M.J. Hollows - Goodbye for Now

Joe didn’t doubt it; Frank was a nice guy, but he wasn’t the most intelligent. Joe suspected the questioned words were in fact real words, but he was better off leaving Frank to it – he had his style, which was popular with the readers.

‘You’ll have to find someone else to pass the boring ones to.’

‘This one isn’t exactly boring, Frank.’

‘I know, just glancing at it has already made me want to sign up.’ He gave Joe a thump on the arm in jest, and Joe resisted to urge to say ‘ow’. ‘But, well, that’s not the point. I’ve already decided I’m going. Perhaps reading what Fritz is up to might give you that kick you need to join in the fun too.’

‘But, how do we know any of this is true, Frank?’

‘What do you mean, true? Of course it’s true. We’re newspaper men, if we don’t know what true is then who does? True…’ He shook his head.

‘But all these horrible things, I can’t believe that they would do that. We have no proof, other than hearsay.’

‘Of course they’re up to no good. They started a war, Joe. That’s not a particularly friendly thing to do now is it?’

‘I suppose not.’ He put the sheet down. ‘Really though, we should be staying neutral, Frank. It’s not our war.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Joe. That’s not like you. Of course it’s our war.’ For once Frank was serious, his usually bright eyes surveyed Joe in a way he hadn’t seen before.

‘Them Germans want Europe for themselves. All this stuff that’s happened leading up to this was just rot, designed as an excuse. They’ve been spoiling for a war for ages now, and it’s been left to us to stop them. We’ll see that we do. Our Tommies are the only ones that’ll stand up to ’em.’

It was no use. Frank was just like all the rest: well meaning, but misguided. Joe wouldn’t get anywhere by trying to make him see reason, and to question what he was told. Everyone was determined that the only way to stop the – alleged – despicable acts of the Germans was to counter them with yet more despicable acts. He would have to try another tactic.

With that thought, he pulled out the copy of the Labour Leader from the top drawer of his desk and flicked through the pages for the article he sought. With a pen he began crossing out lines and rewriting them with added argument, inspired by the words of Fenner Brockway and the other socialist writers. It wasn’t much, he didn’t know how many people would read the article now that he had crossed out the headline, but he could dissuade some men from fighting. He hoped he could make a difference. He had to do something.

‘There’s a ship mooring at the Duke’s dock,’ someone shouted. The men picked up kit, off to find some maintenance work, but George had none. He got a running head start on them, with Tom by his side. They pounded along the cobbled streets, the soles of their boots clicking on the surface with each footfall. At first his boots had rubbed his feet to tatters, but now they were so worn in that it felt like he was running barefoot. Sweat caused by the glaring sun dripped down from his temples and ran round the curve of his neck, under his clothes. It was almost unbearable, but he kept running, otherwise he wouldn’t get there in time.

War had almost been forgotten in the last few days, as work had taken over. They crossed Gower Street and ducked around a carriage, the coachman swearing at them, before running into the Duke’s dock underneath the brick arch of the dock house. The dock smelled strongly of salt water and that ever present stench of fish that got into the nostrils and never left. There was a ship mooring at the dock. George craned his neck to see around the men in front of him. It was a small ship. Its sails were furled and it was being guided in by a small motor. Rope was already being pulled over one of the mooring posts. A man assisting in the mooring saw them coming and blocked their way. ‘Easy now,’ he said, raising the palms of his hands. The men almost didn’t stop. ‘Easy,’ he said again, louder.

This time the men stopped in front of the dock master. ‘I need ten able-bodied men to unload this cargo,’ he said. ‘No more.’ There was a collective groan from the group, about fifty, most of them in tatty clothes. ‘She also needs some caulking, if you can do it.’

A man towards the back of the group with a heavy tin toolbox put a hand up and pushed forward past the dock master. The master started assigning men tasks. ‘You, you, and you,’ he said to three men a couple of rows in front of George. The rest of the men jostled to get noticed, but the master just scowled, picked the rest of the men from elsewhere.

Tom cursed. ‘I thought we had got lucky there, George,’ he said with a shake of his head.

‘Back to the custom house?’ George said. ‘We can look in on the arrivals there.’ Work was scarce on the dock, and down to luck.

The dock master came back over to the group. ‘There’s a big haul coming in, lads. If you’re quick.’ There were calls from the crowd, asking where.

‘…King’s dock’ were the only words George heard, as he dragged Tom after him. The two of them spent most of their days running from one place to another. He didn’t mind the running, but it was the sweat that he couldn’t cope with. In winter it was fine, the running kept you warm, but in the summer it was unbearable. He tried to wear as few layers as possible, but the clothes were for protection. If a piece of cargo slipped it could cut a hole, he’d seen it happen. The boys crossed to the King’s dock. It was a good distance to get to King’s dock. Some part of George suspected that it wouldn’t be worth the effort, but they had to try. Their families depended on the income. Even if it was only a few pence.

As they turned the corner the expanse opened up to a much greater view. King’s dock was much larger than Duke’s. Here the buildings were spaced back, allowing the cargo to be offloaded and moved to better locations. There was indeed a ship entering the dock, larger than the last. It was crawling into the moorings, carefully using the rudder to make sure that it didn’t hit the dockside. It let off its horn, blaring across the dock, almost deafening, and some of the men following George and Tom cheered, feeling their luck was in.

This time the dock master agitatedly waved them into a queue at the side of the dock without saying anything. If the men pushed their luck they would be dismissed without a chance to earn any pay. So they waited, eager, but cautious.

He started assigning them off into queues, and only a few minutes later George and Tom were busy rolling heavy wooden barrels of brandy away from the dockside to a horse-cart that would take them away to a holding area. It took two men to roll each barrel, one guiding while the other put all their weight behind it and gave it a great shove. George and Tom had plenty of experience and idly chatted amongst themselves while they worked. They stopped for a moment to catch their breath, having just loaded the last barrel that would fit onto the cart, rolling it up the wooden chocks that formed a slope to the hold. The coachman put up the tail board with help from Tom to seal the other side.

‘You were right,’ Tom said, holding up a paper he had taken off a bench. The headline indicated that the war was in the morning paper again. It had been all that people had talked about since the ultimatum had expired.

George wondered what Tom was talking about. Staring at him, he urged him to continue.

‘About them wanting more troops,’ he said. ‘You were talking about it the other day, remember? It says right here that Lord Kitchener has asked for another hundred thousand men.’