Albert Watson sang at the top of his voice as he marched along the crumbling roads of France. The other soldiers liked to sing ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’. But Albert didn’t even know where Tipperary was. He didn’t care if it was a long way or a short way to Tipperary.
They had sung themselves silly with, ‘Forward Joe Soap’s army, marching without fear.’ He knew that ‘Joe Soap’ meant ‘dope’, a dummy, and he didn’t like to think he was in an army of dopes.
‘I don’t want to be a soldier,
I don’t want to go to war,
I’d rather stay at home,
Around the streets to roam.’
It just wasn’t true that he’d ‘rather stay at home’… though he did miss home on the coldest nights. And of course he missed his mum’s cooking when he chewed on the stew at the army canteen. Even the plum and apple jam was tough.
No, Albert could bear the homesickness. He was proud to be on his way to fight the Germans. And he was happy now the troop were singing his favourite marching song.
He chanted the words to the beat of a thousand boots.
‘Yes, Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,
Such skill at sewing shirts my shy young sister Susie shows,
Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d sooner sleep on thistles,
Than the saucy, soft, short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.’
He could always manage the tongue-twisting words while his mates tangled their tonsils. He remembered the time Charlie Embleton tried to sing, ‘soft, short shirts’ and managed to spit out his false teeth. They fell in the mud and he had to scramble to collect them before the man behind stepped on them. Charlie knew he’d never get new teeth in the battlefields of France and Flanders.
As Charlie had stooped to collect the teeth, the man behind had fallen over him and twenty troopers ended up in a heap on the rutted road. The sergeant was furious. Mind you, it didn’t take much to make the sergeant’s moustache bristle, his face turn red and his throat roar like Barney’s bull.
The sergeant punished Charlie by placing him on guard duty from midnight till sunrise at eight the next morning. Charlie kept himself happy by singing rude songs about sergeants.
‘If the sergeant steals your rum, never mind;
For he’s just a drunken sot,
Let him have the ruddy lot,
If the sergeant steals your rum, never mind.’
Albert liked old Charlie. Albert’s dad had died in a coal-mine when Albert was nine. Charlie was a bit like a dad to him, now they were so far from home.
When the Sister Susie song had finished Albert made sure the sergeant wasn’t looking, and turned to Charlie, marching by his side.
‘I didn’t hear you singing soft, short shirts, Charlie,’ the young man teased.
Charlie glared at him and pointed to the sharp blade on his belt.
‘See this bayonet, sonny boy?’
‘Yes, Charlie.’
‘Then shut up or I’ll stick it in your backside.’
‘Shut up about what?’ Albert asked.
‘About me singing soft, short shirts…’ Charlie tried to say.
But before he could finish Charlie’s teeth had flown over Albert’s head and into the ditch at the side of the road.
