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A corpulent officer, dressed in khaki, sat at a desk in a high-ceilinged, oak-panelled room, sifting papers with one hand, nursing his belly with the other. He was getting more than rations, Stanley thought, more than the four ounces of butter a week he and Da got. The officer kept his eyes on the papers as Stanley approached. Stanley’s hands were sticky, his mouth dry.

‘And what can I do for you?’ The officer’s tone was derisive.

‘I’ve c-c—’ Stanley fought for air.

The officer’s pen tap-tap-tapped the desk. Stanley took a deep breath.

‘I’ve c-come to j-join up, sir.’

‘Name? Trade?’ The voice was weary.

‘S-Stanley Ryder, sir. Under-gardener, sir. And I help with the h-horses.’ Stanley looked at the floor. What was he thinking coming here? The officer raised a pair of red-veined eyes.

‘Age?’

Stanley hesitated, floored by a sudden thought – was it a criminal offence to lie to the Army about your age?

‘Sixteen, sir.’

He bit his lip. You had to be seventeen. Why hadn’t he said ‘Seventeen’? Seventeen was no more of a lie than sixteen. The officer heaved an exasperated, over-loud sigh and scratched his forehead. Stanley’s age seemed to have brought on a sudden headache.

Stanley didn’t move. ‘Seventeen, sir, seventeen,’ he wanted to say. The officer closed his eyes and rolled his aching head from side to side.

‘Will you go outside, turn around three times and come back at five when you’ll be seventeen?’ The officer’s belly rose and fell like a tug in a swell as he enjoyed his own joke.

‘Yes, sir. Oh, yes, sir. Qu-quick-sticks, sir – right away, sir.’

Stanley hurried out. He looked up and down the street for a clock. If the officer wanted him to return at five, he’d do exactly that. Half past four. Only half an hour till he was the right age.

At five, the officer raised his eyes and appraised Stanley as though inspecting a horse.

‘Age?’

‘Seventeen, sir.’

‘Hmm. Does your mother know you’re seventeen?’ he asked, mocking.

‘She’s dead, sir.’

‘I’m sorry. Well, “under-gardener” you said, and – er – “horses”. There’s no call for chrysanthemums in Flanders, but the Engineers are short of men that know about animals. Now, you could do us both a favour by saying you know about horses?’

‘Oh, y-yes, sir. I do know about horses, sir.’

‘Good. Well done. Now, join the Royal Engineers.’

Stanley was waved aside to an adjoining room and a medical officer. Two men, both white as quartz, stood waiting, in their drawers. Stanley stripped and waited too.

A doctor entered the room, holding a tape measure in his hand, assessed them all with a despairing glance and headed for Stanley. He looped the tape around Stanley’s chest and brought his head close. The measure didn’t seem to show the number he was looking for. He made a careful loop and clamped the loop between his thumb and index finger. This time the tape came to the right number and he noted the result with an exhausted exhalation.

Stanley was motioned on to the scales. The doctor’s head almost touched the dial as Stanley again fell short of Army requirements. Another exhausted sigh. The doctor reached for a large blue dictionary and passed it to Stanley, then bent to read the result. Perfect. The combined weight of Stanley and the dictionary were recorded. Stanley’s height was measured. The short-sighted eyes blinked in exaggerated surprise as Stanley appeared to have exceeded the minimum height regulation.

‘A-one,’ the doctor muttered with a sardonic laugh and moved on to the next man.

In a daze, Stanley joined the blur of men around the desk, raised his hand and swore his oath to King and country. He was a member of His Majesty’s Army, and had a number. He was seventeen, had a railway warrant and would be paid on Fridays.

By six o’clock the next morning, Stanley was two hundred miles from Da. He was on parade and his training had begun.

Monday, 10 September 1917

Chatham, Kent

The vast and bleak parade ground was surrounded by barracks, offices and the entrance gates. Fear kept drawing Stanley’s eyes, like the needle of a compass, towards the gates. Da might stomp through them at any minute, shouting for all to hear, ‘Fourteen! The daft clod’s only fourteen!’ Da would see the ill-fitting uniform, see the trousers which billowed around his son’s buttocks, see the puttee – the bandage-type stocking – that was in danger of unwinding at his right ankle, already unravelling at his knee. Da would mock him and haul him home. Stanley scanned the faces of the new recruits. No, no one here looked as young as he did.

‘Parade, ’shun! Left turn! Quick march! Double! Left, right, left, right. Pick up your knees. Left, right, left, right . . .’

Company Sergeant-Major Quigley had a stout neck, an athletic figure, hair as glossy as a blackbird and a ferocious moustache with long waxy ends that sometimes took on a life of their own. His tongue was like a rasp – his voice could probably be heard a mile away. The man was in his element, born to lead this 6 a.m. PT parade, but he was also a sort of relic, left over, perhaps, from an earlier war.

Stanley’s eyes flickered towards the gates. Even if Da did come, Stanley would never go home again.

‘Double! Left, right, left, right . . .’

A smile played on Quigley’s lips as he increased the pace. Stanley’s puttee was unravelling further.

‘Double! Left-right-left-right-left-right-left-right . . .’ Quigley’s foghorn voice belted out instructions faster and faster until the men were racing round the yard. Stanley couldn’t concentrate because of the unravelling puttee. Quigley would spot him and single him out, would know he was too young and send him home. At least Stanley had a uniform, and a cap – half of the men were still in mufti, as home clothes were known here. It wasn’t like the pictures and the posters, this lack of beds and plates and uniforms.

Everyone had about-turned except Stanley, who found himself face to face with Hamish McManus. Hamish had the bed next to Stanley. That morning, no one else had spoken to Stanley, but Hamish, with a frank and friendly smile, had said, ‘Watch out for yourself, laddie. They’d steal the milk from a baby’s bottle here.’

Now Hamish put a hand on Stanley’s shoulder to turn him round, but not before Quigley had seen Stanley facing the wrong way. Quigley marched over, eyes sparking, and halted uncomfortably close to Stanley.

‘Get that hair cut. Are you a soldier, hmm, or an artist? Get some fluff on that upper lip before I see you again.’ Stanley felt the man’s breath on his face as his baton prodded the troublesome puttee.

‘Your mother won’t be here, hmm, from now on, to dress you in the mornings.’

‘N-no, sir.’ There it was again, that dryness, the splintering words. ‘This p-pair of kecks is too loose, sir.’

‘Speak English, damn you.’ Quigley looked so bewildered that perhaps he hadn’t heard Stanley properly, but now he’d recovered his flow. ‘Choirboys and milksops, that’s what I’ve been sent.’ Quigley’s moustache twitched with mirth. ‘And if any of you want to go home, hmm, and see your m-mothers again, I’ll first make soldiers of you –’ his voice rose – ‘or I’ll die in the attempt.’