Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

Jeremy was almost distraught, felt that his father’s commands were unreasonable.

“I say, sir, I didn’t take a seat to work for my living, you know!”

“That has changed, dear boy! If you wish to keep your current generous allowance, you will do as I damned well tell you! You are spending five thousand a year on your little pleasures at the moment. Fall into line or that will become five hundred!”

Jeremy was silenced – five hundred would hardly pay his quarter’s tailors’ bills and he must not fall into excessive debt as a Member, particularly in wartime when the House was setting an example of austere national virtue.

The morning’s newspapers trumpeted the raid on a brothel in Mayfair and deplored the disgusting behaviour of the wicked women there, though saying nothing of their blue-blooded customers. There was no doubt that those arrested would feel the full force of the Law.

The Home Secretary stated that he was much disturbed to discover houses of ill-fame in the centre of fashionable London. He assured the House that the Metropolitan Police, the only force in the country under his direct control, would be taking great pains to ensure this new corruption was extirpated from the capital. Those Honourable Members present in the chamber chorused their support for such measures and three of them sought audience with the Speaker.

The trio announced their desire to withdraw from their seats and were instantly granted ‘offices of profit under the Crown’, a fiction that disqualified them from membership of the House of Commons, it being impossible to resign one’s seat. The younger two, new backbenchers and unknown, said they were no longer able to sit in safety in London while better men went to war and they were to seek commissions. Mr Speaker applauded their zeal and said that he would be pleased to pass the word to the War Office that they must be posted to the trenches as soon as they had joined their regiments. They would be in France inside the week. They showed delighted faces on hearing that.

The third was an older gentleman, in his forties and portly, not the sort soldiers were made from. He was to devote his time to his fields – the country needed food and it behoved every agriculturalist to do his utmost to provide it. The Speaker gravely agreed.

None of the three were ministers and their departure from the House went unnoticed and unrecorded by the Press.

“Excuse me, Major Baker! I really must have a word with you, sir.”

“Come in, Mr Wincanton. Briefly, I am busy this morning.”

The second lieutenant entered the office, considered taking a chair, chose to stand in front of the awe-inspiring young major.

“It’s not good enough, you know, sir!”

“What is not, Mr Wincanton?”

“The attitude of the Sergeant Major, sir! I am an officer and he is one of the men – and Irish, to boot! I do not expect to be rebuked by such as him, sir!”

Richard felt his hackles raise. He turned in his chair to look Wincanton square in the face.

“Do you not, Mr Wincanton? Fancy that! Tell me, why did Sergeant Major O’Grady choose to rebuke you?”

“I do not consider that entirely relevant, sir.”

“Do you not? Do you bloody well not?”

Richard allowed himself to lose his temper, to bellow, to explode in outrage, was satisfied with the result. The very young gentleman almost cringed, took a step back in horror as he roared.

“When I ask a question of the most junior of officers, it is because I believe it to be relevant! And my opinion is the only one that counts in this office, in this battalion, in this bloody barracks, for that matter! Why , Mr Wincanton, did ‘Major O’Grady rebuke you?”

Mr Wincanton, not yet nineteen and four days in the battalion, recoiled further and answered in a very little voice.

“He said that I was setting a poor example to the recruits, sir. I was no more than walking past the drill square, sir.”

“And how were you walking, boy?”

“I do not know what you mean, sir.”

“Do not force me to ask the ‘major for a formal report, Mr Wincanton. I have no wish, yet, to wheel you before the colonel and request a court upon you for conduct unbecoming. I shall do so if it seems to me that you lack officer-like qualities. You are hovering on the verge of becoming a private soldier, Mr Wincanton!”

“But… All I did was to walk past on my way to the Mess, sir. For morning tea. It is that time, sir. I was not quite looking where I was going and walked between the ‘major and the company he was drilling.”

“Is that all? You say you ‘walked’, Mr Wincanton. Why did you not march when you were in sight of a company of green recruits? Why did you not look where you were going? Is your tea more important than the training and discipline of new men to the ranks?”

“My father is a Guards captain, retired and now active in the House of Lords, sir. He has always told me that officers do not march like private soldiers.”

“That of course, is perfectly correct, in the Guards, Mr Wincanton. We are not the Gentleman’s Sons. We are a professional regiment with a long history of success in war. We do not look pretty in front of Royalty – we fight! Our officers are not mere gentlemen! We are fighting soldiers. At all times. The Guards fight well on the occasions that they are called to battle. We are ready to fight all day, every day. Our officers march when in uniform and in sight of their men. You will do the same. To assist you in remembering that, Mr Wincanton, you will shadow the Officer of the Day each day for the next two weeks. When you are proficient in all that the Officer of the Day must do, then you will become Officer of the Day for the thirty days thereafter. You will become very popular in the Mess, Mr Wincanton, for saving other officers that tedious but important function for the month. Now, get out of my office, find who is officer of the day and arrange to observe all he does! There is a duty list on the Board.”

Richard went next door to the Colonel’s office.

“Good morning, sir. Rather poor bunch of new second lieutenants, sir. What sort of training do they get before coming to us?”

“For most of them nothing, Baker! No Sandhurst these days. From school direct to their battalion, provided they pass their interview at the War Office. All they need do is offer a birth certificate – which can easily be forged – and display a straight back learned in their Cadet days at school and answer a few simple questions, mainly designed to show that they are gentlemen born. ‘What wine do you take with fish’, is a favourite, I am told. If they do not know the answer is ‘white’, they won’t fit into the Mess, so they say. If they can claim to have ridden since childhood, so much the better.”

“And that is it?”

“For most, yes. Some few will have experience as a Territorial. A number from the Empire, I am told, will have been members of a militia in their colony. A very few will come from the ranks, but they will normally be known already, promoted in their own regiment. There are some older men as well, returning to uniform after sending in their papers a few years ago. The overwhelming bulk are juveniles who have left the classroom and believe they have become men. Which one did I hear you shouting at?”

“Wincanton – snotty-nosed brat! Complaining that a mere sergeant major had torn him off a strip for walking across a company under training on the drill square. Then he had the audacity to inform me that his dear papa was a peer and a one-time Guardee!”

“What a foolish little fellow that one must be! Too inexperienced to be made officer of the day for a month, I would say.”