Reluctant Hero. John Hickman
many had and joined up. Enthralled with excitement and filled with a sense of adventure he’d seen war as a free ticket to see Europe and get laid.
‘You had no idea what you were getting yourself into,’ said Lily.
Fred changed tact. ‘What people don’t understand about being in the army; is its inaction. When men aren’t scavenging for food or smokes, they’re in trenches full of water. All because some idiot educated beyond his intelligence said they should be there.’
‘You’re right, Fred,’ said Eric. He lightened up. ‘We were shifted in the middle of the night once by another nincompoop. Corporal said it was a less than defensive position from where we’d been.’
‘We never slept properly, our equipment was always defective,’ continued Fred. ‘And when supplies arrived, if they ever did, they were never what we expected.’
Bill was candid. ‘Now I know why I’m terrified of being drafted into the army.’
Fred frowned. ‘History will confirm those in charge have been lax with birth dates. But mark my words sending children as young as fourteen to the front line won’t be talked about much in the future. They’ll keep that under wraps for sure.’
‘Poor babies,’ sniffed Lily. ‘They say it’s being called to arms. It’s their mother’s arms they’re wanting.’
Now Eric had had a taste of reality, he wished he’d been less hasty.
Lily tried to mother him.
‘There,’ she said, ‘I’ve made you a nice pack of your favourite sandwiches.’
Fred rolled him some smokes and gave him pocket money from their rent jar on the mantelpiece. They both tried to cheer him up. Fred told him one of his favourite stories from his war, the First World War.
‘It was the war intended to end all wars, Eric. At least that’s what they told us then. Back when radio communication was in its infancy, it was hard to understand. According to the crackle, ‘Reinforcements are coming and we’re going to advance.’ Or was that, ‘Three and four pence and we’re going to a dance?’
Everyone laughed, even Eric.
When they saw him off from the railway station the next day, the three men shook hands and Lily kissed him on the cheek. ‘Be strong. You’ll be fine, Eric,’ she whispered.
They waved and promised to love each other forever but Lily couldn’t hold back her tears. *3rd Footnote
After he’d gone, Bill was unable to shake memories of Eric from his mind.
Fred held court. ‘It might be simpler if we stayed in England and shot 5,000 armed men every week, Girl.’
Bill’s morbid sense of foreboding had him worried. He visualised desperate unwashed men at the front, sweating with anger and fear as he had with Alf. He racked his brains for a less physical alternative but time was against him. He didn’t want to wait to be called up for fear his freedom of choice would be taken from him. If he was conscripted into the Army he knew he would be up against Germany’s finest and he knew Eric’s prospects of survival were poor.
‘Trouble is those bloody Germans are all hulks of troopers, Son.’
Death had never been busier and would become more so, but thoughts of being skewered by an eight-foot Hun death machine in hand-to-hand combat, with or without his trusty cricket bat, caused Bill to wake up most nights in a cold sweat.
‘You’re behaving worse than a whore in church,’ laughed Fred.
Bill’s recurring nightmare was being effortlessly attached to the pointy end of a German bayonet and flicked around for amusement as if he were a giant Catherine wheel.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Lily, ‘If that big boy Alf doesn’t join the Army. He likes to fight and they’d be a profit in it for him.’
‘Judging by the size of him,’ laughed Fred. ‘They should have a war, just to employ him.’
‘Worse in the Navy, Son,’ frowned Lily. ‘There you’d be trapped on the rolling deep.’
Bill imagined visions of him being permanently seasick. While a delightful addition to the crews’ endless amusement, this clouded Bill’s judgment.
‘Of course in the Navy, you’ll still die, Son,’ sniffed Lily.
‘But instead of playing ring-a-ring-a-roses with German bayonets those seas will rise up to swallow me whole,’ frowned Bill.
‘No mercy out there, Son,’ Fred shook his head. ‘Not with the briny less than friendly.’
‘They say drowning is a pleasant death, although I can’t see it myself,’ sniffed Lily.
‘Bloody hell no, Girl. The cold, the exhaustion, they can keep that to themselves. I’d rather take a bullet.’
Cold sweats and nightmares continued to exhaust Bill.
If he wasn’t dodging giant Hun troopers he was desperate to keep his head above the icy cold wobbly stuff.
Father and son sat quietly by the hob after Lily had taken herself off to bed. For a while they tried not to disturb the air they breathed.
‘Fuck those bayonets, Dad. They leave a hole!’
‘Army’s out then, Son.’
‘And a pox on their damn ships!’
‘Nothing nautical then, Son.’
The British Government promised everything possible to attract young men to arms. Bright new buttons on their uniforms, even a free haircut. Things were hotting up. There was an opportunity to trade an empty stomach and tatty clothes for a sense of belonging.
Death and misadventure were not promoted.
‘They make going to war look romantic,’ sniffed Lily.
‘Provided they overlook dying for their meal ticket, Girl.’
In London it was as if everyone rallied to the flag.
‘There’s more flags than at a dawn service,’ quipped Fred.
Men in uniform were everywhere and the ladies were easily impressed, even by boys as fashionable as Sabre Toothed Tigers in flared trousers.
The propaganda machine was in full flight. Bands marched, wirelesses blared. Who wouldn’t want to take part? Bill began to relax.
Fred shook his head. ‘Those bloody politicians are on their band wagon and everyone’s being primed to fight.’
‘The kids you mean—not the politicians,’ corrected Lily.
Who wouldn’t want to make that ultimate sacrifice? These were crazy times.
After filling adventurous days with killing there was an added perk. Volunteers would be de-mobbed immediately following the cessation of hostilities. This guarantee of an early discharge was seen as a massive advantage not to be missed.
‘First out of the services will beat the long queues for the best jobs,’ Fred said.
Bill thought he’d be spoilt for job offers. He perked up. But he was to learn the hard way, how politicians are for the most part a waste of skin. This pledge, as with many others, would never be kept. Assurances were only given to achieve their own short-term agendas.
Advertisements portrayed aircrew as supremely glamorous. Odol Toothpaste showed a delighted RAF officer with a pretty woman on his arm and urged: Cheer up and smile—keep smiling even if you’re running risks.
What risks? Their testosterone fortress only had to defeat Hitler’s hairy little one-balled arse, which shouldn’t take too long, His Majesty promised.
The Battle of Britain was around the corner, as was the Luftwaffe