All Evil Shed Away - Vignette

ALL EVIL SHED AWAY
A Vignette

The old Lion was looking impatient a she gazed out the windows of the old manor, but then so was his aide-de-camp, so he could hardly blame him. He was a man used to commanding power and respect, and after fighting in Flanders the events of the previous few days had savoured bitterly of anti-climax; what was a clash with a few socialists and deserters compared to that glorious storm of steel? His commander turned and looked at him for a moment, and the Lieutenant quickly stood stiffly to attention, saluting until the man waved for him to stop. He turned back to surveying the land before him, waiting for the return of the young officer he had sent out to a few days ago to implore their… patrons… for more supplies. He had that to say for this guerrilla war against the traitors, it was far harder to wage than the war had been with her vast organised supply chains and clean-cut trench warfare… it had seemed chaotic at the time, but now the boundaries between enemy and friend was dazzlingly liminal.

Glancing past his leader and out the window for the first time, the lieutenant felt a knot tighten in his throat as he saw her hanging from the scaffold erected before the entrance to the house. The politicised woman hadn’t been their target – the socialists had – but when they had found her, a follower of that woman and her infernal husband, the men wouldn’t stand letting her go. He had hoped then that the commander wouldn’t allow it, she seemed a woman of good stock after all, but the Lieutenant-Colonel had merely nodded grimly to the men – young radicals who hadn’t fought in the war or rough types form the under-class who had but hadn’t understood it – and watched as they dragged her off to die. That, he had to admit, had shook him. Was the point of their unit not to keep the rabble from oppressing their natural betters? How did allowing the lower ranks to abandon discipline and sink down into their depravity square with that?

Turning at last, the Lieutenant-Colonel gave his subordinate a discontented glare, jaw fixed squarely and eyes hard. He said nothing but seemed to take the lieutenant in for a moment in a way which rattled him, bore deep into his soul. Then he sighed and his jowly face slackened, a hand running back through greying red hair.

“When did Major Sinclair say he would be returning? Today?” He barked.

“Yes sir. I spoke to his staff this morning and they said they were close to returning, sir.”

“And yet here I am, brooding without enough food or weapons on my own in the wilderness.” The commander grumbled, “How am I to strike again in such detestable conditions?” The lieutenant wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond to that, but the man’s continued silence suggested he did.

“I do not know, sir.” The disgusted glance that remark afforded gave him the impression he had made the wrong call.

“I did not accept the role of an officer of his Imperial Majesty in order to preside over the dissolution of his empire, and I will do anything to restore his dominion. Those damnable reds cannot be allowed to annihilate centuries of tradition and the prestige of our noble, imperial, race.” He banged his fist down on a creaking side table that looked as if it might fall apart with the force. He growled to himself and then flung himself into an armchair set in front of the fireplace.

The silence which that left was almost as bad as the man’s tirade. Thankfully it was interrupted by the powerful roar of an engine, followed by the sound of a car swinging to a halt on the hard gravel outside. The Lieutenant-Colonel perked up and in the low light it almost looked like he smiled – a rare sight indeed what with the defeat and then the revolution – and lifted himself from his chair. He straightened out the front of his uniform and reached for the ceremonial sabre he always now insisted on carrying; they were an infantry unit, but the sight of their commander in full highland dress with his sabre as he rode on horseback beside their patron into the recently liberated London had created the man’s myth. Now he was never seen without a sabre.

They did not leave the room, instead waiting for the returned Major Sinclair to be ushered in, and when he was not the young lieutenant was finally sent out to see what the hell they were playing at making the commander wait. He pushed open the wide wooden doors to the drawing room, and then descended through the dusty old English country house into the hallway where an attractive young junior officer lounged against one wall, a cigarette in hand, hat cocked slightly on his golden head.

“Lieutenant Brooke, we were expecting your senior.” The aide barked, taking pleasure in startling the other man.

“Phillip, how delightful to see you.” He drawled, catlike eyes surveying his impeccable, tastefully made, uniform, “You look all dressed up, are we attending one of your little parties this evening.” Phillip bristled and glared at the other lieutenant.

“Some of us can’t find our entertainment in scrawling nonsense, Rupert.” He sneered. It was the other man that bristled then.

Before he could summon up another poisonous retort the front doors swung open, and both men were stood at attention at once as the Major swept inside. Tall, handsome, and louche, Major Archibald Sinclair surveyed the room idly, as if were entering a drawing room to find two particularly uninteresting young dullards rather than returning from an important mission.

“Is the Lieutenant-Colonel able to receive me Lieutenant Sassoon?” He asked imperiously, all the baring and posture of the aristocrat he was evident in so small a question.

“Yes sir, allow me to show you to him, sir.”

“Very good.”

They ascended the stairs, and Phillip and Rupert followed at a respectful distance, only advancing to open the two doors for the senior officer, who gave them nothing but a mildly appreciative nod in return. The Lieutenant-Colonel was back to staring out the window, but he turned when he heard the click of their footsteps and smiled pleasantly at his old comrade in arms.

“Major, it is a pleasure to see you, I hope you bring good news?”

“I have a letter from Field Marshall Haig, he personally took time out of his campaign to receive me. He speaks very highly of you still, sir.”

“Read it to me.” Their commander said with a wave of his hand, sitting once more.

“Dear Lieutenant-Colonel Churchill, I have received your request for additional funding and supplies. It continues to prove difficult to access the funds of our mutual friend across the water in Canada without control of the apparatus of the state, but hopefully that shall no longer be a problem soon. Mister Amery and I have, until then, contacted Mister T.E. Lawrence, whose United Heroes Association will be endeavouring covertly sending you all that you need before a fortnight is out. One hopes that the Volunteer Division of the Royal Scots Fusiliers is faring well in her crusade against treason, and wishes to know if her commander has any knowledge of the whereabouts of the coward Webb who fled before his wife’s execution last year and continues to evade us. My warmest regards, Field Marshall Douglas Haig.”

There was silence after the letter was finished, but Churchill smiled, more genuinely than Phillip had seen in a very long time indeed.

“Lieutenant, draft a letter to the Field Marshall expressing my sincere gratitude, and tell him that the Free Regiments are doing all they can to purge this noble land of the likes of Webb.” He paused and was very still, “And ask him to pass on my regards to MacDonald when he shows that upstart out of Kensington Palace.”



And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


- Rupert Brooke, The Soldier
 
Love the concept but would Brooke not have been purged as unreliable or have defected to the other side? Gilded Edwardian though he was I always understood his political sympathies to be with Fabian socialism
 
I appreciated the characters you chose. The Webbs particularly are a nice choice.

Thank you very much :)

Love the concept but would Brooke not have been purged as unreliable or have defected to the other side? Gilded Edwardian though he was I always understood his political sympathies to be with Fabian socialism

My thoughts on Brooke were, though something of a Fabian Socialist, yes, he is too much in love with the war in this world to accept the socialist's betrayal and buys heavily into this British dolchstoßlegende to accept the defeat in the war. So he gets sucked into the political circles arguing against capitulation and then inexorably into the British "Free Regiments" (which was perhaps too on the nose?).
 

Japhy

Banned
A wonderfully dark look at a transplanting of the Freikorps concept. I planned (And still plan) to play around with similar things on our own "Failed Miserably" project. That said you've assembled a far more interesting cast for the the Freikorps then I had. I like your use of the Webbs and their brutal faith in the place of Rosa Luxembourg and Karl Liebneicht.
 
Very nice. Subscribed

Thank you very much :D

A wonderfully dark look at a transplanting of the Freikorps concept. I planned (And still plan) to play around with similar things on our own "Failed Miserably" project. That said you've assembled a far more interesting cast for the the Freikorps then I had. I like your use of the Webbs and their brutal faith in the place of Rosa Luxembourg and Karl Liebneicht.

One hopes Failed Miserably will be making a fairly swift return? It'd be interesting to see how you might use the Freikorps concept similarly/differently in Britain just because it's a difficult one to directly translate into British and not Central European conditions (the lack of rolling plains and vast forests for one thing...)

I'm glad you like the cast of characters which, I must admit, I found to be the most difficult part of the story. And I thought the Webbs were a perfect Luxembourg Liebneicht parallel what with their curious relationship with early Labour so I'm glad that worked well too! MacDonald isnt a perfect Ebert and nor, perhaps, is Haig a perfect Hindenburg, but I think they work rather well still.
 
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