The First Snow of Winter

by Fred Allen

  The pub was filled with Canadian soldiers from units in the brigade but Peter wasn’t looking for companionship, he was looking for the merciful oblivion that would be produced by booze. Fortunately, the publican had received his monthly quota of spirits that day and, after setting aside several bottles for his regular customers, he set about trying to satisfy the thirst of these wild Canadians. Knowing that the spirits would not last long Peter ordered four double Scotch whiskies and sat down in the lone empty chair at a long table. The Scotch vanished quickly and he returned to the bar to find that the Scotch was off but there was still rum and gin. He ordered four double white rums and returned to his seat. As he drank the rum quickly a friend from the brigade signals troop joined him and expressed his surprise that Peter was obviously tying one on. He couldn’t recall ever having seen Peter on the town before. Peter had always been so serious and quiet and had only joined the boys on these pub nights on rare occasions. Obviously, something was up and as Peter worked through the four double rums and, then, four double gins, the story started to come out. Peter had received a “Dear John” letter and it was just tearing him apart. Connie was described with every epithet he knew and as he spoke loudly for anyone who was within earshot to hear, the tears started flowing again. He was aware that someone else had joined the group at the table inquiring what the problem was. When told that Peter had received a “Dear John”, the newcomer responded with peals of laughter. “For God’s sake Corporal” the voice was saying. “There’s no bitch in the entire world that is worth this. I’ve got a little story for you” and he recited the story about the little dog that was hit in the ass by a truck and lost a piece of his tail. The dog turned around charged the truck and had his head knocked off. The moral of the story is, Boyo, never lose your head over a piece of tail.”

  Suddenly all of Peter’s feelings turned to anger. In the dark smoky pub he could make out only the blurry outline of his tormenter. He swung mightily and his fist made a satisfying contact with the side of the person’s head. The fight was on! Before the publican could get out from behind the bar, both combatants had been down twice and they were surrounded by excited soldiers. The sounds of tables and chairs collapsing under falling bodies joined the chorus of shouts of encouragement and the sound of breaking glasses. Helped by some of his regulars, the publican managed to move the combatants through the back door of the pub onto what had been a garden patio. The crowd followed, and Peter was vaguely aware of cries in support of someone named Sharkey but the true significance of this name was lost in the combined haze of anger and alcohol.

  Peter had been involved in very few fights in his life and, certainly, nothing like this. But he was young and very fit and the intensity of his anger against the whole world gave him the strength of two men and all focussed on this shadowy figure in front of him. They continued to fight on the patio for what seemed like an eternity, still surrounded by all the soldiers who pulled them back to their feet each time they went down and then pushing them back into the fray. Then, Peter swung a thunderous right and caught his assailant on the side of his head and he went down as if pole axed. Now Peter realized just how exhausted he was as he watched the figure on the ground pull himself to his knees and, unbelievably, reaching out his hand to Peter. “You’re a hell of a good man, Corporal” came his raspy voice.

  Then, as Peter took the proffered hand, the other hand swung with both great force and deadly accuracy and caught him right in the balls. Faintly, through the pain, he heard the raspy voice again “What in the good Christ did you expect, Corporal, Marquis of Queensbury Rules?” Then he heard a number of voices calling MPs. MPs, Meatheads and there was the beam of a flashlight in his eyes.

  They kept him in one of the battalion guardrooms overnight. As morning approached, Peter was suffering from the combining of scotch whiskey, white rum and gin plus the bruises, scrapes and complaints of abused muscles. He was transported back to brigade headquarters where he was received by a thoroughly unsympathetic Sergeant Major and, of course, the Brigade Major. He was informed that he would be up for office before the Camp Commandant later that morning and warned that the brigade commander had only recently advised all battalion commanders to clamp down on hooliganism, particularly on public premises. “And that includes you, young man,” said the Sergeant Major.

  At the appointed time Peter, hatless and beltless, was marched in with his escorts and stood in front of the Camp Commandant. The charges were read as the old major examined his records with particular reference to his conduct sheet.

  “What in God’s name happened to you?” the Camp Commandant asked. “Just look at this record of service!” He held up Peter’s conduct sheet on which there were only a few entries noting periods of crime free service. “A perfectly clean sheet. Nothing but commendations on your work here at headquarters and a strong recommendation from the Brigade Commander himself that you be accepted for officer training. Just one booze-up and you throw all of this away!” The old major sat back and looked at Peter. “Well what have you got to say for yourself? Who were you fighting, or, more important, why were you fighting?”

  “I don’t know, Sir,” Peter replied, and this brought an explosive response from the Camp Commandant.

  “Don’t try to bullshit an old soldier, son. Just look at you! You look as if you had fallen into a cage full of hungry tigers! And now you tell me that you don’t know who you were fighting and why you were fighting?”

  Peter stood silently. His answer had been partially true. He really didn’t know whom he had been fighting except that he must have been one tough son-of-a-bitch. Both of his hands ached from landing numerous blows on a very hard head. He vaguely recalled hearing voices from the crowd shouting “Sharkey” many times and he assumed that it had something to do with his opponent. As for the other part of the question as to why he was fighting, Peter regarded that as purely personal and was not prepared to reveal his broken heart even to the kindly old major.

  “Nothing to offer, eh? I suppose you inflicted all that damage on yourself? And the pub owner reports damages to the premises of nearly one hundred pounds. I know the pub and it must have been one hell of a fight to have done all that damage. There is absolutely no way you could have done all that damage shadow boxing. Just look at that black eye, probably a broken nose and split lip that will need stitches. Was your shadow hitting back? You don’t know who? You don’t know why? That’s not good enough, Corporal!”

  Peter continued to stand silently, there was really nothing he wanted to say. His life had hit rock bottom. His heart was broken, his body ached in parts that he hadn’t really known he had, his head was throbbing as a reminder of his very unwise mixing of drinks, he could barely see through his badly swollen right eye, and his private parts had still not recovered from the excruciating pain of that fight-ending punch to his balls. Peter just didn’t care. All he wanted was for the old major to get on with it. Punish him now because there was nothing he could do that would add to Peter’s pain.

  “Well Corporal, you’re not helping me very much and you’re not helping yourself. All commanding officers have been directed to deal severely with public brawling and inflicting damage on public premises, and I have no choice but to follow these directions. Leniency is not an option even if I wanted to go light on you as a first offender which I don’t. You are an NCO and must be responsible for you actions. You are a confirmed Corporal and you have certain rights under the regulations. Have these been explained to you?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Peter with a vague recollection of the words muttered by the Sergeant Major just before he had been marched in.

  “Do you accept my punishment?” the major asked.

  “Yes sir,” Peter answered immediately.

  “Well, my sentence is that you be reduced to the rank of private, confined to barracks for fourteen days and you will be placed on restricted pay until the full amount of damag
es has been recovered. Your employment with this headquarters will be terminated and you will be returned to your battalion. Finally, your application for officer training has been withdrawn! That’s all, march him out Sergeant Major!”

  Peter packed his gear, and when he went to the Brigade Operations Room to pick up a few personal items he was exposed to the angry glare of the Brigade Major. In response to his name being called, Peter saluted and stood at attention.

  “Marshall, you are one stupid son of a bitch,” said the Major in anger at having lost the best wireless operator in the headquarters and the failure of his protégé to meet his expectations. Then the Major relented a bit and added “I just can’t understand why this happened but I’m sure you had your own good reasons.” With that he shook Peter’s hand and wished him the best of luck.

  Peter was transported back to his battalion and, on arrival, found that he had been posted to Support Company where Recce Platoon needed a wireless operator. When he reported to Support Company he was directed to the Recce Platoon and told to report to the platoon sergeant. He was greeted by the Platoon Commander who told him that he would be the platoon wireless operator and that the platoon sergeant would show him his vehicle and where he would bunk. At that point Peter heard a vaguely familiar voice behind him and turned to face Sgt Patrick Shawkey known as merely Sharkey throughout the battalion. Peter recognized Sharkey immediately as the smartly dressed sergeant at the recruiting center who had ensured he had little time to change his mind when he joined the line outside the recruiting office. He also recognized the name “Sharkey” that he had heard so often during last night’s fight. Final evidence was apparent on Sharkey’s face which looked as if it had been through a meat grinder. It was not without a little satisfaction that Peter saw the extent of the damage that he had imposed on the tall, angular sergeant.

  “Well, Boyo, let’s get you settled. Come along with me.” Outside the platoon headquarters Sharkey stopped and carefully examined Peter. “My God Boyo, you came out of it better than I did. That was the best God damned scrap I’ve had in years. Too bad about the stripes but don’t worry, it happens in the best of families. I’ve been stripped so often that I’m thinking of having zippers installed.”

  “What you need Marshall is a little lecture on the essential facts of life. So you got a “Dear John”. Join the club. Happens all the time and, as I told you last night, never lose your head over a piece of tail!” Sharkey must have sensed that Peter had clenched his fists because he warned him. “Careful now, Boyo, a punchup in the back yard of a pub is not the same as striking a superior officer-and that’s me-in clear view in unit lines. That gets you a term in the Glass House. Sure, you’re a tough young bastard but I think you’re too smart for that. Believe me, I’ve been there! But if you just think that you want another piece of me you’ll have lots of chances. But for now you’re a soldier in my platoon and, while the platoon commander has the rank, I’m the boss and you’ll bust your ass to make sure that this platoon is the best in the battalion!”

  He then showed Peter to his vehicle and showed him where all of his signals equipment was stored. From there he was escorted to his bunk in a Quonset hut where he found that a quarter of the hut was his. A corporal had another quarter of the hut and he discovered that the remaining half was Sharkey’s domain..

  Chapter VII

  PETER AND SHARKEY

  Peter soon became aware that everyone in the battalion knew about the fight at the pub, and suddenly, the quiet, scholarly, wireless operator from brigade headquarters, was being talked about with near reverence. He had taken on the redoubtable Sharkey and not only held his own but may have even won the fight had it not been for a last gasp, and slightly questionable, punch to the privates by Sharkey. It appeared that the only person in the brigade who hadn’t known his opponent to be Sharkey was the poor, kindly, old Camp Commandant who had asked Peter to identify his fellow combatant that morning.

  The fact that Peter had refused to reveal this information added further to Peter’s reputation as an honorable man who took his punishment but would not squeal

  Peter also discovered, from the corporal who occupied the other quarter of the hut, that his assignment to the recce platoon had been arranged by Sharkey who had created the vacancy by persuading the incumbent that a transfer to another company would be beneficial to both his career and his physical well being.

  Peter found that he was being recognized and greeted cordially by men that he had never known before. Descriptions of the fight had spread like wildfire throughout the battalion with all the usual exaggerations that are contributed in such word of mouth descriptions, changing a mild scuffle into an epic battle. Not that this battle needed much exaggeration. It had everything a good story could offer. The unknown wireless operator from brigade had hung a whipping on Sharkey who was recognized as the toughest man in the battalion. Peter was famous but, at least in his opinion, for all the wrong reasons.

  Peter also became acquainted with the legendary accounts of many of the activities of Sharkey the battalion icon. Undoubtedly, some of these were subjected to a measure of exaggeration but there was sufficient truth in them to secure his reputation as the most colorful figure not only in the battalion but throughout the division. His reputation had been further enhanced when he had been awarded the British Empire Medal for saving a mother and her two children from a burning house during an air raid on London. So now it was Sergeant Patrick O’Brien Shawkey, DCM, MM and Bar, BEM, three Mentions-in-Dispatches, and the permanent Senior NCO on any honor guard for visiting dignitaries. The policy of all commanding officers was that if you have decorations, flaunt them.

  Peter went about his duties as his body healed. It turned out that his nose had not been broken just badly bruised. His lip had been stitched up by the Medical Officer, but no one could do anything to soothe the ache in his heart.

  He soon recognized that while the platoon commander, a very young lieutenant, had the rank, Sharkey ran the platoon and ran it very well. The general attitude of members of the platoon towards Sharkey was an interesting combination of respect and fear. Sharkey had earned their respect for the way he ran the platoon efficiently, effectively and without favoritism. There was really nothing that Sharkey would ask of platoon members that he would not do himself, and in all the special skills that were expected of a recce platoon, Sharkey took pains to maintain his own efficiency. There were few platoon individual skills that Sharkey could not do as well as any other member of the platoon, if not better.

  Sharkey’s appearance was always immaculate much as Peter remembered him on that day outside the recruiting office, and Sharkey demanded the same standard from all members of the platoon. The only time that Sharkey’s appearance would vary was on some nights around payday when Sharkey would organize what he called a night patrol which he always described as “Training Activities” as required of a recce platoon.

  The objectives of these patrols were all the local drinking establishments and to check on trespassers from units outside the brigade who had the temerity to enter Sharkey’s arbitrarily proscribed turf to share the limited supply of beer and spirits. But guarded with even greater zeal were members of the fair sex who were regarded as the exclusive property of the men of the brigade.

  It would be reasonable to expect that a man of Sharkey’s talents would be speedily recognized for promotion and added responsibilities. He appeared to have all the qualities looked for in a Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) or, at least, a Company Sergeant Major (CSM). But Sharkey was really not interested in promotion and just shrugged off the occasional questions about his night patrols, drinking and the manner in which he freely sampled the favors of local ladies without regard to marital status.

  Sharkey had been on one of his night patrols when he encountered the broken hearted Peter the night Peter had received his “Dear John”. Sharkey told him later that he had first th
ought Peter was a trespasser but when advised he was from brigade headquarters Sharkey took umbrage at the sight of one of his soldiers crying, especially an NCO. And all because of a woman. His only intention had been to give the young corporal the benefits of his philosophy on women of the world. In offering the moral of his story about the dog who lost his head, never for even a moment had Sharkey expected such a spirited response. Sharkey, of course, responded. It had been a rather dull evening and he welcomed the challenge. Sharkey’s reputation usually preceded him and he was rarely challenged. The young corporal had fought like a tiger and it had only been that final desperate punch to the testicles that had saved Sharkey from possible defeat.

  There were many opportunities to discuss their epic battle over the next year. Shared dangerous activities become the very essence of camaraderie. Sharkey told him how he had arranged for his posting to Support Company and the Recce Platoon through a drinking buddy who was the CSM who had paraded Peter in front of the Camp Commandant at Brigade Headquarters. He was always on the lookout for men with balls and he knew Peter met that criteria although his balls were probably very sore the morning after their fight. He also told Peter that he would have confessed and shared the punishment, but he had been stripped a couple of months earlier-actually he had accepted a reduction in rank voluntarily to avoid court martial-and his present rank was only “Acting” and, as such, he was more vulnerable to such charges. Sharkey needed another month of undetected crime until he could be confirmed in rank.