MY HUNDRED D AY S OF WA R A MALCOLM MACPHAIL WW1 NOVEL Copyright © 2018 Darrell Duthie Darrell Duthie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. ISBN 978-94-92843-02-9 (Trade Paperback edition) ISBN 978-94-92843-03-6 (e-book edition) First published in the Netherlands in 2018 by Esdorn Editions Cover design by JD Smith Design Interior design and typesetting by JD Smith Design Cover photographs acknowledgement: Library and Archives Canada/ Ministry of the Overseas Military Forces of Canada fonds: An explosion taking place in a house in Cambrai. October, 1918 (a003404), Canadian ammunition column passing through recently captured village. September, 1918 (a003081), Detachment of Canadians passing through Cambrai. October, 1918 (a003405) This book is a work of historical fiction. The names, characters, events and dialogue portrayed herein are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, except where they are an acknowledged part of the historical record. www.darrellduthie.com MY HUNDRED D AY S OF WA R A MALCOLM MACPHAIL WW1 NOVEL DARRELL DUTHIE Also by Darrell Duthie in the Malcolm MacPhail WW1 series Malcolm MacPhail’s Great War PART ONE CHAPTER 1 9th of August, 1918 Quarry near Domart-sur-la-Luce, France It is an axiom of mine that nothing good ever comes from being woken in the middle of the night. Since 1915 I’ve had few reasons to reconsider that wisdom. ‘Sir, wake up,’ said the voice. And then more urgently, ‘Wake up. Wake up, sir.’ I was groggy. Comatose actually. At least I had been prior to this voice buzzing irritatingly in my ear. Its owner was shaking me roughly by the shoulder. ‘Smith, what time is it, for Christ’s sake?’ I mumbled. ‘It’s almost four-thirty, sir. There are new orders.’ ‘In the morning?’ ‘Yes, sir, in the morning.’ I groaned and rolled over to my other side. I’d been running from a broad-shouldered Fritz with huge red eyes and a bayonet that could have skewered an elephant. ‘Can’t you deal with something by yourself?’ I growled. That was a little unfair. I regretted it the moment the words left my mouth. “Disparage in haste and repent alone,” said my mother. In my defence, I’m seldom at my best at four-thirty in the morning, and Smith was what you might call something of a morning person. I’ve 3 MY HUNDRED DAYS OF WAR never had much tolerance of morning people, so I suppose I had a chip on my shoulder long before he started to shake it. It didn’t help that my trusted assistant looked in fine form. His uni- form was clean and neatly pressed, his sandy hair combed and proper. Smith was always in fine form, even at four-thirty in the morning. That’s what made him such an invaluable fellow to have around, that and his unfailing good humour – and the fact he spoke German. At this particular moment, I could have shot him. I hadn’t slept much recently. Not since the 4th really. On that day, in a beautiful château in Dury, France, itself a dreary village tucked away behind the shell- marked ruins of Amiens, General Lipsett told me we were going on the offensive against the Imperial German Army. ‘I’m sorry, sir, the colonel has asked for you.’ ‘Whatever could be so important?’ Wearily, I hoisted my legs onto the ground and began to dress. ‘New orders just came in, sir.’ ‘Yes, I heard, Lieutenant. But what on God’s green Earth have new orders got to do with me?’ ‘We’re going into action, sir. They’re sending us back in.’ If I hadn’t yet been fully awake, I was now. I sat up erect. ‘What do you mean they’re sending us back in? You must be joking. We were only put into reserve yesterday afternoon! And we’re heading back to the front again?’ I was incredulous. ‘We’ve been going pell- mell for weeks, we’ve had no sleep for two days. We were in the thick of it all day yesterday. And they want to send us back in?’ ‘Yes, sir. We’re to attack later this morning.’ I frowned. ‘Great. To whom do we owe this stroke of genius?’ ‘I’m not sure, sir, the orders came from Corps headquarters.’ Smith’s voice was studiously neutral, much like Holland the entire war. Smith had no Dutch blood in him I was aware of, his parents having emigrated from Germany. In 1918 that was reason enough to keep a low profile. I, on the other hand, had no German blood in me, and I was never one to shy from speaking my mind, especially when it was running on fumes. ‘Bloody idiots,’ I croaked. When I reached Lieutenant-Colonel Hore-Ruthven, the senior staff officer in the division, he was rocking back and forth on his 4 DARRELL DUTHIE heels, staring at a map and looking like he hadn’t slept a wink in the past week. Normally, Hore-Ruthven was a model British officer. This morning, however, the colonel’s short greying hair was tousled, his tie was undone, and a length of shirt protruded gawkily out from under- neath his olive-green tunic. It was as if I was watching an older version of myself in the mirror, all except the hair: mine was brown. But this was Colonel Hore-Ruthven and such sloppiness was unheard of. ‘Good morning, Major MacPhail,’ he said with a sigh, when he saw me. ‘You’ve heard the news?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m dumbfounded, Colonel.’ He smiled weakly. ‘We all are, Malcolm. I sent a wire to Corps HQ and they confirmed it. We’re to go back into action. Someone at Fourth Army Headquarters didn’t approve of the 32nd Division replacing us. So we’re heading back in and they’re pulling out. The plan is to resume the advance sometime after 10 a.m. The orders are being written as we speak. It’s all a bit up in the air.’ What was also up in the air was a noticeable Scottish lilt, and that was remarkable; the colonel, Scotsman or not, typically sounded like he’d learned his English from the same tutors as the King. It was another foolproof sign he was close to the end of his tether. Anxious to hear what my own role was to be, I said, ‘You sent for me, sir?’ I yawned – a loud lazy eruption that made it sound as if I’d awoken from deep hibernation. ‘God damn it, MacPhail. We’re all tired. Pull yourself together man. It’s only thanks to the general that you’re not in front of a court martial today. That’s a thought that may keep you awake.’ I bowed my head. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘Fine,’ he replied, and threw me a pointed glance before continuing. ‘Now then. General Lipsett is meeting later with the commander of the 8th Brigade. He wants you to accompany him. But before you do, I need to know everything about the enemy positions around Folies. We have to prepare. Frankly, we don’t have a lot of time. Our orders are to take the village and move beyond it to Bouchoir.’ His finger went to the map and moved down the Amiens-Roye road to the southeast, first to Folies, then a mile further, to Bouchoir. Both were miles inside enemy territory. I tried to concentrate on what 5 MY HUNDRED DAYS OF WAR Hore-Ruthven was saying, ‘… above all, Major, we need to keep the momentum going…’ It didn’t really need saying; since yesterday we were smashing down Kaiser Wilhelm’s door. Knowing a thing or two about Willy and his army, it wouldn’t do to let up for a single, solitary moment – not if we were to make the breakthrough that might end this blasted war. Back at the modest tent that passed as home and intelligence headquarters for the 3rd Canadian Division, I was fully awake and apprehensive. All this haste, the sudden last-minute changes – none of it bode well on the eve of an attack. Too many attacks had ended in disaster for less. That wasn’t the well-informed intelligence officer in me speaking, nor even the cautious lawyer, but rather the weary warrior. After 43 months at the front, you pick up a thing or two. The tent was pitched in a corner of a lime-stone quarry near the ruins of Domart-sur-la-Luce, together with the rest of the Advanced Divisional Headquarters. Even in the moon’s pale glow, the grey walls of the quarry weren’t exactly scenic, but it was reasonably safe from Boche guns. My thoughts were elsewhere. The prospect of an impend- ing battle has a rare way of focusing the mind. A soft, flickering yellow radiated from a gas lantern gently swing- ing back and forth on the ceiling, casting small shadows that flitted across the canvas before disappearing. Smith was seated at our rickety wooden table under the lantern, on an even more rickety wooden chair. He was hunched over, valiantly punching away at the round metal keys of a little Corona typewriter, in a two-fingered dance you get rather adept at when you’ve done as much of it as he has.