‘The war’ll be finished by then.’
The sergeant took a folded handkerchief from his pocket and tipped back his
cap, dabbed the sweat from his brow, and with one appraising eye on the
next man in line, he said, ‘Don’t you believe it, my friend.’
‘What about later?’ grinned Walter. ‘I could come back tomorrow. I’ll be
nineteen by then.’
But this sergeant at least was having none of that, and whacked him hard on
the arm. ‘No, fuck off now,’ he said, and gestured in the direction of the exit,
‘get yourself home to your mum.’
And after a moment’s hesitation, his eyes smarting from the blow, Walter did
as he was told; he turned and marched away and passed on the far side of the
hall a few of the fortunate ones, all in civilian attire, their hats and jackets
removed, their right hands raised as they repeated the oath that was being
read to them by a uniformed officer so many inches taller than they were and
so much straighter in bearing. None met his gaze – none noticed him – and
as Walter emerged from the dark of the barracks to the sunshine of St
Saviour’s wide thoroughfare he met a queue of cheerful men still waiting to
be taken inside – some of his neighbours from Mortuary Year among them –
and burned to be asked how he had fared, to account for himself, but these
men were in such high spirits – on the cusp of something auspicious – that
Walter slipped by them unseen, sorely disappointed, and a little ashamed,
though not yet resigned to missing out on the show.
St Saviour’s wasn’t the only recruiting station.
- nothing about the army was straight
Many a time as a child Walter had climbed the hill with his pals to the cavalry
barracks on the outskirts of town so they could gawp through the gates at the