Andrew Wareham - End to Illusion

“Then they will benefit from a shake up, Paisley. Pass the word around the officers’ servants to make ready for the trenches. Tell them what they need. Some of them will listen to you. Who is out in the offices?”

“Empty, sir. They shut up shop for two hours at lunchtime. No admin staff present at all.”

“My word! That will change, Paisley. Can you send word to ‘Major O’Grady to see me when he can?”

“Saw him just now, sir. He’ll be waiting for you outside. They’ll keep his meal hot waiting for him.”

“Good. Ask him to come in.”

O’Grady appeared, formal and precise as always on duty.

“Empty offices, sir?”

“Have a quiet word with them, ‘Major. Not what we expect in a battalion in its last stages of training.”

“Nor it is, sir. I shall bring everything onto top line, sir. I started on Friday and Major Templeton told me not to be a nuisance in the offices.”

“His mistake, I believe, ‘Major.”

“So it is, sir.”

“What are the men like?”

“Drill is good enough, sir. Too little time on the range, though that may be for lack of rounds to fire. Marches have been made without packs but with rifles.”

“That’s in hand. What of your NCOs?”

“The sergeants are mostly older men with time served, sir. No problems there. The couple of youngsters were made up in France and know what they’re doing. The corporals are about half and half and there are a few of them will not be keeping their stripes and some who will be rising quickly. As for the lances, all of them are new men in and rewarded for showing well in their training; most will make full corporal and quickly. All in all, sir, I am satisfied with them.”

“Good. If the NCOs are good, then the battalion will be too. Any Wincantons among the little boys in the Mess?”

O’Grady laughed and shook his head.

“I have seen nothing of them over the weekend, sir, the officers not expecting to be in camp on Saturday and Sunday. I do not know, sir. One or two seem a little awkward in their ways from what I have seen. Might be willing but no experience of any sort, none of these Cadets for them. Could be a problem in the Mess, them as have been to the right schools and them as attended the wrong.”

Richard knew better than to ask what O’Grady had heard – if he was saying no more, he had his reasons.

“With a different major, I might not be too worried about that. Major Templeton will be joining us on the route march on Thursday. Full packs and rifles, ‘Major. Have a word with your sergeants and make sure every man knows how to settle his pack on his shoulders and can carry his rifle as he should.”

“Stockings and boots too, sir. Sick parade first, sir?”

“Provided too many do not take the opportunity to avoid marching, ‘Major.”

“There might be one or two who will need to be brought slowly to a full march, sir. A special squad to do five miles morning and afternoon for a few days and then slowly increasing. Some of the youngsters are awful skinny still.”

“I shall leave that to you, ‘Major.”

There was a clattering of chairs in the offices, two or three men making a point of being present.

“That’s better! The word must have reached them that I expect the telephone manned at all times of the day.”

They opened the door and saw a sergeant at the outer desk and occupants in the Major’s and Adjutant’s offices.

The sergeant jumped to attention, bare-headed and unable to salute.

“Sergeant Cooper, sir.”

Cooper was at least forty, settled into the offices away from the hustle and bustle of active training. Provided he was still willing to work, it was the best place for a man with more than twenty years knowledge of the Army and its ways.

“Make sure the office has a man present from seven hundred to nineteen hundred hours, Cooper. Arrange meals with the kitchens. That is to include weekends, of course. We shall be working straight through most weeks.”

Cooper noted the order, giving it a date and time in the official log he kept.

“Do you record all telephone calls, Cooper?”

“Yes, sir. Time and duration and number called, sir. We have our own sort of switchboard, you might say, sir.”

“As it should be. Inform Brigade that I am present in the camp and have assumed command.”

“Sir.”

The Mess Sergeant arrived, carrying a covered plate, a waiter behind him with a tea tray.

“Into my office, if you please, Sergeant. You look better in a uniform!”

“At your orders, sir.”

Richard laughed, accepting the rebuke that said the sergeant had previously been obeying other commands.

“New face, new orders, Sergeant. Will you accompany the battalion to France or are you posted to the Mess and our replacements here?”

“Battalion, sir.”

“You will join the HQ Company when it is formed. No messes in the trenches.”

“Yes, sir. I was BEF in August, sir, and marched to Ypres, was sent back wounded from the Salient.”

“Good. Your experience will be welcome, Sergeant. Sergeant Major O’Grady will discuss your future with you.”

O’Grady relaxed a fraction.

“Might be a better place than the Headquarters Company for an experienced man, Sergeant Atkins, provided you are fit for the front line.”

“I was shot in the leg, ‘Major. I was not up to marching when I was sent here. I am now.”

“Sure, then, Atkins, I can use you better than in the Mess. We can replace you with one of the creaky old men.”

Richard stepped back into the office, accepting he had been wrong in his first assessment of the sergeant. He wondered whether he had done an injustice to Hawkeswill and Templeton as well, overhasty in his meeting with them. He doubted it but decided he must give them the opportunity to show better. He picked up his sandwich – ham and pickle, not the bully beef he had expected – and poured his tea wondering if he had been nervous and short-tempered on entering into his new responsibilities.

“So tell me Quiller, what’s wrong with Lancelot?”

Quiller had seen Lancelot over several months.

“She’s the Jonah – go out on patrol in company with Lancelot and you’ll see nothing and be hit by an unexpected storm. Add to that, if she’s out on her own then she’ll lose crew members over the side or have men fall into open hatches overnight or simply trip and break a leg to a rogue wave. On the rare occasions she has been in action, she has hit nothing and been caught by random fire and lost men. Walk along the dock and pass her mooring and a seagull will crap on you – honestly!”

Simon shrugged – bad luck happened but there sounded as well to be a little of slackness. Perhaps that was why she was getting a new captain. Pity the First remained; he would make his mind up about him, dump him if necessary.

“What’s her coxswain like?”

“Old for the boats. Best of seamen, started under sail, of course, been everywhere, done everything. By way of being an intimidating sort of fellow, so they say.”

Nothing to say there, until he had met the man. If the captain had been even a fraction on the weak side then the coxswain might have been allowed too much power, might have changed from a figure of authority to being an overbearing bully.

He could not ask about the first lieutenant, not in the mess on the depot ship that they all shared.

“Taking some of your own men across, they tell me, Sturton.”

“Gunner, sub and my new mid. Mr Rees is one of the best and the youngster, Waller, comes from a yachting family in Hamble.”

He said nothing of Higgins, the absence of comment noted by his dinner companion, another half-striper from a flotilla of the new M Class boats, larger and immeasurably superior for having a closed-in bridge with glass to protect the officers from cold and sea.