BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP

Subject: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 12:38 PM

A friend's stories were entrusted to me some time ago, before he died, and I am getting the final draft ready to send to his children as he wanted. For reasons I can't go into here, I am having to retype them all from an earlier draft that includes my editing marks... my friend was always very faithful in following my edits, but although I know he made the corrections, I don't have his last clear copy to send to the children.

What I am looking for is help spotting JUST words that are mis-spelled or make no sense at all, that the spellchecker and my re-read have missed. I'm under a tight deadline-- again, I can't explain why-- so others' eyes on that would be much appreciated.

I will not be able to use any other input, though I know we have some great language aficionados here. I just need another look over the typing. In exchange, I promise you will get to read some lovely stories of times long gone by. I'll post a short one, next post.

~S~

Subject: Story: THE BOAT
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 12:39 PM

THE BOAT

Being a child in the 1930's was a mostly happy time for me. True, the Great Depression had caused mass unemployment throughout Britain. However, my father was employed as a tailor's cutter by a manufacturer of prestigious men's raincoats and topcoats. Although he was among the fortunate who still had a job, his wages were held down due to the masses of men who waited for the chance to work. We were quite poor, but I didn't know it.

Dad and I were very close, and we spent as much time together as he could squeeze out of his schedule. He continued to instruct me in the finer points of cricket, and spent many hours honing my soccer skills. I also learned from him whatever tolerance and compassion I now have.

The company for which Dad worked was expanding, so they moved to a larger building in another part of London. Dad when with them, and we moved closer to his job.

I had to start attending a different school and, at age seven, this was a daunting experience. I had to make new friends, which took a little time; but the worst part of any new school was being called upon to fight several of the boys in order to establish my position in the "pecking order." I did not fare well.

One of the nicest things about our new home was a nearby park. Mum and Dad often took my brother and me there, especially to a shallow round pond, some 100 feet across, made expressly for sailing model boats. I would watch, fascinated by the various types and sizes of the power boats, many of them built by their proud, grownup owners.
But it was the sailboats that received most of my attention, from the small sloops to home-built schooners with masts reaching almost three feet above their decks. My imagination ran unchecked as I stood and watched the owners setting the sails to propel their ships across the small ocean, until I was reluctantly dragged away to continue our walk.

"Look what came for you," Mum smiled as, a couple of weeks after my introduction to the boating pond, I entered our house after a day at school. She handed me a fairly large box, which had been delivered with that day's mail. Immediately I started to open it.

"Perhaps you'd want to wait for Dad to get home before you do that, "Mum suggested. I knew she was right, and reluctantly put down the package, looking at the clock and hoping it was time for Dad to walk in the door.

Some two hours later I heard Dad's key in the front door lock and I ran to meet him, clutching the box to my chest.

"Can I open it now Dad?" I pleaded. Dad smiled, "Yes, you can open it now."

With fumbling fingers and Dad's help I tore the box open, revealing the most beautiful model sailboat I had ever seen. Looking back I now realize that my parents must have made quite a few sacrifices to enable them to vive me such a wonderful gift.

My father stepped the mast, connected the boom, and fitted the sails. "What a beauty she is." I was enraptured. "Thanks, Mum and Dad," and I hugged and kissed them each in turn as I gazed at my green-hulled craft with its snow-white sails.

"When can we try it, Dad?" I felt I couldn't wait another minute. Dad laughed aloud at my excitement. "We'll go to the park on Saturday," he promised.

And on that Saturday, and many more Saturdays, we sailed my pride and joy. Dad taught me to set the sails to drive the boat across the pond, and I would run to the other side to await its arrival. But, once in a while, the breeze would drop, or change direction, and my sloop would become becalmed in the middle of the pond, together with many other sailboats.

"I'll get them," Dad would laugh, and, stripping off his shoes and socks and rolling up his trouser legs, he would step into the sixteen-inch-deep water, returning to shore dragging the limp-sailed boats behind him, like Lemuel Gulliver towing the diminutive fleet of Blefescu back to Lilliput.

Under Dad's tutelage I seen became adept at sailing my craft, and together we spent many happy hours until the second relocation we were to make because of Dad's job. I never saw such a fine model boating pond again.

###

Subject: Story: BLITZ!
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 12:41 PM

And a longer one, below.

~S~

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

BLITZ!

July 10, 1940 is generally considered to mark the opening of the Battle of Britain.

The German Air Force began bombing coastal towns in southeast England to soften them up for operation "Sea Lion," which was the proposed invasion of Britain.

They soon realized that the Royal Air Force was stronger than they had first thought, and so, in early August, the Luftwaffe turned from the seaports to concentrate on our fighter airfields—with considerable success. Many bases in the southeast and in the London area were rendered almost non-operational, and British air supremacy was in jeopardy.

On August 15, a major action in the Battle of Britain took place. All 22 squadrons of the RAF were engaged, many twice and some three timers. It was a disaster for the German Air Force, which lost some 106 aircraft and their crews, while British losses were only 34 fighters with some of their pilots parachuting to safety.

In September, the Luftwaffe turned to bombing London, which—being the world's largest city at that time—required very little accuracy to hit. This gave RAF Fighter Command the respite it desperately needed to repair its runways and to make its bases fully operational. After sporadic raids on the city during August, the Battle of London was now to be fought.

From September 7 to November 3, an average of 200 German bombers attacked London every night. These raids were accompanied by daylight attacks by small groups or even single planes, and air raid sirens sounded at intervals throughout the entire 24 hours for that period.

On September 15, the Luftwaffe made its greatest concentrated effort on London. Every British fighter was used before the battle was finished; at the end of the action, German losses were reported as 183 aircraft, with the RAF losing 40.

This, then, was where we children found ourselves in the middle of October of 1940. Nightly air raids were now accepted as normal, although the earth-shuddering noise of exploding bombs and our own anti-aircraft gunfire took a bit of getting used to. The great majority of Londoners went about their business as usual, with a marked disdain for the Luftwaffe's efforts. Our group of 11- and 12-year-olds were no exception.

Areas of destroyed or damaged houses and other buildings were being added to each night; among the early casualties were two neighborhood schools, mine being one if them.

I left home early one morning as I always did, and met some of my friends for the walk to school as usual. We were animatedly discussing the previous night's air raid as we turned the corner into the street where our school dominated the surrounding terrace houses.

"Blimey," Alan said quietly.

We looked at him and then in the direction of his pointing finger.

A large part of our school building was piled in the playground; the street was covered with rubble, and grey dust blanketed everything.

"No school today," observed David.

"No school for quite a while, I'd say," said Arthur, putting into words what most of us were slowly beginning to think.

"Let's tell the others!" Doreen yelled over her shoulder, breaking into a dead run as she started back the way we had come. We needed no urging, and for the next twenty minutes we dashed about joyously telling every school-bound child the good news.

Finally, several hundred noisy children crowded the street, and with great confusion, tried to locate their teachers that they might assemble by class. This was finally accomplished, and we slowly quieted down at our teachers' insistence.

The headmaster carefully climbed a pile of wrecked building parts so we could all see him, and told us to go home.

"Your parents will be notified when we are able to find a suitable place to hold classes, " he said. "Behave yourselves—and good luck." A great cheer arose from hundreds of throats and we stampeded from what was left of our school, rejoicing in our new-found freedom.

Thus a large number of children fond themselves at loose ends, and many of us gravitated to a quite extensive nearby park each day. It was common to see a hundred or more children yelling, running, and playing, with no indication that they had been frightened out of their wits just a few hours before.

A few of us had known each other for several years, either being in the same school class or living in the same neighborhood. Although we played with children who were outside the group, it seemed that we preferred each other's company. It was almost as though we were more brothers and sisters than just good friends. We all contributed something, and we all seemed to take from each other that which was necessary for our development as individuals. My small group of close friends would singly make their way to the park every morning, and the first arrivals would hang around the swings in the playground area until the group was complete. Only then would we consider how we were going to occupy our time that day.

There was Alan, who was born on the same day as I. We were in the same class in school, and our grades in all subjects were almost always identical. We were both capable cricketers and aggressive, fairly skillful football (soccer) players, but it was in the hundred-yard dash that we really came head to head. Neither of us could consistently defeat the other, and the only sure thing on school sports day was that one of us would win and the other would be close behind. Alan was short and stocky, I was taller and thinner. Alan was very handsome, I was taller. Alan had a magnificent shock of curly blond hair, I was taller. Alan had a beautiful singing voice, I was taller.

Arthur had an enormous head, out of all proportion to his size. This large roundness, resting on narrow shoulders, was covered with short black hair; from the back he resembled a diminutive Grenadier guardsman wearing a bearskin. At twelve-and-a-half going on fifty, Arthur was the oldest of the group. Because he usually listened intently to his parents' conversations, and because his father was interested in everything under the sun, Arthur was easily the best informed of any of us. Peering through round, steel-rimmed spectacles like some strange owl, he would explain why the war was going to last a long time and why our side would eventually win. He possessed a terrific sense of humor and would entertain us for hours with strange and hilariously funny stories. Arthur always thought he was right—the exasperating thing being that he always was. Arthur was our intellectual, although he seldom received the respect from his peers that he deserved.

David was gullible and trusting. He believed everything anyone told him, no matter how far-fetched or bizarre. He was the one who at our urging, went into the local undertaker's establishment and innocently asked if they had any empty boxes to give away. Whenever we decided it would be great fun to knock on people's doors and then run away and hide, David did the knocking and running while the rest of us did the hiding. He also was the most bewildered by the nightly air raids, the destruction, and the smell of dust. David was the one of whom the boys were most protective and whom the girls wanted to mother.

Doreen was beautiful with straight blonde hair cut in the style of a medieval pageboy, skin without a blemish, and a pair of intense blue eyes that commanded attention. Heads turned for a second look whenever she passed, but she never appeared to notice for Doreen was a tomboy in every sense. When Alan and me selected team members for a pickup game of soccer, Doreen would be picked between David and Arthur. She could run, jump, and field a cricket ball with any of us. She happened to be the one who "pubesced" earliest, and forsook our group first.

Jean, nicknamed "Duchess," was slender and tall, taller than any of us, and very elegant. She was not beautiful, but somehow it didn't matter because she was all class—always cool, calm, and every inch an 11-year-old lady. Her presence automatically cleaned up our vocabulary and brought out the best in us. Jean was very bright, and she and I spent many hours just sitting on the grass in the park talking of everything we had discovered in our short lives. Jean explained to me the difference between men and women, and described the "facts of life (which I didn't fully believe). Jean was also the recipient of my first hormonally-induced kiss.

Sarah was small and thin, with a tiny face surrounded by a mop of curly brown hair that always needed combing. Her painfully thin legs seemed inadequate to the task of keeping up with the rest of us—but she always did. Sarah was compassion: she ministered to those of us who fell and skinned knees and hands, she scrounged scraps of food, and she insisted we all do the same for the stray dogs and cats that haunted the bombed-out remains of their former homes. An injured bird received from Sarah the most loving nursing, and the most tears when it died. Never a harsh word was ever said to Sarah. Sarah was our little sister, loved and protected by all of us.

* * *



This morning I was late.

After a particularly noisy night during which our part of London had received a great deal of unwanted attention from the Luftwaffe, Mum was not feeling well. I had breakfasted with Dad, aroused my brother, and taken a cup of tea up to her.

"Would you go 'round the corner to shops for me, Jack?" she asked. "I don't really feel up to it this morning." Mother, along with all the other neighborhood mothers, went to the shops every morning both to purchase our rations and to see what could be scrounged, to supplement our rather meager food allotment.

"Alright, Mum."

She rummaged around in her capacious handbag, retrieving the family's ration books and a short grocery list.

"You just need to go to the grocer's and the butcher," she instructed as she gave me some money, "and see if Mr. Young has any liver."(which was considered not part of our meat ration).

Grabbing a well-used grocery bag, I ran all the way to the row of shops that served out local families. I quickly bought the few groceries on my mother's list, and joined the end of the line waiting patiently to be served by the butcher.

"Where's your ma today, then?" Mr. Young inquired when it was finally my turn at the head of the line.

"She's ill in bed, Mr. Young," I answered, "and she said 'please do you have any liver?'" Mr. Young always set great store by politeness.

He wrapped up some liver and, with a smile, handed it to me. "Hold on a minute, " he instructed as he walked into the back room of his shop. Moments later he reappeared with a large bone festooned with shreds of meat, which he also wrapped up and handed to me.

"Have your dad make some soup with this," he said,
"and tell your ma to be up and about real quick0-like." Several of the waiting women echoed his concern as I sped off home.

So, this morning, I was late.

Again I left my house on the run, turning the corner at the end of the street and taking a left into a cul-de-sac and through the pedestrian walkway at its end. The alley opened out into another street, across from which was a row of bomber-out houses used my many children as a marvelously exciting playground. I entered through the front window of one of the derelicts, running through the front room and the remains of the kitchen, and exiting by way of the gaping hole where the back door had used to be. Crossing the rubble-filled back garden, I approached a high wooden fence, pushed aside two planks, and entered the park as the two planks swung closed behind me.

I spotted my friends in their usual place by the swings, and ran to join them. "Sorry I'm later," I panted; "Mum's ill in bed and I had to go shopping."

Jean smiled. "It's alright, you're not the last."

I looked around. "Where's Sarah?"

"We don't know," Arthur said, "but there was a lot of noise up on the Hill last night." The "Hill" was Sarah's neighborhood.

"Let's go and see," suggested Alan, who hated inactivity as much as I did.

"Perhaps Arthur'd better stay here in case she shows up, " I thought out loud.

"I'm not bloody stayin'," and he sheepishly looked at Jean. "I'm coming with you lot."

" 'Course you are!" agreed Doreen, and we started to walk toward the park gate closest to the direction we wanted.

We made our way to the Hill, and as we came close we could see the barricades the Air Raid Precaution people had set up. Walking around the barriers, we soon were at the end of the street where Sarah lived. Their house, along with several others, was just an immense pile of rubble.

The ARP people and some firemen were searching for survivors, or bodies, in the still-smoking ruins.

"What do you kids want up here?" a fireman called to us, but without irritation.

"One of our friends lived here, " Jean replied, "and we're trying to find her." The fireman shrugged and returned to his work.

There was not much we could do, but we helped where we could, carrying away such pieces of brick, wood, and other building materials as we could manage. Occasionally one of the ARP wardens blew a whistle, and everyone stopped what they were doing and quietly listened for cries for help, tapping, or any indication that someone buried in the devastation was still alive.

Alan touched my arm. I looked at him and he inclined his head to the left, to where David was standing before some sort of notice board. We made our way to David's side. A damaged street door had been set up with messages affixed to it by nails retrieved from the splintered woodwork. "Bert and Elise Jenkins and children are all OK and staying with Aunt Jane in Enfield." "Samuel and Rachel Tollman are temporarily living in their shop in Wood Street."... and so on.

The others soon joined us, as, with tears streaming down his face, David pointed to an unofficial tally of those known to have been killed. There were fourteen or fifteen names on the list. Third from the bottom was Sarah's.

Quietly we turned away and retraced our steps to the park. And as we walked, we cried.



* * *



I stayed in touch with Alan for many years, until marriage and the pursuit of our livelihoods inevitably separated us.

Arthur's father landed a good job somewhere in the north of England and the family moved there around February of 1941 and as far as I knew was never heard from again—which I've been told sometimes happens to people who move to the north of England!

David's family decided that they had had enough excitement for their lifetimes; so in the spring of 1941 they moved into the country east of London. A little over three years later the whole family was killed by a doodle bug-- an errant V1.

Doreen was married at 18, and for several years produced children at an alarming rate, becoming quite matronly in the process.

I saw Jean from time to time, even after she had married a young man every bit as cool and elegant as she.

And Sarah—our Sarah—remains in my thoughts.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 12:56 PM

~Please note that any opinions expressed by the writer are the writer's alone-- and are boyhood recollections, not editorials.~

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:06 PM

Got a corrected version of THE BOAT with a GREAT way of showing me where to look-- hope she'll post it here, too...

Madly typing--

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Nigel Parsons
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:09 PM

Susan,

Nothing major, first one looks fine (but scans by others may pick things I've missed!)

Second one:
4th para "All 22 squadrons of the RAF were engaged, many twice and some three timers." Last word should probably be 'times'

Halfway through:
"When Alan and me selected team members for a pickup game of soccer, Doreen would be picked between David and Arthur" should be "Alan & I", but quite acceptable if it was recorded that way as reported speech, as it's a common problem.

Long paragraph just before Sarah goes missing:
"The alley opened out into another street, across from which was a row of bomber-out houses used my many " should be "Bombed-out"


Cheers

Nigel

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:12 PM

Wonderful, thanks, Nigel.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: jacqui.c
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:15 PM

I've done the Blitz as well

BLITZ!

July 10, 1940 is generally considered to mark the opening of the Battle of Britain.

The German Air Force began bombing coastal towns in southeast England to soften them up for operation "Sea Lion," which was the proposed invasion of Britain.

They soon realized that the Royal Air Force was stronger than they had first thought, and so, in early August, the Luftwaffe turned from the seaports to concentrate on our fighter airfields—with considerable success. Many bases in the southeast and in the London area were rendered almost non-operational, and British air supremacy was in jeopardy.

On August 15, a major action in the Battle of Britain took place. All 22 squadrons of the RAF were engaged, many twice and some three timers. It was a disaster for the German Air Force, which lost some 106 aircraft and their crews, while British losses were only 34 fighters with some of their pilots parachuting to safety.

In September, the Luftwaffe turned to bombing London, which—being the world's largest city at that time—required very little accuracy to hit. This gave RAF Fighter Command the respite it desperately needed to repair its runways and to make its bases fully operational. After sporadic raids on the city during August, the Battle of London was now to be fought.

From September 7 to November 3, an average of 200 German bombers attacked London every night. These raids were accompanied by daylight attacks by small groups or even single planes, and air raid sirens sounded at intervals throughout the entire 24 hours for that period.

On September 15, the Luftwaffe made its greatest concentrated effort on London. Every British fighter was used before the battle was finished; at the end of the action, German losses were reported as 183 aircraft, with the RAF losing 40.

This, then, was where we children found ourselves in the middle of October of 1940. Nightly air raids were now accepted as normal, although the earth-shuddering noise of exploding bombs and our own anti-aircraft gunfire took a bit of getting used to. The great majority of Londoners went about their business as usual, with a marked disdain for the Luftwaffe's efforts. Our group of 11- and 12-year-olds were no exception.

Areas of destroyed or damaged houses and other buildings were being added to each night; among the early casualties were two neighborhood schools, mine being one if them.

I left home early one morning as I always did, and met some of my friends for the walk to school as usual. We were animatedly discussing the previous night's air raid as we turned the corner into the street where our school dominated the surrounding (terrace) terraced houses.

"Blimey," Alan said quietly.

We looked at him and then in the direction of his pointing finger.

A large part of our school building was piled in the playground; the street was covered with rubble, and grey dust blanketed everything.

"No school today," observed David.

"No school for quite a while, I'd say," said Arthur, putting into words what most of us were slowly beginning to think.

"Let's tell the others!" Doreen yelled over her shoulder, breaking into a dead run as she started back the way we had come. We needed no urging, and for the next twenty minutes we dashed about joyously telling every school-bound child the good news.

Finally, several hundred noisy children crowded the street, and with great confusion, tried to locate their teachers that they might assemble by class. This was finally accomplished, and we slowly quieted down at our teachers' insistence.

The headmaster carefully climbed a pile of wrecked building parts so we could all see him, and told us to go home.

"Your parents will be notified when we are able to find a suitable place to hold classes, " he said. "Behave yourselves—and good luck." A great cheer arose from hundreds of throats and we stampeded from what was left of our school, rejoicing in our new-found freedom.

Thus a large number of children (fond) found themselves at loose ends, and many of us gravitated to a quite extensive nearby park each day. It was common to see a hundred or more children yelling, running, and playing, with no indication that they had been frightened out of their wits just a few hours before.

A few of us had known each other for several years, either being in the same school class or living in the same neighborhood. Although we played with children who were outside the group, it seemed that we preferred each other's company. It was almost as though we were more brothers and sisters than just good friends. We all contributed something, and we all seemed to take from each other that which was necessary for our development as individuals. My small group of close friends would singly make their way to the park every morning, and the first arrivals would hang around the swings in the playground area until the group was complete. Only then would we consider how we were going to occupy our time that day.

There was Alan, who was born on the same day as I. We were in the same class in school, and our grades in all subjects were almost always identical. We were both capable cricketers and aggressive, fairly skillful football (soccer) players, but it was in the hundred-yard dash that we really came head to head. Neither of us could consistently defeat the other, and the only sure thing on school sports day was that one of us would win and the other would be close behind. Alan was short and stocky, I was taller and thinner. Alan was very handsome, I was taller. Alan had a magnificent shock of curly blond hair, I was taller. Alan had a beautiful singing voice, I was taller.

Arthur had an enormous head, out of all proportion to his size. This large roundness, resting on narrow shoulders, was covered with short black hair; from the back he resembled a diminutive Grenadier guardsman wearing a bearskin. At twelve-and-a-half going on fifty, Arthur was the oldest of the group. Because he usually listened intently to his parents' conversations, and because his father was interested in everything under the sun, Arthur was easily the best informed of any of us. Peering through round, steel-rimmed spectacles like some strange owl, he would explain why the war was going to last a long time and why our side would eventually win. He possessed a terrific sense of humor and would entertain us for hours with strange and hilariously funny stories. Arthur always thought he was right—the exasperating thing being that he always was. Arthur was our intellectual, although he seldom received the respect from his peers that he deserved.

David was gullible and trusting. He believed everything anyone told him, no matter how far-fetched or bizarre. He was the one who at our urging, went into the local undertaker's establishment and innocently asked if they had any empty boxes to give away. Whenever we decided it would be great fun to knock on people's doors and then run away and hide, David did the knocking and running while the rest of us did the hiding. He also was the most bewildered by the nightly air raids, the destruction, and the smell of dust. David was the one of whom the boys were most protective and whom the girls wanted to mother.

Doreen was beautiful with straight blonde hair cut in the style of a medieval pageboy, skin without a blemish, and a pair of intense blue eyes that commanded attention. Heads turned for a second look whenever she passed, but she never appeared to notice for Doreen was a tomboy in every sense. When Alan and (me) I selected team members for a pickup game of soccer, Doreen would be picked between David and Arthur. She could run, jump, and field a cricket ball with any of us. She happened to be the one who "pubesced" earliest, and forsook our group first.

Jean, nicknamed "Duchess," was slender and tall, taller than any of us, and very elegant. She was not beautiful, but somehow it didn't matter because she was all class—always cool, calm, and every inch an 11-year-old lady. Her presence automatically cleaned up our vocabulary and brought out the best in us. Jean was very bright, and she and I spent many hours just sitting on the grass in the park talking of everything we had discovered in our short lives. Jean explained to me the difference between men and women, and described the "facts of life (which I didn't fully believe). Jean was also the recipient of my first hormonally-induced kiss.

Sarah was small and thin, with a tiny face surrounded by a mop of curly brown hair that always needed combing. Her painfully thin legs seemed inadequate to the task of keeping up with the rest of us—but she always did. Sarah was compassion: she ministered to those of us who fell and skinned knees and hands, she scrounged scraps of food, and she insisted we all do the same for the stray dogs and cats that haunted the bombed-out remains of their former homes. An injured bird received from Sarah the most loving nursing, and the most tears when it died. Never a harsh word was ever said to Sarah. Sarah was our little sister, loved and protected by all of us.

* * *



This morning I was late.

After a particularly noisy night during which our part of London had received a great deal of unwanted attention from the Luftwaffe, Mum was not feeling well. I had breakfasted with Dad, aroused my brother, and taken a cup of tea up to her.

"Would you go 'round the corner to shops for me, Jack?" she asked. "I don't really feel up to it this morning." Mother, along with all the other neighborhood mothers, went to the shops every morning both to purchase our rations and to see what could be scrounged, to supplement our rather meager food allotment.

"Alright, Mum."

She rummaged around in her capacious handbag, retrieving the family's ration books and a short grocery list.

"You just need to go to the grocer's and the butcher," she instructed as she gave me some money, "and see if Mr. Young has any liver."(which was considered not part of our meat ration).

Grabbing a well-used grocery bag, I ran all the way to the row of shops that served out local families. I quickly bought the few groceries on my mother's list, and joined the end of the line waiting patiently to be served by the butcher.

"Where's your ma today, then?" Mr. Young inquired when it was finally my turn at the head of the line.

"She's ill in bed, Mr. Young," I answered, "and she said 'please do you have any liver?'" Mr. Young always set great store by politeness.

He wrapped up some liver and, with a smile, handed it to me. "Hold on a minute, " he instructed as he walked into the back room of his shop. Moments later he reappeared with a large bone festooned with shreds of meat, which he also wrapped up and handed to me.

"Have your dad make some soup with this," he said,
"and tell your ma to be up and about real (quick0-like.) quick-like." Several of the waiting women echoed his concern as I sped off home.

So, this morning, I was late.

Again I left my house on the run, turning the corner at the end of the street and taking a left into a cul-de-sac and through the pedestrian walkway at its end. The alley opened out into another street, across from which was a row of(bomber) bombed-out houses used (my)by many children as a marvelously exciting playground. I entered through the front window of one of the derelicts, running through the front room and the remains of the kitchen, and exiting by way of the gaping hole where the back door had used to be. Crossing the rubble-filled back garden, I approached a high wooden fence, pushed aside two planks, and entered the park as the two planks swung closed behind me.

I spotted my friends in their usual place by the swings, and ran to join them. "Sorry I'm later," I panted; "Mum's ill in bed and I had to go shopping."

Jean smiled. "It's alright, you're not the last."

I looked around. "Where's Sarah?"

"We don't know," Arthur said, "but there was a lot of noise up on the Hill last night." The "Hill" was Sarah's neighborhood.

"Let's go and see," suggested Alan, who hated inactivity as much as I did.

"Perhaps Arthur'd better stay here in case she shows up, " I thought out loud.

"I'm not bloody stayin'," and he sheepishly looked at Jean. "I'm coming with you lot."

" 'Course you are!" agreed Doreen, and we started to walk toward the park gate closest to the direction we wanted.

We made our way to the Hill, and as we came close we could see the barricades the Air Raid Precaution people had set up. Walking around the barriers, we soon were at the end of the street where Sarah lived. Their house, along with several others, was just an immense pile of rubble.

The ARP people and some firemen were searching for survivors, or bodies, in the still-smoking ruins.

"What do you kids want up here?" a fireman called to us, but without irritation.

"One of our friends lived here, " Jean replied, "and we're trying to find her." The fireman shrugged and returned to his work.

There was not much we could do, but we helped where we could, carrying away such pieces of brick, wood, and other building materials as we could manage. Occasionally one of the ARP wardens blew a whistle, and everyone stopped what they were doing and quietly listened for cries for help, tapping, or any indication that someone buried in the devastation was still alive.

Alan touched my arm. I looked at him and he inclined his head to the left, to where David was standing before some sort of notice board. We made our way to David's side. A damaged street door had been set up with messages affixed to it by nails retrieved from the splintered woodwork. "Bert and Elise Jenkins and children are all OK and staying with Aunt Jane in Enfield." "Samuel and Rachel Tollman are temporarily living in their shop in Wood Street."... and so on.

The others soon joined us, as, with tears streaming down his face, David pointed to an unofficial tally of those known to have been killed. There were fourteen or fifteen names on the list. Third from the bottom was Sarah's.

Quietly we turned away and retraced our steps to the park. And as we walked, we cried.



* * *



I stayed in touch with Alan for many years, until marriage and the pursuit of our livelihoods inevitably separated us.

Arthur's father landed a good job somewhere in the north of England and the family moved there around February of 1941 and as far as I knew was never heard from again—which I've been told sometimes happens to people who move to the north of England!

David's family decided that they had had enough excitement for their lifetimes; so in the spring of 1941 they moved into the country east of London. A little over three years later the whole family was killed by a doodle bug-- an errant V1.

Doreen was married at 18, and for several years produced children at an alarming rate, becoming quite matronly in the process.

I saw Jean from time to time, even after she had married a young man every bit as cool and elegant as she.

And Sarah—our Sarah—remains in my thoughts.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:15 PM

check pm

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: My guru always said
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:20 PM

The Boat, nearly at the end:

Under Dad's tutelage I soon (not I seen, surely)

Nice stoty! Carrying on reading while making the tea...

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: rumanci
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:22 PM

I expect you've picked up these !!   :-D

THE BOAT

Opening line……no apostrophe needed in 1930s

Third paragraph…….Dad WENT with them……

Tenth paragraph ……….enable them to GIVE me

Last paragraph ……….. SOON became adept…..

rum

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Wesley S
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:27 PM

Have you thought of sending these to yourself as an e-mail and using spell check ?

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Grab
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:27 PM

Two in the first section:-

- Dad when with them

- to vive me

I'll have a go at the second section this evening.

Graham.

Subject: WAR BEGINS
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:38 PM

Wes, these HAVE been spell-checked, I just need to be sure spellchecker isn't giving me garbajje.

Keep 'em coming folks.... here's one more and I'm taking a short break before starting the next.

~S~

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

WAR BEGINS

The day started out just like any other Sunday. We all slept a little late; Mother cooked bacon, eggs, and fried bread for breakfast, which I hungrily wolfed won so I could go into our back garden to play—just like any other Sunday.

I walked across the grass, past the flower beds, and into Dad's beautifully-kept vegetable garden. We lived in a neighborhood of row homes, built facing outward on three sides of a square. All the back gardens adjoined, making it possible to view about 30 of them. Normally, on a Sunday morning, the garden area would be full of men tending their plants, mowing their grass, drinking their morning tea, calling to their neighbors, or just chatting to each other over the low fences.

But this Sunday was different—the backyards were quiet and deserted. No one was outside tending their flowers and vegetables, no one was drinking their tea, and gone was the pleasant sound of neighbors talking to each other. That is, with the exception of old Mr. Threfall, whose garden ran across the bottom of ours.

"Good morning, Jack," he called from his seat on a bench he had placed under one of his fruit trees.

"Good morning, Mr. Threfall," I replied.

"Why don't you come over for a while?"

I climbed the fence and sat down beside him. "Where is everybody this morning, Mr. Threfall?" I asked, knowing he would take the time to explain anything I asked him. Old Mr. Threfall – I always thought of him as old—was my friend, and the only adult other than my Mother and Father who talked to me as though I were a grownup and not a ten-year-old boy.

"Didn't you listen to the wireless this morning, Jack?" he asked.

"Just for a minute, Mr. Threfall. There was no music on, just a lot of people talking."

Mr. Threfall chuckled. "Well, Jack, everybody is probably in their houses listening to the news. It appears Britain will soon be at war with Germany."

I pondered this information for a while. My only knowledge of war had been gained from films I had seen, the study of the Great War (World War I), and the few stories my father and a couple of uncles had told of their experiences in France.

"Why are we going to have a war with Germany, Mr., Threfall?" I asked. "I thought we'd just had one about 20 years ago."

"So we did, Jack," he answered, "but it looks like we are going to have to do it again."

"Why?"

"Do you really want me to tell you the whole story, Jack?" Mr. Threfall questioned.

"Yes, please, Mr., Threfall." I had always enjoyed hearing Mr. Threfall's tales, and senses that an important story was about to be told. I hoped I would be able to understand most of it. Mr. Threfall stood up and walked to one of his apple trees. Picking two apples, he returned to his seat, handing one of them to me.

"Have you heard of a man named Adolf Hitler?" he asked, taking a bit of his fruit.

"Yes, I have, Mr. Threfall," I assured him, following his lead with my own apple.

"Well, here's pretty much what has happened." Mr. Threfall then began to explain the events in Europe leading up to that day, Sunday, September 3, 1939. Although it is impossible for me to remember his exact words, the following is the gist of his story.

As early as 1935, Germany—under the leadership of Adolf Hitler, breaching previous treaties—had reinstated conscription of its young men into the armed forces; was rebuilding its navy, with submarines on the British scale; had already created a military air force which Hitler openly claimed to be the equal of the British Royal Air Force; and was in the second year of active munitions production.

In March of 1936, barely two hours after proposing a 25-year pact with Britain, France, Belgium, and Italy, Hitler announced his intention of occupying the Rhineland. This was a corridor of land east of the Rhine River. It had been taken from Germany to be used as a buffer zone between Germany and France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, but the Armistice Treaty after the 1914-18 Great War.

Two years later in March, 1938-- one month after Hitler had assumed supreme command of the German armed forces-- Austria was invaded and soon conquered. Meanwhile, Britain and France did nothing, believing Hitler's assurances that this wold be the end of his territorial ambitions in Europe.

About this time a conference, attended by representatives of France and Italy and by Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain of Britain, and Hitler, convened in Munich, Germany. During this conference Hitler gave a written assurance that "This (Austria) is the last territorial claim I have to make in Europe."

Upon Mr. Chamberlain's return to London, he was pictured in a newspaper photograph waving a piece of paper over his head containing Hitler's written assurance, and declaring, "It is peace in our time."

Early in March, 1939, German armed forces invaded Czechoslovakia and, by the end of the month, had subjugated that entire country.

On March 31, 1939, Chamberlain (who was finally convinced that Hitler meant war), backed by the French leaders, gave a guaranty to Poland that if it was attacked by Nazi Germany, Britain (and France) would immediately come to Poland's aid. Poland was attacked by Germany at dawn on September 1, 1939. The mobilization of all British forces was ordered the same morning. An ultimatum was given to Germany at 9:30 p.m. on September 1, and another at 9:30 p.m. on September 3.

"So you see, Jack," Mr. Threfall concluded, "Hitler has invaded Poland, and that is why the whole country's ears are glued to the wireless this morning."

"I think I understand now, Mr. Threfall, "I said. Then I went on to tell him that my father maintained that everyone knew that Hitler would have to be stopped, so why had Britain and France done nothing to help Czechoslovakia, which had a reasonably well-equipped army, but were now willing to back Poland whose idea of military tactics at that time was a cavalry charge.

"Well, Jack, I'm sure I don't know; I suppose Mr. Chamberlain thought he was doing the right thing." Mr., Threfall didn't sound convinced.

For over a year the vast majority of Britains' working class-- including my parents, their friends, and our relatives-- had had no doubt that a war with Germany was inevitable in order to stop Hitler's territorial ambitions. They were exasperated at their government's do-nothing attitude and it's total failure to prepare for the coming confrontation. Dad's opinion was that Neville Chamberlain was too naive about world affairs to be an effective leader. Mother was not as generous in her assessment of his abilities, invariably referring to Mr. Chamberlain as "that silly old fool."

Mr. Threfall and I were still sitting on his bench chatting, when Dad came bursting through our back door and ran down the garden toward us.

"We're at wear, Mr. Threfall," he shouted as he ran. "We're at war!"

Mr. Threfall looked at his watch. "It is 11:30, Jack" he said. "Remember the time, 11:30."

Dad leaned over the fence. "The Prime Minister has just said that we have been at war with Germany since 11 a.m. and that our troops are already reporting to their units," he informed us. Mr. Threfall and Dad then started to discuss the seriousness of the situation.

I listened for a while and then, climbing back over the fence, walked back to the house to see if Mum had anything to eat.

* * *

My mother made a sandwich for me but before I had eaten it, a strange, frightening, prolonged wailing noise broke upon our ears. I ran to the back door, followed closely by Mum and my younger brother, who were as scared as I was, down the garden to where Dad and Mr. Threfall were standing—their conversation now impossible to continue in that awful din.

"What is it, Dad?" I yelled in his ear to make myself heard.

"It's the air raid warning siren," he screamed.

"Will we have an air raid, then?" I loudly asked as the rising and falling wailing sound slowly died away into silence.

Mr. Threfall looked at the four of us. "Maybe it is only a test of the siren," he said.

We all stood in silence, gazing at the sky. Around us some of our neighbors emerged from their homes and also looked upward. Nobody spoke, as each of us was nervously alone with our thoughts.

After about ten minuets had passed the wailing broke out again, only this time it was a single, high-pitched note. "That's the all-clear signal," dad said. "Well be alright now." Mum sighed with relief.

We never did find out if a few German planes had paid us a visit, or if it was indeed a test of the warning system as Mr. Threfall had thought. Although we didn't realize it then, we were destined to hear that dreaded sound many, many times in the years ahead.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:41 PM

Susan -

Here's what I found in BOAT & BLITZ:

BOAT para 3 - Dad when with them - second word should be went

BOAT - paras 5 & 6 don't have a space between them

BOAT - para 10 - "Can I open it now Dad?" - comma before Dad

BOAT - para 11 - to vive me such a wonderful gift - second word should be give

BOAT - last para - Under Dad's tutelage I seen became adept - 5th word should be soon

BLITZ - para 13 - street was covered with rubble, and grey dust - semicolon before and

BLITZ - para 17 - street, and with great confusion, tried - either comma before with or no comma after confusion

BLITZ - para 20 - Thus a large number of children fond - last word should be found

BLITZ - para beginning David was gullible - He was the one who at our urging, went - either comma after who or no comma after urging

BLITZ - para beginning Doreen was beautiful - When Alan and me selected team members - should be when Alan and I unless it's intended to be colloquial

BLITZ - para beginning Jean - described the "facts of life (which I didn't fully believe) - needs a close quote after life

BLITZ - 6th para after *** - see if Mr. Young has any liver."(which was considered not part of our meat ration). - possibly better without the period after liver

BLITZ - 7th para after *** - served out local families - second word should be our

BLITZ - 11th para after *** - unnecessary return after he said and quick0-like has a zero instead of an O

BLITZ - 13th para after *** - bomber-out houses used my many - first word should be bombed and next to last should be by

BLITZ - 13th para after *** - had used to be - better as either used to be or had been

BLITZ - 3rd para after 2nd *** - lifetimes; so in the spring - should be a comma, not a semicolon

BLITZ - 3rd para after 2nd *** - doodle bug-- an errant V1 - hyphen different than others

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:46 PM

Story 1:

The company for which Dad worked was expanding, so they moved to a larger building in another part of London. Dad when with them, and we moved closer to his job.

Looking back I now realize that my parents must have made quite a few sacrifices to enable them to vive me such a wonderful gift.

Story 2:

All 22 squadrons of the RAF were engaged, many twice and some three timers

Our group of 11- and 12-year-olds were no exception.


Areas of destroyed or damaged houses and other buildings were being added to each night; among the early casualties were two neighborhood schools, mine being one if them.

Thus a large number of children fond themselves at loose ends, and many of us gravitated to a quite extensive nearby park each day.

When Alan and me selected team members for a pickup game of soccer, Doreen would be picked between David and Arthur

"Alright, Mum."

"and tell your ma to be up and about real quick0-like."

The alley opened out into another street, across from which was a row of bomber-out houses used my many children as a marvelously exciting playground.


Sorry I'm later," I panted;

Jean smiled. "It's alright, you're not the last."

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: My guru always said
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:49 PM

Hmmm... or even story why on earth do I think I can proof-read this???

BTW my Dad did much the same sort of thing, but typed his & gave each of us a copy while he was still with us. When he passed on I received his own copy, full of photos, drawings & oddments.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 01:59 PM

Story 3

We all slept a little late; Mother cooked bacon, eggs, and fried bread for breakfast, which I hungrily wolfed won so I could go into our back garden to play—just like any other Sunday.

and the only adult other than my Mother and Father who talked to me as though I were a grownup and not a ten-year-old boy

"Why are we going to have a war with Germany, Mr., Threfall?"

Yes, please, Mr., Threfall."

"Have you heard of a man named Adolf Hitler?" he asked, taking a bit of his fruit.

Meanwhile, Britain and France did nothing, believing Hitler's assurances that this wold be the end of his territorial ambitions in Europe

"I think I understand now, Mr. Threfall, "I said.

They were exasperated at their government's do-nothing attitude and it's total failure to prepare for the coming confrontation.

"We're at wear, Mr. Threfall," he shouted as he ran. "We're at war!"

After about ten minuets had passed the wailing broke out again, only this time it was a single, high-pitched note. "That's the all-clear signal," dad said. "Well be alright now." Mum sighed with relief.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: My guru always said
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:06 PM

Few oddments from the Blitz that don't seem to have been mentioned (but I could be wrong):

terraced houses, not terrace
roused, not aroused
to the shops, not to shops (unless a Northern accent)
used to be, not had used to be (I think)
and should I quibble that the Royal Air Force were, not was?
and perhaps middle of October 1940, not middle of October of 1940, or perhaps use mid-October 1940

*running for cover*

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:11 PM

from WAR BEGINS - the hyphens also seem inconsistent, though I didn't mark those unless they were inconsistent in a single sentence:

The day started out just like any other Sunday. We all slept a little late; Mother cooked bacon, eggs, and fried bread for breakfast, which I hungrily wolfed down so I could go into our back garden to play - just like any other Sunday.

I climbed the fence and sat down beside him. "Where is everybody this morning, Mr. Threfall?" I asked, knowing he would take the time to explain anything I asked him. Old Mr. Threfall - I always thought of him as old - was my friend, and the only adult other than my Mother and Father who talked to me as though I were a grownup and not a ten-year-old boy.

"Yes, please, Mr., Threfall." I had always enjoyed hearing Mr. Threfall's tales, and sensed that an important story was about to be told. I hoped I would be able to understand most of it. Mr. Threfall stood up and walked to one of his apple trees. Picking two apples, he returned to his seat, handing one of them to me.

"Have you heard of a man named Adolf Hitler?" he asked, taking a bite of his fruit.

In March of 1936, barely two hours after proposing a 25-year pact with Britain, France, Belgium, and Italy, Hitler announced his intention of occupying the Rhineland. This was a corridor of land east of the Rhine River. It had been taken from Germany to be used as a buffer zone between Germany and France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, by the Armistice Treaty after the 1914-18 Great War.

"Well, Jack, I'm sure I don't know; I suppose Mr. Chamberlain thought he was doing the right thing." Mr. Threfall didn't sound convinced.

For over a year the vast majority of Britains' working class-- including my parents, their friends, and our relatives-- had had no doubt that a war with Germany was inevitable in order to stop Hitler's territorial ambitions. They were exasperated at their government's do-nothing attitude and its total failure to prepare for the coming confrontation. Dad's opinion was that Neville Chamberlain was too naive about world affairs to be an effective leader. Mother was not as generous in her assessment of his abilities, invariably referring to Mr. Chamberlain as "that silly old fool."

"We're at war, Mr. Threfall," he shouted as he ran. "We're at war!"

After about ten minuets had passed the wailing broke out again, only this time it was a single, high-pitched note. "That's the all-clear signal," dad said. "We'll be all right now." Mum sighed with relief.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: My guru always said
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:22 PM

Story 3, a few to add:

sensed, not senses
by the Armistice, not but
guarantee not guaranty (never seen it spelt like that anyway)

Sorry, not good at comma's and apostrophe's but there seem to be others who can help with them....

Subject: Story: COUNTRY SCHOOL
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:39 PM

Don't need punctuation advice, the writer had his own way-- also some of the hyphens are probably em dashes not pasting in properly from the Word doc.

Here's the next. Sorry they are out of sequence a bit!

~S~

------------------------------------------------

COUNTRY SCHOOL

Those of us children who were evacuees realized very early in our stay in Chawleigh that we would have to get used to being called "Townies." After a while we found we didn't really object to this derogatory name, but rather took pride in being set apart from the village and farm children.

"Be you a Townie, then?" was usually the first question we were asked upon meeting an adult, followed by, "Where be ye stayin'?" I would reply, "At Bell's Farm with Mr., and Mrs. Webber," whereupon I would be informed of my good fortune in being billeted with such "fine, fine people."

Being a boy Townie meant we were often called out to fight. Our city life had provided many occasions for fights, and we Townie boys felt ourselves considerably tougher than our country counterparts. We usually gave a good account of ourselves, and soon were rarely challenged. We also had to answer incessant questions about London, which the village children had only read about or heard about. Of course we usually embellished our descriptions of life in the city and the horrors of air raids, some of which was derided, nut most of which was believed.

About a week after our arrival we had to report for school, for which I still had no taste. AT that time I could never understand why we had to spend long hours learning mathematics and the basics of English grammar—promptly forgetting most if it when I left school, except how to count money.

I did enjoy history and geography, being fascinated by one and intrigued by the other, but my favorite was Friday afternoon's art class. Our art teacher was a beautiful, dark-skinned woman with long, black hair, who was said to be a Gypsy. By then I had been drawing for several years, pressing into service any scrap of paper I could find, even opening envelopes to sketch on the blank inside. I had occasionally used the pages of my mother's writing pads and been chastised when she wanted to write a letter and her paper was used up. Imagine my complete joy when my "gypsy" art teacher presented me with my very first sketch book. I knew then I would be her slave forever.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My brother was to attend the village school. He would be taught by the teacher who was supposed to have had us billeted on her, but who had crossed the cobblestoned courtyard to the Jubilee Hall early and taken the twin girls. I was greatly relieved that I didn't have to live in a school, and couldn't imagine a worse fate.

The school in which I was to put in my time was in a small town some two miles from Chawleigh. Every school morning, we boarded a bus outside the village hall for the 20-minute ride, picking up other students at farms along the way.

Chulmleigh School was laid out in a square, an open corridor facing a grassy quadrangle. Along one side was the Assembly Hall with its stage at one end and kitchen, where our lunches were concocted, at the other. Another side was devoted to a woodworking shop and the art room. On the third side of the quadrangle, the home economics room and teachers' lounge were housed—together with the Headmaster's office, with which I was destined to develop an intimate relationship.

Occupying the fourth side of the square were four classrooms, each with huge windows and French doors opening onto the school playing fields beyond, much different and far more pleasant that anything us Townies had known in London.

Chulmleigh School was designed to serve the farm and village children of the several small communities in the area. The influx of evacuees, however, strained its walls to the bursting point. Now, with twice the students it was designed for, classes contained 45-50 pupils each with the woodshop, art room, and home economics room being pressed into service as makeshift classrooms. Confusion was a daily occurrence, especially when one of the specialized rooms had to be vacated for a regularly-scheduled class.

We soon settled into a routine, as children usually do, but most of us boys openly did not like school with its unreasonable discipline. Perhaps we weren't supposed to like it—perhaps grownups felt we would be better people by being forced to do something we hated.

One day each week, the boys of each class went to the woodshop where we were introduced to the secrets of hammers, saws, chisels, and other carpenters' tools. There we made quantities of ill-fitting dovetail joints, bookends, and pipe racks—all of wavily-planed boards—and a great many other articles, none of which should ever have seen the light of day.

Meanwhile, the girls were in the home economics room trying all manner of recipes in their search for culinary perfection. At the end of their cooking sessions they would return with plates of ill-shaped, grey-colored cookies, which no amount of tempting, pleading, or cajoling could induce us boys to eat.

Also, once a week we had to attend a class held in the Assembly Hall, presided over by an elderly dowager who attempted to teach us "social graces." The boys bore this cross with reasonably good nature—except when it came to ballroom, dancing, which was just too humiliating.

Girls lined up on one side of the Hall and boys on the other, and when an antiquated record player started grinding out dance music the boys were required to pick a girl and ask her to dance. The only thing I found made this indignity tolerable was being able to get close enough to a girl to tread on her toes, or—even better—to pinch her to the point of embarrassment (hers, not mine).

For these transgressions I was frequently sent to the Headmaster's office, where I was punished in the then-traditional manner. The pupil held out one hand, palm up at shoulder level; the Headmaster, using a thin bamboo cane, administered a firm and accurate whack on the outstretched target. The number of strokes varied with the severity of the crime. I always found the pain of the punishment a small price to pay for the pleasure I gained from teasing the girls.

But Friday's art class was different. We were taught the fundamentals of drawing using pencil and charcoal, and the basics of perspective; once in a while I was permitted to use the teacher's box of watercolors. Our black-haired "gypsy" made me realize how little I knew about art; she constantly urged me to draw and sketch, lending me many of her own books to keep my interest whetted. However, it took several years before I realized how much more I had learned from her than just art. She taught me that learning never stops, that nobody has the right to squander talent that has been given them, and that limits on any accomplishment can only be set by oneself.

We Londoners soon settled into the daily routine of a quiet bus ride in the morning to school, classes all day, and a happy, boisterous return ride in the afternoon. Our assimilation into village life was complete when us Townies began asking, "How be ye, then?" in broad Cockney accents, upon meeting fellow villagers.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:48 PM

Story 4: just one ...

Of course we usually embellished our descriptions of life in the city and the horrors of air raids, some of which was derided, nut most of which was believed.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:49 PM

That's going to have to be it, for this afternoon-- Ihave a commitment to get ready for. I sure appreciate the quick and helpful help!

I have two more from the childhood-era to go, including one of my favorites, "Scrumpin' ". Might get them knocked out later tonight.

Then there is a set of military-service escapades that are a HOOT, for early tomorrow AM and hopefully a late-evning finish-off.

With all your wonderful help, that means I can make the fixes Wednesday, do a final hardcopy read, and deliver them Thursday or Friday-- ON TIME.

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 02:57 PM

COUNTRY SCHOOL

Being a boy Townie meant we were often called out to fight. Our city life had provided many occasions for fights, and we Townie boys felt ourselves considerably tougher than our country counterparts. We usually gave a good account of ourselves, and soon were rarely challenged. We also had to answer incessant questions about London, which the village children had only read about or heard about. Of course we usually embellished our descriptions of life in the city and the horrors of air raids, some of which was derided, but most of which was believed.

About a week after our arrival we had to report for school, for which I still had no taste. At that time I could never understand why we had to spend long hours learning mathematics and the basics of English grammar - promptly forgetting most if it when I left school, except how to count money.

We Londoners soon settled into the daily routine of a quiet bus ride in the morning to school, classes all day, and a happy, boisterous return ride in the afternoon. Our assimilation into village life was complete when we Townies began asking, "How be ye, then?" in broad Cockney accents, upon meeting fellow villagers.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 03:21 PM

PS, I'll number the paragraphs on the next lot. I mean batch. I'm turning Brit!?

~S~

Subject: Story: NEW BOOTS
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 03:55 PM

NEW BOOTS

1. "Dad and I think you should have some new clothes to start your new school," Mum announced with a smile.

2. We had made our second move into a nice three-bedroom terrace house. I was about to celebrate my eighth birthday, and would be attending my third school in three years. World War II would start within three more years, and then Dad's employer would prosper making military uniforms. They would subsequently take over the entire factory from the other tenants, and remain in the same building. This house would prove to be the home in which Mum and Dad would live out the rest of their lives.

3. Mum and Dad made all our clothes (except socks and underwear), because it was much cheaper than buying them and because they knew how.

4. Dad was a tailor's cutter. He would run his tape measure over me and, from the resulting figures, make a pattern from brown wrapping paper. This he used to cut out a garment which was guaranteed to fit.

5. For several years before she was married, Mum had =worked as a seamstress for a French dressmaker in London's fashionable West End. She did beautiful work and could quickly put a garment together, while rapidly treadling her old Singer sewing machine. Mum also made dresses for a select few ell-to-do women, who seldom left after a fitting without giving me a pat on the head and a sixpenny piece.

6. In a few days I was the proud owner of a new jacket, two pairs of trousers, and several shirts.

7. "All you need now, Jack, is a new pair of shoes," Dad said while trying to coax a shine from my old ones. "On Saturday we'll go to the High Street and see what we can find."

8. Saturday we returned from our shopping at the large, open-air market with our purchases, among which was a pair of heavy, serviceable black shoes.

9. "I'll just put some Blake's on them for you and then you'll be ready for school on Monday," Dad said.

10. Every pair of shoes I had ever owned had had their soles and heels protected by Blake's, which were steel studs and plates. Dad would put the shoes on his metal last and nail horseshoe-shaped metal to the heels and flat plates to the toe of the soles, adding four rows of round studs. These would be replaced as needed, ensuring that although the uppers would ultimately wear out, the bottoms would remain as good as new.

11. Monday morning came all too soon. Wearing new clothes and my lovely new shoes, I set off for school together with Mum and my brother. Mum went into the office and returned accompanied by a bird-like woman who guided us to the classroom to which I would report every day. The teacher came out into the corridor to greet us; after saying goodbye to Mum, she took me into the room, which was occupied by about 30 children.

12. "This is Jack," she introduced me. "We'll all make him welcome, won't we?"

13. I looked around the small sea of faces. If they were making me welcome, they sure were keeping it a secret. I was given an empty desk—which would be mine until the end of the school year—and sat down, looking about me at my fellow students.

14. Inevitably, I knew that one of the boys would challenge me and this would be followed by challenges from other boys until my position in the class was established. Sure enough, at recess I was approached by a rather husky boy of my own height.

15. "I'm William," he growled, "and after school I'm going to beat you up!"

16. I then new that William was not the toughest fighter in the class. The class champ would never challenge a new boy without first seeing him in action, for fear of maybe losing face by getting whipped.

17. After school, I walked outside to find quite a large crowd of children gathered for the coming spectacle.

18. "Here he is," someone called, and a number of boys shoved me into the middle of a circle of eagerly-waiting spectators. William was waiting, his jacket already removed.

19. "I'll hold yer coat," a small boy offered as he helped me off with my new jacket.

20. William immediately came toward me, his hands reaching out. He wanted to get this over as soon as possible, and I knew I would be unable to prolong the proceedings. Boys were divided into tow basic groups—the punchers and the wrestlers. I had been trounced by both, many times. William was obviously a wrestler.

21. He made a sudden lunge for me and I side-stepped to avoid being grasped. I certainly wasn't looking forward to rolling around on the ground in my new clothes, because I knew I'd catch it from Mum and dad.

22. William snarled and lunged again. This time he succeeded in grabbing me, but on attempting to elude him I accidentally came down hard on his instep with my heavy, studded shoes.

23. "Ow!' William screamed as he forgot me ands danced around on one foot.

24. I was not ready for this sudden turn of events, but saw my advantage. Stepping close to him I stamped hard on his other foot.

25. "Ow!!!" William screamed again, as he changed the foot he was nursing. This was too good to be true and, with the cheers of the audience in my ears, I gave him several kicks in his shins. William was now totally demoralized and, pressing my incredible advantage, I proceeded to hit him about the face as hard and as often as I could.

26. A couple of William's friends came to his aid and, pushing through the circle of children, escorted him from the field of battle.

27. The next morning before classes started, William came up to me.

28. "You don't fight fair, you don't," he complained. I grinned.

29. I was not challenged again while I was at that school. I wish I could say I never lost another fight but that would be untrue; however, from that time on, when faced with an unavoidable fight, I quickly started with a flurry of foot-stamps and shin-kicks and, using my boots as weapons, won far more than I lost.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 04:15 PM

Story 4:

5. Mum also made dresses for a select few ell-to-do women, who seldom left after a fitting without giving me a pat on the head and a sixpenny piece.

16. I then new that William was not the toughest fighter in the class.

20. Boys were divided into tow basic groups—the punchers and the wrestlers.

21. I certainly wasn't looking forward to rolling around on the ground in my new clothes, because I knew I'd catch it from Mum and dad.

23. "Ow!' William screamed as he forgot me ands danced around on one foot.

Subject: Story: "SCRUMPIN' "
From: wysiwyg
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 04:56 PM

I'm really off now for a while. Here's the classic tale of Scrumpin' .

~S~

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

"SCRUMPIN' "


1. My steel-shod boots rang on the cobblestones of the courtyard of Bells Farm as I ran to the open back door.

2. "I've finished all my chores, Aunt Win," I called.

3. Aunt Win appeared in the doorway to the main room, wiping her hands on her white smock. She always wore it when working in the dairy, which was in the center of the house.

4. "Did you fill the woodbin and bring in the kindling?" she asked.

5. "Yes," I replied. "I also fed the chickens and collected the eggs, I added, pointing to a basket on the kitchen table.

6. "How about taking care of Prince?" she questioned.

7. "I gave him some oats, filled his water trough, and rubbed him down," I answered. I needed no reminding to take care of our horse, which was easily my favorite responsibility on the farm.

8. "Can I go now?" I pleaded.

9. "Does Uncle Char have anything for you to do?"

10. "No, he said to ask you."

11. "Alright, you can go, but be back in time to fetch the cows for milking," she admonished.

12. "Thanks, Aunt Win," I smiled.

13. "Where are you going?"

14. "Probably to Bare Hill, " I called over my shoulder as I clattered over the stones again at a run.

15. Since coming to live at Bells I had gradually been given various responsibilities as my knowledge of the farm increased under the guidance of Uncle Char. Doing chores was expected of me, as it was of all farm children, but I was never asked to do anything beyond my physical capabilities or skills.

16. But today was Saturday, and I now had a few precious hours to myself and didn't want to waste them, although I didn't feel like spending them alone.

17. Walking toward the center of the village I saw my friend Dennis leaning on his elbows on the wall outside his house. Dennis was a village boy and lived with his grandmother. His parents had abandoned him when he was a small child, and although he often talked of returning to live with them, he didn't really believe it; neither did anyone else.

18. Dennis was a studious-looking boy and did odd jobs for the Methodist Chapel, attending services faithfully every Sunday morning and evening, and singing in the choir. Because of his close association with the chapel he had been given the nickname, "Parson," which he never resented, even taking some pride in it.

19. "Hello Parson," I called, taking a position on the other side of the wall. "What are you doing?"

20. "Nothing," he stated the obvious; "how about you?"

21. "I have the afternoon off and I'm going to Bare Hill," I replied. "Want to come along?"

22. "Yes," he brightened up; "let me tell Gran where I'll be." And he dashed into the house where I heard him and his grandmother talking loudly.

23. "She's not too happy about me leaving for a couple of hours," he said as he came thro8guht the gate of their front yard, closing it behind him. "But I expect she'll get over it."

24. Together we retraced my steps to Bells Farm and beyond, taking a left fork on the road about a half-mile from the last cottage in the village.

25. Another mile brought us to the gate of Bare Hill, which consisted of three meadows connected by openings in the hedgerows.

26. "Look at all the rabbits," Dennis whispered.

27. About two dozen of them were feeding close to the edge of the field.

28. "Let's catch one," I whispered back.

29. Clambering over the five-bar wooden gate, which was much more fun than opening it, we gave chase whooping and yelling in an attempt to confuse our quarry. The rabbits quickly disappeared into the entrances of their warrens in the hedgerows, leaving us panting and empty-handed.

30. "Look, the hazelnuts will soon be ready," Dennis observed. These filberts we gathered when they were ripe, and were a delicacy we all enjoyed from autumn until Christmas.

31. Coming upon a large clump of blackberries, we gorged ourselves on the sweet fruit until our fingers and tongues were bright purple from the juice.

32. Dawdling our way through the fist and second fields we entered the third. This was by far the largest and consisted of a big, grassy hill for which "Bare Hill" was named.

33. "I'm thirsty," I said. "Let's go to the spring."

34. Climbing one side of the hill and running down the other, we were soon at the bank of a small stream. This rivulet was fed by four springs, which gurgled from some rocks, filling small stone basins before joining together below. Falling on our stomachs, we slaked our thirst with the clear, cold water. We then rolled on our backs to watch the clouds scudding by.

35. Turning my head a little I looked at an apple tree visible above the hedge.

36. "How about we scrump some apples," I suggested. 'Scrumping' was a term used to describe taking apples and other fruit from trees which did not belong to us. We did not regard it as theft but rather as using fruit which otherwise might have joined that which rotted on the ground every autumn.

37. "But that's the Vicar's orchard," Dennis replied doubtfully.

38. "Don't worry, I've been over there before and he won't miss a couple of apples."

39. "Just a couple, then," Dennis agreed.

40. Climbing the hedge we were soon munching the crisp fruit. The Vicar's orchard stretched before us, and over a small hill we could just see the chimneys of the manse. I reasoned that if we couldn't see the house, the Vicar couldn't see us, so I suggested we venture farther into the orchard. Reluctantly, Dennis followed.

41. We picked and ate apples from other trees, whispering to each other lest the Vicar's haring was acute enough to hear us from a quarter of a mile away.

42. "I've had enough apples," Dennis groaned.

43. "Me too," I agreed. "But there's a big pear tree over there, and I sure would like some."

44. "Do you think we'd better?"

45. "We'll only take two each," I reassured him.

46. After all, the secret to successful scrumping was to take only as much as could be consumed on the way home; thus the evidence would be destroyed before entering the village.

47. We silently made our way toward a huge pear tree bearing an abundance of beautiful fruit.

48. "Look," Dennis whispered. "Somebody's left a ladder against the tree!"

49. Sure enough, the rungs of a picker's tapered ladder disappeared into the dense, lush foliage above.

50. "I'll go up and throw some down to you," I volunteered, and began climbing.

51. Up and up I went, until the absolute worst thing that could possibly have happened—did. Horrified, I found myself staring at the heels of a pair of work boots.

52. I don't remember my feet touching the rungs on the way down. "Run!" I screamed, and, with the Vicar calling to us to stop, Dennis and I tore through the orchard, hurdled the hedgerow, streaked across the three fields of Bare Hill, and didn't stop until we arrived, panic-stricken and gasping for air, at the gate leading to the road.

53. "Maybe he didn't see us," Dennis said, but with no hope in his voice.

54. "We were probably too quick for him," I answered without conviction.

55. Promising never to mention the episode to anyone, ever, we returned to our respective homes.

56. "You weren't gone for very long," Aunt Win observed. "I didn't think you'd be back for quite a while."

57. "There wasn't much to do," I mumbled.



58. Next morning being Sunday, Aunt Win, my brother and I, dressed in our good clothes, started for church. On the way, we carried a pan containing the meat and vegetables for our Sunday dinner to be dropped off at the baker's shop. There it would be placed in the ovens, along with pans from other churchgoers. It would then be collected, perfectly baked, upon our return from the service.

59. Entering the sanctuary my brother and I took our usual places in the back row of the choir. This was not due to our angelic voices but because Aunt Win played the organ which was immediately behind. Thus she could reach around and give us a whack if we became too noisy.

60. The Vicar, preparing for the service, looked over and wished us a good morning. I suddenly became very interested in my shoes.

61. That Sunday morning's service was the longest I ever sat through, and the sermon was interminable. The Vicar took the Ten Commandments as his text, with particular emphasis on "Thou Shalt Not Steal." I had no doubt whatever that the entire sermon was for my benefit.

62. My torture finally ended with the recessional hymn, and with great relief I ran from the church to wait for Aunt Win and my brother to catch up. Collecting our now-cooked dinner we headed back to Bells, and the more distance I put between myself and the church, the better I felt.

63. After our meal I helped Aunt Win wash the dishes while Uncle Char settled back in his easy chair for his usual Sunday afternoon nap. My brother sat on a bench at the huge table where had just eaten, laboring over a letter to our parents in London.

64. Hearing footsteps on the stones outside the kitchen, I glanced out the window and, to my dismay, watched the Vicar heading for our back door.

65. I fled though the main room and up the stairs to my bedroom, to await the Vicar's departure.

66. "Jack, come down here, someone wants to talk to you," Aunt Win called up the stairs. I sat perfectly still and pretended I didn't hear her.

67. "Jack, come down, the Vicar wants to see you," she called again.

68. My heart sank. He obviously wanted to confront me with the whole orchard episode, which would elicit a lecture from Aunt Win and, even worse, would make Uncle Char extremely angry.

69. With great misgiving I slowly descended the stairs and entered the main room. The Vicar was standing by the fireplace, his face wrinkled in a large smile.

70. Puzzled, I looked at Aunt Win who was standing next to the Vicar, also smiling. Apparently he had not told her of my transgressions yet, but was waiting until I was present to hear the whole story. Still, I didn't understand the smiles.

71. "Look what the Vicar has brought you," Aunt Win grinned.

72. The Vicar reached down behind him and lifted a basket of fruit into view. I recognized three varieties of apples and two kinds of pears, one of them from that fateful tree.

73. "I know boys enjoy fruit so I thought I'd bring you some," he said. "I have more than enough," he added, still smiling broadly.

74. "Well, what do you say to the Vicar then?" Aunt Win asked.

75. "Thank you, Vicar," I mumbled, looking down at the flagstone floor.

76. "When this is gone and you would like some more, just come to the manse and I'll be happy to give you whatever you like," the Vicar invited.

77. Again I mumbled my thanks. Perhaps he wasn't going to tell of my scrumping escapade after all. I brightened visibly.

And so it was. To my knowledge the Vicar never told a soul about Dennis and me and the pear tree. I never had the nerve to go to his home to ask for fruit. Of course he knew I wouldn't, so from time to time he would come to the back door of Bells carrying a bag of fruit for us, until the season ended and the cold winter winds started to blow. But they never tasted as good as those we scrumped.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 21 Nov 05 - 05:12 PM

1. My steel-shod boots rang on the cobblestones of the courtyard of Bells [possesive or descriptive?] Farm as I ran to the open back door.

11. "Alright, you can go, but be back in time to fetch the cows for milking," she admonished.


23. "She's not too happy about me leaving for a couple of hours," he said as he came thro8guht the gate of their front yard, closing it behind him. "But I expect she'll get over it."

32. Dawdling our way through the fist and second fields we entered the third.


41. We picked and ate apples from other trees, whispering to each other lest the Vicar's haring was acute enough to hear us from a quarter of a mile away.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 10:16 AM

NEW BOOTS

5. For several years before she was married, Mum had =worked as a seamstress

7. "All you need now, Jack, is a new pair of shoes," Dad said while trying to coax a shine from my old ones. "On Saturday we'll go to the High Street - is "the High Street" colloquial? and see what we can find."

10. Every pair of shoes I had ever owned had had their soles and heels protected by Blake's, which were steel studs and plates. Dad would put the shoes on his metal last - never heard of a metal last - but there are many things I've never heard of and nail horseshoe-shaped metal to the heels and flat plates to the toe of the soles, adding four rows of round studs. These would be replaced as needed, ensuring that although the uppers would ultimately wear out, the bottoms would remain as good as new.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 10:30 AM

"SCRUMPIN' "

63. After our meal I helped Aunt Win wash the dishes while Uncle Char settled back in his easy chair for his usual Sunday afternoon nap. My brother sat on a bench at the huge table where we had just eaten, laboring over a letter to our parents in London.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: vectis
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 11:06 AM

Corrected version here with English spelling

WAR BEGINS

The day started out just like any other Sunday. We all slept a little late; Mother cooked bacon, eggs, and fried bread for breakfast, which I hungrily wolfed down so I could go into our back garden to play—just like any other Sunday.

I walked across the grass, past the flower beds, and into Dad's beautifully-kept vegetable garden. We lived in a neighbourhood of terraced homes, built facing outward on three sides of a square. All the back gardens adjoined, making it possible to view about 30 of them. Normally, on a Sunday morning, the garden area would be full of men tending their plants, mowing their grass, drinking their morning tea, calling to their neighbours, or just chatting to each other over the low fences.

But this Sunday was different—the backyards were quiet and deserted. No one was outside tending their flowers and vegetables, no one was drinking their tea, and gone was the pleasant sound of neighbours talking to each other. That is, with the exception of old Mr. Threfall, whose garden ran across the bottom of ours.

"Good morning, Jack," he called from his seat on a bench he had placed under one of his fruit trees.

"Good morning, Mr. Threfall," I replied.

"Why don't you come over for a while?"

I climbed the fence and sat down beside him. "Where is everybody this morning, Mr. Threfall?" I asked, knowing he would take the time to explain anything I asked him. Old Mr. Threfall – I always thought of him as old—was my friend, and the only adult other than my Mother and Father who talked to me as though I were a grownup and not a ten-year-old boy.

"Didn't you listen to the wireless this morning, Jack?" he asked.

"Just for a minute, Mr. Threfall. There was no music on, just a lot of people talking."

Mr. Threfall chuckled. "Well, Jack, everybody is probably in their houses listening to the news. It appears Britain will soon be at war with Germany."

I pondered this information for a while. My only knowledge of war had been gained from films I had seen, the study of the Great War (World War I), and the few stories my father and a couple of uncles had told of their experiences in France.

"Why are we going to have a war with Germany, Mr., Threfall?" I asked. "I thought we'd just had one about 20 years ago."

"So we did, Jack," he answered, "but it looks like we are going to have to do it again."

"Why?"

"Do you really want me to tell you the whole story, Jack?" Mr. Threfall questioned.

"Yes, please, Mr., Threfall." I had always enjoyed hearing Mr. Threfall's tales, and sensed that an important story was about to be told. I hoped I would be able to understand most of it. Mr. Threfall stood up and walked to one of his apple trees. Picking two apples, he returned to his seat, handing one of them to me.

"Have you heard of a man named Adolf Hitler?" he asked, taking a bit of his fruit.

"Yes, I have, Mr. Threfall," I assured him, following his lead with my own apple.

"Well, here's pretty much what has happened." Mr. Threfall then began to explain the events in Europe leading up to that day, Sunday, September 3, 1939. Although it is impossible for me to remember his exact words, the following is the gist of his story.

As early as 1935, Germany—under the leadership of Adolf Hitler, breaching previous treaties—had reinstated conscription of its young men into the armed forces; was rebuilding its navy, with submarines on the British scale; had already created a military air force which Hitler openly claimed to be the equal of the British Royal Air Force; and was in the second year of active munitions production.

In March of 1936, barely two hours after proposing a 25-year pact with Britain, France, Belgium, and Italy, Hitler announced his intention of occupying the Rhineland. This was a corridor of land east of the Rhine River. It had been taken from Germany to be used as a buffer zone between Germany and France, Belgium, and the Netherlands, by the Armistice Treaty after the 1914-18 Great War.

Two years later in March, 1938-- one month after Hitler had assumed supreme command of the German armed forces-- Austria was invaded and soon conquered. Meanwhile, Britain and France did nothing, believing Hitler's assurances that this would be the end of his territorial ambitions in Europe.

About this time a conference, attended by representatives of France and Italy and by Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain of Britain, and Hitler, convened in Munich, Germany. During this conference Hitler gave a written assurance that "This (Austria) is the last territorial claim I have to make in Europe."

Upon Mr. Chamberlain's return to London, he was pictured in a newspaper photograph waving a piece of paper over his head containing Hitler's written assurance, and declaring, "It is peace in our time."

Early in March, 1939, German armed forces invaded Czechoslovakia and, by the end of the month, had subjugated that entire country.

On March 31, 1939, Chamberlain (who was finally convinced that Hitler meant war), backed by the French leaders, gave a guarantee to Poland that if it was attacked by Nazi Germany, Britain (and France) would immediately come to Poland's aid. Poland was attacked by Germany at dawn on September 1 1939. The mobilization of all British forces was ordered the same morning. An ultimatum was given to Germany at 9:30 p.m. on September 1, and another at 9:30 p.m. on September 3.

"So you see, Jack," Mr. Threfall concluded, "Hitler has invaded Poland, and that is why the whole country's ears are glued to the wireless this morning."

"I think I understand now, Mr. Threfall, "I said. Then I went on to tell him that my father maintained that everyone knew that Hitler would have to be stopped, so why had Britain and France done nothing to help Czechoslovakia, which had a reasonably well-equipped army, but were now willing to back Poland whose idea of military tactics at that time was a cavalry charge.

"Well, Jack, I'm sure I don't know; I suppose Mr. Chamberlain thought he was doing the right thing." Mr., Threfall didn't sound convinced.

For over a year the vast majority of Britains' working class-- including my parents, their friends, and our relatives-- had had no doubt that a war with Germany was inevitable in order to stop Hitler's territorial ambitions. They were exasperated at their government's do-nothing attitude and its total failure to prepare for the coming confrontation. Dad's opinion was that Neville Chamberlain was too naive about world affairs to be an effective leader. Mother was not as generous in her assessment of his abilities, invariably referring to Mr. Chamberlain as "that silly old fool."

Mr. Threfall and I were still sitting on his bench chatting, when Dad came bursting through our back door and ran down the garden toward us.

"We're at war, Mr. Threfall," he shouted as he ran. "We're at war!"

Mr. Threfall looked at his watch. "It is 11:30, Jack" he said. "Remember the time, 11:30."

Dad leaned over the fence. "The Prime Minister has just said that we have been at war with Germany since 11 a.m. and that our troops are already reporting to their units," he informed us. Mr. Threfall and Dad then started to discuss the seriousness of the situation.

I listened for a while and then, climbing back over the fence, walked back to the house to see if Mum had anything to eat.

* * *

My mother made a sandwich for me but before I had eaten it, a strange, frightening, prolonged wailing noise broke upon our ears. I ran to the back door, followed closely by Mum and my younger brother, who were as scared as I was, down the garden to where Dad and Mr. Threfall were standing—their conversation now impossible to continue in that awful din.

"What is it, Dad?" I yelled in his ear to make myself heard.

"It's the air raid warning siren," he screamed.

"Will we have an air raid, then?" I loudly asked as the rising and falling wailing sound slowly died away into silence.

Mr. Threfall looked at the four of us. "Maybe it is only a test of the siren," he said.

We all stood in silence, gazing at the sky. Around us some of our neighbours emerged from their homes and also looked upward. Nobody spoke, as each of us was nervously alone with our thoughts.

After about ten minutes had passed the wailing broke out again, only this time it was a single, high-pitched note. "That's the all-clear signal," dad said. "We'll be all right now." Mum sighed with relief.

We never did find out if a few German planes had paid us a visit, or if it was indeed a test of the warning system as Mr. Threfall had thought. Although we didn't realize it then, we were destined to hear that dreaded sound many, many times in the years ahead.

Subject: Story: DAY TWO
From: wysiwyg
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 06:47 PM

Thanks to LilyFestre, who says she enjoys typing. More to follow later this evening.

These are out of sequence, but now Jack is a young man doing his military duty.

~S~

------------------------------------------------------

DAY TWO

1. I was startled awake by the sound of a bugle and rolled over in my bed to peer through bleary, sleep-filled eyes at the clock on the wall. Some maniac was playing at six o'clock in the morning! As if that wasn't bad enough, the noise was blaring over some sort of loud speaker.

2. Before I had even begun to figure out what was going on, the door burst open and Sergeant Parker exploded into the room yelling, "Come on you dozy lot, let's be having you out of get right now!" He was joined by Corporal Tomkins and together they went up and down the rows of beds, ripping blankets off people who were desperately trying to hang on to the last vestiges of sleep.

3. In a few minutes everyone was out of bed and grumbling their way to showers and shaves, and by seven o'clock we were all ready for breakfast with beds made and the barracks room swept.

4. At 8 a.m. we "fell in" with passable skill and more or less marched to our first regimental assembly on the vast parade ground. The two platoons of us who had arrived the day before were the only ones still in civilian clothes and were uncomfortably conspicuous amid the sea of khaki.

5. After the sergeants had all reported their platoons present and their men accounted for, we were dismissed and taken back to our barracks room where Sgt. Parker inspected our housecleaning and bed-making efforts. Nobody passed.

6. "Today we will attempt to make you look a little more like soldiers, " Sgt. Parker announced. "We'll be going to the Quartermaster's stores and you will be issued everything you need for your military career. We'll even give you nice boxes to send your civvies home in."

7. Accordingly we made our way to a large single-story building with small windows protected by iron bars, and were herded inside. Immediately each of us received a white canvas kit bag, and we were instructed to line up in single file.

8. Stretching away in front of us was a long wooden counter, backed by racks and shelves, which disappeared into the cavernous recess of that huge room. Masses of clothing and equipment filled every space. Behind the counter stood a line of soldiers who tossed an assortment of khaki garments, canvas straps, and strange-looking bundles into our open kit bags as we shuffled along. The air of confusion was completed by the almost deafening noise made by these equipment issuers, as they called out the names and quantities of the missiles they were throwing at us.

9. I faced the counter and held my bag open. "Four shirts," called a quartermaster's clerk as he skidded four shirts across the wooden surface. Thrusting them quickly into my bag, I moved a couple of steps to my left. "Two blouses, battledress."   I grabbed and moved. "Two shirts, PT; two shorts, PT." "One belt, web." "One pack, small." "One pack, large."   And so it went until I reached the end of line and joined the rest of the platoon outside, trying to cram all my new belongings into a kit bag that, apparently, had shrunk as I had moved through the line.

10. Slowly we made our way back to the barracks room, bags bulging and arms festooned with assorted uniform parts.

11. "Try your uniforms on for size," Sgt. Parker instructed. "Anything that doesn't fit will be exchanged this afternoon."

12. For the next hour our room looked like a rummage sale in a church basement. Hardly anyone had been lucky enough to get a fit the first, the first time, so we yelled out the sizes we had and the sizes we wanted. We dressed, undressed, dressed, undressed and dressed again, until most of us were satisfied with the results of our swaps.

13. Sgt. Parker called for quiet. "Spread everything on your beds in some kind order," he said. "Cpl. Tomkins and I will help you check your gear against the inventory list." We arranged our equipment and Sgt. Parker started to read. "Four shirts." I counted my four shirts. "Two blouses, battledress." Yes, I had them and two trousers, battledress. "Four drawers, cellular," the sergeant continued.

14. "Sgt. Parker," I called. "Drawers, cellular-are those underpants?"

15. "That's right, lad," the sergeant replied.

16. "Well, Sergeant, I only have three pairs," and I held them above my head for him to see.

17. Cpl. Tomkins approached my bed and made a meticulous search of my displayed clothing for the missing drawers, as Sgt. Parker continued to read and we continued the check.

18. The inventory completed, Sgt. Parker looked inquiringly at Tomkins. "He only has three pairs, Sergeant," said the corporal.

19. The sergeant looked up and down the room. "Is anyone else short of anything?" he asked. There were no replies. "Well, lad, come with me and we'll go and see the Quartermaster Sergeant," and within a few minutes I was back at the storeroom.

20. "Quartermaster!" called Parker, and an immense figure strode forward from behind a row of shelves, followed by his corporal assistant. The Quartermaster was twice as wide and almost a foot taller than I. With a voice to match his bulk he roared, "What's this then?" As he looked down at the top of my head.

21. Now by this time I had learned that a sergeant wore three stripes on his sleeve and made a great deal of noise, and that a corporal had two stripes and made as much noise as a sergeant but without the confidence. So, trying very hard not to be intimidated, I stammered, "I-I-I was only issued three pairs of drawers, cellulars, Sergeant."

22. "That's impossible, Private," the Quartermaster bellowed. "Everyone is given four pairs because that is regulations. What have you done with the fourth pair we gave you?"

23. "That's what I'm trying to tell you Sergeant, I didn't get four pairs, only three" and I looked at Sgt. Parker, who seemed to be using his eyes to tell me to be quiet.

24. The Quartermaster was furious; his eyes glared, his ears turned crimson, and he appeared to grow about six inches taller.

25. "Are you calling me a liar, soldier?" he fumed.

26. "Only if you insist that I was given four pairs of drawers," I answered, fighting for control over my quaking body.

27. "What!" he roared.

28. Unfortunately I mistook his what, exclamation point, for a what, question mark, and so though he desired me to recapitulate. "I said I'm not calling you a liar unless you keep saying I was given four pairs of drawers when I know I only got three pains, Sergeant," I explained, looking up into his purple-mottled face.

29. "That does it, Private" he screamed. "You're on a charge! Corporal, bring me a charge form." The corporal disappeared behind some shelves and returned almost immediately with the requested form which he handed to his superior.

30. The Quartermaster took a pen from his pocket and glared down at me. "Name?" he asked. I told him. "Serial number?" he continued. "I don't know, Sergeant, " I confessed.

31. "You don't know your Army serial number?" he snarled. "What kind of soldier are you, anyway?"

32. I thought it best not to answer "a reluctant one" and instead tried to explain that I had only been given the number the previous afternoon and had not had time to memorize it. A smug look appeared on the sergeant's face. "We'll just have to stand here until remember, won't we, " he gloated.

33. In a flash of inspiration I remembered the identification tags on the cord around my neck. Opening my shirt I triumphantly held up the tags in front of his face.

34. Sgt. Parker made a choking sound, and as I looked in his direction he turned his back to us.

35. The Quartermaster angrily shoved the charge form into his corporal's hand. "Here, you finish this and I'll fill in the charges and sign it later," he said, as he turned and stormed away. The corporal completed the sheet and Sgt. Parker indicated that I should leave and return to the barracks with him.

36. We walked side by side without talking until, still looking straight ahead, he said, "You know lad, you've got more guts than good sense," and lapsed back into silence. I took it as a compliment.

37. "Sgt. Parker, what is a charge?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.

38. Parker stopped and looked at me with the quizzical look of someone trying to figure out if he is being had. Apparently satisfied that I honestly didn't know what I was getting into, he explained that when a soldier contravenes Army regulations he is charged with is "Crime" and is required to appear before his company commander for a hearing and punishment.

39. "What kind of punishment, Sergeant?" I questioned.

40. "Well, for small things the punishment is usually being confined to barracks (CP), with an extra duty such as cleaning up the regimental area, or scrubbing out the mess, or preparing vegetables and other work in the kitchens," he answered. "For more serious crimes one could be sent to regimental prison or even military prison," he concluded. I digested this information as we started to walk again.

41. "Sgt. Parker, what do you think I'll get?" I asked.

42. "CB with extra duty," he said.

43. My questions answered, I was relieved to have an idea of what I would be facing, but one thing still concerned me. "Sgt. Parker, will I get my fourth pair of underdrawers?"

44. Sgt. Parker laughed aloud.

45. The platoon had barely started marching practice after our midday meal when a messenger approached Sgt. Parker and briefly spoke to him. Parker gave the command to halt and walked over to stand directly in front of me.

46. "Private hart, you are on company orders at 13:30 hours so you'd better cut along now," he said. "Go along with this man," indicating the messenger, "and he will show you where you must report."

47. I took my place beside the soldier, and we started to walk along the road around the parade ground, which would take us to the company offices.

48. "Are you the group that arrived yesterday?" he asked.

49. "Yes."

50. "And you are in trouble already?" he continued.

51. "The Quartermaster put me on a charge this morning. Something about some lost clothing," I explained, and refrained from going into more detail. We walked the rest of the way without further conversation until we reached and entered the main office building.

52. "In there," my companion said, indicating a door marked C Company, as he continued to walk down the corridor and disappeared from sight. Entering the room I was immediately asked my name by a corporal seated at a desk just inside the door. I gave my name and he pointed to a bench along the far wall where two other soldiers were seated. "Wait over there, you'll be called when you are needed," he said as he made some notes on a pad. Then, he walked across the room to enter an inner office door.

53. The corporal returned to the outer office and was met by a sergeant, who had just entered from outside carrying a file folder. They were engaged in conversation when another corporal stuck his head out of the inner door and announced, "the captain's ready for you, Sergeant," and held the door open.

54. The sergeant opened his folder and approached the bench where the three of us were sitting.

55. "Which one of you is Hart?" he asked.

56. I stood up. "Me, Sergeant," I identified myself.

57. "Alright Private, attention!" he commanded. I sprang to attention.

58. He then did something that took me completely by surprise.

59. Announcing, "Prisoners must appear for their hearing bare-headed," he knocked my cap to the floor with one swipe of his hand. I was dumbfounded. My brand new cap-- which I had been instructed to take care of, along with all my other gear, and which I had been told, must last me for the duration of my army service-- was now lying on a floor which didn't look any too clean. I bent down to retrieve my hat and walked to hang it on one of several pegs on the wall just inside the outer door.

60. "What do you think you are doing!" screamed the sergeant. "You were at attention and disobeyed a direct order by breaking ranks, and that is a chargeable offense!" I inwardly groaned and returned to my former position at attention.

61. "Double-time, march," ordered the sergeant. I trotted through the open door and was commanded to halt in front of the Captain's Desk. The Captain was the same large moustache and bored expression who had welcomed us the previous day. He looked at the contents of the folder the sergeant had put upon his desk, and then at me.

62. "It says here you have lost a piece of your equipment and were insubordinate to the Quartermaster Sergeant," he accused. "Have you anything to say for yourself?"

63. "I was never issued the drawers the Quartermaster says I was, and I argued with him about it," I said.

64. "Address the Captain as 'Sir: Private," the sergeant ordered.

65. "Sir," I added as I looked at the Captain.

66. The Captain read the charge sheet again and raised his eyes to mine. "I am prepared to believe you were not issued the garment in question, however, I must find you guilty of insubordination," he said. "So I sentence you to 14 days, C.B. with extra duty. Therefore, starting tomorrow, you will report at Defaulter's parade every day at 1900 hours until your punishment is completed. You recruits must learn to obey orders without question and never argue with your superiors. That is all."

67. "Sir, do I get my drawers, sir?" I asked.

68. "Yes, I'll instruct the Quartermaster to issue them when you go to the stores," the Captain answered.

69. "Thank you, sir," and I left the room at the double-time trot.

70. I walked to the wall to get my hat. "Is that all Sergeant?" I asked.

71. "Not by a long shot," he rejoined. "There's that matter of breaking ranks that must be taken care of. Sit down and wait! You'll be seeing the Captain again as soon as these other two lads are finished."

72. Some twenty minutes later I again found myself standing in front of the Captain's desk. He looked at me, looked at the sergeant, who handed him another charge sheet, and back at me.

73. "I didn't expect to see you quite so soon," he said as he read the new charges against me. "You are charged with disobeying a direct order, do you have anything to say?" he asked.

74. "Sir, the sergeant knocked my hat on the floor and I picked it up because it's new and I was told to take care of my kit, sir." I blurted.

75. "All prisoners must appear for their hearings bare-headed," he explained. "What happened to you is normal Army procedure. Therefore, I must sentence you to five days CB with extra duty to be served after the other, er, 14 I believe it was."

76. "Yes, sir" I said quietly.

77. The escorting sergeant double-timed me back into the outer office. "That's all for now, Private; get your cap and report back to your platoon," he instructed.

78. "Is it alright if I get my other pair of underwear while I'm this close to the stores, Sergeant?" I asked.

79. "I suppose so," he replied. "If you have any trouble, ask the Quartermaster to telephone this office and they'll explain the Captain's order. I thanked him, left the office, and was soon entering the Quartermaster's stores for the third time that day. The corporal who had written my charge sheet earlier greeted me. "What can we do for you this time?" he asked.

80. "I have to see the Sergeant," I told him.

81. The corporal started to walk back among the shelves, calling over his shoulder, "Wait there."

82. In a few moments the Quartermaster appeared and strode toward me. "I've just had a telephone call from the company office telling me to expect you," he said.

83. He handed me a pair of underdrawers.

84. "Thank you, Sergeant," I said as I took the garment, rolling it into a small wad and stuffing it into a tunic pocket.

85. "That will be all," the Quartermaster growled.

86. "Yes, Sergeant."

87. "I said, that will be all," he loudly reiterated.

88. "Yes, Sergeant," I answered.

89. In the neighborhood where I was raised in East London, it was imperative to establish standing among one's peers. When involved in an argument one must always have the last word, and when fighting one must always deliver the last punch. It was a matter of pride. It therefore occurred to me, in a flash of insight that I could always have the last word in the Army by the simple expedient of agreeing verbally with the last statement made by any of my superiors.

90. "You can leave now," the Quartermaster ordered.

91. "Yes, Sergeant," I responded, savoring my newly discovered power but with my mouth parched from fright at what I was doing.

92. "Shut up and go back to your platoon." He was starting to get angry.

93. "Yes, Sergeant."

94. "Go, and not another word!" he yelled, his face turning red.

95. "Yes, Sergeant; no, Sergeant." Scared as I was, I was determined he would leave this confrontation first. And amazingly he did. With a roar of frustration, he turned and stalked away leaving me in sole possession of the field of combat. I was elated and left the building almost laughing aloud.

96. Seeing my barracks at the other side of the parade ground, I decided it was silly to walk to it by way of the encircling road; and so I struck out across the ground at a brisk pace, taking a short cut toward my new home. I had marched about seventy-five yards, listening to my new steel-shod boots ringing a cadence on the macadam surface, when a loud voice interrupted my reverie.

97. "That man!" the voice called. "That man!" it came again.

98. Someone was in trouble, I thought, and turned to see who it might be.

99. "Yes, you Private, come here." A young second lieutenant was pointing a finger in my direction.

100. I looked about me to see if someone else might be warranting the officer's attention, but I was alone in the center of the parade ground.

101. Marching up to the lieutenant I came to attention and gave him my best salute with the question, "Sir?"

102. "What the devil do you think you are doing out there?" he fumed/

103. "Taking a shortcut to my barracks, sir," I answered, turning to wave my hand in the general direction of the buildings at the other side of the parade surface.

104. "You are at attention, Private," he screamed, and I quickly dropped my arms to my sides and complied.

105. "Don't you know the parade ground is off limits unless you are drilling or on parade?" he asked loudly.

106. "No, sir."

107. "Well it is, and you have disobeyed regimental regulations." He turned toward the company office and called to a sergeant who was passing by. The sergeant approached and gave the lieutenant a magnificent salute.

108. "Put this man on a charge for shortcutting across the parade ground," the officer ordered, and strode away.

109. "Didn't you know you are not supposed to use the parade ground as a shortcut?" the sergeant asked.

110. "No, Sergeant, I only got here yesterday afternoon and nobody told me," I explained.

111. "Well, I have to follow orders the same as you, so come along with me," and he led me back to the C Company office where I sat down on the bench, already occupied by three other soldiers, to wait my turn again.

112. The sergeant conferred with the corporal clerk who went to a large filing cabinet, removed a file folder, and handed it to the sergeant. After completing some paperwork, which I correctly assumed was my charge sheet, the sergeant also settled down to wait.

113. A half-hour later, after hanging my cap on one of the pegs inside the door, I was double-timed to the Captain's desk for the third time that afternoon.

114. The Captain read the charge sheet handed to him by my sergeant escort. He looked at me with a trace of smile under is moustache.

115. "This is not your day, is it, Private?" he said, thumbing through the other papers in my folder.

116. "No, sir."

117. "You know the reason for this charge, do you?" he asked.

118. "Yes, sir," I answered.

119. "Do you have anything to say?" He looked at me expectantly.

120. "No, sir."

121. "Well, Private, this will cost you seven days CB with extra duty to be served after you have completed the...the..." he looked at the file again, "the five and 14 days you already have."

122. "Yes, sir," I responded.

123. "And Private, try to stay out of any further trouble," he admonished. "That's all."

124. "Try to stay out of trouble, fat chance," I mumbled to myself as I collected my cap and opened the door of the outer office.

125. "You say something?" questioned the corporal from his seat behind the desk.

126. "No, Corporal, just clearing my throat," and closing the door behind me I went outside.

127. "Stay out of trouble...I didn't even know I was in trouble, 'til it was too late," I grumbled under my breath as I started to walk back to the barracks – the long way around.

Subject: Story: THE FINAL DAY
From: wysiwyg
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 06:49 PM

Another input job thanks to LF.

~S~

---------------------------------------

THE FINAL DAY

1. The day following our march was Friday, and my body still ached. After the daily parade, Sgt. Parker informed us that we had nothing scheduled for the balance of the morning.

2. "However your new assignments are posted on the Company bulletin board so I suggest you check it out as soon as possible," Parker said, "then get back here right away." Excitedly we made our way to C Company offices and crowded around the board to see where we would be going.

3. I found my name and read my fate with mixed emotions. My new regiment would be the Royal Artillery. Good, I thought, I probably wouldn't have to slog it on foot anymore, but the rest of my assignment puzzled me. Based on an aptitude test we had all undergone several weeks before, I was trained as a vehicle mechanic—me, who would know an internal combustion engine if I tripped over it. But first, with uncharacteristic insight, the Army was sending me to a base in North Wales to be taught how to drive.

4. Talking animatedly about our new regiments, we returned to where Parker was waiting.

5. "As you can see, I also have a list of your postings, but I wanted you to see them for yourselves," he said. As he read the list aloud we realized that the entire platoon would be going to various infantry regiments, except four of us, whose destination was the Royal Artillery.

6. "You people who are going to be Gunners (the Artillery equivalent of private) will be turning in their infantry equipment," Sgt. Parker said. "Corporal Tomkins will take you to the Armory to return your rifles and bayonets, then to the Quartermaster's Store to give back your cross-straps, ammunition pouches, and canteen. Be sure you get receipts for all of your returned gear."

7. Clutching the now-redundant infantry equipment, the four of us were marched to the Armory and then to the Quartermaster's, where, upon seeing me, the Quartermaster Sergeant glowered and disappeared, leaving the counter to his corporal.

8. I was elated at how little I had to do to get ready for our final Saturday muster the next morning, and had my preparations finished before the noon meal. After we had eaten we returned to our room to find Sgt. Parker waiting for us.

9. "The following people will be in charge of the various groups traveling to new assignments on Sunday," and he read out the names. To my surprise, I had been selected to lead the other three, who were also going to the Artillery. I went with the other leaders to the C Company offices. There we were given travel vouchers, railway timetables, and explicit directions to our new bases. I was starting t leave when a Corporal called my name.

10. "Yes, Corporal?" I questioned.

11. "The Captain wants to see you," he answered.

12. My heart sank. I didn't remember breaking any military rules lately. Apprehensively I knocked on the Captain's door.

13. "Come in," he called. "Oh, it's you, Hart." he said, as I stood at attention in front of this desk, giving him a smart salute.

14. "I think this is the first time you've stood there with your hat on," he observed.

15. "Yes, Sir!"

16. Pulling my file from a desk drawer, he spent some time looking it over.

17. "I see you have done quite well with your training but your punishment record is even more impressive," he said. I remained quite. "According to your file you still have 22 days extra duty left to serve," he continued.

18. "Yes, Sir!" I had lost count of the jankers days, but I was sure he was right.

19. "Private, I'm sure you realize this is a dismal start to your military service, and I really dislike sending you to your new regiment with punishment left to serve," he said as he pulled a few sheets of paper from my file and jabbed at them with a forefinger. "It gets you off to a bad start." He looked up at me from his seat at his desk.

20. "Therefore, I am removing your extra duty record from your file, so you can go to the Artillery with a clean slate."

21. "Thank you very much, Sir," I answered, greatly relieved that, not only was I not in any new trouble, but also at the tremendous break he was giving me.

22. "Good luck in your new assignment, and keep you nose clean—dismiss!"

23. "Thank you, Sir," I answered as I started to leave his office. Reaching the door I heard the Captain calling and I turned to face him.

24. "Sir?"

25. "Private Hart, my personal opinion is that you will never make a soldier as long as you have a hole in your arse," he said. I started to grin, but realizing he was deadly serious, quickly wiped the smile off my face.

26. "Yes, Sir," I answered as I left the room.

27. *   *   *

28. That afternoon I went to the kitchen of the mess to the cooks I had been relieved of all punishment, and to say goodbye to the friends I had made. I wanted to see them before they became busy with the preparations for the evening meal.

29. "No more jankers," Sgt.   "Chin's" grinned. "Just when you were becoming an expert with the dishwashing machines."

30. My Cockney Corporal friend came over with several of the other kitchen staff and we shook hands and wished each other good luck. I knew I would miss them, as they had been good to me. I also knew I would miss the extra food they always gave me.

31. "Would you like me to write you a letter of recommendation to the mess Sergeant at your next base?" Sergeant "Chins" roared with laughter and shook like a bowl full of Jell-O.

32. "No thanks, Sergeant," I assured him, "I hope to stay out of trouble from now on."

33. This was the signal for all of them to double up with laughter. "Fat chance!" My Corporal friend chuckled, his face mottled red with the effort of his merriment.

34. That evening my plate was again piled high.

35. *   *   *

36. Our travel arrangements had us leaving early Sunday morning, which left Friday and Saturday evenings free, and for which we had been given passes to leave the barracks.

37. So, Friday evening about a dozen of us left the barracks, bound for a country pub we had spotted on our various training marches. There we spent a pleasant few hours drinking beer and talking about our homes, civilian jobs, girlfriends, the past six weeks, and speculating on our new assignments.

38. "Let's come here again tomorrow night as it will be our last in Exeter," someone suggested. We all agreed. "How about we invite the rest of the platoon and have a bit of a party? Another rejoined. Again, we all agreed.

39. "Do you think we should as Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins to come too?" A third voice queried. This time there was no ready agreement.

40. We all had another beer and discussed this radical suggestion, finally agreeing to ask them both, but only for the sake of appearances. None of us were really comfortable with the idea, being sure they would put a damper on our festivities if they did decide to meet us.

41. Next morning three of us approached Sgt. Parker and asked if he and Cpl. Tomkins would want to meet us at the "Wheatsheaf" pub that evening. "We'd both like that," he said, much to our surprise.

42. Saturday afternoon we packed our kit bags and backpacks to be ready for an early start Sunday morning. Saturday evening about half of the members of the platoon made their way to the "Wheatsheaf" to enjoy our last few hours together. Some time later Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins joined us. Parker was a totally different man off duty. While Tomkins draped his gangling frame into an easy chair, Parker regaled us with some hilarious stories of his experiences during the recent war, having seen action in North Africa, Italy, and D-Day—the Allied invasion of Europe, collecting several medals and a couple of wounds along the way.

43. Finally it was time for us to return to the barracks.

44. "Before we break up I'd like to buy you all a drink and propose a toast," Sgt. Parker announced. Quickly we gathered around with our beer.

45. "I must admit that I didn't give you people a hope in Hades that you'd ever successfully complete your basis training," he said. "The most I hoped for was that you wouldn't embarrass me too badly. But, you all fooled me, and so I give you, "The Dozey Platoon!" We had no trouble drinking to that.

46. I looked around at the young men with whom I had just spent 24 hours a day for the past six weeks. It was easy to see that we had all changed and matured from the boys who had arrived at Topsham Barracks a month-and-a-half earlier, I knew I would miss these lads that I had come to know so well. I suppose what we had experienced together is now referred to as "Male Bonding," a rather cold, clinical term for what we thought of as comradeship back in the 1940's. I knew I would miss the daily stimulation of training, the constant attention of Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins and, strangely, even the extra duty punishment the Army had so generously sent my way. I had also gained about 12 pounds of muscle, was in the best physical condition of my life, and possessed confidence in myself I had never known before.

47. With more than a little sadness, I tagged on the end of the line that was filing past Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins, to add my goodbye. Shaking hands with each of them in turn, I thanked them for all their efforts with us. Sgt. Parker solemnly shook my hand and wished me luck, and, as I walked through the pub door into the cool night air, I heard him vigorously blowing his nose.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: LilyFestre
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 08:10 PM

Line 46 of DAY TWO...Hart needs to be capitalized.

And I *DO* like to type!!!    :)

Michelle

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 08:42 PM

And before I forget-- dozey, not dozy.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 08:43 PM

DAY TWO

2. Before I had even begun to figure out what was going on, the door burst open and Sergeant Parker exploded into the room yelling, "Come on you dozy lot, let's be having you out of get - is this bed or a slang term? right now!" He was joined by Corporal Tomkins and together they went up and down the rows of beds, ripping blankets off people who were desperately trying to hang on to the last vestiges of sleep.

12. For the next hour our room looked like a rummage sale in a church basement. Hardly anyone had been lucky enough to get a fit the first, the first time, so we yelled out the sizes we had and the sizes we wanted. We dressed, undressed, dressed, undressed and dressed again, until most of us were satisfied with the results of our swaps.

28. Unfortunately I mistook his what, exclamation point, for a what, question mark, and so though he desired me to recapitulate. "I said I'm not calling you a liar unless you keep saying I was given four pairs of drawers when I know I only got three pains, Sergeant," I explained, looking up into his purple-mottled face.

40. "Well, for small things the punishment is usually being confined to barracks (CP - it's CB in para 42, which seems more logical), with an extra duty such as cleaning up the regimental area, or scrubbing out the mess, or preparing vegetables and other work in the kitchens," he answered. "For more serious crimes one could be sent to regimental prison or even military prison," he concluded. I digested this information as we started to walk again.

57. "Alright Private, attention!" he commanded. I sprang to attention.

64. "Address the Captain as 'Sir: quote, not colon Private," the sergeant ordered.

66. The Captain read the charge sheet again and raised his eyes to mine. "I am prepared to believe you were not issued the garment in question, however, I must find you guilty of insubordination," he said. "So I sentence you to 14 days, C.B. - no periods in paras 40 and 42 with extra duty. Therefore, starting tomorrow, you will report at Defaulter's parade every day at 1900 hours until your punishment is completed. You recruits must learn to obey orders without question and never argue with your superiors. That is all."

78. "Is it alright if I get my other pair of underwear while I'm this close to the stores, Sergeant?" I asked.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 09:00 PM

THE FINAL DAY

3. I found my name and read my fate with mixed emotions. My new regiment would be the Royal Artillery. Good, I thought, I probably wouldn't have to slog it on foot anymore, but the rest of my assignment puzzled me. Based on an aptitude test we had all undergone several weeks before, I was trained as a vehicle mechanic - me, who would - should this be "wouldn't"? know an internal combustion engine if I tripped over it. But first, with uncharacteristic insight, the Army was sending me to a base in North Wales to be taught how to drive.

9. "The following people will be in charge of the various groups traveling to new assignments on Sunday," and he read out the names. To my surprise, I had been selected to lead the other three, who were also going to the Artillery. I went with the other leaders to the C Company offices. There we were given travel vouchers, railway timetables, and explicit directions to our new bases. I was starting t - to leave when a Corporal called my name.

17. "I see you have done quite well with your training but your punishment record is even more impressive," he said. I remained quite. "According to your file you still have 22 days extra duty left to serve," he continued.

22. "Good luck in your new assignment, and keep you nose clean - dismiss - should this be dismissed?!"

28. That afternoon I went to the kitchen of the mess to tell? some verb the cooks I had been relieved of all punishment, and to say goodbye to the friends I had made. I wanted to see them before they became busy with the preparations for the evening meal.

29. "No more jankers," Sgt.   "Chin's" - something seems off - just extra spaces? grinned. "Just when you were becoming an expert with the dishwashing machines."

39. "Do you think we should as - ask Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins to come too?" A third voice queried. This time there was no ready agreement.

45. "I must admit that I didn't give you people a hope in Hades that you'd ever successfully complete your basis training," he said. "The most I hoped for was that you wouldn't embarrass me too badly. But, you all fooled me, and so I give you, "The Dozey Platoon!" We had no trouble drinking to that.

46. I looked around at the young men with whom I had just spent 24 hours a day for the past six weeks. It was easy to see that we had all changed and matured from the boys who had arrived at Topsham Barracks a month-and-a-half earlier, - I know you said to ignore punctuation, but this one's too big for me to ignore I knew I would miss these lads that I had come to know so well. I suppose what we had experienced together is now referred to as "Male Bonding," a rather cold, clinical term for what we thought of as comradeship back in the 1940's. I knew I would miss the daily stimulation of training, the constant attention of Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins and, strangely, even the extra duty punishment the Army had so generously sent my way. I had also gained about 12 pounds of muscle, was in the best physical condition of my life, and possessed confidence in myself I had never known before.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 22 Nov 05 - 10:25 PM

I love you, JudyB!

More tomorrow afternoon-- I just wasn't up to doing any, tonight.

Six left to go, one of them quite long-- but you will not believe where Jack rode the motorcycle!

~Susan

Subject: Sroty: 'JANKERS'
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 08:44 AM

'JANKERS' (The Third Day)

1. The next morning I was awakened, it seemed, by the strangeness of my surroundings. The bed I was occupying was not my own; neither was I in my old familiar bedroom, and, most perplexing of all, sleeping bodies surrounded me.

2. Of course, I remembered, I was now one of His Majesty's infantrymen.

3. I lay quietly, pondering the events of the previous day. I certainly didn't want to continue the way I had started. Ideally I would like to find a way to become invisible, but failing that I resolved to become unidentifiable within the platoon, and to try my hardest not to attract the attention of anyone with the rank above that of private.

4. I bugle sounding Reveille interrupted my thoughts and the sound had barely faded into silence when, right on cue, the door burst open and Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins entered to give us an encore of their previous morning's performance. Again we were exhorted, encouraged, and bullied awake and, with much heartfelt grumbling, we prepared ourselves for another day.

5. At 8 a.m., resplendent in our new uniforms, we marched to the parade ground and took our places with the other platoons for regimental assembly. By 8:30 we had been reported present and correct, and were back in our barracks. The rest of the morning was to be spent stencilling our names and serial numbers on every piece of equipment and clothing we had, using stencils and ink provided by Sgt. Parker.

6. Since my name contains only four letters I was one of the first to finish the marking chore; settling back on my bed, I prepared to enjoy the frustration of those with a dozen or so letters to stencil.

7. My enjoyment was brief. Sgt. Parker suddenly appeared at the foot of my bed, his neckless head thrust forward in my direction. "Well, well; what exactly do you think you are doing, you dozey man?" he asked loudly enough for everyone to hear.

8. I sprang to my feet. This was disaster. After my early morning decision to become anonymous, the last thing I wanted was Parker's or anyone else's personal attention! In less than four hours I had failed miserably in my new resolution.

9. Sgt. Parker posed his question again. "Well, what do you think you are doing?!" he bellowed.

10. "Resting, Sergeant?" It was more a question vainly seeking approval than an answer. His eyes flashed, his face turned scarlet, and I knew I had made a serious tactical error. "This dozey old lady is resting," he loudly informed the room full of suddenly silent and motionless youths, each one grateful that I, and not they, was the victim of the sergeant's anger.

11. "Corporal Tomkins!" Parker called, and the corporal approached from the far end of the room. "Take this man to the Mess Hall, give the duty cook sergeant my compliments, and tell him to put this man to work. I don't want to set eyes on him again until 1200 hours."

12. "Come on," Tomkins ordered, and grabbing my cap I followed him outside and fell into step beside him.

13. We marched together in silence for several minutes. "You must always look busy," he said abruptly. "No matter where you are, or what you are supposed to be doing, you must always look busy. It's the only way you can hope to stay out of trouble in the Army."

14. I thought it best not to point out to the corporal that I had already found ways of getting into trouble in the Army that "looking busy" wouldn't have helped a bit.

15. "Thanks, Corporal," I answered instead, and mentally filed his advice with that of my father regarding volunteering.

16. We neared the Mess; passing the main entrance, we made our way to the rear of the building, entering through wide, open double doors.

17. I looked about me in amazement. I was in the largest kitchen I had ever seen. Everywhere, cooks were moving around gleaming stainless steel sinks, dishwashers, ovens, and tables in steamy confusion.

18. Just inside the door a huge man dressed in white, with sergeant's stripes on a khaki band around his arm, was seated at a large, cluttered desk. He stood and turned to Cpl. Tomkins and me as we entered, and in a voice that matched his size asked, "What can I do for you lads today?"

19. Cpl. Tomkins delivered Sgt. Parker's compliments and message, and with a sorrowful look at me, marched through the door and disappeared outside.

20. "What's your name, lad?" the cook sergeant asked.

21. I told him, together with my Army serial number which I had decided would be prudent to memorize and use.

22. "The name is familiar," he said, and turning to his desk, started to rummage through piles of paper. He finally retrieved one sheet and waved it in the air between us.

23. His florid face was the color of a newly-ripened tomato, and a pair of light blue eyes sparkled from above a generous stack of chins. His immense girth was almost frightening, and I was sure his waist measurement exceeded his height. He obviously enjoyed the consumption of food, and, as I was to find out, the preparation of it.

24. With a big grin he jabbed and index finger at the sheet of paper he was waving and chortled, "You are on my jankers list for tonight!"

25. "What is 'jankers', Sergeant?" I hesitantly questioned.

26. "Jankers, my boy, is Army slang for the extra duty punishment given to defaulters, like you," he boomed. "How long have you been a soldier that you don't know that?"

27. "Two days, Sergeant," I apologized.

28. "To days!" he exclaimed, and took another glance at the paper in his hand. "Two days?" he repeated. "Is that all.... It says here you have 26 jankers days to do. Who did you upset to get yourself 26 days punishment your first two days in the Army?"

29. He seemed genuinely interested in my story, so I told him as briefly as I could, and as I talked, his merriment became louder and louder.

30. I finally reached the end of my narrative. Roaring with stomach-quivering laughter, the sergeant turned to a corporal who was busily arranging peeled potatoes in a large baking pan.

31. "It seems we have a one-man crime wave among us," he hooted, and repeated the pertinent facts of my rapid downfall as the corporal walked toward us, grinning broadly.

32. The sergeant finally gained control of himself long enough to instruct the corporal, "Let him help you until 1200 hours," and he turned back to his desk and started to laugh again.

33. I worked with the corporal for the rest of the morning, arranging potatoes, filling big pots with water and already-prepared vegetables, and listening intently as the corporal explained the inner workings of that vast kitchen. I met and joked with a few of the cooks, and was actually sorry when the time arrived for me to report back to my platoon.

34. A few minutes later I was back in the Mess, only this time on the receiving side of the counter, with plate in hand.

35. "You back already?" smiled one of my new-found cook friends as he placed an extra large piece of meat on my proffered plate. "Here, you worked on these this morning," said another as he served me an extra baked potato. In a short while I was seated at a table with a heaping plate of food that was the envy of my companions.

36. That afternoon, those of us who had finished stencilling our equipment were put through our paces on the parade square starting, stopping, turning, wheeling, and marching until every member of the platoon had joined us.

37. Sgt. Parker then took us to the auditorium where we had been welcomed by our captain a two-day eternity ago, and we were treated to a lecture and slide presentation on the magnificent opportunities awaiting us in the "Modern British Army."

38. "Are there any questions? asked Sgt. Parker as the show came to an end and the lights were switched back on. Silence was the reply.

39. "Does anyone have any idea what they might like to do during their service time?" he questioned. We looked at each other, but nobody spoke.

40. "What about you, dozey man," and with dismay I saw Sgt. Parker's finger pointed directly at me.

41. "Well, Sergeant," I started. Images of a happy, fat sergeant; of good-natured ribbing between soldiers who enjoyed their work--and especially of heaping plates of good food-- passed rapidly before my eyes. "I think I'd like to be a cook."

42. Sgt. Parker actually smiled. "I expect you'll have plenty of opportunity to decide of that's what you want in the next few weeks," he said, and I knew exactly what he meant.

43. At that moment a young second lieutenant entered the room and stood beside. Parker. Salutes were exchanged and the sergeant announced, "I want you all to meet our Platoon Officer, Second Lieutenant Reed." Reed said a few words that I did not hear, as I was appalled to realize this was the same officer who had been so put out at my crossing the parade square the day before. I also couldn't help but notice his look of recognition as his eyes wandered over his platoon.

44. At last our afternoon training session was over, and I again stood in line in the mess hall line with the rest of my platoon.

45. "See you later," said a cook as he piled food on my outstretched plate. "Don't be late," admonished another with a smile as he filled my tea mug. I assured them I would be on time, and sat down to eat another generous meal, ignoring the rather pointed remarks of my jealous messmates.

46. The evening meal over, I hurried back to the barracks room. I knew I had to report for punishment parade at 1900 hours, and I had no idea when I would be finished. I also realized my boots had to be polished, my brass buttons and buckles must be buffed, and the rest of my equipment cleaned in readiness for the next morning's regimental parade.

47. For the next 45 minutes I dashed bout like a man possessed. Before seven o'clock I had everything in order and, redressed in a khaki denim work uniform, stood in front of C Company office with about a dozen other miscreants as a bugler sounded the "Defaulters" call.

48. A corporal appeared at the office door with a clipboard in his hand. "Fall in and answer when I call your name," he instructed. We fell is, he called, and we answered. He then marched s to the back door of the Mess and for the second time that day I was face to face with the Sergeant of the Chins.

49. "Can't stay away, can you?" he laughed and, jabbing me in the chest with a sausage-like finger, ordered, "You stay here."

50. I waited while he marched the rest of the group around the kitchen and Mess Hall, assigning them to cleaning work in two's and three's until all of them were busy.

51. The sergeant returned to where I was still sitting. "Come with me," he said, and I followed him to a row of six gleaming stainless steel dishwashing machines. "Since you are going to be with us for a while, I thought it would be a good idea if you learned something," he explained. He then showed me how to load dirty plates from which someone else had hosed the food particles; how to operate the controls; and how to load the clean plates onto rubber-tired carts and park them at the head of the serving counter.

52. It didn't take me long to realize that this was a real piece of cake, and I set about my duties with considerable enthusiasm but very little skill.

53. I was unloading and stacking my first load of clean plates when Sgt. "Chins" approached me, accompanied by a corporal I had not seen before.

54. "This is the villain I was telling you about," he said to the corporal, indicating me with a smile and a wave of his hand. "This is the night duty cook, who will be in charge of you from now on," he added for my benefit, and with a cheerful "goodnight" he turned and walked away.

55. "Watcha mate, you doin' alright? the new arrival greeted me. I couldn't believe my ears! A kindred Cockney accent amid the sea of West Country brogue!

56. "Yes, thanks, Corporal."

57. "We got anuvver Cockney then do we?" the corporal asked.

58. I answered affirmatively and told him where I lived in London. It turned out he had been raised in an area about a mile from my neighborhood. We found we had been entertained in the same cinemas, that we'd danced at the same dance hall, and that we'd enjoyed the same beer in some of the same pubs.

59. "Come and see me when you are finished," he suggested, and moved off to check on the progress of the rest of his jankers squad.

60. In what seemed like minutes, but was actually almost two hours, I had all the plates cleaned and stacked, and the dishwashers wiped down inside and out. Walking over to the desk, I waited for the corporal, who was inspecting the work of the other defaulters before dismissing them.

61. "You in a hurry?" he asked as he came toward me.

62. I shook my head. "Not really, but I suppose I have to be back with the platoon before 'lights out,' don't I?"

63. "Don't worry about it, you have an hour yet," he looked at his watch. "Well, almost. Want some tea, are you hungry?"

64. I of course said yes to the tea, and assured him I was always ready to eat.

65. He filled two mugs with tea, handed me one, and disappeared through the door of the large cool-room. In a few moments he returned, carrying a handful of eggs and two thick slices of ham. "Come on, mate," he called. "I'll give you your first cooking lesson."

66. We soon had a couple of pans going and in no time were sitting down to our ham and eggs, accompanied by bread baked that afternoon and unlimited quantities of strong, sweet tea. For the first time since I had left home, I felt comfortable and at ease.

67. "Twenty-six days extra duty in only two days," the corporal mused almost to himself, and then, directly to me, "You must've got up somebody's bloody nose pretty bad to get 26 days, didn't you?"

68. I assured him I had no idea whose nose I had invaded, but that jankers didn't seem that difficult to accumulate.

69. "I know one thing, Corporal," I added with a mouth full of delicious ham, "This punishment doesn't seem half bad to me," and we both roared with laughter.

70. "You know, I thought I had trouble when I first joined the Army," he said. "But I only managed 17 days punishment in the first week, and here you've still got four days 'til your first week is over!"

71. We finished our meal and talked for a while, mostly about London. "It's getting late," he finally announced, looking at his watch. "You'd better cut along now and I'll see you tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow." And we both grinned at his ribbing.

72. That night I fell on my cot completely exhausted, and within seconds I was in a deep sleep. I would have liked to have slept the night through, but about the third time I awoke I resolved never again to drink that much tea so late in the day.

Subject: Story: WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 09:25 AM

Gotta run-- wish I had a motorcycle. More later this afternoon.

~S~

--------------------------------------------

WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

1. Sergeant-Major Green turned his motorcycle from the road and on to the concrete apron at the front of the motor-pool workshops, coming to a stop in front of the bay in which I was working.

2. Pulling his machine onto its kickstand, he strode toward me removing his helmet.

3. "Good morning, Hart," he smiled. "How are things with you today?"

4. "Alright, Sergeant," I answered, trying to keep suspicion out of my voice. I was sure he hadn't made the ride from Regimental Police Headquarters just to ask me how I was. I didn't have long to wait.

5. "I've been notified that I must get my bike inspected today," he said.

6. I looked at my worksheet for the day. "That's right, Sgt. Green."

7. "Unfortunately I haven't had time to properly clean it," he continued, "and I've already had two bad reports in a row." Do you think you could help me out?"

8. So that was why he was being so nice to me.

9. In the British Army at that time, all vehicles were signed out to their drivers, who were responsible for keeping them clean and neat. Once a month, every conveyance in the regiment had to undergo a mechanical inspection and cleanliness check by the workshop mechanics, of which I was now one. Three negative cleanliness reports resulted in the vehicle being taken from its driver and signed out to another.

10. "I can't lie about your motorcycle's condition on the report, Sergeant-Major, you can understand that," I answered, while taking another look at my worksheet. Sgt. Green's face fell; he really didn't want to lose his personal transportation.

11. "I tell you what I can do for you, Sergeant-Major," I said. "I'm not too busy this morning, so I'll take some time and clean and wash your b9ke for you before I inspect it."
12. \
13. Sgt. Green had always treated me well whenever circumstances had thrown us together, and I also reasoned it wouldn't hurt to have the man in charge of the Regimental Police owe me a favor.

14. Sgt. Green brightened visibly. "You'd do that for me?" he asked.

15. I nodded; "You can pick it up after three this afternoon."

16. That afternoon Sgt. Green returned to collect his bike, and smiled with pleasure at his now-immaculate machine.

17. "I appreciate what you've done for me," he beamed. "You know sometimes I just don't seem to get time to take care of it properly and I would hate to lose it."

18. "Perhaps I could take care of cleaning your bike every month if that would help," I volunteered. I figured I had him hooked, and it was time to reel him in.

19. His astonishment showed. "If you would do that for me, I would be very grateful, and I would be more than willing to trade favors. If there is anything I can do for you, just ask," he offered.

20. I thanked him, knowing what I wanted but unsure how to broach the subject. Sgt. Green made it easy.

21. "Well, lad, is there something I can do for you right now?" he asked.

22. "Well. Sergeant..." I hesitated.

23. "Go on, lad."

24. "Well, Sergeant-Major, I have a girl friend in Makenham, and I only get to see her once in a while on Saturday night because the town is at least 15 miles away and it is very difficult to get transportation," I explained. At best, I hoped to hitch a ride on one of the police patrol vehicles.

25. Sergeant-Major Green pondered this for a while; and then, bending down from his six-foot-three height to put his head closer to my ear, he quietly said, "You know that small woods behind the police building?" I nodded. "Well, once in a while I've seen a motorcycle parked among the trees."

26. This was better than anything I could possibly have imagined. Sgt. Green really did seem grateful, and I decided to push it as far as I could.

27. "Do you think it might be there this coming Saturday evening?" I queried.

28. "I wouldn't be a bit surprised," he grinned and, kicking his motorcycle into life, he rode away, still smiling.

29. On Saturday evening, dressed in my best uniform, I took the narrow path through the trees. Sgt. Green's motorcycle was there. On its seat were a white helmet emblazoned with the word "Police" on the front, a whiter Police belt, and a Regimental Police armband.

30. Donning the equipment, I quietly and nervously wheeled the bike through the trees to a lane beyond before starting the engine and making for Makenham. This was exhilarating, and the first of many successful Saturday night visits to my girlfriend.

31. Every month from then on, Sgt. Green delivered his motorcycle for inspection, and I made sure he received a good report. The bike and equipment were available whenever I needed them, and consequently y love life was good.

32. Only once was my police imitation seriously threaten3ed with exposure.

33. It was a Saturday night. Resplendent in my police equipment, I happily sped toward Makenham and my usual date.

34. As I started down the hill toward the town center, a frantically-waving figure leaped in front of me. I skidded to a stop and a young second lieutenant with a flushed face approached me.

35. "Thank goodness you came along," he panted. "There's a fight between some soldiers going on in there," he pointed to a pub next to us. "You must go in and stop it."

36. This was something I had never considered. Here was someone who actually wanted me to act like a regimental policeman—I'd better do something fast! If I was found out to be an imposter, I'd not only find myself in serious trouble, but—much worse—Sgt. Green would be in it with me.

37. I knew there was no way I was about to thrust my 135 pounds into a donnybrook of heaven knows how many brawling, possibly drunken, soldiers.

38. Quickly I noted the Lieutenant's shoulder patches, which identified him as being from another regiment. That was a real break for me. I was also quite sure he hadn't noticed my regimental insignia, since his only concern seemed to be my police gear.

39. "Is there a back door to the pub, Sir?" I asked as I put the bike on its kickstand.

40. "Yes, Officer," he replied.

41. "Well, sir, it might be a good idea if you went around to the back and used your rank to stop anyone attempting to get way when I go in the front," I suggested.

42. "Right," he replied, and running into the alley beside the pub, he disappeared behind the building.

43. Straddling my motorcycle as fast as I could, I coasted quietly down the hill, not starting the engine until I was sure I was out of earshot of the waiting lieutenant.

44. This was the only near-catastrophe I experienced, and I never told a soul about the episode; but I often wonder how long that second lieutenant waited for escaping soldiers while his policeman stopped the fight.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 11:26 AM

JANKERS:

4. I bugle sounding Reveille interrupted my thoughts and the sound had barely faded into silence when, right on cue, the door burst open and Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins entered to give us an encore of their previous morning's performance.

16. We neared the Mess; [ditto line 34]

28. "To days!"

38. "Are there any questions?close quotes asked Sgt. Parker

40. "What about you, dozey man,replace , with ?"

42. Sgt. Parker actually smiled. "I expect you'll have plenty of opportunity to decide of that's what you want in the next few weeks," he said, and I knew exactly what he meant.

43. At that moment a young second lieutenant entered the room and stood beside. remove periodParker.


47. For the next 45 minutes I dashed bout like a man possessed.


48. We fell is, he called, and we answered. He then marched s to the back door of the Mess and for the second time that day I was face to face with the Sergeant of the Chins.

50. I waited while he marched the rest of the group around the kitchen and Mess Hall, assigning them to cleaning work in two's and three's until all of them were busy.

55. "Watcha mate, you doin' alright?it's two words: all right + close quotes the new arrival greeted me.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 12:28 PM

WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

1. Sergeant-Major Green turned his motorcycle from the road and on to the concrete apron at the front of the motor-pool workshops, coming to a stop in front of the bay in which I was working.

4. "Alright, Sergeant," I answered, trying to keep suspicion out of my voice.

7. "Unfortunately I haven't had time to properly clean it," he continued, "and I've already had two bad reports in a row." [remove quotes] Do you think you could help me out?"

11. "I tell you what I can do for you, Sergeant-Major," I said. "I'm not too busy this morning, so I'll take some time and clean and wash your b9ke for you before I inspect it."

22. "Well. [replace period with comma] Sergeant..." I hesitated.

24. "Well, Sergeant-Major, I have a girl friend [one word, see 30] in Makenham,


31. The bike and equipment were available whenever I needed them, and consequently y love life was good.

32. Only once was my police imitation seriously threaten3ed with exposure.

38. Quickly I noted the Lieutenant's shoulder patches, which identified him as being from another regiment.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 01:02 PM

Danged bolding! :o)

32. Only once was my police imitation seriously threaten3ed with exposure.

38. Quickly I noted the Lieutenant's shoulder patches, which identified him as being from another regiment.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 01:15 PM

'JANKERS' (The Third Day)

Nothing that TheBigPinkLad didn't already find

WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?

Only thing to add is that paragraph 12 just contains a slash and no text - TheBigPinkLad is good!

JudyB

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 01:39 PM

Aw, shucks, thank you JudyB ;o)

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 04:04 PM

I love you ALL.

Just so you know-- Jack had his own spelling conventions.... I think they grew out of his mixed-culture background, having come to the US pretty young. Example-- "dozey," not "dozy," but "labor" instead of "labour."

Because he was otherwise quite a reliable speller, and because these stories are for his children who knew their father's speech patterns so well, I'm leaving a lot of his spelling intact. Jack had his own flavor-- and abhorred correctness for the sake of being correct. Most of you are right when you point out the non-standard usage-- please don't take offense if I stick with what Jack OK'd in life and avoid cleaning up his stuff much further now that he's beyond OKing even a sensible change.

Keep 'em coming! I'll sort it all out-- few more to go yet. The paragraph numbers are a help, aren't they??? I appreciate so much when you take the trouble to bold-face your comments/corrections.

~S~

Subject: Story: ITSY BITSY SPIDER
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 04:56 PM

With apologies to my Scots friends...

~S~

------------------------------

ITSY BITSY SPIDER

1. At some time during their school days, every British child learns the story of a Scottish King of many, many years ago—Robert the Bruce—and his encounter with a small spider.

2. It seems King "the Bruce" had suffered a major defeat at the hands of his enemies. His army was scattered, and Bob was hiding out ("took refuge in" was, I think, the popular phrase) in a dark, dank cave.

3. Tired, hungry and despondent, the King sat with his head in his hands, feeling sorry for himself and wondering aloud, "What's the gude of onything ony muir?" in his best Scottish accent.

4. After a while, he noticed a small spider valiantly and optimistically attempting to string a web across the moth of the cave. Time after time, the spider attempted to attach its delicate strands from one side to the other; and time after time, it failed. Over and over it persevered; and over and over it was unsuccessful until—at last!—after several hours of sustained effort, the spider managed to build its web from wall to wall of the cave opening, and settled down to await dinner.

5. King Robert was impressed. "If one of the wee-est of God's creatures can struggle and overcome adversity, then so can Robert the Bruce," he said to himself.

6. And right then and there he decided to follow the example of the spider: to never give up, to rally his army, and to lead it to eventual victory (which the legend said he did).

7. Having made this momentous decision, according to the legend, he leapt to his feet and dashed headlong from the cave... totally destroying the poor, wee spider's brand new web.

8. My own personal encounter with an arachnid was somewhat less inspiriting.

9. * *

10. The fourth day of our training started with the by-now-familiar bedlam generated by Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins. After the early-morning routine of cleaning, shaving, showering, breakfast, and parade, Sgt. Parker told us this was to be the day were issued rifles.

11. "Your officers seem to think you are ready for real weapons," he said, but his dubious look let us know he did not share his superiors' confidence.

12. "But God help us all," he added, "if they ever decide to give you dozey people real cartridges!"

13. We marched to the Armory, where each of us was given a great gob of grease, inside which (we were assured) was a .303 caliber Lee-Enfield military rifle.

14. The rest of the morning was spent troweling off the grease and thoroughly cleaning the exposed weapon.

15. Parker walked up and down, encouraging and criticizing our efforts.

16. "You are going to keep these rifles spotlessly clean at all times," he informed us. "A dirty weapon is a useless weapon and will not function properly. Some day your life and those of your companions might depend upon your rifle," he looked skywards, adding, "Heaven forbid."

17. After our mid-day meal, Parker and Tomkins spent the afternoon teaching us how to disassemble, clean, and reassemble our rifles. By the end of the day, our weapons were immaculate, and we were taking them apart (and putting them back together) with our eyes closed.

18. Next day our training continued, with close-order drills and various marching formations on the Parade Ground. This "square bashing" was made more difficult by the addition of our rifles. We learned to "Slope Arms" (place our rifles on our shoulders), "Order Arms" (take them off), "Present," "Port," and the "Rifle Salute."

19. Sgt. Parker's "dozey" platoon proved to be so inept at all these basic military maneuvers that it was decided not to allow us to carry our rifles to Saturday morning's parade. As Sgt. Parker put it, "Someone could get seriously injured."All the following week we practiced, and were yelled at, drilled, and were yelled at; by Friday we were judged ready to take our wood and steel companions to Saturday morning's muster.

20. By this time I had fallen into a routine of training all day and working off my punishment in the kitchen every evening. Consequently, I'd developed a system whereby I could squeeze time for the care of my equipment by utilizing any break time we were granted.

21. Saturday morning arrived. We had been told we would be taking our rifles on parade, so I gave my weapon a last-minute cleaning and ran a "pull-through" through its barrel, going to breakfast satisfied that it was as spotless as possible.

22. Sgt. Parker and Cpl. Tomkins marched us to the parade and for once we did everything right, causing Parker to comment, "For the world's doziest platoon, you don't look too bad!"

23. The Parade Ground was crowded with participating soldiers assembled by platoon and company. After the sergeants had made their reports regarding their charges, we stood at attention awaiting inspection by our Platoon Lieutenant.

24. The procedure for inspecting our rifles was as follows. Upon the command, "For Inspection, Port Arms!" we were required to bring our weapons diagonally across our bodies, the muzzle to the left about head-high and the butt held in the right hand a little below our waists. At the same time, we had to open the bolt to expose the breach.

25. Sgt. Parker gave the "Port Arms" command, and we moved as one.

26. The Lieutenant moved slowly along the line, peering critically into each rifle. One in a while he would stop before a recruit and tap the displayed weapon. This was the signal for the soldier to swing the barrel of his rifle to the front, putting his thumb into the breach to reflect the light, which enabled the lieutenant to inspect the cleanliness of the barrel.

27. Finally, the Inspecting Officer stood before me. After a brief look into its inner workings, he tapped my Lee-Enfield and I smartly swung the muzzle toward him, sticking my thumb into the breach.

28. A look of disbelief crossed his face, followed quickly by one of anger. Grabbing the rifle from my hands, he presented the muzzle to my eye, sticking his own thumb into the breach for my inspection.

29. "What do you see, Private?" His voice was like ice.

30. I peered into the rifle and, to my horror, saw a small spider anchored in the rifling in an otherwise-gleaming barrel.

31. "Well, Private, what do you see?" he demanded again.

32. "It's a bloody spider, Sir." I couldn't believe my eyes.

33. "That's right, Private, it's a bloody spider, Sir," he mimicked.

34. The Lieutenant thrust the weapon into my hands and turned to Sgt. Parker. "See that this man is charged with neglect of his rifle," he ordered.

35. Sgt. Parker was following the young officer; when he passed me he whispered, "Bad luck, Hart."

36. So, predictably, I was charged and soon found myself in the Company Commanders' office and, also predictably, was awarded several more days of "Confined to Barracks with Extra Duty." And for the rest of my training, the Lieutenant never missed an opportunity to check my rifle barrel.

37. If I learned anything from the episode it was this: that spiders may be inspirational to Scottish kings, but they have absolutely no respect for English military trainees.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 05:16 PM

1. At some time during their school days, every British child learns the story of a Scottish King [lower case, except when preceeding 'Bruce'] of many, many years ago—Robert the Bruce—and his encounter with a small spider.

13. We marched to the Armory, where each of us was given a great gob of grease, inside which (we were assured) was a .303 caliber Lee-Enfield military rifle.

18. Next day our training continued, with close-order drills and various marching formations on the Parade Ground. This "square bashing" was made more difficult by the addition of our rifles. We learned to "Slope Arms" (place our rifles on our shoulders), "Order Arms" (take them off), "Present," "Port," and the "Rifle Salute."

23. The Parade Ground was crowded with participating soldiers assembled by platoon and company. After the sergeants had made their reports regarding their charges, we stood at attention awaiting inspection by our Platoon Lieutenant.

24. The procedure for inspecting our rifles was as follows. Upon the command, "For Inspection, Port Arms!" we were required to bring our weapons diagonally across our bodies, the muzzle to the left about head-high and the butt held in the right hand a little below our waists. At the same time, we had to open the bolt to expose the breach.


28. Grabbing the rifle from my hands, he presented the muzzle to my eye, sticking his own thumb into the breach. for my inspection.


34. The Lieutenant thrust the weapon into my hands and turned to Sgt. Parker.

36. So, predictably, I was charged and soon found myself in the Company Commanders' office and, also predictably, was awarded several more days of "Confined to Barracks with Extra Duty." And for the rest of my training, the Lieutenant never missed an opportunity to check my rifle barrel.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 05:20 PM

Dang! ;o)

24. The procedure for inspecting our rifles was as follows. Upon the command, "For Inspection, Port Arms!" we were required to bring our weapons diagonally across our bodies, the muzzle to the left about head-high and the butt held in the right hand a little below our waists. At the same time, we had to open the bolt to expose the breach.


28. Grabbing the rifle from my hands, he presented the muzzle to my eye, sticking his own thumb into the breach for my inspection.


34. The Lieutenant thrust the weapon into my hands and turned to Sgt. Parker.

36. So, predictably, I was charged and soon found myself in the Company Commanders' [plural?] office and, also predictably, was awarded several more days of "Confined to Barracks with Extra Duty." And for the rest of my training, the Lieutenant never missed an opportunity to check my rifle barrel.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 06:12 PM

Please dont proofread this reply!!
I've just found this thread so I may be going over old ground.

Maybe I'm being pedantic but as this is the story of an English lad the spelling should perhaps be English? Or was Jack American by adoption?

"War Begins"
Para 2 "row homes" is that "new homes"? Not an English term.
Para 2&3 In England we have "neighbours"
Whats wrong with"alright". Looks alright to me.

Chulmleigh School was designed to serve the farm and village children of the several small communities in the area. The influx of evacuees, however, strained its walls to the bursting point. Now, with twice the students it was designed for, classes contained 45-50 pupils each with the woodshop, art room, and home economics room being pressed into service as makeshift classrooms. Confusion was a daily occurrence, especially when one of the specialized rooms had to be vacated for a regularly-scheduled class.
50 pupils each with a woodshop !
You need an extra comma, or full stop or maybe brackets to sort out the subordinate clauses. It took me a while to make sense of it.
Woodshop does not sound English "woodwork room" perhaps



it—perhaps                spaces before and after the – throughout, maybe?
grey-colored cookies                coloured in England, and in those days we would not have known what a cookie was, we ate cakes or biscuits.

5. For several years before she was married, Mum had =worked
5…… few ell-           few well-to-do
16. I then new                knew
20….. Boys were divided into tow basic groups        two
23. "Ow!' William screamed                                " not '
23. "Ow!' William screamed as he forgot me ands                and

SCRUMPIN' "                
3….the center of the house.                centre (in England)
5. "Yes," I replied. "I also fed the chickens and collected the eggs, I added               missing " after eggs
7….favorite                favourite (Eng)
23….as he came thro8guht
63….laboring                labouring (Eng)

JudyB is "the High Street" colloquial?         In England every town (in the south anyway) has a High Street where most of the shops are.
You "never heard of a metal last"                it's an upside down footshaped tool that you mend shoes on…..as in "a cobbler should stick to his last" i.e. keep to what you are good at.

28….to the cooks                to tell the cooks
29. "No more jankers," Sgt.   "Chin's"        extra space                
31...bowl full of Jell-O.                jelly (Eng)

JudyB let's be having you out of get - is this bed or a slang term?                 Could be "bed" or ".Out you get"
"lets be 'aving you!" is slang as in
Where do all the policemen live? Letsby Avenue. "GROAN"
22. "Good luck in your new assignment, and keep you nose clean - dismiss - should this be dismissed?!"        no its an order "Dismiss" said as two distinct syllables.
But it should be "keep your nose clean."

a month-and-a-half earlier,                I see no problem here

DAY TWO


21….drawers, cellulars, Sergeant."             cellular
28…. I know I only got three pains                pairs
32….. "We'll just have to stand here until remember                until you remember
32….., won't we, "        unneeded space before"
40….(CP),                CB ??
46. "Private hart        Hart??

'JANKERS' (The Third Day)

42…opportunity to decide of that's                If
43…beside. Parker.                                Extra full stop
58…neighborhood.                Neighbourhood (Eng)

WHERE ARE POLICEMEN WHEN YOU NEED ONE?
11…b9ke for                bike
12. \                        ?
19…trade favors.        Favours (Eng)
32….threaten3ed
41….attempting to get way                away
BigPinkLad        on to the concrete        that looks OK to me, and I still think alright is alright.

I dont know how you got bold (Oh, sir Jasper!). Mine disappeared when I copied from Word to the reply box? Ah well.
Any more to come?

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 06:20 PM

A few more left to go.

Sleeplessly yours,

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 06:26 PM

Hi Mo

onto is one word; all right is two words.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 07:23 PM

Well yes maybe onto is one word but...

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 07:43 PM

Like my teachers said I should, I've looked it up. "Alright" is in my "Chanbers" word list (published 1985) but not my 1951 "Consise Oxford Dictionary". That does have "already" though.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 08:07 PM

Guys, please don't worry about the pedantics. As I said at the outset, I'm working with some very specific goals and parameters on this project.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 08:18 PM

We'll never reach concensus, Mo ... I grew up in the UK, learned my editing skills at a Canadian university and first put them into practice at a US publishing company!

Susan said she was adhering to US spelling and I'm using AP Style which prefers all right as two words (so does CP, BTW). When in Rome. As with all my editing advice, I leave authors to take as much or as little notice as they wish. ;o)

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 10:52 PM

Hi Mo -

I was questioning if you'd go to "the High Street" - around here, you'd go to High Street (or maybe Main Street) to do some shopping.

Like TheBigPinkLad, I learned that alright was always all wrong - and I'm willing to accept that the dictionary accepts it now. My boss wouldn't.

And except when returning from the Folk Harbour Festival in Nova Scotia (when I tend to have trouble spelling harbor/harbour for a couple of days), my spelling and editing is strictly old-school US.

JudyB

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 10:54 PM

ITSY BITSY SPIDER

4. After a while, he noticed a small spider valiantly and optimistically attempting to string a web across the moth of the cave. Time after time, the spider attempted to attach its delicate strands from one side to the other; and time after time, it failed. Over and over it persevered; and over and over it was unsuccessful until-at last!-after several hours of sustained effort, the spider managed to build its web from wall to wall of the cave opening, and settled down to await dinner.

8. My own personal encounter with an arachnid was somewhat less inspiriting.

14. The rest of the morning was spent troweling - troweling or towelling? off the grease and thoroughly cleaning the exposed weapon.

19. Sgt. Parker's "dozey" platoon proved to be so inept at all these basic military maneuvers that it was decided not to allow us to carry our rifles to Saturday morning's parade. As Sgt. Parker put it, "Someone could get seriously injured."All - space between sentences missing the following week we practiced, and were yelled at, drilled, and were yelled at; by Friday we were judged ready to take our wood and steel companions to Saturday morning's muster.

26. The Lieutenant moved slowly along the line, peering critically into each rifle. One in a while he would stop before a recruit and tap the displayed weapon. This was the signal for the soldier to swing the barrel of his rifle to the front, putting his thumb into the breach to reflect the light, which enabled the lieutenant to inspect the cleanliness of the barrel.

Subject: Story: THE FIRST DAY
From: wysiwyg
Date: 23 Nov 05 - 11:47 PM

No, actually I'm NOT adhering to US spelling. I'm adhering to Jack's unique usage, a blend of UK and US spelling.

Can anyone tell me if the BREECH of a rifle is the BREACH? (In UK usage.)

Just two more to go, one quite long and hilarious. I'm saving it for last-- tomorrow (US time), as I burp turkey.

~S~

--------------------------------------------------

THE FIRST DAY

1. "Would you like me to see you off at the station?" asked my father.

2. "You don't have to, Dad," I replied, but we both knew I really wanted him to; and so he did.

3. I had received my second letter from the King a couple of weeks before, in which he assured me that based on the recent investigation of my person. I was a perfect physical specimen adequately suited for his service. He also had included travel expence vouchers, instructions for finding my way to the town of Exeter in the county of Devon in southwest England, and documents to be presented upon my arrival.

4. The day of my departure started out badly. I had to abandon my bed over an hour before my usual time. Although I didn't know it then, awakening and arising in the middle of the night was to become my lot for the next several months.

5. It was tacitly understood that I would say my good-byes to my mother at home as she couldn't be trusted not to cry at the railway station—and sometimes crying, like laughing, can become contagious. So Mum and I hugged and kissed each other at the street door—and she cried.

6. Even the day outside seemed to be crying for me. A canopy of dark grey clouds, looking more like nightfall than daybreak, appeared to be resting on top of the surrounding chimney pots. A light, fine drizzle of rain fell on Dad and me as we made our way to the station.

7. We arrived on the platform where my train stood waiting, with almost 20 minutes to spare. There were about a dozen other young men of my age standing around, some with parents, some with friends, and a couple of them quite alone. A brightly colored poster of sun, sand, and sea caught my eye, exhorting London's residents to take a train to "glorious Devon" for their summer holidays. Well, I was certainly a Londoner, and I was taking the train to glorious Devon, but I had serious doubts about the holiday part.

8. Turning back to my father, we smiled at each other and he shifted his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

9. "I, er, I expect you know all about the—er—birds and bees sort of thing...." he hesitatingly ventured and actually looked rather sheepish.

10. "No, Dad, not exactly," I replied, whilst looking earnestly into his eyes.

11. "You know," he said, looking up and down the platform searching vainly for help from any source. I said nothing, continuing to gaze expectantly into his face.

12. "I mean about girls and such!" he blurted out, looking more and more uncomfortable but determined to face his responsibility of informing his eldest son of the "facts of life."

13. "Oh yes, Dad, I know all about girls but I don't really know much about birds, or bees," I replied with a grin that let him know I was having fun at his expence. Dad clapped a hand on my shoulder and laughed, and his immense relief was obvious.

14. The train guard blew his whistle to tell us it was time to board, and everyone on the platform moved toward the train's doors. Dad and I embraced and said our good-byes. Climbing into the corridor of a carriage, I closed the door, turned, and lowered the window.

15. "Be sure to write to your mother," he called, and I promised I would write as often as I could. "I'll give you some free advice if you want," he shouted as he started to walk beside the already-moving train.

16. "What's that, Dad?" I loudly asked.

17. His face creased in a huge smile. "Don't ever volunteer for anything!" he yelled; as the train gathered speed we waved to each other. And I continued to wave as he became smaller and smaller, until I could no longer see him.

18. I closed the window. Making my way along the corridor, I entered a compartment already occupied by three young lads, and sat down.

19. "I suppose you are going to Exeter too," said a thin youth from his seat by the window. "If so, welcome to the club." I nodded and we introduced ourselves, settling down for the anticipated five-hour ride.

20. The conversation was fairly lively, as is often the case when people are taken from familiar surroundings and thrust into unfamiliar situations over which they have little control. We talked of the jobs we had left, of families, of girl friend, of chums, and of sports. We were regaling each other with horror stories of friends who had entered the armed services before us, when the train squealed to a stop in Exeter station.

21. Immediately a number of khaki-clad sergeants and corporals started striding up and down the platform, yelling to all Army-bound passengers to leave the train and line up by the station's exit. Here, some 80 to 90 of us had our papers checked against a list held by a young lieutenant, and were shepherded outside, and were loaded into waiting lorries. After about 20 minutes we found ourselves riding alongside a high and forbidding brick wall, until we reached a large iron gate flanked on either side by armed sentries.

22. "Looks like Wormwood Scrubs," I observed to the people riding with me.

23. "No talking!" screamed a sergeant glaring in my direction. A few of my fellow recruits laughed nervously, apparently familiar with the prison walls at the Scrubs.

24. The gates swung open. Our line of lorries entered, made a sharp left turn, skirted a broad expanse of parade ground, and came to a stop before one of the office buildings.

25. "Everybody off and line up over here," instructed one of the sergeants; we scrambled over the tailgates and did as we were told, although with considerable confusion.

26. The sergeant strode along our ragged-looking line. "We shall teach you to move a bloody sight faster than that!" he roared. Several of us laughed, which only served to infuriate him even further. Then, we meekly stood and listened to an interesting description of our ancestry and of his misfortune at having to deal with a group of such low-caliber recruits.

27. Coming to the end of his tirade, he raised a clipboard and instructed, The following people bring your gear and stand behind me."

28. In a few minutes half of our number had taken their places behind him. After yelling some unintelligible commands, he led his charges down the road and out of sight.

29. Those of us remaining immediately started to chatter, congratulating ourselves on escaping the bad-tempered sergeant and speculating o our fate.

30. "You sound like a bunch of old washer-women," came a voice clearly heard above the din we were making. Suddenly quiet, we turned in the direction of the speaker and saw a sergeant of average height with broad shoulders and a pleasant round, open face—which at that moment was doing its best to look stern. He was smartly turned out in a perfectly-fitted uniform with three rows of medal ribbons on his chest, and wearing the badge and insignia of the Devonshire Regiment. But perhaps the most remarkable thing about this man was his apparent lack of a neck; his head appeared to be growing directly from between his shoulders.

31. "I'm Sergeant Parker, and I will be your Platoon Sergeant for the next six weeks," he announced. "And this is Corporal Tomkins, who will be assisting me," and he indicated a tall, gangly two-striper standing behind him.

32. "We have a lot to do this afternoon," Sgt. Parker continued. "First I shall take you to the Mess for a meal; then we must get your papers in order and be welcomed by the Company Commander."

33. With a wave of his hand the sergeant indicated that we should follow him—and follow him we did, like the children of Hamlin behind the Pied Piper. He led us around the perimeter of the Parade Ground, between two rows of one-storey wooden huts, one of which would be our home for the next six weeks. We continued along a road bordered on either side with rows of white-painted stones, and to the door of a large brick building bearing a sign proclaiming it the "Mess."

34. And a very impressive mess it was. Row upon row of wooden-topped tables scrubbed until they were white (which I was destined to know intimately), each table being surrounded by ten chairs. Along one side of the room was a long stainless steel counter containing large pots and pans of various foods, each one presided over by a uniformed cook in a long white apron. At the end of the counter closest to us were piles of clean plates and boxes of cutlery.

35. Already in line was the group of recruits who had been marched away by Sergeant "Loud-Mouth," and grabbing plates we took our places in the line to be served our first taste of Army food. Since we were not eating at a regular mealtime we were the only group in the Mess Hall. It was to be the only time we would be able to eat in relative quiet and to converse without having to shout above the incredible din several hundred Army diners can make.

36. The meal was wolfed down hungrily by grateful young men who hadn't eaten anything for almost seven hours.

37. Sgt. Parker then led his straggling charges to an office where we were each issued two identity tags on a length of cord, with the instruction that they be worn around the neck at all times. One tag contained name and Army serial number; the other announced our religious persuasion in the event it became necessary to bury us. We also received our paybooks which would serve as our official identity cards for the duration of our military service, and without which we could not hope to be paid.

38. With our documentation in order, Sgt. Parker assembled us outside on the road. "We are now going to meet the Company Commander," he announced, and I would really like it if we could actually march there instead of repeating the shambles I have been forced to witness so far. First I will give you the command "Fall In," and then you will form three ranks, one behind the other, of equal length." We gave him our complete attention; this was to be our first military maneuver.

39. "Fall In!" he roared. Immediately almost a hundred feet started to shuffle, propelling their owners into aimless motion.

40. Our first problem seemed to be knowing where to start the lines. We had as many as three false starts before a half-dozen people stood still long enough for the others to notice and stand beside them.

41. The next problem was the sergeant's requirement of three ranks of equal length. I looked around me and counted the start of five ranks, so I made my way through the milling group to stand in third row from the front that was forming. After what seemed an interminable time, the general movement slowed to a stop, and we all looked about us.

42. The front rank contained four people; the second rank about a dozen; the third rank over thirty. Obviously something was wrong, so about 20 of us in the rear (with the same idea) rushed to fill out the sparse front line, and the confusing movement started anew.

43. "Stop where you are!" came a voice bellowing through our concentration; but the command and Sgt. Parker were ignored. After all, this was our first attempt at being soldiers; the sergeant had explained exactly what he wanted, and in a very simple manner. Thus, it was a matter of pride. We should be able to do an elementary thing like lining up. And the shifting, shuffling, and confusion continued.

44. "Stop where you are, for God's sake!" roared the Sergeant again. He and Cpl. Tomkins moved among us, grasping individuals by the shoulders, forcing them to be stationary. Finally, all movement ceased, and again we looked around at the result of our efforts. There was no sign of one, two, three, or any ranks—we looked like a group of people standing around listening to a speaker at Hyde Park Corner.

45. Sgt. Parker's face as blood red and, could we have seen his neck, I am sure his veins would have been visibly throbbing.

46. "I have never seen anything like this pathetic display in all my life," he gasped, "and I hope I never do again." He paced back and forth in front of us in an effort to regain his composure.

47. At last he stopped his pacing and turned to face us. "Corporal Tomkins, will you please arrange these brainless individuals into three ranks!" he said. Tomkins quickly pushed and tugged us into the required three lines of equal length.

48. Sgt. Parker stood before us, his feet wide apart and his hands clasped behind his back. He slowly looked at each one of us straight in the eye in turn and, taking a deep breath, walked to face the men to his extreme left who were the beginnings of the three ranks.

49. "Until I tell you other wise," he said, "you three will take these positions whenever I give the order to Fall In. As for the rest of you dozey people," and he half turned to glare at the rest of us, "look to your right and remember the person standing there so that next time, perhaps you can all find your way to the same place. Do you understand?"

50. We assured him that we understood; after three attempts at "Right Face" and two tries at "Quick March," we marched toward our rendezvous with the Company Commander, almost in step.

51. In a few minutes we arrived at a small auditorium, quickly filing in and taking seats on the rows of folding chairs awaiting us. A sergeant appeared on a low platform facing us. Calling for silence, he introduced our Company's Commanding Officer—whose name and rank I did not hear and whose shoulder insignia were a complete mystery to me.

52. He was small man with a large moustache and a bored expression and, after giving us permission to smoke, he welcomed us to the Army in general and to the Devonshire Regiment in particular. The Captain, as I later discovered was his rank, then outlined the training we were to receive during the next six weeks. He spoke at considerable length on the history and battle honors of the Regiment, and ended his address with the traditional, "Are there any questions?"

53. One lone had shot up, three or four rows in front of me. The captain pointed to the owner of the raised hand. "Yes?" he said.

54. "Please sir, what is a platoon?" came the question in a broad Cockney accent. A groan went up from the audience and I was mortified that such a question could be asked by a fellow Londoner. But at the same time I realized that I didn't have the slightest idea what a platoon was and neither did the rest of us, judging by the rapt attention given the Captain's explanation.

55. The rest of our first day was occupied with drawing blankets and pillows from the Quartermaster's stores, being introduced to our cots and lockers in our new home, and receiving our first lesson in bed-making, military-style. We returned to the Mess for our evening meal and were completely awed by the deafening roar of nearly 600 soldiers eating and talking in that confined area.

56. By this time we were "Falling In," Right Facing," and "Quick Marching" with more enthusiasm than skill. This led Sgt. Parker to observe, "At least you've learned to walk; perhaps you dozey lot are trainable after all."

57. At last we returned to our barracks room and were dismissed for the day. Gratefully we stretched out on our beds, but our respite was short-lived. Sgt. Parker came into the room carrying a sheet of paper, which he pinned to the inside of the door.

58. "This is your address," he said, indicating the newly-posted sheet. "Cpl. Tomkins has paper, pencils and envelopes for all of you who need them. Before "lights out" at twenty-two hundred hours, you all will have written a letter home telling your loved ones how much you are enjoying the Army and how much you like your sergeant," he said. "There will be no exceptions!" he cautioned as he left the room.

59. We grumbled and complained; but in a short while we had received our supplies from the corporal and were engrossed in composing our first letters home.

60. "What the hell is twenty-two hundred hours?" asked a voice of the roomful of busy writers. The replies indicated that nobody seemed to have any idea. Finally someone said, "I think it might be ten o'clock." And at ten o'clock, with the letters just barely finished, the lights went out.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 04:46 AM

Hi
I'm only getting pedantic for fun, you can take it or leave it.
My Oxford consise gives " breech" for rifles and trousers.
Yes Judy it is the High Street.
I'll read the rest more carefully later
Mo

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 09:02 AM

Mo, thanks-- "the" High Street and not just "High Street"?

Breech it shall be.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 10:24 AM

THE FIRST DAY

20. The conversation was fairly lively, as is often the case when people are taken from familiar surroundings and thrust into unfamiliar situations over which they have little control. We talked of the jobs we had left, of families, of girl friend - should this be friends?, of chums, and of sports. We were regaling each other with horror stories of friends who had entered the armed services before us, when the train squealed to a stop in Exeter station.

27. Coming to the end of his tirade, he raised a clipboard and instructed, The - needs a quote before The following people bring your gear and stand behind me."

33. With a wave of his hand the sergeant indicated that we should follow him-and follow him we did, like the children of Hamlin behind the Pied Piper. He led us around the perimeter of the Parade Ground, between two rows of one-storey - story in US wooden huts, one of which would be our home for the next six weeks. We continued along a road bordered on either side with rows of white-painted stones, and to the door of a large brick building bearing a sign proclaiming it the "Mess."

38. With our documentation in order, Sgt. Parker assembled us outside on the road. "We are now going to meet the Company Commander," he announced, and - needs a quote before and I would really like it if we could actually march there instead of repeating the shambles I have been forced to witness so far. First I will give you the command "Fall In," - standard practice is single quotes inside double quotes, though I don't know the author's preference and then you will form three ranks, one behind the other, of equal length." We gave him our complete attention; this was to be our first military maneuver.

45. Sgt. Parker's face as - was blood red and, could we have seen his neck, I am sure his veins would have been visibly throbbing.

49. "Until I tell you other wise - usually otherwise," he said, "you three will take these positions whenever I give the order to Fall In. As for the rest of you dozey people," and he half turned to glare at the rest of us, "look to your right and remember the person standing there so that next time, perhaps you can all find your way to the same place. Do you understand?"

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 11:38 AM

3. I had received my second letter from the King a couple of weeks before, in which he assured me thatinsert comma based on the recent investigation of my person. replace with comma I was a perfect physical specimen adequately suited for his service. He also had included travel expence vouchers, instructions for finding my way to the town of Exeter in the county of Devon in southwest England, and documents to be presented upon my arrival.

20. We talked of the jobs we had left, of families, of girl friend, of chums, and of sports.

21. Immediately a number of khaki-clad sergeants and corporals started striding up and down the platform, yelling to all Army-bound passengers to leave the train and line up by the station's exit.

27. Coming to the end of his tirade, he raised a clipboard and instructed, open quotesThe following people bring your gear and stand behind me."


He was smartly turned out in a perfectly-fitted uniform with three rows of medal ribbons on his chest, and wearing the badge and insignia of the Devonshire Regiment.


31. "I'm Sergeant Parker, and I will be your Platoon Sergeant for the next six weeks," he announced. "And this is Corporal Tomkins, who will be assisting me, [replace with period]" and he indicated a tall, gangly two-striper standing behind him.

32. "We have a lot to do this afternoon," Sgt. Parker continued. "First I shall take you to the Mess for a meal; then we must get your papers in order and be welcomed by the Company Commander."

33. He led us around the perimeter of the Parade Ground, between two rows of one-storey wooden huts, one of which would be our home for the next six weeks.

35. Already in line was the group of recruits who had been marched away by Sergeant "Loud-Mouth," and grabbing plates we took our places in the line to be served our first taste of Army food. Since we were not eating at a regular mealtime we were the only group in the Mess Hall. It was to be the only time we would be able to eat in relative quiet and to converse without having to shout above the incredible din several hundred Army diners can make.

37. One tag contained name and Army serial number;

38. "We are now going to meet the Company Commander,"

41.I looked around me and counted the start of five ranks, so I made my way through the milling group to stand in third row from the front that was forming [I don't understand this].

44. "Stop where you are, for God's sake!" roared the Sergeant again.

45. Sgt. Parker's face as delete blood red and, could we have seen his neck, I am sure his veins would have been visibly throbbing.

49. "Until I tell you other wise," he said, "you three will take these positions whenever I give the order to Fall In.

50. We assured him that we understood; after three attempts at "Right Face" and two tries at "Quick March," we marched toward our rendezvous with the Company Commander, almost in step.

A sergeant appeared on a low platform facing us. Calling for silence, he introduced our Company's Commanding Officer—whose name and rank I did not hear and whose shoulder insignia were a complete mystery to me.

52. He was small man with a large moustache and a bored expression and, after giving us permission to smoke, he welcomed us to the Army in general and to the Devonshire Regiment in particular. The Captain, as I later discovered was his rank, then outlined the training we were to receive during the next six weeks. He spoke at considerable length on the history and battle honors of the Regiment, and ended his address with the traditional, "Are there any questions?"

54. But at the same time I realized that I didn't have the slightest idea what a platoon was and neither did the rest of us, judging by the rapt attention given the Captain's explanation.

55. The rest of our first day was occupied with drawing blankets and pillows from the Quartermaster's stores, being introduced to our cots and lockers in our new home, and receiving our first lesson in bed-making, military-style. We returned to the Mess for our evening meal and were completely awed by the deafening roar of nearly 600 soldiers eating and talking in that confined area.

56. By this time we were "Falling In," Right Facing," and "Quick Marching" with more enthusiasm than skill.

58. Before "lights out" at twenty-two hundred hours, you all will have written a letter home telling your loved ones how much you are enjoying the Army and how much you like your sergeant," he said.

Subject: Story: CAMOUFLAGE
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 11:59 AM

LOL-- I had forgotten this one, and how much it reminded me of our two boys when I first read it and laughed.

Just one more after this one-- the motorcycle ride. It's awful long-- you UKers may not see it till your morning-time.

~S~

---------------------------------------------------

CAMOUFLAGE

1. "Camouflage: the art of concealment by blending with the background." Sgt. Parker looked around the room as if expecting an argument.

2. Our platoon, and the other platoon that had arrived at the Devonshire Light Infantry barracks the same day we did, were assembled in one of the lecture rooms. We were to learn how to hide from the enemy, which struck me as one of the more sensible things we had, so far, been required to learn.

3. Parker and the other platoon sergeant went to great lengths to explain the various and diverse methods of concealment. We learned how to stick small tree branches into our equipment to break up our outlines and how, by stuffing long grass and field weeds into the nets covering our steel helmets, we could lie among the weeds to observe our foe without being seen.

4. "One can also stand in a building and view your enemy through a window opening without being spotted, provided you stand back far enough into the room that the light passing through the window does not fall upon you," Sgt. Parker continued.

5. But the camouflage method that intrigued me most was explained by the other platoon's sergeant. "It is possible," he said, "to sit or stand in the shadow of clumps of small trees or large bushes, in full view of your enemy, and not be spotted as long as your outline is broken up and as long as you keep still."

6. We were then treated to a training film which illustrated what we had learned by showing a view of a deserted landscape which, as we watched, miraculously become inhabited by two's and three's until a full platoon had been revealed.

7. We were all laughing at our inability to spot the camouflaged soldiers, until Parker's voice silenced us.

8. "You are not only a dozey platoon," he roared, "but a blind one to boot. Every mother's son of you would have been dead and never have known what hit you!"" We sobered immediately. Not only was it embarrassing to have failed the lesson of the film, but to have the other platoon hear us addressed as "dozey" was too much.

9. By the time our class was finished it was time for our midday meal, after which we boarded some waiting trucks for the trip to a military reserve where we were to put our new knowledge to practical use.

10. We were overjoyed at the prospect of escaping the confines of the barracks for an afternoon and, in high spirits, were looking forward to a great game of "hide-and-seek." We kept up an incessant chatter-- made easy because Parker was riding up in front in the cab. Then the trucks made the turn into a small field and parked.

11. Tumbling over the tailgates of our vehicles, we gathered around the two sergeants and watched in eager anticipation as they tossed a coin to see which platoon would try to camouflage themselves first. Sgt. Parker informed our platoon that we would be the "seekers," and so we settled down to await our chance to find the other platoon.

12. We animatedly assured each other that finding our "enemy" would be a piece of cake, until Sgt. Parker interrupted. "This is not a game, lads; your lived could depend on what you learn here today." He meant well, but not one of us believed that this exercise was anything but a glorious game.

13. At last our platoon was split into several squads, told to keep our eyes open, and marched to the entrance of the reserve.

14. Spread out before us was a good-sized valley covered with knee-high weeds and grass. On the left was a hedgerow separating the Army's land from that planted in wheat by a local farmer. To the right was a ridge topped by small trees, saplings, and bushes; approximately a half mile down the valley were three small, one-storey buildings.

15. The squad to which I was assigned was given the right flank to search, so we slowly made our way just below the ridge. After almost reaching the buildings we had not found anyone, although shouts of "Bang, Bang," accompanied by laughter from the trainees and yelling from the sergeants and corporals, occasionally drifted up to us on the warm summer breeze from the floor of the valley.

16. We decided to approach the buildings from the sides with blank walls and then came around, wriggling on our stomachs underneath the windows, almost simultaneously rapped on the glass panes and yelled, "Grenade!"

17. Not even having had any idea if anyone was actually in the sheds, we were surprised to find about half of the "hiding" platoon inside, who were promptly declared "wiped out."

18. Whistles soon blew to recall us; we happily retraced our steps to the trucks. Sgt. Parker looked well pleased. We had succeeded in "destroying" most of the other platoon, probably more because of their ineptness that our skill.

19. "You dozey lot did well," he beamed. "Maybe there's still hope for you!"

20. We listened smugly as the other sergeant berated his charges for their poor showing.

21. Now, it was our turn to hide.

22. Entering the field I started for the ridge on my right. I turned when I heard running footsteps behind me, It was a member of my squad.

23. "I thought I'd try the ridge, since nobody from the other platoon came up here," he said.

24. "That's what I figured, too," I answered. We made our way to a clump of small saplings and hazel bushes.

25. "I'm going to try sitting in the shade like they said was possible," I informed my companion.

26. "It's worth a try," he agreed.

27. We broke off a few twigs, stuck them in the netting on our helmets, and settled down in the sun-dappled shadows with our backs leaning against the convenient trees.

28. "Look," he said. "We have a clear view of the whole valley."

29. Sure enough, in our seated position we were head and shoulders above the grass; from here we had a beautiful vantage point from which to watch the efforts of the "seek" platoon through the small branches, which hung from our helmets over our faces.

30. We watched as the other members of our own platoon gradually disappeared from sight—studiously avoiding the three buildings.

31. After a short wait the "seekers" entered the valley to attempt to redeem themselves in the eyes of their sergeant. Fanning out as we had done, they commenced their search of the area. My companion and I sat perfectly still, watching the action below with keen interest. Two of the "enemy" passed within 50 yards of our position without seeing us, and soon all of them had passed down the valley.

32. A meadow lark, disturbed from its nest, aroused from the long grass and, singing its beautiful song, flew straight up ever higher, until it was lost to view. I settled my back more comfortably against the base of the tree and closed my eyes. The warm sun filtered through the leaves and the soft, incessant drone of myriad busy insects lulled me into peaceful relaxation.

33. I awoke with a start. The shadows had grown long and I realized, with dismay, that my still-sleeping companion and I were alone.

34. "Wake up! Wake up!" I called, shaking him vigorously. Reluctantly he opened his sleep-filled eyes.

35. "What's' the matter?" he asked, looking around us.

36. "It's late, and we both slept, and everyone has gone! We'd better get going!" I explained as quickly as I could. Scrambling to our feet, we started across the field to where the trucks had been parked.

37. "They've all bloody gone!" he said. The trucks had indeed gone. As neither of us owned a watch, we had no idea how long they had been gone or what time it was. Without another word we set off walking down the lane along which we had ridden only a few hours before in such high spirits.

38. "How far do you suppose it is back to the barracks?" I asked after walking a couple of hundred yards.

39. "Judging by the length of the ride out here, I'd say five or six miles," my companion answered. I groaned aloud. We continued to walk in silence, until the lane ended at a "T" intersection with a slightly larger road. We stopped, looking up and down this new problem.

40. "Which way?" he wondered. I thought about the ride out in the back of the canvas-covered truck.

41. "I think I only remember left turns on the way here," I told him. "But I'm not sure." We turned right and started down the road at a good pace, fervently hoping we were getting nearer the barracks and not farther away.

42. After what I estimated to be an hour or so, and three or four miles, we were no longer striding along. Our fatigue jackets were off (as were our caps); our pace had slowed to a stroll. My feet felt like fire, and I was appalled at the thought that we had probably only reached a little more than half-way to our goal.

43. Our walking slowed and we came to a stop; ahead of us was fork in the road. We sat to reconnoiter. "Which way this time?" my fellow-hiker asked.

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

45. We stood and looked from one side to the other, making no attempt to try either road. Realizing that we couldn't stand there forever, we were reluctant nevertheless to take the risk of choosing the wrong fork, resulting in a longer walk than we already faced. While thus frozen in indecision, the clip-clop of a horse's hooves on the hard road reached us; a farmer with a wagonload of hay came into view. We waved him down and he reined his horse to a stop.

46. "Could you please tell us the way to Topsham Barracks?" my companion asked politely. The farmer, without a word, stared in disbelief at us—two disheveled soldiers who didn't even know their way to their own barracks. His gaze ridiculed us.

47. "What's become of our fine British Army... It's certainly not like the old days!" he observed to no one in particular. Pointing the way to the right fork, he shook the reins and started his horse, shaking his head as he continued on his way.

48. Our vigour renewed by our confidence in the farmer's direction, we set off confidently down the road. After what seemed an eternity, we saw the forbidding walls of the barracks. Donning our caps and jackets, we approached the regimental policemen at the gate.

49. "Where do you think you are going?" he challenged. We gave him our platoon and company identification, and briefly explained the events of the afternoon.

50. "Do you have any idea of the time? Well, it's after eight!" he answered his own question. I knew we were both in trouble. I also realized that my own trouble would be much worse because I had missed "jankers" call and was already over an hour late reporting for my extra duty at the kitchen. Quickly, we reported to Sgt. Parker.

51. "It's about time you two showed up," he admonished. "Didn't you hear the whistles blowing calling everyone in? We even sent people out looking for you." I thought it prudent not to tell him that if we had heard the whistles we would not have missed the return trip. After receiving our lecture on being absent from our platoon without leave and the punishment forthcoming, my companion was sent to his hit and I reported to the kitchen for my work.

52. I was greeted by the huge cook sergeant (Who I privately called Sgt. Chins because of the stack of chins sprouting from his collar), working at his always-cluttered desk.

53. "What happened to you? You're over an hour late," he grinned as my Cockney corporal friend came over to see what was going on.

54. I started to tell them the story of my day. When I came to the part where we didn't know our way back to the barracks, they could no longer stifle their laughter.

55. The cook sergeant finally regained control. Telling the corporal, "You'd better feed the lad," he walked out the door, still chuckling to himself.

56. I ravenously ate the meal the corporal provided, washed and stacked a mountain of dishes, and two hours later fell exhausted into my bed.

57. Next morning, Sgt. Parker informed me that I was on Company Orders at 10:00 hours; at the appointed time and dressed in my best uniform, I presented myself at the company office, finding my fellow-hiker already waiting. We had not waited long before we were ushered into the Captain's office, escorted by a sergeant carrying two file folders. The sergeant explained the charge against us, which was mainly being absent without leave.

58. "This report says you fell asleep while you were camouflaged," the Captain said, glancing at the contents of my folder which was by far the larger of the two.

59. "Yes, Sir."
60. "And you had to walk back to Barracks and were over two hours late," he continued.

61. "Yes, Sir," we again replied in unison.

62. "Seven days confined to barracks, with extra duty for each of you," he pronounced his sentence. "Dis-MISS!"

63. My companion was shaken as we left the Company Headquarters. "Don't worry," I consoled him. It's really not that bad, and we're not allowed to leave the barracks anyway."

64. He didn't; answer. I reflected upon what the cook sergeant had said to me the night before.

65. "The platoon actually came looking for you?" Sgt. Chins had chuckled.

66. "That's what Sgt. Parker told us," I assured him.

67. "Well," said the barely composed sergeant, "you must have scored high on your camouflage test!" and, clutching his sides, he roared with laughter until his face turned crimson.

68. My fellow high-scorer seemed not to appreciate this view of our recently-won "glory," and I couldn't help noticing that for the balance of our basic training, he avoided me like the plague.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 12:59 PM

CAMOUFLAGE



8. "You are not only a dozey platoon," he roared, "but a blind one to boot. Every mother's son of you would have been dead and never have known what hit you!"" [remove] We sobered immediately. Not only was it embarrassing to have failed the lesson of the film, but to have the other platoon hear us addressed as "dozey" was too much.


12. "This is not a game, lads; your lived could depend on what you learn here today."


14. On the left was a hedgerow separating the Army's land from that planted in wheat by a local farmer.

15. After almost reaching the buildings we had not found anyone, although shouts of "Bang, Bang," accompanied by laughter from the trainees and yelling from the sergeants and corporals, occasionally drifted up to us on the warm summer breeze from the floor of the valley.

22. Entering the field I started for the ridge on my right. I turned when I heard running footsteps behind me, [replace with period] It was a member of my squad.

32. A meadow lark [no meadow larks in UK; skylarks and meadow pipits, probably means the former], disturbed from its nest, aroused from the long grass and, singing its beautiful song, flew straight up ever higher, until it was lost to view.

47. "What's become of our fine British Army... It's certainly not like the old days!" he observed to no one in particular.

57. We had not waited long before we were ushered into the Captain's office, escorted by a sergeant carrying two file folders.

58. "This report says you fell asleep while you were camouflaged," the Captain said, glancing at the contents of my folder which was by far the larger of the two.

60. "And you had to walk back to Barracks and were over two hours late," he continued.

63. My companion was shaken as we left the Company Headquarters.

64. He didn't; [cut] answer.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 01:02 PM

Dang (again)

32. A meadow lark [no meadow larks in UK; skylarks and meadow pipits, probably means the former], disturbed from its nest, aroused from the long grass and, singing its beautiful song, flew straight up ever higher, until it was lost to view.

47. "What's become of our fine British Army... It's certainly not like the old days!" he observed to no one in particular.

57. We had not waited long before we were ushered into the Captain's office, escorted by a sergeant carrying two file folders.

58. "This report says you fell asleep while you were camouflaged," the Captain said, glancing at the contents of my folder which was by far the larger of the two.

60. "And you had to walk back to Barracks and were over two hours late," he continued.

63. My companion was shaken as we left the Company Headquarters.

64. He didn't; [cut] answer.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 1
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 02:11 PM

Cool-- skylarks they shall be. (They nest on the ground?)

This last one (tho another favorite of mine) is so long and I am so tired of typing, I'm going to just take it a page at a time.... it will be several installments before the truth of the story is manifest, but I hope you will enjoy the ride in stages!

~S~

----------------------------------------------------

SATURDAY RIDE 1

1. It was a dull, uninspiring Saturday morning just like dozens of other dull, uninspiring Saturday mornings at the motor pool of Langdon Royal Artillery military base on the east coast of England. Five drivers were lounging around a workbench. I was finishing a minor tune-up of an Army BSA motorcycle. Bob, the mechanic in the next bay, was unenthusiastically attempting to reassemble a balky carburetor. We were all just whiling away the long hours until noon, when our duty would end.

2. This weekend, however, would be different. Our regiment had been selected as an Artillery Training Facility and this was the Saturday the first batch of Territorial Army (National Guard) trainees were to arrive. Therefore all weekend passes had been cancelled. "Finished!" I announced to no one in particular as I stood up, wiping my greasy hands on an even dirtier piece of rag. Now came the part that I enjoyed, the part that made the work worthwhile. Reaching for my helmet, I prepared to road test the object of my recent labors. The engine started without hesitation; slipping out the clutch, I moved across the apron of the garage building.

3. In a few minutes I was racing along a narrow country lane, laughing aloud from the sheer exhilaration that hanging onto a motorcycle at great speed has always brought me.

4. It was then that I made my first mistake of the day. I started to think. I thought of my friends and fellow soldiers back at the base garage, and how utterly miserable they were at the prospect of no weekend freedom. Inspiration came to me in a flash. I would, alone and unaided, brighten their collective days. No sooner the thought than the deed, and turning my machine I was soon back at my starting place.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 02:43 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 1

1. I was finishing a minor tune-up of an Army BSA motorcycle.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Mo the caller
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 02:48 PM

THE FIRST DAY
3….travel expence vouchers,                expense
13….having fun at his expence.        expense

29…..o our fate.                        on our
51…companion was sent to his hit        hut

CAMOUFLAGE
14.. the Army's land                        I would agree with the A, after all it's the Army, not any old army.

I think I must have been carefully correcting your US spellings last night while you were posting your explanation.
I'm enjoying the stories.
Mo

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 03:04 PM

Thanks, folks. More in a bit. We're just shoving the bird in the oven.

Mo, don't worry-- I am not even looking closely at the correx till all the inputting is done. Then I'll print out the thread and sit down to real work-- probably Friday AM US time.

I'm glad you're enjoying the stories-- imagine Jack telling them to his pastor and pastor's wife-- us-- over coffee hour. What a hoot!

~Susan

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 2
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 03:21 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 2

5. A few rev's of the engine was enough to bring those poor, lethargic fellows to the door of the garage. While I had their attention, I treated them to a vision of myself riding past kneeling on one knee on the seat of the bike and trailing an extended leg behind, in what I supposed was a particularly graceful manner.

6. This performance drew my friends further out onto the forecourt of the building, where they were joined by three more unassigned drivers. This hugely-expanded audience encouraged me to make a return pass—now, standing erect on the footpegs of "my" BSA, and at the same time thrusting my arms out to the sides at shoulder height.

7. The resulting sporadic applause was disappointing. Sterner measures were indicated. I would treat them to my standing-upright-on-the-seat trick! The fact that I had accomplished this feat only once before (and then in complete privacy) did not occur to me, flushed as I was with my debut into "show business."

8. With a confidence born of ignorance, I mounted the motorcycle seat and sailed past my now-enthralled and wildly applauding audience. With the "show" over, I dropped to the seat, turned back to the garage, pulled up before my admiring fellows, and switched off the engine.

9. Ginger Grant stepped forward and slapped me on the shoulder. "You are pretty good," he said.

10. "Good?!" I protested. "I thought I was great!" I retorted with all the modesty I could muster. "There isn't much that I can't do on a motorcycle." This statement was intended to end all further speculation on what I could or could not do whilst mounted on a bike. Instead, to my consternation, it prompted a rather lively discussion.

11. "How about riding 'cross country to the Mess Hall?" suggested Ernie.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 04:37 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 2

6. This performance drew my friends further [you used 'farther' for distance elsewhere] out onto the forecourt of the building, where they were joined by three more unassigned drivers.

10. "Good?!" I protested. "I thought I was great!"

11. "How about riding 'cross country [no apostrophe, hyphenate] to the Mess Hall?" suggested Ernie.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 3
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 06:08 PM

Of course, I've known for a long time that Jack would have made a natural Mudcatter.

~S~

-----------------------------------

SATURDAY RIDE 3

12. "Too easy," I said.

13. "How about up and down a flight of steps?" smiled Ginger.

14. From out of nowhere came a pound note waving in my face, accompanied by a voice saying, "How about riding through Regimental Headquarter company office building?"

15. The quiet that followed this terrible challenge was as thick as a London pea-soup fog. I turned and looked into the eyes of Pete. Pete was my friend. Pete was the one I played billiards and ping pong with at the canteen, Pete was the one with whom I would sit for hours as we told each other of past experiences and future hopes. Pete was betraying me. I used to like Pete!

16. My brain was now screaming at me to leave that place—walk, run, hop, crawl, but leave that place. Instead, my brain, in complete disbelief, heard my mouth laughing, "Not for a pound note I don't."

17. Miraculously, a number of hands next appeared, grasping a like number of pound notes. My brain now suggested I doe on the spot. My heart sank so low in my body, I was sure it was attempting to follow my brain's advice. But my mouth—my false Judas mouth—opened again unbidden. "That's more like it," my mouth said. "How much is there?"

18. "Nine pounds," said Ginger quietly as he put the money into his cap and placed it on the bench. "It's up to you now."

19. It must be understood that the King of England was then paying me two pounds a week for my efforts in his behalf; in retrospect I would say he was getting the worst end of the arrangement.

20. I weighed the alternatives that my insane mouth had left me. I could offer to pay off the wager immediately and spend the next five weeks penniless, not to mention irretrievably losing face among my peers. Either one would be a terrible fate for a nineteen-year-old soldier. Or... I could ride through the building full of officers, sergeants major, sergeants, and other administrative people—to certain capture and resulting punishment.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: GUEST
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 07:01 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 3


14. From out of nowhere came a pound note waving in my face, accompanied by a voice saying, "How about riding through Regimental Headquarters company office building?"

17. Miraculously, a number of hands next appeared, grasping a like[insert hyphen]number of pound notes. My brain now suggested I doe on the spot.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: GUEST, TheBigPinkLad
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 07:04 PM

That last one was from me (TBPL cookieless)

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 24 Nov 05 - 07:47 PM

That may have to be it for tonight. Burrrrpppp...

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 12:21 AM

CAMOUFLAGE

14. Spread out before us was a good-sized valley covered with knee-high weeds and grass. On the left was a hedgerow separating the Army's land from that planted in wheat by a local farmer. To the right was a ridge topped by small trees, saplings, and bushes; approximately a half mile down the valley were three small, one-storey buildings.

51. "It's about time you two showed up," he admonished. "Didn't you hear the whistles blowing calling everyone in? We even sent people out looking for you." I thought it prudent not to tell him that if we had heard the whistles we would not have missed the return trip. After receiving our lecture on being absent from our platoon without leave and the punishment forthcoming, my companion was sent to his hit - is this right? and I reported to the kitchen for my work.

52. I was greeted by the huge cook sergeant (Who - who I privately called Sgt. Chins because of the stack of chins sprouting from his collar), working at his always-cluttered desk.

63. My companion was shaken as we left the Company Headquarters. "Don't worry," I consoled him. It's -need quote before It's really not that bad, and we're not allowed to leave the barracks anyway."


SATURDAY RIDE 1

nothing not already noted

SATURDAY RIDE 2

nothing not already noted

SATURDAY RIDE 3

14. From out of nowhere came a pound note waving in my face, accompanied by a voice saying, "How about riding through does this need a "the"? Regimental Headquarter company office building?"

17. Miraculously, a number of hands next appeared, grasping a like number of pound notes. My brain now suggested I doe - die on the spot. My heart sank so low in my body, I was sure it was attempting to follow my brain's advice. But my mouth-my false Judas mouth-opened again unbidden. "That's more like it," my mouth said. "How much is there?"

20. I weighed the alternatives that my insane mouth had left me. I could offer to pay off the wager immediately and spend the next five weeks penniless, not to mention irretrievably losing face among my peers. Either one would be a terrible fate for a nineteen-year-old soldier. Or... I could ride through the building full of officers, sergeants major, sergeants, and other administrative people-to certain capture and resulting punishment. It seems to me as if the sentence starting "Either one" should come after this sentence - if "either" refers to paying the wager or losing face, they sound more like "both" than "either" - but the whole thing may just be his style.

Good night,
JudyB

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 4
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 12:41 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 4

21. Admittedly, something about this proposed ride appealed to me. In truth, I was more excited at the prospect than I could ever remember having been in my life. Amazingly, the final decision was made without any thought of the money.

22. In fact, the final decision was made without any rational thought at all. No cold, calculating, logical decision was this, but purely an emotional response to a stimulating and imaginative challenge to my young (and virtually untested) manhood. My mind was still feebly pointing out the dire consequences of my proposed folly; but I was almost convinced these consequences would be visited on someone else. Nothing bad could possibly happen to me!

23. With a word, I strode into the garage building and over to a corner where a large enamelled sink hung on the wall. Taking off my coveralls and throwing them on an adjacent hook, I proceeded to scrub my hands and wash my face. This was the time for my common sense to assert itself; but as often happens, my common sense deserted me completely.

24. As if from another planet, I heard a voice whisper, "I think he's really going to do it." "He's not that daft," came the quiet rejoinder. A third hushed voice said, "Oh yes he is," which seemed to sum up the situation nicely.

25. I dried my hands and shrugged onto my tunic. With trembling hands I fastened to buttons and the waist belt buckle, and reached for my helmet. "I told you so," came the third voice again. As I turned, my comrades parted to give me an unobstructed passage to the bike.

26. By this time my hands were shaking badly. I gripped the helmet tightly until my knuckles were white. At last the shaking stopped, as with great effort I tried to appear calm. Straddling the machine, I prepared to kick down on the starting lever. Perhaps it wouldn't start. I thought in a forlorn hope, but at the first kick the engine roared into life.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 01:17 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 4

23. With without? a word, I strode into the garage building and over to a corner where a large enamelled sink hung on the wall.

25. I dried my hands and shrugged onto my tunic. With trembling hands I fastened to buttons and the waist belt buckle, and reached for my helmet.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 5
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 02:09 PM

FYI, I'm sticking with Jack's capping of the office titles for now, till I sort out all the nuances. Keep correcting them tho, so I rememebr to look there at each instance, OK?

~S~

----------------------------------------

SATURDAY RIDE 5


27. At the engine's noise, a strange feeling came over me which I have experienced several times both before and since. I was, suddenly, icily calm; my immediate part of the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. There was no longer any trembling in my hands as I fastened the strap of my helmet, and I scarcely noticed that my friends had started toward the Headquarter Company offices to take up positions to view the coming attraction.

28. I suppose now would be a good time to describe the layout of the building, which was at this time still at peace. Occupying one floor, it was shaped like the capital letter T. The main entrance was at the base of the T and was reached by ascending five concrete steps to heavy glass, double-swinging doors at the top. AT either end of the branches of the T were further glass double-swinging doors, with six or seven steps down to return one to street level.

29. Offices were on either side of the corridors, with the highest raking officers' suites closest to the front door. The other rooms were allotted, in declining importance, to lower grade officers, sergeants major, sergeants, and closest to the exits were the office rooms occupied by the clerks and a handful of civilian employees.

30. Putting my motorcycle into gear, I slowly the building for a brief reconnoiter. It was important that there be no staff cars parked immediately in front of the steps, nor could there be any group of people in the vicinity of the door. Once again my luck ran out—the coast was clear.

31. Circling away, I prepared to gain the momentum necessary to mount the steps. For a brief moment, I even entertained the hope that perhaps I could sneak through the offices and barely be noticed. Opening the throttle, I mounted the steps in picturebook style and, placing the front wheel against the doors, thrust them open and entered this bastion of military administration.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 02:19 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 5


27. There was no longer any trembling in my hands as I fastened the strap of my helmet, and I scarcely noticed that my friends had started toward the Headquarter Company offices to take up positions to view the coming attraction.

28. AT either end of the branches of the T were further glass double-swinging doors, with six or seven steps down to return one to street level.

29. Offices were on either side of the corridors, with the highest raking officers' suites closest to the front door.

30. Putting my motorcycle into gear, I slowly circled ? the building for a brief reconnoiter.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 5
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 05:50 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 5

27. At the engine's noise, a strange feeling came over me which I have experienced several times both before and since. I was, suddenly, icily calm; my immediate part of the world seemed to be moving in slow motion. There was no longer any trembling in my hands as I fastened the strap of my helmet, and I scarcely noticed that my friends had started toward the Headquarter Company offices to take up positions to view the coming attraction.

28. I suppose now would be a good time to describe the layout of the building, which was at this time still at peace. Occupying one floor, it was shaped like the capital letter T. The main entrance was at the base of the T and was reached by ascending five concrete steps to heavy glass, double-swinging doors at the top. AT either end of the branches of the T were further glass double-swinging doors, with six or seven steps down to return one to street level.

29. Offices were on either side of the corridors, with the highest raking officers' suites closest to the front door. The other rooms were allotted, in declining importance, to lower grade officers, sergeants major, sergeants, and closest to the exits were the office rooms occupied by the clerks and a handful of civilian employees.

30. Putting my motorcycle into gear, I slowly the building for a brief reconnoiter. It was important that there be no staff cars parked immediately in front of the steps, nor could there be any group of people in the vicinity of the door. Once again my luck ran out—the coast was clear.

31. Circling away, I prepared to gain the momentum necessary to mount the steps. For a brief moment, I even entertained the hope that perhaps I could sneak through the offices and barely be noticed. Opening the throttle, I mounted the steps in picturebook style and, placing the front wheel against the doors, thrust them open and entered this bastion of military administration.

32. Nothing could possibly have prepared me for the deafening noise my BSA made in the confines of that corridor. The walls appeared to vibrate from the roar, as if I had suddenly entered a giant radio speaker with the volume turned all the way up. I was sure my eardrums would burst and that I would be rendered deaf forever. I rode on.

33. I proceeded quite slowly, waiting for my eyes to adjust from the brightness outside to the electric light in the building. It occurred to me that if I ever did this again, I would close one eye for some time before I entered a building so that, upon opening the eye, I would have instant vision. I also made a mental note to take along some cotton for my ears. These thoughts were flashing through my mind while the physical world around me was still moving in slow motion, like a strange dream... only with real ear-shattering, unnerving, disorienting noise.

34. As my eyes quickly adjusted to the reduced light I saw there were some 20 or so people in the extended hallway; most of them gaped briefly I my direction before promptly duckling into the most convenient sanctuary. A few feet inside the door three officers of undetermined rank, walking with their backs toward me, swiftly separated and disappeared into two open doors on either side of the corridor, one to the right and two to the left. I rode on. A captain, whom I recognized, stepped out of his office and back into it in one fluid motion, displaying a grace that probably surprised him as much as it surprised me. I rode on.

35. Two junior officers pressed themselves against the wall to my right. One of them dropped a sheaf of papers, which slid across the shiny floor and passed under the wheels of my bike. (It was not the last time I would see those papers.) A few heads appeared from a few doors, and then I was at the junction of the building's T. I rode on.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 6
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 06:28 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 6

36. Electing to take the left corridor to the exit, which at this point I judged to be at least 17 miles away, my progress was slowed by four sergeants running toward me. Two of them immediately ducked into an open door, but the two remaining attempted to bar my way with outstretched arms. Their moths were moving in tremendous agitation, but the infernal noise of my machine drowned any sound they were making and they reminded me of inept actors in an old silent film. With frantic motions of my left hand, and with a relentless advance, I convinced them I was not to be stopped. They took their turn in pressing the wall with their bodies. I rode on.

37. Now I had an open corridor to the outside, a corridor fringed with office doors full of clerks' bobbing heads and waving arms, all crowding to see the cause of the deafening commotion. Approaching the swinging doors at the end of the left corridor, I pushed them open with my front wheel and bounced down the few steps to the road outside. Immediately, the terrible din quieted to a relative whisper and the word started to move at its normal pace again. It seemed I had been in the office building forever, but I doubt my Saturday ride lasted more than a half minute.

38. With a great feeling of elation I sped back to the motor pool; turning onto the apron of the garage, I shut off the engine of my machine, dismounted, and pulled the bike onto its stand to await the inevitable arrival of the Regimental Police.

39. Within moments I was surrounded by a small crowd of chattering and grinning soldiers. Ginger thrust nine one-pound notes into the breast pocket of my tunic and shouted to be heard above the clamor, "I didn't think you'd really do it!" Pete was vigorously shaking my hand, and several people were slapping my back.

40. "I expect the police will be here soon," yelled Pete. "Give me your helmet—I'll take care of it for you!" I smiled my thinks and handed the helmet to him, knowing that he and I were still friends in spite—or maybe because—of his suggestion that seemed to have propelled me into some kind of infamous glory.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: Bobert
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 06:47 PM

Shoot, WYSuzie... Iz 'bout as disappointercated as I can be... Heck, You know that me an' Al Gore invented proffreadin' din't ya??? Huh???

Yeah, you heared it rigght... I'z yer man fir the job... You don't need none of thease anal folkz to do a mans job...

Bobert

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 09:01 PM

Satuday Ride 5 (b)

34. As my eyes quickly adjusted to the reduced light I saw there were some 20 or so people in the extended hallway; most of them gaped briefly I my direction before promptly duckling into the most convenient sanctuary.

SATURDAY RIDE 6

36. Their moths were moving in tremendous agitation, but the infernal noise of my machine drowned any sound they were making and they reminded me of inept actors in an old silent film.

38. With a great feeling of elation I sped back to the motor pool; turning onto the apron of the garage, I shut off the engine of my machine, dismounted, and pulled the bike onto its stand to await the inevitable arrival of the Regimental Police.

40. I smiled my thinks and handed the helmet to him, knowing that he and I were still friends in spite—or maybe because—of his suggestion that seemed to have propelled me into some kind of infamous glory.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 09:16 PM

Damn them ducklings!

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 09:18 PM

40. I smiled my thinks and handed the helmet to him, knowing that he and I were still friends in spite—or maybe because—of his suggestion that seemed to have propelled me into some kind of infamous glory.


... and watch out for the moths, too! LOL

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 25 Nov 05 - 10:03 PM

Thinks a lot, BPL! :!)

~S~

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 7
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 11:01 AM

SATURDAY RIDE 7

41. The police Land Rover arrived in a few minutes and came to a stop some 30 feet from where I was still sitting on the BSA. Sergeant-Major Algernon Green ("my friends call me Al but you can call me Sergeant-Major") disengaged his six-foot-three frame from the passenger side of the vehicle. With his piercing blue eyes and large, hooked nose directed at me, he strode to my side.

42. "I might have known it," he boomed. "You've really done it this time, lad." I thought this statement was a bit unfair, as the only trouble I'd ever had with Sgt. Green and his department had been entirely due to a misunderstanding.

43. "Into the back of the Rover with you," Green ordered. "Do we have to restrain you?"

44. "No, Sergeant-Major," I assured him, and climbed into the back seat.

45. Sgt. Green turned to his driver. "I must go inform Captain McGroaty we are arresting one of his men," he said, and spinning on his heels he marched off toward the Motor Transport office.

46. My pal Ernie slowly approached my place in the open car, wearing a doleful expression on his face. "We want you to know that if we never see you again, we've enjoyed soldiering with you and we'll never forget you," he mournfully intoned. I shook his outstretched hand while the rest of the group nodded their heads and made small noises of agreement.

47. "Thanks, Ernie," I said; but I didn't really want to think about what he was implying.

48. Pete also reached out to shake my hand. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll take care of your gear 'til someone tells us what to do with it." I managed a weak smile. Obviously my friends had written me off as beyond all hope, and never expected to hear from me again.

49. Regimental Policeman William Johnson turned to look at me from his place behind the wheel of the Land Rover. "You must be bloody stark bloody raving bloody bonkers," he observed, smiling broadly. Johnson was a big, red-faced, good-natured south Londoner who was much too friendly to be an effective policeman, and only took the job because, as he put it, "It's bloody better than bloody working." If the word "bloody" had never been coined, Bill's conversation would have been effectively cut in half. It was also a fact that "bloody" was the strongest language anyone had ever heard him use no matter what the provocation.

50. I looked up to see Capt. McGroaty, my commanding officer, striding toward me minus his cap and jacket, with Sgt. Green following closely o his heels. I jumped from my place in the Land Rover and, as he drew close, snapped a smart salute. "Never mind that," he said, vaguely waving his right hand in the vicinity of his right eye in acknowledgement. "What the hell have you been up to this time?"

51. I stood at rigid attention, and decided to use an answer that had sometimes worked when I used to be confronted with the same question from my father. "Nothing, Sir," I ventured.

52. "Nothing!" he exploded. "Dammit, man, Sgt. Green tells me you have just ridden a motorcycle through the offices, and you tell me 'Nothing'!"

53. "Yes, Sir," I replied. It was obvious the Captain was a tougher problem than my Dad.

54. Suddenly his eyes softened and his shoulders relaxed. "You're a damn fool, Hart," he said. "I can't imagine what possessed you to do such a stupid thing, but I'll talk to the Colonel and do what I can for you. No go with the Sergeant-Major."

55. "Yes, Sir; thank you, Sir." I hoped I sounded as grateful to him as I felt. A word from the Captain in the Colonel's ear could not fail to help me. It was plain to see why all of us who were under his command would have done anything Capt. McGroaty asked of us.

56. As Sgt. Green and I took our places in the Land Rover, Johnson pressed the started and we moved off on our way to Regimental Police headquarters. From my seat in the back I turned and waved to my friend; but the festive mood of fifteen minutes before had disappeared and my wave was answered by a few half-hearted hand movements.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 11:03 AM

Just seven pages to go, but I'm doing several at a time now.

~S~

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 01:24 PM

Uh-oh--

The next part includes dialog with a two-striped police fellow addressed by the title of "bombadier." That's Jack's spelling -- is it right or is there a military police designation for a "bombaRdier"? Can you find out so I get it right in the final version?

Thanks!!!

~S~

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE 8
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 01:47 PM

57. Johnson parked the car on the macadam in front of the police building; the three of us entered, with Green leading the way and Johnson behind me, bringing up the rear. I looked around the re-acquaint myself with the layout, which I hadn't seen for nearly six months.

58. The main squad room contained four desks arranged two by two in the center; two of them were occupied by policemen trying to look busy in the presence of the sergeant. To the right was a wall lined with two rather decrepit armchairs and a table containing the communications radio. Sergeant-Major Green's office occupied a room behind that wall. To the left was a wall with several metal filing cabinets, and behind that wall was an office for the two bombardiers (or "two-stripers"), who were Green's immediate subordinates. At the left side of the rear wall was a door leading to the toilets and showers. Each of the four barred cells in that area was furnished with an iron cot, a table, a chair, and a steel locker.

59. "We have a new guest," shouted Green to the entire room. Bombardier Farrell came from his office and motioned me to follow him through the door to the cell area.

60. "Take your pick," he invited. "You're the only customer we've got."

61. I chose the corner cell, farthest from the showers and toilets, and went inside. Farrell followed me to the cell door and leaned against its frame. "Are you the bloke who just rode a motorcycle through Colonel Charles's kingdom?" he inquired. I nodded my head. "Bloody amazing! Absolutely amazing!" he said. Shaking his head, he walked away smiling—leaving my cell door wide open.

62. "Bombardier!" I called after him. "Aren't you supposed to lock the door?"

63. He turned, still smiling. "Why, are you planning to escape?"

64. "No," I admitted.

65. "Well then; you might as well wander around, as long as you don't make any more trouble," he said, still smiling.

66. I sat on the cot and pondered this for a while, It was obvious I was not being taken seriously as a prisoner, and I took some encouragement from the fact that they were treating the whole episode very lightly. But my relief was short-lived when I remembered that it was not their building I had so recently desecrated.

67. Deciding to test my freedom, I wandered out of the cell and into the squad room. The two policemen at their desks turned to look at me, and I nodded a greeting.

68. "Want some tea?" asked the occupant of the desk closest to me.

69. "Yes, please," I answered.

70. He waved his hand, indicating a neat stack of heavy white china cups and a large blue enamelled teapot sitting on a two-burner electric hot plate. I prepared a cup of steaming tea to my liking, and turned to find that the offerer of the tea had left his desk and was standing next to me.

71. "What was it like?" he asked.

72. "What was what like?" I replied.

73. "Riding inside a building with all those people about," he added.

74. "It was very, very noisy and very scary," I told him.

75. We talked a while longer until he returned to his desk. I walked over to one of the armchairs and sat down to enjoy my tea as well as a newspaper I found lying on the adjacent chair.

76. Bombardier Farrell breezed into the room and stopped by the chair. "You'll take your meals with us, which will be delivered at the appropriate times; this afternoon Johnson will take you to your barracks where you will pack your gear and bring it here back here," he said. "You will arrange your kit in a military manner in your cell and, after breakfast on Monday, you will stand inspection by the Officer of the Day at 0800 hours," he concluded.

77. "Yes, Bombardier," I nodded.

78. The rest of the day passed uneventfully. I moved my gear and arranged it in a military manner, and had my meals at the appropriate times. Every time a different policeman came on duty, I had to repeat my story and answer their many questions. In the evening, the duty policeman and I played cards and listened to the radio; by midnight I had crawled exhaustedly into bed and fallen into a deep, untroubled sleep.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 02:50 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 7


45. Sgt. Green turned to his driver. "I must go inform Captain McGroaty we are arresting one of his men," he said, and spinning on his heels he marched off toward the Motor Transport office.

50. I looked up to see Capt. McGroaty, my commanding officer, striding toward me minus his cap and jacket, with Sgt. Green following closely o his heels.


53. "Yes, Sir," I replied. It was obvious the Captain was a tougher problem than my Dad.

54. "I can't imagine what possessed you to do such a stupid thing, but I'll talk to the Colonel and do what I can for you. No go with the Sergeant-Major."

55. A word from the Captain in the Colonel's ear could not fail to help me.

56. As Sgt. Green and I took our places in the Land Rover, Johnson pressed the started and we moved off on our way to Regimental Police headquarters.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 03:01 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 8

57. I looked around the room to ? re-acquaint myself with the layout, which I hadn't seen for nearly six months.

58. Sergeant-Major Green's office occupied a room behind that wall. To the left was a wall with several metal filing cabinets, and behind that wall was an office for the two bombardiers [correct spelling] (or "two-stripers"), who were Green's immediate subordinates.

66. I sat on the cot and pondered this for a while, [replace with period

76. "You'll take your meals with us, which will be delivered at the appropriate times; this afternoon Johnson will take you to your barracks where you will pack your gear and bring it here [delete] back here," he said. "You will arrange your kit in a military manner in your cell and, after breakfast on Monday, you will stand inspection by the Officer of the Day at 0800 hours," he concluded.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 03:07 PM

76. "You'll take your meals with us, which will be delivered at the appropriate times; this afternoon Johnson will take you to your barracks where you will pack your gear and bring it here [delete] back here," he said. "You will arrange your kit in a military manner in your cell and, after breakfast on Monday, you will stand inspection by the Officer of the Day at 0800 hours," he concluded.

Subject: RE: BS: Proofreading Help Needed ASAP
From: JudyB
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 03:13 PM

SATURDAY RIDE 7

A couple more, and I can't find a bombadier in my ancient dictionary (which being from the 30's is sometimes better about such things); it also doesn't mention bombardiers in relation to military police - only as an officer in the British artillery.

56. As Sgt. Green and I took our places in the Land Rover, Johnson pressed the started and we moved off on our way to Regimental Police headquarters. From my seat in the back I turned and waved to my friend - should this be friends?; but the festive mood of fifteen minutes before had disappeared and my wave was answered by a few half-hearted hand movements.

57. Johnson parked the car on the macadam in front of the police building; the three of us entered, with Green leading the way and Johnson behind me, bringing up the rear. I looked around the - to? re-acquaint myself with the layout, which I hadn't seen for nearly six months.

Subject: Story: SATURDAY RIDE (Final)
From: wysiwyg
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 05:28 PM

79. Sunday in the British Army is never very remarkable, and the Sunday following my ride was no exception. The high point of the day came in the afternoon when Pete, Bob, Ernie, and Ginger came to the jail to visit. They brought with them good things to eat, a couple of bottles of beer, and (probably the most important) an optimistic attitude. By the time they had to leave, I was feeling confident that nothing really bad would be meted out to me because of my transgressions. This comfortable feeling lasted almost halfway through the evening.

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." I thanked him for his suggestion and went to my cell to start my preparations.

82. A short time later, Johnson appeared at the door of my small room, carrying an electric iron. "Here, you can use this if you want," he said, offering it to me. I took the iron and thanked him. "Bombardier Farrell says you can use the table in his office if you like, 'cause there's no electric outlets in your flat," he continued. I thanked him again and, picking up a clean shirt, my best uniform, and a blanket from my cot for an ironing pad, I made my way to Farrell's office.

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 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.

85. Sergeant-Major Green came out of his office and looked me over. "You look good, lad, and now it's time to go," he said, as he turned and headed for the door. I followed him outside and we climbed into the Land Rover for the ride back to the scene of my recent crime. The driver parked the Rover. Accompanied by Green, I walked up the steps and through the swinging doors, into the administration building I had entered in a much more flamboyant manner just three days before.

86. I followed Sgt. Green into the outer room of Col. Charles' office suite.

87. "Remove your cap and hang it on one of those hooks," said Green, indicating a row of coat hooks on the far wall. 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. My look at Mayweather was returned with an icy stare.

89. At that moment, the prisoner and his escort appeared from the Colonel's office. The soldier retrieved his cap from its hook near mine, and as he passed he whispered, "We heard about you."

90. "No talking!" yelled Mayweather, and looking directly at me ordered, 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.

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!

92. Col. Charles listened, without any sign of emotion, as the charges against me were read. I concentrated my gaze on his huge, bushy eyebrows. They met in the middle, giving the appearance of one large strip of greying hair.

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. To my dismay I saw several sheets of official-looking documents, each with the impression of a motorcycle tire across it. 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? 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.

95. Col. Charles looked at me and cleared his throat. "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 martial offense," he said.

96. "Yes, Sir," I answered, struggling to control my shaking body.

97. "However," he continued, "this whole escapade is an embarrassment to me, and I have no desire to send my problems to military courts if I can deal with them myself."

98. He paused, and for once in my life, I said nothing.

99. "Therefore, I now formally ask you if you will accept my punishment in this matter?" he said.

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

101. "Good!" Col. Charles exclaimed. I thought I detected a slight look of relief on his face.

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."

103. He looked me in the eyes. "Any questions?" he asked.

104. "No Sir, thank you Sir," I gratefully replied.

105. "Very well, then, that will be all," Col. Charles concluded.

106. Sgt. Mayweather ordered me to march from the Colonel's 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. I tried not to look too happy as Mayweather turned and said, "You are damn lucky, Gunner, damn lucky," and then turned and marched from the room.

107. Sgt. Green came to my side and placed a hand on my shoulder. "He's right, you're a lucky lad. Now get your hat and we'll leave," he said. I nodded my agreement and walked to the far wall to retrieve my cap.

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: Leadfingers
Date: 26 Nov 05 - 05:59 PM

?100!!?

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.