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 4
To Make a Man of Any one of You
It was the devil’s own work to get Stephen to rest his leg. At the moment, he was sitting up in bed reading papers sent to him concerning the Army Service Corps in some frustration because he could not meet with Lord Devonport, the Minister for Food, and Lt Col Wrightson for several days and his men—the Sans Culottes—were still stuck in France and no doubt anxiously waiting for some leave. However Martin knew that as soon as he left Branksome House for Whitehall, Stephen would be hobbling about on his stick.
“Derby, I’m coming back to the house for luncheon and I want to find you still in bed. Isn’t that right, Carlo?” he said, turning to the valet who was hunting for the clothes brush.
“Yes, sir. You must stay off your leg, Captain, and his lordship outranks you.”
“And Derby, I want you to stay hard all morning and I want you to fuck me when I come home—I’ll drive to Whitehall so that I’ll have more time. Isn’t that right, Carlo?”
This time Carlo didn’t know what it was that he was being asked, so he just looked blankly at Martin.
Martin was trying to fasten the top button on his tunic and simply said, “Fetch me Mr Stephen’s strap and his boxing gloves.” Carlo departed and returned a few minutes later. “Put the boxing gloves on him, Carlo.” The gloves were fitted and tied. “Now strap him up, Carlo,” ordered Martin, then, turning to Stephen said, “I want to find you strapped and hard and waiting expectantly for me at 1 o’clock. You won’t be able to touch yourself with the gloves on. Do the strap tightly, Carlo, I want him to think of me all morning. Does that hurt, Derby?” He asked solicitously as Carlo fitted the device that encircled the base of his engorged member and stretched and separated his scrotum.
“No Mala, but…”
“Then tighter Carlo! But what?”
“But what has this got to do with me resting my leg?”
“Oh nothing,” replied Martin airily, “this is for my own pleasure and just to prove you’re not the only one who can plan things.” He broke out into a wide grin, kissed Stephen on the head and made for the door. “Carlo, keep him hard or you’ll be looking for another position.”
“To hear is to obey, milord,” said Carlo, also grinning.
Stephen spent a difficult morning. Carlo wouldn’t let him get out of bed, but brought him tea and sandwiches, which he fed to him like a baby. Stephen found that it was almost impossible to turn the pages of the documents he was reading, so gave up.
“I say, Carlo, take these gloves off. I need to use the lavatory.”
“No sir, you heard what the Colonel said and jobs is hard to find, but I’ll help you.”
Stephen was taken to the lavatory on Carlo’s arm. His cock was not so hard and Carlo held it and aimed. “A private’s pay is only a shilling a day and a servant’s not much more; you have to take the perks where you can find them, I always say, sir,” he said as gave Stephen’s penis a good shake. “Now back to bed and I’ll have to get you hard again.”
Carlo spent some time and put a good deal of effort into the task— he was a member of the San Culottes after all. A little after midday he looked at the problem and said: “It think I may need to get out the silk handkerchief.”
“How did you know about that, Carlo?”
“Oh, we servants know lots o’things, sir.”
The handkerchief was produced and Carlo dragged it across Stephen’s aching cock.
“Oh make me spill Carlo, I can’t stand it!” cried Stephen, writhing and sweating. “I’ll give you a pound.”
“It’s no use sir, his lordship will give me a guinea.
“You’re worse than the Huns.”
“That was uncalled for, sir,” replied Carlo, a little hurt. “This is for your own good—or at least for his lordship’s own good—but I must say you’re looking very red and inflamed sir, but I think you need it once more, extra slow, for I just heard his lordship’s motor pull up outside.”
Martin bounded up the stairs of Branksome House and had his boots and trousers off before he was in the door—he didn’t even remove his tunic. “Well done, Carlo,” he said as he straddled Stephen. Carlo made to leave. “No stay, help me!”
Carlo guided Stephen’s large, leaking member into his lordship’s waiting aperture, already conveniently greased up. “I wondered where all the Spong’s had gone,” he commented. Stephen entered him swiftly and Martin let out more of a sigh than a complaint. Before Carlo could even undo the second glove Stephen had spilt after no more than two or three movements by his impaled lover. Carlo steadied his lordship’s shoulders while Stephen continued to pump out his pent up essence.
There was much exhausted panting when Stephen at last pushed Martin from on top of him. “We’ll have the Red Cross onto us. I don’t think that was good for him, your lordship, ventured Carlo as he untied the remaining glove. I once saw a steam boiler explode on a ship—very ugly—caused a lot of injury.”
“But it was good for me, Carlo,” said Martin with a glorious smile. “Put the plug in me Derby. I want it in there all afternoon, although it makes it a bit hard to concentrate on finding a Ubangian translator.”
“What’s that?” said Stephen undoing the strap.
“Oh its one of the 200 languages spoken in the Kameroun. We’re having a dispute with the French now the Germans are kicked out.”
“We know of one person from there.”
“Who?”
“Mrs Weintraub.”
“Who on earth is Mrs Weintraub?”
“The wife of the owner of the shop in Soho, remember: lives in Wimbledon—Women’s Institute—native of the Kameroun.”
“Brilliant, Derby! I’ll go there after we have…Carlo, will you call me at five-to-two? And you’d better put some Spong’s on the Captain later; you had his strap far too tight.”
“There is none, your lordship.”
“Yes there is, Glass was just taking delivery of a box when I came in. Leave us now.”
While Martin snuggled down on Stephen’s sweat-soaked body, Carlo went to investigate the box, but not before he went to change his trousers, for not for the first time had he spent in them in his excitement. This job was far better than on any ocean liner.
In the kitchen Glass showed him the box, emblazoned as it was with Spong’s distinctive red and white design. Inside were several dozen of the large size tubes and a dozen bottles of sherry labelled in big letters ‘Xerez’ and underneath, in smaller writing, ‘para constipacao,’ while in tiny letters it read ‘engarrafado Rochdale.’
“There was a note with it,” said Glass. “It is with the compliments of an old school friend of his lordships. It must be good stuff,” he said, turning a bottle around. “I think ‘prisao de ventre’ is the name of one of the best bodegas. What have you been doing all morning, Carlo?”
*****
Martin drove his huge Rolls Royce down the narrow streets of Soho to where he knew the shop to be. He abandoned the vehicle when blocked by a row of dustbins and continued on foot. He thought at first he must be in the wrong street, but then he realised that the shop was gone—or rather empty. He pressed his nose against the glass and tried to see inside. He stood back in the road and looked up at the windows, which revealed nothing. Presently a little man from the establishment opposite that sold trusses and artificial eyes wandered out into the street and spoke:
“They got him. The authorities took him away a year ago. German he were. You’re not the first come lookin’ for ’im.”
“You mean Mr Weintraub’s been interred?”
“If that’s what yuz call bein’ locked up.”
“And Mrs Weintraub?”
“The black woman? Don’t know nothin’ about her.”
Martin regained his motor and returned to Whitehall. He set his assistant to trace the whereabouts of Weintraub while he, himself, used a directory to locate the wife. There was only one Weintraub in Wimbledon—an address in Arthur Road—and he was soon back on the road, sitting carefully because he still had the Chinese plug inserted, and with the Philip’s ABC next to help him to find the way.
The house was a large, half-timbered semi-detached on the rise opposite the church. It was fairly new. There was a low hedge divided by a gate, which gave onto a crazy path that needlessly snaked its way through lawn, flowerbeds and birdbaths up to the front door. He rang the bell and a maid answered.
“Is this the home of Mrs Weintraub?” asked Martin.
“Who should I say is calling, sir?”
Martin handed over his card and was made to wait. The servant returned and ushered Martin into a sitting room. It was a cheerful and attractive room with lots of flowers, chintz-covered armchairs, pampas grass, china plates and Benares brass. It reminded Martin of Mrs Chadwick’s drawing room. On the mantelpiece was a set of pipes in a rack fashioned like a five bar’d gate. Martin felt a pang for its absent owner.
Martin was just about to pick up a copy of ‘The Queen’ when the lady of the house came in through the French windows. “Forgive me, Colonel. I was gatherin’ a few late roses and some crocuses. Don’t you think the autumn crocuses are the best, sah?” Martin was unsure but agreed that they were. Mrs Weintraub set down her trug and took off her gloves. She was wearing a white blouse picked out with embroidered violets over a plain skirt and mantle, enlivened with several strings of pearls. A mesh handbag was hung from her belt. She was a handsome woman— every inch the model of English matron-hood- every other inch that is— for she was coal-black.
“I suppose you’ve come to ask me about my husband, sah. I have already told them everything I know.”
“No, actually I’ve come to see you, Mrs Weintraub, but tell me what happened to your husband. I went to the shop and it was closed.”
“Colonel Poole, are you in anyway related to the Pooles of Croome and Lord Branksome?”
“I am Lord Branksome, Mrs Weintraub.”
“Ah, I read about you in here,” she said, motioning to the issue of ‘The Queen’.
She seemed pleased and relaxed a little. “My husband was taken away by the authorities as an ‘enemy alien’. Of course it is unfair. He is German, but we are not political and have no contact with the enemy.”
“Where is he?”
“In Knockaloe on the Isle of Man. It’s too far for me to visit—even if they did allow it, sah. I told him that the business would get him into trouble one of these days and ruin our lives here— all we have built up in this house, this community…but no, he wouldn’t give it up. Oh, it has provided us with a good income. I’ll probably be able to last out the war, but they’re sure to deport him afterwards. I don’t like Paris—it isn’t respectable.”
“But your business harmed nobody, Mrs Weintraub. Indeed it gave great pleasure to many.” Here he reddened. “And it employed a great many people, your husband said.”
“Yes, we had a staff of thirty in 1914 and we turned over 18 thousand pounds,” she said with some pride. But it wasn’t respectable,” she said firmly, reverting to her former tone. “I always wanted my husband to give it up. Oh, if only he could have been a clerk in the City! I could have seen him off to the station in his striped trousers, with a rosebud in his lapel and the Telegraph under his arm…” she lamented wistfully.
“You have no idea Lord Branksome of the exquisite pleasure respectability can bring. Here she gave a delighted little shiver and then recovered but continued with a faraway look in her eyes: “Of the Surbiton Garden Club, of the Women’s Institute, of the Amateur Dramatic Society (Pinafore this year), of the vicar coming to tea on Tuesdays and of my roses…”
“Mrs Weintraub, can you speak Ubangi?”
“Yes sah, all four dialects and German and French and some Fulfuldi. I was 25 when I left with my husband and I lived in Paris for many years—not a respectable city, your lordship.”
“Mrs Weintraub, if your husband has no black marks against him (here he hesitated, but Mrs Weintraub took no notice) I mean if he has not done anything against this country…”
“Our country,” she corrected. I consider myself an Englishwoman, Lord Branksome.”
“Well, if he hasn’t and I can get him released, would you consider doing some translating for the Foreign Office. They have an urgent need for Kameroun speakers at present.”
“I’d be delighted. Oh could you help us?”
She rang for tea and launched into the sorry tale of how her neighbours were now shunning her and how she had had the part of Cousin Hebe cruelly taken off her by the Dramatic Society. “The vicar’s wife sent my knitted stockings back,” she said, quite distressed. She fought to recover herself and went to pour the tea.
“China or Indian?”
*****
“…and so I think I can get Weintraub released. The Foreign Office is very pleased.” Martin was relating his afternoon’s adventures to Stephen and The Plunger at the Saville Club. “Plunger, how long are you in London for?”
“I’m off to France the day after tomorrow—to Toulon, so it should be safe.”
“Toulon,” said Stephen. I don’t suppose you’d be going by Antibes by any chance?”
“Well it is 60 miles away. If I can, I will. You want me to check on things?” Stephen nodded.
“Plunger,” said Martin. “If you are free tomorrow afternoon, could you look in on Stephen. I don’t want him to get out of bed. I’ve already had a difficult time with him today. Do you think you can keep him company?”
“Oh I think so, Poole,” said The Plunger, screwing in his monocle. “Are we going to a show tonight?”
“Better than that,” said Martin, fishing into his pocket. “Tickets to the boxing! We can push Stephen in his chair.”
*****
Without being made to wear his boxing gloves Stephen could do more work in bed. Carlo came and changed his dressings. “Shall I massage your leg sir?”
“That would be good Carlo, if you are gentle. I’ll tell you if it hurts.”
Carlo put Stephen’s books and papers carefully aside and pulled back the blankets. Stephen thrust out his attractively muscular, hairy thigh towards Carlo, at the same time displaying to the full his cock and balls. “You do have to do a lot of work with me naked, Carlo, don’t you? I’m afraid they’d never keep me in clothes if I could get away with it.”
“It’s one of the perks of the job, sir,” said Carlo, rubbing his meaty thigh.
“It was fun yesterday, wasn’t it?”
“Yes sir, I spilled in my trousers.”
Stephen looked shocked. “Oh I’m sorry, Carlo, I should have thought. I don’t want to be one of those masters who act as if servants have no feelings. You don’t have to do intimate things with Martin and me if you’d rather not.”
“Oh no sir, it’s not like that at all; I enjoyed it.”
“Then take your trousers off next time and get your nice Italian cock out. I won’t mind. I’d like it. Martin would too. We won’t tell Mr Chilvers.”
Carlo continued to rub his hairy thigh but he kept his eye on Stephen’s privates and Stephen smiled.
“Would you like to kiss my cock and balls, Carlo?” he asked softly. Carlo nodded. “Well, get you trousers off and I want you to spill properly this time.”
Carlo was naked from the waist down in an instant and he lowered his face into Stephen’s sweaty, fragrant groin.
“Kiss it, Carlo,” he said quietly. Carlo placed a gentle kiss on the head, sampling some of the juices there. “Now my balls Carlo.” Carlo lifted the low-hanging sack and kissed each globe. He then plunged his whole face into Stephen’s groin and inhaled. He started to weep.
“What’s the matter Carlo?”
“I was thinking of France; I was back in Ypres,” he said in a voice much affected when he at last lifted himself from between Stephen’s legs. “The whole time I was in France I was petrified with fear. About the only time I felt safe was when I was—you know—giving you relief. You gave me—gave us all—confidence. I used to lie in my bunk and listen to the guns and the explosions; everything was shaking—I was shaking—and I used to…”
“Used to what?”
“Dream I was putting your trousers on or taking them off and that I would suddenly just bury my face down here where I couldn’t hear anything or smell anything—only your beautiful cock and balls, sir, and I’d feel safe; you’d hold my head there until it all stopped. That’s how I felt the other night when I was in the sack with you at Hexham; I was back in the trenches, but I was safe. I’ve never felt so good.
Stephen wiped away a tear on Carlo’s face with his thumb. “I was scared all the time too, Carlo. If anyone one says they weren’t they’re a liar or insane. I had to concentrate on you and the other boys to get me through. Do you have bad dreams too?”
“Yes, but not as bad as yours, sir. Glass just doesn’t understand, lucky fellow. It’s just that should never have happened—the war I mean. It’s more than any man can bear. It just doesn’t make sense, sir.”
Stephen opened his legs and Carlo plunged his face in again. Stephen stroked the back of his head. “You’re safe, Carlo. You’re with me. Nothing will happen. I won’t let it.” He said softly, hoping it were true. He lifted his legs, which was a little painful, and Carlo slid his face even lower. He finally surfaced, with a sheepish grin.
“You’re beautiful down there, sir. No wonder his lordship’s always in such a good mood.”
“Take your tunic off Carlo and let me suck you. I enjoyed it last time.”
A short time later Carlo was laying contentedly beside his master. “That was nice Carlo, but as tasty as it was, do you think could I have some more lunch? Just a sandwich. And we’d better change this bed, I’m expecting Lt Craigth and there might be some more manoeuvres.”
Carlo grinned again as he pulled on his clothes. “You’ll be wanting to go back to France for a rest, sir. I’ll bring you a sandwich and some of Sir Thomas’ tonic; you’ll have to satisfy his lordship tonight and I’ll be watching through the keyhole to see that you do him properly.”
“There’s plenty in these for everyone, Carlo,” said Stephen hefting his balls.
When The Plunger arrived, Stephen wasted no time. “Clothes off lieutenant, I want to inspect my troops.”
“Ah my beautiful ginger boy!” he said as The Plunger removed silk underwear of flagrantly non-Army issue.
“I’ve been keeping up with my exercises Stephen,” he said, “You could do some in bed with your dumbbells, you know.”
Stephen ran his hands over his strong, broad chest, which showed the benefit of the weights and chest expander. “I love your pink nipples against your while skin. Come here and let me bite them.” The Plunger was a little hesitant but Stephen was gentle with his teeth. The Plunger was then made to present various parts of his anatomy to Stephen to be licked, nibbled and sniffed. “Spread them wider, Archie, I need to get right in there; you’re so sweet.”
“Should I get Gertie to trim me?” asked The Plunger at one point, as he looked at Stephen’s public hair, which was now fashioned in the shape of the Military Cross (the bar being already provided).
“No, don’t touch it, Archie. Gingers are different. I like to get my nose right in there amongst it. Come up here and talk to me.”
The Plunger shifted and got under the covers with Stephen. It was very exciting, even more so because it was the middle of the afternoon. Stephen put his big, warm arm around him protectively and put his nose into the carroty thatch, now terribly disarranged, on The Plunger’s head that he was also able to kiss when he felt the urge.
“What have you been doing? We haven’t really talked for a long time.”
The Plunger felt no loss of dignity— never with Stephen—when he snuggled closer. “Well, there’s my work with SCAT— doing the dazzle and such. I have been trying to camouflage gasholders. It isn’t easy and even if we do shoot down all the zeppelins, it will be aeroplanes coming over us next. I’m also doing seafronts and naval dockyards—that’s why I’m going to Toulon—to give advice to the French artists—you should see how they fight among themselves for supremacy in Art— even in camouflage. I’ll also be returning to the Slade after the war. I really enjoy it there.”
“But what about you, Plunger? Are you happy?”
“What a thing to ask, Stephen, of course I am,” he replied less than convincingly.
“Are you still with Tsindis?”
“No.”
“Oh. How are you getting your needs met, Archie? You gingers do have very powerful needs, I know.”
“We do, Stephen, I don’t think that’s well understood. Well, there is someone, but it’s not going well, Stephen.”
“Isn’t it Archie?” said Stephen soothingly. “Do you want to tell me about it?” He put his other arm around him and hugged him tightly, rocking him slightly as he talked.”
“Well, there was this fellow—a Jew—at the Slade. He is very beautiful but he’s shy. I couldn’t tell if he liked chaps or girls and then he picked up a tart at the Alhambra and got a dose. That put me off. I have a pet for Charles Nevinson—he’s a very fine painter but all the girls fight over him. Then I met this older fellow— he’s 32—called Glyn Philpot—I’m sure he’d love to paint a portrait of you, Stephen—he likes handsome boys.”
“Does he like you?”
“I think so, but he’s a Roman convert and ties himself up in knots with guilt.”
“Is he a good person?”
“Oh yes, caring and generous to a fault. There is someone else too.”
“You’ve been busier than I thought, Archie,” commented Stephen as he put his tongue in The Plunger’s ear, which he knew made it hard for him to concentrate.
“He’s not so old but not such a good person,” continued The Plunger, as shivers went down his spine. “He’s at the Slade with me. His name is Alvaro.”
“Spanish?”
“No he’s from Chile. He’s as tall as me and very handsome. He’s quite a wild man. He reminds me of you in a lot of ways.”
“How is that?”
“Well, he’s tall and has dark Spanish hair like you, he boxes and he likes to sleep with both men and women.”
“Have you slept with him, Archie?” asked Stephen, twisting so he could see his face.
The Plunger nodded. “That’s another way he’s like you,” he said, blushing, but unable to resist a big smile.
This Archie was so different to the one with the haughty veneer that the poor fellow felt he had to show to the world, thought Stephen as he kissed his ginger eyebrows.
“But he’s gone back to Chile. I might never be as happy as you and Martin.”
“I’m sure you will, Archie. You’re kind and extraordinarily sensitive and I can feel your lovely cock pressing into my leg. Will you stay in bed with me until Mala gets home? I’m not supposed to get out of bed but I can think of some things we might do to pass the time.”
“It’s my birthday today. I’m 21,” said The Plunger gloomily.
“Archie, I had no idea. Happy birthday!” he said giving him a squeeze. What are you doing to celebrate?”
“Nothing. I’m off to France tomorrow, as you know, and my people have gone to America to see my grandmother—they left on the Mauretania on Monday.”
“Well, I hope they have a good crossing, Archie,” said Stephen with concern.
“Oh, they’ll be alright. She can sail at 27 knots and I designed the dazzle for it—it’s one of my best designs in the Expressionist style.”
“Is that an art movement?” The Plunger nodded. “Archie, I want you to stay here with Martin and me tonight, you can’t be alone on your birthday. Martin and I love you and I am trying to think of a nice present that I can give you so you will always remember the occasion…” said Stephen, raising his eyebrow.
“Well, the Pater said he was going to bring me back a motor car—a Stutz— but there is something else I’d rather have. Can I open my present now?”
“No, you have to wait until Mala comes home.” He pressed the bell and Carlo appeared. “Carlo, this fine fellow is 21 today!”
“Many happy returns, Lieutenant Craigth,” said Carlo with warmth as he looked with envy at The Plunger cuddled up to Stephen in the big bed.
“Carlo, could Mrs Smith create some sort of birthday cake at short notice? We might have to have our dinner up here; I know I mustn’t get out of bed with my leg. And Carlo, could you go over to the Ritz and get Mr Gertie to bring the Lieutenant’s kit for France over here- he won’t be going back. He might like some cake himself.”
“He’s watching his figure,” interrupted The Plunger.
“Well, ask him anyway.”
“Very good sir,” said Carlo. “Will you be needing more tonic, sir?”
“That will be all, Carlo,” said Stephen firmly.
“Go to sleep with me here for a bit, Archie, and when we wake up we can do some exercises with the dumbbells. I’d like to be good and sweaty for Mala when he comes in.”
*****
A few days later came the interview with Lord Devonport and Col Wrightson. It was held in Devonport’s office in the Ministry of Food.
“Here is your task, Captain,” said the tea merchant who was most famous for being the head of the Port of London authority. He passed Stephen a thick volume.
“We want you to firstly pinpoint why supplies are not getting through to where they’re needed at the front lines and secondly for you to make some suggestions about how we can organise things better. We are thinking of introducing rationing in this country due to Germany’s resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare, but the scandal of our troops not being provided with that which the people at home have been forced to go without will surely mean we can’t introduce it, not to mention the serious risk to us losing the war because we can’t supply our fighting men on the front line.
“We have three million men to supply in France alone. We need to move 6 million pounds of meat per month and four million pounds of bread. I’ve seen the vast warehouses of food in Boulogne and Le Havre myself; I’ve seen the stocks of medicines, clothes, gas masks and everything else piled up, but we seem unable to get it up to the front, despite a complex system of checking and invoicing, despite the Corp’s three thousand officers and three hundred thousand men.”
“We suggest, Captain,” said Col Wrightson, taking over, “that you might like to make your study in just one part of the front. I imagine you will be tracking the ordering and delivery of goods and looking at transport and so on.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought too sir. Possibly the whole system, including the delivery of ordnance, ammunition, men, horses and fodder should be included in the total picture, but I understand we do not have the co-operation for that.”
“Yes, and added to that we should also have looked to our allies. What if bully beef and bullets can’t get through simply because there is no feed for the horses? Why shouldn’t French or Indian troops be provided with bandages if they are closer to our troops than to their own depots and vice-versa, but there you are!” he concluded in exasperation.
Devonport resumed: “We want this finished by the end of March—that will give you 16 weeks, which I think should be plenty of time. A preliminary report by the first week in January would be appreciated,” said Devonport. “The Army will provide you with some clerical assistance and so on. Now I must go, the Lords are sitting.” Stephen stood awkwardly and shook his hand.
“Come with me back to the War Office, Captain,” said Wrightson lighting his pipe, “we can discuss billeting and messing. I’ve also got you that fellow Fortune. He will be up next week. Your men arrive in Chatham today I believe. Where is your batman? Oh here he is.”
Carlo pushed the chair at a sedate pace though the streets of Westminster as the two officers continued their conversation.
*****
Martin drove Stephen and Carlo down to Chatham. Stephen was clearly excited at the prospect of seeing his comrades again and felt that he had been given new life by the task he had been set. The Brompton barracks was a strange, almost oriental building with cupolas where Lt Toomey had gathered the Sans Culottes on parade.
Carlo fell in and Sgt Spinner called them to attention and reflected that he had thought he would never see Knight-Poole again—and yet here they all were, once more.
Stephen told them to stand at ease and opened with the welcome news that they were to have ten day’s leave—“except for you, Sifridi.” He then described in general terms what their task would be. All the soldiers knew that supply was chaotic and many wondered if it could ever be improved. Stephen explained that they would be going backwards and forwards from the depots to the front lines: “To the most forward trenches sometimes, men. It will not be easy. Also there will be reports to write. This job is also very much a clerk’s job, I’m afraid, and so some of you may miss the adventure of going over the top.” Stephen’s black humour was not lost on his men who thought a clerk’s life a fine thing.
“I am also organising some billets in London for you in the fullness of time. Our headquarters will be the former Bechstein Hall in Wigmore Street, which has been seized by the government so we have landed in a pretty snug foxhole, as it was designed by the same chap who did the Savoy.
“Now I want to inspect your feet. Boots and stockings off!” There was a groan. “Push me over, Private Sifridi. Put your foot up here Pengelly. Now how’s that fiancée of yours? Is she still watering the beer in her father’s pub?”
*****
Stephen was very happy and excited when he was helped back into the Rolls Royce. They drove through Rochester and were on the road to Dartford when Stephen broke the silence: “Did you see them Mala?”
“Yes, Stephen, a fine body of men.”
Stephen detected a slightly sarcastic note. “Yes I know they look a bit ordinary, but underneath…”
“Yes, I understand, Derby, said Martin, with more sincerity this time. “If you judge they are fine fellows, I believe you utterly.”
“Thanks, Mala. I say Mala, there are 10 men and Lt Toomey; five of them can find their own digs in London with their families and I’m sure I can find billets for the other five, but could we have them bunk at Branksome House instead?”
“Lt Toomey?”
“No he has people in Barnes, but Quick, for example, only has family in Salford.”
“Would they respect our— you know—privacy, Derby?”
“I think we could discreetly arranged it, couldn’t we Carlo?”
“I suppose so, Captain. There would be no need for anyone to go into your rooms. The door could be locked. Could they sleep in the servants’ rooms?
“I wouldn’t like locked doors and they can sleep in the spare bedrooms. We could even put two beds in each room and they could use one as a sitting room and Sgt Spinner will keep an eye on them. His family is back in Bristol. They will be in France most of the time in any case.”
“In that case, it might be nice to get them up from Chatham quickly; they may want to spend their leave in London,” said Martin.
“That’s very kind of you, Mala,” said Stephen who leaned across the seat and kissed him.
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