‘And all this drilling rubbish is going to save me, is it?’ came the impudent enquiry.
‘Not from a German bullet, maybe, but it will certainly save you from a spell on prison rations, because, Private Unthank, if you continue to refuse an order that is where you will find yourself – so get your useless carcass moving now!’ His vocal crescendo and his sheer presence having finally jolted Unthank into obedience, the formidable RSM proceeded to harry him around the square, screaming at him constantly – ‘’Eft-’ight-’eft-’ight-’eft-’ight-keep moving!’ – going through all the drill in the book, putting Unthank through sweating torment for half an hour up and down the parade ground, making him start right from the beginning if he got one foot wrong – ‘And again!’ – until the man’s legs began to buckle and he was finally released.
Yet, though his eyes swam with exhaustion there was, too, a flash of defiance for his tormentor as a crimson-faced Unthank finally staggered from the parade ground.
* * *
Having felt pleased with himself for taking the wind out of Faljambe’s sails, Probyn was surprised to hear the sound of his distinctive foghorn laughter coming from the lecture room only a few hours later. Creeping noiselessly along the corridor, he paused outside the open door to listen. Assembled in the lecture room, the young subalterns had found themselves without a tutor and, to stave off tedium whilst they waited for Major Lewis to arrive, were having an impromptu concert – at their superior’s expense. However, it was not Faljambe who was the star. Guy Postgate held the stage, a moustache of black paper glued to his upper lip – obviously not with anything stronger than saliva, for it kept falling off, much to the audience’s amusement – and a pointer in his hand which he directed at the blackboard in imitation of Major Lewis, his instructions bordering on the ridiculous. Remaining hidden, Probyn enjoyed the fun for a moment, then craned to look at Louis Postgate, who was huddled in a far corner with his back to the audience, appearing to be in the act of shoving items down his clothing.
The laughter was just dying down over Guy’s impersonation, when suddenly Louis burst onto the stage, evoking immediate roars of mirth. Adopting a theatrically ramrod stance, a cushion shoved up his tunic, various items up his sleeves and down the legs of his trousers to give the impression of bulging muscles, Louis Postgate strode up to face his audience, a cane tucked smartly under his arm and his cheeks puffed out like balloons. ‘Settle down, gentlemen!’ The voice was an absurd mix of Yorkshire and upper class. ‘Mr Faljambe, is that a smirk I see upon your face? Well, take it off before I rip it off! I will not ’ave it! You are not ’ere to enjoy yourself, you are ’ere to learn. Now, pay attention!’ He spun intricately on his heel and proceeded to swagger up and down, his false stomach jutting ahead of him, whilst the others howled with laughter.
Probyn bristled as he recognized the grossly overblown impression of himself. The impudent little …
Gritting his teeth he continued to spy.
‘You’ve forgotten the pair of horns, Louis!’ called someone, prompting another to make bellowing noises.
Spurred by the applause, Louis was in full flow, cavorting about the stage and permeating his speech with bull-like snorting. ‘What was that you said, Mr Reynard? Moo? I will not hear such defeatist talk! Snort, roar and bellow, those are the only words in my vocabulary!’
Faljambe fell off his chair, his infectious braying sending the others into near hysterics.
At this, the fake RSM bawled in horror, ‘Major Lewis, sah, these gentlemen har historical, what ham I to do with them?’
‘Gentlemen?’ Still in his role of major, Guy cocked his ear. ‘Did I hear you call these slapdash oafs gentlemen, RSM?’
All set to burst in and deliver a grilling to his detractors, Probyn turned quickly at the arrival of the genuine major.
‘What are they up to, Mr Kilmaster?’
Probyn moved aside, murmuring, ‘See for yourself, sir.’
Upon recognizing Louis’s impersonation, Major Lewis recoiled. ‘The dashed impudence – but who is Postgate senior meant to be?’
Probyn tweaked his moustache, a slight twinkle in his eye. ‘Well, it’s a bad portrayal but I think it’s meant to be you, sir.’
‘Hmm.’ The major looked only slightly amused. ‘Would you like the pleasure, or shall I, Mr Kilmaster?’
‘Oh, be my guest, sir.’ A calm Probyn remained where he was.
The brothers were too involved in their repartee to notice the imminent danger.
‘Sorry, sah, I did not mean to call them gentlemen!’ To rising hysteria, Louis’s deportment became increasingly preposterous. ‘Miserable buffoons like—’
‘Buffoon is certainly the word, Mr Postgate!’ Heads shot round at Major Lewis’s interjection, the laughter immediately displaced by a deathly hush as he stalked up to those involved in parody. ‘Take off that ridiculous moustache!’ Guy was told.
‘Sir, I—’
His attempted apology was curtailed. ‘This is the sort of infantile behaviour one might expect from schoolboys, not officers of the British Army!’ Major Lewis glared at both subdued faces, then at everyone in the room, all of whom looked equally abashed.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Guy finally managed to insert.
The major’s face remained severe. ‘It is not that I object to being the butt of your puerile humour, gentlemen – though I should refrain from the use of that term, for your behaviour towards the RSM was far from being gentlemanly!’
Louis tendered his own apology. ‘We meant no harm, sir, it’s just that laughter is our only form of revenge.’
‘Revenge?’ Major Lewis looked astounded. ‘Mr Kilmaster is not the enemy!’
‘No, sir … but it sometimes feels as though he is.’
Still outside listening, Probyn gave an inward sigh as another added his voice in support of Postgate. ‘The RSM has been rather hard on all of us this week, sir.’
Major Lewis uttered a laughing gasp, then shook his head. ‘Hard? Are you complete and utter idiots? You don’t know the meaning of the word! It will be a damned sight harder when you get to the front.’
He paused for effect, glaring at each boyish face in turn. ‘Let me tell you about the man you chose to ridicule. RSM Kilmaster joined the army in eighteen ninety, earned his first Good Conduct Medal before some of you were even born, took part in quashing the Matabele revolt, served obediently in Africa and any other part of the British Empire to which the army chose to send him in his twenty-one-year career, and contributed most illustriously to the Relief of Ladysmith. There is nothing Mr Kilmaster does not know about the army; from the cookhouse to the musketry range to the orderly room, the scope and skill of his organization are phenomenal and are to be admired not mocked, do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the humble chorus.
‘Good! For without men like RSM Kilmaster there would be no army!’ The major concluded with a decree, clenching his fist to emphasize. ‘Listen to him, learn all he is willing to impart, take any rebuke on the chin for you can be sure that it is not issued for the good of his health but the good of yours. In short, gentlemen, it is Mr Kilmaster’s expertise that may avert your own premature demise.’
2
Snow had fallen and at noon was four inches deep but by the time they had tramped miles to the Revue ground it had been converted to slush by a heavy downpour. The men had now been poised here for almost two hours waiting for General Kitchener and the French Minister of War to inspect them, officers with swords drawn, water streaming down the bright blades, ears turning from red to blue to purple, boots full of water, uniforms weighed down by icy spears of January rain, the ground a morass of mud.
It would all be good practice for them, thought their equally drenched RSM, and though he himself was suffering the torment of rheumatism, one would not have guessed it from his proud bearing. Under his glittering gaze, the battalion stood firm as the deluge soaked all to the skin. Amongst the massive gathering of
troops men of other brigades were performing all sorts to keep warm – even playing leapfrog – but Probyn would allow no such antics. To keep his own mind occupied he began a tally of those who fainted and had to be carried off, proud that his own men held the most splendid discipline.
Shivering, waiting. It was all part of army life but it was one thing Probyn detested and he turned his mind to sunnier thoughts, at the same time keeping his eyes honed to spot a frozen hand creeping into a pocket. The major’s words were still fresh enough in his mind to cause his breast to swell. The scope and skill of his organization are phenomenal. A tremor of delight went through him, making up for all the discomfort and ridicule by the callow officers – though he had forgiven them now, could even laugh about their tomfoolery. They were only youngsters after all.
His musings were permeated by the faint sounds of a motorcar splashing through puddles, and a familiar Yorkshire voice muttered, ‘At fooking last,’ as General Kitchener’s vehicle came into view. Or rather, Probyn could only surmise it was the general’s car, for it did not stop but drove straight past the sodden ranks of men, the whirr of its engine evaporating into the distance.
Not a salute nor even a wave – after two hours! Frozen to the core, Probyn glanced bleakly at the adjutant. The adjutant in turn looked to the colonel who stared back at him through the rain for an outraged second, before the order was issued from tight lips for the battalion to prepare to march home.
Probyn snapped into action, bawling orders, and rank by rank the drenched men squelched an orderly, if grim-faced, return to Barossa Barracks.
There it was a different story, much cursing and insurrection to be heard as Probyn toured the overcrowded building, its rooms filling with steam as the scramble began to find a place to hang each waterlogged uniform.
In the trainee officers’ quarters Reynard was driving his roommates to distraction with his constant whimpering, wringing his bloodless hands in an attempt to restore the circulation and monopolizing the stove. ‘I shall have to see the MO, I’m sure I’ve contracted frostbite.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Foxy, you weren’t the only one out on parade,’ spat a shivering Gaylard out of mottled red cheeks.
There was immediate objection from the robust-looking Reynard, whose nickname was a poor choice for he was unlike a fox in every way, his hair black, his nose more like that of a turtle and his eyes projecting not cunning but inertia. ‘Yes, but I doubt any of you almost died from pneumonia before you were a year old! I was a very delicate child. Mother only allowed me to join on the condition that I’d look after myself.’
‘What are you, a soldier or a sop?’ Faljambe’s arrogant jaw came jutting towards the stove. ‘Quit moaning and stop hogging the fire.’ And Reynard was elbowed aside.
Louis Postgate was complaining to his brother Guy with whom he was on friendlier terms again. ‘What a damned liberty! Keeps us waiting all that time without even a second glance, the miserable arse.’
‘Mr Postgate, I trust it is not your general of whom you speak?’ Almost by, Probyn took an exaggerated backwards step and looked through the doorway to reprove the youngster.
‘Most certainly not, sir!’ came the falsely cheerful reply, the culprit trying to avoid that penetrating glare.
Guy followed through, issuing suavely, ‘My brother was just remarking what a miserable afternoon it is, sir.’
Probyn directed a shrewd eye at the brothers, allowing them to see that he did not believe them for one minute. Turning his attention to Foxy Reynard’s pained countenance, he was even less forgiving. ‘Mr Reynard, what is the condition of your men?’
Reynard looked confused. ‘I should think they are rather wet and cold as I am, sir.’
‘I should think they are. We all are. But might it not be time to stop putting yourself first and tend to the needs of those who rely on you?’ He glared at the other occupants of the room. ‘And that applies to every one of you, gentlemen.’
He thought he heard a muttered oath as he moved on, but it was mild in comparison to the ripe language amongst the rank and file.
‘Much more of this crap and I’m pissing off home,’ declared Tom Unthank. ‘I volunteered to fight a war not stand around getting fooking pneumonia.’
And though Probyn screeched an end to it he could not disagree with the sentiment. General Buller would never have kept the men waiting like this. Kitchener might be a great commander but he was possessed of an inability to recognize the fleshly weakness of lesser mortals. Yet who was to say which was the better general? He who put the comfort of his men above all or he who had the greater military skill? It was not for Probyn to judge. Lord Kitchener was renowned as a master of organization – on a far vaster scale than he himself could ever hope to achieve – and was said to be a man who never spared himself, so how could one expect him to spare others?
Nevertheless, as Hugh Faljambe had pointed out, these were not real soldiers and some of them were too fond of quoting their rights. At the thought of mutiny Probyn was forced to address the issue with the colonel, to whose office he strode now.
‘It’s going to be a massive job to get everyone dried, sir. There’s not enough space to hang things. The place looks like a Chinese laundry. What a pig of a day.’
Handing his sodden leather gloves to his batman, Lieutenant-Colonel Addison shared his concern. ‘We’ll have to give them something to take their minds off their discomfort.’ He turned to the adjutant. ‘Max, a quick change, then go into Aldershot and buy some rum.’
Despite his bedraggled state the thin-faced captain showed no aversion. ‘Yes, sir, how much?’
‘Enough for the whole battalion. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange to have it deducted from battalion funds rather than your imprest. I can’t have a repeat of October.’ During that month, under canvas in bad weather, large numbers had fallen victim to influenza. As the adjutant left to fulfil his request, the colonel turned his concerned eyes on his regimental sergeant-major, who, like himself, remained drenched, one spike of his waxed moustache carrying a twinkling droplet of rain. ‘Get out of those wet clothes and warm up, RSM. I’ll see you later when we’re both recovered.’
‘Sah!’ In the beginning, Probyn had not really liked the idea of serving under an officer from a different regiment but had soon come to admire Colonel Addison, who never shirked his leadership and seemed to enjoy being dragged out of retirement as much as he himself did.
He retreated, though only after making certain that those in his care were halfway warm and dry did he tend to his own needs. By the time the rum had arrived, putting the men in better mood, he was sitting by a stove, wrapped in a blanket, rubbing his painful calves, wet clothes steaming from an overhead rail.
‘Tip a drop of rum into that, Arrowsmith,’ he instructed his batman, who had placed a cup of tea before him. ‘And take some for yourself.’
‘Very good of you, sir.’ A tailor in civilian life, Ralph Arrowsmith had been selected for his well-spoken, reserved manner and impeccable tidiness. ‘Will you have your last bit of pork pie now?’
Probyn took a grateful sip of hot tea. ‘I’d better before it crawls off on its own, it’s turning decidedly grey.’ The pie had arrived in his last parcel from his wife, donated by Mr Kaiser, the German butcher from his home village. He enjoyed a tinge of irony as he bit into it, at the same time ripping open his mail.
More irony was to come. His eldest sister, Ethel, was writing to announce that she was getting married at last – and to a Catholic! She was the second of his five sisters to change her Wesleyan religion, and this after they had not contacted him for years in protest at his marriage to the Catholic Grace. Not a birthday card nor a letter had he received from them until now. Ethel had probably had to ask Aunt Kit for his address. Well, at least she had the decency to tell me herself, thought Probyn with affection, not like Wyn, who had still not informed him personally. He was about to take another bite of pork pie when it occurred to him that he was eating meat on
a Friday. The momentary guilt at what Grace would say soon vanished and he finished the pie without qualm. As a latecomer to Catholicism, and only then so that he could marry Grace, he had often found it impracticable to maintain its rules when away from home. Later, whilst coughing over a Woodbine, he was to scribble a brief but friendly reply to let Ethel know she was forgiven. He declined the invitation to her wedding – not just because there was a war on but because all his sisters, especially the eldest, made him feel like a little boy. It would not do for a man in his position, especially one whose scope and skill of organization were phenomenal.
Grinning to himself, he shifted his aching legs, took a glance out of the window to see that it was still raining and moved nearer the fire. God grant them some better weather before they went to France.
* * *
Thankfully the weather was a trifle more clement on the day of the route march. Even so, many were to fall out even before the halfway mark, an elderly NCO bawling at each dawdler – ‘Stop dragging your arse! You’re acting like a bunch of pensioners. I was doing twenty miles a day at your age!’
‘And he was probably weaned on iron-filings,’ grumbled a sweating Reynard, pausing to heft the leaden pack that was carving a raw groove into his shoulders, before plodding on. ‘Oh God, my poor old barking dogs can’t go another step.’
‘Buck up, Foxy!’ panted an equally lathered Louis Postgate. None of the young officers had been spared the ordeal, most of them tramping doggedly alongside the men they would one day lead in battle. ‘Where’s the old house spirit? We’re supposed to teach by example.’ This in mind, he called words of encouragement to the stragglers, having made it his business to learn all their names since the RSM’s admonishment – ‘Keep it up, Rawmarsh, nearly there!’ – and he reached out to catch hold of the other’s sleeve, hauling the exhausted man onwards, though feeling close to collapse himself. ‘I don’t want to have to take any names!’ So far none of his platoon had dropped out, though along with his own obsolete rifle Louis had been forced to shoulder two others if their jaded owners were to have any chance of continuing. ‘Well done, everyone, not far to go now!’
A Different Kind of Love Page 3
