THE COMING OF SPRING

By Bob French

Second Lieutenant Edward Cunningham of the second battalion, the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers called his men around him, pulled out a map he had found in a partially damaged tourist shop in the main square of Ypres and began spreading it out.

          “Listen up.  Well done lads for getting here without any casualties or pushing off on a personal looting spree, but we still have a job to do before the rest of the battalion gets here. He knelt on one knee and spread out the map, then looked up. “John Thorpe, come round here, and using this tourist map, create the area around this town which is called Ypres, and out towards the east so the rest of the lads can understand what the lay of the land ahead of us looks like where we need to go.”

          As John Thorpe, a 40-year-old ex farmer, poacher and an excellent shot could start to create the map of the ground ahead of the platoon, he needed the tools to create the land by using twigs, stones and sand or soil that Thorpe would use to create his master piece.  Whilst he studied the map, the rest of the men went about picking up the bits and pieces for John.  Whilst this was going on, Cunningham looked up.

          “Prof, sort out the sentries. Patric, see what you can scrounge in the way of food and Jonesy, try and acquire some beer.  No spirits understand.”

          Once Thorpe had constructed a perfect diagram of the land around Ypres and out to the east using the soil, twigs and rocks to create a three dimension of the area, Second Lieutenant Cunningham explained using the created map what they were going to do.  Once he had finished, he and the rest of the platoon destroyed Thorpe’s master piece.

          This method of survival had become second nature for the men of the 13^th Platoon, the labour platoon of the battalion. To everyone else in the battalion they were the scum, the dregs.  No one wanted them in their rifle company for the exercise, so when the Labour Platoon form their own unit, then won the competition, the hatred increase. This had caused a real upset within the battalion. It wasn’t until the Second in Command approached the Commanding Officer and explained the consequences of awarding the trophy to the labour platoon.  After some discussion he decided that this year the trophy would not be awarded, but instead, He’d award the distinction of granting the labour platoon a formal position on the battalion Order Of Battle.  On Monday, on Daily Routine Orders it was declared that with immediate effect, the labour platoon were to be known as the 13^th Platoon, of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers.

          When Second Lieutenant Cunningham, who had drawn the short straw and was given the job of commanding the labour platoon during the exercise, attempted to raise his concerns about fairness, his company commander discretely took him aside and explained that whilst he had done a good job, he should leave the matter there.  If he continued to make a fuss, he would end up commanding this new platoon of misfits.

          Within the first ten days of taking over the 13^th Platoon, Henry Cunningham had realized that the men of the 13^th were here, because they didn’t follow orders, disrespected senior NCOs and officers’ and really didn’t care about the battalion.  As far as they were concerned, the battalion had turned their back on them. Henry realised that if he was to command these men, then he had to make some changes.  The first thing he did was to get the men to wear the proper uniform of the fusiliers, then, when a task came down from the Adjutant, he would sit down with them and explain the job.  He then left it to them to sort out the best way to do it and, by whom, then crack on and get it done.  This proved to be the best way for everyone. And from those early days, they had survived by sticking to this tried and tested procedure.

          After outwitting the German 1^st Army and leading the charge that pushed the Germans’ back from the River Marne then on to the town of Aisne, the commanding officer decided to appoint the 13^th Platoon as the recce platoon. It was at this point the war underwent a complete change.  Instead of being a war of movement, it became a war of attrition, a battle of artillery and trench warfare, and regardless of how brilliant a soldier or officer was, if a shell had your name on it, then that was it.

          As the battalion caught up with the 13^th Platoon, who were now employed as the recce platoon, working ahead of the main body, The battalion operations officer told Second Lieutenant Cunningham to move forward to Zonnebeck and dig in.

          As the platoon moved out at dawn towards Zonnebeck some of the men were in high spirits.

          “At last spring has arrived.  Early morning light, birdsong, dry ground fresh drinking water, decent bogs and regular rations, hay Patric?”

          After the men added their ten penny-worth Old John Thorpe raised his hand. “Sorry lads, but I got some real bad news for you. The change in nature, especially for the likes of us, wondering around a field which has a high-water table, is no joke.”

          Second Lieutenant Cunningham respected what John Thorp had to say.  He had lived rough for years before he was found and lured back into the Army. As  the men muttered amongst themselves, he nodded to Frank Gregson, who had been a damn good sergeant, until his platoon commander, broke down in front of his men whilst being outflanked by the Germans and accused Gregson of cowardice.  The Commanding Officer had to do something, so he reduced him to Lance Corporal and sent the young second Lieutenant back to UK for leave. Gregson acknowledge the nod, then shouted;

          “Enemy to the right!  Number 1 section cover 3 Section, Jonesy, get that machine gun over to the left and take out their retreat.”  Cuningham stood still and observed his command and felt proud that if they ever came face to face with a much larger formation of Germans’ they would make mincemeat out of them.

          After he had blown his whistle, and complimented his men he pointed to small hillock. ”We are going to set up shop on the top of the hillock and extent our trench lines either side of it.  Alright lads, talk it through and ask Corporal Gregson for any advice. Now, let’s get a shift on.”

          Les McAllistair turned to Jonesy. “Did ya manage ta get some tins un string like?”

          “What for, the booby-traps?”

          “Ay, they’re in the sack over there.  Do you want ta give me a hand then?”

          As the two of them stood and started to leave the group, Gregson turned to the three youngsters. “You follow these two and watch how they set up a warning system with tins and stones, hanging from a piece of string.”

          Once they had dug their trenches and fitted their fire step and dug the bogs, they settled down to the food and drink provided by Paddy and Jonesy. Who had gone ‘walk about’ in Ypres.  As they sat there in silence, one of the younger men turned to John Thorpe.  “Hey John, what did you mean when you said that the beginning of spring is a terrible time?”

          John Thorpe filled his pipe and thought for a minute.

          “In early spring, the winds around these parts tend to come from way up north so they’re blooming cold and once you get wet, your body sometimes can’t cope.  Now, if you’ve had a good look around, you will see that the closest trees or cover is at least three hundred yards, so we have no cover to rely on and no warmth to speak of.

          The ground is hard as a rock, but come spring, it starts to soften and the dew caused by the change of temperature helps to turn the grass and the soil into a sticky mud.  This makes it bloody hard to keep your feet dry. Next our support, once the battalion gets settled in to Ypres, we will start to get our rations, water or mail but it is going to take twice as long for them to navigate the land and if its too difficult, they won’t come.  Don’t forget, they know who we are.  We ain’t the most popular people in the battalion. When it rains, and it does a heck of a lot this time of the year, it will rain, and when I mean it rains the rain and the cold will quickly get into your bones.  

          As the temperature slowly rises, so the mosquitos and all the other insects that live off the water, see us as a free meal, especially ants, and of course once the rainy season sets in, that’s normally March and April, you get dragon flies and rats. The rats don’t hibernate during the winter, they sleep and live off their food hoards. If you take a deep breath right now, you will smell fresh grass, and a faint pong of maybe manure or the person standing next to you.  Once the rats realise that their winter stocks of food have been exhausted, they will eat anything else that is out there.  That’s dead bodies, or live ones if they are desperate.

          Now Ypres is very close to the Sea, so surrounding areas have a high-water level and when it rains, the bloody rain has nowhere to go, so within an hour, your trench is knee deep in ice cold water. On top of all the things I have just mentioned, rain can be totally debilitating. It saps your energy, interrupts your sleep, destroys any comforts you may have managed to rig, and lastly it affects your morale, so much so, that there will be times you will want to kill yourself. Then there is how we live. To keep clean will be a mammoth task, if you don’t, you can catch at least eight diseases, three of these can, and will kill you, so bloody well keep yourselves clean. Now on to the bogs, to those of you who do not know what the bogs are, in the Army they are toilet huts. If you mess up or put any of us in danger, then guess who will be digging the bogs for a week. Now this is important.  When you do go, remember to keep low because enemy snipers know that any person wanting to go to the bogs, has only one thing on his mind. And of course, once you have relieved yourself, you will feel a different man and will have nothing on your mind except total relief.  And you all know, the saying. No one ever hears the bullet that hits you, so stay very low, got it?  Now you are wondering why we have two bogs. Any one know?  No one spoke.

          Lance Corporal Gregson raised his hand and spoke without being invited.

          “Simple really. If the wind blows from the right of our trench, we all need to use the bogs on the left and if the wind blows from the left, we all have to use the bogs to the right..”

          “Ah, but what happens if the wind is coming directly towards us eh?”

          “Then everyone should be alerted to the use of gas by the Germans, so we always have our gas mask on, and before you ask, if the wind is coming from behind us, we simply desert the front trench and move to the back wall of our trench.”

          “Thanks John. Is there anything else that you want us to know?”

          No one spoke, then Second Lieutenant Cunningham stood up.  All right I have written up the sentries’ rosters. Lance Corporals’ Kent, Hampton and Gregson please report to me once you have finished your meal.”  He then turned to the rest of the men of the 13^th Platoon.  “Listen up all of you.  During the retreat from Mons and the couple of battles on the way up from the south, we had the battalion and the brigade supporting us.  Now we are by ourselves. One of the reasons we seemed to have come off lightly was because it was the Saxon brigade we were up against.  Any one know anything about the Saxons?”

          Allan Clifford raised his hand. “Sir, the Saxons, down the centuries are the closest European relative to us, here in England.  It would be like shooting our own people, hence the easy ride we had.”

          “Spot on Prof. Well done.  Now remember when you are on sentry duty.  We have erected a simple warning system which is facing our east.  If you hear the tins rattle, that means someone has walked into our trap.  I do not want to be told that you think someone is coming, just work out where you think the sound came from and put a magazines worth into who ever it is. Corporal Gregson and his raiding party will rush out towards the suspected enemy, so try not to shoot them please.”

Copyright Bob French

 Nightworkers Lament  

(Originally published in 1993, alongside my other piece - GodComedian)

John Abbott

He’s all of eighteen summers now

A fine and strapping lad

Not as pretty as his mother

But better looking than his dad

And he has a way with words my lad.

 

His teachers say he will go far

But I get ‘Dad can you lend me a tenner’

Or ‘Dad can I borrow the car?’

But when I look at him the memory comes.

From wherever these memories lurk

Of the moon turning the river silver

When I had the night off work

Copyright John Abbott

Gods was a comedian

Gods was a comedian

By John Abbott 

Originally published in CRUSADER (Express Newspapers in-house magazine) DECEMBER 1993

Title:

I had imagined that God was a comedian …

 I struggled to lift my head. My neck and left shoulder muscles, or should I say my left deltoid, latissimus dorsi and pectoralis major strained as I shifted the weight of my torso.

My muscles were very much stronger now, much stronger than at any time earlier in my life.

As you can see, I now know much more about them and their movements than at any time in the past. In fact, if the truth was known, I had to accept that I had become mildly obsessed with my muscles and their parameters; in particular their limitations. 

After any length of time more than a few minutes, while laying on my back, my left arm and its scarred hand had a tendency to, I believe the correct expression is “go to sleep”.

The reasons are simple, but to have it described, it sounds anything but. A touch of thrombophlebitis and, unfortunately, quite a bit of arterial embolism, are the reasons why my arm likes its kip more than the remainder of my body.

As my left arm slowly awoke, I had a strange thought: it seemed to me to be not unlike some awakening dinosaur, almost like my brain had to write a letter to instruct my arm to move.

My arm now began to take part in my actions, my biceps and brachioradialis were both very strong and looked somewhat overlarge as I rotated slightly and bent my elbow. 

From this angle, I must have looked like a linebacker from gridiron football. Of course, that’s complete rubbish. I laughed, the only way you can would get that view , was if you were partially-sighted in one eye and had the other firmly shut. My arm ached, it often did: another problem I had to live with.

As I somehow managed to raise myself into a sitting position, I wobbled like some child’s toy, precariously teetering right, then left. The difference was, I had no central ball-bearing. 

Sweat quickly ran from my temples and I sucked in huge breaths to sustain my effort. “Christ”, it was tough just to get this far. As I allowed my breathing to slow and prepared myself for the next exertion, I gazed down at what little remained of my body. 

I was originally told that I was lucky, well, sod them! I certainly didn’t feel lucky. My left thigh was a rough, short stump, no more than six inches long, my right was slightly longer, ten or eleven inches maybe. I’ll never understand how my right thigh had survived at all, because I had sod-all else on the right side. 

Isn’t it strange how you grow up as a kid and you never imagine a life without anything? God knows, especially without some of the most important parts of your body. I had no right arm, all I had now was a messy reddened hollow where it should have been, the right side of my face was badly scarred and my ear was a misshapen lump.

This had only affected my hearing in a minimal fashion, but it had appeared to produce massive headaches which were way out of all proportion to the actual damage caused.

A couple of minor lumps were missing from my scalp, which seemed, if anything, to make me feel more intelligent... okay, maybe I lied, that’s not true... more introspective, that’s for sure.

My face had been generally scarred, but that didn’t matter much to me. Unfortunately, I had always been in the average class where looks were concerned. You know the type, not exactly Richard Gere, and not quite Quasimodo either.

My right shoulder blade, or scapula, if we’re being clinical, had been slightly shattered, whilst my left was intact.

My left arm looked strong, but the facts were a little different; both it and my hand were pock-marked and scarred. These were the outward signs of my arterial embolism and the thrombophlebitis.

I had already had seven operations on this arm, to recover the tiny splinters and to clear the hundreds of clots, but apparently they could do little more. I had been given some types of drugs to combat this minor problem… sorry, but take it from me, this is bloody minor compared to what I was putting up with in general.

Mostly anticoagulants and thrombolytic agents for which I have long since given up trying to remember all the names, and honestly I no longer give a damn whether they will have a long-term effect.

My torso was the bulk of my remaining body, and that too was tarnished. Nothing too upsetting on the outside, a few gouges here and there, but the major problem was pneumothorax - a lung collapse.

It occurred when a few splintered ribs had pierced my lung, and it had also happened since. Yes, you’ve guessed it, the right side again; it was, er, how can I put it, very badly damaged and of course it made breathing somewhat difficult at times. 

As for my manhood, well I’d always imagined God was a comedian. I had been blown to pieces in such a way that most women wouldn’t even talk to me, let alone look at me, and the only parts of me that hadn’t been touched by this violence were my sex organs. And people had the audacity to say that I was lucky… lucky? 

I was swivelled ever so slowly on my backside, using my arm to steady myself. Christ, my bum was sore, and as I shuffled across the bed at a snail’s pace, I thought what a bloody good job it was that I had a firm mattress, otherwise I would be rocking all over the place.

The remains of yesterday’s petroleum jelly and baby cream on my bottom made this journey a sticky and uncomfortable one. I shunted myself as close to the edge of the bed as I dare, being careful not to tilt my weight too far either forwards or backwards, for both had hazards.

Falling backwards onto the bed meant another struggle with my fast-tiring muscles, and forwards would propel me head-first off the bed with all the inherent risks and no doubt, massive efforts to recover.

I had to swivel again so that my nose was almost touching the bedside cabinet. I gazed hard at the small framed colour photograph on it. The photo was of a poignant moment. 

I didn’t have a chance of a proper honeymoon, so we simply had a couple of days together, then celebrated properly later, on our first holiday.

My wife, Joanne, was quite a catch. As I continued to look at the pictures, I discovered my face had become a mask of tears cascading down my cheeks.

Initially I suppose out of duty, Joanne had stayed around, giving all and sundry the impression of a caring, sensitive, dutiful wife. However, as the enormity of my problems began to dawn upon her, both my physical and mental problems, she simply distanced herself from me, and as my treatment continued and then evolved into something of a slightly difficult order, she became no more than a mere visitor.

My post-traumatic stress or any other fancy name you’d like to call it, was still with me and will stay with me, I dunno… forever?

As I forcibly steered my mind, and then my eyes, away from the pictures, I realised that I still loved her and missed her an awful lot.

It just happened, on that one particular occasion; she didn’t turn up, she didn’t phone either… I never heard from her again.

My visiting nurse, Susan, tried to find out what had happened, but she couldn’t seem to get any information out of the hospital or from the social services. I shouldn’t blame Joanne, I try not to, but Christ, I didn’t have anything else.

The tears were still coming, but I tried to concentrate on the job in hand. I managed to carefully position my body correctly, so that Could reach the drawer in the bedside cabinet.

I stretched out my arm and slowly opened the drawer, visibly shaking as I realised what I was doing.

I thought about all those people who were born like this, all those people who became similar to this because of disease, and most of all, I thought of all the people who continue to fight and carry on, no matter what the obstacles.

Christ, those people must be strong. No slopes for wheelchairs, no special transport or jobs. Joe Public squirming every time they cast a glance in their direction, and so many people treat these disabled like idiots. Christ, it’s so unfair!

I stared, for what seemed like an age, at the contents of the now open drawer. Finally, a subject I could feel comfortable with. I grasped the pistol and felt a pump of adrenalin, and brought it closer to me.

I had been a warrior… a soldier, you see. Queen and country, all that shit! And more.

I’d had my life blown to pieces for some moist patch of tussock grasses in the South Atlantic. I remembered a friend once saying: “It’s all bullshit, you know that, don’t you?”

I had never realised exactly what he meant until now. I glanced down for the last time at my nakedness and what remained of my life. The preparation had been done yesterday. I had already made sure that a round was in the chamber.

I carefully brought the automatic pistol to my lips, making sure the angle was right for the bullet to enter the roof of my mouth.

My lips were very dry and for the first time ever, I tasted metal. My aching hand flicked the safety catch off, and ever so gently I squeezed the trigger… and became a statistic.

 

JOHN ABBOTT

 It’s Raining

Jane Goodhew

To say it is raining would be an understatement, more to the point when did it last stop.  As if in answer the clouds moved over and a glimpse of blue appeared, followed by that elusive yellow orb, the sun.   I could feel my lips turn upwards into a smile of appreciation for I so detested the milk a magnesia sky that had hung around for months and made the short days of winter seem even longer.

The English seem to relish discussing the weather probably because it is so variable unlike many countries where it is either baking in the sun or drowning in a monsoon.  Although for some time now the UK has had more than its far share of rain.  Floods due to rivers bursting their banks or high tides and the sea walls collapsing. Often as not because builders have paid no heed to flood plains and happily built on them.  Homes that have stood for decades are now being flooded as the water pours down the hill with nowhere to go until whoosh it enters your front door.  No one appears to take the blame or listen to warnings that they are heading for disaster.

What always springs to my mind are words of songs such as ‘it may as well rain until September’.  ‘It’s raining in my heart, ‘‘singing in the rain’ ‘rain drops keep falling on my head’ ‘Purple Rain’   The list is endless which is appropriate as so is the rain as yet more drops fall from the sky as if the world is crying at the complete and utter mess man has made of it.

Bombs are falling from the sky and raining down on the innocent who have done nothing but to be born in an area that seems to attract trouble due to man and his greed to control the people and the land.   The powerful nations fight to dominate and show their strength or is it their weakness at not being able to negotiate in a civilised manner?   Nature is now flooding areas with continual rain, forest fires from abnormally high temperatures, melting the icebergs with global warming, trees are still being cut down to make room for yet more concrete buildings or roads despite the warnings.  Man seems to have become deaf, dumb and blind.

I am trying to find something to be cheerful for and sadly it is that I am not a child born into this era when destruction man made or natural seems to be winning as yet another murder or bombing is on the news.  I turn the music up to drown out the negative thoughts and look at the bright yellow daffodils that are swaying gently in the breeze and the purple/blue hyacinth that nestles amongst the green.  Spring is showing itself as the trees display their pink or white blossoms like a ballerina from Swan Lake in her tutu.  Let us hope that nature wins and man learns to ow his head in shame for the suffering he has caused before it is too late for us all to sing and dance in the rain or sun and feel love and happiness again and watch the butterfly gracefully move from flower to flower in the warm sun of summer.

 

Copyright Jane Goodhew

The Rains of Rayleigh

 The Rains of Rayleigh 

By Sis Unsworth 

I got caught in rain the other day, it really did come down,

cascading fast down London Hill, and across old Rayleigh Town.

The puddles full in Websters Way, were causing me to sigh,

as I got soaked, by constant spray, that cars made passing by.

St Georges park looked flooded beneath a dark grey cloud,

“Please let it stop and roll on spring,” someone said out loud.

This winter has had so much rain, I’m sure we all recall,

The water butts have overflowed, because they’re always full!

So when the summer does arrive, I hope it’s not their plan,

To say there’s empty reservoirs, so we’ll have a hosepipe ban

 

 The Changing Face of Comedy  (Limerick) 

By Sis Unsworth

Comedy today just passes me by

It was much more fun then, and I know why

Just fun was intended,

and few were offended,

So what's happened to humour, I sigh?

Sis

Riddles 33

 Riddles 33

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has two puzzles for us today: 

No 1.  Which letter will complete the following sequence?     

            A F K P ?       (U S V or G?)

 

No 2. .  Which is the odd man out...? 

Brick, Cambrian, Postmark, Madam, Chalice, Gimmick 

Keep em coming Riddler