“That’s better,” she said glibly, as if simple joviality could cover up her debauched need for the drink, and she thrust the bottle back at him to hold. He took it wordlessly, watching her restart the truck with deft hands and far more poise with the controls.
“Next stop,” she announced gleefully, “shop. Hopefully nobody else tries to run me off today.”
Peter knew that the shop meant a purchase of a whole carton of cigarettes from the Greek man who owned the franchised chain store with its attached single fuel pump. The local shop, as it was known, was local for a few hundred people spread out over miles and miles of farmland. There was another small shop of the same chain in a village that Peter’s bus to school passed through. He could see the same sign, the same flash of three simple colours, on the corner building where the houses of that village met the railway line. The same railway line that he had seen minutes earlier, in fact, just further down that line.
This absent-minded train of thought covered the time it took for his mother, now renewed with a seemingly youthful energy and positive nature, to drive them to the shop.
Getting out, she paused, leaning back down to issue the same growled threat to stay, but then she seemed to hesitate.
“Come on then,” she snapped, albeit in a higher pitch than usual, which he guessed meant she was trying to be fun and companionable. Hurrying to release his seatbelt, he spilled from the car to stand upright and move his feet fast to catch her up, if only to hover just out of the reach of her arms.
The forecourt of the shop-cum-fuel station was as deserted as the pub, but that didn’t mean anything there, the area being devoid of life at the best of times. He watched as his mother straightened herself, in his opinion a pointless and vain attempt to make an abusive alcoholic seem in any way respectable. She pushed open the glass and metal door to activate the tinkling bell suspended above the frame.
Hovering just behind and beside her, Peter peered into the gloom as he held his breath. The harsh, ear-grating screech of, “Hello?” coming from his mother made him flinch involuntarily, but he focused his attention back on the poorly-lit interior of the shop in time to anticipate any answer.
None came, and he followed her inside.
EIGHT
Dean Johnson took stock of his Yeomanry squadron of reservists, who were chatting amongst themselves in the big drill hall. He was both annoyed and secretly pleased to have found that none of the squadron’s officers had reported for duty, and he wondered if they had even received the call to ignore in the first place, or whether they simply hadn’t made it there yet.
He was glad that none of them had arrived, apart from the Major, that was, because in his opinion they were either snot-nosed, entitled children who brought their genetically weak chins to dilute his beloved army, or else they were washed-out old Etonians with little to offer, other than second-hand officers’ mess stories. The Major was the exception to the rule, in that he had been a career soldier who had achieved the highest rank available to an enlisted man, then had his skills and experience recognised with a commission to attend Sandhurst on retirement, where he graduated with the rank of Captain. The Major was the man who effectively ran the unit, along with his trusted Squadron Sergeant Major, as it certainly wasn’t the Lieutenant-Colonel, whose only talent was his insatiable appetite for port and afternoon naps, and Johnson looked up to the Major greatly.
That wasn’t to say that Johnson wasn’t a man who inspired others. A heavy haulage mechanic by trade, he had joined the Territorial Army in his teens as he could never bring himself to give up his lucrative apprenticeship. By the time his training had been completed in his day job, he had risen to the rank of Corporal and was marked out as a young man capable of much more. When the pull to join the regular army threatened to take him from his civilian life, he could not bear to lose the huge difference in wages between the careers, so he dedicated himself to his territorial unit, and over eighteen years had risen to the rank of Warrant Officer class two and was awarded the high honour of becoming the Squadron Sergeant Major.
Stepping stiffly up onto a small stack of ammunition crates, he cast his eyes over the almost seventy men who had mobilised when called. Less than seventy from a full complement of almost one hundred and twenty enlisted ranks and officers.
It was, he decided, a fairly shit turn-out.
The call was expected by many, so the excuse of men who claimed not to have been informed was unacceptable at the very least. Now, deciding that it was time he called the assembled men to quiet and explained their tasks, he stood tall on the wooden boxes and cleared his throat.
It was a small noise, but he somehow made it echo throughout the large room and cut the air to silence numerous conversations mid-sentence. Almost as one, the men sat or stood still to listen to their Sergeant Major.
“Gentlemen,” Johnson intoned solemnly, hiding his excitement at a live mobilisation behind the sheer gravity of the situation, “fall in, sit down, and shut up.”
He waited as they did as they were told.
“I’ll keep it short,” he began, “because you’ll be deployed as of sixteen-hundred tonight. Troop sergeants will draw up stag rotas. That said, numbers aren’t what they should be, so Four Troop will be disbanded to give full complements to the other three Sabre troops,” he said, meaning that of their four main fighting units, only three could be fully manned and sentries would be posted from that evening, “and we wi…”
“Sorry I’m late, chaps,” burst a voice from the back of the room, accompanied by the bang of a door. The accent dripped with privilege, but as the young man strode into view, Johnson’s worst fears became realities.
Second Lieutenant Oliver Simpkins-Palmer was everything Johnson hated in the officer classes. He didn’t dislike the officers as a general rule, and certainly respected many that he had met and worked with over the years, but this man was an aristocratic, elitist, stereotypical bloody Rupert who made his peers call him Olly and dropped the double-barrelled name for ease in the military setting and elected to go with Palmer, as was the male tradition in his family. He had, in Johnson’s not inconsiderable experience, been born with a silver spoon very far up his arse, and every word that dripped from him was languid and infuriated the Sergeant Major. He was a soldier. He had worked hard and earned his place. Palmer however, had been born to the right family, had never known hardship and would never know the value of money as he and his men did. His older brother, Johnson knew, had joined the army fresh out of university and had graduated Sandhurst, having made a name for himself as an intelligent young officer. He had been posted to the Household Cavalry, and all reports from the men there said that he had grown into a well-respected young Captain who was popular with his men.
Lieutenant Palmer was the opposite side to that coin, he saw the men of the company as beneath him and treated them all as his personal servants. He had also finished university but believed that his career lay in entrepreneurial investments, instead of climbing the ladder through hard work. If Johnson were to believe rumour, which he listened to but didn’t read as gospel, then Lieutenant Palmer had inveigled his father into bankrolling his lifestyle, appeasing him by joining the reserves. He seemed to believe that rank, as pathetically junior as his was, offered him privilege far above his earned station.
Respect the rank, Johnson told himself as the annoying twerp strode towards him, not the man.
“Mister Palmer,” Johnson said through barely gritted teeth as he nodded his greeting to the young man, who stepped close to the boxes he was standing on, “I was just addressing the men, Sir, if you would like to discuss the matter afterwards?” he said, keeping his face neutral so as not to betray the hostility between the two men to everyone.
“I’d like to discuss it before I address the men, if it’s all the same to you, Sergeant Major,” Palmer said acidly, and loudly enough for the closest dozen men to hear.
Johnson stepped down without another word, wearing, however, a fac
e which indicated a severe level of disapproval. Palmer smiled infuriatingly, forcing Johnson to swallow down his rising anger at the intrusion and control his face, as he strode ahead to the administrative offices with Palmer walking behind.
“Talk amongst yourselves, boys,” he called over his shoulder and smiled internally in satisfaction as the ambient noise in the hall rose measurably. Palmer, singling out the nearest enlisted man, spoke condescendingly to him.
“Find me a cup of tea, would you, Smith?” he said annoyingly.
“I’m Parry, Sir,” the man answered, only to be dismissed with an irritated wave of the officer’s hand.
As soon as Johnson walked inside the office, the door was pushed closed behind him. In almost mocking contrast of one another, Palmer lounged over the corner of the nearest desk with his legs apart, whereas Johnson stood ramrod straight as though he alone in the room took any pride in soldiering.
“Who gave you permission to address the men?” Palmer asked. Johnson’s eyes moved slowly to fix the much younger man, who seemed to lack the courage of his convictions and quailed slightly under the gaze of the tough man.
“Perhaps, Sir,” Johnson said with an emphasised sneer, “you don’t yet know how the army works. Perhaps, Sir,” he said again, putting yet more aggression into the false deference as he took a pace closer in order that the young man understood him properly, “you don’t know how things actually work in this squadron. You might not be aware that almost every decision made is made by sergeants in the HQ troop, or the admin troop or by the Sabre troop sergeants, or, Sir, by me.”
He stepped back and seemed to relax, even allowing a small smile to spread across his face to signify that he meant no more hostility to the new officer.
“In answer to your question, I do not need anyone’s authority to address my men. Now, I assume that you would like to know our disposition and orders before I pass them on?”
Palmer, in betrayal of his arrogance, was not cowed by the reprimand and if anything, he seemed to have found the small interaction amusing. Johnson fought down the urge to slap the man less than half his age and send him to bed.
“Please, Mister Johnson,” he said with yet more dripping sarcasm than the older man thought possible, “do apprise me of our situation and disposition.”
Johnson sucked in a big lungful of air through his nose in order to settle himself and stop him from speaking for a few valuable seconds, then he let it out and spoke.
“Of our six troops, we have a little over half strength,’ he began, “I’ve cut out Four Troop,” he explained, meaning that one quarter of their regular fighting units had to be disbanded, “as they have no troop sergeant and no Corporals deemed up to the task of replacing them. Those men have been distributed amongst the other three Sabres and the assault troop, and HQ have been merged with admin for the time being. We still have empty seats, and more vehicles than we have bodies to fill.”
“That’s all wonderfully explained and I’m sure you can be pleased,” Palmer drawled in a voice Johnson could only describe as smarmy, “but I was rather hoping to receive an update about the rest of the country and what’s been going on,” he finished, his rich and cultured accent bearing a trace of feminine gentility.
Johnson looked shocked, as the man had clearly just rolled up without a clue what had been happening elsewhere.
“Sir,” he began, a furrowed brow of concern showing above his shrewd eyes, “London and surrounding areas are gone. Wiped out. The entire Household Cavalry unit training at the camp have been deployed to roll armour straight down the bloody M3 into London. We have been mobilised and are on home defence duties effective from six o’clock this evening,” he said, intentionally simplifying certain elements of his report, as he doubted the fresh-faced aristocrat could cope with the full truth given in army lingo. Seeing the mask of smugness slip momentarily from Palmer’s face, Johnson went on.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” he asked.
“I rather doubt anyone knows what it is, wouldn’t you say, old boy?” he responded, infuriating Johnson again at being encompassed in his own lingo and branded as one of them.
“No, I bloody wouldn’t,” Johnson snapped back, “there’s talk of some illness caused by infected animals from France, other rumours about some disease the Americans and the Russians were racing to perfect just so they can keep trying to kill each other quietly, and now there’s even the local loonies and god-botherers trooping their own colours and saying it’s bloody judgement day.”
He took a half step back and calmed himself down before resuming in a more relaxed tone of voice.
“Our job,” he explained, “is to patrol and ensure that Her Majesty’s peace is kept. We will move down to the training camp and treat it as a deployed forward base. We will keep round the clock defences in place, and we will conduct patrols of the towns and villages. Any questions, Sir?” he finished.
Surprising him then, the younger man removed the look of half-bored amusement from his face and stood up.
“Thank you, Sarn’t Major,” he said formally, “what about our supply and equipment situation?”
Johnson, as surprised as he was, did not hesitate and nor did he need to refer to any notes.
“Full complement of vehicles,” he began, “sixteen Fox armoured vehicles, each with a 30mm canno—”
“I’m aware of our standard armaments, thank you,” he interrupted, although with less arrogance than before.
“We also have four Spartans, two Sultans and access to dozens of Bedfords, not to mention the Saxons and whatever else is at the camp,” he finished, listing off the troop transport and fighting vehicles at their immediate disposal, as well as the many available larger transport trucks and whatever training vehicles were left behind when the regulars shipped out.
“Ammunition and consumables?”
“More than we can shake a stick at,” Johnson answered.
“And contact with other squadrons?” Palmer asked.
“Working on that,” Johnson answered, “Lance-Corporals Daniels and Mander are building up a network now, as they have been for the past hour. They’ll have got hold of anyone listening by now.”
“Very good,” Palmer intoned thoughtfully, leaning precariously back towards annoying the more experienced man, “I want to get more information about the situation in the city before we move out. Are we able to make contact with any military units closer to the action?”
The way he said action made Johnson grimace inside. It was like the lustful, youthful way that combat virgins spoke of being in the thick of things, when they had never even held a weapon since their last training weekend.
“Already in hand,” Johnson answered, “RNAS Yeovilton are putting up a pair of their training Hawks as long-range reconnaissance in,” he looked at his watch, “a little under twenty minutes. We should know more then.”
“Outstanding work by all, then,” Palmer said gleefully, yet still made his words come across as sarcastic and derisive of others’ efforts. “Now, who else from the senior ranks has answered the call to arms?”
Johnson stared the young man down until he could keep silent no longer.
“You are the only officer in attendance, Second Lieutenant,” he said, intentionally adding the man’s very junior rank as a reminder that he should harbour no intentions of taking charge and giving orders.
“Sergeant Major,” Palmer said with a clear tone of annoyance in his voice, “I’m starting to suspect that you aren’t the slightest bit pleased to see me…”
Johnson now believed that the time had come to explain the facts of life to the man.
“Sir,” he said, as kindly as he could manage, “for the sake of clarity, until such time as a Captain or the Major arrives, I’d like to make it entirely clear that this,” he stabbed one finger onto the desk to produce a metallic sounding report, “is,” another tap, “my squadron,” he finished with a final bang on the desk. Palmer smiled, and Johnson did not
feel placated by the gesture one little bit.
“Well, for the sake of good order and pretending for just one blasted minute that Her Majesty bestowed on me a commission, can we agree to include the lowly Second Lieutenant in your hierarchy, even if only to maintain the sense of propriety that the men expect?”
Johnson shot him a look that warned him not to interfere but agreed with a curt nod and a gesture of his chin to follow him back out into the drill hall. Striding straight back to the raised platform of ammunition crates, Johnson stepped up and bawled for silence.
Silence descended immediately, and all eyes turned to him.
“Right then,” he called out, “Four Troop, as I said, you have been allocated to the other Sabre Troops. Report to your new sergeants. HQ and Admin troops, you now report to Sergeant Croft. Troop sergeants on me after this briefing.” He paused to clear his thoughts before dropping the news on them. “The capital has been lost to a virus that experts say is like rabies,” he paused to let that sink in, casting a fatherly eye over his audience, “and riots have torn the place apart. The Household Cavalry boys have rolled out to stop the riots, and we are back to our original role as home defence. We will occupy the training camp, consolidate and defend, and conduct fighting patrols to quell any incidents.” He paused to scan the room once more and waited for the faces to show concern. They didn’t. Most were local boys who would quietly ensure that their families and neighbours would get themselves somewhere safe.
“Alright then,” Johnson said loudly, “let’s work hard to get away early. Fall out.”
Stepping down and walking away with Palmer at his flank, he strode into the room which was being used as a hastily-erected temporary communications suite, just in time to hear Lance Corporal Mander speaking into his radio handset.
“Understood, RNAS Yeovilton, November-Three-Zero out,” he said before he carefully put down the handset and removed his heavy headphones. Reaching out to rest them gently on the desk, he suddenly dropped them and flew from his seat to bounce off the Sergeant Major and drop to his knees just in time to grab a metal bin to void the contents of his stomach into.
Death Tide Page 6
