Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Commander Murchison has made it clear that you played a major part in his victory, Adams. He has been promoted and decorated. I cannot recommend that for you, as you will know. What I can do is offer you a second chance, Adams. Nothing great – the Admiralty will not tolerate it – but I am sending you to Black Prince, sister ship to Connaught, as you will know, as second to the Navigator there, still as a lieutenant. A year there and you can perhaps be promoted and will at least have a service record that will permit you to return to England. You will still send your papers in at war’s end – can’t do anything about that. You have a Mention – should have been a DSC but that is not possible. You will be able to make a respectable life as a civilian now, Adams. Commander Murchison says you can sail with him on the fisheries, if you wish. You would become a skipper in a couple of years, he says.”

Christopher made his thanks, refusing the offer of a fishing boat.

“I am not that fierce a man, sir. Nor that skilled a sailor.”

The Admiral did not approve – no sailors could be as skilled as those of the Royal Navy.

He left the office on his way to Black Prince, his life turned upside down again. There was hope for a future now. Not in the Navy, for sure. He could expect to make a single promotion if the war lasted more than a year. A lieutenant commander was respectable, gave him back his name; he could be accepted in Society and in the City. He whistled as he strode out along the quayside.

The battalion marched back into camp, almost all together, backs straight, rifles slung, heads up, singing their version of Tipperary.

‘It’s a long way to tickle Mary…’

The rest, Richard mused, was not for officers to take notice of.

“Looks good, ‘Major. Stragglers?”

“Just four, sir, in the wagon. One of them you would not believe, sir. Stepped aside to make water in the ten minutes break and splashed onto a wasps’ nest, sir. All stung and swollen, the poor lad!”

They tried not to howl with laughter.

“We can accept that as legitimate excuse for dropping off the pace, ‘Major. What of the other three?”

“Two blisters and one had a skinfull of beer last night and could not be marching this morning. O’Rafferty and Smith Four, the blisters, both from their boot soles cracking under their feet, poor fellows! The quality of the boots we are issuing, sir, is terrible poor!”

“Take them to Doctor Pearce and then to stores, ‘Major. The poor lad with wasps as well to the sick bay – who was that?”

“Prendergast, sir. Who else would it be?”

The boy had joined from grammar school where he had been a star pupil. He was distinguished for his mastery of the classics; unfortunately, he had shown himself better suited for the library than the field.

“True enough – if there is to be an accident, it will happen to him. Can’t mark him off as unfit to serve, but he will be our first casualty, almost for sure, poor fellow. He walks around under a cloud of ill fortune! What of the drinker?”

“Davies, sir, C Company. Welsh, from the valleys, look you. Never fallen off the wagon in his life before, never touched a drop of the demon rum, poor lad. Went into town with the platoon last night and was tempted. Took a whole three pints of best bitter, they said, before he was falling down drunk.”

“Take him to one side and have a quiet word with him, ‘Major. We ought to give him toco but I don’t know I could keep a straight face. Give the platoon a rollicking for leading him astray.”

“Yes, sir. The battalion is ready, sir. We could take them out to Flanders now.”

“I shall speak to Brigade this morning, ‘Major. What of the officers? None of them fell out, I trust?”

“Almost all present and correct, sir. Second Lieutenant Mayhew collapsed coughing up blood before we reached the gate. He is at the Doctor’s still. Most of them made a show of outmarching the men. All except Major Templeton, that is, sir, who dropped out at the main gate as we left camp, sir.”

And that was the next job for the morning, Richard reflected; Templeton had not completed more than a mile of a single march. He entered the offices and found Templeton sat down at his desk. The tabletop was empty, nothing there other than a blotter with pen and ink laid out. He was obviously intending to leave, never to return to the premises – difficult for a serving officer, unless he had a premonition of death.

“There is a letter on your desk, sir. Permission to withdraw, sir?”

He was definitely not coming back. Let him go or place him under medical care?

The man was a damned nuisance, a hindrance reducing the everyday level of efficiency of the battalion.

“Permission granted.”

The letter was long and rambling, basically accused Richard of being ungentlemanly in forcing the Major out of the battalion and leaving him with no useful purpose in his military existence. He much trusted that Richard would be ashamed of himself. It ended on a pathetic note.

‘I have donated my small savings to the Mess Fund. My possessions may go to auction for the same purpose.’

“How very melodramatic! Sergeant Cooper!”

The administration sergeant came in at the run, alerted by Richard’s tone.

“File this letter. Then go across to Major Templeton’s billet and do what is necessary. Read it.”

Cooper, aware of Richard’s contempt for his major and prepared for upheaval, glanced through the letter. He would maintain discretion, mentioning its contents only to his closest mates; it would be known throughout the battalion inside the day.

“Topped himself, sir! Must have if he’s given his money away. Better here than in France, sir. Damned nuisance, sir! I’ll speak to the Doctor and organise a coffin… Better go across and make sure he hasn’t changed his mind, sir. Be a right old mess if I indented for a coffin, majors, for the use of, and he hadn’t shot himself!”

Richard turned to the telephone, had a brief conversation with Brigadier Braithwaite while he waited. He could ask for a replacement for Templeton – even the threat of suicide was sufficient to get rid of him.

Sergeant Cooper had nothing to worry about. The Major had done all that was necessary and had been considerate enough to use a small bore target pistol borrowed from the range to avoid the mess a service revolver would have made.

“Very tidy, sir.” Doctor Pearce was inclined to approve. “Up through his ear and into the brain pan, the little round rattling around inside the cranium and stirring the brain up in its passing. Very thorough and little blood. Most competent thing I have seen him do, sir.”

“The only competent action in his existence, I suspect. Have a word with the padre, will you, Doctor – persuade him it ain’t really a suicide and he can give him a military send off. Keep it tidy. What about young Mayhew?”

“On his way to the hospital outside Salisbury, sir. I suspect something to do with the lungs, but it could be a ruptured ulcer, though he is young for that. Might be damage to the trachea – and I have no idea what could do that. I do not think we shall see him again, even if he lives, and that I am uncertain about. Pity – he seemed a pleasant lad.”

“Yes, he would have made a competent subaltern.”

There was no other obituary, no mark of the boy’s passing – he was gone and the small hole he left must be filled.

The Brigadier came onto the telephone.

“Got a replacement for you, Baker, for the Major. I am looking for a second lieutenant, but that should be easy to find. The Major is from India, wounded and sent home and recovered on the voyage and anxious to see the war. He will join you on Monday. You will entrain on the Thursday following for Salisbury and Southampton Docks. Should be in France for Friday afternoon and in transport up to the line on Saturday. You are taking the weekend, are you not?”