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 returned 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 returned 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 safety, 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 safety 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 Compiègne, 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, luv? 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 exserviceman 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, cob-webbed 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.”