In the various stages of inebriation, facetiously itemized for centuries, the category, “prophetically drunk,” deserves a place.
“This is a People’s War,” said Ian prophetically, “and the People won’t have poetry and they won’t have flowers. Flowers stink. The upper classes are on the secret list. We want heroes of the people, to or for the people, by, with and from the people.”
The chill air of Mugg completed its work of detriment. Ian broke into song:
When wilt thou save the People?
Oh, God of Mercy! When?
The People, Lord, the People!
Not thrones and crowns, but men!
He broke into a trot and breathlessly repeating the lines in a loud tuneless chant, reached the gangway.
Out of the night the voice of Ritchie-Hook rang terribly: “Stop making that infernal noise, whoever you are, and go to bed.”
Guy left Ian cowering among the quayside litter, waiting for a suitable moment to slip on board.
*
Next morning at first light to Guy’s surprise the troopship at last emerged from the haze of myth and was seen to be solidly at anchor beyond the mouth of the harbor.
“Guy, if the brigadier doesn’t want you, you can make yourself useful to me. Jumbo and I have got to get out embarkation orders. You might go on board and fix up accommodation with the navy. It’ll be the hell of a business getting everything on board. I hope to God they’ll give us another day before the exercise.”
“According to Ian there isn’t going to be an exercise.”
“Oh, rot. They’ve sent half H.O.O. H.Q. down to watch it.”
“Ian says it’s a blind.”
“Ian doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“There’s that section of McTavish’s I mentioned,” said Jumbo, “out in the wilds.”
“Call them in.”
“No signal link.”
“Hell. Where are they?”
“No information. They’re due back the day after tomorrow.”
“They’ll have to miss the exercise, that’s all.”
This was not Guy’s first embarkation. He had been through it all before at Liverpool with the Halberdiers. This ship was not “hired transport.” She was manned by a new naval crew. Guy conscientiously inspected mess decks and cabins. After two hours he said: “There simply isn’t room, sir.”
“There must be,” said the First Officer. “We’re fitted out to army specifications to carry one infantry battalion. That’s all I know about it.”
“We aren’t quite a normal battalion.”
“That’s your pigeon,” said the First Officer.
Guy returned to report. He found Jumbo alone.
“Well, you and the brigadier and whatever other headquarters he’s taking had better go in another ship,” said Jumbo. “I think everyone would have a happier voyage without the brigadier.”
“That doesn’t solve the problem of the sergeants. Can’t they muck in with the men for once?”
“Impossible. Trouble’s begun already with the sergeants. The Grenadiers formed up to Colonel Tommy. All their N.C.O.s carry three stripes and claim to mess apart. Then the Green Jackets formed up to say that in that case their corporals must too. By the way, I hope you’ve got me a decent cabin?”
“Sharing with Major Graves and the doctor.”
“I expected something rather better than that, you know.”
At luncheon Guy found himself the object of persecution.
“You’ve got to realize,” said Bertie with unusual severity, “that my men are big men. They need space.”
“My servant must have quarters next door to me,” said Eddie. “I can’t go shouting down to the troop deck every time I want anything.”
“But, Guy, we can’t sleep with the Coldstream.”
“I won’t be responsible for the heavy machine-guns, Crouchback, unless I have a lock-up,” said Major Graves. “And what’s this about doubling up with the M.O.? I mean to say, that’s a bit thick.”
“I can’t possibly share the sick-bay with the ship’s surgeon,” said the doctor. “I’m entitled to a cabin of my own.”
“It doesn’t seem to me you’ve done anything for us.”
“What they need is Julia Stitch to keep them in order,” said Claire sympathetically.
Tommy Blackhouse meanwhile was preparing himself for a disagreeable interview which he could no longer postpone. Tommy, like most soldiers, sought when possible to delegate unkindness. He now realized that he and only he must break bad news to Jumbo.
“Jumbo,” he said when they were alone in the office, “I shouldn’t bother to come on board tonight. We don’t really need you for the exercise and there’s a lot of stuff here to clear up.”
“Everything in the office is clear up to date, colonel.”
“The ship’s cram-full. You’ll be more comfortable on shore.”
“I’d like to get settled in for the voyage.”
“The trouble is, Jumbo, that there’s not going to be room for you.”
“Crouchback has found me a berth. Tight quarters, but I shall manage.”
“You see, you aren’t really part of Operational Headquarters.”
“Not really part of the Commando?”
“You know our establishment. No administration officer. Supernumerary.”
“As far as that goes,” said Jumbo, “I think I can be regularized.”
“It isn’t only that, I’m afraid. I want to take you, of course. I don’t know what I shall do without you. But the brigadier’s orders are that we only take combatant soldiers.”
“Ben Ritchie-Hook? I’ve known him for more than twenty years.”
“That’s the trouble. The brigadier thinks you’re a bit senior for our sort of show.”
“Ben thinks that?”
“I’m afraid so. Of course I daresay if we set up a permanent headquarters in the Middle East you could come out and join us later.”
Jumbo was a Halberdier, trained from first manhood in the giving and taking of orders. He was hard hit, but he excluded all personal feelings.
He sat among his files before his empty trays, his old heart empty of hope. “You don’t think it might help if I saw Ben Ritchie-Hook?”
“Yes,” said Tommy, rather eagerly. “I should do that. You’ll have plenty of time. He’ll be in London for at least three weeks. They’re flying him out to join us in Egypt. I daresay you can get him to take you with him.”
“Not if he doesn’t want me. I’ve never known Ben do anything he doesn’t want to do. You’re taking Crouchback?”
“He’s going to be Brigade Intelligence Officer.”
“I’m glad you’ll have at least one Halberdier.”
“I don’t know when we sail. You’ll stay here until then, of course.”
“Of course.”
It was a relief to both of them when Major Graves came to complain about the sappers’ stores. None of his troop could be trusted to handle explosives. Was there a suitable magazine on board?
“Oh, leave them where they are until the sappers get back.”
“Unguarded?”
“They’ll be safe enough.”
“Very good, sir.”
When Major Graves left, Tommy communed further with his orders for the exercise. The secret of their futility was kept from him until all were embarked. Then the party from the Cleopatra came aboard and it was announced that there was to be no exercise. No embarkation leave. No last letters. The ship would join others carrying other Commandos under escort at a rendezvous on the high seas.
“Shanghaied, by God,” said Claire.
Jumbo could not know that Tommy had been kept in the dark too. To his sad old sense of honor it was the final betrayal. He watched from the icy foreshore as the troopship and the yacht sailed away; then heavily returned to the empty hotel. His jaunt was over.
On his desert island Mugg crept out to pilfer the sapper stores, and the sappers them
selves, emaciated and unshaven, presently lurched in carrying Dr. Glendening-Rees on a wattle hurdle.
The great explosion which killed Mugg and his niece was attributed to enemy action.
IV
Hookforce sailed on into the huge detour of the Atlantic which in those days led to Cape Town, where they were received with honors.
“I must say,” said Ivor Claire, “the local inhabitants are uncommonly civil.”
He and Guy sat at sundown in the bar of the hotel. Light shone out into the dusk unscreened to join the headlamps of the cars, passing, turning and stopping on the gravel, and the bright shop windows in the streets beyond. Cape Town at the extremity of two dark continents was a ville lumière such as Trimmer had sought in vain.
“Three ships in and a reception committee for each. Something laid on for everybody.”
“It’s partly to tease the Dutch, partly to keep the soldiery out of mischief. I gather they had trouble with the last Trooper.”
“Partly good nature too, I fancy.”
“Oh, yes, partly that, I’ve no doubt. I took my time going ashore but there were still friendly natives hanging about. A nice ass of a woman came up and said: ‘Is there anything special you’d like to do or see?’ and I said: ‘Horses.’ I haven’t thought of anything much except horses—and of course Freda—for the last six weeks, as you may imagine. ‘That may be a bit difficult,’ she said. ‘Are you safe on one?’ So I pointed out I was in a cavalry regiment. ‘But aren’t you all mechanized now?’ I said I thought I could still keep up and she said: ‘There’s Mr. Somebody, but he’s rather special. I’ll see.’ So she got hold of Mr. Somebody and as luck would have it, he’d seen Thimble win at Dublin and was all over me. He had a very decent stable indeed, somewhere down the coast and let me pick my horse and we spent the morning hacking. After luncheon I took a jumper he’s schooling over the fences. I feel a different and a better man. What happened to you?”
“Eddie and Bertie and I went to the Zoo. We persecuted the ostriches, tried to make them put their heads in the sand, but they wouldn’t. Eddie got into the cage and chased them all over the place with a black keeper pleading through the wire. Bertie said one kick of an ostrich can kill three horses. Then I went to the Art Gallery. They’ve two remarkable Noel Patons.”
“I know nothing of art.”
“Nor did Noel Paton. That’s the beauty of him.”
Bertie and Eddie came into the bar, huge, unsteady, rosy and smiling.
“We’ve been sampling wine all the afternoon.”
“Eddie’s tight.”
“We’re both tight as owls.”
“We’ve got to take some girls dancing, but we’re too tight.”
“Why not lie down for a bit?” said Claire.
“Exactly what I thought. That’s why I brought Eddie here—to have a bath.”
“Might drown,” said Eddie.
“Charming girls,” said Bertie. “Husbands away at the war. Must sober up.”
“Sleep would be the thing.”
“Sleep and bath and then dance with the girls. I’ll get some rooms.”
“It’s odd,” said Ivor Claire, “I feel absolutely no urge to get tight now I’m allowed to. In that ship I hardly drew a sober breath.”
“Let’s walk.”
They sauntered out into the town.
“I suppose one or more of those absurd stars is called the Southern Cross,” said Claire, gazing up into the warm and brilliant night.
Here everything was ablaze. Merchandise quite devoid of use or beauty shone alluringly in the shop windows. The streets were full of Hookforce. Car-loads of soldiers drove slowly past laden with the spoils of farms and gardens, baskets of oranges and biblical bunches of grapes.
“One way and another, Guy, Cape Town seems to have provided each of us with whatever we wanted.”
“Ali Baba’s lamp.”
“We needed it. Where to now?”
“The club?”
“Too matey. Back to the hotel.”
But when they got there Claire said: “Too many soldiers.”
“Perhaps there’s a garden.”
There was. Guy and Claire sat on a wicker seat looking across an empty illumined tennis lawn. Claire lit a cigarette. He smoked rather seldom. When he did so, it was with an air of conscious luxury.
“What a voyage,” he said. “Nearly over now. How one longed for a torpedo at times. I used to stand on deck at night and imagine one, a beautiful streak of foam, a bang, and then the heads all round bobbing up for the third time and myself, the sole survivor, floating gently away to some nearby island.”
“Wishful thinking. They cram you into open boats, you go mad from drinking sea-water.”
“What a voyage,” said Claire again. “We’re told, and we tell our men, that we have to hold Egypt so as to protect the Suez Canal. And to reach Suez we go half-way to Canada and Trinidad. And when we do get there we shall find the war’s over. According to the chap I had lunch with, they can’t build cages quick enough to hold the Italian prisoners coming in. I daresay we shall be turned on to guard duties.”
This was February 1941. English tanks were cruising far west of Benghazi; bankers, labeled “A.M.G.O.T.”, were dining nightly at the Mohamed Ali Club in Cairo, and Rommel, all unknown, was even then setting up his first headquarters in Africa.
*
“The sergeants have been awful.”
“All successful mutinies have been led by N.C.O.s.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if Corporal-Major Ludovic turned out to be a communist.”
“He’s all right,” said Claire, automatically defending his own man.
“His eyes are horrible.”
“They’re colorless, that’s all.”
“Why does he wear bedroom slippers all day?”
“He says it’s his feet.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Of course.”
“He’s a man of mystery. Was he ever a trooper?”
“I suppose so, once.”
“He looks like a dishonest valet.”
“Yes, perhaps he was that too. He hung about Knightsbridge Barracks and no one knew what to make of him. He just reported at the beginning of the war as a reservist and claimed the rank of Corporal of Horse. His name was on the roll all right, but no one seemed to know anything about him, so naturally they wished him on me when the troop formed.”
“He was the éminence grise behind the complaint that ‘Captain’s rounds’ violated the sanctity of the sergeants’ mess.”
“So they do. I wonder,” said Claire, changing the subject delicately, “how the other Commandos got on with their sailors?”
“Quite well, I believe. They made their officers keep to the same drink ration as the navy.”
“I bet that’s against King’s Regulations.” Then Ivor added: “I shouldn’t be surprised if I didn’t get rid of Ludovic when we reach Egypt.”
They sat in silence for some time. Then Guy said:
“It’s getting cold. Let’s go inside and forget the ship for one evening.”
They found Bertie and Eddie in the bar.
“We’re quite sober now,” said Eddie.
“So we’re just having one drink before joining the girls. Good evening, colonel.”
Tommy had entered behind them.
“Well,” he said, “well. I thought I’d find some of my officers here.”
“A drink, colonel?”
“Yes, indeed. I’ve had the hell of a day at Simonstown and I’ve got some rather disturbing news.”
“I suppose,” said Claire, “we’re going to turn round now and sail back.”
“Not that, but about our brigadier. He and the brigade major. Their aeroplane left Brazzaville last week and hasn’t been heard of since. It seems Hookforce may have to change its name.”
“He’ll turn up,” said Guy.
“He’d better hurry if he’s going to command our operation.”
r /> “Who’s in charge now?”
“It seems I am, at the moment.”
“Ali Baba’s lamp,” said Claire.
“Eh?”
“Nothing.”
*
Later that night Guy and Tommy and Claire returned to the ship. Eddie and Bertie were walking the decks: “Walking ourselves sober,” they explained. They carried a bottle and refreshed themselves every second circuit.
“Look,” Eddie said. “We had to buy it. It’s called ‘Kommando.’ ”
“It’s brandy,” said Bertie. “Rather horrible. Do you think, colonel, we might send it up to the Booby on the roof”—(the name by which the captain of the ship was known to the military).
“No.”
“The only other thing I can think of is to throw it overboard before it makes us sick.”
“Yes, I should do that.”
“No lack of esprit de corps? It’s called Kommando.”
Eddie dropped the bottle over the rail and leant gazing after it.
“I think I’m going to be sick, all the same,” he said.
Later, in the tiny cabin he shared with the two deeply sleeping companions, Guy lay awake. He could not yet mourn Ritchie-Hook. That ferocious Halberdier, he was sure, was even then biffing his way through the jungle on a line dead straight for the enemy. Guy thought instead with deep affection of X Commando. “The Flower of the Nation,” Ian Kilbannock had ironically called them. He was not far wrong. There was heroic simplicity in Eddie and Bertie. Ivor Claire was another pair of boots entirely, salty, withdrawn, incorrigible. Guy remembered Claire as he first saw him in the Roman spring in the afternoon sunlight amid the embosoming cypresses of the Borghese Gardens, putting his horse faultlessly over the jumps, concentrated as a nun in prayer. Ivor Claire, Guy thought, was the fine flower of them all. He was quintessential England, the man Hitler had not taken into account.
Seven
Officers and Gentlemen
I
Major-General Whale held the appointment of Director of Land Forces in Hazardous Offensive Operations. He was known in countless minutes as the D.L.F. H.O.O. and to a few old friends as “Sprat.” On Holy Saturday 1941 he was summoned to attend the A.C.I.G.”s weekly meeting at the War Office. He went with foreboding. He was not fully informed of the recent disasters in the Middle East but he knew things were going badly. Benghazi had fallen the week before. It did not seem clear where the retreating army intended to make its stand. On Maundy Thursday the Australians in Greece had been attacked on their open flank. It was not clear where they would stand. Belgrade had been bombed on Palm Sunday. But these things were not Sprat’s first concern that morning. The matter on the A.C.I.G.’s agenda which accounted for Sprat’s presence was “Future of Special Service Forces in U.K.”