All things told, Thomas was rather pleased with the meeting and how it had gone.

One in particular item had been a tricky one when it came to defending the increase in budget spending. The company that made the tents the officers would use as their headquarters had been the sticking point, for that one had seen prices raise a far greater percentage than the rest of them, which of course made the men buzz and murmur. But Thomas had presented his case, of how they'd discovered that while the canvas the tents were made of was good enough the stitching could be greatly improved and that was where the cost was coming from. And thanks to the files he'd managed to convince someone from Medical to allow him to borrow ('Bless Sybil and her connections!'), he'd been able to prove that a few more pounds for better stitching meant less water leaking into the tents and thus reducing the risks that could bring.

It had been the first time he'd truly been alone to present his work to the upper brass. Matthew had been letting him take more of a lead but he'd always been right there, ready to jump in if Thomas needed him to. He hadn't but that wasn't the point... he'd merely KNOWN that Matthew was there and that was enough.

'Reminds me of the first time I had to act as a valet without Mr. Carson breathing down my neck,' he thought to himself before chuckled quietly. 'No, it doesn't. Matthew actually trusted me and respected my need to do those trial runs on my own. Mr. Carson was always butting in and doing the job himself half the time and it took Mrs. Hughes finally dragging him away by his ear to get that glowering bastard to let me try without him holding my wrists.'

Making his way into the waiting room just outside of his office he smiled at Ms. Reynolds, the plump older woman who reminded him of a mixture of Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore. She certainly had the fierce, determined, 'I will not put up with your nonsense so don't even try' attitude of the two while also being fiercely protective of those under her care.

"Any messages?" he asked.

"None from outside coming in, if that's what you mean," she said and Thomas let out a soft groan.

"When did he leave?"

"About three minutes after you went to your meeting. Said he was going to talk to the General about you."

"Oh hell," Thomas cursed. "And he hasn't come back?"

"He hasn't. Meaning he either was smart and waited for the General to be out of his own meeting... or he was stupid, rushed in, and now is getting flayed right there."

"Is it wrong if I wish for the second one?" Mrs. Reynolds asked.

"I should say yes, considering it's only his first day."

"You SHOULD say yes."

"Exactly," Thomas said, massaging the bridge of his nose. "What of Bertie?"

"Still in there, trying to cover."

"Of course the poor chap is," Thomas said, giving Mrs. Reynolds's desk a pat before entering his office, making a great show of removing his coat and hat before turning to finally face the remaining member of his new assistants.

Within a few hours of knowing him Thomas had quickly come to realize that Bertie Pelham was the perfect chap to have in the office assisting him. 'A bit dull, perhaps,' he thought to himself. 'Well, not so much dull as... neutral. A pleasant man, to be sure, but non-offensive to the point that he seems false.' Bertie was, based on Thomas' first impression, the vanilla pudding of the world. Good yes. Did the job well. No would complain when it was set on the table. But really lacking spice or flavor. He was genteel, friendly, eager to help, but that was about it when it came to him. He'd make a good husband for a woman that didn't need a sparring partner... so in other words would be eaten alive by Lady Mary or Lady Sybil. Perhaps Lady Edith… no, not Lady Edith as she was now. Before Matthew had come into their lives? Yes. But the strong and cunning woman she was now? Oh, she'd devour him and pick her teeth with his bones.

But as a worker he was exactly what Thomas needed. Even more so than Matthew, if he was being honest. 'With Matthew we both could become tense and determined, to the point that some days one of us had to resist our instincts in order to counter the other. But Bertie will be able to counter me easily enough. I can go with my instincts and know he'll bring me right back.'

For what he lacked in interesting traits he made up for in competence.

The man was the second cousin, once removed, of the current Lord of Brancaster but much like Matthew he had lived a quiet, middle-class life despite the deep friendship he shared with his cousin Lord Hexham. His father had served as the agent of Brancaster and Bertie had admitted during their introductions that he wished to take over the role himself one day. As such he had studied business in school and knew his way about books and numbers, something Thomas was grateful for. He could deal with the books easily enough but he much preferred interacting with people, meeting them face to face and hammering out details as opposed to pressing his nose to some ink-stained pages and comparing numbers.

"Hello sir," Bertie said once Thomas finally turned to face him. That was the other thing that Thomas appreciated: Bertie had no qualms about his superior being a former footman. The middle class always looked down on servants, seeing them as little more than the well-dressed poor who did the filthiest of tasks to earn their bread; of course servants looked down on the middle class for lacking any understanding of culture and being reckless fools. But Bertie had been polite and respectful from the moment he met Thomas, doing his tasks without question.

'Unlike some people,' Thomas thought in annoyance though he forced himself not to show those thoughts on his face. "Thomas, Bertie. You'll find that we don't stand for ceremony here."

"Yes, quite," Bertie said with a slight smile. "I remember the General telling me to stop standing up every time he entered the room when he interviewed me for this position." He sat down and looked over the papers on his desk. "So, I've gone over the requests from 2nd Company and I think they are doable-"

"Where is Greg?" Thomas asked, keeping his tone light and inquisitive. Bertie shuffled a bit at that and Thomas let out a soft sigh. "I am not going to murder him, Bertie, so you don't need to cover for him."

The other man looked down and focused on the papers before saying, "I tried to stop him, sir... Thomas, I truly did. He wouldn't hear it."

"He insulted you too, didn't he?" Thomas asked, feeling a bit more anger flash through his system. He was used to people looking down on him, mocking and judging him. He could take that. But he had come to find that now that he was the superior, with staff of his own... 'As sad as it is to think Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes have been like parents to me. And I don't take after 'dear ol papa'.' No, it was Mrs. Hughes that Thomas took after in this case, feeling fury at the fact that someone would dare hurt one under his watch. "He's a fool, Bertie."

"It doesn't bother me," Bertie said and Thomas looked at him for any sign that he was merely saying that to comfort him, to calm him down. But he wasn't, Thomas could quickly see that. "He is welcome to think what he wishes. I honestly don't care… I am happy with the life I have. I do not seek out fame or glory or titles because… I honestly don't need them." He gave a shrug. "Would I mind having them? Of course not. But my life isn't defined by the pursuit of such things." He paused. "Unlike Greg."

"Unlike Greg," Thomas echoed.

Where he had known that Bertie would be the perfect assistant to him within the first few hours of working with the man the converse could be said of his second assistant: he had known the man would be trouble. In fact he'd known it the moment he'd been introduced to him that morning when the new arrival, wearing his best dress uniform and standing with utter rigidity, had looked at him barely concealed scorn and stated he was, "Corporal Gregory Dunnings of Southsire".

Thomas had already known much about the man, having gone over his file after the General had given it to him… and done so with utter reluctance. Greg wasn't Allen's pick. The man had been forced upon them thanks to another part of the military, another General whose name Thomas didn't know most likely so he couldn't curse the man till his dying day, who had decided he didn't want to deal with Greg at all and thus dumped him on General Lothrop. According the Thomas' superior it was punishment for making a scene at Downton nearly half a year back, revenge served cold. Embarrass a lord in his own home, end up with Greg. They hadn't been able to prevent Allen's promotion to higher rank but they could make him miserable.

Greg, as Thomas thought of him and called him purely to get under the man's skin, was someone who had made the seeking of recognition and status a life passion. Nearly as much as he had made holding grudges his greatest hobby. The second son of Lord Theodore Dunnings, Earl of Southsire, Greg had no hopes of ever inheriting the estate as his brother, Theodore the Second, already was married and had two sons, thus an heir and a spare. He was unmarried and Thomas could see why, as without a title of his own he had little to offer to the women of high society and he refused to consider marrying 'below his station' as most second sons did. Even if that meant marrying a knight's daughter. His grades had only been rather good, placing him near the top of his class. But only NEAR the top… in every category someone else beat him and not even the same person so he couldn't, at the very least, gain some comfort from the idea that he at least had a single rival.

When the War had started he had been one of the first to sign up only to injure himself during training; a freak accident involving a horse. Greg wasn't blamed for it and notes were made that it was just something that had happened. But it had meant that he couldn't ship out with his unit and was left behind.

Ironically that had saved his life, as most of the men he'd gone through basic training with ended up dying during an ambush by the Germans.

But rather than take that as a sign of divine judgment Greg had taken the odd stance that it was further proof that the doctors shouldn't have delayed his departure. That had come from Jonesy, who, upon learning who he was getting as his assistant, pulled some strings to get more detailed accounts on both Greg and Bertie; Thomas didn't know what his... "friend"... did for the Army but whatever it was he was able to get juicer information than the standard career files the General had been able to provide. This included a note concerning his accident involving the horse had come about because of a drunken dare between him and another fresh recruit and that it had only been his father's quiet involvement that had kept the scandal from leaking out. Another note concerned the second injury he had received, which had once again delayed his shipping out. Per the official military reports Greg had sleepwalked into one of the foxholes the men had been digging as part of basic training and caused several injures to himself. Per Jonsey's report Greg had made once more his proclamations that his first unit would have survived if only he had been there and that their commanding officer had been a fool.

Said 'fool' had a brother. Who had been part of Greg's new unit.

An investigation had been opened into Greg's injuries but every man in his unit provided an alibi for their fellow soldiers and in the end the cause was listed as sleepwalking accident... and Greg had been quietly transferred to yet another unit.

This one had actually seen time in Europe where Greg had done well enough to earn a promotion, though it had been clear he thought he should be higher up in the command structure. Then he'd taken a bullet to the shoulder (and Thomas couldn't help but wonder if anyone had checked to see if the bullet had been fired by a German Mauser or a British Lee Enfield) and been set back to recover at home (a good thing, as if Lady Sybil or Matthew's mother had been forced to deal with the man they would have made sure he never made it out of the ward alive). But he hadn't stayed for long, leaving Southshire and coming to London to begin making a lot of noise about wanting to continue to do his part.

Thus how Thomas had ended up stuck with him.

"I knew he was trouble the moment he demanded Mrs. Reynolds fetch him so tea," Thomas muttered to himself. His secretary had looked at the man, glowered, and left the room.

"He threw a rather epic snit after you'd left that she hadn't come back yet."

"He's lucky she hadn't. He wouldn't have liked what she put into it." Bertie merely raised an eyebrow at that; the man might not have been a servant but he'd been around them enough that he clearly knew that sometimes if a Lord or Lady was a bit too fussy they found something extra in their drink. "But that wasn't enough to set him off, was it?"

"No," Bertie stated. "He felt that the work was beneath him and that-"

There was a commotion outside their office and the two turned as Mrs. Reynolds opened the door, a smirk on her lips as two RMPs marched a fussing Greg into the office. Greg, trying to look dignified even as he was frog walked into the room, adjusted his coat and ran a hand over his slicked back brown hair before fusing with his mustache, acting as if he were preparing to give a speech instead of being manhandled by the British Army's Police. The two stone faced RMPs shifted on either side of the door, allowing in...

Bertie snapped off a salute while Thomas merely smirked as Allen walked into the room.

"General," he said politely, giving a more casual salute than Bertie's rigid one.

"At ease," the General commanded, Bertie falling into a resting position while Greg turned and held himself with the same regal air a king might have when approached by their subjects. That confident air disappeared rather quickly when General Lothrop shot him a scathing dark look. "It seems," the older man growled, "that you've lost something Captain Barrow."

"I did, though I only just learned of it," he stated, walking over to a box of pastries that Mary had made for them and began to help himself to while, grabbing enough for the General and offering it to him. "I was meeting-"

"Yes yes, I know," Allen said, waving him off, though not in a rude sort of a way; no, Thomas could tell Allen just didn't want to spend much time on the subject. "Good job on that, by the way. Ran into Flemming as I was bringing this one back to you and he said you did a bang up job." Greg's jaw worked at that and the General huffed in annoyance. "Something you wish to add, Dunning?"

"No sir," Greg said with just enough respect to avoid getting the rifle butt in his stomach for his attitude.

"Good. Now, you informed me that your talents were being wasted in here and that someone of your standing and breeding could be doing far more important things than… however did you put it? Oh yes, "Shuffling papers along side a bunch of jumped up servants". That was what you said, was it not?"

"Perhaps not in those exact words-"

"Are you correcting the General?" One of the RMPs growled.

"Stand down, Simmons," Allen said, holding out his hand. "Fine then, not exactly in those words. But you admit to the sentiment?"

"I do, Lord Oakwood," Greg said, clearly feeling he was on more solid footing. Of course the poor fool thought that by addressing the General by his lordly title that he was gaining the man's respect… missing completely the way Allen's eye twitched at the epitaph he loathed. Greg squared his shoulders and with a determined voice stated, "My breeding and education all provide me with skills far above the tasks that have been assigned to me here. It is to be understanded, as mistakes do happen, but-"

"Understood," Bertie said.

"-when such… what?"

"It isn't "understanded". Understood. You meant to say, "It is to be understood", not "understanded"."

"Are you correcting me? Me? Do you know who I am?"

"Gregory Dunning," Bertie said, showing far more nerves that Thomas had expected of the man. "But I fail to see how knowing your name has anything to do with your grammar."

"Now see here you ignorant jumped up little man. I am the son of Lord Torpins of Southshire and I won't be talk-ed to in such a manner-"

"Talked."

"-by someone-"

"It's not talk-ed," Bertie continued speaking right over the man. "It's talked. You are trying to put emphasis on words to make yourself appear more noble but it's failing rather badly."

"Is this how you talk to your betters?"

"Its how I talk to someone who disgraces his position, and thus disgraces all of noble birth," Bertie said firmly. "And," he added with a slight smirk, "someone who butchers the King's English."

"You are lucky that they do not allow me to put your kind in chains for talking to me-"

Greg took a step forward only for Allen to slam his fist down on Thomas' desk, making everyone jump. "Enough!" he bellowed. He took a moment before, in a quieter voice, he stated, "Thank you Pelham for the grammar lessons. But with your permission I'd like to get back to the matter of Dunning and his accusations."

"Yes sir. Apologies sir," Bertie said, lowering his eyes. Thomas shared a glance with Allen; he'd lived with the man long enough to tell he was actually rather amused by Bertie's performance but couldn't show it at the moment. But Thomas wouldn't be surprised if Bertie got an invitation to dinner in a week's time. The General was one who had a healthy respect for a man that could look at some puffed up popinjay and smack them down when they got a bit too full of themselves.

The General turned to Greg, who had been looking at Bertie with a confident sneer, and glowered at the man. "So you feel I made a mistake in my selecting of you and that you are more important than the task you were assigned, is that it?"

"I can do more for the army, more important things, than that which is being asked of me," Greg stated. "At the very least I should have accompanied Captain Barrow to his meeting, so that I might present my suggestions on the matter."

Thomas chose that moment to step into the conversation. "And what, pray tell, would you know of contracts that you did not negotiate? Let alone read?"

"My experience allows me to understand such things upon the first hearing," Greg stated with confidence. "I would have been an asset to you."

'More that you want my position,' Thomas thought to himself but he refused to say the words, knowing that now was not the time to get into a petty squabble. He could tell the General had a plan of attack that he was moving towards.

"And what did Barrow assign you to perform while he was away that was so beneath you, Corporal?" The General inquired.

"Meaningless busy work, Lord Oakwood. I could tell right away."

Bertie opened his mouth but Thomas, who was close enough to him, grabbed his wrist and squeezed it, giving a small shake of his head when the other man looked at him. They needed to be silent, to let the General handle this.

"Well, that is news to me, considering that I pass along all assignments to Barrow and have him decide how to handle them. Are you claiming I give out assignments that don't actually need to be done but are created purely to occupy time? Because Dunning, let me assure you… that is not the case."

Greg, seeing that this was not winning over the General's favor like he'd expected, swallowed and quickly stated, "No, I am not saying that at all, Lord Oakwood. I… merely believe that Captain Barrow gave me an assignment of his own creation, separate from your tasks, as a way of gauging my skill. I can understand… it is an intimidation tactic, to try and maintain control and hide his own concerns when it comes to having someone of my ilk in this… office." He gave a small sniff before turning back to the General. "I saw through the ruse and decided to seek you out in order to correct this matter. We are far too busy and important for such things, are we not Lord Oakwood?"

Thomas could see the RMPs shifting a bit at that. Even they knew that Greg was stumbling right into an elephant trap.

"Then let us see, shall we? Where is this work?"

Greg's tongue darted out slightly to lick his lips. "I can… bring it to your office, if you wish. I know you are busy-"

"I am busy," Allen said, holding on to each word as he spoke it and snapping off each pause like he was tearing into a hard biscuit. "That's why I find it very annoying that instead of being in my office, doing my job, I'm down here dealing with you, Dunning. The man that interrupted my meeting with Ser Richard Irons and General Edison Mallory as we discussed how we might beat the Germans and win this war. So no, Dunning, I do not wish for you to bring it to my office, I want what Captain Barrow assigned to you and I want it NOW!" Mrs. Reynolds jumped at that and Thomas didn't blame her as he flinched himself from the final roar. "Dunning?" The General said with false sweetness when the man didn't move. "I don't tend to bellow twice. So when I say now… I. Mean. Now."

That got Greg to jump into action, hurrying over to his desk. "If you will give me a moment I am sure they are here-"

"They're in the trash," Bertie said helpfully. "You crumpled them up as you were leaving, stating that you wouldn't be needing them anyway after you convinced General Lothrop-"

Thomas stepped forward, face hot and jaw clenched. "You balled them up and threw them away?!" He looked at the trash can and saw the documents in question sitting on the top, smashed into a wad, his head snapping up as his rage boiled over. "Those were original documents and contracts for cooking oil, you arrogant little toadie! I needed you to go over them, to ensure that they matched what was requested before we began to make copies. Copies we do not have and will have to make using those. God help you if anything is illegible! And we still need those for our records! Are you going to explain why exactly valuable contracts were treated like rubbish to the higher ups, Greg? Are you? No, because right now I'm not sure if I'll even let you stay in MY office a second-!"

"Captain Barrow," Allen said sharply, cutting through his rage and getting him to realize that he'd stormed over to Greg and actually had the man leaning back over his desk, he was so close to him. Thomas quickly backed off, the General grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to the side so he could whisper in his ear. "You know, I haven't felt such fatherly pride since I taught Jenny how to ride a bike. You've been paying attention to me." He gave Thomas a smirk and he rolled his eyes as Allen's jests. The General, making sure that Thomas wasn't going to throttle his new assistant, turned to said man and let any traces of humor he'd been showing Thomas disappear as he glared at Greg. "So it seems that things are rather more different than you led me to believe."

"I… still stand by my statement, Lord-"

"I am General Allen Lothrop," he snapped, cutting the man off. "Head of Supplies and Equipment for His Majesties Armed Forces. The name Oakwood has NOTHING to do with what we do here. And seeing as you have no idea WHAT we do, despite being informed of your assignment before you were brought here, it falls to me to explain it. Especially since you felt that your ignorance gave you lease to interrupt me during my own work to try and whine and bemoan the lowly position you had been given. But let me make this clear, Dunning… had I known exactly what kind of man you were I would have NEVER trusted you with such an important task!" Allen reached up and adjusted his coat. "So, let me explain once more, and perhaps this time it will stick, just what we do here and why it is so important."

"With all due respect, General," Thomas said, stepping forward, "Dunning is my man. I want to explain it to him."

Allen looked at him, eyebrow cocked, before moving to the side and silently gesturing for Thomas to have at it. He could see Bertie out of the corner of his eye shifting, clearly not wanting to be there yet also unable to look away from the train wreck that was about to occur.

"We provide many things to the soldiers fighting to defend our way of life. All of them are vital. Guns, of course, and ammunition. Clothing. Tents. Medicines and equipment for the doctors and nurses. Petrol for the autos that move said items and the men that need them to and from the front. We are the life blood of the Army. Without us the soldiers die. And our department also keeps the homefront moving along. Without us factories would have no jobs to provide those unable to fight with a paycheck.

"The meeting I went to was to discuss that very thing, Dunning. And just so you understand clearly yes I was a footman before the war. Before. But since the very beginning of the conflict I have been working with the General to ensure that every lad over there is getting what they need to survive. And I am good at my job because the likes of you didn't go marching off into battle naked waving a stick about." He could see Dunning cringing at such a distasteful image but Thomas continued on before he could utter a word. "You believe that you are deserving of my position because of your lineage. But where I am standing your high breeding is a hindrance, not a help."

"You dare-"

"I dare!" Thomas snapped right back. "What do you know of buying food? Of trying to save money by finding a good deal? Of bartering and cutting deals to get by on your budget and squeeze every sent out of a pound? When is the last time you actually thought about the worth of money?" He laughed, short and harshly. "You haven't, I can see it in your eyes. For you money is utterly worthless because you have so much of it. But people like me? The ones that have had to scrimp and save and find a way to stretch every coin they had? I know how to make a budget and make it last and get the most out of it. Had you been there to discuss the contracts I handled you would have blown our yearly budget within a week and not understood why that was a terrible thing!"

Thomas walked over and grabbed the crumpled contracts Dunning had tossed away. "Now, these are not about guns or tents or medical equipment or clothing. They are about cooking oil. And I can tell you already are wondering what is so important about any of that. " He began to pace. "A soldier can survive without a gun. It is difficult, of course, and I wouldn't want any of our boys in that situation but it could be done. If one is quiet enough and cunning enough they could get through the enemy lines and make it back to our foxholes and rearm himself. A soldier could also last for a while without the proper uniform. They would have to steal from the townsfolk and peasants at best and at worst scurry about in their undergarments but it could be done. Find the right tree and a tent isn't needed. Be smart in how you fight and you might never need medical supplies. And equipment can be transported without a motor vehicle. Horses, donkeys, mules… it was done as such for centuries and could be done so again today.

"But a man must EAT!"

He slammed the contracts down on the desk.

"These documents concern weeks of work to secure cooking oil for the men fighting out there. To provide them with hot meals… safe meals. Oh, it isn't merely about taste, Dunning, but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you? Not in your pampered life. Food can spoil, become covered in filth that makes it unsafe to eat even if it appears perfectly fine." Something Mary had told him a few weeks ago at the dinner table popped into his head at that moment. "Did you know that tapioca, when raw, is poisonous? It must be cooked in order for it to be safe to eat. Honestly makes me wonder if the first person to discover that was a clumsy and unlucky assassin." He smiled a bit at that before returning to his scolding. "But the point remains that we need that cooking oil so our men have fully bellies. Because with food comes the strength to fight and end this war and drive back the Germans. They are relying on us and you pay them back by disrespecting them like this?"

Thomas turned and placed his hands on his desk, gathering himself before continuing. "I should have you sent down to janitorial. Have you scrub out toilets and mop the floors. But-" he turned, seeing that Greg had been ready to protest until that final word, "-that is a waste of talent. And I so do hate wasting talent. You could be a good man for this office, Corporal… it's time to see if you can live up to my expectations, let alone your own." He walked over to his desk and jotted down a quick note. "I need the weight and dimensions of the crates used to transport the camp stoves for the troops. The factory is here-" he walked over and handed Greg the slip of paper, "-and Finnegan's Oil is about a 10 minute walk from Sterns and Simmons. You will get the measurements and then go to Finnegan's and find out if they have a copy of the contract they can spare. If not then you will be retyping the entire thing by hand. And you will be doing all this during your lunch break since you already have wasted enough time for today."

Greg opened his mouth to say something, Thomas wasn't for sure what protest it might have been, only to snap his teeth shut like a bear trap and nod. There was nothing respectful about his movements though and Thomas didn't harbor any false beliefs that Greg would suddenly become the best employee in the world. Hell, he was pretty sure he would be even more insufferable after such a public scolding.

But he didn't care. He would do his job and Thomas would do his. And Greg would come to understand that his way the right way and that… he… must…

As Greg marched out Bertie walked up to him and frowned.

"Are you all right? You have an… odd look on your face."

"Mr. Carson," Thomas murmured.

"Who?" Bertie asked as Allen motioned for the RMPs to leave.

"The butler at Downton. I hear him now." He shook his head. "Laughing."