Noblesse Oblige

From Henry Hilliard and Pete Bruno h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com This work fully protected under The United States Copyright Laws 17 USC 101, 102(a), 302(a). All Rights Reserved. The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the Author's consent. (See full statement at the beginning of Chapter One.) Author's Note: Thanks to all of you who have written to tell how much you're enjoying the story and please keep writing to us and watch for further chapters. For all the readers enjoying the stories here at Nifty, remember that Nifty needs your donations to help them to provide these wonderful stories, any amount will do. http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Noblesse Oblige

by Henry H. Hilliard with Pete Bruno

Book 3 The Bells of Hell Go Ting-a-ling-a-ling

Chapter 13

The Anguish of the Earth Absolves Our Eyes

Martin was awakened by the noise. The carafe and glass by his bed trembled musically and the paintings on the wall groaned. It was a low rumble, not thunder he concluded; perhaps it was an earthquake? He looked at his watch: it was ten-past three. The June night was a warm one so he slid naked from the bed and went to the window overlooking Piccadilly. Traffic was passing normally and he could see no sign of zeppelins or aeroplanes over London. He went back to bed and tried to sleep.

Colonel Martin Poole, the Marquess of Branksome, had had a frustrating time of it since returning to England from a triumphal propaganda tour of the United States. Whitehall had been reluctant to let him go from the department that now dealt with Military Intelligence. He was in department number five which was `headed up'--to use the new slang-- by Major-General Kell. When he said that he would like to return to the Earl of Holdenhurt's Yeomanry, there was some amusement for they were now part of the Territorial Army and stationed in Ireland where they were a humble cycle regiment. Since the terrible Rising in the Easter of the previous year, the province had quietened down, but Sinn Fein had been successful in recent elections and the situation could easily get out of hand again. The decision to impose military conscription in Ireland was a recent provocation.

"In fact we want you to go to Ireland, Poole, with your militia," said Kell, "and look for any evidence in Cavan of German influence on two groups: The Citizens' Army' and the Irish Republican Brotherhood'. Here's a dossier."

Martin studied the complex and unhappy document on his journey across the Irish Sea. Cavan--where his militia was stationed--seemed idyllically peaceful and the Earl of Holdenhurst's Yeomanry often parked their cycles outside the pubs and could be seen drinking with the locals. Martin himself was provided with a lightly armoured vehicle and was driven about the county and got to know the local representative of the Republican Army, which was a loose amalgamation of the two earlier groups. Keating was chagrined by the fact that his own sons had enlisted in the British Army and were even now in France. Thus they avoided the contentious topics of religion and politics but found they could pass an agreeable hour in the pub discussing cricket and horses.

Martin had the Republicans' meetings infiltrated by informers--it wasn't difficult--and he noted in his reports that internecine fights and passionate, but impotent, declarations dominated proceedings and that any arms they possessed seemed to come from Britain and the United States, although none were actually seen to verify this. Of the influence of the Kaiser, there was no evidence at all.

Martin was bored and so transferred himself back to London, leaving the militia and their bicycles and the green fields of Cavan in the hands of Major Sandys. Thus Martin was back in Branksome House when he was awoken by the explosion.

Below the Messine Ridge the explosion was somewhat louder. In fact 19 enormous mines had been simultaneously detonated deep in a network of tunnels that British, Australian and New Zealand sappers had painstakingly excavated beneath the German lines over a period of many months. The earth rose towards heaven in a great column and seemed to sit suspended in the starlight for a moment until it rained down upon a helpless landscape that had been radically and irrevocably changed in an instant, making a mockery of God's slow work over the millennia. Back at headquarters, General Plummer would be ecstatic, as he loved a good explosion, and General Monash would be consulting his detailed notes, which were the fruits of months of meticulous planning, under the eye of General Godley, commander of the II Anzac Corps.

Stephen's little group of half-a-dozen Sans Culottes was attached to the 10th Brigade, on the left of the Australian 3rd Division and to the right of the New Zealanders. Their particular task was to throw down temporary bridges over the Le Douve, a small rivulet on the way to La Petite Douve Farm, to the east of the village. Considerable planning and rehearsal had gone into this and precision timing was vital. Stephen struggled to have his men in their correct position at 0310 as the Germans, unknowingly, had launched a gas attack at 2300 hours just as the soldiers were quietly assembling from their billets in nearby farmhouses, having moved up from Pont de Nieppe. A rolling barrage from 1500 field guns and 700 heavy guns was set off just after the giant explosion to prevent any surviving Germans regrouping after the surprise and it was important that Stephen's men did not advance beyond the moving tape into it in their eagerness.

Stephen led his tin-hatted men steadily forward; they were confident in their broad-shouldered captain and Stephen was buoyed by this new strategy, which promised more than just the mass slaughter of 1916. Within a short time they had reached their first objective over flat land and held it, the bridges having been successful and, at 0430, the 4th Australian Division, which had been held in reserve, followed up and pushed through to the `green line', with the New Zealanders capturing the village of Messines itself.

The troops dug in, turning the craters into new defensive positions. It took four days and nights of fighting to finally reach the `Oosttavere Line' but the Wyschaete-Messines ridge, which had hitherto been a salient into the allied lines, was now in their hands and an approach to the east of Ypres was now visible and all Flanders lay before them.

The losses were considerable, although not on the scale of other battles. Stephen and some of his half dozen men were superficially wounded, but none had lost their lives. Sgt. Slipper was exhausted but beaming. Stephen could feel morale lifting and there was a general feeling that the Germans had tasted defeat for the first time. The planning had been so perfect that hot food was available at the end of the first day. Indeed, this was a new type of warfare.

Carlo was re-bandaging Stephen's shoulder which had been grazed by a bullet and then Stephen applied a bandage to the back of Carlo's right hand which had also been injured, for Carlo had advanced to La Petite Douve farm along with the rest. "I don't think I can shave you, Captain, not with my hand, but I have brushed your uniform for General Monash."

"Thank you, Carlo, would you like to watch me shave?"

"Just to make sure you do a good job of it, sir," said Carlo. "I think I can apply the soap."

Carlo stood by his master who was performing the operation looking into a small, cracked looking glass that hung from a nail. The ivory-backed razor scraped pleasantly over the young man's skin. Carlo watched on intently and licked his lips. Stephen at last splashed his face with water from a tin jug as Carlo handed him a rough towel.

"Let me feel, Carlo."

Carlo spread his legs and Stephen felt the batman's hardening manhood. "That's very singular, Carlo."

"Yes, I suppose it is," he laughed.

Stephen found the villa used by the General Staff to be crowded and excited by the success of the past four days. Only General Monash was calm as he went over reports and pored over maps with his nephew, Lt Moss. They looked up and Monash said a few words of congratulations to Stephen for the small part he'd played. "The question now is, do we go on or do we consolidate?"

The success of Messines was, however, followed only by paler successes in August and September. Monash and the other generals argued about tactics and were continually urged to bring their plans forward by Haig and to aim for more and more ambitious targets rather than the little `bite and hold' tactics that had won Messines.

On the 4th of October Monash had his last taste of success at Broodesenide before the rains started and the successes came no more. The following month was the worst that Stephen had ever experienced in the whole course of the War as the Sans Culottes tried in vain to improvise roads over the sea of mud into which even the tanks became bogged and the loss of life was staggering. Men and horses drowned in the mud and even where the Germans were forced to retreat, the allies had to advance over ground that was an impossible morass.

When Stephen went to the rear to Monash's headquarters he found the General trying to make a success from the ill-conceived strategies of others, and Haig, Gough and Plummer all blamed each other for this, the worst disaster of the War.

Stephen had become listless and did not even club the giant rats that overran his dugout. Carlo was worried. The men were demoralised too and had stopped presenting themselves to Stephen for foot and lice inspection. Still the mad offensive was pressed on with and on the 12th of October Stephen found himself leading his men forward through smoke and mist, guided only by a compass, behind a creeping barrage and over impossibly uneven ground in the vicinity of Passchendaele.

"Keep behind the tape!" he shouted as they moved up. A German heavy machine gun opened up and he saw Rugg beside him fall, ripped apart by the bullets. At the same instant an explosion showered them with earth, threatening to bury them all alive. He desperately fought to pull himself free of the mud that seemed to suck him down and he was just pulling at Myles and Quick when another explosion sent down more soil and a body in the uniform of a German officer, which landed before him like a sack of potatoes. He took in the blond hair and the shape of the face. For an instant of sheer panic he thought it was Martin and was just trying to work out why he was in field grey or if he had lost his wits. He looked again; the ingredients for Martin were there but they were put together differently. He was not as beautiful as his Mala. Then he thought it must be Friedrich von Oettingen-Taxis but, when he looked for a third time, it was not. The soldier was only a boy and he saw in an instant that his uniform was bizarrely immaculate. He moved and groaned. An Australian soldier was just about to shoot him with his rifle when Stephen screamed at him to stop.

The German boy cried, "Ich gebe auf"-- I surrender--and indeed he did not seem to be armed. "Mein erster Tag" he said.

"It's his first day," said Stephen to the others, now crouched in the shell hole. They started to laugh. The Maxim gun opened up again, scattering the earth about them. Stephen threw himself across the German and Private Myles. He felt a searing pain in his leg and shoulder. He had been hit. The Maxim was silenced with a grenade and Stephen staggered to his feet. Myles and the German boy were unharmed.

Sgt. Slipper scurried to the edge of the crater and slithered down. "Get a stretcher for the Captain!" he yelled to Myles. He looked to the German who raised his hands timidly. "Take him back!" he ordered the Australian.

"Don't kill him or I'll have you shot," Stephen managed to say as he grabbed his leg in pain. The Australian took away his prisoner with a disappointed look. "Rugg is dead, Slipper," said Stephen, "and I can't see Quick."

"Here I am, sir," cried Quick's voice. The soldier emerged from the mud from which he was indistinguishable. Stephen looked at him for confirmation and then fell backwards.

The revolution in Russia in the latter part of 1917 had troubled Martin. It was not that he had any great affection for the Tsar or that he feared the sounds of tumbrels in Piccadilly, it was just that it threw Military Intelligence into a flap. Now, as well as worrying about Fenians and German spies, they were obsessed with Bolsheviks who, apparently, could easily be distinguished, according to the newspapers, by their beards and their propensity to carry bombs that looked like plum puddings. The mass desertions in the dispirited French Army had alarmed the High Command and now there were reports of Bolshevik agitators amongst the weary German army and the idle German Navy. They looked to their own ranks for straws in the wind of any coming `soviet'.

Thus Martin got his posting to France where he was to report on morale in a certain sector. He was also to interrogate the flood of German prisoners as to the Bolsheviks' successes in undermining military will and promoting discontent, which Martin was beginning to think was only reasonable.

The other effect of Lenin's seizure of power was that the Russians were negotiating an immediate armistice with the Germans and this was prompting General Haig to want to launch a big offensive before troops from the Eastern Front could be redeployed to Flanders. Martin had said that this was madness in such a wet autumn and it lacked the months of detailed planning and careful preparation that a successful campaign was shown to require. General Haig tended to put his faith in the new `tanks'-- but they had not been conspicuously successful up till this point. It was a prime example of optimism over experience and Martin hated him.

"But Chalmers, they're obviously sick," said Martin, "Their minds are gone with shell shock. Griffiths can't even speak English and is jabbering away in Welsh for his mother and that 18 year-old boy is curled up like a lunatic with his hands over his ears."

"Show me shell shock' in a medical journal and I might believe you. The truth, that no one wants to face, is that it is an invented disease used as an excuse for personal failings. Sleeping on sentry duty risks the lives of our whole section. Desertion only encourages others and you will have observed, Colonel, that morale here is already low. We never had shell shock' in the Transvaal, I assure you."

Martin had indeed seen that morale was low. The men here were listless and ill. The work was exhausting in this dressing station that was just behind the front line and it received a never-ending stream of the wounded who were patched up for the trip to the field hospitals at Hazebrouck and Wisques, some miles away, or else were buried in pits and covered with quicklime. All the time they were under fire and so most of their activities were conducted in shallow trenches or behind earthen embankments.

Captain Chalmers was the senior medical man. He came from Luton where he practiced with his nephew, Captain Billson, who was with him now. If Chalmers had stuck to his medical duties he would have been unremarkable, but his mind was clearly unhinged and his chief activity was now the exposing of the criminality of the exhausted men only to then sit in judgement over them in courts martial. With Billson, who was completely in his thrall, beside him, he had already had 12 soldiers executed by the firing squad, which was comprised of the poor souls from the burial detail. Now Chalmers, with a mad gleam in his eyes, had rounded up four young soldiers-- one of whom was only 16--who had thrown down their rifles during a mustard gas attack and were found to be hiding in a ruined barn three miles away near the village of Wieltje.

"It's terrible," said Lt. Sudbury to Martin when they were alone. "I don't care if I am being insubordinate, sir, but those four boys must not be allowed to die. Can't you do something, sir?"

Martin was terribly distressed and wondered how he would ever sit on the bench at Branksome-le-Bourne. What would Stephen do?

"The tribunal has already handed down its decision, Sudbury. I have it here. Chalmers' medical report makes no mention of the men being ill. Captain Billson gives indisputable testimony as to where the men were found. Two of them admitted to running away."

"He doesn't say that one of those was trying to get to China and the other was looking for his mother who had been dead for five years, sir. This will make 16 and he's just warming to his task. He spends most of his spare hours hunting for `slackers and malcontents'."

"Who will rid me of this troublesome doctor?" lamented Martin under his breath as Sudbury departed.

"Have the condemned men been told that they may appeal to the King, Chalmers?" asked Martin when he hauled the unrepentant doctor before him the next day.

"They have, sir, but none asked for pen and paper. The firing squad will be assembled Thursday morning. Have you given any thought to having the entire company on parade?"

"Did they have a `prisoner's friend' appointed to speak up for them at their trial?"

"None asked, Colonel Poole."

Just then Lt Sudbury and Sgt Pierce knocked and entered. "Excuse me for interrupting, sir" said Sudbury saluting, "but Pierce has an important development, sir. It affects morale."

Chalmers went to leave but Martin, acting on a look from Sudbury, had him remain.

"I've heard a rumour, sir," said Pierce. "Of course it's only a rumour and it may not be true. You know how it is with these stories they..."

"Get on with it," snapped Chalmers

"A group of deserters has set itself up in an abandoned section of trench near Saint Julien by the windmill at Wurst Farm--or rather where the windmill used to be. Apparently these men are French, British and Australian. Two German deserters are said to be with them. They've found supplies, including brandy. They're calling themselves a republic."

"This is astounding, Pierce," said Martin. "How do you know this?"

"Like I said, it is just a rumour, sir, but we know the Australians stole our hospital brandy. Steal anything that's not nailed down, they would."

"Should we get Major Blythe in Langermarck to investigate, sir?" said Sudbury. "Saint Julien is terribly dangerous and under continuous fire and I would not like to lose any more of our men in an expedition that's not our concern, not with all the wounded coming through."

Martin didn't reply before Chalmers jumped in. "I'll go myself. It is our concern. I'll deal with those deserters."

"Don't be ridiculous, Chalmers, you're a doctor and needed here to save men's lives. Saint Julien is suicidal and you'd be alone."

"I'd be armed."

"But you don't know how many of them there are. They may still have their arms."

"I'll go with the Captain," volunteered Pierce.

"I will too," said Sudbury. Chalmers looked triumphant.

"But it will be dangerous for even the three of you. And it might all be for nothing."

"We know what we are doing and it won't be for nothing, sir," said Sudbury.

Sudbury reported to Martin, giving a smart salute.

"Well?" asked Martin.

"There was nothing there, sir; just the old mill. There was very heavy fire from the German lines, sir. Captain Chalmers has been killed."

"That's terrible news, Sudbury," said Martin evenly. "Write me a report, but make sure you put it on my desk. I'm dreadfully careless with reports. What have I done with that report on the four men?"

"You mean the four men who are medically unfit for frontline duty, sir?"

"Yes, that's it."

"I have it right here, sir."

It was on the 13th of October that Martin was awoken in his rough dugout. It was at least provided with a wooden floor and a door and the horrors of a public school dormitory had prepared him well for life in the trenches, he reflected ruefully. Lt Sudbury was shaking him. "Colonel Poole, your lordship, wake up!"

Martin roused and looked startled. "What's happened, Sudbury?"

"A wounded man has just come in. He says he knows you." Martin knew at once it was Stephen. He could speak so he was still alive. He pulled on his greatcoat and rushed to the triage tent, which sat in a depression beneath one of The Plunger's camouflage `umbrellas' made of tattered cloth and wire--the red cross not being protection enough.

He scanned the stretchers under the feeble lamplight. There was Stephen, lying flat. His mind went back to a scene on the beach at Antibes. He thought he was dead then too.

"Oh hello, Mala," said Stephen in a weak voice. "I heard someone mention your name. `Some toffy lord' they added and so I knew it was you."

"Are you alright, Derby?" asked Martin feeling that his voice did not belong to his body and his body was independent of his soul.

"It's nothing, it's just..."

"...a scratch?" completed Martin, knowing Stephen's attitude.

"I was going to say a flesh wound. Well, two I think. I have lost some blood, but I'll be alright with some patching. Mala, Private Rugg is dead."

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Derbs," said Martin, glad in his black heart that it was Rugg and not Stephen. The war made you think like that. "You have taken great care of your boys; better than anyone. Please get better. Life would be no good without you, Derbs." He almost wept and then recovered. "I'll get them to send you up right away." He went to call the doctor.

"No, Mala! I must wait my turn. There are others more urgent than me. Sit here and talk to me."

Martin suddenly could not think of anything to say and every topic sounded trivial. There was only one topic; there had only ever been one topic: how much he loved Stephen and that was difficult to put into words.

He sat quietly holding Stephen's hand under the blanket. At one point Stephen said: "Mala, I think that man wants someone to light his cigarette," indicating another stretcher with a very ill looking occupant. Martin went across and then fetched some water for another. When he returned Stephen had his eyes closed. Or was he dead? He roused him and with relief he saw Stephen give a smile.

Outside a weary group of walking-wounded from the RFC could be heard singing in the dark as they made their way towards the dressing station, their voices growing louder and then fading into the distance.

The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me: For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling, They've got the goods for me. Oh! Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling? Oh! Grave, thy victory? The Bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling For you but not for me

An hour later Carlo appeared, looking distressed. "Oh your lordship, I am so glad to see you...I didn't know...I want so much to...I..." He faltered and wanted to embrace Martin but held back. Martin knew how he must be feeling and tried to convey this through his eyes. He invited Carlo to sit with him. "He's asleep, Carlo. I think it is the morphine."

On towards dawn Dr Billson, for whom Martin had so recently been complicit in avuncular deprivation, came to Stephen. Martin felt very guilty and morally confused. I will think about this tomorrow he told himself as he anxiously awaited the examination.

The shoulder was deeply grazed and the back of Stephen's thigh had intercepted a bullet, which had passed through, tearing at the flesh and causing a lot of bleeding. The nurse came and patched him up again and Stephen made some feeble jokes for her benefit. "Looks like I was running away," he said to the nurse. "I had just remembered that I wanted to take you dancing in Paris."

The pretty girl told him to stop his `sauce' but smiled anyway. "I heard from Private Myles that the Captain threw himself on top him and also a German officer to protect them, Colonel," she said to Martin.

"It's true," confirmed Carlo.

"He looked like you, Mala," said Stephen meekly in front of the others who remained mute as Martin fought hard to control his tears. The orderlies came and Carlo, looking a little better, departed to look after Stephen's kit and Stephen began his long journey to the field hospital at Hazebrouck.

Mr Chilvers wobbled unsteadily on two wheels. He was not a thin man and when he dared to chance to look down to see if his heavy overcoat was in danger of getting caught up in the chain, the curve of his belly hampered his vision. To make matters worse, the road was icy and the goose (mercifully deceased) was awkward to carry in the pannier and threatened at any moment to unbalance him and upset him into the slush.

Chilvers was returning from the village where he had been doing his shift for the Red Cross who occupied the beautiful little hall that Stephen had built as a gymnasium in the early months of the War. Mrs Capstick, alone of the household, knew how to drive but she was busy preparing for Christmas and, besides, petrol was in short supply and must be kept for the electric generator, so his lordship's bicycle was now pressed into service.

The butler and the goose were delivered unharmed, although Mr Chilvers was a little puffed when he spoke to Mrs Capstick. "How many will we have for Christmas, Mrs Capstick?" he asked, although he knew the answer, but just wanted a chance to go over the details in his mind once more.

"Well, Mr Chilvers, there will be his lordship and Mr Stephen if their leave isn't cancelled. You know it's an ill wind..., Mr Chilvers: This cold weather must mean that neither we nor the Germans will be launching an offensive until the thaw, isn't that right?" Chilvers concurred with her reasoning. "And there will be Lady Maude and Miss Sophia. Mr Antony will come with Miss Craigth and The Plun...I mean Mr Archie may come if he's in England. There will also be Lord and Lady Delvees and possibly their grandson `Mr Custard' as his lordship refers to him. Then there is Lord Alfred and he is bringing a Captain and Mrs Jolligobarmi--I think that's the name-- so that makes thirteen, and of course there will be the usual people from the Estate for dinner which will make about two dozen, I should think."

Chilvers was looking thoughtful and doing calculations on his fingers. "I think it would be nice if all the staff from London could come down too. Rationing is much worse there, Mrs Capstick. We will have Higgins and Carlo, so Mr Glass and the Smiths will be no trouble."

"Oh I do hope that Lt Craigth will bring Mr `Gertie'-- he does liven things up below stairs, don't he, Mr Chilvers?"

"Yes, and we could use some laughter. That has been rationed more strictly than anything else."

Chilvers prowled around the house. The west wing was still a ruin, but the gaping holes had been boarded up and secured with tarpaulins to keep out the chill. He was distressed that so many rooms were shut up, the furniture and paintings shrouded in dustsheets. There would be no jollities in the Long Gallery this year. At least with the London staff to hand, it might be possible to serve dinner with footmen and not have to rely on parlour maids, a shortcoming which Chilvers found hard to bear.

Chilvers and Mrs Capstick assisted the four remaining maids to make the bedrooms ready, the two senior servants noting, as Miss Prims had warned them, that many of the sheets and towels whose vintage lay in the distant past before her ladyship's death, needed to be urgently replaced, but such things were difficult to come by in wartime. Their gloomy mood was somewhat lightened when they descended to the Great Hall where Tilly, the youngest girl, was decorating the tree that had been cut down on the estate and now towered above her in the hall where a shaft of weak winter sun had just caught it. Tilly was only 15 and flittered about the tree positioning the decorations and changing her mind according to some unfathomable aesthetic formula. "It will take her mind off her brother," whispered Mrs Capstick to the butler as they stood and watched her.

Stephen and Martin came down with Carlo on the 23rd. Their train was terribly late, but they didn't mind, so glad were they that their leave should coincide for once. Stephen went straight to see his stepfather and Miss Tadrew while Martin and Carlo continued up to the house in the trap, which was being driven by young O'Brien. They chatted about Christmas and the stud. The estate was kept busy providing horses for the Army and O'Brien was now sought after to provide quality mounts for officers. "We've been allowed to take on extra men, your lordship. I've also seen to it dat Aine and Palmira is exercised every morning for you, your lordship. Dat Aine's a pretty little ting, to be sure."

Stephen came up to the house in the mid-afternoon and first had to take tea with Mrs Capstick who adored him. Tilly was new and couldn't take her big eyes of Stephen as she brought in the tray. "Tilly, watch what you're doing, you'll have that all over us," cried Mrs Capstick and then gave an amused look to Stephen.

Stephen could barely wait until the last scone was consumed (raisins having been carefully kept back for the occasion) before he tried to bound up the stairs, but winced with the pain in his leg and had to be content with a rapid hobble, grasping the banister. In their room Martin was busy writing letters. He pushed the papers aside, spilling the ink in the process, and lifted Martin onto the table where he ran his hands through his soft, golden hair and savagely kissed him, the kisses becoming gentler as he nibbled his throat and earlobes. "Fuck me, Mala. I need to make sure it's really you."

Their uniforms were torn off, Carlo silently collecting the garments where they had landed and employing an umbrella to unhook Martin's shirt from the chandelier. Martin had his face buried in Stephen's armpits where the hair was beautiful and not wiry at all, but the colour of a raven's wing against the handsome ivory of his skin and as soft as eider down. Both their cocks were hard and leaking. Carlo was called upon to assist in bending them downwards so they could be placed snugly and romantically between the thighs of the other as they continued their embrace.

Stephen broke free and laid on the bed with his knees pulled back, the bandaged wound in his thigh a visible reminder that there was a savage world beyond the safety of their room. At once Martin was between Stephen's legs, prying apart his muscular buttocks and making excursions with his tongue to Stephen's handsome bollocks and arching cock. "I'll bring up the nuts from the dining room, then shall I?" said Carlo suddenly. The boys halted in their passion and looked to him for an explanation to the curious comment. "You could crack walnuts between them beauties," said Carlo with a grin, looking at Stephen's posterior. Martin moved aside and let the servant run his tongue down the sodden cleavage where the hair was as wonderful as it was everywhere else on Stephen.

The War had suddenly made Spong's unavailable, the factory having been turned over to making something called Camp Pie', but Carlo produced a tin labelled, patriotically, Victory Dripping' which Martin in his urgency seized as soon as Carlo had opened it, telling his lordship to mind the sharp edges, and slathered the lardy substance on his panting lover and his own person.

Martin had grown into a strong young man and saw to it that Stephen was thoroughly satisfied and enjoying the congress as much as himself. With ardour more than tenderness, he drove his cock deep into Stephen, time and time again, touching him in special places that made Stephen spasm in ecstasy and drip with sweat. It wasn't too long before Stephen's bobbing erection, no longer (if it ever was) under his command, spewed his seed all over the bed. Martin pressed on, now concentrating on his own pent up needs. Encouraged by exhortations from Stephen, he too spilt, but in this case Carlo would not be required to clean it up.

"Oh I needed that," sighed Stephen as he took a towel from Carlo who had not been far away.

"I hope you have been taking care of The Captain's needs in France, Carlo."

"Evidently not as well as you can, your lordship, but I try to when I think he needs it--and sometimes when I think I needs it," he admitted ruefully, "but he works so hard it's the devil's own job to get him to eat and get some `shut eye' at times, your lordship. I wish you were there to look after him."

"I wish I was there too, Carlo." They both looked at Stephen who was now lying drowsily on his back, with his cock still half hard and oozing. His hair had fallen down over his left eye and one arm lay artlessly behind his head and another across his magnificent chest. He radiated an unconscious beauty and not for the first time Martin wondered how such a thing came to be.

The Plunger arrived with his sister, Jean, and her fiancé, Antony Vane-Gillingham. Antony's mother, Aunt Maude, and her daughter, Sophia, were on the same train. Miss Craigth, the boys were curious to meet. She proved to be a very lively young lady indeed and not at all as `stuck up' as The Plunger was-- or more accurately, pretended to be. She was quite thin but not tall like her brother. Even more remarkable was the fact that she had dark straight hair--rather like her mother may have once had and there was not a sign of ginger or freckles. She was immediately all confident smiles and clever jokes and Martin realised how shy The Plunger was by comparison. She had lovely eyes and hands, which fluttered prettily when she talked. Martin could see how his slightly stolid and worthy cousin, Antony, would be captivated by this sophisticated young woman, but he could not begin to guess at the relationship between brother and sister in their years of growing up.

The Plunger seemed to take little notice of Jean as he chatted on about his life as a camoufleur and something called the five colour process'. His latest shift had been to design the umbrella screens' of painted hessian cloth, raffia and chicken wire, which were made by a large team of troublesome French peasant women. These were used to screen trenches, gun emplacements and other installations from the air as well as from the ground.

"It is the shadows that I see in the paintings by Sargent--you will remember him, Poole-- that have inspired me. Shadows play tricks with the eyes our physicists tell us." He then talked about his design for a blasted tree stump that was really a lookout post with a periscope concealed in a bird's nest. However, Martin noticed, as he fed scraps to Job under the table, that The Plunger did cast affectionate glances towards his sister when she talked of her ordeals in the capture of Basra when he thought no one else could see him and these were returned in the moments when Antony took up her narrative.

The dinner on Christmas Eve was a success and the men sat for a long time over their port talking about their individual wars. This talk was continued in Martin and Stephen's bedroom with The Plunger and `Custard' Featherstonhaugh joining them before bed. Martin sat up naked with his arm around The Plunger who was exotically garbed in a black Japanese robe with a belt. Stephen lounged in front of the fire in just a pair of his lemon silk pyjama bottoms, which sat low in his hips and did little to conceal his manhood, and occasionally rubbed the nipples on his bare chest which stood proud in the night air.

Custard, in his striped pyjamas, was all eyes as he talked of the fall of Homonodos in October and the pushing back of the Bulgarians and the capture of the Rupel Pass. There had been a big battle in early December, but a combination of political developments in Greece and heavy winter snows would limit activity until February at the earliest. "General Milne is under French command and Lloyd George didn't support him when he disagreed with General Sarrail who is a thoroughly hopeless commander and interferes in Greek politics all the time," said Custard. "He's a socialist and that's why he was appointed. Sarrail has finally been recalled by Clemenceau and so my General might have a better 1918..." Custard's narrative dried up as he was increasingly mesmerised by Stephen who was idly scratching his pubic hair (now trimmed in the shape of a heart once again), which revealed itself above the waistband of the pyjama bottoms. Stephen stopped when he realised that Custard was no longer talking. He looked at the hypnotized young man and then to Martin and The Plunger who shrugged.

"Custard," said Stephen. "Custard!" He stopped staring and looked to where the voice was coming from. "Custard, would you like to see some more?" Custard, with a dry mouth, nodded. Stephen swaggered over to where he sat and stood with his legs apart. Custard raised a hand tentatively and it hovered there until Stephen guided it. He felt Stephen through the material, running his palm down the length of his arching bulge. He turned around to Martin and The Plunger and grinned. They grinned back. He went back to his work and Stephen hardened. Stephen undid the cord and his trousers pooled about his bare feet. Custard stroked the length of the extraordinary cock and rested his cheek on the velvety skin. "Stretch my foreskin, Custard. Yes, like that. More!"

"Bring him off, Custard," called The Plunger from the bed. Custard set to work, managing to get a good deal of Stephen down his throat, causing him to gag but not otherwise deterring him in his endeavours. He then set to work with his hands, Stephen steadying himself by leaning on his head.

"He's getting close, Custard, slap his balls," cried Martin. Custard flicked the pendulous bovine globes with the back of his hand. "Now pull on them and get ready." Custard was forewarned but not ready and when Stephen erupted, an impudent spurt stung his eye while another carelessly lodged in his hair and several more wastefully tricked down his face, which had once been so ravished by spots but now only glowed under its masculine lathering.

"Thank you, Custard. That was good," said Stephen, wiping the end of his cock across Custard's forehead. "I'm warmed up for you, Mala. Are you ready to take me?" He launched himself onto the bed, crushing Martin and The Plunger under his weight as they laughed and tried to catch their breath. The Plunger wriggled free and pulled the stunned Custard by the hand. "Come on, I'll clean you up. Let them enjoy their leave."

The spring saw a big German offensive. Monash, who had been on the Riviera on leave, returned with a leaner figure, renewed vigour, fresh plans and a K.C.B. Under General Rawlinson he was placed in charge of all the Australian and New Zealand troops and General Pershing had promised him fresh, although inexperienced, American troops which were now arriving at the rate of 10,000 a week.

Stephen, now practically recovered from his wounds, was attached permanently to Monash's staff of Engineers along with his five men at the HQ in Glisy. As the German advance ground to a halt at the end of the spring, the allies began their big push, following on from their success at Villiers-Bretonneux at the beginning of April. Stephen had been up several times in an observation plane, quite terrified, but tasked with gathering information about the road beyond Amiens and the village of Hamel which stood on high ground above the Somme in the apex of a dangerous bulge in the German lines. He felt the wonder of soaring above all the impediments of mud and terrain and the inability to see what was over the hill. Aeroplanes had to factor into modern warfare, he reflected, if it was not going to be just the blind slaughter it had been.

May was spent in collecting such information, with Myles and Jarvis using their skills in cartography to prepared detailed maps. June was devoted to tiresome, but in Monash's eyes vital, rehearsals for the forthcoming battle. Ten American platoons of 60 men had been promised and these were broken up and placed among the larger Australian companies of 100 men to gain battle experience. Pershing had been persuaded by Haig to allow the American soldiers to be under Monash's command, but he was not happy.

"It's a matter of engineering,'' Monash kept repeating and indeed solving the problems of supply and communications did take up more time than the actual plan for battle itself. The Australians were reluctant to work with tanks but Stephen suggested to Monash that the tanks could also be used to re-supply the advancing soldiers rather than devote more than a thousand troops to just this task. The Mark V tanks were also superior to the lumbering earlier models and, to his surprise, Monash, after a week, agreed to this and so the 5th Tank Brigade was fully integrated into the master plan. Stephen pressed his luck and suggested that aeroplanes might drop ammunition boxes and medical supplies forward by parachute and he and Sgt. Slipper devised a way by which they could fly over the creeping barrage and not let the supplies fall into the wrong hands. This idea was also taken up.

Stephen's men, the Sans Culottes, were to run out telephone wires and set up masts for the wireless operators who were going into the advance for the first time in the War. Stephen and Quick improved the design of the folding masts.

Stephen walked about the lines. The infantry and the tank battalions were billeted together and, if drinking and skylarking were symptoms, they had formed a close bond, with each tank now painted in the colours of the battalion that was to follow it.

The attack was planned for the 4th of July, the national holiday of the Americans. On the first, Stephen said to Carlo: "Make sure my uniform is up to scratch, the Australian Prime Minister is visiting us tomorrow with some other important types."

The dignitaries arrived just as they were having one of their rehearsals with signal flares. The Prime Minister was an irascible little Welshman who spoke, in a squeaky voice, the language of the men. However the biggest surprise was when Martin stepped out of the American, General Bell's, motor. Salutes were exchanged before Stephen was able to say: "Mala, what on earth are you doing here?"

"I didn't want to miss your big day, Derby. I say, can I have some tea?"

"Captain, you must remember Brigadier General Bell from our time in Chicago?"

"Oh yes sir," said Stephen, a salute being followed by a handshake, "we talked about the design of equipment, didn't we? We had a wonderful reception in Chicago." Major General Bell was full of charm and humour and his white beard reminded Stephen of the soldier on the box of Konfederate Kreem."

There was a grand dinner in the officers' mess, which was in the substantial chateau that was commandeered for the Australian HQ in Glisy. That night Martin slipped from his room and found Stephen's, which he occupied with Carlo. "Stay Carlo," he said. "I don't want to put you out just because I love my soldier."

"I will close my eyes tightly and block my ears, your lordship."

"I won't weaken you before battle, will I, Derbs?"

"I don't think so, Mala. It's more or less traditional among camp followers like yourself."

"Yes, call me Becky Sharp for I feel such a slut, Derbs. I can't resist an officer in uniform, and I can resist you even less when you are in the raw under a rough army blanket," said Martin with shining eyes as he felt Stephen cock through the stout material. "Lucky there aren't any German officers here too. Help me make him comfortable with the pillows, Carlo; I want to do him properly."

When Martin's officer's trousers were surrendered, Stephen found that Martin was firmly plugged and stretched by the Chinese device of happy memory. "I've had it in ever since Amiens, Derbs. I wanted to be open for you. General Bell must have wondered why I was smiling so much as we bounced along in the motor. Take it out."

Stephen thought Martin's pretty buttocks looked wanton and inviting, but first he had Martin suck him to full and impressive hardness before he got Martin to climb on, assisted by Carlo. Martin clasped his arms about his lover's strong neck. Martin cried out for Stephen to fuck him harder and Stephen had to urge him to be quiet. With a terrible shudder Stephen spilled deep in him and then brought Martin off with his mouth before sharing his seed in a tender but messy kiss.

Stephen was still terribly randy and he spied Carlo toying with the Chinese plug. "I owe you a present Carlo. Would you like it now?"

"Will it help me gain my corporal's stripes?"

Stephen slapped him on the bare arse. "There's three stripes for you, sergeant."

"That's not fair. I ain't allowed to strike an officer," complained Carlo.

"But I am, Carlo," said Martin and between them they rolled Stephen over (who in fairness, did not resist) and they took turns in smacking his delightfully hairy and muscular buttocks. "I think that's enough and I fear that others in this house might've heard us," giggled Martin, so they exchanged kisses for slaps and Stephen's beautiful buttocks were soothed.

It didn't take much to get Stephen ready for any kind of activity and he was plainly up for it' when they rolled him back over. Carlo produced a tube of Ez-oo' (`Tell it to the Marines'). "I've been saving this since America,' he said. He greased up the working parts and, as Martin had done before, lowered himself carefully onto his master. "Oh, it don't half smart!" he said with a grimace. Martin wiped away a few tears and Carlo thanked his lordship.

No doubt there was much real affection there, but what Martin saw was brutal and animal; two rutting men. When they had both spilled, they collapsed onto each other. "Colonel, can you write me a note for sick parade tomorrow? Them Huns will have to fight without me." No sympathy was given for this self-inflicted wound. The three of them managed to snuggle into the one bed where Stephen was brought off twice more before Martin slipped back into his own room just before reveille.

The next morning, even before the more distinguished visitors had departed, there was a terrible shock. General Pershing had issued orders that six Americans companies should be pulled out. No reason was given. Hughes was incandescent with rage and swearing worse than the troops. General Bell was puzzled but could say little, except that he would try to persuade his commanding officer. Monash was distraught and appealed on the telephone to Rawlinson and Haig, explaining that 11th Brigade would have only 2300 rather than 3000 men and his overall force would be down to just 7000. Haig replied there was little he could do, as Pershing had initially wanted all American troops taken to the rear.

There was consternation with the Americans in the 42nd simply refusing to obey orders and they stuck with their new `buddies'. The rest of the day was spent rearranging the intricate battle plans.

At 2230 Martin watched the Whippet tanks moving up into their positions. At 0310 the battle commenced with the thunderous barrage. He did not see Stephen or the Sans Culottes and he stayed with Monash at Glisy where reports came in by various means, including by modern wireless and ancient carrier pigeon. Martin was careful to stand out of the way, not daring even to talk to Herman Moss.

"I'm very displeased," said Monash to the company at large. "After all my months of careful planning, it has taken us 93 minutes to reach all our objectives and I had calculated it would take us exactly 90." Then he broke into a broad smile.

Reports came through over the following 48 hours. The Germans had launched a ferocious counter attack with phosgene and mustard gas and had captured a party of stretcher-bearers. The 43rd Battalion, with its American supplement, had attacked with horrifying ferocity, using grenades and clubs. The positions held and although 176 Anzacs and 13 Americans had lost their lives, neither Stephen nor the Sans Culottes were among them and, as the summer turned into autumn, the beginning of the end was at last in sight.

End of Book III

Book 4 "The Hall of Mirrors" continues.

Thank you for reading. If you have any comments or questions, Pete and I would really love to hear from you. Just send them to h.h.hilliard@hotmail.com and please put NOB Nifty in the subject line.