Operation Absolom (Carter's Commandos Book 1), page 3
“Treble more like.” The man laughed.
Carter had always considered the saying ‘seeing double’ to be figurative, but given the reports of thousands of paratroops, where there had only been five, he now reconsidered his view.
“Well, thank you for your help. Rest assured that there are no more German paratroops in the area now.”
“Good job too. I’d ʼave sen them off, don’t you worry.” He said as he climbed back onto his bike.
“You’d a done nothing of the like.” His wife said, also getting back on her bike. “Silly old fool.”
They cycled off down the road, bickering amicably.
An hour later the Company Commander returned, along with his men. “We’ve been recalled to barracks.” He said. “The CO thinks we’ve been out on this ‘training exercise’, as he has renamed it, for long enough.
Carter recounted what the couple on their bikes had told him.
“Easy mistake for a civilian to make, I suppose. Better safe than sorry and it has done no harm for the Battalion’s response capability to be tested.
It was Congreve’s way of dealing with the situation without sounding critical of his superior. Carter ordered his men into a truck and they travelled the short distance back to barracks.
As the Service Corps driver steered them along the road, Carter thought about the morning’s events. Notwithstanding the time wasted after the CO had arrived, he had actually enjoyed the hunt for the German bomber crew. It was the first time he had faced enemy fire, even though it was only a few pistol shots. It had got the adrenalin flowing and sharpened his reactions.
Unfortunately, it only served to throw the tedium of garrison soldiering into a starker contrast.
2 – The Volunteer
“Squad! Squad attention!”. Carter tried not to wince as the Sergeant’s shout hammered at his ear drums from just a couple of feet away. There was a crash of steel hobnails against wooden floorboards as twenty-four right feet slammed down next to twenty-four left feet.
“Room ready for inspection, Sah.” The Sergeant reported.
Twenty-four figures stood ramrod straight at the foot of twenty-four bed spaces, twelve on each side of the hut, ready for inspection. He stepped across the threshold and marched to the first of them, turning to face the figure from just inches away. Private Parsons; a good soldier, if a little bit unimaginative. Every bit of his uniform had razor sharp creases, brass work gleaming so brightly it almost hurt Carter’s eyes. He didn’t have to look down to know that the toe caps of Parson’s boots would reflect like a mirror. Carter stepped past him to examine the kit laid out on the bed. Looking along the room he could see the identical layout on each bed, positioned so precisely that he suspected that a length of string had been stretched the length of the room to provide guide lines.
He circled around in front of Parsons and moved to the next man. Grimshaw, probably the most untidy soldier in the British Army. But his pals had got to work on him and managed to make him look like something other than a sack of shit with a belt around its middle. He spotted a loose thread on the man’s beret brim. Decision time. Did he have Grimshaw’s name taken again, resulting in him being put on another ‘fizzer’1, or did he let it go. The effort that had been made, either by Grimshaw or by his friends, told him to let it go this time. He moved on to the next man.
Ryan; finest shot in the platoon, possibly in the battalion. He was going to Bisley2 next month to compete for the regiment. There was never a problem with someone like him. He continued down the line: Wilson, Smith, King, Forester, Pond; each name something to remind him of the soldier’s qualities. He got to Barraclough.
“Are you going to win next week, Barraclough?” he asked. It was the regimental boxing night and Barraclough was their big hope of bringing some silverware back to the B Company lines.
“I’m doing extra training, Sir. Just in case.”
“Good man.” He turned to the Sergeant. “Make sure Barraclough gets some extra time in the gym this week.” He ordered.
“Very good, Sir.” The Sergeant gave Barraclough what might have been a wink.
Carter moved on: Clancy, Munroe, Turner, Gough, Green.
Private Archibald Green. Nicknamed ‘The Prof’ by the rest of the platoon and given a less flattering name across the rest of the battalion. He was a bit of an enigma, should have enlisted as an officer, he had the education for it, but had turned down the chance. No one could work out why. But he was a good soldier and that was all that interested Carter for the moment.
“What’s the capital of Nyasaland3?” He asked as he came to a stop in front of Green. It was a game they played. Carter would ask a question and Green would provide an answer. Carter sometimes had to go to the Officers’ Mess library to check up on whether he was right. He usually was.
“Zomba, Sir.” Green snapped without hesitation.
“Correct.” Carter said. He’d overheard one of the other officers saying he had visited the place before the War.
“That was an easy one, Sir.” Green grinned at him.
“Eyes front, Green!” the Sergeant snapped. Carter stifled a smile and moved on, to complete the circuit of the hut, finishing in front of Corporal Dyson.
“A very good turnout, men.” He turned to the Sergeant. “What’s next on the programme for today?”
“Route march, Sir, ending up at the rifle ranges. Ten rounds per man, then march back.”
“Arrange for transport back from the ranges.” He ordered. It was a small reward, considering how hard they had worked to prepare for the inspection but by providing trucks the platoon would get back earlier and get some additional time off.
“Yes Sir.” He snapped up a parade ground standard salute, which Carter returned before turning on his heel and leaving the hut to return to his office in the B Company lines.
He threw his hat onto the stand in the corner, silently congratulating himself when it caught on one of the hooks and stayed there, swaying gently back and forth. He dropped into his seat behind his desk and looked at his in-tray. There wasn’t much in it. There never was. Not enough to keep him occupied for an hour, let alone for the rest of the morning. He longed for something to interrupt the tedium of life in barracks.
The men were happy though. After the debacle of Dunkirk most of them would be content with the boredom. The battalion had seen a lot of action, as it had made up the British Expeditionary Force’s rear guard for most of the retreat to the sea. But Carter hadn’t been at Dunkirk. He’d been at University, studying to become an engineer. He could have stayed, of course, remaining to finish his degree before being conscripted, but hearing the news of the men being trapped on the beaches he knew that he couldn’t stay in school while others fought and died. He sought an interview with his tutor, agreed a sabbatical until the end of the war and the next day he reported to the local recruiting office to volunteer. With his qualifications he was sent straight to an officer training school before being posted to the Second Battalion, The Huntingdonshire Regiment, where he soon found out that a soldier’s life was far less exciting than he had imagined.
He picked up the first file from the small pile. A blue one, meaning it was something to do with personnel issues. He looked at the title: Special Applications. It told him nothing. He opened it and read the top entry.
It was a standard application form to do something that wasn’t covered by the normal rules and regulations. At the top were the number rank and name of the applicant, followed by a pre-printed phrase ‘Sir, I have the honour to request that …’ followed by blank lines that allowed the soldier to describe what it was that he wanted to do. In this case, Private Green wanted to volunteer for special service under a specific Army Council Instruction. That rang a bell in Carter’s memory. He got up from his chair and reached for the wad of Routine Orders that hung on a bulldog clip from a nail driven into the wall.
He leafed through until he found the one he wanted. Yes, there it was. A general call for volunteers for special service involving hazardous duties of an unspecified nature. It seemed that Carter wasn’t the only one in the barracks who was hungering for something a little more exciting. He had heard of others, from different companies, volunteering but Green was the first from his platoon; at least, the first since Carter had arrived with the Battalion.
It must mean the commandos, he mused. Their raids across the North Sea and the English Channel were gaining a lot of news coverage as the nation became desperate for victories, even small ones. He recalled a newsreel item that he’d seen at the cinema recently, showing commandos raiding some islands off the coast of northern Norway. The islands were so insignificant that he couldn’t even recall their names, but the newsreel had treated the raid as if it had been against Berlin itself.
Ollie Hansen, a friend from officer training, was up at Ringway, near Manchester, training to be a paratrooper with one of the commando units.
Well, if Green wanted to throw himself out of a perfectly good aeroplane, then Carter wasn’t going to stand in his way, literally or metaphorically. Returning to his seat he scribbled a short recommendation on the application and signed his name. He closed the folder, crossed his name off the front and wrote in that of the Company Commander before dropping it into his ‘out’ tray for the Messenger to collect.
1 Fizzer – slang for a ‘charge’ as in ‘to press charges’, the taking of disciplinary action against a soldier.
2 Bisley – Located in Surrey, Bisley has been the home of the National Rifle Association (not to be confused with the similarly named lobbying group in the USA) since 1890 and has hosted a wide range of military and civilian shooting competitions over the years.
3 Nyasaland – This former British colony is now called Malawi. It gained its independence in July 1964.
* * *
“I’m getting damned sick of the commandos stealing all our best men.” The Commanding Officer fumed the next day. In front of his desk, the regulation three paces back, stood Private Green. Slightly further away, and at an angle to the CO, stood Carter.
The summons had been unexpected. This sort of application usually went through ‘on the nod’ once the Company Commander had signed it off. It made Carter wonder what was so special about this one.
“So, Green, what is it that makes you want to volunteer for special service.” The CO demanded. He was an old school officer who would probably have been retired had the war not broken out. Carter knew that he had served with distinction in France during the previous war, but his career had stalled afterwards, as the army shrank and there were half a dozen suitable candidates for every promotion. The sudden expansion of the army in 1938 had changed that, of course. With officers being posted to command newly formed reserve battalions, Lt Col Neville had found himself promoted to command of the 2nd Battalion when it returned from France, the previous incumbent having been seriously wounded.
“I want to kill Nazis, Sir.” Green said, standing rigidly to attention, staring at a spot about two inches above the CO’s head.
“You make it sound personal.”
“It is, Sir. I spent my student years organising anti-fascist marches. Before that I went on ant-fascist marches with my father.”
“Student years? Oh, yes, it says here you have a degree in Philosophy. Doesn’t really go with that accent of yours.”
“No, Sir. Got a scholarship.” Green kept his face a blank, but there was something in his tone that resented the CO’s reference to his accent.
“Still doesn’t account for why you are so keen to volunteer. What motivated you march against the fascists in the first place.”
Carter was getting nervous. This sort of questioning wasn’t normal. Green’s motivation was irrelevant. He was either entitled to volunteer under the relevant army instruction, or he wasn’t. It was an open and shut case, as far as Carter was concerned.
“I don’t like what they’re doing to the Jews, Sir. All those laws the Nazis passed in the thirties, stripping the Jews of their nationality, confiscating their property, sending them to camps. It isn’t right. They would have done it here if people hadn’t stood up against them.”
“You have sympathy with the Jews?”
“My Grandfather fled to Britain following Russia’s pogroms against the Jews, Sir. My family name was Greenbaum, but my grandfather changed it so we would fit in better.”
“So, you’re a Jew, eh?” The CO could barely conceal the sneer in his voice.
“No, Sir. Jewishness is passed through the female line. My father may have been Jewish, but my mother is a gentile. That makes me a gentile in the eyes of Jewish law. Not that it matters, I’m an atheist myself.”
“An atheist as well. The commies are all atheists. Are you a communist?”
“No, Sir. I am a Socialist.”
“Just as bad, if you ask me. Well, I’m not going to have left wing agitators in my battalion, so I’ll approve your application.”
“Thank you, Sir.” Green was an experienced enough soldier to maintain a mask that hid his true feelings about what had just been said.
“I doubt you’ll be thanking me when you’re lying on some beach somewhere being machine gunned by Jerry.” The CO scribbled his signature on Green’s application and handed the file to Carter. “Dismiss.” He barked.
Green snapped off a salute, did a crisp about turn and marched out of the office.
The CO waited for the sound of his boots to fade along the corridor before he spoke again. “Sometimes I think that Herr Hitler has the right idea about the Jews. What do you think, Carter?”
Carter was horrified by what he had said. They were fighting this war to defeat fascism, but here was a senior officer in the Army suggesting the enemy leader may have a point. Carter wondered if he had been a secret Blackshirt1 before they were banned at the outbreak of war.
“I try not to get involved in politics.” Carter decided a non-committal answer was the best option. The CO’s opinions had caused more than one junior officer to regret expressing his own feelings.
“He’s a Socialist as well. One of those rabble rousers we had to deal with back in 19262. We can do without his sort. Let the Commandos have him, eh? They’ll soon knock that nonsense out of him.”
“I know it isn’t my place to ask,” Carter said, “but I was wondering why you asked to interview Green. After all, this sort of application doesn’t usually result in an interview.”
“If I want to interview one of my men, I’ll damn well interview him.” The CO snapped. “Dammed impertinence. As it happens, I wanted to make sure you hadn’t put the man up to volunteering. I know you think that garrison duties are tedious, but I don’t want your views lowering the morale of the men.”
Carter was just about to protest his innocence, when he realised that it would be futile and would only put him further into the CO’s bad books.
“But that is a moot point now.” The CO continued. “He’s not the right type for the Huntingdons.”
Given that Green was no different, in any significant way, from any of the other soldiers, Carter wondered what the ‘right type’ was. It was pretty clear to him that it wasn’t anyone who was either Jewish or a Socialist. It was time for him to go, Carter thought, before he did say something he would regret. While he held no strong political views of his own, if he really thought about it, he would probably consider himself to be a conservative with a small c, it went with his upbringing. But he hadn’t yet had time to test that at the ballot box. The last General Election had been in 1935, when he had been just fifteen years old; far too young to vote. The next election probably wouldn’t take place until the war’s end, because of the need for national unity. But even considering all that, Carter was struggling to listen to the political views being expressed by his CO. They didn’t even sound like large c conservatism. Perhaps it was time to stage a tactical withdrawal.
“I won’t take up any more of your time, Sir. I know how busy you are.”
“Eh?” Neville seemed to have drifted off into some sort of reverie, staring out of the office window and into the middle distance. “Yes, yes. You get along now.”
1 Blackshirts – the name given to members of the British Union of Fascists, founded in 1932 by Sir Oswald Mosley. At their peak they had a membership of about 50,000, though they will also have had some sympathisers. At the outbreak of World War II they were banned. Mosley and 740 other Blackshirts were imprisoned for the duration of the war to prevent them undermining the British war effort.
2 1926 – On 4th May 1926 the Trades Union Congress (TUC) called a General Strike in support of a million coal miners who had been locked out of the mines by their employers in a dispute over pay and working hours. Approximately 1.7 million people came out on strike, in addition to the miners who had been locked out. Troops were mobilised to escort food supplies and to assist in maintaining essential services. Tens of thousands of members of the public also volunteered to take the place of the strikers. The strike ended after 9 days without any concessions from the mine owners on the miners’ case. The miners struggled on, but by November most were back down the mines working longer hours for less money.
* * *
Carter looked at the application form again, now with the CO’s signature scrawled across the bottom. What he had heard disturbed him. He knew that the CO was a man of strong feelings. There had been plenty of Mess dinners where the CO held court over the brandy and cigars, extolling the virtues of Empire and the need for the British to lead the ‘natives’ out of the darkness. But the anti-Semitism he had heard expressed so openly was another matter. Someone who didn’t regard all the population of the country as being equal in all things was someone that Carter couldn’t respect. As far as Green’s politics were concerned, they were his own business, not the CO’s. And if he couldn’t respect his commanding officer, could he serve under him?
And if he couldn’t serve under him, what were his other options?
