Terry Pratchett - Johnny And The Dead

'She said you're all growing up heathens,' said Yo-less.

'Well, I'm going to a funeral at the crem tomor- row,' said Johnny. 'That's almost church.'

'Anyone important?' said Wobbler.

'I'm not sure,' said Johnny.

Johnny was amazed that so many people had come to Thomas Atkins's funeral, but that was because they'd really come to the one before it. All there was for Atkins's was himself and a stiff-looking old

1 Th'e '.' kept rubbing off.

man in a blazer from the British Legion and the nurse from Sunshine Acres. And the vicar, who did his best, but had never met Tommy Atkins so had to put together his sermon out of a sort of kit of Proper Things to Say. And then some recorded organ music. And that was it.

The chapel smelled of new wood and floor polish.

The three others kept looking at Johnny in an embarrassed way, as if they felt he shouldn't be there but didn't know exactly how to put it.

He heard a faint sound behind him, just as the recorded music started up.

He turned around, and there were the dead, seated in rows. The Alderman had taken his hat off and was sitting stiffly at attention. Even William Stickers had tried to look respectable. Solomon Einstein's hair stood out like a halo.

The nurse was talking to the man in the blazer. Johnny leaned back so that

he could speak to Mr Fletcher.

'Why are you here?' he whispered.

'It's allowed,' said Mr Fletcher. 'We used to go to all the funerals in the cemetery. Help them settle in. Make them welcome. It's always a bit of a shock.'

'Oh.'

'And ... seeing as you were here... we thought we'd see if we could make it. Mr Vicenti said it was worth a try. We're getting better at it!'

The nurse handed Tommy Atkins's box to the British Legion man and walked out, waving at Johnny uncertainly as she went past. And then

the vicar ushered the man through another door, giving Johnny another funny look.

Outside, the October sun was shining weakly, but it was managing to shine. Johnny went outside and waited.

Eventually the man came out, holding two boxes this time.

'Uh,' said Johnny, standing up. 'Um.'

'Yes, lad? The lady from the Home said you're doing a project for school.'

Doing a project. It was amazing. If Saddam Hussein had said he was doing a school project on Kuwait, he'd have found life a lot easier ...

'Um, yes. Uh. Can I ask you some stuff?'

'Of course, yes.' The man sat down heavily on one of the benches. He walked with a limp, and sat with one leg stretched out straight in front of him. Johnny was surprised to see that he was probably as old as Grandad, but he had that dried- out, suntanned look of a man who keeps himself fit and is probably still going to be captain of the bowls club when he's eighty.

'Well ... when Mr Atkins said ...' Johnny began. 'I mean, he used to say that he was "the one". I know about the Blackbury Pals. I know they all got killed except him. But I don't think that's what he meant ...'

'You know about the Pals, do you? How?'

'Read it in an old newspaper.'

'Oh. But you don't know about Tommy Atkins?'

'Well, yes, he—'

'No, I mean Tommy Atkins. I meant, why he' so proud of the name. What the name meant?

'I don't understand that,' said Johnny.

'What do they teach you in school these days?'

Johnny didn't answer. He could tell it wasn't* really a question. j

'You see - in the Great War, the First World War ... when a new recruit joined the Army he had to fill in his pay book, yes? You know? Name and address and that sort of thing? And to help them do it, the Army did a kind of guide to how to fill it in, and on the guide, where it said Name, they put: Thomas Atkins. It was just a name. Just to show them that's where their name should be. Like: John Smith. But it ... well, it became a sort of joke. Tommy Atkins came to mean the average soldier—'

'Like The Man In The Street?'

'Yes ... very much like that. It was a nickname for a soldier, I do know that. Tommy Atkins — the British Tommy.'

'So ... in a way ... all soldiers were Tommy Atkins?'

'Yes. I suppose you could put it like that. Of course, that's a rather fanciful way of—'

'But he was a real person. He smoked a pipe and everything.'

'Well, I suppose the Army used it because they thought it was a common sort of name. So there was bound to be a real Tommy Atkins somewhere. I know he was very proud of his name. I do know that.'

'Was he the last man alive who fought in the

war?'

'Oh, no. Good heavens, no. But he was the last one from around here, that's for certain. The last of the Pals.'

Johnny felt a change in the air.

'He was a strange old boy. I used to go and see him every year at—'

There was a noise that might be made if a handful of silence was stretched thin and then plucked, like a guitar string.

Johnny looked around. Now there were three people sitting on the bench.

Tommy Atkins had his peaked hat on his knees. The uniform didn't really fit. He was still an old man, so his skinny neck stuck out of his collar like a tortoise's. He had an old-fashioned sort of face - one designed to wear a cloth cap and work in the rubber boot factory. He saw Johnny staring at him, and winked, and gave him the thumbs-up sign. Then he went back to gazing intently at the road leading into the car park.

Behind Johnny, the dead filed quietly out of the building, the older ones coming through the wall, the younger ones still using the door out of habit. They didn't say anything. They just stood and looked expectantly towards the main road.

Where, marching through the cars, were the Blackbury Pals.

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 any more. It was a young man who got to his feet, marched out into the car park, 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 moved very fast, so that, in a few seconds, the car park was empty even of its ghosts.

'He's going back to France,' said Johnny. Sud- denly, 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.