Free The Burning Sky by Jack Ludlow Page A

there was another reason: the fear of letting yourself, your peers or the regiment down by being shy in battle or going mad with shell shock.
    Excitement was a common emotion for a youngster in such a situation, the chance to prove yourself a proper man quelling the fears of death or being maimed, that and the high spirits of your companions, all of whom seemed determined to arrive in France in a state of inebriation. After landing he had gone to the infantry training base at Etaples to find himself once more shouted at by unsympathetic sergeants as they sought to teach him what he would need to know to avoid the average death within two weeks of new subalterns on the Western Front.
    The drinking did not abate: there had been gambling in nearby Le Touquet, or nights out in the fishing port of Etaples itself, a place of seedy bars and brothels catering to the carnal needs of the British army, with outrageousovercharging and ill-disguised resentment the norm from the locals. Being an officer he had been given leave to go to Paris, a city, even in wartime, so easy to fall in love with; that is, if you could stand the rudeness of the Parisians, even to a British officer who spoke their language. There he had steeled himself for his first paid encounter with the opposite sex, approaching many a Clichy doorway before shying away, the face of his young and beautiful wife intervening.
    The Ludendorff offensive had put paid to that aim: every man was needed at the front to stem the great German bid to drive the British army into the sea. They were now the mainstay of the Allied fight, given the French had been bled dry at Verdun and the Russians had thrown in both the towel and their tsar. His baptism of fire had removed any trace of callow romanticism from Callum Jardine.
    He was under the command of a grey-faced captain leading a hastily gathered force from at least ten different regiments, seeking to contain the flank of an ever-increasing bulge. Fighting was close, personal and mobile, not the trench warfare he had expected; at least any trenches he and his platoon occupied were the shallow ones they dug themselves in the hard earth for one night’s occupation only.
    Food was intermittent, washing or a change of clothes out of the question, and often ammunition was only acquired by begging from a neighbouring unit. They were pushed very slowly backwards by repeated German assaults, each time extracting more in the way of death than they suffered.
    Battle comes down to that before your eyes, so it was only much later he found out what a close-run thing that last great German offensive of the war had been. Erich von Ludendorff had thrown in every man he had, only to be sucked into a giant salient, one he could not hold for lack of numbers and reserves still fit to do battle, so slowly, that sack started to deflate.
    The Yanks had begun to arrive in force, part of the reason why the Germans had cast everything on that one throw, and panic had finally unified the Allied command under Marshal Foch. Now Jardine became part of his relentless drive that threw back the enemy and gave them no respite until they had pushed back past their start line, then on through the supposedly impenetrable Hindenburg Line.
    When they took prisoners, the first noticeable thing was their obvious hunger – the German army was lacking in food and, when questioned, ammo and men, as well as the will to continue, while behind them their country was sliding inexorably towards a bloody communist revolution, which forced the abdication of the Kaiser and the advent of a civilian government that sought an armistice.
    The young lieutenant who stood up on that early November day, when the guns went silent, to look over the shattered battlefield before him, was a very different sort from the near-boy who had stood on this deck. He had his own wounds to carry, none of them serious, and a memory of men he had led, dying under his command, this while he had seen four