An extract from Craig McMillan’s tense WW1-set military thriller, where Captain Ralph Husey, after being asked to volunteer for service in Flanders, finds himself outnumbered and outgunned, forced to hold back hordes of German infantry.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1 – The Long March

 

 

5.25 a.m., London Rifle Brigade (L.R.B.) Barracks

 

 

It was still dark as the soldiers formed up under the only external light available on the parade ground at the Bunhill Row Barracks of the L.R.B. Fifty-two Riflemen, shuffled into position of four ranks as two officers and five sergeants watched on with a keen interest.

 

Colour Sergeant Wallis moved up and down the ranks scrutinising the men in front of him, tutting and cursing as he found something he didn’t agree with. ‘Preston, you bloody idiot. I told ya, no great coats,’ he bellowed, in a broad East London accent.

 

‘You’ll be warm enough to fry eggs off your back in a mile. We don’t need dead weight man. Fall out and put it in the barracks. Double time.’

 

Preston opened his mouth to protest but Wallis fixed him a cold stare. His big black bushy moustache twitched as he glared at the young private, daring him to defy his advice. Being taller, Preston fixed his gaze on Wallis’s forehead whilst he considered his next move. A few seconds passed between the two men, until finally, Preston decided he’d met his match and sprinted off in the direction of the barracks.

 

Wallis and the four other sergeants carried on down the lines of men, prodding rucksacks to make sure no one was carrying any excess weight and pulling at straps to check all was secure.

 

One of the sergeants called out as he removed a bugle from one of the rucksacks. He waved it above his head so his Colour Sergeant could see what he’d found.

 

Wallis exploded with anger. ‘You’re a bloody shower, the lot of ya. Last time out I did this march in over eighteen hours and I’m telling ya for sure, ya don’t want no extra weight. How many times ’ave I got to bleeding tell ya? If we are going to beat the London Scottish time, you need to straighten out ya heads.’

 

The sergeants finished their inspection and fell in next to the two officers waiting patiently in front of the body of men. Wallis turned to his commanding officer and through the side of his mouth muttered, ‘One short, sir. Only fifty-nine men present.’

 

Captain Husey sighed as he looked at his wristwatch. It was 5.27 a.m. With fifteen to sixteen hours of marching ahead of them, they needed to be7 on the road in three minutes. But for the march to qualify as a record attempt, sixty men were required to take part.

 

Husey could hardly contain his anger. It wasn’t like him to get annoyed but this group of men had trained bloody hard so they could take the record off their arch-rivals, The London Scottish. And now it looked like it was going to be over before they’d even started.

 

Captain Husey was thirty-two years old, of medium build and below inquisitive eyes that missed little, he sported the regulation bushy army moustache on his upper lip. He was the kind of person who walked everywhere with a purpose as if he never had a minute to waste, applying his boundless energy and cheery enthusiasm to even the most mundane of tasks.

 

Throughout the regiment, he’d earned the begrudging respect of N.C.Os and privates alike for always being there with his company, come rain or shine, through thick and thin.

 

The truth was, Husey knew he wasn’t built to be sitting behind a desk at some dreary firm in the city and sought any opportunity to escape and make for the barracks at Bunhill Row. He’d tried several careers following introductions by his father, the latest of which was at his uncle’s chartered accountancy firm.

 

For the sake of his father and uncle, he’d tried to fit in and make it work, even taking professional qualifications, but deep down he knew he loved the outdoors too much. That, and the fellowship that came from being in the army, even if it was just a part-time territorial regiment.

 

He’d joined the L.R.B. in 1906 as a field officer much to the annoyance of his father. Eldest sons didn’t demean themselves by joining the army he was told, that was the preserve of youngest sons. As the eldest son with a good education at Marlborough behind him, he was expected to pursue a career in a respected profession, make something of himself and marry above his family.

 

But that just wasn’t his way. Despite the upset it would cause his family, he had made discreet enquiries concerning joining the regular army. But much to his disappointment, there were few openings in His Majesty’s small professional army during peacetime. That, or they didn’t take accountants from a mere part-time territorial regiment.

 

Husey decided it would not do to show his emotions in front of the men, so he paused to check the anger building inside him before replying to Wallis. ‘Who is it, Colour Sergeant?’ he asked flatly.

 

‘O’Brien, sir,’ Wallis replied pointedly.

 

Lieutenant Large rolled his eyes as he shook his head. ‘We never should have allowed O’Brien to join us in the first place. That one’s nothing short of a liability,’ he said tersely.

 

Before Husey could respond, the sound of hob-nailed boots made them turn in the direction of the man approaching from out of the darkness.

 

‘Is there a problem here, sir?’ Sergeant McNally asked in a broad Glaswegian accent. McNally was the adjudicator from The London Scottish regiment. As was the custom, the current record holders sent someone to perform the official timekeeping. The London Scottish would like nothing more than for this attempt on their record to fail. The fact that it would fail before it had even begun would only add to the embarrassment of the L.R.B. and the ribbing from The London Scottish.

 

Lieutenant Large was about to offer up some fabricated excuse which he hoped would buy them more time, when he heard the sound of boots running on cobbled stones close by. The assembled men turned as one to see a figure come skidding around the corner of the main barrack building. The man’s arms flailed in all directions as he tried to keep from falling over. When enough balance had been recovered, the figure set off again at the run towards the waiting group of riflemen.

 

The corner light illuminated the features of the approaching figure, causing Lieutenant Large to reply confidently to McNally, ‘No problem at all, Sergeant, leastways not any more.’

 

A cheer went up from the ranks which was instantly put down by Colour Sergeant Wallis, ‘Silence. Quiet in the ranks,’ he bellowed and glared at O’Brien as he joined the rearmost rank of soldiers.

 

Sergeant Brown, short and squat, left the group of N.C.O.s and marched over to where O’Brien was standing. Brown leaned in to O’Brien and started muttering expletives into his ear. The officers and other N.C.O.s couldn’t hear what was being said but they certainly knew the gist of it. But the mischievous grin on O’Brien’s face suggested the sergeants’ dressing down was not being heeded in the slightest.

 

The young O’Brien was an enigma to his N.C.O.s. He lived his life day by day, with no regard to his future prospects. This was in marked contrast to the other men in the regiment, who had mapped out careers for themselves in the City of London over many years of careful application.

 

Most of the officers in the regiment had studied or were studying, to gain a professional qualification in Law, Accountancy, Banking or some such profession that would stand them in good stead for a career in the city. Similarly, many of the N.C.O.s had secured sought-after jobs in London’s prestigious Livery Companies by working hard, keeping their head down and not making waves.

 

O’Brien was the complete opposite. The son of Irish immigrants, the twenty-two-year-old worked down at St. Katherine’s dock, putting in backbreaking shifts seven days a week when the work was there. Throughout the regiment, he was renowned for his epic payday drinking, his quick sense of humour and even quicker fists.

 

All of which made him incredibly popular amongst the rank and file of the L.R.B., who secretly admired him for throwing off the shackles of responsibility they felt beholden to. To the men, he was the errant younger brother they adored and covered up for because he made them laugh. He did the things they were too frightened to do because the consequences might blight their prospects.

 

For the same reasons, O’Brien was unpopular with the N.C.O.s. Married men who felt they had to conform to provide for their families and who tried repeatedly to curtail his wayward and maverick ways. And they tried and they failed repeatedly.

 

Sergeant Brown finished remonstrating with O’Brien and glowered at the side of the young private’s head, as if trying to bore into his brain to get his point of view in there. It made no difference, which only made Brown angrier at the indifference O’Brien was showing to his dressing down.

 

Colour Sergeant Wallis turned to Captain Husey. ‘All present and correct, sir.’

 

In a hushed tone, just loud enough for Husey to hear, Large muttered under his breath, ‘I’d bet a Guinea it was the Padre’s daughter. He’s been like a dog on heat around her all week.’

 

Husey and Large had become good friends but at times Husey found his behaviour inappropriate. Especially when it came to military matters. If it was true, it was no laughing matter and there would be hell to pay. Either way, they would have to deal with it later.

 

Husey took a step forward to address the men and waited patiently for their full attention. Silence descended amongst the ranks as each man realised their captain was about to address them.

 

‘Good of you to grace us with your presence, O’Brien!’ Husey inclined his head downwards in a mock bow. A chorus of laughter went through the ranks. The only person who didn’t break into laughter was Sergeant Brown. Even in the gloom of the badly lit parade ground, Husey could see Brown’s eyes bulging out from his red face, giving the impression his head might explode at any minute.

 

Confident the icebreaker had worked and he now had everyone’s attention, Husey continued, ‘The moment has come at last, Gentlemen. It’s fifty-two and a half miles to Brighton and we have less than sixteen hours in which to do it if we are to be successful. This is your moment to show the regulars what a territorial regiment can do. You’ve trained hard and I’m confident we can take the record off The London Scottish.’ The soldiers broke into spontaneous jeers and boos at the mention of their fierce rivals. Husey put his hand up and the men slowly quietened.

 

‘Sergeant McNally is here from The London Scottish as the official timekeeper.’ Before anyone could make a derogatory comment Husey swiftly followed up in a louder voice, ‘You will extend every courtesy to him or I will want to know why. He is our guest.’ Husey paused to let his point get across and then continued.

 

‘We will stop every hour, on the hour, for a rest and to take on water. McNally will time the rest stops and deduct it from our total time to calculate the exact time of march.’

 

A shout went up from the ranks, ‘He’d better not play the flippin’ bagpipes!’

 

He was pleased the men were in good spirits but he now needed them to focus on the challenge ahead. He frowned at the men in front of him and in an exasperated tone, said slowly, ‘I repeat. Show him the respect his rank deserves. You are representing the regiment today.’ He let the words linger in the air. The men shuffled uncomfortably and stared at their boots like guilty children being told off by their headmaster.

 

Husey moved to lighten the mood. It was time to wake the colonel up, he thought. He was disappointed Lieutenant Colonel Earl Cairns hadn’t made it down to see them off. It was a poor show despite the early start. Better wake him up then, Husey thought mischievously.

 

‘Are you ready men?’

 

Husey’s question was met with a handful of, ‘Yes, sirs.’

 

Not happy with the response, he repeated the question. ‘Are you ready?’

 

Fifty-nine men in unison shouted back at their commanding officer, ‘Yes, sir!’

 

Husey nodded with satisfaction. ‘We are indeed! If we break the record, the first round is on me, tonight!’ A huge cheer went up and all Husey could see was white teeth and grins. Even Sergeant Brown had broken into a smile.

 

Husey turned to Wallis. ‘Colour Sergeant. If you please?’

 

Wallis nodded in acknowledgement and shouted, ‘Aattenshuuun.’ Sixty pairs of hobnail boots slammed down onto the cobbles, sending a ripple of echoes around the walls of the parade ground. ‘Rrrrright turn. By the left quick mmmarch.’

 

Four lines of men sprung into life, marching in step towards the gatehouse and the road beyond. Wallis took the lead at the head of the column, with Husey and Large falling in alongside the first rank of four men. The remaining sergeants fell in behind Husey and Large, a good few paces back.

 

The noise of their boots on the cobbled parade ground was loud enough to wake anyone up within one hundred yards. That’ll do it Husey thought to himself. The only way the colonel would be able to sleep through this racket was if he’d been at the claret again last night. Which, as everyone in the regiment knew, was a distinct possibility.

 

The official start line was the gatehouse and Husey could see Sergeant McNally standing there with his bicycle. McNally, easily in his forties and a big bear of a man, was wearing distinctive green tartan trews, presumably to remind the L.R.B., who the current record holders were.

 

Captain Husey crossed the start line and McNally fell in beside him, ‘The time now is 5.34.15 a.m., sir. I’ll catch you up on ma bicycle after I’ve had a wee bit of breakfast. I’d say best of luck to you but I nay mean it.’

 

Husey grinned at the big sergeant and replied cheerily, ‘Thank you, McNally. Catch us if you can!’

 

The column turned right out of the gatehouse and Husey looked at his wristwatch to check if it was showing the same time as McNally.

 

It was good to be on their way finally. Months of planning and organisation had gone into getting the sixty men on the road that morning. Husey had over one hundred and sixty volunteers come forward from the regiment when he announced he was going for the record. Through a series of speed marches, training runs and a brutal P.T. regime, they had quickly whittled down the number of volunteers to a more manageable group of eighty men. Many late nights of planning with Lieutenant Large and Colour Sergeant Wallis meant little had been left to chance.

 

Husey was confident of their chances but the group needed to be across the Thames before six a.m. or they’d run the risk of getting delayed by the press of men, women and horse-drawn carts heading into the city from the slums of Southwark.

 

He knew from the practice marches that the city would soon be bustling with crowds of people, especially close to the river. The new tide would bring any number of ships from all over the British Empire and with them, thousands of dockers would shortly be turning up to unload the ships.

 

The column of men marched four abreast down Bunhill Row in the direction of Moorgate, making an impressive sight in the illumination of the electric street lights. Thankfully there were few people yet about their business in this part of the city, so Wallis, at the front, took advantage of the quiet surroundings to set a fast pace.

 

As they turned the corner on to Moorgate, the city suddenly sprang into life around them.

 

Butchers, Fishmongers and Green Grocers hurried back from the early markets with their wheelbarrows full of fresh produce for the day’s trading. The daily race was on, to be back in time to open their shops to the cooks and servants from the large townhouses on Finsbury Circus and chefs from local hotels. To the soldiers, it appeared half the city was now up and about.

 

But the sound of sixty men speed marching down Moorgate made the Londoners turn their heads and stare. As the rumbling noise reverberated around the buildings and down the road, the tradesmen rushed to move their carts and wheelbarrows.

 

Sergeant Evans, sent ahead to clear the road, started bellowing at the tradesmen to move aside.

A shopkeeper, who’d been setting up his fruit and vegetable display outside his shop, stared at the soldiers, hands on the hips of his brown apron, and called out,’ ‘Where is you lot off to in such a bleedin’ ’urry? Has war broke out?’

 

‘Brighton!’ Lieutenant Large called out, deliberately matter-of-factly.

 

‘For Gawd’s sake. Not again. You lot are off ya rockers. What’s wrong with the bleedin’ train? Can’t you afford the fare or summit?’ The shopkeeper was clearly pleased with his ribbing of the soldiers, but his smirk turned to a grimace when he realised that he was addressing an officer from his local regiment.

 

Doffing his flat cap, the shopkeeper quickly apologised, ‘Begging your pardo, sirs, I didn’t see you two officers there.’

 

As the column passed his shop, the shopkeeper cuffed the heads of his two young sons who had been rooted to the spot, watching the soldiers with their mouths open. He hurriedly started putting apples and oranges into their cradled arms, ‘For the soldiers, boys. Quick about ya, get after ’em.’

 

Needing no further encouragement, the two boys ran after the soldiers, desperately trying not to drop any of the fruit. Arriving at the head of the column, the boys split up to stand on different sides of the road and lifted up their arms to the passing soldiers, who plucked out the fruit without breaking stride or slowing down.

 

Husey stepped aside from the column, walked over to one of the boys and produced half a crown from his pocket. The boy was unable to put his hand out lest he drop any fruit, so Husey held the coin in front of the boy’s face and then slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘My compliments to…’ he paused and looked at the name above the door of the greengrocer’s shop. ‘… Mr Wheeler,’ he continued and then turned on his heel to catch up with the group of soldiers.

 

The boy was beside himself with excitement. Marching soldiers and now this! He casually looked over his shoulder at his father, to see if he had noticed the exchange with the officer. His father returned his stare and after a moment, winked.

 

The marching soldiers turned into Princes Street and the city’s financial district. As they marched up the street towards the Bank of England, the hustle and bustle of flat-capped crowds gave way to empty streets and a few solitary passersby wearing suits and black felt Derby hats. ‘Clearly too early for bankers and stock brokers!’ Lieutenant Large commented dryly to Husey.

 

The column of men passed in front of the Royal Exchange and, as they turned up Lombard Street, the golden top of the monument came into view despite the twilight gloom.

 

They followed the curve of the road down towards the river and London Bridge appeared just ahead. Husey breathed a sigh of relief.

 

The bridge was relatively empty save for a horse-drawn bus, a few carts and a score of people. His wristwatch showed 5.49 a.m. They’d successfully managed to cross the city without any holdups.

 

Arriving at the bridge, Colour Sergeant Wallis gave the order to ‘break step’ and the men checked their stride.

 

Husey glanced eastwards down the river. He could just make out the Tower of London, its white towers clearly visible through the early morning mist rising off the river. Beyond Tower Bridge, he could see the grey glow of the new day arriving above the high ground of Greenwich.

 

He felt a flush of pride run through him. London looked every inch the magnificent capital city of the largest empire known to man, causing him to wonder which part of the British Empire the sun would be setting over so it could rise here.

 

He felt privileged to be leading this group of riflemen that morning. It wasn’t just the opportunity to take  the record off the London Scottish for his regiment. Moreover, it was leading a group of men who had worked so very hard over the last six months.

 

It was true he cherished the outdoor life and opportunities like this that came from being in the army, but this was different. Pushing themselves to train incredibly hard had bonded the sixty men into a tight-knit group. He had become close to Lieutenant Large and had got to know the N.C.O.s at a personal level.

 

His commanding officer had disapproved of course. Major King said he shouldn’t be spending so much time with his juniors. He was there to lead the men, not to be friends with them. When Husey had asked him why, he simply said it wasn’t the done thing in the army.

 

Husey disagreed and decided to ignore the advice from his major. He was giving them a different kind of leadership. He’d seen the positive impact of collaborating closely and how the men had come together around a common goal. Even the troublesome O’Brien had calmed down a little, to the point that he was now chums with some of the group.

 

Which is why he felt confident this group of men could pull it off, even though they’d only covered one of the fifty-two miles to Brighton. There were other bottlenecks ahead, like Kennington and Brixton, but if they could get out to the suburbs without any delays, they were very much in this race.

 

 

 

A Call To Arms is available now in paperback.