Goodbye for Now. M.J. Hollows
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he said. ‘And out. Again, please… and again.’
He was polite, but he stood too close and there was a stench of stale alcohol on his breath as he too breathed in and out. As George tried to put some more space between them, the doctor tutted and shoved him back. ‘Stay still, son. This won’t take much longer if you don’t fidget.’ He finished checking George’s heart. ‘If you could stand with your back to this, please,’ With his hand he indicated a wooden standard against the wall with increments of height painted along one side and a wooden joist that came down to rest on the patient’s head. He placed his notepad on the bed and examined George. ‘Stand with your feet together, placing your weight on your heels. There we are.’
George did as he was bid and once again stared ahead, avoiding the gaze of the doctor who proceeded to gently bring the joist down to the top of his head.
‘Now just take a deep breath and push your chest out, while still keeping your weight on your heels.’ He picked up the notepad and pen again, making some notes. ‘Hmmm,’ he said after a moment. He crossed to the other side of the room, leaving George with the joist laying on his ever more sweat-sodden head, and pulled down a chart from the wall. It rolled down with a clatter and hooked on a spike that jutted from the wall. Various letters of differing sizes were printed on it, becoming smaller further down the page. There was a mirror next to the chart. George’s reflection, distressed by the irregular surface, was not of a face he immediately recognised. It was tanned from hours working under the blaring sun. The reflection looked like him, but older, somehow more confident.
‘Do you need eyeglasses?’ the doctor asked.
George replied with a quick negative.
‘Then could you please read the first line of the chart for me.’
George had no trouble reading the chart. The doctor nodded as George read each line, marking it on his notepad. It was the most confident George had felt in minutes. Although, he still felt as if the officer and doctor were waiting for him to crack.
‘Very good,’ the doctor said, bringing George out of his introspection. ‘Just one final thing.’ He then proceeded to push one of George’s arms up so that it was perpendicular to his body and run a tailor’s tape around his chest. George almost resisted being manhandled by the overly friendly doctor, but was determined to show that he could follow orders and stand his ground. No matter what, he would stand proud. If they didn’t accept him, he would keep trying until they had no choice.
‘Good,’ the doctor said folding up the tape and putting it in the pocket of his overcoat. He then took George roughly by the jaw and opened his mouth. He moved George’s head around so he could look at his teeth, as if George were a horse. Satisfied, he let go of George’s jaw and returned to his paperwork. ‘Now you just need to go through to the next room and hand the officer this form.’ He pushed a piece of paper into George’s willing hand and turned his back. ‘Good day,’ he said, finally.
George hadn’t known what to expect; his father hadn’t talked about army life much, except for drilling routine into his boys. Recruitment was nothing like what he may have dreamt; there was a lack of organisation that he, based on his home life, presumed all military life would have had.
Gripping the form, he went through to another room at the back of the house. This room was as bare as the first, like a village hall. A larger wooden desk sat at the right-hand side and another officer stood behind it. The man who had preceded George was busily signing a form. ‘Good, now stand with the other men and await the oath,’ the officer said, and the man joined a line of others waiting on the other side.
George handed the form to the officer who introduced himself as a magistrate. ‘Confirm these details are correct and sign the attestation,’ he said. ‘Once you have taken the oath with these other men you will be given the King’s shilling and will officially be a member of His Majesty’s army. If you wish to change your mind, now is the time. Once the oath has been taken and the King’s shilling received you will be bound to a minimum of three years’ service or for the duration of the war.
‘Next!’ he shouted over George’s shoulder.
George signed the attestation, while Tom walked into the room clutching his own paperwork. ‘All good, George, as they say.’
The magistrate ordered them to line up. Patrick and their friends were nowhere to be seen. They must have already given their oath of allegiance to the Crown. He and Tom were so close to joining them.
‘I told you it would be fine,’ Tom whispered.
‘Shh. It’s not sealed yet. It was nerve-wracking back there. I thought that officer had found me out and decided to play a game with me. The doctor treated me like a prize horse. If I wasn’t standing here with you, I’d think they were still having me on.’
‘Odd. The doctor barely touched me. Took one look, made me read the letters, and shoved me through that door. Hold up, here we go.’
The magistrate had shut the door to the room.
‘Where’re Patrick and Harry?’ George said in a hush. He hoped that the officer didn’t notice his lack of discipline.
‘I don’t know. They must’ve gone, ended up in a different section. At least it means we won’t have to put up with them out there.’ Tom’s voice was slightly louder than George’s and earned a disapproving glance from the magistrate.
‘Right, men. Raise your right hand like this.’ He raised his hand to shoulder height with his palm facing outwards. ‘Repeat after me, inserting your name one at a time in the correct place.’ He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and began reading aloud, ‘I…’ He nodded to the first man in the line, who after a second’s hesitation barked out his name in a hurry, and it stuck in his throat as if he hadn’t spoken yet that day, ‘Johnny Smith.’ Then the magistrate nodded at the second man who was ready. ‘Albert Jones,’ he said. Every man along the line announced their name.
‘George Abbott.’
‘Thomas Adams.’
It took a few minutes for the assembled men to speak their names for the oath, and the magistrate carried on where he left off as soon as the last man spoke.
‘Swear by Almighty God.’
‘Swear by Almighty God,’ the men replied in chorus.
The call and repeat carried on until every man had all said the final line, ‘so help me God.’
The magistrate went down the line of men handing each the King’s shilling and dismissing them. He got to George and said, ‘This is the King’s shilling. Take it and you are a member of the regiment.’ He pushed a shilling into George’s palm. ‘Take this.’ He then gave him a sheet of paper with his name and the name of the regiment on it. ‘We will tell you when to report for mobilisation. In the meantime, you will attend training drill starting from Monday. Dismissed.’
George and Tom were now members of the King’s Liverpool regiment. The enlistment felt like it had taken hours, stretching George’s confidence to his wits’ end, but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He had expected a sense of something new but he didn’t feel any different. Tom grinned that grin at him and, taking George around the shoulders, said, ‘That’s that then, we’re men now.’ He laughed. ‘Now to go home and wait, lad. I should probably tell my ma too.’
It was done.
Joe had just woken up. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but the sun glared in through the window. Last night at the newspaper had been a late night, editing more and more news about the war, and trying to get his anti-war message in wherever he could without Ed noticing. When he had got home, he was out as soon as his head hit the thin pillow. He hadn’t even heard George leave in the morning. His brother had left before