by Andy Farman
“No rest, not even fresh uniforms?” he roared. “I will swing for that bitch, so help me God!”
The men were roused, prodded and cajoled into wakefulness and then put to work. Twelve of the battalion’s Warriors and all three of A Squadron’s MBTs were stripped of all ammunition and working parties returned it to the magazines. The vehicles were then loaded onto tank transporters that were already waiting on the square along with 17 Logistical Transport Company’s Bedford 4 tonners.
The men of 1st Battalion Coldstream Guards and A Squadron of The Kings Royal Hussars lined up on the barracks square for the legal declaration. Empty magazines at their feet, webbing pouches open and personal weapons with their working parts held to the rear.
“I have no live rounds, empty cases or any other munitions in my possession, sir.” Was a verbal statement legally required by all seventy two remaining members of the guard’s battalion and twelve tank crewmen. The battalion attached, the REME, Royal Artillery and Army Catering Corps elements were not included in the movement order Pat had been handed.
“Ease springs!” commanded Pat Reed from their front when everyone’s pouches had been checked and weapons shown clear.
“Get aboard the transport and get as comfortable as you can, we have a long drive ahead of us.”
“This is one screwed up way to run an army, Pat.” Jim Popham said as they shook hands before Lt Col Reed climbed into the passenger side of the lead 4 tonner. The convoy moved off, taking the battalion back home to Wellington Barracks via a press event on Horse Guards Parade at a ridiculous hour, and all to be accomplished by a road march and ferry from Zeebrugge.
Bayswater, London: 0800hrs.
A frantic scramble by the government’s spin doctors in order to formulate a suitable statement had been followed by an even more frantic scramble to return to the capital and delive it. The reason for the rushed return had been the Royal Family arriving back in London within hours of the ceasefire in Europe being announced. That Her Majesty had beaten her government back to the city by over twenty four hours was a fact not lost on the media, or the public.
“This is simply intolerable and unacceptable!” snapped Danyella Foxten-Billings. “Who the hell do they think they are?”
“Just leave it dear, I am assured that a feeding frenzy involving certain other governments is about to begin and this rags headline will be merely wrapping someone’s fish and chips tomorrow, so come back to bed.” It was not by chance that the PM knew this. The defection from NATO by certain nations during its eleventh hour was about to become public knowledge because he had ordered the leak himself. It was a tried and tested tactic, giving the media a bigger bone to chew on. The government’s slow return to Westminster would indeed be soon forgotten.
Danyella though had the bit between her teeth.
“Like timid dormice the cabinet awaited the last echoes of gunfire to fade before emerging from cover.” She quoted indignantly. “I was visiting the troops…how dare they!”
“You were visiting some troops, and on Salisbury Plain, at that.” the Prime Minister corrected her. “It is not quite the same, and you must expect the press to notice these things. All of them and not just the ones you invite along.”
“Is it too much for one to expect a little support?” she snapped back, before tossing the newspaper aside in disgust.
A sour look marred her features at his words as they were obviously not what she had wanted to hear, so he was clearly not going to be enjoying her body again that day.
“Churchill won over the doubters by playing up to the services.” She replied, ignoring the central message of his words.
“Yes, well he was the nation’s leader, and that has a kudos all of its own.”
“I’m working on that.” she thought, although wisely keeping it to herself.
“You also need to kick a few doors in at the MOD and find out quite how half of NATO’s airborne forces took part in an operation that we in government knew nothing of, let alone authorised, and also managed to stage it out of our airfields.”
“Actually.” She replied. “I have already released a statement claiming ownership of the plan.”
His jaw dropped.
“Well if none of the other governments knew then no one else can claim otherwise, now can they?”
He was not ready to concede her the point, but if it worked then it would possibly be an election winning item. He said no more on the matter but he would get to the bottom of it himself, quietly of course.
He changed the subject as he dressed.
“How are things going with that dreadful little soldier of yours?”
She noted the tone of his voice, just as she had noted that he had now taken to wearing a condom when they were together.
“He is our star witness and the means to bring about a complete change in the forces. He requires special handling.” She reminded him, but immediately regretted the choice of words.
“No more ridiculous additional expense with different cap badges and ceremonial uniforms, and therefore no future soapbox for barely literate veterans to criticise or boast from.” She added quickly.
“There are those who would argue that regimental pride held the line.”
She was silent for a moment, thinking of an apt reply but having found none she shrugged.
“No doubt the dreadful little men will be bragging about how they won the war the very moment they step ashore at Dover.”
“I suspect they will be beaten to the punch by those stepping off Eurostar at St Pancras.”
Her jaw set even further. He had such an annoying habit of one-upping her remarks and observations.
She shifted her stance to carry her weight on one leg, it thrust out one hip and accentuated the curve of her spine, a pose that never failed to make Simon Manson’s eyes widen in appreciation. A little sexual adoration, even from such a dullard, was preferable to being made to feel intellectually wanting by her party’s leader.
Nothing goes unnoticed by the police close protection officers where their ‘Principal’ is concerned, but two things are ever consistent with a certain breed of cabinet minister, a snobbish level of contempt for the men and women who protect them, and the odd assumption that everything the ministers do will forever remain secret. Harry Chapman’s best friend was on the PM’s ‘Prot Team’ and the SIS had bugged the back-up cars used by the PM’s close protection officers so Danyella’s little adventures with the newly promoted Lt Col Simon Manson, amongst others, remained a secret from the PM for a remarkably short time.
For the British Premier’s part he honestly hoped her planned media sensation worked, or her time in office would be ended and come the cabinet reshuffle in a week’s time she would be returned to the back benches from whence she had come.
Wellington Barracks, London. 1029hrs.
Annabelle Reed, Janet Probert and Sarah Osgood had met up at Waterloo Station and walked the remaining way to the barracks. Young Karen Probert was there also, escorting her mother, her arm protectively gripping Janet’s. The London Underground lines were unreliable due to the same fuel shortages that had brought about a reduced bus service.
The bomb site that had formerly been St Thomas’s Hospital sat to the left of Westminster Bridge Road. Flowers, some fresh and some withered, sat beside the wall on the bridges approach. Cellophane encased photographs of loved ones lost on that awful day were tied to the trees alongside the hospitals wall. Patients, doctors and nurses, cooks, cleaners, porters and clerical staff, their images inevitably smiling back at the camera, captured during some happy occasion. ‘Lest We Forget’, ‘R.I.P’ and ‘In Loving Memory’ were the most used phrases upon these memorials.
To the women’s right, once they were upon the bridge, the severely damaged London Eye sat behind barriers and cordon tape, a victim of the same raid that had taken such a huge toll in life all along the river.
Petty France had been closed off to the public between Buckingham Gate and Broadwa
y soon after the war had started, so they walked past the preserved ruin of the Guards Chapel on Birdcage Walk, itself a victim of a missile attack in 1944. Through the leafless trees of St James Park the fire damaged Buckingham Palace managed to look unbowed in the sunshine.
Warrior IFVs of the 2nd Battalion Coldstream Guards were being washed down after training on Salisbury Plain, and then repainted as if in preparation for the ‘Major General’s’ as the annual inspection of each battalion was known. In contrast, the barracks itself looked shoddy and shop-worn once you got beyond the edifice and entered those areas where tourist’s eyes were not permitted.
Major Pulver, a silver haired officer who had come out of retirement to command the 1st Battalion’s rear party, was waiting for them in his office but he had little to add beyond what they already knew. CSM Probert and all the wounded were being detained without bail on undisclosed charges at some location which was also undisclosed. A ‘Special Wartime Powers Act’ gave the government carte blanche in many areas and at a rather more draconian level than would be tolerated in peacetime. A security company favoured by the government had received a waiver against conscription for its employees and had in effect become a private police force with powers of both arrest and of Stop and Search. The reasoning behind this was of course to make up the short fall caused by the conscription of police officers. Rather lopsided logic, but it that had done no harm at all to the share price of T5S, the security company formerly known as Team 5 Solutions.
Janet sat and listened in silence, doped up on prescribed medication following her nervous breakdown, but Karen listened intently and would ensure she was fully aware of all that had occurred once she was well enough.
“The only person I could think of who can perhaps help is Lt Col Manson.” Major Pulver said, keeping a poker face. “He is fairly thick with the Defence Minister, and indeed I believe she is in his office as we speak.”
Everyone in the regimental ‘family’, serving or otherwise, knew of Simon Manson’s return in disgrace from the battlefield, but none understood exactly why he had been promoted rather than cashiered.
They thanked Major Pulver and departed for 2CG’s Battalion Headquarters, arriving as the Right Honourable Danyella Foxten-Billings was leaving the CO’s office. She wore a smart suit with a pencil skirt, tight enough to reveal the outline of the stockings and suspender belt worn beneath. The Italian designer heels she also wore were calculated to both throw out her chest as well as give her an arched back to show off her behind.
Danyella paused in mid stride, pointedly ignoring Sarah, Janet and Karen but looking the wife of the 1CG commanding officer up and down with a critical eye.
“If you are going to come up to town Annabelle, you could at least make an effort.”
Sarah was well used to the bitchiness of the groups of wives each battalion seems to possess, those who made a career of being hags, so her jaw did not drop on hearing her friend so deliberately insulted.
“See, you can put mink on a skank, but it will still be a skank in a mink, Pet.” she said conversationally to Karen as the cabinet minister swept by. Her escorting close protection officers, Harry Chapman and Paddy Singh bit their lips in order not to laugh at both Sarah’s remark and the effect it had on the defence minister, whose neck was now flushed.
“How do you know her then?” Sarah asked Annabelle as the Minister disappeared down the stairs.
“She was a couple of years behind me at school.” Annabelle replied. “A wonderfully cut skirt though wasn’t it?” she observed in a slightly raised voice. “You couldn’t even see the knee pads!”
The return broadside, masterfully delivered, arrived clearly and distinctly along with the accompanying laughter as Danyella reached the bottom of the stairs. Her neck was no longer flushed, it was crimson.
Annabelle led the way along the corridor to the orderly room, passing the RSM’s office where Annabelle glanced inside and made eye contact with Regimental Sergeant Major Ray Tessler, also newly promoted, but neither made any acknowledgement of the other.
The orderly room sergeant tried the CO’s extension and explained that Mrs Reed and some wives from 1CG were asking to speak to him, but he replaced the receiver and conveyed Lieutenant Colonel Manson’s regrets, but he was extremely busy and he hoped they understood.
Ten minutes after they had left, RSM Tessler was summoned to the CO’s office with a note pad where the final details of a media event that the CO had worked out with the defence minister were revealed. The battalion was to be ‘put on the gate’ effective immediately, meaning that all soldiers beneath warrant officer rank were confined to barracks. He, Ray Tessler, was to brief the CSMs of each company but none of the pertinent facts were to appear on the companies Daily Details until so ordered by the CO.
Returning to his office Ray called the various company offices and set up an O Group for an hour hence. After a trip to the photo copying machine he pulled on a civvy jacket over his working dress, slipped a copy of the briefing into an inside pocket and informed the orderly room sergeant he was popping out to the shop.
Ignoring the NAAFI shop RSM Tessler headed out of the gate at the Petty France entrance to visit the local newsagent. Ray collided with a police officer who was exiting, and likewise wearing a civilian jacket over his uniform shirt and trousers, or ‘Half Blues’ as it is known. Mumbling apology’s to each other they went their separate ways, Ray to the back of the queue for the counter and Sir Richard Tennant back to his office.
It is always of immense value to proper coppers to know how thieves, burglars, car thieves and fraudsters, among others, ply their trade. However, it had been twenty years since a master pickpocket had shown Sergeant Richard Tennant of the Oxford Street ‘Dip’ Squad the techniques and sleight of hand by which he fleeced a mark. Twenty years is a long time for rust to set in if a skill is not practiced regularly, and Ray had felt the hand that had relieved him of the copy, but of course Ray had given no indication that he had just been ‘Dipped’.
Dover.
Sunday 21st October, 2356hrs.
As always, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs Inspectors were awaiting the ferry, even at midnight. As the convoy reformed on the quayside a clutch of inspectors descended on the tank transporters, searching for the usual items soldiers attempt to smuggle back, usually alcohol, cigarettes and pornography.
The 4 ton trucks had camouflage nets rolled up and secured, tube-like, along each side in readiness for easy use. Once untied, gravity would do the rest.
Just two Inspectors searched these vehicles, one to each side of the line of vehicles and armed with iron bars they walked along the line, continually whacking the rolled camouflage nets with the iron bars and occasionally being rewarded with the muffled sound of breaking glass, followed by the leaking of the broken bottles contents onto the tarmac and a muttered oath from one or more of the soldiers in the back.
They did not bother to debus the men for a thorough search, they reasoned that they had been through enough. If bottles upon which no duty had been paid made if through then good luck to them.
Once the Customs men were done a BMW bearing the markings of the Metropolitan Police pulled in to the head of the convoy and a middle-aged constable emerged from it, offering Lt Col Reed a more comfortable ride.
The officer looked somehow familiar and it took a moment before it twigged. He looked at the name badge on the officer’s jacket, the lack of rank badges on his shoulders and at the twinkle in the officer’s eyes.
“Yes thank, I will.” And allowed ‘Constable’ Tennant to graciously hold open the back door of the police car and close it behind him. There was another passenger in the back of the car, one who had been Commandant at the Royal Military Academy when Pat was a cadet. He had a lot to say.
London SE1.
Monday 22nd October, 0330hrs.
Twin 15” guns that had been fired in anger during the Second Word War sat as silent witness now as the transporters were unloaded in
Lambeth Road outside the Imperial War Museum. It was a relatively short journey from there to Horse Guards Parade, where Pat’s orders stipulated they were to arrive at the dot of 0400hrs.
An early morning dog walker stopped to chat but made a face and departed again.
“Pardon me boys, but you smell a bit ripe.”
Back in Germany when it had been suggested that even if new uniforms were not being provided they should at least wash and dry the ones they had. Pat was not having it though, he wanted his men washed and shaved but if they wanted to play silly devils then he would go the whole hog.
In spite of instructions to continue the journey with only fuelling stops, before reaching the M25 motorway that encircles London, the police BMW had led them to Crowborough Camp in Sussex where a cooked breakfast had awaited them. A reorganisation had taken place and Pat issued orders accordingly before the journey, via the quiet road beside the museum, had been continued.
The press were briefed, not by the MOD Media Office, but by Danyella’s own PR officer, which in itself had the veteran reporters exchanging glances. If this was a simple symbolic ceremony, a hand-over of vehicles from the 1st Battalion combat veterans to the newly reformed 2nd Battalion, why was Downing Street even involved, and why was it happening before dawn?
There was only one spectator in sight, lounging against the Guards War Memorial with a radio in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
The cap badges on their berets caught the light from street lamps illuminated for the benefit of the press who took their early photographs of the 2nd Battalion drawn up on Horse Guards Parade. Three companies worth of their vehicles behind them, with an obvious gap that was to be filled by the 1st Battalions vehicles, the stated purpose of this exercise.
