George put his hands on his hips. ‘For king and country?’
‘And for our families. For Caroline and Sophie.’
‘Those chaps don’t know Caroline and Sophie.’
‘They must have their own reasons, then.’
During the bus ride to Harnsby Road, a mile or two from Fielding Cross, Aubrey had told George about Lady Maria and her correspondence with Professor Delroy. George expressed puzzlement over the hint of family trouble, and Aubrey could see that a letter would soon be winging its way from George to Sophie.
They tacked themselves onto the back of the line, to cheers, and Aubrey soon realised that the overwhelming reason for joining up was that it had every prospect of being a smashing lark. At least, that was the prevailing opinion around them.
They shuffled along, slowly getting closer to the doorway of the recruiting office. The volunteers were all young men. Some were very down at heel, others well dressed, but they were all excited, chatting in animated fashion, sharing anecdotes fathers and uncles had told about the last war. Carefully chosen anecdotes, Aubrey was sure, by said fathers and uncles. Plenty of jolly japes among the troops, and not much fear or panic or actual bloodshed.
The standard expression was a broad grin, as if anticipating a football match, and Aubrey wondered where all the sober, thoughtful types were. He refused to think that they weren’t volunteering because they knew better, but he couldn’t help notice that none of the faces in the line looked to be older than their early twenties.
The chap directly in front of them turned around. He wore a cloth cap, but his suit was well cut and expensive. ‘I say, those Holmlanders won’t be expecting this, don’t you know?’
‘Won’t be expecting what?’ Aubrey asked carefully.
‘All these fellows, ready to go.’ A broad sweep of an arm. ‘We’ll show the Elektor what’s what.’
Having met the Elektor, Aubrey had the impression that he’d be upset by developments rather than rubbing his hands together. ‘I’m sure we will.’
This satisfied their interlocutor, who grinned and went back to discussing horses with someone in front of him.
‘Do you think they know what they’re getting themselves in for?’ George muttered to Aubrey.
‘I don’t think anyone does,’ Aubrey said. ‘Not even the generals.’
Aubrey subsided into himself and listened to the chatter about coming to the aid of the plucky people of the Low Countries. While Aubrey couldn’t fault their generosity of spirit, he did wonder about his fellow recruits’ lack of worldliness, especially when he heard, more than once, the confident sentiment that the war would be over by Christmas.
It took nearly two hours – and lunchtime was approaching, as George pointed out – when they finally mounted the stairs into the shop front of a building that was clearly inadequate to handle the numbers. The counter was manned by a stern-faced sergeant who was doing his best to keep up. Next to him, a monstrous pile of paper threatened to topple over and Aubrey hoped that the sergeant wouldn’t be in the way when it did, thus becoming the first Albionite casualty of the war.
He laboured over forms and lists, and each recruit was then sent to one of the four rooms in the rear of the building. Medical examinations, Aubrey expected, as a stream of young men exited and then ambled out of the back door with papers clutched in hands.
Posters hung on the walls, extolling the virtues of the service. They explained why army life was a good life and that joining up was the only decent thing a man could do. They looked as if they’d been there for decades, to judge from the uniforms and the weapons, and Aubrey knew that deep in the Ministry of Defence a whole team would be working on newer, more appealing ways to coax the hesitant to join up – not that this was a problem at the moment.
On the bus, Aubrey and George had discussed their options. Aubrey had considered the navy, after being impressed with the Invulnerable and the Electra. George had suggested joining the new Flying Corps, which brought together various military airship and ornithopter squadrons and was rumoured to be toying with the new fixed-wing aircraft.
In the end they agreed on the army. Mostly it was because the nearest recruiting office for any branch of the military was the Caulfield Regiment, one of the great infantry names in Albion Army history. Aubrey had little preference, really, as long as they didn’t join the Cliffstone Guards. Joining his father’s old regiment was simply too much to contemplate.
‘Name?’
Aubrey started. He’d reached the head of the line. ‘Fitzwilliam.’
The sergeant grunted. ‘First name?’
‘Aubrey.’
Aubrey amused himself by looking at the top of the sergeant’s head as he scratched away. His salt and pepper hair was cropped short. Aubrey ran his fingers through his own longish black hair and wondered if the shortness was compulsory or simply a preference on the sergeant’s part – although he was sure the army didn’t encourage personal preferences.
‘Fitzwilliam, eh?’ the sergeant said, looking up. He had a neat moustache. Aubrey readied himself for the customary confirmation that he was indeed the Prime Minister’s son, but the sergeant just frowned and consulted a list. He grunted again and picked up the telephone. ‘Over there.’
Aubrey looked in the direction the sergeant had jabbed his pencil. Against the side wall, a bench stood under a window. Three unhappy-looking young men sat on it. ‘Over there?’
‘That’s what I said, sunshine,’ the sergeant said.
Aubrey shrugged at George and crossed the room, his boot heels loud on the wooden floor, even over the hum of chatter in the small room. The three others on the bench looked sidelong at him when he sat down. Each of them had their hats in their laps – two bowlers and a straw boater. Aubrey was glad he hadn’t worn one or else they would have ended up looking suspiciously like a milliner’s showcase. He looked up and behind him to see a sign tacked to the wall over their heads: ‘Group W’.
‘How long were you in for?’ his nearest benchmate asked. He was a sallow-looking chap with a nose so sharp it could be used to open letters.
‘In for?’ Aubrey frowned, then his eyes widened. ‘In prison, you mean?’
The next chap along – small, pugnacious, face like a limpet – leaned forward. ‘Nah. In the latest Royal Academy exhibition.’
It was with relief that Aubrey looked up to see George trudging toward him, bafflement on his face. ‘They think we’re criminals,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth once George had sat down.
‘And there’s something wrong with that? I thought a few criminal skills would be very handy in the army.’
‘Are you saying that soldiers are criminals at heart?’
‘Soldiers? I thought the criminals would be made officers straight away.’
‘Be that as it may, they’ve got the wrong end of the stick here. We don’t belong.’
‘Oh ho,’ his pugnacious benchmate said. ‘Something wrong with Group W? Too good for us, are we?’
‘It’s not that,’ Aubrey said and paused when he realised he was therefore arguing that he belonged with convicted felons. ‘Never mind.’
‘I think we should go and explain our situation,’ George said.
‘Good luck, mate,’ Pugnacious said, crossing his arms. ‘Tried to tell him that my stretch in the clink was a misunderstanding. He wouldn’t listen.’
Aubrey looked at the queue. It still stretched out of the door and past the shop front window. ‘I think he has enough on his hands.’