Regret's Mission - Inspired by the great Bernard Cornwell Sharpe Read online

Mons

  Everywhere he looked, John Brown could see smiling faces and cheering crowds. Everyone called him Regret, ever since he was a boy. Since his father got drunk celebrating the birth of his first son and told everyone he was his biggest regret, because now he was tied to the farm until the boy was old enough to fend for himself.

  Lots of fathers think that, but few say it out loud. So John became Regret.

  Regret looked around and smiled. If this was France, well, you could just give him a whole lot more of it. He waved at a rosy-faced young woman, who returned the greeting by running out into the street and kissing him on the cheek. His comrades cheered enthusiastically, and she smiled at them, then gave him a kiss full on the lips. Bright red cheeks are never very flattering, and he strode on to catch up with his mates.

  People had lined the streets of every town and village they had marched through since leaving the crowded ship at Le Havre two days before, and Regret had been having a great time, gratefully receiving the wine, fresh-baked bread and butter, and cheeses—though some of the latter were a bit ripe for his taste.

  It was a pity this would soon be over. Looking around at the troops stretching back as far as he could see down the long, straight roads, it was clear that the Germans were about to get a very short, sharp lesson in manners from the finest army in the world. He caught yet another loaf tossed to him by an elderly woman in a doorway, and waved his thanks, then pushed it into his pack just in case rations got a little thin later, though with every country town full of generous French women, that wasn’t likely.

  It was 22 August 1914, and the whole British Expeditionary Force was on the road to a little town called Mons, where they were going to begin the attack that would push the invading German Army right back out of France. The country roads and the small villages and towns of this grimy mining country rang with the sound of marching feet as eighty thousand men hurried to get to the battle before it was over, and every one of them was as sure as Regret that the Germans were in for a sound thrashing.

  By the time the Fusiliers reached the outskirts of Mons, Regret felt a little sick from the runny cheese and illicit wine he’d been given at every turn, and hoped the good people of this town might be a little less generous. His hopes were dashed as the townsfolk thrust more food at him and cheered and waved French flags at the marching Tommies.

  It was almost a relief to reach the small hamlet of Nimy and to be ordered to dig in along the canal. The trenches were hardly worthy of the name, being no more than a couple of feet deep, but that was all right, since they were just temporary, because tomorrow they would be abandoned as soon as the order to attack was given.

  It was a sweltering day and hot work, but it took only a couple of hours; then it was time to clean their rifles, check their ammunition, and then sit and wait, but hours of boredom punctuated by moments of intense action was a soldier’s lot, and Regret loved it.

  Encouraged by his father, he’d joined the army as a boy soldier at sixteen and trained for this day for the past eight years. Starting as a bugler and runner, he’d received his rifle on his eighteenth birthday and was surprised and thrilled to discover how easily the expertise he’d gained with a poacher’s shotgun transferred to the Lee-Enfield SMLE that was to be his constant companion. He hit everything he aimed at, and Sergeant Major Needle called him a wonder—or at least that’s a loose translation.

  He sat in the shallow trench and looked out across the wide canal at the fields and woods beyond. Out there were the Germans, he couldn’t see them or hear them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Colonel McMahon said they were there, so that put it beyond argument.

  The rain began just as the sun went down and rolling thunder announced the start of a storm that would last all night. Regret pulled his greatcoat around him, rested against the shallow trench, and thought back to the many such nights he and his brother had spent in Ashdown Forest, saving game from being eaten by lions and giving it a more meaningful end. Compared with those bitterly cold nights, this was comfortable. It was raining, there was no disputing that, but it was warm, or at least there was no icy winter wind to chill the bones.

  He closed his eyes and drifted into a deep sleep, comforted by the familiar groans and complaints from the soldiers around him.