It sounded more than normally foolish, even for the staff.
“Apparently French is in favour of the scheme. He believes that the massed machine guns will be able to cut down any attack and leave a gap for the cavalry to exploit. He has laid down that there is to be a brigade of cavalry waiting to the rear of the machine gun regiments whenever they are deployed. Smith-Dorrien is arguing against him and Haig and his pals in the newspapers in London are stabbing both men in the back, as normal. Complete bloody shambles, Baker!”
Richard was not at all surprised. The high command had been distinguished solely by its incompetence in the first year of the war. That it should be carrying on in the same vein was only to be expected.
“Any prospect of French actually getting up to the front, seeing the reality of this war, sir?”
“None! He prefers to take the long view – no sense to confusing himself by seeing the fighting ground close up. Haig is the same, of course. He got too close to the machine guns at Le Cateau and didn’t like it at all! You won’t see him within ten miles of the front line again!”
“We need only fighting soldiers up here, in any case, sir. No place for the staff!”
Braithwaite agreed, ended the call by telling Richard to take no unnecessary risks that night.
“Pointless, saying that to you, of all men, Baker! Try not to kill yourself!”
There was no gain to protesting, to saying that he would do no more than the situation demanded of him – the Old Man was convinced that he loved nothing more than the smell of German blood and would take any risk to spill more of it.
“All in hand, Paisley?”
His batman seemed slightly offended by the question – everything was always ready.
“Yes, sir. Your trench knife is sharp; iron club with its handle rebound; revolver cleaned and loaded with six. Got six of them new Mills bombs for meself, sir, and put a sharp on me own bayonet, what I thinks is better than that old trench knife. Got me own pair of wire cutters besides, what were going spare when we happened to have a few minutes at Calais, sir.”
Richard remembered they had been in company with a detachment of Engineers for a while, waiting for their transport.
“What else did they lose, Paisley?”
“I would not be knowing that, not for sure, sir. I did notice the ‘Major to be talking to others of his ilk – Papist Sinn Feiners, without a doubt – and to be passing four bottles of the good Scotch across. What they put in his direction, I would not know, but he is not one to be getting the worst of any bargain, that is for sure!”
A good Orangeman, Paisley, which did not stop him from sitting and smoking and talking with O’Grady whenever they had a few minutes free. Things might be different when the war was over; for the while they were easy friends.
“I gather you are coming with me tonight, Paisley.”
“Where else should I be, sir? With respect, sir, I was sticking a bayonet in wogs and them Boers when you was still in baby frocks, sir. I maybe ain’t so very nimble as I was, sir, but for running a few yards and hopping in and out of a trench, sir, I can still be doing that. In any case, sir, terrible tedious it can be, sitting about in a dugout and polishing boots and such – I need a little of what they might call light relief, sir.”
“Who am I to argue, Paisley? Which raiding party am I best to go with?”
The colonel’s batman was a privileged soldier – not merely a servant. He was expected to have opinions and to make them known to the colonel and him alone. The ordinary rules did not apply to this one of all the men in the battalion. In return, he would never break a confidence, would keep his mouth tightly closed in the company of all others, careful even in anything he said to O’Grady. Normally, his advice would be worth listening to.
“Mr Draper might benefit from having his hand held, sir. Been talking bold and undaunted all morning, sir. Bold Brennan on the Moor is as nothing to that one, sir.”
“Heard one or two of the lads singing that, Paisley.”
“Fine old song, sir. Very popular among the lads from the south of the land, sir, down around Cork, for some reason.”
More than a third of the battalion was made up of Irish volunteers, as was the case for the whole of the Army.
“Trying to talk himself into it, do you think, Paisley?”
“I am not to be commenting on any officer, sir. Not my place, sir. That said, you might feel well-advised to be treading on his heels and keeping him pointed in the right direction, sir.”
“Windy, not just nervous, you would say?”
“Don’t like the feel of him, that’s for sure, sir. What was he before he came across to us, sir?”
Most of the captains had transferred to the new battalion on promotion. Two, to Richard’s knowledge, had taken postings in their existing rank to get out of garrison troops, one from Ireland, the other from Gibraltar; they could have stayed far distant from the Trenches for the whole of the war, had chosen to go into danger. He could not remember offhand where Draper had been, walked the few yards to the adjutant’s dugout.
“Hawkeswill, what was Draper before he joined us?”
“Captain in the Hampshires. His people permitted him to transfer across to us because of our need for some experienced officers in the rank. To an extent, sir, it was a favour to you, bearing in mind the respect you are held in. His battalion was on its way to Gallipoli. I have an application from him to move again, back to the Hampshires, the 5th Battalion who are bound for India. Says that he would prefer to return to his original regiment having lent us the benefit of his experience.”
Hawkeswill’s voice was dry, in the extreme.
Richard noted that Draper had avoided Gallipoli and was now endeavouring to remove himself from the Western Front.
“My word. A much-travelled gentleman. Forward the request to Brigade with no comment… Not until tomorrow, thinking on it – I may have something to say after tonight.”
“Yes, sir. What do I do with this new officer, Orpington, sir?”
“Put him on our roll. We will need replacement officers sooner or later and he is competent. He is made full lieutenant, by the way. Issue one of the spare rifles and pouches to him.”
There was a rack of eight rifles on the back wall, taken from the wounded and three dead the battalion had lost in its first days. The clumsy and the careless had shown their heads and had suffered; they had lost nobody in the previous twenty-four hours, the lesson having been driven home to the remainder of the men.
“There is a shortage of firewood and of coal, sir. We have had sacks of coke sent up instead.”
Richard gathered from Hawkeswill’s expression that there was a problem.
“Coke gives off gas, sir, when it is burnt. Eight men in a dugout, sleeping with the door closed and the cracks stuffed with rag to prevent the cold air getting in, could easily all die from the poisoning if they kept a fire in all night.”
“Forbid coke fires in the dugouts. Tea fires to be outdoors. What’s the chance of extra blankets?”
“Thousands of them in the QM stores at Calais, sir. They won’t release them, keeping a stock against urgent need, sir.”
“Impossible to run a raid on the stores. Need more than a bottle of Scotch as well… What would it cost to get two thousand issued to us?”
“That would have to be authorised at high level, sir. An ordinary sergeant couldn’t do it. It would need cash in an officer’s pocket. Gold sovereigns, at that. At least a hundred, sir, at a guess. Big money, according to the whispers. I don’t know who could do it – never been involved.”