OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE, THEY JUST FADE AWAY
It’s getting too warm in here, so I turn off one of the bars in the heater. Margaret is snoozing in the armchair opposite me with her mouth open and the moggy lying on her lap. At our age, we both need a nap in the afternoon. I’m about to doze off, when I hear the front door opening and closing.
‘It’s only us.’ Sometimes, I regret giving the grandkids a set of keys. Margaret comes round with a start and the cat jumps down and scurries under the sideboard.
Rowan is first into the room. He looks taller each time he comes round. Rebecca follows him in wearing those red Doc Martens’ boots which teenage girls like for some reason.
‘Oh, it’s you two,’ says Margaret, smiling as she puts her specs on.
‘Hi,’ says Rebecca. ‘Mum told us the news and we had to call round to congratulate you, Grandad.’ She comes over and pecks me on the cheek. ‘It’s amazing you’ve been invited to the service in Westminster Abbey in July and the march down the Mall.’
‘You must be so proud,’ adds Rowan. I notice the first signs of stubble on his chin. ‘And you might meet the Queen at the lunch in the palace!’
I keep my counsel and take a sip of my tea which is almost cold now. Margaret leans forward and clears her throat.
‘Your Grandad has said he’s not going. Anyone else would bite their hand off.’
The kids both look at me in disbelief.
‘But surely you want to mark the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War? You’re one of the few who - thankfully – are still alive,’ says Rebecca.
She picks up a framed photo of me from the top of the piano.
‘You looked right handsome in your uniform. Didn’t he, Gra’ She holds up the black and image of me, looking bright eyed and wearing a soft-peaked cap
‘He was wearing it the first time we met at the Palais de Danse,’ says Margaret with a hint of a smile.
‘It will be an opportunity for you to wear your medals,’ says Rowan. ‘I remember you showing them to me when I was small, especially the six-pointed star with a red, te, and green ribbon.’
They’re ganging up on me here.
‘Are you going to tell them, Jim, why you don’t want to attend?’ asks Margaret with her dark green eyes boring into me.
I take a deep breath before speaking in my defence.
‘It’s a matter of principle. The twelve survivors from the company of my old regiment who are still alive have been invited. The ones I remember were good lads but our sergeant, Stan Fairbrother, who was a right bastard, is also on the list. He was a bit older than us squaddies and thought he was superior to us because he’d been to grammar school while us oiks had grown up in the East End slums and left school at fourteen. Dirty maggots and the unwashed were two of his favourite insults.’
I almost threw a punch at him on our first parade but the bloke on my right restrained me.
‘He loved picking on me and my pal, Tommy Richards. We were confined to barracks on many occasions and had money deducted from our pay more times than I can care to remember. I was tough enough to stomach his bullying but Tommy was a gentle lad and took it very badly.’
I can still see him curled up like a ball weeping in his hammock after one of Fairbrother’s onslaughts.
‘Have you seen your sergeant since the war?’ asks Rowan.
‘He attended a reunion back in the Sixties, dressed up to the nines and telling everyone how he’d risen up the ladder in some bank. Spent most of his time talking to the former officers and barely acknowledged ex-squaddies like me.’
‘I know you’ve got bad memories of him but all sergeants were notorious back then,’ says Margaret softly.
‘I hear what you say, love. But he was a downright bully and I’ve never had any time for such types.’
Tommy took his life not long after being demobbed. I can still recall his poor mother weeping at his graveside and having to be helped out of the churchyard by her family. I’ve never had any doubt that Fairbrother’s treatment of him was the reason for what happened.
Rebecca comes over and sits beside me.
‘I’d love to see you on the television with the other ex-soldiers.’ She looks at me with those doe eyes of hers. ‘Promise me you’ll have another think about it?’ She knows how to manipulate me.
‘Alright then. Now, go and make some fresh tea for us” Hopefully, the issue will not come up again.
The marquee is packed and noisy, and servers are bringing round the grub. The roast beef salad looks a treat but I need to have a drink of cold beer first as I feel sticky and am sweating buckets. Also, my left knee is giving me jip.
I’m glad I made the effort today. It would have been disrespectful to my former comrades not to attend. The service was a bit long but the Archbishop’s sermon paid a moving tribute to those who died in the field and those who survived but are no longer with us. There was an almighty roar from the Red Arrows when they flew overhead as our little band of brothers marched with pride down the Mall in the bright sunshine along with the other ex-servicemen and women, with Gerry Andrews in front pushing Fairbrother in his wheelchair. The people crowded on the pavement cheered and enthusiastically waved miniature flags, watching many of us parade for one last time before fading away into the history books.
I don’t want to speak to Fairbrother. He’s sitting at the top of our table talking to a few of the others who seem happy in his company. He has a craggy, furrowed face now with bushy, white eyebrows. I look away and chat to those at our end until Gerry comes over dressed in a smart blue blazer with the regimental badge emblazoned on it.
‘Hello, young man,’ he says with a mile-wide grin on his face.
‘Still got problems with your eyesight it seems!’
We both laugh and shake hands, and he sits down beside me. He’s still a bull of a man but looks cream crackered after his exertions.
‘You drew the short straw earlier,’ I tell him, pointing at Fairbrother.
‘I don’t begrudge him. He’s got Stage 4 cancer and not much longer to live but is still chipper. You’ve got to give him credit for that.’
‘That’s news to me.’ The memory of the young Stan lording it over us disappears from my mind as I turn my head and gaze at a dying man who can no longer do any harm.
‘By the way, I was talking to Tommy Richards’ sister at a wedding recently. Do you remember her?’
‘Yes, I met her a couple of times. I didn’t know she was still alive.’
‘Said she still has Tommy’s photo on her mantelpiece and was reminiscing about their teenage years. She said her family was shocked and surprised when he passed the medical test on call up because he’d had a nervous breakdown a few months beforehand and they feared that the war would take its toll on his mind.’
He never told me that but it explains a lot about his fragile state when I knew him.
In the corner of my eye, I see Stan slowly wheeling himself in our direction. I need to try and be polite.
‘Jim, it’s a pleasure to see you.’ He says in a rasping voice as he draws to a stop. ‘I recognised that ramrod back of yours as soon as I saw it in the cathedral. You’ve obviously looked after yourself.’
‘I was in the police for over thirty years and had to keep fit and these days I go for a constitutional every morning.
He nods approvingly.
‘Today reminded me how proud I was proud of you and the other lads at the final battle at the Reichswald Forest in forty-five. I know I was hated at the time but I stand by my view that being tough on you instilled the discipline which made you stick together as a group and follow orders under fire, and kept casualties in the company to a minimum. When I was promoted to sergeant, my superiors drummed it into me that I would not being doing my men any favours if I was too easy on them.’
My nineteen-year-old self would never have accepted that. Maybe it’s because of the beer but I can now see the sense of what he is saying. A bunch of naive lads in their late teens and early twenties would have been an easy target for the enemy without a firm hand to keep us under control.
‘It’s a pity Tommy Richards is not around to hear you say that.’
‘It was a real shame about him,” he says looking into the distance. “He fought bravely and was lucky to survive after the blast from that landmine. A few others didn’t but he was never the same man after that day.’
It’s true that he rarely said a word after being discharged from hospital.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I see a member of royalty over there.’ He moves off in the direction of another table.
The servers arrive with another round of beers and more recollections are shared and old jokes exhumed. When Stan returns, Gerry gets up and looks down the table.
‘I ask you to join me in a toast for our former sergeant.’
As the others get up, Gerry stares in my direction and I struggle to my feet. It’s time to bury the hatchet. None of us have much time left and there’s no point bearing a grudge now.
Here’s to you, Stan,” booms Gerry, lifting his glass. “Hip, hip.’
‘Hooray,’ we all shout.
About the author
Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.
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