“He considered the workmanship defective, sir.”
“Yes.”
The brigadier stared out of the window. The brigade major gave a lucid account of the Dunn–Apthorpe campaign. Presently the brigadier said:
“Were the boots good enough to run away in?”
“I haven’t asked about that yet. It will no doubt come out when the Summary of Evidence is taken.”
“If they’re good enough to run away in, they’re good enough for our army. Damn it, if they lost their boots, they might have to meet the enemy. It’s, as you say, a very serious matter.”
“Then shall I carry on with the preliminaries of a court martial, sir?”
“No. We’ve no time for that. Do you realize that the whole of our army and the French are on the run leaving everything behind them, half of them without firing a shot? Make these young idiots work together. Lay on a brigade exercise for the signalers. Let’s see if they can work their instruments with or without boots. That’s all that matters.”
So two days later, after feverish work at the castle and in the orderly rooms, the Halberdier Brigade marched out into the dripping Midlothian countryside.
That day was memorable for Guy as the most futile he had yet spent in the army. His platoon lay on a rain-swept hillside doing absolutely nothing. They were quite near one of the brigade signaling posts and from it there rose from dawn to noon a monotonous, liturgical incantation:… “Hullo Nan, Hullo Nan. Report my signals. Over. Hullo Nan, Hullo Nan. Are you hearing me. Over. Hullo King, Hullo King. Are you hearing me. Over. Hullo Nan. Hullo King. Nothing heard. Out. Hullo Able. Hullo Able. Am hearing you strength one, interference five. Out. Hullo all stations. Able. Baker. Charlie. Dog. Easy. Fox. Are you hearing me. Over…” Throughout the chill forenoon the prayer rose to the disdainful gods.
The men rolled themselves in their anti-gas capes and ate their sodden rations. At length, walking very slowly, a signalman appeared out of the haze. He was greeted derisively by the platoon. He approached the signal station and from the depth of his clothing produced a damp piece of paper. The corporal brought it to Guy. “Able Dog Yoke,” it read. “Close down R.T. stop signals will be by runner stop ack.”
Another two hours passed. Then a “runner” stumbled up the hill with a message for Guy. “From O.C. D. Coy to O.C. 2 pl. Exercise terminated. Rally forthwith road junction 643202.” Guy saw no reason to inform the signalers. He fell in the platoon and marched off, leaving them quite alone where they had been lying.
“Well,” said Colonel Tickeridge in the mess, “I’ve written my report on today’s nonsense. I have recommended that brigade signals go away and get trained.”
It was generally recognized as being a personal success for Apthorpe. There had been a general attempt to be pleasant to him in the last two days since ragging had ceased. That evening he was the center of hospitality. Next morning two commandeered civilian buses arrived near the Second Battalion lines. The signalers piled in and drove away.
“Brigade really showed some pace for once,” said de Souza.
The Halberdiers congratulated themselves on a triumph.
But the departure of the signalmen had been ordered the day before, far away in London, while at Penkirk they were first erecting their aerials into the rain, and for a reason quite unconnected with the failure of their apparatus.
Had they known it, the Halberdiers would have been even more jubilant. This was, for them, the start of the war.
This was Friday, pay day. Every Friday after Pay Parade Major Erskine lectured his company on the progress of the war. Lately there had been much detail of “dents” and “bulges” in the Allied line, of “armor breaking through and fanning out,” of “pincers” and “pockets.” The exposition was lucid and grave but most men’s thoughts were on the week-end leave which began when he ceased speaking.
This Friday was different. An hour after the signalmen left, an order was issued canceling all leave and Major Erskine had an attentive and resentful audience. He said:
“I am sorry that your leave has been canceled. This is not an order that applies only to us. All leave has been stopped throughout the Home Forces. This morning, as you know, the brigade signalers were withdrawn. This afternoon we shall lose all our transport and carriers. The reason is this. We are not, as you know, fully equipped or trained. All specialists and all equipment is needed at once in France. That may give you some idea of the seriousness of the situation there.”
He continued with his customary explanation of dents and bulges and of armor breaking through and fanning out. For the first time these things seemed to his hearers to have become a force in their own lives.
That evening a report, emanating from the clerks, filled the camp that the brigade was going immediately to the Orkneys. The brigadier was known to be back in London and the castle to be surrounded by cars from Scottish Command.
Next day Guy’s servant called him with the words: “Sounds like I shan’t be doing this many more days, sir.”
Halberdier Glass was a regular soldier. Most of the conscripts had been shy of volunteering as batmen, holding that “that wasn’t what they’d joined the bloody army for.” Old soldiers knew that menial duties brought numerous comforts and privileges, and competed for the job. Halberdier Glass was a surly man who liked to call his master with bad news. “Two of our platoon overstayed their leave this morning”; “Major Trench made a visit to the lines last night. Went on something awful about the bread in the swill tubs”; “Corporal Hill shot himself just down by the bridge. They’re bringing the body in now”; some small titbit of gossip of the kind calculated to make Guy start the day in low spirits. But this announcement was more serious.
“What d’you mean, Glass?”
“Well, that’s the buzz, sir. Jackson got it in the sergeants’ mess last night.”
“What’s happening?”
“All regulars standing by to move, sir. Nothing said about the militiamen.”
When Guy reached the mess-tent everyone was talking about this rumor. Guy asked Major Erskine: “Is there anything in it, sir?”
Major Erskine answered: “You’ll hear soon enough. The C.O. wants all officers in here at eight-thirty.”
The men were set to physical training and fatigue duties under their non-commissioned officers and the officers duly assembled. In every Halberdier battalion at that moment the commanding officers were breaking bad news, each in his way. Colonel Tickeridge said:
“What I have to say is most unpleasant for most of you. In an hour’s time I shall be telling the men. It is all the harder for me to tell you because, for myself, I cannot help being glad. I had hoped we should have gone into action together. That is what we have all been working for. I think we should have given a good account of ourselves. But you know as well as I do that we aren’t ready. Things are pretty sticky in France, stickier than most of you realize. Fully trained reinforcements are needed at once to make a decisive counter-attack. It has therefore been decided to send a Regular Battalion of Halberdiers to France now. I expect you can guess who will lead us. The brigadier has been in London two days and has persuaded them to let him go down a step and command a battalion. I am very proud to say he’s picked me to go down a step too and join him as second-in-command. We are taking most of the regular officers and other ranks now in camp. Those of you who are being left behind will naturally want to know what is to become of you. That, I am afraid, I can’t answer. You realize, of course, that you will be enormously weakened, particularly in senior N.C.O.s. You also realize that for the moment at any rate the brigade ceases to exist as a separate formation with a special role. You may be sure that the captain-commandant will do all he can to see that you keep your identity as Halberdiers and don’t get pushed about too much. But at a time of national danger even regimental tradition has to go by the board. I hope we all join up together one day. Don’t count on it or feel a grievance if you find yourselves attached elsewhere. Just show the
Halberdier spirit wherever you are. Your duty now, as always, is to your men. Don’t let their morale drop. Get some football going. Organize concerts and housey-housey. All ranks are confined to camp until further notice.”
The temporary officers left the tent, went out into the brilliant sunshine, in deep gloom.
Apthorpe’s comment was: “Wheels within wheels, old man. It’s all the work of these signalers.”
Later the battalion paraded. Colonel (now Major) Tickeridge made much the same speech as he had made to the officers, but that simple man contrived to give a slightly different impression. They would all join up together again soon, he seemed to say; the Expeditionary Battalion was merely an advance party. They would all be united for the final biff.
In these conditions Guy at last got command of a company.
Chaos prevailed. The order was always to stand by for orders. The regulars who were leaving attended the medical officers for final examination. Venerable figures emerged from their places of concealment, were pronounced unfit, and sent back to store. The conscripts played football and under the chaplain’s aegis sang “We’ll hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line.”
In order, it was supposed, to avoid confusion, the remaining battalions were named X and Y. Guy sat in a tent in X Battalion lines attended by a sergeant-major with fallen arches. All through the afternoon he received requests for week-end leave on urgent compassionate grounds from men whom neither he nor his decrepit assistant had ever seen before. “My wife’s expecting, sir,” “My brother’s on embarkation leave, sir,” “Trouble at home, sir,” “My mother’s been evacuated, sir.”
“We know nothing about them, sir,” said the sergeant-major. “If you give in to one you’ll only have trouble.”
Guy miserably refused them all.
It was his first experience of that common military situation, “a general flap.”
Not until “Retreat” had been sounded, did a move order arrive for the Regular Battalion.
At reveille that Sunday morning X and Y Battalions turned out to see the Regular Battalion off. The call for breakfast sounded and they dispersed. At length a fleet of buses appeared up the valley. The battalion embussed. The remnants of the brigade cheered as they left and then turned back to the part-deserted camp and an empty day.
*
Chaos remained, without animation. Guy’s commander in X Battalion was a major whom he did not know. At this season of prodigies Apthorpe emerged as second-in-command of Y Battalion with Sarum-Smith as his adjutant.
The week-end yawned before them.
On Sunday mornings at Penkirk a priest came out from the town and said Mass at the castle. He came that Sunday too, untroubled by the “flap,” and for three-quarters of an hour all was peace.
When Guy returned he was asked: “You didn’t by any chance pick up any orders at the castle?”
“Not a word. Everything seemed dead quiet.”
“I expect everyone has forgotten about us. The best thing would be to send everyone on long leave.”
The company office, all company offices, were besieged with applications for leave. The remnant who were, for want of another name, still called “Brigade Headquarters” were standing by for orders.
Rumors spread everywhere that they were to return to the barracks and the depot; that they were to be broken up and sent to Infantry Training Centers; that they were to be brigaded with a Highland regiment and sent to guard the docks; that they were to be transformed into Anti-Aircraft units. The men kicked footballs about and played mouth-organs. Not for the first time Guy was awed by their huge patience.
Halberdier Glass, who, despite his prognostications, had contrived to remain with Guy, reported these “buzzes” to him at intervals throughout the day.
At last, late at night, orders were issued.
They were preposterous.
An enemy landing by parachute was imminent in the neighborhood of Penkirk. All ranks were confined to camp. Each battalion was to keep a company, night and day, in immediate readiness to repel the attack. These would sleep in their boots, their rifles beside them with charged magazines; they would stand to at dusk, at dawn and once during the night. Guards were doubled. A platoon would ceaselessly patrol the perimeter of the camp. Other platoons would stop all traffic, day and night, on all roads within a five-mile radius and examine civilian identity cards. All officers would carry loaded revolvers, anti-gas capes, steel helmets and maps at all hours.
“I have not received these orders,” said the unknown major, giving his first, indeed his only, hint of character. “I’ll have them brought with my tea tomorrow morning. If Germans land tonight they will have no opposition from X Battalion. That, I think, is called the Nelson touch.”
Monday passed in the defense of Penkirk and two cowmen were arrested whose strong Scottish accents gave color to the suspicion that they were conversing in German.
It was fine parachuting weather. The storm had quite passed and premature summer bathed the valley. On Monday night Guy’s company was on emergency duty. He had an outlying patrol on the hill above the camp which he visited at midnight. Later he sat gazing into the stars, with the men bivouacked round him. The Regular Battalion was probably in France, by now, he reflected; perhaps in the battle. Halberdier Glass had it for certain that they were in Boulogne. Suddenly from below came the sound of bugles and whistles. The platoon doubled back and found the whole camp astir. Apthorpe had distinctly seen a parachute land a few fields distant. Patrols, pickets and duty-companies rushed to the scene. Two or three rounds were waywardly fired.
“They always bury their parachutes,” said Apthorpe. “Look for newly dug ground.”
All night they tramped down the young wheat until at reveille they handed over the duty to their reliefs. Several bus-loads of kilted soldiers had meanwhile arrived from a neighboring camp. These were seasoned men who were skeptical of Apthorpe’s vision. An indignant farmer spent most of the morning at the castle computing the damage done him.
On Wednesday, a move order arrived. X and Y Battalions were to stand by at two hours’ notice. Late that evening buses again appeared. There was no “unconsumed portion of the day’s ration” to encumber them. Halberdier Glass reported that the whole brigade staff were moving too.
“Iceland,” he said; “that’s where we’re off to. I got it straight from the castle.”
Guy asked his commanding officer where they were going.
“Aldershot Area. No information about what happens when we get there. What does it sound like to you?”
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like a Halberdier establishment, does it? If you want to know what I think it sounds like, it sounds like Infantry Training Centers. I don’t suppose they sound like anything to you?”
“Not much.”
“They sound like hell on earth to me. You fellows have had a raw deal. You’ve been in the Halberdiers. Now you’ll probably find yourself in the Beds and Herts or the Black Watch. But you’ve only had six months of us. Look at me. God knows when I shall get back to the corps, and it’s been my whole life. All the fellows I entered with are at Boulogne now. D’you know why I’m left behind? One bad mark, my second year as a subaltern. That’s the army all over. One bad mark follows you wherever you go till you die.”
“The battalion is definitely in Boulogne, sir?” asked Guy, anxious to stem these confidences.
“Definitely. And there’s the hell of a fight going on there now, from all I hear.”
They were driven to Edinburgh and put into a lightless train. Guy shared a compartment with a subaltern he hardly knew. Almost at once the fatigue of the last days overcame him. He slept long and heavily, not waking until another brilliant day was creeping through the black-out. He raised a blind. They were still in Edinburgh Station.
There was no water on that train and all the doors were locked. But Halberdier Glass appeared, mysteriously provided with a jug of shaving water and a cup of tea, c
arried Guy’s belt into the corridor and began polishing. Presently they started and very slowly jolted their way south.
At Crewe the train stopped for an hour. Base little men with bands on their arms trotted about the platforms bearing lists. Then a hand-wagon from Movement Control deposited a tank of warm cocoa in each coach, some tins of bully beef and a number of cardboard packets of sliced bread.
The journey continued. Guy could hear mouth-organs and singing above the roll of the wheels. He had nothing to read. The young officer opposite him whistled when he was awake, but mostly he slept.
Another stop. Another night. Another dawn. They were traveling now through an area of red brick and carefully kept little gardens. They passed a red London omnibus.
“This is Woking,” said his companion.
Soon the train stopped.
“Brookwood,” said the knowledgeable subaltern.
There was a Railway Transport Officer on the platform with lists. The commander of X Battalion, redolent of anonymity, came down the platform peering anxiously through the steamy windows, looking for his officers.
“Crouchback,” he said. “We’re getting out here. Fall in by companies in the station yard. Tell off a platoon to handle stores. Call the roll and inspect the men. They can’t shave, of course, but see they are respectable otherwise. We’ve two miles march to camp.”
Somehow the disheveled, comatose figures transformed themselves into Halberdiers. No one seemed lost. Everyone had a rifle. The kit-bags came bouncing out.
X Battalion moved off first. Guy marched at the head of his company, following the company in front, through the suburban lanes and delicious morning air. Presently they came to a field gate and the familiar smell of Soyer stoves. He followed the company commander in front in calling his men to attention. He heard the command ahead: “Eyes left.” His turn came. He gave the command, saluting, and saw a Halberdier guard fallen in at the guard-house.
He gave the command: “C Company, eyes front.”
From the distance of a hundred marching men he heard ahead: “B Company, eyes right.”