Goodbye for Now. M.J. Hollows
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‘We?’ Tom asked, with a frown.
‘Yeah. You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you? The other lads are up front, waiting to go in. I saw you come round the corner and thought I’d come say hullo. Henry’s keeping my place. He’ll start worrying if I don’t get back soon.’
‘I didn’t think you were signing up?’ said George.
‘What made you think that?’ Patrick flashed his smile again. ‘We couldn’t leave Tom and you on your own, could we?’
‘If you’re about to be called in you had better go back,’ Tom said, his usual good humour missing.
‘Not gonna join us, lads?’
‘Well now, cutting the queue wouldn’t be a very good start to military life now, would it?’
‘See you on the other side then, lads,’ Patrick said, as he jogged back to the front, disappearing into the crowd. ‘Don’t want to be the last one in,’ he called over his shoulder.
The queue took quite a while. As time went on George and Tom edged closer and closer to the recruitment office, and the single open door that would admit them to their new world. The queue twisted up the front stairs like a snake hunting its prey. Every now and then some unlucky men came back out and disappeared down the road in a hurry. Two of them passed George and Tom, muttering, ‘… ’king doctor. What’s ’is problem anyway? There’s nothing wrong with me. Who’s ’e calling short anyway? I was looking ’im right in the face. Could have nutted ’im. Bastard.’ They disappeared the same way as the others.
It didn’t help George feel any less nervous. The sweat caused by the late summer sun was building up on his brow, and he wanted ever so much to scratch at it, but he knew it would only make him sweat more. Everyone else appeared happy to be there, excited, but he could only worry. Why were men being turned away? Would he have to walk in shame past the assembled men, hanging his head and trying not to notice the looks of pity? He lifted his cap and wiped a hand across his brow.
‘Are you all right, George?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah. I just keep thinking, what if they reject me?’
‘Stop worrying. That’ll only make them more suspicious.’ Tom flashed his teeth.
‘That’s easier said than done.’
‘I know. Just put it out of your mind. Remember what we agreed yesterday? Tell them you’re almost nineteen. They’ll fret that you’re not old enough to go overseas and that’ll make them forget you’re not old enough at all.’
Tom had it all worked out, but George wasn’t so sure. The army didn’t send eighteen-year-olds overseas. George would have to train for a month, but so would everyone else. By the time they were ready to be shipped out it would be his birthday. They didn’t have to know it was his seventeenth birthday. ‘Shush,’ George said. ‘I don’t want anyone to overhear you.’
‘It’s all right, George. It’ll all work out. Just do as I said.’
Tom made George go first so he could back him up if anything went awry. They got in just in time to see another nervously walk through a different door at the back of the room.
‘Next!’ called a commanding voice.
Tom gave George a nudge in the back and he stepped forwards. The recruiting officer was sitting behind a table, wearing an army dress uniform. His cap lay on the table, facing the potential recruits, showing off its badge. The table was a simple temporary affair, placed there for the purposes of enlistment, draped with a white cloth, and paper piled up on top.
‘Name?’ the officer asked, without looking up from the forms. His accent was not local, but rather that of an educated, wealthy man. His manner made George even more nervous. George took off his own cheap woollen cap, folding it in his hands.
‘George Abbott, sir.’ George stared at the back wall of the room and tucked his feet together; his father had taught him the standard army way to be presented when he was a small boy.
The recruiting officer finally regarded him. ‘Abbott, a good name, and you address me well.’ He wrote a few notes on the form and looked up again. ‘Do you know what arm and which regiment you are joining, son?’
‘Army, sir. The King’s Liverpool.’ George beamed with pride at the name of his father’s regiment.
‘Good man,’ the officer said. ‘Let me sort out a few other things.’ He stood and came around the desk to have a closer inspection. George kept his feet together and pushed out his chest, resisting the urge to salute. Somehow, he thought, that would be pushing it too far.
‘How old are you, son?’ The officer raised an eyebrow.
‘Eighteen, sir. Nineteen next month,’ he replied, as he had been practising internally since leaving the house. He was really two years younger, but they would never accept a sixteen-year-old into the army no matter how big and strong he was. He was still sweating and the questioning gaze of the recruiting officer made it worse. Neither of the men said anything for a few awkward moments. George hoped the sweat didn’t show on his brow. It took all his mental strength not to reach up and brush it away.
The officer picked up the form and pen from the table and made a couple of fresh notes in black ink. ‘Date of birth?’ he asked.
George breathed for a second before replying, not realising that he had been holding his breath. He scrunched up his cap further in his hands. He would probably never be able to get the wrinkles out. ‘Fourth of September 1895, sir.’
‘Are you sure?’
He tried not to panic and ran a hand over his hair to help keep his breathing steady and give him time to calm down. ‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said.
‘Very well, so be it,’ the officer said as he ticked a box on the form and laid it back on the table, then grabbed his cap, placing it under one arm. ‘Wait here.’ He went out of the door at the back of the room. The sweat now dripped off George’s brow and ran down into his eyes. He finally gave himself a chance to wipe it clear with his sleeve. He relaxed, but the stance felt forced. Why had the officer left? He turned to Tom for an explanation, but his friend just grinned back. Sometimes it was a welcome gesture, at other times it was infuriating. He was trying to help calm George’s nerves, but it wasn’t helping. He wanted Tom to say something reassuring, but he just stayed silent. The other men in the queue didn’t appear to notice his distress, and were quietly talking amongst themselves. ‘What do I do now?’ he said to Tom, losing his calm. The beat of his heart was thundering in his ears.
Tom shushed him with a wave of his hand. ‘Don’t worry, lad, He’ll be back.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Probably gone for his tea. Keep on as you were, nice and confident like.’
As soon as Tom finished speaking the officer popped his head back around the doorframe. ‘This way, Abbott,’ he said, beckoning George. George gave Tom one last long meaningful look, which was returned as a smile, and walked into the other room.
This room was slightly smaller than the first. A metal-framed bed was set to one side with cleanly pressed white sheets and various instruments laid out beside it. The officer handed him over to a male doctor wearing a white coat over his khaki and holding a notepad.
‘The doctor here will perform some tests, to clear you for service,’ the officer said before he left the room. George wondered if the officer was humouring him. He couldn’t have believed that George was eighteen. Now the doctor would scare him off and they would have a good laugh. George would see this through, whatever may come.
‘Good morning, son.’ The doctor’s tone was a lot friendlier than the officer’s. ‘Undo your shirt.’ He was busy at the other side of the room. ‘All the way down to the waist please.’
George quickly took off his jacket, laid it on the unused gurney and undid the buttons of his shirt. When it was down, it fell