The soldiers on Hamilton Street began taking sandbags out of the back of the lorry, two men to each sandbag, and placed them on the ground on the corner. They stacked them on top of each other like building bricks. A woman from the street arrived with a tray of china cups and a plate of sliced apple cake. A young girl behind her carried a china teapot.
‘Ye’s want a wee drop o’ tea, boys?’ she asked.
The soldiers, most of them looking like teenagers and one of them black, stood still, unsure what to do, and looked towards the officer in the peaked cap.
‘Take the tea, chaps,’ he said, approaching the woman and giving her a broad grin.
The woman smiled back and offered him the tray. He took it from her hands and held it while the woman, smiling, took the china teapot from the girl and poured the tea.
‘Come on, chaps, don’t be shy!’ he called out, and the soldiers approached, smiling, and took a cup of tea; some took a triangle of apple cake.
Everyone smiled.
There was no apple cake for us. More women arrived with more tea, buns and biscuits. By this time there was a crowd at the end of the street. The soldiers had stood their rifles in a neat row up against the gable wall, the muzzles pointing up.
‘They’re SLRs,’ said Terry McKinney.
Gutsy agreed. ‘You can tell from the handle. There. Look.’ He pointed his finger at the wooden handle sticking out from the metal piece in the middle.
‘What’s SLR stand for?’ I asked.
Terry and Gutsy looked at each other and said they didn’t know. A swarm of boys gathered close, eyeing the SLRs. They were a curious mix of polished wood and grey-blue metal. The wood looked out of place beside the metal pieces in the middle where the magazine was. A young soldier was left to guard the SLRs. He had no tea as he still had his rifle in his hands.
‘Hi, what’s SLR stand for?’ Gutsy asked him.
‘You wha’?’
‘What’s SLR stand for?’ Gutsy repeated.
‘Self-loading royfils,’ the soldier replied.
‘Self-loading royfils!’ said Gutsy, mimicking his accent. Then he turned back to us: ‘Oi! Self-loading royfils!’
The soldier smiled back at us in a nervous, uncomfortable sort of way, as if he’d be unsure what to do if we did something. He kept looking towards the soldiers taking their tea. Other women from the street had come out of their houses, some with plates of sandwiches and more pots of tea. They were all laughing – soldiers and all. And drinking tea.
‘The soldiers have built a hut at the end of the street,’ said Paul the next morning.
We were in the scullery, standing around the table – we had no chairs.
‘They call them sangars,’ said me da. ‘Not huts.’
Me ma came in and poured herself a bowl of Special K and milk. The Special K box had a big red K on the front. We weren’t allowed Special K – it was for me ma’s diet.
She sat down. ‘I must take them soldiers somethin’ down the day. I’ll make them ham and cheese sandwiches,’ she said.
‘You’re not takin’ anything down to them Limey Bs,’ me da said, looking her straight in the face. ‘Them boys aren’t here to protect us. They’ll get nothin’ from this house.’
‘What are you on about – Limey Bs?’ she asked. ‘They are here to protect us. That’s why they were brought in.’
‘What’s a Limey B, Da?’ asked Paul.
‘A Limey is an English soldier,’ me da said. I could see he was annoyed with me ma. ‘A Limey is a Limey. They never change. They’re not here for our good.’
‘Aye they are, Paddy,’ me ma said. ‘They’re here to keep the B-men and the Paisleyites from doing their worst.’ She wasn’t for backing down. ‘The poor soldiers only have army rations to eat. I’ll get them some stuff in the shop later.’
‘Listen to me now, Eileen. They’ll get nothing from this house. Them Limeys will turn on us. You can’t trust them. They’re nothing but Limey Bs.’
‘That’s oul guff, Paddy. Wise up,’ she said and put a spoonful of Special K in her mouth.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ said me da.
Paul looked at me. Me ma had won.
The sangar was built at the end of our street on the corner with Foyle Road. It was built around the end house and it went around the corner. Its walls were made of sandbags. Some of the sandbags were damp and smelled of canvas. It had wooden posts for a doorway and a shiny, corrugated-metal roof. The soldiers could see up our street and both ways along Foyle Road. They also built sangars on the corners of both Moore Street and Anne Street. Gutsy said there were sangars further down Foyle Road as well.
‘I went to the shop for one of them last night,’ he said as we approached our sangar. ‘The boy gave me two bob for going.’
‘Why did he not go himself? Sure it’s only over the street,’ I said.
‘They’re not allowed. They cannae go up the street.’
‘Hi mister, d’ye want us to go to the shop for ye?’ I asked one of them.
There were four soldiers in the sangar, sitting on the ground reading newspapers. Their SLRs were lined up against the wall of the house.
‘Yeah, moyt,’ said one back and he reached into his pocket and brought out a green pound note. ‘Get me a bottle of lemonade – cream soda – and a Flake,’ he said, handing me the money.
We laughed at his accent. It was like Blue Peter, only different.
‘Anybody else want anything in the shop?’ asked Gutsy.
They looked up from the ground and one said, ‘No, maybe later.’
Me, Gutsy and our Paul went to the shop. McLaughlin’s shop was just up the street. We all went in. It was dark inside, as usual. There was an old woman behind the counter.
‘Give us a bottle of cream soda and a Flake,’ I said, placing the pound note on the counter and sliding it towards her.
‘Is that for the soldiers?’ she asked.
‘Aye. One of them gave me two bob for going to the shop last night,’ said Gutsy.
‘Righty-o,’ she said and reached behind her for the Flake. ‘Go an’ lift a bottle of cream soda from the crate there by the door.’
Several lemonade crates were lined along the wall near the door. I went and lifted the cream soda out of one and brought it back to the counter. Gutsy took a hold of the bottle as I reached for the change.
‘This is my message, Gutsy,’ I snapped. Gutsy was smaller than me. ‘Here, give me that and you take the Flake. I have to bring him back his change.’
Gutsy handed the bottle back and out we went back towards the sangar. The soldier smiled as we approached. I handed him the cream soda and the change, and Gutsy gave him the Flake.
‘Oi, Tony, give us a drink of lemonade,’ said one of the soldiers sitting on the ground.
‘Fack off and get yer fackin’ own,’ said Tony the soldier, laughing.
‘Hi, ye call him Tony as well, so ye do,’ said Gutsy pointing at me.
‘Here you are then, Tony,’ said Tony the soldier, handing me a shilling from the change. I smiled and took the coin from his hand, feeling a bit disappointed. Tony the soldier noticed the look in my eyes and said, ‘Is that alroyt, moyt?’
‘Gutsy got two bob last night for going to the shop,’ I said.
‘Who’s Gutsy?’ he asked.
‘I’m Gutsy,’ said Gutsy. ‘I got the two bob.’
‘Alroyt then,’ said Tony the soldier, smiling, and handed me another shilling. ‘Thank you, Tony.’
‘Dead on, hi!’ I said, feeling rich.
Tony the soldier was pouring the cream soda into metal cups on the ground when we left to head back to the shop.
The sangar and the soldiers became the centre of attention on Hamilton Street. We played football at the bottom of the street next to it, instead of up the street. Women, including me ma, brought them tea, buns and sandwiches in relays. The local men were civil to the soldiers but distant. Officers were ferried to and from the sangar in dark green, open-
backed jeeps. When the officers were gone the soldiers allowed us to look down the sights of the SLRs, picking out people as targets as they walked along Foyle Road. Some of our targets laughed and waved back at the sangar, while others didn’t seem to notice.
Chalk The Water came down the street on his donkey and cart.
‘Chalk The Water!’ we all called out to him. ‘Chalk The Water!’
He waved his stick in the air and called something back. The soldiers looked on, smiling but not saying anything. Chalk The Water stopped at the junction beside the sangar. He didn’t even look at the soldiers. He just looked out to see if anything was coming along Foyle Road, made a noise to the donkey and away they went.
‘That’s Chalk The Water. He’s mad,’ I explained, looking up at the soldiers. ‘He drives out to the dump every day on his cart. D’ye want anything in the shop?’
‘No, we’re okay for the minute,’ said one of them, smiling at Chalk The Water’s donkey and cart.
It was trolley season. How seasons were determined I didn’t know. The only season that was definite was conker season. That was in September, when conkers grew on the huge chestnut trees overhanging the high walls of the College on Bishop Street. Trolley season just happened, a bit like marlie season. The marbles just appeared in bags in the shops and then it was marlie season.
Trolley season required the hands and the know-how of Davy McKinney and Thomas Starrs, the big boys in the street. Davy was twice as tall as Thomas, but both were referred to as ‘big boys’.
We had to cross Foyle Road to get planks of wood to build the trolleys – our Paul, Dooter McKinney, Terry McKinney and Davy McKinney. The McKinneys’ dog, Dandy, came with us in case there were rats. People were dumping rubble there in mounds and all you had to do was pull the wood out from among the red bricks. We tucked our trouser legs into our socks in case a rat ran up and bit our dickies off. My uncle Joe once told me that when he had to go into hospital one time with his asthma, a man came in with a white towel around his neck. When the nurse removed the towel there was a huge rat hanging by its jaws from his throat.
Dandy sniffed around, her stubby sandy tail wagging in the air. The plank I wanted was buried deep and needed a few more boys to help pull it out. As we pulled at the dusty plank, sure enough a big mauser of a grey rat darted out from the rubble, ran up the plank and jumped over my shoulder.
‘Holy shite!’ I screamed, letting the plank drop and scurrying away in terror with my two hands up to my throat.
‘Rats, Dandy! Rats!’ called Davy McKinney to the dog.
Dandy chased it under another pile of rubble and was barking and scraping at the red bricks. Despite our deep fear of rats, we pulled at the rubble to help Dandy. The rat ran out from the back of the pile in panic and Dandy chased it along the open ground. The next pile of bricks and rubble was too far away – the rat was doomed. Dandy sprinted after it and caught it in her teeth, shaking it violently back and forth. The rat squealed in Dandy’s mouth and then stopped. Dandy threw the rat up in the air and it landed with a thud on the dusty ground. It was still squirming a bit so it was still alive. Dandy scooped it up in her mouth again and shook it hard from side to side. The rat made no sound. Dandy threw it up in the air and this time it fell lifeless to the ground.
‘Good girl, Dandy! Good girl,’ said Terry McKinney as Dandy prodded the dead rat with her nose, inspecting it for signs of life.
‘Wait till ye see this,’ said Davy, lifting a boulder. He lifted it up over his head and brought it down on the dead rat. When he lifted the boulder the rat’s skull was crushed and there was dark red blood on the ground underneath. He brought the boulder down on the dead rat again. When he lifted it there was no sign of further damage.
‘Can we take turns?’ I asked, and we all stood around the dead rat with boulders in our hands, bringing them down one by one on its lifeless body.
Eventually the rat’s belly split to reveal a mass of pink and red, which looked strange against its dark grey coat.
‘That’s its guts,’ said Terry, pointing to a tangle of squashed flesh after we’d finished pummelling it.
When we left with our planks, carried between two of us, Dandy jumped up on Davy and Terry’s plank, her tail wagging, and we returned to Hamilton Street in victory.
The wheels for the trolleys were recovered from old prams, along with their axles. You really needed large wheels for the back and small ones at the front in order to go faster. The wooden planks became the chassis for the trolley.
For the front axle you required a brace and bit. The only people who knew what the brace and bit were and how to use them were Davy and Thomas. Davy operated the brace and bit, and Thomas held the chassis plank steady for him to drill it. As many as ten boys were in the street with their planks and wheels. Everything was ready except for the fixing of the front axle to the chassis. For that, you needed a large nut, bolt and washers to attach them.
One time, when there was no brace and bit to be found, Davy and Thomas brought out white-hot pokers from the fire in Davy’s house and roasted holes right through the planks. Back into the house they went for over an hour as the pokers cooled down, and out again with the white-hot pokers held high until all the planks were bored right through, with the heat and the smell of scorched wood filling the air around us.
The larger wheels were fixed to shorter lengths of wood and nailed to the chassis at the back. Nails were hard to find and we usually combed the bonfire site on the waste ground between Moore Street and Hamilton Street or scoured the back lanes to find them. We hammered them into the short planks in two straight parallel lines. Placing the axle between the lines, we then bent the nails over it, making sure the axle had enough space so the wheels were free to spin round.
Then you needed to attach a short length of rope to either side of the front axle in order to steer, and a square piece of wood for you to sit on. You also had to fix a short length of wood across the chassis to keep your feet off the ground. After greasing all the axles, Davy and Thomas declared each trolley roadworthy.
Hamilton Street was flat and so was Moore Street. We had to go up Bishop Street, which had a steep slope, to race down it without being pushed. We couldn’t go too far up or the Bishies would stone us. We raced to the bottom and just flew out onto Foyle Road as there was no way of stopping once you got going. You could use your feet but you’d destroy your shoes. It was okay if your shoes were old. After a few goes down Bishop Street we changed position on the trolleys. Instead of sitting back, we lay headfirst and flat on the plank with the steering ropes in our hands. That way you could push with your feet at the start and then jump on flat, like it was a bobsleigh. It was faster that way and you could hear the rumble of your pram wheels on the road, as your ears were right next to them as they spun round.
The army moved into the Mex, a disused factory on Foyle Road next to the Daisy Field. They dismantled the sangars. The trolleys became a taxi service for the soldiers’ messages to the shops. We cruised outside the new barracks and waited for one of the soldiers to call us over to the iron railing gates, which were sometimes open and sometimes closed. On the flat, if you had no one to push you, you knelt upright at the back of the trolley and pushed with one foot. You could build up a good speed that way and be back at the Mex with the fags, chocolate, chewing gum, lemonade or crisps within five minutes – an express service. The money was good. It usually worked out at two bob a trip. We called the soldiers by their first names: Dave, Pete, John and George. That was just some of them.
The army drove up and down Foyle Road in a number of different vehicles. As well as the three-tonner canvas lorries and the open-back jeeps, they also drove Pigs, Ferrets and Sixers. Most were painted dark green, but some were sandy-coloured. Me da said they were painted the same colour as the desert sand for camouflage.
Pigs were square, squat-looking armoured cars with long snouts that squealed when driven at any speed. They had lookout hatches at the front, sides and b
ack, and their huge black wheels were bigger than us. Ferrets were like small tanks with their turrets and machine guns sticking out. They had lookout hatches too, and sometimes a soldier sat up on the turret looking down on the road. Ferrets looked like large toys from a distance. They made a different squealing noise from the Pigs. Sixers had six wheels the same size as the wheels on the Pigs. They were almost the same as Pigs only with shorter snouts and a turret on top near the front. Sixers had hatches on the front, back and sides, and their engines squealed too, sort of like the Pigs.
If we were out playing in Hamilton Street and heard the noise of an approaching engine on Foyle Road, we stopped and tried to guess what type of vehicle would go past the gap at the bottom of the street on its way to or from the Mex.
‘That’s a Pig, I bet yis,’ said Gutsy.
‘Naw, it’s not, it’s a Sixer,’ said Paddy Brown, who lived next door to Gutsy.
We all looked down the street towards the gap and a Pig drove by.
‘I told you it was a Pig. You owe me money,’ Gutsy said to Paddy Brown, chancing his arm.
‘I didn’t take your bet. I only said it was a Sixer,’ he said.
Me da and our Patrick were coming down the street from Lecky Road.
‘Get yous all into the house,’ me da said pointing towards the door. ‘Gutsy, g’won you home, son. Patrick, go and get Karen and tell her to get home.’
Patrick ran up the lane. Me and Paul went into the house. Karen and Patrick came in shortly after. The green front door was closed after them.
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