Eventually was a significant word, thought Probyn, accepting a cigarette from CSM Dungworth. The war that the newspapers had decreed would be over by Christmas was in stalemate. This was no revelation to old sweats like the RSM and his companion. The same disparaging remarks now directed at the Germans had once been uttered over the Boers and that so-called tea-party had lasted three years. Yet however much he tried to convey this to the young gallants in his charge they remained frantic that it would all be over before they arrived, just like the last lot had been. His thoughts strayed to the decimated ranks of the original BEF across the Channel, valiantly holding the line and waiting in the mud and cold for reinforcements. He knew all too well what that was like. Yet war could produce all sorts of bizarre situations; only last month he had been billeted in the manor of a millionaire. Just wait till he told Grace!
Finishing the cigarette, Probyn took his leave of CSM Dungworth and made for a warmer place to spend the night, which was one of the privileges of rank. First, though, he made a brief diversion.
Huddled beneath his improvised shelter of branches, rain dripping off the leaves, Louis Postgate had managed to procure sympathy from a fellow trainee, who had rustled up a ground sheet, a coat and two blankets into which Louis had now wrapped himself, though with only a dinner suit beneath, his teeth still chattered. Sequestered in misery, he rolled into a ball and tried to sleep, but angry thoughts prevented it: a pox on Guy for his sanctimony and on the heartless RSM.
It was upon such a picture of woe that RSM Kilmaster intruded, his unsmiling face peering into the welter of branches. ‘Ah, I’m glad to see someone has taken pity on you, Mr Postgate!’
Teeth still juddering, the fledgeling officer uncurled from his cold tight ball and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Yes, thank you for your concern, sir! I shall be fine.’
The reply was frigid. ‘Oh, do not attribute my observation to kindness, Mr Postgate, it is merely expediency. It’ll save me an explanation to the colonel as to why one of his officers has frozen to death through his own stupidity.’ Probyn gave a contemptuous nod and marched away. Yet once his back was turned he allowed a smile to play at his lips and, taking horse-drawn transport, he went off to his billet.
His current landlady, an elderly widow, was there to welcome him the second he arrived, her bony hands helping him off with his greatcoat and directing him towards a fire that turned the parlour into a furnace and his nose into a waterspout. ‘Your slippers are waiting on the hearth, Mr Kilmaster!’
The stentorian bark was displaced by soft Yorkshire vowels. ‘Eh, you pamper me, Mrs Shepherd.’ Laying his prized new officer’s hat on a heavily carved ebony sideboard, Probyn sank into the fireside chair and unwound his puttees, exchanged his wet boots for the slippers that this motherly soul had bought especially for him, then was in turn provided with a bowl of hot water, soap and warm towels and a delicious beef stew.
‘You look tired, dear,’ crooned the old lady, enjoying watching him eat his meal. ‘Have those naughty boys been acting up again?’ Only now in this homely presence could Probyn allow himself to relax and smile at tonight’s farce, and for answer he threw up his eyes in mock despair. It did not come naturally to play the bully. As a young recruit he had made a name for himself as defender of the weak, but his current position required him to be terrible and terrible he would be. These youngsters were going to war and he must ensure they were fully prepared. If they hated him for it, so be it.
* * *
The days crept by and still the call to war did not come. It was just as well, thought Probyn, out for a brisk walk that frosty Sabbath and catching sight of Robert Gaylard totally lost and confused despite being in possession of a map and compass. Yet this was no great cause for despair; a lad who was keen enough to be out so early was bound to succeed in the end. Moreover, upon return to the vastly swollen barracks at Aldershot, Probyn was to witness other young subalterns poring over textbooks, yet more pushing matches about a table in representation of troops – all in their free time – and most refreshing of all, the beasting he had given Louis Postgate seemed to have taken effect, for since that night the lad had diligently refrained from accepting invitations to dinner, instead staying up late to prepare his work for the following day. Would that enthusiasm could win a war, for these young gentlemen possessed it in abundance.
Yet Probyn’s work was never done, for just as these youngsters started to resemble officers another bunch of novices arrived, and inevitably there were those amongst them who thought they already knew it all.
Aided by years of experience to recognize a weak link the moment he laid eyes on one, Probyn watched his latest candidate strut around in pathetic imitation of an officer, lording it over his peers when it was obvious he was no more versed in military matters than they, and he relished the thought of demolishing this poseur. For now, though, he bided his time, content to observe Major Harry Lewis trying to instruct the newest intake in company drill: required to command a bunch of equally raw recruits, their efforts were chaotic.
Looking at the pasty-faced collection, some of them more used to weighing out bags of tea and currants, Probyn experienced a momentary flash of despair. The original mongrel-mix of scarlet tunics, civilian overcoats and flat caps might have been replaced by emergency blue uniforms but by no stretch of the imagination could this be termed a fighting force. However, most of them were keen to learn and he was equally determined to transform them, itching now to take over from the major, a man in his fifties, whose patience had obviously become tested to the limit for, with a gesture of hopelessness, he called to the RSM, ‘Mr Kilmaster, would you mind standing in whilst I go and commit suicide.’
Gladly, Probyn stepped forth, his tone adopting an upper-class inflection. ‘Now, gentlemen, we can’t have you upsetting the major like this. You’re going to have to buck your ideas up.’ Bringing the recruits back into line, he invited one of the subalterns to try again.
But, even under the experienced guidance of the RSM the youngsters were to perform no better. The weakest link, instead of observing was apparently away in some far-off land, his expression bored, his posture slouched and his cane idly tapping.
‘Mr Faljambe!’ The culprit was startled from his reverie by the RSM’s bark. ‘Are we boring you?’
The well-fed, rather arrogant-looking youth with the blond moustache began, ‘Well, I have already seen this done several—’
‘Ah! Then you’ll know exactly what to do. In that case kindly do not keep slapping your thigh with your cane, we are not auditioning for the part of Dandini in a pantomime!’ Having gained his full attention, Probyn instructed, ‘Take charge of your company, please.’
Faljambe did so. The performance was abominable, as reflected in the RSM’s pithy comment.
Why, Mr Faljambe, I was given to understand that you knew all there is to know about soldiering!’
Faljambe caught the smirk that flickered between his companions. ‘I beg your pardon, RSM,’ his large jaw and the set of his mouth gave him a rather superior air, ‘I might perform better were I—’
‘You will call me sir, Mr Faljambe!’ A smouldering volcano, Probyn glared at him. ‘I may occasionally call you sir, the only difference is that you will mean it!’ After Faljambe’s insincere apology, he added, ‘You were about to explain your abysmal performance.’
Well, I was just about to say that I might function a little better were I given real soldiers who knew what they were doing.’
Probyn held the speaker with glittering eyes. ‘You want real soldiers, Mr Faljambe? I wonder, would you recognize a real soldier if it jumped up and ran you through with a bayonet?’
Faljambe looked shocked and offended. ‘I’m sorry, it was just a suggest—’
‘No, no!’ Probyn assumed an air of reason. ‘Far be it from me to stunt an officer’s development. I can see you are far too highly skilled for the awkward squad. If Mr Faljambe wants real soldiers he shall have them.’ He wheeled to instruct o
ne of the new recruits. ‘Private Willett, go across to Sergeant Glew and ask if these officers may borrow his men. At the double now!’
Private Willett dashed off across the overcrowded square to where other, slightly more experienced troops were being put through their drill. These were marched up at double time.
After thanking Sergeant Glew, Probyn announced, ‘Now, Mr Faljambe will give us the benefit of his experience.’ Turning to address the more qualified squad, he added, ‘This officer is now going to put you through your drill. Carry on, Mr Faljambe.’ He made a sweeping gesture of invitation and took a step back to remove himself, thereby initiating a period of humiliation for the overconfident youth.
Regretting his braggadocio now, and somewhat anxious at having antagonized his tutor, a blushing Faljambe reluctantly stepped from the cluster of fellow trainees who shared his apprehension. ‘I shall try my best, sir.’
‘I am sure you will, Mr Faljambe.’ The beefy face displayed quiet confidence.
Poising before the ranks of strangers, Hugh Faljambe tapped his cane on his gloved palm for a few moments, before remembering the earlier admonishment and tucking it under his arm. ‘What exactly would you like me to do with them, sir?’
‘I leave it entirely in your hands, Mr Faljambe.’ Momentarily distracted by the jingle of harness, Probyn saw that the colonel, sauntering by on his grey polo pony, had stopped to watch. Ergo, he prompted the young man. ‘Mr Faljambe?’
After further hesitation, Faljambe became more decisive. ‘Right!’ But when some of the men stamped a right turn he called to them hastily, ‘No, hang on! I didn’t mean for you to turn—’
‘Oh, you mustn’t issue an instruction unless you mean it, Mr Faljambe.’ A shake of head accompanied Probyn’s quiet admonishment. ‘These men are primed to follow your every command.’
Faljambe hardly dared to open his mouth now. The CO’s horse clip-clopped away, a look of faint disgust on its rider’s face.
‘Perhaps you’d like to march them around the square?’ submitted Probyn when no movement was forthcoming.
Faljambe brightened. This seemed easy enough. ‘Very well, you chaps, on my command, by the left, quick march!’ Having launched the squad into action he began to march briskly alongside with the RSM following and his fellow subalterns hurrying in their wake.
‘They’re spreading out, Mr Faljambe!’ Probyn called a warning. ‘Would you like me to whistle up a sheepdog to assist you?’
Somehow, Faljambe brought the files back into order and seemed to be coping quite well until they reached the corner of the parade ground. But there, instead of turning, the men continued down a path that led to the kitchens, and when in his panic he failed to call a halt they proceeded to march straight into a wall, instead of marking time the files at the rear marching into those in front and the whole display collapsing into levity.
Throwing up his hands, Faljambe turned to the RSM for explanation.
‘You omitted the order to left wheel, Mr Faljambe,’ reproved Probyn.
Faljambe’s blond moustache was skewed by disdain. ‘Oh, but one would think they could do that without being told!’
‘These are soldiers, Mr Faljambe,’ Probyn explained as if to a toddler. ‘The only thing they are able to do without being given a command is to breathe – Mr Reynard, hands out of pockets, if you please!’
Standing some distance away the podgy offender almost jumped out of his skin as the sharp command was bellowed at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s just so dreadfully cold, isn’t it? My fingers have gone numb—’
‘In keeping with your brain then!’
Upon the RSM’s contemptuous interjection Reynard dropped his gaze to the floor, finishing his sentence on a lame note: ‘—due to a circulatory problem.’
‘You are not alone. Mr Faljambe appears to have a circulatory problem too,’ Probyn turned back to his former target, ‘for he cannot manage the simple task of marching his troops around the square! Now bring them to order and start again, and stop wafting that cane about as if you were conducting a blasted orchestra!’
Annoyed at being ridiculed in front of his peers – not to mention the lower ranks – Faljambe assembled the men as best he could and set them off marching again in the direction of the parade ground. Unfortunately, an obstacle blocked their passage. Lacking any instruction to go around it, the men seemed to take great delight in kicking their way through the line of dustbins, setting them rolling with a dreadful clamour and scattering rubbish everywhere.
Hands over his ears, a dismayed Faljambe told the RSM, ‘This is quite ridiculous. I shall just have to admit defeat.’
Probyn narrowed his eyes at the rankers, who to his mind were extracting far too much glee from this, but for now he let the matter lie, concentrating on the young officer’s efforts. ‘Defeat is not a word we even think, Mr Faljambe. Sharp, tight, smart – those are the words I would have tattooed upon your brain! You are all far too slovenly for my liking.’ At this, he ran his penetrating eyes over the entire gathering. ‘Henceforth, I expect every move you make to be as sharp as Jack Frost’s—’
‘Prick,’ muttered a ranker out of earshot.
‘—tongue!’ Detailing two of the worst offenders to clear up the rubbish with a lance corporal to supervise, Probyn assisted the trainee officer in bringing the men once more into straight lines, their ranks now including the newer recruits too.
Again and again the humiliated Faljambe was called to repeat the instructed movements until he began to get a grasp of matters, and until Probyn was quite sure he would not repeat his mistake. Even then, he and his fellows were made to re-enact the exercise over the next few hours until they finally gained competency.
At first the men under their command had seen this as the opportunity for a lark, but the monotonous repetition had now begun to grate.
‘Is he going to keep this up all fooking day?’ The grumble was delivered with a South Yorkshire accent. ‘We could’ve marched to fooking France at this rate.’
‘Halt!’ Probyn took command. ‘Very well, gentlemen, that will suffice for now.’
The relieved subalterns were about to retire when Hugh Faljambe was called to a private aside from the RSM.
‘And the moral of this morning’s exercise, Mr Faljambe: do not pretend you know what to do when you quite obviously do not. The bullets in France are all too real.’
Unusually subdued, Hugh Faljambe slunk from the parade ground.
But the RSM had not finished with the rankers. ‘That man there, six paces forward!’
In unpolished fashion, the man who had sworn, a newcomer, did as he was ordered, though judging from his expression he remained unimpressed by authority. The frame might be impoverished but the attitude was tough. It was an unlikeable face, a face old beyond its years, the cheekbones jutting like shelves of slate, the jade eyes equally uncompromising.
Recognizing a persistent defaulter in the making, Probyn decided to nip this tendency in the bud and stalked up to him. ‘You seem to be having trouble getting the grasp of marching, Private Unthank!’
‘Not if I’m given the proper order … sir.’
‘Don’t you slaver at me! If I say you have trouble in marching then you have trouble!’ His nose only inches away from Unthank’s, Probyn glared at him, daring the other to meet his eye.
Unthank glared back insolently. Feared as a rough character in his own mining community, he tried hard to maintain his resistance, but eventually the force of that personality was just too strong. His green eyes wavered and he was compelled to break his gaze.
‘Sergeant Glew!’ Still, Probyn did not remove his piercing eyes from Unthank’s face. ‘I thank you for the loan of your men. The rest of them are once more at your disposal, Private Unthank will remain here to receive extra discipline. Hand me that pace stick, if you will.
‘Now,’ he told the defaulter when there was just the two of them. ‘Let’s put you through your paces!’
Unthank res
isted. ‘I’ve done all you’ve asked. This is victimization. I’m not doing it.’
Rarely had Probyn been confronted by such an obstinate man. Normally the sheer strength of his personality would frighten offenders into submission. It would have been easier just to sling him in the guard house. Instead of bawling, however, he again focused his hypnotic gaze on Unthank. ‘Tell me, Private, for I’m finding it very hard to comprehend, why did you join the army?’
Unthank hesitated. It could be a trick question, an invitation to fatigues. ‘To kill Germans,’ he said eventually.
The beefy face showed incredulity. ‘You think that’s all there is to it?’
Unthank’s waxen brow furrowed. ‘What else is an army for but to win wars?’
‘Ultimately, yes, but there are other benefits.’ Probyn voiced individual beliefs. ‘One would hope that such association might help instil pride in yourself, pride in your regiment.’
Unthank scoffed. ‘I dig coal for a living. That’s what I’ll be going back to once we’ve given the Boche an ’ammering.’
It was only one intransigent voice, yet it was akin to encountering the piece of gristle that ruins the entire meal. An ex-miner himself, Probyn might bear the same blue coal scars as did Unthank, but the two were cast from very different moulds. Against his better judgement Probyn had yearned to make something of this New Army whom all the old regulars derided, hoped that along with the patriotism they obviously felt for their country these men might also learn to share his love of soldiering. But now he had to concede that one could not force them to share his regimental devotion, could only equip them for the fight.
‘Very well,’ he responded grimly, still holding the other’s eyes. ‘If that’s all you’re here for then so be it. But you are here and you are under my command, and if you want to get out of the war alive you’d better heed what I tell you because you won’t last five minutes otherwise.’
A Different Kind of Love Page 2