Shrapnel Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Spivs

  One: If

  Two: Storm Troopers

  Three: Six Thousand Million Oranges

  Four: DSO

  Five: A Shower of Soot

  Six: Tom Mix and Hopalong Cassidy

  Seven: Dance

  Eight: So What’s New?

  Nine: Eyes Everywhere

  Spivs

  Ten: Semolina with Prunes

  Eleven: Blast

  Twelve: Duties to Perform

  Thirteen: Spitfire Parked Outside

  Fourteen: Sweetheart

  Fifteen: Creepy Little Swot

  Sixteen: OHMS

  Seventeen: A Maid, for Pete’s Sake

  Eighteen: Relocated

  Nineteen: Two Half-Crowns

  Twenty: Cabbage Casserole

  Twenty-One: All Spuds and No Meat

  Twenty-Two: Blithering Nincompoop

  Twenty-Three: Tin Lizzie

  Twenty-Four: Professional Performance

  Twenty-Five: Wibbly Wobbly

  Twenty-Six: Better Not To Ask

  Twenty-Seven: Bad Manners

  Twenty-Eight: A Fish in the Sahara

  Twenty-Nine: Sherlock Holmes Himself

  Thirty: Bodywork

  Thirty-One: Not Expecting Jerry

  Thirty-Two: Just Boys

  Thirty-Three: Sorry

  Thirty-Four: Like a Bird

  Thirty-Five: Lucky Girl

  Thirty-Six: Knights on a Raft

  Spivs

  Thirty-Seven: Eggless Cake, Watery Smiles

  Thirty-Eight: No Guy Fawkes Night

  Thirty-Nine: If Wishes Were Horses

  Forty: Two or Sommink

  Forty-One: Cars in Heaven

  Forty-Two: Sell his Mother

  Forty-Three: Job on ITMA

  Forty-Four: Wish I Hadn’t

  Forty-Five: Zombies

  Forty-Six: Blue Funk

  Forty-Seven: Ruminating

  Forty-Eight: Linton Barker’s Lungs

  Forty-Nine: It Wasn’t Exactly a Lie

  Fifty: Balls of Fragrant Smoke

  Fifty-One: Two Policemen

  Fifty-Two: The Dock

  Fifty-Three: Not the Gestapo

  Fifty-Four: Rhinoceros

  Fifty-Five: Kitten

  Fifty-Six: Shrapnel

  Fifty-Seven: Auld Lang Syne

  Fifty-Eight: Heinkel

  Fifty-Nine: What Was Left of it

  Sixty: Chop Some Bits Off

  Sixty-One: A Gong

  Sixty-Two: What Happened Afterwards

  About the Author

  Also by Robert Swindells

  Copyright

  About the Book

  World War Two is raging, bombs rain down on Britain and brave young men fly their fighter planes against enormous odds. Gordon wishes he was one of them – not like his cowardly elder brother Raymond, who has left home and his job to do who knows what.

  When Gordon finds a revolver hidden in his parent’s house, he decides to track his brother down. But finding Raymond leads to much more than Gordon had bargained for. His brother claims to be a secret governmental agent, and enlists Gordon’s help in a mysterious enterprise. Gordon is keen to do his bit for the war effort, but is Raymond luring him into danger . . . ?

  A gripping wartime drama from master storyteller and multi award-winner Robert Swindells.

  For Jennifer Alice

  Spivs

  THE YOUTH IN the natty suit rose, scooping up his companion’s empty tankard. ‘Same again, is it?’ The other boy frowned, shook his head. ‘It’s my . . . you got that one. I can’t let you . . .’

  ‘Relax, chum. I told you, lolly’s not a worry. Back in a sec.’

  He watched the suit swerve through knots of young men in uniform, heading for the bar. Must be nice, he thought, enough of the readies to stand a total stranger two rounds in a row, and on a Thursday night. His own wage never stretched past Monday.

  ‘There y’are.’ The youth banged two fresh pints on the table. ‘Get that down the inside of your neck.’ He sat down, sketched a toast with his tankard and took a long pull.

  His companion sipped, studying his generous acquaintance over the rim of the glass. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what line are you in, if it’s not a rude question?’ He smiled in case it was. ‘It obviously pays well.’

  The youth shrugged. ‘I manage.’ He grinned. ‘Better than slaving in some factory at any rate: beats me how you stick it, mate.’

  The boy pulled a face. ‘It’s a reserved occupation for one thing – I won’t be called up.’ He sighed. ‘Tedious though, day in day out since I was fourteen. I’ve a good mind to enlist, if only for the chance of a bit of excitement.’

  The smart youth shook his head. ‘No need for that, chum. If it’s excitement you’re after, you can find it without getting your head blown off, and have cash in your pocket.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Easy. Join me. Us. We can always use another bright lad who thrives on excitement.’ He smiled. ‘Have to leave Mummy and Daddy though, or the Army’ll get you.’

  The boy smiled. ‘That’ll be no hardship, I’m cheesed off being treated like a kid. What d’I have to do?’

  The youth winked. ‘Nothing you’d need a university education for, chum. Drink up.’

  ONE

  If

  ‘IF WE HAD some bacon,’ said Dad, ‘we could have bacon and eggs, if we had some eggs.’

  Mum smiled at this well-worn wartime joke. ‘If we had eggs, Frank, we’d be tucking in to one of those rich cakes I used to bake for Sunday tea before the war, instead of this eggless so-called sponge.’

  ‘If I was eighteen instead of thirteen,’ I put in, hoovering up dry crumbs with a fingertip, ‘I’d be bringing my Spitfire in to land at this very moment, after bagging two Messerschmitts over Kent.’

  ‘If you’d the sense you were born with, Gordon,’ snapped Mum, ‘you’d thank your lucky stars you’re not eighteen. Many a lad will have died today, and more’ll die tomorrow. I hope it’s all over before you’re old enough to go.’

  ‘He won’t go anyway, Ethel,’ said Dad. ‘Minute he turns fourteen, he starts with me at Beresford’s.’

  Hang Beresford’s, I thought but didn’t say. Beresford’s is where Dad works. It’s a light engineering factory. In peacetime they make bicycle parts. Now it’s shell cases, same as in the Great War. Dad’s worked there since he was a boy. He missed the Great War, because engineering was a reserved occupation. It’s a reserved occupation this time as well. My brother went there straight from school, but he packed it in a few weeks ago, when he turned twenty-one. You can do what you like when you’re twenty-one. He left home at the same time, but he’s been seen about so he’s not in the Army. Raymond, his name is. I wish he’d taken me with him.

  Well, I get picked on, see?

  ‘What colour’s Price’s dad?’ yells Dicky Deadman, and his three chums shout, ‘Yellow.’ Their dads served in the Great War. The last lot, as it’s called now. Deadman senior was in the Navy. Charlie Williams and Bobby Shawcross’s dads survived the trenches, and Victor Platt’s old man drove an ambulance. Victor’s got a sister in the WAAF as well.

  Fellows in reserved occupations are doing their bit, but chumps like Deadman don’t see it. If you’re not in uniform you must be a coward, that’s what they reckon.

  Proves something I’m about to learn – that war brings out the best in some people, and the worst in others.

  TWO

  Storm Troopers

  ANYWAY, THAT WAS Sunday. Eggless sponge and an evening round the wireless, with boards over the windows so enemy planes won�
�t see our lights.

  Monday, back to school. On aerodromes up and down the country, chaps were strapping themselves into Spitfires and Hurricanes, the lucky blighters. No double maths for them. As we shuffled into Foundry Street School, they’d ease back their joysticks and lift clear of the dewy grass, heading for the clouds. While old Whitfield called the register and we said, ‘Present, sir’, wishing we weren’t, they’d spot twenty-plus Heinkels and dive on them, machine guns chattering. And by the time we’d copied twelve dreary sums off the board and done them, they’d have landed and be laughing and joking in the mess, while airframe mechanics patched up the bullet holes in their kites. It’d be five years before any of us was old enough to join in, and the fun was bound to be over by then.

  ‘You won’t find the answers out there, Price,’ snapped Whitfield. I’d been miles away, gazing out of the window.

  ‘No, sir,’ I mumbled. ‘Sorry. I was just . . .’

  ‘Head in the clouds, laddie. Dreaming. What if our brave soldiers spent their time dreaming, eh? Our sailors, our airmen? What d’you think would happen then, Price?’

  ‘I . . . dunno, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you indeed?’ He was working himself up into one of his paddies. The kids were smirking behind their hands, enjoying it. Famous for his patriotic rants, was old Whitfield. I reckon he had a conscience about not being in the firing line himself. ‘Well, I do,’ he roared. ‘Overrun by Nazi hordes, that’s what we’d be. What would we be, Price?’

  ‘Sir, overrun by Nazi hordes.’

  ‘Exactly! And what would you do about it, laddie?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’

  ‘Well, I do. You’d sit gazing out of the window while storm troopers rampaged through our school shouting Sieg Heil, chucking stuff about, ruining our parquet with their jackboots. What would you do, laddie?’

  I started giggling. Couldn’t help it. Well, think about it: husky storm troopers with blue eyes and short blond hair, parachuting into England just so they could make a mess in Foundry Street School. It was ridiculous. But of course he didn’t see it.

  ‘Oh, so you think it’s funny, do you, Price – enemy troops doing exactly as they please in our school? You’ve a strange sense of humour, so who knows – perhaps you’ll find this funny as well.’ He scrabbled his cane from behind the cupboard, bounded up the aisle between the desks and laid into me with it. I ducked, clasping my hands round my head as he whacked my shoulders and back. It didn’t hurt much, padded as I was with blazer, pullover and vest. In fact, as the stick rose and fell I went on giggling, my nose flattened on the desktop. I felt like telling the silly old goat to save his thrashing for the storm troopers, but I didn’t.

  When he’d worked off his paddy, he said, ‘There’, like somebody who’s knocked the last nail into a really good job, and stalked back to his lectern. I lifted my head. It’d been a hectic minute or so, but it relieved the boredom, and I’d be a sort of hero in the eyes of the class for a while, which would make a nice change.

  THREE

  Six Thousand Million Oranges

  MOST OF THOSE who die in air raids are killed by flying glass. Not a lot of people know that. The bomb blast blows windows out, and bits of broken glass whizz through the air. If a little piece hits you it’s like shrapnel – it’ll go through clothes and skin and lodge in your flesh. A big one’ll take your arm off. Or your head. There was a story in the paper about some poor chap in London. A bomb went off inside the department store he was passing and its windows blew out. A sheet of glass the size of a tea tray hit him, cut him clean in two. That’s why there’s an air-raid shelter in our school yard, and why we have shelter drill once a week.

  It’s good, shelter drill. Breaks up the day. We had it that Monday morning, right after playtime. It was science, which I quite like, but I enjoy drill even more. We were halfway through watching Miss Robertson make a battery out of copper, zinc and an orange – don’t ask me where she found an orange – when we heard the rattle. It’s a football rattle. The Head, old Hinkley, stands in the main hall and whirls it, and that’s the signal for shelter drill.

  What you do is, you drop whatever you’re doing and get your gas mask. You put it on, line up and follow your teacher out of the building. The teacher brings the register. You cross the yard and file into the shelter. You do all this calmly, without shouting or shoving. The shelter’s a long brick building. It wouldn’t stand a direct hit, but it has no windows and no part of it will burn. It’s dark inside. Around the walls are narrow benches. You sit with your classmates while your teacher calls the register. That’s to make sure everybody’s there. Meanwhile old Hinkley and the caretaker check that nobody’s in the school before joining us in the shelter.

  Sometimes the Head will drone on about something while he’s got all of us together. One of his favourites is how you’re helping Hitler if you waste food. I quite like this one.

  Picture the scene. Der Fuehrer in his war room. Huge table covered with maps. He frowns as he studies them. Things aren’t going too well. Somebody knocks on the door. ‘Komm,’ says old Adolf. It’s a fat chap in a fancy uniform. ‘Splendid news, mein Fuehrer – the young Englander Gordon Price has left two and a half Brussels sprouts on the rim of his plate.’ Hitler straightens up, smiling. ‘Das ist gut! Launch the invasion barges – England is ours.’

  I’d love to hand that in as an essay, just to see what would happen.

  Anyway, this time old Hinkley says, ‘Four and a half minutes – well done, everybody,’ and we file back to Miss Robertson’s battery, which generates enough electricity to make a tiny bulb flicker. I don’t see the point. I suppose if we could get hold of about six thousand million oranges we could rig up a fruit-powered searchlight but we can’t – there’s a war on.

  FOUR

  DSO

  IT DRAGGED, THAT Monday. School days always do of course, even if they’re broken up by shelter drill. We finish at four fifteen but it’s October, which means it’s dusk already. As I made my way along Foundry Street, Dicky Deadman fell in beside me.

  ‘Saw your brother last night,’ he said.

  ‘Oh did you?’ I couldn’t see his three chums, but they’d be nearby. Always were. I kept walking, looking straight ahead. Satchel on one shoulder, gas mask on the other.

  ‘Yes. What does he do, Price?’

  ‘Do?’

  ‘Yes. Doing his bit I hope?’

  ‘I . . . dunno actually, Deadman. He’s left home, and he’s not at Beresford’s any more.’

  Dicky nodded. ‘He wasn’t in uniform though. Know what I reckon?’

  I sighed. ‘What do you reckon, Deadman?’

  ‘I reckon he’s dodging the call-up. That’s why he’s left home.’

  ‘Why’d he pack it in at Beresford’s then? It’s a reserved occupation.’

  ‘Don’t ask me, he’s not my brother. In the family though, isn’t it? Dodging, I mean. Your dad dodged the trenches, didn’t he? Wasn’t wounded like mine, or gassed like Mr Shawcross.’

  ‘Dad’s an engineer,’ I told him, knowing it was no use. ‘The country needs its engineers to keep working in wartime, making stuff the Forces need.’

  ‘That’s rubbish, Price, and you know it. Women can do that. And kids. You’re a family of shirkers, my dad says. I expect you’ll go scuttling into Beresford’s yourself next year.’

  I stopped, faced him. ‘If I do, Deadman, it’ll be because my dad makes me. I want to fly Spitfires, but you can’t at fourteen.’ As I spoke I spotted Shawcross, Platt and Williams fifty yards behind, hands in pockets, kicking shoals of fallen leaves at one another. Deadman looked incredulous.

  ‘Fly Spitfires? You?’ He laughed. ‘You couldn’t fly a flag, you blithering fathead.’ He called to the others. ‘Hey, you lot, here’s the six o’clock news, and this is Dicky Deadman reading it. Price says he wants to fly Spitfires.’

  I set off again, but Deadman grabbed my sleeve. ‘Not so fast, Squadron Leader. We’ve got a DSO for you.�
�� He sniggered. ‘Not the Distinguished Service Order: the Dodgers and Shirkers Oak leaves. Come on, lads!’

  They got me down and shoved handful after handful of dead leaves down my neck. They stuffed ’em in my socks and shoes as well, and filled my satchel. I kicked and struggled, but one man can’t fight four. Just before they let me up, Deadman crammed a fistful into my mouth, the dirty pig. They sauntered off chuckling, leaving me curled forward over my knees, choking and retching.

  A prince among men, old Dicky.

  FIVE

  A Shower of Soot

  ‘WHAT ON EARTH have you done to yourself, Gordon?’ asked Mum when I got in. My trousers and blazer were crumpled, my shoes were scuffed and there were bits of leaves all over my jumper, but I had my story ready.

  ‘We were playing in the leaves, Mum. Me and some of the chaps. Kicking them around. I’m afraid it got rather out of hand. Sorry.’

  Mum tutted, shook her head. ‘You’re thirteen, Gordon, not three. Go and tidy yourself up, then come and help me with the blackouts. And don’t leave a mess in the scullery – you know what your dad’s like.’

  There was a nasty taste in my mouth and bits of leaf stuck between my teeth. Dust made me itch all over. I could have done with a bath, but that was out of the question. Bath night at our house is Saturday, and today was Monday. A strip-wash at the sink would have to do, once I’d brushed my teeth.

  My parents knew nothing about my trouble with Dicky Deadman and his crew. Dad had been roughed up more than once in the Great War for not being in uniform – I didn’t feel like telling him the same thing was happening to me twenty-odd years later. And I certainly didn’t want him to know that Deadman’s dad was calling him a shirker in front of his boy.

  I washed, knocked the bits out of my clothes as best I could and put them on again. I raked my scalp with a comb. My mouth tasted minty and I felt better.

  Raymond had made our blackouts. Most people use thick curtains for the job, but ours are sheets of plywood. My brother cut them to exactly fit over each window, and screwed little catches to the frames to clamp them in position. It takes two people to put ’em up – one to hold the blackout against the pane, one to turn the catches. Sounds fussy, I know, but if you look from outside you can’t see the slightest glimmer of light. No warden’ll ever shout at us to put that light out, and no enemy pilot will find a target because of us. I should show Deadman our blackouts – tell him Raymond’s done his bit.