The Horizon (1993) (25 page)

He raised the thick glass mug and said, ‘Here’s to the lads who couldn’t get back, Jack!’ He thought of the sobbing officer with the sticks. ‘God, what a bloody mess it all is.’

They drank in silence.

Jonathan Blackwood’s appointment at the Royal Marines Headquarters was not until afternoon, so having arrived early at Waterloo station he decided to walk the rest of the way. He had always had a wary respect for London, but he had never grown to appreciate it like many of his brother officers.

If he had expected some sign of war he was soon surprised, as he crossed Westminster Bridge and paused to gaze at the handsome towers and terraces of Parliament and the nearby abbey. He had heard that air raids had been carried out the previous year by German airships, the Zeppelins, but they had become almost nonexistent now, too vulnerable to the massed anti-aircraft batteries around the capital, and the increasing success of the Royal Flying Corps.

The thing that struck him more than anything was the mass of servicemen in every major street. Some were with their girls and others lurched tipsily from one pub to another. He had thought he might find here the same tension so obvious in Plymouth and Southampton, but he had been mistaken: he was surprised by the outwardly carefree and jocular behaviour of soldiers and sailors alike.

He walked on. On this cold January day he felt fitter and stronger than for many months, and he supposed his regular walks around the estate were having the right effect.

He lingered in the silence of the abbey, looking at the many plaques and statues: noble figures in splendid uniforms, men remembered if not for their lives then for their brave deaths in every quarter of the globe. Sound echoed and carried, and the many visitors seemed to be holding their collective breath as they stared around at the abbey’s treasures. He left, feeling oppressed.

A troop of Horse Guards clattered past, their young faces pink in the bitter air, and their officer saluted him with his sword. He watched them until the buildings swallowed them up, seeing himself in their youth, their obvious pride in their uniforms and their service which he had once known, and could now barely recall.

The Royal Marines section of Admiralty was in Tothill Street, down towards Petty France. When he showed his identity card to the military police he glanced at a clock and marvelled where the time had gone. He smiled. And he was not even breathless.

‘This way, Major Blackwood.’ A bored civil servant who showed neither curiosity nor much interest led the way to the first floor. ‘Please wait. I shall announce you.’

There was a long wall mirror near the double doors, no doubt a necessary fixture, so that visiting officers could adjust themselves and their uniforms before facing the imposing might of the adjutant-general. He thought suddenly of Waring, his contempt for the strutting Brigadier-General Nugent at Mudros. But Nugent had
not been the only one to vanish into oblivion after the evacuation of Gallipoli. Even Sir Ian Hamilton the G.O.C., whom Nugent had quoted with such relish, had been dropped. Kitchener had been lost at sea in the cruiser
Hampshire
, and General Sir John French, who had commanded the British Expeditionary Force on the Western Front since the beginning, had been replaced by the experienced General Haig. French, a cavalry officer of the old school, had been defeated by his own insensitivity to the war’s mounting barbarity, and after the disastrous battle at Loos where the British losses had been almost double those of the enemy, and for no gains at all, he had bowed to the inevitable.

‘Please go in, Major Blackwood.’

There were two men in the high-ceilinged office. Jonathan had only seen the adjutant-general once or twice, but he was not a man one would easily forget. Tall and formidable, his chest adorned with four rows of decorations, he seemed to tower over his companion. It was hard to imagine him a young lieutenant, creeping beneath the deckhead of some small cruiser.

Major-General Sir Herbert Loftus was instantly recognisable. Without waiting for the adjutant-general to get down to business he strode forward and gripped Jonathan by the hand. ‘This is a happy day for me! To see you looking so well after what you have gone through is far better than any late Christmas present!’

Loftus was well known throughout the Corps, and there was no class of cruiser or capital ship in which he had not seen service. His record of arms read like the Corps’ history itself. Egypt, Africa, China, India; the
campaigns had been as blustery as the man himself. Although young for his rank, his hair and neat moustache were completely white, so that by comparison his skin was like tooled leather.
A Royal Marine’s Marine
, they called him. He had once been heard to say that he could win no greater honour.

The adjutant-general coughed politely. ‘When you are ready, Herbert?’ Then he smiled and the severity vanished. ‘I was in doubt as to the value of this interview, Blackwood. Now I see it might hold some merit.’

Major-General Loftus nodded. It was obviously high praise from the great man.

They sat facing each other, the faint beat of a military band muffled by distance and the stout walls of Caxton House.

The adjutant-general crossed his hands on his empty desk top. Jonathan doubted if he ever allowed it to be littered for long. ‘Open the batting, Herbert.’

Loftus began, ‘Another naval and marine division has been raised to fight on the Western Front.’

Jonathan saw his superior frown. Loftus was perhaps being too frank at this stage.

The major-general was unmoved, and stared unwinkingly at him. It was what he remembered most about Loftus afterwards: eyes so blue and intense they had seemed to go right through him.

‘There is to be a new offensive, probably in the spring. That is not so far away as it seems on this cold afternoon. We need every trained man we can find. I shall command the division as a whole, under the direction of Sir
Douglas Haig of course. A full-scale attack in the old Somme area must be successful before the weather breaks. I happen to know that Haig has certain doubts about the French support, and our attack is intended to remove the pressure from our main ally.’

Jonathan opened his mouth and then decided against interruption. Perhaps he was even more out of touch than he had realised. Only weeks ago the papers had been full of the great battle of Verdun, and the fierce French resistance. Their proud rallying cry,
They Shall Not Pass
, had seemed a rare beacon of hope and victory in all the blackness and misery.

‘Speak out, Blackwood. You have to know anyway.’

Jonathan looked down at his hands. Clenched into fists again, like a warning.

‘The French held the line at Verdun, sir. The enemy captured one of the fortified positions, but only temporarily.’

Loftus said quietly, ‘As in your campaign at Gallipoli, censorship is severe. But the truth will out, as it did when a handful of journalists revealed the dreadful losses you had really suffered, while Sir Ian Hamilton’s releases to the press had always been filled with optimism.’ Jonathan waited. He had at least learned why Hamilton had been relieved. Loftus watched him impassively. ‘They held Verdun certainly, after months of bloody fighting and the threat of disgrace and ignominy for any French general who failed to hold his sector. But to date, as far as I know, nobody is aware that when the Germans eventually broke off the engagement, there were
half a million dead
in the field.’ He watched his words going
home. ‘Also our one worthwhile ally, the French army, was in a state of chaos and mutiny.’

How could any offensive succeed if an army was in a state of revolt?

Loftus answered the unspoken question. ‘Much has been done to seize and remove the ringleaders. In some instances the French artillery was ordered to fire on its own lines. But morale has never been lower. They need – no,
must have
the pressure removed. Sir Douglas Haig has promised to break through to the Belgian coast, and destroy the German bases there between Nieuport and Zeebrugge, which are being used for U-Boats. I hardly need to tell you that that further tightens the enemy’s hold on French supply convoys.’

Somewhere outside a clock chimed, and Jonathan realised he had been here for a full hour. It seemed to have passed in minutes.

Loftus glanced questioningly at his superior, who offered a curt gesture in reply.

He said, ‘There will be one additional Royal Marine battalion, which will be separate from my main division. It will be infantry, and will also contain some of the heavy howitzers for support. It is only a matter of time before the R.M.L.I. and R.M.A. become one, but time we do not have. There’s nothing in battle that succeeds like competition and reputation. You know the Corps, and every man jack in it knows your family’s reputation . . . In short, I want you to command it.’

Jonathan felt the room closing in. Wyke had hinted at this, because he had known better than most what he had
gone through during the months on the peninsula, and in the agony of those that had followed.

Loftus said, ‘You will be made up to lieutenant-colonel – brevet, of course.’ But he did not smile, and his eyes were like reflections from an arctic berg. ‘I know your family has given more than most already for this damned war. I cannot order you to take this appointment.’ He shrugged. ‘I simply happen to believe that you can do it – and you are possibly the only one in the Corps who can. And soon, I think you yourself will come to accept that.’

A voice seemed to shriek in his skull.
Tell them, for God’s sake. You can’t do it. Fate is against you. Next time there’ll be so many more depending on you
.

He was almost shocked to hear his own voice in this vast, quiet room. ‘I hope I can justify your faith, sir.’

It was madness. He could almost hear Waring’s infuriating laugh, mingled with the cries and curses of hand-to-hand combat.

Loftus showed no surprise. ‘I served under your father for a time. Not an easy man, if I may say so. But you – you’re like your brothers, especially David. I knew you’d accept.’

The adjutant-general glanced meaningly at the clock above the painting of Trafalgar. Nelson had just fallen but the painter’s emphasis was on the scarlet-coated marines firing from the hammock nettings, while one of their sergeants ran to help the little admiral.

‘Your presentation will be at the end of the month, Blackwood. Make sure your new rank is in evidence on that day, won’t you?’

He must leave here, if only to make himself realise what he had just done. From major to lieutenant-colonel at the stroke of a pen.

The adjutant-general was saying, ‘The presentation will be at Eastney Barracks. I am afraid
I
shall be representing the colonel-in-chief.’

Loftus said dryly, ‘Can’t be helped. The salmon season begins the day after. One can hardly expect His Majesty to miss that.’

The adjutant-general glared at him and then said, ‘I did have doubts, Blackwood.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘But no longer.’

It was over.

There were two different redcaps in the reception area and one hurried towards him, his eyes brimming with eager curiosity.

‘Sir? The adjutant-general’s car is waiting for you.’

It was starting already. He said, ‘I want to get to Waterloo, Corporal.’

The redcap sounded indignant. ‘Oh, no, sir. I am instructed to tell you that the driver will take you straight home.’

Home. It was a long time since he had thought of Hawks Hill as that.

‘Then thank you. It’ll make a change. I hope he can find the place in the dark.’

The M.P. shook his head. ‘When you get to be the adjutant-general’s driver you’d
better
know such things, sir.’

There was another surprise even as the long khaki staff car slid smoothly to the bottom of the steps. He
heard footsteps on the tiled floor behind him and without turning he knew it was Wyke. It was this appointment of which he had been trying to warn him; his father had probably told him.

Wyke seemed uncertain now, still testing the strength of their friendship and unsure of the proprieties of rank.

‘I just heard, sir! You’ve accepted!’

As David had often said, it was like a family. Secrets were not possible for long. He shook Wyke’s hand warmly and then embraced him with all the affection of a brother.

‘It’s so good to see you, Christopher! You’ll never know.’

Wyke seemed suddenly shy.

‘I wanted to ask you, sir, before anybody else shoved his oar in. I know it isn’t proper procedure . . .’

Together they walked down the steps to the car. The light was already fading over London; the driver had the door open and his hand up in a stiff salute, and suddenly there was no more time.

Jonathan said, ‘I would take it as an honour if you would be my adjutant. Is that what you wanted to ask?’

Wyke’s face was one great grin. ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, it was!’

‘I’ll be receiving my orders soon now. There’ll be a lot to do.’

The prospect did not seem to daunt Wyke.

‘See you on the thirty-first, sir. The champagne is on me!’

He was still saluting as the car rolled away into the traffic.

Harry Payne stood back and eyed Jonathan critically.

‘Tailor did a good job, sir. Just the ticket.’

The last day in January was a perfect one, as if it, like the ceremony about to begin, had been planned to the last detail.

It was strange, he thought: he felt far more at home at Eastney Barracks than at Hawks Hill. He had completed training here, and as a young subaltern had gone from here to join his first ship. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

Below the window he could see the length and breadth of the parade ground, usually criss-crossed by marching squads and platoons of men, their efforts cursed or approved by motionless N.C.O.’s: drill with rifle and machine-gun, light artillery or merely the mysteries of fixing and unfixing bayonets with perfect timing.

There was a guard of honour there now, for the adjutant-general, and the guard commander was moving slowly along each rank to make certain that nothing could be faulted. On the opposite side of the square the band was playing lively music of the sea. Beyond a painted rope the visitors stood closely packed, for warmth as much as anything, for the barracks faced the English Channel and the breeze was like a knife.