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

 THE CASE AGAINST FRANCES HOPKINS

By Bob French

Margaret Simpson, a 38-year-old clerk of Barkingside Magistrates Court stared at the door behind the Bench waiting for it to open. When she saw it move, she stood, cleared her throat; and in a crisp sharp voice said “All rise. Justice Henrietta McDonald presiding”

          Whilst the public were noisily taking their seats, Margret Simpson turned to the bench and went through the motions of informing the judge, who she was dealing with today. The judge, who never heard a thing due to the noise of those trying to be seated in the public gallery, nodded her thanks. As she glanced up she noticed that the public galleries and some of the isle seats were packed with females and made a note to find out why there were no males.

          After Mr. Frances Hopkins confirmed his name and address, the judge nodded, then looked up and glanced down at the barrister who was prosecuting Mr. Hopkins.

          “Where is Miss Newton?”

          The young-looking barrister coughed and in a rather timid voice apologized and said “she was called away suddenly.”

          She then nodded to Mr. Jones, who was defending Hopkins. He had impressed her having been appointed to the Bar a year or so ago and was doing rather well.

          The barrister for the prosecution stood, held his lapels as they did on television and began laying out his case against Hopkins.

          Justice McDonald interrupted him and leant forward.

          “Sorry, forgive me, but I didn’t catch your name?

          “I do beg your pardon Your worship. William Thornton, I was appointed to your chambers last week your worship”

          She stared down at Mr. Thornton and made a mental note to have a stern word with her chambers.  “Please carry on.”

          After ten minutes, the judge interrupted Mr. Thornton.  “I would be grateful if you would get to the point of the case or we shall be here untill lunch time.”

          “Sorry your worship.  Mr. Hopkins is being charged with…… He paused and looked down at his notes which were scattered across his desk. “Um, Ah, Theft your worship.”

          “Go on.”

          Thornton didn’t understand the judge’s question.  He was now panicking.  His mind was racing.  Did she mean that I should start my case or explain the case against Hopkins? 

          It was then that she realized that before her was a young man who should not be in the court room and was going to make sure that his first case would be remembered by many of those who practiced law.

          Before he could come to a decision, the judge banged her gavel.

          “Mr. Thornton please sort out your briefing notes, then take a deep breath and begin please. Now what is he being charged with?”

          James Thornton had read Law and gained a first at Oxford and had been granted a two-year apprenticeship, but as he was the ‘new boy,’ he was given menial tasks such as filing and diary keeping.  His father, Sir Wentworth Buckingham Thornton, a prominent Old Baily trial judge had pulled a few strings and once James had completed his apprenticeship, his father applied for his son to be admitted to the Bar Standards Board.  Of course, his application was approved without question and young James Thornton was admitted to the Bar. This upset many of those who had been practicing law for years.

          James had a secret?  He had spent all his teen years swatting for exams, and then when he went up to Oxford, where most students lost their virginity, James hid himself in the college library.  In short, he was afraid, no petrified of females, not older ladies, but those in their twenties who thought nothing of their promiscuous behaviour.  Their confidence and over bearing attitude frightened him.  He looked at his notes again, then took a deep breath. 

          “He is charged with the theft of, he paused, ‘dames sous les vetements’.”  The court room suddenly fell silent.  The judge looked up and stared at Thornton, who was now wishing he was a thousand miles away.

          “Mr. Thornton, in English if you please.”  She waited for a minute or two then realizing as she studied his face that he was blushing.  She smiled as she understood now why Miss Newton had suddenly made herself unavailable for today’s case.

          “For the sake of clarity and understanding, I am to believe that Mr. Hopkins is being charged with stealing ladies underclothes.  Is that right Mr. Hopkins?”

          Hopkins stared at the judge, then down at his barrister, who had sat down and was trying to hide himself amid his case files, then back up to the judge.  “Naa, sorry luv. It was Knickers!”

          The public galleries burst in to laughter; some were shouting abuse at Hopkins until the judge used her gavel to gain control.

          “I beg your pardon Mr. Hopkins”

          “Knickers. I wus caught wiv a suitcase full of knickers.  But them was me own property see.”   

          The Judge banged her gavel once more, then looked down at Mr. Thornton. “Are you ready to continue your opening statement?”

          He thanked her, then stood. “Members of the jury. The only crime Mr. Hopkins is guilty of is to have been caught with a suitcase full of… he paused………knickers.”   As those in the public gallery started to titter he sat down.

          Mr. Jones stood, glanced down at his notes then began:

          “Do you plead guilty to the charge of theft, in that on the morning of the 12^th of May 1998, you were seen selling these…. garments, out of a suitcase at Shepherds Bush market?”

          “No I don’t! The knickers I was selling on that day were me own collection.”

          “But you were seen by a Miss Davenport, Mrs. Luke and Mr. Smith.  In Miss Luke’s statement she states that she recognized her… underwear.

          Suddenly from the public gallery a woman stood up and shouted.

          “Come on Frankie, last week you tried to sell me, me own knickers, and Joseys at number 23.”

          The judge could see that the two young barristers were out of their depth and decided to intervene. “Mr. Hopkins. Do you make it a habit of stealing ladies underwear?”

          “Yes me lady.” 

          “And how many pairs of knickers do you have at present?”

          “Depends your honour.  If thems in good nick, I keep them for a couple of weeks, then gives em back.”

          “Why do you steal them in the first place?”

          “Some people saves stamps, cigarette cards or coins.  I collect knickers. Sometimes I gets lucky and find a pair from Paris, so I takes a photo of em, then I washes them un pops em them back through their letter boxes.”

          So you only steal from houses that are close to you?”

          “That’s right. School Road, Orchard Road and Oval Road North, yer honour.  They are all in one place and have a back alley, so I can pop in and out before anyone sees me.”

          The judge looked up into the public gallery.  “Is this correct”.  Do you get your underwear back from Mr. Hopkins?”

          Those in the public gallery erupted with some cheering and some demanding that he had not returned their knickers.”

          “Mr. Hopkins.  Do you keep an address of where you steal these garments from?”

          “Yes your honour.”

          “So, let me see.” She smiled to herself as she looked down at the personal information of the two barristers. “How about 21 Orchard Road?”

          Mr. Hopkins pulled out a scruffy little note book, flipped over a few pages, then looked up.  “One pair ov em belongs to Mrs. Black yer honour.”

          The judge looked up into the public gallery. “Is Mrs. Black here?”

          An elegant woman in a smart brown overcoat raised her hand.

          “Would you please stand.”

After some shuffling of chairs, the woman stood.

          “Thank you Mrs. Black.  Can you describe your missing underwear.”

          “Yes Miss.  They were red lace with butterflies on them, from Woolies.”

          This brought some cheesy comments from those around her, but she ignored them.

          The judge looked down at Mr. Hopkins. “Is Mrs. Black’s description correct?”

          “Yes yer honour.”

          “One last try shall we?  Mr. Hopkins do you have underwear from say number 19 School Road.

          After a minute or two thumbing through his book, Mr. Hopkins looked up at the judge and grinned.

          “I haves a couple o’ pairs from that address yer honour.”

          “Could you describe them please and tell me who they belong to.”

          These are special My lady. Real posh. Designer label from New York.  Ang on a mo, as he flicked through his little book, he grinned up at the judge.

          “They belong to a Mr. Thornton.” Suddenly the whole court room was in hysterics. The public gallery was standing and pointing at James Thornton.

          It took a good ten minutes before the judge could bring order to the court room.

          “We are here today to try Mr. Hopkins for stealing your underwear.  What Mr. Thornton wears is of no interest in this case.”  The judge looks down at Hopkins.

          “What happens when you cannot return the garments to their rightful owner?”

          Hopkins shrugged his shoulder.  “It’s rare that I don’t hand em back, but if I can’t, I pops alf a nicker through their letter box yer honour.

          Everyone in the court cheered and laughed at Hopkins’s reply except the

Judge, who gave up using her gavel.  When silence was achieved, she asked Hopkins to stand.

          “Frances Hopkins, you have been found guilty of petty theft, have you anything to say?”

          “Only that I am sorry yer honour, but I didn’t intend stealing only borrowing, honest.”

          Justice Henrietta McDonald stared at Hopkins for a while, then seemed to come to her senses and smile. “Firstly, you are to choose another hobby, one that does not involve stealing.  Secondly, I am giving you a custodial sentence of 6 months, subject to you returning every single garment you have stolen, and lastly, I appoint Mrs. Black, if she does not mind, to report to me in six months-time with a record showing that you have returned every pair of knickers.  Those items you cannot return, I order you to pay, she paused then chose to speak in his language, a nicker, to compensate those whose knickers were not returned. Do you understand?” 

          He nodded.  Then suddenly the court room erupted into cheers and chaos. No one heard Hopkins’s reply or the judge closing the case against him.

Copyright Bob French

Spanish Holiday ~ (300 Word Flash)

 Spanish Holiday ~ (300 Word Flash)

By Bob French

Their friends told them that to take a holiday in Spain during the civil war was not only cheap, but dangerous. Regardless of the warnings, Alice and Thomas bought their train tickets to Barcelona in search of the heat, adventure, culture, and the wine.

          Their hotel in Barcelona, a once grand but now crumbling building, was the perfect mix of mystery and charm.  Most nights they simply wandered off into the ancient parts of the city.  On some nights the locals who quickly befriended them warned them that as foreigners, not to go to certain parts of the city, but to them, the world seemed as vibrant as the beautiful hanging plants that cascaded down from tall buildings.

          One evening while exploring the narrow winding streets of east Barcelona, they met a young man who insisted on showing them a traditional Spanish evening. They willingly followed him until the sound of castanets and guitars lured them down a narrow candlelit alleyway to a quaint taberna. They noted that the taberna owner was not too pleased at seeing them, and nodded them to a table in the back of the café.  Once the dancers started their flamenco everyone seemed to join in. 

       Suddenly, the doors were kicked in, whistles were being blown, followed by total panic. Before Alice and Thomas realised what was happening, they were arrested and thrown into jail. The following morning, after some rigorous interrogation, the officer declared that they were fifth colonist spies and would be dealt with accordingly.

          As the church bells sounded ten o’clock, they were blindfolded and escorted out into the back garden.  They felt the warm sun on their faces and the tranquil sound of the birds in the trees.

Then they heard the order. “Fire!” 

Copyright Bob French ~ December 2025

 

 THE END OF THE WAR 

By Bob French  

After a ferocious four-day attack and some fierce hand-to-hand fighting during the night and into the dawn of Thursday the 24^th of December 1914, the men of the Royal Cumberland Fusiliers staggered to a halt. They had broken through the front line and pushed the Germans’ back a couple of miles to the remains of the village of Zonnebeke, east of the town of Ypres.

          As the Company Sergeant Major called for the men to stop and take up defensive positions, silence fell over the battle field. For the first time, the men of the Fusiliers stood in silence as the realization of their victory gradually sunk in.  Their exhausted breath tore from their lungs in ragged plumes, ghosting white in the ice-cold dawn, each exhale a burst of heat against the biting air. No one spoke for a while.  Then gradually the voices of the corporals and sergeants started giving out orders; “weapons check in five minutes. Wounded men to the Regimental Aid Post, Roll call at O four hundred hours.”

          After the roll call had been taken, a peace and normality seemed to settle around the men. The Regimental Sergeant Major, who normally never left the Commanding Officers’ side, had been asked to discreetly observe the new Company Commander of B Company, Major Charles Alderidge, who had joined the Fusiliers just before the Regiment had set sail for France and in the eyes of the officers and men of B Company, he had yet to prove himself.    

          He took the list from the clerk of the company, then quietly wondered over to a derelict cottage, sat down on a low brick wall next to the Adjutant, Captain Farington.  After a while he took a deep breath and shook his head slowly.

          Captain Farrington gently took the Butchers Bill from him and quickly scanned the scribbled names. “Don’t worry Sir, you will get used to it in time, trust me.”  They didn’t speak for a minute then Major Alderidge asked the Adjutant “who were we fighting against?”

          “We won’t know that until our forward recce platoon returns Sir.”

          The company clerk of B Company had already set up the company headquarters in the back of a partly derelict cottage and within minutes had a brew of tea on the go.  Once the Adjutant had taken the information he needed from the casualty list, he told the company clerk that if the telephone line was still buggerd to get a runner to take the dispatches back to the C.O. at Regimental Headquarters in Ypres. Hopefully They would sort out some reinforcements before the enemy could counter attack.

          Around him, the men of B Company started to clean their weapons, check their ammunition and brew up some tea. No one noticed the Medical Section quietly moved back over the ground they had fought and started to pick up those who had been wounded, or take identity disks from those that did not make it.

          As the casualties were brought in, Company Sergeant Major Jim Travis called for Sergeant Bateman who commanded the 13^th Platoon. A close friend.

          “Hi Geordie.  Your lads alright?”

          Geordie Bateman DSM had joined the Fusiliers and had fought in the first and second Boer Wars and proved himself beyond doubt, an asset to the regiment, winning the Distinguished Service Medal. Now, too old to be part of a rifle company, he was given command of the labour platoon. Then, against all odds, he had trained, then led the bunch of misfits, drunks, deserters, and wasters to victory by winning the annual combat exercise cup in July before the regiment was deployed to face the Hun.  To honour him and his men, the Commanding Officer granted them the title of the ‘13^th Platoon instead of the labour platoon.’

          “I just want to thank you and your lads for watching over young Everet.  I know he isn’t a natural soldier and it doesn’t help with his buggered-up right ankle,”

          “Not a problem Jim, I told McAllistair to look out for him. As we covered our left flank.  If he learns nothing from McAlistair then I give up on him.”

          They laughed. Then Travis leant forward so he was a few inches away from his friend.  “Thank you for watching over the lad anyway. “    “Can you get your lads to start on the latrines, then once the medics have brought in the wounded and dead, can your lads start digging the graves please. Don’t forget to let the Adjutant know which graves belong to which man.”

          Without being told, the men of the rifle companies had begun setting up a security perimeter around their position, and digging trenches.

           Sergeant Black had formed up his recce platoon only to realise that he was down three men, and asked Sergeant Major Travis if he could borrow a couple of men from the 13^th Platoon.

          “Square it away with Geordie, then let the Adjutant know.”  Black knew instantly who he would take; Jonsey, McAllistair and Devereaux. If he was ever in a scrap, he would rely on these three men to back him up.    

          Black grinned as the three men joined the forward recce platoon’s briefing.  One of the recce platoon corporals asked Jonsey what type of rifle he was carrying”

          “It’s a ‘Gewher 98’ high villosity hunting rifle with a Mauser scope, Boyo.  I can bring down a Hun officer at three hundred and fifty paces.”

           Sergeant Black caught the look on his corporal’s face and before he could ask if the recce platoon could have such rifles, he informed him that as far as the company is concerned, the men of the 13^th platoon do not have designated weapons. In fact they have nothing, so they improvise.

          “Right lads, you all know the drill.  ‘Who was facing us? who is replacing them and when? how many of their dead were left behind? And lastly if they were using weapons that you’ve never seen before so carefully bring one in? OK”

          “What about prisoners Sarge?”

          “Only officers or senior NCOs.  Anyone else, remove their weapons and webbing and send them back to where they came from. Now the wind is at our back, so no threat of a gas attack.  By the speed of their retreat, I’m guessing that their departure was not planned, but be careful anyway.

          The men started to move forward when the harsh voice of Sergeant Black, cut through the stillness of the battle field again.

          “Remember. Do not be tempted to loot or go trophy hunting, unless you want your loved ones to receive just bits and pieces of what remained of your body.  If the booby traps don’t get you, be assured that I bloody well will.  Is that understood?”

          The men replied in chorus, some joked about those of the platoon who had ignored the advice a few weeks earlier and were no longer a member of the human race.

          As the sun slowly broke through the dawn clouds, so the bodies of those who had fallen during the four days of bitter combat started to warm.  The putrid smell of rotting flesh and the sound of the flies soon forced the men to hold rags over their noses.

          Once the latrines and graves had been dug, Sergeant Bateman called his platoon together.

          “Well done lads.  Davey Brown, can you see if you can scrounge some tea and milk from the cookhouse.  The rest of you start digging your trench now, then clean your weapons and let me know if you need any more ammo.”  As a last-minute thought, he raised his voice. “And no bloody trophy hunting either, got it!”

          The Recce platoon had carefully moved forward over the field which was now scattered with the dead and the moaning wounded. Jonsey stopped first and raised his hand, then pointed down at a body. It was a man from the second rifle platoon, B Company.  No one spoke as Sergeant Black carefully made his way over, knelt-down and identified the man then carefully tied a piece of white tape to his uniform so that the men, could return and carefully check for booby traps, then take him back to their lines ready for burial.

          As they moved forward, McAllistair saw movement and without thinking, leapt forward and hit the man before he had time to defend himself.  It was a young Lieutenant who Sergeant Black helped to his feet then told McAllistair to take him back to Sergeant Waynwright, of the intelligence section for questioning.

          It took most of the day to put together the facts of the report of the battle. for the Company Commander and his report to RHQ. After that the men were detailed for sentry duty or stood down.

          Then just as the men of B company started to settle down for the night, the sentries reported that they could hear people singing Silen Night in German.  The guard commander called out the support troop and slowly approached the sound of singing.  To his surprise the German’s had got up out of their trenches and were drinking wine and singing.  When the men of the support troop approached the Germans’ they stopped singing and staired at the Fusiliers.  Then the guard commander laughed.

          “Bloody hell lads, it’s Christmas day. Then the Germans’ slowly started shouting “Merry Christmas Tommy.” Within a matter of minutes, men from B Company had left their trenches and joined in with the men of the  218^th Saxon Jager Regiment and were mingling and laughing together, shaking hands and swopping cap badges, cigarettes and showing pictures of their loved ones.

          Sergeant Black took young Everet aside. “’Ear lad, go and get the young German lieutenant and bring him here.  After nearly ten minutes of stumbling around in the dark, Everet found the prisoner and dragged him back to Sergeant Black.

          Black caught the eye of what he thought was their commander and beckoned him over.  The elderly man slowly made his way through the celebrations and up to face Black.

          Black saluted the officer and held out his hand.  The German commander smiled then saluted him and took his hand.

          “I think this young lad belongs to you Sir.”  The German commander smiled then said in English, “Thank you sergeant, “and turned to the young lieutenant and said something to him.  The young officer burst into tears and shook Black and Everet’s hand. Then they tuned and left to join in the celebrations. Just then it started to snow.

          Everet turned to Black. “Do you know Sarge, My Mum said that the war would end by Christmas, I think she was right.”

Copyright Bob French

THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

 THE DEMISE OF POOLE STREET UNITED

By Bob French

It was starting to get cold on a late September day as Lucy stopped dead in her tracks, then looked up into the darkening evening sky.  She had heard the familiar noise many times and instinctively knew what to do.  Then she heard the sound of whistles,  some close by, others a long way off.  As if by magic, everyone started to run for the shelters.  No one screamed but for the hurried voice of a mother calling for her child.

          Lucy turned and yelled at her younger brother Thomas, who was carefully climbing down a huge mound of rubble that had, until five days ago, been their school.  A place where, according to Miss Jenkins, their class teacher, if they concentrated, they would learn more things about sums, famous people, music and countries far, far away, than their parents would ever learn.

          “Run Thomas Run! It’s the Germans. Head for the bridge!”

          Thomas, usually challenged his sister’s advice, but on this occasion, he dropped a cricket bat he had found in the rubble and started to run for the old railway bridge that spanned the River Lea. Just as it joins the Bow Creek. They had just made it under the iron posts that held the bridge in place when the first of the bombs hit a row of houses not far from Poole Street.  The ground shook; flames quickly spread across the street, sending scorched dust, splintered wood and glass everywhere.  Amidst the horrors of the explosions Lucy could hear the faint screams of those who were too slow or old to find shelter.  She hated this period, when the bombers had gone and all that was left was the dirty thick mist of debris and the faint wailing of those who had just lost everything they possessed.

          They both sought safety deep into the foundations of the old iron bridge.  As Lucy landed, she instinctively turned and grabbed hold of Thomas, pulling him in close to her and putting her hands over his head.

          After the first bomber had passed overhead, dropping its payload, the second was close behind and they felt the impact of the bomb much closer.  Lucy whispered into Thomas’s ear to reassure him.

          He forced his head above his sister’s protection and spoke.           “Blimey, was that Poole Street Lucy?”  When she didn’t reply to his question, he looked up to see his sister start to cry. With tears in her eyes, she replied.

          “Yes luv.  I hope Mandy and Victoria are safe.”

          “Blimey, if they aren’t, we’re short of two players for next Saturday’s Street footy against the Three Mills mob.”

          The sound of the bombers started to fade as they travelled further into the capital’s centre.  Lucy knew that what would follow was a walking nightmare.  Once the whistles sounded people would scamper up from their shelter and walk slowly through what was left of their homes. People would sink to their knees or stand and stare in shock at the total destruction of their street. A place where they had been born, a place they had played, danced and laughed with their friends, a place where they had got married. But that was a week ago and now several of their friends didn’t come out to play anymore.

          Lucy and Thomas, picked their way through the ruins of what had once been their home. It had stood proudly in East London, red-bricked and warm, until one of the many bombs of the Blitz had turned it into a skeleton of scorched beams and broken glass. Their parents were gone, evacuated, missing, or worse and the siblings had returned from their billet in the countryside without telling anyone, drawn by something unspoken.

          Lucy, the elder at twelve, led the way. Her coat was two sizes too big, the sleeves flapping like frightened birds. Thomas, just eight, clutched a wooden toy soldier in his pocket, fingers rubbing it smooth from habit.

          “I think it was here,” Lucy whispered, pointing to a half-collapsed corner of the house. The Parlour. The place they used to gather for tea and stories.

          They stepped over fallen timbers and twisted pipes, crunching glass underfoot. The fire had blackened the wallpaper, and the ceiling was open to the grey sky. And yet, as they stood there, a strange warmth crept in. The scent of toast and lavender, impossible, but real, floated on the evening breeze.

          “Do you hear that?” Thomas asked suddenly, tilting his head. A soft humming, like a lullaby. Lucy shivered. “It’s just the wind.”

          But it wasn’t. A woman’s voice, faint but familiar, sang a tune their mother used to hum when they were sick. The melody curled around them like a shawl.

          “Let’s go upstairs,” Thomas said, his voice hollow with curiosity and trepidation

          “There’s no upstairs,” Lucy replied, but Thomas was already climbing the splintered remains of the staircase. Lucy followed heart thumping.  At the top, or what was left of it, they found their old bedroom. The floor was mostly just a few sturdy boards clinging to the walls. But something shimmered in the air: a faint outline of beds, books, the teddy bear Lucy had lost.

          Thomas stepped forward. “Mum?” he whispered. Then they saw her. Or thought they did. A figure, more light than flesh, standing at the window, looking out as if watching for someone’s return. She turned, and for a breathless moment, smiled.

          Lucy reached for Thomas’s hand, squeezing tightly. The ghost, if that’s what it was, opened her arms, and Thomas made a move toward her. But Lucy held him back.

          “No,” she said softly. “We can’t.”

          The woman’s smile faded. Her form dimmed like a candle flickering in wind. And then she was gone. The humming stopped. Silence again. They stood there, cold and small against the vast, broken sky.

          “Do you think she was really here?” Thomas asked.

          Lucy didn’t answer right away. She stared at the space where the ghost had stood, then turned toward the stairs.

          “She was,” she said finally.”

          They climbed down carefully, the house groaning with every step. As they carefully made their way out into what was left of their street, the wind picked up, scattering ash like snow across the empty bomb site of Poole Street.

          Thomas stood for a moment looking at what used to be the street where the footy was to be played.  Then he spoke to no one in particular and Said;

          “Dya think Harry and the Three Mills mob are going to let us play with seven players?”  Lucy smiled down at him.

          “Maybe.” then gently took his hand and walked on, hand in hand, into the smoke-thick dawn.

Copyright Bob French 

THE BUCKET LIST

 THE BUCKET LIST

By Bob French

The main sitting room of the Dickens Care Home just outside Purleigh, was buzzing as Jane, the head nurse sounded the evening gong.  Those who had booked their place to watch ‘Gone with the wind’ in the upstairs lounge, for the eighth time, started to make their way out of the sitting room.

          The card and domino players left by the west wing to play in the conservatory, whilst Nancy and Albert waited for the mass exodus to settle down.

          After a few minutes, Albert stood and addressed the remaining eight gentle folk as he sometimes referred to them.

          “Right, everyone, we have just two months left before we declare the winner of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Champion of 2019.”  Everyone applauded their achievements. Nancy stood, and with a huge grin on her face read from her millboard. “Pamela, you have completed two of your quests, Billy you have completed three; Owen you have only completed one, but as you know it is still being adjudicated by the committee as stealing ladies’ underwear from washing lines is not considered in keeping within the rules of the competition. Jill, you Harry and Mavis have yet to complete any of your challenges. Frances and Paul, you both have four a piece and William and Janet you both have nine each, so it looks like it’s between you two.  The first to complete their last quest will become this year’s champion.”  Everyone applauded again as some of their challenges were rather scarry.

          Nancy looked at William. “I understand that you are being held up by the weather for your tandem parachute jump, and Janet,” She paused as she re-read from her notes. “I don’t understand. “A walk into the past?”

          Janet smiled and gently nodded to Nancy. “It’s a surprise, so I shan’t let on love if that’s alright.”

          That night Janet paid a visit to her closest friend, Gwenavere, who dabbled in the dark arts. Tea leaves, dice and tarot cards.

          Gwenavere could see the pain in Janet’s eyes and nodded her towards a soft arm chair.  “How you feeling Love.” Janet had been suffering from osteoarthritis for a long time and found sanctuary in the little bags of herbal medicine that Gwenavere would dispense to those who needed to get through the day.  Without being asked, she put the kettle on and passed Janet a small bag of marijuana and watched her sprinkle it into a warm cup of Chamomile tea. This, she found that it would drive away the pain and allow her to sleep peacefully. “Now what date are you planning your last quest my love?”

          Janet looked up at her friend. “I was thinking of All Hallows’ Eve. I wouldn’t stand out.”

          Gwenavere nodded.  How you getting out there then.  Tis a long way?”

          “It’s only two and a half miles and I have walked it in the day time and during the night, so I think I can do it.”

          It had just past eleven forty-five on a cold and frosty night in late October as Janet reached the outskirts of the forest.  She paused while she took a breath, then moved along the muddy path until she came to the old rickety bench which she had found five years ago, just on the fringes of the dead Forest of Mundon.

          With a smile, she eased herself down onto the bench and felt a sense of achievement as mentally she crossed off the last task from her bucket list; to visit the ancient oaks of Mundon.

          After about ten minutes, she took the flask from her coat pocket, unscrewed the cap and drank the warm Chamomile tea then lent back to allow the tiny leaves to do their magic. Feeling the peaceful sensation start to take hold of her old and frail body, Janet took a deep breath and felt the cold night air start to seep deep into her lungs until she felt invigorated as though her old body was coming to life.  She stood and slowly walked towards the skeletal monuments that held secrets of the past that no man would ever hear.

          Under a veil of frost and moonlight, the petrified oaks of Mundon stood like ancient sentinels, their gnarled limbs twisted in eternal agony. Silver ice clung to barks long dead, glinting faintly in the cold starlight. A spectral hush hung over the marshland, broken only by the whisper of wind through hollow branches. Each tree, lifeless yet looming, casting long skeletal shadows across the frozen earth.

          As she slowly moved amongst the tombstones of oak, time felt suspended, her breath visible in the still night air. The oaks, remnants of a forgotten forest, seem to watch her in silence; ghosts rooted in soil, frozen in time.

          The further she moved into the centre of the forgotten forest, the more she felt younger, as though some medieval force was gradually occupying her body and soul. Then she saw them. A series of shooting stars, streaking across the deep black heavens, leaving their Icey trail briefly before fading into the distance. A message from the gods she thought as she glanced at her watch.  It was midnight.

          Without thinking she fell to her knees and started to recite a prayer she’d read in a book of ancient pagan rituals many years ago.  Her mumblings were interrupted by the sound of people singing and playing musical instruments in the distance.  Her inquisitiveness got the better of her and she stood and started to follow the sound of merriment. Her steps increased until she felt herself running flat out towards the noise.  Suddenly huge bon fires burst into bright flames in the four corners of the field as though protecting those who had chosen to celebrate the festival.

          The sounds grew louder, yet she could not see anyone. The pain in her chest started to burn, but she knew she had to get near to the fire for it to work. The closer she got to the noise, so the smoke from the huge fire burning in the centre of the celebrations, started to thin and she could now make out faces.  Her breathing started to labour and the pain was increasing, forcing her to stumble and she felt herself falling. Then she saw him, her Jack, the man she had fallen in love with and lived together for some fifty years before he moved to the other side as Gwenavere explained to her.  He ran towards her and cradled her in his arms.

          “You came my darling, you came.”

          “Oh Jack, I’m hurting my love.”

          “Tis alright my darling, we are together now, it will pass.”

          Jack glanced into the huge fire, then looked into her eyes. “We have but a few minutes before all this ends, Will you marry me?”

          Janet smiled and nodded.  Suddenly they were standing at the altar of the thirteenth century church of Saint Mary’s on the corner of the ancient forest.  The old priest went through the ceremony of handfasting; gently binding their hands together with a cord.  They exchanged their vows, kissed, then carefully jumped over the broom.  As their feet touched the ground, everything vanished. Only the stillness of the cold night remained.

          The faint sound of the gentle moaning wind as it passed through the tormented limbs of the ancient oaks was all that was left of the gathering.  In the stillness of the dawn came the sound of the single bell of Saint Mary’s, together. With wind and bell woven in a haunting symphony, solemn, and strangely beautiful in the stillness of a forgotten world.

          Janet was reported missing the following day and after the briefest of searches, was found sitting up against one of the huge old oak trees in the forest of Mundon with a smile on her face.  That night the committee of the Dickens Care Home Bucket List Championship declared that even though Janet had passed away, she had achieved her quest and was voted the winner. 

Copyright Bob French