As the Crow Flies

Sergeant Charles Trumper was discharged from active service on 20 February 1919, one of the early ones: the missing toe had at last counted for something. He folded up his uniform, placed his helmet on top, boots by the side, marched across the parade ground and handed them in to the quartermaster.

“I hardly recognized you, Sarge, in that old suit and cap. Don’t fit any longer, do they? You must have grown during your time with the Fussies.”

Charlie looked down and checked the length of his trousers: they now hung a good inch above the laces of his boots.

“Must have grown durin’ my time with the Fussies,” he repeated, pondering the words.

“Bet your family will be glad to see you when you get back to civvy street.”

“Whatever’s left of them,” said Charlie as he turned to go. His final task was to report to the paymaster’s office and receive his last pay packet and travel voucher before relinquishing the King’s shilling.

“Trumper, the duty officer would like a word with you,” said the sergeant major, after Charlie had completed what he had assumed was his last duty.

Lieutenant Makepeace and Lieutenant Harvey would always be his duty officers, thought Charlie as he made his way back across the parade ground in the direction of the company offices. Some fresh-faced youth, who had not been properly introduced to the enemy, now had the nerve to try and take their place.

Charlie was about to salute the lieutenant when he remembered he was no longer in uniform, so he simply removed his cap.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, Trumper, a personal matter.” The young officer touched a large box that lay on his desk. Charlie couldn’t quite see what was inside.

“It appears, Trumper, that your friend Private Prescott made a will in which he left everything to you.”

Charlie was unable to hide his surprise as the lieutenant pushed the box across the table.

“Would you be kind enough to check through its contents and then sign for them?”

Another buff form was placed in front of him. Above the typed name of Private Thomas Prescott was a paragraph written in a bold large hand. An “X” was scrawled below it, witnessed by Sergeant Major Philpott.

Charlie began to remove the objects from the box one by one. Tommy’s mouth organ, rusty and falling apart, seven pounds eleven shillings and sixpence in back pay, followed by a German officer’s helmet. Next Charlie took out a small leather box and opened the lid to discover Tommy’s Military Medal and the simple words “For bravery in the field” printed across the back. He removed the medal and held it in the palm of his hand.

“Must have been a jolly brave chap, Prescott,” said the lieutenant. “Salt of the earth and all that.”

“And all that,” agreed Charlie.

“A religious man as well?”

“No, can’t pretend ’e was,” said Charlie, allowing himself a smile. “Why do you ask?”

“The picture,” said the lieutenant, pointing back into the box. Charlie leaned forward and stared down in disbelief at a painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. It was about eight inches square and framed in black teak. He took the portrait out and held it in his hands.

He gazed at the deep reds, purples and blues that dominated the central figure in the painting, feeling certain he’d seen the image somewhere before. It was several moments before he replaced the little oil in the box along with Tommy’s other possessions.

Charlie put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.

As he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station—he wondered how long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace—when he reached the guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to see that the snow was never allowed to settle.

Charlie turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King’s shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come near to losing his virginity.

He’d done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.

The night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn’t yet served his country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.

“They’ll be calling him up soon enough,” said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn’t comment.

He slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier to rest in a damp, muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the time the train pulled into King’s Cross Station at seven the following morning, he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked up his large paper parcel along with Tommy’s life possessions.

At the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the girl asked him for three pence. “Tuppence for those what are in uniform,” he was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station without another word.