Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

Major Templeton was offended.

“I think, Colonel, that we might discuss that with our new brigadier.”

“I can assure you that Braithwaite will support me when he returns from his honeymoon. I attended his marriage last week, by the way, having become close to him when he commanded me in France. General Fotherby is also not unknown to me and Lieutenant General Atkinson is an acquaintance. I believe that I am instituting a policy they will thoroughly agree with.”

The Major considered his own influential contacts in the hierarchy and realised he was much outgunned; continued protest must result in his own downfall.

“I shall inform all officers of your orders tomorrow, sir.”

“Don’t bother, Major. I shall tell them myself in a few minutes. Now then, what is the state of preparedness in the battalion? Have we any of the new Lewis Guns? Is our Vickers party fully up to scratch? What of the Aid Post? I believe we have a Medical Officer due to join us – is all ready for him? How do we stand for warlike stores? What is our ammunition reserve?”

“The appropriate officers will inform you of all of these things, sir.”

“They will not! I expect my second in command to have all of this information at his fingertips. In my office for one o’clock tomorrow, Major – thirteen hundred hours, that is, we shall use the twenty-four hour clock exclusively from now on – and give me a full briefing then. Now, let us meet the Mess.”

The officers were waiting outside, had heard a raised voice and were now uneasy, shuffling from foot to foot in silence. Major Templeton called them in.

Richard stood silently, surveying them as they came in and stood formally to greet him.

“Thank you, gentlemen. Please be seated. Smoke if you wish.”

Templeton remained at his side, standing as the thirty-two officers sat, having first turned their chairs to face their seniors.

“A number of points, gentlemen, as is inevitable when a new man takes over. First of all, I will be taking you to France in four weeks from now. Thirty or so days from today will see us taking over a section of the trenches. There is some expectation of another push this autumn which we may be involved in. We must be on top line within one month. I do not know you yet, as goes without saying, and I do not know how many of you have experienced the trenches yet. Hands up if you have, please.”

Three captains and one lieutenant raised an arm.

“Just the five of us who have been there. That suggests that we all have much to do to make the men ready for all they – and we – will face. Four intense weeks, gentlemen.”

He watched to see who nodded, who scowled, picked out four of the older men, three captains and one lieutenant, sat together and looking unhappy. It was possible that they did not associate the Army with hard labour.

“First of all, we are infantry. Foot soldiers. We walk.”

He stopped and smiled at the hopeful few second lieutenants.

“We have no use for horses and will march everywhere. Using our own feet. Officers will remove their horses from the camp with immediate effect. That is to include polo ponies and such. The battalion will be indulging in route marches from the end of the week. Fifteen miles in five hours, the normal procedure, rifles and sixty pound packs. All officers, with the exception of the doctor and the quartermaster, will accompany their men. That, you will note, includes me.”

He kept a carefully straight face as the bulk of the men present registered horror. They could not protest or question him – that would have been insubordination – had to content themselves with severe frowns.

“Mess fees, you will be pleased to know, will be set at no more than one half of an officer’s pay in his rank. Many of the younger men joining us have no private income – nor need they have! They are answering their country’s call, not joining an expensive club! That will take immediate effect. I would point out that in the trenches there are no mess facilities. Officers generally eat the same food as the men, taken in their dugouts. I hope you like mutton stew and bully beef, gentlemen – you will eat a lot of it in the next months.”

There was open incredulity on the faces that had not been to war; the four who had seen the trenches grinned and nodded.

“Finally, gentlemen, training! There will be very little of the drill square – never more than an hour a day – and as much time on the range as possible. The ability to parade is unimportant. Shooting straight and fast is vital.”

The older men shook their heads – soldiering to them was the drill square and parades.

“I shall speak to you all individually over the coming week and will tell you more of all I expect. I will demand that you know your men, obviously, and will require you to make a list of all those fit for early promotion – we will need to replace sergeants and corporals frequently, I suspect. As well, I will need a list of all those who can be commissioned. There may be battlefield promotions to fill gaps in our own ranks; there will certainly be the opportunity for worthy men to return to depot for a brief period of training before coming back to us as officers.”

He nodded to Major Templeton and walked out, leaving a roar of variously outraged voices behind him.

“My office, please, Major.”

“It is close to luncheon, sir.”

“So it is. Have a snack sent across for me when you have shown me where I am.”

“It is not our habit to eat informally, sir.”

“Wrong tense, Major. It was not your habit to do so. Tea and sandwiches will do. The Mess Sergeant should have changed by now. He can bring the food to me, in person.”

“Yes, sir. Your office, sir.”

The room was bare, its cupboards and filing cabinet empty.

“I shall speak to the adjutant, of course, to arrange for the reports that must come to me. Go to your luncheon now, Major Templeton. Send the captains to me from thirteen hundred hours, at half-hourly intervals. I shall see the lieutenants individually tomorrow and the second lieutenants on Wednesday morning – they should require no more than ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. What of me, sir? Am I to be interviewed?”

“No. I have discovered enough of you, Major. Will you be capable of a fifteen mile march on Thursday?”

“I have not marched so far in years, sir.”

“Then, Major, the answer lies in your hands. Brigade will look favourably on a request from you to be transferred to a sedentary post. I am sure that there will be a military prison, for example, that requires an assistant commandant.”

The offer was an insult, posts in military prisons being reserved for the least competent and most disliked of officers.

“Thank you, sir. I shall march!”

“Very good. Be sure not to fall off the pace. The officers must set the men an example.”

Templeton turned his back and stamped out, unable to trust himself to say more. Richard debated bringing him up for indiscipline, decided there was no need. With even a little luck, the old drunk would have a heart attack on his first march, bringing all of his troubles and problems to an end and much to the benefit of the battalion.

Paisley knocked and entered, having no need to wait for permission when he knew there was nobody else in the office.

“Your bags are in your quarters, sir. Got the windows open and airing the place out – been unused since it was built, there being no colonel here, sir. Two rooms and a bathroom, sir. Good enough for a single officer, sir. Place to sleep in and that’s all. Not like a proper camp, sir, just built rough and in a hurry. Spoke to the Adjutant’s sergeant, I did, sir. Looks like they been taking it easy, all the old, peacetime people, sir.”