BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 06:18 PM

79 - 108

80. Monday morning came, and after breakfast I stood inspection by the Officer of the Day at 0800 hours. Around midmorning, Sgt. Green enetered the squad room and came over to where I was making a pot of tea for the dutry policemen.

83. The rest of the day I was occupied with preparations for my appearance before Col. Charles. My canvas belt and gaiters were scrubbed in the shower room until they were spotless. My cap badge and other brass parts of my equipment were polished until they sparkled. I worked on my boots with polish and saliva, burnishing them with the handle of an old toothbrush and a soft cloth until the boots reflected the light from an adjacent window, My - replace comma with period uniform was pressed to perfection with knife-edge creases. Finally, everything was ready and laid out on the bed in the unoccupied cell next to mine. I did not sleep well Monday night.

84. I awakened early Tuesday morning; I showered, shaved, and carefully dressed. My nervously-churning stomach made breakfast a thing to be avoided, although I did manage a cup of hot, strong tea offered by one of the policemen. By none o'clock I was completely ready, and stood around for the next forty minutes as I didn't want to sit down and spoil the press of my uniform.

90. "No talking!" yelled Mayweather, and looking directly at me ordered, Prisoner - need an open quote before Prisoner, atten-SHUN! Double-time Quick March." This is it, I thought, as I trotted into the office and took my place immediately before Col. Charles, standing at rigid attention.

94. Now I became really afraid, and the enormity of what I had done appalled me. OI - is this Oh, I or just I? knew I must face a Court-Martial, but without any prior experience of soldiers driving through buildings, how would the Court arrive at just punishment? Perhaps, in order to deter others from following my example, they would decide to lock me in the worst military prison they could fined, and destroy the key.

108. As I walked back, past the Colonels' - Colonel's open door, I took a quick glance at him still seated at his desk. Perhaps it was my imagination; perhaps I was mistaken - but I could have sworn Col. Charles was smiling.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 06:47 PM

JudyB's observations, plus:

80. Monday morning came, and after breakfast I stood inspection by the Officer of the Day at 0800 hours. Around midmorning, Sgt. Green enetered the squad room and came over to where I was making a pot of tea for the dutry policemen.

81. "You are on Regimental Orders at 1000 hours tomorrow," he said. "If you'll take my advice, lad, you will be the smartest, best-turned-out soldier the Colonel has ever seen."

87. I took off my cap and crossed the room, passing the open door of Charles' private office. Looking through the doorway, I saw the Colonel sitting at his desk with his back to a window, talking seriously to another bareheaded prisoner from another battery, while the escorting bombardier stood to one side.

88. As I returned to Green's side a short, stocky sergeant entered the room and approached us. Sgt. Green turned to me. "Prisoner, this is your escort, Sgt. Mayweather, who has your charge sheet, and will be telling the Colonel what a bad lad you've been," he said.

89. At that moment, the prisoner and his escort appeared from the Colonel's office.


91. Charles looked me in the eye for a long moment; then, turning to my escort, inquired, "What are the charges against this man?" Sgt. Mayweather started to read the vast catalog of my sins, glaring at me from the corner of his eye at the end of each sentence. "Misuse of a War Department vehicle," Mayweather intoned. Glare! "Operating a War Department vehicle in an unauthorized area." Glare! "Endangering life and limb." Glare! He failed to say whose life and limb, and I hoped he meant mine. Glare! "Operating a War Department vehicle without permission." Glare!

93. At the conclusion of his recitation, Sgt. Mayweather stepped forward and laid a manila folder in front of the Colonel. "From Lieutenant Pym, sir," he said. Charles opened the folder, spreading its contents on his desk.   The Colonel looked at the papers and then at me. His eyes rolled heavenwards, and then back to the evidence before him.

94. Now I became really afraid, and the enormity of what I had done appalled me. OI knew I must face a Court-Martial, but without any prior experience of soldiers driving through buildings, how would the Court arrive at just punishment?

95. "Well, Gunner, I expect you realize I have never had to deal with anything like this before, and I also expect you realize this is a court [insert hyphen - or not, see above]martial offense," he said.

100. "Yes, Sir!" I answered enthusiastically, elated at my good fortune—no Court-Martial!

102. The Colonel continued. "Captain McGroaty has told me you are a good mechanic and he would be sorry to lose you." I made a mental note to be sure to thank the Captain. "So I sentence you to 28 days in the Regimental Police Jail. But in order not to place undue hardship on your Captain, you will continue your duties during the day and report for confinement after your regular working hours."

106. Sgt. Mayweather ordered me to march from the Colonel office and I was sure my feet didn't touch the floor. No court martial, no extended imprisonment in some terrible military prison, and the Colonel had not stopped my pay for the duration of my incarceration as was usually standard procedure.

108. As I walked back, past the Colonels' open door, I took a quick glance at him still seated at his desk. Perhaps it was my imagination; perhaps I was mistaken—but I could have sworn Col. Charles was smiling.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 09:14 PM

You have all been quite simply grand. Jack woudl have appreciated all the help so much but it would have humbled him-- there'd have been a tear in his eye at the "silly" notion that you gave a damn.

I'll be spending tomorrow AM (Mudcat time) working your smart corrections in, and doing a final read before handing it over. I'll post here again to let you all know when the corrections should stop-- when I won't be able to make any more use of them. But until then, if you spot someting, please do post it.

With great thanks,

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 11:41 PM

Hm! A Google search reveals that "bombadier" is a frequently used spelling (probably wrong) for "bombardier." Merriam-Webster says that "The word you've entered (bombadier) isn't in the dictionary. Click on a spelling suggestion below or try again using the search box to the right.

Suggestions for bombadier:
         1. bombardier



bombardier
One entry found for bombardier.

Main Entry: bom·bar·dier
Pronunciation: "bäm-b&-'dir, -b&r-
Function: noun
1 a archaic : ARTILLERYMAN b : a noncommissioned officer in the British artillery
2 : a bomber-crew member who releases the bombs

----------

So I am going to conclude that "bombardier" is the correct title of address Jack intended and that his misspelling was due to a phonetics-based effort.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 11:44 PM

There's a bombardier insignia shown here, and sure enough it's a two-striper:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/British_Army#Ranks_and_insignia

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 07:43 AM

.... and I'll do "Saturday Ride" last, so correx on that one will be useful till the end of the day, most likely.

~S~

Subject: Story: CHAPTER LIST
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 09:01 AM

CHAPTER LIST

1930's; Childhood

1. EARLY MEMORIES (missing)
2. THE BOAT
3. NEW BOOTS


1940's—WWII in London

4. THE WAR BEGINS
5. BLITZ!


1940's—WWII in the country

6. EVACUATION (missing)
7. COUNTRY SCHOOL
8. SCRUMPIN'


1950's? Military service (basic training)

9. THE KING NEEDS ME (missing)
10. THE FIRST DAY
11. DAY TWO
12. JANKERS (THE THIRD DAY)
13. CAMOUFLAGE
14. ITSY BITSY SPIDER
15. THE FINAL DAY


1950's? Military service (motor pool)

16. DRESS BLUES (missing)
17. WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?
18. SATURDAY RIDE

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 11:16 AM

re. 1950's?

I doubt your friend was still in the army after the end of the war. Susan. The vast majority of home-based soldiers were demobbed soon after VJ day. Those serving overseas were, of course, repatriated, but many had already received official notice that their services were no longer required.

Basic training is by definition the first thing that happens upon joining up.

National Service (conscription) in the UK remained until the 1950s.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 12:37 PM

Well.... the one batch of stories are clearly from childhood, age 11-12, during WWII.

After that batch there is a missing story ("The King Needs Me"), which as I recall was about being drafted. To be old enough have gone into the service, what decade would that bring us up to?

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 01:50 PM

The corrections on these are done-- I'm taking them in the order in which I posted them:
2. THE BOAT
5. BLITZ!
4. THE WAR BEGINS
3. NEW BOOTS
7. COUNTRY SCHOOL
8. SCRUMPIN'
11. DAY TWO

I've modified paragraph breaks on those as well as doing your fixes and smoothing out usage inconsistencies. They'll get one more look when I print all of it out, so if anyone spots any glaring boo-boos in those I CAN still use the help, but I will have a hard time finding them by para number so please include the complete sentence you want me to look at and I'll find it by Word "Find."

All the helps in bold, BTW, have been wonderfully easy to work with. As I work, I'm laughing a lot at how some of the phrases must have read to you! I caught one or two funny ones myself-- "in a few minuets" for example! :~)

Thanks again. Harcopies avail by snail ONLY to proofers above, for a Mudcat donation of your choosing (cash or auction item). (PM details.)

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 02:12 PM

THE FINAL DAY-- done.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 02:30 PM

ITSY BITSY SPIDER done.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 02:58 PM

JANKERS-- done.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 03:52 PM

WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE-- done.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 04:06 PM

CAMOUFLAGE~~done.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 27 Nov 05 - 04:52 PM

SATURDAY RIDE~~

done!

As I've worked through your corrections I've appreciated each of you, so much.

I'll print this and burn midnight (or sunrise) oil for a last look and quick fixes before delivery to Mrs. Jack. I'll check here first to see if any horrific mistakes have been reported!

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 28 Nov 05 - 11:28 AM

Susan -

Glad I could help, and I really enjoyed reading the stories!

JudyB

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 28 Nov 05 - 01:43 PM

I hope, eventually, that Mrs. Jack will give the OK to post the "final" versions here at Mudcat. We both pestered Jack about finding a publisher, but he was too modest to let us pursue it in his lifetime. Anyway, without an OK I think I'd be wrong to publicly post what I ended up doing with everyone's wonderful clues. I think you would like the result.

I can describe in generalities, though, what I did.

One thing I did to increase readability was to restructure the paragraph breaks. The vast number of short paragraphs made for a pretty choppy read; I adopted a style whereby any action or thoughts that follow a dialog entry are included in the para opened by the spoken word-- except of course for points of dramatic shift or significant elapsed time, or a change of speaker.

I broke up and clarified some of the longer sentences where the necessary punctuation had really gotten in the way and where Jack's writing style became too similar from para to para to para. He had tried delberately to vary his sentence structure on the first batches, but as he got sicker and weaker, it was obvious that he'd been in a rush just to get the stories onto paper.

Also I sparingly applied a few of Jack's other stylistic conventions, to his earlier-written stories, that I had seen him use in the later group.

Through all my work on this round, however, I did only those sorts of things that Jack himself either routinely did, himself, or agreed to if I made a suggestion. As I re-read them, now-- they are very much the Jack I knew, and I am grateful that he trusted me to see him clearly through his effort to tell the stories. His first talent was his art-- he was a well-known and prolific watercolorist whose keen eye for composition underlies much of his story-telling approach-- and writing was a more recently discovered form of expression.

Of all the changes I made, I most regret not having had Jack's own latest version of Sarah's loss in the Blitz. I had asked him for a new, final paragraph mentioning her, after the list of updates on the rest of the gang, and he wrote a powerful one. I didn't have it. I had several choices-- leave it alone; leave the story out of the collection in case his version turned up; or write a line in the spirit of what he had written in the new version. I took the liberty of adding the line you all saw, to be sure that Sarah ended the story that really was all about her. But Jack's para was more personally evocative. I lost sleep over that one, trying to decide, but I slept fine once I made up my mind that JACK TRUSTED ME, and went ahead and added it.

You see, Jack knew and appreciated that I had seen HIM inside his restrained writing, and that I often tended to draw him out most in those areas he most wanted to share more deeply... and wasn't sure how to go about it.

I never cried when Jack died several years ago. This last week, partly because of the wonderful help that immediately and steadfastly came from people I don't know at all, I've been able to shed the tears a man like that desrves. He was just a dear, dear man. And every inch the troublemaker he describes in his stories!

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 01 Dec 05 - 09:42 PM

What is a "terrace house"?
UK TERRACE HOUSE CIRCA 1942

What is a Regimental Headquarter Company? What about usage? "Headquarter" or "Headquarters?
Both.... The Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) is the heart of the Regiment. It is where the Commanding officer and his HQ staff control the Regiment, assisted by the various departments of Headquarter Company.

and .... this platoon would be attached to Headquarter Company and so more immediately under the C.O.'s authority.

Where are Chawleigh and Chulmleigh?
Just Google 'em right up.

Also, DEVONSHIRE REGIMENT

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 01 Dec 05 - 09:50 PM

Another funny camouflage bit from a different soldier's memoir:

... the one who was so well hidden that he let the NCO walk past him and then crept up from behind and put a stranglehold on him.

Also a graduate of Topsham Barracks!

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 01 Dec 05 - 10:06 PM

More about children's view of WWII: Children of WW2 (BBC)

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 01 Dec 05 - 10:09 PM

AIR RAIDS

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: GUEST,Dáithí Ó Geanainn
Date: 02 Dec 05 - 05:12 AM

Is it too late to mention that the Land rover wasn't produced before 1947...?
Dáithí

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 02 Dec 05 - 05:39 AM

Your picture of a "terrace dolls house" might cause someone who didn't already know what one was to miss the point. A terrace of houses is a row of houses joined together by "party walls". If you lived in an "end-terrace" you thought it was one up on a "mid-terrace", almost as good as a "semi-detatched", which was one of a pair of houses. In my London childhood only "posh" people lived in "detatched" houses.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 02 Dec 05 - 10:28 AM

Dáithí, that group of stories IS after 1947-- military service, not the 12-year-old child of WWII.

Yes, Mo, there are LOTS of pictures of terrace houses of the past and today, attached. The dollhouse is just one of the dweelings in what would have been a row.

In the US we call these "townhouses" or "townhomes," if suburban, or "row houses" if urban.

Must say, out of all the links I found, that BBC section of children in WWII was stunning.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 03 Dec 05 - 10:13 AM

I don't know UK geography well enough to locate "Bells Farm" in past or present records. There are a lot of Google results for that spelling, and images of other places clearly NOT in Devonshire, but would anyone in the UK want to try to find the Bells of Jack's stories?

I've already emailed the real estate people associated with this image-search result: KFTUWS1013138.

~S~

Subject: Story: EVACUATION
From: wysiwyg
Date: 11 Dec 05 - 06:12 PM

Jack's widow has found three stories that were missing. I have not needed to retype these, but a quick look would be appreciated.

~S~

==================================================

EVACUATION

The Battle of London continued. However on November 3, 1940, for the first time in nearly two months, no sirens sounded in London.

For a while the Luftwaffe's efforts were now concentrated on various provincial towns and cities, culminating in the devastation of Coventry on the night of November 14.

On November 15 London again came under bombardment, although German bombers were still attacking other cities. During the last week of the month and the first few days of December, the weight of the air raids shifted to the seaports, from Southampton in the south to Glasgow in the north.

The climax of these raids came again to London on Sunday, December 29 and was timed to coincide with the dead-low-water hour of the tidal Thames River. Water mains were broken at the start by very highly-explosive parachute mines. These were followed by incendiary bombs almost exclusively, resulting in between 1,500 and 2,000 fires burning simultaneously- the majority out of control-with little water with which to battle them. It was said that the Thames was pumped so dry that one could have walked across it.

By the end of May, 1941, the air raids had ceased. Over 20,000 Londoners were dead. Ten times that number had suffered injuries, and one in six were made homeless. For over three years all was virtually quiet until the V-1 (doodle-bug) bombardment began, followed by V-2 rockets.


In late March or early April, 1941, my parents decided that London was no place for children and, in anticipation of continued heavy bombing which never came, accordingly made plans to evacuate my brother and me to the country. As Mum was a seamstress and Dad a tailor's cutter, they both were working twelve-hour days engaged in the vital war work of making military uniforms. This left my brother and me largely unsupervised, which I believe contributed to their decision to send us to the country.

Evacuation of London's children had been going on since the beginning of the war and was primarily organized through the schools. Children from our borough were being sent north; Mum and Dad thought that was too close to some major industrial areas and therefore not too safe. With this in mind my brother and I went to stay temporarily with Aunt Lil (one of Dad's sisters) and Uncle Alf in south London. We enrolled in the local school there and when the next group of children were to be sent to the country, we were signed up.

So it was, then, that our departure took place very early one morning at the end of May, 1941, coinciding almost to the day with the cessation of enemy air activity. We joined a group of children at the school saying tearful farewells to parents and other relatives while struggling with small suitcases and bags to board the waiting buses. On a string around his neck and over one shoulder, each child wore the ever-present box containing their gas mask. And each child was decorated with a large cardboard label tied to their clothing, providing their name, school, and home address (which in our case was my aunt's).

Dad, Mum, Aunt, and Uncle all came to see us off.

"You boys will be alright," Dad said reassuringly as he hugged us both. "The people in charge will let us know where you are and we will write to you as soon as we can." He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. "Try to take care of your brother" he added.


"And don't you forget to write to us right away," Mum admonished with tears running down her cheeks.

Aunt Lil stood smiling a wan smile and Uncle Alf looked uncomfortable. "You might even learn to milk a cow," he said.

The buses pulled away from the school. We children crowded the windows to get a last glimpse of their loved ones, settling quietly into our seats as the bus turned the corner at the end of the street. There was not a sound; each of us was very much alone with our thoughts, and scared at the major changes coming in our lives.

After an unusually quiet ride we were deposited at one of London's major rail terminals. Our labels were checked and we were directed to passenger cars identified by letters displayed in the windows. A good deal of confusion ensued, but finally everyone had entered the appropriate car, been double-checked, and had settled down awaiting the start of our journey.

The train full of children, teachers, and volunteer mothers pulled slowly from the station amid billowing clouds of steam. The platform was soon left behind, giving way to a wide expanse of parallel tracks upon which moved one other passenger train. I wondered if it was full of evacuees like us. We silently watched as the familiar jumble of grey slate rooftops, with their thousands of chimney pots, moved past the windows.

Gradually the houses changed from rows of terraces to duplexes and single homes, each with its own small lawn and garden. And then we were passing through the countrysides patchwork of fields and brilliant green hedgerows. Farms and villages dotted the landscape, which many of us were seeing for the first time in our young lives.


A few children quietly sobbed; some cried openly, comforted by teachers and chaperones and watched by those of us stoically accepting the separation from parents and other loved ones. But, as children so often do, one by one we each became absorbed in the strange sights of the English countryside; tears dried.

In a couple of hours the train stopped at a small wayside station and we were allowed to detrain in small groups, each being given a sandwich and a small bottle of milk. By the time we were back on the train and moving, most of us were boisterously making fun of each other and of the unfamiliar sights visible from the windows.

At one point the train was divided into small segments, each with its own locomotive, and each continuing its journey in a different direction.

After being cooped up for what seemed an interminable time but was actually less than two hours, our segment of the original train came to a stop in a tiny station whose name signs had been removed. We were assembled on the grass beside the waiting room building, clutching our small suitcases and other bundles of belongings.

The labels we wore attached to our clothing were checked, and we were directed to board the various buses awaiting us. My brother and I entered the indicated bus together with some fifteen other children. Again we rode in silence, watching the unfamiliar farms and fields from the bus windows as we passed along narrow roads. The hamlet surrounding the station had had all reference to its name removed. Across a valley I saw a small town on a hill, and we passed a road leading to it. I realized that all the signposts had been removed in order to confuse any German spies or saboteurs, many of whom were captured within 24 hours of parachuting into England. (This had been done throughout Britain.)


About two miles later the bus entered a small, unidentified village, coming to a stop at a red brick building. A dingy, peeling painted sign above the door proclaimed it "Jubilee Hall" and indicated that it had been built in 1887 to commemorate the occasion of Queen Victoria's 50th year as Queen of England. A formidable-looking woman wearing a green skirt and a green blouse emblazoned with the letters WVS (Women's Volunteer Service) climbed into the bus and looked at us each in turn with sad eyes. "Come with me, children," she said softly. With a smile she added, "Welcome to Chawleigh."

We reached for our belongings, but she held up her hand. "We will get your luggage for you," she said. As we followed her into the building, two more women identically dressed in green blouses and skirts boarded the bus to gather our meagre luggage and gas-mask boxes. As we entered the hall, a woman seated at a table just inside the door checked each of us against a list lying among a pile of other official-looking documents.

Once checked we were directed to the far end of the room. Here, tables had been set up bearing trays of sandwiches and large pots of tea. We ate and drank ravenously and then took our places on a row of chairs lined up along one side of the hall. We did not have long to wait.

People started arriving. After showing letters to, and conferring with, the woman at the table, names were called and these children left with the appropriate adult.

A sickly-looking boy went first, followed by a tall girl wearing glasses. Next, a pair of pretty twin girls, and a boy with a large mop of curly hair. Finally, my brother and I were the only ones left.

"I was supposed to get twin girls!" a matronly woman loudly complained to the lady at the table.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Webber, but they're already gone," the green-clad volunteer apologized.

"But they were to be mine, look!" and Mrs. Webber angrily threw her letter on the table.


"I'm truly sorry, but the school teacher took them. However we do have these boys who now need a place."

Mrs. Webber and the volunteer walked over to where we were sitting. Mrs. Webber was what my father would describe as a "handsome woman," with an open face and dark hair pulled back into a bun.

"I'll take one of them," she said, looking from one of us to the other.

Only that morning Dad had asked me, "Try to take care of your brother." Already I was being put to the test.

"No!" I retorted.

Taking my brother's hand I picked up our suitcase and started for the door.

"And where do you think you are going?" asked the official with the lists.

"Back to London," I answered. "Either we stay together or we're going home."

"And how do you expect to get back to London?"

"We'll walk to the station we arrived at and go back the way we came." I hoped I sounded convincing.

"How do you propose to pay for your ticket?" she questioned. I was mulling that one over when Mrs. Webber angrily interrupted.

"Why didn't you tell me they were brothers! Of course I'll take them both," she announced.

Putting down our luggage, we sat down and waited while the necessary paperwork was completed.

"Come on then!" Mrs. Webber picked up our suitcase and strode toward the door. We quickly followed.


Going to a strange place-with a woman who obviously wasn't keen on taking us in-was frightening, but it seemed better than the alternative. The last thing I wanted was to be put to the test of getting my brother and me safely back to London, although I had no doubts about trying it.

We made our way out of the building and around the stone-built school with its diamond-shaped, leaded window panes. We walked past the church and ancient churchyard, and on past several thatched cottages. We passed a large house whose blue lamp burning by the front door identified it as the local police station and home of the village constable.

Toward the outskirts of the village we turned in between a barn and house separated by a cobblestone courtyard. The barn had a huge door through which I could see metal storage bins, bulging burlap sacks, and strange implements and tools. A small gate opened off the yard revealing a vegetable garden, like my father's but much bigger.

But it was the house I found most interesting, for it was to be our home for who knew how long. A large rectangular building, it was plastered with cement, painted white with a two-foot high black band around the base, and topped by a steel grey slate roof. A one-storey kitchen had been added to the barn end of the house.

Mrs. Webber ushered us in through the kitchen door. "Welcome to Bells Farm," she said. And she smiled.

Subject: Story: DRESS BLUES
From: wysiwyg
Date: 11 Dec 05 - 08:18 PM

DRESS BLUES

Vic was probably the quietest man I ever knew. It was not that his voice lacked volume, or that he tended toward whispering; on occasion he could make as much noise as any of us. No, the fact was, he was one of the world's rarest of individuals-he only spoke when he had something to say.

We first met when Vic was posted to the military station where I had arrived some four weeks before.

I had returned to the barracks very late one Sunday night, after a 72-hour pass. I was immediately besieged with questions from my barracks-mates concerning my leave. They had to know how much beer I had consumed, and how many women I had seduced. (These and various other details were of the utmost importance to an isolated group of 19-year-old man-boys.) I lied of course, which was expected of me, and the more outrageous my stories became, the noisier we became.

"For God's sake shut up!" This large voice came from beneath a pile of blankets untidily placed on the previously-unoccupied bed next to mine. A chorus of laughter and mostly-unprintable but imaginative remarks greeted the plea for quiet, ranging from his questionable ancestry, through his penchant for certain adolescent male excesses, to accusations of sexual inadequacies. This repartee, together with a small and rather inaccurate shower of boots and other unattached items, was aimed at the still-invisible owner of the large voice.

As the uproar subsided I walked over to the offending pile of bedding and, pulling away a blanket, revealed a round face, liberally freckled and containing two very dark and very hostile eyes.

"I'm Jack," I said, thrusting out my right hand.

"I'm Vic," he answered, ignoring my outstretched hand. "Now can we get some bloody quiet!"

Vic being a driver and I a mechanic, our everyday duties inevitably threw us together; we grew at first tolerant of each other, then friendly, and finally, after a few weeks, we became firm friends. We spent most of our free time together; each included the other in any recreational plans; and most importantly, we supported each other in that most ego-devastating of all pastimes, the pursuit of girls.

I have always been accused of talking to anything that stayed in one place long enough, and have often thought that Vic's terseness and my garrulousness made our friendship very unlikely. But perhaps our successful comradeship was due to these differences, which relieved Vic from the chore of talking and myself from that of thinking.

One afternoon we were whiling away the time between the end of our workday and going to the mess for our evening meal. An unusually quiet card game was in progress on the first cot inside the door of our barracks room. Three beds were occupied by sleeping forms. I was intent on a crossword puzzle, and Vic was reading a letter just received from home.

"My Mam says my brother wants to sell his dress blue uniform," he announced to the world at large. I knew, however, that the statement was meant for me, and immediately I was blinded by the vision of myself resplendent in blue.


"What regiment?" I asked, struggling to sound calm. "Royal Artillery, same as us," Vic replied.

Bulls-eye! It was common knowledge to all of us that girls were attracted to a uniform, and I was positive that a beautiful, dark blue outfit could not fail to draw them in droves.

Then came sudden panic. "What size?" I hesitantly ventured.

"Our size," Vic answered. The panic vanished to be replaced with the knowledge that this was to be a partnership acquisition, due, I surmised, to the cost of the glorious suit.

Our size. That statement didn't seem at all strange to either of us.

Our size, even if I was about three inches taller than Vic, with a physique resembling a mop handle while he looked like a duffle bag stuffed with volleyballs. Obviously we were both obsessed by a mental picture of ourselves having to forcibly drive away the crowds of girls our dark blue beauty would inevitably attract.

In order to understand the tremendous desirability of dress blues, it must be realized that the British Army's standard-issue uniform of the late 1940's was, to say the least, uninspiring. We had long been aware of the fine material, color, and tailoring of the every-day suits of our American counterparts. We had admired the French uniforms; even the grey issued tunics worn by the German POW's seemed to make them look very military.


But the regular British uniform almost defied description. It consisted of a blouse-type tunic self-belted at the waist, with oversized and flapped breast pockets and a primitive collar fastened at the throat by two hooks and eyes. The trousers sported a large map pocket on the front of each leg, making it almost impossible to obtain even the suggestion of a pressed crease.

This euphemistically termed "battle dress" was made of a coarse, hairy, dull khaki-colored material whose evolution from the back of a sheep was all but a rumor. At best, by dint of careful folding and pressing, it was possible to look like a carefully- arranged pile of large balls of string. At worst, we looked like so many unmade beds. The whole thing was obviously designed by an avowed pacifist and was calculated to induce so much laughter in an enemy force that they would roll helplessly on the ground and thus be rendered ineffective.

As far as I was concerned, at this point there was only one question left. "Did your mum say how much your brother wants for the blues?" I asked.

Vic looked me straight in the eye with the obvious intention of gauging my reaction. "My brother wants eight pounds for it," he said, hastily adding, "Do you think that's too much?"

I made a tremendous effort to keep my face devoid of all expression. Eight pounds was only four pounds each, bearing in mind this was to be joint ownership, I thought, but four pounds represented two weeks' pay which meant some real sacrifices would have to be made. However, I reasoned, the anticipated privations would be nothing compared to the figure I would cut in that glorious uniform, and the resulting hordes of beautiful young ladies I could not fail to attract.

"No Vic, I think eight pounds is about right," I answered. "Mind you, I don't have the money right now, and it might take awhile before I can scrape four pounds together," I added.

Vic's face broke into a relieved grin. "In about four weeks I'll be going home on seven day's leave," he said. "Do you think you'll have the money by then?"

"I don't see why not," I answered with a confidence I really was not feeling.


The next four weeks seemed to fly by. I first decided to collect the money I had lent over the past several weeks, and unmercifully hounded my debtors until they paid me off just to be rid of me. I used my artistic ability to sketch many voluptuous pin-ups for which I was mostly paid in cigarettes, readily converting them into cash from the heavy smokers among our civilian employees around the barracks. I also took over some guard duty and duty driver assignments from my motor transport comrades, for cash consideration.

All this effort, plus money set aside from my own meager earnings, resulted in my being able to present Vic with four one-pound notes on the eve of his departure for home.

The next seven days took at least a month to pass until, late one night, Vic entered our barracks room, dragging his duffle bag and carrying a fairly large box wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"I've got it," he announced. Throwing his bag on his bed he came toward me waving the package over his head.

With barely-controlled excitement I watched Vic place the parcel on his bed and start to untie the knots in the string. This is just like Christmas, I thought, as he fiddled and fussed with the balky fastenings.

Finally I could stand it no longer. "For God's sake," I exclaimed and, taking out my pocket knife, I cut the string in two places. Vic looked up at me, grinning widely.

"Patience is a virtue," he recited, "possess it if you c-"

"Go to hell," I interrupted. "I want to see the blues."

He discarded the brown paper and took the lid off the cardboard box. Folding back some tissue paper, he removed the uniform and carefully laid it out on my cot.


It was beautiful! I gazed enthralled at its dark blueness, at the trousers with a bright red stripe extending from waist to ankle on the outside of each leg. I saw the high-collared tunic with a gleaming white braided lanyard around the left sleeve at the shoulder. And the buttons-a row of sparkling brass down the front of the coat, each one bearing an embossed cannon at its center. I reached for my red and blue dress cap, purchased months before and only worn with khaki until now, and placed it on the blue uniform. The colors were a perfect match.

By this time, those of our barracks room-companions who were not sleeping had gathered around the blues, emitting appropriate oohs and ahs.

"Whose is it?" asked Ron McCabe.

"Ours," I answered proudly. Ron looked from me to Vic and back to me, and then exchanged glances with a couple of the others but said nothing more.

For the next few days Vic and I would look at the suit at odd moments. By Thursday, it became obvious that we would have to find some means of deciding who would be the first to wear the dress uniform on the coming Saturday night.

"How about we just flip a coin?" I suggested. Vic agreed, I flipped the coin, Vic called, and I lost.

Saturday afternoon Vic started to prepare for his debut in the dress blues. He had decided to take a recreational bus into a nearby small town. There, the local parson, aided by members of his congregation, tried to keep us young men out of the local pubs by holding a weekly social for area soldiers and local girls in the church hall.


About thirty minutes before his departure time, Vic paraded for us in his finery. He looked great-we all said so. Of course I was sure nobody would notice that the buttons of the tunic looked somewhat strained across his chest, or that the sleeves reached to his knuckles. I was equally certain that the trouser legs baggily dragging on the floor would go unremarked.

That is, until Ron observed, "Perhaps you could tighten your braces to pull the trousers a bit higher." Vic demonstrated that if he raised them any more the crotch most likely would cut him in two. Finally, amid much good-natured advice on how to handle the swarms of beautiful girls he was going to draw, Vic left the barracks on the inaugural display of our newly-acquired splendor.

After spending my Saturday night with barracks chums Ron McCabe and Ginger Grant at the village pub, drinking beer and playing darts with some local men, I returned to barracks and settled down to await Vic's return. Shortly after midnight he entered the room, waved a greeting and, walking to his bed, sat down. Immediately he was surrounded by a small group of very inquisitive soldiers.

"Well, how did it go?" asked Ginger.

"I had a good time," Vic replied.

"I mean did all the girls go for you?" Ginger persisted.

"Not exactly..." Vic answered, starting to look a bit uncomfortable. By this time we were all becoming exasperated at Vic's reticence.

"Tell us what happened," snapped Ron, completely losing patience.

"Well, I saw Margaret," Vic offered. We all groaned. Margaret was a small, attractive brunette who was always friendly to everyone, especially if a soldier looked forlorn and left out of things. She was a good dancer, danced every dance, and made anyone she danced with look good. Margaret was also the parson's daughter, usually arriving with her father and always leaving with him. What Vic was telling us was that he'd done no better with the girls in his dress uniform than he'd always done without it. We reluctantly returned to our beds, as there was no story here. I lay on my cot awaiting sleep; I vowed it would be different next Saturday when I would be turned loose on the female population in all my glory.

After much anticipation, Saturday finally arrived. After a shower and a meticulous shave, I donned the blues. Since we had no full-length mirror in which I could admire myself, I had to settle for holding a small shaving mirror in one hand to display various vantage points. The tunic buttoned with room to spare and appeared to hang perfectly, although the sleeves were ever-so-slightly short. Ron wandered over with the air of a self-appointed sartorial expert.

"Perhaps you could loosen your braces a bit to let your trousers reach your shoes," he suggested. I loosened my braces and lowered the trousers until he assured me that they and the shoes had met.

Of course, although I didn't realize it, the lowering of the trousers resulted in their seat taking a new position about midway between my bottom and my knees, and considerably below the hem of my jacket. Never having been one to look back, I didn't give this a single thought and left on my Saturday night adventure in high spirits and full of confidence.

As Vic had done the week before, I decided to attend the weekly social and, by the time I arrived, the event was already underway. I stepped inside and stood by the door. A few soldiers from my battery waved a greeting, which I returned. Two of them came over to ask where I'd got the uniform and how long I had owned it. I looked around. Amazingly, the invitational looks I had anticipated from the young ladies didn't materialize! Although a few did glance in my direction, it was only as they would have had I dropped my refreshments on the floor.


I made my way through dancing couples to a row of chairs against the wall, and sat down to try to unravel this puzzle.

My deep thought was interrupted by a soft female voice saying, "I think you look very nice." Turning in the direction of the speaker I saw a "gentle" girl. By that I mean that in addition to her gentle voice, she had gentle-looking hair of a gentle color, a pretty and gentle face with gentle eyes, and she was even wearing a very becoming gentle dress.

"Thank you," I smiled as I slid over two intervening chairs to take my place beside her.

"My name is Doris," she said, extending her hand. I shook it as I introduced myself. I had seen her at the Saturday socials several times before but had never spoken to her, probably because I had never been alone before. Usually I was one of a group of soldiers out for an evening of fun, and groups of young men always seem to attract groups of girls.

I stayed with Doris for the entire evening. We danced, had refreshments together, and talked constantly. After the dance we shook hands and arranged to do the same thing in two weeks.

Upon my arrival back at the barracks, I was subjected to the same interrogation Vic had suffered the previous week. However, I handled things a little differently.

"Yes, I had a great time." "Yes, I danced with a different girl every dance for the first two hours, and they all wanted to keep me to themselves." "Yes, I finally spent the rest of the evening with the most beautiful girl in the whole hall-who thought I looked terrific."

Satisfied with the story of my successful evening, my barracks-mates returned to their beds. Rapidly undressing, I crawled exhaustedly into mine.

"Jack," Vic whispered, "was all that true?"

"Just the last part," I whispered back. "G'night."


For the next several weeks Vic and I alternated wearing the blues, and a couple of things soon became very apparent to me. Firstly, we could not go to the social together as it would be too difficult to explain why we both didn't wear our dress uniforms at the same time. Secondly, he and I were not spending Saturday nights with our friends as we had always enjoyed in the past. Also, although the blues had probably been responsible for my meeting Doris, we had to admit that the dress uniform had not accomplished what we had hoped when we bought it-namely, an uncontrollable improvement in our respective love lives.

One Saturday afternoon I tentatively approached Vic. "It's my turn to use the blues tonight," I ventured.

"Yes, I know," he answered with a somewhat puzzled expression.

"Well," I continued, "How about if I don't wear it and you and I go down to the pub and meet the others to play some darts and stuff?" Vic grinned from ear to ear.

"I'll even buy the first round," he said.

And neither of us ever wore the dress uniform again.

Almost two months passed, during which we both returned to our places in the group of our friends, enjoying the activities we had enjoyed "pre-blues." I continued to see Doris from time to time and Vic also met a local girl, enabling us to occasionally double date. The dress uniform was never mentioned by either of us, until one rainy Friday night.

Vic had just finished a 24-hour stint as duty driver, and, soaking wet, came into the barracks with a story about a great pub in a town some 15 miles distant where he and the duty officer had eaten their mid-day meal.

"We could go there tomorrow night if you like," he said enthusiastically, and I agreed to give it a try.


So, the next evening we made our way to the "Jolly Ploughman," which turned out to be a good pub with good beer, good food, and a congenial clientele. Among the people we met were two artillerymen from a nearby training camp. After playing several dart games with them, we all four sat down to enjoy some beer and conversation.
The talk inevitably turned to the trials and tribulations of being a soldier and the difficulty of trying to look good in Army-issue uniforms.

"A friend of ours has a dress blue uniform and he really looks good when he goes out," offered the taller of our new-found friends.

His companion nodded, "It would be nice if I could afford one," he said.

I directed a questioning glance at Vic and almost imperceptibly he inclined his head.

I turned to the others, "Why don't you consider doing what Vic and I did and go together to buy the blues?" I asked.

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed the tall one and, turning to his shorter friend asked, "What do you think, Fred?"

"I'm all for it," Fred replied. "But where'll we find a dress uniform?"

I tried my best to sound nonchalant. "Vic and I just happen to want to sell ours," I said.

"Why?"

"Because we'll soon be going back to civilian life and we'll have no use for it then," I answered.

I hoped they would not question me too closely about the word 'soon.' Vic and I figured we had a little over a year yet to serve in the Army, but I rationalized that in the life of an English oak tree a year could be referred to as 'soon.'

"How much?" asked Fred, coming straight to the point.

"Nine pounds," I answered without batting an eye. Vic looked worried.


Fred glanced at his companion and looked back at me. "Too much," he said. "We'll give you seven."

I attempted to remain calm and hoped my eyes looked dull. "How about splitting the difference at eight?" I suggested.

"Done!" the taller of the two exclaimed.

We arranged for the transfer of the dress uniform in two weeks. They would inspect the condition of the blues and, if satisfactory, the deal would be consummated.

Two weeks later Vic and I entered the Jolly Ploughman carrying the box containing the uniform to find the two prospective purchasers already waiting for us. After briefly examining the suit, they gave me the agreed-upon eight pounds and, with shining eyes and smiling faces, they excused themselves and disappeared through the front door. Vic and I followed them outside and stood watching them stride away, Fred clutching the precious box. There they went-Fred, about Vic's height but with a physique, or lack of it, like mine. His companion, as tall as me but with a body resembling Vic's.

As they passed out of sight we looked at each other for a long moment and then started to laugh. Within seconds we were completely out of control. We helplessly attempted to talk to each other but gave up in new outbursts of stomach-wrenching laughter, until with tears streaming down our reddened faces and arms around each other's shoulders, we re-entered the Ploughman to spend some of our new-found wealth.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 11 Dec 05 - 10:18 PM

EVACUATION

The climax of these raids came again to London on Sunday, December 29 and was timed to coincide with the dead-low-water hour of the tidal Thames River. Water mains were broken at the start by very highly-explosive parachute mines. These were followed by incendiary bombs almost exclusively, resulting in between 1,500 and 2,000 fires burning simultaneously- the majority out of control-[spacing different with first and last hyphens - might be a conversion to web thing]with little water with which to battle them. It was said that the Thames was pumped so dry that one could have walked across it.

By the end of May, 1941, the air raids had ceased. Over 20,000 Londoners were dead. Ten times that number had suffered injuries, and one in six were should be was made homeless. For over three years all was virtually quiet until the V-1 (doodle-bug) bombardment began, followed by V-2 rockets.

"You boys will be alright - all right," Dad said reassuringly as he hugged us both. "The people in charge will let us know where you are and we will write to you as soon as we can." He placed his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. "Try to take care of your brother" he added.

The buses pulled away from the school. We children crowded the windows to get a last glimpse of their - our loved ones, settling quietly into our seats as the bus turned the corner at the end of the street. There was not a sound; each of us was very much alone with our thoughts, and scared at the major changes coming in our lives.

Gradually the houses changed from rows of terraces to duplexes and single homes, each with its own small lawn and garden. And then we were passing through the countrysides - countryside's patchwork of fields and brilliant green hedgerows. Farms and villages dotted the landscape, which many of us were seeing for the first time in our young lives.

Going to a strange place-with a woman who obviously wasn't keen on taking us in-spaces around the hyphens?was frightening, but it seemed better than the alternative. The last thing I wanted was to be put to the test of getting my brother and me safely back to London, although I had no doubts about trying it.

But it was the house I found most interesting, for it was to be our home for who knew how long. A large rectangular building, it was plastered with cement, painted white with a two-foot high black band around the base, and topped by a steel grey slate roof. A one-storey one-story kitchen had been added to the barn end of the house.


DRESS BLUES

Nothing I noticed in a quick read-through

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 11 Dec 05 - 11:09 PM

Thanks, Judy. Good catches. Yes the hyphen spacing is a web-paste problem that is OK in the doc file.

~S~

Subject: Story: THE KING NEEDS ME
From: wysiwyg
Date: 12 Dec 05 - 09:17 AM

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.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 12 Dec 05 - 10:03 AM

THE KING NEEDS ME

nothing obvious in this one either

JudyB

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 12 Dec 05 - 11:26 AM

DONE, and submitted. Thanks again, Judy.

~S~

Subject: Story: EARLY MEMORIES
From: wysiwyg
Date: 12 Dec 05 - 03:30 PM

The last (I think) of the four missing stories has turned up. I have mixed feelings about posting it.... but as I said earlier, Jack was a natural-born Mudcatter, so here goes! I knew from his filename list that it must exist, but this is definitely one I had not seen before, so it may have quite a few awkwardnesses yet to unravel editorially. It makes a perfect start to the collection. It's so funny that of all the stories, I should see this one LAST!

~S~

===================

EARLY MEMORIES

I suppose everyone, at some time, has met a person who claims to remember events in their lives from very early childhood. A few people have described to me their experiences while learning to walk, or memories of their first birthday; I even talked to an elderly woman many years ago who claimed she recalled the occasion of her birth. I found this remarkable—not only the extremely early recollection but the prodigious accomplishment of remembering the event well into her eighties.

As for me, I remember very little from my early life. Even then, my brain had apparently started practicing the memory lapses that so often plague me now.

There are two experiences I do recall that happened around my third birthday, one painfully unpleasant and the other very enjoyable.

I was playing with a ball in the kitchen of our house, which I am sure my mother had forbidden. After a particularly high bounce, the ball landed on top of the gas stove, out of sight from my three-year-old's vantage point. Dragging a small stool to the stove, I climbed up to retrieve my ball. Reaching for it my hand contacted a flaming burner, searing my palm and leaving scars which I carry still.

My only other early recollection was a several-week stay with my mother's sister Aunt Edie and her husband Uncle Fred, who lived in south London. The reason for my extended visit was "Mummy is going to get you a new baby brother or sister." I do not remember caring which, or even whether.

Aunt Edie and Uncle Fred had no children of their own, so I was king of the house. I was consulted on what I would like for dinner, how many times a week I wanted to go to the cinema, and when, where, and how far I wished to walk with my aunt in the local park. Mine was the decision on how long I would remain on the swings, and how high my doting aunt must push me. And these outings had to conclude with ice cream—the flavor selected by me, of course.

Once a week, I assume on Uncle Fred's payday, he would take me to a little shop across the street from their apartment. There he bought me a toy, usually a small cast-metal, realistically-painted farm animal. I don't remember how long I stayed with Aunt and Uncle, but I do know that by the time I returned to my parents and new brother I had quite an extensive collection of miniature livestock.

The next couple of years were apparently uneventful with many happy memories of spending a great deal of time with my father, who patiently tried to teach me the fundamentals of cricket and football (soccer), while Mother was occupied with the bawling fragmenter of my family.

Until I was almost five years old.

Periodically our family would journey across London to visit my grandparents for a weekend. Sometimes it would be Mother's parents, and sometime Dad's. These visits necessitated passing through the center of the city, and many times we broke our bus ride to see the sights. I was introduced to Picadilly Circus, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square with its fountains, flocks of pigeons, and the statue of British naval hero Lord Nelson atop a column which, to me, appeared to touch the clouds.

On one of these cultural intervals Dad decided we should go to an art gallery; perhaps it was the National Gallery which bordered Trafalgar Square. I remember nothing about anything we saw except one particular statue. It was a figure of a naked boy, and, as is often done, his modesty was preserved by a fig leaf. Not recognizing the foliage on the statue's body I could only surmise that this was how boys were supposed to look; since I knew I wasn't arranged in that manner, that I concluded that I must be somehow deformed.

I had nothing else to go on. I had very little to do with my brother, and certainly not while he was bellowing at being bathed.

Being appalled at my deformity I know that whatever we did for the rest of that weekend was of no interest to me. I remember becoming withdrawn and shy, hating to be bathed, and wondering why Mother had never mentioned my ugliness.

That evening, for the first time I was ready and waiting beside the bathtub when it was time for my brother's bath. Gazing at his body I was amazed to see he was just as deformed as I! My mother appeared to be totally unconcerned about her malformed sons, and I took some comfort from that but was not really reassured until I started school.

For some time, Mother had been talking to me about something she called "school."

"You'll soon be going to school," she would say. "Won't that be nice?" I didn't think so.

"You will be able to play with lots of other children every day," she would smile down at me. I was already playing with other preschool children every day in front of our house.

"You'll learn lots of wonderful things at school; won't you like that?" My father was already teaching me to kick a soccer ball and swing a cricket bat, and I couldn't think of anything more wonderful than that.

Anyway, if school was as enjoyable as Mother said it was, why did the children happily run and laugh so much as they left the playground when their school day was over?

Finally came the day I had been dreading.

"Well, Jack, you start school on Monday. Aren't you excited?"

Apparently there was no way out. I felt doomed, but still had no notion of what school was all about. What I did know was that I was frightened of this unknown and wanted, more than anything, to stay home with Mum.

It seemed obvious my mother was trying to get rid of me so she could spend all her time with my brother—my two-year-old brother who was a terrible affliction to me, the bane of my existence. He was always trying to take over my belongings, and several of my prized possessions were destroyed at his ubiquitous hands. Even when I gained his attention with a few well-placed whacks, my respite was only temporary. Yet this was the monster my mother wanted to keep with her while I was to be sent away.

Monday morning came, and at 8:30 the three of us set off for school. With one hand, Mother pushed a stroller containing my brother; she dragged me with the other.

Entering the iron gates of the playground, we were confronted by a huge, forbidding, red brick building and mother dragged me, scared and crying, inside. Directed down a long, dismal hallway, we stopped outside an open classroom door. A large woman met us, smiling broadly.

"So this is Jackie," she said. I hated to be called Jackie even then. Prying my fingers from my mother's hand she almost carried me bodily, kicking and screaming, into the room where she dumped me at a small desk with the admonishment, "Stay there and don't you dare move!" With tears streaming down my face, and oblivious to the gaze of the other children in the room, I looked at the still-open door. Mother had gone.

After a while my crying turned to sobs; finally I sat quietly, looking at my surroundings. The room was not unpleasant... Two large windows dominated one wall while the remaining three contained a blackboard and vast numbers of childish drawings.

The teacher started to talk but I paid no attention, my mind occupied with but one thought: how could I escape from there and go home to Mother? I had already learned that if I misbehaved I would get immediate attention from my parents and be banished from the room. Perhaps I could get sent from the classroom, and then find my way home. My plan was soon executed. Opening my mouth I started to sing at the top of my voice, quickly gaining the attention of the teacher and my classmates.

"Please be quiet, Jackie," the teacher said as she walked to where I was lustily bellowing one of the few songs I had memorized for the entertainment of doting grandparents.

"Stop that noise immediately," she ordered. Getting no response, she grabbed my hands and planted me at a desk in one of the back corners of the room. "Stay there and don't move," she commanded.

Moving the other pupils to the front (at the desks farthest removed from me), she resumed her lesson.

This was not going at all as I had planned! By now I should have been thrown out of the classroom and on my way home. I continued to sing as loudly as I could for the rest of the morning until the noon bell signalled the end of the end of our three-hour school session, and the completion of my first school day.

Mother was waiting for me in the hallway; she and Teacher had a brief, animated conversation before Mum took my hand and led me from the building. I was so glad to see her that even my brother didn't look so bad.

"Your teacher told me you sang in class all morning," she said. "Now why did you do that?"

"Don't know," I lied.

Both Mother and Father lectured me that evening while I hung my head and looked at my shoes, hoping they would punish me by not sending me to school the next day.

Tuesday morning was a repeat of the previous day; Mother pushed the stroller and dragged me just as before.

Entering the classroom the teacher greeted me with, "Well, do you intend to sing today?" I nodded my head. Once again she led me to the desk in the corner, and once again I treated the class to my repertoire of songs until the noon bell rang.

I was getting discouraged—two days of disrupting the class, and I still hadn't been sent home. What was worse, my parent's lecture that evening was much more severe than the first.

Next morning repeated the first two except that when questioned by the teacher, "Are you going to sing again?" I shook my head "No." So I was invited to join the rest of the class and sat, half listening to the teacher reading a story, and half wondering what I could possibly do to escape from school and go home.

After about an hour I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. The procedure, as explained to us, was to raise one's hand, request permission to be excused, and go to the toilets for whatever reason. I tentatively raised my hand and quickly withdrew it. It had occurred to me that if I obeyed nature's call where I sat, I would surely be banished from the classroom and could then go home!

The idea seemed foolproof, so without wasting any time, I proceeded to relieve my bowels, in my clothing, where I sat. Immediately I had grave misgivings. This was far more uncomfortable than I could have possibly imagined. But there was no turning back, and I nervously awaited the teacher's reaction. A boy seated close to me raised his hand.

"Jackie has pooped in his trousers," he blurted out. The teacher cautiously approached and confirmed that the boy's information was indeed correct.

"You just sit there and don't move! I'm going to send for your mother!" she screamed. I was triumphant. My plan was going to work and I would be going home with Mum, although I was very uncertain of her reaction to my efforts. I didn't have to wait long before my mother came storming into the classroom with a face like thunder.

"What do you think you are doing, you dirty little boy," she growled as she grasped my hand to remove me from the room. Now it must be understood that way back then, all British schoolboys wore short pants. Thus, as Mum pulled me to my feet, gravity inevitably took over. The result of my indiscretion slid down my legs and into my socks. Mother then pulled me, uncomfortable and aromatic, to the toilets. She used great wads of tissue paper in a not-too-successful attempt to clean me up.

We left the school grounds and headed home. I was elated. My plan had worked, although I was sure I would never use that method of liberation again.

Once home I received one of the few spankings on my rear that I can remember, although it was the most painful, and was only administered after my mother, with great foresight, had scrubbed me spotless.

The remainder of my first school year must have been uneventful, as I can remember nothing until we moved from our house to another neighborhood in London and, of course, another school.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 12 Dec 05 - 03:35 PM

Correction-- since I just found Lord Nelson in Trafalgar I'll re-punc the sightseeing list.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 13 Dec 05 - 10:48 AM

Only one thing:

EARLY MEMORIES

This was not going at all as I had planned! By now I should have been thrown out of the classroom and on my way home. I continued to sing as loudly as I could for the rest of the morning until the noon bell signalled the end of the end of - duplicate words our three-hour school session, and the completion of my first school day.

Thanks again for letting us read the stories!

Judy

Subject: Hart stories
From: wysiwyg
Date: 16 Nov 16 - 10:17 AM

Ran across this old thread troday, which seems to be suffering somewhat from a Mudcat crash. These would have been Hart stories I was editing for his widow to share with his kids.

Very nice to see them, since my hardcopy has disappeared and the hard drive they were on went kablooey.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mrrzy
Date: 16 Nov 16 - 12:57 PM

Aw, and I was rushing to your rescue for the proofreading when I saw who'd reopened the thread... but your story is nicer.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 16 Nov 16 - 01:09 PM

Well, you can always prufreed the post that reopened it. ;-)

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Donuel
Date: 16 Nov 16 - 03:16 PM

Sorry, I.m dyslexic

Looks god to me.