by Carl Leckey
“Great.” he says. “I got a load for there as well I wondered how I could forward it. Can you come to the mailroom when you’ve finished your tucker? It’s under the main stairs in the entrance hall. I’ll give you a few bags to take if you don’t mind?”
I agree to his request and make a request of my own.
“Will you see if there is anything for me?” I give him my name and number.
He leaves a happy man and I continue with my meal, another soldier speaks to me.
“Just come from the front line have you?”
“Well pretty close to it.” I confirm. “Have you heard how the armistice talks are going?”
A newspaper cast aside by the mail clerk lies on the table, the blaring headlines give the latest on the talks.
A little puzzled he should ask me I tell him the current situation.
“I only know what I read in the papers and they are already a week old.” Then a realisation comes to me, the poor fellow can’t read, yes. I remember what it is like before I could read and write myself. I pick up the paper and proudly but slowly read the article to him. When I finish he thanks me, stands up and feeling his way with a white stick begins to leave the room. What an idiot I feel? The poor man is blind not illiterate, another lesson learnt. I mustn’t assume anything in this crazy world.
He’d only taken a few steps when he trips over another casualty’s crutches and crashed to the floor dragging a tablecloth with him, the contents of the laid table, food, crockery etc follow him.
A cheer from the assembled diners greets the accident, rushing over I help him to his feet. The waiters accept the minor disaster in their stride and clear the mess up immediately without any fuss.
I help him to the seat he has vacated at my table. The fall has shaken the poor lad up considerably. He grips my hand and begins to cry in a heart-wrenching manner.
I have seen many soldiers doing this but it still makes me uncomfortable to see a grown man behave in such a manner.
“What will happen to me with no eyes?” He sobs “I’m a watch maker, what will I do now?”
A male nurse joins us and kneels by his side talking softly to him patiently he pacifies the poor chap until another casualty needs his attention.
The blind man still grips my hand. “I saw the Angels you know?”
He informs me in a whisper. I am not quite sure what he is saying, I lean forward to catch his words.’
“Did you say you saw the Angels old chap?” I enquire.
He replies hesitantly. “They were the last thing I saw before darkness and pain hit me, I thought they had been sent to save me. I was on my own in a stinking shell hole in the middle of no man’s land when they just appeared as if by magic. A beautiful sight they were, a beautiful sight, a beautiful.”
His voice fades as he repeats the last sentence.
I have to ask. “Tell me about it please, can you tell me what they looked like?” I earnestly beg him to describe his encounter, excitement courses through my body.
“They let me down.” He answers a slightly resentful tone enters his voice, he begins to sob again.
The male nurse returns with a Doctor and a bath chair, the Doctor prizes his clenched hand off mine with difficulty and they gently load him into the bath chair.
I must admit I am glad of their intervention but at the same time my opportunity to talk to another person that has experienced a visitation of the Angels is lost.
I see the male nurse later and ask him how the poor lad is doing.
“He’s a bad case.” He informs me. “There is nothing wrong with his eyes the Doctors reckons its shellshock he’s suffering with, hysterical blindness I heard them saying. The poor bugger was stuck in no mans land for nearly a week with only his dead mates for company, imagine that?”
I wonder if there were any more tragedies this war can inflict on the lads.
The clerk has indeed sorted out two letters for me when I eventually find him in what was the silver room. My mind goes back to the encounter with Denise and her sisters in this very room.
He hands them to me and I retreat to the entrance hall where I sit on a bench by the fire turning the envelopes over and over wondering who can be writing to me. One has an English stamp the other is French. I have only received three letters in my time in the Army except for the correspondence from Denise.
I opted to open the letter with the French stamp first, hoping against hope it might be a letter from her. No return address in the right hand corner as Toot had instructed when he taught me how to correspond by letter.
I read the contents of the short letter carefully.
“My Dearest Scouse.” It must be an Army mate to address me in such a way. “I take this opportunity to thank you for all your kindness whilst in your company. I am enjoying my stay with friends. I hope the opportunity will arise when we will meet again sometime in the future when the war is over. Look after yourself and take care.
Yours sincerely O.”
This is definitely not from Denise. This is very formal I know her writing too well anyway.
It couldn’t be Christina. She has none of my details, what’s more why would she bother writing to me?
Who the bloody Hell knows me in France? What is more who is O?
I puzzle for a while until the penny drops. “It’s Bloody Oscar.”
That’s who it is, so he is still in France. I’m sure glad he isn’t captured for a couple of reasons thank goodness I’ve solved that one. I think it prudent to destroy the letter immediately by ripping it into shreds and casting the pieces into the open log fire.
Now to the letter with English stamp, the address on the envelope is a little peculiar.
To Scouse.
The driver of the charabanc.
The number and location of my casualty station
I rip the envelope open and when I see the address I feel ashamed. It is from the driver I met on my last memorable trip to Le Havre. I begin to read the contents.
Dear Scouse
Please forgive me for addressing you this way, as I don’t know your proper name. I know it is a gamble sending this letter addressed in such a crude way but I hope you receive it.
Now for the sad news. The military authorities at the port of Le Havre arrested a deserter trying to steal passage on the boat to England. He has admitted a number of offences along with his desertion but the worst one he owned up to. Is the murder of the driver of the charabanc that took his group to the front? He evidently stowed away on the charabanc on the return trip rather than face the enemy. He intended hiding until reaching the port but the vehicle bogged down in a field. An argument with the driver ensued and he reckons his rifle went off accidentally.
I’m afraid to say it is almost certainly my brother he referred to.
The irony of it all is, Fred should never have taken the vehicle so far forward. There was a mix up at movement control when he landed in France. I believe the deserter has been found guilty and they executed him last week. At least my brother can now rest in peace, and I have the satisfaction of knowing the perpetrator of the foul deed has been brought to justice.
I am sending you this information because of the kindness that you and your mate showed me at Le Havre.
Good Luck. I hope the peace talks go well.
Yours Truly
So Toot was right about the bullets being British. I consider the letters contents and come to a conclusion. The argument and shooting took place after the vehicle bogged down when we recovered Pompey Lill the cooling system had been drained. The poor driver had completed these tasks when the deserter shot him.
He must have been a tough old bugger to crawl across the field so badly wounded, with a couple of 303 slugs in him. But what a shit the coward was to do that to an old man, then leave him suffering and bleeding. Although I hate the MPs, I’m glad they caught that lousy bugger on this occasion.
I write a letter to him immediately, apologising for the delay and the reason why. I inform
him how and where we found his brother, and my assurances that we gave him a decent burial, also enclosing the address to contact and claim his brother’s belongings.
As I painstakingly write the letter, something nags at the back of my mind, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot remember what it is.
Tasks complete, I take Pompey Lill to the fuel dump, top up also my spare cans. This time I thoroughly check all the other critical points on the vehicle, determined not to be out caught again.
The MP in charge appears to be lonely on his own. When I reveal I have recovered from flu, he gratefully undoes his mask and begins chatting to me as I carry out my duties. He expresses an opinion that the armistice talks will be successful this time, as both sides are suffering from the influenza epidemic.
The movement of troops towards the front line has slowed, as many of the troops are falling ill before they arrive. He reckons his MP mates guarding the German prisoners heard that their side is suffering as badly as we are. With this welcome news I head back to the Chateau for a night’s sleep I wish I could believe him.
I woke up with a start in the early hours I remembered what has nagged me. The letter from poor Tommy’s mother, but what can I tell her? How can I explain that her only son has been shot for desertion and cowardliness? This unwelcome task I know I can’t carry out. If ever there is a need for a Godly person, a good Padre, or priest, then this is the letter they should be writing. All my dealings with this class of person up to now have not gone well this causes my reluctance to approach such a person. After lying awake for hours considering the options, I finally decide to seek the Colonels advice when I return to the Chateau.
I set off this morning with Pompey Lill loaded to the gills with deck chairs occupying every available space. The Colonel breaks the news that no nursing staff can be spared to accompany me on this trip.
I certainly will need the Angels help if anything goes wrong on my way to the port.
The passengers appear to be a happy bunch, even though some of them show signs of horrific injuries they seem quite content to take on the journey without a medical presence.
I encounter only light traffic and progress much faster and easier, until stopping at the usual place to allow the lads some relief. The most able of my passengers assist me with the more crippled lads. It’s pitiful to see young men blinded, scarred, without limbs, yet excited at the prospect of going home, what kind of life awaits them I wonder? I realised how fortunate I have been to come through the war so far, basically unscathed.
What did the future hold for me if the peace talks are successful? I realise I love the life I lead in the Army, despite some of the distasteful drawbacks.
As I near Le Havre I feel a stirring in my loins, and wonder if I will have the opportunity to visit the alluring Christina. I have recently been paid and know I can afford another lesson in the art of lovemaking. I giggle to myself as I think of her description of our encounter as.
“Adam’s stroll in Eve’s Garden of Eden.” I definitely need a stroll right now. More giggling to myself. It’s not so much as a stroll I need more like a race through her garden as soon as possible.
On arrival at the port I report to movement control at the dock gates. The clerk gives me written orders and directs me to a ferry where I unload my passengers, with no chance of a quickie in the house of love.
I load stores, a few passengers, top up with fuel, and begin my return trip to the Chateau within an hour of arrival. This procedure continues for a week, back and to from Le Havre to the Chateau, two trips a day.
I am dog-tired and drive like an automaton with no opportunity to speak to the Colonel regarding the letter to Tommy’s mother.
The epidemic becomes even worse. I have no orders to return to my real base the casualty station, Pompey Lill proves too valuable for clearing patients from the Chateau. As fast as I transport a load away, more sick soldiers take their place. On the eighth of November nineteen eighteen Pompey Lill breaks down.
I have been having oil pressure trouble and engine knocks on the last few trips, desperately I try to find someone to sort out the problem. Everyone I approach is either short-handed or too busy.
Because Pompey Lill isn’t a regular Army issue vehicle none of the repair workshops carry spares for her. I keep her going by continually topping up the engine with oil, keeping my fingers crossed, and calling on my guardian Angel to watch over me.
Finally, as I draw out of Le Havre docks with yet another load she finally gives up the ghost, the poor overworked engine seized solid and Pompey Lill grinds to a halt.
The passengers are disembarked, and the stores are unloaded. I head towards the movement control office on foot. Before I reach there I am intercepted by an MP, and he orders me to get the vehicle off the docks at once. After searching about I find a sympathetic truck driver willing to tow me off the docks. He pulls ahead of my vehicle hooks on a chain and tows Pompey Lill to the work-shop parking area.
By the length of the queue of parked vehicles I am not the only one in trouble.
There are about twenty broken down vehicles with frustrated drivers, occupying what they term as the knackers line waiting for repairs. To be honest I am glad of the rest. After notifying the workshop office of my arrival I walk back to the docks and report to the movement control office, and explain my problem to the clerk. He hands me a docket authorising repairs, and another for meals at the canteen. Having met the MPs around the port, I insist on written orders to stay with my vehicle until repairs are complete. He obliges without a fuss, appreciating my concern regarding the MPs. He appears a nice fellow, from my home town and we talk for a while. I only get ready to leave when an Officer appears on the scene the clerk assures me he will inform the Chateau of my predicament.
Luckily Toot has always insisted.
“If you head away from the front, you take all your personal kit with you. You never know where you will finish up when you set off in an Army vehicle.” His good advice works out sound on this occasion.
After a meal, on returning to Pompey Lill I find a group of Army drivers examining my vehicle.
I nod a greeting to them and begin to climb aboard. A big bushy moustache man asks me.
“Are you the driver of this bus then lad?” I reply. “Yes, is there a problem?”
“No lad not unless you like to make one, we just want a word with you alright?”
I apprehensively invite them aboard. “It’s like this lad” The spokesman says, after they have settled down in the seats.
“You see, all of our vehicles have broken down or have some serious mechanical fault.”
I commiserate, and tell them about Pompey Lill’ s problems and my need to have them sorted out as soon as possible.
He shakes his head. “We are not interested in your breakdown, all we want to know is, would you like to go to the front of the queue for repairs, there’s about fifteen ahead of you.”
His question puzzles me. I answer hesitantly. “I don’t mind, if it doesn’t upset anyone, will the mechanics allow me to do that?”
He grins and his mates seem to relax when I make the offer.
“Don’t worry about the spanner men lad, in the morning we’ll get you ahead of the line, come on lads lets go.”
The drivers leave, laughing and joking.
It is already dark at about eight at night, having nothing better to do and feeling knackered, I make a bed up with the blankets I carry for the patient’s comfort. I then stretch the sheet of canvas I have acquired over my sleeping area. I have been caught by a sudden rain storm before and don’t fancy it again.
I’ve always been active, or have been in the company of others now stuck alone in a truck park I find I am extremely bored. An idea to dispel the boredom begins forming in my mind as I remember my last night I spent parked close to this area.
My hormones take control of my body and urge me on what to do.
After struggling for a while with my conscience I give in
to them. Hurriedly, I tidy myself up, count my money, and steal through the darkened parking area to the House of Love.
No shy virgin this time. I approach the door boldly and eagerly and give three raps with the knocker. The small flap opens, unseen eyes scrutinise me for awhile, the light inside is extinguished and the flap shuts.
The main door opens inward, I step into the dark hallway and the door slams shut. “Have you had the cursed influenza?” A deep male voice enquires. Slightly scared I reply.
“Er yes I had it badly, but I’m well recovered now.”
“Then proceed down the hallway to the door at the end.”
He does not show his face, I fumble along the hall it is a good job I remember the lay out from my last visit.
Halfway along, I hear a door open and shut as he leaves the hall. I reach the door at the end, the room where the girls paraded their wares on my last visit. I have trouble locating the door handle in the dark. Someone on the other side opens the door and I slip into a dimly lit room.
There are only three occupants and there is no sign of Christina or the other delectable women I remember from the last time I visited.
Instead there are only three scantily clad women, although the sight of their exposed flesh makes me harden, these are not the ladies I really want.
Damn the fact I can’t speak the language, I try communicating with them using gestures and my limited French phrases.
“Christina? Where is she?” Blank expressions greet my inquiry.
Then I try the few words of French I picked up from the Staff at the Chateau. “Oui et Christina?”
The large blonde stirs herself on the chez lounge. She swings down from her reclining position opens her legs and exposes her Garden of Eden.
My pulse races at the sight of her femininity. “Christina, elle et mort.” She replies a sultry smile on her face. Shame on me, in an instant I dismiss Christina, my first intimate lover from my mind. There is only one place I desperately want to be at that moment and this woman possesses it between her legs.
I move towards her with a handful of money in my hand, my erect member is attempting an escape from my trousers. She takes my offering and counts it with the speed of a bank teller. Satisfied with the amount, she informs me in a Lancashire accent as she heads towards the stairs.
