The Moon Field

by Judith Allnatt

  There was a tap at the door and Rooke opened it a little way and put his head round it. ‘Breakfast’s started,’ he said.

  Turland woke, stretched, and scratched his head. ‘Righto, I’ll be down in a minute.’ He glanced over at George and then added, ‘Here, Percy, see if you can put your filching skills to use and get something for Farrell, will you?’

  Rooke nodded and withdrew.

  George said, ‘Thanks for giving me the bed – very much appreciated.’ He slowly swung his legs down, using their weight to lever himself into a sitting position, and then braced himself by leaning on his hands, pressing his palms down on the edge of the mattress and straightening his arms to release some of the pressure on his bruised ribs.

  ‘No trouble. Everyone was in bed so we smuggled you in without a hitch. The bike’s down behind the basement railings.’ Turland pulled on his clothes and sat down again to tie up his shoes. ‘If you want to use the lav you should be all right while everyone’s at breakfast. There’s only Mr Anstey on this floor and he always goes fishing on a Saturday so he’ll be out by now.’ He chucked George a towel and hurried off to breakfast.

  George crept along the landing to the bathroom where he splashed his hair and face with water and then stripped, washed and towelled himself down briskly. He rinsed the foul taste from his mouth, dressed and tried to make himself look respectable once more. He rubbed at the grubby knees of his trousers with a dampened corner of the towel and disposed of his soiled handkerchief in the bin marked ‘Laundry’.

  When he slipped back to the room, Turland and Rooke were standing back to back comparing their height.

  ‘Turland reckons he’s five foot five. How much smaller am I?’ Rooke asked.

  George obliged by putting his hand flat on Rooke’s smooth, well-oiled head. He marked where Rooke came up to with the side of his hand against Turland’s head. ‘Well, you’re about half a head shorter.’

  Turland said, ‘Come on, Percy, you have to make five foot three to get in.’

  Rooke pulled himself up to stand even straighter.

  ‘You’re still about three inches shorter,’ George said uncertainly.

  Rooke’s shoulders sagged. Turland turned round and gave him a friendly punch on the arm. ‘Buck up, Rooke. Everyone knows our lads are desperate for reinforcements. I bet they’ll take you on, even at bantamweight.’

  Rooke looked pleased and straightened his tie and collar.

  Turland turned to George, and eyed his height and broad shoulders. ‘How about it, Farrell? Fancy changing your mind and coming along to make up the numbers? They’d snap you up, you know.’

  There was a silence. George felt pleased that Turland thought so well of him and that the lads wanted him to come along as one of them. He’d always been outside the gangs at school, just him and Kitty muddling through, never feeling part of a group, never really belonging. Not like this: friends, comrades, brothers in arms. He thought about the extra pay he’d get, a shilling a day, and how it would help him make things right at home. He thought about casting off the self that he saw as grimy, weak, despicable, and replacing it with the aspiration of glory and honour and being a man. It would be like diving into a clear lake and emerging a new person: fitter, stronger. He imagined them all returning together, victorious: bronzed and battle-hardened men. Perhaps he would be able to do something half decent so that he could hold his head high in front of Violet again. His heart beat a little faster and his spirits lifted.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right, I will.’

  Turland nodded sagely, affecting a gravitas suitable to the occasion.

  Rooke said, ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ and brought out from his jacket pocket a square package wrapped in a rather greasy-looking napkin. George opened it to find a round of toast with a thin piece of bacon pressed between the slices.

  ‘Iron rations,’ Rooke said. ‘Eat up, soldier.’

  They met up with Haycock and set off for the castle where recruitment was taking place. As they approached the centre of the town, they could hear the sound of a silver band in the next street. Haycock said, ‘Eh up? What’s this all about?’ and they wandered over to the Botchergate to find out. The street, always busy with shoppers, was thronging with people who had been drawn by the music, a martial tune with a solid drumbeat and a brash melody in a major key. George craned his neck to try to see above the spread of caps and hats but the crowd was four or five deep on the pavement and he was too far back. Rooke disappeared into the press, ducking under a man’s arm, and George followed suit, slipping through behind a nursemaid who was trying to manoeuvre a baby carriage.

  He reached the others at the front and saw, coming towards them, a military band in navy dress uniform, striped with red ribbon: trumpets and trombones in front, polished to a glaring brightness in the morning sun, a euphonium and the huge bass drum behind. The drummer beat the taut skin with gusto and the sound reverberated as if caught between the high buildings. The rhythm was underwritten by the sound of the marching feet of the soldiers who followed on behind, carrying placards that read: ‘Will You Answer the Call? Now Is the Time’ and ‘Take up the Sword of Justice. Enlist Today!’ A wave of cheering from the crowd followed their progress. Behind the soldiers followed a mass of ordinary men in civilian dress, looking a rag-tag group in comparison with the orderly men in khaki. Some were laughing, some waving at friends in the crowd, while others made self-conscious efforts to fall into step with the marching soldiers. Every now and then, a man or two would break from the crush on the pavement and step out to join the procession and the volume of the cheering would rise as if to carry him forward on a swell of sound.

  The band drew level with George and the others. A group of young women applauded but the sound mingled with the music, drowned out as the people all around took up the cheer. Turland plucked at George’s sleeve. Haycock was watching with a broad grin on his face. Rooke took off his cap, smoothed down his hair and put his cap back on again. ‘This is it, then,’ Turland mouthed at George over the ear-splitting noise. The band passed and the rows of marching soldiers followed, four abreast. ‘Ready?’ said Turland.

  George pulled at the bottom of his jacket to straighten it. As the volunteers came level with them they all stepped forward. The cheering seemed to George to echo around him. As he came forward out of the shadow of the buildings, he was intensely aware of the heat of the sun on his head and the clear blue of the strip of sky above him. Everything was shining: the glittering instruments; the plate-glass windows of the shops with their fancy goods; the boots and belts of the soldiers they were to follow. They fell into line amongst the men; someone clapped him on the back, others moved to make space for the four of them to march together. They passed on into Lowther Street. The tram wires above them seemed to vibrate with the sound of the band, men raised their hats from the steps of the Royal Temperance Hotel and everywhere people stopped what they were doing to listen to the music. A group of young women, gathered at the upstairs window of a tearoom, leant out and waved and Haycock waved back. One of them took a flower from the vase on the table and tossed it down to him and Haycock caught it.

  ‘Who’s that?’ George yelled at him over the din.

  Haycock shrugged and turned round; walking backwards, he held out his arms to the girl and made a great show of tucking the flower into his buttonhole. He pulled a mock-woebegone face and then turned back to march on.

  The band took a sharp left turn in the direction of the main road. A gap in the line of carts and motors opened for them and they joined the road and marched on towards the castle, a queue of traffic quickly forming behind them.

  The castle was a huge medieval pile. Built of red sandstone, everything about it was square: the shape of the gatehouse, the lookout towers and the crenellations along the ramparts. The thickness of the walls was such that it almost seemed to have been hewn from solid rock. As they passed beneath the massive archway that led into a wide parade ground, all four young men
felt a little over-awed; even Haycock’s swagger was less jaunty as he looked about him with curiosity. George thought about the soldiers who had passed through these barracks over centuries, all the feet that had drilled in this enormous, open square and marched out to do battle. He looked up at the corner towers and imagined the sentries posted there, scanning the surrounding countryside for the approach of opposing forces, preparing for a siege and determining to defend the fortress with their very lives. Wasn’t it something to be part of this history!

  The band stopped playing and began to empty out their instruments. The soldiers directed the men towards the recruiting rooms on the other side of the square and the crowd began to disperse towards them. George nudged Turland to indicate to him the queue of men at an open doorway; in unspoken agreement, they all walked around the perimeter of the courtyard to reach it, suddenly shy of crossing the open space on the diagonal and drawing attention to themselves.

  The men in their queue were of varied ages and occupations. Most wore the flat cap of the working man or carried their cap folded. Some had the rough-handed look of the labourer, with worsted jacket and heavy boots, whilst others had stiff collars, neat ties and an air of confidence about them.

  The line of men moved along until they entered the hall. George could see that men were being called forward one by one to a row of desks, and old memories of school and the humiliation of being called in front of Mr Bevinson to explain himself returned for a moment, making him feel nervous. He moved back a little in the group so that Haycock would reach the front first.

  When George’s turn came round, the corporal asked for his full name and occupation, and if he was willing to serve ‘for the duration’. He gave his details and said that he was willing. When he was asked his age, he said, ‘Eighteen years and three months.’

  The corporal looked up sharply and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that. Did you say nineteen?’

  George looked puzzled.

  The corporal asked him, ‘Do you want to join the war?’

  George nodded uncomprehendingly.

  ‘So you need to be able to take up service overseas, should the opportunity arise,’ he said patiently.

  George vaguely remembered the conversation of the previous night in the taproom. ‘Sorry, nineteen and three months,’ he said quickly and the man gave him a weak smile, took down his address, asked him for a signature and then told him to stand in another line to one side. As he left the desk, he heard Rooke step up behind him and declare, as confidently as you like, that he was Percy Rooke, an apprentice baker and that he was born in 1895.

  Rooke came over, wearing a non-committal expression. George knew that he must be delighted to have passed the first hurdle and marvelled at his ability not to show it. Rooke seemed always able to blend into the background; he carefully avoided attracting attention and his knack of adopting a deadpan expression made him less visible than those with more animated faces.

  ‘Why did you say you were a baker?’ George asked wonderingly. Rooke’s capacity for duplicity made him a mystery to George.

  Rooke tapped the side of his nose. ‘Scoffum,’ he said. ‘If I can get taken on in the cookhouse I’ll always have plenty of grub.’

  George wished that he had thought of that and wondered whether admitting to being a postman had been a good idea. Perhaps he would be asked to take messages. He didn’t quite like the idea of scouting around alone along the front line; he hoped he could stay with all the others.

  When they reached the front of the second queue, Haycock again went in before George. He emerged a few minutes later, straightening his jacket, and gave George a broad wink. Before George had time to ask him what had happened, the sergeant, a dapper man with a neat moustache, ushered him in. He closed the door behind him, saying, ‘Take your clothes off and step on to the scales, please.’ A doctor in a white coat was finishing making some notes on a form. George stripped. It was cold in the room. He placed his clothes in a little pile on top of his boots, as there seemed to be nowhere else to put them, and stood with his hands folded over his private parts. As he stood on the scales, he glanced down at his pale body and saw, to his consternation, that a huge area of dark bruising had come out on his left side. The sergeant raised his eyebrows but said nothing, simply noting his weight, and then quickly taking his height and chest measurements.

  The doctor came over to examine him. ‘Well-built lad,’ he said over his shoulder to the sergeant and then asked the question that George had been dreading. ‘How did you get this bruising?’

  George didn’t know what to say. He could hardly say that he had been set upon and robbed. He felt his cheeks stinging as he thought of his humiliation, how he hadn’t even fielded a blow, much less aimed one in return. ‘It was an accident, sir,’ he blurted out.

  The doctor looked at him keenly, clearly recognising a lie.

  George heard the sergeant mutter, ‘Fighting, more likely. These young men have no self-discipline.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ the doctor said mildly. ‘The recklessness of youth, though a nuisance in peacetime, can have its uses in wartime. Let the army sort him out.’ George, still smarting from being misrepresented as a roughneck, murmured a ‘Thank you, sir.’

  The doctor told George to get dressed and then asked him to read some letters on a white board. George could read all bar the very last row. The doctor wrote something down on his form before asking George to show him his teeth; like a horse, George thought; then, more alarmingly: ‘I wonder if they can tell your age from your teeth?’ However, the form was duly signed and George was told that he could go. He left, feeling that the strict eye of the sergeant was still on him.

  When Rooke and Turland had been through the same process, the four gathered once more.

  ‘I’m in,’ Rooke said, rubbing his sides. ‘I thought my ribs would bust, I took such a breath when my chest got measured.’

  When a few others had joined them, they were taken into a room to swear the oath.

  The adjutant who swore them in struck George as very fine. He had a strong physique and an upright bearing and his hair was cut very short and neat. His jacket was tightly fitted, and belt, boots and buttons were all polished to a high gloss. George was acutely conscious of the rip in his jacket pocket and the smear of soil on his rounded collar and longed to get out of his dirty clothes and become a proper soldier.

  They stood in a row before the adjutant. He let his hand rest on a large, black Bible and stood to attention. He asked them to raise their right hand and swear to serve their King and country.

  The room was very quiet afterwards. The officer let the silence linger to bring home to them the solemnity of the occasion and his eyes fell on each of them in turn, as if weighing up their character. George dared not glance around him but felt that every one of the group must feel as serious as he did. Then the adjutant relaxed his face and wished them luck. He gave them all a shilling and said that this was one day’s pay and meant that they were now deemed to be soldiers and subject to the King’s regulations. Rooke put his quickly in his pocket, as though afraid someone might realise they’d paid him three times his usual wage and take it away again. George thought that he would like to keep his as a kind of talisman but then remembered that he needed to give it to Mother.

  The adjutant told them to come back on Monday morning and not to wait for their mobilisation papers because the paperwork wasn’t keeping up with the huge influx of recruits. ‘There’s a great need for men, and training must commence as soon as possible,’ he said. ‘We’ll be sending the next draft to camp on Monday so report here by eight thirty.’

  They were ushered into a further room to be measured for their uniforms. Here, both men and women were working at sewing machines, treadles clattering as they sewed. Rolls of cloth stood on end, some neatly in line, some leaning at angles against the wall like a parade of tipsy soldiers. More bolts of cloth that looked like tent canvas were piled haphazardly together in a he
ap on the floor. George wished that he hadn’t had the thought that they were like soldiers.

  One of the men got up from his machine. He had a tape measure draped around his neck. He took each man’s name and measurements and wrote them down; then he disappeared into a storeroom and returned with a pile of uniforms in a blue cloth and began to distribute them.

  ‘They’re the wrong colour,’ Rooke said under his breath.

  ‘What happened to the khaki?’ Haycock said with disappointment in his voice.

  The machinist said, ‘There are too many recruits; we can’t get the supplies so we’re forced to requisition from the post office.’

  ‘Might as well stay as you are then, Farrell,’ Turland said cheerily.

  George was relieved to be given trousers and a jacket, bundled together. Turland and Haycock only had trousers. He slipped the jacket on. It was a bit bigger than his post-office uniform and less tight across the back but the arms were a little short. He turned to find Rooke trying his and stifled his own complaint. Rooke was drowned in his jacket: the shoulders stood out well beyond his actual shoulders and the sleeves were inches too long.

  The machinist tutted. ‘That’s the smallest we’ve got, I’m afraid, lad,’ he said to Rooke. ‘Get your mother to turn up the sleeves or they’ll be getting in your way.’ A woman whose needle had broken called him over and he went to attend to her machine.

  Haycock said, ‘Well, it fits where it touches,’ and laughed.