by CL Skelton
It was written in pencil, the hand was rounded and voluptuous, each letter as perfectly formed as the hand that had written it. It read: Tuesday, three o’clock, the Priory Inn.
And it was signed with a single letter N.
Chapter Three
‘Battalion! General Salute! Present ARMS!’
There was a clap as a thousand hands hit the stocks of their rifles. A pause and then a rattle as the rifles were brought forward and held out before their owners. Finally a crash as the rifles were drawn into the body and lowered and a thousand boots thumped the parade ground, the right instep up against the heel of the left boot.
Gordon Bruce stood proudly in front of number two platoon of C Company, his drawn broadsword motionless and pointed up with the hilt brushing his lips. Behind him and a little to his left stood his platoon senior N.C.O., Lance-Sergeant Smith.
Smith stood proudly to attention. It was an ill wind … and he had been promoted after the tragic death of Lance-Sergeant Murdoch. Like so many of the men around him he too came from the glen and held a proprietary interest in the battalion. Chin drawn in, chest out, his eyes staring straight in front of him past the glitter of his bayonet towards the backs of C Company. Smith now had a platoon of his own. In common with so many when they were newly arrived in the sergeants’ mess, he was the proverbial ‘new broom’. He determined that C Company and in particular number two platoon, would be the finest in the regiment. Of course, like every long-serving soldier ‒ he had been in the army ten years ‒ he knew that he would have to nurse his young officer along. But that would not be difficult. Young officers expected to be nursed. His was a Bruce, the younger son of the C.O. himself, and no soldier, whatever his rank, could have a finer example than Colonel Willie. Gordon Bruce would be all right, Smith was sure of that.
The colours broke at the mast and the bugler sounded the general salute. It was a long bugle call and all the while the regiment stood there motionless, their burnished bayonets glinting in the early morning sunlight, the white blancoed webbing of their rifle slings bisecting each man from his chin almost to the bottom of his kilt.
‘Battalion will slope arms. Sloooope arms!!’
Colonel Bruce turned to face his men as Gordon sheathed his sword, trying hard not to glance down at the scabbard as he fumbled the point into the aperture. Out of the corner of his eye he could just see his brother Donald standing in front of number one platoon. Donald did everything so perfectly, his sword slipped easily into its place. Donald, of whom Gordon was so proud, and who had hardly said a word to him since he had joined the regiment four days ago.
‘Fall out the officers,’ called Colonel Bruce.
Jimmy Taylor, standing in the rear rank of C Company, made a grimace. They should by rights have marched past the C.O. and then off to breakfast. Falling out the officers now could mean anything, but it was probably work and Jimmy had had a skinful of whisky last night, had puked up all of his dinner, and as a result was suffering from a sick headache and the gnawing pangs of hunger. It was Tuesday, but Jimmy had been on guard duty over the weekend and still had his pay intact on Monday evening. The seven shillings less one shilling and twopence for barrack damages had left him a total of five shillings and tenpence; this he had converted into whisky as soon as he could get away from camp on Monday. For Jimmy the army was a damned sight easier life than sweating your guts out on the land but, like everything else, it had its drawbacks. The officers and senior N.C.O.s existed, in Jimmy’s mind, solely for the purpose of plaguing the private soldier and Jimmy could well recognize the signs of some new evil. Any break in routine, and this was one, spelt some new form of devilment. However there was plenty of time off and the lassies liked a braw soldier laddie in his kilt and feather bonnet. Maybe one day he’d get down to it and become an officer himself just like the colonel had done.
As Second Lieutenant Gordon Brace hesitated, Lance-Sergeant Smith hissed, ‘Awa’ and get yer breakfast, sirr.’
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ Gordon whispered, and he turned to his left, saluted the C.O. somewhat tardily as his brother officers were already moving off, and marched away in the direction of the mess.
‘Carry on, Sergeant-Major,’ called the colonel.
‘Sirrr!’ roared R.S.M. Macmillan, thumping the ground with his right boot as if he hated it, throwing up a quivering salute, and marching round to the front of the battalion.
Every man there tensed himself as the R.S.M. assumed command. The officers, the amateurs, had gone and the professional had taken over. Now they were going to find out what all this was about. Macmillan glared at them disapprovingly.
He was a great bull of a man, six feet two in height, with close-cropped sandy hair and a head that dissolved straight into his neck which carried down the ramrod of his back to his rather prominent buttocks, giving his kilt a sway when he walked that was the envy of every man in the battalion and the delight of the ladies upon whom he bestowed his liberal favours. His pale blue eyes always seemed without expression, but it was said that he could spot a misdemeanour at a mile, and woe betide the man who fell foul of R.S.M. Macmillan. By sheer effort and perfection, he had risen from the rank of corporal to his present exalted post in a little over five years. Younger than most of his senior N.C.O.s, he was an object not of their envy but of their admiration. Hamish Macmillan was the complete fighting machine and there was not a man in the battalion who would not have volunteered to stand at his side on the battlefield.
Now he stood firmly at attention facing the battalion.
‘Battalion, stand at ease! Stand easy! No talking in the ranks.’ He eyed them balefully. ‘Now, whist ye tae what I am going to say for I shall only say it once and anyone who fails to comply with these orders is for the high jump. When you are dismissed, you will return immediately to your barrack rooms and from there you will go and get your breakfast.
‘At oh eight hundred hours, you will parade by companies at the armoury with your rifles, cleaned and unloaded, and without rifle slings. There each man will be issued with a shining new rifle. It is an improved design and it is in perfect condition, and it will remain in perfect condition, and it will remain clean and spotless or I shall want to know the reason why. You will then return to your barrack rooms, make a note of the number of your rifle, after which you will parade again. This time you will fall in at the quartermaster’s stores with your feather bonnets in their canvas cases. There, in exchange for your feather bonnet, you will receive a shining new white helmet and a roll of cloth. This roll of cloth is called a pugaree. Anderson, what are you laughin’ at?’
‘Nothing, sir, it sounded daft what you said it was called.’
‘Maybe ye’ll no think it’s sae daft after you finish peeling tatties at the cookhouse this afternoon. See to it, Sergeant Gibson.’
‘Sir,’ replied Frankie as Anderson relapsed into sullen silence.
‘The pugaree is to be bound around the helmet in the prescribed manner which will be demonstrated to each barrack room by an N.C.O. who has already learned how to do it. Your white helmet will remain white as snow. It can be cleaned with the same blanco as you use for your webbing, so see to it.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘these instructions apply to every one of you excepting Headquarters Company who will not be issued with white helmets or pugarees, but will retain their feather bonnets.
‘Any questions, no, right,’ he said all in one breath. ‘Parade tae the right dismiss!’
The men sprang to attention, turned right and then broke ranks.
When Sir Henry Maclaren, Andrew’s father, had designed the barracks which were to become the permanent home for his regiment, he had introduced what was then a revolutionary concept to the army. Instead of having the men eating in their barrack rooms, as they did throughout most of the service, off tables laid down the centre aisle, each man sitting on the end of his bed, he had built a complete mess hall for the private soldier. Here, seated on forms, the men could eat off scrubbed wooden
tables after receiving their rations from the serving counter.
It was to this building that the men went after their dismissal from parade, pausing only to dash into their billets and pick up a tin plate, a spoon, and a tin mug from their kit. Inside the mess hall the cooks stood behind the serving counter of scrubbed pine, framed in a brick rectangle which separated the mess deck from the cookhouse. Before them was a huge black cauldron full of steaming oatmeal porridge. The men lined up in an orderly, if rather noisy, queue and received their ration of one and a half ladles of porridge and three-quarters of a pint of strong sweet tea. Then they went and sat on the forms at the scrubbed wooden tables and, with a great deal of clatter and loud talk, had breakfast. Most of them ate quickly, for there was always the chance of ‘seconds’. If, after all had been served, there was anything left, it was first come, first served. Jimmy Taylor managed to get to the counter, plate in hand, just as the huge pot was carried away into the cookhouse, empty.
‘Damn them,’ he said. ‘Just like the bloody army. Work oot hoo much yer needin’ and then gi’ ye half.’
After breakfast they returned to their barrack rooms, from where they would take their rifles to the armoury at eight o’clock when summoned by the bugle.
The sergeant-major’s announcement had, of course, given rise to a great deal of speculation and rumour. When Colour-Sergeant Frankie Gibson returned to his little room at the end of number two barrack in C Block, the argument was in full swing.
‘I tell yees, yees are going tae war,’ Anderson was saying with all the authority of his eighteen years’ service.
‘Ye’ll be going too, will ye no?’ replied Peter Leinie, who had never been more than ten miles away from his village in his whole life, and was feeling nervous and overawed at the mere thought of having to travel across the world to the outposts of Empire.
‘Och, aye,’ said Anderson, ‘I’ll be going, but I’ll be coming back. There’ll be fechting, plenty of it. How are ye goin’ tae like it, laddie?’ he said, getting up and lumbering past a couple of bedspaces to where the boy was sitting. Anderson was a great brute of a man. When Wellington said that ‘the British soldier was the scum of the earth’, he must have had someone like Anderson in mind. He was a bully who would always pick on the weakest and try to terrorize the innocent. He was not a Highlander. He came from somewhere in the south, though no one knew quite where. He had got into the army after being given the alternative of prison or service with the colours. Having got in, he had discovered, with a certain brute cunning, that if you had a strong arm and little conscience, you could avoid most of the work that was going. He stuck his face close to Peter Leinie so that Leinie could see the little purple blackheads which pockmarked his skin, and he grinned, revealing a set of yellowing teeth and stale beery breath. Leinie tried to turn his head away to avoid the stench.
‘Yees are scairt, are ye,’ rumbled Anderson. ‘Youse’ll be a bloody sight mair scairt when a fuzzy-wuzzy or a Pathan sticks his wee spear intae your guts and ye sit there and watch them all fall oot and spread oot in front o’ ye.’
‘Leave the laddie alone.’ The speaker was Private James MacTavish.
‘And just who the hell de ye think youse is talking tae, sodger?’ replied Anderson, turning on him belligerently.
MacTavish was a big, quiet man whose father had been killed when the regiment had stormed the forts at Taku in China and whose mother had died in his infancy. He had been brought up ‘on the Parish’, serving as potboy in the manse with only two days off a year and sixpence a week for his pocket. The restriction had been too much for him and, as soon as he was old enough, he had joined the army. It was probably because of these experiences that MacTavish was always likely to side with the underdog in any dispute. Besides, he was essentially a peace-loving man, slow to rouse, but, when roused, quick to deal with whatever trouble was offered; and James MacTavish was one of the toughest men in the regiment.
He had been sitting on the end of his cot, cleaning his rifle, but now he put down his gun and rose to face Anderson. ‘Ye dinna mak’ me scairt,’ he said. ‘But yon laddie there doesna ken oot aboot it. If ye want tae pick on anybody, try me.’
‘Youse keep oot o’ this,’ snarled Anderson.
The conversation in the barrack room stopped at the prospect of a fight. The two men stood looking at each other, eyeball to eyeball, and it was Anderson who backed down. ‘Och awa’, mannie. Ye canna take a joke.’
‘I can, Anderson; but yon laddie canna. So just tak’ it easy when ye ta’k tae him. He’ll find oot soon enough aboot fechting.’
‘Watch it, mister,’ said Anderson, unable to take reprimand in front of the whole barrack room and folding up his huge ham-like fist. ‘Just ye watch yoursel’.’
The other man did not move but just stood there with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. ‘You’re no gonna tak’ a skelp at me, Anderson. For ye ken fine that I can tak’ care o’ you.’
Anderson drew back his fist, but before the blow was struck MacTavish had hit him hard in the solar plexus. He staggered back gasping for breath right into the arms of Frankie Gibson, who had just entered the room.
‘Attention!’ bellowed Frankie, reeling under the impact of Anderson’s huge body. ‘Stand where you are, the lot of ye. Stand up, Anderson. All right, now, what’s going on here?’
‘Nothing, sarge,’ said Anderson, glowering.
‘It better not be. Fechtin’ in the barrack rooms will cost ye twenty-eight days jankers.’
‘Please, sergeant,’ said Leinie, ‘we was wondering where we was going.’
‘We’re going east. That’s all I can tell youse. Now get yourselves fell in ootside wi’ your rifles. Nae slings.’
‘But, sarge,’ protested Leinie, ‘the bugles hasn’t gone yet.’
‘The bugler’s changing his rifle. Oot wi’ the lot o’ ye.’
Ian Maclaren hurried over to the officers’ mess. It being Tuesday, he had to seek out his company commander Alex Farquhar. He went through the pillared portico into the main entrance hall. The mess was set back some distance from Headquarters Block. It was fronted by a beautifully kept green lawn which had two circular patches of brown earth. One of these was in front of the dining room and one in front of the main anteroom. These contained the skeletal stumps of rose bushes recently primed. The whole of the lawn area was surrounded by a gravelled drive so that carriages could drive up under the canopy of the entrance and disgorge their passengers without submitting them to the elements. The entrance hall itself was oak panelled, and facing Ian as he entered was a wide, sweeping staircase, the treads covered with thick-pile brown carpeting, which led to the upper stories. The first of these contained the library, writing room, and billiard room, and above them were the officers’ quarters. To his left as he entered was the heavy oak door which led to the regimental dining room where the colours were kept, the Queen’s Colour and the Regimental Colour crossed on their brass-topped poles and, behind, the chair which was occupied by the colonel when he chose to dine with his officers. On his right just beyond the stuffed wildcat was the anteroom where most of the drinking and horseplay took place among the younger officers. He went into the anteroom, surveying its comfortable deep leather armchairs, the trophies on the walls, and the prints and citations, one of which was to his grandfather Sir Henry Maclaren, praising his gallantry at the battle of Balaclava. He saw Alex Farquhar lounging, completely relaxed, in one of the leather armchairs by the fire. Ian went over to him.
‘Hello, Ian, can I get you a drink? I’m just going to have one myself.’
‘No thanks, Alex,’ replied Ian. ‘It’s a bit too early for me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Farquhar. ‘Steward.’
‘Alex, I want to ask a favour,’ said Ian as Alex was ordering his drink.
‘Ask away, old boy. It shall be granted if it is within my power.’
Ian took a deep breath. This was too important to be flippant about. ‘May I take the afternoo
n off?’ he asked.
‘What, today?’
‘Yes, please, Alex.’
Farquhar cocked his head on one side and gazed at the young man quizzically with raised eyebrows. ‘For God’s sake, Ian, you know what we’ve got on today. The men are being issued new rifles this morning and we’ve got musketry all afternoon. How the hell do you think I can give you the day off?’
‘Not the day, only half, sir.’
‘Sorry, old boy, it’s just not on.’ And then, seeing the crestfallen look on the younger man’s face: ‘What is it? A woman?’
‘Really, sir ‒’ and Ian blushed. He felt the colour rise in his face and wished he could run away.
‘So it is a woman. I see. Is she very important?’
‘Yes, sir, very, but I can’t discuss it,’ Ian replied formally, resenting the mocking tone in his company commander’s voice.
‘Listen, Ian, there’s no way I can give you this afternoon off. The colonel would have my guts for garters if I did. Why don’t you ask him? If he says yes, I won’t raise any objection. I’m damned sure that he’ll say the same as I did. But ‒’
‘But what, Alex?’ said Ian eagerly, sensing a chance.
‘But,’ repeated Farquhar grinning slightly, ‘if it is in the interest of true love ‒’
He paused, and Ian would willingly have hit him.
‘‒ and you didn’t happen to appear this afternoon,’ he continued, ‘I wouldn’t notice. But you must understand that I’m not giving you the afternoon off. If the colonel notices that you are missing, there’ll be no backup from me. Now if you want to take that chance, you can.’
‘Oh, thanks, Alex, thanks a lot.’
‘Don’t thank me. Just cut along and hope that no one notices.’ And as Ian turned to go, ‘And good luck with the lady.’
Alex Farquhar grinned as he saw the colour begin to rise in Ian’s cheeks. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘it happens to the best of us.’ Ian left the mess and Farquhar turned his attention to his drink. Ah well, he thought, things didn’t change. Perhaps he should not have mocked the lad. He remembered his first love, the daughter of a bishop; that had ended up in a haystack somewhere in Perthshire. Things didn’t change, he was right; it was only the participants who thought that their own case was unique. He turned his attention back to more important matters and ordered another whisky.