As the Crow Flies

When Saturday night eventually came, two swollen-footed, limb-aching, shattered soldiers covered as much of the city as they possibly could in three hours with only five shillings each to spend, a problem that limited their discussions on which pub to select.

Despite this, Tommy seemed to know how to get more beer per penny out of any landlord than Charlie had ever dreamed possible, even when he couldn’t understand what they were saying or make himself understood. While they were in their last port of call, the Volunteer, Tommy even disappeared out of the pub followed by the barmaid, a pert, slightly plump girl called Rose. Ten minutes later he was back.

“What were you doin’ out there?” asked Charlie.

“What do you think, idiot?”

“But you were only away for ten minutes.”

“Quite enough time,” said Tommy. “Only officers need more than ten minutes for what I was up to.”

During the following week they had their first rifle lesson, bayonet practice and even a session of map reading. While Charlie quickly mastered the art of map reading it was Tommy who took only a day to find his way round a rifle. By their third lesson he could strip the barrel and put the pieces back together again faster than the instructor.

On Wednesday morning of the second week Captain Trentham gave them their first lecture on the history of the Royal Fusiliers. Charlie might have quite enjoyed the lesson if Trentham hadn’t left the impression that none of them was worthy of being in the same regiment as himself.

“Those of us who selected the Royal Fusiliers because of historic links or family ties may feel that allowing criminals to join our ranks simply because we’re at war is hardly likely to advance the regiment’s reputation,” he said, looking pointedly in the direction of Tommy.

“Stuck-up snob,” declared Tommy, just loud enough to reach every ear in the lecture theater except the captain’s. The ripple of laughter that followed brought a scowl to Trentham’s face.

On Thursday afternoon Captain Trentham returned to the gym, but this time he was not striking the side of his leg with a swagger stick. He was kitted up in a white gym singlet, dark blue shorts and a thick white sweater; the new outfit was just as neat and tidy as his uniform. He walked around watching the instructors putting the men through their paces and, as on his last visit, seemed to take a particular interest in what was going on in the boxing ring. For an hour the men were placed in pairs while they received basic instructions, first in defense and then in attack. “Hold your guard up, laddie,” were the words barked out again and again whenever fists reached chins.

By the time Charlie and Tommy climbed through the ropes, Tommy had made it clear to his friend that he hoped to get away with three minutes’ shadowboxing.

“Get stuck into each other, you two,” shouted Trentham, but although Charlie started to jab away at Tommy’s chest he made no attempt to inflict any real pain.

“If you don’t get on with it, I’ll take on both of you, one after the other,” shouted Trentham.

“I’ll bet ’e couldn’t knock the cream off a custard puddin’,” said Tommy, but this time his voice did carry, and to the instructor’s dismay, Trentham immediately leaped up into the ring and said, “We’ll see about that.” He asked the coach to fit him up with a pair of boxing gloves.

“I’ll have three rounds with each of these two men,” Trentham said as a reluctant instructor laced up the captain’s gloves. Everyone else in the gymnasium stopped to watch what was going on.

“You first. What’s your name?” asked the captain, pointing to Tommy.

“Prescott, sir,” said Tommy, with a grin.

“Ah yes, the convict,” said Trentham, and removed the grin in the first minute, as Tommy danced around him trying to stay out of trouble. In the second round Trentham began to land the odd punch, but never hard enough to allow Tommy to go down. He saved that humiliation for the third round, when he knocked Tommy out with an uppercut that the lad from Poplar never saw. Tommy was carried out of the ring as Charlie was having his gloves laced up.

“Now it’s your turn, Private,” said Trentham. “What’s your name?”

“Trumper, sir.”

“Well. Let’s get on with it, Trumper,” was all the captain said before advancing towards him.

For the first two minutes Charlie defended himself well, using the ropes and the corner as he ducked and dived, remembering every skill he had learned at the Whitechapel Boys’ Club. He felt he might even have given the captain a good run for his money if it hadn’t been for the damned man’s obvious advantage of height and weight.

By the third minute Charlie had begun to gain confidence and even landed a punch or two, to the delight of the onlookers. As the round ticked to an end, he felt he had acquitted himself rather well. When the bell sounded he dropped his gloves and turned to go back to his corner. A second later the captain’s clenched fist landed on the side of Charlie’s nose. Everyone in that gymnasium heard the break as Charlie staggered against the ropes. No one murmured as the captain unlaced his gloves and climbed out of the ring. “Never let your guard down” was the only solace he offered.

When Tommy studied the state of his friend’s face that night as Charlie lay on his bed, all he said was, “Sorry, mate, all my fault. Bloody man’s a sadist. But don’t worry, if the Germans don’t get the bastard, I will.”

Charlie could only manage a thin smile.

By Saturday they had both recovered sufficiently to fall in with the rest of the company for pay parade, waiting in a long queue to collect five shillings each from the paymaster. During their three hours off duty that night the pennies disappeared more quickly than the queue, but Tommy somehow continued to get better value for money than any other recruit.

By the beginning of the third week, Charlie could only just fit his swollen toes into the heavy leather boots the army had supplied him with, but looking down the rows of feet that adorned the barracks room floor each morning he could see that none of his comrades was any better off.

“Fatigues for you, my lad, that’s for sure,” shouted the corporal. Charlie shot him a glance, but the words were being directed at Tommy in the next bed.

“What for, Corp?” asked Tommy.