A Family Saga: Volume One

By Neale Edwards

Captain Guy Halliday, Old Etonian, is a Cavalry Officer in the Royal Wessex Dragoon Guards, who sees action at the Battle of the Somme in July 1916. Brought up in idyllic rural Somerset by formidable parents, Guy, like Shakespeare's Romeo, looks forward to a blissful life with Giselle, the lovely lady who is later to become his wife. However, di

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neale Edwards
• Release date: Feb 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915889041

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

How many times had he done this?

Guy Halliday had long since lost count. One by one he would turn out his most treasured possessions, always kept lovingly in the breast pocket of his service dress tunic, to remind himself of Giselle.

The silver penknife which she'd given him when they'd parted at Victoria Station now lay on his fawn twill breeches, gleaming up at him from the foil of the cloth, a reminder of better times. He heard Giselle's voice again.

Open it in the train darling. And Guy?.....You know, be careful my love. What can I say that we haven't already said a dozen times?

Their parting towards the end of the summer of 1915 had been a desperately stilted occasion, each struggling to communicate through a barrier of formality and routine.

To make matters worse, Guy had been in uniform and couldn't behave as he would have wished in so public a place and in front of his subordinates. He certainly hadn't been able to kiss her as he would have wished and there'd been no time for any of the things they'd meant to say to one another. She, almost by way of consolation, had surreptitiously slipped the tiny packet from Garrard's into his hand as he got into the train to rejoin his regiment in France. She'd looked long into his eyes, then, preferring action to the banality of words, lowered her gaze to the little Russell hunt terrier bitch at the end of a smartly polished brown leather lead by his side. Categorised by a friendly Headquarters as the regimental mascot, Bossy had been granted a special dispensation to travel to and from France with Guy.

Looking the little creature in the eye, Giselle finally spoke to it.

And Bossy my love, here's something for you. You look after your master old Boss.

She had bent down and put a bone-shaped biscuit into the little dog's mouth, tugged its spotted ears affectionately as, looking up with an air of bewildered expectation, it waited beside Guy. After this uninhibited show of surrogate devotion, she had risen again to her full height, put a hand on his shoulder and given him one final self-conscious public kiss.

Then he was gone. Guy and his little companion were once more absorbed back into the machine which would return them to the war. The war that few, momentarily back in the false ill-informed atmosphere of home, dared to talk about for fear of revealing the true horror and cost of glory.

A shy wave, the slammed carriage door, the echoing in the hard atmosphere of the crowded railway station were all that remained as the guard blew his whistle and the train slipped away carrying the Captain and his dog, proudly displaying its official Royal Wessex Dragoon Guards badge on the chest of its polished leather harness, back towards their world of destruction. The cherished shared moment had passed and Giselle stood alone in the throng. She turned and walked unseeing to the cab rank and climbed into a waiting hansom.

Giselle sat, solitary, silent and reflective, in the deeply buttoned seat. When would she see him again?

Where to, Miss?

She mumbled her instructions to the cabbie.

Don't worry, my darlin', 'e'll soon be back. Officer is 'e?

As soon as Guy had found his seat in the first class compartment, he'd impatiently opened the little blue box and since that day he'd never for one moment been without the knife. He looked admiringly at the intertwined initials which she'd had engraved on its side and ran his finger over them as though to make contact with her. GFGH and GdeHM; there they were, symbolically united, though in reality separated by an abyss.

Now, almost a year later, here he was in France and she was still in England. A million miles away.

Captain Guy Halliday was a tall dark man of twenty-nine years, a professional soldier who had gone to Sandhurst after leaving Eton in 1904. His face, humorous, kind and spare, was now weather-beaten and wrinkled making him look older than his years, while the hazel-coloured eyes gave a touch of seriousness from beneath a plainly-defined brow. His hair had begun to recede and greyness had already made an unwelcome intrusion. Guy spurned the small, carefully-brushed military moustache so popular with his peers and remained clean-shaven. He just liked it that way, being unable to free himself from the notion that a moustache and, worse still, a beard, were only worn by people who had something in their aspect or in their character which they wished to hide. He knew perfectly well that if this was strictly true there must be more people with something to hide than with clear consciences. Then again, that could in truth be the case. No matter, he simply didn't like facial hair and thought the time it took each morning to remove it was well spent. Apart from the dictates of his profession and the circles in which he moved, he was unconcerned with his looks and his dress; provided that he didn't stand out unduly, he was happy to be conventionally, if tidily clad and, once clothed, seldom gave the subject a second thought. One thing he couldn't abide was scruffiness and the idleness of which, in his estimation, it gave clear notice; he particularly liked to see shoes well polished. Guy was, all in all, though sartorially a non-starter, unobtrusively elegant and expected others to take care of themselves too. He was in no sense a good-looking man, he had not the rugged features and strong expression of the romantic military hero. He looked remarkably ordinary, but women found him attractive. Perhaps this was because he was a good listener, maybe his unthreatening manner helped him to get beyond a first meeting and into the beginnings of acquaintanceship before others. Whatever the reason, he had no difficulty communing with the opposite sex. Guy liked women and enjoyed their company almost without exception and found the near exclusively male ambience of the front a considerable deprivation. He was not one to rush his fences with women, but he was never withdrawn in their company, and was as a result nearly always admired by them. Guy himself seemed unaware of this piece of good fortune, however, and it had never yet angered his male colleagues. Guy aroused few, if any, jealousies.

Captain Halliday would relish these few precious moments in the privacy of his tent at Morlancourt. Most days he'd try to make time to go ratting up in the horse lines with some of the men and Bossy would excel herself, tell-tale signs of the day's sport on her white coat. Rats were everywhere in the camp, bold as could be, and there was no possibility of getting rid of them, but they provided excellent game and a fortuitous diversion from the unimaginable reality which surrounded the camp. These bouts were welcomed by all who took part and were greatly missed now that they'd had to be discontinued. Without the rats they'd have to think of something else, but it would be hard to invent a better sport than this; the interludes had become daily fare and went a long way towards relieving the tedium of army life away from the front. In these encounters the sport momentarily suppressed differences in rank and social standing while everyone cheered on Bossy's untiring efforts with the inexhaustible numbers of rodents, until army life once more took over. But not any more.

Guy had been here now for months, God knew how many. Here he still was, at bloody Morlancourt trying to keep the men's morale up and preparing for the day they would be needed, surely not far off now.

This was another unremarkable evening, one more exhausting day behind him and back in the same familiar old tent. He looked again at his most valued possessions in a brief snatched moment between regimental duties.

Guy picked up the photograph, dog-eared and worn, the paper brittle and shiny, its surface cracked, looking as though it had been passed down through the generations to him, a survivor from an earlier age. And yet, despite its faded sepia, he well remembered taking it himself. That day seemed no longer ago than yesterday. The letters too looked archival and the envelopes, distressed from frequent handling, addressed in an unself-conscious round hand, appeared aged. How surreal everything felt.

On that last evening of June in 1916, Sam Browne belt and tunic undone, Guy relaxed over a glass of whisky and water contemplating the state of the world. How the Hell did we get into this mess and what in God's name is going to get us out of it? Looking at the photograph, wishing it had been clearer, he thought, I ought to be at home in England with you. We should be getting married and starting a family by now, if only things were different. He tried to look into Giselle's eyes, but the bright sunlight in which she'd been standing had made her screw up her face and the lovely pale eyes were in deep shadow beneath the highlighted brow. We should be putting something back into this world, not destroying it. How will we ever get straight again after this? Look into my eyes, my love, and tell me. Guy became lost in the memory of that last leave.

The two of them had been sitting on a tartan rug spread out on the bank of the tiny Dartmoor stream which passed rippling and bubbling beneath Widgery Tor. He remembered that thistles would poke up through the rug wherever he placed it; if only all our problems had been confined to the scale of a thistle. Their horses stood by, reins looped loosely over an old post in the shade of a thorn bush. The dogs, tired from following the horses, were momentarily still, although the two terriers were unlikely to remain quiet for much longer. Particularly Dizzy, Bossy's puppy, but Giselle and Guy were glad of the peace while it lasted. The spaniel was dead to the world out of the sun with the horses. The contrast with life in France at the front was so great that neither of them, though they understood it better than many, alluded to it. What was the point? There was no connection between this idyllic picnic and the mayhem of France. Both knew the spell would soon be broken and were determined not to spoil their stolen few days.

The rug bore the remains of the picnic. Among the plates, napkins and left-overs were the cores of two early, barely ripe Coxes, green pips exposed, from the garden. There had been a third apple core, but Bossy had put paid to that and these two with a bit of luck were going to end up in the horses. In the stream, attached to a length of sisal, and half floating at the water's edge, was the bottle of Chablis donated from his cellar by Giselle's father, now nearly empty. For so retiring a man, this gesture of friendship towards Guy was a considerable demonstration of approval. Guy and Giselle lay on their backs gazing upwards at the blue sky, enjoying the breathless air of this clear September afternoon. Giselle's head was on Guy's shoulder and she lay half-turned towards him, her leg resting over his knee while he stroked her auburn hair with his free hand, the other holding her closely to him.

She spoke in a soft deep voice,

I want lots of babies, darling, I hope you know that. They've all got to be boys and they'll be just like their father.

That won't do at all: What about me? I want them all, except one boy for you, to be girls, each the image of their mother. We shall fall out over this. I'm adamant. I insist.

The conversation petered out, words for the sake of their sounds had no further place and Guy leant over and gently kissed her on the forehead. She shut her eyes and gripped his arm with her hand, praying the moment wouldn't pass. They stayed in a gentle embrace for an eternity, each afraid to restart the ticking of the clock. Guy rolled over on his side and put both arms around Giselle, his hands overlapping behind her back as he kissed her without the rough intrusion of words. Both felt a desperate intensity and a terrible sense of urgency. Neither referred to it, but it was apparent to both through their physical reaction to one another that each feared this might be their last time alone together. Ever. From this feeling grew both a desire, a necessity even, to make the best of it, and in contrast with that, a dampening of ardour in face of the overawing events in which they were both engulfed and which preoccupied their thoughts. There was a warning growl from Gunner, the old male Springer belonging to Giselle's father, who sensed the waking of the two terriers. He wasn't going to tolerate any nonsense from the women and wanted them to know it.

Better grab Dizzy, we don't want the afternoon spoiled by a dog fight. Why doesn't that dog know not to raz up the older ones? You'd think it would get the message, wouldn't you, not to get on the wrong side of the others? Bossy won't stand for any nonsense and quite right too.

So many words, and all to avoid talking about their inevitable parting and their suspended plans. They would both drift into long dissertations about anything in order to avoid the pain of reality and neither of them was talkative by nature. It was just that they seized on any displacement of the way things really were unless absolutely forced to confront the truth. They would have a serious talk before he went back, but please not now.

Guy had become engaged to Giselle just before the war had started and they felt their lives had been blighted by the rapid fire of events that summer of 1914. First the world seemed reasonably at peace with itself. Guy, and come to that Giselle too, hadn't sensed that the international scene was as dangerous as it had turned out to be. Certainly there'd been a good deal of posturing by the Kaiser; Germany and Britain had been building battleships as though we'd wanted them to stretch twice around the world. Well, we had, thanks to Jackie Fisher, wanted Britain’s Dreadnoughts to outnumber the German fleet two to one, which had clearly stung the Kaiser with his arriviste big ideas, but that was surely more likely to stop a war than start one? Then everything had got out of hand and finally, in August, the world found itself having picked sides and lined up one against the other. Without - so it seemed to the ordinary chap getting on with life, about to get married - any good reason. This wasn't Guy's fight or Giselle's, but that's what it had become.

Guy sat up and held his hands out to Giselle, who took them in hers. He drew her to him and they held each other close again, their kiss lasting long so that both were a little out of breath when finally they separated. Guy stood and helped her to her feet.

Giselle was a tall strong girl, comfortably within half a head of Guy's height. She held herself erect and upright, no sign of the stoop affected by others as tall as she and her figure was that of one used to strenuous exercise. She moved easily with a quick urgent gait, as though bent on some important purpose. To some, her determined pace was threatening, to others it was appealing. To Guy it was irresistible.

Come on, darling, I want a photograph. You go and stand by that rock with the stream and Widgery behind you. I haven't got the knack of this thing properly yet, but I'll get it worked out. Hold on a minute.

Giselle stood as she'd been asked, the sun shining brightly into her face. Guy thought how beautiful was her colouring, her hair echoing the russet of the dried bracken, her riding clothes cut so that her figure was seen at its best, the gentle colours of her tweed coat and her breeches adding to the harmony of the picture. He stood and just looked at her, the pale eyes, the green side of blue, complimenting the stag red hair.

Come on, darling, all you do is point it and press the thing at the side.

I know, but it has a slide here that you have to set for the sunlight and I must wind the film on too. Just stand there forever and look wonderful. I want the image burned into my retina, never mind the Brownie. You look magnificent and I shall never forget this day.

He looked down at the camera in his hand while he wound the new film on and fiddled with the setting.

There goes the last little hand and it now says number one. I am, believe it or not, ready.

She looked at him with the ghost of a smile, the eyes, though partially hidden by the shadow of her brow in the bright light, radiating young beauty. Guy pressed down the little lever and the box made a satisfying click. Click, that moment had passed and he thought, please God can I have that moment forever, but click, it had gone.

Guy's elbow slipped from the arm of his chair and whisky fell onto his knee. As he returned to the present, the familiar mixture of smells of an army encampment became noticeable once more; the odours of cooking, dust, unwashed soldier, canvas, blankets, were overlaid with the strong reek of horse and leather. But overpowering all others was the corrosive stench of cordite. All around and inescapable was the sound of the evening Heavy Artillery barrage which had just started, but he barely reacted to it, having had, through necessity, to become accustomed to its continual deafening roar. He tried momentarily to count individual explosions, but could not distinguish one from the next, so great was the rate of fire. Poor bastards underneath that, he thought, the sound shaking everything that would move. A more muffled, distant rumble, as of a bass drum, could every now and then be heard through the percussive din around him. The shells were exploding at the far end of their trajectories and telling the world that the munitions workers had done a good job. Or had they? He'd heard that quite a few of our shells were turning out to be duds, but hoped it was just a rumour. Good God, the girls back at home shouldn't have to do that kind of work. What an upside down world it is when the women, the very creators of the next generation, are herded into factories making the means to blow everything to smithereens. Is it possible to get things more skew-whiff than this?

Then, as if to underline the absurdity of all this a bloody bird pipes up. Hasn't anyone told it there's a war on? Christ, if I were a bird I'd be off. Certainly I wouldn't hang around here, but it does do exactly that. Why, for God's sake when it could get the Hell out to somewhere more peaceful? I suppose the selfish little bastards in all the other places it might choose to go won't have it. Bugger off, they say, this is my patch, get out of here. Then there'd be a bird war. Nature is the bloody same right through, rotten as Hell. What a topsy-turvy world. He can't have meant it to be like this, can He? He can't, surely He can't?

In spite of the infernal eruption going on all around him, Guy managed to think and function reasonably normally. Well, by these standards normally. You had to or you'd go demented and of course some people had. It wasn't as bad as it might have been though. You knew these shells were going away from you and you didn't have to worry about being blasted into next week. Living next to Clapham Junction must be rather like this, he thought, and smiled to himself; then reproachfully, that's a bit hard on the people who do live there, it's probably lovely once you're used to it. No bombs, no whizz-bangs. Amazing what you can put up with when you have to. Of course it helped to know the enemy weren't greatly interested in demolishing Morlancourt at this particular time; their attention was being concentrated on positions nearer the front and their gunners only rarely seemed to target the encampment. Probably as a result of a map-reading error as much as anything else. You could understand their attitude as well as you could our own. Anywhere out there is enemy territory, so don't let it worry you too much if you get the wrong target from time to time; any hit in that direction's all right, it's just that some hits are worth more than others, so try to read the bloody map accurately in future, Fritz my lad, but well done just the same. Keep 'em falling for Kaiser and Heimat, old son. Then the thought crossed his mind that it could be some of our own shots, sometimes falling a bit close. Very probably. Mean-minded souls, or was it the victims who had good reason to know? Such uncharitable beings called the Gunners the Drop Shorts. They were very sensitive about that, were the Royal Regiment of Artillery. No, be fair, way back here even the Drop Shorts couldn't hit us, it could only be bloody Jerry.

Guy picked up the picture again and noticed as if for the first time how ingrained and calloused his hands had become. Looking at the beautiful, confident free-spirited face in front of him, the contrast struck him forcibly and he placed the image in the cup of his hand, hiding his roughness behind the scrap of spoiled paper. He put the photograph down on his knee and, picking up his leather pouch and faithful much-used pipe, set about the ritual of creating a comforting fire in its worn bowl, tamping down the tobacco with the flat end of the knife and prodding it with the spike. As he struck the match and peered into the kindling embers he thought, we've been through a lot, you and I. When will the world get back onto an even keel, Old Pipe? Just tell me that, and when shall I see my Giselle? Tell me that too, if you can.

Oh Giselle, my dear love, when will you be real again? Guy picked up one of the treasured envelopes and started to withdraw the letter. He knew every word of them by heart, every stroke of the pen, but still each time he re-read them his pulse quickened, the contact real. Once again in her company he felt reassured, the normal balance of male and female restored. Released momentarily from the overweaning maleness of this war machine he believed he could smell her scent, feel her touch, the shape of her body next to his.

A figure appeared at the entrance of the tent. Guy slid the letter back into its safe hiding place and put it with the others and the photograph on the camp table beside him. He carefully placed the envelope over the face-down picture and slowly turned around, puffing his old companion into life as he did so.

Colonel he say all officers to his quarters for an O Group in five minutes, Sir.

What's that, Croxley? I can't hear you man, come closer, there's a good chap.

The Trooper ventured further into the tent and bent over the resting Captain in a formal kind of a stoop, then shouted into his ear,

Colonel he say O Group in five minutes Sir. Just time for another whisky? And if you stand up I'll do your belt up and give that a rub. Sir.

No, I'm fine, Croxley, thank you.

He put the knife carefully on the table, engraving uppermost, and looked at it as though seeking inspiration.

But I'll have that glass of whisky just the same. Thank you, Croxley, hand me the bottle will you, then that'll be all.

Croxley did as he was bidden, then left. He hesitated by the entrance and looked at Guy as though he wanted to say something. Guy looked at him and raised his eyebrows, encouraging the batman to speak his mind.

I was just wondering, Sir, have they any news of Bossy yet? That's been gone so long now, that's all Sir. I don't suppose they'll have said nothing yet?

Guy instinctively glanced over to the corner of the tent by his writing table and looked at the blood-stained cricket bat, memento of many a ratting session, before answering,

No, Croxley, nothing yet I'm afraid. We can but hope and trust to God. Heaven knows, she's been in some scrapes before, but I don't know.

Croxley didn't add anything and went about his business. Halliday thought as he smartened himself up for the Orders Group, it's only having Croxley here that makes me believe there's such a place as home at all. Good old Uncle Henry. What was it he'd said? I've got just the chap for you, young man, not much on top, but bloody good with horses and loyal as Hell. Make a first-rate batman, I should say and you can't ask for more. Besides, he's as keen as can be to get into uniform. He could be just right for you and I can't force him to stay at Wensford now there's a war on. We need to be sure of what kind of fellows we're getting in the RWDGs and I can recommend young Croxley very highly. His father was a damned good sort too when we had him with us in the Sudan.

Croxley left and Guy picked up the photograph. He ran his fingers over it and looked at the features beneath his touch, convincing himself that he saw just the vestige of a smile. He remembered how her hair had almost matched the bracken and was aware, above the all-enveloping odours of war, that his sense of smell persistently played tricks on him and gave the smallest illusion that she was even now close to him. Stick it out, Old Girl and it'll be wedding bells for us. Just as soon as this show's over, you'll see, get this push behind us and send Fritz packing and we'll get our lives going. By God we will.

Guy picked up his treasures and put them carefully back into his breast pocket, doing the shiny button up with loving deliberation. He smothered the pipe with a tobacco-stained thumb, put it in the side pocket of his tunic and went out into the late evening sun.

As he walked through the camp he thought again of Bossy, his little white smooth-haired Jack Russell bitch with the left side of her face black and tan and the other white, with spotty, velvety pricked up ears. It had been an inspiration to bring her out from England with him; someone at Headquarters must have been very perceptive to arrange for her passage despite the dictates of the Quarantine Act, but war was war and anything which would lift morale was worth a try. This had been a master-stroke, everyone in Morlancourt knew her and had grown to love her. Dizzy had stayed behind; too young and uncontrollable for a trip to war-time France, but Bossy was of a more responsible, more serious turn of mind. Besides, she was so obviously feminine. No beauty, but with her long legs and winning expression she made a friend of each person she met, giving everyone her full attention, the little docked tail quivering. Bossy had been a working terrier with the Cattistock Hunt and was a product of old Eddie Chapman's Foxgrove kennels, so was one of the very best. She was naturally in her element amongst the horses and she loved ratting with the troopers, getting to know everyone and every corner of the camp. Guy had taken her on at the age of seven to give her an honourable retirement and a loving home. Or so he'd intended.

When it came to digging the tunnels for the mines which were to be set off before the battle, the threat of running into enemy excavations had been ever present and there'd been some nasty encounters which had resulted in subterranean hand to hand fighting as well as the loss of weeks, months and in some cases years even, of hard work preparing the mineshafts for loading with ammonal and blowing beneath the German defences on the appointed day. The Sappers in charge of the mining operations on this part of the front had been talking about the difficulty of detecting enemy activity and Guy had, more as a joke than anything else, suggested that Bossy might be able to help find out what other activities were going on in the vicinity underground. To Guy's surprise the Sapper in charge of these operations, a pleasant thoughtful man, Major Gordon-Fletcher, had turned up a couple of days later and asked if Guy had meant it when he'd offered Bossy's services.

If you were serious, Old Boy, we're at our wits end to know quite what Jerry's up to. We know he's also down there grubbing about, but we can't work out exactly where he is or what he's doing. We can't afford to let him find our tunnels at this late stage. D'you think Bossy really might show us where he is and give us a bit of warning? Worth a try if you don't mind. No, do take her by all means. She's damned good underground and there won't be a peep from her if you tell her to keep quiet. They used to say her weakness was that you never heard a lot of baying, she just went straight to the spot and stayed there. It was the fox you heard and had to dig down to. Now you can turn that to good effect.

Guy had thought for a moment. Now wait a minute, what have I said? Do I really want the poor old girl to have to go through this? What if she never comes back? On the other hand she's bloody good at working underground, I haven't the slightest doubt she'd do a good job. Well Old Boss, d'you think you can cope? Would you mind? The old terrier just stared at him, her stubby white tail starting to wag. She fixed him with her disarmingly direct gaze. Full eye contact looking up at Guy out of the tops of her dark amber eyes and no blinking, the harlequin face was a picture of trust.

Guy looked at Gordon-Fletcher, then suppressing his anxiety, had said,

Yes, if there's anything going on down there she'll certainly find it for you, I haven't any doubt about that, she's never told a lie in her life, that one. Look after her though, she's already an old soldier, many a fox half as big again as her to her credit.

Right, well if you're sure then,

Yes, give it a try, but don't you dare lose her or you'll have me to answer to. This old warrior has more medal ribbons than the whole of the General Staff, so you show her some respect and above all bring her back safe.

Major Gordon-Fletcher took this with a smile from a mere Captain. Before Guy could say any more, he'd departed, Bossy under his arm looking back as if to say what on earth is going on? And that was that. Bossy had gone to war and she hadn't come back.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a fine summer evening that thirtieth of June in 1916. All talk was of the Big Push coming up and people’s nerves were stretched in anticipation. Guy Halliday was a Captain in the Royal Wessex Dragoon Guards who were part of the Rawalpindi Brigade of the 102nd Indian Cavalry Division. The Regiment had been based for some weeks at Morlancourt, behind the British front lines, waiting for the action to start, training and getting horses and men fit and fully prepared for the test which all knew could not now be far off.

Looking after six hundred horses and as many men was no mean undertaking and most of the men’s time was taken up with caring for their mounts and keeping disease at bay. Time had to be found for practising lance and sword drill and to rehearse manoeuvring in the field. Controlling a Regiment of Cavalry, or even one Squadron in the field, required an effective command system, it was no good just charging and hoping. There had to be a scheme to it and a great deal of practice was needed to create an efficient fighting body out of a group of several hundred brave and eager horsemen. Things could get out of hand very quickly with such a number of soldiers, able to cover ground cross-country by the fastest means known to man.

As Second-in-Command of C Squadron, Captain Halliday, one of the older young officers, was determined to give good account of himself and of the officers and men in his charge; his Squadron wasn't going to let itself or the Regiment down. The whole purpose of being there was to take part in exploiting a break-through in the German lines when the Infantry had succeeded in creating one. The Cavalry were to gallop through the breach and advance at rapid pace to take Bapaume in the enemy rear. That was the plan and by God it was going to work. No one seemed to doubt that once up to the German lines they would negotiate the tangled springy barbed wire, leap the trenches and the secondary and further reserve trenches beyond and then not only seize their objective, but also withstand a German counter attack as well. At least none amongst the sabre formations who may have doubted the plan dared to express his reservations.

Haig was certain of success and as an old Cavalryman his view was surely to be trusted. Some were saying that Rawlinson wasn't entirely happy with the plan, but he didn't seem to be complaining about executing it, so he couldn't have had any serious disagreement if that was the case. Besides, he was an infantryman and probably underestimated the power of the Cavalry once it became engaged in the action.

There hadn't so far been any evidence of what Cavalry could really do once let loose on a large scale, and all the officers Guy had spoken to felt sure the doubters would soon change their minds when things got going. What would make it work, Halliday knew, would be good planning and training, and above all control. It was no good relying on bravery alone. There was plenty of that and to set off without proper communication and control would be to squander it. This was a modern war; no more charges of the Light Brigade, or even of the Heavies come to that. Each man from Trooper upwards had to know what he was supposed to do beyond simply riding with immeasurable guts at the Hun.

Amidst the din and the instant unexpectedness of modern warfare you had to know that you could rally your command and move it where you wanted without leaving people stranded or yourself getting out of touch with the larger formation you were part of. At least that had to be the intention. But Halliday knew as well as the next man that, despite training and best efforts, there was every likelihood that chaos would take over.

What if the enemy fortifications were too formidable an obstacle for the horses? What if the barbed wire was thickly matted, tangled and hock high so that the horses couldn't get through? What then? God knows; if you go into this not believing that you'll get through, you won't. You must at least get past the wire; the Gunners will have flattened that. Surely that won't be a problem? Don't look for things to worry about for God's sake. Then what about the trenches themselves? They can be a good fifteen feet or more across I hear. And more. At least ten feet deep too. Concrete edges sharp as buggery too, no grip and certain to break legs. Don't bloody worry yourself, patrols have established the best places for the horses to get through. And the dugouts aren't that wide, not everywhere at least. Trust the reconnaissance reports; and trust the horses too. But surely these obvious places will be covered by dense machine gun fire; more concentrated than elsewhere? The Hun can work out for himself that we must cross the lines at points where a horse won't just end up at the bottom of a trench, so he'll pour in automatic fire for all he's worth. These places are traps.

Guy reflected, then with a conscious act of will pulled himself together. Halliday, don't be a bloody faint heart. This is hardly the moment to start turning yellow and you're supposed to be one of the men in charge. Take a grip on yourself and just think about getting there with your men and storming the goddamned trenches. Think of the Belvoir and let yourself go for Old England.

There was no other way to look at it.

Then what about counter attacks? Even a successful breakthrough could be spoiled if the troops under his command failed to consolidate their gains and beat off counter attacks by a determined enemy. And the Hun is armed with every modern horror too. How, for example, are we going to get anything worth calling a gun across the trenches and into place to beat the bastards back? Tell me, how the Hell are we going to do that?

Halliday, you just damned well pull yourself together and take a brace. This is the plan; it has always been the plan and it will stay that way. If there ever was a time to argue about it, this certainly isn't it. And the plan will work provided lily-livers like you don't panic. You are the standard bearer for a long line of predecessors who didn't want any more than you do to jump into the jaws of death, but they did their duty and the name of the RWDGs is fashioned from such exploits. They are the substance of a decent Regiment so unless you want to jeopardise a reputation built up over generations by good and stout-spirited people who knew what they had to do and damned well did it, fall out now and call up the firing squad.

No room now for faint-hearted officers who turn brave men into cowards.

Guy's head was full of conflicting thoughts as he went over in his mind all the preparatory work he and his comrades in arms had put in to cover every possible eventuality. He wondered where he would be caught out. What was it that he had or had not done which in a few hours time he would wish he had paid more attention to? For the life of him he couldn't see where the flaws in his own work lay, only the certainty that they were there. The outcome of the morrow was in the hands of God and the time was passed when he could further influence things. The best thing to do would be to see the horses were in decent shape and make sure the men got some rest and were not brooding. He must strike the fine balance between keeping the men too busy to ruminate on their possible fate, but tiring them out, and having too much idle time on their hands with nothing to do but worry. He thought he had reached that balance and prayed nothing would occur to upset it, though he knew that every soldier, however humble, however stout-hearted, was today in his own Gethsemene.

Guy drew in a deep breath and looked around him. His every effort was to shake himself free once more from the incessant contemplation of the odds, from the deepest forebodings and from unrestrained naked fear.

No sudden disease amongst the horses, pray God.

The sooner all this was behind them the quicker they could get on with life at home. Those of them that were left, that is.

The Colonel, Lieutenant-Colonel Hugh Copeman DSO, was talking now. He had raised his voice, in normal times already parade ground loud, to the maximum volume he could muster in order to be heard over the barrage. The officers were grouped closely around him, listening with attention as he spoke slowly and as clearly as he could, pausing after