“I must. As you say, I shall have to. I much wish to be wed, so I have no choice. Not banking, I am not to tread on Geoffrey’s toes, and obviously the law demands years of study. The Church is not an ambition. The professions are not available to me so I must become a Captain of Industry. I wonder what I am to do?”
His father visited that evening, Geoffrey at his side and almost in tears when he saw his brother sat proudly in a comfortable armchair by his bed, his left leg ending in a bandage.
“I am out of bed, do you see. Crutches tomorrow. Release from durance vile on Friday, if only I can manage to walk forty paces.”
“Good. You will prefer walking to a wheelchair, I do not doubt, Peter.”
“Very much so, Father.”
“Good. You have not lost the fighting spirit even though the Navy is no longer for you, my son. If you wish, I can find an additional thousand a year to add to your existing allowance. With your pension, you may retire to the life of a country gentleman, presumably on your wife’s farm.”
“Kind offer, sir. I hope you will not be offended that I refuse it.”
“Anything but, Peter! What do you know about oil?”
“Not much, Father. I presume you mean the stuff as it comes out of the ground, black and smelly and needing to be refined by some process I do not understand? I saw a newsreel at the cinema in Portsmouth which pictured an American oil well. The oil was loaded into tank wagons on the railway to go off to a refinery.”
“Exactly! We are to build a modern refinery from scratch in Britain. An expanse of mud by the side of an estuary in South Wales just now. The oil will be brought by ship from the West Indies or Arabia and Mesopotamia. Two years and it is to be the newest and most efficient in the world, producing the petroleum we shall need in increasing quantities. I know nothing of the technicalities, either. We need an overseer, one might say, to bring all together, to be the master of ceremonies in the construction process. You have no experience in such a function. Neither has anybody else in this country. Do you want it?”
Peter was instantly enthused – so much to do and he knew he could bring engineers and people together to do it.
“Very much so, Father! What a wonderful job! King of all I survey – and not George III either!”
“It is yours, my son. I do not know whether I have given you a blessing or a curse, by the way; it is a massive job. The first meeting relating to the construction takes place on Wednesday next week in my offices. Will you be there?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. We shall discuss your appointment and title and salary then. I cannot see that we shall be talking less than six thousand pounds a year, with expenses in addition. Can you drive?”
“Damned if I know, Father. A hand throttle rather than an accelerator pedal… I shall have to talk to a motor salesman. Let us assume that I shall be able to, sir! I might need a chauffeur for a few weeks, not for long.”
Friday morning saw Peter proudly crutching from his room down the long hall to the front door and back again, to the applause of the staff. They produced a uniform and assisted him to put it on, full post captain’s parade dress, he noticed. Just before eleven o’clock they made a performance of taking him down to the receiving room by the front doors. He wondered why – there was obviously a reason.
Captain Troughton appeared, pleased to see Peter standing.
“Well done, my good and faithful! I have given Polegate to Tubbs, acting lieutenant commander, God help us all! Your boy Fanny Adams has a DSC for his performance, by the way; he certainly saved your life by dancing between the two cockpits. I have made him sub; a few weeks and he can go as a pilot. It will probably take him that long to get over his hangover – the wardroom was pleased with him and made their delight very clear. Remember that brat Kirby? He was stripped of his warrant the day after you were wounded – they had been dithering but anything you demanded was to be given that day! I had him sent to Dover as an ordinary seaman boy and he was put onto an armed drifter on the Dover Barrage. Won’t last of course – the family will be wild and pulling every string they possess. I doubt they will get him out entirely, though, and they won’t get his warrant back; can’t be done. Probably find him a shore posting of some sort. Amusing, anyway – I gather the horrible little sod is not enjoying his current existence. I have all sorts of messages from Polegate – consider them delivered. I think every man on site had something to say. You will be missed there.”
“I shall miss the balloons, sir.”
“Not ‘sir’, old chap. Two post captains together are we.”
“Crazy, is it not, Archie!”
“Just so, Peter. Hush, now. I hear vehicles outside. Can you stand for another ten minutes?”
“Probably. Catch me if I fall.”
On the second of eleven o’clock there was a great scurry and flurry as the doors were flung open and a party of dignitaries appeared, uniforms shining bright with braid and medals, the civilians in old-fashioned frockcoats and top hats.
“His Majesty the King!”
Civilians disappeared into bows and curtseys while the uniformed stiffened to attention, Peter doing his best.
Troughton made the presentation.
“Captain Naseby, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you. How do you feel, Captain Naseby? A silly question to a man who has just lost a foot! I hope you will soon be more the thing.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. A few weeks and I shall be rid of these crutches and walking freely again.”
“Well done, sir. You are brave indeed, as we all know. Decorated twice for gallantry within a very few months and promoted rapidly. A pity that you can no longer serve in the Navy, sir.”
“I am to work in the new oil industry, Your Majesty. I believe there will be a deal for me to do there.”
The King had obviously never heard of such a thing, gave it his grave approval.
“So there will. I have no doubt you will do much to make Britain a world leader in the field. I shall look forward to hearing of your achievements over the years. For now, I have the greatest of pleasure in awarding you my grandmother’s medal for gallantry, the Victoria Cross, Captain Naseby. The citation makes it clear that you placed the demands of duty in front of your own life, sir. I am proud that you are one of my subjects, sir.”
Peter had not noticed the little hook on the breast of his uniform, was startled, his amazement showing from the ripple of laughter among the watchers.
“Your Majesty!”
The King stepped back and was introduced to matron and senior doctors of the hospital before being taken away.
The Press descended.
Being wounded, they demanded fewer poses for photographs and permitted him to sit for questioning. He took pains to play up the role of Midshipman Adams, bravely tending to his pilot in mid-air, saving his life with his bandaging; anything to lessen the idiocy he was faced with.
“What next for you, sir?”
“Civilian life, obviously. I cannot serve without a foot. I do not doubt that I shall be able to find a useful occupation, building our nation’s industrial might to fight this war.”
“Have you considered a political career, sir?”
“No.”
There were a few, well-hidden grins. Very few of the war heroes they talked to ever seemed to want to be politicians.
“When will we win this war, sir?”
A malicious question with a sting in the tail. He spotted Troughton’s frown, thought quickly.
“We are fighting a determined, militaristic enemy. Ours is a peace-loving country and it must take us time to turn our hands to the war Germany wanted. We are not Prussians and must be thankful for it!”
That, he thought, was as meaningless an answer as the question deserved. Several of the reporters were grinning openly as they went away.