The Death of Hope by Andrew Wareham (inspirational books for women txt) 📕

sir. Thing to do, sir, is to gethold of a redcap and have him lead you through to the ticket office, sir.”

The driver whistled and waved to acorporal, beckoned him across. The policeman stiffened at the sight of ageneral accompanied by a brigadier, a sufficiency of rank to drop him into deeptrouble if they were offended. He spotted the splash of colour on Richard’s breast,saluted rigidly, immediately willing to assist fighting officers rather thanthe mass of Home Front warriors he saw more commonly.

“Four officers for Aldershot, Corporal.”

“Thank you, Driver. I will take them fromhere.”

All very formal, Richard saw, approvingly.They were in public, should be making the correct show.

The corporal beckoned to four of his men,brought them to his front to act as escort, ploughing their way in a straight lineto his destination.

“Warrants, if you please, sir.”

First class tickets appeared in less thanfive minutes, together with third for the batmen.

“Not running second class no more, sir.Put the men with your bags in the guard’s van, sir. Be safer there, the bags,that is, and more comfortable for the men than jammed in with some otherbattalion. Guard will have the kettle on as soon as you pull out.”

The corporal headed for a standing train,double-checked it was bound for Aldershot, ushered the pair into a crowded carriageimmediately next to the dining car. He put his head into a compartmentcontaining a major, two captains and three lieutenants, all happily comfortableand pleased with themselves for grabbing a place where they would have a chanceof eating, could certainly get a drink.

“Beg pardon, Major. General and Brigadier andstaff require seats.”

They stood reluctantly, knowing that theywould not find another compartment, would have to push in where they could, thelieutenants certainly standing all the way. There was a quick elbow in themajor’s ribs, eyes turned meaningfully to Richard’s chest. Salutes followed.

Richard heard their voices as they stalkeddown the corridor.

“Bedfordshires. Got to be Baker. Madebrigadier! Man can’t be thirty yet, by the look of him!”

Braithwaite showed amused.

“You look older than your years, Baker.What are you actually?”

“Twenty-one, sir.”

Braithwaite whistled.

“A Boy Brigadier indeed! Not the youngest,even so. Close to, must be.”

Wincanton and Braithwaite’s man werestaring open-mouthed, neither having realised Richard’s age.

“Not to be discussed, I think, gentlemen!”

They hurriedly agreed it was not a matterfor public debate.

The train remained in the station for halfan hour, finally heaved itself out onto the mainline and pottered off towards Hampshire,occasionally reaching express speeds, more often chugging along at thirty or somiles an hour. Sometimes it stopped, for no apparent reason, out in the middleof the winter countryside, barren and empty.

“Silver birch – miles of them, Baker. Lovelyin spring. Bleak at this time of year.”

Richard agreed – he had no knowledge ofthe countryside, accepted the trees to be silver birch from the colour of theirbark. He was far more interested in the steward who appeared at the door.

“Not got no restaurant service, gentlemen.Can do ham sandwiches and tea, if you wants.”

The bread was the previous day’s but the teawas strong and welcome.

“Four o’clock, Baker! Damned near threehours for a journey that used to be eighty minutes at most!”

There was transport at the station,waiting on the offchance of senior officers appearing, a common enough event atthe largest depot in Britain.

The problem arose of which of a dozenmesses they should be taken to.

“Beg pardon, sir. Enquire at the guardroomwill be best. If you are due today, you will be on a list.”

“War Office orders are to report today,soldier.”

“Shouldn’t be no problem, sir.”

Reaching the gates, the sergeant of theguard turned his men out for the general officer salute, was left wrong-footedwhen he spotted the VC, which took precedence.

“Beg pardon, sir.”

“Carry on, Sergeant.”

The familiar words brought comfort, givingthe sergeant the choice of action to take.

Formalities complete, he looked at hislist.

“Major General Braithwaite; Brigadier Baker,VC. Staff officers. Waterloo Mess, gentlemen, overnight. You are to go out tothe barracks at Arborfield, near Reading, in the morning, sir. Your Divisionhas been brought together there. Transport for nine o’clock, sir.”

“Zero nine hundred hours, is that,Sergeant?”

“Not in the Home Establishment, sir. Onlyused overseas, sir, the twenty-four hour clock. Don’t have twenty-four hours inthe working day in England, sir.”

Braithwaite showed irritated.

“Bloody well see about that tomorrow, man!”

“Yes, sir. Your drivers know where to go,sir. They will take you to the Waterloo Mess building, sir. Tenth and TwelfthBattalion of the Bedfords there, sir, which is why you were put there.”

“Twelve battalions in the Regiment now,Sergeant?”

“No, sir. Fifteen. Not the biggest, theHampshires have got twenty-two, sir, might be others with more. Spread all overthe world, as well. Not usual to have two of the same regiment together, sir.”

They knew almost none of the officers,recognising a few faces who had been transferred from the First and Second to offerprofessional expertise. Unsurprisingly, they were known themselves, beingrenowned figures in the Regiment.

Dinner partook of a formality unknownoutside of the chateaux of the generals in France. All officers were dressedand the settings were of silver. The meal had only five courses, the Presidentof the Mess, a Major Danby, apologised, blaming wartime hardships.

“How do you find things in France, General?I should imagine the Mess is able to lay its hands on some good wine!”

“I am told they can do so in the rearareas, Major. There is no mess as such in the Trenches, of course – the officerseat in their dugouts, sharing the food sent up for the whole battalion. At BrigadeI was able to do a little better, but still only a soup and a main course, accompaniedby water or vanrouge. You won’t have met up with that particular vintage in England– it tastes a little less harsh than battery acid but probably has a similareffect on the human gut! Safer than water, however, and I cannot drink tea withmy meal!”

“Truly, General?”

The Major wondered if he was not thevictim of some elaborate and obscure joke. He had observed that those who hadspent time in France tended to be almost contemptuous of the Home Establishment,thought that might be the case here.

“Utterly, Major. When you come out, you willdiscover the reality. I presume your battalion will