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Collecting my Rifle
I walk up to the queue of men, waiting, fidgeting in a cobbled yard at the rear of an old coaching inn. A few of us have full uniform, some just bits and pieces of it, others hardly any because of war shortages apparently. Just goes to prove how well the government prepared for the conflict, some of the men are joking, saying they hope the transport, food and supply of women is in better order. Supply of women to me, at my age is not something I'm so bothered about yet I have always assumed I will find somebody local to marry: neither had I thought about any of the other details. I just wanted to get into the army: get my rifle that is it. As for uniform, I am better off than some of the others in that I have my army cap, shirt, trousers and puttiesputties are confounded objects, difficult to tie to a sergeants liking, and so tight they cut in, in damp weather, so my brother tells meIm not altogether sure how he knows, because he wears a kilt but maybe they've had to start wearing them too since he went out. I wanted to be in a kilted regiment as well, show pride in my heritage, but he told me not to join up, being under age and allbut join up I didended up in a fairly local battalion because they didn't ask my age: didn't seem to concerned about it.
Now, though, as I wait to be given my gun, I'm excited, but also nervous, scared in a funny sort of way. Scared because this means we really are at war and everything is going to change; nervous in case they yet decide to question how old I am. I am sturdy due to work outside, but quite shortno where near as tall as my brothers what if the N.C.O. asks me? I push the thought aside
The N.C.O.s that I speak of are at the end of the queue in a kind of hut on wheelsa little room made of boards, with a hatch put up on a limber that has been dragged in by horses early this morning. It makes you laughthe authorities are so inundated with men that there is nowhere for them to billet uswe get to stay at home and go to training every daythats how I saw the limber dragged upit went right past our cottage! Anyway, each soldier, all of them seeming older and taller than me, goes to the hatch, is given his rifle by a Sergeant, checks it with this mans supervision and signs a paper before they move off to the other end of the yard to the rest of the men where they all talk in a group and examine their guns like well off children at Christmas. The ones that get the big colourful toys, while we use to get a piece of fruit and some nuts maybe a homemade toy or something if Mother could manage to afford the bits.
I havent been spoken to by anyone yet, and I begin to wonder if I should have come after allbut at least joining up now, I sort of got a choice of regiments
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Suddenly, its my turn! There is a gap in front of me and Im nudged towards it, the man behind eager to get his firearm too. A big ideal sergeant type leans out the window; he has a huge gingery turned up moustache and a kindly round face. He speaks to me, but Im too shaky with excitement to hear what he says, so he repeats it, smiles and ducks inside the hatch revealing a corporal standing behind in the dim interior. The corporal seems to be counting the number of rifles they have left, then comparing his total to the number of men needing them. He has a thin, sour-ish face and he either doesnt like the look of me, or his rifles versus men sums dont add up. Before I can decide which, the sergeant pops up again, holding a Lee Enfield across his torso like its a sword and hes contemplating whether to knight me. Carefully, he hands it over. Its beautiful: I run my hands down the barrel, feeling the smoothness of the shiny polished wood, solid and varnished. It lends a kind of confidence and I can easily see why troops are so protective of their gunsits what gives you the feeling of invincibility in battle. Id heard that said by someone before and not understood how something hardly thicker than two chair legs together could do that, but now I understand.
The Sergeant hands me its magazine and shakes me out of my musings by asking if I know how to fix that on. He is amused at my delight with the thing, perhaps remembering when he received his first gunI dont know why but his face is something I will remember for a long time; a kindly figure in the hardships I am going to face, one that has no doubts in my ability. I tell him I do know how to out on the magazine and load it and he asks me to show him, which I do. He is satisfied and shoves across a piece of paper which I have to sign to prove I have got the gunthis means I can be punished if I lose it, but also that I can carry it home with me for training or when we finally got to depot and not get into trouble even though I have not got full uniform. We wonder if we will have before we get sent overand laugh that the Germans will wonder what on earth sort of army England has put forward. The sergeant twists back inside the trailer. There is hardly room for the two men and the corporal appears to resent the extra space that has to be given to his tubby senior. He says something to him about me, but is ignored and the sergeant pops up again, between me and the other mans glare. He gives me three rounds, smiled almost sadly, calls me Sonny or Sonny Boy and wishes me luck. I fell suddenly reluctant to leave this secure presence and he mumbles something about my youth and that boys like that shouldnt have to go. With a last smile, he sees me off because the man behind is getting impatient..
Going to the end of the yard, I take with me that face, its smiling hazel eyes and enormous moustache like some sort of talisman, so pleased with my rifle, I wander towards the huddle of men, forgetting their not speaking to me earlierthis time, however, a gap opens up which I am allowed to fill, and they all ask to examine my rifle, even though it is hardly different to any they themselves have. I am at last accepted into the group, and though of as a man.
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