He spotted the remains of Sergeant Martin, spreadeagled on his back behind the ditch. There were men lying as if asleep over their rifles, while others moved, adjusting aim, or reloading. Stretcher bearers worked, like scavengers picking over rubble, quickly lifting their treasure of shattered bodies on to canvas litters, and hurrying with them to comparative safety.
He turned to his front again, spotting three Germans trying to creep along a gully across the road. Sighting quickly, he fired, conscious of his officer’s rifle delivering a shot at the same moment. One of the Germans disappeared with a cry, and the other two ducked down and were gone from sight.
So far, the action had been from their front, apart from the heavier gunfire over them, and from behind. Then, as suddenly as the first attack, there came a rising wave of fire from the right.
‘My God!’ Railton said loudly, ‘they’ve broken through the town!’ As though to give credence, a runner, crouched and weaving, ran along the ditch.
‘They’re through Le Cateau, sir. Manchesters and Argylls coming up on the right as quickly as possible. The General says to please hold as long as you can.’ Then he was off, carrying his message to the next platoon, as another attack – about sixty enemy soldiers – made itself apparent in the fields beyond the road.
The artillery were moving. Billy recognized the jingle of harness and rumble of wheels.
As he fired, re-cocked the bolt action, fired again, worked the bolt, and fired, Billy heard the sounds of guns being made ready nearby. ‘Good lads, coming up in close support,’ Caspar said, firing as a flitting figure rose from hiding fifty yards away, then slipped back to the earth.
The German shelling intensified, and, as he slid a new clip of ammunition into his magazine, Billy had to crouch, trying to bury himself in the ground as a lucky shell hit the gun – limber, horses, crew, everything – only a short distance behind them. The noises were unlike anything the boy had ever dreamed of in his worst childhood nightmares: inhuman, agonizing, and dreadful – as though a hoard of demons had been unleashed in this normally peaceful and innocent part of the French countryside.
Without warning, the fighting ceased to their front; as though the enemy troops had been spirited away. The air fell still around them, and the battered, ripped ranks seemed to hold their collective breath, waiting for some final worse onslaught, which did not come.
‘It’s not over yet.’ Caspar crawled back from the ditch, moving cautiously along the lines of his, now seriously depleted, platoon.
‘It’s bad.’ He shook his head, and Billy saw a look of horror deep in the young officer’s eyes. ‘God knows what’s happened to the other lads, but ours are feeling the strain. Doubt if they’ll hold them off for long.’ Fighting was still heavy far away to their left, while the sounds of even more concentrated battle came from the far right of their line.
The artillery, mauled in the constant barrage of the last hours, appeared to be reforming; shifting their positions in order to help in what seemed to be developing on the right flank. But around the main standpoint, along the ridge of the Roman road, only the occasional shell whined overhead, or exploded – stray – in the fields nearby. The odd rifle-shot made Billy start, jump, and turn – his rifle ready. But the heavy fighting seemed now to be sparing them.
After about an hour, Caspar said that it sounded as though the referee had blown his whistle for the first half of the match.
‘Wonder how we’ll play in the second half, sir,’ Billy murmured, and Mr Railton laughed.
‘I have to tell you,’ the young officer seemed embarrassed. ‘You did damned well this morning, Billy Crook. I’ve seldom seen anyone as cool under fire.’
‘Don’t know how you work that out, Mr Caspar.’ Billy grinned. ‘You was too busy to notice. Anyhow, what’s the point of getting in a muck sweat? We all has to go some day. I came used to it quickly, and with a lot of help.’
‘Help?’
‘The General, sir. Back at Redhill. When I was little, he talked to me a lot. Told me how it was when you’re fighting; said he wanted me to be a soldier. Said I’d find myself on a battlefield one day. Give me a lot of tips, The General did. You’ve no idea how he helped.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a very good idea of how much he helped,’ Caspar smiled. ‘He gave me a lot of tips as well. You ever play with his army, Billy? His toy soldiers?’
‘I have them, sir. Christmas before he died, The General give his army to me. My prize possession that is. He taught me how to play soldiers, only it .was never play. Taught me strategy and tactics.’
The fighting, to their left and right, became audibly worse during the next hour. Worse, and if anything closer at hand. Billy was surprised when Caspar told him it was almost two o’clock in the afternoon. He thought it was much later.
Soon after, another runner arrived. ‘CO’s compliments, sir,’ he managed an apology of a salute. ‘You’re to withdraw by sections, quickly as possible. CO says there’s danger in it, so take care. We regroup at…’ He fumbled in the map case slung around his shoulder, and looked at the contents, reading off a map reference.
Caspar thanked him, consulting his own maps, not looking up as the man trotted away. Then he told Billy that they would be moving back, down the line of the Roman road, to their left, to regroup at a place called Reumont. Billy was to pass down the line, giving the orders for withdrawal by sections. ‘And warn them they’ll certainly have to fight their way back. If we’re not careful, some of our chaps will get caught up here on the ridge.’
Billy nodded, repeated the map reference, and was away, moving low and fast along that section of the road held by the remnants of Mr Railton’s platoon.
It was a short journey, but only now did he take in the full measure of what had happened that morning. He was also suddenly aware of what Mr Caspar had meant about the possibility of being cut off on the ridge.
A mile or so away, to the right, below him, a vicious series of actions were taking place. From this distance, it was like gazing at some painting come to life: small figures fought, lived, and died among the savage storm of bullets, grenades, and bayonets; while the artillery of both sides kept up their constant pounding.
A long cloud of dirty smoke, breaking up into sinister tendrils, swept over the fields, hovering above the desperate men of both sides. If the Germans broke through, then all would be lost for those of them left on the Roman road.
Closer to hand, the carnage was terrible to see – the fields stained in patches with blood; horses, and what was left of men and guns, scattering the place where – he imagined – young men and girls from the local villages had probably come, in summer, to learn love. There was no thought of love in this place now.
Along the ditch where Caspar Railton’s platoon had made their stand, things were as bad. The numbers of men were now so reduced that Billy had to search hard for faces he could recognize from the few hours he had spent in the barn.
Some lay dead and broken. Others looked at him, anxious, as though willing him to be a messenger of hope. He saw Lofty Lofthouse, his eyes old and showing no sign of recognition. Sergeant Graves, who had given him a cheerful nod when they first reached the ridge, now met Billy with a glance of tired disillusion.
As he glanced at the unlucky ones, caught in a frozen moment, and now sleeping for eternity, Billy thought – It could be me. Any one of them could be me. Then, for some unaccountable reason, what appeared to him as even worse – It could be me, or Mr Railton.
He returned, sweating. ‘Number Two section say there’s only four of them left, though some lads from another platoon’ve joined them; and Corporal Lester’s only got three of his original lads with him, sir.’
Caspar nodded, glumly. ‘Right. Let’s watch them go, then we’ll move our toes, and be ready to kill any Jerry who tries to get in our way.’ He stood up, shading his eyes, as the khaki figures began to move away from the ditch. Then, as he turned back, the stray shell exploded less than fifteen yards aw
ay.
The blast knocked Billy off his feet. His ears rang, while the right side of his body stung from the blast. He rolled over, shook himself like a dog, then moved his arms and legs. He appeared to be in one piece. ‘You all…?’ he began, swinging his head to where Caspar Railton had been.
The officer was sprawled unnaturally, with blood all down one side where his left arm had been sheared off at the shoulder. The right leg was bent grotesquely at an angle just above the knee, the lower part of the limb hanging free, attached by one thick strand of bone and sinew.
Within a second Billy was beside him, kneeling in the blood. Caspar’s eyes were closed, the fine face suddenly parchment grey. Then he moved his head, and sobbed, ‘Mummy…’
The eyes opened, and the head turned. ‘Billy! Billy Crook! Jesus!’
‘It’s all right, Mr Caspar…’
‘No… Company Commander… Finished… I’m…’ The eyes rolled back, steadied, then closed again. ‘Finished.’
But Billy was not Martha Crook’s son for nothing. Since he had been old enough to understand, he had watched his mother as she tended the sick or helped at dreadful accidents among the farm hands, or the men on the estate.
‘Oh no, you’re not finished, Mr Caspar.’ Billy almost shouted in fury, ripped off his webbing and tunic, then the shirt from his own back – tearing it from collar to tail.
In a fever of speed, he rolled half of the shirt into a ball, pushing it hard against Caspar’s shoulder, moving the body slightly so that the bleeding could be stopped. Then he turned his attention to the leg.
His fingers scrabbled at Caspar’s khaki tie, pulling it free, binding it tightly around the thigh, ripping at the material of the officer’s breeches to get at the flesh. When it was tight, and cutting a ridge into the skin, Billy looked down, seeing the blood running less freely. There was no hope of saving the lower part of the leg, and he looked about, desperately shouting, ‘Stretcher bearers! Stretcher bearers!’ as he had heard so many shout during that morning. But now nobody would come. The men who had been with them were well away by this time.
Then he spotted the clasp knife, clipped to Caspar’s belt. The officer had started to use it that morning to try to dig a firing position. Billy unclipped it from the Sam Browne belt, opening the blade, testing it on his thumb, then cleaning it off as best he could on his own handkerchief.
From just above the knee, down to the foot, the leg was held only by slivers of bone, one strand of sinew and veins, about as thick as Billy’s own thumb. He parted the way with his fingers, then slid the knife blade in. Taking a deep breath, he bore down and started to saw through the cord.
Caspar gave a half-scream, then lay silent, as the strand parted and Billy kicked what was left of the limb into the ditch.
He bound up the stump with the other half of his shirt, then tied his first makeshift bandage on the shoulder, using the revolver lanyard which he unlooped from around his officer’s neck, unclipping the far end from the small swivel on the revolver butt.
Caspar Railton was still breathing, and, as Billy put an ear to his chest, he moved slightly and groaned.
Still working in a frenzy of speed, Billy put on his tunic and buckled the webbing equipment. His clothes were smeared with Caspar’s blood – his hands like those of a butcher. He took his rifle, slinging it around his neck; checked that the chamber of Caspar’s revolver was fully loaded; then he hoisted the maimed body across his shoulders, carrying it as he would lift a sack of turnips.
So Billy took his subaltern down from the ridge at Le Cateau.
At a jog trot, he carried the shattered body for over two miles, with only one incident. As he approached a copse, near the fighting below Le Cateau, Billy heard the crack of a bullet passing near; then the thump and flash of its rifle ten yards away, in long grass on the copse’s perimeter. He fired twice with the revolver, and a German soldier half rose from the grass, stumbling and falling on his face. A comrade stepped openly from the trees, calmly bringing his rifle to his shoulder. Billy shot him once, through the stomach. A third broke cover, his face anxious, and hands uncertain on his rifle. But there was no uncertainty about Billy. Without pausing in his steady run, he fired the revolver again, from across his body. The German did not shoot. Billy had but one thought: Caspar Railton had to be brought safe home.
He did not notice the flesh wound in his own right upper arm, where a bullet – spent and stray – had lodged. And, when he got Caspar to the comparative safety of a dressing station near Corps Headquarters, he refused treatment until Mr Railton was seen to.
Even then, Billy would take no rest or food until the medical officer assured him that Second Lieutenant Railton was still alive, and they would do all they could for him. Only then, and after being ordered – by a bristling Major – to receive medical attention, did Billy Crook leave Caspar Railton.
Chapter Four
At a little before six o’clock in the evening, Charles Railton climbed the steps to the front door of the Cheyne Walk house. It was the first Friday in September, and already the leaves were turning to red and gold. Summer was draining away, as were the chances of a quick, decisive victory in France.
It was indicative of Charles’ sense of guilt that, on entering the drawing room to find Mildred sobbing, he immediately became concerned lest she had, by some feminine intuition, delved into the darkest secret on his conscience.
‘Oh, Charles,’ she ran to him – eyes red, nose running.
For a second, Charles was too shaken even to inquire into the reason for this outburst of tears. Gently, he led her to the Chesterfield, and there she told him about Caspar.
‘Oh, my God.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘How bloody awful. Only just twenty. Arm and leg?’
She nodded, sniffing in a way she would never have done had there been servants about. ‘Andrew sent a note from the Admiralty, and I’ve been with Charlotte all afternoon.’ She paused, swallowing. ‘Had to hold myself together with her. Let myself go when I got back here. I keep seeing him as he was at that last dinner party in June.’
He gave a small shake of the head, then asked how Charlotte had taken it. The question seemed stupid.
‘Desperate, of course. Caspar was such a… well, so active… He was… so… so…’
‘They say he’ll live, though?’
Mildred raised her eyebrows, making her face a spoiled mask of tragedy. ‘He’s out of shock; miraculously there’s no gas gangrene. Apparently the signs are good. They’re bringing him back tomorrow.’
‘Poor wretched young man, and he’s only one of hundreds.’ Charles looked away. ‘Perhaps it would be better if he died. A lad like that crippled for life.’
Mildred did not reply, and Charles asked how Andrew was bearing up.
‘You know Andrew.’ Her nose still ran like a village pump. ‘As always. Strong. Silent. He said at least they did not have to mourn – which, I suppose, gives the lie to you. The casualty lists are terrible: from Mons, Le Cateau, Guise. Thank heaven William’s only four years old. I couldn’t bear…’
Charles continued to comfort her, his mind taking in the reality of the golden Caspar being a cripple for all time.
‘The most wonderful thing…’ Mildred started.
‘Yes?’
‘His servant saved his life. His batman! You know who? Martha Crook’s son – Billy. Martha Crook who saved my life and delivered William Arthur at Redhill.’
‘I didn’t think that lad was old enough to be serving.’
‘Old enough? None of them are old enough. Brave enough, though.’ She told Charles the story of Billy Crook, and how he had brought Caspar down from the ridge. ‘He’s already home. They’re sending him to some training depot, according to Uncle Giles, so he can be promoted to sergeant. It’s apparently very secret, but Andrew says Billy’s been recommended for the Victoria Cross.’
Charles could not shake the image of young Caspar from his head; and since hearing the news, he was unaccoun
tably more aware of the guilt nibbling away at his own conscience.
‘You’re in to dinner?’ Mildred asked, and the true reason for guilt rose to the surface of his mind. He hesitated, knowing the time to turn back had long passed, then quietly told her that he had to go out again. She did not question him, knowing his profession of secrecy.
Charles knew what was destined to happen almost before Madeline Drew’s arrest, and his life had now become even more secret and dangerous than before.
After their return from Cromer, Charles was summoned with Kell to Winston Churchill’s office at the Admiralty. The First Lord thanked him profusely. ‘You have saved my wife from great danger and humiliation.’ The small, dynamic man’s eyes glittered. ‘For that I shall ever be in your debt. But you have also saved your country from that same danger and humiliation. For that, your country will forever be in your debt. As this is so private a matter, the facts will, alas, never come to public light; yet I shall see to it that you, Railton, are suitably rewarded with some fitting decoration.’
Few people, apart from half a dozen members of the Special Branch, and three or four from MO5, knew of the existence of Hanna Haas, alias Madeline Letitia Drew. She had become the secret within a secret almost before Charles, with Wood, had brought her back to London.
Vernon Kell saw no reason for taking Charles off the case. He was to control the girl; become… Father, uncle, brother and priest to her,’ Kell said; omitting the one relationship which now plagued Charles’ conscience.
Kell saw to it that she was put into what he called a ‘safe house’: a small, pleasant villa in Maida Vale, purchased from the Service’s meagre funds, and watched over, in turns, by officers under training, and men from the Branch.
Charles’ briefing had been precise. ‘She is an important and valuable resource,’ Kell said. ‘But we mustn’t forget, whatever she says now, Miss Haas allowed the German service to send her on a dangerous mission to England. Until you caught her, she was quite prepared to carry out that unspeakable kidnap plot. So beware. Miss Haas could easily take you for a dupe, promise you the earth, and then disappear – or go on working for the enemy. In plain talk, she could lead you up the garden path.’