THE KING NEEDS ME

"You have a letter from the King!" my father said, smiling broadly as he extended a hand holding an official-looking envelope in my direction.

I had just arrived home from work, looked into the kitchen where my mother was busily preparing our evening meal, greeted her with a hello and a kiss on her cheek, and entered the living room-to be met by this amused bearer of what I felt had to be bad news.

I reluctantly took the impressive envelope from Dad's outstretched hand and examined it. OHMS (On His Majesty's Service) was printed across the top, together with the rampant lion and unicorn of the royal coat of arms.

"Aren't you going to open it?" my younger brother asked excitedly. "I never knew of anyone who actually got a letter from the King."

My mother came into the room, wiping her hands on her apron. "Well, Jack, what is it?" she asked with some consternation.

Only my grinning father knew why the King was writing to me, although I had a pretty good idea. With considerable misgivings I tore open the envelope and removed the contents. Sure enough, I had been invited to participate in a group effort with a great number of my peers, ostensibly led by His Royal Highness-known far and wide as the British Army.

Mother looked dismayed. "Oh Jack, you are much too young," she said.

I pointed out that my eighteenth birthday was almost three weeks behind me and, although I didn't say it, it was now apparent that both myself and George VI thought I was a man.

My explanation did nothing to allay her fears and she was now becoming quite desperate, although I didn't realize just how desperate until she turned to father with the plea, "Can't you do something, Charlie?" Dad put his arm around Mother's shoulders.

"Now don't take on so," he encouraged, "the boy will be just fine. After all, the war has been over for a year and a half, so there's no danger. I daresay he'll learn a lot, get plenty of exercise and have some fun."

I knew Dad was saying all this for Mother's benefit; as she appeared to be calming down I refrained from pointing out that I was already learning a lot, getting exercise, and having fun without having to wear a uniform to do it!

"The dinner!" Mother shrieked. Disentangling herself from father's protective arm she dashed to the kitchen, from which we were treated to a few unintelligible words vehemently spoken, accompanied by much rattling of pots and pans.

Father turned to me, the grin gone, and with a certain pride which I didn't understand then (but do now), quietly said, "You'll be just fine, Jack, believe me, just fine."

Dad had served in the trenches in France during World War I, which he always referred to as the Great War, as we all did at that time. He seldom spoke of it, but on rare occasions we persuaded him to. Then he would get a sad and distant look; his voice would fade into silence. We would quietly wait, and watch his eyes return from whatever part of his memory he had journeyed to before resuming his story.

His older brother, for whom I was named, had died in the same war. Their father (my grandfather) had done his part in the service of Queen Victoria, as had his father before him. The military service of my forebears had apparently always been voluntary, and so in this respect I was different; my reluctant Army service would be encouraged by the Act of Parliament known as "Conscription."

"Will you win any medals, Jack?" my brother asked with sparkling eyes.

With great conviction I replied, "Not if I can help it!"


*    *    *

The King's instructions were explicit. I was to go to the town of Romford on a specific Tuesday, where I would present myself at a precise time for the medical examination necessary before my acceptance into his Army. This was to take place at the headquarters of the local Territorial Army unit, an organization of volunteer part-time soldiers.

I informed my employer that I would need some time off, and for what purpose. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he said he needed me and therefore I would be unable to go, I thought, but he just smiled and said, "Why don't you take the whole day off, with pay of course." Another Great War veteran, I remembered.

So on the designated day and armed with my father's advice regarding which bus to take to Romford, I set forth.

As usual, Dad's knowledge of buses and destinations was infallible. Jumping on the correct double-decker I climbed the stairs and made my way to the front seat, my customary vantage point for viewing London, my favorite city.

A few stops later, a young fellow of my own age came crashing up the bus stairs and settled into the other front seat across the aisle from me. I looked over at him and caught his eye.

"Romford?" I asked; he nodded.


"Medical?" I questioned; he nodded again and then smiled.

"Do you know where the barracks is?" he asked. Shaking my head I turned to look at another youth who had settled in the seat right behind me. The newcomer, sporting the most impressive shock of almost-white blond hair I had ever seen, immediately broke into a wide grin.

"Don't tell me," he laughed, "we're all going to Romford to get our bodies checked." We smiled our agreement.

"Well they won't take me!" Whitey announced. "I'm telling them I suffer from indigestion something chronic."

"They'll probably make you a cook," I observed, and we all laughed.

"I've been practicing walking with flat feet," said my companion across the aisle.

"No good!" hooted Whitey. "You'll wind up in a tank crew!" Again we laughed, using the laughter to mask our rising nervousness.

By the time our bus arrived at Romford we had been joined by two more medical-bound lads. The five of us rattled down the steel stairs after I recognized a landmark my father had told me would identify our destination.

We stood in a small group on the pavement as the bus pulled away from the curb. "Which way?" someone asked, and as I had known when to depart the bus they all looked at me expectantly.

"I don't have a clue," I admitted.

"There's a "bobby" over the road," Whitey observed. "I'll go and ask him." He darted across the street without waiting for any comment.


I can't speak for the others but I couldn't help feeling that a man about to become a British soldier should instinctively know everything necessary to his new life; being reduced to having to ask a policeman for directions smacked of failure. Of course I had to grudgingly admit that Whitey's logical action probably made the most sense.

Whitey returned from a brief, animated conversation with the law. Calling "Follow me," he started walking down an intersecting road to our left.

In a few minutes we found ourselves in a large locker room with about a hundred other youths. A short uniformed man with stripes on his sleeve gave each of us a locker key suspended on a piece of cord. He instructed us to strip down to our underwear, place our clothes in our locker, place the key around our neck, and report to a table by a door at the other end of the room.

At this table sat an elderly man who asked our names and passed out appropriate documents. We carried these as we tagged onto a line of nearly naked, very cold, and very boisterous young men, which stretched down a long corridor and disappeared around a corner.

For the next three hours we shuffled down hallways and into various rooms where we were pushed, pulled, and probed, asked innumerable extremely personal questions, and told to "read this," "bend over," and "cough." All the while the amount of information in our files grew and grew.

At last the prolonged examinations were over and, after our documents had been collected, we were directed back to the locker room where we gratefully clothed our chilly selves.

Returning our keys, the five of who had arrived together gathered outside in the street.


"This is one examination I hope I failed," said the youth of the flat-feet practice.

Whitey gave a short laugh. "That would mean there's something wrong with you, wouldn't it?"

We all silently pondered this as we walked to the bus stop and climbed aboard our bus. Hardly a word was spoken on the ride home as each of us was alone with our thoughts. As my companions left at their destinations, those remaining called after them that perhaps we would serve together somewhere.

But I never saw any of them again.