Praying That We Meet Again, page 20
“The same for the Delacroix family. Descended from younger sons but with a substantial holding of land in Belgium. We have holdings in the Congo that may one day make a fortune. Perhaps! My granddaughter will come with an amount of money in hand now, more to come when she is of age and an amount more again when I pass on. The value of Belgian land is debatable – the Boche will have destroyed so much!”
“My brother will undoubtedly make his way to a knighthood, sir. I believe my father will ensure he is comfortably situated. He is not the eldest but my father will be able to ensure he has an ample income.”
“Excellent. Remains only for the pair to decide what must happen next.”
“She is a handsome and clever girl, sir. She would make an excellent wife for a man of Alfred’s ability. He, I think, has much to offer her.”
“A fine pair, in fact, Captain Peter!”
“I will be delighted to dance at their wedding, sir. I shall, obviously, hope to meet her match one day. Not for a few years. I am but nineteen.”
The old gentleman showed surprised.
“You are the Major’s younger brother, Captain Peter? I had thought you to be his elder. What sort of war have you been fighting, sir?”
Peter stepped out of the Rolls at the gate to Larkhill camp, glancing at his watch.
“Nine o’ clock precisely. Thank you.”
He had forgotten the chauffeur’s name, tried to make up for his lapse with a smile and a pound note. He had visited the family bank in Woking and had ensured he had cash and to spare on him.
“Good morning, sergeant. Lieutenant Griffin, late of the Hampshires, reporting to training.”
The gate sergeant ticked off the name on his list.
“Good morning, sir. If you would just show me your papers, please.”
Peter had them in his hand, could not have imagined being allowed inside without a check of his identity.
“Very good, sir. Private Tompkins will show you the way to the correct hut, sir. The buildings are not easy to navigate.”
An old private soldier, his sleeve showing the markings of previous stripes, led Peter along a slight slope to a collection of huts of various ages, turned into the largest.
“Adjutant’s office, sir.”
A battered captain, in his thirties, well scarred and with a bent nose, stood clumsily to make his greeting and accept a salute.
“Griffin, sir. I have my joining instructions.”
“Don’t need them except for your name, Griffin. Military Cross and Mentions button. You will stand out on this course, Griffin. Mostly schoolboys, the rest of them. Salient?”
“Went out in August, sir. Marched into Belgium and came close to being thrown out again. Ended up outside Ypres itself.”
“I crashed there, three months ago. Why did you choose to join us, Mr Griffin?”
“Two main reasons, sir, that I can identify. Might be a lot in the back of my mind that are not entirely clear to me. But the smell is a major factor. I fancy fighting in clean air. Also, sir, I do not fit in too well to the Army. Trying to keep my mouth shut in the company of bloody fools is something I have always had difficulty with. Sooner or later, sir, I was going to run into a staff colonel or a general and say something honest. I don’t want to spend the rest of the war as a private.”
“They normally call me Uncle in this unit, Griffin. Come on through and meet the Major.”
Peter realised he had just passed an entry exam. He thought it was all rather casual.
“Lieutenant Griffin, sir. Stood down from Captain in the Hampshires to join us. For good reason, it would seem, sir.”
The Major stood and exchanged salutes.
“Brambell, Major, in command at Larkhill Camp. I have the privilege of overseeing your attempts to take to the air. Welcome aboard, Mr Griffin. You will remain here until either I give you your wings as a competent pilot or I throw you out as no use to man or beast. Alternatively, you may end your enlistment with us in terminal fashion or decide the air is not for you. If you find you want out, come and tell me so. You will be sent off as a lieutenant to a battalion somewhere overseas, not back to the Hampshires. There will be a note against your service record as unsuitable for flying duties on medical grounds. Some men find themselves with acutely painful earache, quite incurable but only affecting them when pressure changes as they rise in the air. You will not be stigmatised if you discover flying is not for you.”
“Thank you, sir. I very much hope my ears will remain suitable for service.”
“As do I. You will be flying from tomorrow. Have you uniforms with you? I know some men coming in from France have nothing to hand.”
“Gieves promised to deliver a pair of trunks, sir. I came out of the Salient with the clothes I was standing in. I instructed them to put in all that I would need for the Flying School, sir.”
The Adjutant informed them he had had a pair of trunks cluttering up his office. He had already sent them off to Griffin’s billet on the assumption that he would show up.
“Good. Working dress today. Mess dress for dinner, not for luncheon. Meet your batman and go to your course’s mess, Mr Griffin.”
The Adjutant led him out and placed his name on the payroll.
“I have all of your details to hand, of course. Mess fees amount to the whole of your pay as a lieutenant. Because this is the RFC, you have flying pay in addition, which is substantial and will allow you to live without need for a private income. I see you have been Mentioned three times, Mr Griffin, as well as having a Military Cross. This may appal the younger boys, of course. Do be kind to them!”
“They will not be a great deal younger than me, sir.”
The Adjutant had not looked at date of birth, did so and apologised.
“Sorry, old chap, I had thought you were my age. Most distinguished, the hair.”
“I had not been aware of it, Uncle. Gieves made much the same comment. Not to worry. What are the rules for servants, by the way?”
“As an experienced officer, you get a single room and your own batman. Give him five bob today and look after him as normal.”
“Good. We had trouble keeping servants in the Salient, you know.”
The Adjutant laughed, sent Peter off with a private to show him the way around the randomly sited buildings.
“Sticks them up anyplace they do, sir, when they wants a new one.”
The room was small and Spartan but would suffice. The bed had a mattress, blankets and a pillow, luxury after the Salient. There was an enamel washbasin.
His servant appeared.
“Isham, sir. As what I am to be your batman, sir. My last gentleman was on the last course in, sir. He crashed in his third week, sir. My first lasted four weeks before he crashed, sir.”
“Third time lucky, Isham. Needs to be or they will start calling you Jonah. How long is the training course?”
“Can’t fly when it rains, sir, so wet weather buggers everything. Can be two weeks in summer, so they says, sir. Depends how long it takes you to go solo, sir. Most like to be five or six weeks at this time of year, sir.”
Isham palmed the pair of half crowns, almost managing a smile.
“Cup of tea for seven o’clock, sir. Breakfast at seven forty-five, generally, sir. Gets earlier in summer, so they says, sir. Bathroom at the end of the corridor. Kazi next to it. Tell me when you wants a bath, sir, and I book the hot water for that hour. Opened your trunks and hung up everything already, sir.”
“Well done! Thank you, Isham. I like my tea black, half a spoon of sugar. Is there a chance of coffee ever?”
“Not in the barracks, sir. Can get coffee in the Mess, sir. Don’t recommend it, sir.”
“Right. The Adjutant said working dress during daylight hours, mess dress for dinner only.”
“Yes, sir. Don’t have no Dining-In or Guest Nights, sir. Won’t need dress uniform, not ever at Larkhill. Don’t get no generals or such here, sir. Best thing is you go across to the Mess now, sir. Meet the other gentlemen on the course, and the instructors. Don’t drink until after dinner, sir. The bar will be open but they will be watching who uses it.”
“Again, thank you, Isham. Tea or coffee only during the working day. Worth knowing. Any other tips?”
“None you needs, sir. You been in since it started. Most of the others is schoolboys or them undergraduates, sir.”
“I was an undergrad when I joined in July, Isham.”
“Christ, sir! You don’t look it!”
“The Salient has aged me, Isham. If I had stayed much longer, it would have killed me too. Grey hair before I am twenty – unusual, what?”
“It ain’t grey as such, sir. More like grey streaks through it.”
Isham moved across to the huge wardrobe that covered the length of one wall.
“Working dress, sir. Don’t wear the button on the tie in working dress, sir. Boots, not shoes. Save your feet if you catch fire and can’t get out quick, sir. Ribbon is up on all your tunics, sir. Khaki shirt with working dress.”
Isham showed him the way to the Mess, a simple matter of three different paths past six huts, most of which seemed to be barrack rooms.
“Four courses here at any time, sir.”
He was first into the Mess from his course, introducing himself to the Mess Sergeant, knowing exactly what to do from long experience. Every mess was fundamentally the same, whether in England or India or any point in between.
“Coffee, please. Black, no sugar. Are there any reserved chairs?”
“No, Mr Griffin. Don’t have none of them, sir. Not a flying day for your course today, sir, so the bar is open.”
“Not for me at this time of day, Sergeant!”
“No, sir. Luncheon serves at twelve thirty, sir. Working dress. Seven days a week, sir, being as you need to fly on any dry day, whatever it is. What was your previous regiment, sir?”
“Hampshires from the end of August. I spent a couple of weeks with the Twelfth Hussars before falling out with their colonel. A few hours before he led them to charge the Spandaus, that was.”
“Not much chance after, sir.”
“None at all. I was lucky.”
The Mess Sergeant glanced at the Military Cross ribbon and made no comment.
“Most officers what transfers across keep their original uniform, sir, putting RFC badges up on it.”
“I came out of the Salient with the uniform I was wearing, Sergeant. I had to buy new so I made a fresh start.”
“Not at the depot, sir?”
“I have never seen the Hampshires’ depot. I was transferred across as a second lieutenant at Ypres, not much more than a schoolboy still. I grew up fast.”
“That’s another one from your course just coming in, sir. He’s still a second lieutenant.”
The Sergeant made no comment about growing up, merely going across to greet the very young gentleman.
“Hats off in the Mess, sir. Saves all that bother of saluting. I am the Mess Sergeant.”
The youth showed blank, realised he was to give his own name.
“Ah! Crosbie, Sergeant. Here for a week or two while I pick up how to pilot one of these jolly aeroplanes. Take it out to France by the end of the month, you know!”
“No doubt, sir. It is not a flying day, so the bar is open, sir.”
“Oh, good! A pint of bitter will go down well – coming up for lunchtime, is it not? Nothing like a pint to make the meal go down, I always say!”
Peter did not catch the eye of either man, quietly sipped at his coffee. He suspected Crosbie to be barely eighteen, recently released from school and probably never to have touched a pint glass in his previous existence. There was no need to comment.
The Mess filled over the morning until the course of a dozen men were all present. The other courses were out flying, leaving just the single group to meet each other.
A pair of older men had come in and gravitated to Peter’s side, one with coffee, the other taking tea. They ignored the noisy group of schoolboys who had congregated at the bar.
“Mason, old chap.”
“Huntley.”
Both wore regimental uniform with RFC badges.
“Joined in August and grew tired of life in the depot, old chap.”
“I was sent to garrison outside Dublin. Not what I joined up for. Thought the RFC might provide a bit of spice. What about you Griffin?”
“Just came back from the Salient. Joined in August and was in France four days later. Better than going back to Oxford for a final year. I don’t see myself ever doing that now. The company of schoolboys is none too appealing and undergrads are no more than that for the most part.”
“Ah… The grey hair just a fraction misleading, old chap.”
“I shall be twenty in a few months.”
“Very misleading, old chap.”
They glanced at the medal ribbon with greater comprehension.
Luncheon was called and eaten properly, the youths all knowing how to behave in company, showing as a little more than schoolboys. Their instructors joined them as they sat back afterwards, digesting their mutton chops.
“Captain Lepper. I am instructor to Griffin, Crosbie and Howard. If you would care to join me, gentlemen, we shall just sit down in a classroom.”
They followed on behind the captain, Crosbie showing a degree of excitement, either at starting training or as a result of the three pints he had consumed.
Lepper seated himself at a desk to the front, invited the trainees to take the other side, in comfortable chairs.
“We don’t have a great deal of desk work here, gentlemen, but you will be taught the basics of map reading and you need to know some Military Law as it applies to us in the RFC. It is different in some ways to that of the Army as a whole. That said – not today! This is the merest introduction. Starting with me – I have been RFC for three years, which makes me an old hand. Training here since last July and I have a promise of release to a squadron next month, so please don’t kill me first! Now, in order, left to right. Who and what are you?”
“Crosbie, sir. Couldn’t stand to be a schoolboy any longer so I joined on my eighteenth birthday. From Harrow, sir. Played for the First Fifteen, sir. Ridden all my life, of course. Jolly glad to be here, sir. Might go out to the same squadron if we are lucky, sir.”
“Howard, sir. Wanted to join my father’s regiment but they are full so the RFC seemed next best to Dragoons. Talked to the old chap when he took leave at Christmas and he didn’t quite understand what flying was but he agreed I must go out to France, sir.”
“Griffin, sir. Hampshires as acting-captain and decided I might prefer to fly over the Salient rather than wade through its mud. Went out in August when I joined from Oxford.”
“I am told, Mr Griffin, that the grey streaks do not announce old age?”
“I am still nineteen, sir.”
“And that tells us much of the reality of the Salient. Military Cross and three Mentions, I believe?”
“Yes, sir. Mostly luck, sir – being seen in the right place. There were a hundred others, more, who might have taken the same awards. Most of them are dead now, of course.”
“We have all seen the lists from Ypres, Mr Griffin. I believe your brother was also seen in the right place.”
“Alfred? Yes, sir. In his case, one could hardly not see him, I am told. Well out to the front and more than once, revolver in one hand, bayonet in the other and carving his way through the Boche. Hell of a fellow, my brother! I wish I was one half the man he is, sir!”
“Well said, Mr Griffin. So do we all, I doubt not. To business now! We shall start flying tomorrow. Two of you to watch while one performs at any given moment. Important that you do watch, too. You can see what your fellow pupil does right and where he goes wrong. Then in your turn you can copy good practice and avoid the bad. Keep your brain alert at all times. It is possible that you may be a natural pilot. That is unlikely – only a very few are. Most are like me, good at the job for learning exactly how to do it. Flying is work, gentlemen. If you don’t work at your trade, you won’t learn it and that can result in one of two things. What do you think they are, Mr Crosbie?”
“Well… I suppose one might fail the course, sir.”
“Yes, that is one possibility, the less likely one. What’s the other, Mr Griffin?”
“Crashing, I must imagine, sir. Ending up like the adjutant, if we are lucky. The only crashes I saw in the Salient ended up in petrol flames on the ground and a cooked pilot in the middle.”
“Precisely, sir! Got it in one! Fried black in the middle of an indistinguishable pile of ashes!”
Crosbie looked as if he might be about to lose the three pints he had taken.
“Can we say that flying is an unforgiving trade, sir?”
“We can, Mr Griffin. You are right to refer to it as a trade. There are specialised skills, unique to flying that must be learnt. Once you have them, they become innate, ingrained, impossible to forget. But you must learn them. You won’t just pick them up in passing. You must actively learn what to do and how to do it. There is a knack to flying that you must actively seek out. There is no place for the jolly good amateur. Professional or dead – nothing in between.”
Lepper was met by silence, hoped it was because his words were being digested.
“Mr Crosbie, do you accept what I have just said?”
The boy smiled as he shook his head.
“I don’t think you are allowing enough for the gentleman, sir. No need for us to work at picking up flying. It must come naturally to the sporting man, sir, and that’s what the true gentleman is.”
“Mr Howard?”
“Flying’s new to me, sir. Got to learn the basics before I can pick up the skills. As Crosbie says, the sporting gentleman is what you need for true success, sir, which is why we will always be better than the Huns. But there must be some things to learn.”
