Andrew Wareham - The Death of Hope

It was harsh, for sure, but the man had shown unreliable – an officer who could do that sort of thing could never be trusted again.

“You did well to spot him, Sergeant. Do you think any do get through?”

“I’m sure they do, sir. Get a battalion going Home on leave, the private soldiers just flash their paybooks. Provided you’ve got a paybook for the right regiment, you’re through. Can’t really check them. They get wet and muddy, no matter how well the men look after them, so the writing can easily be a bit smudged and you can’t argue with five hundred men, one after another. No, it’s the clever ones we catch, sir – the bright sparks who forge an officer’s papers and warrant and get hold of the correct uniform and come through on their own. We had a major, so called, last month. Everything right except he didn’t have a batman and was carrying his own valise. When we checked, his battalion had never heard of him. If he’d had enough sense to come with a mate, carrying his bags, he’d have got away with it.”

They chuckled and walked up the companionway and into the first class lounge, exchanging salutes with a few leave officers and taking seats at a spare table. A steward ran with drinks and sandwiches, apologising that it was not like the old days, they had to make do, he feared.

A Military Police lieutenant appeared soon after they cast off, checking all papers, very politely but firm in his insistence.

“Brigadier Baker? Ah, yes.”

He showed recognition of the name, nodded respectfully.

A final check at quayside in Dover followed by Customs, disappointed that their bags contained neither bottles nor tobacco. An hour and they were aboard the train to London, slower than in peacetime but still nonstop, reaching Charing Cross in the early afternoon.

“How do we get to Aldershot, Paisley?”

“Waterloo, sir. Need taxis to get across. If they still got them.”

There were no taxis, all off the road due to a temporary shortage of petrol, a not uncommon event. The Army had a transport office and found a tender to take the senior officers the short journey across the south of London.

“Majors and below take the omnibus, sir. Or the Underground. More senior officers are granted transport. Batmen and baggage have to use the same vehicle, sir.”

A Scammel lorry, space on the bench seat in the cab for the two senior officers, baggage, batmen and lieutenants up in the tray.

“Undignified, Baker!”

“Better than a bus, sir, crammed in among the civilians.”

Braithwaite shuddered at the prospect. He preferred his civilians to be kept at arm’s length.

“Have you ever used a bus, Baker?”

“Only when we went to war in August, sir. We all took buses across from St Pancras, if you recall. Used one again a couple of months later.”

“That’s right. I remember now.”

The lorry crawled into Waterloo, walking pace because of the mass of bodies, all in khaki. The platforms and forecourt were jammed with men, all with their rifles and kitbags.

The driver nodded at them.

“All them going to the east part of Salisbury Plain comes here, sir. Them going across to the west use Paddington Station. Hell of a lot coming down from the North and going to Aldershot, sir. Looks like the New Army is all being brought together, sir. Special troop trains coming down from Catterick every day, sir. Thing to do, sir, is to get hold of a redcap and have him lead you through to the ticket office, sir.”

The driver whistled and waved to a corporal, beckoned him across. The policeman stiffened at the sight of a general accompanied by a brigadier, a sufficiency of rank to drop him into deep trouble if they were offended. He spotted the splash of colour on Richard’s breast, saluted rigidly, immediately willing to assist fighting officers rather than the mass of Home Front warriors he saw more commonly.

“Four officers for Aldershot, Corporal.”

“Thank you, Driver. I will take them from here.”

All very formal, Richard saw, approvingly. They were in public, should be making the correct show.

The corporal beckoned to four of his men, brought them to his front to act as escort, ploughing their way in a straight line to his destination.

“Warrants, if you please, sir.”

First class tickets appeared in less than five minutes, together with third for the batmen.

“Not running second class no more, sir. Put the men with your bags in the guard’s van, sir. Be safer there, the bags, that is, and more comfortable for the men than jammed in with some other battalion. Guard will have the kettle on as soon as you pull out.”

The corporal headed for a standing train, double-checked it was bound for Aldershot, ushered the pair into a crowded carriage immediately next to the dining car. He put his head into a compartment containing a major, two captains and three lieutenants, all happily comfortable and pleased with themselves for grabbing a place where they would have a chance of eating, could certainly get a drink.

“Beg pardon, Major. General and Brigadier and staff require seats.”

They stood reluctantly, knowing that they would not find another compartment, would have to push in where they could, the lieutenants certainly standing all the way. There was a quick elbow in the major’s ribs, eyes turned meaningfully to Richard’s chest. Salutes followed.

Richard heard their voices as they stalked down the corridor.

“Bedfordshires. Got to be Baker. Made brigadier! Man can’t be thirty yet, by the look of him!”

Braithwaite showed amused.

“You look older than your years, Baker. What are you actually?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

Braithwaite whistled.

“A Boy Brigadier indeed! Not the youngest, even so. Close to, must be.”

Wincanton and Braithwaite’s man were staring open-mouthed, neither having realised Richard’s age.

“Not to be discussed, I think, gentlemen!”

They hurriedly agreed it was not a matter for public debate.

The train remained in the station for half an hour, finally heaved itself out onto the mainline and pottered off towards Hampshire, occasionally reaching express speeds, more often chugging along at thirty or so miles an hour. Sometimes it stopped, for no apparent reason, out in the middle of the winter countryside, barren and empty.

“Silver birch – miles of them, Baker. Lovely in spring. Bleak at this time of year.”

Richard agreed – he had no knowledge of the countryside, accepted the trees to be silver birch from the colour of their bark. He was far more interested in the steward who appeared at the door.

“Not got no restaurant service, gentlemen. Can do ham sandwiches and tea, if you wants.”

The bread was the previous day’s but the tea was strong and welcome.

“Four o’clock, Baker! Damned near three hours for a journey that used to be eighty minutes at most!”

There was transport at the station, waiting on the offchance of senior officers appearing, a common enough event at the largest depot in Britain.

The problem arose of which of a dozen messes they should be taken to.

“Beg pardon, sir. Enquire at the guardroom will be best. If you are due today, you will be on a list.”

“War Office orders are to report today, soldier.”

“Shouldn’t be no problem, sir.”

Reaching the gates, the sergeant of the guard turned his men out for the general officer salute, was left wrong-footed when he spotted the VC, which took precedence.

“Beg pardon, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

The familiar words brought comfort, giving the sergeant the choice of action to take.

Formalities complete, he looked at his list.

“Major General Braithwaite; Brigadier Baker, VC. Staff officers. Waterloo Mess, gentlemen, overnight. You are to go out to the barracks at Arborfield, near Reading, in the morning, sir. Your Division has been brought together there. Transport for nine o’clock, sir.”