Trenchblight: Innocence and Absolution

Copyright © 2014 James McBride.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse LLC

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1626-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1628-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1627-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921857

iUniverse rev. date: 02/04/2014

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

1914

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

1915

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

1916

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

1917

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

1918

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

EPILOUGE

PROLOGUE

Tom, can you come here please? the call came from the kitchen.

The kids were in the front room watching TV. Tom looked across at his brother; Harry was engrossed in the film, and appeared not to have even heard his mums summons. Susan was equally glued to the TV screen, showing no reaction to the call from the kitchen.

Tom are you listening? his mum barked again.

The emphatic tone meant the summons could not be ignored much longer.

Coming Mum, Tom shouted.

Can you pause it? he asked Harry firmly.

Harry looked up, as if pulled from a hypnotic trance.

What?

Can you pause the film, while I go and see what mum wants?

No, was the blunt and instant response.

Tom made a lunge for the remote resting on the arm of the chair. But his younger brother was too quick, pushing it down the side of his cushion. Tom tried to push his hand down the chair to retrieve it, but Harry held his arm back with both hands.

Are you coming or what? Tom’s mum’s voice sounded even more strident; bordering on anger. It could not be ignored any longer.

Yes, Tom called, as he raised his fist at Harry. The problem with being the eldest was no matter what happened Tom knew he would get the blame. Susan carried on watching TV, oblivious to the constant and childish bickering of her mad brothers.

Tom had no choice, and skulked out of the front room, vowing to himself to get his brother back one way or another. He stomped sullenly into the adjoining kitchen. His mum stood over the sink, surrounded by dishes and saucepans, as she prepared Sunday dinner.

She gestured to a plate that was on the table, covered in tin foil.

Can you take that round to Grandma Rose? Tom knew it was pointless to argue, but he couldn’t resist.

Why can’t Harry go?

His mum shrugged wearily.

Just get on with it, she was too preoccupied for prevarication.

But it’s always me, Tom moaned again.

The look of chagrin from his mum as she turned abruptly from the sink cut Tom off. He had known it was pointless.

And stay with her awhile. You know she gets lonely.

Tom sighed deeply. It was always him. He summoned all his burgeoning teenage angst, and shrugged disconsolately, as he wrapped the hot plate in a dish cloth to make it easier to carry. Still sighing deeply, and muttering muted curses under his breath, Tom let himself out of the front door. There was a thin drizzle in the air and the street was shiny with a light coating of moisture, his grandma’s flat was only across the road. There was no traffic, the street was virtually empty.

Tom plodded across the road, and down the broken path leading to the bleak main entrance to the tumbling block of flats. He pushed through the door into the dingy entrance way. The corridor smelt of stale urine, and the familiar smell of old people, a faint hint of antiseptic. Tom tried not to inhale too deeply.

The plate was burning his fingers through the cloth, so he increased his speed as he moved down the dimly lit and unwelcoming corridor. Tom reached his grandma’s door, and knocked quickly. He waited for what felt like an eternity, but there did not appear to be any response. He knocked again, this time using more force. The door was opened almost immediately.

All right, who do you think I am, Linford bloody Christie? a rasping, but resolute voice barked.

Sorry Grandma, I wasn’t sure you’d heard me, Tom tried to explain himself.

You saying I’m deaf as well as decrepit? the warm smile on his grandma’s craggy and thickly powdered face confirmed that she was only joking.

Put it in the kitchen. In the microwave, I’ll have it later. Grandma Rose shuffled back into the front room, as Tom went into the tiny kitchen.

And can you bring me a bottle of Guinness. There on the side, she called behind him. Tom knew where the small dark bottles were kept, and taking an opener from a drawer, he opened one before taking it into the living room.

His grandma was seated on her familiar chair in the centre of the small but comfortable room. The television in the corner was on, but she didn’t seem to be paying it much attention, the sound was barely audible.

Thanks lad, just the job, she took the bottle of Guinness with relish.

Do you want me to pour it for you Grandma? Tom asked.

I think I can’t just about manage, Rose smiled. Despite her eighty-four years Rose was well preserved, and notwithstanding the inevitable slowness caused by her arthritic knees, was still reasonably mobile and self-sufficient. Her thinning grey hair was stiff with lacquer and immaculately groomed; she still retained a hint of her former beauty.

Tom sat in the chair opposite his grandma, as she poured out the Guinness into a glass on the small table by her side. He enjoyed his grandma’s company, so it was no hardship to stay with her, despite his earlier moaning. His grandma was always full of stories, and was completely disparaging of any authority or sense of decorum.

She took a long swallow from her glass, the black liquid with its thick yellow top, tilting with her head.

Bloody lovely, Rose sighed deeply, wiping away the frothy yellow moustache that coated her top lip.

Been dying for that all day, she smiled again.

Tom noted the empty bottle already under the table without comment. He knew his grandma was partial to her Guinness.

So how yer keeping? Rose asked, as she put the half empty glass back on the table.

Okay Grandma, Tom replied. How’s the rugby going? she continued her probing, clearly enjoying the company of her eldest great grandson.

Rose loved seeing all her many grandchildren and great grandchildren, but unfortunately it did not happen enough, as the family was now dispersed way beyond her South London roots. Rose’s childhood memory was of constant family gatherings, and virtually everyone living within a few streets of each other. Those days were long gone, as was so much of her life.

Good, we won this morning, Tom answered with pride.

Well done—did you score?

No.

I must get yer dad to take me one week—I’d love to see yer play.

There was a hint of past memories in her deep rheumy eyes. The thought of his great grandma coming to see him sent a chill down Tom’s spine. He would lose all credibility with his mates.

That would be nice, he smiled wanly. Rose took another swallow from her Guinness, reinstating the yellow moustache above her lip.

And what about school? she asked again.

Okay—I guess, Tom replied gruffly.

You don’t sound too sure.

Well its school, Tom mumbled into his chest. Rose chuckled to herself.

What’s yer favourite subject?

Rose was keen to keep the conversation going, despite Tom’s limited responses. It took Tom a few moments to think.

Apart from Games—I guess its History, Tom responded, not sounding too sure. Blimey—well I’ve certainly been part of history all right. What yer studying at the moment?

We’re doing the First World War, Tom replied.

Grandma Rose paused for a moment as if she was recalling distant memories.

I remember it all too well, she said softly.

What you were alive during the First World War, Tom was incredulous; to him it was part of a dim and distant history, only remembered in dusty books.

Of course, she replied with a sparkle in her eyes.

Wow. And you remember it? Blimey, Tom was shocked. What was it like? Tom’s natural curiosity was aroused. He loved history, particularly anything about the wars.

Now that’s a very big question, Rose mused.

I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask, I was only five when it started. But all I can say is that it changed my life forever.

There was a bubble of moisture in Roses eyes, her voice quivered slightly. Tom still couldn’t imagine it, what it must have been like to have lived through the Great War, after what he’d read in the books he devoured so avidly. Rose was lost in her thoughts for a few precious and silent moments.

In the bottom drawer of the sideboard over there, Rose pointed to the old sideboard on the far wall of the room.

There’s a tin. You might be interested.

Tom didn’t hesitate, within seconds he was rummaging through the drawer. He soon found a large and old biscuit tin. It looked like it hadn’t been touched for years. Tom pulled it out and took it across to his grandma. She held it deferentially, stroking the lid, wiping off the thin layer of gray dust.

Open it for me please.

There was a slight dread in Roses voice as if the tin contained something painful. Tom was intrigued. The lid was stuck fast, but with an effort he was able to remove it.

Wow, Tom gasped. Look at that.

Tom passed the open tin back to his grandma.

I haven’t looked at these for years, probably not since the last war, when me Brother Jon died. There were tears slowly falling down her powdered cheeks, as she held the old tin reverently.

Slowly she lifted out a long ribbon of medals. Tom could not contain himself.

Blimey, there’re loads, he said, the excitement racing through his voice.

Grandma Rose held the medals up. There were four, all of different shapes and colours, the ribbons were fading, but the metal was still bright and vivid.

Can I have a look at em? Tom almost whispered in his awe.

Grandma Rose nodded slowly; the emotion was too strong, she handed the medals to Tom.

Be careful, she said softly, barely able to contain the emotion in her voice.

Tom gripped the bar that held the four medals. He wanted to know more. Carefully he looked at each of them.

Blimey, they’re ace, he said, as he read the inscriptions.

The Victory Medal; sounds cool—the British War Medal and 1914/15 Star. Tom fingered the star shape carefully, as he turned it in his hand.

And the Military Medal; ain’t that for doing something brave?

The names fell easily from Tom’s tongue. To Rose they held true meaning, that was reflected in her shinning eyes.

Whose are they? Tom asked; he couldn’t hold the question back.

Me dads, the words were a whisper.

The tears were dripping from the faint hairs that straggled from her chin. For a moment it was all so lucid.

He must have been a hero with all these.

Tom looked up at his grandma, seeing the tears and emotion that was racked through her face. She gripped herself, smiling through the moisture on her thin lips.

He was to me.

Tom picked up the emotion from his grandma. He suddenly realised the pain and heritage attached to the shiny pieces of metal. Behind each one was a real story. Tom ached to know that story. He needed to know it. It suddenly felt more important than anything in his life.

Do you know what he did? Did he tell you about it?

Again Tom couldn’t hold the questions back. Rose shook her head sadly.

No, was all she could say through the glistening tears.

There was huge meaning in that one word; more than any single word could normally convey.

But these are his letters here, and some of me mum’s. You might want to read them. I haven’t for years.

Rose held up a pack of yellow sheaves of paper, bound with a thin red ribbon. They looked fragile and sacred. Tom nodded vigorously.

I would love to know more.

Tom was intrigued, he fingered the medals again, re-examining the words. They seemed to say so much, for something so simple. Tom felt an irresistible urge to understand the story behind each of them.

He looked at his grandma again. Rose smiled at him indomitably. Tom suddenly realised that his grandma had lived through so much. It was almost impossible to comprehend. In every craggy crease and sad wrinkle in her face was a story. She had lived through two World Wars the like of which, hopefully, the World would never see again. The impact of that life was engrained in her face and in her deep sorrowful eyes.

Tom was imbued with a new respect and understanding. His grandma had been through more than he would ever be able to imagine. The memories and the pain were obvious.

Rose passed the letters over. They felt soft and damp with age. Tom held them delicately. The writing on the top one was faded, but still legible. There were several more packages in the tin, along with other papers and documents.

Tom hoped they would begin to tell the story that lay behind the cold and silent medals he held so reverently in his hands.

1914

1

The two sets of tightly interlocked bodies smashed into each other with a shuddering impact. The clash of muscle on bone, and the echoing human grunt resounded across the pitch, the crowd reacting with a baying roar of anticipation. As if by some miracle, heads found the appropriate slots in their opponent’s ranks. Slowly the pressure mounted, rippling through the tensed and buckled bodies like a tightening spring. A spiral of billowing steam rose from the straining bodies, dissipating in the fading afternoon sun.

They were in the last stages of injury time and a goal and try from the home team would steal victory at the death. With one last gargantuan effort the Blackheath front row strove for supremacy against their heavier opponents. After what seemed like an age to the bent and twisted bodies in the front row the two opposing packs were settled. On either side of the Blackheath front row were the Duke Brother’s. As one they bent their legs and dipped their shoulders, just as the ball was at last fed into the straining mass. The rest of the pack sustained this slight momentum, as bent legs were straitened in unison; with a mighty roar the opposition were forced back that crucial yard. In that vital instant the ball was secured. And now the second row maintained the forward drive, gaining even more vital yards and momentum. The ball was channelled through the press of interlocking legs until at last it reached Rhys Williams at the base of the scrum.

The excitement of the crowd reached an even greater intensity, as the huge back row forward scooped up the ball in one of his shovel like hands. No sooner had the ball been gathered in, than with a final surge of power, Williams burst away from the scrum as it dissolved into chaos.

Like a rampaging bull Williams headed straight for the opposition outside half, who half-heartedly attempted to throw an arm across the Welshman’s driving thighs. This effort was shrugged aside with contemptuous disdain, and more vital yards were gained. The covering defence was quickly across, at last Williams was brought to a faltering halt some ten yards short of the beckoning line, his pounding legs still driving him forward.

With one last effort Williams turned, presenting the ball to his on rushing back row colleagues and the rest of the driving Blackheath pack. Opposition arms were ripped away to secure a channel for the ball and the momentum of the drive was maintained as more bodies thudded into the heaving and straining maul.

The last to arrive, having to disentangle themselves from the opposition front row were the Duke Brothers. At full pace they lent their not inconsiderable bulks to the drive. For a few frantic seconds the ball seemed to be lost, as it disappeared in the heaving press of straining bodies. But suddenly, as if by magic, the ball appeared at the back of the maul.

Bill Aitchinson the tiny scrum half made no attempt to pass the ball away. The backs had been out played all day and if victory was going to be secured now it was going to be through the endeavours of the forwards. Rather than take the ball, Aitchinson lent his slight frame to the struggling mass, urging his forwards on. Momentum was slowed as more of the opposition lent their weight to resisting the drive. But they were five tantalising yards from the line, and the shadow of the posts rose enticingly before them.

At last spinning away from the maul, Tom the younger of the Duke Brothers, the ball firmly lodged under his arm made for the line; David his brother at his shoulder. The Richmond defence was caught flat-footed for that vital second. The first tackler was handed away with a mighty thrust of Tom’s free arm. The last defender was caught between two options. David made for the outside, waiting for the try scoring pass.

But, dummying outrageously, Tom burst past the bemused defender to score under the posts. The crowd roared its appreciation, particularly one group of wildly cheering spectators who had followed the play down field. The successful conversion signalled the end of the match and victory for the home side against Richmond their London rivals, in the first and potentially last game of the 1914-15 Season.

With the flags collected the still animated crowd headed for the clubhouse bar, locked in discussion about the game. Whilst the players, one set heads bent in mute dejection, the other laughing their delight, headed for the changing rooms and the waiting bath.

You lousy bastard, you should have passed that ball out, I was over for a certain try, David moaned, a beaming smile spreading across his sweat and dirt encrusted features.

What and let you get all the bloody glory. You must be joking, Tom laughed back.

You’d have dropped it anyway, he added dismissively.

David grabbed his brother round his broad shoulders.

Well done. That certainly gave it to the cocky sods.

Yeah, Tom smiled back. And now I need a bloody pint.

Sounds good to me, David agreed.

At first sight the two brothers appeared to be the mirror image of each other, both in size and silhouette. They walked together, their shadows interlocked. David was the elder by nearly two years. At twenty seven he was reaching the peak of his strength and experience. His burly frame concealed a soft stomach that hinted at too much beer and good living. David’s dark hair was beginning to recede and was cropped short around his cauliflower ears, revealing thin traces of various scars, testament to the hardness of the game he loved.

David was certainly not handsome in the classical sense, but he had a rugged quality, with his strong jaw line and clear green eyes set deep below his thick eyebrows, hinting at hidden depths.

There was no difference in size between the two brothers, but Tom boasted a thick head of raven black hair accentuating his chiselled features and good looks; his stomach was still flat, lending to his athletic appearance.

Whilst from a distance it was virtually impossible to tell the brothers apart, close up the difference was clear. Tom’s demeanour was far more carefree, a constant smile lighting up his features, and a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. In contrast David features appeared reticent and serious. His smile seemed almost reluctant, as if it was restrained by some inner reserve, though there was a bright glint in his eyes; that hinted at a hidden lightness and joy.

As they were walking towards the changing rooms a group of running children caught up with them, a swirling mass of swinging arms and pounding legs, racing to reach the two brothers. There were eight of them, three boys and five girls of varying ages. The girls ran holding onto their bonnets to stop them falling off, their pretty white dresses swinging about their knees in a most unladylike fashion. The boys ran unencumbered, their caps clasped tightly in their hands, gleefully trying to outpace the girls. Panting they encircled the two brothers, laughing their joy.

Uncle Tom that was a great try, Robert the eldest of the boys gasped, clearly in awe of his mother’s younger brother.

Tom delighted in the adulation of his young nephew.

What about me? David chided, ruffling the ten year olds mass of unruly red hair.

Yeah Daddy was the best, another voice countered.

It came from Rose, at five the youngest of the group. She grabbed her daddy’s hand.

Thank you Rose, Daddy thinks you’re the best as well, David replied pulling her up under his arm.

Am I the best as well Dad? another of the boys cried.

Yes Jon, you’re the best as well.

In one fluid motion Jon was also plucked under David’s arm, his booted feet kicking happily in the air.

Carry me uncle Tom, Daisy, another of the girls pleaded.

And me.

Me, me, the children cried in unison clutching at Tom.

Hold it, hold it, I can’t carry you all, Tom feigned trying to push his way past the press of young bodies. Laughter and screams filled the air.

Calm down now, a stern voice rescued Tom.

Come on your uncles want to get washed and changed.

Maisie the eldest of the Duke Sisters entered the fray. The reaction was instant. The children knew better than to cross their mother and aunt. Maisie was the eldest of the Duke children; some five years older than David. And even David did what he was told by the sturdy matriarch of the family, who grew more like their mother with every passing year.

You will see your uncles tomorrow, Maisie placated the drooping lips and tearful eyes.

Two more women approached, taking command of the group of children; Maureen, the second Duke Sister and Mary, David’s wife.

Did you enjoy that? Mary asked, taking the two wriggling children from her husband’s arms.

Yeah it was great—how about a kiss for your handsome husband, David puckered his lips.

Sod off. Handsome—I wish. You can keep your sweaty body to yourself, the response was instant and playful.

Typical—I don’t know, what’s a man to do? David laughed, grasping his wife round the waist.

We’re going to take the kids home now, they need to have an early night, they’ve got a big day tomorrow, Mary replied ignoring David’s attempted affection.

Yeah of course, can I have a kiss then Rose; and you Jon?

David bent down and hugged his two children.

You won’t be late—will you? Mary asked; the tone of her voice more serious.

No—I’ll just have a couple of pints.

I’ve heard that before, just remember it’s an early start tomorrow and we’ve got a lot to do.

David nodded.

Don’t worry—it will all be sorted.

Mary shrugged.

Just remember.

With that parting remark, the woman shepherded the downcast children away.

2

The changing room was steaming, the moisture dripping from the damp walls. Bellowing their pleasure the home team headed for the bath. For some this would be the only bath of the week, but only for some. The majority of the team came from a reasonably affluent background, as Rugby Football particularly in the prosperous south was predominately a gentleman’s sport, with a few notable exceptions.

But the need for water after hard toil and the exhilaration of a hard fought victory was a great class leveller, and the moist air was soon full of boisterous laughter and feckless banter.

The two Duke Brothers were sat in the corner, savouring the hot water, letting it soak into their aching joints. It had been a hard first game of the season, and bodies softened during the summer were feeling every knock. The battle in the front row had been particular fierce and their shoulders and necks were red raw, testament to the ferocity of their endeavours, the hot water stinging the braised skin.

But the talk was not of pain, but of the game, each twist and turn was discussed, each tackle made and ball dropped. Every pass missed and scrum won.

Rhys Williams was the last to enter the bath, a pint clutched in his huge fist, a cigarette perched precariously in his mouth. Delicately Williams lowered himself into the steaming water between the Duke Brothers.

Fuck, am I going to ache in the morning, the Welshman groaned, stretching his long legs through the wriggling press of slippery bodies.

You and me both, David agreed, flexing his tender neck muscles.

Thanks for the try, Tom acknowledged, taking a mighty gulp from the Welshman’s pint.

Should’ve made it me self, I’m getting too old for this malarkey see.

David laughed.

You’ve been saying that for last five years. You’re still be playing for years yet, you daft sod.

That’s assuming I live much longer. The way I feel at the moment I think I’ll be dead before I’m thirty, The Welshman retorted pulling his pint away from David’s extended lips to salvage the last of his beer.

You’ll live forever you old soak, the amount of beer you drink—your bodies bloody pickled.

The Welshman smiled as he downed the last of his pint.

Yeah and here’s too many more, I feel better already.

As if on cue two large trays of frothing pints were lugged onto the side of the bath, to be grabbed by eager hands.

A thank you from Sir Royston, John Ford the head coach laughed. That was a good effort boy’s. Shame about the first twenty, but you got going in the end.

As I keep telling the girls, it’s the end that matters, a cry came from the back of the bath.

Yeah, and in your case Aitch the end comes very quickly, Ford replied.

John Ford was totally at ease with the players many with whom he had played during the last years of his career. A knee injury had ended his playing days prematurely, just as he was on the verge of an England cap. He was still finding the transition from player to coach difficult. He found it frustrating watching and yelling instructions from the sideline, when he still yearned to be out there himself.

The trays were soon emptied, and tongues loosened by the beer were raised in jubilant song, which shook the dripping moisture from the ceiling.

It was sometime, and several pints later, that the players made their way into the clubhouse. In ones and twos they entered the bar, heads held high, enjoying the adulation that swelled around them. And no one enjoyed it more than Tom Duke, for whom the praise was especially aimed. David smiled as his brother positively beamed in the glory, acknowledging every handshake and pat on the back. Slowly winding his way through the throng, David made his way to a small group sat round a table away from the bar.

Good game son. Well done, John Duke welcomed him, the pride in his sons positively shining from his face.

Take a beer.

Cheers Dad, David replied enjoying his dad’s endorsement.

It looked tough up front—they were big lads, John Duke continued.

Tell me about it, me shoulders are blooding aching—I dread to think what they’ll be like in the morning.

But you had em in the end.

David looked up from his pint. We certainly did, he smiled.

John Duke was in his early fifties, the first traces of silver were beginning to show around the edges of his jet-black hair. The twenty years of his rugby career were etched into the craggy strictures of his face, his ears squashed into tight cauliflowers, his nose twisted out of joint. But he retained a rugged youthfulness, although his paunch now swelled over his belt, he carried it well, set against his thickset chest and broad shoulders.

The other members of the group were James, at sixteen the youngest of the Duke Brothers, and Bill Carey and Andy Clinch, David’s two brother-in-laws.

That was a great try, from Tom, James said, unable to conceal his pride at his brother’s glory.

Yeah—but he should have passed it to me, the greedy bastard, David replied.

At length Tom joined them; dragging himself away from the praise he so delighted in. Tom pulled up a stool and grabbed a spare glass.

This mine?

John Duke nodded, taking a pull from his pint.

Yeah.

A good start to the season, Andy Clinch offered. But I guess the question is—is there going to be a season?

Nobody seems to know. I was speaking to old Harry Marsh, the fixtures secretary before the game and it seems it’s all up in the air. Everyone seems to be joining up. London Scottish have cancelled all their fixtures, apparently the whole club has joined up on mass, all four teams. So everybody’s waiting to see what’s happening in France before they’re willing to commit to more fixtures, David replied.

It’s going well, is the latest news. Seems there’s been a big battle at some place in Belgium called Mons. The news is that we gave the Germans a good thrashing, said Bill Carey.

We might have given them a thrashing, but we’re retreating apparently, or at least that’s the news as I understood it, John Duke countered, sliding his pint back on the table.

Any news of our Bob? Tom asked, referring to his cousin who was serving in the Army. No—I was talking to Mick this morning; he’s not heard anything since they set off for France. But it seems that the West Kent’s were involved in the fighting at Mons, according to the papers they fought against some German Brandenberg Regiment or other, sorted em out good and proper apparently.

But Dorothy’s worried sick, checking the casualty lists every day. Every time the post boy comes, she’s in a right state. Can’t blame her really, but he’ll be right, he can look after himself, John replied.

That’s as maybe, but I’ve heard the casualties have been bad, said Andy.

It’s difficult to tell what’s going on, but it certainly seems that the talk of it being over by Christmas was a bit optimistic to say the least, David replied, taking another pull from his rapidly diminishing pint.

Well perhaps we’ll get a crack at the Germans after all, Tom retorted eagerly.

I hope you’re not serious, John Duke looked up abruptly from his beer, the anxiety clear in his eyes.

Of course, we were talking about it before the game. We’re all going to join up. According to Arthur they’re going to be asking for more volunteers anytime now, the first hundred thousand have already signed up—only took two weeks. But they need more. His brothers in the Territorial’s, and he’s already been called up, Tom replied avoiding his dad’s eyes.

And what about you David? John Duke asked his elder son.

David looked up from his beer, the discomfort clearly written across his face.

I don’t know. It’s all just talk at the moment. Let’s wait and see what happens before we do anything rash.

That’s not what you said earlier, you were keen enough then.

The others remained silent. The subject was too close to everybody’s heart. It was James who broke the tension.

Don’t worry they’ll soon have the Germans on the run, our Bob and the rest of the boys. And if they don’t, one look at these two ugly sods will have the Germans running for Berlin.

They all laughed, but the look in John Duke’s eyes clearly hinted at further heated discussion that lay ahead.

That’s enough about the war for now—what time are we leaving tomorrow? David interceded; keen to change the subject.

Everyone is due to meet at the pub at seven. We can then load the van, and hopefully still get down to Victoria in time to catch the 8 o clock train.

Who’s driving the van? David asked.

I am, Bill replied.

Lucky sod, so we get stuck with all the kids, David said. And let me guess who’s got the spare seat.

Tom nodded. Bloody right—Bill needs someone who knows the way, or he’ll get bloody lost in those country lanes.

And what does Ruth think of that? David retorted.

Ruth was Tom’s latest girlfriend; they had been courting for some three months now, which was a record for Tom.

She don’t mind, she’s happy to be with the kids.

I’ll pick you up at Meopham station and ferry you all down to the field, Bill continued. It should only take a couple of trips.

It was the yearly trip into the country for the Duke clan. In part it was to celebrate the anniversary of John, and his wife Emily, but over the years it had become an annual event the whole family looked forward to, especially the children.

Don’t forget the beer, David chided his Dad.

As if, there has to be some perk to owning a boozer, John Duke raised a disdainful eye to his son.

Right I better get moving else yer mum will give me a rollicking, John finished his pint. Come on James, no doubt yer brothers will be staying awhile yet.

The two elder Duke boys nodded their heads in agreement.

3

Several hours later a small group of players were still huddled round the bar. Apart from them the club was empty. The air was heavy with smoke and beer. Glasses in various stages of emptiness, were strewn around the tables.

There were eight remaining, clutching their pints with a grim determination. Three were sat at one of the tables, the rest stood leaning on the bar. The shutters were closed, but several large iron jugs were gathered along the counter, with enough supply of beer to sustain them for a while yet. Sir Charles Royston looked after his players well. Whilst they did not get paid, everything was laid on for them.

And for many the best perk was the free beer. While the team was predominately made up of the middle classes, Blackheath had a number of working class players, mainly in the forwards. Sir Royston wanted his team to be the best; he did not care about his player’s social standing, as long as they were good enough.

The Duke Brothers were a typical example; their rugby prowess got them in the team, along with their family pedigree. Both their dad and his brother Mick had played for Blackheath, back when Sir Royston had played himself, they were embedded in the close rugby fraternity.

The Dukes were of solid South London working class stock, but with two flourishing businesses they were doing well, this success brought them a degree of acceptance across all levels of society; and the family were held in high regard throughout the tight knit South London community.

John Duke had set up his own building firm over twenty-five years ago. After he had finished his apprenticeship as a bricklayer, and worked for a number of years on various sites, he had decided that the only way to avoid breaking his back toiling for others gain was to set up on his own. And using contacts he had made through rugby, this had grown into a fairly large concern, one of the biggest family building firms in South London.

The family also had a pub, the Prince Albert, which had come from Emily’s family. Upon her father’s death eight years ago, it had fallen to them, as Emily had been an only daughter, and they had already effectively been running it for a number of years.

Now the sons ran the building business, and John and Emily ran the pub. David also had his own house in the same street as the Prince Albert. This was a rarity amongst their friends and neighbours. But despite their relative prosperity, they kept themselves firmly rooted in the working class community in which they lived.

The remaining group of players were made up of the close friends of the Duke Brothers, who, with the exception of the giant Welshman Rhys Williams, had played together since they were school boys.

Taff, as Rhys was known, had been imported by the club after a tour to South Wales, where he’d been playing for his home team of Pontypool. Taff had so impressed Sir Royston he had tempted him to London. Taff had jumped at the chance to give up his job down the Pits; he was virtually a professional player. Sir Royston employed him in one of his factories, it was a token job; his main occupation was rugby.

If it were not for his reputation for hard living and wild behaviour, Taff would already have been capped for his country many times. But, even though he was still only twenty-eight, the booze was beginning to take its toll on his body, and Taff had probably missed his opportunity.

Taff was stood at the bar a half empty pint gripped tightly in his grizzled hand. His shock of jet black hair, dishevelled and uncombed, shading his dark eyes. Two days growth of dark stubble, along with the smoke from the fag clasped tightly between his lips, obscured his reddened face.

Stood next to him, also leaning on the bar were his two back row colleagues, Terry Marsh and Gary Jones. Terry known as Spanner to his mates was a plumber by trade, hence his nickname. He was tall and athletic, and was probably the fittest man in the team. With his classic physique, and dark dashing features, Spanner was a favourite with the girls.

Gary Jones was known as Coffin, also due to his occupation, he worked in his father’s undertakers business. Coffin was stockier, and not as classically athletic as Terry, but he was as hard as nails, renowned for his fearsome tackles. Together the trio made a very effective back row combination.

Stood between the big back row forwards was the diminutive scrum-half Bill Aitchinson, he was only five foot four, barely ten stone wet through. Amongst the rest of the forwards he looked liked a child, particularly with his fresh boyish features, but he was as hard as any of them, and his pass was as quick as his acerbic wit.

Sat next to David at a glass laden table, were John Ford and Arthur Davidson. John Ford was in his early thirties, his promising rugby career ended prematurely by a knee injury. John was a history teacher at the local Grammar school, known as IQ for his academic abilities. Rugby was his life; he was still unmarried, his every spare moment dedicated to the team. He had been a hard running centre and even with his knee injury kept himself extremely fit. While his injury did not stop him running or training, the ligaments had been torn, and he was unable to turn and side step, vital skills for a back.

Despite his love of the game, John had retired before he had achieved his full potential. All the players respected him because of his total dedication, which he tried to engender, with varying degrees of success, upon the rest of the team.

John was particularly close to David, and was godfather to Jon, David’s son, whom he doted upon. They both shared a common interest in history and politics, and despite the difference in their respective educations, they delighted in lively debate about any subject. John would often bring books round for David to read, as David had a voracious appetite for knowledge. Consequently John spent a lot of time at David’s house, delighting in being with the Duke family.

Arthur Davidson was the last member of the group. Arthur was a huge second row forward, a towering six foot five. He was a policeman, and nobody messed with him. His nickname was Oak, but despite his stature, he was very much the gentle giant.

Together they were a tight knit band, brought together by the potent bonds of rugby.

The beer was taking hold, but the earlier boisterousness had abated. Despite the elation at winning a local derby the impact of the war hung over them like a cloud, indeed over the whole nation. Everywhere was awash with patriotism, it was pouring from the streets. Union Jacks hung from every street corner and window; people vied with each other to show their war spirit. Everyone was eager for news; the war was the topic of virtually every discussion.

But news was difficult to come by; the bland statements from the War Ministry, drably reported by the newspapers could not appease the ever increasing hunger. In the absence of real information rumour and speculation abounded, everyone had an opinion.

But over the last few days the opinions had started to shift. Initially, a rapid and decisive victory had been certain; everyone thought it would be over by Christmas. The papers had been full of the pictures of the gallant British Expeditionary Force setting sail for France, protected by the invincible Royal Navy.

The whole of London had been on the Mall to see the Household Division march past the glowing facade of Buckingham Palace; bedecked with swirling flags and banners. The long winding columns of the Guards Regiments, followed by the Household Cavalry, the regal horses skittish amidst the noise, resplendent in their martial glory. It had been a day to remember, the proud King waving his Household Regiments off to France, the crowds cheering and screaming, waving flags, the union jacks rippling in the sun like a sea of elation. The massed bands of the Guards playing a crescendo of noise and passion that was barely audible above the pulsating roar of the crowd. The feeling had been amazing; no one doubted the vile Germans would soon be put to the sword.

But that day seemed far off now, whilst the papers were still reporting victories, it could not be disguised that the BEF, along with their French and Belgian Allies were on the retreat. The first casualty lists had been published, the grim reality of war was beginning to sink in, especially for those with sons or friends in the Army.

The Territorial Army had been mobilised, all Reservists called back to the colours. Already the call had gone out for volunteers, recruiting posters covered every wall. Countless thousands responded; the initial quota filled within days. But it was clear that more would soon be called for.

And the talk that abounded in the pubs and streets was of joining up. The excitement and eagerness for war could not be contained. It was rampant, particularly in any group of young men.

And the Blackheath team were no exception.

So Oak, when’s your brother off to France? Tom asked, eager for any discussion involving the war.

They’re going to Malta to relieve a regular battalion and put in some more training—but he reckons they’ll be in France by the end of the year. Oak replied, before taking a mouthful from his pint.

Lucky sod—I was always tempted to join the Terries me self, Tom replied.

David laughed. You lying sod you always took the piss.

Well I ain’t taking the piss now—bloody well done I say.

Everyone agreed.

But the rumour is they’re going to call for more volunteers, another hundred thousand they reckon. But they’ll soon want more, Terry Marsh said from the bar.

Well I’ll go; that’s for sure, Tom said eagerly.

This sentiment was also agreed enthusiastically.

Bloody right, Taff agreed, topping up his pint from one of the jugs that littered the bar.

Should be fun giving the old Hun a good kicking.

Sir Royston’s two boys have already volunteered—seems they’re going to get Commissions, John said.

Typical—Daddies influence no doubt, Terry Marsh sneered.

David sat silently, turning his pint in his hand. He was already later than he’d intended.

What about you DD? Tom asked.

Of course—I’ll do my bit, if needed.

The reservation was clear in David’s voice.

But it’s all just bar talk at the moment. Let’s wait and see what happens.

The enthusiasm could not be dampened.

We should all join up together—we’d soon sort the bloody Huns out, Gary Jones proclaimed, standing next to Tom at the bar.

Sounds good to me, Tom agreed. What do you all think?

The chorus of approval was unanimous.

So when’re we going to do it? Tom asked, keen to get some commitment, and keep the momentum going.

We need to go soon if we want to get in a good regiment, Arthur replied.

The Royal Fusiliers sound good to me, said Bill. Me brothers already joined em.

Why not—what do we have to do? said Tom.

I’m not sure; I think all you have to do is go down to the local recruiting office. I think its Hounslow for the London Regiment, least that’s where Charlie went, Bill replied.

That’s it then—let’s go down on Monday, Tom suggested.

Look I think we should calm down and discuss it when we’re bloody sober, David said grimly, trying to dampen enflamed spirits.

They would not be dampened.

We’ll meet at the Black Lion on the High Street; we can get the tram down to Hounslow. Tom continued ignoring his brother.

It was agreed.

David drained his pint, it tasted sour and flat.

I’m off, before I get well and truly in the shit. What’re you doing Tom?

I’ll stay and finish the beer, Tom replied.

Don’t get too pissed—you know it’s a big day tomorrow.

Tom nodded. Don’t nag; you’re like an old woman sometimes.

4

David was shrouded in darkness, as he walked down the empty cobbled street, his heavy boots echoing in the silence of night. His kit bag hanging loosely from his shoulder, his cap pulled tightly round his head. The nights were beginning to draw in; already the shadows were drawn tightly around David’s broad frame, the dim streetlights throwing off a shadowy pale glow that barely pierced the insidious darkness.

The beer added an edge to David’s thoughts, and an imperceptible wobble to his gait. David could handle his alcohol; he’d been weaned on it. But he’d consumed a copious amount of beer, and with the mixture of an empty stomach and the adrenaline pulsing through his veins after the game, the beer had taken hold. David could feel it as a dull sensation in his head and looseness in his limbs.

But his thoughts were clear, albeit he could not throw off a feeling of impending foreboding. Just when he’d begun to feel his life was complete, and was looking ahead with complete contentedness, all he could now focus on was uncertainty and fear. Fear that everything he had was about to be shattered.

David was a man with responsibility, a wife; two beautiful children. They should be the centre of his life, what right did he have to go off to war, to leave them alone. Who would look after them if he didn’t come back? They were his responsibility; he loved them with all that he was. The thought of not seeing his children grow up was unbearable, he could not imagine it.

But equally he knew he could not stay at home when everyone else was going to war, his brother; his friends, how could he face them if they went without him? It was a bitter thought that he could not reconcile.

This uncertainty turned into a desire for more beer. David reached his front door; he could see the light at the bottom of the hall, emanating from the kitchen at the back of the house. David could virtually sense Mary labouring over the stove, getting things ready for tomorrow. He turned; he could see the welcoming lights outside the pub on the corner of the street. It was too enticing, the desire for beer too great.

He turned, lengthening his stride once more. Within seconds he reached the door of the snug bar. Without hesitating he pushed the door open, entering into the welcoming light. The tiny snug was empty apart from a young couple sat in the corner, locked in whispered conversation. The lad was in uniform. It did not take much to guess what their conversation was about.

David strode purposefully to the bar, putting his cap in his jacket pocket, throwing his kit bag to the floor. Within seconds his mum appeared round the corner of the counter, coming away from the large public bar. Her eyes lit up when she saw her eldest son.

Although just turned fifty, Emily carried her age well. Whilst the approach of middle age was clearly evident around her midriff and buttocks, like her husband, Emily retained a youthful zest for life that made her look younger. Her hair was pushed up, exposing bright blue eyes, blazing across her features. She was still a bonny woman.

Wasn’t expecting you in tonight son? Emily looked slightly critical. Usual, she continued already beginning to pull a pint.

David nodded, pulling some coins from his pocket.

I just need a quick beer, David responded trying to force any trace of alcohol from his voice.

Looks like you’ve had enough already.

David shrugged.

No point in trying to hide anything from you.

No you’re too much like you’re old man. Does Mary know you’re here?

Emily put the pint down in front of him, already knowing the answer, pushing the money back into his hand. David shook his head as he took a mouthful from his pint.

Well don’t be long. You should be home. And where’s your stupid brother—I bet he’s still down the club getting sozzled?

Sounds like a good idea to me, David responded sarcastically, talking into his beer.

As I said—just like your bloody father, Emily chuckled.

I’m just coming, she called over her shoulder, as another customer called for service.

David leant against the bar, savouring the taste of the dark bitter. His dad kept a good cellar. The confused thoughts would not leave him. David did not want to intrude, but he found himself staring at the young soldier in the corner. He looked barely twenty, fresh faced, his frame not yet fully filled. What was he going to? David felt an intense sense of inferiority. He could not discard a feeling of guilt. Why should this young lad barley out of adolescence be going to war, fighting for his country, while David stayed at home? It seemed wrong, made David squirm in the pit of his stomach. The lad looked proud, in his pristine and precisely creased uniform. His girl held onto his hand as if she was never going to let it go, a mixture of pride and fear emanated from her face. They whispered closely to each other.

David could not help think, would they ever see each other again. More bitter thoughts adding to his dark sense of foreboding. David took another long pull from his pint.

Fancy seeing you here, John Duke called from behind the bar, interrupting David’s reverie.

You keep the cellar too well. I needed a decent pint after that rubbish down the club.

John Duke nodded.

I can’t argue with that.

Many in?

No—not for a Saturday night, everyone’s worried about spending their money, what with the war and all.

Bloody war, I’m rapidly getting sick of it, David replied, his troubles written stridently across his face.

I know what you mean. I have a feeling that things are going to get a whole lot worse before they get any better. I can’t say I’m looking forward to the next few months.

David knew his father understood. He always did. John was clearly troubled by a similar melancholy. David downed the last of his pint.

I’m going. See you in the morning.

David plucked up his bag and turned back into the night. John Duke picked up the empty glass, his brow furrowed; he too was beset with dark thoughts.

5

Come on Dave—it’s time to get up, Mary shook her husband awake.

What time is it? David groaned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Nearly six—time to get up.

Mary moved to the window pulling back the curtains, letting the early morning light flood into the room.

I get the message, David said, pulling the sheets back, exposing his naked body. Still rubbing his eyes David moved stiffly to the dressing table in the corner of the room.

My god do I ache—I feel like a bloody old man, David said, twisting his neck tentatively.

He threw some water over his face from a ceramic bowl on the dressing table.

That’s better, he moaned.

You’ll get no sympathy from me—it’s your own fault playing that stupid game.

Thanks—I’ll just die quietly then, David retorted.

Mary ignored him; she had too much on her mind.

The kids are stirring—if you can get em dressed and keep em out of my way, I can finish getting everything ready downstairs.

Sounds like a good deal to me, David agreed.

Mary was already dressed, and was brushing her long red hair in the mirror. David picked up his underwear and socks from the floor. Sniffing them he thought better of putting them back on. He took some clean long johns from a drawer and pulled them on.

That’s better, Mary laughed over her shoulder. It’s not a pretty sight.

David raised his eyebrows.

You didn’t complain last night.

Well you can keep it to yourself at the moment.

I have to say that was the last thing on my mind right now—but then again, I could be tempted.

Sod off—You smell like a brewery.

David didn’t argue, he pulled on his socks and finished getting dressed. Shaking his trousers from the floor and taking a clean shirt from the wardrobe. Mary went downstairs leaving David to wake the children. The bedroom door opened onto the stairs and directly opposite, across the top of the stairwell, was the door to the children’s bedroom. David could hear them stirring.

Stay in your own bed.

He heard Rose shout. Jon laughed, tiny footsteps echoed through the door. David pushed the door open.

What awake already—anyone would think we were going out today.

We are. The echoed response was full of excitement; the children scampered back into their beds.

Not if you don’t behave yourself, David mocked. Right—last one washed and dressed has to empty the poo pot.

The two children dived out of their beds, pulling off their nightclothes and scrambling for clothes out of a chest of drawers. Laughing they strove to push each other aside and pull open their respective drawers. Jon was the eldest by eighteen months and he used his superior strength and weight to push his sister aside. Rose fell to the floor crying. Immediately, Jon turned away from the chest of drawers and went to her.

Sorry Rose—I didn’t mean to hurt you, Jon said, horrified that he’d hurt the little sister he doted upon.

No sooner had Jon reached down to her, than Rose shrugged him aside, yanking her drawer open, pulling clothes out. Jon smiled; he could never match his sister’s innate guile.

Okay—I’ll empty the poo pot. I don’t mind, Jon said sanguinely.

David laughed.

Well done Jon, that’s a good boy—she’s a girl. It’s best to let them get their own way.

David shook his sons head. Jon had only just turned seven and already he was beginning to resemble his dad, particularly with his serious manner.

Right get washed, then finish getting dressed and I’ll see you downstairs, David left them to finish his own ablutions.

Mary was busy packing tins and containers into a large picnic basket and numerous paper bags. The table was littered with packages and boxes. David shepherded the kids into the kitchen.

Well you can get them out of here for a start. There’s some toast there, they can take it into the parlour, I need all the space I can get at the moment, Mary ordered.

David didn’t argue. He knew better. He picked up a plate piled high with slightly underdone toast. Mary had clearly been in a hurry. The butter was melting into the thickly cut bread.

I suppose bacons out of the question? David queried sheepishly. Mary didn’t bother answering; her eyes affirmed David’s thoughts.

It was very rare for the