The Writers' Circle

23 August 1914
4th Battalion Royal Fusiliers, Machine gun Section
Canal Bridge at Nimy
Belgium

	"Sergeant, I want number one gun set up there."  The young lieutenant pointed to lone tree on the British side of the canal. The movement was wasted on the NCO who had already come to the same decision.  There really was not much of a choice; except for a few small unsubstantial buildings the only cover on that side of the canal consisted of that one small tree.

In contrast on the German side cover was abundant.  Trees and buildings came right up to the bank in some places.  "I want the other team right here sighted on the bridge itself."

	"Right away lieutenant."  

	The 4th Royal Fusiliers arrived earlier that humid August morning after a short seven-kilometer predawn march north from the village of Mons.  Seven thirsty, hot, hard kilometers added to the thirty the day before.  The cobbled roads of the region were as hard on the troops as the oppressive heat.  Their thick woolen uniforms quickly proved better suited for a much milder climate.  The route north from the railhead was lined with discarded equipment and stragglers that had been unable to handle the pace. 
 
	Orders had come down from GHQ night before.  The entire British Expeditionary Force (BEF) had been directed to set up in defense along the canal just north of Mons.   Most of the twenty meter wide, two-meter deep canal ran east to west, except for a short stretch just past Mons that took a dogleg north to the village of Nimy before swinging south and then west again.  The general plan, the only possible plan, was to deny the Germans use of the canal bridges and delay their all too rapid advance.  The order from Field Marshal Sir John French, commander-in-chief of British forces, was to hold.  Hold for twenty-four hours, while their French allies fell back before the oncoming gray horde.

	The lieutenant watched as the sergeant left to carry out his orders.  It was still not yet seven. Amazing what could be done before breakfast.  Around him the rest of the company reinforced their positions in the early morning mist as they prepared to face the enemy that they all knew was coming.  Even now they could hear the sounds of war off in the distance.

	"What the hell are we doing here?"

	"Excuse me Lieutenant?"  A smooth well-bred voice asked from behind him.

	The Lieutenant swore inwardly.  He turned to face his battalion commander and snapped to attention.  His right hand going to his brow, palm out in a parade ground salute.  

"I'm sorry Colonel."  The officer returned the salute smartly. 
 
God, did the man ever sweat?  The colonel's uniform was immaculate.  There wasn't a single mote of dust on his khaki field jacket; even the deep chocolate of his Sam Brown belt showed no wear.

	"Sorry about what Lieutenant?"  He smiled.  "You were wondering what we were doing here."  He turned to watch the men of his company go about the many tasks that would ready them for the coming battle.  "We are following orders Lieutenant.  That is what were are doing."

	"Of course colonel.  I apologize."

	"Don't."  He turned back to the younger man, a half smile under his perfectly groomed mustache.  "I asked the General the same thing."

	"Yes sir."  Lt. Dease returned his smile.  "But what are we doing here?"

	"Well," The colonel cleared a space in the dust with his boot and took a knee.  "as you know the BEF is setting up like so."  He drew what looked like an exaggerated shepherd's crook in the dirt with his swagger stick.  "I know it's not quite accurate but if you imagine that the long leg runs west with the open face of the hook faces the south, it's just about right.  Now, Mons is just here where the line begins to curve north at the beginning of the hook." He placed a dot in the dirt where he indicated the town to be.  "Our line," He pointed at the waterway in front of them with his stick. "follows the canal.  We, well, we are here," He pointed to the northern most point of the curve, just before it began to sweep east and then on to the south.  "just south of Nimy," He placed another mark on the ground. "with our regimental line running the seven kilometers back to Mons along the waterway.  We are to guard that bridge," He pointed to the short, low-railed structure. "and the rest of the canal in our sector so the Bosch wont be able to cross and enter Mons.  If they do they will.  If they can enter the town, they will be able to fire down our flank turning our line.  And that," The colonel stood. "will be that." For the first time he let some concern leak through and show on his face.  He looked weary.  "This little canal wouldn't hold back a troop of determined field mice very long much less the pride of the fatherland. It wont take them long to get across, but we must hold as long as possible."

	"Of course sir.  My gun section will support the company to." 

	"Yes, yes I know Lieutenant.  Everyone will do their bit for king and country."  He walked a short way towards the bridge. "Your company is on the extreme north of the BEF, the 4th Middlesex is back to back with us guarding the canal to the east, but our little salient sticks out like a thumb.  When Jerry arrives they will break on us like a wave hitting a pier and then Lieutenant, they will be all around us."  

	"Sir?"

	"We will be taking fire from three directions, north, west, and anything that misses the 4th Middlesex to the east will hit us in the backs."  He walked back to the drawing.  "We are in a most exposed position, your company especially, and the battalion is going to need your guns to hold on."  He looked down.  "Even then it is going to be tough, hell half our boys are reservists."  He looked back at the young officer.  "The regiment. the battalion. I am counting on you Lieutenant.  You must keep your guns up and firing.  If they cross the bridge our line will be in danger and the BEF will be forced to fall back."

	"Any idea how many Germans are out there sir?"

	"Well, that is a subject of much debate Lieutenant.  If you believe the crazy young men Intelligence section has out in their flying machines it sounds as if the entire German army is headed this way, two maybe three army groups."  He smirked at the look of shock on his junior's face.  "I wouldn't worry though, the command staff thinks the pilots have spent too much time up in the air, something to do with lack of oxygen I believe, and they believe that the reports are grossly exaggerated and side with cavalry scout reports.  No more than a single army, 250,000 to 300,000 men."

	"If you don't mind me asking sir, where are our illustrious allies?  I mean sir, it is their border we are protecting."  The sly smile returned to the colonel's face.

	"The French are, well the French are here."  The tip of his stick landed well to the south of the crook's curve.  "Well, that's last time we heard from them.  They are a little too busy running away to do small things like tell us where they are."  The smile turned a little bittersweet.  "And, let me remind you that we are in fact in Belgium.  A neutral country invaded by a ravishing horde.  We are here as liberators, the French. well the French are just the French aren't they."

	"Well we will do our best sir."  Lt. Dease fought back a smile of his own.

	"I know you will, I know you will."   With than the colonel turned and walked away towards first platoon's position. "Carry on lieutenant."  He waved off a parting salute.

 Dease could hear first platoon's young officer, little more than a boy, giving orders.  His voice sounded shaky. He had been having trouble with some of the older reservists.  Many of the grizzled colonial campaigns and foreign posts veterans were having a bit of trouble readjusting to taking orders from young inexperienced officers.  The company commander had already been by, but the Colonel would help boost the youngster's confidence.

	Youngster.  He was only a year younger than Dease.  What was happening?

	With a shrug he turned back to his troops.  They would do their duty.  They would not run.  He would not run.  At least he prayed he wouldn't.  He suddenly felt the fear. Up until now he had been busy enough to suppress it, but now it had him. 
 
The fear. 
 
Would he be able to stand up to the task?  Would he let his men down?  

Judging from the sound of the approaching artillery the 4th Middlesex was already in contact and all his questions would be answered soon. 

23 August 1914
4th Royal Fusiliers, Machine gun Section
Canal Bridge at Nimy
Belgium

	Lt. Dease crouched low against the rickety barricade as enemy bullets tore the air around him. Scattered about him like rags lay the bloody remains of many of the company's fine young men.  They're broken bodies laying where they fell, spilling life in warm red pools.  

	German artillery had begun several hours ago.  It wasn't as accurate as it was persistent.  The sheer volume of shells themselves guaranteed some effect.  The barrage began shortly after nine that morning.  The troop appeared a short time later, pushing themselves against the BEF line.  At first they came in close order as if on a drill field just as they had against the 4th Middlesex earlier that morning.  Then as now they suffered savagely before withdrawing.  They returned a short time later, this time spread out and making better use of the plentiful cover on their side of the canal. 

	By noon small groups of Germans had forced their way across the canal and the hell falling upon the defenders grew worse.  Now the fire was coming from three sides and the butcher's bill was growing rapidly.  From the steady chatter of his two Vickers machine guns Dease was sure they were giving as good as they got.

	He crawled over to the nearest gun.  Corporal Jenkins sat behind the weapon laying a withering fire on the bridge approach, his thick face grim with the task at hand.  Rifleman Godley lay next to him feeding long canvas belts of ammunition into the ravenous machine.  The private looked shaky, his large eyes flashed wildly.  Sweat beaded his brow and darkened his dusty tunic.  Dease couldn't blame him; he was just showing the fear they all felt. Two of the gun crew's other four members lay dead nearby.

	"How goes it Corporal?"  Dease panted.

	"A bit warm just now sir."  Jenkins replied without moving his face.  "But I think we will manage."

	"Excellent Corporal."  Good man that Jenkins.  "And you Godley?"

	"We'll hold sir."  He forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.  "We'll hold."

	"Right, then carry on."  Dease had to give it to Godley; the lad was terrified, yet he held his ground.  That took courage.

	Taking a deep breath, the Lieutenant plunged towards the second emplacement.  He ran towards the bridge straight into the face of the enemy.  Until that time he hadn't quite appreciated how many Germans they faced.  Quite a few gray clad bodies littered the ground before the bridge, but quite a few more moved forward towards him.  They moved in short rushes, sprinting between areas of protection.  They had started the day badly wasting many young lives, but had recovered well.  It was only by sheer will that the English held on against what was a force at least four times its size.

	He was almost to the sandbagged shelter of number two gun when something took his right leg from under him.  It didn't really hurt, feeling more of a strong shove than anything else.  The sudden loss of balance caused him to fall roughly on his face.  Strong hands grabbed him and he was pulled the few remaining yards to safety.

	Jones appeared over him saying something.  Dease stared up uncomprehendingly.  There was still no pain.  Raising his head he looked past Jones and saw Swift, number two's chief ammo runner, working on his thigh.

	A nearby shell burst showered them with earth.  Someone screamed.
	"It's not that bad sir."  He could hear Jones now.  "Missed both bone and artery.  A clean hit."  Jones smiled down at him.  "I'll call the stretcher bearers and."

	"You will do no such thing Sergeant."  Dease struggled to sit, only to be pushed down again.  "Leave off Jones!"  He pushed his junior aside and tried again to sit, this time successfully.  Resting against the low barricade he looked down at his leg.  It was as Jones had said, not too terrible to see, his khaki trouser leg darkening around a small tear several inches above his right knee, but the pain was starting.

	Looking around he knew they couldn't hold much longer, they would have to fall back or be overrun.  The only problem being that the lack of natural cover on their side of the canal meant that any attempt to leave the fortification would expose them to the full strength of the enemy fire.

	Someone would have to stay behind.

	A tremendous explosion behind him caused him to duck as bits of wood and chunks of flesh began landing around him.  He knew the damage before he turned his head.  

Number one gun was silent.

The machine gun nest was shattered and smoking.  Jenkins lay backwards over the parapet at an impossible angle.  Another trooper's legs stuck out from behind a stack of crates, they weren't moving. 
 
"Go over and see if there is anything to be done."  Dease ordered an ammo runner and the man scurried off.  "Jones," He turned to face the corporal.  "send a runner to the colonel.  Tell him that we cant last much longer."  He paused looking down at his leg.  "Tell him that one gun could hold this bridge and cover the retreat, but only if they start the withdrawal right away. Tell him that I volunteer to stay back," He smiled. "I wouldn't get far anyway."

	"Sir, I don't think-"

	"I didn't ask you to think.  Just see that you relay that message and get your gun crew ready to leave.  Set up all the reserve ammunition where I can get to it and wait for the order to leave."

	"Right away sir."

	"I'll stay with you sir."  Godley flopped down heavily next to them.

	"Goodly!"  Dease was surprised to see him. "I thought you bought it with number one."

	"No sir, I was fetching more belts."

	"Good for you then.  But you don't have to stay-"

	"With all due respect sir," Something had changed in Godley.  He was still scared, but there was something hard beneath just starting to show. "I am all that's left of my crew and I'd like to stay.  The way I see it I owe my mates."

	Dease searched the younger man's eyes.  "All right Private, you can stay.  Why are you still here Jones?"

	"Leaving now sir."

	"Good."  A stray round struck the barricade just above the lieutenant sending splinters flying.  Dease cursed as a savage chunk of wood sliced deep into his ear.

	"let me see that."  Someone said.
  
Ducking low the officer let his wounds be tended.  "Hell of a way to start a war."

23 August 1914
84th Infantry Regiment, 18th German Infantry Division 
Canal Bridge at Nimy
Belgium

	"Keep your heads down!"  Gefreiter (Lance Corporal) Rudolf Schnitzler dove to the ground as a swarm of angry bullets tore past his head.  He hit the soft earth badly, knocking his spiked helmet loose and down over his eyes.  He pushed it back with a curse, but remained pressed against the earth; the British fire was too intense. 

	The Unterfeldweble's (Sergeant) warning had come too late for some.  Poor Muller fell, half his face missing.  Young Dieter screamed and thrashed where he landed a short distance to his left.  The boy, barely eighteen, had joined the Regiment a week before the invasion and had not yet had time to settle into the lifestyle.  Now he lay bleeding next to an unnamed Belgian canal.

	Schnitzler kept his body low as he crawled towards the stricken youth. The thick summer dust caked his parched throat and made the heat so much worse.  

	He reached the boy quickly and garbed him by the tunic. He dragged him back to the small depression left by one of their shells that had landed short on the wrong side of the waterway. 

	The crater's blasted dirt was still warm and stank of gunpowder, but it protected them from the worst of the fire and allowed Rudolf to access the damage.

	Pulling his bayonet from its scabbard he carefully cut away the clothing from around the wound, all the while being sure to keep his head below the rim of the shallow hole.  There was a lot of blood and his task was made worse by Dieter's frantic writhing, but the injury didn't appear too bad. Gefreiter Schnitzler had been a butcher's boy in Hamburg before he enlisted and had long ago learned to deal with the sight of gore, the feel of torn flesh, and the coppery smell of blood.  He was resigned to the fact that he would never become use to the agonized cries of wounded.  That would always be something to be endured.

	"It's OK Dieter."  Rudolf tried to reassure the lad as he began to apply a makeshift dressing.  "It's no more than a scratch, you'll be back home in no time."  He couldn't tell if he heard him or not.  The wounded mans face was squeezed tight with pain.  Even the friendly artillery falling on the enemy positions nearby couldn't drown out his howls. 

	The crater's bottom was filling with blood, and his hands had become slick with the gore.  He was so intent on the dressing that it took several seconds for him to notice that the boy had grown still. 
 
	"Dieter!"  Rudolf moved up to the boy's face.  "Dieter!"  It was then that he noticed the second wound, the one in the boy's chest.  The one with bloody froth seeping out of it.  

	He was dead.

	"I'm sorry Dieter."  Rudolf paused for a second before moving back to the lip of the depression.  It was a shame.  He had been so young.  Was it his fault?  If he had noticed the other wound could he have saved him?  Did it matter?

	Schnitzler peeked over the edge.  The English still had them pinned before the little bridge.  A crude wall of sandbags and bits of furniture and farm equipment covered most of the far shore giving the Tommies places to hide.  Even so Rudolf had to give them credit.  The British were receiving a horrific amount of punishment, both shot and shell, from several sides.  Rudolf could see scores of bodies in tan uniforms.  So the reaper was busy on both sides then.

	Dirt from a burst of fire landing near him pelted his face and forced his head back down. How many guns did they have!  The rate of fire falling on the advancing Germans was terrific, although it was beginning to abate.  Try as they might they could not return anywhere near the same volume without their two machine guns.  The battalions Maxim guns, too heavy to carry on the advance, were still in the rear wouldn't be in place for some time. If it weren't for the artillery and a significant numerical advantage they would have been pushed back. 
  
	Wiping the dust from his eyes he looked over the edge once more, bringing his rifle up as well.

	He could only see two British emplacements, although he was sure they had at least twice that number in Vickers guns, there was no other explanation for the horrible volume of fire.

	Strange.  He could see few Englishmen, live ones at any rate.  Only one of the visible guns was in operation, the other looked to have been abandoned.  

The working gun was emplaced at the far end of the bridge, blocking the road.  Rudolf could see the heads of two men bobbing behind the fortification.  They were well protected; much of the German fire was directed at them. 

The Distance was too great to make out much in the way of details, but not too far for a shot.

Rudolf ducked again as the last remaining Vickers swept his shelter.  The enemy fire was definitely slowing down, but still frighteningly effective.  Men in gray still fell as they struggled to advance.

Once the gunner had shifted his murderous attention elsewhere Schnitzler got back into position and sighted in on the more exposed of the two.  The gunner's head stuck up only slightly above the pile of boxes that separated the combatants, but still enough of a target to make a shot worth it.

Rudolf peered down his rifles sight at his foe.  He could see things about his enemy now.  He looked young.  His long sandy hair hung in sweaty clumps in his hair, his face set in a mix of determination and pain.  There was a sloppy bandage placed over his right ear in a haphazard temporary way.

His first shot fell short, striking an ammo crate about a foot below its intended target.  Making an adjustment on his weapon's sight, he set up for a second shot.

Too high.

The Gunner finished his traverse and began to sweep back towards him, he had to hurry. 

Concentrating Rudolf placed the head of his enemy in his sights and closed his eyes.  

Breathe.

He opened his eyes and began to gently squeeze the trigger.

The stream of death continued towards him.

Squeeze.

The recoil surprised him, just as the musketry instructors taught it should.

The enemy gun fell silent as the gunner's head came apart from the impact of a 7.92-millimeter bullet.

With the Vickers quiet the majority of the incoming fire vanished.  What was left was scattered and ineffective.  All along the line of advance German riflemen got to their feet and began to move forward towards the objective, the Nimy Bridge. 

The gunner was the first person the Rudolf had ever killed.  Sure he had fired at the enemy, but this was the first life he was sure that he had taken.  The first man who would never go home; his first murder. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.  It was his job.  It was what he had been trained for, what he did for his country.  

A bullet whipped by his ear.

He would worry about it later.

Taking a deep breath, he fixed the bayonet to the end of his Mauser rifle and got to his feet running for the bridge.  He fire twice from the hip as he charged, his right hand working the action furiously, forcing a new bullet into position.  His two rounds went wild.  On the third there was a sharp click as he pulled the trigger.  He was out of ammunition.

Screaming he continued his charge.

	*************************************

	Godley froze.  Lt. Dease was dead.  His body lay across the Vickers Machine gun he used so well.  The bloody shell that had once been his head rested on the boiling hot water sleeve that cooled the barrel.

	He was dead.

	Around him the remains of the 4th Fusiliers pulled back.  Savaged by the German army's courageous assaults and effective fire the regiment could hold no longer, and even the last few remnants would be lost if the bridge fell before they had a chance to escape.

	The lieutenant, too wounded to keep up, volunteered to hold the enemy at bay to give the others the time they needed. 
 
	Now the Lieutenant was dead, and the Germans were coming.

	His body moved without his mind.  In his head he was still looking at the fallen hero, the man destined to be the Great War's first Victoria Cross recipient.  His body motivated by need, the need to give his regiment, his mates, the time they needed to make good their escape, the need for revenge, shot into action.  

	He grabbed the corpse by the belt and hauled him from atop the weapon.  The body fell to the hard cobble stone road with a sick slapping sound.  He could hear the cries of the onrushing enemy grow nearer.  With his position silent the Bosch had grown bold and now rushed the bridge as fast as their legs could take them.  They knew it was a race.

	Take the bridge, and with it the gun, before it could be brought back into action or more men would die.

	Once Dease was out of the way Godley got behind the weapon.  The better part of a canvas ammo belt left was left in the receiver, with plenty more in a crate.  He would need it.

	He pressed the trigger swinging the muzzle across the onrushing enemy like a hose.  Men fell beneath his gaze.  Wherever his eyes fell men died.

	A man rose from a depression before him and charged, blood in his eyes.  The young Hun's uniform was blood soaked.  His grimy face twisted into a rage only found on the battlefield and in hell.  The man fired as he came, twice, both wide of the mark.  

The man came to kill him.  The man had to die.

Godley's mind was asleep.  He was dreaming this, this could not be happening.  Men did not do this.  Men did not use their hands to send streams of lead at other men.  Men did not take satisfaction in the effect a .303 round on a human body.  A man would be affected by the look of shock and surprise in the eyes of the dieing.

A man would feel remorse.

When his gaze shifted away, on to the next threat, he left a man named Rudolf Schnitzler dieing in the hot Belgian afternoon sun.  The Germans life ran from five great wounds, the thick crimson river flowing across the burnt and ravaged lawn to spill into canal.  The lives of many men, German and British, drained into the waterway that afternoon mingling forever as they flowed to the sea.

More men died, and the attack faltered.  The Germans pulled back slowly to the quaint village buildings and tree line on their side while the battered Englishmen moved to form a new defense further south.  

Godley was all alone on the field. Alone as his comrades fell back and his enemies retreated before him. Alone with Rudolf and Dease.  Alone with his steaming Vickers. Alone with death.  Blood ran down his right arm from a wound he couldn't remember receiving and couldn't feel, but unlike so many he was alive.	

That must have been why he was laughing.

The fight lasted until he ran out of bullets.  Then amid all the hell the Germans could bring to bear, he calmly disassembled his weapon.  His wound or wounds, he wasn't sure how many times he had been hit, had long since become troublesome but he was somehow still able to push the seventy-three pound machine gun off the bridge and into the canal so the Germans couldn't use it against his comrades.  It sank with a triumphant splash.

He could hear the Germans coming and tried to stand, tried to get away, but found he had nothing left.  He lost consciousness not five feet from where number two gun had found it's watery grave.

His last thoughts were of his regiment.  He hoped he had bought them enough time. 

*****
On that hot August morning in the early days of World War One, two men alone stood before an advancing army.  How they came to be in Belgium or why they held the bridge is not as important as is how they held it.  Lieutenant Maurice Dease sacrificed his twenty-four years of life so that the men of his unit could withdraw safely.  Private Godley, twenty five, was to survive.  He held the brige alone for two hours before running out of ammunition.  After his capture by the Germans, and despite his many wounds he remained true to his regiment revealing only his name to his interrigators.  Goodly was repatriated because his wounds would never again let him serve his country in combat.

 Lieutenant Maurice Dease and Private Sidney Godley would be the first recipients of Britain highest award for valor, the Victoria Cross in the Great War.