“Pay no attention to him,” replied John. “He lives in a world of his own. Always late for everything – if he ever finds a girl willing to marry him, she’ll have gone off with someone else by the time he gets to the church!”
“By the way, how old are you, Andy?” asked Nigel.
“I’m eighteen.”
“I was eighteen once,” mused John.
“Surprised you can remember that far back,” commented Tony, then turned confidentially to me. “He’s twenty-four, you know. And as for Nigel, no one has ever found out how old he is. Could even be thirty!”
“Your platoon sergeant, Sergeant Warriner, will meet you in the company office at two o’clock, Andy,” said Nigel during lunch. “He’s mustard – regular soldier, wounded serving with the 5th Battalion at Alamein. You’re lucky to have him.”
It was clear from the moment I set eyes on him that Sergeant Albert Warriner was a highly professional, no-nonsense sort of NCO. His turnout was immaculate, from his gleaming cap badge to his shining boots. His tunic bore the Military Medal and North African Campaign medals. Of middle height, he gave the impression of lean, muscular hardness. His sandy hair was brushed back. His angular face contained a long nose above a rat-trap mouth. His eyes were level, shrewd and never seemed to blink. I had the impression that he had summed me up at a glance. He could have been any age between thirty and forty. When he spoke it was in short bursts, with an edge of menace in his voice. He threw up a salute that quivered with precision.
“Mr Pope, sir?” he said. “I’m Sergeant Warriner. You’re taking over Number 3 Platoon, I believe.”
“That’s right,” I replied, returning the salute and shaking hands.
“Let’s take a turn round the camp, sir. Show you what’s what.”
It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. We left the office and talked as he indicated what the various buildings were used for. When I asked him about himself he said that he had been in the Army for fifteen years, was married and had a family.
“I understand that you were wounded at Alamein,” I said. “And I see that you’ve been awarded the Military Medal.”
“Ha!” His face remained completely expressionless when he laughed. “Ha! Ha! Shouldn’t wonder if they had one spare and decided I needed it, sir! There’s better men deserved it and didn’t get it. Now, how about you, sir? Just out of OCTU, I’m told. How old would that make you?”
When I told him, his only acknowledgement was a small upwards nod which could have meant either that he disapproved or simply that he had absorbed the fact.
“You’ll be inspecting the Platoon at morning parade tomorrow, sir?” he said at length.
“Yes, Sergeant, and after Colonel Armitage has addressed the battalion I’d like to see them one at a time in the platoon office.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll set them to weapon cleaning while that’s going on.”
I suddenly found myself at a loss for what to say next. A hint of a friendly smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Difficult time for you, this, sir. Just remember – you command the Platoon and I run it for you. If you need advice, just ask. All my young officers have turned out well, I’m glad to say. You’ll be all right.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I appreciate what you say.”
I felt a great sense of relief, knowing that I would have the backing of such an experienced man.
“There’s four Fs you must remember when dealing with the men,” he continued. “Be Fair, Firm and Friendly, but never Familiar. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve things to attend to, so I’ll see you on morning parade, sir.”
He saluted and marched away smartly.
I spent the rest of the afternoon settling in. It had alarmed me that I had been asked how old I was so often. I looked in the mirror. Aware that I did indeed appear young for my age, I wondered what the Platoon would think about being commanded by me.
At morning parade next day the order was given for platoon commanders to inspect their men. As I walked towards Number Three Platoon, Sergeant Warriner marched forward to meet me, halted with a crash of boots and saluted.
“Number Three Platoon ready for your inspection, sir!”
“Thank you, Sergeant Warriner.”
I was conscious that over thirty pairs of eyes were watching me curiously. Sergeant Warriner fell in beside me as I walked towards the ranks.
“Take longer than you usually would to inspect each man, sir,” he said in an undertone. “They’re sizing you up, so let ’em know you’re sizing them up, too. And remember – praise where it’s due, blame where it isn’t.”
Halfway along the front rank I stopped in front of a large man with a broken nose. His boots shone, his belt buckles and cap badge gleamed and his trouser creases were sharp.
“Name?”
“Baker, sir.”
“A good turnout, Baker. Well done.”
“Sir.”
So far so good, but in the rear rank I came across a man whose turnout was passable but whose chin was covered in stubble. Instead of staring straight ahead, he regarded me with something like a contemptuous leer.
“Name?”
“Grover, sir.”
“Why haven’t you shaved this morning?”
“I have, sir.”
“You have not. Why not?”
“I have, sir. Must have used an old blade. If you shave you’ll know you can’t get new ones often, ’cos there’s a war on, sir.”
He was, in fact, suggesting that I was a boy who was too young to shave and therefore unfit to give orders to older men like him. I had been warned that, sooner or later, someone would challenge my authority, but I had not expected that it would happen so soon. I was horribly nervous but knew that I must win this confrontation if I was to establish myself as the platoon commander. His leer became wider and more self-confident. I was suddenly very angry and surprised myself with my response.
“When I want a lecture on current affairs from you I’ll ask for it, Grover! Appear in front of me again like that and you’re in for serious trouble – and you can cut out the dumb insolence, too!”
“Charge him, sir?” asked Sergeant Warriner.
A formal disciplinary charge would mean that Grover would be marched in front of Nigel Wood, who would sentence him to be confined to barracks for a period, a punishment known to the soldiers as “jankers”. This involved performing numerous extra fatigue duties and parading at the Guard Room at various times in full equipment. However, I had dealt with the incident and did not want to exaggerate its importance.
“No, not this time, but he’s had the only chance he’s getting. Find him some extra duties.”
“Be a pleasure, sir. Grover – report to the Provost Sergeant after tea tonight. He wants the grass round the Guard Room cutting. Should take you about three hours if you’re lucky.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” replied Grover, his face sullen and resentful.
After the inspection we were to be addressed by Colonel Armitage. I ordered Sergeant Warriner to march the Platoon to the camp cinema and made my own way there. When the whole battalion was assembled the officers filed into the front row of seats. As Colonel Armitage began to walk down the aisle, followed by the adjutant, everyone was called to attention by Mr Ash, the red-faced, fiercely moustached Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM). The Colonel mounted the stage, motioning us to sit down.
“Since 1940 this battalion has been engaged on anti-invasion duties here in East Anglia,” he said. “That was a necessary job. It was also a boring job, and now that Hitler is firmly on the defensive and there is no prospect of our country being invaded, the job has come to an end. You will no doubt have wished at times that you could be playing a more active role in the War, because everyone knows that until the enemy has been beaten none of us will be going home. Well, the moment for you to play that role has now come.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the short pause that followed.
&nb
sp; “My task is to turn you into a fit, efficient, hard-fighting battalion, ready to take the field. I can tell you that something very big indeed is being planned. I do not know what, when or where it is to take place because I have not been told myself, but I have been told that you will be a part of it. Now, some of you will have made yourselves very comfortable here over the years. I can promise you that you will find the next few months very uncomfortable, but at the end of it you will be leaner, harder and capable of tackling the toughest of enemies.”
He paused again to let this sink in.
“No one will be excused. Not even the clerks, storemen, batmen, cooks and the others who somehow manage to stay out of the rain when the rest of us are getting soaked!”
There was much laughter at this.
“That’s all I have to say for the present. Carry on, please, Mr Ash.”
The RSM called the battalion to attention and we filed out of the cinema.
It took the rest of the morning and the whole of the afternoon to complete my interviews with the Platoon, during which Sergeant Warriner stood behind me. I recorded the personal details of my men in a notebook. These included their home town, their civilian occupation, whether they were married and had families of their own, their hobbies, sports and interests. I also asked them whether they had any personal problems.
I saw the junior NCO first. The three section commanders, Corporals Gray, Morris and Sherwood, had been in the Territorial Army before the War. In civilian life, they had been, respectively, a plasterer, a milkman and a refuse collector. They were all married and seemed solid and reliable. The Lance Corporals were newer arrivals but showed promise. I then saw each of the privates. The Platoon had its characters and it was them who interested me most. Grover I had already encountered. Now properly shaven, he glared resentfully at me. He said he was an orphan, had no fixed address and had worked as a casual labourer since he left school at twelve. He had no interest in sport, or anything else for that matter. His record revealed a string of civilian convictions for petty theft, brawling and drunkenness. His military charge sheet contained a long list of offences, including insolence, insubordination, failure to obey orders, and many more.
“Why don’t you sort yourself out?” I asked.
“Not my fault, sir,” he replied, glowering at Sergeant Warriner. “They’ve got it in for me, the lot of them.”
I asked him why and he simply shrugged. When I asked him if he had any particular problems he gave vent to a sudden flash of anger.
“Oh, yes, I got a problem, sir. My problem is the whole piggin’ Army! Why should I fight for my country? What’s the country ever done for me? This war’s nothin’ to me.”
“Want a reason, do you?” shouted Sergeant Warriner. I thought he would explode with fury. “Then think of the innocent women and children killed in the Blitz! And there’ll be more before this lot’s over. You’ll fight for your country and like it, like the rest of us! Now get out of my sight!”
“I’m sorry about that, sir,” he said when Grover had gone. “He’s a bad ’un. He’ll be over the wall at the first sign of trouble, mark my words.”
“Can we get rid of him?”
“Ha! Don’t think I haven’t tried. Easier said than done, sir, because no one wants him.”
“Isn’t he a bad influence on the rest of the Platoon?”
“They ignore him, sir. Weighed him up as soon as he arrived. Can’t name one of them you could say was his friend.”
“I’m not surprised. Seems to hate everyone, including himself. Can we make anything out of him, d’you think?”
“I’ve met his type before, sir. Sometimes they’ll surprise you and buckle-to when the going’s rough, but don’t count on it in this case.”
Then there was Baker. He was married with two boys, had been a coalman, and was an amateur middleweight boxer who, because he was light on his feet, had also won ballroom-dancing contests. He gave every appearance of being a good soldier, but his crimesheet showed that he had been punished regularly for going absent without leave.
“Why?” I asked him.
“Personal reasons, sir.”
“If you’ve got a problem then tell the platoon commander,” said Sergeant Warriner. “But for this you could have had a stripe on your arm, maybe two.”
“Prefer not to say, Sar’nt.”
“Pity,” Sergeant Warriner said when Baker had gone. “Ten to one it’s wife trouble. Corporal Gray knows, I’m sure of it, but I can’t get it out of him.”
Private Joseph Haggerty was Irish and came from Liverpool. He was short, dark, had a shifty expression, but was good humoured and played football for the battalion. He described his civilian occupation as general dealer. I asked him what he dealt in.
“Oh, whatever comes me way, sir,” he replied, grinning broadly. “I’ll sell it on, like, for the best price I can get.”
“He means he’s a burglar, sir,” commented Sergeant Warriner.
“Ay, come on, Sarge!” protested Haggerty. “Yer know I don’t nick off me mates! I’ve gone straight since I joined up.”
“Keep it that way!” snapped the Sergeant.
Haggerty leaned confidentially towards me, smiling like a conspirator and tapping the side of his nose.
“Mind you, sir, if ever yer need anythin’, like nylon stockings an’ such as are in short supply, I do know a coupla helpful fellers.”
“That will be all, Haggerty,” I said.
Private Adrian Helsby-Frodsham was about thirty, of sturdy build and dapper appearance with a gold watch chain stretching between the pockets of his battledress tunic.
“How do you do?” he said in a cultured voice.
“Never mind how d’you damn well do!” bellowed Sergeant Warriner. “It’s your platoon commander you’re talking to! And get rid of that watch chain – I’ve told you about that before! This is your signaller, sir, when he’s not putting on his Posh Charlie act.”
“I see from your documents that you were an artist in civilian life,” I said.
“Oh, I do the odd dawb, sir,” he replied. “Portraits mostly – keeps the old body and soul joined together, what?”
“And what are your interests?”
“Principally, painting the pretty wives of rich men, sir. That’s rather rewarding. Then there’s fast cars, good food and wine and the occasional holiday in France. Simple things, really.”
“I don’t know, of course, but it’s possible we might all be taking a trip to France. Can you speak French?”
“Yes, I studied in Paris for three years, so I’m reasonably fluent.”
It occurred to me that he could be a useful member of the Platoon in a variety of ways.
“Can you draw cartoons?” I asked.
“I can, sir – lots of good subjects hereabouts,” he replied, looking pointedly at Sergeant Warriner, who responded with a stony stare.
“Perhaps you could do some of the Platoon,” I suggested. “You know what I mean – the things that happen while we’re training and so on. We can put them on the notice board for a week, then keep them in a platoon scrapbook.”
He agreed, and Sergeant Warriner clearly approved of the idea, commenting that it would do some people good to see themselves as others saw them.
Last to appear was my batman – that is, soldier servant – who also acted as my runner in the field. Private Timothy Allen, whom I had already met briefly in the Mess, had been a valet at the Savoy Hotel in London and it was natural that a former commander of the battalion had initially taken him as his batman. However, Allen could not stop talking about the royalty, aristocrats, admirals, generals, film stars and politicians whom he had looked after at the hotel, driving everyone to distraction. He had therefore slid down the battalion’s hierarchy, through the majors, captains and senior lieutenants, and as I was the most junior officer for the present I was landed with him.
“I imagine that you find the Army very different from your earlier occupation,” I s
aid, and instantly regretted it.
“Oh, yes, sir,” he replied. “It’s not that I don’t approve of the War or the Army, sir, because I believe we’re right to fight against Hitler – he and his crowd were never gentlemen, sir, so the dreadful things they’ve done came as no surprise to me. That’s why I joined up. No, sir, the main difference is financial, you see. Many of the people I looked after at the hotel were generous, sir, very generous. Now take Mr Niven, sir – Mr David Niven, the actor, that is…”
“Stop talkin’!” snapped Sergeant Warriner.
“You know that your duties involve digging a slit trench for us both, don’t you?” I asked.
“Indeed I do, sir. I dig a very fine slit trench, even if I do say so myself. Apart from the two of us, I’m always very fussy who I invite into it. After all, one wouldn’t invite just anyone into one’s home, would one? I like to keep up standards, sir, even in the field. There are some people…”
I could see Sergeant Warriner raising his eyes to heaven in despair.
“Thank you, Allen, that’s all,” I said, but he continued talking as he made his way to the door.
“Oh, by the way, sir, I’ve buffed up the buttons on your service dress, creased your trousers, and polished your Sam Browne belt and shoes. And as soon as you’re back, sir, I think I’d better give those boots you’re wearing a bit of attention. And you’ll need more handkerchiefs, sir. I like my gentleman to have a clean handkerchief every day, and you’ve less than a week’s supply left…”
There was a sense of deep and enjoyable silence after he had gone.
“Well, that’s that,” I said, closing my notebook.
“Mixed bunch – is that what you’re thinking, sir?” asked Sergeant Warriner. “They rub along together pretty well, considering. Handled right, they won’t let you down.”
Just then the door opened and Nigel poked his head round.
“Spot o’ news, Andy,” he said. “The new company commander arrives next Monday. Name’s Duncan Flint, Distinguished Service Order and Military Cross, no less. Bit of a hot shot by all accounts.”
D-Day Page 2
