Chapter Thirty-six

Up at the Club one day I ran into six massive-looking AIF1 types from Western Australia, and we got talking. They expressed some surprise that an aircrew type and an officer at that would speak to them, as roughly 99.99 per cent of those they had met at the Club treated them as though they didn’t exist.

After a few beers they mentioned that they had a guide who was taking them on a tour of Soho, particularly through the male pervert areas.2 I had heard of this part and knew it was out of bounds to all troops. I couldn’t think of a better bodyguard than these six stalwarts, so readily agreed to go.

We met our guide in a pub in Piccadilly Circus. He was a podgy little Cockney called Charlie. A few beers later, he led us down into Soho.

At the first pub the publican, a bull-necked, pot-bellied individual, called us to one side. He said, ‘Seven-eighths of this mob here are pick-pockets, thieves, cut-throats, prostitutes and pimps, the other eighth are murderers or worse. Watch who you pal up with – and your pockets.’

When we told him we intended going deeper into the wilds of Soho on a sight-seeing tour, he suggested caution, stating the locals didn’t mind people who came to partake of the peculiar enjoyments they had to offer, but took a dim view of stickybeaks and sightseers. He said they all carried razor blades set in cork or other appropriate mediums, or carried other offensive weapons and would be decidedly dangerous if aroused.

Nevertheless, fortified by beer, we went on to the next pub. It was a murky-looking place with tables and seats set out in cabaret style. What we took to be females we soon found were males attired in feminine clothing and heavily made-up with rouge and mascara.

A French sailor was sitting at a table making passes at a be-wigged pseudo-blonde who laughed in a high falsetto. At another table two Polish soldiers were drinking with two heavily made-up he’s or she’s. It was an amazing sight, all the stranger because this particular type of vice was so openly displayed.

We drank at the bar and tried not to appear over-curious. After a while, two heavily scented, garishly dressed bods came across and looked us over. When we showed no interest they drifted away.

Then the blackout curtains parted and someone – he or she – stood imperiously with hand on hip looking the scene over. The mob went wild, there were high-pitched squeals of recognition and delight; this was obviously someone of consequence. It was the strangest creature we had ever seen; a long, thin body; obviously masculine, but with shoulder-length black greasy hair framing a thin, line-ravaged face, heavily daubed with rouge, lipstick and mascara, the lanky frame encased in a kind of golden Chinese dress with two slits up the sides that came half-way up the thighs to reveal a pair of hairy spindly legs with an outsized pair of feet in golden flat-heeled sandals.

It was a spectacle and we gaped unashamedly. As he made his mincing, bottom-wagging way down amongst his wildly applauding associates, one of the boys muttered, ‘Christ, now I’ve seen everything.’

The figure was hauled towards a piano on a raised dais; the reason for this public adulation was evident as soon as he sat down and commenced to play. I’m no highbrow but I know good music when I hear it. This joker was a champ and he held these creatures in his two hands as he played upon their desires and emotions. It was an amazing exhibition as his audience swayed and screamed with his playing.

The boys were not musically minded. One said, ‘This place gives me the creeps, let’s get some fresh air.’

Charlie said he was saving the piece de resistance for last. Here, he advised, we would find a ‘one hundred per cent’ gathering.

Bill said, ‘Cripes, I’d say this joint would qualify in that respect.’

This hotel did not have the murky interior nor the garishly attired occupants of the last pub. There would have been from sixty to seventy in the bar, and quite a proportion were well-dressed well-to-do males. Big Bill said, ‘This must be the headquarters of the Great Public Schools Old Boys’ Association.’

Our arrival in the previous pub had not created much of a stir, but here it did. At the sight of the massive Aussies an audible sigh ran through the place and there were a number of whistles and squeals and invitations of ‘Come over here, Aussie.’

We lined up for a grog and almost immediately eight pots appeared in front of us. When we went to pay, the barman said, ‘These are with the compliments of the gentleman across the bar’, indicating a tall, plump, well-dressed type, who gave us a greasy smile and an intimate wave.

‘Tell him to stick his beer up his jumper,’ said Big Bill. ‘We pay for our own bloody grog.’

I could see that this bold statement had created a stir. A few minutes later Big Bill went up to the gentlemen’s, which had to be reached by a narrow flight of perhaps twenty steps. Suddenly there was an outraged bellow from above. The next moment a figure came shooting down the stairs, two at a time. Behind him a second person hurtled down feet first on his stern, and behind them both appeared the massive gesticulating figure of Big Bill.

When he reached us he was exploding with wrath. He explained that he was just shaking the last drops off when a hand had reached around and grabbed him. He stated he had taken a swipe at this intruder, when a second hand had grabbed him from the right. At his violent reaction both had taken off, the second one being helped by a hefty kick on his rump which had precipitated him down the stairs.

As news of this altercation spread, complete silence fell over the bar. We noted everyone had left our area and congregated on the other side. The publican, obviously worried, came across and said, ‘I would advise you to leave at once, because my guests have been seriously upset by your unwarranted attack.’

We were all full. I could see there was trouble brewing and remembered the first publican’s warning about stickybeaks. ‘Most of these blokes have knives or razor blades,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

As we went through the blackout curtain a glass shattered against the wall. A grey twilight covered the dingy houses and buildings. As we made our way along the narrow streets, a group of perhaps thirty figures followed us. By this stage, Charlie was really packing ’em and so was I.

When we came to a bombed-out building I grabbed a hunk of rusty iron pipe and the rest of our crowd armed themselves with pieces of wood. Despite these precautions the threatening group closed in on us till they were perhaps twenty yards behind.

Bill said, ‘There’s eight of us and about thirty of them. If they attack we’ll put our backs against a wall. Don’t swing at the first lot, jab them in their faces. What we have to watch is a sudden rush …’

Turning, he bellowed in stentorian tones, ‘I’m giving you bastards a warning. If you don’t fugg off we’ll brain the bloody lot of you; you’re dealing with fighting men. Now beat it before we get stuck into you.’

Fortunately for all concerned, this never eventuated. As soon as they saw we were prepared to make a stand, they stopped. But, as we moved off, they started following us again, menacingly, staying on our heels till we came almost into the city. There, before fading into the gathering gloom, a voice called, ‘We’ll remember you. We’ll get you sometime, you dirty colonials.’

Did that bloke get a bronx cheer!

When it was clear they had gone, someone said, ‘Well, guess we’d better get rid of our armament.’ We were tossing it into a vacant allotment when a quiet voice said, ‘What have you boys been up to?’

He was a large cop with a equally large offsider. We told them of our encounter with the mob.

He said, ‘You know this area is out of bounds. It’s exceedingly dangerous. There have been a number of instances of servicemen going in here who’ve never been seen again. Now beat it before I book the lot of you.’

***

I spent a night with Beryl. During the evening we were disturbed by two callers, who she explained were friends looking for cover. She said, ‘It’s funny these poor boys never seem to be able to get a room.’

***

It had been a tedious leave. Now that I had decided to do my tour I wanted to get on with it.

Next morning I went up to Kodak House to see if there was any mail, and intercepted a letter from Smithy. He was leaving Crothers to go to a hospital in Essex for skin grafting. He didn’t discuss his injuries, but I knew he was as flat as a tack. He didn’t expect to be in London for some time.

It was a short lifeless note that showed the mental turmoil he was in.