that moved at two hundred yards. Even the sergeant major
was impressed.
“All
those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might ‘ave somethin’ to do with it,”
admitted Tommy. “But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?”
“Sooner
than you think, lad,” promised the corporal.
“Must
complete twelve weeks’ trainin’,” said Charlie. “That’s King’s Regulations. So
we won’t get the chance for at least another month.”
“King’s
Regulations be damned,” said Tommy. “I’m told this war could be all over before
I even get a shot at them.”
“Not
much ‘ope of that,” said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.
“Trumper,”
barked a voice.
“Yes,
sir,” said Charlie, surprised to find the duly sergeant standing by his side.
“The
adjutant wants to see you. Follow me.”
“But
Sergeant, I haven’t done anythin’... “
“Don’t
argue, lad, just follow me.”
“It
‘as to be the firin’ squad,” said Tommy. “And just because you wet your bed.
Tell ‘im I’ll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least
you can be certain it’d be over quick.”
Charlie
unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.
“Don’t
forget, you can insist on a blindfold. Just a pity you don’t smoke,” were Tommy’s
last words as Charlie disappeared across the parade ground at the double.
The
sergeant came to a halt outside the adjutant’s hut, and an out-of-breath
Charlie caught up with him just as the door was opened by a color sergeant who
turned to Charlie and said, “Stand to attention, lad, remain one pace behind me
and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understood?”
“Yes,
Color Sergeant.”
Charlie
followed the color sergeant through the outer office until they reached another
door marked “Capt. Trentham, Adj.” Charlie could feel his heart pumping away as
the color sergeant knocked quietly on the door.
“Enter,”
said a bored voice and the two men marched in, took four paces forward and came
to a halt in front of Captain Trentham.
The
color sergeant saluted.
“Private
Trumper, 7312087, reporting as ordered, sir,” he bellowed, despite neither of
them being more than a yard away from Captain Trentham.
The
adjutant looked up from behind his desk.
“Ah
yes, Trumper. I remember, you’re the baker’s lad from Whitechapel.” Charlie was
about to correct him when Trentham turned away to stare out of the window,
obviously not anticipating a reply. “The sergeant major has had his eye on you
for several weeks,” Trentham continued, “and feels you’d be a good candidate
for promotion to lance corporal. I have my doubts, I must confess. However, I
do accept that occasionally it’s necessary to promote a volunteer in order to
keep up morale in the ranks. I presume you will take on this responsibility,
Trumper?” he added still not bothering to look in Charlie’s direction.
Charlie
didn’t know what to say.
“Yes,
sir, thank you, sir,” offered the color sergeant before bellowing, “About turn,
quick march, left, right, left, right.”
Ten
seconds later Lance Corporal Charlie Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers found
himself back out on the parade ground.
“Lance
Corporal Trumper,” said Tommy in disbelief after he had been told the news. “Does
that mean I ‘ave to call you ‘sir’?”
“Don’t
be daft, Tommy. ‘Corp’ will do,” Charlie said with a grin, as he sat on the end
of the bed sewing a single stripe onto an arm of his uniform.
The
following day Charlie’s section of ten began to wish that he hadn’t spent the
previous fourteen years of his life visiting the early morning market. Their
drill, their boots, their turnout and their weapons training became the
benchmark for the whole company, as Charlie drove them harder and harder. The
highlight for Charlie, however, came in the eleventh week, when they left the
barracks to travel to Glasgow where Tommy won
was impressed.
“All
those hours spent on rifle ranges at fairs might ‘ave somethin’ to do with it,”
admitted Tommy. “But what I want to know is, when do I get a crack at the Huns?”
“Sooner
than you think, lad,” promised the corporal.
“Must
complete twelve weeks’ trainin’,” said Charlie. “That’s King’s Regulations. So
we won’t get the chance for at least another month.”
“King’s
Regulations be damned,” said Tommy. “I’m told this war could be all over before
I even get a shot at them.”
“Not
much ‘ope of that,” said the corporal, as Charlie reloaded and took aim.
“Trumper,”
barked a voice.
“Yes,
sir,” said Charlie, surprised to find the duly sergeant standing by his side.
“The
adjutant wants to see you. Follow me.”
“But
Sergeant, I haven’t done anythin’... “
“Don’t
argue, lad, just follow me.”
“It
‘as to be the firin’ squad,” said Tommy. “And just because you wet your bed.
Tell ‘im I’ll volunteer to be the one who pulls the trigger. That way at least
you can be certain it’d be over quick.”
Charlie
unloaded his magazine, grounded his rifle and chased after the sergeant.
“Don’t
forget, you can insist on a blindfold. Just a pity you don’t smoke,” were Tommy’s
last words as Charlie disappeared across the parade ground at the double.
The
sergeant came to a halt outside the adjutant’s hut, and an out-of-breath
Charlie caught up with him just as the door was opened by a color sergeant who
turned to Charlie and said, “Stand to attention, lad, remain one pace behind me
and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Understood?”
“Yes,
Color Sergeant.”
Charlie
followed the color sergeant through the outer office until they reached another
door marked “Capt. Trentham, Adj.” Charlie could feel his heart pumping away as
the color sergeant knocked quietly on the door.
“Enter,”
said a bored voice and the two men marched in, took four paces forward and came
to a halt in front of Captain Trentham.
The
color sergeant saluted.
“Private
Trumper, 7312087, reporting as ordered, sir,” he bellowed, despite neither of
them being more than a yard away from Captain Trentham.
The
adjutant looked up from behind his desk.
“Ah
yes, Trumper. I remember, you’re the baker’s lad from Whitechapel.” Charlie was
about to correct him when Trentham turned away to stare out of the window,
obviously not anticipating a reply. “The sergeant major has had his eye on you
for several weeks,” Trentham continued, “and feels you’d be a good candidate
for promotion to lance corporal. I have my doubts, I must confess. However, I
do accept that occasionally it’s necessary to promote a volunteer in order to
keep up morale in the ranks. I presume you will take on this responsibility,
Trumper?” he added still not bothering to look in Charlie’s direction.
Charlie
didn’t know what to say.
“Yes,
sir, thank you, sir,” offered the color sergeant before bellowing, “About turn,
quick march, left, right, left, right.”
Ten
seconds later Lance Corporal Charlie Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers found
himself back out on the parade ground.
“Lance
Corporal Trumper,” said Tommy in disbelief after he had been told the news. “Does
that mean I ‘ave to call you ‘sir’?”
“Don’t
be daft, Tommy. ‘Corp’ will do,” Charlie said with a grin, as he sat on the end
of the bed sewing a single stripe onto an arm of his uniform.
The
following day Charlie’s section of ten began to wish that he hadn’t spent the
previous fourteen years of his life visiting the early morning market. Their
drill, their boots, their turnout and their weapons training became the
benchmark for the whole company, as Charlie drove them harder and harder. The
highlight for Charlie, however, came in the eleventh week, when they left the
barracks to travel to Glasgow where Tommy won
Similar Books
