At the end of the sixth week, no one was surprised that it was Barrington and Bates who were selected for promotion to lance corporal, and each given a section of their own.
No sooner had they sewn on their stripes than the two sections they led became deadly rivals; not just on the parade ground or in the gymnasium, but whenever they went out on night ops or were involved in field exercises and troop movements. At the end of each day, like a couple of schoolboys, Giles and Bates would both declare themselves the winner. Often the sergeant major would have to prise them apart.
As they approached the day of the passing-out parade, Giles could sense the pride in both sections, who’d begun to believe they might just be worthy of calling themselves Wessexions by the time they passed out; although the sergeant major repeatedly warned them that it wouldn’t be long before they had to take part in a real battle, against a real enemy with real bullets. He also reminded them that he wouldn’t be around to hold their hands. For the first time Giles accepted that he was going to miss the damn man.
‘Bring ’em on,’ was all Bates had to say on the subject.
When they finally passed out on the Friday of the twelfth week, Giles assumed that he would be returning to Bristol with the other lads, to enjoy a weekend’s leave before reporting to the regimental depot the following Monday. But when he walked off the parade ground that afternoon, the sergeant major took him to one side.
‘Corporal Barrington, you’re to report to Major Radcliffe immediately.’
Giles would have asked why, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer.
He marched across the parade ground and knocked on the office door of the adjutant, a man he’d only ever seen at a distance.
‘Enter,’ said a voice. Giles walked in, stood to attention and saluted. ‘Barrington,’ Major Radcliffe said after he’d returned the salute, ‘I have some good news for you. You’ve been accepted for officer training school.’
Giles didn’t even realize he was being considered for a commission.
‘You’ll have to travel straight to Mons tomorrow morning, where you will begin an induction course on Monday. Many congratulations, and good luck.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Giles, before asking, ‘Will Bates be joining me?’
‘Bates?’ said Major Radcliffe. ‘Do you mean Corporal Bates?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good heavens, no,’ replied the adjutant. ‘He’s not officer material.’
Giles could only hope that the Germans were just as short-sighted when it came to selecting their officers.
When Giles reported to the Mons Officer Cadet Training Unit in Aldershot the following afternoon, he was unprepared for how quickly his life would change again. It took him some time to get used to corporals, sergeants, even the sergeant major calling him ‘sir’.
He slept in a single room where the door didn’t fly open at five in the morning with an NCO banging the end of his bed with a stick, demanding he place both feet on the ground. The door only opened when Giles chose to open it. He had breakfast in the mess with a group of young men who didn’t need to be taught how to hold a knife and fork, although one or two of them looked as if they would never learn how to handle a rifle, let alone fire it in anger. But in a few weeks’ time these same men would be in the front line, leading inexperienced volunteers whose lives would depend on their judgement.
Giles joined these men in a classroom where they were taught military history, geography, map reading, battle tactics, German and the art of leadership. If he’d learnt one thing from the butcher from Broad Street, it was that the art of leadership couldn’t be taught.
Eight weeks later, the same young men stood on a passing-out parade and were awarded the King’s Commission. They were presented with two crowned pips, one for each shoulder, a brown leather officer’s cane and a letter of congratulations from a grateful King.
All Giles wanted to do was to rejoin his regiment and team up with his old comrades, but he knew that wouldn’t be possible, because when he walked off the parade ground that Friday afternoon, the corporals, the sergeants and, yes, even the sergeant major saluted him.
Sixty young second lieutenants left Aldershot that afternoon for every corner of the land, to spend a weekend with their families, some of them for the last time.
Giles spent most of Saturday jumping on and off trains, as he made his way back to the West Country. He arrived at the Manor House just in time to join his mother for dinner.
When she first saw the young lieutenant standing in the hallway, Elizabeth made no attempt to hide her pride.
Giles was disappointed that neither Emma nor Grace was at home to see him in uniform. His mother explained that Grace, who was in her second term at Cambridge, rarely came home, even during the vacation.
Over a one-course meal served by Jenkins – several of the staff were now serving on the frontline, not at the dinner table, his mother explained – Giles told his mother about what they’d got up to in training camp on Dartmoor. When she heard about Terry Bates she sighed, ‘Bates and Son, they used to be the best butchers in Bristol.’
‘Used to be?’
‘Every shop in Broad Street was razed to the ground, so we’ve been deprived of Bates the butcher. Those Germans have a lot to answer for.’
Giles frowned. ‘And Emma?’ he asked.
‘Couldn’t be better . . . except – ’
‘Except?’ repeated Giles. It was some time before his mother quietly added, ‘How much more convenient it would have been if Emma had produced a daughter, rather than a son.’
‘Why is that important?’ asked Giles, as he refilled his glass.
His mother bowed her head, but said nothing.
‘Oh God,’ said Giles, as the significance of her words sank in. ‘I had assumed that when Harry died, I would inherit—’
‘I’m afraid you can’t assume anything, darling,’ said his mother looking up. ‘That is, not until it can be established that your father is not also Harry’s father. Until then, under the terms of your great-grandfather’s will, it will be Sebastian who eventually inherits the title.’
Giles hardly spoke again during the meal while he tried to take in the significance of his mother’s words. Once coffee had been served, his mother said she felt tired and went to bed.
When Giles climbed the stairs to his room a few moments later, he couldn’t resist dropping into the nursery to see his godson. He sat alone with the heir to the Barrington title. Sebastian gurgled in blissful sleep, clearly untroubled by war, and certainly not giving a thought to his grandfather’s will, or the significance of the words, and all that therein is.
The following day Giles joined his grandfathers for lunch at the Savage Club. It was a very different atmosphere from the weekend they’d shared five months earlier at Mulgelrie Castle. The only thing the two old men seemed keen to find out was where his regiment would be posted.
‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Giles, who would like to have known himself; but he would have given the same response even if he had been briefed, despite the fact that these two venerable old gentlemen were Boer War veterans.
Lieutenant Barrington rose early on the Monday morning and, after breakfast with his mother, was driven by Hudson to the headquarters of the 1st Wessex regiment. He was held up by a steady stream of armoured vehicles and lorries filled with troops pouring out of the main gate. He got out of the car and walked to the guard house.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said a corporal, after giving him a crisp salute; something Giles still hadn’t got used to. ‘The adjutant has requested that you report to his office as soon as you arrive.’
‘I’d be happy to do so, corporal,’ said Giles, returning his salute, ‘if I knew where Major Radcliffe’s office was.’
‘Far side of the square, sir, green door. You can’t miss it.’
Giles marched across the square, returning several more salutes before he reached the adjutant’s office.
Major Radcliffe looked up from behind his desk as Giles entered the room.
‘Ah, Barrington, old chap. Good to see you again,’ he said. ‘We weren’t certain if you’d make it in time.’
‘In time for what, sir?’ asked Giles.
‘The regiment’s been posted abroad, and the colonel felt you should be given the opportunity of joining us, or staying behind and waiting for the next shindig.’
‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘Haven’t a clue, old chap; way above my rank. But I can tell you one thing for certain, it will be a damn sight closer to the Germans than Bristol.’