The Cold, Black Sea

Table of contents

The Sniper

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

The Rocking Stone

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

The Cold, Black Sea

1988, Scotland

28 years later –Vancouver, Canada

Glasgow, Scotland

Vancouver

Glasgow

Hero’s Return

Vancouver International Airport

Vancouver

Glasgow International Airport

Vancouver

Descent

Vancouver

Newsroom

Vancouver

Newsroom

Gillian Casselly

Reunited

Gillian Casselly

Newsroom

Gillian Casselly

Retreat

Headland Wood

Return to the Rocking Stone

Nuggets

Threepwood

Slow progress

Bogged down

Closing in

Back on the beach

1988

The Cold, Black Sea

About the author

Acknowledgements

The Sniper

In no-man’s land, the only way to live is to accept that you’re already dead.

1

July 1st, 1916

The bullets buzzed like bees, the barrage turned the sky black, with men reduced to a puff of crimson in the blink of an eye. I watched, powerless, as the second wave advanced. The relentless strafing from the enemy trenches ripped apart the steady advance of our assault. The neat lines of Haig’s offensive quickly broke down when the slow ordered walk-through was staggered by the crump holes left by our own heavy artillery. But for those approaching the first objective, it only got worse, and I found it difficult to stay focused when the men came in sight of the German front line. The machine guns showed no pity and the typewriters rapped out 100 shells a second, decimating our ranks in a mechanical heartbeat, depleting our numbers by hundreds every single minute.

I suppose I should have thought myself lucky. I, Jim West, had been approached to join the new Scouting, Observation and Sniping School. I’d worked as a ghillie for a time before the war, and I knew how to shoot. The top brass were looking to redress the balance. They said we needed to find a way to stop the chippy German snipers in their tracks; they had been picking us off with alarming monotony since the war began. At first we thought the deadly head shots were just flukes, but we didn’t know they had telescopic sights. Looking out over the Somme it seemed there was a lot we didn’t know.

Stationed in a forward position I was waiting for a counter attack that never came. The Boche stood firm and defended well. It was too much for some, and the faint-hearted, overwhelmed by the situation, tried to turn and run. But the whippers-in had their measure and they snapped away at their backs, using pistols to enforce their orders. Those who dared to dissent didn’t last long and I’m sad to say that I saw a few men shot down by our own officers that day. Poor sods. But there was a certain karma about that battle, and the last line of defence provided no special protection for the officers either. I watched one Captain try to harry a Private back into the fray. He was a big man, muscular and fast, but hot lead knows no fear and moments later he was gone too. I had been screaming out for them to take cover, but of course they couldn’t hear me. There was nothing else for it so I continued to fire, picking off anyone in range, with my expertise in high demand. But after the heat of battle, there was nothing I could do but wait.

I’d been in position since the night before. Dug-in deep and heavily camouflaged, I was tasked with taking out my opposite number in the trenches over no-man’s land. It had seemed a simple enough task on paper, but in practice was easier said than done. Our main problem was that our rifles weren’t up to the job, we were years behind the Germans. When our snipers first began to ply their trade the officers demanded high standards, and the dress code called for full military dress. Men were sent out into battle in their oversized service caps, with the broad peaked brim marking them out as easy targets; most didn’t last the day.

You see, the Germans have a system. They dig in, using sandbagged walls with angled firing slots. Some of them are so bold you wouldn’t believe it; they lie out in the battlefield using shell holes and metal plates for cover. If you saw the flash of the shot, nine times out of ten you’d be dead already.

But there were no German snipers today and it was now the turn of enemy shells to respond to our week-long barrage of their defences.

The low velocity shells were the worst. First came the whistle in the distance and if you were dim enough to hang around, you could watch as they sought you out. God help you if you got caught in the blast.

The noise was deafening and constant, the roar of battle eventually tapered away to a high pitched tone as the world passed by in a blur; hour after hour of non-stop destruction. The screams of the dying pierced the cacophony of death, as shells rained down. The lucky ones died straight away or vanished completely, but the shrapnel left a wave of carnage that would leave some of us screaming for days.

It hadn’t always been like that.

April 1916

When we first arrived on the Somme it had been a beautiful day, and a far cry from the horror that followed. The low, rolling hills still looked like farmland; the lush green pastures intoxicated our city lungs with sweet summer smells, while the burning sun made it feel like paradise.

Our battalion was relieving the French who it seemed, on first inspection, had been playing it quiet. They had it all worked out nice and cushy alright. It was less of a war to them and more of a gentleman’s agreement. I could hardly believe it when they told me their routine. There were three bombardments a day; two shells at 10, 2 and 5; with the Boche replying in timely fashion. The risks were few and it seemed as if no-one really cared; they liked their lazy war. But it didn’t stay civilised for long. The changing of the guard meant that British military discipline was enforced in double time. We weren’t here to muck around, there was a war to fight which suited me just fine. I wanted to win and leave, to get this over with and return home a hero.

***

We settled in quickly and it wasn’t long before the artillery arrived and the ground soon became pockmarked with shells and the greenery blackened. Sorties were still few but we were building up to something big; we all knew that, and we couldn’t wait to get started.

It was around this time that we first heard of the infamous sniper. I’d come across an aged French soldier of around forty-something, who recounted an old wives tale that he took great delight in the telling of. He was preparing to be redeployed to the north and we’d shared a bottle of whisky behind the lines, in a village called Albert. In the distance a golden statue of Mary and the baby Jesus sat precariously on top of a local church that had been hit by shell fire. The effigy had fallen over 90 degrees, and was hanging on, a hundred feet up, supported by a few straining metal wires. I kept glancing at it absentmindedly, half expecting it to crash back to earth, as my host tried his very best to unnerve me. He told me of a phantom sniper, the one they called ‘Oeil Mort’ or Dead Eye to you and me.

‘Do you take me for a fool?’ I swigged back the whisky, keeping my eyes on the Frenchman. His company had been fine at first although the language barrier made for rather painful conversation.

‘But no, you must listen. This phantom, he has killed 45 of our men these last six months. If you are out on patrol, there is no knowing where the shot will come from.’ He stopped to look around. I wondered if he was embarrassed that one of his countrymen might hear him. "No-one ever sees the shot, but men flop down.’ He clapped his hands together in case I was as slow-witted as he. ‘Bang, then it’s like they sleep. You know?’

I was pretty sure the old-timer was well soused by this time, and taking something of a liberty with my good nature. He’d relaxed with every shot and it seemed as if there was no way to stop this ridiculous chatter. I’d shared the best part of my only bottle of Grants with him, keen to learn the secrets of our new position before we were thrust into action. Instead I was being fed superstition. I was growing impatient and decided it was time to leave.

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, it sounds like you should stay off the sauce, old man. It obviously doesn’t agree with you.’

But my drinking partner was unmoved. As I laughed he shook his head, a new anger had gripped him. ‘You wait, monsieur. This one, he never misses, and he cannot be found, so he cannot be killed. Is this a man? I think not; no way.’

I could see that he was gripping his glass too tightly, his knuckles white with the force of it. It seemed ridiculous to me that we might come to blows over nonsense like this, when there was so much work to do. I decided to try to calm him before things got out of hand.

‘The Germans are good snipers, I’ll grant you that. But rest assured, there is no phantom, it’s no ghost that kills your men.’

He snorted and left, muttering a string of words I could not understand, but suspected were not entirely complimentary. I never saw him again.

2

Glasgow - August 1914

I’d signed up in the first wave of volunteers with two of my oldest friends. We became part of the 1st Glasgow Tram Battalion and were treated like heroes at home in the Gorbals.

I’d known Harry Lovett and Charlie Balfour all my days. We all lived in the same tenement and grew up together, our lives interlocked by the narrowness of our shared community. As boys we ran the streets terrorising our neighbours, consoled ourselves through school, before leaving as soon as we could. Today we worked at the same depot and we were happy enough. We had never had cause to question our existence until now.

Enlisting had been a spur of the moment thing. We were at Ibrox watching Rangers where it was still goalless with Hamilton Accies in the opening game of the season. It was less than two weeks after Asquith had declared war on Germany and it was all we could talk about, as the game slogged-on in the background.

I’d been thinking about signing-up for a few days although I hadn’t discussed it with anyone. Even so, I could see there was potential for us to join up as a group and I wanted to push the point, ‘I was reading the paper today. It said that they’re looking for volunteers. Maybe we should all join up; together, all three of us?’

Charlie Balfour had a face on him like he had just put his hand in a manky bedpan, ‘Are you daft, Jim? What about our jobs? We were lucky to get on the books at the depot. Do you think I want to give all that up to go to war?’

Needless to say this wasn’t the response I wanted to hear. Charlie Balfour had always been a bit of a coward. He’d need to be convinced that this was the right thing to do. In the background a sudden cheer signalled the only goal of the game.

I raised my voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd, ‘If we don’t volunteer now and go over and get this sorted out, do you know what will happen?’ Charlie was shaking his head, while Harry was back watching the game. They were losing interest.

‘We need to be the ones to set an example, or they’ll be over here next. The Germans will be in Glasgow and we’ll be part of their empire. It’s what they want. I read it in the paper. They see what we’ve got, and they want it for themselves. That’s why they’re building the dreadnoughts. Massive gunboats like that and they’ve barely got a coast. You both need to wise up.’

Harry Lovett was laughing, ‘The bloody Prussians are no match for the British Empire. If they come at us we’ll swat them away like flies. There’s nothing to worry about, and there’s certainly no need for us to rush to war before we’re needed.’

He knew how to wind me up, did Harry, but I wouldn’t be brow beaten on this one. I knew his father had been in service in Africa and I knew exactly how to needle him, ‘Like the Boers, you mean? We showed them a thing or too.’

Harry was shaking his head, trying not to rise to it, but as usual he couldn’t help himself, ‘That was a mistake. And you don’t become the greatest country in the world by not making a few mistakes along the way. The Germans are not in the same class as we are. I mean look around. You’re living in the second city of the British Empire. We build the ships that rule the waves. We’re the greatest nation on earth and our army will make short work of this war. You wait and see.’

Harry had gone red in the face. I knew he didn’t really believe what he was saying; recent history didn’t back him up, ‘You’re wrong, Harry. We need to go and do our bit, and we need to go now, while we still can. Think about it man, we’d come back as heroes. Better still, we’d get out of Glasgow too; see a bit of the world. We’ve spent our whole lives here and you know fine well that we’ll die here too. There’s no opportunities for the likes of us.’ I had the attention of both of them now. They knew what I was saying was true. ‘I hear that France is hot. Hot and dry. It would make a change from this.’ I pointed to the skies as the heaven’s opened to help me to make my point. ‘What do you think, Charlie?’ He’d been quieter than usual; hadn’t said a word, in fact.

But Harry spoke for him, ‘Don’t mind him, Jim. He’s gone soft on Alice Simpson.’ Harry was punching Charlie in the arm but was still getting no response. I laughed along as we wrestled in the stands. Charlie pushed back eventually, indignant at his manhandling, ‘Ach, boys, but I like her don’t I? I’m not sure if I could go to war.’ He was staring at his feet and couldn’t meet our gaze. ‘I’m jumpy enough as it is. I’ve never been in as much as a fist fight