Jeffrey Archer - As the Crow Flies

"Fatigues for you, my lad, that's for sure," shouted the corporal. Charlie shot him a glance, but the words were being directed at Tommy in the next bed.

"What for, Corp?" asked Tommy.

"For the state of your sheets. Just look at them. You might have had three women in there with you during the night."

"Only two, to be 'onest with you, Corp."

"Less of your lip, Prescott, and see that you report for latrine duty straight after breakfast."

"I've already been this morning, thank you, Corp."

"Shut up, Tommy," said Charlie. "You're only makin' things more difficult for yourself."

"I see you're gettin' to understand my problem," whispered Tommy. "It's just that the corp's worse than the bloody Germans."

"I can only 'ope so, lad, for your sake," came back the corporal's reply. "Because that's the one chance you've got of coming through this whole thing alive. Now get yourself off to the latrines at the double."

Tommy disappeared, only to return an hour later smelling like a manure heap.

"You could kill off the entire German army without any of us having to fire a shot," said Charlie. "All you'd 'ave to do is stand in front of 'em and 'ope the wind was blowin' in the right direction."

It was during the fifth week—Christmas and the New Year having passed with little to celebrate—that Charlie was put in charge of the duty roster for his own section.

"They'll be makin' you a bleedin' colonel before you've finished," said Tommy.

"Don't be stupid," replied Charlie. "Everyone gets a chance at runnin' the section at some time durin' the twelve weeks."

"Can't see them takin' that risk with me," said Tommy. "I'd turn the rifles on the officers and my first shot would be aimed at that bastard Trentham."

Charlie found that he enjoyed the responsibility of having to organize the section for seven days and was only sorry when his week was up and the task was handed on to someone else.

By the sixth week, Charlie could strip and clean a rifle almost as quickly as Tommy, but it was his friend who turned out to be a crack shot and seemed to be able to hit anything that moved at two hundred yards. Even the sergeant major was impressed.

"All those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might 'ave somethin' to do with it," admitted Tommy. "But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?"

"Sooner than you think, lad," promised the corporal.

"Must complete twelve weeks' trainin'," said Charlie. "That's King's Regulations. So we won't get the chance for at least another month."

"King's Regulations be damned," said Tommy. "I'm told this war could be all over before I even get a shot at them."

"Not much 'ope of that," said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.

"Trumper," barked a voice.

"Yes, sir," said Charlie, surprised to find the duly sergeant standing by his side.

"The adjutant wants to see you. Follow me."

"But Sergeant, I haven't done anythin'—"

"Don't argue, lad, just follow me."

"It 'as to be the firin' squad," said Tommy. "And just because you wet your bed. Tell 'im I'll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least you can be certain it'd be over quick."

Charlie unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.

"Don't forget, you can insist on a blindfold. Just a pity you don't smoke," were Tommy's last words as Charlie disappeared across the parade ground at the double.

The sergeant came to a halt outside the adjutant's hut, and an out-of-breath Charlie caught up with him just as the door was opened by a color sergeant who turned to Charlie and said, "Stand to attention, lad, remain one pace behind me and don't speak unless you're spoken to. Understood?"

"Yes, Color Sergeant."

Charlie followed the color sergeant through the outer office until they reached another door marked "Capt. Trentham, Adj." Charlie could feel his heart pumping away as the color sergeant knocked quietly on the door.

"Enter," said a bored voice and the two men marched in, took four paces forward and came to a halt in front of Captain Trentham.

The color sergeant saluted.

"Private Trumper, 7312087, reporting as ordered, sir," he bellowed, despite neither of them being more than a yard away from Captain Trentham.

The adjutant looked up from behind his desk.

"Ah yes, Trumper. I remember, you're the baker's lad from Whitechapel." Charlie was about to correct him when Trentham turned away to stare out of the window, obviously not anticipating a reply. "The sergeant major has had his eye on you for several weeks," Trentham continued, "and feels you'd be a good candidate for promotion to lance corporal. I have my doubts, I must confess. However, I do accept that occasionally it's necessary to promote a volunteer in order to keep up morale in the ranks. I presume you will take on this responsibility, Trumper?" he added still not bothering to look in Charlie's direction.

Charlie didn't know what to say.

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," offered the color sergeant before bellowing, "About turn, quick march, left, right, left, right."

Ten seconds later Lance Corporal Charlie Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers found himself back out on the parade ground.

"Lance Corporal Trumper," said Tommy in disbelief after he had been told the news. "Does that mean I 'ave to call you 'sir'?"

"Don't be daft, Tommy. 'Corp' will do," Charlie said with a grin, as he sat on the end of the bed sewing a single stripe onto an arm of his uniform.

The following day Charlie's section of ten began to wish that he hadn't spent the previous fourteen years of his life visiting the early morning market. Their drill, their boots, their turnout and their weapons training became the benchmark for the whole company, as Charlie drove them harder and harder. The highlight for Charlie, however, came in the eleventh week, when they left the barracks to travel to Glasgow where Tommy won the King's Prize for rifle shooting, beating all the officers and men from seven other regiments.

"You're a genius," said Charlie, after the colonel had presented his friend with the silver cup.

"Wonder if there's an 'alf good fence to be found in Glasgow,' was all Tommy had to say on the subject.

The passing out parade was held on Saturday, 23 February 1918, which ended with Charlie marching his section up and down the parade ground keeping step with the regimental band, and for the first time feeling like a soldier—even if Tommy still resembled a sack of potatoes.

When the parade finally came to an end, Sergeant Major Philpott congratulated them all and before dismissing the parade told the troops they could take the rest of the day off, but they must return to barracks and be tucked up in bed before midnight.

The assembled company was let loose on Edinburgh for the last time. Tommy took charge again as the lads of Number 11 platoon lurched from pub to pub becoming drunker and drunker, before finally ending up in their established local, the Volunteer, on Leith Walk.

Ten happy soldiers stood around the piano sinking pint after pint as they sang, "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag" and repeating every other item in their limited repertoire. Tommy, who was accompanying them on the mouth organ, noticed that Charlie couldn't take his eyes off Rose the barmaid who, although on the wrong side of thirty, never stopped flirting with the young recruits. Tommy broke away from the group to join his friend at the bar. "Fancy 'er, mate, do you?"

"Yep, but she's your girl," said Charlie as he continued to stare at the long-haired blonde who pretended to ignore their attentions. He noticed that she had one button of her blouse more than usual undone.

"I wouldn't say that," said Tommy. "In any case, I owe you one for that broken nose."