'For Christ's sake, old man—do listen to what I'm telling you,'
said Captain Willis. 'The CO has agreed that we should motor over to the Mendips and try and pick up some armour-piercing ammo for the Boys rifles. Nigel Audley had to have a blinding row with the old buffer, but—thank God!—he's a bit leery of Nigel ever since he discovered that Nigel's a friend of the CIG's brother, or sister or someone. And when we're there I'm damn well going to pick up some gun-cotton and fuses to mine these bloody bridges of ours—the CO doesn't know that, but what he doesn't know won't worry him. And my CSM reckons he knows how best to do the job—we've only got to sling the charges under the keystone of the main arch and push it upwards, and then the whole caboodle'll fall dummy4
down, he says— are you listening, old boy?'
'Yes.' said Captain Bastable shortly. 'I've looked at my bridge.'
'Good man.'
'It's pretty solid.' Captain Bastable came to himself with a jolt. 'Why is the CO sending two company commanders to get this ammunition? I don't know about you, Willis—but I've got a job of work to do here.' Bastable pointed to the indefensible bridge.
'Don't ask me, old boy.' Willis shrugged. 'He's sending me because I asked for the stuff, and I can speak French. But he doesn't trust me an inch, so maybe you've got to keep an eye on me. Or maybe Tetley-Robinson thinks we'll lose our way and he'll never see the pair of us again—maybe he thinks the Jerries will dive-bomb us both and blow us to kingdom come
—God knows what goes on between Tetley-Robinson's protuberant ears! Probably very little, judging by the state of the Prince Regent's Own ... But the sooner we're on our way, the better. Because I want to be snug in my billet again tonight, not fumbling around French roads in the dark.'
Bastable drew a deep breath. Ten months in the army had taught him that what could not be avoided was best done as quickly as possible—Willis was right there.
'I give you best over the goat, though,' said Willis with a sudden disarming smile. 'It was a damn good shot—and you were quite right to give it to your chaps. It'll buck them up no dummy4
end, even though they'll hate eating it—it'll be tough as old boots.'
Bastable frowned. 'You've eaten goat?'
'Oh, yes. North African goat—Serbian goat—Greek goat.
Greek was the best, that was merely awful . . . Kid is delicious, but that was an aged, stringy old nannie you decapitated. I only wanted to baffle Tetley-Robinson's dentures with it— rather naughty of me, I admit! But your chaps'll think the world of you for giving it to 'em ... Even if they don't like it they'll give you the credit for foisting it on them—they'll think you're a crafty blighter if they don't credit you with generosity. You'll win either way, I tell you.'
This was a world of complicated motives and machinations which Bastable had never considered. He believed the British soldier to be a simple soul, basically. The only difference between running C Company and Bastable's of Eastbourne was—equally basically—that it was frequently necessary to turn a blind eye on the company's attempts to 'annexe'
material belonging to other companies, which could be safely left to the senior NCOs to discourage whereas the slightest evidence of dishonesty at Bastable's resulted in instant dismissal without a reference.
Nevertheless, Captain Willis's approval was oddly —almost inexplicably—heartening. And the prospect of a trip in the only Bren carrier salvaged from the chaos of Boulogne was not without its attractions, particularly as there was a fair chance of finding out more about the course of the battle dummy4
from the Mendips than the beak-nosed staff brigadier had known, or been willing to reveal.
There was some essential work to be done first, however; and young Chichester was still conveniently to hand to do it, having been hovering in the background all this time, pretending not to listen to the affairs of his elders and seniors.
'Mr Chichester —' the boy tautened up attentively, like a gun-dog called by its master, '—I've a job for you!'
'Sir!' Chichester almost saluted, and quite suddenly Bas table felt himself to be enormously older and senior, even if young Chichester did know a great deal more about the Boys anti-tank rifle.
'What's your Christian name, Chichester?'
'My—Christopher, sir. Christopher Chichester ... Or Chris, sir, for short. Sir.'
'Chris ... Well, our rule is formality in front of the other ranks and Christian names among ourselves and in the mess, Chris. And my name is Henry—' Just as suddenly Bastable knew that he had always disliked the name 'Henry', but had never been able to do anything about it—he had always been
'Henry' at home, and 'Bastable' at school. And—damn and blast it!— Barstable in the Prince Regent's Own. But now, with this tall unfledged youth, he had a chance to start afresh. He had always wanted to be called 'Ronald', after Ronald Colman, who had always seemed to him the epitome dummy4
of everything an English gentleman should be, and at least his carefully-trimmed moustache, neither too little nor too much, was authentic Ronald Comar. But he could not give himself a name which was not on his birth certificate.
'Henry, sir,' said Christopher—Chris—Chichester, with a look in his periwinkle-blue eyes which Captain Bastable had never seen before. It was—it was an adoring gun-dog look . . .
except that Captain Bastable knew he had never looked into the eyes of an adoring gun-dog. In fact, that poor bloody white goat, minding its own business, munching its coarse French grass on its hillside four hundred yards away, was the first and only thing Captain Bastable had ever killed in anger.
Fraud, fraud, fraud! Incompetent fraud!
But not Henry. Not Henry Barstable. Never again Henry Bastable!
. 'Harry,' said Captain Bastable. 'My friends call me “Harry”, Chris.'
'Harry.' Second-Lieutenant Christopher Chichester pronounced the name as though it frightened him. 'Yes —
Harry.'
'I never knew that,' said Captain Willis. 'Harry?'
'Well, you know it now, Captain Willis,' said Captain Bastable. 'Now, Chris... I want you to go to Mr Waterworth—
Lieutenant Waterworth—who is two i/c of the company, and tell him that the bridge is untenable ... You'll find him upstream, by the old watermill, with his platoon... Tell him to dummy4
reconnoitre the trees on the ridge—we'll have to defend the ridge first, whatever happens. And until I get back with the Boys ammunition the mortar section must cover the bridge, with PSM Gill's platoon—do you understand that . . . Chris?'
'Yes—Harry.' Chichester nodded. 'Understood.'
'Off you go then.' Captain Bastable smiled fraudulently.
'Now, Captain Willis—where's our carrier?'
'"Wimpy" to my friends,' said Captain Willis amiably. 'Back in the Classical Sixth it was "Willy"—not to my face, of course . . . But now it's "Wimpy"—thanks to Major Tetley-Robinson . . . Harry, old boy.'
Captain Bastable could think of no reply to that.
'And we haven't got the carrier,' added Captain Willis apologetically. 'Major Tetley-Robinson would never give me the carrier... We've got the Austin Seven—with Fusilier Evans as driver—"Batty" Evans, as the most unkindest cut of all!'
III
Of all the vehicles Captain Bastable had ever seen, the Prince Regent's Own Austin Seven was the least military-looking.
He could remember noting scornfully back in England that some less-favoured formations of the British Army had had to make do with transport which betrayed its recent and unsuitable civilian origin; and since arriving in France, on the one short expedition he had conducted beyond the dummy4
immediate environs of Colembert to superintend the recovery of a broken-down ration truck, he had seem some French Army lorries which looked not so much as though they had survived the First Marne in 1914 as that they had been commandeered before that by Noah to victual the Ark.