Date: Thu, 24 Feb 2011 17:05:35 +0000
From: Michael Gouda <michael@tanyardbank.plus.com>
Subject: Snapshots of War (part 4)

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