People got off and people got on, and all the while the doors were slamming shut randomly along the length of the train. Piles of goods in crates and wicker baskets were loaded from trolleys into the guard’s van. Tom was able to grab the last seat in a second class non-smoking compartment where he carefully settled, taking care not to injure any of the seven other passengers with his awkward crutches. He was surprised just how chatty and friendly everyone seemed. There was a buffet car at the rear of the train and a middle-aged man offered to fetch a cup of tea for the invalid. When Tom admitted to having no money, the tea was still bought for him. Tom explained to his benefactor that he had lost his memory after an accident near his barracks and that he had no idea where his wallet had gone. Before the end of the journey, his fellow passengers had a whip round and Tom, under protest, was given 3 shillings and 6 pence. Tom looked at the coins. There was a 2s coin called a florin, a 1s coin and two twelve sided 3d pieces. He learnt that shillings were also known as bob which, like sheep, did not change when in the plural. This simple act of generosity touched Tom enormously and he shook the hand of every one of the seven people in that compartment.
Just after the stop at Woking station, the Guard made his way along the train telling everyone that the train would terminate at Clapham Junction, as yet another unexploded bomb had been found overnight. Tom had been told to wait for a military bus at Waterloo but now wondered what to do. At Clapham Junction he went to the ticket office and asked how he might get to Millbank. The large man with a bushy moustache saw Tom’s crutches and asked. “Do you want QAMH?” Tom nodded. “Well just go outside, down those steps and there should be a big green bus there any minute.”
Tom struggled down to the bus stop and his jaw dropped as he saw the chaos in the street. There was rubble everywhere as most of the street was being demolished due to bomb damage. There seemed to be men with shovels everywhere. No sooner had the giant ball on the end of the crane knocked another wall down then these men would scramble everywhere scraping bricks and rubble off the road and then start furiously throwing shovelful after shovelful into the back of the waiting lorry. He was amazed at the way they all seemed to be dressed the same. They wore dark trousers, grubby off white, almost grey, shirts with thin dark vertical stripes down the weave, old waistcoats, neck scarves and flat hats. They all had the same style of footwear which he later discovered were known as “Ammo Boots”, identical to those worn by the Army.
The bus journey revealed similar scenes of war damage. Many of the roads had signs saying “Closed to all Private Vehicles” or “Danger Falling Debris” or more worryingly “Closed. Unexploded Bomb”. Tom had no idea just how much damage had been done during the war and this was almost two years after the end of the war and even longer since the worst of the air raids. There had been some bad flooding a few weeks earlier which affected a large number of streets near the River Thames. He saw butchers’ shops with signs saying “No Beef This Week” or “Sausages Expected at Midday” and bakers’ shops with a pitiful amount of stock left on display.
All in all, it was a sorry sight but having spoken to a number of people on his journey he realised that somehow there was a collective spirit of determination, endeavour and enterprise. He saw horse-drawn carts used by men collecting every scrap of metal that they could find in the rubble of buildings, and women in khaki coloured uniform driving official looking cars. Around one corner he saw an ambulance, a woman lying in obvious pain on the road and a man in dark uniform with a neat peaked cap by her side. He was taking a bandage from the white satchel that hung from his shoulder. The red cross on the satchel matched the colour of the blood from her knee where she had fallen. Passers by had stopped to offer help. One woman had knelt down to offer the injured lady a cigarette. Everyone seemed to be a smoker. Tom wondered whether the children were taught how to take up the habit at school. Not far from Millbank, Tom caught a glimpse of the Houses of Parliament and was surprised just how dirty they looked. Years of coal fires, from both homes and power stations, and the soot laden smogs of London had coated almost every building with black acidic grime which had stained stone and masonry.
Whoever had planned Tom’s journey had not taken into account his injured toe. By the time he arrived at the hospital he was in great pain, but still had to wait for nearly two hours before being admitted to a surgical ward. He found himself in a bed next to a cheerful man in his early forties who was about to have his appendix removed. They enjoyed each other’s company and the following day both were prepared for their respective operations. The new found friend was a policeman, Fred Yardley, who had been in London throughout the war. He had many horrible tales about the injuries and deprivation which Londoners had suffered. Tom thought how lucky he was not to have arrived during that dreadful time.
Both men had their operations and were still in hospital on Saturday 26th April, the day of the Football Association Cup Final at Wembley Stadium. There was a sitting room at the end of the ward where the radio was already on and tuned into the BBC Home Service. “What do you reckon for this FA Cup then Tom? Charlton Athletic or Burnley? I’m a Burnley man today. My team was knocked out ages ago.” Tom remembered those pub quizzes and how dear old Charlie had made him learn all sorts of sporting trivia. “Oh Burnley won’t win. Not today. Charlton are my bet today.” He said trying to hide his smugness. “I grant you that you had an ‘ansome win against Newcastle but we had Liverpool and they were tough buggers. Took a replay to get ‘em sorted out though. Now I bet you a jug of beer that Burnley win the day. What do you say Tom?” Tom thought carefully. He had very little money and for some reason he had a nagging doubt. He wondered whether, in this new World that he was in, history might be different. Perhaps his pub quiz trivia was now useless. “How much is a jug Fred?” Fred said it was 6d a jug at his local. “Right.” said Tom. “We can’t go down the pub like this. Two jugs would cost a bob so I bet you a bob that Charlton win.” Fred quickly agreed. Tom won and was a shilling better off. Tom did not rub Fred’s nose in the outcome and did his best to commiserate with his new found friend whom was not upset by the loss of a shilling, but disappointed that his team had not performed a little better.
Fred very kindly gave Tom a lot of advice about the way that he should behave in a military hospital and how certain ranks demanded more respect than others. The Doctors were all Army officers and were Captains, Majors, Lieutenant Colonels or even Colonels. The nursing staff were divided into two halves. One lot were all commissioned and would be Second Lieutenants, Lieutenants, Captains and Majors. There was one female Lieutenant Colonel who was the hospital Matron and a real tyrant according to Fred. The junior nurses were Privates, Lance Corporals, Corporals or Sergeants. Tom should not address anyone by their first name unless he was invited to do so. He should refer to them by their rank or rank and name if he knew their surname. He should always stand up straight when being addressed by or addressing an officer and he should use Sir or Ma’am rather than the officer’s rank all the time.
Tom was encouraged to go for walks around the hospital which he found so very interesting. He would stop and talk to anyone who had the time to chat. His over-riding memory was of the simple lives that people lived in those immediate post war years. Food was important, family values were extremely high and everyone respected authority. He used to spend a few minutes on every outing looking at the hospital notice board. Amongst the many notices were the sad lists of the patients who had died for whom no family or friends could be traced. Every day there would be one or two more names added to the list. Seeing these names Tom thought about his own identity. He had no name, no identity papers, no ration card and no past. He realised that he had to find a way to become an accepted member of society.
Once Tom’s stitches had been removed from his toe, he was allowed to go for walks outside the hospital. He was issued with a pair of shoes which took a little getting used to and frequent short walks were a good idea. As his toe improved he was able to walk f
or almost a whole morning and followed the river to the Houses of Parliament. There were signs of war damage everywhere and again he noticed just how filthy everything appeared. Tom crossed the river and after a short while found himself at St Thomas’ Hospital. Initially, he went in to use a lavatory but whilst there he saw a large notice board with dozens of names of unclaimed dead. This list was much longer and more comprehensive than the list he had seen at QAMH. For each person identified it gave a reference number, the date and time brought in, name, date of birth, where found, incident type and there was a space for remarks. He was told that the details were taken from ID found on the bodies and was therefore usually accurate.
He scanned the names. 18 Apr ’47, 1900hrs, Morgan, Charles, 16 Feb 1899, Waterloo Road, bomb blast, Brought in wounded died 19 Apr; 16 Apr ’47, 0845 hrs, Parsons, Nigel, 27 Oct 1921, Embankment Tube Station, Wall collapsed, Dead on arrival. So this list went on and as he continued to look he noticed an old couple who had wandered in and were standing looking at the list. “Mabel. This has to be him. He was in the Strand that night.” The old man noticed Tom. “We’re looking for our son. Didn’t come back from a night out. Have you lost someone?” By now Mabel was crying, but Tom thought for a second, then replied. “I’ve lost all my family and I’m alone now.” With that the old couple hurried away to the reception desk. Tom thought carefully about ways to obtain an identity. He sat down on a nearby bench and thought it through. If he were to tell people, back at the QAMH, that he thought he remembered his name and date of birth that might start a process to get him some bona fides. That might not work as someone would surely look for a birth certificate and one would not exist. But then he thought how much better it would be if he could get the identity documents of a dead person. He went back to look at the list of names.
Tom then went over to the reception desk and waited whilst the old couple were dealt with. “You say that this person is your son?”, “You will be expected to formally identify him, do you understand?”, “Can I see your ration card as ID?”, “Just one moment please.” The old couple were soon taken by an orderly, dressed in white, down the steps to the basement.
Tom hesitated then went forward. “Hello can you help me. I’m looking for my brother and I am sure that his name is on your list. The reference number is A6588.” The receptionist scanned her list. “You say that this person is your brother?”, “You will be expected to formally identify him, do you understand?”, “Can I see your ration card as ID?”, “Did you report the loss of your ration card at a Police Station?”, “If it’s just gone missing you should report it straight away.”, “Robbed were you. It happens a lot around here.”, “I’ll just have to ask my supervisor for advice.”
The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck were standing erect. He could feel the sweat beginning to soak into his shirt. “Stand your ground,” he thought. “Blame the amnesia if caught.” He waited for less than two minutes but it seemed like an hour. “This gentleman will take you down to the mortuary. You will have to sign a declaration before you leave. Is that okay Mr Shaw?” Tom almost coughed his reply back. “Ye, yes. No problem.” Tom was taken down the stairs and along a dimly-lit passage, through several sets of doors. He realised that he was about to look at the remains of some poor wretch who was about his age and perhaps badly mutilated. He took deep and regular breaths in preparation.
When the moment came it was not as bad as he had expected. Luckily for Tom the young man had died after falling into a water filled crater in the dark. He had apparently been drunk. The address on his ration card no longer existed and the police had already verified that the Shaw family had all been killed in a V2 rocket attack in 1944. A neighbour had thought that he had also been killed that same day. Tom was able to read some of the detail over the shoulder of the mortuary assistant. “Yes, Trevor and I had left home weeks before that rocket hit. I joined the Army at that time and am back now on a short leave pass. If I hadn’t been ambushed by those ruffians last night I would still have my ID.” He managed to make it sound quite plausible.
The fact that he had effectively corroborated the information on the assistant’s millboard had done the trick. “I need you to fill out this form and sign here and here, please Mr Shaw.” Tom complied and was then left alone with the body for two minutes. When the assistant returned he was carrying a brown paper parcel, done up with string and sealed with red wax. “A6588 Trevor Shaw” was written on a label on the parcel. Tom signed another form and was given the parcel. “Will you make arrangements for the collection of your brother’s body Mr Shaw?” Tom had not expected this. “Ah. The trouble is that I cannot afford an undertaker. What should I do?” The assistant produced another form. The body can be cremated without ceremony but in a Christian context or we can retain the body for another thirty days to give you a chance to make the necessary arrangements.” Tom chose the simple solution. The appropriate form was signed and Tom walked away.
He hurried, as best he could, back to the QAMH. He was late and was given a dressing down by his Staff Nurse. He was contrite, called her “Ma’am” more than necessary, and was then able to have his lunch. As soon as he could he opened the parcel. Everything had been soaked when Trevor had fallen into the bomb crater. A letter that he was carrying was illegible but his ration card, being completed in indelible ink, was usable. There was a wallet with three one pound notes and two 10s notes. A small envelope contained nearly 16s in various denominations of change. Suddenly Tom was rich. He also came across a photograph which was tucked into the wallet. It showed a young lady wearing a dress and pretending to curtsy. Tom suspected that this might have been a girlfriend or sister. The remainder of the items were of little use to Tom. There was a ruined railway timetable, several used Underground tickets for the Metropolitan Line and a petrol lighter. There was a very grubby off-white scarf which might have been silk and, finally, an envelope with an official note saying that a packet of Players with only three cigarettes left was disposed of as they were destroyed by water.
Tom paused and looked across the table at Julian Gaskin. “Would you mind letting me spend a penny,” he asked. Fredericks escorted the old man to the lavatory and then back again. “I’m sorry, when you get to my age you need to go just a little bit more often. Do you know, one of the biggest shocks for me going back to 1947 was the lavatory paper. It was like greaseproof paper, little better than using a Sunday colour supplement. Now where was I?”
Tom had been in hospital for 10 days when he received an unexpected visitor. It was a Military Policeman, a very tall Corporal, who had come to interview him in order to establish his correct identity, rank and military assigned unit. Tom did not want to admit to having any of the documents belonging to Trevor but he was happy to give the impression that part of his memory had returned. “I think that I might be Trevor Shaw. The name keeps coming up in my mind and I can hear people saying to me, ‘come on Trevor’ and ‘get in line Shaw’ and other things like that.” The MP made a note in his Army issue policeman’s notebook. “What about a date of birth or home address. Any little voices for that then, Shaw?” Tom soon realised that this Corporal did not care very much for his interviewee. “I don’t know I’m afraid.” The MP rounded on Tom. “You need to show some respect Shaw. Address me as Corporal and sit to attention. What’s wrong with you anyway? You look pretty fit to me. Maybe you’re a malingerer.” The interview was going downhill fast. “Sorry, Corporal,” Tom barked, as he tried to imitate characters that he had seen on Dad’s Army. “I had part of my toe cut off and a head wound that gave me amnesia… Corporal.”
“I need to know what unit you belong to. It says here that you were found at Larkhill. Are you a bloody Gunner then?” Tom did his best to humour his interrogator. “Yes Corporal. I mean no, Corporal. I was found at Larkhill but I don’t know if I’m a Gunner, I’m afraid.” The Corporal leant forward close enough for Tom to discover that he had been drinking rather a lot the night before. “There is no such beast as a Gunner
, there are only Bloody Gunners do you understand?” “Yes Corporal,” came the nervous reply. “What else do these voices in your head tell you or don’t they sing to you any more?” The Corporal was a particular bully and he frightened Tom. “I don’t know…sorry, Corporal. I don’t know any more, Corporal.” Tom was sweating and thought that this dreadful man might resort to physical violence.
“All right that’ll do.” The Corporal stood up and Tom remained in his chair. The next thing Tom felt was pain when a 15 stone man stood on his injured toe. He cried out. “Well that serves you right you little shit. When I stand up, you stand up. Do you understand?” Tom just managed to say, “Yes, Corporal,” as he stood up, avoiding a further assault. The Corporal left and Tom quickly removed his shoe and sock. Luckily there was no blood or sign of any damage. A nurse, a Lance Corporal, saw what had happened and asked Tom if he was okay. “Why the hell did he do that?” Tom asked. “Because you’re better than ‘im that’s why,” the nurse said as she looked down at his toe. “That’s silly. I haven’t done anything to hurt him.” Tom grimaced as she examined his toe. “People like that only know two types, those theys respect and those theys ‘ate and he ain’t got no respect for you. You’re better than ‘im ‘cause you talk posh.” Tom limped back to the sitting room and listened to the radio.
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