Captain Jackson
“Jackson! Will you join us for a rubber after dinner?”
“Sorry Benton but the prizes at the Poker are more inviting,” answered Captain Jackson, good naturedly and with a smile.
“We’ve upped the ante to a shilling in old money.”
“In that case, I might just change my mind. Who’s playing tonight?”
“Good show Jackson. I thought that might tempt you. You partner me unless they draw and we have Major Tranter and Major Fredrickson.”
“Now, that smells of money. I don’t mind relieving them of a few ackers, eh Benton?”
“Good, good. Now will you join us for a spot of dinner?”
“It will be my pleasure and I’ll buy the wine to soften them up.”
“I was hoping you would offer that Jackson. You always go for the best. Come along now. I believe the said pair are already seated in the dining room.”
The Bunsen burner was spurting away under a clay pot set on a stand in the large Victorian fireplace, filled with a lead alloy, as Richard McLaren Jnr. was assembling the moulds ready for filling. The sides and bay window of the large room were filled with trestle tables, each covered with a moulded landscape on which battalions of painted lead soldiers were amassed, ready for battle. The walls were covered with maps of various battlefields with arrows showing the intended advances and retreats of the opposing forces. A light tap on the door disturbed Richard’s concentration and he turned to the door with some annoyance showing on his face.
“Rick, dinner is ready. Come down in five minutes and don’t forget to turn the Bunsen off!”
“Yes dad. Just have to fill the moulds and I’ll be down. Won’t be a minute.”
“You always say that, Rick. Don’t make your mother cross and don’t forget to do your homework tonight in the study with your sister where your mother can see you.”
“Yes dad. Da-ad, can you get me some more of those sheets of ply and some more trestle legs? I’m running out of space here.”
“I’ll get Daniel at work to knock some up for you. Now what campaign are you on now?”
“Still on Alexandra the Great and his Middle East victories, having problems with casting the Muslim soldiers, having to use plaster of Paris to make up the extra bits on them.”
“I’m sure you will manage. Now can we have some conversation at dinner other than on military matters tonight? It will please mother and she’ll allow you a bit more leeway. OK now, don’t be long!” With that last remark Richard McLaren Snr. departed, closing the door sharply to accentuate his demands. Rick plunged a cloth in a bucket of water, wrung it out, carefully wrapped the cloth around the hot handle of the pot and with intense concentration poured the molten liquid in a slivery stream into the awaiting moulds. He worked quickly and methodically, checking with a steel prod that the air had fully escaped from the depths of the moulds. Satisfied, he repositioned the pot onto the trivet, turned off the Bunsen, rechecked his moulds and ran off, downstairs to the dining room where he could hear his mother clattering the plates as she was dishing out the shepherd’s pie. It was Thursday, shepherd’s pie day with the usual crispy baked potato and cheese topping.
“Now Richard, we have received your school report this morning. Straight A’s apart from history. Can you explain that?” questioned his mother brusquely.
“And darling Richard is supposed to be good at History,” added Diane, his younger sister sarcastically.
“Yes and a ‘B-’ for History is just not good enough,” continued his mother whilst Diane gloated in the attack on her brother. “The teacher’s comment says that history is not only about battles and campaigns.”
“Old Badger is a fuddy-duddy and doesn’t understand that Civilisations have all been generated and transformed by war.”
“Yes dear and the Head called to thank you for the talk you gave on Napoleon’s Russian campaigns to the PTA. There was a History lecturer from Bradford University in the audience and apparently you held your own with him at question time.”
“That was easy. He didn’t know his bayonet from a sabre.”
“Now less cheek young man! The Head went on to say that you should be applying for Oxford and not Sandhurst. He said you would be wasted there.”
“I’d rather join dad in his engineering business than go to University, Mum.”
“The Head said that military would probably send you there anyway once they discovered your abilities fully.”
“His acting abilities you mean Mum,” sneered Diane. “I suppose we will be off to some rainy hill this weekend to re-enact the Battle of Bosworth again.”
“Hey Sis, I thought you fancied that ugly Dragoon!”
“Now children, stop the squabbling immediately! He was very complementary about you Richard as the lead in the recent school play.”
“He only took that part because it gave him a chance to snog that tart, Linda Bailey. And she doesn’t fancy you, so there!” added Diane with a knowing pout.
“Now Diane, let’s not have language like that at this table. Anyone for more pie?”
“Mum, I’ve been accepted for the advanced leadership course at Frimley Park next month. I’ll be away for a week and they are going to send me a Rail Warrant for travel, so you don’t have to spend a penny on me.”
“Is that the Three Services thing you have been talking about Rick?”
“Yes, dad and if I pass then I’ll be the highest ranking NCO in the school cadet force.”
“I suppose we will all have to salute and call you General Rick then. Makes me sick all this army stuff you’re on about all the time,” snarled Diane. “And when are you going to stop all those smells. Dad, tell him to take his gas things and do them in the shed.”
“OK, OK Diane, and where are you going to take your Music equipment? Rick has his military interest and you your music so let’s just stop snipping!” said father with a knowing look.
The first year at Sandhurst was wasted on Rick with his vast experiences in the cadet Force and Territorial Army plus his encyclopaedic knowledge of all things military. He enjoyed the pomp and ceremony but was too aloof to carry on with the basic groundwork. After a series of japes and pranks early in his second year the Military decided to find Rick surplus to their requirements and he found himself ejected from the elite officer’s corps that he aspired to join and be wholly part of, for life. Going back home was not an option so he joined a travelling repertory company and honed his acting skills but still hankered after the life in the army. Changing his name to Ralph Mackintyre by deed poll, he applied to join the army through the ranks. Basic training for Ralph was easy and he accepted the dogmatic discipline dished out by the aged Sergeant Major without quibble. His skills were soon noticed and he was targeted as future NCO material. He enjoyed the pure camaraderie of the ranks and turned down opportunities to train and join Officer Training that was offered at the time. After five years service he achieved Rank of Sergeant and was sent to Cattrick to train other squaddies in the art of modern warfare.
“Jackson, we see you in the Officers Mess from time to time but no one seems to know what you do or who you are around here?”
“Are we playing cards Harrison or are we into an inquisition?”
“Seriously Jackson, Harrison and I are curious to which outfit do you belong to. You wear a fine uniform, better than any Captain can afford but you don’t show any campaign medals but you seem quite knowledgeable about current actions around the world. You have recent scars on your face so you must have seen action. No one has seen you out in the field here. Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
“OK Telford, I’ll tell you but you may not like what you hear.”
“Come off it Jackson, you sound like some impostor in the Officers Mess. Come on Jackson, spill the beans.”
“OK, I have been sent here under cover to check on the state of readiness of the Regiments here and what the future training requirements should be, given the range of dangers the World is throwing up today.”
“OK Jackson but how are you supposed to do all that sitting in the Officers Mess? No one has seen you in the field.”
“Oh, I get out into the field and observe the training exercises and manoeuvres you chaps get up to. With my knowledge of the British Army, it’s easy to infiltrate the camp and see what I need to and report back to my superiors down South.”
“Sounds a bit far fetched Jackson. Come on, give us some evidence of your spying on us.”
“OK Harrison, I observed the last exercise you and Telford were involved in. I wasn’t impressed Harrison. You made a pig’s ear of the whole thing even though the report gave you some brownie points. And Telford you came through as victor on paper but your division should have been annihilated completely.”
“That sounds like a load of fabricated bollocks Jackson.”
“Well Harrison, you were supposed to defend the HQ and failed. Your communications broke down and you had to resort to mobile phones. Not very clever in the real world. When Telford’s men attacked, you misjudged their strength and direction of intrusion. You had the means to repulse that advance and change the whole course of the battle but you dithered so much and failed to listen to your Sergeants, so you lost your HQ to the enemy.”
“That sounds a reasonable summary Jackson but what’s this slur on my particular action?”
“Telford, you ordered your men to cross the imaginary mine field without any detection equipment and you would have lost at least half of your troop as a result, apart from warning the defenders. That didn’t come out in the report, did it? Nor the fact you exposed your men to possible crossfire in open ground if Harrison hadn’t dithered. So, in a real battle you both made basic mistakes that put your troops in jeopardy. My report on all this is different to the one presented by local observers to the CO. I wouldn’t put either of you in charge of the latrine digging in my battalion in any real engagement.”
“Hey, that’s a bit strong Jackson! Where have you seen service? You look too young to know that much!”
“Apart from Helmed, where I got the recent wound, I’ve done tours in Ireland, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, so I have seen recent action and I’m aware of the tactics of our current enemies. If I were you Harrison and particularly you Telford, then I would get myself jobs as security men in some warehouse complex rather than putting at risk the lives of our good men. I’ll leave you to ponder over that. Good night gentlemen.”
Captain Jackson picked up a taxicab conveniently waiting outside the Officers Mess and directed the driver to the Albany Hotel, used by visiting officers at Catterick. He went straight to the bar and up to a couple of Officers perched on high stools.
“Good evening gentlemen! Early night for me, busy tomorrow. Can I offer you a nightcap?”
“That’s very civil of you Jackson. What, cards bad tonight?”
“Harry! Same again for these two and a small whisky for me. Cards were good but can’t say the same for the company. Goodnight chaps.” With a cursory salute Captain Jackson left the bar with glass in hand and made his way down the corridor to the rooms. A quick glance in both directions to confirm that the coast was clear, he slipped into the Gents and again checked each of the stalls for any one’s presence. Satisfied, he opened a cleaner’s closet with a key and took out a blue kitbag then locked himself in a stall. A quick change and he came out wearing blue faded jeans, well worn trainers, a blue T-shirt covered by a gilet emblazoned ‘IML Security’ and a matching baseball cap. The scar tissue had disappeared and he looked like one of the hotel staff going off duty. He hurried through the kitchen area and with a ‘Night lads’ to no one in particular, he barged through an exit and onto the car park. A beaten-up Ford Fiesta took him back to his billet back into the Army Camp at Catterick. The sentry on the gate recognised the car and had the pole up in advance as he approached. A bit of banter and he was off to his quarters.
One evening a week later the Ford Fiesta made its way back to the rear staff car park of the Albany and the driver reversed the process and procedures of the previous night. The only slight change was that he took a good look at himself in the mirror in the gents to check that the scar on his face looked authentic. He touched it gently and smeared the healing cream around the edges a little. Satisfied he sauntered into the bar.
“Anyone need a lift to the mess tonight?” he asked to a group of officers congregating at the bar.”
“I’ll join you, Jackson. The others are off to Richmond for a change,” answered one of the Lieutenants in uniform. “I won’t join you for cards tonight. I can’t afford the stakes you play for.”
“Why don’t you partner me at bridge tonight, Symonds? Might change your luck.”
“I’d like that. It’s good to play with a master. They say you are the best player in the mess Jackson.”
“Thanks Symonds but always make sure you lose when playing against the CO.”
“Excuse me Captain Jackson,” requested an orderly quietly. “The CO would like to see you in his office before dinner. We haven’t seen you for a while in here.”
“No, I’ve been busy. Will you buzz through that I’m on my way.”
“Yes Sir.”
“Keep a space for me Symonds. Shan’t be long. The CO needs some tuition in cards me thinks,” answered Captain Jackson and made his way to the CO’s office. He knocked lightly on the door as he heard the receiver clatter in its rest and a gruff voice ordered him to enter. “You want to see me Sir?”
“Yes Jackson. I’m getting mixed messages about you. Not sure why you are here. You’re wearing Guard’s insignia but I’m not aware of any of your lot been sent up here.”
“No Sir, I’m on a special assignment.”
“So they tell me Jackson and I’ve been on the blower and no one can tell me of a Captain Jackson, if that is your rank, being sent up here. Who do you report to?”
“Sorry Sir but I’m not at liberty to divulge that piece of information. I was certain that you had been informed of my presence here, particularly that I’ve been here on and off for six months now. I shall contact my superior to clear the ground for me.”
“I would appreciate that, Jackson. You have made yourself part of the furniture as they say. It was only that fracas with Harrison and Telford that alerted me to you.”
“Sorry Sir. I was provoked and I let my guard down. I expect that I shall be recalled to HQ soon.”
“Sorry to lose a great bridge player Jackson. Where did you hone your skills at cards?”
“Been in plenty of action Sir and it passes the long hours of waiting for things to happen. Hones the mind and develops strategy and competitiveness. You don’t want losers in a conflict situation do you Sir?”
“Too true Jackson. Just make sure I’m contacted in the morning will you.”
“Hey Scottie, wanna play poker tonight?”
“Not with you MPs. Don’t want to lose my shirt again.”
“Hey, it’s not that bad Mackintyre. We only fleece the Sergeants.”
“You two have a reputation in the Sergeants Mess which you need to uphold so count me out this time. Anyway, what have you two been up to lately?”
“The CO has put us onto a funny case which we can’t as yet get to the bottom of.”
“What has somebody been at the Mess’s piggy bank again?”
“Nah, it’s not that. There’s a Captain Jackson on camp and the CO wants to know who he is and who he’s working for.”
“That’s easy! He picks up the phone to HQ and they tell him. Surely, he can do that for himself, the old man?”
“Oh, he’s done that but to no avail.”
“So why don’t you lock this Jackson up as an impostor?”
“Not as easy as that Mackintyre, Scottie me boy. He told Harrison and that clod Telford that he’s a spy from Head Office. The thing is he knows his stuff. He gave those two a right rollicking over the last exercise.”
“Yeah but we all know the report was a fudge.”
“We do but how the hell did he know that Telford took his men through the mine field. They were all sworn to secrecy. It’s out in the open now. How did this Captain Jackson get this information without observing the action there? Telford had some explaining to do to the CO.”
“So why don’t you guys get him in a corner and get it out of him in your usual way.”
“Oh, we would if we could find the bugger. He’s gone off the radar. We checked out the Albany and they all knew him but he wasn’t on the register. We watched him come in the other night and there was no trace of him after he left the bar for his room, disappeared into thin air!”
“So, what’s your next manoeuvre?”
“We arrest him on sight, that’s orders and then duff him up a bit until he squeals.”
“Bit drastic? Won’t the CO cop it?”
“The CO is already worried that it’s taken him so long to find that a planted spy is in his midst. Doesn’t bode well for him. I bet there’s a few at HQ laughing their socks off at his expense. The trouble is that it’s all out in the open now. You must have heard about it Scottie? You are in Telford’s mob.”
“I’ve heard the whisper and I’ve also heard from the CO’s Adjutant that this Captain Jackson may be recalled by HQ since he’s let the cat out of the bag about himself.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Captain Jackson can think himself lucky that us two didn’t get hold of him first. I suppose we put it down as another unsolved case. Hey Scottie, come and play cards with us tonight and brighten our day by relieving you of some of your cash.”
Sergeant Ralf Mackintyre stood pensive by the red post box with a letter in hand; should he post his application for Officer Training or not? He missed the glamour and camaraderie of the Officers Mess. Being a hairy arsed Sergeant for the rest of his service was not for him anymore. The right hand stuffed the envelope through the red jaws and he blew the box a kiss for good luck.
