Andrew Wareham: End to Illusion

“Then what are they to do?”

“Nothing useful! They simply make up the numbers and wait for something to happen. Nothing will. The trench has superseded the cavalry, ma’am. The machine gun makes them irrelevant in the open field. I saw them in August and September – charging over open ground and losing nine men out of ten. The only thing for the cavalry to do is to dismount. They are irrelevant.”

“Will they not come into their own when the trenches are broken, sir?”

Richard shook his head.

“Why should they? A single machine gun behind a hedgerow will destroy a whole troop. The Germans have never less than ten machine guns to the battalion. The cavalry might possibly rout an already broken battalion – but, if it is already in disorganised retreat, what gain is there in that?”

The music ended and Miss Patterson thought she should return to her mother.

“She does occasionally remember that I am here, Major. Do come with me and be introduced – it will give her something to talk about.”

Lady Elkthorn smiled her second-best at the unknown young gentleman bringing her daughter to her. He was, she saw, a major at an early age, but he had only one meagre piece of ribbon to his chest.

“Major Baker, Mama.”

Richard gave a half-bow.

“Your Ladyship.”

“How do you do, Major Baker? Thank you for bringing my daughter to me.”

A smile and Richard accepted his dismissal, spotting Colonel Braithwaite across from him and joining him.

“Who was that you were talking to, Baker?”

“A Miss Patterson, sir. Daughter to Lord Elkthorn. The mother has just given me my marching orders.”

“And is getting her ear well bent by her daughter, by the looks of it! Don’t know them. Family is old enough. The last lord made pots of money out of the Witwatersrand, I am told. Visiting in South Africa and was on the spot when the boom started. Millions, they say, and the family still owns mines there.”

“I gather the present holder of the title is a member of the government – a junior minister of some sort.”

“Be the normal thing – throw twenty thousand into party funds and show willing, ‘services to the State’, that sort of thing, and the viscount is made into an earl after a few years. I see the good mama to be showing apologetic. Any money you like the daughter will manage to bump into you again this evening, Baker. Pretty little thing.”

“Clever with it, sir. Pleasant company.”

They dismissed Miss Patterson as Braithwaite spotted another acquaintance and introduced Richard.

He went down to supper with a somewhat older lady, a Mrs Joyce, on his arm, together with Mrs Sanderson and the Colonel, making a quietly joyous party. They danced again afterwards.

Mrs Joyce made it clear that she regarded Richard as her conquest and ensured that he took the last dance with her and escorted her from the floor and downstairs to her taxi, joining her in the cab as they were going in much the same direction.

He left her apartment much later in the morning, smiling contentedly. Mrs Joyce waved him off, also with a happy grin.

“Don’t call, Dicky dear! I will make contact if I can discreetly. There is a chance my husband will be coming back from France. I might send him to you for lessons, however. He writes that he must consult with the War Office, the cavalry being used insufficiently at the moment. He seems to be of the opinion that they should be brought forward one dark night to make a great charge in the dawn and overrun the Hun in their trenches.”

Richard laughed.

“Can he jump thirty yards of barbed wire entanglement to get into the trenches? If not, he will be as unsuccessful as we were at Neuve Chapelle!”

He slept a few hours and then left his room to wander through Oxford Street to replace items he had lost on campaign. His pocket watch had been smashed at Neuve Chapelle and he wanted something sturdy in steel.

There was literally everything he could imagine on sale in the stores – the war had evidently had no effect on the production of luxuries for the wealthy. He was tempted to purchase some of the special items developed for officers going out to the trenches. There were insulated flasks that would keep drinks hot which struck him as a particularly good idea – but he would not display his good fortune in front of the men and could hardly buy one each for the battalion. He laughed as he saw a display of armour plate, designed to be worn under the army tunic, guaranteed to protect against the machine gun bullet. At a guess there was thirty pounds weight of steel to carry and no protection below the waist or above the shoulders. Not practical for running through a muddy trench or across no-man’s-land. He had doubts as well whether it would actually work – a high velocity round could penetrate a depth of metal.

He bought a petrol lighter of a new model with a windshield that would protect the flame in the open air as well as the watch he needed.

The salesman in Harrods extolled the watch, almost the last of its sort in stock.

“German made, sir. Best quality steel, the case.”

“Krupp quality, no doubt.”

“Exactly, sir. The finest craftsmanship in Europe.”

“So I have noticed.”

The gentleman behind the counter belatedly discovered tact.

“There are a number of English and French watches in our stock, sir…”

“No. This will do me. Don’t wrap it; I shall wear it away. My last watch was lost at the front – possibly destroyed by the makers of this one.”

There was a deal of talk in the papers, Richard mused, but people in civilian life seemed hardly to notice the war. It was having no obvious effects other than to remove numbers of young men from the streets.

He returned to camp the next day, relaxed and made ready for hard work by his venture into High Society. He wondered in passing if he would meet Miss Patterson on the following weekend when he went up to Town again. He hoped as well that he might meet Sally Joyce, or one of her equally attainable friends – she had assured him there were several ladies who were pleased at the freedom the war had made possible.

“Finished with engines, Chief.”

There was an acknowledgement up the voicepipe and Simon stepped back, taking a final quick glance around the destroyer. They were tied up alongside at Dunkerque, in the inner harbour used by the small ships, the half-section together. A seaman was trotting down the quay from Blackbird, a messenger, the simplest means of communication in harbour.

“Beg pardon, sir. Oil in turn, tomorrow, sir, forenoon. Make up stores, sir. Half-section to sail after dark, sir. Exact time to be given when known, sir.”

“Very good. Thank you.”

The section had developed the method of sending orders by word of mouth, not even written, when at anchor or tied up. It seemed that flag signals could be read by civilians, possibly spies. ‘There was reason to suppose’, said the Senior Naval Officer, that Dunkerque was ‘riddled with spies’.

Spy-catching was a favourite game in the wardrooms, officers habitually peering into the sugar bowl or milk jug to ensure no spy was hiding inside.

Simon called his officers to his cabin, passed the message to them.

“Looks like more of the same, gentlemen. Twenty-four hours in harbour. Is all in hand? Number One?”

Eldridge had only a minor issue.

“Two seamen to go ashore to medical examination, sir. Twist fell and hurt his elbow, sir, when we crossed the current off the outer minefield, the roll took him by surprise.”

Twist was a new hand, eighteen years old, the greenest of the green and not particularly bright. He had been aboard for two weeks. Everything took Twist by surprise.