A not-so-distant rumble of exploding bombs at Belleme seemed to contradict this statement, but breakfast was plainly over, Bastable decided.
II
'Basically, it's a predictable situation, gentlemen,' said the CO
in his best nasal military voice. 'The French have rushed in, and the Boche has given them their usual bloody nose —1914
and all that.'
So Major Tetley-Robinson was vindicated. Bastable covertly examined the staff officers who had confirmed this predictable Scene One, Act one, of World War Two. The younger of the two was a mere captain, fair-haired and ruddy-faced, but sharp-featured and sharper-eyed with it. He dummy4
reminded Bastable of the up-and-coming area manager for Kayser-Bondor with whom he had had dealings just before the war—a clever grammar-school boy who had been to Oxford, or Cambridge, and was obviously destined for a seat on the board of directors by sheer force of intelligence; not quite a gentleman yet, to be asked home to dinner, but in four or five years' time he would have learnt all the tricks and would pass muster; and in another four or five years after that he might well be running the whole show.
Bastable had no objection to such men so long as they knew their place at each stage in their career. Success in business was a healthy turnover, a fair profit margin for everyone and satisfied customers whose goodwill represented next year's turnover and next year's profits. His own particular innovation to that formula was the creation of a loyal, well-trained and adequately-remunerated staff, which in his opinion in turn created the conditions for successful management. The recruitment of a trainee-manager like this young staff officer must be one of his post-war priorities if Bastable's of Eastbourne was to compete with Bobby's of Eastbourne successfully; and there would IDC plenty of men like this one looking for jobs then, no doubt.
He started guiltily. He hadn't been giving the CO his full attention.
'. . but fortunately the French have plenty of men, and their tanks are generally superior to the Germans'—our information is that many of the German tanks are in fact dummy4
light Czech machines, which proves that their numbers are not as great as rumour would have it.' The CO nodded to the senior staff officer, as though that had been a point he had been specially asked to make.
'What's that, Nigel?' barked the CO.
'I said 'I hope we get some some of them on our sector,' sir,'
said Major Audley. 'Czech tanks . . . just the thing for our Boys anti-tank rifles!'
The older of the two staff officers gave Major Audley a very sharp glance. Unlike his junior colleague, he had 'class'
stamped distinctively all over him, from the cut of his uniform to the immense beak of a nose which dominated his face below the bushy iron-grey eyebrows which overhung pale-blue fanatical eyes. It was, indeed, very much a foxhunting, chairman-of-the-magistrates, lord-of-the-manor, High-Sheriff face, and Captain Bastable was damn glad it was now directed towards Major Audley and not himself, but concentrated on making himself as inconspicuous as possible just in case, behind the Adjutant's bulky shoulder.
Major Audley coughed politely. 'What is the present position of the German advance units, sir?' he enquired of the beak-nosed Brigadier.
The Brigadier's expression became belligerent. 'That information is classified as secret, Major,' he said dummy4
witheringly.
Major Audley refused to wither. 'Then they're not at Peronne, sir? Which, according to our non-secret information, they are alleged to be.'
The CO began to speak, but the Brigadier cut him off with a decisive gesture.
'Major—?'
'Audley,' supplied Major Audley.
'Hmm .. . Major Audley —' The Brigadier filed the name for future reference. '—Major, enemy Fifth Columnist and some light motorized units ... are motorcycle patrols and a few armoured cars ... are deliberately ranging over wide areas, causing as much alarm and despondency as they can—
choking the roads with civilian refugees, for example, and damaging communications ... But I had not expected to find such alarm in any unit of the British Army, I must say!'
Bastable sensed a change of temperature in the room, and cowered lower. Even the unspeakable Willis, he observed, was maintaining an unusually low profile behind Dickie Davidson.
The Colonel said: 'Hah—now, well . . . '
Major Audley looked unblinkingly at the Brigadier, and when he spoke it was characteristically slowly and deliberately.
'With respect, sir ... there is no alarm whatsoever in the Prince Regent's Own South Downs Fusiliers. And except for an outbreak of mumps in the ranks there is no despondency dummy4
either. But if I may be allowed to speak for the fusiliers under my command, in my company, as senior company commander ... I would like to know . . . what exactly we are supposed to be doing in Colembert-les-Deux-Ponts . . . which I have just discovered—by accident—at breakfast—is not where we are supposed to be. Which is presumably why the local brigade refuses to accept us as one of its battalions .. .
sir.'
The Brigadier stared back at Audley for a moment. 'I shall make allowances for the fact that you are a Territorial officer, Major.'
