CHAPTER ELEVEN

29th March 1918

Ramsay jerked awake and looked around him in a half-panic, unable to decide where he was. He could hear the rumble of guns in the background, but that had been part of life for so long he barely took heed. There was chicken wire in front of him, holding back an earthen wall, so he was in an established dugout rather than a scrape in the ground or an old shell crater, and somebody was talking quietly nearby. He strained to hear the words, fearful in case they were in German and he had been captured.

He breathed out in slow relief when he realised the man was speaking English and he was safe, at least for the time being. He rolled over in bed, feeling the bounce and give of an actual mattress, and saw there were half a dozen men in the dugout, playing cards around a circular table by the light of an oil lamp.

“Ah, you’re awake, Ramsay.” A burly major stepped towards him. “How are you feeling?” He held out a hand. “No, don’t try to get up or salute or any of that nonsense. We’re all in the same boat here.”

“I am fine, sir.” Ramsay struggled into a sitting position and immediately wished he had not as his head began to pound. He put a hand to ease the pain and encountered a large bandage.

“Nasty knock you had there,” the major said pleasantly. “You had quite a collection of cuts and bruises, but nothing too serious. That strange little corporal of yours tells me you were in the front when the Germans began their push and you brought your men home through enemy lines. Is that correct?”

Ramsay tried to nod but the movement brought fresh pain. “Something like that, sir. How is McKim?”

“Garrulous and wanting to get back to his regiment.” The major grinned and perched himself at the foot of Ramsay’s bed. “He’s quite a character and tough as old boots.”

“McKim is one of the originals,” Ramsay told him. “He lives for the regiment.” He smiled. “I’m glad he made it. We lost far too many good men in the last few days.”

The major nodded. “We did indeed, but there are still stragglers coming in now and then. We have a couple of your men in the ranker’s hospital and one or two have filtered back to our lines.”

“I should go and see them.” Ramsay swung his legs out of the bed. He was wearing a striped night shirt that certainly was not his own and he had been washed, and bandages applied to various parts of him. His uniform, washed, repaired and ironed, hung on a peg thrust into the wall. “How long have I been out?”

“You collapsed from loss of blood the moment you came through the lines,” the major said. “That would be two or three days ago.”

When Ramsay reached for his uniform the major shook his head. “If you insist on getting up, I’ll have your servant fetch something for you to eat.”

“I don’t have a servant.” Ramsay became aware of the terrible weakness of his legs, while the pounding of his head was increasing with every passing minute.

“We found you one,” the major replied.

“Have we stopped the Germans yet?” Ramsay asked.

“Not yet, but we’ve blunted their thrust,” the major said. “They failed to break through our defence lines, but they certainly pushed us back miles. They dented Gough’s Fifth army and now they have stopped. They will never take Amiens and when we have regrouped we will push them as they have pushed us.”

“We’ve lost thousands of good men.” Ramsay thought of his own dead.

“The Germans have lost more,” the major said. There was great satisfaction in his voice.

It was two hours before Ramsay left the dugout, fully fed and feeling smart in his crisp uniform. He was about a mile behind the new British lines, in an encampment that was part tented and part dug in, although there seemed no intention of a permanent stay, to judge by the lack of fixed positions.

His servant was a fussy, cheery Geordie with bright eyes. He escorted Ramsay to the hospital tent and saluted punctiliously. He smelled of soap and was so immaculately shaved that his skin glowed. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes, carry on . . .” Ramsay hesitated.

“Gilmore, sir,” the servant reminded.

“Carry on, Gilmore.” Ramsay acknowledged his salute with a flick of his hand and entered the tent.

Men lay in parallel rows of cots, some quiet, others moaning or chatting to their neighbours. The sharp smell of disinfectant battled with gas gangrene and male sweat.

Ramsay ran his eyes along the shaved or bandaged faces and wondered if he would recognise his men in this state of cleanliness.

“Royal Scots!” he announced as he entered, and four faces turned toward him. Two he did not know, but McKim and Blackley stiffened to attention.

“At ease, men,” Ramsay said. He had thought that Blackley was dead. “It’s good to see you both again.”

“There are a few more Royals turning up, sir.” McKim looked naked without the broken pipe hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know if they are ours or not.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Blackley was wounded in the arm and leg, but greeted Ramsay with a broad grin. “Blighty one sir. I’m going home!”

“Congratulations, Blackley.” Ramsay held out his hand and accepted Blackley’s somewhat tentative handshake. “I hope this war is over before you are fit enough to return.”

Blackley shook his head. “Soldiering is my job, sir. I signed on for twenty-two years.” He smiled again, “If I wasn’t in this war I’d be in another one, sir.”

“Good man.” Ramsay was smiling as he left the hospital tent. A flight of aircraft left vapour trails overhead as they headed for the German lines.

Get them, boys. Send the Kaiser a message that he will never win this war.

Five men from an English regiment escorted a file of German prisoners through the camp towards a waiting lorry. “Get along there,” the smallest of the guards snarled. He prodded the tallest of the Germans with his bayonet. “Pick your feet up, you lazy bastard!”

Ramsay watched the scene without interest until he realised that the tall German was his old adversary. “Enough of that!” He stepped forward and pushed the bayonet back from the German. “You treat this man with respect, you hear?”

The private looked at him in surprise. “But he’s a German, sir. A murdering Hun!”

“This man is a gentleman and an officer,” Ramsay made sure he spoke loudly enough for all the guards to hear him. “I want him treated with all possible courtesy.”

He waited until the guards had acknowledged his order before he checked his pockets for a cheroot, but had none, so stood to attention instead and saluted the Prussian officer.

The officer slammed to attention, clicked his heels and returned the salute. “Thank you,” he said. He did not smile.

Ramsay watched the prisoners boarding the lorry and took a deep breath.

What now? I suppose I had better report somewhere and get sent back to my unit, or what remains of them.

Ramsay realised that he was in that strange military position of not belonging anywhere. With the 20th Royal Scots no longer a viable unit, he had no local battalion to which to return, while the parent cadre was still in Scotland. It was unlikely that he would be posted there, but until the higher command remembered he existed, he could enjoy the relative security of this camp, wherever it was.

Cadging a cigar and a match from a passing Fusiliers captain, Ramsay lit up, shook the flame out and threw the match away. He looked around at the ordered array of tents and the disciplined khaki-clad soldiers and contrasted the scene with the chaos through which he had retreated for so many days.

Well, I survived. I survived the greatest retreat and the greatest German attack since 1914.

He drew deeply on his cigar and smiled.

“Lieutenant Ramsay?” The voice had the familiar cadences of Midlothian.

Another of my men turned up alive I hope!

Ramsay turned around, still smiling.

Sergeant Flockhart stood foursquare behind him with the thumb of his right hand hooked into the sling of his rifle. “Or should I call you David Napier?”

Ramsay felt the shock like a kick in the stomach but over three years in the army had taught him some self control. He removed the cigar from his mouth with as much appearance of calmness as he could muster. “I rather think you should call me sir, Sergeant. I do not know what you mean by that other name.” He forced a smile. “It is good to see you again, Flockhart. I had thought you killed when the engine was hit.”

“The last train to Waverley.” Flockhart swung the rifle around and held it at the trail. The muzzle was pointing directly at Ramsay’s stomach and Flockhart’s hand was dangerously near the trigger. “I knew I had seen you before, but I could not remember where. It was at the station at Newtongrange, wasn’t it, sir?”

“Pointing a rifle at a superior officer is a capital offence.” Ramsay turned aside slightly and felt for his pistol, but he had not strapped it on. He was completely unarmed although in the middle of a camp of British soldiers he should be safe.

“Raping sixteen year old girls and leaving them pregnant is worse.” Flockhart worked the bolt of his rifle. The sound was unheard amidst the general bustle of the camp, but Ramsay knew there was now a bullet in the breach.

“Don’t be a fool, man!” Ramsay said.

“We’re going for a wee walk,” Flockhart told him. His eyes were steady and utterly merciless, “and you are going to tell me exactly what happened.”

Ramsay grunted, “I do not know what you are talking about, Flockhart. Now for God’s sake put that rifle aside. I think you are shell shocked, man. Come now, and I will take you to a doctor.”

Flockhart slowly shook his head. “I could shoot you here and now,” he lowered the muzzle slightly so it pointed at Ramsay’s belly, “And take my chance with a court martial. I might be shot or they might believe that my rifle went off by accident.” He shrugged. “Do you really think I care?” He prodded Ramsay with the muzzle of his rifle. “Walk in that direction, Lieutenant.”

Nobody spared Ramsay and Flockhart a second look as they moved through the camp.

How can I get out of this? If I shout for help he might just shoot.

Ramsay looked over his shoulder and into the dispassionate eyes of Flockhart. They were the same colour as Grace’s had been, but while hers had been bright and dancing with life, Flockhart’s were utterly poisonous.

There was no dispute. Flockhart would shoot. He was a trained and experienced soldier with a longstanding grudge.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see. Move.” Flockhart nodded to the camp exit. “Out there and keep moving.”

The camp was set in the midst of open countryside, the fields already bearing a sheen of green as the spring growth began. The guards on the gate merely glanced up as they passed.

“Be careful out there, sir. One of the Hun prisoners has escaped.”

Ramsay barely heard the words. Flockhart led them off the pave road to a farm track, rutted and sunk between high hedgerows. A lark was singing, its song plaintive in the shaded gloom.

Will I see the summer blossom this year? Will I hear the liquidity of the blackbird over the gardens of Edinburgh?

There was a scattering of small villages in view, undamaged and peaceful beneath the afternoon sun. A civilian led a horse through a field and a gaggle of children shouted as they watched a military lorry snarl past. It all seemed so normal that Ramsay wanted to reach out and embrace it.

“Over there.” Flockhart shoved him in the back. “That old barn will be the place.”

In the dark of a French barn in Picardy. Shot by one of my own men for a sin I committed as a youth. This is not the death of a soldier.

Flockhart sidled past him, keeping the muzzle of the rifle pointing at his stomach, and kicked the door open. The interior was dark and there was a sweet smell of damp hay. “In you go.”

As Ramsay stepped in, Flockhart cracked him over the head with the barrel of his rifle, reopening his wound. Ramsay yelled and staggered until Flockhart pushed him to the ground. He sprawled face down and Flockhart kicked him in the ribs.

“Lie still, Ramsay, or Napier, whatever your bloody name is.”

Ramsay groaned at the agony in his head, tried to roll away and swore when Flockhart kicked him again.

“I said lie still!”

When the barn door shut Ramsay could hardly see. He struggled to a sitting position just as there was the flare of a match and Flockhart lit a small lamp.

“It was pure blind luck that I came across you,” Flockhart said. He kicked Ramsay again and hung the lantern on a hook situated on one of the wooden pillars supporting the roof. Yellow light pooled around them, emphasising the gloom beyond. Ramsay heard the rustle of rats in the straw.

Flockhart dragged across a three legged stool and sat on it. The rifle rested across his knees with the muzzle still pointing at Ramsay’s stomach.

Should I try and jump him?

He estimated the distance. It was about eight feet and Flockhart’s finger was curled around the trigger of his rifle. He would not be able to muster the strength to leap and grapple with the man before Flockhart fired. It was better to sit tight, hear what he had to say and then try and talk him out of it.

“I really think you have the wrong man,” Ramsay started, but Flockhart lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it in the direction of his navel.

“Rab Moffat saw you with her in the field outside Aitkendean,” Flockhart spoke in a conversational tone. “He did not know your name. You told wee Gracie that you were called David Napier.”

Ramsay tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position but the rifle was steady on him and Flockhart’s finger tightened on the trigger. He slumped down again. He was leaning against a pillar with his legs stretched out before him and his hands at his side. Light from the lantern highlighted the high cheekbones and determined jaw of Flockhart but revealed nothing of the barn outside. Ramsay felt as if they were trapped within their own world, separate from the greater slaughter outside only more personal and just as deadly.

“I am not David Napier,” he said.

“You told Grace that you were, and she told Rab Moffat.” There was no doubt in Flockhart’s voice and Ramsay knew that denial was pointless. He decided on another tack.

“I would have married her, you know.”

“She was too good for you,” Flockhart said.

What? I am a gentleman, she was only a miner’s daughter. A nothing! She should have been grateful even to be noticed by me!

Ramsay’s initial thoughts transported him back to the man he had been then. The wild, arrogant, irresponsible youth who had hunted women for sport, used them for his own pleasure and discarded them with a laugh or a curse.

He thought of Grace lying in the grass and despite his situation, he smiled. She was a lovely, lively and passionate woman. He had never loved her, but there was certainly a spark of affection that he had never felt for any of the other girls he had pursued. Except for Gillian, of course. She was on a completely different level.

“You are right,” he surprised himself by admitting. “She was too good for me.”

He thought of Gillian. Tall, elegant, sophisticated and fun, if shallow in many ways. He was promised to marry Gillian once this war was finished. He loved her. His feelings for Gillian were far different to his feelings for Grace or any of the others. He could see himself living with Gillian; he was comfortable with her as a friend as well as man and woman. He never had that depth of security with anybody else. Yet, he was a gentleman and he had wronged a woman. Grace was of a different class, but so were McKim and Blackley and Niven. They were good men, as honourable and honest as any of the officers he had ever met.

The decision struck him with all the force of a six inch shell landing a few feet away. He could not marry Gillian, he must break his promise to her. He had to do the right thing, although it meant condemning himself and Grace to a lifetime of misery as they tried to reconcile the irreconcilable and equalise the inequality of their class differences.

“Put the rifle away, Flockhart. We can still resolve this. I will do the decent thing and marry Grace, if she will have me now. I did offer already, you know.”

“She’s dead.” Flockhart’s words were brutal.

Oh, dear God. Poor wee Grace.

“Oh, God, I didn’t know! How?” Ramsay stared at the sergeant. “How did she die?”

“In childbirth. My sister Grace died giving birth to your bastard.”

“I did not know.” Ramsay thought of her wide blue eyes and that childlike expression of innocence she had had. His feelings of compassion were much stronger than he would have believed possible.

“And the child, what happened to the child? Did it live?” Suddenly Ramsay was desperate to find out about his child.

Was it a boy or a girl? What was it like? Where was it now?

The prospect of something good coming of that dismal encounter was strong. Witnessing death in all its hideous forms day after day had created a desire to see life.

Flockhart’s voice softened slightly. “Grace had a wee boy. He’s being taken care of.”

“A boy! Where is he?”

I have a son. Somewhere in the world there is a small part of me, somebody who will grow up, perhaps with my likeness and with some of my personality traits.

“I would have married her, you know,” Ramsay said.

Of all the deaths he had been responsible for, this one would haunt him most. Death and new life intertwined and a nightmare that would continue.

“You lying bastard!” Flockhart rose. He slipped the bayonet from its scabbard and clicked it in place. Light flickered along the length of the blade. “You didn’t even tell her your real name!”

Ramsay had guessed that Flockhart would make a sudden lunge and he threw himself sideways to avoid the stab of the vicious blade. He felt the tearing pain as the bayonet ripped up the side of his ribs and then Flockhart was standing over him with the bayonet poised.

“That was my sister, you bastard! You killed my sister!” The bayonet jabbed down, slicing into Ramsay’s arm. He yelled and rolled over, but Flockhart followed with his bayonet held point up, ready for a killing stroke. Ramsay’s blood dripped from the edge.

Killed by a British sergeant inside a Picardy barn. What will Gillian say to that?

The man came from outside the circle of light, launching himself at Flockhart without any hesitation. He did not say a word. Ramsay only saw a blurred shape as the figure grabbed hold of the sergeant’s rifle.

They rolled out of the lamplight but Ramsay heard them fighting in the gloom. He heard Flockhart swearing, and the other man responding in German.

It’s a German. It’s that bloody Guards Hauptmann. I thought he was a prisoner, he must be the escapee the guards were speaking about.

Ramsay tried to rise, swore at the tearing pain across his ribs and his arm, and slumped back down again. He heard the two men fighting and caught the occasional glimpse of the struggle in the periphery of the lamp light. He placed his back against the pillar and pushed himself up, groaning in pain and feeling the blood run hot and sticky down his side.

“You dirty Hun bastard!” That was Flockhart’s voice. Ramsay heard a long moan and saw one man standing in the gloom. He could not make out who still remained on his feet.

Ramsay slid out of the pool of lamplight. He was unsure what to do. He saw somebody move and then both were on their feet. They closed, grappling in the gloom. The door of the barn opened and three soldiers were silhouetted against the bright light outside.

“It’s that escaped Hun!” One of the men raised his rifle and fired. The others joined him and the sharp crackle of multiple shots in the confined space deafened Ramsay. He felt the shock of the bullet entering his body but there was no pain. The impact slammed him against the pillar. He gasped for air and slowly slid downwards until he was on the ground.

The firing stopped. Five British soldiers pushed into the barn.

“There’s one of ours in here as well,” another of the soldiers spoke and fired a final shot into the body of the Prussian officer. “Jesus, there’s two of ours. The Hun has murdered a British officer.”

“You call me sir,” Ramsay said, and fainted.