Noblesse Oblige
Book Three
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling
By:
Pete Bruno & Henry Hilliard
(© 2014 by the authors)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's
consent. Comments are appreciated at...
Chapter 3
Into the Land of My Dreams
A day of blessed normality—or rather an interlude with the illusion of normal life in this wartime—began with Glass bringing the early tea to Martin and Stephen’s room. Both boys knew just how fleeting this almost painful reminder of a life now past might be, but to dwell on it or to even give it voice would somehow diminish its blessing. Besides, life rolled on whether you thought about it or not and the routine of tea was inextricably bound up with existence whether on the Western Front or in Piccadilly.
Stephen sat up brightly as was his wont while Martin uncoiled more slowly in the bed, which looked rather like the landscape along the Somme. Carlo came in shortly afterwards and prepared the bath and laid out their uniforms, which had been cleaned and pressed during the night.
“Carlo, I think we better dress the Captain’s shoulder after we have bathed him,” said Martin who turned to Stephen and added: “Derby, I want you to see Sir Thomas Barlow today,” he said, naming the King’s physician who had been a witness to his late brother’s will. “I want him to look at your wounds and check you over. You don’t have to go back to him again if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll be alright, Mala, I don’t need a doctor.”
Martin was prepared for this. “You could also ask him about what could be done for your two legless sergeants—what are their names—Swane and Louch?”
“Well, perhaps I could. Thanks, Mala, I imagine it can’t be easy getting an appointment. I must send a message to my Stepfather and Miss Tadrew first. You haven’t told them that I’m home have you?”
“No I haven’t and they’ll be very worried, but Derby, don’t send a telegram. Since you’ve been away people dread seeing a telegraph boy and some even spit on them in the street—you have no idea— even a visit from the vicar usually means the worst news for someone. Telephone Croome yourself and get Mrs Capstick to tell Miss Tadrew and she can tell Titus. When do you think you will go down?”
“In a few days. Mala, I must go north and see Christopher’s parents first. I could also see three other families of my men.”
“I can’t come with you Derby. I’m too busy at Whitehall. Will you be alright?”
“Yes, Mala. It’s something that I must do myself, but I’ll take Carlo with me to help with my kit. Carlo,” continued Stephen as his batman returned to the room, “You and I are going to Hexham tomorrow. Organise some tickets and a hotel. See if you can get the night train. I understand that it can be difficult with troop movements and such.”
“Very good, sir,” replied Carlo.
Stephen slid out of bed and used his stick to walk to the bathroom, calling out: “I can get in myself but you can both come and watch, unless you’d prefer to go to the Empire Leicester Square for your thrills.” He turned and grinned shaking his privates at them.
“Carlo,” said Martin, “he’s going to see a good doctor today for a check-up. I want you to go too—that is to help him and to see Sir Thomas Barlow yourself.”
“But I’m not injured, your lordship.”
“You’ve been at the front for over a year. That is an order Private Sifridi.”
“Sir!” he replied saluting. “I think the Captain needs a bit of a trim down there, sir; don’t you think so—especially if he’s seein’ the doc?”
“Good idea, I think I swallowed enough hair to stuff a mattress,” giggled Martin, pretending to pull it from his teeth. “And fetch me the Captain’s stick, Carlo, he was particularly vigorous last night and I can barely walk.”
“Were that all injuries were so pleasant, your lordship,” said Carlo, pleased at his turn of phrase. “It is good to see things back how they should be.”
*****
Sir Thomas’ rooms were in Wimpole Street and Captain Knight-Poole and his batman arrived there in a taxi. Stephen pressed the shiny brass bell with his stick. The maid showed them into an elegant waiting room and presently Sir Thomas himself came to the door. Stephen remembered the elderly doctor with his pointed white beard from that day in Bournemouth. His eyes twinkled behind steel-framed glasses. “It is good of you to see us, Sir Thomas,” began Stephen, rising with the aid of his stick.
“It is my honour to serve our soldiers. I was only too pleased to see you when Lord Branksome telephoned. My own son, Patrick, is in France too, Captain Knight-Poole. Do come in.”
“No, Private Sifridi wants to see you first, Sir Thomas. His case is much more urgent.”
Carlo looked in surprise and so did Sir Thomas.
“Really…” said Stephen, then in a low voice to Carlo: “You go first, I want to know if he gives you needles; I’m scared of needles,” confessed the recipient of the Military Cross (and bar).
Carlo shrugged and went in.
A short time later he emerged alone. Stephen looked up enquiringly. “No needles, sir,” said Carlo. “He just recommended I need a tonic and an improved diet.”
Sir Thomas called Stephen in. His consulting room was magnificent and the tall windows, protected by wrought iron guards, looked out over a street of tall Georgian houses. Sir Thomas asked Stephen about his service and about illnesses of which Stephen had had none. Stephen was then asked to remove his uniform. Of Stephen’s lack of undergarments and pubic hair fashioned roughly into the shape of a love heart he said nothing. He inspected all of Stephen’s wounds and scars and Stephen could relate how he got some of them— including some old ones from boxing, but he said he needed his batman to know them all. Sir Thomas inspected the shoulder wound, which had not healed but was clean. “This will need to be dressed twice a day. I will write down how your man should do it—I don’t think we can get a nurse in as they are in such short supply, as you would imagine, sir.” He listened to Stephen’s chest and heart. “Sound lungs and a strong heart beat.” He took his blood pressure. “Have you been having nightmares, Captain?” Stephen nodded. “That is quite normal. With luck they will diminish, but I can get you help if they persist.”
He felt Stephen’s leg and asked him how it felt when he moved it in various ways. “I will want you to come back for an x-ray. We’ll do your leg and shoulder to make sure there are no fractures or metal. You will need rest.”
“Will I be able to go back to my men, Sir Thomas?”
“When you are off the stick I suppose so, but surely not to the front line with a limp and maybe still needing a stick.” Stephen looked downcast. “You are fond of your men?”
“Yes sir. They need me. By the way sir, could you see two of my comrades as private patients? I wish to pay their fees. They have lost their legs sir—that is, one each.”
“Well the Army will look out for them, I’m sure. Queen Mary Hospital in Roehampton is where the best work is being done, but I will see them, of course. Leave their details with my nurse.
He next inspected Stephen’s privates. Fortunately his hands were warm but unfortunately Stephen’s cock started to rise. “Don’t worry about that, Captain. It happens all the time—I’d just better stand back a bit with you, young fellow. Are you a married man, Captain Knight-Poole?”
“No sir.”
“Have your sexual organs given you any trouble?”
“They have got me into plenty of trouble, sir, but no, they seem to be satisfactory.”
“More than satisfactory, I’d say, but I’m glad to hear it. Neurasthenia from battle often manifests itself in impotence. I’ve seen some very sad cases. We’ve had to give a course of injections to stimulate the glands to some men back from the front.”
“Do you think I have Neura-whatever, sir? When I spend it comes in buckets, sir.”
“No, I don’t think so, Captain,” replied the King’s physician, laughing. “I think you need rest and a tonic and your leg needs to mend. Come and see me next week for that x-ray and maybe we’ll look at some exercises to do.”
*****
Stephen spent some of the day resting his leg and Carlo changed the dressing on his shoulder after the whole household had puzzled over the scrawl that passed as Sir Thomas’ handwriting. Stephen wrote to Sgt Swane and Sgt Louch and told them about their appointments and promised to see them when he came back to London. Carlo packed and organised for their trip north.
At three o’clock Glass announced a visitor. “Hello, Knight,” said a familiar voice, devoid of passion.
“Plunger!” cried Stephen and got up from the chair and embraced the aristocratic young man. The Plunger’s veneer of distain crumbled in an instant and he was crying and hugging Stephen for several minutes until he regained his composure. He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief produced from the sleeve of his magnificent officer’s uniform and then said: “I say I’m awfully sorry for blubbing, Stephen. Could I have some tea?”
Stephen leant over and kissed him on his carroty top and said, “What a poor host I am, of course—would you mind ringing for me—damn leg.”
*****
The kitchen also had a visitor. Gertie had come across with his master from the Ritz Hotel where they were billeted as Fayette had been taken over by Belgian officers.
“…of course the Old Bitch is complaining bitterly about the privations of war,” he said to Carlo and Glass, “and the management have been grizzling about her pekes shitting on the carpet—sorry Mrs Smith— I didn’t mean to swear— it’s being in the Army has made me an old trollop.”
“Oh Mr Gertie, you are such a caution,” laughed Mrs Smith, the housekeeper.
“Well, anyway,” continued Gertie, breathlessly, “I was down with ‘her’ and her paint box at Portsmouth and we had all gone out to sea a little way to test the colours on a frigate—you know camouflage — ‘dazzle’ she and her girlfriends call it— well, there was poor Gertie hanging over the rail looking like seven sorts of death and my hair like barbed wire around a gun emplacement because of the salt, when all of a sudden one of the sailors sets up a shout. ‘Oh do shut up, dearie,’ I says to myself but I look up and there’s a floating mine— great big ugly thing like a pineapple bobbing towards us.”
“Good heaven, Gertie, whatever did you do?” said Mr Smith.
“Well, I’m just about to tell you, dear. Is there any more tea in the pot? Well, there’s more shouting than when Sarah Bernhardt was doing a costume fitting and someone says, ‘Fire at it and blow it up before it hits us!’ They’re all firing their rifles and carrying on and the dashed thing is closing in on us. So Gertie picks up her rifle (I’d only taken it on deck to steady meself) and I fire—just like at the funfair— and boom! I hit it with my first shot.
“Well you should have seen the water! The sea rose up and we were all drenched, including the captain who had come out of his little house to watch. ‘Who is that man?’ he calls. ‘It’s only me, dearie!’ I call back. ‘Are you a sailor?’ he shouts. ‘I can be, if you like, but I’m a private in the Army’ and I tell him I’m her ladyship’s batman. And he says I’m a brave and clever fellow and I said it was nothing compared to opening night of Floradora in Drury Lane. ‘You can have anything you like; you’ve saved the ship!’ Gertie looked about at the faces around the table with their mouths agape.
“Well done Gertie!” said Glass.
“What did you ask for?” asked Carlo.
“Oh I’ll tell you later boys, but let’s just say that I had a nice drink at the pub with the wireless operator,” replied Gertie, adjusting his hair with moistened fingers in the reflection of the glass over a picture of His Majesty that hung on the wall opposite.
*****
The bell rang and Glass disappeared. It was Aunt Maud and Sophia, and Glass showed them into the drawing room and just as he was doing so Martin walked in. Greetings were exchanged and Martin asked after Antony.
“Oh he’s in gone out with General Maude— yes, it is a coincidence of names—to Basra in Mesopotamia,” replied Aunt Maude, “I had a letter two days ago.”
“My sister is a nurse out there,” said The Plunger suddenly.
“Sister!” exclaimed Martin and Stephen in unison.
“I’ve known you for six years and you’ve never mentioned you had a sister!” said Martin, astounded.
“Oh didn’t I?” he replied airily. “We don’t get on awfully well, but she’s damn brave going out there after she had trained, all the same.”
“Well, what’s her name, how old is she and what is she like?” demanded Martin
“Jean- I call her Jelly- she’s 21 and she likes dolls—or she did when she was a little girl, I can’t say I’ve seen her with them in recent years, though—and she looks like mother.”
“She not a ginger?” asked Stephen.
“No, poor thing. I say, I don’t see why there’s all the sudden interest in remote members of my family,” he said, irritably.
Martin and Stephen just exchanged helpless looks.
That evening the three boys dined at The Saville Club as M. Lefaux, the chef, was now gone to serve his country in both senses. The talk at the club was of Stephen’s old friend Erskine Childers’ increasing radicalism following the Easter rising.
“I believe he was mixed up with Sir Rodger Casement,” an older member was heard to say in a low voice to some friends at the next table. “He’s a disgrace to the Liberal Party—we’ve tried to offer them dominion status, but the Protestants won’t budge. It will be civil war if we’re not careful and the Germans will make a meal out of that,” he said and then paused to sip his whiskey. The boys knew that Casement had been sensationally executed only a few months ago for treason, having been found to be in league with the Germans in supplying guns to the radicals.
“Have you seen Casement’s diaries—the ‘Black Books’?” said another, breathlessly. “Seems Casement was a sodomite as well as a traitor. Fond of picking up boys.”
“Pemberton-Billings said the whole government is full of ’em,” said a third member, “and that the Germans are using these perverts to corrupt and blackmail our soldiers. Here, read what he says in The Vigilante.” There was silence for several minutes during which time Martin, Stephen and The Plunger, ashen faced, dared not look at each other. And then the first one spoke again: “Well it may be true, but why would the ex-King of Albania have this so-called Berlin Black Book listing all these 47,000 names? Too many black books for my liking.”
“Yes that bit does sound odd. Maybe Pemberton-Billings is a bit cracked.”
“Yes,” said the second, “He says here that the wife of the Prime Minister is a lesbian and there is an article on page three that says women should have their own parliament to discuss ‘domestic affairs’. Still, there are too many sodomites about these days—especially at the Carlton Club. “I say, is that you Knight-Poole?” he said in a normal voice, looking up at the boys. “Back from the front are we? And your leg…come and tell us old timers all about it….”
They left the club and Martin explained to Stephen that The Fly, who had been terrorizing Custard, was Pemberton-Billings’ son. “How can people be so ridiculous,” said Stephen.
“The blackmail is real enough, Stephen,” said The Plunger solemnly.
The mood changed when Martin produced three tickets for Chu Chin Chow and they took at cab to His Majesty’s even though it was just nearby in The Haymarket to save Stephen’s leg. Oscar Asche was wonderful as Abu Hasan and the chorus was sensational in its scanty costumes, to the delight of the many soldiers in the audience. The boys were all humming the Cobbler’s Song as they searched for a restaurant in which to have supper and they chose the Comedy in Panton Street, near the theatre.
There was a group of noisy soldiers at a table and their hats and accents proclaimed them to be Australians. They were drunk and engaged in throwing bread rolls at the top hats of ‘swells’ that came in through the doors. Despite their insobriety they were good shots and when a silk hat tumbled to the floor and the owner looked outraged, they would cry ‘Howzat?’ and with thumbs raised in appeal to an imaginary umpire.
The management was getting restive but were in trepidation as the Australians were all big fellows and looked as if they would like an excuse for a fight. Many of the ladies cowered, although some smiled at their antics.
“Sir,” said the manager to Martin. “Can’t you do something about these men? Other ranks are not allowed in here and they have taken no notice of me. I would call the police but I fear the consequences.”
Martin went up to them chaperoned by The Plunger and Stephen. The soldiers stopped their activities, but just when Martin thought he’d been e ffective, one of them took aim at a particularly inviting silk hat that came through the door.
“Don’t you men salute a superior officer?”
“No. Not unless we like them,” said one.
“Well, why don’t you like me?”
“Can’t say. Maybe if you could buy us a feed, I could better judge what sort of bloke you are.”
“And a beer” added another.
“Haven’t you been served?”
“No, sir, they won’t serve us because we’re not officers.”
“We’ve just arrived in London on leave. We’ve come from Fromelles,” said a tall, square headed one.
“It’s his 20th birthday,” said the other.
“Happy birthday private—?”
“Morse, Percy Morse. This is my mate Jack Wagstaff, sir.”
“Well I’m Lt. Colonel Poole and these are my mates, Captain Knight-Poole and Lt Craigth.”
“Blimey,” said Jack, “Did they kill off so many old colonels they’ve had to conscript babies? How old are you sir, if that’s a fair thing to ask?”
“Twenty and the rank came with my title. I’ll tell you about it if you promise to stop throwing things.”
“And you’re a lord?” said Percy, “Now you can’t expect us to salute a lord.”
“Fromelles?” said Stephen “I’ve just come from near there. You boys suffered appalling losses.”
The Australians nodded solemnly. Stephen called the manager over. “These men have just come from Hell on Earth. They are our guests. Bring them beer and food.”
“And more beer,” called one after him.
The boys sat down and began to ‘yarn’ with the cheeky colonials. Percy and Jack were mates who had enlisted together. “All Aussies are volunteers” said Jack proudly. They had been in Egypt awaiting transport to Gallipoli when the withdrawal saw them head straight to France.
“You’re the tallest pommies we’ve seen,” said Percy. “On the Somme there can’t be one over five-foot-five. Suppose it saves on uniforms.”
“And makes for smaller targets,” added Jack.
They worked in a foundry and were the sons of gold miners. “That’s why we’re called diggers,” explained Percy. The other men were a bread carter, railway ganger and an axeman.
“Tell us about what a lord does, Colonel,” said Percy and so Martin did. They asked Stephen about his life and when Stephen said he knew Major General Monash they were very impressed. “We saw him in Egypt and now he’s in France.”
“No, he’s now in England,” said another, “on Salisbury plain. He’s a good bloke.”
In fact they were all good blokes now that the beer and food were in supply. They didn’t make much mention of the mates they had lost, but it was always there, behind everything they said. A lot of their bravado was a reaction to their trauma.
One fellow was wearing The Plunger’s monocle and explaining to him that the feather in his hat was a kangaroo feather while Percy and Jack were engaged with Martin and Stephen, yarning about cricket and the devilish ways of the ‘gyppos’ in Heliopolis.
It was late when the proprietor persuaded them all to leave. The men lazily rose and shook the boys’ hands manfully and then offered a salute of sorts. Martin, Stephen and The Plunger headed out the door. Just as he stepped through it, The Plunger felt a blow to the back of his head. A bread roll bounced on the floor.
*****
Martin was awoken by a thump on his skull. Stephen was flinging his arms around and crying out.
“Wake up Derby. You’re safe,” said Martin. He tried to hold him but he was too strong and he continued to thrash about in a distressed state until he awoke, panting. “I’m sorry Mala, I must have been dreaming… I can’t remember anything except it was horrible. Talk to me so I won’t go straight back to sleep; I don’t want the dream to come back.” So Martin did, running over the events of the day and then talking quietly about their lives. “When do you think the war will end, Derbs?”
“Who knows? I know a lot about the Thirty Years War.”
“That’s not very encouraging. Do you want to go sleep?”
“Not particularly.”
“I’m feeling awfully frisky, Captain,” said Martin lifting the blankets on his nakedness.
“You’re no Aussie, Colonel— you’re saluting a pommy officer.”
*****
Carlo and Stephen headed north. They couldn’t get a Pullman train so they sat up for the seven hours it took to reach Newcastle, a long delay being caused by the movement of troop trains. In Newcastle they changed trains in the early morning. Carlo was fretting about dressing Stephen’s wound and he kept adjusting the travelling rug over his bad leg. The local train took them the 25 miles along the Tyne to the town of Hexham where their hotel, The Tap and Ale, was located by the ancient Abbey that dominated the old town. In their room Carlo bathed and dressed Stephen’s shoulder and while his master rested he went down to see about hiring a vehicle to take Stephen to Acomb, the village a short distance away where Christopher’s father, Dr Tennant, lived.
A trap was arranged and Stephen set off with the driver alone. Carlo busied himself with the luggage and then had a glass of ale down in the bar. It was only an hour later that Stephen returned. Carlo could tell he was upset and followed him upstairs.
“Is everything alright sir? Did you find the house?”
“Yes, I found it, Carlo.” He paused as he pulled his boots off and then flopped down on his bed. “They didn’t want to know me, Carlo. They are so consumed with grief that it didn’t matter what I said. His mother knew of me, but his father only asked if I’d been at University with him in Leeds. I thought they might talk over tea, but none was offered so just I came away. I feel wretched.”
“Never mind sir. It was what you were to Mr Tennant that mattered, not what you were to his family.”
“That was well said, Carlo. You’re a wise man.”
“I try to be of service sir, as Mr Chilvers says. Come downstairs for a pint. The ale’s good here.”
That night Stephen had another nightmare. It awoke Carlo who was sleeping in the other bed. He came across the room in his long underwear and tried to wake Stephen who was crying. Half awake, he grabbed Carlo, hurting him, and sobbed on his chest. He then awoke fully and apologised. “I’m sorry Carlo, I can’t even remember what I was dreaming; all I remember is the intensity of the feeling—I still feel it even though it’s gone. It’s strange, isn’t it?”
Carlo sat by him, holding his hand until he was calmer. He was upset himself. He put his hand on Stephen’s naked chest and could feel his heart racing. He went to go back to his own bed when Stephen said. “Get in if you like. I’ll make room—but take those awful things off.”
Carlo removed his ‘long johns’ and slid in next to Stephen. “It’s a bit of a squeeze, sir, but not as tight as your bunk in the foxhole.”
“I miss the men, Carlo; not the Somme, but the men. I hope they’re alright—but there’s no earthy reason why they should be alright.”
“You know we call ourselves the Sans Culottes, sir, because of you.”
“Do you? That’s nice. What are you going to do after the War, Carlo?”
“I don’t know sir. Taking care of you has been all I can think about at the moment.”
“Thank you, Carlo. Only a few years ago I never would have thought that I would need someone to do things for me. Fancy not being able to draw your own bath or put out your own toothbrush or cook your own meals. I’ve become more helpless.”
“Rich folks become more like children in lots of ways, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“Yes, you’re right. Perhaps we would all like to be children again if we could have our way.”
“His lordship said I was to take care of you sir.”
“No, not now, Carlo, I feel too upset. But don’t let me stop you. Are you hard?”
“Something frightful, sir.”
“Well let me help. I owe you a great deal for all that you’ve done for me.”
“Oh, that’s nice, sir,” said Carlo. “And its right nice being here with you and all safe like and no guns and no mud.”
“And no lice and rats.”
“And no smell o’ death and bully beef.”
“Are you a big shooter, Carlo?”
“I thought so until I seen you, sir.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can do. Are you taking Sir Thomas’ tonic?”
“I can think of some other medicine that I’d rather swallow.”
“Really, Carlo! And what makes you think that would do you good?”
“Well I’ve never known his lordship to have even as much as a cold.”
“You are a cheeky bugger and no mistake. Are you nearly there yet?”
*****
While Stephen and Carlo made their way south via Howden, and Doncaster where Stephen made heart-wrenching visits to the families of his fallen men, Martin was ‘flat out’ in his offices in Whitehall. His department had grown along with the scale and complexity of the conflict itself. He now found he was required to find scientists and researchers in obscure fields whose names he could not even pronounce. His latest coup, which required some research, was to find someone who knew about a chemical called acetone, which, apparently, was vital in making cordite. It was Daniel Sachs who mentioned a relative who was a famous chemist at Manchester University. Professor Chaim Weizmann was working on making it by distilling Clostridium acetobutylicum from maize. Martin had Uncle Alfred and Glass test him over a week as he practiced saying the name and spelling it. Arthur Balfour was most grateful when Martin produced the elderly gentleman and then he was set the task of finding a factory in London for its production and a gin factory in Bow was at last commandeered.
Now, with Rumania in the war on the allied side, the demand for Rumanian and Hungarian speakers was at its height. I was only a matter of time, thought Martin… and sure enough… one day his orderly announced Count Osmochescu. The little round man was all smiles, bows and elaborate greetings but little of substance concerning their earlier encounters was aired and Martin was glad when the Count went away to the Foreign Office. He was someone else’s problem now—Britain was already in a mess and surely Count Osmochescu could not make it very much worse.
Martin returned home to Piccadilly exhausted. Glass had fetched him beer and he had his Army boots off and his aching feet were reposing in a dish of soapy water in the drawing room, as this room was one of the few heated due to the coal shortage.
Glass reappeared and Martin looked up from the evening paper.
“General Monash is here to see you sir.”
Martin could do little but stand and salute with his feet in the water. “It’s wonderful to see you sir. I do apologise but my boots have been a trial all day.
“It is lovely to see you again, Lord Branksome—or should I say Colonel Poole?” said Monash.
“Well that is embarrassing, sir, but the Earl of Holdenhurst’s Yeomanry goes with the title, I’m afraid.”
“My feet ache too,” said Monash, “Would your servant bring me some hot water too?”
So the two military officers sat with whiskey in their hands and their feet in tin dishes of salty water. Martin related what had been happening at Croome and Monash said a few words about Gallipoli and the Western Front.
“I hear Captain Knight-Poole was awarded a Military Cross,” said Monash.
“And bar,” added Martin and told something of his actions. “He is home injured at the moment—I had to force him back to England and he is at present in the north of England visiting the families of some of his men he lost. He takes it very personally. I think it will kill him, sir, if a German bullet doesn’t get him first.”
“I could use an Engineer like the Captain. I have Herman with me. We— that is the Australian Second Division and me—are at Armentieres. The King came and inspected us the other week. I have two British Army Lieutenant Colonels with me—Jackson and Farmer— good chaps, we could do with more.”
“Oh no!” said Martin in alarm. “I’m not a proper Lieutenant Colonel—I’m just a chocolate soldier. You’d want someone like Stephen, except he can’t walk at present and he won’t leave his men. He wants to go back to the front, but I don’t want him to, of course.”
“Well, I’ll keep him in mind for when he’s fit. Did you say he doesn’t want to leave his men?”
“Yes sir, he’s devoted to them and they to him. They even have a song about him, but it’s too rude to repeat.”
“Is that so?” said Monash, chuckling at the idea.
“What about if he could have his men—or some of them, do some work with him for Supply—for the Army Service Corps?”
“Would he be at the front?”
“Perhaps sometimes. They want someone from the Royal Engineers to study the problem of supply and distribution across the Western Front. It’s a vast and complex one. It will require brains.”
“Well Stephen has the brains. His men are loyal and brave, but rely on Stephen’s intellect, but they do have more initiative than most—in my humble opinion.”
“Tell Knight-Poole to call on me at the War Office when he’s back.”
*****
Stephen spent the first two days at Croome at his stepfather’s cottage. There were hugs and kisses and even tears all round. Titus, reticent in his speech, was not so in displaying honestly felt emotion—something he had passed on to Stephen. Miss Tadrew was all over him and he had to strip off and show her all his wounds. She sobbed when she saw what they had done to her boy.
Stephen went out with Titus and set some traps and they spent an afternoon mending a fence. Stephen would have liked to help in the orchard, but found he had to rest his leg. They did not talk much about the war, but Stephen hoped that Titus could sense something about it by other means. He found it impossible to talk about it—even to answer sensible questions concerning what it was like from Mrs Capstick and Chilvers. The only person he felt understood was Carlo, for he had been there and it was Carlo who changed his dressings and helped him into his bath (although this wasn’t strictly necessary any longer) and it was Carlo who came to him when he called out in his sleep—having taken to sleeping on a folding cot in the dressing room. Even with Carlo is was not necessary to talk. It was just that he knew and by knowing, understood a little.
Stephen felt that Croome had changed since he’d been away. There was the obvious physical destruction of the great storm. The ruin that was the south wing of the house would have to be made safe and left until after the war—there was not the labour or materials available.
Less obvious at first was the lack of young men. But only elderly men and boys were apparent when Stephen went out and the women were doing startling and unfamiliar things such as driving the bus, delivering the post and bringing in the grain.
He was glad that the school and the gymnasium had been finished early in the War—even though they had been put to other purposes. He limped around the latter imagining the local lads playing billiards upstairs or sitting, talking and laughing, in the ingle with its big fireplace that he had suggested. The boxing ring could be set up here and the Owens…but then he remembered and bit his lip and fought back the tears at the memory.
He could not ride his bicycle and Martin’s car was in London so he visited Aine who seemed to remember him, and had Sean O’Brien drive him in the trap over to Pendleton to see the two tiny cottages in the grounds of the infirmary. They were neat little affairs and the elderly occupants— a single man and a couple—seemed happy enough. It would have to be after the war before any more could be constructed.
Stephen reflected on how that phrase, ‘after the war’ now crept into everyone’s language. It was at once resigned and yet still hopeful; there would be an ‘afterwards’, just as Titus used to tell him, when he was having nightmares as a child, that there would be a dawn—even if you couldn’t see it now, you had to have faith that things would be much better in the morning.
Two buses belonging to Martin’s company passed the trap. The traffic to and from Wareham had grown due to the war, principally because Tachell’s factory was working around the clock and was now making shell casings among other war materiel and many folk in the villages on the estate, including the women, had found employment there and a dozen outsiders who worked at Tatchell’s had settled their families into surplus accommodation in the villages. It struck Stephen as odd that something so horrible as a howitzer shell could have its origins in somewhere as peaceful and beautiful as this quiet part of the world. One thing was certain: Croome was now irrevocably tied to the outside world far more than in Martin’s father’s day and the vestiges of feudalism to which Martin was so accustomed were slipping away. Things wouldn’t be the same after the war, he said to himself, as did millions of others.
*****
Martin came down at the weekend and they were overjoyed to see each other all over again. “I’ve been planning this, Mala,” said Stephen. He took him upstairs to their room.
“But I haven’t had tea yet,” wailed Martin.
“It can’t wait.”
Stephen opened the door and Martin looked in. There was their room, as usual. No, William’s gramophone had been set up on the table and the curtains were drawn. On the bed were two pairs of Stephen’s favourite lemon-yellow silk pyjama bottoms obviously laid out by Carlo.
“We’re to stay in this room for 24 hours and the door will remain locked except for when Carlo brings us food and beer. Is beer alright?
“I’ve worked out a schedule,” he said flourishing a piece of paper. “Some of the time— well most of it—we’ll be in bed; we have a lot to make up for and I need to prove to Sir Thomas that I don’t have Neurasthenia in my privates. We are going to dance together—we’ve never done that and I’d like to; we are spending four hours and twenty minutes in the bath,” he said consulting the paper. “Carlo will come and fill it up when it gets too cold. We are eating all our meals here—I’m going to feed you—and we’ll see nobody until Sunday night when we’ve got a lot of guests.”
“What’s that?” said Martin pointing to a slate.
“Oh that’s a tally of how many times I spend and the second column is for how many times you spend.”
“And the third?”
“Oh that’s for ratings and suggestions for improvement. There’s chalk over there.”
“Derby: this is so romantic! Is that the right word?”
“I hope so Mala. And it’s well organised, don’t you think?”
“Yes superbly, remind me to speak to you about that before the door is unlocked on Sunday.”
“Right. Get your uniform off, you won’t need clothes for the duration and I’ll wind the machine—with my leg I may not be quite as good as I am with the ladies, but they’re mainly waltzes and they usually make me quite hard I find…”
It was many hours later that they were sitting in the bath. Martin was almost asleep but he was dreamily soaping the raven silky curls of Stephen’s handsome public bush which had now been fashioned into an “M” “Derby I’m sorry I had the hiccups when you were standing up fucking me while I was upside down,” said Martin, “I think it was all the oysters and beer so soon after dancing to ‘If You Were the Only Girl in the World.’ You know, you sang better than George Robey—and you could do Violet Loraine’s part well too- fancy my Derby having a falsetto!”
“Well, there’s no need for anyone else to know that, Mala. That’s our secret. Carlo has been helping me learn the words in the bath. And as for the hiccups, I think they were a decided help with that one and if I hadn’t dropped the chalk in the bath I would put it up on the tally board. You’re not too sore for more?”
“No your lovely tongue and the Spong’s has helped. I say, Derby, can I say something? I don’t want you to be upset.”
Stephen stopped soaping Martin’s chest and gave him his full attention.
“Well, Derbs, you know you won’t be going back to the front—that is not until your leg has healed,” He added quickly. Stephen was starting to look distressed and so Martin moved on. “Well, Major General Monash called during the week. He said he’d like to have someone like you with him— he will tell you that himself next week. What he said was that they are in need of an Engineer to undertake special work in Supply. He suggested that you might be able to bring some of your men with you—before they are all broken up and dispersed. What do you think of that?” He looked for Stephen’s reaction.
He was thoughtful for some minutes. “It is my men that concern me,” he replied carefully. “I fight for them, not for the Empire or anything grand—just like those Australian’s the other night—‘for me mates.’ I’m not fighting to be a hero—despite what some might think if they see the medal. I’m just an ordinary soldier.”
He resumed his soaping in silence, concentrating on Martin’s cock and balls. “Do you ever think of Friedrich and Eugen on the other side, Mala? I think about them a lot.”
“Yes, so do I. It stops me believing that they’re all Huns— I’m not sure about their generals though. I wonder where they are.”
“I’m not so sure about our generals—Monash yes—but Haig has no other plan but to send thousands of men to their death for no discernible gain. It’s unbelievable, Mala.” He began to cry and Martin felt like crying too.
*****
They returned to London on the train and, in a burst of democracy, Carlo was allowed to sit with them in the first class carriage. “I thought last night’s dinner went well, Mala, although I noticed you sat on a cushion,” said Stephen.
“Yes, I wonder what caused me to be so sore?” said Martin looking up at the ceiling.
Carlo started to hum, “If You Were the Only Girl in the World.”
“That’s enough Private Sifridi, said Stephen with mock gruffness. The Colonel here could probably have you shot for impudence. Were you listening at the door?”
“Sir, we servants have a code of silence. You can torture us but we won’t reveal a thing, but you were a bit off key in the second verse, sir.”
“He was not, Carlo,” said Martin hotly. “Where are the ‘King’s Regulations’—I’ll see what they say about bold valets.”
When they reached Branksome House Stephen went straight up to bed to rest his leg. Martin came in with a letter. Charles Fortune and Jack Thayer had returned from Egypt to England. They were now at Portsmouth and had been given a rank. They were ‘technical advisors.’ “That means they will be giving advice to the Royal Navy on the construction of the new graving dock they’re building, I suppose,” said Stephen. “We’ll have to try and catch up before I go back to France.”
Martin didn’t like the sound of this but only said, “Don’t forget to see Monash.”
*****
Stephen returned for his appointment with Sir Thomas Barlow and the shoulder wound was examined—it was starting to heal— and an x-ray was taken just of Stephen’s leg, Sir Thomas being fairly certain that the shoulder was free of shrapnel. While they waited for the photograph, Sir Thomas examined Stephen again, testing his reflexes, peering into his ears and feeling him for hernias. “Sir Thomas,” began Stephen, “I don’t think I have that Neurasthenia thing you spoke of.” Sir Thomas Barlow stopped his examination and straightened up.
“I said I didn’t think you had it, Captain; it’s just that many men have ‘shellshock’ as they call it, and it can present in various ways.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m presenting any. Here,” he said and retrieved piece of paper for the doctor from his trousers that hung over the back of a chair.
“What’s this, Captain?” asked Sir Thomas.
“It is a record of the number of satisfactory ‘congresses’ I have had.
“I thought you said you were unmarried?”
“I am unmarried but I’m not alone, sir.”
“I see. Well this seems to indicate that you are indeed healthy in several respects. In fact you have had a very busy week, young man.”
“Week? No that was just over this last weekend, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Thomas took off his glasses and wiped them. “Well sir, you are very productive indeed. Perhaps I should write an article for The Lancet,” he said with a smile. “I hope you and the young lady are being careful, sir. It is just the one?”
“Yes, one only.”
“And should there be any chaffing or abrasions, Captain,” he said examining Stephen’s penis more carefully, “I should use Spong’s Soothing Salve. It is available everywhere and is 1/6 for the larger size, which you may require. I don’t recommend ‘Bickford’s Blissful Balm, it can cause a nasty rash.”
“May I ask about my friends, Swane and Louch?”
“Well, sir, as you know they have both lost their lower legs— having been amputated at the knee joint. There is no infection. They have some minor health problems, that I may not discuss, but like all our soldiers I would like to see them rested and better fed. They will be sent by the Army to Queen Mary Hospital and fitted with artificial limbs and trained to walk again. They may very well go on to lead productive lives- they have a cheerful attitude. Ah, now here is your x-ray.” Sir Thomas held it up to a light and was silent for some minutes.
“There is a stress fracture here—not a break and there is probably ligament damage that does not show up.”
“What is the treatment? A plaster cast?”
“No, just rest and keep off it for six weeks. You must have a wheelchair; the stick is not good enough.”
“A chair!”
“Captain, we have just been talking about two amputees. You can put up with a wheel chair for a short time. At least you will heal.”
Stephen was chastened. After he left, Sir Thomas went to the sherry decanter; it was nearly 3 o’clock after all and there was a fine Amontillado waiting. Such a thoughtful present from Messrs Spong, he thought as he put the glass to his lips. How wonderful I would to be young again like the vigorous young captain. Why in 1865 he…but no, he couldn’t clearly recall that time. Then he thought of his own son, Patrick, somewhere in the mud on the Western Front.
*****
Stephen was a little depressed when Glass’ old wheelchair was produced from the box room. Stephen tried it out and soon found he was making himself a delightful nuisance about the house. Carlo pushed him down to the Saville Club and he, himself, sat with the club servants until he was called to take his master home the short distance to Branksome House.
Martin was keen that Stephen should have a bedroom on the ground floor, but Stephen insisted that he would climb the stairs to their own room once a day or he wouldn’t co-operate at all. Martin thought that Stephen might be cheered if he could visit the two sergeants and so this was arranged. He drove Stephen, Carlo and the wheelchair to Walworth where they were unloaded along with beer, flowers for Mrs Swane and a quantity of sugar, which was at present in such short supply. Martin left them there, promising to collect them the next morning if they were not too drunk. Mrs Swane said she would keep matters firmly in hand.
Stephen was in a better frame of mind by the next afternoon—although he said he had a slight headache, which, he maintained, must have been the fault of the passing trains that had kept him awake.
The next day was Stephen’s appointment with General Monash. Carlo and Martin pushed him all the way through St James to Whitehall. Stephen risked his leg to climb to the first floor and the other two left him.
Monash and Moss were pleased to see Stephen and he them. The General explained about the ASC, which as Stephen well knew, was a vast and complex but unsung part of the war effort. Of its many divisions- munitions, food, fodder, salvage, building materials, pencils and paperclips Stephen was apprised.
“From your time at the front, what was your impression, Knight-Poole?” asked Monash.
“Well, sir, like everybody we complained that we were always short. But sometimes we had supplies of useless things sent to us and our quartermaster was nearly driven mad. Then we had to requisition everything…we were often held up for want of supplies…you must have found the same yourself. It just seems so big and complex that it can never work.”
“That’s just it. We need—or rather Lord Devonport the new Minister of Food and Lt Col Wrightson the Controller of the Commissariat—need someone to study supply in theory and practice. You would be working here and in France. You would be looking at all supplies excluding munitions and fodder— we can’t get them to cooperate—and you will have to deal with Transport who were used to running their own show until this war.”
“Could I have my own men?”
“They are all Royal Engineers?”
“Yes sir, unless they have been broken up. I have a list here. Stephen produced a list of the Sans Culottes and handed it to him. “I will also need someone else with high level skills sir—someone like you, Herman,” said Stephen looking at his friend Moss.
“Well you can’t have him,” said Monash with a smile, “he’s mine, keep your hands off him.”
“Well I do have two academics from the University of London. They are working in concrete down at Portsmouth.”
“Concrete?” Monash’s face brightened at the mention of a favourite topic. “Well, we’ll be unlikely to pinch both of them, but I’ll see what I can do. Can you start soon—with your leg and so on— I mean?”
“Well, I have to keep off it for five weeks, but there’s no reason why I can’t work in London and maybe even in Boulogne. I have a wheelchair and my batman.”
“Well, make appointments to see Devonport and Wrightson. And good luck. I’ll be back in France in a day or so.”
“And good luck to you sir and to you, Herman,” said Stephen, standing with the aid of his stick and saluting.
*****
It was in the picturesquely named Sausage Valley near Pozières, where the sounds of shelling from both sides was ceaseless, that Sgt Spinner received his orders from Lt Toomey. They were to return under his direction to the barracks at Chatham with privates Rouse, Jarvis, Myles, Reeves, Pengally, Rugg and West along with Corporal Quick. Doling would have gone with them, had he not ‘copped it’ the week before.
“Who will we be reporting to, sir?” asked Sgt Spinner.
“Captain Knight-Poole. Tell the men to get their kit together; we can go back with the fodder wagons tonight.”
To be continued…
Thanks for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you.
Posted: 02/21/14