Praying That We Meet Again, page 24
Peter still did not know what his father meant.
“It is occasionally necessary to eliminate an enemy who has gained too much knowledge or who has shown himself willing to kill one’s own people. In such cases, the Intelligence people set one of their own slaughterhouse men loose. Henry is employed as a killer, Peter. I am told it is hard to find such people. There are very few who will callously put a bullet into the head of a specified victim. One thing to fire at the advancing enemy. Something completely different to sneak up on a particular person and cold bloodedly shoot him dead. I think such assassins have something wrong with them, an important part of the self missing. I am told they rarely last more than a year or two in that trade. I did not ask for further detail.”
“Good God! I could not have imagined that we would stop to such tricks, sir. Sort of thing you might expect from foreigners, these Black Hand Gangs and that sort. Not at all English, sir!”
“No. It is not. I wholly agree with you, Peter. Was I you, I would keep well clear of these Intelligence sorts. Can’t trust them. Strangers to all that is good about England. They say they are working to protect the country, but they betray the very spirit of the British.”
They returned to the Place, back into the countryside, the heart of the country where the better sort of people were to be found.
“Nasty place, London. I never find I enjoy myself there, sir.”
“Agreed, Peter. I am only glad I shall not spend my days there. I suspect most big cities are the same. Are you fully equipped to go back out to France?”
“I shall need to go to the bank tomorrow, sir. I want to pick up some gold sovereigns to take with me. Always possible to buy for gold whereas paper money is nowhere near so acceptable.”
“Quite right, my boy. You may not be able to draw gold from the bank. The Bank of England is withdrawing sovereigns from circulation, replacing them with Treasury notes. Gold is too useful in overseas trade. Damned foreigners often will not take our notes. I wouldn’t if I was an American. Gold coins are always worth having. Consequently, Peter, I happen to have a couple of hundred to hand. No sense being rich if you don’t use your wealth!”
The Old Man explained further that his money men in the City were investing cannily, had vastly increased the family wealth on the back of the war. He felt just a little guilty to be earning millions while young men gained only the grave. He was happier to give some of his money away.
“Only in the family, of course!”
It did not make simple sense, but there was a logic to it.
“John will be happy to inherit, sir. He must be a colonel at war’s end, don’t you think?”
“Provided he is still there at war’s end, certainly. John will not be ‘inheriting’ as such. He will have the Place, certainly, but only a quarter of my wealth. The remainder is to go equally to the three of you. I have written my will, so that is all made tidy. You have all four of you – it would have been five – gone to war as a man should and you all have a claim on a soldier father. The prospect of half a million or more apiece will give you the freedom to be whatever you want after the war. I suppose I have at most twenty years in me, more likely to be ten, to be realistic. That means that you do not need to worry about an income when you become middle aged. You will be free to pursue whatever avocation appeals to you – university, politics, business, leisure, whatever you wish. All you have to do is live out the war. Achieve that, and you will have the right to be free of ordinary constraints.”
“I can feel sorry for those who will not have such freedom, sir. The majority of my men will have faced the same enemy as me and will then have to go back to England and take up the challenges of making a living. I do not know that I could become a politician, but I do feel something should be done for them. This appalling government will do nothing for the men in khaki.”
The three agreed that was certainly true.
“The post-war government will be made up of men such as George Redwood, reappearing in London after a war of hardship on Wall Street. I do not doubt he will become a politician.”
“Will he not be a banker, sir?”
“No. His father, Sir George, believes him to be incompetent, to lack the necessary skills to run a merchant bank. He intends to sell out and to create a trust fund. George will be unable to fritter away his capital but will have a very substantial income to live on. No doubt he will need to pay out to keep Victoria’s indiscretions quiet - and probably pay for her abortions! Henry will probably be dead, as we have discussed, Peter. That said, George will live a prominent life, a cabinet minister and a leading figure in the country. I think I shall spend my declining years in Australia – sat on a beach with bottles of ice-cold beer.”
“If I survive, I shall join you, sir.”
“You will be welcome, Peter.”
“I will stay in England, sir. I might well be able to find a seat myself. A wounded veteran must always have a place in politics. I could, perhaps, provide a counter balance to George Redwood.”
“You could indeed, Robert. Alfred to be a leading figure in the world of aircraft manufacture and in the universities. John, the professional soldier. Yourself the honest politician. What of you, Peter?”
“A comedian, sir, playing the more exclusive nightclubs and offering an acerbic commentary on the world as I see it.”
“No doubt you will be able to write a column for one of the great newspapers, their licensed jester.”
“The whole world is no more than a black joke just now, sir!”
Chapter Fifteen
Slowly up to Waterloo Station on a Sunday stopping train, calling at every station en route. There was no practical alternative other than using the car on the chauffeur’s day off. Across London, his single trunk in the taxi with him and into Charing Cross, no service running from Waterloo East for another couple of hours. Wartime or not, the railways did not like Sunday travel.
It was just early enough for the mass of travellers not to be moving. Men who had managed a spot of leave and those on posting would generally go out at the last possible minute. Peter was able to sit in comfort in First Class and read the Saturday newspaper he had brought with him.
There was a ferry tied up, waiting on the train, pulling out of harbour within thirty minutes and then pushing up to prewar speed, making the crossing of the Channel in little more than an hour. A naval destroyer ran escort, suggesting they were worried about submarines.
He picked up his trunk at quayside, a seaman from the harbour party pushing it on a handcart.
“Where to, sir?”
“Ypres. Dicky Bush airfield, precisely.”
“Got a Crossley tender here, sir, from Dicky Bush. Picking up supplies off the boat for the officers, sir. Should be able to take you as well.”
Peter would have much preferred the train but the offer had been made and could not be refused. The tender had solid rubber tyres and passengers felt every bump in the road.
“Sergeant Pyke, sir. Are you one of ours, sir?”
“Griffin, Sergeant. Posted to Dicky Bush.”
“Very good, sir. We have room for you and your trunk, sir.”
Pyke inspected Peter, picked up the ribbon and the Mentions button and decided he was out of the ordinary run of new pilots, must be treated with a modicum of respect.
“If you would sit in the front, sir, next to the driver.”
That meant Pyke must sit up in the rear, on the longitudinal, hard seats. Peter realised he was being given out of the ordinary consideration. Green pilots were not normally given precedence over experienced mess sergeants.
“Thank you, Sergeant Pyke. The extra comfort is appreciated.”
The courtesy was noted. This officer knew his way about; he was not just another eight-hour wonder from the training field.
The back was quickly loaded - crates of whisky and gin predominantly, a single barrel of beer - and the tender pulled away from the harbour.
“Slow old run, I am afraid, sir. Can’t get speed out of these things.”
“More convenient than hanging about the railway tracks at Ypres, trying to find a train going to the right place and stopping there. Not set up for passengers, Ypres.”
“Been through it before, sir?”
“Last month. On my way out, when I transferred to the RFC. I was Hampshires previously.”
“Ah! Most officers keep their original uniform, sir, putting RFC badges on.”
“No uniform left, other than what I was standing in, Sergeant. Everything new, so I decided to buy RFC tunics. Besides that, I was acting-captain at the time and would have had to change the shoulders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pyke picked up the message. The new man had been over the hill and up the mountain; he was new to the RFC but he most definitely was not green.
“Came out in August, sir?”
“First day. I was with the 12th Hussars then. They threw me out for using a rifle to kill the Boche. Should have been a sabre. Terribly infra dig. Lucky for me. They charged Spandaus a few hours later. I was put across to the Hampshires then and stayed with them.”
“Lucky, sir. The cavalry charged the guns several times, I recall, sir. Killed a lot of cavalry.”
“From both sides. Waste of horses and other ranks who were good soldiers. Wouldn’t give you tuppence for a cavalry officer.”
“We have a few who transferred out, sir. Some of them have become good pilots. Not all.”
“What are we flying, Sergeant?”
“BE2c, sir. Replaced our Shorthorns a couple of weeks ago. A better aeroplane.”
From the little Peter knew, that was true. The BE2c was faster than a Shorthorn and equally stable, was well thought of in England as a reconnaissance machine.
They passed a marching battalion, fresh out of England and well together, making their proper time and singing as they made their way forward.
“Poor sods! On their way to the Salient, I presume.”
“Looks like it, sir. New men in. No old soldiers in those ranks, sir.”
They were young and fresh-faced, taller than average. Prewar regulars were short and undernourished generally, the products of the gutter or from Irish fields.
“They will learn, Sergeant. The songs will soon come to an end.”
“So they will, sir. Very young, the officers, sir.”
“Most of them will grow no older, Sergeant. The few who do will pick up their grey hairs quickly enough. I am their age.”
Pyke had noticed the white streaks in Peter’s hair, had wondered just what his age was.
“Major Alfred Griffin, sir…”
“My elder brother, a couple of years my senior. An able man and a damned good brother. He will not be back. Some of the bayonet slashes he took cut through the muscle and will not heal properly. He is working with de Havilland for part of the week, at his university for the rest, working on the mathematics of building aircraft wings. Don’t ask me more than that – I don’t know!”
Pyke did not know how wings could have mathematics, but he did know that Alfred Griffin had won a good VC. That would do for him.
“Have you used a Lewis Gun, sir?”
“Never so much as seen one, Sergeant. I hear they only went into production in December. Just a few prototypes out before that.”
“The word is we are to be armed with them, sir.”
“Rifle calibre, pan fed, forty-seven rounds, I believe. Shorter barrel than a Vickers. Lower muzzle velocity as a result. Probably be useful at a hundred yards, no more. What are we supposed to shoot with it?”
“That has not been vouchsafed to me, sir.”
“Do tell me if you hear, Sergeant.”
They discussed the war, briefly, and Pyke informed Peter there was to be a ‘Push’ at Arras, which would include the Salient, probably in May, according to current plans. Security was so lax that the details of the battle were being widely discussed in the BEF. General opinion was that it would fail, for lack of artillery rounds.
“They want a week long bombardment, sir, but have barely got the shells for a day. Add to that, too many of the guns are eighteen pounders and loaded shrapnel. Can’t cut wire with them, sir, and the Boche are putting up more wire every night. We ain’t bothering too much with wire, sir, because we are going to be out of the trenches and back to a war of movement any day now, or at least as soon as the Battle of Arras is fought. Sir John French is certain we can cut the wire and let the cavalry loose.”
They made no comment, it being impolite to give their opinion of the commander-in-chief.
Peter arrived at Dicky Bush an hour after dinner. Knowing they would be too late for a meal, they had stopped in a small café a few miles down the road and had eaten egg and chips with good bread instead of Army beef wellington. Peter suspected they had enjoyed the better food.
“Griffin, sir. Reporting to join.”
“Captain Arbuckle, Adjutant. Normally known as Fatty, for obvious reason. Let me introduce you to Major Fludger, our CO.”
Arbuckle was a penguin, slightly singed and limping, showing wings but unable to fly. Fludger was in his early twenties and looked older, tired, at the end of his tether. Both men were sober, but it was early in the evening.
“How many hours have you, Griffin?”
“Solo, sir? Eight in a Shorthorn and four in an Avro 504. I can take off in both and land them, sir.”
“But you claim little other proficiency. At least you know your shortcomings. You will fly in company with three others when possible. We call them Flights and they have a captain in command, when possible. You come with a good record, Griffin. Better than being a schoolboy. The Adjutant will show you your billet and give you a servant. Come on back to the mess and we will introduce you to Captain Connor, who has your Flight.”
The room was single, which was the sole point in its favour. It was small and draughty, on the second floor, up two flights of stairs, in an ancient hotel backing on the field, taken over by the Army and rapidly given to the RFC. It was generally believed that the ‘hotel’ had been the small town’s brothel, and not the best quality of those.
“Facilities down the corridor, Griffin. Everything disinfected! That includes your servant.”
An ancient, flat-footed private soldier smiled, used to the gentleman’s humour.
“Morcomb, sir.”
“Very good, Morcomb.”
Peter palmed a pair of half crowns, dropped them in Morcomb’s hand, the Adjutant carefully not seeing them.
“Morcomb will see to your trunk, Griffin. Just the one?”
“Yes, sir. Lost everything in the war of movement, sir. Baggage was all thrown out of the waggons to put wounded in and we never saw it again. Replaced with the necessary minimum when I was sent back to training, last month.”
“Explains why you are wearing the maternity jacket. Only schoolboys in the RFC uniform, generally speaking. You obviously are not that. Just to make things tidy, how old are you, Griffin?”
“Nineteen, sir.”
They ignored Morcomb’s mutter of ‘bloody hell’.
“Come to the RFC for a rest cure, by the looks of it.”
“A chance of living longer, certainly, sir.”
“No ‘sirs’ in this shambles, Griffin. I am Fatty and you will be whatever the boys come up with tonight or tomorrow. Everybody has a nickname in the RFC.”
A nickname seemed to be necessary for acceptance. Peter smiled and decided it would be none of his choosing – he would take whatever name he was given.
Morcomb put up mess dress and he made himself acceptable for trotting downstairs at Fatty’s side.
“What’s the habit with the button, Fatty?”
“Wear it with mess dress, or with full fig, which most of the boys don’t possess anyway. We don’t dine-in or indulge in guest nights and that sort of nonsense. Don’t put it up in working dress. You must have the Military Cross ribbon on display, of course. No choice about that. How many Mentions have you picked up so far?”
“Three.”
“Not enough! They should have given you one a month for surviving that bloody cock-up!”
Peter shrugged. It had been interesting.
“Helped me grow up, Fatty. I was a big-mouthed undergraduate when I joined in August. I’m still big-mouthed, but I ain’t a student any more.”
“Going back to university when it’s all over?”
“Highly unlikely! The company of immature, sheltered old men posing as repositories of wisdom no longer appeals.”
“Well put. I have a brother who is a don. Never known a head so big or so empty of common sense!”
“One doesn’t realise it when one is there. Very true, however.”
They entered the mess, full of cigarette smoke and noise, groups of young men bellowing at each other, trying to be heard.
“What will you drink, Griffin?”
“A beer, please, Fatty.”
He was given a pint glass of something French and claiming to be beer. It was alcoholic, certainly.
“Let me pass you across to Captain Connor.”
Connor was still sober, thin as a rake, lined face, somewhere between twenty and sixty years old. His moustache was bigger than he was.
“Ha! Griffin. Flying number four with me. What do you know about flying, Griffin?”
“Not much, Captain.”
“I’m Paddy. No pack drill in the mess.”
Peter managed a smile in response.
“I have an amount to learn, Paddy.”
“So have we all. It’s a new game and we haven’t written the rulebook yet. What were you before this?”
“Acting-Captain in the Hampshires. I grew tired of the smell and thought fresh air would suit me better. Joined in August and came straight out. I was 12th Hussars for a few days and was sent across to the Hampshires as unsuitable. I was found not to believe in cold steel.”
“Ah! A heretic! England is full of those. You were lucky. Don’t I recall the 12th being wiped out to the last man?”
