Richard was amazed at the almostindustrial scale of the black-market activities. It was none of his business,however. Officers had a blind eye to turn – he must use it.
“Who buys the stuff, do you know, Paisley?”
“Not as to say ‘know’, no, sir. From whatI hear, and from who I can’t say, it is men in reserved occupations back inEngland. You know the sorts, sir – ‘Nothing I want more than to go out and domy bit, but my job is too important. They won’t let me go!’”
“So they collect souvenirs and a few yearsafter the war ends, when the memories have faded, they will have the stories ofhow they ‘happened to pick them up’ during the War.”
“That’s it, sir. Going to be an awful lotof heroes, twenty years from now.”
“Still, you will always be able to tellwho was actually over here, Paisley. They will be the ones sat at the back of thepub with nothing at all to say. Too many memories to need to shout their mouthsoff!”
“Might be right at that, sir. The more thebullshit, the less the action as a rule, sir.”
The docks at Calais were better organised thanRichard remembered and full of Military Police. Despite their rank, the pair ofofficers and their two staff lieutenants had their papers checked three timesbefore reaching the boat.
A sergeant was willing to speak rather thangrunt a demand for ‘documents’.
“Pass through, sir. Officers to the firstgangway.”
Paisley and Braithwaite’s man looked aboutfor porters, reluctantly carried the luggage aboard themselves.
“Don’t allow any spare bodies near theferries, sir. Keep an eye on every man working here.”
“Deserters?”
“Pick up a few every week, sir. Some ofthem with good papers, too. Had a captain come through last week, sir. Everythingright except the travel warrant – bit smudged on the name and the date where hehad borrowed somebody else’s and changed them a bit. Not very happy when wetook him in charge, sir. Said he had swapped with a pal who didn’t mind waitinga few more weeks. He wasn’t doing any harm, he said. Just wanted to get backhome and see the missus. So do we all!”
Braithwaite was intrigued – it was not thebehaviour of an officer as he understood it.
“What will happen to him, Sergeant?”
“Up to the court, sir. Any we pick up herego to a court automatic, like. That’s the rules. No chance of getting a wiggingfrom their colonel and getting extra duties. Being as he is a captain, sir, I reckonthe court martial won’t be soft on him. Expect better of an officer, sir,especially one what’s got a company. Shouldn’t reckon they’ll shoot him – they’llfind Absent Without Leave, not Desertion, being as how he was going to comeback again. Break him, for sure, sir. Private soldier and stuck in an infantrybattalion at the Front. No leave until the war ends and then a dishonourabledischarge. No chance of promotion. No nothing.”
It was harsh, for sure, but the man hadshown unreliable – an officer who could do that sort of thing could never be trustedagain.
“You did well to spot him, Sergeant. Doyou think any do get through?”
“I’m sure they do, sir. Get a battalion goingHome on leave, the private soldiers just flash their paybooks. Provided you’vegot a paybook for the right regiment, you’re through. Can’t really check them.They get wet and muddy, no matter how well the men look after them, so thewriting can easily be a bit smudged and you can’t argue with five hundred men,one after another. No, it’s the clever ones we catch, sir – the bright sparkswho forge an officer’s papers and warrant and get hold of the correct uniform andcome through on their own. We had a major, so called, last month. Everythingright except he didn’t have a batman and was carrying his own valise. When wechecked, his battalion had never heard of him. If he’d had enough sense to comewith a mate, carrying his bags, he’d have got away with it.”
They chuckled and walked up thecompanionway and into the first class lounge, exchanging salutes with a fewleave officers and taking seats at a spare table. A steward ran with drinks andsandwiches, apologising that it was not like the old days, they had to make do,he feared.
A Military Police lieutenant appeared soonafter they cast off, checking all papers, very politely but firm in hisinsistence.
“Brigadier Baker? Ah, yes.”
He showed recognition of the name, noddedrespectfully.
A final check at quayside in Doverfollowed by Customs, disappointed that their bags contained neither bottles nortobacco. An hour and they were aboard the train to London, slower than inpeacetime but still nonstop, reaching Charing Cross in the early afternoon.
“How do we get to Aldershot, Paisley?”
“Waterloo, sir. Need taxis to get across.If they still got them.”
There were no taxis, all off the road dueto a temporary shortage of petrol, a not uncommon event. The Army had atransport office and found a tender to take the senior officers the shortjourney across the south of London.
“Majors and below take the omnibus, sir.Or the Underground. More senior officers are granted transport. Batmen andbaggage have to use the same vehicle, sir.”
A Scammel lorry, space on the bench seatin the cab for the two senior officers, baggage, batmen and lieutenants up inthe tray.
“Undignified, Baker!”
“Better than a bus, sir, crammed in amongthe civilians.”
Braithwaite shuddered at the prospect. Hepreferred his civilians to be kept at arm’s length.
“Have you ever used a bus, Baker?”
“Only when we went to war in August, sir.We all took buses across from St Pancras, if you recall. Used one again a coupleof months later.”
“That’s right. I remember now.”
The lorry crawled into Waterloo, walkingpace because of the mass of bodies, all in khaki. The platforms and forecourtwere jammed with men, all with their rifles and kitbags.
The driver nodded at them.
“All them going to the east part ofSalisbury Plain comes here, sir. Them going across to the west use PaddingtonStation. Hell of a lot coming down from the North and going to Aldershot, sir.Looks like the New Army is all being brought together, sir. Special trooptrains coming down from Catterick every day,
