It started with Bareton. Bareton, disregarding both Locksley and his new Company-Commander (a full Lieutenant by right of being over thirty), went straight to Colonel Andrews. He told the Colonel, very respectfully until he began to lose his temper, that on no account would he, Jack Bareton, continue to serve in the same regiment as Locksley-Jones. The Colonel asked him, very mildly, why he objected to Locksley.

Said Bareton—they were alone in the Orderly Room—“With all due respect to you, sir, the man isn’t fit to hold His Majesty’s Commission.”

Said the Colonel, “If you have any accusation to make against my Adjutant, you must make it in his presence. Meanwhile, go back to your billet and consider yourself under open arrest till I send for you.”

The Mess seethed.

On the following day, Jack Bareton (without his belt) confronted Locksley before the Colonel’s table:—Major Fox-Goodwin, as temporary second-in-command, lounging, slightly contemptuous, by the fireplace.

Decided the Colonel, having listened to ten minutes of tight-lipped vituperation—all true, but entirely incapable of proof, and some clever dialectics for the defence: “It doesn’t, er, seem to me, Bareton, that you’ve made out any case at all. It seems to me that, er, having heard the Adjutant’s explanation of what are, er, obvious misconceptions on your part, it’s your duty to apologize.”

Jack Bareton stood very quietly for six seconds. Then he said: “As I am not satisfied with your ruling, sir”—he was, it will be remembered, a lawyer by profession—“I believe I am entitled to call for a Court of Enquiry.”

The Colonel sent both juniors out of the room. “What had we better do?” he asked Fox-Goodwin. The Major’s eyes twinkled.

“Get rid of ’em both, me dear fellow. Get rid of ’em both.”

“I can’t do that. Locksley’s a very capable fellow, very capable indeed. Locksley’s saved me a great deal of trouble.”

“Has he?” thought the Major. But discipline is discipline.

“A Court of Enquiry won’t do the Regiment any good,” went on Andrews. “Besides, it might break Bareton. Bareton’s a good subaltern, and a patriotic chap.... I hate trouble,” he added pathetically....

Bareton, re-called, found himself alone with the Major who said: “Look here, me lad, take a tip from a fellow who’s old enough to be your grandfather. Don’t you press this Court of Enquiry. Ask for a transfer, see!”

“But it’s so damned unfair, sir.”

“I know that as well as you do, me lad. But we’ve got to think of the men....”

A week later, Bareton and Fanshawe transferred to the Reserve Battalion. (Fanshawe died at Festhubert: Bareton still lives—all that the Hun prison-camps have left of him).

But matters did not end there. Locksley-Jones, confirmed in his position, sent for Peter privately. Peter, who was shooting on the miniature range at the time, finished his score with a “highest possible”; looked about for Bromley; couldn’t find him; strolled very slowly to the Orderly Room. Locksley, alone, went on writing for a clear minute. Then he said, “Oh, is that you, Jameson? I just wanted to have a private talk with you. You know, you’re a very clever fellow, Jameson. But you’re not clever enough to tackle me.”

Peter deliberately took off his cap, and sat down—at the Colonel’s table.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose I must take your word for that. Go on.”

Our Mr. Jameson was not an easy person to “discipline”—especially if one happened to have put oneself in the wrong by making the talk unofficial.

“Can’t we pull together, P.J.?” went on Locksley. “You know I can do you much more good than your pal Bromley. There’s your second star, for instance....”

Peter couldn’t help admiring the audacity of the fellow. He wanted to consolidate his position; didn’t care how, so long as he achieved his purpose.

“And supposing I were to tell the C.O. what you’ve just suggested?”

“He wouldn’t believe you—any more than he believed Bareton. The old man’s as weak as water. You know that as well as I do.”

Peter controlled the impulse to hit Locksley in the face, and asked: “Is that all?”

“Oh, of course”—Locksley fell into the trap—“when we come to alloting the Captaincies. Let’s see”—he referred to a list—“you haven’t got any Captains in ‘B’ yet. If the Major goes....”

This was news indeed. Now, Peter saw the plan whole. With complacent Company-Commanders and a weak Colonel, Locksley’s position would be unique.

“Is the Major going?” he asked—playing for time.

“Between you and me and the gatepost”—Locksley winked—“the W.O. has just asked if he is ‘considered fit to command a battalion.’”

Thought Peter: “What a swine! Still—if it weren’t for Bromley, I’d accept. I could run the show as well as most people.” Said 2nd Lieutenant Peter Jameson: “There’s a good deal in what you say. But I must have a little time to make up my mind. By the way, you don’t object to my taking a day or so extra at Christmas.”

“Not a bit, my dear fellow, not a bit.”

Meanwhile, men died in Flanders.