As the Crow Flies

Chapter 1

"I don't offer you these for tuppence," my granpa would shout, holding up a cabbage in both hands, "I don't offer 'em for a penny, not even a ha'penny. No, I'll give 'em away for a farthin'."

Those were the first words I can remember. Even before I had learned to walk, my eldest sister used to dump me in an orange box on the pavement next to Granpa's pitch just to be sure I could start my apprenticeship early.

"Only stakin' 'is claim," Granpa used to tell the customers as he pointed at me in the wooden box. In truth, the first word I ever spoke was "Granpa," the second "farthing," and I could repeat his whole sales patter word for word by my third birthday. Not that any of my family could be that certain of the exact day on which I was born, on account of the fact that my old man had spent the night in jail and my mother had died even before I drew breath. Granpa thought it could well have been a Saturday, felt it most likely the month had been January, was confident the year was 1900, and knew it was in the reign of Queen Victoria. So we settled on Saturday, 20 January 1900.

I never knew my mother because, as I explained, she died on the day I was born. "Childbirth," our local priest called it, but I didn't really understand what he was on about until several years later when I came up against the problem again. Father O'Malley never stopped telling me that she was a saint if ever he'd seen one. My father—who couldn't have been described as a saint by anyone—worked on the docks by day, lived in the pub at night and came home in the early morning because it was the only place he could fall asleep without being disturbed.

The rest of my family was made up of three sisters—Sal, the eldest, who was five and knew when she was born because it was in the middle of the night and had kept the old man awake; Grace who was three and didn't cause anyone to lose sleep; and redheaded Kitty who was eighteen months and never stopped bawling.

The head of the family was Granpa Charlie, who I was named after. He slept in his own room on the ground floor of our home in Whitechapel Road, not only because he was the oldest but because he paid the rent always. The rest of us were herded all together in the room opposite. We had two other rooms on the ground floor, a sort of kitchen and what most people would have called a large cupboard, but which Grace liked to describe as the parlor.

There was a lavatory in the garden—no grass—which we shared with an Irish family who lived on the floor above us. They always seemed to go at three o'clock in the morning.

Granpa—who was a costermonger by trade—worked the pitch on the corner of Whitechapel Road. Once I was able to escape from my orange box and ferret around among the other barrows I quickly discovered that he was reckoned by the locals to be the finest trader in the East End.

My dad, who as I have already told you was a docker by trade, never seemed to take that much interest in any of us and though he could sometimes earn as much as a pound a week, the money always seemed to end up in the Black Bull, where it was spent on pint after pint of ale and gambled away on games of cribbage or dominoes in the company of our next-door neighbor, Bert Shorrocks, a man who never seemed to speak, just grunt.

In fact, if it hadn't been for Granpa I wouldn't even have been made to attend the local elementary school in Jubilee Street, and "attend" was the right word, because I didn't do a lot once I'd got there, other than bang the lid of my little desk and occasionally pull the pigtails of "Posh Porky," the girl who sat in front of me. Her real name was Rebecca Salmon and she was the daughter of Dan Salmon who owned the baker's shop on the corner of Brick Lane. Posh Porky knew exactly when and where she was born and never stopped reminding us all that she was nearly a year younger than anyone else in the class.

I couldn't wait for the bell to ring at four in the afternoon when class would end and I could bang my lid for the last time before running all the way down the Whitechapel Road to help out on the barrow.

On Saturdays as a special treat Granpa would allow me to go along with him to the early morning market in Covent Garden, where he would select the fruit and vegetables that we would later sell from his pitch, just opposite Mr. Salmon's and Dunkley's, the fish and chippy that stood next to the baker's.

Although I couldn't wait to leave school once and for all so I could join Granpa permanently, if I ever played truant for as much as an hour he wouldn't take me to watch West Ham, our local soccer team, on Saturday afternoon or, worse, he'd stop me selling on the barrow in the morning.

"I 'oped you'd grow up to be more like Rebecca Salmon," he used to say. "That girl will go a long way—"

"The further the better," I would tell him, but he never laughed, just reminded me that she was always top in every subject.

"'Cept 'rithmetic," I replied with bravado, "where I beat her silly." You see, I could do any sum in my head that Rebecca Salmon had to write out in longhand; it used to drive her potty.

My father never visited Jubilee Street Elementary in all the years I was there, but Granpa used to pop along at least once a term and have a word with Mr. Cartwright my teacher. Mr. Cartwright told Granpa that with my head for figures I could end up an accountant or a clerk. He once said that he might even be able to "find me a position in the City." Which was a waste of time really, because all I wanted to do was join Granpa on the barrow.

I was seven before I worked out that the name down the side of Granpa's barrow—"Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823"—was the same as mine. Dad's first name was George, and he had already made it clear on several occasions that when Granpa retired he had no intention of taking over from him as he didn't want to leave his mates on the docks.

I couldn't have been more pleased by his decision, and told Granpa that when I finally took over the barrow, we wouldn't even have to change the name.

Granpa just groaned and said, "I don't want you to end up workin' in the East End, young 'un. You're far too good to be a barrow boy for the rest of your life." It made me sad to hear him speak like that; he didn't seem to understand that was all I wanted to do.

School dragged on for month after month, year after year, with Rebecca Salmon going up to collect prize after prize on Speech Day. What made the annual gathering even worse was we always had to listen to her recite the Twenty-third Psalm, standing up there on the stage in her white dress, white socks, black shoes. She even had a white bow in her long black hair.

"And I expect she wears a new pair of knickers every day," little Kitty whispered in my ear.

"And I'll bet you a guinea to a farthin' she's still a virgin," said Sal.

I burst out laughing because all the costermongers in the Whitechapel Road always did whenever they heard that word, although I admit that at the time I didn't have a clue what a virgin was. Granpa told me to "shhh" and didn't smile again until I went up to get the arithmetic prize, a box of colored crayons that were damned-all use to anyone. Still, it was them or a book.

Granpa clapped so loud as I returned to my place that some of the mums looked round and smiled, which made the old fellow even more determined to see that I stayed on at school until I was fourteen.

By the time I was ten, Granpa allowed me to lay out the morning wares on the barrow before going off to school for the day. Potatoes on the front, greens in the middle and soft fruits at the back was his golden rule.

"Never let 'em touch the fruit until they've 'anded over their money," he used to say. "'Ard to bruise a tato, but even 'arder to sell a bunch of grapes that's been picked up and dropped a few times."

By the age of eleven I was collecting the money from the customers and handing them the change they were due. That's when I first learned about palming. Sometimes, after I'd given them back their money, the customers would open the palm of their hand and I would discover that one of the coins I had passed over had suddenly disappeared so I ended up having to give them even more bees and honey. I lost Granpa quite a bit of our weekly profit that way, until he taught me to say, "Tuppence change, Mrs. Smith," then hold up the coins for all to see before handing them over.

By twelve, I had learned how to bargain with the suppliers at Covent Garden while displaying a poker face, later to sell the same produce to the customers back in Whitechapel with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. I also discovered that Granpa used to switch suppliers regularly, "just to be sure no one takes me for granted."

By thirteen, I had become his eyes and ears as I already knew the name of every worthwhile trader of fruit and vegetables in Covent Garden. I quickly sussed out which sellers just piled good fruit on top of bad, which dealers would attempt to hide a bruised apple and which suppliers would always try to short-measure you. Most important of all, back on the pitch I learned which customers didn't pay their debts and so could never be allowed to have their names chalked up on the slate.

I remember that my chest swelled with pride the day Mrs. Smelley, who owned a boardinghouse in the Commercial Road, told me that I was a chip off the old block and that in her opinion one day I might even be as good as my granpa. I celebrated that night by ordering my first pint of beer and lighting up my first Woodbine. I didn't finish either of them.

I'll never forget that Saturday morning when Granpa first let me run the barrow on my own. For five hours he didn't once open his mouth to offer advice or even give an opinion. And when he checked the takings at the end of the day, although we were two shillings and fivepence light from a usual Saturday, he still handed over the sixpenny piece he always gave me at the end of the week.

I knew Granpa wanted me to stay on at school and improve my readin' and writin', but on the last Friday of term in December 1913, I walked out of the gates of Jubilee Street Elementary with my father's blessing. He had always told me that education was a waste of time and he couldn't see the point of it. I agreed with him, even if Posh Porky had won a scholarship to someplace called St. Paul's, which in any case was miles away in Hammersmith. And who wants to go to school in Hammersmith when you can live in the East End?

Mrs. Salmon obviously wanted her to because she told everyone who was held up in the bread queue of her daughter's "interlectual prowess," whatever that meant.

"Stuck-up snob," Granpa used to whisper in my ear. "She's the sort of person who 'as a bowl of fruit in the 'ouse when no one's ill."

I felt much the same way about Posh Porky as Granpa did about Mrs. Salmon. Mr. Salmon was all right, though. You see, he'd once been a costermonger himself, but that was before he married Miss Roach, the baker's daughter.

Every Saturday morning, while I was setting up the barrow, Mr. Salmon used to disappear off to the Whitechapel synagogue, leaving his wife to run the shop. While he was away, she never stopped reminding us at the top of her voice that she wasn't a five by two.

Posh Porky seemed to be torn between going along with her old man to the synagogue and staying put at the shop, where she'd sit by the window and start scoffing cream buns the moment he was out of sight.

"Always a problem, a mixed marriage," Granpa would tell me. It was years before I worked out that he wasn't talking about the cream buns.

The day I left school I told Granpa he could lie in while I went off to Covent Garden to fill up the barrow, but he wouldn't hear of it. When we got to the market, for the first time he allowed me to bargain with the dealers. I quickly found one who agreed to supply me with a dozen apples for threepence as long as I could guarantee the same order every day for the next month. As Granpa Charlie and I always had an apple for breakfast, the arrangement sorted out our own needs and also gave me the chance to sample what we were selling to the customers.

From that moment on, every day was a Saturday and between us we could sometimes manage to put the profits up by as much as fourteen shillings a week.

After that, I was put on a weekly wage of five shillings—a veritable fortune. Four of them I kept locked in a tin box under Granpa's bed until I had saved up my first guinea: a man what's got a guinea got security, Mr. Salmon once told me as he stood outside his shop, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, displaying a shiny gold watch and chain.

In the evenings, after Granpa had come home for supper and the old man had gone off to the pub I soon became bored just sitting around listening to what my sisters had been up to all day; so I joined the Whitechapel Boys' Club. Table tennis Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, boxing Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays. I never did get the hang of table tennis, but I became quite a useful bantamweight and once even represented the club against Bethnal Green.

Unlike my old man I didn't go much on pubs, the dogs or cribbage but I still went on supporting West Ham most Saturday afternoons. I even made the occasional trip into the West End of an evening to see the latest music hall star.

When Granpa asked me what I wanted for my fifteenth birthday I replied without a moment's hesitation, "My own barrow," and added that I'd nearly saved enough to get one. He just laughed and told me that his old one was good enough for whenever the time came for me to take over. In any case, he warned me, it's what a rich man calls an asset and, he added for good measure, never invest in something new, especially when there's a war on.

Although Mr. Salmon had already told me that we had declared war against the Germans almost a year before—none of us having heard of Archduke Franz Ferdinand—we only found out how serious it was when a lot of young lads who had worked in the market began to disappear off to "the front" to be replaced by their younger brothers—and sometimes even sisters. On a Saturday morning there were often more lads down the East End dressed in khaki than in civvies.

My only other memory of that period was of Schultz's, the sausage maker—a Saturday night treat for us, especially when he gave us a toothless grin and slipped an extra sausage in free. Lately he had always seemed to start the day with a broken windowpane, and then suddenly one morning the front of his shop was boarded up and we never saw Mr. Schultz again. "Internment," my granpa whispered mysteriously.

My old man occasionally joined us on a Saturday morning, but only to get some cash off Granpa so that he could go to the Black Bull and spend it all with his mate Bert Shorrocks.

Week after week Granpa would fork out a bob, sometimes even a florin, which we both knew he couldn't afford. And what really annoyed me was that he never drank and certainly didn't go a bundle on gambling. That didn't stop my old man pocketing the money, touching his cap and then heading off towards the Black Bull.

This routine went on week after week and might never have changed, until one Saturday morning a toffee-nosed lady who I had noticed standing on the corner for the past week, wearing a long black dress and carrying a parasol, strode over to our barrow, stopped and placed a white feather in Dad's lapel.

I've never seen him go so mad, far worse than the usual Saturday night when he had lost all his money gambling and came home so drunk that we all had to hide under the bed. He raised his clenched fist to the lady but she didn't flinch and even called him "coward" to his face. He screamed back at her some choice words that he usually saved for the rent collector. He then grabbed all her feathers and threw them in the gutter before storming off in the direction of the Black Bull. What's more, he didn't come home at midday, when Sal served us up a dinner of fish and chips. I never complained as I went off to watch West Ham that afternoon, having scoffed his portion of chips. He still wasn't back when I returned that night, and when I woke the next morning his side of the bed hadn't been slept in. When Granpa brought us all home from midday mass there was still no sign of Dad, so I had a second night with the double bed all to myself.

"'E's probably spent another night in jail," said Granpa on Monday morning as I pushed our barrow down the middle of the road, trying to avoid the horse shit from the buses that were dragged backwards and forwards, to and from the City along the Metropolitan Line.

As we passed Number 110, I spotted Mrs. Shorrocks staring at me out of the window, sporting her usual black eye and a mass of different colored bruises which she collected from Bert most Saturday nights.

"You can go and bail 'im out round noon," said Granpa. "'E should have sobered up by then."

I scowled at the thought of having to fork out the half-crown to cover his fine, which simply meant another day's profits down the drain.

A few minutes after twelve o'clock I reported to the police station. The duty sergeant told me that Bert Shorrocks was still in the cells and due up in front of the beak that afternoon, but they hadn't set eyes on my old man the whole weekend.

"Like a bad penny, you can be sure 'e'll turn up again," said Granpa with a chuckle.

But it was to be over a month before Dad "turned up" again. When I first saw him I couldn't believe my eyes—he was dressed from head to toe in khaki. You see, he had signed up with the second battalion of the Royal Fusiliers. He told us that he expected to be posted to the front at some time in the next few weeks but he would still be home by Christmas; an officer had told him that the bloody Huns would have been sent packing long before then.

Granpa shook his head and frowned, but I was so proud of my dad that for the rest of the day I just strutted around the market by his side. Even the lady who stood on the corner handing out white feathers gave him an approving nod. I scowled at her and promised Dad that if the Germans hadn't been sent packing by Christmas I would leave the market and join up myself to help him finish off the job. I even went with him to the Black Bull that night, determined to spend my weekly wages on whatever he wanted. But no one would let him buy a drink so I ended up not spending a ha'penny. The next morning he had left us to rejoin his regiment, even before Granpa and I started out for the market.

The old man never wrote because he couldn't write, but everyone in the East End knew that if you didn't get one of those brown envelopes pushed under your door the member of your family who was away at the war must still be alive.

From time to time Mr. Salmon used to read to me from his morning paper, but as he could never find a mention of the Royal Fusiliers I didn't discover what the old man was up to. I only prayed that he wasn't at someplace called Ypres where, the paper warned us, casualties were heavy.

Christmas Day was fairly quiet for the family that year on account of the fact that the old man hadn't returned from the front as the officer had promised.

Sal, who was working shifts in a cafe on the Commercial Road, went back to work on Boxing Day, and Grace remained on duty at the London Hospital throughout the so-called holiday, while Kitty mooched around checking on everyone else's presents before going back to bed. Kitty never seemed to be able to hold down a job for more than a week at a time, but somehow, she was still better dressed than any of us. I suppose it must have been because a string of boyfriends seemed quite willing to spend their last penny on her before going off to the front. I couldn't imagine what she expected to tell them if they all came back on the same day.

Now and then, Kitty would volunteer to do a couple of hours' work on the barrow, but once she had eaten her way through the day's profits she would soon disappear. "Couldn't describe that one as an asset," Granpa used to say. Still, I didn't complain. I was sixteen without a care in the world and my only thoughts at that time were on how soon I could get hold of my own barrow.

Mr. Salmon told me that he'd heard the best barrows were being sold off in the Old Kent Road, on account of the fact that so many young lads were heeding Kitchener's cry and joining up to fight for King and country. He felt sure there wouldn't be a better time to make what he called a good metsieh. I thanked the baker and begged him not to let Granpa know what I was about, as I wanted to close the "metsieh" before he found out.

The following Saturday morning I asked Granpa for a couple of hours off.

"Found yourself a girl, 'ave you? Because I only 'ope it's not the boozer."

"Neither," I told him with a grin. "But you'll be the first to find out, Granpa. I promise you." I touched my cap and strolled off in the direction of the Old Kent Road.

I crossed the Thames at Tower Bridge and walked farther south than I had ever been before, and when I arrived at the rival market I couldn't believe my eyes. I'd never seen so many barrows. Lined up in rows, they were. Long ones, short ones, stubby ones, in all the colors of the rainbow and some of them displaying names that went back generations in the East End. I spent over an hour checking out all those that were for sale but the only one I kept coming back to had displayed in blue and gold down its sides, "The biggest barrow in the world."

The woman who was selling the magnificent object told me that it was only a month old and her old man, who had been killed by the Huns, had paid three quid for it: she wasn't going to let it go for anything less.

I explained to her that I only had a couple of quid to my name, but I'd be willing to pay off the rest before six months were up.

"We could all be dead in six months," she replied, shaking her head with an air of someone who'd heard those sorts of stories before.

"Then I'll let you 'ave two quid and sixpence, with my granpa's barrow thrown in," I said without thinking.

"Who's your granpa?"

"Charlie Trumper," I told her with pride, though if the truth be known I hadn't expected her to have heard of him.

"Charlie Trumper's your granpa?"

"What of it?" I said defiantly.

"Then two quid and sixpence will do just fine for now, young 'un," she said. "And see you pay the rest back before Christmas."

That was the first time I discovered what the word "reputation" meant. I handed over my life's savings and promised that I would give her the other nineteen and six before the year was up.

We shook hands on the deal and I grabbed the handles and began to push my first cock sparrow back over the bridge towards the Whitechapel Road. When Sal and Kitty first set eyes on my prize, they couldn't stop jumping up and down with excitement and even helped me to paint down one side, "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823." I felt confident that Granpa would be proud of me.

Once we had finished our efforts and long before the paint was dry, I wheeled the barrow triumphantly off towards the market. By the time I was in sight of Granpa's pitch my grin already stretched from ear to ear.

The crowd around the old fellow's barrow seemed larger than usual for a Saturday morning and I couldn't work out why there was such a hush the moment I showed up. "There's young Charlie," shouted a voice and several faces turned to stare at me. Sensing trouble, I let go of the handles of my new barrow and ran into the crowd. They quickly stood aside, making a path for me. When I had reached the front, the first thing I saw was Granpa lying on the pavement, his head propped up on a box of apples and his face as white as a sheet.

I ran to his side and fell on my knees. "It's Charlie, Granpa, it's me, I'm 'ere," I cried. "What do you want me to do? Just tell me what and I'll do it."

His tired eyelids blinked slowly. "Listen to me careful, lad," he said, between gasps for breath. "The barrow now belongs to you, so never let it or the pitch out of your sight for more than a few hours at a time."

"But it's your barrow and your pitch, Granpa. 'Ow will you work without a barrow and a pitch?" I asked. But he was no longer listening.

Until that moment I never realized anyone I knew could die.

Chapter 2

Granpa Charlie's funeral was held on a cloudless morning in early February at the church of St. Mary's and St. Michael's on Jubilee Street. Once the choir had filed into their places there was standing room only, and even Mr. Salmon, wearing a long black coat and deep-brimmed black hat, was among those who were to be found huddled at the back.

When Charlie wheeled the brand-new barrow on to his granpa's pitch the following morning, Mr. Dunkley came out of the fish and chip shop to admire the new acquisition.

"It can carry almost twice as much as my granpa's old barrow," Charlie told him. "What's more, I only owe nineteen and six on it." But by the end of the week Charlie had discovered that his barrow was still half-full of stale food that nobody wanted. Even Sal and Kitty turned up their noses when he offered them such delicacies as black bananas and bruised peaches. It took several weeks before the new trader was able to work out roughly the quantities he needed each morning to satisfy his customers' needs, and still longer to realize that those needs would vary from day to day.

It was a Saturday morning, after Charlie had collected his produce from the market and was on his way back to Whitechapel, that he heard the raucous cry.

"British troops slain on the Somme," shouted out the boy who stood on the corner of Covent Garden waving a paper high above his head.

Charlie parted with a halfpenny in exchange for the Daily Chronicle, then sat on the pavement and started to read, picking out the words he recognized. He learned of the death of thousands of British troops who had been involved in a combined operation with the French against Kaiser Bill's army. The ill-fated exchange had ended in disaster. General Haig had predicted an advance of four thousand yards a day, but it had ended in retreat. The cry of "We'll all be home for Christmas" now seemed an idle boast.

Charlie threw the paper in the gutter. No German would kill his dad, of that he felt certain, though lately he had begun to feel gully about his own war efforts since Grace had signed up for a spell in the hospital tents, a mere half mile behind the front line.

Although Grace wrote to Charlie every month, she was unable to supply any news on the whereabouts of their father. "There are half a million soldiers out here," she explained, "and cold, wet and hungry they all look alike." Sal continued her job as a waitress in the Commercial Road and spent all her spare time looking for a husband, while Kitty had no trouble in finding any number of men who were happy to satisfy her every need. In fact, Kitty was the only one of the three who had enough time off during the day to help out on the barrow, but as she never got up until the sun rose and slipped away long before it had set, she still wasn't what Granpa would have called an asset.

It was to be weeks before young Charlie would stop turning his head to ask: "'Ow many, Granpa?" "'Ow much, Granpa?" "Is Mrs. Ruggles good for credit, Granpa?" And only after he had paid back every penny of his debt on the new barrow and been left with hardly any spare cash to talk of did he begin to realize just how good a costermonger the old fellow must have been.

For the first few months they earned only a few pennies a week between them and Sal became convinced they would all end up in the workhouse if they kept failing to cough up the rent. She begged Charlie to sell Granpa's old barrow to raise another pound, but Charlie's reply was always the same "Never" before he added that he would rather starve and leave the relic to rot in the backyard than let another hand wheel it away.

By autumn 1916 business began to look up, and the biggest barrow in the world even resumed enough of a profit to allow Sal to buy a second-hand dress, Kitty a pair of shoes and Charlie a third-hand suit.

Although Charlie was still thin—now a flyweight—and not all that tall, once his seventeenth birthday had come and gone he noticed that the ladies on the corner of the Whitechapel Road, who were still placing white feathers on anyone wearing civilian clothes who looked as if he might be between the ages of eighteen and forty, were beginning to eye him like impatient vultures.

Charlie wasn't frightened of any Germans, but he still hoped that the war might come to an end quickly and that his father would return to Whitechapel and his routine of working at the docks during the day and drinking in the Black Bull at night. But with no letters and only restricted news in the paper, even Mr. Salmon couldn't tell him what was really happening at the front.

As the months passed, Charlie became more and more aware of his customers' needs and in turn they were discovering that his barrow was now offering better value for money than many of its rivals. Even Charlie felt things were on the up when Mrs. Smelley's smiling face appeared, to buy more potatoes for her boardinghouse in one morning than he would normally have hoped to sell a regular customer in a month.

"I could deliver your order, Mrs. Smelley, you know," he said, raising his cap. "Direct to your boardinghouse every Monday mornin'."

"No, thank you, Charlie," she replied. "I always like to see what I'm buyin'."

"Give me a chance to prove myself, Mrs. Smelley, and then you wouldn't 'ave to come out in all weathers, when you suddenly discover you've taken more bookie's than you expected."

She stared directly at him. "Well, I'll give it a go for a couple of weeks," she said. "But if you ever let me down, Charlie Trumper—"

"You've got yourself a deal," said Charlie with a grin, and from that day Mrs. Smelley was never seen shopping for fruit or vegetables in the market again.

Charlie decided that following this initial success he should extend his delivery service to other customers in the East End. Perhaps that way, he thought, he might even be able to double his income. The following morning, he wheeled out his Granpa's old barrow from the backyard, removed the cobwebs, gave it a lick of paint and put Kitty on to house-to-house calls taking orders while he remained back on his pitch in Whitechapel.

Within days Charlie had lost all the profit he had made in the past year and suddenly found himself back to square one. Kitty, it turned out, had no head for figures and, worse, fell for every sob story she was told, often ending up giving the food away. By the end of that month Charlie was almost wiped out and once again unable to pay the rent.

"So what you learn from such a bold step?" asked Dan Salmon as he stood on the doorstep of his shop, skullcap on the back of his head, thumbs lodged in the black waistcoat pocket that proudly displayed his half hunter watch.

"Think twice before you employ members of your own family and never assume that anyone will pay their debts."

"Good," said Mr. Salmon. "You learn fast. So how much you need to clear rent and see yourself past next month?"

"What are you getting at?" asked Charlie.

"How much?" repeated Mr. Salmon.

"Five quid," said Charlie, lowering his head.

On Friday night after he had pulled down the blind Dan Salmon handed over five sovereigns to Charlie along with several wafers of matzos. "Pay back when possible, boychik, and don't ever tell the missus or we both end up in big trouble."

Charlie paid back his loan at a rate of five shillings a week and twenty weeks later he had resumed the full amount. He would always remember handing over the final payment, because it was on the same day as the first big airplane raid over London and he spent most of that night hiding under his father's bed, with both Sal and Kitty clinging to him for dear life.

The following morning Charlie read an account of the bombing in the Daily Chronicle and reamed that over a hundred Londoners had been killed and some four hundred injured in the raid.

He dug his teeth into a morning apple before he dropped off Mrs. Smelley's weekly order and resumed to his pitch in the Whitechapel Road. Monday was always busy with everybody stocking up after the weekend and by the time he arrived back home at Number 112 for his afternoon tea he was exhausted. Charlie was sticking a fork into his third of a pork pie when he heard a knock on the door.

"Who can that be?" said Kitty, as Sal served Charlie a second potato.

"There's only one way we're going to find out, my girl," said Charlie, not budging an inch.

Kitty reluctantly left the table only to return a moment later with her nose held high in the air. "It's that Becky Salmon. Says she 'desires to have a word with you.'"

"Does she now? Then you had better show Miss Salmon into the parlor," said Charlie with a grin.

Kitty slouched off again while Charlie got up from the kitchen table carrying the remainder of the pie in his fingers. He strolled into the only other room that wasn't a bedroom. He lowered himself into an old leather chair and continued to chew while he waited. A moment later Posh Porky marched into the middle of the room and stood right in front of him. She didn't speak. He was slightly taken aback by the sheer size of the girl. Although she was two or three inches shorter than Charlie, she must have weighed at least a stone more than he did, a genuine heavyweight. She so obviously hadn't given up stuffing herself with Salmon's cream buns. Charlie stared at her gleaming white blouse and dark blue pleated skirt. Her smart blue blazer sported a golden eagle surrounded by words he had never seen before. A red ribbon sat uneasily in her short dark hair and Charlie noticed that her little black shoes and white socks were as spotless as ever.

He would have asked her to sit down but as he was occupying the only chair in the room, he couldn't. He ordered Kitty to leave them alone. For a moment she stared defiantly at Charlie, but then left without another word.

"So what do you want?" asked Charlie once he heard the door close.

Rebecca Salmon began to tremble as she tried to get the words out. "I've come to see you because of what has happened to my parents." She enunciated each word slowly and carefully and, to Charlie's disgust, without any trace of an East End accent.

"So what 'as 'appened to your parents?" asked Charlie gruffly, hoping she wouldn't realize that his voice had only recently broken. Becky burst into tears. Charlie's only reaction was to stare out of the window because he wasn't quite sure what else to do.

Becky continued shaking as she began to speak again. "Tata was killed in the raid last night and Mummy has been taken to the London Hospital." She stopped abruptly, adding no further explanation.

Charlie jumped out of his chair. "No one told me," he said, as he began pacing round the room.

"There's no way that you could possibly have known," said Becky. "I haven't even told the assistants at the shop yet. They think he's off sick for the day."

"Do you want me to tell them?" asked Charlie. "Is that why you came round?"

"No," she said, raising her head slowly and pausing for a moment. "I want you to take over the shop."

Charlie was so stunned by this suggestion that although he stopped pacing he made no attempt to reply.

"My father always used to say that it wouldn't be that long before you had your own shop, so I thought . . ."

"But I don't know the first thing about baking," stammered Charlie as he fell back into his chair.

"Tata's two assistants know everything there is to know about the trade, and I suspect you'll know even more than they do within a few months. What that shop needs at this particular moment is a salesman. My father always considered that you were as good as old Granpa Charlie and everyone knows he was the best."

"But what about my barrow?"

"It's only a few yards away from the shop, so you could easily keep an eye on both." She hesitated before adding, "Unlike your delivery service."

"You knew about that?"

"Even know you tried to pay back the last five shillings a few minutes before my father went to the synagogue one Saturday. We had no secrets."

"So 'ow would it work?" asked Charlie, beginning to feel he was always a yard behind the girl.

"You run the barrow and the shop and we'll be fifty-fifty partners."

"And what will you do to earn your share?"

"I'll check the books every month and make sure that we pay our tax on time and don't break any council regulations."

"I've never paid any taxes before," said Charlie "and who in 'ell's name cares about the council and their soppy regulations?"

Becky's dark eyes fixed on him for the first time. "People who one day hope to be running a serious business enterprise, Charlie Trumper, that's who."

"Fifty-fifty doesn't seem all that fair to me," said Charlie, still trying to get the upper hand.

"My shop is considerably more valuable than your barrow and it also derives a far larger income."

"Did, until your father died," said Charlie, regretting the words immediately after he had spoken them.

Becky bowed her head again. "Are we to be partners or not?" she muttered.

"Sixty-forty," said Charlie.

She hesitated for a long moment, then suddenly thrust out her arm. Charlie rose from the chair and shook her hand vigorously to confirm that his first deal was closed.

After Dan Salmon's funeral Charlie tried to read the Daily Chronicle every morning in the hope of discovering what the second battalion, Royal Fusiliers was up to and where his father might be. He knew the regiment was fighting somewhere in France, but its exact location was never recorded in the paper, so Charlie was none the wiser.

The daily broadsheet began to have a double fascination for Charlie, as he started to take an interest in the advertisements displayed on almost every page. He couldn't believe that those nobs in the West End were willing to pay good money for things that seemed to him to be nothing more than unnecessary luxuries. However, it didn't stop Charlie wanting to taste Coca-Cola, the latest drink from America, at a cost of a penny a bottle; or to try the new safety razor from Gillette—despite the fact that he hadn't even started shaving—at sixpence for the holder and tuppence for six blades: he felt sure his father, who had only ever used a cutthroat, would consider the very idea sissy. And a woman's girdle at two guineas struck Charlie as quite ridiculous. Neither Sal nor Kitty would ever need one of those—although Posh Porky might soon enough, the way she was going.

So intrigued did Charlie become by these seemingly endless selling opportunities that he started to take a tram up to the West End on a Sunday morning just to see for himself. Having ridden on a horse-drawn vehicle to Chelsea, he would then walk slowly back east towards Mayfair, studying all the goods in the shop windows on the way. He also noted how people dressed and admired the motor vehicles that belched out fumes but didn't drop shit as they traveled down the middle of the road. He even began to wonder just how much it cost to rent a shop in Chelsea.

On the first Sunday in October 1917 Charlie took Sal up West with him—to show her the sights, he explained.

Charlie and his sister walked slowly from shop window to shop window, and he was unable to hide his excitement at every new discovery he came across. Men's clothes, hats, shoes, women's dresses, perfume, undergarments, even cakes and pastries could hold his attention for minutes on end.

"For Gawd's sake, let's get ourselves back to Whitechapel where we belong," said Sal. "Because one thing's for sure—I'm never going to feel at 'ome 'ere."

"But don't you understand?" said Charlie. "One day I'm going to own a shop in Chelsea."

"Don't talk daft," said Sal. "Even Dan Salmon couldn't 'ave afforded one of these."

Charlie didn't bother to reply.

When it came to how long Charlie would take to master the baking trade, Becky's judgment proved accurate. Within a month he knew almost as much about oven temperatures, controls, rising yeast and the correct mixture of flour to water as either of the two assistants, and as they were dealing with the same customers as Charlie was on his barrow, sales on both dropped only slightly during the first quarter.

Becky turned out to be as good as her word, keeping the accounts in what she described as "apple-pie order" and even opening a set of books for Trumper's barrow. By the end of their first three months as partners they declared a profit of four pounds eleven shillings, despite having a gas oven refitted at Salmon's and allowing Charlie to buy his first second-hand suit.

Sal continued working as a waitress in a cafe on the Commercial Road, but Charlie knew she couldn't wait to find someone willing to marry her—whatever physical shape he was in—just as long as I can sleep in a room of my own, she explained.

Grace never failed to send a letter on the first of every month, and somehow managed to sound cheerful despite being surrounded by death. She's just like her mother, Father O'Malley would tell his parishioners. Kitty still came and went as she pleased, borrowing money from both her sisters as well as Charlie, and never paying them back. Just like her father, the priest told the same parishioners.

"Like your new suit," said Mrs. Smelley, when Charlie dropped off her weekly order that Monday afternoon. He blushed, raised his cap and pretended not to hear the compliment, as he dashed off to the baker's shop.

The second quarter promised to show a further profit on both Charlie's enterprises, and he warned Becky that he had his eye on the butcher's shop, since the owner's only boy had lost his life at Passchendaele. Becky cautioned him against rushing into another venture before they had discovered what their profit margins were like, and then only if the rather elderly assistants knew what they were up to. "Because one thing's for certain, Charlie Trumper," she told him as they sat down in the little room at the back of Salmon's shop to check the monthly accounts, "you don't know the first thing about butchery. 'Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823' still appeals to me," she added. "'Trumper, the foolish bankrupt, folded in 1917' doesn't."

Becky also commented on the new suit, but not until she had finished checking a lengthy column of figures. He was about to return the compliment by suggesting that she might have lost a little weight when she leaned across and helped herself to another jam tart.

She ran a sticky finger down the monthly balance sheet, then checked the figures against the handwritten bank statement. A profit of eight pounds and fourteen shillings, she wrote in thick black ink neatly on the bottom line.

"At this rate we'll be millionaires by the time I'm forty," said Charlie with a grin.

"Forty, Charlie Trumper?" Becky repeated disdainfully. "Not exactly in a hurry, are you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Charlie.

"Just that I was rather hoping we might have achieved that long before then."

Charlie laughed loudly to cover the fact that he wasn't quite certain whether or not she was joking. Once Becky felt sure the ink was dry she closed the books and put them back in her satchel while Charlie prepared to lock up the baker's shop. As they stepped out onto the pavement Charlie bade his partner good night with an exaggerated bow. He then turned the key in the lock before starting his journey home. He whistled the "Lambeth Walk" out of tune as he pushed the few remains left over from the day towards the setting sun. Could he really make a million before he was forty, or had Becky just been teasing him?

As he reached Bert Shorrocks' place Charlie came to a sudden halt. Outside the front door of 112, dressed in a long black cassock, black hat, and with black Bible in hand, stood Father O'Malley.

Chapter 3

Charlie sat in the carriage of a train bound for Edinburgh and thought about the actions he had taken during the past four days. Becky had described his decision as foolhardy. Sal hadn't bothered with the "hardy." Mrs. Smelley didn't think he should have gone until he had been called up, while Grace was still tending the wounded on the Western Front, so she didn't even know what he had done. As for Kitty, she just sulked and asked how she was expected to survive without him.

Private George Trumper had been killed on 2 November 1917 at Passchendaele, the letter had informed him: bravely, while charging the enemy lines at Polygon Wood. Over a thousand men had died that day attacking a ten-mile front from Messines to Passchendaele, so it wasn't surprising that the lieutenant's letter was short and to the point.

After a sleepless night, Charlie was the first to be found the following morning standing outside the recruiting office in Great Scotland Yard. The poster on the wall called for volunteers between the ages of eighteen and forty to join up and serve in "General Haig's" army.

Although not yet eighteen, Charlie prayed that they wouldn't reject him.

When the recruiting sergeant barked, "Name?" Charlie threw out his chest and almost shouted "Trumper." He waited anxiously.

"Date of birth?" said the man with three white stripes on his arm.

"Twentieth of January, 1899," replied Charlie without hesitation, but his cheeks flushed as he delivered the words.

The recruiting sergeant looked up at him and winked. The letters and numbers were written on a buff form without comment. "Remove your cap, lad, and report to the medical officer."

A nurse led Charlie through to a cubicle where an elderly man in a long white coat made him strip to the waist, cough, stick out his tongue and breathe heavily before prodding him all over with a cold rubber object. He then proceeded to stare into Charlie's ears and eyes before going on to hit his kneecaps with a rubber stick. After taking his trousers and underpants off—for the first time ever in front of someone who wasn't a member of his family—he was told he had no transmittable diseases—whatever they were, thought Charlie.

He stared at himself in the mirror as they measured him. "Five feet nine and a quarter," said the orderly.

And still growing, Charlie wanted to add, as he pushed a mop of dark hair out of his eyes.

"Teeth in good condition, eyes brown," stated the elderly doctor. "Not much wrong with you," he added. The old man made a series of ticks down the right-hand side of the buff form before telling Charlie to report back to the chap with the three white stripes.

Charlie found himself waiting in another queue before coming face to face with the sergeant again.

"Right, lad, sign up here and we'll issue you with a travel warrant."

Charlie scrawled his signature on the spot above where the sergeant's finger rested. He couldn't help noticing that the man didn't have a thumb.

"The Honourable Artillery Company or Royal Fusiliers?" the sergeant asked.

"Royal Fusiliers," said Charlie. "That was my old man's regiment."

"Royal Fusiliers it is then," said the sergeant without a second thought, and put a tick in yet another box.

"When do I get my uniform?"

"Not until you get to Edinburgh, lad. Report to King's Cross at zero eight hundred hours tomorrow morning. Next."

Charlie returned to 112 Whitechapel Road to spend another sleepless night. His thoughts darted from Sal to Grace and then on to Kity and how two of his sisters would survive in his absence. He also began thinking about Rebecca Salmon and their bargain, but in the end his thoughts always returned to his father's grave on a foreign battlefield and the revenge he intended to inflict on any German who dared to cross his path. These sentiments remained with him until the morning light came shining through the windows.

Charlie put on his new suit, the one Mrs. Smelley had commented on, his best shirt, his father's tie, a flat cap and his only pair of leather shoes. I'm meant to be fighting the Germans, not going to a wedding, he said out loud as he looked at himself in the cracked mirror above the wash basin. He had already written a note to Becky—with a little help from Father O'Malley—instructing her to sell the shop along with the two barrows if she possibly could and to hold on to his share of the money until he came back to Whitechapel. No one talked about Christmas any longer.

"And if you don't return?" Father O'Malley had asked, head slightly bowed. "What's to happen to your possessions then?"

"Divide anything that's left over equally between my three sisters," Charlie said.

Father O'Malley wrote out his former pupil's instructions and for the second time in as many days Charlie signed his name to an official document.

After Charlie had finished dressing, he found Sal and Kitty waiting for him by the front door, but he refused to allow them to accompany him to the station, despite their tearful protest. Both his sisters kissed him—another first—and Kitty had to have her hand prised out of his before Charlie was able to pick up the brown paper parcel that contained all his worldly goods.

Alone, he walked to the market and entered the baker's shop for the last time. The two assistants swore that nothing would have changed by the time he resumed. He left the shop only to find another barrow boy, who looked about a year younger than himself, was already selling chestnuts from his pitch. He walked slowly through the market in the direction of King's Cross, never once looking back.

He arrived at the Great Northern Station half an hour earlier than he had been instructed and immediately reported to the sergeant who had signed him up on the previous day. "Right, Trumper, get yourself a cup of char, then 'ang about on platform three." Charlie couldn't remember when he had last been given an order, let alone obeyed one. Certainly not since his grandfather's death.

Platform three was already crowded with men in uniforms and civilian clothes, some chatting noisily, others standing silent and alone, each displaying his own particular sense of insecurity.

At eleven, three hours after they had been ordered to report, they were finally given instructions to board a train. Charlie grabbed a seat in the corner of an unlit carriage and stared out of the grimy window at a passing English countryside he had never seen before. A mouth organ was being played in the corridor, all the popular melodies of the day slightly out of tune. As they traveled through city stations, some he hadn't even heard of—Peterborough, Grantham, Newark, York—crowds waved and cheered their heroes. In Durham the engine came to a halt to take on more coal and water. The recruiting sergeant told them all to disembark, stretch their legs and grab another cup of char, and added that if they were lucky they might even get something to eat.

Charlie walked along the platform munching a sticky bun to the sound of a military band playing "Land of Hope and Glory." The war was everywhere. Once they were back on the train there was yet more waving of handkerchiefs from pin-hatted ladies who would remain spinsters for the rest of their lives.

The train chugged on northwards, farther and farther away from the enemy, until it finally came to a halt at Waverly Station in Edinburgh. As they stepped from the carriage, a captain, three NCOs and a thousand women were waiting on the platform to welcome them.

Charlie heard the words, "Carry on, Sergeant Major," and a moment later a man who must have been six feet six inches in height, and whose beer-barrel chest was covered in medal ribbons took a pace forward.

"Let's 'ave you in line then," the giant shouted in an unintelligible accent. He quickly—but, Charlie was to learn later, by his own standards slowly—organized the men into ranks of three before reporting back to someone who Charlie assumed must have been an officer. He saluted the man. "All present and correct, sir," he said and the smartest-dressed man Charlie had ever seen in his life returned the salute. He appeared slight standing next to the sergeant major, although he must have been a shade over six feet himself. His uniform was immaculate but paraded no medals, and the creases on his trousers were so sharp that Charlie wondered if they had ever been worn before. The young officer held a short leacher stick in a gloved hand and occasionally thumped the side of his leg with it, as if he thought he were on horseback. Charlie's eyes settled on the officer's Sam Browne belt and brown leather shoes. They shone so brightly they reminded him of Rebecca Salmon.

"My name is Captain Trentham," the man informed the expectant band of untrained warriors in an accent that Charlie suspected would have sounded more in place in Mayfair than at a railway station in Scotland. "I'm the battalion adjutant," he went on to explain as he swayed from foot to foot, "and will be responsible for this intake for the period that you are billeted in Edinburgh. First we will march to the barracks, where you will be issued supplies so that you can get yourselves bedded down. Supper will be served at eighteen hundred hours and lights out will be at twenty-one hundred hours. Tomorrow morning reveille will be sounded at zero five hundred, when you will rise and breakfast before you begin your basic training at zero six hundred. This routine will last for the next twelve weeks. And I can promise you that it will be twelve weeks of absolute hell," he added, sounding as if the idea didn't altogether displease him. "During this period Sergeant Major Philpott will be the senior warrant officer in charge of the unit. The sergeant major fought on the Somme, where he was awarded the Military Medal, so he knows exactly what you can expect when we eventually end up in France and have to face the enemy. Listen to his every word carefully, because it might be the one thing that saves your life. Carry on, Sergeant Major."

"Thank you, sir," said Sergeant Major Philpott in a clipped bark.

The motley band stared in awe at the figure who would be in charge of their lives for the next three months. He was, after all, a man who had seen the enemy and come home to tell the tale.

"Right, let's be having you then," he said, and proceeded to lead his recruits—carrying everything from battered suitcases to brown paper parcels—through the streets of Edinburgh at the double, only to be sure that the locals didn't realize just how undisciplined this rabble really was. Despite their amateur appearance, passersby still stopped to cheer and clap. Out of the corner of one eye Charlie couldn't help noticing that one of them was resting his only hand against his only leg. Some twenty minutes later, after a climb up the biggest hill Charlie had ever seen, one that literally took his breath away, they entered the barracks of Edinburgh Castle.

That evening Charlie hardly opened his mouth as he listened to the different accents of the men babbling around him. After a supper of pea soup—"One pea each," the duty corporal quipped—and bully beef, he was quartered—and learning new words by the minute—in a large gymnasium that temporarily housed four hundred beds, each a mere two feet in width and set only a foot apart. On a thin horsehair mattress rested one sheet, one pillow and one blanket. King's Regulations.

It was the first time Charlie had thought that 112 Whitechapel Road might be considered luxurious. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the unmade bed, fell asleep, but still woke the next morning at four-thirty. This time, however, there was no market to go to, and certainly no choice as to whether he should select a Cox's or a Granny Smith for breakfast.

At five a lone bugle woke his companions from their drowsy slumber. Charlie was already up, washed and dressed when a man with two stripes on his sleeve marched in. He slammed the door behind him and shouted, "Up, up, up," as he kicked the end of any bed that still had a body supine on it. The raw recruits leaned up and formed a queue to wash in basins half full of freezing water, changed only after every third man. Some then went off to the latrines behind the back of the hall, which Charlie thought smelled worse than the middle of Whitechapel Road on a steaming summer's day.

Breakfast consisted of one ladle of porridge, half a cup of milk and a dry biscuit, but no one complained. The cheerful noise that emanated from that hall wouldn't have left any German in doubt that these recruits were all united against a common enemy.

At six, after their beds had been made and inspected, they all trudged out into the dark cold air and onto the parade ground, its surface covered in a thin film of snow.

"If this is bonny Scotland," Charlie heard a cockney accent declare, "then I'm a bloody Dutchman." Charlie laughed for the first time since he had left Whitechapel and strolled over to a youth far smaller than himself who was rubbing his hands between his legs as he tried to keep warm.

"Where you from?" Charlie asked.

"Poplar, mate. And you?"

"Whitechapel."

"Bloody foreigner."

Charlie stared at his new companion. The youth couldn't have been an inch over five feet three, skinny, with dark curly hair and flashing eyes that never seemed to be still, as if he were always on the lookout for trouble. His shiny, elbow-patched suit hung on him, making his shoulders look like a coathanger.

"Charlie Trumper's the name."

"Tommy Prescott," came back the reply. He stopped his exercises and thrust out a warm hand. Charlie shook it vigorously.

"Quiet in the ranks," hollered the sergeant major. "Now let's get you formed up in columns of three. Tallest on the right, shortest on the left. Move." They parted.

For the next two hours they carried out what the sergeant major described as "drill." The snow continued to drop unceasingly from the sky, but the sergeant major showed no inclination to allow one flake to settle on his parade ground. They marched in three ranks of ten, which Charlie later learned were called sections, arms swinging to waist height, heads held high, one hundred and twenty paces to the minute. "Look lively, lads" and "Keep in step" were the words Charlie had shouted at him again and again. "The Boche are also marching out there somewhere, and they can't wait to have a crack at you lot," the sergeant major assured them as the snow continued to fall.

Had he been in Whitechapel, Charlie would have been happy to run up and down the market from five in the morning to seven at night and still box a few rounds at the club, drink a couple of pints of beer and carry out the same routine the next day without a second thought, but when at nine o'clock the sergeant major gave them a ten-minute break for cocoa, he collapsed onto the grass verge exhausted. Looking up, he found Tommy Prescott peering at him. "Fag?"

"No, thanks," said Charlie. "I don't smoke."

"What's your trade then?" asked Tommy, lighting up.

"I own a baker's shop on the corner of Whitechapel Road," replied Charlie, "and a—"

"Ring the other one, it's got bells on," interrupted Tommy. "Next you'll be telling me your dad's Lord Mayor of London."

Charlie laughed. "Not exactly. So what do you do?"

"Work for a brewery, don't I? Whitbread and Company, Chiswell Street, EC1. I'm the one who puts the barrels on the carts, and then the shire 'orses pulls me round the East End so that I can deliver my wares. Pay's not good, but you can always drink yourself silly before you get back each night."

"So what made you join up?"

"Now that's a long story, that is," replied Tommy. "You see, to start with—"

"Right. Back on parade, you lot," shouted Sergeant Major Philpott, and neither man had the breath to speak another word for the next two hours as they were marched up and down, up and down, until Charlie felt that when they eventually stopped his feet must surely fall off.

Lunch consisted of bread and cheese, neither of which Charlie would have dared to offer for sale to Mrs. Smelley. As they munched hungrily, he learned how Tommy at the age of eighteen had been given the choice of two years at His Majesty's pleasure or volunteering to fight for King and country. He tossed a coin and the King's head landed face up.

"Two years?" said Charlie. "But what for?"

"Nicking the odd barrel 'ere and there and making a side deal with one or two of the more crafty landlords. I'd been getting away with it for ages. An 'undred years ago they would 'ave 'anged me on the spot or sent me off to Australia, so I can't complain. After all, that's what I'm trained for, ain't it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Charlie.

"Well, my father was a professional pickpocket, wasn't 'e? And 'is father before 'im. You should have seen Captain Trentham's face when 'e found out that I had chosen a spell in the Fusiliers rather than going back to jail."

Twenty minutes was the time allocated for lunch and then the afternoon was taken up with being fitted with a uniform. Charlie, who turned out to be a regular size, was dealt with fairly quickly, but it took almost an hour to find anything that didn't make Tommy look as if he were entering a sack race.

Once they were back in the billet Charlie folded up his best suit and placed it under the bed next to the one Tommy had settled on, then swaggered around the room in his new uniform.

"Dead men's clothes," warned Tommy, as he looked up and studied Charlie's khaki jacket.

"What do you mean?"

"Been sent back from the front, 'asn't it? Cleaned and sewn up," said Tommy, pointing to a two-inch mend just above Charlie's heart. "About wide enough to thrust a bayonet through, I reckon," he added.

After another two-hour session on the now freezing parade ground they were released for supper.

"More bloody stale bread and cheese," said Tommy morosely, but Charlie was far too hungry to complain as he scooped up every last crumb with a wet finger. For the second night running he collapsed on his bed.

"Enjoyed our first day serving King and country, 'ave we?" asked the duty corporal of his charges, when at twenty-one hundred hours he turned down the gaslights in the barracks room.

"Yes, thank you, Corp," came back the sarcastic cry.

"Good," said the corporal, "because we're always gentle with you on the first day."

A groan went up that Charlie reckoned must have been heard in the middle of Edinburgh. Above the nervous chatter that continued once the corporal had left Charlie could hear the last post being played on a bugle from the castle battlements. He fell asleep.

When Charlie woke the next morning he jumped out of bed immediately and was washed and dressed before anyone else had stirred. He had folded up his sheets and blankets and was polishing his boots by the time reveille sounded.

"Aren't we the early bird?" said Tommy, as he turned over. "But why bother, I ask myself, when all you're goin' to get for breakfast is a worm."

"If you're first in the queue at least it's an 'ot worm," said Charlie. "And in any case—"

"Feet on the floor. On the floor," the corporal bellowed, as he entered the billet and banged the frame on the end of every bed he passed with his cane.

"Of course," suggested Tommy, as he tried to stifle a yawn, "a man of property like yourself would need to be up early of a mornin', to make sure 'is workers were already on parade and not shirkin'."

"Stop talking you two and look sharpish," said the corporal. "And get yourselves dressed or you'll find yourself on fatigues."

"I am dressed, Corp," insisted Charlie.

"Don't answer me back, laddie, and don't call me 'corp' unless you want a spell cleaning out the latrines." That threat was even enough to get Tommy's feet on the floor.

The second morning consisted of more drill accompanied by the ever-falling snow, which this time had a two-inch start on them, followed by another lunch of bread and cheese. The afternoon, however, was designated on company orders as "Games and Recreation." So it was a change of clothes before jogging in step over to the gymnasium for physical jerks followed by boxing instruction.

Charlie, now a light middleweight, couldn't wait to get in the ring while Tommy somehow managed to keep himself out of the firing line, although both of them became aware of Captain Trentham's menacing presence as his swagger stick continually struck the side of his leg. He always seemed to be hanging about, keeping a watchful eye on them. The only smile that crossed his lips all afternoon was when he saw someone knocked out. And every time he came across Tommy he just scowled.

"I'm one of nature's seconds," Tommy told Charlie later that evening. "You've no doubt 'eard the expression 'seconds out.' Well, that's me," he explained as his friend lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

"Do we ever escape from this place, Corp?" Tommy asked when the duty corporal entered the barracks a few minutes before lights out. "You know, for like good behavior?"

"You'll be allowed out on Saturday night," said the corporal. "Three hours restricted leave from six to nine when you can do what you please. However, you will go no farther than two miles from the barracks, you will behave in a manner that befits a Royal Fusilier and you will report back to the guardroom sober as a judge at one minute before nine. Sleep well, my lovelies." These were the corporal's final words before he went round the barracks turning down every one of the gaslights.

When Saturday night eventually came, two swollen-footed, limb-aching, shattered soldiers covered as much of the city as they possibly could in three hours with only five shillings each to spend, a problem that limited their discussions on which pub to select.

Despite this, Tommy seemed to know how to get more beer per penny out of any landlord than Charlie had ever dreamed possible, even when he couldn't understand what they were saying or make himself understood. While they were in their last port of call, the Volunteer, Tommy even disappeared out of the pub followed by the barmaid, a pert, slightly plump girl called Rose. Ten minutes later he was back.

"What were you doin' out there?" asked Charlie.

"What do you think, idiot?"

"But you were only away for ten minutes."

"Quite enough time," said Tommy. "Only officers need more than ten minutes for what I was up to."

During the following week they had their first rifle lesson, bayonet practice and even a session of map reading. While Charlie quickly mastered the art of map reading it was Tommy who took only a day to find his way round a rifle. By their third lesson he could strip the barrel and put the pieces back together again faster than the instructor.

On Wednesday morning of the second week Captain Trentham gave them their first lecture on the history of the Royal Fusiliers. Charlie might have quite enjoyed the lesson if Trentham hadn't left the impression that none of them was worthy of being in the same regiment as himself.

"Those of us who selected the Royal Fusiliers because of historic links or family ties may feel that allowing criminals to join our ranks simply because we're at war is hardly likely to advance the regiment's reputation," he said, looking pointedly in the direction of Tommy.

"Stuck-up snob," declared Tommy, just loud enough to reach every ear in the lecture theater except the captain's. The ripple of laughter that followed brought a scowl to Trentham's face.

On Thursday afternoon Captain Trentham returned to the gym, but this time he was not striking the side of his leg with a swagger stick. He was kitted up in a white gym singlet, dark blue shorts and a thick white sweater; the new outfit was just as neat and tidy as his uniform. He walked around watching the instructors putting the men through their paces and, as on his last visit, seemed to take a particular interest in what was going on in the boxing ring. For an hour the men were placed in pairs while they received basic instructions, first in defense and then in attack. "Hold your guard up, laddie," were the words barked out again and again whenever fists reached chins.

By the time Charlie and Tommy climbed through the ropes, Tommy had made it clear to his friend that he hoped to get away with three minutes' shadowboxing.

"Get stuck into each other, you two," shouted Trentham, but although Charlie started to lab away at Tommy's chest he made no attempt to inflict any real pain.

"If you don't get on with it, I'll take on both of you, one after the other," shouted Trentham.

"I'll bet 'e couldn't knock the cream off a custard puddin'," said Tommy, but this time his voice did carry, and to the instructor's dismay, Trentham immediately leaped up into the ring and said, "We'll see about that." He asked the coach to fit him up with a pair of boxing gloves.

"I'll have three rounds with each of these two men," Trentham said as a reluctant instructor laced up the captain's gloves. Everyone else in the gymnasium stopped to watch what was going on.

"You first. What's your name?" asked the captain, pointing to Tommy.

"Prescott, sir," said Tommy, with a grin.

"Ah yes, the convict," said Trentham, and removed the grin in the first minute, as Tommy danced around him trying to stay out of trouble. In the second round Trentham began to land the odd punch, but never hard enough to allow Tommy to go down. He saved that humiliation for the third round, when he knocked Tommy out with an uppercut that the lad from Poplar never saw. Tommy was carried out of the ring as Charlie was having his gloves laced up.

"Now it's your turn, Private," said Trentham. "What's your name?"

"Trumper, sir."

"Well. Let's get on with it, Trumper," was all the captain said before advancing towards him.

For the first two minutes Charlie defended himself well, using the ropes and the corner as he ducked and dived, remembering every skill he had learned at the Whitechapel Boys' Club. He felt he might even have given the captain a good run for his money if it hadn't been for the damned man's obvious advantage of height and weight.

By the third minute Charlie had begun to gain confidence and even landed a punch or two, to the delight of the onlookers. As the round ticked to an end, he felt he had acquitted himself rather well. When the bell sounded he dropped his gloves and turned to go back to his corner. A second later the captain's clenched fist landed on the side of Charlie's nose. Everyone in that gymnasium heard the break as Charlie staggered against the ropes. No one mummured as the captain unlaced his gloves and climbed out of the ring. "Never let your guard down" was the only solace he offered.

When Tommy studied the state of his friend's face that night as Charlie lay on his bed, all he said was, "Sorry, mate, all my fault. Bloody man's a sadist. But don't worry, if the Germans don't get the bastard, I will."

Charlie could only manage a thin smile.

By Saturday they had both recovered sufficiently to fall in with the rest of the company for pay parade, waiting in a long queue to collect five shillings each from the paymaster. During their three hours off duly that night the pennies disappeared more quickly than the queue, but Tommy somehow continued to get better value for money than any other recruit.

By the beginning of the third week, Charlie could only just fit his swollen toes into the heavy leather boots the army had supplied him with, but looking down the rows of feet that adorned the barracks room floor each morning he could see that none of his comrades was any better off.

"Fatigues for you, my lad, that's for sure," shouted the corporal. Charlie shot him a glance, but the words were being directed at Tommy in the next bed.

"What for, Corp?" asked Tommy.

"For the state of your sheets. Just look at them. You might have had three women in there with you during the night."

"Only two, to be 'onest with you, Corp."

"Less of your lip, Prescott, and see that you report for latrine duty straight after breakfast."

"I've already been this morning, thank you, Corp."

"Shut up, Tommy," said Charlie. "You're only makin' things more difficult for yourself."

"I see you're gettin' to understand my problem," whispered Tommy. "It's just that the corp's worse than the bloody Germans."

"I can only 'ope so, lad, for your sake," came back the corporal's reply. "Because that's the one chance you've got of coming through this whole thing alive. Now get yourself off to the latrines at the double."

Tommy disappeared, only to return an hour later smelling like a manure heap.

"You could kill off the entire German army without any of us having to fire a shot," said Charlie. "All you'd 'ave to do is stand in front of 'em and 'ope the wind was blowin' in the right direction."

It was during the fifth week—Christmas and the New Year having passed with little to celebrate—that Charlie was put in charge of the duty roster for his own section.

"They'll be makin' you a bleedin' colonel before you've finished," said Tommy.

"Don't be stupid," replied Charlie. "Everyone gets a chance at runnin' the section at some time durin' the twelve weeks."

"Can't see them takin' that risk with me," said Tommy. "I'd turn the rifles on the officers and my first shot would be aimed at that bastard Trentham."

Charlie found that he enjoyed the responsibility of having to organize the section for seven days and was only sorry when his week was up and the task was handed on to someone else.

By the sixth week, Charlie could strip and clean a rifle almost as quickly as Tommy, but it was his friend who turned out to be a crack shot and seemed to be able to hit anything 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 the King's Prize for rifle shooting, beating all the officers and men from seven other regiments.

"You're a genius," said Charlie, after the colonel had presented his friend with the silver cup.

"Wonder if there's an 'alf good fence to be found in Glasgow,' was all Tommy had to say on the subject.

The passing out parade was held on Saturday, 23 February 1918, which ended with Charlie marching his section up and down the parade ground keeping step with the regimental band, and for the first time feeling like a soldier—even if Tommy still resembled a sack of potatoes.

When the parade finally came to an end, Sergeant Major Philpott congratulated them all and before dismissing the parade told the troops they could take the rest of the day off, but they must return to barracks and be tucked up in bed before midnight.

The assembled company was let loose on Edinburgh for the last time. Tommy took charge again as the lads of Number 11 platoon lurched from pub to pub becoming drunker and drunker, before finally ending up in their established local, the Volunteer, on Leith Walk.

Ten happy soldiers stood around the piano sinking pint after pint as they sang, "Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag" and repeating every other item in their limited repertoire. Tommy, who was accompanying them on the mouth organ, noticed that Charlie couldn't take his eyes off Rose the barmaid who, although on the wrong side of thirty, never stopped flirting with the young recruits. Tommy broke away from the group to join his friend at the bar. "Fancy 'er, mate, do you?"

"Yep, but she's your girl," said Charlie as he continued to stare at the long-haired blonde who pretended to ignore their attentions. He noticed that she had one button of her blouse more than usual undone.

"I wouldn't say that," said Tommy. "In any case, I owe you one for that broken nose."

Charlie laughed when Tommy added, "So we'll 'ave to see what I can do about it." Tommy winked at Rose, then left Charlie to join her at the far end of the bar.

Charlie found that he couldn't get himself to look at them, although he was still able to see from their reflection in the mirror behind the bar that they were deep in conversation. Rose on a couple of occasions turned to look in his direction. A moment later Tommy was standing by his side.

"It's all fixed, Charlie," he said.

"What do you mean, 'fixed'?"

"Exactly what I said. All you 'ave to do is go out to the shed at the back of the pub where they pile up them empty crates, and Rose should be with you in a jiffy."

Charlie sat glued to the bar stool.

"Well, get on with it," said Tommy, "before the bleedin' woman changes her mind."

Charlie slipped off his stool and out of a side door without looking back. He only hoped that no one was watching him, as he almost ran down the unlit passage and out of the back door. He stood alone in the corner of the yard feeling more than a little stupid as he stamped up and down to keep warm. A shiver went through him and he began to wish he were back in the bar. A few moments later he shivered again, sneezed and decided the time had come to return to his mates and forget it. He was walking towards the door just as Rose came bushing out.

"'Ello, I'm Rose. Sorry I took so long, but a customer came in just as you darted off." He stared at her in the poor light that filtered through a tiny window above the door. Yet another button was undone, revealing the top of a black girdle.

"Charlie Trumper," said Charlie, offering her his hand.

"I know." She giggled. "Tommy told me all about you, said you were probably the best lay in the platoon. "

"I think 'e might 'ave been exaggeratin'," said Charlie turning bright red, as Rose reached out with both her hands, taking him in her arms. She kissed him first on his neck, then his face and finally his mouth. She then parted Charlie's lips expertly before her tongue began to play with his.

To begin with, Charlie was not quite sure what was happening, but he liked the sensation so much that he just continued to hold on to her, and after a time even began to press his tongue against hers. It was Rose who was the first to break away.

"Not so hard, Charlie. Relax. Prizes are awarded for endurance, not for strength."

Charlie began to kiss her again, this time more gently as he felt the corner of a beer crate jab into his buttocks. He tentatively placed a hand on her left breast, and let it remain there, not quite sure what to do next as he tried to make himself slightly more comfortable. It didn't seem to matter that much, because Rose knew exactly what was expected of her and quickly undid the remaining buttons of her blouse, revealing ample breasts well worthy of her name. She lifted a leg up onto a pile of old beer crates, leaving Charlie faced with an expanse of bare pink thigh. He placed his free hand tentatively on the soft flesh. He wanted to run his fingers up as far as they would go, but he remained motionless, like a frozen frame in a black and white film.

Once again Rose took the lead, and removing her arms from around his neck started to undo the buttons on the front of his trousers. A moment later she slid her hand inside his underpants and started to rub. Charlie couldn't believe what was happening although he felt it was well worth getting a broken nose for.

Rose began to rub faster and faster and started to pull down her knickers with her free hand. Charlie felt more and more out of control until suddenly Rose stopped, pulled herself away and stared down the front of her dress. "If you're the best lay the platoon has to offer, I can only hope the Germans win this bloody war."

The following morning battalion orders were posted on the board in the duty officers' mess. The new battalion of Fusiliers was now considered to be of fighting strength and were expected to join the Allies on the Western Front. Charlie wondered if the comradeship that had bound such a disparate bunch of lads together during the past three months was quite enough to make them capable of joining combat with the elite of the German army.

On the train journey back south they were cheered once again as they passed through every station, and this time Charlie felt they were more worthy of the hatted ladies' respect. Finally that evening the engine pulled into Maidstone, where they disembarked, and were put up for the night at the local barracks of the Royal West Kents.

At zero six hundred hours the following morning Captain Trentham gave them a full briefing: they were to be transported by ship to Boulogne, they learned, and after ten days' further training they would be expected to march on to Etaples, where they would join their regiment under the command of Lieutentant-Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, DSO, who, they were assured, was preparing for a massive assault on the German defenses. They spent the rest of the morning checking over their equipment before being herded up a gangplank and onto the waiting troop carrier.

After the ship's foghorn had blasted out six times they set sail from Dover, one thousand men huddled together on the deck of HMS Resolution, singing, "It's a Long Way to Tipperary."

"Ever been abroad before, Corp?" Tommy asked.

"No, not unless you count Scotland," replied Charlie.

"Neither 'ave I," said Tommy nervously. After a few more minutes he mumbled, "You frightened?"

"No, of course not," said Charlie. "Bleedin' terrified."

"Me too," said Tommy.

"Goodbye Piccadilly, farewell Leicester Square. It's a long, long way to . . ."

Chapter 4

Charlie felt seasick only a few minutes after the English coast was out of sight. "I've never been on a boat before," he admitted to Tommy, "unless you count the paddle steamer at Brighton." Over half the men around him spent the crossing bringing up what little food they had eaten for breakfast.

"No officers coughin' up as far as I can see," said Tommy.

"Perhaps that lot are used to sailin'."

"Or doing it in their cabins."

When at last the French coast came in sight, a cheer went up from the soldiers on deck. By then all they wanted to do was set foot on dry land. And dry it would have been if the heavens hadn't opened the moment the ship docked and the troops set foot on French soil. Once everyone had disembarked, the sergeant major warned them to prepare for a fifteen-mile route-march.

Charlie kept his section squelching forward through the mud with songs from the music halls, accompanied by Tommy on the mouth organ. When they reached Etaples and had set up camp for the night, Charlie decided that perhaps the gymnasium in Edinburgh had been luxury after all.

Once the last post had been played, two thousand eyes closed, as soldiers under canvas for the first time tried to sleep. Each platoon had placed two men on guard duty, with orders to change them every two hours, to ensure that no one went without rest. Charlie drew the four o'clock watch with Tommy.

After a restless night of tossing and turning on lumpy, wet French soil, Charlie was woken at four, and in turn kicked Tommy, who simply turned over and went straight back to sleep. Minutes later Charlie was outside the tent, buttoning up his jacket before continually slapping himself on the back in an effort to keep warm. As his eyes slowly became accustomed to the half light, he began to make out row upon row of brown tents stretching as far as the eye could see.

"Mornin', Corp," said Tommy, when he appeared a little after four-twenty. "Got a lucifer, by any chance?"

"No, I 'aven't. And what I need is an 'ot cocoa, or an 'ot somethin'."

"Whatever your command, Corp."

Tommy wandered off to the cookhouse tent and resumed half an hour later with two hot cocoas and two dry biscuits.

"No sugar, I'm afraid," he told Charlie. "That's only for sergeants and above. I told them you were a general in disguise but they said that all the generals were back in London sound asleep in their beds."

Charlie smiled as he placed his frozen fingers round the hot mug and sipped slowly to be sure that the simple pleasure lasted.

Tommy surveyed the skyline. "So where are all these bleedin' Germans we've been told so much about?"

"'Eaven knows," said Charlie. "But you can be sure they're out there somewhere, probably askin' each other where we are."

At six o'clock Charlie woke the rest of his section. They were up and ready for inspection, with the tent down and folded back into a small square by six-thirty.

Another bugle signaled breakfast, and the men took their places in a queue that Charlie reckoned would have gladdened the heart of any barrow boy in the Whitechapel Road.

When Charlie eventually reached the front of the queue, he held out his billycan to receive a ladle of lumpy porridge and a stale piece of bread. Tommy winked at the boy in his long white jacket and blue check trousers. "And to think I've waited all these years to sample French cookin'."

"It gets worse the nearer you get to the front line," the cook promised him.

For the next ten days they set up camp at Etaples, spending their mornings being marched over dunes, their afternoons being instructed in gas warfare and their evenings being told by Captain Trentham the different ways they could die.

On the eleventh day they gathered up their belongings, packed up their tents and were formed into companies so they could be addressed by the Commanding Officer of the Regiment.

Over a thousand men stood in a formed square on a muddy field somewhere in France, wondering if twelve weeks of training and ten days of "acclimatization" could possibly have made them ready to face the might of the German forces.

"P'raps they've only 'ad twelve weeks' training as well," said Tommy, hopefully.

At exactly zero nine hundred hours Lieutenant Colonel Sir Danvers Hamilton, DSO, trotted in on a jet-black mare and brought his charge to a halt in the middle of the man-made square. He began to address the troops. Charlie's abiding memory of the speech was that for fifteen minutes the horse never moved.

"Welcome to France," Colonel Hamilton began, placing a monocle over his left eye. "I only wish it were a day trip you were on." A little laughter trickled out of the ranks. "However, I'm afraid we're not going to be given much time off until we've sent the Huns back to Germany where they belong, with their tails between their legs." This time cheering broke out in the ranks. "And never forget, it's an away match, and we're on a sticky wicket. Worse, the Germans don't understand the laws of cricket." More laughter, although Charlie suspected the colonel meant every word he said.

"Today," the colonel continued, "we march towards Ypres where we will set up camp before beginning a new and I believe final assault on the German front. This time I'm convinced we will break through the German lines, and the glorious Fusiliers will surely carry the honors of the day. Fortune be with you all, and God save the King."

More cheers were followed by a rendering of the National Anthem from the regimental band. The troops joined in lustily with heart and voice.

It took another five days of route marching before they heard the first sound of artillery fire, could smell the trenches and therefore knew they must be approaching the battlefront. Another day and they passed the large green tents of the Red Cross. Just before eleven that morning Charlie saw his first dead soldier, a lieutenant from the East Yorkshire Regiment.

"Well, I'll be damned," said Tommy. "Bullets can't tell the difference between officers and enlisted men."

Within another mile they had both witnessed so many stretchers, so many bodies and so many limbs no longer attached to bodies that no one had the stomach for jokes. The battalion, it became clear, had arrived at what the newspapers called the "Western Front." No war correspondent, however, could have described the gloom that pervaded the air, or the look of hopelessness ingrained on the faces of anyone who had been there for more than a few days.

Charlie stared out at the open fields that must once have been productive farmland. All that remained was the odd burned-out farmhouse to mark the spot where civilization had once existed. There was still no sign of the enemy. He tried to take in the surrounding countryside that was to be his home during the months that lay ahead—if he lived that long. Every soldier knew that average life expectancy at the front was seventeen days.

Charlie left his men resting in their tents while he set out to do his own private tour. First he came across the reserve trenches a few hundred yards in front of the hospital tents, known as the "hotel area" as they were a quarter of a mile behind the front line, where each soldier spent four days without a break before being allowed four days of rest in the reserve trenches. Charlie strolled on up to the front like some visiting tourist who was not involved in a war. He listened to the few men who had survived for more than a few weeks and talked of "Blighty" and prayed only for a "cushy wound" so they could be moved to the nearest hospital tent and, if they were among the lucky ones, eventually be sent home to England.

As the stray bullets whistled across no man's land, Charlie fell on his knees and crawled back to the reserve trenches, to brief his platoon on what they might expect once they were pushed forward another hundred yards.

The trenches, he told his men, stretched from horizon to horizon and at any one time could be occupied by ten thousand troops. In front of them, about twenty yards away, he had seen a barbed-wire fence some three feet high which an old corporal told him had already cost a thousand lives of those who had done nothing more than erect it. Beyond that lay no man's land, consisting of five hundred acres once owned by an innocent family caught in the center of someone else's war. Beyond that lay the Germans' barbed wire, and beyond that still the Germans, waiting for them in their trenches.

Each army, it seemed, lay in its own sodden, rat-infested dugouts for days, sometimes months, waiting for the other side to make a move. Less than a mile separated them. If a head popped up to study the terrain, a bullet followed from the other side. If the order was to advance, a man's chances of completing twenty yards would not have been considered worth chalking up on a bookie's blackboard. If you reached the wire there were two ways of dying; if you reached the German trenches, a dozen.

If you stayed still, you could die of cholera, chlorine gas, gangrene, typhoid or trench foot that soldiers stuck bayonets through to take away the pain. Almost as many men died behind the lines as did from going over the top, an old sergeant told Charlie, and it didn't help to know that the Germans were suffering the same problems a few hundred yards away.

Charlie tried to settle his ten men into a routine. They carried out their daily duties, bailed water out of their trenches, cleaned equipment—even played football to fill the hours of boredom and waiting. Charlie picked up rumors and counter-rumors of what the future might hold for them. He suspected that only the colonel seated in HQ, a mile behind the lines, really had much idea of what was going on.

Whenever it was Charlie's turn to spend four days in the advance trenches, his section seemed to occupy most of their time filling their billycans with pints of water, as they struggled to bail out the gallons that dropped daily from the heavens. Sometimes the water in the trenches would reach Charlie's kneecaps.

"The only reason I didn't sign up for the navy was because I couldn't swim," Tommy grumbled. "And no one warned me I could drown just as easily in the army."

Even soaked, frozen and hungry, they somehow remained cheerful. For seven weeks Charlie and his section endured such conditions, waiting for fresh orders that would allow them to advance. The only advance they learned of during that time was von Ludendorff's. The German general had caused the Allies to retreat some forty miles, losing four hundred thousand men while another eighty thousand were captured. Captain Trentham was generally the bearer of such news, and what annoyed Charlie even more was that he always looked so smart, clean and—worse—warm and well fed.

Two men from his own section had already died without even seeing the enemy. Most soldiers would have been only too happy to go over the top, as they no longer believed they would survive a war some were saying would last forever. The boredom was broken only by bayoneting rats, bailing more water out of the trench or having to listen to Tommy repeat the same old melodies on a now rusty mouth organ.

It wasn't until the ninth week that orders finally came through and they were called back to the man-made square. The colonel, monocle in place, once again briefed them from his motionless horse. The Royal Fusiliers were to advance on the German lines the following morning, having been given the responsibility for breaking through their northern flank. The Irish Guards would give them support from the right flank, while the Welsh would advance from the left.

"Tomorrow will be a day of glory for the Fusiliers," Colonel Hamilton assured them. "Now you must rest as the battle will commence at first light."

On returning to the trenches, Charlie was surprised to find that the thought of at last being involved in a real fight had put the men in better humor. Every rifle was stripped, cleaned, greased, checked and then checked again, every bullet placed carefully into its magazine, every Lewis gun tested, oiled and retested and then the men finally shaved before they faced the enemy. Charlie's first experience of a razor was in near freezing water.

No man finds it easy to sleep the night before a battle, Charlie had been told, and many used the time to write long letters to their loved ones at home, some even had the courage to make a will. Charlie wrote to Posh Porky—he wasn't sure why—asking her to take care of Sal, Grace and Kitty if he didn't return. Tommy wrote to no one, and not simply because he couldn't write. At midnight Charlie collected all the section's efforts and handed them in a bundle to the orderly officer.

Bayonets were carefully sharpened, then fixed; hearts began to beat faster as the minutes passed, and they waited in silence for the command to advance. Charlie's own feelings raced between terror and exhilaration, as he watched Captain Trentham strolling from platoon to platoon to deliver his final briefing. Charlie downed in one gulp the tot of rum that was handed out to all the men up and down the trenches just before a battle.

A Second Lieutenant Makepeace took his place behind Charlie's trench, another officer he had never met. He looked like a fresh-faced schoolboy and introduced himself to Charlie as one might do to a casual acquaintance at a cocktail parry. He asked Charlie to gather the section together a few yards behind the line so he could address them. Ten cold, frightened men climbed out of their trench and listened to the young officer in cynical silence. The day had been specially chosen because the meteorologists had assured them that the sun would rise at five fifty-three and there would be no rain. The meteorologists would prove to be right about the sun, but as if to show their fallibility at four-eleven a steady drizzle began. "A German drizzle," Charlie suggested to his comrades. "And whose side is God on, anyway?"

Lieutenant Makepeace smiled thinly. They waited for a Verey pistol to be fired, like some referee blowing a whistle before hostilities could officially commence.

"And don't forget, 'bangers and mash' is the password," said Lieutenant Makepeace. "Send it down the line."

At five fifty-three, as a blood-red sun peeped over the horizon, a Verey pistol was fired and Charlie looked back to see the sky lit up behind him.

Lieutenant Makepeace leaped out of the trench and cried, "Follow me, men. "

Charlie climbed out after him and, screaming at the top of his voice—more out of fear than bravado—charged towards the barbed wire.

The lieutenant hadn't gone fifteen yards before the first bullet hit him, but somehow he still managed to carry on until he reached the wire. Charlie watched in horror as Makepeace fell across the barbed barrier and another burst of enemy bullets peppered his motionless body. Two brave men changed direction to rush to his aid, but neither of them even reached the wire. Charlie was only a yard behind them, and was about to charge through a gap in the barrier when Tommy overtook him. Charlie turned, smiled, and that was the last thing he remembered of the battle of the Lys.

Two days later Charlie woke up in a hospital tent, some three hundred yards behind the line, to find a young girl in a dark blue uniform with a royal crest above her heart hovering over him. She was talking to him. He knew only because her lips were moving: but he couldn't hear a word she said. Thank God, Charlie thought, I'm still alive, and surely now I'll be sent back to England. Once a soldier had been certified medically deaf he was always shipped home. King's Regulations.

But Charlie's hearing was fully restored within a week and a smile appeared on his lips for the first time when he saw Grace standing by his side pouring him a cup of tea. They had granted her permission to move tents once she'd heard that an unconscious soldier named Trumper was lying down the line. She told her brother that he had been one of the lucky ones, blown up by a land mine, and only lost a toe—not even a big one, she teased. He was disappointed by her news, as the loss of the big one also meant you could go home.

"Otherwise only a few grazes and cuts. Nothing serious and very much alive. Ought to have you back at the front in a matter of days," she added sadly.

He slept. He woke. He wondered if Tommy had survived.

"Any news of Private Prescott?" Charlie asked, after he had completed his rounds.

The lieutenant checked his clipboard and a frown came over his face. "He's been arrested. Looks as if he might have to face a court-martial."

"What? Why?"

"No idea," replied the young lieutenant, and moved on to the next bed.

The following day Charlie managed a little food, took a few painful steps the day after, and could run a week later. He was sent back to the front only twenty-one days after Lieutenant Makepeace had leaped up and shouted, "Follow me."

Once Charlie had resumed to the relief trenches he quickly discovered that only three men in his section of ten had survived the charge, and there was no sign of Tommy. A new batch of soldiers had arrived from England that morning to take their places and begin the routine of four days on, four days off. They treated Charlie as if he were a veteran.

He had only been back for a few hours when company orders were posted showing that Colonel Hamilton wished to see Lance Corporal Trumper at eleven hundred hours the following morning.

"Why would the commanding officer want to see me?" Charlie inquired of the duty sergeant.

"It usually means a court-martial or a decoration—the governor hasn't time for anything else. And never forget that he also means trouble, so watch your tongue when you're in his presence. I can tell you, he's got a very short fuse."

At ten fifty-five hours sharp Lance Corporal Trumper stood trembling outside the colonel's tent almost as fearful of his commanding officer as of going over the top. A few minutes later the company sergeant major marched out of the tent to collect him.

"Stand to attention, salute and give your name, rank and serial number," barked CSM Philpott. "And remember, don't speak unless you're spoken to," he added sharply.

Charlie marched into the tent and came to a halt in front of the colonel's desk. He saluted and said, "Lance Corporal Trumper, 7312087, reporting, sir." It was the first time he had seen the colonel sitting on a chair, not on a horse.

"Ah, Trumper," said Colonel Hamilton, looking up. "Good to have you back. Delighted by your speedy recovery."

"Thank you, sir," said Charlie, aware for the first time that only one of the colonel's eyes actually moved.

"However, there's been a problem involving a private from your section that I'm hoping you might be able to throw some light on."

"I'll 'elp if I can, sir."

"Good, because it seems," said the colonel, placing his monocle up to his left eye, "that Prescott"—he studied a buff form on the desk in front of him before continuing—"yes, Private Prescott, may have shot himself in the hand in order to avoid facing the enemy. According to Captain Trentham's report, he was picked up with a single bullet wound in his left hand while lying in the mud only a few yards in front of his own trench. On the face of it such an action appears to be a simple case of cowardice in the face of the enemy. However, I was not willing to order the setting up of a court-martial before I had heard your version of what took place that morning. After all, he was in your section. So I felt you might have something of substance to add to Captain Trentham's report."

"Yes, sir, I certainly do," Charlie said. He tried to compose himself and go over in his mind the details of what had taken place almost a month before. "Once the Verey pistol 'ad been fired Lieutenant Makepeace led the charge and I went over the top after 'im followed by the rest of my section. The lieutenant was the first to reach the wire but was immediately 'it by several bullets, and there were only two men ahead of me at the time. They bravely went to 'is aid, but fell even before they could reach 'im. As soon as I got to the wire I spotted a gap and ran through it, only to see Private Prescott overtake me as he charged on towards the enemy lines. It must have been then that I was blown up by the land mine, which may well have knocked out Private Prescott as well. "

"Can you be certain it was Private Prescott who overtook you?" asked the colonel, looking puzzled.

"In the 'eat of a battle, it's 'ard to remember every detail, sir, but I will never forget Prescott overtakin' me."

"Why's that?" asked the colonel.

"Because 'e's my mate, and it annoyed me at the time to see 'im get ahead of me."

Charlie thought he saw a faint smile come over the colonel's face.

"Is Prescott a close friend of yours?" the colonel asked, fixing his monocle on him.

"Yes, sir, 'e is, but that would not affect my judgment, and no one 'as the right to suggest it would."

"Do you realize who you are talkin' to?" bellowed the sergeant major.

"Yes, Sergeant Major," said Charlie. "A man interested in finding out the truth, and therefore seeing that justice is done. I'm not an educated man, sir, but I am an 'onest one."

"Corporal, you will report—" began the sergeant major.

"Thank you, Sergeant Major, that will be all," said the colonel. "And thank you, Corporal Trumper, for your clear and concise evidence. I shall not need to trouble you any further. You may now return to your platoon."

"Thank you, sir," said Charlie. He took a pace backwards, saluted, did an about-turn and marched out of the tent.

"Would you like me to 'andle this matter in my own way?" asked the sergeant major.

"Yes, I would," replied Colonel Hamilton. "Promote Trumper to full corporal and release Private Prescott from custody immediately."

Tommy returned to his platoon that afternoon, his left hand bandaged.

"You saved my life, Charlie."

"I only told the truth."

"I know, so did I. But the difference is, they believed you."

Charlie lay in his tent that night wondering why Captain Trentham was so determined to be rid of Tommy. Could any man believe he had the right to send another to his death simply because he had once been to jail?

Another month passed while they continued the old routines before company orders revealed that they were to march south to the Marne and prepare for a counterattack against General von Ludendorff. Charlie's heart sank when he read the orders; he knew the odds against surviving two attacks were virtually unknown. He managed to spend the odd hour alone with Grace, who told him she had fallen for a Welsh corporal who had stood on a land mine and ended up blind in one eye.

Love at first sight, quipped Charlie.

Midnight on Wednesday, 17 July 1918, and an eerie silence fell over no man's land. Charlie let those who could sleep, and didn't attempt to wake anyone until three o'clock the next morning. Now an acting sergeant, he had a platoon of forty men to prepare for battle, all of whom still came under the overall command of Captain Trentham, who hadn't been seen since the day Tommy had been released.

At three-thirty, a Lieutenant Harvey joined them behind the trenches, by which time they were all on full battle alert. Harvey, it turned out, had arrived at the front the previous Friday.

"This is a mad war," said Charlie after they had been introduced.

"Oh, I don't know," said Harvey lightly. "I can't wait to have a go at the Hun myself."

"The Germans 'aven't an 'ope in 'ell, as long as we can go on producin' nutcases like 'im," whispered Tommy.

"By the way, sir, what's the password this time?" asked Charlie.

"Oh, sorry, quite forgot. 'Little Red Riding Hood,'" said the lieutenant.

They all waited. At zero four hundred hours they fixed bayonets and at four twenty-one the Verey pistol shot a red flame into the sky somewhere behind the lines and the air was filled with whistles blowing.

"Tally ho," cried Lieutenant Harvey. He fired his pistol in the air and charged over the top as if he were chasing some errant fox. Once again, Charlie scrambled up and out of the trench only yards behind. The rest of the platoon followed as he stumbled through mud over barren land that no longer bore a single tree to protect them. To the left Charlie could see another platoon ahead of him. The unmistakable figure of the immaculate Captain Trentham brought up the rear. But it was Lieutenant Harvey who was still leading the charge as he hurdled elegantly over the wire and into no man's land. It made Charlie feel curiously confident that anyone could survive such stupidity. On and on Harvey went, as if somehow indestructible, or charmed. Charlie assumed that he must fall with every pace he took, as he watched the lieutenant treat the German wire as just another hurdle, before running on towards the enemy trenches as if they were the finishing line in some race being held at his public school. The man got within twenty yards of the tape before a hail of bullets finally brought him down. Charlie now found himself in front and began firing at the Germans as their heads popped up from behind the dugouts.

He had never heard of anyone actually reaching the German trenches, so he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next, and despite all the training he still found it hard to shoot on the run. When four Germans and their rifles came up at once he knew that he was never going to find out. He shot straight at the first one, who fell back into the trench, but by then he could only watch the other three take aim. He suddenly became aware of a volley of shots from behind him, and all three bodies fell back like tin ducks on a rifle range. He realized then that the winner of the King's Prize must still be on his feet.

Suddenly he was in the enemy's trench and staring down into a young German's eyes, a terrified boy even younger than himself. He hesitated only for a moment before thrusting his bayonet down the middle of the German's mouth. He pulled the blade out and drove it home once again, this time into the boy's heart, then ran on. Three of his men were now ahead of him, chasing a retreating enemy. At that moment Charlie spotted Tommy on his right flank pursuing two Germans up a hill. He disappeared into some trees and Charlie distinctly heard a single shot somewhere above the noise of battle. He turned and charged quickly off into the forest to rescue his friend, only to find a German splayed out on the ground and Tommy still running on up the hill. A breathless Charlie managed to catch up with him when he finally came to a halt behind a tree.

"You were bloody magnificent, Tommy," said Charlie, throwing himself down by his side.

"Not 'alf as good as that officer, what was 'is name?"

"'Arvey, Lieutenant 'Arvey."

"In the end we were both saved by 'is pistol," said Tommy, brandishing the weapon. "More than can be said for that bastard Trentham."

"What do you mean?" said Charlie.

"He funked the German trenches, didn't 'e? Bolted off into the forest. Two Germans saw the coward and chased after 'im, so I followed. Finished off one of them, didn't I."

"So where's Trentham now?"

"Somewhere up there," said Tommy, pointing over the brow to the hill. "'E'll be 'iding from that lone German, no doubt."

Charlie stared into the distance.

"So what now, Corp?"

"We 'ave to go after that German and kill 'im before he catches up with the captain."

"Why don't we just go 'ome, and 'ope he finds the captain before I do?" said Tommy.

But Charlie was already on his feet advancing up the hill.

Slowly they moved on up the slope, using the trees for protection, watching and listening until they had reached the top, and open ground.

"No sign of either of them," whispered Charlie.

"Agreed. So we'd better get back behind our lines, because if the Germans catch us I can't believe they'll invite us to join 'em for tea and crumpets."

Charlie took his bearings. Ahead of them was a little church—not unlike the many they had passed on the long route march from Etaples to the front.

"Maybe we'd better check that church first," he said, as Tommy reloaded Lieutenant Harvey's pistol. "But don't let's take any unnecessary risks."

"What the 'ell do you think we've been doin' for the last hour?" asked Tommy.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, they crawled across the open ground until they reached the vestry door. Charlie pushed it open slowly, expecting a volley of bullets to follow, but the loudest sound they heard was the screech of the hinges. Once inside, Charlie crossed himself the way his grandfather always had when entering St. Mary's and St. Michael's on Jubilee Street. Tommy lit a cigarette.

Charlie remained cautious as he began to study the layout of the little church. It had already lost half its roof, courtesy of a German or English shell, while the rest of the nave and porch remained intact.

Charlie found himself mesmerized by the mosaic patterns that covered the inner walls, their tiny squares making up life-size portraits. He moved slowly round the perimeter, staring at the seven disciples who had so far survived the ungodly war.

When he reached the altar he fell on his knees and bowed his head, a vision of Father O'Malley coming into his mind. It was then that the bullet flew past him, hitting the brass cross and sending the crucifix crashing to the ground. As Charlie dived for cover behind the altar, a second shot went off. He glanced round the corner of the altar and watched a German officer who had been hit in the side of the head slump through the curtains and out of a wooden box onto the stone floor. He must have died instantly.

"I only 'ope he 'ad time to make a full confession," said Tommy.

Charlie crawled out from behind the altar.

"For Gawd's sake, stay put, you fool, because someone else is in this church and I've got a funny feelin' it isn't just the Almighty." They both heard a movement in the pulpit above them and Charlie quickly scurried back behind the altar.

"It's only me," said a voice they immediately recognized.

"Who's me?" said Tommy, trying not to laugh.

"Captain Trentham. So whatever you do, don't fire."

"Then show yourself, and come down with your 'ands above your 'ead so that we can be certain you're who you say you are," Tommy said, enjoying every moment of his tormentor's embarrassment.

Trentham rose slowly from the top of the pulpit and began to descend the stone steps with his hands held high above his head. He proceeded down the aisle towards the fallen cross that now lay in front of the altar, before stepping over the dead German officer and continuing until he came face to face with Tommy, who was still holding a pistol pointing straight at his heart.

"Sorry, sir," said Tommy, lowering the pistol. "I 'ad to be sure you weren't a German."

"Who spoke the King's English," said Trentham sarcastically.

"You did warn us against being taken in by that in one of your lectures, sir," said Tommy.

"Less of your lip, Prescott. And how did you get hold of an officer's pistol?"

"It belonged to Lieutenant 'Arvey," interjected Charlie, "who dropped it when—"

"You bolted off into the forest," said Tommy, his eyes never leaving Trentham.

"I was pursuing two Germans who were attempting to escape."

"It looked the other way round to me," said Tommy. "And when we get back, I intend to let anyone know who cares to listen."

"It would be your word against mine," said Trentham. "In any case, both Germans are dead."

"Only thanks to me and try not to forget that the corp 'ere also witnessed everything what 'appened."

"Then you know my version of the events is the accurate one," said Trentham, turning directly to face Charlie.

"All I know is that we ought to be up in that tower, plannin' how we get back to our own lines, and not wastin' any more time quarrelin' down 'ere."

The captain nodded his agreement, turned, ran to the back of the church and up the stone stairs to the safety of the tower. Charlie quickly followed him. They both took lookout positions on opposite sides of the roof, and although Charlie could still hear the sound of the battle he was quite unable to make out who was getting the better of it on the other side of the forest.

"Where's Prescott?" asked Trentham after a few minutes had passed.

"Don't know, sir," said Charlie. "I thought he was just behind me." It was several minutes before Tommy, wearing the dead German's spiked pickelhaube, appeared at the top of the stone steps.

"Where have you been?" asked Trentham suspiciously.

"Searchin' the place from top to bottom in the 'ope that there might 'ave been some grub to be found, but I couldn't even find any communion wine."

"Take your position over there," said the captain, pointing to an arch that was not yet covered, "and keep a lookout. We'll stay put until it's pitch dark. By then I'll have worked out a plan to get us back behind our own lines."

The three men stared out across the French countryside as the light turned first murky, then gray and finally black.

"Shouldn't we be thinkin' of moving soon, Captain?" asked Charlie, after they had sat in pitch darkness for over an hour.

"We'll go when I'm good and ready," said Trentham, "and not before."

"Yes, sir," said Charlie, and sat shivering as he continued to stare out into the darkness for another forty minutes.

"Right, follow me," said Trentham without warning. He rose and led them both down the stone steps, coming to a halt at the entrance to the vestry door. He pulled the door open slowly. The noise of the hinges sounded to Charlie like a magazine emptying on a machine-gun. The three of them stared into the night and Charlie wondered if there was yet another German out there with rifle cocked, waiting. The captain checked his compass.

"First we must try to reach the safety of those trees at the top of the ridge," Trentham whispered. "Then I'll work out a route for getting us back behind our own lines."

By the time Charlie's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness he began to study the moon and, more important, the movement of the clouds.

"It's open ground to those trees," the captain continued, "so we can't risk a crossing until the moon disappears behind some cover. Then we'll each make a dash for the ridge separately. So Prescott, when I give the order, you'll go first."

"Me?" said Tommy.

"Yes, you, Prescott. Then Corporal Trumper will follow the moment you've reached the trees."

"And I suppose you'll bring up the rear, if we're lucky enough to survive?" said Tommy.

"Don't be insubordinate with me," said Trentham. "Or you'll find this time that you will be court-martialed and end up in the jail you were originally intended for."

"Not without a witness, I won't," said Tommy. "That much of King's Regulations I do understand."

"Shut up, Tommy," said Charlie.

They all waited in silence behind the vestry door until a large shadow moved slowly across the path and finally enveloped the church all the way to the trees.

"Go!" said the captain, tapping Prescott on the shoulder. Tommy bolted off like a greyhound released from the slips, and the two other men watched as he scampered across the open ground, until some twenty seconds later he reached the safety of the trees.

The same hand tapped Charlie on the shoulder a moment later, and off he ran, faster than he had ever run before, despite having to carry a rifle in one hand and a pack on his back. The grin didn't reappear on his face until he had reached Tommy's side.

They both turned to stare in the direction of the captain.

"What the 'ell's he waitin' for?" said Charlie.

"To see if we get ourselves killed would be my guess," said Tommy as the moon came back out.

They both waited but said nothing until the circular glow had disappeared behind another cloud, when finally the captain came scurrying towards them.

He stopped by their side, leaned against a tree and rested until he had got his breath back.

"Right," he eventually whispered, "we'll advance slowly down through the forest, stopping every few yards to listen for the enemy, while at the same time using the trees for cover. Remember, never move as much as a muscle if the moon is out, and never speak unless it's to answer a question put by me."

The three of them began to creep slowly down the hill, moving from tree to tree, but no more than a few yards at a time. Charlie had no idea he could be so alert to the slightest unfamiliar sound. It took the three of them over an hour to reach the bottom of the slope, where they came to a halt. All they could see in front of them was a vast mass of barren open ground.

"No man's land," whispered Trentham. "That means we'll have to spend the rest of our time flat on our bellies." He immediately sank down into the mud. "I'll lead," he said. "Trumper, you'll follow, and Prescott will bring up the rear."

"Well, at least that proves 'e knows where 'e's goin'," whispered Tommy. "Because 'e must 'ave worked out exactly where the bullets will be comin' from, and who they're likely to 'it first."

Slowly, inch by inch, the three men advanced the half mile across no man's land, towards the Allied front line, pressing their faces back down into the mud whenever the moon reappeared from behind its unreliable screen.

Although Charlie could always see Trentham in front of him, Tommy was so silent in his wake that from time to time he had to look back just to be certain his friend was still there. A grin of flashing white teeth was all he got for his trouble.

During the first hour the three of them covered a mere hundred yards. Charlie could have wished for a more cloudy night. Stray bullets flying across their heads from both trenches ensured that they kept themselves low to the ground. Charlie found he was continually spitting out mud and once even came face to face with a German who couldn't blink.

Another inch, another foot, another yard on they crawled through the wet, cold mud across a terrain that still belonged to no man. Suddenly Charlie heard a loud squeal from behind him. He turned angrily to remonstrate with Tommy, only to see a rat the size of a rabbit lying between his legs. Tommy had thrust a bayonet right through its belly.

"I think it fancied you, Corp. Couldn't have been for the sex if Rose is to be believed, so it must have wanted you for dinner."

Charlie covered his mouth with his hands for fear the Germans might hear him laughing.

The moon slid out from behind a cloud and again lit up the open land. Once more the three men buried themselves in the mud and waited until another passing cloud allowed them to advance a few more yards. It was two more hours before they reached the barbed-wire perimeter that had been erected to stop the Germans breaking through.

Once they had reached the spiky barrier Trentham changed direction and began to crawl along the German side of the fence searching for a breach in the wire between them and safety. Another eighty yards had to be traversed—to Charlie it felt more like a mile—before the captain eventually found a tiny gap which he was able to crawl through. They were now only fifty yards from the safety of their own lines.

Charlie was surprised to find the captain hanging back, even allowing him to crawl past.

"Damn," said Charlie under his breath, as the moon made another entrance onto the center of the stage and left them lying motionless only a street's length away from safety. Once the light had been turned out again, slowly, again inch by inch, Charlie continued his crablike advance, now more fearful of a stray bullet from his own side than from the enemy's. At last he could hear voices, English voices. He never thought the day would come when he would welcome the sight of those trenches.

"We've made it," shouted Tommy, in a voice that might even have been heard by the Germans. Once again Charlie buried his face in the mud.

"Who goes there?" came back the report. Charlie could hear rifles being cocked up and down the trenches as sleepy men quickly came to life.

"Captain Trentham, Corporal Trumper and Private Prescott of the Royal Fusiliers," called out Charlie firmly.

"Password?" demanded the voice.

"Oh, God, what's the pass?"

"Little Red Riding Hood," shouted Trentham from behind them.

"Advance and be recognized."

"Prescott first," said Trentham, and Tommy pushed himself up onto his knees and began to crawl slowly towards his own trenches. Charlie heard the sound of a bullet that came from behind him and a moment later watched in horror as Tommy collapsed on his stomach and lay motionless in the mud.

Charlie looked quickly back through the half-light towards Trentham who said, "Bloody Huns. Keep down or the same thing might happen to you."

Charlie ignored the order and crawled quickly forward until he came to the prostrate body of his friend. Once he had reached his side he placed an arm around Tommy's shoulder. "There's only about twenty yards to go," he told him. "Man wounded," said Charlie in a loud whisper as he looked up towards the trenches.

"Prescott, don't move while the moon's out," ordered Trentham from behind them.

"How you feelin', mate?" asked Charlie as he tried to fathom the expression on his friend's face.

"Felt better, to be 'onest," said Tommy.

"Quiet, you two," said Trentham.

"By the way, that was no German bullet," choked Tommy as a trickle of blood began to run out of his mouth. "So just make sure you get the bastard if I'm not given the chance to do the job myself."

"You'll be all right," said Charlie. "Nothin' and nobody could kill Tommy Prescott."

As a large black cloud covered the moon, a group of men including two Red Cross orderlies who were carrying a stretcher jumped over the top and ran towards them. They dropped the stretcher by Tommy's side and dragged him onto the canvas before jogging back towards the trench. Another volley of bullets came flying across from the German lines.

Once they had reached the safety of the dugout, the orderlies dumped the stretcher unceremoniously on the ground. Charlie shouted at them, "Get 'im to the 'ospital tent—quickly for God's sake, quickly."

"Not much point, Corp," said the medical orderly. "'E's dead."

Chapter 5

"HQ is still waiting for your report, Trumper."

"I know, Sarge, I know."

"Any problems, lad?" asked the color sergeant, which Charlie recognized as a coded message for "Can you write?"

"No problems, Sarge."

For the next hour he wrote out his thoughts slowly, then rewrote the simple account of what had taken place on 18 July 1918 during the second battle of the Marne.

Charlie read and reread his banal offering, aware that although he extolled Tommy's courage during the battle he made no mention of Trentham fleeing from the enemy. The plain truth was that he hadn't witnessed what was going on behind him. He might well have formed his own opinion but he knew that would not bear cross-examination at some later date. And as for Tommy's death, what proof had he that one stray bullet among so many had come from the pistol of Captain Trentham? Even if Tommy had been right on both counts and Charlie voiced those opinions, it would only be his word against that of an officer and a gentleman.

The only thing he could do was make sure that Trentham received no praise from his pen for what had taken place on the battlefield that day. Feeling like a traitor, Charlie scribbled his signature on the bottom of the second page before handing in his report to the orderly officer.

Later that afternoon the duty sergeant allowed him an hour off to dig the grave in which they would bury Private Prescott. As he knelt by its head he cursed the men on either side who could have been responsible for such a war.

Charlie listened to the chaplain intone the words "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," before the last post was played yet again. Then the burial party took a pace to the right and began digging the grave of another known soldier. A hundred thousand men sacrificed their lives on the Marne. Charlie could no longer accept that any victory was worth such a price.

He sat cross-legged at the foot of the grave, unaware of the passing of time as he hewed out a cross with his bayonet. Finally he stood and placed it at the head of the mound. On the center of the cross he had carved the words, "Private Tommy Prescott."

A neutral moon resumed that night to shine on a thousand freshly dug graves' and Charlie swore to whatever God cared to listen that he would not forget his father or Tommy or, for that matter, Captain Trentham.

He fell asleep among his comrades. Reveille stirred him at first light, and after one last look at Tommy's grave he resumed to his platoon, to be informed that the Colonel of the Regiment would be addressing the troops at zero nine hundred hours.

An hour later he was standing to attention in a depleted square of those who had survived the battle. Colonel Hamilton told his men that the Prime Minister had described the second battle of the Marne as the greatest victory in the history of the war. Charlie found himself unable to raise a voice to join his cheering comrades.

"It was a proud and honorable day to be a Royal Fusilier," continued the colonel, his monocle still firmly in place. The regiment had won a VC, six MCs and nine MMs in the battle. Charlie felt indifferent as each of the decorated men was announced and his citation read out until he heard the name of Lieutenant Arthur Harvey who, the colonel told them, had led a charge of Number 11 Platoon all the way up to the German trenches, thus allowing those behind him to carry on and break through the enemy's defenses. For this he was posthumously awarded the Military Cross.

A moment later Charlie heard the colonel utter the name of Captain Guy Trentham. This gallant officer, the colonel assured the regiment, careless of his own safely, continued the attack after Lieutenant Harvey had fallen, killing several German soldiers before reaching their dugouts, where he wiped out a complete enemy unit single-handed. Having crossed the enemy's lines, he proceeded to chase two Germans into a nearby forest. He succeeded in killing both enemy soldiers before rescuing two Fusiliers from German hands. He then led them back to the safely of the Allied trenches. For this supreme act of courage Captain Trentham was also awarded the Military Cross.

Trentham stepped forward and the troops cheered as the colonel removed a silver cross from a leather case before pinning the medal on his chest.

One sergeant major, three sergeants, two corporals and four privates then had their citations read out, each one named and his acts of heroism recalled in turn. But only one of them stepped forward to receive his medal.

"Among those unable to be with us today," continued the colonel, "is a young man who followed Lieutenant Harvey into the enemy trenches and then killed four, perhaps five German soldiers before later stalking and shooting another, finally killing a German officer before being tragically killed himself by a stray bullet when only yards from the safety of his own trenches." Once again the assembled gathering cheered.

Moments later the parade was dismissed and while others returned to their tents, Charlie walked slowly back behind the lines until he reached the mass burial ground.

He knelt down by a familiar mound and after a moment's hesitation yanked out the cross that he had placed at the head of the grave.

Charlie unclipped a knife that hung from his belt and beside the name "Tommy Prescott" he carved the letters "MM."

A fortnight later one thousand men, with a thousand legs, a thousand arms and a thousand eyes between them, were ordered home. Sergeant Charles Trumper of the Royal Fusiliers was detailed to accompany them, perhaps because no man had been known to survive three charges on the enemy's lines.

Their cheerfulness and delight at still being alive only made Charlie feel more guilty. After all, he had only lost one toe. On the journey back by land, sea and land, he helped the men dress, wash, eat and be led without complaint or remonstration.

At Dover they were greeted on the quayside by cheering crowds welcoming their heroes home. Trains had been laid on to dispatch them to all parts of the country, so that for the rest of their lives they would be able to recall a few moments of honor, even glory. But not for Charlie. His papers only instructed him to travel on to Edinburgh where he was to help train the next group of recruits who would take their places on the Western Front.

On 11 November 1918, at eleven hundred hours, hostilities ceased and a grateful nation stood in silence for three minutes when on a railway carriage in the forest of Compiegne, the Armistice was signed. When Charlie heard the news of victory he was training some raw recruits on a rifle range in Edinburgh. Some of them were unable to hide their disappointment at being cheated out of the chance to face the enemy.

The war was over and the Empire had won—or that is how the politicians presented the result of the match between Britain and Germany.

"More than nine million men have died for their country, and some even before they had finished growing," Charlie wrote in a letter to his sister Sal. "And what has either side to show for such carnage?"

Sal wrote back to let him know how thankful she was he was still alive and went on to say that she had become engaged to a pilot from Canada. "We plan to marry in the next few weeks and go to live with his parents in Toronto. Next time you get a letter from me it will be from the other side of the world.

"Grace is still in France but expects to return to the London Hospital some time in the new year. She's been made a ward sister. I expect you know her Welsh corporal caught pneumonia. He died a few days after peace had been declared.

"Kitty disappeared off the face of the earth and then without warning turned up in Whitechapel with a man in a motorcar, neither of them seemed to be hers but she looked very pleased with life."

Charlie couldn't understand his sister's P.S.: "Where will you live when you get back to the East End?"

Sergeant Charles Trumper was discharged from active service on 20 February 1919, one of the early ones: the missing toe had at last counted for something. He folded up his uniform, placed his helmet on top, boots by the side, marched across the parade ground and handed them in to the quartermaster.

"I hardly recognized you, Sarge, in that old suit and cap. Don't fit any longer, do they? You must have grown during your time with the Fussies."

Charlie looked down and checked the length of his trousers: they now hung a good inch above the laces of his boots.

"Must have grown durin' my time with the Fussies," he repeated pondering the words.

"Bet your family will be glad to see you when you get back to civvy street."

"Whatever's left of them," said Charlie as he turned to go. His final task was to report to the paymaster's office and receive his last pay packet and travel voucher before relinquishing the King's shilling.

"Trumper, the duty officer would like a word with you," said the sergeant major, after Charlie had completed what he had assumed was his last duty.

Lieutenant Makepeace and Lieutenant Harvey would always be his duty officers, thought Charlie as he made his way back across the parade ground in the direction of the company offices. Some fresh-faced youth, who had not been properly introduced to the enemy, now had the nerve to try and take their place.

Charlie was about to salute the lieutenant when he remembered he was no longer in uniform, so he simply removed his cap.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Trumper, a personal matter." The young officer touched a large box that lay on his desk. Charlie couldn't quite see what was inside.

"It appears, Trumper, that your friend Private Prescott made a will in which he left everything to you."

Charlie was unable to hide his surprise as the lieutenant pushed the box across the table.

"Would you be kind enough to check through its contents and then sign for them?"

Another buff form was placed in front of him. Above the typed name of Private Thomas Prescott was a paragraph written in a bold large hand. An "X" was scrawled below it, witnessed by Sergeant Major Philpott.

Charlie began to remove the objects from the box one by one. Tommy's mouth organ, rusty and falling apart, seven pounds eleven shillings and sixpence in back pay, followed by a German officer's helmet. Next Charlie took out a small leather box and opened the lid to discover Tommy's Military Medal and the simple words "For bravery in the field" printed across the back. He removed the medal and held it in the palm of his hand.

"Must have been a jolly brave chap, Prescott," said the lieutenant. "Salt of the earth and all that."

"And all that," agreed Charlie.

"A religious man as well?"

"No, can't pretend 'e was," said Charlie, allowing himself a smile. "Why do you ask?"

"The picture," said the lieutenant, pointing back into the box. Charlie leaned forward and stared down in disbelief at a painting of the Virgin Mary and Child. It was about eight inches square and framed in black teak. He took the portrait out and held it in his hands.

He gazed at the deep reds, purples and blues that dominated the central figure in the painting, feeling certain he'd seen the image somewhere before. It was several moments before he replaced the little oil in the box along with Tommy's other possessions.

Charlie put his cap back on and turned to go, the box under one arm, a brown paper parcel under the other and a ticket to London in his top pocket.

As he marched out of the barracks to make his way to the station—he wondered how long it would be before he could walk at a normal pace—when he reached the guardroom he stopped and turned round for one last look at the parade ground. A set of raw recruits was marching up and down with a new drill instructor who sounded every bit as determined as the late Sergeant Major Philpott had been to see that the snow was never allowed to settle.

Charlie turned his back on the parade ground and began his journey to London. He was nineteen years of age and had only just qualified to receive the King's shilling; but now he was a couple of inches taller, shaved and had even come near to losing his virginity.

He'd done his bit, and at least felt able to agree with the Prime Minister on one matter. He had surely taken part in the war to end all wars.

The night sleeper from Edinburgh was full of men in uniform who eyed the civilian-clad Charlie with suspicion, as a man who hadn't yet served his country or, worse, was a conscientious objector.

"They'll be calling him up soon enough," said a corporal to his mate in a loud whisper from the far side of the carriage. Charlie smiled but didn't comment.

He slept intermittently, amused by the thought that he might have found it easier to rest in a damp muddy trench with rats and cockroaches for companions. By the time the train pulled into King's Cross Station at seven the following morning, he had a stiff neck and an aching back. He stretched himself before he picked up his large paper parcel along with Tommy's life possessions.

At the station he bought a sandwich and a cup of tea. He was surprised when the girl asked him for three pence. "Tuppence for those what are in uniform," he was told with undisguised disdain. Charlie downed the tea and left the station without another word.

The roads were busier and more hectic than he remembered, but he still jumped confidently on a tram that had "City" printed across the front. He sat alone on a trestled wooden bench, wondering what changes he would find on his return to the East End. Did his shop flourish, was it simply ticking over, had it been sold or even gone bankrupt? And what of the biggest barrow in the world?

He jumped off the tram at Poultry, deciding to walk the final mile. His pace quickened as the accents changed, City gents in long black coats and bowlers gave way to professional men in dark suits and trilbies, to be taken over by rough lads in ill-fitting clothes and caps, until Charlie finally arrived in the East End, where even the boaters had been abandoned by those under thirty.

As Charlie approached the Whitechapel Road, he stopped and stared at the frantic bustle taking place all around him. Hooks of meat, barrows of vegetables, trays of pies, urns of tea passed him in every direction.

But what of the baker's shop, and his grandfather's pitch? Would they be "all present and correct"? He pulled his cap down over his forehead and slipped quietly into the market.

When he reached the corner of the Whitechapel Road he wasn't sure he had come to the right place. The baker's shop was no longer there but had been replaced by a bespoke tailor who traded under the name of Jacob Cohen. Charlie pressed his nose against the window but couldn't recognize anyone who was working inside. He swung round to stare at the spot where the barrow of "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader" had stood for nearly a century, only to find a gaggle of youths warming themselves round a charcoal fire where a man was selling chestnuts at a penny a bag.

Charlie parted with a penny and was handed a bagful, but no one even gave him a second glance. Perhaps Becky had sold everything as he instructed, he thought, as he left the market to carry on down Whitechapel Road where at least he would have a chance to catch up with one of his sisters, rest and gather his thoughts.

When he arrived outside Number 112, he was pleased to find that the front door had been repainted. God bless Sal. He pushed the door open and walked straight into the parlor, where he came face to face with an overweight, half-shaven man dressed in a vest and trousers who was brandishing an open razor.

"What's your game then?" asked the man, holding up the razor firmly.

"I live 'ere," said Charlie.

"Like 'ell you do. I took over this dump six months ago."

"But—"

"No buts," said the man and without warning gave Charlie a shove in the chest which propelled him back into the street. The door slammed behind him, and Charlie heard a key turn in the lock. Not certain what to do next, he was beginning to wish he had never come home.

"'Ello, Charlie. It is Charlie, isn't it?" said a voice from behind him. "So you're not dead after all."

He swung round to see Mrs. Shorrocks standing by her front door.

"Dead?" said Charlie.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Shorrocks. "Kitty told us you'd been killed on the Western Front and that was why she 'ad to sell 112. That was months ago—'aven't seen 'er since. Didn't anyone tell you?"

"No, no one told me," said Charlie, at least glad to find someone who recognized him. He stared at his old neighbor trying to puzzle out why she looked so different.

"'Ow about some lunch, lov? You look starved."

"Thanks, Mrs. Shorrocks."

"I've just got myself a packet of fish and chips from Dunkley's. You won't 'ave forgotten how good they are. A threepenny lot, a nice piece of cod soaked in vinegar and a bag full of chips."

Charlie followed Mrs. Shorrocks into Number 110, joined her in the tiny kitchen and collapsed onto a wooden chair.

"Don't suppose you know what 'appened to my barrow or even Dan Salmon's shop?"

"Young Miss Rebecca sold 'em both. Must 'ave been a good nine months back, not that long after you left for the front, come to think of it." Mrs. Shorrocks placed the bag of chips and the fish on a piece of paper in the middle of the table. "To be fair, Kitty told us you were listed as killed on the Marne and by the time anyone found out the truth it was too late."

"May as well 'ave been," said Charlie, "for all there is to come 'ome to."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Shorrocks as she flicked the top off a bottle of ale, took a swig and then pushed it over to Charlie. "I 'ear there's a lot of barrows up for sale nowadays and some still goin' for bargain prices."

"Glad to 'ear it," said Charlie. "But first I must catch up with Posh Porky as I don't 'ave much capital left of my own." He paused to take his first mouthful of fish. "Any idea where she's got to?"

"Never see her round these parts nowadays, Charlie. She always was a bit 'igh and mighty for the likes of us, but I did 'ear mention that Kitty had been to see her at London University."

"London University, eh? Well, she's about to discover Charlie Trumper's very much alive, however 'igh and mighty she's become. And she'd better 'ave a pretty convincing story as to what 'appened to my share of our money." He rose from the table and gathered up his belongings, leaving the last two chips for Mrs. Shorrocks.

"Shall I open another bottle, Charlie?"

"Can't stop now, Mrs. Shorrocks. But thanks for the beer and grub—and give my best to Mr. Shorrocks."

"Bert?" she said. "'Aven't you 'eard? 'E died of an 'eart attack over six months ago, poor man. I do miss 'im." It was then that Charlie realized what was different about his old neighbor: no black eye and no bruises.

He left the house and set out to find London University, and see if he could track down Rebecca Salmon. Had she, as he'd instructed if he were listed as dead, divided the proceeds of the sale between his three sisters—Sal, now in Canada; Grace, still somewhere in France; and Kitty, God knows where? In which case there would be no capital for him to start up again other than Tommy's back pay and a few pounds he'd managed to save himself. He asked the first policeman he saw the way to London University and was pointed in the direction of the Strand. He walked another half mile until he reached an archway that had chiseled in the stone above it: "King's College." He strolled through the opening and knocked on a door marked "Inquiries," walked in and asked the man behind the counter if they had a Rebecca Salmon registered at the college. The man checked a list and shook his head. "Not 'ere," he said "But you could try the university registry in Malet Street."

After another penny tram ride Charlie was beginning to wonder where he would end up spending the night.

"Rebecca Salmon?" said a man who stood behind the desk of the university registry dressed in a corporal's uniform. "Doesn't ring no bells with me." He checked her name in a large directory he pulled out from under the desk. "Oh, yes, 'ere she is. Bedford College, 'istory of art." He was unable to hide the scorn in his voice.

"Don't have an address for 'er, do you, Corp?" asked Charlie.

"Get some service in, lad, before you call me 'corp,'" said the older man. "In fact the sooner you join up the better."

Charlie felt he had suffered enough insults for one day and suddenly let rip, "Sergeant Trumper, 7312087. I'll call you 'corp' and you'll call me 'sergeant'. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Sergeant," said the corporal, springing to attention.

"Now, what's that address?"

"She's in digs at 97 Chelsea Terrace, Sergeant."

"Thank you," said Charlie, and left the startled ex-serviceman staring after him as he began yet another journey across London.

A weary Charlie finally stepped off a tram on the corner of Chelsea Terrace a little after four o'clock. Had Becky got there before him, he wondered, even if she were only living in digs?

He walked slowly up the familiar road admiring the shops he had once dreamed of owning. Number 131—antiques, full of mahogany furniture, tables and chairs all beautifully polished. Number 133, women's clothes and hosiery from Paris, with garments displayed in the window that Charlie didn't consider it was right for a man to be looking at. On to Number 135—meat and poultry hanging from the rods at the back of the shop that looked so delicious Charlie almost forgot there was a food shortage. His eyes settled on a restaurant called "Mr. Scallini" which had opened at 139. Charlie wondered if Italian food would ever catch on in London.

Number 141—an old bookshop, musty, cobwebbed and with not a single customer to be seen. Then 143—a bespoke tailor. Suits, waistcoats, shirts and collars could, the message painted on the window assured him, be purchased by the discerning gentleman. Number 145—freshly baked bread, the smell of which was almost enough to draw one inside. He stared up and down the street in incredulity as he watched the finely dressed women going about their daily tasks, as if a World War had never taken place. No one seemed to have told them about ration books.

Charlie came to a halt outside 147 Chelsea Terrace. He gasped with delight at the sight that met his tired eyes—rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables that he would have been proud to sell. Two well-turned-out girls in green aprons and an even smarter-looking youth waited to serve a customer who was picking up a bunch of grapes.

Charlie took a pace backwards and stared up at the name above the shop. He was greeted by a sign printed in gold and blue which read: "Charlie Trumper, the honest trader, founded in 1823."