William At War

by Richmal Crompton

  WILLIAM MEANT ROBERT TO BE A HERO, THEREFORE ROBERT MUST BE A HERO.

  It was only after a whole day’s continuous stalking that William managed to secure his prey. He came upon Lieutenant Orford walking back alone from the village. Rather apprehensively – for, after all, this was the man who murdered friends and enemies alike by thousands in cold blood, and as it was a lonely stretch of road, William sidled up to him.

  ‘I say,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘why don’t you run away?’

  Lieutenant Orford stared at him in surprise.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ he said.

  ‘There’s no one about,’ said William. ‘I bet you could run away all right.’

  Lieutenant Orford waved him impatiently aside and strode on down the road without answering.

  William gazed after him regretfully. That hadn’t been any good. Evidently he didn’t want to run away. Scared of being shot, probably . . . He must try to think of some more cunning plan . . . Suddenly he thought of one. He ran to catch up the swiftly moving figure.

  ‘I say!’ he panted. ‘Hubert’s cousin sent a message for you.’

  The swiftly striding figure stopped. ‘Why on earth couldn’t you have said that before?’ he snapped.

  ‘Were you expecting a message?’ said William cunningly.

  ‘’Course I was,’ snapped Lieutenant Orford. ‘He said that if he’d started before I got back he’d leave a message where he’d gone to.’

  ‘Oh,’ said William. ‘Well, he’s started. He’s gone to’ – he summoned all his inventive powers – ‘he’s gone to Poppleham. D’you know where that is?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said Lieutenant Orford.

  ‘Well, he told me to take you to it if you didn’t know it,’ said William. ‘I don’t s’pose you know England very well, do you?’

  Lieutenant Orford ignored this remark and they walked on in silence for some moments. Then William said casually:

  ‘I expect you liked it in Germany, di’n’t you?’

  ‘Liked what?’ said Lieutenant Orford shortly.

  ‘Well, you know, liked it,’ said William vaguely, and added after a short pause: ‘What d’you think of Hess?’

  ‘I don’t think about him at all,’ said Lieutenant Orford.

  Again conversation flagged. William led his companion over a stile and across a field, breaking the silence finally with: ‘I expect they’re wonderin’ what’s happened to you over there.’

  ‘Who?’ snapped Lieutenant Orford, ‘and over where?’

  William sighed. The illustrious captive was evidently determined not to give himself away. Probably he’d made a ‘cross my throat’ promise not to.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you don’t want people to know about it.’

  ‘Where is this Poppleham place?’ said Lieutenant Orford irritably.

  He was tired of trailing over the countryside with a half-witted child.

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said William.

  They had reached the old barn now and the next thing was to lure his captive into it.

  ‘I say!’ he said, pausing at the open door and peering into the dark corner. ‘There’s somethin’ funny in that corner, isn’t there?’

  Lieutenant Orford was not devoid of curiosity. He stepped into the barn. William pushed the door to and shot home the bolt.

  Robert, seated comfortably in a deck-chair in the garden, looked up at William with a mixture of helplessness and elder-brother severity.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Well, I keep tellin’ you,’ persisted William. ‘This man came down in a parachute an’ he was dressed like a British officer an’ he asked me in German where Rudolph Hess was an’—’

  ‘You don’t know any German,’ objected Robert.

  ‘No, but he translated it into broken English for me an’ I got him to the ole barn an’ locked him in. He looked to me sort of as if he might be Hitler, an’ I thought it’d be nice for you to take him prisoner.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Robert. ‘He couldn’t possibly be Hitler.’

  ‘All right,’ shrugged William, ‘but he’d got a face like Hitler’s an’ he came down by a parachute in a British uniform an’ started talkin’ German.’

  ‘Was it a khaki uniform?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where’s the parachute?’

  ‘Dunno. Think he must have hid it.’

  ‘It’s a ridiculous story,’ said Robert again, pretending to return to his book.

  It sounded ridiculous, of course, but Robert wasn’t quite happy about it. Ridiculous things of that sort had happened all over Europe and might happen in England any day, impossible as it still seemed. Suppose there were something in the kid’s tale, after all . . . It wouldn’t do any harm to verify it. He stood up and closed his book.

  ‘I happen to be going in that direction,’ he said loftily. ‘You can come along if you like.’

  Lieutenant Orford had spent a very uncomfortable quarter of an hour trying to escape from the old barn. It had no windows and, though the door was old, it held firmly. He had kicked and shouted, but no one had heard him. His anger against the half-witted child, who had locked him in had risen to boiling point when suddenly the door opened, revealing the half-witted child in company with a young man. Without stopping to consider, Lieutenant Orford leapt forward to execute vengeance. Robert, for his part, had taken for granted that the whole story was one of William’s fantastic inventions. When therefore a figure in khaki, with what in the semi-darkness looked like the face of the German Führer in one of his brain-storms, hurled itself upon them, he lost no time in closing with it. They fought fiercely and silently. Though they were fairly well matched, Robert seemed to be getting the best of it.

  ‘Hold on, Robert!’ shouted William. ‘I’ll go and get a rope.’

  It had occurred to him suddenly that it would be a fine score over Hubert if Robert could lead his prisoner past the Lanes’ house at the end of a rope . . .

  William sat in the wheelbarrow, munching an apple and gazing morosely at the next-door cat, who sat on the fence that divided the gardens, gazing morosely back at William. The adventure had ignominiously petered out to nothing. To worse than nothing . . . for Robert, from being super-hero, had become again the old Robert, unheroic but with a swift sure hand for avenging insults and injuries, and he had considered that the events of the afternoon constituted both . . .

  ‘HOLD ON, ROBERT!’ SHOUTED WILLIAM. ‘I’LL GO AND GET A ROPE.’

  It had taken William some time to secure a rope and when he returned to the old barn he had found it empty. He had scoured the countryside for traces of either Robert or his captive, and had then returned home to find the two of them in amicable converse in the morning-room. The visitor had a black eye and Robert a swollen nose. Robert fell upon William without ceremony and it was the visitor who finally rescued him.

  ‘Let the kid off now,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a bad joke and I thoroughly enjoyed the scrap. It’s years since I had a really good one. You’re pretty useful with your left, you know.’

  ‘My defence is too slow,’ said Robert modestly. ‘You were too quick for me. But it was a jolly good scrap.’

  It turned out that Robert and Lieutenant Orford had taken to each other. Lieutenant Orford was bored to death with Hubert’s cousin and the Lanes. He and Robert were fixing up various dates for the remainder of their leave. They wouldn’t even listen to William when he tried to explain what had happened.

  ‘Get out!’ ordered Robert threateningly.

  And William got out.

  He munched his apple, continuing to stare morosely at the next-door cat. The next-door cat had, as he knew, troubles of its own. From a diet of sardines, chicken and cream, it had gradually been relegated to skim milk and a nauseous bran-like mixture sold under the misleading name of Cat Food. Meeting William’s eye, it opened its mouth in
a raven-like croak of disgust.

  ‘Huh!’ said William through a mouthful of apple. ‘It’s all right for you. You’ve not had your leg pulled by Hubert Lane.’

  The cat eyed him sardonically and repeated its raven-like croak.

  ‘An’ been half killed on top of it,’ continued William. ‘Gosh! I’m sorry for those Germans when Robert gets at ’em.’

  He aimed his apple core at the cat. It missed it by several feet.

  ‘Can’t even hit a cat,’ he continued dejectedly.

  The cat uttered what sounded like a sardonic chuckle.

  William sank back again into the wheelbarrow and took another apple out of his pocket.

  ‘You’re right,’ he agreed as he bit into it. ‘It’s a rotten war.’

  CHAPTER 8

  WILLIAM AND THE MOCK INVASION

  GENERAL Moult, wearing his Home Guard uniform, surveyed the small group of children whom he had summoned from the village and who were sitting on the floor and window-seat of his study.

  General Moult had first seen service in the South African war, and his study was a South African museum in miniature. Native weapons, interspersed with mounted horns of various types of antelope, covered the walls. A small chair was upholstered with a lion skin. An elephant’s foot formed a waste-paper basket. A hoof of the General’s favourite charger had been converted into an ink pot. A highly polished shell of ancient pattern did service as a letter weight. An enlarged photograph of a group of officers – showing the General, youthful, gallant-looking and generously moustached – was ingeniously framed in elephants’ tusks. An enormous ostrich egg in a leather case with open doors stood on a book-case filled with books that dealt exclusively with the history, politics, flora and fauna of South Africa.

  For the first two years of the present war the General, despite his Home Guard duties, had continued to regard it as an insignificant skirmish, but the forthcoming ‘mock invasion’ seemed to have jerked him out of his rut. He had become so active and energetic and enthusiastic as to be almost an embarrassment to his fellow officers.

  ‘We must leave nothing to chance,’ he said, twirling his white moustache belligerently. ‘I remember in the battle of Spion Kop . . .’

  And now, on the eve of the ‘invasion’, he had gathered together the junior inhabitants of the village – between the ages of ten and thirteen – and was giving them what he called their ‘orders for the day’.

  Their eyes roamed round the trophies, growing wider and wider, resting finally, at their widest, on the ostrich egg.

  ‘You children,’ the General was saying, ‘are, of course, too young to join the Home Guard cadets, but that does not mean that you can do nothing to help in this invasion exercise. No child is too young to help his country. You must all try to do something to harass the enemy and assist the defending forces. Now I can’t tell you what to do. Only circumstances can do that. But you must all try to take some active part in it, as far as you can. The enemy will be represented by regular soldiers, and the Home Guard, of course, will be the defenders. We’ll have another meeting when it’s all over, and I will ask each of you what you have done to help the defending force or hinder the enemy. I have decided to give the ostrich egg you see on the book-case as a prize to the child who has done most.’

  Again their gaze turned to the ostrich egg, and they stared at it, open mouthed, hardly able to believe that they had heard aright. The ostrich egg! The ostrich egg! It seemed impossible that one of them should actually possess the treasure.

  ‘Bet I get it,’ muttered Hubert Lane.

  They were unusually silent as they walked home. Each was living in a dream in which they captured paratroops, encircled whole divisions . . . won the ostrich egg . . .

  ‘Bet I get it,’ muttered Hubert Lane, again. ‘Bet you anythin’ I get it. I’m jolly good at tricks.’

  ‘Bet you don’t,’ said William. ‘I can do a few tricks myself.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted Hubert.

  ‘Huh!’ retorted William.

  The next day, Sunday, was the day of the ‘mock invasion’. Members of the Home Guard manned machine-guns in the ditches, and soldiers crept behind hedges with rifles in their hands . . . William, filled with enthusiasm, tried to trip up a soldier and was soundly cuffed for his pains. He took part of his own dinner to a Home Guard manning a machine-gun near his home, only to have it thrown into the ditch with a ‘I know that trick. Read about it in the papers. You’ll say I’ve been poisoned . . .’

  The day wore on and William became more and more depressed. No one seemed to want his help. He even tried to ‘immobilise’ a soldier’s bicycle by means of a pin but was caught, pin in hand, by the owner, from whose vengeance he narrowly escaped, as it seemed to him, with his life. He offered to help a Home Guard with his machine-gun but was told to go to blazes. To make things worse he met Hubert Lane, smiling smugly, at the corner of the road.

  WILLIAM RAN INTO HUBERT LANE AT THE CORNER OF THE ROAD.

  ‘Gen’ral Moult sent round to ask me for some maps of the district,’ said Hubert. ‘My father’s got ten and I sent ’em all. I bet I get that egg.’

  William walked gloomily homeward . . . but at his gate he ran into a young man, who said breathlessly:

  ‘General Moult’s sent me to get any maps of the district you have. Hurry up. He wants them at once.’

  William brightened. Robert was an enthusiastic motorcyclist and had a large collection of maps . . . He ran upstairs to Robert’s bedroom and opened the top drawer of his bureau . . . Yes, there it was – a long flat cardboard box with ‘Motoring Maps’ written on the outside. He had often seen Robert taking maps from it or putting them back. William had been forbidden to touch it, but even Robert surely would want General Moult to have it in this crisis. He put it under his arm and ran down to the young man, who was still waiting by the gate.

  ‘Here they are!’ he panted. ‘I don’t know how many there are.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said the young man and cycled off with the box under his arm.

  William went slowly in to tea. He wished he’d opened the box and counted the maps. He’d like to know whether he’d given more than Hubert Lane. Anyway, he’d given them, and that was a weight off his mind. Ole Hubert Lane had nothing on him now. But, as he munched his way through the thick slices of bread and margarine that formed his war-time tea, a vague and ominous memory began to haunt his mind. Had Robert, in those days of tension following Dunkirk when a real invasion was hourly expected, said something about having hidden his maps? The vague memory grew clearer. Robert had said something about having hidden his maps . . . Cramming the last piece of bread and margarine hastily into his mouth, he went upstairs to Robert’s bedroom. If Robert’s maps were hidden, they must be hidden somewhere in his bedroom. An exhaustive search – whose effects nearly gave his mother a heart attack when she entered the room the next morning – at first revealed nothing, and William began to hope that they were, after all, in the box that he had given to General Moult’s messenger. Then, idly and no longer really expecting to find them, he took up the paper that covered the bottom of Robert’s wardrobe.

  There they were laid neatly out beneath it! His mouth dropped open in dismay. Gosh! He’d sent an empty box to General Moult and no maps at all. And Hubert Lane had sent ten. Gosh! He must find the young man at once and give him the maps. There was not a moment to be lost. Bundling them into his pocket, he ran downstairs and out into the road. There he looked anxiously up and down but saw no sign of the young man. He scoured the village and countryside, falling over stiles and scrambling through hedges in his haste, but still found no trace of the young man. His heart was now a leaden weight in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t so much the loss of the ostrich egg he minded, though he did mind that. It was the thought that he had failed his country in its hour of need, for William’s vivid imagination had by now transformed the ‘mock’ invasion into a real one. His search for the young man brought him to the old barn. Passing i
t, he heard the sound of voices inside and peeped cautiously round the half-open door. General Moult and several other officers were sitting on packing-cases. It was evidently the headquarters of the Home Guard. At least, thought William, he could explain what had happened.

  WILLIAM’S MOUTH DROPPED OPEN IN DISMAY.

  He entered the barn and approached the group of officers. ‘I say!’ he began.

  General Moult looked up and glared ferociously. All the others looked up and glared ferociously.

  Someone said ‘Get out!’ William, stumbling over a packing-case, got out . . .

  He went home, to find the maps no longer in his pocket. Somewhere in his scrambling over stiles and through hedges he must have lost them. Practically given them to the enemy – for it would be just his luck if a soldier and not a Home Guard found them. Gosh! Fate just seemed to have a down on him . . . Well, he couldn’t leave things in the mess they were in. He must do something to retrieve the position. Then – quite suddenly – the idea came to him. Commandos. Why shouldn’t there be Commandos in the invasion? Probably just because no one had thought of it. The Home Guard surely ought to have a few Commandos to help it. He’d be a Commando . . . It only needed a tin of blacking and a pair of bedroom slippers. He could easily get both. He proceeded to do so. It was the work of a few moments to abstract a tin of boot blacking from the kitchen, plaster his face with it, and put on his bedroom slippers . . . Then he crept in conspiratorial fashion from the house . . . It was unfortunate that he met Violet Elizabeth Bott at the gate. She gave a cry of delight when she saw him.