“From Australia, the young, sunny continental colony, known for its great red desert and strange, primitive locals, leaders are sending military advisers, as well as two thousand troops. God speed to those Australians - our poor relation - and we eagerly await their arrival. Let's hope they're not so late that they only arrive in time to take a share of the spoils of victory!
“From his Scottish home, tucked away in the highlands outside of Glasgow, the King passed a message of comfort to those who awaited the salvation of London. His majesty is awaiting the auxiliary troops to gather from all of his banners, while he and his generals assess the tactical capability of such a strong force. From his majesty, this message now follows, and I shall read it to you verbatim:
“To all those of the Empire awaiting news of our fate, I tell them this: England never turns her back, neither on its subjects, nor to die itself. England shall prevail, a testament to our own inimitable strength. God save us and God save you all.
“And God save him! May all the blessings of the almighty keep his majesty safe before our great victory.
“As a call to arms, and a show of good faith to his majesty, any able-bodied man is asked to please report to his nearest barracks or military office for immediate mobilisation. To those in other parts of the country, your warm gestures of blankets, food and shelter for refugees and soldiers alike has been a treasure that all can share in from now until eternity.
“Those are the headlines at the top of the hour. Once again, this is Doctor Copenhagen reporting from Auxiliary British Broadcasting Centre Number 3, as I have done for the last thirty days straight. The sun never sets upon our Empire, as it shall not on this beacon of information.
“God bless all of you, I shall return at the top of the next hour with further news.”
Chapter 8
From the diary of Cpl. N. E. Plumsworthy
Something changed, I think, when we left the farmhouse. It was done with the minimum of effort, fuss, coercion, and bargaining. That day, I realised that the difference between me and the Major did not exist merely in rank. Oh of course, that was the main water-mark by which to measure us as men, but the Major existed in a world of men-who-knew. And by that I mean, 'knew what on earth to do'.
I think it must be a psychological thing, that brand of authority that someone can instil just from the way one carries oneself about. Since, I have often kidded myself that, were the academy's doors to remain open any longer, then I may too have learned the secrets of engendering respect. But I know myself to think falsely; no amount of training could have made me a better officer, could have made me better in command, or could have adjusted my world view.
Part of being an officer is learning as much about others as it is about yourself; and, as I found a strange sort of camaraderie with my fellow man on 'the field', I learnt that I knew very little about either.
The slow trickle of revelations that Phillipa spoon-fed me as we talked did not help, and for that I am sorry. I was small-minded, and should have waned in my world view much sooner. The truth is, to admit that behaviour of my friends was no longer shocking to me would have been to admit that the world was no longer turning on its axis the way that it should - the way that it once did.
Keeping myself from that revelation was keeping me sane. It was stopping me from tearing up at night, like the others in my group, who blubbed and wailed occasionally. When I walked past Polly, asleep in the bundles and sheets of one of our wagons, her shrill cries and screams of nightmare’s visitations went through me like a knife.
The wagons rolled out of the farmhouse by the middle of the next day. As I noted, the Major had a handle on the situation the likes of which I had never seen in Sergeant Whiskers or even Briggs at the academy. Even Charlie had settled down, accepted the new role he would have to take, and laughed and joked with the soldiers. Not me, though. I was still very much on the outside, for the first time in my entitled life.
As we gathered our meagre possessions, I stopped to ask. "Which rifle is mine?"
"The one that ain't been fired yet," Church said slyly. The others laughed.
Perhaps it was stupid of me to show my ignorance so clearly. Perhaps it was more stupid not to know which weapon was mine in the first place. World-weary commentary on my life was not so hard to come by back then, and I was good at 'thinking nothing of it'.
I retrieved my belongings, including my eponymous and now-famous rifle, but could not find my revolver. I had already lost (or had never had gained) the respect of my peers, but still could not bring myself to tell the Major that I had likely dropped my side-arm in a muddy field while running from monsters. So I ignored the issue. One more gun to not fire, I supposed.
Enoch and Margaret were not best pleased to be leaving their homestead, but what were they to do? They seemed acutely aware of the dangers we found ourselves in as a group. Safety in numbers, I assured them, choosing to pretend I hadn't seen the tears wiped from the woman's eyes. To their credit, they treated Simon and Polly as well as their own newborn, a happy family of dissimilar eye shades, and differing hair colours.
Don't look back, we all said. Sympathy for those yet to lose everything from those who already had was at a premium. I am grateful to Phillipa again, for performing an apothecary duty in tending to the broken hearts of the children.
At the same time, I felt very, very responsible for the well-being of the camp. Call me a sensitive individual, if you will. It had been my suggestion to move, maybe just to look good in front of the Major. I knew it couldn't be my fault, whatever was to happen (and did happen) next, I was merely a proposer. But it is in my nature to be intimately involved with the fortunes of others, as they in turn push their misfortunes on to me. Inevitably, I will have to say enough is enough one of these days.
I think I can forgive myself for most of the events, twists and turns that befell us later. But not what happened at the cavalry base. I was still a soldier then, still a man with many lives in my hands. Still a young fool with the belief that he might know what was best for others.
I was still waiting, desperately, for when someone would come and relieve me of my duties to King and Country.
I was a rifle that had not yet been fired.
Chapter 9
In an English country garden
"What do you do when you need the loo in an English country garden?"
"Pull down your pants and suffocate the ants in an English country garden!"
"Shhh! Simon! Stop that this instant!"
Neven was in a slumber. He turned his face and his cheek instantly began to ache. He had rubbed it against the wooden sides of the wagon and metal hammer of his gun, which was now poking into his teeth. He rolled the other way,
"Ow," Church complained as his foot was twisted in an unnatural manner. "Watch it, Plums... Corporal," he caught himself, even in his stupor. Still grumbling, he slid his foot out from its trap and angrily went back to sleep.
Neven's eyes were open nonetheless; the first thing he saw was Simon and Polly. They stared wide-eyed at him from their seat at the back of the cart. The young girl had taken over almost of Simon's well-being, and was doing a very good job of it. The soldiers had no idea how to look after children, and Frank was busy now, helping scout for the farmhouse.
The children wouldn't stop staring. So he stood up, briefly lost his balance, redressed himself, and hopped off of the cart. The horse pulling the load batted not an eyelid, instead swatting away midges with its tail. Swoosh.
Strolling ahead of the slow-moving caravan, he passed Charlie, Anthony and the farmers on the cart in front of them. Thornhough sat on the horse, a playful smile rolled across his face as he stroked its mane. Anthony York was keeping a careful eye on the well-being of the animals, stopping the company every so often - or at least as often as the Major allowed it - to give them a check-up. He had even insisted on checking their feet, shoes and coat, overeagerly, despite the protests of Enoch, who was very certain he took good car
e of his own working horses. But it was keeping the old veterinarian busy, and happy. Neven couldn't help but envy him. Out of all of them, he had found the closest thing to retaining his normal life.
"Corporal," the Baton said, appearing out of nowhere.
"Good Lord!" Neven couldn't stop himself, as his stomach lurched from the pit of his chest. "Hello."
Neven looked down, and couldn't work out where the man's suitcase ended and where his hands began, so tight was his grip. The Baton must have followed his gaze because his posture became more defensive.
"How are you?" Neven asked, changing the subject.
"I'm fine thank you," The Baton said. "Thank you for not telling anyone from the farm about... well... you know."
At first it looked like he had been sweating. Now, as Neven held him in conversation, it was not the Baton himself that was wet, but rather his clothes. It was an odd assortment of moistures, like someone had applied thick watery brush-strokes on his coat.
"Oh it's quite alright," Neven assured him. "Who's to say who anyone is anymore? I think, not to downplay the horror of what we have all suffered, we can draw a line under our previous lives and start anew."
The Baton of Britain's face softened considerably and he looked infinitely more comfortable.
"Do you... do you really think so?" he asked meekly, yet hopefully. Neven was concerned that though this man was older than him, he seemed so childlike, innocent and simple.
"Yes," he assured him. "Why not?" he added to himself.
"Thank you!" he exclaimed, though Neven was unsure why.
"Oh... no problem," was all he could say.
"I know what it would be like," the Baton had puppy-dog eyes. "If the others found out. They all want me to do something. To say something. To act a certain way. Look to me. Look at me. Do you know what I mean?"
Neven wondered, and finally responded, "No."
"Oh," deflated, the Baton continued nonetheless. "I don't want to be the Baton anymore. I never wanted to be it."
"I can tell," Neven wasn't really sure where the conversation was going.
"My father... he made me," The Baton was welling up a little, leaving the corporal very uncomfortable. "He made me. Said it was good. Good."
"Well... you don't have to be... it anymore," Neven was staring down the road. He hoped that somehow he could make the setting sun before him explode and take him away in a massive fireball.
"Frank... Frank doesn't think so," The Baton said, looking around as though there were an increasingly tight noose upon him. He said 'Frank' the same way most people said 'Father'.
"Really?" Neven was intrigued now. He respected Frank, and on any given day would hand over command to the old man. Perhaps he knew the Baton’s role better than any.
"Yes."
"Well, perhaps, just consider it then. Okay?"
The Baton looked downtrodden, he realised that he was no more enlightened than at the beginning of the conversation.
The Simpson's tractor passed over the brow, bobbing like a ship on the cusp of the world. Major Vernon was driving with all the competence one could possibly muster from a combination of a half-hour driving lesson and a stoical attitude to just do it. Frank rode in the seat next to him, gripping the bars of the roll cage and various handles intently. He looked pale, as though he were ill. Standing astride on the back, clutching his gun and wrapping his coat around him, Sergeant Swinton diligently kept watch.
"Hold up," Neven said as he passed to the front of the caravan.
Brunswick, at the reins of the leading wagon, did as he was told and the group ground to a halt. Everybody was awake now. Phillipa passed to the back carriage to sit with the children, the Simpsons followed suit. Thornhough and Brunswick dismounted. The medic, whose name was Private North, lingered at the back of the group of soldiers.
The only civilian standing with Neven was the Baton, who trod up and down on the spot, his feet crunching into the dirt nervously.
"At ease, men," the Major climbed out of the carriage with grace, dusted himself off, and retrieved his cane from under the seat.
Swinton hopped off of the top of the tractor with a grunt befitting a man of his girth, before stopping to help Frank clamber down slowly from his own passenger seat. The old man's jumper was unravelling at the seams and he picked at it nervously.
The crunch of dirt alerted Neven to the late-arriving Church, who was unceremoniously wiping dribble from his chin. His bleary eyes betrayed his slothful ways.
"What's the situation, sir?" Brunswick asked, somewhat unhelpfully. He had interjected when the Major had been in prime speaking mode, posed heroically and authoritatively. The young private’s interjections had thrown him for a loop.
He took a breath.
"It's not far," the Major said, loud enough for the whole caravan to hear. "We think we've pinpointed ahead to where it is and it can't be more than half a day’s journey."
"Where are we, anyway?" Church mumbled to no one but himself. Being in the presence of so many who respected the Major made his insubordinations far quieter and meeker.
"So, my proposal is this,” Vernon continued. “We keep going, put everybody on shift. I know it won't be popular, but we're approaching an unknown. And I don't like unknowns. I want you all to be ready. So, I want the waking guards awake and the sleeping guards asleep. Is that clear?"
"Yes sir," they responded in unison, some more convincingly than others.
"Any... activity around the area, sir?" Thornhough, one of the brighter soldiers, asked.
The Major spun to meet his gaze, which, to give the young man his due, he met.
"Not that we can discern," Vernon answered. "But, the gates are locked, and the building does seem to be relatively intact. Whether that means it is abandoned or not... only time will tell."
"So, what's the plan for approaching it?" Neven piped up.
"Good question," Major Vernon smiled. "I think we need to approach assuming we may be behind enemy lines at this point. I don't know who or what is in that house, if anything, but I'll be damned if I'll go in guns unloaded just for the sake of scoring points with the potential top brass inside."
"If there is any top brass left sir," North quipped from the rear. "You could be the top-ranking officer in the country by now."
The soldiers emitted various forms of mirth. The Major did not.
"While that would put me in quite a position," he replied. "That would be the worst thing for all of us."
"What the Major is saying," Swinton stepped forwards and almost all the men instinctively took a step back. "Is that, if it is abandoned, it's a damn sight more defensible than the farmhouse."
"And then what?" Church couldn't hold it in any more. "We find another place to run to?"
"Curb that tone, Private," Swinton snapped. "You ain't one of ours, and you ain't getting a free ride much longer in the seventeenth with a mouth like that."
"Sergeant, it's fine," Vernon assured, not taking his eyes off of Church. "People are speaking their minds; it's a case of stress. Private Church knows his place."
Neven looked round, as if to say, yes, he does. Church was unimpressed with the Corporal's reaction.
*
Petty point-scoring aside, Church, Neven, Brunswick and Thornhough were elected to approach the cavalry base. The wagons, civilians, and the remaining soldiers waited behind, out of sight. They took their time on the way up. As his fellow soldiers passed by, then dropped back, an intricate race of which no one wanted to be the victor took place.
The place looked desolate. The walls of the estate were too big to see over, but an iron railing gate stood between them, an impressive driveway, and the manor house itself. Neven was sure that no one would be present.
They got to within one hundred yards before there was a call. A young man popped up from behind the battlements of the wall, holding a rifle of quite considerable size. The sweat trickling down Neven's face had him sure that the nozzle was pointed squarely
at him. The others had stopped paces behind him. He looked up.
"Hello," he called out, trying to be friendly but coming off as desperate. If these be my last words, he thought, then I have lived an entirely unimpressive life.
The sniper said nothing, but cocked his head back and to his left. Neven followed the way he had indicated and a man appeared at the window of the manor, holding a similar gun. The front door to the huge house was flung open and five men walked out in a V formation. A flock of cavalry officers descended upon the gate on foot, spread out, and hesitated.
"Who are you?" the lead man asked, coming to a halt spitting distance from the locked gate.
"My... name is Corporal Plumsworthy. I'm in the company of men from the Seventeenth and Fortieth rifles. We're in the command of Major Verno..."
"What do you want?" the man demanded. He was uninterested.
"We... have civilian refugees and we need a place to quarter," it was the best explanation Neven could give. What did he really want? He wasn't sure. All of a sudden though, he wanted not to be here.
"How many?"
"About a dozen in total, sir," Neven answered quickly. Patience was thin and words were a premium. He felt that any moment he could take a bullet in the head.
"Leave your men here. Go back and signal your commanding officer to come. We will discuss the logistics. Go now."
He was concise, prompt and very inhospitable.
Neven turned around, exchanged glances with the rest of the group. He felt like a naughty schoolchild who had just been redressed in front of his peers. The looked at him as though he were the lucky one. He extricated himself from the situation as quickly as possible, returned to Major Vernon and explained.
*
"Are you in charge?" Major Vernon asked upon arrival.
"Are you?" the lead man, from the benefit of being behind an iron gate, responded. More men had scaled the walls and were peering down upon the company.
"I am. Major Vernon, of the Seventeenth. My men and I have civilians who need a safe haven."
"I'm well aware of your situation, Major," the man interjected. "Now let me make you aware of mine. I have several armed men outside my gates, who I don't know for the life of me. They are demanding residence upon my already burgeoning halls. You claim civilian escorts, yet I see none."