Vets Might Fly Read online

"Right, lad, must get on," he grunted, and I was back on the

  treadmill.

  With a pause at lunchtime for bread, cheese and more cider we went on

  breakneck speed all day. I have always been grateful to the RAF for

  what th.

  did for my physical well-being. When I was called up there was no

  doubt I w going slightly to seed under Helen's beneficent regime. Too

  much good cooking and the discovery of the charms of an armchair; I was

  get ting fat. But the RAF changed all that and I don't think I have

  ever slipped back.

  After the six months at Scar borough I am certain I didn't carry a

  surplus' pound. Marching, drilling, PT, running I could trot five

  miles along the bea.

  and cliffs without trouble. When I arrived in Shropshire I was really

  fit. But I wasn't as fit as Mr Edwards.

  He was a com pact bundle of power. Not very big but with the wiry

  durability I remembered in the Yorkshire farmers. He seemed tireless,

  hardly break)' sweat as he moved along the rows, corded brown arms

  bulging from the sleeves of a faded collarless shirt, slightly bowed

  legs stumping effortlessly.

  The sensible thing would have been to tell him straight that I couldn't

  go his pace, but some demon of pride impelled me to keep up with him. I

  am quite sure he didn't mean to rub it in. Like any other farmer he

  had a job to do a' was anxious to get on with it. At the lunch break

  he looked at me with son commiseration as I stood there, shirt sticking

  to my back, mouth hanging open l

  ~ G&~ ~15& ~ ~

  folk again. Mrs Edwards in her undemonstrative way was obviously

  anxious to show hospitality to these four rather bewildered city boys

  far from home, and set us down to a splendid meal every evening She was

  dark like her husband, with large eyes which joined in her quick smile

  and a figure which managed to be thin and shapely at the same time.

  She hadn't much chance to get fat because she never stopped working.

  When she wasn't outside throwing the corn around like any man she was

  cooking and baking, loo king after her children and Scouring her great

  barn of a farmhouse.

  Those evening meals were something to look forward to and remember.

  Steaming rabbit pies with fresh Bilberry tarts and apple crumble lib.

  Home-baked bread and farm green beans and potatoes from the garden.

  and a massive jug of thick cream to pour ad cheese.

  The four of us revelled in the change from the RAF fare. It was said

  the air crews got the best food in the services and I believed it, but

  after a while it all began to taste the same. Maybe it was the bulk

  cooking but it palled in time.

  Sitting at the farm table, loo king at Mrs Edwards serving us, at her

  husband eating stolidly and at the two children, a girl of ten whose

  dark eyes showed promise of her mother's attractiveness and a sturdy,

  brown-limbed boy of eight, the thought recurred; they were good

  stock.

  The clever economists who tell us that we don't need British

  agriculture and that our farms should be turned into national parks

  seem to ignore the rather obvious snag that an unfriendly country could

  starve us into submission in a week. But to me a greater tragedy still

  would be the loss of a whole community of people like the Edwards.

  It was late one afternoon and I was feeling more of a weakling than

  ever, with Mr Edwards throwing the sheaves around as though they were

  weightless while I groaned and strained. The farmer was called away to

  at tend to a calving cow and as he hopped blithely from the stack he

  patted my shoulder as I leaned ribs heaving. -.

  "You're coin' fine, Jim," he said, then, as if noticing my distress for

  the fir time, he shifted his feet awkwardly.

  "I know you city lads ain't used to this kir of work and . . . well .

  . . it's not a question of strength, it's just know in' ho to do it."

  , l.

  When we drove back to camp that night I could hear my companions

  groaning in the back of the car. They, too, had suffered, but not as

  badly as me. ~ ..

  After a few days I did begin to get the knack of the thing and though

  it still tested me to the utmost I was never on the border of collapse

  again.

  Mr Edwards noticed the improvement and slapped me playfully on the

  shoulder.

  "What did I tell you? It's just know in' how to do it!"

  But a new purgatory awaited me when we started to load the corn on to

  the stack. Forking the sheaves up on to the cart, roping them there

  then throw) them again, higher and higher as the stack grew in size. I

  realised with a ja that stooking had been easy. .

  Mrs Edwards joined in this part. She stood on the top of the stack

  with her husband, expertly turning the sheaves towards him while he

  arranged them they should be. I had the unskilled job way below,

  toiling as never before, back' breaking, the handle of the fork

  blistering my palms. ~ I just couldn't go fast enough and Mr Edwards

  had to hop down to help, grasping a fork and hurling the sheaves up

  with easy flicks of the wrist.

  He looked at me as before and spoke the encouraging words.

  "You're comn along grand, Jim. It's just know in' how to do it." -;,

  But there were many compensations. The biggest was being among farming

  food on my fork. on "Never mind, Jim," he laughed.

  "It's just know in' how to do it."

  An hour later we were going into the kitchen for our meal when Mrs

  Edwards said

  "My husband's still on with that cow. He must be having difficulty

  with her."

  I hesitated in the doorway.

  "Do you mind if I go and see how he's get ting on?"

  She smiled.

  "All right, if you like. I'll keep your food warm for you."

  I crossed the yard and went into the byre. One of the old men was

  holding the tail of a big Red Poll and puffing his pipe placidly. Mr

  Edwards, stripped to the waist, had his arm in the cow up to the

  shoulder. But it was a different Mr Edwards. His back and chest

  glistened and droplets of sweat ran down his nose and dripped steadily

  from the end. His mouth gaped and he panted as he fought his private

  battle somewhere inside.

  He turned glazed eyes in my direction. At first he didn't appear to

  see me in his absorption, then recognition dawned.

  "Ullo, Jim," he muttered breathlessly.

  "I've got a right job on 'ere."

  "Sorry to hear that. What's the trouble?"

  He began to reply then screwed up his face.

  "Aaah! The old bitch! She's Squeezin' the life out of me arm again!

  She'll break it afore she's finished!"

  He paused, head hanging down, to recover, then he looked up at me.

  "The calf's laid wrong, Jim. There's just a tail com in' into the

  passage and I can't get the hind legs round."

  A breech My favourite presentation but one which always defeated

  farmers.

  I Couldn't blame them really because they had never had the opportunity

  to read ~ranZ Benesch's classical work on Veterinary Obstetrics which

  explains the ~" ~ mechanics of parturition so lucidly