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 6
The Linear Equation  

Martin was playing with the puppies when Glass brought in the afternoon post.  Immediately Billy snatched one of the letters and ran about the room with Vesta in hot pursuit until she got her sharp little teeth into it and a tug of war ensued.

The letter was in two halves before Martin could retrieve it.

It was from Mrs Chadwick from whom Martin had heard nothing in almost a year.

She had been ill and in hospital for some months, but was now back at home and recovering. Lt Craigth had been to see her a month ago and had brought her up to date on the war news. She was sorry to hear about the death of Lt Tennant but thanked God that his lordship had been spared and that Captain Knight-Poole had recovered from his wounds.

She was distressed to report that Joni had been killed and Hélias seriously injured at Verdun. Antibes had lost many men and consequently there were now many war widows to look out for.  The Trust had been suspended during the hostilities but Mrs Chadwick looked forward to the accumulation of interest for it would be sorely needed ‘after the war,’ she wrote.

Stephen’s house was still safe, although a little dilapidated, and M. de Blazon’s vegetable garden was more than ever needed during the food shortage.  The patron and his wife enclosed their love. ‘Antibes misses you’ as the French put it, she said.

Martin put the letter down and thought about how he would break the news about Joni to Stephen.  They had both been very fond of the bright and smiling French lad.   Any future voyages in the Joue Rose would indeed be further tinged with sadness.

The second letter bore a Swedish stamp (Martin already had it) and the contents came as quite a shock.  It was from cousin Friedrich.  The letter was quite short and in English.  He was (at the time of writing) well and safe.  He and Eugen had been at Tannenberg and Eugen had now gone off to ‘stiffen’ the Austrians against the Rumanians.  He himself was near Riga, but didn’t like to say exactly where.  His older brother had been killed in Galicia and the shock had hastened his grandmother’s death.  His mother and father were both alive and well, but unaware of his writing to the ‘enemy’.   A friend going to Sweden would post this, he explained. ‘God bless you and Herr Knight’ he wrote and signed off simply ‘Friedrich’.

As neither Stephen nor Carlo was in England, Martin showed the letter to Uncle Alfred. “What are you going to do with the letter, Martin?”

“I don’t know.  You’re not supposed to correspond with the enemy in wartime are you?”

“Well, it’s hardly your fault you received a letter.  It seems harmless.  Why not show it to Balfour?  The Foreign Office are probably already aware that you have received a suspicious letter from a neutral country.”

“I hardly think the Foreign Secretary will thank me for wasting his time.  But I will show it to Robert Vansittart, just to keep our name in the clear.”

He sought out Vansittart at his club, rather than in more official surrounds.  They shared reminiscences of Count Osmochescu who was now part of the Rumanian legation in London but was, Martin suspected, still working for the British and no doubt for someone else as well. If this were so Vansittart didn’t go as far as to enlighten him.

Martin showed him the letter. “Don’t be concerned.  We get thousands of these.  This is his first?” Martin nodded.  “I can’t advise you to answer it.  Do you mind if I keep it?”  Martin couldn’t think of an objection so Vansittart pocketed it, no doubt to fatten some foreign office file.

***** 

Stephen found himself in Le Havre in the week before Christmas, his leg having mended and his limp being but slight.  He and his men were busy at their various tasks.  At present Stephen was with one group who were studying the enormous food depot.  Mountains of wooden crates reached for the sky and the organization of the depot was as large and as complex as that of a small city.  The destruction of supplies by the army of great, ugly black rats was a major problem, but otherwise the depot seemed quit efficient.  Already they were using mechanical means for loading and transportation and Stephen could only think to recommend that this be increased to free up men for other purposes.  In a few spare moments he was working on a design for a device that could lift crates like a waiter’s hand lifted a tray, but he put this aside when more pressing tasks arose.

Nearly all the supplies from this base were dispatched mainly by motor lorry on good roads to another base at Abbeville where they were unloaded and restacked into a city not much smaller than the one at Le Havre.  From here they were dispersed to six further depots, along worse roads and with more horse-drawn vehicles and from these depots they fanned out to sub-depots closer to the front lines.  The system became more chaotic between this point and the front, where motorized transport was rare and the roads were non-existent.  There were also dozens of informal depots that did not appear on Stephen’s official charts.

Stephen could see that the depot at Abbeville might well be abandoned as supplies could just as easily continue directly forward.  The reasons for its original construction in 1914 were now forgotten, but it seems that it was at the insistence of the French authorities and it was now too entrenched to be shut down.  Stephen could see the workings of a mathematical formula whereby the velocity and volume of goods moved, diminished inversely to the quality of the roads, the means of transport and the length of the line.

The main work of the Sans Culottes was to accompany supplies leaving Abbeville selected by a formula involving random numbers devised by Lt Fortune.  The movement of the supplies was to be recorded and the testimony of quartermasters at the depots was to be collected, with suitable excisions of the more colourful language.  To make the survey reliable, a task was set for 200 movements to be tracked over January and February and the results of these would be sent back to Wigmore Street for analysis.  Stephen accompanied young Myles on the tenth such mission.  They were to follow a crate that contained bully beef and plum jam that was destined for Beaumont-Hamel where the Germans had pulled back to their newly constructed Hindenburg Line in recent weeks, allowing the Allies to advance as much as four miles over utterly devastated territory.  The wagon was drawn by two ill-looking animals and it had to be loaded lightly on account of their condition and that of the road.  Stephen and Myles examined the paperwork and shook their heads once again at it’s unnecessarily complexity.  “Sir, it is a rigmarole,” said Private Brent, one of the drivers, “and we say it’s to keep General Haig’s family in desk jobs—beggin’ you pardon, sir.  The real reason is they don’t want the stuff to be stole.”

“But who would steel tins of bully beef and jam?”

“Why soldiers might steal it, sir and some might eat it.”

They set off at a slow pace over the roads, which were a mixture of mud and slush from the melted snow.  They were in a slow moving line of wagons similar to their own, interspersed with lorries carrying soldiers and others carrying building materials.  Coming the other way were more wagons, many of them empty or stacked with empty crates.  

Myles spoke: “There’s such a shortage of wood, Captain that the army is insisting on the empty ones being returned.”

“Yet it seems wasteful in both ways, Myles,” observed Stephen.

They ate some food that they had brought with them as they walked behind the wagon and by evening they had reached Albert where there was a depot within sight of the shell damaged church upon whose tower a golden statue of the Virgin was twisted at an obscene angle.  It took nearly an hour for their boxes to be signed in and accounted for.  Stephen and Myles followed their box to a shed where it was stored with others.  Brent and the other man, departed in the empty wagon for Abbeville.

Stephen and Myles were found a corner of a hut where they could sleep.  It was freezing and the hut was warmed very indifferently by an iron stove.  They kept their greatcoats on and used some old chaff bags as bedding.  Myles was shivering and Stephen put his arm around him and they drifted off into a poor sort of slumber.

The next morning they awoke to find that the snow had deepened.  Nevertheless the yard was full of wagons and a few hard-tyred motor lorries.  Their crate was being loaded onto one of these last.  They asked permission from the drivers to sit with their ‘baby’ as they’d begun to think of their bully beef and jam— ‘our twins’, joked Myles—and they climbed up to make their way to the front line at Beaumont-Hamel which had been captured by the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders several weeks before with a shocking loss of life.

Their progress was slow.  Even when the road was good, they were forced to move at the pace of the carts and at narrow bridges they were often compelled to wait for hours in a queue.

At Auchonvillers they were halted by shelling.  The German’s had opened up from their new positions some distance away and had their guns trained on the town—or rather the remains of the town.  The men leapt from the truck and took cover in a water-filled ditch at the side of the road.  With a deafening explosion a shell landed in the middle of the road at some little distance from their lorry creating an impassable crater and also slewing their lorry sideways to the soft edge of the road just above their heads.  The sodden road started to give way and the heavily laden truck began to tilt.  Myles realised what was happening and called to Stephen who was deafened, once again, by the shell and stunned by the explosion.  The young man leapt and dragged Stephen clear just as the lorry toppled into the ditch with a great crash.

Stephen recovered, he and Myles were alright, but one of the drivers had been killed by the explosion—half his body blown away—while the other one had died when a crate—possibly their crate— had struck him on his head.

They did what they could for the dead men.  The truck was wrecked and so they set out on foot, running madly as the shelling intensified.  They reached Auchonvillers and took shelter in the cellar of a ruined house.  There was no food but there were some bottles of wine. They made a fire; it was smoky so they had to leave the door open so they did not choke. Their clothes were wet so they took them off and to dry, trying not to scorch them.  “Well, there’s one load that didn’t make it to the front,” observed Myles, grimly.

“Thank you, Myles,” said Stephen. “You saved my life back there.”

“Well, his lordship might be cross and I’d lose my billet if I let something happen to you, sir. And Carlo certainly wouldn’t pay me the two quid he owes me.  Besides, I gets to see my CO with his kit off again,” he said with a grin.  He came over to Stephen’s side of the fire and sat down next to him.  Stephen put his arm around him and watched the fire as the shelling, now answered by fire from the British guns, thundered all around them.

“See how the smoke rises in a smooth straight line, Myles.”  Myles had been looking at Stephen’s cock, but turned to the fire.  “Yes sir, smooth and reg’lar.”

“But look what happens when it gets towards the ceiling.” The complex cross currents of air in the room and the increasing volume but slowing velocity of the smoke as it reached the ceiling made the smooth line break into complex and ever-changing pattern of eddies which swirled, whiplashed, writhed and coiled like the black smoke from the chimneys in Dickens’ Coketown, that ‘never got uncoiled’.  “No one can describe that, let alone predict it,” said Stephen, aloud.

“No sir, it’s chaos, like this war.”

Stephen pulled Myles closer; they enjoyed the warmth of each other’s bodies.  Myles bent down and took Stephen’s hardening cock into his mouth.  He fed on it hungrily.  Presently he looked up from his labours.  Stephen was still looking at the smoke.  “Please sir, fuck me.  I really need something to make sense.”

By the morning Stephen had brutally fucked Myles twice, but the private was not complaining, and both their bodies were covered in their seed. 

***** 

In the early part of 1917 Martin found his job in Whitehall slowly changing.  With Portugal’s entry into the war the demand for Portuguese speakers had increased.  Martin did not find it difficult to fill these positions.  Nor was it a problem to produce from London’s clubland fluent speakers of Swahili for dealing with issues arising on the Mozambique frontier. Slightly more complex was the provision of translators in the Angolan native languages of Umbundu, Kimbundu and Kikongo, but an ancient don who had written the standard work on these languages in 1871 was unearthed in an obscure college in Oxford and now found he had a staff of six young women and an office in King Charles Street.

Martin found his best assets were his Stanley Gibbons Stamp Catalogue and a gazetteer.  He had Chilvers find his own stamp albums, which he had assiduously maintained until about the time Stephen supplanted philatelic interests and he now kept these in Whitehall and leafed through them with the aid of a magnifying glass in idle moments.  A trip to the shop of Messers Stanley Gibbons in the Strand was often a more convenient and reliable way of obtaining accurate information about other countries than consulting the Foreign Office.

Urquhart at the FO also collected stamps and had come across to look at Martin’s Indian Postage 1864 hexagonal  4 anna issue with Queen Victoria’s head inverted.

“I say, Poole,” said Urquhart bent over the album, “we’re interrogating a German officer this afternoon.  We know he’s been to see the Foreign Minister of Brazil, Herr Muller, and we rescued him from a Brazilian passenger liner that the Germans themselves had torpedoed—ironic isn’t it?  We feel that we’d like Brazil to join the allied side, but Muller is strongly in favour of keeping his country neutral.  Would you like to sit in?”

Thus Martin became involved in questioning prisoners.  He found he was quite good at it and had a disarming way of making the prisoners talk—often by saying nothing and then just pausing at the door as if about to leave.  He left the rougher tactics to others and tried not to think about them.

It was early in February that Martin received a visit from Robert Vansittart and Captain Hall from the Admiralty. “Come out for a walk in the park, Poole; it’s stopped snowing,” said Vansittart, handing Martin his overcoat and stick.  Martin felt compelled.

The three men slowly made their way around the lake, Hall producing crusts from a bag to feed some ducks that had curiously remained in London. “Poole, we want you to go to Sweden,” began Vansitaart.  Martin looked, rather that asked, ‘Why?’

“We’ve come by some very important information.  Tell him, Hall.”

Hall was a weather-beaten old sailor in his mid-forties.  He blinked disconcertingly when he talked but was clearly very intelligent.  “Well, Col Poole, it’s like this: Since the German’s launched unrestricted submarine warfare in the Atlantic, the nations on the other side of the pond have become quite restive—you’ve seen that yourself with the Brazilians.  This time it is the Americans.  They’re already outraged with the loss of life on the Lusitania and the Arabic.  The Germans half-expect them to declare war.  We have obtained some intelligence that may precipitate them into it.”  He hesitated.

“Tell him, Hall,” said Vansittart again and then said: “This is top secret, Poole.  I hope I don’t have to tell you what would happen if you were to betray this, even accidentally.”

Martin went pale and almost felt like saying: Don’t tell me then, but he didn’t.  He looked back at Hall who was blinking furiously.

“We have a cable in cipher that was sent from Berlin to their ambassador in Mexico.  In it, it unambiguously states that the German government would aid the Mexican government if it declared war on the United States.  They make vague promises of arms, money and territory if they do.”

“Will the Mexicans go to war?”

“I doubt it—although they don’t like the United States who have bullied them out of Texas and Arkansas…”

“Arizona,” corrected Vansittart.

“Well, some remote territories with cowboys and cactus plants…but they would lose any contest of arms and they must know that the Germans would never be able to make good their promises.”

“Well, why don’t you show President Wilson?”

“On one level that would work: Wilson is smart but naïve.  He wants to keep his country out of it.  There are lots of Germans and Irish who would like to see us lose the war and don’t want America to fight.  On the other hand, the Germans have behaved so stupidly, that Wilson is losing patience.”  Here he took a breath and swung his stick into some bushes and dislodged some dirty grey snow from its branches.

“But we can’t let the Americans know how we’ve obtained it—how we got this cable—and we also don’t want the Germans to know that we know.”

Vansittart took over: “Look Poole, the German’s don’t know we’ve broken their ciphers. Wilson doesn’t know that we’re intercepting their cables from Germany and neither do the Germans.”

“We’re listening in to American cables; surely that’s not cricket?”

“Don’t be naïve, Poole of course we are,” said Vansittart crossly.  “Wilson lets the Germans use American cables for diplomatic purposes.  The Germans abuse his trust.  The cables pass through Cornwell; we intercept the material on the quiet.” Here he looked up to the gloomy Italianate façade of the Foreign office across the wintry lake.

“We have to make both the Germans and the Americans believe we’ve obtained the information by some other means—possibly through their embassies in Washington or Mexico City or Stockholm.  All we want you to do is to go to Stockholm—as a civilian—and post a letter to your German relatives—just family chitchat like the one you received from Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis.  The Germans will be sure to be watching you.  You are to go to the American embassy too.  It doesn’t matter what you do there, it’s just to throw them off the scent.  They will suspect their own people.  We will do the same in Mexico.”

“When do you want me to go?”

“Thursday.  You’ll leave from Hull and go via Oslo.  That will make sure the Germans have time to spot you,” said Hall.

“Your pal Knight-Poole isn’t available to go with you I suppose?” asked Vansittart.

“No he’s in France with the ASC.”

“Well, have you got a chap who could be your offsider?  It would have to be someone thoroughly sound; this is top secret stuff, Poole, and I’m afraid even he must not know exactly what you are up to.  The whole course of the war could hinge on this.”

“I’ll ask Biffo—that is Captain Bewley-Vance Bewley from my section.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Of course, he’s a member of Boodles and he was in my house at school.”

Thus Martin found himself on board a Norwegian ship crossing the dangerous waters of the North Sea, for although the German Grand Fleet was bottled up in its harbours, it was only in October that they had launched a sneak attack into the North Sea and submarine warfare was now utterly devastating shipping.

These dangers did not seem to worry Biffo who chatted on about the new suit that he had bought for the trip and how there would be no hunting this year at his family’s place in Rutland. “I say Poole, do you think there will be champagne at dinner?  It’s getting hard to find in London.”

“I don’t know,” said Martin gloomily, wishing that Stephen were here.

At dinner they were seated next to a Dutch couple and Biffo tried to interest them in lacrosse, before launching into a long description of the motorcar his father had bought for him.  “I say Poole, are you going to eat the rest of that pudding?  I haven’t seen a banana since the war began.”

Martin took a bottle of wine back to their cabin with the intention of drinking himself to sleep.  Biffo occupied the bunk above and chatted on about school days.  “Do you remember the year we were undefeated, Poole?  You were the best captain we ever had.  They should make you prime minister—I bet Lloyd George has never played lacrosse—wouldn’t be such a shit if he was a lacrosse man.  I say, Poole, do you remember what we used to do in the showers—‘team bonding’ you called it?  Would you like to do that again?  I could come down.”

“Come on then,” said Martin, “but do shut up, my head aches.”

“Well the mater always told me not to talk with my mouth full.  Do you think my new moustache will tickle too much?”
 

It was another ten hours before they reached Oslo then several more on the train across country to Stockholm, avoiding the Baltic.  Biffo was loquacious and gave a detailed genealogy of his family, which was replete with many cousins, each with peculiarities that Biffo thought were interesting.  Then he fell to reading the signs out the window ‘Arvilka’ ‘Karlstad’ ‘Orebro’ ‘jarnvagsvergangen’ ‘inte stro’.  Then he commented on the colours of the cows.

At last they arrived in the fresh, clean city of Stockholm, which lay under a blanket of snow fallen from the dark sky.  They took a taxi to the Grand Hotel, which stretched opposite the Royal Palace.  Already Martin could detect the difference between a country at war and a country at peace.

“I have to go out for a bit, Biffo.  Will you be alright?”

“Oh yes Poole.  I’m going to look at the shops.”

It was with some hesitation that Martin went up the icy steps of the German legation.  He was on enemy soil.  Could they hold him prisoner?  In German, then in English, he asked where he could post a letter.

The clerk looked at the address on Martin’s letter and indicated a box across the hall.  Martin walked over and dropped the letter through the slot then departed.  He was unsure if he’d been watched.  He crossed to the museum, which was next to the hotel, and spent an hour or so very visibly looking at the collection.  He then went back to the hotel and shortly afterwards Biffo returned loaded up with purchases and very pleased with himself.

After dinner they went to a bar.  “Excuse me sir, you’re English, ja?”  The man had an ugly face but was fair (like all Scandinavians) and was flabby under his slightly threadbare suit.

“My sister is sitting at that table,” he said, pointing across the smoke-filled room to a slim, dark-haired woman that could not possibly be his sister.  He saw Martin’s look.  “My half-sister,” he amended, “and she would very much like to meet some Englishmen to practice her English—mine she says is not ‘up to the mark’—and dancing she would like also.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but my friend and I are discussing important business and we unfortunately do not have time to meet the charming young lady.”  Biffo was going to contradict him, but a look from Martin made him hold his tongue.

“That is indeed unfortunate.  I do have a brother also.  He is young and strong but lonely as he is from the country.  People say how handsome he is.” Martin gave the man a look.  “He is also my half-brother.”

Martin excused himself and took Biffo back to their hotel.

“Biffo,” he began, “We have been away for several days now and you haven’t asked me what we are doing.”

“Do you want me too Poole?” asked Biffo, brightly.

“No, I can’t tell you.” 

“That’s alright then.”

“You’re not curious?”

“No. Ought I be?”

Martin did not answer but instead said: “Biffo, what do you want to do with your life?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, Poole.  I try not to think too much.  Father wants me to marry Barbara Orford.”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t mind.  She’s a good sort and her father’s land adjoins ours.”

“Are you happy?”

“I try not to think about that either.  I think I was happiest at school; a chap didn’t have to think there.  I wasn’t smart like you and The Plunger, but I was good at games wasn’t I?”

“Yes you were, Biff.  You were our best mid-fielder and you could walk ever so far on your hands down the passage.”

“Yes, I could,” said Biffo, lost for a moment in the heroic memory.  “See? My life wasn’t entirely wasted.”

The next day Martin went to the American embassy.  He was now fairly certain he was being followed and he spent some time inside asking about immigration.

He returned to the Hotel where Biffo had been given the task of packing and paying the bill. They made straight for the railway station and returned to England the same way they had come, uneventfully.

A few weeks later—on the last day of February— the story of the Zimmermann Telegram broke on both sides of the Atlantic.  If Biffo had any idea of the role he played in the affair he gave no sign of it in Boodles where Martin played him at billiards and was soundly beaten.

Stephen was back in England by the middle of January and had even managed a weekend with Martin down at Croome where he spent most of the time with Titus Knight, which Martin understood, as Martin was just pleased to have Stephen more often in London.

The headquarters in the Wigmore Hall was in full swing.  They had 75 surveys returned and Stephen and Lt Toomey were already formulating their recommendations.  Increasingly Stephen was shut up with Charles Fortune where they worked on mysterious mathematical formulae in fluid dynamics and quoted a Frenchman called Poincaré and an American, Birkoff.

On a more realistic level Toomey put forward suggestions for changes in transport and for the optimal size of wagons and that the return of the packing cases was a useless measure as they were often too battered to be reused, even if shipped back to England, and that the front lines would be deprived of an invaluable building material from which to fashion all manner of ingenious things from duckboard to bookshelves that would otherwise have to be provided.

Stephen was finding that Col Wrightson was being helpful in preparing his preliminary report, while Lord Devonport was gloomy and insisted that supply was a problem that could never be solved and that the wastage (of which there was much) was a great scandal.  While Stephen was forced to agree with the latter he was nevertheless slightly perplexed.

“You don’t see do you Knight-Poole?” said Wrightson when he joined Stephen for beer at the Saville Club.

“No I don’t, Col Wrightson.  Devonport is a superb administrator—look at the Port of London—yet he is less than enthusiastic about this.”

“He doesn’t want rationing, my dear fellow.  He is trying to find an excuse not to introduce it; at the most he will suggest ‘voluntary rationing’ and you can imagine how that will fail. He wants the public to be outraged and to refuse to be starved themselves.”

“But why, he is the Minister for Food Control?”

“But he is also a tea grocer—he’s Kearley of Kearley and Tonge and the International Tea Company—rationing is the last thing he’d want to see—although you’ll notice he has had forbidden coffee to be imported in British ships.

The scales suddenly fell from Stephen’s eyes.

“Don’t worry, Knight-Poole, Lloyd George knows what you’re doing and Devonport will be for the chop just as soon as it can decently be managed, your friend Lord Delvees has joined the coalition and spoken up for you.

That night as Martin helped Stephen do his exercises to strengthen his bad leg (which Stephen insisted should be done with them both naked) he told Martin of his betrayal by Lord Devonport.  He was angry and unused to such treatment.

While Martin was contemplating the concept of loyalty he suddenly said, “Derby, when I go riding with private Myles he has been kissing me on the Serpentine.”

Stephen laughed. “And where on your body is that?” Martin laughed too.  “And have you been kissing him back?” Martin nodded as he worked Stephen’s leg up and down.

“While I’ve gone one better,” he boasted and told the story of what took place in France, which he had not been going to disclose, mainly so that Martin would not worry.

“Well I suppose it was worth it if he saved your life.  It does count as a genuine emergency. Will it be in your report?”  Stephen gave a snort.  “Derby,” continued Martin, “tomorrow we will both ride in the park.  Private Myles will have to get his own mount.”

Stephen made four more trips across the channel and participated in 10 more survey journeys with his men, each time reaching the front lines where he found conditions in the cold winter deplorable, but knew that they would be even worse for the Germans who were now not so well victualled as the allies.  Both sides it seemed had decided not to launch another push until the weather improved.  He returned to London, taking all his men back.  No lives had been lost, although several of his boys had sustained injuries and Stephen was very solicitous in getting them to see the Army doctor as well as bringing up Dr Markby again and paying for his services out of his own pocket.

At the Wigmore Hall Stephen was putting together the final report.  There was to be an introduction giving an overview of the formation of the ASC and its system of command.  The second part concerned the specific problems of supply on the Western Front as they saw it and these views were stiffened by the reports gathered by the Sans Culottes.  Fortune and Stephen then worked on the main part, which was the presentation of the data from the surveys which was conveyed in tables, graphs and maps drawn by the men who were skilled in these fields.  This would be followed by recommendations.

Thus Stephen was putting in long days and in the evenings Charles Fortune would often come back to Branksome House and work with Stephen late into the night, sleeping on a couch in the corner of the drawing room, which had been converted into an annex of Wigmore Street.

The Sans Culottes were busy too, but usually got drunk in the evenings.  One night Stephen sat in their room, now crowded with men as three more had asked to be billeted at Branksome House, and drank with them, the strict distinctions between ranks slipping slightly, although not so far as they had with private Myles.

It was 2 o’clock before Stephen crawled into bed.  He smelled appallingly of beer and he belched noisily.  Martin didn’t mind because he knew Stephen was curiously happy.  Then there was an eruption.

“Derby!”

“Sorry, Mala, it was Sgt Spinner’s pickled onions. You don’t mind do you?”

Martin wasn’t sure, but before he could decide Stephen had pulled the blankets over his head and was suffocating him.  They were both laughing.

“That’s worse than mustard gas, Derby, you swine!” said Martin when at last he fought himself free. Stephen kissed him then made love to him more wonderfully than he could remember.

The presentation of the report was held in the War Office.  By some means Stephen had got invitations for Martin and The Plunger who stood in the rear of the ornate chamber.

“It’s so marvellous to see you back Plunger, whispered Martin.  How did it go in France?”

“Not so well, Poole,” replied his friend in hushed tones.  “The French Academie des Peintres de Guerre et Camouflage is hopelessly divided except in their utter rejection of British Dazzle; they insist that the soul of France is to be represented in what they call their ‘Eblouissement’.  He shook his head in sorrow.  “Then they divided into three factions, each publishing a manifesto and the most they could be persuaded to do was to each paint tugboats in rival techniques.  They’ll never win the war.”

The important personages filed into the room, taking seats.  Last to arrive was Lloyd George, accompanied by Douglas Haig.

Lord Devonport was first to speak where he outlined the task that he had set.  Then Stephen and Lt Toomey rose.  Martin could see that Stephen was nervous.  He gave a little smile in his direction and then launched into the findings of the survey.  He illustrated it with lantern slides, the machine being operated by Sgt Spinner.  It was not surprising that Stephen recommended the removal of some of the depots and the increased use of mechanical transport and handling techniques.  He emphasised the need for separate roads to be reserved for motorised traffic with horses and men excluded. 

Lt Toomey then rose and outlined an improved system for numbering boxes and receipting- explaining that the delays cost more than stolen supplies.  The use of a telephone ordering system would also be possible.

Then Stephen rose again and launched into the theoretical aspects and their practical consequences, paying tribute to Charles Fortune.  He began by explaining that the movement of supplies was like the simple liner equations used to describe and predict the flow of liquids through conduits.  Most in the audience could follow this.  Spinner put up the next plate showing diagrams in equations.  He was so proud of the Captain as he stood there in front of all the important folk looking so handsome in his immaculate uniform where the faint outline of his manhood could be detected through the cloth, even in these circumstances.

“However, this explanation does not hold when the movement of goods encounters the unpredictable conditions closer to the front—conditions that cannot be controlled—such as explosions, mud, loss of life, etc.  Quite often when the supplies arrive at the front line the platoon has moved and their place is occupied by others who do not have the authorization to receive the supplies.  We simply have to accept that beyond a certain distance from the last depot we cannot totally control the movement supplies to where they are needed, no matter how many chits we issue or how many vehicles we put in forward positions.  Lord Devonport suddenly felt some comfort at this thought.  “The postman can deliver the post as far as the door,” continued Stephen, “but some other system has to operate to get each letter to the correct person in the household.”

“Thus we should plan not to have a plan at all.”  There was a murmur from the seated officials.  “Because it is so chaotic it will form its own ever changing pattern of flow.  We have found that, left to their own devices, the quartermasters in the trenches and the men themselves will set up a system of exchange informally—especially if not hampered by the need for paperwork.  Bully beef will be exchanged for soap; sheet iron for new boots.  If the men on the ground could be given more responsibility for seeing that there is a fair exchange then the system—or rather lack of system—will assert itself.  Every soldier at the front will attest, that this is what already takes place, albeit informally.  The ASC should concentrate its efforts on moving goods up to the front only as far as linear flow mathematics still apply. Beyond that, where the reticulation of supplies branches into hundreds and hundreds of channels chaos reigns but in this chaos there is a pattern, even if it can’t be predicted and documented with the traditional system of military chit and receipts.”

Stephen paused and General Haig spoke: “Are you suggesting, captain, that we should just dump supplies somewhere near the front lines and let the men scavenge them themselves like so many rats on a dust heap?”

“Perhaps not quite so cavalier as that, sir,” said Stephen, “but the rats do form their own system of distribution and consumption, even if we cannot describe it and predict it.  Perhaps allowing more initiative to the quartermasters and the men on the front lines would allow such systems to develop naturally.  It would, at least, give the quartermasters and men less occasion to complain if they were organising distribution themselves, sir.  

“I hope your report has not been simply been a ventilation of the complaints of thieves and malcontents,” said General Hunter-Weston.

“We have sought the views of men and officers on the ground, especially in the front lines in France, if that is what you mean General Hunter-Weston”.

The General went very red and looked as if he would strike Stephen.  Haig put his arm on his and calmed him just as Col Wrightson jumped to his feet and motioned to Stephen to sit down, but Stephen was not to be put off and concluded by thanking his men, naming the whole dozen.  He then sat down.

The Prime Minister spoke:  “Thank you Captain Knight-Poole— and thank your men.  You have given us much to think about— although I confess the mathematics were beyond me.  I will take away with me the knowledge that it is possible to supply our troops with the necessities of life and I will look for God’s divine pattern where it seems the devil has let chaos reign.”

Lord Devonport put on a brave face and excused himself, thinking that rationing would be a certainty.  Col Wrightson remained with Stephen and Lt Toomey.  The Plunger came up and shook Stephen’s hand.  “Thanks, Plunger, they didn’t like it.”

“Perhaps not, Knight-Poole, said Col Wrightson, “but they were very impressed.”

“Perhaps we can hope for some of the other recommendations being adopted?” asked Toomey.

“Oh yes, certainly lieutenant,” opined Wrightson “and possibly quartermasters will be given more slack to trade along the lines, without going through the ASC depots.  I can’t see much more than that.  The Army has strong traditions when it comes to doing things.” 

***** 

Following this, the Sans Culottes were given a week’s leave and Stephen went down to Croome where he was joined by Martin at the weekend.  They were walking with Job and Stephen’s dogs across the frosty fields in a rare patch of winter sunshine.  “You know Derbs, you really ought to get a motor,” said Martin who had driven down.  “You’re not scared of driving are you?”

Stephen knew he was teasing and said: “Only when you’re at the wheel, Mr Toad”

“You know there are a dozen motors in the district already: there’s Dr Markby’s, Woolseley, Mr Best has a Sunbeam, Sir Bernard Bonnington has a Rolls and Hore-Grimsby’s wife has a motor Chilvers tells me.  Or perhaps a motor bicycle—I can see you on one.”

“I don’t think so, Mala.  Do you think you will employ a chauffeur after the war?”

“No, I like to be my own, but I’d find a job for Jackman if he ever came back.  Has anybody heard?”

“No, Chilvers hasn’t.  I don’t know who his people are or where.”  The bus rumbled along the road beyond the field and the boys waved.

“Derby, one of your one-legged sergeants was a mechanic, wasn’t he?”

“He now has two—they both do—and it was Louch who was a mechanic; Swane worked for the railways.”

“We could use a mechanic in Branksome.  Do you think he could return to his old trade with only one leg?”

“Well I’ve seen him running at Roehampton, so I’m sure he could— perhaps with some help. Are you thinking of setting him up in business—it would be a marvellous thing to offer him,” said Stephen quite excited, “I might even buy a motor myself.  He could sell petrol.”

“And repair the buses and fix the generator at Croome.”

“Yes, it broke down on Wednesday but Mrs Capstick fixed it.  She greased the shaft with Spong’s Soothing Salve (The Empire’s Choice) and it was purring in a trice.”

They walked in the direction of The Feathers and Martin pointed to an old barn that he thought would be a good site for a motor garage, “It’s right on the main road and between the bridge and the pub.  Could the barn be converted or could you design one, Derby, which doesn’t look too industrial?”

“I could try.  We’ll need to see if Louch is interested in leaving London.  He might not want to.”

“What?  He’d rather live in busy, smoky London than here— the most beautiful spot on God’s Earth?” Martin was only half joking and Stephen was touched by how he felt about the place and, as no one was about, hugged him.”

“You’re a good fellow Lord Branksome.”

Martin drove Stephen and Carlo back to London, which was a busy town indeed and Branksome House seemed to be at its epicentre.  There were now nine Sans Culottes billeted there as well as The Plunger who had been asked to move from the Ritz as the King of Portugal was expected any day now.  The drawing room at Branksome House was being returned to its previous domestic status but work continued in the Wigmore Hall putting together the ancillary reports and there was a constant flow of traffic through the front door which remained unlocked, with Glass only answering when the bell was pressed and only then if he were not on duty as a Red Cross volunteer down near Moorgate Station.

Thus it was Martin himself who answered the door where a soldier presented him with a letter.  He opened it and read it with surprise.  He gave an affirmative answer to the waiting soldier and sent him away.  Martin operated the telephone himself and was put through to Stephen at Wigmore Street, “Derby, he said, can you come home directly, the Prime Minister has invited himself to dinner.”

“Well, that’s something, how’s the food situation?”

“I’m not sure, we may be on short rations.  He’s bringing Haig, the Foreign Secretary and General Robertson with him.”

There was a flurry of excitement.  The Sans Culottes had their quarters tidied and Stephen postponed their foot inspection.  They were to be confined to barracks and the dinner was to take place in Lutyen’s small dining room with Uncle Alfred as the only other householder at the same table.  The kitchen was put on alert and although everything was in short supply, the extra rations that came with the billeted soldiers would be borrowed for this occasion.

The Sans Culottes were paraded in the spacious hall of Branksome House and Haig and General Robertson inspected them before going upstairs to the drawing room for whiskey.  They were called to attention again by Sgt Spinner for Lloyd George and Arthur Balfour and the others, glasses in hand looked down admiringly from the gallery above at this miniature military review.

Naturally Stephen’s report was discussed and Stephen was excited that some measures would likely be adopted and that Lt Toomey’s numbering system using punched cards was to be piloted.  Robertson hinted that the Sans Culottes would not be broken up immediately and Stephen couldn’t have received better news than this. 

“It’s a damned remarkable thing to billet these men in your own home, Poole,” said Douglas Haig.

“Not at all sir, it is being done all over the country, why not here in town?  This is a big house with only myself and the Captain here apart from my uncle.”

“I hear you’ve got Craigth’s son here too.”

Yes, sir, The Plun…Lt Craigth has set up his studio here as his father’s house has been taken by the Belgians.”

“Ah the gallant Belgians.  Don’t tell Craigth, but were going to appoint him an official war artist—how he kept his temper with those Frenchmen I’ll never know.”

Despite all this good news, Martin was positive that this gathering of the nations most powerful was not just to talk about the ASC or The Plunger or to pay homage to the lustre of the Poole family’s name and titles.  The real reason emerged over the roast beef.

“Poole, you know that America has entered the war— at last,” began, Lloyd George.  And indeed everyone was well aware that this occurred just three days ago, although it had been much anticipated. “And we know what a good job you made of your Stockholm excursion.”

Stephen looked surprised and Balfour said, “You didn’t know what your friend was up to while you were in France, Captain?”

“I will tell you later, Stephen,” said Martin.

“Well,” continued Lloyd George, “the government wants you and the Captain to go to the United States.  The people there need to be convinced of our chances of winning the war; there is a lot of defeatist talk in the United States and your job will be to discourage this.”

Haig said, “Were sending you two because Captain Knight-Poole is a genuine hero….”

“And he looks like one, interrupted Lloyd George—the ladies will be all over him.  I feel like coming along myself.”

“And you, Colonel Poole,” resumed Haig, “are also good poster material and the Americans will love a gen-u-ine lord.  Money can’t buy that.”

Stephen and Marin were almost beside themselves with excitement, but they kept it under control at the table.  Martin pressed the button under the table with his foot and Glass, Albert and Carlo came in and cleared for the next course.

“This man is your batman, isn’t he, Knight-Poole?” asked General Robertson, pointing to Carlo.

“Yes sir, he was my valet and his lordship’s footman before that.”  Carlo froze.

“Well he can go as your batman-secretary, we can’t afford any more space, I’m afraid.  I started life as a footman you know.”  Many at the table did know, for Robertson was famous for having risen from humble origins through the ranks and still felt that he was slighted on occasion for it.

“We’re to go to America, Carlo,” said Martin in a theatrically flat voice.

“Very good your lordship, shall I get Mr Glass to serve the ice?”

To be continued... 

Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Henry and I would love to hear from you. 

Posted: 02/28/14