Reluctant Hero. John Hickman

care less. He was in and for now, he wasn’t simply on cloud nine—he owned it.

      Christmas was harsh. No presents from Uncle Charlie and not much cheer on anyone’s tables. It was worse overseas; Norwegian tables were bare even of fish, as the Germans had taken their herring catch. French tables and cupboards were pitifully dressed, as the conquerors had depleted their food supplies. Greece, Poland, Holland and Belgium cities were populated by melancholy, hollow cheeked women and children. Unbeknown to Bill, the American war machine was about to shift into high gear.

      CHAPTER 6

       PRIVACY SEPTEMBER 1942

       Initial Training Wing and Elementary Flying School

      But it wasn’t all roses. Bill felt his competitive spirit had helped him through, but dropping a third testicle would have been preferable to communing with nature the RAF way. On a more than daily basis he suffered their open-plan toilets.

      ‘Even in the slums we had a closable door, Olly. Granted it was sometimes minimal, like string looped over a nail, but at least it closed.’

      Olly was unconcerned but without a barrier between his new world and himself, Bill felt defenceless and unhappy.

      ‘Sitting on the crapper in full view, I might as well be squat on a bog in the middle of bloody Oxford Street. It’s the final straw.’

      ‘Aye, but never mind, it’s naught for long.’

      ‘Long! There I am about to punch out the poo of my life while the entire bloody world saunters past.’

      Olly changed the subject. ‘Aye, but those doing the shouting are passionate about their jobs. They’re never out of naught but yelling range for long.’

      ‘Yes. But they’re qualified to shit in private!’

      ‘Aye, they’re naught but bastards.’

      ‘Nothing a few minutes alone with me and my cricket bat wouldn’t fix.’

      ‘Aye, they should be in party hats for sure. For them it’s summat of a big round of fun and revelry, by gum.’

      ‘For everyone else it’s a pity party if you ask me, Olly.’

      ‘Aye, at least until someone loses an eye.’

      Much as the Drill Sergeant would have liked to fit a small portion of his over polished boot up each cadet’s backside, his military masters didn’t allow him to do so.

      Damn those witnesses, thought Bill.

      To touch was against the rules. Instead a lot of ducking, weaving and over enthusiastic throwing was learned well. The powers encouraged corporals to kick large empty metal dustbins between bunks at reveille. Or hose icy cold water over someone to make a point of control, but no actual touching.

      This style of fun and revelry was unpopular with the college boy fraternity but not much of a problem for Bill, except having to crap in public.

      At home to wash Bill added hot water from their kettle on the hob to cold in a bowl. Their only scullery tap was cold water, and they shared a privy outside in the back yard. Now Bill had two taps; hot and cold.

      Once a corporal stood too close to Bill’s bed at 0600 when he bellowed in his recumbent ear. ‘Let’s be having you, you mother’s little sleeping beauty, you. Rise and shine.’

      Awoken from a deep sleep, to the accompaniment of crashing dustbins and shock of an unprepared sprinkle of icy cold water, Bill felt like he was coming out of a coma. He panicked and lashed out. He caught the corporal a blow to his nose and he bled like a stuck pig.

      Bill apologised profusely. He’d meant no harm but on his next patrol the corporal employed a six-foot buffer zone.

      As a result of this incident it was ruled when awoken by His Majesty’s footmen, men asleep couldn’t and shouldn’t be accountable for their actions. Bill was not punished for his attack on the corporal.

      Olly opened up to Bill like a steamed mussel. He elevated him to a status Bill didn’t believe he deserved. Between them they formed the opinion most of those engaged in training were content to sit the war out in comparative safety.

      ‘The old adage of those who can—do and those who can’t—teach comes to mind,’ quoted Bill.

      ‘Aye, stubbing their toes on an errant dustbin, hoarse from shouting too much, or getting a chill around too much cold water comprises naught but their highest risk of injury,’ laughed Olly.

      Bill and Olly agreed; the louder and more boisterous the pricks were, the less likely they would ever see combat. In this and perhaps and for the shortest time, Bill was in tune with the philosophy of His Majesty’s Royal Air Force. Sadly he was unaware of it.

      Cadets were taught to handle a variety of firearms. This included how to load, safe handling, actual firing, and how to dismantle and clean.

      Bill’s favourite was the Sten submachine gun as there was little to dismantle or clean. What looked like a piece of errant water pipe had a bolt with a sort of a bent fold away handle and a bullet clip.

      ‘It must be the worst weapon ever conceived, Olly.’

      ‘Aye, might be cheap to manufacture but it’s bloody unreliable.’

      Not surprisingly, because it was easy to clean, it became Bill’s favourite gun.

      He became proud and confident and was able to dismantle and rebuild in one easy action. As the gun was poorly designed it remained jammed most of the time. As a result it was rarely discharged.

      ‘Proper cleaning is hardly ever necessary, Olly.’

      ‘Aye, Bill, but when it does fire, it’s summat like your own personal cloud of lead.’

      ‘I see no reason for pilots to be skilled with hand guns, Olly.’

      ‘Aye. We’re in the RAF. If we get that close to enemy, it’s summat of a problem.’

      From a wet and muddy trench, Bill was instructed to put down his Sten submachine gun and throw a live hand grenade.

      With pin pulled, it slipped from his less than stable fingers. On its altered trajectory said grenade narrowly missed the corporal’s head, the very same who had copped a reveille blow from Bill in their dormitory.

      There was an awful fuss. The corporal wanted to prepare a noose with Bill’s name attached and enlist help to flog Bill within an inch of his life. But being mindful of military rules, he was forbidden by his masters to do so. Instead he took a biased dislike to Bill.

      ‘Aye, naught but a marvel of ecstatic hatred, he’s got for you, Bill.’

      ‘I can see he’s thinking, and I know exactly what,’ laughed Bill.

      ‘Aye, he’s behaving like summat’s stuck up his nostril.’

      And so, for reasons not clear to Bill, his comrades in arms elevated him to dizzy heights. Olly led the contingent and stirred the group in Bill’s honour. The more Bill protested his innocence and lack of premeditated thought the more they praised him. Without effort Bill became a status symbol nicknamed Ballsy Bill—with a grenade.

      Bill’s new don’t-you-mess-with-me attitude rested well with him, until Sergeant Matthews sent for him.

      ‘You the Cadet who beats up on my corporal?’

      ‘No, Sergeant.’

      Papers on the big man’s desk scuffed as he swept his arm sideways.

      ‘You saying, Cadet, you didn’t throw a hand grenade at him?’

      ‘Well, yes, Sir. I did throw it. I intended to throw it, Sir. That’s what I was told to do,’ said Bill defensively. ‘I couldn’t help it, Sir. It slipped out of my hand.’

      Under cross- examination