Pals — A monologue

I think it were at least a week before I realised people thought I were one of t’seven. I were at t’butchers on Whalley Road. It’s got tha lovely painted sign oe’r t’door; Ramsbottom & sons goin’ round a smiling pig. You know the one.

Anyway I were in there and Alf’s wife Ada, were servin’.

“A pound of scrag end, love”, I said to her. Friday were scrag end night. I’d bin ‘ome a week now and it were time to try and get back t’normal. It were t’first time I’d felt up to leavin t‘ouse. But you should ‘av seen Ada’s face. She stopped servin’ and there were at least ten people in’t queue, mind. She came from round back of t’counter and right up to me face. She put her ‘and to me cheek, ever so gentle like. And she started to cry, right there in t’front of all t’customers.

“Eeeeh, Ada,” I said. “Folk ‘ill think there’s summat goin’ on ’tween us.”

No one did tho. In fact I noticed t’rest of queue were all women. And they were all in shock all reet.

I heard one of ’em say, whispered like, “he must be one of t’seven.”

T’rest of ’em started noddin’. It were a bit unsettlin’, being a man in that situation. With a load of ladies, all in their pinnies and hairnets, all wantin’ to, well, mother me I suppose.

Ada came right out with it, “Are you Tom? Are you one of t’seven? Alf,” — that were Ada’s fella, “I know he’s not. I got word yesterday.”

That shocked me. I’d seen Alf only last week before they sent me ‘ome. Though he hadn’t looked good. His skin were grey and he was ‘avin’ trouble eatin’. But I honestly thought he’d mek it. He were a big fella. Full of life. I guess that don’t help against the gas though.

Dost thi know what the mustard does to a man? No? Well I’ll tell thee, it teks whatever med you a man before and gets rid. Wipes it out completely. Their were men there callin’ out for their mothers like they were still in short pants. No man survived the gas. Well some did, but they were no longer men. They were boys again. And not in t’best of health either.

“Did you see my Alf? Did he suffer? Was he brave?”

I lied. “I saw ‘im go oer t’op Ada. After that, I never saw ‘im again.” It were somehow easier to lie.

Another lady, short, but formidable in that Accy way pushed through t’queue and grabbed me arm and asked me right out. “Is it true? Are they all dead?” She weren’t cryin’ but she were reet upset.

(Pause)

I suppose when Kitchener and them in charge came up with t’idea, it were a good ’un. The thinkin’ were that it were more likely for men to volunteer if they knew they were goin’ t’be with their pals. Harwood, mayor of Accrington, thought it were a grand idea. He were a good man, known for getting’ things done. I ‘eard he were a crack shot with a rifle too but couldn’t vouch for it meself. He telegraphed war office and said he reckoned he could raise a battalion i’next to no time. I read it in’t Observer. Well that were enough for me and my pals. Me, Alf, Charlie Heap, Stan Cocker and Frank Haworth. We all went down t’ recruitin’ office in Willow Street on t’same day. September 14th it were, nearly three years ago now. It only took ’em ten days to raise a battalion.

Charlie were a draughtsman by trade, worked for a big firm down Oswaldtwistle. Stan’s family were all mill workers. Frank and me worked at Howard & Bullough’s machine works. But the strike had left both of us high and dry. Joinin’ t’ war effort seemed like a better deal than traipsing round t’town lookin’ for work that weren’t there.

Ivy were none too pleased though. She understood it were for t’king and country and the like. But it didn’t wash with ‘er. “Bugger king and country, there’s work needin’ doin’ round t’house.”

(Pause)

Took me a while to realise what Ada meant though. “Are you one of t’seven.” There had only bin seven of us on t’ship back. But I’d thought we were just the first of many to ‘ead ‘ome. We couldn’t be only survivors surely. Could we?

“They’re all gone. Wiped out. There’s only seven left.” She were very insistent.

By the time we’d left Blighty tail end of ’15 after training, there were about thousand of us. Before France though, they sent us t’Egypt! Can you believe it? Egypt — land of pharaohs and t’pyramids. Summat to do with some trouble with the Turks and that Suez canal.

We sailed from Malta on a rusty old bucket called t’Iconic. I were relaxing on t’deck on New Year’s Eve when, all of a sudden, all ‘ell broke loose. Someone had spotted a periscope and next thing you know there were two white streaks headin’ in our direction. Captain were switched on mind and took evasive action. They must ‘ave only missed us by a mermaid’s breath.

We never saw any action in Egypt tho. Never saw any ‘mummy’s either. It were a reet cushy postin’.

France weren’t. By end of April we were in t’front line trenches and we were startin’ to take casualties. A fella from Burnley copped it when a shell landed right at ‘is feet and Arthur Riley bought it when he got hit by shrapnel. I didn’t know Arthur but Charlie were good mates with ‘is brother.

They moved us round a bit for a couple of months. One week we were encamped in woods, and the next we were back on t’front line. By th’ end of June though, we knew summat big were brewin’. On’t eve of July we marched to trenches overlookin’ t’village of Serre, near t’ river Somme.

It were twenty past seven in t’morning when t’whistle blew. That were when we went o’er t’top.

(Pause)

I asked Ada if she were sure about t’casualties. She said, at first like, t’Observer had said that the offensive had been a great success. But, next day, the paper started listing casualties. Everyday the list got longer and longer. By Thursday, word ‘ad gone round that all t’ Pals, ’cept me and t’other six on boat, had been wiped out.

I don’t quite remember what ‘appened next. I felt a bit faint on me feet which were understandable like as I were carrying my own wound. Next thing I remember I were lyin’ on t’tiles of Alf’s shop and lookin’ up at a sea of women and the air were filled with t’sound of church bells. That really confused me, after all it weren’t Sunday and I certainly weren’t in me best!

Ada were on her knees and was tryin’ to give me some water. Then, Gladys, Walter Chadwick’s wife, appeared in t’ shop doorway shoutin’ “We’re marching ladies. Marchin’ on t’mayors house. We want to know what’s happened to our fellas!”

I knew what ‘ad ‘appened to Walter Chadwick. He were cut down like corn in t’first few seconds. Him and many more. I didn’t ‘ave to tell Gladys though. She were gone already. Marchin’ on Harwoods house. The other women followed sharpish as well. Then it were just me and Ada. She helped me to me feet and I asked ‘er, “Ada, do you want to go with ’em? I can look after t’shop for you.”

And she said, “No Tom. I know what’s happened to my fella. He’s not one of t’lucky seven. He’s not coming back. And I’ve got this place to run.”

(Pause)

Nearly six hundred pals were killed or wounded on’t first day alone during the Somme offensive. And every time one of ’em were cut down, a family were torn apart here too. At t’ end of that first day, Accrington may as well have bin in France for t’ damage it took.

When I got ‘ome, Ivy were crying her eyes out. She just hugged me tight and wouldn’t let go for ages.

All the while I was thinkin’ I’ve lost me pals. But all I could say was, “I’m sorry love, I’ve forgotten the scrag end.”

(blackout)