Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“When will the announcement be, Adams?”

The Commander was at his jovial best, ho-hoing mightily.

“I wonder, sir, what’s the chance of a posting to the China Station?”

“None, you young dog! You have made a conquest of the dear girl and she is yours to claim. A duke’s daughter, no less! I am surprised you do not have a gold-plated sextant!”

It was a heavy joke, was met with much approbation. The officers could not imagine that a duke was other than rich, envied his good fortune.

Iron Duke came in later in the week and the Black Princes were invited to drinks. Admiral Jellicoe spotted Christopher, enquired of his well-being in the kindest fashion.

“Hear I have to congratulate you, Adams! Blair’s daughter! One of the best families.”

Christopher sent a letter to his father, informing him of the circumstance, received an immediate response, the Mail service still good.

‘Congratulations, my son! Not a suitable naval wife. In many ways ideal for a businessman. Blair’s daughter can open many doors to you, more even than I can. As I remember, she is a bonnie lass – take the plunge and ignore the lack of dowry, we can make up for that.’

He went ashore to speak to the Duke that afternoon, his fate sealed.

“Communications trench finished, sir; it runs into the second line opposite your bunker. We shall be using the existing trenches between first and second line, sir. I am keeping the Chinks for another day to cut out more dugouts for us in the front line, sir; being the German second line originally, it needs some modifications. A few hundred coolies can do a quicker and neater job than our men.”

“Very good, Hawkeswill. How do we stand for latrines?”

“We don’t sir. We sit.”

Richard found a laugh, though he would have preferred to strangle the man. He could not stand jolly humour.

“Point taken, Hawkeswill. We are some distance from the facility we used previously, are we not?”

“Half a mile, sir. Not good for a dysentery case. Mind you, ten feet can be too much then. I shall look for a closer site. Not easy, sir. Needs be secluded, not in direct line of sight for shellfire.”

It would be a target that no gunner could resist.

“Appalling thought, Hawkeswill. What you might call a sitting target, eh?”

He thought he might as well join in the infantile humour.

Hawkeswill found it funny, guffawed mightily.

Richard was almost ashamed of himself. The man had turned himself around under pressure at the front, had shown a surprising, pleasing, degree of competence, the narrow-mindedness of years of peacetime garrison service sloughing away and disclosing a soldier rather than a parading mannikin. It was a pity that he still disliked the man.

“Do what you can, if you can.”

“Engineers are due today, sir. We are to have electricity. Light in some of the bunkers and power for drainage pumps. More efficient than the petrol motors, they say. Signals are putting in field telephones this morning. Line to Brigade and another direct to the battery of eighteen pounders on call for our part of the front.”

“Useful to be able to call for support, Hawkeswill. Quicker.”

The Adjutant shook his head.

“No, sir. We can inform artillery of the target. Permission to expend shells has to be obtained from Division. Too short of rounds to waste them, sir.”

There was nothing to say. The comments were all too obvious.

“Lucky it’s no better on the German side, sir. Takes them just as long to set up new shell-filling factories and chemical plants to make the explosives as it does us. Neither side will be able to fire freely before Christmas, sir.”

“Oh, good! We can give each other presents!”

Hawkeswill smirked.

“Heating for the dugouts, Hawkeswill. Are we still using coke?”

“No. Supplies of coal are available, sir. I am doing what I can to build up a stockpile before hard winter comes in. Rules from Division – probably from Corps, in fact – are that fires can only be lit when the temperature falls below forty degrees Fahrenheit, sir. The sole thermometer is in my bunker. In my cool room, to be fair, as I have an oil stove of my own.”

“Your storeroom is ten feet deeper than the rest of the trench, is it not?”

“Yes, sir. Had it deepened to protect my stocks from casual shellfire, sir.”

“What’s the normal temperature in there?”

“Oh, about thirty-five, sir. I would expect it to vary little from that, summer or winter.”

The old Army had its ways, Richard knew. Mostly they were concerned with obeying every rule of military existence, except where they were inconvenient.

“Right. Do we need any coal stores dug while the Chinese are here?”

“No, sir. Did that yesterday. Set up a space for battalion small arms ammunition as well, sir. They have a few good carpenters among them, built racks for us.”

“None of my business, I expect, old chap… How did you fiddle that?”

Hawkeswill tapped his nose.

“Old dog knows a few tricks, sir. You dropped the knapsacks when the men made the assault on the line. That left a greatcoat on each. We lost forty-five dead and thirty seriously wounded – eight of them died since, by the way, sir – and a round dozen of walking wounded who had to go back for a dressing and were held for a day or two. Eighty-seven packs recovered, each with a greatcoat cut and bloodied in action and needing to be replaced, which has been done, sir. Each had a pair of spare boots, also lost in action. Their personal effects have all been sent to next of kin or held pending their return to the battalion, of course. As a result, I had an amount of warm clothing to offer the labour battalion, who have been kept short of their issues. There were also three days rations in each of those packs, recovered and officially destroyed as spoiled, sir. Together with a few other items available in my store, sir, we had more than enough to give the Chinks in exchange for the few extras requested.”

“Well done. I would not have known how to do that.”

“There’s a right way of going about everything in the Army, sir. If you know the wrinkles, that is. We old hands have a few uses, sir. Most of us, that is. One or two – well, a few more than that – are no use at all. Have you had word of Captain Draper, sir?”

“Brigade confirmed that he took ship from Marseille. Desertion if he had not – too big a risk for him to take.”

“He’ll be working out how to swing the lead, I don’t doubt, sir. If he can’t go sick, he will probably volunteer for the general’s staff when he reaches Mombasa.”

Richard shook his head.

“Fotherby knows the general from a long time back. They served in South Africa together and then were in the same garrison in India a few years later.”

“Best way of doing it, sir. The word will go out and Draper will be a marked man. He will be right out at the front for the whole campaign with the medical officers tipped the wink to kick him out of the sickbay whenever he turns up. I could almost feel sorry for him.”

“Could you?”

“No, not really, sir. No use for the yellow, sir. First officer I have ever seen who was shy. Rare among the men as well. Might be a few if conscription comes in. ‘When’ rather. It’s due from January, is it not?”

“Yes. Don’t like it. If a man’s not willing to sign up as a volunteer, what use will he be as a conscript? It’s a bad idea. You watch – we will find all of the dregs of the gutters sent out and proud volunteers having to mix with criminal scum in their companies and platoons. Utterly unfair on good men to dump the trash on them! We have already been told that the bulk of conscripts will be sent out as replacements, not as new battalions.”