Hungry Harry: An Orphan in the Ranks

by Andrew Wareham

  They learned the message – ‘look after your own and to Hell with anybody else’.

  Barracks routine was pleasant for a well-behaved and efficient soldier, for the great majority of men that was. Only a few were unable to fit into the peacetime ways of the Army and they disappeared from the ranks within a relatively short time of enlisting. In war the battalion would always have been short of bodies, but relaxing on a home posting they could afford to get rid of those soldiers it was too much effort to train into their own ways.

  The physically and mentally sick were simply discharged; there was a mechanism for the procedure, requiring no more than a certificate from the Regimental Surgeon. Once identified, those regarded as too ill to recover in short order, and all of the certainly mad, were paid up to date and pushed out of the gate, to make their own way in the world as well as they could. Normally they were stripped of their red coats and given an anonymous piece of civilian wear – there was no need to inform the public that these had been soldiers spitting consumptive blood in their streets or raving in the highways.

  The recalcitrant were dealt with in other ways.

  The bulk of the battalion, all those with more than six months of service to their names, were billeted out in pubs around Arundel. The barracks were simply too small to take all of the men. The men received a beer allowance and most spent the bulk of their pay in the bar of the pub where they lived; a few stole alcohol as well. In time of war the military would expect to discipline their own, putting men accused of theft from civilians before their colonel and a court-martial if the offence was sufficiently serious. In the short days of peace the normal process was to allow the civilians to operate their own justice. The Bench had no love for soldiers, firmly believing them all to be criminals, joined up because they were fleeing the Law in some other jurisdiction; any soldier accused of theft could expect the severest sentence possible for the particular offence. It was rare that the regiment would offer any protest; the colonel would normally be happy to have the burden removed from him.

  Some were sent to the gallows; more entered the prison hulks moored in most of the great harbours and estuaries; a number were sent out to forced labour, mostly to Gibraltar to be worked to death tunnelling or building the moles. The battalion did not really care – they were a nuisance and were better gone.

  The battalion dealt with its own when it came to offences committed on duty or in the actual barracks area. Inevitably there was a problem of drunkenness, expressing itself as abusive or violent behaviour. Men fought each other and shouted insults at their sergeants and officers when taken by liquor; just occasionally they attacked them as well.

  Raising a fist to an officer resulted inevitably in the death penalty; reprieves were the norm, but a man who had repeated the offence must die. For some reason, not to be discovered in any manual of military law, it was the habit to use a firing squad in wartime but to employ the noose when at peace with the world.

  Three times during his first year with the Sussex Regiment Harry stood in the ranks as they formed a hollow square about the gallows and listened to the beat of the slack drum as a condemned soldier was marched to his death. He found himself wholly unmoved by the experience, was simply contemptuous of the damned fool who had chosen to end his life in such a way. He continued simply to do his best

  The Company was sent on a route march early in the spring of 1791, the day after a fourth hanging, and Harry was close to the senior sergeant when they took a ten-minute break.

  “Who was that daft bugger who was topped yesterday, Sergeant Muldoon? The lieutenant ‘e thumped was C Company. Was ’e one of ‘is blokes?”

  “Private Thomas, a drunken Welsh idiot, Private Belper. That was the second time he had attacked that particular officer, claiming that he had ‘got it in for him’, though he would not say why. Not to make any comment of any sort, Private Belper, but I understand that the colonel has requested that the lieutenant in question should exchange with another battalion. Any officer may be assaulted once; a gentleman who is the victim more than once is almost certainly the, ‘author of his misfortunes’, it was once expressed to me.”

  Sergeant Muldoon was always very careful in his diction and had made no attempt to hide his desire to reach commissioned rank when next the battalion was posted overseas. It was a practical ambition and the colonel was aware of it, probably had his name written on his list of the deserving.

  “Whassat mean, Sergeant Muldoon?”

  “It means, Private Belper, that he asked for it! The gentleman is possessed of a cruel tongue, or so it would seem, and for some reason has no love for Welshmen in particular. He used his sarcastic wit on Private Thomas and was punched in the mouth for his pains. He is to exchange with an officer in a battalion bound for India, while Private Thomas lies in a felon’s grave.”

  Harry shrugged; Thomas had been a fool.

  “If ‘e was that pissed off with ‘im then ‘e should have stood in a dark corner near the Officers Mess and thrown a brick at him from out of sight. Bloody stupid to swing a punch at ‘im with fifty blokes watchin’!”

  “Drunk. Just a fool, Private Belper. Ten minutes is up. Fall in!”

  They marched their fifteen miles in an exact five hours, full packs and muskets, no more than sixty men of the eighty in the company holding the pace and returning to the barracks’ square in good order.

  “Private Belper, report to Captain Weightman in the Company office.”

  Harry doubled across on the command, at Sergeant Muldoon’s heels.

  “Ah, Private Belper, at ease, man!”

  “Sir!”

  “You have held a corporal’s stripe in a previous battalion, Private Belper.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very good. You have served with us for almost two years now and I have been pleased with all I have seen of you and I would wish you to take the promotion in my Company. I never promote a man with less than two years, and it is normally three, but you are an efficient soldier, Private Belper, and I wish to make use of your skills. It is very likely that we shall be at war in a year or two at most, and many of our men are not up to the standard I would desire, as we saw on this latest march.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It is my intention to form a squad containing the twelve least effective of our men, Corporal Belper. You will take them to the drill square daily, to the butts whenever possible, on route marches very often. Make ‘em or break ‘em, Corporal Belper!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Harry about-faced and marched out of the captain’s presence, Sergeant Muldoon following.

  “Who we goin’ to be at war with, Sergeant Muldoon?”

  “France, or so I believe. They have locked their King away and the word is they’re thinking of putting him on trial, and then cutting his bloody head off! Can’t be doing with that, can we?”

  Harry could not see why not, but judged it wiser not to say so.

  “I did ‘ear something about our King, Sergeant Muldoon…”

  “Unpleasant rumours, put about by the ill-conditioned. Ignore them, Corporal Belper!”

  Harry spotted that the sergeant had not denied the truth of the rumours, thus confirming them. The King, it would seem, was mad as a March hare.

  Harry scowled at the twelve men stood in front of him in a double rank; they were not a prepossessing sight. He knew them all, though not as close friends – good soldiers had little to say to the bad, and the reverse applied; the idle despised the crawlers who sucked up to the sergeants and officers. A corporal had little actual power, relied upon the goodwill of his sergeant to enforce any disciplinary process; he could however make life unpleasant for those who irritated him.

  If the squad pulled night guard, then the corporal decided who should stand sentry at three o’clock in the morning in the pouring rain. When performing fatigues, the corporal assigned the various tasks, including those which covered the unfortunate with dirt which must then be painstakingly clean
ed from his red coat. At meal times the corporal could invent a little task that made a man half an hour late to eat a bowl of cold, congealed stew. Off duty, the corporal inspected his squad before they left the barracks area for the night and could hold back any man whose uniform was unsatisfactory.

  The corporal could play the petty tyrant and make life almost intolerable, if he wanted; some did for the sheer pleasure of possessing the power; others used the opportunity constructively.

  Harry walked the ranks, inspecting the uniforms and peering closely at the muskets they carried. He returned to his place in front of them.

  “You knows me. Piss me about and you’ll know me better! Every one of you fell off the pace yesterday. So, you’re goin’ on the march three times a week for the next two months, at least. I don’t fall off the pace, not never, and I’m goin’ to be on your bloody backs if you do. If you can’t do it, then we’ll practice, with your knapsacks full of bloody rocks! Four hours on the parade ground with a ‘undred pounds on your backs and you’ll get in the ‘abit. You got guard duty every night until I says different, all of you.”

  He heard a mutter, grinned happily.

  “Thass right! I am a bastard! A bigger, ‘arder bastard than any of you. Sometime this year, or next more likely, there’s goin’ to be a war, and you’re goin’ to be in it. You ain’t about to let the battalion down by droppin’ out on the march. When we gets to the field, you’re goin’ to be there, three rounds a minutes until we wins or you’re dead. So, as soon as you can march, then we gets to the butts and you fires them muskets until your shoulders are like to drop off and your faces are burned blue. And then, when you can use them Besses, then we’ll take to the parade ground and smarten you up till you looks like bloody soldiers. And then, I expects you think you’ll be finished? Well you’re bloody wrong! Acos of then we starts it all over again, just in case you forgotten anything!”

  They stared in hatred, almost disbelieving – but not quite.

  “Thass right! You’re the clever buggers who can’t be bothered to do the job, the ones who reckon they can get away with it! I ain’t goin’ to say you goin’ to be good soldiers – but you goin’ to be useful soldiers, or you goin’ to be useless for anything and thrown out in the road with the rubbish.”

  They looked at him, nine out of the twelve realising they had no option; they must work. One wondered just how hard this new corporal would be with a knife in his back on a dark night; two knew they must run while they still could, for they were sure they would never make the standard he was demanding and knew they would be beaten into crippledom, floggings that started with two dozen and built up every week.

  “Smith; Hedges; Brown; Glasspool; Carpenter; Tiler – report to the guardhouse at eight o’clock, fully uniformed, duty till two in the morning. Parade in front of me exactly to time. Chandler; Mason; Durley; Brewer; Potter; Coles – report at two o’clock, duty till eight in the morning. Alternate nights, changing roster. Working uniforms to the parade ground at eight thirty of the morning. Dismiss!”

  “You’re pushing those men hard, Corporal Belper?”

  Sergeant Muldoon stood at Harry’s side watching as the squad doubled around the perimeter of the parade ground, a distance of some two furlongs, carrying muskets and packs. They were on their eighth circuit and blowing hard, celebrating the end of their first week in the special squad.

  “They needs it, Sergeant Muldoon. Some of ‘em still don’t believe it. They reckon that a few more days and I’m goin’ to ease off and they can go back to their old ways. Hedges there, second man, rear rank – ‘e’s been three years a soldier and got used to a soft life, skivin’ off and doin’ sod-all every day of the week; ‘e’s findin’ the learnin’ terrible ‘ard. Put a special sharp on ‘is bayonet this last two days – thinks I’m too bloody stupid to notice!”

  “Watch your back at night, Corporal Belper!”

  “Don’t you worry about me, Sergeant Muldoon!”

  Private Hedges was a lazy man and mean with his money as well; it was his undoing. He was slack with his laundry and rarely bought soap and there was always an acrid smell of sweat about him. He used a pipe and thought the rank tobacco odour covered everything else, but Harry had a keen nose, smoking not at all and drinking little.

  Harry walked back to his billet ten minutes after two o’clock in the morning, having inspected the guard as it changed. The squad knew he would be there unfailingly; they had learned the hard way that he would check their uniforms to the last shining button. It was a cold, black night, just the faintest glimmer from a few lanterns kept burning through the dark hours for the benefit of the men on duty. Along the path besides the road into the barracks, turning left between the Mess building and the Quartermaster’s Stores, an alleyway no more than six feet wide but always clear and free of obstructions, forty feet of absolute darkness, a right turn to come at the bottom out onto the grass outside the barracks huts and a slight smell in the air…

  Harry came alert, carried on, his feet beating out the same unvarying time; Hedges would not be one to face him, to show himself and gloat as he thrust with the bayonet. There would be a stab from behind, low into the back. They wore the leather stock, so he would not try to slash at Harry’s throat. Coming from the right, which made defence more difficult as Harry would have to spin around and grab with his left hand as he was moving his own right away from the action… That could be allowed for.

  Harry stepped to the left as he rounded the corner, wrong-footing the man waiting for him. He could not see a face but was sure it was Hedges, stumbling as the bayonet found no target.

  Harry guessed that the man’s arm was fully extended, that he could not slash again for a second; he kicked, hard and hopefully into the middle of the dark shadow and jumped back as his shoe made contact and the man grunted. Solid bone, which was a pity, he had hoped for stomach or groin, had probably connected with a hip; it would slow him anyway. The attacker swung forward and Harry rushed into him, past the half-seen arm and bayonet, or so he hoped; he brought a knee up and an elbow across and then let his rush carry him forward and out of close contact as the man fell. He thought about shouting an alarm, but that would bring his own squad from guard duty, which might not be a good idea…

  “What’s going on there?”

  The voice of the sergeant on Orderly Duty, the ‘assistant’ to the Officer of the Day who actually performed the great bulk of the work, staying awake while the lieutenant slept.

  “Over here, Sergeant Capes! Corporal Belper, sergeant.”

  Capes was one of the younger sergeants, keen and alert; he came running with a lantern.

  “Laying up for me at the corner there, Sergeant Capes. Haven’t seen his face, but I knows just who’s been putting an extra edge on ‘is bayonet the past few days! I smelled him, the dirty bugger! Was ready when ‘e jumped me.”

  “You carrying anything, Corporal Belper?”

  Harry gave a negative, knowing as well that the duty men were unarmed in peacetime on a Home posting.

  “Watch ‘im then!”

  Sergeant Capes advanced the lantern, showed Hedges conscious but unmoving on the ground, curled up and clutching himself, bleeding from the mouth as well.

  “You caught ‘im a good one, Corporal Belper!”

  “Knee, then elbow as ‘e doubled over.”

  “Well done, that man!”

  Sergeant Capes raised his voice, a full parade-ground bellow to the guardroom; following standing orders, three of the guard came running, the remaining three holding the post.

  “Private Glasspool, back to the guardroom and bring the irons. Double!”

  Four minutes, Hedges starting to move and Glasspool was back; Sergeant Capes had found the bayonet that Hedges had dropped, was checking its well-honed edge and whistling

  “Hands behind ‘is back, Private Glasspool. Ankles as well, short halter! Follow me.”

  Sergeant Capes marched them across to the guardhouse, full pace and igno
ring Hedges as he whined that he could not keep up and not hearing the heavy shoe that thudded into his ribs when he fell. There were lights showing now, the roar of orders in the middle of the night waking every man who had gone to sleep sober.

  The Adjutant appeared, before, as he noticed, the Officer of the Day reached the scene; he would speak to the young lieutenant privately. He took command of the situation.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant Capes?”

  “Private Hedges, sir, one of the special squad from D Company, was on duty from eight till two and laid up for Corporal Belper coming back from inspection of the change of guard. He had this, sir.”

  The Adjutant inspected the bayonet and nodded.

  “Bring him up before me first thing, Sergeant Capes, and I’ll put him on a charge before the colonel. Court martial within the week, I should think. What’s today, Tuesday? Should be able to hang him by Thursday or Friday of next week, provided the General Officer Commanding is in London to confirm the sentence. Are you unhurt, Corporal Belper?”

  “Yes, sir. I jumped and he missed with his first swing, sir. I was lucky, sir.”

  “Well done. A man makes his own luck in this sort of affair, Corporal Belper, in my experience.”

  The court martial sat and was done in an hour, the evidence uncontested, Hedges choosing to say nothing rather than make an admission or be caught out in a lie. Lieutenant Oxford of the company, standing for the accused in duty, tried to make a defence but was reduced to suggesting that perhaps he had tried to frighten his corporal, as a sort of practical joke. The court did not find it funny.

  Sentence was confirmed immediately and a note to the colonel instructed him to make much of the fact that there was soon to be a war and that the men must be brought to a high level of obedience and discipline. The colonel addressed the parade that watched Hedges take his leave of the regiment and his life, warning them that the easy days of peace were coming to an end and that they must be ready for the hardships of campaign. There would be more recruits brought to the ranks, the colonel said, and many of them would need to be shown the right way of doing things; he relied upon the men to set them straight.