As the Crow Flies Read online

  Some cradled young children in their arms, while others tried to sleep. Two regulars in a corner continued a game of chess as if the war were no more than an inconvenience. A couple of young girls practiced the latest dance step on the small space left unoccupied in the center of the basement while others just slept.

  They could all hear the bombs falling above them, and Becky told Charlie she felt sure one had landed nearby. “On Syd Wrexall’s pub, perhaps?” said Charlie, trying to hide a grin. “That’ll teach him to serve short measures.” The all-clear Klaxon eventually sounded, and they emerged back into an evening air filled with dust and ashes.

  “You were right about Syd Wrexall’s pub,” said Becky, looking at the far corner of the block, but Charlie’s eyes were not fixed on the Musketeer.

  Becky’s gaze eventually turned to where Charlie was staring. A bomb had landed right in the middle of his fruit and vegetable shop.

  “The bastards,” he said. “They’ve gone too far this time. Now I will join up.”

  “But what good will that do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Charlie, “but at least I’ll feel I’m involved in this war and not just sitting around watching.”

  “And what about the shops? Who’s going to take charge of them?”

  “Arnold can take care of them while I’m away.”

  “But what about Daniel and me? Can Tom take care of us while you’re away?” she asked, her voice rising.

  Charlie was silent for a moment while he considered Becky’s plea. “Daniel’s old enough to take care of himself, and you’ll have your time fully occupied seeing that Trumper’s keeps its head above water. So don’t say another word, Becky, because I’ve made up my mind.”

  After that nothing his wife could say or do would dissuade Charlie from signing up. To her surprise the Fusiliers were only too happy to accept their old sergeant back in the ranks, and immediately sent him off to a training camp near Cardiff.

  With Tom Arnold looking anxiously on, Charlie kissed his wife and hugged his son, then shook hands with his managing director before waving goodbye to all three of them.

  As he traveled down to Cardiff in a train full of fresh-faced, eager youths not much older than Daniel—most of whom insisted on calling him “sir”—Charlie felt like an old man. A battered truck met the new recruits at the station and delivered them safely into barracks.

  “Nice to have you back, Trumper,” said a voice, as he stepped onto the parade ground for the first time in more than twenty years.

  “Stan Russell. Good heavens, are you the company sergeant major now? You were only a lance corporal when—”

  “I am, sir,” Stan said. His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’ll see to it that you don’t get the same treatment as the others, me old mate.”

  “No, you’d better not do that, Stan. I need worse than the same treatment,” said Charlie, placing both hands on his stomach.

  Although the senior NCOs were gentler on Charlie than they were on the raw recruits, he still found the first week of basic training a painful reminder of how little exercise he had done over the previous twenty years. When he became hungry he quickly discovered that what the NAAFI had to offer could hardly be described as appetizing, and trying to get to sleep each night on a bed of unrelenting springs held together by a two-inch horsehair mattress made him less than delighted with Herr Hitler.

  By the end of the second week Charlie was made up to corporal and told that if he wanted to stay on in Cardiff as an instructor they would immediately commission him as a training officer, with the rank of captain.

  “The Germans are expected in Cardiff, are they, boyo?” asked Charlie. “I had no idea they played rugby football.”

  His exact words on the subject were relayed back to the commanding officer, so Charlie continued as a corporal, completing his basic training. By the eighth week he had been promoted to sergeant and given his own platoon to knock into shape, ready for wherever it was they were going to be sent. From that moment on there wasn’t a competition, from the rifle range to the boxing ring, that his men were allowed to lose, and “Trumper’s Terriers” set the standard for the rest of the battalion for the remaining four weeks.

  With only ten days left before they completed their training, Stan Russell informed Charlie that the battalion was destined for Africa, where they would join Wavell in the desert. Charlie was delighted by the news, as he had long admired the reputation of the “poet general.”

  Sergeant Trumper spent most of that final week helping his lads write letters to their families and girlfriends. He didn’t intend to put pen to paper himself until the last moment. With a week to go he admitted to Stan that he wasn’t ready to take on the Germans in anything much more than a verbal battle.

  He was in the middle of a Bren demonstration with his platoon, explaining cocking and reloading, when a red-faced lieutenant came running up.

  “Trumper.”

  “Sir,” said Charlie, leaping to attention.

  “The commanding officer wants to see you immediately.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Charlie. He instructed his corporal to carry on with the lesson and then chased after the lieutenant.

  “Why are we running so fast?” asked Charlie.

  “Because the commanding officer was running when he came looking for me.”

  “Then it has to be at least high treason,” said Charlie.

  “Heaven knows what it is, Sergeant, but you’ll find out soon enough,” said the lieutenant, as they arrived outside the CO’s door. The lieutenant, closely followed by Charlie, entered the colonel’s office without knocking.

  “Sergeant Trumper, 7312087, reporting—”

  “You can cut all that bullshit out, Trumper,” said the colonel, as Charlie watched the commanding officer pacing up and down, slapping his side with a swagger stick. “My car is waiting for you at the gate. You are to go straight to London.”

  “London, sir?”

  “Yes, Trumper, London. Mr. Churchill’s just been on the blower. Wants to see you soonest.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  The colonel’s driver did everything in his power to get Sergeant Trumper to London as quickly as possible. He pressed his foot to the floor again and again as he tried to keep the speedometer above eighty. However, as they were continually held up en route by convoys of troops, transportation lorries, and even at one point Warrior tanks, the task was daunting. When Charlie finally reached Chiswick on the outskirts of London they were then faced with the blackout, followed by an air raid, followed by the all-clear, followed by countless more roadblocks all the way to Downing Street.

  Despite having six hours to ponder as to why Mr. Churchill could possibly want to see him, when the car came to a halt outside Number 10 Charlie was no nearer a conclusion than he had been when he left the barracks at Cardiff earlier that afternoon.

  When he explained to the policeman on the door who he was, the constable checked his clipboard, then gave a sharp rap on the brass knocker before inviting Sergeant Trumper to step into the hall. Charlie’s first reaction on being inside Number 10 was surprise at discovering how small the house was compared with Daphne’s home in Eaton Square.

  A young Wren officer came forward to greet the middle-aged sergeant before ushering him through to an anteroom.

  “The Prime Minister has the American ambassador with him at the moment,” she explained. “But he doesn’t expect his meeting with Mr. Kennedy to last much longer.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlie.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Charlie was too nervous to think about drinking tea. As she closed the door, he picked up a copy of Lilliput from a side table and leafed through the pages, but didn’t attempt to take in the words.

  After he had thumbed through every magazine on the table—and they were even more out of date at Number 10 than at his dentist—he began to take an interest in the pictures on the wall.