Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

“The captain’s steward, perhaps, sir. He will be at a loose end as well, will have to fit in as a wardroom waiter, perhaps.”

“Why did he not go with the captain when he left?”

It seemed very poor behaviour, to leave one’s servant behind.

“I believe he had fallen out with the captain, sir. Disapproving of his behaviour, sir.”

“You know the story? Out with it, man!”

The Doctor told all. Captain and first lieutenant had become firm friends, which was not too uncommon, had gone ashore together for the evening, had drunk more than was wise and returned to the ship in company with a pair of ladies of the night, had proceeded to make hay in the cabin.

The story had reached the Commodore’s ears and the two officers had taken the trains to Scapa Flow, there to join the complements of separate battleships, their careers no longer glittering.

“From captain of a new light cruiser, acting commander, to lieutenant commander and head of a department in a battlewagon, sir – one of many and most undistinguished! The lieutenant, of course, suffered less, still being within reason senior and with a chance of promotion.”

“Silly of them. Small wonder that the crew are not too upset – envious, if anything!”

The engineers appeared, solid men, knowing their own worth.

“McKechnie, sir. Lieutenants Crowe and Jarvis.”

“Please be seated, gentlemen. I will not ask you of your engines, Mr McKechnie – I doubt I would understand your reply. What sort of speed can you give me?”

“A fraction in excess of twenty-eight knots for two or three hours, sir. Twenty-six for two days unbroken. Fifteen days at a cruising speed of fourteen knots. Very reliable, sir, the engines they have given me.”

“Good. I shall try to inform you ahead of any violent manoeuvring. How are you for bodies?”

To Simon’s amaze, the engineroom was up to complement and had the correct skill levels as well.

“Room for a youngster to train up, that’s all, sir.”

“Any of your ERAs who could make the step to a commission, Mr McKechnie?”

“One, sir.”

“Good, bring him on and I will strongly support your recommendation. We need new bodies.”

The subs and midshipmen were as expected – brightly polished and silent in the presence of the Captain. They also took two minutes apiece.

“That’s done, Mr Strachan. Shall we inspect the ship? Did you hear the tale of the previous owner, by the way?”

Strachan was much entertained, though disparaging of their foolishness. Not the sort of behaviour that could go unnoticed in a naval base such as Harwich.

“Might get away with it in Dunkerque, sir. Not here.”

“Get away with a lot of things across the Channel, Strachan. As you say, unwise here. Upper deck first, beginning at the stern. Have you ever seen a depth bomb? Do you have any idea what to do with them?”

Strachan shook his head. They adjusted their caps and moved out, in command and knowing everything, ready to look with supercilious eye at the new weapon and to imply they understood all. Captains knew all there was to be known, by order.

“Had a good Christmas, Baker?”

“Surprisingly enjoyable, sir. Served the men their meal, sir, in the old way, at thirteen hundred, when they eat, the officers acting as waiters and finding enough bottles to make every head spin! Had a damned good dinner ourselves in the evening. Hawkeswill managed to get hold of geese and chicken as well as some good roasts of beef. Don’t know how he did it – didn’t ask – best meal I have had in a year! Put him to bed roaring drunk – I think we all of us had a glass with him!”

Brigadier Braithwaite was pleased for them – that was the way it should be done, the old way of the professional army, bringing officers and men together.

“New year’s gift has come my way, Baker. I have been made – I am a major general now. On my way back Home tomorrow to take over a division of the New Army. Several of us old hands being sent back from Flanders to give some much-needed experience, train them up prior to coming out in May.”

“Congratulations, sir. Who is to take over?”

“No idea – haven’t been told. Doesn’t matter to you, Baker. You are coming back with me, as a brigadier – acting, not substantive. Wartime promotion, of course. You have been made substantive as a major, that’s as low as you can fall when the war ends – which it is expected to within three months of the New Army being unleashed on the Hun!”

“One of the ‘boy brigadiers’, sir.”

“Yes, dearly loved by the gutter press. The newspapers will be full of it – your photograph being trotted out again with all of the normal nonsense. The ‘Hero of the Bridge’ and all that tosh – you will have to put up with that again. Take command immediately, shake them up as necessary, give yourself four weeks at the end of February, thereabouts. You will need a good leave, man!”

“A wedding as well, sir, with your permission.”

“So I thought. Granted on condition I receive an invitation!”

“Consider it done, sir. Where do we go and when?”

“I shall pick you up, staff car and lorry for baggage, zero eight hundred hours precisely, in the morning. Off to Calais and we should reach Aldershot by evening. Take over next morning. Your Major Vokes has the battalion, acting colonel. You may inform him at soonest. You have permission to take a lieutenant with you for staff. Your own choice.”

“Not bloody Wincanton, that’s for sure, sir! Michaels, I think – make a change to see a staff lieutenant with a piece of honest ribbon on his chest.”

“Excellent! In the morning, Baker!”

Braithwaite hung up and left Richard wondering what to do first.

“Paisley!”

The batman appeared, trying to look as if he had not been eavesdropping.

“Put up sergeant’s stripes, Paisley. Can’t have a mere lance corporal as batman to a brigadier!”

There was no reason in Regulations why that should be so. Paisley was not about to argue.

“Pack up ready to move at eight tomorrow. Send the word for Major Vokes, please.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll put up the three stars, sir.”

Major Vokes came in at the run.

“What’s up, sir? Flap on? Are we sent back up the line early?”

“No. You are to take over the battalion, acting colonel. Put the rank up with effect from breakfast tomorrow. I am to be made a brigadier in the New Army, under Braithwaite as major general. I don’t know his replacement. I am to take a lieutenant with me as staff. I thought Michaels?”

Vokes quickly assumed the gravest of expressions, shaking his head solemnly.

“I am sure Wincanton would be better suited to the function, sir. A fine, upstanding young fellow and at home in Society as well as in the Army!”

“Balls, Vokes!”

“As you say, sir. I will be unhappy to lose a man of Michaels’ stature, sir. Easily the best of the subalterns. A fighting man, through and through.”

It was a fair point. Taking Michaels away would to an extent impair the battalion. The loss of Wincanton, on the other hand, might go a way to improving their efficiency.

“I owe the battalion a favour, I suppose… Very well. Inform Wincanton of his good fortune and make sure he is ready to go in the morning, Vokes. Pack his bag and hold his hand for him, I would suggest.”

“I shall pass the word quietly. The appointment will be much favoured – I am sure that all will agree he will make a good staff officer.”

“You mean he is utterly useless and only marginally qualifies as a member of the human race?”

“Precisely, sir! Just what one expects of the breed.”