“What’s a pantomime?” Richard asked. There are so many different words used in Britain, he thought, even though they speak English.
His Aunt Edith gave out an exaggerated sigh. “It is a style of British theatre traditionally performed at Christmas, in which a children’s story is told in song and dance.”
Richard turned to his other aunt. “Aunt Emily,” he asked, “what is the story this year?”
Emily gave a clap using the tips of her fingers. “This year it’s Dick Whittington.” Then she placed her fingers on her heart. “I do love that story. I read it the day your father brought your mother lilies.”
“The day our father insisted he state his intentions,” Edith said, “or stop coming round.”
“It is my entire fault,” Emily said placing her long, thin fingers on either side of her face and staring down into her teacup. “I told her eloping was so romantic.”
“They married in the country church,” Edith said, frowning at her sister.
“She sailed away and was gone forever,” Emily said. “We thought an animal had eaten her!”
“Grace stopped writing after Richard died,” Edith said, wagging her finger at Edith.
“So wild out there in Canada,” Emily said. “Do you live in a cabin?”
“Not really,” Richard said. “We have a two-storey house with a large kitchen.”
“Your earth closet is near the back door, I presume, because of the cold?” Edith asked with a small sniff.
“Our bathroom?” Richard replied. “It’s upstairs on the main landing, right across from the spare bedroom. My mother has the back bedroom, I have the front one, and there’s one spare.”
“Who in their right mind would want such a mucky thing in the house?” Edith asked.
“Grace always had such daring behaviour,” Emily said.
“It would be like keeping one’s manure heap in the living room,” Edith said.
“Or hens in the bedroom,” her twin chimed in.
“It’s a flush toilet,” Richard explained with a shake of his head.
“I wouldn’t mind our outhouse being converted,” Joyce said to William.
“But, inside the house?” Edith exclaimed in amazement.
“There are indoor water closets everywhere these days,” William informed them.
Richard sat back and smiled. They could argue this point until the cows came home but it wouldn’t make any difference. Richard recognized this kind of steel-trap mind. Must run in the family, he thought.
“After the war you should all come to Canada and see for yourselves.”
“I’m afraid the only travelling I will be doing is through books,” Edith said.
“I’d love to roam the Canadian mountains, collecting birds’ eggs,” Emily said, tapping the tips of her fingers together again in quiet applause.
“Forgetting the edge and falling to your death below,” Edith added.
“So what are we going to do about this cat?” Will asked them all in exasperation.
“What cat?” Richard asked.
“Dick Whittington’s,” everyone chorused.
Richard pushed the small pile of money towards his uncle. “Buy the tickets,” he said as all three aunts lifted their cups to sip.
Chapter 16
The Truck
Dear Amy,
I had a five day leave. I went to Plumstead, the place on this postcard, to visit my relatives and saw a show. Tell Tommy DP means displaced person and it’s disrespectful. Tommy is old enough to work. He should go to Mr. Vogel’s farm and help out.
You said you mailed a parcel, but I haven’t got it yet. Did you know they measure the mail for the forces by the ton? Looking forward to my new pair of socks.
Richard
—
Richard took an early morning walk at the end of his night’s responsibilities in order to get away from the sprawling complex of red and yellow brick buildings, parade squares, and tents. Night duties weren’t all that bad. His meals were brought to the guard house, and even though no one was supposed to sleep, everyone managed to catch a few winks, thanks to an arrangement with the other signaller at headquarters. He always tipped them off when the orderly officer made his rounds, claiming it avoided embarrassment, but Richard knew it was just another example of how soldiers looked out for each other.
In the early morning the Fleet Road hadn’t yet filled with its usual traffic of tanks, cars, and trucks. In the silence of the rain-washed morning, he heard the clatter of cart wheels come up behind him.
Richard stopped, turned, and waved.
The stocky farmer had a square weathered face with cheeks that shone like leather. “Morning soldier,” he said. “Going anywhere in particular?”
“Just learning the lay of the land,” Richard replied. He walked to the front of the cart and patted the golden horse’s blonde mane. “What’s her name?”
“Treacle,” the farmer replied. He lifted a rein and pointed to the yellow-and-green five-ton truck that passed them. “Unlike a truck, you can talk to a horse.”
The truck swerved sloppily onto the grassy verge. Richard had noticed Swipes behind the wheel with Ted in the cab, learning to drive on the opposite side of the road.
“Gotta be capable of controlling summat as heavy as that,” the farmer said. A dark grey working jacket covered his thick collarless shirt. Letting loose the reins, he took a pipe and tobacco pouch from his waistcoat pocket. The farmer packed the pipe, struck a match on the sole of his shoe and lit it. When he drew on the pipe, twirls of smoke rose above his head.
“My name’s Harold, Harold Redfield. You must be one of those Maple Leaf Men.”
“Richard Fuller from Niagara Falls,” Richard said to the man with the cheerful face. The farmer’s flat cap looked as if he had worn it for decades. “That’s in Ontario.”
“I saw your sad-looking Honeymoon Bridge in the newsreel,” the farmer said. “Hop aboard, soldier, I’ll give you a tour along the way.”
The man jerked the reins and they bumped along the dirt road until they joined the main route into town. “Who would have thought that river ice could bring down a bridge that size,” the farmer said, as the village women drew aside their blackout curtains and picked up bottles of milk from their stone steps.
“Worst ice jam in thirty years,” Richard said. “It climbed seventy-five feet up the bank.”
Harold nodded to the neighbours gossiping on their front walks as they passed. “I miss the ice,” he said, “never thought the war would take ours away.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked with interest.
“Fleet Pond,” the farmer said. “In winter, when the pond was frozen, everyone went out to skate or watch a game of curling. We used to park a few cars on the road and play until midnight in the headlights.”
“At home we don’t have to cover the headlights,” Richard said.
“Oh, it had nothing to do with the headlights,” the farmer told him. “Once those German aircraft started passing overhead to bomb the north, we figured it was too good a landmark on a moonlit night. The village voted to drain the pond.”
Richard stared ahead, thinking about the enemy. The people of Fleet could end up under heavy attack, being so close to all the barracks. A cold chill went down his spine. His aunt and uncle lived next door to the Woolich Arsenal in Plumstead.
“You’ll have no trouble finding your way about town,” Harold told him. “The man who built this town laid the roads out American style. Main roads run parallel to one and another and the other roads intersect.”
As they entered the village, bagged lampposts marked the main crossroads. Richard spotted the yellow-and-green truck that Swipes was driving turning down a street.
“Here’s the bank,” Harold said, pointing to the building with the heavy white-pillared entrance. The windows were behind a wall of sandbags. “Across is the police station.”
They clopped along the road as Harold pointed out the fi
sh and chips shop, barber shop, and ironmonger. All the shop windows were cross-hatched with strips of tape to prevent shattering. “That’s The Oat Sheaf, the local pub,” he said, raising the rein. “But I’ll show you to a better place for a young man like you to socialize.”
Harold turned down Albert Street and stopped in front of a building just beside the church. “This is the Church Institute,” he said. “Inside there’s a large hall, stage, and a kitchen. There’s always a dance at the weekend. Anyone in uniform can go in and get a nice cup of tea.”
Richard hopped down from the cart. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll do that. And thanks for the ride.”
Harold pointed to the street ahead. “That’s Upper,” he said, “follow it across to the main road. If I see you on my way back, I’ll give you a lift into camp.”
The small hand-printed sign on the door, told Richard the tearoom wouldn’t be open until the afternoon due to lack of sugar. He walked to the stone bridge over the stream that flowed behind the church. Here he watched a silent flotilla of leaves drift across the water.
Two boys in dark green blazers, shorts, knee-high socks, and sturdy shoes marched towards him along the towpath. The smaller one, carrying a wooden rifle, saluted the older one who was wearing a tin hat.
Richard watched this tiny two-man army with amusement.
At the sound of the town clock, they stashed their gear in a bush, grabbed their school satchels and gas masks and ran off.
Richard walked down the bank to the path and followed them to a street of grey flat-roofed houses. To his surprise, the yellow-and-green truck was in one of the drives.
A woman looked out from behind her front window curtain with a worried face.
“I can’t tell if I’m in reverse,” Swipes yelled out as Richard approached. “It’s bad enough they drive on the wrong side of the road. I don’t get these gears.”
Richard watched Swipes ram the stick shift into place. The motor roared, tires spun, and the truck jerked backwards into the garden. Muddy earth flew about the lawn. The front door of the house flung open and a woman in a floral apron covered her mouth with both hands. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Not to worry, sweetheart,” Swipes called out. “I’ll take it slow.”
He jiggled the gear again and hit the gas. This time the truck completely flattened two tall wooden poles, bringing a line of laundry to the ground.
Richard’s eyes bulged. That would have given his mother a heart attack. The woman went inside, slamming the door. The passenger door of the truck opened and Ted vaulted to the ground. He raced around the front of the truck and yanked open the driver’s door. “Get out,” he commanded in a loud voice.
Swipes dropped to the ground and rushed to the back of the truck. He braced himself against the rear fender as if he alone could prevent the truck from moving back any farther.
Richard watched Ted attempt to jiggle the clutch. For the third time the truck jerked backwards, knocking Swipes sideways, and collapsing the six-foot fence.
Ted jumped out of the cab into the mess of fence planks and muddy clothes. “This truck is a piece of junk,” he muttered. Then, seeing Richard standing across the street, he called out. “Hey Fuller, give us a hand.”
Richard walked across the road.
“Get into the cab,” Ted said. “Swipes will report in. I’ll push.”
Happy to help, Richard climbed into the cab. He sat for a moment with his hands on the wheel. “I wonder if this is like Vogel’s old tractor,” he said out the window, as he jiggled the gear. He pushed down on the stiff clutch. It was hard work, the truck being much heavier than the tiny tractor, but he soon forced the cranky gearshift into action. Richard bit his lip, held on to the stick, and let out the gas. The truck lumbered forwards into the road.
“I got it,” he called out the window in excitement, but no one answered. Ted and Swipes were nowhere in sight. As the truck lumbered down the lane, the truth dawned on Richard. Ted and Swipes had left him holding the bag.
Richard drove at a snail’s pace, looking up each of the alleyways for the two soldiers. Just before he reached the main road, he spotted a man in the rearview mirror. In a shabby cardigan, brown corduroy trousers, and carpet slippers, the man ran behind him waving frantically.
Richard stopped the truck and leaned out the window to see what the man wanted. He noticed the clerical collar at his neck.
“Hey there soldier,” the minister called out between pants of breath. “You can’t just drive off and leave that mess behind.”
“But,” Richard protested, “I was just …”
“I’ve already made an apology on behalf of the army,” the minister said, climbing into the cab. His skin drew tight across his high cheekbones as he glared at Richard from behind heavy-rimmed spectacles. He levelled his eyes. “Something you should have done yourself. Drive on,” the minister said, waving his hand in front of his face. “Once we get this truck back to the base, you can tell your story to the battery commander.”
Richard drove on to the main road, gritting his teeth. The sergeant major would have to listen to his side of the story … wouldn’t he?
Back at the hut, the usual game of cards was in progress. Seeing Richard, Swipes stood up and tipped his cap. “He lives,” he said with a grin and sat down again.
Richard stepped aside.
The minister and the orderly officer stepped forward.
“You boys have anything to confess?” the minister asked.
Chapter 17
The Battle of the Beans
Dear Tommy,
Even though it is only April, it feels like summer. Remind me to tell you about what happened to the village ice rink when I get home. Thanks for getting your Father to send me the newspapers with Superman’s Adventures. By the end of the war, I will be able to live the life of a perfect tramp. I can sleep on hard ground with only a blanket and eat with my pocket-knife. Most guys use their bayonets to open their mail. Remember I didn’t like to eat carrots? I do now.
Your army pal,
Richard
—
“About time, too,” Ted said when the quartermaster handed each of them a second pair of boots and another suit of battle dress.
“How long have we been wearing these?” Swipes asked, tugging at his sleeve. “Five months?”
Richard hadn’t realized how scruffy their boots and uniforms had become until he received his new outfit. His mother would have made him wear his pajamas until she’d sponged off all the stains. He thought about her for a minute, hoping she was all right.
“After you sign for this report to the motor pool,” the quartermaster told them.
“What about rifles?” Ted asked.
“Never mind about rifles,” the quartermaster bellowed. “Get over to the motor pool.”
Ted was to drive one of the dark-green equipment lorries. Jack got a Ford truck. A huge groan came from those in line when they discovered Swipes was to drive an ammunition vehicle.
“He’ll blow us all up,” Jack whispered.
“Nah,” Richard said with a grin. “He’ll never get the thing in gear.”
“What about you, kid?” Jack asked.
Richard shrugged. “Guess I’m just a passenger.” He hadn’t found his name.
“Check again,” Jack said. “There’s another list behind it.”
Richard ran his finger down the names on the second paper pinned to the wall. “I don’t believe it,” he said out loud. “I got a motorcycle!”
—
“These twenty-five pounders and eighteen pounders are to be used in turn with the Royal Canadian Horse Artillery,” the British artillery officer told them.
Richard could only stare at the huge guns on their carriages, barely hearing the information about new drills and route marches.
“The available rifles and gas equipment will also be shared by different groups.”
“Shared?” someone from the ranks called out. “How do y
ou share a rifle?”
“Same way you share a gas mask,” Ted responded. “Hold your breath.”
The officer looked to identify the soldiers making the comments, but all stared ahead.
When Richard got to his first signalling training session, the situation wasn’t much better. Other than the few wireless sets, there were a three sets of Morse flags and a couple of heliographs. The only new item was a set of telephones and a ten line telephone exchange box.
“Some kind of modern army this is,” Ted complained to the others in their quarters.
“I did some practical work on the camp telephone exchange,” Richard said. “Once we got the hang of it, it was simple.”
“Well,” said Ted. “We could always bash the enemy over the head with the receiver.”
“Nah,” Swipes said. “Just call them up and tell them not to bother dropping by.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “And while you are at it, tell them the food’s lousy.”
That was the one truth that bothered Richard as well. He would have given anything to have Mr. Black in the camp kitchen. The food was either under-cooked or over-cooked and always greasy.
The next morning the sergeant informed the troops that the only material available for driving practice was under camouflage.
“What does that mean?” Richard whispered to Swipes.
“It means,” Swipes said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “we will be driving imaginary vehicles.”
In detachments of six, the men arrived at a large set of wooden boxes, labelled X, K, and H in the middle of the field. One block was to be the troop truck, one the ammunition carrier, and the third the gun carrier. Those designated as drivers were to sit on the blocks, move their arms, and squint straight ahead to demonstrate driving. The men standing behind one of the blocks were to bounce up and down as if they too were on the road.
Orders to move “in convoy,” “in deployment,” and “in formation behind the leader” resulted in the men moving the blocks to reposition themselves.
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