Men at Arms Read online

  ‘I’ve some cousins of that name.’

  ‘But not of Speke, surely? The Wrottman’s of Speke are extinct in the male line. Don’t you mean Wrottman of Garesby?’

  ‘Perhaps I do. They live in London.’

  ‘Oh yes, Garesby was demolished under the usurper George. One of the saddest things in all that whole unhappy century. The very stones were sold to a building contractor and dragged away by oxen.’

  But when a few days later the meeting was arranged Guy and Apthorpe kept the conversation on the affairs of Staplehurst.

  ‘I was able to find two references to your football in the Mag. I copied them out. I’m afraid neither is very laudatory. First in November 1913. “In the absence of Brinkman, Apthorpe acted as understudy in goal but repeatedly found the opposing forwards too strong for him.” The score was 8-0. Then in February 1915: “Owing to mumps we could only put up a scratch XI against St Otaf’s. Apthorpe in goal was unfortunately quite outclassed.” Then in the summer of ’16 you are in the Vale column. It doesn’t give the name of your public school.’

  ‘No, sir. It was still rather uncertain at the time of going to press.’

  ‘Was he ever in your form?’

  ‘Were you, Apthorpe?’

  ‘Not exactly. We came to you for Church History.’

  ‘Yes. I taught that through the school. In fact I owe my conversion to it. Otherwise I only took the scholarship boys. You were never one of those, I think?’

  ‘No,’ said Apthorpe. ‘There was a muddle about it. My aunt wanted me to go to Dartmouth. But somehow I made a hash of the Admiral’s interview.’

  ‘I always think it’s too formidable an ordeal for a small boy. Plenty of good candidates fail purely on nerves.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t that exactly. We just couldn’t seem to hit it off.’

  ‘Where did you go after leaving?’

  ‘I chopped and changed rather,’ said Apthorpe.

  They ate their tea in deep leather armchairs before a fire. Presently Mr Goodall said: ‘I wonder if either of you would like to become temporary members of the club while you are here. It’s a cosy little place. You don’t have to have a yacht. That was the original idea but lots of our members can’t run to one nowadays. I can’t myself. But we keep up a general interest in yachting. There’s usually a very pleasant crowd in here between six and eight and you can get dinner if you give the steward a day’s notice.’

  ‘I should like it very much,’ said Guy.

  ‘There’s a lot to be said for it,’ said Apthorpe.

  ‘Then let me introduce you to our Commodore. I just saw him come in. Sir Lionel Gore, a retired Harley Street man. A very good fellow in his way.’

  They were introduced. Sir Lionel spoke of the Royal Corps of Halberdiers and with his own hand filled in their entries in the Candidates Book, leaving a blank for the names of their yachts.

  ‘You’ll hear from the secretary in due course. In fact at the moment I am the secretary. If you’ll wait a minute I’ll make out your cards and post you on the board. We charge temporary members ten bob a month. I don’t think that’s unreasonable these days.’

  So Guy and Apthorpe joined the Yacht Club, and Apthorpe said: ‘Thanks, Commodore’ when he was handed his ticket of membership.

  It was dark and freezing hard when they left. Apthorpe had not yet recovered the full use of his leg and insisted on travelling by taxi.

  As they drove back he said: ‘I reckon we are on a good thing there, Crouchback. I suggest we keep it to ourselves. I’ve been thinking lately, it won’t hurt to be a bit aloof with our young friends. Living cheek by jowl breeds familiarity. It may prove a bit awkward later when one’s commanding a company and they’re one’s platoon commanders.’

  ‘I shan’t ever get a company. I’ve been doing badly all round lately.’

  ‘Well, awkward for me, at any rate. Of, course, old man, I don’t mind being familiar, with you because I know you’d never try to take advantage of it. Can’t say the same for all the batch. Besides, you never know, you might get made second-in-command and that’s a captain’s appointment.’

  Later, he said: ‘Funny old Goodall taking such a fancy to you,’ and later still, when they had reached Kut-al-Imara and were sitting in the hall with their gin and vermouth, he broke a long silence with: ‘I never claimed to be anything much at football.’

  ‘No. You said you didn’t make a fetish of it.’

  ‘Exactly. To tell, you the truth I never made much mark at Staplehurst. It’s strange, looking back on it now, but in those days I might just have passed for one of the crowd. Some men develop late.’

  ‘Like Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Exactly. We might go back to the Club after dinner.’

  ‘D’you think tonight?’

  ‘Well, I’m going and it’s cheaper sharing a taxi.’

  So that evening and most subsequent evenings Guy and Apthorpe went to the Yacht Club. Apthorpe was welcome as a fourth in the card-room and Guy read happily before the fire surrounded by charts, burgees, binnacles, model ships and other nautical decorations.

  9

  ALL that January was intensely cold. In the first week an exodus began from the dormitories of Kut-al-Imara, first of the married men who were given permission to sleep in lodgings; then, since many of the controlling staff were themselves unmarried yet comfortably quartered, the order was stretched to include all who could afford or contrive it. Guy moved to the Grand Hotel, which was conveniently placed between Kut-al-Imara and the Club. It was a large hotel built for summer visitors, almost empty now in war-time winter. He engaged good rooms very cheaply. Apthorpe was taken in by Sir Lionel Gore. By the end of the month less than half the original draft remained in quarters. They spoke of ‘boarders and dayboys’. The local bus service did not fit the times of parade nor did it strictly conform to its timetable. Many ‘dayboys’ had lodgings far from the school and the bus route. The weather showed no sign of breaking. Even the march to and from the bus stop was now laborious on the icebound road. There were many cases of officers late on parade with plausible excuses. The gym was unheated and long hours there became increasingly irksome. For all these reasons working hours were cut. They began at nine and ended at four. There was no bugler at Kut-al-Imara and Sarum-Smith one day facetiously rang the school bell five minutes before parade. Major McKinney thought this a helpful innovation and gave orders to continue it. The curriculum followed the text-books, lesson by lesson, exercise by exercise, and the preparatory school way of life was completely recreated. They were to stay there until Easter – a whole term.

  The first week of February filled no dykes that year. Everything was hard and numb. Sometimes about midday there was a bleak glitter of sun; more often the skies were near and drab, darker than the snowbound downland inshore, leaden and lightless on the seaward horizon. The laurels round Kut-al-Imara were sheathed in ice, the drive rutted in crisp snow. On the morning of Ash Wednesday Guy rose early and went to mass.

  With the ash still on his forehead he breakfasted and tramped up the hill to Kut-al-Imara, where he found the place full of boyish excitement.

  ‘I say, Uncle, have you heard? The Brigadier’s arrived.’

  ‘He was here last night. I came into the hall and there he was, covered in red, glaring at the notice board.’

  ‘I’d made a resolution to dine in every night till the end of the month, but I slipped out by the side door. So did everyone else.’

  ‘Something tells me he’s up to no good.’

  The school bell rang. Apthorpe was now restored to general duties and fell in with the squad.

  ‘The Brigadier has come.’

  ‘So I hear.’

  ‘High time, too, if you ask me. There are quite a number of things here need putting in order, starting with the staff.’

  They marched to the gymnasium and broke up into the usual four classes. All were being initiated in the same hard way into the mysteries of Fixed Lines.


  ‘Stores,’ said the colour sergeant instructor. ‘Gun, spare barrel, dummies, magazines, carrier’s wallet, tripod, aiming peg and night firing lamp. All right?’

  ‘Right, Sergeant.’

  ‘Right, eh? Any gentleman see anything not right? Where’s the peg; where’s the lamp? Not available. So this here piece of chalk will substitute for peg and lamp. All right?’

  Every half-hour they stood easy for ten minutes. During the second of these periods of glacial rest there was a warning: ‘Pipes out. Officers coming. Party, shun.’

  ‘Carry on, Sergeants,’ said a voice unfamiliar to most. ‘Never hold up instruction. Don’t look at me, gentlemen. All eyes on the guns.’ Ritchie-Hook was among them, clothed as a brigadier, attended by the officer commanding the course and his second-in-command. He went from class to class. Parts of what was said reached the corner where Guy’s squad worked. Most of it sounded cross. At last he reached Guy’s squad.

  ‘First detail; prepare for action.’

  Two young officers flung themselves on the floorboards and reported: ‘Magazines and spare barrel correct.’

  ‘Action.’

  The Brigadier watched. Presently he said: ‘Get up, you two. Stand easy, everyone. Now tell me what a fixed line is for.’

  Apthorpe said: ‘To deny an area to the enemy by means of interlocking beaten zones.’

  ‘Sounds as though you’d stopped giving him sweets. I’d like to hear less about denying things to the enemy and more about biffing him. Remember that, gentlemen. All fire-plans are just biffing. Now, you, number one at the gun. You’ve just been laying an aim on that chalk mark on the floor, haven’t you? D’you think you’d hit it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Look again.’

  Sarum-Smith lay down and, carefully checked his aim. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘With the sights at 1800?’

  ‘That’s the range we were given, sir!’

  ‘But God damn it, man, what’s the use of aiming at a chalk mark ten yards away with the sights at 1800?’

  ‘That’s the fixed line, sir.’

  ‘Fixed on what?’

  ‘The chalk mark, sir.’

  ‘Anyone care to help him?’

  ‘There is no aiming peg or night firing lamp available, sir,’ said Apthorpe.

  ‘What the hell’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘That’s why we’re using a chalk mark, sir.’

  ‘You young officers have been doing small arms for six weeks. Can none of you tell me what a fixed line is for?’

  ‘For biffing, sir,’ suggested Trimmer.

  ‘For biffing what?’

  ‘The aiming peg or night firing lamp if available, sir. Otherwise the chalk mark.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Brigadier, baffled. He strode out of the, gym followed by the staff.

  ‘Now you’ve been and let me down,’ said the sergeant-instructor.

  In a few minutes a message arrived that the Brigadier would see all officers in the mess at twelve o’clock.

  ‘Rockets all round,’ said Sarum-Smith. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if the staff aren’t having rather a sticky morning, too.’

  So it seemed from their glum looks as they sat facing their juniors assembled in the school dining-hall. Places were already laid for luncheon and there was a smell of brussels sprouts boiling not far away. They sat silent as in a monastery refectory. The Brigadier rose, Cesare armato con un occhio grifano, as though to say Grace. He said: ‘Gentlemen, you may not smoke.’

  It had not occurred to anyone to do so.

  ‘But you need not sit at attention,’ he added, for everyone was instinctively stiff and motionless. They tried to arrange themselves less formally but there was no ease in that audience. Trimmer rested an elbow on the table and rattled the cutlery.

  ‘It is not yet time to eat,’ said the Brigadier.

  Guy remembered the anecdote about ‘six of the best’. It would really not have surprised him greatly if the Brigadier had produced a cane and called Trimmer up for correction. No charge had been preferred, no specific rebuke (except to Trimmer) uttered but under that solitary ferocious eye all were held in universal guilt.

  The spirits of countless scared schoolboys still haunted and dominated the hall. How often must the word have been passed under those rafters of painted and grained plaster, in this same stench of brussels sprouts: ‘the Head’s in a frightful wax.’ ‘Who is it this time?’ ‘Why me?’

  The words of that day’s liturgy echoed dreadfully in Guy’s mind: Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.

  Then the Brigadier began his speech: ‘Gentlemen, it seems to me that you could all do with a week’s leave,’ and his smile, more alarming than any scowl, convulsed the grey face. ‘In fact some of you needn’t bother to come back at all. They’ll be notified later through what are laughingly called the “correct channels”.’

  It was a masterly opening. The Brigadier was no scold and he was barely one part bully. What he liked was to surprise people. In gratifying this simple taste he had often to resort to violence, sometimes to heavy injury, but there was no pleasure for him in these concomitants. Surprise was everything. He must have known, glaring at his audience, that morning, that he had scored a triumph. He continued:

  ‘I can only say that I am sorry I have not been to visit you before. There is more work than you can possibly know in forming a new brigade. I have been looking after that side of your affairs. I heard reports that when you arrived the accommodation was not perfect but Halberdier officers must learn to look after themselves. I came here last night on a friendly visit expecting to find you all happily settled in. I arrived at seven o’clock. There was not one officer in camp. Of course there is no military rule that you must dine in on any particular night. I supposed you were all out on some celebration. I asked the civilian caterer and learned that yesterday was not an exceptional occasion. He did not know the name of a single member of the mess committee. This does not strike me as being what the blue-jobs call a “happy ship”.

  ‘I looked at your work this morning. It was pretty moderate – and in case any young officer doesn’t know what that means, it means damned awful. I do not say that it is entirely your fault. No military offence that I know of has been committed. But an officer’s worth does not consist in avoiding military offences.

  ‘What’s more, gentlemen, you aren’t officers. There are advantages in your present equivocal position. Advantages for you and for me. You none of you hold His Majesty’s Commission. You are on probation. I can send the lot of you packing tomorrow without giving any explanation. As you know, the normal channel to a commission nowadays in the rest of the army is through the ranks and then to an OCTU. Halberdiers have been specially privileged to collect and train our new officers by direct entry. It won’t occur again. We were given this single opportunity to train one batch of young officers because the War Office have faith in the traditions of the Corps. They know we wouldn’t take a dud. Your replacements, when you’re “expended”’ – a cyclopean, flash – ‘will have gone through the modern mill of the ranks and an OCTU. You are the last men to be accepted and trained in the old way. And I’d sooner report total failure than let in one man I can’t trust.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve done something clever in getting a commission easily by the backstairs. You’ll go down those stairs arse over tip with my foot behind you, if you don’t pull yourselves together.

  ‘The rule of attack is “Never reinforce failure”. In plain English that means: if you see some silly asses getting into a mess, don’t get mixed up with ’em. The best help you can give is to go straight on biffing the enemy where it hurts him most.

  ‘This course has been a failure. I’m not going to reinforce it. We’ll start again this time next week. I shall be in charge.’

  The Brigadier did not stay for luncheon. He mounted his motor-cycle and drove away noisily among the icy ruts. Major McKinney and the directing staff pa
cked into their cosy private cars. The probationary officers remained. Strangely enough the atmosphere was one of exhilaration, not at the prospect of leave (that created many problems), but because all, or nearly all, had been unhappy during the past weeks. They were all, or nearly all, brave, unromantic, conscientious young men who joined the army expecting to work rather harder than they had done in peace time. Regimental pride had taken them unawares and quite afflated them. At Kut the Bitter they had been betrayed; deserted among dance halls and slot machines.

  ‘Rather strong worded, I thought,’ said Apthorpe. ‘He might have made it clearer that there were certain exceptions.’

  ‘You don’t think he meant you when he said some of us need not come back?’

  ‘Hardly, old man,’ Apthorpe said, and added: ‘I think in the circumstances I shall dine in mess tonight.’

  Guy went alone to the Garibaldi where he found it difficult to explain to Mr Pelecci, a deeply superstitious Catholic but in the manner of his townsmen – not given to ascetic practices, that he did not want meat that evening. Ash Wednesday was for Mrs Pelecci. Mr Pelecci feasted for St Joseph and fasted for no one.

  But that evening Guy felt full of meat, gorged like a lion on Ritchie-Hook’s kill.

  10

  PERHAPS the Brigadier believed that besides clearing space for his own work, he was softening the force of his reprimand by sending the course on leave. The ‘boarders’ left cheerfully but the ‘dayboys’ were committed to various arrangements in the town. Many had overspent themselves in establishing their wives. For them there was the prospect of five days loafing in lodgings. Guy was not rich. He was spending rather more than usual. There was no great attraction in changing an hotel bedroom in Southsand for a more expensive one in London. He decided to remain.

  On the second evening Mr Goodall was due to dine with him at the Garibaldi. Afterwards they went to the Yacht Club, and sat alone, among the trophies in the shuttered morning-room. Both were elated by that evening’s news, the boarding of the Altmark; but soon Mr Goodall was back on his favourite topic. He was very slightly flown with wine and looser than usual in his conversation.