A THIN autumn sun feels its way through branches almost stripped of leaves, firing golden shafts earthwards to meet moss and lichens cloaking tree stumps like green velvet.

All would be quiet now, were it not for the dual carriageway traffic that splices this Flanders wood in two green swards, sending cars and lorries northwards to Calais or Brussels in the south-east.

There is no doubt that it does take a leap in the imagination to picture how this would have appeared in 1914, yet once the observer mentally edits out the engine noise and peers into the dank undergrowth, suddenly it’s October 31 of that fateful year.

And the much-depleted second battalion of the Worcestershire Regiment has just received orders to retake Gheluvelt chateau, now over-run by a vast German host that is poised to capture nearby Ypres and snuff out the last remaining pocket of British resistance in Belgium.

So here we are in Polygon Wood. The Germans have punched a huge hole in the ragged British line. Survivors from what are left of the Northamptonshires and East Lancashires lurch along, walking wounded hobbling past, stretcher bearers bringing in the more seriously injured.

But the Worcestershires barely spare a glance for the battle-crazed men staggering past. For as they fix bayonets and ram clips of .303 rounds into the breeches of their Lee Enfield rifles, they know that whatever lies ahead, they have at least had a couple of days’ rest… unlike the retreating, haggard wretches who have been fighting for the last 12 days on a line stretching from Dixmuide to Armentieres.

What these men of Worcestershire do not to know is that at this very moment, the Kaiser himself – believing the war is won – is preparing to enter Ypres in triumph astride a white charger. The fate of the British Empire and world history now lies with them… a mere 380 officers and men of a Midlands county infantry regiment.

History records that Major EB Hankey, sword held high in his outstretched arm, led his small band at the double and then ordered them into a trot as they approached Gheluvelt chateau just over a mile away on the Menin Road.

The soldiers used the line of Polygon Wood as cover for as long as possible but it wasn’t long before they were spotted by the Germans, who started up a depressingly accurate artillery barrage.

More than 100 men fell dead or wounded, but there was no stopping the rushing tide of khaki. To the dismay of the young German conscripts, the rows of bayonets glistening in the thin October sun were to prove too much. Within moments, the Worcestershires had collided with the German line, lunging, stabbing and shooting at anything in grey.

Gheluvelt had been retaken, the battered British line shored up… and the First World War was destined to drag on for another four long and bloody years.

The vast majority of Worcestershire men who fought and died at Gheluvelt on October 31, 1914, were private soldiers.

For mortgaging their lives, they received about a shilling a day, slightly less than the pay of a shop assistant at home.

Officers’ pay was so bad that they often needed a private income to meet all the demands of their rank.

But when it came to battle, German bullets made no distinction between a lad from Brickfields, Worcester, and a young gentleman from a landed estate. Death was a great leveller.

I travelled to Flanders with the War Research Society. For details call Alex Bulloch on 0121 4599008.