Gentleman of War

by Chris Yeoh

  "Oh," he said.

  "But... not anymore."

  "Oh," he said again. He swallowed against the growing lump in his throat. "And your husband...?"

  "I never had one," the words poured out as quickly as a glacier, and did just as much damage to the temperature of the room. "Born out of wedlock, that's the term." She said it matter of factly, like it had been repeated dozens of times.

  Neven was unsure how to react. Again. The teaching of his mother and father wanted him to say something, to admonish the girl. But she had probably heard it all before.

  "Does this have something to do with your parents ejecting you?"

  "...Yes."

  Neven was silent again; he might previously have looked down at the scurrilous whelps he now lived amongst. But now he knew them, fought beside them, and protected them, as they too protected him. Phillipa did not deserve derision for past mistakes and deep down he knew that. All he wanted to do was smile, but he couldn't. His facial muscles would not make the shape required to make everything okay again.

  She noticed.

  She must have been disappointed.

  He was a little disappointed too.

  "I should like to sleep now," she said, looking off into the middle distance. She sat up primly at the bed, fiddled with her dress. "I hope you don't mind."

  "Not at all," he said. "Not at all," a little too over-enthusiastically. He stood up and left.

  Walking down the corridor, he heard loud voices forcing their way in through a window at the end of the corridor.

  "Come on lad, it's okay."

  "They don't like me!"

  Neven passed by, with a glance. The Baton of Britain was standing with Frank, barely visible yet for the light from the kitchen window falling upon their feet.

  "That's not true," Frank gathered the large man in one arm. "They're just looking to you."

  "But I'm not anyone!" The Baton protested in vain. He was flapping his muscular arms around, one hand still weighted with his suitcase. "I don't like the way they're all so expectant when I walk into a room. I can't make everything better. I can't... I want to, but I can't."

  He dissolved into sobs, Frank hugged him. The Baton's arms went limp to his side, luggage swinging by his knees. He buried his head into the old man's shoulder. Frank looked up, and under the brim of his hat Neven saw he looked straight at the window. They shared a glance of mutual understanding, and Neven moved on to save a scene becoming peppered with any more players than would be strictly necessary.

  "Corporal," a voice from no where startled him. He looked to the heavens, found only Sergeant Swinton peering down at him from a hole in the ceiling. One of his hands was resting on a trap door leading out to the roof.

  "Yes... sir?"

  "Cots are down the hall on your right. Pick one, but don't get too comfortable, mind. You don't get to keep it. My men get first priority, right?"

  He slammed the trap door shut. Unnecessarily hard, Neven thought, given the situation. Perhaps, he supposed, his arrival had stepped on a few toes in the farmhouse. Church wasn't having a hard time fitting in, but he was an insidious parasite, who had no trouble burrowing with whatever organism hurried by. Neven, however, was a different kettle of fish. He was another link in the chain of command. Another chief, with too few Indians.

  Phillipa's words rang in his ears. Her loyalty could result in his disloyalty. Could it be that he would have to strike it out on his own, that he could disobey an order and desert his position. It was a thought that kept him most unamused all of that night, as he slept fitfully and uncomfortably in his stolen cot until morning came.

  He emerged, unceremoniously tucking his uniform back into its requisite places, and he was still half-dressed when he walked blinking into the living room. The cane against the armchair alerted him to Major Vernon's presence and he was instantly awake. Margaret was holding her young infant again, but she rose nonetheless when the young corporal entered.

  "Oh please," he began, but was cut off.

  "Good morning Corporal sir," she said semi-submissively. "Breakfast's all laid out. There's not much going, I'm afraid, you see..."

  "Oh no, it's quite alright," Neven replied.

  "Mr. Simpson's out hunting at the moment," Major Vernon said into his brewing cup of tea. "Maybe we'll have some game for supper. Corporal," he became more officious, lest he allow his tone to continue in such a casual manner.

  Neven was startled to attention.

  "Get some breakfast in you and then meet me outside. I wonder if you would be so good as to join me for my morning perambulation of the grounds with Sergeant Swinton. A sort of officer's meeting if you will. Nothing formal."

  "Of course, sir," the words came so naturally and not for the first time, Neven was wondering if he would have been better off training to take orders rather than to ive them.

  There was silence, and then Neven decided to take his leave. Margaret slowly sat back down, settling her baby upon to her knee. Major Vernon leaned back in his chair and rapped his fingers upon the leather arms.

  Once Neven was done with his breakfast, if such a meagre offering deserved to be called so, he was outside in a bracing morning. Swinton and Vernon were huddled and talking. Swinton laughed, put his hands in his coat pockets and then looked at Neven and stopped.

  "Plumsworthy, let's go," Vernon said. And they did.

  Across the courtyard, as he lagged behind, Neven spied Church watching them disinterestedly from the lookout position he himself had manned yesterday. They reached the edge of the grounds and a low rumble washed over them, followed by a tractor. The mighty machine slowed as it passed the three. Vernon looked up expectantly at the driver, Enoch. Beside him sat Simon, who was having a whale of a time, clutching a shotgun over half his size in his lap. He looked up at Enoch as though he were his own father. The tractor bounced and slipped as the engine rose and fell in cycles of gears. Enoch shook his head at the passing soldiers, and continued driving to the farmhouse.

  "Damn," Major Vernon muttered under his breath. "Looks like we're eating a light lunch, men."

  "Why is he here, sir?" Swinton shot a hand out of his coat and jerked a thumb at Plumsworthy. "We don't know him from Adam."

  Neven was taken aback, and instinctively shrank behind the Major. Luckily, his commanding officer was at his defence.

  "Swinton," Vernon chided. "This man has been through an awful amount over the past few weeks, and has somehow has come out of central London with a significant number of refugees intact."

  "Some people have all the luck," Swinton snarled.

  "Shall we walk, sir?" Neven ignored the bulky aggressor.

  "Yes, I believe we shall," the Major said. The walked out towards one of the fields of corn, slowly blackening and rotting with each passing day.

  "Look at all this waste," Neven remarked.

  "Margaret and Enoch assured me that they recovered what they could from the fields. But as soon as the army came past, all of their farmhands jumped ship, so to speak."

  "And left?" the corporal asked.

  "Indeed. Loyalty, eh?" Vernon scoffed, but the words rang around Neven's ears. "Dreadfully bad show, if you ask me. 'Every man for himself' is not how we built an Empire."

  He reached out with a hand and caressed an ear of corn that blackened on the cob.

  "Right, to business," his arms retracted, to assure the security of his tucked-in cane. "This is an officers meeting, and I am pleased to welcome Corporal Plumsworthy to join us and be involved in our round table discussion."

  "Forgive me sir," Neven jumped in. "What exactly are we discussing?"

  "Our future, dear boy," the major did not turn around, nor did he miss a step. His feet were slowly marking out the territory to a steady rhythm that was so infectious Neven and Swinton could not help but follow it, one pace behind.

  "We have discussed this, sir," Swinton remarked decisively. "I thought we were clear on our objectives."

  "And I thought,
Sergeant, that we were clear that our position was at best tenuous. And that our situation was one very much open to change."

  Swinton's jaw shut mid-word.

  "While I can see that the farm would make a good base for us in the short term, food is drying up and we have recently made some new additions to personnel," Vernon half-sighed. Without seeing his face, it was difficult for Neven to be sure of his expression or indeed his general demeanour.

  "We'll stay. We were here first," Swinton was back on the attack, like a tiger with a fresh piece of meat. "Send the civilians west or something. It's silly to have a forward operating base that's lousy with them anyway. The farmers can go too."

  "Well that's not very polite is it, Sergeant?" Vernon chastised. "I don't think our great King would be very happy to learn that his soldiers were illegally quartering in his name in the house of two of his greatest citizens."

  "We're at war, sir!" Swinton's passionate responses were getting the better of him. Neven wondered if his academy had not taught him about the part where one is supposed to defer to another's authority.

  "We," Vernon spun on his heels. It was so dramatically done that the other two halted in their tracks. Neven flinched. "Are members of the British armed forces and we will act in such a manner as to bring prudence to that title, war or no war."

  "It's different, sir," Swinton protested, but the Major was not interested in such a match of wits.

  "So the question is," Vernon continued, turning once more and leading the trio onwards. "Where do we go next? I have about a dozen civilians, a half a dozen more soldiers. A broken machine gun placement and enough food to last for a few days," he paused.

  "You are right, Sergeant,” he continued. “It is different. I hope you'll understand my tone and appreciate my candidness of thought. To tell you the truth, we three are the closest thing I can amount to a command squad or logistical and tactical team. You just went through some crash-course training, boys."

  Neven was more at ease. His throat relaxed and he was able to let out words.

  "Cavalry base," he said.

  "Excuse me?" Vernon had barely heard the quiet voice. He stopped again to listen as though it had been carried in with a birdsong.

  "There's a cavalry base, sir," Neven repeated, gathering authority and power in his voice.

  "Where?"

  All eyes were on Plumsworthy now.

  "I don't know sir. One of my refugees was mentioning it and its where we were heading before we ended up here. Not far by my understanding. Could be untouched," he hoped his broken sentences had relinquished enough information.

  "Or," Swinton chimed in. "It could be a smouldering wreckage full of half-chewed bodies. It's not worth the miles and days we'll waste getting there. Let alone the risk of the open road."

  "Which one of your civilians?" Vernon probed.

  "The old man... Frank."

  "I think I'll need to talk to him. Swinton, when we get back to the house, gather Mr Simpson's map," he turned to Neven. "Get me Frank, we could be on to something here."

  *

  "It's not worth the risk sir!" Swinton was still saying by the time they got back to the house.

  "Your insubordination can end right now, Sergeant. It's a risk, but it's also a lead. You know as well as I do the level of occupancy in this area is untenable. We have to cast off, and I'd rather not do that without at least a idea a place to head towards."

  The Sergeant was gesturing emphatically. "But it's as good as not 'aving a place to go to. This old bastard's not gonna remember where the base is. If there is one."

  "There is one," Frank walked in through the door, escorted by Neven.

  They emerged into the living room to see the major and sergeant hunched over a map of the countryside as though it were a game of chess. The sergeant, red in the face, stood up and walked to the other side of the room, to the mantelpiece above the fire.

  "Frank?" Vernon stood up from his hunch over the map, eased his weight off of it. Despite being in fairly good condition, the corners curled a little now it was free. "Mr..."

  "Robeson," Frank extended a hand to meet the major's and it was shaken decisively.

  "Ah, very good. Major Paul Vernon. I understand Corporal Plumsworthy has indulged you as to what we are looking for?" Venon indicated to the map, to which he now returned.

  "He has indeed," Frank joined him at the table, looking back at Neven, who lingered on the threshold.

  "The door please, corporal," Vernon insisted. Neven stepped inside without further hesitation and closed the hefty wooden slats. Frank approached the table, and, without his glasses, he squinted at the lines and wiggles.

  "Here's the farmhouse, and the road you entered in on," Major Vernon helpfully pointed out the recognisable topography.

  Frank ummed and aahed for a few moments, getting his baring on the map.

  "It's not on here," he said finally. He looked up rather apologetically and Neven wanted to give him a hug.

  "Jesus," Swinton exclaimed, the tension apparently too much for him to bear.

  "Sergeant!" Vernon smouldered. The burly man held his tongue from any further outburts.

  Turning his attention back to Frank, Venon's eyes fixed on the old man's. "Where is it then?"

  "Farther north than you have room for on that thing, I'm afraid."

  "But that's more than thirty miles," the major was on the brink of despair. "I can't, in all good conscience, walk that many men, women and children through day and night with God-knows-what potentially snapping at our heels."

  "You don't 'ave to," Swinton chirped up.

  “Sergeant, I swear to God..." Vernon began.

  "No sir, I mean they've got 'orses around the stables. We can take the wagons, cut the journey in half at least."

  Vernon did not rise from his hunched position. He looked poised, ready to strike. His body remained motionless, but his chest rose and fell with each breath while his eyes darted around the map. He looked damned near mischievous.

  "Good plan, Swinton. Damn good plan," he said finally. He rose from the table. "If we do this, gentlemen, we take everybody's lives in our hands. Mr Robeson, I'm afraid that includes you too."

  "I would never have assumed any different," Frank stated.

  "We are responsible for the well-being of this group, and this needs to be a decision not taken lightly."

  Neven imagined Vernon had been hoping that the cavalry base was a fictitious invention of Frank's. The weight of the decision making was taking its toll. But before he could consider the Major's feelings, he had to address his own. He finally was understanding the gravity of his ideas. No longer could he lead and expect people to follow, it would have to be a mathematical choice of the best idea, objectively.

  "I think we should go," Neven said, after his silent deliberation. "There won't be anything here for us soon and we'll have to make even harder decisions. At least now, we strike while the iron is hot, and we survive."

  *

  The wagons were rolling by dawn the next day. In a low voice at first, but then louder, the soldiers under the command of Major Vernon began to sing:

  Oh come, now, and show me

  Where our blessed England lies

  In trees and stone fields lowly

  Up in blue and pleasant skies?

  Oh where oh where does England lie?

  Through wheat and barley a'plenty

  Strong roots in English soil

  'Neath waves brought calm by white cliffs

  A feast bountiful for all

  Oh where oh where does England lie?

  Oh where does England lie?

  Does England run at full pace

  Or does it walk and consider well,

  Does it dance and spin with poise and grace,

  To make a sight in our hearts instil

  Oh where oh where does England lie?

  Oh come, now,

  and show me where our blessed England lies

  You find it
in the hearts of babes

  You find it in your mothers face

  You find it in the countrymen who stand strong at your side

  You find your blessed England in the hearts of you and I!

  O where, oh where does England lie?

  Inside of you and I!

  Chapter 7

  Radio Interlude I

  “From auxiliary British broadcasting station number 3, broadcasting live to homes across the nation at the top of the hour, the hour itself being three in the afternoon, this is the news. My name is Doctor Frederick Copenhagen and I thank you kindly for joining me and your countrymen all over this pleasant nation for these important messages at this crucial time. What follows now are the headlines.

  “War! In London! The brave men and women of our armed forces continue to fight the blight of the invading extra-terrestrial intruders. Though they may be twice as fierce and ten times as gruesome as anything that is of-this-earth, our brave boys simply refuse to give up the fight.

  “Having struck deep in the heart of London little over a month ago, the conflict ceases to abate in our great capital, where our unparalleled military might is stretching to do its utmost to contain the fighting. Already, the initial forces and reserves have been called into battle, and do so willingly! So strong is their resolve, that it is matched only by the finest British armour and weaponry available here or in any of the Empire.

  “Forces who have been into the capital to retrieve those cut off from salvation have happily reported a conclusive accomplishment in their mission, and already the rest of the country awaits with open arms to receive the refugees escaping the war. Such strong resolve! Such a generous spirit shown from countryman to countryman, long may it continue.

  “Auxiliary forces from the hinterlands of the Empire, the captains of their respective continents, have already begun the great journeys back towards the jewel in the British crown, sweet Britannia herself. British-Canadian forces have made landfall on the calming coastal climes of Cornwall, eager in anticipation for the fight for King and Country that awaits them in London proper.

  “Indian forces, Moslems under the command of Lieutenant Richard Corker, currently traverse the Suez Canal, safe passage granted by the many capitulating locals found along the way. Known for their fierce battle style and near fanatical devotion to their God Allah, the Moslems and Mohammadians are quite the force to be reckoned with, and may God save any invader who hopes to capitalise upon them when met on the field.