Reluctant Hero. John Hickman
instead of decrepit, horses and carts. Without horse dung, pavements shone like marble.
From Base to town was a short bus ride and en route stood a lonely wheat silo.
Olly craned his neck to see the top of it. ‘Aye, it’s so tall it reaches almost to the heavens.’
Silhouetted against the clear blue sky it stood out as a beacon and dominated the skyline.
‘You’re right, Olly. It towers above the other buildings. I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t think we have those in England.’
Then as the silo loomed closer, and closer, the town itself came into perspective. Beside a turn off to this one and only grain storage was a large sign with an arrow pointed to the obvious—To the Silo.
Olly and Bill thought that was hilarious.
‘Aye, it’s not likely to go to any other place, is it?’ laughed Olly.
On the silo in large letters was painted the abbreviated name of their town S’toon.
‘Not a bad idea if someone’s lost,’ commented Bill.
After what seemed an eternity in the heat of the crowded bus. ‘Everybody out! It’s the end of the line. This is as far as we go,’ bellowed the driver.
An unfair description, thought Bill. End of the line, as he put it, didn’t look so bad.
Although compared to London, Olly was right. It was a small place with shops.
Saskatoon wasn’t a town of blue bloods, but had a fair share of blue-collar backgrounds that strived towards middle-class.
At Base their three square meals a day changed from the reliable meat and three vegetables to better cuts; superb roasts and exotic fish like salmon.
Olly could hardly contain his excitement. ‘I naught miss their gritty Thames gravy. That fish was superb. Aye, look I’ve almost finished it.’
‘If I were a religious man, I’d pray for a miracle,’ quipped Bill.
‘Don’t blaspheme, might prove unlucky.’
‘All right then, I’ll have apple pie and ice cream instead.’
At home Bill had lived on a cheap diet of potatoes, stodgy puddings, tripe and offal as in hearts, liver and kidneys. He preferred the softer square cut from the middle of the Yorkshire puddings but Lily’s rule had always been whoever ate most pudding could have most meat. For Fred a meal without meat never quite hit the spot. Lily knew those who ate most squares of pudding, with a generous serve of gravy, would have less appetite for the expensive meat. But there had always been plenty of fresh greens on their plate, especially cheap cow cabbage.
In their Mess a steward asked Bill, ‘Would you like fresh flapjacks, Sir?’
Comfort food. Good stuff. Bring it on. And he liked being called Sir.
All he did was nod. He aroused interest when he ate his apple with his penknife.
‘Naught seen anyone eat an apple like that before,’ laughed Olly.
A magazine called Blighty was popular for drawings of pretty girls. It carried a cartoon of a cinema usherette asking a woman on the arm of a pilot saying, ‘I haven’t got two seats together, but would the lady care for a seat next to another airman?’
For Bill the sun shone on high every day. It was cloudless without a sign of greyness or drizzle. Framed in its endless crystal, clear blue, birds cart wheeled about.
Much as I hope to be doing soon, thought Bill.
It became the norm to imbibe and slurp copious quantities of alcohol, mainly beer, whisky, gin, even vodka.
Olly enjoyed a vodka. ‘Aye, it’s naught but a Russian holiday, Bill.’
Bill developed a taste for whisky with soda.
‘It tastes bloody good, Olly. Even from a tin cup.’
They acquired the art of crunching in a classy manner on a potato chip.
Bill savoured new tastes and had no trouble convincing himself he was doing his bit to support the local economy. He was introduced to the novelty of tea bags and blueberry and apple pie, helped down with lashings of extra creamy ice cream.
For a short time his thoughts ranged back to Eric. What a shame he hadn’t been assigned to this. Certainly here was nothing to cry about.
In winter it was so cold the indicator arms on cars froze. Before a right turn, the driver hurriedly opened and closed his door. To turn left, they did. Unlike England, houses were built almost entirely of timber but better designed, well insulated and double-glazed. Inside the front door was an entry vestibule where you changed clothes coming in or out, without affecting living conditions.
Canadian homes were snug in winter and cool in summer, unlike the slums of Notting Hill. Back home in the flat Bill often turned sideways to let someone pass due to lack of space. Here there was a feeling of vastness.
Central heating was new to Bill. Efficient use of cheap coal dust was transported from a storage area, with what looked like a giant worm screwed into the furnace. No heavy coal scuttles to fill and cart from basement coalholes to upstairs. And there was less mess. Heat was distributed through radiators to maintain an even temperature.
Life seemed better organised than what he was used to and provided luck went his way, he felt sure he would soon learn to soar like an eagle.
Bill gambled at cards and tried his hand at golf. Not long and he’d reaffirmed he was useless at the one and unlucky at the other. ‘It’s an expensive game of marbles if ever I’ve seen one. Destined to ruin any man’s self esteem, Olly.’
Olly didn’t agree. He enjoyed a game of golf.
Bill had never been in favour of tattoos and thanked his lucky stars he’d never succumbed to those dubious badges, as in ‘L.O.V.E.’ or ‘H.A.T.E.’ on his knuckles. No tribal tattoos or licence numbers would be attached to any part of his anatomy. Nor was ‘left leg’ going to be affixed comically to his right.
Another cadet, Richard, had applied for a short-term commission. A bit of a toff, he appeared to move in a perfumed cloud. Trim from all angles he’d been sent to RAF Desford, England. He was reassigned to Canada when the powers realised home was too dangerous for aristocrats, due to an overactive Luftwaffe.
Richard agreed with Bill. ‘Ignoring significant problems like being captured and wanting to be someone else, the question remains, why? From a purely practical point of view, old chap, why would anyone want to stamp themselves with such horrible candle-snuffing words mindful of some indelible idea they once had?’
Bill was super impressed with the way Richard expressed himself. ‘You know, you’re right. Makes perfect sense.’
‘Doesn’t help much if you need to disappear or change your identity,’ winked Richard.
Olly nodded in agreement. ‘Aye, and a bloody good argument against getting summat like a tattoo in first place, if you ask me.’
All three comrades-in-arms agreed, and took an oath of allegiance then and there. None of them would get drunk and add any form of captions to their skins. And should one of them waver the other two would be self-sacrificing and rescue him from his insanity.
Bill started to feel comfortable. He’d never enjoyed any degree of camaraderie. In Olly and Richard’s company, for the first time in his life, he felt enthusiastic to participate.
Richard was everything Bill imagined the epitome of an ideal Oxford University graduate to be. Pompous, yes, but he was not the usual chinless wonder. He fitted Bill’s mould of how the perfect head master should behave in an expensive school. When they first shook hands it had been firm but friendly. He’d looked Bill squarely in the eye, and Bill liked that too. The sort of gaze that belonged on an older man but almost as if he had a light around him. Bill understood why, with his