As suggested and confirmed by other members
Away from the line this month. September's Monthly Great War Art Thread is...
"Billets"
Full Version: September 2009 Monthly Great War Art Thread
Here's a pre-written piece, not a short story in itself but part of my next novel - this starts to describe the world of British military internees in a Dutch internment camp in 1915 - not the best of billets but not the worst either, but the physical aspects are irrelevant to one officer (a man you met last month when holding the swing-bridge on the canal).
Cheers-salesie.
Walls of Paper.
George dried his face on the old towel that hung around his neck like a bib before suspending the piece of green flannelette back on the lever that conveniently stuck out from the unlit stove’s smokestack. Then, after pulling his greatcoat collar tightly around his neck and fastening its top button, he combed his hair before moving the bucket he’d just used as a wash bowl from the top of the stove to the floor. He then placed his comb, folded razor, shaving brush, hand-mirror and a small bar of soap inside a wooden locker at the foot of his bed.
“That’s King’s regulations adhered to for yet another bloody morning,” he murmured as he closed the locker’s lid before walking over to a calendar hanging on the wall at the side of his room’s only window.
For a few seconds, the large black letters March 1915 focused his thoughts, Groningen bloody camp, how much bloody longer, Molly? You have the power to release me from my torment. So how much bloody longer will you make me wait for your message? Then, grabbing hold of a short pencil that hung unceremoniously on a length of old string dangling from the calendar’s binding, he struck a large heavy cross through the next box in line, consigning Sunday 14th of March to the past.
After releasing his grip on the pencil, allowing it to swing wildly and clatter against the wall’s wooden boards, he angrily rubbed a thin layer of frost from the inside of a windowpane with his fingertips. Through the frost’s heavy outer layer he could just make out, across a parade ground now enclosed by a four-foot high ring of cleared snow, the smoke that spewed from the cookhouse chimney. A dense, streaming cloud; stark black against the white, snow capped roof of the camp administration centre behind, signalling breakfast will soon be served, but becoming invisible, its message lost, as it spiralled up to the heavens in the pitch-blackness of that late-winter, pre-dawn, northern Dutch skyline.
I know just how that bloody smoke feels; it has a purpose when leaving that smokestack, but by following its natural course it disappears, lost and forgotten, amidst that vast expanse of darkness. I may be forgotten in this damned place, but I’m far from lost, and that cookhouse holds part of the key to my resurrection. The fence is only two feet from the back wall, remove a few boards and cut the wire under cover; then only an hour’s forced march down to the harbour. What could be simpler? When Molly gets her bloody finger out I’ll be gone and well out to sea before anyone even bloody notices.
“Bloody Groningen bloody camp, I’ve seen better bloody views,” he slammed his fist down onto the old rickety table that stood in front of the window; causing the home-made chess pieces, standing on parade on the table’s top, to fall over like four ranks of machine-gunned soldiers.
“Sorry, Sir. What did you say, Sir?” young Price asked as he knocked and entered George’s twelve-foot square room carrying a huge mug of steaming tea.
“I’m lamenting, Price, our presence in this bloody dump,” George’s breath steamed as much as the tea Price carried in his hand.
“It could be worse, Sir.”
“I know, Price, I know. We could be guests of the bloody Jerries instead of the Dutchies,” George took his mug of tea from Price. “But that’s small consolation. This place is enough to send any soldier worthy of the name off his bloody head.”
Young Price shivered at the thought of being a soldier again, but he knew the captain’s moods, knew when he could stray from the rigid line, and, more importantly, when he couldn’t. So, he agreed, “I know it is, Sir, enough to send any soldier off his head,” before lifting the bucket from beside the stove and placing it outside the door.
“Where’s your tea, Price?”
“Chief Pearson had a word with me yesterday, Sir. He said an officer’s servant shouldn’t take liberties. Said I shouldn’t be supping tea in a morning with an officer - said I should just bring one in for you like the others do. And Staff Sergeant Larvin said the same, Sir.”
“Did they now? I'll have to have a word with those two gentlemen.”
“They’re right, though, aren’t they, Sir. It pays to know your place, Sir.”
Walking over to the shelf above his bed, George took down an empty mug, poured half his tea into it, then placed both mugs on the table before sitting down, “I’ll decide where and what your place is, Price, not those two. Understand?”
“But, Sir, they said I'd be in trouble if I continue to take liberties, Sir,” Price enjoyed supping tea in a morning with the captain and sensed that George had taken the bait and that his little problem with the two NCOs would soon be resolved.
“I’m the bloody Adjutant,” George growled, “I decide who’s in trouble and who isn’t in this bloody camp, don’t I? Now light the fire then sit down and drink your tea before I lose my temper. I enjoy our little chats in a morning. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to them.”
Price hid a smirk, “Is it seven ack-emma already, Sir?”
George checked his wristwatch and nodded.
Kneeling in front of the old stove in the corner, Price opened its door then struck a match to light the paper beneath the firewood he’d put in place ten minutes earlier before trudging across to the cookhouse for the hot tea. After slamming the door shut and fully opening its vent, he cocked an ear to listen for the flames’ roar. When satisfied that the burning paper had enough impetus to ignite the sticks, he sat opposite George at the table before picking up his tea, “Soon be warmer, Sir.”
Slurping loudly, officer and servant sipped their hot tea as they re-aligned the fallen chess pieces.
Price stood the last pawn in the ranks, “That’s it, Sir, all present and correct. How long before we can leave the stoves going all night again, Sir?”
“According to the Commandant, there’s still a shortage of firewood. So, it’s still no fires for a full hour before lights out until half an hour after reveille. And there’s no sign of a break in the bloody weather yet.”
“Its not too bad though, is it, Sir. At least we’ve plenty of blankets. This Dutchy camp’s better than some back in blighty, and much better than a field in bloody France, Sir.”
“You’ve been listening to the old hands, Price. Be careful, they can moan for bloody England. I know the Dutchies treat us well but I’d swap this place for a field in France any bloody day.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Sir. I wear a khaki uniform, but didn’t enjoy me little stint at soldiering too much after getting collared for the Naval Division when between ships. Just imagine how you’d feel, Sir, if they tried to turn you into a sailor with only three weeks training then sent you out to face Jerry’s High Seas Fleet. I wish I was back onboard ship though, back with the fleet, Sir. Back in bellbottoms; that would be something worth having, Sir.”
George pondered his young servant’s words. I’m a regular soldier but became a willing recruit of the secret service, and as a result am now an internee in a Dutch prison camp. Locked away with a bunch of sailors, who, in the infinite wisdom of some silly bu*ger at the war office, were sent to Antwerp as soldiers in a forlorn effort to prevent the city’s capture by one the most fearsome armies in the world. Held here together for doing a job alien to us both.
“A fascinating conundrum, Price; I long to be back with my Regiment, fighting in some God forsaken corner of France, and you long to be back with the fleet; scouring the high seas for Jerry. Both wanting to get to grips with the Hun again, but neither liking the other’s preferred method of doing so after having experienced it. What an enigma life is, Price, so full of irony. There must be a moral somewhere in all of this?”
Price had no idea what an enigma or irony was, but knew how the army captain he now shared a mug of tea with had saved him and the remnants of the Naval Division’s advance party from certain annihilation when cut off inside Antwerp. Remembered how he saved them by capturing the ship they sailed away from the city in before George brilliantly out-thought and out-fought the jerry artillery that tried to stop them in the estuary, “Don’t know much about morals, Sir. But I do know you showed them Jerries what’s what on the Sarnia, Sir. A naval officer couldn’t have done a better job. You did us proud, Sir.”
“Us, Price?”
“The mob, Sir. You know, the fleet, Sir?”
“Steady on, their Lordships at the Admiralty won’t be able to sleep in their beds at night if they hear talk like that about a pongo.”
“You’re not a pongo to me, Sir. When our Battle Flag hit the Sarnia’s masthead and I blew me bugle and we went straight for them bloody cannons - what a feeling that was, Sir. What a feeling it was to beat them bloody jerries and stop ‘em getting them guns to them bloody fenians! You did us proud, Sir.”
“An old salt at sixteen, hey, Price?”
“I’m seventeen in three weeks, Sir, and been in the navy two and a half years. Joined as a boy seaman and worked me way up to ship’s bugler, Sir.”
George laughed, “I know, I know, well done. I’m only pulling your bloody leg. How could I ever forget when you’ve told me at least twenty times? Now, how’s it going with that little Dutch girl you’ve been getting friendly with?”
He referred to the Dutch teenager who visited the camp every Sunday with her father and brother, selling home-made cakes. The Dutch Commandant allowed civilians to come to the gates to sell cakes, sweets and other little luxuries to the internees, but never allowed them inside, all transactions took place through the wire.
“Marije’s going to ask her father to write to the commandant, to see if I can visit her at home every Sunday, Sir. It’s not much fun seeing each other with barbed wire between us. What do you think me chances are, Sir?”
“I should think they’re very good. It’s already happened to two or three others. As long as you sign a parole to say you won’t attempt an escape whilst visiting your lady friend, the commandant seems most accommodating.”
“I couldn’t sign something like that, Sir.”
“No?”
“If I get the chance I might not be able to resist temptation, Sir, and skip off. I’d love to get back to blighty. So why do we have orders to stick to things like that? I mean, there is a war on, Sir.”
“It’s like this, Price. The Dutch are neutral, which means they have to stay impartial. That’s why, after our little escapade on the Sarnia and we landed on their territory, we were interned; to be held prisoner for the duration. They do the same with all hostile factions; German, French and Belgium troops who stray across their borders are treated just like we are.”
“I know that, Sir. But why do we have to promise not to escape, Sir?”
“We don’t! We only have to promise, if allowed out for a visit, that we’ll come back. Now, we only insist on men keeping their word in those circumstances to stop one man spoiling it for everyone.”
“I think I see, Sir? If we accept a privilege, we can’t abuse it, Sir.”
“That’s it, Price, you have it. The Dutch are good to us; the food’s bland but we don’t starve, and we get paid regularly so we can buy titbits from the Dutchies, like your little lady friend, who come calling every Sunday. And, although they censor our letters in and out, there’s no restriction on food parcels from home, is there?”
“No, Sir. But I always thought it was our duty to escape, Sir?”
Struggling to stick to the official line, George decided to give his young servant some hope; “It is our duty. However, the Dutchies treat us with respect; we more or less run our own affairs within the confines of the camp. So our orders are not to jeopardise this goodwill, but that promise only lasts for the duration of any visit, which doesn’t stop us escaping directly from the camp itself.”
“It don’t, Sir? I thought once you’d signed you weren’t allowed to escape at all, Sir?”
“If the Commandant sanctions your visits, Price, you sign that bit of paper and go and see that little Dutch girl of yours and leave the escape planning to me. Don’t worry, when the time comes I won’t leave you behind.”
“I knew you’d be planning something, Sir. I just knew it. I said to Jacko only yesterday, Captain Wheeler’s not the kind of officer to sit on his jacksie when there’s fighting to be done. When are we off, and how do we do it, Sir?”
“I can’t tell you just yet. All I can say is this place will be easy enough to escape from when the time’s right, and I’m only waiting for the message from Miss Molly that’ll help me breech these paper-thin walls we’re behind. Now, not a word to anyone, do you hear? And I mean, ANYONE.”
“I like Miss Molly, Sir, I trust her. And don’t worry, me lips are sealed. Mum’s the word, Sir.”
“Good,” George smiled and checked his wristwatch. “But you’d better not seal them for too long. You’re duty bugler today, and it’s almost time to sound for breakfast. Staff Sergeant Larvin will seal your lips for good if you don’t stand on the square and give us a tune on that horn of yours in precisely three minutes flat.”
Young Price disappeared through the doorway like a bullet leaving a rifle barrel; he’d no desire to incur the wrath of the staff sergeant; it would be easier to take on the entire German army all by himself.
As George watched the young bugler rush away to his duties, his thoughts returned to his own predicament. Why bother to let a bugler sound come to the cookhouse now boys, when all we need do is teach the men how to read the smoke signals from across the bloody square? Why bother with any pretence at a military regime at all? After all, we’re not bloody soldiers anymore are we? Not as long as we’re stuck in this God forsaken hole just playing at it we're not. That’s all we’re doing - just bloody playing at soldiers while there’s a bloody war on.
When will she let me know she’s put my plan into action? Five bloody months I’ve been stuck here. Her letters are all fine and romantic, but I don’t want bloody romance; that can wait until I get out of here, wait until we’re together again. My last letter had better spur her into action; I made it as plain as I could without alerting our hosts to my plan; cut through the wire one night, down to the harbour, and sail to England.
Come on, Molly, don’t let me bloody down, its been well over a month since I sent it. Just let me know you’re doing as I ask, it's not that bloody difficult to understand – surely you get my meaning? But that’s always been your trouble, Molly - you think too bloody much! Though I love you as much for that as anything else, you have to realise these uncertain times cry out for action not thought – so don’t let me down, Molly! You know what I need to do. You know I need to get back into this war as well as squeeze the last breath from that bloody fenian twin brother of yours, need to finish off Manus for good with my own two hands – so don’t let me down, stop bloody protecting him!
Cheers-salesie.
Walls of Paper.
George dried his face on the old towel that hung around his neck like a bib before suspending the piece of green flannelette back on the lever that conveniently stuck out from the unlit stove’s smokestack. Then, after pulling his greatcoat collar tightly around his neck and fastening its top button, he combed his hair before moving the bucket he’d just used as a wash bowl from the top of the stove to the floor. He then placed his comb, folded razor, shaving brush, hand-mirror and a small bar of soap inside a wooden locker at the foot of his bed.
“That’s King’s regulations adhered to for yet another bloody morning,” he murmured as he closed the locker’s lid before walking over to a calendar hanging on the wall at the side of his room’s only window.
For a few seconds, the large black letters March 1915 focused his thoughts, Groningen bloody camp, how much bloody longer, Molly? You have the power to release me from my torment. So how much bloody longer will you make me wait for your message? Then, grabbing hold of a short pencil that hung unceremoniously on a length of old string dangling from the calendar’s binding, he struck a large heavy cross through the next box in line, consigning Sunday 14th of March to the past.
After releasing his grip on the pencil, allowing it to swing wildly and clatter against the wall’s wooden boards, he angrily rubbed a thin layer of frost from the inside of a windowpane with his fingertips. Through the frost’s heavy outer layer he could just make out, across a parade ground now enclosed by a four-foot high ring of cleared snow, the smoke that spewed from the cookhouse chimney. A dense, streaming cloud; stark black against the white, snow capped roof of the camp administration centre behind, signalling breakfast will soon be served, but becoming invisible, its message lost, as it spiralled up to the heavens in the pitch-blackness of that late-winter, pre-dawn, northern Dutch skyline.
I know just how that bloody smoke feels; it has a purpose when leaving that smokestack, but by following its natural course it disappears, lost and forgotten, amidst that vast expanse of darkness. I may be forgotten in this damned place, but I’m far from lost, and that cookhouse holds part of the key to my resurrection. The fence is only two feet from the back wall, remove a few boards and cut the wire under cover; then only an hour’s forced march down to the harbour. What could be simpler? When Molly gets her bloody finger out I’ll be gone and well out to sea before anyone even bloody notices.
“Bloody Groningen bloody camp, I’ve seen better bloody views,” he slammed his fist down onto the old rickety table that stood in front of the window; causing the home-made chess pieces, standing on parade on the table’s top, to fall over like four ranks of machine-gunned soldiers.
“Sorry, Sir. What did you say, Sir?” young Price asked as he knocked and entered George’s twelve-foot square room carrying a huge mug of steaming tea.
“I’m lamenting, Price, our presence in this bloody dump,” George’s breath steamed as much as the tea Price carried in his hand.
“It could be worse, Sir.”
“I know, Price, I know. We could be guests of the bloody Jerries instead of the Dutchies,” George took his mug of tea from Price. “But that’s small consolation. This place is enough to send any soldier worthy of the name off his bloody head.”
Young Price shivered at the thought of being a soldier again, but he knew the captain’s moods, knew when he could stray from the rigid line, and, more importantly, when he couldn’t. So, he agreed, “I know it is, Sir, enough to send any soldier off his head,” before lifting the bucket from beside the stove and placing it outside the door.
“Where’s your tea, Price?”
“Chief Pearson had a word with me yesterday, Sir. He said an officer’s servant shouldn’t take liberties. Said I shouldn’t be supping tea in a morning with an officer - said I should just bring one in for you like the others do. And Staff Sergeant Larvin said the same, Sir.”
“Did they now? I'll have to have a word with those two gentlemen.”
“They’re right, though, aren’t they, Sir. It pays to know your place, Sir.”
Walking over to the shelf above his bed, George took down an empty mug, poured half his tea into it, then placed both mugs on the table before sitting down, “I’ll decide where and what your place is, Price, not those two. Understand?”
“But, Sir, they said I'd be in trouble if I continue to take liberties, Sir,” Price enjoyed supping tea in a morning with the captain and sensed that George had taken the bait and that his little problem with the two NCOs would soon be resolved.
“I’m the bloody Adjutant,” George growled, “I decide who’s in trouble and who isn’t in this bloody camp, don’t I? Now light the fire then sit down and drink your tea before I lose my temper. I enjoy our little chats in a morning. Don’t worry, I’ll speak to them.”
Price hid a smirk, “Is it seven ack-emma already, Sir?”
George checked his wristwatch and nodded.
Kneeling in front of the old stove in the corner, Price opened its door then struck a match to light the paper beneath the firewood he’d put in place ten minutes earlier before trudging across to the cookhouse for the hot tea. After slamming the door shut and fully opening its vent, he cocked an ear to listen for the flames’ roar. When satisfied that the burning paper had enough impetus to ignite the sticks, he sat opposite George at the table before picking up his tea, “Soon be warmer, Sir.”
Slurping loudly, officer and servant sipped their hot tea as they re-aligned the fallen chess pieces.
Price stood the last pawn in the ranks, “That’s it, Sir, all present and correct. How long before we can leave the stoves going all night again, Sir?”
“According to the Commandant, there’s still a shortage of firewood. So, it’s still no fires for a full hour before lights out until half an hour after reveille. And there’s no sign of a break in the bloody weather yet.”
“Its not too bad though, is it, Sir. At least we’ve plenty of blankets. This Dutchy camp’s better than some back in blighty, and much better than a field in bloody France, Sir.”
“You’ve been listening to the old hands, Price. Be careful, they can moan for bloody England. I know the Dutchies treat us well but I’d swap this place for a field in France any bloody day.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Sir. I wear a khaki uniform, but didn’t enjoy me little stint at soldiering too much after getting collared for the Naval Division when between ships. Just imagine how you’d feel, Sir, if they tried to turn you into a sailor with only three weeks training then sent you out to face Jerry’s High Seas Fleet. I wish I was back onboard ship though, back with the fleet, Sir. Back in bellbottoms; that would be something worth having, Sir.”
George pondered his young servant’s words. I’m a regular soldier but became a willing recruit of the secret service, and as a result am now an internee in a Dutch prison camp. Locked away with a bunch of sailors, who, in the infinite wisdom of some silly bu*ger at the war office, were sent to Antwerp as soldiers in a forlorn effort to prevent the city’s capture by one the most fearsome armies in the world. Held here together for doing a job alien to us both.
“A fascinating conundrum, Price; I long to be back with my Regiment, fighting in some God forsaken corner of France, and you long to be back with the fleet; scouring the high seas for Jerry. Both wanting to get to grips with the Hun again, but neither liking the other’s preferred method of doing so after having experienced it. What an enigma life is, Price, so full of irony. There must be a moral somewhere in all of this?”
Price had no idea what an enigma or irony was, but knew how the army captain he now shared a mug of tea with had saved him and the remnants of the Naval Division’s advance party from certain annihilation when cut off inside Antwerp. Remembered how he saved them by capturing the ship they sailed away from the city in before George brilliantly out-thought and out-fought the jerry artillery that tried to stop them in the estuary, “Don’t know much about morals, Sir. But I do know you showed them Jerries what’s what on the Sarnia, Sir. A naval officer couldn’t have done a better job. You did us proud, Sir.”
“Us, Price?”
“The mob, Sir. You know, the fleet, Sir?”
“Steady on, their Lordships at the Admiralty won’t be able to sleep in their beds at night if they hear talk like that about a pongo.”
“You’re not a pongo to me, Sir. When our Battle Flag hit the Sarnia’s masthead and I blew me bugle and we went straight for them bloody cannons - what a feeling that was, Sir. What a feeling it was to beat them bloody jerries and stop ‘em getting them guns to them bloody fenians! You did us proud, Sir.”
“An old salt at sixteen, hey, Price?”
“I’m seventeen in three weeks, Sir, and been in the navy two and a half years. Joined as a boy seaman and worked me way up to ship’s bugler, Sir.”
George laughed, “I know, I know, well done. I’m only pulling your bloody leg. How could I ever forget when you’ve told me at least twenty times? Now, how’s it going with that little Dutch girl you’ve been getting friendly with?”
He referred to the Dutch teenager who visited the camp every Sunday with her father and brother, selling home-made cakes. The Dutch Commandant allowed civilians to come to the gates to sell cakes, sweets and other little luxuries to the internees, but never allowed them inside, all transactions took place through the wire.
“Marije’s going to ask her father to write to the commandant, to see if I can visit her at home every Sunday, Sir. It’s not much fun seeing each other with barbed wire between us. What do you think me chances are, Sir?”
“I should think they’re very good. It’s already happened to two or three others. As long as you sign a parole to say you won’t attempt an escape whilst visiting your lady friend, the commandant seems most accommodating.”
“I couldn’t sign something like that, Sir.”
“No?”
“If I get the chance I might not be able to resist temptation, Sir, and skip off. I’d love to get back to blighty. So why do we have orders to stick to things like that? I mean, there is a war on, Sir.”
“It’s like this, Price. The Dutch are neutral, which means they have to stay impartial. That’s why, after our little escapade on the Sarnia and we landed on their territory, we were interned; to be held prisoner for the duration. They do the same with all hostile factions; German, French and Belgium troops who stray across their borders are treated just like we are.”
“I know that, Sir. But why do we have to promise not to escape, Sir?”
“We don’t! We only have to promise, if allowed out for a visit, that we’ll come back. Now, we only insist on men keeping their word in those circumstances to stop one man spoiling it for everyone.”
“I think I see, Sir? If we accept a privilege, we can’t abuse it, Sir.”
“That’s it, Price, you have it. The Dutch are good to us; the food’s bland but we don’t starve, and we get paid regularly so we can buy titbits from the Dutchies, like your little lady friend, who come calling every Sunday. And, although they censor our letters in and out, there’s no restriction on food parcels from home, is there?”
“No, Sir. But I always thought it was our duty to escape, Sir?”
Struggling to stick to the official line, George decided to give his young servant some hope; “It is our duty. However, the Dutchies treat us with respect; we more or less run our own affairs within the confines of the camp. So our orders are not to jeopardise this goodwill, but that promise only lasts for the duration of any visit, which doesn’t stop us escaping directly from the camp itself.”
“It don’t, Sir? I thought once you’d signed you weren’t allowed to escape at all, Sir?”
“If the Commandant sanctions your visits, Price, you sign that bit of paper and go and see that little Dutch girl of yours and leave the escape planning to me. Don’t worry, when the time comes I won’t leave you behind.”
“I knew you’d be planning something, Sir. I just knew it. I said to Jacko only yesterday, Captain Wheeler’s not the kind of officer to sit on his jacksie when there’s fighting to be done. When are we off, and how do we do it, Sir?”
“I can’t tell you just yet. All I can say is this place will be easy enough to escape from when the time’s right, and I’m only waiting for the message from Miss Molly that’ll help me breech these paper-thin walls we’re behind. Now, not a word to anyone, do you hear? And I mean, ANYONE.”
“I like Miss Molly, Sir, I trust her. And don’t worry, me lips are sealed. Mum’s the word, Sir.”
“Good,” George smiled and checked his wristwatch. “But you’d better not seal them for too long. You’re duty bugler today, and it’s almost time to sound for breakfast. Staff Sergeant Larvin will seal your lips for good if you don’t stand on the square and give us a tune on that horn of yours in precisely three minutes flat.”
Young Price disappeared through the doorway like a bullet leaving a rifle barrel; he’d no desire to incur the wrath of the staff sergeant; it would be easier to take on the entire German army all by himself.
As George watched the young bugler rush away to his duties, his thoughts returned to his own predicament. Why bother to let a bugler sound come to the cookhouse now boys, when all we need do is teach the men how to read the smoke signals from across the bloody square? Why bother with any pretence at a military regime at all? After all, we’re not bloody soldiers anymore are we? Not as long as we’re stuck in this God forsaken hole just playing at it we're not. That’s all we’re doing - just bloody playing at soldiers while there’s a bloody war on.
When will she let me know she’s put my plan into action? Five bloody months I’ve been stuck here. Her letters are all fine and romantic, but I don’t want bloody romance; that can wait until I get out of here, wait until we’re together again. My last letter had better spur her into action; I made it as plain as I could without alerting our hosts to my plan; cut through the wire one night, down to the harbour, and sail to England.
Come on, Molly, don’t let me bloody down, its been well over a month since I sent it. Just let me know you’re doing as I ask, it's not that bloody difficult to understand – surely you get my meaning? But that’s always been your trouble, Molly - you think too bloody much! Though I love you as much for that as anything else, you have to realise these uncertain times cry out for action not thought – so don’t let me down, Molly! You know what I need to do. You know I need to get back into this war as well as squeeze the last breath from that bloody fenian twin brother of yours, need to finish off Manus for good with my own two hands – so don’t let me down, stop bloody protecting him!
Loved the chess simile
"he slammed his fist down onto the old rickety table that stood in front of the window; causing the home-made chess pieces, standing on parade on the table’s top, to fall over like four ranks of machine-gunned soldiers"
and the metaphor of the batman re-aligning the pawn on the board
"Price stood the last pawn in the ranks, “That’s it, Sir, all present and correct."
Regards.
EoB.
"he slammed his fist down onto the old rickety table that stood in front of the window; causing the home-made chess pieces, standing on parade on the table’s top, to fall over like four ranks of machine-gunned soldiers"
and the metaphor of the batman re-aligning the pawn on the board
"Price stood the last pawn in the ranks, “That’s it, Sir, all present and correct."
Regards.
EoB.
A really well written piece Salesie...I agree with His Lordship...the chess metaphors were delightful
Coming back to billets
I didn’t remember falling asleep but I did remember shifting at some time.
There was water dripping on my neck. Then there was something hitting my foot.
I opened my eyes to pitch blackness and a musty smell then hunched up and tried to get back to sleep. Something hit my foot again and I heard a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the far end of a tunnel. I couldn’t make out what it was and tried, without too much effort, to go to sleep again.
I was grabbed and shaken roughly by the shoulders. The voice was louder and closer.
“Come on you! You’re going back. Get your kit together and get moving.”
I felt dazed, confused and utterly exhausted.
A burly man, with a luxuriant walrus moustache, had his face next to mine and was pulling me in to a sitting position. I pushed my cap back from my eyes and saw that it was a Sergeant from one of the Guards Regiments and that, unlike mine; his uniform and kit were fairly clean.
”Sorry Sergeant”, I said, and automatically reached for my rifle.
“Follow that man there and get a move on. Well done lad.” said the Sergeant.
What was he talking about?
As I wobbled to my feet I saw that he was smiling and pointing at a figure crouching in the gloom. I started to do my kit up and noticed that my fingers didn’t work very well and had trouble with the buckles.
Trying to move, I realised that every bone and muscle in my body ached and my head was pounding. My mouth felt as if I had not had anything to drink for days and my feet moved as if they belonged to somebody else. My equipment and rifle seemed to weigh as much as I did.
I caught up with the figure in the gloom and recognised Corporal Flynn from
A Company. “God, you look all in,” he said.
“You don’t look too clever yourself,” I rasped, hardly recognising my own voice.
Both of us looked like scarecrows; covered in mud, our clothes sodden, creased and torn, badges and brasses tarnished; but our rifles were clean.
“Take a swig from this but careful now” he said offering me a water bottle.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a gulp.
My mouth and throat began to burn and I stood there coughing and choking.
“Quiet” he said. “Any more racket like that and they’ll send a shell at us”.
“You might have told me it was rum but thanks anyway”, I whispered.
“Come on let’s go. Keep low,” he said, and I followed him, crouching, along what I remembered was the German second line trench and led us near to the outskirts of Loos village.
Gradually more scarecrows joined us and we were about 30 strong when we got to what had been a road. Behind the ruins of some of the village buildings more groups of scarecrows were standing about and then we started to move off, walking slowly, each burdened by the weight of his equipment and thinking his own thoughts or trying to stay awake.
I thought that there was not much of the battalion left as there seemed to be so few of us.
After that I thought only of sleep. I wanted to sleep. Why wouldn’t they let me sleep?
Several times we stopped; what for I do not know, and each time I bumped into the man in front. After this had happened a couple of times he turned and said,
“If I wasn’t so bloody tired……….” and his voice trailed off.
I recognised Lennie although he looked as if he had been buried and dug up again.
“Bloody hell it’s you Corp. They said you copped it!” he exclaimed.
“How much longer are they going to keep us walking?” I said,” I just want to sleep.”
He grunted an inaudible reply as he turned round and we started moving again.
Behind us the sound of sporadic rifle and machine gun fire, together with the occasional shell, could be heard and a flare lit up the sky.
Its pale light showed a short column of shambling men stretching along the road in front in the drizzling rain.
How long we stumbled along for after that I don’t know but there were frequent stops to make room for ration and ammunition transport going up towards Loos. We also halted a couple of times for ambulances to go by and we passed quite a few parties of walking wounded making their way to the rear.
When we started our march, I’ll call it that but it wasn’t very soldierly, there were many broken wagons, equipment, stores, dead horses and mules strewn along the valley and not a few dead bodies. In one or two places salvage parties were at work collecting equipment and rifles, sorting out smashed wagons etc. and stretcher bearers checking for any wounded.
A couple of bewildered looking mules, still harnessed together, stood by the road and eyed us cautiously as we passed Battalion HQ at Valley Crossroads which appeared to have been particularly well plastered.
I noticed that a few of the wrecked carts had boxes of bombs spilled from them and thought that we could certainly have made good use of them on Sunday when we had to use the German’s stick grenades to finish clearing the trenches when our own ran out.
There were a fair number of shell holes in and around the Harrow Road as well so it must have been heavily shelled over the past few days.
Eventually the signs of the recent bombardments became fewer and we passed through the ruins of North and South Maroc and then Grenay where there were loads of supply and GS wagons, artillery and infantry looking like they were getting ready to move up towards Loos. Some of them started to cheer us and shout “Well done the Londons”.
Sergeant McGuire came along and told us to march to attention and cheer back.
Those who could did but it only lasted a few minutes and we were soon stumbling along again.
There were large numbers of walking wounded and stretcher cases around the Dressing Stations and some German soldiers and medical orderlies helping to carry stretchers. In the shadows you could just make out the rows of covered bodies and a pile of crosses for grave markers.
We turned on to a side road, which I recognised as the road to Le Brebis, and eventually stopped in the square when we got there. I hoped we would not be there for long as I remembered that the Alleyman had shelled it with accuracy and regularity when we were there last and even after our advance it was still within range of their heavy artillery. One of our own batteries, in cover behind the station, fired the occasional shell with a deep, booming cough.
We had not been stopped for long when an Officer announced that they were going to call the roll by companies. We fell in on the side of the square, eventually, after sorting ourselves out and Sergeant McGuire began to call the names.
I thought this a bit odd as the Colour Sergeant usually called the roll.
Lennie answered his name, “Here Sergeant.”
Sergeant McGuire replied, “Answer “Sir”; Officer on parade”.
As the names were called it suddenly sunk in why so many names were not answered and questions were asked of the whereabouts those who did not respond.
Some of us told what we knew of others and several times the Officer told Sergeant McGuire to ask only once if nobody knew what had happened to someone.
After all the platoons had been called it seemed that about half the company was killed, wounded, or missing and the other companies seemed to be about the same.
I thought of when we had left here on Saturday, which seemed like an eternity ago.
Was it Tuesday or Wednesday today? So much had happened that I didn’t want to remember. And here we were with apparently half the battalion gone, a strange officer, only one of my mates left and all I wanted to do was sleep.
The Officer told us that we would be in billets there and we would be called off by the NCO’s, who were waiting in a group nearby.
We stood there, each of us swaying slightly, bent forward under the weight of equipment and leaning on our rifles. Shouts came to assemble by platoons in column, which again took a bit of time, as nobody seemed able or inclined by now to move quickly or smartly.
When they shouted “D Company”, Lennie said, “Come on Corp, that’s us” and I shuffled along after him. Somebody else called out “Number thirteen platoon” and a small number of us moved slowly along the street following a Sergeant.
He turned round and pointed at a house with part of the roof missing and said,
“Your section in that one Corporal” in a quavering voice and I recognised that it was QMS Thompson with a pitying look on his face.
I followed Lennie in to the house through the broken door lay down and was asleep before my head hit the floor.
I didn’t remember falling asleep but I did remember shifting at some time.
There was water dripping on my neck. Then there was something hitting my foot.
I opened my eyes to pitch blackness and a musty smell then hunched up and tried to get back to sleep. Something hit my foot again and I heard a voice that sounded as if it were coming from the far end of a tunnel. I couldn’t make out what it was and tried, without too much effort, to go to sleep again.
I was grabbed and shaken roughly by the shoulders. The voice was louder and closer.
“Come on you! You’re going back. Get your kit together and get moving.”
I felt dazed, confused and utterly exhausted.
A burly man, with a luxuriant walrus moustache, had his face next to mine and was pulling me in to a sitting position. I pushed my cap back from my eyes and saw that it was a Sergeant from one of the Guards Regiments and that, unlike mine; his uniform and kit were fairly clean.
”Sorry Sergeant”, I said, and automatically reached for my rifle.
“Follow that man there and get a move on. Well done lad.” said the Sergeant.
What was he talking about?
As I wobbled to my feet I saw that he was smiling and pointing at a figure crouching in the gloom. I started to do my kit up and noticed that my fingers didn’t work very well and had trouble with the buckles.
Trying to move, I realised that every bone and muscle in my body ached and my head was pounding. My mouth felt as if I had not had anything to drink for days and my feet moved as if they belonged to somebody else. My equipment and rifle seemed to weigh as much as I did.
I caught up with the figure in the gloom and recognised Corporal Flynn from
A Company. “God, you look all in,” he said.
“You don’t look too clever yourself,” I rasped, hardly recognising my own voice.
Both of us looked like scarecrows; covered in mud, our clothes sodden, creased and torn, badges and brasses tarnished; but our rifles were clean.
“Take a swig from this but careful now” he said offering me a water bottle.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a gulp.
My mouth and throat began to burn and I stood there coughing and choking.
“Quiet” he said. “Any more racket like that and they’ll send a shell at us”.
“You might have told me it was rum but thanks anyway”, I whispered.
“Come on let’s go. Keep low,” he said, and I followed him, crouching, along what I remembered was the German second line trench and led us near to the outskirts of Loos village.
Gradually more scarecrows joined us and we were about 30 strong when we got to what had been a road. Behind the ruins of some of the village buildings more groups of scarecrows were standing about and then we started to move off, walking slowly, each burdened by the weight of his equipment and thinking his own thoughts or trying to stay awake.
I thought that there was not much of the battalion left as there seemed to be so few of us.
After that I thought only of sleep. I wanted to sleep. Why wouldn’t they let me sleep?
Several times we stopped; what for I do not know, and each time I bumped into the man in front. After this had happened a couple of times he turned and said,
“If I wasn’t so bloody tired……….” and his voice trailed off.
I recognised Lennie although he looked as if he had been buried and dug up again.
“Bloody hell it’s you Corp. They said you copped it!” he exclaimed.
“How much longer are they going to keep us walking?” I said,” I just want to sleep.”
He grunted an inaudible reply as he turned round and we started moving again.
Behind us the sound of sporadic rifle and machine gun fire, together with the occasional shell, could be heard and a flare lit up the sky.
Its pale light showed a short column of shambling men stretching along the road in front in the drizzling rain.
How long we stumbled along for after that I don’t know but there were frequent stops to make room for ration and ammunition transport going up towards Loos. We also halted a couple of times for ambulances to go by and we passed quite a few parties of walking wounded making their way to the rear.
When we started our march, I’ll call it that but it wasn’t very soldierly, there were many broken wagons, equipment, stores, dead horses and mules strewn along the valley and not a few dead bodies. In one or two places salvage parties were at work collecting equipment and rifles, sorting out smashed wagons etc. and stretcher bearers checking for any wounded.
A couple of bewildered looking mules, still harnessed together, stood by the road and eyed us cautiously as we passed Battalion HQ at Valley Crossroads which appeared to have been particularly well plastered.
I noticed that a few of the wrecked carts had boxes of bombs spilled from them and thought that we could certainly have made good use of them on Sunday when we had to use the German’s stick grenades to finish clearing the trenches when our own ran out.
There were a fair number of shell holes in and around the Harrow Road as well so it must have been heavily shelled over the past few days.
Eventually the signs of the recent bombardments became fewer and we passed through the ruins of North and South Maroc and then Grenay where there were loads of supply and GS wagons, artillery and infantry looking like they were getting ready to move up towards Loos. Some of them started to cheer us and shout “Well done the Londons”.
Sergeant McGuire came along and told us to march to attention and cheer back.
Those who could did but it only lasted a few minutes and we were soon stumbling along again.
There were large numbers of walking wounded and stretcher cases around the Dressing Stations and some German soldiers and medical orderlies helping to carry stretchers. In the shadows you could just make out the rows of covered bodies and a pile of crosses for grave markers.
We turned on to a side road, which I recognised as the road to Le Brebis, and eventually stopped in the square when we got there. I hoped we would not be there for long as I remembered that the Alleyman had shelled it with accuracy and regularity when we were there last and even after our advance it was still within range of their heavy artillery. One of our own batteries, in cover behind the station, fired the occasional shell with a deep, booming cough.
We had not been stopped for long when an Officer announced that they were going to call the roll by companies. We fell in on the side of the square, eventually, after sorting ourselves out and Sergeant McGuire began to call the names.
I thought this a bit odd as the Colour Sergeant usually called the roll.
Lennie answered his name, “Here Sergeant.”
Sergeant McGuire replied, “Answer “Sir”; Officer on parade”.
As the names were called it suddenly sunk in why so many names were not answered and questions were asked of the whereabouts those who did not respond.
Some of us told what we knew of others and several times the Officer told Sergeant McGuire to ask only once if nobody knew what had happened to someone.
After all the platoons had been called it seemed that about half the company was killed, wounded, or missing and the other companies seemed to be about the same.
I thought of when we had left here on Saturday, which seemed like an eternity ago.
Was it Tuesday or Wednesday today? So much had happened that I didn’t want to remember. And here we were with apparently half the battalion gone, a strange officer, only one of my mates left and all I wanted to do was sleep.
The Officer told us that we would be in billets there and we would be called off by the NCO’s, who were waiting in a group nearby.
We stood there, each of us swaying slightly, bent forward under the weight of equipment and leaning on our rifles. Shouts came to assemble by platoons in column, which again took a bit of time, as nobody seemed able or inclined by now to move quickly or smartly.
When they shouted “D Company”, Lennie said, “Come on Corp, that’s us” and I shuffled along after him. Somebody else called out “Number thirteen platoon” and a small number of us moved slowly along the street following a Sergeant.
He turned round and pointed at a house with part of the roof missing and said,
“Your section in that one Corporal” in a quavering voice and I recognised that it was QMS Thompson with a pitying look on his face.
I followed Lennie in to the house through the broken door lay down and was asleep before my head hit the floor.
Nice one Squizza, a nice well written piece with very natural dialouge
Thanks Gunboat - part of the novel I've been trying to write for the last several years...................
Pieces from two novels in the making here. What can I say except please, please finish them!
Squirrel I was so drawn into your piece. It's jam-packed with detail, and reads so well I was really disappointed when it finished. Did he have enough sleep? What happened when he woke up? Did...?
How is yours going salesie?
Please can I put myself down for signed copies, gentlemen?
CGM
Squirrel I was so drawn into your piece. It's jam-packed with detail, and reads so well I was really disappointed when it finished. Did he have enough sleep? What happened when he woke up? Did...?
How is yours going salesie?
Please can I put myself down for signed copies, gentlemen?
CGM
QUOTE (CGM @ Sep 13 2009, 07:03 PM) 
Pieces from two novels in the making here. What can I say except please, please finish them!
Squirrel I was so drawn into your piece. It's jam-packed with detail, and reads so well I was really disappointed when it finished. Did he have enough sleep? What happened when he woke up? Did...?
How is yours going salesie?
Please can I put myself down for signed copies, gentlemen?
CGM
Squirrel I was so drawn into your piece. It's jam-packed with detail, and reads so well I was really disappointed when it finished. Did he have enough sleep? What happened when he woke up? Did...?
How is yours going salesie?
Please can I put myself down for signed copies, gentlemen?
CGM
Going slowly, CGM - getting very little time to get back to it at the moment, but one day the second of a series of five will be finished. The first one took just under a year to complete, including research, but I was virtually retired at the time - since then I've had to return to earning a busy honest living.
Cheers-salesie.
Retirement - an elusive dream for so many these days, including me!
Better than redundancy!
Bruce
Bruce
I'll painfully second that.
Regards,
EoB.
Regards,
EoB.
Thank yo for your kind comments CGM.
With a bit of luck I will be working part time from January so may get around to finishing it.
With a bit of luck I will be working part time from January so may get around to finishing it.
QUOTE (brucehubbard @ Sep 14 2009, 09:15 AM)
Better than redundancy!
Bruce
Bruce
QUOTE (Earl of Berkhamsted @ Sep 14 2009, 09:17 AM)
I'll painfully second that.
Regards,
EoB.
Regards,
EoB.
You're quite right, of course. My husband has been on short time all summer - but that's still better than complete redundancy (although he was there a few years ago. Very scary.)
My sympathy goes to everyone caught in that very bad situation.
Best regards
CGM
Gone really quiet on here - so here's another piece written a few years ago. Again, it's from a much bigger piece, and is not about billets per se, but it does show a difference in living conditions between the fighting soldier and those at Headquarters.
Cheers-salesie.
Chapter 24 – Necessity versus experience.
“This barn’s been allocated as our billet, Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Biddle, “Settle the men in, I’m off to Company HQ.”
“Yes, Sir. 3 platoon fall out.”
“What do you reckon?” said Smudger.
“He’s seems all right.” Said George.
“He’s a bit bleedin green, though.”
“Give him a chance, Smudge, he’s only been with us for two days.”
“You ran this platoon much bleedin better. He’ll get us all bleedin killed.”
“Smudger, shut up. Now get this bloody billet organised, and earn that second stripe, while I check on the replacements, they look done in.”
“Aren’t we bleedin all?”
“Smudger!”
Smudger sloped off , “Finchy, come and help me sort this so-called bleedin billet out.”
They’d been marching and fighting for over four weeks. They’d marched away from the canal with the Germans hard on their heels; they’d turned around after two days and once again fought them to a standstill, but they’d been forced to withdraw once more. Then they’d marched deep into France, fighting numerous rear guard actions, before turning to fight with the French on the river Marne. Together they’d pushed the Germans back, and were now advancing Northwards again, pushing the Germans back the way they’d come.
The twenty-three members of 3 platoon who had marched away from the canal were now whittled down to just fourteen, but their new officer had brought six replacements with him, and they’d merged with the surviving eighteen men of number 2 platoon. On the march North, George had overheard two staff officers saying they doubted if any unit in the BEF was anywhere near to its full strength. Regular army units were racing to reinforce them from all around the Empire, plus the Territorials had finished mobilising, but most were still en-route and still a few weeks away. As he looked out across the French countryside that day in late September, George thought they’d better get a bloody move on, or we’ll grind to a halt through sheer exhaustion.
Lieutenant Biddle came roaring up, sitting on the back of one of those fancy new motorised bicycles, and hanging on for dear life. “Sergeant, you’re to report to Corps HQ. This dispatch rider has orders to get you there, sharpish.”
“Me, Sir? There must be some mistake, Sir?” said George.
“There’s no mistakes in orders, Sergeant.”
George slung his bundook across his back and climbed onto the rolled up blanket that served as a makeshift seat behind the rider. Then he was sped away in a cloud of dust.
“What’s that all about, Sir?” asked Smudger.
“I don’t know, Corporal, but he’ll need the best of British, riding on that bloody contraption.”
******
Corps HQ was located in an old Chateau at least ten miles back. As they sped up its long driveway, George said to himself, they can shoot me for mutiny but I’m not going back on this bloody thing.
A Major met him at the main entrance, and a corporal tried to relieve him of his bundook, but George glared at him and snarled, “Leave it, Corporal!”
“You won’t need that here, Sergeant.” Said the Major.
“If it’s all the same to you, Sir, I’d rather hang on to it?”
The Major smiled, “Very well, follow me, Sergeant.”
He followed the Major along various corridors; hundreds of clerks and scores of officers were milling around everywhere. He followed him through a splendid set of double doors and into an enormous, even more magnificent room. At the far end was a large desk; seated at it was an elderly gentleman in army uniform. It seemed to George that he had more gold braid than an upper class whore's boudoir.
His desk was surrounded by a mob of officers, who seemed to be hurrying to and fro with reams of paper as he issued his instructions.
The Major told George to stand and wait about five yards from the desk. His uniform was caked in mud and dried blood, but he stood to attention the best he could as he watched the Major approach the desk. He whispered in the old man’s ear then departed with all of the others when the General said, “Thank you, Gentlemen, I’ll need ten minutes, we’ll continue with this when I’ve finished with this young man.”
George turned his head as he heard the double doors close behind him, when he turned back he saw Brigadier General Broadbent standing beside the General. Only the three of them were left in the room.
“Ready for action, Sergeant?” said the General.
“Sorry, Sir?”
“Your rifle, man, your rifle. Ready for action?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, sorry, Sir. Some corporal in the entrance tried to relieve me of it, but I was having none of it , Sir.”
“Good man,” laughed the General, turning to Broadbent, “How can we loose with men like this, Hubert?”
“We can’t, Sir, the Germans don’t have a chance, Sir.”
“Well, young man, I suppose you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t know my bloody self,” said the General, laughing, “But you must be very important, because the Brigadier here has hot-footed it all the way from London to find you, Sergeant. What do you think to that, hey?”
“I can’t imagine why, Sir?”
“Neither can I, Sergeant. But you can bet it’s something underhand knowing old Hubert here. Anyway, I digress. I’ve just sanctioned a report about you, young man, a report from your Company Commander about your outstanding defence of the swing bridge on the canal. Absolutely magnificent, young man, you’re a credit to your Regiment.”
“Thank you, Sir. It did get a bit hairy, Sir.”
“A bit hairy? Well done, Sergeant, bloody priceless, did you here that, Hubert, a bit hairy? Bloody priceless.”
“I heard it, Sir. A bit more than hairy, I’d say.”
“Me too, Hubert, me too. Now that I’ve signed the report, young man, it has to go off to London. If they sanction it, which they should, you’ll be able to wear a little red ribbon on your chest very soon, and very well deserved. I just wanted to meet you, shake your hand and wish you luck, before I hand you over to old Hubert here.”
The General went over, shook George’s hand and patted him on the back. Then the doors opened and the mob returned as Broadbent signalled George to follow him.
As he followed Broadbent down even more corridors, his head swam. The Victoria Cross, the Corps Commander has recommended me for the Victoria bloody Cross, Jesus. But what does Broadbent want? Probably needs my details for the citation? No, a bloody clerk could do that, so what does he want?
Broadbent led him into a small office, where they met up with the major who’d met George at the entrance. Broadbent then told George to sit down in front of a desk; the major closed the door and then joined Broadbent behind the desk.
“Congratulations, Sergeant,” said Broadbent, “The Victoria Cross, hey? They don’t give those out with the rum ration?”
“No, Sir.”
Broadbent raised a file and slammed it down onto the desk, “But if anyone sees this, you won’t see another bloody rum ration let alone the Victoria bloody cross.”
“Sir?”
“Let me see now, where shall I start? I know, I’ll start with attempted murder shall I, MR ALBERT JOHN WHEELER?”
George didn’t flinch; he just stared into Broadbent’s eyes, making his contempt for him only too obvious.
“Dumb insolence, Sergeant?”
“I can always try verbal insolence if you prefer, Sir. Like so bloody what - Sir? So you’ve discovered my past – Sir? Who gives a damn - Sir? The b*stard deserved it, Sir. If I met him now, Sir, I’d finish the f*cking job off - Sir.”
“Do you normally leave jobs unfinished, Sergeant?”
“I’ve learnt a lot since then, Sir. I know how to finish men off now,” George said as he drew his bayonet and ran his thumb along its edge, “Anybody upsets me now, Sir, I know exactly how to deal with em, Sir.”
“I’ll remind you, Sergeant, that one word from me and you’ll be locked away for a long time, if not shot, just for talking to me like that, never mind what’s in this bloody file.”
“I don’t think so, Sir?”
“Oh, you don’t think so, Sergeant? Would you care to explain why - before I shout for the Redcaps?”
“It’s simple, Sir. You’ve come all the way from London to find me, and you haven’t done that just to arrest me. Which means you want something from me, Sir. And it’s not my hide in a cell, or tied to a post - is it, Sir?”
Broadbent laughed, “I told you he was clever. Didn’t I, Harry?”
“You did, Sir.”
“Well done, Sergeant, I knew you were bloody smart as well as brave. I knew you were bloody good enough.”
“I – er- I don’t understand, Sir?”
“Explain it to him, Harry.”
“Well done, George,” said the Major, “Or shall I call you, Albert?”
“George, please, Sir.”
“My name is Major Harry Mann and we’re a bit of a rum unit, George. Part of the army, sometimes, and then sometimes we’re not. We do the dirty jobs - for want of a better phrase.”
“The secret service, Sir?”
“Pretty similar - yes.”
“I don’t see why you’re interested in me, though, Sir?”
“When we first investigated you in Ireland, you appeared to be something of an enigma. For an ordinary soldier to make the kind of money you made from your bookmaking enterprise was exceptional. And your intellect seemed to be on a par with your courage, a very unusual combination. So, why were you an ordinary soldier? We don’t like conundrums like that. So we investigated you in England, and when we discovered your abilities at overcoming adversity we were impressed.”
“So why the little charade just now, Sir?”
“When we discovered how young you really are, we needed to know if you could keep your head and think on your feet when faced with complete surprise. If you’re not prepared to fight your own corner when faced with pressure, then you’re hardly likely to fight ours. That’s the principle, and I must say you did very well.”
“Build me up with the VC, then confront me with my past, very clever. So the VC was just a ruse - to test me out?”
“Not at all, that’s genuine. Congratulations, a tremendous show.” Said Harry, shaking George’s hand.
“Good, now perhaps we can cut out the bullshit and get down to the facts of the matter,” said George, “Why now, why here and why me?”
Broadbent laughed again, “I’ll take over now, Harry. You’ve no time for nonsense have you, George?”
“Life’s too short, Sir, especially these days.”
“Touché, George, touché. We need you to go to Antwerp. Do you know anything about Antwerp?”
“Isn’t it a major port in northern Belgium, Sir?”
“Well done, George, it certainly is. It’s still in Belgian hands, but not for much longer - the Germans are after it. We’re sending a full division to help in its defence, but the best we can hope for is a delay before it’s captured.”
“A full division may just stop em, Sir?”
“Not this one, it’s the Royal Naval Division. It’s been hastily put together from a combination of marine reservists who are mostly old and still unfit, plus ordinary sailors who are between ships and have only received about three weeks infantry training.”
“They’ll be slaughtered, Sir. Why send them?”
“Because there’s no on else, we’re fully engaged here in France, and we’re stretched to the limit. However, that’s not our concern. We’re more interested in a ship that’s put into in the port to make repairs.”
“Don’t know much about ships. Sir?”
“You don’t need to, George. We know that it left Kiel in Germany, but then it developed mechanical problems and had to enter Antwerp, and they’re struggling to make repairs. We also know that it’s Dutch registered, which makes it neutral. We don’t know its name, but we do know it’s carrying German guns, including machine guns and ammunition, and is heading for Ireland. Heading for the IRB, to start a revolution.”
“How do you know all this, Sir?”
“We have our sources, George, and we’ve been lucky to learn as much as we have. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This ship’s cargo would be a big problem in normal times, but even more so now. Do you know why, young man?”
“I think so, Sir. We’d have to station good troops over there rather than send them here, and we’re struggling for replacements as it is, Sir.”
“You learn fast, young man. Even a small, well-armed force in Ireland would tie up several Divisions. So you see, it’s vital we stop that ship.”
“But, Sir, can’t the navy intercept it, after it sails?”
“They may be able to, and they’ll try if it does sail. But we can’t risk it, they have their hands full with the German navy, and anyway, it’s all too easy for ships to disappear once they’ve left port.”
“But why me, Sir, I’m not trained for this kind of work?”
“Time’s short, George, and Antwerp’s a massive port and it’s full of neutral ships, especially Dutch, and once the city falls their struggle to make the repairs will be resolved; the Germans will make that ship's mission a priority. Most of our operatives are engaged elsewhere, what with this bloody war and all, but you have one vital asset that none of the others have. You’re the only man we know who can recognise the senior IRB man who’s with that ship. Spot him around the docks and he’ll lead you straight to that cargo.”
“My infamous brother in law,” hissed George, “Manus bloody Doherty!”
“Well done. You see, you don’t need any bloody training; you’ve figured it all out. But we also think that Declan O'Bannion's with him, do you know him?”
“I think I’ve seen him a couple of times with Manus up at the house in Clontarf. I’m not sure, but don’t worry, Sir, if that swine Manus is within smelling distance I’ll find the b*stard. After what he did to Dusty, I’ll take great delight in sending him to his maker. How do I get there and when do I leave, Sir?”
“Steady on, there’s a few things we need to discuss first. Here’s your commission,” said Broadbent, handing George a roll of paper, “You’re now a 2nd lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps.”
“Me, a bloody officer?”
“Don’t worry,” said Harry, “Not all of us are total pri*ks.”
“You need some authority,” said Broadbent, “No one will listen to a mere Sergeant.”
“Except his own men, Sir,” said George, “But how many listen to a bloody second lieuy?”
“Not many, we know that, so on this job you’ll be an acting Captain. You’ll travel with the advance elements of the Naval Division. That’ll be your cover, you’ll be assigned to them as an instructor, God knows they need more training. But once in Antwerp your orders will state that you are to proceed to the docks to make arrangements for troop disembarkation. But none are due through there, they’re all due through Ostend, so you’ll concentrate on finding that ship, and then destroy its cargo, or at least prevent it from sailing for some considerable time.”
“And if I need support, Sir?”
“Here’s a letter of authority, authorising you to commandeer any British equipment and/or men that you see fit in order to complete your mission. But only use it if you absolutely need to. Destroying a neutral ship will cause an international incident, but that is secondary to the importance of stopping its cargo reaching Ireland. You will use whatever means you need to stop it, and this letter may help.”
“How do I get there, Sir?”
“You’ll be transported from here to Dunkirk. Where you will meet up with the Naval Division’s advance unit and entrain with them for Antwerp, the coast railroad is still open.”
“Beats marching, Sir. Will I have any direct help?”
“I’ve arranged for two Intelligence Corps Sergeants to accompany you, you’ll meet them in Dunkirk.”
“Two Sergeants, do they have special skills, Sir?”
“They do, they’re bodyguards, in case of a fight.”
“I’ll take my own along then, Sir.”
“Your own men? Out of the question.”
“I’ll match them as bodyguards against any of yours any day, Sir. Plus we’ve been a team for a couple of years now, we work well together. It’ll give me a much better chance, Sir. Better a team that know each other, rather than one that doesn’t.”
“I suppose they’re with your old unit?”
“They are, Sir. They’re Corporal Smith 572, and Lance Corporal Finch 342.”
“Very well, I’ll arrange for their transfer to the Intelligence Corps. They’ll meet you in Dunkirk. But only tell them what they need to know.”
"What about dress, Sir? How do we mix in?”
“Normal uniforms won’t be out of place, the whole city is a military camp. Your new kit is already here, you’ll be badged as a Koyli instructor, not Intelligence Corps.”
“Do we have any more people in Antwerp, Sir?”
“Not from our unit, but be careful, the place is hot bed of spies from all sides. Don’t trust anyone. Happy?”
“I’ll be a lot happier when I find that b*stard Manus, Sir.”
“No personal vendettas, Lieutenant, you have to stop that ship, he’ll lead you to it, but he’s not the specific target. Destruction of the cargo is your first objective, it must not reach Ireland.”
“I understand, Sir.”
Harry then showed George to a bedroom and briefed him further, then left him alone to clean himself up and to catch up on a few hours of well-deserved sleep.
******
Broadbent seemed worried as Harry returned, “What do you think, Harry?”
“He seems to catch on quickly, Sir.”
“He does, but he’s still bloody green as far as our business goes. However, we don’t have much choice. We have very little time, Harry, perhaps only as little as a week before the city falls, and he’s the only one who can recognise the bu*ger we’re after.”
“Without him, we’d never find that ship, Sir. But I’m worried that his obvious hatred for his brother in law could prove to be a fatal flaw in his character. As soon as he knew he was going after Doherty, Sir, the only thing he was interested in was how he’d bloody get there.”
“I know, Harry, it worries me too. I’d be much happier if I could send an experienced agent with him, but I can’t. They’re all engaged and I can’t release one. Time, Harry, that’s our biggest enemy on this bloody job.”
“However, Sir, he’s enterprising, intelligent, loyal and, judging by the reports from his unit, he knows how to fight.”
"That’s why I’m sending him - when he’s found that ship, it becomes more of a soldier’s role anyway, destroying the bloody thing – but I’m not totally happy.
That’s why I’m letting him take his own men along. I liked what he said about a team who know each other. Let’s hope his friendship for his two assistants makes up for his inexperience?”
******
As he soaked his aching body in the bath, his first since he’d left Ireland nearly two months ago, George pondered his mission – at last, he thought, Manus Doherty within my grasp, I’ll get both him and that cargo or die in the bloody attempt.
He then bowed to the inevitable, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in that warm soothing water.
The flag draped coffin was lowered as the last post sounded, but the lid opened and Dusty sat up, dressed in his green, blood stained, dress uniform. And as George saluted his coffin, Dusty looked at him with a sad, disappointed look, and as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth he said, “It won’t be long now, George, don’t let me down again, will you? Here’s someone else who wants to talk to you.”
George’s mother then sat upright in the coffin, her arm around Dusty’s shoulder, “Albert, you’ve forgotten all about me, you still haven’t settled my score, don’t let me down ag…”
“Argggggh,” screamed George as his head slipped below the bath water. He jumped to his knees; his lungs expelling a torrent of warm soapy water through his mouth, as a huge wave cascaded over the top of the bath.
He leapt out onto the wet floor, then fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering, with his head over the sink. My God, he thought, my mother does blame me - but she’s right, I am a bad son, “Don’t worry, Mother,” he yelled out loud, “I promise that once I’ve settled with Manus, I’ll go after Gilberthorpe - even if I have to desert to do it.”
Cheers-salesie.
Chapter 24 – Necessity versus experience.
“This barn’s been allocated as our billet, Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Biddle, “Settle the men in, I’m off to Company HQ.”
“Yes, Sir. 3 platoon fall out.”
“What do you reckon?” said Smudger.
“He’s seems all right.” Said George.
“He’s a bit bleedin green, though.”
“Give him a chance, Smudge, he’s only been with us for two days.”
“You ran this platoon much bleedin better. He’ll get us all bleedin killed.”
“Smudger, shut up. Now get this bloody billet organised, and earn that second stripe, while I check on the replacements, they look done in.”
“Aren’t we bleedin all?”
“Smudger!”
Smudger sloped off , “Finchy, come and help me sort this so-called bleedin billet out.”
They’d been marching and fighting for over four weeks. They’d marched away from the canal with the Germans hard on their heels; they’d turned around after two days and once again fought them to a standstill, but they’d been forced to withdraw once more. Then they’d marched deep into France, fighting numerous rear guard actions, before turning to fight with the French on the river Marne. Together they’d pushed the Germans back, and were now advancing Northwards again, pushing the Germans back the way they’d come.
The twenty-three members of 3 platoon who had marched away from the canal were now whittled down to just fourteen, but their new officer had brought six replacements with him, and they’d merged with the surviving eighteen men of number 2 platoon. On the march North, George had overheard two staff officers saying they doubted if any unit in the BEF was anywhere near to its full strength. Regular army units were racing to reinforce them from all around the Empire, plus the Territorials had finished mobilising, but most were still en-route and still a few weeks away. As he looked out across the French countryside that day in late September, George thought they’d better get a bloody move on, or we’ll grind to a halt through sheer exhaustion.
Lieutenant Biddle came roaring up, sitting on the back of one of those fancy new motorised bicycles, and hanging on for dear life. “Sergeant, you’re to report to Corps HQ. This dispatch rider has orders to get you there, sharpish.”
“Me, Sir? There must be some mistake, Sir?” said George.
“There’s no mistakes in orders, Sergeant.”
George slung his bundook across his back and climbed onto the rolled up blanket that served as a makeshift seat behind the rider. Then he was sped away in a cloud of dust.
“What’s that all about, Sir?” asked Smudger.
“I don’t know, Corporal, but he’ll need the best of British, riding on that bloody contraption.”
******
Corps HQ was located in an old Chateau at least ten miles back. As they sped up its long driveway, George said to himself, they can shoot me for mutiny but I’m not going back on this bloody thing.
A Major met him at the main entrance, and a corporal tried to relieve him of his bundook, but George glared at him and snarled, “Leave it, Corporal!”
“You won’t need that here, Sergeant.” Said the Major.
“If it’s all the same to you, Sir, I’d rather hang on to it?”
The Major smiled, “Very well, follow me, Sergeant.”
He followed the Major along various corridors; hundreds of clerks and scores of officers were milling around everywhere. He followed him through a splendid set of double doors and into an enormous, even more magnificent room. At the far end was a large desk; seated at it was an elderly gentleman in army uniform. It seemed to George that he had more gold braid than an upper class whore's boudoir.
His desk was surrounded by a mob of officers, who seemed to be hurrying to and fro with reams of paper as he issued his instructions.
The Major told George to stand and wait about five yards from the desk. His uniform was caked in mud and dried blood, but he stood to attention the best he could as he watched the Major approach the desk. He whispered in the old man’s ear then departed with all of the others when the General said, “Thank you, Gentlemen, I’ll need ten minutes, we’ll continue with this when I’ve finished with this young man.”
George turned his head as he heard the double doors close behind him, when he turned back he saw Brigadier General Broadbent standing beside the General. Only the three of them were left in the room.
“Ready for action, Sergeant?” said the General.
“Sorry, Sir?”
“Your rifle, man, your rifle. Ready for action?”
“Oh, yes, Sir, sorry, Sir. Some corporal in the entrance tried to relieve me of it, but I was having none of it , Sir.”
“Good man,” laughed the General, turning to Broadbent, “How can we loose with men like this, Hubert?”
“We can’t, Sir, the Germans don’t have a chance, Sir.”
“Well, young man, I suppose you’re wondering what the hell you’re doing here?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I don’t know my bloody self,” said the General, laughing, “But you must be very important, because the Brigadier here has hot-footed it all the way from London to find you, Sergeant. What do you think to that, hey?”
“I can’t imagine why, Sir?”
“Neither can I, Sergeant. But you can bet it’s something underhand knowing old Hubert here. Anyway, I digress. I’ve just sanctioned a report about you, young man, a report from your Company Commander about your outstanding defence of the swing bridge on the canal. Absolutely magnificent, young man, you’re a credit to your Regiment.”
“Thank you, Sir. It did get a bit hairy, Sir.”
“A bit hairy? Well done, Sergeant, bloody priceless, did you here that, Hubert, a bit hairy? Bloody priceless.”
“I heard it, Sir. A bit more than hairy, I’d say.”
“Me too, Hubert, me too. Now that I’ve signed the report, young man, it has to go off to London. If they sanction it, which they should, you’ll be able to wear a little red ribbon on your chest very soon, and very well deserved. I just wanted to meet you, shake your hand and wish you luck, before I hand you over to old Hubert here.”
The General went over, shook George’s hand and patted him on the back. Then the doors opened and the mob returned as Broadbent signalled George to follow him.
As he followed Broadbent down even more corridors, his head swam. The Victoria Cross, the Corps Commander has recommended me for the Victoria bloody Cross, Jesus. But what does Broadbent want? Probably needs my details for the citation? No, a bloody clerk could do that, so what does he want?
Broadbent led him into a small office, where they met up with the major who’d met George at the entrance. Broadbent then told George to sit down in front of a desk; the major closed the door and then joined Broadbent behind the desk.
“Congratulations, Sergeant,” said Broadbent, “The Victoria Cross, hey? They don’t give those out with the rum ration?”
“No, Sir.”
Broadbent raised a file and slammed it down onto the desk, “But if anyone sees this, you won’t see another bloody rum ration let alone the Victoria bloody cross.”
“Sir?”
“Let me see now, where shall I start? I know, I’ll start with attempted murder shall I, MR ALBERT JOHN WHEELER?”
George didn’t flinch; he just stared into Broadbent’s eyes, making his contempt for him only too obvious.
“Dumb insolence, Sergeant?”
“I can always try verbal insolence if you prefer, Sir. Like so bloody what - Sir? So you’ve discovered my past – Sir? Who gives a damn - Sir? The b*stard deserved it, Sir. If I met him now, Sir, I’d finish the f*cking job off - Sir.”
“Do you normally leave jobs unfinished, Sergeant?”
“I’ve learnt a lot since then, Sir. I know how to finish men off now,” George said as he drew his bayonet and ran his thumb along its edge, “Anybody upsets me now, Sir, I know exactly how to deal with em, Sir.”
“I’ll remind you, Sergeant, that one word from me and you’ll be locked away for a long time, if not shot, just for talking to me like that, never mind what’s in this bloody file.”
“I don’t think so, Sir?”
“Oh, you don’t think so, Sergeant? Would you care to explain why - before I shout for the Redcaps?”
“It’s simple, Sir. You’ve come all the way from London to find me, and you haven’t done that just to arrest me. Which means you want something from me, Sir. And it’s not my hide in a cell, or tied to a post - is it, Sir?”
Broadbent laughed, “I told you he was clever. Didn’t I, Harry?”
“You did, Sir.”
“Well done, Sergeant, I knew you were bloody smart as well as brave. I knew you were bloody good enough.”
“I – er- I don’t understand, Sir?”
“Explain it to him, Harry.”
“Well done, George,” said the Major, “Or shall I call you, Albert?”
“George, please, Sir.”
“My name is Major Harry Mann and we’re a bit of a rum unit, George. Part of the army, sometimes, and then sometimes we’re not. We do the dirty jobs - for want of a better phrase.”
“The secret service, Sir?”
“Pretty similar - yes.”
“I don’t see why you’re interested in me, though, Sir?”
“When we first investigated you in Ireland, you appeared to be something of an enigma. For an ordinary soldier to make the kind of money you made from your bookmaking enterprise was exceptional. And your intellect seemed to be on a par with your courage, a very unusual combination. So, why were you an ordinary soldier? We don’t like conundrums like that. So we investigated you in England, and when we discovered your abilities at overcoming adversity we were impressed.”
“So why the little charade just now, Sir?”
“When we discovered how young you really are, we needed to know if you could keep your head and think on your feet when faced with complete surprise. If you’re not prepared to fight your own corner when faced with pressure, then you’re hardly likely to fight ours. That’s the principle, and I must say you did very well.”
“Build me up with the VC, then confront me with my past, very clever. So the VC was just a ruse - to test me out?”
“Not at all, that’s genuine. Congratulations, a tremendous show.” Said Harry, shaking George’s hand.
“Good, now perhaps we can cut out the bullshit and get down to the facts of the matter,” said George, “Why now, why here and why me?”
Broadbent laughed again, “I’ll take over now, Harry. You’ve no time for nonsense have you, George?”
“Life’s too short, Sir, especially these days.”
“Touché, George, touché. We need you to go to Antwerp. Do you know anything about Antwerp?”
“Isn’t it a major port in northern Belgium, Sir?”
“Well done, George, it certainly is. It’s still in Belgian hands, but not for much longer - the Germans are after it. We’re sending a full division to help in its defence, but the best we can hope for is a delay before it’s captured.”
“A full division may just stop em, Sir?”
“Not this one, it’s the Royal Naval Division. It’s been hastily put together from a combination of marine reservists who are mostly old and still unfit, plus ordinary sailors who are between ships and have only received about three weeks infantry training.”
“They’ll be slaughtered, Sir. Why send them?”
“Because there’s no on else, we’re fully engaged here in France, and we’re stretched to the limit. However, that’s not our concern. We’re more interested in a ship that’s put into in the port to make repairs.”
“Don’t know much about ships. Sir?”
“You don’t need to, George. We know that it left Kiel in Germany, but then it developed mechanical problems and had to enter Antwerp, and they’re struggling to make repairs. We also know that it’s Dutch registered, which makes it neutral. We don’t know its name, but we do know it’s carrying German guns, including machine guns and ammunition, and is heading for Ireland. Heading for the IRB, to start a revolution.”
“How do you know all this, Sir?”
“We have our sources, George, and we’ve been lucky to learn as much as we have. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“This ship’s cargo would be a big problem in normal times, but even more so now. Do you know why, young man?”
“I think so, Sir. We’d have to station good troops over there rather than send them here, and we’re struggling for replacements as it is, Sir.”
“You learn fast, young man. Even a small, well-armed force in Ireland would tie up several Divisions. So you see, it’s vital we stop that ship.”
“But, Sir, can’t the navy intercept it, after it sails?”
“They may be able to, and they’ll try if it does sail. But we can’t risk it, they have their hands full with the German navy, and anyway, it’s all too easy for ships to disappear once they’ve left port.”
“But why me, Sir, I’m not trained for this kind of work?”
“Time’s short, George, and Antwerp’s a massive port and it’s full of neutral ships, especially Dutch, and once the city falls their struggle to make the repairs will be resolved; the Germans will make that ship's mission a priority. Most of our operatives are engaged elsewhere, what with this bloody war and all, but you have one vital asset that none of the others have. You’re the only man we know who can recognise the senior IRB man who’s with that ship. Spot him around the docks and he’ll lead you straight to that cargo.”
“My infamous brother in law,” hissed George, “Manus bloody Doherty!”
“Well done. You see, you don’t need any bloody training; you’ve figured it all out. But we also think that Declan O'Bannion's with him, do you know him?”
“I think I’ve seen him a couple of times with Manus up at the house in Clontarf. I’m not sure, but don’t worry, Sir, if that swine Manus is within smelling distance I’ll find the b*stard. After what he did to Dusty, I’ll take great delight in sending him to his maker. How do I get there and when do I leave, Sir?”
“Steady on, there’s a few things we need to discuss first. Here’s your commission,” said Broadbent, handing George a roll of paper, “You’re now a 2nd lieutenant in the Intelligence Corps.”
“Me, a bloody officer?”
“Don’t worry,” said Harry, “Not all of us are total pri*ks.”
“You need some authority,” said Broadbent, “No one will listen to a mere Sergeant.”
“Except his own men, Sir,” said George, “But how many listen to a bloody second lieuy?”
“Not many, we know that, so on this job you’ll be an acting Captain. You’ll travel with the advance elements of the Naval Division. That’ll be your cover, you’ll be assigned to them as an instructor, God knows they need more training. But once in Antwerp your orders will state that you are to proceed to the docks to make arrangements for troop disembarkation. But none are due through there, they’re all due through Ostend, so you’ll concentrate on finding that ship, and then destroy its cargo, or at least prevent it from sailing for some considerable time.”
“And if I need support, Sir?”
“Here’s a letter of authority, authorising you to commandeer any British equipment and/or men that you see fit in order to complete your mission. But only use it if you absolutely need to. Destroying a neutral ship will cause an international incident, but that is secondary to the importance of stopping its cargo reaching Ireland. You will use whatever means you need to stop it, and this letter may help.”
“How do I get there, Sir?”
“You’ll be transported from here to Dunkirk. Where you will meet up with the Naval Division’s advance unit and entrain with them for Antwerp, the coast railroad is still open.”
“Beats marching, Sir. Will I have any direct help?”
“I’ve arranged for two Intelligence Corps Sergeants to accompany you, you’ll meet them in Dunkirk.”
“Two Sergeants, do they have special skills, Sir?”
“They do, they’re bodyguards, in case of a fight.”
“I’ll take my own along then, Sir.”
“Your own men? Out of the question.”
“I’ll match them as bodyguards against any of yours any day, Sir. Plus we’ve been a team for a couple of years now, we work well together. It’ll give me a much better chance, Sir. Better a team that know each other, rather than one that doesn’t.”
“I suppose they’re with your old unit?”
“They are, Sir. They’re Corporal Smith 572, and Lance Corporal Finch 342.”
“Very well, I’ll arrange for their transfer to the Intelligence Corps. They’ll meet you in Dunkirk. But only tell them what they need to know.”
"What about dress, Sir? How do we mix in?”
“Normal uniforms won’t be out of place, the whole city is a military camp. Your new kit is already here, you’ll be badged as a Koyli instructor, not Intelligence Corps.”
“Do we have any more people in Antwerp, Sir?”
“Not from our unit, but be careful, the place is hot bed of spies from all sides. Don’t trust anyone. Happy?”
“I’ll be a lot happier when I find that b*stard Manus, Sir.”
“No personal vendettas, Lieutenant, you have to stop that ship, he’ll lead you to it, but he’s not the specific target. Destruction of the cargo is your first objective, it must not reach Ireland.”
“I understand, Sir.”
Harry then showed George to a bedroom and briefed him further, then left him alone to clean himself up and to catch up on a few hours of well-deserved sleep.
******
Broadbent seemed worried as Harry returned, “What do you think, Harry?”
“He seems to catch on quickly, Sir.”
“He does, but he’s still bloody green as far as our business goes. However, we don’t have much choice. We have very little time, Harry, perhaps only as little as a week before the city falls, and he’s the only one who can recognise the bu*ger we’re after.”
“Without him, we’d never find that ship, Sir. But I’m worried that his obvious hatred for his brother in law could prove to be a fatal flaw in his character. As soon as he knew he was going after Doherty, Sir, the only thing he was interested in was how he’d bloody get there.”
“I know, Harry, it worries me too. I’d be much happier if I could send an experienced agent with him, but I can’t. They’re all engaged and I can’t release one. Time, Harry, that’s our biggest enemy on this bloody job.”
“However, Sir, he’s enterprising, intelligent, loyal and, judging by the reports from his unit, he knows how to fight.”
"That’s why I’m sending him - when he’s found that ship, it becomes more of a soldier’s role anyway, destroying the bloody thing – but I’m not totally happy.
That’s why I’m letting him take his own men along. I liked what he said about a team who know each other. Let’s hope his friendship for his two assistants makes up for his inexperience?”
******
As he soaked his aching body in the bath, his first since he’d left Ireland nearly two months ago, George pondered his mission – at last, he thought, Manus Doherty within my grasp, I’ll get both him and that cargo or die in the bloody attempt.
He then bowed to the inevitable, he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep in that warm soothing water.
The flag draped coffin was lowered as the last post sounded, but the lid opened and Dusty sat up, dressed in his green, blood stained, dress uniform. And as George saluted his coffin, Dusty looked at him with a sad, disappointed look, and as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth he said, “It won’t be long now, George, don’t let me down again, will you? Here’s someone else who wants to talk to you.”
George’s mother then sat upright in the coffin, her arm around Dusty’s shoulder, “Albert, you’ve forgotten all about me, you still haven’t settled my score, don’t let me down ag…”
“Argggggh,” screamed George as his head slipped below the bath water. He jumped to his knees; his lungs expelling a torrent of warm soapy water through his mouth, as a huge wave cascaded over the top of the bath.
He leapt out onto the wet floor, then fell to his knees, coughing and spluttering, with his head over the sink. My God, he thought, my mother does blame me - but she’s right, I am a bad son, “Don’t worry, Mother,” he yelled out loud, “I promise that once I’ve settled with Manus, I’ll go after Gilberthorpe - even if I have to desert to do it.”
Well what do you expect.....I cant speak for the artists but the writers side of the divide are having to compete with too high standards!!!!
I have been very busy with work but I will hopefully put something together in the next few days
I have been very busy with work but I will hopefully put something together in the next few days
QUOTE (Gunboat @ Sep 20 2009, 05:42 PM)
Well what do you expect.....I cant speak for the artists but the writers side of the divide are having to compete with too high standards!!!!
I have been very busy with work but I will hopefully put something together in the next few days
I have been very busy with work but I will hopefully put something together in the next few days
Sorry, Gunny - just trying to keep the thread alive. I've also been too busy to write something new, and just thought I'd use some of my pool of work to give others a few ideas.
Cheers-salesie.
It happened while we were in billets in Marie's village.
As I've told, Marie and I got very friendly, and I was a frequent visitor in the Drolet home.
It was about the fourth day there, my Captain calls me over. "John," he said, with a strange look in his eye, "I've had a request from Monsieur Drollet. It seems he has an extra bedroom, and would like you billeted with the family. Any objections?"
It didn't take me long - apart from the thought of being near Marie, there was also the thought of a bed, rather than hay, and getting away from the snoring and smell of a platoon of men.
"None at all, Sir. Happy to oblige. Would you like me to take the answer personally?"
"See to it, Sergeant." And I thought I heard "You lucky blighter!" added under his breath.
I spent a very pleasant evening with the Drollets. I sat up with Monsieur Drollet over some excellent cognac. Then I made my way up the stairs to what had been Pierre's room, and fell fast asleep.
My dreams were at first mixed up with the stories M. Drollet told of the Franco-Prussian War. Then I settled, and it seemed to me that I wasn't alone in the bed. That there was a soft warm body next to mine. I could feel kisses, and smell perfume.
Now, as you know, men have that kind of dream all the time, and especially when they've been deprived of female companionship.
When I woke, I was alone.
Was it a dream? I've often wondered. I've asked Marie, but she just smiles. Even now, when we've been married ten years, I can't decide whether it was a dream or not.
As I've told, Marie and I got very friendly, and I was a frequent visitor in the Drolet home.
It was about the fourth day there, my Captain calls me over. "John," he said, with a strange look in his eye, "I've had a request from Monsieur Drollet. It seems he has an extra bedroom, and would like you billeted with the family. Any objections?"
It didn't take me long - apart from the thought of being near Marie, there was also the thought of a bed, rather than hay, and getting away from the snoring and smell of a platoon of men.
"None at all, Sir. Happy to oblige. Would you like me to take the answer personally?"
"See to it, Sergeant." And I thought I heard "You lucky blighter!" added under his breath.
I spent a very pleasant evening with the Drollets. I sat up with Monsieur Drollet over some excellent cognac. Then I made my way up the stairs to what had been Pierre's room, and fell fast asleep.
My dreams were at first mixed up with the stories M. Drollet told of the Franco-Prussian War. Then I settled, and it seemed to me that I wasn't alone in the bed. That there was a soft warm body next to mine. I could feel kisses, and smell perfume.
Now, as you know, men have that kind of dream all the time, and especially when they've been deprived of female companionship.
When I woke, I was alone.
Was it a dream? I've often wondered. I've asked Marie, but she just smiles. Even now, when we've been married ten years, I can't decide whether it was a dream or not.
Nice contributions Salesie and Michael.
I thought I'd have a try at one of my rhymes; not sure if it works or not but here it is:
Billets
We'd slogged along the road from Le Sars
Through the night in rain and mud.
The shell fire was behind us now,
Thank God the nearest was a dud.
The battalion that set out before
Was half of one coming back.
There was no singing, cheers or jokes,
Like there was before the attack.
We were sodden, burdened and weary,
By our thoughts as much as the load.
But the rain had stopped and it was getting light
On that cheerless, dead straight road.
Eventually we arrived at
Wherever it was we were going to.
Another ruined village,
And Joe said, "I suppose it'll have to do".
They told us off by Companies,
And led us by a track,
To the ramshackle old farm buildings
Surrounding a midden stack.
We got the barn as usual,
And the stacks of smelly straw.
But Oh! The height of luxury;
This one had a door!
And shutters on the windows,
And it wasn't damp nor wet.
The straw was dry and clean for once;
The best barn we had been in yet!
Just to be in somewhere dry at last;
We'd been wet for a week of more.
And to sit and clean ourselves up a bit
And relax away from the War.
Candle ends in cheese block sconces
Spread a pale but welcome light.
As Joe set to and made the tea
And cigarettes burned bright.
Our Corporal brought the rations in,
Soon bacon was sizzling in the pan.
Enjoyed with the bread that was nearly fresh,
Why, I felt almost human again!
Tony Nutkins September 2009
I thought I'd have a try at one of my rhymes; not sure if it works or not but here it is:
Billets
We'd slogged along the road from Le Sars
Through the night in rain and mud.
The shell fire was behind us now,
Thank God the nearest was a dud.
The battalion that set out before
Was half of one coming back.
There was no singing, cheers or jokes,
Like there was before the attack.
We were sodden, burdened and weary,
By our thoughts as much as the load.
But the rain had stopped and it was getting light
On that cheerless, dead straight road.
Eventually we arrived at
Wherever it was we were going to.
Another ruined village,
And Joe said, "I suppose it'll have to do".
They told us off by Companies,
And led us by a track,
To the ramshackle old farm buildings
Surrounding a midden stack.
We got the barn as usual,
And the stacks of smelly straw.
But Oh! The height of luxury;
This one had a door!
And shutters on the windows,
And it wasn't damp nor wet.
The straw was dry and clean for once;
The best barn we had been in yet!
Just to be in somewhere dry at last;
We'd been wet for a week of more.
And to sit and clean ourselves up a bit
And relax away from the War.
Candle ends in cheese block sconces
Spread a pale but welcome light.
As Joe set to and made the tea
And cigarettes burned bright.
Our Corporal brought the rations in,
Soon bacon was sizzling in the pan.
Enjoyed with the bread that was nearly fresh,
Why, I felt almost human again!
Tony Nutkins September 2009
Another nice piece Michael
It works well Squirrel
I like this stanza best paints such a simple yet effective picture
They told us off by Companies,
And led us by a track,
To the ramshackle old farm buildings
Surrounding a midden stack.
It works well Squirrel
I like this stanza best paints such a simple yet effective picture
They told us off by Companies,
And led us by a track,
To the ramshackle old farm buildings
Surrounding a midden stack.
Thanks Gunboat - much appreciated.
Our literary brethren have been holding the fort and playing a blinder this month but it's good to see a visual addition to the representation of the theme and as always EOB you've hit the mark. This is a great photograph and an imaginative take on the theme. Perfectly fitting.
thanks, ET
thanks, ET
I can't express it more eloquently than ET - so I'll just say absolutely brilliant EOB.
I agree what everyone esle has said, beautiful photograph and a beautiful sentiment
At the going down of the sun and in the morning... Superbly poignant photograph.
Cheers-salesie.
Cheers-salesie.
At last, found the time to pen a 500 word, dialogue only, piece about the perils of the Home front.
Cheers-salesie.
More Dangerous than the Front (not for polling)
“I still can’t believe my luck, Ada.”
“Which part of it? The part where you came to this town in the first place, or your luck in managing to convince the army doctor to give you three days excused duties, confined to bed?”
“Conning the doctor was easy, nothing to do with luck, you don’t think I’m clumsy enough to drop a ration box on my foot by accident do you?”
“Don’t get too cocky, young man, do you really expect me to believe you planned it all?”
“I’m not kidding, Ada, I knew the hospital was full; Smudger went sick the day before and was confined to bed back in his billet because there were no beds free in the hospital. So I thought to meself, use your loaf, Billy boy, drop the bloody thing just enough for it to bruise and swell-up and you’ll be able to spend a few days under Ada’s tender loving care instead of the bloody sergeant’s.”
“Hey, less of the language, I don’t care for young men who use the B-word in front of ladies old enough to be their mothers.”
“Sorry, Ada, but you weren’t behaving like my mother a few minutes ago.”
“That may well be, but there’s still no need for bad language. Any more of it and I’ll give you a clip round your ear.”
“I’d rather have more of your tender loving care, Ada.”
“ Don’t get into the habit of calling me Ada, if Mr Bramwell hears you he’ll be angry, and God forbid that any of the neighbours should overhear you.”
“Sorry, Mrs Bramwell. Any chance of you treating my “war-wound” again? My foot’s hurting and your nursing skills take my mind off it.”
“I bet they do! You’ll be telling me next that bedding me was part of your masterplan, that I would simply be unable to resist my lodger’s youthful charms?"
“Can’t claim that, Ada. I had my hopes, of course. After all, what young man could fail to be attracted to you – but when I hobbled back from camp and you helped me upstairs and into my bed, I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Dreamt about it, yes – but never really expected it.”
“Neither did I, Billy, I still don’t know what came over me earlier on. I just couldn't help myself – but you didn’t seem unprepared, you seemed only too ready willing and able.”
“That’s what just six weeks in the army does for you, Ada, makes you ready for anything. So, how’s about a bit more nursing then – and I’ll show you exactly how good us Tommies can be.”
“Just once more then - then I really have to get up, get dressed, and start cooking dinner.”
“Ada! What’s that noise!”
“Good grief, it’s the latch on the front door! It must be Albert – I mean Mr Bramwell – home early from the office. I’ll just have time to get into my own bedroom, and pretend that I’m getting changed.”
“Bloody hell, Ada! I never thought a civvie billet would be more dangerous than the bloody front!”
© John Sales 2009
Cheers-salesie.
More Dangerous than the Front (not for polling)
“I still can’t believe my luck, Ada.”
“Which part of it? The part where you came to this town in the first place, or your luck in managing to convince the army doctor to give you three days excused duties, confined to bed?”
“Conning the doctor was easy, nothing to do with luck, you don’t think I’m clumsy enough to drop a ration box on my foot by accident do you?”
“Don’t get too cocky, young man, do you really expect me to believe you planned it all?”
“I’m not kidding, Ada, I knew the hospital was full; Smudger went sick the day before and was confined to bed back in his billet because there were no beds free in the hospital. So I thought to meself, use your loaf, Billy boy, drop the bloody thing just enough for it to bruise and swell-up and you’ll be able to spend a few days under Ada’s tender loving care instead of the bloody sergeant’s.”
“Hey, less of the language, I don’t care for young men who use the B-word in front of ladies old enough to be their mothers.”
“Sorry, Ada, but you weren’t behaving like my mother a few minutes ago.”
“That may well be, but there’s still no need for bad language. Any more of it and I’ll give you a clip round your ear.”
“I’d rather have more of your tender loving care, Ada.”
“ Don’t get into the habit of calling me Ada, if Mr Bramwell hears you he’ll be angry, and God forbid that any of the neighbours should overhear you.”
“Sorry, Mrs Bramwell. Any chance of you treating my “war-wound” again? My foot’s hurting and your nursing skills take my mind off it.”
“I bet they do! You’ll be telling me next that bedding me was part of your masterplan, that I would simply be unable to resist my lodger’s youthful charms?"
“Can’t claim that, Ada. I had my hopes, of course. After all, what young man could fail to be attracted to you – but when I hobbled back from camp and you helped me upstairs and into my bed, I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Dreamt about it, yes – but never really expected it.”
“Neither did I, Billy, I still don’t know what came over me earlier on. I just couldn't help myself – but you didn’t seem unprepared, you seemed only too ready willing and able.”
“That’s what just six weeks in the army does for you, Ada, makes you ready for anything. So, how’s about a bit more nursing then – and I’ll show you exactly how good us Tommies can be.”
“Just once more then - then I really have to get up, get dressed, and start cooking dinner.”
“Ada! What’s that noise!”
“Good grief, it’s the latch on the front door! It must be Albert – I mean Mr Bramwell – home early from the office. I’ll just have time to get into my own bedroom, and pretend that I’m getting changed.”
“Bloody hell, Ada! I never thought a civvie billet would be more dangerous than the bloody front!”
© John Sales 2009
Michael, that's a lovely piece. Please don't ever give away the secret, will you! I'm very happy to be left wondering.
Squirrel I know I said it before, but there's so much detail written into your pieces. I'm always looking to find out what it was like to BE THERE, and the road from Le Sars (refuse to call it a rhyme!) just takes me straight into the whole event.
Salesie, I laughed out loud when I read More Dangerous than the Front, and it's still making me smile!
Thank you EoB. That is a superb photograph, with a truly powerful message. We should never forget.
CGM
Squirrel I know I said it before, but there's so much detail written into your pieces. I'm always looking to find out what it was like to BE THERE, and the road from Le Sars (refuse to call it a rhyme!) just takes me straight into the whole event.
Salesie, I laughed out loud when I read More Dangerous than the Front, and it's still making me smile!
Thank you EoB. That is a superb photograph, with a truly powerful message. We should never forget.
CGM
If you aren't familiar with 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean' please have a look at this link, then you can join in with George and his Pals. 
The bouncing ball
BILLETS
"Corporal!"
"Yes Sir!"
"Please take a message. Tell the men I know we are severely depleted in numbers, and we may be moving back rather than forwards, and we may be dog-tired, but we are not defeated and we'll quickly regain our superb fighting spirit, after a few days of rest. I'm afraid we've been quiet and downhearted for too long on this march. Ask George to start up a cheery song to take us to our next billet, which I believe we'll reach within the hour. The last few kilometres are mostly along the flat so it won't be such a hard time for everyone."
"Yes Sir."
Looking up dully, George barely registered the order to start up a song; he'd lost so many dear friends over the last three weeks. A cheery song? The next billet? What had any of this to do with him?
"George? George!"
"Sorry Corp.....a song.....," he sighed.
Taking a slow breath he looked up and tentatively started to sing, not sure how the rest of the men would take an attempt to be cheerful.
Chorus
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
Please find some billets for us, for us.
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
Please find some billets for us.
Verse
Since we left home over the ocean,
Since we left home over the sea,
Since we left home over the ocean,
Oh, how many billets? Let's see.....
To his relief, the gentle singing seemed to be just what was needed. One by one the disheartened men stood taller and George saw a few faces were smiling at him. He continued, but a little louder this time.
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
How many billets for us, for us?
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
How many billets for us?
"I'll do the ship" a voice called from behind, and the easily recognised sound of Private Watson's beautiful bass tones took up the story:
Well, one was the wet deck on board ship,
It poured as we sailed 'cross the sea.
Oh, one was the wet deck on board ship,
But no one threw mortars at me!
Give back! Give back!
Give back that billet to me, to me.
Give back! Give back!
Give back that billet to me.
Remember the cowshed with no roof?
The shed where we lived with ten cats?
Remember the cowshed with no roof?
But, Oh joy! there weren't any rats!
Give back! Give back!
etc
I cer-tain-ly liked the old orchard,
The week there, it really did suit.
I cer-tain-ly liked the old orchard,
No Tickler's jam, just lots of fruit!
Give back! Give back!
etc.
Re-mem-ber the farm with the butcher?
So gen-rous and ready to share?
Re-mem-ber the farm with the butcher?
We never went hun-ga-ry there!
Give back! Give back!
etc.
As a different voice took up each of the verses, more and more of the men joined in with the choruses, and George relaxed.
Billy, marching next to George, grinned to himself, called out "Me next. I've got a new one!" and started to sing:
An es-ta-min-ey'd be a good place,
Fine wine and gen-teel com-pa-nee.
Well, that's-where I'd like-to spend my-war,
Sat with a mamselle on my knee!
Bill-et! Bill-et!
Please find this billet for me, for me.
Bill-et! Bill-et!
Please find this billet for me.
George winced. He knew Billy was under age, and hated to see what his time as a soldier was doing to the young lad. He decided to have a chat that evening, although he really couldn't think of a way to start the conversation, or what to say, but as he thought of his own young son at home he promised himself he wouldn't shirk his responsibility to Billy.
At that moment he heard Sniffy's voice starting the next verse and he winced again, fearing trouble ahead. Sniffy and his mates Wally and Tom were very resentful of any authority, after being charged with stealing from another unit's kit, which had been left stacked next to their's at their last billet. Nothing had been proved, although almost everyone was sure they were guilty. George listened in trepidation.
If you get a perfect new billet,
With mattress of feathers so soft,
If you get a perfect spare bedroom,
Don't get kicked up to the loft!
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours, it's yours.
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours.
I once had a hut with a bunk bed,
A cosy two hours there I spent.
I once had a hut with a bunk bed,
Till Sarge threw me out to a tent.
So...
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours, it's yours.
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours.
"Corporal!"
"Yes Sir?"
"These verses are becoming inappropriate. I believe our billets are just past this wood and I want no disrespectful singing as we approach. I have no idea if there are any other units already there, but I don't want to risk us gaining a bad reputation because of our songs."
"Of course, Sir."
"Wally's got one! Wally'll do the next verse!"
"No I won't!" came an angry reply. "Shut it. It was just for you, you fool!"
"Well, if you won't I will, 'cos it's funny," and the unknown voice started:
There once was a leaky old chateau,
Soaked rooms 'cos it rained from the sky!
There once was a leaky old chateau,
Well................
(and he continued on one note)
now it's Brigade HQ and it's full of old soaks as the drunken officers and tipsy top brass......................
(and he returned to the tune)
are drinking the cellars quite dry!
"CORPORAL !!!!"
"Yes, Sir. Point taken, Sir. Leave it to me, Sir. Please don't blame George, Sir. I'll put a stop to it right now, Sir."
"Corporal, I'm not blaming George, I'm blaming YOU. See to it IMMEDIATELY. Have you no control over your men?"
"Yes, Sir. Ummm...No, Sir. Right away, Sir."
Grimacing to himself, George hastily started the verse they always finished with....
Our dear ones lie over the ocean,
Our dear ones lie over the sea.
Our dear ones lie over the ocean,
We fight so they all remain free!
---~---
The bouncing ball
BILLETS
"Corporal!"
"Yes Sir!"
"Please take a message. Tell the men I know we are severely depleted in numbers, and we may be moving back rather than forwards, and we may be dog-tired, but we are not defeated and we'll quickly regain our superb fighting spirit, after a few days of rest. I'm afraid we've been quiet and downhearted for too long on this march. Ask George to start up a cheery song to take us to our next billet, which I believe we'll reach within the hour. The last few kilometres are mostly along the flat so it won't be such a hard time for everyone."
"Yes Sir."
Looking up dully, George barely registered the order to start up a song; he'd lost so many dear friends over the last three weeks. A cheery song? The next billet? What had any of this to do with him?
"George? George!"
"Sorry Corp.....a song.....," he sighed.
Taking a slow breath he looked up and tentatively started to sing, not sure how the rest of the men would take an attempt to be cheerful.
Chorus
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
Please find some billets for us, for us.
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
Please find some billets for us.
Verse
Since we left home over the ocean,
Since we left home over the sea,
Since we left home over the ocean,
Oh, how many billets? Let's see.....
To his relief, the gentle singing seemed to be just what was needed. One by one the disheartened men stood taller and George saw a few faces were smiling at him. He continued, but a little louder this time.
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
How many billets for us, for us?
Bill-ets. Bill-ets.
How many billets for us?
"I'll do the ship" a voice called from behind, and the easily recognised sound of Private Watson's beautiful bass tones took up the story:
Well, one was the wet deck on board ship,
It poured as we sailed 'cross the sea.
Oh, one was the wet deck on board ship,
But no one threw mortars at me!
Give back! Give back!
Give back that billet to me, to me.
Give back! Give back!
Give back that billet to me.
Remember the cowshed with no roof?
The shed where we lived with ten cats?
Remember the cowshed with no roof?
But, Oh joy! there weren't any rats!
Give back! Give back!
etc
I cer-tain-ly liked the old orchard,
The week there, it really did suit.
I cer-tain-ly liked the old orchard,
No Tickler's jam, just lots of fruit!
Give back! Give back!
etc.
Re-mem-ber the farm with the butcher?
So gen-rous and ready to share?
Re-mem-ber the farm with the butcher?
We never went hun-ga-ry there!
Give back! Give back!
etc.
As a different voice took up each of the verses, more and more of the men joined in with the choruses, and George relaxed.
Billy, marching next to George, grinned to himself, called out "Me next. I've got a new one!" and started to sing:
An es-ta-min-ey'd be a good place,
Fine wine and gen-teel com-pa-nee.
Well, that's-where I'd like-to spend my-war,
Sat with a mamselle on my knee!
Bill-et! Bill-et!
Please find this billet for me, for me.
Bill-et! Bill-et!
Please find this billet for me.
George winced. He knew Billy was under age, and hated to see what his time as a soldier was doing to the young lad. He decided to have a chat that evening, although he really couldn't think of a way to start the conversation, or what to say, but as he thought of his own young son at home he promised himself he wouldn't shirk his responsibility to Billy.
At that moment he heard Sniffy's voice starting the next verse and he winced again, fearing trouble ahead. Sniffy and his mates Wally and Tom were very resentful of any authority, after being charged with stealing from another unit's kit, which had been left stacked next to their's at their last billet. Nothing had been proved, although almost everyone was sure they were guilty. George listened in trepidation.
If you get a perfect new billet,
With mattress of feathers so soft,
If you get a perfect spare bedroom,
Don't get kicked up to the loft!
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours, it's yours.
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours.
I once had a hut with a bunk bed,
A cosy two hours there I spent.
I once had a hut with a bunk bed,
Till Sarge threw me out to a tent.
So...
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours, it's yours.
Keep it! Keep it!
Keep your good billet, it's yours.
"Corporal!"
"Yes Sir?"
"These verses are becoming inappropriate. I believe our billets are just past this wood and I want no disrespectful singing as we approach. I have no idea if there are any other units already there, but I don't want to risk us gaining a bad reputation because of our songs."
"Of course, Sir."
"Wally's got one! Wally'll do the next verse!"
"No I won't!" came an angry reply. "Shut it. It was just for you, you fool!"
"Well, if you won't I will, 'cos it's funny," and the unknown voice started:
There once was a leaky old chateau,
Soaked rooms 'cos it rained from the sky!
There once was a leaky old chateau,
Well................
(and he continued on one note)
now it's Brigade HQ and it's full of old soaks as the drunken officers and tipsy top brass......................
(and he returned to the tune)
are drinking the cellars quite dry!
"CORPORAL !!!!"
"Yes, Sir. Point taken, Sir. Leave it to me, Sir. Please don't blame George, Sir. I'll put a stop to it right now, Sir."
"Corporal, I'm not blaming George, I'm blaming YOU. See to it IMMEDIATELY. Have you no control over your men?"
"Yes, Sir. Ummm...No, Sir. Right away, Sir."
Grimacing to himself, George hastily started the verse they always finished with....
Our dear ones lie over the ocean,
Our dear ones lie over the sea.
Our dear ones lie over the ocean,
We fight so they all remain free!
---~---
QUOTE (CGM @ Sep 27 2009, 05:24 PM)
Michael, that's a lovely piece. Please don't ever give away the secret, will you! I'm very happy to be left wondering.
CGM
CGM
Marie isn't the only one who knows how to keep her mouth shut.
To paraphrase a quote I once read about Perry Mason and his secretary Della Street:
"Those who don't think they're sleeping together are afraid they are, and those who think they are, are afraid they're not."
Even in the canonical version of John and Marie, there is no answer to that question. If there were, after ten years of marriage, John would have an answer.
Brilliant stuff CGM - that really made me laugh. I think you've gauged the level of cheek quite appropriately. I love the verses.
Brightened up a crappy day, it really has.
Brightened up a crappy day, it really has.
Thank you! I'm really glad you enjoyed it. I hope tomorrow's a much better day for you.
Sadly, after days and days of singing all sorts of experimental lines, I never want to hear that tune ever again! but it's stuck in my mind and I can't stop humming it!
Sadly, after days and days of singing all sorts of experimental lines, I never want to hear that tune ever again! but it's stuck in my mind and I can't stop humming it!
Sorry about the copy quality, or lack of it.
Cracking stuff CGM a great take on the theme
Brilliant Lands...I love the highland dancing...
Brilliant Lands...I love the highland dancing...
Salesie, another excellent and amusing piece to join your long list of quality contributions. As usual, your dialogue appears natural and unforced. Top drawer.
CGM, Terrific stuff and well worth all those days singing. A clever way to reflect the theme and very enjoyable. Loved the officer's changed attitude as the verses developed.
Lands, Well done, excellent drawing. The light and shade works well and I like the fact you've got the corporal still looking quite pensive as if he can't yet believe he's in safe billets whilst behind him the the clapping, dancing highlanders perfectly suggests the relief of being out of the front line.
cheers, ET
CGM, Terrific stuff and well worth all those days singing. A clever way to reflect the theme and very enjoyable. Loved the officer's changed attitude as the verses developed.
Lands, Well done, excellent drawing. The light and shade works well and I like the fact you've got the corporal still looking quite pensive as if he can't yet believe he's in safe billets whilst behind him the the clapping, dancing highlanders perfectly suggests the relief of being out of the front line.
cheers, ET
Nice one, CGM - highly creative and funny.
Cheers-salesie.
Cheers-salesie.
Excellent work Landsturm - one of your best.
A good flurry of work now from everyone, after a quiet start.
Regards,
EoB.
A good flurry of work now from everyone, after a quiet start.
Regards,
EoB.
Thanks for kind words. It was hard to find time for this month, I had/still have loads of work to do. Looking forward to see what's in store for the coming months.
The way I imagined, the corporal with his lot have just arrived (he and most still have their kit on) and he is still busy enquiring where they can settle.
QUOTE
like the fact you've got the corporal still looking quite pensive as if he can't yet believe he's in safe billets whilst behind him the the clapping, dancing highlanders perfectly suggests the relief of being out of the front line.
The way I imagined, the corporal with his lot have just arrived (he and most still have their kit on) and he is still busy enquiring where they can settle.
CGM - absolutley brilliant! Thanks for your kind comments.
Salesie - excellent as always.
Lands - you have captured all the differing feelings in the faces and stances.
Well done to everybody for this month's quality contributions.
Salesie - excellent as always.
Lands - you have captured all the differing feelings in the faces and stances.
Well done to everybody for this month's quality contributions.
Thank you for your kind comments everyone, I'm glad you all enjoyed it.
Lands, thank you for yet another exceptional piece.
I suppose we all interpret pictures in our own way. I think because I had just been writing about the way officers have to continually be taking responsibility it coloured my way of looking at it. I saw the conversation on the right hand side being a discussion about some sort of worrying situation (maybe the men in full kit had just arrived bringing news) while the ordinary soldiers, oblivious to anything except the moment, were just doing their own thing. "Let the officers do all the worrying - while nothing's actually happening we're free to forget everything else and enjoy ourselves."
A great contrast between the two situations.
Lands, thank you for yet another exceptional piece.
I suppose we all interpret pictures in our own way. I think because I had just been writing about the way officers have to continually be taking responsibility it coloured my way of looking at it. I saw the conversation on the right hand side being a discussion about some sort of worrying situation (maybe the men in full kit had just arrived bringing news) while the ordinary soldiers, oblivious to anything except the moment, were just doing their own thing. "Let the officers do all the worrying - while nothing's actually happening we're free to forget everything else and enjoy ourselves."
A great contrast between the two situations.
What's the theme for October?
Regards,
EoB.
Regards,
EoB.
There are several topics and subjects not yet dealt with. Here's the up-dated list of the gone titles: link.
What about REGULARS or REGULAR?
Or...dug-outs? I don't mind.
I've had to Google almost every subject since I started joining in with MGWAT because this is all so new to me, so I will go along with any choice. It certainly stretches me!
(Billets? Yes, I can do that.........ummm, what was a billet? Goodness, actually I really don't know
)
The weather here is rather... "octoberish" I was thinking of something to do with rain, but please decide. I'm comfortable with both suggestions "Regulars" or "Dug-out".
Dugout or Dugouts will do for me.
I have just had a sudden bolt of unspiration dug out it is
Any objections from anyone if I put the month in motion?
Regards,
EoB.
Regards,
EoB.
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