Andrew Wareham: Falling into Battle

“Even so, sir. Not quite the thing for a gentleman.”

“It is for a gentleman who wishes to live, Presteigne.”

“What do we need to look out for in the field, sir?”

“Your men! The men do the bulk of the fighting. You are there to assist them to do their work. Feed them; supply them with billets; care for their health where possible. Other than that, simply show yourself as present and sharing their risks.”

It was not the concept of leadership that they had been taught previously, but they were not to argue with a company commander, particularly this one.

Lunch was taken semi-formally, officers waited on at table but not expected all to sit at the same time, as was the case for dinner. It was a lighter meal and unaccompanied by official alcohol, though Richard noticed a number of officers to have glasses with them.

“Watch the drink when in the field, gentlemen. Very easy, I would think, to take a nip or two to recruit the spirits, as one might say.”

The afternoon disclosed that fifty out of the sixty-one in the draft were new recruits, joined up since the outbreak of war.

“Means they are unlikely to be riflemen of the quality of the old professionals, gentlemen. My company could rattle off twenty aimed rounds in a minute, firing from behind cover. Eighty men producing that rate of fire will stop any attack. It does mean that you must have ammunition to hand. Sixty rounds is simply inadequate. The men must have twice that and as much again sat in the company reserve, and a damned sight more at battalion.”

“Regulations, sir?”

“Are of interest to generals and such. They are none of our business. Our function is to kill Germans and keep our men alive by any means available.”

It was very puzzling.

“What of the eleven of experienced men? Why have we got them? O’Grady, I asked for – he looks like a valuable rogue. What do you know of the others?”

Nothing it seemed – it had not occurred to them that they should. Richard explained that they had been transferred from other units and probably thrown out as incompetents or troublemakers. He knew what he would have done had he been asked to pass over some of his men.

They examined the personal records of the ten, particularly their crime sheets.

“Seven with repeated drunkenness; periods of confinement as well as the normal stoppages. Watch them for carrying bottles in their packs. Other than that – they will not find much to drink out in the fields of France. What of the other three? One with two charges of theft against him; one habitually insubordinate; one ‘indecent conduct’. What does the Army define that as, I wonder? Do you know, Willoughby?”

The man who had passed out of Sandhurst in peacetime was more familiar with Army law.

“Yes, sir. Very rude behaviour, sir. Generally with other men. It normally receives a long sentence and dishonourable discharge, sir.”

Richard took another look at the sheet, saw that the charge had not been proved; it had gone to court martial and had been dismissed there.

“His company officer seems to have disagreed with the court, sir. He could do nothing about it though.”

“He is innocent, until proven guilty. What’s his name? Coles? Watch him!”

They nodded gravely.

“We shall put these ten into different platoons where possible. Split them up and tell their corporals to keep a close eye on them. I don’t like having a known thief in our ranks. I shall warn our sergeants and they can have a word with the corporals.”

Again, they nodded.

“How many are marksmen? What of other skills?”

They promised to find out.

They parted to dress for dinner, entered the mess anteroom together.

All of the depot officers were present, had clearly been instructed to turn up a few minutes earlier than normal. The adjutant of 2 ndBattalion called them to attention and led them in the salute.

Richard was taken by surprise, as was the intention, responded awkwardly. There was a general laugh and the colonel commanding the depot presented him with a double Scotch.

“Welcome, Captain Baker!”

Richard smiled and raised his glass to the throng, which was, luckily, the appropriate response.

There was no further reference to the decoration - the Regiment had made its respect clear.

Richard followed his orders in the morning, driven down by staff car and arriving at the Palace a little before the stated time and being taken to the waiting room and joining the fifty or so there for the investiture. To his horror, he was the sole VC of the day and was therefore put firmly at the front of the assembled party, awards being granted in their own precedence, not in order of the recipients’ rank. There were three generals to receive the DSO, all in line behind him and making a show of pleasure at his prominence.

“As it should be, boy! Well-earned from all I hear. You honour the whole Army.”

It was a ridiculous burden they had placed upon him. All he had wanted was to force his father to keep him in idle comfort for all his days and now he had to live up to the medal they had given him. Richard went to meet his King with a scowl on his face – interpreted by all present as a plain man’s discomfiture at being forced into the limelight.

He stood with his family for seconds afterwards before a sleek staff officer ‘borrowed him for a few minutes’ and placed him before a bevy of photographers and then allowed reporters to ask him questions, all of them obvious and easily answered. It was over inside half an hour and he was returned to the bosom of his kin.

His normally bumptious father was almost overawed by the occasion.

“They made us stand in a group together and took a picture of us, boy! ‘The proud family’, that’s what it will be in tomorrow’s papers! I’ll put an order into the newsagent when we get back to Kettering! All of them, and the Sundays, too. Are you still for France on Friday?”

“Those are the orders, sir. I won’t be able to get back to Kettering before then, so I must make my farewells here and now, sir.”

“So you must. You’ve done better nor I ever hoped of you, Richard. Showed me I were wrong in writing you off. Don’t go killing yourself trying to do more! Had some sort of general stop and say a few words while you was stood in front of the cameras. Sensible old bloke, he was, said you must not let them stick your head on the chopping block, doing the impossible because you’ve got the ribbon up. He’s right. Do your best but come back home again.”

His sisters kissed him goodbye, tearfully; his mother was too busy fumbling with a hatpin to do anything more and was rather surprised when she was ushered into a cab to return to St Pancras station.

“Oh! Has he gone? Is it all over? You must tell me all about it, girls!”

Richard was put back into the staff car and returned to Bedford, ‘for his own good, he should not be let out in London on his own for a day or two’. His face was in all the newspapers and he would be made enthusiastically welcome wherever he went. Wiser not to be visible.

The draft set out on Friday, covering the distance to the station at the formal march pace and ignoring the cheers from the shoppers they passed in the streets. Their train was on time, mostly because it originated in Bedford and had had no opportunity to be delayed. There were two buses waiting for them and they crossed London quickly and were pushed aboard the first available troop train and decanted at Dover Harbour and pointed up the brow of one of several ferries and troopers waiting there.

It was all very quick and efficient.

“What does this say to you, Willoughby?”

“Jolly good organisation, sir?”

Richard grinned and shook his head, playing the part of the older, wiser man.