Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

They made their thanks and Richard asked the identity of his battalion.

“It’s being called a Bedfordshire Battalion, though it has no actual connection to the county. Convenient for someone’s plan of organisation in the War Office, I expect. Might be in compliment to you, of course. The Eighth Beds you have, Colonel Baker.”

“I did not realise there were already seven others, sir.”

“Four here; two in the trenches; one on its way to Gallipoli. Be thankful that’s not you, Baker!”

“Is it as bad as they predicted, sir?”

“Worse! Once the Navy had cocked up the Dardanelles the sole sensible course was to pull out. They could have offered the troops to the Italians in their fight in the Alto Adige or to the campaign they are thinking about in Salonika or simply have sent them across to France. Anything rather than continuing to waste lives on a campaign that is doomed to failure. Don’t take a clever man to see that landing an army into a mountainous and waterless wasteland ain’t a sensible idea. Bloody Churchill! Man was born stupid and hasn’t improved with age! Believes in fairy tales, if you ask me. Not to worry! Your reliefs will be here with effect from tomorrow at nine hundred hours. Handover/Takeover tomorrow and off the premises after a final dinner. Work out how you are going to go about it today. Anything else? Must rush – I am supposed to be in the War Office for two o’clock.”

Braithwaite spoke up.

“For your information, sir. I expect to be married, special licence, next week, now we have the opportunity. You know my brother died in France a couple of months ago? I have inherited and instead of being a poverty-stricken younger son I am the owner of a tidy little estate and a reasonable income. Couldn’t get married on my old income. Can now and shall, sir.”

“Well done, Brigadier. My best wishes go with you. What of you, Colonel Baker? Saw you with Elkthorn’s girl, didn’t I?”

Nothing went unnoticed in Mayfair.

“You did, sir. I had just arranged to take a week’s leave to discuss my affairs with my father and seek his permission for a marriage. I have not spoken to Primrose yet and would appreciate some discretion for the while, sir.”

“Best she should hear from you not from some gossiping old bugger of a general, Baker? I agree. Mum’s the word!”

“I danced with a Miss Atkinson as well, sir. Was that the general’s daughter?”

“Yes. She was there. Wouldn’t want her for my son – not my idea of a young woman.”

“Nor mine, sir! I did not know that Primrose was, of course, until I spent some time with her. Got her head screwed on right, even if not in the ordinary way!”

“Never spoken to her, Baker. I wish you joy with her.”

“Thank you, sir. Do we know who is promoted in, sir?”

“Major and captain out of the Fourth Battalion, keeping it in the family. Don’t know either man, myself. They are on their way back from France today.”

No official announcement was made that day; long ears in the offices had heard all that was said and the changes were known to the whole battalion within the hour.

Sergeant Major O’Grady entered Richard’s office and requested a few minutes of his time.

“Is there a chance that I could be transferred to the 8 thBeds, sir?”

“No, ‘Major. Couldn’t be done officially. However, a request might be made on compassionate grounds, due to your old mother being located in Devizes and on her deathbed. An exchange might not be impossible. If it can be done, it will be, I assure you. I will speak to Brigadier Braithwaite now.”

“Sure and I’ll pack me bags now, sir. Between the pair of you many things can be organised, I am sure.”

Richard went next door, where Braithwaite was frantically bringing his paperwork up to date.

“O’Grady? He’s Irish! How does he have a mother in Devizes?”

“Easily, sir, being as we want him to.”

“You’ll get us both hanged, Baker! I’ll speak to Fotherby. What do I tell him when he asks the real reason?”

“The truth, sir?”

“Not in the Army. Bad habit to get into! Might have to… A damned good leader of men provided he is cared for properly. A hopeless, violent drunk if he is left on his own. Add to that, Colonel Baker wants him and Baker is still very young and needs a hard man to back him up. It might just work… I’ll buttonhole Fotherby at soonest.”

“Fotherby will do it on compassionate grounds, Baker. He requires a letter from a padre to back up his file.”

“A padre? Military chaplain sort of thing?”

“That’s right.”

“Never seen one of those, sir, except on Sundays when they have church parade, which I always duck for being too busy. Anyway, isn’t the padre a Church of England sort? I know O’Grady is a Catholic; must be, being a Sinn Feiner.”

“Is he? That I did not know!”

“I don’t think he’s too serious about it. From all I gather, it’s an excuse to thump Proddies on high days and holidays. Paisley is on the opposite side and is of the same persuasion – most of the time it adds a bit of fun to boring lives. Just occasionally it gets political and then the bullets fly.”

“Bloody Irish! If it wasn’t that it would be taken over by the French or the Germans we should give the place independence and get the Paddies off our backs. They would still sign up to the Army, needing the wages. Where were we? A padre, that’s it. Better I should do that, Baker – you might not know how to deal with that sort. You can’t shoot them or blow them up, you know!”

Richard managed a sickly smile.

Two days later he sat in his compartment on the short journey up the line to Kettering. He had a headache from the Mess farewell of the previous evening and was not at his best. Paisley was back in the Third Class carriages with his baggage and he wondered how his father would react to his son appearing with a servant in tow. If need be, he would put him up in the hotel in Kettering, though that would be embarrassing.

They found a horse and carriage at the station, motor taxis all off the road for lack of fuel and the absence overseas of their mostly young drivers. An ancient pensioner was making a living with a geriatric nag, both just capable of the mile out to the house.

“Mr Richard! Do come in, sir. Is that your personal man behind you, sir?”

The male servant, not a butler for lack of training, was old now and poor of sight.

“I shall put him up in the quarters, sir. There is space there due to two of the maids going off to the factories that pay so much better, sir. Mr Baker is at the works, sir and Mrs Baker is laid down for her sleep. Your sisters are both in the house, sir.”

“I shall go through then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paisley followed, heaving the suitcases and the trunk into the hallway.

Victoria appeared, drawn by the protracted noise at the door.

“Richard, we did not know you were to come home.”

“Sudden change of orders, Vicky. I am promoted and have my own battalion, the Eighth. I am to take them over next week. For the while, there are matters to discuss here.”

“Oh, well come in and sit down, Richard. I shall call for tea. Is that a soldier I see?”

“My batman, Paisley. He is assigned to my service now. As a colonel, I must maintain a little state.”

“Colonel! I did not see… How do you become a colonel at your age, Richard?”

Victoria was very much the big sister, wondering just what her little brother had been up to.

“I am uncertain, my dear. I wish I knew.”

He followed into the bigger drawing room, found Alexandra cutting out a dress on the big table.

“Where are the pins, Vicky! I have lost the pins!”