Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

Richard shook his head.

“I trust you will all appreciate the sacrifices I have made for this battalion, Vokes. My congratulations, by the way. In my opinion you are more than capable of leading a battalion. I had, in fact, previously recommended that you should go back to Blighty, to take over a New Army battalion. Staying here in the 8 thwill be better for you and for the men. With your agreement, I shall inform the Mess tonight before dinner.”

“A good idea, sir. Sensible to inform them all in the evening rather than expect them to understand anything at the breakfast table. What of the RSM, sir?”

“O’Grady? I cannot take him with me, can I?”

Richard’s knowledge of the Regulations was far less than Vokes’. He had no years of peacetime service behind him, had had no opportunity to peruse The Book and discover all of its wrinkles.

“It is possible, sir. If you need to establish an administrative cadre then a senior warrant officer could head the new organisation. Not as a sergeant major, as such, but at equivalent rank.”

“I shall speak to Braithwaite.”

“Sir, I am told that I may need a warrant officer to set up my administration, run my offices for me.”

“I wondered when that would occur to you, Baker. Strictly speaking, it cannot be done – you should look for a body on a Home posting, unfit for service at the Front. In practice, all things are possible when a general and a brigadier wish to fiddle them. I understand that O’Grady is a reformed character, has forsworn the booze?”

“He has become a model of all that a soldier should be, sir. I will be pleased to have him at my shoulder when we come out in May.”

“Let it be so. I shall arrange the papers for our party. Yourself, Michaels and O’Grady together with your batman, I believe.”

“No, sir. Major Vokes fell down on bended knee before me, begged that I should not take Michaels from him. He is far the best of the subalterns for his aggressive spirit, I must admit. Wasted on the staff. In exchange for suggesting that I take O’Grady, Vokes offered me Wincanton.”

“He, of course, is ideal for the position, being utterly useless as a soldier. I shall put his name in place of Michaels.”

Wincanton was called to the colonel’s office, found him there with Major Vokes. He stood to attention and saluted, remembering to use the right hand, wondering what he had forgotten to do.

“Back to England for five months, sir, as your staff? Oh, please, sir! My father will be so delighted, sir, especially that I am working to you, sir!”

Richard hid his distaste. He thought he disliked Wincanton’s father slightly more than the son.

“Be ready for eight o’clock in the morning, Wincanton. If you are so much as one minute late, I shall go without you and find a replacement in England.”

Wincanton swore he would be on time, early in fact, and ran off to find the servant he shared and make a nuisance of himself while the man packed for him.

Sergeant Major O’Grady came next.

“If you wish, ‘Major, you are to be my warrant officer in charge of my brigade’s office. Aldershot until May, when we bring the New Army across to France.”

“Thank you, sir. Working to you will keep me happy, sir. I shall require one day to gen up my successor in the battalion. I can then make my own way to Aldershot, sir, given the papers and travel warrants.”

“See Mr Hawkeswill. He will deal with all of that.”

O’Grady saluted and marched out, nodding to Paisley as he left.

“Why, Paisley?”

“Never said it, sir, and don’t know nothing. He can’t just walk out, sir, without handing over the deals to Jim Crowe what will take over. Jim’s not the senior sergeant, but he’s the one they reckon is best. He has to take him to the rear and make him known to the right people, sir. Can’t leave the battalion without its supplies, sir.”

“You mean the gin and vanrouge and fresh bread and cheese that turns up every week or two?”

“That’s right, sir. The stuff you don’t know nothing about. Don’t grow on trees, do it?”

“How does he pay for it, Paisley?”

Paisley put a finger to the side of his nose, the sign that he was not actually saying anything, was not to be quoted.

“Got his store of souvenirs, sir. From the trenches we took at Loos. He puts them to his middleman and they go to the docks and back to England. Good money for them there. Helmets and belt buckles and those Lugers get most. Any sorts of badges fetch a few bob. Bayonets as well. Rifles, if they can get them across – a bit big and bulky, they are. German paybooks sell as well, especial if they got a bit of blood on them. I know they want one of them Parabellum machine guns, if they can get hold of one, but they’re much too big a risk, so the ‘Major thinks.”

Richard was amazed at the almost industrial scale of the black-market activities. It was none of his business, however. Officers had a blind eye to turn – he must use it.

“Who buys the stuff, do you know, Paisley?”

“Not as to say ‘know’, no, sir. From what I hear, and from who I can’t say, it is men in reserved occupations back in England. You know the sorts, sir – ‘Nothing I want more than to go out and do my bit, but my job is too important. They won’t let me go!’”

“So they collect souvenirs and a few years after the war ends, when the memories have faded, they will have the stories of how they ‘happened to pick them up’ during the War.”

“That’s it, sir. Going to be an awful lot of heroes, twenty years from now.”

“Still, you will always be able to tell who was actually over here, Paisley. They will be the ones sat at the back of the pub with nothing at all to say. Too many memories to need to shout their mouths off!”

“Might be right at that, sir. The more the bullshit, the less the action as a rule, sir.”

The docks at Calais were better organised than Richard remembered and full of Military Police. Despite their rank, the pair of officers and their two staff lieutenants had their papers checked three times before reaching the boat.

A sergeant was willing to speak rather than grunt a demand for ‘documents’.

“Pass through, sir. Officers to the first gangway.”

Paisley and Braithwaite’s man looked about for porters, reluctantly carried the luggage aboard themselves.

“Don’t allow any spare bodies near the ferries, sir. Keep an eye on every man working here.”

“Deserters?”

“Pick up a few every week, sir. Some of them with good papers, too. Had a captain come through last week, sir. Everything right except the travel warrant – bit smudged on the name and the date where he had borrowed somebody else’s and changed them a bit. Not very happy when we took him in charge, sir. Said he had swapped with a pal who didn’t mind waiting a few more weeks. He wasn’t doing any harm, he said. Just wanted to get back home and see the missus. So do we all!”

Braithwaite was intrigued – it was not the behaviour of an officer as he understood it.

“What will happen to him, Sergeant?”

“Up to the court, sir. Any we pick up here go to a court automatic, like. That’s the rules. No chance of getting a wigging from their colonel and getting extra duties. Being as he is a captain, sir, I reckon the court martial won’t be soft on him. Expect better of an officer, sir, especially one what’s got a company. Shouldn’t reckon they’ll shoot him – they’ll find Absent Without Leave, not Desertion, being as how he was going to come back again. Break him, for sure, sir. Private soldier and stuck in an infantry battalion at the Front. No leave until the war ends and then a dishonourable discharge. No chance of promotion. No nothing.”