CHAPTER TEN

ALBERT

26 March 1918

There was no barbed wire, no series of trenches, not even a proper sequence of outposts and strong points. After three and a half years of static warfare the front had opened up into a war of fluid movement, but rather than the British pushing eastward for Berlin, they were running westward, leaving a trail of discarded equipment, abandoned wagons and broken men and horses behind them.

“Halt!” The challenge was abrupt and unexpected. Ramsay stopped at once.

“Who the hell are you?” The accent was English, coarse and flat.

“Lieutenant Douglas Ramsay, 20th Royal Scots, and don’t you know to salute when you address an officer? And you call me sir!” He barked the words instinctively although he felt like weeping at the sound of a British voice again, after so many days wandering behind German lines.

“Oh. Sorry, sir.” The Englishman did not sound sorry. “I was not sure who you were. You came in from the German side.”

Ramsay did not respond, the man was merely a private. “Where is your officer?”

The Englishman shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Most of the unit pulled out earlier today and left a few of us as rearguard. As soon as orders come we are moving too.”

“Where is your sergeant, then?” Ramsay said. “Or whoever is in charge.”

The Englishman snorted. “Christ knows where anybody is, or who’s in charge now.”

“You say sir when addressing an officer,” McKim snarled, “and stand to attention, you slovenly creature! What kind of soldier are you?”

“Sorry, sir.” The Englishman stiffened to attention.

“Are you saying the army is not going to try and defend Albert?” Ramsay asked.

As if a mere private soldier would know. Pull yourself together, man!

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Carry on then, private,” Ramsay ordered. He hid his bitter disappointment. He had hoped to find an organised defence, with a proper military hierarchy, and instead he had walked into chaos and confusion. The world he had known for the past three and a half years had turned upside down.

“There’s no front line here,” McKim said. He hefted his rifle, checked the magazine and worked the bolt. “There is nothing to hold on to and Fritz is going to walk right in.” He glanced at Ramsay, “Unless you organise a defence, sir?”

Ramsay felt the fear return at this new responsibility McKim expected him to assume.

Oh, God, no. I can’t! I am not a real soldier. I am just here to keep Gillian happy.

“If that Durham is there, there might be others, sir. You can gather them all together and stop the Fritzes. They won’t be expecting anything . . .” He looked up with hope bright in his dirty face.

An hour ago I was contemplating surrendering and spending a peaceful duration, now I am being persuaded to organise the defence of Albert against half the German army. Trust McKim to know exactly what regiment that private was from.

But what a thought; what would Gillian think if I went back as the man who held Albert and stopped the German advance?

Ramsay nodded. “Let’s show them what Royal Scots can do, McKim.” Despite his tiredness he smiled at the expression on the corporal’s face. “See how many men you can gather; I don’t care what unit they are from, just bring them together. Start with that Durham.”

Ramsay remembered Albert as a bustling transit town, damaged by German shelling but still functioning, with busy shops and a population confident that the British Army could protect them from the German hordes. Now he saw a town in terror. Lamps lit the night time streets and people were packing up their belongings and loading them onto carts, horses or mules.

“I have never seen such fear,” Turnbull said. “These poor people are terrified of the Huns.”

We have let them down. We came with our guns and our arrogance and our confidence that the great British Empire could defend the citizens of Albert and all of France from the rapacious hordes of Prussia. Instead here we are, running like khaki rabbits and not even attempting to defend these poor people. Imagine if this was Edinburgh and the Hun was at the gate with their rape and pillage and slaughter; how would I feel?

What if Gillian was waiting helpless for Fritz with his usual Hun frightfulness?

Ramsay saw an old woman stumbling up the street with all the worldly possessions she could carry balanced in her frail arms. He saw entire families crowding onto carts piled high with furniture, bags and baggage, children crying as their mothers held them tight and their fathers led the horse. He saw women gathered in corners, weeping in despair and fear at the prospect of German occupation. He saw an ancient man with a long moustache standing in his doorway, weeping uncontrollably and knew the sad reality of war.

“Jesus,” Cruickshank breathed out as he loosened his bayonet in its scabbard, “these poor bastards.”

“Is this the defence line, sir?” The speaker was a small man in the uniform of the Army Service Corps.

Ramsay nodded, wearily at first and then grimly as his resolution strengthened. “Yes. This is where we will make our stand. You are ASC?”

The small man nodded. “Yes, sir.” He was around fifty, his steep helmet lying low on his head. He threw a crooked salute that would have disgraced a schoolboy. “878, Private Timms, sir.”

“Have you seen much action?”

“Not yet, sir. Everybody thought I was too old and unfit.” The man stood as erect as he could.

Good God. He’s a bald old man with bad eyesight, but he is volunteering to stay and fight while others run.

“Good man, Timms, you’ll do. Let’s see how many more men we can find and we’ll give old Fritz a fright, eh?”

Timms smiled and immediately attempted to look martial and tough, an image he promptly spoiled by almost dropping his rifle.

Ramsay ignored the racket of the fleeing evacuees as he tried to work out some sort of defensive plan. He had a tiny force of men and only a few weapons, while there was an entire army of efficient Germans waiting to occupy Albert as soon as their commander gave the order.

When will they come? When would I come? Just before dawn so the advancing men have the advantage of growing light.

“I found these lads doing nothing, sir,” McKim encouraged three unshaven privates forward with the point of his bayonet. “They claim that their regiment left them behind and they have been searching for another unit to join.”

The men shambled to attention in front of Ramsay. In the dark he could not make out the insignia on their uniforms.

“Welcome to the new front line, lads.” He was not sure he had managed to keep the irony from his voice. He jerked his thumb in an eastward direction. “Fritz is coming from out there,” he nodded to the town, “and he wants to take Albert. We are going to stop him.”

None of his new recruits looked particularly enthusiastic at the prospect.

“You men have the chance to make history if you stand firm and do your duty.” Ramsay looked for signs of agreement on their faces, but they merely looked sullen. “What are your names?”

There was a few moments’ silence then the nearest man muttered: “Smith, sir, 456.”

“Jones, sir, 768”

A longer pause and then, “Perkins, sir, 973.”

That last name could have been genuine but Ramsay suspected that the others were not.

Are these men deserters? Or men who were genuinely left behind and are so demoralised that they just hoped to surrender. I was thinking that myself not long ago. Are we so close to defeat that we are willing to give up?

“We have a chance to dent the German advance boys! You could help win the war.”

There was still no response so Ramsay sharpened his tone. “I expect you to fight. Dig yourself a trench and fortify it with sandbags. God knows there are plenty lying around. Carry on.”

Ramsay acknowledged their too-brief salutes and paced where he intended to make his stand. He had no barbed wire, only a handful of tired men and no heavy armament to stop half the German army.

“I know you bastards were ready to desert or surrender,” he heard McKim’s snarl through the gloom. “Well, I’ve been around too long to let that happen. I am Corporal McKim of the Royal Scots, First of Foot, right of the line and pride of the British Army. Remember the name. If any of you run from here I will hunt you down and shoot you like a dog!”

Ramsay hid his smile. Maybe the Germans were making huge inroads, but as long as the British army had men such as McKim, there was hope. The Prussian Guards might kill him eventually, but they would never defeat him.

More men came in through the night. They arrived in ones and twos, a couple of cooks, a beribboned veteran with a fierce moustache who almost rivalled Cruickshank for truculence, a duo of bewildered storemen and three men that McKim winkled out of an estaminet.

“Here are three drunken sods for you, sir. Some sort of fusiliers I think, but not the best sort.” McKim pushed them forward. “Stand to attention you miserable bastards! That’s a real officer you are addressing, not some dugout king!”

Ramsay appreciated the implied compliment. A dugout king was an officer who stayed out of danger; McKim was quietly telling him that he was now recognised as a fighting man.

Dear God, I am accepted. The old veteran thinks I am of some use.

“You three, get sober and get digging. We have a town to defend.”

Turnbull unearthed two more volunteers, men who had been left behind when the bulk of the army retreated and he ushered them to Ramsay.

“Here we are sir; two more rifles.”

The men stared at Ramsay as if he were some sort of ogre until McKim roared at them to stand to attention and “at least try to look like soldiers and not tailor’s dummies wearing dirty khaki!”

Ramsay smiled. “Don’t mind him, lads. He’s a corporal, he can’t speak without shouting and he can’t shout without an insult. It’s a gift that all corporals are born with.”

The two relaxed slightly but still stared wide-eyed at him.

“So what unit did you lads belong to?”

One wore spectacles with thick lenses; the other was about three stone underweight and stood with a permanent stoop.

“We are shoemakers, sir,” the spectacled man stuttered, “but we want to help stop the Germans.”

“Shoemakers,” Cruikshank said in the background. “Jesus help us – shoemakers. I bet Kaiser Bill is shaking in his boots.”

“Well, a shoemaker can shoot as straight as anybody else.” Ramsay did not smile. “Welcome aboard, lads. Corporal McKim will find you shovels and you can start to dig a trench. You will do fine.”

As the hands on his watch gradually circled toward dawn, the train still burned toward Carnoy and stars appeared in the sky. Ramsay heard a drift of singing from the German positions. He recognised the song that the Prussian Guards had regaled them with a few days earlier.

“Shall we sing back, sir?” McKim asked. “We can let them know the Royals are still here.”

“No!” Ramsay said firmly. “We want them to think that the place is undefended. There are so few of us that our only advantage is surprise.”

As more men joined Ramsay’s force he had created a defensive line about two hundred yards long, only a fraction of the perimeter of Albert, but hopefully long enough to at least stall the German advance.

We cannot possibly halt them, but if we delay them for only an hour or so, we might give our army time to form a better defence.

Ramsay checked his watch. Four in the morning and dawn was pink in the east. Dew formed on the grass in front of the makeshift trenches, pale-glittering in the starlight.

“Stand to, boys. They might probe with a raiding party.” He watched as his warriors - reluctant, eager or resigned - woke up, stretched, yawned and took up their positions. One by one rifles protruded, ready to greet the Germans with at least a show of resistance.

He paced the length of his front. His flanks were based on two solid houses, both of which he had tried to form into strongpoints by sandbagging the windows and doors and placing determined men inside. With no machine guns they would have to rely on their personal weapons, but massed musketry had scared the Germans at Mons, and might work again.

Unfortunately I don’t have a mass of men, and certainly not of the superb quality that we had at Mons. Oh, for a hundred of the Old Contemptibles! I would flatten the front ranks of the Prussians.

He looked at his hodgepodge collection of drunks, cooks, clerks and laggards. It was hardly an inspiring sight, despite the thin scattering of his own Royals and the few veterans McKim had managed to scrape up from the depths of Albert. Timms was scowling fiercely at the slowly rising sun, with his helmet pushed well over his face and his bayonet fixed and ready.

“Are you fully loaded, Timms?” Ramsay asked kindly and Timms nodded.

“Yes, sir. I am ready for them.”

“Good man. That’s the spirit.” Ramsay thought of the tall, broad and highly trained Prussian Guards who were probably already assembling a couple of miles away and hid his fear. Timms had all the guts in the world, but he would need much more to stand a chance against the military machine that was the German army. In the last sixty years the Prussians had swept aside the Danes, Austrians, French and Russians, as well as flattening all opposition in Africa in their march to a world power. Now it was Britain’s turn to face them.

And what do we have in opposition? Private Albert Timms, never having fired a gun in anger, with shaking hands and a shrapnel helmet two sizes too large for his head. God save us all.

“Plenty food at least.” McKim joined him in his tour of the trenches, handing out French bread and glasses of wine. “There’s no rum, boys but vin blank is bon, eh?” He was smiling and as jaunty as ever, his broken pipe emitting aromatic smoke and sandbag-sacking protecting the bolt of his rifle.

And then we have McKim.

The men did not object to wine and when the veterans began to brew up tea, Ramsay said nothing. Whatever aided morale could only be helpful when they faced impossible odds.

McKim stiffened slightly. “Fritz is singing,” he said softly. “He must think he has won the war.”

The sound filled the pinking sky; the same deep-throated melody they had heard before as a thousand Prussians boasted of their love for their fatherland.

“Musical buggers aren’t they, sir?” McKim sucked at his pipe.

“They are,” Ramsay agreed. “Good soldiers, too.”

McKim considered. “Not bad,” he conceded, “but a bit limited. They are efficient at this sort of warfare. If we faced them on the veldt we would run rings round them.”

Ramsay smiled. “I am sure we would, McKim, and once this war is won we can return to the old days.”

Ramsay looked around. Their train was still glowing red but the dawn was stronger now, streaking the eastern sky with bands of ochre red. A wind ruffled the grass and carried a whiff of smoke and the distinctive sour aroma created by tens of thousands of men living without proper sanitary facilities.

“They will be coming soon then,” McKim said calmly. He took the pipe from his mouth and added more tobacco to the bowl. “Well, death and hell to them all.”

“Death and hell to them,” Ramsay echoed. He checked that his revolver was fully loaded. “Good luck, McKim. If anybody gets through this, it will be you.” He surprised himself and held out his hand.

McKim hesitated and then tentatively accepted the handshake. His hands were surprisingly small, but hard as granite callused along the base of the fingers. They shook gingerly and then both tightened their grip in an act of mutual respect.

“Good luck, sir,” McKim said.

The Prussians came just as the first low rays of the sun crested the eastern horizon. Ramsay blinked and tried to shield his eyes.

Clever buggers, the Hun. We are half-blinded by the sun.

He saw movement ahead and readied his revolver. He had expected the Prussians to come in their long, extended lines that only death stopped, but instead there were a few scattered parties of men, walking cautiously over the sloping ground as they approached the shattered town of Albert.

“Scouts,” he said. “Keep low and don’t fire. There are only a few of them. McKim, once they have passed us, take two men and deal with them. Quietly.”

“Prisoners, sir?” McKim drew his smoke-blackened bayonet from its scabbard. The sight carried so much menace that Ramsay almost felt sorry for the German infantry.

The German scouts were within a few yards when Timms opened fire. “There they are!” He shouted, “I see them, sir! It’s the Germans!”

The scouts dropped immediately and Ramsay cursed. His plan had depended on the discipline inherent in regular or at least experienced troops, but most of his tiny command was neither. Once the first shot was fired there was no point in remaining quiet.

“Fire, lads! Shoot them flat!”

It was easy to distinguish the steady, rapid fire of the veterans from the staccato fusillade from the inexperienced, but the combined result knocked down half a dozen of the scouts and sent the rest scurrying for shelter.

“Cease fire!” Ramsay ordered. No sense in letting Fritz know exactly how many of us there are.

“McKim, if you see movement, shoot. The rest of you, all of you, including you Timms, hold your fire until I give a direct order.”

The artillery fire began five minutes later, a short, intensive bombardment from light guns that landed mainly behind Ramsay’s position and added to the devastation of the town. And then the infantry came in.

They advanced in long lines with bayonets fixed, tall men silhouetted against the rising sun, a light rolling barrage flattening everything in front of them. Ramsay kept his men down until the shellfire had stopped and then watched the infantry advance.

“Saxons, I think,” McKim said casually as he aimed. “Or maybe Wurtenbergians. They’re not Prussians at any rate.”

“Hold your fire,” Ramsay ordered. The Germans were quarter of a mile away and walking rapidly. The first line was extending to overlap their position.

Damn! I can’t do anything about it. Keep calm. Do as much damage as we can and see what transpires.

“Hold your fire!” he repeated.

The Germans were four hundred yards away now and still approaching steadily. Ramsay could make out the features of individuals; he could see the officers marching in front and the NCOs at regular intervals keeping the line precise.

They were three hundred yards away now – about five hundred German infantry against his twenty-two scattered and half-trained men.

Two hundred and fifty yards and still they came. McKim had ignored the officers and had his rifle pointed firmly at one of the senior NCOs. As an old soldier he knew that they were the backbone of any military formation. Officers could come and go, but sergeants were the lifeblood, the soul and the experience of any army. Kill them and the officers were left with nobody to translate their orders to the private soldiers.

Two hundred yards. Oh, God. I will have to give the order soon.

McKim glanced at him. His finger was curled around the trigger, already white under the pressure.

One hundred and fifty yards. Even his most inexperienced men could not miss at this range.

Ramsay stood up so he could clearly be seen. “Fire!”

He pointed his revolver at the mass of Germans and squeezed the trigger as the British opened up. The initial volley was ragged, but it still tore holes in the German line. As the firing continued, the veterans made the most of the close range and the element of surprise, firing their fifteen aimed shots a minute and the enemy fell in droves. Ramsay distinctly heard the German officers shouting orders. He aimed at the closest and fired: two, three, four shots. The man turned around, a look of surprise on his face, then he crumpled and fell.

Ramsay reloaded as his men fired, worked their bolts and fired again. He heard Timms shouting and McKim giving his habitual slogan of “Death and hell to you” as he fired. He saw the leading German line falter, lifted his revolver and aimed at the next German officer. Something tugged at the skirts of his coat, but he ignored it and fired until that officer fell, then looked for his next target.

“They’re running!” Timms sounded excited. “We’ve beat the Germans!” He hauled himself out of his trench and took a few steps forward until McKim grabbed hold of his collar and threw him back.

“Get back in there, you bloody idiot!”

“Keep firing!” Ramsay emptied his revolver. “The more we kill the less likely they are to return.”

His scratch force responded with a will, knocking down another dozen Germans before Ramsay called a halt. “Withdraw to the shelter of the town, lads. Fritz won’t be pleased at us.”

He left the details to McKim, who responded as though withdrawing a tiny rag-tag bunch of soldiers only half a mile away from a huge German army was something he did every week. The shells began to land before the men were all clear and Timms screamed in sudden fear.

“Run, Timms!” McKim shouted, “Don’t mind the shine!”

The shells landed in groups of six, plastering the positions the British had so recently vacated, throwing up great columns of mud and soil and the remains of sandbags.

The lyddite fumes had not yet cleared when the German infantry came again.

“That’s not the Saxons this time,” McKim said quietly. “That’s the bloody Prussians.”

“Get back in line, boys, and bowl them over!” Ramsay led the men back to their old positions. A couple of stray shells exploded and a machine gun began its insistent chatter, spraying the line of defences so that now his men had to throw themselves behind the meagre cover left by the bombardment.

The Prussians advanced faster than their predecessors – two long lines of tall men carrying fixed bayonets and led by the usual quota of brave officers.

“This lot won’t be stopped by a few casualties,” McKim commented.

“Maybe not, but we’ll send as many to hell as we can.” Ramsay said. He felt a new sort of madness, a crazed desire to stop the Prussians by any means he could.

“Come on, Fritz! Come on! Die for your Kaiser! Up the Royals!”

Ramsay stepped forward from the trenches and opened fire. He heard himself cheering as he faced the still-distant Prussians. “Come on you Prussian bastards! Come and face the Royals!”

The words were unheard amidst the growing crackle of musketry as the defenders opened fire and the Prussians continued to advance. They seemed huge in the morning light, rank after rank moving inexorably in an impersonal advance, covering the ground with methodical skill.

“Death and hell to you!” McKim was shouting, but his firing was unhurried, professional as he aimed each shot.

“Oh, God! Oh, God, there’s thousands of them!” That was an English voice. One of the shoemakers perhaps, but its owner was still firing, still keeping his position despite the danger.

“Get back in cover, sir!” McKim was beside him. “We need you alive!”

Sanity returned as Ramsay realised what he was doing. He was standing a full two yards in front of the British position in full view of the Prussians, a lone officer with a pistol, facing hundreds of enemy infantry.

What would Gillian think of me if she saw me? Would she think I am her Hector, a hero of antiquity?

“Get back, you bloody fool!” McKim made no secret of his feelings. “You’re an officer, not a bloody recruit looking for a medal! You’ll catch a bullet sure as death!” The corporal stopped firing for a moment to grab Ramsay’s tunic and haul him back to the meagre shelter of the sandbags.

Putting a hand on an officer is probably against Kings Regulations. I could have him court martialled for that . . .

“Thanks, McKim,” Ramsay said. A machine gun opened up and bullets sprayed the front of the British positions. Somewhere on his left a man screamed, high-pitched and agonised.

“Keep firing boys! Send them back!”

There were gaps in the German lines, but they kept advancing. The officers gave an order and they quickened their pace from a fast walk to a trot and then lowered their bayonets and began to charge.

“We can’t stop them! Run boys!”

Ramsay looked along the line. The man who had called himself Smith had left his position and was backing away. He dropped his rifle, turned and began to run, screaming as his panic overcame him. One of his companions, the man named Jones, quickly followed.

“Smith! Get back in line!” McKim whirled round and aimed his rifle at the fleeing man.

“Leave him, McKim. Let him go!” Ramsay understood McKim’s reasoning, for panic could easily spread and Smith and Jones’ example might lead to a mass exodus. “Concentrate on the Germans. Those men are not worth your attention.”

The Prussians were about seventy yards away and coming fast despite the gaps in their ranks. Ramsay estimated that there were three hundred in the front line alone. He glanced along the defensive line. He had twenty men, about half of whom were front line soldiers.

Do we fight to the death or retreat? The boys are shaky already.

The decision was taken from him as Turnbull shouted, “They’re behind us! We’re outflanked!”

Prussians were pouring in either side of Ramsay’s small group, some stopping to kneel and fire, others advancing at speed, their long bayonets snaking forward.

Ramsay had no time to give the order. His line collapsed as his mix of deserters, shoemakers and odds and sods broke and ran. Only the Royals remained, together with Timms, who was still firing when Ramsay gave the order to retire to the village.

“But we can beat them!” Timms screamed.

“Come on, you stupid bastard!” McKim grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

Ramsay left three dead behind, including the moustached veteran who was slouched over a sandbag, still facing the enemy.

“Back to the houses, lads,” Ramsay ordered.

I have ordered more retreats than advances, yet again.

“We held them for a few minutes at least,” he shouted, but McKim corrected him.

“We held them for more than an hour sir; that’s more than the generals could do.”

“Do you know Albert, McKim?” Ramsay stopped to fire three shots at the advancing Prussians. None took effect. The Prussians on the flanks joined those who had been in the frontal attack. They stopped to dress their lines.

“Yes, sir,” McKim said. “I have been here before.”

“Can you guide us through the streets?” Ramsay reloaded as he moved. His men were scattered, the Royals a compact group and most of the others running ahead.

I should call them back, but for what purpose? Let them go; they did their bit.

“Yes, sir. Are we leaving Albert now?” McKim shoved a magazine into his rifle and ducked as Prussian bullets gouged holes in the wall immediately behind him.

“As fast as we can, McKim,” Ramsay said.

McKim nodded and shoved his pipe back in his mouth. “This way lads. We’ll leave by the Amiens Road. If any Huns get in the way we’ll send the bastards to hell!”

The Germans were close behind them as McKim led the British in a crazy race over the cobbled streets of Albert. The Cathedral tower still stood, but the Virgin and Child, the symbol that had withstood a hundred German bombardments, was down now, felled by a British shell. The figure lay in Cathedral Square, its gold face battered and still somehow accusing as Ramsay ran past.

“Nothing much left here,” said McKim. Artillery had pounded the buildings surrounding the square to piles of rubble. A few civilians remained, cowering for shelter as the Germans poured in and the last of the British stragglers ran for their lives.

Their boots crunched over sacred mosaics and more pedestrian fragments of brick and stone, scraps of paper littered the streets and the smoke of a score of fires drifted between the buildings.

“Over there!” Turnbull ran awkwardly, still cradling his broken wrist, but he managed to indicate the junction of the Amiens Road and the Millencourt Road. A shell had blasted open the ground and the main town drains were exposed, seeping noxious fumes into a place already made filthy by lyddite and rubble and the ugly hint of gas. “Germans!”

Ramsay saw the distinctive round helmets of German infantry amongst the rubble; they swarmed forward bravely, dozens, scores of them. Their long bayonets caught the morning sun and their faces were set and determined and grim as they advanced along the Millencourt Road, the officer in front holding a pistol and roaring orders.

“There’s more, sir.” McKim pointed behind them, along the Amiens Road. A long column of Prussians were approaching, shoulder to shoulder across half the width of the street, marching in utter silence except for the steady crunch of their boots. “And there.” Cruickshank aimed and fired, worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again. “There are hundreds of the woman-murdering bastards!”

“They’re ahead too,” McKim said. “They’re everywhere, sir.” His voice was calm as he stopped running and stood in the doorway of a house, chewing on his pipe.

Is this it? Is this the end of our war?

Ramsay called his men to a halt. They gathered around him, some panting, some clearly scared, Cruickshank as truculent as ever. He looked around. German soldiers were in every direction, marching, running, laughing, joking. The enemy had taken Albert and were celebrating their triumph.

“Where to, sir?” McKim was kneeling behind a pile of rubble with his rifle at the ready. “Where to?”

Where to? We are surrounded by thousands of Huns for God’s sake. There is nowhere left to go. I don’t want to surrender now. I want to get back to the British lines.

“Where shall we go, sir?”

“Where shall we go, David?” Grace was smiling as she asked the question. There was such hope in her eyes that Ramsay almost felt affection for her. “Where shall we get married? Your church or mine?”

She patted his arm and moved closer as they walked through the sun-blessed field towards the cool water of the South Esk.

Ramsay shook his head and wondered if he could just push her away and make a run for it, but with Rab acting as chaperone only a few yards behind, he did not think he would get far. “I think your church would be best, Grace.”

He tried to imagine Grace meeting his family or standing at the altar of St Andrews and St George’s in George Street, with the elite of Edinburgh gathered all around. She would be in her shabby best, completely overawed by the educated voices and intelligent conversation of judges and advocates and businessmen; she would also be plump and pregnant and a figure of veiled contempt. As would he of course; men of the Ramsay family simply did not mix with mining stock from Midlothian.

“My church?” Grace was obviously thrilled at his answer. “Would your family come out here for the wedding? We could gather in father’s house before and maybe the men could meet in the Miner’s Institute afterwards.”

Ramsay shuddered. He had no idea what the Miner’s Institute was, but he imagined it to be some drink-sodden den where flat-capped miners downed pints of sour beer before going home to kick their wives. “That sounds delightful,” he told her.

“This is Trotter’s Bridge,” Grace told him as they stood at the parapet of a low bridge with the water churning creamy brown beneath them. “It is my favourite spot in all the world. I often come here to think. We can bring our children here, even if we live in Edinburgh.” She pronounced it “Edinbury” and gave a little frown at the same time. “I’ll miss my mother but I dare say I’ll get used to living in the city. Will your mother talk to me?”

That last question was fired at him out of the blue and suddenly Ramsay realised that Grace was not quite the simpleton he had imagined her to be. She was just as aware of their class differences as he was.

Grace continued: “My father won’t talk much to you. He will see you as a ‘toonie’ and won’t think much of a man who doesn’t work with his hands.”

The contempt would be two-sided then; miner to solicitor as well as solicitor to miner.

“We will not be welcomed in either family, David,” Grace surprised him further with her acumen. “So where will we go, David? We can go to Newtongrange and be shunned by my family or go to Edinburgh to be ignored by yours.” She perched her plump little bottom on the parapet of the bridge and faced him squarely, “Or we can go somewhere new that is just for us – you and me and our family. Where will we go?”

Ramsay made his decision. With the Germans all around, there was no choice.

“We don’t go anywhere, lads. This is it I’m afraid. We dig in and stay right here.”

They looked at him, Cruickshank with his hatred of everything German, McKim with his decades of military experience, Turnbull with his injuries and all the newcomers, cooks, shoemakers and sundry hangers-on. They had all depended on him to lead them and he had led them to ultimate defeat.

“This is as far as we go.” Ramsay looked around. The street was a shambles of ruined houses and shell craters, and a single house set back from the road. He looked closely at the house: it had restricted access so it would be difficult for the Germans to approach without being seen

That will do.

The nearest German was about a hundred yards away, fast approaching with only a few shattered shops between them. “At Waterloo and Omdurman we formed a square, here we will do the same. Form all round positions and we will hold out at long as our ammunition lasts and then we try and break out if we can or . . .”

“Or we surrender?” Cruickshank slid his bayonet from its scabbard and clicked it into place. “No bloody surrender, sir. I’m not surrendering to the Huns.”

McKim grinned, moved the broken pipe from his mouth and nodded. “I’ve been in four wars and God alone knows how many actions, sir. I’ve fought Boers, Germans, Pathans, and hunted dacoits in Burma. I have never surrendered in my life and I don’t intend to start now. As Cruickshank says – no bloody surrender.” He raised his voice in a roar that carried across the street and must have been heard by every German within two hundred yards. “Up the Royals! Royal Sco-o-o-o-ots!”

“Enough!” Ramsay cut short McKim’s rousing slogans. He pointed to the house. “In there, lads, and hold out.”

They scurried in, pushing at each other to kick down the door and rush inside. Timms hovered outside, pointing his rifle in the general direction of the Prussian Guards.

“Get in, Timms. What the hell are you waiting for?”

“After you, sir,” Timms said, probably the most surprising thing that Ramsay had ever heard on a battlefield in his life. “It’s not polite to enter in front of an officer and a gentleman.”

Ramsay grabbed hold of the collar of his tunic and physically shoved him through the broken door. “In you get, you bloody idiot! This is no time for politeness!”

The interior of the house had been partially cleared by the owners, but there was still furniture and some household possessions. Ramsay took a quick look around. “You two, close the door and barricade it with the table. Cruickshank, shoot any Fritz who even looks at us. McKim, take six men upstairs and keep the front clear. Let’s make a nuisance of ourselves as long as we can.”

They smashed the remaining panes of the windows with rifle butts, dragged the furniture across as additional protection and settled into position.

Every minute Fritz grants us makes us stronger, but where the hell are they? They know we are here, they should be swarming all over us by now.

Ramsay checked his watch: midday. They had been in the house for a full five minutes and still not a single shot had been fired at them. There was a great deal of noise outside; singing and shouting and the sound of breaking glass, but the shooting had ended, save for the occasional British shell bursting within the town. Ramsay stood beside the window and cautiously looked outside. His view was restricted, but there were no Germans in the small alley that led to their house.

“McKim!” Ramsay shouted, “What’s happening up there?”

“Fritz is having a party, sir,” came McKim’s reply. “He’s looting everything in sight.”

Ramsay mounted the narrow wooden stairs two at a time. Even on the upper floor his view was restricted, he saw only a small section of the Amiens Road, and a dozen German soldiers looting a shop.

“I’ve never known that before,” he said to McKim. “What has happened to the famous German discipline?”

McKim took the pipe from his mouth. “In my youth,” he said, and he smiled faintly, as if reliving an experience from a very long time ago, “the boys still wore red coats, and we were notorious for drunken brawls. On weekends, or before a regiment was posted abroad, garrison towns lived in fear of mobs of Tommies on the batter. Now . . . ?” He shrugged and replaced the pipe. “We are soft as shit, sir. There’s hardly a peep out of us when we have leave, but I think the old spirit is still there, somewhere.”

Ramsay waited. He guessed that McKim had not yet reached the point of his story.

“I think the Germans are like that. They have a reputation for fearsome discipline that makes them scared to act in case the officers hammer them. They must have lost tens of thousands of men in their advance. We’ve seen the ambulances remember, and now they have come to a town of temptation.” He shrugged. “Their discipline has collapsed.”

Ramsay nodded. “You look after the house, McKim. I am going out to see what is happening. Fritz should have attacked us a long time ago.”

“You can’t go alone, sir!” McKim put a hand on his sleeve and withdrew it immediately. “Sorry, sir!”

“I’ll go alone.”

Who else could I take? The only man here I could trust is McKim himself and somebody has to take care of things here. Turnbull is injured, Cruickshank is on a hair trigger and could erupt at any time and the rest simply lack the experience.

It was easier to slide out of a window than to unblock the door and once in the street Ramsay moved into the side to try and merge with the shadows.

He moved slowly, aware that he had only his wits and a revolver to pit against thousands of trained and dangerous German soldiers. He could hear the sounds of breaking glass and of laughter. Somebody was singing, but not the usual German martial song; it was more raucous, higher – a drinking song.

He moved into the Amiens Road, slid into the shelter of a deep doorway and stopped.

Good God! Is this the fearsome German army?

The whole street was in chaos. Soldiers from half a dozen different German units were roaming around, laden with items looted from shops and houses. One man was wearing a woman’s dress and giggling drunkenly; another had smashed the neck of a champagne bottle and was swallowing the contents in huge gulps; a third had dragged a chest of drawers into the street and was systematically emptying them one by one.

The more Ramsay looked, the more chaos he could see. A group of Bavarians sat cross-legged around a table, laughing as they wolfed down bread and what looked like old cheese. A mob of Saxons, led by a fierce-looking sergeant, passed around a bottle of brandy, taking a swallow each and singing songs. There were a number of young private soldiers sprawled in various positions along the street, drunk, fatigued or having just decided that they needed a break from the business of killing and being killed.

The German Army has broken down. If only I had sufficient men I could counter attack now and push them right back to their starting line

Ramsay heard the snarl of a motor vehicle and shrunk further into the doorway. He took the revolver from its holster and waited. That was a lighter sound than a lorry, it had sounded like a car.

Only staff officers drive cars. If the German higher command is coming here, they must think that this area is secure.

Ramsay inched forward with his revolver extended. He saw the staff car drive into the Amiens Road and halt. The driver got out, stepped to the rear and opened the door. Three tall men, obviously high-ranking officers by their splendid uniforms and mud-free boots, emerged and looked at the shambolic scenes around them.

Oh, God. You boys are in trouble. Do the Germans still have the firing squad for neglect of duty and looting? If so, there will be many customers later when this lot get arrested.

The staff officers looked around them and then had a hurried conversation. Ramsay expected an explosion of wrath, but instead they ignored the scattered soldiers and dashed into the nearest shop, to emerge a few moments later laden with bottles and fancy foodstuff.

Dear God! Even the staff are at it!

While one officer opened the boot, the other two ran back and forward to the shops, bringing out a selection of items, from bottles of wine to fripperies for their female friends.

Ramsay holstered his pistol and withdrew slowly, then hurried back to the house.

“Out, lads. Out you come. We’re getting out of Albert.”

McKim raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“The Germans are looting Albert from Monday to Christmas. Even the staff are going crazy. The advance has stalled and we can get away.”

McKim was too experienced to rush into danger. He sent Cruickshank and a Durham man named Hedge to guard either end of the alley while he organised the removal of the remainder of the men.

“Don’t dawdle!” Now that he was committed, Ramsay was anxious to get away before the German officers took control of their infantry and the advance continued. He shoved Timms forward, “Come on, keep moving. Keep your heads down, try and keep out of sight and move as fast as you can. And keep your rifles ready!”

Ramsay led them at a steady trot, keeping behind houses as much as possible and dropping low whenever a party of German soldiers appeared.

“They must be blind today,” Timms said, “we’ve passed dozens of them.” He crouched behind a shattered wall a dozen yards from the Amiens Road and indicated a group of grey-clad soldiers who laughed around a barrel of cognac.

“They’re not blind,” McKim told him, “but they are preoccupied.”

Timms looked blank. “What do you mean? Preoccupied with what?” He struggled to find a more comfortable position.

McKim pushed him further down. “Keep your bloody head down, Timms! Do you know Kipling?”

“Kipling? What’s he got to do with anything?” Timms obediently put his head down, but left a leg trailing.

McKim pushed that down as well. “Don’t make it easy for Fritz, Timmy. There’s nothing their snipers like more than a nice juicy target.” He waited until Timms had settled down. “Kipling wrote about loot, Timms, loot. That’s what the Huns are after.”

“Could we not booby trap something and kill some of them?”

“You bloodthirsty bastard,” McKim shook his head. “And you look so innocent, too!”

“The street ahead is clear,” Ramsay said. “We can make it to that estaminet across the road, it will hold us all. McKim, you take the rearguard and send me the boys over in groups of three.”

The estaminet sat in the middle of a short street of five or six houses. Shellfire had shattered the window and blown in the door, but the Germans had not found it yet. Ramsay estimated the distance as twenty yards, across a cobbled street littered with debris and two dead civilians. The day was bright, with the sun not long past its zenith so there were few shadows for shelter. It all depended whether the Germans were looking in his direction or not.

“Cruickshank, keep me covered.”

Once again Ramsay felt that surge of insanity. There was a part of him that welcomed this encounter with danger, this pitting himself against the professionalism of the German army. It was a new sensation with which he was not yet fully comfortable, but it excited him in some unfathomable way.

He grinned. “Good luck, McKim,” and stepped into the road.

His boots clattered on the cobbles, raising echoes in the bright street. He moved quickly, counting his steps; twelve, fourteen, eighteen and he was at the door of the estaminet. He dived in. If any German had seen him, they had not reacted.

McKim was watching from a shaded doorway. He looked as efficient as any Prussian. Ramsay waved and a moment later two British soldiers dashed across. The sound of their studded boots on the cobbles sounded like cymbals crashing to Ramsay, but they also crossed without trouble and he began to breathe more easily.

He signalled for the next group and watched as the two shoemakers and Turnbull left the shelter for the perils of the road. Turnbull ran awkwardly, his rifle in his left hand and his right bouncing in its sling, but he was still faster than the shoemakers, who hesitated halfway. The smaller man stopped to peer up the street.

“Come on man!” Ramsay signalled urgently to him. “Get over here!”

The shoemaker looked at him uncertainly, and then decided to obey. He ran across in an ungainly fashion and entered the estaminet slowly.

“Keep out of the way,” Ramsay ordered, “and see if you can find some food in here, the boys need to keep their strength up.”

The British crossed in pairs and threes; McKim was the last man over. His pipe was still firmly clenched between his teeth when he entered the estaminet.

“That was easy enough, sir,” he said. “Old Fritz is far too busy robbing Albert blind. It’s as if he has not seen food for years, the way he’s carrying on.”

Ramsay nodded. He did not really care how long the Germans had been without food; he only cared that they would concentrate on other things while he led his men out of Albert.

“We are not far from the edge of town,” Ramsay said. “So maybe another couple of hops would see us safe.”

Safe! We are in the middle of the worst war the world has ever known, with millions of men killed and wounded. There is nothing and nobody safe here.

But I am safer now; Flockhart is dead. I only have to survive this war and life will be sweet, whoever wins.

Ramsay checked the road outside the estaminet. He could hear the Germans singing and shouting but there were none in sight from this spot. He estimated that it was about two hundred yards to the edge of town and then there was open countryside stretching up to a ridge. If the British high command had any sense that ridge was where they would make their stand.

When the Germans left Albert they would have to advance up the slope to face the British, who would have all the advantage of height. Ramsay grimaced; he remembered how hard it had been to move up towards the German positions at the Somme. Now it would be the German’s turn to try that particular nightmare.

“Next step, boys, is diagonal, up the street and to the end house,” Ramsay indicated the building he had in mind. “From there we should be able to leave the town and hot-foot it up the ridge to our own lines.” He ducked as a shell landed in the town behind him. The crash shook the estaminet and a few tiles slipped from the roof to shatter amidst the general debris in the street.

“I see it.” McKim had not flinched. “The house with the open door?”

“That’s the one.” Ramsay ducked again as a trio of shells exploded near the town centre; tall towers of smoke and pieces of rubble rose skyward, the fragments descending and the smoke gradually dispersing in the breeze.

“We’ll use the same system,” Ramsay said. “I’ll go first and ensure it’s safe and you send the boys over in small groups.” He looked up as a 5.9 inch exploded high above. “We’d better hurry. Our own lot seem to be angry with Albert.”

McKim smiled and sang softly:

“Après la guerre finie

Soldat Ecosse parti

Mademoiselle in the family way”

He shrugged. “The war will be over by Christmas, sir, and then we can all go home.”

A few weeks back Ramsay would have torn to shreds any ranker who dared be so familiar with him. Now he smiled back. “Let’s hope so, McKim; let’s hope so.”

He surveyed the ground he had to cross. About forty yards this time and over open ground, but the end result would be worth the effort and danger. He took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped out.

Once again he experienced the feeling of exhilaration and heightened fear that jangled all his nerve endings. He was almost tempted to stop in the middle of the road and look around him, but common sense drove him forward, one long stride after another. There was the familiar whoosh of a large calibre shell passing overhead, but he was experienced enough to know that the shell would explode well beyond him so he did not look up.

Thirty yards to go. The cobbles were uneven under his feet; he spotted a child’s doll lying on its back. Some small person would be crying sore at its loss. That’s if it was still alive; children were so vulnerable even in peacetime.

She was blooming, carrying the new child within her, smiling to everybody as she walked between the uniform streets of brick houses. Ramsay watched her for a full five minutes before he let his presence be known.

“Grace,” he said, and saw the genuine pleasure cross her face. If only circumstances were different, he thought, he might be quite attracted to this girl. She was pretty enough, in a plump and coarse way, and he would have no problems with her faithfulness. Grace was as straightforward a girl as he had ever met. Even as things were, he quite liked her at times, despite her obvious shortcomings and the difference in their social status. He quite liked her, no more than that.

“I do love you so,” Grace told him, openly and loudly in the middle of the street, to the obvious amusement of the passers by. Not that they mattered, of course. They were merely colliers and their women, or people associated with the mines in some way or another. They were so far beneath him that they barely registered in his mind.

“I love you too,” he lied. He linked his arm with hers and walked with her along the main street of Newtongrange, with its many domestic chimneys belching smoke and the gas works chimney and the pit head of the Lady Victoria Colliery dominating everything.

“I thought you might be here sooner.” Grace was not complaining, Ramsay knew. She was only voicing whatever ideas ran through her mind at that instant. He did not expect she had developed her mental powers sufficiently to control the space between thoughts and voice.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” Ramsay said. They stopped outside the Dean Tavern and he contemplated taking her inside. Were women permitted entry to such places?

“When will you take me to meet your family, David?” Grace asked bluntly.

Ramsay had expected that question. “My father is in India,” he lied easily, “and my mother does not keep well at all. I do not think she could cope with the shock of me being engaged to wed.”

“You mean she would disapprove of you being engaged to a miner’s daughter and not some Edinburgh girl.”

“You are my choice,” he told her and pulled her towards him.

A light rain pressed the smoke down on the streets so every breath inhaled miniscule particles of soot and every inch of his clothing was contaminated and dirty within minutes. Ramsay looked around at the men and women who lived in this environment every moment of their lives, as their parents and grandparents had before them. He expected to see depression and dejection, shuffling people pressed down by their lives but instead he saw hard pride and a tight-knit community.

A group of men passed him, three generations walking together and all dressed the same in broad flat bonnets, their Saturday afternoon second best. They looked at him with disapproval but said nothing.

“What is wrong with them?” Ramsay asked.

“They wonder why we are not yet married,” Grace told him.

Ramsay hid his smile. He had not thought of Midlothian miners as being particularly moral people.

“You are surprised,” Grace read him far too easily. She wrestled free of his arm. “You think we are all savages here, like Africans or Eskimos!”

Ramsay shook his head. “I never thought anything of the sort . . .”

The group of miners had halted and were listening. The oldest of them stepped closer and beckoned the others to join him.

“Don’t deny it!” Grace’s quick temper was gathering quite a crowd of onlookers as a pair of be-shawled women joined the men. They folded their arms and glowered at Ramsay as if he was their mortal enemy. Grace thrust her face forward and into his. “You think you’re too good for the likes of us.”

The crowd growled, obviously in full support of Grace. One woman pointed to Ramsay’s suit. “Look at him, all toffed up as if he owns the place.”

“Toonies. They should stay in Edinbury!” her friend agreed.

“Well, you’re not better than we are!” Grace had worked herself into a passion now. “You are no better than the rest of us.” She patted her swollen belly. “And our baby will be from Nitten, not Edinbury!”

The crowd was larger now. About a dozen strong, they formed a semi-circle a few yards from the pair, openly staring and making derogatory comments.

“I hope you’ll make Grace a respectable woman, you!” The older woman pointed at Ramsay.

“We’ve heard all about you, David Napier!”

Ramsay looked around. What on earth am I doing mixing with this type of person? I am from a respectable family, for goodness sake. I am of a higher breed.

“Go on, get away!” Grace shoved him and he staggered. “We don’t need you anymore. My baby and me will do just fine without the likes of you.”

“He’ll need a father,” one of the women shouted. “He’ll be a bastard else.”

“I will marry you,” Ramsay said quietly. He knew it was the right thing to do, but at the same time he knew he was condemning both himself and Grace to a lifetime of unhappiness.

“No you bloody won’t!” Grace screamed. “I’d rather have my child a bastard than be married to one.”

“I will marry you,” Ramsay repeated. He thought of decades trapped with this bundle of volatility, of badly cooked meals and neighbours in cloth caps and the constant grit of smoke in his lungs. No, he would not sacrifice everything because of a few moments’ pleasure. “But we will live in Edinburgh.”

She slapped him then, a wild swinging blow that caught him by surprise and echoed around the narrow street. “There! That’s for you!”

Ramsay instinctively put a hand to his face and stepped back. “What was that for?”

Strangely, the blow had altered the opinion of the crowd.

“Hit her back,” two of the men shouted, “hit the bitch.”

“I will marry you,” Ramsay said for the third time.

Grace shook her head. “I don’t want my baby growing up with folk like you,” she said. He saw the tears bright in her eyes and, despite himself, he reached out for her, but she pushed him away, turned and ran up the street in a rustle of skirts.

“Let her go, man!” the youngest of the miners advised. “Grace Flockhart was always a flirt.”

“You’re better without her,” another miner said. “You offered, she refused. Run while you have the chance.”

One of the women stepped forward. Hardship and work had aged her, but there was warm light behind her eyes. “If you want her, son, then go after her. If you don’t, you’ll never get her back.”

Ramsay nodded. Knowing it would only bring him trouble, knowing that they could never forge a happy marriage, knowing his family would disown them both, he shouted, “Grace!” and followed, striding down the street. “It’s my baby too!”

Another shell crashed down somewhere in the town, but Ramsay barely heard it as he reached the building. The door gaped open and the interior was dark. He plunged inside, gasping with the strain of his passage across, and had a quick look around.

There was a very small hallway with doors leading to what had been a living room and a bedroom, both now stripped of everything but the largest items of furniture. His men would be cramped inside, but safer than on the street and closer to the outskirts. It would do as a temporary refuge. Ramsay signalled to McKim to send them over and watched for any Germans.

Shells came over in ones and twos, a desultory bombardment that had only nuisance value. He watched as two men left the estaminet; Turnbull and Timms, running in a zig-zag pattern to confuse any enemy snipers. McKim and Cruickshank were on guard, their rifles moving as they scanned the street. Ramsay started as there was movement at the far end of the street.

The German soldiers arrived just as Timms reached the centre of the road.

Oh, God! I knew it was too good to last.

Ramsay crouched in the doorway and aimed his revolver. Out of the corner of his eye he saw McKim readying his rifle, but there was no need. These Germans were no threat. He watched them stagger up the street, one carrying what looked like a bolt of cloth and a pile of women’s clothing and the other with a wine bottle seemingly permanently attached to his lips.

“McKim!” Ramsay spoke in a whisper that could not possibly carry the distance. “Don’t fire!”

Perhaps the force of his thoughts conveyed the message, or maybe McKim was too experienced to draw attention to himself, but he restrained himself. Timms and Turnbull clattered into the house and Ramsay ordered them into the front room.

“In there and keep quiet,” he said.

Now what? Do we wait until the road is clear of Germans? Or trust to blind luck?

We can’t stop. We must keep on.

“McKim!” he hissed. “Send the next bunch over.”

McKim acknowledged with a wave of his hand. Ramsay waited, hearing the thunder of his heart. The two Germans were still reeling along at the far end of the street. The man with the bottle was singing, the words slurred and the tune indecipherable, the other was swaying from side to side under the weight of his burden.

The shoemakers were next. They scurried across the road in panic, one looking over his shoulder at the two Germans as though petrified.

“Move!” McKim encouraged them. “Don’t bloody stop!”

Ramsay stepped on to the street and waved them in. “Come on lads!”

They ran in, grinning as if they had performed a meritorious feat that deserved a reward.

“Into the back room and keep out of trouble!” Ramsay checked the street again. The more sober of the two Germans had dropped some of his loot and was trying to pick them up. The breeze had blown a long dress closer to the estaminet. McKim had withdrawn inside the doorway and was watching events.

Ramsay heard the sound he had been dreading: the distinct bark of a German officer giving an order. It was loud and clear across the babbling roar of undisciplined looting.

Oh, Jesus. Somebody is taking command out there. I have to take a risk.

Ramsay raised his voice to ensure it was heard. “Come on McKim! Never mind the German drunkard, get the men across!”

McKim looked across for a second, nodded and spoke over his shoulder. Four men came this time, running with rifles at the trail and without looking back.

Neither of the Germans paid any attention; one was too drunk and the other was wrestling with the woman’s dress.

All four men got across within seconds and Ramsay thrust them inside the house. “Come on, McKim,” he said and realised that the woman’s dress had floated against the door of the estaminet. The German was following, his face screwed in concentration at the thought of losing his prize.

The German officer was shouting again and Ramsay heard the drumbeat of marching men. There was some disciplined force in Albert now.

Ramsay stood in front of the house. “Come on, McKim,” he shouted. “Get the men across and let’s get out of here!”

The German had lifted the dress; he looked up as a press of British soldiers erupted from the estaminet. He dropped all his loot and tried to unsling the rifle from his shoulder, but McKim was quicker. Before the German had swung the rifle round, McKim had slid his bayonet into the man’s throat and sliced. The German died instantly, without uttering a sound, and McKim lowered him to the ground.

“Come on!” Ramsay yelled, as some of his men hesitated, whether to help McKim or out of shock, he didn’t know. He noticed that McKim was counting the men and then the corporal returned inside the estaminet. “McKim! Come on!”

The sound of marching was distinct now. Ramsay expected to see German soldiers come around the corner into the street at any minute. “McKim!”

Another shell exploded overhead, scattering shrapnel around. One stray fragment bounced from the cobbles and grazed the leg of the drunken German, who jerked away in pain. He looked up, saw the mob of British soldiers and yanked his rifle round to fire. Ramsay aimed but hesitated, unwilling to squeeze the trigger in case the noise alerted the approaching Germans, but as the soldier pulled the rifle to his shoulder he knew he had no choice.

He aimed and fired, once, twice, three times. The noise of the shots echoed around the narrow street. The German soldier screamed as at least one bullet hit him. He looked directly at Ramsay and lifted his rifle higher. Ramsay took deliberate aim and fired again. He saw the German’s head jerk back and the man slumped down; his rifle fell to the ground with a clatter.

Please God the Germans don’t notice that in the general noise.

The whole affair had taken less than ten seconds; the bulk of the British soldiers were still crossing the road. Some had halted when Ramsay fired.

“Don’t stop!” Ramsay yelled. He waved his hands. “Come on! Move it!”

The sound of marching was louder now; the tramp of feet dominating Albert.

Where the hell is McKim?

“McKim! Come on, man!”

McKim appeared at the doorway of the estaminet, he was dragging one of the English soldiers behind him.“Come on, you drunken bastard!”

Ramsay looked at the men behind him: eighteen of them, from veterans to cooks and store men, all dependent on him to get away. He looked at McKim, an elderly, experienced corporal trying to save a soldier who had obviously succumbed to the temptation of the estaminet.

“McKim! Leave him! Fritz is coming!”

As Ramsay shouted, he saw two German soldiers turn the corner of the street. Unlike the previous two, these were sober and carried their rifles ready to use. They saw McKim immediately and shouted a challenge.

Ramsay fired, but he had no idea where his shots went. “McKim! Drop him and run!” He shouted into the house, “Fritz is here! Out, lads, and head for our own lines!”

The Germans dropped to their knees and fired. One shot thudded into the door at Ramsay’s head, but McKim had dropped his burden and snapped a shot in return. More Germans had filed into the road, they took up firing positions as the hammer of Ramsay’s revolver clicked on an empty chamber.

He swore and reached for more cartridges. “McKim!”

Cruickshank was firing, snarling as he advanced toward the Germans. “Come on, you bastards! Come out and fight, you woman-murdering Hun bastards!”

Timms joined him, firing and advancing as McKim ran across the road to join them. The Germans had halted to form a disciplined line; more joined them; thirty tall men wearing round helmets on their heads and boots that still shone.

“Bloody Prussian Guards,” McKim said.

Prussian Guards. Who else but the Prussians would keep their discipline when the rest of their army was dissolving into a rabble?

The Prussians were advancing slowly, one group moving forward as the others gave covering fire. He saw one drop as Timms, or more likely Cruickshank, found his mark, but they were getting too close.

“Cruickshank, Timms, get out of that.” He saw McKim bang himself into the shelter of a doorway and fire two shots. At that range a marksman such as him did not miss and the two foremost Prussians dropped. The rest continued as if nothing happened.

Ramsay glanced behind him. Most of his men had left the house and were vanishing around the corner of the street. “Timms, Cruickshank, McKim. Come on!” He pushed in the last of his cartridges and fired a single shot in the direction of the Prussians just as the officer appeared.

As before, their eyes met immediately. The Prussian looked as immaculate as he had in their previous encounters, tall and smart and very much in command. Ramsay mentally contrasted his own appearance: unshaven, with his khaki coat cut off at the knees, torn and stained with mud and lyddite, his boots carrying mud an inch thick and dried blood crusted from the crown of his head to his chin. But he was still here and still fighting.

“Up the Royals!” McKim gave his unique perspective on the appearance of the officer. “Death and hell to all of you!” He snapped off another shot, worked the bolt of his rifle and withdrew.

Ramsay and the Prussian officer continued to stare at each other for what seemed like an age but in reality was probably only a few seconds. For some reason, Ramsay straightened to attention and saluted, the Prussian did the same and for an instant he felt a renewed bond with this enemy who had fought in the same actions as he had, yet was on a different side of the war.

“Sir!” Cruickshank was at his side, loading as he spoke. “They’re coming again!”

These few words shattered the connection. Ramsay’s loyalty was to his men, as the unknown Prussian’s was to the soldiers who wore his uniform.

“Get out of this street,” he shouted and fired a single shot in the direction of the Prussians.

It was as if his life had been in temporary suspension, but now things were back to their normal speed as the Prussians advanced toward him and McKim knelt a yard away, firing rapidly.

A bullet crashed against the wall, a foot from his face, spraying him with chips of stone. Another ricocheted at his feet.

Time to go.

“Come on lads.” He led the way around the corner to see the rest of his men in a loose group, some running, some walking back and one or two waiting in doorways with their rifles ready.

This is no good, most of these men are only half-trained.

“Right, lads. Form into two groups. One group withdraws while the other supports them and then swap over.” He let McKim attend to the details; corporals did that sort of thing far more efficiently than he could ever do.

“Not bloody bon, boys!” McKim said cheerfully. “Follow my lead.”

This street was short and relatively undamaged. Some of the houses had holes in their roofs where shells had gone through, and one was on fire. At the far end there was a single farmhouse behind a protective wall and beyond that Ramsay could see fields, rising to the ridge that overlooked the town. There was certainly movement on that ridge, he hoped it was the British Army preparing a defensive line that would halt this German advance once and for all.

Just one more push and they would be through and in open countryside. Just one more effort from his exhausted, filthy, battling Royals and the collection of odds, sods and bottle washers he had picked up en route and he was home free and without Flockhart to worry about.

Gillian will have heard about the German advance. She will be worried about me. She will be waiting and now I can meet her without fear and with a clear conscience. I have proved myself. I am fit to be an officer, I am fit to be with these men.

“Keep moving now. McKim, take your boys to the end of the street and cover us.”

Ramsay took up position behind a fallen chimney stack and looked over his men. He did not know all their names, but McKim had left him Cruickshank and Timms among the varied others.

“Keep up a steady fire, boys. Keep the Prussians back until McKim’s lads get clear up the road.”

He heard the German officer giving orders and wished he could speak German. Most of the Prussians were out of sight or only partially visible in doorways and behind windows. One young NCO was out in the open, checking his men; Ramsay shot him without compassion and ducked behind the chimney as the Prussians responded with a hail of shots.

“Good shooting, sir,” Cruickshank said. He sounded more calm than usual and the wild anger was absent from his eyes.

“Keep working that rifle, Cruickshank,” Ramsay said.

“Yes, sir.” Cruickshank pulled back the bolt, sighted and fired.

The Prussian officer gave an order and a score of men burst out of the houses, bayonets fixed, while supporting fire ripped around Ramsay’s positions.

“Here they come again,” Cruickshank said. He was very calm as he sighted and fired. His bullet kicked splinters from a window frame a few inches from an advancing German. The man flinched and Cruickshank fired again. He grunted as the German staggered back and slowly slid down the wall.

“One less for Kaiser Bill.” Cruickshank worked the bolt of his rifle.

The others were also firing in a wild cacophony of shots that splattered over the street, hitting the walls and the ground, but seldom coming near the Prussians.

Oh, I wish I had my Royals with me now. Niven and Aitken and Flockhart would make mince out of this lot. There are too many good men dead.

“Sir!” That was McKim’s voice. “We are ready whenever you like.”

The street behind Ramsay was clear. McKim had his men in position at the very edge of the village, facing every direction. “Into the street, boys, and run! Corporal McKim will cover us.”

Timms led the rush down the road but Cruickshank remained in place. “Come on, Cruickshank. Don’t play the hero!”

Cruickshank looked up and gave a small smile. “I better stay, sir. I’ll cover you.” He coughed and a spurt of blood erupted from his mouth and spattered the ground in front of him. “The bastards got me, sir.”

Oh, God. That’s another one gone.

“Is it bad, Cruickshank? Maybe it’s only minor.”

“I’m shot through the lungs, sir. I haven’t long to go, but I’ll take as many as I can with me.” He spat blood and stifled a groan. “l’ll be with the missus soon enough. Run, sir.”

“Good luck, Cruickshank.” Ramsay touched his shoulder. There was nothing he could do for him and he had other men who depended on his leadership.

He felt very exposed turning his back to the Prussians and literally running away, but he heard McKim’s shouts of encouragement and the usual slogan:

“Death and hell to you!”

The street seemed to stretch for miles as Ramsay ran up it. Individual shots merged into a continuous roar of sound containing rifle fire, yells and the whine of ricocheting bullets.

Ramsay saw a man fall before him; he hesitated, but the man had been shot through the head. Ramsay jumped over the body and continued, hearing the breath rasp in his throat and feeling his legs weak with fear. He glanced behind him and saw Cruickshank half-rising and trying to thrust with his bayonet. He saw a Prussian shoot him, and another smash the butt of his rifle onto Cruickshank’s head. Ramsay stumbled and fell, landed with a heavy thump on the cobbles and something hard grabbed hold of his shoulder and hauled him around a corner.

“Careful, sir,” McKim growled. “The Fritzes are everywhere.” He pointed to his right where a group of soldiers were probing cautiously around the corner of a building. “They’re over that way as well.” Another party of Germans were filing slowly from the left, keeping to the shelter of the houses as they approached Ramsay’s position.

Ramsay swore. He had hoped for a clear run to the British lines, but the Prussian officer had outflanked him on both sides. He had two choices: make a stand and hope for help or run up the ridge with the Prussians in close pursuit.

He knew the Prussians would not be distracted by the prospect of loot. They would ignore their dead and march on until they were victorious. If he organised a fighting retreat his rearguard of crocks would not be strong enough to hold them back for more than a few moments. There was no choice, he would have to make a final stand.

“Get up to that farmhouse, McKim.” The house was about three hundred yards away, set at the far side of a field. A narrow lane led straight to the door, with a tall boundary hedge for shelter.

“Sir.” McKim nodded. “Same system, sir?”

“Yes.” Ramsay loosed three shots at the Germans to his right. His men were in a confused clump, some firing one way and some the other. “Move, McKim!”

McKim clicked his magazine into place, rolled the pipe around his mouth and nodded. “Good luck, sir.”

“Good luck, McKim.”

Ramsay fired his last three shots at the Germans advancing up the street behind him and fumbled for cartridges. “Fire away, boys. Keep them back.” He ducked as a bullet struck fragments from the wall above his head and watched as McKim led his men in a weaving run across the open field. One of the Germans on his left pointed to McKim and the others began to fire at the hideously exposed British force. Ramsay saw one man fall, and then another. McKim staggered, spun and fell, landing on his face in the muddy field. He looked ridiculously small there, an old man who should be sitting quietly by his own fireside, not a fighting soldier struggling through a foreign field.

Ramsay rammed home the last cartridge and fired at the Germans, hating them. Until that moment he had been detached from the war. He had survived in misery and fear, but had felt no personal animosity towards the Germans. They had been the enemies of king and country – fighting was an unpleasant duty and nothing else. Now, as he looked at McKim, elderly, intelligent and wise but shot like a dog, he experienced such a surge of hatred as he had never felt before.

“You Prussian bastards!” He rose from cover, firing. He saw one of the Germans fall and laughed. “Death and hell to you!” He borrowed McKim’s phrase in an unconscious tribute to the corporal.

The Prussians were closing in on both sides. Their numbers had increased, there were at least thirty on the right, perhaps half that on the left and more pounding steadily past Cruickshank’s prone body.

Without McKim to lead them, the first group of Ramsay’s men had floundered to a confused halt outside the farmhouse. With the Germans advancing on three sides he had no time to waste.

“Come on, lads, follow me and don’t stop for anything!”

He tried to sound confident as he led his group at a run up into the field and towards the farmhouse that already seemed so far away. He heard his men following him, the sound of their boots changing from the sharp crack of studs on stone to a softer thud as they sank into the mud and grass of the field.

“Keep going!” Ramsay urged as an overweight storeman struggled up the slope. He glanced over his shoulder. The Germans were following, scores of them now forming a compact column that would surely batter through any defensive line he could create. They marched on the path, so confident that they began to sing.

“Into the farmhouse!” Ramsay put his hand on the storeman’s shoulder and shoved. “Come on, man, don’t give up now!”

There was another khaki-clad body on the ground, and another. Bullets were buzzing like bluebottles around a piece of rotted meat, but Ramsay knew he had to keep going or nobody would survive.

“Not far now, boys,” he said as the walls of the farmhouse thrust up before them. He spotted McKim lying on the ground, but the small man was not still. He was twitching and trying to rise.

Ramsay halted. “McKim!” He flinched as two bullets thudded into the ground at his feet and another hissed past his face.

The corporal looked up, suddenly he looked very old and frail. “Go on, sir! Give them hell!”

I won’t leave McKim behind.

“Up you get, McKim.” Ramsay stooped and put an arm under the corporal’s shoulder. He felt the surge of renewed fear as all his hatred and anger evaporated.

I have half the German army trying to kill me and here I am trying to save the life of a foul-mouthed soldier I had not even met a few days ago. What a bloody fool I am.

“Come on McKim!” Ramsay limped upwards, with McKim a light weight on his arm. “Not long to go now, man!”

McKim grunted. “My rifle, sir. I can’t leave my bundook behind, I’ve had it since Mons.”

“Forget your bloody rifle,” Ramsay snarled, but he stooped and allowed McKim to scoop the weapon from the ground.

The Prussians had stopped firing now. Their officers had formed them into two smart columns marching slowly uphill. One column remained on the path, the other was making easy work of the slope.

Ramsay’s men were scattered across half the field, some with rifles, some without. Turnbull was propped against the outside wall of the farmhouse holding a rock in his left hand as though he intended throwing it at the Prussians. Timms was nursing a wounded leg.

One column of Prussians was closer now; barely twenty yards away and singing. His Hauptmann was with them, tall and as immaculate as if he were on a parade ground somewhere in Berlin. He signalled for his men to halt and shouted, “Surrender, Lieutenant. You can do no more. Surrender and save the lives of your men.”

Ramsay shook his head and struggled on. He had lost but he would not surrender. He had fought too long and too hard to give up now.

I am condemning them all to death. I am saving their honour. What the hell am I doing?

The terrible chatter of the machine gun deafened him. He ducked as the bullets sprayed down the slope of the hill, scything down the Prussians in their close formation. The Guards fell in scores, NCOs and officers were hit before they could give orders to their men.

Ramsay had just presence of mind enough to dive to the ground and take McKim with him. “Down, men!” he shouted. “Get down!”

The machine gun was manned by an expert; it produced a cone of fire that virtually wiped out both columns of Prussian Guards, hosing them as a fireman sprayed water on a reluctant fire, back and forth and back again. Then it turned its attention on the straggling looters who were watching from the broken shops of the nearest streets of Albert.

Having been on the wrong side of machine gun fire, Ramsay could only watch with admiration and some sympathy as the Germans fell. He heard the screams and cries of brave men who had no chance, but he stilled his sympathy. The Kaiser had started this war and these men had followed him to war with willingness and relish.

At last the hellish chatter died. Only the dead and writhing wounded remained in the sloping field. Those and a khaki-clad handful who staggered to their feet and continued their walk to the farmhouse.

“Up you come, lads.” The voice was North Country English, boisterous and friendly. “We’ve been watching you for an hour.”

As Ramsay supported McKim up the remainder of the slope to the farmhouse and the remnants of his men picked themselves up, a moustached captain led a file of men down to take prisoners from the shocked German soldiers. Ramsay saw the German Hauptmann being led away by a pair of grinning Northumberland Fusiliers. He tried to catch the man’s eye, but the German had his head down in his shame at being captured.

“Where the hell did you spring from, lieutenant?” The captain bore the scar of an old wound across his face. “And who are you anyway?” He looked over the collection of men from different units who were staggering past him and into the farmhouse.

“Lieutenant Douglas Ramsay, sir. 20th Royal Scots.” Ramsay would have saluted, but to do so would have meant letting McKim fall so instead he just smiled foolishly.

“Captain Regan, Northumberland Fusiliers.” The captain introduced himself. “I heard that the 20th Royals were all gone to glory. How did you get here?”

“We followed the German advance,” Ramsay said.

The Fusiliers were shepherding their prisoners past the farmhouse and up to the ridge. The Vickers machine gun fired an occasional burst into Albert whenever the crew saw any sign of movement.

“Are we making a stand, sir?” Ramsay felt as if he had not slept for a month. Now that he had reached comparative safety all the strain and fatigue of the last six days was catching up on him.

“Not here,” Regan said. He jerked his head backward. “We are on the ridge up there. This is just an ambush to remind Fritz that we still exist.” He watched as a couple of shells exploded on the far side of Albert. “We’ve done some damage and now we will withdraw. The line is still fluid to the north.” He put out a hand as Ramsay swayed. “Best get you somewhere safer than this, Ramsay, and you can give us all the information you have gathered.”