“But you were only away for ten minutes.”
“Quite enough time,” said Tommy. “Only officers need more than ten minutes for what I was up to.”
During the following week they had their first rifle lesson, bayonet practice and even a session of map reading. While Charlie quickly mastered the art of map reading it was Tommy who took only a day to find his way round a rifle. By their third lesson he could strip the barrel and put the pieces back together again faster than the instructor.
On Wednesday morning of the second week Captain Trentham gave them their first lecture on the history of the Royal Fusiliers. Charlie might have quite enjoyed the lesson if Trentham hadn’t left the impression that none of them was worthy of being in the same regiment as himself.
“Those of us who selected the Royal Fusiliers because of historic links or family ties may feel that allowing criminals to join our ranks simply because we’re at war is hardly likely to advance the regiment’s reputation,” he said, looking pointedly in the direction of Tommy.
“Stuck-up snob,” declared Tommy, just loud enough to reach every ear in the lecture theater except the captain’s. The ripple of laughter that followed brought a scowl to Trentham’s face.
On Thursday afternoon Captain Trentham returned to the gym, but this time he was not striking the side of his leg with a swagger stick. He was kitted up in a white gym singlet, dark blue shorts and a thick white sweater; the new outfit was just as neat and tidy as his uniform. He walked around watching the instructors putting the men through their paces and, as on his last visit, seemed to take a particular interest in what was going on in the boxing ring. For an hour the men were placed in pairs while they received basic instructions, first in defense and then in attack. “Hold your guard up, laddie,” were the words barked out again and again whenever fists reached chins.
By the time Charlie and Tommy climbed through the ropes, Tommy had made it clear to his friend that he hoped to get away with three minutes’ shadowboxing.
“Get stuck into each other, you two,” shouted Trentham, but although Charlie started to jab away at Tommy’s chest he made no attempt to inflict any real pain.
“If you don’t get on with it, I’ll take on both of you, one after the other,” shouted Trentham.
“I’ll bet ’e couldn’t knock the cream off a custard puddin’,” said Tommy, but this time his voice did carry, and to the instructor’s dismay, Trentham immediately leaped up into the ring and said, “We’ll see about that.” He asked the coach to fit him up with a pair of boxing gloves.
“I’ll have three rounds with each of these two men,” Trentham said as a reluctant instructor laced up the captain’s gloves. Everyone else in the gymnasium stopped to watch what was going on.
“You first. What’s your name?” asked the captain, pointing to Tommy.
“Prescott, sir,” said Tommy, with a grin.
“Ah yes, the convict,” said Trentham, and removed the grin in the first minute, as Tommy danced around him trying to stay out of trouble. In the second round Trentham began to land the odd punch, but never hard enough to allow Tommy to go down. He saved that humiliation for the third round, when he knocked Tommy out with an uppercut that the lad from Poplar never saw. Tommy was carried out of the ring as Charlie was having his gloves laced up.
“Now it’s your turn, Private,” said Trentham. “What’s your name?”
“Trumper, sir.”
“Well. Let’s get on with it, Trumper,” was all the captain said before advancing towards him.
For the first two minutes Charlie defended himself well, using the ropes and the corner as he ducked and dived, remembering every skill he had learned at the Whitechapel Boys’ Club. He felt he might even have given the captain a good run for his money if it hadn’t been for the damned man’s obvious advantage of height and weight.
By the third minute Charlie had begun to gain confidence and even landed a punch or two, to the delight of the onlookers. As the round ticked to an end, he felt he had acquitted himself rather well. When the bell sounded he dropped his gloves and turned to go back to his corner. A second later the captain’s clenched fist landed on the side of Charlie’s nose. Everyone in that gymnasium heard the break as Charlie staggered against the ropes. No one murmured as the captain unlaced his gloves and climbed out of the ring. “Never let your guard down” was the only solace he offered.
When Tommy studied the state of his friend’s face that night as Charlie lay on his bed, all he said was, “Sorry, mate, all my fault. Bloody man’s a sadist. But don’t worry, if the Germans don’t get the bastard, I will.”
Charlie could only manage a thin smile.
By Saturday they had both recovered sufficiently to fall in with the rest of the company for pay parade, waiting in a long queue to collect five shillings each from the paymaster. During their three hours off duty that night the pennies disappeared more quickly than the queue, but Tommy somehow continued to get better value for money than any other recruit.
By the beginning of the third week, Charlie could only just fit his swollen toes into the heavy leather boots the army had supplied him with, but looking down the rows of feet that adorned the barracks room floor each morning he could see that none of his comrades was any better off.
“Fatigues for you, my lad, that’s for sure,” shouted the corporal. Charlie shot him a glance, but the words were being directed at Tommy in the next bed.
“What for, Corp?” asked Tommy.
“For the state of your sheets. Just look at them. You might have had three women in there with you during the night.”
“Only two, to be ’onest with you, Corp.”
“Less of your lip, Prescott, and see that you report for latrine duty straight after breakfast.”
“I’ve already been this morning, thank you, Corp.”
“Shut up, Tommy,” said Charlie. “You’re only makin’ things more difficult for yourself.”
“I see you’re gettin’ to understand my problem,” whispered Tommy. “It’s just that the corp’s worse than the bloody Germans.”
“I can only ’ope so, lad, for your sake,” came back the corporal’s reply. “Because that’s the one chance you’ve got of coming through this whole thing alive. Now get yourself off to the latrines—at the double.”
Tommy disappeared, only to return an hour later smelling like a manure heap.
“You could kill off the entire German army without any of us having to fire a shot,” said Charlie. “All you’d ’ave to do is stand in front of ’em and ‘ope the wind was blowin’ in the right direction.”
It was during the fifth week—Christmas and the New Year having passed with little to celebrate—that Charlie was put in charge of the duty roster for his own section.
“They’ll be makin’ you a bleedin’ colonel before you’ve finished,” said Tommy.
“Don’t be stupid,” replied Charlie. “Everyone gets a chance at runnin’ the section at some time durin’ the twelve weeks.”
“Can’t see them takin’ that risk with me,” said Tommy. “I’d turn the rifles on the officers and my first shot would be aimed at that bastard Trentham.”
Charlie found that he enjoyed the responsibility of having to organize the section for seven days and was only sorry when his week was up and the task was handed on to someone else.
By the sixth week, Charlie could strip and clean a rifle almost as quickly as Tommy, but it was his friend who turned out to be a crack shot and seemed to be able to hit anything that moved at two hundred yards. Even the sergeant major was impressed.
“All those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might ’ave somethin’ to do with it,” admitted Tommy. “But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?”
“Sooner than you think, lad,” promised the corporal.
“Must complete twelve weeks’ trainin’,” said Charlie. “That’s King’s Regulations. So we won’t get the chance for at least another month.”
“King’s Regulations be damned,” said Tommy. “I’m told this war could be all over before I even get a shot at them.”
“Not much ’ope of that,” said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.
“Trumper,” barked a voice.
“Yes, sir,” said Charlie, surprised to find the duty sergeant standing by his side.
“The adjutant wants to see you. Follow me.”
“But Sergeant, I haven’t done anythin’—”
“Don’t argue, lad, just follow me.”
“It ’as to be the firin’ squad,” said Tommy. “And just because you wet your bed. Tell ’im I’ll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least you can be certain it a be over quick.”
Charlie unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.
“Don’t forget, you can insist on a blindfold. Just a pity you don’t smoke,” were Tommy’s last words as Charlie disappeared across the parade ground at the double.
The sergeant came to a halt outside the adjutant’s hut, and an out-of-breath Charlie caught up with him just as the door was opened by a color sergeant who turned to Charlie and said, “Stand to attention, lad, remain one pace behind me and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understood?”
“Yes, Color Sergeant.”
Charlie followed the color sergeant through the outer office until they reached another door marked “Capt. Trentham, Adj.” Charlie could feel his heart pumping away as the color sergeant knocked quietly on the door.
“Enter,” said a bored voice and the two men marched in, took four paces forward and came to a halt in front of Captain Trentham.
The color sergeant saluted.
“Private Trumper, 7312087, reporting as ordered, sir,” he bellowed, despite neither of them being more than a yard away from Captain Trentham.
The adjutant looked up from behind his desk.
“Ah yes, Trumper. I remember, you’re the baker’s lad from Whitechapel.” Charlie was about to correct him when Trentham turned away to stare out of the window, obviously not anticipating a reply. “The sergeant major has had his eye on you for several weeks,” Trentham continued, “and feels you’d be a good candidate for promotion to lance corporal. I have my doubts, I must confess. However, I do accept that occasionally it’s necessary to promote a volunteer in order to keep up morale in the ranks. I presume you will take on this responsibility, Trumper?” he added, still not bothering to look in Charlie’s direction.
Charlie didn’t know what to say.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” offered the color sergeant before bellowing, “About turn, quick march, left, right, left, right.”
Ten seconds later Lance Corporal Charlie Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers found himself back out on the parade ground.
“Lance Corporal Trumper,” said Tommy in disbelief after he had been told the news. “Does that mean I ’ave to call you ‘sir’?”
“Don’t be daft, Tommy. ‘Corp’ will do,” Charlie said with a grin, as he sat on the end of the bed sewing a single stripe onto an arm of his uniform.
The following day Charlie’s section of ten began to wish that he hadn’t spent the previous fourteen years of his life visiting the early morning market. Their drill, their boots, their turnout and their weapons training became the benchmark for the whole company, as Charlie drove them harder and harder. The highlight for Charlie, however, came in the eleventh week, when they left the barracks to travel to Glasgow where Tommy won the King’s Prize for rifle shooting, beating all the officers and men from seven other regiments.
“You’re a genius,” said Charlie, after the colonel had presented his friend with the silver cup.
“Wonder if there’s an ’alf good fence to be found in Glasgow,” was all Tommy had to say on the subject.
The passing out parade was held on Saturday, 23 February 1918, which ended with Charlie marching his section up and down the parade ground keeping step with the regimental band, and for the first time feeling like a soldier—even if Tommy still resembled a sack of potatoes.
When the parade finally came to an end, Sergeant Major Philpott congratulated them all and before dismissing the parade told the troops they could take the rest of the day off, but they must return to barracks and be tucked up in bed before midnight.
The assembled company was let loose on Edinburgh for the last time. Tommy took charge again as the lads of Number 11 platoon lurched from pub to pub becoming drunker and drunker, before finally ending up in their established local, the Volunteer, on Leith Walk.
Ten happy soldiers stood around the piano sinking pint after pint as they sang, “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag” and repeating every other item in their limited repertoire. Tommy, who was accompanying them on the mouth organ, noticed that Charlie couldn’t take his eyes off Rose the barmaid who, although on the wrong side of thirty, never stopped flirting with the young recruits. Tommy broke away from the group to join his friend at the bar. “Fancy ’er, mate, do you?”
“Yep, but she’s your girl,” said Charlie as he continued to stare at the long-haired blonde who pretended to ignore their attentions. He noticed that she had one button of her blouse more than usual undone.
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Tommy. “In any case, I owe you one for that broken nose.”
Charlie laughed when Tommy added, “So we’ll ’ave to see what I can do about it.” Tommy winked at Rose, then left Charlie to join her at the far end of the bar.
Charlie found that he couldn’t get himself to look at them, although he was still able to see from their reflection in the mirror behind the bar that they were deep in conversation. Rose on a couple of occasions turned to look in his direction. A moment later Tommy was standing by his side.
“It’s all fixed, Charlie,” he said.
“What do you mean, ‘fixed’?”
“Exactly what I said. All you ’ave to do is go out to the shed at the back of the pub where they pile up them empty crates, and Rose should be with you in a jiffy.”
Charlie sat glued to the bar stool.
“Well, get on with it,” said Tommy, “before the bleedin’ woman changes her mind.”
Charlie slipped off his stool and out of a side door without looking back. He only hoped that no one was watching him, as he almost ran down the unlit passage and out of the back door. He stood alone in the corner of the yard feeling more than a little stupid as he stamped up and down to keep warm. A shiver went through him and he began to wish he were back in the bar. A few moments later he shivered again, sneezed and decided the time had come to return to his mates and forget it. He was walking towards the door just as Rose came bustling out.
“’Ello, I’m Rose. Sorry I took so long, but a customer came in just as you darted off.” He stared at her in the poor light that filtered through a tiny window above the door. Yet another button was undone, revealing the top of a black girdle.
“Charlie Trumper,” said Charlie, offering her his hand.
“I know.” She giggled. “Tommy told me all about you, said you were probably the best lay in the platoon.”
“I think ’e might ’ave been exaggeratin’,” said Charlie turning bright red, as Rose reached out with both her hands, taking him in her arms. She kissed him first on his neck, then his face and finally his mouth. She then parted Charlie’s lips expertly before her tongue began to play with his.
To begin with Charlie was not quite sure what was happening, but he liked the sensation so much that he just continued to hold on to her, and after a time even began to press his tongue against hers. It was Rose who was the first to break away.
“Not so hard, Charlie. Relax. Prizes are awarded for endurance, not for strength.”
Charlie began to kiss her again, this time more gently as he felt the corner of a beer crate jab into his buttocks. He tentatively placed a hand on her left breast, and let it remain there, not quite sure what to do next as he tried to make himself slightly
more comfortable. It didn’t seem to matter that much, because Rose knew exactly what was expected of her and quickly undid the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing ample breasts well worthy of her name. She lifted a leg up onto a pile of old beer crates, leaving Charlie faced with an expanse of bare pink thigh. He placed his free hand tentatively on the soft flesh. He wanted to run his fingers up as far as they would go, but he remained motionless, like a frozen frame in a black and white film.
Once again Rose took the lead, and removing her arms from around his neck started to undo the buttons on the front of his trousers. A moment later she slid her hand inside his underpants and started to rub. Charlie couldn’t believe what was happening although he felt it was well worth getting a broken nose for.
Rose began to rub faster and faster and started to pull down her knickers with her free hand. Charlie felt more and more out of control until suddenly Rose stopped, pulled herself away and stared down the front of her dress. “If you’re the best lay the platoon has to offer, I can only hope the Germans win this bloody war.”
The following morning battalion orders were posted on the board in the duty officers’ mess. The new battalion of Fusiliers was now considered to be of fighting strength and were expected to join the Allies on the Western Front. Charlie wondered if the comradeship that had bound such a disparate bunch of lads together during the past three months was quite enough to make them capable of joining combat with the elite of the German army.
On the train journey back south they were cheered once again as they passed through every station, and this time Charlie felt they were more worthy of the hatted ladies’ respect. Finally that evening the engine pulled into Maidstone, where they disembarked, and were put up for the night at the local barracks of the Royal West Kents.
At zero six hundred hours the following morning Captain Trentham gave them a full briefing: they were to be transported by ship to Boulogne, they learned, and after ten days’ further training they would be expected to march on to Étaples, where they would join their regiment under the command of Lieutentant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, DSO, who, they were assured, was preparing for a massive assault on the German defenses. They spent the rest of the morning checking over their equipment before being herded up a gangplank and onto the waiting troop carrier.
As the Crow Flies Page 5