“Take no notice of that rubbish, they have nothing better to do than stir up trouble. Load of arse-licking pen-pushers, that’s what they are,” Corporal Woollard said, quickly confiscating the newspaper and stuffing it into the unlit stove.
Rubbish or not, Cavanaugh, a county cricket umpire, was adamant that no donkey was going to lead him to his death.
“I’m not going to be killed for something I know naught about,” he declared, his eyes wild and staring up at the roof.
“War will be over in no time; aye, we’re on top now and Fritz is on the run back to bloody Berlin where he belongs,” Corporal Woollard intervened. “You lot, you’ll be lucky if you see aught of the war. Might easily be finished, the rate you lot arse about instead of getting on with it.”
Stan Banks watched Corporal Woollard stride away, swinging his arms like he was on the king’s birthday parade, and smiled.
“He’s a rum bugger, he is. Story is he got blown out of a trench at Mons; bloody great shell landed in the trench and killed everybody but him. All he got were a perforated eardrum; deaf as a gatepost he is, so they sent him here to torture us day and night.”
Thomas baulked at the words and a cold surge of anxiety leapt into his mind. The war mustn’t end, not yet; he needed a few more weeks. He wore fear like he wore the shirt on his back – no matter how many times he changed it, it would always sit close, rustling, rubbing and staining.
Some grumbled when they were refused permission to discard the heavy cumbersome greatcoats.
“Let’s be having you! I’ve seen clothes – horses move faster than you lot!” Corporal Woollard roared.
Hot sticky sweat poured from their backs leaving spreading black stains clinging to their shirts and tunics. In single-file they followed the tortuous route along the hedgerow; stumbling and cursing while they attempted to adjust the straps of their fully-laden backpacks to prevent them cutting into their shoulders and drawing blood.
“Fix bayonets!” Corporal Woollard screamed. “At the double, you lazy bunch of arseholes; charge!” he screamed, obscenities sliding from his mouth like they were greased with dripping.
The men surged forward, shouting and yelling, rifles slung low at their waists. Some fell from exhaustion and Joe Cavanaugh, discovering a way out of unnecessary exertion, took the opportunity of falling with them. NCOs screamed and shouted abuse at them to get to their feet. A piece of tarpaulin stretched over a large hole concealed its existence from the struggling soldiers, and yelling with surprise and fear the troops fell head-first into three feet of muddy water.
“Out, out, move yourselves! Load rifles!” Corporal Woollard yelled. “I never told you to stop, load on the run, you useless buggers, and you, Cavanaugh, you useless miscreant, I reckon the best part of you ended up squirted on your mother’s belly! Come on, move, move!” he screamed repeatedly.
“I can’t, I can’t go any further,” Cavanaugh moaned, lying face down.
“Can’t, what do you mean can’t? Am I going deaf or am I hearing voices in my head?” Woollard roared, his face turning scarlet. “Two of you men, take him by the feet and drag him to the top of the field.”
Leslie Hill led the charge. Like a mad bull he ran hollering and screaming, thrusting and jabbing with his bayonet flashing at an imaginary enemy. Sweat flew from his face in a spray so thick that some men reckoned they saw a rainbow form over his head as he thundered over the green field. A rousing cheer erupted from the men behind, and renewing their efforts they took after the big man. At the top of the field, Hill stood with his chest heaving, his face red and flowing with sweat. He stood erect, with his rifle by his side, and the men took their dressing from him, waiting in columns of threes. Everyman had passed the test.
“Well done, Private Hill, we might make a soldier of you yet,” Corporal Woollard grinned.
“Thank you, Corporal, it’s very kind of you to mention it,” Hill answered shyly.
Hill, from a small village outside Northampton called Duston, had spent his working life in a small printing company as a typesetter. Although a big man with a heart to match and of great strength, he possessed a mild manner until aroused. He was one of the breed looking forward to the war out of boredom, and with a zest for excitement he felt the need to test himself under fire. With a feisty wife half his size, he failed to mention to anyone that he was also severely henpecked at home. He also failed to mention that he harboured a lifetime of hankering to join a travelling circus as a lion tamer.
By now, the army had finally succeeded in re-building and moulding the men into a reasonable semblance of militia fit for the trenches of France. They were now pliant and totally subservient, and the constant humiliation and use of indecent language had stripped away their pride and reduced them to a condition in which they were amenable to any command.
Thomas revelled in the fact he had successfully managed to remain impartial to the remainder of the men, apart from the effervescent Stan Banks from Liverpool. Yet unselfishly he assisted Thomas with everything connected to army life, aware he hid a dark secret. He never probed or asked awkward questions. Most nights he slipped silently from his bed and threw the thin blankets back over Thomas’s shaking and trembling body, then placed a comforting hand on Thomas’s shoulder and waited until the trembling stopped.
Finally the training came to an end and the men were guaranteed to take orders without thought, which ordained them to be passed as ‘trained’. It was the last week in October, and lawyers, cobblers, bakers, thieves and rogues were shaped into a fighting force ready for the worst the war might throw at them. The training, coupled with the Spartan lifestyle, had made Thomas lean and muscular, and he was no longer mistaken for a boy. He had become a man before his time: an immature man, maybe, who would never know the disappointments of boyhood or experience the frailties of growing into manhood. He held himself erect with a self-assured confidence that matched the other men, and with unashamed pride revelled in the knowledge that they addressed him as they would any other grown man. He listened and glowed with pleasure when they told him of their families, the names of their children and where they were born. Not least, of their hopes and aspirations if they survived the horrible burden of living through the war.
“Hey, lad, you don’t know how bloody lucky you are, raised in an orphanage myself, hard times they were, I can tell you. Life in the army is a bloody picnic,” Thomas lied bravely, when questioned about his background. When they asked him what he wanted from life, he didn’t tell them he wanted to die.
The following day he was told Corporal Woollard wanted to see him, his face paled and fear darted into his chest. With a fearful expectation he straightened his cap and swallowed before rapping on the office door and waiting at attention. An orderly appeared, stared at him like he had the plague and ushered him into the small room.
“Stand easy, Private Elkin. I’ve been handed a letter from your parents, lad. Seems it’s been lost in the post for some time,” he said, his eyes boring into Thomas’s face. “They want to know why you haven’t written in all the time you’ve been here. They also make reference to your fifteen-year-old brother, Thomas. They say he’s missing, presumed drowned on the day you left to join us. Seems a strange set of affairs after your insistence you were raised in an orphanage. Explain, lad, in your own time.”
Corporal Woollard sank back into the chair and stretched out his legs, his eyes probing Thomas’s face.
Time came to a standstill, Thomas felt his breathing increase and the blood pound into his temples. At last his deception was over and he would go to the hangman as guilty as the day is long. He opened his mouth to speak but dryness welded his lips together. Distraught, he pushed his tongue between them in a vain effort to prize them apart. For what seemed an eternity, words failed to come, then, suddenly, he began to stutter and stammer words that Corporal Woollard failed to understand.
“Settle down, lad, you’re finished with the army. I believe you are Thomas, and maybe your bro
ther’s deserted and you are taking his place, I don’t know for sure. Best take your uniform and kit to the stores and return home, lad. The police will want a word with you. I’ll speak with the commanding officer later,” he said.
“No!” Thomas cried, his nerve starting to crack as a paralysing terror gripped his body. “I’m a soldier ready to fight. I’ll not go back, you can’t make me. I want to stay with the rest of the men.”
Woollard watched his eyes, devoid of compassion or anger. In the past he’d often turned a blind eye to under-age boys looking for excitement. Morris, Earnshaw, White, Malpas, Goode; the names splattered into his brain. All brave young men who came like lions and ended up like sheep, screaming for their mothers when the first salvo poured into their trenches. Most ended up shovelled into sandbags and dropped into a communal burial pit.
“Nay, it can’t be done, lad, I’m sorry. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
A low moan escaped from Thomas’s mouth, beads of perspiration formed on his upper lip. He was surrounded by barriers closing in tighter and tighter until his chest heaved for release. He backed away towards the door, his breath froze in his lungs and tears blurred his vision. His hand reached for the door handle. For a second he felt foolish and wiped his face with the back of his hand. The door swung open taking him by surprise and he stumbled outside.
“Don’t be stupid, lad, stay where you are. That’s an order!” Woollard called.
Fear rammed into Thomas’s mind like a cannon shot and exploded, sending a sensation of pins and needles coursing through his legs. In blind panic he turned and ran, pursued by Corporal Woollard, his breath mixed with sobs rasping and bubbling from his chest. Between the huts he ran absent of any sense of direction, and headed towards the road bordering the square. In the background he heard the rattle of the cook’s lorry returning from the stores laden with heavy sacks of porridge and he slowed to a trot. Corporal Woollard reached out. He ducked and twisted to avoid the outstretched hands and watched in horror as the corporal fell beneath the front wheels. The cook, white-faced, pushed down hard on the brakes too late. When the lorry finally drew to a stop, Corporal Woollard lay motionless in a pool of blood.
“Bloody hell, bloody hell, I couldn’t stop! Where did he come from, for Chrissake, the deaf bastard? You’ll tell them up there it were an accident, won’t you?” the cook cried, staring at the crushed remains of Corporal Woollard’s head.
Thomas gulped, feeling no sensation of remorse, only a comforting moment of respite.
“Aye, I will that, lad, have no fear. I saw it with my own eyes; it was definitely an accident,” Thomas mumbled, picking up the letter Woollard had dropped and slipping it into his pocket.
Later that afternoon, they marched a nervous Thomas before Colonel Felce to verify the cook’s version of the accident. There was no mention of the letter. When Colonel Felce dismissed him he found a quiet spot behind the latrines and fought to restrain the pent-up feelings torturing his insides.
Chapter Five
At last civilians became soldiers, and in the eyes of the army they had earned the right to be called men. Ten weeks of torture, degradation, abuse and near abandonment of life itself had finally drawn to a welcome conclusion. Some, so dazed by the perpetual brainwashing, believed the only time the sky was blue was when someone with stripes on his arm told them so. Yet by this time they had been welded together into a fine body of men, with each believing himself equal to at least three Germans. On the parade ground they waited proudly to be transported to the nearest railway station for departure to Folkestone and then France.
“Right, you horrible lot, seems Fritz isn’t ready for you just yet, and due to a lack of transport to France you have been granted five days extra leave,” the ginger-haired sergeant bellowed. “After which you will make your way to Folkestone; rail passes are available at headquarters.”
Thomas happily left Catterick and headed for Liverpool with his friend and self-appointed mentor Stan Banks. Now they were free to enjoy five days of liberty before leaving for France and whatever the gods held in store for them.
For ten weeks he’d survived with men who’d never questioned or resented his presence while they prepared for war. Like them he too was a soldier trained to kill people: people he’d never met, people who had done him no harm and probably never would nor even wanted to. All that remained for him to do now was to devise a means of ending his life by his own hand. In a moment of childishness, he clamped his eyes shut and wished he was going home to Ruby.
In the home of Stan Bank’s he was welcomed as a hero for no other reason than being under their roof and wearing the same uniform as their son. Silas Banks called him a southern ‘scally’ and watched him scoff three plates of scouse, a Liverpool dish made with chopped meat, potatoes, onions, carrots, tomatoes and celery, with a bay leaf added for taste. Molly, Stan’s seventeen-year-old sister, found it difficult to tear her eyes away from him and made him nervous. He knew nothing of women nor showed the slightest interest in their existence. At mealtimes, Mrs Banks continually tapped the back of Molly’s head and told her to stop staring.
“It’s rude to stare, Molly, mind your manners,” she said, and kissed Thomas on the cheek just to tease her. Molly threw down her spoon and ran upstairs, shrieking with anger.
If they mourned the death of Eli they kept it to themselves, his name was never mentioned in Thomas’s presence. With the fuel business being so close to the Liverpool docks it provided Silas with the opportunity to make a good living, supplying the dockworkers with coal and logs to keep the fires burning throughout the cold winters, and at mealtimes the table was always full. As a family they were content, good-humoured and quick-witted with a strong sense of fun synonymous with the people of Liverpool, who invariably discovered an amusing side to the idiosyncrasies of life.
Only on one occasion did Thomas witness a form of anger in the house: the time Stan misguidedly brought home a newspaper extolling the horrors of the war in Europe splashed across the front page.
“Get that rubbish out of the house, lad,” his father seethed. “I’ll not be a party to lies and propaganda from some bloody reporter who’s never fired a bloody bullet in his life,” he said, snatching the paper and tearing it to pieces. Already he’d lost one son and he didn’t relish the fact that the war now had its claws into another.
On Saturday night, two days before they were due to leave for Folkestone, Thomas insisted he treat the Banks family to the City Picture House on Lime Street to see a Charlie Chaplin film. Dressed in their Sunday best, they sat in the circle surrounded by decorated plasterwork overlooking the dark oak-panelled orchestra pit, and laughed and cried at the little tramp. Molly embarrassed him by holding his hand all through the performance and refused to let it go even when the show came to a close. Contrary to what Molly thought, he was afraid of her and her advances and didn’t know how to respond when she touched him in places she shouldn’t, causing him to jerk up in surprise and blush a deep red. It was a woman who had been partly responsible for Archie’s death and the reason for him being on the run to escape the hangman’s rope. Women, he thought, were best left alone until he knew what they were for.
Sadly the five days drew to a close all too quickly, the time to leave arrived. The following morning he and Stan left quietly without waking anyone or saying goodbye and made their way to the railway station. On the kitchen table Thomas left a slip of paper leaning against an empty milk bottle. It read simply, Thank you.
Such was the wonder in his eyes that he stood with childish simplicity staring at the gleaming black locomotives panting on the silver lines at Lime Street railway station, their tenders piled high with shiny black coal waiting to gorge the hungry red-hot boiler into hot scalding steam. The station was a hive of activity crammed full of frowning soldiers with sagging shoulders and doleful eyes. Row after row of tearful women wearing pastel dresses and carrying colourful parasols thronged the platform alongside freshly-painted railway co
aches. Coach windows dropped open and men thrust out their heads, allowing wives, sweethearts and well-wishing families to hold them close for perhaps the last time. Throughout the whole of the station the sweet cloying smell of steam gelled with oil and grease ready to crank up the huge iron wheels attacked the senses. Then, one after another the sound of carriage doors slamming shut could be heard like the clacking of a falling row of dominoes; whistles shrieked and shrilled like a horde of imprisoned spirits seeking freedom, signalling the departure of the railed giants. People moved from a walk to a trot in a futile attempt to keep abreast of the coaches for one last glimpse of a loved one. Soon they became no more than tiny specks trailing in the distance as the train picked up steam and swiftly departed from the station, conveying unwilling passengers to a war most didn’t want. Embroidered handkerchiefs fluttered from pale, elegant wrists waving the final farewell, then dabbed away moist tears from carefully mascara-brushed eyes.
“Change at Manchester for London and Folkestone,” the platform officer said, slamming the door shut. Twelve soldiers in full kit scrambled swearing and cursing into a crammed compartment designed for six.
“The British Army knows how to treat its soldiers,” someone complained. “If there are any generals present, best get off your arse and give me your seat, me bloody legs are killing me.”
“Aye, lad, you’ll not see them anywhere near a bloody Tommy. They’ll be sitting on their fat arses miles behind the lines, drinking fine wine and filling their stupid faces,” another voice said.
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