Sergeant Gregson's War

by Jim Gregson

  I was beset by an absurdly vivid memory from the early, silent days of Hollywood. The Keystone Kops, racing in rapid, jerky motion through those vanished streets in pursuit of villains. And with that vision came the thought that roles might be reversed here. Would these men suddenly race off through the streets of Valetta, with Sergeant Gregson as their single, ineffective restraint being dragged helplessly behind them, waving frantic arms at an uncaring audience?

  This did not happen. The men peed solemnly in our bizarre procession, conversing in their own tongue, refraining from pulling any of the obvious stunts which this procedure seemed to me to invite. They even waited patiently for me to urinate at the end of their line. It seemed to take me a very long time, even for a man with a full bladder.

  The unsmiling MP sergeant released each member of our roped crocodile as we arrived back at the aeroplane. An equally hostile MP lance corporal stood at his side with a Sten gun, inviting any gesture of aggression from this well-clothed and respectable line of prisoners. The cabin staff looked on in bemused astonishment, then reinstalled their passengers into their comfortable seats with some sympathy.

  No such farce awaited us at London airport. As we crossed the coast and began our descent, I was amazed how richly green England looked, after the browner and drier acres of Cyprus. Prison officers boarded the plane as soon as we landed and prepared to relieve me of my dangerous cargo. I obtained a signature for my ‘Prisoners Civilian, twenty-nine’ and the officers from Wormwood Scrubs were pleased to confirm that this was exactly the number they had been briefed to expect. I gazed at the backs of my prisoners fondly as they trooped away. After all, they had been the instruments of my return to Blighty.

  With instructions from the airport staff and my army rail warrant in hand, I was at Euston and on the Manchester express quite quickly. I reached Manchester just after nine, shivering a little against the English cold, looking round at the familiar city buildings with a warmth of recognition I had never felt before.

  The almost empty bus delivered me quickly to Salford Royal Infirmary. Its silhouette towered above me against the night sky. Haste had been my theme since I had landed. All my energy had been devoted to racing to this spot as quickly as possible. It was only now that I had time for fear. I felt my first tremor of alarm at what I might find within this high, forbidding place.

  It was long past the single evening visiting hour, which was strictly observed. But I wanted to get to Mum, whatever condition she was in: I had travelled thousands of miles to do that. I knew her ward number and officialdom wasn’t going to stop me now. Before my national service, I would have meekly accepted a rebuff at the reception desk. But the army had taught me how far a false front and a false confidence could carry me.

  I scarcely checked my stride at the porter’s desk. ‘Doctor Dawson to consult Sister MacDonald,’ I announced imperiously. My uniform should have made him suspicious, but I don’t think he even registered it. He would never have doubted a chap who was so sure of himself. Bullshit baffles bureaucracy.

  I delivered the same mantra in the same imperious tone to a series of hospital employees who looked as if they might question my presence here. None of them even called a question after me. The corridors were well lit, but lights were being switched off in some of the wards. Ward seven had a list of occupants by the door for visitors. Elizabeth Gregson was in bed four.

  My bravado dropped away now and I discarded my histrionics. What was I going to find? I pushed the door open quietly and crept silently down the centre of the ward to bed four.

  It was quite empty. I checked the number again, then examined the bed in the dim light available. The white sheets were folded back immaculately, stretched so tightly over the mattress that not a crease was visible. The state of this bed would have satisfied any bombardier in Tonfanau.

  Where was Mum? Had she died and been taken to the mortuary? My mind reeled, but this was the only possibility it would consider.

  I became aware of a crisp blue presence behind me. Not my fictitious Sister MacDonald, but a sister, certainly. She looked thunderous as I turned round to her. ‘May I ask what on earth you are doing here at this hour, sergeant?’

  Probably it was only the uniform and the stripes that had protected me from something even more fierce. I forced my mind to frame words I suddenly didn’t want to utter. ‘Elizabeth Gregson. That’s my mother. I’ve been flown home from Cyprus on compassionate leave to see her. Is she…’ I stopped there. My lips wouldn’t frame the word I did not want to utter.

  ‘She’s not dead, sergeant. She’s at home. She was discharged this afternoon. The further tests conducted here showed no signs of a serious disorder.’

  I stared at her for a moment as my brain struggled to take in the news. ‘You mean there’s no cancer?’

  The sister glanced round her ward, wondering which of her patients were safely asleep and which ones might be awake and listening. You didn’t mention that word aloud if you could avoid it, even here in this specialist ward. Most members of the public didn’t like it. Many of them held to the ridiculous superstition that the very mention of the word made its presence more likely. The sister said softly, ‘No cancer.’

  ‘That’s good. That’s very good.’ I couldn’t think what to say, in the exhilaration of this good news. Having bullshitted my way in here so arrogantly, I was now reduced to a small boy in the presence of authority.

  That authority said, ‘You’ve come a hell of a way to hear this. It will break every kind of protocol, but you’re a soldier in uniform. Would you like a cup of tea in my office?’

  ‘No. No, thank you. It’s very good of you, but I should be on my way.’ I needed to be alone. I wanted to digest this news and come to terms with it. I was suddenly afraid I might burst into uncontrollable weeping. That would disgrace the Queen’s uniform.

  I edged towards the door. ‘I’m sorry for barging into here like that at this hour. I was very worried.’

  She nodded. But she didn’t tell me that it was all right, that she understood. There were limits. She wasn’t about to sanction such outrageous conduct. Perhaps she saw what a great effort it was for me to gather my gangling limbs and prepare to march whence I had come. She called after me, ‘She’s a good woman, your mum. Make sure you look after her, Sergeant Gregson.’

  It was too late to get back to Blackburn tonight. It was almost ten o’clock by the time I got back into Manchester, too late for a bus or train to my home town. We’d never had a phone, so I couldn’t ring home. Mum and Dad wouldn’t even know that I was back in the country. But I’d be home tomorrow, enjoying the look of wonderment and delight on Mum’s face when she saw me, sharing Dad’s relief as he told her what a nuisance she’d been to us all with her false alarms.

  I felt a guilty pleasure when I saw the lateness of the hour. It meant that I could climb aboard a red Manchester bus and travel the six miles to join my beloved Joy in Sale.

  She was at the door swiftly when I knocked. Even with the hall light behind her, I could see her blue eyes glistening with delight. I embraced her hard, lifting her off her feet, feeling the weight of her body and the touch of her soft length against me. I put my finger on my lips as she led me indoors and into the lounge, where her father sat in his armchair watching the last of the evening’s television.

  I sat down softly on the end of the sofa beside him. He was totally unconscious of my arrival. He hadn’t had a television set for long and he’d been born in 1893. The new medium was a huge and fascinating novelty for a man whose early amusement had been Little Titch and George Robey and the Manchester music halls, long before the magic of talking pictures in the thirties. Now he had moving pictures in his own home. Who’d ever have thought you’d have things like that?

  For four minutes my presence was unnoticed. Then, when the programme ended and the speaker for the Epilogue was announced, Mr Doherty got up to switch off the set. Only then did he see me and leap with the shock.

  I grinn
ed at him. ‘Compassionate leave. But it’s a false alarm: my mum’s OK. We might have a game at crib tomorrow. I’m a dab hand now.’

  He nodded, then stopped at the door of the room to say, ‘Welcome home!’ He still looked bewildered as he left, but nothing really surprised him in this man who had married his younger daughter so abruptly.

  I delivered my nine pounds to Joy to add to our accumulating marriage allowance. ‘We should have enough for the house deposit by the time I’m demobbed. I’ll go and see Mum tomorrow. And I’ll see what the prospects are of a job for me there, when I’m finished with this lot.’

  I kissed her long and gently, shyly renewing my familiarity with the feel of her flesh. Then I began wearily to strip off the battledress I had worn for so long.

  Sergeant Gregson’s war was over.

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