One dragoon heaved himself to his feet. He still had his sabre in his hand and waved it at Corporal Abbott.
“Pickford!”
There was a single shot and the survivor was snatched off his feet, spraying blood from his chest.
The men tidied up, killing the injured horses and ignoring the wounded men other than to relieve them of the contents of their pockets and saddlebags, and quickly made ready to march.
“Join with the company down the road, sir?”
“Yes… Yes, by all means. Quite right, Baker. Just what I was going to order. Well seen, young man. Company, form up. Sergeant Grace, down the road to the forces there.”
They marched, as smartly as they could manage, down the half mile to the waiting company.
“Who goes there?”
“D Company, Third Bedfordshires.”
“Christ! Is that all of you?”
“We may be all of the battalion, soldier.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Rearguard, Lancashire Fusiliers, sir. E Company.”
The company commander greeted them more formally.
“Captain Porteous, E Company. You look as if you have had a hard time of it, gentlemen. Tidied up those horsemen very neatly, I must say. Von Kluck will be a long time waiting for their scouting report! Best you should see the major – we are falling back on the left companies who are holding in the town itself. Corporal, take these gentlemen to the major.”
They marched more than a mile, passing through the industrial outskirts of a grey, grimy steel town before coming to older cobbled roads and then into a mediaeval city centre, narrow two and three storey black and white houses, timbered and plastered frontages and steep tiled roofs. The road entered a two acre square, the focal point of the town, all of the streets converging. Any force passing through would have to come into the square or navigate back alleys in a tortuous circle. The half battalion was ripping up cobblestones and tramlines and using them to barricade the roads coming in from the north.
Richard looked around him, saw almost all of the premises closed, their shutters down; one or two opportunist bars and cafes were taking the coins of the English soldiers. Distant down the southerly streets he could see civilians in full flight.
There was a major stood on the steps of a medieval town hall, older than any building in Kettering other than the church.
Richard felt a little disturbed that the ancient town would almost certainly be destroyed in the next day or two of fighting. He was glad the war was not being fought on English soil – it didn’t matter quite so much that foreigners were to suffer.
Captain Platt marched across, introducing himself.
“Major Higgins-Hall, gentlemen. Are you a whole company?”
“Two officers and thirty-nine men, sir. We were eighty strong, two days ago. We were pushed west, holding a copse and then a bridge and colliery village while the remainder of the battalion – those that could – got away to the southeast. We are very low on ammunition, sir.”
The Fusilier picked up the implication of the sacrificed rearguard, was much impressed.
“I can help you there. The battalion’s wagon train is parked up behind the square here. My corporal will take you to them.”
“Much appreciated, sir. That should be our first priority. Baker, take the men to the wagons, please.”
Richard saluted and nodded to Sergeant Grace.
The fusiliers had a line of a dozen wagons tucked away out of sight behind the town hall. The corporal found a quartermaster-sergeant and Richard asked for his ammunition.
“Need a docket, sir. Can’t issue to a different battalion except under signature, sir. Major to sign, sir.”
Richard stared at the ignorant, self-satisfied, plump little man, could see there was no gain to arguing.
“Corporal, would you go back to your major? If possible, ask him to come here in person.”
The corporal ran, nervous, something in Richard’s tone telling him that he was on edge, close to precipitate action. Major Higgins-Hall appeared in less than five minutes.
“Problems, Lieutenant?”
“Your QM refuses to issue, sir.”
The little sergeant smirked.
“Can’t give battalion supplies out to any old Tom, Dick or Harry, sir! Fusilier’s stores are for Fusiliers only, sir.”
“We are fighting a war, Sergeant Dickson. If you have not made the issue within five minutes, I will see you broken to private and placed in the ranks of a rifle company – not that they will want you! Move, man!”
The quarter-master sergeant shouted at one of his corporals to disburse sixty rounds per man to the Bedfordshires.
“Beg pardon, sir. I made a double issue yesterday.” Richard smiled apologetically. “Most of them have fired off more than one hundred rounds in barely twenty-four hours. The Germans are coming shoulder to shoulder by the brigade, backed by machine guns.”
“One hundred and twenty rounds per man, Dickson. Then make ready for the same issue to our people. The first company will be here within fifteen minutes.”
Dickson answered unthinkingly, automatically uncooperative when it came to issuing supplies.
“Can’t permit that, sir. It’s not regulation, sir!”
“Private Dickson, strip those badges of rank from your tunic. Now! At the double to the front of the town hall and inform Sergeant Heckmondwyke in B Company that you have come to join his ranks. Take your rifle with you.”
“Haven’t got a rifle, sir. QM sergeants carry a side arm, sir.”
“Issue yourself a rifle, pouches, one hundred and twenty rounds and a cleaning kit. Report to me one hour from now and display a rifle stripped of factory grease and in perfect firing condition. Double, Private Dickson!”
The ex-sergeant ran and Major Higgins-Hall turned smiling to Richard.
“Bloody quartermasters! I have wanted an excuse to break that man since first I saw his scowling, pinch-mouthed face across a stores counter. Active service allows for initiative, I believe, particularly when we shall be in action very soon by the look of things. I see you are carrying a rifle, Lieutenant, but have no pouches.”
The major turned to the private soldiers who were hurriedly counting out ammunition.
“Pouches for this officer and a webbing belt to carry them!”
The flunkies ran.
“Late morning. Have you eaten?”
“Plate of stew at four o’clock, sir.”
“Braver man than me, to face army stew at that time of night. I’ll warn the cooks to knock up a meal for your men. We officers ate in the cafe across the square last night and this morning. I’ll send my runner across to them, get you an omelette or something like. Your captain is writing out a report to send back to Division, if we can locate it. No hope of discovering your Brigade from all I can gather.”
“Don’t know that we had one, sir. We reached Calais and were ordered to march and off we went, east, north, south then east again! The colonel might know who he reports to, but the news never reached me, sir.”
“Bloody shambles! At least our battalion knows who is where behind us. Brigade is trying to set up a line near Ypres and we are supposed to be slowing any advance upon them to give a week or more to dig in and establish communications. I’m in command of the battalion, by the way – colonel and senior major are both damned near sixty and collapsed sick on the first day’s march.”
Richard ate a luncheon and felt better for it. Eggs and chips followed by bread and cheese accompanied by strong coffee made him far more human. Captain Platt watched him scoff and shuddered – his belly was playing him up, full of acid and unwelcoming to the very thought of food.
“We are to hold the barricade to the west of the square, Baker. We wait here until we receive orders from Division – no sense wandering around half of Belgium trying to find the battalion. I have volunteered us to assist the Fusiliers while we remain.”