Robinson - Jack and Jamie go to war

First published in March 1988 by GMP

JACK & JAMIE GO TO WAR

JACK ROBINSON

CONTENTS

Prologue

Sing For Your Supper

Chester Castle

Garrison Town

The Buildings

Here's to the Dead Already!

First Tripper

Johnny Fortune's Tyndareus

Commando Brandy

Napoli, Napoli!

The Greatest Show on Earth

Prologue

The sound of silence. The old church bells of St Jude's, St Chrysostom's and St Francis Xavier's should have been ringing in my ears, but the ringing of church bells was now forbidden in the United Kingdom. No bells rang out the eleven solemn chimes, but the people in the city knew it was exactly 11 a.m. Children stopped their street games and stood like statues, shabby-looking workmen removed their two-bob flat caps, gentlemen took off their trilby hats, and busy housewives stood to attention like soldiers.

The city came to a standstill and nothing moved for two whole minutes: It was November 11th.

A schoolboy, one foot on the pavement's edge and the other on his bicycle pedal, looked questioningly into the eyes of the traffic patrolman on duty at the busy city crossroads. The bobby nodded his head. The boy rang his bell, moved off and brought the world back to life.

'This is my home town,' I said to the guy at my side. 'What a fuckin' dump? I hope the bleedin' Germans burn it to the ground. Maybe they'll build some decent houses and parks for the kids to play in.'

'There won't be any kids left,' replied my companion. 'There'll be fuck all left if this lot keeps up.'

We marched into the railway station at Lime Street and found it a shambles; broken glass and rubble all over the place. A small cardboard sign directed us to the railway transport officers' room, so we walked right in.

'Yes?' snapped a middle-aged RTO. 'What is it, corporal? What the hell do you want?'

'Three German prisoners,' I replied, throwing the old major a smart salute. 'We're the escort from Chester Castle, sir.'

'Right,' said the silly old fool as he examined my papers. 'Sign here. You'll find them under guard on platform two, and keep the bladdy blinds drawn. If the civilians see the buggers, you'll have a bladdy riot on your hands.'

Two red-capped military policemen stood guard outside a first-class carriage. 'This must be it,' remarked my companion. His name was Sanders but I called him Sandy.

The red caps were glad to see us, checked out the documents we carried and let us board the train. We found ourselves inside a first-class sleeper. Two German flying officers occupied one small compartment, and a pyjama-clad boy lay stretched out on a hospital blanket in the other.

One officer had jet black hair, a few days' growth of beard on his handsome face and a sling around his shoulder supporting a plaster-cast arm. I couldn't make a guess at his age but knew he was under forty. His companion was much younger, blond as the beautiful Jean Harlowe, well fed and husky as a big brown bear. One leg in plaster of Paris, trouser leg slit to the thigh, he leaned on a crutch and winked at me through the corridor window.

'I don't think we'll have much trouble with these poor bastards,' said Sandy, 'but it's gonna be fuckin' boring standing here all day long.'

'Never mind,' I replied as the train moved off. 'We'll enjoy ourselves in Somerset. We can take a week getting back if we play our cards right. The GWR only run about one train a day, and bugger all on Sundays.'

The lad on the blanket-covered cot looked tense, nervous and sweaty. His white pyjama jacket, open all the way, showed a blood-stained patch of lint over one breast. The sticking plaster had peeled away and the lad kept trying to fix it to his sweaty brown chest. He seemed very distressed, so I handed my side-arms to Sandy and went into the boy's compartment. He looked scared as I approached him, picked up a towel to wipe the perspiration from his chest and settled him down on the pillow. He was beautiful. I smiled and felt like kissing him.

'How many years have you?' asked the lovely boy in English.

'You mean, how old am I?'

'Yes,' he replied. 'I have eighteen years.'

'I'm nineteen,' I said soothingly, stroking his soft blond hair and looking affectionately into his clear blue eyes.

'My name is Christian,' said the youngster. 'What will your people do to me?'

'They'll do you no harm,' I assured him. 'You're going to a prison camp and you'll be among your own people.'

Christian smiled as I stroked the soft fair hair from his brow. 'What do they call you?' he asked in a friendly voice.

'Jack. My name is Jack,' I whispered. He was one of my own kind and I knew it.

He fidgeted with the loose sticking plaster but it just peeled away again, so I rubbed the perspiration from his chest, struck a match and held it to the strip of plaster for a second.

'Try it now,' I said gently. The plaster held firm and Christian smiled up at me, his bright blue eyes full of pleasure.

'You have much kindness,' he said shyly. Our fingers touched and we knew for sure.

The train reached Crewe Junction, where a couple of shunters hitched us to an old GWR rattler for the journey into the West Country. There had been 250 separate railway companies at one time, but now there were only four and the Great Western was the worst; the train stopped at every little station along the line. I had to let him know I cared, so I reached out a hand. 'Sit up,' I asked, 'and let me make you comfortable.'

Christian took my hand and I raised him carefully, sensitive messages of affection running through our skin.

'Would you like to be with your friends?' I enquired pleasantly. 'They're only next door.'

'We bomb your cities and yet you show me kindness,' he said shyly.

'Perhaps, Christian,' I replied, 'perhaps if we'd met before the war, we might have been friends.'

Perspiration streamed down his handsome face, over his freckled nose and onto the blood-stained dressing.

'Do you want to lie down,' I asked, drying his face with a towel, putting a hospital gown across his shoulders and almost trying to smother the boy with love.

'I'm fine,' answered the fair-haired boy, 'but I would like to be with my comrades.'

Sandy was bored to death in the corridor. 'Wheel the two Gerries in with the kid,' I said, 'and then we can take turns in the empty sleeper. One of us can sit in with them. They're harmless enough.' Sandy passed my belt and side-arms, shooed the officers into the lad's compartment and settled down in the empty sleeper. 'Don't fall to fuckin' sleep' were my parting words.

'I won't,' Sandy assured me and placed his dirty great hob-nailed boots on the velvet-covered seat.

Young Christian bucked up when he saw his friends. They spoke no English but showed their gratitude by offering me a cigarette. 'No thanks,' I replied, refusing these donations from the International Red Cross. 'You'll need all the fags you can get where you're going.'

The boy translated my words but it didn't seem to matter. We understood each other perfectly, language barrier or not. The guy with his arm in a sling fished out a pack of playing-cards from his tunic, waved them in my face and smiled.

'Go ahead.' I signalled. 'Do whatever you like. It's a long journey.'

They settled down to play pontoon and I smiled when young Christian drew two aces, split his hand and went for the double just as I would have done. I think it was the simple card game that made me realise they were no different from us.