“The men are tired, sir. They would certainly be better for transport. Be better still for a chance to clean up, sir. Days holding the line in filthy slagheaps has left us in disgusting condition, sir.”
“Nonsense, man! Can’t be held responsible for a bit of dirt in the field. You should have seen the state we got into in South Africa! Let me put you in the hands of the adjutant.”
Evening saw them at the coast, deposited outside the tents of a division and under the eye of a major-general.
“Who are you? Can’t see a badge or anything under the dirt!”
“D Company, Third Beds, sir. Lieutenant Baker.”
“Oh! Is that who you are! Heard about you, young man! Get yourself to the mess tent – none of your battalion here but you can use HQ facilities.”
The general gestured to a staff officer, ordered him to arrange proper messing for the company. Richard watched as the captain turned to a lieutenant who called to a sergeant who found a corporal to lead the company to ablutions and then to a mess tent.
“You, Mr Baker, can come this way.”
An orderly led Richard to a tent and provided soap and hot water followed by a clean uniform, shirt and underclothes and stockings of about his size.
“Captain Grubb, sir, he supplied it. Said you was welcome to his spare uniform, sir. Got a razor, too.”
Richard washed thoroughly, only realising just how much he stank after he had cleaned up.
“I don’t know if you can do anything with my own uniform, soldier.”
“Yes, sir. Burn it, sir.”
“You may well be right. Let me just get hold of my paybook and other papers.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll check your pockets for you, sir. Not to worry, sir. Your stuff will be safe, sir. General said you was to come to the mess, sir.”
“Come in, Lieutenant Baker. I have sent a report to Calais that you have survived and have managed to bring in some of your company as well. Should hear from them within the hour, I would expect. Your story reached London two days ago, I am told. Sort of thing we want to hear, old chap. For the moment, you must be hungry!”
“I suppose I am, sir. Haven’t really had much to eat for some days, now, not since we managed to cobble together a bit of a stew at the mining village, after we blew the bridge there which gave us a few hours to sit down and eat.”
Again, it was almost true and contained nothing of an actual lie.
“Heard about that! Used the black powder from the colliery, so they said. Sit down man, get some food into you!”
The general ate well, it seemed - steak and fresh vegetables followed by some sort of sweet pudding, accompanied by a glass of wine.
“Brandy, Baker?”
“Thank you, no, sir. Tired as I am, I don’t think that would be wise. Have my men eaten, sir?”
“Washed; issued with new uniforms; fed a solid meal – no need for you to worry about them Baker, although very right that you should. Good men!”
“The best, sir. A good half of them Territorials, like me, called up to serve the King, sir. Both corporals are Terriers, sir.”
“That I would not have believed if I had been told it, Baker. Damned fine men!”
Richard considered his response.
“I am very proud of them, sir.”
“So you should be, man!”
He had got that right, it seemed. He wasn’t sure, but there might have been a tear in the general’s eye.
A Rolls-Royce staff car pulled up a little later, bringing a captain and orders.
The general brought the staff officer to Richard.
“Your battalion is in camp outside Calais, Mr Baker, all that remains of it. You are to join them temporarily but will be sent back to depot in Bedford to pick up men for your company. Sleep here tonight. Transport for you and your men will be provided in the morning.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know that I ought to go back to Bedford, sir. We may need every man here. Could not my men be sent to me, sir?”
“No, they could not. There is a good reason why you must go to England, Baker. Not surprised to hear that you want to stay where the fighting is, but you can be spared for a few days.”
The staff officer was laughing, shaking his head.
“You have done your share for a week or two, Baker. Sit back and relax for a while, sir. The war won’t go away, you know!”
The general was smiling too, turned to his own people making some comment about ‘young fire eaters’.
Richard was led to a camp bed, fell upon it, dropping off to sleep almost instantly, time enough just for the final thought that he seemed to have come out smelling of violets.
The morning saw a massive breakfast – the general’s normal meal – and a red double-decker London bus parked outside the mess tent.
“Whatever is that doing here, sir?”
“Sent across last month, my boy! Did sterling service at the Marne. You won’t have heard but the Germans were stopped dead and then pushed back well clear of Paris. Put an end to the Schlieffen Plan – ‘stopped their farting in chapel’, as the men say!”
“Oh, that’s good, sir. I wish I had been there!”
Again, he had found the right thing to say.
“You did well where you were, Mr Baker. Off you go, now, board your bus. Your men are waiting for you. I am proud to have met you, sir.”
The general held out a hand to shake, a great condescension from so superior a rank.
The bus crawled over bumpy dirt roads and took almost an hour to reach the Bedfordshires in their camp. The thin battalion paraded as the bus came in sight and Colonel Braithwaite saluted as they disembarked.
“Battalion, attention!”
Richard drew himself upright, acknowledging the honour done to him and his company.
“D Company to the right of the line, Mr Baker. The place of honour.”
It was all very flattering. Sergeant Grace marched the tiny company to the right and located them precisely with much bellowing of commands, as was proper on the parade ground.
“Mr Baker, front and centre!”
“Sir!”
Richard marched out to stand in front of his colonel.
“By order of the General Commanding, you are promoted to substantive captain of D Company, Mr Baker.”
Richard had hoped that he might receive brevet rank; substantive was a bonus.
“Sir!”
He exchanged salutes with the colonel.
“Captain Baker, I have the honour to inform you that you have been awarded the Victoria Cross for repeated acts of gallantry in the field. You will return to London, to Buckingham Palace for the investiture.”
That was wholly unexpected.
The colonel saluted Richard and he responded, mind busy with the implications of the greatest honour. His father would have to change his tune now!
“About face, Captain Baker.”
He obeyed, automatically, realised that the battalion was presenting arms to him, an unheard of honour for a junior officer. He came to the salute in response, hoping that was correct.
The parade dismissed and the colonel led him into the mess.
“You are one of us, of course, Baker. Permanent commission in the regiment. The Colonel of the Regiment has sent his congratulations – the Duke of Bedford, that is, naturally.”
The Colonel of a regiment occupied an honorary position, had no role in the chain of command.
“I am honoured, sir.”
“As are we, Baker. Come now, time for a celebratory Scotch before we must send you off to Calais and the boat. Your servant will put your ribbon up on your tunic – your award is immediate. Best thing is to go to London, to your tailors - Gieves is best – and then to your home. Report to the depot for Monday morning, and you will be transported to London for Tuesday and the investiture. After that, you can have two more days in the depot and return on Friday of next week.”