have been expected, and there were not only more British regular officers per square mile than anywhere else in North Africa, but also the new British 17-pdr anti- tank guns which matched the fearsome and much admired German 88s—
Papa would like this—to be characterised as ‘fearsome and much-dummy1
admired’ would make his day—his month—his year—
— fearsome and much admired 88s. Even so, the Germans inflicted casualties, and when the uproar died down there were promotions.
Herbert Maxwell thus returned afterwards to the command of a battery in another regiment.
After the inevitable end in North Africa, where the struggle had become unequal, there was another distressing period of inaction for Major Maxwell, during which the division was called on to reinforce other formations, and when trained and experienced units seemed on the verge of disintegration. Maxwell nevertheless held his battery together, and was rewarded by transfer, sailing to Italy in February 1944 as Second-in-Command of his original regiment.
The Italian front was static for a while, and the guns were in the comparatively quiet Garigliano sector. But in May the regiment formed part of the great concentration of artillery supporting the Eighth Army’s third and final attack across the Rapido, past the dominating height of the Montecassino Abbey. The crossing was difficult and casualties heavy among all ranks, but particularly among officers. More than one Commanding Officer of an artillery regiment was disabled by nebelwerfer fire on brigade headquarters
—
There had been a slow change in the narrative, Benedikt noted, as he reached for the next sheet. It had moved gradually from the dummy1
generalised second-hand, with memories recalled ‘long afterwards’, to exact recollection which could only come from first-hand experience: the narrator had not been in Larkhill or Dunkirk, but he had crossed the Rapido under that nebelwerfer barrage—
— at this time. Maxwell was promoted and transferred again, this time taking command of a regiment.
The family record was unblemished, though with guns this time, rather than horsemen or sweating infantrymen. But what command was there for little fierce Becky, in her turn?
This was when I knew him—
The confirmation of his guess so quickly warmed Benedikt, rousing his confidence and his interest—
This was when I knew him, as far as a subaltern officer in action on his gun-position ever gets to know his Commanding Officer, whose place is either at Regimental Headquarters or with the infantry most of the time; we never had a regimental officers’ mess within range of the enemy; and as far as a temporary officer in a regular regiment of artillery dared to know his superiors—
This hadn’t been written, either: it had been taped or taken down in dummy1
shorthand from someone long afterwards . . . someone highly literate and discerning, with a trained mind and memory, recollecting not only his memories of long ago, but also the facts and impressions which a young and inquiring mind had soaked up in combat, to fit him for his ‘temporary’ career.
Papa had been just like that.
He looked up at Colonel Butler. “Who wrote this, Colonel? Or can’t you tell me?”
Butler gazed at him with a hint of approval, as though he understood what lay behind the question. “I don’t suppose it matters if you know, Captain. At least . . . let’s say it’s one of our most distinguished and enlightened High Court judges. Somebody I’d like to come up before if I was innocent—and not if I was guilty. Okay?”
He was a fine-looking man, and dressed well in a horsey sort of way. In wet weather in action he wore breeches and riding-boots with his battledress blouse. His nickname . . . though not to anybody as junior as I . . .was ‘Squire’— he had served once, some time, with the son of one of his tenants, who called him that instead of ‘sir’, and the name stayed with him. In fact, they said that between Dunkirk and the Tunisian campaign he spent every leave down on his estate in Duntisbury Chase, so it wasn’t inappropriate. . . . But I know that all the regular officers, who in our regiment occupied all the captaincies and above at the beginning of the Italian campaign . . . they all thought very well of him, as a horseman and a gentleman, as well as professionally—
dummy1
the old-fashioned order, if you like— and the other ranks worshipped him. As for the subalterns . . . and by now they were entirely temporary officers . . . they trusted his calm competence, and responded to him as ... as an elder brother, perhaps— quite terrifyingly exacting in the line but always friendly.. .. It isn’t true to say that we would have died for him, because you don’t think of it like that— you may have to die, it’s always a possibility, because that’s the nature of war, but no one wants to. But he was the closest one I came to who might have made me think like that, if the choice had been put to me. Which it wasn’t, thank God! Where was I, though? It’s the facts you want— Montecassino, yes . . .
Well, the regiment performed quite adequately there, and when they gave him his DSO we were all well-pleased for him, even though some of us had been a bit miffed in the past because all the gongs went to the regulars, by custom, because they needed them professionally, and we were going back to civilian life afterwards, and wouldn’t need such things. . . . But when he got it we were perfectly content— and he made it plain, of course, that he regarded it as a form of congratulations to the regiment for doing its job properly.
The last sheet came to him.
But he didn’t get any more promotion during the war, as I recall—
because he was already quite young for his rank, the way the army conducts its arcane affairs . . .But there were the divisional dummy1
reunions, and I used to see him there, off and on, and from below the salt we all watched his progress, the way one does . . . I think he was a brigade major in one of the few undisbanded divisions in
‘46, and then he was a half-colonel again, as GSO I in the British Army
