The Case of the Fighting Soldier: A Ludovic Travers Mystery

by Christopher Bush

  This then was Topman’s scheme as announced to the conference. Beginning on the following—Sunday—morning, we were to cram into six days a fortnight’s Course. It could be done because several things could be taken for granted. Each lecturer would give his lecture in the lecture-room in the sequence as laid down in the tentative syllabus, but his audience would be his fellow lecturers. Demonstrations—though much abridged—would follow in the open air or at the ranges just as if the students were assembled, and each evening there would be an hour’s conference to discuss the lectures that had been given, and to amend if necessary. Within the bounds of discipline, talk was to be frank, though the only criticism allowed was the constructive kind. On the Saturday the Colonel and I, with Collect, perhaps, would finally settle the syllabus in line with the week’s happenings. The rest of the staff would have local leave, and on the Sunday the first Course of two hundred and fifty students would be arriving.

  To them the Colonel would give an introductory and general lecture in the early evening, and Flick, who was to be Mess President in addition to O.C. Cinema, would explain all messing arrangements. Then on the Monday morning, at eight-thirty, the Course would fall in on the parade ground, where Harness would smarten them up in company drill. At five minutes to nine they would march to the lecture-room, and Harness would go to his office. Those lecturers not actually at work would be free, unless the Colonel needed them for any special duties.

  Now that struck me as an uncommonly good scheme. It was a magnificent rehearsal for those unaccustomed to public speaking, and it would dissipate the first nervousness. Each man’s lecture would be appraised by experts, and liaison between lectures and demonstrators could be made to run as smoothly as if on ball bearings. So there I leave things till after my first night’s sleep. By then I had gathered a few more details about the staff. Collect, for instance, was the lecturer on Camouflage and Concealment. Ferris had been given a special commission as lieutenant. Feeder was already throwing his weight about, but was reported on as highly popular. Captain Mortar was a hard drinker, whose Mess bills were likely to outrun his pay, and curiously enough, for one of his toughness and experience, he didn’t carry his liquor any too well.

  Chapter III

  What I must try to do now is to cram into a few pages the whole of that week’s rehearsal. I do not think you will be bored, unless you already know all there is to know about modern weapons and tactics, and I once more assure you that all you will be told is what is absolutely essential to the story.

  Something, however, must be left to your imagination, and the highlights only will be given. It might be better, too, to give the summary according to lecturers and their subjects, rather than to make you live through the week lecture by lecture and day after day. We begin then with Staff, whose subject was Tactics.

  By tactics one means the correct use and application of weapons, but Staff’s first lecture preceded those on weapons because it merely showed the relation of the Home Guard to modern warfare, and how the Home Guard have become the defenders of those Defences in Depth which are the latest answer to break-throughs by Panzer Divisions. Staff had his material pat, but was too academic. A little humour might have helped.

  At the first conference that Sunday evening, Mortar bluntly brought the matter up.

  “I don’t see what you mean,” Staff said rather frigidly. “Well,” said Mortar, “you mentioned that when the Home Guard can’t hold a defensive position any longer, they break up and become guerrillas and harry the Hun. You might add this story, which I’ll give you for nothing.” Thereupon he related the story of the semi-inebriated gentleman in the lounge of a commercial hotel who looked up to observe the entry of someone in uniform, and wanted to know what branch of the Service the newcomer was in. He was told, the Salvation Army.

  “Who are you fighting for?” demanded the maudlin one, and he was told that the enemy was the devil. “Where’re you fighting?” was the next question. “Well, last week I was in Cornwall,” the other said. “Then I went to South Wales, and then up to Aberdeen, and here I am in Suffolk.”

  The tight gentleman regarded him with admiration. “You mayn’t be winning,” he said, “but, by God, you’re keeping the swine on the run.”

  All of us, including the Colonel, laughed at that and thought it very apposite. Staff was not amused. He said it might offend the susceptibilities of any friend of the Salvation Army. Mortar said, “My foot!” or words to that effect. Staff spluttered angrily, the Colonel interposed, and there was the beginning of the feud.

  Weapons can be divided for our purpose into three classes—bombs and anti-tank devices; weapons, like mortars, projectors, and bombards, that propel bombs; and finally, sub-machine and machine-guns. Mr. Brende, a first-class Warrant Officer from the staff of a famous Weapons School, lectured on what I might call the guts of weapons, that is, how they work, and how to handle them, strip them, and clean them. He was a tallish, wiry chap, with lantern jaws and a thin line of moustache, and he knew his stuff. I was sitting quite near when Mortar tried to correct him during the course of one of his lectures, and I noticed the flush on his face. Before that week had gone, it was clear that Brende and Mortar were not working together any too harmoniously. Brende resented the interferences of one who, though his immediate superior officer, was a mere dabbler compared with a super-expert like himself. Mortar’s view was that as a fighting soldier he had used under war conditions many of the weapons which Brende had handled only at demonstrations. In any case, he didn’t give a hoot for what Brende or anyone else thought. His method was to say what he thought, stick to his own opinions, and then go straight ahead.

  On the theoretical side, Mortar dealt with the tactics of the weapons Brende had analysed, and he was in charge of demonstrations, with Brende and Ferris as right-hand men. He also lectured on what I might call official explosives—the kind of thing that one associates with the Sappers. These were, for instance, various demolitions, as the blowing up of houses and bridges; the methods and varieties of fuses, and discharge by electricity. Finally, he combined everything in one of the two lectures on Guerrilla Tactics, showing how the Home Guard could harry the Hun. Ferris did the second guerrilla lecture.

  As a lecturer Mortar was not first-class. He was none too sure of his sequences and apt to get a bit muddled, though that didn’t stop him from barging on. At the evening conference, which happened to discuss his final lecture, Staff got something of his own back, though not much. Mortar had mentioned guerrilla warfare in which he had taken part, and Staff’s objections related to a certain incident.

  “Just read the whole paragraph from your script, Captain Mortar will you?” the Colonel said. “Then we can see what it is that Mr. Staff doesn’t like.”

  Mortar read it:

  “I’ll illustrate what I mean by something that happened to me some years ago, in a certain country where there happened to be a spot of bother. We’d been trying to locate the headquarters of some other guerrillas, and we did so by sheer luck, because we had to make a detour one night on account of floods. I remember we went along a narrow stretch of water, and then we barged clean into a house right against a lock. Someone challenged us and we sheered off. That’s the point I want to emphasise. The fact that there was a sentry told us that there was something important inside the house. That sentry ought to have kept his mouth shut, and kept flat on his belly. He could have let someone know inside the house and we might have been followed up past the lock and wiped out with a bit of resolute bombing.”

  I had been imagining the scene—a dark night, the stealthy movement along the banks of the canal, the house by the lock, the challenge, the hoarse whispers and the silent sheering off into the night. Staff’s voice came in. “That isn’t what I meant, sir. It’s the next bit.”

  “Oh, that,” Mortar said airily. “How we came back the following night and blew up the whole show with explosives. What would you have done?”

  “You’re referring to the u
nfortunate fact that there happened to be civilians in the house as well as the guerrillas, isn’t that it?” the Colonel asked Staff.

  “Yes, sir,” He tittered slightly. “And the—well, the luscious way Captain Mortar said they’d all been wiped clean out.”

  “But Captain Mortar did add that that was the fortune of war,” I cut in. “War is war and you’ve got to be ruthless.”

  “All the same, sir,” Staff told me doggedly, “I do think a story like that creates a bad impression. If anyone did kill women and children, he needn’t advertise the fact.”

  “Hm!” went the Colonel. “Would it make any difference to you, Mortar, if you left out that experience and substituted another?”

  “Not in the least, sir,” Mortar said. “I’ll find something really gory. A certain other happening in Mexico.”

  The Colonel shot him a look. “You’d better submit it to me first. I know a certain amount of goriness, as you call it, is—well, it’s essential, but we’ve got to be reasonably careful.”

  Ferris, who was already Mortar’s bosom pal, lectured on Bombs and Anti-tank Devices, and he was head and shoulders above any man in the school. He never threw his weight about, or made his illustrations personal, yet you felt that he was the man who had known the things he so vividly described, and often his eyes would seem to burn and the whole man would shake with the intensity of his passion for the one great object—the killing of Germans. Like Mortar, he had fought on the side of the Spanish Republicans, and he made no bones about being as passionately now on the side of Russia, the greater backer of the Spanish Reds.

  As for the remaining lectures, Staff talked about the tactical handling of regular weapons in action, the use of smoke, the defence of towns and villages, and the tackling of parachute or air-borne enemy troops, applying the latest lessons straight from Crete. It might be said that he, Brende, Mortar, and Ferris did the brunt of the lecturing work. Before the week had gone I could see the four as two: Staff and Brende, the latest thing in theory, as opposed to Mortar and Ferris, almost the latest thing in the hellish school of practice. Discipline might keep the difference beneath the surface; Mortar and Ferris, secure in experience, might ignore the attitude of the other camp or treat it with a humorous tolerance, which is far more infuriating, and yet beneath that surface there was already smouldering a pretty considerable hate.

  Dear old Collect prosed away to us in two lectures on Camouflage, and even the Colonel nodded on the verge of sleep. Mortar once gave a prodigious and audible yawn, but Collect droned on unperturbed. He also gave a lecture on what he called Scoutcraft, and all I could wish was that the same talk could have been given to Ferris, who would have made it live and pulsate. Happily, he and Mortar both covered again much of the same ground, and by a little manoeuvring, and a certain shameless collaboration on my part with Mortar and Ferris, we got the Colonel to see that Collect’s effort was redundant. Collect was quite peevish about its removal from the syllabus and a talk by Compress, on elementary first-aid, substituted. Mortar and Ferris were very friendly with me after that; respectful, mind you, but markedly friendly, as if counting me in on their side.

  Flick ran the cinema, which operated in the huge lecture-room. He was an expert and he guaranteed to have a half-dozen experts trained by the time the first Course assembled. I regarded his work as some of the most valuable. The shows were after dinner when men need recreation. The movie—and talkie—show gave it, together with first-class instruction that supplemented both lectures and demonstrations. The captured German war films were marvellous, as were the Russian ones, and there were enough of them and similar material to last out the fortnight’s course with an hour’s show every night.

  As for my own three lectures, I was the luckiest man on the staff. No one in that first week had a glimmering of knowledge of Administration as affecting the Home Guard, so I could blether on unchecked. Prattling is my forte, and everybody seemed to be interested and amused, especially at the sallies against our mutual enemy the dear old War House. So much then for the theory. Now for the demonstration and practice.

  The vast amphitheatre which I have mentioned was nowhere more than half a mile from the centre of the camp, and its answering crescent was half a mile across, so that there was ample room for explosives work. Also it was country strictly barred from the civilian, which was a great load off our minds. Naturally precautions had to be taken, however. Men were posted on look-out. Any unexploded bombs had to be located and detonated, and a most rigid account was kept of issues and expenditures.

  The bombs included the Mills—officially the No. 36—the Sticky, the big Anti-tank, and the various phosphorus bottles that flame on bursting. That with the coloured top is used in the famous Northover Projector, of which more later. The mortars included both homemade and official issues, including the famous Blacker Bombard, which is death to tanks. There were also antitank mines and traps, and fougasse. One also fired the various machine-guns, including the well-known weapon of the gangsters—the tommy-gun, or Thompson sub-machine-gun.

  I should like you to imagine a road running between banks. In the side of one bank are buried drums of tar, with a propellant charge behind them, and a device to make them burn. The fuses of the charges are connected to a plunger which operates electrically from a convenient distance. Along comes your tank. At the right moment, press down the plunger, pop goes the charge, out one tar drum is blown to the road, and the rest when you want them where they make that road a real river of fire. Simple, isn’t it? And most effective. Tank drivers wouldn’t like it a bit.

  Then there is the Northover Projector, usually known simply as the Northover. It fires the coloured bottles, as I said. We had tank models, indestructible ones, at various heights and distances, and there was some wonderful shooting. Through the air hurtled the bottles, and generally smack on the target. At once that target was concealed in the dense smoke and flame from the burning contents of the bottle. Tank drivers and crews would think even less of that than the Devil is said to think of holy water. And the Northover can also fire smoke bombs, or Mills grenades.

  The Mills we also saw fired on an improved method from that which some of us used in the Great War. Now there is a cup discharger fitted to the end of the rifle, which is held for firing, and with a special cartridge, at an angle of forty-five degrees. As for the numerous mortars, they ranged from the vest-pocket type, as it were, to the huge Blacker. That fires a pretty big bomb, and where it hits there is a pretty considerable racket. A tank driver wouldn’t mind that, for he’d never know what had struck him. He’d merely cease to exist, and there wouldn’t be much left of his tank either. I must say I enjoyed those cold, dry half-days on the ranges, for it was healthy, hungry, and interesting work. Not only did I fire guns that I had previously only seen, but I saw in action the latest things in weapons of which I had never before heard. Everything was intensely realistic. Compress was always present in case of accident, an ambulance stood by, and Nurse Wilton was there too, watching the displays with as keen an interest as the rest of us.

  I think I have hinted that she was a pretty woman. She was, in fact, a highly attractive one, and looking even younger than the twenty-six which I discovered was her age. She was of the jolly type, always ready for a joke, but according to Compress she was absolutely first-class at her particular job. Flick, whom I had suspected of being a lady-killer, seemed to me to be with her on every possible occasion, and on most evenings she was at the cinema shows.

  But there was nothing even remotely resembling an accident during that week, and only one happening was really important as far as concerns this story. First of all, before telling you what actually happened, I should make one point perfectly clear. Mortar, Ferris, and Brende did not work with each other when weapons were fired or bombs thrown. Each had a class of bomb or a certain weapon, and he was assisted, if necessary, by a team drawn from the general staff. When the Blacker Bombard was fired, Brende was in charge, and he had a team o
f three other men.

  That bombard is squat, like a toad, and into its mouth goes that winged bomb weighing twenty pounds. Details of mechanism are not necessary, and all you need know is that Brende lay behind the steel-plate that acted as guard, and aimed the bombard and fired it. The rest of us, and the team, had to lie flat, for an accident would have been a nasty business.

  With my usual curiosity I was taking a surreptitious peep at the moment of firing. Off hurtled the shell, but it was aimed low. I saw a spatter of earth where it struck, and then it ricochetted off to the left. We still waited for the roar of the explosion, but nothing happened. A minute, and we were getting sheepishly to our feet. The Colonel was in a dither, and perhaps he had reason. A twenty-pound bomb was lying there somewhere, and it had to be found and rendered harmless.

  Now I don’t know what actually happened, for we were told to stay put while Mortar, Ferris, and Brende went off with a score of men to locate the bomb. I saw the actual country later for myself, and could verify that the search was difficult and highly dangerous, for the rocky ground was covered with briars and low growths under which that bomb might be cunningly concealed. It might even have buried itself in some softer patch of ground. At any rate, after a long wait we were told to disperse. The whole likely area was red-flagged as dangerous, and the Regular Sappers were to be informed.