The Fourth Estate

“But not before I have won the Victoria Cross,” he told her.

She shuddered, because she had read that many people who were awarded that medal received it posthumously. “But when the war is over,” she asked him, “what will you do then?” This time he hesitated, because she had at last found a question to which he did not have an immediate answer.

“Go back to England,” he said finally, “where I shall make my fortune.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Not selling newspapers,” he replied, “that’s for sure.”

During those three days and three nights the two of them spent only a few hours in bed—the only time they were apart.

When he finally left Charlotte at the front door of her tiny apartment, he promised her, “As soon as we have taken Berlin, I will return.”

Charlotte’s face crumpled as the man she had fallen in love with strode away, because so many friends had warned her that once they had left, you never saw them again. And they were to be proved right, because Charlotte Reville never saw John Player again.

* * *

Sergeant Player signed in at the guardhouse only minutes before he was due on parade. He shaved quickly and changed his shirt before checking company orders, to find that the commanding officer wanted him to report to his office at 0900 hours.

Sergeant Player marched into the office, came to attention and saluted as the clock in the square struck nine. He could think of a hundred reasons why the C.O. might want to see him. But none of them turned out to be right.

The colonel looked up from his desk. “I’m sorry, Player,” he said softly, “but you’re going to have to leave the regiment.”

“Why, sir?” Player asked in disbelief. “What have I done wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said with a laugh, “nothing at all. On the contrary. My recommendation that you should receive the King’s Commission has just been ratified by High Command. It will therefore be necessary for you to join another regiment so that you are not put in charge of men who have recently served with you in the ranks.”

Sergeant Player stood to attention with his mouth open.

“I am simply complying with army regulations,” the C.O. explained. “Naturally the regiment will miss your particular skills and expertise. But I have no doubt that we will be hearing of you again at some time in the future. All I can do now, Player, is wish you the best of luck when you join your new regiment.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said, assuming the interview was over. “Thank you very much.”

He was about to salute when the colonel added, “May I be permitted to offer you one piece of advice before you join your new regiment?”

“Please do, sir,” replied the newly promoted lieutenant.

“‘John Player’ is a slightly ridiculous name. Change it to something less likely to cause the men you are about to command to snigger behind your back.”

* * *

Second Lieutenant Richard Ian Armstrong reported to the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment the following morning at 0700 hours.

As he walked across the parade ground in his tailored uniform, it took him a few minutes to get used to being saluted by every passing soldier. When he arrived in the mess and sat down for breakfast with his fellow-officers, he watched carefully to see how they held their knives and forks. After breakfast, of which he ate very little, he reported to Colonel Oakshott, his new commanding officer. Oakshott was a red-faced, bluff, friendly man who, when he welcomed him, made it clear that he had already heard of the young lieutenant’s reputation in the field.

Richard, or Dick as he quickly became known by his brother officers, reveled in being part of such a famous old regiment. But he enjoyed even more being a British officer with a clear, crisp accent which belied his origins. He had traveled a long way from those two overcrowded rooms in Douski. Sitting by the fire in the comfort of the officers’ mess of the King’s Own Regiment, drinking port, he could see no reason why he shouldn’t travel a great deal further.

* * *

Every serving officer in the King’s Own soon learned of Lieutenant Armstrong’s past exploits, and as the regiment advanced toward German soil he was, by his bravery and example in the field, able to convince even the most skeptical that he had not been making it all up. But even his own section was staggered by the courage he displayed in the Ardennes only three weeks after he had joined the regiment.

The forward party, led by Armstrong, cautiously entered the outskirts of a small village, under the impression that the Germans had already retreated to fortify their position in the hills overlooking it. But Armstrong’s platoon had only advanced a few hundred yards down the main street before it was met with a barrage of enemy fire. Lieutenant Armstrong, armed only with an automatic pistol and a hand grenade, immediately identified where the German fire was coming from, and, “careless of his own life”—as the dispatch later described his action—charged toward the enemy dugouts.

He had shot and killed the three German soldiers manning the first dugout even before his sergeant had caught up with him. He then advanced toward the second dugout and lobbed his grenade into it, killing two more soldiers instantly. White flags appeared from the one remaining dugout, and three young soldiers slowly emerged, their hands high in the air. One of them took a pace forward and smiled. Armstrong returned the smile, and then shot him in the head. The two remaining Germans turned to face him, a look of pleading on their faces as their comrade slumped to the ground. Armstrong continued to smile as he shot them both in the chest.

His breathless sergeant came running up to his side. The young lieutenant swung round to face him, the smile firmly fixed on his face. The sergeant stared down at the lifeless bodies. Armstrong replaced the pistol in its holster and said, “Can’t take any risks with these bastards.”

“No, sir,” replied the sergeant quietly.