As the Crow Flies

“For the state of your sheets. Just look at them. You might have had three women in there with you during the night.”

“Only two, to be ’onest with you, Corp.”

“Less of your lip, Prescott, and see that you report for latrine duty straight after breakfast.”

“I’ve already been this morning, thank you, Corp.”

“Shut up, Tommy,” said Charlie. “You’re only makin’ things more difficult for yourself.”

“I see you’re gettin’ to understand my problem,” whispered Tommy. “It’s just that the corp’s worse than the bloody Germans.”

“I can only ’ope so, lad, for your sake,” came back the corporal’s reply. “Because that’s the one chance you’ve got of coming through this whole thing alive. Now get yourself off to the latrines—at the double.”

Tommy disappeared, only to return an hour later smelling like a manure heap.

“You could kill off the entire German army without any of us having to fire a shot,” said Charlie. “All you’d ’ave to do is stand in front of ’em and ‘ope the wind was blowin’ in the right direction.”

It was during the fifth week—Christmas and the New Year having passed with little to celebrate—that Charlie was put in charge of the duty roster for his own section.

“They’ll be makin’ you a bleedin’ colonel before you’ve finished,” said Tommy.

“Don’t be stupid,” replied Charlie. “Everyone gets a chance at runnin’ the section at some time durin’ the twelve weeks.”

“Can’t see them takin’ that risk with me,” said Tommy. “I’d turn the rifles on the officers and my first shot would be aimed at that bastard Trentham.”

Charlie found that he enjoyed the responsibility of having to organize the section for seven days and was only sorry when his week was up and the task was handed on to someone else.

By the sixth week, Charlie could strip and clean a rifle almost as quickly as Tommy, but it was his friend who turned out to be a crack shot and seemed to be able to hit anything that moved at two hundred yards. Even the sergeant major was impressed.

“All those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might ’ave somethin’ to do with it,” admitted Tommy. “But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?”

“Sooner than you think, lad,” promised the corporal.

“Must complete twelve weeks’ trainin’,” said Charlie. “That’s King’s Regulations. So we won’t get the chance for at least another month.”

“King’s Regulations be damned,” said Tommy. “I’m told this war could be all over before I even get a shot at them.”

“Not much ’ope of that,” said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.

“Trumper,” barked a voice.

“Yes, sir,” said Charlie, surprised to find the duty sergeant standing by his side.

“The adjutant wants to see you. Follow me.”

“But Sergeant, I haven’t done anythin’—”

“Don’t argue, lad, just follow me.”

“It ’as to be the firin’ squad,” said Tommy. “And just because you wet your bed. Tell ’im I’ll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least you can be certain it a be over quick.”

Charlie unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.

“Don’t forget, you can insist on a blindfold. Just a pity you don’t smoke,” were Tommy’s last words as Charlie disappeared across the parade ground at the double.

The sergeant came to a halt outside the adjutant’s hut, and an out-of-breath Charlie caught up with him just as the door was opened by a color sergeant who turned to Charlie and said, “Stand to attention, lad, remain one pace behind me and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understood?”

“Yes, Color Sergeant.”