A Different Kind of Love

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 other 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 agreeing 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.

Eventually was a significant word, thought Probyn, accepting a cigarette from CSM Dungworth. The war that the newspapers had decreed would be over by Christmas was in stalemate. This was no revelation to old sweats like the RSM and his companion. The same disparaging remarks now directed at the Germans had once been uttered over the Boers and that so-called tea-party had lasted three years. Yet however much he tried to convey this to the young gallants in his charge they remained frantic that it would all be over before they arrived, just like the last lot had been. His thoughts strayed to the decimated ranks of the original BEF across the Channel, valiantly holding the line and waiting in the mud and cold for reinforcements. He knew all too well what that was like. Yet war could produce all sorts of bizarre situations; only last month he had been billeted in the manor of a millionaire. Just wait till he told Grace!

Finishing the cigarette, Probyn took his leave of CSM Dungworth and made for a warmer place to spend the night, which was one of the privileges of rank. First, though, he made a brief diversion.

Huddled beneath his improvised shelter of branches, rain dripping off the leaves, Louis Postgate had managed to procure sympathy from a fellow trainee, who had rustled up a ground sheet, a coat and two blankets into which Louis had now wrapped himself, though with only a dinner suit beneath, his teeth still chattered. Sequestered in misery, he rolled into a ball and tried to sleep, but angry thoughts prevented it: a pox on Guy for his sanctimony and on the heartless RSM.

It was upon such a picture of woe that RSM Kilmaster intruded, his unsmiling face peering into the welter of branches. ‘Ah, I’m glad to see someone has taken pity on you, Mr Postgate!’

Teeth still juddering, the fledgeling officer uncurled from his cold tight ball and tried to sound cheerful. ‘Yes, thank you for your concern, sir! I shall be fine.’

The reply was frigid. ‘Oh, do not attribute my observation to kindness, Mr Postgate, it is merely expediency. It’ll save me an explanation to the colonel as to why one of his officers has frozen to death through his own stupidity.’ Probyn gave a contemptuous nod and marched away. Yet once his back was turned he allowed a smile to play at his lips and, taking horse-drawn transport, he went off to his billet.

His current landlady, an elderly widow, was there to welcome him the second he arrived, her bony hands helping him off with his greatcoat and directing him towards a fire that turned the parlour into a furnace and his nose into a waterspout. ‘Your slippers are waiting on the hearth, Mr Kilmaster!’

The stentorian bark was displaced by soft Yorkshire vowels. ‘Eh, you pamper me, Mrs Shepherd.’ Laying his prized new officer’s hat on a heavily carved ebony sideboard, Probyn sank into the fireside chair and unwound his puttees, exchanged his wet boots for the slippers that this motherly soul had bought especially for him, then was in turn provided with a bowl of hot water, soap and warm towels and a delicious beef stew.

‘You look tired, dear,’ crooned the old lady, enjoying watching him eat his meal. ‘Have those naughty boys been acting up again?’ Only now in this homely presence could Probyn allow himself to relax and smile at tonight’s farce, and for answer he threw up his eyes in mock despair. It did not come naturally to play the bully. As a young recruit he had made a name for himself as defender of the weak, but his current position required him to be terrible and terrible he would be. These youngsters were going to war and he must ensure they were fully prepared. If they hated him for it, so be it.

The days crept by and still the call to war did not come. It was just as well, thought Probyn, out for a brisk walk that frosty Sabbath and catching sight of Robert Gaylard totally lost and confused despite being in possession of a map and compass. Yet this was no great cause for despair; a lad who was keen enough to be out so early was bound to succeed in the end. Moreover, upon return to the vastly swollen barracks at Aldershot, Probyn was to witness other young subalterns poring over textbooks, yet more pushing matches about a table in representation of troops – all in their free time – and most refreshing of all, the beasting he had given Louis Postgate seemed to have taken effect, for since that night the lad had diligently refrained from accepting invitations to dinner, instead staying up late to prepare his work for the following day. Would that enthusiasm could win a war, for these young gentlemen possessed it in abundance.

Yet Probyn’s work was never done, for just as these youngsters started to resemble officers another bunch of novices arrived, and inevitably there were those amongst them who thought they already knew it all.

Aided by years of experience to recognize a weak link the moment he laid eyes on one, Probyn watched his latest candidate strut around in pathetic imitation of an officer, lording it over his peers when it was obvious he was no more versed in military matters than they, and he relished the thought of demolishing this poseur. For now, though, he bided his time, content to observe Major Harry Lewis trying to instruct the newest intake in company drill: required to command a bunch of equally raw recruits, their efforts were chaotic.

Looking at the pasty-faced collection, some of them more used to weighing out bags of tea and currants, Probyn experienced a momentary flash of despair. The original mongrel-mix of scarlet tunics, civilian overcoats and flat caps might have been replaced by emergency blue uniforms but by no stretch of the imagination could this be termed a fighting force. However, most of them were keen to learn and he was equally determined to transform them, itching now to take over from the major, a man in his fifties, whose patience had obviously become tested to the limit for, with a gesture of hopelessness, he called to the RSM, ‘Mr Kilmaster, would you mind standing in whilst I go and commit suicide.’

Gladly, Probyn stepped forth, his tone adopting an upper-class inflection. ‘Now, gentlemen, we can’t have you upsetting the major like this. You’re going to have to buck your ideas up.’ Bringing the recruits back into line, he invited one of the subalterns to try again.

But, even under the experienced guidance of the RSM the youngsters were to perform no better. The weakest link, instead of observing was apparently away in some far-off land, his expression bored, his posture slouched and his cane idly tapping.

‘Mr Faljambe!’ The culprit was startled from his reverie by the RSM’s bark. ‘Are we boring you?’

The well-fed, rather arrogant-looking youth with the blond moustache began, ‘Well, I have already seen this done several—’

‘Ah! Then you’ll know exactly what to do. In that case kindly do not keep slapping your thigh with your cane, we are not auditioning for the part of Dandini in a pantomime!’ Having gained his full attention, Probyn instructed, ‘Take charge of your company, please.’

Faljambe did so. The performance was abominable, as reflected in the RSM’s pithy comment.

Why, Mr Faljambe, I was given to understand that you knew all there is to know about soldiering!’

Faljambe caught the smirk that flickered between his companions. ‘I beg your pardon, RSM,’ his large jaw and the set of his mouth gave him a rather superior air, ‘I might perform better were I—’

‘You will call me sir, Mr Faljambe!’ A smouldering volcano, Probyn glared at him. ‘I may occasionally call you sir, the only difference is that you will mean it!’ After Faljambe’s insincere apology, he added, ‘You were about to explain your abysmal performance.’

Well, I was just about to say that I might function a little better were I given real soldiers who knew what they were doing.’

Probyn held the speaker with glittering eyes. ‘You want real soldiers, Mr Faljambe? I wonder, would you recognize a real soldier if it jumped up and ran you through with a bayonet?’

Faljambe looked shocked and offended. ‘I’m sorry, it was just a suggest—’

‘No, no!’ Probyn assumed an air of reason. ‘Far be it from me to stunt an officer’s development. I can see you are far too highly skilled for the awkward squad. If Mr Faljambe wants real soldiers he shall have them.’ He wheeled to instruct one of the new recruits. ‘Private Willett, go across to Sergeant Glew and ask if these officers may borrow his men. At the double now!’

Private Willett dashed off across the overcrowded square to where other, slightly more experienced troops were being put through their drill. These were marched up at double time.

After thanking Sergeant Glew, Probyn announced, ‘Now, Mr Faljambe will give us the benefit of his experience.’ Turning to address the more qualified squad, he added, ‘This officer is now going to put you through your drill. Carry on, Mr Faljambe.’ He made a sweeping gesture of invitation and took a step back to remove himself, thereby initiating a period of humiliation for the overconfident youth.

Regretting his braggadocio now, and somewhat anxious at having antagonized his tutor, a blushing Faljambe reluctantly stepped from the cluster of fellow trainees who shared his apprehension. ‘I shall try my best, sir.’

‘I am sure you will, Mr Faljambe.’ The beefy face displayed quiet confidence.

Poising before the ranks of strangers, Hugh Faljambe tapped his cane on his gloved palm for a few moments, before remembering the earlier admonishment and tucking it under his arm. ‘What exactly would you like me to do with them, sir?’

‘I leave it entirely in your hands, Mr Faljambe.’ Momentarily distracted by the jingle of harness, Probyn saw that the colonel, sauntering by on his grey polo pony, had stopped to watch. Ergo, he prompted the young man. ‘Mr Faljambe?’

After further hesitation, Faljambe became more decisive. ‘Right!’ But when some of the men stamped a right turn he called to them hastily, ‘No, hang on! I didn’t mean for you to turn—’

‘Oh, you mustn’t issue an instruction unless you mean it, Mr Faljambe.’ A shake of head accompanied Probyn’s quiet admonishment. ‘These men are primed to follow your every command.’

Faljambe hardly dared to open his mouth now. The CO’s horse clip-clopped away, a look of faint disgust on its rider’s face.

‘Perhaps you’d like to march them around the square?’ submitted Probyn when no movement was forthcoming.

Faljambe brightened. This seemed easy enough. ‘Very well, you chaps, on my command, by the left, quick march!’ Having launched the squad into action he began to march briskly alongside with the RSM following and his fellow subalterns hurrying in their wake.

‘They’re spreading out, Mr Faljambe!’ Probyn called a warning. ‘Would you like me to whistle up a sheepdog to assist you?’

Somehow, Faljambe brought the files back into order and seemed to be coping quite well until they reached the corner of the parade ground. But there, instead of turning, the men continued down a path that led to the kitchens, and when in his panic he failed to call a halt they proceeded to march straight into a wall, instead of marking time the files at the rear marching into those in front and the whole display collapsing into levity.

Throwing up his hands, Faljambe turned to the RSM for explanation.

‘You omitted the order to left wheel, Mr Faljambe,’ reproved Probyn.

Faljambe’s blond moustache was skewed by disdain. ‘Oh, but one would think they could do that without being told!’

‘These are soldiers, Mr Faljambe,’ Probyn explained as if to a toddler. ‘The only thing they are able to do without being given a command is to breathe – Mr Reynard, hands out of pockets, if you please!’

Standing some distance away the podgy offender almost jumped out of his skin as the sharp command was bellowed at him. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s just so dreadfully cold, isn’t it? My fingers have gone numb—’

‘In keeping with your brain then!’

Upon the RSM’s contemptuous interjection Reynard dropped his gaze to the floor, finishing his sentence on a lame note: ‘—due to a circulatory problem.’

‘You are not alone. Mr Faljambe appears to have a circulatory problem too,’ Probyn turned back to his former target, ‘for he cannot manage the simple task of marching his troops around the square! Now bring them to order and start again, and stop wafting that cane about as if you were conducting a blasted orchestra!’

Annoyed at being ridiculed in front of his peers – not to mention the lower ranks – Faljambe assembled the men as best he could and set them off marching again in the direction of the parade ground. Unfortunately, an obstacle blocked their passage. Lacking any instruction to go around it, the men seemed to take great delight in kicking their way through the line of dustbins, setting them rolling with a dreadful clamour and scattering rubbish everywhere.

Hands over his ears, a dismayed Faljambe told the RSM, ‘This is quite ridiculous. I shall just have to admit defeat.’

Probyn narrowed his eyes at the rankers, who to his mind were extracting far too much glee from this, but for now he let the matter lie, concentrating on the young officer’s efforts. ‘Defeat is not a word we even think, Mr Faljambe. Sharp, tight, smart – those are the words I would have tattooed upon your brain! You are all far too slovenly for my liking.’ At this, he ran his penetrating eyes over the entire gathering. ‘Henceforth, I expect every move you make to be as sharp as Jack Frost’s—’

‘Prick,’ muttered a ranker out of earshot.

‘—tongue!’ Detailing two of the worst offenders to clear up the rubbish with a lance corporal to supervise, Probyn assisted the trainee officer in bringing the men once more into straight lines, their ranks now including the newer recruits too.

Again and again the humiliated Faljambe was called to repeat the instructed movements until he began to get a grasp of matters, and until Probyn was quite sure he would not repeat his mistake. Even then, he and his fellows were made to re-enact the exercise over the next few hours until they finally gained competency.

At first the men under their command had seen this as the opportunity for a lark, but the monotonous repetition had now begun to grate.

‘Is he going to keep this up all fooking day?’ The grumble was delivered with a South Yorkshire accent. ‘We could’ve marched to fooking France at this rate.’

‘Halt!’ Probyn took command. ‘Very well, gentlemen, that will suffice for now.’

The relieved subalterns were about to retire when Hugh Faljambe was called to a private aside from the RSM.

‘And the moral of this morning’s exercise, Mr Faljambe: do not pretend you know what to do when you quite obviously do not. The bullets in France are all too real.’

Unusually subdued, Hugh Faljambe slunk from the parade ground.

But the RSM had not finished with the rankers. ‘That man there, six paces forward!’

In unpolished fashion, the man who had sworn, a newcomer, did as he was ordered, though judging from his expression he remained unimpressed by authority. The frame might be impoverished but the attitude was tough. It was an unlikeable face, a face old beyond its years, the cheekbones jutting like shelves of slate, the jade eyes equally uncompromising.

Recognizing a persistent defaulter in the making, Probyn decided to nip this tendency in the bud and stalked up to him. ‘You seem to be having trouble getting the grasp of marching, Private Unthank!’

‘Not if I’m given the proper order … sir.’

‘Don’t you slaver at me! If I say you have trouble in marching then you have trouble!’ His nose only inches away from Unthank’s, Probyn glared at him, daring the other to meet his eye.

Unthank glared back insolently. Feared as a rough character in his own mining community, he tried hard to maintain his resistance, but eventually the force of that personality was just too strong. His green eyes wavered and he was compelled to break his gaze.

‘Sergeant Glew!’ Still, Probyn did not remove his piercing eyes from Unthank’s face. ‘I thank you for the loan of your men. The rest of them are once more at your disposal, Private Unthank will remain here to receive extra discipline. Hand me that pace stick, if you will.

‘Now,’ he told the defaulter when there was just the two of them. ‘Let’s put you through your paces!’

Unthank resisted. ‘I’ve done all you’ve asked. This is victimization. I’m not doing it.’

Rarely had Probyn been confronted by such an obstinate man. Normally the sheer strength of his personality would frighten offenders into submission. It would have been easier just to sling him in the guard house. Instead of bawling, however, he again focused his hypnotic gaze on Unthank. ‘Tell me, Private, for I’m finding it very hard to comprehend, why did you join the army?’

Unthank hesitated. It could be a trick question, an invitation to fatigues. ‘To kill Germans,’ he said eventually.

The beefy face showed incredulity. ‘You think that’s all there is to it?’

Unthank’s waxen brow furrowed. ‘What else is an army for but to win wars?’

‘Ultimately, yes, but there are other benefits.’ Probyn voiced individual beliefs. ‘One would hope that such association might help instil pride in yourself, pride in your regiment.’

Unthank scoffed. ‘I dig coal for a living. That’s what I’ll be going back to once we’ve given the Boche an ’ammering.’

It was only one intransigent voice, yet it was akin to encountering the piece of gristle that ruins the entire meal. An ex-miner himself, Probyn might bear the same blue coal scars as did Unthank, but the two were cast from very different moulds. Against his better judgement Probyn had yearned to make something of this New Army whom all the old regulars derided, hoped that along with the patriotism they obviously felt for their country these men might also learn to share his love of soldiering. But now he had to concede that one could not force them to share his regimental devotion, could only equip them for the fight.

‘Very well,’ he responded grimly, still holding the other’s eyes. ‘If that’s all you’re here for then so be it. But you are here and you are under my command, and if you want to get out of the war alive you’d better heed what I tell you because you won’t last five minutes otherwise.’

‘And all this drilling rubbish is going to save me, is it?’ came the impudent enquiry.

‘Not from a German bullet, maybe, but it will certainly save you from a spell on prison rations, because, Private Unthank, if you continue to refuse an order that is where you will find yourself – so get your useless carcass moving now!’ His vocal crescendo and his sheer presence having finally jolted Unthank into obedience, the formidable RSM proceeded to harry him around the square, screaming at him constantly – ‘’Eft-’ight-’eft-’ight-’eft-’ight-keep moving!’ – going through all the drill in the book, putting Unthank through sweating torment for half an hour up and down the parade ground, making him start right from the beginning if he got one foot wrong – ‘And again!’ – until the man’s legs began to buckle and he was finally released.

Yet, though his eyes swam with exhaustion there was, too, a flash of defiance for his tormentor as a crimson-faced Unthank finally staggered from the parade ground.

Having felt pleased with himself for taking the wind out of Faljambe’s sails, Probyn was surprised to hear the sound of his distinctive foghorn laughter coming from the lecture room only a few hours later. Creeping noiselessly along the corridor, he paused outside the open door to listen. Assembled in the lecture room, the young subalterns had found themselves without a tutor and, to stave off tedium whilst they waited for Major Lewis to arrive, were having an impromptu concert – at their superior’s expense. However, it was not Faljambe who was the star. Guy Postgate held the stage, a moustache of black paper glued to his upper lip – obviously not with anything stronger than saliva, for it kept falling off, much to the audience’s amusement – and a pointer in his hand which he directed at the blackboard in imitation of Major Lewis, his instructions bordering on the ridiculous. Remaining hidden, Probyn enjoyed the fun for a moment, then craned to look at Louis Postgate, who was huddled in a far corner with his back to the audience, appearing to be in the act of shoving items down his clothing.

The laughter was just dying down over Guy’s impersonation, when suddenly Louis burst onto the stage, evoking immediate roars of mirth. Adopting a theatrically ramrod stance, a cushion shoved up his tunic, various items up his sleeves and down the legs of his trousers to give the impression of bulging muscles, Louis Postgate strode up to face his audience, a cane tucked smartly under his arm and his cheeks puffed out like balloons. ‘Settle down, gentlemen!’ The voice was an absurd mix of Yorkshire and upper class. ‘Mr Faljambe, is that a smirk I see upon your face? Well, take it off before I rip it off! I will not ’ave it! You are not ’ere to enjoy yourself, you are ’ere to learn. Now, pay attention!’ He spun intricately on his heel and proceeded to swagger up and down, his false stomach jutting ahead of him, whilst the others howled with laughter.

Probyn bristled as he recognized the grossly overblown impression of himself. The impudent little …

Gritting his teeth he continued to spy.

‘You’ve forgotten the pair of horns, Louis!’ called someone, prompting another to make bellowing noises.

Spurred by the applause, Louis was in full flow, cavorting about the stage and permeating his speech with bull-like snorting. ‘What was that you said, Mr Reynard? Moo? I will not hear such defeatist talk! Snort, roar and bellow, those are the only words in my vocabulary!’

Faljambe fell off his chair, his infectious braying sending the others into near hysterics.

At this, the fake RSM bawled in horror, ‘Major Lewis, sah, these gentlemen har historical, what ham I to do with them?’

‘Gentlemen?’ Still in his role of major, Guy cocked his ear. ‘Did I hear you call these slapdash oafs gentlemen, RSM?’

All set to burst in and deliver a grilling to his detractors, Probyn turned quickly at the arrival of the genuine major.

‘What are they up to, Mr Kilmaster?’

Probyn moved aside, murmuring, ‘See for yourself, sir.’

Upon recognizing Louis’s impersonation, Major Lewis recoiled. ‘The dashed impudence – but who is Postgate senior meant to be?’

Probyn tweaked his moustache, a slight twinkle in his eye. ‘Well, it’s a bad portrayal but I think it’s meant to be you, sir.’

‘Hmm.’ The major looked only slightly amused. ‘Would you like the pleasure, or shall I, Mr Kilmaster?’

‘Oh, be my guest, sir.’ A calm Probyn remained where he was.

The brothers were too involved in their repartee to notice the imminent danger.

‘Sorry, sah, I did not mean to call them gentlemen!’ To rising hysteria, Louis’s deportment became increasingly preposterous. ‘Miserable buffoons like—’

‘Buffoon is certainly the word, Mr Postgate!’ Heads shot round at Major Lewis’s interjection, the laughter immediately displaced by a deathly hush as he stalked up to those involved in parody. ‘Take off that ridiculous moustache!’ Guy was told.

‘Sir, I—’

His attempted apology was curtailed. ‘This is the sort of infantile behaviour one might expect from schoolboys, not officers of the British Army!’ Major Lewis glared at both subdued faces, then at everyone in the room, all of whom looked equally abashed.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ Guy finally managed to insert.

The major’s face remained severe. ‘It is not that I object to being the butt of your puerile humour, gentlemen – though I should refrain from the use of that term, for your behaviour towards the RSM was far from being gentlemanly!’

Louis tendered his own apology. ‘We meant no harm, sir, it’s just that laughter is our only form of revenge.’

‘Revenge?’ Major Lewis looked astounded. ‘Mr Kilmaster is not the enemy!’

‘No, sir … but it sometimes feels as though he is.’

Still outside listening, Probyn gave an inward sigh as another added his voice in support of Postgate. ‘The RSM has been rather hard on all of us this week, sir.’

Major Lewis uttered a laughing gasp, then shook his head. ‘Hard? Are you complete and utter idiots? You don’t know the meaning of the word! It will be a damned sight harder when you get to the front.’

He paused for effect, glaring at each boyish face in turn. ‘Let me tell you about the man you chose to ridicule. RSM Kilmaster joined the army in eighteen ninety, earned his first Good Conduct Medal before some of you were even born, took part in quashing the Matabele revolt, served obediently in Africa and any other part of the British Empire to which the army chose to send him in his twenty-one-year career, and contributed most illustriously to the Relief of Ladysmith. There is nothing Mr Kilmaster does not know about the army; from the cookhouse to the musketry range to the orderly room, the scope and skill of his organization are phenomenal and are to be admired not mocked, do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the humble chorus.

‘Good! For without men like RSM Kilmaster there would be no army!’ The major concluded with a decree, clenching his fist to emphasize. ‘Listen to him, learn all he is willing to impart, take any rebuke on the chin for you can be sure that it is not issued for the good of his health but the good of yours. In short, gentlemen, it is Mr Kilmaster’s expertise that may avert your own premature demise.’

2

Snow had fallen and at noon was four inches deep but by the time they had tramped miles to the Revue ground it had been converted to slush by a heavy downpour. The men had now been poised here for almost two hours waiting for General Kitchener and the French Minister of War to inspect them, officers with swords drawn, water streaming down the bright blades, ears turning from red to blue to purple, boots full of water, uniforms weighed down by icy spears of January rain, the ground a morass of mud.

It would all be good practice for them, thought their equally drenched RSM, and though he himself was suffering the torment of rheumatism, one would not have guessed it from his proud bearing. Under his glittering gaze, the battalion stood firm as the deluge soaked all to the skin. Amongst the massive gathering of troops men of other brigades were performing all sorts to keep warm – even playing leapfrog – but Probyn would allow no such antics. To keep his own mind occupied he began a tally of those who fainted and had to be carried off, proud that his own men held the most splendid discipline.

Shivering, waiting. It was all part of army life but it was one thing Probyn detested and he turned his mind to sunnier thoughts, at the same time keeping his eyes honed to spot a frozen hand creeping into a pocket. The major’s words were still fresh enough in his mind to cause his breast to swell. The scope and skill of his organization are phenomenal. A tremor of delight went through him, making up for all the discomfort and ridicule by the callow officers – though he had forgiven them now, could even laugh about their tomfoolery. They were only youngsters after all.

His musings were permeated by the faint sounds of a motorcar splashing through puddles, and a familiar Yorkshire voice muttered, ‘At fooking last,’ as General Kitchener’s vehicle came into view. Or rather, Probyn could only surmise it was the general’s car, for it did not stop but drove straight past the sodden ranks of men, the whirr of its engine evaporating into the distance.

Not a salute nor even a wave – after two hours! Frozen to the core, Probyn glanced bleakly at the adjutant. The adjutant in turn looked to the colonel who stared back at him through the rain for an outraged second, before the order was issued from tight lips for the battalion to prepare to march home.

Probyn snapped into action, bawling orders, and rank by rank the drenched men squelched an orderly, if grim-faced, return to Barossa Barracks.

There it was a different story, much cursing and insurrection to be heard as Probyn toured the overcrowded building, its rooms filling with steam as the scramble began to find a place to hang each waterlogged uniform.

In the trainee officers’ quarters Reynard was driving his roommates to distraction with his constant whimpering, wringing his bloodless hands in an attempt to restore the circulation and monopolizing the stove. ‘I shall have to see the MO, I’m sure I’ve contracted frostbite.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Foxy, you weren’t the only one out on parade,’ spat a shivering Gaylard out of mottled red cheeks.

There was immediate objection from the robust-looking Reynard, whose nickname was a poor choice for he was unlike a fox in every way, his hair black, his nose more like that of a turtle and his eyes projecting not cunning but inertia. ‘Yes, but I doubt any of you almost died from pneumonia before you were a year old! I was a very delicate child. Mother only allowed me to join on the condition that I’d look after myself.’

‘What are you, a soldier or a sop?’ Faljambe’s arrogant jaw came jutting towards the stove. ‘Quit moaning and stop hogging the fire.’ And Reynard was elbowed aside.

Louis Postgate was complaining to his brother Guy with whom he was on friendlier terms again. ‘What a damned liberty! Keeps us waiting all that time without even a second glance, the miserable arse.’

‘Mr Postgate, I trust it is not your general of whom you speak?’ Almost by, Probyn took an exaggerated backwards step and looked through the doorway to reprove the youngster.

‘Most certainly not, sir!’ came the falsely cheerful reply, the culprit trying to avoid that penetrating glare.

Guy followed through, issuing suavely, ‘My brother was just remarking what a miserable afternoon it is, sir.’

Probyn directed a shrewd eye at the brothers, allowing them to see that he did not believe them for one minute. Turning his attention to Foxy Reynard’s pained countenance, he was even less forgiving. ‘Mr Reynard, what is the condition of your men?’

Reynard looked confused. ‘I should think they are rather wet and cold as I am, sir.’

‘I should think they are. We all are. But might it not be time to stop putting yourself first and tend to the needs of those who rely on you?’ He glared at the other occupants of the room. ‘And that applies to every one of you, gentlemen.’

He thought he heard a muttered oath as he moved on, but it was mild in comparison to the ripe language amongst the rank and file.

‘Much more of this crap and I’m pissing off home,’ declared Tom Unthank. ‘I volunteered to fight a war not stand around getting fooking pneumonia.’

And though Probyn screeched an end to it he could not disagree with the sentiment. General Buller would never have kept the men waiting like this. Kitchener might be a great commander but he was possessed of an inability to recognize the fleshly weakness of lesser mortals. Yet who was to say which was the better general? He who put the comfort of his men above all or he who had the greater military skill? It was not for Probyn to judge. Lord Kitchener was renowned as a master of organization – on a far vaster scale than he himself could ever hope to achieve – and was said to be a man who never spared himself, so how could one expect him to spare others?

Nevertheless, as Hugh Faljambe had pointed out, these were not real soldiers and some of them were too fond of quoting their rights. At the thought of mutiny Probyn was forced to address the issue with the colonel, to whose office he strode now.

‘It’s going to be a massive job to get everyone dried, sir. There’s not enough space to hang things. The place looks like a Chinese laundry. What a pig of a day.’

Handing his sodden leather gloves to his batman, Lieutenant-Colonel Addison shared his concern. ‘We’ll have to give them something to take their minds off their discomfort.’ He turned to the adjutant. ‘Max, a quick change, then go into Aldershot and buy some rum.’

Despite his bedraggled state the thin-faced captain showed no aversion. ‘Yes, sir, how much?’

‘Enough for the whole battalion. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange to have it deducted from battalion funds rather than your imprest. I can’t have a repeat of October.’ During that month, under canvas in bad weather, large numbers had fallen victim to influenza. As the adjutant left to fulfil his request, the colonel turned his concerned eyes on his regimental sergeant-major, who, like himself, remained drenched, one spike of his waxed moustache carrying a twinkling droplet of rain. ‘Get out of those wet clothes and warm up, RSM. I’ll see you later when we’re both recovered.’

‘Sah!’ In the beginning, Probyn had not really liked the idea of serving under an officer from a different regiment but had soon come to admire Colonel Addison, who never shirked his leadership and seemed to enjoy being dragged out of retirement as much as he himself did.

He retreated, though only after making certain that those in his care were halfway warm and dry did he tend to his own needs. By the time the rum had arrived, putting the men in better mood, he was sitting by a stove, wrapped in a blanket, rubbing his painful calves, wet clothes steaming from an overhead rail.

‘Tip a drop of rum into that, Arrowsmith,’ he instructed his batman, who had placed a cup of tea before him. ‘And take some for yourself.’

‘Very good of you, sir.’ A tailor in civilian life, Ralph Arrowsmith had been selected for his well-spoken, reserved manner and impeccable tidiness. ‘Will you have your last bit of pork pie now?’

Probyn took a grateful sip of hot tea. ‘I’d better before it crawls off on its own, it’s turning decidedly grey.’ The pie had arrived in his last parcel from his wife, donated by Mr Kaiser, the German butcher from his home village. He enjoyed a tinge of irony as he bit into it, at the same time ripping open his mail.

More irony was to come. His eldest sister, Ethel, was writing to announce that she was getting married at last – and to a Catholic! She was the second of his five sisters to change her Wesleyan religion, and this after they had not contacted him for years in protest at his marriage to the Catholic Grace. Not a birthday card nor a letter had he received from them until now. Ethel had probably had to ask Aunt Kit for his address. Well, at least she had the decency to tell me herself, thought Probyn with affection, not like Wyn, who had still not informed him personally. He was about to take another bite of pork pie when it occurred to him that he was eating meat on a Friday. The momentary guilt at what Grace would say soon vanished and he finished the pie without qualm. As a latecomer to Catholicism, and only then so that he could marry Grace, he had often found it impracticable to maintain its rules when away from home. Later, whilst coughing over a Woodbine, he was to scribble a brief but friendly reply to let Ethel know she was forgiven. He declined the invitation to her wedding – not just because there was a war on but because all his sisters, especially the eldest, made him feel like a little boy. It would not do for a man in his position, especially one whose scope and skill of organization were phenomenal.

Grinning to himself, he shifted his aching legs, took a glance out of the window to see that it was still raining and moved nearer the fire. God grant them some better weather before they went to France.

Thankfully the weather was a trifle more clement on the day of the route march. Even so, many were to fall out even before the halfway mark, an elderly NCO bawling at each dawdler – ‘Stop dragging your arse! You’re acting like a bunch of pensioners. I was doing twenty miles a day at your age!’

‘And he was probably weaned on iron-filings,’ grumbled a sweating Reynard, pausing to heft the leaden pack that was carving a raw groove into his shoulders, before plodding on. ‘Oh God, my poor old barking dogs can’t go another step.’

‘Buck up, Foxy!’ panted an equally lathered Louis Postgate. None of the young officers had been spared the ordeal, most of them tramping doggedly alongside the men they would one day lead in battle. ‘Where’s the old house spirit? We’re supposed to teach by example.’ This in mind, he called words of encouragement to the stragglers, having made it his business to learn all their names since the RSM’s admonishment – ‘Keep it up, Rawmarsh, nearly there!’ – and he reached out to catch hold of the other’s sleeve, hauling the exhausted man onwards, though feeling close to collapse himself. ‘I don’t want to have to take any names!’ So far none of his platoon had dropped out, though along with his own obsolete rifle Louis had been forced to shoulder two others if their jaded owners were to have any chance of continuing. ‘Well done, everyone, not far to go now!’

What joy and relief was to be heard upon the appearance of a horse-drawn Lyons delivery van, which marked the halfway point, awaiting them with sandwiches and tea. Here, a great clatter arose as rifles and packs were cast aside, their owners falling gratefully to the verge where they were to lounge for an all-too-brief period of rest before it was up and onwards again.

Stoically shouldering his heavy pack and equipment, young Postgate shouted orders for his men to move, his words of encouragement rousing them to further heights, though before very long he was to find himself the possessor of three extra rifles as their owners again began to flag and had to be physically supported.

There was no need of such assistance for Unthank who, through sheer obstinacy, strode on, though under the weight of his kit his grim face was like a tomato and his nose dripped sweat.

Miles were pounded.

Amongst the steaming, struggling pack, Rawmarsh tripped and fell. Immediately a corporal was upon him yelling at him to get up, taunting him. ‘I thought you miners were supposed to be hard? You’re nothing but a bunch of fucking wasters, the lot of you!’

Taking exception to this, Unthank broke away from the bunch, an expression of dark intent upon his face. Recognizing that there was going to be violence, for Unthank was fast making a name for himself in this area, Louis Postgate yelled at him, ‘Give me a hand here, Unthank!’ and bent swiftly to issue words of motivation to Rawmarsh, trying to pull him to his feet.

Diverted, Unthank went to the officer’s aid, tucking a hand beneath the straggler’s left armpit, and between the two of them they managed to get Rawmarsh up and moving again.

Thenceforth, Unthank urged his exhausted sidekick onwards under a tide of expletives, motivated not by comradeship but by the knowledge that one man’s failure would prevent everyone else from going to the front. ‘Come on, you weak twat, I’m not having him saying that about us colliers. If I get shown up because of thee I’ll rip your fooking throat out.’

Somewhat shocked, Louis felt that, as leader, he should remonstrate with Unthank despite the intimidation the man induced in him. ‘I say, there’s no call for such language.’

His arm ostensibly still supporting the other, Unthank panted a grim reply. ‘Nay, he knows I don’t mean it seriously, dunt thee, lad?’

An exhausted Rawmarsh was none too sure of this; he did not like Unthank, but under the other’s threateningly tight grip he was forced to summon a good-natured response.

Louis smiled too, though in a somewhat confused manner. Whatever its intention the remark seemed to have given Rawmarsh new energy, enabling him to move under his own steam and allowing the officer to direct his own more courteous brand of encouragement at others who were floundering. ‘Well done! Keep it up. Nearly there.’

Up ahead, his sibling Guy was issuing similar valiant command, though his urging of the men was born more from a desire to reach the finishing post before his brother than out of a genuine