大象传媒

(Part 5) Defaulted again.

He stands on the edge of the parade ground and looks to the platoon being put through their paces. As if to press home the point he speaks aloud. 鈥楬ow am I going to learn that barrack room stuff鈥�. Looking down at his size sixes well polished for his standards, 鈥榃hy do they change into two left feet when I am on that blasted parade ground鈥�? He knows his limitations and is sorry for the blokes parading with him. The main show master dominates the scene, that blasted NCO knows everything 鈥楲isten to that silly sod shouting orders鈥�. 鈥榃hy isn鈥檛 the ordinary English good enough for him鈥�? He stops and looks around to see if anyone is watching him. There isn鈥檛 and wallows in pity, talking to himself the words and thoughts flowed, 鈥楤loody hell I must be going mad鈥�, 鈥業鈥檝e been told it鈥檚 the first stages to being locked up鈥�. He is uneasy and moves away; he knows is turn for the parade ground would come and slopped of to a quieter place.

This new army language for Charlie G took a lot of understanding. For the sergeants and corporals it meant they had got there the use of it probably produced their finest hours. Sometimes they were quite normal and their Kings English could be understood, at other times these NCO鈥檚 used a language of their making. Example, et, eit meant left, right, as you marched along.
Slope Arms went something like, 鈥楽hoooop Yarmans鈥�, and always followed by, 鈥業SYOU WERE鈥�. Sometimes the lad鈥檚 slowness in comprehending the distorted words left him half way between one command and another. Chaos reigned. Some of these chaps were even better at distorting the words of command. The only thing to do then was to follow the bloke that had learnt the language; those who understood were the budding NCO鈥檚 of the future.
Lad鈥檕 even had problems in comprehending the plain commands. Distortion of the words of command caused even more problem making his movement even more ragged and would look to the heavens for some kind of guidance. He knew repeated failure could mean extra arms drill, doubling around the square. It was a fore gone conclusion; the young soldier鈥檚 failure had dried up the patience of the NCOs. They had another remedy; there was special squad set up for the un-trainable recruit. It would be a final attempt to try to whip a bit of sense into the misfit by sending him to the awkward squad. In the main even this was no good; he just flopped out and never did get the hang of the marching up and down thing and tossing the rifle in all directions.

Even the awkward squad felt that he had given them a bad name. He would have to pound the parade ground for many hours more to at least reach an acceptable standard.
He is mumbling to himself again, "What the hell can I do". As ever he was his pinned up within himself, looking to the other lads in the barrack room he knows some of them are as green as he but have reached the standard of the regulars, with a little shuffle shakes his head 鈥渏ust got to get on with it鈥�.

The big day had come; hours of polishing were being put to the test with repeatedly looking at his rifle to make sure that the bolt was not going to be whipped away by magic! Then to make sure he kept his hand on the bolt to make certain that it will still be there when he is on the parade ground, thoughts of two missing bolts while on parade would put him in the glass house for ever took over from all the other problems of the parade ground.
Time and time again he with the rest of the platoon practised the procedure of the main guard. Some practised the roll of the new guard; the second group formed up to act the part of old guard. Each group acts out the different roles. It was repeated many times, in the end there was a resemblance to the real thing.
The day had arrived when the parade was the real thing, with all the primary training over he stood there as a part of the main guard. Even at this late stage he allowed his hand to drop over the bolt to reinsure himself that it was there.
This was his first main guard duty. It was not out of choice. Even the NCO鈥檚 did not want him in their squad, he wasn鈥檛 smelly but dumb under this pressure he even became more confused with all these disciplines. There was nothing else he could do now it was a matter of settling down and getting on with it. The back and fro of his mind thoughts alternated from wishing his life away to "God roll on tomorrow" and trying to settle down to this non-sense. For him the time would drag as if it lasted for a thousand years.

He felt he had no chance, this unfortunate civilian, now a recruit soldier sighed and looked away. He and the remaining guard took over from the old guard. Things went reasonably well. Posting of the new guard had taken place and the old guard had their inspection; the old guard was refreshed by the thought that their tour of duty was over and to marched off then dismissed for another day.
Time had come to change the sentry and be replaced with a new one. It was his turn; lots of things had to be done. All the bits and pieces in place he鈥檚 ready for his inspection. With the usual non-sense he the new sentry was posted. The corporal of the guard read out his duties, and was left to his own devises. Thought it was a bit mad at the time with all the barracks security tied up in one spot, if someone wanted to get up to a bit of mischief he standing and fixed to one spot would be their first target. Suppose it was too much watching war films, he felt vulnerable; any noise seemed to have been made by a sinister figure. these were the earliest of days, he was still wet behind the ears the abnormality of his job could only be tempered with time.

The rest of the guard in the guardroom relaxing as much as they could, time for the change over of the sentries was noted, his first period of guard duty was over and was back inside the guardroom. He had been on guard duty all night and found it impossible to relax in the rest periods, it was overpowering and frustrating. Two of the guard had been detailed to go the cookhouse to get rations for the night. At least with extra tea and eats from the large Billycan would bring some relief from this boredom. As with future guard duties it was sometimes hot and pleasant to hold. The best that could be said about it, the tea was wet. As with all army food in the main it needed time to get accustomed too before there was any enjoyment out of it.
Sometimes the nice warm blanket and the condition of that tea and the food wasn鈥檛 much of a reward for getting out of that blanket to get ready to go out into that wicked cold world.
This was his last shift. Cold and wet he staggered out of the bedroll, got into his equipment, and buttoned up his tunic. The fact that he was fully dressed the blanket had made him nice and cosy. Unwrapping himself from it within the confines of the guardroom gave a little shiver even in warmth of the guard room. His earlier period on sentry duty built the direst feeling for the outside weather conditions. Just to make a little conversation he asks, 鈥淲hat is it like outside." The corporal looking tired answer was simple, 鈥榖loody cold!" It was the same old nonsense of changing the sentry. As awake as the corporal of the guard could be, marched him outside to relieve the other guard. He was right it was bloody cold, the North Sea wind wasn鈥檛 just blowing around him, and it was blowing through him.

His fingers had long lost any feeling. Every movement was difficult. He tried to march up and down to get some life into the living parts. Lucky for him the sentry box was too cold to hang about in, the walking and the stamping of the feet did at least keep the body alive. Coming out of the darkness an officer appeared. He was awake enough to challenge him.
The rifle and bayonet was brought up into the right position with great difficulty he tried to shout! "Halt! Who goes there?" His hands had no control of the rifle; the whole thing was a myth. A baby could have disarmed him. His mental reaction was "what the bloody hell does he want?" The officer warm and rosy gave some sort of blasted password. It was accepted and the rifle was lowered. He was the duty officer and on his rounds.
The young soldier shouted! "Stand too the guard". Out came the guard with a same air of disorder. Their corporal got his part right and stood the guard too. If any thing was to go wrong now was the time. They were ready for the inspection. It was carried out as if the officer had all the time in the world. A short time earlier the guard had been a warm happy bunch now as cold as a proverbial brass monkey.
He moved around them with the airs of a ballet dancer then glided around the guard until he stopped in front of the sentry that he first encountered when he arrived on the scene.
It was near to first light; the officer looked at the snow-covered sentry and gave him a bit of an inspection. His eyes changed direction and looked to the corporal, and gave the order to dismiss those not on sentry duties. He had finished, and with another display of saluting was off for his nice cup of tea; the young soldier sentry still had some time to go.

At last the lad鈥檚 guard duty was drawing to an end and the new guard was in place. Its final guard inspection was in place; his group was now acting out the old guard routine. It had been a long cold night. Charlie G with the others only wishes to get off and get a hot breakfast. It was no good the guard act wasn鈥檛 over; the officer was again in front of him. An order was given to present the rifle for inspection. He presented it and was inspected. It was a kill again; the officer shaking his head asked the corporal to witness the dirty young soldier's rifle. With the usual commotion the young soldier was on a charge for a dirty rifle.
During the night it had been snowing and a couple of snow flakes had dropped into the barrel of the rifle. They must have been German ones that should have been kept out at all costs. It was to be his second booking. Some time later it was the same old routine of getting into the best bib and tucker and reporting to the office carried out the army鈥檚 rituals of cap off and the stamping of feet. Once again it had been completed, the costs to the lad, a few days pay and extra fatigue.
It was just another one of those weeks of growing up to be a soldier. The big burden would be the stoppage of pay with that extra fatigue. This term of extra fatigues didn鈥檛 mean a lot. In the main it meant dressing up in fatigues and reporting to the duty Sergeant. If he were lucky it would be a spell it in the cookhouse and the possible free hand out of tea and a bit of the leftovers from the meal times.
It was becoming a regular thing. Two charges in a few weeks were becoming a bad habit. Come what may he was going to break the cycle. No dirtier rifle barrel鈥檚 and definitely no absent rifle bolts.

Commanding Officer 70th Buff鈥檚.

His first meeting with the Commanding Officer of the 70th Buffs took place the whole company was on parade that day and were at 鈥榮tand easy鈥�. It is the period before the storm, its baby soldiers restrict any conversation to talking out of the side of their mouths. One gives his point of view, 鈥楬e鈥檚 got one arm鈥�, 鈥榯old that he is a bit of a bastard鈥�. He acknowledges the information with a slight nod of the head. On his other side another soldier put his sixpenny worth in.鈥� What鈥檚 he saying鈥�? The lad passes over the information by adapting the usual channel of talking through the side of the mouth. There was general agreement, 鈥楤loody Hell鈥�.
There was no further time to stand and brew over it. He was there

That bellowing voice of the senior NCO came into play. 鈥楢ttention鈥�. Would that bellowing be the echo of doom? God how time failed to move! Deep down it was exciting, bit like waiting to have the head cut off, or would the training he had now shine, he would put on his finest act. Those two previous charges had sharpened him up a lot.
His time had come; the Commanding Officer stood there at the head of the parade. With the usual swinging about of hands by the lesser officers moved to the head of each line. With the company officer by his side he started his inspection. It was the CO鈥檚 first parade with this bunch of raw recruits. As the CO moved around the parade he came face to face with the worried young soldier. As motionless as the young soldier was his eyes were trying to take in as much of the officer in front of has he could, he was carrying out as far as could his own inspection of the CO.
It was right he was a one-arm officer. But the picture of him being a 鈥榖astard鈥� didn鈥檛 follow. His uniform seemed to fit the man and a character that he felt he could trust. As he watched he focused onto the officer鈥檚 uniform, his empty shirtsleeve moved about like a broken wing of a bird. There was nothing to like, or dislike. He was the CO; his stature filled all his ideas of a fighting man
No doubt about it he was the Commanding Officer and he the little recruit. It was a pronouncement of the opposites, the giver and the taker of orders. Now he was standing in front of him, the only contact the eye. It could have only lasted for the shortest of periods and his share of that parade was nearly over, as the officer took his time in inspecting the rest of him. 'God I hope he finds nothing wrong to make it the third charge in the row鈥�.
The early days had provided enough experience at doing extra fatigues. He stood as still as he could and looked to the heavens, 鈥楬ow much longer is this going on鈥� little was said except to make a remark of some kind to the officer. With the final looking up and down he was on his way to the next lad.

Perhaps it was his first CO that he remembers the name as Wilson and a stature that looked as if he was regular army and had always been a part of his life. Most remembered about the CO was the lost left arm that had helped to fire his imagination, now the lost arm had turned him into a fighting man and a bit of an army Nelson. His missing arm set off the uniform as the youth romanticised with the picture of him leading his men into some sort of bloody action
His army history was never disclosed to us, the medals he carried could have been First War, less exciting thought was that it could have been the results of a hunting accident and must have had a love for hunting. Every so often the platoon had to volunteer to take part in a fox chase the platoon鈥檚 townies in the Company organised their chase well; foxhunting just didn't catch on. One by one and at convenient times the pressed runners dropped out and sat it out in the wood. It was then a matter to wait for sound of the hunt to die away before returning to camp. It was his first experience of country pleasures. Perhaps the C.O never understood why these townie lads were missing out on the pleasures of the hunt.

What they did learn from it, it was important to look a bit tattered and torn when returning to the barracks. The old soldier syndrome was being to work even for the baby soldier.

Lots of other things were going on, weapon training and route marching were the normal thing of the day. Marching days seemed to inflict a punishment that would toughen or destroy the very fabric of the young soldier. There were many times when it seemed that his body could take no more.
As was said earlier the Webbing and the rest of the equipment were mostly First World War. It was badly designed and poor fitting. Normal walking and the equipment just hung on his body, and was no problem. Long route marches the boots found soft spots on the foot. Blistered heals and toes were common. It was the combination of bad equipment that tormented even the strongest amongst them.
Towards the end of the march there would be an order to double a hundred yards then walk a hundred yards. Up till then things were manageable, now with this extra movement they reached into depths of despair. The bayonet in its scabbard hanging from the belt jumped about in all direction constantly hitting the back of the legs. There was no relief to his already tired legs that were screaming at this extra discomfort. A full water bottle hanging on the other side of the belt as free as the wind banged up and down on the side of the leg. Then as if to say it hadn鈥檛 completed all its tricks jumped up and down on the cheek of the ass. Not hurtful put annoying.
With feet swollen and with blisters the heavy boots stuck like magnets to the ground. It would take all the will left to live and to lift one foot in front of the other, there must have been an automatic switch built into the system that kept the parts working.
The rifle the infantries so called best friend took on the weight of a tank that bounced in the arm that seemed to want to stretch it until it had reached the ground. Even worse for him was when it became his time to carry the anti-tank rifle. It was a miserable thing that had to be passed down the line in order to share its discomfort, for the stronger ones it was just discomfort, but for the small and unadjusted it would be a hell. Their faces told the full stories that were in the main sweaty and grim.
It was with great relief when the turn came to be relieved of the anti-tank rifle, the weight of the thing and the tiredness stopped the muscles from working and help was needed to lift the bloody thing off the shoulder. No pleasantries now, nothing was said by being too exhausted to thank anyone.

Perhaps the lad鈥檚 descriptions of the anti-tank rifle undervalued the shear-unbalanced shape of the thing. It was about six-foot long and felt like a ton, walking with it was bad enough. Getting it onto the shoulder was another thing, the whole frame of the body sagged? It was even worse when running as it jumped up and down on the shoulder trying to divide the shoulder blade. The return to the rifle was now welcomed at least it a lot lighter. It even brought a little smile to his face as he slung it over his shoulder.
There is only a temporary relief and the young-ones face soon drops for in a while it will be his turn to carry the thing again. What made it worse, the thoughts that they鈥檙e still some miles to go?
He knows nobody will give a dam to him shouting out, 鈥榦h what a bloody war鈥� with all the trimmings. It does him no good but at least he feels that he has let off a bit of steam.
He cannot help envying the officer carrying that dreadful weight of a revolver and a small pack and looking as fresh as a daisy and yet to play his trump card. His already dejected troupes were sagging, their arms carrying the weapon barely strong enough to holds onto them; the lad was now too tired to look ahead and now is looking at the road surface. Everything, just everything aches. His other arm supported by his hand is trying to get some relief by hanging onto one of the pouches. A wobbly steel helmet adds to the difficulties by trying to fall over the eyes, his brain is in a whirl. The only brain that was working was that poor chap carrying a revolver and a nap sack on his back

There was no doubt it he must have been a bit of a sadist as he shouted his next order. His voice carrying the order was just orderable above the pain and discomfort is saying something that cannot be true, 鈥淭he bloody fool was shouting double, double鈥�. As if this wasn鈥檛 enough he then adds the dreaded words, 鈥楪as, Gas. He鈥檚 in his funniness mood as he repeats the orders then to add to the turmoil adds extra shouts of double and the dreaded word, 鈥榞as, gas鈥�. This is the big moment. On went the gas mask; the tin hat moved out of the way to fit the mask鈥檚 harness over the head. It was hard enough breathing without the mask, now the air was being squeezed through the banjo-designed pipe attached to the canister. With all his bodies activity the inside of the mask became flooded with sweat and saliva. Grease like stuff applied to inside of the glass eyepieces mixed with the sweat burnt the hell out of the eyes. Legs and the rest of the body almost in state of collapse before the gas drill, now nothing was working. The chest was working overtime, his legs were moving because they had to, his knee joints screamed at the treatment they were getting. It was a mind lost in pain, the words that could be gathered expressing doubts about officer鈥檚 parentage.

Almost at the point of total collapse the all clear is given. It was the time to tear of the gas mask. The inside and face saturated in sweat and his face are red and grey in places. His wet eyes burnt from the anti-misting substance that had been applied to the glass panels in the gas mask reducing vision. No part of him is free and is objecting to that treatment it had been put under. It wants to warm to the heavenly feeling of relaxation and not another step forward, any place was good enough to drop. Fresh air never tasted so good, everything looked good! even the sergeant and all his blessed corporals looked good. With all these post war years Charlie G still wonders how he survived it.)

Times off were an infrequent affair but in the main it was visits to Dover its main attraction the cinema. These days were uncertain and there was always an uneasy feeling that the Germans would want to liven the place up. It sharpened the feelings when it was realised that bombs and shells could reach. It was the way of things; people just went about their normal duties. Going to the cinema was a normal thing for them and the lad. All too often a part of the way into the cinema show there would be a warning flashed on the screen warning that the Germans were using their big guns. Not many people heeded it and film show just carried on with its lots of propaganda films military killing off the enemy by the thousands and wondered why the government didn鈥檛 let them replace the boy soldiers?
The film remembered most at these times were 鈥楬ell鈥檚 a Popping鈥�, it seemed to fill the bill of those times. It was billed as being very funny, and was enjoyed at the time; time is a great changer of what is funny and wonders whether the plot of the film would not go down to well these days. No bomb dropping and the 鈥楢ll Clear鈥� eventually came and was hardly noticed by the audience. Looking for a pub in the blackout was possibly a bigger problem, paying for it even bigger; there weren鈥檛 many spare penny pieces in his pay.

Army life was getting more settled; even he had the feel of a soldier. Home leave was almost on the cards. A new day had dawned and the lad was ordered to report to the office. His first reaction was to say, "what in the hell have I been up to now". All hot and bothered he presents himself to the Sergeant on duty. He looked up and was even smiling 鈥測ou lucky bugger your father is on leave (his father had rejoined the Navy in 1939) and he asked for permission for you to join him! The CO has granted you seven days; "He phased a little for his good news to sink in. Here鈥檚 your warrant and ration cards, get packed and get on your way." In a raised voice," Take full pack." This was his first pleasant visit to the office and had to stand and stare at things around him to take it all in. He was brought back to his physical existence by the sergeant "well what are you waiting for." Even the Sargent鈥檚 horns had disappeared, the lad was no longer a zombie; he grabbed the warrant and things then moved as fast as legs would carry him. Nothing else mattered! It was all speed to get everything ready and dressed to move out.
He was now the centre of attraction in the barrack room as he prepared for his leave. Conversation was pretty direct and the most repeated thing was 鈥榳ere the hells are you going鈥�? This was a period of extreme pleasure and it was if he was sailing in the clouds. One answer was not enough to satisfy them but within time the questions dried up, it had sunk in; the boy was on his way home! He was going on a leave that had been granted to see his father, his immediate buddies as excited as he was now mucked in to help to pack. Smiles all round as they all puffed at the fags that handed around by the now generous Charlie G. There was nothing more anyone could do. With the shake of hands he was ushered off to the door. His best mate stayed with him until he found his transport to the station.
There is no satisfactory way of expressing just how he felt. A railway station was always an exciting place for him with its people of all dimensions seemly walking in all directions, the ticket collector that never seemed to budge off his seat ready with one hand to hold the ticket, and his other hand wielded the tool of his trade. With an effort he looked at the ticket, he then punched a hole in it. His final act was to give the number of the platform and points in the direction of the platform.

Its station clock was the centrepiece of attraction. People were standing there on the station looking at the clock face a dozen times in case they lost their train connection. A timetable near by has its usual number of people surrounding it, with some pointing at it. it looks as if its hard for them to cipher the thing looking at least a dozen times at both to confirm their departure, as clear as it was supposed to be, some broke rank and drifted off to ask a porter the times of arrival. For Service man and civilian this seemed to be their main past time until the train arrived.
Notices pointing to the nearest shelter dominated the rest of the posters. In those first golden moments he stands and stares at all the things going on around him, what he surveys is so rich that he can only take it in a bit at the time.

All this has brought on a bit of a thirst. A notice he's most grateful for points to the place were the service man can get a cup of tea, these invaluable groups of people manning it were from voluntary organisations that have that something about their manner that made him feel at ease. It was nothing swanky just a good old fashion cup of tea they offered, it tasted like nectar from the Gods. The purchase now complete and the first sip over wandered off to his platform to dig deeper into the scenery around him.

As much as he waned to get home the place fascinated him, for him the most thrilling spectacle was to watch the train passing at top speed through the station. Its entry had a definite build up with signals changing and the noises of bells warning of its approach started to build up a picture of the on-coming advent. Other people interested were standing at the end of the platform looking for the train, like him when they did spot it in the distance there was some sort of glee and anticipation in their faces. Almost to a man turn their heads and face it and took on that Wimbledon style to keep it in focus and watch grow. The train grew in size by the second, then with a swish followed by a lot of noise she is there, then on her way out.
His thoughts hang on as long as he could to his mental pictures of the drivers' hand on the whistle blowing it for all his might and the belching monster appearing with volumes of smoke and steam, its firebox being primed and reloaded with the almighty coal by the fireman, its bellowing out of the whistle and funnel smoke softened the outline of the front of the engine. He tries to gage the speed by the sound.
He has no doubt that鈥檚 it was a big one! All his pictures of the event conceived in a wink of the eye. It was in and out of the station before he had time to take all its shapes in. In the main it鈥檚 all there, a picture of noise, steam and power and was not disappointed with what he had seen. The whole thing had presented him with the excitement that he had expected, all that was left the smell that only a steam engine can give. Its noise grows softer by the second and then fades away.

Arrival of his train.

All the noise and thunder of those moments have passed away, it's his turn to look at the station clock, and there is a different sort excitement in the air for him. This was his first leave home, within him the hurry up sign tells him to finish off the mug of tea. It is close to the time for the arrival for his train. Porters are moving around with loaded trolleys, last minute passengers rush through the ticket gates. It鈥檚 a place that is alive and wanting to go places.
There is no time to waste as he looks down to his feet and the free space around them. Around his feet lay the bulk of his equipment? Delay any further will add to his problem. Puffing and blowing, the lack of experience is obvious as he puts the blasted equipment on and slings over his rifle over his shoulder and feeling as if he is in a straight jacket! The inexperienced soldier had a feeling that he has got no option but to dress early but time is dragging on, a little bit impatient with it all shuffles about on his feet then changes to a different leg. Weighty equipment has transferred all his thought to his aching body. Irritated by it all mumbles to himself, "When鈥檚 the bloody thing coming"? From his position he has a clear vision of the line. There was nothing moving, not even the railway staff with the pressure of waiting he has starting to talk to himself. "What's gone wrong, could the train have been bombed".

At last his worries were over for now; platform speakers were announcing the arrival of the train. Standing as near to edge of the platform as he could he hoped his luck was holding and manoeuvred to get as near he could hopefully get to the edge of the platform to get to a carriage door. Maybe even gains a seat!

The waiting was over as the train came into the station looking as grand as ever. She was as fussy as ever with her wheels turning ever slowly until she stopped. There he was as spotless as ever the engine driver looking through the round window in the front of the cabin with his fireman in the process of wiping his hands looking at their new passengers on the platform. As if breaking wind the engine pushed steam out from her front wheels. She was a queen in her own right and could do no wrong for the young soldier. With eyes and heart full of admiration looks at her, 鈥榞od鈥�, he thought, "if only I could be her servant and spend the rest of the time I had left to be with her!"

His place on the platform had indeed been a good one; the door of the carriage had almost stopped in front of him. It was a matter of just lifting the arm to reach the door handle and lifting it to gain first place.
He was a little smug about it, in some way it had disarmed him to the facts of the situation. This was the first time he had to get his body and equipment through the door at the same time. Opening the door was reasonable enough, getting through it was a different matter. His side pack and bayonet blocked his first move. His only option now was to step back and turn edge side on to the opening of the door. With this manoeuvre, at least a part of him was aboard then to add to the difficulty during this manoeuvre the sling of the rifle slipped over the shoulder and was stopped from sliding further by the bend in the arm. Its butt of now lay across his feet and caused him to stumble forward. He let out a bit of verbal abuse! Army vocabulary seemed to provide the right description but there is no doubt that he hadn鈥檛 yet perfected the full vocabulary. It was an incident that was over in a few minutes but was enough to turn a few heads. With a few more puffs and grunts he and every thing about him stands free in the passage to move and can now move forward to the first compartment in his view. His luck has held out! The department in the carriage was empty. A favourite seat of all seats is empty, and to make the position of this seat even better the window seat was facing the train.

He reaches the door latch, presses it down and slides the glass-panelled door back to its fullest opening position to make sure that his body with all the other paraphernalia would get through. He again turns his body side on to get through the opening, there was a little bit of a panic in case someone pushed pass and grabbed this prized seat. Possession is nine tenths of the law and moves post haste to the seat and plunked his rifle on it, the prized seat was his! Wriggled his shoulders with glee and gave that little smile of satisfaction as he prepared to sit down. It was no doubt he was in; the rifle would take pride of place and lifted it and placed it in the corner and like a father gave it a little pat, "stay there and behave yourself." It would be a bit uncomforted standing there but its importance gave it that pride of place of the carage.
Other people were joining him in the carriage. People opposite him now had to suffer a bit of unintentional buffeting as he was struggling to remove the equipment. The blasted things now wanted to stick to him and had to put on a circus act to get it off. It was no good him groaning and moaning even though he was near to breaking point! With more shaking of the shoulders at last the straps slide off and were free of the dumb things with this tormenting equipment finding its way to the floor. People that had been buffeted by the dam stuff shared his relief. He looked sheepishly around and looked at his victims, "Sorry, I鈥檓 a bit new at this sort of thing."

He was as hot as hell now and that blasted greatcoat had to come off. Looking around him he jockeyed for the best position to cause the least inconvenience to his fellow passengers. Funny he though as he tried to disengage himself from it, "why has this bloody arm of mine grown so long." Added to this the collar on the greatcoat seemed to have shrunk and wouldn鈥檛 drop over the shoulder. He pulled at it with is hand, and did a bit of wriggling to help it along its way. In desperation his eyes travelled to the ceiling of the carriage as if seeking some sort of guidance. For a while it still hung there on his shoulder, the makers of the damn thing's ears must have been burning. With more patience than he thought he could muster had persevered with the de-robe-in

At last victory was his, with an extra wriggling the collar was over the high part of the shoulder. It had succumbed to his constant wriggling. Success was so sweet as it started to move, then with the other hand grabbed the other side of the coat. With a bit more effort the coat shoulder of that side went forward to create more space for it to slide off. Now he was almost free of the thing, holding both sides of the coat he gave a little tug and the thing was off. He looked it and mumbled to himself, "Greatcoat, bastard thing", and then rolled it up and placed in the rack above his head.

Looking at the floor to avoid the people watching he realised he was not out of the woods yet. His equipment still lay around his feet. Browned off tied eyes looked up at the rack, there is some room left on it, and pushes what he can into the free space. The rest he leaves on the floor around his feet, not very tidy, his breaking point had come. At last he sits down and thinks, "Balls to it all!" There was general silence as they tolerated the young soldier in the best seat.

In an effort to try breaking the silence he asked if he could open the window. There seemed to be no objection or indeed any response to the request, he then met them half way by letting the window drop a few holes. It wasn鈥檛 complicated, the leather strap had been designed to lay full length when the window was open and gave it tug to let it down to the height that he thought would please them all. Looking around he observed that no one seemed to care one way of another. His appeasement had failed he really didn鈥檛 care. God! How he wanted to get home to see his father at the other end of this journey, all this messing about had made him hot. The compartment bench seats and padded walls of the carriage were not the height of comfort but he was happy enough to settle in and think, "It鈥檚 a fair enough place to be in! But roll on Cardiff鈥�. Here he was and there were hours of travelling to go and undone his collar button to let in some cool air and started to stretch out and relax.

It was time had come to move off, whistles blowing, doors were being slammed like mad. Late comers were looking into the carriage to see if there was any room to sit; people with hostile faces gave the answer. These unlucky passengers knew their fate as they looked at the full carriages, for them it would be the hard sit or stand in the passage of the carriage where their peace would was continually being disturbed by the passing traffic.

Final whistles and shouting over the driver must have been given the ok to move. Signals were down to open the track for that first leg to Cardiff.
Feeling a little jolt as he sat there the engine鈥檚 heart seemed to miss a beat as she made her first move. Smoke flowed from her stack; the steam whistle was joining in the fun, its initial movement took up the slack in the linkage that joined the carriages making a clanking sound that was background music to its movement and smells. This was a monster that had lined its innards with a live cargo, each person there was on a different mission. He watches their faces, wondering. In the main they were not young people. Perhaps, this is why they had tolerated his performance. Each time the train gave a shudder they glanced at one another. As the patter of the wheels became more regular they become more relaxed. Even to carry out some sort of conversation.

There is no doubt it; it was his happy moment and felt fully alive as he sat by that widow. Within each second a new scene. It was all he wanted to watch and if as to enhance the whole thing through the open window the scent of the smoke of the engine flowed in to be breathed it in as if it was the nectar of the gods; this with the regular pitter-patter of the wheels and the movement of the train allowed his mind to wander.

His mind presents pictures of the past and entered the early years when his father was arriving home on leave from the Royal Navy. How will his first leave go? The standard set by his father was very high.
In his pockets the only goodies that he could offer to the waiting relations was a few bars of chocolate and his ration allowance. In comparison to his dad鈥檚 his collection would hardly set the world alight. There could be a no contest as he presented his goodies, their prodigal son was returning with nothing much more than the government property he stood up in.
Now he was as relaxed as he could ever be. His mind goes back to the free gift from his father of tobacco for the old neighbour old Bill and all the other goodies.
There is no rush in his thoughts as he has got hours of travelling before he reaches Cardiff but for some reason his mind is sticking on the image he had of old Bill.

As if to establish the time he sees himself in shorts that had been well patched. He would be in a badly fitted jersey that lay loosely to the top of the shorts. He smiles a little to himself as he remembers the usual hole in one of the sleeves. Then rubs one of his existing sleeves and remembers with a little extra smile his elbows that so often were pushing through and filling the hole in the sleeve as if to save the darning of it.
With his new schooling in polishing his boots make the old days of indifference to their cleaning even more dramatic. His remembered the old boots could have done with a bit of a cleaning, but what the hell. One sock is hanging over the top of the boot like the bellows a concertina and its twin sock almost pulled to its full height.
It was different on Sundays. Sunday school needed that extra wash and tidy up. His instructions were plentiful. Keep your hands out of your pocket, use your handkerchief, and for goodness sake keep out of the mud." Then he would be spun around for the final inspection. With it the final words "Behave your self and pull your socks up." Sunday school was pleasant enough; the rewards of Christmas and the Whitson Treat made every thing about it worth while.
More stuff flooded in with the humorous thoughts and recollections of those early haircut days. Simple to the extreme, providing the very basic needs but the most important thing was to save the cost of the barber. Grandfather chair with a stool set the height to sit on. A white cloth that was wound the neck to cover the pullover then the command to sit still while uncle unrolled his scissors, comb and hand clippers.
Preparing the tools had a set pattern; first, he would wipe in a slightly oiled cloth the scissors and hand clippers. Comb and clipper now ready, the white sheet is tucked in even further around the neck and it was off. There was no escape, the youngsters crying was ignored. Somewhere there in his memories his earliest haircuts that used a basin as a further tool to its excellence. It was placed over the head and gave a pretty good trimming line to run the clippers up to. Scissors and comb cropped the rest of the hair above that line; the only concession a little twirl of hair was left to decorate the front.
It was also his early days with the optician. They were free wire framed glasses that always seemed to be always well forward on his nose and slopping to one side. Ignored that there had been a bad fitting couldn鈥檛 be voiced, a thousand times a day his hands kept poking them back up his nose that was large and podgy for his age, his large hands this being a bit of his fathers鈥� genetic engineering.

This memory of himself as a very young lad is sitting where he often sat on the doorstep of his house for no other reason than he wanted to do it.
Maybe the tobacco gift and old Bill was the strong connection to the past and is present journey. He ponders, 鈥榃hy do I remember so much about the old man鈥檚 antics'? The present times had been taken over by the memories. His picture is clear; he鈥檚 there on the doorstep watching for the door across the street to open.
It opens and there it is old Bill鈥檚 handcart in its place in the passage of the house. Another early day has started and as usual the old gent is they鈥檙e getting his handcart ready.
This instant was a picture of him as real as the days it happened. Nobody owned another cart like it; it was his design, a handcart showing a real bit of handy work. No new things but, made from a large wooden box with the previous industrial owner鈥檚 name still printed on its sides its mechanical parts of his cart a pair of large pram wheels there to carry the thing on the road. No fancy splay design between the handles to help accommodate his body. It was just a plain nailing of them to the sides of the box. These handles were his controls; he knew it and took a lot of trouble in shaping the ends to accommodate the steering and physical control. Every thing is ready for his memories to continue with old Bills image picture of him, the handcart is ready to move off. A tired looking old man and his shaggy dog are complete. Bill has loaded the handcart, takes his position between the shafts of the handcart and is ready to propel it on its way. His dog sits there waiting. It鈥檚 another trip to his allotment in Llandaff fields, another part of his routine had to be completed before he moved off, and that was to tie the dog鈥檚 lead to one of the handles on the handcart. Nothing is left to chance and Bill gives that little tug on the dog's lead to make sure it was secure, and they are off.
His mongrel was smallish with a longish wiry coat, not over pretty but as sound as a bell. There was doubt it that he was his master鈥檚 dog, a no fuss dog until it was time to move off. No barking just looking up at Bill with eyes that seemed to say, 鈥榳hen in the hell are we moving鈥�. God the poor thing was patient, at the being of the day as they moved off they moved they seemed to be in unison. The return journey had a different air about it. An answer for this lay under the sack that stretched the full length and width of the hand truck. Its secret revealed one morning when he forgot to hide the huge earthenware cider bottle, up till then hid under the large sack. This was the main support for him for the day. It was there to lighten his load of living and a happier for man for his return journey home.

When he returned home his head was lower in his shoulders. His cloth cap had fallen over his eyes. Both of his hands were holding onto the wooden handles for dear life. His body was sort of jelly like and rolling about in his heavy blue clothing. The legs seemed almost detached from his body that never seemed to straighten as he slumped forward. Wooden handles on his handcart gave him the will to drag his feet along the road rather than being lifted. He would keep going until the cider took over and then again and flopped into a semi-conscious state
That poor old dog would stop to look up as if to say, 鈥榳hy don鈥檛 you stop,鈥� His master could not register anything going on around him. Bill's back had arched so much that his head was almost on his chest. He took no notice of the poor dog and pulled it along until it regained its feet.
There was a spell when the walk home took on a zing- sag movement. The dog with year鈥檚 experience took over from Bill and would give a pull in the right direction and now seemed to take over completely for the last few yards to the front door. With all his problems he never seemed to delay in detaching the dog from the handle. Whatever he had in the handcart be it vegetables or empty stone jar, he unloaded it.

Everything for the return trip was got ready for the morning. It all seemed so sad and pitiful. There seemed to be nothing else left in his world except that daily trip to the allotment.
Sitting there in railway seat, the young lad looked out of the window and wondered why Bill of all people took up so much of his memories at this time. There were lots of memories about the street and number twenty- three. He was just an old man that had been knocked about in the First World War; His hero status for the lad was created in some of the Christmas parties, Bill would reminisce about the fighting on the Western Front, the young ears grabbing at all the words that turned old bill and all the soldiers into heroes.
Things and the pressures he now had added to Bill鈥檚 image, the sadder presence now prevailed. 鈥楪od鈥� he thought would he finish up like old Bill鈥� when his service days were over.
The man his dog and hand cart seemed such an unfair result for his hero of the First World War. Other things were browsed over but kept returning to his father鈥檚 happier leaves and poor old Bill.
It was time to prepare for the end of the first part of the journey. Victoria station would be looming up in a very short time.

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