As the Crow Flies (6 page)

“Good,”
said the corporal, “because we’re always gentle with you on the first day.”

A
groan went up that Charlie reckoned must have been heard in the middle of
Edinburgh. Above the nervous chatter that continued once the corporal had left
Charlie could hear the last post being played on a bugle from the castle
battlements. He fell asleep.

When
Charlie woke the next morning he jumped out of bed immediately and was washed
and dressed before anyone else had stirred. He had folded up his sheets and
blankets and was polishing his boots by the time reveille sounded.

“Aren’t
we the early bird?” said Tommy, as he turned over. “But why bother, I ask
myself, when all you’re goin’ to get for breakfast is a worm.”

“If
you’re first in the queue at least it’s an ‘of worm,” said Charlie. “And in any
case... “

“Feet
on the floor. On the Door,” the corporal bellowed, as he entered the billet and
banged the frame on the end of every bed he passed with his cane.

“Of
course,” suggested Tommy, as he tried to stifle a yawn, “a man of property like
yourself would need to be up early of a mornin’, to make sure ‘is workers were
already on parade and not shirkin’.”

“Stop
talking you two and look sharpish,” said the corporal. “And get yourselves
dressed or you’ll find yourself on fatigues.”

“I
am dressed, Corp,” insisted Charlie.

“Don’t
answer me back, laddie, and don’t call me ‘carp’ unless you want a spell
cleaning out the latrines.” That threat was even enough to get Tommy’s feet on
the floor.

The
second morning consisted of more drill accompanied by the ever-falling snow,
which this time had a twoinch start on them, followed by another lunch of bread
and cheese. The afternoon, however, was designated on company orders as “Games
and Recreation.” So it was a change of clothes before jogging in step over to
the gymnasium for physical jerks followed by boxing instruction.

Charlie,
now a light middleweight, couldn’t wait to get in the ring while Tommy somehow
managed to keep himself out of the firing line, although both of them became
aware of Captain Trentham’s menacing presence as his swagger stick continually
struck the side of his leg. He always seemed to be hanging about, keeping a
watchful eye on them. The only smile that crossed his lips all afternoon was
when he saw someone knocked out. And every time he came across Tommy he just
scowled.

“I’m
one of nature’s seconds,” Tommy told Charlie later that evening. “You’ve no
doubt ‘card the expression ‘seconds out.’ Well, that’s me,” he explained as his
friend lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

“Do
we ever escape from this place, Corp?” Tommy asked when the duty corporal
entered the barracks a few minutes before lights out. “You know, for like good
behavior?”

“You’ll
be allowed out on Saturday night,” said the corporal. “Three hours restricted
leave from six to nine when you can do what you please. However, you will go no
farther than two miles from the barracks, you will behave in a manner that
befits a Royal Fusilier and you will report back to the guardroom sober as a
judge at one minute before nine. Sleep well, my lovelies.” These were the
corporal’s final words before he went round the barracks turning down every one
of the gaslights.

When
Saturday night eventually came, two swollen-footed, limb-aching, shattered
soldiers covered as much of the city as they possibly could in three hours with
only five shillings each to spend, a problem that limited their discussions on
which pub to select.

Despite
this, Tommy seemed to know how to get more beer per penny out of any landlord
than Charlie had ever dreamed possible, even when he couldn’t understand what
they were saying or make himself understood. While they were in their last port
of call, the Volunteer, Tommy even disappeared out of the pub followed by the
barmaid, a pert, slightly plump girl called Rose. Ten minutes later he was
back.

“What
were you coin’ out there?” asked Charlie.

“What
do you think, idiot?”

“But
you were only away for ten minutes.”

“Quite
enough time,” said Tommy. “Only officers need more than ten minutes for what I
was up to.”

During
the following week they had their first rifle lesson, bayonet practice and even
a session of map reading. While Charlie quickly mastered the art of map reading
it was Tommy who took only a day to find his way round a rifle. By their third
lesson he could strip the barrel and put the pieces back together again faster
than the instructor.

On
Wednesday morning of the second week Captain Trentham gave them their first
lecture on the history of the Royal Fusiliers. Charlie might have quite enjoyed
the lesson if Trentham hadn’t left the impression that none of them was worthy
of being in the same regiment as himself.

“Those
of us who selected the Royal Fusiliers because of historic links or family ties
may feel that allowing criminals to join our ranks simply because we’re at war
is hardly likely to advance the regiment’s reputation,” he said, looking
pointedly in the direction of Tommy.

“Stuck-up
snob,” declared Tommy, just loud enough to reach every ear in the lecture
theater except the captain’s. The ripple of laughter that followed brought a
scowl to Trentham’s face.

On
Thursday afternoon Captain Trentham returned to the gym, but this time he was
not striking the side of his leg with a swayer stick. He was killed up in a
white m singlet, dark blue shorts and a thick white sweater; the new outfit was
just as neat and tidy as his uniform. He walked around watching the instructors
putting the men through their paces and, as on his last visit, seemed to take a
particular interest in what was going on in the boxing ring. For an hour the
men were placed in pairs while they received basic instructions, first in
defense and then in attack. “Hold your guard up, laddie,” were the words barked
out again and again whenever fists reached chins.

By
the time Charlie and Tommy climbed through the ropes, Tommy had made it clear
to his friend that he hoped to get away with three minutes’ shadowboxing.

“Get
stuck into each other, you two,” shouted Trentham, but although Charlie started
to lab away at Tommy’s chest he made no attempt to inflict any real pain.

“If
you don’t get on with it, I’ll take on both of you, one after the other,”
shouted Trentham.

“I’ll
bet ‘e couldn’t knock the cream off a custard puddin’,” said Tommy, but this
time his voice did carry, and to the instructor’s dismay, Trentham immediately
leaped up into the ring and said, “We’ll see about that.” He asked the coach to
fit him up with a pair of boxing gloves.

“I’ll
have three rounds with each of these two men,” Trentham said as a reluctant
instructor laced up the captain’s gloves. Everyone else in the gymnasium
stopped to watch what was going on.

“You
first. What’s your name?” asked the captain, pointing to Tommy.

“Prescott,
sir,” said Tommy, with a grin.

“Ah
yes, the convict,” said Trentham, and removed the grin in the first minute, as
Tommy danced around him trying to stay out of trouble. In the second round
Trentham began to land the odd punch, but never hard enough to allow Tommy to
go down. He saved that humiliation for the third round, when he knocked Tommy
out with an uppercut that the lad from Poplar never saw. Tommy was carried out
of the ring as Charlie was having his gloves laced up.

“Now
it’s your turn, Private,” said Trentham. “What’s your name?”

“Trumper,
sir.”

“Well.
Let’s get on with it, Trumper,” was all the captain said before advancing
towards him.

For
the first two minutes Charlie defended himself well, using the ropes and the
corner as he ducked and dived, remembering every skill he had learned at the
Whitechapel Boys’ Club. He felt he might even have given the captain a good run
for his money if it hadn’t been for the damned man’s obvious advantage of
height and weight.

By
the third minute Charlie had begun to gain confidence and even landed a punch
or two, to the delight of the onlookers. As the round ticked to an end, he felt
he had acquitted himself rather well. When the bell sounded he dropped his
gloves and turned to go back to his corner. A second later the captain’s
clenched fist landed on the side of Charlie’s nose. Everyone in that gymnasium
heard the break as Charlie staggered against the ropes. No one mummured as the
captain unlaced his gloves and climbed out of the ring. “Never let your guard
down” was the only solace he offered.

When
Tommy studied the state of his friend’s face that night as Charlie lay on his
bed, all he said was, “Sorry, mate, all my fault. Bloody man’s a sadist. But
don’t worry, if the Germans don’t get the bastard, I will.”

Charlie
could only manage a thin smile.

By
Saturday they had both recovered sufficiently to fall in with the rest of the
company for pay parade, waiting in a long queue to collect five shillings each
from the paymaster. During their three hours off duly that night the pennies
disappeared more quickly than the queue, but Tommy somehow continued to get
better value for money than any other recruit.

By
the beginning of the third week, Charlie could only just fit his swollen toes
into the heavy leather boots the army had supplied him with, but looking down
the rows of feet that adorned the barracks room floor each morning he could see
that none of his comrades was any better off.

“Fatigues
for you, my lad, that’s for sure,” shouted the corporal. Charlie shot him a
glance, but the words were being directed at Tommy in the next bed.

“What
for, Corp?” asked Tommy.

“For
the state of your sheets. Just look at them. You might have had three women in
there with you during the night.”

“Only
two, to be ‘onest with you, Corp.”

“Less
of your lip, Prescott, and see that you report for latrine duty straight after
breakfast.”

“I’ve
already been this morning, thank you, Corp.”

“Shut
up, Tommy,” said Charlie. “You’re only makin’ things more difficult for
yourself.”

“I
see you’re gettin’ to understand my problem,” whispered Tommy. “It’s just that
the corp’s worse than the bloody Germans.”

“I
can only ‘ope so, lad, for your sake,” came back the corporal’s reply. “Because
that’s the one chance you’ve got of coming through this whole thing alive. Now
get yourself off to the latrines at the double.”

Tommy
disappeared, only to return an hour later smelling like a manure heap.

“You
could kill off the entire German army without any of us having to fire a shot,”
said Charlie. “All you’d ‘ave to do is stand in front of ‘em and ‘ape the wind
was blowin’ in the right direction.”

It
was during the fifth week Christmas and the New Year having passed with little
to celebrate that Charlie was put in charge of the duty roster for his own
section.

“They’ll
be makin’ you a bleedin’ colonel before you’ve finished,” said Tommy.

“Don’t
be stupid,” replied Charlie. “Everyone gets a chance at runnin’ the section at
some time durin’ the twelve weeks.”

“Can’t
see them takin’ that risk with me,” said Tommy. “I’d turn the rifles on the
officers and my first shot would be aimed at that bastard Trentham.”

Charlie
found that he enjoyed the responsibility of having to organize the section for
seven days and was only sorry when his week was up and the task was handed on
to someone else.

By
the sixth week, Charlie could strip and clean a rifle almost as quickly as
Tommy, but it was his friend who turned out to be a crack shot and seemed to be
able to hit anything that moved at two hundred yards. Even the sergeant major
was impressed.

“All
those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might ‘ave somethin’ to do with it,”
admitted Tommy. “But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?”

“Sooner
than you think, lad,” promised the corporal.

“Must
complete twelve weeks’ trainin’,” said Charlie. “That’s King’s Regulations. So
we won’t get the chance for at least another month.”

“King’s
Regulations be damned,” said Tommy. “I’m told this war could be all over before
I even get a shot at them.”

“Not
much ‘ope of that,” said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.

“Trumper,”
barked a voice.

“Yes,
sir,” said Charlie, surprised to find the duly sergeant standing by his side.

“The
adjutant wants to see you. Follow me.”

“But
Sergeant, I haven’t done anythin’... “

“Don’t
argue, lad, just follow me.”

“It
‘as to be the firin’ squad,” said Tommy. “And just because you wet your bed.
Tell ‘im I’ll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least
you can be certain it’d be over quick.”

Charlie
unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.