Date: Tue, 3 Jan 2017 21:26:29 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige Book 3 (Revision) Chapter 13

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully
protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a),
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Noblesse Oblige

by Henry H. Hilliard
with Pete Bruno

Book 3
The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling

Chapter 13
 The Anguish of the Earth Absolves Our Eyes


Martin was awakened by the noise.  The carafe and glass by his bed trembled
musically and the paintings on the wall groaned.  It was a low rumble, not
thunder he concluded; perhaps it was an earthquake?  He looked at his
watch: it was ten-past three.  The June night was a warm one so he slid
naked from the bed and went to the window overlooking Piccadilly.  Traffic
was passing normally and he could see no sign of zeppelins or aeroplanes
over London.  He went back to bed and tried to sleep.

Colonel Martin Poole, the Marquess of Branksome, had had a frustrating time
of it since returning to England from a triumphal propaganda tour of the
United States. Whitehall had been reluctant to let him go from the
department that now dealt with Military Intelligence.  He was in department
number five which was `headed up'--to use the new slang-- by Major-General
Kell.  When he said that he would like to return to the Earl of
Holdenhurt's Yeomanry, there was some amusement for they were now part of
the Territorial Army and stationed in Ireland where they were a humble
cycle regiment.  Since the terrible Rising in the Easter of the previous
year, the province had quietened down, but Sinn Fein had been successful in
recent elections and the situation could easily get out of hand again.  The
decision to impose military conscription in Ireland was a recent
provocation.

"In fact we want you to go to Ireland, Poole, with your militia," said
Kell, "and look for any evidence in Cavan of German influence on two
groups: `The Citizens' Army' and the `Irish Republican Brotherhood'.
Here's a dossier."

Martin studied the complex and unhappy document on his journey across the
Irish Sea.  Cavan--where his militia was stationed--seemed idyllically
peaceful and the Earl of Holdenhurst's Yeomanry often parked their cycles
outside the pubs and could be seen drinking with the locals.  Martin
himself was provided with a lightly armoured vehicle and was driven about
the county and got to know the local representative of the Republican Army,
which was a loose amalgamation of the two earlier groups.  Keating was
chagrined by the fact that his own sons had enlisted in the British Army
and were even now in France.  Thus they avoided the contentious topics of
religion and politics but found they could pass an agreeable hour in the
pub discussing cricket and horses.

Martin had the Republicans' meetings infiltrated by informers--it wasn't
difficult--and he noted in his reports that internecine fights and
passionate, but impotent, declarations dominated proceedings and that any
arms they possessed seemed to come from Britain and the United States,
although none were actually seen to verify this.  Of the influence of the
Kaiser, there was no evidence at all.

Martin was bored and so transferred himself back to London, leaving the
militia and their bicycles and the green fields of Cavan in the hands of
Major Sandys.  Thus Martin was back in Branksome House when he was awoken
by the explosion.

*****

Below the Messine Ridge the explosion was somewhat louder.  In fact 19
enormous mines had been simultaneously detonated deep in a network of
tunnels that British, Australian and New Zealand sappers had painstakingly
excavated beneath the German lines over a period of many months.  The earth
rose towards heaven in a great column and seemed to sit suspended in the
starlight for a moment until it rained down upon a helpless landscape that
had been radically and irrevocably changed in an instant, making a mockery
of God's slow work over the millennia.  Back at headquarters, General
Plummer would be ecstatic, as he loved a good explosion, and General Monash
would be consulting his detailed notes, which were the fruits of months of
meticulous planning, under the eye of General Godley, commander of the II
Anzac Corps.

Stephen's little group of half-a-dozen Sans Culottes was attached to the
10th Brigade, on the left of the Australian 3rd Division and to the right
of the New Zealanders.  Their particular task was to throw down temporary
bridges over the Le Douve, a small rivulet on the way to La Petite Douve
Farm, to the east of the village. Considerable planning and rehearsal had
gone into this and precision timing was vital. Stephen struggled to have
his men in their correct position at 0310 as the Germans, unknowingly, had
launched a gas attack at 2300 hours just as the soldiers were quietly
assembling from their billets in nearby farmhouses, having moved up from
Pont de Nieppe.  A rolling barrage from 1500 field guns and 700 heavy guns
was set off just after the giant explosion to prevent any surviving Germans
regrouping after the surprise and it was important that Stephen's men did
not advance beyond the moving tape into it in their eagerness.

Stephen led his tin-hatted men steadily forward; they were confident in
their broad-shouldered captain and Stephen was buoyed by this new strategy,
which promised more than just the mass slaughter of 1916.  Within a short
time they had reached their first objective over flat land and held it, the
bridges having been successful and, at 0430, the 4th Australian Division,
which had been held in reserve, followed up and pushed through to the
`green line', with the New Zealanders capturing the village of Messines
itself.

The troops dug in, turning the craters into new defensive positions.  It
took four days and nights of fighting to finally reach the `Oosttavere
Line' but the Wyschaete-Messines ridge, which had hitherto been a salient
into the allied lines, was now in their hands and an approach to the east
of Ypres was now visible and all Flanders lay before them.

The losses were considerable, although not on the scale of other battles.
Stephen and some of his half dozen men were superficially wounded, but none
had lost their lives.  Sgt. Slipper was exhausted but beaming.  Stephen
could feel morale lifting and there was a general feeling that the Germans
had tasted defeat for the first time.  The planning had been so perfect
that hot food was available at the end of the first day. Indeed, this was a
new type of warfare.


*****

Carlo was re-bandaging Stephen's shoulder which had been grazed by a bullet
and then Stephen applied a bandage to the back of Carlo's right hand which
had also been injured, for Carlo had advanced to La Petite Douve farm along
with the rest.  "I don't think I can shave you, Captain, not with my hand,
but I have brushed your uniform for General Monash."

"Thank you, Carlo, would you like to watch me shave?"

"Just to make sure you do a good job of it, sir," said Carlo.  "I think I
can apply the soap."

Carlo stood by his master who was performing the operation looking into a
small, cracked looking glass that hung from a nail.  The ivory-backed razor
scraped pleasantly over the young man's skin.  Carlo watched on intently
and licked his lips.  Stephen at last splashed his face with water from a
tin jug as Carlo handed him a rough towel.

"Let me feel, Carlo."

Carlo spread his legs and Stephen felt the batman's hardening manhood.
"That's very singular, Carlo."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he laughed.

Stephen found the villa used by the General Staff to be crowded and excited
by the success of the past four days.  Only General Monash was calm as he
went over reports and pored over maps with his nephew, Lt Moss.  They
looked up and Monash said a few words of congratulations to Stephen for the
small part he'd played.  "The question now is, do we go on or do we
consolidate?"

The success of Messines was, however, followed only by paler successes in
August and September.  Monash and the other generals argued about tactics
and were continually urged to bring their plans forward by Haig and to aim
for more and more ambitious targets rather than the little `bite and hold'
tactics that had won Messines.

On the 4th of October Monash had his last taste of success at Broodesenide
before the rains started and the successes came no more.  The following
month was the worst that Stephen had ever experienced in the whole course
of the War as the Sans Culottes tried in vain to improvise roads over the
sea of mud into which even the tanks became bogged and the loss of life was
staggering.  Men and horses drowned in the mud and even where the Germans
were forced to retreat, the allies had to advance over ground that was an
impossible morass.

When Stephen went to the rear to Monash's headquarters he found the General
trying to make a success from the ill-conceived strategies of others, and
Haig, Gough and Plummer all blamed each other for this, the worst disaster
of the War.

Stephen had become listless and did not even club the giant rats that
overran his dugout.  Carlo was worried.  The men were demoralised too and
had stopped presenting themselves to Stephen for foot and lice inspection.
Still the mad offensive was pressed on with and on the 12th of October
Stephen found himself leading his men forward through smoke and mist,
guided only by a compass, behind a creeping barrage and over impossibly
uneven ground in the vicinity of Passchendaele.

"Keep behind the tape!" he shouted as they moved up.  A German heavy
machine gun opened up and he saw Rugg beside him fall, ripped apart by the
bullets.  At the same instant an explosion showered them with earth,
threatening to bury them all alive.  He desperately fought to pull himself
free of the mud that seemed to suck him down and he was just pulling at
Myles and Quick when another explosion sent down more soil and a body in
the uniform of a German officer, which landed before him like a sack of
potatoes.  He took in the blond hair and the shape of the face.  For an
instant of sheer panic he thought it was Martin and was just trying to work
out why he was in field grey or if he had lost his wits.  He looked again;
the ingredients for Martin were there but they were put together
differently.  He was not as beautiful as his Mala.  Then he thought it must
be Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis but, when he looked for a third time, it
was not.  The soldier was only a boy and he saw in an instant that his
uniform was bizarrely immaculate.  He moved and groaned.  An Australian
soldier was just about to shoot him with his rifle when Stephen screamed at
him to stop.

The German boy cried, "Ich gebe auf"-- I surrender--and indeed he did not
seem to be armed.  "Mein erster Tag" he said.

"It's his first day," said Stephen to the others, now crouched in the shell
hole.  They started to laugh.  The Maxim gun opened up again, scattering
the earth about them. Stephen threw himself across the German and Private
Myles.  He felt a searing pain in his leg and shoulder.  He had been hit.
The Maxim was silenced with a grenade and Stephen staggered to his feet.
Myles and the German boy were unharmed.

Sgt. Slipper scurried to the edge of the crater and slithered down. "Get a
stretcher for the Captain!" he yelled to Myles.  He looked to the German
who raised his hands timidly. "Take him back!" he ordered the Australian.

"Don't kill him or I'll have you shot," Stephen managed to say as he
grabbed his leg in pain.  The Australian took away his prisoner with a
disappointed look. "Rugg is dead, Slipper," said Stephen, "and I can't see
Quick."

"Here I am, sir," cried Quick's voice.  The soldier emerged from the mud
from which he was indistinguishable.  Stephen looked at him for
confirmation and then fell backwards.

*****

The revolution in Russia in the latter part of 1917 had troubled Martin.
It was not that he had any great affection for the Tsar or that he feared
the sounds of tumbrels in Piccadilly, it was just that it threw Military
Intelligence into a flap.  Now, as well as worrying about Fenians and
German spies, they were obsessed with Bolsheviks who, apparently, could
easily be distinguished, according to the newspapers, by their beards and
their propensity to carry bombs that looked like plum puddings.  The mass
desertions in the dispirited French Army had alarmed the High Command and
now there were reports of Bolshevik agitators amongst the weary German army
and the idle German Navy.  They looked to their own ranks for straws in the
wind of any coming `soviet'.

Thus Martin got his posting to France where he was to report on morale in a
certain sector.  He was also to interrogate the flood of German prisoners
as to the Bolsheviks' successes in undermining military will and promoting
discontent, which Martin was beginning to think was only reasonable.

The other effect of Lenin's seizure of power was that the Russians were
negotiating an immediate armistice with the Germans and this was prompting
General Haig to want to launch a big offensive before troops from the
Eastern Front could be redeployed to Flanders.  Martin had said that this
was madness in such a wet autumn and it lacked the months of detailed
planning and careful preparation that a successful campaign was shown to
require.  General Haig tended to put his faith in the new `tanks'-- but
they had not been conspicuously successful up till this point.  It was a
prime example of optimism over experience and Martin hated him.



"But Chalmers, they're obviously sick," said Martin, "Their minds are gone
with shell shock.  Griffiths can't even speak English and is jabbering away
in Welsh for his mother and that 18 year-old boy is curled up like a
lunatic with his hands over his ears."

"Show me `shell shock' in a medical journal and I might believe you.  The
truth, that no one wants to face, is that it is an invented disease used as
an excuse for personal failings.  Sleeping on sentry duty risks the lives
of our whole section.  Desertion only encourages others and you will have
observed, Colonel, that morale here is already low.  We never had `shell
shock' in the Transvaal, I assure you."

Martin had indeed seen that morale was low.  The men here were listless and
ill.  The work was exhausting in this dressing station that was just behind
the front line and it received a never-ending stream of the wounded who
were patched up for the trip to the field hospitals at Hazebrouck and
Wisques, some miles away, or else were buried in pits and covered with
quicklime.  All the time they were under fire and so most of their
activities were conducted in shallow trenches or behind earthen
embankments.

Captain Chalmers was the senior medical man.  He came from Luton where he
practiced with his nephew, Captain Billson, who was with him now.  If
Chalmers had stuck to his medical duties he would have been unremarkable,
but his mind was clearly unhinged and his chief activity was now the
exposing of the criminality of the exhausted men only to then sit in
judgement over them in courts martial.  With Billson, who was completely in
his thrall, beside him, he had already had 12 soldiers executed by the
firing squad, which was comprised of the poor souls from the burial detail.
Now Chalmers, with a mad gleam in his eyes, had rounded up four young
soldiers-- one of whom was only 16--who had thrown down their rifles during
a mustard gas attack and were found to be hiding in a ruined barn three
miles away near the village of Wieltje.

"It's terrible," said Lt. Sudbury to Martin when they were alone.  "I don't
care if I am being insubordinate, sir, but those four boys must not be
allowed to die.  Can't you do something, sir?"

Martin was terribly distressed and wondered how he would ever sit on the
bench at Branksome-le-Bourne.  What would Stephen do?

"The tribunal has already handed down its decision, Sudbury.  I have it
here. Chalmers' medical report makes no mention of the men being ill.
Captain Billson gives indisputable testimony as to where the men were
found.  Two of them admitted to running away."

"He doesn't say that one of those was trying to get to China and the other
was looking for his mother who had been dead for five years, sir.  This
will make 16 and he's just warming to his task.  He spends most of his
spare hours hunting for `slackers and malcontents'."

"Who will rid me of this troublesome doctor?" lamented Martin under his
breath as Sudbury departed.



"Have the condemned men been told that they may appeal to the King,
Chalmers?" asked Martin when he hauled the unrepentant doctor before him
the next day.

"They have, sir, but none asked for pen and paper.  The firing squad will
be assembled Thursday morning.  Have you given any thought to having the
entire company on parade?"

"Did they have a `prisoner's friend' appointed to speak up for them at
their trial?"

"None asked, Colonel Poole."

Just then Lt Sudbury and Sgt Pierce knocked and entered.  "Excuse me for
interrupting, sir" said Sudbury saluting, "but Pierce has an important
development, sir. It affects morale."

Chalmers went to leave but Martin, acting on a look from Sudbury, had him
remain.

"I've heard a rumour, sir," said Pierce. "Of course it's only a rumour and
it may not be true.  You know how it is with these stories they..."

"Get on with it," snapped Chalmers

"A group of deserters has set itself up in an abandoned section of trench
near Saint Julien by the windmill at Wurst Farm--or rather where the
windmill used to be. Apparently these men are French, British and
Australian.  Two German deserters are said to be with them.  They've found
supplies, including brandy.  They're calling themselves a republic."

"This is astounding, Pierce," said Martin.  "How do you know this?"

"Like I said, it is just a rumour, sir, but we know the Australians stole
our hospital brandy.  Steal anything that's not nailed down, they would."

"Should we get Major Blythe in Langermarck to investigate, sir?" said
Sudbury.  "Saint Julien is terribly dangerous and under continuous fire and
I would not like to lose any more of our men in an expedition that's not
our concern, not with all the wounded coming through."

Martin didn't reply before Chalmers jumped in.  "I'll go myself.  It is our
concern.  I'll deal with those deserters."

"Don't be ridiculous, Chalmers, you're a doctor and needed here to save
men's lives. Saint Julien is suicidal and you'd be alone."

"I'd be armed."

"But you don't know how many of them there are.  They may still have their
arms."

"I'll go with the Captain," volunteered Pierce.

"I will too," said Sudbury.  Chalmers looked triumphant.

"But it will be dangerous for even the three of you.  And it might all be
for nothing."

"We know what we are doing and it won't be for nothing, sir," said Sudbury.



Sudbury reported to Martin, giving a smart salute.

"Well?" asked Martin.

"There was nothing there, sir; just the old mill.  There was very heavy
fire from the German lines, sir.  Captain Chalmers has been killed."

"That's terrible news, Sudbury," said Martin evenly.  "Write me a report,
but make sure you put it on my desk.  I'm dreadfully careless with reports.
What have I done with that report on the four men?"

"You mean the four men who are medically unfit for frontline duty, sir?"

"Yes, that's it."

"I have it right here, sir."


*****


It was on the 13th of October that Martin was awoken in his rough dugout.
It was at least provided with a wooden floor and a door and the horrors of
a public school dormitory had prepared him well for life in the trenches,
he reflected ruefully.  Lt Sudbury was shaking him. "Colonel Poole, your
lordship, wake up!"

Martin roused and looked startled.  "What's happened, Sudbury?"

"A wounded man has just come in.  He says he knows you."  Martin knew at
once it was Stephen.  He could speak so he was still alive.  He pulled on
his greatcoat and rushed to the triage tent, which sat in a depression
beneath one of The Plunger's camouflage `umbrellas' made of tattered cloth
and wire--the red cross not being protection enough.

He scanned the stretchers under the feeble lamplight.  There was Stephen,
lying flat. His mind went back to a scene on the beach at Antibes.  He
thought he was dead then too.

"Oh hello, Mala," said Stephen in a weak voice.  "I heard someone mention
your name. `Some toffy lord' they added and so I knew it was you."

"Are you alright, Derby?" asked Martin feeling that his voice did not
belong to his body and his body was independent of his soul.

"It's nothing, it's just..."

"...a scratch?" completed Martin, knowing Stephen's attitude.

"I was going to say a flesh wound.  Well, two I think.  I have lost some
blood, but I'll be alright with some patching.  Mala, Private Rugg is
dead."

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Derbs," said Martin, glad in his black heart that it
was Rugg and not Stephen.  The war made you think like that.  "You have
taken great care of your boys; better than anyone.  Please get better.
Life would be no good without you, Derbs."  He almost wept and then
recovered.  "I'll get them to send you up right away."  He went to call the
doctor.

"No, Mala!  I must wait my turn.  There are others more urgent than me.
Sit here and talk to me."

Martin suddenly could not think of anything to say and every topic sounded
trivial. There was only one topic; there had only ever been one topic: how
much he loved Stephen and that was difficult to put into words.

He sat quietly holding Stephen's hand under the blanket.  At one point
Stephen said: "Mala, I think that man wants someone to light his
cigarette," indicating another stretcher with a very ill looking occupant.
Martin went across and then fetched some water for another.  When he
returned Stephen had his eyes closed.  Or was he dead? He roused him and
with relief he saw Stephen give a smile.

Outside a weary group of walking-wounded from the RFC could be heard
singing in the dark as they made their way towards the dressing station,
their voices growing louder and then fading into the distance.

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me: For me the
angels sing-a-ling-a-ling, They've got the goods for me.  Oh! Death, where
is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling?  Oh! Grave, thy victory?  The Bells of Hell go
ting-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me

An hour later Carlo appeared, looking distressed.  "Oh your lordship, I am
so glad to see you...I didn't know...I want so much to...I..."  He faltered
and wanted to embrace Martin but held back.  Martin knew how he must be
feeling and tried to convey this through his eyes.  He invited Carlo to sit
with him.  "He's asleep, Carlo.  I think it is the morphine."

On towards dawn Dr Billson, for whom Martin had so recently been complicit
in avuncular deprivation, came to Stephen.  Martin felt very guilty and
morally confused.  I will think about this tomorrow he told himself as he
anxiously awaited the examination.

The shoulder was deeply grazed and the back of Stephen's thigh had
intercepted a bullet, which had passed through, tearing at the flesh and
causing a lot of bleeding. The nurse came and patched him up again and
Stephen made some feeble jokes for her benefit.  "Looks like I was running
away," he said to the nurse.  "I had just remembered that I wanted to take
you dancing in Paris."

The pretty girl told him to stop his `sauce' but smiled anyway.  "I heard
from Private Myles that the Captain threw himself on top him and also a
German officer to protect them, Colonel," she said to Martin.

"It's true," confirmed Carlo.

"He looked like you, Mala," said Stephen meekly in front of the others who
remained mute as Martin fought hard to control his tears.  The orderlies
came and Carlo, looking a little better, departed to look after Stephen's
kit and Stephen began his long journey to the field hospital at Hazebrouck.


*****

Mr Chilvers wobbled unsteadily on two wheels.  He was not a thin man and
when he dared to chance to look down to see if his heavy overcoat was in
danger of getting caught up in the chain, the curve of his belly hampered
his vision.  To make matters worse, the road was icy and the goose
(mercifully deceased) was awkward to carry in the pannier and threatened at
any moment to unbalance him and upset him into the slush.

Chilvers was returning from the village where he had been doing his shift
for the Red Cross who occupied the beautiful little hall that Stephen had
built as a gymnasium in the early months of the War.  Mrs Capstick, alone
of the household, knew how to drive but she was busy preparing for
Christmas and, besides, petrol was in short supply and must be kept for the
electric generator, so his lordship's bicycle was now pressed into service.

The butler and the goose were delivered unharmed, although Mr Chilvers was
a little puffed when he spoke to Mrs Capstick.  "How many will we have for
Christmas, Mrs Capstick?" he asked, although he knew the answer, but just
wanted a chance to go over the details in his mind once more.

"Well, Mr Chilvers, there will be his lordship and Mr Stephen if their
leave isn't cancelled.  You know it's an ill wind..., Mr Chilvers: This
cold weather must mean that neither we nor the Germans will be launching an
offensive until the thaw, isn't that right?"  Chilvers concurred with her
reasoning.  "And there will be Lady Maude and Miss Sophia.  Mr Antony will
come with Miss Craigth and The Plun...I mean Mr Archie may come if he's in
England.  There will also be Lord and Lady Delvees and possibly their
grandson `Mr Custard' as his lordship refers to him.  Then there is Lord
Alfred and he is bringing a Captain and Mrs Jolligobarmi--I think that's
the name-- so that makes thirteen, and of course there will be the usual
people from the Estate for dinner which will make about two dozen, I should
think."

Chilvers was looking thoughtful and doing calculations on his fingers.  "I
think it would be nice if all the staff from London could come down too.
Rationing is much worse there, Mrs Capstick.  We will have Higgins and
Carlo, so Mr Glass and the Smiths will be no trouble."

"Oh I do hope that Lt Craigth will bring Mr `Gertie'-- he does liven things
up below stairs, don't he, Mr Chilvers?"

"Yes, and we could use some laughter.  That has been rationed more strictly
than anything else."

Chilvers prowled around the house.  The west wing was still a ruin, but the
gaping holes had been boarded up and secured with tarpaulins to keep out
the chill.  He was distressed that so many rooms were shut up, the
furniture and paintings shrouded in dustsheets.  There would be no
jollities in the Long Gallery this year.  At least with the London staff to
hand, it might be possible to serve dinner with footmen and not have to
rely on parlour maids, a shortcoming which Chilvers found hard to bear.

Chilvers and Mrs Capstick assisted the four remaining maids to make the
bedrooms ready, the two senior servants noting, as Miss Prims had warned
them, that many of the sheets and towels whose vintage lay in the distant
past before her ladyship's death, needed to be urgently replaced, but such
things were difficult to come by in wartime.  Their gloomy mood was
somewhat lightened when they descended to the Great Hall where Tilly, the
youngest girl, was decorating the tree that had been cut down on the estate
and now towered above her in the hall where a shaft of weak winter sun had
just caught it.  Tilly was only 15 and flittered about the tree positioning
the decorations and changing her mind according to some unfathomable
aesthetic formula.  "It will take her mind off her brother," whispered Mrs
Capstick to the butler as they stood and watched her.



Stephen and Martin came down with Carlo on the 23rd.  Their train was
terribly late, but they didn't mind, so glad were they that their leave
should coincide for once. Stephen went straight to see his stepfather and
Miss Tadrew while Martin and Carlo continued up to the house in the trap,
which was being driven by young O'Brien.  They chatted about Christmas and
the stud.  The estate was kept busy providing horses for the Army and
O'Brien was now sought after to provide quality mounts for officers.
"We've been allowed to take on extra men, your lordship.  I've also seen to
it dat Aine and Palmira is exercised every morning for you, your
lordship. Dat Aine's a pretty little ting, to be sure."

Stephen came up to the house in the mid-afternoon and first had to take tea
with Mrs Capstick who adored him.  Tilly was new and couldn't take her big
eyes of Stephen as she brought in the tray.  "Tilly, watch what you're
doing, you'll have that all over us," cried Mrs Capstick and then gave an
amused look to Stephen.

Stephen could barely wait until the last scone was consumed (raisins having
been carefully kept back for the occasion) before he tried to bound up the
stairs, but winced with the pain in his leg and had to be content with a
rapid hobble, grasping the banister.  In their room Martin was busy writing
letters.  He pushed the papers aside, spilling the ink in the process, and
lifted Martin onto the table where he ran his hands through his soft,
golden hair and savagely kissed him, the kisses becoming gentler as he
nibbled his throat and earlobes.  "Fuck me, Mala. I need to make sure it's
really you."

Their uniforms were torn off, Carlo silently collecting the garments where
they had landed and employing an umbrella to unhook Martin's shirt from the
chandelier. Martin had his face buried in Stephen's armpits where the hair
was beautiful and not wiry at all, but the colour of a raven's wing against
the handsome ivory of his skin and as soft as eider down.  Both their cocks
were hard and leaking.  Carlo was called upon to assist in bending them
downwards so they could be placed snugly and romantically between the
thighs of the other as they continued their embrace.

Stephen broke free and laid on the bed with his knees pulled back, the
bandaged wound in his thigh a visible reminder that there was a savage
world beyond the safety of their room.  At once Martin was between
Stephen's legs, prying apart his muscular buttocks and making excursions
with his tongue to Stephen's handsome bollocks and arching cock.  "I'll
bring up the nuts from the dining room, then shall I?" said Carlo suddenly.
The boys halted in their passion and looked to him for an explanation to
the curious comment.  "You could crack walnuts between them beauties," said
Carlo with a grin, looking at Stephen's posterior.  Martin moved aside and
let the servant run his tongue down the sodden cleavage where the hair was
as wonderful as it was everywhere else on Stephen.

The War had suddenly made Spong's unavailable, the factory having been
turned over to making something called `Camp Pie', but Carlo produced a tin
labelled, patriotically, `Victory Dripping' which Martin in his urgency
seized as soon as Carlo had opened it, telling his lordship to mind the
sharp edges, and slathered the lardy substance on his panting lover and his
own person.

Martin had grown into a strong young man and saw to it that Stephen was
thoroughly satisfied and enjoying the congress as much as himself.  With
ardour more than tenderness, he drove his cock deep into Stephen, time and
time again, touching him in special places that made Stephen spasm in
ecstasy and drip with sweat.  It wasn't too long before Stephen's bobbing
erection, no longer (if it ever was) under his command, spewed his seed all
over the bed.  Martin pressed on, now concentrating on his own pent up
needs.  Encouraged by exhortations from Stephen, he too spilt, but in this
case Carlo would not be required to clean it up.

"Oh I needed that," sighed Stephen as he took a towel from Carlo who had
not been far away.

"I hope you have been taking care of The Captain's needs in France, Carlo."

"Evidently not as well as you can, your lordship, but I try to when I think
he needs it--and sometimes when I think I needs it," he admitted ruefully,
"but he works so hard it's the devil's own job to get him to eat and get
some `shut eye' at times, your lordship. I wish you were there to look
after him."

"I wish I was there too, Carlo."  They both looked at Stephen who was now
lying drowsily on his back, with his cock still half hard and oozing.  His
hair had fallen down over his left eye and one arm lay artlessly behind his
head and another across his magnificent chest.  He radiated an unconscious
beauty and not for the first time Martin wondered how such a thing came to
be.


The Plunger arrived with his sister, Jean, and her fiancé, Antony
Vane-Gillingham. Antony's mother, Aunt Maude, and her daughter, Sophia,
were on the same train.  Miss Craigth, the boys were curious to meet.  She
proved to be a very lively young lady indeed and not at all as `stuck up'
as The Plunger was-- or more accurately, pretended to be.  She was quite
thin but not tall like her brother.  Even more remarkable was the fact that
she had dark straight hair--rather like her mother may have once had and
there was not a sign of ginger or freckles.  She was immediately all
confident smiles and clever jokes and Martin realised how shy The Plunger
was by comparison.  She had lovely eyes and hands, which fluttered prettily
when she talked. Martin could see how his slightly stolid and worthy
cousin, Antony, would be captivated by this sophisticated young woman, but
he could not begin to guess at the relationship between brother and sister
in their years of growing up.

The Plunger seemed to take little notice of Jean as he chatted on about his
life as a camoufleur and something called the `five colour process'.  His
latest shift had been to design the `umbrella screens' of painted hessian
cloth, raffia and chicken wire, which were made by a large team of
troublesome French peasant women.  These were used to screen trenches, gun
emplacements and other installations from the air as well as from the
ground.

"It is the shadows that I see in the paintings by Sargent--you will
remember him, Poole-- that have inspired me.  Shadows play tricks with the
eyes our physicists tell us."  He then talked about his design for a
blasted tree stump that was really a lookout post with a periscope
concealed in a bird's nest.  However, Martin noticed, as he fed scraps to
Job under the table, that The Plunger did cast affectionate glances towards
his sister when she talked of her ordeals in the capture of Basra when he
thought no one else could see him and these were returned in the moments
when Antony took up her narrative.

The dinner on Christmas Eve was a success and the men sat for a long time
over their port talking about their individual wars.  This talk was
continued in Martin and Stephen's bedroom with The Plunger and `Custard'
Featherstonhaugh joining them before bed.  Martin sat up naked with his arm
around The Plunger who was exotically garbed in a black Japanese robe with
a belt.  Stephen lounged in front of the fire in just a pair of his lemon
silk pyjama bottoms, which sat low in his hips and did little to conceal
his manhood, and occasionally rubbed the nipples on his bare chest which
stood proud in the night air.

Custard, in his striped pyjamas, was all eyes as he talked of the fall of
Homonodos in October and the pushing back of the Bulgarians and the capture
of the Rupel Pass. There had been a big battle in early December, but a
combination of political developments in Greece and heavy winter snows
would limit activity until February at the earliest.  "General Milne is
under French command and Lloyd George didn't support him when he disagreed
with General Sarrail who is a thoroughly hopeless commander and interferes
in Greek politics all the time," said Custard.  "He's a socialist and
that's why he was appointed.  Sarrail has finally been recalled by
Clemenceau and so my General might have a better 1918..." Custard's
narrative dried up as he was increasingly mesmerised by Stephen who was
idly scratching his pubic hair (now trimmed in the shape of a heart once
again), which revealed itself above the waistband of the pyjama bottoms.
Stephen stopped when he realised that Custard was no longer talking.  He
looked at the hypnotized young man and then to Martin and The Plunger who
shrugged.

"Custard," said Stephen. "Custard!"  He stopped staring and looked to where
the voice was coming from. "Custard, would you like to see some more?"
Custard, with a dry mouth, nodded.  Stephen swaggered over to where he sat
and stood with his legs apart.  Custard raised a hand tentatively and it
hovered there until Stephen guided it. He felt Stephen through the
material, running his palm down the length of his arching bulge.  He turned
around to Martin and The Plunger and grinned.  They grinned back. He went
back to his work and Stephen hardened.  Stephen undid the cord and his
trousers pooled about his bare feet.  Custard stroked the length of the
extraordinary cock and rested his cheek on the velvety skin. "Stretch my
foreskin, Custard.  Yes, like that.  More!"

"Bring him off, Custard," called The Plunger from the bed.  Custard set to
work, managing to get a good deal of Stephen down his throat, causing him
to gag but not otherwise deterring him in his endeavours.  He then set to
work with his hands, Stephen steadying himself by leaning on his head.

"He's getting close, Custard, slap his balls," cried Martin.  Custard
flicked the pendulous bovine globes with the back of his hand. "Now pull on
them and get ready."  Custard was forewarned but not ready and when Stephen
erupted, an impudent spurt stung his eye while another carelessly lodged in
his hair and several more wastefully tricked down his face, which had once
been so ravished by spots but now only glowed under its masculine
lathering.

"Thank you, Custard.  That was good," said Stephen, wiping the end of his
cock across Custard's forehead.  "I'm warmed up for you, Mala. Are you
ready to take me?" He launched himself onto the bed, crushing Martin and
The Plunger under his weight as they laughed and tried to catch their
breath.  The Plunger wriggled free and pulled the stunned Custard by the
hand.  "Come on, I'll clean you up.  Let them enjoy their leave."

*****

The spring saw a big German offensive.  Monash, who had been on the Riviera
on leave, returned with a leaner figure, renewed vigour, fresh plans and a
K.C.B.  Under General Rawlinson he was placed in charge of all the
Australian and New Zealand troops and General Pershing had promised him
fresh, although inexperienced, American troops which were now arriving at
the rate of 10,000 a week.

Stephen, now practically recovered from his wounds, was attached
permanently to Monash's staff of Engineers along with his five men at the
HQ in Glisy.  As the German advance ground to a halt at the end of the
spring, the allies began their big push, following on from their success at
Villiers-Bretonneux at the beginning of April. Stephen had been up several
times in an observation plane, quite terrified, but tasked with gathering
information about the road beyond Amiens and the village of Hamel which
stood on high ground above the Somme in the apex of a dangerous bulge in
the German lines.  He felt the wonder of soaring above all the impediments
of mud and terrain and the inability to see what was over the hill.
Aeroplanes had to factor into modern warfare, he reflected, if it was not
going to be just the blind slaughter it had been.

May was spent in collecting such information, with Myles and Jarvis using
their skills in cartography to prepared detailed maps.  June was devoted to
tiresome, but in Monash's eyes vital, rehearsals for the forthcoming
battle.  Ten American platoons of 60 men had been promised and these were
broken up and placed among the larger Australian companies of 100 men to
gain battle experience.  Pershing had been persuaded by Haig to allow the
American soldiers to be under Monash's command, but he was not happy.

"It's a matter of engineering,'' Monash kept repeating and indeed solving
the problems of supply and communications did take up more time than the
actual plan for battle itself.  The Australians were reluctant to work with
tanks but Stephen suggested to Monash that the tanks could also be used to
re-supply the advancing soldiers rather than devote more than a thousand
troops to just this task.  The Mark V tanks were also superior to the
lumbering earlier models and, to his surprise, Monash, after a week, agreed
to this and so the 5th Tank Brigade was fully integrated into the master
plan.  Stephen pressed his luck and suggested that aeroplanes might drop
ammunition boxes and medical supplies forward by parachute and he and
Sgt. Slipper devised a way by which they could fly over the creeping
barrage and not let the supplies fall into the wrong hands.  This idea was
also taken up.

Stephen's men, the Sans Culottes, were to run out telephone wires and set
up masts for the wireless operators who were going into the advance for the
first time in the War.  Stephen and Quick improved the design of the
folding masts.

Stephen walked about the lines.  The infantry and the tank battalions were
billeted together and, if drinking and skylarking were symptoms, they had
formed a close bond, with each tank now painted in the colours of the
battalion that was to follow it.

The attack was planned for the 4th of July, the national holiday of the
Americans.  On the first, Stephen said to Carlo: "Make sure my uniform is
up to scratch, the Australian Prime Minister is visiting us tomorrow with
some other important types."

The dignitaries arrived just as they were having one of their rehearsals
with signal flares.  The Prime Minister was an irascible little Welshman
who spoke, in a squeaky voice, the language of the men.  However the
biggest surprise was when Martin stepped out of the American, General
Bell's, motor.  Salutes were exchanged before Stephen was able to say:
"Mala, what on earth are you doing here?"

"I didn't want to miss your big day, Derby.  I say, can I have some tea?"

"Captain, you must remember Brigadier General Bell from our time in
Chicago?"

"Oh yes sir," said Stephen, a salute being followed by a handshake, "we
talked about the design of equipment, didn't we?  We had a wonderful
reception in Chicago."  Major General Bell was full of charm and humour and
his white beard reminded Stephen of the soldier on the box of Konfederate
Kreem."

There was a grand dinner in the officers' mess, which was in the
substantial chateau that was commandeered for the Australian HQ in Glisy.
That night Martin slipped from his room and found Stephen's, which he
occupied with Carlo.  "Stay Carlo," he said. "I don't want to put you out
just because I love my soldier."

"I will close my eyes tightly and block my ears, your lordship."

"I won't weaken you before battle, will I, Derbs?"

"I don't think so, Mala.  It's more or less traditional among camp
followers like yourself."

"Yes, call me Becky Sharp for I feel such a slut, Derbs.  I can't resist an
officer in uniform, and I can resist you even less when you are in the raw
under a rough army blanket," said Martin with shining eyes as he felt
Stephen cock through the stout material.  "Lucky there aren't any German
officers here too.  Help me make him comfortable with the pillows, Carlo; I
want to do him properly."

When Martin's officer's trousers were surrendered, Stephen found that
Martin was firmly plugged and stretched by the Chinese device of happy
memory.  "I've had it in ever since Amiens, Derbs. I wanted to be open for
you.  General Bell must have wondered why I was smiling so much as we
bounced along in the motor.  Take it out."

Stephen thought Martin's pretty buttocks looked wanton and inviting, but
first he had Martin suck him to full and impressive hardness before he got
Martin to climb on, assisted by Carlo.  Martin clasped his arms about his
lover's strong neck. Martin cried out for Stephen to fuck him harder and
Stephen had to urge him to be quiet.  With a terrible shudder Stephen
spilled deep in him and then brought Martin off with his mouth before
sharing his seed in a tender but messy kiss.

Stephen was still terribly randy and he spied Carlo toying with the Chinese
plug. "I owe you a present Carlo. Would you like it now?"

"Will it help me gain my corporal's stripes?"

Stephen slapped him on the bare arse.  "There's three stripes for you,
sergeant."

"That's not fair. I ain't allowed to strike an officer," complained Carlo.

"But I am, Carlo," said Martin and between them they rolled Stephen over
(who in fairness, did not resist) and they took turns in smacking his
delightfully hairy and muscular buttocks.  "I think that's enough and I
fear that others in this house might've heard us," giggled Martin, so they
exchanged kisses for slaps and Stephen's beautiful buttocks were soothed.

It didn't take much to get Stephen ready for any kind of activity and he
was plainly `up for it' when they rolled him back over.  Carlo produced a
tube of `Ez-oo' (`Tell it to the Marines').  "I've been saving this since
America,' he said.  He greased up the working parts and, as Martin had done
before, lowered himself carefully onto his master.  "Oh, it don't half
smart!" he said with a grimace.  Martin wiped away a few tears and Carlo
thanked his lordship.

No doubt there was much real affection there, but what Martin saw was
brutal and animal; two rutting men.  When they had both spilled, they
collapsed onto each other. "Colonel, can you write me a note for sick
parade tomorrow?  Them Huns will have to fight without me."  No sympathy
was given for this self-inflicted wound.  The three of them managed to
snuggle into the one bed where Stephen was brought off twice more before
Martin slipped back into his own room just before reveille.

The next morning, even before the more distinguished visitors had departed,
there was a terrible shock.  General Pershing had issued orders that six
Americans companies should be pulled out.  No reason was given.  Hughes was
incandescent with rage and swearing worse than the troops.  General Bell
was puzzled but could say little, except that he would try to persuade his
commanding officer.  Monash was distraught and appealed on the telephone to
Rawlinson and Haig, explaining that 11th Brigade would have only 2300
rather than 3000 men and his overall force would be down to just 7000.
Haig replied there was little he could do, as Pershing had initially wanted
all American troops taken to the rear.

There was consternation with the Americans in the 42nd simply refusing to
obey orders and they stuck with their new `buddies'.  The rest of the day
was spent rearranging the intricate battle plans.

At 2230 Martin watched the Whippet tanks moving up into their positions.
At 0310 the battle commenced with the thunderous barrage.  He did not see
Stephen or the Sans Culottes and he stayed with Monash at Glisy where
reports came in by various means, including by modern wireless and ancient
carrier pigeon.  Martin was careful to stand out of the way, not daring
even to talk to Herman Moss.



"I'm very displeased," said Monash to the company at large. "After all my
months of careful planning, it has taken us 93 minutes to reach all our
objectives and I had calculated it would take us exactly 90."  Then he
broke into a broad smile.

Reports came through over the following 48 hours.  The Germans had launched
a ferocious counter attack with phosgene and mustard gas and had captured a
party of stretcher-bearers.  The 43rd Battalion, with its American
supplement, had attacked with horrifying ferocity, using grenades and
clubs.  The positions held and although 176 Anzacs and 13 Americans had
lost their lives, neither Stephen nor the Sans Culottes were among them
and, as the summer turned into autumn, the beginning of the end was at last
in sight.


End of Book III

Book 4 "The Hall of Mirrors" continues.

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