Angel on my Shoulder Read online

  ow ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm

  After they’ve seen Paree’

  How ya gonna keep ‘em away from Broadway

  Jazzin around and paintin’ the town

  How ya gonna keep ‘em away from harm, that’s a mystery

  They’ll never want to see a rake or plow

  And who the deuce can parleyvous a cow?

  How ya gonna keep ‘em down on the farm

  After they’ve seen Paree’

  I am still happily humming the silly song when I reach the front door and let myself in.

  CHAPTER 2

  Relationship

  It appears the only time Denise and I have time alone together is on our shopping expeditions to the local market. Oscar is very reluctant to be seen in public as he is not in possession of an identity card.

  On one outing I try to entice Denise to a park shelter for bit of cuddling. However she insists we return to the house immediately after purchasing the goods, in case Oscar worries about our long absence.

  I still long for a more intimate relationship with my darling, but I know without the marriage vows Denise will reject my advances, even if I could get the opportunity to make them. Nights are the worst time for me; she is so near yet so far away. My dreams take me back to the passionate session with Christina, how I long to relive those blissful hours in her arms. I wake up feeling guilty of betraying Denise, even though it is only in my dreams.

  But the evidence of that imaginary encounter stains the sheets.

  I notice when I leave the house with Denise the flower shop next door is still in operation. I presume Oscar has closed off the secret stairway from the flower shop the Ladies and officer clients used when the house was a brothel. I can’t help wondering if they still perform the same function for love starved men as they did when the madam ran Oscars house. I am able to see the Ladies through the window but can’t recognise if they are the ones that entertained that stupid officer. On one occasion when walking by with Denise, I toy with the idea of entering the shop when I’m out alone. I will do it with the pretence of making a purchase, but in reality it will be to sound out the situation. Rejecting the idea immediately with a shudder as I remember the special treatment they meted out to the imbecile Sebastian. Still it brings a smile to my lips as I recall the satisfaction I enjoyed when I lashed him with the belt. Denise assumes I am smiling at her and grips my hand more tightly. If she only knew of my past experiences upstairs in Oscar’s house, maybe in the same bed she now sleeps in on two occasions. I wonder if she will still love me? After three days I take to wandering listlessly around the Port on my own. The whole area is still in chaos as troops return to home bases for demob. Released prisoners of war from both sides are being ferried across the channel. I am sitting on a wooden crate on the docks watching as a string of released British prisoners board a ferry. My mind is in turmoil as I think up plan after plan for my future, and promptly reject them. A sudden thought strikes me, I can’t believe I even consider it, but to be honest with myself I miss the war. I miss my comrades, I miss the action, I miss being useful. I have been living on the edge of death for ever or so it seems, and I can’t get used to the peace. My life since I joined up has been organised every minute of every day.

  From being woken up to falling into bed exhausted, every moment was filled with useful activity. Now even though I am with the girl I love and my good friend Oscar I find myself bored. I know I will have to do something immediately or I will drift into a life not of my choosing. I find a book shop stacked with books written in all languages. The owner also has English newspapers, although a day or two old I read them anyway. During my visit I am browsing through the English version books. He has books covering every conceivable subject. I feel drawn to the history and politics section. The ancient Frenchman running the shop appears to take an interest in me. He speaks broken English but we communicate enthusiastically on various subjects. He points out books he considers I should study to further my education.

  His opinion regarding books impresses me, opinions I feel will stay with me for the rest of my life. All the accumulated knowledge of mankind is recorded in books. Seek and you shall find. He waves the price of the books and permits me to borrow them. I find a comfortable place by the docks to pore over the books, consuming the contents like a hungry man.

  The sun is shining the weather is perfect. As I dream away about something I just read that particularly interests me, a long passenger train arrives nearby and begins discharging the human cargo. Out of all the soldiers disembarking, I recognise him as he steps down from a railway carriage assisted by a red-cross nurse. I have to look twice to be sure, but it is definitely him. My old pal I presumed dead, it is Sandy, my mentor, my friend. He is here about to leave for Blighty, I must see him. I leap to my feet and rush towards him, only to be restrained by a couple of MP’s manning a gate allowing access through the wire fence. One MP is a Sergeant, the other a lance Corporal. I plead with them to let me through, but the Sergeant insists on seeing my leave pass and pay book. While he scrutinises my papers I explain why I need to get to the soldiers about to embark on the ferry. Maybe their stony hearts have softened with the secession of hostilities, for eventually they permit me to pass their guard post. They nevertheless hold on to my pay book to ensure I return. I reckon soldiers must be still attempting to get back home without waiting for official permission. I recall the incident when I first arrived in France, of the deserter being dragged away by the MP’s as he attempted to board the ferry with the wounded troops.

  The MP’s evidently still don’t trust the ordinary soldier to comply with orders and wait for officialdom to send them home.

  The head of the troop line is beginning to climb the gangway when I am finally allowed to race towards them, shouting “Sandy! Sandy” as I approach him.

  He continues moving towards the ship, totally oblivious to my presence. When I grasp his shoulder he turns towards me with blank staring eyes. My God! Is this the Sandy I knew so well? His haggard drawn face is that of an old man. His snow white straggly hair emerges from under a tattered cap. His right sleeve is pinned back, indicating the loss of his arm. I feel a pang in my heart. Sandy does not recognise me. Has he forgotten me so soon, and I considered us to be so close? Good Lord! What has happened to this wonderful, caring, intelligent human being? What kind of hell has he been through since last I saw him? I am in a state of shock. I thought I was immune to all that this war could throw at me. The spectacle of Sandy, worn out, haggard and crippled really gets to me. I feel tears welling up in my eyes. The line of men following Sandy is becoming impatient at the delay I am causing. Mutterings of discontent are becoming increasingly louder. They begin shuffling forward again, pushing Sandy ahead with them. A Doctor approaches and inquires. “What is your problem soldier; you are not from this party are you?” I salute him. He does not bother returning my salute. “No Sir, I’m not one of this party I’m an ambulance driver on leave. I spotted one of the men getting off the train. He is a dear friend of mine and I thought he was dead. He was a stretcher bearer at our station and disappeared on the front line. My mate must have been taken prisoner. What a blessing he is still alive.”

  “You were an ambulance driver eh? Well you have seen plenty of action no doubt, and I guess you have some medical knowledge I suppose?” “Very little Sir, to be honest, we just patched them and shipped them to the dressing station as best as we could. We had to learn on the job. I had no medical training as such. The other drivers showed me what to do.”

  “Good God that’s scary, I only came out of training myself six months ago. You were asking about these unfortunate men. Most of them were in a Prisoner of war camp in Germany. I don’t know if it is a blessing some of them are still alive. A good proportion of these poor chaps will never recover, I’m sorry to say. I think that the lucky ones are the dead, to be honest with you.” I have a sick feeling in my stomach when he discloses his opinion about some of the poor
soldiers.

  I silently pray. Please let Sandy recover he has so much to offer.

  It’s a strange thing, although I’m totally against organised religion.

  I find I am still able to ask God for help when I’m in a tight corner or need a favour. This could be considered slightly hypocritical by many eh?

  As we talk Sandy moves ever closer to the ship. Although sympathetic the Doctor has his orders, all the ex POW’s are to be loaded onto this ship to be returned to hospitals in the UK for after care.

  “Which hospital are they going? Where about will my mate be stationed? I need to know, I owe this mate of mine so much.” I plead for the Doctor’s assistance. He shrugs his shoulders and responds.

  “Sorry Lad, there is a panel of Doctors established in the UK.

  It will be their decision when they get them to the other side where the lads go. It depends on the wounds and mental condition. I believe the hospitals are so full around the east coast they are being distributed around the whole of the country. I haven’t been home for a while I can only tell you what I’ve heard. They say even some village halls have been converted to hospitals. The villagers and local Doctors are looking after the recovering lads. There is such a shortage of medical staff and the flu epidemic is still raging. According to reports this flu has killed more people than the war. It’s hard to believe that eh, after what we have seen?”

  Desperately I search for a solution. I definitely don’t want to lose touch with Sandy again. The Doctor explains that this group of men are classed as the walking wounded. They are mostly suffering from shell shock although many have other problems also.

  At last! After a long, long time the British Army appears to accept that shell shock is an injury like any other condition suffered by soldiers on battlefields. To think not so long ago they were shooting men suffering from shell shock considering them cowards. Yes! Not forgetting my boyhood pal Tommy executed by his own mates on orders from above.

  A desperate solution comes in a flash in the Doctors pocket I observe a small note book. I ask him for a page he obliges immediately.

  With a borrowed pencil I write. Please contact Scouse, (the name Sandy knows me by.) I add the dressing station identity number where we first met, followed by the address of Oscar’s house. As he puts his first foot on the end of the gangway I slip the paper into his tunic pocket. There is nothing else I can do as I watch him disappear into the innards of the ship. It is ironical that, if Sandy hadn’t taught me to write in the dressing station. I would not have been able scribble this last desperate plea to stay in contact. The line comes to an end the Doctor bids me goodbye. He makes his way towards the train no doubt to escort more unfortunate wounded soldiers back to their unknown future at home. As I walk slowly towards the gate my mind wanders to some of the various stories we worried about during the conflict. Despite assurances from politicians’ at the outbreak of war that servicemen would be returning as heroes, rumours were filtering back to France that it was the same old story. The most seriously wounded and disfigured were an embarrassment to be hidden away in remote hospitals. This was being done so as not to destroy the moral of the civilians. My mates reckoned if they had been allowed to appear in public the recruiting Sergeants would be out of a job in no time. The horrendous casualty figures didn’t deter fresh people from enlisting. I know it didn’t stop me. Sam an old soldier I served with reckoned a guy with half his face missing or with his wedding tackle shot off would sure put them off joining up for the madness.

  That reminds me of something else he reckoned a captured German machine gunner had told him. The German soldier alleged his commanding officer ordered the gunners to set their machine guns to hit our soldiers where they wouldn’t show their Mothers. His theory being that the Tommie’s were more afraid of being emasculated than killed outright. I personally shuddered when he divulged this to me. At the time I had never enjoyed the favours of a woman and couldn’t imagine being incapable if and when the occasion arose. I also recall it was a debatable point amongst my mates when a few casualties were brought in suffering such horrible wounds. Maybe this is why some of the lads visited the local brothels in case it happened to them? Maybe this is why I did exactly the same thing. I wouldn’t have even considered it in civvie street? I am approaching the gate when a Red Cross ambulance appears at speed. He pauses for a few seconds before being permitted through. For a moment I am distracted from walking towards the gate. I turn towards the ferry on hearing a crash as they lift the gangways. With a blast on the ships whistle the last mooring rope is cast off. The ferry steams away from the quay accompanied by a cheer from the departing passengers. The ambulance after coming through the gate stops alongside me. The driver appears much older than most of the other drivers I know. He leans out of the door and curses. “Damn and blast! I hoped to catch that one.” He explains. “I got lost in the bloody town. I’ve been here before a couple of times before you see. It’s a bloody nightmare coming through the town now. That bloody nonsense a few miles outside the town doesn’t help if you haven’t allowed time for it.

  That’s what made me late for the ferry. Damn paper work and red tape. The bloody army thrives on it.” He adds with a dry laugh. “Still we must not grumble eh? The German army must have been worse than ours or they would have bloody won eh?” He says this with a wry smile.

  “I’ve’ got six lads aboard desperate to get home as quickly as possible.” He adds confidentially in the way of explanation. “They have family problems it’s this bloody flu you know? The civvies are going down like flies? One of the poor buggers has lost his wife and four kids.” I advise him. “You shouldn’t have to hang around too long. There is another ship waiting to dock already. I’ve been watching them it’s like a nonstop shuttle service day and night. I believe the wounded and the released prisoners are being taken home, then they are bringing the Boche POW’s back on the return trip.” He spots my insignia. “Ah! Lad! I see you’re one of us. Are you involved with this repatriation business? Maybe you can help me cut the red tape and get these lads aboard the next boat? You see they were booked for that one. You know what it’s like for paper work in the army, if you don’t have it you don’t get it.” That last remark makes me smile. I’ve heard it so many times before.

  He adds in a near whisper. “They are in a pretty bad way you see. I wouldn’t be surprised if one or two of them don’t make it home alive?” I reply sympathetically.

  “Sorry mate, I can’t help you. I’m on leave myself just came to see a mate of mine going on board the boat.” I point towards the train. “Do you see that Doctor heading for the train? I suggest you grab him before he disappears, he seems to be in charge.” With a crash of gears and a wave of his hand the ambulance speeds away towards the Doctor who is just about to climb aboard the train. There is only the one MP lance Corporal and a French Gendarme at the barrier when I return to collect my pay book. The Englishman is very convivial when he returns my property. The Gendarme is a sulky looking fellow paying no attention to me. He looks like the type of man I wouldn’t like to cross; he appears more like a gangster than a policeman. The Gendarme leans against the sentry box smoking one of those horrible smelling French cigarettes and takes no part in our conversation. The MP inquires if I have found my mate. I explain what has happened and how shocked I am at his appearance. The Corporal shakes his head sympathetically. “I’ve seen worse than that lot passing through here I can tell you. I don’t know what the poor buggers will do when they get home?”

  I agree with him. “Aye it’s been a terrible war. I wonder how many lives were lost, not forgetting how many cripples it created.

  Think of all those widows and orphans? I mean how will they manage without their Husbands and Dads?” I pose a question impossible to answer but something that is plaguing my mind. The Corporal offers me a cigarette which I accept and light up. He makes another observation.

  “I see from your papers you were a front line ambulance driver?
r />   You must have seen bloody sight worse things than me lad?” Without waiting for a reply he asks me another question. “I see you were chatting to that other ambulance driver? Have you any idea who he is?” I shake my head. “It’s only Somerset Maugham.” I must have looked a bit vague, he adds with relish. “You know the famous writer. The daft buggers in England wouldn’t let him join the army reckoned he was too short and too old. That’s when he joined the British Red Cross and served with the Froggies. Well at least that’s what I heard anyway.” I hope the buggers devote some of their writings to some of the cock ups that have been going on in this lot when it’s all over.” He was rambling on an on, the man is definitely an unusual MP. Now it dawned on me. I have heard of him this Somerset Maugham he is on about. “Bloomin heck, fancy that! Me talking to a famous writer and him an ambulance driver like me. My girl friend won’t believe me.” He adds a few more snippets as he explains proudly. “I met that Yank hero Sergeant York when he was on his way home, he’s a nice fella. A very religious man, do you know?

  He conducted a kind of church service for the wounded lads before they went on the ferry. Have you heard about him?” “I sure have. I think everyone has, he’s quite a lad eh?

  Fancy him taking that machine gun post and capturing all the Boche with a hand full of men. I heard he was awarded more medals than soft Mick?” We laugh together. There was a story going around amongst the Tommie’s that the Yanks even presented medals to their soldiers when they became infected with Pox. Maybe we were envious of our American allies. Most of the glory and awards in our army seems to be showered on the senior officers. The Corporal discloses more facts. “We’ve had a few more celebrities though these here gates I can tell you. Er! Don’t go, hang on a mo.” He nips into the sentry box and emerges holding a sheet of paper. “Here lad, you can have this. You deserve it more than that bloody Sergeant of mine. Anyway, he adds with a knowing smirk. “I’ve got some more, I got one of the girls in the office to copy it for me.” He lowers his voice to a whisper and reveals with a chuckle, “I’ll blame that Froggie bugger for nicking it if he gives me ear ache. He’s shit scared of him our brave Sergeant. He won’t tackle him and that’s a fact. I mean would you, he’s a scary looking sod eh? Pity he wasn’t in the front line he would scared the shit out of poor old Fritz.” He gives another chuckle. One quick glance at the Frenchman and I have to agree. The Corporal proudly presents me with the paper which I accept with caution. He explains with a laugh when he sees my hesitancy. “You don’t trust us MP.s do you lad? I don’t blame you, some of them or should I us, are right shits.