Boy Number 26

by Tommy Rhattigan

  We’d been given our usual two hours of free time to go off and play on our own, having to meet back up by the pathway once the whistle was blown. Anyone more than five minutes late or giving the excuse they’d not heard the whistle (meaning they must have been out of bounds) would lose house points.

  Barnes, Donkey, stuttering Pete and I headed off across the beach and up along the sand dunes towards the pine forest. We hadn’t made any set plans as to where we were going, or what we were going to do when we got there. We never did, preferring instead to keep going until something aroused our interest.

  Being in the pine forest was like being in another world, with row upon row of tall trees standing in straight lines, allowing very little sunlight to penetrate through to the ground. Eventually we came upon a green-and-white-coloured caravan standing in a small circular clearing about the size of a tennis court. A few brief whispers between us and we decided to have a nose around. And with me leading the way, we got down on all fours and made our way along the edge of the forest. I loved the whole idea of creeping around like Red Indians looking for scalps, with no one but us knowing we were there.

  It looked like the caravan had been abandoned for a long while, with the green we saw further back being the moss growing on the bottom of the van and rising upwards. There wasn’t any door, at least, not attached to the caravan. It was lying further away amongst a large group of yellow gorse bushes.

  Looking inside, we could see the interior had been completely stripped of everything, barring the piles of old cigarette butts and empty whiskey, vodka and beer bottles scattered about the floor, indicating it was probably once a drinking den. My attention was eventually caught by an unusual silver-grey object sticking up from the sand not too far away from the caravan.

  “Look at this.” I knelt on both knees and carefully studied it. I could see what appeared to be fins of sorts. And I started digging out the sand with my hands to eventually reveal the full object, which was about 10 inches long. “I think it’s a bomb!” I was all excited and jumped to my feet, holding it aloft.

  “Give us a look,” said Barnes, suddenly taking it out of my hands. “It’s a mortar bomb! Take cover!” he warned, before slinging it high into the air as the rest of us dived into the thorny gorse bushes for safety.

  “Boom!” Barnes shouted above our own cries of pain as we were scratched by the thorns, and then he suddenly went into fits of hysterical laughter. “It’s a dud!” he laughed. “All the insides have been taken out of it.”

  Dragging ourselves back out of the bushes, Collins and I gave Donkey a hand each and pulled him out as he heehawed in pain.

  “How did you know what it was?” I asked Barnes, while Collins set about pulling out the couple of thorns stuck in Donkey’s backside.

  “My dad’s in the army and he brought a couple of these back and stuck them by the fireside for show,” he explained. “They take all the insides out, so they don’t work any more.”

  We set off on our way, taking it in turns to throw the missile high into the air and watch it land in the sand as we made the explosion sound effects. We saw Armstrong and another two of the older boys, Adams and Dodds, lying on their stomachs at the top of a tall sand dune, peering over the top of it. And so, quietly and swiftly making our way to another tall dune off to their right, we gazed down in the direction the others were concentrating on, where we saw a man and woman kneeling in the sand. The man was behind the groaning woman, his trousers and pants down around his ankles and his backside going hell for leather. Looking over to Armstrong and his pals, I was slightly taken aback to see all three of them were tossing themselves off!

  “Ooh!” the woman was groaning loudly, which got on my nerves, so I lobbed the mortar bomb into the air and watched as it landed close to the bare-arsed man.

  The fella did a double take at the mortar before suddenly springing to his feet, attempting to make a run for it. But he tripped over his pants, which were still down around his ankles, causing him to fall flat on his face. The woman was now up on her feet. She seemed angry about something or other, letting the fella know, in a loud voice, what a big bastard he was. Then she hurried off out of sight. He had managed to pull his pants up, and hurried off after her.

  Diving over the top of the sand dune and sliding to the bottom of it, I retrieved my new toy, before we made a hasty retreat, scurrying off in the direction of the main sands.

  The tide was far out, leaving a vast expanse of hard, rippled sand between us and the sea. Despite the dangers of the fast incoming tides on Formby Beach, I usually tried to get out as far as I possibly could, just to get a closer look at the rusty, blackened remains of the shipwrecks that appeared now and again on the low tide. I especially liked to pay my respects to the Bradda (once known as the Jolly Frank). I’d learned about these wrecks after coming across a group of people standing out on the beach, listening to a fella talking of their demise. I think it was the Irish connection of the Bradda, along with the way the fella had described her sinking, that had captured my imagination.

  A lump of dark twisted metal and a line of wooden spars are the only eerie remains left of the Bradda. She came to grief there in 1936, running aground in bad weather. The crew had fired off their flares and then resorted to lighting rags soaked in paraffin in their desperate attempt to attract other ships to their plight. But it was all in vain. When she listed, the crew were washed into the sea, with five perishing and one, Samuel Ball, surviving to tell the tale. For me, the place was a solemn, poignant spot to stand and reflect, and to offer up a prayer.

  The distant sound of the football whistle told us our two hours of fun were up. Before heading back, I decided to take off my jumper and wrap the mortar bomb in it, before tying the ends of the arms together and slipping it over my shoulder like a bag, making it easier to carry back across the sand to our usual designated meeting place. Miraculously, for the first time ever, none of us were late.

  “Right, lads,” said Mr Marron. “Before we go any further, any toads, newts, or other live animals in your pockets or hidden down your pants, turn them out now.”

  “What about snakes, sir?”

  “If you are referring to what I think you are referring, Seager, maggot would be a more appropriate word in your case. What are you hiding in your hand, Reilly?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “I can see it.”

  “It’s a toad sir, but it’s a dead one.”

  “What do you want with a dead toad?”

  “To bury it, sir.”

  “Well, go and bury it over there in the sand. Actually, let me have a look at it.” Mr Marron left Reilly with no option other than to open his hand to reveal the healthy toad sitting contentedly in it. “It’s alive,” declared Marron.

  “It’s a miracle! It was dead when I first found it, honest sir.”

  “Well I’m sure it’s very grateful for your miraculous touch. Now put it over there in the sand. That has cost you five house points.” Marron took out his little black book.

  “But why, sir? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Working miracles without permission will do for starters. Rhattigan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What are you hiding inside your jumper?”

  “I’m not hiding it sir, it’s just easier to carry like this.”

  “What’s easier to carry?” Marron was eyeing my jumper.

  “My bomb, sir.”

  “Your bomb?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, lad.”

  “I’m not, sir.”

  “He d-d-does have a b-b-bomb, sir,” said Collins.

  “It’s a world war two mortar bomb,” explained Barnes.

  “Let me see this bomb of yours.” Marron wasn’t looking totally convinced we were telling him the truth, though I did notice his sudden bac
kward step.

  Do Not Drop the Bomb!

  Unwrapping the mortar bomb from its resting place, I held it up by its fins for all to see. I was amazed by the immediate reaction of Mr Keenan, who suddenly ordered the main body of boys to hurry off up the pathway, away from the apparent danger.

  “Jesus Christ!” blasphemed Mr Marron (one rule for us and another for them). “Whatever you do, Rhattigan, don’t drop that on the ground, do you understand? Do not drop that on the ground!” I noted a few more backward steps.

  “It’s not a real one, sir.”

  “Hold the bloody thing with two hands!” he bellowed, before he and Mr Sweet had a brief chat, too far out of my range to hear.

  I wasn’t too sure what all the fuss was about, or why I couldn’t convince these eejits it wasn’t a real bomb. I mean, I’d thrown it around a few times and nothing had happened, which proved it wasn’t real. Mr Marron suddenly ran off up along the path at some speed. I watched as he stopped for the briefest of chats with Mr Keenan, before setting off again and disappearing out of view.

  “Are you all right, Rhattigan?” Mr Sweet, keeping his distance from me, seemed genuinely worried.

  “It isn’t a real bomb, sir. Barnes told me his daddy has some at home and they take the insides out, so they can’t explode.”

  “That’s probably what this is. But we can’t take any chances. Just stay calm and keep hold of that thing, there’s a good lad.”

  “How long have I got to hold it for?”

  “Not long. Mr Marron has gone to the nearby barracks for help. So, they’ll be here in no time.”

  “What will happen if it explodes while I’m holding it?” I regretted my question the instant I’d asked, as images from the war films I’d watched flashed through my mind, with soldiers being blown to smithereens under mortar fire. I didn’t think I’d want to live without arms and legs, which would have left me unable to defend myself from all the bum-bandits. Worse still, someone would have to take me to the toilet.

  “It isn’t going to explode.” Mr Sweet was very reassuring, which only aroused my suspicions, causing me to wonder why I was made to stand there like a lemon holding the thing, if he was so sure it wasn’t going to explode?

  The more I thought about this, the more I suspected something iffy was going on. Mr Sweet seemed very calm under the circumstances, too calm as a matter of fact. This was certainly unlike him, considering he was always ready to explode into temper tantrums about the most trivial of things. So, what was going on? I could only think of one logical explanation: I was being punished for trying to sneak a bomb, albeit a dud one, back to the school.

  A thought suddenly occurred to me. What if I did one of those rugby passes Mr Marron had taught us, and tossed the mortar across to Mr Sweet? Would he catch it and laugh, before throwing it back to me, giving the game away and proving I was right? Or would it explode, blowing both of us to pieces? It was not good, having all those confusing thoughts racing around in my head. And what if it just blew up Sweet? Could I live with myself knowing I’d killed him? Then again, seeing something like that happen in real life would give me something to talk about for a long time.

  “They’re here.” Mr Sweet was the first to spot the green army truck heading along the pathway, coming up from the direction of the beach. “Just stay calm and do whatever they tell you.”

  Feck. It was for real! I watched as the army truck sped towards me, coming to a sudden halt about 20 or so yards away. Seconds later, a group of uniformed soldiers, four in all, jumped out, while one soldier remained on the truck, staring across at me. His look, like a mourner at a funeral, I didn’t like at all.

  The sudden realisation that this was really happening to me had by now hit home and was having an overwhelming effect. I was confused about the whole situation I found myself in and whatever little confidence I possessed had quickly sunk beneath the wave of panic rising through me. I had an instant urge to chuck the mortar high into the air and run like hell. But deep down I knew that whatever I decided to do would almost certainly go wrong. I was doomed. I could feel my knees trembling and knew, as brave as I felt I was, they would ultimately buckle beneath me the minute I attempted to make a move. I was resigned to let fate deal the cards to me. But if this mortar bomb was the real deal and I was blown to kingdom come, then that gormless fat eejit Barnes was not getting away with it. At the end of the day, he was to blame for all the goings on.

  “Sir!”

  “Are you okay, Rhattigan?”

  “It was Barnes’s fault, sir! He said it was a toy one.”

  He had not used those precise words, but he did say it was harmless, which amounted to the same thing in my book. Hopefully, if I ended up six feet under, he’d get his comeuppance, with at least a few months’ loss of privileges and six of the very best – if not more.

  I watched as two soldiers made their way over to Mr Sweet and struck up a conversation with him, though I wasn’t privy to what they were saying. The other two soldiers standing at the back of the truck now headed across in my direction, before stopping some 10 yards away from me. Strangely, they seemed to be wearing what I could only describe as… oversized padded oven gloves?

  “What do you have there for us mate?” asked one of the soldiers, a grin spread across his face. But I was not going to answer his stupid question and instead, threw him a scowl. I couldn’t understand why he was smiling, considering the predicament I was in, but if he couldn’t see what I was holding in my hands, then we were all up shit creek.

  “What’s your name, fella?”

  “Tommy.” I was still scowling.

  “I’m Sergeant Smethurst, but you can call me Roger if you like. And this is Corporal Anderson. You can call him whatever you like.”

  “It’s not a real one,” I found myself making the statement rather than asking the question, while looking into the Sergeant’s eyes for any giveaway signs. But they were telling me nothing.

  “We’ll soon have it sorted,” was his answer. “Okay Tommy, here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to lower a large water tank from the back of the truck. Once it’s in place, I want you to slowly make your way over to it. I’ll give you further instructions when we get there. Understood?”

  “Can’t you just take it off me now?”

  “We’ll do that once we are over there,” he said. Then he and the corporal walked back to the rear of the truck, leaving me alone, holding the mortar close to my chest.

  I could do nothing else but watch as the large container held by chains hooked to a hydraulic arm slowly moved off the back of the truck and settled on solid ground. The Sergeant then called to me, telling me to carefully and very slowly make my way across to him, and I set off in his direction. It seemed to take an eternity before I came alongside the waist-high water tank, though in reality it must have been seconds.

  “Okay. Now for the easy bit.” The Sergeant dipped his gloved hands into the water. “Okay, Tommy. I want you to place that thing into the water and into my open hands. But don’t let go of it until I say so. And when I do, I want you to hurry straight over to your teacher, understood? Good fella.”

  Doing what the Sergeant had instructed, I placed the mortar bomb into the water and into his open gloved palms, not daring to let go of it until he said so. When he did, I quickly ran over to Mr Sweet, who was shaking his head disapprovingly, but nothing more than that.

  The following morning at assembly, Mr Lilly, not mentioning me by name, gave us all a stern warning about the dangers of picking objects up off the beach. He went on to give us advice on what we should do if we came across such objects in the future. And there was no more said about it. My life had been on the line and the whole incident had been played right down.

  Face to Face with Evil

  I was once asked by Mr Lilly, “What are you hoping to achieve with your life when you are
older?” I suppose it was about the hardest question he or anyone else could have asked me. Because I simply hadn’t the faintest idea. I had no aspirations about where I wanted my life to be at that moment in time, let alone in some far-off distant future. I suffered from vertigo, I was also claustrophobic and, so I had been told on many occasions, I was crazy. So I supposed fireman, pilot, astronaut, miner, psychiatrist, or anything else to do with heights, confined spaces, or the medical profession were all non-starters, not leaving many options open to me.

  The idea of being a spy sounded good. I thought the cloak and dagger aspect of it would be very exciting and I reckoned I’d be good at catching other spies and traitors, shooting them if I had to. Lilly would certainly be the first on my hit list.

  The reason for his question to me wasn’t because he was interested in setting me on the road towards any ambitions I may have had. Far from it. He’d put the question to me in front of the morning assembly, in his feeble attempt to belittle me for peeing out of the van window on our way back from seeing “Born Free” at the cinema in Southport.

  I’d been dying for a pee and I had asked Lilly if I could go to the toilet before we’d set off in the van. He’d refused, telling me I should have gone before I left the cinema. But I had already asked him halfway through the film and he’d said then that I should have gone before the film had started and I’d have to wait until the end. And then, at the end of the film, we were bustled out of the cinema and straight to the van.

  It was always the same with him. “You should have anticipated this, you should have anticipated that.” Jaysus, if I’d spent my whole life trying to anticipate what was going to happen next, I’d never have moved from a single spot. How was I supposed to have anticipated that the traffic lights were going to turn red and that he was going to stop the van just as I’d slid open the small window and started peeing out of it? How was I supposed to have anticipated the auld dragon pulling up alongside the van on her scooter a split second later, in the exact spot I was relieving myself?