Chapter 149, Whitburn Camp, England, 5 November 1941
It had, Lieutenant Colonel Hugh Belsay thought, turned out to be a miserable year. Belsay thought this as he stared out through a rain spattered window to the rolling grassland leading to the sea beyond. As a Northumbrian, Belsay knew this part of the coast very well, and enjoyed the dramatic line of cliffs and lonely little beaches that were tucked away along it. Many of the men in his battalion, from the pit villages and county towns of the southern part of Durham, barely knew it at all.
Not good picnic weather, he thought to himself and stared down again at the route for today’s march. As he looked down the coast road, into the village, he saw ‘D’ Company form up for the rehearsal. Today, just for this morning, the small village of Whitburn was to play Durham, their county town. The main (actually only) village street would play the part of the town square, and the lovely little parish church would, just for this morning, stand in for Durham Cathedral. Belsay was looking forward to leading his battalion through the streets of the county town, and had drilled his men to perfection.
The battalion, hastily assembled in the chaos that had overwhelmed the army as France fell, was now fully trained. Over the last few months Belsay and his officers had turned the sleepy camp, in the even sleepier fishing village, into a disciplined, professional organisation. When the men were attending to duties he had instructed that they did so with a sense of purpose and professional pride: no man would ‘bimble’ (by which he meant a lazy stroll). Belsay and his senior Major, a rotund, cherubic Barnard Castle squire with the eccentric name of Valentine Havelock Lumsden, were now itching to take 10 DLI somewhere where they could ‘make a difference’. At present they were still under General Neame, desperately awaiting a new division and corps to join. The battalion had avoided the mass drive to become mechanised, or at least motorised, that had enveloped most of the regiments serving at home. They had trained as good old-fashioned infantrymen, and infantrymen they would remain. But Belsay was increasingly concerned at the direction in which the British Army was going. The equipment was (slowly) getting better, that was true, and the new trucks were fantastic. But in the rush to equip themselves with what Lumsden had described as “shiny new things” Belsay feared that the old fashioned legwork in staff planning and logistics was even more overlooked than it had been in France. He looked out over a troubled North Sea, a sea that today seemed to match his own anxious mood.
A knock at the door disturbed his thoughts. Belsay’s adjutant, Captain Surtees, entered.
“Sorry to disturb Sir, but postie has been.”
“Anything for me?”
“I opened the non-personal ones. A letter from a magistrate about Corporal Hewitt…”
“Is he the drunk? Or the wife-beater?”
“The former Sir, you may recall he embarrassed the regiment during church parade a few weeks back. To summarise, His Worship asks that we discipline him internally. The civil power intends to leave it to us.”
“Have RSM Holgate take charge of that one.”
Surtees nodded. “The second letter is an invite for yourself and four other officers to attend the High Sheriff’s Christmas Ball in a few weeks.”
“Fine, say yes and get some of the subalterns to tag along. Do you have a lurk list?” A ‘lurk list’ was a list of subalterns available for the ‘secondary duties’, such as hosting visitors and attending official events.
“I do, Sir, and I already have some candidates in mind. The third letter is an official order. I’ve underlined the key bits.”
“Is it as we thought?”
“Yes Sir. Salisbury Plain for exercises and then we join the 23rd Division. Us, some of the other DLI battalions and the Northumbrian Regiment. Add it to the Tyneside Irish and God knows what other rubbish and you have a Northumbrian Division.”
“Who commands the Division?” This was an important question, as the identity of the new commander would determine how enjoyable Belsay’s remaining eighteen months as CO would be.
“As usual, Sir, a temporary commander with an acting headquarters. Usual War Office muddle, although a General Jacobs is believed to be in the frame.”
Belsay frowned, the name sounded vaguely familiar. “His background?”
“Infantry then largely staff jobs, Sir.”
“Alright, Surtees, anything else?”
“The Transport section will need you to sign the authorisation chits for Salisbury so we can get the battalion down there.”
Belsay looked at the clock. He needed to get ready for the ‘parade’. “Please tell me that’s all?”
Surtees shook his head. “We may, Sir, be required to host a special guest in Salisbury.”
“Who?”
Surtees winced. “George Formby. General Neame has invited him to entertain the troops after the exercise.”
Belsay swore. He swore effectively and at length and after almost going puce with anger he dropped heavily into his chair. “Do you mean that I have to endure that bloody man for an afternoon?”
“And an evening. The General’s note is explicit. As many officers and men as can attend are to do so.”
“Please God tell me you’ve nothing else. Before I recommend you for a transfer to the Catering Corps or something equally horrible.”
“A polite reminder from Colonel Ross that you haven’t sent any opinion on the new anti-tank rifle.”
“Bollocks. It isn’t new Surtees, it’s a bodged remake of the Boys Anti Tank gun. The only thing they’ve improved is the blasted recoil, but I even doubt that that would persuade the men to use it in combat.”
Surtees looked sympathetic. “I know Sir, but the Colonel is quite insistent.”
“Fine, have Major Belmont craft some rubbish for me and I’ll sign it off at the end of the week. Thank you Surtees.”
Surtees, the Clevelander with the accentless voice and the slightly defensive nature snapped to attention and withdrew. The DLI were an undemonstrative lot; the minimal marks of respect were used and as long as they were made with the discipline of the Guards Belsay was happy. As Surtees departed Belsay grabbed his cap, noted with relief that it was clean enough to pass muster, and, donning his gloves, prepared to play the part of the Lord Lieutenant for the County. As he left the Headquarters and strolled for the parade ground, where the Colour Party awaited him, he noticed a commotion at the main gate. Assuming that D Company had come to grief in the village, probably with children heckling them with “penny for the guy”, he growled with irritation and upped his pace, hoping that one of his officers would sort out the problem without him. He reached the Colour Party, noted that Lieutenant Copfield had finally mastered his positioning, and was about to inspect the small assemblage when a flustered Major Lumsden, red with the effort of running and breathing heavily, and followed by a worried looking Captain Surtees, almost tripped over Belsay.
“Sir, sir,” Lumsden panted, almost forgetting to salute.
“What is it,” Belsay managed to say this equably as he returned the salute.
“Orders, Sir. The march through Durham is cancelled.”
Belsay was about to issue forth with a choice word but managed to hold it; he had recently decided that he was far too crude in front of the men. Instead he scowled at Surtees, who wilted under his gaze.
“Could one of you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Cyprus, Sir, we’re off to Cyprus.”
“Cyprus. Christ,” Belsay said with some feeling. “Are you sure?”
“Yes Sir. Apparently General Dill’s worried that the Italians are getting greedy in the Med so a full division may be required.”
“Isn’t the Med a Navy problem? And anyway, I though the Italians had backed down!” Both comments were fired like machine-gun bullets.
“I’m very sorry Sir,” Surtees said. Though it wasn’t his fault he felt that an apology was necessary.
Belsay’s fury relented. He hated it when senior officers vented their apoplexy on those junior to them, and realised that Surtees was doing his best. He forced a smile. “At least we’re spared George sodding Formby! I doubt he’ll come to Cyprus!”
The Colour Party heard the comment, as Belsay had intended, and grinned at his jest. Lumsden and Surtees did too and Belsay’s mind now turned to the administrative nightmare ahead.
“Captain Surtees, all officers to assemble the schoolroom in an hour. Parade rehearsal is cancelled. Find out whether we’re definitely not going through Durham.”
Surtees was scribbling it all down. “Yes Sir.”
“Have the Quartermaster draw the required kit and equipment for the Med. Oh Christ.” This last comment wasn’t made at Surtees, but the resumption of the rain. Sighing, Belsay stalked back to his office and prepared to prepare for the Med. For Cyprus.
[Game Effect] – A gentle update showing the slapdash nature of the reforms of the British Army, and to reintroduce Belsay (last seen on the quay at Dover following the ceasefire with Germany) and to introduce some of the personalities of 10 DLI. You’ll be seeing them again a bit later.
The rationale for the sending of the 23rd Division to Cyprus is simple. What with all this concocting tension with Italy I then realised that the British Army was concentrated in Egypt and Palestine, hardly realistic! There was no protection for Cyprus, something that would have to be remedied. And so, as all looks to quieten down, the War Office decides to fling the newly trained battalion into the diplomatic game in the Eastern Mediterranean.
I also wanted to show that, despite the calls for mass-mechanisation, those outside of Gort’s expanding BEF are really left alone to muddle through as best they can. This is Dill and Gort’s error, not Eden’s – he has presumably relied upon the military to advise him on the improvements required. The result is that a “two-tier” or even “three-tier” British Army has emerged from the chaos of 1940. The elite are the tank and motorised infantry formations in Southern England, forming the BEF under Gort. The bottom rung (not counting the probably neglected territorials) are the far flung forces in the Middle and Far Easts. But there is a middle level, typified by Belsay and his men: well-trained but inconsistently equipped, lacking a specific target but always being sent out to random troublespots. This is the dozen or so INF divisions based in the UK that are Britain’s real asset in whatever’s coming up.
El Pip: Indeed, though I’m not sure that Gordon Brown would emerge as Smith’s successor – he and Smith disagreed on a hell of a lot and Smith would probably muck up his career.
Zhuge Liang: Everything I read about Butler makes me even more convinced that he was a sneaky little turd. I’ve tried to make my portrayal of him a fair one, but every story needs a villain and Butler, I’m afraid, fits just perfectly.
Enewald: Well, it’s not as if he said it
to the PM, just
about him so it is different.
Kurt_Steiner: Trouble is just around the corner.
Nathan Madien: Things will heat up very very quickly.
Atlantic Friend: The more I think about it, the more that the ME (the ex-French bits) strike me as the best chance of any democratic French rebellion. The African rebels were crushed completely, so you’re probably right.
Bafflegab: In Butler’s defence (ha!) the British as a nation have let Europe dominate their attention far too much.
Sir Humphrey: I think that Butler, completely in Halifax’s power as he is, is far too useful for our gallant PM to be sacked.
