“Private Hoch, sir.”
“Well, go and get changed into some gym kit, and we’ll soon find out how long you can last with Matthews.”
When Lubji returned a few minutes later, Matthews was still shadow-boxing. He continued to ignore his would-be opponent as he stepped into the ring. The coach helped Lubji on with a pair of gloves.
“Right, let’s find out what you’re made of, Hoch,” said Lieutenant Wakeham.
Lubji advanced boldly toward the regimental champion and, when he was still a pace away, took a swing at his nose. Matthews feinted to the right, and then placed a glove firmly in the middle of Lubji’s face.
Lubji staggered back, hit the ropes and bounced off them toward the champion. He was just able to duck as the second punch came flying over his shoulder, but was not as fortunate with the next, which caught him smack on the chin. He lasted only a few more seconds before he hit the canvas for the first time. By the end of the round he had a broken nose and a cut eye that elicited howls of laughter from his comrades, who had stopped putting out chairs to watch the free entertainment from the back row of the gymnasium.
When Lieutenant Wakeham finally brought the bout to a halt, he asked if Lubji had ever been in a boxing ring before. Lubji shook his head. “Well, with some proper coaching you might turn out to be quite useful. Stop whatever duties you’ve been assigned to for the present, and for the next fortnight report to the gym every morning at six. I’m sure we’ll be able to make better use of you than putting out chairs.”
By the time the national championships were held, the other coolies had stopped laughing. Even Matthews had to admit that Hoch was a great deal better sparring partner than a punch-bag, and that he might well have been the reason he reached the semifinal.
The morning after the championships were over, Lubji was detailed to return to normal duties. He began to help dismantle the ring and take the chairs back to the lecture theater. He was rolling up one of the rubber mats when a sergeant entered the gym, looked around for a moment and then bellowed, “’Och!”
“Sir?” said Lubji, springing to attention.
“Don’t you read company orders, ’Och?” the sergeant shouted from the other side of the gym.
“Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”
“Make your mind up, ’Och, because you were meant to ’ave been in front of the regimental recruiting officer fifteen minutes ago,” said the sergeant.
“I didn’t realize…” began Lubji.
“I don’t want to ‘ear your excuses, ’Och,” said the sergeant. “I just want to see you moving at the double.” Lubji shot out of the gym, with no idea where he was going. He caught up with the sergeant, who only said, “Follow me, ’Och, pronto.”
“Pronto,” Lubji repeated. His first new word for several days.
The sergeant moved quickly across the parade ground, and two minutes later Lubji was standing breathless in front of the recruiting officer. Lieutenant Wakeham had also returned to his normal duties. He stubbed out the cigarette he had been smoking.
“Hoch,” said Wakeham, after Lubji had come to attention and saluted, “I have put in a recommendation that you should be transferred to the regiment as a private soldier.”
Lubji just stood there, trying to catch his breath.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the sergeant.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” repeated Lubji.
“Good,” said Wakeham. “Do you have any questions?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” responded the sergeant immediately.
“No, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Lubji. “Except…”
The sergeant scowled.
“Yes?” said Wakeham, looking up.
“Does this mean I’ll get a chance to kill Germans?”
“If I don’t kill you first, ’Och,” said the sergeant.
The young officer smiled. “Yes, it does,” he said. “All we have to do now is fill in a recruiting form.” Lieutenant Wakeham dipped his pen into an inkwell and looked up at Lubji. “What is your full name?”
“That’s all right, sir,” said Lubji, stepping forward to take the pen. “I can complete the form myself.”
The two men watched as Lubji filled in all the little boxes, before signing with a flourish on the bottom line.
“Very impressive, Hoch,” said the lieutenant as he checked through the form. “But might I be permitted to give you a piece of advice?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Lubji.
“Perhaps the time has come for you to change your name. I don’t think you’ll get a long way in the North Staffordshire Regiment with a name like Hoch.”
Lubji hesitated, looked down at the desk in front of him. His eyes settled on the packet of cigarettes with the famous emblem of a bearded sailor staring up at him. He drew a line through the name “Lubji Hoch,” and replaced it with “John Player.”
* * *
As soon as he had been kitted up in his new uniform, the first thing Private Player of the North Staffordshire Regiment did was swagger round the barracks, saluting anything that moved.
The following Monday he was dispatched to Aldershot to begin a twelve-week basic training course. He still rose every morning at six, and although the food didn’t improve, at least he felt he was being trained to do something worthwhile. To kill Germans. During his time at Aldershot he mastered the rifle, the Sten gun, the hand grenade, the compass, and map reading by night and day. He could march slow and at the double, swim a mile and go three days without supplies. When he returned to the camp three months later, Lieutenant Wakeham couldn’t help noticing a rather cocky air about the immigrant from Czechoslovakia, and was not surprised to find, when he read the reports, that the latest recruit had been recommended for early promotion.
Private John Player’s first posting was with the Second Battalion at Cliftonville. It was only a few hours after being billeted that he realized that, along with a dozen other regiments, they were preparing for the invasion of France. By the spring of 1944, southern England had become one vast training ground, and Private Player regularly took part in mock battles with Americans, Canadians and Poles.
Night and day he trained with his division, impatient for General Eisenhower to give the final order, so that he could once again come face to face with the Germans. Although he was continually reminded that he was preparing for the decisive battle of the war, the endless waiting almost drove him mad. At Cliftonville he added the regimental history, the coastline of Normandy and even the rules of cricket to everything he had learned at Aldershot, but despite all this preparation, he was still holed up in barracks “waiting for the balloon to go up.”
And then, without warning in the middle of the night of 4 June 1944 he was woken by the sound of a thousand lorries, and realized the preparations were over. The Tannoy began booming out orders across the parade ground, and Private Player knew that at last the invasion was about to begin.
He climbed onto the transport along with all the other soldiers from his section, and couldn’t help recalling the first time he had been herded onto a lorry. As one chime struck on the clock on the morning of the fifth, the North Staffordshires drove out of the barracks in convoy. Private Player looked up at the stars, and worked out that they must be heading south.
They traveled on through the night down unlit roads, gripping their rifles tightly. Few spoke; all of them were wondering if they would still be alive in twenty-four hours’ time. When they drove through Winchester, newly-erected signposts directed them to the coast. Others had also been preparing for 5 June. Private Player checked his watch. It was a few minutes past three. They continued on and on, still without any idea of where their final destination would be. “I only ’ope someone knows where we’re going,” piped up a corporal sitting opposite him.
It was another hour before the convoy came to a halt at the dockside in Portsmouth. A mass of bodies piled out of lorry after lorry and quickly formed up in divisions, to await their
orders.
Player’s section stood in three silent rows, some shivering in the cold night air, others from fear, as they waited to board the large fleet of vessels they could see docked in the harbor in front of them. Division upon division waited for the order to embark. Ahead of them lay the hundred-mile crossing that would deposit them on French soil.
The last time he had been searching for a boat, Private Player remembered, it was to take him as far away from the Germans as possible. At least this time he wouldn’t be suffocating in a cramped hold with only sacks of wheat to keep him company.
There was a crackling on the Tannoy, and everyone on the dockside fell silent.
“This is Brigadier Hampson,” said a voice, “and we are all about to embark on Operation Overlord, the invasion of France. We have assembled the largest fleet in history to take you across the Channel. You will be supported by nine battleships, twenty-three cruisers, one hundred and four destroyers and seventy-one corvettes, not to mention the back-up of countless vessels from the Merchant Navy. Your platoon commander will now give you your orders.”
The sun was just beginning to rise when Lieutenant Wakeham completed his briefing and gave the order for the platoon to board the Undaunted. Within moments of their climbing aboard the destroyer, the engines roared into action and they began their tossing and bobbing journey across the Channel, still with no idea where they might end up.
For the first half hour of that choppy crossing—Eisenhower had selected an unsettled night despite the advice of his top meteorologist—they sang, joked and told unlikely tales of even more unlikely conquests. When Private Player regaled them all with the story of how he had lost his virginity to a gypsy girl after she had removed a German bullet from his shoulder, they laughed even louder, and the sergeant said it was the most unlikely tale they had heard so far.
Lieutenant Wakeham, who was kneeling at the front of the vessel, suddenly placed the palm of his right hand high in the air, and everyone fell silent. It was only moments before they would be landing on an inhospitable beach. Private Player checked his equipment. He carried a gas mask, a rifle, two bandoliers of ammunition, some basic rations and a water bottle. It was almost as bad as being handcuffed. When the destroyer weighed anchor, he followed Lieutenant Wakeham off the ship into the first amphibious craft. Within moments they were heading toward the Normandy beach. As he looked around he could see that many of his companions were still groggy with seasickness. A hail of machine-gun bullets and mortars came down on them, and Private Player saw men in other craft being killed or wounded even before they reached the beach.
When the craft landed, Player leapt over the side after Lieutenant Wakeham. To his right and left he could see his mates running up the beach under fire. The first shell fell to his left before they had covered twenty yards. Seconds later he saw a corporal stagger on for several paces after a flurry of bullets went right through his chest. His natural instinct was to take cover, but there was none, so he forced his legs to keep going. He continued to fire, although he had no idea where the enemy were.
On and on up the beach he went, unable now to see how many of his comrades were falling behind him, but the sand was already littered with bodies that June morning. Player couldn’t be sure how many hours he was pinned on that beach, but for every few yards he was able to scramble forward, he spent twice as long lying still as the enemy fire passed over his head. Every time he rose to advance, fewer of his comrades joined him. Lieutenant Wakeham finally came to a halt when he reached the protection of the cliffs, with Private Player only a yard behind him. The young officer was trembling so much it was some moments before he could give any orders.
When they finally cleared the beach, Lieutenant Wakeham counted eleven of the original twenty-eight men who had been on the landing craft. The wireless operator told him they were not to stop, as their orders were to continue advancing. Player was the only man who looked pleased. For the next two hours they moved slowly inland toward the enemy fire. On and on they went, often with only hedgerows and ditches for protection, men falling with every stride. It was not until the sun had almost disappeared that they were finally allowed to rest. A camp was hastily set up, but few could sleep while the enemy guns continued to pound away. While some played cards, others rested, and the dead lay still.
But Private Player wanted to be the first to come face to face with the Germans. When he was certain no one was watching, he stole out of his tent and advanced in the direction of the enemy, using only the tracers from their fire as his guide. After forty minutes of running, walking, and crawling, he heard the sound of German voices. He skirted round the outside of what looked like their forward camp until he spotted a German soldier relieving himself in the bushes. He crept up behind him, and just as the man was bending down to pull up his pants Player leapt on him. With one arm around his neck, he twisted and snapped his vertebrae, and left him to slump into the bushes. He removed the German’s identity tag and helmet and set off back to his camp.
He must have been about a hundred yards away when a voice demanded, “Who goes there?”
“Little Red Riding Hood,” said Player, remembering the password just in time.
“Advance and be recognized.”
Player took a few more paces forward, and suddenly felt the tip of a bayonet in his back and a second at his throat. Without another word he was marched off to Lieutenant Wakeham’s tent. The young officer listened intently to what Player had to say, only stopping him occasionally to double check some piece of information.
“Right, Player,” said the lieutenant, once the unofficial scout had completed his report. “I want you to draw a map of exactly where you think the enemy are camped. I need details of the terrain, distance, numbers, anything you can remember that will help us once we begin our advance. When you’ve completed that, try and get some sleep. You’re going to have to act as our guide when we begin the advance at first light.”
“Shall I put him on a charge for leaving the camp without requesting permission from an officer?” asked the duty sergeant.
“No,” said Wakeham. “I shall be issuing company orders, effective immediately, that Player has been made up to corporal.” Corporal Player smiled, saluted and returned to his tent. But before he went to sleep, he sewed two stripes on each sleeve of his uniform.
* * *
As the regiment advanced slow mile after slow mile deeper into France, Player continued to lead sorties behind the lines, always returning with vital information. His biggest prize was when he came back accompanied by a German officer whom he had caught with his trousers down.
Lieutenant Wakeham was impressed by the fact that Player had captured the man, and even more when he began the interrogation, and found that the corporal was able to assume the role of interpreter.
The next morning they stormed the village of Orbec, which they overran by nightfall. The lieutenant sent a dispatch to his headquarters to let them know that Corporal Player’s information had shortened the battle.
* * *
Three months after Private John Player had landed on the beach at Normandy, the North Staffordshire Regiment marched down the Champs Élysées, and the newly promoted Sergeant Player had only one thing on his mind: how to find a woman who would be happy to spend his three nights’ leave with him or—if he got really lucky—three women who would spend one night each.
But before they were let loose on the city, all noncommissioned officers were told that they must first report to the welcoming committee for Allied personnel, where they would be given advice on how to find their way around Paris. Sergeant Player couldn’t imagine a bigger waste of his time. He knew exactly how to take care of himself in any European capital. All he wanted was to be let loose before the American troops got their hands on everything under forty.
When Sergeant Player arrived at the committee headquarters, a requisitioned building in the Place de la Madeleine, he took his place in line waiting to receive a folder of inform
ation about what was expected of him while he was on Allied territory—how to locate the Eiffel Tower, which clubs and restaurants were within his price range, how to avoid catching V.D. It looked as if this advice was being dispensed by a group of middle-aged ladies who couldn’t possibly have seen the inside of a nightclub for the past twenty years.
When he finally reached the front of the queue, he just stood there mesmerized, quite unable to utter a word in any language. A slim young girl with deep brown eyes and dark curly hair stood behind the trestle table, and smiled up at the tall, shy sergeant. She handed him his folder, but he didn’t move on.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked in English, with a strong French accent.
“Yes,” he replied. “What is your name?”
“Charlotte,” she told him, blushing, although she had already been asked the same question a dozen times that day.
“And are you French?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Get on with it, Sarge,” demanded the corporal standing behind him.
“Are you doing anything for the next three days?” he asked, switching to her own language.
“Not a lot. But I am on duty for another two hours.”
“Then I’ll wait for you,” he said. He turned and took a seat on a wooden bench that had been placed against the wall.
During the next 120 minutes John Player’s gaze rarely left the girl with curly, dark hair, except to check the slow progress of the minute hand on the large clock which hung on the wall behind her. He was glad that he had waited and not suggested he would return later, because during those two hours he saw several other soldiers lean over to ask her exactly the same question he had. On each occasion she looked across in the direction of the sergeant, smiled and shook her head. When she finally handed over her responsibilities to a middle-aged matron, she walked across to join him. Now it was her turn to ask a question.
“What would you like to do first?”
He didn’t tell her, but happily agreed to being shown around Paris.
The Fourth Estate Page 13