by Clare Flynn
‘Chip on the shoulder,’ said Mitch, knowingly. ‘Thinks the world’s against him and can’t stand to see others happy. He’s a useless piece of shit. A bloody admiral of the Swiss navy.’
‘What you going to do about tonight, Grass?’ said Jim. ‘Can you get a message to Ethel?’
‘I’ll go and tell her,’ said Mitch. ‘If it’s too late to cancel the party we’ll go ahead without you, pal, and drink your health and your girl’s. Then I’ll make sure the guys club together and throw another bash next week in your honour and you can be there for that.’
Jim was queuing in the canteen when Tip Howardson came up behind him. Jim felt Tip’s breath hot behind his ear. The corporal’s voice was low so that no one other than Jim could hear what he said.
‘I hear Walt has got that little tramp pregnant, eh? More than you ever managed, Armstrong. I bet she fucked both of you, then decided he was better.’
Jim didn’t stop to think. The non-stop drip of venom from his corporal had gone on too long and too far. Rage flared inside him and he turned, sending his tray flying and scattering mashed potato and gravy on the floor. He landed a heavy punch on Howardson’s chin and rained rapid punches down on the head and shoulders of the corporal as Tip tried to protect himself with his arms. Jim was blind. He felt nothing. A dam had burst, flooding, rushing, sweeping him away. Hurt him. Kill him. Punch after punch. Blindness. Fury. End it. End it.
Grass and Mitch grabbed onto Jim and pinned down his arms as he struggled to break free. Tip’s fist rammed into his chest. Winded, Jim slumped forward, Greg and Mitch still holding him. He heard the sound of glass shattering then he heard and saw nothing more.
When Jim came to it was dark. Immediately he wished he hadn’t woken as the pain was like nothing he’d ever experienced before. He tried to focus but the room was blurred as if he were looking through the bottom of a glass. What was he doing here?
A nurse emerged from the gloom to stand beside his bed. ‘Woken up at last, soldier?’ she said. ‘Quite a pasting you took.’
‘What happened? I can’t remember.’
‘You were in a fight. But never mind that now.’
The memory of Tip Howardson and his crude insults about Alice, his taunting about Walt returned. The anger rose in Jim again and he tried to sit up, but was unable to move.
The nurse took his wrist and cocked her head to look at the watch pinned above her breast. ‘Better,’ she pronounced, letting his arm fall back to the bed. She pushed a thermometer between his lips and then consulted a chart at the bottom of the bed.
Jim tried to speak but the thermometer made his words unclear. The nurse shook her head at him, read his temperature and returned to stand beside him. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to you. You’re in big trouble.’
Then she was gone, leaving Jim to stare at the shadowy ceiling and grit his teeth against the pain.
When Jim woke again, Mitch Johnson was sitting at the end of his bed, his cap clutched in his hand.
‘I can only stay a few minutes, Jim. You’re meant to be off limits. But someone has to tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’ Jim tried to roll over onto his side as a prelude to sitting up but an arrow of sharp pain shot through his chest and he slumped back against the pillow.
‘Grass is dead.’
Jim didn’t think he had heard properly. ‘What?’
‘He had a brain haemorrhage.’
'A what?'
'The doc said it was a massive bleeding in his brain.'
Still the words made no sense. How could Grass be dead? He shook his head. ‘Stop kidding, Mitch. It’s not funny.’
‘I wish I was kidding. But it’s true. I’m sorry, pal.’
Jim closed his eyes. He would wake up in a moment and everything would be all right. But when he opened them again Mitch was still sitting beside the bed nervously twirling his cap around in his hands.
‘He can’t be dead. He’s getting married.’
Mitch looked away.
‘How did it happen?’
‘Punched in the head by the corporal. Howardson took a broken bottle to your head and knocked you out and then he started stamping on you, kicking the shit out of you while you were passed out on the ground. A real frenzy. When Grass tried to restrain him he landed a hell of a punch to his head and Grass fell over like a tree. He hit the deck and never got up again.’
Jim tried to picture it but his imagination failed him. How was it possible that the long-legged, gentle giant was dead? Just like that – and because he had tried to come to Jim’s defence.
Mitch winced. ‘Christ, Armstrong, you look a sight. You’re going to be scarred for life I reckon. You should see your ugly face. Your eyes look like a cross between a panda and a frog.’ He turned his cap over in his hands and appeared to be absorbed in examining the inside. ‘That Howardson is crazy. Never seen anything like it. It was as if he was trying to kill you. What the hell did you do to get him so mad at you?’
Jim looked at him blankly then shook his head.
‘There’s rumours going round the camp that he’s mental. Had a punch-up over a girl in town a few months ago and managed to keep it hushed up. There’s also talk he attacked a woman in the park but she screamed her head off and he got the wind up and ran away. Joe Toupin saw it happen. He was going to report it but Howardson threatened him and he decided it was better to stay out of it. Turns out half the garrison had a reason for being afraid of him. Once the shit hit the fan they all started talking. The bastard was running a little scam with the quartermaster and selling stuff on the black market.’
‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Court-martialled. Dishonourable discharge and sent back to Canada. I think they might court-martial you too. When you’re well enough that is. What the hell did you go and punch him for, mate? You knew he was a crazy bastard.’
Jim let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, ignoring the question. ‘I can’t believe Grass is dead. What are they going to tell his folks? Killed by one of his own?’
‘The docs reckon he could have died any time. They did a post mortem and it turns out he had an extremely thin skull. Could have done it banging his head getting out of bed. He was unlucky.’
Jim kept his eyes closed. He could barely see out of them anyway. He wanted Mitch to go away and leave him alone. Sensing he had outstayed his welcome, Johnson got to his feet, slapped a hand on the lump in the bed that was Jim’s legs and said goodbye.
Left alone, Jim thought about Grass. Dead without having fired a shot or had sight of the enemy. He had been so full of life. Only the night before the fight happened they had sat in The Stag, moaning to each other about the warmth of the beer and talking about his plans for marrying Ethel. Poor Ethel. Jim felt sick, a heavy weight of guilt pressing down on him. If he’d kept his temper in check Grass would still be here. How could he expect Ethel to forgive him?
And what of Greg’s family? He’d told Jim he had a couple of sisters. Jim tried to remember what else his friend had told him about his life before the war. How was it possible that he had made so little effort to find out more about this man – the only person so far in the army with whom he had much in common?
There was a dull throbbing in his head and a sharp pain in his ribs. Probably broken. It was all his fault. He should have controlled his temper. Reined himself in instead of rising to the bait Tip had dangled in front of him. Tip was a maniac. Had probably always been. A bitter, angry little boy since grade school. The kind who would pinch a kid in a crowd then run away so he couldn’t be blamed. The vicious streak that had characterised him as a child had festered and grown in the adult. Jim couldn’t comprehend what bitterness could cause a man to be so filled with hate for so little reason.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a man in a white coat who introduced himself as Medical Officer Allison. After glancing at the charts at the end of the bed, he pulled up a chair.
‘Quite a fight you got yourself
into, Private Armstrong. Five broken ribs, a deep cut to the face, severe bruising to the thoracic region and four broken fingers. You’re lucky your spleen wasn’t damaged. How’s the pain?’
Jim winced. ‘Hurts like hell.’
‘Yes, it will do. Your CO said to go easy on the painkillers and make you suffer a bit, but I think now you’re conscious we’ll show a little mercy, eh, Private?’
Jim nodded, grateful.
‘Less pain you’re in, the faster the body will heal. Can’t think what you did to upset that chap so much. He practically kicked a hole in you. But you’ll survive.’ The MO took off his spectacles and polished them on the white coat that covered his khaki uniform. ‘More than I can say for one of the other fellows. Private Hooper. Sad case. Friend of yours?’
Jim nodded.
‘At least he wouldn’t have known what hit him. Knocked out cold, poor chap. Just finished writing the report. The CO has written to his family. His war never even got started.’ He scribbled something on Jim’s chart. ‘I’ll get the nurse to give you a jab and that should ease the pain for a while. You’ll be on your feet in a week or so.’ He nodded and turned to leave. He looked back when he got to the doorway and said, ‘Try and stay out of trouble in future, Armstrong. We don’t like patching people up when their injuries are self-inflicted. There’s a war to fight.’
It was a week before Jim was fit enough to leave the infirmary and two weeks before being summoned before the court martial, still in severe pain from his broken ribs. The gash on his face was beginning to heal and the stitches had been removed.
Tip Howardson had been stripped of his rank and sent to the Non Effective Transit Depot at nearby Thursley Common to await repatriation to Canada, in disgrace for brawling with junior ranks, black marketeering and failure to set an example. The NETD was the way station for a rag bag of Canada’s reprobates – drunks, misfits, crooks and black marketeers. A more serious charge of manslaughter for Howardson’s part in the death of Greg Hooper was not submitted, because of the coroner’s report – although there were those who believed it was to avoid the case being handled by the British courts which would have had jurisdiction.
In front of the court martial, Jim was unable to deny that he had struck the first blow, but the eyewitnesses testified that he had been provoked by Howardson. While no one had heard what Howardson said in the mess line-up, several had seen him approach Armstrong and whisper in his ear. To his amazement Captain Bywater spoke in his favour and Jim had the impression the CO had been no fan of Howardson. Mitch Johnson spoke on Jim’s behalf, citing the example of Howardson’s conduct towards both Hooper and Armstrong to indicate that the man had a clear if inexplicable grudge. Jim was confined to barracks for five weeks, a sentence he was only too happy to serve as it meant delaying the inevitable moment when he would have to face Ethel.
One evening he was alone in the mess, when he was visited by Walt. He’d seen nothing of his brother since the street brawl. Walt flung himself into the chair opposite Jim’s, legs sprawled out in front of him.
‘They turned me down.’
Jim said nothing.
‘They don’t care that Alice is having a baby. Told me thousands of men are in the same situation.’ He thumped the arm of the chair in fury.
Jim looked at him, struggling to believe that his brother had offered no apology for being the cause of his night in jail, no condolences for the death of Grass and hadn’t even bothered to visit him in the infirmary.
‘Grow up, Walt,’ he said at last. ‘The world doesn’t revolve round you.’
When he was able, if unwilling, to leave the sanctuary of the barracks and venture into the town, Jim made his way with a heavy heart to the street where Ethel lived and knocked on the door. It was a Saturday afternoon and hence probable that Ethel or her mother would be at home. He had thought of bringing a bunch of flowers but no one grew flowers for sale any more and it didn’t seem right to steal them from a park or garden – and most of those were now given over to growing vegetables. Chocolate bars seemed inappropriate so he settled on a few tins of peaches and corned beef bought from the commissary.
It took a while before the door was answered and Jim’s heart skipped a beat when Joan appeared on the threshold.
‘I’ve come to see Ethel. To give her my condolences.’
‘You took your time,’ she said bluntly. ‘Too little too late. Sling your hook, Armstrong. Ethel doesn’t want to see you.’
‘I couldn’t come any sooner. I was in the infirmary and then confined to barracks.’
She crossed her arms and looked at him with something nearing contempt. ‘I wish we hadn’t met either of you. The word is that you started that fight and Greg got caught in the crossfire. Well, I hope you’re happy. It’s cost the poor bugger his life and my cousin her future. You Canadians are every bit as bad as most of the people in this town paint you. Brawling at any opportunity. My aunty Vi and Ethel won’t be holding open house any more, that’s for sure. Now bugger off.’ As she turned to go back into the house, she noticed the tins in his hand. ‘And take your tinned fruit with you. Ethel won’t want it.’ The door slammed shut behind her.
Jim turned away and went back to the barracks where he borrowed a motorbike and set off on the ten miles or so to the military cemetery at Brookwood, where Greg was buried, along with other Canadians who had died since arriving in Britain. He was surprised how many graves there were, even though the ground force had seen no action. He wandered past the graves of airmen, his cap held in front of him. There were also army servicemen like Greg who had passed away without seeing a whisker of the enemy. Many were victims of road accidents, often caused in the blackout. What a bloody waste. Why cross the Atlantic only to be run over or ride your motorcycle into a tree? He had nothing to place on the grave. For a moment he wished he’d brought the tins of peaches. Greg would have thought that funny. When he located the grave, which had a temporary marker, he stood with his head bowed and tried to pray, but he wasn’t a regular churchgoer and nothing he could think of seemed appropriate. So he spoke to his dead friend.
‘It should be me under there, not you, Grass. You should have let that bastard finish me off. Who do you think you are? Bloody Popeye? I’m going to miss you, buddy.’
He would write to Greg’s widowed mother and sisters in Saskatchewan and to Ethel as well if Joan was going to stop him seeing her in person. What the hell to say? Nothing he could say could possibly make it any better. Turning from his friend’s grave, he made his way past the ranks of dead Canadians from the previous war. So many. Maybe his father had known some of them.
Part III
1942
Men may make mistakes, and learn from their mistakes. Men may have bad luck, and their luck may change.
Winston Churchill, 2 July 1942
Transfer to Eastbourne
‘Oh I do like to be beside the seaside, oh I do like to be beside the sea.’ Mitch Johnson was singing the old music hall song. One of the local girls had played it on the piano in The Stag the previous night and Mitch had been whistling and singing the tune ever since. Their regiment was about to relocate from Aldershot to the Sussex coast to take on the defence of the coastline. Jim suspected it would be more of the same – far away from the action and he was not enthused by the prospect of babysitting a coastal town. The threat of invasion had faded and it felt as though the powers that be were using the Canadian army in a sham exercise. The sneering commentary that they were a “tin pot army” smarted.
When he heard news of their pending departure from Aldershot, Jim decided to go and say goodbye to Joan. What had passed between them had troubled him since. He wasn’t the kind of guy who felt comfortable sleeping with a woman and then never having anything more to do with her. He understood that a romantic relationship would not be going any further, and if he were wholly honest with himself he was more than a little relieved. The last thing he wanted was to marry an English girl. He had no firm plans for a
fter the war – apart from being certain he didn’t want to go back to Hollowtree and the farm.
Nerves almost held him back from knocking on Joan’s front door. The door opened and a thin woman wearing hair curlers under a headscarf, stockings rolled around her ankles, appeared. There was a resemblance to Joan around the eyes, but the woman looked careworn and prematurely old. Her mouth turned down at the corners.
When she saw Jim standing there she retreated back behind the door, leaving just the side of her head visible. ‘Whoever you are, you’ve caught me on the hop,’ she said. ‘I was finishing the housework. Wasn’t expecting a caller. Thought you were the insurance man.’ She waved a small cardboard-covered book at him.
‘I came to see Joan.’
The woman opened the door wider and looked him up and down. ‘She’s not here. You a friend of Pete’s?’
‘No. I’m a friend of Greg Hooper who was engaged to marry Joan’s cousin.’
‘Yes. Poor bugger. Ethel was cut up about it. Still is. But what’s that got to do with my Joan?’
‘We met a few times and became friends.’ The words sounded weak and unconvincing as he said them. ‘I came to say goodbye as we’re leaving town.’
The woman’s eyes narrowed and she moved to close the door. ‘Joan’s never mentioned you. And while you may want to say goodbye to her she can’t have wanted to say goodbye to you as she left Aldershot two weeks ago.’
Jim was stunned. ‘She’s left? Where’s she gone?’
‘If she’d wanted you to know she’d have told you, wouldn’t she? Now I’ve work to do.’ The door closed in front of him.
Jim stood in the street, his cap clutched in his hand, not knowing what to do next. He started to walk away when he saw Ethel Underwood walking towards him.
‘I thought it was you, Jim,’ she said. ‘I had hoped you might have come to see me.’ Her expression was wistful and he noticed her eyes were red. ‘Can we walk together? I’m on my way into town. It’s Mum’s birthday next week and I want to try and find her something to wear.’