Malcolm MacPhail's Great War

  MALCOLM MACPHAIL’S

  GREAT WAR

  Darrell Duthie

  Copyright © 2017 Darrell Duthie

  Darrell Duthie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN 978-94-92843-01-2 (Trade Paperback edition)

  ISBN 978-94-92843-00-5 (e-book edition)

  First published in the Netherlands in 2017 by Esdorn Editions

  Copy-editing by John Hudspith

  Cover design by JD Smith Design

  Interior design and typesetting by JD Smith Design

  Cover photographs acknowledgement: Library and Archives Canada/Ministry of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada fonds: Smashing barbed wire with trench mortars. May, 1917 (a001381), Canadian armoured cars going into action at the Battle of Amiens (a003016)

  This book is a work of historical fiction. The names, characters, events and dialogue portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, except where they are an acknowledged part of the historical record.

  www.darrellduthie.com

  Contents

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  Map of Passchendaele

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  Map of German Spring Offensives

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  Map of Amiens

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  AUTHOR’S NOTE and ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  3rd of September, 1917

  Hill 70, Lens, France

  ‘Boche, sir!’

  Private Stringer was pointing. He and Munns were hunched behind their Lewis gun looking downhill, their flushed young faces grim and serious. I followed their lead and I spotted them, a clutch of field-grey figures 300 yards away in the gloom. They appeared to be forming up.

  ‘I can’t see a damned thing from this angle,’ muttered Captain Ferguson, which was pretty much exactly what I’d warned him of when he insisted we set up here. He stood with his elbows buried in the dirt at the top of the trench, brass-rimmed field glasses clamped to his eyes. ‘GHQ says the 1st Guards Reserve are moving into our sector. The general is anxious for some confirmation. I don’t need to tell you, Malcolm, that’s one of their elite units.’

  ‘So, you reckon the Germans are moving in fresh troops for another counter-attack?’ I said. ‘It’s unbelievable. We took the hill two weeks ago and they’re still at it.’

  He lowered his glasses. ‘Yeah, that’s a strong possibility.’

  ‘Well, Ferguson, unconfirmed, albeit far-fetched rumours have it that you’re in intelligence. What now?’

  Ferguson rolled his eyes. Then he stared at me. I stared back at him. It ended in stalemate. It was eerily similar to how the war had progressed these past few years. ‘Alright. I’ll go,’ I said, finally, with a weary sigh. I tucked my field glasses under my tunic and yanked at the leather strap of my helmet, not that a well-fastened helmet ever helped.

  Ferguson clapped me on the back. ‘I owe you one, MacPhail.’

  ‘Stringer. Munns,’ I said, grabbing my rifle. ‘I need to take a closer look. Keep your eyes open.’

  ‘Sir!’ They grasped the rims of their tin helmets in a good-natured salute. Munns had his lucky charm, a dog-eared rabbit’s foot clenched in his hand.

  Cautiously, I crawled out of the trench. An uneasy quiet had descended on Hill 70, but there was always the threat of a sniper lurking unseen, somewhere out there in the wasteland. With that thought in mind, it didn’t take me long to work my way around the wired fenceposts and the small rise in the ground that were obstructing our view. I rolled into a vacant shell-hole not thirty feet ahead of Ferguson and the two privates.

  Down the slight slope in the direction of Lens’ ruined, red-brick northern suburbs, and a huge black pyramid of coal-mine tailings off in the distance, I saw the squad of soldiers assembling. There were more than I expected, maybe fifty of them. I couldn’t tell for certain at this distance. The light was poor as the watery sun prepared to set and thick dark clouds were sweeping across. It would rain again soon.

  This group was preparing to move. Was it another counter-attack?

  A red Very flare shot up into the sullen sky. Someone else had spotted them, too. A minute later a shell whistled overhead, closely followed by others and a succession of explosions detonated in the German lines.

  Almost immediately a double green flare soared upwards out of the chaos and began its lazy descent. The Germans were calling for their own artillery to retaliate.

  As I stared, there was a massive boom, followed by darkness. Giant shovelfuls of earth were dumped upon me. Then silence, black and absolute, like death.

  After a bit I heard voices and felt an arm tugging frantically at mine. I coughed and wheezed as they pulled me free. The damp smoky air smelled fresh and I inhaled deep lungfuls of it. Shakily I rose to my feet, brushing at my tunic. My rescuers shook their heads in astonishment. ‘Are you sure you’re alright, fellow?’

  I pushed them away and in a fog, I stumbled back to where Ferguson, Stringer and Munns were sheltering. One wall of the trench had collapsed. A solitary torn helmet and a blood-streaked timber protruded from the earth. The shell had hit the trench almost dead on. At the sight I closed my eyes.

  3rd of October, 1917

  3 miles east of Hersin-Coupigny (near Lens), France

  The crater-sized pothole appeared out of nowhere. I wrenched the steering wheel to the right, the front wheels shot off the road, and the car slammed to an abrupt stop.

  I was on my way from Corps Headquarters to another reconnaissance in the front line, this time as the division’s newest intelligence officer, but now my car from the divisional pool was half in the ditch, with a worrisome plume of steam emanating from the hood. My forehead was tender, my ego bruised and, worst of all, I had no idea how I was going to get to the reconnaissance. The general was not going to be amused. I might not make it to a month in my new position. I walked around to take a look at the damage.

  Cars! I could see them tearing down the road towards me in convoy, coming from ahead. They were travelling fast.

  As they approached they slowed; there were three of them, all gleaming unnaturally, in particular the large staff car in the middle. I say unnaturally because nothing ever gleamed near the front, so it was a dead giveaway some braided cap was on the move.

  The cars breezed past, leaving me enveloped in a fine cloud of yellow dust and a growing sense of helplessness. As the large, boxy Vauxhall staff car swept by, I caught a glimpse of a mottled grey and white moustache seated in the back, and I saluted smartly. Some importa
nt general out reviewing the troops, I presumed. Then to my relief the motorcade came to a halt. The doors of the first and the third cars opened, discharging a collection of sharply-dressed officers. A private, one of the drivers, hastened towards me.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘do you require some assistance, sir?’

  ‘Do I ever,’ I responded. ‘There’s no way I can get this contraption back on the road, myself. I’m glad you stopped.’

  He nodded, and after conferring briefly with the other drivers, set to work. I climbed into the ditch to help – it wasn’t deep – and I put my hands on the hood where the right wheel had plowed into the loose earth. A group of five or six red-tabbed staff officers congregated on the road behind us in a semi-circle, leaning on their canes, and with amused looks on their faces, but seemingly disinclined to join in. No need to muddy their boots. They’d probably taken one look at mine and decided to leave me to it.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said to the private beside me, who was readying himself to push. ‘I hope it still works. Before you arrived, it looked like Vesuvius erupting.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. Duncan’s a genius with motorcars,’ he said with a flick of his head in the direction of the driver who first spoke to me. Duncan was now readying himself at the steering wheel.

  ‘Where are you fellows coming from?’

  ‘Cassel up by the Belgian border, sir. We were visiting the field-marshal’s residence.’ That got me thinking. Their passenger must indeed be an important figure if he was dropping in on the field-marshal.

  Perplexed, I asked, ‘I understood the field-marshal resides in a château near Montreuil, not Cassel?’

  ‘He does, sir. That’s at General Headquarters. The Château de Beaurepaire it’s called. The one in Cassel’s only his second residence.’

  ‘His second residence! Boy, I wouldn’t mind seeing what a second residence looks like.’

  The private laughed. ‘It’s nice, sir.’

  Private Duncan shouted, ‘On three, lads,’ and even before I had my back into it, my car’s four wheels were resting again on the narrow road. The privates were a handy bunch. Duncan was already peering at the engine; he had a VIP waiting impatiently, so naturally he was pressed for time.

  ‘It’s fortunate we happened along when we did,’ I heard a kindly voice say. I turned and you could have heard the clunk of my jaw as it dropped open. Field-Marshal Sir Douglas Haig was standing in front of me. The commander-in-chief of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) was gazing at me with interest.

  He stood with both hands deep in his coat pockets, collar upturned, and the wisp of a smile on his face. His blue eyes had a friendly sparkle to them. The field-marshal had that easy grace of a man who knew his rung in life, and knew that others knew it too; commanding an army of one and a half million men can have that effect. I felt about as relaxed as an ant with the shadow of a heel looming over me.

  ‘Sir. Yes, sir. It’s very fortunate,’ I said, trying to juggle the surprisingly difficult act of talking and coming to attention at the same time. I towered over him, but felt strangely cowed.

  ’And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking, Captain?’

  ‘MacPhail, sir, Malcolm MacPhail. I’m with the 3rd Canadian Division.’

  ‘Ah, Louis Lipsett’s division. Pleased to meet you, Captain. As it happens I’m on my way to see your Corps Commander, General Currie, about the offensive.’

  ‘The Ypres offensive, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course, the Ypres offensive. Which one did you suppose?’ As there was only one offensive at the moment, and that was the field-marshal’s break-for-the-coast push near Ypres, his puzzlement wasn’t entirely surprising.

  ‘Seeing as how we’re in the line forty miles from Ypres, I just assumed it must be something else, sir,’ I stuttered, my knees going weak. Ypres was my cruel introduction to this war. I arrived near that charming Belgian city in April 1915 feeling as exuberantly over-confident as any new private can, and raring to go, ready to save the Empire. Before long I was clinging to life by a string – or in my case a urine-soaked handkerchief clamped to my face – as dense green clouds of gas billowed terrifyingly over us. Even the Germans were awed by their new weapon of horror. And the fighting was still raging. Thanks to Haig’s offensive we were into our third major battle there in as many years.

  The field-marshal took one of his hands out of his pocket, and straightened what looked to me like a textbook example of a straight cap. ‘Right you are, Captain, you’re not there at present, but the war moves quickly,’ he said with a wink. ‘You’ll be pleased to hear we took Polygon Wood, though.’

  ‘So, it’s going well, then, sir? The offensive?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Quite well indeed. The heavy rain in August was a setback, naturally. However, the intelligence staff inform me enemy casualties are close to a hundred thousand and German morale has never been lower.’

  I caught myself frowning. Our own casualties were reportedly a hundred thousand. It was a bloodbath, a slaughterhouse. But then I remembered Haig’s intelligence chief. He had a reputation as the eternal optimist; he certainly wasn’t the sort to let reality intrude on a good plan. Not that anybody at GHQ could be accused of much experience with reality. Which, when I thought about it, was a major part of the problem. ‘That’s excellent news, sir,’ I said, ‘but I understood our own casualties are also quite heavy?’

  Haig looked me in the eye. ‘What you must understand, Captain, is that in every stage of this wearing-out struggle, losses will necessarily be heavy. But we must persevere.’

  ‘Of course, sir. Might I enquire if that’s where we come in?’

  At that moment I saw the colonel lurking behind him, ramrod straight with a pencil thin figure. I would have recognized him anywhere; I never forget a weasel face, particularly one cloaked in red tabs and with gold scrambled eggs on his cap. He was the very colonel I’d had an altercation with last week.

  There was a shout of triumph from Private Duncan. My motorcar was putting happily away. The field-marshal greeted the news with visible enthusiasm, likely because it afforded him a polite escape from this obstreperous captain from the colonies and his impertinent questions.

  ‘Best of luck, Captain. I’ll mention your name to General Lipsett when I see him.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you very much for the assistance, sir,’ I said, as Haig turned and left, the colonel and a sea of minor uniforms scrambling in his wake.

  ‘The captain’s a big man. Lipsett has got himself a crew of proper lumberjacks,’ I heard Haig remark to the colonel, as he strode back to his car. The colonel said something in response that I couldn’t make out.

  I looked over at my own car. Whatever magic Private Duncan had conjured up had done the trick. Incredibly, it appeared no more battered than before, and it was running. The reconnaissance was on. And that was a relief. Were it not that the field-marshal appeared to be toying with a new plan for us, I might have been happier. Since arriving on the continent, my plan most days revolved around staying alive and hoping the war would end, neither of which seemed more likely with each new plan dreamt up at GHQ. The very mention of Ypres had set off the bludgeons in my stomach.

  At the front line the weather was unsettled and the wind had blown in another shower. I stood in Totnes trench, to the south of Lens in the Méricourt sector, and only a few miles from where I’d almost been buried alive. Today the German 5.9s were shelling the rear, Quebec trench, and our support lines. Every so often, a stray shell landed perilously nearby with a sudden boom and a geyser of dirt. One very much like the last had killed Ferguson and the two privates. Lipsett had appointed me as poor Ferguson’s replacement the very next day.

  ‘Sir, that’s the dug-out. There, straight ahead,’ instructed the corporal, as he helped me adjust the field glasses. There was a narrow gap between the two rough timbers that ran along the top of the trench and when I held the glasses up close to it, I could make out the protruding mound i
n the earth 500 yards away, on the enemy’s side of No-Man’s-Land.

  ‘And that’s where all their officers were spotted?’ I said. ‘Doesn’t look terribly special.’ It had a decent amount of wire strung around, but that wasn’t unusual. In fact, it could have passed for every other dug-out in this section of the line. Apparently, appearances were deceiving. One thing both the corporal and I knew was that German officers stayed well away from the trenches unless duty absolutely required it, so it was more than your average dug-out – but what? Were they planning an attack?

  ‘I know it doesn’t look like much, sir. But that’s where we’re seeing them… every day the past week, at least one, and usually several more.’

  ‘Have they been carrying maps? Do they appear to be studying our line?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell, sir. Usually we see them enter and leave, but it’s difficult to make out what they’re up to once they’re in the bunker. In another hour or so, you can see for yourself. For some reason they tend to arrive in the evening.’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied, and took another look. I had plenty of time. I was planning to stay with the battalion overnight.

  One of the planks in front of me shuddered violently, as if someone had taken a hammer to it, and there was a brief crunching noise. I knew exactly what it was; it was the sound of metal shredding wood. The plank was thick, and the distance long, but the bullet hadn’t missed the gap by more than a foot. I didn’t stick around to look any closer. Hand on my helmet I sank down below the lip of the trench and the corporal did the same.

  ‘That was close,’ I said. ‘That Fritz is a scarily decent shot.’ I’d barely noticed the sudden crack off in the distance. Rifle shots were as commonplace as air in the front lines, perhaps even more so, what with all the gas and high explosives that were displacing it these days.

  The corporal had an explanation. ‘A sniper spotted you, sir. He must have seen a flash from the field glasses.’

  ‘Yes, probably,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s come back in an hour as you suggested. It’ll be dusk by then.’

  Which we did. And it was. A light rain had begun and there were gusts of wind.