Grand Expectations

By Jim Jackal

'Grand Expectations' takes the reader to Europe, focusing on the three years leading up to the outbreak of war in 1914.  A group of young people, both German and English, from various backgrounds, sensing great opportunities ahead, embark on their lives during a time of enormous political, economic and social changes.

 

This is the time of huge advances in aeroplane design, motor car performance, a massive uptake with bicycles and improved prosperity.  Also, social changes were taking place with the ongoing activities of the Women's Suffragette Movement.

 

Twenty-two year old Lester Leaper is already an accomplished aviator, cycle racer and car enthusiast. With a German mother, he is fluent in German and, being a 1st Lieutenant in the British Army, is soon recruited by Military Intelligence.  Visiting Germany annually to see his cousin Jost who works for Krupp, the armaments manufacturer, gives Lester every opportunity to keep up to date with Germany's rearmament programme.  Falling for the beautiful Rosina Foerster, the daughter of the head of the German Intelligence Bureau, was not part of his original plans, especially as she was spying on England.

 

Twenty-one year old Beatrice Jardine is the rebellious daughter of the Commandant of Wellington Barracks.  Introduced to opium,seduced by regiment officers and falling pregnant, her father locks her up, breaking her opium habit and causing her to miscarriage.  After this, she is determined to make something of herself and becomes a trainee nurse as well as joining the Suffragettes, where she quickly takes an active roll in attacks on the establishment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Jackal
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215553664

Book preview

Chapter One

A single blow was sufficient to drive the rivet home, completing the panel just as the end of the day klaxon sounded.  Hans Duerr gave a grunt of satisfaction, wiping his forearm across his brow, realising he had now finished the job, that he could return home.  The sudden quietness after the clatter and noise all day was always welcome, Hans enjoying the moment, waiting for his hearing to adjust.  The heat of the day was beginning to wane and the breeze coming across the Jadebusen was welcome.  Everyone working in the Wilhelmshaven shipyard in the summer months wanted to get the jobs in the shade with a breeze, in the winter below decks and out of the cold.  Walking along the main deck, Hans looked up at the wooden framework, supporting the construction of the superstructure, the two huge funnels almost completed, never ceasing to be overawed by the sheer size of the boat. 

He had heard one of the foremen telling a boilermaker about the ten, thirty and a half centimetre guns that were going to be fitted in five, twin gun turrets.  Looking along the one hundred and seventy five metre deck and to each side, taking in the thirty metre beam, he could not conceive of a situation where any other navy could sink a dreadnought battleship as big and powerful as this one, the SMS Konig, certain the Imperial German Navy was now the most powerful in the world.  This boat would be finished in the next year, due for its first sea trials in March, 1913 and Hans had heard that others were being built in Bremen, Hamburg and Kiel. 

Hans was looking forward to going home to Essen, having his weekly bath and going out with his best friend Jost Metzger.  As he approached the middle of the boat, he could hear men still working on the superstructure, their hammers ringing off steel, Hans glancing upwards, seeing men walking around, others walking along the wooden frame beams, unconcerned with the height they were above the deck. 

Suddenly, he heard a loud crack, seeing one of the main wood uprights splintering, other beams starting to break, tearing at the flimsy ribbands.  The whole framework seemed to be falling towards him, Hans turning along with those men nearest to him, all fleeing for their lives, running along the deck.  Hans could hear the yells and screams of men falling, not daring to look back, charging towards the bow. 

Something smacked into the back of his leg, knocking Hans down, his palms torn by the debris and chaff littering the deck, metal and wood landing all around him.  He glanced to his left, seeing the anguish on the face of the man lying next to him, seeing a metal girder lying across the man’s thighs, pinning him down.  Hans started to move, suddenly realising he was also being held by the same girder, lying across his buttocks.  He placed his hands under his chest and, using his considerable strength, started to ease himself upwards, the man beside him yelling out.  Hans stopped and looked at the man, seeing that as he raised the girder, its weight moved, squeezing the man’s damaged thighs.  Hans lowered himself and tried to turn onto his back, slowly getting into a sitting position with the girder now lying across his hips.  Grunting, Hans gripped the girder and lifted it above his head, letting it fall behind him.  Rubbing his bruised hips, Hans rolled onto his knees, looking at the man, the man grimacing, thanking him. 

Hans looked around as he stood up, seeing others lying under mangled beams, girders and plates.  He started helping those men nearest to him, hearing men running towards him, people shouting out instructions, others yelling for help.  He lifted a metal plate, wincing at the sight of a man’s leg, sheared off just above the knee, the man unconscious.  Hans called for help as he removed his belt, tying it around the man’s thigh, staunching the flow of blood.  Turning away, he recognised one of his friends, Paul, the best centre forward at SV Vogelheim football club in Essen.  Hans was about to pull Paul up when he saw the wooden spike sticking out of his side.

‘Paul...Paul, don’t move!  I need to get help, you have a shaft of wood in your side.’

Hans saw Paul clench his jaw, breathing heavily.  ‘Suppose...suppose I won’t be playing tomorrow,’ he managed to say before lapsing into unconsciousness.

‘Help!  Help me!  This man is dying...somebody help.’  Hans looked down at his friend, blinking back the tears, knowing that despite his strength he was helpless, he could not do anything to save his friend’s life.  He saw a young woman approaching, seeing her nurse’s uniform, carrying a small case.  Hans shouted at her, standing up as she reached him, pointing at his friend.  The nurse crouched down, placing her fingers on Paul’s neck, pausing and then standing, shaking her head.

‘He’s dead...I’m sorry.’  She moved on, kneeling down beside another man, taking a bandage from her case and binding it around his head, covering a large gash. 

Hans stood, motionless, looking at Paul, unable to believe he was dead.  Someone came up to him and grasped his arm, asking if he could help them lift some metalwork to free two trapped men.  Hans followed, stunned, doing as the man asked, lifting and throwing twisted metal plates and wood across the deck, helping to pull men free.  He worked on for at least an hour before his foreman found him and told him to go home.

As he approached the main entrance gates to the shipyard, Hans saw the throng of people waiting outside, the friends and relatives of those injured and killed in the accident.  He heard people shouting, asking if he had seen their father, son, uncle, boyfriend, brother, Hans shaking his head.  Where he had been working, due to the thousands of others employed at the shipyard, he only knew a few to speak to.  On the deck, apart from Paul, he had only recognised a couple of the men, the remainder were strangers. 

Leaving the anxious crowd behind, Hans stumbled along Gokerstrasse, heading for the letting house in Tonndeich.  As he reached the Kurpark on his left, he felt the first sob rising in his chest, the park reminding him how often he use to play with Paul and his friends in the Stadtgarten in Essen, kicking a football about for hours when they were children, the others making him feel clumsy due to his size.

Hearing his name being called, Hans stopped, wiping his sleeve across his eyes before turning.  He saw Jost Metzger running towards him, waving. 

‘What happened!  I’ve just heard about the accident.’  Jost paused, getting his breath back.  ‘At least you’re alright.’

Hans shook his head.  ‘Jost...it was terrible.  He’s dead...died in front of me...Paul’s dead.’

‘Paul!  Paul Mair is dead?  What do you mean Paul’s dead?  He can’t be!’

Hans nodded.  He suddenly felt very weary.  He saw Jost staring at him, disbelieving. 

‘What happened?’ Jost’s voice was very quiet.

‘Can we walk?  I will tell you as we go.’

Striding along the corridor, Sam Muckley could hear the noise coming from the Middle Common Room, recognising the voices, the blasphemous language being used.  He slammed open the door and marched in, seeing the plump, spotty new boy crying in the corner, surrounded by Pomfret, Scofield and Harpe.  ‘What in God’s name do you three think you’re doing?’

Pomfret turned round first, pushing his lank, blonde hair off his forehead.  ‘He was being guffy, telling us who ‘is father is...blah, blah, blah.’

‘Absolutely Muckley.  Can’t have a new boy getting ideas above his station,’ Harpe added.

Muckley sighed.  ‘Outside the three of you...to Mr. Bastow’s study.’

‘We...we’ve done nothing, it was...’

‘Now!’  Muckley shouted.  He watched the boys walk past him, insolence in their eyes. 

He turned to the crying boy.  ‘Kellaway, dry your eyes and grow up.  If you want to survive boarding school you’ve got to quickly learn to ignore what others say.  Even if your old Pa is a politician, best not to brag about it.  Around here there are plenty of Conservative supporters and your father is a Liberal.  Not many are happy about this hung parliament thingy with your fellow...Asquith isn’t it, being PM.  Don’t forget, you only won by two seats and the Conservatives had by far the biggest vote.’  Turning round, Muckley left the room, taking the stairs two at a time up to Mr. Bastow’s study.  He ignored the three boys standing outside, knocking the door and entering, closing the door behind him.

‘Bet the bastard’s ladling it on with Bastow,’ Scofield muttered.

‘Come in.’  Muckley stood by the open door.  The boys filed in, Scofield seeing Bastow standing with his back to them, looking out the window, his bald patch clear to see.  Bastow turned around, his weasel face fixed, his large, black moustache twitching. 

‘What do I have to do to you boys?  This is the second day of term and already you are in front of me due to bullying.  You do know who Kellaway’s father is I take it?  There’s talk of him becoming a minister in the Government!  What do you think his father will make of this?’

‘That we don’t support his party...Sir?’

Bastow scowled.  ‘Enough Pomfret!  Three each...over my desk.’

Bending forward, Scofield glared at Pomfret.  He heard the swish of the cane, felt the burning sting through his trousers.  He hated Bastow.  The man was always capable of landing every stroke precisely on the previous.  After his three, Scofield stepped back, watching as the others received their punishment, starting to feel the pain creeping across his backside.  Scofield also noticed the self-satisfied smirk on Muckley’s face, the enjoyment he was getting from seeing Bastow cane them.

‘Any more bullying and I will consider taking you to the Headmaster.  Now leave.’

Shuffling out, the boys heard the door shut behind them.

‘We don’t support the party?  You prat Willie!  No wonder we got the bloody cane.’

Rubbing his backside, Harpe grinned.  ‘Well Dickie, at least it was only three.’

‘Yes,’ Pomfret added, ‘he could have given us six.’

Dickie Scofield sighed.  ‘It’s only the beginning of term chaps.  Think we send Kellaway to Coventry?’  He looked firstly at the short and stocky Jesse Harpe, his black hair parted and oiled, noticing the faint moustache on his top lip for the first time, before glancing at Willie Pomfret, tall and lanky, the same as himself.  They both nodded in agreement.  ‘We’ve got another two years at this place...don’t really want to be kicked out, especially for a bleeding Liberal!’

Heading along the corridor laughing, the three of them started talking about their summer holidays, reaching the dining hall just as afternoon tea was being served.  They helped themselves to bread and butter, Harpe seeing a new boy with a pot of marmite, going across to the boy’s table and informing him it was confiscated.  Rejoining the others, Harpe helped himself to a good sized portion, Scofield and Pomfret also tucking in.

‘What did you think of the Service of Benediction last night?’  Scofield filled his mouth with marmite bread.

‘Mm.  Good,’ Pompret paused, swallowing, ‘chapel window was really good don’t you think?’

Harpe wiped his mouth, using the sleeve of his jacket.  ‘Impressive and the new ornaments.  Anyone got any jam?’

‘All you think about is your stomach Jesse.’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t Dickie...you’re always hungry.  Because we’ve only been back two days means you haven’t had time to get hungry.’  Harpe grinned across the table at Scofield.

‘Think Muckley’s going to be a real shite now he’s a Prefect.  Only second day of term and he’s managed to get us caned.’

‘Second that Willie.  Mind, still think you’re stupid remark to Bastow did for us.’  Harpe burst out laughing.  ‘And my arse is distinctly sore!’

Scofield spluttered.  ‘Agreed...you plonker Willie!  Hope you’re going to start learning that the quick quip is not always the best idea.  At fifteen you should be more mature.’

‘Look who’s talking!  Mr. Fifteen himself!  Come off it Dickie, you are just as likely to say something as asinine.’  Willie Pomfret bit into his bread.

‘Enough children.  As the eldest one present, I demand you stop.  We’ve still got the whole term to get through and I am looking forward to the rugger.  Reckon I should be the full back this year.’ 

Taking a swig of his tea, Scofield wiped his mouth.  ‘It could help your cause Jesse if you could catch the ruddy ball!’  He burst into laughter, Pomfret joining in.

‘All right!  We’ll see who makes the fifteen.’  Harpe saw Kellaway walking towards the table then sitting down on the bench a couple of places from him.  Harpe looked across at his friends.  ‘Think there’s an awful wronk just come into the room...best we leave?’  He wrinkled his nose, noticing Scofield holding his.  Harpe stood up along with Scofield and they left the dining room, Pomfret catching up with them in the corridor.

Hawking up phlegm, Rhett Thomas pulled his scarf down and spat it out, his eyes stinging from the dust, his throat sore.  He pushed himself forwards six inches, feeling the rubble sliding down, past his boots as he tried to get closer to the coalface above him.  Working on his side in an eighteen inch high seam angled upwards, was hard work, his Davy lamp casting just enough light for him to see.  He swung his pick, shards of flinty coal spraying out as it hit the seam, Rhett using the pick to lever out some more clumps of coal, using his hands to push it past him.  He could hear the picks of the other miners nearby, all working on this seam in the Bottanic District, pushing the coal down to the main gallery below where the young lads collected it, loading it into wagons, the pit ponies hauling it along to the shaft cage.  Rhett continued digging out the coal until he realised he was trapping himself, unable to push any more past him.  He eased himself downwards, shovelling coal as he went, reaching the gallery, pleased with the pile of coal waiting to be loaded.  Rhett found his rucksack and picked up the stone jar, pulling the stopper out and drinking, savouring the cool water as it soothed his sore throat. 

Pausing, Rhett watched a couple of the young boys, the coal drawers, starting to load a wagon with his coal, threatening them if they did not make sure it was credited to him at the weighbridge.  Rhett knew that he needed every penny of the money he was getting.  There was still unrest in the South Wales mines, even after the strikes during the past two years, starting at the Ely Pit at Penygraig and then the Tonypandy riots last year.  There was now talk of further strikes and Rhett knew he would strike if called to, he would not be a scab but he knew it would be harsh on him and his wife Mabyn, especially with November only a few weeks away. 

The thought of Mabyn made him smile, her long, dark, curly hair cascading down her back, her cheeky smile.  He had known her for the past five years, getting married last year when she turned seventeen and now she was expecting their first, due Christmas day.  She was still working long hours as a house maid for the local mill owner’s wife, Rhett amazed that her slight, five foot two frame with her enormous belly, could manage the walk up to the house every day and all for ten shillings a week.  He smiled again, thinking about her warm body in bed at night, determined, strike or no strike, that he could always make a decent living and provide for her.  At twenty one he was an experienced miner having been working in the pit for the past nine years and the foreman had hinted that if he kept on working as well as he did there was every chance of being promoted to chargehand.

‘You notice that Rhett?’ 

Rhett had seen his lamp go out, followed by his friend, Orwel’s.  ‘Are you feeling dizzy?  I am.’

‘Blackdamp?’  Orwel started to cough.  ‘Cachi!  Blackdamp!  Blackdamp!’ 

Rhett grasped Orwel’s arm, the pair of them walking towards the Lancaster shaft, six hundred and fifty yards underground, shouting to the other miners, warning them of imminent asphyxiation.  ‘That’s going to take time to clear,’ Rhett said, ‘buggering up our pay.’

‘Better to live than to pass out down there,’ Orwel replied.  ‘Your Mabyn might be pleased though...give her some peace afore you give her twenty kids!’

Reaching the bottom of the shaft, Rhett grinned at his friend.  ‘You’re just envious.  Just because Carys Jenkins won’t let you bed her ‘til you’ve made an honest woman of her.’

‘Who said?’

‘Common knowledge boyo.  We’ve all seen her, let’s you get all excited then, a couple of pecks on the cheek and she’s back to preaching the gospel.  You should have thought about that before you tilted your hat in her direction.  What did you expect, her being the Pastor’s daughter?’

‘Bloody Baptist!’

Opening the cage door, Rhett, Orwel and other miners stepped inside.  The cage started to ascend.  ‘Nothing wrong with being Baptist, Orwel.  Our parents are all devout...wouldn’t like to hear you besmirching their religion.  Anyway, enough of that, are you coming to the meeting tonight?’

‘The Union?’

Rhett nodded.  ‘Aye...need to show solidarity with the lads in the other mines.’

‘Are you sure about this boyo?  We’ve got families to think about and the owners, particularly the Combine, are damn powerful.’

‘Orwel, we know the Cambrian Combine owns half the pits up the Rhondda and that the bastard management are trying to squeeze us down to a pittance.  If we don’t support the lads going on strike, we are no better than scabs.  There are what...fifteen hundred of us working here.  How long do you think it will be before our wages are halved?’

Shaking his head, Orwel lifted the door catch, stepping out of the cage when it stopped at the pit head.  ‘We work here at the Universal Colliery, Senghenydd, the biggest in the valley.  We’re working two pits here.  They daren’t risk us going on strike.’

‘Don’t you believe that Orwel.  If they think it’ll make them more money, they’d lock us out today.  That’s why we have to go to the meeting.  See you tonight.’

Running through the mud, Hans Duerr knew he was going to kick the football before the opposing centre-half reached it.  As he closed in, to his surprise, he saw the heavy, leather ball slowing to a stop, the other fellow sticking his foot out to try and shield the ball from Hans.  Without attempting to play the ball, Hans dropped his shoulder and ran through the man, Hans’ one hundred and ten kilos flattening his opponent.  Hans turned and hoofed the ball up the field, stopping to look down, grinning at the man lying on the pitch.  He helped the man to his feet, seeing that he was groggy, patting him on the back.  Hans knew he would not be troubled by the man for the remainder of the match. 

He trotted forward, taking up a position just outside the area, waiting for the corner to be taken.  The ball was hit high in the air and Hans realised it was going to come down just in front of him.  He waited, then jumped and headed the ball, his timing perfect on this occasion, the ball streaking towards the top right hand corner of the goal.  Then, much to his dismay, he saw the goalkeeper get a hand to the ball, pushing it over the crossbar.  Hans was despondent, knowing he very rarely scored a goal and, today of all days, playing their arch rivals, FV Bremen, he would really have liked to score.  He positioned himself for the next corner, his one metre, ninety-six height towering above all the other players.  The ball came across, far too low for Hans but was struck on the volley by his best friend, Jost Metzger who was playing inside-right. 

The ball was in the net before the Bremen goalie moved, Jost turning and running back towards the centre circle.  Hans caught up with him, patting him on the back, congratulating him.  After another five minutes, the referee blew the final whistle, the players shaking hands as they trooped off the pitch, into the changing shed.  It had been a tough game, Jost’s goal the only one of the match.

With his foot in the trough, Hans scraped the mud from his knee.  ‘Pity Paul wasn’t here to celebrate.  He would have enjoyed scoring against Bremen.’

‘We’re all upset by his death especially as it was so...so unexpected.  Who would have thought when the three of us went to Wilhelmshaven that such a monstrous thing could happen?’  Jost straightened up, passing the towel to Hans.  ‘Wonderful attendance at the funeral though.  There must have been a hundred or more.’

Hans sat on the bench, pulling his boots on and lacing them.  ‘It was that.  Did you see his sister?’

‘Erna?  Yes and that she watched you the whole time.’  Jost thumped Hans on the arm.  ‘Bit on the petite side for you, she’s only what...one sixty tall?’

‘Jost, I don’t even know her!  You jump too far ahead.  I was merely asking if you saw her...that’s all.’

‘That’s what I like about you Hans.  Totally blind!  Whenever she came to watch her brother play, she only had eyes for you.  And you didn’t even notice.  What’s that?  Is that a slight colouring of the cheeks?’

As Hans stood up he placed his arm around Jost’s middle, lifting him off the floor and up, over his shoulder, picking up his bag and walking towards the door.

‘Put me down you great lummox!’

Chapter Two

Strolling south along Whitehall, First Lieutenant Lester Leaper looked across the road at the imposing, neo-Baroque building that was home to the War Office.  He still felt a surge of pride as he entered the building, considering it to be a magnificent example of British architecture.  Lester had read the pamphlet detailing its origins, the fact that it had taken five years to build before completion in 1906 at a cost of more than one million pounds, that it had several floors with almost a thousand rooms, linked by more than two miles of corridors and that several thousand people worked here. 

He smiled at the sergeant standing guard in the entrance foyer, starting his climb up the stairs to the third floor, seeing people scurrying in all directions.  Lester was enjoying his secondment from the King’s Own (Yorkshire Light Infantry) still scarcely believing his luck, being sent to the War Office after only a short time with his regiment.  So far, all he seemed to do was run errands for senior officers and make the tea but, he was in London and, after work, he was enjoying his increasingly active social life, playing rugby for Harlequins at Twickenham and getting to grips with driving his first car, a Morgan three wheeler, given to him by his uncle.

Seeing the attractive young girl sitting at her desk in the outer office, Lester flushed slightly as he passed, nodding at her and returning her greetings.  He removed his cap as he entered the inner office, brushing his lank, dark hair from his forehead.

‘Good morning Sir.’

The navy commander looked up, frowning.  ‘Mornin’ Leaper.  Don’t sit down.  You’re wanted at a meeting upstairs, office four zero six,’ he snapped.  The Commander looked at the wall clock.  ‘Better get your skates on...meetin’s due to start in two minutes.’

Lester reached across his desk, picked up his pad and left the office, running up the stairs and along the next corridor, his heart sinking as he realised room 406 was at the opposite end.  He ran along the wide corridor, side-stepping those who got in his way, breathing hard.  Lester grabbed the door knob, twisted and barged into the room, his eyes widening.

‘Sorry.  Um...sorry Sir...Sirs.’  In front of him was a large table with at least twenty people sitting around it.  To Lester’s horror, he saw the rank braid on the navy chap nearest to him, a Rear Admiral.  Then he saw a Brigadier General, at least three Colonels and a host of Majors.  Lester flushed, standing rigidly to attention, knowing his face was scarlet, his hair falling across one eye.

‘Nice of you to join us young man.  Would it be,’ the Brigadier General glanced down at the paper in front of him, ‘First Lieutenant Leaper?  Please, take a seat.’

Lester stammered a thank you and quickly walked to the far end of the table, sitting between a Major and a navy Lieutenant.  Pulling a pencil from his inside pocket, Lester looked down at his blank pad, brushing his hair back, waiting.

‘Gentlemen, thank you for attending today.  You have all been summoned to this meeting to hear about the reorganisation of Military Intelligence Sections 3 and 14.  As you know, there is growing concern over Germany’s continued militarisation and the general view is that the gains by the Social Democrats in the recent German elections is not going to hinder the Kaiser or his sidekick, General von Molkte, the Army’s Chief of Staff.’  The Rear Admiral paused taking a sip of water.  ‘I would ask Major Kell of the Secret Intelligence Bureau to continue.’

Looking up, Lester saw a lean, fit man of middle age stand up, nodding towards the Rear Admiral.  Lester had heard about Kell, that he had fought in the Boxer Rebellion in China, had travelled the world and could speak several languages fluently. 

‘We will be at war with Germany within the next three years.’  Major Kell paused and looked round the table, challenging anyone to refute his bold, unexpected statement.  ‘Kaiser Wilhelm will not be reined in and he is hell bent on proving to us that his navy is our equal, his army superior.  The latter may carry some truth, the former is a misconception...but a dangerous misconception.  The navy has more than twice the number of vessels and tonnage compared to the German’s.  However, as most of you Gentlemen know, Germany’s Triple Alliance with Austria-Hungary and Italy, aligned against France and our Triple Entente with France and Russia means that, politically, we have positioned ourselves in a cleft stick with little room for manoeuvre.  With the various minor alliances such as Russia’s with Serbia and the eagerness of France to want to resolve its internal wrangling with an external war with Germany, encouraged by President Poincare, we are facing a potentially critical situation.’

Kell looked round the table, before continuing.  ‘Taking into account the rapid build-up of army strengths of all the major players and Europe is a powder keg waiting for someone to light the fuse.  Hence the reason for reorganising SIB under my leadership.  We have to become far more aware of what is going on concerning the Germans, both in this country and over there.  What are they up to, which one’s pose a threat to us?  Each of you will be assigned various roles and I expect every one of you to be on your guard from now on.’  Kell sat down.

‘Thank you Major Kell.  Any questions?’  The Rear Admiral stood up.

Lester looked at the others around the table.  Nobody was going to ask the obvious question.  Lester raised his arm.  ‘Sir, surely Germany knows we are the greatest military power on earth.  Why would they be so foolish as to challenge us?’

The Rear Admiral smiled.  ‘After the Spithead Review...how many ships of the line were there, two hundred plus?  One would be inclined to agree with your observation young man.’  The Rear Admiral paused.  ‘Anyway, because the Germans believe we would stand to one side if they attacked either France or Russia, Major Kell’s opinions are shared by the Imperial General Staff.  Our Government has somehow conveyed the impression that whilst we would make diplomatic protests at such an outrage, being under no strict obligation to support either France or Russia, we would seek a diplomatic solution.’

Nodding his head, Lester realised he knew little about the realpolitik of Europe, it had simply passed him by.  He heard the Rear Admiral wishing everyone luck and stood up as the Rear Admiral left the room.  Picking up his notepad, Lester started to walk towards the door, shuffling out behind the others.  Someone tugged at his sleeve.

‘First Lieutenant Leaper?’

Lester looked at the smart looking Major, his sandy hair neatly trimmed and his moustache clipped.  ‘Major Yate...Charles Yate, King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry.  You’re going to be working with me in MI3...3c to be precise...German section.’  Yate held out his hand.

Shaking it, Lester looked at the Major’s deep brown eyes.  ‘Why me Sir?’

‘Your mother is German and I am told you speak fluent Deutsch.’

‘Yes...but working here, at the War Office...it’s quite unexpected.’

Yate smiled.  ‘Get your belongings and come to room six two three, we’ve work to do.’  Yate walked out of the room, Lester shaking his head.

Supping his pint slowly, Rhett Thomas listened intently to the speaker, standing on the platform at the front of the hall.  He was not sure what the man was talking about but glancing across at his best friend, Orwel Evans, he was confident Orwel could tell him afterwards.  Rhett had heard about the speaker, a man named Noah Ablett, who had written a pamphlet – ‘The Miner’s Next Step’, something to do with syndicalism or a new, scientific trade unionism.  It did not seem to make much sense to Rhett - all he knew was that Ablett was clever and had been to Oxford to study and was now back in the valleys at Mardy Colliery as a checkweighman.  Rhett’s mind wandered, thinking about Mabyn and the baby due shortly, wondering how he was going to provide for them on his low wage, especially as Mabyn would soon stop working for a month or so.  Loud applause and shouting snapped Rhett out of his reverie.  He took a long draught from his tankard.

‘Want another boyo?’

Rhett nodded and smiled at Orwel, seeing him get to the bar before most of the others.  Orwel was soon back at his side, handing him another tankard.

‘Good speaker that Ablett.  Lot of what he said boyo was right...wasn’t it?’

‘Suppose so.’

Laughing, Orwel thumped Rhett on the back just as he was taking a sip, almost choking him.  Rhett wiped his sleeve across his mouth.  ‘You heard what he said, he’s been demanding a minimum wage for all miners which we’ve now got and he wants control of the mines to be handed to the workers.’

‘Yeah...and the minimum wage is killing us,’ Rhett replied.  ‘Also, it’s all right for him to blabber on about us running the mines but who’s he talking about?  You? Me?  What do we know about running a bloody mine!’

Orwel frowned at his friend.  ‘Rhett, you gettin’ a bit tetchy of late?  Mabyn cut off your supply?’

‘What’re you talking about?’

‘Well, seems to me boyo that you’re getting a bit short tempered.  Understandable mind, especially with the young ‘un due soon.’  Orwel drained his tankard.  ‘Better be making our way home.’

Leaving the hall, they turned left along Brynhyfryd heading for Abertridwr,  ‘Always think Caerphilly is a big place...glad we live in Senghenydd.  At least you know everyone.’

‘Aye boyo, funny sorts down here,’ Orwel replied, ‘but they got a bloody big castle!’

Laughing, Rhett thumped Orwel on the arm.  ‘Perhaps you should try your luck with the wenches here...more chance of a quick fwcia than you’ll have with Carys Jenkins.’

‘Boyo, she’s worth the wait.  When I marry her she’ll know a real man for the first time, fall passionately in love and be mine for evermore.’

‘Jesu!  Are you a poet or something?  Are we talking about the same girl?  Little, frumpy Carys?’  Rhett hawked and spat into the gutter.  ‘Orwel...never knew you were so romantic.’  Rhett shoved Orwel hard in the back, causing him to stumble forward.

‘You’re just jealous boyo.  She’s the perfect girl for me, see.  I can’t...’

A hooter sounded behind them and they both turned, seeing a Foden steam lorry approaching them, making its way along Bryn Siriol.  Standing to one side to let it pass, Rhett could see the two rows of seats inside, the constables, wearing their round-piked Prussian style helmets, staring at them.  Ever since the rioting at Tonypandy the previous year, the police had been determined to exact revenge as far as Rhett and the other miners were concerned.  Lowering his head, Rhett hissed at Orwel to do the same.  Then there was a shout and the wagon stopped, the tail gate slamming down, the constables jumping out.  Shouting a warning, Rhett turned and started to run, stopping when he heard Orwel’s yell for help.  He turned and saw at least four constables around Orwel, hunched up on the ground, trying to protect himself from the vicious kicking he was getting along with blows to his head from the constables truncheons. 

Rhett ran forward, slamming his fist into the face of the nearest constable, grabbing the man’s truncheon as he fell to the ground.  Rhett waded into the group surrounding Orwel, striking out in all directions, oblivious to the blows he was receiving from the other constables, aware that at least a dozen other miners were joining the melee.  Men were yelling, moaning, cursing; blood was being sprayed around, bones being cracked as the viciousness of the fighting escalated.  Someone caught Rhett across the back of his head, knocking his cap to the ground, Rhett staggering from the blow.  At the same moment, he saw the constable’s boot, trying to turn his head as it smashed into his face, Rhett’s nose splintering.  Rhett gasped and lashed out with the truncheon, catching the constable across the side of the head, the constable falling backwards, his head smacking into the road.  Blood poured across Rhett’s mouth and down his chin, causing him to pause and wipe his sleeve across his mouth.  That was his last conscious act, the blow across his head knocking him senseless.

Barely opening his eyes, Rhett could see the bright light dazzling him, sending a spasm through his body.  He started to turn and stopped, a knifing pain arching through his ribs, causing him to gasp.  Rhett lay still, realising his body was shaking, shaking from the cold of the night, knowing he was outside, in the open.  Very slowly, Rhett squinted at the light, seeing the weak winter sun, low over the mountain.  He could smell coal dust near his face.  He carefully raised his hand, touching the large bump on the back of his head, feeling the stickiness of blood in his hair.  Rhett eased himself up, onto his elbows, his ribs protesting as he glanced round, lying on flint and across two sleepers, between the tracks of a railway line. 

Then he saw Orwel, lying some ten yards away, motionless, his legs placed across one of the rails.  The sound of a steam whistle and the vibration of the rails told Rhett a train was approaching, forcing him to his knees, calling out to his friend, trying to ignore the pain.  He stood, stumbling as he shuffled across to Orwel, shocked when he saw Orwel’s head, the dark, curly hair matted with blood and the cut lips.  He knelt down and lifted Orwel’s head, hearing him moan, smelling the whisky on his clothes.

‘Orwel!  Orwel, you’ve got to move!  A train’s coming.’  Rhett noticed the swelling around Orwel’s eyes, realising he could not open them.  Then Rhett saw the train, coming out of the tunnel, bearing down on them, the driver yanking on the whistle, the man’s eyes staring in horror.  Rhett placed his arms under Orwel’s and pulled with all his strength, dragging his friend away from the rails, Orwel’s feet flopping down onto the cinders as the train rattled past.  Rhett collapsed backwards, gritting his teeth, feeling as though his ribs would collapse, knowing they had taken a severe beating from the police.  ‘Boyo, that was too close.  The fwcan police deliberately placed us on the bloody track!  The fwcan bastards wanted to kill us!’

Orwel moaned, his hand slowly moving across his chest, resting on Rhett’s.

Breathing heavily, Rhett watched as the train disappeared.  ‘I can’t believe they would do that!  And they’ve soaked us in whisky...can’t you smell it?’

‘Looks like...make us look like we were drunk boyo,’ Orwel whispered.

Hearing the creak of a wagon’s wheels, Rhett gently lowered Orwel’s head to the ground and stood up.  He saw the tinker approaching,