Date: Sun, 23 Oct 2016 22:19:10 +0000
From: h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book III Chapter 1 (Revised)

This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC
101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No
reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement
at the beginning of Book 1 Chapter 1.)

Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much
you're enjoying the story, I hope you stay tuned.  For all the readers
enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty needs your
donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any amount will
do.


Noblesse Oblige
By Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno
Book 3
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling
Chapter 1
Dazzle

High up in the windy blue sky Stephen watched two birds swoop and dive.
One would soar then suddenly plunge while the second performed acrobatic
spirals about him (Stephen had decided that by they were boys from the way
they were showing off) before the first one pulled out of the dive only to
engage in a sort of mad waltz with the other, their wings never quite
touching.  Stephen thought that they looked like they were tying complex
aerial knots or perhaps engaged in 'tatting' one of Miss Tadrew's doilies.

It was a beautiful early summer's morning beneath the infinite blue depths.
Only the distant sound of boots on hollow timber and the scraping of a
spoon on a tin plate disturbed the peace.

"Them birds is enjoying themselves, sir," said Sgt. Spinner.

"Yes," said Stephen who had now decided the birds were Martin and himself
and their formless dance was analogous to their own lives--but the birds
were free and enjoying their play whilst they were otherwise.

"Yes," repeated Stephen, "they're larks."

"Good name for 'em--skylarking about when there's a war on.  Only sparrers
and seagulls down in Rotherhithe; we didn't see many country birds.  Is
they the same as English larks?

"I think so, Spinner," said Stephen, taking one last look up to the place
where God ought to be.  "We'd better get below the parapet.  It's nearly
time."



At seven every morning the German bombardment began and lasted for two
hours.  Ever since the great battle, the big guns had been chiefly ranged
on the lines of trenches forward of the support trenches occupied by
Stephen's Corps of Royal Engineers. Both sides, as everyone quickly
realised six months ago, had bogged down in a stalemate of trench warfare.



When war had been declared the previous August, Stephen had been
disinclined to volunteer.  He had despised war even then.  He wanted to
build things for the betterment of mankind; the destruction of things (not
to mention people) took such a little time in comparison to their creation;
it was the waste more than the humanity that sickened him most.  The
destruction of Louvain perhaps tipped his thinking.  In any case Martin was
already in uniform and the Engineering Faculty had all but shut down by
Christmas.

After some perfunctory training at Chatham, Lt. Knight-Poole found himself
posted to France where the life of young officers was famously brief and
the need to build things, in the midst of all the destruction was,
ironically, great.

Major Dibden had taken a great liking to Stephen.  Stephen was clever he
realised and had the respect of his men.  He had gathered--and been
indulged in this--a detachment of men who would follow him, initially
without rancour, then out of a loyalty born of trust.  Had he been asked,
he would have said that he did not like his men to obey without question,
however the reality appeared to Dibden to be different. Thus to them were
given the particularly tricky tasks to perform.

"The bridge over the canal, Knight-Poole, has been utterly destroyed," said
the Major, indicating on a topographical map.  "Of course the road, or
what's left of it, is needed to bring up supplies to the trenches here and
here.  At the moment everything has to come around the long way via...via
Sint-Jan," he said peering at the map.  "If we can get a team of horses and
some great timber beams we might be able to make a temporary bridge--iron;
girders are out of the question-- but the means of transport and the road
present obvious problems."

"Fillbrook and I have been thinking, sir, that we could build strong
temporary bridges with simple trusses rather than using heavy beams," said
Stephen.  "Short lengths of timber--short enough and light enough for two
men to carry and fit in the light wagons, sir.  We could fit the ordinary
iron plates in just the same way.  We could even make some of the
components here under cover, sir, and carry them up the line for rapid
assembly.  We would need more bolts but there'd be less weight."

"How long?"

"Well, we could send out some men to survey while Fillbrook and I drew up
the design tonight.  If we had the timber tomorrow we could have it sawn by
the next day if the Huns leave us alone and we could start sending it up
even before it's all cut if we had, say two wagons and four horses.  We
could have it built in a day--or a day-and-a-half if you want a wider one,
with a bit of luck."

"You will require some luck, Knight-Poole.  You'll have your timber and
wagons."



Thus Stephen built his bridge, all the time thinking of the bathrooms
project at Croome.  The design was for a double bridge with inverted
scissor trusses.  The timbers were scanty and so Stephen had the
thicknesses doubled. Holes for the bolts were bored in each length in the
workshop he had constructed in a section of trench and here his men were
mostly free from disturbance from the enemy.  There were twelve standard
pieces and each was numbered. As the lengths were sawn, they were loaded
onto a wagon which then set off over the crater-filled road, still getting
bogged, but not hopelessly so.  The wagons passed each other, sometimes
swapping horses.

An unexpected bombardment had delayed its construction, but the new bridge
was built over a long day and night in the lee below the exposed hillock
where the old one had stood.

"I suppose they built the old bridge there," said Spinner, "so they could
have a view of the church."

"What church?"

"There used to be a stone church over there, sir, where them tree stumps
are."

"Why does this half only have them lighter timbers sir?" asked Spinner.

"Because that will do for the returning carts and trucks which won't be so
heavy as the ones going up the line," answered Stephen.

"Bloody brilliant, sir," said Spinner.



* * *



Stephen was exhausted when he and Fillbrook returned in the dark to their
position--the danger of getting lost in the maze of trenches being very
real.  Stephen waited behind, as usual, and made sure all his men were off
safely before he too departed for his dugout.

"I've made some cocoa for you, sir, with a bit of something in it."

"Thank you, Carlo."

"I hear he's in Boulogne"

"Yes, I heard that too."

They were referring to Martin, the Marquess of Branksome and Hon. Colonel
of the Earl of Holdenhurst's Yeomanry, who had been in England ever since
the war had begun.  It had been more than a month since Stephen had heard
from him and Carlo, his batman, had also had little news from home.

"Carlo, get me some paper and a pen.  I must write to Rouse's parents and
tell them that the wound is nothing too serious.  I want to do it tonight
before I turn in.  Take some of that cocoa in to Fillbrook.  It was very
good."

"Thank you sir. It was real cognac this time.  I swapped cigarettes for
it."



* * *



Martin had crossed the channel.  He had not had a good war.  The general
mobilization in August 1914 had activated the Yeomanry who were based in
Dorchester and Martin found, to his horror, that he was automatically their
commander-in-chief despite his being only 18 years of age.  Thus he had a
colonel's uniform but it was devoid of any battle colours and he was put
through officers' training at Cambridge where he attempted to complete his
term reading Philosophy, making frequent visits down to Dorchester where
the real running of the Yeomanry was in the hands of two regular majors who
looked at Martin askance.  Martin could hardly blame them for this.

He had met Bertrand Russell at Cambridge but he had little time for
undergraduates and he had his own troubles--being hauled off to prison for
opposing the war.  So, like Stephen, Martin found that the University had
simply dissolved from under him and he presented himself, in his dishonest
uniform, at the War Office in the hope of doing something useful.

The General Staff found Colonel Martin Poole, Marquess of Branksome, an
irritatingly awkward problem.  They already had two dukes and The Prince of
Wales himself wanting to go to the front. Added to this was the problem of
Martin's rank; what could they do with an inexperienced, fresh-faced
colonel?

In the end they made him the nominal head of a section in Whitehall dealing
with specialised staffing.  Martin had a team of people, including several
from his old school, whose job it was to provide German, Flemish, Arabic,
Turkish and speakers in any other useful language for units in need of
translators or interrogators.  Martin worked conscientiously and found that
his informal social contacts were far more useful that the normal Army
channels.  It was also convenient that he could live at Branksome House,
although, like Croome, it was but a shadow of its pre-war self.  M. Lefaux,
the chef, had returned to his native France to enlist as an army cook and
all the footmen had gone too.  Only Glass was exempt due to his rheumatic
heart and the injuries from the train accident.

On some pretext Martin had himself transferred to France where he hoped he
would see some action--or at least be closer to Stephen from whom he too
had heard nothing in the last months.

Martin was establishing an office in the Hotel de Ville and seeing to the
billeting of himself and his staff of six.  His latest problem was a
request for three civilian journalists who were fluent in all of French,
English and Dutch-- one of which was preferred to be an American.  Martin
had found goods to this description and was now trying to work out how to
get them up to General Headquarters in St Omer.



"Hullo, Poole."  This informal and unsoldierly greeting was followed up by
a very smart salute.  The soldier was turned out in an immaculate, crisp
uniform that must have just come within regulations.  The tall figure was
topped with an officer's cap worn on a very fetching angle from under which
could be detected carrot-coloured hair and a glinting eyeglass.

"Plunger!" cried Col. Poole.  "What on earth are you doing here?"

Lt Archie Craigth removed his cap and put it under his arm and removed his
monocle. "I'm here with SCAT.  We're headquartered at a chateau on the edge
of the town. Come and bunk with us."

"SCAT? I don't know that."

"Special Camouflage and Artistic Tactical Warfare.  Norman Wilkinson and
Edward Wandsworth head it up and I liaise between the Admiralty and the
Army.  We're working on something called 'Dazzle'."

"What's Dazzle?"

"It's sort of modern art applied to ships and things to confuse the enemy
when they look at it."

"Well, it might work because modern art confuses me."

"I find it all a bit depressing though, Poole, because I'm sick of kaki and
green but we can't always choose.  I say, have you heard from Stephen?"



The Plunger invited Martin to mess with him and naturally they fell to
talking about their friends and their homes.

"Has Croome been requisitioned, Poole?"

"Not exactly.  The Army is using some of the grounds for various things,
but the house wasn't needed.  The men who work with the horses have been
exempted, but the bulk of the men have gone.  The old men and the women are
the ones now doing the farming.

"Chilvers?"

"Good heaven no--he's too old, but all the footmen have volunteered but one
who is a conscientious objector and our chauffeur is driving an ambulance."

"I've got Gertie with me; why I don't know; he leads me a merry hell.
Could you get him transferred to somewhere?  We could say he speaks Berber
or something."

"I want to get up to the front, Plunger.  I feel such a funk as I am."

The chateau was a small one and Martin's batman, who was also his driver,
was left to the tender mercies of Gertie to find accommodation.  "I don't
like your man, Poole," said The Plunger."

"Yes, I don't like Private Sage much myself.  I've only had him a few
months and I know he has contempt for me.  I have contempt for myself.  I
wish I were just a lieutenant like the other fellows.  Do you know how
terrible it was to face those fellows who came back from Ypres and the
Dardanelles?"

"Stephen is somewhere near Ypres isn't he?"

"I believe so."  They were silent for a few minutes, lost in thought.

"Do you think we'll ever see Antibes again?"

"That seems a million years ago.  Let's not talk about it.  Tell me about
Dazzle."

So The Plunger launched into his latest idea, which was to paint the roofs
of the warehouses and dockyards to confuse the zeppelins and aeroplanes
that had lately been raiding London.

"That actually sounds like a brilliant idea, Plunger," said Martin.

"Thanks, Poole.  I ran it past Churchill.  It was Tsindis' idea really."

"Oh, he's in SCAT?"

"No he's a Greek national--neutral.  What about Tennant and Selby-Keam?"

"Christopher is a medical orderly in the Dardanelles and Donald is out here
somewhere.  Custard is in France too."



Martin dined at the chateau with the mixed bag of officers who had made it
their headquarters.  The main topic of conversation was the very public
falling out between Lord Kitchener, Sir John French, General Horace
Smith-Dorrien and Marshal Foch, all of whom had allowed their contesting
claims and grievances to be aired in the press.

"That will be why Sir John wants your tri-lingual journalists, Poole," said
The Plunger.  "Are you going to take them up yourself?"

Martin turned this over in his mind.



* * *



"There's a young fellow here says he's a Colonel Poole to see you, sir,"
said Sgt Spinner.

Stephen threw down his pencil and square and rushed out the door of his
dugout.  He pulled himself up short when he saw Martin and saluted.  He
wanted to hug him but had to hold himself back.  Instead he wrung his hand,
looking at him intently trying to see what the passage of time had done.
He looked much the same.  "I like your moustache sir," he said with a
twinkle in his eye.

"Ah yes, Stephen, it is a bit more successful than the last one.  Does it
make me look older?"

"Oh yes, Mala, it adds years," lied Stephen

Martin too stared at Stephen.  His moustache was jet black like his hair,
now cut short, and it made him look particularly handsome, Martin thought.
He was in need of a shave and his eyes looked weary; they were no longer
the eyes of youth.  This was the thing Martin most feared: Stephen was
changed by the war--it was inevitable--but he didn't like to think of it,
but it was there in his eyes for certain.

"Sir," he said, for he was in the hearing of others, "I would like to
present Major Dibden and Lt Fillbrook.  Col. Poole is my kinsman."  Salutes
and pleasantries were exchanged.  The Major invited Martin to mess with
them.

When they were alone in the dugout that Stephen shared with Fillbrook, they
kissed. Both were in tears.  Carlo came in and saluted and he too was
embraced by Martin.

"How is Mr Stephen?" asked Martin when Stephen had gone off to see the
Major.

"He is exhausted, but he won't admit it, sir, but he is quite well and fit
otherwise.  He has done some clever things, sir--that bridge you crossed;
that was his. Our trench is pretty dry thanks to Lt. Knight-Poole--best
trench in this section.

"You know he was due for leave, sir, but he refused to take it; he doesn't
want to leave his men, sir.  We lost a lot in the second big push but since
he's had his own, he hasn't lost a single one.  He dotes on them, knows all
their names and personal stuff about each of them.  Do you know what he
does, sir?"  Martin looked for more.  "He personally inspects the feet of
every one of his men--he's right down on trench foot, sir--and he rubs the
men's feet with Spong's Soothing Salve (it comes in big vats and is
available at the quartermaster's store)... Martin's mind went back to one
Easter when Stephen washed his feet... "They call him Lt Foot behind his
back."

"Because of his foot inspections?"

"Well, perhaps, but there is the other reason too, sir--it does give him a
special respect in the men's eyes, knowing that they are led by a fellow
with such a big gun."

"And speaking of that Carlo..."

"Oh I've been seeing to that for him, sir.  I keep my hand in--if you'll
pardon the expression, sir, and I make sure he gets relief when I think he
needs it--which is pretty often as you'd know.  It is the only part of the
war effort I enjoy.  You know sir, he has more than once called your name
when I'm doing it and I've heard him say it when he's asleep in his bunk."

"Yes, I miss him too, Carlo.  I'm lonely without him."  There were the
sounds of men outside the door. "Carlo, when you're giving him relief," he
said in a low voice, "you could try..." Here he bent a whispered in the
batman's ear.

"No!" replied Carlo.  Does he like that sir?" Martin nodded, grinning.
"His men love him, you know, sir," he continued, "and they don't wear army
drawers--that's how you can tell who his men are--they do it out of
respect.  The Sans Culottes they call themselves."

Just then the outside noises grew louder and Stephen opened the door.

"Sir, I have work to do and I must leave you alone," said Private Carlo
Sifridi.  "I also have some things that I have to remind Lt. Fillbrook's
batman to get the Lieutenant to do, so he might not be back for an hour--
say?"

"Well done, Carlo," said Stephen, unbuttoning his tunic.  "But latch the
door just in case."



It was that night that the Germans launched their big push.  It was
preceded by a ferocious shelling.  It went on unremittingly for three days
and nights.  The trenches and their occupants suffered terrible damage.
Stephen repeatedly ventured out into his section of trench to ensure his
own men were safe in their foxholes and had food and water and he had a
party of sappers to constantly maintain the stability of his section of the
line, despite the shelling and the vibration.  To the north and the south
however, he knew the trenches had collapsed, burying hundreds of men and
there was little that could be done under such heavy and sustained fire.

Martin was also trapped or rather stranded with Stephen and Major Dibden's
brigade, all means of travel and communication having been shattered.  He
found the constant boom of the guns almost unbearable--he thought he would
go mad--nothing could have prepared him for it.  The ground vibrated
continuously as if it were an earthquake.  He clung to Stephen at night.
He knew Stephen was afraid, but his men never saw it.

Suddenly, on the fourth day, the shelling stopped.  Lt Fillbrook used his
periscope at the loopholes and over the parapet.  He expected to see the
German's marching across no man's land towards the first line of trenches.
"Spinner, tell the Major and Lt Knight-Poole that there's no sign of an
advance."

Stephen was worried and used the periscope himself.

"Oh my God!" he cried.  "Gas!"  Plumes of grey-green chlorine gas were
streaming on the light easterly breeze toward their lines.  The alarm was
sounded and the men donned mica goggles and fitted the cloth pads across
their faces after they dipped them into pails of stale urine that had been
put by for such an event. Stephen ran to Martin and put the goggles him
clapped a pad over his face, not having time to give an explanation for
what seemed an extraordinary move.

"No! No!" he cried down the trench.  "Get up off the floor.  Onto the fire
step!  Put your head over the parapet if you can! Get that man off the
stretcher get him up high!" He raced back to Martin and made him climb up
to the firing step just as the cloud enveloped them. The gas was heavier
than the air and much of it sank into the bottom of the trench, beneath
their feet.  Then the main cloud passed over their heads to the west.

Martin could feel the chlorine burning his eyes.  He tried not to breathe
or exert himself.  Stephen saw the west wind pick up and the gas was now
being blown back over the German lines.  The danger had passed and the
respirators-- such as they were--were removed.

When it became clear that there was to be no advance, Sgt Spinner was sent
up to the next section to see what damage had occurred.  He returned a
quarter of an hour later and reported to Major Dibden:

"In section XXIV they have lost at least 70 men when their trench gave way.
The gas has killed about 12 in the trench and another 20 when the men
panicked and fled before it; it overtook them, sir.  Lt Collins looks
pretty crook on it."

Stephen took out a party of his men to restore the telephone lines.  Martin
went with him.  He watched Stephen lead his men across dangerous ground:
where Stephen trod the men followed; if Stephen went left around an
obstruction, so would his men; if Stephen traversed a crater, his men did
likewise.

There was sniper fire but Martin couldn't tell if it was from the German or
the British trenches.  Stephen didn't show any particular concern so Martin
decided it must be either safe or pointless.  He hoped it was the former.

"Over there is the front line of trenches and beyond that, no man's land,"
said Stephen as his men unrolled wire from drums.  They crossed the second
line of trenches, the traverses having collapsed. As they got closer to the
front line, the scenes of devastation were even more shocking.  There was a
burial party retrieving bodies and parts of bodies from the muddy ground
between the lines of trenches, and lines of men with wounds and blindness
from the chlorine were crawling along a duckboard pathway presumably to a
dressing station somewhere to the rear.  It was shocking, but Martin felt
only numbness.  It was on a scale of enormity that couldn't be comprehended
by relating it to anything from any other part of his life or to his own
experiences.

The link to the front line was restored and Stephen rounded up his men,
counting them, and then shepherded them back the way they had come, at one
point throwing themselves into a shell hole when the sniper fire became
particularly intense.  "Could the war go on forever?" asked Martin
suddenly, trying to hide his distress.  "I mean, could this be the new
permanent state of things, Stephen?  Has the old world we knew gone forever
or was it always just an illusion?"

Stephen was lying on his stomach.  He didn't look at Martin but said: "It
seems like it, Mala.  Perhaps it is the way the world will end.  Perhaps it
is what everything was always going to come to.  But `seems like it'
doesn't mean `it is'."  He turned to look at him and smiled.  "We'll have
to get the Colonel cleaned up."  He paused then continued solemnly: "I
don't believe in destiny, Mala.  It's not all for a purpose.  There is no
higher meaning.  Things just happen.  We have to deal with them and not
make excuses."



That night the shelling resumed. Stephen's trench took an almost direct
hit, the shell landing just behind them and the parados failing to stop the
blast.  Stephen found himself stunned when his head received a blow and his
shoulder was bleeding where a large splinter of shattered timber had caught
him.  He clutched his shoulder and could see some of his men around him
were wounded.  He cast around but couldn't see Dibden or Fillbrook.
Spinner came up to him.  His mouth was opening and closing in an agitated
manner. He must be struck dumb, thought Stephen.  Then he realised he was
deaf.  He then made out what he was saying: Col. Poole was injured.

He rushed to where Martin had been sheltering in a foxhole.  Martin seemed
to be all right until he looked at his left leg.  His uniform was torn and
there was a large patch of blood where he had been struck.  He motioned to
Carlo to bandage his thigh tightly to reduce the flow of blood.  He then
turned his attention to the other wounded. Fillbrook was already organising
stretchers, which would have to make the difficult and hazardous journey to
the dressing station.  On one of the stretchers was Dibden, unconscious and
he looked as if he'd been quite badly wounded.  There were no dead. Stephen
still couldn't hear, but he shouted at Fillbrook that the stretchers should
follow the line of the canal which offered some protection in the form of
poplar trees, still miraculously left standing.  The stretchers set off and
Stephen returned to Martin who was being attended by Carlo and Spinner who
had removed his trousers. Stephen noted with approval that, like all his
men, he was wearing no drawers.

He knelt over Martin and wiped his forehead with a cloth.  Martin
instinctively grabbed his hand while Stephen examined him.

"I'm going to have to extract the shrapnel from your leg, Mala," he said
unnaturally loudly, because he was still deaf.  "There's no doctor here,"
he continued. "I need to get in there and take it out.  I have sterilized
these forceps.  I've no morphine to give you.  I have to open the wound
wider to get the forceps in.  I'm sorry."

Stephen entered the red and bloodied hole and Martin yelled.

"Does it hurt?" asked Stephen unnecessarily.

"Yes, of course it bloody hurts.  It hurts like hell, Derby."

"Do you want me to take it out?"

"Oh, yes, Derby.  Would you?"

"No."

"Oh well, you'd better get on with it.  But give me something to bite on,
for God's sake."

A clang announced that the shrapnel had been retrieved and Martin lapsed
into unconsciousness.

To be continued.



Thanks for reading.  If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I
would love to hear from you.  Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com
and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.