Short story: Here But Not Here, 1944

A veteran soldier prepares to fight what he hopes will be his last battle…

As soon as Corporal Gibson starts his story, I know I could tell it better myself. I’m an old soldier, but fresh meat in the platoon and an outsider to boot. So, I stay quiet, let the Corporal continue, keep my opinions to myself.

We’re gathered around the stove, billy cans scraped empty, cigarette tips glowing, tin cups steaming. The camp ranges over meadows near a village some ten miles from Portsmouth. Tents pitched in rows, with mess shelters, latrines, a bustle of khaki Army efficiency. The summer dusk stretches towards midnight. Low chatter, a clatter of utensils, occasional laughter – more nerves than anything – rises and falls. These past few days, we’ve had leaden weather for June, summer storms and high winds, but tonight’s clear evening sky holds a glimmer of light, like hope, some might say. Although, in my opinion, nothing like it at all. There’s a shivering in the darkening air.

The Brass had got us primed for yesterday, postponed at the eleventh hour because of the weather, and all the fellas are sat here on the same knife edge. A ration of rum will see us through the shortest night, like in the old days. I know I won’t sleep a wink whatever they give us. Whoever could on an eve such as this? 

The story will, Corporal Gibson promises, take our minds off tomorrow’s task and, let’s face it, tomorrow is but hours away. He’s trying to boost us up, like the King himself earlier. I watched George the Sixth standing on a box in neat khaki, holding forth to the vast audience of, in all honesty, a bit of a restless rabble. Such a slight man, I thought, from my spot at the back. I remember his father coming to see us, somewhere in France all those years before, and want to pipe up about it. But seeing the lads’ ragged earnest faces, decide not to; I might spoil the moment. Along with His Majesty and the colossus that is Churchill, we certainly know who and what we are doing this for. 

Gibson is a brave man to think he could follow the sovereign with his own morale-building story. But, I concede, leaning in to listen, he is doing a good enough job of it.

‘Legend has it,’ the corporal says, ‘there’s a long-dead soldier who walks on moonless nights down at Portsmouth harbour. Round the old part, with the high brick walls and the Napoleonic fortress. Imagine it, fellas. Pitch-black, no breath of wind. Vessels straining against clanking anchor chains. The hulks of iron ships; the great Navy, sleeping. Listen and you hear the ring of his boots on cobbles; you see a glint of button; the insignia on his shoulder.’ 

A muttering of unease rumbles around the stove. 

‘Don’t give us the willies, Gibson,’ says one. His name escapes me. ‘We’ll all be down there at Pompey before first light.’ 

‘I’ll never get any shut-eye now,’ from another.

A young private, McVie, pipes up: ‘Who’s going to sleep anyway? We’re bloody well embarking at five.’

‘Listen, fellas,’ says Gibson. ‘According to the Portsmouth locals, he appears to help in times of trouble.’ The uncertain authority in his voice tells me he’s newly promoted in light of everything that’s going on. I’d risen to First Lieutenant in the last lot and did my best to live up to it. I outrank Gibson here, but feel generous enough to let him continue the story – for it is nothing but a story – in his own way. 

‘The Portsmouth folk,’ Gibson continues, ‘you know, those old salty types, they say: you take your chance on such a night. Some think it’s best to leave the old fella to wander the darkness alone. And some say, go down to the harbour, if you dare. For if you see him, it’s a good omen. But if he sees you, if he catches your eye, he sees into your soul and your luck’s run dry.’

‘I’m sure as hell I don’t want to clap eyes on him, either way,’ says McVie.

One of the lads coughs uneasily; someone else suppresses a belch. I let out a guffaw. Gibson is certainly over-egging it. Some sort of curse linked to a long-dead soldier? Who would believe that? He’s got that wrong. It’s a sailor, surely, haunting the old naval harbour. But no one notices my bark of laughter; they’re all too busy gawping at Gibson and sucking on cigarettes. 

‘You’ve heard of King Arthur, haven’t you fellas?’ the Corporal persists.

‘Who hasn’t.’

‘Gibbo’s getting all literary on us,’ sniggers Private Thomas.

‘The once and future king?’ Gibson insists. 

McVie says, ‘Aye, we know.’

‘Well, this fella, down at the dock, they say, is like King Arthur – returning to help whenever Blighty is in trouble.’

‘Believe that, believe anything.’

‘But for goodness sake don’t catch his eye!’ mocked McVie. ‘For that’s curtains for you.’

‘And remember, back in thirty-nine?’ persists Gibson. I quite admire the fellow. ‘When they unearthed that old burial ship of that Anglo-Saxon king up in Suffolk?’

‘Oh yeah, I remember. It was in all the papers. Buried treasure and all that.’

‘Blimey, Gibbo, are you saying that was another sign?’ McVie asks. ‘It’s all well and good this king or old soldier or whoever he is, returning to help. But how can he help? And what if he sees me? Looks into my soul? I’ll be a gonner.’

‘One less idiot for us to worry about, then.’ This from Thomas.

‘Ah cut it out,’ Gibson sighs, ‘I wish I hadn’t bothered. Thought a story like that might gee you all up.’

‘Geed us up alright, sir,’ says Thomas.

 The lads settle back into silence, light up cigarettes, stoke the fire. I recognise it: the jesting and teasing disguising primal fear. And I’ve heard enough. The Portsmouth folk to whom Gibson refers would be the ladies of the night around the old town, and drunken sailors on shore leave for their fiftieth tattoo. I want to speak up, argue the toss, tell Gibson he’s getting it all mixed up: King Arthur, an Anglo-Saxon king and an old battle-worn soldier. Where does he think his story is going? But I see the platoon is flagging. They yawn, stub out cigarettes. Gibson wipes out his mug with a rag. They’re ready to turn in, grab what little sleep they can. I can hardly blame them.

Come first light we have the great task ahead of us: to take back the land we won some twenty-six years ago. This peeves me. No, makes me angry. How can a nation be so glorious in victory, but have to fight back again in the space of a generation? A brutal cycle repeating itself. I’m older, wiser; seen it all before. But this does not stop jagged nerves building like disease inside me. 

I can’t face trying to sleep, so I keep watch, alone. Thomas, McVie, Gibson, the others: they’re like the pals I lost all those years ago. I hear Gibson snoring inside his tent. Good lad. I know what he is trying to do: to give his squad a shot in the arm with a legend from old England. For Harry and Saint George. Inspire them to bravery. But his story feels like a warning. An unsettling. It doesn’t chime with all that poppycock about a moonless night, for the moon tonight is full; perfect illumination for the pilots, the navigators, the sea captains, all the souls awaiting instruction along our great sleeping shore. The ghosts are beside me, as always. And I listen to their stories as the minutes, the quarter-hours pass. I look up into the paling sky. Already, it is tomorrow. 

We pile into the backs of trucks, primed soldiers sleepwalking to our fate, and rumble down to Portsmouth. Someone is singing Tipperary, which makes me nauseous. What a wreck this proud city looks in the grey dawn. This is the place where English kings watched their ships come home; the Royal Dockyard where Henry the Eighth built his defences; from where all the bold sailors – Cook, Bligh, Nelson – set sail. Now we have bombed-out houses, broken windows, heaps of bricks, streets going nowhere.

The air changes; clean and briny. We’re at the harbour and the sea stretches away like a sheet of glass. Battleship-grey landing craft bob along the dock side. Orders are barked in the half light. There’s the sensation of a mass of silenced men. And, not too many nautical miles that-a-way, our enemy is waiting. My feet go cold. 

‘Fall in,’ Gibson gives his half-hearted command, and the squad leaps off the back of the truck and arranges themselves on the cobbles, rifles pressed to their shoulders, staring into the sky as if it is the last sunrise they’ll ever see. 

I hear the order and instinct tells me to follow it. I know I should march with my platoon to our regiment’s landing crafts and be swept along with my pals into the operation, see it through to the end. But I haven’t the stomach for it; not this time.

I turn and walk away. Gibson doesn’t notice. I weave my way through throngs of men waiting to embark. I see their eyes rounded with terror. I see cigarettes trembling between fingers. Tin hats low over faces white and dumbstruck. Some fellas see me, catch my eye, look at me puzzled, as if I am somehow familiar. One lad on guard duty salutes, grins when he sees my insignia. Others look right through me. I brace myself for a shout of fury, an order to halt from the Brass. But no challenge comes.

We had all listened to Winston’s speech back at the start of it. I’m sure Gibson would have, McVie, Thomas, and the others. We shall fight in France, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds. We shall never surrender. 

The Anglo-Saxon words ring in my ears, and I wish I could remember it all, for I would stand on a box myself and recite it, to give these men and boys another shot in the arm as I watch them shuffle aboard the ships and depart for Normandy. But, instead, all I can think of is the long-dead soldier and Gibson’s superstitious little tale. 

I salute the scene and walk away, disappearing into the brightening summer dawn, my heels ringing on the cobbles. 

Image: Unsplash