As the Crow Flies

Charlie followed the color sergeant through the outer office until they reached another door marked “Capt. Trentham, Adj.” Charlie could feel his heart pumping away as the color sergeant knocked quietly on the door.

“Enter,” said a bored voice and the two men marched in, took four paces forward and came to a halt in front of Captain Trentham.

The color sergeant saluted.

“Private Trumper, 7312087, reporting as ordered, sir,” he bellowed, despite neither of them being more than a yard away from Captain Trentham.

The adjutant looked up from behind his desk.

“Ah yes, Trumper. I remember, you’re the baker’s lad from Whitechapel.” Charlie was about to correct him when Trentham turned away to stare out of the window, obviously not anticipating a reply. “The sergeant major has had his eye on you for several weeks,” Trentham continued, “and feels you’d be a good candidate for promotion to lance corporal. I have my doubts, I must confess. However, I do accept that occasionally it’s necessary to promote a volunteer in order to keep up morale in the ranks. I presume you will take on this responsibility, Trumper?” he added, still not bothering to look in Charlie’s direction.

Charlie didn’t know what to say.

“Yes, sir, thank you, sir,” offered the color sergeant before bellowing, “About turn, quick march, left, right, left, right.”

Ten seconds later Lance Corporal Charlie Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers found himself back out on the parade ground.

“Lance Corporal Trumper,” said Tommy in disbelief after he had been told the news. “Does that mean I ’ave to call you ‘sir’?”

“Don’t be daft, Tommy. ‘Corp’ will do,” Charlie said with a grin, as he sat on the end of the bed sewing a single stripe onto an arm of his uniform.

The following day Charlie’s section of ten began to wish that he hadn’t spent the previous fourteen years of his life visiting the early morning market. Their drill, their boots, their turnout and their weapons training became the benchmark for the whole company, as Charlie drove them harder and harder. The highlight for Charlie, however, came in the eleventh week, when they left the barracks to travel to Glasgow where Tommy won the King’s Prize for rifle shooting, beating all the officers and men from seven other regiments.

“You’re a genius,” said Charlie, after the colonel had presented his friend with the silver cup.

“Wonder if there’s an ’alf good fence to be found in Glasgow,” was all Tommy had to say on the subject.

The passing out parade was held on Saturday, 23 February 1918, which ended with Charlie marching his section up and down the parade ground keeping step with the regimental band, and for the first time feeling like a soldier—even if Tommy still resembled a sack of potatoes.

When the parade finally came to an end, Sergeant Major Philpott congratulated them all and before dismissing the parade told the troops they could take the rest of the day off, but they must return to barracks and be tucked up in bed before midnight.

The assembled company was let loose on Edinburgh for the last time. Tommy took charge again as the lads of Number 11 platoon lurched from pub to pub becoming drunker and drunker, before finally ending up in their established local, the Volunteer, on Leith Walk.

Ten happy soldiers stood around the piano sinking pint after pint as they sang, “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag” and repeating every other item in their limited repertoire. Tommy, who was accompanying them on the mouth organ, noticed that Charlie couldn’t take his eyes off Rose the barmaid who, although on the wrong side of thirty, never stopped flirting with the young recruits. Tommy broke away from the group to join his friend at the bar. “Fancy ’er, mate, do you?”

“Yep, but she’s your girl,” said Charlie as he continued to stare at the long-haired blonde who pretended to ignore their attentions. He noticed that she had one button of her blouse more than usual undone.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Tommy. “In any case, I owe you one for that broken nose.”

Charlie laughed when Tommy added, “So we’ll ’ave to see what I can do about it.” Tommy winked at Rose, then left Charlie to join her at the far end of the bar.

Charlie found that he couldn’t get himself to look at them, although he was still able to see from their reflection in the mirror behind the bar that they were deep in conversation. Rose on a couple of occasions turned to look in his direction. A moment later Tommy was standing by his side.

“It’s all fixed, Charlie,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘fixed’?”

“Exactly what I said. All you ’ave to do is go out to the shed at the back of the pub where they pile up them empty crates, and Rose should be with you in a jiffy.”

Charlie sat glued to the bar stool.

“Well, get on with it,” said Tommy, “before the bleedin’ woman changes her mind.”

Charlie slipped off his stool and out of a side door without looking back. He only hoped that no one was watching him, as he almost ran down the unlit passage and out of the back door. He stood alone in the corner of the yard feeling more than a little stupid as he stamped up and down to keep warm. A shiver went through him and he began to wish he were back in the bar. A few moments later he shivered again, sneezed and decided the time had come to return to his mates and forget it. He was walking towards the door just as Rose came bustling out.

“’Ello, I’m Rose. Sorry I took so long, but a customer came in just as you darted off.” He stared at her in the poor light that filtered through a tiny window above the door. Yet another button was undone, revealing the top of a black girdle.

“Charlie Trumper,” said Charlie, offering her his hand.