I waited warily in the Warmington-On-Sea church hall. The newly cleaned wooden floors creaked under my feet as I paced around. One of the posters on the wall caught my eye; a framed photograph of Winston Churchill, his head obscured in a bowler hat, in a background of airplanes and tanks with his quote “Let us go forward, together.” stencilled underneath.
I smiled when I read the slogan, and noticed the picture was leaning slightly to the left. I walked over and tipped slightly to the right to put it in the centre again.
The moment I took my fingers away from the wooden frame, it dropped on the floor, emitting a loud crash. I jumped out of my skin, my heart in my mouth. I stared at the broken frame, the glass shattered on the floor, Churchill’s face crumbled up like a withering old man, the photo caught in escape from the frame.
My father often reminded me was the clumsiest person he had ever known. I shook him off. Mistakes made could always be mended.
I inspected it further; it was only the glass. Captain Mainwaring wouldn’t notice such minor damage. I brushed the glass under the wardrobe and left the picture where it was.
Men’s voices were suddenly heard from outside, and I realised the Home Guard platoon were starting to arrive. I walked to the centre of the room and stood to attention. An older gentleman was belting out a chant and the rest of the men echoed it fervently.
“I don’t know but it’s been said/Nazi troops are better dead/One for all and all for one/They don’t like it up them.”
The platoon entered the church hall in a quick march. The one making up the bizarre slogans wore a multi-coloured collection of medals on his breast, a private’s hat and a thin grey moustache above his lips.
At first, the men did not seem to notice me. They formed in three ranks, carefully avoiding my proximity, as though I were the usual piece of furniture. They smelt of rain and soil. They were real men, so why was I not real to them?
The old man halted the platoon and everyone stood to attention. His arms were spread apart, as though he was about to attack.
“Now listen boys, today Mr. Mainwaring’s gonna give you an important lesson on bayonet practice. As much the guns are important in this war, there’s nothing that puts the wind up Gerry like the old cold steel. They don’t like it up them, they DO NOT like it up them!”
I suppressed a giggle. The man standing next to me groaned. He was a lot younger than the head officer, and also supported a moustache, but a black one, matching his greased hair.
As he walked along the first rank for inspection, old man’s little eyes finally found me. He stared at me in an odd way.
“’Ello.” he leaned forward, bringing his face close to mine.
“SARGE.”
The man jumped back in a fright, going cross-eyed as though his head were a giant gong. It was the normal way to address a senior officer, assuming this was who the man was.
“There’s no need to shout, I’m standing right here!”
“Sorry, sir.”
The man blinked and frowned a little.
“What’s your name then?”
“Private Jonathan G. Hammersmith, transferred from the Suffolk R.A to the Warmington-On-Sea Home Guard platoon. At your service sir.”
“Ah that’s the ticket! We always love to see new recruits joining in!” he had transformed into a sweet old man; the regular elderly neighbour who wanted to invite me to tea. “I’m Lance Corporal Jones. I’m also known as Jack Jones the butcher. Or Jonesy, or Jacky, if you’ve known me for more than a year. D’ye know I served in two of the Sudanese Campaigns under Lord General Kitchener?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
The corporal was about to tell me a story of the Battle of Omdurman, when two other elderly officers entered the hall. One was short, pudgy and supporting a ginger moustache. The other was tall, resolute, and suave with a sharp-featured face and humane eyes.
“Sir, I took the liberty of falling in the men in three ranks.” said Jones. “You did want me to fall the men in three ranks, sir?”
“Yes, thank you corporal.” said Mainwaring. He had a posh accent and spoke in a drawling voice.
As he gave them a lecture on the art of bayonet practice, I kept my eyes on him and the sergeant, waiting for them to notice my presence.
By thunder, I had been standing there for at least five minutes while the captain droned on about the rudimentary history of bayonet practice. Several times, I leaned forward to glance around them all, hoping to catch someone’s attention. To no avail.
It was not the first time, nor would be the last time I would be ignored in a large group. My teachers and fellow classmates would do their upmost to forget I was a living, breathing boy, trying to learn, attempting to make friends and walking across the halls. Confound it. If it wasn’t going to change during a bloody war, it never will.
At long last, the silver haired sergeant locked eyes with me and turned to the captain.
“Excuse me sir, there seems to be an extra soldier in the ranks.”
Mainwaring blinked and gave a start when his eyes met mine.
“So there is.” Mainwaring pretended not be surprised. “What’s your name, soldier?”
I introduced myself again. The captain eyed me up and down suspiciously.
“Why were you transferred from the regular army?”
“Uhm…”
I rehearsed my lie over and over in my head, but now that it came to actually saying it, I started to get nervous.
“They said I couldn’t see well enough.” It was a half-truth.
“Why aren’t you wearing glasses?”
“I don’t like wearing them. They make me look old.”
A curt, heavily Scottish lilted voice grunted the words “Damn jessy!” I turned in displeasure to my right and saw an elderly private with a gaunt face, wide angry eyes and a hooked nose. His mouth was curled into a sardonic pout.
“Alright, Frazer.” warned Mainwaring.
I inhaled and looked to my front.
“Any other disabilities?” he continued.
I was not determined to appear like a “jessy” as the Scotsman seemed to interpret. I turned to the little plump man and smiled niftily.
“We’ll just have to find out then, won’t we?”
Mainwaring remained silent while his sergeant let out a lovely little laugh. The captain was a tough person to please, but I was happy to already have the sergeant on my side.
“Do you have any special skills?”
“Well I do play the piano rather well.” My face couldn’t help but beam as I said this. “Maybe I could perform for you one night?”
“Oh how absolutely lovely, we’d like that!” said Wilson. Mainwaring nodded curtly.
“Well I’m flattered you signing up with us, Hammersmith. After all, we always appreciate new recruits.”
I didn’t want to tell him I had no say in the matter. Choices in my case were no longer easy or even available. As the platoon set up the wooden stands in the church hall to get ready for bayonet practice, I remained silent and obedient to Mainwaring’s every command. He was dubious of me, as any new commanding officer would be. I had to show him I was capable of some form of combat, even if it was only in the Home Guard.
When all the burlap sacs had been tied properly to the cobra stands, the platoon gathered around them at the captain’s orders. To my right, I saw that Jones was breathing in and out like an agitated chihuwawa, his bayonet in hand.
“Now remember, men.” said Mainwaring. “Focus solely on your target, and remember to scream very loudly. That will give you a burst of energy when you’re charging at the enemy.”
“I should like to volunteer to be the first person to go and prick them, sir!” said Jones breathlessly, stepping out of the neat line.
“Please step back in the line, Jones.” said Mainwaring politely. “And wait your turn.”
At this, the corporal raised his bayonet ferociously towards the captain, but his lack of focus caused the sharp blade to point towards me instead.
“Oh let me have a go!”
He took one step forward. Frightened at being accidently impaired, I jumped out of the ranks and shielded the captain.
“Jones, calm down, calm down!” Wilson said soothingly, raising both of his hands up.
“I can’t help it, sir, I can’t help it!” he said still gripping the rifle. “As soon as I get a whiff of action, it gets my blood boiled up like a volcano!”
“Will you get back in the ranks, Hammersmith?!”
When I did as I was told, I saw that the captain’s glasses were askew, and his face flushed with irritation. I must have bumped into him while trying to protect both of them from the mad corporal’s cold steel.
“Alright, Jones!” spat the captain. “Show everyone how it’s to be done.”
Jones shuffled out of the ranks again, rifle in hand mumbling: “Right sir, thank you sir, thank you sir, thank you very much sir.”
“He really aught to be more careful…” said Wilson, looking rather pale. “I mean that bayonet could have gone anywhere.”
“He’s a keen soldier. Very tenacious. Not that you would know anything about that.”
Wilson looked away nonchalantly
Jones stood in front of the mark on the floor bent his knees and charged. His face turned red in a flash as he roared curses at the burlap sacs. The bayonet tore into it as though it were paper. I didn’t want to think about what could have happened if the blade had gotten to me.
“Very good, Jones, very good.” Mainwaring said.
“I always try my best sir, I always try my best.”
He then proceeded to take his time marching back into the line. I could see the captain getting irritated at his tardiness.
Godfrey came next. Unsurprisingly, his charge at the target was the complete opposite of Jones’s. He ran feebly up to the sack and stabbed it with a playful “Ha!” He turned around to the captain and the sergeant and asked with a smile if it was alright.
“Not really, no.” said Mainwaring, his mouth curled in a disappointed twist. His eyes fell to me.
“Right, Hammersmith you’re next.”
I stepped onto the white mark and held firmly onto my rifle.
“You won’t see Hammersmith poking the target like a child playing British Bulldogs.”
My breath intensified.
“He’s young, fit and keen. Take it away, boy.”
No need for self-doubt now, Johnny. You’ve got to make an impression on this new captain.
I took a powerful breath and let out a furious scream as I raged forward. I was so fired up that I forgot to stop and stab the target. The blade of my bayonet pierced the bag, alright, but so did my nose. Before I could figure out what I was doing, my whole body crashed down to the floor along with cobra stand.
I heard a few guffaws as the smell of hay filled my nostrils. I picked myself up grudgingly. The blade of my bayonet was still stuck in the sack. I pulled it out with a fierce tug, which made me stumble backwards. I laughed nervously as I turned around to face my captain. Walker and Frazer were still snickering under their breath while the rest of the men stood to attention. Stupidly, I asked Mainwaring what he thought of my method.
He replied curtly that this wasn’t a rugby match. I nodded in regret and took my place back in the ranks. As Wilson marched over to pick up the fallen target, Walker bumped shoulders with me.
“Were you thinking that target was a busty lady instead of a Nazi?” he sniggered.
My mouth pouted as I stared ahead. Wilson set the cobra stand up and brushed off the dust off the target and Mainwaring announced Frazer as the next player.
“Maybe if you stuck a bit of lipstick on it, you’d open your arms and wrap your whole body around it like an orang-utan.”
“Don’t be absurd.” I whispered icily.
Frazer let out an ear-splitting cry as he ran, stopped and stabbed the sack with considerable force, held his head up proudly and returned to the ranks. When Walker’s turn came, I was desperately hoping he’d slip or miss the target. But he skewered right through the bag perfectly and returned to his place with this smug grin across his moustached face. Definitely a show off, even if he didn’t need to impress a girl.
When Private Pike, the youngest member of the platoon, came to the middle of the room, Wilson began to whisper something in his ear. At this, Mainwaring became quite cross.
“Don’t mollycoddle the boy! He gets enough of that from his mother!”
Suddenly, the stress that I had been feeling since I reached Warmington, slowly began to evaporate. I was always called a mummy’s boy in the regular army due to the unusually close relationship I had with Mum. Yet here was this younger boy taking my place away. At long last. Pike let out a nauseating, whiny yell as he ran. This time, the thrust that was supposed to hit the sack instead hit one of the wooden banisters of the churches soapbox.
“You stupid boy!” said Mainwaring, turning pink. Pike pulled hard on his rife and the blade was set free. A large chip was missing from the rail where the bayonet struck.
“The verger will have a field day with that!”
Pike held his head down and stepped back in the ranks. As the rest of the men took their turns in screaming and charging with their bayonets, I eased myself into Mainwaring’s orderly routine. Night patrols were to be conducted every night in and round the town to make sure no suspicious foreign invaders or fifth columnists were to be seen causing trouble.
I was to go with Jones and Pike to the town hall, where the former would instruct me what to do if we were to run into anyone suspicious.
Before I left the church hall with the two of them, Mainwaring called me to attention.
“Take firmer grip on that rifle of yours. Hold yourself into a rigid position. Remember – you’re soldier of the Home Guard, not a sack of potatoes.”
“Yes, sir. No, sir.”
“No what?”
“I am a sack of the Home Guard. Not a potato soldier.”
I closed my eyes in embarrassment. But Mainwaring merely nodded patiently.
“Quite right, off you go then.”
The cold air of the night burned my face as I marched forward into the streets of Walmington – but I knew better than to complain. The bruising from the bayonet practice still hurt my sides – I clutched my body to keep warm and blew into my hands to keep them warm.
“It ain’t half cold, Mr Jones.” Shivered Pike.
“Don’t you worry, Pikey. Mr Godfrey’s coming over with cups of cocoa. Specially made by his sister Dolly.”
“Aw, that’s awfully nice of her!” I remarked, feeling warm inside just at the thought of the beverages.
We finally arrived at the building. A giant clock on the bell tower shining from the moonlight loomed over us as we walked over to the entrance.
Jones put me aside and took a few steps back so I could fully see his demonstration.
“Right, then Hammersmith. First question, are you fully prepared to take on the enemy… fully?”
“Yes I am, sir.”
“What kind of training did you do in the regular army? Any basic rudiments?”
“Oh yes, all of them, sir. But perhaps you’d better show some of them to me again, just in case.”
It was useless to flatter, I knew. But every little bit counted on the first day.
“Ah, thank you Johnny!” he slapped his thigh and tightened his grip on his rifle.
Johnny. I thought cringingly. Maybe playing nice to the old corporal wasn’t such a bright idea.
“Now the important thing you have to remember about being on patrol is being alert at all times. If someone begins to make an approach, you hold up your rifle like this,” He pointed the barrel right in front of him. “And shout out “Halt! Who goes there?” And if the person says friend, you ask him to identify himself. And if there is no response you fire a warning shot. You don’t take any chances. And if you have
any other problems, you yell out “Turn out the guard, turn out the guard!”. And we’ll come down and see what the matter is. Do you follow me?”
“Yes sir.”
“Ah! There’s Mr Godfrey!”
The sweet old man came over with a coffee flask and three paper cups. Along with Pike and Jones, we held up our cups for Godfrey to pour. I sipped the blissful beverage and thanked Godfrey.
“My sister Dolly always used to add a little extra honey in it. But since the war broke out, we had to do without, I’m afraid.”
“It’s perfectly lovely, thank you.” I said to him, nodding vigorously.
“Well, we all have to make do without a few things these days.” said Jones, holding the cup in both of his hands.
Here I was, on my own again, warding the off the enemy with a calculated precision. I held up my rifle for the long hours of the night. Even with Godfrey’s cocoa, I needed to move from left to right in order to keep the temperature in my body up. One hour past, and within the next one, Walker would take my place.
I tried my best to be alert to my surroundings without drifting off into a daydream. And think of Dorothy dreaming of a better place, over the rainbow, rather than wishing for something better over the coal black sky marked by those infernal bombs. In the mood came into my head again, along with my own little cover of it on the piano. Perhaps I could invent a few lyrics to the song. But then again, probably many other more talented performers had invented them first.
After another hour passed, I began to hum Moonlight Serenade while swerving serenely left to right. My eyes were still alert and I was ready to confront any suspicious persons lurking about.
Walker finally came twenty minutes later, his hands in the air when I pointed my rifle to him and repeated the phrase Jones taught me.
“I’ve come to take over.” Walker said holding a bottle of whiskey in one hand and his cigarette in the other.
“At last. I could do with a bit of a kip!” I rubbed my hands enthusiastically.
“You want this bottle? I got it for a fiva off a fellow in the smoke. You can have it for 3 fifty.”
“No thank you.” I said. The last thing I wanted was to get involved in illegal black market activities.
“Shoulda come to me earlier. It would have kept you warm.”
“Godfrey’s cocoa did the trick already, thank you.”
“Ere’” he said, coming closer. “What you doin’ here of all places for the ‘ome guard? Ain’t you got some place near London?”
“It’s too dangerous for the likes of me.” I said, quoting my former captain. “Besides I don’t really have a say in the matter.”
Walker’s annoyingly cheeky grin came back again.
“What d’you do? Sleep with the captain’s daughter?”
“I did no such thing!”
“Slipped off the banisters and broke his favourite porcelain statue?”
“Alright, I’m leaving. Goodnight, Walker!”
I stormed off, but not before Walker called out “Watch it in the dark, Johnny!”
I spun around and charged back at him.
“It’s Hammersmith to you!” I growled, bringing my face close to his. “Don’t call me Johnny, do you understand?”
“Alright Hammersmith. I was only ‘avin’ a laugh!” he said, surprised by my anger.
“Goodnight, Walker.”
“Goodnight, Hammers!”
God, was there no stop to his intolerable behaviour? I thought while I marched back home.
But I reminded myself once again there was no choice in what soldier I was going to protect the town with.
My current home was a little cottage out in the countryside, away from the rest of the residencies but not exactly isolated. A wheat mill was a few hundred yards away from the house. My mother had set it up for me a week before I was due to come to Walmington. I didn’t like her interfering with my plans to make my own life, but she always knew best. And she was often the only friend I had when I was the only person in school, work or in military training with no one else to talk to.
That was until I arrived in Suffolk and met Sayaan Ranjan, the Indian cook who made us dinner every night. By putting us on a diet of only fresh vegetables and what only little meat we could afford, he made us fit and healthier and created an atmosphere of warmth and camaraderie amongst us all. Our captain, Allan Tickerson however, had relatives who died in the second Sikh war in India, and despised Ranjan’s race with a fiery passion that he could barely contain. If not for his soldiers’ support of him, he would have been gone in a flash.
When I got to my cottage, unlocked the door and stepped in, I suddenly remembered I had forgotten to call my mother and let her know how I got on with the platoon. If I called her now, at three o clock in the morning, she would get worried a bomb had dropped on us. And if I called in the morning, she would be angry for not contacting her sooner.
Letting out a deep, tired sigh, I took my boots off walked over to my bed and fell like a rock in the water.
I thought back on my tumble into the target during bayonet practice, and felt a shiver of shame ripple down my spine. It seemed I could not concentrate in a platoon of less capable soldiers either. At the same time, I shouldn’t have been surprised. After the awful, terrible incident that brought me to this place, I was almost grateful my failure was not something worse.
In the blackened darkness of the room, I imagined a wallpaper of bombs flying on my ceiling. Their leisurely voyage to wherever looked like clouds floating in the sky, pushed by a wind. I prayed, however useless it may be now, that no other wasteful casualties would occur on our great soil.
Before I drifted off to sleep, my thoughts were of Private Pike. A stupid boy, Mainwaring had called him. Well, I concluded, now the captain had two on his team.
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