A War for King and Empire by Darrell Duthie

Author:Darrell Duthie [Duthie, Darrell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Esdorn Editions
Published: 2019-08-19T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

11th of July, 1915

London, England

In a long squeal of brakes the train slowly eased to a halt and the doors to the carriage flew open. We spilled out onto the platform, a throng of khaki clad in muddy puttees and even muddier boots. The tanned and weathered faces around me appeared as taken aback by the sound of cheering as I was. A row of onlookers – women mainly, in wide-brimmed hats – stood along the length of the platform, frantically waving and shouting, excitedly ducking their heads to-and-fro in search of the familiar. At the sight of loved ones a few of the soldiers broke away, rifles in hand and arms outstretched, and rushed to join them. The weary gravity of their expressions gave way to ones of joy. I followed the others, passing a small hut underneath a sign proclaiming in large capitals, FRENCH MONEY EXCHANGED HERE. Several men peeled off to join the queue. The francs they’d been paid would be of little use in England. I headed towards the barrier at the end of the platform.

Behind it, where the great hall of Victoria Station began, a crowd was waiting. They were cheering. Small lads in caps whistled. A gentleman stepped to one side as I approached and clapped me on the shoulder. ‘Well done, lad,’ he enthused. Smiling I passed him by. On the station walls advertisements for Wright’s Coal Tar Soap and Pears’ Soap duelled for my attention, both brands unknown to me, but uncannily appropriate. The air had a strange foreign smell to it.

For all my joy at being here I felt awkward and uneasy. For most in the train this was a homecoming, and even many in the battalion had English family to visit. I didn’t and I found London oddly intimidating. Which was odd after all I’d gone through these past five months. Surrounded by millions, I was on my own in the capital of the Empire. A sudden longing for the trenches came over me.

I grinned broadly when I heard the familiar voice. Even after I recognized who it was.

‘MacPhail! Is that you?’

Lieutenant Drinkwater had his cane in the air waving from ten feet away.

‘By God it is. What a coincidence,’ he said. He looked at me, beaming. ‘You look very sharp, indeed, Sergeant MacPhail.’

This morning, conscious of where I was headed, I’d brushed off my uniform as best I could, thankful for the bath at Nieppe a couple of days earlier, and for the ladies who’d steamed out the lice from my tunic seams. Last night I even made an attempt to clean my boots – something I hadn’t done since Salisbury Plain under the admonitions of Sergeant-Major Atkins. It didn’t hurt that the Tommies ahead of me looked like they’d woken up in a mud bath. All the same, it was an uncharacteristic exaggeration on Drinkwater’s part.

‘Thank you, sir. You look very sharp, as well.’

Which wasn’t an exaggeration at all. Drinkwater didn’t simply look sharp; he was immaculate. His tunic could have hung in a tailor’s shop window yesterday morning, and probably had.

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