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  “Private Hoch, sir.”

  “Well, go and get changed into some gym kit, and we’ll soon find out how long you can last with Matthews.”

  When Lubji returned a few minutes later, Matthews was still shadow-boxing. He continued to ignore his would-be opponent as he stepped into the ring. The coach helped Lubji on with a pair of gloves.

  “Right, let’s find out what you’re made of, Hoch,” said Lieutenant Wakeham.

  Lubji advanced boldly toward the regimental champion and, when he was still a pace away, took a swing at his nose. Matthews feinted to the right, and then placed a glove firmly in the middle of Lubji’s face.

  Lubji staggered back, hit the ropes and bounced off them toward the champion. He was just able to duck as the second punch came flying over his shoulder, but was not as fortunate with the next, which caught him smack on the chin. He lasted only a few more seconds before he hit the canvas for the first time. By the end of the round he had a broken nose and a cut eye that elicited howls of laughter from his comrades, who had stopped putting out chairs to watch the free entertainment from the back row of the gymnasium.

  When Lieutenant Wakeham finally brought the bout to a halt, he asked if Lubji had ever been in a boxing ring before. Lubji shook his head. “Well, with some proper coaching you might turn out to be quite useful. Stop whatever duties you’ve been assigned to for the present, and for the next fortnight report to the gym every morning at six. I’m sure we’ll be able to make better use of you than putting out chairs.”

  By the time the national championships were held, the other coolies had stopped laughing. Even Matthews had to admit that Hoch was a great deal better sparring partner than a punch-bag, and that he might well have been the reason he reached the semifinal.

  The morning after the championships were over, Lubji was detailed to return to normal duties. He began to help dismantle the ring and take the chairs back to the lecture theater. He was rolling up one of the rubber mats when a sergeant entered the gym, looked around for a moment and then bellowed, “’Och!”

  “Sir?” said Lubji, springing to attention.

  “Don’t you read company orders, ’Och?” the sergeant shouted from the other side of the gym.

  “Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir.”

  “Make your mind up, ’Och, because you were meant to ’ave been in front of the regimental recruiting officer fifteen minutes ago,” said the sergeant.

  “I didn’t realize…” began Lubji.

  “I don’t want to ‘ear your excuses, ’Och,” said the sergeant. “I just want to see you moving at the double.” Lubji shot out of the gym, with no idea where he was going. He caught up with the sergeant, who only said, “Follow me, ’Och, pronto.”

  “Pronto,” Lubji repeated. His first new word for several days.

  The sergeant moved quickly across the parade ground, and two minutes later Lubji was standing breathless in front of the recruiting officer. Lieutenant Wakeham had also returned to his normal duties. He stubbed out the cigarette he had been smoking.

  “Hoch,” said Wakeham, after Lubji had come to attention and saluted, “I have put in a recommendation that you should be transferred to the regiment as a private soldier.”

  Lubji just stood there, trying to catch his breath.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said the sergeant.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” repeated Lubji.

  “Good,” said Wakeham. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir,” responded the sergeant immediately.

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Lubji. “Except…”

  The sergeant scowled.

  “Yes?” said Wakeham, looking up.

  “Does this mean I’ll get a chance to kill Germans?”

  “If I don’t kill you first, ’Och,” said the sergeant.

  The young officer smiled. “Yes, it does,” he said. “All we have to do now is fill in a recruiting form.” Lieutenant Wakeham dipped his pen into an inkwell and looked up at Lubji. “What is your full name?”

  “That’s all right, sir,” said Lubji, stepping forward to take the pen. “I can complete the form myself.”

  The two men watched as Lubji filled in all the little boxes, before signing with a flourish on the bottom line.

  “Very impressive, Hoch,” said the lieutenant as he checked through the form. “But might I be permitted to give you a piece of advice?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Lubji.

  “Perhaps the time has come for you to change your name. I don’t think you’ll get a long way in the North Staffordshire Regiment with a name like Hoch.”

  Lubji hesitated, looked down at the desk in front of him. His eyes settled on the packet of cigarettes with the famous emblem of a bearded sailor staring up at him. He drew a line through the name “Lubji Hoch,” and replaced it with “John Player.”

  * * *

  As soon as he had been kitted up in his new uniform, the first thing Private Player of the North Staffordshire Regiment did was swagger round the barracks, saluting anything that moved.

  The following Monday he was dispatched to Aldershot to begin a twelve-week basic training course. He still rose every morning at six, and although the food didn’t improve, at least he felt he was being trained to do something worthwhile. To kill Germans. During his time at Aldershot he mastered the rifle, the Sten gun, the hand grenade, the compass, and map reading by night and day. He could march slow and at the double, swim a mile and go three days without supplies. When he returned to the camp three months later, Lieutenant Wakeham couldn’t help noticing a rather cocky air about the immigrant from Czechoslovakia, and was not surprised to find, when he read the reports, that the latest recruit had been recommended for early promotion.

  Private John Player’s first posting was with the Second Battalion at Cliftonville. It was only a few hours after being billeted that he realized that, along with a dozen other regiments, they were preparing for the invasion of France. By the spring of 1944, southern England had become one vast training ground, and Private Player regularly took part in mock battles with Americans, Canadians and Poles.

  Night and day he trained with his division, impatient for General Eisenhower to give the final order, so that he could once again come face to face with the Germans. Although he was continually reminded that he was preparing for the decisive battle of the war, the endless waiting almost drove him mad. At Cliftonville he added the regimental history, the coastline of Normandy and even the rules of cricket to everything he had learned at Aldershot, but despite all this preparation, he was still holed up in barracks “waiting for the balloon to go up.”

  And then, without warning in the middle of the night of 4 June 1944 he was woken by the sound of a thousand lorries, and realized the preparations were over. The Tannoy began booming out orders across the parade ground, and Private Player knew that at last the invasion was about to begin.

  He climbed onto the transport along with all the other soldiers from his section, and couldn’t help recalling the first time he had been herded onto a lorry. As one chime struck on the clock on the morning of the fifth, the North Staffordshires drove out of the barracks in convoy. Private Player looked up at the stars, and worked out that they must be heading south.

  They traveled on through the night down unlit roads, gripping their rifles tightly. Few spoke; all of them were wondering if they would still be alive in twenty-four hours’ time. When they drove through Winchester, newly-erected signposts directed them to the coast. Others had also been preparing for 5 June. Private Player checked his watch. It was a few minutes past three. They continued on and on, still without any idea of where their final destination would be. “I only ’ope someone knows where we’re going,” piped up a corporal sitting opposite him.

  It was another hour before the convoy came to a halt at the dockside in Portsmouth. A mass of bodies piled out of lorry after lorry and quickly formed up in divisions, to await their