by Ellie Dean
The barracks served as a staging post for men coming off sick leave to prepare them for their return to the jungles of Burma and Siam. Discipline was rigidly enforced by the officers who understood the necessity of getting the men fighting fit again before they were sent back into action. There was even a curfew at sundown to keep them from the bars and dubious delights of the nearest town which was a half-hour truck ride away.
Jim paused in the welcome shade of towering trees to lace up his plimsolls and regard the barracks which he suspected would soon be his home. The wooden huts that housed the lower ranks ran in an orderly line along a cinder path edged by big, white-painted boulders and a low picket fence. A large mess hall and ablutions block stood between the huts and the administration offices, which had garages, stores and workshops behind them; and the officers’ quarters and mess were isolated at the far end by a magnificent hibiscus hedge, ablaze with plate-sized scarlet and yellow blooms. A broad, verdant lawn ran the length of it all and was constantly manicured and watered by a small army of Indian servants.
The parade ground was an unshaded, stark square of flattened, baked red earth which seemed to shimmer with the heat, even at this early hour – and waiting impatiently there was Sergeant Major Bourne in full, pristine tropical uniform.
Seeing the other men leave their quarters at a run, Jim hung his towel on the nearest tree branch and went to join them as the sergeant major began to roar at them to get a ruddy move on. It seemed rank didn’t count when it came to physical jerks, for Jim recognised a first lieutenant, two captains and a major lining up with him.
Bourne was a robust Yorkshireman of indeterminate age, with a bristling moustache and brutal haircut, a voice like a foghorn and a bearing that defied any disobedience or show of aggression. He’d been an army physical trainer for most of his career, was the holder of several prestigious boxing titles, and well known for his lack of humour. He was, therefore, not a man to mess with.
Jim stood to attention with the others, and once Bourne was satisfied they were all present and correct, the torture began.
Bourne marched back and forth bellowing orders, a swagger stick tucked beneath his muscled arm, seemingly untouched by the rising heat or the swarms of flies that pestered everyone as they sweated and strained through the exercises.
An hour later saw Jim drenched in sweat and out of breath, but the ache in his muscles felt strangely rewarding, and as he flexed and stretched them out, he knew he was definitely on the way to a full recovery.
The fifteen men stood to attention trying to ignore the buzzing insects that crawled over their sweating faces as they waited to be dismissed.
‘Warrant Officer Reilly, you will stay at attention,’ shouted Bourne. ‘The rest of you are dismissed.’
Jim wondered what he’d done to attract this unwanted attention and tried not to flinch as a fly explored his face and tried to crawl up his nose.
‘At ease,’ rumbled Bourne, coming to stand almost toe to toe with Jim, who was in fact his senior in rank. ‘Get showered, changed into uniform and have a haircut,’ he barked. ‘The CO is expecting you in his office at eleven hundred hours prompt.’
‘Yes, Sergeant Major,’ said Jim, perplexed by this summons. ‘Any idea what he wants me for?’
‘I am not privy to my superior’s thought processes, Reilly,’ he replied tersely. ‘You’ll find out soon enough. Dismissed.’
Jim watched him march smartly away as if he was at some military parade. ‘Pompous ass,’ he muttered without rancour as he grabbed his towel and headed for the hospital showers, his mind still occupied with what his CO might have in store for him. With any luck it would be a discharge from the hospital and a new posting – but if he’d heard about his illicit dealings in whisky with the local Indian trader, he could be for the high jump.
Feeling cool and relaxed after a cold shower, he pulled on a fresh uniform shirt and clean, knee-length shorts. The long socks and heavy boots were cumbersome after being free of them for weeks, and he was sweating again as he grabbed his battered, sweat-stained slouch hat and went back to the barracks for a haircut.
Jim suffered the indignity of the army barber’s enthusiasm for almost scalping him and, emerging back into the glaring sun, he rubbed his hand ruefully over what was left of his hair before ramming on his hat. He tried to ignore the enticing smell of curry and the rumbling of his stomach as he walked to his CO’s office. Hopefully the old man wouldn’t keep him for too long, for it had been hours since breakfast, and he was starving.
Jim had only seen the brigadier from a distance, but he’d become quite a legend around here if the stories about him were true. Brigadier Ffaulkes-Hubert was tall and lean with the leathery complexion of a man who’d spent his life in the tropics. He’d come out of retirement at the age of sixty to release a younger officer for battle duty and to take command of this out-of-the-way military post where any ambition for promotion was doomed.
Ffaulkes-Hubert was regarded with great affection by everyone other than his junior officers, who found his absent-mindedness and leniency towards the men extremely tiresome. He was not a man who stood on ceremony and could often be found sharing a curry and beer with the Indian servants and lower ranks. And yet he was tolerated because his military record was exemplary, and he told the most wonderful stories of his youthful adventures during the Second Boer War.
The brigadier’s door was open to garner the slightest breeze, and as Jim’s shadow fell across his desk he looked up from the tea tray before him and smiled. ‘Come in, come in,’ he encouraged with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s far too hot to be standing out there.’
Jim stepped inside and stood to attention beneath the whirring ceiling fan as he saluted. ‘Warrant Officer Reilly reporting, sir.’
The brigadier saluted back rather distractedly, his focus returning to the tea tray. ‘Sit down, young man,’ he said. ‘Would you like a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit?’
‘Thank you, sir, that would be very welcome,’ he replied, taking off his hat and sitting cautiously on the edge of the rattan chair. He took the delicate cup and saucer, helped himself to a biscuit, and waited for the old boy to tell him why he’d been summonsed.
The brigadier drank his tea and then spent some time lighting his pipe. ‘So, young man,’ he said between puffs, ‘what was it you wanted to see me about?’
‘I do believe, sir,’ said Jim carefully, ‘that it was you who wished to see me.’
Grey eyebrows shot up and faded blue eyes widened. ‘Did I? Now why would that be, I wonder?’ His pipe was discarded as he shuffled through the drift of paper and folders on his desk, seemingly at a loss. ‘What was your name again?’
‘Warrant Officer James Michael Reilly,’ said Jim, returning the empty cup to the tray and trying to see if he could spot his name on anything amidst the disorder.
‘Ah, yes. I seem to remember that I have some interesting news for you,’ said the older man, still hunting through the mess. ‘Now what was it?’ he muttered crossly.
Jim swallowed his impatience and was finally rewarded with a beaming smile from the brigadier as he unearthed a brown cardboard folder.
‘Here we are,’ he said triumphantly. ‘I knew it was somewhere.’ He opened the folder, perched his glasses on the end of his nose and peered short-sightedly at the papers inside it. ‘Ah, yes,’ he murmured. ‘Now I remember.’ He took off his glasses and stood, offering his hand to Jim. ‘Congratulations, young man. Thoroughly deserved, I’m sure.’
Jim quickly stood to shake the proffered hand, still none the wiser as to what the old boy was on about. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, ‘but what is it exactly that I’ve earned?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say?’ The brigadier shook his head. ‘It’s the heat, you know. After fifty years in India and Africa, it’s inclined to addle the brain somewhat.’ He stood there smiling at Jim, having once again lost his train of thought.
‘May I know why you’re congratulating me, sir?’ Jim
persisted.
‘Oh, yes, of course. You’ve been mentioned in dispatches for showing extreme courage whilst under enemy fire, with a recommendation that you be commissioned immediately to Second Lieutenant – a position I believe you held during the First World War.’ He gave Jim a beaming smile. ‘Jolly good show, eh what?’
Jim nodded without great enthusiasm as the brigadier began opening and shutting his desk drawers. An MiD was really something to write home about, and as it would be announced in the newspapers, the whole of Cliffehaven would hear about it. But despite the substantial pay rise that went with the promotion, he was not looking forward to rejoining the officer ranks – in fact he’d turned down the offer when he’d been called up and had been avoiding such a thing ever since.
His thoughts were interrupted by the brigadier slamming a drawer and advancing on him with a couple of shoulder tabs bearing a single ‘pip’ and a small box. ‘You’ll have to get these sorted out,’ he said gruffly, handing over the tabs. ‘Now stand still, my boy. It’s my duty to pin this on you. Don’t want to stab you, what?’
Jim stood to attention again, his alarm rising as the unsteady fingers fumbled to open the pin on the back of the bronze oak leaf award.
‘May I offer to help with that, sir?’ he asked.
‘It is fiddly, and my eyes aren’t what they used to be,’ the older man muttered, handing it over. ‘Probably best you do it.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Jim pinned it to his shirt collar and stuffed the box and epaulettes into the pocket of his shorts. ‘It’s an honour to wear it.’
The older man stood in dreamy silence as he admired the badge.
Jim realised he was off in his own world again, and if he didn’t say something, they could be here all day. ‘Permission to leave, sir?’
The brigadier snapped out of whatever he was thinking about. ‘Um, no, there was something else …’ He leafed through the folder and drew out a very important-looking certificate and a sheaf of papers.
Jim stood there in a lather of impatience as the older man unearthed his glasses again and took forever to read through everything.
‘Ah yes,’ he said eventually. ‘This is the certification of your MiD, and these are your new orders. You’ll see that you are to take two weeks’ leave from tomorrow at six hundred hours and return here for training before you rejoin your regiment which I believe is still in Burma.’ He handed over the paperwork and smiled. ‘Marvellous place, Burma. I was stationed there for a while back in 1913, and I remember …’
Jim listened politely to the rambling reminiscence and when the brigadier paused for breath, he broke in. ‘That’s very interesting, Brigadier. Thank you for taking the time to tell me about my award and commission.’ He nodded towards the desk. ‘But I can see you’re very busy, so I won’t keep you any longer.’
The brigadier blinked as if surprised to see the mound of paper on his desk. ‘Goodness me, so I am. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you.’ He pumped Jim’s hand again with surprising firmness. ‘Good luck and Godspeed, young fellow.’
Jim saluted and finally escaped to a quiet, cool corner of the hospital gardens to admire the citation which had been signed by the King himself, and to read through the orders. Transport had been arranged to get him to a hotel that had been requisitioned by the army for the rest and recuperation of injured officers. The name of the place was unpronounceable, but he would be free to come and go as he pleased – which was a huge relief, because he didn’t fancy being holed up with a bunch of upper-class twits for two weeks.
He read the citation again which had been awarded to him for his valour in saving a comrade whilst under fire during the Japanese bombardment that had seen him hospitalised and Ernie crippled for life. Jim gave a deep sigh. He hadn’t earned the damned thing – if anyone deserved it, it should have been Ernie.
The siren scents of the lunchtime curry drifted from the veranda. Jim unpinned the badge and returned it to its box. He would say nothing to the others, he decided, for there was no point in bragging about something he hadn’t deserved. As for the commission, it would probably be wise to keep that to himself, too. Officers had been the butt of all their jokes, and he didn’t want to spoil his last night here by revealing that he’d been forced to change sides.
He reached the veranda and of course there were questions, for it wasn’t every day that one of them had to wear uniform and get a haircut. He replied that he’d been passed fit and was going on leave the following day, which seemed to satisfy them.
He went to his locker and tucked away his orders and citation along with the box containing the oak leaf badge, and then changed back into his singlet and shorts. Arranging with one of the more senior Indian servants to sort out his uniform shirts so the epaulettes could be attached, he slipped the man a few rupees to ensure his silence.
Once he’d achieved all this, he returned to the veranda to tuck into the spicy curry and delicious saffron rice, which he washed down with icy cold Indian Pale Ale. The heat was at its fiercest and the talk was desultory, each man too drained of energy to engage in conversation, and it wasn’t long before they drifted off to take their siestas.
Jim was quite happy to eat alone, and as he mopped up the remains of his meal with the warm flatbread chapattis, and called for another beer, he planned the rest of his day.
He felt energised suddenly, and knew he wouldn’t sleep despite the debilitating heat, so he’d go to the surprisingly well-stocked hospital library and dig out a map of Burma to try and find the place he was going to. It was probably up in the hills where the temperature wasn’t quite so fierce, or if he was really lucky, it could be on the coast and he’d get to swim in the sea. There would be time before supper to write to Peggy with his news, and then he’d pack his few belongings, sell off the last of his illicit stock of whisky, shower again and enjoy several more beers once the sun went down.
He rose from the table and stretched luxuriously. It would be a very early start tomorrow, but he doubted he’d sleep much, for there was an excitement in him for what lay ahead that he hadn’t felt in months, and he was eager to be on the move and feel useful again.
7
Three weeks had passed since Peggy had taken up her new position at the factory, and she was enjoying her Saturday off despite the fact the November rain was lashing down in a strong wind, and all her washing had to be hung from the suspended airer in the scullery.
It was nice to get up a bit later than usual and to eat breakfast at leisure without having to rush off to the factory to deal with the numerous problems that always seemed to be awaiting her. Not that she wasn’t enjoying her new position – she was revelling in it – but now Loretta had left, she found that managing a lot of women who were inclined to fall out with each other over the slightest thing was a little wearing.
She poured another cup of tea and idly watched Daisy playing with her doll as she shared the hearth rug with Queenie in front of the glowing fire. It was peaceful for once, but she knew it wouldn’t last, so was making the most of it whilst she could.
Ron was out with Harvey, Sarah was doing overtime at the council’s offices and Ivy was having a lie-in after coming home very late last night and waking everyone by falling up the stairs to land in a heap on Cordelia’s stairlift which she sent up and down whilst singing very loudly and out of key.
Peggy chuckled. It had taken some time to shut her up and get her into bed, for she’d been very tipsy – and she suspected she’d have one heck of a hangover when she did finally surface.
There had been no sign of Fran and Robert, who were no doubt enjoying a rare few hours together upstairs before Fran had to start her late shift at the hospital; Cordelia was getting ready to go out to lunch with Bertie; Rita was on duty at the fire station; and Danuta had gone out on her district nursing rounds. The only thing other than the weather marring this morning was the fact that neither the paper boy nor the postman had put in an appearance. But at least Mr Jenkins had his dairy
up and running smoothly again, and the milk had arrived in bottles on the doorstep before anyone was up and about.
As if her thoughts had conjured them up, the letter box rattled and she hurried into the hall to find the papers and a stack of mail in the wire basket. She quickly opened the door to offer the two lads a momentary refuge from the weather with a cup of tea, but they were already cycling away.
Shutting the door against the wind and rain, she discovered that everything was damp, the pages of the newspapers curling up and a bit ragged from where the boy had shoved them rather too carelessly through the letter box. Peggy gathered everything together and took it all into the kitchen. She placed the papers on the chair by the fire to try and dry them out a bit, and then sifted through the letters. Some of the ink had run, but the writing was legible enough to sort them out according to the recipients.
There were two letters from Canada for Cordelia, three airmails from Sarah’s mother in Australia – which would no doubt upset the girl with even more airy-fairy plans for her and Philip when he and her father were released by the Japs.
Peggy clucked in exasperation. When would the stupid woman realise it would be an absolute miracle if either of them had survived, and that the pressure she was putting on Sarah and her sister Jane was immensely selfish and unfair?
She placed the letters on the mantelpiece, wishing she had the nerve to write to Cynthia Fuller and tell her straight to stop living in a fantasy world and face reality. There again, she reasoned, the poor woman was clinging to hope, and it would be too cruel to snatch it away. But the time would come when she’d be forced to face the truth, and like Sarah, Peggy dreaded what it would do to her.