England Away

by John King

  Harry stood and opened the window, pulled the sheet of glass right down and lobbed his empty bottle onto the road, aiming at a shiny red Porsche with some wanker in a cravat breaking the English speed limit, credit cards to burn, the bottle just missing the Porsche and smashing on the tarmac. The driver fought for control as he veered away and back again, shitting himself and slowing down like a good little cunt. Harry laughed and his right hand trembled in a wanker sign as he pushed his head through the gap. That would teach Jurgen a lesson for taking the piss. The train pulled away from the Porsche which had decided to keep its distance, the carriages fluttering Union Jacks and Crosses of St George, the red, white and blue of the Crusaders steaming towards the German heartland with Harry Roberts feeling the rush of air against his skull and the warm beer in his blood.

  Bill Farrell had been abroad once in his life, to Europe during the war. More than half a century later he was considering a second trip, this time to Australia. His nephew Vince had saved his money and gone off to see the world. He’d returned to England for a short time, but then emigrated to Australia. Now he was settled in New South Wales and had bought a small farm.

  Vince had a house and a hundred acres of land. His plot was in a valley, with aboriginal rock drawings in the caves on one side, and a forest on the other. There was a billabong and rows of fast-growing Japanese trees Vince was raising and selling to farmers, who in turn used them as shade for their cattle. He also had a woman, a Sydney girl whose family went back to the prison ships sent over from Mother England. There was a small caravan under a tarpaulin cover for visitors and a garden where they grew food. When Farrell thought about it, Vince sounded like a hippy, but knew his nephew would have been upset by the term. He was a farmer pure and simple, working the land and waiting for the rains to come.

  Every Saturday night Vince drove to the nearest town and had a drink. Some traditions never changed. It was a small place with wooden buildings and a population of under a thousand. It was a twenty-mile drive and the people were mostly descended from the English. There was a Chinese restaurant and a Greek shop. Vince promised his granddad he’d take him as well, the pub like something from the lager commercials, the difference being the Chelsea team photograph behind the bar. There was a pendant and another photo of Ruud Gullit and the FA Cup winners on the pitch at Wembley. Vince had flown back for the final and paid three hundred quid for a ticket. On the other side of the world there was a little outpost that would forever be Chelsea and England. He said it was a decent pub with lots of things that reminded him of home. The lad had always liked his football and Farrell flashed back to Vince as a child, excited by life and the world around him. Farrell was pleased he’d done something different, even if it meant he was a long way from his family.

  Farrell had thought about going to Australia when he was young. He’d had a mate from the army who went over and wanted Farrell to go as well. It was as though Vince was doing it on his behalf. Vince knew his granddad was reluctant to accept what he saw as charity, so he’d bought the ticket and sent it over, while his mum had arranged the visa.

  Farrell was weighing it all up in his head. He would sleep in the caravan and have to get used to the spiders. Vince wrote regularly and said they were big and silent, with long legs and small bodies, but most weren’t poisonous. Farrell thought of Albert Moss, who’d fought in Asia and been stuck with these things for years. Farrell had lived in London all his life and was used to the hustle and bustle of ten million people arguing and treading on each other’s toes. London was in his head and his memories of travelling abroad weren’t good. On his return, he’d jumped back into everything English for protection. He was in two minds about Australia, unable to make a decision.

  Vince had written about the Anzac Day celebrations he’d seen in Sydney. Even in the scorching heat they marched and remembered. There was a platform at the end of the parade with various dignitaries giving speeches as a small group of Aborigines stood silently on the margins, ragged men, women and kids transported to a city of shining towers and tarmac paths. The dignitaries spoke about Gallipoli and how the slaughter of Australians had helped put the country on the map. It had gained them respect in the eyes of the English. They sang God Save The Queen and Waltzing Matilda.

  The country was big and Vince felt free. The sheer size of the place put things in perspective. In England everyone was on top of everyone else, and events seemed more important than they were. He’d always liked the sun and found things to do away from the endless work ethic. He’d slowed right down. At first he thought it was the heat and the slow pace of life, but after a while he realised it was the lack of pressure. At home everything was pumped up the whole time. It wasn’t the people so much as the establishment urging them on. There was a constant bombardment, whether it was from the media, politicians or advertisers. Everything had to keep expanding for them to feel content. The media, politicians and advertisers eventually blurred in together until people couldn’t tell the difference. There was little difference in reality, because all three were run for personal advancement. Principles didn’t matter any more, though the ordinary man and woman in the street was still basically decent, trying to scratch a living against the odds. Coming back for the Cup Final, Vince was amazed by the pace of everything.

  He kept on at his granddad that they’d go to the Great Barrier Reef. The old man could come for as long as his visa allowed. The Reef was fantastic, something you’d never know existed unless you dipped your head under the water. The Pacific had always seemed dangerous to Farrell. From the photos it looked like a beautiful place, but the war there had been violent and bloody. The sharks knew that a bang in the water meant food, a drowning pilot or a ship’s human cargo. It made him sick thinking of hundreds of men struggling in the water thousands of miles from home. He thought of the water thick with blood as sharks pulled the men below the surface and ripped them to threads. Vince had reminded him of the time they spent in Kew Gardens after Albert’s funeral, about the pictures they’d seen. Anyone could travel, you just needed the will. Farrell thought of the Pacific and how for him the name conjured up dark images.

  Farrell saw the colour of the Barrier Reef. It really was fantastic in the photos. That was what a holiday was about and he was lucky to have the chance, but it could only ever be a holiday. He was English and his home was in London. Vince had gone away, but he was the exception. The boy had the spark to do something different with his life. Not that Farrell was complaining. Everyone did their own thing and he’d been blessed. His wife was a fantastic woman. She was the only woman he’d ever loved and even though she’d been gone all these years, there wasn’t a day went by when he didn’t think about her. She’d never wanted to go back to Hungary. She hated the place and became more English than her husband in some ways. Like a lot of refugees who settled in England after the war, she adopted the country without reservations. She saw things differently to the cynics. What she went through was terrible, yet she survived with so much strength she’d put him to shame.

  Farrell was on the platform waiting for his train to pull in. It was the middle of the day and quiet. He heard a couple of Australian voices and thought of Vince again, except this time he imagined that Anzac Day parade. The temperature was way up and the marchers kept in time along the road, their collars done up and shirts smart. They were sweating, but despite their English skin they’d lived with the climate all their lives and adapted. Australia was their country, yet they had a sense of belonging to England. They couldn’t shake it off. Farrell laughed at how the Aussies called the English poms, Prisoners of Mother England. That’s what he was, a Prisoner of Mother England. He nodded his head and smiled.

  The tube arrived and Farrell found a seat. There was an American couple at the other end of the carriage with three suitcases, travelling up from Heathrow to see Big Ben and the Tower of London. Farrell imagined the man as a young boy in the Philippines. Maybe he’d been one of the Marines taking Manila or under the
ridge at Iwo Jima, held down by Japanese guns. The Yanks had suffered at Utah beach during the D-Day landings and had a worse time of things than the British and Canadians at Sword, Juno and Gold, which had been bad enough. That bloke at the end of the carriage would’ve been making the most of London in the forties, hanging around Piccadilly where the prostitutes helped themselves to the GI pay-packets. But there were plenty of other girls interested and Soho offered a lot of life. Funny how everything went around, but when he looked more closely the man wasn’t old enough for the war.

  The tube started moving and Farrell forgot the tourists. He looked at the black and brown faces around him reflecting the Commonwealth troops who’d fought and died for Britain. He felt that the Commonwealth had been sold out as multinationals pushed for European union. If some of these kids today saw the troops gathered in the south of England for the D-Day invasion they’d be surprised. When they saw a Polish name did they understand what had happened in Poland, how the Free Poles had fought and died? Did they know Bomber Command was forty per cent non-British? In his own lifetime he’d seen history rewritten so many times. They didn’t even have the decency to wait till you were dead.

  It was a line of thought Farrell couldn’t resist, because sitting in The Unity he’d heard one of the men at the bar laughing about the newsflash from Holland, saying how the English would be marching back into Berlin again. That they’d be taking it for a second time and rubbing salt in the wound. Farrell was amazed this man didn’t know it was the Red Army who’d captured Berlin. It was incredible they didn’t get taught these things in school. It wasn’t that long ago either. Not really.

  Of course, the Allies went in later, but it was the Russians who fought their way through the city, street by street, with the loss of 100,000 men. Not that it was solely men, because women fought with the Soviets and it was a woman who’d lifted the flag over the Reich Chancellory. It made him smile when pop shows talked about girl power. Was that all it had become? Maybe it was part of Hitler’s downfall, because Stalin had his women working next to the men and fighting for victory, while Hitler saw women as there to mother children and build a super-race.

  Farrell had met some Russian soldiers in Germany. They couldn’t really talk, of course, but they’d toasted each other. They were allies. The Germans and Russians called each other fascists and communists, but in England it was different. When Stalin and Hitler fell out after the invasion of Poland, and when Hitler went on to attack the Soviet Union, the people in London had looked to the Russians and admired their bravery. This comradeship had been promoted by the Government. It would be hard for people raised in the post-war years to believe, but Stalin was Uncle Joe and the Russians brave allies much admired by ordinary English people. Politics didn’t come into it. The Russians were allies and their resistance gave Farrell and the people around him hope. Many people forgot this under a post-war propaganda offensive, while Stalin closed up shop and tried to crush the people of Eastern Europe.

  When Vince was a child Farrell had played soldiers with him. He only did it when his wife wasn’t around, because it seemed wrong. But he played because boys were interested in these things, and the Action Men were either English, American or German. He didn’t remember any Russian uniforms. But the kids today, their soldiers were different. The enemy was distant and imaginary and the weapons more complicated. Animals and machines merged with men. Now the boys preferred Power Rangers to Action Man. He supposed it was a good thing, but imagined they’d learn little about, and from, the Second World War. His own uncles, men he admired as a young boy, were already lost in the distant past. If the memories faded so quickly, why had they bothered? He knew the answer, but it was always a battle, and one many people his age lost. People’s moods swung this way and that. For years after the war the Russians had been promoted as cruel tyrants who wanted to turn England into a dour communist slave state, while now they were confused criminals and drunks who craved Western-style democracy.

  Farrell’s memory was clear as the train rolled along. The Russians had suffered like nobody else. Twenty million had died. When the Germans attacked it was a blitzkreig, but the Russians destroyed everything as they retreated. Farrell knew what the Germans were capable of, having seen a concentration camp first hand. During the war five million Soviet soldiers were taken prisoner, but less than two million survived. That left over three million who had died. The Germans treated the Russians like scum and it was no surprise that a couple of years later, following the seige of Leningrad, when the Russians had recovered and were ready to attack, they wanted to wipe the Germans off the face of the earth. The soldiers who survived would never forget and would pass the hatred on. It was the same on both sides.

  Bill Farrell was on his way to a meeting of old soldiers. He didn’t usually go in for this sort of thing. He had never been that interested in ceremonies and reunions, but today he was sitting on the tube with a clear head. It didn’t seem to matter now. Before, when his wife had been alive, it was enough to live with her and enjoy their time together. His own experiences were insignificant after what she’d been through. He never thought too hard about this, but following her death he’d started trawling through the past. The more time passed the more he went back. He didn’t see anything glorious in the war. He tried to forget but it was impossible. Fifty-five million people had died in the Second World War. Whenever a politician came on the television screen and said the old days were less violent he knew they were insane. It was like the newsflash about the football. Three cars exploded and these reporters were describing it as a war zone. It really was ridiculous and Bob West shouldn’t have got upset. There was no perspective, just sensationalism and hypocrisy.

  Farrell’s sip of whisky had put him in a positive frame of mind but had loosened his self-control. He looked at the other passengers and wondered how many knew what things had been like, how many even guessed or cared. Even now, all these years after the war had ended, everyday life could seem very trivial. He tried not to think this, but it was inevitable really. It had been much worse after he’d returned from Europe, but he’d fought back and won the mental battle. When Farrell watched these idiots on the television and read their editorials in the papers he couldn’t take them seriously. The war had made him immune. It was a strength, he thought, as his stop arrived.

  —After the landing we started moving forward. Once we were on shore and off the beach, we had to consolidate our positions and begin fighting our way out of the bridgehead. We did this, but it was a slow, bitter advance. Neither side was going to give up. I don’t believe in the all-comrades-under-the-uniform view because the Germans caused a great deal of pain and were killers, but they were brave men. The same is true of the Russians, British, Poles, Canadians and Americans. In fact, anyone you care to mention. We all believed in what we were doing and fought to the death. Once we were through the initial defences things changed. It was the expectation and build-up to the landing that was hard to handle, but once we were through that and had killed it was different. It’s a hard thing to admit but we had more confidence. We were closer with our mates and we were harder now than the Germans. We were going to win. We were afraid we’d die when we were in the landing crafts because we had too much time to think, but now we believed we were going to come through the fighting. The idea that an Englishman couldn’t be beaten was built into us from an early age, and when the killing started we found this belief made us tough enough for the job. We had this confidence, which when the waiting was over made us strong. We had the determination to win and went forward. The Germans would fight us all the way and there was a lot of killing. It was terrible seeing the bodies, and Billy Walsh and the soldier with his head blown off were right there in our heads. We didn’t think we could see worse. Death became common. The Mulberrys did their job and troops and tanks were pouring into France. The countryside was tight with hedges so we had to move slowly. It was all very much within our group and our space. The speeches of Monty
were nice but didn’t really mean anything. We saw what was in front of us and watched each other’s backs. Mangler was nearby and a bloke from Bolton called Charlie Williams. He was a smiling lad with red hair who’d worked in a textile factory before the war. He was married with a baby and carried a picture of his wife and son in his wallet. Billy Walsh was dead, but this North London lad Tiny Dodds was a good mate and of course Jeff Morrison from Hounslow. We were on the move now, getting stronger all the time. We knew each other from training and the camps, but now there was a stronger feeling. We needed the unity as we faced the enemy. You never have friends in quite the same way because all the little prejudices and stereotypes vanish and it’s basic survival. There’s a link with men who’ve lived the same life, something that goes unsaid and lasts through the years. It doesn’t matter how old you are, it never fades.

  Harry kicks my trainers as he goes for a piss, slamming the compartment door open and stumbling into the corridor. Surprised he didn’t break the glass. Stops to say sorry then fucks off. Born in a barn that cunt. There’s some English singing CAN I TELL YOU THE STORY OF A POOR BOY. Must be scousers. Their history goes back to the Boer War and the Battle of Spion Kop, the old Anfield terrace named in memory of the men who died there. Wonder what Kev makes of it. Quietly impressed because it was Englishmen fighting for England. Mark leans over and pulls the door shut, turning down the volume. He gives me a fresh bottle. Hands lager to Harris, Billy and Carter. Gary Davison and Martin Howe are looking down the corridor, talking to some other English. The train keeps moving. The lager’s getting warmer, but it’s still cold enough to drink. Passing the time.