Читать книгу Royal Regiment - Gilbert Frankau - Страница 21

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The sun still shone as Rockingham walked towards the Turban battery’s office—slowly and alone, his mind busy with the story Patterson had just imparted to him in the shed. Bombardier Calvert, his clerk, seated in the outer office, sprang to attention almost before he had opened the door. He gave Calvert his usual, “Morning. Let me see anything that’s urgent right away, please”; passed to the inner office; sat down, keeping his cap on, at the plain tidy desk.

His cane was still in his hand. He tapped it on his boot—always a sign of annoyance—before dropping it on the bare floor.

A blasted nuisance, this business with Godden. The sort of thing one simply loathed tackling. If the young fool must have a woman, why pick on one in the married quarters? Should one see the fellow before lunch or afterwards?

“The sooner the better”, he decided, as Calvert came in with his tray of papers, and the new “history sheets”, the new “log books” for the dragons.

“Captain Patterson thought you’d like to see that we’d started them correctly, sir”, said the battery clerk. “There is a special order about that from brigade.”

He handed over the copy of Lampson’s order, “Log books and history sheets. The attention of all battery commanders is called to A.O. 7078, Book-keeping for mechanised units, Royal Artillery”, and several other papers, one of which made Rockingham smile:

“I hope we made that very clear in our battery orders, Calvert”.

“Oh yes, sir.” The fresh-faced, clean-shaven youth with the white lanyard looped round his shoulder could not restrain an answering grin, as he quoted Patterson’s: “On no account whatsoever must Government petrol be used for the filling of automatic lighters. N.C.O.s or men requiring inflammable liquid for this purpose can purchase it in small sealed containers from the canteen”.

“How much mileage are they allowing us?” went on the battery commander, the smile still lingering round the corners of his mouth. But, given his answer, he frowned.

Some economies, most economies, were necessary. But how the hell could one train men to drive dragons on sixteen miles of running weekly?

“Leave the rest of this junk with me”, he said next. “Any defaulters?”

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

“But the sergeant-major would like to see you after parade, sir.”

“All right. Let me know as soon as he’s here.”

“Very good, sir.”

Calvert went out, closing the door. Alone, Rockingham applied himself to those papers which are the curse of a regimental officer’s life.

“Brigade could take over half these jobs”, he thought, as he tossed the last form back into the tray, and took pipe, tobacco pouch and matches from his tunic pocket. “And eventually they’ll have to. Mechanisation’s bound to mean centralisation.”

His pipe lit, his thoughts returned to Godden. Solely to distract them, he picked up his copy of “Dragons Light Marks I., Ia and II. Instruction Book”.

The booklet, photolithoed from typescript, was dated “1933”. According to Woolwich, their dragons would be replaced by six-wheeled tractors before this year was out.

“Muddling along”, he decided. “As usual. Why train men on vehicles they’ll never use?”