Reluctant Hero - John Hickman

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a kid she’d pull Bill towards her to give him a big, big hug and he disappeared laughing in to the warmth and security of the giant folds of her bosom. A beautiful woman inside and out, all four foot nothing of her. Her warm green eyes danced with humour and when she let her hair down it was so long she could sit on it. But years of living in Notting Hill had taken their toll. Lily’s hair had turned prematurely grey and worn up in a bun, made her figure resemble a massive upside down light bulb. Lily often poked fun at her own appearance. ‘My problem was being born with duck’s disease.’

      Another feature was her feet being too small, so tiny she often toppled over but when she did she blamed her bunions. Her enormous breasts might have contributed, but she never mentioned them. Her falls became legendary during Bill’s growing years but were never serious. No broken bones; only grazed dimpled knees, which were invisible to everyone except Fred.

      Bill thought Lily could have given some of her bulk to Fred and then some, but neither Lily nor Fred ever pursued good health. Nobody did in Notting Hill. No one ever went to a gym unless they were athletic like boxers in a ring. And no one ever jogged or ran anywhere, not unless they were late for work or had a bus or train to catch. Lily walked to their local shops or caught a number 52 bus near the end of their street.

      Fred cycled to work on an ordinary black-framed bike with a big basket on the front without a chain guard. He wore cycle leg clips to keep his uniform trousers from flapping into the well-greased chain. When he returned home Fred hoist his cross-bar up onto his shoulder and carried his bike of about eighty pounds weight up six flights of stairs to their little flat on the third floor.

      ‘That and a day’s work is exercise enough for me today,’ quipped Fred.

      He stood his bike against a wall, often in their bedroom. If left downstairs in the passageway it would have been easy pickings from the street.

      Fred smoked un-tipped Senior Service cigarettes when he could afford to buy them. Otherwise he rolled his own. Most people smoked but Lily didn’t. They were ordinary people Lily and Fred, and they drank and ate whatever they could afford.

      Bill’s attempts at improvement were ridiculed whenever someone found out. To him those bloody goal posts were being moved only to make life more difficult for him. Dimly aware whenever he entered a room he made little more impression than a draft he soon became ultra depressed and moody.

      Bill turned against the Church. ‘History is scattered with so called holy men who lived like lords, fat on the offerings of poor people. Through ignorance they bought blessings rather than bread for their children. That’s not true Christian conduct.’

      Fred agreed with him. ‘If there is a God, He’s got a lot to answer for. I for one would like to sit in on His judgment, Girl.’

      ‘For hundreds of years the Church has held the pen,’ ranted Bill. ‘And what they wrote is supposed to be fact. I believe it’s mostly lies, written by dishonest men who suppressed the history they didn’t like and wrote what was more favourable to them.’

      In September 1939 Britain declared war on Germany and along came the Second World War. Over one million men would serve in Germany’s air defences, with another million and a half providing ground defences.

      Uncle Charlie shook his head in disbelief. ‘Goes to prove, if there is a God, He must have a weird sense of humour, I suppose.’

      ‘Personal tragedy has no time-table,’ sniffed Lily. ‘I wonder whatever will become of us all?’

      Fred lit another cigarette. ‘It’s been proven throughout history, it’s not a real war unless someone’s making a good profit. I’ll bet this one will turn out to be a real doozy.’

      *1st footnot. Uncle Charlie managed to leave the bookie business before he lost everything. He settled permanently in a leafy London suburb with his family. He kept his house and car and became employed as a factory supervisor and remained a staunch supporter and mentor of Bill until his death.

      CHAPTER 4

       DECISION TIME 1940 TO 1941

      In February 1940 Bill was seventeen years of age and a touch less than six feet tall. His body was not yet filled out to fit his frame.

      ‘He’s hollow in the chest, not much weight behind him, Girl.’

      ‘Skinny as spaghetti, you mean. Lean as, with that raw-boned look of an adolescent.’

      But despite his physique, Bill was about to enter the most extraordinary period of his life and prove to be a man useful to employ.

      Britain braced for German invasion. March 1940 to September 1941 the Luftwaffe bombed targets in Britain at will. From as far apart as London to Liverpool, Glasgow to Portsmouth they reigned supreme. The primary aim of most British plans during the summer of 1940 became defensive. London and several other major cities came under attack from enemy bombers. More than 40,000 British civilians were killed in London alone during the Blitz. An average toll of two hundred and fifty fatalities were recorded a day following hits over sixty consecutive nights.

      ‘Our troops abroad are getting about as much support from home as measured by a fart in a thunderstorm,’ ranted Fred. Lily made a face.

      In May 1941, Egyptian born Nazi Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy and third in command, flew to Britain on a peace mission. The Daily Telegraph reported he baled out over Scotland at 6,000 feet and told a Scottish farmer in impeccable English, ‘I have an important message from Hitler for the Duke of Hamilton.’

      Accused of displaying signs of mental disability he was swiftly declared insane and locked away in solitary confinement as reward for his odyssey.

      ‘Something’s not quite right, Girl. It smells suspicious to me.’ *2nd Footnote.

      Bill’s eighteenth birthday approached. With ears like radar dishes he sat spellbound listening to Cousin Eric, on leave from the infantry. ‘Conditions at the front line are bloody awful enough to frighten anyone.’

      Fred shook his head and lit a smoke. ‘Despite propaganda bullshit, news from there is never good two days in a row.’

      Eric went on to recount his horrors of the trenches, the mud, drenching rain and death in stupefying detail.

      Lily bent from the waist to pick up her sewing; the exertion seemed to leave her breathless. Her lips retreated to thin lines. ‘It’s enough to swear anyone off having babies. They’re cannon-fodder for the British government, that’s all they are.’

      Then Eric started to lose it. ‘You’ve got no idea what it’s like. It’s bloody terrible.’ His torment came in waves. Lily cried as he talked.

      When he finished, there was a long pause.

      ‘I know it’s hard out there, Eric. I knew those trenches in the last war,’ Fred said quietly.

      But nothing deterred Eric. ‘We worry we’ll be killed in a bayonet charge and all the while we lay in mud. We’re lucky to get any food at all. When we do everything tastes the same. Yuk! Even our smokes get wet.’

      At home Eric spent most of his time in idleness. He cried often. When he visited Lily and Fred he warmed himself at their hob and stared unseeing at the floor. Occasionally he gazed out of a window. Otherwise he fought to hold back his sobs, which upset Lily big time, and embarrassed Fred. All this scared the crap out of Bill. As to what lay in front of Eric, his demons were beyond anyone else’s control. He was too upset and frightened.

      ‘I don’t want to go back, Lily. It’s terrible. I don’t want to die,’ sobbed Eric.

      ‘But you have to go back, Eric. You can’t change your mind. It’s too late now.’

      Fred steered Lily out of the room. ‘Not much I can say to the kid, Girl. He’s barely in control of his own bladder.’

      Lily was in tears. She composed herself and they rejoined Eric.

      ‘It’s

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