Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

It seemed there was no shortage of petrol or drivers for the influential.

Simon’s valet was waiting for him and provided him with a pair of perfectly polished and new shoes. He glanced disdainfully at his master’s footwear and shook his head.

“Rather worn down at the heel, sir. Not the thing for us.”

He limped across the dressing room to put the shoes into a small pile of discarded clothing.

“New shirts, sir, are a necessity.”

“You are wounded?”

“The Marne, sir. My knee. The leg is stiffened now, I am afraid, but I am still capable of service, sir.”

“Good. I had rather have a fighting man about me. I am sorry, I do not know your name.”

“Thwaites, sir.”

“I doubt I shall have more leave this year after this week, Thwaites.”

“I am to remain as footman in your absence, sir. I will keep up your wardrobe the while.”

“Excellent. It seems likely that I shall become a civilian after the war – there will be more for you then.”

The tailor discussed civilian dress and seemed surprised that Simon was hardly interested in the topic.

“I must wear uniform while on active service, sir. That includes periods of leave. No doubt I would relax that rule was I to go into the countryside where boots and gaiters might be more the thing. In Town, however, I must abide by regulations.”

“Quite correct, sir.”

“No doubt I shall have more for you when the war ends.”

“Next year, sir. Not too long to go now. We are told that Lord Kitchener’s New Army will sweep all before it in the summer of ’16 when it is fully trained and ready.”

“Is that so? I am glad to hear it, albeit somewhat surprised. I presume there will also be the extra machine guns and artillery pieces that will be needed to blast a way through the trenches?”

That, the tailor could not answer for.

The dinner party was long and luxurious – there was certainly no shortage of caviar here. Simon ate too much which supplied him with a base for the excess of wines, port and spirits that accompanied and followed the meal. He was not in the habit of drinking large amounts, unlike the majority of the gentlemen present, and took some pains to sip from the various glasses presented him rather than swig them down. He managed to retain a clear head while still seeming to drink his share.

The war was largely ignored – conversation revolved around the doings of the more notorious members of Society and the activities of the City. Simon knew very little of either but smiled politely and showed interested.

He was the sole front line officer at the table. A major wearing staff tabs and an unknown general were the only others in uniform. Neither had ventured as far as France and they seemed disinclined to talk to a junior officer wearing a decoration for gallantry.

His uncle brought him into the conversation.

“Simon! Explain to me again how it comes about that you are lieutenant and captain simultaneously.”

“A small destroyer does not need a senior officer to command it, sir. I am called Captain when I am aboard Sheldrake but am no more than Lieutenant Sturton ashore.”

Two of those present had heard of Sheldrake’s recent actions and nodded their heads in respect. The remaining dozen showed blank, war news being of no interest to them except at the highest level of strategy.

They joined the ladies and found them discussing the war in terms of those young men of their acquaintance who had fallen in recent weeks. A massive female, a banker’s lady, he believed, turning the scales at a good two hundred pounds, addressed Simon graciously.

“As an actively serving officer, Lieutenant Sturton, perhaps you can explain why our casualties are so high in this war. Every day sees its list in the newspapers and young men such as you are prominent in them.”

“The deaths are predominantly in the trenches, ma’am. Young subalterns take a leading role there – they are, properly, at the front of their men at all times. The barbed wire makes aggression costly, ma’am, and the machine guns rule the Front. The Germans, of course, have many more machine guns than us.”

The general intervened to assure him that was being changed. More Vickers Guns and Lewises were being produced every day.

“Of course, young man, when the breakthrough occurs next year, the cavalry will come into their own and this aberration of trenches and machine guns will be forgotten about.”

“I am glad to hear that, sir. Have the cavalry come up with some sort of armour for their horses? They fell like flies in the war of movement last year.”

There was no reply to that provocation.

Two more dinner parties passed equally tediously and they came to the Ball that was the highlight of the week. The Duke and Duchess of Darlington hosted the event and were polite to the young lieutenant, the more so when they discovered he was Perceval’s heir. Simon was informed that he was a notable catch in the marriage market.

“I am sure that all of the debutantes will have an eye to you, Sturton!” The Duke laughed merrily, disclosing the scent of the half bottle of brandy he had already consumed that day. “An old title and rich. Quite a trophy for the fortunate young lady who snabbles you, sir!”

The term seemed somewhat vulgar for polite converse but was ignored in the mouth of a duke, the more because he was one’s host. Perhaps he had meant to say ‘snaffles’, the polite suggested.

They paused in the entrance to the ballroom, glancing about them to see if there were close acquaintances to greet. Simon spotted one familiar face and made his way around the floor as the waltz ended and the gentleman and his somewhat clumsy lady retired from the fray.

“Major Baker?”

“Sturton, how are you? You will not know Miss Patterson, Lord Elkthorn’s daughter.”

The introduction made, they retired to a table at the side, taking glasses from a passing waiter.

“I hear you have been a busy man, Baker! I am envious of your distinction, old fellow!”

“Luck, Sturton. No more than that. I will admit to far preferring the Army to the senior service. I could not get the hang of the sea.”

“You have certainly made yourself at home on land, sir!”

“The old story – the right place at the right time. I have seen reports that you have been busy too, Sturton. The Navy doesn’t exactly give away its DSCs!”

“As you say, Baker, mostly luck. Posted to the Harwich Patrol, we are in business almost every week. Had I been sent to Scapa, then it would have been polishing the brasswork and nothing else, day in, day out.”

“True enough! I am back here at the depot for the while, counting down the days to get back where I belong. It can be shocking tedious, living in the depot and counting beans all day long. I was told you have made captain of your destroyer, Sturton. Rapid promotion for the Navy!”

“Yes, surprising, ain’t it? Of the four of us, I did not expect to be called skipper first. Poor old McDuff went down with Good Hope, of course, and you went off to do better things in the Army. That left Adams, the golden boy of us all.”

Major Baker explained the circumstances to Miss Patterson, the four midshipmen aboard the same dreadnought in 1913 and how their paths had diverged.

“What’s Adams doing now, do you know, Sturton? Aboard a flagship still?”

Simon shook his head and glanced about, the picture of the man with scandal to tell. He noticed that the young lady leaned forward to listen to his words, in process brushing close against Baker and staying there, to his obvious pleasure.

“Don’t know the detail, old chap. All kept very quiet. Somehow Adams – of all people – put his foot in it! I don’t know what he did, what the story is, but he has been dumped into the most undistinguished of postings in the Med. Something about being put aboard hired minesweeping trawlers to be their navigator!”