Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

They invaded the adjutant’s office and looked up the personal records of the officers, all locked away in their own cupboard, the key well secured.

“Let’s see, now… Educated at Oundle and prep school before that. One of the better schools in some ways, Oundle, but not for the bluest of blood, one might say… Always said in Society, whispered that is, that if you have enough money the school will ignore any rough edges in the parents. Passed out aged eighteen last year… Joined up in February this year. Was going for Sandhurst, he said, but couldn’t because of the war. What was he doing for the eight months in between, one wonders? Oh! Went up to Oxford, Magdalen College, which is academically demanding – not one of the rugby and rowing places for the idlers. ‘Chose to withdraw’ at the end of his first term. Ha! Too much like hard work, perhaps, but he must have been within reason clever.”

“That might be why he did not wish his father to know him to be a failure again, sir.”

“Might well be. If he don’t want to fail, he could try working hard, lazy little bugger! Push him, Baker! Make him a success or chase him out. No leeway at all. If he don’t make the grade, he can try life as a private soldier.”

“Despite his father being in politics, sir? Will he not have a lot of clout in the background?”

“So have I, Baker, and from old established families!”

Richard called Wincanton back to his office.

“Why were you sent down from Magdalen, Wincanton?”

“I was not sent down as such, sir. The Dean thought I would do better as a soldier, sir. In this time of national tribulation, it was necessary for every man to consider the needs of his country, sir. At least a dozen other chaps were encouraged to go elsewhere, sir. I told my father that I had determined to join the fight. The Dean promised that an application to return would be favourably considered when the war ended, provided…”

“As you say, Wincanton, ‘provided’. He would wish to see you applying as a captain and with a good record. You are sufficiently intelligent to succeed at University, I do not doubt. I presume you were not outstanding in terms of effort.”

“Not the thing to be a swot, sir. I am a gentleman, not a mere pedant.”

“Are you now? You are in effect saying you are bone idle, Wincanton. It is not good enough for me. A last warning – work hard or you are finished. I am content you are lazy rather than incompetent. As such, I shall have no mercy on you. I do not know who or what your father is, other than the little you have told me, but I shall have no hesitation in telling him why I have sent you to court martial. Your next transgression, Wincanton, sees you broken. I do not doubt, by the way, that any court will listen to me.”

Richard tapped the VC ribbon

“Yes, sir.”

“Go now, and work, Wincanton. Discover your duty and perform it unfailingly. Straight back and a soldierly bearing at all times. Keen and willing to find extra work to do. First in and last out must be your motto, Wincanton.”

“That’s the Rifle Brigade’s catchword, sir.”

“I believe it is. I am glad you know something, Wincanton.”

“My father tried to join me in the Rifles, sir, but they would not take me for not being an active, sporting sort.”

“Then turn yourself into one, Wincanton. Several of your young fellow officers are of an athletic persuasion. Join them in fitness and training.”

“What? Running, sir?”

“Good for you! The alternative may well be quick marching in the ranks.”

Richard returned to his consideration of the Company Reports for the week. The main emphasis at that stage of the battalion’s training was musketry – rapid and accurate fire in the butts. He read through the summaries of the scores for each man, looking for natural marksmen.

The Battalion Sniper, Pickford, stood out, as was only natural. Twenty rounds at a man-size target at three hundred yards and every one of them in the chest area, a perfect score and achieved in one minute. He did not expect any of the others to come close to that; if they did, there was always a place for other snipers.

Few of the new recruits even managed to get off twenty rounds in a minute, taking an aim too slowly. Of those who managed to fire their rounds, only one came in over fifty percent; he was an admirable ninety, however. He glanced at the name, Margerison, B Company, Captain Walters, sent a message for the captain to see him at his convenience.

Walters appeared within the hour, as he had expected.

“Margerison, Walters. Out of the ordinary as a shot.”

“Very much so, sir. Only a youngster, just eighteen, and a natural. Factory hand since he was fourteen, never so much as seen a rifle until we put one in his hand. No misses at one hundred yards and very few at three.”

“Sniper material?”

“Might well be, sir. Quiet sort of boy. Thinks more than he talks. Obeys orders snappily – keen to succeed, wants to be a good soldier. Likes it in the ranks. Very smart. He will make lance-corporal early. Short of education or I would be looking at the possibility of bringing him on in the field to make a commission.”

“We will need officers when we return to the trenches. That’s a certainty, Walters. Wise of you to look for the men who can rise in the world. Just how illiterate is he?”

“Left Elementary School at the earliest age, sir. No choice, I suspect. Father is a farmhand, I know, dirt poor. Went into a boot and shoe factory, being Bedford. Joined up on the day of his eighteenth birthday. Not stupid by a long way and a hard worker by nature. Might be he could master the needs of a subaltern, sir. If young Wincanton can do it, why can’t he?”

“Bear him in mind, Walters. Try to bring him on. For the while, I shall expect to put him with Pickford as sniper. How happy are you with the rest of the Company?”

“One lieutenant, Harris, and Second Lieutenant Godstone. Harris was depot, 2 ndBattalion, came across with four months in. Not especially clever but hard-working and competent. He will do. Godstone, the Yank, is red hot. Knows more about soldiering than I do and works as well. My sergeant is able but inexperienced, one of your old hands, sir. For the rest, the bulk of them are boys, no more than fifteen originals. They are coming on, will be good enough in three months.”

The same story as every other captain had to offer, with the exception of Godstone.

“Keep them up to the mark, Walters. The trenches are demanding of the soldier and they must be ready for hard living. There will be another great attack in the autumn or spring and this one must succeed. No doubt they will learn from the experience of Neuve Chapelle and get it right this time. Then it will be a fighting advance as we chase the Hun across the Rhine and all the way to Berlin. The men must be able to march and be ready to fight hard. We cannot fail again, or if we do, it must not be because our men were not prepared and ready for battle.”

Walters had been wounded early in August and had never seen a trench. He was sure that the boys would be ready.

“They are very willing, sir. All volunteers and here because there is nowhere else a man can rightly be. They will do well, sir.”

“They did well at Neuve Chapelle, Walters. Trouble is, they could not pass through uncut wire. We must do better next time – the generals will know and will have a solution, I am certain, Walters.”

There was a ball that weekend, a huge, formal entertainment of which there were somewhat fewer this year, many hostesses feeling they should be less extravagant in time of war.

The evening’s entertainment had gone ahead, however.

Colonel Braithwaite introduced Richard.