Johnny and the Dead by Pratchett Terry

Author:Pratchett, Terry [Pratchett, Terry]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Google: 9uYLGbP1u7kC
Amazon: 0060541903
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1993-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

SIX

The Pals swung up the road, keeping perfectly in step.

None of them were old. They all looked like their photograph.

But then, Tommy Atkins didn’t look old anymore. It was a young man who got to his feet, marched out into the parking lot, turned, and saluted Johnny and the dead.

Then, as the Pals strode past, he stepped neatly into the gap they’d left for him. All thirty men wheeled about and marched away.

The dead streamed after them. They appeared to walk slowly while at the same time moving very fast, so that, in a few seconds, the parking lot was empty even of its ghosts.

“He’s going back to France,” said Johnny. Suddenly he felt quite cheerful, even though he could feel the tears running down his face.

The British Legion man, who had been talking, stopped.

“What?” he said.

“Tommy Atkins. He’s going back.”

“How did you know that?”

Johnny realized he’d been talking aloud.

“Uh—”

The British Legion man relaxed.

“I expect the lady from the Home told you, did she? He mentioned it in his will. Would you like a handkerchief?”

“Uh. No. I’m all right,” said Johnny. “Yes. She told me.”

“Yes, we’re taking him back this week. He gave us a map reference. Very precise, too.” The man patted the second box he’d been given, which, Johnny suddenly realized, probably contained all that was left in this world of Atkins, T., apart from a few medals and some faded photographs.

“What will you have to do?” he said.

“Just scatter his ashes. We’ll have a little ceremony.”

“Where…the Pals died?”

“That’s right. He was always talking about them, I do know that.”

“Sir?”

The man looked up.

“Yes?”

“My name’s John Maxwell. What’s yours?”

“Atterbury. Ronald Atterbury.”

He extended a hand. They shook hands, solemnly.

“Are you Arthur Maxwell’s grandson? He used to work for me at the boot factory.”

“Yes. Sir?”

“Yes?”

Johnny knew what the answer was going to be. He could feel it looming ahead of him. But you had to ask the question, so that the answer could exist. He took a deep breath.

“Are you related to Sergeant Atterbury? He was one of the Pals.”

“He was my father.”

“Oh.”

“I never saw him. He married my mother before he went off to the war. There was a lot of that sort of thing. There always is. Excuse me, young man, but shouldn’t you be in school?”

“No,” said Johnny.

“Really?”

“I should be here. I’m absolutely sure about that,” said Johnny. “But I’d better be getting to school, anyway. Thanks for talking to me.”

“I hope you haven’t missed any important lessons.”

“History.”

“That’s very important.”

“Can I ask you one more question?”

“Yes?”

“Tommy Atkins’s medals. Were they for anything special?”

“They were campaign medals. Soldiers got them, really, for just staying alive. And for being there. He went all the way through the war, you know. Right to the end. Didn’t even get wounded.”

Johnny walked back down the drive barely noticing the world around him. Something important had happened, and he alone of all the living had seen it, and it was right.

Getting medals for being there was right, too. Sometimes being there was all you could do.

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