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the popular melodies of the day slightly out of tune. As they
traveled through city stations, some he hadn’t even heard of Peterborough,
Grantham, Newark, York crowds waved and cheered their heroes. In Durham the
engine came to a halt to take on more coal and water. The recruiting sergeant
told them all to disembark, stretch their legs and grab another cup of char,
and added that if they were lucky they might even get something to eat.
    Charlie
walked along the platform munching a sticky bun to the sound of a military band
playing “Land of Hope and Glory.” The war was everywhere. Once they were back
on the train there was yet more waving of handkerchiefs from pin-hatted ladies
who would remain spinsters for the rest of their lives.
    The
train chugged on northwards, farther and farther away from the enemy, until it
finally came to a halt at Waverly Station in Edinburgh. As they stepped from
the carriage, a captain, three NCOs and a thousand women were waiting on the
platform to welcome them.
    Charlie
heard the words, “Carry on, Sergeant Major,” and a moment later a man who must
have been six feet six inches in height, and whose beer-barrel chest was
covered in medal ribbons took a pace forward.
    “Let’s
‘ave you in line then,” the giant shouted in an unintelligible accent. He
quickly but, Charlie was to learn later, by his own standards slowly organized
the men into ranks of three before reporting back to someone who Charlie
assumed must have been an officer. He saluted the man. “All present and
correct, sir,” he said and the smartest-dressed man Charlie had ever seen in
his life returned the salute. He appeared slight standing next to the sergeant
major, although he must have been a shade over six feet himself. His uniform
was immaculate but paraded no medals, and the creases on his trousers were so
sharp that Charlie wondered if they had ever been worn before. The young
officer held a short leacher stick in a gloved hand and occasionally thumped
the side of his leg with it, as if he Thought he were on horseback. Charlie’s
eyes settled on the officer’s Sam Browne belt and brown leather shoes. They
shone so brightly they reminded him of Rebecca Salmon.
    “My
name is Captain Trentham,” the man informed the expectant band of untrained
warriors in an accent that Charlie suspected would have sounded more in place
in Mayfair than at a railway station in Scotland. “I’m the battalion adjutant,”
he went on to explain as he swayed from foot to foot, “and will be responsible
for this intake for the period that you are billeted in Edinburgh. First we
will march to the barracks, where you will be issued supplies so that you can
get yourselves bedded down. Supper will be served at eighteen hundred hours and
lights out will be at twenty-one hundred hours. Tomorrow morning reveille will
be sounded at zero five hundred, when you will rise and breakfast before you
begin your basic training at zero six hundred. This routine will last for the
next twelve weeks. And I can promise you that it will be twelve weeks of
absolute hell,” he added, sounding as if the idea didn’t altogether displease
him. “During this period Sergeant Major Philpott will be the senior warrant officer
in charge of the unit. The sergeant major fought on the Somme, where he was
awarded the Military Medal, so he knows exactly what you can expect when we
eventually end up in France and have to face the enemy. Listen to his every
word carefully, because it might be the one thing that saves your life. Carry
on, Sergeant Major.”
    “Thank
you, sir,” said Sergeant Major Philpott in a clipped bark.
    The
motley band stared in awe at the figure who would be in charge of their lives
for the next three months. He was, after all, a man who had seen the enemy and
come home to tell the tale.
    “Right,
let’s be having you then,” he said, and proceeded to lead his recruits carrying
everything from battered suitcases to brown paper parcels