He must go on. His men were watching. He reached up, grasped the next step, three levels up, and tested it for stability. It felt firm; the step was imbedded into the central column, a solid slab of sandstone that had been carved from some quarry by hand, many centuries ago.

Ramsay took a deep breath and a firm hold of the step. Here we go, then. He stepped into space. For a second he was suspended, hanging on by his fingernails alone as his feet scrabbled for purchase on the rounded central column. The drop seemed to be sucking at his feet, calling him down and he remembered Gillian’s remarks about wanting to fly when she looked over the parapet of the Dean Bridge. That happy day seemed so long ago and far away. He pushed aside the thought, glanced down and saw Turnbull’s white face still staring up at him.

He probably hopes the officer will fall. All officers are bastards, after all. I won’t provide him with free entertainment.

He stretched as far as he could until he felt the skin at the tip of his fingers scraped raw, but his feet found the joints between two stones and he pushed himself upward. There was a second of panic as he hung over the edge and then he pulled himself up and stood on the step. He felt his heart pounding and blinked away the beads of sweat that had collected on his eyebrows.

The rim of the sun had eased onto the horizon during the few moments he had been scrabbling to get over the gap and Ramsay could see the entire panorama of the old Somme battlefield. It was only a few square miles of churned earth and torn landscape, yet it had been the scene of hundreds of thousands of deaths and unthinkable agony. All now wasted as the Germans had pushed the British back in a matter of a few days.

Ramsay shook away the thoughts and continued upward, still testing each step as the sun rose along with him and the view grew immense. There were gun flashes to the south and west, intermittent. Mere pinpricks that disguised the fact they were missiles of hellish destruction. He could see villages that were now mere piles of rubble and some that were virtually untouched amidst the carnage of war. There was also a band of smoke that showed where the advance had reached.

Ramsay narrowed his eyes, trying to judge where the front was now. Some miles away, that was for certain. Even as he watched there was a series of explosions, bright bursts of shells around a small village, and the wild crackle of musketry drifting on the breeze.

Amidst the scattering of villages he saw a sizeable town. That would be Albert, surely, with the church tower even taller than this one and the railhead and bustling civilian population. It looked far enough away to be secure. Ramsay wished he had a pair of binoculars, but wishing was pointless. He stepped upward, wincing as the next step crumbled beneath his feet and fragments of stone hurtled downward, turning end over end until they landed with an audible crash just a few feet from where Aitken crouched behind his levelled rifle. Ramsay saw him jump and whirl round. He did not fire and Ramsay continued.

Shellfire had damaged the upper tower and the exterior wall no longer existed. There was only the pillar around which the stairs spiralled, leading upward in a dizzy circle toward the heavens. Ramsay held on to this central pillar with his left hand as he followed the stairs – the empty space to his right sucking at him and the sun rising in crimson splendour to the east.

“Don’t you love the sunshine?” She asked him after their third bout of the afternoon.

He nodded as he watched the sheen of sweat on her upper body and the light passing shadows over her stomach. She turned her head to smile at him, with teeth uneven but surprisingly white.

“My father doesn’t see it much,” she sounded sad. Like so many girls of her class she was emotional and volatile, quick to anger and equally quick to tears.

“Why is that?” Ramsay asked, and then cursed his own stupidity. “Of course, he works down the mines, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” she said. “He’s in the Lady Victoria.” There was pride in her voice.

Ramsay nodded. Although his father owned shares in various mines he had no idea which one was which. He presumed that working in the Lady Victoria was a sign of prestige to this girl. “That must be interesting.”

“It’s bloody hard work,” the girl said. “Mother has to wash him when he comes home. He sits in the tub in front of the fire all black with coal.”

Ramsay hid the thrill of shock. He smiled at the thought of his elegant and graceful mother washing his father in a tub in front of the living room fire.

“Do you find that funny?” The girl struggled to sit up so Ramsay kissed her again, softly, and eased her back to the ground.

“I find you adorable,” he said, and kissed her again. She responded with a will, and then slid her lips free.

“Where will we live?” she asked.

“Where do we live?” Ramsay said, “You know where we live. I live in Edinburgh and you live in Newtongrange with your father.”

“I said where will we live,” the girl repeated. “After we are married, I mean. Where will we live? Will I move into Edinburgh with you or will you come out here with us?”

Ramsay stared at her. He did not hide his amusement.

The tower was truncated; the top had been blown off so Ramsay balanced on a single, half broken step with half of Picardy unravelled before him and empty air all around. He surveyed the view. The old battlefield of the Somme spread like a plague-site; the churned and broken grave of three quarters of a million men. A sliver of cloud obscured the rising sun and the scene darkened, as if God was frowning at this insignificant man peering over the wreckage of a beautiful country. Ramsay swore and focussed toward the west, where the British lines should be.

There was the flash or artillery and the pall of smoke where guns were firing or houses burning. There was the occasional fountain of earth and mud where a shell landed, or the bright starburst of an explosion. Ramsay concentrated on searching for any sign of a British stand. He looked for a concentration of troops and shelling, or a merging of marching men. He saw a number of mobile observation balloons floating high above the tortured ground, but they were moving too slowly for him to ascertain in what direction they were headed. Far below the nearest balloon was a truck, at the head of what appeared to be a dusty snake but which would be a marching column of men, dwarfed by height and distance. They were not far from Albert. Ramsay nodded. That could be British reinforcements marching to stabilise the front. The situation was obviously improving.

The cloud passed. A thin gleam of sunlight eased onto the column.

“Oh, good God in heaven!” Ramsay focussed on the marching men. For a second he thought they were the guards, but then the sun glinted off the ranked helmets and onto the uniforms below. They were not khaki. The Germans were pushing the British back to the very gates of Albert.

If Albert falls, how much further can the Germans get? Arras? Amiens even? Dear God, if they break through they will head north and roll up our line, all the way to the Channel!

Movement caught his eye. There was a village much closer than Albert, spread on some rising ground. There were troops formed around it and the puffs of light artillery. The British were holding out, somehow. Was that a train? Ramsay nodded. Yes. So there were still transport links between that village and the British line. Perhaps it was a salient pushed in the German advance by a counter attack, or a piece of line that had refused to crumble. He needed a second pair of eyes to verify what he saw.

Who had the best eyesight? Undoubtedly that was McKim. Then the idea came to him. He had nearly fallen when he crossed that gap in the stairs. Nobody could suspect him if Flockhart fell there. The sergeant was older and had been in the line far longer; he was fatigued, worn out with the strain of constant fighting. Get rid of Flockhart – Ramsay hesitated to use the word ‘murder’, even to himself – and half his troubles would be gone. After that he would only have the Germans to worry about, and surviving the war.

Dear God, I would be free!

The thought was like an electric light bulb illuminating inside his head. It lifted his spirits so that he was negotiating the descent even before the plan was fully formed.

Do it! Do it now! Don’t think about it. Just do it. I’ll be free!

Turnbull and Aitken were still on watch, peering over the low walls, while further out, Flockhart and McKim had organised a defensive perimeter and a scatter of khaki-clad men huddled around the ruins. Ramsay waved a hand and signalled for Flockhart to come up. He watched as the sergeant handed his rifle to Niven and approached the stairs.

“Be careful, Flockhart,” Ramsay shouted, loud enough for all the men to hear. “There are some missing steps, but I need your opinion on something.”

Flockhart waved an acknowledgement and came up the first set of steps.

The bastard is faster and more sure-footed than I am. How can I get rid of him without the men seeing?

Ramsay waited at the top of the gap in the stairs, holding out his hand as though to help Flockhart up. The sergeant ascended without a pause until he came to the gap. “Thank you, sir,” he balanced at the lip, looked for footholds and stepped into the abyss.

Ramsay stretched down, their hands met and gripped. Now I have you! Now I can rid myself of this burden and find peace of mind. I will be free with Gillian.

“Up you come, Flockhart!” Ramsay exerted pressure to pull Flockhart further into the gap so there could be no possibility of the sergeant taking hold of the steps. He glanced down. Most of the men were watching for any approaching Germans, but there were a few faces staring at them. Ramsay looked away.

Flockhart found a foothold and the pressure on Ramsay’s hand eased slightly. He could feel Flockhart’s hard fingers slipping through his and he watched the sergeant’s face furrowed with concentration as he sought safety in the upper tower.

“Sir!”

Ramsay could see beads of sweat forming on Flockhart’s face. He looked directly into the hard blue eyes and saw the pain and fortitude and grief there. He saw the lines deeply etched into the face he had only glimpsed once, but remembered so well.

Do you remember me now, you bastard? Do you remember where we first met? Do you remember Grace? Do you?

Flockhart’s boots were slipping on the stonework. Ramsay saw his studs strike a spark that glittered momentarily and died.

“Sir!”

There was urgency in Flockhart’s voice now, as he tightened his grip on Ramsay’s hand.

God he’s strong, but if I loosen my fingers he will fall. He will die and half my problems will be over.

Ramsay locked eyes with Flockhart, but rather than release his grip, he pulled harder. It was an instinctive movement, not one dictated by his conscious mind, and within seconds Flockhart was lying on the steps, gasping for breath.

“Thank you, sir. I thought I was gone then.”

You should have been, you lucky bastard. I won’t save you a second time. Oh, God, I should have let you die.

“You’re all right now, Flockhart. Take your time and recover before you try any more stairs.”

They moved up together, their boots ringing on the stone stairs as Ramsay cursed himself for failing to take advantage of the situation. “You saved my life, sir,” Flockhart said. “I won’t forget that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Sergeant. It was nothing.”

When they reached the top of the tower the light had strengthened; the view was huge and the air clearer. They moved up more slowly now, Flockhart was obviously still a bit shaken from his near fall. He hesitated slightly when they reached the section with no outside wall, but carried on. A rising wind tugged at them, inviting them to step over to oblivion.

You might fall yet, Ramsay thought, but Flockhart continued to the topmost step and stood upright like a khaki-clad mountain goat, surveying the panorama.

“It’s different from up here, sir,” he said. “It all looks so small, sort of. It makes you wonder what it’s all about.”

“It’s all about beating the Hun, Sergeant.” Having saved this man’s life, Ramsay was not inclined to pander to his homespun philosophy. “Now. Look over there,” he indicated the village he had seen, “and tell me what you think.”

Flockhart studied the terrain for some time before he gave his opinion. “I see a straggling village with a train standing at a platform about halfway between here, wherever here is, and the town of Albert. I see British soldiers in formation around the village and the Germans trying to break the line.”

Ramsay nodded. “That is about what I thought, Sergeant. Anything else?”

Flockhart nodded. “Yes, sir. I can hear gunfire and see puffs of smoke as shells explode, and I see men massing to attack.”

“So what would you say was happening, Sergeant?” Ramsay hoped for confirmation of his own ideas from this sensible, experienced and level-headed veteran that he hated.

Flockhart was obviously not used to having an officer ask for his opinion. He glanced at Ramsay, looked away, and looked back before he answered. “I think that we are still holding out there, sir, and Fritz is trying to push us out.”

Ramsay nodded. “I agree, Flockhart. How far would you say that village was?”

Flockhart screwed up his face. “I would say three miles, sir. Four miles at the outside. Certainly no more than that.”

So the Huns have advanced four miles in, what, three days? But we are still holding out.

Ramsay nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

Now he had a definite target. All he had to do was get his men to that village and either help the defence or jump on that train and travel back to safety.

The ugly snarl of a Mercedes engine took Ramsay by surprise. He had been concentrating on the position of the rival armies to such an extent he had neglected his own security. The plane roared past him; the great black crosses prominent on its wings and the observer staring at him from the rear cockpit.

“Sir!” Flockhart shouted his warning a moment too late.

Ramsay looked down as the plane banked to turn. The sun gleamed on the varnished wings and the almost invisible arc of the propeller. It was a Halberstadt CL II, a specialist ground attack fighter, and to judge by the direction it was travelling, the pilot intended to rid the church steeple of these impudent British soldiers.

“Come on Sergeant, get down the stairs!” Ramsay saw Flockhart glide away in front of him as if he was a ghost. He tried to hurry down the steps toward the nearest fragment of sheltering wall but the third step crumbled beneath his feet and he staggered, and for a second his head and shoulders hung over the immense fall to the ground beneath.

“Sir!” He glanced up and saw Flockhart hesitate. The sergeant had reached the sheltering wall but was looking back as if prepared to return and drag his officer to safety.

“Stay there!” Ramsay yelled as he looked down. He could see his men scurrying among the ruins. Some were pointing upwards. Turnbull was aiming his rifle at the German aircraft, Marshall was clambering onto a pile of rubble as if to get a better shot, Niven was fiddling with his magazine. Ramsay recovered his balance and rose to his feet. As if moving in slow motion he stepped carefully over the missing step and flinched at the renewed rattle of the 7.92 Spandau.

The bullets sprayed around him, hacking at the ancient stonework and creating a haze of dust into which he ducked as the Halberstadt roared past, with the pilot grinning fiercely and an array of red and black ribbons fluttering from the struts as though the aircraft was celebrating a joyous occasion rather than trying to kill two men. For a second Ramsay stared straight into the goggled eyes of the observer; they were deep brown and warm, and then the machine roared past.

The plane turned again, streamers rippling from its struts, the pilot concentrating on his controls. The observer was struggling with his Spandau, which seemed to have jammed, and Ramsay allowed himself a few seconds breathing space. He took a deep breath and ducked as the single bullet smacked into the central column a few inches above his head, and swore again.

Where the devil did that come from? God! Had German infantry arrived while I was up the tower?

Ramsay looked down and saw half a dozen men pointing rifles in his direction; his own men.

“Stop!” He waved his arms at them, coming perilously close to overbalancing on the spiral stairs. “Hold your fire!”

They could not hear him. He saw them working the bolts of their rifles, aiming and firing at the rapidly moving German aircraft and he jumped the final few steps to where a fragment of wall offered some shelter. Just as he arrived the Halberstadt roared past again, its machine gun chattering, bullets chewing at the wall and steps below.

“You bastard!” Ramsay shouted. He unholstered his pistol and fired at the aircraft, knowing that the possibility of hitting anything vulnerable was very remote. The machine roared past, and dived on the men firing at it from the ruins below.

“Come on, sir!” Flockhart was in the shelter of the wall, watching the aircraft. “Get into cover!”

Ramsay saw the machine gun firing and spurts of dust and stone rising from the church then the plane reached the limit of its dive and rose again. He saw the Royal Scots rise from cover to fire at it, and realised that Flockhart was right. He began to hurry down the steps again.

“Come on Flockhart, we’ll get down as far as we can. The nearer the ground we are the better I’ll like it.”

“You’ll get no arguments from me there, sir,” Flockhart said. “This is definitely not bon!”

Ramsay heard more musketry and the snarl of the aircraft as he ran down the remaining stairs, but the wall prevented him from seeing what was happening. By the time they reached the gap in the stairs the aircraft was gone.

“I’ll go first, sir,” Flockhart volunteered, and stretched across the airy gap. He positioned himself and dropped the few feet to the lower steps. “It’s a lot easier going down than coming up, sir,” he said, but still he waited with hands outstretched for Ramsay to negotiate the yawning hole.

They gripped hands once more; this time Ramsay felt secure in Flockhart’s grasp.

“There we go, sir, all safe and sound.”

It was just a small run to the ground, where McKim was organising the men. “We’ve lost Marshall, sir,” McKim reported. “That Hun caught him clean with a burst.”

Ramsay grunted as he saw Marshall’s body lying crumpled beside an old gravestone. “He was a steady man. I saw him firing back at the aircraft. Who was closest to him?”

He looked around the small group of Royal Scots. After days in the line and on the march they were haggard, unshaven and ragged, but their rifles were clean and their faces determined.

“Menzies and Paterson, sir,” Turnbull volunteered. “They never made it out of the trenches.”

“I see.” Ramsay looked at Marshall again. Although he had marched with him for days, he had never spoken to him directly. Private Marshall had died alone. “Arrange for a burial, Sergeant. I don’t like to think of leaving my men for the birds.”

Does it matter? Once you are dead, you are dead. But it does matter to these men. They don’t like to think that their bodies will be left outside to rot.

The men scraped a shallow trench and rolled Marshall inside. A burst from the German aircraft had virtually cut him in two. They piled loose earth and stones on top of the body and Flockhart thrust a stick at the head to mark the resting place.

As soon as Marshall was laid to rest the men found a sheltered corner and curled up to catch as much sleep as they could. Nobody looked at the makeshift grave; they all knew they could be next.

“How far are we from the front, sir?” McKim asked. He had taken the clip from Marshall’s rifle and placed it in his pouch. He had also piled the last stone on top of Marshall’s body.

“About three miles,” Ramsay said. “There’s a village just that distance to the west, with what seems like a marshalling yard and a stores dump . . .”

“That will be Carnoy,” McKim said at once. “It’s a munitions dump.”

“We are holding out there,” Ramsay said. “Get the men up and ready to march.”

“They’ve marched all night and fought off that German aircraft,” Flockhart reminded, “they are dropping on their feet.”

“They’re Royal Scots,” Ramsay said flatly. “Get them ready.” He jerked his head skyward. “That machine will alert his headquarters that we are here and there’ll be hundreds of Huns knocking on the door in no time.”

McKim grunted but raised his voice. “Right lads, we’re on the move again. Up you get!”

“Bloody cold-blooded bloody officer,” somebody said, as others groaned or cursed or sighed, but they all stumbled to their feet, shouldered their rifles and waited for orders.

“We are holding out at a village called Carnoy,” Ramsay told them quietly. “It’s only about three miles away, but there are some Germans in the way.”

McKim did not hide his grin as he worked the bolt of his rifle. “We have another score to wipe off the slate,” he said and nodded to the pile of loose stones marking Marshall’s grave.

“And it’s near full daylight,” Ramsay had no need to say that.

“We can see them all the better in the light, sir,” McKim said.

“So keep together, keep your fingers on the trigger and try and keep out of trouble. If Fritz does not notice us, don’t draw attention to yourselves.” Ramsay checked the chambers of his revolver, snapped it shut and replaced it in its holster. “Right, lads; let’s try and get back.” He nodded to McKim, “You’re the most experienced man here, Corporal, you are the advance guard. Don’t get too far in front and don’t go looking for trouble.” He looked toward Flockhart but said nothing. Flockhart was smiling, but there was a question in his eyes.

I saved his life; I should have let him fall. Why did I do that? Now I have to find another opportunity. I wonder what he will do when he remembers where he first met me?

Ramsay tapped his fingers against the handle of his revolver once more. If he had to, he would use it and chance the consequences.

“Right lads, keep together now and with luck we will be back in our own lines before dark. Food, boys. We can get food!”

Naturally, it was Cruickshank who grumbled, ‘It will probably be bloody iron rations, bully beef and dusty tea.”

“Less of your lip, Cruickshank!” Flockhart snarled. “Just get on with it.”

Used to the cover of night, Ramsay felt near naked as he marched in the growing light of day. They passed a scattering of bodies, men from various British regiments and a larger number of Germans, twisted in the grotesque attitudes of death.

“There was a stand here,” Flockhart said. He indicated a group of German soldiers, all with bullet wounds across their midriff. They lay contorted in the mud. “A machine gun got that lot.”

“I hope the bastards suffered,” Cruickshank said and spat on the nearest enemy body.

“Enough of that!” Ramsay ordered sharply. “These were brave men doing their duty, just as we are!”

“They’re bloody Huns,” Cruickshank muttered. “They were murdering bloody Hun bastards.”

Ramsay chose not to hear the words. He marched on, fighting the waves of tiredness that threatened to overwhelm him. With each hour that passed he was increasingly aware of the hollow complaint of his stomach. He had eaten nothing since the iron rations of the day before, and they were not designed to take a man on a forced march across enemy-held territory.

“Sir!” McKim lifted his hand in warning. “I can hear something.”

“So can I,” Cruickshank said, “Oh, yes. It’s the bloody guns.”

As Flockhart hissed Cruickshank to silence, McKim stepped to the right. “It’s not that, listen. There’s somebody nearby.” He worked the bolt of his rifle, putting a round in the breech, ducked low, and slid twenty paces to the side. He stopped at the lip of a large shell crater. “Here we are, sir. It’s a German, sir.”

“A bloody Hun?” Cruickshank stepped forward, raising his rifle.

Ramsay was there first. He looked into the crater and stopped. There had been a German position here once; the remains of a section of men was scattered around like fragments of meat. There was no way of knowing how many men there had been, for now there were only pieces; heads and shattered heads, limbs and fragments of limbs mingled with shreds of unidentified meat and broken bones. In the middle of the carnage was a man. He lay on his back with both heels drumming on the ground and both fists raised above his head while he made small mewling noises.

He’s only about sixteen years old, the same age as Mackay. The poor wee boy should be at school, not in this nightmare.

McKim pointed to him. “Poor bugger. He’s shell shocked and no wonder with all his chums dead.”

“He’s a bloody Hun.” Cruickshank levelled his rifle, but Ramsay knocked the barrel up.

“He’s a badly wounded man,” Ramsay said quietly, “and no threat to us.”

“I can’t see a wound,” Cruickshank said sourly.

“It’s there nonetheless,” Ramsay told him. He hesitated for a moment. “We can’t just leave him here. The fellow will die.”

Cruickshank shrugged. “Let him. He’s a murdering Hun.”

The boy’s voice raised an octave and he began to howl. His twitching increased as he lay on the ground amidst the shattered blood and bones of his erstwhile comrades.

“We can’t take him with us, sir,” Flockhart said quietly. “We left one of our own behind in the trenches.” He lowered his voice further. “The lads are tired, sir. They’re nearly too tired to sweat so they won’t take kindly to carrying one of the enemy.”

Ramsay considered his words. “I agree. We’ll just make him as comfortable as we can and leave some sort of marker so the Germans can find him.”

As Ramsay moved the shell-shocked German to a safer spot, his men gathered together the German rifles and arranged them in a pyramid at the lip of the crater.

“That will have to do,” Ramsay said. He placed a German helmet on top.

“It’s more than our lads got,” Cruickshank said. “And a bit too much for a bloody Hun.”

Ramsay grunted. The howling of the shell-shocked German was getting on his nerves. “Let’s get away from here. Keep on toward Carnoy. Take the lead Flockhart.”

He gave the order in as casual a tone as he could and Flockhart obeyed without comment.

Come on Fritz, shoot the bastard. I helped one of yours, so repay the favour and kill one of mine.

Every step brought them closer to the firing, the crackle of musketry and sinister chatter of machine guns became louder and more dangerous

He began to count his steps, watching the slow progress of his feet across the wasted mess of land. There were a few thistles here, protruding stubbornly from the mess of mud, and he grunted at the bitter sweet memory of home.

There had been thistles in that field as well, tall, purple-topped beauties with feathery down, swaying slightly to the gentle hiss of the breeze. She had looked at him with laughter in her eyes and a smile of kiss-shaped lips. “David,” she had said, soft and sweet and low, “David. Now we will have to get married.”

His laughter had died on his lips when he realised she was deadly serious. What had started as a tumble in the hay with a willing country girl had turned into something far more intense.

Enough! Stay alert. With luck I can get these men to Carnoy and join our army. Now what do I know about Carnoy? It is on the road from Albert to Peronne, about 7 miles south east of Albert and there is a railway train there. Stay alert and stay alive.

“Keep moving lads!” Ramsay said. The words were unnecessary; the Royals were plodding on without any encouragement from him. He glanced at them. Turnbull had lost the puttees from his left leg somewhere and those on his right were trailing behind him. Aitken was looking around him nervously; Niven was glowering in the direction of Carnoy with pure determination; Blackley was whistling softly between his teeth; McKim was marching as solidly as if he was twenty years old; Cruickshank was grumbling about something: these were his men and he was more proud of them than of anything else in this world.

“Sir!” Flockhart came to Ramsay at a trot. “There’s something you should see.” The sergeant was obviously excited. “There’s a transport limber ahead! Food and ammunition!”

About to blast the man, Ramsay paused with his mouth open. Flockhart was speaking a lot of sense. “Good man. He must have taken a wrong turning in the dark. Lead on, MacDuff.”

That was Gillian’s expression.

He waited and sure enough, Cruickshank mumbled the expected response. “That bloody officer still doesn’t know the sergeant’s name.”

Rather than move in a straight line, Flockhart ducked and weaved across the ground, the Royals trotting behind him, their energy restored by the prospect of food.

The limber lay on its side, the bodies of four horses a mangled mess in front and the remains of the driver lying on his back with both arms outstretched. The steel guard on his left leg was dented and his head was missing.

“A shell must have caught them,” Turnbull said casually. “Permission to look inside, sir?”

“Of course, McKim, you and Cruickshank keep watch. The rest of you, see what you can find. We need food, water and ammunition.”

The men descended on the wagon with a rapacity that reminded Ramsay of the tales he had heard of Wellington’s army looting during the Peninsular War. They used their bayonets to rip open the stout canvas covering and dived into the interior, laughing at the prospect of loot.

There was a box of iron rations which they opened without delay. In normal circumstances the soldiers would have treated such a thing with scorn, but three days and two nights with hardly a bite had rendered them too hungry for niceties and the tinned bully beef and crack-tooth biscuits were eaten as voraciously as if they were the choicest morsel from a fashionable French restaurant.

“Chocolate!” Mackay looked terribly young as he handled the box as if it was gold. He tore open the top and delved inside, throwing bars of Fry’s milk chocolate to the men with a wide grin on his face. “I’ve never seen so much chocolate at one time!”

“Don’t eat too much or you’ll get sick,” Flockhart warned, but Mackay stuffed an entire bar into his mouth at the same time as he opened a second.

“Bread! Real bread!”

“Plum jam . . . what other kind of jam could there be?”

“Look! Tobacco!” Turnbull produced half a dozen tins of ‘Three Nuns’ tobacco. “Here you are, corporal!” He threw a tin to McKim, who caught it with practised ease.

“Thanks, Turnbull!” McKim gave a gap-toothed grin, drew his broken pipe from the top pocket of his tunic and began to stuff tobacco into the bowl. Turning away from the slight breeze, he sheltered behind the wagon and scraped flame from a match and puffed his pipe to light.

“God, that’s good,” he said. He looked around with the pipe thrust between his teeth. “It has been a long time since I could stand in the open and smoke a pipe without wondering if some German has me in the sights of his rifle.”

Flockhart spoke without looking round, his eyes continued to scour the landscape for the enemy. “Maybe that’s the silver lining in the dark cloud of the German advance – Kenny McKim can get a pipe full of baccy.”

McKim’s grin was far too mischievous for a man of his age. “A decent smoke makes it all worthwhile!” He blew a cloud of smoke in Flockhart’s direction and chuckled. “All things come to an end, Sergeant, and Kaiser Bill is no exception. The Royals will put salt on his tail yet.”

Mackay was laughing with his mouth full of chocolate while Turnbull used the tip of his bayonet to spoon plum jam into his mouth. Ramsay saw the vestiges of German blood on the blade but said nothing. Out here at the Front people did things that were unimaginable in a more ordinary situation.

“You men,” Ramsay ordered, “cram your pouches with food. Take all you can. Fill the water bottles, grab ammunition, everything we can get. Move now!” He watched to see his orders were obeyed.

“Look at this, lads!” Aiken lifted a mouth organ from the ground, tapped it against his leg and began to play a jaunty tune that Ramsay did not recognise. Within seconds the men were joining in, making mouth music around half-masticated food as Flockhart kept watch and half the German army advanced purposely on the retreating British all around them.

“Look at this, lads!” Niven lifted a small brown envelope and glanced through the contents. “Ooh, la la. Trés bon mademoiselles!”

“What? Give us a decko!” Edwards leaped over to Niven and grabbed the envelope from his hand. He shuffled through the small pile of postcards, making comments about each.

“She is nice, not that one though, She’s more my type; lovely eyes . . . and what a pair she has . . .”

“Let me see!” Mackay grabbed at the postcards and they fell to the ground. In a second there were four Royals scrabbling around in the mud to salvage as many as they could.

“Enough of that!” McKim snarled. He pulled them apart. “Niven, these are yours. Mackay, you are too young to even think of women yet. What would your mother think of you looking at things like that?”

McKim held a sepia postcard of a voluptuous woman dressed in a frilly chemise that failed to cover any part of her. He smiled. The world in its wisdom thought nothing of sending Mackay to fight and kill and witness all the unbridled horror of warfare, but baulked at the thought of him looking at a semi-dressed woman.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Mackay. If you were mine I would fetch you a good clip around the earhole, so I would.” McKim shoved the boy away and winked at Flockhart.

Ramsay hid his smile as Mackay coloured and turned away. He waited until McKim was alone. “Do you have any children, McKim?” The question was genuine. The corporal had spoken so naturally to Mackay that Ramsay thought he acted more like a father than an NCO.

McKim removed the pipe from his mouth and nodded. “Oh, yes, sir. My first wife gave me two sons and a daughter and my second wife gave me another daughter.” He smiled. “My lads are in the regiment – in the Middle East now. One of my girls is in service and the other is married to a sailor, God help him.”

“You were married twice?” Ramsay asked.

“No, sir, three times.” McKim pulled his pay book from a tunic pocket. “Here they are. Margaret, she died in India of fever. Jemima, she died in South Africa and this . . .” He produced a small photograph and kissed it fondly. “This is Janet. She is waiting for me in Edinburgh. Once I am time-expired and out of the regiment, Janet says we will open a small pub in the High Street, near the Castle, and grow pickled together.” He showed Ramsay the photograph. The woman could have been in her fifties or early sixties; she stared remorselessly and nervously at the camera lens.

“Nice looking woman,” Ramsay gave the stock answer. “You are a lucky man, McKim, but I can’t imagine you leaving the regiment.”

McKim grinned. “Nor can I, sir. When my time is up I will enlist again as I always do. I can’t see myself tied down to a publican’s hours!” He winked, “It keeps the missus happy, though. Gives her something to live for.”

Ramsay nodded. “I see.”

Aitken was still playing the mouth organ and most of the men were eating and dancing, thumping their feet up and down in a release of tension as they chanted words that may or may not have been related to the music. Ramsay was tempted to break them up, but he allowed the fun to continue; the men had been through a rough time and needed a few moments of pleasure before they continued with the march to whatever horror lay ahead.

“Here’s ammunition,” Turnbull said. He passed out a box of 303 clips. “And there’s plenty more where that came from. There are bandoliers as well.”

“Bring them out, Turnbull,” Ramsay ordered. “Everybody refill your ammunition pouches and get a bandolier or two. If we are going through the Hun lines we will have to fight.”

“Things are looking up, sir,” Flockhart said. “Food, ammunition and our boys holding back the advance. Up the Royals!”

Ramsay heard musketry in the distance and the chattering of machine guns. There was still a battle going on; the British were still holding out at Carnoy, although how he was going to get his men through the German positions was a mystery that remained to be resolved.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” McKim asked, “but are you a married man?”

There was the scent of the grass again and Grace lying on her back with those wondrous blue eyes. Her statement hung in the air, a tantalising thought that surrounded him with amusement.

“Marry you?” He had laughed then, at the ridiculous idea. “How on earth could I marry you?”

Her expression had altered from contented adoration to disbelief within the space of a few seconds.

“But David, we have to get married after what we have just done.” Her voice had the musical cadences of Midlothian, combined with the grit of the mines. “Mrs David Napier. I want to be Mrs David Napier.”

Ramsay held her eyes as he shook his head. “After what we have just done?” He mocked her. “We passed a pleasurable hour or two rollicking in the hay, Grace my darling. That is all we have done.”

Grace shook her head as her eyes filled. “But you must marry me, you must!” Belatedly, she covered herself up. She pulled down her skirt and dragged her shawl over her upper body.

“Why on earth must I do that?” Ramsay remained where he was, smiling down at her.

“Because you’ve seen me and you’ve been intimate with me!” She crossed her legs in sudden embarrassment and raised her voice to a wail. “And I might have a baby!” Grace fairly howled out the words.

“So you might,” Ramsay reached down and lifted his trousers. He brushed a few blades of grass from them and casually hauled them on before fastening the buttons of the fly. “But on the other hand, you might not, and I certainly am not going to marry you for such a trivial reason.” He adjusted his braces and lifted his jacket. “The idea is ridiculous, given our respective positions.” He leaned closer. “I think you should find yourself a man of your own type, Grace, and quickly, just in case I have honoured you with a bastard.”

He looked down as Grace let out a howl of protest and tried to step away, but she dived sideways and clung to his leg.

“No, David. Please, no. Don’t say that!”

Ramsay lifted his leg and shook it, but when Grace only tightened her grip he reached down, grabbed her hair and pulled her head backwards until she screamed and let go.

“Get off me, you hussie! Get off!” Ramsay grabbed his boots and strode away, flattening the long grass as he did so. At the edge of the field he stopped, sat on the five-barred gate and was pulling on his boots when the man appeared.

“Are you a married man?” McKim asked again.

About to blast him for his impertinence, Ramsay shook his head instead. “No, McKim. I am engaged, but we are not tying the knot until after the war.”

McKim smiled. “It’s good to have somebody waiting for you, sir. Knowing that there is somebody that cares whether you live or die, it makes all this . . .” He waved his hand aimlessly at the wreckage around them. “It makes it all mean something, somehow.” He sucked on his pipe again and stuffed tobacco into the bowl with a calloused thumb. “But if you don’t mind me saying, sir, most women would prefer not to wait that long to get married. I mean, sir, we are at war and things happen.”

Ramsay stood up and retrieved a packet of army issue biscuits. The men were beginning to settle down now so he gave orders for them to start a small fire, brew up some tea and rustle up hot food.

I should be more in control here, but they need some time before we enter the town. God alone knows how we can get past Fritz, or how many of us make it.

“You mean I may get killed, McKim.”

“Yes, sir. And leave your lady without the memory of a marriage.”

“And have her wearing widow’s weeds before she has even reached twenty one.” Ramsay kept his voice neutral. “I think not.”

Did I make the correct decision when I said we would not marry until after the war? I did not wish to burden Gillian with a child, but perhaps she would want a child of mine?

“Char up!” Turnbull called out cheerfully and the men clustered around, as happy and unconcerned as if they were in Edinburgh Castle. The tea was only lukewarm but it was wet and welcome.

“Can’t beat a cup of char,” Blackley said. He had the deep tan of tropical service on his face and the slight sing-song accent of a man who had spent time in India. Four wound stripes gleamed golden on his sleeve.

Ramsay had taken only a single sip of his tea when Flockhart slipped up to him.

“Fritz, sir. Coming this way, lots of them.”