A Breed of Heroes (3 page)

‘They’re holding one upstream, sir, in the area that we were supposed to occupy.’

‘But this is a military training area. It’s MOD land. Didn’t you throw them off?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Did you try?’

‘No, sir.’

‘You’re as wet as the bloody weather, Thoroughgood. Show me.’

They set off back the way they had come. Charles’s platoon was depressed beyond speech or gesture and squelched mindlessly behind the CO. The CO marched briskly, however. He seemed to be a
man who enjoyed a challenge. He no doubt saw rain as a challenge, and the more it rained the more it challenged, so the more he marched. They reached the scene of the outrage, which consisted of a
huddle of wet spectators watching men obliterated by mud drive noisy motor-bikes up and down hills, and fall off on corners. The CO approached the young man who was easily the tallest, rightly
assuming him to be the leader.

‘This is a military training area,’ said the CO.

The young man had a pleasant, intelligent face. ‘Good day, Colonel.’

‘There is a military exercise in progress. If you don’t get your people and your machines out of here within the next few minutes there is a very good chance that you will be
mortared. My men are about to cross the Rhine.’

‘That would be unfortunate, since I have a letter here from the Army Department giving us permission to use this area today.’ He produced a soggy envelope.

‘Civil servants interfering again. It’s bloody silly.’

‘I quite agree, Colonel. Where is your Rhine?’

The CO jabbed his thumb towards the stream. ‘Down there.’

‘Yes, of course. I see it now.’

They hung around. The CO clearly wanted to continue the conversation. Four motor-cyclists collided in a great shower of mud and then, moving like moon-men, slowly disentangled themselves and
their machines. The soldiers gazed impassively at the spectacle. It was doubtful whether even a real mortar bombardment would have stirred them to interest. However, the CO could not leave without
a parting shot.

‘You must have a pretty spare job anyway if you can spend your afternoons watching this sort of rubbish,’ he said.

The tall young man inclined his head politely. ‘Actually, Colonel, the same as yours. Nicholas Stringer, Coldstream Guards.’

Though forced to acknowledge that there were elites other than No. 1 AAC(A), the CO always denied them real status. He referred to them all as ‘self-appointed’. This was particularly
true of the Guards, and of all the Guards regiments the Coldstreams – whom he always called ‘magpies’ because of their black and white colours – were the worst, in his view.
He looked at the Guards officer with an expression of baffled anger, until a retort came to mind. ‘Whose side were you on in the Civil War?’ he snapped, then turned and squelched away.
The Guards officer watched him go, his own face registering polite incomprehension.

Charles squelched after him, similarly puzzled. He had a vague idea that the Coldstreams had been on Cromwell’s side. Whichever it was, No. 1 AAC(A) had no battle honours from that war,
not having been raised until a century after and then not in the present form. Nevertheless, the CO’s discomfiture was something he was able to savour for the rest of the exercise as a slight
antidote to his own.

This time it was the sound of the sliding door of the compartment being slammed back that jerked Charles from his reflections. It was Edward returning from the O Group, red and
flustered. He stumbled bad-temperedly over legs and kit. He had been berated because of C company’s alleged scruffiness. His career was again in jeopardy. He seemed unaware of any other
business discussed at the O Group. ‘Lost your respirator?’ he said to Charles. ‘Your own fault for leaving it lying around for someone to walk off with. Care of kit, first rule of
survival in the Army. You’d better nick one from somewhere before the CO finds out. Go and inspect your platoon.’

Charles’s platoon was in the last but one carriage. It took about ten minutes of squeezing and shoving in the crowded corridor to reach them. When he found them the floor was littered with
beer-cans and cigarette-ends, the air thick with smoke, laughter and obscenities. His soldiers sprawled in their seats, unbuttoned, feet up on the tables, happy. He knew there was no reason to
inspect them, and nothing to inspect them for. It was simply that Edward felt someone ought to be doing something. He counted them and stayed chatting for a few minutes. Their company was
frequently more congenial than that to be had in the Officers’ Mess. Sergeant Wheeler, his platoon sergeant, was, as usual, nowhere to be found. Charles never ceased to be amazed by the
ability of soldiers to transform an environment. Within minutes they could make anywhere look as though it had never been anything but a transit camp, handling thousands of troops every week.
Perhaps one day he would take them for tea in Fortnum and Mason’s.

For the rest of the journey Charles was able to read. Edward was gloomily silent, and Tim and John kept him company. None of them had books. The only interruption was when the company colour
sergeant brought round cold tea and stale sandwiches, which were welcome none the less.

I
t was dark when they pulled into the station at Liverpool, and raining. They were to get the night ferry to Belfast. Charles struggled into his
webbing and lugged his kit on to the platform. It took him two journeys. The noise and confusion combined with the darkness and rain to make the station seem like some vast purgatorial clearing
house. Soldiers and their kit filled the platforms. Rumour flourished. It was said that the coaches that were to take them to the boat had not arrived, that they had arrived but had left, that
there was a nonsense over the stations, that the ferry had left, that they would have to march to the docks. Charles’s platoon was just outside the station, where there was no shelter from
the rain. For once Sergeant Wheeler was where he should be. He was the playboy of the Sergeants’ Mess, a good-looking, good-natured athlete, successful with women but too easy-going with
soldiers.

‘What’s happening, sir?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘How long are we going to be here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘How far is it to the boat?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sergeant Wheeler moved his dripping, handsome face a little closer. ‘Sir.’

‘What?’

‘Any chance of us getting out of the rain?’

Charles was not sure whether ‘us’ was himself and Sergeant Wheeler or the entire platoon. He suspected the former. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Look after my kit, will you?
I’m going to find the lavatory.’

‘Bog’s closed, sir. For alterations.’

‘Well, there must be one somewhere.’ Charles trudged off and found that the main lavatory was indeed closed. After a search he found a tin shed marked ‘Staff Only’. The
rain drummed heavily on the corrugated iron roof. When he had finished he decided to wait there a while. Every scrap of privacy had to be savoured. He leant against the wall and filled and lit his
pipe, gazing out at the rain and the teeming station. He was disturbed by a discreet cough and looked round to see the second-in-command, Anthony Hamilton-Smith, sitting fully clothed in a lavatory
cubicle. The 2IC was reading the
Daily Telegraph
. ‘Hallo, Charles,’ he said, amicably.

‘Hallo, Anthony.’ All the other subalterns called the 2IC ‘sir’, as they were supposed to do, but for some reason unknown even to himself Charles never had.
‘Anything happening out there?’

‘Chaos. They can’t find the coaches. The CO’s going berserk and tearing strips off some poor RCT man.’

‘Wheel-men, you see. They’re all the same. Donkey-wallopers. Can’t get you anywhere.’ Someone had called Major Anthony Hamilton-Smith the last of the great amateurs, and
it had not been meant unkindly. Aged about forty and probably passed-over for promotion – a fact that did not seem to worry him – he was still slim, fair-haired and fine-featured, with
an elegant moustache. He never hurried, never worried and had never been known to be angry. Nor had he ever been known to work. No one knew what he did all day, but it was generally agreed that his
presence lent to the battalion a certain tone, which was otherwise entirely lacking. He had an estate somewhere and bred race horses. No one knew how he got on with the CO, who seemed unaware of
him most of the time, except as an afterthought. It was rumoured that during the Yorkshire exercise he had somehow contrived to avoid spending a single night in the open. ‘Thought I’d
pop in here out of the way,’ he said.

‘Nowhere else to go,’ observed Charles.

‘One more officer flapping his wings and squawking wouldn’t help anyone very much.’

‘Wouldn’t help at all.’

‘Might even be a hindrance.’

‘Almost certainly.’ There was a companionable silence for a few moments.

‘What’s that you’re smoking?’

‘Foster’s number two.’

‘Very agreeable.’ The 2IC indicated his paper. ‘Things seem to be hotting up out there again.’

‘Belfast?’

‘And Derry. Looks like we’ll have to do a bit of head-bashing. Ever been there?’

‘No.’

‘I have. Years ago, mind you. Family has a few acres over the border. Beautiful country. Charming people. Very polite. Might pop over and visit it.’

‘Will we get much leave?’

‘Shouldn’t think so for a moment. We’ll be lucky to get any – certainly as far as you’re concerned. Might be able to fix something, though.’

‘Wouldn’t that be rather dangerous?’

‘Could be, I daresay. Could be. Still, may as well get what pleasure one can out of life. We’re a long time dead.’ He took up his paper again. ‘Be a sport and give us a
yell if anything happens suddenly, won’t you? Wouldn’t like to be left behind.’

When Charles had arrived back at his platoon he found that the coaches had arrived and that all the other companies were preparing to board them. He had already begun to struggle with his kit
when Sergeant Wheeler said, ‘Shouldn’t bother with that for a while if I was you, sir.’

‘Why not?’

‘We ain’t going yet.’

‘But the coaches are here.’

‘For the other companies.’

‘What about ours?’

Sergeant Wheeler was quiet and prim. The burden of bad news sat well upon him. ‘The commanding officer, sir, has inspected the train and found it to be dirty. He has suggested that C
company clean it up. We’re to follow on when we’ve finished.’ He leant forward confidentially. ‘That is, the whole train, sir. Not just our bit. The whole lot.’

Charles lowered his kit to the ground. ‘Where’s Major Lumley?’

‘Most probably underneath it by now.’

C company eventually boarded the ferry ten minutes before it sailed. Their weapons and kit were locked in cages below deck and Charles set off to find his cabin with a lighter heart than at any
time during the day. This took some doing and he seemed to walk miles in the corridors before finding it. He was to share with the new doctor who had joined the battalion the day before and whom he
had not yet met – a mysterious Captain Sandy. The battalion apparently had a long history of mad doctors, the last of whom had been sent to prison for diamond smuggling. There were medical
horror stories about his predecessors which made him seem normal. Charles opened the cabin door with difficulty, and discovered that Captain Sandy’s kitbag was propped up against it. The
cabin was very narrow and was made of stainless steel. There were two bunks, the lower of which was occupied by Captain Sandy. Sleeping, he looked more dead than mad. His pale cheeks drooped and
his mouth hung open. There were bags under his eyes.

Charles heaved his kitbag on to the top bunk, at the same time knocking undone his webbing belt to which were attached his ammunition pouches, shoulder straps and water bottle. The whole lot
fell to the floor, striking the doctor on the way. At first there was no reaction but after a few moments the doctor’s eyelids fluttered open.

‘Charles Thoroughgood. I’m sorry to wake you like that.’

The eyelids closed.

Charles undressed and went down the corridor to a shower he had noticed. It was hot and ample, an unexpected luxury. When he returned the doctor was sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring at
the wall. Charles introduced himself again.

‘Henry Sandy,’ whispered the doctor, and they shook hands gently.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’ He continued staring at the wall. ‘Still a bit thick. Bad night.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Were you there?’

‘No.’

‘D’you know who was?’

‘’Fraid not.’

‘I wish I could remember where it was. It’s very worrying. I’ve been thinking about it all day.’ He eased himself off the bunk and began rummaging through his kit.

There wasn’t room for them both to stand and so Charles climbed on to his bunk and dried himself vigorously. The effect of the shower and the sight of a man in a worse state than himself
combined to heighten his sense of well-being. ‘Dinner’s in a quarter of an hour,’ he announced.

‘Dinner?’ echoed Henry Sandy faintly. An even greater weariness came over his face. He nodded slowly and a certain resolution showed through. ‘All right.’ He went off and
had a shower, and afterwards felt robust enough to have a cigarette. They went along to dinner together.

Perhaps because they were all dressed alike, Army officers seemed to outnumber civilians at the bar. In view of what he had described as the ‘operational situation’ the CO had
decreed that they should all wear heavy duty pullovers, denim trousers, anklets and boots for dinner. At the far end of the bar the company commanders and a few hangers-on were grouped around the
CO, who was addressing them forcefully while continually smoothing back his black hair with one hand.

‘People say he’s mad,’ said Henry.

‘I think he might be.’

‘I thought the people who said that were mad, so Christ knows what he’s like. Thank you, yes, a glass of white wine. It’s usually the best thing for my condition.’

Charles had a gin and tonic – one of the few Army habits he had acquired easily – and they went and sat in a corner. Henry lit another cigarette, not very steadily. ‘It’s
not so much last night,’ he explained, ‘as the trauma of the last eight weeks. I’ve just finished my parachute course which terrified me and I never want to parachute again. They
said I was the worst one in living memory. Apparently I land spread-eagled like a crab, though I don’t know because I always shut my eyes. And before that was BSTC.’