The Regiment That Lost Its Soul (Tulloch at War Book 2)

Book summary

The Regiment That Lost Its Soul follows Lieutenant Douglas Tulloch and the Lothian Rifles as they defend Britain from German invasion and later face challenges in Egypt and Eritrea. Struggling with internal doubts and external criticism, the battalion must overcome their Dunkirk malaise to prove their mettle in Operation Compass and the battle of Keren.

Excerpt from The Regiment That Lost Its Soul (Tulloch at War Book 2)

Despite the wartime blackout and the plethora of military uniforms on the street, Edinburgh had never looked so good. Tulloch stood on the Waverley Bridge outside Waverley Train Station, with the ridge of the Old Town silhouetted against the starry sky and the great bulk of the Castle looming over Princes Street Gardens. He took a deep breath, coughed in the smoke of the steam-powered trains, and strode northward towards the New Town.

“On leave, sir?” A tall policeman eyed Tulloch up and down.

“A few days,” Tulloch confirmed.

“Just back from France, are you?” The policeman seemed inclined to talk. “A bad business, yon.”

“Bad enough,” Tulloch agreed.

Nodding, the policeman stepped on, watching everybody and ignoring returning soldiers’ slight breaches of the law. Tulloch crossed Princes Street and headed up the steep hill to George Street, then downwards. It was only a ten-minute walk to Nelson Street through the blackout-darkened streets, where policemen and air-raid wardens eyed him suspiciously until they noticed his uniform and treated him to a grudging nod.

Tulloch noted sandbagged defences at strategic corners and windows boarded up in preparation for German bombs or invasion; he was unsure which. Tulloch frowned as he passed a couple of shattered shops with smashed windows and smoke-blackened doors.

The Germans must have dropped bombs on Edinburgh. I hope my parents are unharmed. The sight made Tulloch hurry in sudden anxiety until he forced himself to calm down. Surely, somebody would have notified him of death or injury in the family.

He passed the gates to Queen Street Gardens, strangely upset to see the once private sanctity had been disturbed and a sandbagged air-raid shelter sunk into the once pristine turf. A small body of elderly men passed, with one holding a shotgun and the remainder armed with a variety of implements that the charitable could call weapons. All had armbands with the letters LDV displayed: Local Defence Volunteer. Hitler’s war had extended even to the sheltered life of middle-class Edinburgh.

Tulloch remembered the ruthless, highly trained German soldiers he had encountered and wondered how these old men would fare if Hitler invaded. He knew they would fight as best they could, pitting their raw courage, patriotism, and anger against the most professional army in the world.

Thank God for the Navy, Tulloch thought. And the RAF.

Despite the early hour, the lights were on in the Nelson Street house, seeping through a gap in the blackout curtains. Tulloch smiled as he tapped on the door and waited for his mother to answer. His father never answered the door.

“Douglas!” Mrs Tulloch stepped back, with a hand to her mouth. “Douglas!” She stared at him for a moment as if he were a stranger in the family home. “We didn’t expect you.”

“Leave was unexpected,” Tulloch entered the house. “I didn’t have time to phone.”

Mrs Tulloch touched his arm as if checking he was real. “You look older,” she said. “And you’ve lost weight.”

“I’ll soon put it back on,” Tulloch reassured his mother.

Everything in the house was as he remembered, except slightly smaller and shabbier. The longcase clock ticked softly in the background, with flowers enclosing the maker’s name: Robert Green. The telephone sat on a marble table in the inner hall, with a gilt-framed mirror above, a sign of status to prove the Tullochs had made it in status-conscious Edinburgh.

Tulloch smiled; such things as class didn’t matter a twopenny damn when Britain was fighting to save the world from the forces of Nazi evil. He took a deep breath of the smell of beeswax polish. The carved wooden settle still sat in the outer hall, with the scratch marks left by their long-deceased cat, and the picture of the Thin Red Line dominated the wall, as it had all through Tulloch’s formative years. That picture had encouraged Tulloch to become an army officer, and he viewed it now through different eyes.

Sutherland Highlanders, eh? I know how you lads felt facing the Russians.

“Your father is on duty tonight,” Mrs Tulloch said. She did not hug her son, for the Tullochs were not a demonstrative family. “He’s an air raid warden, you know.”

“That’s an important job,” Tulloch placed his kit bag neatly in a corner. His mother liked to keep the house tidy, war or no war. She would not allow some Austrian upstart with a silly moustache to disturb her life.

“Your father checks houses for blackouts,” Mrs Tulloch said, watching her son. “He lets people know if he can see light through the windows.”

Tulloch nodded. “Father will be good at that.” Tulloch knew his father would enjoy the petty power of telling people what to do.

“How was the war?” That was the nearest Mrs Tulloch could get to expressing her continual worry.

Tulloch considered his reply. “I’m with some very good men,” he said.

“Was it as bad as the news made out?” Mrs Tulloch ushered her son to the kitchen, the beating heart of the house. “You’ll want a cup of tea.”

“I do,” Tulloch agreed with a smile. “It was bad at times, but I got through without a scratch.”

Mrs Tulloch bustled around the kitchen, glancing continually at her son; within a few minutes, she produced a tray holding a teapot, two bone china Willow Pattern tea cups, and a plate of McVities Digestive biscuits. “We’re rationed for biscuits, I’m afraid. And for milk and sugar.”

Tulloch nodded. “I know,” he said. “The war’s affecting everybody now.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve had time to meet a girl,” Mrs Tulloch said, questing over the rim of her cup.

“I might have,” Tulloch said guardedly.

“You might have?” Mrs Tulloch smiled encouragingly.

“There’s a girl I have bumped into here and there,” Tulloch said.

“What’s her name?” Mrs Tulloch affected only slight interest as her eyes brightened.

“Amanda,” Tulloch said. “Amanda Clark.”

“Amanda? That’s a nice name. Where does she live?” Mrs Tulloch began her gentle interrogation, which Tulloch knew would draw every scrap of information from him before she finished.

“I believe she’s working in London,” Tulloch said.

“Oh,” Mrs Tulloch looked disappointed. “That’s a long way from here. How often will you see her?”

“As often as I can,” Tulloch said. “It depends on the war.”

“Everything depends on the war,” Mrs Tulloch agreed.

They both looked up when the front door banged open.

“That will be your father,” Mrs. Tulloch said with a touch of fatalism in her voice.

“What’s that kitbag doing in the hall?” Mr. Tulloch looked as prosperous as ever as he closed the door with a bang and strode into the kitchen. “Oh, you’re back, are you, Douglas?” He stood in the doorway with his ARP armband on his suit. “You lot made a Dickens of a mess of things in France, didn’t you?”

“We’ll do better next time,” Tulloch promised, remembering the blood and confusion of the retreat to Dunkirk and the good men who had died.

“I hope so,” Mr. Tulloch said. “You should be defending the country, not sitting in your mother’s kitchen drinking tea. When are you going back to the front?”

“There isn’t a front to go back to,” Tulloch replied.

“No; the Germans pushed you out of Norway as well as France,” Mr. Tulloch reminded.

“So I believe,” Tulloch agreed.

“Where are you trying next?” Mr. Tulloch asked. “Or will you wait for Hitler to come here?”

“Let Douglas settle in first before you send him back,” Mrs. Tulloch said. “He’s only just arrived.”

Mr. Tulloch sat down. “He shouldn’t be here. He wanted to join the army and be a soldier, so why isn’t he fighting rather than leaving everything to civilians like me?”

“I’ll be fighting soon enough,” Tulloch said quietly. He remembered the carnage of the final few days in France, with his company of the Lothian Rifles fighting desperate rearguard actions against overwhelming German forces.

“Allowing the Germans to push you out of France,” Mr. Tulloch said. “Thank God we have a navy.”

“It’s not Douglas’s fault,” Mrs. Tulloch defended her son.

“I noticed some damage on Rose Street,” Tulloch remembered the wrecked shops. “Have the Germans bombed Edinburgh?”

“They tried to bomb the Forth Bridge last year,” Mrs. Tulloch said.

“Damaged shops?” Mr. Tulloch shook his head. “That would be the Italian shops. Fifth columnists, the lot of them. We don’t want that sort in the country, spying on us all the time, so the patriotic people of Edinburgh smashed their businesses.”

“Some of the Italian men have been here for years. Old Joe from the chippie fought in the Royal Scots through the Great War!” Tulloch remembered Old Joe Spiteri, who always had a smile on his face when he served his fish and chips.

“We can’t trust them,” Mr. Tulloch said.

Tulloch caught his mother’s headshake and closed his mouth. He held his father’s hostile glare. “How is the legal practice getting along, Father?”

“Business is steady,” Mr. Tulloch said and launched into details of his solicitor’s practice. “Once this foolish war is over, you can leave the army and join me in the business. I have left a chair vacant for you.”

Tulloch caught his mother’s eye and knew she was warning him not to antagonise her husband.

“Thank you,” Tulloch said. “Let’s win this war first, and then we can discuss the future.” He saw the relief in his mother’s face.

Mr. Tulloch nodded, partially mollified. “At least we have a decent Prime Minister. Winston Churchill is an inspiring man,” he said. “His speeches certainly woke us all up. We shall fight on the beaches indeed.”

Tulloch said nothing.

“Churchill was partly to blame for our unpreparedness for war,” Mrs. Tulloch reminded. “His ten-year rule, remember?” She looked up with the light of battle in her eyes. “He constantly claimed there would be no war in Europe for ten years, so we did not need to modernise the army.”

Douglas hid his surprised smile as his father looked nonplussed. In the nation’s current mood, any criticism of Churchill was viewed nearly as treason.

“Let’s not argue about a politician,” Tulloch realised he was acting as the peacemaker, not his mother. “I’ve only got a few days’ leave, and then I’m back on duty.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Tulloch nodded. “Let’s not argue.”

Mr. Tulloch grunted. “Mr. Churchill is a great man,” he said.

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Tulloch said. “But not as perfect as the newspapers would have us believe.”

Tulloch looked away. He did not care about the Prime Minister’s imperfections as long as he helped them win the war.