Bold, Brash and Brave

by Alan Tansley

  Henry knew it could get harder, and recalled being informed that they wouldn’t need other clothes. It dawned on Henry that the rest would have been informed the same, but yet they were all freezing. ‘I bet they are waiting for some of us to run away then they can make a scapegoat of them,’ he thought, as he glanced at George shivering in his sleep and grimaced. ‘Another few days like this and we’ll all end up with pneumonia.’

  Later that evening, they all huddled around the stove, trying to keep warm with their blankets pulled tight around their shoulders.

  ‘Well, what a bloody awful first day,’ moaned Billy, rubbing his hands together.

  As usual, Taffy was wearing a half smile, so no-one could tell if he was taking the Mickey or trying to gee them up. He groaned, ‘Never mind lads, it can only get better. At least they brought us some more firewood.’

  ‘Can it? They made George a scapegoat to put us all in order. The food was shit. They are letting us freeze overnight, and yet you say it will get better. Go piss off mate,’ snapped Billy, leaving the fireside to flop on his bed.

  ‘I must admit, he sounds right about that lot,’ said John-Thomas, and his jaw quivered as he looked at Edward.

  Nearly everyone had a restless night, but early next morning, training to make them soldiers began. Using saplings as rifles, eventually the new battalion marched together in perfect time. Unfortunately, the field began to turn into a bog, making marching in time ridiculous.

  Just before ten o’clock, Henry moaned, ‘I wonder if we are getting some breakfast?’ and, as ordered, stood at ease in-time with the rest.

  ‘Doesn’t look like it,’ snapped Billy, and squinted, observing the Sergeant approaching with what looked like two lance corporals. An officer wearing a peaked cap appeared at the end of the line, and it went quiet. On a command from the Sergeant, they all stood at attention, and then in his usual bawl, the Sergeant began to detail men into numbered units, which George thought was silly, when it was basically just their hut number.

  All that morning, Henry had looked out for Timothy, but hadn’t seen him. George had kept an eye out as well, but didn’t dare ask in case he got into more trouble. The officer they faced smiled, and rather stuffily shouted, ‘Right then, chaps. My work here is nearly over. Your Staff Sergeant will issue you with a pay number, and please don’t forget it. Always remember this, men, no number, and no pay.’

  When he walked off, the Sergeant began to walk between the rows of men as if inspecting them. ‘At ease,’ he shouted.’ Returning to the front, he stood to attention, and yelled, ‘You horrible looking lot! Get back to your huts, get cleaned up, and prepare for breakfast. Now!’

  When they all began to disperse, Henry asked George, ‘I wonder where our Tim is?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue, but I do know this: I’m bloody starving,’ he replied, rubbing his belly.

  They gulped down their food, and then half an hour later they queued up for a wash and brush up. Watching the food cart move slowly between the huts, George seriously considered his experiences so far. His arms were still aching from the night before, and he knew that it was no good arguing with the Sergeant when he had the upper hand.

  ‘And don’t forget, we have to write home yet,’ said Henry, then frowned because didn’t want to inform his parents the truth of their living conditions.

  ‘I heard, and come on, the Sergeant’s returning,’ replied George, and pushed him towards the door.

  Two minutes later, the Sergeant entered, glanced around and smiled, knowing that his presence commanded everyone’s attention. Relishing the moment, he began to tell them that early in the afternoon, they would be issued with uniforms. After asking if anyone had any complaints so far, but not hearing any, he refrained from smiling, and informed them they could have the rest of the day off. He clicked his heels together and shouted, ‘Just for you ruffians, two hours before dinner, a water cart will be coming around, and that’s for anyone who will want to wash.’

  George had his measurements taken by a rather boyish looking officer, and then lay quietly on his bed. He watched the others ambling around as if they were undecided on what to do. Sniffing his armpits, he decided it was his clothes that smelled, so when the water cart turned up he would try to be the first that used it. He enjoyed his shower, which consisted of icy cold water poured through holes drilled in the bottom of a barrel, and while the others used it he sat on his bed wringing out the socks which his mother had made. Most undergarments were homemade, so most men didn’t wear socks as they were also still classed as luxuries. George glanced around, trying to find a place where he could hang them, and then broke into laughter when Billy bounded into the hut half-naked, violently shivering with the cold. Jibes from the rest of the men had him cursing, so after quickly rubbing himself down, he dressed and lay on his bed with his blankets up to his chin.

  Just before dinner, everyone was disturbed when a different officer, identifiable by their peaked caps and posh speech, entered the hut. This one waited politely until they remembered their training and stood to attention at the foot of their beds, then smiled and said ‘Right then chaps, at ease. I am your paymaster, so first of all, and I will start at this end, give me your name and number, and then we can arrange your pay.’

  Billy was the first, and seemed convinced and satisfied with their conversation, as he signed two forms, and then smartly stood to attention when the paymaster stood up. When he approached George, the paymaster asked ‘Number?’

  George was engrossed in writing a letter home, but looked up, jumped off his bed and stood to attention. ‘At ease, and sit down,’ said the paymaster, and sat down on the bed with him.

  Very politely, George asked, ‘First, I am George Cotton, and could I ask this sir? My two brothers and I joined up. That’s my younger brother Henry over there, and my other brother Timothy, the eldest, was supposed to be with us, but we haven’t seen him anywhere. If you are seeing everybody about their pay, would you enquire about him, please? Cotton is his surname,’ said George, and smiled when Henry approached them.

  The paymaster opened a small book and flipped through the pages. ‘Ah yes,’ he said, smiling, ‘this could be him: Lieutenant Timothy Cotton-Walters.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ gasped Henry.

  ‘Wait your turn, please. Right then, your full name, and whereabouts are you from?’ asked the paymaster, preparing to write.

  Henry tried to hear their conversation from his bed, and was startled when the officer asked where George wanted his belongings and any pay sent to in case of his death. He was even more astounded when George never asked why, but he watched quietly when George signed for everything to be sent to his parents. The paymaster eventually worked his way around to Henry, who was bursting with questions. George overheard, and smiled while listening to the usual excuses given to them, such as, ‘I’m very sorry,’ and ‘right now, it’s just a lack of information.’

  Leaning out of his bed towards Taffy, George quietly asked, ‘You know that major who spoke with us yesterday. What was his name?’

  Raising his eyebrows, Taffy replied, ‘That was the second-in-command of all Yorkshire, Major Templeton Smyth.’

  ‘It seems to be the fashion to have two last names,’ said George thoughtfully.

  ‘It does seem like that! It’s how the hell they get them in the first place that beats me. Everyone is called Jones where I come from,’ replied Taffy, and laughed heartily.

  ‘Where we come from, it’s usually Smith, Jones, Williams or Brown,’ said Edward, and sniggered, but soon went quiet when the officer glared at them.

  Henry had overheard, and when the officer moved on to the next soldier, he pulled a face, asking innocently, ‘How come?’

  ‘Because they are the most common names in England, so their owners are the hardest to people to trace,’ he replied, then rolled over, turning his back to them.

  Chapter 6

  On instructions from RO Nicholson, Timothy was given a written te
st and, as he relished the chance to use his education, he passed the officer exam with flying colours. He was immediately issued with the post of First Lieutenant, but was unfortunately instructed to administer all of the new battalion’s paperwork. It was a colossal undertaking because of the massive influx of new privates, and as he lacked experience of building registers, he failed.

  Slightly red-faced, Timothy politely informed his Major about failing his duty, due to his lack of experience. However, very much liking his honesty, on the next day the Major drafted in two regular army Lieutenants to help him. Timothy lapped up their expertise and company, and they became friends instantly, growing closer and socialising over the following week when his work was finally on course. Major Templeton-Smyth had instantly taken a shine to Timothy, and because he had found him an honest, willing, and now a very able understudy, quite often confided in him. Determined to prove his capabilities, Timothy was efficient and precise, but unfortunately he didn’t take to the Major using him as a confidant; the Major would ramble on for hours, even burdening him with his personal problems. It seemed that he didn’t trust his wife while he was away on duty, and this was preying on his mind as he was positive that she had taken a lover. The Major also had a daughter called Penelope, and it was his intention to marry her off before England joined the war so that he could adjust his will, leaving his wife with just the bare essentials. So far, he thought Timothy would fit the bill for Penelope, and decided that on their next leave, he would invite him home to introduce him. The Major liked his manners and grasp of etiquette, and considered him to be a good-looking chap, so he didn’t foresee any problems.

  The Major did realise that Timothy had to receive more training, so according to orders, in the following week the Major sent him by train to the Pontefract barracks to attend an officer’s strategic crash-course. This included assessing front-line situations in order to deploy troops to the best advantage and organise a strategic defence with discipline. When Timothy returned to his unit, he had to restrain himself from smiling, having been informed that he had, again, passed with flying colours.

  Two weeks into their training, now with a full uniform, and most important of all, a pair of stout boots, preparations for warfare began. The battalion had been issued with proper rifles, including bayonets, although the troops were not yet trusted with live ammunition. George had managed to keep his nose clean, but he didn’t know that the Sergeant had him earmarked as a lance corporal. They were soon due for leave, and as any drill Sergeant knows, the problem isn’t who goes home, it’s how many return.

  After deliberation, the Sergeant chose one man from each hut and promoted them to lance corporal. George was one of them, and after much thought, decided not to question his judgement. When the Sergeant finished his instructions, George watched him strutting up and down inspecting the hut. Then the Sergeant turned, smacked his lips, and frowned as he informed them about their leave the on following week, and warned them what would happen if they didn’t return.

  Standing to attention, the Sergeant stuck his nose in the air, and then shouted, ‘I will warn you all now, any man failing to return here on time will be sent to prison. From there, he will be sent straight to the front, and as you well know, without proper training, he won’t last a day.’

  Innocently, Billy asked, ‘What if we are just late? You know, because of the trains. I don’t even know if they pick up near where I live.’

  ‘That is your problem, lad,’ replied the Sergeant. ‘You all have until midnight on the twenty-third. If you return after that, you will be in serious trouble. Always remember this: being first wins the prize, you get nothing for second place.’ He swung around and marched out of the hut.

  In silence, the men relaxed on their beds, and George had to smile at some of their apparel; most were wearing braces over their vests. Taffy proved to be the scruffiest—he had many holes in his clothes, which were getting bigger every day. He regularly used twine to keep his breeches up, and even though he shaved regularly, Taffy only showered once a week, so he always emitted a very distinctive odour.

  Less than ten miles away, and in much more comfortable circumstances, Timothy was in a quandary when his Major asked if he would return home with him. Really, Timothy wanted to return home to his parents to update them about his progress, but when he read that George had been promoted to lance corporal, he knew it would have been inevitable that there would be bad feelings when met up with his brothers.

  Knowing he would have to explain his rank and his new double-barrelled surname, which was his mother’s maiden name, Timothy agreed to the Major’s invitation. ‘Very good, my boy, I’ll send a wire home so they can prepare for our arrival,’ said the Major, slapping him happily on the shoulder. ‘I must confess, sir, I have no civilian clothes here,’ said Timothy, frowning.

  ‘No problem, lad, neither have I,’ spluttered the Major, and laughed heartily. Their leave was for five days, from Tuesday morning after breakfast to midnight on Sunday. Although they had arrived straggling, now everyone marched with pride in full uniform down to the railway station like true soldiers, especially pleased that they had been given two free railway tickets and a sixpence each.

  Even though it was cold on a night, the men still had no greatcoats, and because of the cost, manufacture and distribution, the army wouldn’t risk handing them out until the recruits returned from their leave. George had to smile even more when he attached his small single stripe onto his tunic sleeve, and his unit, or hut inmates as Henry called them, were top of the Sergeant’s efficiency list. Ten regular soldiers had stayed behind; Henry knew that they had to keep an eye on the newly-built armoury, and thought they must not have any family to be so vigilant.

  For most soldiers, the temptation not to return was great. Now they had money in their pockets, most of them bought bottles of beer for their journey home, except for George and Henry. As soon as they entered the train, both looked out for Timothy. When they had searched through their carriage, they settled in their seats and wondered why he wasn’t around.

  ‘He might have caught one earlier,’ said George, and rested his head back, watching the smoke from the tender wafting by the window.

  Henry raised his eyebrows, and moaned ‘And he might not have, you know what he is like.’

  ‘Of course,’ George replied, and as his eyes began to close, he began to daydream of Florence.

  In a first-class carriage on a train heading south, Timothy was uneasily sitting opposite his Major. They had indeed caught an earlier train, and their conversation was scarce while they travelled, due to the Major being busy writing out a report for his Brigadier. Now that there were three local battalions, based throughout the West Riding, the Brigadier was satisfied that recruitment possibilities in the area were exhausted.

  Tired from travelling, Timothy jumped off the train and tried to keep pace with the Major as they approached a large stone archway. He tried to observe the buildings and the numbers of people milling around, some selling flowers, bread, or lace. When they entered a large cobbled square filled with small single horse-drawn covered carriages, the Major pointed to one with his cane and set off towards it. When they had settled inside, the Major tapped the ceiling, and the coachman shouted ‘gee-up’. With a jolt, the coach set off.

  Timothy was feeling very nervous, aware that he was well out of his depth. He listened to the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobbled roadway, and occasionally he glanced through the window at the houses they passed, not understanding the very bright lights that shone from inside. His manners and his posture hid his insecurity, however.

  The Major’s house was three miles north of the new Birmingham railway junction. In the hallway, Timothy felt apprehensive and stared at the gaslights on the wall. The Major introduced his wife Dorothy, who smiled faintly, and waited for his salute before she welcomed them inside. The first thing that hit Timothy was the warmth, and then he noticed the stylish, highly-polished plush furniture.
He couldn’t help wondering how much it had all cost, and where the money had come from. He also admired the Major’s wife, who seemed to float rather than walk in her full-length dark blue dress, and tried not to smile when it occurred to him that his mother would never wear such a thing.

  A hollow thumping noise came from another room, and suddenly the Major beamed a smile, walked towards a door, and when it opened, held out his arm. A petite brunette in a white frilly full-length dress placed her arm on his, and the Major escorted her into the room. Instantly, her gaze was drawn towards Timothy.

  ‘Penelope, may I introduce my First Lieutenant, Timothy Cotton-Walters. He’s from near Lincoln,’ said the Major, gesturing to Timothy.

  ‘I’ll just go and see if dinner is ready,’ said Mrs Templeton-Smyth, as if she had lost interest, and left the room. Penelope noticed that Timothy looked a little lost. She smiled, and daintily held out her hand, saying, ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘And I am pleased to meet you, Miss Templeton-Smyth,’ he replied, smiling nervously as he gently shook her hand.

  The Major also smiled, rubbing his hands together, and said ‘Right then, let’s all be seated for dinner, and you two can get acquainted afterwards.’

  Mrs Templeton-Smyth returned, and rather snappily began to usher them towards the dining table. When they had all sat down and were settled, she began to interrogate Timothy about his upbringing. The Major stared forbiddingly at her.

  ‘For God’s sake woman, let him eat in peace. We are at war. Who the hell cares where people live?’ he barked.

  Returning his stare with a glare, but keeping her composure, she responded, ‘I am only trying to establish some conversation. The poor lad looks bewildered.’ She turned again to Timothy, and smiling, she asked, ‘Very well, your family name. This I do not know, so in what profession are they?’