Not Flag or Fail (25 page)

When I got home again I told Mum and Dad what I planned, Mum had a bit of difficulty hiding her disappointment, but Dad practical as ever, simply asked how I planned to get to Crewe?

I confessed that I hadn’t thought of that, he told me to leave that to him and picking up his bike clips from the top of the scullery cupboard went out of the backdoor.

He came back about half an hour later and explained that, Bert Johnson, the local butcher would pick me up at eleven thirty that night and take me to Crewe in his van. Dad then went to get ready for work and I walked him to the bus stop to catch his ‘works special’ bus that would take him to the munitions factory. With a wave he boarded the bus and with a crunch of gears the bus pulled away, leaving me waving as the bus disappeared into the distance.

I lit a cigarette and walked back down the lane to our house.

Mum helped me pack and did me some sandwiches for the journey.

True to his word Bert arrived, spot on eleven thirty and

I bade a tearful farewell just to Mum, as Dad was still not back from work, Bert and I set off.

There was a full moon making the journey much easier for Bert who had only limited headlights due to the blackout restrictions, shortly before a quarter past twelve we arrived at the station. I thanked Bert and said farewell. “Think nothing of it lad, least I could do, your Dad’s always been good to Me.” he said and with a cheery wave drove the little Ford van away.

The train arrived more or less on time and I managed to get a compartment to myself and shortly after we had stopped at Stoke, I was snuggled down into my greatcoat and ready to go to sleep.

I had woken a few times briefly, as people came and went from the compartment, at Rugby I bought a cup of tea and ate my sandwiches but in the main I had managed to sleep most of the way to Victoria. At the station it took some time for me to pull myself together, only waking properly as the guard came down the corridor announcing our arrival.

I got off the train and hoisted up my kit bag and put my Glengarry at the correct angle, glancing up at the huge station clock I saw that it was six fifty four. It was chilly and I was not at my best following the sleep on the train, glancing around I saw a sign for the station wash and brush up and was surprised to see that it was open so early in the morning. I made my way across and was greeted by an elderly attendant in a white jacket. “Morning Sergeant, wash and brush up is it?” He spoke with a southern accent and had a cheery smile despite the early hour, I replied that it was indeed my requirement and he gave me a clean towel and a small bar of soap wrapped in paper. As I made my way to the sinks he shouted to me that I could borrow the razor with a new blade for another twopence, I took him up on the offer and he said he would sort me out with that and a mug of boiling water. True to his word, by the time I had stripped down to my singlet he arrived with an old Gillette razor, a new blade still wrapped and a cracked earthenware mug with steaming water.

My ablutions over, I gave him two bob which was one and six for the wash and brush up, twopence for the razor and a threepenny tip as I felt he had looked after me well.

I made my way to the station buffet, entered and went up to the counter, a woman in her forties with bright blonde hair smiled invitingly and asked me if I could see anything I fancied? Ignoring what I guessed was her innuendo I asked for bacon and eggs and three slices of toast, I perhaps should have humoured her a bit more, as she delighted in telling me there was no bacon and no eggs but I could have sausage and tomatoes with my toast if I wanted. “It’s the war dear” she offered in explanation.

I took up the offer and ordered a mug of tea to wash it down, and went to sit at one of the tables. Ten minutes later my breakfast; two very greasy sausages, watery tomatoes, with burnt toast on a separate plate, plus an enormous mug of scalding tea was brought to my table by an old lady in a hairnet and pinafore. “Enjoy your breakfast dear.” she said and hobbled back towards the kitchen.

Unappetising as the meal looked, with the help of several splashes of HP sauce I managed to do it justice and was just cleaning the plate with the last of the toast when the door to the buffet opened and with a grin from ear to ear in walked Ronnie.

Ronnie ordered two more mugs of tea and sat down opposite, taking out a pack of Players he threw one to me and lit one for himself. “Our train doesn’t leave until nearly nine so plenty of time.” he said.

By now I had ceased to be surprised by Ronnie’s organisational skills, though I was interested to know where exactly our train was going. Ron explained that his Mum had suggested we went to stay with her sister in Sheringham in Norfolk for a few days. So he had rung his uncle, who was the local vicar and who was so delighted by the idea that he had insisted on buying the train tickets and had promised to meet us at the station.

A two hour train ride and we were in Norwich, we then waited at the station for half an hour or so for the local train which chugged and wheezed its way to Sheringham, stopping it seemed at a village halt every ten minutes. Finally the train pulled into our station and happily we jumped down onto the platform. We handed our ticket stubs to the collector and walked outside to the station concourse, you could smell the salt on the bracing sea air and overhead, as if to confirm our location, half a dozen gulls wheeled and squawked above us.

“I wonder where Uncle Josh is.” Ron said whilst looking around him in all directions. As if in answer to his question, around the corner at some speed came a trap pulled by a very smart grey pony. On the driving seat dressed in tweed jacket and plus fours and polished brogues sat a man in his fifties. He pulled back the reins in his hands. “Whoa there Jackson!” the man said, pulling back on the reins and stopping the trap right in front of us.

Jumping down, almost before the trap had stopped; calling Ronnie by his real name (the nickname Ronnie had been an invention of Fishy’s) the man grabbed Ronnie’s hand and pumped it vigorously. “Peter how are you? You are certainly looking very fit.” Using his free hand to hold his uncle’s shoulder and reduce some of the vigour of the hand shake Ronnie turned his uncle to face me. “I’m very well Uncle Josh and you are right, I’m fitter than ever, let me introduce you to my friend Alan, he’s my best friend and was over in France with me.” Uncle Josh stopped the hand shake and turned to me again, offering his outstretched hand and resuming the pumping. Once the greetings were completed we threw our kitbags into the trap and climbed aboard after them, Josh shaking the reins and shouting to the pony who didn’t need telling twice and was quickly away at a very smart trot.

The early autumn sun warmed our backs as we left the pretty Edwardian town behind us and progressed rapidly through the dry Norfolk lanes. Jackson, high stepping in the trot, seemed to be enjoying every minute and I said as much to Josh who explained that he was really the children’s pony but since they had gone off to boarding school he had done very little but eat grass and get fat. Petrol restrictions meant that the Austin had been put up on bricks and the trap pressed back into service. With this new job to do Jackson had found a new lease of life, relishing every minute of his new found role.

We arrived at the vicarage after about 20 minutes and were greeted at the door by Ronnie’s Aunt Rosemary, a good looking woman, at a guess some ten years younger than her husband and with that healthy country glow that I well knew was gained by hard work and good diet. Aunt Rose greeted us both warmly and showed us to our room, apologising for the fact that we had to share, explaining that the children had not gone back to school after the summer holidays as it was thought safer for them to stay in Norfolk, their boarding school being situated right in the middle of the Kent fighter bases.

We had a great time in Norfolk, the weather stayed fine all of the time we were there; the beaches were mined but we were still able to swim in the harbour. We borrowed bikes and cycled around the many small villages, we helped out on Josh’s small holding, went to the pub daily and generally relaxed and recuperated.

Batteries recharged and feeling much more relaxed than when we had arrived, on the following Sunday at 3.00 pm we could be seen leaning out of the train window waving our goodbyes to Uncle Josh, Rosemary and the children, all of whom had insisted on coming to see us as we started off on our return journey.

After we had changed at Norwich we found an empty compartment and settled down for the last leg of our journey and the end of our leave.

One evening in the pub we had discussed this last night in London, where had we decided we would try and stay in the same NCO’s club that we had used previously. The one thing we hadn’t discussed was, what we were going to do on the Monday following? I lit two cigarettes, passed one to Ronnie and then sliding down the door window I leaned out enjoying the sunshine. With my back to Ronnie I finally plucked up the courage to ask him what he intended to do the next morning. “What’s it to be tomorrow then Ron, rail warrant to Tillington or a phone call to the Major?”

There was a pause of several seconds before Ronnie answered and then he told me what I expected but not what I wanted to hear, “I’m phoning the Major Alan, I think you knew I would. I could go back to the Artillery, after all we keep our stripes, but I just feel I can do more working for the Major.”

“What about the lads?” I said “Harry, Jack and Fishy, I thought we made a good team.”

“I bet you won’t see Fishy again, I’d bet a months’ pay he stays on that boat for the duration, I know the other two are nice enough lads Alan, but in all honesty that’s all you can say about them.”

“Well think back to France…” I said “Don’t you think we were lucky to get back at all? We were captured for God’s sake, how long do you think your luck would hold?”

We argued the point, tossing it back and forth all the way to Victoria, it was obvious that both our minds were made up, as we got down from the train we agreed to disagree and enjoy our last night together. We managed to get a twin room at the NCO’s club and after the usual bath, shave and change into fresh shirts we were off to sample the West End but not before Ronnie had stopped off in the foyer to telephone the Major and inform him of his decision. When he came back he told me that the Major had expressed his disappointment that I was not to join them but had asked Ron to thank me and give me his best wishes for the future, adding that if I changed my mind, to ring him anytime.

Well we did our best to have a good time but both of us were sad that our partnership was dissolving, a lot of false laughter was heard during the evening and I think it was with some relief when our night was ended early by an unscheduled air raid.

The next morning after breakfast I said a rather too formal goodbye to Ron and made my way to Euston for the train to Tillington.

By early afternoon I once again found myself on the station at Oxford and having handed in my rail warrant, I shouldered my kitbag, put my cape over both that and me and went outside into the rain to walk the two miles or so to Tillington Camp.

In not much more than half an hour I had arrived at the camp and felt much better for the walk and the opportunity to loosen up after being confined inside the train for so long.

At the camp I found that the barrier was down and the guardhouse door was closed to keep out the rain, despite the warmth of the day smoke was billowing from the chimney and I could hear a wireless playing inside. I knocked and waited but the door stayed shut, I knocked again and was about to try for a third time when I heard a movement inside. The door opened about a third of the way and framed in the gap stood Sergeant Foxwell. “Well, Well, Well.” said Foxwell, the light inside the hut reflecting off his uncapped balding pate, a smirk on his face, “the return of the prodigal Bombardier, didn’t keep you waiting in the rain did I Hibert? Now then this is a bit sudden you know, no one told us you were coming.

I had forgotten about Foxwell and seeing him again quickly took away the good feeling I had experienced with the walk to the camp, I remembered how much I had disliked this man from the first time we had met.

I wasn’t going to stand in the rain letting him have fun at my expense. “Look,” I said “why don’t you just do your job and ring the Duty Officer and let him know I’m here.” his face darkened and he spluttered, he was about to speak when I moved the cape to reveal my Sergeant’s stripes and with a smile on my face I continued “and before you start with anymore of your usual sarcastic rubbish Foxwell, have a good look at these, we are on equal terms now mate.” His face went purple with rage and frustration but nevertheless he made the phone call.

Feeling quite pleased with myself I made my way up the main road through the camp to the admin block.

The sky was starting to darken now but I could see that a lot of work had gone on in my absence and the place had a more established look about it, there were a lot more soldiers now. They were all busily moving up and down the roads, some with an urgency suggesting that they were still engaged in the days work, others much more leisurely, giving the impression that they had finished for the day. The one thing they all had in common was that none of them were remotely interested in me as I passed them by in the rain.

I saw a hut with a sign indicating it was the headquarters block so I found the entrance, went in and gave my name to the Orderly. The man, whom I did not recognise, got up from the desk and showed me into the Duty Office where a very young second Lieutenant introduced himself to me and then went about the business of recording all my relevant details into the day book. After he had completed this task he shouted for the Orderly to come back in to the office.

It was fairly obvious that my turning up unexpectedly had caught them off guard and that they needed somewhere to shove me until someone could find me a job? I realised what was going on, so I suggested that I might renew my acquaintance with my old crew. The Orderly left the office and came back, carrying a register, I gave him the names of Jack and Harry and when he checked through his lists he found that they were still in hut 48, a further check showed that as yet no one occupied the Sergeants room in that particular hut. Relieved the Lieutenant suggested I bunk down in there, at least temporarily and asked that I report back to the office at 9.30 the next morning. He mentioned something about the Sergeant’s Mess, muttered an embarrassed ‘Carry on Sergeant’ and shepherded me out of the room closing the door firmly behind me. Once outside the Orderly, who I think had by now decided that I was one of the good guys, asked “Will you find your way ok Sarge?” I nodded my thanks, shouldered my kit bag and walked down to hut 48.