“Good experience, sir.”
“So it is. What was your last ship?”
“Iron Duke, sir.”
“Under the eyes of the C-in-C, eh?”
“It’s a good place for promotion, sir, even if not so handsome for action. Don’t want to fall behind, sir. Coming out of a war having stood at an admiral’s shoulder and never smelt powder can’t be good for one’s future. I had just been posted to the Med, sir. Special squadron being formed, mostly pre-dreadnoughts, with the aim of indulging in inshore bombardment work. In the Adriatic against the Austro-Hungarian fleet, it was expected, but a chance of being busy with the Turks when they come in.”
“Might be too busy for me, Adams! Make a change from Scapa Flow, that’s for sure. You will certainly see action here and you can go off to the Med on our return.”
Christopher went off to find the Navigating Officer content that his credentials as a fire eater had been established. All he had to do now was continue to shine and hope that he did not go the way of poor old Hector McDuff, who had been a pleasant chap, a good shipmate as a midshipman.
He needed to pick up a decoration, if at all possible. He suspected that there were other young officers doing better out of the war than him and promotion in peacetime would be much affected by a successful war; a man with a career to make must consider all factors.
Chapter Fifteen
The depot at Bedford was busy at eight o’clock in the morning, the parade ground occupied by one battalion of recruits, the drill square by another. Richard paid off his taxi outside the gates, as he knew was proper, and strode across to the guardroom, making an effort to show straight-backed and formal. Officers returning from a weekend away normally made a play of being casual, of tipping their hat to the guard; Richard thought it better not to pretend to be one of the peacetime public school professionals.
The sergeant of the guard had spotted him the moment he had stepped out of the cab. The buzz was that the new VC was a Terrier, an amateur gentleman, one to be treated with circumspection until he made clear just what sort of officer he was. There would be a maximum of formality until he had shown he was anything more than a hero. The four men on the gate were waiting, at attention.
“Captain Baker, D Company, 3rd Battalion.”
“Sir! Squad! Present arms!”
The sergeant opened the barrier personally, an act of great condescension and respect – sergeants were not in the habit of doing things, they ordered lesser bodies to get their hands dirty.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Can you tell me which is 3rd Battalion offices?”
“Private O’Grady! Escort Captain Baker to his proper place.”
The private named, an older man, long in the ranks by the look of competence about him, doubled into the gatehouse and set his rifle in the rack, saluted and requested Richard to accompany him. His sleeves bore the faint mark of stripes, sewn on and removed, quite possibly more than once.
‘A fierce man in drink, most likely’, Richard mused.
“Which battalion, soldier?”
“Private O’Grady, 3rd Battalion, sir. Waiting posting to France, sir.”
“Not assigned to a company yet, O’Grady?”
“Depot, sir. Transferred from 2nd Battalion, sir.”
Richard suspected that might have been to take him away from a battalion where he was a bad influence, having fought too many, too often. He glanced across, weighing up what he saw. O’Grady had his marksman’s badges but none for good conduct. He was probably thirty years old or a year or two more, perhaps five feet two tall, barely sufficient to scrape into the army, but he was heavily muscled, seeming almost squat. Brown-eyed and curly haired with a well-broken nose but half a grin on his face. It was not impossible that the sergeant had selected him deliberately, to bring him to Richard’s attention.
“I am due for France on Friday, O’Grady.”
“With luck, sir, I could be as well.”
Richard nodded – he could say no more to a private soldier but he would ask for O’Grady to be part of his D Company when he went back.
“3rd Battalion offices, sir.”
“Thank you, O’Grady.”
O’Grady saluted and marched back to the gate, taking pains to keep an even pace, knowing that he was a marked man for many of the officers.
“Delivered him to the offices, Sarge. A quiet-spoken gentleman, and polite.”
“Right sort or wrong, Paddy? You was in South Africa. You seen ‘em.”
“He’ll do, Sarge. He’s one of them got pushed into a corner and came out fighting. Not no glory boy, this one.”
“You want to go out with him, Paddy?”
“Sure, and why not? I’ve seen worse than that one.”
The offices were part of the original Victorian barracks dating to the Cardwell reforms of the mid-Victorian era, brick-built and shabby despite being scrupulously clean – they were old.
An elderly major spotted him through his open door and bustled out to greet him, saluting first.
“Sir! Captain Baker, D Company, reporting, sir.”
“Welcome, Captain Baker. Major Pavenham, brought back for the duration to man the depot. All of the young men are joining you in France.”
“It’s the only place to be, sir – and we can’t be there without men to do the necessary work at home.”
Pavenham recognised that for belated tact – the boy had manners.
“I tell meself that, Baker – but it’s not the place for an old warhorse, sat on me backside and sending youngsters out to do the work!”
Richard managed a smile, thinking the old fart to be unnecessarily tedious – he was past it and should be sat back thankful to able to do anything useful.
“The adjutant has organised a room for you, Baker, and there is a tailor waiting on your convenience. I gather you lost everything in France.”
“Too many young men lost more than me, sir. I am not too concerned to have had my wardrobe destroyed. I will say that I will be glad to have more clothes than the uniform on my back, and that borrowed for the original being too ragged and dirty to be salvaged.”
Pavenham laughed and shook his head.
“We’ll deal with that first, Baker. Say at about ten o’clock I will introduce you to your lieutenants – a first and a second.”
“Very good, sir. What of sergeants, sir? I have one good man in France but could benefit from another, younger fellow.”
“And sergeants are more important to a fighting company than green officers? I know. Saw the same in South Africa – you’re right. Sergeant Painter is an experienced hand and will have the draft paraded for your inspection for eleven.”
“Thank you, sir. There was a private at the gate, O’Grady, who looks to be the right sort for the fighting we shall be seeing…”
“Shocking record, the man has, Baker. Made sergeant once and corporal twice since then, Broken down for drunkenness all three times. Fighting mad in the wet canteen.”
“Not much in the way of liquor up on the front line, sir.”
“He’s yours if you want him – there’s too much booze here at depot.”
“Please, sir. I think he could be an asset when we get back to business.”
“I’ll see that he joins your people this morning, Baker. If you want him – well, it’s the least we can do for you. I have your instructions for tomorrow, Baker. Simple enough, as long as you present yourself on time - and we shall send you down in a staff car. You will be guided through the ceremony, or so I am told, never having been there myself!”
Richard smiled again and allowed himself to be led to his quarters, a single room but far larger than a junior captain might expect.