A Different Kind of Love
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part Two
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
Part Three
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Author’s Note
Copyright
A Different Kind of Love
Sheelagh Kelly
To my dear daughter, Vanessa
Part One
1
January 1915
Nerves were stretched almost beyond endurance. They had been waiting hours for the enemy to show, eyes striving against the night to detect any hint of movement, ears pricked for the slightest crackle of undergrowth, forcing themselves to take shallow inhalations lest the white clouds of breath or even a rumbling gut might betray their position. Yet all that was to be heard was the desolate pitter-pat of rain.
Throughout their training no one had told them that the waiting would be the worst part. So keyed up had some of them become that they were seriously contemplating a dash to safety. Even those whose mettle held true were not immune to the cold. The daytime temperature had been mild for January but with nightfall it had plummeted and they lay here at its mercy, wet and aching, spread-eagled beneath the dripping bushes, unable to relax one muscle, for the honour of the company depended on the swiftness of their reactions.
A sudden noise jerked everyone back to full alertness. Morale instantly renewed, the warriors tensed, ready to fulfil that which was demanded of them. A dark outline appeared through the veil of drizzle and after a moment’s hesitation began to creep towards their position, closely followed by others. Flattening themselves into the wet undergrowth, those intent on ambush remained hidden, blinking the raindrops from their lashes, squinting down gun barrels, taking aim at the threatening silhouettes, fingers tightening on triggers … but they had been given the order to hold fire until the enemy was almost on top of them and wait they would, tension throbbing inside each breast.
Across the dark expanse the leading silhouette inched nearer. Wait for it, wait for it – then all at once he appeared to trip and those in his wake capsized like dominoes, landing in a heap on top of him. There was a loud expletive, then helpless laughter and whilst the enemy was thus involved an order rent the night air – ‘Fire!’ – and a volley of shots erupted, closely followed by the command ‘Attack!’ – and the soldiers charged, hurling themselves at the hapless tangle of bodies, pulverizing these and any others who came afterwards, pounding all mercilessly until their leader cried for mercy.
But mercy did not come – ‘You frigging bastards, we’ve been waiting hours for you!’ – and another flurry of blows was inflicted. Meanwhile a collection of obsolete rifles ejaculated more harmless bullets, aimed at one victim after another: ‘Bang! You’re dead! And you and you! Bang! You’re all dogmeat!’
Only when the rifles were employed more brutally as clubs was the enemy provoked into fighting back and a vicious free-for-all ensued.
It was on to this bloody scene that RSM Kilmaster charged; just arrived to observe a military exercise he found instead an exhibition more befitting a saloon brawl, and quickly screeched a halt.
‘A bladdy fiasco!’ After segregating the two companies, he demanded to know of the officer in charge of the ‘enemy’ what had gone wrong.
‘I’m most terribly sorry, sir!’ The young trainee officer, battered from the mêlée, did not find it so hilarious now, especially at the confrontation with the RSM. ‘My compass-reading’s none too hot, I’m afraid. I funked it and we went a little astray.’
‘Astray?’ Probyn Kilmaster’s face was the colour of raw meat. ‘You’ve lost half your force! I’m sure Major Lewis would be highly impressed to learn you’ve taken his lectures so seriously – and correct me if I’m wrong but wasn’t Mr Postgate meant to be leading the attack?’
Deeply intimidated by this monster, the handsome brown-eyed youth could not look him in the eye and flicked nervously at his muddy uniform. With his plump, pink hairless cheeks and cupid’s-bow lips he appeared no more than twelve. ‘Postgate sends his regrets, sir, he has a dinner party to attend.’
‘A—!’ Too angry to complete his outburst, Probyn fumed for three seconds before his eyes sought out another, addressing him tersely. ‘Are you aware of your brother’s whereabouts, Mr Postgate?’
Guy Postgate, a more adult-looking figure in command of the opposing force, shook his head in apologetic manner. ‘I have absolutely no idea, sir.’
Wearing a look of disdain, Probyn turned back to the original informant, his Yorkshire accent camouflaged by a manufactured version of those in higher command. ‘Might you be enlightened as to where this dinner party is taking place, Mr Gaylard?’ At the affirmative response he added, ‘Then would you kindly go there now and convey to Mr Postgate that we require the pleasure of his company at once? Tell him that RSM Kilmaster anticipates no delay.’
Young Robert Gaylard fled immediately.
Meanwhile there was a prolonged wait in the cold whilst an NCO was sent to look for the lost recruits who were eventually brought in, drenched and fed up, to receive a severe admonishment from their RSM.
The initiator of this debacle hurried up shortly afterwards with his friend Gaylard, still wearing his dinner suit plus a look of repentance. His brother Guy immediately set upon him for letting the side down and the two had come to blows before they could be separated. But Louis Postgate was less concerned about the filial violence than that promised by the RSM’s face; after only a few weeks in this tyrant’s company he knew it was foolhardy to antagonize him. That the Yorkshireman stood only five foot seven and his hands were dainty and tapered was but a smoke-screen. This was a man to be feared.
Beef. That was what one saw when viewing Mr Kilmaster: a big thick neck supporting the bullish head with its immaculately trimmed hair and waxed moustache, fourteen stones of beef with bulging arms and thighs that strained to rip free of the khaki. With this bearing down on him Louis imagined what a matador must feel like as he prepared to confront el toro. Yet, despite its weighty trunk the visage was not that of a slovenly man but an intelligent, noble face with blue-grey eyes that were mesmerizing in their lustre, a resolute jaw and well-defined features.
Louis had not previously found him susceptible to charm but, with this his only option, he applied a compunctious smile, doffing his top hat as he spoke. ‘I’m most frightfully sorry, sir. I do hope you will accept my deepest apologies.’
Such contrition was lost on Probyn, who fixed him with an intimidating glare. That Louis and his elder brother, Guy, were the sons of a viscount cut no ice with him. ‘You might be an Honourable at home, Mr Postgate, but here you have shown a conspicuous lack of honour towards your comrades! These unfortunate men whose fate it is to depend on you for leadership have been floundering around in the mud all evening awaiting your command. A command that was sadly absent.’
‘Truly, sir, the last thing on my mind was to cause inconvenience. That is why I gave prior warning of my engagement!’
The RSM proceeded as if the ot
her had not spoken. ‘A command you shirked, indicating not only a total disregard for their welfare, but even worse, a gross misuse of resources!’
A rapid series of contrite nods from the dark head. ‘Thoroughly reprehensible. I really cannot express sufficient regret. Yet I had no idea my presence would be missed. Gaylard’s abilities are on a par with my ow—’
‘Oh, I would agree there! Your abilities are equally nil!’ Appearing to calm a little, Probyn cocked his head at the night sky. ‘So, Mr Postgate, let me get this absolutely right. You are in France and about to lead your squad on a reconnaissance into enemy territory, when an invitation to a dinner party arrives—’
‘Forgive me, sir!’ A boyish chuckle intervened, its owner attempting to lighten the atmosphere. ‘It isn’t quite the same. We’re not in France but Hampshire.’
‘Ah!’ It was almost a caress. ‘So if the Boche suddenly descend on Aldershot we should tell them, hold on until Mr Postgate has finished his dinner?’
‘But the Germans won’t—’
‘Who is to say?’ Probyn spread his hands, his rebuke at first having a quite reasonable tone, though it was soon to increase in power, every word emerging like cannon-shot to punch the night air with clouds of vapour. ‘This is a war, Mr Postgate, not a game! It might seem like one big lark to you whilst we’re on English soil but, believe me, once you’re in France it won’t stay that way and it will certainly be a lot more horrible if officers don’t take their responsibilities seriously!’
‘But I do, sir!’ It was a heartfelt plea.
‘Really?’ Menacingly calm again, Probyn seized a lantern and directed its beam at one of the tired and bloodied soldiers whose dark figures moved about the rain-swept park, erecting makeshift shelters from branches. ‘Tell me the name of that man over there.’
‘That’s, er … I’m afraid I can’t remember,’ said Louis, then added defensively, ‘There are rather a lot of them.’
‘That is Private Skeeton! He joined the battalion on the fifteenth of September last year.’ The beam of his lantern moved to another wretched figure. ‘Perhaps you can recall the name of that man to Private Skeeton’s left?’
‘I think that’s…’ Louis’s answer petered out on a shake of head.
‘You don’t know, Mr Postgate?’ Probyn leaned forward as if unable to credit what he had heard.
‘As I said, sir, there are a lot of them.’
The RSM was looking him directly in the eyes again; in the glow of the lantern his demeanour most terrifying. ‘There are many hundreds more in the battalion, Mr Postgate, and I can tell you the names of every one of them.’ It was an exaggeration but served a vital purpose. ‘It is beyond credibility that you will ever reach the heights of company commander, but should you be allowed one day to take charge of a platoon – assuming that some miracle occurs to prevent you being kicked out of the army altogether – you will find yourself responsible for sixty men. You will be expected to know not only every one of their names but their characters and abilities too, to feed and clothe them, to find them billets, be accountable for their efficiency and the good order of their arms and equipment, and also to lead them in warfare … that is to say, when you are not attending your dinner parties.’
Louis Postgate’s dark head sagged lower and lower as the minotaur poured contempt on him. He felt more like nine than nineteen.
‘Well, I trust you enjoyed your little soiree whilst your men were wet and cold and too exhausted even to defend themselves!’
Louis dared to lift his remorseful blue eyes, his promise genuine this time. ‘It won’t happen again, sir.’
‘No, it will not, Mr Postgate! Because every man in your company is dead. Yes, that is right! Due to the lack of proper command they were ambushed by the other side, who were ready and waiting and who slaughtered them without mercy!’
The rain trickling down his face, Louis’s posture became more and more dejected.
‘It is therefore just as well that this was only an exercise and they can be resurrected – this time.’ Probyn continued to glare at his victim for several seconds until content that he had driven home the seriousness of the crime. ‘I hope you remembered to bring your greatcoat with you? No? Ah, that is a shame. It’s a very cold night.’
Reduced to a mere infant now, Louis gripped the rim of his silk topper, showing an eagerness to please. ‘You mean you’d like me to stay, sir?’
‘We should very much like you to join us, yes, Mr Postgate, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.’ Probyn’s manner was transformed to one of cheerful respect, though all knew it for a sham. ‘Could I coax you into inspecting that nice little piece of ground over there for your bivouac? I’m afraid I cannot promise you a ground sheet. Perhaps if you’d arrived a teeny bit earlier … Never mind, you’ll find those branches keep the rain off quite adequately. I bid you a good night, Mr Postgate, and trust that you’ll enjoy it as much as the rest of your evening!’ Reverted to his normal stern pose, he waited until the subaltern, all confidence drained, had tramped away to assemble his bivouac before marching off himself. However, he was to be quickly drawn back as the row resumed between the two brothers, Guy, slightly taller, two years older and more suitably clad, rebuking Louis for shirking his duty.
‘I didn’t shirk anything!’ argued Louis. ‘I merely delegated the role to anoth—’
‘Rot!’ The face was squarer and harder, the eyes a pale grey. ‘You found something better to do – you always have something better to do – so you found a mug who’d shoulder the onerous task for you.’
‘What the devil does it matter to you who was leading the force?’ demanded Louis.
‘Because it made me appear a fool in front of the RSM when I couldn’t say where you were – or, even worse, a liar! And I’m sure it would matter to the men whom you’re supposed to be leading if it had been a genuine operation. You just will not take responsibility for your actions, will you?’
Louis could take any amount of rebuke from a superior but was not about to be so lectured by one with equal inexperience. ‘Oh, stop being so damned pompous! It wasn’t genuine, it was just play-acting!’
‘That’s exactly the lack of judgement that made you put Gaylard in charge! He couldn’t find his own backside unless it had the Union Jack sticking out of it.’
‘It was just bad luck, that’s all.’
Guy threw down his hat in aggravation, displaying hair that was wavier and a much lighter shade of brown than his brother’s. For a second he gritted his teeth, before swapping his anger for sarcasm. ‘Yes, I suppose it is rather bad luck to have one’s troops massacred. Just like all the other bouts of bad luck you seem to encounter when it comes to competition.’ Close as the siblings were, he, the more ambitious, was never happier than when getting one over on his brother.
‘You’ve got a remarkably short memory!’ came the younger man’s dark retort. ‘My section beat yours only two days ago.’
‘In the cleanliness contest!’ Guy issued a derisive leer. ‘I’m sure that should earn you a Military Cross in the trenches. Oh, clear off to bed, nancy!’ In dismissive manner, he had half turned his back when Louis, goaded beyond his limit, finally launched himself at the offender and grappled with him.
‘Cut it out!’ Upon gaining their attention, Probyn fixed them with his penetrating gaze for long seconds before adding, ‘Whilst rivalry within the context of training is to be commended, gentlemen, I would remind you that we are supposed to be on the same side. I do trust you will have dispensed with this petty squabbling by the time we’re in France.’
Wrenching themselves apart, the Postgate brothers issued a last glare at each other, apologized to Mr Kilmaster and went their separate ways, allowing the exasperated RSM to do the same.
Under temporary cover of a large fir tree, whilst the bedraggled soldiers bedded down for a long night, Probyn spoke for a time with a company sergeant-major, an old regular like himself and long past retirement age, both agreein
g what a shambles the exercise had been, the other demanding to know how they were going to win a war with these officers barely out of public school.
‘I hear there are more of the Honourable Postgates at home,’ came the sour utterance from beneath a grey walrus moustache. ‘Thank the Lord they only sent us two.’
Probyn’s anger was quick to evaporate – had in truth been only a display to educate those in his care rather than serious aggression, and now they were no longer here to witness it he spoke in a more equitable tone. ‘Don’t despair, Bert, we’ll lick them into shape. They’re good lads at heart.’ Even cold and saturated as he was, RSM Kilmaster would raise no private grumble, for this was where he belonged. Oh, he loved his wife and children deeply, but here amongst the regiment was where Probyn was truly in his element. That he had a war to thank for delivering the supreme rank that had eluded him during his term with the colours was a sobering thought, but then he would see little combat. Too old now for hand-to-hand fighting maybe, but he derived almost as much pleasure from grooming these young men for victory.
Admittedly, there had been much work to do. None of those in his charge was a regular soldier but part of the New Army, the ranks formed mostly of miners. That in itself was a miracle – colliers and soldiers were normally found on opposite sides, he himself had been sent in to break their strikes and knew how vicious the opposition could be. But the national emergency had overridden traditional enmities. The only current source of trouble was an occasional bout of drunkenness … and sibling rivalry between the Postgates.
Whilst there had been a patriotic rush of enlistment by ordinary ranks to form the new 9th Battalion, York and Lancaster Regiment, the officers were still arriving in dribs and drabs, some from Officer Training College, cocksure and insular, others totally unqualified with nothing in their favour save enthusiasm, and Probyn was expected to turn them all into warriors. But it was not so hopeless as it seemed: the basic material was good, the intention noble, and he dubbed tonight’s episode as a mere aberration. Within hours of their arrival he had marked Guy and Louis Postgate as decent human beings and worth the effort that would be expended on them. They would make good officers eventually.
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