The Command

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘I’ve had my sleep,’ Murdoch assured him. ‘I propose to sort this madame out. You go and get directions from one of those clapped rascals.’

  *

  The horses’ hooves clipped on the cobbles and flicked away slivers of ice as the two men walked their mounts down the road towards the town of St Omer. Murdoch rode Jupiter, Buccaneer’s replacement, a black gelding who was as responsive a mount as he had ever had.

  It was mid-morning and the sun was high in a cloudless sky. The ice was beginning to melt and it was going to be a perfect April day. It was not credible that only a few miles to the north three huge armies faced each other, waiting to kill on an unimaginable scale. Just as it was hardly credible that only a few miles to the west was Calais, and the English Channel, and home, where the horror that was northern France was only a nightmare.

  Murdoch glanced at his old friend. They had hardly spoken in the four months since their arrival from England. Commanding officers did not seek private chats with their enlisted men, and Morton had not sought an interview with his commanding officer. Now he rode with his gaze straight ahead.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘I enjoy the service, sir. I always did.’

  Murdoch allowed another couple of seconds to elapse before he spoke again. ‘Didn’t you try for a commission?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not? You have to be one of the most experienced cavalry officers in all England. You have five years’ more service than me, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Too many other officers know me, sir. Know of me.’

  ‘But you rejoined the regiment. Don’t you think the officers know who you are?’

  ‘Yourself, sir. Major Prendergast. Captain Ramage. Captain Llewellyn. No one else.’

  ‘And the men?’

  ‘They’re all seven-year men.’ Morton’s tone was faintly contemptuous.

  ‘Yeald isn’t. He’s re-enlisted twice. He was with us in South Africa, remember?’

  ‘Mr Yeald treats me as any other soldier, sir.’

  ‘Suppose I recommend you for a commission?’

  Morton’s head turned for the first time. ‘I would prefer you not to, sir. And I would decline.’

  ‘Johnnie...haven’t you got a wife, or a family?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Morton’s head was straight again. ‘I left nothing behind, sir.’

  Murdoch had from time to time heard rumours of how Morton had fallen on hard times, had been earning a living as a used car salesman. He sighed, and also looked ahead. St Omer itself might have been a hundred miles from the line. A few of the more well-to-do people had opted to remove themselves from any danger of encountering a Uhlan patrol; their houses were shuttered. But for the ordinary citizen life went on much as usual. Greetings were called to the English officers, even if sly glances were also exchanged as people observed the street they were taking.

  ‘I presume you know where we’re going?’ Murdoch asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Any comment?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘I’m looking for advice, Johnnie. Men need women.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But I can’t have half my command not up to scratch.

  ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Regulate the house, sir.’

  ‘Regulate...you mean take it over?’

  ‘In a sense, sir. Make the tarts have regular examinations, bar any who’s found clapped.’

  ‘Will they allow that?’

  ‘If you put it to them so they don’t have a choice, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ Murdoch said thoughtfully. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘The brass won’t like it, sir,’ Morton observed.

  ‘Why not? I should think they’d be pleased.’

  ‘Condoning, sir. Looks bad in the newspapers.’

  ‘Ah. Well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. From here on you’re a witness. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The house was curtained and quiet, set back from the road. Morton dismounted and opened the iron gate, and they rode in. ‘Close the gate,’ Murdoch said.

  He walked his horse up the path between somewhat neglected flowerbeds, dismounted. Before he could knock a man’s voice spoke in French. ‘Go away,’ it said. ‘You are too early. Come back at two o’clock.’

  ‘I wish to speak with Madame Leboeuf,’ Murdoch said.

  ‘She is asleep. Go away.’

  ‘If you do not open this door and call Madame Leboeuf,’ Murdoch said, ‘I will break it down.’

  Morton, at his shoulder, gave a slight cough. Murdoch wasn’t sure whether he was apprehensive of the threat or embarrassed by his superior’s French — he had no doubt the private was far more fluent in the language.

  There was a scraping of bolts and the door swung inwards. The man had a white moustache and was clearly past the age of military service. Even in the house he wore a cap. ‘Madame will not be pleased,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Neither am I pleased,’ Murdoch told him. He opened the door on his right, and entered a sitting room. It smelt of cheap perfume, cheap wine, and humanity. ‘Nothing like Kitty’s in Bath back in ninety-nine,’ he remarked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Morton agreed. And added, ‘You never went there, sir.’

  ‘That is absolutely true,’ Murdoch acknowledged. ‘But I can’t believe it was quite as tawdry as this.’

  ‘It wasn’t, sir.’

  Murdoch faced the woman who stood in the hall doorway. ‘Madame?’

  He was taken aback. Madame Leboeuf, presuming that was her real name, which it almost certainly was not, was about half the age he had expected — perhaps twenty-five instead of fifty. She was small, and pretty, with reddish-brown hair and a good figure, easily ascertainable since the nightdress under her open dressing gown was sheer. He glanced at Morton, but the private was standing rigidly to attention.

  ‘Monsieur. Monsieur le Colonel,’ she observed, studying his shoulder straps. And changed to English. ‘I am flattered, Colonel,’ she said. ‘When Jules awoke me, I was angry. My establishment does not open before two. But now, I am flattered.’

  ‘Thank you, madame,’ Murdoch said. Tut this is a business call.’

  Madame Leboeuf smiled. ‘I was certain of it.’ She sat down and crossed her knees. The dressing gown fell still further away.

  Murdoch sat down as well, opposite her, determined to be neither embarrassed nor distracted. ‘I meant, I am here as colonel in command of the Royal Western Dragoon Guards. I believe you have entertained some of my men.’

  Madame Leboeuf’s eyes became watchful. ‘They come ’ere often. Every night.’

  ‘Beginning just over a fortnight ago.’

  Madame shrugged.

  ‘Those first men, madame, I must tell you, have venereal disease.’

  Madame’s eyes flashed. ‘You come ’ere to insult me?’

  ‘I have come here to tell you something of which you should be aware. How many girls have you?’

  Madame glared at him, but realized that she could not dominate him either by her sex or by her personality. Her eyes drooped. ‘I ’ave ten, when soldiers are expected.’

  ‘You mean some of them are amateurs.’

  ‘They are women, monsieur. Girls. They are ’appy to entertain the brave British soldiers.’

  ‘Do their parents know what they are doing? Or that they have contracted gonorrhoea?’

  Another flash from the eyes. ‘If they ’ave, it is your men who ’ave given it to them. Your men are beasts. Beasts, monsieur.’

  ‘Madame,’ Murdoch said quietly. ‘That is not true, and you know it. There was no case of venereal disease in my regiment until we were cantoned here. If you wish to quarrel with me, then I will close your house down.’

  ‘Close my ’ouse down? ’Ow will you do that?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ Murdoch suggested.

  She glared at him for several seconds, then her shoulders drooped. ‘You w
ish to make me starve? And my girls? What do we do? We make men ’appy. Your soldiers are far from their loved ones. They need to be ’appy. A man must ’ave his...’ow do you say in English?’

  ‘I agree with you, madame. But not if it renders him unfit for duty. I do not wish to have to close you down. But if you wish to remain open, and service my men, then you must cooperate with me.’

  ‘Cooperate?’ She frowned at him. ‘’Ow?’

  ‘I wish all of your girls examines by one of my doctors. Every girl who is found to have VD will have to rest until she is cured. And all of them, from now on, will have to be examined every week.’

  ‘You will ruin me, monsieur.’

  ‘The doctors will not cost you anything,’ Murdoch promised. ‘You will have to accept some slight diminution of business while your girls recover. But it will be best for you in the long run.’

  ‘Ha,’ she remarked. ‘And will your soldiers also be examined by this doctor?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  She gazed at him for a few seconds, then smiled. ‘Very well. I accept.’

  ‘That is very sensible of you,’ Murdoch said, and stood up. ‘My doctor will be over this afternoon. Until he has been, I am placing this house out of bounds to my men.’

  Madame Leboeuf made a moue, and then smiled. ‘You do not ’ave to ’urry away, Colonel. Stay and take breakfast with me.’ Her eyes drifted to Morton. ‘And your friend. I ’ave no disease, I promise you.’

  ‘Thanks very much, madame, but I’m afraid we have duties to attend to. You’ll excuse us.’

  They walked their horses out of town in silence. The camp was in sight before Morton spoke. ‘With respect, sir.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘I know you are happily married to a most lovely woman, sir. But don’t you ever have the urge?’

  ‘Often,’ Murdoch told him. ‘But unlike yourself, I am cursed with being an officer and a gentleman. And now I am a senior officer. I have to endeavour to find a woman who will, at least so far as anyone knows, share her bed for free. They are thin on the ground.’

  *

  ‘Brass,’ muttered Reynolds. He was in the middle of serving lunch in the farmhouse garden. The weather was steadily warming up.

  ‘Remarkable how they always turn up at lunchtime,’ Peter Ramage remarked. As the senior captain in the regiment, and another old friend, he often came up to the farm for lunch with Murdoch and Prendergast. Today the padre, Dai Llewellyn, was with them.

  ‘You’d better nip out and see if you can bag another rabbit, George,’ Murdoch suggested, and stood up, walking away from the table towards the gate where the open tourer was pulling to a halt. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’

  There were four men in the car: the driver, an obvious ADC and two generals. One was Brigadier-General Gough, Murdoch’s immediate commanding officer, and the other was Major-General Allenby, commander of the cavalry division. Both were men Murdoch had known since South Africa.

  ‘And a good afternoon it is, Murdoch,’ Allenby agreed. And sniffed. ‘Smells like rabbit stew.’

  ‘It is. I’m afraid we’ve eaten most of it.’

  Allenby grinned. ‘We’ve lunched. I wouldn’t say no to a glass of wine.’

  ‘That we have in abundance,’ Murdoch promised, escorting them to the table. ‘You know Major Prendergast, Captain Ramage, Captain Llewellyn.’

  ‘Of course.’ The generals shook hands, and sat down. Reynolds poured wine.

  ‘Is this a social call?’ Murdoch asked, knowing well, as Morton had warned him, that it wasn’t.

  Allenby and Gough exchanged glances. ‘No,’ the Major-General said. ‘There are rumblings at headquarters.’

  ‘This brothel business,’ Gough put in. ‘You’ll forgive me, Llewellyn. But Sir John French wants to know just what you are doing.’

  ‘I would have assumed it was obvious, sir,’ Murdoch said. ‘I found half my men down with VD. I have taken steps to correct the situation.’

  ‘By taking over the brothel,’ Allenby suggested.

  ‘No, sir. By making sure that the girls are healthy.’

  ‘They are examined by a regimental doctor, free of charge,’ Gough pointed out. ‘That virtually means at the expense of the British taxpayer.’

  ‘It saves my men from gonorrhoea,’ Murdoch argued. ‘Soldiers always have VD. They always have had VD,’ Gough grumbled.

  ‘Then maybe all brothels should be regulated, sir.’ Gough looked at Llewellyn.

  ‘Colonel Mackinder has my full support, sir,’ the padre said.

  ‘I’m sure you’re both right,’ Allenby said soothingly. ‘The trouble is, Sir John is, equally rightly, worried about what the press will make of it. We live, alas, in a prurient society. And here we have a British colonel regulating the affairs of a brothel...I mean, the people back home, the wives and sweethearts, prefer not to know these things exist. Or certainly that their loved ones are using them.’

  ‘But their loved ones are using them, sir. And are going to go on using them. My aim is to stop them infecting those wives and sweethearts when they go home. And right now we are talking about gonorrhoea. Unchecked, it could be syphilis in a couple of months.’

  ‘Yes. Hm. I’ll put these points to Sir John, of course. I know he appreciates your points of view, as a rule.’

  ‘Maybe we could keep it out of the press,’ Gough suggested.

  ‘God, if we could keep anything out of the press...’ Allenby finished his wine, accepted a refill. ‘Actually, that wasn’t the main reason we came over, Murdoch. There’s to be another offensive.’

  Murdoch raised his eyebrows. ‘So soon?’

  ‘Well, they’ve managed to get hold of some shells. And a whole batch of replacements. The rawest recruits you ever did see. Kitchener’s Army they call themselves. I suppose Sir John wants to employ them before they also get VD.’ He gave a brief grin. ‘It’s Joffre’s idea, actually. He is sure we can beat Jerry this time.’

  ‘So we mount up and wait,’ Murdoch remarked.

  ‘Ah...no. The Royal Westerns do not.’

  Murdoch looked at him, and then at the brigadier. To whom Allenby also looked.

  ‘There needs to be a massive regrouping,’ Gough explained. ‘But while this is going on, the line must be manned, of course. Fortunately Jerry doesn’t have any idea that we’re going on the offensive again so soon, as you said, Murdoch. We wish him to continue in that state of ignorance — or even better, to feel that we have definitely exhausted ourselves for the foreseeable future. What we would like you to do is take over a portion of the line until things are ready. It’ll only be for a week. And your area will be next to two veteran French divisions, so you’ll have plenty of support in case of trouble. But there shouldn’t be any trouble. You are specifically ordered to undertake no offensive action, just to sit tight until things are ready, and then you’ll be replaced the night before the offensive starts.’

  ‘And if any of my men are taken prisoner, Jerry will say, “Mein Gott, cavalrymen in the line; the stinkers are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

  ‘I know it’s an imposition, Murdoch,’ Allenby said. ‘But it has to be done. And...’ another faint grin. ‘It’ll solve the VD problem for a few days.’

  ‘In favour of trench feet. When do we move up?’

  ‘Ah...you’ll leave one troop here with your horses...and move up tonight.’ Allenby handed over a sheet of paper. ‘Here are your instructions. Memorize them.’ He held out his hand. ‘I know you’ll make a good job of it.’

  *

  The regiment were simply told they were moving out that night, but temporarily; their main gear was to be left behind. There was a great rustle and a bustle, and Murdoch said goodbye to Madame Bosnet. ‘Only a week, madame,’ he assured her. ‘You’ll just have time to change the sheets.’

  She wept, and kissed him on both cheeks.

  Reynolds had packed up all the kit he reckoned his colonel would need; there was not a great dea
l, as there would be little chance of changing one’s clothes in the trenches. Then it was dusk, and Murdoch assembled his officers.

  ‘Right ho,’ he said. ‘I’m taking A Squadron, B Squadron, and half of C Squadron. One troop of C Squadron will remain here. Lieutenant Destry, you’ll command.’

  ‘Me, sir?’ The lieutenant was aggrieved.

  ‘Somebody has to. Just make sure there are hot baths all around when we come out. Now, the rest of you, go amongst your men and inform them that we will be leaving the horses and walking. Spurs will obviously be left in camp.’

  ‘Walking, sir?’ Only Prendergast and Ramage knew where they were actually going.

  ‘That’s right, Captain Lowndes. Never forget that we are dragoons. We began as mounted infantry, and the powers that be are still inclined to consider us as mounted infantry, when they have to. We’re for a spot of trench duty.’

  ‘Trench duty! My God!’

  ‘Quite. Destry, you are also responsible for all the horses. Padre, I’d like you to remain as well.’

  ‘I’m sure I will be of more use in the line, Colonel Mackinder.’

  ‘It’s only for a week. We’re not supposed to do any fighting, and there won’t be an opportunity for divine service. This is an unpleasant duty we just have to get over as quickly as possible. Very good, gentlemen.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We move out at eight fifteen pip emma. You have one hour.’

  The officers moved off into the darkness, Prendergast filled his dispatch case with the papers he thought he might need, and they both raised their heads to look at the dimmed headlights bumping along the road. ‘A change of plan?’ the adjutant wondered.

  ‘We’re not that lucky.’ Murdoch walked to the gate, peered at the man getting down from the car. ‘Harry. For God’s sake.’

  ‘Murdoch.’ Harry Caspar shook hands with his brother-in-law. ‘Hi, Billy. You guys moving out, right?’

  ‘Now how did you know that?’ Murdoch hadn’t seen Harry since Christmas night, when the two of them had shared four bottles of champagne in St Omer itself.

  ‘I have little birds, who whisper. Say, is that wine in that bottle?’

  ‘The dregs. Help yourself. I suppose Jerry knows all about it too.’