CHAPTER NINE

25 March 1918

“Last train to Waverley Station! Last train to Waverley!” The stentorian roar of the station master echoed across the double tracks of Newtongrange Railway Station. As always, the platform was filled.

There were miners’ wives returning home from trips to Edinburgh or Dalkeith, self-important managers and clerks, a handful of gentlemen and their ladies trying to pretend they were of a different breed, and the ubiquitous travelling salesmen who spent half their lives at small railway stations as they scraped a precarious living from the pennies of the poor. Sprinkled among the hard-faced miners and busy women was a scattering of soldiers in khaki, one sporting a bandaged head and carrying the unmistakable air of a veteran, but the rest were eager young men on their first leave of their training.

Ramsay felt Gilllian’s hand slide inside his and he squeezed his reassurance. “Soon be home now,” he told her.

Steam from the engine filled the station, channelled by the high banking at the rear of the platforms, to cover the milling passengers. A crowd of bare-footed children ran past, laughing, as their mother shouted after them.

“I would like children,” Gillian said, and smiled as Ramsay stiffened. She patted his arm. “It’s all right, Douglas. Not for a few years yet.”

“Not for many years yet.” Ramsay felt her hand slide away from his. “But we will have them,” he added. Her hand returned, the gloved fingers pressing for entrance to the security of his palm.

“Three children at least” Gillian pressed her advantage. “Two girls and a boy.”

“Two boys and a girl,” Ramsay corrected.

As a press of people emerged from the train, Ramsay and Gillian walked quickly along the length of the platform. “The first class compartment must be here somewhere,” Ramsay said. “Let’s get away from these peasants.”

“Don’t be so disparaging, Douglas,” Gillian rebuked him. “These men work hard.” She looked around at the raucous crowd pushing and shoving their way on and off the train. “They are a bit shabby though, aren’t they? They could have made at least a little effort before they left their hovels.”

Ramsay laughed and stepped aside to let an elderly woman squeeze past. “I will be glad to return to Edinburgh but Father insisted that I view the family mines at least once every year. I don’t know why. He is only a minority shareholder.”

“You will be going alone next year,” Gillian said and stopped short. “Sorry, Douglas. I forgot for a second.”

“Next year I will be a soldier in France, or dead.” Ramsay decided he could add drama to the situation. He shook his hand free. Try for sympathy; it might gain you something.

“Or the war could be over and you could be back home and married,” Gillian neatly countered his argument. She grabbed his hand back. “Now stop your complaining and take me home. I have had enough of coal mines, numbered rows of brick cottages and coal dust at the back of my throat.”

Ramsay smiled. “So have I. Here is what they laughingly call the first class carriage.” He turned the handle, pulled open the door and offered his arm to help Gillian up.

“Hey, you!” The voice was rough and aggressive. Ramsay paused with his hand in Gillian’s and a smile frozen on his face. Two men were on the platform, distinct from the crowd only because of their obvious anger. One wore khaki and bore the stripes of a corporal on his sleeve; the other had the flat cap and heavy boots of a working man. When Ramsay looked at him, he recognised the man he had seen at the gate just a year previously: Rab.

“That’s the fellow, Jamie!” Rab pointed to Ramsay. “That’s Napier. That’s the man who knocked up your sister!”

Oh, God. I thought that incident was long dead and forgotten.

“Are these men addressing you, Douglas?” There was curiosity in Gillian’s voice. “He certainly pointed to you, but he called you Napier.”

“I don’t think so,” Ramsay said. He handed her up inside the carriage with more force than he had intended. “Come on Gill, let’s get inside.”

Rab and the soldier pushed through the crowd as Ramsay turned to follow Gillian.

“Not so fast, you bastard. Napier, we want a word with you!”

“Last train for Waverley!” The station master roared above the hubbub of the crowd. “All aboard who’s going aboard!”

Ramsay slammed the carriage door shut behind him. Neither James nor the corporal flinched at the bang. James grabbed hold of the handle, but the station master shook his head.

“This is a first class carriage, Tommy. Soldiers travel third class.” He shoved the soldier’s hand off the handle and blew a long blast on his whistle as the train emitted another spurt of steam.

Ramsay guided Gillian across the corridor and into a compartment where two occupants looked up without interest. The man returned to the scrutiny of his newspaper while his female companion turned her face to the window.

“Sit here, Gill.” Ramsay waited until Gillian had taken her seat before slouching in the corner furthest from the window. The train began to roll away from the platform. He took a deep breath.

It is over. I escaped. Another year without discovery.

The rapping at the window was urgent and loud.

“These men seem keen to see you, Douglas,” Gillian pointed out. “I think they may be tenants of your father.” She nudged him with a sharp elbow. “The least you could do is acknowledge them, Douglas!”

The men were at the window closest to the platform, running alongside the train as it gathered speed.

“They must have missed the train,” the man with the newspaper sounded amused.

“They are desperate to see you, Douglas,” Gillian said. “Are you sure you don’t know them?”

Rab looked directly at him and shouted, but the words were lost as the train emitted another shrill whistle. As the train picked up speed he fell behind. Younger and fitter, the corporal took his place at the window. He took hold of the sill and clung on by his fingertips as he opened his mouth.

“I’m James Flockhart! Remember my name, you bastard! Wherever you hide, I will find you!”

Gillian watched as Flockhart’s grip on the window slipped and he tumbled down. The train rattled on its journey to Edinburgh and left him behind.

“He must have mistaken you for somebody else,” she said.

Slightly shaken by the experience, Ramsay nodded. “That must be it. He thought I was somebody called Napier.”

The woman at the opposite window gave a slight smile. “He was probably drunk,” she said. “Soldiers are often drunk.”

Her husband looked up from his newspaper. “That’s the only reason they join the army,” he said. “They give them too much nowadays.”

Ramsay held Flockhart’s gaze for only a fraction of a second as the memories sped through his mind.

Does he know now? Did McKim’s shout trigger the memories?

Flockhart dropped his eyes. “Here come the Huns,” he shouted above the rattle of the train and the incessant crackle of musketry. “Hundreds of them!” He raised his eyes and stared at Ramsay for a second too long, his eyes narrow and calculating.

Oh God, it’s out at last. He has remembered where he saw me.

Ramsay flinched as a volley of bullets shattered the window into a thousand pieces and shards of glass imploded toward him. He thrust through his revolver and fired at the Prussians, but did not see any fall.

The train picked up speed, but the Germans were running toward it, some with rifles at the charge, others with rifles at the trail. The monacled Hauptmann was in front, giving rapid orders that resulted in a section of men sprinting forward as the others gave covering fire.

“Come on, Niven!” Turnbull yelled. “Fritz is catching us.”

“Death and hell to you!” McKim smashed the glass of his window with the butt of his rifle then leaned out. He fired, worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again, shooting a Prussian each time. “Death and hell!”

The train picked up speed but Niven raised his voice, “I need a fireman. I need fuel!”

I did not think of that. Damn!

“Turnbull, go forward and help Niven!” Ramsay yelled. “Move, man!”

A long line of Germans followed the train, the slowest already giving up. Two hundred yards in the rear, a line of kneeling riflemen rained constant fire on the train.

“Where’s my fireman?” Niven’s roar was desperate. “We’re losing pressure!”

“Turnbull! Get forward!” Ramsay withdrew from the window, just as a bullet skimmed through. He felt a hammer blow on his head and was thrown backward across the carriage.

I’ve been shot. The Huns have shot me again.

Ramsay tried to focus but the carriage spun before his eyes. The seats and door and ceiling were intermixed into a confusion of images that made no sense at all. He extended his arm, grabbed hold of something solid and attempted to pull himself upright but his hand had no strength and he slumped back down.

This is serious. I am dead.

There were sounds he could not recognise and sensations he could not name. Somebody was moaning; somebody else was shouting “death and hell”; somebody was leaning over him.

That will be Mother, surely, come to ensure I am all right.

“Mother? I’m very hot, is the fire on?”

His mother was holding him in hands far too rough; he tried to pull away but lacked the strength. “Leave me, let me alone.”

“Death and hell to you all!”

There must be workmen in the house, nothing else could account for that incessant loud banging as they used their hammers on his head.

“Leave me alone. Mother, do the workmen have to make such an infernal noise?”

“Sir, sir, are you all right?” The face that loomed over him was certainly not his mother; it was dirty and she had never sported a five day growth of beard like that. Nor had her dress been stained yellow and green with lyddite fumes.

“Of course I’m not all right! I’ve been shot, damn it!” Ramsay took hold of the hand that Flockhart proffered and hauled himself upright. He staggered as the train bounced across points. He blinked as something blocked his vision, and passed a hand across his forehead. It came away sticky and red with blood. “God . . .”

Flockhart looked closer. “It looks like a bullet has scored your head, sir. There’s lots of blood but I don’t think it’s serious.”

Why me? Why not me? I get wounded every time I come to the front.

“Here, sir. Try this.” Flockhart handed over a handkerchief.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Ramsay wiped away the worst of the blood from his forehead and eyebrows. More followed in a steady flow, but he probed upward until he found the wound and pressed the handkerchief firmly down. He gasped at the pain but applied pressure until the flow of blood eased.

“It is just a graze,” he said.

That will be a fine scar to show to Gillian when her hero comes marching home from the war.

Fighting against the hammering pain in his head, Ramsay took a deep breath and tried to focus on his surroundings. The train was slowing down. He looked out of the window. They had left the station and were in open countryside, still scarred by war but not as mutilated as most he had passed through. There was something burning on the horizon, he could see huge flames and a pall of dark smoke rising. He could no longer see the Germans, although the occasional crash of a striking bullet told him they had not forgotten about the impudent Royals in their midst.

“Find out why we are slowing down,” he ordered. “Tell Niven to keep moving no matter what. The greater distance we can put between ourselves and the Prussians, the better.”

“Yes, sir.” For a moment something flickered behind Flockhart’s eyes, but he nodded and moved forward from the compartment.

He knows; I am sure he knows who I am; how the hell do I get out of this mess?

Ramsay tried to follow Flockhart but his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. He lay there for a moment as the carriage spun around him, then pushed himself back upright, clinging to the seats for support. This train lacked the corridors he knew so well and was composed of open plan carriages, with seats each side of a central aisle. He staggered to the front and opened the door that connected to the guard’s van.

The van was crammed with bags and baggage, boxes and all the paraphernalia of a retreating army. Ramsay ignored it all as he pushed forward to the far end, where a wooden door allowed him access to the tender and the engine itself. He had been aware of the sound of firing for some time but now it increased to a non-stop rattle of musketry. He pushed open the carriage door.

The sudden blast of air nearly knocked him off the step but also cleared his head. Turnbull was firing, his nerves under control and his face set, Cruickshank was sheltering as he tried to clear a jam. Edwards was lying back with blood on his face, Blackley was shovelling coal as Niven stared forward along the track as if he had been a train driver all his life.

“Sir!” Flockhart pointed to the left.

A battery of field guns was wheeling around to face the train. The drivers lashed their horses unmercifully as the sun flashed from burnished metal. It was a gloriously military sight; lovely for civilians to watch but so dangerous in the reality of battle.

“Not bon!” Cruickshank shouted, “Not bloody bon at all.”

“Shoot the gunners,” Ramsay shouted, and winced in pain as Turnbull fired only a few inches from his ear. “Everyone concentrate on the gunners. Niven, can’t you get this train to move faster? My granny could walk faster than this and she’s been dead for years!”

The Royals opened rapid fire, leaning out of the glassless windows as the train rolled along the track. Ramsay saw some of the gunners fall, but the others continued their work and as the train approached a broad bend he found himself staring down the black muzzles of the guns.

“Here we go!” Flockhart said quietly. He lifted his rifle, took careful aim and fired. One of the gunners fell. “That’s one less anyway, but their guns are bigger than ours.”

“Here comes the receipt.” Cruickshank ducked as all six guns opened up at once.

Ramsay stood transfixed as he saw the guns leap back with the recoil. He did not see the rush of shot, but saw the results as the ground erupted a good three hundred yards to the right, beyond the train.

Flockhart fired again, and McKim followed suit. A curtain of falling earth from the explosions prevented Ramsay from seeing the result.

“Get shovelling, Blackley!” Ramsay shouted. “Niven, get as much speed as you can from this train!” He looked around, as far as he could see there was no cover as the line crossed the open countryside of Picardy.

“Do you think we will make Albert?” McKim asked, just as the guns fired again.

The Germans had corrected their aim. The explosions fell either side of the train, spreading shrapnel and stones across the track and shattering the last remaining carriage windows. The shock jolted the train sideways, first one direction and then the other, until it righted itself and Niven steered it around the wide curve.

“They’re firing again.” Flockhart worked his bolt and shot at the artillery. “Missed!”

“Here it comes!” McKim said.

Ramsay ducked involuntarily as the shells burst. He only saw two explosions, but felt the results of at least one more as the train heeled to one side and rocks and shrapnel tore into the bodywork of the carriage. One shard of metal ripped through the seat beside which he stood, emerging sharp and wicked, inches from his hand.

“Jesus!” somebody blasphemed as the train juddered sideways. Men and loose fittings were thrown across the carriage; a discarded rifle clattered along the slanted floor, Turnbull rolled past him, swearing wildly and he put out a hand to help.

“We’re going over,” McKim yelled.

“Hold on lads,” Flockhart roared and then there was pandemonium as the carriages crashed onto their side and scraped and crashed along the tracks. Ramsay tried to grab hold of a seat for support but it was torn loose of its mountings and he was thrown the length of the carriage amidst a jumble of men and fittings, broken glass and equipment. For a moment it seemed that the whole world was in confusion as the carriage crashed onto the ground with a litter of seats, men and equipment falling on top of him, and then he lay still, with a crushing weight on top of him and pain in his head and his left leg.

Ramsay gradually became aware of his surroundings. There was a cacophony of noises; groaning and cursing, the hiss of escaping steam and a crackling he could not identify. He tried to make sense of the various sounds.

“Get off me for Christ’s sake, Turnbull.”

“Has anybody seen my rifle? Where’s my rifle?”

“I can’t see. Oh, God, I can’t see!”

“Hurry, lads, before the boiler blows!”

“Bloody Fritzes. Bloody, bloody Fritzes!”

Ramsay ‘s vision was obscured by blood dripping from his reopened head wound, he tried to raise a hand to clear his eyes but something held him trapped and he could not move.

“Sergeant Flockhart? McKim? Are you there?”

His voice was lost in the general hubbub. The crackling sound was growing stronger and he coughed.

God. That’s smoke. The train is on fire!

“Flockhart, get the men out of here before we all burn to death!” Again he tried to move but with no success. Another drift of smoke swept over him and he coughed again, harder. “Is anybody there?”

Other men were shouting and Ramsay took a deep breath that contained as much smoke as oxygen.

Don’t panic, think what is best to do. You are an officer and a gentleman, it is your place to lead and show an example. Check if you can move all your limbs.

Ramsay tried his feet, left and then right. Nothing.

Am I paralysed? Oh God what a way to die, burned to death in a train in France.

His right arm was trapped, but he could move his left slightly. He concentrated, tried to block out all extraneous sounds and the increasing smell of smoke. He shifted his arm from side to side, felt something solid and pushed hard. It moved a little and he had more space.

“Flockhart!” Ramsay yelled.

Now he could move his arm as far as his shoulder and he inched his arm up. There was a rattling sound and something rolled heavily onto his legs, but his left arm was free. Ramsay wiped the blood from his eyes. He opened them and saw a scene of utter chaos. The carriage lay on its side: all the chairs were piled up, together with what appeared to be pieces of the body of the train and a number of khaki-clad corpses. The smoke was not as thick as he had thought; blue and evil, it slid in from the left, where the engine should have been.

There were two heavy seats on top of him and a section of what had once been the roof of the carriage. Ramsay shoved at the nearest chair and wriggled free. He stood in a half crouch and examined himself for injuries, but save for bruises, cuts and grazes he was unscathed.

“Is that you, sir?” As usual, McKim had his stub of a pipe in his mouth as he picked his way through the mess. “Fritz got us proper that time,” he said casually, “but we’d better get out before the boiler blows.”

He kicked at the nearest man. “Come on, Cruickshank. You’re not hurt. It’s just a scratch.”

“Get up, lads, and get outside,” Ramsay took over. He checked the two remaining men. Edwards was dead, his head almost severed, but Turnbull was alive although he nursed a broken wrist. “Outside, lads. Come on now!”

Ramsay led the way by climbing out of the far window, which was now facing the sky, and helped Turnbull up. It was the work of a moment to slide down to the ground and assess the damage.

A shell had hit the track immediately in front of the engine. Niven had not had a chance to stop and had driven right into the explosion. The engine had crashed into the shell crater and the carriages had derailed one after the other. They lay on their side like a metallic snake – orange-red flames surging from the engine and lightening up the rapidly darkening landscape.

“Have you seen Sergeant Flockhart?” Ramsay asked and one by one the men shook their heads.

“I think he was in the engine with Niven,” Turnbull said. McKim had fixed him with a temporary splint and sling and he nursed his arm, in obvious pain.

“McKim, you gather the rest of the men. I’ll check the engine.” Ramsay moved forward, occasionally stopping to clear blood from his eyes.

“Be careful, sir! If that engine blows. . .” There was no need for McKim to complete his sentence. A boiler explosion would be just as lethal as the German artillery.

Flowers of flames surrounded the engine and licked at the spilled coal of the upended tender. Ramsay saw Niven lying on his back, pinned under the body of the engine. He was immobile, with his arms outspread. Blackley was a few yards away from the engine, groaning.

“Blackley,” Ramsay knelt at his side. “Can you move?”

Blackley looked up and nodded. “Only winded,” he gasped. “I was thrown clear. How’s Niven?”

“Dead.” Ramsay said shortly. “Have you seen Sergeant Flockhart?”

Blackley shook his head. “Not since the shelling began,” he said.

Free. I am free of him. The Germans have done it for me.

Ramsay tried to hide the immense relief that came over him. He had lived with the fear of discovery for so long that it had become part of him, but now he no longer had that worry. He was free. Only the Germans remained as a threat.

“Back to the train, Blackley,” Ramsay said. “Let’s get out of here before Fritz comes to see what remains.”

McKim had gathered the Royals together. They stood beside the train, most nursing wounds and only two still carrying their rifles. Ramsay counted them:

“Me, McKim, Blackley, Turnbull, Cruickshank.” Only five men left. “Right, lads. Let’s move out of here.” He led the way, heading into the dark for what he hoped was the British lines, as the flames spread across the train and leaped up to the sky. “Come on lads. Toute-de-suite.”

There were flames on the horizon. Ramsay was not sure what was burning, but it was large, lighting up the horizon to the south.

“We have not stopped Fritz yet, then,” McKim said. He had retained his rifle and ignored the cut that dripped blood from his right arm as he walked.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Ramsay said. He could hear the growl of guns and see intermittent flashes on the horizon. “We are still fighting though. It looks like the line is at Albert now.” That was a guess, but as an officer he liked to appear omnipotent.

“Is that where we are headed then?” McKim asked. He stumbled over a high tussock of grass, looked down, cursed and continued.

“That’s the plan,” Ramsay said. He had no plan at all, except to get as far from the train as possible. The Germans would be clustering there in minutes.

“The lads need a rest,” McKim reminded. “They have been going non-stop.”

“We will rest when it’s safe,” Ramsay said. He looked behind him. The burning train dominated the night, the flames soaring skyward as a warning to everyone within a ten mile diameter of the further destructive cost of this war.

“We’ll march for another hour, then rest for four and continue,” Ramsay decided. “Head for the guns.”

“Which bloody guns?” Cruickshank grumbled, “There are guns everywhere.”

“Mind your lip, Cruickshank,” McKim stopped Ramsay from having to explain further. At that moment he felt that if he had to make another decision his brain would explode.

They halted in the lee of a small group of shell-blasted trees, with the light from the burning train on one horizon and the intermittent flash of shellfire on the other.

“What date is it, sir?” McKim asked.

Ramsay tried to work it out but shook his head. “I don’t know, Corporal. We seem to have been retreating for days.” Once again he cursed his loose tongue.

I am getting too familiar with these men. I should learn to keep more distance between us, but that is not easy when we share the same shell hole and use the same latrine.

Ramsay wondered what the lack of expression on McKim’s face meant; was he sneering at him? Was he wondering why he was only a lieutenant after all his experience at the front?

“Try and get some sleep,” Ramsay said curtly. “I’ll take first watch.”

God knows, I can’t sleep anyway.

He watched as the Royals slumped onto the ground around the base of the trees. After the fire they were smoke-stained as well as unshaven and ragged, and all were carrying a number of minor wounds and cuts, some of which were already showing signs of gas gangrene from the contaminated shell holes they had negotiated.

There are not many of us left now. Once again I’ve let my men down and got them killed.

Stripped of their bark by shrapnel and explosive, the trees pointed stark fingers skyward to an unforgiving God. They provided scant shelter in the shattered landscape, but they were a focal point, a reminder of earlier times when fields were green and soil was a promise of future life, not a sanctuary from death or hideous disfigurement.

As she stood under the branches of the tall elm tree, she was beautiful. There was no other word to describe Gillian. With her long coat almost touching the short grass and her bonnet tight around her heart-shaped face, she was a picture of female perfection.

She greeted him with open arms and soft lips. A year earlier such a display of affection would have brought disapproving frowns from the righteous and the respectable, but after twelve months of war people were used to women greeting their soldier men. What was once reserved only for the lower classes was now acceptable for gentlemen and ladies; certain proprieties had been put aside, at least for the duration of the war.

“Your last leave before you are off to the front, my Hector.” Gillian did not release him, but whispered the words in his ear. “We must make it memorable.”

Ramsay pulled her even closer, seeking comfort in the proximity of her body, rather than mere sexual desire. He did not want to go to France. He wanted to stay here in Edinburgh and live a quiet life among the papers and deeds and legal terminology for which he had been trained. He looked around. Princes Street Gardens spread on either side, the lawns not quite as immaculate as they were in peacetime and the late summer flowers losing their fire to the cool onslaught of autumn. He was desperate to remain.

“You look so smart,” Gillian pulled back and examined him. “You suit uniform, you know. Maybe you should remain a soldier even after the war is won.” Her eyes were gentle, but also urgent with an emotion he had never thought to see in her. “Just think of all the places we could visit!”

Ramsay said nothing, but his mind intoned the words: Mons, Loos, Le Cateau; Ypres. Death and horror awaited him in a thousand different forms and shapes.

“Imagine it, Douglas. We could be posted to Poona and live in a hill station with ten servants to do our bidding!” A smile curved Gillian’s lips at the thought of having people to bow to her and follow her every command. “Our babies would have Indian nannies, Douglas. I would have tea with the Colonel’s lady and you could hunt tigers.”

No fighting in your army then, Douglas thought bitterly. He heard a bugle’s insistent call from the castle above and shivered at the martial sound. God, but he hated the army and military life! Maybe some miracle would end the war before he reached the front; maybe the next push would break through the German lines. Maybe . . .

Gillian’s eyes were bright. She ran her hand down his chest, allowing her fingers to play with his brass buttons. “You’ve lost weight Douglas, but it is all muscle now.” She pushed her open hand against his chest, her tongue protruded from her mouth for just a fraction of a second. “My, I bet you are strong now.”

“Strong enough,” Ramsay said. He remembered the tales he had been told of Mons, the Germans advancing in uncountable hordes. ‘We shot them and shot them,’ the veterans had said, ‘but they just kept coming. They were like machines.’

“We might be sent to Egypt,” Gillian said breathlessly. She patted him, panting slightly. “We could see the pyramids and the sphinx, watch the sun rise over the desert and ride camels beside the Nile. How romantic!” Her eyes were wide. She stepped back slightly. “Oh, Douglas, what a wonderful life we could have. You could be the Colonel of the regiment and lead your men into battle . . .”

“And get my head blown off, like as not,” Ramsay said, but Gillian did not hear or chose to ignore him.

“You would be a hero. I know you would be brave as a lion and win a whole uniform full of medals.” She intertwined her hands with his. “You could rise to be a general like Kitchener.” She pulled him close again and kissed him openly, despite the two elderly ladies who sat on a bench within a few yards of them.

Her lips were soft, but Ramsay was not prepared for the quick flicker of her tongue into his mouth.

“Gillian!” If any of his other girls had acted like that he would have been delighted, but Gillian was to be his wife. He expected certain standards of decorum from her, especially in douce Edinburgh.

“I do wish they had kept scarlet uniforms,” Gillian said. “You are smart, but khaki is so drab compared to scarlet. Full dress is so much more becoming when it is bright, don’t you think?”

Ramsay tried to imagine a scarlet-clad regiment in one of the trenches he had heard so much about. “I’ll pass your idea onto the King next time we meet,” he said.

“Will you meet the King?” Gillian asked and then gave him a playful slap. “You are teasing me.”

They walked hand in hand along the winding paths of the garden, the rock of the castle frowning on one side as a reminder of Ramsay’s military future, and the bustle and trams of Princes Street on the other, taunting him with his civilian past. Gillian moved closer, bumped her hip against his and giggled. “Father is away on business,” she said artlessly. “We have the house to ourselves.”

Ramsay thought for a moment. “Your maid will be there,” he said, “If your mother still keeps a maid.”

“She does, but I could send Isobel to her mother’s. With both her brothers at the war, Isobel would be pleased to go home for a while.” Gillian bumped hips again. “We could have the entire house to ourselves, Doug, including the bedrooms . . .”

“Best not, I think,” Ramsay said. “It would not be proper.”

“Proper!” Gillian’s hand tightened around his for a moment, then slackened and she slid it free. “Since when did propriety concern you, Douglas?”

Ramsay said nothing, but lengthened his stride and walked on so that Gillian had to hurry to catch up with him. She walked at his side for a few moments and then slipped her hand inside his again.

“You are very quiet, Douglas,” Gillian said as they stopped to admire the ornate fountain. “Are you all right?” She paused for a significant moment. “Don’t you like me anymore?” She put her right hand on his face and turned it towards her. “Am I no longer good enough for you, now that you are a commissioned officer? You were keen enough before!”

What’s happened to me? I have changed! Gillian is offering herself to me on a plate and I’m turning her down. What have I become? I’m in love. The previous women were unimportant, all of them: Mary, Georgina, Lucia and the others, even Grace. They did not matter but Gillian does.

He shook his head at her troubled eyes. “You are far too good for me, Gillian, but I am about to go to war. I may not come back. I do not wish to leave you with something you may regret, especially since I would not be in a position to rectify matters.”

“You mean I may fall pregnant.” Gillian surprised him with her bluntness. “Well, Douglas Ramsay, I would not object to that in the slightest. Many ladies . . .” she emphasised the word, “are bearing children just now, even though their men are at the war.”

“I will not leave you a pregnant widow, or even worse, a pregnant and unmarried woman,” Ramsay proved he could be every bit as frank. “Once this war nonsense is finished and we have kicked the Kaiser back to Berlin, then I will make you my wife and we can have as many babies as you like.”

God! I mean that! I want to father this woman’s children.

Gillian stepped back and shook her head. “You’re a strange man, Douglas Ramsay. Nearly everybody I know warned me against you. They told me you were a bounder, a womaniser and a cad, but I knew there was more to you than that.” She held up her hand as Ramsay opened his mouth to speak. “No! Don’t try and deny all the other women you’ve known. I don’t care and I don’t want to know. All I want is your assurance that they are in the past, and that I am the only one now.”

“You are. Of course you are,” Ramsay said.

Gillian touched her fingers to his lips. “Then that’s all that needs to be said about the matter. The past is dead and never to be mentioned again. It is only our future that matters.”

Grace: I must tell you about Grace in case there is trouble in the future. You must know that side of me if we are to be a proper man and wife.

“Now, you will have heard how some women allow their men some latitude when they are at war.” Gillian’s smile faded. “I am not of that persuasion, Douglas. I will be faithful to you and I expect you to do the same.”

“I will,” Douglas said.

I mean that. I genuinely do.

Gillian’s smile returned. “I have heard all about the French girls and their tricks to entice men, and I want you to promise that you will have nothing to do with them.” Her smile remained, but there were shadows in her eyes. “Go on, promise!”

Ramsay remembered the medical officer’s lectures about venereal diseases and the horrors they could inflict on his body. “I promise,” he said quietly, and smiled. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Gillian seemed satisfied. “Then there is nothing more to be said.”

There was never any pretence with the Prussian Guards. When they attacked, they did so in style and with effect. When they defended, they did so with great resolution and a stubbornness that ended only with death. When they marched they were erect and solid. They were marching now; rank after rank of tall men in long grey coats, each with his rifle held at precisely the same angle over his shoulder. They appeared out of the dusk and headed west, toward the constantly retreating British lines.

Ramsay had watched them march past for ten long minutes before he realised the time and shook McKim awake.

“Keep the boys quiet,” Ramsay said. “Fritz is moving again.”

McKim wriggled forward. “Heading to Albert,” he said. “They have never been so far forward before.”

“And we have never been so far back,” Ramsay scanned the shadowy figures passing him in a steady stream. “Once these Prussian lads are past we will get moving again. With luck we can overtake them and get into Albert before they do.”

McKim removed the broken pipe from the corner of his mouth. “They might stop for the night, sir.”

“They might,” Ramsay said. He watched as the last of the Prussians marched past, two immensely broad-shouldered NCOs acting as rear markers.

The Hauptmann with the monocle is not there. Maybe he has been killed.

“Shall I get the lads up, sir?”

Ramsay looked over the few men who remained. They lay around the trees in various positions. Cruickshank’s hands were curled around his rifle while Turnbull was curled in a foetal position, cradling his broken wrist. “Yes, we have to get moving.”

They waded the River Ancre without difficulty, although as the smallest man there, McKim had some trouble keeping his head above water, but once on the far side they slowed down.

The gunfire was so incessant that Ramsay barely noticed it, but despite obvious resistance, the German advance showed no sign of slowing. Once again Ramsay kept his small command parallel to the Bapaume road that ran right through Albert, and they saw the constant flow of traffic moving in both direction. Reinforcements and replacements marched or rode towards the front, alongside ammunition wagons, guns and supplies, while ambulances rolled eastward, together with an occasional batch of dejected British prisoners.

Twice they heard sudden outbursts of firing and guessed that the British were offering stiffer resistance, but on each occasion the firing died away. The German columns slowed or temporarily halted, only to start again, rolling inexorably westward. As the horse-drawn transports passed the infantry, soldiers shouted greetings and waved their hands and rifles.

They are confident now. They think they are winning the war. Maybe they are.

They passed small groups of dead; the British wore full packs and lay in clusters or extended lines, where they had charged forward.

“Bloody Fritzes are still pushing us back,” Cruickshank said. “That’s day after day now and we are still running like bloody rabbits.”

“At least they died fighting,” McKim said. “God rest you, lads.”

“Much bloody good it did,” Cruickshank said, and they trudged on wearily and with hope diminishing with every yard they covered.

A marching column of infantry split to either side of the pave when a staff car snarled forward, its headlights gleaming yellow in the fading light.

“Bloody red tabs. The Hun variety is just as bad as ours.” Cruickshank hefted the rifle on his shoulder.

“Save your breath.” McKim looked at Ramsay. “I wish Flockhart was still with us, sir.”

I wish they were all still with us: Mackay and Buchanan and Aitken and Edwards and Niven and all the rest. What a terrible waste of good men.

“Well he’s not, McKim, and there’s nothing that we can do about it now. Keep marching.”

“They’re after Albert,” Cruickshank said. “They’re after the Golden Virgin.”

Ramsay said nothing. An officer did not exchange small talk with his men, it was bad for discipline. Cruickshank was right. The Germans hoped to capture Albert. He remembered the bustle of the town just a few days ago when he was on his way to the Front, and wondered how it was that so important a centre, with so many men, could possibly be in danger from the German advance. If they were successful in taking Albert, what was next? Amiens?

“Something’s happened,” McKim said. “Listen.”

“Wait, lads. Halt just now.” Ramsay put a hand on McKim’s arm. “What is it, corporal?”

“The Huns have halted.”

McKim was right. The constant thump of boots had fallen silent and there was no sound of grinding wheels.

“They’ve stopped,” McKim said. “May I have permission to have a decko, sir?” He threw a very rare salute.

“Take care,” Ramsay nodded, and McKim slipped away into the dark. Ramsay listened to the sounds of the night. A German voice barked a guttural order. There was soft German singing and somebody played a plaintive tune on a melodeon until another harsh order silenced both.

“Keep your rifles ready, lads. Fritz might send out patrols.”

Musketry sounded ahead, joined by the chatter of a machine gun, and then silence. A flare slid skyward to the west, hung like a suspended floodlight and slowly descended. Darkness returned and with it the spatter of rifles as nervous owners targeted imaginary enemies in the night.

A single shot sounded, close to, and the yell of a challenge. Another shot, a third and then silence.

McKim? Have the Germans shot McKim?

A shell whizzed down to explode a few yards from the road. For an instant the explosion silhouetted the traffic on the road; a string of supply wagons was motionless along the centre of the road. The horses stood with their heads bowed as they rested from their life of toil. Around the wagons, spread in regular lines and lying in neat groups, were German infantry.

When the light died the darkness was stygian: thick and threatening and pregnant with menace.

Ramsay blinked to try and recapture some of the night vision that the shell had shattered. He peered toward the road and hoped the Germans would stay put. He glanced behind them, where their train still smouldered red on the horizon. One fire among many.

That’s where Flockhart died; that’s where I regained my freedom from worry. That’s where I lost more of my men. That was the last train to Waverley Station.

A flare burst overhead, revealing a change in the landscape. The road narrowed as it squeezed between a thick hedge and a steep embankment. It would be a perfect place for an ambush. If he commanded the defence of Albert, he would place a Vickers machine gun there and delay the Germans for hours. The Germans knew their stuff: that would be why they halted.

The thought hit him like a douche of cold water. With the British in full retreat, the war might not last long. If he was to walk up to the nearest German and surrender, he could sit in comfort until peace came and then get back to Gillian and the sane life of an Edinburgh solicitor.

I would survive. I have done my bit for King and country now, surely. I have killed my quota of Germans and led my men to the best of my meagre ability. I am no soldier; I never wanted to be a soldier; they can’t expect me to do any more, please God, they can’t expect more from me.

Ramsay sat down and leaned against the bole of a tree, slumped forward and buried his face in cupped hands.

How much longer will this nightmare last? How many more days will I wake up shaking and bathed in sweat, how many more days will I spend pretending to be brave so my men do not realise I am quaking in terror; how many more nights will I close my eyes praying not be killed in the fearful hours of darkness. Every time I light a cigar I flinch in case a sniper is peering at me down the barrel of a rifle; every time I drop my trousers in the latrine I pray not to be wounded or killed in that most undignified of positions; I pray not to be emasculated by shot or shell, or hideously disfigured so that Gillian recoils from me in horror.

How much longer; oh, God, how much longer can I take this, before my mind breaks like Aitken’s or that young German soldier, and I lie gibbering in an endless nightmare that is no worse than this reality?

“The whole bloody German army has stopped.” McKim appeared out of the darkness, unseen and unheard. “There is no movement as far as I can see. The advance has stopped.”

“Or maybe we have stopped it,” Cruickshank said.

“Maybe we have,” Turnbull said.

“Are you all right, sir?” McKim sat beside him. His eyes were concerned, more like a father to a son than an NCO to an officer, but suddenly Ramsay did not care. McKim was a good man; he would be a good man in any society and class.

“I’m just a bit tired, Corporal,” Ramsay said. “Thank you.”

This is our chance; we can get back to our own lines. Surrender? Not a bloody chance; I will get my men home safe and get back to Gillian as a hero officer and not as a coward. She would not know, but I would.

Ramsay raised his voice. “Right, lads. Fritz has stopped for the night. We won’t. We will get past him and march right into Albert. General Gough seems to have halted the German advance so hopefully the line has stabilised now.”