The Call of Destiny (The Return of Arthur Book 1) (31 page)

 At twenty-three, Lancelot was already a
captain in the Grenadier Guards. A natural soldier, smart and enthusiastic, he
knew how to give and take orders. Despite being a stern disciplinarian he was
respected by his men as a fair-minded officer, and valued by his superiors for
his conscientiousness and dedication.

Ian Duncan was stationed at
the same army camp up north. No one, himself included, understood what he was
doing there, for no man could have been less suited to military life. The fact
was, that after coming down from university, he had no idea what to do with
himself, and until something better came his way, he decided to follow the
friend to whom he was devoted. Despite being scruffy, lazy and unfit, Ian had
managed to reach the rank of first lieutenant by being agreeable to everyone.
The general view, though, was that he would still be a first lieutenant when
Lancelot was a general.

There were times when even Ian
found Lance difficult to be around. Super-critical, finding fault with his men
when more senior officers found none, he hated bad language, loathed
slovenliness, and above all despised what he perceived to be lack of
commitment. If only, thought Ian, if only Lance would take life just a little
less seriously, if only he would have a drink with the boys now and then. The
sad truth was that being one of the boys was not in Lancelot’s nature.

Despite his misgivings, Ian
had never altered his view that his friend was an exceptional human being, a
big man in every way, a man of strongly-held principles. Was there not,
moreover, something heroic in his refusal to compromise? Certainly there was
nothing mean-spirited about him; he had none of the petty imperfections that
flawed the characters of lesser men. In an inconstant world, Lance was
constant; you always knew where you were with him.

The parade ground incident,
therefore, came as a particular shock. It began when Ian was shaken from a deep
sleep by the platoon sergeant. He reached for the watch by his bed. ‘What time
is it?’

‘Past two, sir.’

‘What’s up?’ He was still half asleep.

‘Best come and see, sir.’ Ian
threw on a dressing gown and followed the sergeant to the parade ground.

It was mid-winter and a bitterly
cold night, the moon was full, intermittently obscured by clouds. That very
morning there had been a parade of honour for the Minister of Defence and it
had not gone well. Instead of giving their usual perfectly co-ordinated
display, the men had marched raggedly, like raw recruits. It was one of those
unfortunate things that happen from time to time, even in the best of
regiments, and the Colonel had made no comment afterwards. Nor did anyone else.
But Captain Bancroft who led the parade had felt humiliated, and typically had
assumed the full burden of responsibility.

In the darkness a voice rang
out from the other side of the parade ground. It seemed to come from the
platform known as the dais on which the Colonel took the salute at regimental
parades, and it was so loud that at first Ian thought the commands were
directed at him: ‘Get those arms up! Straighten those backs! Left! Left! Left,
right, left!’ As his eyes adjusted to the dark he could just make out a dim
figure standing on the dais.

‘Who is that?’ Ian asked the
sergeant. ‘Captain Bancroft, sir.’

The clouds parted to reveal
the full moon, and suddenly the parade ground was lit up as if it were day.
There on the dais was Lancelot in his pyjamas, standing rigidly to attention.
‘You there! What d’you think you’re doing! Ranks three and four, you’re a
shambles! Get back in step! Left! Left! Left, right, left!’ Ian and the
sergeant exchanged glances, then without a word they ran across the parade
ground to the dais. Ian looked up at his friend. ‘Lance! What do you think
you’re playing at? You’ll wake the whole camp.’

‘You down there, get back in
line! Get back, or I’ll have you court-martialled!’

‘It’s me, Lance. It’s Ian. Come down, man.’

‘By the right, quick march!
Eyes right! You there, get your head round! Stay in line! You’re wandering all
over the place! Chin over your right shoulder! Swing those arms!’

In the still night air the
echoes of his voice rebounded from the camp buildings, creating such a
confusion of sound that there might have been a dozen men shouting orders. One
by one, the lights came on in windows around the camp.

‘Lance! Come down! You’ll
catch pneumonia.’ But Ian might as well have been talking to the moon.

‘You there in the second row!
Get in step! You too, Mathews! And you, MacPherson! Jones, hold your rifle
steady. It’s not a toy! Steady on your shoulder!’

‘I’m coming up to get you, Lance.’

‘That man in the front there –
Captain Bancroft! What kind of salute is that? Straighten your upper arm! Hand
parallel with your shoulder! Look at you! Your position’s all wrong. You’re
supposed to be leading the parade. You should be setting an example. You’re a
disgrace to the army! Damned disgrace, I say!’

They ran up the steps of the
dais. The sergeant was about to grab Lancelot when Ian stopped him. ‘No. His
eyes are shut. He’s sleep-walking. He can’t see us. I don’t think he knows
we’re here.’ Taking Lancelot by the arm, they guided him down the steps and
onto the parade ground. ‘Gently does it. Mustn’t wake him.’ Crossing the tarmac
Lancelot was quiet. As they approached the camp he threw back his head and
bawled at the top of his voice, ‘You’re a disgrace, Bancroft! Damned disgrace!
Have you on a charge!’

Aroused by all the noise, a
huddled group of pyjama-clad officers and other ranks watched curiously as the
three figures approached. Ian muttered something about sleep-walking and
hurried Lancelot passed them. By the time they got him back to his quarters he
had calmed down. They rolled him into bed and tucked him in mumbling again and
again, ‘Disgrace, Bancroft. Have you on a charge.’ A few minutes later he was
sleeping peacefully.

The next morning Ian knew he
had to tell Lancelot what had happened. If he did not tell him, someone else
would. When he had finished, Lancelot put his head in his hands. ‘What a
humiliation.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Ian, making
light of it. Lots of people sleep- walk. Could have happened to anyone.’

‘What will they think of me?’
moaned Lancelot. A grin. ‘Since when has that ever worried you?’

‘This is the army, Ian. If you lose the respect
of your men

. . . ’ Lancelot threw up his
arms in despair. ‘You might as well give up.’

‘It will all be forgotten in a
day or two.’ For all his reassuring words, Ian looked uncomfortable. ‘There is
one thing . . . ’

‘Well?’

‘You might want to see – well,
a shrink . . . or someone,’ he ended lamely, conscious that Lance was watching
him intently.

‘You think I’m crazy,’ said Lancelot. ‘That’s
it, isn’t it?’

‘Be reasonable, Lance. There
are plenty of other reasons for seeing a shrink.’

Lancelot was in no mood to be
reasonable. ‘What are you saying, then?’

‘Something may be troubling you?’ suggested
Ian.

Lancelot thumped the wall in frustration.
‘Nothing is troubling me.’

‘Fine, then. Fine. Don’t see a
shrink.’ Ian wished he had never mentioned the word.

Later that morning the Colonel
called Lancelot to his office.

‘What shall I say?’ he asked Ian.

‘Tell him the truth; you were
sleep-walking and you didn’t know what you were doing. You weren’t
responsible.’

Lancelot seized on the word.
‘Not responsible? What is that supposed to mean?’

Ian sighed. For his friend’s
sake he had to stay calm. ‘It means what it says. You were not responsible for
your actions. Nothing he can do about that. Nothing anyone can do.’

Lancelot paced the room
restlessly. ‘I shall have to resign.’ ‘Nonsense! You’ll be a general one day,
everyone says so.

Where would the army find another man like
you?’

‘Where would I find another
friend like you?’ To Ian’s astonishment Lancelot put his arms round his
shoulders and hugged him. It was so unexpected that he had to turn away his
head to hide the tears.

Colonel Marsden was sympathetic, almost too
sympathetic, which was hardly reassuring for Lancelot. Anger would have been
easier to deal with. ‘Sit down, Bancroft.’ For a few moments the C.O. fiddled
with a paper knife. ‘That incident last night on the parade ground. What’s the
story?’

‘I have no recollection of it.
I’m told I was sleep-walking.’ ‘So I understand.’ The C.O. looked concerned.
‘You’re a fine

officer, Bancroft. I hope you
will make the army your career. We need men like you.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘This business, though. I
think you should take it seriously.’ ‘I do. I’m ashamed of myself.’ Lancelot
looked down at the floor.

‘No need to be,’ the C.O. assured him. ‘It was
not your fault.

No blame can possibly be attached to you. What
happened was obviously entirely beyond your control.’

Lancelot studied his boots.
Beyond his control
. The last thing he wanted to hear.

The C.O. shifted uneasily in
his chair. ‘I’m no doctor, but, er . . . ’ – A diffident cough – ‘may I suggest
you have a medical check-up?’

That meant a doctor, not a
shrink. Something of a relief. ‘I’ll do that, sir.’

‘Excellent.’

With his hand on the doorknob,
the C.O. added, ‘Mind you, sometimes these sort of things . . . it might not
actually be a physical problem. Could be some kind of, well, not mental
disturbance exactly, but that sort of thing . . . if you know what I mean.’ He
extended his hand. ‘Alright, Bancroft?’ Lancelot nodded dumbly. ‘I am not very
well up on these matters,’ the

C.O. continued, shaking
Lancelot’s hand vigorously. ‘Very sympathetic, though, I assure you, very
sympathetic indeed. Today’s army is most understanding about these things, as
I’m sure you know.’

Lancelot took a week’s leave
and had a check-up. In a couple of days the results came through: there was
nothing wrong with him. The doctor gave him a reassuring smile: ‘As perfect a
specimen of manhood as ever I’ve seen. I’m happy to give you a clean bill of
health.’

A clean bill of health. What
should have been a reason for celebration was, on the contrary, cause for
profound concern. Nothing was wrong with him. Nothing physical, that is. He
went back to his flat and tried to think . . .
not mental disturbance
exactly
. . . his father had told him so little about his mother. He looked
like her, that much he knew. He had

her brown eyes, her long face,
her high forehead. Physically they were apparently much alike; and in one other
respect too; they were both what Ban called ‘highly-strung’. He had hinted as
much without going into details. What kind of inner torment made someone take
their life? Why was his father always so reluctant to talk about his wife, more
especially the circumstances leading to her death? It wasn’t what his father
had told him that troubled him, it was what he hadn’t told him.

Lancelot had never been
frightened of anything before but he was now; so frightened that he could not
sleep for worrying – not that night, nor the next, nor the next. There were
endless questions and no answers. How could there be? In the end rational
thought was overwhelmed by fatigue, leaving him drained and without the will to
resist. The following day Lancelot was due back at camp. He had planned to take
the train.

By chance Ian Duncan had
driven up to London for a friend’s party. Sleeping until noon after a late
night, Ian guessed Lancelot would already be on his way to camp, but decided to
pass by his flat anyway. There was no answer when he buzzed the street door
intercom. He had missed him. But as he was walking back to his car, something
caught his eye – an unexpected glimmer of light from the second floor –
Lancelot’s flat. It was two o’clock on a sunny winter’s afternoon and the lights
were on in the front rooms. Lancelot must have forgotten to switch them off
before he went out.

Ian got in his car and for a
few moments sat staring ahead. It didn’t make sense, Lance was one of the most
meticulous and organised people he knew. Would he leave the flat and forget to
turn the lights off? One light, perhaps, but all of them? He went back and
buzzed the intercom a second and a third time, long, insistent rings. Still no
answer. He was about to give up when a middle-aged lady opened the door.

‘May I help you?’

‘I was ringing Captain
Bancroft’s bell. He must have gone out.’

‘Lancelot?’ She shook her
head. ‘I don’t think so. At least he was up there a few minutes ago. I heard
him walking about.’

‘He doesn’t answer.’

‘The intercom is always giving
trouble. Why don’t you go up and knock on his door.’

Upstairs Ian knocked twice. No
answer. He rang the doorbell. Again no answer. He was just turning away when he
thought he heard a voice inside Lancelot’s flat. He knocked again. Silence. He
left his finger on the bell for a full thirty seconds. Again he thought he
heard a voice, and this time he was certain that it came from Lance’s flat. He
made up his mind. One of the useful things he had learned in the army was how
to pick a lock, though until now he had never had the occasion to test his
skill. The lock clicked. He pushed the door open. Lancelot was lying on the
floor, deathly pale, muttering incoherently. By his side was an empty box of
sleeping pills and a half-empty bottle of whisky.

When he recovered
consciousness a few hours later, Ian was at his bedside; but it was a couple of
days before Lancelot was willing to talk. The doctors accepted that the
overdose had been accidental. Ian knew differently.

‘That sleep-walking business
preyed on my mind.’ Lancelot stared ahead, addressing his comments to the wall
of his room. ‘I made a fool of myself. I let down the army. I let everyone
down.’