Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Sorry!”

Godstone shook his head.

“Not your fault, sir. I did not ask what their education had been although I did admit to not having played cricket or rugger. That seemed to condemn me in some way.”

Willoughby confirmed Godstone’s comments – he had been there and had heard them.

“Oundle, Rugby and Stowe between them, sir. I mentioned that I had attended Eton and they seemed rather sour. I think that two of the three would have gone up to Oxford. Wincanton had the intellect to sit his terms at a university but had a problem with idleness.”

“I was Dartmouth, of course, so I know little of the schools.”

“We know that, sir. ‘The seasick sailor who chose to march to battle’ – I suspect we all read those headlines, sir.”

Godstone had not been in a position to read English newspapers.

“I saw the press in New York, sir. They are covering the war, of course. You don’t look too much like the photographs, sir.”

“Photographs? In the American papers?”

“Very much so, sir. All of the England supporting papers made a splash of your medal, sir.”

“Good God!”

They laughed and left the room, deciding the interview was over.

“Numbers are up, sir. We now have eight hundred bodies in the battalion again.”

“Good. We shall not have a second major – a shortage of experienced officers, I am afraid. Makes it easier in some ways, Baker. We do have a doctor. Young Sankey has been sent back to England and appointed to the battalion, at his request. He took a bullet himself, it would seem, the day after we were pulled out of the line. Exposed himself bringing a man in over the front of the trench. Wiring party hit by random shellfire and he went out to bring the wounded in.”

“Well done the doctor! Recognised, I trust, sir?”

“Military Cross.”

“As it should be, sir. Was he much hurt?”

“Grazed across the buttocks, being bent over to lift the wounded man up.”

They laughed – there was something funny about being shot in the bum.

“Not a scar to display, sir.”

“Not quite, Baker!”

“Useful to have a man who knows his way about the field of battle, sir. What is the position regarding orderlies, sir? Are they supplied by the medical people or are they ours to provide?”

“RAMC supply them. In effect, the doctor is attached to us rather than part of the battalion. Makes it simpler in many ways – he does his own administration.”

“Gets one load off our backs, sir. How do we stand for three-o-three rounds, sir? We must fire live and far more frequently than at the moment.”

“More should be arriving any day, Baker. The shortage of munitions is on its way to being solved, I am told. More factories opening literally every week. Rifle calibre ammunition will be in full supply from this month. Artillery rounds are still far too few, and the Navy is fighting us for them. Bloody sailors! Sit up in their tin castles at Scapa Flow and do nothing of use to anybody!”

Richard was not inclined to disagree – he had little love for the Senior Service.

“Still, up to Town for the weekend, Baker. You are invited to the Duchess’ ball, as you know. Right that you should be, too. Room at the Dorchester and I shall pick you up for eight o’clock. Best bib and tucker, ribbons not miniature medals – they fall off when dancing. Of course, only the one ribbon in your case, but the best, eh?”

Richard managed a smile. The ball was to be his introduction to Society, something necessary to his future, assuming he survived the war.

The ball was set for Friday night. Richard left Bedford in the early afternoon, Paisley properly in company bearing suitcases and forcing his way into the crowded third-class carriages. First-class, to the front of the train, closest to the barriers at St Pancras when they arrived, was less full although there were no empty compartments and he was forced to share with two other officers, a pair of captains, who had joined the train earlier in the journey. They had glanced at his medal ribbon and surrendered the most comfortable corner seat without prompting, sitting only after he had settled himself.

They journeyed in silence. It was not done to address oneself to other passengers on a train and the pair did not wish to disturb the hero with their chatter.

It was possible to discover a taxi at St Pancras, provided the driver wished to take one up. Most passengers used the Tube or an omnibus. A porter led Richard directly to a cab. They waited for Paisley and permitted him to join his master in the vehicle. It was not the way things should be done – wartime demanded its sacrifices.

“Dorchester, guv.”

The elderly cabby smiled his thanks on receiving a tip equal to the fare.

“Thanks, guv. Give them Huns one for me, guv!”

It seemed a particularly stupid comment to Richard but he smiled and nodded nonetheless. He did not want to show grumpy in front of the Dorchester’s porters. Menials talked and reputations spread rapidly, or so Colonel Braithwaite had warned him. He was to behave himself when in public view.

“Gossip, Baker! The more prominent the figure, the more he is talked about. Make sure they have nothing to say on the bad side. The least slip will be magnified and made much of. Precise, quiet and sober, the last especially! You have a choice, you know. A man as prominent as you can either be a grave, polite, not unfriendly figure or a roaring boy, up to all sorts of rigs and rows and roistering through Society. Wiser far to be the first sort! Wild men are too often pushed into wild places! The roaring bully-boy is a nuisance in the end and is sent off into more and more danger until eventually he is mourned in his hero’s grave. The serious-minded man receives more respect and is valued, promoted, used properly. You are too able a young man to waste your substance in high living and drinking and womanising, Baker!”

Richard thanked his senior for his advice.

“I will be a duck out of water in Society, sir. My father is the fourth Baker to own the ironworks and that is the whole of my ancestry. The red of iron runs in my blood, not the blue of the aristocracy!”

“I know, Baker. I do not care! Neither will any person of value. The old ways are passing – I much hope, at least. You will enter Society at my shoulder – and my family is more than respectable, I will have you know. I can call cousin with no fewer than three peers of the realm on the two sides of my family. I will introduce you and they will offer their protection. If they accept you, then so will the rest. In any case, your father has money, and that goes a long way to offset any minor faults in your birth!”

Richard was entertained by the final comment, wondering just how true it might be.

Colonel Braithwaite appeared within the minute of his time, as was to be expected of a military man. He gave Richard a brief glance and nodded.

“We make a fine pair, Baker. Colonel and his senior major from a fighting regiment. Both of us to be valued by the ladies, of course. I am of marriageable age still – in fact, I am looking for a wife, Baker. I had the word just an hour ago that my older brother is no more. Damned fool was a Guardee in his youth and returned to service. Died in France yesterday – how, I don’t know, for he was staff, of course. Probably drank himself to death or picked up with a young tart who was too much for him to handle – all the staff do is drink and whore, as far as I can see! Ten years my elder. Fifty-five – just the age to have a heart attack. No title but not a small estate and I must do something about it, I suppose. Known I might have to for years but my younger brother married fifteen years back and has two sons so the name can’t be lost. However, now that I have inherited, might as well do the job properly with my own son to follow me.”