The Ghost of the Trenches Read online

  It was time for Charlie to live up to his nickname and, breathing steadily, he began to pick off one German after the next, never missing a target. Each time a bullet found its mark, he celebrated with another line from the Tipperary tune.

  ‘Crack-shot! Over there! Look!’ screamed Lewis, pointing to a brave German soldier who had swum across the canal and was now frantically winding the mechanism to close the swing bridge.

  Charlie hit him with his first shot, but it was too late. The swing bridge was closed. The Germans now had an even easier route across the water. The machine gunners posted along the British lines continued to blast away at the approaching enemy, but for every group of grey-uniformed men who fell, another would replace it.

  The British were being overwhelmed.

  Perhaps Charlie and the BEF would have stood a better chance if their allies had stood firm alongside them. But having suffered heavily already as the Germans advanced through Belgium, the French were rushing back instead to defend their beloved Paris, and so the British force was left exposed on both sides.

  As morning turned into afternoon, the Germans started to pick off the British machine gun posts. One by one, the British guns were silenced and the Germans sniffed their first whiff of victory. With no machine gun fire to cut them down, they now came crashing down into the British trenches, forcing Charlie and his comrades to fight at close range. Brutal and bloody, the gruelling battle raged until nightfall.

  As the sky turned black, Charlie looked about him and shivered, realising that his battalion was surrounded. Tipping his Tommy helmet to young Lewis, who had been fighting bravely at his side, Charlie’s voice cracked as he sang the third line of his song:

  Goodbye Piccadilly,

  Farewell Leicester Square!

  But Lewis did not join in with the refrain. He shook his head, refusing to give up, for he was remembering the prayer he had said when the battalion arrived in Mons. ‘Adsit Anglis Sanctus Georgius!’ the young corporal cried out in Latin, calling upon Saint George to make himself present and help them.

  As soon as Lewis had uttered his plea, Charlie felt his skin turn icy cold and he could see his breath, heavy on the night air. He looked up and to his amazement a shaft of bright light suddenly penetrated the night sky, like sunlight creeping through a tear in a blackout curtain, and the battlefield was illuminated in a ghostly glow.

  Then floating down the beam of light came a host of silver-white angels, dressed as archers and carrying golden bows and arrows. Like the mist which had hovered over the canal that dawn, the angels floated above the ground between the two armies’ lines and spread their glistening wings to shelter Charlie and the remaining British soldiers from harm.

  Charlie stood in awe, rooted to the ground as he watched one angel raise its hand and point at the enemy. The entire army of angels took aim and released their bowstrings, showering the Germans with shimmering arrows and pinning them back so that Charlie and his comrades could make their retreat.

  Charlie and his companions fled south from Mons, only slowing to an exhausted trudge when the cries of battle behind them had completely faded away. No one spoke a word.

  Those who had witnessed the heavenly bowmen were unsure whether or not to believe what they had seen. Others kept shaking their heads as if trying to clear their minds of a temporary madness. Many more were too traumatised by the scale and the speed of their defeat in the battle to utter a sound. Some were so tired that they slept as they walked.

  When they finally halted and were given permission to rest, dawn was already breaking. As the sun crept above the horizon, Charlie dropped down onto the damp grass alongside Lewis. ‘Was that just the mist coming down again, playing tricks on our eyes, or did we really see an army of angels back there?’

  ‘Oh, we saw angels all right,’ Lewis replied. ‘Saint George answered my call.’

  Charlie didn’t reply. Instead he tilted his face upwards, looking questioningly at the sky, but all was still. Then he lay down on his back, covering his eyes with his hat, and began to sing under his breath…

  It’s a long way to Tipperary,

  It’s a long way to go.

  It’s a long way to Tipperary,

  To the sweetest girl I know!

  Goodbye Piccadilly,

  Farewell Leicester Square!

  It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,

  But my heart’s right there.

  6: The Mysterious Case of the Extraordinary, Exploding Ships

  When the 15,000-ton battleship HMS Bulwark exploded while moored up at Sheerness in Kent, at the mouth of the River Medway on 26 November 1914, just a few months after the outbreak of the war, no one was quite certain of the cause. With no enemy in sight, and no sign of attack on this great ship anchored in the apparent shelter of home waters, even the Admiralty’s Official Commission of Inquiry had to admit that the actual cause might never be discovered. And that might have been that. Case closed…

  Until it happened again.

  On the morning of 26 November 1914, the British battleship HMS Bulwark was moored in the mouth of the River Medway. The water was calm and the last of her crew had just climbed on board after spending a restful day’s leave in the nearby Kent town of Sheerness.

  At 7.35am, everything changed. As the men sat in the mess enjoying their breakfast, the entire ship began to rumble and then, with a huge roar, she exploded in a flash of flame which burst up through the decks and tore the vessel violently apart.

  By the time the smoke from the explosion had cleared, HMS Bulwark had sunk beneath the dark, murky waters, with only fourteen of her 750 crewmen left alive.

  No one could explain why the great battleship had exploded and although two inquests were held, a verdict of accidental death was returned and the case was closed.

  Just over a year later, on 30 December 1915, a sea captain named Eric Back was refusing to let the Great War dampen his festive spirits and was entertaining his officers and their families on board the armoured cruiser HMS Natal. While his ship was peacefully at anchor along with the rest of its fleet in Scotland’s Cromarty Firth, he was treating his guests to a film show.

  Everyone was in high spirits, excited and delighted to be partying with the captain of such a wonderful modern ship which had already earned itself an impressive reputation. For in 1911, HMS Natal had escorted King George V and Queen Mary to their great coronation as Emperor and Empress of India in Delhi.

  Indeed, such was the guests’ merriment that the sounds of their laughter and cheer leaked from the port-holes and filled the ears of the ship’s crew, who were heading ashore for some well-earned leave, and were climbing into a flotilla of small boats ready to travel back to dry land. With the prospect of Hogmanay celebrations ahead, spirits were high in the little boats. Not one of their passengers had any idea that they were about to witness a shocking scene.

  At exactly 3.20pm, the entire Firth shook with a tremendous, ear-splitting explosion. Startled and shaken, the crew being carried ashore in the flotilla looked back to HMS Natal. The sight they saw was so frightening that, for a moment, no one said a word. Huge flames were shooting up into the sky from the great cruiser’s stern.

  On board, a brave and capable lieutenant named Fildes had run out onto the quarterdeck, alarmed by the explosion and expecting to see his ship under enemy attack. But as he scanned the waters around him and looked out to the horizon, the only craft he could see were the tiny boats bobbing about on the waves, taking his fellow crewmen to shore.

  Then came a second blast, and Lieutenant Fildes was thrown down onto the deck. His head struck the ground with the force of the explosion and he lay there for a few seconds unable to move. Then, as his senses returned, he realised that the teak deck beneath his hands felt hot to the touch.

  He rolled over, still half-dazed, and saw a sight so horrific he was sure it was the work of the devil himself. The wood of the deck was beginning to bubble and boil, turning black in an instant as the flames beneat
h it set light to the pitch that coated every plank.

  From their viewpoint on the small boats, the crew watched the rear decks and gun casements of HMS Natal being blown apart. Then, as arguments broke out among them – some screaming that they should return to the cruiser to give help while others shouted that nothing could be done and they were wiser to flee to shore and to safety – HMS Natal heeled over to her port side.

  Within just three shocking minutes, the glorious HMS Natal had sunk to the unforgiving, icy depths of Cromarty Firth, taking more than 350 souls to their deaths.

  In the weeks that followed the tragedy, many theories were put forward as to the cause of the sinking of HMS Natal. There were those who were convinced that the Germans had somehow managed to hit the cruiser with a torpedo; but a fleet of Allied submarines kept Cromarty Firth well protected and not one crew member on board any of those vessels had spotted an enemy missile.

  Then there were those who were sure that the explosion came from inside the great cruiser, suggesting that HMS Natal had been blown up by a fault with her own magazines. But as the magazines were kept in the lowest part of the hull and were considered well and safely stored, this idea was also dismissed as unlikely.

  Theories about incendiary devices were quashed, too, when Lieutenant Fildes, who had managed to escape in the nick of time from the melting quarterdeck, confirmed that he had thought he had heard a strange crackling noise near the magazine store. But following procedures, he had had the noise investigated and it had proved to be a false alarm.

  No one seemed to know for sure what had really happened. There was only one thing which no one could deny: once again, as on the ill-fated HMS Bulwark, there had been a mysterious and sudden explosion on board a well-protected ship, away from battle and considered to be safely moored up in home waters.

  But at the very least, such a thing could never happen a third time … or could it?

  On 14 July 1917, a fast and seemingly impregnable battleship, the great HMS Vanguard, exploded and sank almost instantly while sailing in Scapa Flow in the Orkney Islands. Eight hundred and four lives were lost and only two men survived.

  Could it be that German torpedoes had found their mark? Or was it the work of saboteurs? Could either really have escaped the notice of the surrounding craft and crew on three separate occasions?

  No one wanted to believe that some sloppy internal error or mistake on board had led to internal explosions on all three ships. But what else might be the cause?

  Were the British Naval Authorities as uncertain about the causes of these terrible incidents as they claimed? Perhaps they knew full well, but didn’t want to show their hand to their German enemy. Or perhaps … just perhaps … there was some other strange force at work.

  It seems that the case of the extraordinary, exploding ships may never be solved for certain. And perhaps we should be satisfied to let it rest, along with the rusting physical clues and the hundreds of sleeping eye-witnesses, deep at the bottom of the sea.

  7: The Boy and the Harp

  Most English churches today have floors made of stone or even marble. However, many years ago, as far back as the Middle Ages, the majority of them would have been far more basic, with simple, earth floors covered with rushes. This created a chilling and a rather smelly problem, because local folk – particularly important ones – who died in the parish were sometimes buried inside the church as well as in the churchyard. With only soil between the worshippers and the rotting corpses beneath their feet, the air inside the church could become less than fragrant in the summer and, in the winter, extremely chilly and damp. So on festival and feast days, it became a tradition for the local people to bring to the church fresh rushes, which would be scattered all over the floor to sweeten the air and help keep the congregation warm and their feet dry. The practice was referred to as Rushbearing.

  In the 1800s, when stone floors became more commonplace in churches, the tradition of Rushbearing all but died out. However, five churches – all in Cumbria and St Oswald’s of Grasmere among them – held on to the tradition and still maintain it today by holding a procession followed by a special service in the church. In Grasmere, Rushbearing Day is the Saturday which falls the closest to St Oswald’s Day, 5 August. In the year of the new Millennium – that is, the year 2000 – that happened to be the saint’s day itself.

  The following tale focuses on a young Grasmere lad who took part in the Rushbearing procession in the years preceding the First World War.

  This story comes from the picturesque Cumbrian village of Grasmere. It involves a boy, a harp, a special village festival and a war that was raging hundreds of miles away from the peace and tranquility of Lakeland. Appropriately, the story begins in a storyteller’s garden: a garden belonging to the storyteller Taffy Thomas which happens to be across the road from a church: St Oswald’s Church.

  One hot August day in the year 2000, the storyteller, who was dressed in a buttercup-yellow waistcoat and a cream Panama hat, was leaning on the dry-stone wall of his garden, watching a procession passing by. The procession had woven its way around the narrow lanes of the village and was now passing his garden and heading for the Church.

  Anyone in Grasmere that day who was unfamiliar with the traditions of this Lakeland village might have wondered what on earth was going on, for the people, young and old, who marched in the procession were carrying strange-shaped sculptures crafted from reeds – or rushes – decorated with flowers.

  Taffy the storyteller, who had lived in Grasmere for many years, knew that this was Rushbearing Day, a festival which had its roots hundreds of years ago, back in the Middle Ages, when local people walked together to their local church and scattered fresh rushes on the earthen floor, to purify the air and help keep out the cold.

  As they passed by, the people in the procession laughed and waved to Taffy, for he and his special storytelling garden were well-known in the community. The storyteller waved back, admiring the rushes, most of which were fashioned into the shape of a cross or some other biblical symbol, such as a basket to represent of the story of the baby Moses set adrift in his makeshift wicker bed on the River Nile.

  However, one sculpture carried in the procession that day stood out from the others and caught the storyteller’s eye, for the reeds of this sculpture had been twisted into the shape of a harp.

  By now, a small crowd had gathered on the narrow pavement on the other side of the garden wall to watch the procession, and if those people were wondering about the significance of this haunting, multi-stringed instrument in the Rushbearing ceremony, the storyteller certainly wasn’t. He knew the two people carrying it and he knew their story. Their names were Terry and Sarah O’Neill, and you might recognise their surname as being from Irish heritage. What’s more, you might also know that the harp is Ireland’s official symbol and has appeared on its coat of arms since medieval times.

  But national pride was not the only reason why Terry and Sarah O’Neill were carrying a harp in the procession that summer’s day, and as the procession made its way through the church gate, the storyteller began to tell the crowd of onlookers their tale.

  ‘Over a hundred years ago,’ began the storyteller, ‘there was born in this village a baby boy. His parents named him William – although everyone called him Billy – and they also gave him the rather grand middle name of Warwick. So his full name was William Warwick Peasecod.’

  One of the little girls in the crowd sniggered. ‘What a funny name! Peasecod!’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does sound peculiar, but that’s only because peasecod is a word that has gone out of use today. Once upon a time it was more commonly used to describe the pod of a pea plant.’ The storyteller smiled and the little girl smiled back. Then he carried on his tale.

  ‘So where were we? Yes! William, or Billy, as he was known, was born here in Grasmere in 1898. He was a good son and, to his parents’ delight, he was gifted with a charming singing voice. So when he was old enough, Billy
joined the church choir. He could be found over there,’ said the storyteller, pointing to St Oswald’s over the road, ‘every Sunday morning and sometimes on weekdays too, whenever there was a wedding.

  ‘Billy was among those children who, when they were big enough and strong enough, were chosen to carry the rushes in the annual Rushbearing procession. This caused Billy much excitement and was a matter of great pride to his parents. All they could talk about for days on end was what shape Billy’s rushes should be and how they could make the sculpture.

  ‘Then Billy’s parents hit on an idea. As their family was of Irish descent, wouldn’t it be grand if Billy’s rushes were in the shape of a harp? Not only was this the symbol of the beloved land of their fathers, it was also a reference to the Harp of David from the Bible story in which David the shepherd boy – chosen by God to be the future King of Israel – is invited to play the harp for Saul, King of the Israelites. Like Billy, David was musically gifted, and his harp playing was so beautiful that it soothed the anxious king and gave him renewed strength for his forthcoming battle against the Philistines.

  ‘So, having settled on a design, Billy’s father went to see the local carpenter and commissioned him to make his beloved son a wooden frame in the shape of a harp. When the frame was ready, Billy’s mother went down to the shore of Grasmere to gather some rushes. Then she rowed out into the deep, dark waters of the lake to collect some fresh water-lilies.

  ‘On the eve of Rushbearing Day, Billy’s mother worked long into the night, threading the rushes in and out and all around the wooden frame, and weaving the lilies in amongst them. By morning, when Billy came down into the parlour to have his breakfast, the harp was ready.

  ‘Billy’s harp was the finest of all the rushes in the procession that day, and his parents were filled with so much joy and pride as they watched their son carrying the harp into the church, that they promised to keep the same wooden frame and decorate it for Billy to carry in the Rushbearing procession every year from that day forwards.