As the Crow Flies (50 page)

On
7 September 1940 the false lull ended when the Luftwaffe carried out its mass
raid on the capital. After that Londoners started to emigrate to the country in
droves. Charlie still refused to budge, and even ordered that “Business as
Usual” signs be placed in every one of his shop windows. In fact, the only
concessions he made to Herr Hitler were to move his bedroom to the basement and
have all the curtains changed to black drape.

Two
months later, in the middle of the night Charlie was woken by a duly constable
to be told that the first bomb had fallen on Chelsea Terrace. He ran all the
way from the Little Boltons down Tregunter Road in his dressing gown and
slippers to inspect the damage.

“Anyone
killed?” he asked while on the move.

“Not
that we know of,” replied the constable, trying to keep up with him.

“Which
shop did the bomb land on?”

“Can’t
tell you the answer to that, Mr. Trumper. All I know is that it looks as if the
whole of Chelsea Terrace is on fire.”

As
Charlie turnd the corner of Fulham Road he was confronted by bright flames and
dark smoke soaring up into the sky. The bomb had landed right in the middle of
Mrs. Trentham’s flats, completely demolishing them, while at the same time
shattering three of Charlie’s shop windows and badly damaging the roof of hats
and scarves.

By
the time the fire brigade finally departed from the Terrace all that was left
of the flats was a gray, smoldering bombed-out shell, right in the middle of
the block. As the weeks passed, Charlie became only too aware of the obvious
Mrs. Trentham had no intention of doing anything about the heap of rubble that
now dominated the center of Chelsea Terrace.

*
* *

In
May 1940 Mr. Churchill took over from Mr. Chamberlain as Prime Minister, which
gave Charlie a little more confidence about the future. He even talked to Becky
of joining up again.

“Have
you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” asked his wife, laughing.

“I
could get fit again, I know I could,” said Charlie, pulling in his stomach. “In
any case they don’t only need troops for the front line.”

“You
can do a far more worthwhile job by keeping those shops open and stocked up for
the general public.”

“Arnold
could do that just as well as me,” said Charlie. “What’s more, he’s fifteen
years older than I am.”

However,
Charlie reluctantly came to the conclusion that Becky was right when Daphne
came round to tell them that Percy had rejoined his old regiment. “Thank God
they’ve told him he’s too old to serve abroad this time,” she confided in them.
“So he’s landed a desk job at the War Office.”

The
following afternoon, while Charlie was carrying out an inspection of repairs
after another night of bombing, Tom Arnold warned him that Syd Wrexall’s
committee had begun to make noises about selling the remaining eleven of their
shops, as well as the Musketeer itself.

“There’s
no hurry to do anything about them,” said Charlie. “He’ll be giving those shops
away within a year.”

“But
by then Mrs. Trentham could have bought them all at a knockdown price.”

“Not
while there’s a war on, she won’t. In any case, the damned woman knows only too
well that I can’t do a lot while that bloody great crater remains in the middle
of Chelsea Terrace.”

“Oh,
hell,” said Tom as the Klaxon whine of the siren started up. “They must be on
their way again.”

“They
certainly are,” said Charlie, as he looked towards the sky. “You’d better get
all the staff into the basement sharpish.” Charlie ran out onto the street, to
find an Air Raid Patrol man cycling down the middle of the road, shouting
instructions that everyone should head for the nearest Underground as quickly
as possible. Tom Arnold had trained his managers to lock up the shops and have
all the staff and customers safely in the basement with their torches and a
small supply of food within five minutes. It always put Charlie in mind of the
general strike. As they sat in the large storeroom under Number 1 waiting for
the all-clear, Charlie looked around the gathering of his fellow Londoners and
became aware of just how many of his best young men had already left Trumper’s
to join up; he was now down to fewer than two-thirds of his permanent staff the
majority of whom were women.

Some
cradled young children in their arms, while others tried to sleep. Two regulars
in a corner continued a game of chess as if the war were no more than an
inconvenience. A couple of young girls practiced the latest dance step on the
small space left unoccupied in the center of the basement while others just
slept.

They
could all hear the bombs falling above them, and Becky told Charlie she felt
sure one had landed nearby. “On Syd Wrexall’s pub, perhaps?” said Charlie,
trying to hide a grin. “That’ll teach him to serve short measures.” The
all-clear Saxon eventually sounded, and they emerged back into an evening air
filled with dust and ashes.

“You
were right about Syd Wrexall’s pub,” said Becky, looking at the far corner of
the block, but Charlie’s eyes were not fixed on the Musketeer.

Becky’s
gaze eventually turned to where Charlie was staring. A bomb had landed right in
the middle of his fruit and vegetable shop.

“The
bastards,” he said. “They’ve gone too far this time. Now I will join up.”

“But
what good will that do?”

“I
don’t know,” said Charlie, “but at least I’ll feel I’m involved in this war and
not just sitting around watching.”

“And
what about the shops? Who’s going to take charge of them?”

“Arnold
can take care of them while I’m away.”

“But
what about Daniel and me? Can Tom take care of us while you’re away?” she
asked, her voice rising.

Charlie
was silent for a moment while he considered Becky’s plea. “Daniel’s old enough
to take care of himself, and you’ll have your time fully occupied seeing that
Trumper’s keeps its head above water. So don’t say another word, Becky, because
I’ve made up my mind.”

After
that nothing his wife could say or do would dissuade Charlie from signing up.
To her surprise the Fusiliers were only too happy to accept their old sergeant
back in the ranks, and immediately sent him off to a training camp near
Cardiff.

With
Tom Arnold looking anxiously on, Charlie kissed his wife and hugged his son,
then shook hands with his managing director before waving goodbye to all three
of them.

As
he traveled down to Cardiff in a train full of fresh-faced, eager youths not
much older than Daniel most of whom insisted on calling him “sir” Charlie felt
like an old man. A battered truck met the new recruits at the station and
delivered them safely into barracks.

“Nice
to have you back, Trumper,” said a voice, as he stepped onto the parade ground
for the first time in more than twenty years.

“Stan
Russell. Good heavens, are you the company sergeant major now? You were only a
lance corporal when... “

“I
am, sir,” Stan said. His voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’ll see to it that
you don’t get the same treatment as the others, me old mate.”

“No,
you’d better not do that, Stan. I need worse than the same treatment,” said
Charlie, placing both hands on his stomach.

Although
the senior NCOs were gentler on Charlie than they were on the raw recruits, he
still found the first week of basic training a painful reminder of how little
exercise he had done over the previous twenty years. When he became hungry he
quickly discovered that what the NAAFI had to offer could hardly be described
as appetizing, and trying to get to sleep each night on a bed of unrelenting
springs held together by a two-inch horsehair mattress made him less than
delighted with Herr Hitler.

By
the end of the second week Charlie was made up to corporal and told that if he
wanted to stay on in Cardiff as an instructor they would immediately commission
him as a training officer, with the rank of captain.

“The
Germans are expected in Cardiff, are they, boyo?” asked Charlie. “I had no idea
they played rugby football.”

His
exact words on the subject were relayed back to the commanding officer, so
Charlie continued as a corporal, completing his basic training. By the eighth
week he had been promoted to sergeant and given his own platoon to knock into
shape, ready for wherever it was they were going to be sent. From that moment
on there wasn’t a competition, from the rifle range to the boxing ring, that
his men were allowed to lose, and “Trumper’s Terriers” set the standard for the
rest of the battalion for the remaining four weeks.

With
only ten days left before they completed their training, Stan Russell informed
Charlie that the battalion was destined for Africa, where they would join
Wavell in the desert. Charlie was delighted by the news, as he had long admired
the reputation of the “poet general.”

Sergeant
Trumper spent most of that final week helping his lads write letters to their
families and girlfriends. He didn’t intend to put pen to paper himself until
the last moment. With a week to go he admitted to Stan that he wasn’t ready to
take on the Germans in anything much more than a verbal bathe.

He
was in the middle of a Bren demonstration with his platoon, explaining cocking
and reloading, when a red-faced lieutenant came running up.

“Trumper.”

“Sir,”
said Charlie, leaping to attention.

“The
commanding officer wants to see you immediately.”

“Yes,
sir,” said Charlie. He instructed his corporal to carry on with the lesson and
then chased after the lieutenant.

“Why
are we running so fast?” asked Charlie.

“Because
the commanding officer was running when he came looking for me.”

“Then
it has to be at least high treason,” said Charlie.

“Heaven
knows what it is, Sergeant, but you’ll find out soon enough,” said the
lieutenant, as they arrived outside the CO’s door. The lieutenant, closely
followed by Charlie, entered the colonel’s office without knocking.

“Sergeant
Trumper, 7312087, reporting... “

“You
can cut all that bullshit out, Trumper,” said the colonel, as Charlie watched the
commanding officer pacing up and down, slapping his side with a swagger stick. “My
car is waiting for you at the gate. You are to go straight to London.”

“London,
sir?”

“Yes,
Trumper, London. Mr. Churchill’s just been on the blower. Wants to see you
soonest.”

T
he colonel’s
driver did everything in his power to get Sergeant Trumper to London as quickly
as possible. He pressed his foot to the floor again and again as he tried to
keep the speedometer above eighty. However, as they were continually held up en
route by convoys of troops, transportation lorries, and even at one point
Warrior tanks, the task was daunting. When Charlie finally reached Chiswick on
the outskirts of London they were then faced with the blackout, followed by an
air raid, followed by the all-clear, followed by countless more roadblocks all
the way to Downing Street.

Despite
having six hours to ponder as to why Mr. Churchill could possibly want to see
him, when the car came to a halt outside Number 10 Charlie was no nearer a
conclusion than he had been when he left the barracks at Cardiff earlier that
afternoon.

When
he explained to the policeman on the door who he was, the constable checked his
clipboard, then gave a sharp rap on the brass knocker before inviting Sergeant
Trumper to step into the hall. Charlie’s first reaction on being inside Number
10 was surprise at discovering how small the house was compared with Daphne’s
home in Eaton Square.

A
young Wren officer came forward to greet the middle-aged sergeant before
ushering him through to an anteroom.

“The
Prime Minister has the American ambassador with him at the moment,” she
explained. “But he doesn’t expect his meeting with Mr. Kennedy to last much
longer.”

“Thank
you,” said Charlie.

“Would
you like a cup of tea?”

“No,
thank you.” Charlie was too nervous to think about drinking tea. As she closed
the door, he picked up a copy of Lilliput from a side table and leafed through
the pages, but didn’t attempt to take in the words.

After
he had thumbed through every magazine on the table and they were even more out
of date at Number 10 than at his dentist he began to take an interest in the
pictures on the wall. Wellington, Palmerston and Disraeli: all inferior
portraits that Becky would not have bothered to offer for sale at Number 1.
Becky. Good heavens, he thought, she doesn’t even know I’m in London. He stared
at the telephone that rested on the sideboard aware that he couldn’t possibly
call her from Number 10. In frustration he began to pace round the room feeling
like a patient waiting for the doctor to tell him if the diagnosis was
terminal. Suddenly the door swung open and the Wren reappeared.