The Telegram

“Good grief,  they’re going to start the war without me, Arthur!”

My younger brother grinned widely.

“Lou, of course not.  ‘A’ comes before ‘L’ idiot.

Arthurs call-up telegram, lay open on his desk, still warm. I personally felt somewhat bereft as I sat puffed up over pillows in my bed opposite! Where the heck was mine?

August, a summer month in London, was on the way out heat wise. It was 1939. For well over a year our nation had been under extreme pressure, as Hitler with his ever expanding army grew in strength, rapidly undermining various European states. My brother and I had been practising army stuff for several years, this meant local hall ‘games’ once a week. On occasional weekends we would motor out to the vast plains that lay not far from the South coast, in Wiltshire where a large group of us were employed in tactical exercises. In other words, we played at being soldiers.

At home we were a devoted family of six. My older brother had married and lived in another part of London. My mother Louisa a home loving woman, wise beyond her years. My father Bert/Albert,  whom you wouldn’t want to mess with, his days were spent as travelling manager of a large meat company supporting over thirty butcheries throughout the city. We all worked in the industry except my mother. I was pretty athletic and used the gym variously, swimming, wrestling and boxing, etc. We biked a lot, for the city had far more parkland and much less population in those days. We’d meet up at the pub. Off and on.

The telegram had been delivered to my younger brother Arthur towards the end of our dinner time. I think it was the 29th August 1929. We left the room together, much to our mothers chagrin, leaving behind a generously laden table as per usual accompanied with the cheery babble. Belting up the stairs to our room, I remember taking a good hard look at myself in uniform. The long narrow oaken mirror seemed to say, ‘yeah, you’re alright mate. You’ll do a cracker of a job!’ I gathered up my kit.

“Gosh bro, when are they going to let me know? Your buttons look dull compared to mine Arth. One of them looks a tad loose.”

His cheeky response forgotten in a whisper, as we lay back on our beds for a final relax, with a sense of pride and unspoken unity. Wide eyed and alert, chatting heedless of what our clock face illustrated warmly. I recollect the midnight chimes, but nothing after that. Then in the distance in the still quiet night around 3’ o’ clock we could plainly hear the intermittent pop, pop. Pop, of the small under powered motor scooter. Its tight little sound faded in and out as it approached way off. It’s sound a little different as it pooped up our hill. My heart leaped, it really did. 

“I’m going to be needed after all Arth,” I managed a narrow chuckle.

I bounded down the stairs before the telegraph boys hand reached the door knocker, a shiny brass lion’s head. We spent the rest of the crisp early morning polishing our strong leather boots, joining our dear mother for an early breakfast and then phoned for a cab.  Mother faithfully followed us to the gate and hugged us resoundingly as we said our goodbyes, unsuspecting that it would be some time before we’d see each other again. It was almost as if we were off to a party. Little did we know. (France did.) We chatted together inside the cab. The cockney cabby dropped us off at Fulham House. As we turned to pay him, he refused to take our money, wishing us well as he drove off to look for more passengers!