by John King
Chelsea and England go together. We’ve always supplied a good chunk of the England away support. We fly the flag no matter how many foreigners the club pulls in. It changes nothing, because we’re the ones paying their wages. The Europeans work for us. We pay for their expensive apartments and designer gear. You need the class foreigners, but English football doesn’t get the credit it deserves. In Rome it was another story, the English pulling together a big mob in a dangerous city. England will always do the Italians. It’s been going on for years. It’s in the blood.
Germany is a blur through the window with none of us taking much notice of the towns, villages and countryside. I sit back listening to Harris talking about Berlin and the Germans. I lean my head on the rest. It’s a great feeling being on the move with something to look forward to at the end of the journey. That trouble in Amsterdam firmed up the travelling English. People talk about the trouble and that, but it’s the whole thing that makes following England worthwhile. Going overseas is another step on from club football. It’s more exciting, especially these days with the cameras and everything.
It feels like my eyes have just closed when I bang forward. At first I think it’s Harry back from the bog, but then I see him in the far corner. The others are looking around and I realise the train isn’t moving. Harris is up and opening the door, looking for a reason for the delay. We go into the corridor and someone says the emergency chord has been pulled. Mengele’s coming along with a couple of SS guards, and he has to squeeze through the English. He’s a lot more polite now and doesn’t look Mark in the eye, but he’s got the same attitude. Cunt in a uniform who thinks he’s the fucking business. We want to know what’s happening, stopping in the middle of nowhere. Maybe the train’s been set on fire by juvenile delinquents, or the engine blown apart by that dirty old Swindon geezer. Can’t see him anywhere. Gary leans through the window and starts laughing. We try to get a view of what’s happening. The Hooligan Express is at a standstill and if he’s not careful Mengele’s going to have to deal with several hundred unhappy customers. The least these German cunts can do is make sure the fucking trains run on time.
Then we see this figure running from the train. Someone says it’s a scouser bunking the fare, but Gary says no, he’s a Geordie. A northern voice says it’s a cockney. Could be anyone, but the youth is young and fit and heading for some nearby woods. He’s got a head start on the guards trying to keep up. Big fat krauts tempting a heart attack. The English start cheering and banging on the side of the train, and the bloke keeps running, increasing his lead over the Gestapo. Something’s gone wrong. Bunking the train without a passport. Fuck knows. But he’s getting nearer the trees and finally turns and raises his fist towards the train, gives the guards a wanker sign, then disappears into the woods. When the Germans get there they lean forward with their hands on their knees, knackered. They peer into the trees, shrug their shoulders and walk back to the train, the English packing the corridors, hanging out of the windows and putting their hands around their eyes in imitation RAF goggles, humming the tune from Dam Busters. Don’t know if the Germans understand, but they must know we’re taking the piss. They don’t look happy.
After a short delay the train starts moving again and we settle down. Don’t know where the bloke’s gone, but it shouldn’t be too hard for him to find his way to Berlin. Mind you, stuck in the German countryside, who knows. Bailing out behind enemy lines. I suppose we’ll find him in a Berlin bar sooner or later, and if he’s smart he’ll live off the story for the rest of the trip. Everyone has a story to tell. The train picks up speed and we have another drink.
Bill Farrell stood outside Sloane Square tube waiting for the traffic lights to change colour. He was in another world now, surrounded by expensive shops and wealthy people. The faces were different from those of working-class London. They were tanned and manicured, and even the features seemed different. He smiled at all these stern men and women who’d probably never done a hard day’s graft in their lives. There was nothing new under the sun, and the English squaddie wasn’t looking for a revolution after the war, just something better. Demobbed soldiers wanted work and a future, and he couldn’t remember any of his mates being interested in party politics or ideology.
The northern lads were different because they had a strong union and industrial tradition, though a lot of East Londoners knew all about Jack Dash and the London dockers. Ulster had its own thing going on, but London and the South were different again. He’d never known any Northerners before the war threw everyone together, and they were good people like anyone else, a long way from the stereotypes. They had their own view of Londoners as well. They thought Londoners were all cockney wide boys and flash harrys, spivs and cosh boys with a soft belly. Cheeky chappies, barrow boys and racetrack wheeler-dealers. But the barriers were ripped down during the war and they’d all got on fine. The same went for the Welsh and Scots, while Farrell had never realised there were so many Catholics fighting for England in the Irish Guards. It was a mixed up world where nothing was ever what it seemed. And anyone who had trouble adapting soon sorted themselves out when the bullets started to fly.
People wanted something better after VE Day and Churchill wasn’t re-elected despite his role as a wartime leader. They were looking for peace and stability and social change. The soldiers had self-respect and wanted the understanding of those at home. Beveridge made his famous report and if the country got anything out of the Second World War it had been a welfare state. As a young man fighting in Europe, Farrell wanted the things that had been denied his uncles. He knew how they felt about the war and its aftermath, and had expected better. At least Farrell’s generation got the NHS and a welfare system, but it had suffered badly under the Tories, while New Labour saw socialism as a dirty word. Farrell tried not to get angry, but it was unbelievable. Even during the war there’d been a few strikes, and Churchill had respected Bevin enough to give him a role in the cabinet. People seemed to have no long-term memory of where their benefits began. Either they forgot or reinvented the past to fit in with what they were told. The young ones weren’t even told.
When the lights changed he crossed and started down the King’s Road. He was on his way to a TA meeting in the Duke of York’s HQ. He’d joined the Territorials after the war, when it had consisted of old soldiers, and had made some good friends. He’d lost track of them, just like the boys he’d actually fought with in Europe, those that survived, but had met up with Ted at Johnny Bates’s funeral and been persuaded to come along today. It was just a chat and a drink and a cheap meal. Farrell had never gone in for these things, but Ted was enthusiastic and he didn’t see why not. With his wife dead maybe it was time to look back and find some comradeship. It was something he’d only get from a shared experience. She’d always wanted him to go along and show off his medals at the Cenotaph because she’d been proud of him, but it had seemed pointless somehow. He was a man and she was a woman, and she’d been raped and brutalised by the scum of Europe while he’d killed German boys like himself who had no choice whether they fought. He wanted to forget, but you could never forget. At least he didn’t want to forget the reality. Anyway, the bar was subsidised and he’d have a laugh with some of his old mates.
Farrell passed the gates of the Duke of York’s HQ and found the pub they were meeting in beforehand. He took a deep breath and went inside. It was one o’clock and fairly busy, but Ted said they’d meet on the left as he went in and Farrell spotted him straight away. He was sitting with Eddie Wicks and Barry James They jumped up and pumped his hand and almost fell over themselves offering to buy him a pint. Farrell was embarrassed by the attention, but Ted was already doing the honours so he sat at the table in the corner with the others. He’d seen Eddie and Barry at Johnny Bates’s cremation and they’d exchanged a few words, but it had been very brief. Now the circumstances were different and it was okay to show some pleasure at meeting again They were good lads and Ted put a pint of London Pride in front o
f Farrell. Eddie had been a corporal in the Paras and had jumped at Arnhem and swum the Rhine to escape capture. The Germans fired at him as he went but Eddie made it to safety and went back to fight again. He’d also been at Dunkirk and was a big man with a handlebar moustache who immediately took control. He got the others to raise their glasses and drink to Johnny Bates.
– You came along then, Billy boy, Ted said, slapping Farrell on the back after he’d tasted the Pride We wondered if you’d make it. Not that we doubted your word, but things crop up when you get older.
– I’m glad you came, Barry said These things are much less formal than you’d think. The bar’s subsidised and the food’s good. A fiver for as much as you can eat NAAFI conditions, but there’s chicken curry today.
Farrell had another sip of the Pride and savoured the taste. The pub wasn’t as professional as The Unity, but that was often the case with high-street boozers Those pubs tucked down back streets had to satisfy the locals while pubs like this could pull in enough passers-by to keep ticking over no matter what. Not that Farrell was complaining, because he liked a pint of London Pride. Chiswick was another decent West London beer. The whisky had got him through the journey and now he was sitting in this pub he had no second thoughts. Eddie was a big character and they’d had a good few sessions when they were in the TA. Eddie and Farrell had both fought in Europe, while Barry had been a merchant seaman and Ted had served in North Africa. They all had their stories but never said much. There were things that filtered through as the years passed so it was possible to build a picture. When they’d been in the TA and drinking they tended to open up and tell individual stories. Afterwards life continued as normal.
– Not a bad pint for Chelsea, Eddie said. You pay extra, but it can’t be helped. Have to keep the blood flowing.
Eddie had done well after the war. He’d stayed in the army before eventually leaving and running a pub. He’d served in Palestine and seen members of his regiment killed by the Jewish resistance, which had turned him against Israel. He knew Mrs Farrell’s history, but separated Judaism and Zionism. Eddie was a strong royalist and felt England had been betrayed, that socialism had eaten away at the backbone of the country. Bill and Eddie had different views and once, when they were young and drunk, had even come to blows. But it was in the past, and time and old age had blurred the edges of Eddie’s resentment. Like a lot of people, though, he felt let down.
Eddie had run a drinker’s pub in Brentford and done okay. He could always handle himself and wasn’t someone to muck about. He’d pulled in a lot of the local hardcases, and they liked a pint or ten. Civvy street had treated him well and he had five sons, all of them following in his footsteps. He was big on army tradition and loved the comradeship. He was a good man, and in some ways a pussy cat. Farrell remembered the time he’d taken his wife to Eddie’s pub and she’d been treated like a queen. He used to talk rubbish sometimes when he was pissed, but it was just talk. Eddie respected Bill and his views and the fact that he’d married a woman from a concentration camp and helped her recover. Eddie’s right-wing sympathies didn’t extend to genocide. Farrell was a hard man, in some ways harder than Eddie, but he had a softer shell. Eddie was the reverse. Farrell had put Eddie on his arse when they argued all those years ago, and Eddie had got up and done the same to Farrell. He was a soldier to the bone and respected a good fighter. Add Farrell’s dignity and convictions and he considered the man a class apart.
– Look at the arse on that, Ted said, indicating a well-dressed executive-type woman at the bar.
– She’s too old for you, Eddie laughed. She must be all of forty-five.
– Do you think she’s that old? Ted asked. Oh well, not to worry. She’s still young enough to be my daughter.
– You want something nearer your own age, Bill remarked.
– You must be joking, Ted said. What do I want with a horrible old granny. All dried up and wrinkled with soggy gums. Give me a youngster any day. A nice forty-five-year-old will do me fine. Look at those legs and arse. She can sit on my lap and rustle up some life any time she wants.
– She’d have to work hard to get any life out of you, Eddie said.
Ted was a confirmed bachelor. He’d never married and always been one for the women. Farrell remembered him as a young man with slicked back hair and more than his share of charm. He’d served in North Africa with the Western Desert Force and fought Rommel and the Afrika Korps. Before that he’d been one of the 30,000 who took 200,000 Italians prisoner. He’d been under the command of O’Connor and later Montgomery, and been involved in Operation Lightfoot and the battle at El Alamein. Farrell recalled how much Tobruk and El Alamein had raised his and the country’s spirits.
Ted preferred talking about the time he’d spent on leave in Cairo than the dysentery, flies and bully beef of the desert. The fighting had been bloody when the British finally pushed Rommel back. He always said victory in war owed more to nature than strategy. England had survived because of the Channel, the Russians had defeated the Germans because their winters were so harsh, while the victory at El Alamein owed a massive debt to the Qattara Depression. The salt marshes and quicksand of the Depression had prevented the Germans using the usual desert tactic of outflanking the enemy. His favourite line about the desert was that both the English and Germans sung along to Lili Marlene. They were fighting and killing each other, but both sides fancied the woman in the lamplight. It was odd, but proved music had always crossed borders. At least they’d had their leave in Cairo, and those Egyptian girls were special. The English didn’t appreciate the fine features of Arab women.
– I can still get it up, don’t you worry about that, Ted said. She could do worse than come and sit on my knee. There’s life in the old codger yet. There’s nothing better than a fine pair of stockings and she’s wearing some sheer heaven.
– Calm down, Eddie laughed. You’ll give yourself a stroke.
– I’m younger than I look, Ted replied, indignantly. When I got to sixty-five I started going backwards. I’m getting younger year by year. I’ve turned time on its head. It’s the after effects of serving in the desert and spending your time with Egyptian girls.
– You might be getting younger, but I’m feeling the years, Barry said, moaning. If the desert made you younger then the sea aged me. It’s my foot giving me gip.
– You’ve got a bad foot because you were pissed and fell off the pavement, Eddie pointed out. You never could drink. Four pints and you’re falling down in the street.
Farrell thought of Bob West soaring over the Iraqi desert. Ted had told him there was no place to hide in the desert. Air superiority was vital because any movement stirred up clouds of dust and gave the game away. Nothing could move on the ground that wasn’t seen in the air. The same would’ve happened in the Gulf, though West had also attacked cities. They said the war in North Africa was the last war where chivalry survived and maybe it was true to a certain extent, but Ted insisted it was brutal. It was always brutal, whether there were rules or not. There was no such thing as humane killing. In the Gulf the scale had been massive and West was paying the penalty. Farrell would rather have died in the desert than at sea.
Even though Barry had been a merchant seaman, Farrell wouldn’t have wanted his job for anything in the world. Barry had helped keep England alive sailing back and forward across the Atlantic bringing food and supplies from North America. Crossing the Channel for the invasion had been bad enough, but to be torpedoed in the ice-cold mountains of the Atlantic would’ve been terrible. Barry had been sunk twice during the war. He hated Doenitz and his Wolf Pack U-boat crews. The second time he’d been sunk a U-boat had come up close and the sailors had laughed at the English in their lifeboat hundreds of miles from land. They just laughed and left them to die.
Farrell remembered Barry telling him about the U-boat, more than thirty years ago in a pub in Salisbury when they were away training with the TA. He’d got really angry about it, but Farrell understoo
d. To be left to die was bad enough, but the Germans laughing made it worse somehow. Barry could never forgive that. It was personal. The U-boats’ silhouettes were low and the hunters killed tens of thousands of merchant seamen. Without the merchant navy the country would have starved. Barry was an unsung hero in many ways, but Bill, Eddie and Ted recognised his value. He was a good man, but liked a moan, which when you’d been sunk once and then gone back for more, then been sunk again and still returned, was maybe something to which you were entitled.
– I’d had five pints when I went off the kerb, Barry insisted. I can still manage six.
– No you can’t, Eddie roared. What do you think, Bill?
Farrell was thinking of the U-boats and how it had taken the idiots in Whitehall time to sort out a common policy to deal with the problem. He wondered how many seamen had died because the RAF and navy commanders were playing games with each other. These things were brushed away and you ended up convincing yourself they didn’t matter, because otherwise you’d go mad with the injustice of it all. Nobody else cared, so why should an old man at the end of his life? It was something Farrell could never mention to Barry because, especially in his case, maybe it really was better to forget.