Heart of War (100 page)

Christopher Cate read the paper with increasing despondency. Isabel was gone and the chances were strong that he would never see her again. In the night, lying awake, he had finally decided that he must sell Upper Bohun Farm to a land speculator from London; he needed the money. The Mayhews had been warned, and were understandably unhappy, even though Christopher had promised to stipulate that their lease could not be terminated until after the war ended. That suited the would-be buyer, who in any case would have to wait for peace until he could start his ambitious project – building medium-sized houses for fairly rich people to live in, and go to London by train everyday for work. ‘The line will be electrified within ten years after the war ends,' the man had said. ‘You'll see. The people who buy my houses will get the best of both worlds – town and country.' Perhaps. Perhaps not … electrified trains were certainly cleaner and he supposed they were more convenient, but if they had a third rail, like the London tubes and the Metropolitan, there'd be terrible casualties among hounds if the fox ever crossed the line … but there wasn't going to be a pack after the first of the year. Swanwick was holding a New Year's Day meet as a farewell and then disbanding the hunt: another familiar sight and sound gone the twang of the horn across the winter furrows, the music of the bitches on a screaming scent…

He returned to the newspaper:

Simplicity itself … He thought of the old country problem about giving a horse a pill. You put it in a tube, insert the tube down the horse's throat, then blow …
but what if the horse blows first?

And it was depressing to think of the generals cheerfully planning through Christmas, 1918, and on into 1919 … 1920? 1921?

He was about to turn the page when an item in the
Stop Press
caught his eye.

His heart lurched and he felt sick. He read on fearfully:

The paper dropped from his hands, and he bowed his head, praying.

The 2nd Sea Lord sat grim faced at his desk, his naval assistant standing beside and a little behind his chair. Commander Tom Rowland R.N., stood in front of the desk, facing the admiral. He felt taut, as though preparing for some severe physical test – jumping across a wide, deep chasm, perhaps – but not nervous. He said, ‘Sir, I have been in the Anti-Submarine Division here for eight months now. Lieutenant Commander Danby thoroughly understands the work, and has some sea experience. Also, he is physically unfit for further sea duty. I request that he should take over from me – releasing me for duty at sea.'

The admiral said, ‘You are asking to go back to sea?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Any particular appointment you would like?' The admiral's tone was harshly sarcastic.

‘Yes, sir. Convoy work … or submarine hunting. Three weeks ago I submitted a paper to the Director, about forming hunter groups, of destroyers and mine layers, too …'

‘I saw it,' the admiral said. ‘It is a good idea. But you will not be given command of such a group, if we do decide to form some … You are living with a young man, an ex-rating. You are still associating with Russell Wharton, and now with Arthur Gavilan, Ivor Novello, Noel Coward, and other notorious homosexuals. You don't deny it?'

‘No, sir. They are my friends.'

‘The rating, too,' the admiral sneered.

‘Yes, sir … Sir, as soon as the war is over, I intend to resign my commission. But while it is on, I ask to be allowed to do what I am trained for – command H.M. ships at sea. Plenty of R.N.V.R. officers beside Danby can do what I'm doing now, just as well, or better … but I am …'

The admiral snapped, ‘You are a bugger, Rowland. You will never get a sea appointment again … But wait a minute. Are you prepared to volunteer for a very dangerous job?'

‘If it's at sea, yes, sir.'

‘It'll be at sea. The First Sea Lord will probably give it his final approval tomorrow or the day after. If he does, you will get a chance to wipe the slate clean … one way or another. If he does not, you will resign your commission – because we don't want you. I'm sure the Army won't, either – but they're going to have to have you … That's all.'

Tom stiffened in salute, then turned about and left the big
room, carefully closing the door behind him. There were all sorts of dangerous jobs going these days, but one very secret idea had been born in his own Anti-Submarine Division: a proposal to raid the German submarine bases on the Belgian coast in force, and sink blockships in the channels by which the U-boats had to get out to sea. It could be that. But after that, no more. He would have paid his debt, if he lived. He had entered the Royal Navy as a cadet at the age of twelve. At sixteen he'd gone to sea as a midshipman in a battleship. In the intervening twenty-three years he had served in destroyers, cruisers, battle cruisers and other battleships in every sea and ocean of the world. The White Ensign had been to him as a crucifix is to the religious – a talisman and a symbol of love, service, and faith. No more.

For after this manner in the old time the holy women also, who trusted in God, adorned themselves, being in subjection unto their husbands; even as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord; whose daughters ye are as long as ye do well, and are not afraid with any amazement
.

They streamed out of the little church into lightly falling snow, between two ranks of sergeants and bombardiers of Royal Field Artillery, the guard of honour, just as he had promised. Virginia clutched his good right arm with wild pride and love, her bouquet held to her breast with the other hand. Behind her walked her mother, in dark blue, the veil hiding her face, her head bent; then Stanley's father and mother, come down from Leeds, the mother crying happily, her round red face glowing with happiness, and wet with tears; then others – girls from the W.A.A.C.s, old Basin Tits, June Adkinson, a sergeant major, Uncle John and Aunt Louise, Granny McLeod from Skye, so many, so many…

The photographers were waiting, and Virginia huddled close to her husband, smiling into his face – ‘Look up, please,' the photographer cried – ‘this way … Come forward, madam …' This to Virginia's mother, Fiona. ‘You, too, sir, and you …' They lined up, Rowlands and McLeods to one side, Robinsons the other. Mr Robinson was thin and perky, and had a waxed moustache; he was wearing a blue serge suit and a bowler hat, now held proudly in one hand against his chest. Fiona had raised her veil to look blankly at the camera. As soon as the photographs were taken she lowered it again.

Then they were in the big car, two other cars following. Fiona, squeezed between Mr and Mrs Robinson, stared at her daughter opposite. What sort of life had she chosen, deliberately, marrying this sergeant? When the war ended he'd have to leave the Army. Then what? Become a corporation dustman, like his father? Surely that was not possible, for Virginia's husband. He – Stanley – had said that there might be a place for him as Gate Porter at Wokingham School, in Berkshire, close to Wellington. It was a school Guy had played against at both cricket and rugby, two or three times. Stanley had been sounded out for the job on the strength of his Distinguished Conduct Medal: but a Gate Porter was barely half a cut above a corporation dustman … and Virginia would have ten children, all of them with a Yorkshire accent you could make pudding out of, and not an H between the lot of them. Fiona's own mother obviously thought it was all due to Fiona's marrying an Englishman, and going south to live, instead of choosing a clan chief and settling on his domains.

Fiona was sorry Quentin couldn't be here. A girl ought to be given away by her father, not some dug-out old captain she'd never known before she came to this ghastly place. Thank God Quentin had never been stationed in Aldershot since their marriage. Perhaps, if he had, she would not have met Archie. The thought of Archie, suffering agonies in some unknown hospital, being tended by God knew what rich and beautiful society women, made her wince so that Virginia, sitting opposite, beaming with happiness, said anxiously, ‘Are you all right, Mummy?'

‘Quite,' she said.

She'd had no answer to her letter to Quentin yet. Perhaps Quentin hadn't heard from Archie. Or … he wasn't going to tell her. She writhed in inward pain.

Virginia watched her mother through brimming eyes. She was thinking of someone else, something else … she wasn't here. Daddy wasn't here – fighting in France. Guy wasn't here – somewhere over France in an aeroplane, perhaps dead. Granny wasn't here – wishing this was all happening in Skye. Only Stanley was here, her husband, where he would be the rest of her life, close, for her to feed and shelter and write letters for, to have children for, and be the best wife in the world for, because he deserved no less.

The brigadier general said, ‘I've spent a long time over this matter, a long time. I've been trying to think what is the best course for me to take – for the good of your regiment as well as of the brigade … and of the Army as a whole.'

The new brigade major, this one of the Rifle Brigade, was standing to one side, looking pained but handsome: all brigade majors looked handsome, Quentin thought. The brigadier general wore the ribbons of the C.M.G. and the D.S.O. and a toothbrush moustache. He was quite young. He tapped the document in front of him on the makeshift desk and looked severe, but Quentin knew that his heart was not in it – not here at all, really; for yesterday the brigadier general had received news that he was to be promoted to major general and given a division in General Gough's Fifth Army. The document before him was Quentin's official report on the events of November 5 and 6, when parts of his battalion had for a while refused to obey orders. The report had gone all the way to Army Headquarters, and filtered back with the Army Commander's brief, pencilled instruction: ‘Brigade Commander to take necessary action.'

The general said, ‘It is clear that for a period your battalion was in open mutiny, Rowland.'

Quentin said, ‘Very few men, sir … They were overwrought … I don't think they knew what they were doing. They had been under great strain for a long …'

‘Concerted refusal to obey orders is mutiny!' the general thundered.

‘Yes, sir,' Quentin said. If the general had been there in front of Nollehoek in that first captured German trench line, he might have understood, both how the men felt, and the necessity of shooting that wretched lieutenant and sergeant. But the general had not been seen in the front line for two days before and four days after the attack.

The general calmed again. He said, ‘The principal mitigating factor here is that your battalion did in the end advance and take Nollehoek, and hold it. You must be given due credit for that, just as you must be held responsible for the mutiny. You are the commanding officer.'

‘Yes, sir.'

The general pushed the document aside and leaned on his elbow, regarding Quentin as man to man. ‘I was ready, before this incident, to recommend you for promotion. You have
commanded your battalion, in the line, for some time now, have you not?'

‘Since April 22, 1915, sir,' Quentin said. How many brigadier generals had come and gone since then? Five, he thought.

The general whistled, ‘I didn't realize it was as long as that.' He had only taken over the brigade in the spring, from a staff job at G.H.Q. He continued, ‘In view of this mutiny, I do not now consider you fit to command a brigade in the field – and, of course, as you have no staff training whatever, you can not be considered for a staff appointment. So I shall not recommend you for promotion.'

‘Oh, thank you, sir,' Quentin said.

‘Eh? What?' The general looked at him suspiciously. ‘You don't
want
promotion? Or don't you think you're fit for it? What?'

Quentin realized his exclamation would sound strange to some: personal promotion was the aim and object of the general's life, as everyone in the brigade had recognized since he took over. Quentin said, ‘I don't know about being fit for it, sir. Others must decide that. But I don't want to leave my battalion. The men have had a hard time the last five months. I would like to be with them until they have had a chance to rest and recuperate, be brought up to strength, and retrained … do my best to make it a regular battalion again.'

‘I see,' the general said. ‘Very well then. You do that, and I'll be checking on it. Or rather, the new brigade commander will.' He nodded in dismissal, still looking puzzled, and a little contemptuous. Not want promotion, indeed! And Quentin a regular!

Quentin saluted, went out, and headed back for his battalion headquarters, in the same ruined schoolhouse in Wieltje where they had been when the German gas attack struck in April, 1915 – a day before the C.O. had been killed and he had taken over. He sat down at the rickety table and his new adjutant came in. Lieutenant Woodruff's father ran a garage and taxi service in Walstone and Quentin had been hesitant about giving him the appointment. The adjutant was, after all, a C.O.'s personal staff officer and Woodruff wasn't a gentleman, so there'd never be the closeness he'd had with Archie Campbell … but Campbell wasn't a gentleman, either. Quentin gave up: Woodruff was a steady
man, in his thirties, married, with children, good at figures and paperwork. There wouldn't be anyone else like Archie.