The Man in the Street

by Martin Howe

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” the deafening crackle of the ship’s tannoy caused everyone to look round, “I’m Lieutenant William Ashford, officer in charge of this contingent of internees. I hope you can all hear me.”

  The jeering and shouting died away.

  “Thank you. I just want to say a few words to reassure the people of Douglas. I can promise you that every effort will be taken to minimize the disruption these prisoners will make to life on this Island.”

  The crowd erupted and there was laughter as the Lieutenant’s words were drowned out in a screech of feedback.

  “What an idiot!” Eric whispered to Tony, “This is what we have to put up with. I’ll fix him, you wait here.”

  “… are the first of a number of prisoner contingents arriving over the next few weeks that will be taken to Peveril camp at Peel. I trust there will be no trouble when we come to transfer the men, nothing will be served by making my life more difficult. I know some of you feel strongly about …”

  His words were lost in a storm of abuse from the agitated crowd.

  “Please, please hear me out. I understand your concerns about your own security, but everything’s being done to ensure that no one will escape. You have my word on that. In wartime everybody has to make sacrifices, no one can avoid doing their patriotic duty. Looking after these internees is vital to our national security. See it as the people of the Isle of Man’s – your – contribution to that endeavour. I fully understand it is not something to be taken lightly or with a happy heart, like so much we have to do these days. But believe me it is not unappreciated by the authorities. The Isle of Man is writing its chapter in the history of Britain’s glorious war effort.”

  The crowd began rattling the chained iron gates, the metal jangling cutting through the human uproar.

  “Ship’s company, soldiers of the eighteenth, and prisoners let us show our appreciation of the hospitality shown by the people of Douglas. Let’s show them our true mettle. Three cheers for the Isle of Man. Hip, hip, hoorah.”

  The lieutenant’s distorted voice reverberated around the port. He was joined in a desultory chorus by members of his own company, but ignored by the steamer crew and the prisoners, who looked at each other, smirked, shrugged their shoulders and a few spat over the side. The people of Douglas, crowding at the gates, continued jeering, unmoved.

  “…hip, hip, hoorah…”

  A quartet of prisoners at the ship’s stern, gathered around Eric, began to sing quietly. At first no one joined them.

  “…hip, hip, hoorah…”

  Then as more and more heard the familiar words the singing swelled.

  “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. I look forward to a long and happy association with you. Good night.”

  Feedback howled from the speakers as the Lieutenant thrust the microphone into the hands of the steamer’s radio operator, a burst of static, then silence. The mocking cries of the crowd on the quay grew to a crescendo, then slowly died away as they heard the prisoner’s singing.

  “…fearless, faithful unto death.

  All to dare and give.

  For the land that we love and the people’s right, for Britain we shall live.”

  Every prisoner was standing to attention, facing the crowd onshore and enthusiastically singing the words to the “Song of the British Union”.

  “Mosley leads us in Britain’s name.

  Our Revolution sets man’s hearts aflame.”

  Tony blurted out the words, recalling the warm summer sunshine and comradeship of those marches through the Lancashire countryside. Kissing and cuddling with Emily in the woods, when they stopped for lunch. The warm beer, the sense of optimism, the feeling of progress, it seemed an age ago.

  “Lift high the flag,

  on with the fight.

  Strength in the Union,

  Let the land unite.”

  Clapping and cheering, Tony felt elated. He was not alone. Flushed with a renewed pride in their cause the prisoners shouted and gestured at the increasingly angry crowd. Armed soldiers began to form up on the upper deck. The Lieutenant appeared and stared down at the jostling crowd of prisoners before issuing an order to his sergeant. Eric, spotting what was going on, called out to his men.

  “Give me an ‘M’.”

  A few voices joined him.

  “I said give me an ‘M’.”

  “MMMMM.”

  “Give me an ‘O’.”

  “OOO.”

  “Give me a ‘S’.”

  “SSS.”

  The prisoners could barely hear themselves above the booing of the crowd. Stones ricocheted off the metal hull of the steamer. Soldiers moved along the guardrail pushing back the prisoners. Another squad surged towards Eric, who was standing on a bollard at the stern of the ship.

  “Give me an ‘L’.”

  “LLLL.”

  “Stop this now,” yelled the Sergeant, “move below decks or there will be trouble.”

  Two soldiers grabbed Eric and hauled him down. Over his shoulder he called out, “Give me an ‘E’,” before a gloved hand was placed firmly over his mouth.

  “EEEE.”

  Tony followed close behind the small group as they descended the iron steps to the large lounge, where the prisoner’s belongings had been stacked when they came aboard. It had been the saloon for second-class passengers before the “Lady of Mann” was commandeered into military service at the time of Dunkirk and there was still a smell of spilled beer and stale cigarette smoke. The ornate wooden bar at the far end of the room was blocked off by an iron grille, the optics empty and askew, the large engraved mirror that filled the wall behind, stained and dusty. The Lieutenant, a young man in his early twenties with a scrubbed, anxious face, stepped in front of Eric and gestured for him to be released. Tony stopped at the bottom of the stairs to watch, but was hustled into the room by the press of bodies streaming down the steps behind him.

  “That was uncalled for. These people on the island have done nothing to you. They are upset enough about you lot being here. You goading them doesn’t help. What’s your name?”

  Eric eyed the lieutenant before shouting it out.

  “Eric Baines.”

  There was a cheer from the prisoners as they gathered round and a few began to clap their hands. The Lieutenant raised his right arm, looked round anxiously, searching for his sergeant. Seeing him standing in the room with a couple of men he went on.

  “That’s enough. Baines, don’t think you’re getting away with this. I’ll make my report to the camp governor at Peveril. We’ll deal with you there.”

  Eric stared impassively at the young soldier.

  “Do you understand me?”

  Eric nodded his head.

  “Good, I’ve got your number, so be careful.”

  Affronted, the lieutenant’s pale countenance hardened, his expression scornful, brown aqueous eyes flaring with contempt – his dislike of Eric and his compatriots compounded by a disdain for their class, politics, and treachery – and his quiet, finely modulated, voice was for a moment tinged with menace.

  “I want no trouble from you.”

  He jabbed Eric hard in the chest and then shoved his way through to the bar.

  “Now listen to me. I’ve just about had enough.”

  There were scattered jeers and an indiscriminate jostling in the crowd. Uncertainty among the prisoners at the Lieutenant’s resolve engendered disquiet and prevented any greater disruption, order briefly prevailing while the officer struggled to speak.

  “You are all staying on board tonight. The fine people of Douglas have seen enough of you for one day.”

  Angered by this news, the manner and tone of voice in which it was delivered and bolstered by frustration at their continued incarceration, the throng coalesced around the figure of Eric standin
g resolutely facing the soldiers in the centre of the room – the fascist hard men forming a wall of defiant opposition either side of their leader. Incensed the Lieutenant pulled his service revolver from its holster and pointed it at the crush.

  “Step back, now. That is an order!”

  The mob surged, a residual hostility bearing it forward, before retreating, its cohesiveness rapidly dissipating. The soldiers stood their rifles at the ready. Voices fell silent and the shuffling of feet died away as the room stilled, the throbbing of the ship’s engines vibrating through the hull and rattling the loose fittings of an open porthole. Outside the manic cry of a solitary gull tore at the quiescent air of the falling dusk, picking at shredded nerves.

  “You will disembark tomorrow morning at six am. Till then any more trouble, any disturbance of any kind will be dealt with severely. Not just here, but also at the camp. You lot aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. You’re the dregs they’ve decided to keep locked away for the duration of the war. So get used to it, we’ll break anybody who doesn’t.”

  As the soldiers backed out of the room, padlocking the doors behind them and switching off the lights, there was a perceptible easing of tension among the detainees, their brittle morale buoyed by an indeterminate sense of authority bested, a collective relief that an engagement however slight had been won. Their triumph was short-lived as the practicalities of spending the night in cramped quarters intruded and there was a rush to find a place to sleep. Most of the seating from the saloon had been removed so the favoured spots were in the half of the room that was still carpeted. The only illumination came from the masked harbour lights shining dimly through the ship’s picture windows and there was confusion as the men stumbled around in the near darkness pushing and shoving. With the help of former members of the “I” squad who Tony hadn’t seen in years, Tony and Eric managed not only to grab a place with carpet but also close to the wall.

  “Isn’t rank wonderful,” Eric was smiling as he flung himself onto the deck, “remember I told you Tony, years ago, you can’t beat it. I make damn sure I make the most of mine, I can tell you.”

  Tony sat down beside him.

  “Eric, I feel so much better after that. I haven’t felt so well since they locked me up.”

  “I know. God I enjoyed that too. Well you’ve got to haven’t you? Or else you’d go mad. That Lieutenant’s a right … ”

  Eric shook his head.

  “For once I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know where they get them from.”

  Tony nodded in agreement.

  “I don’t suppose we get anything to eat on this cruise?”

  “You’ll be lucky.”

  Laughing they both lay down and quickly fell asleep, oblivious to the shuffling movement and whispered disputes carrying on around them.

  Tony woke up hungry and with a headache. There was a rustling beside him. In the faint orange light he watched as the rhythmic movement gathered pace then subsided. He listened as Eric quietly sighed under his breath and then rolled on his side and almost immediately began gently snoring. Tony turned away, closed his eyes, and thought as he drifted back to sleep, “My friend is much braver than I’ll ever be.”

  It was a relief to be allowed back onto the upper deck, to escape the humid fetid air of the ship’s lounge. The chill dampness of dawn, tinged with the salty decay of low tide, cleared Tony’s head and lifted the pall of depression – a hangover from the euphoria of the evening before – that had entangled him since waking. Hunger pangs and the parched yearning of an insistent thirst were familiar burdens to Tony, but the beauty of the sunrise diminished such trials. He stood awestruck by the immensity of the sky, the sensuous variety of the natural palette that subtly shaded the landscape, investing it with a substance independent of physical mass. He had never imagined that such joy could exist in his diminished world, where gratification was of the basest kind, and could barely comprehend that his pleasure had no down side, no price to pay. Transfixed he absorbed the glory of the morning, ignoring the hacking and belching of other prisoners as they emerged into the clear air. The harbour, draped in mist, glowed in the ochre light of the unseen sun. A gentle swell rose and fell beneath an unbroken surface of burnished metal, embellished by slashes of iridescent colour mirroring the celestial drama overhead. The changing tide agitated a line of trawlers moored along the inner harbour, the rhythmic slapping of rope against steel mast and the creaking of their tired wooden hulls played in counterpoint to the atonal human orchestra building around him. High above the outer sea wall dozens of terns spiraled crazily through the misty air, one by one they peeled away and plummeted like darts into the sea, rising again through a shower of liquid pearls, a fish struggling in their beaks. Douglas lay silent, hidden from the world, white smoke rising from one chimney in the town. There was no one outside the locked gates of the dock and the quay itself was deserted save for a single sentry, stamping his feet in the cold. A shaven-headed man standing wrapped in a blanket beside Tony coughed, cleared his throat and spat noisily over the side. The ripples spreading out from the boat died rapidly in the syrupy oil-slicked water.

  “Oh God, nothing lasts forever in this bastard world of mine,” muttered Tony as he stepped away from the rail rubbing sleep-encrusted eyes. His neighbour looked at him suspiciously.

  “What did you say?”

  “Sorry, nothing, just talking to myself. You know how it is.”

  Unconvinced, his incomprehension turning rapidly to resentment, the man let his blanket slip to the deck. Tony was not in the mood to get into an argument and wearily tried to mollify him.

  “Look it was nothing.”

  “Who you calling a bastard, you fucking …,” his anger was consumed by a fit of vicious coughing, that shook his wiry frame, bending him double. Tony walked away.

  The gangplank was lowered and soldiers trooped off the steamer and formed up in two columns on the damp quayside. A black police car had drawn up outside the dock gates and a policeman was talking through the iron bars with an army officer, occasionally waving dismissively in the direction of the moored steamer. A man walking his dog stared at the boat as he passed by, then with a shake of his head disappeared down a side street.

  The order was given for the detainees to collect their belongings and congregate on the deck. A reluctance to obey was tempered by a desire to escape the stifling confines of the ship and a crowd quickly gathered, coalescing around a brawling pair fighting over the ownership of a hat. No one stepped in to break it apart and the melee swept back and forth, catching up all who were nearby. Shots were fired in the air as the press of bodies threatened to overwhelm the guards. Jeers greeted the barked threats from the sergeant as he ordered everybody to step back. Unabashed the prisoners fell away to reveal bloodied figures cowering on the wet planks, grazed hands protecting battered heads. One of the men bruised and bleeding profusely from the nose lashed out blindly at one of the privates who had pushed their way through the crowd. Reinforcements arrived, their steel-capped boots ringing out as they clattered up the iron steps from below deck, and order was finally enforced. The prisoners were lined up, hard against the railings and held there until stretchers had been brought for the two injured men, who were then carried off the ship by four soldiers. Following two by two the men were shepherded onto the quayside, where they gathered in small groups, staring sullenly at their escorts. The sun was now visible above Douglas, lifting the morning chill and burning off the early mists drifting across the town. At the last minute Eric appeared, pushed in beside Tony and handed him a Union Jack armband.

  “Here, wear this. I think we should put on a bit of a show for the good citizens of Douglas after all that palaver yesterday. Show them the British Union is far from a spent force. It will rise again, phoenix-like from the ashes of war. Should give them a few nightmares, don’t you think?”

  His cackling laugh was infectious.
/>   “You never give up do you? You’re a stubborn bastard.”

  “Hey watch it, who are you calling a bastard?”

  Still laughing he grabbed Tony around the neck and wrestled him to his knees.

  “Oh hang on, looks like it’s time to move out.”

  Tony got up, straightened his shirt and jacket, smoothed down his hair, picked up his battered suitcase and began to edge towards the gates.

  “Where were you this morning?” he asked as the ragged column passed out on to the North Quay.

  “That prig of a Lieutenant hauled me in early. Wanted a word he said. God help us. Said, as I was the senior Party official here, he expected better of me. He wanted no trouble during today’s transfer and if there was he would hold me personally responsible.”

  Eric raised his eyebrows and shook his head in mock disbelief.

  “Charming, isn’t it? Anybody would think we were here of our own free will. I don’t know who he bloody well thinks he is.”

  The Lieutenant was taking no chances. The column was flanked by two lines of soldiers, and along the route to the railway station local policemen had cordoned off the side roads. A few passersby stopped to watch the prisoners. They were silent until some of the detainees gave the fascist salute and called out, “Mosley for peace, the Isle of Man awake. Mosley for peace, Britain awake.” An old lady, dressed in a black woollen coat and long red scarf, shouted back, “You should be shot the lot of you. You filthy traitors.”

  “Mosley for peace, Britain awake. It’s too late for you old girl.”

  “You’re not fit to call yourselves British, cowards the lot of you.”

  “Shut it,” barked one of the soldiers as he aimed his rifle at the saluting prisoners, “Drop it or I’ll fucking blow it off.”

  “That’s right, do as you’re told, you flea-bitten animals,” called out the breathless woman as her grandson helped her away.

  “Come on Grandma, don’t fret yourself, they’re not worth it.

  Wiping the spittle from her chin she muttered under her breath.