by Carl Leckey
In the main lounge where we have found a space on the floor a couple of the soldiers put on an impromptu cabaret. From somewhere one of them has acquired a ventriloquist’s dummy. He gives us a great laugh as he imitates Lord Kitchener followed by an impression of a Sergeant Major. Billy consumes more rum than he should have done and becomes very drunk. He staggers about tripping over outstretched legs. Billy hugs each one of us in turn swearing undying affection for his lovely mates.
(His description of us, not mine). It is all going very well until the dummy begins to pick on him. “Hey four eyes! Sit yourself down you are making the place untidy.” It shouts at Billy referring to his spectacles something Billy does not like anyone mentioning. Billy squints in a short sighted manner and responds aggressively. “Who do you think you’re talking to you wooden headed bastard? Shut it or I’ll come over there and duff you.” “You brain box I’m talking to you. I see you are in the Labour Corp eh? Is that anything to do with pregnancy?” The dummy is now making aspersions about Billy’s beloved mob. Billy is really getting angry now. “I’ve told you to shut it.” His argument with the dummy brings hoots of laughter from the assembled troops. The dummy doesn’t give up and shouts even more insults at Billy. As his mates we should have seen the signs? Billy has always had this unpredictable streak since I have known him; we have all witnessed it in the past. Sam doesn’t help the situation as he advises our mate jokingly. “Go ahead Bill don’t let that little bleeder get away with that lad.” None of us expected him to do what he did next. Before we are able to stop him he makes a lunge at the dummy and grabs it by the neck as if to strangle it. Of course the head pulls off. The operating ventriloquist lets out a yell of alarm and takes a swing at Bill.
He counters smartly and lands a blow on his chin.
As he goes down his mate leaps to his feet and attacks Billy from behind. Dave joins in defending his pal another soldier hits Dave.
All hell breaks loose, Sam crowns another then gets into a hand to hand battle with another couple. I leap in to assist and am hit by someone, of course I retaliate. Toot tries to bring calm. The November armistice is over but the allies are now fighting each other instead of the Boche, chaos reigns. It appears as if the entire lounge is fighting. I can’t figure out who is on who’s side, it’s just one great free for all. It ends when shrill whistles are blown and a troop of MP.s stream in eventually separating the combatants. The doors are secured and guarded no one is allowed to leave. Sporting a shiner and a cut head I return to my place by Toot. The rest of our gang all with evidence of combat wounds join us. Billy is minus his glasses and has a bloody nose. Sam grins and spits out a loosened tooth. He remarks with relish. “Bloody great that, I have been through four bleeding years in this bleedin war and it’s the first time I have had the chance to have a fight.” “Sam.” Toot admonishes him “You should know better you being an old soldier and all. I expect it off these hot blooded young bucks but you?” Sam grins evidently he has enjoyed himself. I do notice Toot smiles, when he admonishes him. Bill makes no apology for starting the fight. “I’m not having anyone slagging our mob off, no way.” He then shouts a challenge that everyone in the lounge is able to hear. “And if any of you other buggers say anything about the Labour Corp I’ll sort you sods out as well.” his remarks are greeted by a chorus of cheers, and boos but mostly in a good humoured manner. I have to smile despite my aching jaw. This is the young man that was ashamed to be a member of the Labour Corp when we enlisted. Now he is willing to fight the world single handed for its honour. The crisis is over. With that last threat Billy collapses on the floor amongst us. A Colonel arrives and addresses the assembled battle scarred troops.
“Men I am shocked at your behaviour, haven’t you seen enough bloodshed and fighting? If you were not going home for demob I would have you all on fizzers. What? Or should I ask who started the fight anyway?” Some wag picked up the dummies head and handed it to the officer. “It was him sir, he started it.” His action is greeted with a cheer from the lads. This baffles the officer. “What are you telling me, you were fighting a dummy?” “He is a Boche dummy Sir.” The man explains with a grin. Billy hauls himself to his feet and shouts. “The bugger insulted my mob.” Someone hidden in the crowd blows a raspberry. The officer ceases trying to sort things out smiles and says. “I know how you feel men. We can’t have our mob er insulted can we. Enjoy your retirement.”
With that parting remark he leaves the lounge laughing. A sudden silence is broken by a cheer followed by the song “For he’s a jolly good fellow.” This is the strangest confrontation I have ever witnessed between a senior officer and ordinary soldiers.
The MP’s remain for a while but when there is no reoccurrence of trouble they are dismissed by their Sergeant.
The rest of the voyage is uneventful but extremely cheerful with much shaking of hands and apologising. I must admit to enjoying the fracas although I consider myself a non violent person. Toot reckons it was a release of tension he has seen it before many times in his army career. “Well how do you account for the attitude of the Colonel?” I ask him later on when we are discussing the event after Billy recovers
“Ah! He was just Demob happy himself, like the rest of us he couldn’t believe he had come through it unscathed.”
In England we separate, Sam and Toot head home for leave then back to Dover for orders. The other four of us embark on a train for London. There we have to get across London to Euston station. We then have to travel to Birmingham change trains again then on to the camp somewhere in Cheshire. “At least it’s a passenger train.” Jake points out as we board the first of the many trains we utilise on the journey. We all remember the cattle truck we travelled in on our way to France. He changes his mind when he finds the heating is not working. It is to be a cold trip in mid winter. We are issued with haversack rations at the first station for the eight hours it should take us to reach our destination. Dave ever hungry does an Oliver Twist and asks for more. He is flatly refused instead he is assured by the incredulous catering Corporal he has enough rations to last him at least a week. When we finally arrive at the station close to the camp it is twenty hours later. Poor, Dave the Mobile Belly we nick named him in training. He consumed his entire rations in the first hour and spent the rest of the trip cadging food off all and sundry. As the hours pass by and we are still a long way from our destination the food situation is getting desperate. We have a blanket muster when we disclose our reserves. We reckon between us we have enough to survive for another twenty four hours at a pinch. Lucky for us we remembered Toots advice. “Always keep a food reserve with you lad when you move away from the cook house.” To this end I have a stock of six tins of corned beef and five cans of McConnachies Irish stew. Unfortunately we have no means to heat the latter. That doesn’t worry us particularly. We have eaten the stew cold many times before. I also have some jaw breaker crackers and a tin of condensed milk. Billy has his cache of jam, crackers and two packets of tea plus four bars of Carson’s dark chocolate. Jake has five tins of apple and plum jam and a huge lump of cheese scrounged from a cook he knows on the ferry. His ten packets of Fisherman’s Friends cough lozenges are very welcome to warm our tubes. Dave well, as usual all his reserves had been consumed long ago. It seems as if the entire world consists of service men on the move, most of them dog tired, cold and hungry but glad to be going home.
Our train is continually stopped or shunted into sidings for hours as more urgent traffic is given priority.
When we disembark it is about three o’clock in the morning. There are no army authorities to meet us. We stand around in groups wondering what to do next. To top it off our arrival is heralded by a snow storm, the camp we are informed is about three miles away. The station Master directs us to the road leading to the camp. “You can’t stay here lads, I was only waiting for this train to arrive I’m shutting down now. After lots of moans and different ideas Billy informs us “I’m not hanging around here, let’s get going, its
only three miles to the camp for God’s sake.” The four of us mates set off. The other soldiers decide to remain for someone in authority to give them orders when the station Master lets them into the waiting room. As we tramp along the lane for about a mile the snow gets steadily heavier until it is a blinding blizzard. Jeeze is it cold? For safety sake we hang onto each other’s packs taking it in turns to lead. I am at the head of the line fighting my way through the deep snow when I deviated off the lane. Through the swirling snow I am able to identify a garden gate. I make a decision force the gate open with difficulty and lead the lads to a front door. Things are really getting desperate as I rap the large iron knocker. A dog barks somewhere in the house but there is no response. I rap more urgently. The four of us are huddled in the doorway trying our best to keep warm. Through a glass pane set in the door thankfully I am able to see a light. A frightened female voice enquires from within. “Who’s there?” I am just about knackered my face and fingers are frozen. Dave replies teeth chattering. “Please let us in Misses. We are soldiers lost and there’s a blizzard out here we are nearly freezing to death.” I detect the sound of bolts being withdrawn, the door opens and we tumble in. Billy slams the door behind us. Confronting us is a young Lady in night clothes. She is quite a plump plain lady in her early twenties. Her long plaited red hair hangs down her back. Quickly I take in her details but what concerns me more than her appearance is she is pointing a shotgun at us. An old Labrador stands by her side wagging its tail. When she recognises us as no threat she leads us into the kitchen and hangs the gun up over the fireplace. Oh joy the warmth and homeliness is like heaven. The Lady pokes the banked fire to life and hangs a large iron kettle over the flames. We take seats around a large scrubbed table after stripping off our soaking outer clothing at her invitation. The lady introduces herself as Molly. “Get yourself warm lads.” She instructs us. “Please be quite, my kids are still in bed. I won’t be a minute. I shall get some clothes on and I will sort you out with a hot drink.”
In ten minutes she is back with us and makes a huge pot of tea. When she has served the welcome brew she begins preparing a wonderful fry up using a huge skillet over the open fire.
The smells as she sizzles the bacon are enough to make my mouth slaver with anticipation. She dishes enormous plates of bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, and homemade sausage.
She even has homemade bread and butter, something my adopted Mother was proud of making. It’s funny the sight of the bread makes me yearn to see her again. It has been two odd years since I last set eyes on her. Now I am going back into her life to tell her I am going to live far away in France. For the first time since I left home my conscience pricks me. After we have consumed the fantastic meal we sit around yarning, gradually her story comes out in dribs and drabs. She has two children, her husband enlisted at the start of hostilities and very soon gained promotion to Sergeant. He had been reported missing in action for a while she hoped he had been taken prisoner or was wounded in a hospital. Then the dreaded black edged telegram arrived reporting his death. He was killed in September 1918 two months before the armistice whilst leading an assault on an enemy machine gun post. What horrible luck to almost survive the war and to be killed virtually at the end. He had been wounded twice and could have landed a home based cushy number in a training camp just up the lane from her house in the very camp we were heading for demob.
She had pleaded with him to take the posting but he volunteered to go back in action. I detected a mixture of pride and anger in her voice when she disclosed this sad fact and showed us his post humus Military Medal. As we are talking the kitchen door inches open. Stood in the doorway holding hands are her two lovely little kids. A boy about five and a girl about four years old, both red headed and freckled like their Mother.
Molly informs us their names are Dave and Daisy she calls them in.
Before they enter the boy asks. “Is that our Daddy home from the war Mummy?” God! This really cut’s me up. The results of the bloody war will be felt for many years. When they run to her side she explains. “Daddy has gone to heaven my loves.” “Is Daddy with Nan and Granddad?” The little girl enquires. “Yes my love they are all together now. These nice men are soldiers like Daddy they have come to visit us, isn’t that nice?” We make ourselves comfortable wherever we are able. Molly worried about where we will sleep. I assure her.
“Don’t you worry about us love we’ll be ok. This is luxury after living in Army tents.” After a while Molly excuses herself and takes the kids back to bed. It is another ten hours before the snow ceases however the snow is so deep it is piled halfway up the front door. We set to and clear the paths but the lane is piled high when we reach it and we consider it too deep to tackle. The lovely lady Molly hasn’t got much but what she has she willingly shares with us. We in turn empty our packs of all our reserves. Dave in particular is very attentive.
Bringing in and chopping logs, filling the oil lamps entertaining the kids. In fact Billy calls him in a joking way a busy little soldier. I also observe him glancing at Molly with a strange look in his eyes. I whisper to Billy “I think our Dave is in love.”
He smiles and agrees Dave has lost his heart. Whenever we josh Dave about Molly he blushes bows his head and carries on finding jobs. Although we are trapped in the house we do our best to be helpful and give Molly and the kid’s and indeed Dave time on their own. We do this by spending time in the barn making and mending things. It is another two days before it thaws enough for us to trudge our way to the camp. We leave the house reluctantly it has been so comfortable there and the kids evidently enjoyed our company. It is heart breaking to hear them crying and see the tears in Molly’s eyes when we pack our kit and depart. Dave is last to leave, silly bugger formally shakes her hand and thanks her for her hospitality but I note their hands linger together much longer than a usual hand shake. I realise how much I miss my Denise when I see them together. I wish she was with me right now I do hope she is happy with her family in France.
Demob.
When we finally arrive at the camp and report to the guard-room. A lunatic Sergeant Major goes berserk when we present our pay-books and he examines the details. He immediately puts the four of us on a charge, for being absent without leave. It seems the other soldiers had fought their way through the snow two day ago they had dropped us right in the shit. I notice the way we have matured since training days. There was a time when we first joined up this kind of maniacal NCO would have frightened us to death. Not now, we take all his ranting in a matter of fact manner. Eventually he dismisses us with orders to report to a barrack room. As we stroll along the cleared paths Billy says. “Did you hear that daft sod, fancy putting us on a charge? Silly bugger! We’ll be out of here in a few days. He can kiss my arse.” Jake adds. “I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel, daft sod.” “With a bit of luck and if there is a God looking down he will. Ha. Ha.” Dave contributes with a laugh. I remark.
“Did you notice what medals he has on his chest?” Billy replies. “Yes I sure did, that sod only has the Long Service and Good Conduct. I bet the skiving swine has spent the war over here training poor buggers to go and do the shitty fighting.” “Bugger him the mad sod they won’t put us on a charge. Take no notice of that crackpot. He’s off his bleedin head.” Billy spits into the piled snow. As we enter the barracks we find it empty except for the four of us, which suits us fine. We eat well at the cook house and have no duties to carry out except for picking up bedding at the QM stores and coal for the barrack room fire. This is sheer luxury for us veterans.
For the last two winters we have been mostly living under canvas. We spend the rest of day in the YMCA or lying on our bunks smoking and yarning. The NCO in charge of the block of barracks after introducing himself gives us a wide berth and concentrates his attention on some of the new recruits.
I must say it feels good to strut about in front of the sprogs. It feels even better dropping words of wisdom when they approach us for advi
ce. Bill enjoys telling elaborate yarns much to our amusement when one of the recruits asks him. “What’s it like in action?” One of the lads is from my home town we get on well together. Talking to him makes me recall our meeting with the veteran when we ourselves were raw recruits. We certainly appreciated the benefit of his knowledge. I often wonder what happened to him, did he survive the bloody war despite the punishment he received for being absent without leave? According to the other old soldier’s opinions, the reception he would have received when returning to his unit was that he didn’t have much chance of doing so. We share the remainder of a bottle of rum Jake has stashed, play cards and yarn for a while then retire to bed early drunk as Lords. The morning reveille bugle sounds out loud and clear. I am about to leap out of bed when I look along at my mates beds they haven’t stirred. Sod it, if it’s good enough for them it’s good enough for me. I pull the blanket up around my neck and snuggle down, that rum must have affected me more than I thought. About an hour later I feel someone gently shaking my shoulder. When I open my eyes it is to see one of the new recruits I spoke to yesterday. He warns me. “Hey mate that Sergeant Major is looking for you lot. He’s on the warpath he reckons you should be at the squadron office for the Officer Commanding disciplinary hearing.” “How do you know lad?” I ask sleepily “Anyway what time is it?” He replies “It’s nearly nine o’clock. I know because I’m acting company clerk. I heard the bugger ranting on, you best get over there mate. Got to go or I’ll be in the shit myself. I only slipped over to warn you.” Bloody hell suddenly I realise what he has told me. Nine o’clock I haven’t slept so long since I joined the army. I leap out of bed in a panic and rouse the rest of my mates. I have not seen the four of us dress so quickly, since we got bombed for the first time at the front line dressing station. On our arrival at the company office we are greeted by the irate Sergeant Major. He makes us mark time and drills us for a while then as a reward he puts us on more charges for being improperly dressed, not shaving, failing to attend morning parade. The way he carries on it looks as if he will have us shot at dawn. After what seems ages of his abuse we are double marched into the office of the Officer Commanding. I don’t mind thinking we are really in deep shit. Billy’s opinion yesterday that he wouldn’t bother disciplining us because we were due for release seems to be invalid.
