Snapshots of War Michael Gouda Part 4 Friday 7th March 1941 Corporals Bert Salter and 'Chalky' White stood with the other soldiers on the deck of HMS Rutland looking back at the port of Cardiff in Wales. Grey overcast sky. A grey mist hanging like a veil over the cranes and slipways of the yards. The water over the side a darker grey. They could feel the regular shudder of the engines through the decking beneath their feet. "Never thought when I was a kid I'd ever go further overseas than the Isle of Wight," said Chalky. "Probably where we'll find ourselves ending up at anyway," said Bert with the cynical outlook of the old soldier who has seen more military balls-ups than he's had hot dinners. "No, really, Bert. Where d'you think we're going?" "I don't know, mate. India, Far East, Singapore perhaps. Somewhere foreign anyway where the women are exotic and the food gives you the fucking squits an' the water's full of wriggly things." "You mean like Manchester." Chalky laughed. "Anyway you won't be messing with exotic birds," he said. "Not with Theresa waitin' for you at 'ome." "Don't you believe it, mate," said Bert. "Yer prick gets fucking lonely when all it's felt is your five-fingered friend after a while." "Bet you it's Burma," said Chalky. "They 'ave some lovely birds out there." They watched the water creaming away from under the stern. The soldiers around them smoked their Woodbines, cupping their hands round the glowing tips. A cold wind blew from the open sea ahead of them, tossing up the wave tips into white froth. "Thought you was getting on with our Adele," said Bert slyly. "I could see she was quite taken with you." Chalky looked a little embarrassed. He could have discussed Adele with a mate, but when the mate was Adele's father, it was a different matter. "She's a grand girl," he said. "I promised to send her a letter but you know I ain't very good at writing." "She was quite taken with you," Bert repeated. Chalky nodded. "I'll write her soon as we get somewhere. I'll 'ave something to tell 'er then. Even if it's how cold the sea is off the Isle of Wight." Bert shivered, pulling his greatcoat around him. "Let's go below," he said. "It's too fucking cold here." A young able seaman showed them how to sling their hammocks and laughed at their attempts to climb into them. It was warmer below decks but the ever present smell of oil made some of the soldiers feel sick. "Going to get a bit choppy tonight," said the AB. "I'll show you the mess while you landlubbers still feel you can look at food." Constant movements - and all alien to the dry-landers. In the hammocks swinging slightly with the motion of the ship, they could feel queasily the continual reverberation of the engines, the rise of the ship through the wave crests followed by the inevitable sickening plunge into the troughs. Most found it unpleasant. Next morning, after a night which he was surprised to find quite comfortable in the hammock Bert awoke to discover that many of the men had greenish complexions and had been seasick for most of the night. There were few amongst the soldiers who appeared for breakfast that first morning - much to the amusement of the seasoned crew. Later that day in the Channel as they rounded the Lizard the 'Rutland' met up with a large convoy, protected by three destroyers to escort them on their long journey south. They didn't know their eventual destination but they had been told they would be refuelling in Durban, South Africa before turning the Cape of Good Hope for a war sector. They made bets.
Monday 31st March 1941 In January Cardiff was bombed; in February, Swansea; March, the shipyards of Clydeside, and more Naval establishments in Plymouth. London, of course, still received its nightly bombing, though now extended to all parts and not just the dockland areas. Adele looked at herself gloomily in the mirror. It had suffered from the bombing and a crack ran from top right to middle bottom so that if she moved too quickly, it showed a double image. But even when she saw herself clearly she knew she wouldn't get herself a boyfriend looking like that. Her face was swollen, complexion yellowish and she had angry red pustules around her nose and mouth. It was all the fault of the stuff at Woolwich Arsenal munitions factory. Loading explosive chemicals into cartridge cases did that to all of them, impetigo they called it, caused by the cordite, the smell and dust of which was everywhere. And her hair was a mess, lank and greasy. She could cover that with a scarf - though it made her look like a peasant woman. She sighed. Still the pay was good - £10 a week and the danger money on top. Ought to be for the hours she worked and the stuff she handled. Poisoning her like that, bringing her up in spots and sending her yellow - like a Chinese. Day shift or night shift it was eight to eight, twelve hours work, except in the summer when it was nine to nine. And if a bomb landed on the Arsenal that'd really be the end. Bits of her scattered all over South London. Last week it had been Plymouth that had copped it. On the 20th and 21st the whole Medieval centre of the City, the Law Courts, Post Office, Library, City Hospital, razed to the ground by fire, 18,000 houses destroyed, said the news report on the wireless. And once the bombing was over, the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress, Lord Astor and his American wife, Nancy, had provided a band for dancing to on the Hoe, while she and Noel Coward walked the streets slapping people on the back and making jokes as if they were ordinary people. She'd have liked to have seen that, Adele thought. She peered again at her reflection. No, looking like that she wouldn't get a boyfriend - even from the Palais. Last one had been that `Chalky' White, the soldier-friend of her dad's. He'd been good. She sighed again, but she hadn't seen him since embarkation leave and, though he said he'd write, he'd only sent one postcard and then nothing. She wondered where he was now. And there was no one round nowadays, except for kids of seventeen and eighteen, and old men of forty. All the rest were in the Forces - or had been invalided home with all the fun knocked out of them. She squeezed a spot and was satisfied when the pus splattered onto the glass. "Nearly time you were off to work, Adele." Her mother's voice from the kitchen. "D'you want anything for breakfast?" "Just a cuppa." She gave up the hopeless job of her face and went downstairs. William came clattering down the stairs after her. Adele gave him a look. Something had happened to William over the past couple of months. He'd changed, no longer the irritable little younger brother, always cheeking her and generally being such a nuisance. Suddenly he seemed to have matured, was more serious, more considerate. Sometimes she even thought she could get to like him! Perhaps it was the war - or his job - or something else. He still didn't confide in her of course. Not that she wanted to know about his life, his problems - she'd got enough of those herself - but she wondered. Anyway it wouldn't stop her treating him like the younger brother he was. She looked at the old clock on the mantelpiece. Big black thing, with brass pillars and a chime that reminded her of Big Ben - though not of course as loud. Their Gran's it had been, passed down when she had died. She'd better get a move on. The tram would be along any minute and she didn't want to be late for work and have her pay docked. She drank her cuppa and made a face. No sugar. Presumably the ration had run out. She picked up her gas mask in its cardboard box. Dreadful nuisance but you had to carry it everywhere. She kissed her Mum and waved to William. The tram was full and smoky and the upstairs windows were covered with condensation so that she had to rub a space to see out. There were piles of rubble in the streets and new holes where last night's bombs had fallen and a detour where there was an unexploded bomb. Past Lewisham Town Hall then to Blackheath Common, where another girl with blond hair, caught up in a net snood and wearing bright scarlet lipstick, got on and plumped herself beside Adele. "Lo, Mavis," said Adele. She thought her friend looked very glamorous. "Ooh," said Mavis, "I'm gasping for a fag." She lit up and puffed smoke into the already clogged air. After she had filled her lungs, she added, "They're showing 'Gone with the Wind' at the Essoldo. D'you fancy seein' it on Saturday. Then we could go on to the Palais after." "I'd like to go to the pictures," said Adele, "but I can't go dancing, not looking like this." She touched her face where the spots flamed. "Cover them with make-up," suggested Mavis. "Haven't been able to find any for ages." "I can get you some. On the Black Market of course. There's a spiv down our way who can get anything. Cost you, of course." "How much?" asked Adele. "Ten bob." Adele gasped at the exorbitant cost but agreed. "OK. In for a penny, in for a pound. I suppose he doesn't do stockings as well." She smiled and a young man further down the tram who had happened to turn round at the same time, smiled back with a gap-toothed grin that did marvels for her self-confidence. The tram went down Shooters Hill and into Woolwich. At the end of Plumstead Road it stopped for them to alight outside the long grey brick building of the munitions factory, sandbags piled up against the walls and hiding even the windows so that they had to have electric light on all the time. 'Music While You Work' was being played through the Tannoy as they clocked in and took their places. It was the only thing that kept them going - that and the conversation. Smoking was out of course - what with the gunpowder around. Indeed they had to wear slip-ons over their regular shoes in case a nail struck a spark from the concrete floor. And overalls and masks though these never really kept out the cordite dust which hung in the air, got into their throats, made their scalps itch and their eyes red. "Still it's for the War Effort," they said - and the pay is good, they thought. They considered themselves lucky. Filling percussion caps is a fiddly task but it doesn't exactly strain the intellect and the girls were frequently bored. Though conversation was not prohibited it was not exactly encouraged and management frequently patrolled the aisles behind the girls at their benches making some of the less brazen feel uneasy. 'Prowling' was what they called it and Mavis was an adept at locating - seemingly with eyes at the back of her head - any of the bosses coming along, however circumspectly they approached. "Old Charlie's on the prowl," she would announce when the red-haired under-manager was still far down the line and the girls would quieten down and be industriously pushing cordite into cases when he passed them by. "Why d'you call him 'Old'?" asked Adele out of the corner of her mouth. "He can't be more than mid-thirties." "Probably younger than that but he ought to be in the forces," muttered Mavis. "Fighting for his country." "He's 'reserved'," said Adele. "He's creepy," said Mavis. "I think he's probably a spy." "Dis iss Fumf spikking," said Adele, repeating one of the ITMA wireless comedy catchphrases. Mavis laughed. "Well fifth columnist anyway." Adele had heard the phrase on the wireless but didn't really know what it meant. "What's that?" she asked. "Fifth column?" "Oh you know." Perhaps Mavis wasn't sure either. "Nazi sympathiser. His name sounds foreign anyway." It was the final denunciation. "Charlie?" said Adele, teasing. "No. Leverton." "Could be Jewish." "What with hair that colour?" "Thought Germans were supposed to be blond." "Well Hitler ain't," said Mavis, as if that decided everything. Quite what it proved as regards the red-haired Charles Leverton, Adele wasn't sure. "Anyway," said Mavis, obviously having exhausted the topic. "Roll on break time. I'm dying for a fag." As she spoke the hooter interrupted the music and there was an announcement over the crackling Tannoy. "C Shift - 10 minutes tea break. Be back promptly and remember - No Smoking." "I'm going to the bog," said Mavis. "Gotta have a fag. Get me a tea will you. I'll be along in a jiffy." In the canteen Adele let the conversation wash over her, the girls' voices high and amused. Ella, Nancy, Vera, Maud, sipping their teas, chatting about the big American film, 'Gone with the Wind' showing in the West End, boy friends, what they had done at the weekend. Mavis joined them smelling of cigarette smoke, though the others ignored it. The clock ticked inexorably on and they were about to return when Adele noticed Charlie Leverton enter the canteen. He was accompanied by another man who had his back to her. She watched them as the girls got to their feet and started back to the assembly line. Charlie wasn't that bad-looking, she thought. Then, remembering that she needed to go to the toilet, she hurried out. The tune of a popular song ran through her head. She sang quietly to herself, 'We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but I know we'll meet again some sunny day.'
Friday 2nd May 1941 Hotter than Hell, hotter than the tart he'd had in Durban three weeks ago - and she was hot indeed, hotter than the lava of Mount Vesuvius, hotter than - Bert ran out of similes. It was too fucking hot. The sweat ran down his back between his shoulder-blades. It ran into his groin and stuck the grains of sand which had got up the legs of his shorts the last time he had sat down. It ran down from his hairline into his eyes and made them sting. The whole fucking country was full of things that stung or bit. Scorpions that hid in your boots overnight, though why anything would want to crawl into HIS boots, Bert couldn't comprehend. Snakes that slithered across the sand dunes with fangs so full of deadly venom that one bite could turn you into a rigid contorted corpse in a few agonising minutes. Flies that bit any exposed areas of flesh, legs, arms, face, turning them into irritating lumps of flesh you scratched at until they bled - though it didn't stop the itching. Why would anybody conceivably want to conquer such a Godforsaken country as Eritrea - especially the Eyeties who apparently, according to an education lecture on 'the Roman Inheritance' which Bert had had to endure, lived in quite a green and pleasant land? What had Mussolini been thinking of? Must've been fucking barmy. Best left to the fuzzy-wuzzies who lived here. Now they were a strange people, thought Bert, marching doggedly down the sandy, dusty track, sweating. They didn't seem to sweat - not like he did at any rate. Just looked polished, jet black, tall, guns and bandoliers all over their bodies, proud of the number of Italians they had killed. He was glad they were on his side. Understandably the Eyeties themselves didn't seem all that too keen to want to hold on to their 'new Empire'. They'd been surrendering all the way across Eritrea and the only job left now was to mop up the rest. Like in the fortress town built at the top of the mountain ahead of them. Bert peered up at the stone-built houses, mostly one storey and the wall around it. The sun stared back. They called a halt and the officers considered the position. The gradient was too steep for the Bren gun carriers so it would have to be a foot job. Bert and his platoon were allocated a section of rocky terrain to climb, using the rocks as cover. Chalky and his unit were over to his right. They set off, scrambling over the scree which slid away under their boots. Two up, three fucking down, thought Bert, the palms of his hands slippery, the weight of his rifle on his back. How he'd be able to climb and fire his gun at the same time, he'd no idea. He gasped for breath but the hot dry air was no relief. A rifle cracked from somewhere above but they were still well out of range. All the same he made for the cover of an overhanging rock and crouched there, panting. He was joined by a young conscript, college type, Harry Trent, dusty face streaked with sweat. "Phew. That was a climb and a half," said Trent. "Save your breath, private," said Bert. "We ain't half way there yet." He poked his nose out and peered up again. "There's another overhang up there and to the right. Come on." They moved on again. There was a sudden muffled crump and a plume of smoke from further over to the right where Charlie's unit was. "Jesus," said Trent. "Mortar fire," said Bert. Trent stood up, looking over to where the smoke was clearing. "Looks like some of our lads have been hit." "Get yer head down, you fucking idiot." A spatter of rifle fire showed that Trent had been seen, but luckily for him, they were still out of range. The lad flopped down into the dirt and sandy shale. Bert groaned. Fucking children he was looking after. He waved to the others in his unit to come on, pointing to the next cover and they made their way gradually upwards until an officer called to them all to stop and prepare to fire. Bert lay down with the .303 rifle held against his shoulder. It felt natural even though this would be the first time he had actually fired in anger. He cocked the bolt and felt the trigger give a little as he curled his finger round it. From somewhere a little behind him and to his left he heard the order. "Ready, aim..." He focused on the dark window rectangle in the white wall of one of the houses. He wondered if there was anyone there. Perhaps an olive- skinned Eyetie sitting, sweating like he was, pointing his rifle at him. "FIRE" He squeezed the trigger and felt the punch of the butt into his shoulder. A volley of gunfire, much more impressive than the scattered fire from above. He pulled the bolt and pushed it back again, squeezed the trigger, firing until the rifle was empty and then reloading with a clip of five more bullets. "HOLD YOUR FIRE" The order was scarcely audible above the gunfire. There was no more firing from above and white flags were flying above the defences, being waved from windows. It was all over. Bert felt a sense of exhilaration. He hadn't been shit-scared at all. It was all going to be all right. "Casualties on our side have been very light," said the captain. Not that that made the slightest fucking difference to those who'd bought it. Afterwards, when they were sitting eating their bully beef and drinking their tea, Bert turned to talk to Chalky but of course he wasn't there any more. He'd been a good mate, had Chalky. Bert would miss him. He'd have to write to tell Adele. "They say the Italians further north have been reinforced by some German troops under the leadership of a General Rommel," said Private Trent. Bert nodded. "Fat lot of good that'll do them, Corp," said Trent. "Don't you think?" "We'll see," said Bert.
Friday 9th May 1941 Stringbean had knocked at the door early that morning, even before William had gone to work. The family had thought it was the postman and William had run in case there was a letter from his dad. He was surprised to see Stringbean on the doorstep as he had always told him that he kept 'gentlemen's hours', not even getting up until after 10 o'clock and mocking William's early start. "What do you want?" asked William. He had done several jobs for Stringbean since they had gone to the Angel and the money that he had received had salved William's conscience in a surprisingly easy way but he didn't want his mum, or even Adele, to know about the acquaintanceship. They might start asking questions. "Good," said Stringbean, apparently not put off by William's curt greeting. "Glad I caught you. Look, Chinky, you gotta do something for me. I need some more supplies - you know from Lucky, up at the Angel. I've gotta go down to Brighton for the weekend. If I give you the list, and the money to pay, can you get up there tomorrow and do the collecting?" William wasn't keen. There was something about Lucky he didn't trust - and coming back with all the stuff, on his own. Who knows if he might be stopped. But Stringbean didn't wait for any excuses or refusals. He put the case down into the hallway and pushed a piece of paper and a fat envelope into William's hand. "Tomorrow," he said. "Eleven o'clock. Don't be late. Lucky doesn't like people to be late." "Lucky doesn't like unexpected people turning up," said William. "Remember last time." 'He won't mind this time," said Stringbean. "In fact he suggested it." He turned and disappeared at a run down the road. William was about to shut the door when the postman arrived. Two letters, one a forces mail but it was for Adele. "You were long enough there," said Theresa. "It was the postman," said William. "We was chatting." He gave one letter to his mother and the other to Adele. "Thought it might be from dad." "Gas bill," said Theresa. "Whose is yours from?" But Adele was blushing and wouldn't say. She tucked the letter, unopened, into her blouse and went upstairs. "Bet it's from that Charlie," said William. "I hope so," said Theresa. "He's a nice lad." The arrangement to see Lucky weighed on William's mind so much that he made several mistakes at work and his mates teased him. "He's thinking about his girl," said Joe. "Gerroff, he's too young to have a girl. He's probably mislaid his teddy bear." William had to put up with the ribbing and was glad when the day was over but the following morning, the nearer he got to the time when he had to go to see Lucky, the more his apprehension increased. He was sweating when he got out of the tube at the Angel and had to visit the toilets before he left the station. The case fell over with a hollow, empty sound as he stood at the urinal and the man at the other end looked up at the sound. William could feel the thick envelope in his inside jacket pocket. He imagined that it stood out and made an obvious bump. Hurriedly he finshed and buttoned himself up. The alley was empty as before and had its own characteristic sour smell, even stronger than last time. The door through which they had entered was shut and William knocked on it timidly, perhaps too timidly because no one came. He gave it a tentative push. It swung open without a sound. William went in and the door swung to behind him. The warehouse seemed to be even darker than the last time. William peered into the gloom and gradually, as his eyes accustomed, the stacks of boxes appeared, towering vertiginously above and around him. The centre, where last time Lucky had sat at the table drinking whisky, was still impenetrable. "Hello," said William. His voice sounded weak and tentative. "Is there anyone there?" Suddenly he didn't want to be there. He sensed, though he couldn't hear or see anything, that someone was in the shadows - even now moving towards him. He turned back towards the door and as he did so a hand came out of the darkness and grabbed at his crotch. He screamed. "Glad you were able to come," said a soft, insinuating voice, another arm gripping him round the chest. William struggled free, hitting out but missing his target. There was a chuckle. "I like 'em playful," said the voice. It seemed that Lucky could see much better than William. Whichever way he dodged, the arms were there, clasping him in a strong hold, clutching especially at his genitals. Then he had him in a lock from which William couldn't escape, one arm round his chest, his legs imprisoned by Lucky's leg. A free hand ripped open his fly buttons and took hold of his cock. Suddenly there was light as the door opened. Both were startled and for a moment Lucky's grip relaxed. William squirmed and for a moment was free. In the rectangle of light stood the vast bulk of Cyril, itself as wide as a barn door. All the same William made for it. "Stop him," called Lucky. Cyril may have been strong but he wasn't particularly agile and perhaps he was himself blinded by the darkness. William made straight for his outstretched arms but at the last moment ducked under them and was through, out into the open, where the cabbage air smelt like the perfume of freedom. He didn't stop running until he was in the station and was sure that no one was pursuing. Some people stared and he realised that his trousers were open. Blushing, he did himself up. He had dropped Stringbean's case but the money was still in his pocket and whatever Lucky had planned for him hadn't happened. On Sunday he told Stringbean who laughed. "He tried the same with me first time," he said. "What did you do?" "I let him go ahead. It was worth the fiver he gave me afterwards." "I'm not going back there again," said William. "He'll 'ave fogotten about it by next time, but it's a pity you didn't get the stuff. What am I going to sell this week?" William didn't care. He broke out in a sweat when he thought of that darkness, those groping hands and the voice in his ear. End of Part 4