As the Crow Flies

“I know.” She giggled. “Tommy told me all about you, said you were probably the best lay in the platoon.”

“I think ’e might ’ave been exaggeratin’,” said Charlie turning bright red, as Rose reached out with both her hands, taking him in her arms. She kissed him first on his neck, then his face and finally his mouth. She then parted Charlie’s lips expertly before her tongue began to play with his.

To begin with Charlie was not quite sure what was happening, but he liked the sensation so much that he just continued to hold on to her, and after a time even began to press his tongue against hers. It was Rose who was the first to break away.

“Not so hard, Charlie. Relax. Prizes are awarded for endurance, not for strength.”

Charlie began to kiss her again, this time more gently as he felt the corner of a beer crate jab into his buttocks. He tentatively placed a hand on her left breast, and let it remain there, not quite sure what to do next as he tried to make himself slightly

more comfortable. It didn’t seem to matter that much, because Rose knew exactly what was expected of her and quickly undid the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing ample breasts well worthy of her name. She lifted a leg up onto a pile of old beer crates, leaving Charlie faced with an expanse of bare pink thigh. He placed his free hand tentatively on the soft flesh. He wanted to run his fingers up as far as they would go, but he remained motionless, like a frozen frame in a black and white film.

Once again Rose took the lead, and removing her arms from around his neck started to undo the buttons on the front of his trousers. A moment later she slid her hand inside his underpants and started to rub. Charlie couldn’t believe what was happening although he felt it was well worth getting a broken nose for.

Rose began to rub faster and faster and started to pull down her knickers with her free hand. Charlie felt more and more out of control until suddenly Rose stopped, pulled herself away and stared down the front of her dress. “If you’re the best lay the platoon has to offer, I can only hope the Germans win this bloody war.”

The following morning battalion orders were posted on the board in the duty officers’ mess. The new battalion of Fusiliers was now considered to be of fighting strength and were expected to join the Allies on the Western Front. Charlie wondered if the comradeship that had bound such a disparate bunch of lads together during the past three months was quite enough to make them capable of joining combat with the elite of the German army.

On the train journey back south they were cheered once again as they passed through every station, and this time Charlie felt they were more worthy of the hatted ladies’ respect. Finally that evening the engine pulled into Maidstone, where they disembarked, and were put up for the night at the local barracks of the Royal West Kents.

At zero six hundred hours the following morning Captain Trentham gave them a full briefing: they were to be transported by ship to Boulogne, they learned, and after ten days’ further training they would be expected to march on to Étaples, where they would join their regiment under the command of Lieutentant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, DSO, who, they were assured, was preparing for a massive assault on the German defenses. They spent the rest of the morning checking over their equipment before being herded up a gangplank and onto the waiting troop carrier.

After the ship’s foghorn had blasted out six times, they set sail from Dover, one thousand men huddled together on the deck of HMS Resolution, singing, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.”

“Ever been abroad before, Corp?” Tommy asked.

“No, not unless you count Scotland,” replied Charlie.

“Neither ’ave I,” said Tommy nervously. After a few more minutes he mumbled, “You frightened?”

“No, of course not,” said Charlie. “Bleedin’ terrified.”

“Me too,” said Tommy.

“Goodbye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square. It’s a long, long way to…”

CHAPTER

4

Charlie felt seasick only a few minutes after the English coast was out of sight. “I’ve never been on a boat before,” he admitted to Tommy, “unless you count the paddle steamer at Brighton.” Over half the men around him spent the crossing bringing up what little food they had eaten for breakfast.

“No officers coughin’ up as far as I can see,” said Tommy.

“Perhaps that lot are used to sailin’.”

“Or doing it in their cabins.”

When at last the French coast came in sight, a cheer went up from the soldiers on deck. By then all they wanted to do was set foot on dry land. And dry it would have been if the heavens hadn’t opened the moment the ship docked and the troops set foot on French soil. Once everyone had disembarked, the sergeant major warned them to prepare for a fifteen-mile route-march.

Charlie kept his section squelching forward through the mud with songs from the music halls, accompanied by Tommy on the mouth organ. When they reached Étaples and had set up camp for the night, Charlie decided that perhaps the gymnasium in Edinburgh had been luxury after all.

Once the last post had been played, two thousand eyes closed, as soldiers under canvas for the first time tried to sleep. Each platoon had placed two men on guard duty, with orders to change them every two hours, to ensure that no one went without rest. Charlie drew the four o’clock watch with Tommy.

After a restless night of tossing and turning on lumpy, wet French soil, Charlie was woken at four, and in turn kicked Tommy, who simply turned over and went straight back to sleep. Minutes later Charlie was outside the tent, buttoning up his jacket before continually slapping himself on the back in an effort to keep warm. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the half light, he began to make out row upon row of brown tents stretching as far as the eye could see.

“Mornin’, Corp,” said Tommy, when he appeared a little after four-twenty. “Got a lucifer, by any chance?”

“No, I ’aven’t. And what I need is an ’ot cocoa, or an ’ot somethin’.”