The Angel of Mons - Chapter Three

Three
Everywhere was a confusion of sound. Wooden wheels clattered on cobbles, hoof on stone, and the sound of men whistling and calling commands to their animals. Dogs barking as they enthusiastically herded flocks of wayward sheep. A steam tractor hissed and in the distance, a train rumbled as it made its way to London.
Soft rain fell on the scene, which was taking on the early rusty reds of autumn. It had taken Peter and George three hours to drive the flock from Albury to market in Berkhamsted. At last the sheep were safely herded into their pen and as Peter closed the heavy wooden gate behind them he smiled at George.
“I think we’ve earned a little refreshment, don’t you?” Suggested Peter.
The two men worked their way through the melee of farmers, dashing dogs and livestock. They crossed the busy London Road and entered the Kings Arms, an old coaching house that had stood proudly on the high street for over three hundred years. “Down,” called Peter to his dogs who obediently followed to heal unless otherwise instructed. They sat promptly with half a dozen others at the entrance to the pub. Seeing how crowded it was inside, Peter suggested George waited in the courtyard, while he was being served. George nodded and headed for the side door that led out onto a cobbled area in the centre of the building where before the railways, the old stagecoaches would have been serviced and supplied with fresh horses. He was glad to be clear of the smell of damp clothes, working men, tobacco and the stench of livestock.
When Peter emerged he was carrying two pint glasses and a four-pint pitcher. George smiled as he watched Peter fill both their glasses and then place the pitcher on the ground between his feet. Peter had to shout above the hubbub to make himself heard. He told George that he was expecting to meet with Sid who was bringing a sow to market.
George looked over his shoulder around the courtyard among the twenty or so men who stood drinking. He couldn’t see Sid.
“Did you see if they had a newspaper in the bar Peter?”
Peter frowned and hesitated; he looked over George’s shoulder and took a big mouth full of beer. “I think there might have been one,” he replied with an air of disinterest.
“I’ll be two ticks,” said George as he handed Peter his glass and battled his way back into the bar which was becoming increasingly full as more and more farmers completed their work for the day. He could see a folded paper in the rack; he headed straight for it, apologising and excusing himself as he went. When he re-emerged into the courtyard, Sid was there, smiling, with a full pint of beer and another pitcher which he too had stood in the customary style, between his muddy boots in the uneven stones. “Looks like we got some proper drinking to be doing now.”
They were on their fourth pitcher by the time George eventually managed to take a look at the newspaper. He frowned as he read the reports from France. He read how the Germans had forced the British Expeditionary Force back to the river Marne just a few miles outside Paris. He read how the losses had been considerable but how they were managing to fight on against the odds, ‘bravely with pride and decency.’ He read how the Germans murdered all that stood in their path. How they burned the land, raped and murdered the woman abused and tortured the children. His hand began to shake as he read on.
“More beer George?” Asked Peter, who was surprised when there was no reply.
“It makes grim reading my friend don’t it?” None of them had noticed David Sykes who had been standing looking over George’s shoulder.
George turned to David, he was frowning and his face was white, he looked almost as if he had aged ten years in just a few moments. “You’ve seen this David?” He asked, his voice breaking as he spoke. David’s response was to lower his eyes and nod his head. Then he looked up to the heavens and stroked his thin moustache with the tips of his fingers.
“What in Gods name is wrong with you two?” Asked Peter, in a vane attempt to raise a smile. George said nothing, he simply handed the newspaper to Peter. “I’ve seen it, so what? It don’t effect us.” He refused to take the paper. An inquisitive Sid reached across and took it from George instead.
Sid read for a few minutes and handed the paper to a man standing next to him. Sid stood in silence, his eyes empty. He looked at George who stared down at his muddy boots and then at David.
Suddenly the man who had taken the paper from Sid called out and demanded the attention of all those around him. A hush fell over the crowded courtyard. He began to read from the newspaper. His voice was clear and his reading rarely faltered. “When I arrived at what was left of the village.” At that moment Sid and George looked at each other knowingly, the sinew in the side of George’s face flexing tightly, his nostrils flared slightly. The farmer continued to read his voice deep and strong. “I could see a church still standing. It was virtually the only building left undamaged by the savage bombardment, which the Germans had rained on the place just a few days before. The village was quiet, the Hun had left and from what I could tell, so had the residents. I then thought that perhaps the Women and children of the village might have sought sanctuary in the church.
“When I got to the entrance, I pushed open the doors. No man should have to see what I saw that day and I pray no innocents will read this account. But it is important that the men of Britain know what a fearsome and terrible enemy we engage with. I had found the population of the village, but far from finding sanctuary in a holy place, there lay before me a scene of death and terrible torture.” There was a slight murmuring among the audience, and men shuffled awkwardly as more and more people stepped from the bar into the courtyard, to listen. “Children dead, shot, stabbed and mutilated, woman, their clothes asunder after God knows what had happened to them also dead of wounds to terrible to describe. And at the alter, clutching her crucifix, clothes torn and violated, stabbed shot and cut to ribbons by crazed murderers lay a Nun of the Holy orders.” The mans head hung low and he paused. There was no sound from the assembled, their vacant eyes, flexing faces and shaking heads brought with them an overwhelming emotion. The grey of the early afternoon hung heavy and the cold rain drove down on the gathering.
Suddenly the silence was broken by an unfamiliar sound coming from the street. George looked at Peter and frowned. They could hear a drum, music; they could hear the sound of cheering and people applauding in the distance.
A call came from inside the bar, George was unable to hear what was said but he caught a tone of excitement. The rush of the crowd carried him forward; he was swept along in a tide of emotion. He looked to his right and could see Peter who had been delayed for a moment as he had tried in vane to recover his pitcher. When George got to the door, he could feel the weight of the crowd on his back. The music grew louder; the drum beat stronger, the cheers and applause deeper and more sustained. And the louder it grew the more George could feel himself being pushed forward. Eventually he was in the bar and the sound of the music was clouded by the sound of hurrying men and shuffling feet, George took a gulp of ale from his glass, which he held tight against his chest.
As he approached the door which lead to the street, George checked for Peter again, he could see him a few feet away, his face straining a little as he struggled against the crowd. He was frowning and he reminded George of an uncertain child being led into his first day of school.
Around the door in the street the crowd stood five deep, they were looking to their right toward the church. The music was loud now and George noticed each drumbeat was punctuated by the sound of hobnail on cobbles.
“Peter what is it?” Asked George who hoped he would be able to see over the heads of the mingling crowd. Peter simply shrugged.
“It’s the Hertfordshire’s, they’re on their way to the front God bless them,” called an old woman who stood right at the edge of the road waving her handkerchief.
George leant forward with the swaying throng and stood as tall as he could in an effort see over the heads and waving hats in front of him. The sound of the band grew ever closer, the rhythm of the march stirred inside him. He caught site of a baton raised above the head and then the colours of the regiment, and alongside the Union Flag bright and colourful in the grey dank day.
As the regiment approached the crowd broke and a number of people, wives and sweethearts moved forward to say their farewells and to hand over keepsakes. They all seemed to share the same look, as if afraid, as if happy, as if proud.
And then there were the other onlookers like George and Peter they too shared a look. Their faces smiled and tears welled in their eyes, they waved and they cheered, they watched, and they felt their hearts beat, but their faces twitched, their sinews tensed, their eyes fixed and stared ahead, they shot glances at one another as if something was stirring in them over which they had no control.
As the soldiers passed, the crowd followed them and thinned and George’s view became clearer. They were smart, their buttons and boots polished their gleaming rifles fixed on their shoulders. Their heads held high their focus, straight ahead, determined and proud. Their smiles broad. They marched in perfect step as if they had been in columns all their lives although everyone knew that until just a few weeks before most had been bringing home the harvest like their fathers had and their fathers before that.
George, who had stopped cheering looked back toward Peter again and noticed that Sid had slipped unnoticed between them. The last of the men were about to pass when Sid nudged George in the ribs and gestured for him to look back at the column.
Then George saw him. The butt of so many childhood jokes, so many insults and the subject of constant mockery. There, among the men heading to France, young, smiling and strong marched Donald Rogers. George didn’t think. “Donald,” he called waving his half-empty beer glass above his head. Donald broke his fixed stare and frowned, his eyes darting around the crowd, “Donald,” called Peter waving his arms above his head. Donald’s eyes opened wide and he raised his head at Peter, then George and Sid; he smiled and nodded.
“Donald, you take care,” called Sid, his hands around his mouth as he shouted. “We’ll see you in France.” Those who stood around them turned to Sid smiling and nodding, and George was pushed off balance buy a firm approving pat on the back from a tall handsome young woman he had never seen before.
Donald’s smile grew even wider; his eyes became empty and focused forward once more as he marched past them.

George would never forget the look on his mother’s face. Her eyes wide, her mouth open, she was standing in the dining room helping to prepare for dinner. She had been holding a pile of dinner plates, which she’d put down urgently on the table. She took her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her delicate nose as she walked over to the dark window and looked into the gathering gloom of the early evening.
At that moment the dining room door swung open and Molly entered holding a large pot in her oven gloved hands which she urgently placed on the sideboard. She looked at George and frowned a little and then his mother who by then had turned once more and was staring at the darkness that enveloped the house, the gardens, and the country. “Beg your pardon mam,” said Molly formally, “the doctor is home and says he is ready to eat, he is with Master Graham in the study.” Molly gave a quick nod and headed back toward the kitchen.
“George, send Graham through here, you had better tell your father, I will let Molly know that dinner will be served a little later than usual.” She turned and walked toward him her arms held out in front of her, her head to one side, a brave smile shining through the tears.
She held him tight and then kissed him on the forehead. He smiled into her eyes for a moment and headed toward he study.
That evening in the kitchens of Albury the loving parents and their growing sons, the wives of young husbands were torn between pride and fear. And as the effects of the march pass and the lunchtime ale began to fade, the sons and husbands began to realise what they had done.