SIXTY-ONE
Winston Churchill had not slept for a whole day and night. Neither had the six men in front of him, now all standing in a surprisingly erect line considering the fatigue they must be feeling. All were dressed in dark colours, their faces streaked with black dubbing, although the dark circles under their eyes were the soldiers’ own. They were arranged in front of Plug Street forest, where they had spent twelve hours on exhausting manoeuvres.
Churchill began to walk up and down before them, tramping his way through the gluey film of mud covering the field. It would rain soon, he thought. These men deserved hot drinks, a warm meal and a good stiff brandy. He would keep this brief.
‘I’d like to offer my congratulations, gentlemen,’ he began, his voice coarser than usual. ‘You have earned the admiration of your officers. And soon you will win the gratitude of the nation.’
He cleared his throat. ‘We are not from the same background.’ It hardly needed saying. He was the product of unbelievable privilege and patronage; most of the men were the rough-arsed offspring of the tenements or coarse country boys. ‘Nor the same branch of the services. As you discovered on my first day.’
There was a chortle. He had tried to drill the battalion on his arrival, but had used arcane and confusing cavalry commands from his South African days. That had not gone well. It had taken him some time to win their confidence, but he was certain he had it now.
‘Yet we find ourselves here, in the same boat, as it were. Facing an enemy who seems to know more about us than we do about them. That has to change. Our job . . .’
He looked back towards his HQ. Two young adjutants were struggling over the uneven earth, holding a large wooden packing case by its rope handles.
‘Our task,’ Churchill continued, ‘is to reverse that imbalance. To go out and capture as many of the enemy as we can and turn them over to our finest minds for interrogation. To help weed out any spies in the area. You are the ones chosen for this. You must turn to your task with vigour.’ He paused and took a breath. Time to turn the volume up. ‘We have all lost friends and colleagues. Two officers out of five in my mess have gone. Now, though, we must look forward. Do not look back. Gather afresh in your hearts and spirit all the energies of your youth. Bend anew together for a supreme effort over the coming weeks. The times are harsh, the need is dire, the agony of the British Empire seemingly infinite.’ He now affected a bulldog growl. ‘But the might of Britain will prove irresistible. She will prevail. We are the vanguard of the Allied cause and we must march forward as one man.’
He noticed, with no small pleasure, that his chosen six were standing even straighter than before. Major-General Furse, his commanding officer, had admonished him for the ‘softness’ of his approach. There had been no extended field punishments and no executions since he had taken command. But he was convinced that there were better ways to inspire the men than being a martinet. Lead by example, for instance.
The junior officers, annoyed at having to act as coolies to the men, dropped the packing case at the side of Churchill. ‘Sir!’
He looked at the two boys. The battalion had suffered appalling losses at Loos before his arrival. Two-thirds of the officers were new. Polite Scottish lads – often only just at regulation height – with a spirit well removed from the legendary belligerence of their countrymen. William Wallace would have little use for them. Churchill’s job would be to change that. ‘Take off the lid.’
The pair struggled with their clasp knives and eventually managed to lever off the top planks. They peered inside. ‘Step back, gentlemen, please,’ Churchill instructed. ‘These are not for the likes of you.’
He reached into the case and extracted a piece of dense, hard wood one foot long. ‘A billy club,’ he said, dropping it to the ground. ‘Old police issue, I suspect.’ Now he pulled out a shorter version, which swelled at one end. ‘Scotland Yard’s finest. Truncheon.’ He dropped that, too. ‘Ah, now, a lathi, used for cane fighting. Not heavy enough for our needs. Now this, a jungle club.’ He held up a club with a paddle-shaped head. ‘From Burma, I believe.’
Churchill stepped back. ‘Gentlemen, I appealed to my friends and acquaintances in the House for any batons or clubs that might be used in close combat. Souvenirs and the like, which might serve our purpose.’ He had also appealed for some decent beef, champagne and Rioja, but he wasn’t going to mention that. ‘There are axes and knobkerries, too. I am sure you will find something to your liking in here. Help yourselves.’
Churchill picked up the police truncheon from the ground. It was chipped and gnarled from use. It must have been fifty years old or more. He slapped it into the palm of his hand. Yes, that would do nicely. ‘I’ve got mine,’ he said, as the six men rifled through the weapons. He swished it through the air, miming concussing an unsuspecting Fritz.
‘You’re nae goin’ out, are you, sir?’ asked one of the subalterns, a chubby-faced lad of nineteen. ‘On the raids?’
Churchill pointed the bulbous end of the truncheon at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘Not a word, lad. Not to anyone. And especially not within earshot of Major-General Furse. If Clemmie finds out, I’ll be blaming you, and I’ll have you strung up from one of yon trees.’
The young man looked so horrified, Churchill burst out laughing.
‘Sir. Colonel.’
It was a corporal from his HQ, breathless from the run over such sticky ground.
‘Yes, what is it?’ Churchill asked, his good mood evaporating as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Telephone call, sir.’
That might be news from GHQ at St Omer of Haig’s impending inspection of the entire Guards Division, of which Churchill’s battalion formed part. It was the final part of his inspection before Haig’s anticipated promotion. He wasn’t particularly keen on a visit; on his arrival in France Haig had been cordial, but not much more. Churchill was well known to be a supporter of Sir John French, a man whose star was falling rapidly to earth. ‘Who is it?’
The corporal looked at the paper in his hand. ‘I was to say it’s a Mr Sherlock Holmes, sir.’