THE END OF THE WAR
By Bob French
After a ferocious four-day attack and some fierce
hand-to-hand fighting during the night and into the dawn of Thursday the 24th of
December 1914, the men of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers staggered to a halt.
They had broken through the front line and pushed the Germans’ back a couple of
miles to the remains of the
As the Company Sergeant Major called for the men to stop and take up defensive
positions, silence fell over the battle field. For the first time, the men of
the Fusiliers stood in silence as the realization of their victory gradually
sunk in. Their exhausted breath tore from their lungs in ragged plumes,
ghosting white in the ice-cold dawn, each exhale a burst of heat against the
biting air. No one spoke for a while. Then gradually the voices of the
corporals and sergeants started giving out orders; “weapons check in five
minutes. Wounded men to the Regimental Aid Post, Roll call at O four hundred
hours.”
After the roll call had been taken, a peace and normality seemed to settle
around the men. The Regimental Sergeant Major, who normally never left the
Commanding Officers’ side, had been asked to discreetly observe the new Company
Commander of B Company, Major Charles Alderidge, who had joined the Fusiliers
just before the Regiment had set sail for
He took the list from the clerk of the company, then quietly wondered over to a
derelict cottage, sat down on a low brick wall next to the Adjutant, Captain
Farington. After a while he took a deep breath and shook his head slowly.
Captain Farrington gently took the Butchers Bill from him and quickly scanned
the scribbled names. “Don’t worry Sir, you will get used to it in time, trust
me.” They didn’t speak for a minute then Major Alderidge asked the
Adjutant “who were we fighting against?”
“We won’t know that until our forward recce platoon returns Sir.”
The company clerk of B Company had already set up the company headquarters in
the back of a partly derelict cottage and within minutes had a brew of tea on
the go. Once the Adjutant had taken the information he needed from the
casualty list, he told the company clerk that if the telephone line was still
buggerd to get a runner to take the dispatches back to the C.O. at Regimental
Headquarters in
Around him, the men of B Company started to clean their weapons, check their
ammunition and brew up some tea. No one noticed the Medical Section quietly
moved back over the ground they had fought and started to pick up those who had
been wounded, or take identity disks from those that did not make it.
As the casualties were brought in, Company Sergeant Major Jim Travis called for
Sergeant Bateman who commanded the 13th Platoon. A close
friend.
“Hi Geordie. Your lads alright?”
Geordie
Bateman DSM had joined the Fusiliers and had fought in the first and second
Boer Wars and proved himself beyond doubt, an asset to the regiment, winning
the Distinguished Service Medal. Now, too old to be part of a rifle company, he
was given command of the labour platoon. Then, against all odds, he had
trained, then led the bunch of misfits, drunks, deserters, and wasters to
victory by winning the annual combat exercise cup in July before the regiment
was deployed to face the Hun. To honour him and his men, the Commanding
Officer granted them the title of the ‘13th Platoon instead of
the labour platoon.’
“I just want to thank you and your lads for watching over young Everet. I
know he isn’t a natural soldier and it doesn’t help with his buggered-up right
ankle,”
“Not a problem Jim, I told McAllistair to look out for him. As we covered our
left flank. If he learns nothing from McAlistair then I give up on him.”
They laughed. Then Travis leant forward so he was a few inches away from his
friend. “Thank you for watching over the lad anyway. “
“Can you get your lads to start on the latrines, then once the medics have
brought in the wounded and dead, can your lads start digging the graves please.
Don’t forget to let the Adjutant know which graves belong to which man.”
Without being told, the men of the rifle companies had begun setting up a
security perimeter around their position, and digging trenches.
Sergeant Black had formed up his recce platoon only to realise that he
was down three men, and asked Sergeant Major Travis if he could borrow a couple
of men from the 13th Platoon.
“Square it away with Geordie, then let the Adjutant know.” Black knew
instantly who he would take; Jonsey, McAllistair and Devereaux. If he was ever
in a scrap, he would rely on these three men to back him
up.
Black grinned as the three men joined the forward recce platoon’s
briefing. One of the recce platoon corporals asked Jonsey what type of
rifle he was carrying”
“It’s a ‘Gewher 98’ high villosity hunting rifle with a Mauser scope,
Boyo. I can bring down a Hun officer at three hundred and fifty paces.”
Sergeant Black caught the look on his corporal’s face and before he could
ask if the recce platoon could have such rifles, he informed him that as far as
the company is concerned, the men of the 13th platoon do not
have designated weapons. In fact they have nothing, so they improvise.
“Right lads, you all know the drill. ‘Who was facing us? who is replacing
them and when? how many of their dead were left behind? And lastly if they were
using weapons that you’ve never seen before so carefully bring one in?
OK”
“What about prisoners Sarge?”
“Only officers or senior NCOs. Anyone else, remove their weapons and
webbing and send them back to where they came from. Now the wind is at our
back, so no threat of a gas attack. By the speed of their retreat, I’m
guessing that their departure was not planned, but be careful anyway.
The men started to move forward when the harsh voice of Sergeant Black, cut
through the stillness of the battle field again.
“Remember. Do not be tempted to loot or go trophy hunting, unless you want your
loved ones to receive just bits and pieces of what remained of your body.
If the booby traps don’t get you, be assured that I bloody well will. Is
that understood?”
The men replied in chorus, some joked about those of the platoon who had
ignored the advice a few weeks earlier and were no longer a member of the human
race.
As the sun slowly broke through the dawn clouds, so the bodies of those who had
fallen during the four days of bitter combat started to warm. The putrid
smell of rotting flesh and the sound of the flies soon forced the men to hold
rags over their noses.
Once the latrines and graves had been dug, Sergeant Bateman called his platoon
together.
“Well done lads. Davey Brown, can you see if you can scrounge some tea
and milk from the cookhouse. The rest of you start digging your trench
now, then clean your weapons and let me know if you need any more ammo.”
As a last-minute thought, he raised his voice. “And no bloody trophy hunting
either, got it!”
The Recce platoon had carefully moved forward over the field which was now
scattered with the dead and the moaning wounded. Jonsey stopped first and
raised his hand, then pointed down at a body. It was a man from the second rifle
platoon, B Company. No one spoke as Sergeant Black carefully made his way
over, knelt-down and identified the man then carefully tied a piece of white
tape to his uniform so that the men, could return and carefully check for booby
traps, then take him back to their lines ready for burial.
As they moved forward, McAllistair saw movement and without thinking, leapt
forward and hit the man before he had time to defend himself. It was a
young Lieutenant who Sergeant Black helped to his feet then told
McAllistair to take him back to Sergeant Waynwright, of the intelligence
section for questioning.
It took most of the day to put together the facts of the report of the battle.
for the Company Commander and his report to RHQ. After that the men were
detailed for sentry duty or stood down.
Then just as the men of B company started to settle down for the night, the
sentries reported that they could hear people singing Silen Night in German.
The guard commander called out the support troop and slowly approached
the sound of singing. To his surprise the German’s had got up out of
their trenches and were drinking wine and singing. When the men of the
support troop approached the Germans’ they stopped singing and staired at the
Fusiliers. Then the guard commander laughed.
“Bloody hell lads, it’s Christmas day. Then the Germans’ slowly started shouting “Merry Christmas Tommy.” Within a matter of minutes, men from B Company had
left their trenches and joined in with the men of the 218th Saxon
Jager Regiment and were mingling and laughing together, shaking hands and
swopping cap badges, cigarettes and showing pictures of their loved ones.
Sergeant Black took young Everet aside. “’Ear lad, go and get the young German
lieutenant and bring him here. After nearly ten minutes of stumbling
around in the dark, Everet found the prisoner and dragged him back to Sergeant
Black.
Black caught the eye of what he thought was their commander and beckoned him
over. The elderly man slowly made his way through the celebrations and up
to face Black.
Black saluted the officer and held out his hand. The German commander
smiled then saluted him and took his hand.
“I think this young lad belongs to you Sir.” The German commander smiled
then said in English, “Thank you sergeant, “and turned to the young lieutenant
and said something to him. The young officer burst into tears and shook
Black and Everet’s hand. Then they tuned and left to join in the celebrations.
Just then it started to snow.
Everet turned to Black. “Do you know Sarge, My Mum said that the war would end
by Christmas, I think she was right.”
Copyright
Bob French
Very Human tale Bob, well written, realistic characterization.
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