Date: Tue, 1 Nov 2016 22:12:12 +0000
From: Henry Hilliard <h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com>
Subject: Noblesse Oblige III chapter 3 (revised)

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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 3
Into the Land of My Dreams

A day of blessed normality--or rather an interlude with the illusion of
normal life in wartime--began with Glass bringing the early tea to Martin
and Stephen's room.  Both boys knew just how fleeting this almost painful
reminder of a life now past might be, but to dwell on it or to even give it
voice would be somehow to diminish its blessing.  Besides, life rolled on
whether you thought about it or not and the routine of tea was inextricably
bound up with existence whether on the Western Front or in Piccadilly.

Stephen sat up brightly as was his wont while Martin uncoiled more slowly
in the bed, which looked rather like the landscape along the Somme.  Carlo
came in shortly afterwards and prepared the bath and laid out their
uniforms, which had been cleaned and pressed during the night.

"Carlo, I think we better dress the Captain's shoulder after we have bathed
him," said Martin who turned to Stephen and added: "Derby, I want you to
see Sir Thomas Barlow today," he said, naming the King's physician who had
been a witness to his late brother's will.  "I want him to look at your
wounds and check you over.  You don't have to go back to him again if you
don't want to."

"I'll be alright, Mala, I don't need a doctor."

Martin was prepared for this.  "You could also ask him about what could be
done for your two legless sergeants--what are their names--Swane and
Louch?"

"Well, perhaps I could.  Thanks, Mala, I imagine it can't be easy getting
an appointment.  I must send a message to my stepfather and Miss Tadrew
first.  You haven't told them that I'm home, have you?"

"No I haven't and they'll be very worried, but Derby, don't send a
telegram.  Since you've been away people dread seeing a telegraph boy and
some even spit on them in the street--you have no idea-- even a visit from
the vicar usually means the worst news for someone.  Telephone Croome
yourself and get Mrs Capstick to tell Miss Tadrew and she can tell Titus.
When do you think you will go down?"

"In a few days.  Mala, I must go north and see Christopher's parents first.
I could also see three other families of my men."

"I can't come with you Derby; I'm too busy at Whitehall.  Will you be
alright?"  "Yes, Mala.  It's something that I must do myself, but I'll take
Carlo with me to help with my kit.  Carlo," continued Stephen as his batman
returned to the room, "you and I are going to Hexham tomorrow.  Organise
some tickets and a hotel.  See if you can get the night train.  I
understand that it can be difficult with troop movements and such."

"Very good, sir," replied Carlo.

Stephen slid out of bed and used his stick to walk to the bathroom, calling
out: "I can get in myself but you can both come and watch, unless you'd
prefer to go to the Empire Leicester Square for your thrills."  He turned
and grinned shaking his privates at them.

"Carlo," said Martin, "he's going to see a good doctor today for a
check-up.  I want you to go too--that is to help him and to see Sir Thomas
Barlow yourself."

"But I'm not injured, your lordship."

"You've been at the front for over a year.  That is an order, Private
Sifridi."

"Sir!" he replied saluting. "I think the Captain needs a bit of a trim down
there, sir; don't you think so--especially if he's seein' the doc?"

"Good idea, I think I swallowed enough hair to stuff a mattress," giggled
Martin, pretending to pull it from his teeth.  "And fetch me the Captain's
stick, Carlo, he was particularly vigorous last night and I can barely
walk."

"Were that all injuries were so pleasant, your lordship," said Carlo,
pleased at his turn of phrase.  "It is good to see things back how they
should be."



Sir Thomas' rooms were in Wimpole Street and Captain Knight-Poole and his
batman arrived there in a taxi.  Stephen pressed the shiny brass bell with
his stick.  The maid showed them into an elegant waiting room and presently
Sir Thomas himself came to the door.  Stephen remembered the elderly doctor
with his pointed white beard from that day in Bournemouth.  His eyes
twinkled behind steel-framed glasses.  "It is good of you to see us, Sir
Thomas," began Stephen, rising with the aid of his stick.

"It is my honour to serve our soldiers.  I was only too pleased to see you
when Lord Branksome telephoned.  My own son, Patrick, is in France too,
Captain Knight-Poole. Do come in."

"No, Private Sifridi wants to see you first, Sir Thomas.  His case is much
more urgent."  Carlo looked in surprise and so did Sir Thomas.  "Really..."
insisted Stephen, then in a low voice to Carlo: "You go first, I want to
know if he gives you needles; I'm scared of needles," confessed the
recipient of the Military Cross (and Bar).  Carlo shrugged and went in.

A short time later he emerged alone.  Stephen looked up enquiringly. "No
needles, sir," said Carlo.  "He just recommended I need a tonic and an
improved diet."

Sir Thomas called Stephen in.  His consulting room was magnificent and the
lofty windows, protected by wrought iron guards, looked out over a street
of tall Georgian houses.  Sir Thomas asked Stephen about his service and
about illnesses of which Stephen had had none.  Stephen was then asked to
remove his uniform.  Of Stephen's lack of undergarments and pubic hair
fashioned roughly into the shape of a love heart he said nothing.  He
inspected all of Stephen's wounds and scars and Stephen could relate how he
got some of them-- including some old ones from boxing, but he said he
needed his batman to know them all.  Sir Thomas inspected the shoulder
wound, which had not healed but was clean.  "This will need to be dressed
twice a day.  I will write down how your man should do it--I don't think we
can get a nurse in as they are in such short supply, as you would imagine,
sir."  He listened to Stephen's chest and heart.  "Sound lungs and a strong
heart beat."  He took his blood pressure.  "Have you been having
nightmares, Captain?"  Stephen nodded.  "That is quite normal.  With luck
they will diminish, but I can get you help if they persist."

He felt Stephen's leg and asked him how it felt when he moved it in various
ways. "I will want you to come back for an x-ray.  We'll do your leg and
shoulder to make sure there are no fractures or metal.  You will need
rest."

"Will I be able to go back to my men, Sir Thomas?"

"When you are off the stick I suppose so, but surely not to the front line
with a limp and maybe still needing a stick."  Stephen looked downcast.
"You are fond of your men?"

"Yes sir.  I love them and they need me.  By the way sir, could you see two
of my comrades as private patients?  I wish to pay their fees.  They have
lost their legs sir--that is, one each."

"Well, the Army will look out for them, I'm sure.  Queen Mary Hospital in
Roehampton is where the best work is being done, but I will see them, of
course. Leave their details with my nurse.

He next inspected Stephen's privates.  Fortunately his hands were warm but
unfortunately Stephen's cock started to rise. "Don't worry about that,
Captain.  It happens all the time--I'd just better stand back a bit with
you, young fellow.  Are you a married man, Captain Knight-Poole?"

"No sir."

"Have your sexual organs given you any trouble?"

"They have got me into plenty of trouble, sir, but no, they seem to be
satisfactory."

"More than satisfactory, I'd say, but I'm glad to hear it.  Neurasthenia
from battle often manifests itself in impotence.  I've seen some very sad
cases.  We've had to give a course of injections to stimulate the glands to
some men back from the front."

Stephen became alarmed.  "Do you think I have Neura-whatever, sir?  When I
spend it comes in buckets, sir."

"No, I don't think so, Captain," replied the King's physician, laughing.
"I think you need rest and a tonic and your leg needs to mend.  Come and
see me next week for that x-ray and maybe we'll look at some exercises to
do."



Stephen spent some of the day resting his leg and Carlo changed the
dressing on his shoulder after the whole household had puzzled over the
scrawl that passed as Sir Thomas' handwriting.  Stephen wrote to Sgt Swane
and Sgt Louch and told them about their appointments and promised to see
them when he came back to London.  Carlo packed and organised for their
trip north.

At three o'clock Glass announced a visitor.  "Hello, Knight," said a
familiar voice, devoid of passion.

"Plunger!" cried Stephen and got up from the chair and embraced the
aristocratic young man.  The Plunger's veneer of distain crumbled in an
instant and he was crying and hugging Stephen for several minutes until he
regained his composure.  He dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief produced
from the sleeve of his magnificent officer's uniform and then said: "I say
I'm awfully sorry for blubbing, Stephen.  Could I have some tea?"

Stephen leant over and kissed him on his carroty top and said, "What a poor
host I am, of course--would you mind ringing for me--damn leg."


The kitchen also had a visitor.  Gertie had come across with his master
from the Ritz Hotel where they were billeted as Fayette had been taken over
by Belgian officers.

"...of course the Old Bitch is complaining bitterly about the privations of
war," he said to Carlo and Glass, "and the management have been grizzling
about her pekes shitting on the carpet--sorry Mrs Smith-- I didn't mean to
swear-- it's being in the Army has made me an old trollop."

"Oh Mr Gertie, you are such a caution," laughed Mrs Smith, the housekeeper.

"Well, anyway," continued Gertie, breathlessly, "I was down with `her' and
her paint box at Portsmouth and we had all gone out to sea a little way to
test the colours on a frigate--you know camouflage -- `Dazzle' she and her
girlfriends call it-- well, there was poor Gertie hanging over the rail
looking like seven sorts of death and my hair like barbed wire around a gun
emplacement because of the salt, when all of a sudden one of the sailors
sets up a shout.  `Oh do shut up, dearie,' I says to myself but I look up
and there's a floating mine-- great big ugly thing like a pineapple bobbing
towards us."

"Good heaven, Gertie, whatever did you do?" said Mr Smith.

"Well, I'm just about to tell you, dear.  Is there any more tea in the pot?
Well, there's more shouting than when Sarah Bernhardt was doing a costume
fitting and someone says, `Fire at it and blow it up before it hits us!'
They're all firing their rifles and carrying on and the dashed thing is
closing in on us.  So Gertie picks up her rifle (I'd only taken it on deck
to lean on) and I fire--just like at the funfair-- and boom!  I hit it with
my first shot.

"Well you should have seen the water!  The sea rose up and we were all
drenched, including the captain who had come out of his little house to
watch. `Who is that man?' he calls. `It's only me, dearie!' I call back.
`Are you a sailor?'  he shouts. `I can be, if you like, but I'm a private
in the Army' and I tell him I'm her ladyship's batman. And he says I'm a
brave and clever fellow and I said it was nothing compared to opening night
of Floradora in Drury Lane.  `You can have anything you like; you've saved
the ship!'  Gertie looked about at the faces around the table with their
mouths agape.

"Well done, Gertie!" said Glass.

"What did you ask for?" asked Carlo.

"Oh I'll tell you later boys, but let's just say that I had a nice drink at
the pub with the wireless operator," replied Gertie, adjusting his hair
with moistened fingers as he looked sideways at his reflection in the glass
over a picture of His Majesty that hung on the wall opposite.


The bell rang and Glass disappeared.  It was Aunt Maud and Sophia, and
Glass showed them into the drawing room and, just as he was doing so,
Martin walked in. Greetings were exchanged and Martin asked after Antony.

"Oh, he's in gone out with General Maude-- yes, it is a coincidence of
names--to Basra in Mesopotamia," replied Aunt Maude, "I had a letter two
days ago."

"My sister is a nurse out there," said The Plunger suddenly.

"Sister!" exclaimed Martin and Stephen in unison.

"I've known you for six years and you've never mentioned you had a sister!"
said Martin, astounded.

"Oh didn't I?" he replied airily.  "We don't get on awfully well, but she's
damn brave going out there after she had trained, all the same."

"Well, what's her name, how old is she and what is she like?" demanded
Martin "Jean-- I call her Jelly-- she's 21 and she likes dolls--or she did
when she was a little girl, I can't say I've seen her with them in recent
years, though--and she looks like mother."

"She not a ginger?" asked Stephen.

"No, poor thing.  I say, I don't see why there's all the sudden interest in
remote members of my family," he said, irritably.  Martin and Stephen just
exchanged helpless looks.


That evening the three boys dined at the Saville Club as M. Lefaux, the
chef, was now gone to serve his country in both senses.  The talk at the
club was of Stephen's old friend Erskine Childers' increasing radicalism
following the Easter rising.  "I believe he was mixed up with Sir Rodger
Casement," an older member was heard to say in a low voice to some friends
at the next table.  "He's a disgrace to the Liberal Party--we've tried to
offer them dominion status, but the Protestants won't budge.  It will be
civil war if we're not careful and the Germans will make a meal out of
that," he said and then paused to sip his whisky.

The boys knew that Casement had been sensationally executed only a few
months ago for treason, having been found to be in league with the Germans
in supplying guns to the radicals.

"Have you seen Casement's diaries--the `Black Books'?" said another,
breathlessly. "Seems Casement was a sodomite as well as a traitor.  Fond of
picking up boys."

"Pemberton-Billings said the whole government is full of 'em," said a third
member, "and that the Germans are using these perverts to corrupt and
blackmail our soldiers. Here, read what he says in The Vigilante."  There
was silence for several minutes during which time Martin, Stephen and The
Plunger, ashen faced, dared not look at each other.  And then the first one
spoke again: "Well it may be true, but why would the ex-King of Albania
have this so-called Berlin Black Book listing all these 47,000 names?  Too
many black books for my liking."

"Yes that bit does sound odd.  Maybe Pemberton-Billings is a bit cracked."

"Yes," said the second, "He says here that the wife of the Prime Minister
is a lesbian and there is an article on page three that says women should
have their own parliament to discuss `domestic affairs'.  Still, there are
too many sodomites about these days--especially at the Carlton Club.  "I
say, is that you, Knight-Poole?" he said in a normal voice, looking up at
the boys.  "Back from the front are we? And your leg...come and tell us old
timers all about it..."

They left the club and Martin explained to Stephen that The Fly, who had
been terrorizing Custard, was Pemberton-Billings' son. "How can people be
so ridiculous," said Stephen.

"The blackmail is real enough, Stephen," said The Plunger solemnly.  The
mood changed when Martin produced three tickets for Chu Chin Chow and they
took at cab to His Majesty's even though it was just nearby in The
Haymarket to save Stephen's leg.  Oscar Asche was wonderful as Abu Hasan
and the chorus was sensational in its scanty costumes, to the delight of
the many soldiers in the audience.

The boys were all humming the Cobbler's Song as they searched for a
restaurant in which to have supper and they chose the Comedy in Panton
Street, near the theatre.  There was a group of noisy soldiers at a table
and their hats and accents proclaimed them to be Australians.  They were
drunk and engaged in throwing bread rolls at the top hats of `swells' that
came in through the doors.  Despite their insobriety they were good shots
and when a silk hat tumbled to the floor and the owner looked outraged,
they would cry `Howzat?' with thumbs raised in appeal to an imaginary
umpire.

The management was getting restive but were in trepidation as the
Australians were all big fellows and looked as if they would like an excuse
for a fight.  Many of the ladies cowered, although some smiled at their
antics.

"Sir," said the manager to Martin. "Can't you do something about these men?
Other ranks are not allowed in here and they have taken no notice of me.  I
would call the police but I fear the consequences."

Martin went up to them, chaperoned by The Plunger and Stephen.  The
soldiers stopped their activities but, just when Martin thought he'd been
effective, one of them took aim at a particularly inviting silk hat that
came through the door.

"Don't you men salute a superior officer?"

"No, not unless we like 'em," said one.

"Well, why don't you like me?"

"Can't say.  Maybe if you could buy us a feed, I could better judge what
sort of bloke you are."

"And a beer" added another.

"Haven't you been served?"

"No, sir, they won't serve us because we're not officers."

"We've just arrived in London on leave.  We've come from Fromelles," said a
tall, square-headed one.

"It's his 20th birthday," said the other.

"Happy birthday private--?"

"Morse, Percy Morse.  This is me mate, Jack Wagstaff, sir."

"Well I'm Lt. Colonel Poole and these are my mates, Captain Knight-Poole
and Lt Craigth."

"Blimey," said Jack, "Did they kill off so many old colonels they've had to
conscript babies?  How old are you sir, if that's a fair thing to ask?"

"Twenty and the rank came with my title.  I'll tell you about it if you
promise to stop throwing things."

"And you're a lord?" said Percy, "Now, you can't expect us to salute a
lord."

"Fromelles?" said Stephen, "I've just come from near there. You boys
suffered appalling losses."

The Australians nodded solemnly.  Stephen called the manager over.  "These
men have just come from Hell on Earth. They are our guests. Bring them beer
and food."

"And more beer," called one after him.

The boys sat down and began to `yarn' with the cheeky colonials.  Percy and
Jack were mates who had enlisted together.  "All Aussies are volunteers,"
said Jack proudly. They had been in Egypt awaiting transport to Gallipoli
when the withdrawal saw them head straight to France.

"You're the tallest pommies we've seen," said Percy. "On the Somme there
can't be one over five-foot-five.  Suppose it saves on uniforms."

"And makes for smaller targets," added Jack.

They worked in a foundry and were the sons of gold miners.  "That's why
we're called diggers," explained Percy.  The other men were a bread carter,
railway ganger and an axeman.

"Tell us about what a lord does, Colonel," said Percy and so Martin did.
They asked Stephen about his life and when Stephen said he knew Major
General Monash they were very impressed. "We saw him in Egypt and now he's
in France."

"No, he's now in England," said another, "on Salisbury plain.  He's a good
bloke."

In fact they were all good blokes now that the beer and food were in
supply.  They didn't make much mention of the mates they had lost, but it
was always there, behind everything they said.  A lot of their bravado was
a reaction to their trauma.

One fellow was wearing The Plunger's monocle and explaining to him that the
feather in his hat was a kangaroo feather while Percy and Jack were engaged
with Martin and Stephen, yarning about cricket and the devilish ways of the
`gyppos' in Heliopolis.  It was late when the proprietor persuaded them all
to leave.  The men lazily rose and shook the boys' hands manfully and then
offered a salute of sorts.  Martin, Stephen and The Plunger headed out the
door.  Just as he stepped through it, The Plunger felt a blow to the back
of his head.  A bread roll bounced on the floor.  *****

Martin was awoken by a thump on his skull. Stephen was flinging his arms
around and crying out.  "Wake up Derby! You're safe!" cried Martin.  He
tried to hold him but he was too strong and he continued to thrash about in
a distressed state until he awoke, panting.  It was some minutes before he
could speak.

"I'm sorry Mala, I must have been dreaming... I can't remember anything
except it was horrible.  Talk to me so I won't go straight back to sleep; I
don't want the dream to come back."

So Martin did, running over the events of the day and then talking quietly
about their lives.  "When do you think the war will end, Derbs?"

"Who knows?  I know a lot about the Thirty Years War."

"That's not very encouraging.  Do you want to go sleep?"

"Not particularly."

"I'm feeling awfully frisky, Captain," said Martin lifting the blankets on
his nakedness.

"You're no Aussie, Colonel-- you're saluting a pommy officer."


*****

Carlo and Stephen headed north.  They couldn't get a Pullman train so they
sat up for the seven hours it took to reach Newcastle, a long delay being
caused by the movement of troop trains.  In Newcastle they changed trains
in the early morning. Carlo was fretting about dressing Stephen's wound and
he kept adjusting the travelling rug over his bad leg.  The local train
took them the 25 miles along the Tyne to the town of Hexham where their
hotel, The Tap and Ale, was located by the ancient Abbey that dominated the
old town.  In their room Carlo bathed and dressed Stephen's shoulder and,
while his master rested, he went down to see about hiring a vehicle to take
Stephen to Acomb, the village a short distance away where Christopher's
father, Dr Tennant, lived.

A trap was arranged and Stephen set off with the driver alone.  Carlo
busied himself with the luggage and then had a glass of ale down in the
bar.  It was only an hour later that Stephen returned.  Carlo could tell he
was upset and followed him upstairs.  "Is everything alright sir?  Did you
find the house?"

"Yes, I found it, Carlo." He paused as he pulled his boots off and then
flopped down on his bed.  "They didn't want to know me, Carlo.  They are so
consumed with grief that it didn't matter what I said.  His mother knew of
me, but his father only asked if I'd been at University with him in Leeds.
I thought they might talk over tea, but none was offered so just I came
away.  I feel wretched."

"Never mind, sir.  It was what you were to Mr Tennant that mattered, not
what you were to his family."

"That was well said, Carlo.  You're a wise man."

"I try to be of service sir, as Mr Chilvers says.  Come downstairs for a
pint.  The ale's good here."

That night Stephen had another nightmare.  It awoke Carlo who was sleeping
in the other bed.  He came across the room in his long underwear and tried
to wake Stephen who was crying.  Half awake, he grabbed Carlo, hurting him,
and sobbed on his chest. He then awoke fully and apologised.  "I'm sorry
Carlo, I can't even remember what I was dreaming; all I remember is the
intensity of the feeling--I still feel it even though it's gone.  It's
strange, isn't it?"

Carlo sat by him, holding his hand until he was calmer.  He was upset
himself.  He put his hand on Stephen's naked chest and could feel his heart
racing.  He went to go back to his own bed when Stephen said, "Get in if
you like.  I'll make room--but take those awful things off."

Carlo removed his `long johns' and slid in next to Stephen.  "It's a bit of
a squeeze, sir, but not as tight as your bunk in the foxhole."

"I miss the men, Carlo; not the Somme, but the men.  I hope they're
alright--but there's no earthy reason why they should be alright."

"You know, we call ourselves the Sans Culottes, sir, because of you."

"Do you?  That's nice.  What are you going to do after the War, Carlo?"

"I don't know sir.  Taking care of you has been all I can think about at
the moment."

"Thank you, Carlo.  Only a few years ago I never would have thought that I
would need someone to do things for me; fancy not being able to draw your
own bath or put out your own toothbrush or cook your own meals.  I've
become more helpless."

"Rich folk become more like children in lots of ways, if you'll pardon my
saying so."

"Yes, you're right.  Perhaps we would all like to be children again if we
could have our way."

"His lordship said I was to take care of you, sir."

"No, not now, Carlo, I feel too upset.  But don't let me stop you. Are you
hard?"

"Something frightful, sir."

"Well let me help.  I owe you a great deal for all that you've done for
me."

"Oh, that's nice, sir," said Carlo. "And its right nice being here with you
and all safe like and no guns and no mud."

"And no lice and rats."

"And no smell o' death and bully beef."

"Are you a big shooter, Carlo?"

"I thought so until I seen you, sir."

"Well, we'll have to see what we can do.  Are you taking Sir Thomas'
tonic?"

"I can think of some other medicine that I'd rather swallow."

"Really, Carlo!  And what makes you think that would do you good?"

"Well I've never known his lordship to have even as much as a cold."

"You are a cheeky bugger and no mistake.  Are you nearly there yet?"

*****

While Stephen and Carlo made their way south via Howden and Doncaster where
Stephen made heart-wrenching visits to the families of his fallen men,
Martin was `flat out' in his offices in Whitehall.  His department had
grown along with the scale and complexity of the conflict itself.  He now
found he was required to find scientists and researchers in obscure fields
whose names he could not even pronounce.  His latest coup, which required
some research, was to find someone who knew about a chemical called
acetone, which, apparently, was vital in making cordite.  It was Daniel
Sachs who mentioned a relative who was a famous chemist at Manchester
University.  Professor Chaim Weizmann was working on making acetone by
distilling Clostridium acetobutylicum from maize.  Martin had Uncle Alfred
and Glass test him over a week as he practiced saying the name and spelling
it.  Arthur Balfour was most grateful when Martin produced the elderly
gentleman and then he was set the task of finding a factory in London for
its production and a gin factory in Bow was at last commandeered.

Now, with Rumania in the war on the allied side, the demand for Rumanian
and Hungarian speakers was at its height. I was only a matter of time,
thought Martin... and sure enough... one day his orderly announced Count
Osmochescu.  The little round man was all smiles, bows and elaborate
greetings but little of substance concerning their earlier encounters was
aired and Martin was glad when the Count went away to the Foreign Office.
He is someone else's problem now--Britain was already in a mess and surely
Count Osmochescu could not make it very much worse.

Martin returned home to Piccadilly exhausted.  Glass had fetched him beer
and he had his Army boots off and his aching feet were reposing in a dish
of soapy water in the drawing room, as this room was one of the few heated
due to the coal shortage.  Glass reappeared and Martin looked up from the
evening paper.  "General Monash is here to see you, sir."

Martin could do little but stand and salute with his feet in the
water. "It's wonderful to see you sir.  I do apologise but my boots have
been a trial all day.

"It is lovely to see you again, Lord Branksome--or should I say Colonel
Poole?" said Monash.

"Well, that is embarrassing, sir, but the Earl of Holdenhurst's Yeomanry
goes with the title, I'm afraid."

"My feet ache also," said Monash.  "Would your servant bring me some hot
water too?"

So the two military officers sat with whisky in their hands and their feet
in tin dishes of salty water.  Martin related what had been happening at
Croome and Monash said a few words about Gallipoli and the Western Front.

"I hear Captain Knight-Poole was awarded a Military Cross," said Monash.

"And Bar," added Martin and told something of his actions.  "He is at home
wounded at the moment--I had to force him back to England and he is at
present in the north visiting the families of some of his fallen men.  He
takes it very personally.  I think it will kill him, sir, if a German
bullet doesn't get him first."

"I could use an Engineer like the Captain.  I have Herman with me.  We--
that is the Australian Second Division and me--are at Armentieres.  The
King came and inspected us the other week.  I have two British Army
Lieutenant Colonels with me--Jackson and Farmer-- good chaps; we could do
with more."

"Oh no!" said Martin in alarm.  "I'm not a proper Lieutenant Colonel--I'm
just a chocolate soldier.  You'd want someone like Stephen, except he can't
walk at present and he won't leave his men.  He wants to go back to the
front, but I don't want him to go, of course."

"Well, I'll keep him in mind for when he's fit.  Did you say he doesn't
want to leave his men?"

"Yes sir, he's devoted to them and they to him.  They even have a song
about him, but it's too rude to repeat."

"Is that so?" said Monash, chuckling at the idea.

"What about if he could have his men--or some of them, do some work with
him for Supply--for the Army Service Corps?"

"Would he be at the front?"

"Perhaps sometimes.  They want someone from the Royal Engineers to study
the problem of supply and distribution across the Western Front.  It's a
vast and complex one.  It will require brains."

"Well Stephen has the brains.  His men are loyal and brave, but rely on
Stephen's intellect, but they do have more initiative than most--in my
humble opinion."

"Tell Knight-Poole to call on me at the War Office when he's back."

*****

Stephen spent the first two days at Croome at his stepfather's cottage.
There were hugs and kisses and even tears all round.  Titus, while reticent
in his speech, was not so in displaying honestly felt emotion--something he
had passed on to Stephen.  Miss Tadrew was all over him and he had to strip
off and show her all his wounds.  She sobbed when she saw what they had
done to her boy.

Stephen went out with Titus and set some traps and they spent an afternoon
mending a fence.  Stephen would have liked to help in the orchard, but
found he had to rest his leg.  They did not talk much about the war, but
Stephen hoped that Titus could sense something about it by other means.  He
found it impossible to talk about it--even to answer sensible questions
concerning what it was like from Mrs Capstick and Chilvers.  The only
person he felt understood was Carlo, for he had been there and it was Carlo
who changed his dressings and helped him into his bath (although this
wasn't strictly necessary any longer) and it was Carlo who came to him when
he called out in his sleep--his having taken to sleeping on a folding cot
in the dressing room.  Even with Carlo is was not necessary to talk; it was
just that he knew and by knowing, understood a little.

Stephen felt that Croome had changed since he'd been away.  There was the
obvious physical destruction of the great storm.  The ruin that was the
south wing of the house would have to be made safe and left until after the
war--there was not the labour or materials available.  Less obvious at
first was the lack of young men, but only elderly men and boys were all
that seemed apparent when Stephen went out and the women were doing
startling and unfamiliar things such as driving the bus, delivering the
post and bringing in the grain.

He was glad that the school and the gymnasium had been finished early in
the War--even though they had been put to other purposes.  He limped around
the latter imagining the local lads playing billiards upstairs or sitting,
talking and laughing, in the ingle with its big fireplace that he had
suggested.  The boxing ring could be set up here and the Owens...but then
he remembered --where were these lads now?--and he bit his lip and fought
back the tears.

He could not ride his bicycle and Martin's car was in London so he visited
Aine who seemed to remember him, and had Sean O'Brien drive him in the trap
over to Pendleton to see the two tiny cottages in the grounds of the
infirmary.  They were neat little affairs and the elderly occupants-- a
single man and a couple--seemed happy enough.  It would have to be after
the war before any more could be constructed.  Stephen reflected on how
that phrase, `after the war' had now crept into everyone's language.  It
was at once resigned and yet still hopeful; there would be an `afterwards',
just as Titus used to tell him when he was having nightmares as a child;
that there would be a dawn--even if you couldn't see it now, you had to
have faith that things would be much better in the morning.

Two buses belonging to Martin's company passed the trap.  The traffic to
and from Wareham had grown due to the war, principally because Tachell's
factory was working around the clock and was now making shell casings,
among other war materiel, and many folk in the villages on the estate,
including the women, had found employment there and a dozen outsiders who
worked at Tatchell's had settled their families into surplus accommodation
in the villages.  It struck Stephen as odd that something so horrible as a
howitzer shell could have its origins in somewhere as peaceful and
beautiful as this quiet part of the world.  One thing was certain: Croome
was now irrevocably tied to the outside world far more than in Martin's
father's day and the vestiges of feudalism to which Martin was so
accustomed were slipping away. Things wouldn't be the same after the war,
he said to himself, as did millions of others.



Martin came down at the weekend and they were overjoyed to see each other
all over again.  "I've been planning this, Mala," said Stephen.  He took
him upstairs to their room.

"But I haven't had tea yet," wailed Martin.

"It can't wait."

Stephen opened the door and Martin looked in.  There was their room, as
usual. No, William's gramophone had been set up on the table and the
curtains were drawn.  On the bed were two pairs of Stephen's favourite
lemon-yellow silk pyjama bottoms, obviously laid out by Carlo.

"We're to stay in this room for 24 hours and the door will remain locked
except for when Carlo brings us food and beer.  Is beer all right?  "I've
worked out a schedule," he said flourishing a piece of paper. "Some of the
time-- well most of it--we'll be in bed; we have a lot to make up for and I
need to prove to Sir Thomas that I don't have Neurasthenia in my privates.
We are going to dance together--we've never done that and I'd like to; we
are spending four hours and twenty minutes in the bath," he said consulting
the paper.  "Carlo will come and fill it up when it gets too cold.  We are
eating all our meals here--I'm going to feed you--and we'll see nobody
until Sunday night when we've got a lot of guests."

"What's that?" said Martin pointing to a slate.

"Oh that's a tally of how many times I spend and the second column is for
how many times you spend."

"And the third?"  "Oh that's for ratings and suggestions for improvement.
There's chalk over there."

"Derby: this is so romantic! Is that the right word?"

"I hope so Mala.  And it's certainly well organised, don't you think?"

"Yes superbly, remind me to speak to you about that before the door is
unlocked on Sunday."

"Right.  Get your uniform off, you won't need clothes for the duration and
I'll wind the machine--with my leg I may not be quite as good as I am with
the ladies, but they're mainly waltzes and they usually make me quite hard
I find..."

It was many hours later that they were sitting in the bath.  Martin was
almost asleep but he was dreamily soaping the raven silky curls of
Stephen's handsome pubic hair which had now been fashioned into an `M'.
"Derby I'm sorry I had the hiccups when I was upside down and you were
fucking me standing up," said Martin, "I think it was all the oysters and
beer so soon after dancing to If You Were the Only Girl in the World.  You
know, you sang better than George Robey--and you could do Violet Loraine's
part well too-- fancy my Derby having a falsetto!"

"Well, there's no need for anyone else to know that, Mala.  That's our
secret.  Carlo has been helping me learn the words in the bath.  And as for
the hiccups, I think they were a decided help with that one and if I hadn't
dropped the chalk in the bath I would put it up on the tally board.  You're
not too sore for more?"

"No, your lovely tongue and the Spong's has helped.  I say, Derby, can I
say something? I don't want you to be upset."

Stephen stopped soaping Martin's chest and gave him his full attention.

"Well, Derbs, you know you won't be going back to the front--that is not
until your leg has healed," he added quickly.  Stephen was starting to look
distressed and so Martin moved on.  "Well, Major General Monash called
during the week.  He said he'd like to have someone like you with him-- he
will tell you that himself next week. What he mainly said was that they are
in need of an Engineer to undertake special work in Supply.  He suggested
that you might be able to bring some of your men with you--before they are
all broken up and dispersed.  What do you think of that?"  He looked for
Stephen's reaction.

He was thoughtful for some minutes.  "It is my men that concern me," he
replied carefully.  "I fight for them, not for the Empire or anything
grand--just like those Australian's the other night--`for me mates'.  I'm
not fighting to be a hero--despite what some might think if they see the
medal.  I'm just an ordinary soldier."  He resumed his soaping in silence,
concentrating on Martin's cock and balls.  "Do you ever think of Friedrich
and Eugen on the other side, Mala?  I think about them a lot."

"Yes, so do I.  It stops me believing that they're all Huns-- I'm not sure
about their generals though.  I wonder where they are."  "I'm not so sure
about our generals--Monash yes--but Haig has no other plan but to send
thousands of men to their death for no discernible gain.  It's
unbelievable, Mala." He began to cry and Martin felt like crying too.



They returned to London on the train and, in a burst of democracy, Carlo
was allowed to sit with them in the first class carriage.  "I thought last
night's dinner went well, Mala, although I noticed you sat on a cushion,"
said Stephen.

"Yes, I wonder what caused me to be so sore?" said Martin looking up at the
ceiling.  Carlo started to hum, If You Were the Only Girl in the World.

"That's enough Private Sifridi," said Stephen with mock gruffness.  The
Colonel here could probably have you shot for impudence.  Were you
listening at the door?"

"Sir, we servants have a code of silence.  You can torture us but we won't
reveal a thing, but you were a bit off key in the second verse, sir."

"He was not, Carlo," said Martin hotly. "Where are the `King's
Regulations'--I'll see what they say about bold valets."

When they reached Branksome House Stephen went straight up to bed to rest
his leg. Martin came in with a letter.  Charles Fortune and Jack Thayer had
returned from Egypt to England.  They were now at Portsmouth and had been
given rank.  They were `technical advisors'.  "That means they will be
giving advice to the Royal Navy on the construction of the new graving dock
they're building, I suppose," said Stephen.  "We'll have to try and catch
up before I go back to France."

Martin didn't like the sound of this but only said, "Don't forget to see
Monash."



Stephen returned for his appointment with Sir Thomas Barlow and the
shoulder wound was examined--it was starting to heal-- and an x-ray was
taken just of Stephen's leg, Sir Thomas being fairly certain that the
shoulder was free of shrapnel. While they waited for the photograph, Sir
Thomas examined Stephen again, testing his reflexes, peering into his ears
and feeling him for hernias.  "Sir Thomas," began Stephen, "I don't think I
have that Neurasthenia thing you spoke of."  Sir Thomas Barlow stopped his
examination and straightened up.

"I said I didn't think you had it, Captain; it's just that many men have
`shellshock' as they call it, and it can present in various ways."

"Well, I don't think I'm presenting any.  Here," he said and retrieved
piece of paper for the doctor from his trousers that hung over the back of
a chair.

"What's this, Captain?" asked Sir Thomas.

"It is a record of the number of satisfactory `congresses' I have had.  "I
thought you said you were unmarried?"

"I am unmarried but I'm not alone, sir."

"I see.  Well this seems to indicate that you are indeed healthy in several
respects.  In fact you have had a very busy time of it since we last met,
young man."

"No, that's was just for over this last weekend, Sir Thomas."

Sir Thomas took off his glasses and wiped them. "Well sir, you are very
productive indeed.  Perhaps I should write an article for The Lancet," he
said with a smile.  "I hope you and the young lady are being careful, sir.
It is just the one?"

"Yes, one only."

"And should there be any chaffing or abrasions, Captain," he said examining
Stephen's penis more carefully, "I should use Spong's Soothing Salve.  It
is available everywhere and is 1/6 for the larger size, which you may
require.  I don't recommend `Bickford's Blissful Balm; it can cause a nasty
rash."

"May I ask about my friends, Swane and Louch?"

"Well, sir, as you know they have both lost their lower legs-- having been
amputated at the knee joint. There is no infection.  They have some minor
health problems, that I may not discuss, but like all our soldiers I would
like to see them rested and better fed.  They will be sent by the Army to
Queen Mary Hospital and fitted with artificial limbs and trained to walk
again.  They may very well go on to lead productive lives-- they have a
cheerful attitude.  Ah, now here is your x-ray."  Sir Thomas held it up to
a light and was silent for some minutes.

"There is a stress fracture here--not a break and there is probably
ligament damage that does not show up."

"What is the treatment? A plaster cast?"

"No, just rest and keep off it for six weeks. You must have a wheelchair;
the stick is not good enough."

"A chair!"

"Captain, we have just been talking about two amputees.  You can put up
with a wheel chair for a short time.  At least you will heal."

Stephen was chastened.  After he left, Sir Thomas went to the sherry
decanter; it was nearly 3 o'clock after all and there was a fine
Amontillado waiting.  Such a thoughtful present from Messrs Spong, he
thought as he put the glass to his lips. How wonderful it would to be to be
young again like the vigorous young captain. Why in 1865 I used to...but
no, he couldn't clearly recall that time.  Then he thought of his own son,
Patrick, somewhere in the mud on the Western Front.



Stephen was a little depressed when Glass's old wheelchair was produced
from the box room.  Stephen tried it out and soon found he was making
himself a delightful nuisance about the house.  Carlo pushed him down to
the Saville Club and he, himself, sat with the club servants until he was
called to take his master home the short distance to Branksome House.

Martin was keen that Stephen should have a bedroom on the ground floor, but
Stephen insisted that he would climb the stairs to their own room once a
day or he wouldn't co-operate at all.  Martin thought that Stephen might be
cheered if he could visit the two sergeants and so this was arranged.  He
drove Stephen, Carlo and the wheelchair to Walworth where they were
unloaded along with beer, flowers for Mrs Swane and a quantity of sugar,
which was at present in such short supply. Martin left them there,
promising to collect them the next morning if they were not too drunk. Mrs
Swane said she would keep matters firmly in hand.

Stephen was in a better frame of mind by the next afternoon--although he
said he had a slight headache, which, he maintained, must have been the
fault of the passing trains that had kept him awake.


The next day was Stephen's appointment with General Monash.  Carlo and
Martin pushed him all the way through St James to Whitehall.  Stephen
risked his leg to climb to the first floor and the other two left him.

Monash and Moss were pleased to see Stephen and he them.  The General
explained about the ASC, which as Stephen well knew, was a vast and complex
but unsung part of the war effort.  Of its many divisions-- munitions,
food, fodder, salvage, building materials, pencils and paperclips, Stephen
was apprised.

"From your time at the front, what was your impression, Knight-Poole?"
asked Monash.

"Well, sir, like everybody we complained that we were always short.  But
sometimes we had supplies of useless things sent to us and our
quartermaster was nearly driven mad.  Then we had to requisition
everything...we were often held up for want of supplies...you must have
found the same yourself.  It just seems so big and complex that it can
never work."

"That's just it.  We need--or rather Lord Devonport the new Minister of
Food and Lt. Col. Wrightson the Controller of the Commissariat--need
someone to study supply in theory and practice.  You would be working here
and in France.  You would be looking at all supplies excluding munitions
and fodder-- we can't get them to cooperate--and you will have to deal with
Transport who were used to running their own show until this war."

"Could I have my own men?"

"They are all Royal Engineers?"  "Yes sir, unless they have been broken up.
I have a list here.  Stephen produced a list of the Sans Culottes and
handed it to him.  "I will also need someone else with high level skills
sir--someone like you, Herman," said Stephen looking at his friend Moss.

"Well you can't have him," said Monash with a smile, "he's mine, keep your
hands off him."

"Well I do have two academics from the University of London.  They are
working in concrete down at Portsmouth."

"Concrete?" Monash's face brightened at the mention of a favourite topic.
"Well, we'll be unlikely to pinch both of them, but I'll see what I can do.
Can you start soon--with your leg and so on-- I mean?"

"Well, I have to keep off it for five weeks, but there's no reason why I
can't work in London and maybe even in Boulogne.  I have a wheelchair and
my batman."

"Well, make appointments to see Devonport and Wrightson.  And good luck.
I'll be back in France in a day or so."

"And good luck to you, sir, and to you, Herman," said Stephen, standing
with the aid of his stick and saluting.

*****

It was in the picturesquely named Sausage Valley near Pozières,
where the sounds of shelling from both sides was ceaseless, that
Sgt. Spinner received his orders from Lt. Toomey.  They were to return
under his direction to the barracks at Chatham with privates Rouse, Jarvis,
Myles, Reeves, Pengally, Rugg and West along with Corporal Quick.  Doling
would have gone with them, had he not `copped it' the week before.

"Who will we be reporting to, sir?" asked Sgt Spinner.

"Captain Knight-Poole," said Toomey, finding it hard to repress his joy.
"Tell the men to get their kit together; we can go back with the fodder
wagons tonight."

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.