Andrew Wareham

by When Empires Collide (Innocents At War Series 1)

  “No chance of a limited war, then; you would say that a great conflict is inevitable, James?”

  “Wholly so. The state of the Ottomans does not help matters, of course. Turkey is dead, or as nearly so as makes no difference, and the Ottoman Empire must fall. We want a share of the oilfields that are located in the Arab parts and around Mesopotamia; the Germans want the same; France desires a cut as well. Then there is the Suez Canal, which we must control in order to protect India. The Austro-Hungarian Empire wishes to take the whole of the Balkans in hand, and the Russians want the Black Sea and access to the Mediterranean, and Italy would rather like a share of anything going, while the French are busy in North Africa and want more. The Ottoman Empire may be likened to a dying but fat elephant – and the Great Powers are the vultures squabbling with each other over the carcass!”

  Squire shook his head gloomily; it was worse than he had feared from his occasional reading of the newspapers.

  “Young George will wish to volunteer as soon as there is a war, James.”

  “He must, Thomas. There will be a shortage of officers particularly and every young man of the County must step forward to do his duty.”

  “I have but one son, and you are unwed, James…”

  “The name may die out – that is a possibility one must face. Who is heir to the entail, Thomas?”

  “You, of course, if George is lost. After that, there are those damned Moncurs in Scotland. Shopkeepers!”

  “No more than second cousins, at that. Mind you, Thomas, importing tea from India is hardly shopkeeping.”

  “Trade, James – not our sort of thing, even if it has made them wealthy! Dabbling in the City is one thing; keeping a warehouse is another!”

  “Quite. They may be rich, but that is not the point; they are still vulgar and really should not dwell in this house! Perhaps I should seek a wife, Thomas. Important to keep the family name, is it not?”

  The family had been there for centuries, they believed; it must not simply die out.

  “Have a look about in the Season, James. You inherited from our mother and are well able to keep a family – you ought to take a lady, just in case. You are no more than forty-five yet, still time to set up your nursery! Fancy a brandy, old chap?”

  The head of the family had spoken, and the colonel felt that he could tolerate the existence of a female in his life, while she was not too demanding.

  Tommy was sat in the drawing room, discussing his future over tea.

  “You must go up to Town in the morning, Tommy. A visit to Gieves. You will be able to order your uniforms and to get some altered off the peg for immediate use. Has the RFC a uniform of its own?”

  “It has, I believe, ma’am, but I am not at all sure what it may be. You say that Gieves will know?”

  “They are the authority on officers’ uniforms for all of the Services, Tommy.”

  “Very good. I shall go up by rail, I think. I do not know my way to drive around London!”

  “I wonder… I shall speak to Squire, Tommy. We might, Lavinia and Grace and I, accompany you to do some shopping ourselves. Christmas is coming, after all! The nine o’clock train, I think. I shall tell the stables to ready the carriage for us.”

  “I could take you to the station in the Lanchester, ma’am. There is room and to spare for three passengers.”

  None of the women had travelled in a motor car before – it would be a high treat.

  Squire gave his permission and placed cash in his lady’s purse so that she could enjoy her little expedition; it was impossible that she should write a cheque, for not having access to a bank account of her own. Widows or elderly spinster ladies might possibly be granted facilities by a bank, but a married woman must be dependent on her husband.

  Tommy drove the ladies carefully and sedately to the railway station and parked the Lanchester at the front of the Railway Hotel, on the driveway to the side where there was a few yards of space. There was one other car there. He waved to the commissionaire; he knew the car and would keep an eye on it for him and there would be a shilling in his pocket when the master returned from London.

  First-class, which was not too uncomfortable on the Southern Railway, merely dirty – London’s grime defying any number of cleaners. The train was fast and did not stop too often and half an hour brought them into Waterloo Station. The morning rush was over and the platforms had returned to a quieter state in which it was possible to walk without being shoulder-barged at every second step.

  “Gieves for you, Tommy, and we shall proceed into Oxford Street. The Army and Navy Stores at precisely one o’clock, at the front door, sir!”

  Tommy promised to be there and they took their separate cabs; neither sex would want the other present while they were purchasing clothing – not at all the done thing!

  Tommy made his way inside the austere premises of the country’s premier – many would say only – military tailor. He was obviously very junior in rank – looked very much like a civilian who was about to join – and was greeted by the youngest, least experienced of the assistants currently unengaged with any other customer. He was too old to be joining as a midshipman - might be a putative Royal Marine, but he looked too bright to become a Jolly - was almost certainly to be a soldier.

  “Good morning, sir. How may I help you?”

  “I need two uniforms, if you please. Working dress only for the Wessex Brigade of the Territorials, as a Second Lieutenant, and a full set for a Lieutenant of the Royal Flying Corps. The new Corps uniform, if you please.”

  Tommy knew that RFC uniforms were out of the ordinary run; many officers of the Corps retained the dress of their old regiment, adding RFC badges, while only a few chose to wear the pattern laid down for the Corps. The colour was the same khaki but the cut of the RFC jacket was radically different to that of any of the Army’s regiments.

  “I was not aware, sir, that the Royal Flying Corps recruited officers from the Territorials.”

  It was not unknown for fraudsters and confidence tricksters to equip themselves with military uniforms, the better to gull their victims, and the gentlemen at Gieves were always alert to the possibility that their clients might not be all they seemed.

  “My name is Mr Thomas Stark and I have a letter from Colonel Moncur-Fisher-Hallows to confirm that all is well. I have as well driving and pilot’s licences in my name.”

  The young man retired to consult a senior, returned smiling obsequiously and apologising for having caused such a delay in meeting his client’s needs.

  He took Tommy’s measurements, chatting politely the while.

  “I believe, sir, from your location, that you must be the son of the noted aviator, Mr Joseph Stark.”

  “Distinguished in the field of aviation, but late, sir. Yes, he was my father.”

  “One must offer commiserations on your loss, sir.”

  “Thank you. Will it be possible to collect the Territorial uniform within days, sir? By Friday, ideally, for I am to see special service next week. I expect to remain a member of the Territorials for only two weeks.”

  “I see, sir. Yes, we can provide you with working dress in that time. It will be delivered to your address, sir.”

  It was obvious that strings were being pulled, and the young gentleman would ensure that his seniors knew the details, which they would then keep wholly secret. It was none of their business to interfere in the processes of government in the country; if a matter was confidential, then it would remain that way.

  “It is normal for a flying greatcoat to be issued, sir. Many of the gentleman prefer our own long leather greatcoat to the official pattern. It is waterproof and far warmer, and, a particular point, sir, does not take up moisture and thus is not a source of extra weight. One may also recommend our fleece lining, sir.”

  “I have my own flying coat, but it is old and I have almost grown out of it. Another would make good sense, sir. I suspect that I may still grow on the chest and shoulders, of course, so
a comfortable fit would be rational. Flying at any height is very cold, even in summer, and a heavy waistcoat is also welcome. Sleeveless, of course – one must not be so bundled up as to be unable to move quickly.”

  The young man made a note on his pad, very gravely agreeing that the proviso made sense, and memorising it so that he might seem knowledgeable when talking to future airmen customers.

  “Whipcord breeches, sir; puttees and long stockings are both worn, as are shoes and knee-boots, depending upon the preferences of the individual gentleman and of his commanding officer. It is as well to be equipped for all eventualities, sir. Mess dress and full dress follow a pattern remarkably similar to that of the Royal Engineers, sir – from whom, of course, the Royal Flying Corps is derived.”

  “Of course. I expect to be posted to Upavon in about three weeks from now. Fittings may well be a difficulty.”

  “All can be arranged, sir. It may be a week or so into the course before you are finally fully equipped, sir, but you may well find other gentlemen awaiting items of their new uniforms. The Corps tends to be tolerant of such matters, sir.”

  The ladies were waiting, laden down with parcels and bags, and chased Tommy into a cab and then to Kensington and a light lunch.

  “Harrods – the only place to eat when out for the day shopping.”

  Tommy trailed along behind the three ladies, obediently; he spotted a jewellers in the vast store and decided to look inside after they had eaten.

  He contrived to pull Grace’s mother to one side, to whisper that he wondered if a brooch or some such might be suitable as a Christmas present.

  “Eminently so, my dear boy! I have purchased for Lavinia and Squire and myself – as is our normal practice – but you might wish to consult with Grace before buying. I know that Christmas presents should be a surprise, but one can break the rules in special circumstances.”

  Tommy wondered what made this Christmas particularly special; then he decided that it was wiser to ask no questions and do as he was told. In earlier years he had simply passed five sovereigns across and had allowed the actual purchasing of the presents to be done for him, on the grounds that he could not easily buy for himself, and in any case would not know what to get; this year was ‘special’; he grew just a little suspicious of Monkey’s mother’s motives. He took Monkey’s arm and led her into the shop.

  There was a brooch in the form of a winged eagle that caught both their eyes, semi-precious and so suitable for a young girl, who must not wear true gemstones, quite unacceptable in the girl who was not out. Amethysts and some sort of dark-blue stone that Tommy did not recognise, all set in silver.

  “Lapis lazuli, sir, from the north of India. Very handsome, I believe.”

  The jeweller was restrained in his praise of the piece – it was far beneath his dignity to actually ‘sell’ to clients who happened to make their way into the premises.

  Tommy raised an eyebrow, received a nod from her mother – it was acceptable as a gift, not out of place.

  “Would you like that, Monkey?”

  “Oh, I would! A pair of wings of my own. One day I shall wear something like that. But it is far too precious for me.”

  “It is early, but Happy Christmas, Monkey!”

  He turned away to the counter, to deal discreetly with the matters of purchase while her mother led her elsewhere in the shop to drool over diamonds and rubies that were far too expensive for them ever to wear. It would have been quite inappropriate for them to have overheard discussions of price and payment.

  “The brooch is at eighteen guineas, sir.”

  “Nineteen sovereigns will cover that, sir.”

  Tommy pulled one of his father’s drawstring purses from his pocket and shook sovereigns out onto the counter.

  The jeweller took the nineteen coins in his hand, to transfer them to his till; long experience told him that the weight was right – they were not counterfeit. Had the transaction been for a large sum, he would have put the sovereigns across his scales; jewellers were the favourite targets of those passing false coin, it being easy to sell on gold bracelets and rings. He wrote out a bill of sale, which gave him excuse to inquire of Tommy’s name and current address, for use in the event that the police came calling - he was a young man to have access to large sums in gold.

  “Mr Stark – ah, the son of Mr Joseph Stark, who was recently mentioned in the press, sir?”

  “That is so.”

  “My condolences, sir.”

  Tommy was dressed in black, suit and tie, but so were the great majority of gentlemen to be seen in Town – the colour was not reserved wholly for mourning.

  “I notice that you do not wear a signet ring, sir.”

  “No, nor shall I as a young man. I am a pilot as well, and a wise flier wears nothing that can catch on a wire or snag a piece of canvas. Even buttons are to be sewn on loosely, sir, so that they may break away rather than hook into a wire.”

  The jeweller had not known that and was rather unimpressed by the discovery; he had always imagined flying to be dangerous and the young gentleman’s words seemed to reinforce that impression.

  “I must suppose, sir, that you require a wrist or pocket watch when in the air.”

  “I have a large and reliable pocket watch, given me by my father, for the purposes of flying, but you are right to suggest that a wristwatch might make sense. I must discover exactly what is RFC policy on the matter before I purchase, of course.”

  “You are to join, sir?”

  “It is my hope, sir. I am told that there is a war coming, and so I believe it to be my duty to fly, not for my own profit, but for my country.”

  “Well said, sir! I hope that you are wrong in your prognostication, but I much fear from reading the newspapers that you may be right.”

  Tommy received his working uniform as promised and tried it on in front of the mirror. He was unconvinced by the martial figure that stared back at him. In his own eyes, he looked very young; he wondered if he would convince the authorities at the Central Flying School that he was of an appropriate age.

  The sergeant at the Drill Hall seemed to have no doubts.

  “Martin, sir. Sergeant Martin, Hampshires, sir, retired to the Territorial service after thirty-two years in the battalion, sir.”

  Martin was a small man, worn and grizzled, and hard as nails; there was no spare flesh on him and at fifty he gave the impression of a man who would still walk roughshod over any who opposed him.

  “My name is Stark, Sergeant Martin. I am a Second Lieutenant as of this morning and I have no military experience of any sort. I am a flier by trade and have held a pilot’s licence this last four years, but I know nothing of the Army.”

  “So I was told, sir. My job is to make you look like a soldier, or so I have been informed. Ten days is more than long enough, sir, while you are willing to be told, and to do as you are told. We’ll make a start with the uniform, shall we, sir?”

  The uniform included puttees, which required the correct number of turns around the lower leg – the same number to each leg.

  “Easier with knee boots, sir, but puttees can look smart, worn properly. Your officer’s servant will ensure that cloth puttees are properly laundered and starched, and that the strings are white. Breeches, sir, to be worn with exactly the same bag left and right. Shirt and tie are correct. Tunic must be worn squarely, sir. Sam Browne Belt, sir – right shoulder to left hip, which you have correct, sir; sword frog to be clipped precisely at point of the hip, sir. Pistol holster, sir, the same. You have not been issued with an officer’s sidearm, sir, being Territorial and in time of peace, but the standard is a Webley point 455, sir – it is heavy, sir and so you must ensure that the belt is securely anchored, so that you do not droop.”

  Tommy nodded – that made sense. He watched as Sergeant Martin showed him exactly what to do.

  By the end of the week he could march within reason well, and had mastered the salute and the basic stances.

&nbs
p; “Drill next week, sir – just the most basic parade ground manoeuvres. This weekend, sir, you are to report at Bisley camp at oh eight hundred hours, sir, at the main gate. Familiarisation with the rifle and the pistol, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Martin. My father left me a pair of Colt Automatics. May I take them with me?”

  “You will be there on Sunday as well, sir. Ask your instructor on Saturday. I would expect the answer to be in the affirmative, sir, if only because I believe the piece to be uncommon in this country and the instructors will be interested to handle them.”

  Sergeant Martin was essentially a good-hearted man, interested to help Tommy achieve his aim of looking like a soldier. The small-arms instructors at Bisley were unmitigated bastards, concerned solely to bully, chivvy and shout, and caring nothing for any person or his desires. Tommy learned how to handle and field-strip a rifle in very quick time – but he was not convinced that it was any faster than Sergeant Martin was achieving.

  At the end of firing on Saturday he tentatively enquired whether he might bring his pair of Colts with him next morning.

  “Yes, sir. What magazine, sir?”

  “The clips contain eight rounds, Sergeant Blake. Are they ever different?”

  “Yes, sir. There is a model which uses what is referred to as a ‘double magazine’, which carries fourteen rounds, sir. I have never seen either, sir, and will be interested to inspect the weapon.”

  “I am afraid that I have no more than fifty rounds, Sergeant Blake. My father, who died recently, left them to me and I do not know if one can purchase the correct ammunition in this country.”