The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(33)
A convoy of army vehicles awaited the Wessex Regiment as they disembarked from the ship. Giles had never experienced such intense heat and his fresh khaki shirt was soaked in sweat within moments of him stepping on foreign soil. He quickly organized his men into three groups before they climbed on board the waiting trucks. The convoy progressed slowly along a narrow, dusty coastal road, not stopping for several hours until they finally reached the outskirts of a badly bombed town that Bates announced in a loud voice, ‘Tobruk! Told you so,’ and money began to change hands.
Once they’d entered the town, the convoy dropped the men at various points. Giles and the other officers jumped off outside the Majestic Hotel, which had been requisitioned by the Wessex as their company HQ. Giles pushed his way through the revolving doors and quickly discovered there wasn’t much majestic about the hotel. Makeshift offices had been crammed into every available space. Charts and maps were pinned on walls where paintings had once hung, and the plush red carpet that welcomed VIPs from all over the world had worn thin with the continual tramping of studded boots.
The reception area was the only feature to remind them this might once have been a hotel. A duty corporal checked off Second Lieutenant Barrington’s name on a long list of new arrivals.
‘Room two-one-nine,’ he said, handing him an envelope. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there, sir.’
Giles strode up the wide staircase to the second floor and let himself into the room. He sat on the bed, opened the envelope and read his orders. At seven o’clock he was to report to the ballroom, when the colonel of the regiment would address all officers. Giles unpacked his suitcase, took a shower, put on a clean shirt and went back downstairs. He grabbed a sandwich and a cup of tea from the officers’ mess and made his way to the ballroom just before seven.
The large room, with its high imperial ceiling and magnificent chandeliers, was already filled with boisterous officers, who were being reunited with old friends and introduced to new ones as they waited to find out which square on the chessboard they would be moved to. Giles caught a glimpse of a young lieutenant on the far side of the room whom he thought he recognized, but then lost sight of him.
At one minute to seven, Lieutenant Colonel Robertson marched up on to the stage, and everyone else in the room quickly fell silent and sprang to attention. He stopped in the centre of the stage and waved the men down. Feet apart, hands on hips, he began to address them.
‘Gentlemen, it must seem strange to you to have travelled from all parts of the empire to do battle with the Germans in North Africa. However, Field Marshal Rommel and his Afrika Korps are also here, with the purpose of maintaining a supply of oil for their troops in Europe. It is our responsibility to send him back to Berlin with a bloody nose, long before their last tank has run out of petrol.’
Cheers erupted around the hall, accompanied by the stamping of feet.
‘General Wavell has granted the Wessex the privilege of defending Tobruk, and I have told him that we will all sacrifice our lives before Rommel books a suite at the Majestic Hotel.’
This was greeted with even louder cheers and more stamping of feet.
‘Now I want you all to report to your company commanders, who will brief you on our overall plan to defend the town, and the responsibilities each of you will be expected to carry out. Gentlemen, we haven’t a moment to waste. Good luck, and happy hunting.’
The officers all sprang to attention again as the colonel left the stage. Giles checked his orders once more. He’d been allocated to 7 Platoon, C company, which was to meet in the hotel library following the colonel’s address for a briefing by Major Richards.
‘You must be Barrington,’ said the major when Giles walked into the library a few minutes later. Giles saluted. ‘It was good of you to join us so soon after being commissioned. I’ve put you in charge of seven platoon as understudy to your old friend. You will have three sections of twelve men, and your responsibility will be to patrol the west perimeter of the city. You will have a sergeant and three corporals to assist you. The lieutenant will brief you on the finer details. As you were at school together, you won’t have to spend too much time getting to know each other.’
Giles wondered who it could be. And then he recalled the familiar lone figure on the other side of the ballroom.
Second Lieutentant Giles Barrington would have liked to give Lieutenant Fisher the benefit of the doubt, although he would never be able to erase the memory of him as a prefect at St Bede’s, when he thrashed Harry every night during his first week for no reason other than that he was a docker’s son.
‘It’s good to catch up with you, Barrington, after such a long time,’ said Fisher. ‘I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t work well together, can you?’ He obviously also recalled his treatment of Harry Clifton. Giles managed a weak smile.
‘We’ve got over thirty men under our command, along with three corporals and a sergeant. Some of them you’ll remember from your days at training camp. In fact, I’ve already put Corporal Bates in charge of number one section.’
‘Terry Bates?’
‘Corporal Bates,’ repeated Fisher. ‘Never use a Christian name when you’re referring to the other ranks. In the mess, and when we’re on our own, Giles, you can call me Alex, but never in front of the men. I’m sure you understand.’